#visit macedonia

[theadventurouslife4us]

Спортски Рекреативен Центар Сарај - Парк Сарај - Састав

[ashmp3]

teo look what i found today at my local music shop!!! i was like i have to report this to teo hehe

😭🥹🥹 PLEASEEEE macedonia yet again found as the funniest and best balkan country it’s true!!Seungkwan next to the beatles and 1D and he is eating them up i am afraid…. Thank you for reporting and thank you for thinking of me when you see silly things like these ily🥹💗💗💗

[kyreniacommentator]

The TRNC Flag Flew In North Macedonia

[alenasbdesign]

Happy Republic Day, North Macedonia!

[blueiscoool]

A 2,000-Year-old Iron Age Gold Treasure Found in Wales

Gold coins dating back more than 2,000 years have been found by metal detectorists in Wales, making them the first hoard of Iron Age gold coins to have been discovered in the country.

The 15 coins, which have been declared treasure, are known as staters. They were found the Welsh island of Anglesey, off the northwest coast of the country’s mainland.

Struck between 60 BC and 20 BC, the coins belonged to the Corieltavi tribe, who at the time inhabited the geographical area that is now England’s East Midlands, according to a National Museum Wales press release.

The precious metals were unearthed by three metal detectorists in a field between July 2021 and March 2022.

Lloyd Roberts, who said he has been a metal detectorist for more than 14 years, found the first coin.

“Finding a gold stater was always number one on my wish list,” he said in the release, adding: “That one coin alone would have made my year, but I went on to find another on my next signal.”

Roberts said that his friend, Peter Cockton, found the next three. They then contacted the Portable Antiquities Scheme, an organization which records such historical and archaeological finds.

Tim Watson, who said he only began metal detecting following encouragement from his father during lockdown, found the sixth.

“I rushed home to show my wife and we were both in awe of this coin, which was like nothing else I had found, immaculately preserved with such unusual stylised images,” Watson said in the release.

Watson said his enthusiasm led him to upgrade his metal detector and he found the remaining nine coins in the following weeks.

‘Rich archaeological landscape’

The gold coins’ elaborate design derives from those of Philip II, who ruled the ancient kingdom of Macedonia from 359 BC to 336 BC. The heads side of the coins shows the mythological deity Apollo’s wreath and hair, while the tails side shows a triangular-headed horse surrounded by symbols.

The coins were likely not used for everyday transactions, except potentially for some high-value purchases, according to the release. Instead, the staters are thought to have been used as gifts between the elites to secure alliances or show loyalty.

Another option is that the Corieltavi tribe used them to form part of an exchange for copper, which there were sources of in various parts of the island.

The staters could also have been used as “offerings to the gods” to fulfill a vow, according to National Museum Wales. Other archaeological finds from Anglesey, as well as Roman sources referring to the island that feature pagan priests, suggest the area was an important religious center at the time.

Gwynedd Archaeological Trust visited the site in September 2021 to see if there were any clues as to why the coins were buried there.

“This hoard is a fantastic example of the rich archaeological landscape that exists in North-West Wales,” said Sean Derby, Historic Environment Record archaeologist at Gwynedd Archaeological Trust. “While the immediate vicinity of the find did not yield any clues as to the find’s origin, the findspot lies in an area of known prehistoric and early Roman activity and helps increase our understanding of this region.”

Welsh museum Oriel Môn is looking to acquire the coins and put them on public display.

By Amarachi Orie.

[janeofcakes]

One Night in Palermo: Chapter 1

Hi, Everyone! I haven't done this in ages and I hope you'll all jump on board again for another story. It's 18 months after Sherlock jumped from Bart's and he's busily taking down Moriarty's web. He's also pining and worried for John, who thinks he's dead. Sherlock's trying to make his way to the Moran, the web's center, when another assassin comes on the scene. Find out what happens!

----------

One year to the day Sherlock leapt off Bart’s, his best friend watching in horror, found him creeping into a dank warehouse in the middle of Belgrade, Serbia. The dead detective had been all over the country in the last year, as well as those sharing its borders. Hungary and Romania, Bulgaria, North Macedonia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Montenegro; all extensively traveled in the name of destroying Moriarty’s web of terrorists and murderers. He had just come through Kosovo from an assignment in Albania and tomorrow would take him to yet another location.

James Morairty may have died on the roof of Bart’s one year ago, but his criminal organization remained intact and Sherlock could not rest until Greg Lestrade, John Watson, and the beloved Martha Hudson were safe. Then maybe he could return to his old life of London and 221B and cases and John. Sherlock missed John most of all and had not been dead long before realizing the true extent of his feelings for his flatmate. Every moment not chasing down Moriarty’s criminals was spent wondering about John and what he was doing, or how he was doing. Worse yet, he dreamt of his flatmate as well, and they were becoming increasingly explicit in nature.

Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head to clear it. This was certainly not the time to go down that route of thinking. Mycroft’s intelligence indicated ten men in this building, making Sherlock’s full attention to the matter at hand imperative. The year’s assignments marked the longest period of time the detective had ever worked with his brother and there was at least another year to go before it would end. Remarkably, it had not been utterly intolerable as Sherlock had expected. Mycroft understood how Sherlock’s mind worked and gave him only the relevant information for each assignment. They met over virtual calls on a secured platform after each assignment was finished to discuss the next. Sherlock had needed serious medical attention on only two occasions and was immediately taken to a secret facility possessing everything required to address his injuries. The same short, blonde doctor cared for him each time, no doubt hand-selected by Mycroft to ensure Sherlock’s cooperation. The elder Holmes even made an appearance in both situations to make sure his baby brother was all right. He did not make himself tiresome either, much to Sherlock’s surprise, despite spending quite a lot of time by the detective’s side the second time around.

Sherlock had been caught during his last visit to Serbia. His captors quickly determined the usefulness of keeping him alive, but had no compunction with torturing him for the six weeks before his rescue. Mycroft even deigned to perform the extraction himself, he and his team infiltrating the base and killing every man in the bunker before carrying Sherlock out. It was at least a week before the detective could hold his eyes open for more than a few blurry moments at a time. When his senses and powers of deduction had returned, Sherlock was certain Mycroft had not left his side once. Oddly, the two brothers had grown closer as they worked together, but neither spoke of nor acknowledged it. 

Having found no one in the warehouse thus far, Sherlock proceeded down a long hallway that led to a large meeting room. Intelligence supplied by Mycroft’s spies had shown it was where the ten men spent most of their time. A door at the left side of the room opened into an office used by a man named Markovič, the indisputable leader of this terrorist cell. He had worked closely with Moriarty on more than one occasion and murdered countless people around the world.

Two other doors entered the meeting room; one that opened to a hallway of small rooms wherein the men slept and the one Sherlock was steadily approaching. The ideal situation for Sherlock was finding all ten men in the meeting room. Slightly less ideal, was Markovič in his office and the other men in the meeting room. Some of them having a kip in their individual rooms was the least ideal, but this time of night typically saw them all together planning the events of the following day. Regardless, Sherlock was prepared for any eventuality, or so he thought.

Sherlock slowed his step as he approached the room’s half-open door, rendering his footfalls completely silent. While each of the ten men was a very skilled killer, all were also dim-witted. Even Markovič, though intelligent, was no more than slightly above average. Sherlock knew his appearance would be surprising, but once the first few shots were fired, he would have to act quickly to avoid retaliation. A scant few feet from the door, Sherlock angled his body for the best view of its occupants and what he saw boggled his mind.

Eight men lay sprawled on the floor, face down on the table, or slumped back in chairs. All of them were covered with blood still oozing from pin-point bullet holes in chests, throats, or heads. None of these men had a chance to do more than consider reaching for their own weapons before they dropped. Sherlock analyzed the scene and deduced the events as they had happened while he moved through the room to Markovič’s office.

The door was also ajar. Sherlock pushed it open slowly, already knowing what he would find. Markovič was sat at his desk, leaning back unnaturally in the chair. His eyes were wide open and unseeing as they stared blankly at the ceiling. A hole was perfectly placed in his forehead, creating an isosceles triangle with his eyes. Blood stained his face where it ran down his nose and cheeks, over his throat to soak his shirt. Significant spatter and gray matter decorated the wall behind him in a sickly red glow.

