#the queen's high seas (tavern version)

[livelynumbskull]

Theme songs for your muse

Standard theme: The Queen's High Seas / Tavern Version - Divinity: Original Sin II

Battle theme: Venice Fight - Assassin's Creed II

Boss Theme: Awakening - Halo 4

Emotional Theme: Aurora - The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim

Tagged by: @redstainedglasses and @xxlordalexanderxx

Tagging: @shiningsilverarmor @sweet-chimera @raktanag @archaeval @astrumborn @pawnshopsouls and whoever wants to steal this!

[just-the-hiddles]

Silken Sails | Chapter 1 | A Life More Ordinary

A/N: It is finally here!  The much anticipated pirate AU.  This was inspired by my driving one foggy morning and the 2Cellos version of the Pirates of Caribbean theme popped on my phone.  And well here we are! 

Summary: Charlotte Liddell dreams of a life of adventure on the high seas.  She sets sail for the Caribbean which ends up entangling her with the hunt for the lost Spanish ship Viuda Negra and untold Spanish treasures.  Along the way, she crosses paths with British Navy Officer Steve Rogers and famed French pirate Loki Laufeyson.  Will she keep her wits about her? 

This Chapter:  Charlotte Liddell works in her family’s inn and tavern in the port town of Bristol. Her mother expects her to marry well and raise a family. But she dreams of life on the water. One night she meets up with a sailor, Clint Barton, and that meeting changes the course of her life.  

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2289

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-

“Child, come away from the window!” Charlotte's mother’s voice rang off the walls of the small kitchen.

Rebecca Liddell was a woman made of hard work and no time for frivolity. There was a tavern and inn to run. She needed her sixteen-year-old daughter manning the fire, not staring at the window breathing in the sea air and daydreaming.

Charlotte stepped away from the window and back to the reality of her life. Her father owned the Captain’s Quarter, which meant he was often away, leaving his wife Rebecca in charge.

“Sorry, Mother.” she turned her attention to the large pot over the fire.

Her younger brother, William, stoked the flames of the hearth’s fire as she stirred the stew which would serve as the inn’s fare for the evening.

“Honestly, child…” she tutted as she set about with the business of getting ready for the dinner rush. “… I don’t understand where your head is sometimes.”

“Why can’t I go with Papa? To buy from the merchants? I’m good with numbers.” she whined.

“Charlotte Liddell!” her mother slammed the bowl against the table. “That is no way for a proper lady to speak. If anyone were to accompany your father, it would be William.”

William groaned, and Charlotte hung her head. Every week she questioned why she had to stay behind. And every week her Mother muttered about how Charlotte was such an impertinent child. Her mother worried Charlotte would never find a suitable husband, what with all the blathering on about adventures of the high sea.

Charlotte shuffled out to the public dining area to find it already bustling. For the rest of the evening, she had no moment’s rest. It was well into the evening when her mother and William fell asleep. She grabbed her cloak and slipped out the window, leaving it open for her return.

She walked with purpose to the docks at the edge of the town. Her soft shoes padded against the well-worn roads until she could hear the lapping of water against wood in the distance.

Her pace quickened until the cool sea air hit her cheeks. She inhaled the salt, and her heart raced. This is where I belong, she reflected as she closed her eyes and sat down on the wooden planks of the docks.

Charlotte rocked back and forth to rhythmic thuds of the ships moored. It soothed her better than any lullaby.

“Who goes there?” a deep voice echoed through the night air as Charlotte noticed heavy boots approaching her at a heavy clip.

She rose and smoothed out her skirt as she hustled to meet the man. It was Mr. Allen, the man in charge of the docks.

“You again,” he sneered. “How many times have you been told not to loiter about here?”

“I… I…” Charlotte searched for a plausible lie when a strong hand fell upon her shoulder.

“She came to deliver me a message.” the male voice answered. Charlotte turned to see her rescuer.

The man wore his dark blonde hair short and his clothes were simple but well made.

“And you would be?” Mr. Allen narrowed his eyes at the two of them.

“Clint Barton. From the Hawk.” Mr. Barton squared his shoulders to Mr. Allen.

The dockmaster took a step back. “My apologies, Mr. Barton.”

“It’s all right, Mr…” Mr. Barton raised an eyebrow.

“… Allen.” He puffed his chest. “I’ve been the dockmaster round these parts for 15 years. And I have been catching this one…” Mr. Allen jabbed a figure at Charlotte, who ducked behind Clint. “… sneaking around for almost as long.”

Clint chuckled. “You are a true watchman, Mr. Allen. Now if you don’t mind, I shall escort the girl home before she is missed.”

Mr. Allen nodded as he stepped aside to allow them passage into town. He glared as Charlotte walked by, her eyes never leaving the ground.

They made their way through town until they came to the darkened front of the inn and tavern.

“Thank you, sir. I owe you a debt for your kindness.” She didn’t dare look up.

“Nonsense, dear. Just save me an extra helping of the delicious stew tomorrow and consider the debt repaid.”

She nodded her head and snuck around the back to the window. Her nerves so frayed, she forgot to close it upon her return.

-

Rebecca woke up to a chill in the air and a sore throat.

“Who left this window open?!” she exclaimed as she latched it tight.

Charlotte wandered in to find her mother scowling. “I must have forgotten last night.”

She swatted at Charlotte. “You careless child! Are you trying to have all of us catch the death?!”

Charlotte covered her head from the blows of the rag in her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry, Mother!”

William came in coughing. Her mother glared, and she hurried out of sight to get ready for the day’s work.

As the day wore on, Rebecca and William grew more and more sick. William’s cough deepened, and soon his mother sent him to bed. Which meant the preparations took twice as long.

“Charlotte, child,” her mother beckoned her from the stove. A thin layer of sweat covered her mother’s pallor complexion. “I am not going to make it through tonight.”

Charlotte paled. She realized what that meant. And it was her fault.

“Yes, Mama. I can handle it tonight.”

Rebecca pressed a hot kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “Thank you dear.”

Charlotte nodded and smoothed out her skirts as she walked to begin the long night.

-

The night moved as a blur of serving, cleaning, and collecting payment. Charlotte didn’t get to rest until right before closing. The door opened, and a young man walked in.

“What can I get for you?” she asked.

She considered that the frail boy could use a fattening up. But it wasn’t her place to comment.

“A good meal, if you please.” he asked with a smile.

“Yes, mister.” Charlotte shuffled to the kitchen and heaved a large serving of the night’s stew, scrounging up some dark bread for him. She placed the food in front of him.

He tucked in, moaning at the taste. “Thanks, miss. This might be the last good meal I have for a while.”

Charlotte tilted her head in confusion.

“Midshipman Steven Rogers, reporting for duty tomorrow with the Royal Navy.”

Charlotte smiled. “I wish you well. Hopefully the meal will remind you what your service protects.”

Steve smiled, and Charlotte left him to eat. She cleaned up for the evening as the patrons filtered out. Steve waved as he left with a full belly, and Charlotte returned the wave. She gathered the dirty dishes for washing, forgetting to latch the door.

She heard the door open and turned. “Sorry, we are—”

“But you promised to save me some stew this evening.”

Charlotte smiled at the voice of Clint. “Of course, Mr. Barton.” She wiped her hands and entered the kitchen. She spooned the last of the stew and cut a thick slab of bread.

“Thank you.” Clint smiled. “Could you pour me an ale?”

Charlotte nodded and shuffled off to pour one. “Here you go, Mr. Barton.”

“Please call me Clint, Ms…”

“Charlotte Liddell.” she cast her eyes downward.

“Charlotte.” His lips curved into a smile. “The mistress of the docks.” Charlotte blushed. “Why was a young lady like yourself wandering the docks at night?”

“I enjoy listening to the sound of the oceans. The ships knocking against the docks.”

“You dream of adventure.” Clint commented into his ale. “Or would prefer the life of marriage and having children?”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “It would be improper to discuss.”

Clint took a large swig of ale, finishing it. “Pardon me for overstepping. It is unusual to find a young lady looking for more than a husband. You remind me of my wife.”

“Is she back at your home?”

Clint’s face fell, and she realized her mistake.

“There was a hurricane this past year in Port Royal. Took out half my crop. My wife and son didn’t make it.” He sniffled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” She turned to walk away, but Clint gestured for her to stop and sit.

“You wouldn’t. I don’t speak of them much. I had hoped to find a new wife on my travels here, but we sail in tomorrow evening and I believe my luck has run short.”

Charlotte swallowed hard. This may be her ticket out, she thought. “I wish you well on your journey.”

Clint rose and wiped his hands on his pants. “To you as well. If you think about it, the Hawk sails at dusk tomorrow. Perhaps I will see you again before we sail.” He gave a small wink as the door clicked behind him.

Charlotte latched the door and leaned against it, her head thudding on the wood. She finished the evening chores distracted. She wasn’t certain what Clint was proposing. A marriage? Adventure? The prospect of something else was enticing. Charlotte drifted off to sleep that night dreaming of the Caribbean.

-

“Where is your head, girl!” Rebecca yelled as Charlotte bobbled a large bowl, it shattering on the floor.

“Sorry, Mama.” Charlotte apologized as she gathered the large pieces of the now broken bowl.

“I don’t know how you expect to find a husband being so clumsy.” Rebecca tsked.

“What if I don’t wish to marry?” Charlotte commented in a quiet voice.

Her mother slammed the spoon down on the table. “Not marry!? Have you gone mad, Charlotte Liddell? How do you expect to make your way in this world without a husband?”

“Well, I thought—”

“Exactly the problem. Thinking too much. Listening to the stories of the sailors coming into the tavern.”

“But Mama—”

“Not buts, child. That was my best bowl. Go to see Mrs. Miller has one we can use. Perhaps the walk will clear your head.”

Rebecca shuttled Charlotte out the door. Ms. Miller lived across the town, and she soon passed the docks. Charlotte wandered down to where the Hawk was moored.

“Can I help you, miss?” a gruff voice called from the deck.

“I wanted to inquire as to how much passage would cost to Port Royal?”

“And who might be asking?”

“I’m asking for myself.” Charlotte stood a little straighter.

“I’m not having any single woman traveling on my boat.” the man exclaimed. “It is bad luck.”

“I would ask you to take care how you speak to my bride.” a familiar voice rang out.

Charlotte smiled as she saw Clint coming up the dock.

“Apologies Mr. Barton. I didn’t know.” the man on deck groveled.

Clint’s arm slid around Charlotte’s waist protectively.

“Thank you, sir. Now can you answer the ladies’ question?”

The man muttered a number. Charlotte turned to leave. “I owe you once again, Mr.—Clint.”

“I am at your service, Charlotte. I hoped I would see you again.”

“Now if you excuse me. I have matters to attend to.” She hurried away before Clint could ask another question.

She hurried to Ms. Miller’s and got the bowl. Charlotte ran home, careful to not break this bowl. Her mother snatched it from her hands.

“Why did you take so long?”

“I wasn’t feeling well.” she lied.

Rebecca placed the back of her hand on Charlotte’s forehead.

“You are a touch warm. Finish up the cooking and cleaning and then have a lie down.”

Charlotte nodded and set to work. She moved slowly, not wanting to finish until the evening rush started. Charlotte headed to her bed before long. Instead curling up on the bed, she grabbed a small bag and packed up a few changes of clothes along with a small pouch filled with coins to pay for her passage. The sun threatened to set at any moment and she had no time to waste.

As she pushed the window open, she heard a noise behind her.

“Mama wants to know—” William asked, stopping as he saw her bag. “Where are you going?”

“Away.” She pulled him into a quick hug. “I must hurry. Tell Mama I am still not well.”

“But—” She hugged him again.

“I will miss you, brother.” She pushed her bag out the window and soon followed, walking away from the only life she knew.

Charlotte walked at a casual pace at first, not wanting to arouse suspicion from the passing people on the streets. But as the docks came into view, she took off at a run, fearful she was too late.

The Hawk came into view, silhouetted by the setting sun. The men on deck readied the ship for departure. She clambered up the ramp, and her feet hit the deck with a soft thump.

“I thought you had decided for a life more ordinary.” Clint commented as he took her bag. “I’m glad you didn’t.” He smiled.

Charlotte’s stomach flipped. Her mind raced. Jump off the ship? Or stay and change her life forever? The decision was made for her as the ship unmoored and drifted away from the dock. She remained glued to the railing until Bristol was just a dot on the horizon.

“Welcome to my ship, the Hawk.” Clint commented as he came behind her.

Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “I thought it was the captain’s ship?”

Clint chuckled. “The captain runs to ship when it is at sea but I own the ship, just as I own my plantation and everything else.” His hand gripped her shoulder possessively.

“I was not aware.”

“Let’s discuss that and a great many other things.” Clint led her away from the railing and the view of everything she knew and towards her future, whatever that may be.

[seadeepywrites]

When the River Meets the Sea

Character: Fathom Tidechaser Words: 3490 tw: death, violence/gore, body horror

1. Our Souls Will Leave This Land

Fathom isn’t afraid until the moment his Heal spell fails him. Like a sword parrying in a clash of steel, like a rubber ball rebounding off a stone wall, the magic that is supposed to close his wounds slips free of his grasp, reflecting back on him. As the sudden, breathless darkness of necrotic damage leaches his strength, Fathom feels it: a flicker of fear.

Fathom is occasionally anxious and frequently surprised, but true fear like this is vanishingly rare for him. He has faced vampires and corpse-stealing fiends from Hell and suture-scarred fleshy mutants that should never have existed in the first place. He has healed injuries, raised the dead, and climbed out of his own grave. He has walked between planes, traveled backwards through time, and spoken to gods.

Today, for the first time in his several lives and deaths, Fathom considers the idea that Melora’s blessing may not be enough to save him.

The illithid-lich shrieks without sound, and even aware of what’s coming, Fathom can’t stagger out of the way quickly enough. Its psychic scream blasts his mind free of his body, into some hazy place where the real-time consequences of combat don’t seem to matter. Fathom knows, on some level, that he is standing here in front of the illithid and its creations, flat-footed and slump-shouldered. But most of him is absent, drifting through a blurry infinity of vague concepts and disconnected thoughts. Not unlike being extremely high, actually.

Next to Fathom, the eye sockets of a dozen skulls light up with the same eerie green glow that pervades this lair. Their jawbones seem to widen and vibrate with silent laughter — or maybe that’s just Fathom’s vision swimming. Fathom isn’t present enough to be concerned as his soul begins to prise itself from his body, attempting to wriggle free of his flesh like a snake shucking its skin.

It is only the sigil inked across Fathom’s collarbones that prevents it, the Death Ward flaring in one final, desperate attempt to keep Fathom alive. Even when he himself isn’t fully aware of it. Even when blood slips slick over his upper lip and his neck, running like water from his nose and ears. Even when he sees — sees but cannot make himself react — sees the illithid floating down from its dais.

The illithid reaches out toward him with one hand, whispering in its breathy voice. Fathom can’t quite parse the words over the thunderous roar of his pulse crashing in his ears. It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? The illithid’s slender tentacles reach out too, impossibly long and serpentine, and wrap themselves around Fathom’s head.

Melora, Fathom thinks. He would say it out loud, if he could. If he could shape his lips to breathe it out, he would want her name to be the last word he says. It is a prayer and it is a plea: Please. Help my friends where I’ve failed. Give them the power to defeat this evil where I cannot.

The only thing in the world that Fathom truly, deeply cares about — the only thing he will ever live and die for — is his goddess. He would go to his death gladly — placidly allow the illithid to drink his brain like so much beef stew — if he could know for sure that he hasn’t disappointed her. But he isn’t sure of that at all, so Fathom’s heart stutters and his blood freezes to ice as the illithid’s tentacles smother him, obscuring his vision.

Melora, he thinks again, with desperation and heartbreak and terror.

And then the pain begins.

**********

2. The Winds of Time

In the darkness, Fathom hears the sound of ocean waves. He knows the Material Plane and several others by now — the Astral Plane, the Feywild, Orthrys, the Plane of Time, and Pandemonium among them. This place is none of those. This is maybe not a place at all but a feeling, a moment between breathing in and breathing out. It holds him like the fuzzy apathy from the illithid's Mind Blast did, but a thousand times more transient, more ineffable.

Fathom is alone here — until he is not.

He learned a long time ago to see beyond the sight of his eyes, to sense beyond the flesh that covers his bones. It’s that ability now that tells him who surrounds him.

First is the clicking of goat hooves and an uncanny chuckle, a presence as mysterious and mercurial as a dream. The glint of sharp teeth smiling, and a shimmer like a heat mirage. Fathom recognizes the unpredictable, long-limbed, goat-eyed Archfey-in-the-form-of-a-man who scraped him off the rocks of the Feywild and brought him back to life the first time. The Entertainer. The Twilight Walker.

Second comes the rustling of midnight-black wings, which bring an endless field of stars in their wake. This void is hers, as is the longbow the halfling wields and every inch of Tanazil's new human body. Fathom has passed through her domain several times now, but only discovered recently that she was once a person like him. A friend of the party's, once, until she sunk into a slumber from which she would never wake. Umbra, the Raven Queen. Keeper of the boundary between life and death.

Fathom actually tastes the third presence in the back of his throat, the sweet and heady burn of alcohol mid-swallow. If he had a face right now, he'd smile, because it's a familiar sensation. It reminds him of the wild nights of carousing he's participated in over the years and, more rarely, the sheer bloody joy of splitting knuckles and breaking furniture in tavern brawls. There's an energy to this presence, careless and defiant. Appropriate for one of the youngest gods, whose reign over his twin domains of strength and luck is just beginning. Cayden, proprietor of the Drunken Sailor until his recent removal from the Material Plane.

Fourth is another brand-new god, one whom the party itself assisted in his ascension. With him comes the clicking of tiny gears and the whisper of sand through an hourglass that now only exists in memory. He is a god of brilliant ideas and science precise enough to navigate through the stained-glass labyrinth of the Plane of Time — and while Fathom respects him, he does not understand him in the slightest. Fathom will keep his own slow thoughts and poor reading comprehension, and leave the worship of this god to the more intellectual party members, like Curt. Fizzlewick, once a gnome artificer who spliced together various realities. Now so much more.

Fifth is the reason they are all here, an overpowering feminine force who is both beautiful and terrible. Like Umbra, her wings would engulf all if Fathom could see them, but he has already witnessed their burning white radiance. He’s got his suspicions about Trox's allegiance, because he's seen the bug man's shell light with the same bleached-bone color. Amidst the chaos, Fathom can hear the thrum of the threads of Fate as they dance between her fingers. If she has a name beyond the mistress of such things, he does not know of it.

Last and most beloved is the taste of salt and the scent of ozone, vast and untamed ever-changing. Fathom's loyalty to her is as boundless as the waters she rules over and as fierce as the violence of the tempest. She has been in every breath he takes since the day he was brought into the world, and he will follow and fight for her long after he leaves it. Melora, goddess of sea and the wilderness. Fathom has pledged himself to her before, and would do it a thousand times again.

There are other gods here too, ones Fathom has heard of from the many faithful he's met in his travels. But these are the ones Fathom knows, the ones Fathom has actually met personally and spoken to. They surround him with their awful, unspeakable power — if Fathom were still alive, this much divine energy in one place would undoubtedly blow him into tiny pieces or melt his eyes right out of his skull.

"Hi," Fathom says, or tries to. "What's up, guys?"

It is Fizzlewick who answers him, voice gleaming gold against the blackness that surrounds them. His words resonate in Fathom's mind, deafening and omnipresent in a way they never were in life. WE ARE WAITING, he says.

Fathom considers this. "Waiting for what?"

WAITING FOR A CHOICE, Fizzlewick says, and does not explain further.

"Aren't you the god of time?" Fathom asks, skeptical.

YES, Fizzlewick replies, and is it just Fathom's imagination, or does he sound a little bit cranky? THAT IS WHY I AM GIVING HIM THE TIME TO CONSIDER IT.

"Oh. That makes sense, I guess."

Several ideas connect suddenly in Fathom's head, in that lightning-flash and logic-less way he processes concepts:

Curt, invisibility spell broken, screaming himself hoarse in a way Fathom has only heard once before. Although that time he’s been a version of Curt from a future where the illithid had triumphed, and then after the screaming stopped he wasn't Curt at all.

The sound of a vial uncorking. The screaming suddenly cut short.

A gift that Curt was given weeks earlier, when the party visited Fate's domain, in faint disapproval but also in consolation. A promise that the gods had not given up on the young wizard entirely, not yet.

"Huh," Fathom says.

So he settles down to wait in the way he does best: aimless, serene, equivocal. Just vibing. The pain and terror that accompanied his death seem very far away, like faded colors or muted sounds.

At some point, the waiting ends. Was it half a second, or was it forever? It could have been either. Fizzlewick speaks again, and Fathom's soul rouses itself to respond.

HE CHOSE CORRECTLY, Fizzlewick says.

"Cool. So what happens now?"

NOW, Fizzlewick says, I SEND YOU BACK TO HELP MY CHAMPION.

That's new information, actually — that Fizzlewick now has a champion — but it doesn't take a genius to figure out who Fizzlewick's talking about. Which is good, because Fathom definitely isn't one.

The void, the gods, this in-between place — all begin to dissolve, in the same rhythmic way that waves erase footprints in the sand. Instead of divine presence, Fathom becomes aware of a ceaseless wind that carries the whispers of insanity along with it. As the sound of the wind — which somehow, mysteriously, continues to blow indoors and underground — increases, so does another sound: a rapid, clicking whir. Like the hands of a pocket-watch, spinning forward. Or backward. Or both.

