#steep footpath

[robthepensioner]

Footpath between the middle and upper promenades at Bispham, Blackpool, with flowers.

[steeleyespan]

GREEN

[ursy153]

Dont forget accessible public bins! Not a bunch clumped together either side of the street, but spread out every 200m-300m?

 Also a good way to keep trees from cracking and warping the concrete is to use spaces of cobbled ground between  the trees so the roots can expand without cracking the pavement! 

The strip of land where the flowers are sitting atop of would do though you'd have to talk to an actual horticulturist on root and tree matience cause some trees would do better in the poor soil quality and stones making up the walkway then others.

The type of tree would also need to be considered when looking at growth over time and if the branch systems would interfere with any overhanging power or telephone lines above (and if were talking about a major city then we have to consider lighting becoming an issue if the airspace above these buildings was filled with skyscrapers and high-rises). 

Plus then there is the problem of the tennets of the apartments above the cafes might complain about trees “blocking their view”.

The type of tree would have to be considered as excessive flowering (example: cherry blossoms) can cause a build up of excessive petals/fruit/detritus below and after rain and rotting causes slippy footpaths. 

They have a very large surface rooting profile. As the trees have grown, their roots, which are very close to the surface have expanded and twisted in public footpaths. 

Pollen count should also be considered so a mix of both male (pollen producing) and female (fruit/flowers) would be needed. 

Then there is the issue of fruit producing trees could lead to an increase in urban wildlife in the area (pigeons, rats, squirrels, insects etc.) which comes with a whole host of health and safety issues on its own especially for those cafes/restaurants with outdoor seating. 

My ideal street layout, wide sidewalk, wide bike lanes, and a 2 lane road that only allows streetcars on it. Yes I know this a bad drawing, I made it in a hurry

[kittyit]

Congratulations to Tara Dower for becoming the fastest person in history to complete the Appalachian Trail! The 31-year-old from Virginia completed the 2,168 mile (3,489 km) backcountry trail in 40 days, 18 hours, and five minutes, a distance usually covered by an A.T. thru-hiker in five to seven months.

To set the record, Dower ran and hiked an average of 54 miles each day on the often rocky and steep trail, which includes a total vertical gain of 465,000 feet as it runs through fourteen states. She started her daily runs at 3:30 am and continued for approximately 17 hours with several short breaks for meals and 90-second "dirt naps."

Dower used her record-setting run to raise money for Girls on the Run, saying that she hopes her feat will inspire girls and women. “I hope more women get out there,” she said. “It’s about finding our true potential. And, you know, if you beat the men, that’s an extra bonus.” When she reached the trail's end on Saturday night, the exhausted but jubilant Dower fell to her knees and put her hands on the bronze plaque that reads, “A footpath for those who seek fellowship with the wilderness.”

9/28/2024

Article | Tara Treks | Girls on the Run

[shibaraki]

THE VANISHING MOON ┊ TSUKISHIMA KEI

tags: GN reader, post timeskip, exes to lovers, fluff, emotional hurt + comfort, reader is a writer, alcohol consumption, mutual pining, getting back together, kisses, weddings, previous ‘mutual’ breakup, happy ending

wc: 4.2K

For as long as you can remember, you’ve loved love stories.

The first time you picked up a pen with the intention to write you’d been looking for a specific someone. To pour love into and be loved by. Conjured from the recesses of your mind, a soft smile from the boy you liked, one prepared to whisk you away from the converging angst that came with your adolescence.

In later years you looked inward, searching for yourself. To satiate your loneliness through self introspection. Ink blotted fingers working arduously at the knots that make up the soul. Knots that were once straight rope, simple and without weak points. And when you failed to love yourself you turned outward, exploring the web that made up the world.

You saw that other people loved stories, too. That there would always be at least one which speaks to them in some way and stays with them. You coveted that reality; to be something another person could love, and look back on with fondness. For your words to strike such a chord that they’d become part of another’s tapestry. To live on. Never again be forgotten, even if it means being an echo of something.

That yearning accompanies you up the cobbled footpath. The crisp air pinching the tips of your ears. Soft, muted chirps rippled throughout the treeline. “Wow,” you murmur, breathless. Arms sticky with perspiration, leg muscles tingling in exertion after walking the steep hill.

The reception venue sits on the end of a private road, concealed by threadbare canopy. Under an open sky there lay every shade and stroke of colour. Dappled sunlight casts shadows across the grass and your eyes are drawn to them.

“Wow is right. They’ve done an incredible job,” Sugawara airs his appreciation as he walks at your side. His voice is awed, and his cheeks are red. “I can’t believe they managed it. Karumai Gardens are notoriously stingy for booking events”.

The wedding invitation shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Remaining some of your closest friends, Kiyoko and Tanaka had already confirmed your attendance long before the formal invites were sent out. You even found yourself on the end of multiple phone calls over the months assisting a panicked Tanaka with writing and rewriting his vows.

Despite that, your stomach roiled at the invitation on your kitchen counter, and your heart crawled up into your throat. Because suddenly it was too real.

Everybody would be there.

Tsukishima would be there.

You’ve been a high strung for most of the day, hyper vigilant to the point of fraying. The ceremony was beautiful. Kiyoko looked ethereal draped in her white lace gown, a delicate veil cascading down her back and rippling down the aisle as she walked. Tanaka was striking in his dark blue suit and embroidered waistcoat. Sitting at the forefront, you remained steadfast in your ignorance of Tsukishima’s scrunity and dabbed at your face as you cried.

You missed having his attention. Missed the subtle stroke of his sharp gold eyes across every part of you as though it were Tsukishima’s hands themselves. A scant, cowardly part of you considered not attending the reception, grateful that he hadn’t approached you yet. If he would at all. Kei could be unbearably prideful about these things. But what do you know?

Nothing. After all this time you probably know nothing at all.

“I think he wants to talk to you,” Sugawara says, drawing your focus to the present. “It’s obvious he’s missed you”.

You edge past the increasingly dense foliage with intent, your fingertips outstretched to brush the near-blooming plants. “Who?” you ask. Sugawara’s grin turns wry and he threads his arm through yours.

“So petty,” he murmurs, patting your bicep. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But he’s single, and has been staring at you all day. I thought I should mention it”.

“Well you’ve mentioned it,” you return without true malice, squeezing him back. Sugawara’s lips parted in a sigh, and for a brief second, you saw a wistful expression beneath the lighthearted veneer. It stirs unease in your chest and you add, “I just don’t want to make a scene”.

“You really think that’s what it’ll come to?”

Memories unearthed from the deep recesses of your mind. Packed away into tight spaces and left to collect dust where they can’t hurt you. They awaken easily, triggered by a simple question, and with such clarity that you wonder if you ever forgot them at all.

Soft, deliberate touches. Long, warm embraces, swallowed up by his large frame. Graceless laughter—the ugly kind that makes your stomach hurt. Languorous kisses, biting kisses, chaste kisses, clumsy kisses. Good morning and good night kisses. Bickering over breakfast. Bickering over dinner. Wandering, calloused hands. Pressure behind two fingers, splitting you like soft fruit. A sharp tongue and sharper words. Holding hands in bed, anchoring yourself to him like you were afraid he might float away in the night.

Life became busier than either of you expected. Kei landed an opportunity to play for a division two team in the V league alongside his work at the Sendai city museum. Your publisher's demands increased. Kei’s priorities shifted. Resentment crept in. He started to forget things. Small promises and favours, like getting the grocery’s or making it home for date night. They felt so significant at the time—things you deemed indicative of his commitment to you, without communicating as such.

Fractures formed in your relationship. You ignored them in favour of keeping the peace, hoping to address them when the timing was better. Only with hindsight can you say that was the wrong choice. The fractures contracted, expanded until it grew into a yawning cavity with one of you standing either side of it. A slow decay.

“No. No, it wouldn’t,” you tell Sugawara. Tsukishima has never been a shining paragon of virtue but he wouldn't do anything to disrupt Tanaka’s wedding. “I’m just nervous. I haven’t seen him since…”

Sugawara hums his acknowledgment. You’re adrift as he guides you into the venue holding the wedding reception, welcomed into a kaleidoscope of colour. Carefully crafted floral arrangements line the hall. Half of the building is a greenhouse conversion, and natural light filters in through the high, arching ceilings, illuminating the dance floor. You take in the surroundings as your senses are enveloped by the pleasant din.

“Look, there’s Yachi and Nishinoya,” Sugawara tugs on your arm and calls out, “Yachi! Noya!”

Nishinoya crowed, leaping forward to gather you and Sugawara into a blistering hug. Barely two extra inches on him yet larger than you remember, skin kissed by the sun and his hair handsomely coiffed. His waistcoat creases awkwardly with the stretch of his body while you sink into his warmth and feel your cheeks ache.

“Man, I feel like I could scale a mountain! It’s so good to see you guys again,” Nishinoya reclines to get a look at you both and firmly takes you by the shoulders. “You have a lot to answer for,” he says with mock seriousness.

“I do?” you laugh, skull knocking side to side as he shakes you.

“I read your book on the plane”.

Your laughter putters out. You grimace and clear your throat, “Oh—really?”

“Most of us have. We wanted to support you properly,” Yachi admits as she steps forward to hug you. She’s smiling when she pulls away, faint laughter lines deepening.

Sugawara nods and pokes at your waist, “Don’t look so embarrassed. It was amazing”.

“It made me cry!” Nishinoya effuses. He sniffs, and to your mortification he looks like he might burst into tears again. “There was this one line—gah, no! I can’t talk about it. Get over here, I need to hug you again”.

“Thank you, Noya-san,” you wheeze at the arms constricting around your midsection, eyes clenched shut to repress the impending sting. You turn your head, nose knocking against his temple as you peer at the others. “Thank you all. I mean it”.

Yachi squirms, her smile quivering. “I’m really happy you made it today,” she says once you’ve been released. The unyielding pressure of Nishinoya’s embrace lingers like two phantom limbs. “You too, Nishinoya-san”.

“It’s amazing you’re upright. I thought for sure the jet lag would get to you,” Sugawara laughs. He utters a quick apology to the server passing with a tray of drinks. “Didn’t you fly in from Barcelona?”

“Yeah. Should’a been heading to Andorra but I wouldn’t miss my bro’s wedding for the world,” Nishinoya’s voice drifts as his eyes follow the alcohol. He plucks a glass in one swift motion and holds it high, “Salut I força al canut!”

Yachi watches him throw back the drink with poorly veiled anxiety. “Ah, speaking of, we should find our seats. It looks like the cake cutting is starting soon”.

“Good call. We’re getting in the way of the preparations. And I think you’ve left Asahi alone for too long,” Sugawara claps Nishinoya on the shoulder. “Looks like he’s been accosted by Saeko-san”.

Nishinoya pivots on his heel, whip-like and buzzing. You’re not sure which name he reacted to more. Asahi or Saeko. “Where?” his gaze locks in on the pair across the room. “I’ll talk to you guys in a bit!”

Gone in a blink. “He never slows down,” Sugawara sighs, shaking his head fondly. “Guess that’s my cue,” he says before parting ways. Yachi waves after them.

An idea strikes you then. “Say, Yacchan. You’re next to me, right?” you glance toward the long tables set up around the dance floor and meet her gaze with a suggestive smile. “Would you want to sit next to Yamaguchi instead? I don’t mind swapping”.

