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too-scared-to-do-this · 3 years

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Insufferable

Chapter two - A king’s duty is a king’s duty

Sander’s sides fanfiction - ‘Off the Devil’s head’ spin-off (can be read as a stand-alone)

Wordcount: 1928

Ship: intrulogical

TW: cursing - a lot of cursing (still Remus, lovlies, get used to it), confusion, cute bickering (I think...?), forests at night, very obvious autistic tics (based on my own, so I know they are real and how they work, in case you’re not sure ^^ I wouldn’t write something that I haven’t checked at least twice with someone who has, or deals with or is deeply interested in this stuff). And I think that’s all. If anything pops up, do let me know :) <3

Summary of the whole story: This might have not been the brightest idea - steeling from a cart right in the fucking smack-dab-middle of the Square. But Remus never claimed his ideas were bright. Never said his words and actions were appropriate either. So how in all off goddamned hell did he find himself sprawled out on a giant comfortable throne instead of a cold and dark (and very drippy) prison cell - with guards actually guarding his safety instead of assuring his imprisonment - is completely beyond him.

Link to AO3 for those who prefer reading there ^^

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Chapter two - A king’s duty is a king’s duty

There’s not a lot of things Logan dislikes. There’s a total of fifteen so far. But disruption of order, change and tall grass is definitely in the top ten. And wouldn’t you look at that?

Green-haired hurricanes are tearing threw his peaceful kingdom, disrupting peace - thus creating an unnecessary change. Which caused his sleepless state, which lead him down a path where he has to hop from foot to foot like a dear, to eliminate any unnecessary contact with grass.

And the fact that all these things alone cause unnecessary stress, let alone combined, just makes it all worse. His movements are more jagged then usual, more frantic. Gestures all over the place in unorganized manors. And his eyebrows are stuck in a constant ‘thinking scowl’ as his advisors call it.

To any other person, his behavior would seem truly strange - Logan can’t say he doesn’t feel a little embarrassed by it, even now that he’s alone. But there are some things that just can’t be helped.

Besides, all of his kingdom know that their king is a ‘little weird’.

Since Logan first sat on the throne - at the mere age of thirteen - everybody’s been in love with their ruler. It sounds a little odd, that they let a thirteen-year-old kid on the throne, but Logan’s never really been a kid. Since when he can remember he read books far too difficult for the usual kid his age, listened in on conversations he probably had no business listening to, let alone understanding. Sat by his father’s side, while he made life-concerning decisions. Watched his mother as she took care of every problem with caution and care not everybody could offer. Although Logan never got around to fully understanding that care, he learned to act the same way. Same words, same gestures. Nobody was worried when the crown got passed down to him. All the people in the kingdom knew they were in good hands.

Logan’s very first mission was learning the name of every single person in town. It wasn’t an easy task, but it wasn’t as hard as someone would expect, since a surprisingly big amount of people shared the same name. And Logan had a really good memory when it came to association. A face to a name. A shape to a math formula. The smell, color, density and overall look to a chemical. And of course, the exact numeric measurement of a star’s whereabouts.

But there was no way of ‘associating’ his way out of this. He had no clue of the density, the weight, the pace, the name, nor the whereabouts of this mysterious disrupter of peace. All he knew was, that his hair was unnaturally green and he looked way too skinny for a wealthy towns-man - which just underlined the reason why he was steeling.

Oh, and let’s not forget he wanted to kiss Logan. Right there on the Square, apparently.

The young king scratched his arm, absentmindedly, trying not to think too much about it. Not that that’s helping. Questions keep popping up, tripping up his sane thought process.

It’s not like Logan liked the idea of the stranger kissing him. He didn’t like to be touched, let alone landing his lips to someone else. But the thoughts didn’t leave him alone.

Maybe that’s why he was here, stepping over unnecessarily high strands of grass in the middle of the night. He might not like the greenery touching him, and the jutting out branches and leaves of trees and bushes cause him immense panic (and make him scratch his exposed body parts like crazy), but he actually likes the forest. It is really calming (for the most part, anyways).

He hoped that this almost-calming surrounding would help him clear his head. But it just seemed to stress him out even more.

The thoughts kept on swiveling in his head - swirling and twirling, not letting the unknown thief out of their claw-clad grasp.

Logan needed to find out the thief’s name. He knows everybody’s name. And if this thief stays close to town, he’s considered a citizen. He needs to learn his name.

Not far from the obsessing king, Remus was lounging out in the hammock he hung outside Matilde’s old run-down cottage. One leg swung over the edge, he swayed from side to side, twisting the silver ring on his slender finger.

Bored out of his mind.

There wasn’t many days, when Remus’s screwed-up brain didn’t come up with things to entertain him; but some days even that head needed some rest, it seemed. Apparently today was one of those days.

Not a single fun thought. Even the inner monologue he never seemed to be able to end, somehow bored him to death. The only thing peeking even the slightest of interest in him, was the constant image of those scarily-blue eyes the king-dude possessed.

Seriously. In all his life, he has never once seen such ocean-blue eyes. Dark and deep, holding many a secret. It made Remus desperate to know each and every single one.

But that was not happening. No matter how much the eyes mesmerized him. How much he couldn’t get them out of his head. (Agh, Jesus fucking Christ those eyes…) There was just no way he could go back to that town.

The king has let him go once (he chalked it up to his good looks, charm and smooth words) and the second time is as likely as Matilde coming back from wherever she fled to.

So here he was. Bored as all hell.

He sighed heavily, wondering what kingdom was next on his agenda tomorrow. When suddenly he heard a scrunch. Then another. And another. This was no squirrel. Remus sat up immediately, eyes darting along the dark forest.

It was so late. What the hell would anybody be doing up at this hour of the night?

He darted out of the hammock - almost falling face first when his foot got caught in the fabric - hiding in the near-by bushes. Thank the lords that he didn’t forget to turn the fucking lights off again.

The scrunching got louder by the second, and Remus crouched lower.

Low muttering drafted into his ears. “…nice of you good sir, but I’ll have to decline. I am not sure that would be appropriate considering we just met…” A dark figure, drafted in shadow came into view. “And besides, you haven’t even introduced yourself. I know the name of every citizen in this kingdom. For the sake of consistency, I would also like to find out yours…” Jesus Christ, who were they talking to? And what were they doing?!

One leg up in the air, like soldiers marching, then quickly stamped down, hopping to the other. Weird movements all over the place, not even in a straight line, like a sane person. Was this person drunk? They looked like a fucking goat, jumping from one small jutting out pebble on the mountain-side to the other.

The site alone would make Remus want to piss himself, but together with the inconsistent murmuring? He couldn’t hold back the snort.

The figure immediately froze in place. All movement and words falling into still silence. “Who’s there?” They called out cautiously.

Remus bit his tugging lip hard. Fuck.

Well, there was no backtracking now. Besides, it’s not like he was scared. It was more likely he’d scare the crazy-pants over there. So slowly, he razed from his hiding spot with hands in the air and a huge grin on his face. “What are you doing dude? You look like a fucking crazy person.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” came the person’s answer. Voice laced with nerves.

“Just a random dude in a forest.” Rem shrugged.

“That’s not a very satisfying answer.”

Roman bit back a laugh. Seriously, what the hell? “Don’t worry I won’t hurt you.” he snickered. Then this thought blinked into his head, and as you know, thought’s bring words. Stupid, embarrassing and unnecessary words. “Unless you want me to.” he winked seductively. Then realized the person probably couldn’t even see his face, let alone the wink he just threw at them. Ah well, at least it saved him some embarrassment, when his tongue betrayed him.

Swear to god, the person ‘Eep’-ed at this. He made this strangled sound that sounded like a nervous whine mixed with surprise cut in half and that just made Remus want to laugh even more. “That’s really unnecessary, thank you.” And they’re still being polite! How even…?

Rem couldn’t help it at this point. It was too much. He burst out cackling like to crazy idiot he is. Probably scaring the poor person to death. (But then again, the ‘poor person’ did come wondering into a forest in the middle of the night, muttering to themselves and jumping around like an idiot.)

“Am… You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh that’s right…“ Rem’s forhead creased in thought. “…what was the question again?”

“Who are you.”

“I’m Remus.”

If Logan could allow himself to curse, he would. But he couldn’t so instead he just gave a long exasperate sigh. “And who might that be?”

The stranger stepped closer, allowing the fleeting moon-light to reach his features and gave a big bow. Hand gesture and all. “Me, obviously.” No matter how much he disliked to admit it, Remus was every bit as dramatic as his brother. If not more…

The king’s eyes lit up with recognition (not that Rem could see). Well, guess his duty’s done then - the thief’s name is Remus. Huh…Very interesting.

“Well, now that you know my name, it’d be nice to get yours, pretty.” Rem grinned, daring to get a few more steps in. Bringing him closer to the still standing-frozen person.

From here he could finally see more of them. Well, him. Because apparently the smooth deep voice he was conversing with was the royal-head himself.

And his royal head slanted to the left slightly, eyebrows drawing together. “Why should I give my name to unknown man in the forest?”

“Why should I give my name to some random bloke, then?”

“Because I asked you to?”

Remus wondered what this dude’s problem was. Logan wondered why even wanted to get out of the safety of his chamber in the first place.

“Alright then, weirdo, tell me one good reason why I should answer and you shouldn’t.” Rem crossed his arms over his chest. Yes, he was aware he was talking to the king. But that doesn’t mean he had to play nice.

Rem treats everybody the same way, because that’s how it should be. (Maybe that’s what landed his ass behind bars twice already…)

Logan jutted out his chin. He could use the ‘King-card’ - as his advisor calls it. Could easily force the thief to answer without any objections (that is if he abbeys rules; which he should.) But honestly, Logan felt like doing neither. It was late, and he was supposed to stop obsessing about this whole thing. Which he did. The thief’s name was Remus.

So, as gracefully as a king can, he shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

“Well, shit. Then you ain’t getting my name, darling.”

The royal couldn’t decide whether the thief was that simple-minded or just easily distracted. “You’ve already said your name.”

Our beloved idiot’s expression froze, grin falling. “Ah, fuck.” his shoulders did the same. (In a very overdramatic - and admittedly, impressively flexible - way)

Well, if he wasn’t screwed before, now he certainly was.

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Jesus Christ, I’ve never cursed more in my life and I hate it so much! I don’t curse in real life, not even while texting with friends (I use shit, hell and damn, but that’s about it) and this is killing me on a whole other level! But this is Remus, and I feel like a good Remus requires a hella lot of curses.

So here we are. Me actually cursing more then my brain can accept it. But at least I get to project on Logan, right? I love autistic Logan, too damn much. He’s too precious. And the greenery thing? Believe me, my mum constantly makes fun of it XD But I don’t mind, I know I look ridiculous.

Anyways! I hope you liked this chap! ^^ I still have no idea where the hell I’m going with this, but I guess we’ll see where we end up.

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winchestermendesgirl · 4 years

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Supernatural’s Legacy: The Trauma of Silence

Understanding the unique grief of Supernatural fans, and the power of stories to liberate and to punish. [Warning: spoilers for season fifteen of Supernatural]

(By Deirdre-t on Buzzfeed)

In the wake of Supernatural’s controversially underwhelming finale last Thursday, many fans are left adrift, angry, and deeply hurt. They are left grappling with an ending that blindsided them, not only leaving the traumatic death of a canonically queer lead emotionally unresolved but going so far as to scrub the character and all evidence of the decade-built queer romantic plot from the finale, mere episodes after a celebrated and victorious on-screen love confession between Castiel and Dean Winchester.

They were given a shell of a finale that saw all suggestion of queerness removed, all sense of heart and chosen family eliminated. Even the relationship between Sam and Eileen, too deeply tied to the themes of the queer love story, was dropped, dealing the added blow of abandoning a disabled character in favor of a random, unidentified partner for Sam.

Fans are, to put it simply, devastated.

And through all of their reactions, as people are processing their disappointment, grief, and rug-pulling confusion, one accusation stings so very clearly and pointedly for queer fans:

You’re just mad because you didn’t get your ship.

No.

The legacy of Supernatural and its finale’s impact goes so much deeper than fans of Dean and Castiel’s pairing not getting their way. This isn’t about a ship.

This is about stories, and the intricate ways in which they become part of us and our world– the ways our lives and struggles are reflected, subverted, and reinforced.

This is about a story and characters that people deeply connected with, a story that people let into their hearts and souls, devoted their time and love to because they saw themselves in it and had faith that they might be worth something to it in return. They had faith that once, just once, they would get what they deserve in this world, that they would see themselves treated with dignity, respect, and love. They had faith that the story being told would be finished, that the emotional catharsis and resolution they had waited fifteen years for– the resolution that so many have been denied in their own lives– would be granted. It was not.

And not only did Supernatural deny this resolution, it actively regressed every moment of growth that led to it. It spat in the face of its own themes: found family, choice, unconquerable love, self-determination and acceptance, freedom from the seemingly insurmountable obstacles that seek to control and suppress us. Themes that people connected with because they are real to them. Themes whose treatment impacts them. Whose reflections on their lives are tangible.

Whether it was the writers or the suits, creatives or executives ultimately responsible, Supernatural gutted this journey and took characters who were stand-ins for vulnerable people and denied them their truth and closure. They set up clear, beautiful, meaningful endings– I would go so far to say the narrative promised them– and they burned it all down. Unapologetically, cruelly, and yes, homophobically.

This affects people’s lives. This is real.

The treatment of Castiel, Dean, and their love story, and the ultimate messages of their endings, are unconscionable.

Castiel is a stand-in for viewers suffering from depression, PTSD, self-worth issues, isolation, alienation. His story is about breaking free from abusive and controlling circumstances and building a family who loves you and chooses you for who you are, and learning to believe in that love. His arc is about feeling unloved and unworthy, feeling like no one around you could possibly want you for who you are and sacrificing your own wants and needs to earn the small bit of space you dare to take up. Believing this all your life and slowly learning that it isn’t true. Learning that you are wanted, that you have worth, inherently, just by being you.

Castiel’s story built to a point where he specifically needed to hear this from Dean. From the one person who he chose, whose love was quite literally the foundational starting point of his journey to autonomy and self-acceptance. The narrative demanded this in order for Castiel to finally believe in and live his whole truth, in order to reach the end of his arc. It set up a simple need: someone who has never understood the love they have been given, the love they deserve, must be told that they have it and deserve it.

