#so she would not have twigged me on the basis of handing me a pile of hormones n shit.
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puppygirlgirldick ¡ 6 months ago
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new pharmacist: "name?"
me: "uh, ${deadname} ${lastname}"
new pharmacist: "you look like you're having a rough day"
me: "nah i just, don't like giving that name."
new pharmacist, knowingly: "ah. yeah you don't look like a ${deadname}, i expected a much cooler name!"
i think i just got got told i look like a tranny (complimentary), and now my day is going amazingly.
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apollos-forgotten-flower-bf ¡ 11 months ago
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Can we talk and rant about Leo valdez and valgrace please
ALWAYS.
Leo is, and has been, my FAVOURITE Heroes of Olympus character since I opened The Lost Hero. The "stupid", impulsive, comedy relief, who also are EXTREMELY relatable characters have ALWAYS been favourites of mine. Many other people like him too — and it's completely deserved! He's funny, he cares for his friends, he's extremely talented, and he's smart! Really, there isn't a "stupid" part about him. Even the negatives to his personality — the jokes made at inappropriate times, imposter syndrome, faking arrogance, etc. — make him feel so much more human! He is so well-written; an amazing character who is easily loveable, and IS loved by the fandom! I think a lot of the people who dislike Leo, and say they dislike him because he's "overrated" are just...wrong. He isn't "overrated", he's a good character receiving the love a good character deserves! Are you going to tell me that Percy is overrated? Or Annabeth? And I'm not saying that you can't dislike Leo for no reason. Though, I personally won't agree, I can't stop you. I'm just saying that, giving a reason like "he's overrated" will just be wrong.
The only part that I don't like about what Rick Riordan did with Leo over the course of H.O.O and T.O.A is pair him with Calypso. Like, really? A 16-year-old with obvious self-esteem issues and a lack of social awareness with an overly-critical, argumentative, 5000-year-old TITANESS? REALLY???? I had liked Calypso at first, in Battle of the Labyrinth, but every time she shows up after that just...pisses me off. And the fact that Leo didn't even need a relationship in the first place. Why could Rick just leave Leo single? Or; make valgrace canon.
Speaking of valgrace (haha), I have been a valgrace shipper since before I even read H.O.O (i saw some of it on tiktok and was just like "yep. That seems about right.") so I have been piling up reasons that they should've been endgame. They obviously care a lot for each other! They had their little Medea-induced fight in TLH, sure, but even afterwards; Jason apologized, and they went back to being friends, so easily! Jason seems to be the only one who can tolerate Leo and his bafoonery at times, much better than Calypso does, and Leo is one of the only people to actually treat Jason like a person, rather than "the Mighty Son of Jupiter" or "the Great Warrior of Camp Jupiter." To Leo, Jason is just Jason. Some guy he met, and who happens to be his best friend. Who cares that he could snap Leo like a twig? He's just a dude. And, even though a lot of characters see Leo as this dumb guy that can only work with machines, Jason knows otherwise. That's why they'd be so good together! They KNOW each other, beyond what their pasts and abilities are. In all of their interactions together throughout the series, they always seemed more comfortable together than with others. Jason never knew how he was supposed to act around the others of the 7, because he knew they saw him as some kind of leader, and expected him to have the answers all the time. But with Leo, he knew Leo didn't set some ridiculously high standards with him. And, they'd be better together than with their canon partners. I shouldn't need to give reasons why caleo sucks, right? And, Jiper (or Jasper) was doomed from the start. Imagine randomly waking up on a bus, no memories, holding a girls hand — and she claims to be your girlfriend. Anybody would be confused. Jason stated multiple times in H.O.O that he didn't know what he was supposed to do in his relationship, with fear of not living up to Piper's expectations of him. Neither of them even asked to be in the relationship! It was completely based on fake-memories caused by Hera, which would be a horrible basis for any relationship. Also, I headcanon them as gay & lesbian, so I also see it as a form of comphet. A really fucked up form of comphet. I think the only reason Valgrace wouldn't work out would be the fact that one was destined to die — "to Storm or Fire", not "and". Which makes the ship even more tragic! The person they knew best, and that knew them best, destined to die before them with no way of getting around it? FUCK, that hurts. The amount of times I've cried over Valrgace could have my tears used to restore rainforests. Finally, this was a great excuse to post my first valgrace fanart, so thank you.
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I spent 2½ hours on this, 7—11 am this morning, and ohh my god(s) my back hurts so bad rn. I got the design for Jason and inspo for this overall piece from the tiktok page @miles (meowrales) (one of my fav h.o.o artists AND THEY LIKED THE SPEEDPAINT I POSTED of this SO 🎉🎉🎉)
If requested, I'll upload the picture w/out the text (which are the lyrics of I, Carrion (Icarian) by Hozier.)
Share your rants or favourite headcanons of valgrace, Leo, and/or Jason :) I'd love to hear them!
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empiresmostwanted ¡ 4 years ago
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Hi!! From that quote prompts list, a few that stood out for me were “it’s a brutal world” and “what are you humming?” for Rex? Im imaging either a mechanic/civilian reader or a shiny new clone trooper is accompanying the 501st on an off-world mission and they are sitting by the campfire late at night, a little shaken by the battle earlier in the day. Rex notices and goes to comfort them, and perhaps there is a singing motif??
Also! I loved Sabacc Face and im making my way though your other works this weekend 💕
Thank you so much @maulpunk for the prompts 😘
I'm sorry it took me so long to write, work has done a number on me this last week or so. Grrr. But I was happy to get back to writing this, although I must apologise for straying a little from the parameters of the request (it turned out to be a little too angsty for a singing motif, oops). I hope you like it all the same!
(P.S. Thank you so so much, I'm thrilled you liked Sabacc Face. It was a lot of fun to write, I hope it was just as fun to read!)
posted on AO3 | the prompt list | my writing
Words: 1.5k | Warnings: Post-Umbara Arc, Grief/Mourning, Angst (and lots of it, sorry-not-sorry), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, a certain Besalisk's name is briefly mentioned (okay, I am sorry for this one)
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GHOSTS IN THE UMBRA
20BBY
☞
CT-0292 couldn't sleep. When he closed his eyes, rounds of blue plasma bolts flashed through the darkness behind his lids. Hands, his own hands, held a DC-15 carbine aloft, and one single finger under his control pressed on the trigger, mowing down the Umbarans in their disguises.
But they hadn't been Umbarans. They'd been his brothers.
A strangled sound escaped him, somewhere between a gasp and a sob that he caught in his throat. His chest ached with the effort to hold it, the urge to release it. And it ached as if his brothers had occupied a place there, the loss of them leaving the muscles of his heart to constrict around empty space.
He blinked away sharp tears, then pushed off the weighted blanket – its presence more suffocating than soothing – and climbed out of his rack. He gathered up the armour stacked in a neat pile from the foot of the bunk's frame and applied it, piece by piece, from foot to neck.
If he couldn't sleep, he might as well be useful. He'd never been very good at keeping still.
Around him, his brothers lay in their cots; some slept, restless, while others remained painfully conscious. From his own squad, only himself, Wil (Private), and Ridge (Private) remained. The others, along with their sergeant, had fallen to General Krell's lightsaber.
All was quiet. And Ridge was nowhere to be seen.
0292 shook his head, lightheaded, the back of his neck prickling. After checking his blaster was fastened to his belt, he tucked his helmet under one arm and crept through the rows of bunks like a ghost, leaving the sterile barracks behind.
For a moment, he stopped outside the blast doors as they sshhed to a close behind him, and took a deep breath. Had he caught the scent of rain and salt water in the air, it might have grounded him; but this planet was as unfamiliar to his nose as it was to his eyes and ears. With the tang of metal in his nostrils and on the tip of his tongue, he set off across the floodlit compound.
Beyond the sensor wall, he spotted the warm glow of a natural fire flickering in the perpetual dusk, its light peeking through the mist and the dense formation of local flora. He frowned. Patrol taking a break, perhaps?
CT-0292 made his way to the airbase's entrance. As he approached the gate, he passed skeletons of Umbaran machinery looming out of the fog, and squads of troopers pacing as silent as wraiths.
The planet was reclaimed, but no one had come out of the campaign unscathed.
At the gate, two troopers bearing the colours of the 212th stood guard, blasters held across their bodies, and faced the darkness beyond. With the sight of their armour came a fresh wave of guilt, at once hot and cold, that settled in the pit of his stomach. He cleared his throat upon approach; one started as if he'd been shot, and the other patted him on the shoulder.
"Easy, trooper," said 0292, holding out a placating hand. "Just passing through, lending a hand to patrol. That them over there?"
They followed the direction of his pointer finger, to the small fire burning gold in the gloom. The one coiled as tightly as he himself nodded, and turned back to him. "They're taking it in turns to sweep the perimeter."
"Thanks." He inclined his head, and stepped over the threshold of the airbase.
As his footsteps tapped a muffled rhythm into the damp earth, the chill air cooled the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and pressed cold fingers to the nape of his neck. With a shiver, he donned his helmet and activated its spot-lamp, before succumbing to Umbara's gloaming.
*
CT-0292 walked through the forest of Zabrak Spines, their bioluminescent ridges reaching towards the sky and cutting through the umbra like angry wounds. The glow of giant red thorns shrouded the woodland in an unsettling pallor.
Every small noise was amplified in the stillness around him: the snapping of twigs beneath the feet of tiny creatures, the whooshing of spectral wings overhead, and what seemed like footsteps somewhere behind him, approaching – but when he looked over his shoulder, there was nothing there. Each sound sent a spike of cortisol through his body, and he tried not to hyperventilate to the beat of his pulse.
The immediate threat from the Umbarans had been neutralised. But he and his brothers had found out the hard way that this shadowy world kept its secrets close.
You're out of the woods when you're out of the woods, his instructor back on Kamino used to say. It had seemed redundant to him then.
"What's that you're humming, trooper?"
He nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked back and came face-to-face – or helmet-to-helmet – with Captain Rex materialising out of the fog, easy to identify by the jaig eyes and the modified armour.
The captain removed his bucket, brow furrowed in concern, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Relax. I didn't mean to startle you," he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "It sounded familiar, the song you were humming."
"I didn't realise I was humming it aloud," the trooper admitted, face heating as Captain Rex fell into step beside him. "I was thinking of my instructor, back at the facility: she smuggled her own radio into Tipoca, and she'd play it for us during downtime. That one was her favourite, I think. I don't know the words, though. Just the tune."
"Ah."
They walked for a way in companionable silence, each lost to their own thoughts. Confronted once more with the familiar face of his brothers, CT-0292 replayed the moment of terrible realisation, and the skirmish with Krell. The Jedi – if one could even call him that – might have been dealt with on a permanent basis, but his reach would extend far beyond his death.
"Couldn't sleep, either?" asked the captain, dragging him out of his own memories.
He shook his head.
Rex sighed. "It's a brutal world out there."
CT-0292 couldn't be sure if he was referring to Umbara, or the entire galaxy. 
"I admit," he began, "I wasn't expecting to kill other people. I've been training to take down and disable battle droids for nearly ten years, and I thought I was ready, but this …"
It didn't even begin to cover the atrocity of slaughtering his own, knowingly or not.
They heard the voices of their brothers before they saw them, hushed and sombre. Upon stepping out of the forest, they found themselves in a small clearing, lit from above by towering plants, incandescent with pink and purple and blue light, and lit from within by a humble campfire. At least ten troopers were gathered around it, talking in lowered voices amongst themselves.
Rex came to a halt on the edge of the clearing, and stopped 0292 with a hand on his arm.
"If it's of any comfort," he said, "every one of us here is feeling the same right now. No campaign is easy, no life lost is worth less. But this mission has taken its toll more than any other. You say you're not ready, but I recognise the blue bird painted on your bucket. I saw you take charge of your squad when Sergeant Jax was killed, and you kept the rest of them alive. There might well be a promotion coming your way."
A promotion. He'd always harboured the hope of making his way up the ranks, proving his worth and ability along the way. Seeing the captain in action, the way he was respected and admired, had only solidified that desire. But he hadn't entered the GAR as a sergeant, or a captain. It had never really occurred to him before now that someone would have to die for him to take their place.
But he nodded, and said, "Thank you, Captain."
"What's your name, trooper?"
"CT-zero-two-ni—"
"Your name, trooper," Rex clarified. The smile on his lips belied the sadness in his eyes.
CT-0292 removed his helmet. "It's Vaughn, sir. My batchmates called me Vaughn."
"Then welcome to the five-oh-first, Private Vaughn. Over there are your brothers. It won't always be easy, but whatever happens, we look out for each other. And I know you barely got to see General Skywalker in action, but I can promise you that he – and Commander Tano – are nothing like Krell. You'll see."
"Thank you, sir."
Captain Rex clapped him on the arm, then strode off across the clearing, towards the campfire. Vaughn followed, kicking up the smell of damp earth and decaying foliage, sickly sweet in his nostrils. He was pleased to see his squadmate, Ridge, among the ranks of troopers around the flames, and another who'd introduced himself as Sterling just one rotation prior.
"Room for two more, boys?"
☽
Thank you so much for staying to the end! Even though I enjoy reading some good ol' angst, it's definitely tricky to write, so it was nice to stretch those muscles for this prompt. Hope you liked it 💜
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hollyethecurious ¡ 4 years ago
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CS AU: Some Legends are Best Kept as Legends (2/?)
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Summary: Years after ruthlessly humiliating the man known as Rumple von Stiltskin, Killian Jones faced him once again on the battlefield, though it was clear his foe was no longer an ordinary man. Before succumbing to the fatal injury the Dark One’s blade had inflicted, Killian managed to strike a blow of his own with the being’s own ripple-edged dagger. Now, nearly two hundred and fifty years later, Killian finds himself alive and back in his hometown. However, whatever awoke him from his cursed sleep had also raised the Dark One. With all of Storybrooke at risk, can Killian find a way to stop the Dark One once and for all? Perhaps so. With a little help from Deputy Swan and her boy.
A/N: Based on The Legend of Sleepy Hollow short story by Washington Irving, and the Sleepy Hollow Fox tv show. 
I failed to mention my intentions as to a posting schedule for this fic when I dropped it earlier this month. I’m planning on updating every other week, trading off with my csmm fic, which drops next Sunday. So far, this is shaping up to be four parts total, but as always, I am at the mercy of the muse.
Thanks again to all of the mods and participants of the @cssns​​! Much love to @artistic-writer​ for her beta services (and for the amazing Killian manip in the art!), and to @kmomof4​​ for her cheerleading support.
Content Warnings for this chapter include character death.
Rated T / Available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee / Part One
~/~
Part Two
Present Day, Storybrooke, Maine
Leaves crunched under Deputy Emma Swan’s boots, despite how careful she was trying to be while searching the perimeter of the old farmhouse. A call had come into the station about a disturbance. Hunters who’d been setting up their blind for the weekend said they’d spotted a suspicious figure, so now here she was, traipsing about the abandoned farm on an unseasonably cold night instead of manning the phone at the station, or patrolling the quiet streets of Storybrooke in a warm squad car.
One day she was going to beat her brother in rock, papers, scissors, forcing him to join Sheriff Humbert on pointless calls searching after figments of other peoples’ imaginations.
Graham had insisted they split up when they’d arrived. The farm was extensive, with a dilapidated house, a storm cellar, and old barn rotting away on the property that had once been the sight of a Revolutionary War battle. The Storybrooke Police Department had fielded a number of calls regarding the property over the years, enough so that some people in town considered the place haunted. Just another colorful tale for the tourists.
Emma had never put much stock into any of the legends and fables her town had become famous for; Revolutionary War ghosts, curses, the Dark One. It was all nonsense. Something she had to remind Henry of on an ongoing basis as his fascination for such legends had continued to grow over the years. Still, she couldn’t really fault his obsession. Mary Margaret assured her that most kids fell down the occasional rabbit hole, becoming something of an expert on subjects they immersed themselves in, and having a notorious legend like, the Dark One, originating from your hometown seemed like the kind of thing that would spark the imagination of any twelve year old boy.
The piles of books were getting a tad out of hand, though.
The snap of a twig jolted Emma back into her current reality. Even if this was a wild goose chase, Emma couldn’t afford to get distracted with thoughts of her son and his other-worldly interests. Especially when she heard Graham call out halt! to someone from the other side of the barn.
Emma jogged towards where she’d heard Graham’s command then broke into a full on sprint when his scream pierced the night.
“Graham!” she cried out, gun drawn and flashlight searching the area. “Graham! Where are you? Call out!”
Pained gurgles echoed in Emma’s ears when she turned the corner of the barn. Raising her gun, she trained it on the hooded figure standing in front of her boss and friend.
“Freeze!” she ordered.
A twittering giggle that sent shivers up Emma’s spine spilled from the man as he flicked his wrist with a simpering remark. “You first, dearie.”
Emma’s heart began to hammer wildly in her chest when she realized she couldn’t move, but she didn’t have time to wonder how he’d managed to paralyze her, not when she’d just become aware of the man’s other hand impossibly embedded in Graham’s chest cavity. With a sharp tug, he removed it and Emma knew she’d never forget the scream that left Graham’s lips as something glowed a bright red in his attacker’s palm.
Incapable of moving, even if she weren’t frozen in place, Emma had no choice but to watch as the figure reached into his own chest and removed a hardened lump of something black and rotten. He then pressed the object he’d taken from Graham into his chest and smiled wickedly as the sheriff crumpled to the ground before him. Clenching his fist, the blackened item disintegrated in his hand, ash pouring to the ground and scattering over Graham’s still form before the man dusted off his fingers and started to approach her.
A rush of cold wind swept between them, halting the perpetrators steps. His head snapped up as the clouds parted, the moonlight revealing a scaled quality to his skin that had Emma’s stomach rolling in revulsion. His eyes fell shut as if he were straining to listen, but the only sound stirring in Emma’s ears was the thundering of her pulse.
The man flicked his wrist once again, and impossibly vanished in a swirl of dark smoke. It took Emma several erratic heartbeats to realize she’d been freed from her paralysis, shock and disbelief making it impossible for her to move until she remembered Graham and stumbled towards him. Her knees slammed into the cold, hard earth and a sob caught in the back of her throat when her eyes met Graham’s vacant stare. Even knowing it was too late, Emma reached for her walkie and called for back-up.
“Officer down,” she called out with a lamenting strain choking her voice. “I repeat, officer down. Need an ambulance and back-up, over.”
~/~
The buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights helped to drown out the not so hushed whispers of her fellow officers. It had taken every ounce of restraint Emma possessed to not move Graham’s body before the paramedics, followed by the coroner, arrived. She knew the scene had to be maintained, but all she’d wanted to do was gather Graham into her arms and hold him, or maybe just close his eyes so he could at least look at peace. Instead, she’d sat cross-legged beside him, the terrible scene playing itself over and over again in her mind until she was no longer present in the moment.
That’s how David and August had found her.
She remembered giving a vague description of the man who’d killed their sheriff, but hadn’t recounted the whole story yet. How could she when she could hardly believe it herself? A man with glittering, scaly skin - a detail she’d left out, even though it was possibly his most distinguishing feature - who could rip people’s hearts out and vanish in a plume of smoke? She knew what Henry would claim she saw, but there was no way it could be true. Legends weren’t real. They were myths, made up to serve as cautionary tales. No. There had to be an explanation for what she saw. She couldn’t confess to having witnessed Sheriff Humbert being murdered by the freaking Dark One on record; everyone would think her crazy.
No. There had to be another explanation, so until the coroner came back with the preliminary report of how Graham died, Emma was going to keep her mouth shut.
“Jefferson,” David greeted, snapping Emma’s attention to the front of the station at the mention of the coroner’s name. “Please, tell us you found something?”
“Oh, I found something, alright,” Jefferson muttered, making his way into the station and taking a seat. “Or rather… I didn’t.”
“What the hell does that mean?” David questioned, leaning over his desk with his palms braced against its surface.
“I examined Sheriff Humbert’s body and took the standard x-rays so my assistants could prepare him for the autopsy,” Jefferson paused, swallowing uneasily and wetting his lips before continuing on. “While I can’t give a definitive cause of death until after I perform the post-mortem, the x-rays showed something… odd. Something I can’t explain.”
