#unjust belt

[finglefungle]

the rust belt? what's next, the dust belt? the gust belt? the crust belt? the disgust belt? the must belt? the fust belt? the adjust belt? the discussed belt? the fussed belt? the trust belt? the just belt? the robust belt? the combust belt? the unjust belt? THE BELT??

[dynamitekansai]

📸 kQYa7orLnn3yKIH

[secretmellowblog]

The thing is, Jean Valjean’s “nineteen year prison sentence for stealing a loaf of bread” from Les Mis isn’t actually unusual….not even today! I see people talking about it as if it’s strange or unimaginable when it happens every day.

In modern America — often as a result of pointlessly cruel (and racist) habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws— people are routinely sentenced to life in prison for minor crimes like shoplifting or possession of drugs.

The ACLU did a report in 2013 detailing the lives of various people who were sentenced to life in prison without parole for nonviolent property crimes like:

•attempting to cash a stolen check

•a junk-dealer’s possession of stolen junk

metal (10 valves and one elbow pipe)

•possession of stolen wrenches

•siphoning gasoline from a truck

•stealing tools from a tool shed and a welding machine from a yard

•shoplifting three belts from a department store

•shoplifting several digital cameras

•shoplifting two jerseys from an athletic store

• taking a television, circular saw, and a power converter from a vacant house

• breaking into a closed liquor store in the middle of the night

And of course, so so so many people sentenced to life without parole for the possession of a few grams of drugs.

And we could go on and on!

Gregory Taylor was a homeless man in Los Angeles who, in 1997, was sentenced to “25 years to life” for attempting to steal food from a food kitchen. He was released after 13 years. The lawyers helping to release him even cited Les Miserables in their appeal, comparing Taylor’s sentence to Jean Valjean’s.

And there’s another specific bit of social commentary Hugo was making about Valjean’s trial that’s still depressingly relevant. He writes that Valjean was sentenced for the theft of loaf of bread, but also that the court managed to make that sentence stick by bringing up some of his past misdemeanors. For example, Valjean owned a gun and was known to occasionally poach wildlife (presumably for his starving family to eat.) . So the court exaggerates how harmful the bread theft was—he had to smash a windowpane to get the bread, which is basically Violence— then insist the fact that he owns a gun and occasionally poaches is proof that he is habitually and innately violent. Then when Valjean obviously becomes distressed traumatized and furious as a result of his nakedly unjust sentence and begins making desperate (and very unsuccessful/impulsive/ poorly thought through) attempts to escape…. the government indifferently tacks more years onto his sentence, labels him a “dangerous” felon, and insists that its initial read of him as an innately violent person was correct.

And it’s sad how a lot of the real life stories linked earlier are similar to the commentary Hugo wrote in 1863? Someone will commit a nonviolent property crime, and then the court insists that a bunch of other miscellaneous things they’ve done in the past (whether it’s other minor thefts or being addicted to drugs or w/e) are Proof they’re inherently violent and incapable of being around other people.

A small very petty fandom side note: This is also why I dislike all those common jokes you see everywhere along the lines of “lol it’s so unrealistic for the police to want to arrest Valjean over a loaf of bread, there must have been some other reason the police were pursuing him. Because the state would never punish someone that harshly and irrationally for no reason. so maybe javert was just gay haha”. (Ex: this tiktok— please don’t harass the creator or poster though, I don’t think they were intending to mean anything like that and its just a silly common type of joke you see made about Les mis all the time so it’s not unique in any way.) because like.

As much as I don’t think Les Mis is a flawless book or that its political messaging is perfect….the only way that insanely long unjust sentences for minor crimes is “unrealistic” is if you’re operating on the assumption that prisons are here to Keep You Safe by always only punishing bad criminals who do serious crimes. And that’s just, not true at all. Like I get that these are just goofy silly shallow jokes, and I’m not angry or going to harass anyone who makes them. but it feels like there’s an assumption underlying all those goofy jokes that “this is just not how prison works!” “Prisons don’t routinely sentence people to absurd laughably unjust pointless sentences!” “Prisons give people fair sentences for logical reasons!” When like…no

Valjean being relentlessly hounded and tortured for a minor crime in a way that is utterly ridiculous and arbitrary in its cruelty is not actually a plot hole in Les mis. It’s a plot hole in …..society ajsjkdkdkf. And the only way to fix that is to fight for prison abolition or at least reform, and (in America) stand up against the vicious naked cruelty of habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws.

But yeah :(. I hate how Les Mis opens with a prologue saying the novel will be obsolete the moment the social issues it describes have been resolved— but two hundred years later, the book is still more relevant than ever because we’re dealing with so many of the exact same injustices.

[hobies-gf]

missing him (hobie brown) - nsfw

you’ve been missing hobie. fighting against the unjust government and performing every few days doesn’t really give him much time to come home to you. usually you could wait, be the perfect little angel for him and sit pretty while he’s gone. but its just been so hard lately.

before you know it your humping at his pillow, whining cuz it smells just like him. you really tried to ignore the ache between your pretty legs but once you thought about Hobie it would always spiral to the last time you were underneath him.

so you grind against his pillow, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted as faint murmurs of Hobie’s name leave your mouth. you were too focused on the way you moved your hips to hear the heavy footsteps pounding out in the hallway. too focused on your approaching orgasm to hear the metal of a belt hit the ground. as you approach your high, thighs tensing and back arched, only then did you see Hobie in front of you.

he was smirking, of course. because his angel was really just the dirtiest little thing when he was away. he doesnt pay attention to the fact that you continued to gyrate your hips against the pillow despite his presence. instead he sits across from you and beckons you over with two of his fingers.

“c’mere pretty. I’ll treat you better than that damned pillow.”

[yanderenightmare]

poly kiribaku with a small captive darling!! badcap/goodcop dynamic where kiri's the really cruel one, and baku cant help but enjoy watching him break little darling over his knee despite feeling a little guilty about not doing anything????

Bakugou Katsuki & Kirishima Eijirou

TW: NSFW, dubcon/noncon, yandere, good cop/bad cop manipulation, size-difference, poly, abuse i.e. slapping, hair-pulling, etc

The slap to her face sent her to the ground, and Katsuki cringed – face flinching as the redhead towered with unfair height over the small girl at his feet. His large hands, rough like stone, hoisted her up by the arm she raised to shield herself – only to shove her down on the bed – looming and pushing himself onto her where she fought so uselessly, so desperately to protect herself – despite knowing it only motivated the brawny male to get even rougher.

A fist latched tight around her throat kept her down with disorienting strength – spluttering on strangled air while her head thumped hot and blinding, only barely lucid enough to catch the sharp sounds of his belt unbuckling. 

The other cruel fist twisted her dress until tearing it off, leaving her even more vulnerable to his harsh handlings – ripping her panties down to her legs while she kicked in distress, caught beneath the unjust muscle mass with no ounce of hope to escape him.

Sobbing, she fervently tried stopping him – winding her thighs shut with a pair of small hands pushing at his chest to keep him distanced. But it was all just silly of her, as it took little more than an effortless push to have her completely flattened beneath him – knees spread wide open on each side of his hips.

Katsuki stood and watched – rigidly – listening to the pitiful sounds of her whimpering cries overrun by Kirishima’s much domineering groans. 

