#the new and Untouchable Death Row Records

[dollarbin]

Mitchell Mondays #2:

Eastern Rain

My famous brother spent much of the last week bragging about how he'd taken in all 27 hours of Bob Dylan's latest archival release. I'd love to follow in his audio footsteps and listen to all of Bobby's 74 live recordings but I'm afraid there'd be some serious repercussions:

To begin, my work computer would give up the ghost. The machine is over a dozen years old and already on its last legs, laboring under the weight of some 30,000 MP3 files and 20 years of work documents. Every time I download another Neil Young bootleg compliments of my brother's fantastic blog the thing shudders, buckles and wavers somewhere between life and death. If that box could talk it would have nothing but curse words to hurl in my direction.

My trusty old IPod would beg for mercy. Forever addled with 22,000+ songs, it no longer holds a charge for more than 10 seconds and crashes every time I transfer antique docking stations. I'm so practiced at resuscitating it that it's a shame I wasn't on hand when Steven Jobs croaked. Plus the thing often insists boy genius is playing when I'm listening to Miles Davis. There are currently just 23 MBTs or GPTs or whatever of space left on it. Attempting to sneak 27 more hours of Dylan into its guts would be like entering me and my bald spot mid-school year and in-between shaves in a beauty pageant: things would get real ugly real fast.

Plus I'd be broke! The thing is retailing for $130 and I don't have 130 cents. Frankly, I find it incomprehensible that, given my track record of getting drunk and blogging while listening to Dylan's 70's live albums, Dylan's people have yet to send me a complimentary copy. Get to work all you Dylan-people: supply the Dollar Bin with free stuff already!

Finally, if I started in on 27 hours of Dylan and the Band in our kitchen my family would all rise up, don war-shirts and take to the streets against me. I once attempted to listen to every pass Dylan took on Idiot Wind in a row on a family car trip. In my defense I thought they'd all fall asleep or not notice what I was doing. But after just two and half glacial versions I was forced to abandon my attempt. It was either that or abandon my marriage.

Happily, my famous brother shouldered these risks for me and you and emerged unscathed, though one wonders whether his big deal wife made like a desperate farmer in a Dylan song and fingered the familial hatchet with menace once Bob and the Boys struck up their 64th rip roaring version of Hollis Brown.

Good bananas, this version, in which my brother astutely hears the rhythmic foundations of Shakey's Revolution Blues, truly cooks. Seven new people were probably born right there in the theater while Bob, Richard and everybody else pounded the hell outta this thing. Robbie Robertson: wow.

But the new Dylan collection's crown jewel, again according to the only human being on earth who has actually listened to the whole thing, is a song Dylan apparently couldn't find any room for on any of his 70's records. Apparently he thought New Pony was better than this greatness.

Imagine shrugging off and then forgetting altogether a song this dense and fruitful. Dylan, of course, built up a good deal of his cult following on equally stupid decisions: Union Sundown instead of Blind Willie McTell? Sure. Joey over Abandoned Love? Why not! Disease of Conceit when he had Series of Dreams? Definitely. Stupid apparently leads to genius if you're Bob Dylan.

But dare we say the same thing about Joni Mitchell? Once RBG died, Brandi Carlile forcefully placed Joni on our throne of liberal untouchability: criticize her and you'll suffer the progressive culture's wrath.

I'm as thrilled as you are to see Mitchell alive and well, but I think treating her like a Ming vase sucks. This is the Dollar Bin, not the Louvre, and we like our artists brilliant and flawed.

Consider: Mitchell routinely showed up to parties in the late 70's in blackface, then she memorialized the whole act on an album cover. Plus she once hired Billy Idol to accompany her on a song called Dancing Clown. Joni's not precious nor perfect; she's flawed, and she's awesome.

And she too was capable of Dylan-level dumbness.

Which brings us to Eastern Rain. When her Archives project was announced a few years back I couldn't wait to finally hear a studio take of her complex and rich song which was made famous by Fairport Convention.

But apparently Mitchell never even attempted the song for an album. All we've got after three archive collections are two live versions. They're both great, even if they include a twice repeated bridge which Fairport were wise to jettison.

Just imagine if she'd cut this song for Hissing of Summer Lawns. Lyrically it would interfere - I get that - but can't you just imagine the record's swooping bass laid over lush vibes and rich vocals? Eastern Rain could have served as yet another cornerstone of that incomparable record.

Then again, maybe the song is just cursed in some way; after all even Fairport Convention were dumb with it. Just listen to how much better everything sounds on this outtake version when Ian Matthews gets outta Sandy's way:

[junokuth]

007_009_0023_09_clear

The Eye was an imposing structure, shredding clouds around its shining bulk. It stood on the hill where no bones, no remnants of life were ever found and to this day we could hardly imagine who or how or why would be inspired to build such a structure.

To us, it mattered not. We had our own unimaginable invention to pursue, and this old relic was the perfect site for the testing. We set the vans a few kilometres away, countless assistants running back and forth with bags and bags of wires, microphones and video recorders. We watched them set the periphery up, while we ourselves carried the main apparatus.

It looked, well to be frank, way more sinister than I originally planned. Especially surrounded by mossy rock and rows of staring assistants whose bated breath sounded like waves. An angular amalgamation of engines, cameras and propellers.

In spite of its components, its purpose was unclear. You see, we found the plans hidden in the farthest corner of the table of our deceased colleague. She passed away too soon, we've grieved her and in search of reason, we've found this. It would be easier to set aside the curiosity and let all settle into the new reality, were it not for how odd was her death.

She was found dead. But was not known to actually have died. She was no longer with us. And yet she was around. The circumstances of whatever happened to her make it tricky to write even that, though of course that is not enough of information to actually understand. I know that, and now you see what I mean. Such occurrence is not something one can simply put aside.

We're scheduled to run the tests tomorrow. Then, a week of preparations, we've yet to finish evacuating the nearby towns and authorities are terrible at doing that. When the last assistants leave, there's going to be only five of us in the ten kilometre radius. I can only hope that is enough.

One would've realised something was off way earlier than we have, I presume. Those untouched by grief, with stable minds and judgement clean of alcohol or medications, would know that the pulling sense we all have felt was not one of our own volition. Would notice the draining hold it had on us before it was too late, before we stood on the edge of the abyss and knew there would be nothing there to make it worth the carnage.

This, this makes it easier to bare. My thoughts kept safe by paper where it can no longer twist them, feast on winding paths of memories no longer mine. I will do what I can to stop it, I know that now, but there are five of us. And I can only hope they'll be too distracted by explosions to stop my last resolve.

009_240609_1948_0023_09_clear_007_240607

[geminixevans-stan]

Found Ch. 2

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Female Reader

Words: 2.1k+

Summary: After finally finding out reader’s whereabouts, Lloyd comes to make up for lost time, by any means necessary 

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, mentions of past life, mentions of gun use, a smidge of violence, mentions of headshots, explicit language. 

A/N: I’m back to this unhinged man! I enjoyed writing this after my long stint of not writing and I hope you all love it!  Like, comment, & reblog! ♥

Divider by @firefly-graphics

I do not consent to my work being copied, plagiarized, or translated in any way >:P

Flashback

You stare at the detailed brief, scanning over it twice… three times. The mission seemed like an easy feat, one that you felt needed no help on. But you were the newbie, a fresh face is what the director described. 

Graduating at the top of your class, excelling is every single test, you were deemed overly qualified for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. 

Your skills were one to envy, with perfect scores on all targets, there was no better shooter than you. Even on your worst day, the best agent couldn’t even get close to you. 

It took you a while to be seen by someone who actually respected your qualifications. But it was work unlike you had ever seen. 

It didn’t matter the target that you were assigned. If it had a pulse, it wouldn’t be once    Le silencieux came in and did what needed to be done. 

News of your abilities circled around until An Agency decided to take you in. Promising you bigger targets with bigger pay. You would kill anyone. Almost. 

Children were always off limits…

Something that the agency respected. Seeming as though they had other contractors that would do that side of the dirty work. 

You didn’t need anybody to help you. Which was why as you look at the brief one more time, there was a point of contact. A supervisor that would be accompanying you on said mission. 

Lloyd Hansen was a household name and when the agency needed effective work, he was the guy to call. That was up until you came along and he got wind of your talents. 

If it wasn’t your job in Berlin that alerted him of your prowess, it was definitely your last job or taking out one of the top-paid tycoons on the West Coast of America. 

Said to be the most untouchable mogul in the world, you decided to prove that theory otherwise. To the media, the cause of the death was natural causes. 

But Lloyd knew better. He looked over the autopsy reports over and over. You left everything pristine and even he would roll his eyes at having to do extra work. 

It didn’t take him much asking to be put to watch over you. With a record like yours, you didn’t need a babysitter. 

He just wanted to have a front-row seat to just how good you were…. 

Present Day

Your fingers hit the numbers on the keypad quicker than you’ve ever moved, hearing the access notification. With no time to waste, you motion for Lloyd to enter, smelling the same scent that you knew so well. 

As the door closes by your hand alone, silence fills the room. The tension was as loud as ever and you wanted nothing more than to quell the impending elephant in the room. 

“Nice office ya got here munchkin,” Lloyd’s voice comes into play as she looks around the modern study. 

Professional and well organized to the naked eye and you wanted to keep it that way. 

Pleasantries weren’t something that you really had time for. The reason for your disappearance stood before you, that smug smirk on his face as he set his eyes on you. 

It was maddening the way one look could annoy all the fibers in your being. He was the only one that could do that. 

And nothing had changed from then to now. 

Steel is held to your waist, not letting your finger slip from the trigger as you look over at Lloyd, the annoyance already rolling off you. 

“You’re not here to talk interior decorating and I don’t have time to talk nice,” you say curtly, your feet planted in the same spot, “Now… What do you want?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Can never tell with you Lloyd. You’re not very good at context clues. Cut the shit.”

Lloyd stares into you, a soft smirk weighing on his lips as he pulls his gun from the holster, automatically making you draw yours. 

“Easy there sharp shooter… I come in peace for the moment,” a grin spreading across his face as she sits on the edge of your desk. 

You don’t trust him and he knows that by the way your gun is still pointing at him between the eyes. 

He sits there on the desk, watching you… studying you even, looking at the slight changes of your compared to years ago. 

Still as beautiful as he remembered but more… scared. 

Like you finally had something or someone to lose… 

If it was one thing you knew: Lloyd Hansen Never puts his gun down. For once, you decided to trust him. Whatever he wanted needed to be said now. No telling when exactly Lili would wake up. 

With reluctance, you place your guns in their holsters, making sure you had easy access in case he had any ideas. 

“Why are you here?”

“Colibri…”

“Don’t,” you say sharply, your voice not faltering, “You don’t get to call me that…”

A frown sets on his lips, the tick in his jaw evident as he clenches his fist, “You left… without a word. Care to explain that?” 

You smirk, deciding to play him at his own game, “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Cute… real cute cupcake,” the deep chuckle coming from his throat, his eyes boring into yours, “You know… I hate broken families,” He starts off, raising from his makeshift seat and walking over to you. 

His height towered over you but it didn’t matter. You were the only woman to ever to bring Lloyd Hansen to his knees. A feat that even the most notorious assassin couldn’t even do. 

You never budged as he stalked closer, his cologne just barely kissing the insides of your nostrils.

Still bold with a hint of sweetness, just like the scent you got for him, courtesy of your many stays in France. 

Lloyd bends just a little to meet your eye level, shamelessly breathing you in as he lets out a low groan, “Still as delicious as I remember… I would hate to have to slowly get my answer from you ma douce and you know I can take my time very well. Start talking.”

If an answer was all he wanted, then that’s what you would give. You had no problem hurting his feelings when he had his hands on Lili. That was his first and only strike. 

You let out a steady breath, keeping eye contact with him as you began to speak, “It’s not rocket science. I got pregnant and knew the second that it was real that my old life was done. There was no way that I was going to bring a baby into this mess. She didn’t deserve to have an unhinged father like you,”

Lloyd stayed quiet, waiting for your next words. He knew you were far from finished. 

“And I was right… Here you come and kill her nanny, break into her room, and demand answers. Dad of the freaking year.” 

“Only two of those are right ma douce..” 

He answers while holding up two fingers, his voice void of emotion. The desk becomes his seat again as she swings his leg over the front, staring at you once more. 

“I would never kill our daughter’s nanny. She does need looking over after all. Since you think you know what kind of father I am, you would have known that.”

Your eyes begin to soften a bit, bringing fixing them back to how they were, “Never thought I’d see the day that you would have a moral compass. I’m touched,” you say flatly. 

“I still don’t Colibri but, I’ll make an exception this time.”

A slow clap fills the room as you begin to mock him, “I should be honored huh? At least you care a little. I’ll give you that much. She’s still my daughter. The only thing you did was deposit a weak sample.”

“My ‘samples’ were what you used to crave at one point in time. You can play coy all you want but we both know the truth ma douce…”

No matter how wrong you wanted him to be, Lloyd was once all you cared about. All you yearned for. You knew deep down he could never love. 

You blink away for a second, setting your sights back on him, “You’re right, there was a strong one out of the bunch. Ya did some good in that retrospect.”

“What can I say ma douce, I never disappoint…”

“And yet you’re still here… I told you what you wanted to know. You got what you wanted,” you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. 

Lloyd was never easy… 

He gives you a knowing look, the tick in his jaw back again as he grew more annoyed. 

You needed him out of your house and far away from Liana… She didn’t need him and neither did you.

Without a second thought, you walk around him and sit in your rightful seat, blowing out a slow breath.

“I know you, Lloyd. The minute she would have been of age. You would have taken her and made her into your image. I’ve seen it before…”

There was no proof that Lloyd would have taken Lili down the same road as your father did. But, you weren’t going to take any chances. 

You were made into a weapon far before you were even a teenager. Target practice, day in and day out, combat practice when you turned eight. 

To say you had a sliver of a childhood would have been a lie. You never even wanted children for that sole purpose alone. 

But your surprise child softened you the minute you heard her heart beating. 

Loud snapping took you from your thoughts, Lloyd’s face almost touching yours. 

“Whatever daddy issues you may have has nothing to do with me. You took time away from me and I’m ready to collect on it.”

“You won’t go near her again”

“Watch me.”

“We both know how this will end, Lloyd. Do you really want to do this?”

Lloyd leans up from you, standing up from the desk, his lips pulled in a thin line, “I’ll give you two options sweets. The easy way or the hard way.” 

A chuckle erupts from your lips, stopping just as fast as it started. 

“You know I love the hard way Lloyd and if that means putting a bullet through your fucking head, then I will.”

A soft knock interrupts you both as you stand up, only for your face to meet the desk hard as Lloyd crossed over to slam you down.

The soft knocking continues as you begin to struggle, feel the tight grip Lloyd has on your arm. 

“Mommy?” a soft muffled voice comes from behind the door, causing your fight reaction to rise. But your strength is no match for the pressure Lloyd has on you. 

Cold steel meets your temple, Lloyd’s breath, coasting over your ear, “As I said before… I hate broken families. But I’ll splatter your brains on this desk and make our daughter half an orphan,” you struggle against his hold as he slams you down again, the knocking continuing to ensue. 

“Just a minute baby! Mommy’s coming,” your voice shakes, hot tears prickling the corners of your eyes. 

The knocking stops, knowing that she’s waiting, you lift your head up a bit to listen to the man keeping you from your baby. 

You relax a little eliciting a content sight from Lloyd, “That’s good… compliance is all I asked for. Now, you take your ass to that door so I can meet my daughter. You’ve wasted enough of my time so make it quick,” he spat, releasing you from his hold as you stood up and walk to the door. 