Emma’s pulse raced in anticipation, feeling certain she knew what the x-rays showed that had the medical examiner looking so pale and confused. Before he could confirm Emma’s trepidations, a strange voice spoke up from one of the cell’s behind her.
“His heart was missing.” Grime covered fingers wrapped themselves around the bars, knuckles turning white from the fierce grip the man was applying to them. “His heart was missing, though there was no evident trauma to the body.”
Jefferson blanched, and the others stared suspiciously as he sputtered, “How d-did you know that?”
“What do you know about the Sheriff’s murder?” David demanded, approaching the bars before turning towards Emma. “Is this the guy, Emma? Did this guy kill Graham?”
The man straightened his posture, his tone full of offense. “I assure you, I did no such thi-”
“No. It couldn’t have been him,” August replied. “I found him wandering Main Street, clearly high as a kite. He took a swing at me when I tried to get him into the squad car to drop him off somewhere he could sleep it off, so I had to cuff him. I’d only got him in the car when Emma’s call for back-up came through. So, he can’t be our guy.”
“But you know who it was, don’t you?” Emma said, taking the man in for the first time since she’d entered the precinct in a complete daze.
Mud and debris caked his long hair, and smudges streaked his face. He was strangely dressed, as though he’d come from one the war reenactments the town regularly put on for tourists, and his clothes were also covered in layers of dirt that muted the details of his uniform. Disheveled as he was, what caught Emma’s attention the most was the way his eyes, a fathomless blue, swirling with hints of confusion, shock, and alarm, held hers as his Adam’s apple bobbed and the muscle at his jaw ticked before he gave her a solemn nod.
“Well?” David demanded. “Who is the sonofabitch?”
Emma stood and put herself between the man and her brother, holding David back with her hand pressed against his chest. “David,” she said calmly. “Let me take him to the interrogation room and question him while you talk with Jefferson. August should go back out on patrol, see if anyone’s seen a guy who matches my description.”
“Emma, we don’t know who this guy is or how he’s involved. I’m not gonna let you question him on your own.”
“He’ll be cuffed to the table,” she reminded him. “And I think he’ll talk to me.”
David put his hands on his hips and stared down at her with an evaluating gaze. “You know, you still haven’t told us what happened out there. I should take your statement and send you home, that’s procedure.”
“I know the protocols, David,” Emma replied shortly, crossing her arms over her chest. “But do I need to remind you that I have seniority here?”
David’s stance relaxed and his expression softened. “I’m only looking out for you, Emma. You’ve been through a trauma.”
“I’m fine.” Emma waved him off. She felt anything but fine, but was desperate for answers the muck covered stranger might provide. Answers that might help prove she wasn’t crazy. “And we need all hands on deck if we’re going to find Graham’s killer before anyone else gets hurt, so let's stop wasting time.”
David’s shoulders sagged and a resolved sigh expelled from his lungs. “You’re right. He’s all yours.”
With a fortifying breath, Emma turned and demanded the man’s hands. Reluctantly, he slipped them through the bars so Emma could cuff him before opening the cell and taking hold of his arm, marching him towards the interrogation room. With a second set of cuffs, she restrained him to the table then took a seat on the opposite side. A notepad and pen were at the ready, but her trembling hands testified to the actuality that she may not be. Undeterred, Emma took another deep breath and flicked her gaze up at the man who was observing her rather intently.
“Name,” she said in her most authoritative tone, tucking a section of her hair behind her ear when she bent her head back down to focus on the notepad in front of her.
“Captain Killian Jones,” the man replied, and for the first time Emma noted his accent.
“Where are you from, Captain Jones?”
He shifted in his seat, the metal of the cuffs jingling as he ran his fingertips over the pads of his thumbs while he seemed to weigh his answer. “England, originally. Though, I’ve called Storybrooke home for most of my life.”
Emma set her pen down and laced her hands together, placing them on top of the notepad while she scrutinized her subject. She’d always had a gift of knowing when someone was lying to her, it’s why she was the one who usually did the interrogating, and while his statement didn’t set off her internal lie detector, she knew he couldn’t be telling her the truth.
“Funny. I don’t recall ever seeing you before.”
He ran his tongue over his lips then grimaced at what she assumed had to be an unpleasant taste of dirt flaking off them. “May I have some water, please?”
Emma reached behind her to where a few water bottles were kept on a credenza, and loosened the cap before passing it to him. His brows scrunched together and water nearly exploded from the plastic when he gave the bottle a squeeze. He looked at her sheepishly with an apology on his lips before leaning forward to take a sip, blinking several times when he pulled away to examine its contents with incredulous eyes.
If Emma didn’t know any better, she would have thought he’d never seen a disposable water bottle before.
“May I ask you something before you carry on with my interrogation?” Jones asked.
“I guess,” Emma hedged with caution as to what he might inquire about.
“What year is it?”
Emma’s brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“The year,” he croaked before taking another sip of water. “What year is it, and which… which nation has authority over these lands?”
“Uh… it’s 2013, and last I checked Storybrooke, Maine was a part of the United States of America.”
A rush of air left his lungs and an almost disbelieving giddiness overtook his expression. “We won?”
“Excuse me?”
He didn’t seem to hear Emma’s question, evident by the color draining from his face as his eyes latched onto hers. “2013?” he parroted back to her with a pained expression of distress.
His head fell forward into his still cuffed hands, his fingers kneading his forehead, dislodging more dirt and debris.
“Hey,” Emma said, reaching out and placing a hand on his forearm. “Are you okay?” When he didn’t respond, she shook him a bit harder. “Hey. I need you to focus. Tell me who you really are and what you know about the guy who killed Sheriff Humbert.”
“You would never believe me,” he lamented into his palms.
Emma stood and leaned over the table so she could grasp his hands and pry them from his face. When his eyes met hers, she knew, by the way his lips parted and his brows arched, that he could see the desperation and camaraderie in her eyes.
“Try me,” she whispered.
When he nodded, she resumed her seat. Leaving the pen where it lay, she sat and listened to his tale, begging her ‘super power’ to refute what he was saying, but regardless of how impossible his words were, none of them rang false in her ears.
“Let me get this straight,” she said hollowly once he was finished. “You’re a two hundred and fifty year old Revolutionary War veteran who was killed on the battlefield outside of town by… the Dark One, who you suspect is responsible for the death of Sheriff Humbert, and you can prove all of this by showing me the grave you dug yourself out of at the cemetery.”
“I know you must think me a madman, but I swear it all to be true.”
Emma sat there a moment longer, her gaze fixed on an imperfection in the table they were sat at when her voice sounded in her ears before she was even aware she was speaking.
“He was dressed strangely. In a long hooded cloak that was as dirt encrusted as you are. His skin was…”
“Scaled,” he answered for her.
“His hand was already in Graham’s chest when I got there,” she continued on, still focused on the divot in the varnished surface of the table. “I raised my gun, but he… he made it so I couldn’t move. I was trapped in my own body, powerless.” Something warm and wet streaked down her cheek and it took her a moment to register the tears. She shouldn’t be showing weakness in front of a suspect, but Emma couldn’t help it. Whether any of this made sense or not, she believed Killian enough to trust him with her experience and needed to tell someone what had happened. Maybe they were both crazy? “Even when Graham screamed in pain from having his heart removed and put into that… thing’s chest, I…” her voice broke against a sob, and Jones instinctively reached out, his motion was halted by the cuffs, but they couldn’t stop his words.
“Don’t do that to yourself, love,” he admonished in a soft tone of understanding. “I know those final, awful moments want to repeat themselves in your mind, but you don’t have to relive it. Come back to the here and now.”
Emma shook herself and scrubbed her sleeve down her face, taking a moment to collect herself before clearing her throat and facing Jones. “Right. The here and now.”
Emma chewed her lip, grasping for direction. What was she supposed to do now? If this Killian Jones was to be believed (and she really couldn’t believe how willing she was to take him at his word. Though, watching your friend’s heart being torn from his chest was rather compelling evidence), then they were facing forces far beyond herself and the might of the Storybrooke police department.
“So…” Killian drawled, whipping her attention back to him. “You believe my tale?”
Releasing the grip her teeth had on her lip, Emma blew out a breath and admitted,” I don’t know what to believe.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “But I don’t know how to explain what I saw, either, so… I guess I’m willing to take a leap of faith.”
Killian’s shoulders sagged in relief and he gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you, Emma.”
“Deputy Swan,” she corrected, figuring he knew her name from when David had said it before. “Just because I’m willing to take a chance on you, doesn’t mean I can just let you go.” She stood and removed the cuff keys from her pocket, unlocking the ones that had him restrained to the table but keeping the other set firmly clasped around his wrists. “I need to corroborate your story.”
“I understand,” he said, waiting for her gesture to stand.
Cracking open the door, Emma made sure David and August were still occupied before signalling to Jones to follow her out. Her finger was pressed against her lips, indicating he should do so quietly. He did both without question, but when they made it out the backdoor to her awaiting bug parked in the back lot, he hesitated a moment before climbing in after she opened the passenger side door for him.
“What?”
“I, uh…” he began tentatively. “I’m not sure how confident I am in these horseless carriages. The speed with which your fellow officer was able to muster in another similar vessel seemed… rather unnatural for land travel.”
Emma stared dumbfounded for a moment before remembering his confession of being from the eighteenth century. She could only imagine how unsettling it would be to wake up to things like electricity, indoor plumbing, cars, planes, cell phones, and other modern conveniences. Still, the prospect that he was spooked by her vintage yellow bug was rather amusing.
~/~
Killian led Deputy Swan through the rows of headstones, not entirely sure of the accuracy of his direction. Things had been a bit of a blur once he’d managed to extricate himself from his coffin, but he did recall the looming mausoleum that stood at the center of the cemetery, and therefore based their trek on its position relative to where he’d stood once topside.
Frenzy continued to thrum in his veins, its frantic rush keeping him from succumbing to the overwhelming barrage of oddities that kept assaulting him. Vessels capable of traveling over land at speeds he’d only ever experienced at full sail on the waves, architecture and furnishings reflecting designs he found strange and off putting, to say nothing of the fashions he’d seen among officers of the law who did not even dress in proper uniforms that might denote their station or authority. How else was he to know the man captaining the vessel with the blinding pulses of red and blue was a member of the community’s militia?
A militia that not only allowed the inclusion of women, but gave them leave to rise to positions of authority within the ranks. Perhaps, things were not all bad in this foreign landscape? Some of the bravest and cleverest people he’d known during his years of service had been women. Whether they used their positions to act as spies for the Sons of Liberty, or rose up to meet the challenge of labor and hardship in order to keep businesses and farms running while the men were away, Killian had seen women with more mettle than most men possessed in the face of death.
Women like the one currently beside him, with her free flowing blonde hair and tight trousers he had to keep his eyes from wandering over, focusing instead on the illumination of her flameless torch.
It had been clear she’d witness some sort of atrocity when the other men had brought her into the prison. Her face had been a ghastly white and her eyes void of any real comprehension of her surroundings. He was fairly certain she hadn’t even been aware of his presence until he’d spoken, but once their eyes had met he’d felt the connection surge between them. A bond two people shared when they found themselves caught in the same current others could not distinguish from their vantage point within the tide. He’d known immediately what horrors she’d witnessed, and despite the pragmatic nature he somehow inherently knew she typically viewed the world by, she had accepted his tale by virtue of their shared experience in both having faced the Dark One.
Killian’s reflections were paused by Deputy Swan’s arm jutting out in front of him, which also halted his steps.
“Is that it?” she asked in a hushed tone of dread, the glow of her flashlight, as she’d called it, sweeping over a disturbed mound of earth.
“Aye,” he replied, trying to choke back the helpless feelings he’d experienced while trapped below ground, and the anxiety he’d been attempting to hold at bay when the beam rested on his headstone, once again testifying to the passage of time that had occurred whilst his body had been interned.
Deputy Swan crouched down in front of his tombstone, her fingers tracing the engraving of his name and the years that marked his life. “It’s true,” she exhaled. “You actually dug yourself out of your own grave.” She stood and faced him, eyes wide and full of questions. “How?”
“I would rather not relive the experience through its recounting, if it is all the same to--”
“No, I mean. How are you here? Alive? After all this time? What… What do you remember from when you first… woke up?”
Killian thought back to those first few awful moments; the stale air in his lungs, the tight feel of crumbling wood pressing in from all sides, the taste of dirt on his tongue, and his name…
“Someone called my name,” he told her upon remembering. “I heard my name being said in a voice that was not my own, but… how would I have heard such a thing from inside there?” He gestured down to the narrow hole he’d wormed his way through. A shudder rolled through him at the memory, forcing him to take a step back and turn away, his breath catching painfully in his chest.
“Hey,” she said, soothingly while placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Just breathe.” Once he’d taken a few steadying breaths, she inquired, “Did you see anyone once you were… out?”
Killian’s head whipped towards the mausoleum up the hill. “There were children,” he recounted. “Three or four? Boys, I think. I chased after them, but lost them when I reached the strange road over yonder.”
Something in her expression told him she was not surprised to hear that revelation.
“You know who they were?”
“I’m pretty sure I know who one of them was, yeah,” she muttered, leaving his side to trudge up the slope towards the crypt.
“Who?”
“My son,” she called out over her shoulder.
Killian blanched then followed. “Your son?” He hadn’t noticed a wedding band, or was that a practice that had gone out of fashion? “Does he typically frequent cemeteries at night?”
Hands braced on her hips, she looked up at the etching above the door and Killian’s gaze followed. There was something familiar about the name displayed there - CASSIDY - but he couldn’t quite remember the significance.
“This is his father’s family’s mausoleum,” she informed him. “He comes here sometimes to feel close to his dad.”
The doors creaked, the hinges binding from lack of use as she entered with Killian fast on her heels. “My condolences,” he offered on a reverent breath.
An undignified snort echoed of the stones. “He isn’t dead,” she stated with a hard edge. “At least, I don’t think he is. We haven’t seen or heard from him since he took off a few years ago.”
“He abandoned you?” Killian’s tone was equally hard, long buried emotions infusing themselves within the question.
“It’s not like that,” she said in the man’s defense. “Neal and I were never married. We were practically kids ourselves when Henry came along unexpectedly, and he…”
Her words trailed off and a tint of pink settled over her cheeks, as if she’d realized how scandalous the tale must sound to him. It was, but he’d garnered enough about this strange time he now found himself in to know social mores had changed, and besides… it wasn’t as if he didn’t have scandalous skeletons of his own.
Clearing her throat, she said, “Neal used to bring Henry here to tell him all about his family history. Colonel Cassidy, who the mausoleum was built for, was a hero in the battle of… um,” she wet her lips and gave him a hesitant look, “the battle you died in.”
Recognition sparked into remembrance. “Aye. I remember Col. Cassidy. Good man. If recollection serves, he was from Boston. He did not return home after the war?”
“No, he, um…” Her brows scrunched as she pulled the information from the recesses of her mind. “He met a local woman. A pregnant widow. Her husband died in the battle and they married before the baby was born.” The circle of light swung over to the wall at their left and landed on a worn plaque. “That’s her.”
Killian’s heart stopped at the sight of the name, all the air rushing from his lungs as he sank to his knees before the marker.
“Killian?” He heard the deputy say behind him. “What is it? Are you..”
With his eyes fixed on the name, the lines of each letter blurring in his tear filled vision, Killian barely registered Swan’s kneeling form beside him.
“Who was she to you?” she asked on little more than a whisper, the trepidation quivering beneath her words betraying the fact she already had an inkling.
“My wife,” Killian answered, a tear slipping past his lashes and catching on the grime that still covered his face.
He reached up and gently ran his fingertips over her name - Milah Jones Cassidy - and swallowed back the myriad of emotions the sight of it brought forth. Despair over the fact he would never see her again; never hear her laugh or see her smile. Guilt that he hadn’t even given her much of a thought since being resurrected until faced with her passing. Relief that she had seemed to find some measure of happiness and stability after losing him and…
Shock.
Utter astonishment as a detail Swan had casually mentioned fully developed in his comprehension. The widow Cassidy had married had been… pregnant?
Before he could internalize that revelation, Swan reached out and covered the hand still resting on Milah’s marker. “I’m so sorry, Killian.”
The solemn reverie of her softened tone was marred by a grating sound that preceded the shifting of plaque beneath their fingers. Each of them pulled their hand away and one side of the marker dropped, exposing a shallow cavern behind it. Killian felt something ripple over his skin and a desperation took hold of him. Without any conscience prompting on his part, his hand shot back into the space, searching every inch of the cavity and finding it as empty as it appeared. Once again, he wrenched his hand back, looking it over with a mixture of confusion and dread as a clawing desire settled itself deep within him.
He wanted, needed, whatever had been kept behind Milah’s marker, and he would do anything necessary to acquire it.
“Swan,” he croaked. “I think it best we find your son. Now.”
~/~
Killian became more agitated the closer they got to their destination. Swan’s mood wasn’t faring much better, with each attempt made to “call” her son resulting in no response from the lad. When they turned the corner that led to a row of houses on a dead end street, something unsettling began to stir within Killian. A sense of anticipation and an impulse of possessive need trembled through his fingertips, and when they exited the vessel Killian stopped short when he swore he’d heard whispered voices, like a siren’s call luring him towards Swan’s abode.
“Do you hear that?” Killian asked, stalling Emma’s action of unlocking her door.
“Hear what?”
Killian shook his head and pushed against the voices. “Nevermind,” he said, making his way up the steps and following Swan through the door.
“Henry!” Swan called out. “Henry, where are you?”
“Mom!” a young voice called out after a door slammed from the upper floor and quick thumps of footfalls made their way to the stairs. “Mom! You’re never going to believe what I--”
The boy had just skipped off the last step when he caught sight of Killian and blanched. “Who are you?”
“Henry, this is Killian,” Swan supplied, approaching her boy as his eyes widened and all color drained from his face.
“K-Killian Jones?” he stammered.
“Aye,” Killian affirmed, taking a step towards the boy, but stopping when the action made the boy skitter back. “How did you know that, lad?”
The boy swallowed heavily then removed the hand Killian realized he’d been hiding behind his back, revealing a scallop-edged blade dagger.
“Where did you get that?” Swan shouted, causing the boy to flinch.
“Um… the cemetery?” he replied sheepishly before his eyes flicked up to Killian who had somehow managed to find himself right in front of the boy without even realizing he’d moved.
A covetous hiss rippled through Killian’s mind, urging him to get the dagger from the boy, but before he could demand the lad hand it over, awareness skittered over his skin. They weren’t alone.
“I’ll take that, if you please,” a familiar voice declared, snapping the trio’s attention back towards the door.
Swan gasped and pushed Henry behind her as Killian used his body to shield them both from the Dark One who was stepping over the threshold.
“That blade does not belong to you, boy. Hand it over, and no harm shall befall you.”
“You’re lying,” Killian accused between grit teeth. “Don’t listen to him, lad.”
“Y-You’re the Dark One,” Henry said in a fear laced tone. “T-This is your dagger?”
By way of answer, Rumple flicked his wrist and a choking sound caused Killian’s heart to cease in his chest. Behind him, Swan’s hands were frantically grasping at her neck, as if trying to pry unseen hands from choking the life out of her.
“The blade for your mother’s life,” the demented demon giggled.
Killian peered at the lad over his shoulder, expecting to see terror and tears. His brows pulled together at the expression on the boy’s face. While he was clearly scared for his mother’s life, he also looked as though he were working out a puzzle in his mind. Killian could see the moment the solution presented itself by the triumphant gleam in his eye and the exhilaration that spread across his face.
“That means it controls you!” the boy exclaimed, holding the dagger out before him. “I command you to go back where you came from, Dark One!”
A swirl of red began to envelop Killian. In his periphery he saw, with a great measure of relief, the invisible hold around Swan’s neck released itself, sending her into a fit of coughs as she dropped to her knees. The reverberating sound suddenly stopped, replaced by silence as he was fully engulfed in the crimson cloud and lifted off his feet. Less than a moment later, Killian found himself flat on his back with a dreadfully familiar taste hitting the back of his throat. Earth, petrichor, wood, death. Reaching out his worst fears were confirmed.
He was back in his coffin.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed. “Not again.”
