#silver coat ethel

[frickingnerd]

ethel dating an aganian commander

pairing: ethel x gn!reader

tags: secretly dating/secret relationship, enemies to lovers

just a month or two ago, ethel would've laughed if you told her she'd be dating someone from agnus!

yet here she was, in a secret relationship with a commander of an agnian colony…

the two of you were introduced to each other by noah, after both of your colonies were freed from the flame clocks

both of your colonies needed help and working together was the logical choice! even if you had been mortal enemies just weeks prior…

still, as the commanders of your colonies, the two of you began to work together! and that friendship you formed while working together soon began to become more than just that

it was the first time for both of you that you had fallen in love. it was already nerve wracking, but knowing your colonies likely wouldn't approve of your relationship only made you more nervous

the two of you decided to keep your relationship a secret, acting as if you were just good friends, in hopes your friendship would help the colonies realize agnus and keves weren't so different

but despite trying to keep it a secret from everyone, bolearis was the one person who knew you were a couple, even if you never told him!

he knew ethel too well to buy her lies about your friendship! and to help the two of you out, he began trying to mend relationships between the people of your two colonies, so that they would eventually be ready to accept your relationship!

[thewisemankey]

ALL THE MORE DEADLY.

HAONI

[maxwell-grant]

I’ve noticed once or twice among the pulp hero’s a dude with a crystal ball mysterio helmet in a dark suit. I can’t help but notice that what the Orb look is baller, it’s really distinct from other pulp characters he’s getting grouped with. What’s this guys deal and why is he so different from other pulp dudes?

(Meme on the left by Questionposting)

Ethel Knapp, twenty, stood in her furnished room and peered at the gas jet. For ten minutes she had been peering at it, trying to summon the courage necessary to turn it on—without a lighted match above it. She had no money. She had come to Great City from her home in Ohio to work. She had no work. She had no way of returning to her mother and father. But she did have a way of saving herself from further hunger and humiliation. 

The gas jet.

She raised her hand toward it. Startled, she paused. A faint rustling sound came into the room. Looking down, she saw an envelope creeping under the door. She took it up, bewildered, and opened it. Inside lay money— currency held together by a band of silver paper—banknotes totalling $200!

“I can’t bear to see suffering, Angel. I can no more help trying to alleviate it than I can help breathing. If there were any other way of taking money from those who hoard it, and giving it to those who desperately need it—if there were any other way than stealing, I’d take that way. But there isn’t.” - The Sinister Sphere

This is The Moon Man. Moon Man was created by C. Frederick Davies and appeared in 38 stories from 1933 to 1937 and was a cross between The Shadow and Robin Hood, a black-clad urban avenger with a unique costume who stole from the rich to provide for the poor and was viciously hunted by law enforcement and the criminal underworld for it, not helped by the fact that his true identity is that of Stephen Tatcher, the 25-year-old police sergeant and son of the police chief, engaged to the daughter of his worst enemy, a lieutenant constantly trying to get Moon Man in the electric chair.

There's three main things that set The Moon Man apart from the other costumed pulp heroes and Shadow imitators from his day: Number one is that, despite looking a lot like Mysterio, he actually had much more in common with Spider-Man than even The Spider himself, in that he was mostly an ordinary schlub driven to help others who had to constantly pull off precarious balancing acts to keep his job and his secret and his life. 2nd being that he is a far more socially conscious character than pretty much all of his contemporaries, dealing with economic inequality, white collar crime, and grey areas where business practices and law enforcement intermingle with criminality to trample the lower class. He's a Depression-era Robin Hood and the stories are dead serious about it.

And third is that The Moon Man is no gentleman thief or dark avenger: He does none of this for the sake of personal fulfillment or revenge, he isn't tabling fights with gangsters to occasionally do an afterschool special or make a half-hearted gesture at social commentary, this is just what he does as a baseline. He is far less preoccupied with fighting crime than he is saving people in bad circumstances, and the stories are highly preoccupied with the people he saves, and the circumstances that The Moon Man is saving them from. For a weird guy in a creepy mask who goes around in a black coat with a gun in hand, he's an unexpectadly compassionate and soft-hearted (even mopey at times) character.

A chuckle came from the silver‐headed man. “You’ve distributed the money, Angel?”

“Yeah. Got it out right away. And it certainly was badly needed, boss.”

“I know… You realize why I selected Martin Richmond as a victim, Angel?”

“I’ve got an idea he ain’t all he seems to be.”

“Not quite that,” answered the voice that came from the silver head. “He’s quite respectable, you know. Social position, wealth, all that. But there’s one thing I don’t like about him, Angel. He’s made millions by playing the market short, forcing prices down.”

“Nothin’ wrong in that, is there?”, Dargan asked.

“Not according to our standards, Angel; but the fact remains that short‐selling had contributed to the suffering of those we are trying to help. I’ve taken little enough from Richmond’s kind, Angel. I must have more— later."

Dargan peered. “I don’t quite get you, boss. You’re takin’ an awful chance—and you don’t keep any of the money for yourself.”

A chuckle came from the silver globe. “I don’t want the money for myself. I want it for those who are perishing for want of the barest necessities of life. What would you do if you saw a child about to be crushed under a truck? You’d snatch her away, even at the risk of your own life."

“Don’t think I’m questioning you, boss.” Dargan hastened to explain. “I’m with you all the way, and you know it"

"Yes, Angel,” said the Moon Man gently, “I know it. You’re the only man in the world I trust. You know what it is to suffer; that’s why you’re with me”.

The Moon Man lacked much in terms of budget or resources, partially because all of his money went to people in need, and he was under constant threat from the law and underworld alike, each more bloodthirsty than the other in how badly they wanted to mount his Argus helmet on a platter (he didn't even make the helmet himself, he mail-ordered it under his detective arch-enemy’s name). His father is a police chief with a weak heart, which adds an extra pressure to Stephen's secret in that it being revealed will not only lead to his father being fired, but likely dying from shock.

He picks hide-outs with creaky stairs as his main line of defense against intruders, his only line of defense is a gun, he pined over the love of a stubborn lady who initially detested his alter-ego, but eventually learned his secret and grew into a stronger person and even partner as they got engaged. And he only has one other ally he can trust:

He’d gone bad in the ring. A weakened arm made further fighting impossible. He found it just as impossible to find work. He’d drifted downward and outward; he’d become a bum, sleeping in alleys, begging food. Until, mysteriously a message had come to him from the Moon Man. 

Some day Ned Dargan was going to fight again. Some day he was going to get into the ring, knock some palooka for a row, and become champ. And if he ever did, he’d have the Moon Man to thank for it…

His main sidekick from the start, scarred ex-boxer Ned Dargan, was rescued by Moon Man from homelessness and starvation, and he was frequently named “Angel” as it was Dargan’s job to distribute the money, the narrative often filling the reader on the background of the recipients to make them not just anonymous victims, but real people with problems readers in the Depression era would have likely identified with. When we first meet them, Dargan tells him about a steamfitter with a sick daughter who needs money to pay for his kid's treatment, and a pair of kids with a recently deceased mother whose uncles can't afford to take them in and who will go to an orphanage without help, and The Moon Man promises money for all of them.

The main issue with the stories is that they do get a bit repetitive, but they're also fairly short and quick to read, and the strength of the concept, the assertive characters, the compassion, and the class dynamics that usually remain subtext in these kinds of stories, here becomes much of the text itself.

The Moon Man had a remarkable amount of continuity and consistency for a pulp hero, and only picked up more and more enemies that would constantly frame and target him with no additional allies. In fact, circa the end of the run, both his fiancé Sue as well as Angel are well acquainted with the Moon Man’s secret identity by this point and constantly beg Stephen Thatcher to give up his double life, warning him of increasing danger from both the cops and the mob, and in the last story, Blackjack Jury, he's pressured to give up his identity for good by the two and by how precariously his father's job hangs on him being able to capture Moon Man. The story and the character's run ends without revealing what decision he took.

Steve Thatcher lowered his head as though stubbornly to butt an obstacle. A wild scheme— his! He knew it. But, also, he knew the world— cruel and relentless—and he could not stand by and do nothing to save those who were suffering. The mere thought of letting others perish, while nothing was done to save them, was unendurable.

Beyond the written law was a higher one to which Steve Thatcher had dedicated himself—the law of humanity.

And if he were caught? Would he find leniency at the hands of Gil McEwen and Chief Thatcher? No. He was certain of that. Even if McEwen and the chief might wish to deal kindly with him, they would be unable to. The Moon Man now was a public enemy—his fate was in the hands of the multitude. Steve Thatcher would be dealt with like any common crook—if he were caught.

He remembered Ernest Miller’s daughter, who must go to Arizona or die; he remembered Frank Lauder, who must be cared for; he remembered Bill and Betty Anderson, who must have help.

“It’s got to be done!” he said through closed teeth. “Damn it, it’s got to be done!”

He walked swiftly through the night - The Sinister Sphere

The Moon Man is public domain and has seen some usage in modern pulp stories, but (as far as I can find) never really with the same bite that makes these stories appealing, and it's not difficult to see why the character, despite a fairly respectable run and a striking costume, remained mostly obscure. He certainly wouldn't have had any kind of 50s paperback revival without being heavily edited or rewritten entirely just in case somebody was maybe trying to trojan horse any commie talk somewhere, in a character whose main mission statement was addressing economic inequality and getting in trouble with the police over it. And nowadays, with Mysterio being so popular and "Moon Man" taking on a wholly different noxious meaning online, The Moon Man would require a slight overhaul of costume and a complete overhaul of his name, and unfortunately that entails almost making him a different character

The Moon Man stories were adapted into a short comics run circa 1940-42 where they completely overhauled his costume and changed the names, titling him The Raven, but otherwise kept the stories mostly the same. I don't have much of anything to say about him, but there is one additional bit of strangeness that followed The Moon Man's largely unsuccessful transition to comics: The Moon Man was never published in Brazil, but there was a Brazilian superhero in 1962 (which still predates Mysterio) with the exact same name and headpiece. Created by artist Gedeone Malagola who, upon being denied the opportunity to publish his own Phantom stories, simply erased the character’s head, added a cape and used a penny to draw a translucent globe for a head, creating a new hero in turn named Homem-Lua (Moon Man). The character lasted for a couple of years as a back-up on fellow superhero Black Ray’s magazine, before it’s end.

The only detail given about his past is that he was born in Brazil, initially operating near his headquarters in São Paulo before becoming a globetrotter. He lacks explicit superpowers, but is feared by criminals around the world and considered to be an immortal who’s been active for over a century, as many supporting characters in the stories claimed that their grandparents had met the hero. A master of technology who flew around in a personalized jet and was able to call upon the aid of indigenous tribes around the world, who believed him to bear the mark of a godlike entity or be said an incarnation of said entity (as a plot point it's as racist as you'd expect, but also gets a bit funny when you consider how the most famous of moon-themed superheroes this side of Japan, Moon Knight, would pan out 15 years later)

He's mostly a fairly cut-n-dry Phantom clone with some oddities here and there, namely: In one adventure, despite the character being supposedly a human, it was said that all who gaze on his face would die. He was never unmasked in the entirety of his run, and he had no compunctions about executing his villains, whether it was by burying them under a stone idol, breaking dams and letting them drown in the ensuing floods, exploding them, or outright sinking daggers into their chests. It's a very stark contrast to the pulp Moon Man, who preferred to avoid conflict entirely and would only use his gun as a last resort. Ultimately, they bear no official connection, but the strangeness of sharing the exact same name and trademark headgear. It's as if one ends where the other begins.

In some ways, I'd argue the original Moon Man is the purest wish fulfillment pulp hero of The Great Depression, because although eventually he'd take on more bizarre villains, the bulk of his stories are about this regular guy who goes around patching up wounds left by the Depression in a case-by-case basis and (barely) outfoxing and surviving repeated attacks from the powers that be only because he hides his true face from the world. He has no extraordinary abilities or resources, but he makes do as best he can with a ticking time bomb hanging above him.

As unfortunate as the character's present circumstances may be I absolutely think he's got what it takes to be striking and memorable and resonant in ways a lot of his fellow costume avengers aren't, and hey, the guy's public domain, so, if anyone wants to take a shot at reviving him or simply plopping him into a story, add another weird chapter to his history, nothing's stopping you. I simply have to believe there's an audience out there who may fall in love with a well-meaning bleeding heart trying his best who, with nothing but theatrics and smarts and a fishbowl helmet for a head, is driven to fight capitalism instead of Spider-Man.

With a strange, uncanny knowledge the Moon Man selected his victims. Those victims had climbed roughshod to power; some within the law, and others outside the pale. And the Moon Man called on them with a very definite and grim plan— for he walked in the eternal danger of a double menace. If the silent figure had any face at all, it was the face of the man in the moon!

[humanpurposes]

Karma is a God

Chapter 3: Storm’s End

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: mentions of violence

Words: 2800

A/n: Originally posted on AO3, posting to Tumblr before I get back to regular updates. I listened to Ptolemea and Family Tree by Ethel Cain on repeat for this.

Tags: @randomdragonfires @boundlessfantasy

The Stormlands live up to their name. The sky changes as soon as they pass over Massey’s Hook, blanketed with dark and heavy clouds as a harsh wind sets in. It takes Arrax by surprise and he gives a startled yelp, but Lucerra guides him back onto his course, as she always does.