Fathom can see again: golden light, bright enough to sear through his closed eyelids. More to the point, he's back in his body, in his deeply cursed plate armor, with his arm made of water and his silver trident at his fingertips.

He is alive, and he's pretty sure his brain is firmly inside his skull, which are both things he never thought he’d experience again.

Fathom's eyes flutter open to a scene that would look really strange if it wasn’t the one he'd been seeing just before his untimely death. Trox and Tanazil are hacking at the illithid, both wielding enormous axes and foaming with berserker's rage. The halfling's elk is there too, rearing up with its wickedly sharp front hooves to contribute to the damage. The giant translucent pods up on the dais seem to have increased in number, which is odd, but it is not the oddest thing here by far.

As Fathom clambers to his feet, he realizes he doesn't just feel alive — he feels great. Better than he ever has in his multiple lives, maybe. The glow that haloed him is already fading, but there is another god's power present here, crashing inside him like thunder and breaking surf. Fathom feels almost limitless. Renewed. Reinvigorated.

"Now that's more like it," he says with satisfaction.

He sends a fragmentary thought through the telepathy rings, just enough to tell the nameless halfling he is alive. Her joy radiates back at him, warm and wonderful.

Then Fathom hefts his shield and his trident, and prepares again to fight.

********** 

3. That Sweet And Final Hour

Melora takes him home. Or rather, Melora takes him back to the only place that has always been there for him, a place that has taken from and given to and blessed and cursed him. Melora takes him back to the place that has always been hers, and now is a little bit Fathom's too.

Melora clasps his hand and pulls him between planes with a lurching tug he has come to recognize, not unlike free fall or the sudden drop of a ship's deck below his feet. And then he is with his goddess on the cliffs of Cherat, in the very spot he once stood and whipped up a storm, looking out over the wind-roughened gray expanse of the sea.

Fathom turns to Melora, unashamed of the tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he says, breathing deeply. "It's good to be home."

"Yes," Melora says somberly, looking out across the water.

They stand there for a moment side by side, saying nothing because they have said all there is to say already. The world has been saved. The tapestry of Fate has been re-woven. Fathom's friends, the little dysfunctional adventuring party he has kept alive at all costs, have gone their separate ways. Fathom's journey is, in so many ways, all over.

"I wasn't sure we'd make it here," Fathom confesses, scratching idly at his darkness-beard. He shrugs. "But I figured I'd try anyway, you know?"

Melora shakes her head, smiling, her long hair rippling as it shifts against her bare shoulders. "I know," she says plainly. "I wasn't sure you would either."

"That makes three times I've died," Fathom muses. "Can't say I want to make it a habit. That last one really hurt."

Melora winces. "Fixing that was Fizzlewick's doing. I couldn't— There's only so much I could do, when—"

"I know," Fathom says quickly. He isn't sure if a goddess feels things like awkwardness or embarrassment, but that's certainly the image Melora projects when she stumbles over her words like this. It delights him, actually, the thought that he's spent enough time with her now to recognize the habit.

"I'm glad," Melora says, relaxing slightly. "That you survived. Or, well. That you're alive now."

Fathom tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting the sea breeze mist across his already-damp skin. "That makes two of us," he says. After a moment, he adds, "'Cause now that I've done the save-the-universe thing a couple times, I just want to chill for a bit. And I feel like hanging out on the Material Plane would be weird if I was dead."

"Weird, yes," Melora acknowledges with a nod. "Also sort of forbidden by Umbra and her followers."

"Ha. Wouldn't want Tanazil coming after me. That axe of his is pretty sharp. Though..." Fathom brushes his fingers against the hilt of his trident. "I kind of feel like I could take him."

"Hmm. Maybe." Melora's smile is amused, maybe a little indulgent.

"Curt seemed to think he'd be able to do it," Fathom continues. "But Curt has a pretty big head when it comes to his own powers." He pauses, voice softening. "He made the right choice, though. When it counted."

"That he did." 

Fathom shakes his head, sighing. "Imagine fighting the illithid and all that because it was the right thing to do. A moral compass, or whatever."

Melora makes a little noise of objection.

"What? I know damn well I'm not that selfless."

"And what do you call your help in the whole matter then?"

Fathom stares at her. Surely she is just teasing — surely she must know. "My lady," he says, frowning. "That was all for you."

Melora blinks, a slow sweep of her lashes, her eyes glistening gray-blue-green-black-gold. Then she smiles, reaches across to pat Fathom on the shoulder.

"My champion," she says fondly.

Fathom shuffles his feet and squints out at the water again. There is silence between them for several long minutes, though of course it is never really silent here. The waves hiss and crash, and above their heads gulls screech and circle. The sky is a boundless blue, darkening to slate where clouds encroach at its edges.

Fathom is like a grain of sand on this beach, a tiny part of something much larger. His soul sings with it, with the connection to the land and the sky and the sea. He is suddenly quite certain that if he wanted to, he could step into open air and soar. Could fly upward towards the bright, alluring heat of the sun until his lungs lost their breath. Then he'd tumble downward head over heels to meet the sea under sunlight, and it would welcome him into its salty and eternal embrace.

Melora has entrusted him with part of her domain, and Fathom thinks this is one of the few things he’ll be able to carry with him for the rest of his life. One of the sole responsibilities he'll shoulder and never ever grow tired of, never seek restlessly to move on and walk away. He's left so many people and places behind, but this — this he can keep.

"So," Melora says after some unknown amount of time has passed. "What's next? Mushrooms?"

Fathom tilts his head. "Do you mean going to visit Toad like we planned, or the kind that makes you hallucinate? 'Cause I'm down either way."

"Yes," says his goddess, and offers him her hand again.

**********

4. Epilogue: The Almighty Sea

Fathom Tidechaser lives his life.

He spends two weeks with Tanazil in silent retreat and contemplation, drinking in the richness of the ancient, mossy forest, perfectly at peace. But while it’s a haven of relaxation and redemption for Tanazil, Fathom can’t linger. He’s never been able to settle down, not even for a few months. The power Melora has blessed him with guides him onward like he’s a ship sailing toward the horizon, pointing into the bittersweet unknown.

The halfling and her fey patron are always able to find him no matter where he travels, and it becomes something of a game between them all: to play pranks on Fathom, to get their tricks past his uncanny awareness of his surroundings. He catches them as often as they succeed, and it’s always a joyful reunion. The once-nameless halfling introduces herself these days with the name the Entertainer has given her. It suits her.

Curt turns twenty, which is a surprise to everyone who thought he'd get himself killed long before that. Technically he has, several times, but Fathom figures that any debt Curt built up from Fathom's resurrections was definitely repaid when Curt asked Fizzlewick to revive him. So they are equals now. On an even footing. Fathom has zero interest in the school of magic Curt is establishing on the moon, but he can recognize the bright-eyed whip-smart type of adventurer who would thrive there. He frequently sends Curt new recruits, and along with them his best wishes, but visits rarely.

Fathom travels as he always has. Now, though, he can raise and quiet storms at his command. He can also fly without a spell, skimming over the surface of the ocean for miles until he finds a ship and scares the hell out of its crew by landing on the rigging like a gigantic shiny albatross. When he is addressed as a minor deity, he scoffs, but then he wonders: are the frightened sailors that far off the mark? 

Fathom dies — finally, permanently, for good — at a much younger age than most, but that's hardly surprising. He is powerful enough to face almost any creature on the Material Plane, and several more planes besides, but the one person he can't resurrect is himself. It isn’t a dramatic sacrifice, nor is it a gentle and peaceful passing. It is simply a death — ugly and brutal and fast.

He greets Umbra as a friend, only exchanging a few words with her. Because they both know where he’s going, of course. Melora is one of the few deities with no astral domain, choosing instead to wander the cosmos eternally. So this is less of an ending and more of a transformation — from one way of being to another, like a wave breaking and returning to the water. Fathom’s soul still travels, still soars over the sea, still stirs up storms in thunderous magnificence. 

Fathom Tidechaser dies, and serves his goddess long past his death, until his name is mentioned in the same breath as hers. Things change, as they always do. Fathom dies, but he lives on.

[caught-in-orbit]

🐴🍑☠️

🐴

Old Town Road (Remix) - Lil Nas X and Billy Ray Cyrus 

Dumb Blonde - Dolly Parton 

Hunt You Down - Kesha 

(Ghost) Riders In The Sky - Johnny Cash

Wagon Wheel - Lily Kershaw

🍑

Juice - Lizzo 

Froot - Marina 

I Got The Juice (Feat. Pharrell Williams) - Janelle Monáe

Watermelon Sugar - Harry Styles 

Cherry Bomb - The Runaways 

☠️

Warbringers: Jaina - Neil Acree and Logan Laflotte 

The Mariner’s Revenge Song - The Decemberists

The Queen’s High Seas (Tavern Version) - Borislav Slavov 

The Curse - The Longest Johns 

Peggy-O - The National 

[hdvrpg]

(Because these questions kind of assume a classic-old-school-run-of-play I tried to throw in an adventure hook into each of these because my games don't tend to follow that road).

The world was called Haftorang, First Warrior of the North Palace, and a multitude of other names. These survive only on the most ancient of maps.

In the most general of terms, it is hot, atmospherically soupy, and poor in metals. Most of it is given over to oily seas. The sun is distant and smouldering ulfire.

The game begins in an expanse known as Beyond-the-Goblin-Ear-Strait. It is a fatal gash of unbridled wilderness stretching north-south across the world across which sprawl thin skeins of mortal settlement. Our eclectic players are emigres,  defectors, exiles, and vagrants from across the Strait. The bitter owner of the sewn Skrom-skin craft which ferried you here died in a storm or mutiny and now the boat is (a piece of shit, but) collectively owned by you.

What is the deal with my cleric's religion?

The gods, originally only nominally worshipped, have returned to the surface of the earth. None have so many temples beyond the Strait as Gurazzar, He-of-the-Ninety-Nine-Mirrors, The Naked God, ruler of the night sky, wind, storms, obsidian, smoke, discord, tigers, and father of sorcery. His sorcerer-priests desire divisive battle and every grey morality to be considered. every ninth new moon the Overlord must walk the streets naked, painted peacock-blue and bearing weapons like a sorcerer-priest slaying anybody he finds.

Where can we go to buy standard equipment?

The port gets all the finished goods– tools, guns, weapons and armour that aren’t made of skins, bone, or obsidian studded witch-wood. Although such things have been disappearing recently and being replaced with versions made of gold, carved from crystal, or tooled in elaborately pelagic ceremonial designs. Merchants say it is Ikma in her fish-aspect come to protect her seafarers in their poverty and destitution.

Where can we go to get plate-mail custom fitted for this monster I just befriended?

They won’t want it. Dwarves despise metal, elves will shrink/grow/warp out of it the moment they get in, and just about everything else will eat it or you first.

Who is the mightiest wizard in the land?

The high sorcerer-priest of the Naked God, Terrible Kandza, wields magic of the ninth order. Few challenge this power, for magic even of the first order is forbidden to common wretches; except for perhaps the witch hunting librarians of Hexelheim, said to maintain in their library tomes which reveal the weaknesses of the gods themselves.

Who is the greatest warrior in the land?

The Overlord. It is said half his blood is the mind-altering sap known only as The Holy Mountain due to the amount the queen mother partook during her twelve-year pregnancy. For this he feels no pain, can see his enemies through walls, and can chop a horse in half with a club.

Who is the richest person in the land?

The council of Guilds, the ninety-nine blessed merchants of the region advising the Overlord and his priests, holds collective decree as owners of all the wealth Beyond the Strait.

Where can we go to get some magical healing?

Temples: Priests of Ikma can only touch wounds of life-threatening importance; Priests of the Rat god will tell you to embrace the wound as a blessing; ascetics of the Tiger-path will offer to eat your seven souls for protection from earthly wounds.

Where can we go to get cures for the following conditions: poison, disease, curse, level drain, lycanthropy, polymorph, alignment change, death, undeath?

The first two: your own house. Your door will be nailed shut for thirty days and painted by a priest with the sign of Ikma in the black-green blood of the fleshtree, the god of necessity. Level drain you can suck up because if you’ve been touched by a ghost in the Land you must wear a mask of that spirit for the rest of your life.  The last five (save alignment change) are best asked for at the goodwill of a local temple; if your alignment changes, accept the omen and embrace your new cause (Priesthoods often put the zeal of a convert to direct action).

Is there a magic guild my MU belongs to or that I can join in order to get more spells?

The librarians of Hexelheim, far south, accept the worthy; amongst other things you must renounce all religion, bring six witch-heads as tithe, and accept a gruelling apprenticeship which mostly involves fetch-quests, spell transcription, and gruesome public assassination of temple officials.

Where can I find an alchemist, sage or other expert NPC?

Alchemists are mostly devoted to explosives; in a well-avoided tenement or perhaps in the interrogative possession of the Librarians of Hexelheim. Temple priests function as much else; prophets, trip-guides, and healers. Oga the blind will fence anything in the Temple Markets for a cut and it is said Thirteen-Fingered Kalbo maintains his criminal court from within the city somewhere.

Where can I hire mercenaries?

Every temple has dedicated warriors who can be bribed for some gold or hired from their posts for more: or if you’re down and out consider a short monthlong stint in their ranks and they’ll pay you a favour back.

Is there any place on the map where swords are illegal, magic is outlawed or any other notable hassles from Johnny Law?

Yes. Everywhere (for magic) if you’re not noble or a priest; if you can get a sword made of metal the summary punishment for peasants is to be killed with your own sword.

Which way to the nearest tavern?

Alcohol is abhorred and anti-religious. Try imbibing the Holy Mountain at any of the regular temple trance-sessions.

What monsters are terrorising the countryside sufficiently that if I kill them I will become famous?

The Gods. Potentially seperate, considering it’s bold to assume it might help against gods: ask why any of the road patrols bother lugging around cannons everywhere they go

Are there any wars brewing I could go fight?

Wait till sunset; pick between any of the temples, guilds, and the various politically motivated violent groups that fill the darker streets and undercity at night with their state-sanctioned petty warfare.

How about gladiatorial arenas complete with hard-won glory and fabulous cash prizes?

There are street-leagues of Seven-Tongues-of-Fire players, a game where the main rule is to fight your opponent using a weapon that is “some form of live, poisonous, deadly, and previously enraged animal chained to the wrist of the wielder”. Also, try arranging a dawn duel with any of the merchant nobles; the prize is whatever’s on their corpse if you win and a fat bounty on your head.

Are there any secret societies with sinister agendas I could join and/or fight?

People keep disappearing for months on end and then reappearing at comfortable jobs amongst the king’s bureaucrats. Ask them.

What is there to eat around here?

The vicious, dark Skrom-beast is a trophy kill and life-giving staple here; one mature kill feeds a family for a season and the carcass is sold to shipwrights to be sewn into ships. Tax is recorded in Skrom-heads and is common unit of measurement (think fuckton). I. E. they are worth a lot.

Any legendary lost treasures I could be looking for?

The Yellow Hulks– solitary yellow ships with silent crews that arrive twice yearly carrying cargo of the finest textiles, slave-bands seeking life contracts, weapons made of real steel, and then leaving with equal weight in gold– have not arrived all year despite many sea-merchants having said to have passed them in the busy ocean routes or canals through the coastal swamps.

Where is the nearest dragon or other monster with Type H treasure?

Rivers of blood have been flowing from the semi-permanent villages in the inland wastes that spring up around the ancient temples there.

[halfmarathonhistories]

Born to Run on the 4th of July

This tour is also available as an audio tour

I will always have an affinity for the United States of America. I suppose it is hard to explain why. I just quite like American things…

Steph and I travelled across America in 2013 and have been back a few times since. When we travelled we couch surfed which meant staying with strangers, all of whom were amongst the nicest people we ever met. For my 30th Birthday we went to Boston, where we got to see Salem on Halloween and saw the Chicago Bulls vs The Boston Celtics. Something I had wanted to do since I was a child. 

I am fascinated by America; how different it all is yet how it’s all connected. It’s extremely distressing to see what a hellscape it has become. Especially for all the good people who live there.  With this fascination in mind, I decided to look into Belfast’s historical connections to the US and how I could link these together into a route to run on the 4th July. I have been able to orchestrate a route of just over 14km (1km for each of the original 13 colonies and 1 for Belfast) that encompasses American history from ancient times to the present day. Including links to American slaves, US Presidents, Civil Rights activists and just regular Americans. The full route is below:

Route map for July 4th by Jonny Murray on plotaroute.com

We begin at Belfast’s Thanks-Giving Square, home of the 2nd largest outdoor sculpture in Belfast, the ‘Beacon of Hope’, also known as ‘Nuala with the Hula’ and ‘The Angel of Thanksgiving’. Sculpted by artist Andy Scott based upon an idea by Myrtle Smyth who was inspired by the Thanks-Giving Square in Dallas, Texas. The purpose of the Thanks-Giving Square was to provide a public space in which to give thanks. Our Thanks-Giving Square is more secular than its sister square in Dallas. With a focus more on the universal concept of gratitude and hope through positivity and acceptance. The sculpture has become an important landmark for Belfast since its construction in 2007 and serves as a symbol for Belfast’s international connections. 

We then make our way towards the Waterfront Hall where the 44th President of the United States, Barack Obama addressed the Northern Irish people in June 2013. His speech echoed the sentiments of Thanks-Giving Square, calling for unity and peace in the city. Obama also called for the removal of the peace walls that divide the city, which we will get to a little later on the run.

We now turn right down Chichester Street which becomes Wellington Place and past the Belfast City Hall where the 42nd President of the United States, Bill Clinton addressed the people of Belfast while switching on the city’s Christmas lights in 1995. Much to the dismay of Belfast’s youngsters who were expecting the Power Rangers to have the honour of flicking the switch that year.

We now take a right at the Linen Hall Library, the oldest library in Belfast. Within the archives of the Linen Hall library is one of the oldest printed versions of the US Declaration of Independence which was published by the Belfast Newsletter in August 1776. This is not the only connection Northern Ireland has with the Declaration of Independence. John Dunlap was a native of Strabane in County Tyrone who moved to Philadelphia in 1757 at the age of 10 to work as an apprentice for his uncle who was a printer and bookseller. During the American Revolutionary war, Dunlap fought alongside George Washington and was awarded the contract of printing for the Continental Congress. After the Declaration of Independence had been signed, John Hancock ordered Dunlap to print 200 copies. These became known as the Dunlap Broadsheets and are the first published versions of the Declaration of Independence. The legend goes that a ship carrying the copy that was intended for King George III found itself in stormy waters and had to dock in Derry. This allowed the journalists of the Belfast Newsletter access to the document which led to The Belfast Newsletter being the first newspaper outside of America to publish a copy of the Declaration of Independence in full.

We now run down Fountain Street, right at Castle Street, left at Royal Avenue and onto Lower Garfield Street. Lower Garfield Street is named for the 20th President of the United States, James A. Garfield. Garfield was a veteran of the American Civil War, fighting for the Union Army. A strong abolitionist who had lobbied for strong punishments for those who fought on the side of the Confederacy. Garfield was seen as an American success story, having been born into extreme poverty but rising to the office of President through hard work and strong beliefs. During his presidency he had pushed for universal education to allow the newly freed slaves to have access to education that would ensure they would avail of equal rights. Garfield only served in office for 6 and a half months, as he was shot by Charles J. Guiteau in July 1881 and died from his injuries in September 1881.

We now leave Lower Garfield Street and take a right at North Street and then a left onto Warring Street. Warring Street, Donegall Street, North Street and Bridge Street make up what is known as ‘The 4 Corners’, this is one of the oldest parts of the city of Belfast. As it was a hive of United Irishmen activity during the Irish Rebellion of the 1790s it gave Belfast the nickname, ‘Boston of the North’ after the American city that became the birthplace of the American Revolution. Just off Warring Street is Sugarhouse Entry, where once stood the Benjamin Franklin Tavern, named for the American founding father who had visited Ireland and stayed at Hillsborough Castle before the American war of Independence. The United Irishmen would hold secret meetings in the Benjamin Franklin Tavern calling themselves The Muddler’s Club to avoid suspicion. A nearby restaurant is named in their honour and oil paintings of their meetings in the Benjamin Franklin Tavern can be seen at the entrance to the Premier Inn on Warring Street. 

At the top of Warring Street, we turn right down High Street and left at the Albert Clock onto Queen Street and Custom House Square. This was once the site of Chichester Quay, the home of the first US Consulate in Belfast. Belfast is the 2nd oldest running US Consulate in the world after Bordeaux, France. The first U.S Consul General in Belfast was James Holmes, who is commemorated by a blue plaque on the wall of McHugh’s bar. George Washington personally signed the papers that elected Holmes as the US Consul for Belfast on May 27th 1796. The current US Consulate is located in Danesfort House, off the Stranmillis Road. Danesfort House sits upon one of the oldest continually inhabited sites in Belfast, with artefacts dating back 5,000 years unearthed during its construction.

We now cross the road towards the Big Fish and join the Maritime Trail to run beside the river Lagan. We follow the path until we reach the CEA building, where we will turn left through the car park towards Princes Dock Street which will lead us to The American Bar. The American Bar has been located at its current premises since the 1860s. Although there is no consensus as to how the bar, formerly The American Inn, got its name there is belief that it was named for the many emigrants leaving Ireland for the New World. The bar was also one of the first sites American GI’s would see when they arrived in Belfast during World War 2, acting as both a farewell and a welcome to Irish Americans.