Their relationship had blossomed over the past few months. A long, slow burn finally come to fruition, new enough that mention of it usually makes her turn pink. But the light in her eyes dims at your suggestion, and rather than flustered, Yachi looks uncertain.

Her fingers form a loose clasp around your forearm. “Tadashi is seated next to Tsukishima,” she explains gingerly. You feel yourself freeze and the kind motion of her thumb strokes circles along the inside of your wrist.

You let out a shaky exhale. “That’s okay. I don’t mind,” you tell her before the consequences of what you’re offering can really be cemented. Yachi’s eyes widen, her grip tighter on your hand as you squeeze back in an attempt at reassurance, knowing your smile looks brittle. “It’s probably for the best. We haven’t… talked yet”.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure”.

“Are you sure you’re sure?”

“Hitoka,” you laugh, bumping your shoulders together. “I promise I’ll survive”.

You regret it not two minutes later.

Anticipation fizzes under your skin as you spot him. On approach you give him a cursory look over, the harsh beat of your heart ricocheting in your chest. Tsukishima looks good—he always does, but today, dressed in his dark, double breasted suit, with the golden hour light carding fingers through his neatly styled hair, you think he’s never looked better.

It is disconcerting to see him again and realise that your feelings haven’t changed much in the slightest.

You sit in the chair beside him. You see his spine draw taut in the corner of your eye and feel an oscillating loneliness; so alike those final few weeks together that cold dread seeps between the spaces in your ribs and steals your breath.

“Tsukishima,” you incline your head, impersonal and cautious, hating how foreign his surname is on your tongue.

A beat passes before he repeats your name in greeting, soft as a psalm despite the dour expression on his face. You’re overcome with the urge to poke the uncomfortable crease in his brow. To smooth it out and kiss the skin there, the way you used to do.

You shift in your seat. The arms curve around your midsection and knock against your elbows as you fiddle with the table cloth, “I told Yacchan that Yamaguchi could have my seat so they can sit together. I hope that’s alright”.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” and you know the clipped answer is reflexive by the way his jaw locks in frustration at himself. Bracing for what you’ll say next.

Only, your mouth curls up a little, and you exhale a short laugh through your nose. You haven’t seen him this skittish since your first year of highschool. You consider that maybe you aren’t the only one who’s scared. That things are the same and they are not the same. The thought is bittersweet, but it’s nice, the way his trepidation gives way to muted awe, how he sends you sidelong glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

The music picks up in a grand crescendo as the newlyweds enter the hall and the reception begins with a raucous applause. A rich aroma unfurls as the food is served, the depth of the flavour layering over the already present notes of wildflower and honey. Drinks are handed to the guests. Generously. You swirl the liquid gold around the rim of your glass, luxuriating in the syrupy inebriation of a gently oaked chardonnay.

“So, uh. How’ve you been?”

Tsukishima, to his credit, does not startle at the question. “Fine,” he says, and you think he might leave it at that when he adds, “The museum received another new Crinoid collection last month, so I’ve been preoccupied”.

You grasp at the conversational thread, not wanting him to stop, “Crinoids?”

“Marine animals. They still exist today, though not as common. You might’ve heard of sea lilies and feather stars,” he shrugs halfheartedly, not daring to look away from his deep fried tofu, though it’s clear he can’t help talking about his work with pride. “Ours are from the Triassic period”.

“Just like the, uh—” you click your fingers to conjure the name from thin air “—Gojirasaurus! Your favourite, right?”

Tsukishima pauses. It’s a fleeting thing, but you notice. The corner of his lips curves into a barely-there smile. He seems pleased that you remembered. You busy your hands with repositioning the cutlery a fourth time so maybe, hopefully, you can distract yourself enough not to say something stupid like: “If I visit, will you show it to me?” or “Do you miss me, like I miss you?”

You clear your throat. “I hear the Sendai Frogs have been doing well, too. Congratulations on moving up to division one”.

Those aureate eyes are sliding to you again, bright and searching. Tsukishima arches his brow in a delicate mocking gesture that was unbearable when he was sixteen and even more so now. “Keeping tabs on me, are you?”

There’s mirth trickling into his voice, giving it a familiar smarmy lilt. A wave of emotion washes over you. Embarrassment and heart-twisting-happiness. You shove some rice into your mouth and chew it down to fine paste, vying for time to formulate a coherent sentence. “No. I read about it in the latest Volleyworld issue,” you reply unconvincingly.

“You don’t read Volleyworld”.

“How would you know that?”

Tsukishima takes a shallow breath and nods. The warm gloam of late afternoon mellows his taut features. “I’ve been reading too,” he says after another sip of wine. “I saw you finally published your book”.

Dread seized the inner workings of your mind and the apology on the tip of your tongue curdles. Time ticks by, one sickening second after another. Your eyes dip low to avoid his gaze—which for some reason, he refused to direct anywhere else.

Your recollection of the break up itself was hazy at best. There had been no raised voices, no desperate movie-esque kiss, no slammed doors. Only grief filling your body like lead, and jumbled, half-hysterical thoughts of ‘Is this it? Are we giving everything up, just like that?’

You remember everything that followed, though. The inability to accept reality. It is said if a writer falls in love, that love can never die. And so you kept writing, and writing, and writing; perceiving love through different lenses, creating different endings; relying on metaphors of natural forces and disasters, of cannibalism and gluttony, of journeys and patience to make sense of it all. Six months after everything fell apart you completed the final draft of ‘The Vanishing Moon’, dedicating a final testimony to him in small print on the first page.

Given the choice, I would’ve rather had you at my side than any one of these words.

Has he seen it? Is that what he’s getting at? Did he read through all eighteen chapters and meticulously pick out the remnants of him you pressed between the pages?

“Noya said it made him cry,” you eventually reply.

Tsukishima signals for another drink. He takes two flutes from the server, handing one to you. You accept it with a soft ‘thanks’, hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in your fingers. “Nishinoya-san cried when he found out swans can be gay,” he points out.

“You cried at The Land Before Time”.

“What kind of cold hearted bastard doesn’t cry at The Land Before Time?”

Laughter bubbles up in your chest as the initial dread ebbs away and the tension seeps from your shoulders. Tsukishima dips his chin, a small smile as he mutters, “That’s better”.

In the centre of the hall Tanaka cradles Kiyoko in his arms, now surrounded by clusters of their loved ones whirling with their own partners, a hurricane of colour and laughter and love. Tsukishima observes them with a solemn gleam in his eye. That could’ve been us, his heart says in chorus with your own.

“Do you remember that time we danced together in third year, at the summer festival? I tried to kiss you and gave you a nosebleed”.

“I remember”.

Your gaze drops to the bottom of your glass. At the time you had been mortified. Now it’s a story you would share at your own wedding table. The thought cleaves your heart in half.

“Do you remember the song that was playing?”

“Why are you bringing this up?” Tsukishima snaps. “Yes, I remember everything. I couldn’t forget even if I wanted to. Happy?”

There’s a surge of something devastating in your chest, like love and heartbreak all at once, strong enough that you feel as if your ribs might splinter just to make room for it. But they don’t—and you don’t, because you’ve felt this before, and your body remembers.

You remember.

Suddenly the room is too hot, and the music is too loud. “Sorry. I’ll be back in a minute,” you murmur, pushing your chair back and getting to your feet.

“Wait,” in one short breath there are long, calloused fingers circling your wrist. You do wait. Tsukishima hesitates, the pressure elevates, and as you lean away your palm slips into his, skin kissing skin. Then he’s standing, towering over you. “I’ll come with you. I know a place that’s quiet”.

Tsukishima does not let go of your hand, and you don’t let go of his. He walks a few steps ahead guiding you through the throngs of people. Some familiar heads turn, their attention drawn immediately to the place where your bodies meet, and shooting you various looks of encouragement or confusion. Yamaguchi sees you pass and his mouth splits into a grin so wide that his eyes crinkle.

You’re not sure where it is he’s taking you, only that his promise of finding quiet is true. The cacophony simmers and soon enough the festivities are muffled entirely. Just when you think you’ve wound up at the end of a corridor it curves, leading to a pair of french doors. “Come on,” Tsukishima ushers you out onto a balcony.

What you’re greeted by makes your breath catch. The world as it is around you comes to a standstill, the fabric of reality peeling away. An orange yolk dips below the horizon and the sunset hour drapes across the ostensibly endless meadow hidden behind the Karumai Gardens. Rolls of grass sway in the wind, peppered with wildflowers of every shade.

You move to stand at the balcony’s edge. Tsukishima drops his hand, and your fingers curl into your palm. The shadows grow longer, the air cooler. The evening insects begin to sing. You’re warmed still by the wine thrumming in your bloodstream.

“Hey, Tsukki?”

He comes to stand beside you, folding his arms atop the wall. “Don’t call me that”.

“Oh,” you swallow against the swell in your throat. “Sorry, Tsukishima”.

Tsukishima’s expression twists into a scowl. There’s a blush creeping toward his ears. “I didn’t mean that,” he says. You blink and wait for him to elaborate, which only flusters him further. He stares stubbornly at the border. “Just—call me as you normally would. Anything else sounds wrong in your mouth”.

The name leaves you in an instant. Hushed—not whispered, “…Kei”.

He makes an inquisitive noise, strangled as it is.

“You didn’t say what you thought of it,” you continued. “My book”.

You feel a rush of adrenaline when Kei doesn't answer immediately, unable to read his expression. “Good,” he says, veiled indifference belied by the restless twisting of a cufflink between his forefinger and thumb. “It was good”.

“Well, that’s practically a Pulitzer recommendation coming from you”.

“Shut up,” he huffed, gaze flitting across your face and dropping to your tentative, uncertain beginning of a smile. He wets his lips and glances away. Heartened, both by the alcohol and his reciprocation, you press closer in small increments, and Kei flowers under your gentle persuasion, like he always used to.

“This okay?”

In lieu of a reply you are ensconced by a warm, firm chest and two strong arms around your back that show no sign of withdrawing. The low timbre of his voice vibrates under your cheek, “Who was it for?”

“Hm?”

“The book. You dedicated it to someone”.

You exhale, squeezing your eyes shut. You’re glad, in part, that he can’t see the emotion written plainly on your face. “Nobody,” you answer lightly, angling to position your ear right over his beating heart. “Just an ex. You don’t know him”.

“Right,” Kei says, drawing out the ‘l’ the way he does when conceding a point he knows he’s correct about. It sounds so fond that you want to curl up where you’re resting, like some benevolent cat. “Guy must’ve been a dick”.

“I was too. We made a lot of mistakes, I think,” you say. If nothing came of this you would at least be able to revisit it; to pick at the scab and stop the wound from closing over too soon. There’s comfort in that. You crane your head and meet his gaze, nervous but unwavering. “But even if he was kind of a dick, I miss him a lot”.

“Yeah?” his eyes soften, half lidded and dark. “He misses you too”.

“He told you that, did he?” your mouth trembles. Kei dips to bring your foreheads together, and the hard frame of his glasses bumps your eyebrow. You share a shaky exhale of laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, brow pinched with regret. Again, “I’m sorry. I know I fucked up”.

You feel your jaw quiver. The familiar burn behind your eyes. Tears so close you can taste them. “We both did. Don’t shoulder the blame on your own”.

“But I made you feel lonely,” he says.