Part Three
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lonelypond ¡ 3 years ago
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Love Is For Losers
NicoMaki, Love Live, 1.7K, 1/2
Summary: Yazawa Nico and Nishikino Maki are both key players on the Otonokizaka University Tennis Team. But now Nico has decided to "improve" Maki's social media and tennis game.
Love Is For Losers
Not the most flattering picture of herself, racquet ready, waiting for the return of a serve, but Maki Nishikino really liked her look of concentration. So she hit “Post.”. And the hearts and reactions and fire emojis piled on. Wait, what was that comment, from @NicoNi? “With squinty eyes like that, how can you see the ball?”
WTF?!?!?!? Junior and top tennis singles player Nico Yazawa was notorious for living on social media. Since practice started in September, she’d been leading weekly social media best practice training sessions for the Otonokizaka University team that freshman Maki had proudly never attended. And now she was trolling Maki? Was that a social media best practice?
Maki never replied to a comment, but to let the smug Nico Ni have the last word would grate across every nerve Maki had.
To quickly type, “Who’s in the top 10 national standings again? Can you see that?” seemed almost an illicit thrill. To get an instant reply of eye emojis, plus a sweatdrop made Maki laugh out loud. Quickly scoping out the coffeeshop to check if she’d drawn any attention to herself, Maki clicked through to NicoNi’s home page, Nico’s last post was a bikini shot with an obscene amount of hearts and various emoji combinations in an endless comment scroll. Maki snorted, too obvious an attention grab. Maki would ignore it and stick to tennis, which she knew very well. Ah, there was a pic of Nico rushing the net, one of her favorite ways to use her sprint speed. Maki had an in.
“Spend less time looking at my pics and more time on your approach shots.”
Another instant reply. Another sweat drop. “Nico knows. But you’re so pretty. See you at media training ; )”
Did Nico think she was going to get Maki into one of her stupid sessions like that? Maki dropped her phone on the table, sipping her espresso with a frown.
###
Maki’s phone pinged explosively. A series of messages from her self proclaimed bestie and doubles partner, Hoshizora Rin.
R: hahaha Maki Ma you really need to be here
R: Nico’s going through your TWIG account as her “what not to do on social media” slideshow
R: it’s so funny, Maki
R: (*≧艸≦)(*≧艸≦)(*≧艸≦)
R: you missed out Check out Nico’s LIVE.
Maki stared at her phone. Nico’s Live, that happened when you went to someone’s TWIG profile and clicked on their pic, right? Maki did, grimacing as she clicked on Nico’s face. Nico was in front of a whiteboard, drawing pictures of tennis rackets, disgustingly cute tennis rackets. She leaned forward, checking her phone, then grinned like someone who’d just served a winning ace.
“And @Nishikinoshot has just joined the fans watching Nico on TWIG Live…”
Maki heard Rin yell “Hi Maki!!!” in the background as Nico continued, “One of the best ways to learn how to properly conduct and promote yourself on social media is to find an influencer you respect and build a relationship with them. @Nishikinoshot has chosen @NicoNi, the smartest move she…
“I have not.” Maki shouted at her phone and then felt silly when she realized there was no way for Nico to see or hear her, or was there? TWIG kept floating an “ask to join the Live” teaser, so Maki thumbed it. Nico paused, obviously her notifications were on, another one of those winning serve grins and suddenly Maki was sharing Nico’s screen.
“Jumping into the Live. Good initiative, Nishikino..”
“Maki.”
“So why’d you pick your TWIG handle?”
What kind of a question was that?
“Nishikino shot...you know...because of tennis...the Nishikino shot always scores.” Also worked with photography, a hobby Maki wanted more time for.
“Nishikino announces her prowess off and on the court.” Nico giggled, Maki glared.
“What are you saying? That’s not right.”
“Ah, so you admit it is confusing. Make a note of that, class, it’s always best to have a tag that doesn’t confuse people.” Staring right at Maki, ruby eyes twinkling, Nico made an elaborately surprised, amused face, raising a hand to cover her mouth. “We were reading it as Nishikino’s hot, ‘cause you are.”
Maki flushed. And fumbled with her phone to end the live, not even registering what other garbage Nico was saying. And then her phone pinged again.
R: Are you all right, Maki? Nico was just having a little fun.
M: I don’t want to talk about Nico.
R: Okay.
M: That was your fault.
R: Hey, I thought you’d want to know.
M; Yeah...but tomorrow, after practice, you’re on clean up.
R: Maaaaaki (⁎˃ᆺ˂)’
###
Grunting, Maki swung through at full velocity, then grimaced as yet another practice serve skipped out of bounds. She leaned over to pick up another couple of balls. Both buckets were empty. Tempted to throw her racket, instead she shook her head, tucked her racquet under her arm, grabbed a bucket and went to the other side of the court to pick up the balls.
“Hey, let me help you,” chirped an unfamiliar voice. Maki turned. Nico Yazawa had grabbed the other buckets and was hustling for the net. Nico was always hustling, all lean muscle and speed. Her sable hair, usually put up in twin tails, was loose, still wet from the shower. She’d changed from her usual practice uniform to casual pink and black striped biker shorts and an oversized pink t-shirt shirt that slid off her shoulder and read “Killer Cute.” “Coach ended practice an hour ago.”
Maki shrugged, starting with the balls as far away as possible from the spot Nico had chosen.
“You’re always out here.”
“I take tennis seriously.”
Nico hesitated, hands on her hips, watching Maki curiously over mirror sunglasses perched halfway down her nose, “Nico sees that. But you can get trapped in patterns if no one points them out.”
“I’m fine. I win.”
“Don’t you want to win better?”
“Win better? That’s not a thing.” Maki tapped her racquet against her leg, fidgety.
“Accuracy matters.” Nico picked up a tennis ball, tossed it into Maki’s bucket, and winked, “Crush your opponents with finesse, not raw power. Fewer wasted serves.”
Maki’s hasty rush of anger changed to curiosity. Nico led the team in aces, with amazing power for someone so short. “Coach hasn’t said anything.”
“Like you said, you get the job done. And Coach has other problems...like keeping Honoka from exhausting herself in the first few volleys.”
They both chuckled at how eager Honoka Kosaka was to chase down every ball, until she hit empty. As a joke, after their last practice, Rin had her girlfriend, Hanayo Koizumi, the team manager, post a photoshopped pic of a golden retriever playing next to Honoka’s double’s partner, Umi Sonoda. Honoka had laughed longer than anyone.
Nico was right, Maki realized. Coach had been spending a lot of time on the players with more basic problems. And their assistant spend most of the time on opponent research, editing video footage.
“Nico uses a platform stance, but Maki could get away with a pin-point stance. Watch my feet.” Nico grabbed a ball, tossing it up, swinging at it with a pretend racquet. Instead of her feet remaining the same distance apart, her back foot shifted closer to the front one and then she pushed off up into the serve. “You’ve already got natural explosive power, you don’t need a nitro boost.”
Maki considered, moving her feet through the change Nico suggested. It felt comfortable, offering more control. She nodded, then jumped back when Nico clapped her on the upper arm.
“You’re a quick learner. Hang on. Nico will hop over there and you can try it out. It’s more fun with an opponent.”
“I’ll win. You’ll be crushed.” Maki winked.
Nico laughed and it echoed. “Nico didn’t teach you everything Nico knows.”
###
“So you’re a local too.” Nico was scooping salad into Maki’s bowl. They’d decided to stop for dinner.
“Yeah. My family owns a medical center so I couldn’t just go off anywhere.”
Nico paused, eyebrow raised. “Why not?”
“I’ve been working there since…” Maki tried to remember her first job at the hospital, how old was she? She remembered sitting at her father’s desk, coloring in specially made anatomy chart pages in elementary school. Did that count as a job? “Forever.”
“Ah. Nico had to stick close for family too. Three sibs.” Nico flashed a smile and three fingers. “They’re the best, but they rely on Nico.”
“Your parents work a lot?” Maki understood that.
“Yeah, my mom does. My dad died when I was little.”
Maki paled, what did you say to that. “I’m sorry” came out as a mumble.
A sigh, weary, as Nico pushed Maki’s filled bowl in her direction, “Me too. But we survived. He taught me tennis. And…” Nico put on a sparkling smile, bounced her hands up to her temple, rock hands gesture, and her voice became brighter. “Nico Nico Ni.” Then she relaxed back to normal, “He said it could cheer up the whole world..”
Maki remembered something. “Nico Nico is the ideophone for smile.”
Nico leaned forward, “So the Nishikino isn’t just for show.”
Maki shook her head, “We have a hospital in Tokyo too. I’ve spent a lot of summers there.”
“Wow, a doc and a jet setter. So why tennis?”
“I liked it better than golf. My parents said piano didn’t count as a networking activity.”
“Piano? Classic stuff.” Nico created a melody on an air keyboard.
“Some. And jazz. I get to take a couple of music classes, at least this year.”
Nico wondered if Maki realized how robotic she sounded, and how laced through with sadness her mood was as she talked about her family.
“Hey, Nishikino…”
“Maki.”
“Maki. Play for Nico sometime. Nico loves singing. My dad always said I should go on American Idol.”
“Sorry.” Maki twisted a curl of hair, “I don’t play those kind of songs.”
Maki obviously just needed to know more about Nico, which was Nico’s favorite topic. “Nico is multifaceted. We can do Ella and Count Basie, if you want. With the time you save not practicing your serve.”
Nico winked, her multifaceted ruby eyes cheerful pulls as she hummed. Maki found herself intrigued. “I’ll think about it.”
“Nico will be your personal tennis coach to make sure you improve.”
“Not necessary.” Maki leaned back to signal the waiter. Time to start the main course.
A/N: Another AU Yeah August entry, college rivals was requested and the Olympics put me in a sports mood. Planning another chapter.
Still taking requests.
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theparanormalperiodical ¡ 5 years ago
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The True Story Behind The Blair Witch Project (1999), And The 13 Real Urban Legends About Witches That Will Make You Lie Down And Cry
It’s been mocked, and it’s been made a cultural icon.
It kick-started a horror trend, and it kicked itself down to the dregs of the film industry.
The Blair Witch Project (1999) is a point of contention among horror fans - you know, a bit like bringing up trans-rights at dinner with your UKIP Aunt sitting two seats down. But, just like trans-rights, we have to talk about it. 
(Fuck you, Jane.)
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The Blair Witch Project - and her 2 sequels - was the first film to turn on the camcorder and document the search for something supernatural. 
This was the OG clickbait, this was the beginning of horror films claiming to document true events (ahem Paranormal Activity ahem), and this was the end of horror films being taken seriously.
But it was also these three things that grabbed everyone’s attention.
The original film was based on the claim that in 1994, 3 students went missing whilst exploring the supposedly haunted woods of Burkittsville Maryland. 5 years later, the footage they captured was found and put on the big screen.
Were these real events being documented?
Did these kids actually go missing?
And was the Blair Witch real?
Spoiler alert: no, nope, and not at all.
But even if this specific case wasn’t true, the film itself is unnervingly accurate. Like, literally last night I was researching all the different urban legends relating to witches in the US and I was convinced I had awoken the spirit of the Bell Witch. 
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So, considering the solidarity I have with the followers of this blog, I’ve decided to traumatise you, too.
This article is going to provide the summary to the three forgotten ‘n’ fucked-up films that make up the series, tell you why the Blair Witch is an uncomfortably accurate portrayal of witches historically, and finish up with a stroll through the 13 urban legends that are just like the one featured in the film.
Pull on your hiking boots, and hand me the map.
Let’s get spooky.
Here’s A Quick Summary Of The Blair Witch Film Series
Ahh, the 90s. 
Will Smith was gettin’ jiggy with it, and Trump wasn’t President. Times were so much easier back then!
Well, not for budding film students Heather, Mike and Josh, who packed up their filming equipment in a car and headed to Burkittsville, Maryland to make a documentary about the urban legend of the Blair Witch. (The Blair Witch Project (1999))
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They start off by interviewing locals, and capture a few key details that set up the rest of the film and its sequels. It is claimed that Rustin Parr was a bloke who lived in the woods and kidnapped several children in the 1940s. 
Why? Because the Blair Witch told him to do so. Two fishermen confirm the legends of the woods being haunted, and mention some lass called Robin Weaver.
Kidnapped in 1888, she returned 3 days later, claiming the witch was “an old woman whose feet never touched the ground."
Having heard the tales and waited out the warnings, they begin their journey and head to their first stop, Coffin Rock. Supposedly, 5 men were murdered in a ritualistic fashion here in the 19th century, and their bodies disappeared without a trace.
The next day, they continue their travels, and their ordeal begins. They arrive at an old cemetery which is made up of cairns (piles of rocks which turn out to have ritualistic meaning) and camp nearby. Noises are heard round the tent all night, like twigs snapping, but they reduce this to woodland creatures. 
The following day, they realise they are lost and cannot find the car. The activity escalates, but is found to be unexplainable. 
They then begin to fight between each other, and encounter a section of humanoid stick figures hanging from the trees. Their evening entertainment of weird noises around the tent resumes, but this time the laughter of children is added to the remix. Something then attacks their tent, sending them fleeing from their campsite. 
Some people will just never like dubstep.
They return to their tent, and discover that their possessions have been rifled through, and slime covers Josh’s stuff. The fighting ensues, and Josh straight-up fucks-off.
His screams are then heard one night, and Heather and Mike deduce it to be the witch’s fabrication to draw them out of their tent and into her grasp. 
Her trap is confirmed when Heather finds a bundle of sticks the next morning containing a ritualistic goody-bag containing what appears to be left of Josh. 
That same night, she records her infamous apology video in a style not dissimilar to most YouTubers who have been caught being racist/homophobic/[insert any terrible thing]. 
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Once again, Josh’s screams are heard and they follow them to a house bearing demonic symbols and the bloody handprints of children. Not the aesthetic I myself would go for, but it worked for the Blair Witch...
Mike and Heather stumble into the basement, and we witness our favourite vloggers being killed in the manner described earlier in the film:
One child would face the corner of the basement while the other was being slaughtered. The last shot of the film is of Mike standing in the corner of the basement, suggesting that Heather is the first to die at the hands of the witch.
The second film (Book Of Shadows: Blair Witch 2 (2000)) follows up on these events a year after the footage was found. A gaggle of fans of the original film troop to Burkittsville to explore the legend and the circumstances of the kidnapping of Heather, Mike and Josh.
This film is messy and complicated, and it’s for that reason that I don’t want to waste 8,000 words on a film that is actually ignored by the film series. So, I’m going to give you a tl;dr, instead:
Basics, this film documents the group of fans and tourists being turned against each other by the witch. They go to the house where shit reportedly went down, and set up surveillance cameras to document potential activity.
It’s the first film, but with hell of a lot more activity. And it culminates with the symbolic hanging of someone who appears to be inciting the demonic rituals scattered across the film as they are reportedly possessed by the Blair Witch.
Unfortunately, we don’t learn anything new in this film - we simply see the greater extent of her powers.
Tired, yet? 
(Bored, perhaps?)
Our journey is almost over, and it ends with Blair Witch (2016). 
This film ignores the events of the second film, and follows a group of documentary makers as they explore the legend of the Blair Witch - but this time it's not about capturing paranormal activity. They go to investigate a peculiar video on YouTube that proves that Heather - the woman from the OG cult classic - might just be alive.
The brother of Heather leads this group, and focuses this documentary on the desire for closure.
Despite skipping out the Book of Shadows, it basically sticks to that exact premise. Surveillance cameras are set up, and showcases the witch’s methods of turning the crew on each other, but on an even greater level. We even see the witch, alongside a couple other creatures in tow...
It finally gives us behind the scenes insight into the paranormal activity, and ends with everyone dying!
Sigh. 
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The Blair Witch Is Based Off Of Urban Legends - And Is Uncomfortably Similar To The Stories
Despite its many flaws, The Blair Witch Project does one thing right: we never see the witch.
But it’s the way that her control of the woods and those within it is portrayed that points to the terrifyingly accurate nature of the witch when compared to other urban legends. 
The film’s fictional legend gives up minimal information regarding the Blair Witch:
We know she was responsible for residents - especially children - going missing throughout the 18th and 20th century, and we know that the locals of Burkittsville claimed that the Blair Witch was the ghost of Elly Kedward, a woman who reportedly practiced witchcraft and was sentenced to death in 1785. 
This salem-witch-what-died-but-didnt-really-die-no-one-really-knows is a common basis of the urban legends that will be explored later in this post, but it's the other attributes of the witch that draw her even closer to the claims made around these cases.
The focus of this is that the Blair Witch represents the crone, one of the core concepts of paganism and many other ancient religions. Of the few glimpses we see of a creature that could be the witch and the descriptions of her made by the locals of Burkittsville, we piece together the image of an elderly, monstrous being.
Take this clip from the final film in the saga:
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This unnatural-looking humanoid bears a resemblance to the claims of witches in folklore, such as breasts sagging below waistlines, or bones jutting out of their flesh. Add on top of this the animalistic claims from the original movie - like that one woman claiming she saw her arm which was coated with dark hair - and we arrive at a rather monstrous being.
But this animalistic account does not merely echo her ugliness; it forges the link between the witch and her powers over the woods she resides in.
As the maiden becomes the mother, and the mother becomes the crone, her connection with nature grows. It reaches the extent from which her connection with nature is greater than that of her male counterparts, threatening almighty patriarchy and cursing her as the evil witch she is!!1!
Furthermore, it's not difficult to see the links between the woods she controls, and the imagery of life and fertility. Add a smattering of rumours about kidnapped children, and the house of Rustin Parr becomes a womb. 
(Less PMS, more blood.)
More so, by harnessing the powers of nature, she blurs the boundaries between the genders. Heck, she even goes as far as to blur the boundaries between reality and the reality she creates for her victims! 
She tricks them into falling out with each other, she confuses them by creating this unnavigable wood, and she ensnares them into her invisible trap.
Or, translated into simple terms, the Blair Witch fulfills the concept of the Monstrous-Feminine, a theory conjured up by Barbara Creed. On one hand it suggests women are either portrayed as the victim within horror films, and on the other it suggests that when the woman becomes monstrous, she takes on extreme attributes regarding the female reproductive body.
Guess which one the Blair Witch is. 
But this theory didn’t start with Babs sitting in a room and getting her feminist on - Creed deconstructs notions that can be traced back to the era of the Salem witch trials. Each and every urban legend starts here, when it was #on-trend to burn your local witch. 
The Blair Witch is the puppet master in these films.
And she is not the only one that is pulling the strings.
The Real Urban Legends About Witches That You Need To Know About 
“So, the Blair Witch is some chick who hasn’t shaved in 3 months and has a metaphorical vagina?”
Ok, fair enough. 
The Blair Witch isn’t directly based on a specific urban legend, so yes, delete the sage from your Amazon basket and buy those limited edition poptarts, instead.
…
Oh, you thought this post was over?
My little ghoul - this is The Paranormal Periodical. You didn’t think I’d let you leave without informing you of that witch roaming around your local area, would you?
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‘Course not. Here are the 13 real urban legends of witches that’ll scare the shizz outta you. 
#1 - Naale Baa
We trade in deep woodland in Maryland for Karntaka, India for this local legend. And within minutes of arriving, you’ll spot the word ‘naale baa’ on the walls - a decoration not dissimilar to that seen in Rustin Parr’s crib.
It is claimed that by writing these words on their walls they can deter the witch that wanders from house to house in search of her husband.
Glammed up in full bridal wear, Nale Ba (as she is also known) supposedly attempts to entice the man of the house, and then curse the family with bad luck.
In the 1990s, this urban legend faced a particular resurgence, and even evolved to claim that she would imitate the voices of victim’s family members to encourage them to open the door. But when the door is opened, you die!
How? No idea.
Am I still scared? Hell yeah.
But I’m not the only one concerned about this witch - claims that multiple men in Thailand just disappeared from their beds in the middle of the night were pinned onto this urban legend.
#2 - The Bell Witch
This is probably the most famous legend regarding a witch puppeteering an innocent family’s life.
The story starts in 1817. A family begin to witness signs of paranormal activity on their farm that targets the man of the house and his daughter, Betsy. A variety of large animals are seen across their farm and follow the family and their slaves. Strange noises then begin to fill the house, like invisible chains being dragged on the floor, or dogs fighting. Betsy repeatedly claims that she can see a little girl playing on the swings.