We now run past The American Bar and left onto Dock Street. We come to the corner of Dock Street and Garmoyle Street. Here, above the door of the Stella Maris Hostel for the Homeless, is a tile mural titled ‘At Sea’. It depicts one of the oldest connections Ireland has to America, the fabled crossing of the Atlantic by St. Brendan in 600AD. The story goes that while St. Brendan was in his late 80s, he built a ship and sailed it across the Atlantic Ocean in search of the Garden of Eden with a crew of between 80 – 150 men depending on which version of the story you’re told. Brendan recorded seeing pillars of ice rise out of the water, sheep the size of oxen and giants throwing balls of fire at them that smelt of sulphur. He also came across birds who would sing psalms, before finally landing on a country of lush green vegetation. After 7 years an angel advised Brendan and his crew to return home to Ireland. When they returned, they recounted their tale to everyone, and people would come from all over Ireland to hear Brendan’s tales of the new world. Historians began recording Brendan’s voyage and the island he described was included on maps. Christopher Columbus even used the legend as a basis on his journey to the Americas. While Brendan’s story may seem like fantasy, it has been interpreted to contain some elements of truth; the pillars of ice would have been ice bergs, the Faroe Islands are known to have large sheep and the singing birds and fireballs of sulphur could have come from Iceland’s volcanoes. As well as this, in 1976, adventurer Tim Severin recreated Brendan’s journey. By building a boat to the medieval specifications and setting off from the Dingle peninsula he successfully arrived in Newfoundland. So perhaps it is not a complete fantasy that an elderly Irish monk arrived on the shores of ancient America. 

We now continue down Dock Street, take a left at York Street and take a right past The City Side Centre to go down Henry Street, at the top of Henry Street we will take a left and cross the road towards the steps at North Queen Street. Head straight up these steps and follow the path round to Henry Place. This brings us past Clifton Street Graveyard, one of the oldest graveyards in the city and burial ground of the Irish Revolutionaries, Henry Joy and Mary Anne McCracken. Within this graveyard also lies William Brown, a black American who escaped slavery in America in the early 19th century and worked as a labourer in Belfast. The Clifton Street Cemetery records indicate that his wife and children remained as slaves in America at the time of his death in 1831.

We now head towards Clifton Street and then right towards Carlisle Circus and cross over towards Denmark Street. We will follow Denmark Street until we reach North Boundary Street. Here, turn right down Shankill Parade and then take a left down Boundary Way. At the end of this residential street is a community mural. Formerly a mural depicting the 7th President of the United States, Andrew Jackson, it now bears a quote from the President of the Louisiana Justice Institute, Tracie Washington (Not ‘Jackson’ as is depicted on the mural), “Stop calling me resilient,” “Because every time you say, ‘Oh, they’re resilient,’ that means you can do something else to me. I am not resilient.” Tracie Washington delivered this statement as a response to the New Orleans City Resilience Strategy in 2015 and their plans to tackle the continuing environmental crisis in Louisiana, which did not address the root cause of the issues. Her argument was succinctly summed up by Maria Kaika, Professor of Human Geography at the University of Manchester; “if we took Tracie Washington’s objection seriously, we would stop focusing on how to make citizens more resilient ‘no matter what stresses they encounter,’ as this would only mean that they can take more suffering, deprivation or environmental degradation in the future. If we took this statement seriously, we would need to focus instead on identifying the actors and processes that produce the need to build resilience in the first place. And we would try to change these factors instead.” This statement has been adopted by the people of the Shankill who feel the problems that face their community are not addressed due to a perceived resilience of the people. 

We then take a left to return to North Boundary Street and take a right onto Shankill Road. We follow the Shankill Road up to the corner of Lanark Way. We follow Lanark Way toward Cupar Way where we will take a left to run along the Belfast Peace Wall. On this wall we will see the message of President Bill Clinton, “Strength and wisdom are not opposing values”. 

Bill Clinton visited Belfast in 1995, becoming the first sitting US President to visit the province. He was greeted as a rock star with thousands of people lining the streets to get a glimpse of him. Below is a video of him visiting with Gerry Adams in a small office on the Falls Road. The Presidential cavalcade making its way down the Falls Road is a truly surreal sight.

We follow the Peace Wall down to the end of Cupar Way and take a left onto North Howard Street, a right onto North Howard Link and right at Northumberland Street. Here we come to the Solidarity Wall and the mural depicting the freed slave and American abolitionist, Frederick Douglass. Douglass visited Belfast many times during his life to speak to the city at the invitation of the United Irishmen. He would use Belfast as an example of a Western city where racism was not as prevalent as it was in America and would speak to large crowds in the city and received a warm welcome. A handwritten copy of a speech he delivered in Belfast is available to view on the Library of Congress website. The rest of the mural depicts individuals involved in the American Civil Rights movement, including Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King Jr. It is interspersed with figures of international civil rights such as Nelson Mandela and Mary Anne McCracken. As well as a quote from Abraham Lincoln, the 16th President of the United States. Douglass’s placement in the centre of the mural illustrates how the struggles for civil rights began with the abolition of the slave trade. He is also facing the Peace Wall, a reminder that unity and civil liberties have still not been achieved. 

We follow the Solidarity Wall left onto Divis Street. Here we see the most recent addition to the wall, a Black Lives Matter mural, depicting the murder of George Floyd by police in Minnesota. This murder sparked international protests during the pandemic of 2020 and has led to calls for sweeping changes to American policing and self-reflection about race relations in America and across the world.

We continue on Divis Street before turning right onto Ardmoulin Street, left toward Clonfaddin Street and right onto Cullingtree Road, we will then cross over the pedestrian bridge toward Durham Street. We take a right on Durham Street, a left on College Square North and then a right onto College Avenue. We will follow this road as it becomes Great Victoria Street and we pass the Grand Opera House. The Grand Opera played host to General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the 34th President of the United States, although at the time he was in Belfast as a General during World War 2. He was in attendance at the Grand Opera House in 1944 during a production of Irvine Berlin’s ‘This Is The Army’ performed by the US Army. Eisenhower was also presented with the Freedom of the City of Belfast later that year. 

We now follow Great Victoria Street towards Bradbury Place and on to University Road towards Queen’s University Belfast where former US Secretary of State and Presidential nominee, Hilary Clinton was made Chancellor in January 2020. 

We then take a left into Botanic Gardens. Now this a somewhat tenuous link to the United States, but bear with me… Charles Blondin was a French tight-rope walker who found his greatest fame in America when he walked across the Niagara Falls on a tight rope, 1,100ft long, 3.25inches in diameter and 160ft above the water. He would walk back and forth across the rope, each time performing a different stunt such as pushing a wheelbarrow before him and even stopping midway to cook and eat an omelette. Abraham Lincoln compared himself to Blondin during the 1864 Presidential election claiming he was like ‘"Blondin on the tightrope, with all that was valuable to America in the wheelbarrow he was pushing before him’.

Blondin lived in America for most of his life but toured Britain and Ireland extensively. While in Dublin in 1860, a rope broke during his performance which led to the collapse of the scaffolding that was holding the rope in place. This led to the death of 2 workers who were on the scaffolding at the time. Due to this incident, Blondin began using rope made at the Belfast Rope Works and did so for the rest of his career. He performed in Botanic Gardens many times throughout his career, the first time being in 1861. He even had his last ever professional performance in Belfast’s Botanic Gardens in 1896. Where he walked across a tight-rope at age 72 while blind in one eye. 

We now leave Botanic Gardens and onto Stranmillis Embankment and over King’s Bridge. King’s Bridge suffered structural damage during World War 2 caused by heavy American Military Vehicles crossing over it. After the bridge we turn left and run down Annadale Embankment towards Ormeau Park. American GI’s were stationed in Ormeau Park during World War 2. It acted as a camp and training ground for the American military.  We then head up the Ormeau Road with the park to our left, as we take a left down Park Road, down Ravenhill Park and finishing at the corner of Ravenhill Park and Onslow Parade, the site of Kingspan Stadium, formerly Ravenhill Stadium. Here is where the first games of American Football and Baseball were played in Ireland. On 14th November 1942, American soldiers played the first game of American football to a crowd of over 10,000 people. They competed under the team names ‘Yarvard’ and ‘Hale’ with the American Col. Maurice J Meyer introducing the game and providing running commentary for those in attendance. Hale won the game 9-7 with a field goal sealing the points. 

The first baseball game took place in April 1942 between US 2nd Battalion and 3rd Battalion in front of a crowd of 1,000 people. Major General Russel P Hartle, Acting Commander of the US Army in Northern Ireland threw out the first pitch. Like the football game, running commentary was provided over loud speakers for the audience. 3rd Batallion emerged victorious with Corporal Leo J Robinson becoming the first serviceman to hit a home run in Europe during World War 2.

And so we have come to the end of our 4th July run. Hopefully you aren’t too tired, though it’s understandable as you have just run the length of American history. When researching the connections America has with Belfast, I found it interesting that America is somewhat of a unifying force in such a divided city. All parts of the city enjoy some notable connection the US. It can even bring politicians together, with Sammy Wilson sitting beside Gerry Adams during Barack Obama’s speech. This is ironic, because America itself is so divided, arguably it’s broken. As has even been illustrated on the walls of Belfast with the highlighting of racial and social inequalities that continue to exist in America. Inequalities that have been magnified during the current pandemic. With that in mind, I would urge everyone to educate themselves on these issues and find ways for you to make little changes that can contribute to addressing and solving these issues. As has been seen from this run, our countries have an impact on each other so let’s make the impact positive.

After the run, I recommend putting your feet up and watching Hamilton on Disney+. Probably the best way to spend your 4th July.

Sources: https://wartimeni.com/,https://extramuralactivity.com/, Weird Belfast by Reggie Chamberlain-King, Wikipedia, https://www.inyourpocket.com/belfast, https://edgeeffects.net/stop-calling-me-resilient/, BBC, https://www.culturenorthernireland.org/

[thegaytraveler]

Pride Journey: Columbus, Ohio

By Joey Amato, Guest Contributor

This was my fourth visit to Columbus, Ohio and every time I visit, I discover something new. What a lot of people don’t realize about this thriving mid-west city is that its LGBTQ community is one of the largest in the United States and growing every day. Within minutes of arriving, I got a chance to visit Stonewall Columbus, their LGBTQ community center, located in the Short North neighborhood. The building, which recently went through a major renovation, offers a number of health and wellness services in addition to hosting numerous events throughout the year. Stonewall also houses an art gallery dedicated to local LGBTQ artists. Just a short stroll down High Street and you’ll run in to Union and Axis, two of the city’s many gay nightlife venues. On previous visits, there used to be a few more gay bars located on High Street, but they have since closed and others have sprouted up throughout the city. Art enthusiasts will love the Columbus Museum of Art’s upcoming exhibition Art After Stonewall which opens in March 2020. The exhibition, which previously visited Miami and New York was actually curated by the Columbus Museum of Art. The entire process of curating an exhibition of this size, which includes about 250 works of art by LGBTQ artists, took around 7 years to complete. The collection includes a combination of well-known artists as well as some lesser known names. After exploring the museum, head to North Market for lunch. Dozens of food vendors are located under one roof which features a culinary explosion for the senses including foods from Somalia, Greece, India among others. Also located in North Market is Jeni’s Ice Cream, a homegrown shop which now has locations in other cities around the country. Try the Brown Butter Almond Brittle, it’s to die for! A few doors down is Le Meridien Columbus, The Joseph. Developed by The Pizzuti Companies, the boutique hotel boasts a vast art collection of works acquired by Ron Pizzuti, one of the largest collectors of fine art in the world. Pizzuti’s collection is so extensive that he had to open a building to house it all. Guests of The Joseph get to explore The Pizzuti Collection free of charge. The property is also located in the Short North neighborhood, so it’s a great place to stay if you want to partake in LGBTQ nightlife. For dinner, check out a gay-owned restaurant in German Village called Barcelona. The tapas-style restaurant offers a large indoor dining room as well as a lovely patio that makes you feel as if you are in Spain. I tried a variety of tapas in addition to a delicious charcuterie board which nicely completed the white sangria. Barcelona also offers four types of paella to choose from including a vegetarian option. A few blocks away from the restaurant are some of the city’s neighborhood gay bars including Club Diversity, Boscoe’s and Tremont Lounge. Club Diversity is located in a converted house and really does welcome the most diverse crowd I have seen at a gay bar in recent memory. The establishment makes everyone feel comfortable regardless of sexual orientation or gender identity. Boscoe’s is also quite unique. On the evening I visited, the bar had a drag show and male strippers alternating performances throughout the night. The concept was actually a great idea, however I felt like the crowd was more excited about the queens. Other Columbus gay bars worth noting include Awol, Southbend Tavern, and Cavan Irish Pub. The city also boasts many retail establishments dedicated to the LGBTQ community. Columbus Pride is one of the largest pride festivals in the country, drawing over 800,000 revelers every year and according to local sources, their pride parade is larger than Chicago’s. Not a bad accomplishment for a city much smaller than Chi-Town. Plan on attending the next festival which is scheduled for June 19-21, 2020.

History buffs will love the newly opened National Veterans Memorial and Museum. It is the only museum in the country that honors all Veterans – from all branches of service, and from all eras of our nation’s history of military service from the Revolutionary War to present. I was moved to tears watching videos of veterans telling their stories about the trials of war and the pressure it puts on their families. It really is an emotional experience that I wasn’t ready for to be honest. I have been to many museums of this nature, but for some reason, this one struck a chord.

End your day with a meal at The Guild House, a restaurant developed by local celebrity chef and restauranteur Cameron Mitchell. When you enter the restaurant, you are greeted by warm notes of color with a modern twist. I almost felt as if I was dining at a culinary version of West Elm. For starters try the Tuna Ribbons and Steak Tartare. Both presentations are elegant and artful, just like the restaurant itself. My favorite entrée on the menu was the Sea Bass served in a lobster broth accompanied by carrots, leeks, radish and chili oil. Finish off your meal with the Carrot Cake and savour Chef Mitchell’s twist on the traditional favorite.

An interesting fact about the city is that it is home to the 3rd largest number of fashion designers in the United States, behind New York and Los Angeles, due to the fact that L Brands is headquartered in Columbus. Local businessman Les Wexner founded the company in 1963 and has grown the fashion empire to include brands like Victoria’s Secret, Express, The Limited, Abercrombie & Fitch and Bath & Body Works. Although some of the brands have been spun off or sold, they have all called Columbus home. And where there are fashion designers, there are also models. Lot and lots of models. The eye candy is one of the city’s strong points.

If you are looking for an easy, affordable and fun city to visit, check out Columbus. You may be surprised at what this city has to offer, and you may keep coming back to experience its warmth and hospitality. Joey Amato is the publisher of Pride Journeys, a website dedicated to LGBTQ travel. Joey has spent over a decade in LGBTQ media and public relations and currently resides in Indianapolis, Indiana.

[georgiabread]

day 1. acting on your best behaviour

♛ summary: chapter one of everybody wants to rule the world

♛ warnings: anxiety, verbal abuse, very mild sexual assault, blood mentions

♛ word count: 12.6k

♛ beta: zoe (@slowtown__)

♛ extra info: - asterisk (*) indicates a time skip - crown (♛) indicates a pov change

A golden sun kissed the horizon. It was framed by two mountains cast into shadow, almost like they were giving it a place to rest. Feather-like clouds drifted above into a whirlpool of blue and orange hues. The sun’s rays cast the colours into the sky, creating a blend perfect for the dusk of a night like this.

Before the sun lay a kingdom, huts, cottages and bungalows jumbled together around the outskirts as if huddling close for warmth. Already their roofs had been subjected to darkness. Closer to the centre, homes turned into shops and businesses, a little more dispersed this time. Inns, taverns, blacksmiths and libraries gathered towards the grand hall; a gentle glow rose from the winding streets, indicating that activity hadn’t ceased just yet. Continuing up a wide slope, buildings became far more spread out, the hill decorated by imposing villas and estates littered with cottages and their sloping thatched roofs. The remaining light caressed the tips of these mansions, shimmering against their gold and silver embellishments.

But the magnificent view was nothing different for the young man seated on the stone floor of a balcony, which looked out over Croma. He had watched the kingdom from this spot for years, legs sticking out through the balustrades, shoes threatening to slip off and tumble 40 feet to the courtyard below. It was his place. His place to sit, and think, and pretend that he was anywhere but that very balcony.

The balcony which jutted out from the King’s palace, crouched at the top of the hill and looming over Croma like a formidable monster.

Often, the young man wished he spent his days down in the city, away from the palace, but he was the King’s son. If he ever went into the city, it was once a month, with an army of soldiers and escorts glued to his back.

“A prince always has a price on his head,” his father would tell him, and still told him now. “Be thankful for your protection, Daniel.”

The young man preferred Dan, naturally, but his parents never understood that. And to the commoners and the Eluthian people, who were enslaved by Croma when the King’s forces conquered their nation, he was always Your Royal Highness or Your Majesty or sire. It was verbal torture.

Though on the balcony, Dan felt he could escape it all. But never completely.

His arms rested flat on the smooth stone parapet, chin laid on top of his wrists as his eyes wandered over the vast landscape before him stretching for miles and miles. Safe behind an overshadowing wall of limestone dotted with watchtowers, the kingdom was surrounded by crags and mountains, built upon raised land within a deep valley scattered with woodlands, quarries and waterways. There was only one entrance in and out of the area, a mountain pass heavily fortified by the King’s army. The kingdom was safe, protected and had the resources to grow into a powerful and intimidating empire. Croma was more than a force to be reckoned with.

Eventually, Dan dragged his sulking brown eyes to the palace gates, these towering ornate things welded from gold and steel. For most of his life, they had been locked shut, but tonight they hung wide open to welcome a tsunami of guests. A familiar groan of anxiety twisted in his stomach when Dan looked upon the coaches and carriages flooding the royal court. They could only be weighed down by the most elite, heavy from wealth in their pockets and arrogance in their hearts. They were close friends and acquaintances of the royal family, as well as a large handful of the nobility, all invited to the King’s palace for a celebration.

And oh, how Dan wished they were celebrating anyone but himself.

Many months prior, plans and preparations had been made for this gala, which marked Dan’s 21st birthday and his agreement to succeed his father as King when the time came. By far, it was one of the most important and most extravagant events in Croma, stretching over an entire week. A week Dan was certain he wouldn’t survive.

Without having to close his eyes, he could envisage what was expected of him in the next half hour or so. Standing stiff and proud at the rear of one of the many palace ballrooms, greeting every guest with a firm handshake or a bow and a polite grin. His parents would stand either side of him, all three flanked by guards with their glinting spears. Then would come the introductions to his countless bachelorettes – daughters of distinguished nobles and esteemed military generals, women from foreign nations in the far east, any girl of aristocracy deemed rich enough and strong enough for the prince’s hand, first in dance and then in marriage.

Dan shuddered at the very thought of having to choose a bride from the pack, let alone greet each and every one of them. For not only was he celebrating his birthday, but it was tradition for the King’s son to select his wife during the week-long celebrations. Of course whoever she was wasn’t permanent, but soon would be if Dan never discarded her, as horrible as that sounded. He didn’t want to discard anyone, but he didn’t want to choose anyone either.

I wonder what would happen if I never left this balcony, he wondered, eyes following a random carriage gilded in gold. The vehicle circled the fountain in the centre of the courtyard once before the horses slowed to a halt at the entrance of the palace. Fifty stairs clambering up to carved oaken doors – as wide as his father’s throne and taller than five men stacked upon each other – is what led this family of four to the castle that dwarfed the kingdom. Dan turned away as the coachman cracked his whip against the horses and the carriage lurched forward.

It was one amongst hundreds, surely – although, he’d never seen the official guest list. He couldn’t bear to find out how many haughty men and women would look upon him as their next great leader. The version of a leader they begged for, and one Dan feared he would become.

With reluctant fingers, Dan reached into the lining of his pearl-white dress uniform, slipping out a fob watch from his jacket. The seal of Croma glared up at him from the lid, a shield and sword surrounded by the unfurling wings of a crowned eagle, the empire’s native creature. He flipped it open with a curt sigh. The watch revealed it was nearing 7 o’clock. Dear God. If he didn’t get downstairs now, his mother would wring his neck.

For the moment Dan tried to cast all thoughts of the looming evening from his mind. He tucked the watch away, wriggled back from the balustrades and straightened out his uniform. The balcony was wide, and ferns sprung from the floor gardens in the centre, but Dan had no problem manoeuvring his way inside.

Just as he passed through the slim doorway, freshly-polished boots landing with a clack on the marble floor, he ran into someone.

A woman had rounded the corner, a black uniform dress hugging her short, plump build and golden hair pulled into a harsh bun at the back of her neck. Her hairline was hidden by a pristine white wrap. She cried out in shock once she registered the person in front of her, and stumbled back. Dan did the same.

It took a moment for both of them to recognize each other.

“Oh! Oh, Dan, I’ve finally found you,” the woman sighed in relief, flattening a hand over her chest and catching her breath. “The Queen is fit to burst with fury, you realize. Where in God’s name have you been? You have a ball to hold in less than thirty minutes.”

“Uh – yeah, yeah I know. Sorry Louise. I was just out on the balcony, like always.”