As you turn the knob, the fear that you had the day Liana was born came back to you. All the running that you did still wasn’t enough. It was now or never and weren’t going to leave Lili in the hands of just Lloyd. 

The door opens and her large stuffed rabbit meets your eyesight before she does. Her eyes are still low, sleep still apparent in her. 

“You okay sweetie?” bending down to check the warmth of her forehead, “Still not feeling good?”

Lili shakes her head, hugging her rabbit as she looks behind you, “Mommy? Who’s that?”

The question that you never wanted to answer. But it was staring you right in the face and the last thing that you wanted to do was to lie to her. 

The words were lost on your tongue as you know that this choice could make or break the only person in the world that truly loved you. 

Your creation wanted answers and you wouldn’t make her wait and let her lose more sleep. 

But it wasn’t you that answered the question. You didn’t even know that Lloyd was behind you until you heard a tone that was only ever meant for you. 

Softness…

“Hi there Princess Liana… I think it’s time we formally met…”

[translations-by-aiimee]

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 13

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 13 - Doubt

In the archaeological internship Lin Yan participated in, the Ming Tomb was undoubtedly a very peculiar place. The excavation work lasted three months. Before the excavation started, Lin Yan didn't even get any relevant background information. He asked his professor several times but never got a response. When he was told that would be staying at the tomb for only a week, he thought he was coming to be the team's water boy. Instead, he was unexpectedly sent to the site as soon as the plane touched down and was given one of the most important jobs of cleaning the body found in the main room of the tomb.

It was a medium-sized underground mysterious tomb. Bluestone blocks were built into arches. The apse in the room was about forty meters long. A large black lacquered coffin left slightly ajar rested peacefully on the stone platform. Lin Yan and the rest of the crew held their breath together. When the golden nanmu wood coffin lid was slowly lifted, and the gold, silver, jade and rosy brocade around the corpse were exposed, a soft cheer erupted from the tomb. Everyone couldn't help but celebrate that they found such an magnificent mausoleum that had been left completely untouched by tomb robbers. After a long while, all nonessential personnel evacuated one by one. Lin Yan remembered that the professor was the last one to leave the scene. When he left, he rested his hand heavily on his shoulders, as if he wanted to say something but never ended up getting anything out. In the empty and dark main room of the tomb, only Lin Yan and a few lights, both bright and dim, were left. Sometimes, the miner's lamp was often extinguished inexplicably. He later recalled that the owner of the tomb might have been watching him ever since then.

The corpse in the coffin had rotted into a skeleton, but the hair that remained was soft and shiny. However, when Lin Yan sat alone by the coffin and skimmed through some history books, doubts arose. The identity of the owner of the tomb was like the bronze of this mysterious palace, unrecognizable under the green rust. There was no record, no genealogy, nothing even mentioned in town and county chronologies. The tomb's eternal light placed in front of the coffin had long been dried up, and a two-foot-long black name card behind it was coated with thick old blood. The place where the name should be written was empty, and it turned out to be a non-character memorial tablet.

When the last artifact in the coffin was successfully taken out, Lin Yan was told he could return. It only took them seven days and no one had ever told him about the origin of the tomb that whole time.

The sun was shining on Friday morning, and the roses in the flower bed were rushing to bloom. There was a soft fragrance of something oily like burning opium in the air. Lin Yan parked his car at the school gate and hurried through the small square in front of the building to get to the professor's office. He was in such a rush that he went through the ground fountain in the square. After he took a few steps, bells and drums started playing and spurts of water shot from the jets, the surrounding area immediately turning into a forest of water columns shooting up.

"Shit. . ." He couldn't dodge them and got completely soaked. Lin Yan internally cursed as he rushed forward, wringing out the hem of his shirt. A few school girls had just come out of the main entrance of the building and giggled at the embarrassing scene.

Lin Yan blushed a little.

Shiny drops of water splashed off his hair and a droplet fell into his eye. When he raised his hand to wipe it away, his wrist was caught by someone. The cold fingertips wiped the drop off one of his eyelashes. Lin Yan blinked and stood there silently.

When he walked up the steps, he saw a new large poster on the left side of the automatic door. A gentle-looking middle-aged man with glasses was holding a pen, and his demeanour resembled an unopened folder in a stationery store. There was a large line next to him: Chen XX, a well-known Chinese history professor, is coming to our school to give a lecture. All students are welcome to participate. This will be a great chance to interact with the professor.

The tune played was one typically used by the Propaganda Department, the following rows of small letters are written with the specific time and content of the event. Lin Yan struggled to twist the hem of the wet T-shirt and walked towards the hall, muttering that this was probably the reason that the fountain suddenly turned on. Turning back, he frowned and stood in front of the poster for a minute. He always felt that the man on the poster was a bit familiar, but he couldn't remember who it was. After thinking about it for a while, Lin Yan shook his head and stepped through the hall.

The professor's office was on the fourth floor.

"Professor, are you kidding me? From the preliminary preparations to the end of the tomb excavation, so many people participated in it. How could it be possible that nothing about the tomb owner's origins could be found until now?"

"That tomb was already considered to be average to wealthy for the time period. Even if the owner of the tomb was not of official origin, there is always a record in historical records for wealthy businessmen."

University institutions were never busy on Fridays. Everyone was waiting for the weekend. Lin Yan’s professor was no exception. He was sitting in the office with his legs crossed when the drenched student burst into his office. Behind the table, he held a heavy purple sand teacup in his hand. Because he often went to the West in his early years, his skin was wrinkled by the wind and frost. His midsection was blessed by some middle-aged fat, and the bags under the eyes were hanging loosely behind the glasses.

The professor grew impatient with Lin Yan's aggressive tone, and patted a stack of books on the table: "Isn't that so? You see, I'm more worried about writing a report on the excavation. I've been busy for more than a month and I haven't made any progress."

Lin Yan leaned forward impatiently with his hands on the glass plate of the tabletop: "The mausoleum was left untouched. The body and burial items were intact. Isn't it possible to determine the identity of the tomb owner?"

This student had always been known for his politeness and patience. It was rare for him to be this anxious.

"That's the problem. Comparing the data compiled based on the unearthed cultural relics with the records at the time, I can only say that he's completely unknown." The professor put down the cup and tapped his finger on the cover of the book a few times: "Ming Dynasty history is not my specialty. Tell me, why don't you do some research yourself? The students in our school must be able to research independently. You should make good use of the school library resources."

Lin Yan shook his head disappointedly. Just like the professor said, there was a lot of historical data to go through. He wouldn't make any progress in the next three months. Even three years might not be enough time to go through all the information. By then, he would have run out of ten lives. What's more, he has searched through the relevant history books of the library for the past week and even asked Yin Zhou to search through the database in less legal ways, but the strange thing is that no matter what keywords they use - the age, name, location - he couldn't find any information. It was common sense that, in ancient times, even a talented person would be written about somewhere in the county annals, but this Xiao Yu was like a person from another world. The records passed over him like he had never existed.

The faint scent of book pages and wood was floating in the air, and the light blue shutters broke up the rays of sun leaking in. Lin Yan subconsciously glanced back, as if there should be a companion waiting to respond to his doubts. But Xiao Yu does exist, he thought.

Trying his best to stay calm, Lin Yan lowered his head and lowered his voice: "Teacher, this is really important to me, can you help. . ." While speaking, his gaze was fixed on the table. Under the glass plate were many old photos of the professor when he was young. There was a row of people wearing work clothes and hard hats in the black-and-white pictures. Compared to the middle-aged man with swollen eyes in front of him, there was a strange sense of contradiction in the gray-headed but happy-looking man in the pictures.

Time really did wonders.

The instructor tapped two fingers on the table. He didn't look at Lin Yan when he spoke. His eyes were a little dodged: "Why do you need to know the owner of the tomb? Do you need to write a paper?"

Lin Yan took a deep breath. He had always had a keen insight into people's emotions. When he had been sorting through clues last night, the situation that occurred in the tomb flashed in his mind. He had already had his doubts at the time, but he was so nervous and excited that he didn't think too much of it. For example, ever since he joined the team, everyone had been keeping secrets, and the professor also looked at him with that dodgy look when the excavators all left the tomb. The whole thing seemed to have been arranged long ago, so Lin Yan hadn't cared about interrupting the teacher's off-time and grabbed the phone to set up a meeting time.

"Professor, you should know why; this is a matter of life and death." After hesitating for a moment, Lin Yan frowned and said this sentence with emphasis. He pressed his hands on the table hard and turned away.

When I walked to the door of the office. He paused, one, two. . . Lin Yan counted silently in his heart.

Three.

"Wait." The professor's voice sounded from behind.

"Lin Yan, this project isn't under my control. I just heard that a lot of strange things happened when the tomb was opened. Someone came to me and asked you to go. I didn't agree with it. . . If you really want to know more, you can go ask the coordinator of the excavation yourself." The finger tapped twice on the desk. "His name is Chen, he'll be at our school next Monday for a lecture. There are posters downstairs." After speaking, he took a few volumes from the neatly arranged books and put them back on the table, gesturing that he could leave. "You can get more out of him than me"

"Last question." Lin Yan held the door frame and poked his face in: "Teacher, do you know Xiao Yu?"

"No, I don't." The answer was quick this time: "Who's that?"

Lin Yan sighed and held the railing as he quickly walked downstairs.

[sepublic]

The Mountain

          In the mountainous regions of the Artidax District lies a sole mountain. While all other peaks on Xia have been mined, stripped, harvested, and built upon, this lone mountain stands out amongst the rest as being entirely bare. With the exception of sparse grasses and trees around its base that get thinner further up the mountain’s length, this mountain is mostly desolate, with an icy, snow-topped peak. Several animals live on this mountain, free from the influence of Xian industry.

          This mountain is the largest in all of Xia, and its peak is visible amidst the skylines of the cursed land’s cities. Given Dume’s controlling nature, it is unusual to see the island’s largest mountain entirely untouched, and no doubt the view from its peak could be enjoyable for nobles desiring a mountain resort. So why is this mountain left bare and untouched, graced only by Xia’s few remaining animals?

          Some will tell you this mountain is cursed, and it is… But to put it forth as simply and bluntly as possible, to the point without any metaphors;

          The Mountain is alive. It is a living creature, and it devours anything that steps upon its surface and garners its attention.

          The exact nature of The Mountain is uncertain. Various tales and rumors have sprung up explaining the unusual phenomenon; Some claim it is a rogue Xian Heart of Stone. Others believe it arose after the site of horrific crimes against humanity, watered and fed by the slain blood of the innocent. A few even assert that The Mountain is actually infested by nearly microscopic creatures that pry open the earth to trap prey and devour it.

          Whatever the reason for The Mountain, it is certainly alive. Historical records and anecdotes allude to it being around centuries ago, as early as the beginning periods of Xia’s industrial age; Curiously, such records allude to it being much smaller than it currently is today. As of now, its growth seems to have halted, but nobody can say for sure.

          Regardless of its past, The Mountain’s current status is absolute and definite. On first appearance, it resembles just about any regular mountain, with some vegetation along its base, which begins to thin out further along its peak. At the very top is snow and ice, accumulated from the soaring peak’s unmatched altitude. All along the sheer cliff-faces and rocky slopes, one can find a couple of animals, from mountain goats to birds, to Cliff Screechers and Necrofinches and so forth.

          But scratch the gilded, seemingly-peaceful and natural surface of The Mountain, and one learns the truth. When cut, its grasses leak corrosive, burning acids. As for The Mountain itself… It does not feast too often. But when it does, it will suddenly shudder. A poor, hapless animal or any other victim on its side will be searched for, selected… And then the cliff-face will open. The stone itself will begin to absorb the body of its prey, folding in to ensnare its legs before curling in and crunching up the animal. Despite its cries for help and struggles, the prey will be unable to escape as it is slowly but surely absorbed into the face of The Mountain. The stone will close up permanently, and all that can be heard is the continued, muffled crunches of The Mountain from beneath its rocky surface.

          The Mountain’s living, all-devouring nature was discovered early in Xia’s industrial age, and for those reasons it was immediately left behind and forsaken as a spot for settlements. For the most part, it was left untouched, isolated to the frozen north; But eventually, development of that region for the computers of Xia began. The ice began to melt from massive swathes of heat pollution, but when progress made its way to The Mountain, now as large as the rest of its peers, explorers found themselves quickly eaten alive.

          Tales spread of The Mountain, but nobody could be bothered to kill it at the time. There was plenty of other space and real estate to use, and so The Mountain was left untouched as factories were set up elsewhere. Other peaks were used to establish broadcasting towers and satellite dishes, and The Mountain continued to be left unscathed.

          By the time of Turaga Dume’s rule as a dictator, he began to consider destroying The Mountain, finding the sight of it to be ugly; It was free and uncontrolled menace, rebelling against the very order he sought to maintain in Artidax. By then however, The Mountain was the largest peak in all of Xia, and a challenge much too difficult for him; A brief attempt to kill it by firing a Xian Heart of Fire into its side resulted in The Mountain suddenly trembling in pain. Due to its immense size, the tremors spread throughout Artidax, resulting in powerful quakes that devastated surrounding cities. If one continued trying to kill it, The Mountain’s thrashing death throes would tear apart and level most of Artidax. Humbled and defeated, Dume finally recognized the risk and power of The Mountain, and ceased any and all attempts to eradicate it henceforth.

          Besides- Even if he could destroy it, it was unlikely for Dume to be allowed to by many powerful Xians. For among certain circles of the Xian elite, there is a dark tradition, spanning back a few centuries… While most kingdoms that formed from the disappearance of the Barraki eventually industrialized, not all of them did so quickly, and not at the same time. Those near the north, within what was once Pridak’s domain, began to worship and deify The Mountain. They saw it as the embodiment of nature itself, here to test the power of Xians to survive at all odds.

          Enemies and death-row prisoners would be sacrificed to The Mountain, feeding the beast and enabling its growth. Not only that, but a tradition arose… Those who wished to ascend to the throne, either by slaying the current ruler or by inheriting it, must ascend its peak and return to prove their worth. If a Xian warrior could conquer The Mountain, then they had the ruthlessness and determination necessary to lead themselves and others to victory.

          Although this rite of passage was initially reserved for Xians in the region seeking political power and authority, as a means of proving themselves, it eventually spread throughout all of the societies surrounding The Mountain. Now, it became a rite of passage, a coming-of-age trial for the young of these groups to scale The Mountain. Those who returned were celebrated and hailed as adults; Those who didn’t were simultaneously mourned and disgraced posthumously. The Mountain itself gained religious significance and even deified by some.

          As the region developed into the Artidax District and the area industrialized, the tribes, kingdoms, and other groups around The Mountain followed suit. While many were relegated to thankless workers in factories, some were elevated to further status thanks to the accumulated wealth. As they had families that later inherited their wealth, the tradition of scaling The Mountain continued.

          Now, this dark tradition has persisted amongst certain members of the Xian elite. These ruthless members were either descendants of the original groups that practiced this rite, or were ‘inspired’ and chose to participate anyway. Amongst some noble families, it became required for an heir to scale The Mountain in order to earn their wealth; Likewise, it was also viable for siblings and relatives to compete for inheritance, by racing to the top of The Mountain and back. The first to come back received the most wealth; And if their opponent didn’t return, then they gained all of it! An overseer on a flying vehicle, and in later years a floating drone, would survey progress to test the legitimacy of an ascension and return, to ensure competitors did in fact go all the way up and down.