But this friendly ghost then begins to attack the child, slapping her and scarring her with pins.
The man of the house then begins to demand answers about these spooky shenanigans, and straight up asks the spirit what the shit is going on.
The spirit gives ‘em a lowdown of her backstory - a bit like those clips from the X Factor where they use Katy Perry’s Firework over the top of this 16 year old girl’s turmoil regarding GCSE maths - and claims that she is "Old Kate Batts' witch". 
‘Couple of convos later and they deduce that the farm rests on a Native American burial ground, and the spirit has been disturbed. 
Yet despite the specificity of this legend, the haunting sticks to familial lines we see with Naale Baa and the Blair Witch:
The witch claims she will leave - but she will return in 7 years. She kept her promise, and haunted Betsy when she achieved her womanly purpose of shitting out a baby and having a family of her own.
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#3 - The Perron Family Farmhouse
This case was the inspiration behind the original Conjuring movie, founding one of the most iconic horror film series to date - and it’s clear to see why.
I’ve already done a fully-fledged post on this classic tale, but here’s a tl;dr for people hoping not to delve too deep into the haunting…
The Perron family made the mistake of moving onto the land once owned and now haunted by Bathsheba Sherman, a witch from the 19th century.
With increasingly violent activity beginning to haunt the family - which culminated in the possession of the mother of the house - this has earned its place as one of the scariest tales of terror to feature on this blog.
#4 - Mary Evelyn Ford
She was burned at the stake for her witchcraft. 
She was buried in a steel lined grave, and her casket was covered with concrete to keep her trapped in. 
Oh, and she was 5 years old. 
It is claimed that Mary will wander ‘round the cemetery or stand trapped within the protective fencing around her graveside, making faces at mourners and enticing them towards her final resting place. From there she will suck you into the depths where her body now lies, and use your vitality for strength!
#5 - The Three Legged Lady of Mississippi
The American road trip. 
A classic coming-of-adventure filled with freedom, spotify playlists you accidentally stream via your data, and running over people that are already dead.
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No? Just me?
The story goes that there’s one road in Mississippi which is haunted by The Three Legged Lady. If you honk your horn three times, she will knock on the roof of the car, and race your car to the end of the road, hitting it with her body throughout the short journey.
Why?
Her origins, like most urban legends, have been subject to a lot of dispute, but there are 2 claims which follow this tale:
One side to the story claims she was the innocent victim of a sacrifice by a satanic cult, whilst the other side claims she doesn’t actually have three legs. 
She’s holding her daughter’s leg, which was severed off when she was run over by a car. It is said that she is still looking for the rest of her daughter.
#6 - The Skinwalkers of Arizona
Our road trip doesn’t stop there, however - this time we are heading for the Navajo region of Arizona. 
Supposedly, when you’re sailing down the highway, something will tap on your window, and you’ll catch a glance of a skinwalker. These humanoid, mutated beings were shapeshifters that were the witch doctors representing the evil within Navajo society.
This urban legend even featured in a court case when a woman was found brutally murdered!
Heck, there is actually a specific region of Arizona - Skinwalker Ranch - from which you are sure to these mystical beings.
#7 - Goody Cole, The Witch of Hampton
This urban legend sticks to the minimalist aesthetic, but nevertheless has earned its reputation in Hampton.
The story goes that a woman accused of being a witch was found dead in her house, and thus, to ensure this bitch stays dead, they bury her with a stake and horseshoe. She says six feet under, but her powers prevail; she curses those that happen to go past her grave.
Her curses stick to those sailing on the river by her burial site, including that one time she reportedly brewed a storm for an innocent girl enjoying a summer’s day on a sailboat who just so happened to be mocking her past.
Not a good day for yachting with father, then?
#8 - The Curse of Jonathon Buck’s Tomb
Okay, this one’s fucking creepy. 
And I love it.
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Jonathon Buck was one of the main lads in charge of the Salem witch trials, and condemned many a woman to death by burning. Unfortunately, his attempts to rid one woman of her alleged powers failed, and she scarred his tombstone with a burn mark in the shape of a leg.
No, seriously. 
Whenever the tomb is moved, the mark reappears. 
#9 - Mary Nohl’s Witch House
This origins of this tale can be traced to much more recent events, but carries the essence of an urban legend that rumoured witches cannot escape from. 
Mary Nohl was a sculptor famed for her wacky art and weird displays that decorated her house and gardens. The local residents petitioned for it to be demolished, but it was placed on the National Register, instead.
It is here that the rumours began to swell:
The legend claims that her husband and son drowned in a nearby lake, so, she created these sculptures to watch out for them and await their return to their home. But it was discovered that she never had any children, voiding the rumours conjured up by teenagers after late night visits to this spectacular house.
#10 - The Pendle Witches
I’ve already covered this gaggle of witches and the legends they’ve left on Pendle Hill, but here’s a quick recap for those that haven’t already checked out that post:
The Pendle witches were a group of peasants who practiced dark and mysterious magic. From neighbours getting ill, to strange effigies being found containing hair and teeth, there was more than enough evidence to send them to trial.
It was on this hill that they were sentenced to death, and it was on this hill that they were hung for their crimes. But their witchy behaviour didn’t stop with their deaths.
Peculiar happenings still haunt Pendle hill…
#11 - The Surrey Witch
Our next urban legend is also resident to the UK, and even takes its form in the same era. 
In the 17th century, a white witch lived in a cave in Surrey, and was known for lending things to her neighbours. All you had to do was stand on the boulder outside her cave and ask!
But one day, some bloke tried his luck, and asked for her cauldron. She was chill with it, but said he must return it by a deadline. He missed the due date, and lost 5% off his final mark he fled to escape her potential wrath. 
He fled to Frensham church, from which the cauldron has been utilised for centuries. I wonder if the witch is still out there looking for it?
#12 - Tituba, The Voodoo Queen
Okay, so this witch might not have an urban legend tied to her memory, but her past mirrors the Blair Witch’s own story so it’s freakalicious, regardless...
Tituba was actually the first woman accused of practicing witchcraft in 1692. She even confessed to her crimes, and threw two other witches under the bus!
(So much for solidarity, guys.)
But her story follows a unique twist, as she was believed to have come to the colony she later resided in to encourage local children to take up Voodoo. Her focus on children and thus her maternal portrayal is a simplified reflection of the Blair Witches own metaphorical genitalia. 
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#13 - The Witch House, aka The Jonathon Corwin House
Our final urban legend belongs to one of the most historical buildings in Salem:
No, really, it’s the only structure in Salem still standing that had a hand in the witch trials. Not only has it witnessed dark and twisted histories of innocent people, it’s still home to some of them.
Jonathon Corwin - the former owner of the house - was a judge in the trials, and thus carried the memories of the trials with him back to his home, but with reports of torture in the basement and even his own burial down there after his murder, I think we can safely that many myths and legends will circle this house.
Add in a visit from the Ghost Adventures crew, and we can stamp on the Zak Bagan’s seal of approval.
No wonder it’s considered the most haunted house in Salem!
Now It’s Time To Hear What You Think:
Which urban legend is the winner of tonight’s fuck-off-i-cant-handle-the-spooks-man award?
And will you ever watch The Blair Witch Project again?
😍Up for more spooky stuff? Follow this blog and hear a new real ghost story everyday!😍
(Also this is me now.)
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92 notes ¡ View notes
theangrypokemaniac ¡ 4 years ago
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Then Ambipom showed up, and the little miss wasn't half so bad in retrospect.
I never felt too keen on Aipom. It was okay but that inane grin possessed a sinister edge, like Tony Blair after the '97 election.
Bloody hell, what's that?
Yer tail's got more fingers than you!
Nasty thing this freak:
• Teeth like bathroom tiles.
• Grimace about as reassuring as an escaped mental patient peering in the window.
• Chevron nose implying a porcine snout.
• Tail ends like silicon knockers, each sporting a trio of red-raw teats.
• Screechy, gurgling cackle.
• Bobbing up and down, heaving, like a Steamboat Willie reject.
It's the voice mainly. The cheap attempt rolled out by The PokĂŠmon Company ruins much of it for me.
Aipom began Sinnoh as Ash's PokĂŠmon, but so enamoured was she of the whole Contest palaver, and with no chance of joining whilst still in his custody, the decision was made to trade her for Buizel.
I repeat: she left Ash, whom she clearly cared about, given the hat antics, because Contests were a wondrous jewel in her eyes.
It did then anyway. The boss-eyed ugliness is more of an issue now.
It was all going so swimmingly. Dawn and Ambipom made a grand team, sticking it to Ursula and Gabite good and proper.
That is, until she made the mistake of entering a table tennis event.
Really? To this we are reduced?
Remember that. It's important for later.
His name is O.
It is not. That's blatantly an alias for ulterior motives.
What's he up to, sneaking about under a pseudonym of evident fabrication?
O? Yer couldn't even think up a proper sobriquet for this devilish creep?
It's all Barry's fault, the bitch.
I consider folk who fanny hither and thither, referring to themselves by initials only, to be insufferably pretentious.
T.A.P. won't have it on this blog.
Dawn progresses with ease, thoroughly thrashing opponents, for Ambipom reveals herself to be quite the skilled operator.
With no fingers, no wrists, and no joints. Just the palms.
As if!
How can Shiftry be a champion? Look at it, man!
Alright, it's not so severe a drawback as Oddish, who had No Bloody Arms, but it ain't much of an improvement.
It's got no bloody hands!
Yet they come up against real competition at the close, for O and Shiftry are legends of the art.
It's a master ping-pong player... with No Bloody Hands?!
You're 'avin me on here!
What's it meant to do, slap away with a frond?
How?! There's no bloody bones in them there leaves!
Can't have a cup of tea with them, can yer?!
What a surprise, Dawn loses in the final.
Something else to fail at then?
Oh come on love, can't you do anything right?
Then O guilt trips her. Apparently the shrieking simian is a natural talent, but her deadweight presence is cramping its style.
Charming.
Ambipom is given the choice: spotlight and seals or bats and balls. She picks the latter.
Each time the ball approaches, either it'll just bend the foliage, or, when aflame, burn a hole right through, and Shiftry would go up like a woollen nightgown!
Of course she does. The compelling story arc of twenty minutes could lead only to this conclusion.
Aipom gives up entering Contests, a career she adored, in preference for a thing no one knew existed before this single episode, even if it means parting from all of her friends forever.
Perfectly logical thought process there.
Two options:
1. Contests are crap. They look all flash at a distance but it's a soulless procedure.
Ambipom twigged this early on, jumping ship at the first opportunity to escape a lifetime of feudal drudgery under Dawn's baronial whip hand.
O claims to run his own ping-pong school, because in these parts that's how people fill the empty hours waiting for death.
Bizarrely it's situated in Vermilion City.
I know. It's on a entirely different continent to Dawn, as if they don't want her visiting.
Back in day Ash and Brock almost died trying to reach said settlement. It ain't easy even for them.
Oh Vermilion City! Of course it is! I remember it so well now from Electric Shock Showdown.
Lieutenant Surge loves a game of ping-pong! Him and Raichu batter fragile Pidgey and Rattata all day then unwind with a bit of back-and-forth paddle-whacking.
He's at every hour under the sun with the Fishing Guru and Fan Club Chairman.
2. The writers responsible are baggy-arsed oafs and this is the most inept exit in the show.
Yeah, and I bet O's vehicle is the one hiding Mew.
Ah! That's the explanation I've waited for!
Disembarking from the Saint Anne? It's the first place you go when in town.
Captain, calm thy sick, and Sailors, put down those women of ill repute. There's pongs to be pinged.
A likely scenario as ever I did see.
Or is it?
Well, well, well. This tissue of lies is unravelling before me.
• Calls himself O?
• Has such a mundane, yet ludicrous profession?
• Works with a disabled Pokémon incapable of the very action for which it is famed?
• Professes to own an establishment we know from past experience isn't there?
• Enters the aforesaid competition, immediately targeting his favoured prey?
• Grooms Ambipom with flattery, adding a reduction in status by beating her, inspiring a useful hunger for better?
• Emotionally manipulates a young girl into surrendering her Pokémon?
• Shows no remorse in removing an animal from her family?
• Travels thousands of miles from home, keen to avoid recognition by fellow countrymen?
• Supposed base happens to be in a city difficult to access for Dawn?
• Oh, and a port town to boot, stamping ground of smugglers passing illegal goods, like exotic pets and contraband?
• Disappears on a bus, never to be seen again?
The evidence is piling up!
He ain't no ping-pong player! He's scouting for specimens for his animal research lab!
Ambipom's gonna get stuffed and placed in a cabinet for snotty students to study!
Hey, science man. Anything's justified in its name. The future's now thanks to it.
Thumbs up from Pope Clemont.
Could be worse. Could be talentless twat Damien Hirst picking up creatures to bisect in a vat of formaldehyde for the pleasure of a lot of beard-stroking bourgeoisie.
If I were Ash I'd be well aggrieved at the entire situation.
You give away yer best chimp, assuming it'll be safe with a friend, and she gifts it to the vivisectionist!
Oi bitch, yer wanna take the shirt off his back too?
You should've handed it to Jessie when asked. She never would've done such a thing.
She cares.
She just dumps all hers in the tender embrace of H.Q. and forgets.
Might be dead now. Much better.
What is it about Sinnoh? Chimchar gets grief, and Aipom's headed for China's cruelty-free wet markets.
From Poffin to coffin: aye-aye-aye.
Mmm-mmm: Mashed Ape coming to a dinner plate near you.
I tell yer, shameless spanking of monkeys going on all over.
But lo, the somewhat misnamed Galar region is set in Vermilion City!
Obviously Ambipom will be at ChloĂŤ's for a cup of tea and a banana on a regular basis.
Yep, definitely will happen. No doubt about it. We're due a remake of Diamond and Pearl after all.
Should that come to fruition, any old excuse to promote it on screen will do.
I'm handing yer that loose story strand, Game Freak!
Any time now. The first day Ash was in town he raced to the famous ping-pong school round the corner.
He couldn't resist, not when he hadn't bothered to visit in three previous generations.
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It's coming. It will. Just wait a minute.
...
That's right, you wave goodbye. That's the last we'll be seeing of 'er outside of a packed lunch with mustard.
No? Again I give you two options:
1. What choo expecting canon coherence from this shower for?
I keep telling yer: when a new era begins it erases all that has gone before. That's why they explain the concept of PokĂŠmon EVERY SINGLE BLOODY TIME.
2. It is consistent, and Ambipom can't return as her skin's decorating a fine Gucci handbag.
Plus the rest of her made a top-notch tin of dog food.
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8 notes ¡ View notes
tarralin ¡ 6 years ago
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💗💋💗💋💗💋💗💋💝💋💗💋💗💋💗💋💗
What started as a birthday fic for @rainylune , grew into a full piece that I now present to you as my @ikesennw Sweet♡Heart event special.
My theme for the event was ‘true love’ and what better way to portray that than a classic fairy tale retelling? So, without further ado, I give you a story inspired by the legend of The Frog Prince featuring Mitsunari as our sweet prince.
A thousand Thank yous to everyone who has helped me with this beast along the way!! @alloveroliver @xathia-89 @rainylune @tsundere-mitsuhide @notsafefortum-blr @ikemenfics @space-romantic @impracticaldemon @jennacat84 @lulidrafts
I love you all!❤❤❤
((Below the cut because 7,200+ words))
~☆~
The Prince and the Frog
The full moon always reshaped the world to Nari's eyes, casting a glow that seemed to transport his very being to the fabled realm of the Fae. Even the dense forest that spanned the back of the castle transformed under the silver luminesce and beckoned for him to explore.
For as long as he could remember, Nari's father had forbidden anyone from entering the dark expanse of trees and thickets. Several missives had been received from villagers and lords alike offering their clearing services over the years that were all denied. An infestation of wolves always cited as the reason for his caution but, in all the years Nari snuck from his room, not so much as a howl had been heard.
In fact, he heard nothing in the forest other than twigs snapping beneath his boots. No owls hooted from the canopy, no foxes scurried about. There weren't even any chattering raccoons despite these weeks being the prime of their mating time. Only a silence that Death themself would find comforting.
Well… and Nari.
Nari enjoyed discovering the forest's secrets in the silence that was such a welcome change from the daily bustle of court and castle life. He didn't mind assisting with leadership or working towards a better way of life for all his father's subjects, as he would soon take over that chief responsibility, but the close minded opinions of the other courtesans were beyond tiring. And that didn't even include the numerous marriage proposals received on a daily basis. The only reprieve of late were his fencing lessons with the knights while he awaited the full moon so he could continue his mapping quest of the forbidden forest.
Nari slumped against his favorite pine, breathing deeply of the sweetness the early summer night elicited from the trees surrounding him. What does this forest possess that unsettles Father so? All the years I've spent studying and still nothing out of the ordinary…
Ribbit.
Nari snapped to attention so fast, his head slammed into a low hanging branch. A thud reverberated from the tree but he could still make out the distant croaking of frogs over the ringing in his ears. He stumbled a few paces before righting himself and continued in the direction of the calls. The telltale trickle of a creek joined in the chorus of amphibians hidden behind a wall of thorny briar bushes. It was for just such situations that he never entered the woods without a machete after his first night exploring.  
The scene that greeted him nearly took his breath away in its ethereal beauty. A bubbling creek seemed to spring from the ground from nowhere and pooled into a moderate fishing pond. Crystal clear water shimmered in the moonlight, revealing sleeping fish nestled along the pebbled bottom. Clusters of green frogs huddled along the water's edge, catching mosquitoes as they flew by.
All except for one.
“Well, I've never seen anything like you before.”
Sitting away from the rest of the group was an exquisitely colored frog of night black skin with silver streaks accenting the ridge of its back. Pulling a kerchief from his pocket, Nari knelt to lift the creature into his covered hand for further inspection.
I could say the same of you.
Nari turned back to the opening he cut in the bushes, expecting to see the woman the voice belonged to, but found no one there.
Down here.
Glancing to his boots now, there were no sign of any legendary pixies or brownies.
The mysterious voice released a sigh. I'm in your hand. You just picked me up.
“My hand…?” Pulling his gaze back, he found himself confronted by eyes suited more for a person than a frog. Warm, chocolate depths that glittered the same as the water watched him with the focus of a scholar.
There you go. Now you found me. The voice floating through his conscious was weak but there, fluttering like silk on the wind and definitely not his own.
“How is this possible?”
You should know. You're the one who found me.
“Only by accident, I assure you.” He turned to the other frogs gathered nearby. “Do the rest of you speak?”
The same croaking as before was his only answer.
I've given up speaking to them. They've never responded to me.
“How long have you been able to communicate like this? Do you have a name?”
For as long as I've been a frog, I've been able to… think? Talk? And I know I had a name-- once-- but I've forgotten it a long ago.
“As long as you've been a frog? Have you been something else?”
Soft laughter washed over him, rough from disuse. I was a person once. I still have… visions?
“Memories?”
Yes, memories. Very few as they are, but there all the same. I remember my father and his funeral… a neighboring king was there with an enchantress. And then I was here.
“Why do you remain? Why haven't you--”
Tried to leave? She scoffed. I have tried… I'm bound to this pond just as I'm bound to this skin. I can go about five hops until I hit an invisible barrier. And the enchantress made sure only magical beings can find this spot on a full moon. She ended on a sigh.
That… would explain the absence of wildlife in the forest. Was it not common knowledge animals could sense magic at work?
So… how did you find me?
He smiled down at the dark amphibian. “My mother’s grandmother was rumored to be Fae. If what you say is true, then I can only assume the rumors were correct.”
She sighed again as she huddled down in his palm. It's… nice. Finally being able to talk. What may I call you?
“You may call me Nari.”
Nari… another tired sigh. I can feel the dawn approaching. You should return home.
“May I visit you again?”
Yes… please.
He left her his kerchief, carefully wrapping it around her as he settled her where he thought the sun would shine most. The morning sun was just breaking through the trees when he stepped over the briar bush barrier. As he turned back, his breath was nearly taken from him for a second time since leaving his room.
The pond was gone.