Without delay, Sherlock went to the third door in the meeting room to check bedrooms for the final missing man. Finding him was not difficult. The first door in the hall was the only one open, so Sherlock let himself in cautiously. He found the man on the floor in a pool of blood, bedsheets twisted around one leg, and a pistol held loosely in one hand. He had obviously been only halfway out of bed when the door was kicked open and fired one shot quickly, the evidence of which marred the door frame next to Sherlock’s left shoulder. The intruder had not done more than twitch his head slightly to the side before expertly placing a bullet in the man’s forehead and watching him drop.

*****

Hours later, Sherlock sat at a desk in a safe house across the border in Hungary. He had changed into jeans and a plain t-shirt in dark green. His eyes were fixed on the screen of a laptop as he waited for his brother to accept the call. When the connection was made, it was Anthea’s face that appeared instead of Mycroft’s.

“Sherlock,” she greeted him. She looked tired. Perhaps the last year had weighed heavily on her shoulders as well. “He wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

“Nor was I,” Sherlock replied dryly. “The assignment did not go as anticipated.”

“But you’re alright? It’s done?” Anthea asked with a touch of concern in her voice. The two of them had become far better acquainted over the course of Sherlock’s assignments and now had a certain rapport.

“Unconditionally,” Sherlock answered and watched as the subtle creases at the corners of her eyes smoothed away, only for them to return when he asked, “how is John?”

Anthea opened her mouth to reply, but Mycroft entered the room before she said a word. He moved to the screen swiftly and sat, studying Sherlock’s face. He was wearing his usual three-piece suit minus the jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up. A haggard expression dominated his features, but a sense of overall relief washed over them at seeing Sherlock in one piece. Mycroft let the indifference that hid whatever modicum of emotion he had slide into place and sat ramrod straight, his typical persona fully recovered.

“You were able to complete the mission,” Mycroft said with only the hint of a question in his tone.

“In a matter of speaking, yes,” Sherlock replied vaguely.

Mycroft cocked an elegant brow and leaned in.

“What do you mean?” He asked with keen interest.

“I found the bodies of all ten men upon entering the warehouse,” Sherlock said simply.

“An opposing faction?” Mycroft speculated, sounding unconvinced.

“No,” Sherlock said flatly, “it was precise and clean. None of the torture and delay seen between these enemies. A single man walked in quietly, just as I did, and murdered them all with one shot each.

“He killed all eight men as he moved through the room, three before they could rise from the table. Markovič was in his office and posed no challenge to dispatch. The last was in a bedroom.”

Mycroft had narrowed his eyes while Sherlock spoke, considering each word carefully. When the detective finished, his brother raised his gaze to regard him in silent contemplation.

“The work of an assassin where there should only be one,” Mycroft muttered.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed, “and it had occurred within the hour.”

Mycroft caught Sherlock’s eye and considered him carefully. 

“Sherlock,” his tone took on a condescending characteristic that always made the younger roll his eyes, “while the situation is unusual, it is not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock began, but Mycroft cut him off quickly.

“You have a mission that cannot be delayed by a… mystery, no matter how intriguing,” Mycroft said snidely. “Need I remind you of its particular importance to you, brother mine?”

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap and pressed his lips into a thin line. Closer though they may be, Sherlock hated his brother for consistently adopting this air of superiority at a perceived weakness.

“Fine,” Sherlock spat, “but you will find out who it was. If I’m known to this assassin, I want to know his every movement. I will not tolerate interference.”

“Of course, Sherlock,” Mycroft assured him smugly. “I will use every resource at my disposal.”

****

As confident as Mycroft had been, his channels found out nothing about the assassin in the coming weeks. No one was able to determine where the man came from or where he got his information. One thing became abundantly clear, however. He also seemed to be dismantling Moriarty’s criminal organization one piece at a time. 

Sherlock completed two assignments over three weeks before encountering the assassin again. The circumstances were much the same as the first time. The target called Romania home and spent most of his time terrorizing every community within a fifty mile radius. He had assisted Moriarty several times over the last decade and had often welcomed the man into his home. If James Moriarty ever had anything even vaguely approaching a friend in his adult life, it would be this man.

Sherlock watched silently from the shadows as his target entered a small room and closed the door, leaving his guard outside in the dimly lit hall. They were inside a massage parlor not far from the man’s home. He spent four nights a week in this place, making rather dubious visits to a certain masseuse. Fortunately for Sherlock, the man’s guard made similar visits to the owner of the shop. 

A quiet whistle echoed through the hall twenty minutes after Sherlock’s target entered the masseuse’s room. He watched as the guard looked right, then left, and then disappeared down the hall. Sherlock waited another five minutes to be sure the guard would not return before moving silently toward the door his target had entered. He stood next to it for a moment, his back to the wall, already knowing it was unlocked. He had spent the last seven days watching his target and tracking his movements. Sherlock knew every habit and routine in the man’s life, right down to leaving the door unlocked while he got a massage and a blow job so he could exit quickly if one of his enemies interrupted. 

All Sherlock needed to do was open the door and pull the trigger. He had become quite a good markman over the last year and his gun was equipped with a silencer. He wouldn’t miss and no one would hear a thing. The only thing that made him hesitate was the masseuse. He had not yet decided what to do about her. He could kill her along with the target to prevent anyone being alerted by her screams, which were certain to follow her lover’s untimely demise. He could find some quick way to render her unconscious while she and the target were distracted. He could simply shoot his target and run, risking a successful escape. Sherlock was likely to be tortured if caught, a situation he could not afford. He scowled, the words ‘a bit not good’ echoing through his mind. The only option was knocking out the masseuse and hoping no one noticed him before he did it.

Sherlock looked up and down the hall, just as the guard had, and then moved to face the door. He twisted the knob silently with his left hand and pushed it open. The scene before him was nothing like he expected. Instead of finding the two of them fucking on the massage table, the woman was lying on the floor, unconscious and fully clothed. The target was clearly dead on the table, a bullet hole in his temple. Spatter decorated the wall next to the table and Sherlock could hear the quiet drip of blood as it fell from the headrest to the floor. Curious, he entered the room and squatted cautiously next to the woman. He might have risked touching her to find a pulse, but could see it clearly enough on her neck. The assassin had left her alive.

Sherlock’s gaze darted around the room until it came to rest on a small window near the top of the back wall, the only outside wall in the room. It opened on a hinge, a glass pane that lifted up and it was ajar. Several telltale scuffs left by opening and closing it marred the bottom of the pane. The assassin’s entrance and exit point.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stood. The guard would not return for another ten minutes, but the detective could not afford to be seen by anyone. He walked swiftly out the door and closed it behind him, looking up and down the hall again. Seeing no one, but hearing faint footsteps, he crept into the shadows to wait. Sherlock heard a faraway door open and the footsteps fade away slowly. After a few minutes of silence, he left the building and made his way to the next safe house.

A few hours later and a good two hundred miles away from the massage parlor, Sherlock stood in front of a laptop set in the small bedroom of a cozy flat. He had just relayed an account of the evening’s events to his elder brother and moved on to deductions made about the assassin. Mycroft’s less-than-enthusiastic response was quickly grating on Sherlock’s nerves.

“He has a conscience,” Sherlock argued vehemently. “He could have simply killed the woman, but chose not to.”

His brother’s unimpressed face looked back at him from the laptop screen, thoroughly unconvinced. Sherlock wished, just for a moment, that they were in the same room so he could grab Mycroft’s lapels and shake him.

“Very informative, brother mine, but I fail to see how it will help to find this mysterious assassin,” Mycroft intoned dismissively, glancing at his perfectly manicured nails.

“Finding him, no, but it goes a long way in determining what kind of man he is,” Sherlock sneered. “He is not a heartless killer and that tells us quite a bit.”

“Oh, very well,” Mycroft conceded impatiently. “He may not immediately put a bullet in your head should you meet, but will introduce himself first.”

Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled his eyes.

“I will take care of him,” Mycroft continued sternly and it rankled Sherlock. The tone was the same used to scold him as a child. “You concentrate on your assignments and put an end to this dreadful business so you can return to your precious doctor.”

“How is John?” Sherlock found himself saying. It wasn’t what he meant to say, but Mycroft’s words squeezed his chest so completely that saying anything else would have stopped his heart entirely. He hadn’t even been thinking about John and was blindsided by the rush of sentiment, though he tried to keep that hidden. Mycroft, for his part, looked very disconcerted at the slip. His frustration had gotten the better of him, something that happened far more often than he would like to admit since he and Sherlock began “this dreadful business”.

“Sherlock,” he said with a long suffering sigh.

“Don’t patronize me, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“He is…unaltered,” Mycroft replied carefully.

“Unaltered?” Sherlock repeated through clenched teeth.