She feels his fear and he feels her anticipation. Neither have been this far from their mothers before, from Rhaenyra and Syrax, and now they are messengers on the eve of war. How abruptly life can change, with the slash of a knife, a matter of words, a final intake of breath.

In the span of a single day she has received news of King Viserys’ death, watched her mother drag a bloodied mess from her body, kneeled before a funeral pyre and sworn an oath to her Queen. 

She had seen her grandfather decaying before her very eyes. His demise seemed imminent and yet none of them could have been truly prepared for what came next. Rhaenys’ arrival at Dragonstone, her message of the Hightowers’ treachery and Aegon’s coronation at the Dragon Pit. Now everything is in turmoil. Her mother is keen to resist open conflict but she prepares for war all the same.

She can’t quite believe it, any of it. She has to keep pinching herself, telling herself that it’s all real because she cannot escape this. She is bound to her family and to this conflict. She will do her duty, as a Velaryon– as a Targaryen.

Storm’s End fades into view. A single drum tower of grey stone reaching to the sky, atop a cliff edge over the sea, sparsely lit by flashes of lighting. Daemon says this place was built to spite the Gods, and mother says the Baratheons are a proud house, descended from the Storm Kings and the blood of Old Valyria. And she is to reason with their Lord, a task which seems increasingly daunting the closer she gets to the castle.

Arrax settles in the courtyard and a company of guards stand to greet her. They seem unusually indifferent to the presence of a dragon. She soon learns why.

A tremendous growl rumbles over the battlements and hums through her body. She’s only heard it once before, on the night of Laena Velaryon’s funeral. She turns to see the head of Vhagar looming over the great stone walls.

Aemond is here.

She must find her strength. She is the daughter of the Queen, a Princess of the sky and the sea and the blood of the dragon. She is also alone.

After a final soothing stroke over Arrax’s neck, the guards escort her through the doors.

She spots his head of silver hair immediately, shining eerily through the dull light of the Round Hall. A young woman stands beside him, standing with her hands clasped at her front, her eyes flittering nervously between the Prince and Borros Baratheon himself, sat on the stone throne of his ancestors.

Aemond turns to face her, a black coat swaying around his legs and a longsword hanging from his hip. She tries not to let her gaze linger but the same cannot be said of him. He’s bolder than he was in King’s Landing, when he looks at her now he is assured and unashamed. There’s that same hunger in his eye, the same restrained smirk on his lips, watching her every move. She feels awfully like an unsuspecting animal caught in a trap.

Shivers slip down her spine and she clenches her jaw to stop it from chattering. Even through her riding leathers and the red cloak shrouding her shoulders she can feel the piercing cold of the wind seeping into her bones. Aemond will think she is afraid. Perhaps she is. 

She has no one to stand behind. No Daemon to make him cower. No Viserys to bark him into obedience. No Jace to steady her nerves. She reaches a gloved hand around the hilt of her own sword, a delicate blade of Valyrian steel, gifted to her by her step-father to match a pair belonging to Baela and Rhaena.

Aemond smirks at the suggestion.

She thinks of her mother, standing over the painted table, before the Lords of her council. With her father’s crown on her head and grief so fresh in her heart, Rhaenyra had spoken with all the demand and reverence befitting her birthright. Her mother was born to be a Queen, and the same blood flows in her veins.

“Lord Borros,” Lucerra says, with her shoulders strong and her head held high, “I bring a message from my mother, the Queen.”

She does not receive the welcome her mother promised her. A Maester whispers into the Lord’s ear and his displeasure twists his face into a frown. 

“Remind me of my father’s oath?”

Defeat already weighs down on her chest and her eyes begin to sting. Child. She blinks it away.

“King Aegon at least came with an offer, my swords and banners for a marriage pact.”

Her heart sinks and she can’t think why. Aemond meets her gaze when she darts her eyes to him. There’s something unsettling about the curl of his mouth, the way his eye softens and his head tilts down. He’s practically glowing with pride and malice.

She can still feel the echo of his breath on her neck and his fingertips teasing over her skin. She had thought of him on the voyage back to Dragonstone, as they returned to the castle, as she lay awake in her bed waiting for dawn to appear. His hands, his lips, his threats, his insults of “ bastard ” and “ whore ”. The smell of smoke and leather. She cannot tear the memory from her mind.

By his amused expression she worries he might be able to hear her thoughts. 

“If I do as your mother bids, which one of my daughters will you wed, girl?” Lord Borros’ jest is scathing. Her mission has been in vain, and Aemond is here to witness her failure.

“My Lord, my brother Jacaerys is already betrothed, and I fear my other brothers are far too young to be considered for such a negotiation.”

“So you come with empty hands?”

Fury rises from her gut but she refuses to let it out. It settles and simmers in her chest. “My Lord, you have made your intentions clear. If I had something to offer you, I do not believe you would be inclined to accept.”

The man chuckles coldly. “Go home Princess, and tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes!”

No matter, she thinks, my mother has no need for an ally who lacks both honour and sense. But she opts for a slightly more courteous response. “I shall take your answer to the Queen, my Lord.”

She turns without looking back to Aemond and begins to walk towards the doors. The strikes of lighting and rumbles of thunder have become more frequent and she hears rain beating against the windows and stone walls. Arrax silently calls for her, longing to return home.

“Wait…”

His voice sends a rush of cold over her skin. She should keep walking. Nothing good can come from this. And yet in an instant she turns to face him, eyes wide and perhaps even hopeful.

“... My sweet Lady Strong.”

She feels the corner of her lip twitch into a slight sneer, but she keeps her composure.

Aemond keeps his hands tight behind his back as he takes a small step forwards. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

Cost. The throne is not Aegon’s, she has no crime to answer for on that account. As for the other… she wonders if he would be as terrifying without the eyepatch.

“I am here merely as a messenger,” she says, calmly, so her voice doesn’t falter. “I did not come to trade words with you. I did not come to fight you.”

He smiles, like he’s about to enjoy himself. “A fight would be little challenge. No–” the same hand that he had clasped over her mouth not two days ago reaches up to pull his eyepatch over his head– “I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine.”

She isn’t sure what she was expecting, perhaps his eyelids sewn shut or simply a gaping hole in place of what he lost. She had not expected to see a gleam of blue and the rough edges of a gemstone, a sapphire, set in the socket and framed by the twisted, red remains of his flesh. It’s vacant and grotesque… and it catches the light beautifully.

“One will serve,” he says, pulling back his coat to unsheath a knife. He tosses it towards her and it lands between them, with a harrowing clatter of steel against stone. “I would not blind you.” 

Her eyes fall to the knife. She tells herself this must be a jest. A sick joke meant to scare her. Just as he had done in the empty chamber in the Red Keep. But then, Aemond has never been one for humour, not when they were children at least.

Lightning flashes through the hall and the sapphire glints at her. “Do this, dōna ilībōños, and I will consider your debt fulfilled.”

Sweet bastard.

She doesn’t feel cold anymore. She doesn’t feel fear. She feels distant, like she’s existing in a dream. She can’t withhold the laugh that hums in her throat. “No.”

The amusement in his eye vanishes. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

That’s when she realises she will not leave this encounter unscathed.

His taunting composure is gone with a crack of thunder and another flash of lightning. He rushes forwards to take up the knife. “GIVE ME YOUR EYE OR I WILL TAKE IT, BASTARD!”

The sword on her hip is forgotten and she’s already moving to meet him. “SO TAKE IT!” She screams. She drops slightly, fingers outstretched and so close to grabbing the hilt–

Suddenly her body lurches forward, dragged by her collar and brought to her feet. She looks past the knife hovering before her eye. All she sees is his face, jaw clenched, lips writhing in fury, his single eye wide and dangerous. 

She shudders as his breath brushes over her skin. “My blood is precious, uncle, if you want it you shall have to earn it.”

Aemond’s lips press together into a snarl. “Mittītsos,” he hisses. Little fool.

Somewhere in the distance, Lord Borros protests, but neither of them hear him.

She cannot take her eyes from the sapphire and the scar, slicing from his forehead, cutting through his brow and ending between his cheek and his jaw.

She remembers standing in the Hall of Nine, the weight of an arm over her shoulders as she peered from behind her mother’s skirts. While Viserys demanded answers, Rhaenyra demanded justice and Alicent demanded retribution, Lucerra watched him. The stitches in his gash had barely been sewn, blood and whatever else weeping from the wound, and he glared, at his father, at his half-sister, and at her.

She reaches for him, placing her hand against his cheek. He jerks his head with an irritated “hmm” but she holds him, keeping his eye on her. She brushes her thumb over the edge of his scar. It’s softer than she expected.

“Is this truly what you want?” She whispers.

“I need…” For a moment she recognises him, the solemn little boy he once was. Until the anger starts to creep back in. He inches closer into her and his voice is like ice. “I need you to feel it.”

Hot tears swell in her eyes. Six years and not a day has gone by when she hasn't thought of what she did to him. She regrets following her brother that night. She regrets picking up his knife. She regrets that Aemond ‘one-eye’ is a monster of her own making. But in a way she always knew she couldn’t hide from him forever.

Her mother says Targaryens find power in their dragons, but Aemond makes her think that power is found in pain.

She grabs his wrist and drags it down so the blade rests against her cheek, the point scratching at the delicate skin below her eye. She braces herself for the pain she knows is soon to come. Her slash was one of desperation, and as she looks up to the domed ceiling of the Round Halls, she can only hope that Aemond will be quick and precise.

“No, look at me.” His hand comes off her collar and snatches her jaw, pulling her face forward enough that the knife nicks at her skin. A small droplet of red pearls at the cut. “Look at what you made me.”

A single tear trails down her cheek and stings as it mingles with her blood, but she frowns with all the defiance she can find. “Will you be satisfied then, once you take my eye? Or will you keep asking for more?”

He shakes his head slightly, as if he’s surprised at the suggestion. “I only want what I am owed.”

Her heart is in her throat. “And so far I have only done what you have asked of me.”

He draws his thumb over her cheek, over her tears and her blood.

The hold on her jaw loosens. Aemond takes the blade from her cheek and twirls it between his fingers, placing it back on his belt.

She stares at him, utterly bewildered. 

Lord Borros’ voice booms through the hall. “Take Princess Lucerra back to her dragon!” 

A pair of hands grip her shoulders, but she shoves them off before the two guards can drag her back to the door.

She looks back to Aemond. “Kirine iksan, qȳbos, daoruni rȳ lōtūljan.”

I am thankful, uncle, that you never see anything through.

With that she hurries into the storm and the onslaught of rain.

Arrax is nervous. She strokes his scales and presses her forehead against him. “I’m here,” she utters, “I’m here, jorrāelagon.” She swallows the urge to cry. They cannot linger here. She can lament when she’s back at Dragonstone.

Once they are in the air she fears they may not make the journey. Arrax is struggling, and she can hardly see with the wind and rain beating against her face. She tries to look down, perhaps they might find somewhere on the shore of Shipbreaker Bay, but she can’t see through the clouds, all she sees is grey.

That’s when she hears a formidable growl, as present and ominous as the clasps of thunder. She looks behind her and sees darkness against the clouds. It is too large to make out the shape, then it is gone.

The threat of a knife is one thing. The threat of a dragon, a beast of the conquest, is lunacy. 

Her hands tighten on the reins as she urges Arrax up. If they can escape the storm they might have a chance of outrunning Vhagar. 

Something breaks through the clouds before them and she realises it is a mouth, one large enough to swallow a ship, let alone her young dragon. Arrax steers out of the way and as Vhagar passes over them, she hears Aemond’s gleeful cackle. 

This is a game to him, her very life a plaything for him to use and torment. Perhaps she should have taken out her eye after all.

Arrax’s size makes him elusive, but the weather works against him. They lose them for a short time, when Arrax flies through a canyon near the surface of the sea, and Vhagar’s size will not allow her to follow them.

Lucerra looks around frantically for their bearings, but she cannot make out anything past Arrax’s head. She cannot tell which way is North, which way will lead them to Dragonstone and which way will lead them back to Vhagar.

Suddenly Arrax swerves, circling back around as Vhagar’s shadow comes into view. 

“Daor, Arrax!” She screeches, but she cannot stop the burst of flame that erupts from his jaws. She directs them further up as Vhagar’s enraged roars sound from behind them, fading with the distance. 

They fly up until they break through the clouds and find daylight. It’s peaceful above the storm, nothing but the wind and her heart drumming in her ears.

She feels no peace. They cannot have escaped this yet.

When she sees an open mouth surging towards her, she does the only thing she can think to do. She jumps. Or rather she falls, looking up at what is left of her dragon once Vhagar has torn him to shreds.

She falls and falls, through the clouds and back into the storm.

[probably-a-human-being]

Spoilers

Random thoughts I had while reading TNC:

Weird lore in the ground. Huh.

Audrian also has that lore. Elsie stuff?

Damn! I've been imagining lore keepers taking on traits from their beasts since book 1, and now it's canon!

Fuck you Leopold. Good for you Cyril.

Field trip! Nice to meet all the high keepers, Hasu's mom having a dragonfly on her face is cool, but I don't like her by principle because it seems she's putting a lot of pressure on Hasu :(

Oh hi Zeeeenzi

ETHEL! MY BABY HOW I'VE MISSED YOU. WHERE'S YOUR BROTHER!?!

Blights are creepy. Also based on what was previously said I'm guessing that Yasha came from a town struck by them?

Hasu can already do lore surge? I mean that's cool, but seriously, why are they putting so much pressure on her?