“Well, you obviously spent far too long out there. But your mother might not skin you alive if we head down now.”

Dan nodded, fiddling with his silver cufflinks as he followed Louise down a wide corridor to the left. The exasperated woman was the only slave in the entire palace permitted to call him by his first name. Naturally, as the nurse who had brought him up through childhood and adolescence, it was expected. She had bottle-fed him milk when he was only several months old, for goodness’ sake. In fact, Dan considered Louise more of a mother than his biological one. Even as a slave, she had a great deal of authority over the boy – if only by maternal standards.

“The guests are already starting to mill in the great hall,” Louise told him as he finally reached her side. “You’ve got a sea of people to deal with, my dear. All of them dolled up in their finery…might as well be shouting, ‘Look at me! I have more piles of gold than I ever know what to do with!’”

Dan couldn’t help but snigger at her words, more than happy to hear the woman insult his subjects. Only when they were alone could they make fun of the outrageous nobility. If anyone else heard Louise speak of the people that way, she would be publicly whipped, especially as a slave expected to do nothing more than serve those higher than herself. Dan despised the whole system entirely.

“Is it possible for me to disappear into the walls and speak to no one?” he asked, glancing at the deep blue walls of the corridor as if he could melt into the patterned wallpaper forever.

“You know those rumours of magic are nothing more than that – rumours. But if I could let you do that just tonight, I would,” Louise replied, sending him a comforting smile.

They came to stop outside an ornate wooden door. The nurse turned to face Dan, squeezing his forearm gently. “Try not to panic. Although they’re idiots, they all adore you–”

“But that’s exactly what I’m scared of.”

“Darling…you’ll make it through tonight. I know you will. How many times now have you conquered parties like this?”

“I’ve lost count. But they’ve never been this massive and never about me.”

Louise huffed a sigh and swiped some invisible dust particles off his gold epaulettes. “Stop your complaining,” she told him firmly. “You’re a prince, aren’t you? And princes always face things head on, with as much courage as they can muster.”

Dan was pretty sure that wasn’t a universally known thing, but he nodded anyway. “I guess…”

“And besides, just think about the endless food you’ll get to eat. Then in a few hours, you’ll be able to crawl into bed with no one to bother you for the rest of the night.”

That did sound very appealing. Slowly, a smile quirked up Dan’s features and Louise returned the grin, tapping him lightly on the nose with her finger. “There’s the Dan I know,” she murmured. “Now hurry up, you can’t keep the King and Queen waiting.”

Dan nodded again, ignoring the sudden stirring of the contents in his stomach. He watched as Louise pulled the door open to reveal a thin shaft with torches scattered along stone walls, stairs spiralling down to the ground floor. It was a shortcut to the main ballroom, where the first evening of the gala would be held.

The boy took a few tentative steps onto the first platform, before turning to look at Louise.

She gave him a lopsided smile. “I’ll be waiting for you when you get back,” she promised.

With that, Dan swallowed and closed the door, finding himself alone at the top of the spiral staircase. Then he drew a deep breath, carded fingers through his dusky brown curls and descended the steps – much like descending into his own version of hell.

The chatter of the guests had grown into a nerve-wracking rumble when Dan found his parents. Although the shortcut had allowed him to calm the churning of his stomach, it was only a brief reprieve before the noise returned. It hung relentlessly around his ears like buzzing insects, and if he could swat them away he would do so viciously.

The King and Queen waited for him in a secluded space at the back of the ballroom, hidden behind two towering crimson drapes. It was the space in which they had prepared for their grand entrance of the first night, receiving last minute touch ups to hair and formal wear. But, late as he was, Dan had no time for grooming. He burst into the room with a dishevelled fringe and nervous beads of sweat dampening his collar, a sight at which his mother nearly fainted when her eyes fell upon him.

“I’m terribly sorry I’m late,” Dan said immediately, the words tumbling from his mouth in a low rush. “I lost track of time, I didn’t think–”

“No, you never think, as you always do,” the Queen interrupted sharply.

Dan’s chest tightened. “Sorry,” he murmured, reluctantly meeting the beady brown eyes of Jenea, his mother. She glowered up at him with narrowed lips to match, as intimidating as ever despite her short size. She’d been clothed in one of her finest dresses tonight, a gown of white decorated with lace and bedazzled in gold. A tiara rested gently upon her greying hair, which toppled over her shoulders in ringlets. To Croma’s people, she might have been the living definition of beauty, but Dan knew all too well what lay beyond that façade. She had a mind which dwelled on nothing but power, and a frozen heart which turned its head at the broken, the beaten and the damned.

Her husband, King Arran, stood beside her with a disapproving look weighing upon his lined face. Even on the week of his succession, Dan couldn’t escape that look from his father. But the man had never been as harsh and domineering as the Queen, somehow maintaining the hope that Dan would become the triumphant king he pictured. Dan was almost miserable, knowing he would be let down.

With the introduction of the royal family about to begin, the Queen’s gloved hand closed around Dan’s forearm and she dragged him to stand between herself and her husband. “Fix your hair and straighten that coat,” came her snapping voice.

Dan did as he was told, attempting to brush his curls into a neat fringe before sweeping his fingers down his uniform. Then he lifted his head, the murmur of the guests returning to his ears. Oh my God, he thought. He was about to be presented to all of Croma’s affluent citizens, on display for their judgmental eyes to study and gawk at. How he held himself as the Prince was to be tested tonight, as well as during the coming days. Every move he made, every word that left his mouth…all of it would be there for Croma to scrutinize. And if he screwed any of it up, then God help him.

Conversation that filled the ballroom simmered away as a voice boomed above the rest. The man’s words could’ve emptied Dan’s stomach themselves:

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests and honourable men and women – I present to you His Royal Highness, King Arran of Croma, Her Royal Highness, Queen Jenea of Croma, and their admirable son and soon-to-be King of Croma, His Royal Highness, Prince Daniel.”

The guests erupted into deafening applause. The curtains began to sweep apart. The King and Queen straightened their backs and plastered warm smiles onto their faces.

Dan sucked in a breath which quaked at the edges, and he watched as Croma’s crest was split down the middle. And for a moment, when his eyes locked onto the now divided crown that adorned the eagle’s head, a heavy sense of foreboding crept upon him like the shadow of a thundercloud. But notion was gone as quickly as it had come; Dan gazed upon the hundreds of faces grinning and celebrating his presence, and he understood that for the impending week, they were all his world revolved around.

*

Parties, balls and celebrations had always been things of tradition for the royal family. Every few months, a festivity of some kind was hosted for Croma’s nobility to revel in, in honour of a great military success, or perhaps a seasonal change or another birthday. But really, they were outlets for the King to showcase his power and wealth, throwing the common people under his shadow.

For 16 years of his pampered life, Dan had attended these celebrations with his parents. In fact, they were all that made his life interesting, despite how much he loathed them. The first he attended when he was 6 years old, an immense outdoor party to commemorate the spring months which promised new life among the livestock and harvest in the western grasslands. For the most part he tagged along with his parents, clinging to his mother’s satin skirt like it was a lifeline.

In Dan’s little mind, the parties were never ending. Every day it seemed he had to navigate through a scary forest of rich, important people; men in their regal war clothes and polished boots, and women with jewels on their throats and dresses layered with a hundred petticoats. He remembered how often his mother’s court friends would gush about him. They’d squeeze his cheeks, ruffle his hair, and say odd things like, “I remember when you were only months old! Look at you now! Oh, My Lady, you must be so proud…” but Dan had never seen them before in his life!

Then came the gentlemen, throwing one or two comments his way about how great a man he would become, before laughing to themselves at jokes he didn’t understand. But unlike most boys, Dan hadn’t longed to be one of them, to be treated like them. All he wanted was to escape to his bedroom and play card games with Louise, or explore what lay beyond Croma’s walls. However, at such a young age, going past those walls was heavily forbidden, let alone leaving the palace gates.

As he grew older, all those parties evolved from a childish fright into a foreboding fear. When he realised they no longer saw him as the adorable, naïve child he once was, the words of the nobility began to root in his heart. Gossip spread and rumours were left to boil. The Prince could never escape the public eye, and so anxiety and intimidation began to consume him until royal galas, like the celebration of his 21st birthday, were among his greatest fears.

This would all explain the vomit that threatened to rise up his throat as he followed his parents through the crowd, greeting every guest. The men and women always painted smiles on their faces when talking to the royal family, but with years of experience Dan could recognise the true emotions in their eyes. Scowls and sly looks of disgust, watching, dissecting and judging him.

Musicians in a far corner had picked up a floaty tune, mingling with talk and laughter in the background. Dan tried to settle his mind on the serene violins, trying to relax. Meanwhile, his mother stood beside him searching for the next acquaintance to chat with – and it didn’t take her long to find them.

“Sir Eliphas! What a pleasure to see you tonight,” the Queen enthused, causing an elderly gentleman in a military uniform to whirl away from his previous conversation.

His thin eyes widened as much as physically possible upon seeing the King’s wife standing before him. The man immediately dropped into a deep bow, taking her hand in his own and lightly kissing the top. “My Queen, the pleasure is completely my own,” he assured her, and then his eyes shifted to Dan before taking another bow. “And my Prince, it is an honour to greet you formally.”

Shut up! Dan wanted to shout. This is ridiculous, I’m a human just like you. But he reminded himself that he was royalty, and apparently he was to be treated like treasure no matter how equal he thought he was to others.

“L-Likewise,” he eventually blurted. “But please, I dislike all that formality. There’s no need for titles and…stuff.”

This earned him a scathing look from his mother, and he expected no less. Sir Eliphas glanced up at him with shock and confusion riddling his features.

“Your Majesty, I couldn’t possibly…”

“My son is a little overwhelmed by tonight’s proceedings,” the Queen interrupted hurriedly. “Of course you must refer to him with the proper titles.”

Sir Eliphas hesitated before granting her a curt nod. “I wouldn’t do anything but, your Highness.” He gave Dan quite a reserved, baffled look before slipping away into the crowd.

Dan’s mother turned on him as soon as the gentlemen was gone, her face pulled into a harsh frown. She refrained from grabbing his arm. “Enough of this,” she hissed. “This is a ceremonial gala held in honour of your birthday, and you have been nothing but vulgar and selfish. You are a prince, Daniel, and almost a king – act like one.”

A familiar pit of anguish hollowed out Dan’s stomach. “I’m sorry, mother,” he said quietly.

“That is not nearly a good enough apology. But because we are surrounded by our kingdom’s highest society, I will drop the matter.” The Queen gave an exasperated huff, lifting her head and regaining her composure. “Now then. You are yet to meet and dance with your many suitors. Please try to be more sociable with them tonight.”

“Of course,” Dan replied, ignoring the pit which grew deeper at the mention of his bachelorettes.

It was what he dreaded most about this week. How was he expected to select a bride within seven days? In fact, he couldn’t remember ever wanting a bride since he knew what marriage was. Girls had been shoved in his direction from the age of five, but not once had Dan experienced any attraction to them. When he was six, others would gush about how adorable a couple he and some nobleman’s daughter would make. But Dan had frowned and wriggled his toes in distaste. Ick! I would never, ever kiss a girl. I don’t even like girls all that much!

At such a young age, Dan thought this was all very normal. But as he became a teenager, he learned that the people around him saw it as abhorrent and unnatural. So he told no one when he grew shy and flustered around a particularly pretty boy, or when his downstairs area made a few special appearances as he spent time with the sons of his mother’s friends. It was his deepest, darkest secret, and although Dan himself saw nothing wrong with liking boys, he was forced to keep his feelings under lock and key.

After all, how could a prince marry a man when he must have a queen?

The voice of his mother drew him out of the thoughts he was buried in. “Now Daniel, you’re about to meet your first suitor. I want your head up, a smile on your face and your best decorum. This woman may possibility be your wife, so it is absolutely important you behave like a gentleman.”

“Yes mother,” Dan said clearly, standing tall for her sake. He quickly scanned the people around him for any younger-looking girls.

“And make sure she feels respected and valued,” the Queen added.

“Of course, I would never do anything other than that.”

He followed his mother through the crowd, drawing in a deep breath when she raised her hand in a gentle wave towards someone. Quickly enough, a beautiful dark-skinned girl stood in front of him, wearing a silky marigold gown and a golden headdress upon a chignon of sleek black hair. Her parents – presumably – flanked either side of her in matching gold formal wear.

The Queen cleared her throat, smiling brightly at the trio before turning to Dan. “Darling, may I present the Count and Countess of Tawae, from the eastern province of Kashirid, and their daughter, Lady Asha.”

Dan kept his gaze on the girl, offering her a kind smile. He knew all too well what to do. “It’s lovely to meet you, my lady,” he said genuinely, bowing and lightly kissing the top of her hand. “I am Prince Daniel, if you hadn’t already guessed. And might I say you look exquisite in that gown tonight.”

Lady Asha scrunched up her nose and giggled at his joke, before replying, “Thank you, your Highness. You look equally as handsome in your uniform.”

The compliment sent a grin across Dan’s features, but he felt nothing romantically. In fact, he only wanted to say sorry to the girl, sit her down and explain everything to her. She really was quite charming, and deserved someone who would make her feel truly loved. Not himself.

This exchange continued with eight other girls of royal or noble birth, most very beautiful and friendly in their own right, but Dan knew he could never love them. They greeted him with enthusiasm and charisma, enough to woo any man who was attracted to the opposite gender. However, no connections sparked within Dan’s heart and no butterflies crowded his stomach as he spoke to any of them. And just before his mother led him to the tenth and last suitor, a sudden cloud of terror fell upon him.

He had to marry one of these women. He would be forced to spend the rest of his life with them, kissing them, touching them, and being intimate with them. And it…sickened him. Not because of the girl herself, but the thought of being with a girl in that way just made him feel gross, for lack of a better word.

Dan would have a woman by his side throughout the rest of his life, a woman he could never love as a husband should.

He was terrified.

*

“Daniel, may I introduce General Oskar Thaddäus, his wife Auguste and their wonderful daughter Maren.”

She had thin silver-blonde hair, pinned away from a pale face and tumbling down her back. It showed off her elegant features – alluring grey eyes, cheekbones travelling sharply towards full lips coloured mauve. Her pearl brocade dress exposed her collarbones, dipping inwards at the waste before tumbling down in a thick skirt. By all standards, Maren was – magnificent.

But once again, when Dan pressed his lips to the back of her gloved hand (something he’d now grown quite weary of doing) he felt nothing.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed tonight so far?” he asked with a now-painful smile. “I think the royal staff have outdone themselves for decorations.”

It was too formal. Too fake. Too deceptive.  

Maren seemed to hear it differently. “On the contrary, your Highness,” she said sultrily, and brushed her fingers against his forearm, “it’s all very captivating – much like yourself.”

Dan raised a curious eyebrow. “You seem bold, Maren, especially in the Prince’s presence. Is that a trait of the Obodelians?” he teased, referring to the people of her own nation.

“I’m afraid that’s just myself. Mother always told me how daring I was as a child. I was never afraid of getting myself into trouble.” There was some hidden message behind her eyes as she stared up at him sensually through her lashes. Dan was sure he didn’t want to find out.

By now the Queen and Maren’s parents had dissipated back into the party, probably content with how well they seemed to hit it off. Dan only wished he could do the same. He dreaded where this conversation was heading, especially since the girl was so keen on him. Already her closeness made him want to sprint off into the maze-like corridors of the palace. But he was expected to spend quality time with every girl presented to him, no matter how uncomfortable she made him feel. So as Maren continued to throw flirtatious remarks at him every minute, he tried to prepare himself for the rest of the night, which was bound to be filled with many more distressing situations.

“So what was it like? Growing up in such a grand palace?”

Maren raised a glass of champagne to her lips and poured a little down her throat. After more chatter filled with double meanings, Dan had reluctantly taken her to the enormous table of refreshments. She was more than willing to follow him, obviously pleased with how interested in her he seemed to be. But in reality, Dan had caught the scalding glare of his mother several times; he knew he was being watched.

“Probably worse than you’d imagine,” Dan replied honestly. “I get lost half the time through all the endless corridors, and very rarely do I ever leave the gates. It’s very confined.”

A frown tugged on Maren’s lips. “But surely there’s a lot of privacy? With so many bedrooms to hide away in…where you can do whatever you please…”

Dan cleared his throat. “Not when there are guards stationed literally everywhere. I swear they know more of the court gossip than I do.”

“That’s interesting. You know, my family has guards in our private villa here as well as back home, but it’s only just occurred to me how much they probably listen in on. I mean, I barely know they exist! They must know all the scandals I tell my friends.”

Well, maybe you should pay more attention to those who would defend your life, no matter how cruelly you treat them, Dan wished he could say.

“You should be more careful next time,” he replied with a pitiful wink.

Maren paused for a moment, holding his gaze with a knowing smirk. And then she asked, “So Daniel, out of all your potential brides, who do you prefer?”

“Uh…” Dan felt trapped all of a sudden. He took a sip of champagne to stall for time. “I – I haven’t spent nearly enough time with all of them to decide. I’ll get back to you once the week is up.”

“I look forward to it,” Maren simpered.                    

Before the conversation could continue, the Queen appeared at Dan’s side looking thoroughly stressed. She roughly turned her son round to face her. “Daniel, there you are. The first dance is about to begin, and it is you who must lead first. I hope you haven’t forgotten–”

“Of course he hasn’t, your Majesty,” Maren butted in, slinking up to Dan and linking their arms together. “In fact, he’s chosen me as his first partner.”

A mixture of relief and fascination passed over the Queen’s face. “That’s wonderful to hear, Maren. I…I’m sure you’ll both woo everyone out there. And Daniel, don’t forget what you learned in those dance lessons.”

Dan found he had no say in the entire exchange, and could only nod at his mother. Suddenly, without letting him compose himself, a voice boomed out over the crowd. The chatter dissolved a little and all eyes turned to the announcer at the back of the ballroom. “Ladies, gentlemen and other noble guests, His Royal Highness, Prince Daniel, will now lead us in a slow waltz – the first dance of the night.”

At this, applause once again erupted around the room. Dan shifted his gaze to Maren, smiled and bent his elbow for her to grasp. Now, it was time to pretend.

The crowd parted instantly for the couple, looking on with wide, spellbound eyes as they glided towards the middle of the dancefloor. Dan held one arm stiff behind his back, chin tilted towards the ceiling. Maren’s dress swirled and shimmered across the patterned floor; she seemed as comfortable as ever in the nobility’s gaze. They came to a halt in the centre of the circle; Dan spun in his boots, interlocked his fingers with Maren’s and gently held onto her waist. Her spare hand rested on his shoulder. The zeal in her eyes couldn’t be missed.

The first stroke of a violin was heard. Dan stepped forward, Maren stepped back, and suddenly they were dancing, drifting across the floor as the music filled the room. They seemed to hover above the marble, Maren’s skirt swirling outwards as Dan clutched her waist, desperately trying not to let her go. His dance tutor had taught him the waltz for years, and if he screwed up now, it might as well be all for nothing.

He spun her twice beneath his arm, and they continued to step in time with the music. Then he dipped her down towards the marble, pretending to be enthralled when she threw her head back and exposed her neck. Murmurs floated through the mass of guests.

As the instrumental piece grew more intense, Maren drew herself closer to Dan, her hand shifting to rest beside his neck. Her fingers were like ice on his nape, and he wanted nothing more than to shove her away. That part of him was off limits to everyone. But Maren must’ve mistaken the discomfort on his face for embarrassment, and a smirk passed over her lips.

She was close. Too close. He could almost feel her warm breath ghosting his cheeks. And she had this gleam in her eye, like she wanted something and was convinced Dan wanted it too. The pair were still completing the first waltz as the guests looked on, but all he could think about was her and the anxiety she was causing with her intentions. He could feel it mounting in his stomach, a horrible black thing eating him from the inside out. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of it. He wanted to end the dance right now, end the whole goddamn gala.

The song was reaching its finale. Dan swiftly lowered Maren towards the ground again, before hauling her back up and spinning, spinning, spinning until the last bow left its violin. The music ended. They twirled to a stop, Maren pressing almost her entire body against Dan’s, breathing heavily into his ear. He could hear nothing but that, deaf to the clapping that followed their grand performance and the announcer’s next words, calling all the guests to join Prince Daniel and his captivating lady on the dance floor.

“Well done, your Highness,” Maren whispered against his earlobe.

Dan closed his eyes and opened them, swallowing heavily. Then he pulled away from her slightly. “Th-thank you for not stepping on my toes,” he squeezed out awkwardly.

Maren cocked her head, but she seemed amused. Couples began to surround them, grasping hands and waists and whirling off into their own worlds. “Well, we should hope it doesn’t happen in the next dance,” she smiled.

Before he could object, Maren had whisked him back onto the floor. They melted quickly into the men and women around them, all caught up in another graceful waltz. Dan looked anywhere but his partner’s seductive expression. Her hands burned where they gripped his arms, and the heat and intensity she gave off started to make him a little dizzy. If he could just last one more waltz, just this one, he could find someone else to dance with. Or even better, he could disappear…maybe hang around the buffet tables for a while –  

“You know, you’re not who I thought you would be, your Highness,” Maren spoke up quietly, drawing Dan’s eyes back to her. “But I like it. I like you. I hope we can grow what already exists between us.”

“W-What?”