Instead, not only was this journey to accepted, reciprocated love and ultimate self-actualization left unfinished, its ending point on screen was a premature and self-sacrificial death. This is Supernatural, so I am not talking about death in the sense that it is innately bad, because more often than not in the show it is transformative, transcendent. I am talking about the death of his character in the sense that he truly and permanently is not allowed to experience another moment of growth. That he is punished by the story for expressing his truth, that his journey toward internal and external love and worth ultimately leads to him giving himself and that love up, and this is never meaningfully subverted.

Castiel dies by finally letting himself speak his truth– by allowing a moment of actualization that is never rewarded with experiencing the thing he has finally let himself admit he wants. That is never rewarded with actually experiencing the acceptance, love, and reciprocal choice that we have spent over a decade waiting for with him. Castiel, our stand-in character for overcoming depression, alienation, and self-hatred, confesses that he is in love with a man and is so filled with the happiness of this love, so fully actualized in his identity– his love, his queerness, his acceptance of self– that it kills him.

His depression personified consumes him in the vulnerability of his happiness, and he is never heard from in a meaningful way again. His journey is utterly unacknowledged emotionally by the family who he was journeying to, by the man whose love he died for. His intrinsically queer story ends with that queerness literally killing him. Because taking this power for yourself, taking control of your life and claiming love as your own, must be punished.

This could all have had meaning. It was supposed to. This was set up to be subverted, the dark before the dawn, with Cas’s actualization honored by a confirmation of reciprocal love (be it romantic, familial, platonic, whatever, his arc is utterly unfinished without this) and a peaceful eternity spent as a fully realized soul. The consumption of the shadow subverted by integration with it, by wholeness and love consuming it in return. Instead, he is left off screen, given an offhand mention of an unexplored move to heaven, and is never shown to experience any sort of love or reciprocity from the family he built or the man he loves again. The message, in the end, is clear, no matter what the original intention was. Speak your truth, and it will silence you. Live your truth, and it will punish you.

Dean, too, is silenced and buried by his ending. Like Cas, Dean’s character is a stand-in for people suffering from trauma and abuse, for people who have had their personhood diminished and sacrificed by their families and circumstances, for those who have been harmed and pushed aside by the very people in their lives who are supposed to love and protect them. Dean’s story is about learning to overcome the limitations placed on you by others’ expectations, learning to value your own wants, needs, and dreams when you’ve been told your whole life they don’t matter. It’s about letting go of the toxicity that a cruel world will imprint upon your soul– distilling yourself and your truth from the darkness that corrupts you when you’ve experienced the world and all of its ugliness, when you have had insurmountable pain inflicted on you and have dealt that pain back in return.

His story is about learning that you can love and be loved, and that this love does not have to come at the expense of your autonomy or identity. It’s about accepting that you are not your worst moments, you are not your flaws; that there is someone within you who is worthy of forgiveness and life, who is inherently good.

Dean’s arc was built to a point where speaking his truth and choosing to live it were integral to its resolution. And this truth could only be one thing, the narrative demanded one specific ending that would do this for him. This truth was that he loved Castiel, that he wanted to be with him. This truth fundamentally symbolized Dean finally taking control of his life and choosing the one person who had always chosen him in return, whose love reflected and rewarded every aspect of Dean’s growth and journey to selfhood.

Speaking this truth to Castiel, to the person who loved him for exactly who he was, who always saw his light even through the darkest moments of his soul, the person whose love is established as the only thing that ever truly grew outside of God’s control– the only thing that was REAL– was fundamental to Dean finally accepting his own goodness and the value of his love, of his identity, and breaking free of the structure that had controlled and corrupted him his entire life to experience something of his own. Dean loving Castiel in return is how he could finally love himself, because this love at its core symbolizes freedom, truth, forgiveness, choice, and the overwhelming power of the soul.

But Dean never gets to experience this. Dean is never freed.

In the end, Dean learns that Castiel loves him and has always seen his true self, and then he never gets to live that truth. He goes right back to the life he has spent his whole journey learning to free himself from: Daddy’s little soldier, marching orders straight from his book, with only his brother by his side. Left only with the person he had been forced, time and time again, to sacrifice his identity, goals, and soul for. None of the family, support, or love, nothing he has built or chosen for himself remains.

And this man who has been told all his life that he isn’t good for anything more than a violent death on a random hunt, alone and afraid and dirty and only worth the body he can throw on the sword, dies exactly in that way. His body burns, alone, only his brother there to watch the smoke curl from his pyre.

Dean’s death, like Castiel’s, did not have to be an inherently bad thing. The story had very clearly built to a choice in this matter: a choice on how to spend the rest of his life and who to do it with. If this choice had involved passing on from this world to the next, in the context of choosing a life in whatever plane he moved to, it wouldn’t have mattered whether that life was mortal or eternal, on earth or in heaven, dead or alive. But that is not what happened. Dean didn’t choose to move on. He fought for decades to learn that what he wanted mattered, that his soul and identity were worth something, that his choices were real. And in the end, he is taken from his life randomly and violently, with absolutely nothing left to show for it. No choice, no act of the soul, no meaning.

And even after he gets to heaven, to his eternal reward, it is devoid of his heart and empty of any choice he had or would have made for himself. He does not seek out any of the people taken from him, he does not go to the man who confessed his undying love for him and sacrificed himself to save him, he does not start building the life that he never got to experience on earth. He doesn’t experience a single moment of actualization or make any choice besides getting in his car and driving aimlessly. He drives and drives to the end, to Sam, existing solely for his brother even in death. No choice, no soul, no meaning.

Dean died because his truth could not be spoken. He was punished by the story, by our world, because his only true ending would have been to love and be loved by another man. His only true ending would have been to fully experience his own identity and choice, and to live a new life surrounded by the things he built with his soul and the people who loved him for it. The message, again, is clear. Dare to seek your truth, and it will be taken.

The love between Dean and Cas was never just something people wanted to see because it was gay, or cute, or whatever people try to reduce it to in order to delegitimize queer stories and their power. The love between Dean and Cas was so deeply tied to each character’s journey, so fundamental to the resolution of each individual’s struggle and growth, so essential to the core themes and emotional substance of the narrative at large, that removing it from the ending caused the entire story to collapse. Failing to resolve it rendered their pain, sacrifice, love, choice– rendered the soul of the story– moot.

So no, people are not just upset that their ship didn’t get to kiss. People are upset that its removal functionally destroyed the story they love, and that the characters they so deeply identify with never got the endings they had built toward for so very long. That they, as viewers, never got to experience the moments of catharsis, acceptance, joy, and peace demanded by what they’ve gone through over the last fifteen years.

People are upset that pieces of their own souls, the pain and love that they identified with so personally and meaningfully, were burned with it. Yes, this is about queerness being fundamentally integrated into the story and its themes, and then being removed cruelly and hopelessly; it is about the painful message for every queer person watching that in the end, the world does not love you or even acknowledge you back. That you do not matter to it, no matter how convincingly it tries to pretend otherwise.

But this is also about our broader identities and struggles– feeling alone and scared, feeling alienated and othered, struggling with depression and trauma, losing autonomy, fearing and hating your flaws, feeling trapped or unloved or toxic or unworthy– it’s about these deeply vulnerable aspects of the self that people let this story connect to. That people found comfort and value in seeing reflected, validated, and overcome. It’s about the deeply traumatizing experience of something you love, something you have found yourself in, turning around and telling you none of it mattered.

The trauma of knowing that this will fuel the very hate, injustice, and devastating indifference that we live in spite of each day. Knowing that our love can make us as vulnerable as it makes us strong, and that this vulnerability has been and will be used against us whether it is in a story or our world.

People are in pain. People are grieving.

They are grieving a story that meant the world to them, they are grieving characters who never got to live their truths or experience their peace, they are grieving the parts of themselves that they saw in them. They are grieving the people they used to be, in those moments when they let themselves believe that they could finally have this– the innocence and authenticity in believing that their stories mattered. In believing that years of waiting, of dedication and faith, of real-life pain and struggle, were about to be honored with a simple act of love that they have been denied over and over again in their stories and their lives.

This is not about a ship. This is about us. This is about the power of our stories, and the pain of their suppression. It always has been.

[disclaimer: this was not written by me. It was written by Deirdre-t on Buzzfeed. I just needed to share this because it’s perfect and I don’t know what to do with myself]

#this is it #this is exactly what i’ve been feeling for days #it was put into words perfectly #supernatural #spn #spnfamily #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #destiel #winchesters #cw #15x18 #15x20 #spn finale #spn final season #TheySilencedThem #jensen ackles #misha collins

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dopescotlandwarrior · 4 years

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Bluegrass-Chapter 24

Much love to @Statell for making my stories flow.

Previous chapter on AO3

Chapter Twenty-Four

The shop owner bent over his worktable and pried the stones out of the gold setting. The ring was fourteen karat gold and would fetch a nice price. When the bell above the door tinkled, he looked up at a lady coming to the counter. She tossed a large ring on the counter.

“Sell or pawn?”

“Sell.”

He looked at her and reached for his loop. She looked like a street person so how did she come by this, he wondered. To his amazement the diamonds were real, and the gold tested to eighteen karat. His heart was ramming.

“Who’d you steal this from lady?”

“It’s mine, you ignorant asshole.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you. Try down the street.”

She grabbed the ring and looked at the man with her one good eye. “Fuck you.”

He watched her carry her bulk toward the door and waved his hand in the air to chase away her body odor.

The woman tried two more pawn shops and the third was owned by someone with fewer scruples. He bought the ring for one thousand dollars plus a gun. It was a lady Smith and Wesson five-shooter. She grabbed a box of shells on her way out, looking at the man defiantly. He ran to lock his door and start making calls. This ring would sell quickly for ten thousand. If it wasn’t hot, he could ask fifty thousand easily. He flipped open his phone book and started dialing.

The sweaty woman stumbled into Walmart and felt the cool air inside provide a little more energy for the last item she needed. Twenty minutes later she held her new phone to her ear and ordered a taxi to take her to the Motel 6. She paid the driver without a tip and heaved herself out of the car. There were working girls and ugly people all around the place. She would fit right in.

Walking up to the desk, she pulled her shirt down over the roll of fat that bulged from her tight waistband. The clothes she was arrested in were now three sizes too small. Prison food is created to keep hundreds of people full for a few hours. Not much thought went into the caloric intake or a balanced meal. Carbohydrates and fat were the main ingredients of her diet for eleven months and she tipped the scale at two-hundred and fifty pounds. The clothes she wore were donated by the prison and they were cutting her in half.

Pulling her coach wallet out of her bag she pulled her license and scooted it toward the clerk. Ten minutes later she was locking her door and scowling at the traffic noise right outside her window. It would have to do.

She was exhausted. It took all night to get processed out of jail and then shown the door to freedom at five o’clock in the morning. She would sleep a bit and then call her father. He will want her to come home because there was nothing for her in Kentucky. He would put her mother on the phone who would beg and cry for her daughter to come back to Scotland. That could wait as well, she decided.

For eleven months she has thought of little else then Jamie Fraser, the man who stole millions of dollars from her by denying her any rights to the business or his new horse. Word went around the prison that Midnight Runner won the Triple Crown and that meant an extraordinary life was now his to live while she was shipped back to Scotland like yesterday’s trash. God she hated him.

Isobel laid down on the bed but thinking about Jamie got her so riled up she couldn’t sleep. Maybe a hot shower would help. The rundown hotel had a small mirror in the bathroom, the first clear mirror in eleven months. She looked at her face and tears rolled down her fat cheeks. One of her eyelids opened only a slit after she was punched in the forehead during a prison fight. The nerve damage was permanent. She looked at her hair cut almost to her scalp. A going-away present from the bitches who hated her and kept her in solitary much of the time. She recalled being held on the ground while the meanest of them cut off her hair. It stuck out in all directions and she tried to smooth it down with water, but nothing helped. She was raging inside at what he did to her. This was all his fault.

Isobel’s father kept money on her books, the maximum allowable at the insistence of her mother. Isobel had nothing but disdain for other women making it quite impossible to make friends who could help her. She bargained her commissary for favors and finally found someone with a relative who would look up Chad’s whereabouts. He was in the Kentucky State Penitentiary in Eddyville and she wrote to him every day and couldn’t wait to hear back. Months went by with no word and she became hurt, and then mad. She sent another letter and on the outside of the envelope in small letters, she wrote “you little puke of a man why won’t you answer me?” She didn’t expect a response and when one came it was short and to the point.

‘Enduring your disgusting presence and vomit worthy sex was a means to an end. You self-absorbed cow. You never figured out I was gay because you were busy looking at yourself, with or without a mirror. It made it easy to manipulate you. Happy now?’

That was Jamie’s fault as well, she stormed in her head. He deserves to be skinned alive and forced to watch. She wouldn’t risk him getting the upper hand, so she had to settle for a bullet in his head.

She picked up her purse and left. There was a liquor store on the corner and she needed whisky, and a lot of it.

Claire woke up in an empty bed and noticed a note on her side table. She smiled as she read it.

“It is a perfect day to sit on the sundeck and read. There is nothin you need to do today, and I won’t be long with Michael.”

They had purchased a new double-wide ergonomic chase and had not tried it out yet. Maybe they could read the book together. While she waited for Jamie, she chose pages throughout the book to read and was very impressed with Michael’s writing. The theme running throughout the book was about kindness to the horse through various means, particularly the whip. He advocated the elimination of pain as a motivator. It would change horse racing completely because the competitors would be running because they wanted to win. The horse had to love running and it could be done, according to Michael, but training and reward had to change.

Claire wondered how this book would differ from Nosh’s. He was coming to Kentucky the following week and would spend the day with them. She was excited to fulfill her promise to finish her story, whether he believed her or not.

Jamie dropped Michael at his hotel just after noon. He would be joining them for dinner tonight and would UBER back around seven o’clock. Jamie looked forward to an afternoon lounging with his best girl.

For the rest of the day, Jamie and Claire took turns reading the book and powered through half of it before cuddling on the chase to nap a bit.

“Sassenach.” Jamie ran his hand down her arm until she opened her eyes. “Will ye come with me to bring the horses in?”