          For some companies, such as Vortixx Industries, ascending The Mountain became a requirement. If one intended to become CEO of the business, they needed to survive the journey; Competitors, if they returned alive, would be relegated to lower positions amongst the board and so forth. Unless the CEO was proven to be truly negligent and incompetent, they could not be fired; But someone else could challenge them for their position through The Mountain. The current CEO of Vortixx Industries, Roodaka, once ascended the peak with a friend during her youth- But when the friend’s foot was stuck in the cliff of The Mountain, which had just now begun to take notice of them, Roodaka was left with a choice;

          Save her pleading friend, and lead Vortixx Industries together as originally planned…

          …OR, take all of the power, wealth, and prestige for herself, and leave them behind, in turn not risking gathering The Mountain’s attention as well.

          Roodaka made a decision that day; And The Mountain enjoyed a new meal.

          Some tradition-bound Xian nobles will grant positions of wealth and prestige amongst the Xian elite to even the lowliest of commoners, but only if they successfully scale The Mountain. To these ‘Old Money’ folk, The Mountain is the true divider between the strong and the weak, and if a poor Xian can ascend it, then they deserve ascension on the societal level as well, or so the traditions claim at least. According to legend, those who reached the peak of The Mountain would grace the very surface of the heavens, closest to them than anyone else, before returning with their divine blessing to Xia below.

          Auditions to become a Xian noble are very few and far-between, and the elites who host such competitions can be rather picky and arbitrary about their choices. To be invited to compete is an incredibly rare opportunity, akin to winning the lottery; Especially since many races have ended with all competitors devoured by The Mountain anyway, no winner left to seize their respective portion of the prize.

          Due to the way wealth is distributed amongst those who successfully scale The Mountain, it is inevitable that most competitors would seek to sabotage, and even assassinate one another. The Mountain’s massive size means that it isn’t aware of everything happening along its body- It has to selectively search a location with its senses before settling on prey, and devouring it. Those who are stealthy and make little noise and don’t disturb The Mountain’s rocky surface can ideally get past without being noticed, so obviously Xians will sabotage one another by yelling, making noise, digging into the mountain-side, planting explosives, and so forth. Some will resort to outright killing one another in combat, or pushing them off the side of a cliff to be killed by the fall- The Mountain can sense blood and its attention is immediately drawn if so much as a drop lands on its surface.

          Some Xians will team up with one another, agreeing to help each other in order to guarantee survival and some degree of wealth, but of course the greedy will try betraying others at the last second, usually as they near the end of a descent. Some attempted betrayals have backfired, either from the greedy Xians being killed themselves by their betrayed comrades, or by The Mountain after its attention was gained through violence and bloodshed.

          Those who have earned the ire of a powerful noble will sometimes find themselves wrapped up and offered to The Mountain as tribute; But amongst such unfortunate Xians, some will be given the chance to survive on The Mountain for a certain period of time, and if still alive, will be granted either a lesser sentence or total amnesty. Unsurprisingly, Kratakal the celebrity has hosted a few brutal competitons on The Mountain for entertainment. Kratakal himself is immune to The Mountain, able to easily escape its grasp, and is unpalatable for it anyway, lacking any nutritional value and being too difficult to chew thanks to his invulnerable bohrok armor. Kratakal is amongst the small group of wealthy Xians who utilize The Mountain as a means of ascending select Xians to the nobility.

          Smaller predators still exist among The Mountain, furthering the danger; Animals continue to live on The Mountain, not only because it is possible to avoid its attention, but also because it is one of the few areas in Xia untouched by its industrial expansion. The Mountain itself is not gluttonous and will selectively desire a few meals every now and then to feed itself, but will otherwise leave its animal populations intact to breed and provide further steady streams of sustenance.

          Once The Mountain has a hold on someone, they are more-or-less screwed. It IS possible to break free of its grasp, but once its attention has been drawn, it will continue to pursue its prey by opening up massive chasms in its face until the meal inevitably falls in and is crunched apart. Victims that can fly have a decent chance of survival, but usually they’re much less weighty and nutritious than other meals, so they tend to be ignored by The Mountain anyway. Still, it’ll scavenge a dead corpse if given the chance. The Mountain hydrates itself with the blood of prey, but also with the snow and ice on its peak that melts into water.

          Although it was much more voracious in its younger years, happily devouring passing animals unaware of its true nature, as well as sacrifices and tributes, it has since settled down a bit more. Its massive form has become stable and hopefully reached the extent of its growth; Now, it requires surprisingly little to sustain itself, usually remaining in a deep slumber before periodically awakening to feed. The Mountain occasionally has feeding periods, where it remains awake for a certain amount of time, devouring plenty; It is during these recorded feeding periods that many ascensions up The Mountain are usually planned, to truly test Xian challengers.  

          Because of The Mountain’s danger, real estate along its base is incredibly cheap, but few are willing to buy land there. While its reach is technically limited and there is a certain boundary where the earth is not a part of The Mountain, nobody wants to risk it.

[aconitemare]

[jaydick fic] Before That, And Colder

Chapter One

Summary:  It's been over a year since Dick left Spyral. He's finally settling back into his old life, but his time undercover has unsettled the dust that once collected over the past. Now Dick has a barrage of untouched memories to sort through and yet another Batman case summoning him away from the 'Haven. And while Dick is catching up to his past, Jason's is catching up to him.

AO3

Next Chapter 

The Batcave has a myriad of underground tunnels leading to it from miles around, but Dick as usual enters through the same trapdoor in the study he used as a kid. This library is more modest than the others Bruce keeps, with tenfold the ambiance. The books flaunt their withered spines and yellowed pages, elders of an erudite community, and intrigue emanates from the very dust collecting atop shelves and between pages. This is not a room Alfred obligates himself to maintain quite so keenly. His neglect may be strategic, some emergency deterrent to wandering guests with sensitive allergies. Not that a guest has ever, at least to Dick’s knowledge, made it this deep into the Manor. 

This particular room also features in a long-standing, recurring dream Dick has had since he was ten years old. The dream has aged with him; the details are softer, more nebulous — his subconscious could once recall the exact titles on each book’s spine, the precise pattern of the red and gold rug on the floor — but the dream’s accuracy eventually faded with the real-life furniture. The quiet terror that possessed him, however, intensified. The worsening fear is probably not specific to the dream though; the world itself is scarier to Dick than it was fifteen years ago.

The dream begins with Dick in this study, the burning sconces casting shadows and providing dim light. In the real world, the sconces are electronic; man-made, ordinary, and only on if he flicks the switch. But in his head, they are made of real fire. They burn regardless of him, entirely independent of his actions, ignited long before he arrives. As the scene progresses, Dick opens the trapdoor by pulling out the correct books in the correct order; putting them back in a different, correct order; waiting for the middle shelf to retract into the wall behind it; staring unblinking into the retinal scanner until he was cleared. 

This process quickened as Dick got older until the door would open without him lifting a finger. The door immediately reveals a steep, stone staircase that plunges into infinite darkness. The wordless terror, the fear that calls distantly as if from the other end of a tunnel, grips him here. He must descend the stairs; that is the dream’s one imperative. Sometimes he takes the first step himself, allowing the unknown to swallow him by increments. Sometimes he falls, a blameless mistake, and slips innocently into the open mouth of night. Sometimes he is pushed, a comforting hand on his back turned treacherous. Dick never does look behind his shoulder or acknowledge the betrayal; he doesn’t need to. He knows who the man is and trusts him even as he plummets. 

 But that is all a dream. The trapdoor doesn’t really open unto a staircase — not right away, at any rate. Dick has to make the trek through a dimly lit corridor first, which is murder on the legs after just patrolling Bludhaven. He hasn’t had time to relax the muscle, having coming straight here after a text from Bruce. The door makes a loud sound when it finally shuts, which Dick remembers used to freak the bejeezus out of him when he was ten. The temperature also drops rapidly, although this doesn’t unsettle him anymore. Robins fear neither dark nor enclosed spaces. They revel in the creepy-crawly. Flourish, even, once training has been completed. 

Dick takes the stairs two at a time. The elevator, accessible through a strangely grandiose walk-in storage closet, wasn’t added until much later in Dick’s adolescence. He still prefers the stairs; they feel quicker. Cement gives way to rock. The air dramatically cools halfway down the stairs. Moisture clings to the walls, the ceiling, the floor. A few feet from where he stands, the Batcave is bathed in blue light. Dick spots Bruce down below, ant-like from here, bowed before a colony of busy monitors. Dick leaps over the last ten steps or so, flitting towards the hunched exoskeleton of the Batman. 

“You summoned?” Dick greets and thinks about how ants communicate through pheromones and stridulation. An ant can disclose its role within the group by injecting pheromones into food, which they then directly feed another ant. Dick pictures Bruce rapidly rubbing his legs together, finds this funny, and then imagines Damian spitting chewed-up falafel into Tim’s open mouth. This is no less funny for its grossness. 

Bruce glances at him, a miraculous feat that nearly sends Dick stumbling backward in shock. “What’s that face for?” Bruce asks in the same second he quickly returns his focus to his research. Dick consciously relaxes his wrinkled nose, courtesy of Ant-Damian. 

“No reason,” answers Dick breezily. “How’s Gotham hanging?”

Bruce’s chosen screen, a small tablet-sized rectangle built into the desk, mirrors the information on the much larger main screen on the wall. Dick cranes his neck to look at it, but not before catching the upward tug of Bruce’s lips. “From the belfry, as usual,” he quips. 

“Ha!” Dick exclaims and pokes Bruce’s shoulder once. “That was funny. I knew you had it in you, B.”

“Thank you.”

Dick continues, “Everyone told me, ‘that man is as dry as a raisin,’ but I insisted that you’d make a joke pun-day.”

“I already said thank you, Dick,” Bruce reminds. Across the giant screen is a slowed-down video reel of a man — a boy, really, judging by the way he holds himself despite his grown height — being tied to a streetlamp. 

“Who’s that?” Dick asks. 

Bruce zooms in on the victim’s face. “Terry Weind. Sixteen years old. Badly beaten, but stable. General Hospital released him this morning. There are two other young men — both aged sixteen, both from low-income households — discovered in the same fashion in downtown Gotham the past month.”

“So I’ve heard,” admits Dick. No pictures of the victims have been released, either through mainstream news channels or the bat-vine. Dick recognizes the background instantly as Park Row where Bruce had taken the liberty of installing his high-tech spycams. Bruce keeps Crime Alley well-monitored even as a memorial. For good reason, as it turns out, because it’s suddenly become volatile again after years of dormancy. 

Bruce switches to the next tape. “Devin White, fifteen years old. He’s the third victim and was admitted last night. According to Oracle, hospital records list him with internal bleeding, a cracked skull, two shattered kneecaps, a fractured scapula, and a broken arm.”

Devin looks up on the screen and Dick automatically pauses the tape, hand darting across the keyboard, to take in the boy’s fear-blown brown eyes. He resumes the video. 

“I can’t identify the assailant,” Bruce informs, keying into Dick’s intent. “He wears a red hood and keeps his head down at all times. According to Gordon, the victims are all certain it was a man but none can remember his face.”

That surprises Dick. “They would’ve been looking right at him. And there’s street lamps,” he says.

Bruce grunts his assent, eyes glued on his screen. Devin struggles futilely on the screen as the man steps back and raises his arm above his head. Moonlight glints on metal.

“Wait,” says Dick, throat tightening, “is that —”

Before he can finish his sentence, the gleaming crowbar cracks against the boy’s skull. And then his face. His left shoulder. His right. His kneecaps then. Face again, other side. Dick’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t look away. At the end, the man removes his phone from his pocket and holds it over the boy — either taking a picture or sending a text, or both, from the angle and the time it takes before he’s pocketing the object again. 

“One of the Joker’s goons,” Dick decides, punch-to-the-gut quick, when the attacker finally walks away, crowbar tucked into a duffle bag and the boy a crumpled piece of paper beneath a weakly flickering light. Dick changes his mind. “But no, he wouldn’t care anymore. It’s been, god, six years.” Out loud, six doesn’t sound very long at all. Dick sees Jason’s death like a black-and-white photograph, forever ago and therefore impossible today. But the pictures of Jason back then are in color, his visage spread out on the front pages of newspapers dating within the decade. “The joke’s been played out,” Dick declares anyway because it would be for the Joker. 

“Maybe not. He’s unpredictable and historically not above recycling old material. That’s why the hoodie bothers me,” Bruce confesses. He pauses the video and faces Dick. The glow from the monitor limns the severe cut of his cheekbone as it casts his face into extremity: the heavy brow pulls farther down, the wide lips weld into one shut line, and his austere eyes sink towards a deeper, darker blue. Dick sees himself in the pupils, a distant figure peering out from a dark well. 

Bruce pushes his chair away from the desk so he remains seated yet notably detached from Devin White. Dick can feel the heat emanating from the computers, warming one side of his body, as Bruce rests his chin atop his palm. Aloud, Bruce contemplates the question, “Is the color coincidental, or a nod at the Red Hood?”

Dick barely even registered the color, but once he does, his heart drops into the pit of his stomach. His stomach drops to his feet. His whole body has capsized, the world itself hurrying to reorient itself to his new right-side-up. “That would mean the Joker knows Red Hood was a Robin.”

“It would, wouldn’t it,” Bruce says flatly. 

Dick follows the train of thought. “Then — what? He knows you watch the Park Row Memorial? He’s — baiting you? What does he want with this stunt?” Dick looks, frustrated, away from the broken kid on the screen towards the sturdy man in front of him. Bruce is quiet for a few moments, moments where Dick can feel his own heartbeat in his chest, his ears, his fingertips. He waits Bruce out, a red gash of a smile widening behind his eyes meanwhile. Then, finally:

“I met Jason on Park Row.” The statement is more utterance than response, spoken to the floor in a low tone. Dick’s mind immediately presses against whatever anxiety Bruce is brewing for himself. 

“A lot of events have happened on Park Row,” says Dick. “If you think this person — the Joker, or whoever — knows that much, ah, they’d have to be psychic.” Internally, Dick’s profile of Jason and Bruce makes room for another detail. Twenty-five years old, out of the house for seven years, and still Dick collects his mentor’s unnecessary, painful secrets. Dick is a recordkeeper of other people’s wounds. 

Bruce leans back. Dick knows he means to reset himself; change the angle of his thoughts with the angle of his body. “Maybe so,” Bruce grants, “but I’m willing to bet they know that street hits close to home.”

Dick purses his lips and thinks of scattered pearls. “Everything that happened on Park Row happened to Bruce Wayne, not Batman,” he reasons. “If the Joker knew who you were, and what this memorial meant to you, he wouldn’t lead with a Robin. Even one he,” here, Dick falters. “Even Jason,” he neatly amends. “His obsession is wholely with you.”

Bruce considers this. “Then either it’s not the Joker at all, or the Joker only knows that Red Hood was Robin, without knowledge of Jason Todd, or —”

“Or the ski-mask is purely coincidence,” Dick finishes. “For that matter, Bruce, it could all be coincidental — the victimology, the weapon —”

“Except that Jason contacted Tim the other day,” Bruce interrupts. His tired eyes seize Dick, seem to shake him by his very arms. “The day following Weind’s attack, photographs of the victim were left on his patrol bike. Photographs of Leland’s attack were delivered to the Red Hood through a series of messengers switching hands until the envelope got to him. The latest victim, as of two nights ago, had photographs attached to his bike again.”

Dick’s eyebrows have raised by this point. “Jason told Tim all this?” 

“More or less. Not enough to satisfy, but Jason is hardly cooperative as a general character trait. Tim compiled his notes for me; I’ll forward them to you.”

Dick bites the further questions that taste like metal on his tongue, demanding to know why Jason would go to Tim first. It’s not essential. It’s reached Dick, at any rate, as all family matters do.

“Whomever our perp is, we can safely assume they know the details of Robin’s death and know that he came back as Hood.” Dick waits for Bruce to contribute more information, some other detail Tim afforded him, and continues when Bruce gives the slightest nod. Bruce is already on his computer, retrieving Tim’s file on the case and mailing it to Dick. “That’s a lot of baseline knowledge on their part,” Dick muses. “And a lot of patience. This is a long-con, no question.” 