It happened fast, and soon it was already over with – and he’d done nothing but stand there all the while without a word – and still simply stood there speechless even now – as she knelt on the floor by the redhead's feet, cowering as he fisted her hair tightly in a mean grip – asking her in loud growls if she had anything to say for herself.

“I'm sorry- I'm sorry, Eijiro-” She spluttered out, eyes squeezed tight with hands thrown up in surrender – failing to shield herself from even the loud rashness of his voice where thick tears mercilessly streamed in streaks down her stinging raw cheeks.

“And your other master.” He added, yanking her head back with another hand gripping her jaw to face the silent blond.

“I'm sorry, Katsuki- I'm sorry- I'm sorry-”

It took him a second too long to shake free of the stiffness that had taken its toll on him – as though he had somehow forgotten he wasn’t just a spectator. Feeling ill at the sight of how meaty and big Kirishima’s hands were in comparison to her head, where the massive male held her tight like a football while she hiccupped and hitched on uneven breaths, all riddled with terror and hurt.

“There you go~ We learn, don't we, sweetie?” Kirishima continued his brutalities, fucking his coarse fingers into her mouth – making her choke and wretch – though still scared in place, obediently kneeling beneath the male with her hands held steady on the hard muscles of his thighs.

“Kiri, take it easy….” Bakugou finally managed to voice – taking a cautious step towards the two of them.

“What? Oh, look- now you’re making him worry.” Kirishima scolded, pulling her up by her hair, with her wincing at the sting before she was shoved onto her other large captor. 

“I’m sorry- please don't-” She begged, knees quaking as she sagged against him weakly – face twisted in plead with a pitiful furrow of mercy wrinkled between her brows and eyes impossibly large with tears and fear – hopelessly searching for any ounce of kindness he had to spare.

“Show him then.” Kirishima voiced brashly. “Show him how sorry you are.”

She shook and obeyed, taking the ever-so-silent blond by his big hands – hoping he wouldn’t use his strength on her like the other one – while guiding him back to the bed.

“I’m sorry, Katsuki- please don’t worry~” She tried soothing – gently pushing him back on the bed so she could crawl over him and offer some comfort like how Kirishima had taught her he liked.

“You hear that?” The redhead spoke. “Go on, Tsuki~ touch her.” He encouraged him while a rough hand came to make her flinch despite it only gently stroking her ass where she hovered over Bakugou’s clothed bump – painfully stretching out the fabric keeping it trapped.

He barely wanted to look down – afraid to admit to himself why he was so fucking hard – knowing it had everything to do with the fact that Kirishima’s so cruel and she’s so cute it’s cruel in and of itself – feeling so reluctant to acknowledge it as it would mean he could no longer deny the fact that he’s something really very sick for enjoying it.

“Please. It’s fine- touch me.” She sweet-talked, kissing with wet lips and tongue against his neck – making his heart pound harder with tremoring hands subconsciously lifting to card guilt-ridden yet greedy fingers into the plush softness of the thighs cradling him.

About to groan when pushing her hips down to grind on him – stopped short when the redhead raked his hand back in the girl’s hair and yanked her back – ripping her from lathering his neck with sweet spit and pleasurable little whimpers.

He watched her crane, arching back to look up into Kirishima’s face – a collection of ferally pointy teeth smiling down at her with a gleam nothing short of sadistic.

“What gives, buttercup? You’re never this sweet with me?” He accused, fist only tightening to make her wince.

She lifted her hand and stroked his cheek, encouraging him to lean in. “I’m sorry, Eijirou~ I’m still learning~” She tried, and successfully – he humored her – kissing her lips with tongue and teeth while tangling his hand softer into her hair, soothing fingertips brushing reassuringly against her scalp rather than twisting it from their roots.

His other hand rounded her and flicked her budding nipple, making her yelp into his receiving mouth – where he bore a toothy smirk – rumbling out a low chuckle in response while continuing to rub the nub between coarse fingers.

“Have you already forgotten about someone?” He asked after a while, hot against her lips – and Bakugou realized a second too late that it meant another punishment was due – watching her struggle with yet another cry as Kirishima ensnared her neck in a harsh chokehold.

Her smaller hand clawed on the paw without merit while he continued kissing her breathless mouth, desperately gulping for air he wouldn’t allow.

“Kiri-” Bakugou interjected once again, and the redhead let up, making her suck in harshly – slumping forward against the blond’s chest in a coughing spur until she ended up simply crying into his collar with fingers clutching tightly onto the cotton of his shirt.

He felt her shiver all the way down to her toes – his stomach brewing with stirs in return – bubbly and boiling as he watched the continued cruelty before him where the redhead played with her like something inanimate.

“Oh- you can handle it, right? Can’t you, sweetie?” He feigned tenderness, softly stroking the top of her head where she had it buried in Bakugou’s neck, gripping him for safety he was sorry to say he wouldn’t give her.

He thought he heard her whisper out the teeniest tiniest plea where she clutched him even tighter – molding her body flat against him – as close as she could while goosebumps shock-rose all across her exposed skin.

“I’m just teaching you to appreciate us, buttercup.” Kirishima defended, his stiff lips pressed against her shoulder, leaving a wet trail of sloppy kisses up her neck as he positioned himself behind her.

Rough hands lifted her by the fat of her ass – and soon she felt the stiff structure of his thick member brush against the raw puff of her sore cunt.

“If I don’t, who will?” He whispered, stroking her hair over to the other side to get a clean shot at her ear – whispering upon it. “It’s not like Mr. Perfect here is gonna get his hands dirty.”

[breadvidence]

adaptation question: how good in bed is each version of javert? (inspired by the recent poll making the rounds)

As I mentioned on Discord: I intended to respond to the poll with an argument for Javert being good in bed & for the sake of comedy rather than sincere belief my plan was an emphatic yes (as much as I want to gnash my teeth over the need for nuance & could make an equally strong case for no & also want to write about how characters who canonically don't fuck have their own value both for aro-ace folks and as an escape from the way erotic-sexual-reproductive drive is treated as a central aspect of being human more generally). Er. So. Thank you for the opportunity to expand my silliness to multiple Javerts!

(As an aside, I will normally refer to a particular adaptation by the actor's name, but will not be doing that in the context of screwing, regardless of several of these actors being very dead.)

The Brick: Quel délice que cet étouffement! Brick Javert might die having lived a "life of privation, isolation, abnegation, chastity, with never a diversion", but what he lacks in experience with your standard use of the equipment, he makes up for in a fine understanding of the erotics of voyeurism, delayed satisfaction, and—of course—discipline. Further, you might catch some sass, but he'll hold still while you tie him up to make sure the ropework is just right when you're done, and after a lifetime of licking boots you can bet he's gonna work through that cramp in his jaw. 10/10, suggest any local DILFs needing a hobby fish him out of the river before he drowns and see whether that perfectionist need to put things in their place can be turned to more recreational ends than the horrific policing of society's unjust structure.

'25: As ever, '25 follows in the Brick's footsteps. It's clear from his self-satisfaction that this Javert is in the know on how closely fear and arousal come to each other. Despite being about as likely to have fucked in the conventional sense as his Brick counterpart, do we really think it matters? We could talk about how Javert's surveillance forces Valjean/Madeleine into an exhibitionistic display of Authority and Javert's desires related thereto, but I'll calm down some instead. 10/10 for accuracy to the original combined with that narrow chance he's got some experience under his belt.