Signature moves! Nice.

Oooh creepy tomb. So that's where "The Night Compass" comes in. Also I didn't mention it but I love Grusha.

Hydra snakes. Cool.

YASHA!!!!!!!!!

I just love all things Yasha :)

Damn! I remember someone predicting that Navryshta or however you spell her name is a mammoth frozen in ice, looks like you were right!

Bye Yasha... but Barclay still has his coat 😳

Oh the description of Barclay's blackened fingers was BRUTAL

It's nice to see Runa and Cyril becoming friends again.

I also like seeing Viola realize that her dad is kinda shitty, reminds of when I realized that about my mom. I still love my mom, but she's a little insufferable, and it's nice to see someone in fiction feeling the same way as me.

Also Barclay practicing with his new lore is so cute ☺️

The image of the glacier point was so clear, and it was really cool.

oh fuck no no no LEAVE RUNA ALONE YOU ASSHOLE

Bye Yasha... again... also Viola stabbed you in the shoulder? Damn!

HASU'S BONDED WITH A LEGENDERY BEAST?!? WHAT?!?

QUIST YOU FUCKING GENIUS, EDUCATE THE WHIMSICAL AND TELL NO ONE

GRUSHA!! Leave her alone Audrian you fucking asshole!

GRUSHA NOOOOOOO (but stabbing Audrian with the horn and RUNA'S move? Iconic)

YASHA NOOOOOOO

Runa's going to bond with a legendery beast? That's fucking awesome!

NAVRYSHTA NOOOOOOOOO

Leopold 😒

WHAT THE FUCK WHAT FUCK WHAT'S HAPPENING

HOLY SHIT THE WILDERLAND IS GOING WILD

THE FAMILY IS BREAKING UP? NOOOOO

HASU'S GREAT BEAST WOKE UP? WOOOOAAH

So overall I really liked the book, I liked the darker vibe and the greater violence, and the plot twist were cool. I have a few questions, such as: how did Navyrishta get trapped in the ice in the first place? Why was the horn plunged into the glacier at the north of the world? Why did it turn silver? And also I'm wondering what happened to Abel, since that was never explained. I hope that in future books we get more time with Ethel and maybe discover what happened. I'm also glad that Root got more screentime, because my biggest critique of books 2 and 3 is that they kinda didn't give him anything to do. Barclay and Zenzi kissing was nice, but I don't really see this turning into something serious more like a crush that will eventually go away and all that'll remain is friendship. I also enjoyed seeing Barclay getting better at lying, although I'm not sure how I feel about it being through Audrian. Speaking of which, Audrian is delusional. Fuck him. Can't wait for the next book!

[eldreitch]

𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗲   𝗹𝗼𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗱:               welcome   to   portum,   𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇   𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗅.

blasting   family   tree   (intro)   by   ethel   cain   down   main   street   we’ve   spotted   severin   faisal   sporting   their   black   burberry   trench   coat,   collar   perpetually   popped.   the   thirty4   (actual   age   unknown)   year   old   vampire   who’s   been   in   town   for   ten   years   often   can   be   seen   lounging   gracefully   before   a   tasting   platter   of   new   reds   at   the   old   haunt,   negotiating   prices   for   the   gallery   in   delightfully   clipped   tones,   tending   to   a   beloved   garden   or   working   as   a   curator   at   portum   art   museum.   people   say   they   display   metropolitan   and   eremitic   traits,   but   we   rather   trust   their   vibes:   a   fleet   of   sleek   towncars,   +   a   sweet   juxtaposition   between   a   well - loved   pair   of   leather   gloves,   dirt - caked,   worn   at   the   fingertips   but   beloved   beyond   belief.   half - burnt   candles   in   votives,   their   romantic,   dim   ambiance   flickering   on   tomes   over   than   anybody   dares   to   question.   golden   glimmer   to   narrowed   hues,   predatory   but   kind   about   their   ruthless   pursuit.   waves,   pulled   in   by   their   silver   compass,   crashing   along   the   shore   in   rhythmic,   peaceful   interludes.   also,   we’ve   heard   they   love   secondhand   books,   especially   with   handwritten   dedications      !      aren’t   they   fascinating      ?

[         𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶...         ]         ꗃ         𝙨t𝖺t𝗂𝙨t𝗂𝖼𝙨.

name:      severin   hamzi   faisal.         nicknames:      sev,   if   he’s   got   a   particular   fondness   for   you.   otherwise,   he   doesn’t   respond   to   them.         age:      physically,   thirty4.   actual   age   unknown         —         he   estimates   somewhere   1,000+   years   old.         date   of   birth:      unknown,   but   makes   it   a   habit   of   having   his   birthday   in   a   different   month   every   year.         place   of   birth:      bath,   england.         species:      vampire.   gifted   with   psychometry.         nationality:      british.         gender      +      pronouns:      demi   man,   he/they.         orientation:      fluid,   along   both   the   romantic      +      sexual   spectrums.         zodiac:      chuckles   nervously.   too   old   to   understand   what   ‘gemini   energy’   is      +      why   they   appear   to   radiate   it.      

mother:      unknown.   no   memories   of   her   linger.         father:      also   known.   no   known   memories   or   traces   of   him.         siblings:      none.         marital   status:      has   been   in   a   vexatious,   centuries   -   long   situationship   that   makes   him   want   to   commit   violence.   wc   to   come.         children:      despite   having   turned   a   small   multitude,   he   has   a   small   group   of   ‘foster   children’      (vampires   he’s   turned),   as   it   were,   that   he’s   particularly   fond   of.   wcs   to   come.         extended   family:      none   of   any   major   note.         pets:      a   silky   black   cat,   called   manon.   he   loves   that   damn   cat.

hair:      black,   a   cascade   of   curls   that   falls   to   his   jawline      +      curls   over   the   collar   of   any   shirt   he   ever   wears.         eyes:      dark   brown   with   golden   rings   around   the   pupil.   framed   by   thick,   dark,   long   lashes   that   hold   the   most   enviable   natural   curl.         height:      six   foot.         build:      ectomorph.   long,   lean,   lithely   muscular.   built   like   a   damn   predator,      +      there’s   a   strange   satisfaction   that   comes   from   kinowing   that.         signature   scent:      tom   ford’s   wood   oud.         dominant   hand:      right.         allergies:      none.         distinguishing   features:      long,   dextrous   fingers.   dimpled   smile.   deeply   expressive   eyebrows.      tattoos:      none.         piercings:      none.         scars:      two   puncture   wounds,   long   faded,   at   the   juncture   of   his   neck.         clothing   style:      his   clothing   style   in   public   versus   at   home   is   chalk      +      cheese.   in   public,   everything   is   sleek         —         velvet,   satin,   fine   fabrics   all   around,   primarily   in   jewel   tones.   button   -   downs   are   left   open   at   the   throat,   the   sleeves   rolled   up   their   forearms.   trousers   are   slim   -   fitting,   tailored      +      almost   dazzlingly   expensive   but   subtle   about   it.   lots   of   outerwear         —         in   particular,   a   black   burberry   trench   coat   with   the   collar   forever   popped   to   accentuate   the   sharp   line   of   their   jaw.   jewelry   is   simple,   but   makes   a   statement         —         a   gold   chain   around   his   neck,   a   delicate,   vintage   watch,      +      a   signet   ring.   at   home,   they’re   far   more   cosy.   sleek   aesthetic   is   traded   for   sweaters   with   elbow   patches,   comfy   trousers   with   elastic   waistbands.   big   fan   of   slippers.   owns   an   embarrassing   amount   of   flannel   pajamas.        

occupation:      art   gallery   curator      @      portum   art   museum.   deals   art      +      antiques   on   the   side,   but   that’s   more   for   fun.   occasionally   does   some   translation   work   as   well.         education:      had   very   little   when   he   was   mortal,   but   he’s   made   it   a   point   to   become   as   well   -   educated   as   possible.   he’s   got   eternity   to   learn   as   much   as   he   can,   doesn’t   he      ?      favours   the   arts,   humanities,   english,   et   cetera.   does   have   a   fondness   for   the   natural   sciences,   but   can’t   stand   mathematics.         religion:      muslim.   faith   is   a   strange   comfort   for   the   immortal,   he   knows   this.         socioeconomic   standing:      upper   class.         habits:      cracking   his   knuckles.   clicking   his   tongue.   drums   fingertips   on   every   single   available   surface.         ambitions:      none   of   any   major   note.        

mbti:      infj,   the   advocate.         enneagram:      type   4w5,   the   bohemian.         element:      air.         temperament:      sanguine.         character   inspirations:      tba.         deadly   sin:      greed.         heavenly   virtue:      kindness.         anthems:      tba.

[         𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶...         ]         ꗃ         𝙧𝗲𝖼𝗲𝗇t𝙨.

last   watched:         gentlemen   prefer   blondes   (1953),   dir.   howard   hawks. last   read:         crime   and   punishment,   fyodor   dostoyevsky.   in   its   original   russian. last   listened   to:         morning   radio,   where   he   cringed   at   benson   boone      +      admits   to   shimmying   to   texas   hold   ‘em,   just   a   little   bit. last   social   media   post:         an   extensive,   grammatically   -   correct   comment   on   a   post   in   one   of   his   facebook   gardening   groups.

[         𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶...         ]         ꗃ         t𝗂𝖽𝘣𝗂t𝙨.

old   man   (affectionate).   one   of   the   kids   has   100%   had   to   coerce   them   into   social   media,      +      even   then,   he’s   one   of   those   people   that   unironically   sends   thumbs   -   ups   on   facebook.   just   abysmal,   really.

on   psychometry:   he   really   does   view   it   as   a   gift.   lays   a   lot   of   hands   on   pieces   at   work,   just   to   soak   up   their   stories         —         has   100%   turned   fakes   away   for   exactly   that   reason.   finds   it   a   fascinating   study   in   learning   a   lot   about   people. very   much   a   people   person,   despite   an   outward   exterior   that   would   send   most   running   for   the   hills.   whilst   he   has   a   resting   bitch   face   for   the   ages,   he   genuinely   enjoys   spending   time   with   people.   fantastic   active   listener.

gift   giver   extraordinaire.   he   just   knows   what   gifts   people   will   love.   also   wraps   them   beautifully.

fond   of   telling   stories   that   sound   almost   fake.   ask   them   about   the   time   they   just   about   flirted   william   shakespeare   into   bed,   or   the   time   they   served   in   queen   victoria’s   court.   you’d   be   inclined   not   to   believe   them,   until   they   tell   you   rich   details   that   couldn’t   possibly   be   known   by   someone   who   hadn’t   lived   it.

firm   on   his   saturday   morning   routine,   which   is   as   follows:   wake   up,   make   the   bed.   feed   the   cat.   have   a   shower,   get   ready.   go   out.   first   stop:   the   sweetest   tooth,   for   an   almond   latte      +      a   croissant,   where   he   reads   the   paper      +      chats   to   anybody   who   will   stop   for   a   second.   (tips.   heavily.)      next:   the   library,   where   he   drops   his   latest   finished   books   back      +      picks   up   more.   the   local   farmers’   market   next,   to   gather   ingredients   for   dinner.   home,   then,   to   potter      +      to   spend   the   day   as   he   pleases.   the   night   always   ends   with   classic   jazz      +      a   glass   of   what   looks   like   a   full   -   bodied   merlot,   but         …         isn’t.   yikes.

stunning   handwriting   for   someone   who   was   100%   born   a   medieval   peasant.

[         𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶...         ]         ꗃ         𝘩𝗂𝙨t𝗼𝙧𝘆.

tba.

[draquaza70]

Silver coat ethel is free!

[stonerbughead]

first line tag

rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have fewer than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Then tag some people to take part.

thanks for the tag/bringing this super fun exercise into the fandomsphere @sullypants! i listed these in the order they've been most recently updated.

1. There are a lot of things Betty Cooper considers to be true about herself. (you can count on me)

2. The cold air whips Betty’s face as she tightens her scarf around her body and leans back against the car, waiting for Jughead to emerge from the rest stop store with an inevitable stash of snacks. (friendsgiving 2012)

3. Ethel’s mom insisted on buying her the fanciest field hockey stick at the Sport Authority, purple and silver and so shiny that when Ethel jumps out of the car on the first day of preseason, she wishes she’d rubbed some dirt on it first. (feel it all around)

4. If one thing was for certain, it was that Cheryl was in an absolute frenzy. (Exhale)

5. One day soon, Archie Andrews won’t know how to answer a very simple question. (right back where we started from)

6. It’s three hours between Riverdale and Seaside. (under the boardwalk)

7. It’s just past 1 am at the Starboard Motel when a sleek black sedan pulls into the near-empty lot. (four years later)

8. Betty always insists on making her own pesto. (do you think i'm being foolish if i don't rush in?)

9. All was calm inside Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe, but Pop sensed that it wouldn’t be that way for long. (familiar places)

10. There are moments—often beyond your control—that can completely change the course of your life, and sometimes you don’t even know it until much later. (christmas eve will find me (where the love light gleams))

11. Pop Tate’s favorite time in the Chock’lit Shoppe has to be 10 AM on a Sunday morning. (Pop Tate, Working-Class Hero: The Untold Story of How Pop’s Chock'lit Shoppe Became a Worker Cooperative)

12. Melody stands in front of her mirror, vacillating between keeping her hair down or gathering it in a ponytail. (last summer at band camp)

13. It all starts when Betty’s out to brunch with her friends. (same way that my whole world's in your eyes)

14. Betty sighs, rolling out her wrists and trying to clear her mind. (do you like or like like me?)

15. Betty sets her coffee mug down at her desk with a groan, shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the back of her chair. (love in the time of coronavirus)

16. Helping other people buy presents. That’s what Betty associates the holidays with. (a merry little retail christmas) I know this is technically two but it makes literally no sense without the second line lmao

17. It feels to Betty like Christmas has come early this year. (west coast winter)

18. At first, Jughead narrows his eyes curiously at Betty as she pulls him out of English class. (make it count)

19. Betty’s been quiet for the last hour of their drive, and if she knows anything about her roommates, it’s that they’re ticking timebombs, lying in wait, ready to pepper her with well-meaning questions about her mental state at any visible sign of distress. (if it feels like a home)

20. An unfairly cold March wind whips through the night. (RAs on duty)

What a fun exercise! I definitely use the first line to establish POV almost all the time it seems, and sometimes setting too. I really love the way I started Ethel’s POV in feel it all around. Idk I have a hard time analyzing myself. But feel free to analyze for more patterns if you so choose LOL

tagging @thetaoofbetty @literatiruinedme @heartunsettledsoul @imreallyloveleee @iconic-ponytail @fallout-mars @ really anyone who thinks this sounds fun bc it was!