She smiled up at him and nodded yes before pulling her jeans and boots on. They walked to the barn and discussed the book, both commenting on how much they had forgotten about those crazy days. They brought fifteen horses in, two at a time, then went to bring in the mares and babies. Claire laughed at the antics of the foals, running ahead and then freezing with fear when they couldn’t see their mothers. When all were put away for the night, they made one more trip for Runner and Porcelain. When Jamie watched them running to the gate, he looked at Claire with a big smile.

“I’d like to bring Porcelain into season early and breed her in February.”

“To him?”

It was settled. Porcelain would be Runner’s first cover and Claire was thrilled. A touch of romance in an otherwise clinical setting of the breeding room. They would be each other’s first.

As they walked home, Jamie threw up his arms and announced he had finished the repairs on Runner’s stall, and they could move them back to their larger accommodations. Claire held his hand and told him tomorrow would be soon enough. She had a shower and cooking to do.

It was a delightful time to sit with their old friend, spoil him with steak, roasted vegetables, and copious amounts of whisky. Claire considered inviting others to dinner but decided she didn’t want to share Michael’s time. They ate at the table outside and simply moved to more comfortable seats to continue the discussion.

Jamie answered the doorbell and spoke to a neighbor before announcing he would be back in ten minutes. The neighbor needed a jump. Michael offered to come and help but Jamie told him to relax, he had this.

Michael had Claire in giggle overload reminding her of times they were on the road. Claire got up to grab the coffee pot and stopped in her tracks.

“Michael, do you smell something burning.”

He stood up and said he smelled it too. When Claire opened the front door, she screamed for Michael. It was definitely a fire and somewhere close. They started running and a quarter-mile never seemed so far. The closer they got; they were more convinced it was the barn on fire. Claire punched numbers into the keypad, and Michael opened the roll away doors as smoke poured out.

“Chase them all out, Michael!”

Claire ran down the aisle pulling stall doors open until she got to Runner and Porcelain and they were not moving. None of the horses were running outside. She slapped Porcelain hard on the rump knowing Runner would follow. The mare whinnied loudly and took off for the big doors.

Claire looked at the smoke filling the barn and coughed into her shirt. She saw horses running by but could not see Michael. She continued to work her way down the aisle smacking horses so they would run to safety. She looked up and saw babies running alongside their mothers and knew Michael had gone to the dams’ wing to set them free.

Jamie waved to the neighbor as he drove down their shared road. He caught the scent of burning wood and jumped into the bed of his truck to look for smoke. Finally, he saw the embers rising into the air on his own property! With a hammering heart, he drove through the gate and saw horses scattered all over. He knew someone was at the barn and drove as fast as possible, ever watchful for a horse running across the road.

Jamie ran to the barn. His heart rate was in the stroke zone and he started coughing the second he was inside. He called for Claire as he ran down the aisle looking for any stuck horses. The dams’ wing was empty, where the hell was Claire and Michael? Or whoever let the horses out. He turned the turbines on that pulled air from the interior. They were all over the roof so he ran as fast as he could flipping them on high.

He called the fire department as he ran for Runner’s wing. The door was open and something inside him told him to proceed with caution. He could hear Claire and Michael coughing. Why were they in there? When he heard Isobel’s voice his blood turned to ice. He forced himself not to cough and give away his presence. He searched frantically for a way to get the drop on her. He had to do something before Claire and Michael died from asphyxiation.

He ran to the back of the barn where the smoke was too thick to see. He ran his hand along the wall until he felt the switches for the turbines. Filling his lungs with air he ran into the equipment room and pulled out a ten-foot length of steel pipe, very relieved it wasn’t burning hot and ran back.

Claire wasn’t coughing any more and Jamie knew she passed out with death coming for her. Without another second to think he rammed the door open and kept running as Isobel’s startled face came into view. She raised the gun just as he rammed the pipe into her stomach, impaling her on the back wall. He threw Claire over his shoulder and helped Michael to his feet pulling them outside to safety.

The fire engines were coming in slowly with no siren because Jamie explained there were horses scattered all over the property. Michael was bent over coughing and Claire was silent, unconscious. Jamie lowered her to the ground feeling more terrified than he had been in his life.

“Claire! Claire!”

The EMT’s pulled him away to render lifesaving aid to his wife, his soulmate, his whole world. Fire hydrants were installed on the land according to zoning rules and the men soon had two flows of water directed at the fire. Jamie heard more sirens coming only to go silent as they negotiated the gate and keypad.

The ambulance EMT’s were given instructions to open the gate and wait for it to close to make sure no horses escaped. The driver knew there were critical injuries and it took all his training and willpower not to barrel ahead to the injured. Jamie was covered with soot and sweat as he gripped his wife’s hand.

“Please Claire, ye must fight yer way back to me or I will surely die with ye.”

He was pulled away as they wheeled the gurney into the ambulance, Michael was loaded into a second vehicle. Jamie sank to his knees as a great crash came from the barn and a plume of embers rose into the night sky. Jamie didn’t flinch. He couldn’t move as he was locked into his pleading prayers to God.

A great fireball exploded into the dark sky and men were yelling about a secondary fire. Jamie heard none of it and continued to pray.

The captain pulled Jamie up and brought him under the light spreading out a schematic of the barn interior.

“Is there anyone else in the building?”

Jamie pointed to Runner’s wing. The fire captain pulled him to the large engine and told him to sit down. The huge fire engines took up all the space available in front of the barn and police cruisers were lined up behind them. Officers were standing by a short distance away and the captain went to speak with them.

Jamie felt the tears fall off his face, he knew his business was in ruins, his prize horse chased into the darkness, but none of that mattered as much as Claire’s pale, soot-stained face. He looked up at the commanding voice above him and stared at the officer with blank eyes.

“You identified an area where someone was left inside. I am sorry to inform you that the roof caved in above that wing about five minutes ago. Did anyone go back inside to pull the person out?”

“No. I impaled her against the wall with a ten-foot length of steel pipe.”

Jamie stood up and walked toward his vehicle but never made it. It took five officers to hold him back and he was finally cuffed and dropped into a cruiser. He had no comprehension of what was happening, and he fought against the restraints until he felt a blinding pain as his wrist separated. He slumped forward choking through this added suffering.

“Mister Fraser! Stop struggling I have news of your wife. She is in intensive care, so is the other man, but they are expected to pull through. They are gonna be fine. You have confessed to a capital crime. You belong to the Lexington police force now so you might as well cooperate and sit still. You’re a big man and tasers hurt, so walk when you’re told, sit where you’re told and answer our questions. It’s the best advice I can give you.”

Jamie did as told and explained who Isobel was, how she tried to kill his horses before. He did not know she was released on parole. She had set fire to the barn and held Claire and Michael at gunpoint as they slowly choked to death in front of her. She wore an elaborate gas mask and just stood by as they struggled to breathe. She had raised her gun to Jamie’s head as he rammed the pipe into her stomach. He did not bother to go back in to save her because he was too busy with his wife and friend.

“I didn’t know if she was alive or dead. I didn’t care.”

Jamie was a pillar of the community and the officers made quick work of releasing him with the warning to not leave the state. There was an officer waiting to take him to the hospital. Jamie sat in the back seat holding his throbbing wrist. The officer decided to break the rules for the poor man and turned on his siren as he raced to the hospital.

Jamie piled out of the car and ran into the emergency department. He approached Claire slowly with tears streaking through the grime on his face. He was so overcome at the sight of her his whole body started to shake.

The nurse taking her blood pressure almost fainted at the sight of Jamie but recovered quickly as his face softened looking at his wife.

“She has been asking for you if your name is Jamie that is.” She had a warm smile and a concerned face.

“It is… my name is Jamie.”

The nurse ran for the chair that was shared among the visitors because it looked like he would fall any minute. She pushed Jamie into it and asked if he was alright.

“As soon as this lass opens her eyes, I will be fine.”

“She is doing really well physically. Her doctor may keep her tonight, not sure yet.”

Jamie looked down at Claire’s open eyes, looking at him. She seemed to look at everything she could see and then he watched her dissolve in tears. She was fighting to stop crying but she just couldn’t. She tried to speak to him, but no sound came out.

“Her voice will come back. Two or three days.”

Claire was asleep again and Jamie felt lost suddenly. She just closed her eyes to the pain that was making her cry, leaving Jamie alone. He picked up the phone and called Jason, then Angus. He knew he had to leave her and get back to what was left of their barn. He kissed her face and walked toward the entrance, there lingering at the doorway was the officer who drove him to the hospital.

“Mister Fraser, I waited to take you home, sir.”

Jamie looked battle-scarred and fatigued at the moment, so they headed for his home without further comment. The fire was out, and firemen continued to crawl through the haylofts and roof structure looking for live embers. They had done an excellent job limiting the damage. The fire marshal approached Jaime and shook his hand. His voice was commanding yet tempered with understanding that Jamie appreciated.

“Mister Fraser, it’s a tragedy to be sure, but we minimized the damage and found all the clues, I think. The fire was set on the north-facing side, right here.” He pointed to Runner’s wing on the barn schematic. Gasoline was used as an accelerant that was provided by your fuel tower. The perpetrator used your five-gallon buckets that were stacked at the hose in back, filled them with your fuel, and left the nozzle open to drain the fuel into the ground. When embers landed there it all went up in a fireball. You will have an ugly reminder for a while I’m afraid. It’s safe to bring the horses in except for this area. The roof caved in and it’s burned badly. It is where we found the body of a woman, but I hear you have given a statement to the police already and believe her to be responsible. The coroner has removed the body. I will be in touch as the investigation progresses. He walked toward his vehicle throwing his clipboard on the seat before getting in.

Jamie looked around feeling lost until he saw Rupert and Angus walk out of the barn with two leads each and lariats attached to their belt loops. They looked at Jamie’s haunted eyes and simply nodded as they made their way to the pastures. The horses were tied to a fence once caught so they could be identified and counted. Jason and Lulu pulled up looking shell shocked. Lulu was crying and asking about Claire. Jason ran to the barn for halters and leads and handed a lead to Lulu as they left to search for more horses.

Molly and her fiancé were next, followed by two of the vets that Claire had befriended. They would check the horses that were brought in and treat any issues. As word spread, neighbors and owners came in to join the search and by afternoon, all but two horses had been rounded up. The missing horses, Porcelain and Runner.

The horses were split up into groups and led to graze in the multiple pastures. They would stay outside for the day and let the barn air out. Jamie continued to call Claire, to say I love you and give progress reports. Jamie’s voice cracked when he said they had not found Runner or Porcelain and Claire sobbed for the lost horses but mostly for Jamie. Michael had fared better and was released to rest in his hotel room. Jamie wandered through the pastures calling for Runner until dark.

Jamie stayed with Claire overnight. She was moved out of critical care and there was a fat Lazyboy right next to the bed. He had full trust in his crew, so he stayed until she was released the next day. She mostly cried when she was awake, and Jamie couldn’t wait until he could hold her and give her comfort.

Driving into the compound was very hard on Claire as visions of Isobel taunting her, saying she would shoot Jamie in front of her and then let them die, came back to haunt her. Jamie explained that he had killed Isobel, but Claire expected her to jump out from every corner.

Claire couldn’t yell for Runner, but she insisted on walking the far pastures to help look for him. To no avail, the two of them were gone. Jamie held Claire through the night, waking up every few hours because she was crying and shaking. He eased her back to sleep much quicker than he was able to follow her. By the next day, he had deep circles under his eyes as he drove the property in search of his horses.

The other horses were returned to the barn, back in their original stalls because there was very little damage to anything but Runner’s wing. Jamie shivered to think he wanted to go back to the barn and move Runner and Porcelain back to their original stalls. He closed the wing off with plans to rebuild once the insurance was settled. Not one of the owners moved their horse to another barn. They knew Jamie was honest and ethical. This was not his fault and he had taken care of the problem.

Jamie sat down hard on his office chair in the early evening. The silence was such a relief after playing hero for the past two days. He wasn’t a hero. He was terrified about what could have happened and what will happen next. Could his business recover, could Claire feel safe again, could they find a new normal without Runner? Picking up his ringing phone he heard the deep voice of Dunsany, and he lost it.

“Jamie, it's going to be alright. You aren’t hurt, you will repair the damage and go on. Now listen to me son, get it out, and then get back to work. That’s a good lad, I’m here for ye, depend on that.”

Dunsany waited, speaking quietly to encourage Jamie, trying to infuse him with the will to start over. They talked for almost an hour and Dunsany told him arrangements had been made to bring Isobel’s body back to Scotland. She could never threaten them again. The older man worried deeply about Jamie pulling out of this nightmare and his anger at Isobel kept him secluded from his family for several days. It wasn’t right for a father to hate his own daughter and he would keep that to himself.

Jamie walked the pastures as the sun was coming up. He had a distinctive whistle that all the horses were used to. It always brought them in, no matter how far they had roamed. He heard a whinny and turned his head, heart beating like thunder in his chest he watched the pasture turning in all directions and finally saw her. Porcelain ran toward him crying out her fear in loud whinnies. She came to him and snorted while he slipped the halter on her and snapped a lead. He started walking back expecting Runner to run up on them any second. When he closed the door to Porcelain’s stall, he dropped his head in defeat.

“Where have ye gone laddie?”

Jason, Lulu, Rupert and Angus put the barn back together, ordered supplies, rented stalls, answered calls from worried owners, and assisted whoever and whatever was needed in the moment. Their fearless leader searched for Runner day and night and Claire was not often seen. She looked shattered and they didn’t know how to approach her, so they didn’t.

Michael came on the fourth day and took Claire to drive the property boundaries. Claire searched the pastures through field glasses as they continued to drive for two hours. He was just gone. He jumped a fence and just kept running she assumed. There were thousands of acres of forest that bordered their land and he was lost in that forest somewhere, starving to death. Claire’s sobbing broke Michael’s heart. He stopped the car and pulled her out to hold her to him. He promised her they would find him.

“We need to walk the land, Claire. He’s scared and hiding somewhere in the trees. Let him see us walking.” He pushed a lead in her hand, and they ducked between the white slats of the fence to walk the endless acres of Bluegrass.

Runner watched them from behind the trees. He watched her mostly and wanted to go to her. He could hear in her yell, something foreboding and fearful. If she would just get on his back, he could ride her to safety. He tried a couple of times to break out of the tree line, only to retreat in fear. They were getting closer to him. He was about to turn toward the forest and run but he saw images in his mind of Claire hugging him. It made him so happy. She was telling him she needed a hug. In the next second, he bolted toward the fence boundary and jumped it with ease running toward her, happier than he had ever been.