'34: '34 predicts 2012. Less imposing, uncomfortable, he's probably not gonna strangle you, but—other possibilities open, with all that hyperfocus still on hand. Bonus! Great communication skills, will write you very plainly worded notes about what's up. 10/10 for negotiation skills.

'35: Wow, I sure did corner myself into imagining Laughton fucking. Admittedly, "regulations—good, bad, and indifferent—must be carried out to the letter" strikes me as one of the least sexy statements possible (both as an interpretation of Javert's character and in the erotic sense), but may I propose: that vibrating, dampness, and the established trait of Javert as a tease combine to—some kind of positive effect. Ragdoll physics have exciting potential. 9/10, one point removed for willingness to be indifferent.

'58: Is it bad? is it good? you don't remember. 10/10, what a fascinating and novel adventure of Men in Black style forgetfulness to have gone on.

'72: Does his partner feel like a specimen under the microscope? Maybe, but there's a certain magnetism at play. Any Javert's sexual prowess is most easily derived from his interactions with the Valjean he plays opposite, so '72's catastrophically bad depiction of M-sur-M rather curtails my assessment here, but this Javert's intensity and focus point towards intriguing possibilities. He is among the Javerts on this list who seem like they might have gone to bed with a person, an assessment I am making based purely on vibes. 10/10, close enough to canon Javert to hit the above-mentioned potential combined with an air of not being a virgin.

'78: The Javert on this list who has, without a doubt, absolutely fucked. The looks he gives Valjean alone qualify. Also the Javert who I will admit has a 0/10 bedability rating—if the partner in question is a woman. 10/10 in a homosexual context. The kind of man a dear friend of mine calls Little Lord Fauntleroys, this Javert approaches sex with a stiff dignity that might make the uninitiated worry about inhibitions and cold fish, but which actually indicates a deep store of freak-ass ideas and a willingness to, shall we say, experiment (if you can find anything he hasn't already tried).

'98: Built-in lube via hair grease. 10/10 for convenience.

2000: While I have not yet finished this adaptation, I can speak to the bedroom skills of this Javert through his time in M-sur-M. Methodical, attentive, tired but game to persist. 2000 Javert would admittedly rather be napping, but even when faced with an indifferent partner he maintains the pitch of bizarre intensity that is at the root of a Javert's erotic potential. 9/10, point docked for the regrettable impact of fatigue (maybe he should get his vitamin D levels checked?).

2007: He's got anime physics. 10/10

2012: Who'm I to argue against fandom? Crowevert fucks well. Is it despite being a virgin? Is it because he's a virgin? Virginity definitely plays a role of some kind, and Victor Hugo would approve. In stark contrast to other iterations of the character, Crowevert's need to submit himself to a greater authority is expressed as a soft-edged vulnerability rather than rabid intensity, and the resulting sweetness almost makes me blush. Let's draw the curtains and let them be. 10/10, all details can be found in 90% of the AO3 Javert/Jean Valjean tag.

2018: This Javert almost certainly fucked, and if we may draw on what's been communicated by the creator outside the show itself, it was unsatisfactory, the skill all on the part of the professional he paid for the service. Who'm I to argue with that? 1/10, one point added for the transformative work detailing his erotic potential.

[girlactionfigure]

THURSDAY HERO: Armin Wegner 

Armenian refugees photographed by Armin Wegner, 1915

Armin Wegner was a German soldier stationed in the Ottoman Empire during World War I who was  witness to the Armenian Genocide. Disobeying orders, he gathered extensive documentation and took hundreds of photographs of atrocities committed against Armenians. Later, Armin became a fearless peace activist who was imprisoned for standing up to Hitler.

Armin was born in 1886 to an aristocratic Prussian family in the Rhineland area of Germany. He was educated at schools in Poland and Switzerland, and was a gifted poet, publishing his first volume of poetry, “I Have Never Been Older than as a Sixteen-year-old” as a teenager. He attended law school, but had the soul of an artist and spent the next couple of years (in his own words) as a “farmer, dock-worker, student of drama (with Max Reinhardt), private tutor, editor, public speaker, lover and idler, filled with a deep desire for unraveling the mystery of things.”

When World War I broke out in 1914, Armin joined the German army, serving as a medic in Poland. He received the Iron Cross for rendering care under fire. Armin rose to rank of second lieutenant in the German Sanitary Corps and was sent to the Middle East as part of a detachment to assist the Ottoman Army.

Stationed along the Baghdad Railway in Syria and modern-day Iraq, Armin was shocked to witness thousands of emaciated Armenian refugees forced onto death marches by the Ottomans. The horrifying reality of what was happening was being hidden, and Armin was ordered to keep quiet about what he saw as Germany did not want to alienate the Ottoman Empire, an important ally. Disobeying what he felt was a deeply unjust order, Armin went to great effort to collect proof about the systematic massacre of Armenians – the first modern genocide. Armin was willing to risk his life to document what was happening, and his extensive photographic record remains the most important evidence of the atrocities that occurred.

The Ottomans eventually found out what Armin was doing, and he was arrested by the Germans and sent back to Germany. Some of his photographs were destroyed, but he was able to smuggle out many negatives hidden in his belt.

After the war, Armin became a successful journalist and prominent anti-war activist. In 1919 he published an “Open Letter to President Woodrow Wilson” urging the peace conference to create an independent Armenian state.

He wrote extensively about the Armenian Genocide and testified in court at the trial of Soghomon Tehlirian, an Armenian who killed Talat Pasha, the Ottoman leader who orchestrated the atrocity. Armin’s testimony was so powerful that the court could not convict Tehirian for the assassination, even though there were many eyewitnesses. He was found not guilty for reason of temporary insanity.

Armin was a respected writer and cultural figure who co-created the German Expressionist movement in the mid-1920’s. After visiting the Soviet Union, including the Soviet Socialist Republic of Armenia with his wife, author Lola Landau, Armin wrote a book about his trip, which became a bestseller. It was a chilling account of the political violence endemic to Soviet Communist rule. At a time when many in the West were romanticizing the Bolsheviks, Armin was one of the few who could see where the situation was headed: totalitarian Stalinism.

Meanwhile in Germany, Hitler and the Nazi power gained power and in 1933 they urged a nationwide boycott of Jewish businesses. As someone who witnessed the Armenian Genocide and had many Jewish friends, Armin could not remain silent. He wrote an open letter to Adolf Hitler identifying himself as a proud Prussian who could trace his roots in Germany back to the time of the Crusades. In clear language he told Hitler that his persecution of Germany’s Jews would destroy the country. “There is no Fatherland without justice!” he said. Armin was the only writer to speak out publicly against Hitler. Swiftly, he was arrested by the Gestapo, tortured and imprisoned in harsh conditions for a year. In 1934 Armin was released, and immediately fled to Rome, where he changed his name and lived in hiding. His wife divorced him, leading Armin to later say, “Germany took everything from me… even my wife.” He never returned to his beloved homeland. For being the only cultural figure in Germany to speak out for the Jews, Israeli Holocaust Memorial Yad Vashem honored Armin Wegner as Righteous Among the Nations in 1967.