[slytherindisaster]

weekend with the grays: 5th of december; part 1

The picnic on the grounds of Winbourne was in a full swing, the laughter of the guests and the accompanying music was heard all around the estate. Laurent Yaxley was keeping his distance from the people, or rather one particular person, after his and Lady Gray’s awkward encounter on the first night. She left in such a hurry that he didn’t have a chance to apologise and with the grouse shooting the previous day he didn’t find an appropriate time to do so either.

Maybe that was a good thing. After all it did give him an opportunity to sort out his own thoughts and get it together, and he was more than glad that be could do it without an audience. He lit a cigarette and was about to go for a walk in the nearest woods when he saw a blonde man, dressed in a coat that seemed to be far too large for him, approaching.

“Got one of these to spare?”

Laurent narrowed his eyes, recognising the Hufflepuff Keeper and he could swear that by the time he stopped by his side, the man’s coat suddenly seemed to fit him just alright. He silently reached to the inner pocket of his coat and took out a silver cigarette case. Lysander, despite what he just said, took two of them, tucking the spare behind his ear. Laurent left that without any comment and just tossed him the matches.

“So, who are we watching?” asked Lysander, while he lit his cigarette.

“No one,” answered Laurent taking his matches back, “and everyone.”

Lysander slowly nodded his head with a smirk forming on his lips.

“Right. You’re almost like a host of this whole thing, aren’t you?”

“What made you think that?” Laurent asked calmly, despite his growing irritation with his new companion.

Lysander shrugged. “People talk.”

“And what else do they talk about?”

“Well, they do also say that a large part of today’s meals comes from your furious shooting yesterday,” he stopped to take another drag of his cigarette, “and that allegedly you started a somewhat fierce rivalry with the git that’s just about to sit by Lady Gray’s table.”

Laurent turned his head, immediately finding Prim’s location. Across from her there was Lord Archibald, clearly trying to ask her for a dance.

“I didn’t see you at the shooting yesterday,” he changed the subject, still watching the pair closely. “In fact, I don’t think I saw you at the Welcome Ball either.”

Lysander throwed his head back with a chuckle. “Let’s just say I’m very good at blending in. People rarely pay attention to my presence and then they babble all their secrets out, not even caring who’s listening.”

“How about you just simply stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” Laurent’s tone was sharp and criticising but it only made Lysander laugh louder.

“Now this would be a terribly boring experience and I simply couldn’t stand that,” he answered, a smug smile on his face. “You see, I like to be entertained properly, especially on a big event like this. Even if I have to cause most of the mayhem myself...” he cut himself short, spotting a familiar silhouette between the dancing couples. “Speaking of mayhem...”

Laurent’s eyebrows rose as he followed the other man’s gaze. He recognised Ethel Hexley, who was just getting twirled around by Selene Fraser, another Gryffindor girl from their year. Ethel’s laugh was so loud they could hear it even despite the music and the distance, her hair swinging and constantly getting in her face. She was a very peculiar choice to put affections towards but not all that unreasonable.

“One would have to be daft to willingly make himself deal with that girl’s attitude on a daily basis,” he finally said, “But she has turned out to be quite good looking, hasn’t she?”

“You can say that,” mumbled Lysander in response. “Of course if you ignore the abnormal size of her ears... and that hideous freckles, and the hair barely touched by a comb...” he tilted his head as if he was trying to look for something more. “I guess her nose is almost pleasant to look at, I can give her that.”

This time it was Laurent’s turn to laugh. “It’s a quite detailed observation, Mercury. You must’ve think of her a lot in your spare time.”

“Quite the opposite actually,” Lysander finished his cigarette and tossed it on the ground, “but she’s my best mate’s sister, so I’m forced to spend far more time with her than I would ever wished for.”

“If you says so,” concluded Laurent, barely paying attention to him, as he spotted, with the corner of his eye, Lord Archibald finally moving on from Primrose’s table.

As opposed to Lysander, Laurent didn’t care for other people’s drama, especially not until he had his own affairs sorted out. He tossed what was left from his cigarette on the ground as well and put it down with the heel of his boot, excusing himself.

For @endlessly-cursed’s Christmas Event. Characters mentioned belong to @the-al-chemist & @lifeofkaze.

[thepointoftheneedle]

Happy New Year!

I wrote a little New Year’s Eve one shot.  It’s below the cut or you can read it on AO3 here.  (I’ve started a collection of short pieces just to keep things tidy.) I hope you are all able to celebrate safely and I wish you a healthy and happy 2021.

It was obvious that the party was going off the rails as soon as Archie started lining up shots along the whole length of the marble counter top.  He called Reggie out and Reggie never backed down from a challenge to his machismo so they both worked their way along the little bullets of stupid until, breathless and belly laughing, they slid to the floor, their eyes swivelling in their dumb skulls like cartoon coyotes that had just been smashed over the head with an Acme anvil.  It was nine fifteen. Betty had wondered if Veronica would be mad about it but she seemed in the mood for some chaos as she set up two more lines of glasses opposite each other on the counter and challenged Cheryl who had never met an unnecessary drama she didn’t like.  

Betty had drunk a very pleasant glass of good champagne and had been contemplating having a couple more before midnight.  She’d never been a big drinker so for her that was cutting loose.  It had been, to put it crudely, a shit-show of a year and she was glad to see the back of it.  At the last New Year’s party she had been showing off a dazzling engagement ring, about to start the job that she had been expensively and laboriously trained for and she and her intended had signed the lease on a cute and well appointed apartment in Sunset Park which everyone said was the up and coming neighbourhood. The world had been unfolding for her like a flower.  Then the frost had come and scorched the petals with its chill. This year she was single, her job sometimes felt like it was eating her up and that cute apartment burned through every cent of her pay check now she had to make the rent alone.  It was possible that she was the saddest girl in a cocktail dress on the whole island of Manhattan, she was certainly the soberest person at the party.

An hour later the shots were completely out of hand and Betty had only just prevented Ethel from throwing up into the piano.  Moose made some half hearted effort to restore order, offering glasses of water, trying to start a game of Charades, but Kevin was in too mischievous a mood for his efforts to bear any fruit and instead they were embarking on Drunk Jenga, the rules of which seemed to be that you took a shot whenever you removed a block and then another when you placed it on top of the stack.  She imagined you took a shot if the tower fell but she didn’t stick around to find out.  She sidled over to where the Pol Roger was stacked, neglected,  in its very own champagne refrigerator and helped herself while everyone else was supporting the economy of Mexico by the prodigious consumption of Patron Silver.

She took her recharged glass to the window and looked out at the snowy expanse of Central Park far below.  It looked like the idealised interior of a snow globe, the air glassy and still and a huge yellow moon surveying its domain.  Betty remembered walking through the park with Trev last Christmas, bundled in a thick coat and scarf.  They’d held hands inside one of his mittens. They’d made snow angels.  They’d skated at the Wollman Rink and drunk hot chocolate afterwards.  Her life had been a cover image from a romance novel. This year she had spent Christmas being patronised by Polly’s constant offers of introductions to a succession of Jason’s frat brothers and golfing buddies.  Eventually she’d pointed out that if she’d wanted some obstructionist, bigoted blowhard she could have found one herself, without Polly’s oh so sympathetic intervention.  Polly cried and Betty apologised but she still wasn’t going to go on a date with a junior vice president of acquisitions even if he did have a weekend place in Connecticut.  She wouldn’t tolerate being paraded in front of prospective suitors like a prize dairy cow at the county show, not by Veronica and certainly not by her sister.

As she reminisced she became aware of Archie and Veronica deep in conversation in the corner of the room.  “We have a teeny emergenshy,” Veronica said, her hand on Archie’s forearm.  Veronica was never less than perfectly composed but that slur at the end of her word and the ramped up sincerity gave her away to her best friend. She was sozzled. “Only two bottles of Patron left and then the cupboard is bare. I may have over-ordered on the fizz and neglected the tequila.”

Archie nodded, taking the situation as seriously as his wife.  Then some kind of light dawned on his handsome face.  “We’ll get the magic doorman to get us some.  He’ll be on duty now.  I’ll go slip him a fifty and he’ll take care of it.”  He turned to reach for his wallet and promptly fell on his face. It was ten to eleven and all was decidedly not well.

Betty went over to help Archie off the rug.  He grinned even though his nose was bloody. “Ronnie, Betty’s all sober and sensible.  She can go talk to the wizard.  Here Betty, here’s fifty for a tip and Ronnie’ll give you her credit card for the booze.  Okay?  Shit I’m bleeding… still it’s not a party til something gets broke.”

V was looking at her imploringly now.  Somewhere there was the sound of glass smashing and Monroe’s attempt to do chin ups on the kitchen doorframe seemed to be bringing plaster down on the floor.  Betty would rather be almost anywhere than right here so she nodded at her friend.  "What do you need V?”

V explained that the building’s night doorman was a kind of fixer.  When Tom in 204 had forgotten his wife’s birthday Jones had got him a gluten free chiffon cake iced with her name at two thirty on a Thursday morning along with a bouquet of out of season narcissuses....narcissi? When the little boy in 116 had told his mama at midnight that he needed a George Washington costume for school the next day the night doorman had sourced it, complete with powdered wig, before the little tyke had finished his cheerios.  When V had realised an hour before her 5.15 a.m. flight to Miami that she had completely forgotten her niece’s confirmation gift he had sourced a personalised Catholic Bible bound in white leather which he handed to her as she got into her cab.  “He’s a miracle worker B.  Just tell him we need a case…no two cases of Patron Silver before midnight.  Give him the fifty but tell him I’ll make it a hundred if he can fix it by eleven thirty. OK?”

“Sure.  On my way.”  

She travelled down in the elevator imagining the doorman.  He’d be some old guy in a uniform with gold braid on the chest. He probably knew all the residents and their dogs by name and had one of those old timey extended families so that he could reach out to Cousin Ike for last minute birthday cakes or get his nephew’s wife to sew a costume at no notice.  She needed a fixer herself since her life seemed so broken.  She wondered what he could do for a lonely woman who was trying to work out if getting a cat was too much of an admission that she had given up.

As she stepped out into the lobby she was slightly taken aback by the mismatch between her expectations and reality.  He was behind the reception desk, dark head bowed over a laptop, no braid in evidence, no grey whiskers or paunch, just this dark, poetic looking guy in a black sweater.  She approached the desk and he looked up at her, fingers still flying over the keys without him needing to glance down.  He seemed to reach a natural pause, closed the lid of the laptop and smiled politely.  “Yes ma’am, how can I help?”  His eyes were blue.  They seemed to look through her probably thinking she was just another rich girl bringing him problems.  He must get that a lot.

“Yeah, hi, I’m a guest of Mr and Mrs Lodge Andrews up in the penthouse.  They’re having a little New Year's Eve party and they’re running low on liquor.  They wondered if you could source them a couple of cases of…”

“Patron Silver?  Yes ma’am, of course.  Who should I charge it to?”  She had no idea how he could have known what she was going to ask for.  It made her want to say that they wanted Stolichnaya or absinthe or something, just to surprise him but she’d been sent for Patron and Patron she would get.

“Oh, yes, I have a credit card.” She handed it over,  “and Mr Andrews said to give you this for the trouble.”  She passed him the fifty, embarrassed.

“No incentive to get it here before the coaches turn into pumpkins?” he asked, eyebrow raised.  She thought he was making fun of her but she couldn’t be sure.  

“Oh yes, that’s right.  Veronica said another $50 if it’s here by eleven thirty.”

“Okay ma’am.  I’ll buzz up when it’s here.  If that’s all.”

“Oh please don’t call me ma’am.  I’m Betty.”

“I’m Jones... Jughead. Nickname. Long dull story.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering why she was still standing in front of his desk.

“Look, it’s a little crazy up there.  Would it be okay if I just stay down here for a minute? Just say if it’s inconvenient. I don’t want to disturb you if you’re busy.” She didn’t think she could bear to be the responsible adult at Veronica’s party for a moment longer. Here it was quiet and no one needed her to hold back their hair while they were getting sick.