“Stop Claire. Turn around.”

Claire turned to see Runner galloping toward them. She started to giggle and then she held her arms out like she always did, for him to run into. He stopped ten feet from her and showed her images of being hugged. She kept her arms out and walked to him until she could wrap them around his neck. She put her hands on his cheeks and Michael could swear they were having a conversation as Runner would nicker at times and drop his head on her shoulder.

Are you hurt?

I do not hurt.

Where you afraid?

I was afraid.

She kissed his face a dozen times and asked him to walk back to the barn, assuring him the smoke was gone and he would be safe. She dug a handful of sugar cubes out of her pocket and he feasted on them.

Very hungry.

Let’s go home.

Michael called Jamie to tell him they were walking back, with Runner, and he started running to meet them. Runner nickered and lifted his head when he saw Jamie running toward them. Claire unsnapped the lead and Runner took off stopping right in front of Jamie’s beaming smile. They were still hugging when Claire and Michael caught up to them.

Porcelain whinnied loudly in the air and stomped all over her stall. Rupert looked at her and wondered what got into the lass when he saw the movement in his peripheral vision. He was almost in tears when he saw the three of them with a giant black horse behind them. Runner went to Porcelain for a make-out session and Claire could see images of Rupert pouring grain into his feeder. She laughed quietly to herself.

“Cheeky bastard.”

They said goodbye to Michael at the airport and made him promise to visit soon. Claire hugged him and cried while Michael complained she would surely melt with any more tears. Once on the road home, Claire leaned against Jamie and wrapped her arm around his middle. They had not made love since the fire and the feel of him was suddenly intoxicating. She kissed his neck until she was breathless and when she pulled his belt away and grabbed his zipper Jamie pulled onto a logging road into the forest where he pulled her to him and kissed her deeply.

They were frantic to join their hungry bodies after a long hiatus from passion. Jamie pulled her shirt over her head and reached around to unclasp her bra setting her breasts free to bounce with their efforts. When she finally pulled him into her body, they both moaned loudly before the rhythm of arousal took them to a new plane of existence.

Officer Josh Baker was heading back to the station while he daydreamed in heavy traffic. When he saw Jamie’s pickup truck veer off the road, he shook his head and blinked several times. It couldn’t be, he told himself. What are the odds of finding them in the same predicament as before? Some people never learn he thought. He pulled off onto the logging road to wait.

Traffic along the four lanes where Jamie took the detour slowed way down due to the cruiser parked along the side of the road, presumably for radar speed checking. The officer pointed his radar gun out the window and waited. When he heard Jamie’s engine start he pulled into traffic, and they were none the wiser about his protection.

Slowly, life at Highland Brothers returned to normal and Jason, the new custodian of Claire's truck, would pick her up for a day of medical treatments and do his best to remember any of the details when she asked him. On long rides she would describe the lab assays they would run to get him used to the terminology and procedure. From February to June, she would reduce her hours away to ten hours per week so she could take care of the breeding operation. She was anxious to be working with Jamie again.

Claire sat across from Nosh at the kitchen table and looked at the sheets of pictures. There had to be at least five-hundred pictures of her and runner. She answered Nosh’s questions thoughtfully and held nothing back. Nosh recovered quickly from the declaration that she can talk to animals. He always knew there was a major component of the story missing.

“I have wondered how an untrained jockey could ride that horse through all those races.”

“It was my yoga training. My balance was very good and if you hadn’t noticed, I didn’t move at all, once the race started, I just hung on to is mane for dear life. He told me what to do, when to do it, and I felt safe after a while.”

“How could he hear you during the race, there’s too much noise?”

“Are you saying you believe me?”

“You are an educated woman Claire, a veterinarian, and you won the Triple Crown as a novice jockey. I’ve been on the track all my adult life, so I knew there was a secret to your success. What I wouldn’t give for photo evidence of you racing him on foot.”

“Oh! I have photo evidence. Jamie took loads of pictures from the equipment barn where he hid for the first month. They are amateur at best, but I will be happy to show you..”

Nosh was on his feet in seconds, “please, yes I would love to see them.”

Claire settled Nosh in a chair close to the computer monitor and brought up the pictures. There was a perfect sequence of them at the starting line, Claire running full speed around the track, and Runner staying on the rail to pass her. Claire bent over panting and Runner circling her with his head and tail in the air. In the last picture, Claire is scowling at the horse with her hands in the air.

Nosh laughed so hard and sputtered “pure gold!” when he could catch a breath. “Good God, I haven’t laughed like that since I was a kid. Name your price, I’m sure the magazine will pay it.”

“Certainly not! You can have them with my thanks.”

This was the icing on the cake to Nosh. The book he had dreamed of for the last year would be better than he could have imagined.

Claire told Nosh everything from cutting Runner out of his dam to winning the Triple Crown and all the baiting and psychological tricks she used to keep him wanting to win. The story was told, and she sat back and took a deep breath.

“How would you like to spend some time with Runner?”

They walked out to the pasture and the two horses made a bee-line for them. Claire stood in front of Nosh and opened her arms for two frothy-mouthed horses to assault her with smells and snorts. She stepped aside pulling her phone out of her pocket and launching the camera app. Nosh seemed frozen as he watched Runner come toward him. Claire moved farther away and started snapping pictures. Nosh, nose to nose with Runner, the colt draping his head over Nosh’s shoulder from behind, stroking his neck, laughing at the assault on his pockets looking for treats. Claire kept snapping until she had sixty-five pictures of Nosh and Runner. She would transfer all the pictures of Runner including these to a thumb drive and send it to Nosh. It made her happy inside to give something back.

Claire walked the reporter out to his rental car and hugged him, thanking him for everything. Nosh saw no reason they might meet again so he made his words count.

“You feel like the daughter I never had. I am so proud of what you’ve done. If your actions with Runner are any indication of motherhood, I hope to live long enough to see your kids cure cancer and win the Nobel prize. Goodbye Claire, and thank you for the interview.”

Motherhood? What an odd thing to say, she decided and waved goodbye.

Claire walked back into the house feeling her mood turn dark when she looked at the ugly furniture she and Jamie had failed to replace. She wished for a happy feeling when she opened the door to their home and hated this furniture even more after the fire. A call to the Salvation Army to pick up a high-end living room set pushed her to the front of the line. They would pick it up this afternoon. When the living room was empty, she called Jamie and asked if he could finish early because there wasn’t a chair or couch to sit on anymore. They needed to visit the furniture stores in town.

Claire got dressed up with straight hair and makeup because it felt like a special trip, something to be remembered. They would finally take ownership of their space and rid the memory of the most heinous woman on earth. With only one week until Christmas, she was excited.

Jamie watched a beautiful, confident woman walk toward him when he came home. He looked at her long pretty hair, short dress, and high heels, feeling his stomach do flips.

“Yer beautiful Sassenach, and our living room is empty sure enough.”

“You have ten minutes James Fraser.”

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0ssuary · 6 years

Text

a brief history of the world

Yotri is a small Earth-like planet with three moons, one of which is very large, about a fifth the size of Yotri itself, and acts almost as a binary planet system. Both their days and year are longer than ours, the days running about thirty hours, and the year 412 days (with the exception of every ten years, when it is only 410). It is culturally divided into three regions, each of which have their own unique terrain and ecological features. Mahai, where Handien is located, is predominantly dry grasslands, deserts, canyons and flat mountains, with part of an ancient forest along its western border and tree-covered mountains along its eastern border. Irya, the largest region, sits on the eastern side of the enormous old-growth forest. It has many different biospheres, including jungles, volcanoes, various deciduous forests, and the world’s only inhabited islands. Skana, the northern-most and smallest region, is predominantly mountainous, with some tundra and glaciers. Civilization began on Yotri nearly nine millennia ago, originating in Irya and spreading outward.

Each region specializes in different branches of science. Irya studies climate and oceanography, Mahai focuses primarily on biology, botany, and agriculture, and Skana puts most of its resources into computer sciences and space exploration. While there have been wars and various political conflicts, both within and between the regions, Yotri has been free of major warfare for several millennia (with the exception of some smaller clashes typically within regional sects rather than between the regions themselves, and usually political rather than violent). Once technology had begun to advance to the point that resources were not as scarce to come by, the need for war dwindled and became meaningless. For the last thousand years, there has been the additional unifier of survival, the world only just truly beginning to find a new equilibrium and normalcy after a major volcanic and seismic event that nearly triggered a mass extinction.

At the time, Skana had been on the verge of its first deep space mission, and had been experimenting with colonization techniques on one of the lesser moons. Convinced they could find a way to survive somewhere else in their star system, they spent almost a century modifying their space stations into an evacuation ship, and two hundred thousand people left the planet, with another fifty thousand following a year after. In the meantime, Irya and Mahai partnered to find ways to counter the environmental effects of a sky full of ash, keeping the population just above famine, and cultivating and breeding algaes out at sea that would both filter the water and atmosphere and dump enough gases back into the atmosphere to start stabilizing it. In tandem with the algae colonies, large ocean barges with enormous filters were built to draw the ash out of the air to stave off any further major climate disaster. It wasn’t perfect, many, many people died, whole cities and districts were abandoned, but it worked. After a century of breeding floating islands of algae, running the filters, adding more as they refined the design to be more efficient, eliminating all energy sources that produced excessive waste, the ash began to clear enough to restore some seasonal rain and the clouds began to break. A world that had not seen a clear sky in nearly two centuries once again had light.

Skana offered to build larger ships to take people from Mahai and Irya if they could provide the materials, but both regions’ cultures are tied closely to the planet itself and they would rather had died on their home if they were going to die. Millions of Skanans stayed behind and made the best of what was left, waiting for word that there was a new home to go to. Transmissions were frequent at first, but fruitless, and then they came less and less, with longer delays, and eventually the gaps and delays between them were so long and the world had begun to recover that the idea of leaving it now seemed pointless. They sent one final transmission to the voyaging ship, a well-wishing for their safety, and life moved on.

Moving forward, there was a cultural renaissance, and an overhaul of energy and technology to run as efficiently and low-impact as possible. New temples were built. Irya’s traditional dance and dialects began to thrive again. Skana has always been the more pragmatic of the three regions, but even there, old holidays and celebrations were treated with a reverence and jubilee they hadn’t garnered in centuries. Handien’s temple was the first to be completed in the resurgence of old traditions, and was the first community to phase out most technology, though if one were to look close enough, even in Handien, technology is still ubiquitous in small ways. Most homes have electricity, the city has clean, running water and a sewage processing facility outside of town. Many homes have a basic communicator, like an intercom system, and powered vehicles are a common sight. They are hyper-aware of waste and all energy is renewable. After such scarcity and nearly being wiped off the planet, nothing is taken for granted. Everything gets used or reused or turned into something else. It’s largely like this in most of the urban centers as well, but it is especially true in the traditional communities and is an integrated practice of their faith and cultural values, to be grateful and ingenious with what nature provides for them.

A few unique features of the world are its moons (and consequently its oceans and tides), and its ancient forest. The forest, nearly as large as Skana, is protected by international law, and the much of it, especially the oldest communities of trees at its center, survived the centuries of ash. This ancient center is older than any of the nations, older than any spoken language on the planet. The trees there make California redwoods look unimpressive. Being on the ground in the oldest parts of the forest, nearly no light reaches the forest floor, and there is very little insect or animal noise. Hot springs under the rocky soil keep the forest center evergreen and lush, like a rainforest. From Feana and Rho’ki’s little house on the eastern edge of the forest, the center section is so enormous it looks like a mountain, despite the terrain itself staying quite flat from Mahai to Irya.

The three moons (two very similar to our own, one pale, one a darker grey, and the other much larger and closer and green, covered in small plant life) create strong, dramatic tides. Most coasts are sheer rocky cliffs, with the low tides leaving the cliffs bare for several hundred feet, and high tides rising anywhere between fifty feet to just barely lapping over the edge. The ocean takes up nearly three-quarters of Yotri. The moons each have a unique orbit, the two smaller moons roughly the same distance away, with one moon cycling every fourteen or fifteen days, and the other every twenty or twenty-one days. The green moon has a polar orbit, and only takes about eight days to orbit. The occasions when all three moons are in the same phase are sacred days in the faiths of all three of the major cultures.

I’d like to eventually make some simple maps and sketches of the cities and landscapes, but art is a much more recent hobby for me and takes more time and spoons. Also, everything here is subject to retcon! This blog is like a file cabinet of ideas and brainstorming and while most of it will likely remain unchanged, some details might shift as I get a better idea of some finer plot points with the final novel.

Questions or clarifications are encouraged and really helpful!

#world building #writing #fiction #info dump #witch fiction #scifi

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rufousnmacska · 7 years

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Rekindled 3

A Child of Peace story

Previous chapters

Full work on ao3

Asterin has returned and joined Manon and Dorian on a mission to Rifthold. After a Blueblood vision, things went awry in the last chapter and now they have to deal with the consequences… along with even more complications. 😁 One more Asterin chapter left!

Asterin gently propped Lyra against the door frame of a warehouse. By some luck of the Three-Faced Goddess, this part of the harbor was quiet and empty of soldiers. The Blueblood seer was conscious, but groggy and weak after her vision, unable to provide any help in what was to come.“Manon will be back to get you when we leave,” she whispered, making sure the young witch was out of sight and as comfortable as possible. Lyra only nodded, not bothering to point out how unlikely it was that any of them would actually make it out of here.

Not now that they had to steal the damn mirrors to use against the valg, just like Aedion had wanted. But Aelin would not be the one to wield them. That task would fall to Yrene Westfall and the healers from the Torre Cesme. It would be their only chance of saving the humans Erawan had collared and ringed for possession by his valg.

She caught sight of Nesryn scaling the side of the warehouse, moving silently into position to provide cover for them. And judging by the number of soldiers guarding the witch mirror tower, her arrows might be flying soon. The young Captain had accepted her full quiver without argument and Asterin was glad they were in good hands.