You tuck your chin and whisper, “Yes”.

His fingers splayed across your cheek, pinky tucked beneath your jaw as he cradled your face in his hand, tilting until you’re staring back at the reflection in his pupils. Puffy and damp, eyelashes clumped with tears. What a sight.

Kei strokes his thumb in an arc beneath your eye. A tear beads on his nail, slipping into the crook of his hand. The inexpressible tenderness is overwhelming yet you are underwhelmed by the inaction. You can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed by the whine in your voice as you ask, “Are you going to kiss me?”

“Demanding as ever. What happened to ‘please’?” he murmurs. And then he kisses you.

It is slow at first, hesitant, leaving room for you to pull away. But with every languid movement of Kei’s lips came a sweet affirmation, that which you took and took until you no longer felt unworthy of receiving it. His hand flutters at your waist. You take a shuddered breath, pressing closer into his embrace and deepening the kiss. In his distraction you take him by the wrist, encouraging him to touch. There’s an immediate, reverent grip at your hip, kneading over your clothes.

This is what you’d been longing for. The feeling you couldn’t transpose; that which people have long tried to capture. The esoteric, giddy anticipation and joy that bubbled between two people on the precipice of something bigger than themselves. Even with an affinity for stringing words together you are scarcely able to describe it. Immense and overwhelming, light and dark, tender and everything in between.

Kei pulls away for breath with a low, vibrating hum, wearing a smile that you thought you’d never see outside of your memories. Almost boyish when he looks at you. The distance is an inch too many but it is just that—an inch. “Eager,” he teases, only to kiss you again, twice as eager.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve loved love stories.

But love doesn’t only exist in stories.

You remember that, now.

[romanceyourdemons]

here’s a second century warlord followup (3.2k words)

By Strategem, Huang Mi Turns Aside an Army of 100,000

Huang Mi cut down the hill to the south of the city and realized four feet down how poor an idea that was. The hill, steep enough that he had to descend in zigzags, had seized into a stone-hard lump with November frost, and the glazing of snow spread across the unyielding dirt denied his shoes any purchase at all. He managed to slide directly down for several feet, his knees bent and his skirts hitched to his knees in an already unsuccessful attempt to keep them free from winter muck, but his right foot caught on a stone, turning his controlled glide into an unplanned splits and then into a reeling, careening half-tumble down the rest of the hill. He was glad the blank south wall of the city was the only thing bearing witness to his humiliation. He was less glad when a man caught him, and less glad still when he recognized the man as the one he least wanted to be embarrassed in front of. “Lord Yue,” he said, bowing before his liege to keep his flushing face angled toward the snow. He would have much preferred breaking an arm against a tree.

“Yuzhi,” said Lord Yue, helping Huang Mi up. “You’re hurt?”

Huang Mi shook his head. 

Lord Yue wrapped his scarf around Huang Mi’s shoulders and neck. “You’re cold, then. Where’s your horse?”

“Still up there. I couldn’t figure out how to get it down the hill.”

“You just take that footpath around.”

“Oh.” Huang Mi turned to make the long trek up to where he had left his horse tied to a branch, but Lord Yue took his arm and turned him back.

“I’ll send someone up to get it. Let’s get inside first and discuss.”

Huang Mi barely remembered to give Lord Yue back his scarf before they entered the room where General Chou, General Wu, and Governor Han waited to hear the results of Huang Mi’s expedition to the army camped thirty li to the south of the city. That army should be the only thing on their minds. Huang Mi would have gladly kept Lord Yue’s scarf and maybe slept holding it, but he could not allow anyone in that room suspect that his feelings for his liege were anything other than appropriate loyalty. That he could not let Lord Yue know went without saying: he had great trust in Huang Mi as his advisor, and anything that damaged that trust put their entire army at risk. Neither General Chou nor General Wu particularly appreciated Huang Mi’s quick elevation in the six months since he swore loyalty to Lord Yue. They were brilliant warriors and valuable generals, General Chou highly capable in frontal attack and General Wu with a skill for ambush, and between the two of them Huang Mi did not doubt they could take care of him cleanly enough. And of course he could not let Governor Han know: she was Lord Yue’s wife. He tried to make himself look presentable as he sat to deliver his report.

“The army is a hundred thousand strong. They are trying to reach Lord Liu within the week, and they are demanding two-thirds of our grain.”

Governor Han interrupted incredulously: “They expect us to survive off a third of our stores?” Between the citizens, the army, and the four households of refugees they had accepted earlier that month, it would be difficult to make their grain last the winter as it was.

“They were very specific. They claim they will accept the gift of two-thirds of our grain, or they will sack the city and take all of it.”

“I certainly hope you didn’t take them up on that.”

“I told them they should save their efforts. We’ll burn the grain before letting it fall into their hands.”

Lord Yue nodded proudly, the way he nodded proudly at everything Huang Mi said. He had too much faith in Huang Mi. The generals had just the right amount of faith and muttered bitterly between themselves. In fact, Huang Mi had not intended to make such a bold statement at all. His plan had been to stall and make a break for home as soon as possible, but his “there’s no need” had turned into a fierce statement of opposition before he fully planned the sentence. He wished Lord Yue didn’t trust him so much. He really wasn’t much of an advisor at all. 

“I hope you have some kind of brilliant plan, Advisor Huang,” said General Wu. He articulated the title with acid precision, and, even though Huang Mi did not particularly mind having lost the command he once held, he knew a barb when he saw one. He smiled, though, and assured the generals that the situation was under control, and Lord Yue suggested they have some supper first, if Yuzhi’s plan could allow for such a delay. Huang Mi’s plan certainly could: it did not exist yet. He wished Lord Yue wasn’t so good to him. He wished he could tell Lord Yue that he was as good as he claimed.

Governor Han drew Huang Mi aside as the group broke to prepare for supper. “You don’t have a plan, do you?”

Huang Mi went very still, like a cornered deer. Governor Han had been Lady Han until the city’s erstwhile governor became bedridden with a sudden illness in September and asked Lord Yue to manage civil affairs until he recovered. Lord Yue had no training managing civil affairs, but his wife did, and she had filled the post flawlessly. The title “Governor” had originated as one of the generals’ low blows, but Governor Han not only allowed but preferred it. Her skill in governing certainly merited it. She and Lord Yue, Huang Mi had pieced together from confessions and rumors, had been espoused in an effort to prevent the war that broke out between their fathers and killed them both regardless. Proper spousal affection had never developed between the two, not even when she traveled to the front to be with her husband after he suffered a grave injury, and especially not when, more than eight months later, she was still unable to return home. She preferred to speak to him as Governor Han and Lord Yue, rather than as his undesired wife and her undesired husband. Huang Mi did not understand how she could not love Lord Yue—after the many long nights he had spent with Lord Yue playing chess and discussing schools of strategy, he had determined that there was no one in this world better, kinder, braver, more intelligent, or more gorgeous than his sworn liege lord—but that was Huang Mi’s own problem, not Governor Han’s. For now, Governor Han’s problem was Huang Mi. “You don’t have a plan,” she said efficiently. “Tell me what you think your plan should be.” 

Like a whirling leaf catching on any tree in its path, Huang Mi’s whirling mind caught on anything that looked like a plan. “General Chou can pin them against the bend in the river, and then General—”

“River’s frozen. Won’t work.”

“General Chou can lead them into Hawthorn Pass, then a contingent led by General Wu can burn—”

“Everything’s wet. Won’t work.”

“General Chou can guar—” Huang Mi noticed Lord Yue approaching and quickly changed his tone. “General Chou will divide his men to guard the north, west, and east gates, making as much a show of force as he can. A hundred archers will hide out of sight on the south wall, and, after dark, we will boil snow on a bonfire inside the walls. The enemy will see this and think that we are burning our grain, and that we are relying on the protection of the hill to defend us on the south side. They are desperate for grain, and will pour down the hill into the pits full of sharpened sticks that we have dug. The archers will also shoot them down, and General Wu will have led his men around behind his camp by way of Hawthorn Pass to rout them from there.” 

Lord Yue smiled, apparently completely satisfied with this made-up plan, but Governor Han frowned. “Why will they go directly down the hill when there’s a footpath?”

“We’ll block it with boulders. I got a look around the enemy’s camp—they’re eating every third day. They won’t be too careful.”

“And do you really think we can have your pits dug by nightfall?” Her skepticism seemed softened, but it was certainly far from appeased.

“If Governor Han will let us requisition wagons from the city to transport the earth away, I am sure we can manage it.”

“Excellent,” Lord Yue said. “I’ll inform the generals, and we’ll get to work.”

If the generals received Huang Mi’s plan with their usual sidelong remarks, Huang Mi did not hear them. They began work, and they worked as evening bled scarlet over the cloudy skies, and it was not until twilight grey muddied the sunset that Governor Han pulled Huang Mi away from Lord Yue once again. “It’s not going to work,” she said. “The ground is too hard.”

She was right, of course. Even with pickaxes the work was too slow. Huang Mi sought refuge from the obvious in ill-advised bravado: “If we had my hometown men here, the pit would already be ten spans deep.” He missed his men. He had not been a good commander to them, and he was glad that they were safely in the service of the shrewd and competent lord they had intended to swear loyalty to from the start, but there were times when he felt very, very alone in Lord Yue’s camp, and there were times when he lay awake at night to worry about the inevitable day when he would have to strategize for the man he loved against the men he loved. If he cared for Lord Yue less, he would be able to forget his lord. If he cared for Lord Yue more, he would be able to forget his men. He knew he would never forget his hometown, cradled by soft green mountains where immortals liked to hide and full like a cup with the scent of plum blossoms. He knew that he would likely never see his hometown again. He would likely never see a springtime again. It would have been better for everyone if he had never laid eyes on Lord Yue.

“This stops now.”

“What?”

Governor Han crossed her arms. “Advisor Huang, listen to me. When I was young, I was in love with my tutor. I might still be. I’d have to see him again to know for sure. I wanted him to admire me, so I would say just anything in answer to his questions. And he was just as infatuated with me as I was with him, so he would accept my wrong answers. My father heard me give a completely incorrect recitation, and he said that to me: ‘This stops now. You can marry your tutor and I���ll get you a new one, or you can get yourself out of love with him and continue your studies.’ That’s what I’m telling you now. Get yourself out of love with Lord Yue or get yourself into something real with him, but this—” An eloquent flick of a fingertip summed up Huang Mi’s past six months of agony. “This stops now.”

Huang Mi wanted to say something to stall, but he could not come up with even the most meaningless of platitudes.

“I don’t mind and he won’t mind,” Governor Han continued mercifully. “He doesn’t mind my lover. I think he minds that you’re not already his. I only care that, short of some flash of genius from your famous mind, my city is going to be ruined by morning. Make your decision.”