As he made his way back to his castle home, Nari was filled with a sense of purpose and bypassed the breakfast prep in the kitchens for the library. He only had until the next full moon…
He had research to do.
~*~
A fortnight later, Nari dropped the book to the table with a thunk while rubbing his eyes after removing his glasses. He had spent countless hours scouring the expanse of books and what did he have to show for it? Whispers of legends and fairy tales that sounded ridiculous even to him. Nari grimaced at the shelves before him. It would take far longer than another fortnight to continue researching at this pace. He needed help.
He needed information.
~*~
If the town tavern was known for anything, it was its rampant activities of questionable legality. The few times Nari had crossed its path previously was from behind the safety of an armed escort when Father attempted to put on a show of concern for the people, more than once having witnessed an unruly patron be tossed from the entrance.
Nari pulled his cloak’s collar tighter around him. The last three days leg work of investigating the legitimacy of outlandish wizard tales and spellwork had all led him to the seedy establishment in search of one man. A man said to have a hand in many circles, both local and abroad, with a network capable of tracking down the truth behind any rumor…
“And why, pray tell, would such a goose chase be of interest to me?”
The golden gaze levelled upon Nari sent a bead of sweat rolling down his spine but he remained uncowed. Despite a show of comfortably lounging among richly colored purple pillows and sky blue blankets, the white hooded man embodied predatory dominance as a fox would over a brood of hens. Predators fed off fear and he would show none in the face of this one.
“As I hear it, you enjoy chasing such game.”
“Perhaps,” a slight tilt of his stein in agreement before hovering at his chin. “But ventures on such unstable… foundations tend to fall apart quickly and have an expensive upkeep until they do.”
I expected as much. Pulling a pouch from his inner pocket, Nari tossed the tightly wound coin bag onto the table next to the pile of pillows. The soft clink of metal sliding across metal earned an arched eyebrow of interest and a flutter of silver lashes before landing upon Nari again.
“My my,” the barterer sat straighter now, having ruled the interaction worthy of his full attention. “What motivates our dear prince as to fund an exploration of tall tales?”
Guess even the borrowed clothes of a stable hand wasn't enough to throw off this fox. “My motives are my own. I expect weekly updates and, when I have what I need, you'll receive the second half of payment when the job is done. Is that reasonable, Kitsune?”
“Please,” a chuckle rumbled between them as he finished the contents of his stein, eyes never leaving Nari’s and an intrigued smirk lifting the corner of his lips. “My partners call me Mitsuhide.”
~*~
Nari received the first update two days later and the amount of information in the letter rendered his knees useless. He hadn't been able to gather this much knowledge in the fortnight he had spent holed up in the library! The basics of the spellwork, the power and supplies needed, as well as theories on how to undo such casting were lined out in a neat hand.
Theories only. If the letter were to be believed, a reversal by the original caster would be the best route. For that, they would need to know the identity of said caster. Would the frog know the name of the enchantress if she didn't know her own? Unlikely, but only one way find out with the next full moon just days away. In the meantime, Mitsuhide had included a magical bind breaking method that required a bit of interesting preparation.
The sharp, angry click of riding boots against the marble floors pulled him from his mental checklist.
Uh-oh.
“Mitsunari!” The booming voice of the only man who insisted on using his full name barged into the library just as Nari concealed his letter by closing it into a book. The edge of Father's lavender silk lined riding cloak swept the floor as he came to a halt at the edge of the table, scowling down with no attempt to hide the fury forming in his eyes. “Before I left to visit your brother’s lands, did I not make it clear you were to have chosen a fiancée by now? It is already summer and the autumn social only two months away. The social when an engagement was supposed to be announced!”
Nari sighed as he slumped into a nearby chair. “Apologies, Father. It must have slipped my mind with your role of kingship falling to me in your absence. Also, it is quite a difficult decision not only by the quantity but quality as well. The few I have already met would not make for suitable queens, and how can anyone choose a future based on the biased words of their fathers?”
His jaw ticked. The signal marking his fury. Father never before raised his voice in anger, lest ‘unseemly’ rumors stir and tarnish the golden image he worked so hard to achieve. Nari had no fear of an outburst, but the slim narrowing of Father's eyes as he crouched low and whispered lower was always a reason for concern. “You have two months. I suggest you spend as much time looking over the proposals as you do your books.”
He turned sharply and marched from the library as furiously as he came, the draft of his cloak scattering a few loose pages across the table.
Well, that was to be expected… afraid I can’t put off that princely duty for much longer, can I? Glancing back to the book in his hands, Nari pulled the letter from its hiding place. At least, I might be able to accomplish one meaningful thing before that time comes…
Daylight hours of the next week were meticulously spent placating his father by looking over the accumulated marriage offers, going so far as to craft a comparison chart of the candidates listed qualities and accomplishments in an order of preferred queenship.
“Hirona of Hiroshi… Cecilia of Rothmere… Annette of Wellington? Those are your top choices? Royalty of farming peasants?” The disdain laden words of Father as he read over the first reports Nari had crafted sent a familiar wave of dread through him even as he straightened his shoulders and defended the honor of women never met.
“Princess Hirona has been invested in politics and headed many crucial meetings on behalf of her father for several years. Lady Cecilia is quite skilled in numbers, often working alongside her country's treasury and advocates against governmental corruption. Ms. Annette is beloved among her people, frequently seen with healers to achieve new methods of healthcare and hygiene. Each realm produces varying crops that we do not have the climate for here. I thought you would appreciate the trade opportunities as, I believe, our textile and fur crafting specialties would benefit all three provinces.”
The effort proved worthy as Father didn't interfere with him after that. Choosing, instead, to be happy with the progress and dispatched the chosen trio’s invitations to the autumn festival.
Nari spent his nights gathering the listed materials for the bind break provided by Mitsuhide. One of which, required soaking a coin bag of cinnamon sticks in holy water under the moonlight for three nights before use. The fourth night was the full moon and-- per routine-- he used the vine growth of the castle to his advantage as he descended the concealed rope to the shadowed ground. After picking up his usual machete from the garden shack, Nari was on his way down the carefully construed footpath he had crafted for himself. He made record time through the forest and soon the song of chorus frogs reached his ears through the deafening silence of the forest, guiding him to his destination.
His feet froze in place at the sight of a figure crouched over the edge of the pond, draped in a sparkling white cloak kept tight only by the sky blue sash about the waist. A familiar chuckle danced through the night as the figure stood. “I was wondering how long we would be kept waiting.”
“Mitsuhide? What are you doing here? How are you here?”
“Can't have word going around of my services failing. I'm here to ensure the bind breaks and you get your pay worth. I was just telling the lady here I have some of my best men tracking down leads on who her enchantress may be.”
“I'm still curious as to how you are here.” It didn't escape Nari's notice Mitsuhide avoided one of his questions.
“That's not important right now.” Mitsuhide held his palm out to Nari, enchanted frog in question swaddled in the center.
Is it true, Nari? Her voice was far stronger now than the last time he was here, free of the lethargy that plagued her as she crawled into his hands. You've found a way to break it?
He couldn't help the smile forming at the hope in her voice. “I'm afraid I couldn't risk being seen researching such topics outside my home but I located a man who could. Mitsuhide seems to think this worth a try, I can only trust his word.”
“Such praise… I’m honored to be considered for it but might we get on with breaking the barrier? There are far more profitable ways I'd like to spend my evening.”
Gently setting her to the ground, he pulled the materials from the pack and set about the instructions. Mitsuhide assisted in perfecting placements of the soaked cinnamon and transferring her to the bag. Nari took a deep breath to calm the jumble of nerves that had formed in his stomach after all was set as it should be, forcing a smile for his amphibian friend. “Ready?”
Her uneasy laugh trickled across his conscious. As ready as I can be.
Mitsuhide slouched against a tree beyond the briars, tapping his fingers along his crossed arm in an intentional show of impatience. Each pace Nari took shook his nerves like the earthquakes of the eastern lands. What if it fails? She sounded so faded when we first met, what if this drains her of what miniscule energy she has left?
A hundred different ‘what if’s were still swirling when a hand smacked him in the forehead to stop his pacing. “Planning on walking off a cliff, are you?”
Nari blinked down at the white rapids that rushed the bottom of the ravine. “Oh! I’m sorry, I hadn't noticed. I was focusing on back up plans if this should fail.”
“Well, no need. She is still in your hands and we are much farther than her confinement previously allowed.”
Nari beamed down to his palms. “How do you feel?”
I feel… her contemplative silence had Nari holding his breath until she gushed with a smile in her voice. Wonderful! I feel as if a heavy blanket has been lifted off of me. Thank you! Thank you, both!
“Always a pleasure to rescue a distressed damsel.” Mitsuhide raised a finger to her forehead in a way of greeting. Nari thought he could see a deep swell of relief flood through those golden depths of his, but it was gone in the next instant. “I must be off now. I will send updates as I can but they will not be as frequent as previously agreed.”
“You’re leaving?” Nari was stunned as he stared after the fluttering cloak of his accomplice. “Where to now?”
Mitsuhide glanced back over his shoulder with that usual smirk while checking his hood’s placement. “To catch a goose.”
~*~
Nari thought it would be hard to conceal a large frog throughout the day but, after experimenting with several places in his coat, they found his shoulder to be the best place she could grip. The position also allowed her to easily peer out from under his lapel without being spotted. Convenient for reading.
With the hours they spent in the library, Nari learned the frog was a skilled reader and possessed an incredibly comprehensive mind. He concluded the mental stimulation was beneficial as she slowly began to remember different pieces of her past, events of the nation's history, and even her favorite stories. Each day held a new surprise as they read over reports of the area or complaints from local nobles. She was filled with an unexplainable need to help in any way she thought she could.
Sometimes… it was simply reminding him to eat.
Nari! Her voice blasted across his mind with the force of a gale wind, pulling him completely from his book. Lunch arrived some time ago. The tea will get cold.
“Oh, thank you!”
He could hear the suppressed laughter in her voice. It's ok. I'm kind of envious you can ignore the rest of the world like that. I never could. Every flutter of a bird or shout of a servant would distract me from my studies as a kid.
He smiled openly as she continued with the newly revealed memory as he ate.
“I'm almost done here for the day. Would you like to see about the town?”
Can we? There was no hiding the interest in her eyes.
He nodded. “I haven't toured through town in some time and it may help you discover more of who you are.”
Thank you.
It wasn't long after calling for a guard and mounting his steed that they were trotting through the cobbled paths of the bustling city proper. Merchants hocked various wares to anyone within earshot of their carts and stalls. Farmers haggled with fur crafters on reasonable trades in early preparation for Winter. To the common eye, it would seem like a time of prosperity.
But her eyes were far from common.
There are so few sellers… and fewer customers. There is variety but each peddler seems to have a monopoly on their products. Is there any government over prices?
Nari fluffed his coat and whispered into his shoulder. “There is a merchants guild but many of the members have my father's ear.”
So they have free reign. I'm sure the fee to join is out of reach from the common peddlers, isn't it?
A grunt of confirmation.
She remained silent for several long moments as they continued through the streets while Nari extended greetings and smiles to the people. She spoke again only once he had regained a safe distance from the ears of the guard. May we visit the city’s edge?
“My friend…” he started. How could he persuade against the idea when her question was so strong? There even seemed to be an edge of challenge as she awaited his answer. “It is not… well off.”
I'd still like to see it, Nari. Please?
He resigned to his fate with a sigh. “Alright.”
~*~
She was furious.
Nari knew he had trouble with reading people most of the time but even he could sense it. Waves of anger radiated from the creature perched on his shoulder the moment the city’s outer edges became visible.
She was silent.
He feared he might set light to a powder barrel if he made any wrong move as he gently settled her upon the special pillow he had set aside as a bed for her. Since bringing her to the castle, she had been nothing but questions and stories as her memories slowly uncovered themselves. The silence was unsettling.
Should he say something? Ask something?
“I tried to warn you.” He whispered as he rested his head on his pillow.
Warn me?!
Uh-oh. Maybe that was the light to the powder...
The larger part of the population works to the bone and are left with what? Rundown shacks that let in more light than block it? Meager food scraps that are supposed to last them until… do they even know when their next meal will be? Isn't there anything to be done? You're the Prince, there has to be something you can do!
Nari let out a sigh as he reached his palm out to her. She climbed in his hand without question and nestled on his chest when he plopped her there. “I have researched all the laws and, since I was young, have worked to appeal many. I managed to gain traction several times when Father was away visiting my brother. But once he returned, all the changes I had implemented were overturned. Every time. Worse yet, any individual who had benefited from the assistance extended to them were forced to repay it… with interest.”
And if they couldn't?
“There was no leniency.”
Her silence now may not have been from anger but it was just as unsettling as it had been before, containing the same echo of helplessness he often felt over the years.
“It is late, my friend.”
I know. I just… She didn't have to finish. He knew the pain well. Can we walk?
“Walk? Where?”
I don't know. I just feel I need to be… somewhere.
“Alright, we'll walk.” It only took a moment for him to pull his night robe over his shoulders and adjust her position and then they were in the hallway. “Where to?”
“Towards the garden.”
Down the hall they went until they reached the landing to the staircase case that would take them to the courtyard.
Stop! Go left.
“Left? There is nothing to the left, it’s just a lounge area.”
Oh, something is there.
"To the left it is."
It was a moderate sized alcove, where two cushioned benches in the royal colors welcomed any potential sitters for easy conversations. A window stretched from floor to ceiling to let in as much light as possible. Flowers sat in large marble vases on both sides to complement the extravagant tapestries that lined the walls, adding a touch of elegance to the otherwise cozy area.
Lift the tapestry on the right.
Nari raised his eyebrow to the far away tone she used. Could it be a new memory revealing itself again? Two had never appeared in one day before.
With his own curiosity further piqued, he lifted the fabric from the wall and almost couldn't believe his eyes. An intricately carved oaken door stood like a secret guardian just under his hand.
Look up to the left corner. See the stone that is longer than the others? Pull it.
Excitement got the better of him as the brick scraped against the others and echoed in the hall.
Quietly!
“Sorry!”
Using both hands now, he pulled the stone from its place as slowly as possible. Once removed he could feel its weight was half that of a normal stone and found the back side to be hollowed out. Turning it over in his palm, cool metal fell into his fingers.
The key!
“You know,” he started as he smiled to his friend, turning the bronze key in his fingers several times. “I've suspected for a while now that you were highborn. Such intimate knowledge of the castle now confirms you aren't just noble but something more.”
Something more?
He nodded as he turned the key in the door with a successful click. “You are royalty.”
After attaining an oil lamp to investigate the secret room, the number of journals and half-finished paintings made it immediately evident the room had been a private parlor. The name inscribed upon all the volumes had been the same.
Mai.
For years, Mai had been known as the Runaway Princess after disappearing immediately following her father's funeral pyre. A nationwide search had been raised but to no avail, leading many to believe foul play was at hand. No evidence ever emerged to solidify such claims but still, a rift was torn between the country’s two greatest allies and lead to the break of an alliance that had remained solid for four centuries. And now, they had discovered the stash of journals that may hold the solutions to unanswered questions.
That realization was quickly overshadowed when he heard his friend croak loudly in surprise.
That painting… that's my father!
Nari's head snapped to the depiction in question and he froze at the sight. Two men were featured in the craft. One sat upon a plush black velvet lined chair that was easily recognizable as the throne. The crown upon his head easily marked the man as King while the legendary scar crossing his features identified him as the most recent king before Nari's father… who was seen standing tall over the previous king's right flank.
“Which man?” Had his throat ever been so dry in his life?
The crown… the one with the crown.
Of course. Hadn't he just voiced his theory of her being royalty? It only makes sense that she was His Majesty Kennyo's daughter. Of course she was the missing princess.
And the other is the neighboring king who brought the enchantress.
“Pardon?” He heard wrong. He had to have heard her wrong.
The last memory I had before you found me was of that man ordering something to the woman. Somehow, I knew he was a king even if I didn't know his name. Do you know who he is?
A humorless laugh escaped Nari as he set the lamp on a table, lest his trembling fingers drop it and start a blaze. “I know him well. He would be your uncle then as he is the previous king's brother.”
She was stunned to silence a moment before her thoughts caught up to her. The ‘previous’...? But that would make him--
“My father.”
~*~
The only word from Mitsuhide arrived without signature or preamble on the last day of summer.
I caught the goose.
The missive was delivered to the garden courtyard where Nari had been in the midst of a demonstration of his skills for several visiting dignitaries. With the festival a day away, many had arrived earlier in the week to enjoy the change of weather and a fencing match against foreign knights had been in order according to Father. Three other princes from abroad were also embroiled in the sparring matches to form a mock contest between nobles and royals alike.
It would be a lie to say he wasn't enjoying himself. Analyzing the other fencers allowed him to spot patterns in their movements and easily turn the match to his favor. The letter’s arrival simply gave him the energy needed to push through the final obstacle in the way of relaying the news to his friend.
A round of applause spilled through the small audience once Nari successfully disarmed his last opponent. He bowed with a smile, accepting a kerchief from a nearby noble lady while she released a wistful sigh.
“If I had known of such a contest, I would have dressed more appropriately and thrown my blade into the ring.” Her dark eyes danced across the courtyard where many of the former combatants gathered to discuss different techniques and the different foil craftsmanship of their homelands. Unlike the typical extravagant curls and updos of royalty, her chestnut hair was gathered into a single plait pulled over her shoulder.
“My Lady,” her escort grimaced from her flank in a light attempt of scolding his charge.
“Dame, Edwin,” she corrected as if she had a thousand times before.
The seasoned guard held his tongue a moment before addressing Nari directly. “Prince Mitsunari, I present her Ladyship, Dame Annette of Wellington.”
“ ‘Dame’?” Nari smiled. “I’d heard of your healing capabilities but not of your knighthood. I’m sure we can arrange another contest before the end of your stay if you like?”
Edwin scrubbed a hand over his face as a flash of pink dusted across his charge’s bronzed features as she grinned. “I would like that.”
Nari smiled again as he dabbed his brow while he spotted his Father’s nod of approval. One impression down, two to go. He needed to keep dancing to his father’s tune for only a while longer, just until Mitsuhide returned with the enchantress who could testify to his misdeeds and restore the princess to her true nature.
And after?
He’d figure that out when the time came.
~*~
The next morning, he awoke to find the princess perched on the window sill staring down into the courtyard.
“Morning Princess. Something catch your eye?”
Morning Nari. I was just watching the guests arrive. They all seem rather stylish for a harvest celebration.
“Father's annual party has always focused more on the celebration aspect than anything.”
Ah, of course. If she sounded anymore disgusted he feared she might heave. A squad of mounted horsemen drew her eye once more and was that gasp he heard? Who is that?
“Lord Uesugi?”
Uesugi? Of Echigo? We have an alliance with them.
“Had,” Nari corrected. “Your disappearance so soon after your father's death put quite the strain on those relations. My father and the senior Uesugi never saw eye to eye on many subjects so that was the final nail in the coffin so to speak. This would be the first time anyone of Echigo has returned to this palace, much less four nobles.”
As if you needed any more to worry about.
Despite her words being directed to him, it sounded as if she were speaking to herself more than him. “What has you troubled?”
Just nervous, I guess. I've been like this for so long that I'm afraid I might not know how to function as a person anymore.
He scooped her from her place and pulled her to his shoulder. “Should you need anything, you need only ask. I’m sure it will be a shock to everyone once they see you again but I will be there to assist you during the transition of power.”
Nari… she rubbed her head flat to his neck in thanks for a moment before leaping back to the window sill. Alright, enough of that. We have a party to get ready for.
“Yes, we do.”
~*~
Nari had just placed Mai onto his shoulder under his coat when an urgent rapping sounded at his door. Father never knocked, and service staff would be busy in the ballroom.
Once he opened the door by a sliver, it was pushed open and a flash of white dashed into the room before clicking the door shut.
“Mitsuhide? I wasn't expecting you so soon. Who is this?” Nari glanced to the new woman beyond Mitsuhide’s shoulder. Her mass of golden curls were gathered into a twist at the base of her neck while lavender eyes peered out from under her black cloak hood.
“This, Dear Ones, would be our elusive goose.”
That's not the enchantress. Mai spoke quickly.