Armin died alone in Rome in 1978, at age 92. Per his request, his gravestone contains a quote from Pope Gregory VII as he lay on his deathbed in 1085: “I loved justice and hated injustice/Therefore I die in exile.”

For bravely documenting the Armenian Genocide, and standing up to Hitler at great personal sacrifice, we honor Armin Wegner as this week’s Thursday Hero.

[corneliaavenue-ao3]

When Harry Potter was born, he knew nothing of prophecies or horcruxes. The name Tom Riddle meant absolutely nothing to him. He knew of a woman with long, copper hair and green eyes and a tall man with messy, black hair. He knew of three pairs of hands that were the hands of his uncles. He knew what snuggles were and he knew what it felt like to have a body with only one soul. 

When Harry Potter celebrated his first Halloween, he knew nothing of trolls in the dungeons or Death Day Parties. He knew nothing of petrified cats and words written in blood by a girl who has no control over her own body. Goblets of Fire meant nothing to him at this time and what the consequences could be if his name were to ever come out of one. Instead, he only knew of the orange costume his mum put him in that made him look like a pumpkin, and the painted face of his dad that made him look like a skeleton.

When Harry Potter celebrated his first Christmas, he knew nothing of coal in stockings and shoelaces as presents. He didn’t know what it felt like to watch his cousin open up his 25th present while he cooked Holiday brunch in the kitchen. He didn’t know what a belt was or how it could be used as a punishment if the bacon came out a little too crispy for his uncle’s liking. He only knew of stockings filled with toys, and 25 kisses from each one of his parents. He only knew of his mum’s (off key) singing of muggle Christmas carols as she helped his dad cook Christmas brunch. 

When Harry Potter played with the big black dog, he knew nothing of the grim. He did not know the scared feeling of being chased by bulldogs owned by his uncle’s sister. He knew nothing of magical prisons and unjust criminal systems nor was he aware of The Ministry of Magic and the secrets that lie within its walls. He didn’t know how thin the dog could become after being starved for 12 years. He knew only of piggyback rides and wet, slobbery kisses. 

When Harry Potter celebrated his first birthday, he knew nothing of letters addressed to a boy who lived in a cupboard under the stairs. He was not friendly with spiders and their cobwebs littering his bedroom. He did not know about drawing birthday cakes in the dirt with eleven candles on them. He only knew of toddler sized broomsticks that he could chase the family cat around the living room with. He knew of a big cake baked by “Ma” that ended more on the floor and his face than it did his own mouth. 

When Harry Potter woke up on his second Halloween, he knew nothing of death. The name Tom Riddle still meant nothing to him, and he did not know that green flashing lights were a sign of evil. He did not know how devastating a betrayal from a best friend could be. Most importantly, he did not know the sound of his own mother’s screams. Instead he only knew the bright colors his dad would shine above his crib as his mum told him a bedtime story. He only knew “Pea” as a surrogate uncle, just like “Serus” and “Reem.” Most importantly, he only knew the sound of his mother’s laugh.

When Harry Potter was left on the doorstep of his aunt and uncle’s house, he knew nothing of abuse. He knew nothing of his cousin’s fists or the silly, little game called “Harry Hunting.” He knew nothing of negligent teachers who ignored the obvious signs of mistreatment. Instead he only knew the stars that twinkled like the bearded man’s eyes and the flying motorcycle in the night sky. He only knew the faint cheers from wizards and witches all across Great Britain celebrating the death of the man he now shared a soul with.

He knew nothing yet of what was to come.

[notasapleasure]

Saga AU, before the beginning for Cass maybe?

Askbox writing meme

ooof ooh boy, you asked for it!

This 'before the beginning' is how saga AU Cassian was taken from his home during the wars between the Nonoalca and the Chichimecha in Toltec Mexico (mid-tenth century). In canon I suppose it's equivalent to the mining/ecological disaster on Kenari we don't see, that leaves the scar on the land and the children without any adults.

It's not seeking to make any judgement on the way the societies vary in their attitude to human sacrifice, more just following the (pre-)historic record that the Chichimecha came out on top. Also exploring the idea of Cassian's journey from someone who feels angry that unjust things happen to him into someone who feels angry that injustice happens to anyone at all.

I called him Cahuan here, thinking the pronunciation could shift enough via interactions with speakers of other languages to sound more like 'Cassian' by the time he finally reaches Maine/Norse Vínland. Kerri is Quauhtli.

Apologies for any egregious inaccuracies - I'm grateful to Kay for help with the research into this setting, but any mistakes or misunderstandings are my own!

CW for children caught up in a slave raid.

Notes at the end

Before the beginning

When the jaguars descended on them they were with their mother in the fields of amaranth. Cahuan heard her scream his name - she told him to protect his sister. Quauhtli was a few rows over, barely tall enough to be seen behind the weeping plumes of golden-red seed. She wailed for her mother, and Cahuan told her to be quiet.

He was meant to go to her, to protect her, but he froze, trying to count the figures prowling through the crop: big, broad-shouldered warriors with obsidian blades on th edges of their macuahuitl, glinting green-gold under the sun. Cahuan couldn't see their faces with the bright blue sky behind them. They were just dark monoliths circling the women and children in the field, a net closing in with arms extended, stretching like evening shadows made solid.

"Cahuan! Take your sister! Run!" his mother called again, and he made a confused scrabble for the blade his father had given him. It was only as long as his small hand, black and smooth as lakewater, and so far he'd only used it for killing chickens and skinning game. He understood now that he had to be the one to protect his family though, he had lived through fourteen rounds of the tzolkin and his father had trusted him with this knife.

Cahuan set his thin lips into a grimace and spoke a prayer to the feathered serpent. He squeezed the leather grip of his knife and dropped into a crouch. His little sister called for him and he told her to stay put, ignoring his mother's plea for them to run. A jaguar was approaching her and Cahuan saw a glint of teeth, saw the loops of rope at its belt.

The slave raids had grown more frequent as the war heated up, but they'd never expected the Chichimecha to raid so close to the boundaries of Tollan.

Cahuan ran at the jaguar, head down, his childish bellow of rage mingling with the shrieks and cries of the other Nonoalca who'd been working the field. As he approached, trampling the dry stalks of the amaranth, scattering its grain and cutting across the neat rows, the ocelotl seemed to grow taller. It seemed to Cahuan that the jaguar's great head moved in front of the sun to block his warmth, and the warrior's bare, muscled arms with their paint and tattoos swung wide as a snare to catch Cahuan.

He jabbed with his knife and the warrior deflected his blow easily. The strength of his parry appalled Cahuan, but he couldn't back down now. He felt the hilt of his knife dig sharply into his palm and he changed his grip to stab at the ocelotl's forearm as it swung after him.

This time he connected, and the warrior snarled in fury. The sound of his voice made Cahuan's hair stand on end, it made his heart quake and his ribs ache. The ocelotl struck him in the jaw with one empty paw, then kicked Cahuan in the chest so that he fell back on the hard ground.

The sky was so very high above his face and the ground was hard, rain-thirsty, the dry crop of amaranth whispering crisply beneath his shoulders. Cahuan tried to draw a breath but his ribcage spasmed in pain; he tried to raise the hand holding the knife but the jaguar put a foot over his wrist. He didn't press down with all his weight, just enough for Cahuan to know he would do so if there was a struggle.