“I…” This decision was too big to make. This decision was more daunting than the army a hundred thousand strong camped beyond the hill. “I need some time,” he said, leaving Governor Han before she had a chance to call him back and struggling directly up the hill, relishing the sting of cold and bark tearing at his hands as he pulled himself up by roots and stones. He balanced himself on the ridge, windmilling his arms to keep himself from falling backwards as he shuffled to a more sure footing and turned around. Through the gloom and heavy flakes of snow, the archers on the south wall could not be discerned at all. That was good. The line of trees and brush at the bottom of the hill broke up the shape of the pit and made it difficult to identify from this height. That was good. But the pit was hardly a forearm’s length deep, and the twilight was already tightening into dusk. They did not have time. He squatted and contemplated falling onto his side as he watched snow gather on their two dozen wagons of dirt. This snow fell so heavily, so fast. Already some of the wagons looked like they were filled not with frozen soil but with—

Huang Mi bolted to his feet quickly enough to make his cold knees ache and began pelting directly down the hill with violent abandon. He did not care what it cost. He needed to get to his lord as soon as legs would take him. Running calculations on the fingers of one hand as he poured himself over the uneven snowy ground lost him his balance, and he traveled the rest of the hill on his stomach and face, but he had his answer as Lord Yue helped him up a dozen yards from the hill’s base and half-carried him to even ground. “Tarps,” Huang Mi said. “Governor Han, we need tarps! We need to act quickly, my lord. Have the men shovel snow onto the wagons, enough to cover all the dirt. Full to heaping. Then have them cover the wagons with the tarps, but tack them down carelessly—leave snow showing. General Wu will lead the wagons by the high road through Hawthorn Pass. Two torches in front, no other lights. Then he’ll dump the wagons—” A dark look from Governor Han made Huang Mi hastily amend his plan— “the wagons’ contents into the gorge, extinguish his torches, and return as quickly and stealthily to the city as possible, keeping off the main road and hiding the wagons in woods for safekeeping.”

“Is that all your plan?” asked General Wu. He wanted to pick a fight, but Huang Mi did not have time.

“Three more things,” he said shortly. “General Chou will rearrange his men to guard this gate as well, and Lord Yue will prepare a force to attack the camp once General Wu informs us of the completion of his task, and if General Wu loses a single man before sunrise then on sunrise he may personally kill me any way he wishes.”

Lord Yue made a sound of acute concern, and Huang Mi certainly did not enjoy having to put his neck on the line to make his word good, but it was almost dark and there was no time to bandy words. He smiled at Lord Yue and shook his head, and Lord Yue sighed. “Do what Yuzhi says,” he said, “or the consequences will be the same as if you had disobeyed me.” General Wu pressed his lips together to smother his mouthful of words and bowed to accept the instructions; Governor Han raised her eyebrows expectantly at Huang Mi and permitted his reassuring look; and Huang Mi’s new plan ground into action, shovelful by shovelful. 

“My lord,” Huang Mi said on their return to the city, once he and Lord Yue were safely alone between four walls. He had an ultimatum to meet. It frightened him more than rebuffing the ultimatum of the enemy, but Governor Han had been right. This had to end now.

“How many times will I have to ask you to call me Ziyi?”

“My lord, this may be the last plan I make for you.”

Lord Yue shook his head emphatically. “I won’t let General Wu hurt you, Yuzhi. I won’t even let him scratch you.”

Huang Mi’s heartbeat pushed and tugged at his fingertips, hidden inside his sleeves. He resisted the urge to chew his knuckle. “It’s not that. It’s…” Any words he might have followed these eluded him, so he tried again: “I wouldn’t mind dying, either, if I—could kiss you first.” The sentence stung the air. He had preferred his cowardice. He finished his confession as lamely as he had begun: “And I am afraid that makes me an unfit advisor.”

“I’m not.”

Lord Yue let silence spool out after these words for so long that Huang Mi began to wonder what they meant.

“I won’t lose you, Yuzhi,” Lord Yue said. In the firelight his eyes looked more green than gold, and his hands already enclosed Huang Mi’s cold hands as he spoke. “Not as an advisor, not as a lover. You’re the only one I really trust.”

“The generals say I’m a rabbit trying to lead a pack of wolves.” Huang Mi wanted to bolt.

Lord Yue smiled, a smile that suggested the generals were going to receive a lecture soon. “A rabbit, perhaps, but a rabbit with the instincts of a tiger and the good fortune of a phoenix—and the looks of a very handsome man. I’ll even kiss you if you call me Ziyi.”

Huang Mi felt light-headed. This was not something that was supposed to happen. This was something he had wanted to happen for—for his whole life, it seemed to him now, but it was not something that was supposed to happen. He made himself nod. He made himself ignore his racing heart and say, “Okay… my lord.” He did not realize his error until Ziyi began to laugh, and then he smiled too and corrected himself—“Ziyi, Ziyi, Ziyi”—until Ziyi’s lips got in the way of his voice. 

General Wu returned before long, his men still unharmed, and Ziyi took reluctant leave of Huang Mi to lead his crack troops to the deserted field of melted snow where the enemy had recently been. The enemy, mistaking the ill-lit wagons of snow for all the city’s grain, had followed General Wu to the gorge, where they had seen the destruction, it seemed, of the grain they so desperately needed. Caught between the options of finding a way to the bottom of the gorge to salvage what had not been washed away by the river and crossing the bridge to the next stronghold, already distantly visible, they chose to break camp and move on. 

When Ziyi saw Huang Mi again, he picked him up and twirled him around; when the generals saw Huang Mi again, they grudgingly nodded respect. When Governor Han saw Huang Mi again, she congratulated him and told him that she wanted every borrowed wagon returned undamaged by the end of the next day. General Wu had hell to pay when he could not find one of the wagons again. But that was not a problem Huang Mi had to solve. For seven days and seven nights, Ziyi never once let him feel cold.

[hopefulkidshark]

Takachiho Gorge Footpath, Takachiho, Japan: Takachiho Gorge in the lush Miyazaki Prefecture of Kyushu is Designated as National Place of Scenic Beauty. Nestled in a steep gorge forged from an eruption of Mt. Aso volcano, Manai Falls (the actual name for the waterfall) are the most captivating cascades in Japan, with the walk through the gorge no less than breathtaking... Takachiho (Takachiho-chō) is a town in Nishiusuki District, Miyazaki Prefecture, Japan. Wikipedia

[lady-iizsil]

WIP Wednesday

No pressure tagging: @vanilleeistee @izzetheopossum @skyrim-forever @dirty-bosmer @lucien-lachance @pocket-vvardvark @illumiera

As I settle down for the night and prepare to read a lot tonight, I wanted to toss the most recent WIP I have out there. It's in pretty rough shape still because I wanted to blurt out the dialogue while I was still inspired for it, and now I'm going back and trying to fill in gaps.

It's another excerpt based on my Snow Elf oc Aremor, who was a veteran of the Battle of Moesring -- he survived to the 4E by way of a Dwemer cryochamber experiment and now sees the ancient battleground of Moesring Pass all these years later, and finds himself overwhelmed by his guilt and trauma.

Idk if the context is needed or not but I wanted to blurt it anyhow: Upon the Fall of the Snow Prince, he swiftly abandoned his loyalties to the remaining numbers of the Snow Elven armies and betrayed one of his own to steal their horse, both in a desperate attempt to survive and also with the intention of getting back to his family in Nchuand-Zel so he could take care of them.

The Falmer he tore off their horse was who sliced his face and gave him a nasty cheek scar: a permanent reminder of his guilt and a testament to what he'd do to get back to his family.

ANYWAY I'll post the scraps of this scene I have and let yall read XD

The impact of where Aremor was didn't really hit him while he was in the ash wastes. It was simply too alien through the filter Red Mountain cast on the land. Yet it certainly did not stop the developing malaise of the spirit as he continued onward through the dead woods and the brittle brush, where the layers of ash gave way to spiky grass growing in rocky crags and mountain snow. The acrid smell of Red Mountain's belching permeated the air with a foul taste, and that was the only thing that felt familiar, in a way. It was not as sour as the air had been in the first era.

Aremor remained silent as the group kept trekking up the gravelly slopes, only turning to check on the progress of those behind him. Guilt weighed on him for how far ahead he allowed himself to go, but as they continued to climb upwards, and the air felt more brisk, the more the memories saturated his thoughts. He thought he could do this when armed with his friends at his side, but the air of the ancient battleground was making his resolve shrink inward.

His eyes were wide and his jaw was set like stone. Aremor’s ears were normally very animated, swiveling as he listened and emoted, but they were tight against his head, almost like he was trying to block out whatever was happening around him.

The ground was familiar now. When he stopped to look around and take in his surroundings, the thoughts swarming in his head felt like a thick and impenetrable cloud.

Here he was. The ancient battleground: The Battle of Moesring.

He could remember it now as he turned backwards, looking down the craggy slopes into the ash below.

Red. Red like no other on Nirn. The red slush of the battlefield, where snow and gravel and blood soaked in the crags and the footpaths.

The flashing image in his mind made him flinch. His lips were curled in distress as he looked around, his feet now refusing to carry him onward. He didn’t want to think of it, but everywhere he looked, there were ghosts.

The steep mountainside had few plateaus for fair battle. The only advantage of the Snow Prince and his cavalry were that they had the high ground. But the pass proved to have its own dangers. Their horses could fall easily here. The cliff sides spoke for themselves. The mountain’s surface could crumble beneath them - the Nords and their thu’um would be a dangerous adversary here. As much as he faulted the Prince for placing their final stand at Moesring Pass, Aremor himself knew that there was no better choice. It was here, and now, or not at all.

Lost in thought, the Snow Elf instinctively reached for the scar that opened his cheek, teeth gritted in shame and distress. His body felt perfectly comfortable in this weather. He was built to survive worse than snow and cold wind. But sweat clammed his palms and the hair at his temples darkened with it too. Feeling that made the thoughts worse. He could almost feel it - the grime caking his face. His hair plastered in tendrils against his head, stinking of blood and muddy sludge. His ears rang and his hands were raw from his grip on his weapon.

The Falmer brought up his hands to look at them, flexing his fingers. His palms were sticky with sweat. He knew this. Yet the thought of blood caked on them was too real. Why could he almost see it?

Steel against steel. Steel against flesh. A thunderous shouting followed by a deafening boom. Grieving wails and fearful cries. He saw a soldier on a horse – sweet escape, and it was right there. Elven armor mattered not.

The earth swayed and his feet faltered as he took a backward step. His body felt paralyzed while his mind raced, images and voices flashing like bursting powder kegs.

“You bastard! You thieving bastard!” The Mer screamed as he swung his dagger, slicing through Aremor's cheek as they wrestled on the snow. Hot blood filled his own mouth and he spat it in the rival Elf's face.

“Just let me go!” Aremor pleaded. He didn’t want this either. But he needed their horse, and they were an obstacle.

He shook his head, grabbing his own arms as he crossed them. His mind shifted toward the snow beneath his feet.

“No! Please don't do this!”

His arms unfolded and he lowered himself to the ground. He laid back and felt the snow compress beneath the weight of his head.

What if I died here? He thought to himself. He could have stayed and fought beneath the banners of his people until the very end. His life blood could have seeped into the rocks of these mountains and rotted there until the humans came to burn his corpse. He could have been a temporary part of this mountain and the melted snow that fed the grass. All he was, and all he ever would be…

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. He sat up briefly to see Lorika standing above him, though from a respectful distance. While she managed to smile at him, he could see the worry stitched in her brows. She shifted her weight onto one leg as she asked, “mind if I join you here?”

Aremor swallowed, and numbly, he nodded. He looked away and reverted back to laying in the snow as she joined him. The heat emanating from his skin was melting the snow around himself and his clothes were growing damp, but he couldn’t bear to move from this spot. Being here was overwhelming. All he needed was to stop and take it in. Lorika’s presence was usually welcome at his side, but in this moment, it added pressure to the guilt swirling in his stomach.