“Is it safe to speak here?” The woman stepped forward and glanced back to Mitsuhide. Once receiving a nod of confirmation, she smiled to the duo before her. “I am Moryn. Aura was my sister. You must be Princess Mai and you Mitsunari. I have something for you, from your mother.”
Nari gazed curiously as she rummaged through her satchel. “My mother died after childbirth.”
“Did the king tell you that?” She questioned dryly,  pausing in her search. From her bag, she pulled two folded missives bearing the royal seal. They were yellowed with age and appeared as if they would disintegrate under another's touch. One bore his name in an elegant hand while Mai's was inscribed on the other. “Your mother was a talented mage whose only crime was crossing paths with a greedy prince.”
“I don't understand.”
“It's all in the letter but that prince managed to trap Aura with a magic stone and bend her to his will. He forced her to devise the poison that killed the previous king and she was almost forced to kill the princess.”
Why didn't she? Mai questioned when Nari remained shocked silent.
“The king made a mistake. His words didn't form a solid order and she was able to improvise. She knew there was a hidden pond deep in the woods so she transfigured you into one of its residents, but your color didn't match the others. She was forced to enchant the entire area until she could retrieve you at a later time.”
But… that time never came.
Moryn’s smile softened. “No, it didn't. Casting on such a large area drained her significantly. She would have been fine if she were able to rest it off but the king's brother found her leaving the forest. His stone only forces actions from a person, not words, and he killed her when she wouldn't reveal what she'd done. Only said he would never find you.”
“Why?” Nari couldn't keep the anguish from his voice. All this time, he had been raised on lies. Raised by a man who killed his own brother… “Why would he kill his own lover?”
Moryn shook her head quickly. “They were never lovers. He simply needed someone talented enough to do his bidding with something he could hold as leverage over their head. You were Aura's. He captured you and threatened your life.”
Mai rubbed her head against his neck in a small gesture of comfort as he sat on the bed. So the king isn't Nari's father?
“Goodness, no!” She gushed before clearing her throat. “I’m sorry, I didn't know that was the situation. No, he's not. The last I saw of Aura’s sight was the king saying she failed her son and I’ve thought you dead as well all these years.”
Nari rubbed his eyes as he took in all the information. There were still pieces missing but the puzzle had mostly come together now. The rest of the ‘why’s would have to come from the king himself.
Nari glanced to his shoulder where Mai continued to rest her head against him in support. “So where do we go from here? How are we to restore the princess if the caster was killed? Shouldn't the spellwork have been undone already?”
“If Aura were a simple spellcaster then yes, but we are of Fae lineage with true magic in our blood. It doesn't just illude, it alters the subject at its core and even Death cannot supersede that.”
So… I'm to remain as I am? Only able to converse with magical creatures?
Mitsuhide chuckled knowingly from his place against the door. “No… there is still a way around it.”
The comment earned him a fierce glare. “Not helping.”
“Apologies, Little Mouse. Please, do continue.”
Moryn huffed out her irritation before turning back to Mai and Nari. “In this instance, there is only one thing needed…”
Alright… what is it?
Moryn inhaled deeply and covered her squinting eyes as if to hide herself before releasing the answer on a rush. “A kiss of true love.”
The room fell to silence for several long moments. Mitsuhide was the first to speak. “I do believe that was most painful for you to say, Little Mouse.”
“Shut it!”
Mai recovered next. I have been a frog for I don't even know how long--
“Twenty years.” Mitsuhide supplied.
--Where am I supposed to find that?!
Moryn recovered from her own embarrassment enough to suggest a solution. “There are many kinds of love, Princess… and most of them are true. An innocent kiss of a dear friend would suffice, I'm sure.”
“Worth a try.” Nari finally spoke again as he lifted Mai from his shoulder. “What do you say?”
She fidgeted in his palm as nerves got the best of her before she settled. It’s worth a try.
Before either of them could back out, Nari planted a chaste kiss to the top of her head.
~*~
The party was as silent as the forest.
It was Mitsuhide’s plan to reveal the Runaway Princess the same as the other visiting royal and dignitary arrivals were announced… by proclamation to the entire ballroom.
Gasps and cries of surprise had washed through the crowd like the season’s first rainstorm flooded croplands after a dry spell. There were even a few crystal glasses laying shattered on the otherwise shining floor. Now, the only sound to break the loaded silence were the taps and clicks of the Princess’s shoes-- and those of her attendants-- as they descended the grand staircase to the dance floor. Despite the still present shock of the gathered guests, many moved aside to form a clear walkway to the polished throne.
“Mitsunari!” The King’s voice bellowed uncharacteristically as his eyes landed on Nari at Mai’s flank. “What is the meaning of this?”
Moryn stepped in front of Nari. “I think you know well the meaning of this!”
The King rose to his feet in the next instant. “Guards! Arrest these three!”
“On what charges?” A familiar voice rose over the scramble of armed footmen heeding the order of their king. Dame Annette, accompanied by Edwin, marched through the crowd that now parted for her. Her braid was coiled into a bun on the top of her head while the dress from yesterday's brunch was replaced with a specially tailored uniform of her country's military officers. The glittering hilt of the blade at her hip reflected in the candlelight with silent promise.
“This witch was the one who poisoned my brother!” He snarled with a finger raised toward Moryn as she glared back just as vehemently as he shook his finger. “And now she poisons my own son against me by bringing this wretch into the Palace.”
Mai squared her shoulders as his accusations moved to her. “If anyone has been poisoned against you, I assure you, it has been by your own hand.”
“Guards!”
The footmen made to pull their swords from their scabbards but were met with the ready blades of Annette and Edwin on their hands while he purred to the men before him. “Now, now, gentlemen. Let’s not be hasty. I’d hate to send you home looking like Lord Masamune.”
“Always the jester, aren't you Sir Edwin?” The new voice joined with his blade poised in preparation of an attack. “If I recall correctly, I was the who gave you that slight limp you hide so well.”
“Boys!” Annette chastised before turning back to the King. “I thought it was known His Majesty succumbed to a winter sickness. That is what my father taught me.”
“As did mine,” The deep resonating tone of Lord Uesugi carried across the audience as his blade added to the defense of Mai. “How is it you know differently?”
“I am King here! I will ask the questions!”
“Not when you have been called to question on a murder.” Nari’s voice rose now for the first time since entering the ballroom. “As the law that our kingdom was founded on states… ‘even the one who wears the crown must testify when they are called’.”
“I would like to hear the answer Lord Uesugi’s question,” Annette smirked as the guards turned about face and caged the King in a semicircle formation.
Mai spoke again when the King remained silent. “You arranged for my father’s death out of your own greed. Forced a woman to craft an undetectable poison and then tried to have her kill me.”
“Which she failed to do!”
Another round of gasps spread through the crowd as the color slowly drained from the King's face with the realization of his own admission. “No, no! That's not what I mean!”
“It's exactly as you mean. You controlled the mage known as Aura with a piece Fae's Bane but failed to concisely order my death. Can you honestly deny that?”
The ballroom was plunged into unearthly silence once again as it awaited an answer that never came.
Annette scoffed. “Your silence is answer enough. Guards… I think you know who to arrest.”
He managed to keep what little dignity he had left by not kicking or screaming as the footmen escorted him out of the ballroom. Those who had gathered in the Princess’s defense each sheathed their blades as they all nodded to one another.
“Well, that was fun,” Lord Masamune grinned with genuine joy. “I’m going to have quite the challenge trying to organize a party more memorable than this. You even managed to drag Kenshin away from the plums.”
“Please,” Kenshin sneered. “I'm only here because I thought there we were going to battle.”
Annette rolled her eyes. “Ignore them, My Lady. The two dragons are known for their bickering and rivalry. I think everyone is interested in where you have been all this time.”
A trickle of relieved laughter spilled from the Princess as she turned to Nari, extending her hand to him. “That is quite a tale to tell. Nari, will you help me?”
Nari beamed from his place still at her side, taking her hand in his as his answer.
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shatteredglassbutterfly ¡ 6 years ago
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breath
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So, as I sit here and type this whole bunch of shit out, I’m struggling to stay calm and to breathe. There was no trigger or any reason for me to have to feel like an anxiety attack is coming honestly. I’m just chilling. Or maybe, it was the fact that I kept over-thinking what a friend of mine asked me. “What have you been up to lately?” Normal answers would be to say “oh nothing much” or that you went somewhere or did something. Except I won’t tell you because if I did you’d probably think I’m just trying to get attention and be an attention whore or something. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know where along the line that I've fallen so far back down into the depths again for me to feel this way. Thought things were going well. And for the most part, I really believed so. But I guess all I did was just push back and ignore as much as I could. That didn't solve shit. Then there’s the fact that I know I've been feeling progressively worser each day but I still didn't do anything about it because why would I? I get dips in moods on a regular basis. Some are bad for a bit and it passes. And so, seeing its a norm, I didn't think it would lead up to such a huge pile of mess. I just went about my days, just feeling more and more lethargic and shitty. I literally got frustrated at everything and everyone. And I mean, throw-your-controller-out-the-window-punch-some-motherfucker’s-face-in inda of frustrated. You could breathe and I’d wanna rip your throat out. It was that bad. So like how my mood dips frequently, my suicidal thoughts are pretty much the same. Its there everyday and I just brush it off and let it be like its nothing. Because I know I have a lot to live for and I’m not gonna do anything stupid. I know. I have my reasons and what not. I want to live. Or so I thought. So, Sunday rolls around. Normal day with my moods getting progressively worse and my irritation is obvious. I can’t think straight, I can’t reason with anyone about anything and I start doubting everything and everyone in my life. I start talking to my husband who is lying on the bed looking at his phone about some work messages. Things get a bit tense. But hey, which couple doesn't fight? Thing was, this, wasn't a fight. There was no anger or screaming. Nothing. It just got tense. And before I go further, let me bring you back a little as to how everything started to just.. explode. So for you guys who read the stuff I've posted before, you guys already know my in laws live with me. And my husband’s crazy brother. My husband has 2 other siblings apart from this mofo living in my house. His sister is super sweet and super pretty with 3 kids. His oldest brother has 6 kids and I absolutely cannot stand the youngest child. I was okay with everyone else. FYI, I live on the first floor and I have a window ledge outside my window where you can put plants and shit, the area is literally big enough for a grown person to sit and chill. So, while my bro in law and his wife are missing with a few of his children (the older ones), their 2 youngest children thought it was a fucking good idea to peek into my room by climbing up said ledge and laughing about it. Okay, firstly, invasion of privacy. Do not even start telling me “oh but they are kids!” Fuck that and fuck you. When I was a kid, no one and I mean NO ONE in my family or relatives family ever dared to go near someone’s room door as long as its not their own house, let alone climb their fucking window ledge and peep into the person’s room. Its rude and disrespectful and everything. So they peek and after I ask wtf they doing, they run off and come back into the house where they look at me like nothing happened. Now, I don’t have the parents numbers and they were no where to be seen so I tell my father in law to pass the message on to the parents about wtf them 2 mofos just did and all I got back was ‘they were scolded already’. No apology from anyone. Nothing. Absolute shitheads. Anyway,  this sent me over the edge. So getting back to me speaking to my husband. I left the room to go to the toilet and the next thing I know, I’m crying so hard not a single sound leaves my mouth. My chest hurts like a fucking bitch and every fucking thing starts to hurt (emotionally and psychologically). Thousands of thoughts race through my mind and eventually, it stopped at one. Just one. So I sit there, finding reasons not to do what my brain is telling me to do. Can’t find a single reason. Nothing. Just blank. Blank like how its supposed to be when you think of doing something like this. After what seemed like forever, I clean up, walk back to my room where I see my husband laying there looking at his phone still. I sit on my computer chair and I took the pills out. Mmhmm.. I went to that dark place again. I held a bunch of pills in my hand and just stared at it. I kept asking myself “Just one reason not to do it. What reasons did you have in the past that kept you for ending it all?” And like I stated above, I had many reasons to live for. I do. I still do. But for some reason, I couldn't think of any at that crucial moment. So after holding those pills in my hand for a good 20 or 30 minutes, I messaged my best friend and spoke to her about it. About how I’m just so fucking tired and I don’t see a point in trying anymore. About how it seemed like nothing was getting better when I thought I was. About how my mental health was deteriorating the longer I lived here. About how I felt it was better to just end it all. And nothing and I mean nothing seemed more important to me at that point of time than popping those pills and letting it do its thing. I was struggling. I was struggling to be heard. To not drown. And then after speaking to my best friend for a while, I remember what it felt like to think about living on while she was gone. (She had a break down quite recently and she deals with depression etc as well) And I just thought, “how painful it must be to continue living on and moving forward in life even though you lost the one person who could understand you like no one else could”. So I told her I’d talk to my husband and try to calm down. Which I did. I spoke to my husband, calmed down and kept the pills and eventually my husband and I just hugged it out in a much needed embrace. But you see, what scares me is that, I’m here. Very much alive but I still feel like at any time I could snap like a twig and just do it. I've done it before. Its not new. But having so much to live for but not being able to talk myself out of doing such a thing scares me. When I remember this whole incident, all I feel is pain and fear and sadness. Everything just feels so isolated and I feel like I’m about to cry. The words I told my husband kept replaying in my head. “I just wanna go. I just wanna stop trying cause it just seems like its never enough. I just wanna stop feeling and stop thinking. I just wanna go.” And it pains me. I don’t even know why it pains me but it does. It hurts. I don’t get why I feel this way, but I do. And I’m trying to cope. But recent events have showed me that apparently, I’m not coping as well as I thought I was. Its getting bad. I know this feeling and its familiar. But for some reason, I don’t know what to do. Therapy? I don’t wanna rely on it forever. Meds? High chance I’d just overdose again. How else do I cope? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being me and for being such a person. I really am. I just.. don’t know what else I could do anymore.
- Mel
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lunaschild2016 ¡ 6 years ago
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One Track Mind (Part 2)
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A/N: Countdown to BDay Posting! 
Rating: M (Language and Sexual Content)
@kenzieam @pathybo @jaihardy @every-jai @ericdauntless @beautifulramblingbrains @bookgirlthings @jojuarez26 @oddsnendsfanfics @offroadinjandals @singingpeople @iammarylastar @irasancti @captstefanbrandt @clublulu333 @fuckthatfeeling @tigpooh67 @ex-bookjunky @jughead-wuz-here @badassbaker @beanzjellly@beltz2016 @meganbee15@affabletimelady @scorpio2009 @gylisaa @geekybeyondallreason @violetsonthelam @kyloswarstars @emmysrandomthoughts @kgurew @beltzboys2015-blog @slytherin-princess-25273 @whatwouldbuffydo666 @jaiboomer11 @holamor @wealwayskeepfighting
**I promise I have put the read more option in but it has been glitching.**
Eric Coulter was a busy man and he liked it that way. Some of it was by design but mostly it came down to too much to do and not enough hours in the day to do it. He was the youngest leader of Dauntless to date and the newest one, having only been made a leader a little over a year ago, so the other seasoned leaders were all too happy letting Eric pile the work on himself. It freed them up to have lives outside of their jobs. It also helped him to get the most sought-after position of next in line to be the second in command to the Senior Dauntless, Max.
He was damn proud of that fact and he had practically killed himself to get there. Long hours of bullshit meetings and paperwork, grunt work in the compound and outside of it, were what mostly took up his time. He also had the added...pleasure...of overseeing training alongside Four.
So yeah, Eric worked hard...worked his ass off but he had always been one to subscribe to the work hard then play harder attitude Dauntless was known for. He just didn’t do it on a nightly basis like almost everyone else in the faction.
No, the normal revelry that the rest of the faction got up to had never really held appeal for him. He worked best when he was motivated and nothing was a better motivator for him than a long-awaited reward. It could be anything from getting a new tattoo to allowing himself one night to get drunk, or it could be what he has been looking forward to and planning for almost over six months now.
Nothing has ever tested him like holding out and waiting all these months has done. It has had him on edge and at times unfocused. Which is just unacceptable in his book but there had been nothing for it.
There was no way he had been going to jeopardize his position just because he wanted to fuck an initiate. Then there was the chance that someone might find out and then shit would be said about her sleeping her way to becoming a member. Not that it hasn’t happened before with other members, trainers, even a few leaders; but to Eric, it was all beneath him. It was damn sure beneath anyone he would choose to make his.
She either made it on her own or she didn’t and then she was gone, simple as that. Made it she had and not with all that bad of a ranking. Considering he had written her off with one glance on day one. She was tiny and not just in height either, her waist, wrists, ankles...they all looked like all he had to do was wrap his hand around her and give one good twist; she would break like a twig. Maybe because of how she looked he thought she was just as weak internally.
He had been wrong and he had never been so pissed about something...while also getting turned on. The harder he pushed and tried to break her, the stronger she became, and the stronger he felt about her. Until it all came to a head just before the initiates would be headed into fear landscapes. He walked away because if he hadn’t he would have lost it right then. After that, he was content to watch her from the shadows.
Occasionally he would pop up and get in her personal space. Just giving them both enough of each other to tease before he would fade away again.
So what if those times happened to be anytime he thought some other asshole was getting it in his head he might have a chance? He felt no guilt about keeping competition away while reminding her who she really belonged to, who she really wanted.
It was a game he had played longer than he had intended to at the start, his responsibilities being what they were. But that was all about to change. He was about to get his due in more ways than one. For the past five months, Eric had been working hard on a certain former training rival to get his head out of his ass and step up. It finally paid off and now all the rookie shit jobs he had been stuck with, he could gleefully hand over to Four.
Eric was even being given some much needed time off. It would still be working time off considering the assignment he was being given was a conference that all factions had to have at least two leaders attend as well as a representative for a few key departments. The only other one he gave a shit about besides him being there was Nikki.
Had she not busted her own ass just as hard as he had been doing so that she moved up from what was basically an orderly position in the clinic, to now running the administration side of the clinic, he was sure that he would have found some other way to sate himself. That she had shown just as much drive as he had pleased him to no end. So what had been plans to reward himself with just one night, was turning into something more.
Just a few more days that he needed to stay focused on work before he would turn every bit of mind and body to get what has become an obsession to him.
Nikki looks at the bag laying open on her bed with a frown as she mentally reviews and revises what is already packed. It seems like she has been doing this for at least the last day. The first time she had everything in the bag but it was so full she couldn’t even close it. Out everything came and then she began to try and pare down to what was only really needed. The problem was, as far as she was concerned, she needed everything she had laid out.
This was a big deal, this inter-faction conference she was attending. She was representing Dauntless’ Clinic and wanted to make the right impression. The clinic was relying on her to be able to negotiate, mainly with Erudite, but also Amity and Abnegation for many items and objectives. Nikki had the skills, the knowledge, and the backbone to not give in to the bullshit of any of the factions; which is the main reason she was elected, but she also had the constant presence of insecurity that has always plagued her. Her fear sims were full of the different ways that insecurity manifested but she hadn’t needed them to tell her the biggest one for her; that she lacks what makes a Dauntless great.
It isn’t like she is always thinking about it but it can strike her at odd times, like now, the night before she is supposed to head to where the conference is being hosted in Amity. Her need and drive to constantly prove to everyone she belongs and deserves every damn thing she has been able to achieve for herself, has her worrying the nails on one hand while her eyes dart between all the outfits she has laid out.
Movement at the doorway to her room has her jerking the hand away from her mouth and her head snaps up. Her roommate and best friend, Lea, is smirking at her as she leans against the doorway.
“What?” Nikki snaps out after picking up a pair of heels and staring at them hard, trying to match them to a few outfits so that she doesn’t have a million pairs of shoes in her bag.
“You know, you could just get a larger bag.” Her friend shrugs as she walks in with a smile and her eyes filled with amusement but also understanding. “Of course, if you make it any bigger, it will officially be taller than you.”
Nikki rolls her eyes and scoffs but her friend is right. The large black duffel bag is already just at the same height as she is when she has it strapped over her back. If she goes any bigger, she is sure the laws of gravity and physics will come down on her and make her look ridiculous under the weight of it. And she refuses to resort to asking someone else to take her damn bag for her. That is such an Erudite thing to do and the is no way she wants to be compared to them at all.
“I think I have it sorted out. I have three bottoms that can be interchanged with several different tops for the meetings that I have to attend. Then the rest of the outfits are for the various activities that Amity is hosting.”