“Oh, don’t be coy, your Highness. I see fire in your eyes and I know you see it in mine.” Maren leaned in until her mouth was mere inches away from Dan’s. “You can’t deny the connection between us…” she murmured.

Dan shrunk away from her puckered lips and half-lidded eyes, suddenly finding it impossible to breathe. And that was when he felt it – a calloused but warm hand grasping his bicep and yanking him away from Maren’s wandering hands. He watched the baffled expression take over her face at having her prince so rudely snatched away, then released a breath of relief and turned to see his timely rescuer.

He must’ve been the son of a wealthy lord or duke, elegantly dressed in a rich midnight tailcoat woven with regal patterns, and a matching black cravat. Underneath lay a stiff white waistcoat, which accompanied a pair of black pants and boots on his feet. Normally, Dan would’ve scoffed at his whole demeanour; his beak-like nose pointed proudly to the ceiling, his spare arm was held stiffly at his back and his chest puffed out. He’d known enough guys like this in his time to expect nothing but vanity and disdain from them.

But the young man had just saved him from Maren’s…well, sexual assault. Any other man would’ve smiled and given him a silent cheer at catching a woman, but surely this one had noticed how uncomfortable Dan was if he pulled him away so quickly?

Suddenly the young man spoke, quickly shutting down all of Dan’s thoughts. His voice was surprisingly cadent, something like honey or the twinkle of champagne, but there was something odd about it that he couldn’t place…

“My apologies, ma’am,” the young man said, smiling and nodding at a hilariously aghast Maren. She looked as if his voice was the vilest thing she’d ever heard. But Dan was sure neither of them expected what the young man said next:

“It just seems a bit rude of you to have the Prince all to yourself. May I step in?”  

♛

The carriage was soundless. No one spoke a word. Not a breath or the rustle of clothes could be heard. Only the clattering wheels of the vehicle could ease the tension that suffocated the space.

A morbid cloud hung over everyone’s heads, like someone had died moments ago.

Well, Phil Lester thought, glancing at the droplets of blood that stained the inner wall, someone has died. Multiple people, actually.

But he felt no sympathy for the murdered family, averting his eyes and peering out through the open window. He would never feel anything for those who had enslaved and tortured his people.

Lush gardens rolled by as the carriage made its way towards the palace. The sun had almost set, bathing the sky in a peachy glow. Towering pine trees, hedges whittled into impressive shapes, rose bushes, canopies and fountains…it spread widely despite where it sat upon the hill. A wide path cut through the area and stretched towards the palace, lined with oil lamps and crowded by a traffic of many ornate carriages, filled with clans of wealthy men, women and children. They were all guests at the gala tonight, no doubt drenched in an assortment of their finest evening wear. But Phil, who wore his own luxurious ensemble, couldn’t deny how comfortable it was. He knew he would only be dressed like this for the coming week, so he figured he should enjoy it.

Hazel shifted opposite him, smoothing out the silk dress she’d stolen from the woman whose throat she’d cut only twenty minutes ago. It was almost pristine – Phil knew how seamless she was with a knife, so of course the dress had no splatters of blood. Their eyes met, and Phil offered her a smile in reassurance.

The blonde-haired girl raised her eyebrows. Of course, she never needed reassurance.

Despite the nerves that rumbled through his stomach and limbs, Phil smiled wider and turned away. Hazel was probably one of the bravest people Phil had ever known, especially as one of the best Blade-wielders in the Resistance, who were most skilled in close combat.

Phil could never summon enough courage to do what she and the rest of her unit did. Assassinating guards and other threats with the strike of one arm, risking their lives in hand-to-hand combat rather than fighting from a distance, and always, always aware of their opponent. Hazel had been trained to never let her guard down, even when she wasn’t fighting. Phil could see in the way she sat – back straight, eyes alert and darting left to right, elbows close to her sides – that she was ready to face danger if it came. It was one of the reasons she was chosen for this mission.

Phil, on the other hand, had a different role. He belonged to a unit of spies, gifted in the art of deceit, fraud and manipulation. Although he too had been somewhat trained for combat, it was rare that spies would have to handle a fight. Instead, Phil lived by the rule, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. With the face of an angel and the charm of a siren, he could gain the trust of anyone despite his status as a slave. His ability to lie and beguile had scraped him out of too many situations to count, and sometimes even seduced a few people.

This week, as the best member of his Espionage unit, he was tasked with the greatest job he’d ever been given. Everything he’d learnt as a spy would be tested during these several days, and one screw up could cost him the lives of everyone on this mission, let alone his own.

Suddenly, the gravelly voice of Jonas, who was posing as the coachman, floated through the window and snapped Phil from his thoughts. “We’re approaching the palace gates now,” he called. Everyone inside the carriage straightened up. “We’ve got inspection first, and once we’re through, I’ll circle the courtyard. The footmen group we’ve planted within the palace will take the luggage and escort you to the entrance. I’ll drive the carriage round to the stables, just like everyone else. Heard all that?”

“Got it, Jonas,” came the growl of Markus, who was smoothing out his cravat. Then he cleared his throat and looked round at Phil, Hazel and Elias, a Medic who had also been placed on the mission.

“I assume all of you are ready for tonight,” Markus began, stomach almost bulging from his waistcoat. He waited for everyone to nod before continuing, “Excellent. Now, this week, we are the Haines family. To you, I am Lord Evan Haines, your husband or father. We will attend all balls and parties together to keep up appearances, but of course you have separate assignments to complete; those will be done alone. Elias? Or should I say, Nikolaus Haines?”

“Yes?” Elias said. He took a moment to flatten out his greased black hair.

“What occupation do you intend to follow?”

“I will become an academic just like you, specialising in the history and geography of our country, Hathage. I’m already tutored by you and other professors, and attend classes at the Hathagean School for the Erudite. Nothing will stand in the way of my career.”

“That’s perfect. Hazel – or Lady Ania?”

“Yes,” she answered confidently.

“For how many years have we been married?”

“Sixteen, when you remarried two – no, three years after your first wife’s death.”

“Make sure you remember that. Phil – Hugo – what rank are you in Hathage’s military and how long have you been training for?”

“I am a Private, serving for two years and counting.”

“Terrific,” Markus said. “I trust you’ll all do fine this week. And remember – Jonas is our informant, and your go-to man to report any vital info you find. He’s staying in the accommodation for the other coachmen, right next to the stables. As far as we know, guest access to that is fairly easy.”

Hazel nodded, drawing a deep breath as a determined look set upon her face. Elias scratched his pointy chin, appearing to mull over what Markus had said.

There was a moment of silence, until Phil asked sullenly, “They’ll be expecting us, won’t they?”

“Of course they will,” Markus replied. “You know how hard the King’s forces have been trying to track our movements. Security will be amplified this week, as it is with every event. But we have an advantage – they have no idea when we intend to strike the hardest.”

“But that’ll be during this gala,” Hazel said.

“Exactly, which means everything must go right this week. We only have one shot at this. If we fail, we bring the whole Resistance down with us. But if we win, the monarchy will fall and all Eluthians will be freed.”

Another glance out the window and Phil saw they were metres away from the palace gates. “We’re at inspection now,” he told the others.

A moment of apprehensive silence passed. Then Elias lifted his hand in the centre of the carriage, and said hopefully, “As many we are bound by chains…”

Hearing the start of the Resistance’s motto, Hazel and Markus placed their hands over Elias’ without hesitation. Phil stared at them, all possible outcomes of this week zooming through his mind. He saw the Resistance executed at the hands of the nobility, but he also saw their oppressors beaten and destroyed. He saw the greatest punishment imaginable for his people, but he also saw them rejoicing in their reclaimed freedom. And despite all the devastating consequences that could befall them, something inside told him that no matter what, they would win.

So Phil filled his lungs with an unwavering breath, and then placed his hand on top of the pile. And together the group continued, “…as one we are bound by nothing.”

*

With a few introductions, some light-hearted banter and the invitation that Markus pulled out of his coat, the group successfully passed through inspection. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief when the guards admitted them, but now they were finally within the palace, the dread returned. The week seemed to loom upon them like a heavy thundercloud, and they would be the first to break it.

Jonas drove the carriage through the courtyard, following the train of vehicles around the immense fountain that sat in the centre. Phil took the opportunity to gaze at the intricate stone and gold sculpture of many god-like figures, water pouring from their mouths or fingertips. It was almost a shame that the brilliant work of art may be destroyed by the end of the week. But suddenly the carriage was slowing to a stop outside the palace stairs, and Phil tore his eyes away from it and focused on the task at hand.

Footmen dressed in black and gold livery approached the carriage, collecting suitcases and bags that had belonged to the real Haines family. One man pulled the door open and offered a hand to each member of the group as they stepped out onto the cobbles. Phil didn’t recognise any of the men from the Resistance, but Markus gave them all a polite nod that held hidden meaning. One of the footmen even returned it with a light smirk.

“You must be the Haines family,” he addressed everyone, not even looking at the invitation Markus handed him. “My men and I will escort you up the stairs and into the palace, where the first ball of the night awaits you. Do not worry about your luggage – it will be taken to your rooms immediately. Now, if you will all please follow me…”

Phil heard the crack of a whip against the horses, and the lurch of the carriage as Jonas drove away, and he knew there was no turning back. The palace stood before him, all windows and turrets and gold carvings towering above him as if it was trying to be intimidating. But suddenly…it wasn’t. Phil saw nothing but the abominable royal family who hid behind this pathetic stronghold and took pride in conducting the suffering of his people. He wasn’t threatened by it – in fact, he felt he could tear it apart brick by brick right now.

But he couldn’t. He had a job to do, and besides, in the long run it would allow him to tear the palace apart. So Phil Lester stood straighter, made his way up the staircase, and followed his ‘family’ and the footmen that escorted them. Because right now he was no longer Phil Lester. He was Hugo Haines, son of Lord Evan Haines and a Private in Hathage’s military.

He was about to, in other words, celebrate the birthday of this glorious nation’s future king, and he was going to bloody well enjoy it.

*

Phil had never known the Prince of Croma before. To some, that might’ve come as a surprise, as he’d lived in the kingdom for nearly 18 years. But he belonged to the lowest caste of people in the realm. Enduring torture and working like a dog in the slave system meant that the royal family were the furthest out of his reach. Only when the King and Queen performed speeches, hosted national events or toured the kingdom had their son been present. But Phil had only seen him from afar; sometimes it was like he was never there. Phil got the impression that he was sheltered away, put on display for the wealthy and hidden from the penniless drudges. This meant that Phil was plunging into his mission almost blind, expected to deceive a prince he knew nothing about.

He voiced this to Elias when they made their rounds with Hazel and Markus, shaking a hundred hands and plastering on smiles for people he cared nothing about. Most of the guests were exactly as he had expected – snobbish, gaudy and too big for their boots. With a glass of something in their fingers, they could chatter all night about themselves and nothing else. Phil soon realised he knew at least one thing about the Prince – he’d be exactly like every pompous pig in this room.

“But it’s your job to get to know the bastard, isn’t it?” Elias whispered in reply once everyone else was occupied. He tucked his arms behind his back and stood straighter to appear less shady. “Besides, you’ve had the briefing on ‘im. What was it? 21 years old, pretty educated…”

“…A bit of a sheltered mummy’s boy,” Phil replied, before offering a polite smile to a lady who glided past.

Elias snickered beside him and nodded. “Most likely. And you know his daily schedule and all that, right? All’s left is his personality.”

“Sometimes that’s the hardest to tackle,” Phil sighed. “You can’t very well trick someone without knowing their ins and outs first. People have so many layers to them…you don’t know what you’ll find underneath.”

“Says the spy,” Elias scoffed under his breath.

Before Phil could even laugh, the background music and the rumble of conversation suddenly dissipated. One booming voice rung out, bouncing off marble pillars and panelled walls. Phil turned his eyes with the rest of the crowd to a man who stood upon a raised platform, two scarlet curtains falling behind him. As he began to announce the entrance of the royal family, Phil drew a slow breath. This was it. The moment those curtains pulled back, his mission would begin.

First his eyes landed on King Arran and Queen Jenea, their harsh faces and overbearing wealth all too familiar. They waved to their applauding subjects, almost glittering in their matching white and gold attire. Phil wanted to smash the crowns off their heads, watch them shatter on the polished floor. The royals didn’t deserve the power they had. In their thirst for domination over the realm, their legions had ruthlessly conquered other nations, and they had killed, maimed and captured hundreds of his people from their native country Eluthia. But Phil forced himself to applaud, and let his fury boil hot and silent within him, knowing the age of monarchy would soon be over.

When his eyes shifted to the young man who stood between them, a little to the back, his anger didn’t falter. In fact, being able to study the Prince for the first time only fed it. Undoubtedly, Prince Daniel would have been raised exactly like his parents. Something horrible churned in Phil’s stomach at the thought of befriending someone like him, someone who was nothing but proud and pretentious, and who spat upon those lower than himself.

Although, Phil had to admit his appearance took him by surprise. While his parents’ faces were sharp and lined, the Prince’s was like milk and honey. Dimples carved out his rounded cheeks when he smiled at the crowd, and his brown eyes held a mellow warmth. He had a curly head of coffee-coloured hair that looked as soft as feathers, and he seemed so delicate standing there in his white uniform jacket, polished gold buttons and black boots.

Phil always had an eye for handsome-looking men, as well as women. He’d realised that a long time ago and wasn’t ashamed of it. But he quickly reminded himself that he wasn’t here to gawk at the Prince’s fine appearance, when he was bound to be hideous underneath. However…his smile seemed a little too forced, his rosy lips stretching too wide, as if he was uncomfortable standing there. But it made no sense to Phil…a prince, standing anxious before the people he reigned over? He dismissed the thought.

As the royal family descended the platform and started greeting everybody, Phil and Elias hurriedly joined Hazel and Markus. They were grinning and chatting to another couple, Markus’s hand comfortably resting on Hazel’s waist. Phil heard mentions of the Prince and ballroom decorations as he approached, but then four pairs of eyes were on him and Elias as Markus introduced them.

The couple lived here in Croma, both involved in the military, but Phil didn’t bother remembering their names. He simply smiled and went on with rehearsed small talk, pretending to be interested in what they had to say about themselves.

After a while, Markus pulled him aside and muttered in his ear, “The royal family will greet everyone tonight. Make sure you get the Prince alone at some point, if not after you meet him formally.”

Phil nodded, stepping back a little. “Don’t worry, I’ll get my opportunity,” he replied softly, eyes glancing over puffy gowns, elaborate hairstyles and war medallions. “It shouldn’t be very hard if he’s too distracted by himself.”

“Watch yourself, Phil,” Markus warned. “Don’t let your anger blind your better judgement. You know not to underestimate anyone.”

“Y-Yes, sorry. You’re right. I’ll be more careful.”

“And make sure you bow when you meet him.”

“I might be befriending him but I will not bow to him.”

“Well, if you want to compromise this mission and our lives…don’t bow.”

Phil let out an indignant sigh. He knew he was being foolish anyway. “Fine. I guess there are worse things.”

“Of course there are,” Markus replied. “Just remember what’ll happen if you disrespect your prince.”

“He’s not my prince, Markus,” Phil mumbled.

“You’re right about that, at least.”

But Phil never got the chance to greet Prince Daniel and his parents. He watched them get through around half the guests as he planned his first words to the boy in his head, when the small orchestra at the back (no doubt made up of slaves) struck up a tune that settled the party. And then Prince Daniel was in the centre, waltzing across the dance floor with a pretty blonde woman in his arms.

All the guests seemed captivated by the performance, but as Phil kept watching he noticed that uncomfortable look return to the Prince’s face. It was strange…half the nation adored him, he had a princess of some sort almost clinging to him, and he was about to become the King of Croma. So why did he look like this palace was the last place he wanted to be?

Phil decided to finally meet His Royal Highness during the second dance, while everyone would be caught up in their own fantasies. So as the pretty couple slipped into their next waltz, he sucked in some air, straightened his back and made his way towards them. But something seemed off the closer he came. He watched as the woman murmured something to Prince Daniel, all cheeky and seductive, but the Prince obviously looked very uneasy about it. In fact, he started to tense up the closer she drew to him.

It would take an idiot not to notice what was going on here. And Phil was no idiot. For whatever reason, the Prince did not want to be near that woman, not now or perhaps ever. But the blonde hadn’t noticed, and now she was closing her eyes and puckering her lips, and the Prince was leaning as far back as possible…

Strangely, Phil felt a twinge of sympathy for the young man. He knew the feeling, having someone come onto you so forcefully like that. No one deserved to be assaulted in that way, whether it was with a simple kiss or a lot more.

So Phil seized his opportunity, and in a few strides he had taken the Prince by the arm and yanked him away from the woman’s clutches. “My apologies, ma’am,” he told her. “It just seems a bit rude of you to have the Prince all to yourself. May I step in?”  

♛

Dan was waltzing again. But this time with a young man.

He was dancing in the centre of a crowded ballroom…with a man.

He stared bug-eyed at his sudden saviour, still anxious and unsure as they stepped in time with the music. Everything had happened so fast, his rationale sort of fizzled out. One moment Maren was pretty much climbing all over him, and the next he was being swept away by someone else. A man. Another actual man, dancing with the Prince under the gaze of hundreds of aristocrats. Was he insane?

But this was different than with Maren…the boy left a fair amount of space between them, and held him gently. One hand brushed his waist, as light as a feather, while the other curled softly around his fingers. His touch woke the butterflies in Dan’s stomach, he made sure Dan was comfortable and…it was nice. It was nice, to dance with a boy. But it was wrong. His parents were probably watching. And the people would talk.

“Who are you?” Dan breathed, unable to help himself. His heartbeat thudded against his brain, scattered his thoughts. “You know w-we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Shouldn’t we?” the boy asked, raising his eyebrows. “And why not?”

“I think you have a very good idea as to why not. I’m the Prince of Croma, if you haven’t realised. And I’m not supposed to be – to be dancing with other men.”

“But you haven’t pulled away, have you, your Highness?”

Heat pooled in Dan’s cheeks, but he pulled his face into a frown. He would not think about that right now. Fear still bubbled in the pit of his stomach, a monster of anxiety growing the more he remained in this boy’s arms. He couldn’t hear all the murmured gossip over the music, but it was there…people staring, scrutinising, whispering to their friends…rumours tumbling over each other like violent waves crashing against sand.

“What are you doing?” he blurted out eventually, searching the boy’s face for any hint that this was a joke. “No, why are you doing this?”

The boy spun him across the marble floor, his grasp firm but comforting. “Honestly? I saw what that girl was doing to you, and I couldn’t stand by and do nothing about it. If that’s what you wanted, sire…?”

Dan opened his mouth to reply, but paused, leaving his jaw hanging open. Could this boy be that kind-hearted, or was there more to what had just happened? No one in this society would dare pull the Prince away from a woman, no matter the situation…So who was this gentleman? Eventually Dan remembered to reply, stammering out, “O-Oh. Thank you. Yes, it is – what I wanted…I actually appreciate that quite a lot.”

“I was just doing what I thought was right,” the boy shrugged.

“But no one else would’ve done what you did.”

“Well, I don’t blame anyone else for failing to notice their own Prince was in trouble. Too busy flaunting their big headed selves around, the bastards…” the boy muttered, before his eyes flashed with horror at what he’d said. “Oh, please, please forgive me, sire, I–”

But Dan was too busy bursting into laughter as he looked up at the boy, both horrified and amused. “No – stop – honestly, don’t apologise, please. That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. But you can’t just say things like that here. Do you have any idea what these people would do to you?”

The boy’s eyes darted over Dan’s face in panic, obviously surprised by his reaction. Then he stuttered out, “I – I’m all too familiar with what our kind of people are capable of.”

Those words made the laugher die in Dan’s mouth. He wondered if he’d been too quick to make assumptions about who he was. Maybe they were more similar than he thought? After all, there had to be others within the aristocracy who despised Croma’s class system. “…Who are you?” Dan asked after a moment. “I didn’t get an answer before.”

“My name is Hugo Haines,” the boy said with a nervous chuckle. “It’s an honour meeting you, Your Highness.”

“I might vomit if you address me like that again. Call me Prince Daniel, or even Dan. You seem normal enough for that.”

Hugo gave him a strange look, inquisitiveness churning behind his eyes. Dan frowned a little. It almost felt like the dark-haired boy was turning his soul inside and out, searching for something. Well, it’s not every day you meet a Prince who laughs at the slander of his own people and hates his titles, Dan thought. I would be confused too.

Suddenly his eyes landed on two guards who were weaving their way through the dancing couples towards them. Dan’s stomach dropped. The feeling of calm that had settled within him was now gone. He gulped. There was no way he would let these guards make a scene. His mother had probably sent them to force Dan away, shove him into a woman’s arms instead. The talk of the crowd reached his ears through the music. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be here.

Hugo had obviously seen the guards and sensed his anxiety when he slowed their dancing. “Um, D-Dan, I know this is your party and everything, but did you want to get out of here?” he muttered.

“You know, I’d like that very much,” Dan replied, meeting his eyes. He glanced over Hugo’s shoulder and found one of the many sets of doors around the ballroom. This one, he knew, lead out into a grand sitting room with walls that drowned in framed landscapes, and from there they could escape into the gardens…

“Come with me,” he said, not even thinking as he grabbed Hugo’s wrist and tugged him through the now curious-looking guests. He could hear their hushed gossip, wondering why their Prince was fleeing the ballroom with another man. In the back of his mind he knew there would be hundreds of rumours by the time the sun rose, but in that moment he couldn’t care less.