With the change of plans, they had little hope of getting the mirrors out without engaging the guards. Which left her and Manon to distract and eliminate as many as possible while Dorian handled the mirrors. His magic was their only means of removing them and getting them back to this end of the dock. An empty schooner moored near the sewer outflow was the best transport they could find at the last minute, the mirrors being too large for winnowing. It would mean they’d miss the rendezvous. But they had to trust the others would make it back and continue on to the Terrasen sea cave by broom.

Having all of this magic seemed a waste to Asterin. In an instant, Manon could have wiped the harbor clean of their enemies, clearing the way for the easy theft of the mirrors and an easier escape. But where Dorian’s magic could be subtle and invisible, Manon’s was like a volcano erupting. Or so she’d been told by some of the Thirteen who’d witnessed her yielding in the battle against the Yellowlegs. Erawan would be alerted to their presence and intent, and that would jeopardize their friends tasked with eliminating the mirrors in the two towers outside the city walls.

So they’d have to do an old fashioned smash and grab. Without the smash. Or, at least, a quiet smash.

As she scanned the deserted waterfront between them and the tower, she knew her grin must look mad, but she had no control over it. Manon and Dorian crouched next to her. “Ready?”

To Asterin’s glee, Manon returned the fiendish smile, nodded and took their hands. With no warning, they were flung through darkness only to appear next to the tower seconds later, shielded and cloaked in every way by Dorian’s magic.

Before Asterin’s head could stop spinning, Manon had her daggers in hand and Dorian ducked through an opening to examine the inside of the tower. They had little information about how the things were constructed, so if he encountered any obstacles to the mirrors, magical or otherwise… She really didn’t want to think about it. There were plenty of demon-infested men mere feet away who could occupy her attention. As Dorian crawled through rough, wooden supports and gestured to a ladder, she and Manon scanned the area. They’d be happy to stay silent and hidden for as long as possible.

They both stopped breathing as a guard walked past them in his loop around the base of the tower. They were completely hidden by the Crochan technique Dorian was using, but it was still disconcerting to look into the enemy’s eye for a split second and not be seen or heard. The demon men were clustered around the tower but only a few made the effort to actually patrol around its base. The indifference spoke to the downside of an army created instead of gathered. The valg may be evil and capable fighters, but ultimately, the foot soldiers had no skin in the game. As opposed to say, the witches, Fae, and humans allied against them. It heartened Asterin and she thanked the Goddess for maybe the hundredth time that they were now fighting for the right side.

After some silent communication through the bond with Dorian, Manon gave a nod and they slipped inside. Through their own series of hand gestures, unnecessary but too familiar to abandon, Asterin learned there were twenty small mirrors spiraling up within the structure, while the four largest were affixed to the outside. She cringed as the first small mirror began a ghostly descent, but it held steady in the air until Manon grabbed it and placed it gingerly on the ground. The next one was already nearing them, with more floating down behind it.

Asterin stood as guard while Manon arranged them so the mirrored sides faced each other. The last thing they needed was for an errant ray of light to reflect off the mirrors and alert the enemy to their presence. More quickly than Asterin had expected, all of the interior mirrors were down and stacked into small piles next to them. They looked too big to fit between the beams, and for a few moments, she and Manon just looked at each other, not sure what to do.

She had to admit she was pretty damn impressed with Dorian’s magic. Pointing up to where he was descending and then wiggling her fingers, she nodded in approval to Manon. And received quite a self-satisfied smile in reply. Asterin quirked an eyebrow in disbelief. “As the one who encouraged all this, you don’t get to give me the ‘I told you so’ look,“ she whispered faintly. Manon conceded with a dip of her head, though her smile didn’t really fade.

Dorian stepped down from the ladder, utterly calm. They waited for a soldier to pass outside, then he began moving them, two at a time, through slots in the framing. Asterin glanced at Manon, who was giving her that smug look again, and huffed a silent laugh. He made quick work of the smaller mirrors, sending them down the entire length of the waterfront to the waiting schooner. When it was done, they all looked up and wondered the same thing. How the hell would they get the outer mirrors down without alerting the soldiers?

Manon’s eyes grew wide. With a hand to her chest, she whispered, “Diversion. You guard him,” she pointed to Asterin, then to Dorian, “and you get them to the ship. I’ll met you there.” Before either could object, Manon winnowed away.

Nesryn spun, arrow ready to fly as Manon crouched on the roof behind her. She realized, almost too late, that suddenly appearing out of thin air like that probably hadn’t been a good idea.

“Sorry,” Manon said, her voice barely audible. “I need your help.” Nesryn nodded. Manon took her hand and the next minute, they were in the middle of the maze of storage warehouses that bordered the harbor.

“We need to set one on fire,” Manon said. “To get the soldiers away from the tower. Nothing too big though. We don’t need more to arrive.”

Staying in shadow, they walked along the nearest building to find the doors locked with a heavy chain. On the outside. They shared a confused look and Nesryn leaned against the door to listen. Manon mimicked her and their eyes met at the sound of muffled voices. There were no windows to look through, but reason told them it was unlikely that Erawan was keeping his own forces locked up in a warehouse.

Nesryn’s eyes grew wide and her face paled. Civilian slaves? she mouthed.

Manon nodded, immediately forgetting the fiery diversion. Wind Cleaver was out and raised above her head when Nesryn blocked her arm.

“What will we do with them? They’ll just be killed if we free them with nowhere to go.”

She was right. “I can winnow them out of the city,” Manon whispered. As long as there aren’t too many, she thought but didn’t say. The doubtful look on Nesryn’s face told her she’d thought the same thing.

It took two swings of her sword to break the chains. As the doors slowly swung open, Manon and Nesryn both gasped at the sight before them. Lit only by a handful of torches, the space was filled with people arranged into little groups. While most had stood at the opening of the doors, many who appeared to be too old or sick remained flat on the ground. The air was thick with the smell of too many bodies confined in too small a space. The horrible fear pouring from them… Manon almost choked on it. The warehouse was filled with men, women, and children. And all of them were staring at her.

“What’s the most you’ve winnowed?” Nesryn asked.

Manon didn’t answer. Nesryn knew from their practice attempts that the group on this mission had been the largest. “I’ll do ten or fifteen at a time,” she said. “But I think you’re going to have to get them to agree first.” Several men had moved to stand protectively in front of their families. They were all watching her as if Nesryn didn’t exist. “I don’t think they’ll trust me.”

Nesryn had already taken the measure of the crowd, so she walked forward with an air of command and introduced herself as Captain of the Royal Guard. When no one moved, she asked if there was someone in charge to whom she could talk. An elderly woman called back into the milling crowd but there was someone already making his way through.

“Captain?”

“Theo?” Nesryn asked, relief washing over her at the familiar face. “Listen. We must be quick. How many are here?”

He glanced warily at Manon but Nesryn snapped her fingers to get his attention and said, “She is an ally of King Dorian Havilliard. He is alive and gathering forces to attack Erawan. How many, Theo?”

He stood a bit straighter and said, “There are about 100 in this building.”

“This building?” Manon asked.

He kept his focus on Nesryn as he said, “They keep us in three warehouses here. But there are many more housed throughout the city.”

Nesryn looked at Manon, despair creeping over her face. Both knew they’d be lucky to get the people in this single building out. There was no way they could further infiltrate the city and free more, even if her magic could withstand the strain.

“Have someone split everyone into groups of fifteen,” Manon ordered, ignoring Nesryn’s uncertain intake of breath. The man looked to Nesryn, who nodded, then he relayed the order to a woman standing nearby. “Show us the other two buildings,” Manon said.

He immediately led them back outside and pointed to two nearby warehouses, both chained as this one had been. Before opening them, Manon asked, “I don’t know Adarlan as well as you two. Is there somewhere not occupied by Erawan’s forces where I can take them?”

Theo looked between them in confusion and Nesryn said, “I don’t think there’s any place close by. Can you get them back to the cave?”

Manon stared at the man. Nesryn’s authority had seemingly dissolved his discomfort over her being a witch. “I’ll try. I don’t know how many groups I can take that far.”

“What are you-” Theo started to ask.

“Are there more guards with you? Anyone who can fight? Any who know how to sail?” Nesryn interrupted.

“Yes,” he said. “A lot of weak and injured though. And we don’t have any weapons.”

Manon and Nesryn shared a look. Then Manon said, “Separate out those able to fight and handle a ship into one group. Get the rest gathered into one building.” She turned and made quick work of both sets of chains. “Remember. The others in groups of fifteen,” she called out, as Theo ran into one of the newly opened warehouses.

“I’ll take as many as I can manage. Whoever is left can join us on the boat,” she said. Nesryn nodded and began to walk away. But Manon caught her arm. “If there was a way to free the rest, I would do it.”

Nesryn gave her a sad smile. “I know Manon. Thank you for this.” Then she turned away and ran back to the first warehouse.

Coughing rang out behind her and she turned to find a large number of people exiting a building. Theo took off past them into the last slave warehouse, leaving them to cough and shiver and stare at her. Shit, she thought, wishing Nesryn had stayed. These people were broken and terrified. Mostly from what the witches had done to their city. There was no way they’d trust her. She scanned their faces, feeling a peculiar, little stab from each look of fear and hatred. Each set of eyes that narrowed. Each that widened. Each that darted around for escape.

There was one face that surprised her. A little girl looked out from behind her mother’s skirts. Her eyes were wide, but not in terror. She was curious. And the more she looked at Manon with those dark, questioning eyes, the more Manon became intrigued. Unable to tell if the girl’s hair was brown from dirt or it’s natural color, Manon inwardly cringed as she examined the rest of her - torn, dingy clothing, no shoes, skin and bones.

Manon smiled at her, ignoring the mother’s attempts to hide her daughter. “I’m here with King Dorian,” she said softly. Somehow, the girl’s eyes got bigger. As did Manon’s smile. “And Captain Faliq from the Royal Guard. We’re going to get you out of here.”

“How?” she asked in a louder voice than Manon expected. The adults and other children shuffled around her, whispering and spreading word back into the crowd.

Oh, she realized, wondering how much to tell them. She didn’t want to make them panic by blurting out Magic! And she also didn’t want to bring up the after-effects of winnowing. Some sick, pissed off humans in exchange for freedom seemed a small price, and one she was willing to pay. Stepping forward, but not too close, she went down on a knee in front of the girl. “What’s your name?”

Before her mother could stop her, she said, “Poppy.”

Manon smiled warmly. “Like the flower?” Poppy nodded. “That’s one of my favorites. My wyvern loves wildflowers. In fact, he loves nothing more than to lay in the sun surrounded by flowers. Have you ever flown before?” It seemed a risky question considering recent events, and one she already knew the answer to. But this small girl was brave.

The girl gasped. “No!” All fear forgotten, her mother stared daggers at Manon.

So that’s where she gets it, Manon thought. With a breathy laugh, she said, “Well, I won’t be flying you out exactly, but it will be close. Do you want to try?”

Now, Poppy looked up to her mother for permission. The woman clearly didn’t know how to respond, struggling to decide if Manon was playing with them or being truthful.

She stood. “It’s the fastest way,” Manon said apologetically. “But you will all be safe. I promise.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. How could she promise them that? She didn’t even know how many she could take, let alone where they’d end up. But she did know she would do everything she could to help them. She owed them that.

“Where are you taking us?” Poppy’s mother asked.

The question spoke of acceptance, and Manon fought the urge to thank the woman for it. “To Terrasen. We have forces there. From all over Erilea, Wendlyn, and the Southern Continent.” She paused then added, “And the Wastes. Not all of the Ironteeth are with Erawan. I have a witch army who flies with your King.”

Gasps and murmurs spread through the crowd, which had grown with the addition of the people from the last warehouse. Manon caught Poppy admiring Wind Cleaver. Her mother noticed too. With a tight smile, she asked, “So we will be able to fight? Once we get there? Anyone who is willing?”

Now Manon was admiring this woman, who was braver than she first appeared. And who had instilled that same courage in her daughter. “Yes.”

Voices rumbled again, this time filled with fiery determination.

Theo arrived and began leading everyone back to the first building were Nesryn was waiting. As the small, fierce girl looked back to her as she was led away. Manon prayed to the Three-Faced Goddess, and every other deity she knew of, that she’d be able to keep her promise.

Asterin was past losing her patience and quickly moving into pissed off territory. Manon had been gone for over twenty minutes and there had been nothing to draw the guards away from the tower. Dorian, able to sense that she was alive through their bond, was still as a statue as she paced around him. He’d reached out to Manon but hadn’t received a reply. Neither knew what was going on and they were running out of time. Through the tower’s frame, she glimpsed one of the warships docked nearby and made a decision.

“You can shield me from a distance right?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper.

Dorian nodded slowly, his brows drawn together in confusion. ”Where are you going?”

She pointed to the ship, then unclipped a pouch from her belt and dangled it in his face. Making sure there were no guards close, she winked at him and slipped out of the tower. His muffled curse brought a smile to her face.

A small group of demon soldiers stood off to the side of the dock leading out to the ship’s ramp. Asterin paused, then tossed a pebble into some barrels sitting nearby. They all turned and she passed by them, stepping lightly so the dock wouldn’t creak and give her away. Dorian’s magic made her invisible, but there were plenty of ways her movements could reverberate and make her presence known.

She didn’t know what she’d do if the ship was fully manned, but she was hoping she wouldn’t have to actually get on board. Each team had brought weapons provided by Sartaq via his sister. Not firelances, but they operated on a similar principle, with a slightly different execution. Fire orbs were palm-sized, powder-filled metal balls. A wick poked out of one side, causing one hell of an impressive explosion when lit.

Asterin was an ace at archery and almost as good as the Demon Twins when it came to a thrown dagger. She’d hoped to come across a few open portholes, thinking a blast from within would do more damage. But they were all sealed along the first third of the ship, and she wasn’t going to keep looking. She crouched, setting the four orbs in a row at her feet. Luckily, there was no wind as she struck her flint. She knew this wasn’t the safest way to use these things, but she didn’t have the time to care. The sparks caught on all four of the wicks and in quick succession, she tossed them up onto the deck, spreading them out along the length of the warship.

At the sound of shouted alarms, she turned to dive off the dock, but the first one must have exploded on impact. A hot blast of air threw her face first into the water before a wall of flames followed. Foggy-headed from the force of smacking the water, she stayed submerged and pushed herself back along the dock supports, watching the fire overhead. She felt the other explosions as underwater waves hurled debris in all directions and realized there must have been firelances or other explosives on the ship. One fire orb probably would have been enough, she thought angrily as she broke the surface a fair distance from the burning ship.