“I said unwell the last time you asked,” Mycroft straightened his spine and looked down his nose at his brother. “You have not returned to Baker Street. Do you imagine he is any different?”

Sherlock glared at his brother, blood boiling, but said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew his brother wanted to infuriate him. It was a distraction. Mycroft did not want to answer questions about John. It was nothing unusual, but affected Sherlock differently this time. Sherlock suddenly felt exhausted and homesick. Every bit of energy left his body. He was sick for John and if his brother didn’t want to talk about John, Sherlock had no desire to pry. He was not prepared to hear that the doctor had teetered ever closer to a crumbling precipice that might give way at any time. 

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled. He shut the laptop forcefully just as his brother closed his eyes in disdain at the vulgar choice of words.

Sherlock paced furiously. He was restless and frustrated and frightened out of his mind. Dozens of storylines played out in his mind as he took each step. The most disturbing thought ended with John’s broken body on the pavement at Bart’s, the same place they had both been just over a year ago, and it made Sherlock’s heart stutter in his chest. He gasped at the pain and stumbled into the loo to be sick. He splashed water on his face once he could stand again without retching and tried to calm himself, but his chest only felt tighter. He buried his head in his hands and prayed to whatever deity would listen that John Watson be alright.

When Sherlock raised his head again, his movements were stilted and his face remote. He cleaned his teeth and changed into pajamas mechanically, getting into bed and turning out the lights. Staring into the darkness, he parted his lips and breathed slowly. If he didn’t let his thoughts out of his mind, didn’t give them life, his brain and heart would surely burst from his body.

“Wait for me, John,” he whispered into the darkness. “Please.” 

****

The next time Sherlock ran into the assassin, the circumstances were quite different. It was three assignments from the last and in Montenegro. The target had not been difficult to finish, but her brother had spotted Sherlock as he made his escape and set off after him. They ran through the compound, ducking this way and that. Every corner the detective turned should have put more distance between the two, but the man behind only grew closer. Sherlock was getting tired and he knew it. On impulse, he ducked into a stairwell and barely tripped as he flew down the steps. He quickly pushed open the heavy wooden door he found there and hurried into an open courtyard full of towering shrubs and fountains. The moon shone brightly, dazzling stars surrounding it, lighting a path of escape. Unfortunately, the man following Sherlock was too close not to make a move for him.

The man dove for the detective and caught him around the waist with his arms. They went down hard, but Sherlock rolled swiftly and struck out at his attacker. They exchanged a few blows before strong hands wrapped around the detective’s throat. Without hesitation, he slid his own arms in-between his attacker’s and wrenched them outward. The other man’s elbows bent, giving Sherlock the leverage to pull his hands away and ram their foreheads together.

At first, only the other man was dazed, so Sherlock shoved him to the side and hopped to his feet. However, the after-effects caught up with him after one or two steps. Suddenly, his head swam and his sense of balance failed completely. Tumbling to his knees, Sherlock tried desperately not to fall any further. He gasped for breath and felt incredibly hot, but resisted the urge to tear the mask from his face. He preferred assignments that did not require a mask, ones where he could maintain a safe distance from targets and their associates. On this particular occasion, his passage through the compound could find him face to face with anyone and he could not be recognized.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths until his vision began to clear. Getting to his feet, he glanced around to check that his attacker had not similarly recovered. He saw nothing as rough hands grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back. A cold knife blade touched his throat before he could make any move to free himself. He was trapped. His mind raced, analyzing his options and discarding them; all the while, the blade pressed into his throat, breaking the skin ever so slightly. He nearly jolted at the sound of hoarse laughter in his ear.

“You thought you would get away?” The man holding Sherlock steady chuckled loudly. He pulled the blade more tightly and the detective winced. “You killed my sister, you son of a bitch.”

A gasp filled Sherlock’s lungs, but not for fear of his life as his attacker assumed. It was what he saw in the dark window in one of the tall buildings that lined the courtyard. A sight Sherlock never would have seen, if not for a glint of metal in the moonlight. As soon as he saw that flash of light, his eyes made out the figure of a man with a gun. Standing in the tall window was the assassin, covered in black from head to toe. His face and hair were covered with the usual balaclava. Any other details were lost to the darkness of his clothes and surroundings. His gun was aimed and ready, if the location of the reflection Sherlock had seen was anything to go by.

Sherlock stood very still, not even listening to the rants and threats from the man holding a knife to his throat. One way or another, Sherlock was going to die tonight. If the idiot behind him didn’t do it soon, he would be robbed of the pleasure by the assassin, who would certainly shoot them both. Sherlock could get away from only one of them, not both. He kept his eyes on the assassin as time ticked by and wondered why he hadn’t pulled the trigger twice already. The man couldn’t be weighing his options. It was simple: Aim and fire.

Just as Sherlock thought the word “fire”, a bright flash of light appeared from the assassin’s weapon and Sherlock felt a whoosh of air on his cheek. He expected pain or instant oblivion and got neither. The air around him was suddenly quiet and his mind registered his attacker’s hands going lax. The knife tumbled to the brick floor as the man leaned heavily against the detective’s back. Going down slowly, Sherlock maneuvered the man onto his back and looked at his face. There, between his unseeing eyes, was a perfectly placed bullet hole.

Sherlock’s head shot up to the window to see the assassin, but the man was gone. The pane held nothing but darkness. Without a second thought, the detective gathered himself and stood. It wouldn’t be long before his target’s body was discovered and the compound filled with people who would be happy to kill him. He crept through the courtyard and silently made his way out, encountering no one as he went.

Hours later, ensconced in one of Mycroft’s safe houses, Sherlock booted up the waiting laptop and entered his credentials. His mind was awash with deductions and questions and theories. If nothing else, the evening confirmed the standing deduction that the assassin had a strong moral compass. Quite a bit of additional data had been revealed as well, but Sherlock had not yet sorted through it. He needed to spend some time in his mind palace, arranging the pieces.

The laptop screen caught his eye when his brother’s face came into view. Sherlock had hoped to speak with Anthea first, but had no such luck. He leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of the keyboard, a posture he often adopted when speaking to his brother.

“The assassin was there,” Sherlock stated without preamble. “I beat him to the mark, but he was there.”

“And you know this because?” Mycroft asked with an arched brow.

“I had a knife to my throat and he shot the man holding it,” Sherlock replied without hesitation.

Mycroft’s eyes widened and he leaned in closer to his own laptop.

“He saw you?” He probed with an edge to his voice.

“Not as such. I was wearing a mask. My whole head was covered,” Sherlock answered evenly. “There was nothing to give me away. I was merely a man in distress.”

He could see his brother relax a fraction and then noticed that his eyes were locked on the small bandage Sherlock had fitted to his own neck. The detective furrowed his brow and shook his head dismissively.

“It’s fine,” he told Mycroft in a dull tone. “Superficial. I’ll be able to go without the bandage in the morning.”

“Good,” Mycroft approved, looking more at ease. “That is to say, I am glad you are safe. I must admit, however, I am somewhat troubled by the assassin’s actions. Surely killing you both would have been more to his advantage.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock replied with satisfaction. “It would’ve been easier as well; hitting my attacker with pinpoint accuracy to ensure his demise before he cut my throat requires much more skill than shooting us both. It proves my point.”

“That the assassin has a conscience,” Mycroft supplied in a long-suffering tone. He sighed. “Sherlock, you are a romantic.”

“I most certainly am not!” Sherlock objected, his good mood quashed in the blink of an eye. “I have merely analyzed the data and reached the logical conclusion, as I have in countless other situations.”

He glared at his brother, who returned the look with a smug smile on his face. Sherlock didn’t feel the need to continue the conversation because his pig-headed brother would not relent. He never had before and would not start now. Growing weary of him, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Tell me about the next assignment,” he demanded, wanting nothing more than to move the call along so he could retreat to his mind palace.

“Yes, of course. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Mycroft smirked and began debriefing Sherlock on the next target, The detective both listened and imagined how best to have revenge upon his return to London.

****

The following assignment was easily completed in as much as it was finished before Sherlock even arrived. Four days after Montenegro, the detective stealthily entered a caravan dealership that was closed for the day. His target and a small band of men in his employ had taken refuge there, believing no one would find them. After entering the dealership, Sherlock followed music lilting through the air until he reached an extra-long caravan, knowing what he would find before reaching it. While the music played loudly, the absence of all other noise led him to one inevitable conclusion: The assassin had been faster this time.