Dick rambles about Jason’s enemies — mostly ordinary gangbangers who likely wouldn’t have the connections or patience to sleuth Hood’s previous alias — as well as Batman’s historic opponents, who have never exhibited an equivalent fixation with any of the Robins before. Bruce rubs his chin, eyes on his computer, while Dick consolidates their shared thoughts. 

“Not to get technical here, but we have a whole boatload of equally implausible possibilities here, Bruce,” Dick concludes.

“No more so than we usually start off with on a case,” Bruce replies immediately.

Dick laughs, low and tired. He can feel exhaustion creeping into his bones at the same steady pace all his needs do. Hunger, fatigue, thirst, rest — these sensations rarely overwhelm him, but instead stalk him with restraint like prowling predators. 

When Dick laughs, Bruce glances up at him with a small smile. For a moment, Dick thinks of spending the night in his old bedroom. But he has a life in Bludhaven. His life. 

Dick’s work phone buzzes. He slides it out, unlocks it, to skim over Tim’s notes. “So, should I put in a request for time off at the station?” he checks, half-joking. The BPD had been graciously flexible during his first year as a beat cop, but his stint in Spyral has reset any seniority he might have accumulated. Plus, he’s reluctant to coast on the “aren’t you jazzed I’m not actually dead” card. Half his coworkers entered after Dick’s time in Bludhaven, and only a quarter of the ones who remember him appreciated the cleaning-out he did on the dirty cops. 

Bruce quirks an eyebrow. “Can you afford to?” he asks. 

Dick translates the question in his head: Would you let me help with your bills in the meantime? “Probably not. I don’t need time off. I’m used to not sleeping — seriously, I think if I had a full eight hours, it would actually shock my system and land me in a hospital,” Dick answers. He looks around the cave in the overpowering light that somehow manages to always feel dim. Is there a comfortable chair he can settle into? He’s getting too big to perch on the computer desk without pressing fifty buttons, some of them possibly red and ominously labeled things like “EJECT” and “DO NOT TOUCH.” 

“Are you equating sleep deprivation with drug addiction?” Bruce asks, amusement lightening his voice, draining some of the dark from the room. 

Dick locates an ultra-cozy office chair shoved near a map table. He sets his sights on the coffee-stained throw pillow atop heavy black leather. “I’m just saying, that would be a strange ER story: man jittery from insomnia withdrawals. Why risk the news headlines?” he muses, wheeling the office chair towards Bruce. 

Bruce does not agree. Instead, he points out, “You assume in a city hounded by masked villains and mini apocalypses that ‘son of billionaire sleeps pretty okay at night’ would catch people’s attention?”

Dick quietly blooms when Bruce says son . It’s a warm word like sun . How badly he always wants to hear that word; he stretches towards it, leafy limbs unfurling. He tries not to preen and instead seats himself, beginning the process of getting comfortable. This position, and then that position, around and around. 

“You look like a dog circling its tail when you do that,” remarks Bruce. 

Dick scrolls to the top of the file on his phone, having figured out how to spend the next few hours. “Dogs have the right idea. How else can you know for sure you’re using the cushion to its greatest potential unless you sample seating arrangements?” The file is far from lengthy, he’s gathered while skimming, but there are details Bruce hasn’t covered in their conversation. For example, all the victims were attacked downtown, but Trey Leland lives in Bludhaven and was only passing through. Opportunistic, Dick characterizes the attacker. 

“Are you comfortable?” Bruce asks. Dick grunts affirmatively, trying to focus. He hears Bruce say something about how Dick never stays in one spot anyway, but the words are more like ideas, like something transmitted through playscape talk tubes. 

There’s a zone Dick wants to reach where details of a case will absorb him so fully he doesn’t register hunger, exhaustion, or his bladder for that matter. Everyone in the masked business knows the zone, but it’s harder to access when he’s tired, which he is — a bad start for this mission, so he will try to sleep after tomorrow’s shift if he can. It occurs to him that he might not be able to, considering he doesn’t have a gauge on how long until this criminal will strike again, or escalate from teenagers to their actual target. 

He looks up from his phone and, from where his head spills out over the chair’s arm — noticeably hard and plastic beneath the cushion, already chafing the back of his neck — scrutinizes Bruce. Bruce must be tired, too, because he actually breaks away from his computer to return Dick’s stare.

“Yes?” prods Bruce after a moment. 

Dick answers immediately. “We’re going to have to work with Jason.”

Bruce’s expression reveals no challenge with this. “Yes,” he replies, neutral.

“Like, close-up. Face-to-face. We might have to — guard him,” he finishes, lamely, hoping he’s getting his point across. 

Luckily, Bruce does seem to understand finally the monumental undertaking of convincing Jason to accept their full help. “He’ll insist he has his own safehouse,” Bruce says. 

“Or that he has his own team,” Dick adds. 

“That team is haphazard at best with little in the way of deductive skills,” Bruce argues.

“It’s none of our business, he’ll say,” Dick counters.

“Then he should not have contacted Red Robin,” Bruce dismisses easily. 

 Dick is reevaluating his decision to remain on duty at the BPD. He’s almost not even tired anymore with this new, shiny, family-resistant case. “His safehouse is still functional,” Dick tosses into the ring. 

Bruce’s voice turns grave, eyes suddenly weighing onto Dick like stones on his chest. “No house is safe,” Bruce criticizes, “and the only people he can trust are the people whose identities may be equally compromised by this situation.”

Dick purses his lips and thinks. “He won’t like that,” he warns.

Bruce’s voice regains that darkness Dick tries so hard to lighten. It’s no use, though, not during cases like these, not when Jason is present. And he is always present, in the style of phantoms, but particularly now. Bruce flexes his jaw. “But he will heed it,” he states. 

Dick knows, if his and Jason’s situations were reversed, if Jason was the one putting barriers on whom Dick could trust, Dick would not listen. Dick would push back and then pull away from Jason, from Bruce and his untrusting brood. He has before. 

Dick watches Bruce who has fixed his attention concretely on the screen. He’s excruciatingly tense and it fills up the cave, tightening the muscles in Dick’s shoulder. The tendons in Bruce’s jaw flex and Dick can feel Bruce’s teeth grinding in his own head. He wants Bruce to turn around and meet his gaze. He wants to know if he’ll see himself in Bruce’s eyes again. But it’s no use; Bruce isn’t looking at him. He’s been dismissed without a word. 

Next Chapter

[weartirondad]

Let In Light (At Christmas Time) 2/12

FF.net I ao3

Friday, December 14th: blanket forts

Tony is elbow deep in rewiring one of his older suits when F.R.I.D.A.Y. announces Peter’s arrival and for the fraction of a second he just stops.

He’s tired. The I’m-insomnia’s-bitch kind of tired. The tired where he hasn’t had more than three hours of sleep a night for almost four days in a row and the few hours he did get were laced with different version of the same old stories over and over and over again.

Dark caves, people shouting in foreign languages. Fear, pain, cold.  

Bunkers in the middle of nowhere, a tiny screen in a dark room. Screams, blood, death.

Pepper falling. Rhodey falling. A shield shoved into his sternum. Darkness, cold – so much cold.

A sassy teenager, in over his head, fighting fights he shouldn’t be fighting. He’s falling, drowning, suffocating and Tony can’t –

“Hey Mister Stark!”

The billionaire blinks down at his hands that are still stuck in his armor, clenched around one of its powering units, and with a very deliberate exhale he forces his body to relax and his fists to open. It’s hard but he does it and through sheer will power alone manages to crack a smile along the way. It’s not a good one. Peter can see right through it but he’s trying, that’s what counts, right?

“Hey kid,” he greets him, making a conscious effort to keep his voice just a little more cheerful than he actually feels without sounding over the top. “How’s school?”

Of course it’s not working. The kid’s a genius and aside from being very empathetic to his surroundings he also knows Tony. He knows Tony’s moods and he knows what it looks like when he’s pretending to be okay. And Tony hates it. He hates that Peter knows how messed up he is and he hates how he sees him using Tony’s own coping mechanisms and he just can’t have that, he won’t allow it.

What he hates most, though, is that Peter just won’t turn away like everyone else did. Peter refuses to give up on him and while it’s nice to have someone around, sometimes the trust the kid puts in him makes him feel lightheaded and trapped and lost and oh-so-scared. The thought of disappointing him is too much to bear on a good day and today is not a good day. Today is two days away from the worst day and he doesn’t know if he can handle the pressure.

He doesn’t want to flip and have Peter suffer from the consequences. Maybe he should tell him to go home, maybe he should call raincheck and postpone to – sometime after Christmas, when he’s got some strength back because right now? Right now he’s a mess and Peter deserves so much more – a mentally stable mentor, a nice fun evening with his friends, lightness.

Ultimately, Peter deserves light and Tony’s soul has been in the shadows so long he has forgotten what it looks like. Sometimes just looking at it makes him feel like he’s going blind.

When he focuses on his breathing to keep himself from spiraling, he realizes that Peter has already flung his backpack into the corner next to his desk and himself on the spinning chair and is now talking animatedly about his day. Tony makes a mental note to listen to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s recording later on in case he missed something important but right now, despite the gloomy knot in his chest, he feels the corner of his lips twist upwards at the sight of the teenager gracelessly hanging from the chair.

With the next inhale something warm fills his chest, gentling pulling on the untethered strings until the tangle loosens and suddenly breathing isn’t as hard anymore.

It’s still not easy, there’s still too much baggage for the breaths to come out effortlessly. Too many scars, too many memories, too much loss. But it’s easier. As if Peter’s presence in itself widens his bronchia and helps the air pave a way.

“Got homework?” he finds himself asking, the tiny smile still on his lips when the teenager dutifully bobs his head up and down. “When’s May gonna be home? Are you staying for dinner?”

Just like that the offer stands in the room, without a second thought, and he realizes that he doesn’t regret making it. It’s been lonely in the Tower without Pepper and Peter – Peter is Peter and taking care of him, making sure that he eats, sleeps and drinks enough has become an integral part of his DNA at this point.

“May’s working night,” Peter tells him with a pout, fidgeting until he’s sitting cross- legged on the chair, “But she’s not working all weekend and we’re having brunch tomorrow when she’s up again.”

“So, that means you want to stay the night and catch breakfast here, too?”

“I mean –“ For a second Tony thinks the kid is too polite to invite himself over but then a shit-eating grin spreads on his face as he turns on his swivel chair. “Yep. That was pretty much the plan. Hope I’m not keeping you from important – you know – stuff.”

Just from another lonely night spent staring at the alcohol cabinet. He doesn’t say, though, because he doesn’t drink and he hasn’t for months, still, the reflex never really left.

Instead he scoffs, “Me? Doing something important? In your dreams.” Peter giggles.

It’s still fake and he’s still not fine but when he turns back to the armor again as Peter starts taking out his books to work on his homework, he feels a lot lighter than he has in days.

They work on their own for a while after that and it doesn’t take long for Tony to get immersed in the inner workings of the suit once more. But while his mind is running difficult algorithms, trying to figure out how to best deweaponize it for a presentation without giving up too much of its soul, he’s always acutely aware of Peter’s movements behind him, like a sixth sense that comes to him easier than breathing most days.

“Pete,” he turns around with a frown after giving the boy another ten minutes of fidgeting, “what’s up? Do you need help?”

“Wha –?” The kid looks startled but shakes his head. “No. I was just,” he points to a pile at the foot of the couch in the far corner of the room, “I was wondering what that is.”

Tony can see the books that lay untouched on the desk with his pencil case emptied out and its content scattered all over the place and he sees the hole Peter is currently poking in the sleeve of his hoodie and he understands the restlessness behind it.

It’s a curse. One he has had to deal with all his life and one he wish he could take from the kid but as it is he can only try to get that genius mind of his to focus on something or else the jiggling would get worse and he’d probably end up hurting himself.

“What’s it look like?” he asks, feeling his whole demeanor change now that he is needed. Now that his purpose is making Peter feel better. Superficially cleaning his oil stained hands on a more-black-than-not towel he wanders over to the teen and settles on the couch, inviting him to inspect the pile with a nod of his head.

Peter, god bless him, jumps at the opportunity and almost trips from his chair with his limbs flailing in the air for a second before he manages to catch himself with a splutter, diving headfirst into the soft pile.

Normally, Peter would dissect any abnormality, anything new, with immaculate care but now he’s tearing through all blankets and pillows and comforters like a mad man on a mission. Only when he’s gone through them all he stops. Sitting in the middle of the mess he created he cocks his head to the side, leaning back on his arms with his legs stretched out in front of him.

He’s wearing his thinking frown and Tony watches as his mind works with new information, needing just a little bit longer than usual to figure it out. “They’re blankets,” he summarizes then, with a smile so warm Tony swears it could singlehandedly cause global warming and melt all remaining ice on the planet, even the one stuck in his heart. “You got blankets ‘cause I get cold easily, didn’t you?”

Of course he did. Of fucking course he got his kid blankets so he wouldn’t be cold in winter. It cost him one voice command and the boy is looking up at him as if he has just hung the moon in the sky specifically for him.

The look made him feel fuzzy. A good kind of fuzzy that he never got from alcohol anymore, and probably never really had.

“Of course I did,” he tells him when his emotions come too close to surfacing and he has to swallow past the growing lump in his throat. “Wanna cuddle up until I’m done working?”

Just like that, it looks as if Peter’s strings have been cut and he sags in on himself a little. “Um – yeah, sure,” he mumbles, hands running over the fabric of a dark blue blanket and clenching around it, “I mean, I could maybe work on my homework a little bit ya know. So, uh, so I get something done.” He trails off, shoulders and head hanging low as he attempts to get to his feet again.

Tony frowns. “No, why would you-?“ Oh.

My dad never really gave me a lot of support. I’m trying to break the cycle of shame.

“Or,” he tries a different approach, not missing how Peter is perching up just that tiny little bit at his softer tone of voice, “Or we could both take a break and relax a little. What do you say?”

He can see that it’s on the tip of his tongue to decline but apparently all their talking the past few months about accepting what Tony offers has gotten them somewhere and in the end Peter simply nods, a happy grin spreading on his face once more as if he just flipped a switch.

“Can we build a blanket fort?”

And – what?

“I have never once in my life built a blanket fort.”

And, yeah, maybe he should’ve seen it coming but he hasn’t and it might just cost him his hearing.

“WHAT THE –“

“Do not finish that sentence.”

As always his words fall on deaf ears.

“- HECK, MISTER STARK!” Peter all but shouts from two feet away, staring at him with wide, accusing eyes. “You can’t be serious! No way, you’ve never built a blanket fort!”  

“Yes way,” he gives back, swallowing the biting bile as he tries to be supportive and nice and all that shit good mentors apparently do. How on earth where there people having and raising kids full time out of their own free will? “And I am not going to start now.”

“Oh come on, please!”

Ah, yeah, that answers is questions. It’s definitely the disarming puppy eyes. And possible the shear endless amount of full body hugs.

“Fine,” he relents contritely, “But if we’re gonna do this we’re gonna do this right, understand? The full ten yards and then some.”

“Aye, sir!”

Peter is jumping up and down and he looks so much more at ease than just ten minutes ago and that’s worth all the back pain Tony is going to get from that experience. Damn kids.

It ends up taking them two hours to finish but by the time they do the ceiling of their fort is fitted with two chains of light, giving the arrangement a somewhat mystical touch to it.

They’re both lying on their backs, heads resting on their respective pillows while a fortress of other pillows is stacked around them, effectively shielding them from the outside world (the lab) and keeping them in their very own cocoon except for the small opening they made for food supply and such.