Asterin made her way along the wharf, hiding in the darkness and swimming from pile to pile away from the chaos. She hoped Dorian was already moving the mirrors and getting his ass to the boat. With him shielded, she had no way to check on him and she wasn’t going to risk returning to the tower. He’d have no problem getting to the other end of the waterfront, and the others would be well positioned to make it to the schooner since all the soldiers were busy dealing with this mess.

When she reached the schooner, she swam to the side opposite the fire and climbed a rope onto the deck. The mirrors, including the four largest, were arranged in neat, low rows. Wood creaked behind her and she spun, a dagger at the ready.

“It’s me,” Dorian said, before dropping his shield.

Asterin exhaled loudly and returned the dagger to its sheath. Looking down at the mirrors, she said, “Ok, you’re good.”

Dorian grinned. “You too,” he said, turning towards the blazing ship. Soldiers were scrambling all over that end of the harbor. “Although, I think the ends of your braids got a little singed.”

“Shit,” she muttered, pulling her hair around to find some frayed edges sticking out from the plaits. Twisting to look down her back, she saw that her shirt was blackened from the explosion. “I guess we know that Crochan shield doesn’t work against fire.”

Dorian wasn’t paying attention as he looked around the otherwise empty deck of their ship. “No one else is here yet.”

Asterin said, “Surely she heard the explosion. They’re probably on their way. Can you reach her?”

He shook his head and turned in a circle, worry starting to break through his calm demeanor.

“Is she out of range or something? Preventing you from talking to her?” Asterin didn’t know how this aspect of the mating bond worked. “Is she hurt? You can tell right?”

Instinctively, they both ducked as another blast radiated from the warship. The glow from the flames illuminated most of the harbor. Dorian stayed down, hiding behind the side of the ship and Asterin crawled over to join him, each of them shifting their attention between the warship and the direction from which they expected the others.

“I’d be able to feel it. At least,” he turned back to the warehouses lining the dock, “if she was hurt badly. I’ve tried speaking through the bond but I’m not getting anything back. One of the others could be in trouble and we wouldn’t know.”

Shit. She didn’t know how long they could wait. Though, there was no question that’s what they’d do.

Manon doubled over, almost going to her knees. Most of the people in the group she’d just winnowed were doing the same, except several were retching loudly. She wasn’t sick. She was just too weak to stand upright. And had no idea how much more she could endure. Those made sick from the travel were being helped by the first Adarlanians she’d transported. The injured and elderly were also being attended to, while some older children had been sent to find water.

The cave proved to be too far. Thank the Goddess it was night and she’d landed on a deserted cliff overlooking the sea and bordering a dense forest. And thank the Goddess someone in the group recognized their location - north of Meah and close to the Terrasen border. That old woman, Philippa, had essentially taken charge as Manon brought more and more to the site. She’d told Manon they’d wait in the forest through the coming day before eventually heading north. Of course, crossing the border didn’t mean they’d be out of danger. But they were all relieved to be free of the hellish warehouses and the valg.

She’d managed to transport most of the people, though she’d lost count of the number of trips. More than ten. Maybe fourteen? Fifteen? All she knew was that this last had almost been one too many.

Just as she’d been ready to winnow, a blast to rival Kaltain’s destruction of Morath sounded from the direction of the water. Nesryn, cool-headed as always, had immediately sent Theo and two others to see what was happening, then assigned more people as look-outs. Manon’s stomach had flipped at the possibility that something happened to Dorian and Asterin. But she didn’t sense anything wrong in the cariad bond. Or in her bond with Asterin. When the men reported back that a warship, not the mirror tower, was on fire and still exploding, Nesryn had wanted her to stay. But there were several injured yet to take and she wasn’t going to leave them here and risk trying to get them to their ship. “I can take two more groups”, she’d told Nesryn. “Get Lyra and the others ready to go to the schooner.”

And now, she wasn’t sure if she had enough magic to get back.

As she caught her breath, Manon glanced over to where Poppy sat with her mother. The little girl had held up well but her mother still looked a bit green. Poppy had watched Manon’s every move each time she appeared.

“Is your magic better than flying on a wyvern?” she asked.

Giving up the pretense of strength, Manon sighed and sat back in the tall grass, grateful for the distraction and the chance to rest. “It’s faster. That’s the only advantage. That and situations like this. But I don’t know what I’d do without my wyvern.”

Poppy was quiet for a moment before asking, “Do you really have iron teeth?”

Manon looked at the girl’s mother. The woman’s head rested heavily on her bent knees and she shrugged her shoulders as if to say Go ahead. With a snap of her jaw, iron teeth slid out and she grinned. Not maliciously, if that was possible with knife-sharp teeth, but so Poppy could see them. The girl’s mouth fell open and she ran over to sit in front of her. “I have these too,” Manon said, flicking her wrists to let her nails pop out.

Utterly captivated, the girl didn’t know where to look, at Manon’s teeth or hands. Manon thought she was about to reach out and touch the fingernails when Poppy asked, “Do you use them a lot?”

Not like I used to, Manon thought. “Only when I have to,” she said.

“Poppy? Come on, let’s move into the woods with the others,” her mother called. The girl frowned but stood and ran back quickly to help the woman rise. Before they turned to leave, the woman said, “Thank you.”

The words, unexpected and unnecessary, struck Manon in her core. Where my dead, shriveled heart lay… she thought out of nowhere. It was something she would have said only months ago. So much had changed. And so much for the better. “What’s your name?”

“Celie Anders.” She glanced at her daughter. “My husband was taken by Erawan’s army when they invaded. We owned a flower shop, but he had a little magic…” She didn’t finish, pulling Poppy closer against her side.

Manon hesitated, not sure if she should tell the woman what they were really doing in Rifthold, what it could mean for her husband. If he was still alive. And then if he survived long enough. “There are forces in Suria and Orynth. Mine are in Perranth. Maybe we’ll see each other soon, Celie.” Manon dipped her head and touched her fingers to her temple.

The woman had no way of knowing what the gesture meant, but she smiled and said, “I have family in Perranth.” Poppy grinned and waved goodbye as they turned and walked into the forest.

Philippa was watching her from a distance. With more effort than expected, Manon stood and walked slowly over to the woman. “I won’t be able to bring anymore. We’ll take the rest with us on the ship we’ve secured. I’ll try to find you as soon as my magic is restored. But in the meantime, stay hidden and make your way north.”

She nodded then asked, “Back in Rifthold, you said the King is with you? He is alive and well?”

“Yes, he’s safe.” Saying it made her realize she actually didn’t know if that was true, and she ached to get back to him. The relief that flooded Philippa’s face made her ask, “You know him?”

“Since he was born,” she said, a tear about to fall down her hollow cheek. “I was a servant in the castle.”

Gods. Manon felt dizzy, wondering how many more times she could be shocked tonight.

“I helped look after him as a boy, and more recently. Until the witches…” She stopped herself, remembering to whom she now spoke. But she wiped her eyes and stood a little straighter. “Thank you, Lady. For all you’ve done. Please tell him… Tell him I am relieved to know he is safe.”

Again, she wasn’t sure how much to say. And again, she opted to forego the details. “I will, Philippa. I’m certain he will be happy to know you are safe as well. If I’m not able to get back to you, head to Perranth. Chaol Westfall is there along with some others who escaped from Adarlan.”

Philippa took Manon’s hands in hers and held them tightly as more tears appeared. “Thank you.”

“I wish I could have done more,” she said, marveling at the strength in the hands wrapped around her own. “Be careful. I will find you as soon as I can.” Philippa gave one last squeeze before dropping her grasp. Manon stepped back, willing herself to keep a straight face. A moment later, she vanished.

The black tunnel of wind in which she traveled was noticeably slower and Manon found herself having to land before her planned destination. She had no idea where she was, but she took cover in a copse of trees, Wind Cleaver at the ready. All was quiet except for the cries of a young owl and the prey scurrying from its hunting parents. She needed to rest before trying to winnow again, but she had to get back before things turned worse. Though, she didn’t know how that was possible. Their mission had gone from a simple plan of magic spells, to saving not only the mirrors, but a few hundred humans enslaved by Erawan. And Dorian and Asterin weren’t even aware of that last part. Not to mention that blast had to have drawn loads of unwanted attention to the harbor.

Manon stood on shaky legs, willing every ounce of magic left in her imaginary cauldron to bubble to the surface. She thought of Dorian, and Asterin, and the others, hoping it might help her focus and get to Rifthold in one final trip. It took all of her concentration, but a few minutes later, she disappeared.

She landed hard, falling into the side of a building with a groan then sliding down onto her ass. Nesryn came running from around a corner.

“You’re done,” she said quietly. “You’ve gotten all the weakest ones out. That’s enough.” Although she agreed with her, Manon managed the briefest of glares as she looked up from where she now knelt on the ground. “I don’t care if you’re pissed at me,” Nesryn continued. “That’s fine. If it means you’re alive.”

Manon laughed. “If one of my Thirteen spoke to me that way…” But she was too weak to finish.

Nesryn just smiled at her. “You’ll have to make me an honorary member then if you want to reprimand me.”

“Maybe I will,” Manon replied, to Nesryn’s obvious delight. “But right now, let’s get out of here.”

She helped Manon stand and they walked slowly around the corner to where the remaining humans waited – Theo and about forty strong looking men and women. No weapons. She hoped the valg were too busy with the fire to get in their way. And she prayed no more showed up.

At the thought, Manon asked, “What’s happening with the fire?” She noticed Lyra already there and was glad to see her walking. Though she looked better than the last time Manon had seen her, she didn’t seem like she’d be of much use if they needed to fight their way out of here.

“Still burning. And attracting a lot of attention,” a woman replied. “We’ve scouted out the most direct route to your ship. We should get going.”

“Lead the way,” Manon said.

“There!” Dorian hissed. “I see Nesryn. And… What the…?”

Asterin turned away from the distant flames to where Dorian was pointing. Nesryn was crouched between two low warehouses, a small crowd of figures behind her. No sign of Manon.

“Who is with her?” Asterin asked. Dorian sighed impatiently and gave her a withering look, his earlier calm eaten away from their anxious waiting. “Ok, ok. You don’t know.”

Manon finally came into view, leaning on a large man. Dorian was still for several moments and Asterin remembered their bond. As Nesryn stepped out into the wide open expanse between the buildings and their ship, Dorian spoke quietly. “I’m shielding her.” Asterin kept her daggers ready and watched the young woman move fast on silent feet. “They found people being held as slaves. Manon winnowed as many as she could out of the city. She didn’t say how far or how many, but she’s drained.”

Asterin released her held breath at the news. Nesryn made her way on board and handed over the arrows Asterin had lent her. Gods that felt like hours ago, Asterin thought, joining Nesryn at the bow of the ship. Both had their strings loaded, arrows aimed in the direction of the burning ship in case any soldiers decided to come their way. Dorian shielded the group as they began the dash to the schooner.

They were halfway to the start of the dock when a shout echoed from within the narrow alleys between the warehouses. A soldier came running out into the open, sword raised. Nesryn’s arrow went right through his windpipe, cutting off his alarm call, but not taking him down. Asterin aimed and released. Two heavy shafts sliced through his neck on either side of Nesryn’s shot, and the thing’s head peeled away and thudded on the ground. With the fire still raging on the warship, the other soldiers stationed further down the docks hadn’t heard him. But then she saw the others who had been behind him.

“Shit… Hurry up,” Asterin groaned under her breath, as Manon and the humans finally reached the dock where their schooner was berthed. She and Nesryn took out each soldier as they stepped into view. Their arrows were nothing but blurs that moved from the quivers strapped to their hips, onto their bows, then into their enemy below. Asterin thought idly what Nesryn might do with a witch’s immortal strength and senses, then realized those things probably wouldn’t do much to improve her already incredible skill. With every shot, a valg soldier fell. Although an arrow wasn’t enough to kill the demons, they did enough damage to immobilize them, and just as importantly, silence them.

Leaving the few remaining soldiers to Asterin, Nesryn turned away and called out orders to the man who had helped Manon on-board. The humans scrambled to various ropes and lines, those familiar with sailing directing those who weren’t. Within minutes, sails were raised and the schooner was unmoored and pulling away from the dock. Nesryn returned and they stood at the edge, watching for more soldiers, but none came.

“Is Dorian shielding this whole boat?” Asterin asked, still waiting for the enemy to resume its attack.

“He must be,” Nesryn said, her eyes never leaving the receding line of warehouses. “They can’t be that blind. Even with the fire. They’d have to see a ship this size leaving.” She licked her finger and held it above her head, then gave Asterin a look of confirmation. As an archer, she knew the gesture. There was no wind. Yet, the boat was gaining speed as it neared the buoys marking shallow sections of the bay.

“If he keeps this up, we might make it back to the cave before the others.” She caught the edge of concern on Nesryn’s brow and laid a hand on her shoulder. “If anything happened to them, we’d know. This tower would have been overrun with valg.”

Nesryn gave her a quick smile, then nodded to her bow. “You’re amazing by the way. Do you offer lessons?”

Asterin laughed. “I may have a few years on you, but I’m not sure I can show you anything new.”

The Captain rolled her eyes. “Your shot that ricocheted off the side of the building into that crouching soldier. You can teach me that.” She glanced up behind Asterin’s shoulder and said, “The crow’s nest is a good spot. Want to take turns? I’ll take first watch.”

They didn’t have many arrows left, so Asterin handed her few over and said, “I’ll look around and see if I can find more. This is a merchant ship but there should be some weapons stored somewhere.” She needed to check on Manon too. Once Nesryn started climbing the mast, Asterin took off below deck.

She found Manon sleeping on a cot in what must have been the captain’s quarters. Dorian sat next to her, his head down, concentrating on maintaining the magic that was keeping them not only hidden, but moving.

“I can sit with her if it’s easier for you to be above,” she offered, hoping her voice didn’t betray her longing. She’d missed Manon so much in the past couple of months. And they’d hardly had any time together before leaving on this mission. While she loved the excitement that came from battle, Asterin found herself wishing for a quiet moment with her cousin.

Dorian rubbed his temples and stood. “Thank you. She just needs rest, and then food. I was going to find her some water but…” He squeezed his eyes shut in what was either pain or focus.