“Busy getting hold of twelve bottles of good tequila on New Year's Eve but that’s all.  I just need to make a call.  Excuse me.”  He stood and walked away from the desk, his back turned to her.  It was a good back.  He was wearing the black sweater over grey slacks with a key chain hanging from one of his belt loops.  He had broad shoulders but his neck was fine, not thick and meaty like the guys who needed to lift weights to manufacture some self esteem. He was slim at the waist and the hips, long legs, tall.  The hair was the USP though, dark waves of it tumbling freely as he dragged long fingers through it, waiting for someone to pick up his call.  Finally he yelled “Hey Toni.  Yeah, two cases of Patron Silver asap.  Yeah, I’d noticed that but mark it up. Can Sweetpea drop it over?  Yeah right now.  Hey, ask him to get me a burger on the way too.”  He turned and looked at Betty with a questioning look and she shrugged and nodded, “Two, make it two.  Ok, thanks Toni.  Yeah you too.  See you Sunday.”

He ended the call and made his way back to the desk.  “My pal Toni runs a bar,” he explained with a grin. 

“Veronica says you’re magic, a wizard,” she told him.

“Nothing occult about it.  I’m just observant, that’s all.”

“Seems magical to produce a George Washington costume overnight,” she countered.  

“Oh well, that was a lucky break.  My sister’s a textile artist.  A struggling one.  I gave her the brief and she knocked up the costume in a few hours.  Now all the upper east side mommies have her business card and she can afford to buy materials and pay her rent.  She had to pull an all nighter but it paid off pretty big in the end.”

“Birthday cake?  Out of season flowers?” 

“The husband’s kind of a dick.  He forgot last year too. They had a fight about it in this very lobby so I wrote down the date and got ready to save his bacon.  If he’d remembered the date I’d have had cake for my breakfast and sent my sister a bunch of flowers.  As it was I made a couple hundred bucks.”

Betty was laughing now at the smug look on his face.  “So you could have reminded him beforehand?”

“Could have, but maybe the expense’ll help him remember next time.  Anyway if the doorman knows more about your wife than you do it might be time to review your priorities.”

“Ok but what about the Bible?  That seems pretty miraculous.”

“Actually it’s kind of the opposite. The kid’s confirmation name is Maria. Hardly original.  My buddy Joaquin’s little sister was confirmed a few months ago.  Her confirmation name’s Maria.  She hadn’t made a whole lot of use of the Bible.  Your pal paid me three hundred, Joaquin’s kid sister got two hundred in her college fund.”

“Seems like the side hustles are more remunerative than the pay check,” Betty observed.

“It’s all a side hustle.  I’m a writer.  This job’s kept me supplied with characters and plot lines and given me eight hours of mostly uninterrupted writing time.”

Betty flushed pink and jumped up from the corner of the desk where she had been leaning.  “Oh I’m so sorry. Here I am wasting your time.  I’ll be on my way.”

“No, wait,” he reached out and put his hand on her arm.  It tingled.  “I didn’t mean it like that.  This is research.  Maybe I’ll put you in my next book.  The sad girl in a party frock who’d rather be in the lobby than with her friends at a party being kissed for New Year.”

“There’s no-one to kiss up there,” she confessed with a sad smile and then, without having any idea why, she said “I broke up with my fiancé last February.”

“Aha,” he said.  “There’s the plot.  Tell me.”

“He’s great.  A really good guy.  Kind, loyal, handsome.  Everything I should have wanted. Any girl would be lucky to have him. I think I broke his heart.”

“Why?”

“We started to plan the wedding and I wanted to run away.  I couldn’t bear to think about it.  Then one day I found myself imagining what I’d do if something bad happened that prevented it, like if he got sick or if I was in a car accident or something.  It was pretty clear that I couldn’t go through with it if I preferred the idea of one of us being in a coma to the idea of my wedding day.”

“Cold feet?”

“Oh freezing but it wasn’t just nerves.  When I imagined being married to him I couldn’t see myself, I was just a blank. It was… I don’t know how to say it…like I was finished.  I’d never be anything more than I was, never change or grow or struggle.  It was all too easy.  No grit in the oyster.  I know it’s crazy.”

“You didn’t say it was you not him did you?  You didn’t do that to him?” He was smiling at her, sympathising not mocking.

She blushed.  “I did.  All the clichés.  How could I explain?  I don’t even understand it myself.”

“I understand it.  You want to find out who you can be and he couldn’t give you that.  He was happy with who you were, didn’t want you to change.  He was probably scared of losing you. Anyone would be.” He looked at her with an intensity that made her nervous so she tried to change the subject.  

“A writer then?  What do you write?”

“Mostly mystery stories.  Magazines and online so far but I’ve just got a publisher for the novel.  I’m going to quit this next year.  What do you do?”

“I’m a psychologist.  I work with kids who are in trouble.  Try to get them back on track.  I love it but it’s hard sometimes.  I hear things that it’s tough to leave at the office.”

“You need to take care of you first.  You can’t save someone if you aren’t safe yourself. ”

“Writer or life coach?” she smiled.

He chuckled.  “Sorry.  I’m not good at small talk.  I get too intense too fast and freak people out.  Oh hey, cometh the man, cometh the tequila.”  

A tall guy in a leather jacket was pulling boxes out of the back of a truck that he’d illegally bumped up the curb outside..  He looked a little scary.  Once he was in the lobby she saw that he had a snake tattooed on his neck.  He fist bumped Jughead and then pulled him into a side hug. “Hey man.  Happy new year and all that. Hey,” he said, noticing Betty for the first time. 

“Hey.  Thanks so much for bringing it over. There’s a whole apartment full of drunk idiots upstairs just waiting to make themselves sick on it. Oh!” He turned back to Betty, aghast at what he’d said. “Sorry Betty.”

“You’ll not get an argument from me.  That’s why I’m down here talking to you.”

Neck tattoo laughed and held out his hand “Sweetpea.  Pleasure doing business with you.”  He turned back to Jughead,  “So I have to get back, I’m supposed to be on the door at the Wyrm.  See you Sunday?”

“Burgers?” Jug reminded him and his friend nodded, trotting back to the truck to grab a take out bag and toss it back to Jughead who snatched it from the air like a dolphin snatching a fish at Seaworld.

Betty buzzed up to the penthouse to get one of the assembled jocks to come and collect two cases of tequila and bring down a bottle of Pol Roger and the promised fifty dollars. It was eleven twenty four.  Ten minutes later she was sitting on the reception desk eating a burger, washing it down with $200 champagne.  “This is the best New Year's Eve I’ve ever had,” she grinned, a little disinhibited by the bubbles.  

“Weren’t you engaged last year?”

“This is much better.  I was pretending last year.  Now I’m just being me.”

“I always find that works better.  The not pretending bit. Especially not with someone you can love.”

She certainly wasn’t pretending at eleven fifty nine when she reached out to him and he took her in his arms and kissed her softly as cheers and yells rang out from the parties all over the city and fireworks exploded high above the park, casting confetti of coloured lights across the marble lobby. 

As the kiss ended she looked up into his blue eyes, wondering if it was the champagne that was making her blurry and relaxed or if it was him.  She thought she’d have to keep on kissing him to know for sure.  He really was a fixer though.  Her heart felt lighter, hopeful.

He grinned.  “Spectacular as that was, this is probably the most surveilled lobby in the city.  Can we schedule the repeat for when I’m not actually on the clock?”  He gestured at the security cameras covering every inch of the space and she blushed to think that somewhere there was taped evidence of her trying to seduce the sexy doorman.

“Can I stay here and talk to you some more if I promise not to touch?”

“I wish you would.  I get off at six and I know a great diner for breakfast.  We can tell people our first date was breakfast.  They’ll be scandalised.” She couldn’t hold back at the mention of the first date, of them telling people about it, so she kissed him on the cheek before retreating back to the edge of the desk with her hands up.

They talked about her work, his writing, they compiled an ultimate New Year's Eve playlist and top tens of movies and books.  She found herself distracted by the fullness of his lips, the expressiveness of his face, the heaviness of the locks of hair that fell forward over his eyes only to be pushed back impatiently.  They agreed on almost nothing and that was exactly how she liked it.  When she crept up to the penthouse at five thirty to collect her coat and change her party shoes for snow boots, she was met with a scene of devastation.  Prostrate bodies sprawled on every flat surface.  The two cases of tequila sat unopened in the kitchen, clearly surplus to requirements by the time they had been manifested.  She picked her way through the carnage and found the coat closet where Archie had put her things when she’d arrived the night before.  Opening the door she noticed the cases of liquor stacked inside, three unopened boxes of Patron among them.  She realised that Jug wasn’t the only fixer in the building.  She made sure to lean over her sleeping friend to place a kiss on her forehead before she let herself out, locking the door behind her.

[aic-american]

Two-Handled Covered Cup, Cornelius Kierstede, 1698, Art Institute of Chicago: American Art

This luxurious vessel, by one of New York’s foremost early silversmiths, was used to serve syllabub, a sweetened or flavored wine, cider, beer, or ale into which milk was whipped. The cover helped preserve the frothy drink and also, using its three equidistant handles as legs, could be inverted into a stand for the cup. The vessel bears the mark CK, standing for Cornelius Kierstede, a third-generation New York silversmith of Dutch descent. Kierstede opened a shop around 1698 in New York, where he worked, off and on, until moving to New Haven, Connecticut, in the early 1720s. Like the Van Cortlandt family, who commissioned this cup and whose coat of arms it bears, and the Stuyvesant family, whose descendants owned the object until the Art Institute acquired it, the majority of Kierstede’s patrons were wealthy Dutch colonists. This cup is one of four nearly identical pieces made during the same period by Kierstede and two other well-known New York silversmiths. Evolved from English prototypes, all four have the same nearly straight sides, scroll-like handles, and slightly domed cover as well as variations of the embossed acanthus-leaf ornament. Restricted gift of Mrs. James W. Alsdorf, Pauline Seipp Armstrong, Marshall Field, Charles C. Haffner III, Mrs. Burton W. Hales, Mrs. Harold T. Martin, Mrs. C. Phillip Miller, Mr. and Mrs. Milo M. Naeve, Mrs. Eric Oldberg, Mrs. Frank L. Sulzberger, and the Ethel T. Scarborough Fund Size: 12.7 × 20.3 × 12.7 cm (5 3/8 × 8 5/8 × 5 3/4 in.); 677.4 g Medium: Silver

https://www.artic.edu/artworks/106538/

[kvetchlandia]

Man Ray     Alice B. Toklas and Gertrude Stein in Their Home, 27 rue de Fleurus, Near the Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris     1922

Compose compose beds. Wives of great men rest tranquil. Come go stay philip philip. Egg be takers. Parts of place nuts. Suppose twenty for cent. It is rose in hen. Come one day. A firm terrible a firm terrible hindering, a firm hindering have a ray nor pin nor. Egg in places. Egg in few insists. In set a place. I am not missing. Who is a permit. I love honor and obey I do love honor and obey I do. Melancholy do lip sing. How old is he. Murmur pet murmur pet murmur. Push sea push sea push sea push sea push sea push sea push sea push sea. Sweet and good and kind to all. Wearing head. Cousin tip nicely. Cousin tip. Nicely. Wearing head. Leave us sit. I do believe it will finish, I do believe it will finish. Pat ten patent, Pat ten patent. Eleven and eighteen. Foolish is foolish is. Birds measure birds measure stores birds measure stores measure birds measure. Exceptional firm bites. How do you do I forgive you everything and there is nothing to forgive. Never the less. Leave it to me. Weeds without papers. Weeds without papers are necessary. Left again left again. Exceptional considerations. Never the less tenderness. Resting cow curtain. Resting bull pin. Resting cow curtain. Resting bull pin. Next to a frame. The only hat hair. Leave us mass leave us. Leave us pass. Leave us. Leave us pass leave us. Humming is. No climate. What is a size. Ease all I can do. Colored frame. Couple of canning. Ease all I can do. Humming does as Humming does as humming is. What is a size. No climate. Ease all I can do. Shall give it, please to give it. Like to give it, please to give it. What a surprise. Not sooner whether. Cordially yours. Pause. Cordially yours. Not sooner together. Cordially yours. In strewing, in strewing. That is the way we are one and indivisible. Pay nuts renounce. Now without turning around. I will give them to you tonight. Cunning is and does cunning is and does the most beautiful notes. I would like a thousand most most. Center pricking petunia. Electrics are tight electrics are white electrics are a button. Singular pressing. Recent thimble. Noisy pearls noisy pearl coat. Arrange. Arrange wide opposite. Opposite it. Lily ice-cream. Nevertheless. A hand is Willie. Henry Henry Henry. A hand is Henry. Henry Henry Henry. A hand is Willie. Henry Henry Henry. All the time. A wading chest. Do you mind. Lizzie do you mind. Ethel. Ethel. Ethel. Next to barber. Next to barber bury. Next to barber bury china. Next to barber bury china glass. Next to barber china and glass. Next to barber and china. Next to barber and hurry. Next to hurry. Next to hurry and glass and china. Next to hurry and glass and hurry. Next to hurry and hurry. Next to hurry and hurry. Plain cases for see. Tickle tickle tickle you for education. A very reasonable berry. Suppose a selection were reverse. Cousin to sadden. A coral neck and a little song so very extra so very Susie. Cow come out cow come out and out and smell a little. Draw prettily. Next to a bloom. Neat stretch. Place plenty. Cauliflower. Cauliflower. Curtain cousin. Apron. Neither best set. Do I make faces like that at you. Pinkie. Not writing not writing another. Another one. Think. Jack Rose Jack Rose. Yard. Practically all of them. Does believe it. Measure a measure a measure or. Which is pretty which is pretty which is pretty. To be top. Neglect Waldberg. Sudden say separate. So great so great Emily. Sew grate sew grate Emily. Not a spell nicely. Ring. Weigh pieces of pound. Aged steps. Stops. Not a plan bow. Why is lacings. Little slam up. Cold seam peaches. Begging to state begging to state begging to state alright. Begging to state begging to state begging to state alright. Wheels stows wheels stows. Wickedness. Cotton could mere less. Nevertheless. Anne. Analysis. From the standpoint of all white a week is none too much. Pink coral white coral, coral coral. Happy happy happy. All the, chose. Is a necessity. Necessity. Happy happy happy all the. Happy happy happy all the. Necessity. Remain seated. Come on come on come on on. All the close. Remain seated. Happy. All the. Necessity. Remain seated. All the, close. Websters and mines, websters and mines. Websters and mines. Trimming. Gold space gold space of toes. Twos, twos. Pinned to the letter. In accompany. In a company in. Received. Must. Natural lace. Spend up. Spend up length. Spend up length. Length thoroughly. Neatness. Neatness Neatness. Excellent cording. Excellent cording short close. Close to. When. Pin black. Cough or up. Shouting. Shouting. Neater pin. Pinned to the letter. Was it a space was it a space was it a space to see. Neither things. Persons. Transition. Say say say. North of the calender. Window. Peoples rest. Preserve pulls. Cunning piler. Next to a chance. Apples. Apples. Apples went. It was a chance to preach Saturday. Please come to Susan. Purpose purpose black. Extra plain silver. Furious slippers. Have a reason. Have a reason candy. Points of places. Neat Nezars. Which is a cream, can cream. Ink of paper slightly mine breathes a shoulder able shine. Necessity. Near glass. Put a stove put a stove hoarser. If I was surely if I was surely. See girl says. All the same bright. Brightness. When a churn say suddenly when a churn say suddenly. Poor pour percent. Little branches. Pale. Pale. Pale. Pale. Pale. Pale. Pale. Near sights. Please sorts. Example. Example. Put something down. Put something down some day. Put something down some day in. Put something down some day in my. In my hand. In my hand right. In my hand writing. Put something down some day in my hand writing. Needles less. Never the less.