Dum-E has done a great job providing them with snacks and drinks albeit Tony vetoed the kid’s wishes for hot chocolate.

Peter has already forgotten he was sulking, though, and just stares up at the lights in wonder and, as Tony notes in satisfaction, otherwise perfectly still.

“This is what I’ve always imagined stargazing must be like,” he whispers, voice so quiet and in awe that Tony barely catches it.

It hits him again how different their upbringings have been and how he’s going to make sure that he only ever passes on the good things if he can help it.

“I’ll take you stargazing one of these days,” he promises, voice soft as to not startle the peaceful boy.

The teenager turns his head to meet his eyes, unruly curls falling over his left eye that Tony itches to push them back. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he says, reaching out to brush the curl away gently.

He promises him a lot more in his head but he doesn’t know how to form the words to let him know, yet. He hopes Peter understands anyway.

[tisthenightofthewitch]

We've always got stick for not being heavy enough

Tobias Forge

Tobias Forge has a short little shit list of people who aren't welcome to explore the world of Ghost. Since 2014's Grammy Award-winning ‘Meloria', the once nameless ghoul has been unmasked. Sure, it came via a lawsuit issued from people who used to play onstage with the band, rather than as part of the ever-growing tale that Ghost are writing, but really nothing much has changed.

Ghost has always been about the suspension of disbelief. It's always been about playing make-believe. It's always been about exploring these masked worlds that reflect our own. It's always been for everyone.

Their new album ‘Prequelle' takes that crack in the door and swings it wide open. Playful, pulsating and full of rainbow-bridged adventure, it's Ghost at their most welcoming.

"There's been so much happening since the last record," Tobias admits, jetlagged and nursing a neck injury. "If I think about how things were when we left off in 2014, then yes that is a big gap. But I was surprised when we started this tour how little it took before it felt like I was home and back on track."

Ghost don't enjoy looking back.

"I see the faults like, ‘Oh you thought that was good, you should have seen what the original plan was. It was so much cooler', but such is life."

Instead, they're concerned with the now. Despite the success and the scale of what his band has already achieved, Tobias still had something to prove with their fourth album.

"You always do. After the hard second record comes the hard third record. Then it's the crucial fourth record and the 'win or lose' fifth record. I don't know when you reach that plateau of untouchable. I don't think you ever do. I don't think I'd want to.”

"This band takes up so much time and is such a huge sacrifice for a lot of people, especially the ones very close to me, that sometimes you're exposed to the questions of, ‘When are you going to be done? When is this accomplished?' And I don't know. I don't think it ever will be done. You just try to do things as good as possible all the time. Sooner or later something will put a halt to it and hopefully, when it does, you've done it as well as you can."

That full-bodied commitment to doing things a certain way wails through ‘Prequelle'. The record, focused around the idea of annihilation, finds threads between The Black Death of the 1300's and today. The winking, grinning, rampage of ‘Rats' sings: "In times of turmoil, in times like these. Beliefs contagious, spreading disease," prods at today as much as it does The Middle Ages.

"I was trying to shine light onto the idea that the turmoil of the black death is not something that was isolated just to death." There's also trauma in survival. "There are numerous extreme metal records that have touched on the subject of dark and evil times, specifically the plague, so I wanted this record to be about survival rather than annihilation. I haven't heard any records that are about that. I have plenty of records about the ordeal of death but not the survival aspect. The record is about perseverance. From a personal point of view, persevering is exactly what I've been doing for the last two years."

Even on the cusp of the end of all things, which is where ‘Prequelle' finds itself teetering, there's defiance and resistance throughout.

"I'd like to see myself as a fairly humorous person," Tobias offers, and so with Ghost, "I want it to be entertaining. I like a lot of different things but what I try to achieve writing a Ghost record is way more Pink Floyd than it is AC/DC, even though I am influenced by ‘Back in Black'."

He views it as cinema.

"A good film isn't just a 90-minute car chase. If you want the film to just be a 90-minute shoot-out, you probably won't like this record. I want things to be very different; it's supposed to be a trip."

Ghost records are put together like blockbusters. The songs are connected, the scenes have to flow. It has a beginning and an end. There are trial and redemption in every turn.

"It's a lot of me throwing things back and forth for it all to fit. I knew that that the record was going to have a heavier, more close to home sort of sting, so it was also important to add a percentage of, I don't know if I dare to call it comic relief, but just moments to loosen it up a little."

It's in the wonderous, beaming instrumental ‘Miasma' that the band smile with their whole face but across ‘Prequelle', there's a grin that can't be shifted.

There's also honesty. There are lines drawn between the personal and the pretend. "It is very close to home," Tobias admits. But rather than wallow or twist his means of escape into something cynical, Ghost have once again embraced the playful spirit that makes them radical.

"In every record, I've tried to recreate or have some sort of gateway back to where ‘Opus Eponymous' [the band's debut] was made in terms of playfulness. For the fourth time in a row now, it feels surprising to me. Wow, I'm still able to access that.”

"Of course there are some rules, some things you don't do, but I'm not thinking about whether this band is heavy metal or not. We've always gotten stick for not being heavy enough," but the band have never pretended to be pure, or follow the rules.

"Even our debut was a complete mixture. From a purest point of view, it was very much on slippery ground. It was Bambi on ice." There's no fear about shining bright on ‘Prequelle'. There's no fear about pushing things forward.

"It stems from the fact that regardless of what we are or what Ghost is, it's theatrical. I grew up in a scene where there was a very strict credibility complex. Whether I like it or not, there's still going to be a group of people who are going to judge whatever I do based upon those criteria. I have chosen not to live my life based on or adjusting to those rules. Because it's something I grew up with, I guess this is my rebellion. I'm not detaching myself from the family, but I'm speaking up at the table.”

"I guess what I've learned, especially over the past year, is that my idea of what I thought this project was going to be was naively utopic. It was very much an idea of a control freak who was trying to dictate a career of a made-up band that was more interesting than he was. You'd read about all these other bands and their stories. Before, we didn't really have a story, and now there is one. It wasn't the story I wanted to have, it would have been so much cooler if I was born 30 years earlier and we started in 1972, but there you go."

Taken from the August issue of Upset, out now. Ghost's album 'Prequelle' is out now.

[enkelimagnus]

Mary Magdalene’s Records

Magnus & Mary Magdalene / 1500 words / Rated G

Magnus Bane visits an old warlock friend of his who works in the Library of the Vatican.

Read on AO3. Written for Magnus Appreciation Month 2018

The burning edges of the portal closed back on themselves as Magnus stepped away from it. The library was plunged in darkness, wooden panels covering the walls, and somehow absorbing the sound of his boots on the floor.

The Vatican was a strange, solemn place. Every library was, really, solemn in a way. But the Vatican’s? It was even stranger a place. It was out of time. In recent years, computers had been added to the reading rooms, but the deepest parts of the library were still untouched by time. Magnus knew that if he was to spend too much time in between those rows of bookshelves, he would forget about time passing outside of it. He would come out surprised by the century he was in.

He wondered how she felt. Spending so long in the library, decades and centuries. He wondered how she was still working there. How she still existed. She was the oldest Downworlder he knew. Maybe she even was older than the Seelie Queen.

She was sitting at her usual seat, at her usual desk, in the middle of a pool of light. A relatively small, thin Middle-Eastern woman. Her dark hair was wrapped in a shawl, as always. She still looked as young as she had the last time he’d seen her. She never aged. Magnus should be used to her never-ending youth, because she was as much of a warlock as he was. Still, somehow, he expected that a two-thousand years old woman would look… somewhat older. Venerable. Wise-beyond-years.

“שלום, מרים הקדושה,” Magnus said softly when he reached the reading table, and looked at the woman sitting there.

“Hello, Magnus,” the woman replied, a wide smile appearing on her lips as she looked at him. “It has been long since anyone called me Holy Mary.”

Magnus took a seat across from her, crossing his legs. The woman looked at him. As Magnus unglamored his eyes, she did so as well. Cat eyes stared into snake eyes.

“Was I the last person to address you that way?”

“As always, dear. As always. Few know my real name. Or my real nature.” She hummed as she turned the page of a heavy volume she was reading.

Magnus didn’t know the language of it. He always felt a bit small and ignorant, next to her. The warlock in front of him knew more about many things than anyone else in the world. Especially religion, history, culture and languages.

“And you are the only one that speaks to me in Hebrew. I am glad I taught you this one.” She had a small smile. She traced a circle around a sentence on the book she was reading, and her fingers left behind a light golden trail. Magical bookmarks. Only people with the Sight could see it.

“I brought you cupcakes,” Magnus pointed out, snapping his fingers, and a box of cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery appeared in front of her. It had been the biggest fad, the last time he’d come to visit Mary Magdalene. She’d always loved cupcakes, but these were now her favorites.

Mary’s eyes immediately narrowed. “Dear, what do you want from me this time?”

Magnus watched as she reached for the box and took out one of the cupcakes. “Do I have to want anything from you? Can’t I just want to bring cupcakes to my favorite Catholic saint?”

“The last time you brought me cupcakes, I had to lie to Cardinal Jorge María Mejía about you taking out three very precious manuscripts,” she pointed out. “Manuscripts that you have yet to return.”

Magnus chuckled. “Do not worry, I am not here for books today.”

“Then why the bribe, Magnus?”

“It’s not a bribe. I just… wanted to come and catch up, and I thought you’d like these.” It was true. Magnus had just missed Mary Magdalene. She was the kind of person he loved being around. Brilliant, wise, knowledgeable. “You’re my Cupcake, after all.”

The woman chuckled, and bit into the vanilla cupcake she had in her hand. A part of Magnus was almost ecstatic at the sight. The oldest warlock in the world, Saint Mary Magdalene, eating a cupcake in the middle of the Vatican Library, in the middle of the night.

He’d told her he’d bring Ragnor to one of their reunions one of these days. Mary would have loved his dry wit. And the fact that he was aromantic and asexual, like her friend and mentor Jesus had been. It was impossible to do so now.

“Why the sour face, dear?” Mary reached to take his hand and squeezed it. Magnus felt the magic in her reach out to his. Her power was bigger, deeper than anything he could imagine. “Another lover breaking that fragile heart of yours? Who are they?”

“Actually… my love life is good. I'm just still mourning some dear friends that I lost.”

Mary sighed. “Warlocks? I will need you to tell me, my dear, so I can write it down in the book.”

“I know. It is why I came.”

Mary Magdalene was the main Warlock Archivist. She worked closely with the Spiral Labyrinth, compiling the lives and deaths of warlocks all around the globe. Most people would announce a warlock’s death with a fire message. Magnus always preferred coming to her.

The woman stood up. Her robes were large and floated around her. Sometimes, Magnus wondered if anything that touched her wasn’t immediately charged with magic. He himself could somehow feel the way her magic made his own grow.

She came back soon after with a heavy volume. “Tell me now, my child,” she whispered. “Tell me now, and tell me quick, and when they will be written, then the pain shall lessen.” A quill appeared in one of her hands.

“Ragnor Fell. Warlock mark, horns.” As he spoke, the pages of the book started turning on their own, until it found the record of Ragnor’s birth.

“Hmm. Regrettable.” Mary whispered. “Born 1345. A good year.”

“Died 2016. Shax demon attack.”

Mary nodded and wrote it down in the book. Magnus felt his heart stop beating for a moment. It was so final. The moment it was written in Mary Magdalene’s Records… it was the moment where it was really official. Ragnor Fell was dead.

“Next one, child,” she said softly.

Magnus took a deep breath. “Dorothea Rollins. Born 1608. Her warlock mark was serpent’s tongue. Died 2016. Unknown cause.”

“She must have been one of my step sisters,” Mary muttered when the book stopped again, and she wrote down the death. “Sad, sad fate.”

Magnus watched her write down the words in English. She had a beautiful, archaic script. He wondered how many of her step-siblings Mary had compiled in her books. He also wondered how many of his were written down.

“Anything else, dear?” Mary’s smile was soft.

“Elliot Nourse. Died 2016. Warlock mark, purple skin,” Magnus added again. Mary sighed deeply. Three warlocks in so little time. That was rare, and it was a testimony of very dangerous times.

“Some good news. Madzie Loss. Born 2010. Warlock mark, gills. She’s a wonderful healthy little girl being raised by my friend Catarina. We’re very happy,” Magnus said, and smiled. Amongst all the pain, there were some occasional moments of happiness.

Madzie had been one of those. Alec was another one.

Mary closed the records and pushed them aside, reaching for Magnus’ hand again. He let her take it.

“You’re smiling more than you have in many years, my friend, and yet you’ve been through so much pain. What is so good that makes you smile this way?”

“Love, Mary,” he replied softly, and let his thumb caress her skin. She smiled back.

“You and love. Always so ready to fall.”

“He’s a Shadowhunter,” Magnus muttered, and she stopped to look at him with a raised eyebrow. He pulled up his other hand, in a stopping motion, before she could speak. “He loves me too.”

“That’s good. Tell me everything.” She pulled away her hand and reached for cupcakes again.

She snapped her fingers and suddenly, there was a whole tea set in front of them. Magnus grinned and poured them some tea, starting to tell her everything about Alexander Lightwood.

Mary Magdalene nodded and smiled as he talked, watching her long-time friend speak so happily about his lover. There was something so incredibly young about Magnus Bane when he was in love. She’d seen him look and carry himself as if he were older than he was, older than she was. She’d never seen him this light, never, in all those years.

Warlocks needed this lightness. She found hers in her lovers, wonderful smart women and men that occasionally shared her life. She found hers in her books, and in age-old words. Words that were so ancient, too ancient for most people, but just right for her. She was too ancient for most people. She’d seen too much, and yet so little.

[hiphopdinromania]

12/11/1996 Snoop Doggy Dogg - Tha Doggfather

#hiphopdinromania #snoopdoggydogg

http://www.hiphopdinromania.org/2015/11/de-afara-snoop-doggy-dogg-tha.html

Tha Doggfather este cel de-al 2-lea album solo al lui Snoop Doggy Dogg și a fost lansat în data de 12 noiembrie 1996, prin The New and "Untouchable" Death Row Records și Interscope

http://www.hiphopdinromania.org/2015/11/de-afara-snoop-doggy-dogg-tha.html

[clawfootpress]

Dear Mr. Met:

The other day I was riding my bike and I blew right through a stop sign. Didn’t even slow down. Didn’t even see it. I blame the Mets, partly. I was listening to a Mets game on my phone and they were winning but the Orioles had the bases loaded in the eighth and I was getting nervous. It was only my second day as a dog walker, so the part of my brain that wasn’t worried about the Mets was worried that I’d left a dog outside or a door unlocked or maybe the owners thought my notes were weird and they didn’t want me walking their dog again. With my brain full of such thoughts and feelings, I blew right through the stop sign.

  I don’t mean I saw the stop sign, slowed down, looked both ways, and rolled on through without coming to a full stop. I do that all the time. No, I’m talking about blowing right through it, not even knowing it was there.

  I don’t normally listen to my phone when I’m out biking, running, or walking. I don’t like things in my ears, for one, and I genuinely like hearing the sounds of the city. I thought I might be okay listening to the game since I wasn’t wearing ear buds. I had the phone mounted on my handlebars, the volume turned all the way up. It worked right up until the bases were loaded and I got nervous and blew right through the stop sign.

  A guy in a truck honked at me and called me an asshole. It could have been worse, he could have also been distracted, maybe also by the Mets. Who knows? It’s a big city in a big world. Maybe it was his second to last day on the job. Maybe it had been too many days since his last day on the job. Maybe his daughter was in the hospital. Maybe his daughter wasn’t talking to him. Maybe his daughter finally called him that morning after twenty-eight years. Maybe his boyfriend broke up with him. The multiplicity of possibilities boggles the mind.