For the first time in his life he’d stumbled across a boy who wasn’t just beautiful, but seemed to understand him when so many others hadn’t. Dan wasn’t about to let him go.

They reached the doors to the sitting room, and Dan shoved the handle down before darting inside and dragging Hugo behind. The music, the endless chatter and the guards’ heavy footsteps were all silenced when he drove the heavy things shut.

“…Um, where exactly are we going?” Hugo asked as Dan hurried further into the room, rounding golden poufs and candelabras.

Dan waited until he reached another panelled door before answering, “To the gardens. They’re so elaborate, the guards won’t find us there.”

“But you are supposed to be back in that ballroom, aren’t you? Mingling with everyone and dancing the night away?”

“I am not going back there, especially if I have to mingle,” Dan laughed. He opened the door and beckoned Hugo closer. “Now hurry up, before they drag me back like a screaming child.”

Hugo sent him another curious look, before shaking his head and following him across the room. After passing through a few lavish libraries and drawing rooms, they eventually ended up in a stone corridor. It was a great step down from the palace’s extravagance; blackened mould coated the nooks and crevices, dusty torches sent a dim glow along the walls and the clack of their footsteps sent an eerie echo down the passage. And it was terribly cold. But Dan had snuck down this corridor plenty of times before. While Hugo let out a shivery breath from behind, he barely felt the temperature drop.

It was almost second-nature, finding the ancient wooden door buried deep into the stone. As usual, a familiar iron key was wedged into the lock and it took a few twists before Dan swung the door wide, and the pair stepped into another world.

Old stepping stones with moss smothering the edges trailed off from the doorway and into a lush garden. Jasmine, ivy and other creeper vines loomed above them, gobbling at worn granite walls until the rock could hardly be seen. There were rose bushes that bloomed with light pink petals, chiselled stone benches and bird baths that sunk into the grass and potted camellia, lavender and various other shrubs left to overgrow. But what made it all so enchanting were the stars, releasing their magic from a velvet black sky to touch the foliage and blooming flowers.

Dan grew lost for a moment, arms behind his back as he wandered into the almost-forest. He’d always loved the fantasy of it, a favourite hideaway second to his balcony. You could lose yourself among the plants for hours, with all the maze-like pathways and secret clearings.

“I think I envy this palace,” Hugo piped up from behind.

His voice snapped Dan from his trance, who spun around to grin at the dark-haired boy. He too was gazing up at the flowering creepers in wonder. “I know. This is where I spend half my time, if I’m honest. Do you have any gardens like this where you live?”

Hugo seemed startled for a moment. But almost instantly his face smoothed over and he nodded. “We do back at home, but never as grand as this. Even our holiday villa here is a bit sparse.”

“So you’re not from Croma, then?” Dan asked, perking up. “I knew your accent was unfamiliar.”

“No, my family is from – uh, Hathage. In the north?”

“I’ve probably heard of it. I wouldn’t remember, though.”

“It’s an old ally, I’m pretty sure. This is my first visit to your kingdom, actually. My father is quite a well-known scholar where I’m from, and the King of Croma wanted to meet him finally to commend him for his work and all that.”

Dan nodded, racking his brain for memories of Hathage as they passed through an archway lit by torches. The pair had automatically fallen into step once they started talking and for once, Dan was ignoring the scenery around them. “So Hathage is an ally…Oh, they – they helped in conquering Eluthia, didn’t they?”

He didn’t miss the way Hugo’s brilliant blue eyes turned to steel. “Yes, they helped,” he said, voice clipped.

“…Maybe if they hadn’t, Eluthia would still be a free nation,” Dan murmured.

“And you’d prefer that? You’d prefer to lose all your precious slaves, and do your own dirty work?”

“I mean…yes, I think I would,” he admitted, startled by Hugo’s outburst. “It’s a bit heartless, don’t you think? Tearing a people away from their homeland?”

Hugo’s face softened a little at that, despite his heavy frown. “I – yes. I suppose it is heartless. You know, I apologise, your Highness. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“You need to stop apologising to me. And I thought I told you to call me Dan?”

“Right. Dan. Sorry about – oh, I mean…”

Dan’s fond laughter cut him off. “It’s alright, Hugo,” he said, nudging his shoulder.

Again, he was met with a split second of uneasiness on Hugo’s face, but he could never guess why. There was something about the dark-haired boy that seemed off...Dan finally glanced away, deciding to leave it alone for a while.

As they walked through the gardens, the conversation shifted and spun off into random topics. Small talk moved into sharing backgrounds, which became interests and funny anecdotes. Then it was anything that came to mind, laughter floating up into the night as they talked and talked. Dan soon realised he’d never known someone as interesting as Hugo, and someone who had never been as interested in him. Within an hour he knew that Hugo’s favourite meal was always breakfast, had a terrible fear of horses, and was about as uncoordinated as a drunken baby giraffe. In fact, the more Dan got to know him, the more endearing he seemed. Gone was the self-assured and formal gentleman from the ballroom – Dan liked his friendlier side a lot better.

Hugo seemed genuinely eager to get to know him as well. He was very open, asked Dan many questions about himself and related to him easily. It was a bit strange, talking to someone who was invested in him rather than his wealth or status. Dan clung to the hope that they would still be friends after tonight, forcing away any thoughts that suggested something more than friendship. He was still the Prince, and if his secret ever got out he would end up with a devastated name and a broken heart. Friends. Friends was more than enough.

At some point they’d stopped walking and sat themselves on the edge of a large stone fountain, erected in the middle of a clearing. The steady trickle of water was soothing, and filled the silence that eventually lapsed between them. But it was comfortable. Dan had never shared comfortable silence with anyone other than Louise.

Somehow, for some reason, it was just easy with Hugo.

The quiet was eventually disrupted when the dark-haired boy said, “Happy birthday, by the way.”

Dan snorted. And then properly laughed. “You know, you’re the first person to ever say that to me tonight,” he chuckled out. “Thank you.”

Hugo was grinning along with him. “You’re welcome, oh Majestic One. Oh great ruler over this glorious empire.”

“Shut up,” Dan giggled, shoving him gently. “I already told you I hate all that shit.”

“…Did the Prince of Croma just curse?” Hugo asked, actually looking a little shocked. “Wow. You never really know someone, huh.”

“You’re infuriating,” Dan muttered, but he was smiling.

There was another silence. Dan lifted his eyes to the sky, watching the stars for a moment before looking back at Hugo. Up close, he could finally study him, and Dan bit his lip when he noticed just how breathtaking the boy really was. Under the moonlight, his face was made of marble. A light flush on his cheeks held the same colour as his porcelain pink lips, and his eyebrows curved sharply around eyes that weren’t just blue. They seemed to hold a churning sea. And it hurt, just a little, knowing he could never have this boy who was so, so remarkable.

Dan forced himself to look away, averting his gaze to the grass. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t put himself through this. He was supposed to find a bride tonight, not a…not a groom. Stop doing this to yourself, he thought angrily. There is no one else like you. You’re a prince. You will never find a boy you can love freely.

“I think we should go back,” Dan said suddenly, looking up at the hedgerows ahead. He felt Hugo’s surprised gaze and ignored it. “It’s getting late, and the King and Queen are going to be furious if I’m away any longer.”

He stood up quickly and brushed off the back of his pants, but before he could move he felt Hugo’s hand secure around his wrist.

“Wait,” the boy insisted. “I need to tell you something before we go.”

Dan hesitated before meeting Hugo’s worried eyes. He sat back down with a soft sigh and nodded.

“Okay,” Hugo began with a deep breath. He didn’t let go of Dan’s wrist. “My name…isn’t actually Hugo. It’s Phil.”

“What?”

“My name is Phil…Phil Haines.”

“But you said before, it was Hugo.”

“I know. But it’s not Hugo. It’s Phil.”

“Why – why did you tell me it was Hugo?” Dan stared at the dark-haired boy, mouth hung open and eyebrows almost touching they were so furrowed. All thoughts of the ball and his parents flew out of his brain. That was so unusual, and confusing, and a bit distressing. Why would anyone give him a completely different name? Was Hugo – Phil – whoever he was telling the truth?

“Well, it’s – um – actually kind of funny,” the boy started to explain awkwardly. “In my family, Hugo’s a bit of a, uh, nickname. A running joke sort of thing. My real name is Phil Haines. It’s just sometimes I forget to introduce myself as Phil, because people call me Hugo all the time at home.”

Dan narrowed his eyes, finding the whole story a bit fishy. “…Are you screwing with me right now?” he demanded with a slight smirk.

“No! I swear I’m not. This is the truth. I am Phil.”

“Okay then…Phil. If I asked your family, would they say the same thing?”

“Absolutely. I’m serious.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You can trust me, Dan.”

A defeated sigh left Dan’s lips when he saw the boy’s stern expression. “Fine, I believe you. But you’re really strange, Phil, you know that?”

“Y-Yes, I am aware,” Phil laughed, sounding relieved. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yeah, we actually should.”

They didn’t speak as they made their way back to the palace. Dan used his memory and the twilight to retrace their steps – the pair had wandered further than they’d realised. Eventually the turrets and golden roofs of the palace were peering over the garden hedges, growing closer and closer, looming like a death sentence. Music and conversation were fearsome creatures that balanced on the wind, and warm light began to shine through the foliage like blades to his body. Soon he would be back among that stifling hall of high society, pretending, pretending, pretending.

In that moment, passing overgrown shrubs and old garden furniture with Phil by his side, Dan wanted nothing more than to turn back and disappear forever. He felt trapped, suffocated by his own future. He wanted to escape it. He wanted to flee. How could he subject himself to the life that awaited him? The life of a king who must have a wife and children, who surrounded himself in his own wealth and self-importance, who forced other human beings into slavery…

Dan’s life was a nightmare slowly coming true, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But then he and Phil reached the clearing where they had snuck from the palace. Dan stepped back into the chilly stone passage, squashing down that horrible cloud of anxiety in his stomach. He waited until his dark-haired friend had followed him inside.

And after one lingering glance out into the garden, into a sky full of constellations, the Prince of Croma dragged the door shut and sealed his fate for the coming week.

previous

[topfygad]

Budget Travel | 4 Hotels Under Rs5,000 in Morocco

A round-up of Moroccan hotels rich in both history and character, and oozing old-world charm, which fit tight budgets.

Hotels Morocco Zac O’Yeah | POSTED ON: September 17, 2019

  The classic among Moroccan hotels, Tangier’s Continental is a sight in itself with hallways and corridors that make one feel like Alice in Wonderland. Photo by: Zac O’Yeah

I wonder if there’s a name for my peculiar psychiatric condition—a pathological love for old hotels that aren’t part of impersonal global chains, but remain strictly local, personal, and rare. Actually, it’s not a bad condition to have, it just takes a bit more effort to track down the perfect hotel, but once I find it, I can usually be sure that I’m getting an unforgettable once-in-a-lifetime holiday. Some countries have a better stock of such forgotten gems and recently, as I toured Morocco, I found myself in heaven.

  Tangier

Walking with the icons

At sunrise, the Hotel Continental looks golden, like a ruminating camel perched lazily on a cliff overlooking the Bay of Tangier. I’d heard from people in the know about the late 19th-century, 70-room hotel, and found the bargain rate of 400 dirham/Rs2,900 online, and seeing its palatial grandeur in reality instantly makes travelling all the way to North Africa seem worth it.

According to a sign, the hotel was built in 1870, and prides itself on being a “hotel musée”—which I understand to mean hotel museum though my Moroccan is not so good—and it certainly looks the part. Despite the stained-glass windows that let in colourful morning light, the lobby is gloomier than the Dark Ages and filled with things one would expect in a museum: an antique telephone switchboard, a bulky radio cabinet, a battered samovar, a concierge who never smiles. It extends into a spooky antiques shop with a creepy proprietor. There are smoking rooms with upholstered benches and faux oriental embroidered cushions, and a forlorn dining hall with crystal chandeliers, dark-wood sideboards and heavy drapes, where nobody ever seems to be eating. It’s like something out of an exotic period movie—and was in fact the setting for Bernardo Bertolucci’sThe Sheltering Sky (1990), starring John Malkovich and Debra Winger as depraved American tourists.

I’m led up labyrinthine corridors to a bright, second-floor room that’s quite the opposite of the rest: thoroughly modern and, on the plus side, overlooking the sandy Tangier beach and the Strait of Gibraltar. Apparently Edgar Degas used to paint the vista from one of these rooms. Back in the day, the hotel was a mandatory stopover for anyone who was anyone visiting Africa—kings and queens; two of my favourite writers, Mark Twain (“Tangier is a foreign land if ever there was one, and the true spirit of it can never be found in any book save The Arabian Nights,” he wrote in The Innocents Abroad), and W. Somerset Maugham; singer Amy Winehouse; and architect AntoniGaudí. I wish we could have all checked into the same room at the same time. What a party!

The historic quarters with their cafés (such as Cafe Colon in Rue de la Kasbah, which due to its 1940s ambience features prominently in Bertolucci’s film) are around the corner, and Tangier’s enigmatic relationship to time becomes clear as I GPS my way through the maze to Rue IbnBatouta, where the celebrated globetrotter and original travel writer was born in 1304, and where he is buried too. After a few days of blissing out on Tangier, it feels like a major tragedy that I haven’t booked a longer stay.

Where 36, Rue Dar el-Baroud; www.hotel-tanger.com; doubles from Rs2,900.

Foodie Facts Restorante al Andalus, a seven-minute walk from the hotel in an alley off Petit Socco, is a family-owned eatery founded ages ago by Italian expatriates. It has a reputation for serving the town’s best seafood, and I sample an excellent grilled swordfish with finger chips and shish kebab (100 dirham/Rs730).

  Larache

A slice of local life from a breezy balcony

Grand Hotel España remains one of the finest relics of old Spanish colonial grandeur on the African continent and the well-kept rooms are a steal considering the fabulous location right in the centre of Larache. Photo by: Zac O’Yeah

From behind the Tangier bus station, the gareroutière, I catch a shared grand taxi as they’re called: ramshackle Mercedes vehicles that provide convenient, cheap travel from city to city (about 20 dirham/Rs145 per trip). My taxi is crammed and I’m flattened like a roti in a chapati-press, but luckily it’s not far to Larache.

Larache, a Spanish colony till 1956, is the most distinctive remnant of Spain in this part of Africa. I check into the 1930s vintage Grand Hotel España, where an airy, top-floor room costs 600 dirham/Rs4,400 and has balconies on two sides—the front one overlooking a roundabout with palms and a fountain. At night, I spy families taking in the cool air and children playing until late, while people watch football and cheer in the lively cafés; it’s a perfect perch for a voyeur.

The breakfast in the cute dining hall is sumptuous. A merry waiter covers my table with a petit déjeuner that includes Moroccan flatbread, a spicy omelette, grilled cheese sandwiches, sausage, olives, fruit salad, juice, and excellent Moroccan milky coffee.

A charming thing about Larache is that there are few other tourists, so no “tourist prices” and all that. I stroll about the neat, blue-painted alleys to a flea market and browse: everything is for sale, from vacuum-cleaners and spring mattresses to straw hats, guitar amplifiers and tagine cooking pots. Afterwards, I chill with a soda pop in Café Jean Genet, which is named after the French author-slash-jailbird immortalised in David Bowie’s “The Jean Genie,” who lies buried in the Spanish cemetery outside town. It is appropriately a favourite haunt of young hashish smokers.

Where 6 Avenue Hassan II, Plaza de España; phone +212 5399-13195; doubles from Rs4,400.

Foodie Facts Larache being a pleasant fishing harbour, there’s a superb seafood canteen, Puerta del Sol, with tables set in an alley right behind my hotel. A mixed platter with the odds and ends of the ocean—squid, prawns, a tuna steak, fried flatfish, deep-fried cuttlefish and a small shark complete with teeth and eyes—served with sides of meaty lamb sausages, finger chips, seafood paella, olives and a tasty bean stew, costs 130 dirham/Rs950.

  Casablanca

A window into Morocco’s French quarters

Tangier’s Continental straddles a promontory on the edge of the city’s old medina and has grand views across the sea to Spain and Gibraltar. Photo by: Zac O’Yeah

In Casablanca, the thing to do is to stay in the art deco quarters built by the French around a hundred years ago, which remain remarkably well-preserved. I’ve tracked down Hôtel Guynemer as its facade is mentioned as one of the sights in town, and booked a 450 dirham/Rs3,350 room via email. It seems like a good deal.

Guynemer opened its doors in 1909, and the lobby doesn’t show signs of having been renovated ever since art deco went out of fashion. The concierge tells me rooms are 650 dirham.

“But in the email you wrote 450.”

“We have no such rooms. There is a room for 360 but it is dirty.” It sounds like a typical tourist scam.

Checking the rooms, it turns out the more expensive one is completely modern and unappealing. The cheap room oozes charm, but is shabby, and the bathroom bulb is broken so it’s impossible to see where to pee. I ask the concierge if he has another cheapie. He grumpily gives me a key to what turns out to be a neat chamber with a high ceiling, kitschy art and the largest bathroom I’ve seen in Morocco—as big as the room itself.

And I have the heart of the city right outside my doorstep. Here, French architects were given free reign and so they tried to create a paradisiacal version of France: a neo-Moorish dream fantasy of wide, endless palm-lined boulevards dotted with charming small eateries, sidewalk cafés and smoke-filled bars.

Where 2, Rue Mohammed Belloul; guynemerhotel.net; doubles from Rs3,350.

Foodie Facts Trotting past the slightly dilapidated Marché Centrale, I contemplate hitting the fishmongers’ hall to gobble up basketfuls of fresh oysters, but decide to instead save my appetite for Taverne du Dauphin, the well-known 1958 seafood bar (115, Boulevard Felix Houphouet). It turns out to be the type of quiet joint one can easily love. A few other leisurely customers sit at the counter and the attentive bartender immediately serves me a half-bottle of chilled Moroccan white wine and a plate of spiced olives. Soon enough my food arrives, piquant pil-pil mussels, deep-fried smelt (which tastes a bit like Indian Bombay duck), and a lean umbrina fillet with pan-seared veggies. Since the fishing port is just across the road, everything feels eminently fresh and worth the 315 dirham/Rs2,300 (inclusive of the wine and a couple of local beers).

  Marrakech

That hotel which feels like home

It is very crucial to book oneself into a quiet back alley hotel such as Hotel Le Gallia in Marrakech (top) where one can recover one’s senses between bouts of sightseeing and shopoholism; Colourful Marrakech is Morocco’s main tourist attraction with madness levels to match, like at Jemaa el-Fna (bottom), the big square in old town, a day-and-night spectacle of street food, souvenirs, and entertainers who tell stories or play music. Photo courtesy: Hotel Le Gallia (interior), Photo by: Pavliha/E+/Getty Images (market)

After Casablanca, I head into what might be termed Moroccan Morocco, deep into the deserts at the foot of the Atlas Mountains, where the railroad ends, in Marrakech. While waiting for the train, I buy a packed sandwich as the trains don’t have restaurant cars, just the good ol’ snack trolley. The compartments are crammed with travellers but I find myself a seat. My chatty co-passengers from Ohio, Jack and Jill, are on a tour of Africa and tell me that they have a world map on their wall (at home in the U.S.) into which they put little pins for every place they visit. They’re trying to pin down Morocco now.

From Marrakech station it’s a short taxi ride to the old town and—typically for this touristy city—the driver demands five times the meter rate to drop me near the main square, Jemaa el-Fna, known for its flamboyant show of street food and busking musicians. Hotels in this area are rather tricky to find, as they are hidden deep inside winding alleys. Eventually I discover the extremely unassuming lane off the main pedestrian Rue Bab Agnaou that leads to mine. Once I walk down Rue de la Recette, it turns out to be an oasis of calm compared to the madness of Jemaa el-Fna.

Although there are luxury hotels aplenty, savvy visitors check into riads, traditional palatial homes built to shut out the hustle-bustle with rooms facing inner courtyards. Most riads have been bought by moneyed foreigners, who restore them to their former glory and decorate them with Berber textiles, ethnic mosaics and brassware—plus all the mod-cons and then some. However, riads tend to be over-the-top pricey (Rs40,000 per night is not unusual for a “budget” stay) so I select something in between a full-blown riad and a pension, the 1929-built Hotel Le Gallia. This family-owned guest house has some 20 rooms along a maze of corridors overlooking the greenery of its two courtyards with quaint fountains. My spacious ochre-painted room (470 dirham/Rs3,500) is like a cottage on the roof with views over the neighbourhood, perhaps my finest stay in all of Morocco. There’s no breakfast included, but on the other hand Jemaa el-Fna is just around the corner with cafés for people-watching—Café de France perhaps being the best pick with its terraces and balconies and variety of combo breakfasts for 40-55 dirham (from Rs300 and up). Try the Moroccan options, such as a pancake called m’semen, spicy omelettes, and great coffee.

Within walking distance there are as many souvenirs to buy as one’s bulkiest luggage can handle. Stop for a drink at the most luxurious hotel of Morocco, La Mamounia, which was built around the same time as Le Gallia and which has hosted everybody from Edith Piaf to John Lennon and Jennifer Aniston (Avenue Bab Jdid; www.mamounia.com). Not to mention Winston Churchill, who was kown to sit in the garden and paint when he wasn’t drinking at the bar. I avoid the “Sir Winston cocktail” (rather expensive at 320 dirhams/Rs2,400, nearly the cost of my room in town), and instead go for a glass of the brilliant house red wine (190 dirham/Rs1,400).