Five of the six men Sherlock expected lay dead in the caravan’s central room. It occupied more or less the entire vehicle, housing a kitchenette along one side, a narrow couch and table on the other. Two seats and the steering column filled the front of the room, windscreen before them. A small loo cut into the back of the room with closets opposite. In between the two was a narrow hallway that led to a bedroom. Judging by the positions of the men and the angles of the bullets that killed them, the assassin had come from the hallway. He must have climbed in a bedroom window and used the element of surprise.

Sherlock moved cautiously into the bedroom, expecting to find the body of the sixth man, but the room was empty. It was also a mess. A lengthy struggle had clearly taken place in the cramped room and Sherlock could read it all in the broken and overturned furniture. The upper hand had shifted a few times throughout the fight. A stray shot was fired once, twice, and then Sherlock’s eyes came to rest on a piece of bloody glass lying on the floor near a cabinet on the far side of the room. He went to it in three long strides. It was part of a broken mirror that had been affixed to the wall above a waist-height cabinet. One of the two men had grabbed hold of it and stabbed the other, but which was which? Sherlock’s eyes tracked their movements through drips and smears of blood. The injured man eventually broke free and tumbled out the room’s only open window. The other man must have followed because the caravan door would have been left open had he used it.

Gun still at the ready, Sherlock hurried out the door and around to the back of the caravan. He walked silently along the trail of blood and shoe prints. More and more of the sticky, red substance stained the concrete as he went. There wasn’t enough to indicate that the injured man was bleeding out, but was still a troubling amount. Sherlock quickened his pace, anxious to learn which man was injured. He found himself hoping it was not the assassin. It made little sense, but he felt some odd camaraderie with the man. They did seem to have the same goal and were inextricably linked by it.

Sherlock wove his way through the parking lot, around one caravan and another, until he turned a corner and stopped dead. Twenty feet ahead of him, next to a chain link fence, was the body of a man. He was on his back and was obviously dead. Sherlock’s throat went dry and he quickened his pace. He and the assassin had narrowly missed one another for almost three months. They didn’t know the other’s identity and hadn’t even been in the same room together, but had come to expect one another. At least, Sherlock had. He supposed the same might not be true of the assassin, but he liked to think it was, especially after Montenegro. The man had blatantly made the decision not only to save, but also spare Sherlock’s life and the resulting sentiment had softened his heart toward the man. The detective would have considered these feelings a weakness in the past. Now, he saw it in a completely different light. The assassin gave him something familiar to look for, to count on. He couldn’t have John or home, but could at least have something, though it paled in comparison. 

Sherlock was jogging by the time he reached the dead man. He couldn’t see his head properly until he stood right next to him. Once he did, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. The man before him was not wearing a mask of any kind, nor was there one near the body. Instead, he matched the description of one of the six men Sherlock was sent to kill. The assassin had escaped. 

Relief quickly turned to trepidation, however, as he got a better look at the dead man. He had no stab wounds on his body and looked to have been killed by blunt-force trauma. Sherlock’s eyes darted around the scene, picking out a heavy metal bar and more blood. He followed a trail of it with his eyes for a short distance. It led to, and passed through, an old opening in the chain link fence. Something had weakened the links and broken through long ago. The assassin must have used it to sneak inside or he would not have known to use it as an escape. Sherlock looked as far beyond the fence as he could see, but saw no body and no large pools of blood. It seemed the assassin had escaped, indeed. But how far had he gotten and how badly was he injured?

When he recounted the night’s events later for Mycroft, Sherlock left out the possible extent of the assassin’s injuries and hid his concern for the man. He knew precious little about the man. It made no sense for Sherlock to feel at all connected to him and yet, here he was. He couldn’t stop himself from viewing the connection as a separate but united force against what was left of Moriarty. As such, not knowing the assassin’s fate unsettled Sherlock in a way he couldn’t explain and he hoped their paths would cross again soon.

****

The next assignment was long and tedious. Sherlock spent nearly three weeks just garnering enough trust through various acts of theft and bullying as assigned by the target’s second in command to even be told the target’s location. He then spent another six days planning out how to neutralize successfully. His frustration grew day by day at having to waste an entire month on this one target, lengthening his time away from John. John, who he knew was struggling. His last few conversations with Anthea were vague at best, but informative enough to know that John’s grief had renewed. 

The knowledge slowed Sherlock’s progress with the assignment and he knew it. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He would rather know at least something about John and be distracted than know nothing at all. He dreamt of his friend every night again; comforting him and assuring John he would be home again. He awoke each morning with renewed vigor at having spent the time with John, even if only in his mind. Part of him hoped dreams did the same for John, but they more likely only discouraged him. Sherlock had the advantage of knowing they would meet again, whereas he was dead in John’s world. Sherlock tried to ignore the regret and guilt that ate at him for it.

Motivated by the desire to end his exile and return home to John, Sherlock lost his patience and brought the assignment to an abrupt end. While in the target’s bunker for a debriefing, Sherlock broke into his office and waited. Nearly two hours later, the man and his second opened the door. Sherlock greeted them politely with one bullet each and left as fast as he could. 

His work done, after the agonizingly long month, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to move on to the next assignment. He grimaced as he logged onto the secure server he and Mycroft used to communicate, knowing his brother would berate him for his slowness. Maybe Sherlock would get lucky and Anthea would debrief him. He hoped as he pushed enter and waited, then sighed when Mycroft’s smug face came into view.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured in greeting, saying nothing else. Mycroft more than made up for it.

“Good evening, Sherlock. I am glad to see you have finally finished your assignment. I was beginning to think that your target had persuaded you to stay on,” Mycroft’s snide words pushed Sherlock over the edge. The last thread tethering his frustration over the assignment snapped and he nearly swept the laptop off the table.

“Fuck off, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted. “You know this is not how I wanted it to go. Just tell me about the next assignment and go back to your cake. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your greatest pleasure.”

“Sherlock, has it really come to this?” Mycroft began with an epic eye roll.

“You started it!” Sherlock interrupted. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“In due time, brother mine,” Mycroft dismissed Sherlock’s anger out of course, “I have come into some information about your mythical assassin.”

“Oh, yes, perfect. Just what I want to know,” Sherlock snarked back, crossing his arms. “Tell me, Mycroft, how many assignments has he completed while I’ve been stuck on just one?”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft said blandly. “It seems both of you have succeeded in doing nothing. I have no indication he has made any movements during the last forty-two days.”

It was then that Sherlock remembered the trail of blood he had followed so long ago and the strange sense of loneliness he had felt. He had mentioned neither to Mycroft after that assignment.

“He was injured,” Sherlock stated almost without thinking, “in that caravan dealership in Skopje. I followed a trail of blood. He must need time to recover.”

“You failed to mention that in the debriefing,” Mycroft answered, his tone rife with skepticism.

“It was not relevant,” Sherlock replied haughtily.

“Wasn’t it?” Mycroft speculated. “Hm. I wonder.”

“Is there a point to this, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped, growing tired of the conversation. His brother had a certain knack for analyzing his motives at the most inconvenient times.

“Could it have been a more serious injury, brother mine?” Mycroft continued calmly, unfazed by his baby brother’s outburst. “We have no evidence of him at all in the time between today and that night. Could he have been neutralized?”

“Neutral- he’s not our enemy, Mycroft,” Sherlock countered. “He saved my life.”

“Because doing so suited his purpose,” Mycroft supplied, condescension slipping into his tone. “You are very obviously on a path similar to his own. Why would he want that assistance to end?”

Mycroft was right. It was only logical for the assassin to keep Sherlock alive so the man didn’t have to hit every target himself. The detective had allowed sentiment to color his views of the assassin and if Mycroft didn’t know before, he certainly did now. Damn him.

“No,” Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head after a moment of thought, “there wasn’t enough blood for the injury to have been life-threatening. He will appear again. Just give him time.”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line and took a deep breath through his nose. He had more to say, but obviously debated on whether to do it now or save it. Sherlock knew Mycroft had chosen not to wait the moment his lips parted.

“You will have to deal with him one day,” Mycroft said carefully. “The time will come when you are no longer useful to him.”

Sherlock fought not to roll his eyes. As if he hadn’t considered that particular inevitability already.

“I will handle that when the time comes, not before,” Sherlock said flatly.