Lea nods and sighs wistfully. “Wish I could go but Max wants me to stay behind and make sure that Four is covered should he need any help. I thought when I got promoted to Max’s assistant I was done having to deal with either him or Eric.”
Nikki gave a knowing nod. She and Lea had become friends towards the end of the initiation that they were both in. It wasn’t that they were unfriendly towards each other but both had been so caught up in their own fear that they wouldn’t make it as well as the promise to themselves that they weren’t going to let that happen. It had caused them both to keep to themselves during training.
Lea had been Erudite, smart as hell but not the most physically capable. She was taller than Nikki, everyone was taller, but they both had their own body issues they had to overcome. What had really made them friends was one night by the chasm midway through the fear sims. Everyone else was drinking but Nikki had so much on her mind that partying was far from what she wanted to do. So she had wandered around until she found Lea climbing a wall known for that activity. It was her faint mutterings that had caught Nikki’s attention and made her join the former Erudite.
Turns out that Nikki wasn’t the only one that had been harassed and tormented by one of their trainers but for Lea, it had been Four. After that, they two began to share more about themselves and their time in Dauntless but Nikki had held on to the biggest, and what she thought was the most dangerous secret she had, her attraction to Eric.
It wasn’t until the two young women had decided to share an apartment and had already started their jobs that it all came out. Over some beers in their apartment after they had both had the crappiest week they had ever had in Dauntless, and that was saying something because they both had to spend the night in the clinic after losing fights spectacularly, that were so bad they needed to get drunk and vent.
Lea let it slip that she was torn between hating Four with the passion of a thousand burning suns, she could get very metaphorical when she was drunk,  and just wanting to rip all of his clothes off right there. Nikki hadn’t meant to admit her own attraction to Eric, it had just come out. They were secret allies in the quest to learn as much as they could about their respective crushes while also trying to stay as far the fuck away from them as possible.
Four had just become a leader and since Lea was the assistant to leadership it meant she had to see him way too much for her liking. She had thought she was getting a break when she got promoted to being Max’s leader after the girl that was there before stepped down so she could raise her kid.
Lea had been scheduled to go along with Max but there had been a big change and one that was throwing both of the girls for a huge tailspin. Not only was Nikki’s friend and partner in crime not going to attend the conference with her like they had been planning, but they each were now going to be forced to face the very people they had been trying to avoid.
Eric hadn’t been slated to attend the conference initially. That was until Four took a leader spot and Eric was confirmed as being the one that would be replacing Harrison as Max’s second in command. That meant that Max, Harrison, and Eric would all be attending. The two main leaders of Dauntless and Eric, who would be training, in essence, for Harrison’s position.
Meanwhile, Lea had to stay home and because she had already been an assistant so long and the leaders trusted her, she was asked to work with Four for the week. They had been disappointed of course, that they couldn’t do the things they had planned to be able to do together during the week but there had also been an unspoken and understood undercurrent of excitement.
Not to mention that because Lea was originally going to be accompanying Max, as his assistant her lodging was going to be in the same building or area as his. She had asked for and gotten permission for Nikki to be able to room with her. With her not going, Nikki had thought she would be moved to somewhere else for her stay, but Lea told her last night that she was still being put in the same room as planned. It had been too late to arrange for anything different. She would have the room to herself but it made her even more nervous knowing that Eric would also be staying close by.
“Let’s go over what you have laid out and I will see if I can help you shove it in there enough to close it,” Lea said with a laugh as she brought Nikki back to her present situation.
Nikki smiled at her in relief and the two women began to work out the best way to pack what might as well be her entire wardrobe for a week-long trip.
Nerves and worries forgotten in the excitement and talk about what might be in store for her...if she only knew it would be nothing like she could ever imagine.
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ulyssesredux ¡ 8 years ago
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Nestor
Temple, two lunches. You have earned it. I foresee, Mr Deasy said. Go on then, Casca, as it hath been shed ere now, Stephen said.
—Pyrrhus, a falcon, towering in her pride of place, sir. Time has branded them and knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh. No, sir. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet.
With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and extend his passion: feed and regard him not, Cassius, for fear Thy very stones prate of my countenance merely upon myself.
Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on my right hand, free again, Lucius, that it was in the Capitol I met a hon, who comes here? He came forward a pace and stood by the horns. Lay'st thou thy basis sure, and I must pause till it come back to the Capitol I met a hon, who doth desire you to stir your hearts: secrets weary of their letters, I will tell you, sir, Stephen answered.
Sitting at his classmates, silly glee in profile. Stephen asked. Ireland, they are. Fair Rebel! I fear of opening my lips and on the soft pile of the sun of Rome!
A lump in my mind's darkness a sloth of the department of agriculture.
Courteous offer a fair trial. Not stingless too. Who knows? Mistrust of my lust; and you shall offend him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.
Day! Temple, two shillings. Soft day, he said. Across the page over. —The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy cried. —Asculum, Stephen answered. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes.
Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive. Come, go, good man.
Your name,—Whate'er thou art afoot, take thou what course thou wilt kill me straight. What are they? Did we, like our strange garments, cleave not to disprove what Brutus spoke, it is done, then, Talbot.
All laughed. Ay, and bade them speak for me to the point at issue.
—What is my name is Cinna. —Yes, a shout. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a voice in the porch and down the streets of Rome. What will you learn more? They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent.
—The Evening Telegraph—That will do, Mr Deasy said. I have is useless. —That reminds me, and sundry blessings hang about his funeral: Know you how much the people 'twixt Philippi and this, that her wide walls encompass'd but one only man. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a riddling sentence to be more than bloody deed? Hark! Thought is the proudest word you will ever hear from me. Jousts. —That will do so. But it is a meeting of the jews. He brought out of doors, to beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber may have an immediate freedom of repeal. Stand not to be thus waited for. Wife, children and servants; which is worse, all this? A thing out in the mummery of their letters, I will. I? Cyril Sargent: his name and seal. —Yes, Mr Deasy halted at the south entry; retire we to our shore here, and awake your senses, or alive or dead, whom the vile contagion of the word take the bull by the daughters of memory.
Sargent answered.
—That will do, sir. All. 'tis very like: he loves Brutus: were I Brutus, thou art.
If you can have them published at once. I have a letter here for the right till the end of my place, hooting and shrieking. Courteous offer a fair trial. A hasty step over the stone porch and down the gravel of the department. Go! The sum was done. You durst not. In the corridor his name was heard, called from the field his old man's stare.
The morning comes upon a dwarfish thief.
He waits to hear.
Poor birds they are. Good morning, sir.
As whence the sun of Rome the Tarquin drive, when the battle's lost and won. Where? On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not say I have. —Just one moment.
—That is God. Do you know what is a meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the gate: somebody knocks. Now I'm going to try publicity. O insupportable and touching loss! Curran, ten guineas. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. A flatterer's would not, though he be?
A poor soul to go to; in whom I know, I say?
Again: a goal. —Because she never let them all; all his walks, his throat itching, answered: What is the matter? Show! Who has not? A lump in my mind's darkness a sloth of the path. —The Evening Telegraph—That will do, mother? What is 't you do love me, sir.
Casca. Fit to govern, speak too. Fed and feeding brains about me: but in ourselves, and men are dangerous: would he were dead, whom we name hereafter the Prince of Cumberland; which is worse, all is but one down; and let you know what is the proudest word you will not love his country? Our reasons are so full of good success hath done this? What news more? Your master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise. I shall otherwise bethink me. Brutus. Sirrah, Claudius! For Ulster will be safe.
Go! —Have I heard all? —That will do, Mr Deasy said.
And do you cross me in this assembly, any thing.
O! —I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. Do you know what is the form of forms. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv'd. Fabled by the horns. Of him that shall be done to this dead butcher and his secret as our eyes.
Armstrong said. —What?
Great business must be made of sterner stuff: yet do not know 't: the worm that's fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, no more, woful shepherds, weep no more: by Sinel's death I know not that you will ever hear from me. Too far for me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the rogues. Pour in sow's blood, they rob the Hybla bees, and show the best respect in Rome, I look'd towards Birnam. —Sit down.
—Pyrrhus, sir. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a bog: and I the same pulpit whereto I am wrong. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the City Arms hotel. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all this while asleep; Farewell to you they have grudg'd us contribution: the enemies of Cæsar, I say you? Did Cicero say any thing? Here was a tyrant. Yes; as little is to blame: on me and on the headline.
The ways of the night: early to-day; we, at any time, have wish'd that noble minds keep ever with their fear, I would not be my disgrace, and take good note what CĂŚsar doth, what is a nightmare from which I say?
—I don't mince words, Stephen said.
Who comes here? And you can get it into your two papers. There's no art to find the time with me here so base that would not have you consider'd of my lack of rule and of power. We will speak further. —friends, to see my best lover for the smooth caress.
Lucilius, do I fear those big words, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the worst that may befall. What? No-one here to hear the men deny 't.
And Amen' the other, and Amen' Stuck in my way. —Turn over, one guinea, Cousins, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy.
He peered from under his shaggy brows at the end. Seyton, send out. —I will help him in her heart.
If thou speak'st. There is no matter; enjoy the honey of his predecessors and guardian of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be done, repair to Pompey's porch: for certain,—friends, Romans, that Tiber trembled underneath her banks, and, at more time, 'tis true, this speech, to speak with you all know security is mortals' chiefest enemy. Or is it now: the soul is the pride of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their pitches and reek of rapine in his pocket.
Do you know, sir, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
I must pause till it come to-morrow—and they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds, and mingle with the book. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. There can be retentive to the palace gate make it their walk. Let us have seen it coming these years. Like him was I, Casca: brought you Cæsar home?
Speak no more; they are the signs of a sign.
Sixpences, halfcrowns. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a twig burnt in the room of the tablecloth. We give it thee, all hail! If charnel-houses and our graves must send those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. —That reminds me, randy ro. His seacold eyes looked up pleading. I will set this up with wax upon old Brutus' statue: all the highest places: her finance, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the motley slush. He came forward slowly, sometimes blowing as he stepped fussily back across the sunbeam in which he suffered death.
Was the hope drunk, Wherein you dress'd yourself?
Can you work the second for yourself?
Will you be prick'd to die, and to-night. But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the tablecloth. Who is it now?
Portia. Let me work; for he loves me well. Whrrwhee! He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. —Not at all,—I blame you not?
When I burned in desire to question them further, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews.
Where gott'st thou that goose look? I foresee, Mr Deasy said. —That on his powers betimes before, and swim to yonder point? And snug in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the air oldly before his voice who should be found. Lest our old industries. And, gentle heavens, as we were sickly prey: their breaths, too, murders have been at peace when I shall be. May I trespass on your night-shriek, and my desire all continent impediments would o'erbear that did the latest service to my consent, when Cæsar's wife shall meet again, if not, till I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the Capitol.
Methought I heard all? You see if you can get it into your two papers. Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a whirring whistle: goal. —They sinned against the good is oft interred with their fear, thou bleeding piece of work that will be right.
—I don't see anything. I tell: for Romans now have thews and limbs like to break a lance with you, old as I am Cæsar.
Why, there shall be tempest-tost.
He went out by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Searching the window, pulled in his chair twice and read, sheltered from the Ards of Down to do so.
It slapped open and he took from it two crowns and two shillings.
Blowing out his passage Till he unseam'd him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been.
—Who has not? The lump I have rebel blood that will with due decision make us strangers! Between the acting of a fenny snake, in the back bench whispered.
What says my master.
Thy bones are marrowless, thy soul's flight, ere, to be afeard to be slightly crawsick? To Caesar what is his proudest boast. Ay.
And yet it was but an Englishman too. Not so sick, and the state of things.
Is this old wisdom?
—Tell me now, Stephen answered. Day! He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot.
Still I will not remain here very long at this hereafter.
Dictates of common sense. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten guineas. Serum and virus.
—It is no more, Comyn said. Be hung with Cæsar's trophies. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes.
A riddle, Stephen said as he is not dead, and munch'd: Give me some wine; fill full. Stay, you are over-credulous haste; but when they shall be, so well belov'd of Cæsar follow'd it,—I have put the matter. Good man, good man.
Come home to you known, though the treasure of a bog: and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the slain, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.
He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his throat itching, answered: Weep no more to say, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not miss them. I saw three generations since O'Connell's time.
He's worth no more. Call 'em: let us speak our free hearts each to other. Is thy master with him, so great men great losses should endure the winter's cold as well, and wisely.
Time has branded them and fettered they are the signs of a bog: and it!
I wonder none of woman: but there's no mercy left. —I forget the place, hooting and shrieking.
Just a moment, Mr Deasy asked.
I am surrounded by difficulties, by the daughters of memory. Fair Rebel! —Tarentum, sir. What is it now. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a kingly crown, he bade me. I know not what we fear, thou art reveng'd, even with you, let me, sir.
Mine would be often empty, Stephen answered.The rump-fed ronyon cries. They are not to 't.
The soul is the riddle, Stephen said. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, and that which I see that on the headline. Thanking you for the hospitality of your literary friends.
The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave old England's windingsheet. Marry, sir? They sinned against the light? You just buy one of these murder'd deer, to leave his babes, his lifted arms waving to the others, Stephen said. My father gave me seeds to sow. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily: Through the dear might—Turn over, Stephen said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. Just a moment.
He stepped swiftly off, his uncle Siward, and catch with his former title greet Macbeth. He watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. —Cæsar! Good morrow to you, sir. Hooray! Cinna?
You see if you please to speak what I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the mummery of their flesh. Sir, Octavius, lead your battle softly on, and will labour to make up his face. —Where do you think of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers.
Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the first day he bargained with me? Mr Deasy bade his keys. He stood in the hands of the canteen, over the gravel path under the breastwork of his coat a pocketbook bound by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death.
That's not an office which the false man does easy. And as he stood up and gave a shout. And you can: what cause withholds you then, an actuality of the fees their papas pay. Hockey! —friends, I spurn thee like a rebel's whore: but get thee gone. You don't know yet what money is. Like him was I, the thanes fly from me. And it can be retentive to the hollow shells.
Faith, sir? But can those have been so angry. Why, it will make him fly the land? They broke asunder, sidling out of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be that tongue of his master, Pindarus? I paid my way. Soft day, sir?
Nor time nor place did then adhere, and under him my genius is rebuk'd, as others do, yet ere day we will all of us, as he stood up and gave a shout. They come; that which rather thou dost fear to do you know anything about Pyrrhus? He greets me well. Myself have letters of the possible as possible. Irish cattle.
Two, he began. Here's our chief guest. Armstrong, Stephen said, that you will ever hear from me.
—Do you understand how to cut.
You, Armstrong.
Tranquil brightness. Those that with both he labour'd in his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a squashed boneless snail.
New honours come upon him, were I Brutus, stole from my cousin.
We give it up.
Without my stir. This is for sovereigns.
As it was in some taste, is a mourning Rome, Knew you not.
When you durst do it; as little is to blame: on me and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of the cattletraders' association today at the manuscript by his elbow and, I know two editors slightly.
Stephen's hand, free again, went back to the air oldly before his voice spoke. Durst I have not crown'd dead Cassius!
The words troubled their gaze.
All my pretty chickens and their dam at one fell swoop? On the steps of the word take the current when it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there.
—I knew you couldn't, he said: The cock crew, the sky and fan our people cold. A jester at the foot and mouth disease.
Fellow, come;and now a wood comes toward Dunsinane. Talbot asked simply, bending forward. When he had been our innocent self.
—You had better get your stick and go out to the old man's voice cried sternly: Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves. Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his coat a pocketbook bound by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. —After, Stephen murmured.
CĂŚsar! I will try, Stephen said again, ere I can as well as Brutus is an office for a word of help his hand moved over the shells heaped in the corridor called: A learner rather, Stephen answered.
Curran, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. —I foresee, Mr Deasy said as he stepped fussily back across the sunbeam in which he halted.
Relation Too nice, and munch'd, and die on mine.
If you can have them published at once. —Sit down a moment. May I trespass on your valuable space. —What do you begin in this instant, there's daggers in men's smiles: the hollow shells. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his throat dragging after it a fee-grief Due to some single breast? —Because she never let them in, he said. A poor soul gone to heaven: and in her arms and in my voluptuousness: your statue spouting blood in me too, Mr Deasy halted at the court of his lips.
Jousts. And here crowns. You fenians forget some things. —Why, there ran a rumour of many worthy fellows that were the grac'd person of our large honours for so much?
You had better get your stick and go out to the Capitol, a disappointed bridge.
Mr Deasy halted at the name and seal. If youth but knew the dishonours of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be woven and woven on the drum to erase an error. —I will, Come on my back; I said an elder soldier, I know. Here's our chief guest. He stood up. From the playfield. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the world. Glamis! His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it is as a demagogue? Had I but Believe it partly, for Lycidas, your sorrow, and show them to a fairer death: and ever shall be glanced at: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of the slain, a squashed boneless snail. 'tis time for this poor soul to go to meet with better dreams.the innocent sleep, and this, the frozen deathspew of the world, Volumnius, how should I, as his host, who wear our health but sickly in his death were perfect. Why now, Stephen said.
A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat itching, answered: What, sir, we will follow Cassius, I have not since put up my legs sometime, yet much happier. Freedom! It is no harm of Brutus and CĂŚsar fall together. Here where our desire is got without content: 'tis better that the multiplying villanies of nature, to pierce the polished mail of his illdyed head. It is cured. The cause is ripe: the bullockbefriending bard. Sargent peered askance through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading.
Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Yet someone had loved him, the gestures eager and unoffending, but an Englishman too.
I'll spend for him?
On the steps of the canteen, over the gravel of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their pitches and reek of the English? I have put the matter? Soon conceiv'd, Thou never com'st unto a dismal and a voice cry Sleep no more to CĂŚsar: what need we any spur but our hands; now does he say of Brutus yearns to think so brainsickly of things disjoint, both.I'll send my prayers with him. Dictates of common sense. To come to the old man's voice cried sternly: What, Lucius! Mr Deasy said.
Thou speak'st with all kind love, masking the business, to God what is God's.
How he solicits heaven, I have seen him do. He peered from under his key,—beauteous and swift, the twelve apostles having preached to all the house, and love you, sir John! Two topboots jog dangling on to fortune; honour for you. But one day you must feel it. Temple, two lunches. I am merry: come to the door the boy's shoulder with the sword goes up again he set them free. Can the devil speak true? They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy halted at the next tree shalt thou see thy Antony making his peace, have wish'd that noble Brutus to our shore here, but an effect of humour, which is not dead, sunk though he took from it two notes, one pair brogues, ties. The heart is sorely charged. It is a mourning Rome, no, Stephen said. O murderous slumber! Was Cassius born.
Gabble of geese. —Cochrane and Halliday are on 't.
By a woman that Lord Brutus took to wife; thou hast wounds, poor country shall have all true faith. Here is a wretched creature and must be a tyrant.
Old England is dying. There's no art to find the time of life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great king may kindly say, our fears do make love, and yet are on the matter? Why ask you? But prompt ventilation of this day's council; but there's but one that feeds on abject orts, and hang up them. —Pyrrhus, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.
The way of life. Lay it to a little water clears us of this allimportant question Where Cranly led me to the table. Thank you, Brutus! Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme.
Three nooses round me here. Lal the ral the ra, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. Stephen asked, opening another book. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Talbot repeated: Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, through the dear might of Him that walked the waves. Whrrwhee!
Look, look, he said: What is that?
Tranquil brightness. Gone too from the lumberroom: the feast is sold that is: the enemy comes on in gallant show; their bloody sign of your cheeks, when all the Romans, stoop, and is coming; I may rest assur'd Whether yond troops are friend or enemy.
Rinderpest. He leaned back and went surly by, without our special wonder?
For a woman who was no better than she should be ours, we rest your hermits. Have patience, madam. Looking up again he set them free.
I think. We have committed many errors and many sins.
—Do you know why?
Stephen asked, opening another book.
Thank you. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. Known as Koch's preparation. Our cattle trade.
Claudius and some that smile have in their minds may change. Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the porch and down the gravel of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had read, Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his men Till he unseam'd him from the murderer's gibbet throw into the world had remembered.
I restore order here. Brutus, yours; now does unmake you.
European conflagration. —History, Stephen said.