He listened as she shuffled and laid beside him, and she crossed her hands neatly over her abdomen. A few moments of silence passed as they listened to the wind and simply took the moment to breathe. There was a desolate beauty to this place to be enjoyed, but he couldn’t see it past the lens of the atrocities that were committed here. The silence felt too deafening and the last thing he wanted were for the memories to swallow him again.

“I’m sorry if this is bothersome,” he croaks. “I needed to ground myself.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” the Nord woman responds, and the ascertained way with which she said it made Aremor feel a touch of comfort. “We were worried, but I decided it was best if we didn’t swarm you right now. I just wanted to ask what’s on your mind. I want to help, if I can.”

He gazed at her sidelong from where he laid, meeting her one eye with his own. She was the very picture of who he fought here all these years ago. That thought discomforted him, though not for the reason he thought it should.

He sighed heavily and turned his face away. “I was confronted with more than I thought I’d be, coming here,” he spoke. His tone was matter-of-fact, yet distant, still looking fixedly at the expanse of blue above them. “This mountain is the monument of my shame. I wonder sometimes if my people could have had a chance if I remained stalwart. I was the Hand of Syrabane, after all. Another symbol of hope.”

He heard Lorika sigh, though not in annoyance, it seemed. “Aremor. If you spend the rest of your days with questions like that, you’ll drive yourself insane," she said with a worrisome tone. "It's why I worried for you coming here. And I feel worse not knowing what to say to make this better."

Aremor shook his head subtly. "There aren't words for my situation. Not quite. But you needn't feel sorry for that." He pauses for a good while as he tries to sort his thoughts. "I feel disturbed with myself - and being here, well."

Lorika side-eyed him, and with a tone of cautious encouragement, she says, "feel free to speak your mind. I'm listening."

He went quiet again, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. The words and the feelings were there, but untangling them felt like an overwhelming matter. Finally, he began slowly, saying, “I try to be thankful — and a large part of me is. Not many are given a second chance at life, much less a better one. But when I turn inwardly, I see that… I am much the same, despite all I have been given, despite all I have learned. I did terrible things for the people I loved, and one would think after losing them, and knowing that all I did was for naught, I would learn to accept that. I thought perhaps something inside me would click, and I'd set myself straight. Violence for the sake of devotion earned me nothing but punishment. But when I look at the people I have now — us — I realize…”

He pauses, brows furrowing.

“I would do it all again.”

[pcttrailsidereader]

The Pacific Crest Trail: The US West Coast's 'greatest footpath'

By Gavin Scarff

One hundred years after the US designated the world's first wilderness area, an epic hike offers adventure seekers the chance to experience a slice of the nation's wild side.

On 3 June 1924, more than half a million acres of pristine mountain meadows, rock-walled canyons and aspen glades in south-west New Mexico's Gila National Forest were designated as the world's first protected wilderness area. One hundred years later, the National Wilderness Preservation System now counts 806 official "wilderness areas" spread across nearly 112 million acres in the United States – an area twice the size of the United Kingdom.

Two years after Gila's wilderness designation, educator and hiker Catherine Montgomery proposed creating "a high-winding trail down the heights of our Western mountains… from the Canadian Border to the Mexican [border]." The idea gained momentum during the 1930s under the stewardship of oilman and avid outdoorsman Clinton C Clarke, who dedicated much of his life to creating a border-to-border trail "traversing the best scenic areas and maintaining an absolute wilderness character", as he put it. This idea would eventually become the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT): a 2,650-mile path connecting Canada to Mexico and has been called the West Coast's "greatest footpath".

In 2023, craving a challenge that would break us from our desk-bound lives and thrust us into the wild, my partner, Claire Taylor, and I qualified as Mountain Leaders and set out on an epic journey to complete the entire PCT. For five months, we hiked past cascading waterfalls, snow-covered badlands and narrow slot canyons as we travelled south along "America's Wilderness Trail". Upon finishing, there was one section that really stuck out to us: the state of Washington, which is home to 31 designated wilderness areas (11 of which the PCT traverses).

The PCT section of Washington covers 505.7 miles of incomparable beauty over remote passes, snowy peaks and dense ancient forests with little sign of human life. And since Washington's portion of the PCT leads hikers through a greater percent of designated wilderness areas (63%) than the other two US states where the trail passes (Oregon and California, which contain 52% and 37%, respectively) it remains a true testimony to Clarke's vision of maintaining a slice of the original American wilderness.  

Into the wild

"But what about the bears?" Claire asked. I replied with the line I'd been telling myself: "The presence of bears embodies the wilderness that we are seeking." In all honesty, having never hiked in bear and mountain lion country, we were a little nervous. We were about to spend five months hiking the PCT with nothing but our tent and hiking poles to protect us. But on our first day, we jumped out of the back of a pick-up truck whose faded bumper sticker read, "Into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul", and onto the trail.

We had spent an hour cramped among a handful of other hikers bumping along a dusty dirt road that wound its way along steep cliff edges from the small village of Mazama, Washington, to the trailhead at Hart's Pass, stopping just once for a herd of large white mountain goats to cross. Since it isn't permitted to cross a remote, unmanned border into the US from Canada, most travellers hiking southbound actually start here at Hart's Pass. They then trek north for 30 miles to "tag" the border before returning along the same trail where the pick-up truck had dropped us off four days earlier.

The North Cascades

Our journey started in the North Cascades, a vast mountain chain spanning more than 500 miles known for its jagged peaks, subalpine meadows, glaciers and waterfalls. "If you look at a map of Washington state, all the wildest places run down the spine of the North Cascades mountains," says Chris Morgan, an ecologist, filmmaker and podcaster who has called the North Cascades home for the past 30 years. "That spine is where our wilderness areas protect the wildest of our wild – [our] untamed landscapes where nature rules and reconnecting with raw, unfiltered life is still possible." As Claire and I peered out from the dense forest up to the towering mountains that we would soon ascend and pass through, we were struck by the utter vastness, remoteness and grandeur before us.

Ancient "blowdowns"

Within designated wilderness areas, there is minimal human intervention. "[Protected wilderness areas] were set up as places for humans to visit, but not linger," Morgan explained. Ten days after setting off, Claire and I were hiking through Glacier Peak Wilderness Area, known for its heavily forested streams, steep-sided valleys and rugged glacier-covered peaks. Fallen trees littered the path, often requiring us to carefully clamber over or under the debris. We passed a large "blowdown" fir tree that had been knocked down by a storm, cut and cleared by hand. Upon closer inspection, we noticed that someone had counted and marked its rings. Squinting, we counted roughly 700, meaning this tree was here more than 100 years before Columbus sailed to the Americas. As Morgan told me: "These [wilderness] areas thrust you back in time… to a time that connects us all to the raw nature of primordial life."

Staying wild

The PCT is maintained by the Pacific Crest Trail Association (PCTA) and a team of incredible volunteers. When I later asked Kage Jenkins, who works for the PCTA, about the role of designated wilderness areas, I was taken back to the 700-year-old downed tree. Kage explained, "Trail maintenance projects in wilderness areas mean no chainsaws or motorised tools; we rely on the crosscut saw. There's a simplicity and joy in spending the better part of a day at the foot of a stratovolcano cutting an enormous Douglas fir."

I then asked how the PCTA manages to maintain the trail while also keeping it wild. "The trail itself always finds a way to stay wild," Kage said.

Shifting landscapes

By July, the snow had just melted but there was already talk of fire among fellow hikers. We passed one young trekker going north to the Canadian border, who told us, "I hiked 2,600 miles last year but couldn't reach the border due to fire closing the trail. I'm back to hike the last 50 miles!" Wildfires are a very real threat in Washington. In July 2014 the Carlton Complex Wildfires burned 256,108 acres. This threat also provides opportunities for nature; some animals like the black-backed woodpecker and fire chaser beetle have evolved specifically to thrive in burn zones, while seeds from plants such as the snowbrush have shown that fire can actually stimulate germination. A warming climate means that the frequency and magnitude of Washington's wildfires is likely to increase.

In late July, we came across our first real burn zone. We hiked in silence through the dead trees, it was eerily quiet and somewhat disarming. The charred remains were a sobering reminder of how seemingly indomitable landscapes can be altered so quickly.

Ups and downs

Claire and I quickly found hiking through Washington both exhilarating and calming. Shortly after setting out, we came across the first bear droppings we would see in the middle of the path. Some nights, our campsite was swarmed by mosquitoes that had recently hatched following the melting snow. Other times, as the skies darkened and thunder rumbled, we rushed to find a flat camping site to wait out the incoming storm. This rollercoaster pattern continued, with hours of sunny, stunning hiking interrupted by extreme weather and energy-sapping lows. As Kimberly Myhren, a hiker we befriended on the PCT, said, "What makes [the PCT in Washington] difficult to hike is also what gives Washington its serene and rugged beauty."

These ever-shifting landscapes only added to the sense of wonder and adventure we felt along the trail: we weren't just passing through the environment but interacting and coexisting with it. "As many wilderness areas are large enough that there is no cellular service, these landscapes are places where one tends to disconnect from technology and be present in a different manner," Michael DeCramer, policy and planning manager at the Washington Trails Association, later explained "Visiting a wilderness area can afford an experience of remoteness that is difficult to find elsewhere."

"The mountain"

After a few weeks, we settled into a rhythm. While our GPS told us that we were covering an average of 20 miles and ascending more than 3,200ft each day, we soon found that we were measuring things differently. We focused less on time and distance and more on how we felt emotionally and physically. We were, as DeCramer later said, "present in a different manner".

One sunny day in mid July, "the mountain", as it's known to those in Seattle, came into view. Mt Rainier, the iconic 14,410ft active volcano and the most glaciated peak in the lower 48 states, appeared like a beacon. We had hiked 250 miles and knew we would enter the Mt Rainier Wilderness Area at mile 330, and having a reference on the skyline reinforced how quickly we were moving; each time we emerged from a dark forest or from a sheltered hillside, the mountain seemed to grow. Where possible, we would pitch our tents to catch a glimpse of the mountain before we fell asleep. The following morning, we would watch the first rays of sun reflect off its snowy peak as we sipped our steaming coffee.

The climb

The high-altitude terrain means that hiking the Washington section of the PCT shouldn't be taken lightly. It took us a full month to reach the Oregon border; by then we had ascended nearly 100,000ft – the equivalent of climbing Everest three times. With bags full of food, water, a tent, a sleeping bag and mat, clothing, a stove and gas and other gear, your fitness levels quickly improve. We had spent months training, yet still found ourselves exhausted most days and falling asleep by 20:00. After just 19 days, we had both lost a fair amount of weight and managing our weight and calorie intake became a battle we would fight for most of the trail.

Wilderness and civilisation

Whenever we needed to hike into nearby towns for supplies, the transition from wilderness to civilisation was abrupt and it felt strange to suddenly interact with locals after having not washed in days. Being able to fill up on much-needed food was great, but it came with hiking out of town with a heavy bag. Our meals were made of lightweight, high-caloric foods such as seeds, nuts, dried fruit, noodles, porridge, milk powder and the occasional freeze-dried meal as a treat. We stored our provisions in bear canisters that doubled as stools as we sat preparing dinner each evening. The canisters are designed to prevent bears and other creatures from accessing to your food supplies, and ensure there is no association between people and food.