He couldn't unclench his fist though. The knife was held tightly in it, so tight its stone hilt cut his palm through the leather and reed grip. Cahuan whimpered as the ocelotl moved his sandalled foot off his wrist and brought it down on the knife his father had given him.

The obsidian blade crunched like bone beneath the ocelotl's weight and then the warrior crouched down, his own knife pointing at Cahuan's throat. The face of the jaguar he wore was moulded into a fierce snarl. Polished white fangs framed his eagle-beaked nose and black paint around his eyes made them seem sunken into his face: clear water sparkling a threat from deep in a well.

"You are brave, boy," he snarled. "Are you brave enough for Tezcatlipoca?"

Cahuan felt his heart thump against his breastbone, responding to this call from the gods. But he was afraid - he wasn't ready to give that up yet. Didn't he deserve to enjoy the gifts of the gods first, before he gave back to them?

The ocelotl took a fistful of his hair and pulled him to his feet, and Cahuan screamed as his scalp burned. He clawed at the jaguar's paw but the grip didn't loosen, and the warrior wrenched his head back so Cahuan had to look up into his monstrous twin snarls.

"The rope. Take it and tie her well," the ocelotl nodded at Cahuan's mother. Her face was wet with tears and her teeth shone white as the grimaced. She held her hands to her neck and shook her head and Cahuan tried to shake his head too. He tried to kick at his captor, but the claws in his hair tightened and the ocelotl shook him by his scalp.

"You'll get your reward, boy! Now do as I tell you!"

To his other side, Cahuan heard his sister screaming. Another warrior strode over to them with Quauhtli gripped under one arm and a second child bundled under the other, like turkeys ready for market.

Quauhtli's face was red from crying and she squirmed and wriggled. She called for her mother and she called for her brother, and in the tone of her desperate shrieks, all Cahuan's bravery evaporated. The stream of pain in his head and his chest met the stream of pain from his family's cries and as they mingled, Cahuan burst into furious, terrified tears.

The ocelotl holding him laughed a booming laugh. "Only fit for the rains. Here boy," he swiped the thumb of the hand holding his macuahuitl across Cahuan's cheek and tasted the tears he'd collected. "Take responsibility for your women!"

He released Cahuan and took the rope from his belt, handing it to the sobbing boy. "Tie her well!"

Cahuan's hands shook and so did his mother's as he wound the rope around her wrists, the obsidian bladed macuahuitl of the ocelotl held to his mother's neck. When he was made to do the same to his desperate little sister, who sat in the dirt and howled at the sky as he approached her, one warrior spoke to the other: "He hasn't the pride to go for Tezcatlipoca. Keep him with these two, though, and you'll have a strong and obedient slave."

--

Notes:

ocelotl/jaguar - the Chichimecha warriors wearing jaguar skin, followers of Tezcatlipoca, big fans of the old human sacrifice.

Nonoalca - followers of Quetzalcoatl. Under the rule of priest-king Ce Atl Topiltzil (mid-tenth century) human sacrifice was reduced, as it was believed not to please Quetzalcoatl. These guys lost the religious war, after lots of slave raids and guerilla attacks from the Chichimecha.

macuahuitl - hand held weapon with barbs of obsidian set into the wood (like a small baseball bat with razor blades in it...)

Tzolkin - 260 day basic calendar (from Mayan sources). So Cahuan isn't fourteen, he's ten (14 × 260).

Tlaloc - god of the rains. Tears, especially children's tears, featured in sacrifices to him to encourage the rains.

[greatbritishsimchallenge]

"Father, may we talk?"

Cassian didn't respond but took a seat at his desk and looked up at Henry expectantly. Cassian could feel his son's discomfort and immediately tell what was coming.

"I believe Edith and I have found you a good match for marriage. Her name is Lady Catherine. She is incredibly wealthy - the sole heir to the Newcrest estate - she still has sufficient child-bearing years, and she is said to be very beautiful."

Cassian frowned, "If she's so perfect then why the fuck would she marry me?"

Henry cleared his throat, "Like you, she has a... complicated... past. Unlike you, her past was revealed and she has been summarily shunned from polite society."

"What did she do?" Cassian enquired, intrigued.

Henry immediately became flustered, "I'm not sure that matters. She has since undergone a great transformation - Edith and I know her from our circles at church. She is now a respectable, God-fearing woman..."

"And yet you say no one else will marry her because of her reputation. If I'm going to be the one to give her chance, I should at least know what I'm giving a chance to."

Henry sighed, "Did you ever hear the nickname.... the Princess of Newcrest?"

Cassian frowned as he thought back, "I think I remember hearing about her around the time I was married to Regina... didn't she have an affair with the King, Queen and their adult children simultaneously?"

Henry cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Umm... something like that. Anyway, it is quite unjust that most in society fail to recognise how she has changed and learned. She is most worthy of a second chance."

"And I'm willing to give it, am I?" asked Cassian grumpily.

"Yes - you are," Henry replied firmly. "For you have done far, far worse. Indeed, if I may say father, she believes she is being given the second chance when we both know that it is you who is the fortunate one here."

Cassian said nothing but tightened his lips.

"There are also some... caveats... to the marriage to which you must agree before she too will agree to marriage," continued Henry.

"Very well. What are they?"

"First, she feels that, as the sole heir of the Newcrest estate, she must remain in her titled homelands. Upon marriage, you would move to Newcrest."

"You want me to leave the place I've called home for most of my life?" asked Cassian, a low tone of anger clear in his voice.

"The second," continued Henry, raising his voice a little as if to speak up over his father. "Has regards to faithfulness, a very important quality to Lady Catherine. She would require that... you wear a chastity belt."

"You fucking what?"

"To which she would hold the sole key... to ensure your loyalty and faithfulness solely to her. In return, she too would wear a chastity belt to which you would hold the sole key."

Cassian said nothing, but Henry could feel his father's anger building.

"Third, she would like a legal agreement drawn up that would specify some key behaviours of the marriage, such as how much time you are required to spend together, and the frequency of relations required in order to produce an heir. I have read all the stipulations myself and had them checked by our lawyers, and it all seems very conventional. She simply wishes to ensure the marriage is destined for success."

"And will I get to read these stipulations?"

"Of course. You are required to sign your agreement."

Cassian stood up and went to pour himself a drink.

"Father, this marriage will do a great deal to restore our family's financial status; as the sole heir to the Newcrest estate, she is one of the wealthiest women in all England. Finding someone willing to even consider marrying you has not been easy and, while this may be a very different relationship to the type you are used to, I do also believe it will be good for you."

Cassian downed his drink and poured himself another.

"In all her requirements - is meeting me one of them?" he asked.

"Oh, erm..." Henry was surprised by Cassian's question and took a moment to reflect back over his meetings with Lady Catherine. "No, actually. That didn't come up. I suppose she must have been satisfied with the information we provided. But I can suggest it, if you'd like?"

"No. I think I'd rather meet this one at the aisle, when it is too late for me to walk away," Cassian poured himself another drink then added, "I have one request of my own, before I go ahead with all of this."

"Yes, father?"

"I want to see Isabeau. I want her brought here, to Brindleton."

"Father, Aunt Isabeau has her own very busy life in Champ les Sims and -"

Cassian turned to shoot his son a warning look.

"As you wish," Henry replied, immediately backing down. "I will write to Aunt Isabeau immediately."