Where 30, Rue de la Recette; www.hotellegallia.com; doubles from Rs3,500.

Foodie Facts For dinner, hardcore carnivores would do well to try Chez LamineHadj Mustapha in the alley north of Jemaa el-Fna. Their speciality is méchoui du four (170 dirham/Rs1,250 per kg), which is typical of the Atlas Mountain tribes and consists of a whole goat slowly baked in a hole in the ground. It gets crowded ever since the tiny eatery has been featured on BBC, but the meat does not disappoint—it certainly melts in the mouth.

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[immoren]

Apparently I’ve following pieces in my “music” playlist in Youtube.

Cut for length

- Kotiteollisuus - Helvetistä Itään

- Star one - Intergalactic space crusaders

- Amon Amarth "Runes to my Memory" 

- Star One - High Moon

- Stratovarius - Hunting High and Low

- Star One - Amazing flight in space

- Kotiteollisuus - Minä Olen

- AMORPHIS - The Smoke

- Ensiferum - Wanderer

- Amorphis - Divinity

- Ensiferum - Lady in Black

- Dark Moor - Halloween

- Star One - The Eye of Ra

- Dark Moor - The Silver Key

- Ensiferum - LAI LAI HEI

- Nightwish - Dead Boy's Poem 

- Stratovarius - Speed of Light 

 - Nightwish - The Siren

- Amorphis - Goddess (Of The Sad Man)

- Iced Earth- coming curse

-  AMORPHIS - Silent Waters

-  AVANTASIA - Lost In Space

-  Stratovarius - Stratosphere

-  AVANTASIA - Carry Me Over (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

-  Stratovarius - Black Diamond

-  Savage Circus - Between the Devil and the Seas

- Stratovarius - Paradise

- Demons and Wizards - Fiddler on the Green

- Stratovarius - Coming Home

- Dancing Queen - Diablo

- Stratovarius - Destiny

- Timo Rautiainen Pohjoisen Taivaan Alla

- Stratovarius - Anthem Of The World

- Gustav Holst - The Planets - Mars, the Bringer of War

- Stratovarius - Hunting High And Low

- Amorphis - Drowned Maid

- Stratovarius - Infinity

- To Dream of Ur - nile

- Stratovarius - Eagleheart

- Dark Moor - Death

- Stratovarius - Learning To Fly

- Nightquest - Nightwish

- Labyrinth - Night of Dreams

- Nile - The Essential Salts

- Nightwish- The Pharaoh Sails to Orion

- Blind Guardian- Mirror Mirror

- Thrust Through the Heavens with Your Spirit!

- Poets of the Fall - Late Goodbye (Official Video)

- Billy Idol - John Wayne

- Poets of the Fall - Lift (Official Video)

- Kotiteollisuus - Kevät

- Poets of the Fall - Diamonds for Tears (Official Video)

- Amorphis - shatters within

- Poets of the Fall - Locking Up the Sun (Official Video)

- Ayreon- The Shooting Company of Captain Frans B. Cocq

- Amorphis - forever more

- Nile - Eat of the Dead

- Raining Blood - Slayer Song & Lyrics

- Murder, Murder Jekyll and Hyde

- One Small Step - Ayreon

- Nile - Even the Gods Must Die

- Serenity - Sheltered (By The Obscure)

- Nightwish - Sacrament of wilderness

- And The Druids Turn To Stone - Ayreon

- Nightwish - Walking in the air

- Dawn of A Million Souls - Ayreon

- Nightwish - Two for tragedy

- Gregorian - Lady in black

- Nightwish - Bare grace misery

- Kotiteollisuus - Tuonelan koivut

- Nightwish - Dead Boy's Poem

- Iced Earth-Dragon's Child

- Disturbed-Inside The Fire (Lyrics In Description)

- Iced Earth-Damien

- KORPIKLAANI - Keep On Galloping (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

- Pyramaze-Sleepy Hollow

- Apulanta - Vasten mun kasvojani

- Arch Enemy - I Will Live Again (With Lyrics)

- Iced Earth-The Phantom Opera Ghost

- Kotiteollisuus - Mahtisanat

- Amorphis - Grieve Stricken Heart

- Nile User~Maat~Re

- Iced Earth-Hallowed Be Thy Name

- Nile - Annihilation of the Wicked

- Persuader - Sanity Soiled

- Nile - Von Unaussprechlichen Kulten

- Amorphis - The Night Is Over

- Firewind maniac

- AMORPHIS - Silver Bride

- Final Fantasy IX - Garnet's Theme

- Poets of the Fall - Carnival of Rust (Official Video)

- Aikakone - Keltainen

- Amorphis - Tuonela

- Ensiferum - Twilight Tavern

- Amorphis:Nightfall

- VIIKATE - Viina, Terva & Hauta

- "Weird Al" Yankovic - White & Nerdy (Official Video)

- Sonata Arctica - Tallulah (Lyrics)

- "Weird" Al Yankovic - Amish Paradise

- Floor Jansen & Russell Allen - The Phantom of the Opera

- Of Doom And Death - Savage Circus

- Amorphis - Alone {High Quality} {With Lyrics}

- Devil's Spawn - Savage Circus

- Poets of the Fall - Dreaming Wide Awake (Official Video)

- Chasing The Rainbow - Savage Circus

- Eluveitie - Quoth The Raven

- Legend Of Leto II - Savage Circus

- Symphony of Science - The Poetry of Reality (An Anthem for Science)

- The Ordeal - Savage Circus

- America - The Last Unicorn (with Lyrics)

- Dark Moor - Nevermore

- Amorphis - Greed

- Dark Moor - The Fall Of Melnibone

- MGS Peace Walker OST - Heavens Divide (BEST QUALITY)

- Dark Moor - The Fall Of Melnibone

- Motörhead - Enter Sandman

- Pyramaze - Until We Fade Away

- Poets of the Fall - War (Official Video)

- Pyramaze - Legend

- Nightwish - Stargazers

- Savage Circus - Born Again by the Night

- Poets Of The Fall - Sleep

- Spice and Wolf OP 1 FULL (with lyrics)

- Amorphis - My Kantele (2010)

- Savage Circus - Beyond Reality (lyrics)

- Amorphis - Alone - Forging a Land of Thousand Lakes[Oulu]

- The Rolling Stones - Sympathy For The Devil -HQ

- Amorphis - Divinity - Forging a Land of Thousand Lakes[Oulu]

- Stratovarius - Elysium

- Amorphis - Veil of Sin

- Aikakone - Neiti Groove

- AMORPHIS - From The Heaven Of My Heart (OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO)

- AMORPHIS - Sky Is Mine (OFFICIAL LIVE)

- Ayreon - Isis and Osiris

- Sabaton - Cliffs of Gallipoli (Lyrics English & Deutsch)

- Avantasia - The Scarecrow (HD)

- "Libera Me From Hell" with subs

- WOODS OF YPRES - "You Were the Light"

- Sabaton - Angels Calling (Lyrics English & Deutsch)

- Poets of the Fall ~ The Poet and the Muse // Lyrics

- "Weird Al" Yankovic - Party In The CIA

- A Song From Her Memory

- Tarzan - Strangers Like Me (HD)

- Avantasia - What Kind Of Love

- BEING - Arrival - A part, Apart

- Iced Earth - Wolf [HQ]

- BEING - Arrival - Cosmonaut

- Karl Sanders - Of the Sleep of Ishtar

- BEING - Arrival - Perpetual Groove

- All I Ever Wanted (with Queen's Reprise)- Prince of Egypt Soundtrack

- BEING - Arrival - Story For A Muse

- NIGHTWISH - Storytime (OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO)

- BEING - The Debut Preview - Cosmonaut

- Ultimate DragonBorn Comes collaboration - Malukah MrDooves Noahlittlejohn

- BEING - The Debut Preview - Mindflay

- Finnish folk song Morsiamen itketys with translation

- BEING - Arrival - Escape

- Iced Earth - Dante's Inferno 2011 (full)

- BEING - Arrival - Sorrow

- Nightwish - Ghost Love Score (HQ + Lyrics)

- ELUVEITIE - A Rose For Epona (OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO)

- Timo Rautiainen & Trio Niskalaukaus - Surupuku

- Nightwish - Ghost River (HD)

- Pyramaze - Power Of Imagination

- Nightwish- Last Ride Of The Day

- Nylon Beat - Satasen laina

- Nightwish - Rest Calm

- Final Fantasy Meets Metal

- Nightwish - Scaretale

- Poets of the Fall - Cradled in Love (Official Video)

- Nightwish - Storytime (Lyrics) HD

- The World of the Dinosaurs - Symphony of Science

- Blind Guardian - Noldor

- Malukah - Reignite - Mass Effect/Shepard Tribute Song

- Dr. Who Meets Metal

- Sabaton - Carolus Rex SV (Lyrics Svenska & English)

- Fallout New Vegas Soundtrack - Jingle Jangle Jingle - Kay Kyser

- Sabaton - En livstid i krig (Lyrics Svenska & English)

- Blind Guardian - Time Stands Still (At The Iron Hill)

- Pyramaze The Wizard

- KORPIKLAANI - Rauta (OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO)

- Nile - User-Maat-Re (HQ)

- Sabaton - Karolinens bön ... Lyrics

- Nile - Lashed to the Slave Stick (HQ)

- Blind Guardian - Curse Of Feanor

- Malukah - Tale of the Tongues - Skyrim Cover

- Mighty Abyss by Pyramaze

- The South Gate - A Tribute To Final Fantasy IX

- Neil Finn - Song of the Lonely Mountain + lyrics (The Hobbit End Credits)

- Cortana Tribute feat. Malukah

- Spede Pasanen: Tom Dooley

- RWBY Theme: Mirror, Mirror Extended (RoosterTeeth)

- AVANTASIA - Sleepwalking (OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO)

- RWBY Theme: Red like Roses Extended (RoosterTeeth)

- Nightwish - The Escapist lyrics

- JoJo Battle Tendency OST: Propaganda

- Savage Circus - Tomorrowland [HQ] [+Lyrics]

- JoJo's Bizarre Adventure 2012 ( Avalon )

- The Hobbit - Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold (Extended Cover)

- Amorphis - Nightbird's Song (Official Video)

- Manowar - Sleipnir

- AMORPHIS - The Wanderer (OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO)

- Sabaton - Twilight Of The Thunder God (HD, Lyrics)

- RWBY Theme: This Will Be The Day Extended (Roosterteeth)

- Alestorm - Nancy the Tavern Wench

- Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann OST - Sorairo Days FULL VERSION

- Amon Amarth "As Loke Falls" (LYRIC VIDEO)

- I Burn By Jeff and Casey Lee Williams with Lyrics

- Nightwish - Ever Dream (Wacken 2013)

- RWBY - I May Fall - Lyrics

- Apulanta - Koneeseen kadonnut

- From Shadows by Jeff and Casey Lee Williams with Lyrics

- Nightwish - Ghost love Score

- Blumenkranz (:[nZk] ver) [PB★Cover]

- TUOMAS HOLOPAINEN - A Lifetime of Adventure (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

- Kill la Kill/キルラキル [Satsuki Kiryuin Theme | Kiryuu G@ KiLL]

- TUOMAS HOLOPAINEN - The Last Sled (OFFICIAL LYRIC VIDEO)

- Kill la Kill, Light your heart up - Aimee Blackshleger

- TUOMAS HOLOPAINEN - Cold Heart of the Klondike

- Apulanta - Pahempi toistaan (Official)

- Kill La Kill / Nui Harime Theme

- TUOMAS HOLOPAINEN - Go slowly now, sands of time

- Volume 2 - Time To Say Goodbye + Lyrics

- ELUVEITIE - King (OFFICIAL LYRIC VIDEO)

- The Hobbit - Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold - Part II-Clamavi De Profundis

- Holy Diver by Steve'n'Seagulls (LIVE)

- Eagles -- Hotel California Lyrics song

- Everytime We Touch by Cascada Meets Metal

- ELUVEITIE - The Call Of The Mountains (OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO)

- ★ JoJo - That Blood Destiny (Vocals, Orchestra, Choir) | JoJo

- Robin Williams - "Seize the Day" - by Melodysheep

- Poets of the Fall - Daze (Official Video)

- Amon Amarth "Deceiver of the Gods" (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

- Viikate - Ensimmäinen runo (Album Version)

- SABATON - Night Witches (OFFICIAL LYRIC VIDEO)

- Be Prepared (Disney's The Lion King) // Jonathan Young 

- 05: Caffeine - RWBY Volume 2 Soundtrack (By Jeff Williams & Casey Lee    Williams feat. Lamar Hall)

- NIGHTWISH - Élan (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

- Nightwish - SAGAN- 2015

- Maniac from Flashdance Meets Metal (featuring PelleK)

- KORPIKLAANI - Lempo (OFFICIAL LYRIC VIDEO)

- NIGHTWISH - Shudder Before The Beautiful (OFFICIAL TRACK)

- The Witcher 3 OST - Ladies of the Woods (Extended)

- Nightwish - The Islander (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

- Nightwish - My Walden

- MAD MAX: FURY ROAD SONG - ROAD RAGE By Miracle Of Sound

- NIGHTWISH - Edema Ruh [lyrics]

- WITCHER 3 CIRI SONG: Lady Of Worlds by Miracle Of Sound

- NIGHTWISH - Endless Forms Most Beautiful (OFFICIAL LYRIC VIDEO)

- Sugar Sweet Nightmare FULL SUB HQ (Bakemonogatari Opening 5) by Yui - Horie

- AMORPHIS - Sacrifice (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

- Platinum Disco FULL SUB HQ (Nisemonogatari Opening 3) by Yuka Iguchi

- The Witcher 3 OST - Lullaby of Woe (A Night to Remember song)

- Perfect Slumbers FULL SUB HQ (Nekomonogatari: Kuro Opening) by Yui  Horie

- "Blumenkranz" Kill la Kill OST【Orchestral Cover】[Mike Reed IX]

- Orange Mint FULL SUB HQ (Tsukimonogatari Opening) by Saori Hayami

- Undertale OST: 001 - Once Upon A Time

- AMORPHIS - Death Of A King (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

- Undertale OST: 046 - Spear of Justice

- NIGHTWISH - Alpenglow (OFFICIAL TRACK)

- Undertale OST: 050 - Metal Crusher

-  Amorphis - Bad Blood (LYRIC VIDEO)

-  Undertale OST: 059 - Spider Dance

-  AMORPHIS - 'Under The Red Cloud' (OFFICIAL TRACK)

-  Undertale OST: 068 - Death by Glamour

- The Witcher 3: Hearts of Stone OST-"A Gifted Man Brings Gifts Galore" Polska   wersja

- Undertale Ost: 087 - Hopes and Dreams

- KORPIKLAANI - Ämmänhauta (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

- Undertale OST: 090 - His Theme

- Delusion♡Express FULL SUB HQ (Otorimonogatari Opening) by Kana      Hanazawa

- Undertale Ost: 096 - Last Goodbye

- Amorphis - The Wind

- Undertale Ost: 098 - Battle Against a True Hero

- Amorphis - Come The Spring

- Undertale - Metal Crusher on 7 floppy drives

- Amorphis - Winter's Sleep

- Ambivalent World FULL SUB HQ (Bakemonogatari Opening 3) by Miyuki      Sawashiro

- Malukah - Priscilla's Song - The Wolven Storm - The Witcher 3 Cover

- One Punch Man FULL ENGLISH OPENING (The Hero - Jam Project) Cover by  Jonathan Young

- Mathemagics FULL SUB HQ (Owarimonogatari Opening 2) by Marina Inoue

- Red Like Roses Part 1+2 Complete

- AMORPHIS - The Four Wise Ones (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

- KORPIKLAANI - A Man With A Plan (OFFICIAL VIDEO)

- Decent Black FULL SUB HQ (Owarimonogatari Opening 1) by Kaori Mizuhashi

- JUNGLE BOOK - Bare Necessities - (Disney Rock cover by Jonathan Young)

- 01. When It Falls (feat. Casey Lee Williams) - By Jeff Williams

- The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt - Blood and Wine Soundtrack - Main Theme (Polish)

- 07. Divide (feat. Casey Lee Williams) - By Jeff Williams - (RT4C AMV)

- SKELLIGE WINDS - Witcher 3 Song by Miracle Of Sound

- Mirror Mirror - Part 1 + 2 Mix

- Poor Unfortunate Souls (Disney's Little Mermaid) - METAL COVER VERSION  Jonathan Young

- Chocolate Insomnia FULL HQ (Nekomonogatari: Shiro Opening) by Yui Horie

- Boku No Hero Academia "The Day" ENGLISH OPENING (cover by Jonathan Young)

- Die by Jeff Williams and Casey Lee Williams with Lyrics

- HELLFIRE - Metal Cover by Jonathan Young (Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame)

- JoJo's Bizarre Adventure All Openings 1-8 HD

- Kemono Friends OP "Youkoso Japari Park e"

- Demi chan wa Kataritai op Full - Original ／TrySail

- AMORPHIS - 'Her Alone' feat. Anneke van Giersbergen (OFFICIAL LIVE TRACK)

- Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid - Opening [FULL]

- SAVAGES - Disney's Pocahontas (METAL COVER) Jonathan Young & Caleb Hyles

- KOBAYASHI-SAN CHI NO MAID DRAGON - ED FULL

- The Plagues (Prince of Egypt) - Cover by Caleb Hyles and Jonathan Young

- Gabriel DropOut Opening Full / ガヴリールドロップアウト OP - Gabriel DropKick (Single)

- Song of Durin (Complete Edition) - Clamavi De Profundis

- STAND PROUD (full version) - Jojo's Bizarre Adventure ENGLISH OP 3

- Bad Luck Charm by Jeff Williams with Lyrics

- Aho Girl Opening Full「Zenryoku☆Summer!」by angela

- Arabian Nights - (Aladdin) DISNEY METAL COVER by Jonathan Young & ToxicxEternity

- KonoSuba Season 2 Op Full - TOMORROW

- Nisemonogatari OST - Kizuna (Shinobu Oshino's Theme)

- 化物語 Staple Stable

- 03: Shine - RWBY Volume 2 Soundtrack (By Jeff Williams & Casey Lee Williams)

- 07: Boop - RWBY Volume 2 Soundtrack (By Jeff Williams & Casey Lee Williams)

- 02: Die - RWBY Volume 2 Soundtrack (By Jeff Williams & Casey Lee Williams) RT4C

- "I May Fall" Lyrics - RWBY Volume 3 - Jeff Williams ft. Casey Lee Williams & Lamar Hal

[topfygad]

Budget Travel | 4 Hotels Under Rs5,000 in Morocco

A round-up of Moroccan hotels rich in both history and character, and oozing old-world charm, which fit tight budgets.

Hotels Morocco Zac O’Yeah | POSTED ON: September 17, 2019

  The classic among Moroccan hotels, Tangier’s Continental is a sight in itself with hallways and corridors that make one feel like Alice in Wonderland. Photo by: Zac O’Yeah

I wonder if there’s a name for my peculiar psychiatric condition—a pathological love for old hotels that aren’t part of impersonal global chains, but remain strictly local, personal, and rare. Actually, it’s not a bad condition to have, it just takes a bit more effort to track down the perfect hotel, but once I find it, I can usually be sure that I’m getting an unforgettable once-in-a-lifetime holiday. Some countries have a better stock of such forgotten gems and recently, as I toured Morocco, I found myself in heaven.

  Tangier

Walking with the icons

At sunrise, the Hotel Continental looks golden, like a ruminating camel perched lazily on a cliff overlooking the Bay of Tangier. I’d heard from people in the know about the late 19th-century, 70-room hotel, and found the bargain rate of 400 dirham/Rs2,900 online, and seeing its palatial grandeur in reality instantly makes travelling all the way to North Africa seem worth it.

According to a sign, the hotel was built in 1870, and prides itself on being a “hotel musée”—which I understand to mean hotel museum though my Moroccan is not so good—and it certainly looks the part. Despite the stained-glass windows that let in colourful morning light, the lobby is gloomier than the Dark Ages and filled with things one would expect in a museum: an antique telephone switchboard, a bulky radio cabinet, a battered samovar, a concierge who never smiles. It extends into a spooky antiques shop with a creepy proprietor. There are smoking rooms with upholstered benches and faux oriental embroidered cushions, and a forlorn dining hall with crystal chandeliers, dark-wood sideboards and heavy drapes, where nobody ever seems to be eating. It’s like something out of an exotic period movie—and was in fact the setting for Bernardo Bertolucci’sThe Sheltering Sky (1990), starring John Malkovich and Debra Winger as depraved American tourists.

I’m led up labyrinthine corridors to a bright, second-floor room that’s quite the opposite of the rest: thoroughly modern and, on the plus side, overlooking the sandy Tangier beach and the Strait of Gibraltar. Apparently Edgar Degas used to paint the vista from one of these rooms. Back in the day, the hotel was a mandatory stopover for anyone who was anyone visiting Africa—kings and queens; two of my favourite writers, Mark Twain (“Tangier is a foreign land if ever there was one, and the true spirit of it can never be found in any book save The Arabian Nights,” he wrote in The Innocents Abroad), and W. Somerset Maugham; singer Amy Winehouse; and architect AntoniGaudí. I wish we could have all checked into the same room at the same time. What a party!