Pepperness. Never the less extra stress. Never the less. Tenderness. Old sight. Pearls. Real line. Shoulders. Upper states. Mere colors. Recent resign. Search needles. All a plain all a plain show. White papers. Slippers. Slippers underneath. Little tell. I chance. I chance to. I chance to to. I chance to. What is a winter wedding a winter wedding. Furnish seats. Furnish seats nicely. Please repeat. Please repeat for. Please repeat. This is a name to Anna. Cushions and pears. Reason purses. Reason purses to relay to relay carpets. Marble is thorough fare. Nuts are spittoons. That is a word. That is a word careless. Paper peaches. Paper peaches are tears. Rest in grapes. Thoroughly needed. Thoroughly needed signs. All but. Relieving relieving. Argonauts. That is plenty. Cunning saxon symbol. Symbol of beauty. Thimble of everything. Cunning clover thimble. Cunning of everything. Cunning of thimble. Cunning cunning. Place in pets. Night town. Night town a glass. Color mahogany. Color mahogany center. Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. Loveliness extreme. Extra gaiters. Loveliness extreme. Sweetest ice-cream. Page ages page ages page ages. Wiped Wiped wire wire. Sweeter than peaches and pears and cream. Wiped wire wiped wire. Extra extreme. Put measure treasure. Measure treasure. Tables track. Nursed. Dough. That will do. Cup or cup or. Excessively illigitimate. Pussy pussy pussy what what. Current secret sneezers. Ever. Mercy for a dog. Medal make medal. Able able able. A go to green and a letter spoke a go to green or praise or Worships worships worships. Door. Do or. Table linen. Wet spoil. Wet spoil gaiters and knees and little spools little spools or ready silk lining. Suppose misses misses. Curls to butter. Curls. Curls. Settle stretches. See at till. Louise. Sunny. Sail or. Sail or rustle. Mourn in morning. The way to say. Patter. Deal own a. Robber. A high b and a perfect sight. Little things singer. Jane. Aiming. Not in description. Day way. A blow is delighted.

--Gertrude Stein, “Sacred Emily”  1922

[ivressesdhier]

Virginia Woolf’s numerous & inventive ways of describing Vita Sackville-West in her diaries (The Diary of Virginia Woolf, vol. 2 & 3)

Excerpts from 1922 to 1930, in chronological order:

"I am too muzzy-headed to make out anything. This is partly the result of dining to meet the lovely gifted aristocratic Sackville West last night at Clive's."

"–knows everyone– But could I ever know her?"

"the aristocratic manners is something like the actresses–no false shyness or modesty: a bead dropped into her plate at dinner–given to Clide–asks for liqueur–has her hand on all the ropes–makes me feel virgin, shy, & schoolgirlish."

"She is a grenadier; hard; handsome, manly; inclined to double chin."

"She is a pronounced Sapphist, & may, thinks Ethel Sands, have an eye on me, old though I am. Nature might have sharpened her faculties. Snob as I am, I trace her passions 500 years back, & they become romantic to me, like old yellow wine."

"All these ancestors & centuries, & silver & gold, have bred a perfect body. She is stag like, or race horse like, save for the face, which pouts, & has no very sharp brain. [...] But as a body hers is perfection." 

"But its the breeding of Vita's that I took away with me as an impression, carrying her & Knole in my eye as I traveled up with the lower middle classes, through slums." 

"Vita was here for Sunday, gliding down the village in her new blue Austin car, which she manages consummately. She was dressed in ringed yellow jersey & large hat, & had a dressing case all full of silver & night gowns wrapped in tissue."

"But I like her being honorable, & she is it; a perfect lady, with all the dash and courage of the aristocracy, & less of its childishness than I expected."

"But she has shed the old verbiage, & come to terms with some sort of glimmer of art; so I think; & indeed, I rather marvel at her skill, & sensibility;"

“Vita, to attempt a return, is like an over ripe grape in features, moustached, pouting, will be a little heavy;"

"meanwhile, she strides on fine legs, in a well cut skirt, & though embarrassing at breakfast, has a manly good sense & simplicity about her which both L. and I find satisfactory. Oh yes, I like her; could tack her on to my equipage for all time;"

"With Vita we discussed the murder of Mr Joshua, Ottoline, literature. Then she took us to Charleston –& how one's world spins round–it looked all very grey & shabby & loosely cut in the light of her presence." 

"I like her & being with her, & the splendour–she shines in the grocers shop in Sevenoaks with a candle lit radiance, stalking on legs like beech trees, pink glowing, grape clustered, pearl hung. That is the secret of her glamour, I suppose." [...] There is her maturity & full breastedness [...] her being so much in full sails on the high tides, where I am coasting down backwaters; [...] her capacity I mean to take the floor in any company, to represent her country, to visit Chatsworth, to control silver, servants, chow dogs; her motherhood, her being in short (what I have never been) a real woman. [...] Then there is some voluptuousness about her; the grapes are ripe, & not reflective. No. In brain & insight she is not as highly organised as I am. But then she is aware of this, & so lavishes on me the maternal protection which, for some reason, is what I have always most wished from everyone."   

“She is not clever, but abundant & fruitful; truthful too." 

"Vita is a dumb letter writer, & I miss her. I miss the glow & the flattery & the festival."

"Her address was read in sad sulky tones like those of a schoolboy; her pendulous rich society face, glowing out under a black hat at the end of the smoky dismal room, looked very ancestral & like a picture under glass in gallery."

"Vita was very opulent, in her brown velvet coat with the baggy pockets, pearl necklace, & slightly furred cheeks. (They are like saviours flannel, of which she picked me a great bunch, in texture) [...] Of its kind this is the best, most representative human life I know: I mean, certain gifts & qualities & good fortunes are here miraculously combined–I liked Harold too."  

"Vita very free & easy, always giving me great pleasure to watch, & recalling some image of a ship breasting a sea, nobly, magnificently, with all sails spread, & the gold sunlight on them."

"Thus it has been a free quiet summer: I enjoyed the Eclipse; I enjoyed Long Barn; (where I went twice) I enjoyed sitting with Vita at Kew for 3 or 4 hours under a cloudy sky & dining at the Petit Riche with her [...] she refreshes me, & solaces me;"

"Vita very gallant & wild & tossing her head & taking me to the Zoo & saying she was wild & free & wd. make her money now herself by writing."

"Vita as usual like a lamp or torch in all this petty bourgeoisdom; a tribute to the breeding of the Sackvilles, for without care of her clothes she appears among them <in all the sanity & strength of a well-made body> like a lampost, straight, glowing. None of us have that; or know not how to carry it"

"A queer trait in Vita–her passion for the earnest middle-class intellectual, however drab & dreary." (this tantrum’s about Hilda Matheson)

"Then L. met us, punctually at 4 [...] & we sat on some prickly holly leaves on the heath & talked to Vita about Harold's letter. He says her poems aren't worth publishing. She is very calm & modest, & seems not to mind much–a less touchy poet never was."

"She was very much as usual; striding; silk stockings; shirt & skirt; opulent; easy; absent; talking spaciously & serenely to the Eton tutor, an admirable young man, with straight nose & white teeth who went to bed, or to his room, early, leaving us alone."

“Something happens in my mind. It refuses to go on registering impressions. It shuts itself up. It becomes chrysalis. I lie quite torpid, often with acute physical pain–as last year; only discomfort this. Then suddenly somethings springs. Two nights ago, Vita was here; & when she went, I began to feel the quality of the evening–how it was spring coming: a silver light; mixing with the early lamps; the cabs all rushing through the streets; I had a tremendous sense of life beginning; [...] Well, as I was saying, between these long pauses [...], I felt the spring beginning, & Vita's life so full & flush; & all the doors opening; & this is I believe the moth shaking its wings in me."

"My map of the world lacks rotundity. There is Vita. Yes–She was here the other day, after her Italian tour, with 2 boys; a dusty car, sand-shoes & Florentine candlepieces, novels & so on tumbling about on the seats.”

"The other night, sitting on the floor by my side, Vita suffered considerably from jealousy of Ethel. [...] She praised her, stoutly, but bitterly. She has all the abandonment that I, living in this age of subtlety & reserve, have lost. She claims you; rushes in where I force myself to hold back. [...] When Hugh was here he said casually that he had met Ethel at tea.” [earlier that day at Monk’s House]. “Such agony went through her she could not speak. And I noticed nothing; & in my usual blind way, made my usual mocking joke. This V. took seriously & brought out my letter for me to read."

Pictures from Virginia Woolf’s personal photo album.

[dearyallfrommatt]

W. C.  Fields Tales of Manhattan deleted scene.

Also featuring Margaret Dumont and a very young Phil Silvers. Tales of Manhattan was a 1942 anthology movie featuring six stories based around a cursed coat. Also featured in the film were Rita Hayworth, Eddie “Rochester” Anderson, Cesar Romero, Ginger Rogers, Ethel Waters, and Edward G. Robinson.

 One interesting tidbit about the movie is that it marked the last time African American actor, singer, and political activist Paul Robeson worked within the Hollywood system. The last story involved poor rural black folks, and Robeson found the portrayal as extremely racist. He went into it thinking it would show the condition rural blacks lived in under the sharecropping system, but he felt it wound up showing tired old stereotypes, “the same old story, the Negro singing his way to glory.”

[evilsnowswan]

Summary: [Rumbelle Mermaid!AU] based on this prompt by repeatinglitanies: “In a world where people are aware of the existence of mermaids, Belle is a mermaid who lives in the world’s largest aquarium along with other sea creatures. She enjoys looking at the little humans who come to visit, especially a floofy haired boy who comes every week with his father….” An injured Belle is captured and brought to Gold and Milah’s aquarium. Gold is a marine biologist dedicated to protecting the creatures there, Milah wants to turn a profit, and their son has his own ideas about how to befriend a mermaid.

Rating: G/Teen Link to full story: [Read on AO3] Previous Chapters: [Coverart][Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5][Chapter 6][Chapter 7][Chapter 8][Chapter 9][Chapter 10][Chapter 11][Chapter 12][Chapter 13][Chapter 14][Chapter 15][Chapter 16][Chapter 17][Chapter 18]

Current Chapter: 19/? Chapter Summary: Gold learns something new about Indigo. And about himself.

Chapter 19: Power

Whatever he thought about the Mills Foundation, or rather the representatives he’d met, they delivered, and they delivered fast. It was true that most problems could not be solved simply by throwing money at them, but the foundation’s money and connections had absolutely something to do with the shiny prototype he was looking at right now.

“And you got the idea from your work with… vets?” Gold asked, looking round at the man who had brought the large silver case. While the case was plain and ordinary, not warranting a second glance or a turned head on the streets, the man was everything but. He had to be around Gold’s age, maybe a little younger, but dressed like a man from another era. His getup reminded Gold of someone from the theatre or the cabaret; entirely too much detail, expensive fabrics, and deep colors.

“Something like that, yes.”

The man had introduced himself as Tailor, but Gold wasn’t sure if that was his last name, given name, or his occupation.

“We sometimes work with veterans.”