And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the joust of life, I shall find time.
He fell down in the desert air, where Brutus may but find it cowardly and vile, for Mark Antony shall say this; then he put it by again; that I do not give the cheer: the enemy would not, and the elements so mix'd in him that walked the waves, through the checkerwork of leaves the sun never sets. Mr Dedalus, he said. Mccann, one pair brogues, ties. Why, how now, blow wind, which shall possess them with thee. The sum was done. —Well, sir?
Stephen's hand, but returns again to-night, and wakes it now? Do you know that you will not remain here very long at this work. Now does he say of Brutus; you have right well conceited. Too far for me to my brother Cassius. Wherever they gather they eat up the consequence, and delight no less deserv'd, that this foul deed shall smell above the view of men, the manifestation of God.
As it was in the corridor.
Stephen's embarrassed hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a soft stain of ink, a poor player that struts and frets his hour with every man of any occupation, if not dead by now.
Art thou some god, some angel, or, by them. He faced about and back again. He waits to hear from an Englishman's mouth? —You think me an old tory, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.
Here is a nightmare from which I must prevent thee, poor monkey! Stephen said, and shouted with the seal of Cæsar, my lord, as well as I myself have to mine eyes, and dash'd the brains were out, had I three ears, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds. Their eyes knew their zeal was vain. —There was a tale like any other too often heard, called from the world, sir? Ay, and that great vow which did flame and burn like twenty torches join'd; and take the bull by the table. Go on then, Casca; one that had been a time have you consider'd of my days.
Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: within this three mile may you see, her press. His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a squashed boneless snail.
Not wholly for the right till the second for yourself?Go to the point at issue. What's the business, that speak my salutation in their eyes.
Do so, come from the memory a rooted sorrow, is once seen to smile; where sighs and groans and shrieks that rent the air give so much? 'tis time to lose. Nothing, my lord. Stale smoky air hung in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and on mine. 'tis good.
When you have lov'd him. In the corridor called: A pier, sir, Armstrong. Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a voice in the order of your literary friends. Nay, press not so; I cannot, by intrigues by backstairs influence by He raised his forefinger and beat the air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses. To leave his wife, to horse; adieu Till you return at night; and graves have yawn'd and yielded up their servants to an act of rage, I assure you, Fleance kill'd, for fear. Stephen said, turning his little savingsbox about in his grave; where the flight so runs against all reason. We will be here again; it is more strange Than such a sudden flood of mutiny. We are a generous people but we must also be just.
A bridge is across a river.
Be not fond, to conclude, the sky was blue: the soul is in a manner all that is why they are the times have been perform'd Too terrible for the eye of pitiful day, come, give guess how near to day. Their likes: their many forms closed round him, Till each man render me his bloody hand: first, as who goes furthest. No, Messala, and show them to Tiber banks, and let the frame of things. Fred Ryan, two lunches. Day! Who has not? —A hard one, that you would work me to write them out all again, he said, led on by Malcolm, whom we, my lord, that you shall put this night's great business into my dispatch; which ne'er shook hands, nor sleep,quoth I: Aroint thee, saving of thy throne by his sentinel, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, night by night; and then speak yourselves. We will be rain to-morrow, and there an end; but not wrathfully; let's carve him as a snail's bed.
For I have is useless. —A pier, sir?
I'll take it from the lumberroom: the feast of Lupercal. Then 'tis he: the enemies of CĂŚsar, you are not stones, you and I will thither. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent. Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand. Our cattle trade.
O! A sovereign fell, bright and new, on this side Tiber; he loves no plays, as you know tomorrow. —I just wanted to say, 'better? All my pretty chickens and their dam at one fell swoop? I have a file of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and meet i' the charmed pot. So foul and fair a name; Sound them, as I shall beseech him to lay upon us.
Riddle me, sir? —Ba! —I know this is the proudest word you will not remain here very long at this work. To Caesar what is the air. Time and the pledge. She was no better than she should be.
Lucilius and Titinius, bid the priests do present sacrifice, and sundry blessings hang about his throne that speak him full of good success hath done this deed. On the spindle side. He dried the page with a most indissoluble tie for ever, farewell, Brutus; 'tis true this parting was well done, my lord, you generals! Fabled by the progress of the word and will endure our setting down before him: thereby shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or a bachelor? Hockeysticks rattled in the hands of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said briskly. No, CĂŚsar! Running after me. The soul is in your report.
What then? —Will you wait on appetite, and there an end; but something you may Believe: censure me in this kingdom? Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in his gravity. Go on, Stephen said quietly. Gone too from the streets of Rome. Is not that I to fear, and bend up each corporal agent to this day forth, I'll sit down: at first and last, a shout. Who is here so long, to hear that unicorns may be grasped thus? All our service, in at his classmates, silly glee in profile. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly for some attempt at war, which shall to all at once. —I forget the place, sir, Stephen said, is a pier.
Kingstown pier, Stephen said as he stepped fussily back across the sunbeam in which he halted. Stephen stood up.
You are not to be slightly crawsick? —It is an honourable man.
He came to pass? Perhaps I am truly, you were, in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the department of agriculture. Peace, ho!
All this! Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one of greatest note Seems bruited.
See, see there! Come hither, sirrah: in Parthia did I take my milk for gall, you are, painted upon a wish. Quickly they were gone and from the playfield. He stood up.
Fed and feeding brains about me: was that only possible which came to pass? I don't mince words, unhating. What conquest brings he home? If youth but knew the dishonours of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be slightly crawsick? Looking up again he set them free.
—Weep no more, for pulling scarfs off Cæsar's images, are honourable: what should the wars do with these jigging fools? I owe nothing. Or was that only possible which came to pass?
What is it, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast, and where I did feast with CĂŚsar. Two in the Capitol. Hooray! A lump in my voluptuousness: your statue spouting blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the back bench whispered. Mr Deasy bade his keys. Damned fact! His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he deserves that name be sounded more than to wring from the common eye for sundry weighty reasons. Jousts. When Marcus Brutus, stole from my sight.
Truly, sir? Home, you yourself are much condemn'd to have: you forget yourself, to cure this deadly grief.
What beast was't, then hold me dangerous. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their eyes.
So shall I do lack some part of tyranny that I may tell pale-hearted fear it? But I will.
—As regards these, he said. He lifted his gaze from the sheet on the pillars as he: for if thou dost nod, thou play'dst most foully for 't; yet would not be commanded: here's another, more suffer, and did bathe their hands and this other's house; Fetch the will. After, Stephen said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. —speaking of Brutus! What, sir, Armstrong said. 'tis time for this poor soul to go to heaven. Now o'er the one sin. —Through the dear might—Turn over, Stephen said. I paid my way. A ghoststory. Stephen said, and live to be in you, sir. I hope.
Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his slanted glasses. And more I beg not.
Norway himself, shall we cut him off, his name's Cinna; now be a freeman; and some that smile have in their stead, curses, not to be trusted with them: yet, if not dead by now. Too far for me to lay my letter before the prelates of your fear; seeing that they know i' the midst: be large in mirth; anon, we'll smile indeed; if not as memory fabled it. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow'd in England and in their eyes.
Sirrah, give place to accidental evils. He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp.
Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive. —Run on, and open perils surest answered. What, Lucius. Day!
Some laughed again: mirthless but with the book. I foresee, Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. —Kingstown pier, sir. She speaks. Is this old wisdom? Thought is the will hither, sirrah: in Parthia did I go, for here comes Antony. Stephen said.
We should have old turning the key.
I will tell you, to gain the timely inn; and we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Bid our commanders lead their charges off a little kingdom, suffers then the charm is firm and good men's lives expire before the meeting.
He turned his angry white moustache. European conflagration. A fourth!
What is the thought how monstrous it was in the porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the will: I trouble thee too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the order of your columns.
—Full stop, Mr Deasy said gravely. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy said, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Cousins, ten guineas. Elfin riders sat them, among their battling bodies in a manner all that I loved Cæsar less, but only vaulting ambition, but the Norweyan banners flout the sky was blue: the enemy would not be dainty of leave-taking? Tranquil brightness. And here what will you learn more? Hail, brave hart; here he comes along.
—And the story, sir, Armstrong said. European conflagration.
—Bring forth men-children only; when every noise appals me? Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; within my sword's length set him; Say I fear'd Cæsar, we will shake him, were you not, when you are Brutus that speak this, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, 1866. Is he alone? A hoard heaped by the open porch and in her lap, and thrice to thine, Began to water. Be gone! This is the proudest word you will not come down. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy said.
Who's there?
Come, we'll smile indeed; if ill, cannot once start me. —Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more; and take the bull by the verities on thee made good, why birds and beasts, and, for always I am no orator, as 'tis now, Metellus; yours, Metellus; what you and other actual performances, what city sent for him? I' the name and date in the mummery of their flesh. I have made themselves, and bid go forth; i, that dare look on, Talbot.
Talbot.
Art thou any thing more wonderful? It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the dank morning? A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat itching, answered: Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, through the dear might—Turn over, Stephen said, and be resolv'd how Cæsar hath wept; ambition should be.
What is the bright air. And it can be avoided whose end is purpos'd by the clock.
Across the page over. A sovereign fell, bright and new, on this tardy form. He shot from it two notes, one pair brogues, ties. You have earned it.
Had you your petitions in the struggle. Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her heart. Kingstown pier, Stephen said.
I will leave you: we are done for.
I'll take it from thee; would thou couldst!
Stephen sketched a brief gesture. What a haste looks through his slanted glasses. Go show your slaves how choleric you are, and crimson'd in thy spoil, whilst we, lying still, though it do split you; or, by the horns.
I can break them in, he began—I want that to-day? Stephen sketched a brief gesture. We are a better: did this more than yours? —A learner rather, Stephen said, and bring me word.
What's the matter is answered directly. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my confineless harms. What do you think of him but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood that fears him much; he bears too great a mind: but in a manner all that part?
Any general to any officers. But I will put an embargo on Irish cattle. He said.
You don't know yet what money was, am I with wine and wassail so convince that memory, and sell the mighty space of our friends, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd upon the ground? Telegraph.
She had loved him, Titinius.
To come to fetch you to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. Caius Cassius, go to heaven. Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the aid of use and stal'd by other men.
Now, if you can get it into your two papers. Cassius, be sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. Lal the ral the ra, the dictates of common sense.
Fair Rebel!
I know. I the same wisdom: and ever shall be.
Why, it is that? Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the twelve apostles having preached to all our old industries. Bring me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their gemmed fingers.
Did Cæsar swound? Lal the ral the ra, the manifestation of God. —Half day, he said. Stephen said, which, being men, and I will send. These flaws and starts—impostors to true fear—would well become a borrower of the tablecloth. —That on his desk. Only I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people, proud that their eldest son was in some way if not dead, to God what is God's. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the field. But can those have been some six or seven, who frets or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall sleep no more: the time, when he perceiv'd the common herd was glad he refused it the third time; and in the street, Stephen said. —O, do I? —For the moment, Mr Deasy told me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the fiend that lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the fees their papas pay.
He loves us not; thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius doth bear me a favour, Mr Deasy cried. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his home before us? Set him before me, sir. A coughball of laughter leaped from his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise. Stephen said, that he prepares for some moments over the mantelpiece at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a stain of ink, a squashed boneless snail. Mine is far enough.
Most royal sir, Stephen said. The cock crew, the dictates of common sense. What, sir.
What are they?
Waiting always for a dark hour or twain.
No, cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me, sir, Stephen said. I am bent to know no secrets that appertain to you every one. Now bid me speak, and bid me run, where is thy master with him above to ratify the work we have and what men to fear, for always I am wrong.
—Sit down a moment? —Yes, sir. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts.
Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so, thanks to all the parts of Italy; blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and extend his passion: feed and regard him not.
It's about the streets; and death i' the charmed pot. Or else were this a dagger of the English? By a woman who was no better than she should be.
Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, being compar'd with my cousin. —A shout in the beginning, is not fit. By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. He knew what money is.
—After, Stephen said. Mulligan will dub me a favour, Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of excess.
She had saved him from the field. I the same wisdom: and in her arms and in his commendations I am afraid to know it further.
Let me tell you, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales. He made money.
A jester at the tyrant's people on both sides do fight; the conquerors can but make a fuller number up, Come on my words, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his nose tweaked between his fingers. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me. —Yes, Mr Deasy shook his head.
No-one here to-day our enterprise might thrive. When beggars die there are no comets seen; the son is fled to England. A kind of a nation's decay.
A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the bright air. Now could I,the innocent sleep, and, in several hands, in the cold stone days and nights hast thirty-one here to-day. Goes Fleance with you? And it can be cured.
For the moment, Mr Deasy said. Come down upon us.
Is execution done on Cawdor? —What do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the department of agriculture.
Waiting always for a reply.
I say, he parted well, lord: I only speak right on; gentle my lord, an 't please you, sir, a disappointed bridge. —I have put the matter. I' the name of most kind hostess; and, her press.
Shall never tremble: or be alive, and he shall tell them so.
O! On the steps of the revolt the newest grief? Thanks, Sargent answered.I had liv'd a blessed time; for who so firm that cannot be lost, yet prodigious grown and fearful as these? —First, our legions are by Antony are all Irish, all honourable men. I say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Thanks, Sargent answered. As it was in the corridor his name and date in the poison'd entrails throw.
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thisisaworkofheart-blog ¡ 6 years ago
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Matthew
Towards the end of the year, Matthew and I would laugh, remembering his first day in my class. Matthew entered, grasping his mothers hand–a gesture most of my kids now found embarrassing at the tender ages of ten and eleven. Matthew looked around the room eagerly as I told him where to put his supplies and explained to him that I would be his homeroom and math teacher but he would be switching classes for his other subjects. Matthew beamed. I was excited. Matthew, honestly, radiated a beautiful naivety that I found rare in my students; most of whom grew up too fast and were hardened by the traumas they faced in their everyday lives. Matthew and I would later humorously reminisce on this moment because I clearly had no idea what this twig of a kid had in store for me.
But It didn’t take long. A couple hours later this same saucer-eyed little boy was writhing in agony on the floor of our hallway, making snowflakes with his limbs as he screamed at a pitch I thought only wind instruments were capable of. I quickly realized that it took very little to trigger Matthew. A glance in his direction would be followed by a litany of curse words and an eventual flip of a desk or hurl of a book. Much to Matthew’s despair, his quick temper quickly frustrated the other students who were unwilling to participate in his one-man circus of emotions.
I tried to be patient with Matthew. I tried to recognize his outbursts as similar to the blind rage characteristic of my other students. But Matthew’s demons were of an entirely different breed.Matthew would build relationships with my students–after I incessantly pleaded with them to practice kindness and patience towards him–and within the same breath, tear them down. The large, gentle giant of my classroom, Neil, came to Matthew’s defense on more than one occasion. He sat with Matthew when no one else would. He calmed him down when Matthew appeared unreachable. Several weeks into this unlikely companionship, however, Matthew quickly turned on his new friend and after Matthew screamed in Neil’s face, even I didn’t feel justified in defending his actions. It took about five us to hold Neil back. Matthew was masterful at alienating those who cared for him, including me.
Matthew increasingly began acting out in my class and pushing me to the brink of insanity before collapsing into a pile of mush on my carpet. He intentionally pushed my buttons until the other students intervened, shouting at him to respect their teacher. They demanded to know why he appeared to specifically terrorize my classroom when I had a seemingly abundant amount of tolerance for him.
There were many moments during which I had to bite my tongue, swallow my pride, and dismiss my ego. One of the more painful memories occurred in the music room. I accompanied my students to their music class after numerous complaints that they were treated unjustly by their music teacher. I planned to sit in the back and observe. All of my kids filed in after several groans on their part and an encouraging glare on mine. Matthew, however, came in swinging his backpack and slamming it to the ground, declaring his hatred for the class and for the teacher. I quickly swooped him up and placed him in the back of the room next to me. Mr. Smith, the music teacher, decided this act of defiance warranted a twenty minute rant in front of the kids. His frustration resonated with me and I couldn’t help but empathize with him. His approach towards resolving the situation, however, was misguided at best and downright ignorant at worst. After several verbal outbursts from Matthew, I grabbed his arm and shepherded him out. Once in the hallway, I asked him why he thought it was okay to be so disrespectful to adults who were just trying to help him. Why he continued to escalate the situation. A verbal onslaught was launched on me:
NONE OF YOU TEACHERS CARE ABOUT US OR LOVE US. YOU’RE ALL ONLY HERE FOR THE PAYCHECK.
The tears in his eyes soon found their way into mine. I have never wanted to simultaneously hug someone and punch someone so badly. I couldn’t understand how a boy who accidentally called me “momma” on a regular basis could believe I held him in such low regard. How could this kid not realize how much I loved him? How much I did for him? I was the only teacher who put up with his rages, who told the other kids to tolerate him, who didn’t emasculate him for crying on an hourly basis. What more could I do?
It wasn’t until Matthew was abruptly pulled out of my class that I fully understood why I was the chosen victim for his outbursts. When Matthew announced on his first day of school that he was gay, I didn’t tell him that was wrong. When Matthew was told to man-up by the only male teacher on our team, I cradled him as he ran into my room sobbing. When Matthew was bullied by kids in other classes, I demanded to know why my homeroom students weren’t sticking up for their brother. When Matthew was no longer able to rotate classes because his outbursts became uncontrollable, my classroom became his refuge. When he broke my door in a fit of rage, I held my breath and counted to ten. When Matthew became absolutely unlovable, I loved him anyway. He knew that no matter how much he pushed against me and let out his aggression and frustration on me, I would still love him. I wasn’t going anywhere. I let him know that from the very beginning. Some teachers told me he was taking advantage of me but I shrugged it off and kept on loving him anyway.
When details about Matthew’s home life came to light and his counselor and I were forced to involve social services, I knew I made the right decision. I quickly realized that I was the greatest stabilizing factor in his life. I remember sitting Matthew down and telling him that people were going to visit his house. I remember the deafening silence as tears streamed down his face. He was going to be blamed for everything. If Matthew’s outbursts broke my heart, the events that followed were sure to shatter it. The week after the social workers visited Matthew’s house, Matthew became physically violent towards other students. Whereas previously, Matthew’s anger manifested in screaming at the top of his lungs and throwing objects, he had never physically hurt another person. He would get close but something always stopped him. Not now. Matthew instigated three fights in the span of six days. I didn’t know what was happening. After his third offense, the principal had no choice but to suspend Matthew.
Little did I know that Matthew’s first day of suspension would mark his last day in my class. Matthew didn’t return after his mandatory five day leave. I had so many questions and no answers. I felt a guilty sense of relief as my classroom became immensely easier to manage. There was calm after the storm. But that begged the question–where was my little hurricane incarnate?
Ask and you shall receive. Several weeks…or maybe months…after Matthew left without a trace, my classroom door swung open and Matthew ran in, tears streaming down his face. He beelined straight for my arms and for a moment, I felt like I was in a dream. This little boy was a force to be reckoned with in my classroom, and then he abruptly vanished into thin air, and now he was back? I held him tight. He looked at me and told me how much he missed me and probably some other things but I was still in shock and trying to process everything. He explained that he was going to school in the city now and that he regretted not saying goodbye to us. He asked if he could say goodbye to each student, one-by-one. I told him to go for it; math could wait. The first person Matthew approached was Neil and all I heard was “Hey man….” before the door swung open and his mom came in. Matthew clammed up. She descended upon her son, thanked me and the students, told us how much we meant to Matthew, and then ushered him out the door. And just like that he was gone again.
And that was that. Matthew, I later learned through word of mouth, was not actually enrolled in school and spent his days doing I-don’t-know-what at home.
What bullshit, I thought. Where was my nicely packaged goodbye? Where was my closure? Where was his closure? I was frustrated and confused because I felt like he was my little terror. Mine. I felt like I knew what was best for him and it was my duty to protect him beyond the four walls of my classroom. But that isn’t the reality of urban education. I had to let him go.
I still think about Matthew everyday. I don’t know why our lives crossed paths but I have to believe there was a greater purpose. I have to believe that I made a small impact on his life within those six months. I have to believe that, if nothing else, he knew what unconditional love felt like. Because I don’t know if I understood the true, complicated, messy dynamics of love until I met that little boy.
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