We were awoken one morning by the sound of a pack of coyotes playing as the sun came up, their howls echoing through the forest. We also had five bear encounters in Washington, including a close interaction with a mother and two cubs who were more interested in their pursuit of berries than our presence. We met hikers who had seen mountain lions just metres from their tent. Deer would appear from nowhere, often while we were camping, curious and unafraid. On many afternoons, we passed marmots who whistled loudly at us to stay away.

Rustic lodging

In many places, long hikes end at a cabin with a hot shower. This is not the case on this section of the PCT, however. "Washington is home to some of the most remote areas on the entire PCT," explained Kage. "There are 40-mile sections of trail between the nearest two roads, further still to the nearest town." We carried our home with us, diligently pitching it every night at one of the numerous flat dirt spots established by previous hikers along the trail. Many nights we slept closer than we would have liked to dead but still standing trees – "widow-makers", as they're known by hikers, for their tendency to fall in the night.

While there were times I certainly missed a hot shower, many hikers prefer this rustic approach. As DeCramer said, "Many people report that wilderness areas provide an opportunity to experience challenge and self-reliance." Kage agreed, adding, "The PCT helps ensure each hiker can enjoy their own wilderness experience: appreciating a natural landscape and ecosystem, finding isolation or connection to and interdependence of wild places."

"What about the bears?"

After a month of hiking through Washington, I thought back to Claire's first question as we set out: "But what about the bears?" As I began writing this, a PCTA update flashed up on my phone: grizzly bears will soon be reintroduced into Washington's wilderness areas. "There are only six ecosystems in the USA outside of Alaska considered wild enough for grizzly bears, and this is one of them," said Morgan, who has been instrumental in advocating for their reintroduction "They will feel right at home deep in the heart of the endless forests and giant peaks that their ancestors once roamed."

One hundred years since the Gila wilderness area came into being, this feels fitting. For PCT hikers and for Washington, it's one more reason to cherish this great wilderness.

[kivaember]

random ac6 coffee shop au drabble hgh

MY BRAIN IS LIKE A NOODLE FROM WORK so here's a cute brainless coffee shop au drabble

The birds were singing, insects were chirping, and there wasn't a single cloud in the summer's sky, the day warm but not unpleasantly hot, and a beautiful vista stretching out from the public car park that Rusty had parked his jeep in.

Raven took the whole thing in with a distinct feeling of dread.

"The parking's free on Sunday," Rusty chattered happily, oblivious to his boyfriend mentally compiling his will. He pulled out a rucksack from the jeep's boot and easily slung it onto his shoulders, before holding out Raven's smaller and far lighter backpack. "So we can take all the time we need for our hike."

Raven nodded wearily and accepted his backpack. It contained two 2L water bottles, his lunch, as well as a few snacks, and a waterproof jacket, despite the good weather. Rusty had been very serious when he said that no matter where they hiked to, they should always prepare for bad weather. Raven just thought he was carrying extra weight for no reason.

But he had no one to blame but himself. When Rusty had excitedly asked him last week if he wanted to go on a 'nice, easy hike' with him on Sunday, Raven had unthinkingly agreed, always happy to spend time with his boyfriend. However, as the day approached, Raven gradually realised that he and Rusty had two very different definitions of a 'hike'.

Raven thought it'd be a short, pleasant walk in the countryside, two hours tops, and it'd be mostly flat. Rusty thought a 'nice, easy hike' was stomping up the mountain just outside of southern Xylem that was 'affectionately' called The Wall, due to its sheer verticality in some parts. Of course there was a path that could be walked by anyone with functioning legs, but the hike was expected to take almost TWO HOURS to get to the SUMMIT. FOUR HOURS IN TOTAL. TO WALK UP AND DOWN. A MOUNTAIN.

Raven, who was out of breath just climbing a single flight of stairs, quietly despaired.

Rusty, the evil tempress that had lured Raven to this uniquely cruel and unusual torture, beamed at him, clearly excited for the day. Raven didn't have the heart to admit to him that he was going to hate every moment of this. He can endure this, to protect that smile. He'll... he'll climb this mountain... for Rusty.

So, weakly, he smiled back.

"I've plotted our route," Rusty said, as they began to walk towards where the public footpath began from the car park. "I made sure to pick the easiest one, so you won't have to climb up any steep parts... if you get tired, let me know, alright? If it comes to it I can carry you no problem until you catch your breath."

Rusty held out his phone, which had a satnav app already marking out their route. Raven hid a grimace when he saw the '9.56 miles remaining!' at the top of the screen.

"You've got your inhaler, right?" Rusty asked, and Raven quickly nodded at that. He actually over-prepared and brought two. "Okay, good. I know you said you're fine with exercise but... really, let me know if you get tired."

Well, Raven was pretty sure exercise didn't trigger his respiratory problems, but he'd never actually... exercised to really test that out. Did a short one hundred metre jog count as exercise? It must do, right?

He kept that question to himself, though, gripping the straps of his backpack as they left the solid comfort of tarmac and onto the dusty, rocky dirt path that led towards the mountain. While things were still flat and manageable, Raven did take a moment to look about himself, admire the scenery, that sort of thing (it might be the last thing he'll ever see, after all).

Raven had never really left Xylem before today. He'd been to a few parks, and he had a very foggy memory from when he was a child where Michigan had dragged him and Walter to the beach that one time, but he hadn't really been dumped into the middle of nature like this before. It smelled different to the city, looked different, and sounded different.

It was nice.

Enough so that he briefly forgot he was meant to be dreading this whole hike, and happily kept pace with Rusty who was kindly moderating his strides to be short and slow just for him. Raven felt a burst of affection for him, abruptly, realising that he was very lucky to have such a considerate boyfriend like Rusty, even if he was insane and liked to climb mountains in his spare time... what a weirdo (fond)...

Things changed when they started hitting The Incline.

It was gradual, gentle enough that Raven didn't notice it at first, but then it sloped upwards sharply, and within minutes Raven was sweating, panting and valiantly trying to ignore the burn in his legs.

Rusty, of course, noticed. "Uh, buddy, are you okay?"

Raven made an off-hand sign for {fine}, stubbornly glaring down the path as he took another quad-burning step.

"I mean, it's just, you're looking a bit red there-"

Another step. Oh god. This was so hard. Rusty did this for fun?!

"-and I can hear you wheezing."

But Rusty had looked forward to this all week... no, no Raven will not surrender, he won't give in! He'll succeed! He'll finish this hike!! Bolstered by deranged motivation, Raven took two more wobbling steps.

"And you're sweating buckets..."

Argh, actually, this might be too much for him. They had to have done at least a mile, right? That meant he just had to do eight miles at most. If he can think of it like that, then he can do it, right? Right?!

Desperately clinging onto this hope, Raven signed a bit haphazardly: {How far? Distance????}

"Buddy..." Rusty slowed to a stop. "We've only done three hundred metres."

Raven staggered to a halt as well and stared, dismayed.

"I mean, you can still see the carpark..."

Rusty turned and pointed, and Raven followed where his finger was indicating, seeing that, yes, indeed, the carpark was right there, well in view. Rusty's jeep sparkled under the sun, a siren call of 'you can give up now and leave~~~~'

He was so, so tempted.

Rusty's expression was both amused and rueful when he looked back at him, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, if you want to call it there... we can. I mean, there's a lake not too far from there. We can walk around that instead. It's fine!"

So, so, so tempted....!!!!

{No,} Raven signed stubbornly, tilting his jaw and daring Rusty to argue with him. {I said I'd hike. I'm going to the summit. With or without you.}

"..." Rusty shook his head with a bit of a laugh. "Raven..."

{Witness me,} Raven proclaimed a bit deliriously, and resumed his arduous treck up the mountain path, huffing and puffing like a beaten up car engine on its last legs.

"Raven! C'mon..."

Raven kept going.

----------

...for about one hundred metres, before he gave up and lied down on the ground, staring up at the blue sky with Rusty staring down at him.

{Leave me for the birds,} Raven signed solemnly, and pointed at the vulture he could see circling above. He could hear how his breaths wheezed in his struggling lungs, his heart thundering to its very limits to keep him alive for these parting words (handsigns.... whatever). {I'll return... to the circle of life...}

"Okay, I think it's inhaler time," Rusty said with some amusement, and bent down to rudely roll Raven onto his side to get into his backpack. "Hm, you should really put it somewhere more accessible... ah! Got it!"

Rusty rolled him onto his back and handed him his inhaler. Sulkily, Raven took a puff (he felt himself inch away from death's door).

"So," Rusty said, as Raven came down from his delirious, oxygen-deprived high. "Lake?"

Raven rested his inhaler against his chest. {Lake.}

[speedlimit15]

my mom and uncle spent time unhoarding my grandparents’ garage in preparation for my arrival/putting the house on the market and my mom kept telling me i wouldn’t believe how bad it was

but she forgets that when i was growing up, we’d at least spend a few weeks every year (and she sent me to live permanently as a teen) in their original house, which had all the living spaces hoarded that way for decades, no walking room fire hazard can’t see the walls or floor at a time. they had 15+ cats at any given moment and some of them lived in their own specific rooms. like i’m realizing my mom had no idea how bad it was maybe? because they didn’t start really hoarding until she’d gone to college. i lived in an upstairs room with just a pullout couch and floor to ceiling stacks of books and magazines and a huge whirring pc somewhere with a singular footpath to access it and it smelled like cat piss and litter and that was my summer fun and junior year. maybe they really didn’t know how bad it was bc they only ever used an intercom system to talk to me (the stairs were too steep for my grandmother to climb safely and my granddad did not acknowledge his mess and collection as an issue). okay well typing this out makes me feel like i was a zoo animal anywayayyyyyayayay DONT tell me i wouldn’t believe something i’ve seen a million times

[merpmonde]

Steep stuff: climbing the Hohentwiel

The altitude difference between Singen town centre and Hohentwiel fortress is only around 200 m... but a view of the mountain shows that it's going to be covered in a rather short distance.

To be clear, 18% is the steepest incline on the road, if you're driving a car, and even then, you'll only get to the Hohentwiel Domäne intermediate stop. The footpath starts climbing further around the mountain, and it's more of an 18% average!

The Domäne has a hotel-restaurant, at which I had lunch, providing shelter during a heavy shower! This made me hesitate to push further, and the previous post showed that there were more hovering around. I took a chance, the rain stayed away. Pick up a ticket to the castle and go through the little museum, and it's back to the climb, for pedestrians and cyclists only... still with over 20% in places!

[mikimeiko]

Day 15 - Brno (Czechia)

I do manage to wake up earlier than yesterday! I decide to go check out the (formerly) industrial part of the city, starting with a walk alongside the Svitava river: there's a footpath/bike lane that goes along an old rail track that used to serve the factories (mostly textile mills) built on the riverside.

It's very pretty but even with no direct sun the weather is still pretty hot (and humid today), and even in the shade of the trees of a small park on the way it's not pleasant enough to just stop for a while and read.

So I decide to make the most of my 24h ticket that will expire in a couple of hours and go to Stránská Skála, a rock formation just out of the city (there's a tram that goes there. I LOVE taking trams to places outside cities). I wasn't sure what to expect, but I end up hiking to the top following a gentle enough path through trees and fields full of flowers.