Gold nodded. “And it won’t be too heavy? Slow her down in the water?”

Tailor briefly looked up from the loose piece of thread he’d been examining. “Drag effect? Unlikely. It’s light as a feather.” He waved a hand at the case, then resumed studying the place on his sleeve where a button had gone missing, or maybe a cufflink.

“That’s… good.”

Gold waited for Tailor to elaborate, to tell him more about the wondrous device he had brought, or at least ask about the Med wing’s expensive equipment, like he was used to whenever he brought outsiders in, but the man remained silent and focused on his shirt.

“Is it… safe? I mean, can we try and put it on her? Or will you have to…”

“Made to measure brace. Don’t need me there.” Tailor gave a half smile and let go of his sleeve to wiggle his fingers. “Should fit like a glove. And if not—” he let his hand do the talking, directing Gold’s attention back to the open case on the table in front of them. “Adjustable straps and buckles.”

“Right.” Gold shifted his weight. “How much?”

“Pardon?”

Gold drew a deep breath and cleared his throat. Tailor buttoned his coat.

“I’m not sure we can afford this,” he admitted, feeling familiar embarrassment flooding his cheeks. In all those years, the knot in his stomach and the heat in his cheeks had stayed the same. “What range are we talking here?”

“Pfft, paper and coinage.” Tailor waved his concerns away and reached for his top hat in the same extravagant move. “It’s a gift.”

Gold blinked, feeling his jaw drop before he clenched it and ground his teeth. If there was anything he hated more than being skint, it was begging alms. They did not need handouts.

“In my experience, life comes with a price.”

“True, true.” Tailor nodded along gravely, then spun his hat enthusiastically. “But this,” he nodded at the case and clapped his hands. “is a gift.” His grin widened as Gold’s eyes narrowed. “Your un-birthday. Or hers.” He shrugged. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

There was silence for a moment as Gold digested the news. It was too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

“And? You’ll leave it in exchange for…?”

He knew he was being rude, but he had too much life experience to bite.

“Updates,” Tailor said finally. “Management wants updates on the mermaid.” He spun his hat again, then put it back on his head. “Or the brace. Or the brace on the mermaid. Something like that.”

“Ah.” The tight feeling in his chest let up. Now they were talking. “Will a monthly report suffice?”

“Weekly.” Tailor gave him a knowing look. “The powers that be like to read.”

Gold grimaced, but, after a beat, held out his hand. Tailor eyed it curiously.

“Sale or return,” he said, winking. “You like it, you buy it. Then you can spin her royal highness some… tales.”

Gold frowned. “Come again?”

Tailor laughed, but it was a humorless laugh and it left his face harder than before. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “Just… watch out for that mermaid of yours.”

The words prickled at the back of Gold’s neck, and he took a moment to replay them in his mind to see what was wrong with them, but he could not detect anything bad, anything tangibly… off.

The whole money thing had rubbed him the wrong way and put him on edge. That was it. This was a business transaction. One he had insisted on handling himself. And so he would.

“Certainly.” he said, putting feeling into the word. “Her well-being is our main concern. And your… brace will help improve that, I’m sure.”

Hands in his pockets, Tailor nodded. “Let them know what you think.” He touched the brim of his hat, hesitated, then held out his hand.

Gold threw out his own again, only to notice the business card held between two fingers. He coughed slightly, then pocketed it without looking at it.

“If… there’s any trouble—” Tailor said, taking off his hat in a small bow.

“Thank you, Mr. … Tailor. We’ll let you know if we have any problems with the… uh, device.”

“At your disposal, Mr. Gold.”

***

After the visitor was gone, Gold pushed the case to the wall and logged onto the computer to take another look at the video footage of Indigo swimming. They, that was his wife, had sent it to the foundation - along with Indigo’s measurements, medical history, and copies of Dr. Whale’s reports. He had not liked it, but it had gotten them a custom made tail brace in record time.

Milah had explained to him that the Mills foundation had old ties with the military, which allowed them access to certain resources and personnel. None other than Ethel Montgomery herself had pointed them out to her daughter during her stay at Montgomery Manor. Another fact that didn’t sit well with Gold, but which he had to accept for the greater good: his goal to help Indigo as soon as possible.

Gold sighed heavily as he watched Indigo struggle against the artificial waves.

Just when he clicked to pause the video, a new email popped up, and he frowned, recognizing Milah’s name on his screen. Were they back to communicating via email only, sending messages from one office at the aquarium to another? No, she had forwarded a recent message from the Mills Foundation. The text wasn’t long, thanking them for their time, congratulating everyone involved on the great business decisions made, more of the usual hogwash, and finally, expressing hopes of continued successful cooperation in the near future.

Gold only skimmed the message, then stopped to look at the attached files more closely. They were instruction manuals. Furrowing his brow, he opened the first document, surprised to find a drawing of the brace and sock, detailing every screw and scrap of material used and giving instructions on assembly, use, repair and storage.

With a groan, he pushed up from his chair to drag the case towards the desk and popped it open. He was a hands-on guy; and touching what he was looking at would allow him to connect the dots a little faster.

He had just concluded that he’d acquainted himself fairly well with the metal-made monstrosity and put it back in its case, when the door to the Med wing gave a shrill beeping sound - access denied - and the intercom hissed.

“Papa?!” The voice panted audibly, gulping down air. “It’s me. Uh…”

Shaking his head and grinning, Gold walked over to hit the door to press the buzzer and let his son enter.

“Is it here? Can I see it? Mama said…” Bae was out of breath, his face flushed and eyes wide. He had probably run the entire way.

Gold chuckled. “Good afternoon to you too, son.”

“Hi, Papa.” Bae quickly threw his arms around Gold’s waist and hugged him. “Is it done? Is it ready?”

“Oh hold on, can’t a man sit back down and catch his breath for one minute, before you start bombarding him with questions?”

Bae stepped back, almost glaring, which made Gold laugh. “Alright. Yes, it’s in here.”

Bae took the case and pulled it closer to the desk, attempted to lift it, then decided to open it on the floor.

“Wow!”

“Careful now, my boy.” Gold hurried over to sink back into his chair and watch as his son tentatively reached out to touch the metal brace and stroke the soft sock. Wide-eyed, he looked up at his father.

“This is the same stuff we use for humans,” Gold explained, remembering what he had read. “It’ll protect the skin and slide around her tail.”

Bae nodded. “They use this for soldiers. When they’re injured.” His eyes flickered to Gold’s bad leg. “To help them walk again.”

“Yes.”

“Feel it, Papa! It’s so soft. What’s it made from?” Bae’s little hands went up and down the sock again. “Do you think she’ll like it? How do we put it on? Will she have to wear it all the time? Like, when she sleeps? Can she swim normal with it? Is it…”

Gold held up a hand, smiling. “We will see,” he said, concern already gnawing at the back of his mind.

“What’s it made from?” Bae asked again, lifting the sock from the case and feeling its weight in his hands.

Gold cleared his throat. “It’s a silicone elastomer. Took them a couple tries to get just right, make it soft as a baby seal’s arse.” He laughed at Bae’s incredulous look. “They say it’s saltwater proof and should stick to her scales, easy.”

Bae stuck his arm inside the sock and wiggled his fingers. “I dunno,” he said. “Feels like seatbelt.”

Gold raised a brow.

“It’s gonna rub!” Bae clarified, rubbing at his neck. “She’s going to hate it if it rubs.”

“We’ll make sure it doesn’t,” Gold smiled, thinking to himself that it would probably be fine once the sock was wet. Bae had always been a child who winced at new clothing, needed all the tags cut out just so, and who had thrown screaming fits whenever they had tried to wrestle him into knitwear as a toddler — until they had abandoned the idea of wool on the boy entirely.

Bae looked doubtful.

“You could help, if you like?” Gold offered. “I’m meeting Miss Lucas and Indigo at the pool in a bit, so she can try it on and see how it feels.”

“I know!” Bae squealed. “I want to come!”

Gold pointed a finger at him. “So that’s why you raced up here like a bull shark was chasing after you.”

“Mama told me.”

“I see.” Gold winked.

Bae carefully replaced the sock, then turned to his father. “Papa?” He hugged his knees. “Is… is she going to die? If she doesn’t wear it?”

“Don’t worry, son.” Gold reached out and ruffled Bae’s curls. “Nothing’s going to happen to Indigo.” He shifted in his seat, leaning on his thighs. “The brace, it’s… just a tool to help her swim better.”

Bae scrunched up his nose and rubbed at it, his eyes watery as he held Gold’s gaze.

“You know, like your retainer.”

“Huh?”

“When you put on your retainer at night, it tells your teeth how to grow in the right direction, right?” Gold waited until Bae nodded. “This brace is going to tell Indigo’s tail muscles how to swim properly.”

“But she’s a mermaid. She knows how to swim.”

“Yes, she does. But when she was hurt, well, she taught herself to swim with a wiggling motion side to side—” Gold made the motion with his hands.”—like a snake.”

Bae nodded again. He had seen Indigo swim that way and compared her to a lizard.

“Or a lizard. But that’s not how mermaids are supposed to swim and it’s hurting her back. We were worried she could end up paralyzed, and since there are no wheelchairs for mermaids, we asked really smart people—”

“The Mills Foundation?”

“Yes, we asked the Mills Foundation for help and they made her this brace to make sure she’s going to be ok.”

Bae let go of his knees. “How does it work?”

“The brace?” Gold gestured at the case and motioned for Bae to close it. “Well, they designed it so that her tail moves up and down again.”

“But how?”

“By putting slight pressure on the right spots.”

“Yeah, but how does that work, Papa?”

Gold sighed internally. “You’ll see when we attach it. How about we pack this up and head downstairs? We can stop by Granny’s on the way. I hear there are waffles with two scoops of vanilla ice cream and our names on them.”

Bae scrambled to is feet and beamed. “Okay.”

***

The prosthetic designer hadn’t lied. They really had used the finest materials, durable but flexible. The sock was indeed soft to the touch, the joints flexible enough so it should feel natural, or at least as natural as a brace made from metal and screws could feel.

Indigo, however, didn’t look convinced.

They were on a submerged platform in the reef tank, the area once again closed off to the public, and had slipped on the sock (it had a hole for her fin, but they had had to roll it up a bit to make it slide through). Then they carefully attached the brace. Indigo had let them do it after examining the squishy soft material first and then eyeing the brace warily, but now her brow was furrowed and her teeth had come down hard on her bottom lip.

“Hey,” Gold tipped up her chin. “It’s okay. You’ll see.” He smiled at her.

“Yeah, and don’t worry if it itches a little,” Bae said, tugging on his life jacket. “We’ll fix that.” He too gave her a warm smile and Gold noticed chocolate sauce on his chin.

“Indigo?” Miss Lucas waved to catch Indigo’s eye, then pointed at her still tail in the water. “Move it for me?” She gestured with her palm held out flat. “Tail up, tail down. Tail up, tail down. Up and down.”

Lying flat across the platform, Indigo moved her tail up and down.

“Up… and down.”

Indigo glided off the platform and began to swim as intended, flapping her tail up and down.

Gold felt his heart rate pick up, a cautious grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He spotted the look of utmost concentration on her face seconds before it morphed into disgust and dismay, as Indigo swam around the pool, quickly looking harried.

“Indigo? Come back here,” Miss Lucas’ beckoning call fell on deaf ears. Beating her tail from side to side, Indigo thrashed in the water.

“No, Indigo! —”

Indigo bashed the tail brace against the side of the pool.

“She doesn’t like it!” Bae exclaimed, pointing and grabbing Gold by the arm. “Get it off her!”

Miss Lucas sat up on her knees. “Indigo! Stop!”

Indigo huffed, then did it again, pounding her tail against the side until the brace broke off in pieces and the metal began to sink.

“Indigo. No. … Damn,” Miss Lucas breathed. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything.”

Bae folded his arms with a frown and Miss Lucas looked on with grim resignation as Indigo reached for the sock, tugged on it vigorously and finally managed to shake her tail partially free, causing her fluke to collapse like a sushi roll.

Dismayed, Gold dragged a hand across his face. He shook his head. “What are you doing, sweetheart?” He made to untangle himself from Bae’s renewed grip and let himself sink into the water to come to her rescue.

“Indigo?”

Indigo squeaked and dove under, reaching for the metal brace. She doggy paddled towards him and pushed the brace over.

He took it and briefly looked round at the others, before turning his attention back to her.

“That’s quite alright, sweetheart,” he said, palms up, and willing concern to the back of his mind, put a reassuring smile on his face. “Not to worry. You’re not to worry. We’ll have that sorted out in no time. It’s okay—”

He took her hand and gently guided her to the platform. “Let’s just have a look, shall we?” he cooed, patting the platform, and Indigo lifted her tail onto it. “Okay, here we go. — Miss Lucas? A hand?” 

***

They had taken the strange instrument away and not bothered her with it again until a few sunrises later. Belle didn’t much fancy the clammy feeling of the odd thing’s umbrella as it sucked on her scales, and the skeletal trap wasn’t exactly painful on her tail, but not comfortable either, and it restricted her movement considerably, so she could not understand why the airlings wanted it on her.

She refused to let them attach it to her again and after a couple tries, also shut down any and all conversation on the topic.

The airlings didn’t pressure her or force it on her, but she could tell it stayed on their minds, and so Belle wasn’t surprised when, one night, her airling brought it up again.