She touched his arm and he eased a bit. “I’ve got this. Maybe you should stick to hiding us now that we’re leaving the port. We can rely on whatever wind there is from here on out.” He thanked her again, kissed Manon’s forehead, and then took his leave.

Asterin sat in the chair and leaned it back against the wall. Manon was dead to the world. And no wonder. She must have taken a couple hundred people out of the city. She huffed a laugh, thinking about Manon’s orders not to destroy Rifthold when they’d been sent to sack it. That disobedience had been veiled in her hatred for the Yellowlegs and desire to keep them from glory. But really, it had been about saving Dorian and his city. At least, saving it from the worst that could happen.

They’d been too late to prevent that though. Had this been repayment for that failure, Asterin wondered? A way to show the humans that some witches truly were their allies? Or had it been because Manon just felt that it was the right thing to do? Both? Without the Matron hanging like a black, rotten weight from Manon’s heart, what was her cousin capable of?

Anything, she thought, pride and love swelling inside her chest. She can do anything.

To be continued…

#manorian #asterin blackbeak #manon blackbeak #dorian havilliard #manorian fanfiction #child of peace #nesryn faliq #gavriel #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #tog #tog fanfiction #my writing #child of peace rekindled #I am an unashamed nesryn fangirl!#and asterin has joined the fan club

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meggannn · 7 years

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i just finished the turian ark quest again and sorry here’s a sad shakarian andromeda au

shepard left the milky way after either being dishonorably discharged or choosing to depart out of guilt or atonement for her actions at torfan. alec ryder recruited her as a fellow n7 after he is discharged for his illegal ai research, and though shepard isn’t entirely sold on the initiative, she has nothing left for her in the milky way and alec makes the case that with her talents she might do more good in andromeda, so she accepts his offer of becoming second in command.

shepard is hastily made pathfinder after the entire ryder family is killed when the hyperion collides with the scourge. younger than alec but not inexperienced, she leads harper and kosta, along with a skeleton crew of specialized combatants she vets personally including a young asari archaeologist who wants to open the first andromeda university and an old grizzled krogan vet who’s tired of watching his people kill themselves in the milky way (cough), and travels across the galaxy to eliminate the kett and eventually make tentative peace with the angara. it’s not ideal, she misses the her old life so much it hurts, but she’s doing what she can.

and then an sos pinging as a private natanus comm signal reaches the tempest

she follows it to, oddly, havarl, where a former c-sec officer garrus vakarian is leading a ragtag group of turian fighters, also awakened from pods, against the roekaar. they’ve been out here for weeks, vakarian explains, and his dad, castis, is the turian pathfinder. despite orders, before entering cryosleep garrus installed personal trackers in his and his sister’s suits in case of emergency if they were separated on landing – which is exactly what happened. but we don’t have a ship and we’ve being tracked on foot by unknown hostiles for weeks, we’re running out of dextro supplies and oh spirits someone finally showed up. you’re the human pathfinder? the human ark landed? well if you’re willing to help i’m not gonna complain. got any spare clips?

after rescuing what remains of the group from the roekaar (during which garrus may or may not suffer a serious injury and nearly be killed…… um) they track garrus’s faint signal to what was once called habitat-5, but now appears to be a debris field after being pulverized with the scourge. the natanus readings are everywhere across this system: with garrus’s tracker they rescue dozens of pods, but find hundreds more floating and lifeless, thousands still unaccounted for. most concerning, the ark itself is still missing. with the destruction of habitat-5, the initiative has no locatable world capable of supporting dextro life, and the more pods they recover, the less space and resources there are on the nexus for the awakening turians and soon-to-be-arriving quarians. efforts are made to relocate as many turians as they can to colonies, but the majority of those recovered are weak from their time afloat in space and need the medical expertise and support of the resources on the nexus to fully heal, further draining resources on the already straining station.

vakarian is better at hiding it than most, but shepard is well aware how to read anxiety in all species of soldiers. his focus is fixed on discovering what remains of the turian ark, and with it, his family, but they both know finding his father and sister will be useless if turians have nowhere to live when they’re rescued.

then one day, a salarian team discovers a pod labeled ‘vakarian, solana’ floating adrift in slow orbit over a gaseous moon. it’s been powerless for months.

shepard finds him in the drive core, fooling with something on the console. she knows busywork when she sees it.

“here.” she hands him a bottle of palaveni horosk that nyx had managed to scrounge up last month and handed to her with a meaningful look that morning. “i was saving it for when we found natanus and rescued everyone inside and became big damn heroes. but i think you deserve it. you can keep it to yourself if you like, i won’t tell anyone.”

vakarian stares at the bottle she’s placed in his palm for several long, unblinking moments, then sighs and tosses it back, draining half of it in one long swig. he caps what remains and places it on the edge of the console, away from any sensitive tech that might get unhappy when wet.

“my dad’s still out there,” he says hoarsely. he’s staring at the bottle and the six-hundred-year-old brand label, probably out of business by now back home, distilleries left to waste and the name all but forgotten in obscure academic records. “i know the odds. i don’t need anyone to tell me what we’ll probably find out there. and yet – i just found my sister’s corpse in a frozen glass pod, the last words she said to me were ‘they’ll wake me up first so i can say i’m older than you in this galaxy, too.’ now have to plan her funeral on – on a negative budget with no place to bury her. and part of me still has the audacity to hope, about my dad. and it’s the worst thing i’ve done to myself. but i can’t stop.”

shepard doesn’t know how to tell him she well understands without crossing emotional boundaries that might be… inappropriate, to a race such as the turians. “you haven’t heard anything else from him on the private link you installed?”

vakarian shakes his head once.

“you will,” she says.

“shepard,” he says.

“if he’s anything like you,” she says, “you will.”

he laughs briefly, without humor.

“even if he’s still alive, where are we going to put fifteen thousand colonists?” he still isn’t looking at her. “we have no planet for dextro life, commander. the only one was blasted into debris by that – fucking dark cloud, whatever the hell it is. i woke up and survived off rations from my pod and found other survivors and kept them alive as long as i could, and they only followed because they believed me when i said the nexus would have a plan, and things would get better. but we were hunted in the dark one by one by foreign snipers, and when we found civilization – found you, we found the nexus was just as desperate for dextro resources as we were. no help’s coming. we’re on our own.”

shepard grips the edge of his carapace gently, and turns him toward her.

“you’re a part of this crew, vakarian,” she tells him, “and you will have what you need when you’re under my command. that includes weapons and mods so that you can kill as many kett as you want. that includes dextro supplies and rations, so that you have enough strength to tear the galaxy apart until you find your family. and it includes someone to talk to, so that even if you think you don’t need it, you know it’s there if you do.” she lets go of his collar and eases a step away. “and if you’re going to stay, you’re free to call me shepard. god knows the rest of this ship did without invitation.”

he blinks, slowly. “commander – ”

“shepard.”

“ma’am,” he says slightly mollified, and she decides not to push it today. “your ship is the top of her class. i’d be honored continue working on her. but i knew when you took me on this was a temporary assignment. you agreed to help me only so far as we reached the natanus, and it’s… clear that’s not happening any time soon. it would be a strain on your – i should be reassigned on the nexus given the circumstances.”

“the tempest has priority clearance to equip its med bay and galley with whatever dextro supplies my team requires,” shepard continues as though he has said nothing. “we already have one turian in the cargo bay. she knows how to share. quite frankly, i’m sure the nexus won’t mind if we take another off their hands and put him to productive work on the initiative’s most advanced starship.”

he stares at her for another long moment. turians have such steady, piercing blue eyes, she thinks – against hard plated faces and their metallic exterior, especially one with a hawke-like sniper’s patience such as garrus, sometimes their eyes are the only part of them that seem vibrantly alive.

“my father,” he starts again, then stops. his brow shifts just the slightest, tensing; he can’t seem to bring himself to continue.

“we’ll find him,” shepard says again. “i can’t promise that the answers will be what you want. but we will.”

vakarian seems to believe that, at least. he draws up to full height, exhales, and then grasps her palm. “then thank you, comma – shepard.” he tilts his head slightly, as though he’s considering her. “you know, when you say it, i almost believe it.”

“i’ve been told i have that effect on people.” she waves with a finger to the forgotten bottle on the console. “you going to finish that?”

“yes,” he says, and makes no move to do so. his mandibles flare in what she recognizes as a turian version of a smile. “but then please call me garrus. it might make things easier to get into the habit before we meet up with my father. being called ‘big vakarian’ and ‘little vakarian’ was only amusing for so long back in c-sec.”

fair enough. “i imagine you must take after him too, then.”

“you shouldn’t have trouble telling us apart, ma’am,” garrus vakarian says, and in a single motion reaches back a hand to grasp the bottle and point the tip toward her, an offer. his mandibles are still flared, eyes warm. if she didn’t know any better, she might call it – cheeky. “i’m the good looking one.”

#fic snippets #shakarian #mea #i'm sorry sol...#i love you i promise you're alive and happy in my next fic #and wow that was really inappropriate to hit on your CO garrus #but tbf she did bring you a beer and you were always very easily influenced by beautiful women #long post #sigh I wrote this at 2am and reading over now it's terrible sorry #anyone want to take it off my hands be my guest

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bharatiyamedia-blog · 5 years

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Braving hardships, prospect of demise, report variety of Indians journey the hellish street to American paradise