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[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @somethingclevermahogony!

OC Interaction Tag

C's OC: Penetinos is a Korithian Sage and a former priest of the goddess Fokisa. He is afflicted by a neurological disease, the exact nature of which is not entirely known to the people of the Green Sea. Penetinos's sickness and his sagecraft have caused him to age prematurely. His back is bent, his once light brown hair is now grey and silver. In his youth, Penetinos was noted for his handsome and youthful appearance, tall and thin. Now unfortunately, though he is just under 60, it would be quite easy to mistake him for a man in his eighties. He is a reasonably powerful sage, though he has been limited by his sickness and age. In his youth he could summon bolts of lightning, clouds of fire, even fly for very short periods of time. Now, he can do little more than summoning small lights or move small objects. His attitude can be best described as professorial, stern at times, quiet, though ultimately kind. Penetinos is a gentle person, averse to violence, and easily enthused when it comes to learning new things. From a very young age, Penetinos was tutored in the language and scripts of three languages, those being Korithian, Kishic, and Apunic and in matters of literature and the natural sciences.He has come to accept his mortality, and will readily discuss the subject of death with just about anyone, though he isn't necessarily happy about it.

My OC: Sepo Kaiacynthus is an aroace siren man in his late twenties/early thirties with a tall stature, gaunt face, dark eyes, and long hair he usually keeps braided. He is mute and has been ever since the Silver Sovereign, divine empress of the sirens, cut out his tongue as punishment for murdering her daughter, which he did by way of setting the royal palace on fire as retribution for his brother's unjust execution. Occasionally, he walks with a cane due to dizziness from a lingering brain injury he gets at the end of the first book. He is a remarkably cunning, paranoid man, with a brutally pragmatic streak. He also tends to be very grumpy, though he does have good manners and a sense of propriety instilled from being raised in a temple. He enjoys complaining about every little thing, though he'll deny it if you ask. He tends to get very worked up over issues, which, combined with his hair-trigger temper, can result in some stunning acts of violence. This violence is never directed at his friends though. Sepo loves just as deeply as he hates, and if someone manages to worm their way into his heart, he'll protect them to his last breath. Other than that, as a siren, he has Opinions on music, and also enjoys learning about surface magic too. His own vocal magic was rendered unusable when his tongue was cut out, and his relationship with the god that grants that magic is also quite touchy. He's not a big fan of religion in general.

How they'd interact: I think Sepo would be eager to learn from Penetinos, and Penetinos would likely be eager to learn from him. Normally, Sepo is untrusting of any new person, however, he respects anyone with proper manners and spine enough to stand up to him, so I think Penetinos would make a good enough impression for Sepo to stick around. They could trade secrets of the Voice and sagecraft, and I imagine Penetinos would be eager to learn Sepo’s form of sign language as a man with so many languages under his belt already. After warming up to each other, I think they'd find a lot to bond over. They're both former priests, have lessened magical abilities, and some form of disability. Eventually, Sepo’s brusque nature might wear on Penetinos, and though Sepo knows how to tone it down somewhat when he wants to learn from someone, this probably would result in a purely academic bond. If Penetinos shows him patience, and especially if he can dish out some snark as well as take it, I think they could get along very well. I imagine they would disagree on matters of violence and combat, but I think Sepo would respect Penetinos enough to, if not change his ways, then to at least not prod the older man on the topic.

Yeah I think these two would be an interesting pair! I'll tag @mk-writes-stuff @halfbakedspuds @elsie-writes @kaylinalexanderbooks @willtheweaver and anyone else who wants to play :)

[rohanneofcoldmoat]

Thinking about Brienne and idealism and despair, I feel like George has sown some seeds in the last couple glimpses we get of her that hint at a crisis of faith she'll have in twow. There's this deep-set sense of futility, of helplessness, in Brienne's last chapter, one that extends beyond the fact that she's a prisoner.

"He turned back at the river, m'lady. He's gone back to his forge, to Willow and the little ones, to keep them safe." No one can keep them safe. She began to cough again. "Ah, let her choke. Save us a rope." One of the shadow men shoved the girl aside. He was clad in rusted rings and a studded belt. At his hip hung longsword and dirk. A yellow greatcloak was plastered to his shoulders, sodden and filthy. From his shoulders rose a steel dog's head, its teeth bared in a snarl. "No," Brienne moaned. "No, you're dead, I killed you."

Those kids at the inn that Brienne was willing to die to protect, the kids that she was literally eaten to protect, well now, in her mind, no one can keep them safe. Of course, Brienne feeling like the odds are against her is not something that will make her fold on its own. "No chance and no choice" after all, but here, you can feel her wondering, is there ever really a chance? And as if to confirm this, the monster haunting the Riverlands, the same one that Brienne killed at to crossroads to protect the children, is seemingly back again and right in front of her.

And then, the last time we see actually see Brienne, her appearance startles Jaime.

Jaime scrambled to his feet. "My lady. I had not thought to see you again so soon." Gods be good, she looks ten years older than when I saw her last. And what's happened to her face? "That bandage … you've been wounded …"

Obviously, her injuries and the fever she suffered are likely contributing to the fact that she seems to have aged ten years, but if we take this more metaphorically, what else is associated with youth? Resilience, innocence, idealism. In Winds we may see a Brienne who has lost some of these things. Being confronted with the rotting husk of your liege lady who commands you to do something you deem unjust lest she kill you and and an innocent child will do that I guess. Jaime says "You've been wounded," when he sees her, and he's right, and not just physically. Brienne's in a lose-lose situation, where any decision she makes requires her to compromise her own morality, a part of the too many vows dilemma that led Jaime to lose his faith in the institution of knighthood that Brienne still holds sacred. I think there are some dark places she could go internally, and the fact that she's going to get slammed with the fact that Tarth has been invaded and has possibly fallen is certainly not going to help. How far things will go, and what morally grey actions Brienne may take I don't know. In my mind there's a certain something to Brienne killing Catelyn, with Oathkeeper no less, but considering all the foreshadowing that Arya will meet her mother again before her final death, I don't know that that will be the case. What this faltering idealism will look like in Brienne's story I'm not sure, I just know that I am ready for George to tear my heart out in twow (one of these days).

"There are a lot of dark chapters right now in the book that I'm writing. You know, it is called The Winds of Winter, and I've been telling you for 20 years that winter was coming. And winter's the time when things die, and you know, cold, and ice, and darkness fills the world, so this is not going to be the happy feel-good book that people may be hoping for, and some of the characters are in very dark places." - GRRM x

[theskeletonprior]

Write Time: Day Twenty-One

This month, my goal is a cool 30 000 words written. I’ll be carrying on with more RAVENOT. If you’re curious, you can take a look at my WIP intro right here. And if you’re really keen, you can read the first chapter (sort of a pilot as I toil) right here! Now onto the daily ramble.

I got my vaccinations today and did a bunch of car maintenance. I'm exhausted, but I'm still going to get some words out. Also if you aren't, you should be following my beloved husband @alexanderflowerbird who has already reached his count for the week! Their current WIP, Blood Sun Territory is incredible and follows Malachi, an ex-con trying to make things right with his estranged family. Unfortunately, he first has to find them, and the way is perilous and full of monsters. It's turning out really beautifully, and is about cool things like the healing power of community, what it takes to earn redemption, and boys kissing. Please do check it out. And now, my excerpt for the day.