The historic quarters with their cafés (such as Cafe Colon in Rue de la Kasbah, which due to its 1940s ambience features prominently in Bertolucci’s film) are around the corner, and Tangier’s enigmatic relationship to time becomes clear as I GPS my way through the maze to Rue IbnBatouta, where the celebrated globetrotter and original travel writer was born in 1304, and where he is buried too. After a few days of blissing out on Tangier, it feels like a major tragedy that I haven’t booked a longer stay.

Where 36, Rue Dar el-Baroud; www.hotel-tanger.com; doubles from Rs2,900.

Foodie Facts Restorante al Andalus, a seven-minute walk from the hotel in an alley off Petit Socco, is a family-owned eatery founded ages ago by Italian expatriates. It has a reputation for serving the town’s best seafood, and I sample an excellent grilled swordfish with finger chips and shish kebab (100 dirham/Rs730).

  Larache

A slice of local life from a breezy balcony

Grand Hotel España remains one of the finest relics of old Spanish colonial grandeur on the African continent and the well-kept rooms are a steal considering the fabulous location right in the centre of Larache. Photo by: Zac O’Yeah

From behind the Tangier bus station, the gareroutière, I catch a shared grand taxi as they’re called: ramshackle Mercedes vehicles that provide convenient, cheap travel from city to city (about 20 dirham/Rs145 per trip). My taxi is crammed and I’m flattened like a roti in a chapati-press, but luckily it’s not far to Larache.

Larache, a Spanish colony till 1956, is the most distinctive remnant of Spain in this part of Africa. I check into the 1930s vintage Grand Hotel España, where an airy, top-floor room costs 600 dirham/Rs4,400 and has balconies on two sides—the front one overlooking a roundabout with palms and a fountain. At night, I spy families taking in the cool air and children playing until late, while people watch football and cheer in the lively cafés; it’s a perfect perch for a voyeur.

The breakfast in the cute dining hall is sumptuous. A merry waiter covers my table with a petit déjeuner that includes Moroccan flatbread, a spicy omelette, grilled cheese sandwiches, sausage, olives, fruit salad, juice, and excellent Moroccan milky coffee.

A charming thing about Larache is that there are few other tourists, so no “tourist prices” and all that. I stroll about the neat, blue-painted alleys to a flea market and browse: everything is for sale, from vacuum-cleaners and spring mattresses to straw hats, guitar amplifiers and tagine cooking pots. Afterwards, I chill with a soda pop in Café Jean Genet, which is named after the French author-slash-jailbird immortalised in David Bowie’s “The Jean Genie,” who lies buried in the Spanish cemetery outside town. It is appropriately a favourite haunt of young hashish smokers.

Where 6 Avenue Hassan II, Plaza de España; phone +212 5399-13195; doubles from Rs4,400.

Foodie Facts Larache being a pleasant fishing harbour, there’s a superb seafood canteen, Puerta del Sol, with tables set in an alley right behind my hotel. A mixed platter with the odds and ends of the ocean—squid, prawns, a tuna steak, fried flatfish, deep-fried cuttlefish and a small shark complete with teeth and eyes—served with sides of meaty lamb sausages, finger chips, seafood paella, olives and a tasty bean stew, costs 130 dirham/Rs950.

  Casablanca

A window into Morocco’s French quarters

Tangier’s Continental straddles a promontory on the edge of the city’s old medina and has grand views across the sea to Spain and Gibraltar. Photo by: Zac O’Yeah

In Casablanca, the thing to do is to stay in the art deco quarters built by the French around a hundred years ago, which remain remarkably well-preserved. I’ve tracked down Hôtel Guynemer as its facade is mentioned as one of the sights in town, and booked a 450 dirham/Rs3,350 room via email. It seems like a good deal.

Guynemer opened its doors in 1909, and the lobby doesn’t show signs of having been renovated ever since art deco went out of fashion. The concierge tells me rooms are 650 dirham.

“But in the email you wrote 450.”

“We have no such rooms. There is a room for 360 but it is dirty.” It sounds like a typical tourist scam.

Checking the rooms, it turns out the more expensive one is completely modern and unappealing. The cheap room oozes charm, but is shabby, and the bathroom bulb is broken so it’s impossible to see where to pee. I ask the concierge if he has another cheapie. He grumpily gives me a key to what turns out to be a neat chamber with a high ceiling, kitschy art and the largest bathroom I’ve seen in Morocco—as big as the room itself.

And I have the heart of the city right outside my doorstep. Here, French architects were given free reign and so they tried to create a paradisiacal version of France: a neo-Moorish dream fantasy of wide, endless palm-lined boulevards dotted with charming small eateries, sidewalk cafés and smoke-filled bars.

Where 2, Rue Mohammed Belloul; guynemerhotel.net; doubles from Rs3,350.

Foodie Facts Trotting past the slightly dilapidated Marché Centrale, I contemplate hitting the fishmongers’ hall to gobble up basketfuls of fresh oysters, but decide to instead save my appetite for Taverne du Dauphin, the well-known 1958 seafood bar (115, Boulevard Felix Houphouet). It turns out to be the type of quiet joint one can easily love. A few other leisurely customers sit at the counter and the attentive bartender immediately serves me a half-bottle of chilled Moroccan white wine and a plate of spiced olives. Soon enough my food arrives, piquant pil-pil mussels, deep-fried smelt (which tastes a bit like Indian Bombay duck), and a lean umbrina fillet with pan-seared veggies. Since the fishing port is just across the road, everything feels eminently fresh and worth the 315 dirham/Rs2,300 (inclusive of the wine and a couple of local beers).

  Marrakech

That hotel which feels like home

It is very crucial to book oneself into a quiet back alley hotel such as Hotel Le Gallia in Marrakech (top) where one can recover one’s senses between bouts of sightseeing and shopoholism; Colourful Marrakech is Morocco’s main tourist attraction with madness levels to match, like at Jemaa el-Fna (bottom), the big square in old town, a day-and-night spectacle of street food, souvenirs, and entertainers who tell stories or play music. Photo courtesy: Hotel Le Gallia (interior), Photo by: Pavliha/E+/Getty Images (market)

After Casablanca, I head into what might be termed Moroccan Morocco, deep into the deserts at the foot of the Atlas Mountains, where the railroad ends, in Marrakech. While waiting for the train, I buy a packed sandwich as the trains don’t have restaurant cars, just the good ol’ snack trolley. The compartments are crammed with travellers but I find myself a seat. My chatty co-passengers from Ohio, Jack and Jill, are on a tour of Africa and tell me that they have a world map on their wall (at home in the U.S.) into which they put little pins for every place they visit. They’re trying to pin down Morocco now.

From Marrakech station it’s a short taxi ride to the old town and—typically for this touristy city—the driver demands five times the meter rate to drop me near the main square, Jemaa el-Fna, known for its flamboyant show of street food and busking musicians. Hotels in this area are rather tricky to find, as they are hidden deep inside winding alleys. Eventually I discover the extremely unassuming lane off the main pedestrian Rue Bab Agnaou that leads to mine. Once I walk down Rue de la Recette, it turns out to be an oasis of calm compared to the madness of Jemaa el-Fna.

Although there are luxury hotels aplenty, savvy visitors check into riads, traditional palatial homes built to shut out the hustle-bustle with rooms facing inner courtyards. Most riads have been bought by moneyed foreigners, who restore them to their former glory and decorate them with Berber textiles, ethnic mosaics and brassware—plus all the mod-cons and then some. However, riads tend to be over-the-top pricey (Rs40,000 per night is not unusual for a “budget” stay) so I select something in between a full-blown riad and a pension, the 1929-built Hotel Le Gallia. This family-owned guest house has some 20 rooms along a maze of corridors overlooking the greenery of its two courtyards with quaint fountains. My spacious ochre-painted room (470 dirham/Rs3,500) is like a cottage on the roof with views over the neighbourhood, perhaps my finest stay in all of Morocco. There’s no breakfast included, but on the other hand Jemaa el-Fna is just around the corner with cafés for people-watching—Café de France perhaps being the best pick with its terraces and balconies and variety of combo breakfasts for 40-55 dirham (from Rs300 and up). Try the Moroccan options, such as a pancake called m’semen, spicy omelettes, and great coffee.

Within walking distance there are as many souvenirs to buy as one’s bulkiest luggage can handle. Stop for a drink at the most luxurious hotel of Morocco, La Mamounia, which was built around the same time as Le Gallia and which has hosted everybody from Edith Piaf to John Lennon and Jennifer Aniston (Avenue Bab Jdid; www.mamounia.com). Not to mention Winston Churchill, who was kown to sit in the garden and paint when he wasn’t drinking at the bar. I avoid the “Sir Winston cocktail” (rather expensive at 320 dirhams/Rs2,400, nearly the cost of my room in town), and instead go for a glass of the brilliant house red wine (190 dirham/Rs1,400).

Where 30, Rue de la Recette; www.hotellegallia.com; doubles from Rs3,500.

Foodie Facts For dinner, hardcore carnivores would do well to try Chez LamineHadj Mustapha in the alley north of Jemaa el-Fna. Their speciality is méchoui du four (170 dirham/Rs1,250 per kg), which is typical of the Atlas Mountain tribes and consists of a whole goat slowly baked in a hole in the ground. It gets crowded ever since the tiny eatery has been featured on BBC, but the meat does not disappoint—it certainly melts in the mouth.

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source http://cheaprtravels.com/budget-travel-4-hotels-under-rs5000-in-morocco/

[topfygad]

Budget Travel | 4 Hotels Under Rs5,000 in Morocco

A round-up of Moroccan hotels rich in both history and character, and oozing old-world charm, which fit tight budgets.

Hotels Morocco Zac O’Yeah | POSTED ON: September 17, 2019

  The classic among Moroccan hotels, Tangier’s Continental is a sight in itself with hallways and corridors that make one feel like Alice in Wonderland. Photo by: Zac O’Yeah

I wonder if there’s a name for my peculiar psychiatric condition—a pathological love for old hotels that aren’t part of impersonal global chains, but remain strictly local, personal, and rare. Actually, it’s not a bad condition to have, it just takes a bit more effort to track down the perfect hotel, but once I find it, I can usually be sure that I’m getting an unforgettable once-in-a-lifetime holiday. Some countries have a better stock of such forgotten gems and recently, as I toured Morocco, I found myself in heaven.

  Tangier

Walking with the icons

At sunrise, the Hotel Continental looks golden, like a ruminating camel perched lazily on a cliff overlooking the Bay of Tangier. I’d heard from people in the know about the late 19th-century, 70-room hotel, and found the bargain rate of 400 dirham/Rs2,900 online, and seeing its palatial grandeur in reality instantly makes travelling all the way to North Africa seem worth it.

According to a sign, the hotel was built in 1870, and prides itself on being a “hotel musée”—which I understand to mean hotel museum though my Moroccan is not so good—and it certainly looks the part. Despite the stained-glass windows that let in colourful morning light, the lobby is gloomier than the Dark Ages and filled with things one would expect in a museum: an antique telephone switchboard, a bulky radio cabinet, a battered samovar, a concierge who never smiles. It extends into a spooky antiques shop with a creepy proprietor. There are smoking rooms with upholstered benches and faux oriental embroidered cushions, and a forlorn dining hall with crystal chandeliers, dark-wood sideboards and heavy drapes, where nobody ever seems to be eating. It’s like something out of an exotic period movie—and was in fact the setting for Bernardo Bertolucci’sThe Sheltering Sky (1990), starring John Malkovich and Debra Winger as depraved American tourists.

I’m led up labyrinthine corridors to a bright, second-floor room that’s quite the opposite of the rest: thoroughly modern and, on the plus side, overlooking the sandy Tangier beach and the Strait of Gibraltar. Apparently Edgar Degas used to paint the vista from one of these rooms. Back in the day, the hotel was a mandatory stopover for anyone who was anyone visiting Africa—kings and queens; two of my favourite writers, Mark Twain (“Tangier is a foreign land if ever there was one, and the true spirit of it can never be found in any book save The Arabian Nights,” he wrote in The Innocents Abroad), and W. Somerset Maugham; singer Amy Winehouse; and architect AntoniGaudí. I wish we could have all checked into the same room at the same time. What a party!

The historic quarters with their cafés (such as Cafe Colon in Rue de la Kasbah, which due to its 1940s ambience features prominently in Bertolucci’s film) are around the corner, and Tangier’s enigmatic relationship to time becomes clear as I GPS my way through the maze to Rue IbnBatouta, where the celebrated globetrotter and original travel writer was born in 1304, and where he is buried too. After a few days of blissing out on Tangier, it feels like a major tragedy that I haven’t booked a longer stay.

Where 36, Rue Dar el-Baroud; www.hotel-tanger.com; doubles from Rs2,900.

Foodie Facts Restorante al Andalus, a seven-minute walk from the hotel in an alley off Petit Socco, is a family-owned eatery founded ages ago by Italian expatriates. It has a reputation for serving the town’s best seafood, and I sample an excellent grilled swordfish with finger chips and shish kebab (100 dirham/Rs730).

  Larache

A slice of local life from a breezy balcony

Grand Hotel España remains one of the finest relics of old Spanish colonial grandeur on the African continent and the well-kept rooms are a steal considering the fabulous location right in the centre of Larache. Photo by: Zac O’Yeah

From behind the Tangier bus station, the gareroutière, I catch a shared grand taxi as they’re called: ramshackle Mercedes vehicles that provide convenient, cheap travel from city to city (about 20 dirham/Rs145 per trip). My taxi is crammed and I’m flattened like a roti in a chapati-press, but luckily it’s not far to Larache.

Larache, a Spanish colony till 1956, is the most distinctive remnant of Spain in this part of Africa. I check into the 1930s vintage Grand Hotel España, where an airy, top-floor room costs 600 dirham/Rs4,400 and has balconies on two sides—the front one overlooking a roundabout with palms and a fountain. At night, I spy families taking in the cool air and children playing until late, while people watch football and cheer in the lively cafés; it’s a perfect perch for a voyeur.

The breakfast in the cute dining hall is sumptuous. A merry waiter covers my table with a petit déjeuner that includes Moroccan flatbread, a spicy omelette, grilled cheese sandwiches, sausage, olives, fruit salad, juice, and excellent Moroccan milky coffee.

A charming thing about Larache is that there are few other tourists, so no “tourist prices” and all that. I stroll about the neat, blue-painted alleys to a flea market and browse: everything is for sale, from vacuum-cleaners and spring mattresses to straw hats, guitar amplifiers and tagine cooking pots. Afterwards, I chill with a soda pop in Café Jean Genet, which is named after the French author-slash-jailbird immortalised in David Bowie’s “The Jean Genie,” who lies buried in the Spanish cemetery outside town. It is appropriately a favourite haunt of young hashish smokers.

Where 6 Avenue Hassan II, Plaza de España; phone +212 5399-13195; doubles from Rs4,400.

Foodie Facts Larache being a pleasant fishing harbour, there’s a superb seafood canteen, Puerta del Sol, with tables set in an alley right behind my hotel. A mixed platter with the odds and ends of the ocean—squid, prawns, a tuna steak, fried flatfish, deep-fried cuttlefish and a small shark complete with teeth and eyes—served with sides of meaty lamb sausages, finger chips, seafood paella, olives and a tasty bean stew, costs 130 dirham/Rs950.

  Casablanca

A window into Morocco’s French quarters

Tangier’s Continental straddles a promontory on the edge of the city’s old medina and has grand views across the sea to Spain and Gibraltar. Photo by: Zac O’Yeah

In Casablanca, the thing to do is to stay in the art deco quarters built by the French around a hundred years ago, which remain remarkably well-preserved. I’ve tracked down Hôtel Guynemer as its facade is mentioned as one of the sights in town, and booked a 450 dirham/Rs3,350 room via email. It seems like a good deal.

Guynemer opened its doors in 1909, and the lobby doesn’t show signs of having been renovated ever since art deco went out of fashion. The concierge tells me rooms are 650 dirham.

“But in the email you wrote 450.”

“We have no such rooms. There is a room for 360 but it is dirty.” It sounds like a typical tourist scam.

Checking the rooms, it turns out the more expensive one is completely modern and unappealing. The cheap room oozes charm, but is shabby, and the bathroom bulb is broken so it’s impossible to see where to pee. I ask the concierge if he has another cheapie. He grumpily gives me a key to what turns out to be a neat chamber with a high ceiling, kitschy art and the largest bathroom I’ve seen in Morocco—as big as the room itself.

And I have the heart of the city right outside my doorstep. Here, French architects were given free reign and so they tried to create a paradisiacal version of France: a neo-Moorish dream fantasy of wide, endless palm-lined boulevards dotted with charming small eateries, sidewalk cafés and smoke-filled bars.

Where 2, Rue Mohammed Belloul; guynemerhotel.net; doubles from Rs3,350.

Foodie Facts Trotting past the slightly dilapidated Marché Centrale, I contemplate hitting the fishmongers’ hall to gobble up basketfuls of fresh oysters, but decide to instead save my appetite for Taverne du Dauphin, the well-known 1958 seafood bar (115, Boulevard Felix Houphouet). It turns out to be the type of quiet joint one can easily love. A few other leisurely customers sit at the counter and the attentive bartender immediately serves me a half-bottle of chilled Moroccan white wine and a plate of spiced olives. Soon enough my food arrives, piquant pil-pil mussels, deep-fried smelt (which tastes a bit like Indian Bombay duck), and a lean umbrina fillet with pan-seared veggies. Since the fishing port is just across the road, everything feels eminently fresh and worth the 315 dirham/Rs2,300 (inclusive of the wine and a couple of local beers).

  Marrakech

That hotel which feels like home

It is very crucial to book oneself into a quiet back alley hotel such as Hotel Le Gallia in Marrakech (top) where one can recover one’s senses between bouts of sightseeing and shopoholism; Colourful Marrakech is Morocco’s main tourist attraction with madness levels to match, like at Jemaa el-Fna (bottom), the big square in old town, a day-and-night spectacle of street food, souvenirs, and entertainers who tell stories or play music. Photo courtesy: Hotel Le Gallia (interior), Photo by: Pavliha/E+/Getty Images (market)

After Casablanca, I head into what might be termed Moroccan Morocco, deep into the deserts at the foot of the Atlas Mountains, where the railroad ends, in Marrakech. While waiting for the train, I buy a packed sandwich as the trains don’t have restaurant cars, just the good ol’ snack trolley. The compartments are crammed with travellers but I find myself a seat. My chatty co-passengers from Ohio, Jack and Jill, are on a tour of Africa and tell me that they have a world map on their wall (at home in the U.S.) into which they put little pins for every place they visit. They’re trying to pin down Morocco now.

From Marrakech station it’s a short taxi ride to the old town and—typically for this touristy city—the driver demands five times the meter rate to drop me near the main square, Jemaa el-Fna, known for its flamboyant show of street food and busking musicians. Hotels in this area are rather tricky to find, as they are hidden deep inside winding alleys. Eventually I discover the extremely unassuming lane off the main pedestrian Rue Bab Agnaou that leads to mine. Once I walk down Rue de la Recette, it turns out to be an oasis of calm compared to the madness of Jemaa el-Fna.

Although there are luxury hotels aplenty, savvy visitors check into riads, traditional palatial homes built to shut out the hustle-bustle with rooms facing inner courtyards. Most riads have been bought by moneyed foreigners, who restore them to their former glory and decorate them with Berber textiles, ethnic mosaics and brassware—plus all the mod-cons and then some. However, riads tend to be over-the-top pricey (Rs40,000 per night is not unusual for a “budget” stay) so I select something in between a full-blown riad and a pension, the 1929-built Hotel Le Gallia. This family-owned guest house has some 20 rooms along a maze of corridors overlooking the greenery of its two courtyards with quaint fountains. My spacious ochre-painted room (470 dirham/Rs3,500) is like a cottage on the roof with views over the neighbourhood, perhaps my finest stay in all of Morocco. There’s no breakfast included, but on the other hand Jemaa el-Fna is just around the corner with cafés for people-watching—Café de France perhaps being the best pick with its terraces and balconies and variety of combo breakfasts for 40-55 dirham (from Rs300 and up). Try the Moroccan options, such as a pancake called m’semen, spicy omelettes, and great coffee.

Within walking distance there are as many souvenirs to buy as one’s bulkiest luggage can handle. Stop for a drink at the most luxurious hotel of Morocco, La Mamounia, which was built around the same time as Le Gallia and which has hosted everybody from Edith Piaf to John Lennon and Jennifer Aniston (Avenue Bab Jdid; www.mamounia.com). Not to mention Winston Churchill, who was kown to sit in the garden and paint when he wasn’t drinking at the bar. I avoid the “Sir Winston cocktail” (rather expensive at 320 dirhams/Rs2,400, nearly the cost of my room in town), and instead go for a glass of the brilliant house red wine (190 dirham/Rs1,400).

Where 30, Rue de la Recette; www.hotellegallia.com; doubles from Rs3,500.

Foodie Facts For dinner, hardcore carnivores would do well to try Chez LamineHadj Mustapha in the alley north of Jemaa el-Fna. Their speciality is méchoui du four (170 dirham/Rs1,250 per kg), which is typical of the Atlas Mountain tribes and consists of a whole goat slowly baked in a hole in the ground. It gets crowded ever since the tiny eatery has been featured on BBC, but the meat does not disappoint—it certainly melts in the mouth.

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