****

As if on cue, Sherlock found his next target in a private train compartment with a bullet in his head. They were on a train in Hungary. The man’s two most trusted associates were at his side, also shot dead. The assassin was back. 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled as he stood in the compartment’s doorway. He gave a subtle salute to the scene, closed the door, and casually walked back to his own compartment. As he went, he was filled with a sense of satisfaction and hope. With his own efforts coupled with those of the assassin, his timetable would change for the better and he could return home to John earlier than expected. Mycroft may have been right about an eventual confrontation between Sherlock and the assassin, but until then they would each enjoy the other’s usefulness without question.

****

Another handful of assignments came and went, Sherlock and the assassin working in tandem, but never encountering one another. Shortly after leaving another scene in which the assassin beat him to the mark, Sherlock calculated their joint progress once again and found that their current rate would see him back in London a full four months early. He was delighted.

A particularly successful month for both of them resulted in another revision of the time required. They had shaved off a few more weeks, much to Sherlock’s satisfaction. That was how, at eighteen months post-Fall, Sherlock found himself in Palermo, Sicily with only two targets remaining before he could return home to London and his life.

------

I know it was a long one, but I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you so much for reading and for all your support! I've missed you all so much! Tune in next week for chapter 2 and remember, keep your stick on the ice. We're all in this together.

Love, Jane

[jeannereames]

If you could talk to Alexander only once. What would you say/ask him?

Oh, geez. How LONG do I get to talk to him? Ha. I could ask a lot in, say, 24 hours. 😂 Also, would he be required to answer honestly? Alexander was a master of his own marketing. He lied a lot, or at least bent the truth. LOL

There are several things I'd really like to know, maybe first and foremost how the court actually functioned, practically speaking. How much power did the king have and how much curb did the Hetairoi (Companions) enjoy? Or did it depend on the king (as I think was probably the case)?

Why, yes, I am a court historian, how could you guess?

I'd also ask about the history of Macedonia--a proper king list, how did it expand, etc.? (This assumes he'd actually know this beyond "legend," but he'd know more than we know). What happened precisely in Phil's last two years--and for that matter, most of his reign?

Then I'd get to the bottom of what, exactly, were his goals in visiting Ammon, the burning of Persepolis, the Gedrosian desert, and when he began introducing Persian court ceremonial, and in what order? Did the proskynesis thing actually occur, and if so, what was he thinking? What they hell actually happened with Philotas? What were his real final plans--was Arabia a cover for constructing a fleet to attack Carthage? And WHAT, exactly, did he say on his deathbed about his successor? Was Herakles really his son or was that made up later? Did he have an inkling things would crash and burn the way they did? (A lot of the other stuff is, to my mind, easier to guess; these are real questions for me.)

Only then would I get around to the personal stuff. Haha. When did he meet Hephaistion, what was Aristotle like and what did he teach the boys, how important was Ptolemy really (because boy I think he inflated his importance under Alexander)? How many siblings did ATG actually have? Any die in childhood? What was the order of Phil's marriages? How old was Boukephalas when ATG acquired him, and what did they really pay for that horse? (Not 13 talents!) How many mistresses did he actually have? Was Hektor also a "favorite" as the sources imply? Was there a Bagoas?

So yeah, I could ask a LOT if I could just chain him to a chair for 24 hours....

[gardenofdelete998]

hey guys, welcome to my beloved loft :3

we had the loft built a couple years ago, then i painted and sanded it down myself. the shelves were also made by me. there's my guitar. theres my 'little mug of distress' i made that myself too. above it a kittycat plate. my grandma bought that blanket in macedonia when he was visiting my father in conscription, so its about 35 years old by now

[theadventurouslife4us]

The Millennium Cross, The tallest Cross in the world

[gemsofgreece]

A place for every month - commentary

This is directly inspired by a Daily Mail travel article, which recommends one Greek destination for every month, as it declares the country a year-round destination. I loved the concept but I do have some thoughts on the recommendations themselves. This is not to say I don't agree with the recs - all places mentioned are beautiful - but I am not sure they are the ideal option for the month their chosen for each time. The article focuses on avoiding the crowds which is understandable, however it also sometimes leads to missing the trademark summery places in summer and the wintry places in winter and... where's the charm in that, right? So I don't know what exactly the point of this post is, maybe some insider commentary on that overall good article concept.

January - Mystr��s

Daily Mail recommends Mystras. Mystras is the Byzantine Castle City, the last Byzantine stronghold which also served as a capital for a while, the times Constantinople was sacked and fallen. It is a must-see medieval cultural site, however I would not pick it for January. The article does not explain the reasoning, but I believe it is picked for this month because it is in the southmost mainland, therefore it is a way to experience as a mild January as possible. Mystras is situated in a beautiful hilly region in the countryside that gets very green and beautiful in spring. January would be a relatively unremarkable time to go there. Furthermore, the surrounding regions are coastal and summery, so it's better to visit this region in late spring - early summer. It's not a tourist trap anyway. As for where to go in January, well, this is a tricky month. It is not the coldest month of the year - it has what's called "Alcyonides meres". This is a phenomenon of ongoing mild, pleasant weather in the midst of winter. Because it's hard to predict what facet of January you will encounter, especially when travelling from abroad, January is a good month to visit diverse destinations that look great both in mild and cold weather. Those usually are mountainous coastal regions in the mainland (i.e Magnesia - Mt Pelion, Pieria - Mt Olympus, even Chalcidice where Holomon is unfairly overshadowed by the beaches) or very large mountainous islands (i.e Crete and Euboea). Technically, Laconia (where Mystras is) can serve too, as it's where Mt Taygetus is, but all I am saying is January won't make Mystras much justice.

Mystras on the left, Pieria and Euboea island on the right. I realise I am self-nagating right now but look, of course it snows on Mt Taygetus and occasionally it can snow in Mystras as well, however just because there are photos of it, it doesn't mean it is as frequent an occurence as the ones I recommended. But like I said, weather in January is a hit or miss case - in general finding the weather you want in winter in Greece is tricky.

February - Patra(s)

Daily Mail recommends Patras because of its big Carnival Festival. This is a good choice. A visit to Patras in February can be combined with exploring the countryside around it, including the mountain town and ski resort of Kalavryta and a visit to nearby Corinthia, to Mount Killini, Feneos and Lake Doxa. February is the coldest Greek month to be sure, however it's still tricky because you don't know if you will fall into a typical cold February or an early spring. Other good recs for this month are all other regions with carnival traditions, such as Xanthi in Thrace or the west regions of Macedonia. And because it's February and those places, unlike Patras, are in the very north of the country, you are going to get the winter vibes well there.

March - Athens

Athens is a clever choice for March. The capital is located in the driest, hottest region of Greece, therefore it is smart to spend March there and avoid the spring rainfalls or the surprising cold March brings along in most other regions. Furthermore, Athens doesn't have significant summery attractions therefore it should be avoided in summer unless you want a pointless sunstroke. The article makes a valid point; if you are in Athens in March, you shouldn't miss the military parade on Independence Day. It's worth seeing. My only commentary is that March is a beautiful month, so if you have a lot of time available, it would be nice to spend some days in the countryside close to Athens, Parnitha or Parnassus mountains, the site of the Oracle of Delphi or Arachova. Again, March is a surprisingly cold month, sometimes as cold as January or even more! This means that while Athens may be almost warm, in the nearby regions that are full of mountains, it can be prolonged heavy winter.

April - Hydra

For April Daily Mail focuses on Orthodox Easter, fairly so. The Saronic islands do have a lot of Easter traditions.... but so does Kerkyra (Corfu) island, probably the ultimate Greek Easter destination. There's nothing wrong with Hydra whatsoever and both destinations are going to be sunken with visitors anyway. My only objection is that we are four months in and three out of the recommendations are from the same geographical region... Some variety, come on, guys. So, Hydra is great, Kerkyra is a great alternative far away and Chios island is another great alternative in the very opposite side of the country.

Easter celebrations in Hydra island.

May - Parga

Oh wow, we changed region, guys! Daily Mail recommends this coastal town surrounded by mountains for the end of spring. It's a good choice, though I will argue... it's May, you can go anywhere in Greece and be happy.

June - Corinthia

Oookay back to basics. Let's be real, the journalist either has spent 95% of their time in the Peloponnese or is secretly a southern Greek. I already recommended Corinthia as a combo vacation with Patras in February and I will stick to this. June is such an amazing month in Greece - save for the sudden thunderstorms - it's summer but the tourist masses haven't arrived fully yet. There are so many places to enjoy before Corinthia; beaches, islands! I don't mean to diss Corinthia at all, it has the stunning Feneos I already mentioned, it has the unique Corinth Canal and it has many significant archaeological sites, but those can be enjoyed throughout the year. Save June for something else, if possible.