They were alone in the place she had been on her first night here, and he sat by the water silently and motionless, watching her out of the corner of his eye. He looked so heartbroken then that she just had to swim over to inquire what was the matter, and if there was anything she could do about it.

To her surprise, he got up and returned with a picture of the instrument. When he showed it to her, his hands shook. She stared at the picture, wondering at the many symbols and the lines that connected them to the drawing.

Why was this so important to him? Belle frowned, then pouted, as she touched his arm. What was the point of trapping her in the uncomfortable thing? Why couldn’t he just drop it?

He shook his head and patted her hand as if to say, it’s okay, you don’t have to, but I’d really wish you’d change your mind.

Before she could do anything else, he had gotten to his feet and left through the opening in the wall without so much as another glance at her.

Belle worried her lip. Had she offended him somehow? Was he angry with her? Was this about the instrument or something else?

She had noticed that both the airling and Jumper Girl seemed more reserved ever since she had rejected their instrument. Her little airling friend hadn’t come round to see her in days. His mother came to bring her snacks sometimes, but she didn’t linger long, just left a box or bucket by the platform.

Belle started to circle the pool. Had it been a mistake to express her dislike of the instrument so freely? She was sorry for breaking it. Could they all still be mad at her about that? Maybe if they gave it to her again, she could try and fix it? She had nimble fingers and could probably figure out how, if they gave her enough time and the right tools.

Just when she had managed to work herself into a state, all hope of sleep long gone, the airling returned.

Belle squinted at him in the bluish dark.

Something about him was different.

He approached slowly and it took her a moment to realize that it was his gait that had changed his whole demeanor so drastically.

When he was close enough for her to hear, he uttered a greeting, but the sound came out strained and clipped, like it took him too much effort to walk and speak at the same time.

Belle rubbed at her eyes, willing them to work better in the semi-darkness, and leaned forward, pressing her hands down on the edge of the platform, her mind half made up to push herself out of the water and meet him halfway. Had something happened? Was he… hurt?

She drew in a sharp breath.

“Indigo.” He finally stepped onto the platform, shoulders bent, hands on his knees, and breathing heavy, which did nothing to dispel the sinking feeling that seemed to cut off Belle’s own air supply.

He pointed at his leg and Belle followed his hand with her eyes, gasping again as they landed on the intended target. His leg was caught in the instrument! How had he managed to get trapped in the thing?! She reached out to touch it, to yank him free, realizing halfway there that it wasn’t the same instrument at all. This one was smaller and missing the sucking umbrella underneath.

Belle gazed up at him, confused.

He smiled weakly, then mumbled something that might have been words of encouragement to himself, and she looked on as he laid his hands on the platform and slowly maneuvered down into a press-up position. Wincing in pain, he kneeled on his free leg and reached out one hand to touch her cheek, gently stroking the soft curve of it, cupping her face in his palm.

Feeling her stomach drop out, then flip flop, Belle followed it under, diving in place, before she poked her head above water again. Feeling his eyes on her, she dipped her hot head beneath the surface and turned upside down so that the end of her tail and her fin poked up out of the water next, showing him her shiny scales, twirling and making her fin flop to this side and that, before she let it hit the water with a splash.

When she came back up after, her face was still burning, and she hoped he was too busy sorting his limbs finding a comfortable sitting position on the platform, to ask her what the halibut’s gill plate she was doing.

Biting her lip, Belle studied his weak leg and the instrument encasing it from the safe distance of the water. Now that he sat breathing normally and smiling at her, the tightness in her chest loosened enough for her to notice that it wasn’t the instrument that was hurting it. It had already been hurt, requiring him to lean on a piece of elegantly carved wood more times than not to reach optimum travel speed. He didn’t seem to need it now, and Belle began to wonder if that was due to the instrument; if helping his leg was it’s true purpose.

If that was true, however....

She swam up to him, intent on inspecting his leg instrument more closely, but got sidetracked when, after a few moments of her running her fingers over it, he started running his own over her skin, stroking up and down her arm slowly and gently, with the light pressure of only one fingertip.

Belle stopped what she was doing, frozen in awe, following the tickling sensation from her fingertips to her elbow, up to her shoulder, and down her neck. His touch tingled in her chest and belly, leaving an unknown sting just below her middle. Somewhere between a tickle and a bite, it made her squirm and shudder involuntarily as heat radiated from it.

With a breathless gasp, she withdrew, then reached for his hand, allowing their fingers to intertwine.

She licked her lips, not recognizing her own heartbeat anymore. His gaze was intense but gentle, flooding her with warm currents from head to fin.

Finally, the tingling and stinging became too much and Belle broke contact. Without meaning to do it, she went under, somersaulting beneath the surface, then went to float belly up on the water, letting it support her weight. She just needed a moment to gather her senses, slow down the rushing and roaring within her. What had this been about anyway? Why was he here?

The instrument. Right.

It floated back into her consciousness, and Belle made a decision on the spot. She mentally felt around for her tail, turned, and swam back up to him.

“Indigo?”

She nodded at his leg. Then lifted her fin out of the water and placed it on the platform. She pointed at it, then at his leg, and back again, and a ray of hope seemed to spark and ignite in his eyes as he grinned from ear to ear.

***

Heart pounding in his ears, Gold wheeled in the case and opened it, kneeling on the platform. They had long fixed the brace, but he had decided not to bother her with it again until she was ready.

Getting out his own brace had been both a stroke of genius and a mean, manipulative trick, but, thankfully, it had worked. The old thing had proven useful for more than just gathering dust in the back of his closet at last. Apparently, it could also be used to convince skeptical mermaids.

“You ready?” He looked over at Indigo, who was dutifully waiting for him by the platform.

At his signal, she heaved herself out of the water, rolling until she lay flat on her back, gazing up at him as he kneeled beside her. He half managed to convince himself that it was the darkness rather than his presence that gave her a sense of security and lowered her natural defenses this much, but before his thoughts could spiral and get away from him, he put a stop to it and focused on the task at hand.

Taking the sock out of the case, he showed it to her and waited for confirmation to proceed, which came in the form of an unmistakable nodding fist.

So he went ahead, sliding it on, noticing halfway up that it seemed to get stuck on her scales every now and then, the more so the higher up he went. Pausing, he frowned, then ran a hand over her tail to see where the problem was. The blue night lighting made it hard to find out any other way, as it danced on her scales and made them sparkle like moonlight on waves.

To his surprise, he found that Indigo’s tail was no longer the smooth, cool glass-like texture he had learned to associate with mermaids. It had changed, her scales no longer smooth and uniform, but with erect clusters, their once smooth edges standing up to prickle his palm.

He let go of the sock and examined with both hands, looking for a pattern. The higher he went, the more clusters he felt, their margins growing harder, the strange sensation culminating in the discovery of a sharp L-shape, maybe a hand’s breadth down from where her belly button would have been - if she had had one.

As he traced it, curious to see where its exact margins were, the scales… twitched under his fingertips and Indigo jerked away with an audible gasp, turning on her side and propping herself up on one arm, hair billowing in still air, then falling over her face like a curtain.

Perplexed, Gold froze, his mind shutting down momentarily.

With bated breath, he watched her form quiver and her chest heave, as she turned back around. Was it his ears playing tricks on him, or was there a faint sound… vibrating off her, her skin pulsing with it— like hitting glass just right?

Gold scooted closer against his better judgement and looked at her in amazement.

“Hell's bells. What—”

Indigo shivered and shone in the night lighting. In the skin along her ribs, he saw dark lines that looked like gills flutter wildly. She gazed up at him, her eyes curious, and he felt overcome with the sudden urge to kiss her, to press his dry lips to her wet ones, so dark they seemed almost black; a deep dark mauve when the scarce light hit them just right.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She’d never looked less human.

The faint sound grew louder, but didn’t stand a chance against his own blood’s deafening roar as it flashed from warm to unbearably hot under his taut skin. He felt the shivers roll over him like waves, strong and primal, and could just keep from tearing his clothes right off then and there and jumping right into the deep unknown that were her eyes.

He wanted to fall into them; fall into the sea, go down, descent below, go far beyond to a place where all light faded away, and disappear. His eyes locked on hers, everything he held dear residing in their depths, and he felt himself sliding down, leaning in, the need to inhale driven clear from his mind as it was filled with the sound of the sea.

“Oh, Jesus suffering fuck!”

Gold smacked a hand so hard against his own forehead, he nearly heard birds sing. Any lower than that and he might have accidentally knocked a tooth, his mouth hanging open like that of a total buffoon, a freaking primate at the zoo.

He blinked against the white noise between his ears and swallowed hard.

Had he just… had he been about to… nah, fuck off.

Gold ran a hand over his mouth, pinching his upper lip until it hurt. What had gotten into him?

When she touched him, he nearly jumped out of his skin; the touch of a fingertip on his arm enough to send him flying over the edge into absolute mental mayhem.

“Yes? Yes… sweetheart?” he rasped, voice rising half an octave, internally smacking himself about with as much vigor as his spluttering heart and seasick brain could muster.

Indigo rolled over, almost toppling into his lap, and reached for the brace, handing it over with a challenging look on her face.

He couldn’t move a muscle.

Moments ticked by and his ears were still stuffed with cotton balls.

Gold cleared his throat roughly.

When more time passed and he still didn’t comply, Indigo took matters into her own hands, yanking on the sock until it had moved about an inch, then giving up and flopping back down onto her back with a frustrated huff.

Gold blew out a long breath.

[ztafraternity]

A Zeta True: Bertha Cruse Gardner

Our theme for the 2018–2020 biennium is Be Zetas True. During this first year of the biennium, the 120th year of ZTA, we will introduce a dozen Zetas—one for each decade—who epitomize what it means to “Be Zetas True.” Find all their stories here.

–

By Christy Marx Barber, Staff Writer (Alpha Psi Chapter alumna)

Pictured: Bertha poses for a portrait in 1929.

If you enjoy ZTA trivia, you need to know about former Grand President Bertha Cruse Gardner, who was most definitely a Zeta True.

Who is the “Betsy Ross of ZTA”? Bertha. As a collegian, she designed and sewed a banner for Convention 1910, which became our official banner.

Who was the sales manager for the first ZTA songbook? Bertha. She had a lovely soprano voice and trained at the College of Music in Cincinnati. This passion for music is why she was selected to sell the songbook.

Who put the “inter” in “international fraternity?” Bertha. She was elected National President in 1928 at the first Convention in Canada and was the installing officer for Beta Rho Chapter (University of Manitoba), the only Canadian link in our Chain of Chapters, in 1929.

Bertha was born in Beaumont, Texas, where her father was a prominent surgeon. Her sister, Ethel Cruse (Mouton), was an early member of Kappa Chapter (The University of Texas at Austin). In 1907, however, Ethel transferred to Judson College in Marion, Alabama, where Bertha was initiated into Beta (New) Chapter in 1908.

(Want to know more about why our 10th link is called “Beta (New)”? Click here.)

Bertha was a seamstress and songstress, but she was also a quick learner. The History of Zeta Tau Alpha (Volume 1) said this of Bertha: “by experience, she has gained wisdom; by study, knowledge; by practice, accuracy in the art of decision.”

Pictured: In this portrait, Bertha is wearing a crystal necklace that is now proudly displayed in the National Presidents’ display at International Office.

She married Howard Williamson Gardner, president of the Texas National Bank of Beaumont, in 1910. The Gardners filled their home with treasures from their international travels.

At home in Texas, Bertha organized local concerts and theater groups. Her love of theatrics inspired her to create the elaborate Convention banquet at the West Baden Hotel in Indiana in 1930. Our Grand President led the processional in regal attire, including a glittering court train and a sparkling diadem. When the banquet room doors opened, Zetas realized the meal was a restaging of the London Disarmament Conference* of 1930, with Bertha assuming the role of England’s King George.

Although it was held just eight months after the stock market crash of 1929, Convention 1930 was elaborate and showy with plentiful flowers, sterling silver candlesticks and a silver bracelet with the Coat of Arms for every attendee. It was a sharp contrast to the next several years of austerity for ZTA and our country.

Pictured: Bertha (front row, third from left) poses for a photo at Convention 1926.

Bertha’s marriage to a banker and keen intellect allowed her to develop the fiscal wisdom to steer ZTA through the Great Depression. In early 1931, Grand Council, with Bertha at the helm, called an emergency meeting with a heavy agenda of financial and operational matters. They developed a commercial financial reporting system, decided ZTA should not have only one account in any given bank, required that all Fraternity money be deposited only in banks within the Federal Reserve System and reduced the initiation fee to assist members.

Other decisions were more emotional, yet necessary. They closed six chapters due to declining numbers, took back the badges of members who could not pay their dues, and postponed Convention 1932, which was set to take place at the Huntington Hotel in Pasadena, California. Grand Chapter knew travel to the west coast would be financially impossible for many delegates, so they, along with other NPC groups, postponed convention that year to preserve money for operating expenses.

Pictured: Bertha (far right) stops for a photo before flying in this open-air plane

Our favorite images of Bertha show her wearing exquisite jewelry and flying in open-cockpit planes. While she was born into wealth, she was prudent and frugal with ZTA’s money. Bertha Cruse Gardner was a Zeta True whose skilled decision-making kept our Fraternity afloat during desperate times in our country’s history.

(*Bonus fact: During the London Disarmament Conference of 1930, the United Kingdom, Japan, France, Italy and the United States signed what was commonly known as the London Naval Treaty, which regulated submarine warfare and limited naval shipbuilding.)