  The point is, the guy could have also been distracted and blown right through the stop sign and then I really would have been in a jackpot. I still didn’t like being called an asshole, though, so I hit my brakes and turned around.

  Oh, he said, yeah?

 Yeah, I said, and rode right back at him.

  *

  You know how there’s this idea that if we put energy out into the world our desires can manifest? I believe that to be true. I’m not sure exactly how it works, I just know it works because I’ve seen it work. Rather, I’ve seen the inverse work. The energy I put out disintegrates the objects of my desire, which Buddhists say is good, I think, but I don’t know. I find it to be frustrating more than anything.

  It makes sense when you think about it. If there is a law of attraction, then there has to be a law of repulsion. No light without dark. No day without night. No hot without cold. No pleasure without pain. No sweet without salty. No joy without sorrow. No life without death. No attraction without repulsion. Imagine someone out there setting an intention for something. As the thing is moving toward them, it has to be moving away from someone else. In order for them to attract, someone else must repel. That’s physics.

  Even the great Jacob deGrom is not immune. In a game against the Rockies, he struck out nine batters in a row. Ten, as you know, is the record, held by the greatest Met of all, The Franchise, Tom Seaver. deGrom looked untouchable. He looked inevitable. I got excited. I texted my friends. The next batter got a hit.

  *

  Boy, was the guy in the truck mad. Understandably. I broke the law and put myself and others in danger, including him. He honked and yelled at me, which was freedom of expression at its finest. I stopped and turned back toward him and rode right back at him. I did that because he called me an asshole. I was wrong to blow through the stop sign, but I’m too proud to let someone call me an asshole.

  God and Ben Franklin gave that man every right to shoot me dead in the street (Freedom of Worship), but he didn’t shoot me, even though I charged at him like a wild beast.

 Instead of shooting me, he said, Oh, yeah?

 Instead of apologizing, I said, Yeah. You don’t get to call me names.

I said this because I’m a man and deserve to be treated as such, even when I fuck up. I dared to look the man in the pickup truck in the eye and demand he treat me with basic dignity. To which he responded, You’re right. I was wrong about that.

*

  Organized religion is dying but religiosity is alive and well. Prayers of Confession are all the rage.

  Everybody wants confession, everybody wants some cathartic narrative for it. The guilty especially. I’m watching True Detective, Season One.

  Look: Ellie Kemper should not have been in that Veiled Prophet debutant ball mostly because debutant balls are dumb, but raking her over the Twitter-coals until she apologized did nothing good. She was nineteen. At nineteen she was just as much a Victim of the Patriarchy as a Perpetrator of White Supremacy, but the crowd demanded atonement. Atonement for what? For being born into and participating in the life of a particular place with particular people at a particular time?

  Maybe you never had to navigate growing up with racists. Maybe you never had to navigate the complexity of loving racists. Or being loved by racists. Maybe you never had to do the emotional labor of depending on racists to drive you to the hospital. Of knowing racists are more than their racism. Knowing they are capable of great acts of love, which make them beautifully human, but makes their racism more stark, more deliberate, more sinful, awful, frustrating, heartbreaking. Of having to choose as a child, then as an adolescent, between participating or feeling completely alone. In a time and a place where there were no counselors, or the counselors were also racist. Maybe you’ve never had to parse out different subcategories of racism as you try to discern which relationships are worth it, whatever that might mean, and which are completely irredeemable, and then finding the courage to act accordingly. If you haven’t, you’re lucky. Privileged, even.

  Twitter got its confession, but neither you, nor I, nor Ellie Kemper, nor America is any less racist for it. I submit that Twitter only got its confession because Ellie Kemper was already prone to introspection, has been introspecting most of her life, and has done more introspecting than the average Twitter-activist. She didn’t change her mind, she was forced to dig up her past shit and lay it on the table to be picked over by people who only just took a seat. The new arrivals took a look at the shit and said, Boy that stinks. Then they felt better, and Ellie Kemper felt worse, and nothing else changed and that’s called progress.

  *

 My tension and adrenaline drained away. I saw his face, his particular face. He wasn’t a Man In a Pickup Truck, representative of everyman in a pickup truck; he was who he was. He had a round nose and bags under his eyes. Two or three days of stubble on his cheeks and chin. I wonder if he has grandchildren who complain about how scratchy it is? He looked scared, like a tired man who’d almost hit a careless cyclist. He didn’t to kill anyone and he was angry that I almost caused him to kill someone. I didn’t want this man to kill anyone, and I certainly didn’t want him to kill me.

  It was then that I apologized for blowing right through the stop sign. Well, I was wrong about that.

  He looked a little confused. It was a confusing situation. So, he said, we’re good then?

 I felt a little confused. Weren’t we supposed to keep yelling?

  We’re good then, I said.

  His last words to me were either, I love that, or I love you. I’m 99% sure he said, I love that, but isn’t it pretty to think that he said, I love you?

  *

Listen: it’s not that I’m anti-confession, but I’m wary and increasingly wary of proforma Prayers of Confession, especially when they are religiously proscribed by a demographic that claims to be Not Religious. (In the words of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: Ask them a question and you are told the answer is to repeat a mantra.) Public confessions do, for better or worse, what religion does, for better or worse: tell us a story, give us a sense of control, shape our experience, and help us think we’re actually doing something – Look what we did, we extracted a confession! Private confessions don’t provide narrative, characters, or catharsis. All they offer is humanity, complexity, intimacy, vulnerability, and, occasionally, transformation.

  *

  I’m working on non-attachment, and, accordingly, on non-judgment, judgement being a form of attachment to the story we tell ourselves about how things should be.

  It’s difficult. I remain attached to the story that thirteen-year-old boys should be allowed to grow up, no matter how much they fuck up when they are thirteen-years-old, therefore I judge the officer who killed Adam Toledo. I judge the adult who gave the boy a gun and showed him how to shoot. I judge the people who made the gun and all the hands that carried the gun to the boy. I judge people who love guns more than they love thirteen-year-old boys.

  *

  I ‘preciate you, I said, clipping the first syllable like I was someone I’m not. If this was fiction, I’d strike that dialogue as sounding untrue, not in character, but real life is messier, real people are inconsistent, and that’s really what I said.

  I’m not great at talking to people. I was kind of hoping to get this one job with a delivery company because it was closer to home and paid more. The interviewer asked how I’d heard of their company. I said a friend had used them to move a large machine. I should have stopped there, but there is a word-gremlin inside me that likes to blow through stop signs. I said I’d moved that machine before and boy was I glad I didn’t have to move it again. I said that to the guy interviewing me about moving machines.

  So I’m walking dogs.

 *

  What I want to do is write stories. I desire to never sit through another interview. I want my stories to be my interview and you, the reader, the one who says, You’re hired, you can start immediately, you’ll never have to move machines or walk dogs ever again.

  I hesitate to say this too loud, lest the Inverse Laws of Attraction hear me. I also say this with an acute awareness that what writing does, for better or worse, is tell a story, give me a sense of control, shape my experience, and help me think I’m actually doing something. The obligation I have, then, is to tell good stories, to the best of my ability, populated with characters full of humanity, complexity, intimacy, vulnerability, who, at their best, offer the possibility of transformation. No cartoon villains.

  Unless I’m writing a cartoon. And there are villains.

  Is it possible for me (or anyone) to privately apologize for something I say or write, but publicly defend the right – and even the necessity – of saying it? It is. Is it possible for each to be equally true? It is.

  Fully human/fully divine. Very well then, I contradict myself.

  In the meantime, the world keeps shouting. It’s really difficult to talk when people are shouting all the time, especially when they are shouting the same thing over and over again, which is, BANG BANG BANG!

 I don’t know what to do with that. It feels like I either have to shout or ignore it. Shouting makes me tired but ignoring it feels as reckless as blowing right through a stop sign. So I work on my stories and let them try to make sense of this absurd world.

  *

  Speaking of absurd, just when I thought I had this letter all buttoned up and ready to send out the door, my wife was in a car accident. Another driver blew right through a stop sign and slammed into the driver’s side of our car. My wife is okay; our car is not. The woman who hit her was not distracted by the Mets because the Mets were rained out that day. I don’t know much about her other than she was driving on a suspended license without insurance. God and Ben Franklin gave her that right (No Quarter Without Consent). Who are you or I to tell her how to live?

  Equally, my wife could have shot her right between the eyes (Redress of Grievances) and of course that would have solved everything, except my wife doesn’t carry a gun. She probably never will. Can you believe that?

  *

  The guy in the pickup truck nodded and drove away. Such things can happen, even in America, depending on the characters, and when they don’t the story seems more stark, more deliberate, more sinful, awful, frustrating, heartbreaking.

  #LFGM,

Matt Lang

   PS –While I was naming and claiming my desire to watch Jacob deGrom strike out ten batters in a row, in another part of space-time Aaron Nola struck out nine batters in a row, and he looked untouchable, he looked inevitable. Someone got excited, someone texted their friends. On June 25th Aaron Nola, pitching for the Phillies, against the Mets, in New York, struck out ten Mets in a row, tying the record held by the greatest Met of all, The Franchise, Tom Seaver. I listened to all ten while riding my bike.

  Be careful what you wish for.

[angevinworld-blog]

He Never Smiled Again

The Triumph of Henry I

In 1120, King Henry I of England achieved an extraordinary victory:  his ruthless cunning and dogged determination had culminated in a highly favorable peace treaty that gave Henry uncontested dominion over the Duchy of Normandy.

A mere 20 years earlier, Henry had been little more than the fourth son of William the Conqueror, whose two surviving older sons had inherited the Dukedom of Normandy and the throne of England from their father.  In that sense, Henry was the original “Lackland” – a sobriquet assigned to his great-grandson John, born nearly a century after Henry.  Henry’s sole inheritance from his father had been a large sum of money.

In the years following the death of William the Conqueror, there was incessant conflict between his two oldest sons, Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy, and William Rufus, King of England.  Young Henry’s allegiance shifted between Robert and William Rufus depending on which brother had more to offer the clever prince.

Just as a tragedy would eventually be the un-doing of Henry’s reign, it was a tragedy that made his reign possible.  In August of 1100, William Rufus was killed in a hunting accident.  Henry immediately seized the throne of England, claiming that his right to the throne was stronger than his older brother, Robert, since Henry had been born after William the Conqueror became King of England.  It was a tenuous claim, but he strengthened it through a fortuitous marriage to Matilda of Scotland, a descendent of Saxon kings.

Just six years later, in September of 1106, Henry had defeated his brother, Robert Curthose, and taken control of Normandy.  Robert would spend the rest of his life as Henry’s prisoner.

However, the issue of who ruled Normandy was not so easily resolved.  For the next decade, tensions and ever-changing alliances between Henry and the powerful rulers of lands bordering Normandy created a nearly constant state of conflict for the English king.  France’s King Louis VI and Fulk V, the Count of Anjou, frequently joined forces against him.

These tensions exploded into full-out war between Henry I and Louis VI, beginning in 1115.  Henry refused to pay homage to Louis for the Duchy of Normandy.  However, he offered the homage of his only legitimate son and heir, William the Ætheling (an Old Saxon title identifying William as the royal heir).  Louis refused this compromise.

In May of 1119, Henry proposed a betrothal between his son and the daughter of the Angevin Count Fulk which included a large sum of money payable to the count.  This was an offer Count Fulk could not refuse.  He promptly switched his allegiance to Henry, and Louis’ position was now untenable.

Following Henry’s great victory at the Battle of Brémule, Louis formally made peace with him in June of 1120 with terms greatly advantageous to the English King.  William the Ætheling gave homage to Louis, and in return, Louis confirmed William’s rights to the Duchy of Normandy.

Following the signing of this treaty, Henry and his seventeen year-old son spent several months traveling across Normandy, securing their holdings and receiving the fealty of the Norman barons.

The Tragedy of the White Ship

By the end of November, Henry and his fleet prepared to return to England, and they were anticipating the celebration of the upcoming Feast of Christmas.  At the harbor of Barfleur, a man named Thomas FitzStephen approached the king and proudly announced that his grandfather had piloted William the Conqueror’s ship across the Channel in 1066.  Thomas offered the services of his newly refitted vessel, the White Ship, to ferry Henry home to England.  Henry politely declined, but suggested that his son, William, and his entourage could take the ship instead.

The sea was calm, and the winds were gentle on November 25, 1120, but the new moon made for a dark night.  Loading the passengers took longer than expected, and as the prince and his companions settled in for the 12 hour trip to England, the celebratory atmosphere degenerated into drunken revelry.  Casks of wine were loaded onto the ship and offered to both passengers and crew.  Some of the more sober passengers quietly disembarked, deciding to find another ship for the voyage.  Among those leaving the party early was Prince William’s cousin, Stephen of Blois. He was reportedly sick with a stomach ailment and in no mood to tolerate the wild atmosphere onboard the White Ship.

The captain, Thomas FitzStephen, was an experienced man, and he was thrilled to have the future King of England onboard his ship.  He began to boast of the many features of his new ship.  The young prince and his friends decided to put the boat to a test.  Even though the king had sailed earlier in the evening, William wanted to overtake the king’s ship and surprise his father by arriving in England before Henry.

And so it was that a new ship, filled with the elite of its day, began to race across dark, frigid waters in a quest to set a record for a crossing.  Like the sinking of the Titanic nearly 800 years later, the White Shipstruck a hidden danger in the water – in this case a rock and not the base of an iceberg.  The results were nearly the same:  a gash in the side of the ship, the rushing of cold water into the vessel, the lack of sufficient life boats (the White Ship carried only one small, extra boat), and the chaotic confusion of passengers and crew alike.

Prince William was quickly ushered into the only lifeboat, and his men began rowing towards the safety of the shore.  At that moment, William heard the shrill cry of a familiar voice:  his half-sister, one of his father’s many illegitimate children.  William ordered his men to return to the wreck to rescue his sister, but the desperate, drowning passengers and crew swamped the small boat carrying the prince – capsizing it and ensuring the death of all aboard save for one man:  a butcher who had boarded the ship to collect debts from some of the passengers.  He was warmly dressed and was able to survive by holding onto a plank of wood through the night.

Meanwhile, the king’s ship made its way safely across the Channel.  Later, some passengers accompanying the king recalled hearing shouts and screams echoing across the dark waters, but at the time they had no idea of the source of this noise.  Had they known that a nearby ship was sinking, they could have attempted a rescue.  Another cruel parallel with the Titanic.

The Death of Hope and the Birth of Despair

News of the disaster reached England the following day.  For two days, the court mourned in private while making excuses to King Henry as to the reason why his son had not yet arrived.  Finally, a young boy was sent to the king to announce William’s death.  Henry collapsed and was rushed to a private chamber where he was overcome with anguish.

At the moment of Henry’s greatest triumph, when he had finally secured his hold over Normandy, prevailed against the French king, fortified the throne for his son, and ended twenty years of strife, Henry’s legacy and hope for the future drowned in the cold November waters near the harbor of Barfleur.  William’s body was never recovered.  Henry also lost several of his natural children, all of whom he had loved as well.

There were few prominent noble families untouched by the shipwreck, and the next generation of English and Norman nobility had been decimated. As many as 300 people perished in the sinking of the White Ship.  There were 50 crew members, 140 knights, 18 noblewomen, a dozen or so members of the extended royal family, important officials attached to the royal household, and numerous servants.  A list of passengers can be found here.

It is said that, during the remaining fifteen years of Henry’s life, he never smiled again.  This is likely an overstatement; a fanciful legend passed down through the years.  However, as the parent of a beloved, tragically deceased child, any joyful occasion or merry moment in Henry’s life would have been shadowed by profound grief and flavored with the bitterness of regret.