I'm sure the view would be better if it wasn't overcast, but on the other hand most of the path is out of the trees and it would have been very hard to walk in the scorching sun. For the entire time I'm there I only see a couple of people, but I guess if you live here you just don't chose a day like today to go on the rock.

(I love places like these, gentle hikes that most people can enjoy. I live in a superflat valley right next to the Alps, the hikes that are usually available to me are INTENSE. But I don't want intense! I want gentle, calm and beautiful. That's why I particularly enjoyed walking the coast paths in the UK, I discovered a love of hiking there that I never thought I would have).

In the afternoon the sky clears up, the humidity lowers and the breeze comes back: it's nice enough that I decide to check out the bit of old town I haven't seen yet (there are still parts to be seen! This city is big!) and the park that surrounds Spilberk fortress.

It's a beautiful park but it's literally all up hill, and most of the paths are quite steep. I sit on a bench reading for a bit, enjoying the atmosphere. Then I climb up a little more, and I'm rewarded with this beautiful view of the cathedral (I could very likely get better views from higher up but HAVE I MENTIONED HOW STEEP THE PATHS ARE?).

I pass through the old town hall and I'm reminded that I haven't shared with you the most beautiful dragon in the world!

When I took this picture there was a Spanish family there with a tiny kid, and the kid was like "a crocodile! No... a dragon!"

I go back for the last time to the beer festival, and have halušky with sauerkraut and smoked bacon. And a radler. And yes, SUMMER OF THE RADLER. I still haven't find one as good as the watermelon one from Vienna, but radler beats both beer and lemonade right now. (I tried lemonade yesterday, it was good but definitely too sweet).

I keep thinking this is my last night in Czechia but it's not! I'll be in Plzen tomorrow night! Still sad to say goodbye to Brno, though, I think it might be my favourite city in this trip.

[bristolianbackpacker]

Day 17 - Cusco

We wake up at 7am as we are still on Rio time and get a delish breakfast cooked at our B&B. The accomodation is really nice - all centred around a courtyard with flowers everywhere.

We noticed that our hands and feet have pins and needles and wonder if it’s the altitude sickness kicking in but it turns out to be a side effect of Diamox - the medication we are taking to avoid the altitude sickness. I do have a bit of a headache today but nothing too much.

I make a quick pitstop to the ATM (the free one only allows 400 soles per card per day) and to buy Boleto Toristico - this costs S/130 each but allows us access to heaps of historical monuments in and around Cusco for the next 10 days.

After Jack is ready our first stop is Plaza de Armas. Cusco is such a cute city - the historic centre is full of historic buildings (albeit some in the main square had been turned into Maccas, KFC and Starbucks) and the flowers in the main square were meticulously maintained. People definitely seem to speak much better English here than elsewhere we have visited. Also everyone here seems to be so much friendlier than Argentina or Brazil! And as a bonus I feel so tall here - Peruvians are one of the shortest average heights in the world! We stop in one of the balcony cafes overlooking the Plaza de Armas for a coffee.

A few other observations we have made about Cusco - it must have the highest number of barbers per capita in the world!! Also the city is much bigger than we had expected. It’s not just a tourist town as was the case for Puerto Iguazú - people are living their everyday lives here too. The streets and footpaths here are sooo narrow (and the traffic and pollution is pretty bad).

We quickly realise that even though it was cold last night, in the sun today it’s baking so we head back to the room via the chemist to get sun screened up.

The second stop is San Pedro Central markets where we pick up some souvenirs and stop for an empeñada for lunch (plus custard flan - this seems to be a thing here - set custard in a glass).

On the way out we realise that heaps of kids are leaving school and think that it seems early to finish up (1pm-ish). However, we also notice that they are all carrying gifts for their mums for Mother’s Day. It’s so cute!!

Our third stop of the day is Qorikancha (the most important temple in the Inca empire). It contained the Temple of the Sun. When the Spanish arrived they destroyed much of the site but as with much of the other Inca ruins they used the foundations and first story walls to build on top of and create Santo Domingo Church. Cusco (and Qorikancha) were the centre of the Inca empire. There were 4 states surrounding Cusco covering areas south into Chile and Argentina and north as far as Ecuador.

Our next stop is Saqsaywaman, it’s a huge citadel on the outskirts of Cusco. We were thinking of walking as it was only 25mins from Qorikancha but we ordered an Uber. Thank goodness we did as it was all up a very steep hill. Once we got there we still had to walk up many more steps to enter the site where the car could not access. This is where we really struggled - simply walking up some steps at this altitude feels like you’ve ran a marathon! Anyway after taking a break and drinking lots of water we made it to the top.

Saqsaywaman’s purpose is thought to be as a fortress, and of course as a temple and for religious ceremonies. The site is absolutely huge but there is little information so without a guide it isn’t easy to understand what we are seeing. The name Saqsaywaman means full eagle, this is thought to be because the last Incan resistance battle took place here against the Spanish and a large number of Incans would have been killed on the flat open grounds which would have attracted eagles. After their success the Spanish dismantled much of the site and used the stones for construction in the city.

Time to pack up our bags again, we are off to the Sacred Valley tomorrow. For dinner we head out to a top rated restaurant in Cusco “Moray” - they seem to specialise in modern Peruvian cuisine. Jack has alpaca tenderloin whilst I order the Aji de Gallina (Creamy Chicken with rice and potatoes). Both are really good!! Back to the hotel it is.

[corainne]

Because I am still fighting for my life when it comes to this fic, and I have given up all hope that I will finish it on this side of the great beyond, have Part 2 of Chapter 1 of Nightingale at Casterbrook

Part 1 can be found here

Thomas had, in abstract, known that Mellenby was richer than he was. In terms of the Folly most were better situated than the Nightingales, though they’d never had reason to struggle financially, despite raising seven children. But Thomas hadn’t realised quite how rich the Mellenbys were, until Mellenby gave him a tour of the grounds upon his arrival.

“Alexander and Constantine belong to Hal and me, but we don’t have much use for them now that we’re off at Casterbrook,” Mellenby told him as he showed Thomas the stable and the three horses grazing nearby, “but I think father’s been riding them instead of Marc Anthony from time to time”

When Thomas had been ten his sister, four years older, had desperately wanted a horse. It had been a topic of discussion at the dinner table for several months, as Victoria had waged her first war against their father in a battle of wills that had frankly frightened Thomas. It wouldn't be the last, and certainly not the most devastating of their quarrels, but he still clearly remembered how much it would have cost them to keep even one horse, with how much the numbers had been shouted by their father. That the Mellenbys had enough money to keep two that they rarely had use for was startling. But considering the size of the sprawling grounds and house that Thomas had seen briefly in passing, four times as big as the one in which he had been raised at least, that shouldn’t have been surprising in the least.

“Did you bring new magazines?” Mellenby asked as they made their way towards the house at last. His luggage had been taken from him upon his arrival by a page and brought to the house that could only be reached by a steep footpath.

“Yes,” Thomas said, and added, “is your father home?” They would have to be careful if he was, since Thomas didn’t particularly fancy his magazines being taken from him or even destroyed.

“No, he’s in London for the rest of the month. It’s just Hal and us,” Mellenby said cheerfully. From what little Mellenby had told him about his father Thomas had gathered the impression that the two didn’t particularly get on at the best of times, and that the older Mellenby son was the only person capable of diffusing the situation.

Thomas had never officially met Henry Mellenby, but he had spotted him at Casterbrook in passing. The resemblance between the two brothers was strong enough for Thomas to have recognised him without actively looking out for him. Henry, two years older than them, was certainly more popular and better looking than his brother, with a lean face and easy smile, although the brothers shared their blond curls and bright blue eyes. Still Thomas was certain that of the two David was the smarter.

“Your father just left you two alone?” he asked, surprised. His parents certainly wouldn’t have, no matter how urgent the matter that compelled them away. Dick and Jos, the two oldest, were both up at Oxford, but if both of their parents had needed to leave Tavistock at the same time they would have convinced one of them, if not both, to come down and look after their younger siblings for the duration of their absence.

“I’m not sure father would really much care if something happened to either of us. Or to me at least”

Unable to think of a response Thomas watched Mellenby open the large doors that led inside his home for the next few days.

*

“So, you are Davey’s little friend then,” Henry Mellenby said when he finally emerged from his bedroom around midday. His tie was loose, the top button of his shirt undone, and it looked as if he had slept in it. He certainly appeared as if he had just gotten up, after a night spent drinking well into the early hours of the morning, “Nightingale, right?”

“Yes,” he said, unsure how to react. He had thought Mellenby’s brother would be more like him, bookish and proper. “I am”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, and laughed, “I’m not going to eat you. Where is Davey, anyway?”

“He wanted to get something from the library,” he’d left Thomas out on the patio, where they’d spent the last few hours, talking and reading some of the magazines Thomas had brought along.

“Of course he did, why do I even ask. Only my brother would abandon a guest in favour of the library.”

And abandon Thomas Mellenby did more often than not. It seemed that, just like at school, there was something pulling Mellenby to the library when there was nothing physically holding him back. So it was not a surprise that they ended up spending most of their time in there, apart from the few hours every day that Thomas managed to drag him outside.

“You never said that you were landed,” Thomas said one evening, as they shared some scones and tea in the library. At Casterbrook they would have been forced to do so in secret, at the risk of drawing the wrath of the librarian upon them, who had strictly forbidden food and liquids in his hallowed halls.

As if it was nothing out of the ordinary Mellenby shrugged. “My grandfather bought the land around the time my father was born. Our family had an arms factory and he made quite a lot of money with it, he even collaborated with the Folly to make rifles that could also be used as a staff. That’s how my father earned a spot at Casterbrook even though no one in the family had attended before”

Thomas, who’d never heard about any of this, leaned forward, intruiged. “Your father was a novus homo?”

Mellenby nodded, “Not that he likes to hear it mentioned. If he could he’d pretend that our family has been a part of the Folly since Newton’s time”

The Nightingale’s hadn’t been part of the Folly for that long either, but it was rare nowadays that someone was permitted into the closed shop that was the Society of the Wise. “Is that why you have all of these books on magic here?”

“In part. Father doesn’t like to rely on the Folly for his literature, so whenever he can he buys copies for our library” And his son took advantage of it whenever he could. It was no wonder then, that Mellenby was so obsessed with the workings of magic. While for Thomas and his family magic had become a part of life, with some uncle or brother in every generation being a wizard, it was still new for the Mellenbys, and much more exciting for any child born into the family.

Time at Mellenby’s passed quicker than he had thought imaginable, and before he knew it he was on a train back home, and in some ways his stay felt as if it had been a dream, and not reality. He returned to Tavistock, and with it to the madness his family exuded, in high spirits that even Andrew and his proclivity for arson could not put a damper on. 

*

“Do you think he has a wife?” Ballentine asked during the first physics lesson of the new term. 

They’d secured seats in the last row, at the cost of several sharp elbows to the ribs. It had been worth it, though, because Coombs - the physics master - never left his desk, which meant they could do as they pleased without him noticing a thing. 

“He doesn’t wear a ring,” Thomas said quietly. In fact, as far as he had observed, none of their teachers were married. “Why?”

“Imagine having to wake up next to that face every day of your life. I think I would kill myself”

Coombs truly wasn’t a particularly pleasant sight, with a deep frown that never left his face, but his appearance was trumped by an even more unpleasant demeanour.