See, Corinthia is amazing but earlier in the year is more charming than June.

July - Náfplion

Errr... the Peloponnesian sweep continues. Nafplion is one of the prettiest cities in Greece, without doubt. It has significant historical monuments and very important archaeological sites nearby. But, again, it's July, go to some island, go to a beach. Save Nafplion for autumn. Nafplion is indeed coastal and has several small islands nearby...but STILL, there are some places that are simply more ideal for July. The article probably wants you to escape the very hot, very touristy destinations in the peak season. I hear this, but there are some remote, lesser known islands that are totally worth visiting. And it's not like Nafplion doesn't have its fair share of tourists anyway...

See, Nafplion can work in winter...

August - Ioánnina

As a person who somehow it is always August when I visit Ioannina and I am perpetually on the verge of moving there, no, August is not the ideal month for this place. In truth, every month can be ideal for Ioannina because the city and its surrounding countryside is of outstanding beauty. But, again, it's August in Greece and you recommend a lake city inside a ring of mountains? This is for heavy winter. This is for heavenly spring. This is for dreamy autumn. This is for everything except AUGUST. I understand the heat and tourist avoidance but, let's be real, isn't this part of the charm? What's the point of coming in the heart of the Greek summer, if not to get a little roasted? This is part of the fun of going to a different place. Be careful, of course, put on a hat, sunglasses, sunscreen, blast the air conditioner in the hotel room... but also get a little roasted. That's the deal. See some desert and water. Get some blinding sun and taste the salt in the air. Board a ship. I think it's a seriously missed opportunity if you are in Greece in summer and not experience it in its admittedly most ferocious might. It's also a little hypocritical, if you are willing to go to Hydra on Easter, then why not go to Tinos island in August? Like a second easter in the summer, the island's largest chuch, which is the major Marian shrine of the country and said to have been the place of many miracles, commemorates the Dormition of Mary and has a huge festival that attracts pilgrims from all over Greece and the Orthodox world. Landscape-wise, it is exactly the place you should be getting roasted in August.

Somewhere in Ioannina in what is certainly not August (left), Tinos island (right).

September - Crete

September in Greece is prolonged summer, especially in its southmost large and most diverse island. Crete is good for any time of the year, including September, no objections here.

October - Thessaloniki

This is a very correct one yet funny, because somehow it's like everyone has collectively agreed this is the right time to visit Thessaloniki. The second largest city of the country is a very loved destination amongst Greeks and is on the rise with foreign tourists as well. It is sometimes called the cultural and food capital of Greece, although to be fair Athens is not lacking in either. In any case, October is a good month for some city break, although it might be a little windy there. What's also funny is that Daily Mail recommended Athens in March for the military parade. Here's the thing, in Thessaloniki the military parade takes place in October! I don't know if Daily Mail is aware of this but it ain't letting you miss any big Greek military parade from now on XD Thessaloniki is in the north of the country, which has several forests nearby. It is a good time to explore the forests, while the first autumn colourings will be observed.

November - Santorini

This is where I flip a table probably. If it's your first time in Santorini, DON'T GO there in November. If you have been there multiple times, have seen all the important stuff, love it and now you just want to chill there forever, sure. Otherwise, it's a pity to see it in its most unremarkable season for the first time. Sure, the high season is getting elongated, the prices will be lower, but you will also be getting cold dark waters and cloudy skies. Please go to Santorini anytime from April to September if it's your first time. It's a really striking place, see it in its peak. As for November destinations, all the mainland mountainous and forested countryside is perfect for this month.

Santorini in definitely NOT November and, as an example, Kastoria in quite possibly November.

December - Mt Maenalo Ski Resort

Back to the usual suspect, Peloponnese. It wasn't mentioned the entire last season and I got scared. Arcadia is a most mountainous region of the Peloponnese, it is very beautiful and Daily Mail recommends its ski resort so...nothing wrong here. But it's December which is the warmest winter month, it's southmost Greece and Maenalo is almost ultra but not the biggest mountain of the region. The Kalavryta ski resort I mentioned for February is in a higher altitude. Kyllini and Taygetus are also bigger mountains than Maenalo. All I am saying is... it might not have enough snow yet in December. And here's the thing, Greece has bigger mountains and far more northern regions! So, for December, other ski resorts might be safer choices. On the other hand, Arcadia has many lovely traditional mountain villages that will be beautiful during the Christmas holidays. It's a good rec, it's just that many other places in very overlooked regions might have even more wintry and Christmas-y vibes at the time (i.e Parnassus and Arachova, Volos and Pelion ski resort, Trikala, Vasilitsa ski resort, Lailias Ski resort, Kaimaktsalan ski resort etc etc).

That was it! Any additional thoughts? Hopefully not from a Peloponnesian who wants to bite my nose off XD Huge love for this gorgeous region, it's only I wished for wider representation! Hopefully, this might be useful for aspiring travellers from abroad, perhaps it will help you develop a strategy or a certain way of understanding about the things you should be considering when travelling in Greece.

Many of the photos are from Creative Commons, but for some places it was pretty hard. All photos belong to their rightful owners.

The Daily Mail article.

[sotiriabellou]

visit eastern macedonia and thrace

[have-you-been-here]

April 14th update

Nothing new in the USA, but three new countries worldwide

On the statistics by number (which I send you on Google), America is third place again with 42% countries visited

Thanks for the stats!

Countries we're missing as of today (from what I can see) under the cut:

Americas

Belize

El Salvador

French Guiana

Guyana

Haiti

Honduras

Nicaragua

Paraguay

Suriname

Uruguay

Venezuela

Africa

Benin

Burkina Faso

Burundi

Cameroon

Central African Republic

Côte d'Ivoire

Djibouti

DRC (Democratic Republic of the Congo)

Equatorial Guinea

Eritrea

Gabon

Ghana

Guinea-Bissau

Lesotho

Liberia

Libya

Malawi

Mauritania

Mozambique

Niger

Nigeria

Republic of the Congo

Rwanda

Somalia

South Sudan*

Sudan*

The Gambia

Togo

Western Sahara

Zambia

Zimbabwe

*These appear to be one country on the stats map?

Eurasia

Afghanistan

Azerbaijan

Bangladesh

Belarus

Bosnia and Herzegovina

Brunei

Iraq

Iran

Israel

Kuwait

Kyrgyzstan

Laos

Nepal

North Macedonia

Oman

Qatar

Syria

Tajikistan

Turkmenistan

Oceania

Papua New Guinea

Various islands that are too small to tell

[the-phoenix-heart]

Please do spill some of your Mama Greece hcs sometime if you feel comfortable because I love your thoughts on her

You have unleashed a beast Grammy. Here's a brief life history of my Mama Greece. (I can say so much more)

Human Name: Helene (also Lavinia, we'll get to it)

Her father was Mycenae (Mycenaean Greece). She looked up to him greatly as a child.

I headcanon that the City-States of Greece were also personified, and that Helene represented the Greek World as a whole, the one that followed after Mycenae Greece. The City-States aren't really related to her, I kind of characterize them as a cousins.

The City-States don't have much personality that I've decided, but Sparta was a women and a badass, and Athens was a philosophizing misogynist.

For a long time, because Helene represented the Greek World as a whole and the City-States were in charge of themselves she mostly got to spend her time doing whatever the hell she wanted. Disguising herself as a man often, and becoming a genius in mathematics and philosophy. She wasn't so much bothered with war and work for a long time, though she was was a skilled sword woman. She spent much of her time in this period in a hedonistic lifestyle (and I like to think she was involved with the Cult of Dionysus)

And then there was Persia. Their relationship was one you could call enemies with benefits. Vitriolic, Helene didn't much like him, but he was a good fuck. Their relationship got worse overtime, though there was a mutual respect between the two. Basically the France and England of the Ancient times.

When Macedonia began to conquer Greece, I characterize this as him killing off the City-States. Now obviously these places lived on, but it was still a turning point in Greek history, and I think eventually Macedonia would go after Helene - to become the "true" Greek World - and Helene would kill him in turn.

This is when Helene takes on a lot more responsibility. She becomes more a warrior and get into politics. This is also around the time where she and Persia have their final match and she kills him.