King Henry I had triumphed against all odds:  the youngest son had seized the throne of England, captured the coveted Duchy of Normandy, defeated the powerful forces arrayed against him, and negotiated a brilliantly crafted peace treaty; yet, at nearly the very moment of his ultimate victory, all his hopes and dreams for the future drowned in the frigid waters off the coast of Normandy.

The death of William the Ætheling would cause a crisis of succession and result in decades of turmoil as civil war between Henry’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, and his daughter, Empress Matilda, erupted.  Peace was finally achieved in 1154 with the ascension to the throne of King Henry II, the son of Empress Matilda and King Henry I’s grandson.

The sinking of the White Ship was arguably the greatest maritime disaster of the Middle Ages.  It has been commemorated in several ballads, including this famous poem written circa 1830. 

                                 HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN

The bark that held a prince went down, The sweeping waves rolled on; And what was England’s glorious crown To him that wept a son? He lived—for life may long be borne Ere sorrow break its chain;— Why comes not death to those who mourn?— He never smiled again! 

There stood proud forms around his throne, The stately and the brave, But which could fill the place of one, That one beneath the wave? Before him passed the young and fair, In pleasure’s reckless train, But seas dashed o’er his son’s bright hair— He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round; He heard the minstrel sing, He saw the Tourney’s victor crowned, Amidst the knightly ring: A murmur of the restless deep Was blent with every strain, A voice of winds that would not sleep— He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o’er the trace Of vows once fondly poured, And strangers took the kinsman’s place At many a joyous board; Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, Were left to Heaven’s bright rain, Fresh hopes were born for other years— He never smiled again!1

           Felicia Dorothea Browne Hemans, 1793-1835

1 “The Poetical Works of Mrs. Hemans : electronic version”, University of California, British Women Romantic Poets Project. Retrieved 2017-11-25.

Bibliography Bradbury, Jim, Stephen and Matilda:  The Civil War of 1139-1153, Sutton Publishing Ltd, Great Britain, 2005 Hollister, C. Warren, Henry I, Yale University Press, New Haven and London, 2001 Huscroft, Richard, Tales from the Long Twelfth Century:  The Rise and Fall of the Angevin Empire, Yale University Press, New Haven and London, 2016

[fdsarassons]

Avenue south residence brochure

Castle Ward is Northern Ireland's most famous case of two architectural styles clamouring for attention in the one building: neoclassical versus gothick. Castle Dobbs has a less extreme but still surprising dual personality: Georgian versus Italianate. More of that later.

"For its date, 1750 to 54, it is quite without an equal in Ulster, while its perfect Palladian plan with flanking wings... is hard to match in a house of this scale anywhere in Ireland." Prof Alistair Rowan

Set in a secluded walled and wooded demesne, Castle Dobbs is an amazing survival, untouched by the orange glow of spreading suburbia and still owned by the family from whom its name is derived. The present High Sheriff of County Antrim is Nigel Dobbs. His ancestor Richard Dobbs became High Sheriff of County Antrim in 1664. Its ethereal postal address is 74 Tongue Loanen.

The estate was established in the 16th century when a young John Dobbs accompanied Sir Henry Dockwra to Carrickfergus in 1596. Dobbs subsequently became Dockwra's deputy as Treasurer of Ulster. John Dobbs was the grandson of Sir Richard Dobbs, Lord Mayor of London in 1551 and a founder of Christ's Hospital London. A title would never Avenue south residence brochure  appear in the Dobbs lineage again.

Seven years later John Dobbs married Margaret Dalway, the only child of John Dalway, a landowner granted estates in Kilroot and Ballynure in 1601 by James I. Dobbs presented the newlyweds with a freehold lease of a portion of his lands in Kilroot. The couple proceeded to build the first Castle Dobbs. It was recorded in 1610:

"One John Dobb buylte a fayre castle within two myle of Knockfargus called Dobbes Castle about w'ch he entends to buylde a bawne of stone... This Castle is buylte upon parte of Ensigne Dallawayes lande."

Dalway had come to Ireland in the 1570s as an officer in the Earl of Essex's army. In 1606 he built a bawn (a stone enclosure for cows) on his newly acquired land. The bawn consisted of four 10m high towers with a 13m long curtain wall between each one. He built his house in the middle of the bawn.

Over the entrance to the bawn is a gallows for unwelcome visitors. The towers had three floors fitted for firing cannons. Three of the towers remain. Originally the bawn would have held 200 cows. Dalway was Mayor of Carrickfergus in 1592 and 1600. The last of the Dalways, Marriott Dalway, left with his family for Australia in 1884.

Back to the Dobbs family. John and Margaret had two sons with the great names of Foulk and Hercules. Dalway naturally nominated his grandson as heir since he was the elder son. But a family row was to erupt over the Dalway estate.

On the death of his first wife, Dalway married Jane Norton who couldn't stand the sight of her step daughter-in-law. Norton persuaded her new husband to make a will in favour of his nephew instead. All hell broke loose in 1618 when Dalway died. John and Margaret began a protracted legal battle to claim the estate for Foulk's sake.

At the first hearing the court ruled in favour of the Dobbs family but the elected heir challenged this ruling. Not one to give up easily, John Dobbs set off with his son to London to petition the king. He succeeded in obtaining His Majesty's Grant to the lands of the late John Dalway.

However their triumphal return was not to be. Both Dobbs senior and junior drowned when their ship was wrecked off the Cheshire coastline in 1622. Hercules continued the legal confrontation with all his strength. The law suit was finally settled with a compromise when referees appointed by the Lord Chancellor ruled that Hercules be awarded lands at Castle Dobbs and Ballynure as well as rights to tenement in Carrickfergus. The remainder of the estate was awarded to Dalway's nephew. The ruling must have made for awkward neighbourly relations - Dalway's Bawn is a stone's throw from the entrance to the Castle Dobbs lands.

Hercules married Magdalene West of Ballydugan in 1633. They had one son, Richard, born in 1634. Hercules died the same year, aged 21. At just three months old, Richard Dobbs inherited Castle Dobbs along with land at Ballynure.

Richard was reared by his mother's family in County Down around Downpatrick and Saul. Aged 21 he married Dorothy Williams, daughter of Bryan Williams of Clints Hall in Yorkshire. After his marriage, Dobbs returned to Castle Dobbs. In 1683 he wrote,

"My house, which is a plantation and improvement of my own time (tho' descended from my great Grandfather)... is called Castle-Dobs from a small castle here, built by my Grandfather." Richard set to work improving the castle and gardens. The ruins of this castle lie beside the current house. Dalway's Bawn is still intact although the house it once surrounded has disappeared into the mists of time.

On settling at Castle Dobbs he soon became involved in civil affairs. In 1671 Dobbs was elected Mayor of Carrickfergus, an honour bestowed on him on four later occasions. Carrickfergus was one of the four most important towns of late 17th century Ireland. Perks of the job included the requirement that tenants would "furnish the Mayor with a number of fat hens at Christmas or a specified sum in lieu". Dobbs described improvements to his town:

[leviathangourmet]

The word spiegel means “mirror” in German, and since its postwar founding, Der Spiegel has proudly held a mirror up to the world. When the magazine published top-secret information about the dire state of West Germany’s armed forces in 1962, the government accused it of treason, raided its offices, and arrested its editors. The resulting “Spiegel affair” led to mass demonstrations against police-state tactics and established an important precedent for press freedom in the young democracy. Throughout its history, the newsweekly has helped set the national agenda, like Time in its heyday.

Over the past weeks, however, the name of the magazine has assumed a new relevance. Der Spiegel has cracked, and revealed ugliness within the publication as well as German society more broadly.

On December 19, the magazine announced that the star reporter Claas Relotius had fabricated information “on a grand scale” in more than a dozen articles. Relotius has been portrayed as a sort of Teutonic Stephen Glass, the 1990s New Republic fabulist. “I’m sick and I need to get help,” Relotius told his editor. While that may very well be the case, his downfall is about more than just one writer with a mental-health problem.

A motif of Relotius’s work is America’s supposed brutality. In one story, he told the macabre tale of a woman who travels across the country volunteering to witness executions. In another, he related the tragic experience of a Yemeni man wrongly imprisoned by the United States military at Guantánamo Bay, where he was held in solitary confinement and tortured for 14 years. (The song that American soldiers turned on full blast and pumped into the poor soul’s cell? Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.”) Both stories were complete fabrications.

And they should have been easily invalidated. According to the Columbia Journalism Review, Der Spiegel’s fact-checking department is the largest in the world, besting that of the vaunted New Yorker. (In 2013, I spent several months on a fellowship working for a now-defunct English-language unit at Der Spiegel). A diligent checker would have at least contacted the purported death-row roadie to confirm her existence. And the U.S. government keeps scrupulous records about the inmates imprisoned at Guantánamo. Yet Relotius’s inventions escaped the scrutiny of his colleagues.

Der Spiegel is conducting an internal review to explain what went wrong. But it seems to me that the blame lies not only with Relotius or a few careless checkers or even the publication’s research methods, but with the mentality of its editors and readers. Relotius told them what they wanted—what they expected—to hear about America; this is a case of motivated reasoning if I’ve ever seen one.

Consider the story Relotius published in March 2017, “Where They Pray for Trump on Sundays.” In 7,300 words, the German correspondent described the town of Fergus Falls, Minnesota, in the manner of an explorer recounting his visit to a remote island tribe untouched by civilization. Some of the “facts” Relotius reported, like his claim that the city voted 70.4 percent for President Donald Trump when the actual figure was 62.6 percent, could have been exposed as false with a few minutes’ research. The same goes for other, too-good-to-be-true details, like the sign warning “Mexicans Keep Out” and a throwaway line about a resident who had “never seen the ocean.” Most of the story was, according to a devastating analysis written by the Fergus Falls residents Michele Anderson and Jake Krohn, “uninhibited fiction.”

An open-minded editor would have doubted this astonishing tale about a town so jingoistic that its only cinema continues to sell out screenings of American Sniper years after the film’s release (another easily disproven lie). The fact that these blatant deceptions were not exposed until nearly two years after publication speaks to the ignorance about America that characterizes a wide swath of elite German society. Relotius, I submit, was able to get away with his con for so long because he confirmed the preconceived notions of people who fashion themselves worldly yet are as parochial as the red-state hicks of their imagination.

Though it is respected abroad as an authoritative news source, Der Spiegel has long peddled crude and sensational anti-Americanism, usually grounded in its brand of knee-jerk German pacifism. Covers over the years have impugned the United States as “The Conceited World Power” (with an image of the White House bestriding the globe), repeated the hoary “Blood for Oil” charge as the rationale for the Iraq War, and, in the run-up to George W. Bush’s reelection campaign, asked, “Will America Be Democratic Again?” When Edward Snowden leaked information detailing U.S. surveillance practices several years ago, Der Spiegel went on a crusade unlike anything in its recent history, railing about U.S. intelligence cooperation with Germany and demanding that Berlin grant Snowden asylum. (The magazine demonstrated none of the same outrage when, two years later, Russia hacked the German parliamentary computer network). Last year, Der Spiegel notoriously featured a cartoon of Trump beheading the Statue of Liberty on its cover. And this May, one of its columnists misappropriated the memory of those who struggled against Nazism by calling for “resistance against America,” quite a demand for a magazine from the country that started World War II.

The biases that Relotius stoked in his stories are ones that Europeans, and Germans in particular, have voiced about America since the first colonists set foot here hundreds of years ago. “European elites have consistently and passionately expressed the same negative sentiments about America for centuries,” the scholar Andrei Markovits observed in his 2007 book Uncouth Nation: Why Europe Dislikes America. “In both substance and tone, what stands out is this continuity, rather than change.” Among the negative traits Europeans have long associated with America, Markovits writes, are “venality, vulgarity, mediocrity, inauthenticity,” along with the perception that the country is a “threatening parvenu.” America’s frontier spirit and radically democratic ethos frightened European elites, who distrusted their own masses with political power. “You dear German farmers!” the 19th-century poet Heinrich Heine, who never visited America, implored his countrymen. “Go to America! There, neither princes nor nobles exist; there, all people are equal; there, all are the same boors!”

This sort of reflexive anti-Americanism matters. Relations between the United States and Germany are at their lowest point since the early 1980s, when the deployment of American Pershing nuclear-tipped missiles on German soil sparked the largest protests in the history of the Federal Republic. While Trump’s singling out of Germany for rhetorical abuse is obviously a huge part of the lamentable decline in transatlantic relations, so are the latent anti-American prejudices routinely aroused by Der Spiegel’s brand of yellow journalism masquerading as high-minded critique.

When Trump was elected president, it seemed to confirm every negative impression Europeans hold about Americans. Here, in the shape of our reality-TV leader, was the ur-American: vulgar, crass, ignorant, bellicose. Trump may be all those things, but to depict his supporters with such a broad brush is akin to writing off half of Germany as a bunch of goose-stepping, would-be fascists. The wildly popular work of Relotius reads exactly like what you would expect a snotty, effete, self-righteous, morally superior, latte-sipping European to say about America. Pardon the stereotype

[omnical]

I Sing the Body Electric... (1/?)

( Next )

Summary: All her life, forensic pathologist Dr. Angela Ziegler has dabbled much with the dead. After a bout of self-realization, she decides it was time she learned how to deal with the living.

And maybe ask her colleague out for a date somehow.

Genre: AU, Romance. Dark humor. Oh, and ghosts and psychics (anyone a fan of pushing daisies?)

Characters/Pairings: Angela, Lucio, Fareeha (mentioned), Pharmercy

Rating: T, mentions of body gore and third party violence, dark humor.

Links: AO3

Victim died from a singular sharp force: a penetrating wound to the head, resulting in cranial injury.

Left side, approximately 1.53 inches superior to the left orbit.

No murder weapon discovered in the crime scene.

Angela hummed, tapping her lip with the pen.

She paused the voice recorder and wrote her thoughts down on a yellow notebook, leg bobbing, her mind sinking deeper into concentration. By her elbow, a steaming cup of coffee remained untouched, and a nine-hour-old, empty sandwich wrapper laid crumpled up in a ball. Empty coffee cups littered her desk, alongside a mess of sticky notes with crucial thoughts written on them, such as: ‘the nasal cavity?’ and ‘lentil soup’.

Her uniform smelled freshly of antiseptic and murk from the examination they had performed earlier today. It sunk into her skin, her hair; lingering under her nose. Nothing she wasn’t used to, but being used to the smell did not mean she wouldn’t enjoy a long, hot shower back home. Finally, wiping biscuit crumbs off her wobbling keyboard and cracking her long, crooked fingers -- Angela got to work threading the details together. Her peering blue eyes did not break away from the notes and sketches she accumulated, as she typed down her meticulous observations regarding the case. And after what felt like hours, Dr. Ziegler sat back stiffly, curled hands hovering above the keyboard as she skimmed through her official autopsy report, eyes straining from overexposure to the monitor light.

She needed a few more moments of scribbling and typing and biting her pen. Playing the recorder again, keeping it on repeat; she listened to the sound of her voice, crackling and interspersed with static:

Body was found by janitorial staff at 1:30 PM.

According to the man in question, he was lying face-down on his desk, his pose suggesting a struggle, which explains various points of discoloration on his skin…

Blunt force trauma found on abdomen… bruising prominent beneath the left rib –

Where was his position when he received that bruise again?

Angela hummed, her thumbs tapping a random rhythm on the keyboard's space-key.