“I will depart swiftly,” said Ravenot. “If our fortunes are good, the Dead One’s road will bear me from these lands.” “And if they are ill?” “Then my feet shall do’t.” The Summer Lord found it in him to be merry again, even as he rose to his feet, the dead fey nestled in the boughs of his arms. Again the fiery attention of the greater fey alighted upon Ravenot. “Find this hunter,” the Summer Lord commanded, even knowing as he did that Ravenot would do so even without his grandiose demand. “I will take this one to rest, and will not let him stray. Cut out this rot for me.”’ “I will do it, for it is my purpose,” said Ravenot, ever wary of a promise, but knowing the fate of one who had wrought such unjust necromancy. “This is where I leave you, O Lord of Summer. If we meet again, let us hope I need not pause longer than to pay proper respects.” The Summer Lord’s radiance softened, and at last he drifted away, and the trees seemed to part, to shift their leaves to let him go. His light faded, and soon only the distant cries of the cicadas echoed as evidence that he had visited himself upon this place. Already, in the cavern where the catalyst had been found, bright young blossoms began to push through the earth, and deep red lichen grew where once that scarlet ichor had been. There was nothing more to be done here, save to find a crossroads, where the Dead One might be reached. Ravenot hung his thurible upon his belt, and left the cavern behind. 

Until next time! Taglist: @alexanderflowerbird @void-botanist @carmillasboywife @ceph-the-ghost-writer @wintherlywords @cream-and-tea As always, let me know if you’d like to join or leave the taglist, and I’ll act accordingly. You can reply right on this post, if you’d like. Divider by @/strangergraphics, from this set: here. Thank you!

[tewwor]

moan~ ( from shoko. for higu or nana. or both. )

send "moan~" for my muse to call out your muse's name while pleasuring themselves — @koseigu

She's taken up the nightshift again, and Hiromi thinks it unfair. Not quite unjust, but awfully close. Yet their voice of reason — all six feet even of him — reminds the newest sorcerer how it can't be helped. And, sure, maybe Kento has a point ( when does he not? ), but that's not what matters right now. What matters is the angle. Finding and perfecting the fine line of being playful and debauched by way of attire and position.

"Are you recording yet?" There's an unmistakable pull in Hiromi's voice. Already rasping deep, uprooted from the back of his mouth.

A hum, whose source is unseen by the camera's frame, comes as reassurance. "Give it another second to focus." The shot's blurred, though the general impression of a seated body shows. With another tap and hold to the screen, the image finally sharpens.

The black line of Hiromi's tie sits loose beneath either side of an open collar. First few buttons of his white shirt remains undone, cloth spread enough to show the pale expanse of chest. There's no belt to be seen, already been cast aside in some corner of the room. It's almost impossible to see among the dark swath of slacks, but there's movement just beneath the unzipped fly. Rhythmic and slow — meant to keep the full brunt of pleasure at bay without completely abstaining.

"It's recording now." The voice notifies, strangely matching the quality and timbre of which Hiromi soon answers with.

"—bout time." The mutter's barely kept beneath his breath, but no matter — he's already moving onto better, more pressing things. "Shoko.." One name, split in twine by growing desire and need. Almost hitches as his free hand goes to further part the opening of his pants. "Came over for a delivery..." There's a flash of teeth to form a crooked smirk, nightshade eyes already staring directly into the camera. He won't laugh, but even he can't deny how incredibly corny the line's going to be. "—but no one's here to sign for all of this meat—" Finally, finally he brings his aching cock out of suffocating confines and into view. The loose grip around himself pulls from base to tip. Squeezes tight around swollen crown and — oh, would you look at that? There's already a wet sheen dripping onto the curve of a knuckle.

"What am I ever gonna do— hey, don't roll your eyes." The set monotone of Hiromi's voce doesn't change, but his eye flick further up. Addressing the person in charge of filming. "Roll them any harder and I'll have to roll your ba—"

"Okay, end scene." Suddenly, the camera switches from back view to front view. The entirety of Kento's face fills the frame from edge to edge, expression serious ( though noticeably flushed ). "I'll try to keep him busy until you're back, but.." He hesitates, gaze slipping downwards for a split second. "Fuck." Hushed, but he's too close to the mic to go unheard. "Um, do hurry back. Please."

The scene cuts then. Sent to be replayed and saved if wanted.

[informalcrybaby]

Clever Girl (Part 4)  Harwin Strong x OC

Summary: Lyra must fight for her life to save her brother and a bond is solidified.

A/N; Hope you enjoy! I’ve never written a scene like this before, so let me know if I did ok!    

 Lyra didn’t see Harwin again until the second to last night of the tourney. While he preformed beautifully, laying down all that stood between him and his victory, Lyra watched from the crowd in awe. He was striking and she could feel herself becoming powerless to the spell he had cast upon her.

           After the games were finished for the day, her father took Raeken and Casper further into King’s Landing to purchase fresh meat for the family’s supper. Surprisingly, Bastion chose to stay and appeared delighted to go traipsing through the wood with Lyra to pick some herbs and gather more wood for the pit. He hummed softly to himself as they sought and gathered, every so often stopping to ask Lyra if a plant was poisonous of not. When they reached the edge of a glassy river, Bash scampered off in search of the best skipping rocks.

           Catching sight of some beautiful wild juniper, Lyra skipped a few feet happily and dropped to the soft earth to gather the splendor of the gods. After picking just enough to season the game her father would bring back, Lyra considered their journey fruitful and turned to call for Bash. He stood maybe fifteen feet behind her, a look of horror contorting his pale face. His eyes didn’t meet hers, they looked beyond her.

           Standing a mere twenty yards from her was the knight who had accused Bash of stealing and he looked positively murderous. She rose quickly, moving her body to cut her young brother off from his sightline. Edmund rose the sword hanging at his side and took a single step forward.

“Bash, I need you to run as fast as you can back to camp and find anyone who will help you, do you understand me?” She said, her eyes never leaving Edmunds.

“Lyra I can’t leave you!”

“You can and you will.” Lyra replied, trying to control the shake in her voice as she replied. She would rather die than let that vile man near her brother again and if the Gods were merciful, he would turn his anger on her when Bash ran away.

“Lyra no!” Bash cried and her heart squeezed. The boy loved her like a mother, having never known their own and she could feel his pain in her bones.

“NOW!” She demanded forcefully as Edmund stalked closer and thankfully, she heard her silly boy take off towards camp.

           As Bash fled, Edmunds eyes found her own and a sick smile curved the corner of his lip. He stalked forward a few more steps and stopped.

“No matter,” He chuckled darkly, laughing deeper as she pulled her dagger from her belt, “I just need one Castellan to pay for my unjust dishonor.”  

“Do your worst then.” Lyra replied, adjusting the hold on her dagger and planting her feet to ready for what she knew would be a berserker style attack.

           He made no more statements, just raised his sword, and charged her. She dodged his first wild swing by dropping to the ground and rolling away from him. He swung again as she rose, the tip of his sword slicing her shoulder. The pain came quickly and throbbed horribly down the length of her arm but she took only a second to acknowledge it before the ache was replaced with blind rage.