Greece is born around this time. Either he pops out of the ground and she finds him, or she actually gives birth to him. I headcanon he comes out of the ground. Either way, he is her and Persia's son and is born during the Hellenistic Period. (What will eventually become Iran is also born of this union and Idk if Helene had any contact with her at this time)

Gonna skip forward a bit to her relationship with Rome. Rome is a complex relationship. They did deeply love each other, Rome more so. He would call her the Venus to his Mars. That said, he still cheated on her frequently, and she could never truly forgive him for taking over her. Still, they were married. They were a devoted, loving couple. She was a vital part of him and his muse in many respects. And she helped raise his children. Romano was her son with Rome, and she was one of Veneziano's mothers (Vene has two mothers, her and Gaul, and Rome is obviously his father.)

(Rome tried to bring Gaul back home once and Helene shut that shit down quickly.)

She lived off and on between her house in her homelands and Rome's villa. I don't know where Greece was at the time, although a part of me wants to say Greece was not allowed to be raised in Rome's home with his sons. So possibly Greece spent most of his time when he and his Mama would visit Rome living with the servants and Helene would be sure to visit him throughout the day and make sure he was doing alright. When they would return to her home she would make sure she could be as openly affectionate with him as possible.

The "Divorce" happens when she becomes the Eastern Roman Empire, which Rome wasn't exactly a fan of. She moved to Constantinople with Greece, though she and Rome may have sometimes had secret trysts.

I have this imagine in my head that when he died she found his body and slipped his bloody helmet off of his head and placed it on her own. She renamed herself the Byzantine Empire and took on a new human name, Lavinia. The ancient of wife of Aeneas.

Also, as Byzantine she marries Kievan Rus (Olga) or at least they become a couple for a while, which makes her technically Ukraine, Russia, and Belarus's other mother. There was some love there, but their relationship was strained. She was not much of a mother to Rus's kids as well, though Ukraine has memories of Mama Byzantine and how powerful and glorious she was.

As for Romano and Veneziano, both were territories for her at a time, but I think she would have left them in their respective territories to be educated/raised by their people in charge. They are just a reminder of their father and what he did to her, though she does miss them and sometimes visit them. I think losing Romano would've been harder on her than losing Veneziano. Romano was always her favorite of the two, plus the loss of Southern Italy was different than the loss of Venice. She willingly gave Veneziano indepdence. Romano she held onto for a long time but eventually lost.

...Plus little Veneziano would eventually take the attitude of "Fuck You This Is Mine Now" and played a part in her weakening when he not only funded a trip to reinstate a deposed Byzantine prince but then looted and pillaged Constantinople when he didn't get his money back and took some more of her lands. Bad Veneziano. Sit in your corner and think about what you've done (I genuinely don't know how this works with his canon personality but this did all happen irl) (also yes I see Veneziano as Venice because I find that to make the most sense and be coolest for his character)

And then we fast forward to her eventual death at the hands of Turkey. Do I think he loved her? ...I think he was in awe of her. I think he loved the idea of her. I think he looked at her history and I think he wished that he could be like her or wished that he could be with her. But also, he did kill her. In my imagery laden mind he finds her under an olive tree and killed her there. Maybe there was a fight. Maybe she finally accepted it.

tl;dr: Helene starts as the heir to a power vacuum after the death of her father, but instead of taking charge and responsibility she spends her time doing as she pleases and learning while the city-states handle things. Until Macedonia roles up and she kills him before he can kill her and she takes charge, she kills her rival and sometimes lover Persia and he gives her her greatest treasure Herakles, her son. And also has a daughter that she doesn't interact with much. She marries Rome to survive and forms a loving, if dysfunctional marriage and has another son Romano, and there's also Veneziano who is her son with Rome but also Gaul. When Rome is killed she takes her place as the Byzantine empire and spends years just trying to survive and adapt and persevere until finally she accepts her death at the hands of Turkey.

For personality headcanons: I characterize her being motivated by a fear of death to collect as many skills as possible and adapt to her surroundings. The Greeks HATED talking about death and I think that would bleed over into her actual beliefs. I think she rarely, if ever, let herself die, because she was always afraid that she would die for the final time.

By the end of her life she is a full on genius. Math, language, astronomy, art, philosophy, even music and theatre. She had this insatiable curiosity and need to learn that sometimes overtook her best instincts of survival.

Physical Headcanons: 6'0'' because I can. Her body fluctuates between incredibly muscular, on the thicker side, and thin from weakness over her many years of life. For some basic ages: By the the she kills Persia she is physically in her early twenties. Late twenties when she marries Rome. Early thirties when she takes over as Byzanties. Early-Mid forties at her death (Turkey is into Milfs).

This is what I think she would have looked like probably around the time she married Rome. It is missing a few details. She's not as tanned as I imagine her, she doesn't have the moles I imagine her having, and I couldn't get her nose right-I imagine she has a hooked nose.

[hedgewitchgarden]

On a crisp afternoon last spring, visiting student Yair Berzofsky found himself in the largest park in Prague captivated by the sight of a human effigy burning on a tall pyre. He took notice of the children in play armor who ran past him wearing giant purple hats and jousted with foam swords as adults drank, danced, and beat drums. The figure in the bonfire was part of this year’s Čarodějnice, a celebratory burning of winter witches. Berzofsky watched the woman’s frame crumple as celebrants took turns roasting sausages and marshmallows over the fiery branches.

“The witch burning was not the reason everyone came,” he later tells us, adding that the event was a testament to Prague’s “ability to not just rehash an old tradition, but to turn it into a reason to celebrate its heritage.”

At the end of each winter, Czechs and diasporic Slavs celebrate Čarodějnice, a variation of the ancestral Walpurgis Night—the Christian Saint Walpurga’s feast day, during which observers light bonfires to ward off witches in Europe and the United States. While some see a witch-burning parties as distasteful, as it recalls a dark history of persecution and murder, Čarodějnice harks back to similar pre-Christian traditions. Berzofsky fondly recalls the event’s warm and charming energy: “In a weird way, I felt at home.”

The witch burning evokes customs associated with Slavic gods and goddesses. As author Michael Mojhe describes in his writings, some deities in the Slavic pantheons lived on through equivalent Christian saints, but others were abandoned. Two critical examples are Jarilo, god of war, vegetation, and spring, and his oppositely aligned sister Morana, goddess of witchcraft,  death, and winter.

While Slovakians reimagined Jarilo as St. George during Christianity’s spread across Europe in the late 900s, Morana was not. This was partially due to the Catholic Church’s patriarchy but also because she lacked a counterpart in a Christian tradition vehemently opposed to witchcraft and a female god. The burning or even drowning of her effigy, much like the one Berzofsky witnessed, is a Pagan tradition both celebrating winter’s end and ritually recognizing her cultural death.

Like the continued celebration of Čarodějnice, this story follows those of Slavic descent reclaiming an ancient faith tradition—namely, witchcraft—that endured centuries of erasure from Christian institutions. Both of us, authors Emma Cieslik and Alexandra Sikorski, are from Polish American families and grew up in the Catholic Church. It wasn’t until Sikorski began researching contemporary Paganism that we learned of Slavic religious practices prior to the sweep of Christianity in Europe. Researching the contemporary reclamation of Slavic witchcraft as an aspect of cultural identity—especially when invasion and destruction threaten that culture, as in Ukraine now—has become for us a way to reclaim parts of our heritage we never knew existed.

The term Slavic, or the culture of Slavs, encompasses an ethnolinguistic group of multiple ethnicities and cultures that share similarities in food, language, and cultural practices across Central, Southern, and Eastern Europe. The Slavic world extends from Russia in the east to Czechia in the west to North Macedonia in the south. Beyond these countries are Slavic immigrants and their descendants, including both of us, who exist in diasporic communities around the world.

“In Slavic Paganism, there are broad practices, but there are also some specific to the regions within each country,” Stephania Short, a Slavic Pagan, explains. These specific practices are often what come under threat. Invaders have fought over and died for rich farmlands of what is now Ukraine for hundreds if not thousands of years, making Russia’s recent attack on its sovereignty feel like a continuation of centuries-old conflict. It may come as no surprise that a long history of Slavic immigration, religion, and war shaped various Slavic practices and traditions. For Short, part of her witchcraft involves connecting with her Ukrainian ancestral roots—an act made all the more essential by recent events.

“People are looking for ancient meaning,” says Slovakian tour guide Helene Cincebaux. “I think there’s a fascination with Slavic culture, the rituals—maybe the plants, the herbs, things they did. They were natural healers.”

Witchcraft and Paganism existed in Slavic regions long before Christianity found a home. Even when witchcraft faced persecution, its traditions persisted, reimagined within the constraints of the new dominant religion.