Once she reached the end of the tape for the third time, marked by a soft ‘click’, afternoon had already come and gone, her desktop monitor the only light bathing her in blue. She hid the recorder in the drawer, her free hand busy alternating between drafting a few rough sketches on paper, and typing exact details on the autopsy report. The doctor took a moment to grab a folder for Case #765 on top of a pile, opening it and flipping over to the photos of the crime scene: dried blood splattered outwards in every chaotic direction on the victim’s mahogany desk; his leather writing pad askew, probably because of how the body fell upon its expiry. She pinched her pen idly between her nose and upper lip, noting how neat the rest of the victim’s desk looked otherwise. She wondered what Satya would say about that particular pattern of blood. It looked like a bunny rabbit.

“Doc Ziegler?”

Cutting herself off in the middle of her thoughts before it drifted too far, Angela reached out to grab her coffee cup, not minding its ice-cold contents, and re-read her notes during their Internal Examination. Angela could only imagine what kind of weapon the murderer used. Or get an idea of what it was, at least, after seeing the results of the death blow herself. This seemed like a tricky one.

“Doc?”

Now if she were to make a guess, it would have been an extremely sharp knife with a serrated edge or…

Angela blindly grabbed for her pen, cocking her head when she realized, during her feverish thought process, she had lost the blasted thing somewhere and could not for the life of her remember where…

“Yo, Dr. Ziegler!” Angela blinked rapidly when Dr. dos Santos’ face appeared in front of her peripheral vision, her blurry sight sharpening until she could see the quirk of his eyebrow and his amused smirk up close. “Busy?” After a pause, a few seconds spent allowing her mind to buffer as she forcefully snapped herself back into reality, Angela jumped in her chair and uttered a small and startled ‘oh’. Her speeding thoughts halting violently in its tracks, not unlike a race car screeching out of the road in a rabble of chaos. She blinked again and, similar to the spread of colored dye blooming in water, her mind began to consciously feel the kinks and aches in her bones ignored for too long. A beat, and she realized her stomach had also released an embarrassing rumble on top of it all. She sent Lucio a sheepish look.

“Doctor, I’m sorry, I -- ” Angela shoved her skewed glasses up her nose, “You startled me.”

Lucio shook his head and rested hands on his hips while he regarded his frazzled mentor. There were biscuit crumbs dotting the corners of her mouth, and her blonde hair stuck up in several different directions all at once. Her clothing was rumpled and frayed, high heels pushed to the corner of her desk, leaving her feet covered in wrinkled stockings, and -- there were coffee stains on her shirt. He sighed, wondering who was really looking after who, in their professional relationship.

“So,” he said, elongating the word into a drawl, “Please tell me you ate lunch?”

Dr. Ziegler cleared her throat, “Yes, of course I had lunch.” she said, wiping crumbs off her chin. “I had something hot and soup-like almost an hour ago, and – “

“I don’t think coffee counts as ‘lunch’, Angela.”

Angela groaned in defeat and closed her eyes, watching bright spots dance beneath her eyelids as her body melted into the chair like putty. She breathed in deep, then stretched her legs out with an exhale. “Just finishing up on some paperwork, that’s all. You know how I get carried away sometimes.”

“How about all the time? And I think ‘carried away’ wasn’t exactly the term I was looking for. Try ‘workaholic’, or ‘perfectionist’.” Lucio leaned his hip against Angela’s desk, crossing his arms, and peering down at her with a mock frown, his neon green headset bunched up around his neck. Even if Dr. Lucio dos Santos was many years younger than her, and technically working under her, Angela hunkered down into her seat feeling much like a child under the watchful eyes of a parent. “When was the last time you took a ten-minute break, young lady?”

“I am not working too hard,” Angela groused. She sat back up in her seat with a grunt, feeling her back and neck pop. “This is just regular me, doing my regular me things,” She shot him a look. “Mom.”

“Don’t give me lip, young lady, you know you’re wrong about this,” Lucio said, “As your colleague, you know I respect and look up to you. But as your friend? You gotta start taking care of yourself, Angela.”

Angela huffed through her nose and began to get her hands busy, stacking the mess of reports which covered her desk into a neat-ish pile, and actively trying to avoid the look Lucio was giving her. “Just be glad I am out of my funk, Dr. dos Santos. I am happy, motivated, and ready to take on the next seventeen cases.” Even the smile on her face felt fake. “Bring it on.”

“Uhuh.” Lucio wryly glanced at the mess of documents under her desk. “Angela, I’m sorry I gotta tell you this, but you have got to get a hobby. Doing something other than work might help you more with this midlife crisis thing.”

“I am not having a midlife crisis thing. I’m not that old, doctor. And–” Angela raised her eyebrows, denial written plainly across her face, “I do have a hobby,” she said with a shrug, “It just so happens that my hobby is related to my work.”

“Your hobby is dead bodies.” Lucio muttered.

“Solving problems. Discovering the unknown.”

“… About dead bodies.”

“Now, if you would kindly excuse me,” Angela threw her entire weight into tossing a giant, teetering stack of documents on the floor next to her feet with a huff. “I was, in fact, about to go and take my break.” she said, dusting her hands together, “Want to have lunch with me, doctor? It will be my treat.”

“It’s seven-thirty in the evening, Doc.”

“Oh, well, time flies I suppose.” Angela said, opening one of her desk drawers, then absentmindedly shoving Jim Jam wrappers and empty coffee cups inside. As if that would make her trash disappear in the morning.

After six months working in King’s Row Forensics Department, the terrifying sight of Dr. Ziegler’s desk hygiene was common enough for Dr. dos Santos to see. He learned early from older residents how futile it was to drag Dr. Ziegler away from a job, and Dr. dos Santos no longer stared at her and her atrocious, self-destructive habits in awe. Their student-mentor positions didn’t stop Lucio from chastising her about her work ethic, especially after witnessing drawn shadows prominent under her eyes everyday, and her smudged make up only completed Angela's usual look. Now one of Lucio’s many fears was finding Angela Ziegler in their morgue someday.

However.

Dr. dos Santos peered at her above the rim of his glasses, and noted the glow about her cheeks with a raised brow.

"Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen you this excited about solving a case since…”

“I am always excited about solving cases.”

“But where was that Doc Ziegler who was ‘tired of it all’ and who ‘wanted to do something new with her life’?” he asked, “Someone who wanted nothing to do with ‘death and dead stuff’? Don't give me that look, you know what I'm talkin' about."

"Lucio--"

"Where was that Angela Ziegler who was planning to quit and maybe try being a football coach or a field medic or something?”

“She is still here, and she happened to get a grip on reality after a lot of thinking.” Angela said, ducking her head, as if that would hide the dusting of red on her cheeks. “Besides, I am already finished with this case. The precinct needs it urgently tomorrow, and, you know…” she stumbled on her words.

“And?”

“I had to finish it quickly.” Angela finished lamely, her voice raising an octave higher as if that would make her sound innocent with her intentions. “Detective Amari was asking about it this morning, and I felt compelled to help her crack this case as soon as possible.”

Lucio felt both his eyebrows reach up his hairline. “Oh. I see. I see.” he said, a twinkle reaching his eye while he casually turned to check his nails, trying to appear more interested with its polish rather than the conversation itself, “Detective Dimples is an awesome source of motivation, isn’t she? Hoping to share a hobby with her, huh?”

“Oh, Lucio!” Angela almost jumped out of her chair, smacking his shoulder with a manila folder. “Don’t call her Detective Dimples.”

“Hey, you were the one swooning over her ‘smoky voice‘ and ‘beautiful smile’ a few days ago.” Lucio laughed, rubbing at the spot she slapped. “Admit it, doc, you’re too gay to handle another meeting with her.”

Angela exhaled, and schooled her features before she became too flustered; raking her fingers through her hair, and hoping the red flush now covering her neck down would fade before another nosy nancy came into the office.

Relax. You are a doctor. You are a professional.

She straightened up in her chair, and folded her hands together in her lap. “I wanted to make sure I handed it in right away, that is all.” she said, managing an impressive professional lull in the tone of her voice. “I didn’t want to make our relationship with the precinct worse than it already is. And secondly,” Angela’s brows pinched in annoyance, and pointed at her office with a sharp jab of her forefinger: “‘Detective Dimples’ stays inside this room, doctor.”

“Detective Amari’s bone structure and cheekbones are so sharp and prominent–“

“Lucio.”

“It makes me want to take up anthropology. Oh Detective.”

“Lucio!”

“Fine, fine, I promise I won’t bring it up again.” he said, trying not to double up in laughter, his poor attempt almost making him slip off her desk. “Professional reasons my ass, though, I know you’re her favorite in the lab. Always asking about you and your ‘thoughts’.” he waggled his eyebrows, “You should ask her out instead of doing this–” he motioned his hands at her vaguely, “Weird flirting ritual thing you’re doing. I doubt you can woo her by talking about dead bodies, Doc Ziegler.”

“I do no such thing, doctor.”

“You need to get out there and get a life. Any life. Get a hobby. Get some friends. Ask Detective A out on a sweet date. Live a little.”

“I do have friends. You’re my friend, yes? Sometimes I even read books.”

“Thrilling.”

“And the detective and I do connect, socially, but just as acquaintances and nothing more.” Angela said, pulling her fingers thoughtfully, “I am a grown woman, doctor, I have complete control of my life.”

“Last time you spoke to her, you struck up a conversation about bile.”

“Well, I thought it was fascinating.” Angela grabbed the rest of her documents and began to rearrange them in a tray next to her monitor, this time with less gusto, feeling herself hunch over as her mind began to conjure up depressing thoughts. “I don’t think I am her type, anyways.”

“Oh, nonsense.”

But it was true. Whether Angela liked it or not, why would anybody consider dating a frumpy, high-strung workaholic, who liked to open up dead bodies for a living?

Dr. Ziegler and Detective Amari were connected through their profession only, no matter what her feelings were. They barely did anything beyond striking awkward pleasantries and empty conversations with each other. Trying anything more proved too much for her to handle. She found it difficult navigating through compelling words above work jargon, while stuttering and pushing through her infuriating and terrifying feelings. Not even the universe was kind enough to let them to meet on different circumstances, thus, they only ever saw each other to discuss murder cases among... other things.

Angela’s eyes, tired and unfocused, turned to look back at the autopsy report, wishing she could get sucked back into its world, where things had more clarity and sense and nothing was embarrassing.

Angela wondered when speaking with the dead became easier for her than dealing with the living.

She checked the time on her digital clock, blinking when she read it was now seven-forty six in the evening. The lights from the city cast a glow over the smoggy horizon, and as Angela listened carefully, she could hear police sirens echo off from a distance. She wondered if it was going to be another case they would eventually find through their doors.

Another body, another life ended.

She felt a hand on her shoulder ground her, all teasing gone from Lucio’s voice. “You won’t know unless you try, Doc.”

EDITED (26/09/17): Just the pacing and switched some words :) Thank you!

[the-christina-gib-project-blog]

8th August 2019 - 2nd Enfield Trip

On the 8th I finally got round to doing what I’d been meaning to do for months - go back to Enfield and have a look at where Eagle House used to stand. Doing my best to have a positive, explorer’s attitude despite the stifling heat, I caught the overground and headed to Silver Street, seemingly just ten minutes from Fore Street. 

As I stepped off the train, thankful for the slightly fresher air outside the carriage, and headed out into the street I was struck once more by the difference between the old photographs at Enfield Archives and the street in front of me. This area had always been poor, so why was I continually surprised by the grimy reality of 2019 Enfield? Perhaps it was the lack of hedges, or horse-drawn carts? The fact that the skyline was now crammed with tall buildings, or maybe the endless roar of traffic?

I wandered along the side of the motorway, hacking at the car fumes, squinting at my phone’s Google Maps in the blazing sunshine. A left, another left, along Fore Street for five minutes, and then - there, in this decidedly dodgy part of town, next to a corner shop selling mangos, papayas and cheap phone calls to Ghana, sat the Red Cross shop I’d been searching for. White paint smeared with dirt. Dresses in the window. Rusting TV aerial on the roof. This was it, then. This was where the ghostly remains of Eagle House stood. 

The underwhelming Red Cross shop

I felt suddenly as thought the last 9 months had been leading to this moment, only for it to turn out to be a rather damp squib. I half-heartedly raised my phone to record myself outside the shop, clocked just how many guys were sitting on nearby doorsteps and wandering the street, all watching this new addition to the neighbourhood with no little interest, and lowered it again. I felt as though eyes followed me down the street as I marched away with faux-purpose, the other way from the station - after coming all this way, surely there was something else I could do with my time here? Fuller-Russel’s old church, St James’, turned out to be over 40 minutes away (quite the journey for the 19th century vicar!) so instead I just wandered along in the brutal heat, looking at the shop fronts for any remnants of an Enfield that Christina might have known. And yes, here and there, the old buildings could be spotted - some gutted to become draperies and clothes shops specialising in Hijabs or African dresses, some now food stores, some now Turkish cafes. London doing what London does best: recycling what’s already there, the newest wave of immigrants in this city of perpetual newcomers adapting the buildings in the ways that best suited their needs. There was something heartening about this thought, despite the dirt, pollution and growling traffic. 

One of the few untouched buildings

I began to count the many different ethnic communities that lived in this area. Polish nut shop, SIM cards for phoning Uganda and Nigeria, signs advertising Mauritian products, Islamic products, Turkish products and services for sending money to the Philippines. A working class borough in London in 2019 looks a little different to the ones in the 1840s... 

I noticed a street called Park Lane, turned the corner and suddenly the houses were clearly in an entirely price bracket. In that fascinating way that London often does, one moment you had abandoned shopping trolleys, grubby car wash stations manned by surly looking men and people yelling at each other in their cars, and the next moment there was quiet. I could even hear birdsong. 

Houses with gates and high walls, voice-operated keypads and lots of immaculately cleaned glass doors. I’d just been puzzling over the juxtaposition of a building like Eagle House in an area like factory-town Enfield, and now I had my 21st century answer. Rich and poor have always lived side by side in cities, and the imposing gates and grounds of Eagle House would have served much the same purpose as these electric keypads and metal bars. 

Both say: this is not for you, common people. Keep out. 

Musing on all of this, I kept on walking and found the “park” advertised by the street name - a somewhat understated name, it turned out. 

Pymmes Park, originally the grounds surrounding Pymes House, was first built in 1327 by William Pyme. Passing hands frequently throughout the following centuries, by Christina’s time the House and the grounds belonged to the Ray family. I could easily imagine well-to-do ladies promenading through the trees or across the grass as I sat there licking an ice cream and trying not to seem too eccentric as I recorded myself on my phone, and that thought cheered me up on what felt a little bit like a failed mission. Christina may have paused to adjust her hat or make a remark to Russell right where I’m sitting, I thought. That’s definitely worth the effort of coming here. 

Ice cream finished, I pushed myself up from off the grass and headed back slowly to Silver Street, noting a seemingly better-preserved side street as I went. A grimy bridge led me over a stream which, although now funnelled using modern engineering and filled with litter, probably started out life as a countryside bubbling brook. A row of houses stood as they might have done two hundred years ago, with one hollowed out in the middle for a passageway that may well have once led to a yard, complete with horses and carriages. 

It was a strange trip, full of contradictions and surprises. 

Modernisation of the area has bulldozed breathtakingly beautiful buildings such as Eagle House, but at the same time green spaces such as Pymmes Park, once only for the gentry to enjoy, are now open to all. On the journey back my mind kept returning to those glassy houses with their locked gates. Class differences can still be seen clearly in London, two centuries on from the elite living of Christina’s time. Living on the wrong side of the street is now more “death of a thousand cuts” (or, more accurately, a thousand car exhaust fumes) than death by factory work or tuberculosis, but the disparity is still striking. 

Samuel Johnson famously once said that when a man is tired of London he is tired of life. I think we all know the side of the street on which he lived.