           Using her small stature to her advantage, she surged forward, just barely missing his strike and landing her own on the back of his calf. Her dagger dug deep, blood spraying her face as he roared in pain.

“YOU BITCH!” He cried out but gave her no space for escape, using his large frame to back her closer to the rivers edge. He struck out again and again, pouring his hatred into his attack. She dodged the best she could but as her feet hit the waters edge, she slipped and before recovery was possible, he was on her.

           Lyra had never put much thought into how she would die but being drowned by a morally weak man in a river was not going to be how she met her demise. She fought back fiercely against the hands around her throat, fists flailing and connecting with any piece of flesh they could find. He didn’t let up and her world began to fade.

Until she remembers that she hadn’t just worn her belt that day.

           With her last ounce of strength, she reached back, pulled at the elaborate pin in her hair and buried her dagger in Edmunds stomach. His hands released her, but his dead weight pitched forward, pushing her further underwater. Her lungs screamed for air and her mind went fuzzy as the adrenaline left her body. Good, she thought as she felt her body sink deeper, at least that monster was going down with her.

           Then suddenly, the weight was gone, and her lungs burned with fresh air. She gasped, gulping in as much air as she could, readying herself for what was surely his next move. She still had the dagger clutched in her hand, her knuckles white as the snow that blanketed Winterfell. But, the hands that held her were gentle and the voice that accompanied them broke her from her haze.

“Lyra, it’s me,” Harwin said, shaking her body gently, “Your fight is over clever girl, breathe for me, please.”

           She broke when she saw his face. Concern creased his brow and his nostrils flared as he tried to control his own breathing. He brought his hand to her cheek and even though it was stained with blood, she leaned heavily into his touch.

“I killed him.” She rasped, her throat aching with the effort of speech.

“You did and I am so fucking proud of you for it.” Harwin praised her, burying his other hand in the back of her hair.

           Gods, her body hurt more than she imagined it could but the feeling of Harwin’s hands on her were more healing than the milk of the poppy could ever be and she needed more.

“Harwin.” She breathed his name desperately, demanding that he understood her need with her eyes as they met his own.

“Lyra.” He whispered before bridging the small gap between their lips and melding his with her own.

           She felt his need mix with her as their lips danced softly over one another. She realized they were speaking their own language this way and it was the most romantic tongue in the seven kingdoms. His lips were just as soft as she imagined them to be. He gripped her tightly, driving all heat from her wounds as his tongue traced her bottom lip. She greedily met it, gripping his face tightly and diving as deeply into him as she could.

           They broke apart at the sound of horses in the distance, both panting but unwilling to release the other for a few moments. Harwin only pulled away as the riders voices grew clearer. Her father and brothers were coming for her and even though she was safe, tears spilled down her cheeks. For a moment, as she felt herself succumbing to the river, she thought she would never see them again and hearing their voices felt like even more of a victory than slaying Edmund.

           Her family came upon the river just as Harwin helped her rise and tore a strip from his tunic to help staunch the bleeding on her shoulder. He was tender in all his movements and Lyra felt her chest well with affection at his ministrations.

“You have proven most surprising, Break Bones.” Lyra lowered her voice, so only Harwin could hear.

“And you have proven to be the most enchanting woman I have ever met, Cut Throat .” Harwin replied, squeezing her hand affectionately and holding her gaze until her family swept her away.

[rionas-path]

Chapter 4

Burdens of a Host

XXIX. A teeming of flowers surrounding the small enclosure, All vibrant and lush, ranging from yellow to blue, to white; And circled with short walls of stone, lit up by lantern’s light. Ríona found some little joy in her solitude, as the azure Hue of flow warmed her vexed cheeks. Youthful still, but wise enough To know when to call a day. She found her life to be so rough, Despite all the attainable commodities from over The seas. She had stormed off and began to retain her composure.

XXX. Continuing her preoccupied gaze at a blue flower, Noting the chrysanth’s growing bud, and the faint, fragrant smell That emanated outwards, marked Young Cutter’s coming spell Of youth – of love and growth, as the winter’s drought it would shower With downpours of torrential rain, and perchance the gods would gift Her town with boons of abundance. The folk’s demeanour would shift T’wards radiance and dance, and festivities of the late hour. Soon even the songbirds will her cherished seclusion sour.

XXXI. Reflecting upon those events from a few moments ago, Ríona thought the goddess found the whole ordeal bizarre, But ask her, she would not. The two souls had been keeping far Away from one another ever since the two had a row. No doubt her father was still scornful, but it mattered not To her, for she saw it all differently, yet still, she fought Back any guilt that could creep into her, fester and grow. The question of history irked her mind, and answers were slow.

XXXII. Indeed, the solitude that circled her was flawed, she felt The presence of the Goddess always there, always close by Her own soul. This time she marked her luck, the spirit did not pry. To say she hated her would be unjust, such cards were dealt To her before she entered the game of life and besides, To say and imply Aurianne is not one who Ríona guides, Especially, with a motherly caress which calmed and melt Away all sorrows. Such were now the skills under her belt.

XXXIII. Gazing into her rational mind’s space, she found her sense. To mock the coming warmth of spring would be of little aid, And from whence this thought came bemused her. Was she being swayed By the goddess’ intrusion again? Shaking her head in suspense, Before inquiring inwardly: “Listen’st thee? Of course, thou art… Why would’st thou not be?” She muttered, hoping discourse would finally start. Yet still, no voice answered. The goddess toying at her expense, Beckoning her to speak her mind, and let this game commence.

XXXIV. She let out another breath, straightened up and said with a tone Displeased: “I have scoured each of the libraries of Kaés, I’ve pored o’er each and every book of the celestial press, I’ve studied under scholars who’ve picked it clean as a bone! Yet… not one know’st thy past. Thou art an enigma to me All whilst share we a body whole, all whilst share’st not thee Thy story, knowing mine full well. Astounding! Thy well-known Titles all hold true, at the least!” She ended with a groan.

XXXV. The silence now became shrouded in utter fragility And slowly in the corner of her eye, Ríona saw a mass Of phantasmal nature take form stepping onto the grass From behind one of the stony pillars, draped in antipathy: “Thou art vile and sharp with words, indeed, though rarely dost thee bite! Thy demeanour of recency’s breath…” the goddess blunt in her slight: “Impulsive, Quarrelsome! Disobedient… Futility Of all this; the worst of traits – Rebellious thy symphony!”

XXXVI. Contempt now simmered betwixt the pair as tensions grew and grew, And Aurianne’s demeanour, sharp as ever, knew precisely How to cut deepest; still tenderness’ touch could put it lightly. Thus, the blaring silence was brought to a close long overdue: “Mute for three phases of the moon yet seeks answers on a plate! Indeed, reminds me of another…” her tone did not berate. “Thou shouldn’t be so ‘lone in thy turbulence and turn to Such scholar work – though impressive. Alas, a fated avenue!”

XXXVII. In ire Ríona scoffed and crossed her arms, looked away So the goddess would not be in the periphery of her gaze, Then muttered in defeat: “You never answer a simple phrase T’wards me directly… You meander, you plot, you convey Through sheer allegory! Why can’st nothing be simple with thee?” Aurianne took a deep breath and drew nearer: “One day will see Thee witness beyond the dark when I shall all my secrets betray! For now, perhaps through a truthful tale, let me thy fears allay.”