http://tinyurl.com/y6ajlh6a There have been our bodies, he remembers, rotting alongside the trail by the forest; pilgrims who had fallen earlier than they reached the promised land. The journey had been murderous: fifteen thousand kilometres by air, then 1,800 extra by street; 1,500 kilometres in a leaky fishing boat; 2,900 kilometres caught at the back of vehicles, greater than 100 kilometres tramping by savage jungles. There had been beatings, hunger, and jail camps. Lastly, as he stood within the shadow of a two-metre excessive metal and concrete wall operating throughout the desert, Sandeep Singh realised he’d arrived on the gates of paradise. The demise of a seven-year-old lady final month, who hailed from Punjab, travelling together with her mom as a part of a bunch of 5 unlawful migrants who entered the US of America from Mexico, introduced consideration to the big dangers taken by the a whole bunch of hundreds from internationally who journey to different international locations in search of prosperity. Gurpreet Kaur’s tragic demise, although, is a part of a far bigger story. In recent times, the numbers of Indians paying to be trafficked by central America into the US has exploded. For migrants, paying from Rs 20 lakh to Rs 25 lakh for a shot at a brand new life is a calculated gamble—but it surely’s a raffle fastidiously arrange in order that traffickers, drug cartels, unscrupulous immigration attorneys and apathetic state police forces at all times win. Yearly, tens of hundreds of vacationers arrive in Ecuador, heading out to the Galápagos islands, the glacier-studded Cotopaxi volcano, the higher reaches of the Amazon. Late on the night time of 17 Might, 2015, when Surinder Singh boarded his flight from Bangalore to Quito, by way of Frankfurt, he had solely good cause to make the journey: the south American nation doesn’t ask Indian nationals for visas—not even these just a few months in need of 18. There was, because the journey agent in Hoshiarpur had promised {the teenager}’s dad and mom, a person ready for him at Mariscal Sucre Worldwide Airport. Mahinder Singh, Surinder’s father, had offered off land to make the passage potential; the household had been assured the Rs 0.25 lakh payment included border-to-border transit. Following an evening in a Quito lodge room, the place he flushed his passport and identification papers down the bathroom, Surinder discovered himself being bussed right down to Guayaquil, gateway to the Galapagos. Then, he was placed on a ship headed north throughout the Pacific, packed into the maintain with some 25 different migrants. “In case you fall overboard”, Surinder remembers the boat’s captain telling them, “I’m not going to fish you out”. “They handed out some beer, to maintain us going by the journey. I drank a whole lot of it”. Mexican police stand in entrance of the border wall between the US and Mexico. Representational picture. Reuters The boat landed on an deserted seashore south of the small city of La Palma in Panama—the spearhead of a wave, although Surinder Singh didn’t understand it then, of greater than 60,000 migrants from internationally, who would cross by the roadless, and lawless, equatorial forest of the notorious Darien Hole. “We camped out on the seashore that night time”, Surinder Singh remembers, “bitten by bugs, not understanding what to do or the place to go”. Then, three guides arrived who would lead them on a brutal, four-day march throughout the mountains and rivers of the Darien. Gangs of armed Colombians and Panamanians—drug traffickers utilizing the identical routes because the migrants—usually attacked the migrants, Surinder Singh remembers. “A gaggle of Indians travelling forward of us”, Singh says, “had all their cash taken away. There was a lady with them, however the attackers didn’t need her cash”. He doesn’t clarify additional. “Each day, we’d see the our bodies of those that had not been capable of sustain”, he says, “Each day, I’d suppose: why I’m doing this”? The group’s information left them on the finish of the trek by the Darien hole, saying he wanted to scout the best way forward. He returned an hour later—main Panamanian border guards. *** Terminal dehydration, so consultants say, is among the many extra light methods to die. Kaur would have stopped sweating, and as her blood stress dropped, she would have misplaced consciousness. The kid, extra probably than not, would have skilled little ache as blood stopped flowing to nonvital organs, such because the kidneys; identified nothing of the dramatic build-up of poisons in her physique, main on to a number of organ failure. Left by his information, a small-time drug runner, in entrance of the concrete-and-steel mesh wall separating the town of El Paso from Mexico, Sandeep Singh had no intention of risking demise by crossing the desert. As a substitute, he walked to the closest United States border guard outpost—and surrendered. Making certain his first steps in the US would contain handcuffs was, in reality, key to the plans crafted by Sandeep’s trafficker in Kapurthala. To immigration officers in Harlingen, within the Rio Grande valley, Sandeep mentioned he was at risk due to his connections to the Khalistan motion. That, in flip, allowed him to file for political asylum, utilizing a lawyer organized by the trafficker. There are not any police data or newspaper data in Kapurthala, a Punjab Police spokesperson advised Firspost, indicating the New Jersey resident, then simply 20 years, had ever been linked to political violence—however then, the asylum system doesn’t contain transnational investigation. In immigration court docket late in 2011, some three months after he was arrested, Sandeep was launched on a bail-bond set at $40,000. The assure was posted by United States residents claiming to be a relative, additionally organized by the Kapurthala trafficker. Let free on situation he put on a satellite-tracking system—ultimately eliminated after he appeared for scheduled hearings—Sandeep succeeded in acquiring permission to work. Harlingen, native information studies counsel, continues to see a gentle stream of Indians, a few of whom start their new life working at native Indian-owned motels. There are others who head to dwell with pals or kinfolk elsewhere in the US, simply as Sandeep did. He now works at a trucking enterprise in New Jersey, and is assured he’ll achieve everlasting resident standing. “I knew it had price my household some huge cash to get me right here”, Sandeep says, “so I lived frugally, sharing a flat with six different boys from Punjab and spending nearly nothing on myself. I labored onerous on development websites, and managed to pay again the Rs 22 lakh my household paid inside 5 years”. “Look”, he says, “I don’t have an schooling, or a enterprise. I may have labored twice as onerous in Kapurthala, however I’d by no means be making the cash I do as we speak”. That is, clearly, logic that appeals to quite a lot of. The USA arrested 8,997 Indians on the south-west border in 2018, up from 2,493 in 2017, and simply 76 in 2007. Indians made up a tiny fraction of the 396,579 unlawful migrants of all nationalities arrested on the south-west border final 12 months—however given the prices and distances concerned, the surge is startling. Kaur’s father—one-time Punjab resident Amardeep Singh—maybe had a lot the identical concept. He arrived in the US in 2013, and like Sandeep, is awaiting the result of a political asylum utility claiming he faces persecution in India. Kaur’s mom, Surinder Kaur, Indian diplomatic sources say, paid traffickers to assist the household reunite. Household land, once more, appear to have paid the traffickers’ charges. From the information, it’s clear the possibilities of an Indian migrant gaining asylum aren’t unhealthy. Forty-two p.c of Indian asylum seekers’ functions heard in court docket between 2012 and 2017 have been rejected—higher than even odds, and no small achievement provided that eight in ten functions from conflict-torn international locations like Haiti and Mexico failed. A part of the reason being that the US’ asylum course of—arguably perversely, for a system meant to defend probably the most weak—advantages those that can entry, or afford, attorneys. Practically half of all asylum functions by people with authorized illustration succeed; 9 out of ten candidates with authorized support succeed. Indian asylum functions are, to these accustomed to the area, usually weird. In a single 2011 case, reviewed by Firstpost, Bharat Panchal claimed he’d fled India due to political violence directed at Hindus in Gujarat. In one other, a 27-year-old girl from Punjab claimed she’d been gang-raped as a result of her husband labored for the Indian Nationwide Congress. There are instances filed claiming to be in danger for supporting Khalistan, for supporting the Bharatiya Janata Social gathering, even for caste-related points. “I will not take their instances anymore”, Texas immigration lawyer Cathy Potter advised the Los Angeles Occasions in 2011. “It undermines my credibility. I do not need something to do with this”. “Acqua Fresca della noce di cocco”, shouts out Harvinder Pal, in Punjabi-accented Italian, “acqua fresca, Coca, birra”. Nobody on the shopping center in New Delhi’s Pitampura space even pauses to look, assuming, not unreasonably, that he’s both drunk or excessive. “I spent three months promoting beer and gentle drinks at a nude seashore”, he says.” I harvested fruits, I labored on development websites and I even made 300 chapatis a day for different unlawful employees from India”. “Each night time, I’d dream that the subsequent day, some lovely, wealthy girl at that seashore would say, ‘Harry, please marry me’. After which, I’d have a visa. Insanity, no?” For a lot of the 20th century, Indians have gone west in quest of wealth. Indus river boatmen who misplaced out when the Lahore-Karachi railroad was constructed within the 19th century, for instance, discovered work as coal-stokers on Britain’s service provider fleet. An ethnic colony of some measurement had begun to evolve within the port of Sydney early within the 1800s, and enclaves of Mirpuris additionally emerged in the UK in the course of the Second World Warfare. Sikhs within the US arrange farms and houses in California, till race legal guidelines stopped their migration in 1907. Punjabis from the Doaba, equally, helped meet the wants of Nice Britain’s factories within the years of business enlargement that adopted 1945. Remittances from these social teams even performed an essential function in facilitating the Inexperienced Revolution—and proceed to be the supply of prosperity and status as we speak. Fragmenting landholdings, the dearth of entrepreneurial expertise, even drug and alcohol points — all these have ensured that a big cohort of small-town younger folks in areas like Punjab, Haryana and even Gujarat merely can’t replicate the successes of their dad and mom’ era. That, in flip, has led some to take extraordinary dangers. Regardless of the deaths of a whole bunch of younger Punjabis, would-be unlawful immigrants when their ship went below within the Ionian Sea in 1996, and the occasional disappearance of travellers in Mexico, the stream continues. Sandeep Singh spent 4 weeks in what he calls Camp I, and one other in Camp IV, after his arrest in Panama—going through beatings from native border guards, earlier than lastly being thrown out throughout the border into Mexico, together with an awesome tide of tens of hundreds of different migrants who merely overwhelmed the nation’s capability to manage again in 2015. Set free of the camp with hundreds of others, he made it to Mexico, and is now working in New York, awaiting the result of his asylum utility. Little has modified since. Tapachula, the primary stopping level in Mexico for tens of hundreds who’ve crossed the Darien Hole, even has eating places serving South Asian meals. Siglo XXI, Tapachula’s migrant detention centre, is holding ever-greater numbers of migrants, below stress from the US—however riots which have damaged out repeatedly by the summer season present overcrowding has now reached not possible ranges. There’s no clear image of precisely what number of Indians are stranded in these camps. Few in them disclose their actual names or nationalities to authorities, for concern of deportation residence. Even when they did, India has little interest in paying for the return of migrants, who in any case haven’t any want to come residence. Contained in the nation, police forces principally ignore human traffickers: the one victims of those criminals are, in any case, enthusiastic volunteers. Little Gurpreet Kaur’s demise ought have some which means, but it surely gained’t: the greenback is a hungry god, and all those that search it set out understanding the worth they could should pay. Your information to the newest cricket World Cup tales, evaluation, studies, opinions, dwell updates and scores on https://www.firstpost.com/firstcricket/series/icc-cricket-world-cup-2019.html. 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ceaselessly-into-the-past · 7 years

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dorm elf

I can’t stand disarray.

Everything needs to have its place or grouping with which it belongs. Utensils, notebooks, garbage, computer files, underwear, vacation photos. Everything needs to be neatly in order and not separate from everything else or else it gloats in my periphery like a comic-book villain taunting me.

I could easily say that I have OCD, but that would be ingenuous and statistically unlikely, not to mention a total dick move. Another thing I can’t stand is people claiming to have mental illnesses without clinical diagnosis. What do they know? They read a hack article on the first site that came up in their Google search for ‘do I have depression?’ and they think they know everything there is to know about it. I try to not be a party to that.

It is tempting, though. To see those oversimplified lists of symptoms for Disorder X and say, ‘hey, that sounds an awful lot like me’. It’s tempting to want to label yourself as one thing or another, even if that thing could plunge you into an irreversible social stigma that follows you like a shadow, almost as haunting as the illness itself. It’s tempting to think that you can declare, ‘I am _____’. And have people recognize it. To give in to that temptation, though, would be a dick move.

But I digress.

One of the great things about moving into a dorm is that now that my mother can’t complain about my seeming anal-retentivity, I’ve been able to organize my things exactly as I please. My coffee-making station is lined up under the right side of the foot of my bed - water boiler closest to the leg, then the tin box containing filters, the container of coffee grounds, two cups, and the two small-sized jars I use to store my coffee for cooling in the refrigerator, all set on an old cutting board to lift it up off the ground as a way to isolate it as its own unit. To the left of it are small, identical cardboard boxes I made out of what I used to bring my things in during move-in, the first holding eating utensils (chopsticks, two red plastic spoons and one small clear plastic spoon), the second holding spare items from Bed Bath & Beyond (wall hooks, felt pads, mess-free sticky putty for mounting pictures and posters on the wall).

On the other end of the underside of my bed is the five magazine stands that hold my sheet music, organized by significance: technical studies and etudes, pieces I’m currently working on, pieces I want to work on in the near future, pieces I’ve worked on recently and might need to play at any time, and strange, miscellaneous pieces I pick up from library sales and the internet that I might get to someday. Rather than lining them up perpendicularly, I angled the stands approximately 45 degrees to the left so that the covers of the first book in each stand can be seen from the front, and thus I can tell from a glance what category of music is stored in that stand.

The refrigerator is completely organized according to economy of space and ease of access. All similar items are grouped together: my CalorieMate jelly pouches come in packaging that allows one to save the bottom third of the box, providing a way to store the pouches together and without them freely sliding around on the shelves. The tiny 80-calories-a-pop jello containers are grouped by flavor and set up in rows in the lid of a cardboard box from move-in. Coffee jars on the left side of the top rack on the door, and to the right a box containing four pens of my HGH medication that according to my doctor has no effect on me now that I’ve stopped growing, but my mom is making me take nightly anyway because she’s stupid and stubborn. Below that is the slot that holds my filtered water pitcher.

Yesterday I forfeited practice time to do some efficiency-maximizing DIY projects for my room. The first were a few cardboard containers. One was a pencil stand designed to always keep the contents angled away from me so that it’s easy to see them and identify where each writing utensil is, rather than having them roll around and point in all different directions and thus reduce visibility. The other is a three-walled, one-bottomed box (essentially two-thirds of a rectangular prism) set on a stand that angles it about 25 degrees back that holds my X-Acto knife, glue stick, tweezers, spare staple box, and tape measure. The lack of a fourth wall on the front allows for the user to reach directly at the container to pull out the contents laterally rather than reaching from above and downward to retrieve them. This allows for ease of access to items like the staple box and tape measure and also eliminates the risk of reaching downwards and sticking my hand on the prongs of the tweezers or a possibly unretracted X-Acto blade. Next to it is a rubber band holder consisting of the composite cardboard cylinder that was used to ship my Ghostbusters poster and a square cardboard base - rubber bands are wound around the cylinder and can be pulled off simply by unwinding them.

The next project was a system by which when I open my door with enough force, my closet door automatically opens to allow me to put away my shoes or hang up my jacket when I come in, or put them on when I go out. The way that the doors are set close together at a 90 degree angle, by tying one end of a sturdy string around the top hinge of the bifold closet door and tying the other to a wall hook mounted on the top corner of the entrance door, the action of the entrance door opening pulls on the hinge of the bifold door, making it fold and open. I was particularly proud of that one.

I sat in the suite lounge and had lunch afterwards. My room was far from being completely in order, but I had made some good steps towards that.

It was then that I noticed that I had been completely alone the entire time. Everybody had gone out to hang out with their friends.

And so, on a dime, I decided to do some work around the suite area as well.

The first issue to address was the sound that the main door made when it closed - it was unusually loud and incredibly disruptive, especially late at night when people came in past midnight while others slept. Free from the worry of being annoying, I tested the door, opening it and closing it, slowly and quickly, looking like a completely deranged idiot until I found the source of the distinct banging: the door closer, which consisted of a jointed arm and a box that contained the spring and pneumatic air cylinder and such. The housing of that box, which was mounted on the top the door, had come loose, and every time the door closed it would slam against the surface of the door, creating noise in addition to the door slamming into the door frame.

So I headed out to the nearby Bed Bath & Beyond, bought some felt pads, came back, and stuck them to the door to cushion the impact of the door closer housing striking the surface. I also wet some paper towels in the sink and wiped off some leakage from the door closer that had left grey trails on the door.

While I was at Bed Bath & Beyond I also bought a bath mat for one of the suite’s three bathrooms, and on the way back I opened eBay on my phone and found an offer for an HP three-in one printer/copier/scanner going for $110 and in working condition - perfect for the suite common area.

By sone instinct, I had fallen into a role that I realized closely resembled the house elves of the Harry Potter books - small creatures that anonymously tidied and organized while no one was looking. Except in this case, I’d be a dorm elf.

‘Hermione – open your ears,’ said Ron loudly. ‘They. Like. It. They like being enslaved!’

It would be inaccurate to say that I liked what I found myself naturally doing, or that I was enslaved by anyone if not myself.But throughout the day I kept doing house-elfish things in my spare time: reordering the trash cans in the corridor so that there was more space for people to pass; re-ordering the furniture in the 11th floor lounge; cleaning up the kitchen area. All while no one was around.

Today the furniture for our floor’s suites had come in, and the protective plastic covers and padding and cardboard bracing had been left strewn about in the elevator corridor. I walked past it a few times during the day, as did everyone else.

I went down to the lounge at 10:30 pm with coffee and my computer to relax for an hour and a half and watch It Follows. I came back afterwards, passed by the trash in the hall, left my computer and bag in my room, then came back out into the elevator corridor.

I set to work.

There were four types of trash that had been produced by the new furniture: large plastic covers, for the sofas; smaller plastic covers, for the armchairs; the sheets of bubblewrap padding that was taped on the covers; and long cardstock protectors that covered all along the four corners of each piece of furniture. The plastic covers were essentially large bags, so I set aside one large and one small: the first would be for the bubble wrap and corner protectors, and the second would be for the plastic covers. I attacked the four distinct piles of trash, all the different pieces mixed together, and separated each part and organized them into smaller piles. The plastic covers I scooped up in my arms and gathered and rolled into a compressed ball, then stuffed inside the large bag; I balled up the bubble wrap and taped them closed with their own tape, and stacked up the corner protectors. All in all, it took about fifteen minutes to reduce the corridor-wide mess into the two bags, which I tied off with three of my rubber bands: one for the small bag and two for the larger one, since the opening was so wide that all four corners couldn’t be gathered together.

This time, though, I wasn’t always alone. The RA of our floor, Hayworth, passed by three times - to come up the elevator, to come down, and then to come up again. Each time he said something different to me.

The first time, I had just started separating the trash into each individual type.

‘You looking for something?’

‘No, just cleaning this up.’

‘Huh. Okay.’

The second time, I had started rolling up the bubblewrap into balls and putting them in the first bag.

‘Hey, you don’t have to do this, you know.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘You want to? Okay, then.’

I was just finishing up by the third time, when he came back up for the night.

‘Whoa. Thanks man, seriously.’

‘No problem.’

I left sticky notes with smiley faces on the two bags.

I guess I’m the weird kid that cleans everything up now, but that’s fine by me. At least for now, I have an identity.

Dorm elf.

Wonderful.

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