“But I bet Mellenby would love it,” Ballentine said as Mellenby, sat in the first row next to Cholmondeley, raised his hand in answer to a question Coombs hadn’t even gotten around to asking yet. 

“I think Mellenby is blinded by his love for the subject. There could be anyone else standing there and he probably wouldn’t even notice the difference,” Thomas said, although he felt bad talking about Mellenby behind his back. Somehow - Thomas still wasn’t sure when it had happened - they had become friends. 

“How can anyone enjoy this?” Ballentine grumbled as Coombs wrote some indecipherable equation on the board, “this is torture”

Thomas shrugged. He couldn’t understand it either, after all.

After class they pushed through the stream of students trying to get outside, and wandered off to the small group of trees that had become their usual spot. Ballentine dropped his bag on the grass and flopped down beside it, Thomas following suit just moments later, bedding his head on his book bag. He closed his eyes, and did his best to soak up the remaining sun before it disappeared for the winter. It was still unusually warm, and all of them - except for Mellenby, perpetual resident of the library - were spending as much time outside as possible.

“Did you do the Latin translation for tomorrow?” asked Horace Greenway, who hadn’t been with them just a few moments before.

Thomas cracked open an eye to make sure Greenway was talking to him and not somebody else who had joined them without Thomas noticing and was one of the three students in their class who actually did the translation - highly improbable but one had to hold on to hope in order to remain sane at times.

“Yes,” he said, “it was rather involved and complicated”

He enjoyed Latin and Ancient Greek, but there were some texts that were simply unpleasant to translate. German and French were more enjoyable in that way, and having students in their class who already spoke the language fluently certainly was a great help - even if Mellenby spoke German in a dialect no one could understand and most of the French Champers knew couldn’t be repeated in polite company. Still he preferred Latin and Greek. There was something about the distance in time, the mysticism, that made them rather enticing to him. 

“Not Seneca again, surely,” Greenway said.

“Afraid so”

Greenway and Ballentine groaned in unison.

“You can copy my translation,” Thomas, who’d known what Greenway wanted from the beginning, said, “but change the wording a bit, otherwise it’ll be obvious half the class didn’t do it and copied mine instead”

Mellenby had copied it as soon as Thomas had been finished, in exchange for his physics and chemistry work, and Cholmondeley had undoubtedly asked Mellenby. Pascal and Champers had both asked for it earlier than morning, and Sanders was likely going to do so as well, shortly before Lights. That the Latin master - Timmins - hadn’t noticed yet was a miracle. 

He had to sit up to pull the translation out of his bag, which was rather a shame considering how the sun had felt on his face, and he leaned back as soon he had handed the pages over to Greenway. 

“You’re a saint, Nightingale”

“I know”

“If Timmins notices something we can just say we did it together,” Ballentine said as he moved closer to Greenway, so he could get a better look”

“Ten people doing a translation together is very believable. You could, of course, try to do it on your own,” Thomas suggested, “then you wouldn’t have to lie about it”

“With weather like this? It should be a crime to make us do this the first week back”

Thomas moved his head so he could watch the other students spread out across the lawn while his friends wrote as quickly as they could. Most of the boys were gathered in small groups of three or four, but there were a few larger groups as well. What looked like the Upper Sixth Formers had started an impromptu rugby game, and a few of the younger students had gathered around them to watch. 

“Sanders said the Lower Sixth has smuggled in beer for the campfires tomorrow,” Ballentine said, “and apparently we are getting some as well”

“Really?” Thomas asked, interest piqued. He’d tried alcohol for the first time that summer, sneaked out of the kitchen by Pip, while everyone else had been distracted by their grandfather’s birthday celebration. They’d shared it late that night, Pip, Thomas and Stephen, in the bedroom that Thomas had been sharing with Spud since he had been old enough to move out of the nursery, and sometimes with Pip as well, whenever he was forced to surrender his bedroom to Aunt Anthea’s brood when they came to visit. 

It had been wine then, not beer, but at the thought of the buzz that had settled over him after the first few sips Thomas didn’t much care what he had to drink to feel it again.

“Don’t tell the swots, though,” Ballentine said, “I wouldn’t put it past them to go to Marriott with it”

Thomas had helped him down, once he had found out about it, but to this day he wasn’t sure how long Cholmondeley had been in that tree. The Masters had been livid, of course, but Cholmondeley had refused to say anything about what had happened, so they couldn’t prove that it had been Ballentine. 

Greenway shook his head. “I don’t think so. Mellenby sneaks out of the dorms almost every night, which I am sure he doesn’t want to get to Marriott, and Cholmondeley won’t do something like that on his own. He knows what is going to happen if he does”

Everyone knew what was going to happen, they’d seen it before. Early into their second year Cholmoneley had corrected something Ballentine had said in class and, not five hours later, had found himself in one of the trees farthest away from the buildings, dangling upside down from one of the lower branches. 

Everyone knew, though. And everyone had understood that they shouldn’t get into his way, unless they were confident that they could hold their own against him. 

“If we asked them they might even join us this time,” Thomas suggested, “no point in ratting us out if they’re benefitting from the contraband as well”

“Invite Mellenby and Cholmondeley to our bonfire? The only thing they talk about is science - and in a frightfully boring way at that”

“They’re not that bad, once you get to know them”

“You have been spending an awful lot of time with Mellenby,” said Greenway, “but I had thought that was under duress”

“It was at first, but he’s gotten easier so get along with, over time. He even let’s me copy his homework at times”

“And why is this the first we hear about that? Last term Dudders made me do his filing because I hadn’t done my exercises”

“Mellenby doesn’t want me to pass on his work. Apparently we are never going to learn if we just copy from him”

 “I can live a happy and fulfilled life without understanding physics or chemistry,” said Greenway, “in fact my life would vastly improve if I never had to bother with it again”

“I’ve told him the same,” said Thomas, “he doesn’t believe me. And I am sure he will try to argue with you about it”

*

Beer, Thomas decided, was his new favourite thing in the world. He’d managed to secure a second bottle before the lower sixth formers had run out of their stock to pass around, and he cradled it to his chest as if it was made out of solid gold.

Although it was autumn the night was still warm, and most of the students were out in the woods, for what would be the last campfires of the year. Thomas had settled on a log close to the fire and watched Mellenby and Cholmondeley, both bent over a book listing the most common spirits in England, discussing which one they should try to summon later.

“Are we in the lead up to Ballentine and Mellenby bashing each others heads in where the Masters won’t see?” Danny Shanks asked, sitting next to Thomas, alas sans beer, “or what is happening here, exactly”

“Mellenby is going to try and summon a spirit - not sure which one”

“You put him up to that, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about”

Shanks raised an eyebrow. “Why would Mellenby choose to do that here, in front of all of us”

“He does like to show off, in case you hadn’t noticed”

“But he hasn’t actually summoned a demon before, has he? The way I see it he is setting himself up for failure”

“Ballentine might have, ahem, suggested the same last night at dinner,” Thomas said and took a sip of his beer, “in front of everyone” Shanks hadn’t been there, instead serving detention once again.

Shanks scoffed. “Do you think he can do it?”

Thomas shrugged. “I think if he doesn’t succeed now he’ll spent every waking hour trying until he does. So I hope he’ll manage it, for the sake of our sanity”

[flawed-menagerie]

Luminary Festival - Auren Farkis

Crisp reverberating strings danced through the evening. Notes twisted and echoed up through the emerald, velvet tiers of Ridgedow Gardens. Dusk’s veil had long since darkened to a diamond-encrusted black, and Clarglow was alive with activity. 

Footpaths were choked with revellers that formed a river of light that coursed and pulsed through the park. Will-o-whisp spots of light also glowed among the neatly trimmed hedgerows and statues. Their magic-addled voices rose up, joining in with the music of the Luminary Festival. 

A young man, no more than a quarter of a century old, glowed brightest of all. A soft orange radiated from his eyes, and his veins pulsed a brilliant red. He was dripping in gold and gems. Over an outfit that somehow managed to be heavily layered and revealing at the same time, he wore a sheer cape, which was heavily embroidered with blood-red crystals that refracted his own light around him in dazzling, concentrated rays. It was such a dangerous colour of magic, but his expression was soft and dreamy.

Excited laughter rose up as a clustered group shot metallic confetti skyward. Gold flake drifted down and settled into his silver hair, cheeks, and shoulders. No doubt he would discover the remnants of this festival in his home weeks from now. He increased his pace, stepping off the cobbled path to overtake the group, when one of their number split from the group. The coils of her dark hair were so saturated with gold that she looked like she belonged on a pedestal next to the other statues. 

She intercepted him, matching his pace. She snaked a long, slender arm around his waist and pulled him closer. She pressed her lips against his neck, leaving a wake of golden kisses up to his earlobe, where she leaned closer to whisper.  

— “Aurie, Luv,  I know that look. Don’t tell me you’re headed home. The eve has only just begun. “ 

Her glowing eyes Locked with Auren’s, her grip tightening, slowing the both of them to a stop, causing a temporary blockage in the flow of people. 

“Overdid myself Mel.. you’ll have to –”

–” Come with us to the reflecting pool.” She cooed, meeting his lips in an off-center kiss, smearing his inky wine lipstick. Momentarily, he allowed himself to relax. He considered saying yes. His heart pounding, he dipped his friend backwards gracefully, resenting that he had to leave. An itch in his left arm reminded his fuzzy brain that he was in danger. 

Gasping softly, he gently lifted Mella upright and spun her out towards her friends, who were growing impatient.  He couldn’t make out their faces in the fuzz of the evening. “I can’t, I’m sorry Mel! We’ll talk later.” Before she could protest, he danced, spinning forward in a brilliant display of speed that ended in a stumble as he met a set of steep steps that coiled sharply upwards out of the park and onto the pink brick streets overlooking Ridgedow Gardens. The glazed windows facing the street were empty and blank… their occupants elsewhere, enjoying the festival. The empty buildings were like faces, judging him for his lack of zeal. 

Auren wound his way through streets and side streets, his pace increasing as he grew more and more alone. Finally, he was climbing a set of steps to his own front door. Smirking at the sight of it he reached down into the front of the bodice that held together the layers of his outfit pulling free a loop of keys that were on a long chain looped around his neck. Aligning it to the keyhole he struggled with the lock, cursing softly under his breath as it initially failed to cooperate with him. 

In the quiet black of his foyer, he latched the door behind him and stumbled forward, tearing at the ribbon that held the gleaming cape that draped from his bare shoulders. He let it drop on a black lacquered table. He reached up to unclasp an elaborate choker and tore his single, crimson glove down from his elbow. He pressed a gilded fingernail against a band of red ink encroached upon by a spreading corruption. Marginally extending beyond the band were sinews of mismatched muscle and skin; even his hair had begun to glow red.

Pulse rising, he wrenched his rings from his fingers, casting them into the ever-darkening room. Precious jewellery piled under him until only the dimmest glow from his own veins remained.. Slumping onto the steps, he tightened his grip on his arm and twisted it ninety degrees. A sharp click of crystal against porcelain met his ears. The room was enveloped in black as his final stone slid away from his arm, rendering the prosthesis inert. He slid to his side, the sounds of the party below overtaken by his own gasping breaths, panic refusing to subside alongside his magic.