In the UK, the 1950s emergence of Wicca, a nature-based, Pagan duotheistic religion, led to the repopularizing of witchcraft and other alternative belief systems. In the same way that native religions varied across Slavic areas, the term “witchcraft” does not refer to a singular identity. “Witches,” including those who do not use this term but exist under the umbrella of witchcraft, participate in a variety of practices and hold diverse spiritual beliefs. These include contemporary Paganism, folk Catholicism, and Wicca.

Where one person uses tarot, another may not. Where one person views hexes as inherently unethical, another may not. Where one person venerates deities, another may not or may only venerate one. Despite this diversity of practice, some people avoid using the term “witch” because it was and may still be used as a derogatory label for people holding spiritual power outside Christianity, as well as those who exist outside social norms.

In Eurocentric and Americentric beliefs, the prototype for a witch is a woman or femme presenting person who is targeted because of their practices. during the second wave of feminism, some women turned to witchcraft as liberation from the patriarchy, finding empowerment in venerating goddesses. Together, they could create a community through common practices in witchcraft, such as yearly festivals that mark the passage of time. According to a survey conducted by researcher Helen A. Berger between 2008 and 2010, 71.6 percent of contemporary Pagans, including various religions and witchcraft, are women. The faith has also become a safe haven for some LGBTQ+ individuals.

Ever since Christianity spread to Slavic Europe in the 900s, people who existed on the margins of society were accused or and persecuted for witchcraft, including literate women and individuals with limb differences and disabilities. It became a scapegoat identifier for people the Church deemed dangerous or different. Similarly, queer researcher Mara Gold explains, “those accused of witchcraft were generally those that didn’t fit the norms of the gender binary, including [LGTBQ+] people and poor older women discarded by society.”

Polish photographer Agata Kalinowska’s monograph Yaga supports and holds space for LGBTQ+ individuals within witchcraft. The diary, which includes photographs documenting thirteen years of queer women’s spaces, takes its name from Baba Yaga, a ferocious witch from Slavic folklore. For Kalinowska, this title is important because it speaks to how Baba Yaga creates space for queer witches:

Now there are women in Poland who empower such figures of older independent women… women who know a lot about nature, power of plants, the importance of female and nonbinary friendships. They are Yagas, they don’t belong to the world created around beauty myths, they queer the system.

Witches of the Church

“A lot of witchcraft is heavily intertwined with Christianity,” explains Sara Raztresen, a Slovenian American witch. Although Christianity sought to erase native religions, many Pagan traditions became embedded in Christian practice. Converts tethered Pagan deities to saints with similar iconography.

After the Catholic Church arrived in Slovenia, locals began to identify Kresnik, the god of the sun, fire, and storms, with St. John and St. George. So Kresnik, the head deity of the Slovenian pantheon, is no longer as prevalent as the saints who inherited his role. Kresnik, St. John, and St. George are among the entities with whom Raztresen actively communicates.

On those days, she sets her altar with offerings associated with the deity with whom she intends to speak. For Kresnik, this includes herbs and flowers related to his role as patron of summer, such as chamomile and daisies. When the deity makes their presence known, Raztresen asks questions that are answered through the tarot cards she pulls, acting as a conduit between the two.

One of these practices is “kitchen witchcraft,” a broad practice that encourages intention and focus, using many on-hand food ingredients with magic and symbolic meaning. For kitchen witch Raztresen and others, their practices often involve using ingredients key to their ethnic backgrounds, such as meats, grains, spices, and more that are native to their ancestral homelands. Kitchen witchcraft and other ethnic household rituals allow people like Raztresen to connect with their heritage even if they live far away.

However, the intermingling of Christianity and witchcraft among Slavs doesn’t erase the stigma the Catholic Church perpetuates against witchcraft. Today many Slavic witches practice their craft as a form of opposition against religious institutions. Raztresen says, “[Church goers] all want you to do the white button-up collar thing in Church,” but there’s a great diversity of Christian practices that include elements of witchcraft and folk traditions.

Similar to experiences across the world, the Church inquisitors in Slavic regions interrogated, tortured, and executed a number of witches. Scholar Michael Ostling states in early modern Poland, the Catholic Church executed approximately 2,000 people for witchcraft, most from the lower socioeconomic classes. The best documented example of this persecution is perhaps the 1775 Doruchów witch trial in Poland, where the Church executed fourteen women, although historians have debated the year and number of victims.

Immediately, marginalized people and their loved ones, as well as other concerned citizens across Eastern and Central Europe started questioning these claims of witchcraft. It wasn’t until 1776 that Poland outlawed torture and the death penalty—partly in response to the Doruchów witch trial. Today, more than two centuries later, people like Raztresen are exploring how their own ethnic traditions are rooted in pre-Christian pagan and witchcraft practices. They are reclaiming how practices persecuted on threat of torture and death lived on through cooking, praying, and sewing traditions.

The Strength of Color

Stephania Short was introduced to spiritualism at the age of thirteen after watching her mom pull tarot. By ninth grade, she “didn’t necessarily believe in God,” and as the years went by, she grew more connected to her Ukrainian roots. She reached out to family members and went to her mom to learn more about Ukrainian cultural traditions and spiritual beliefs. Like Raztresen, Short practices her witchcraft to celebrate her Slavic heritage.

“Paganism kind of allows you to practice with everything that our ancestors would, so everything is based off of the land,” she says. Plants and herbs that are abundant in Ukraine, such as rosemary, are important in her craft.

Like herbs, colors hold meanings in Ukrainian witchcraft traditions. Short explains, “Red is a symbol of strength and protection. Gold symbolizes abundance and prosperity and good luck. Blue symbolizes peace and healing and just kind vibes all around.” With this knowledge, she now intentionally decorates her pysanky, traditional Ukrainian Easter eggs, with these colors to welcome the spring.

Deepening the importance of the color red in Ukrainian witchcraft, poppies represent strength and prosperity. Short aims to incorporate the flower into her spell work and practice “as a form of appreciation for [her] ancestors.” To Short, spells may be made with and for a diverse array of occasions and situations. She defines them as “basically manifestations: energy or intentions that you’re pursuing out for the universe to grasp onto.” Herbs, like rosemary or poppy, and flame may speed up this process. Even the color of the candles may impact the spell. “All elements you use connect to your intentions with the spell, as they carry their own energies.” For Short and many other Slavic witches, the study and practice of Slavic witchcraft involves learning the meanings behind these cultural beliefs.

When winter bleeds into spring, effigies of Morana are drowned or burned just as Berzofsky witnessed, ushering in new life. The Catholic Church banned this practice in the fifteenth century, so the residents of some Slavic countries replaced her with an effigy of Judas. But the custom of burning Morana lived on. Short’s cousin introduced her to Morana. Before, she hadn’t been aware that Slavic Paganism contained so many deities. However, she doesn’t “believe in gods and goddesses necessarily.” Instead, she views it as alluring and something she needs to acknowledge.

Short discusses Slavic and Ukrainian witch practices on social media, from beliefs surrounding native gods and goddesses to the use and meaning of native Ukrainian herbs in spell work. The importance of this has risen in light of the current war. “I’m maybe a little biased, but the Russians’ goal is to eliminate our culture,” she says. During the Russian invasion of Ukraine, the Ukrainian witch has become a symbol of solidarity for some—recalling the woman of the past who fights for her cultural heritage (her native religion) in the face of erasure and destruction at the hands of the Christian Church.

Images of Ukrainian witches appear on the Ukraine War NFT Collection and among Ukrainian cosplayers around the world, alongside messages showing the strength of Ukrainian people. Madame Pamita, a Ukrainian American witch and author of Baba Yaga’s Book of Witchcraft, explains that during the invasion, traditions and practices have grown more dear, more important to preserve. Ukrainians and other people in Slavic diasporas see the rediscovery of their traditions and practices as a healing tool.

Healing

Emblems of Slavic witchcraft have been interwoven with messages of Ukrainian solidarity, including motanka dolls, 5,000-year-old symbols of feminine wisdom and guards for families within Ukrainian folk traditions. Motanka dolls are talismans unique to each family and symbolize connection between familial generations.

Madame Pamita’s grandmother was a baba sheptukha (баба шептуха), a healer who made motanky (мотанки) spirit dolls, but her grandmother died before she was born. Although she heard about these practices, she never knew how to perform them. Others share a similar experience of unfamiliarity, but a mother-and-daughter team in British Columbia are changing that by creating and selling motanka dolls as a fundraiser for Ukrainian relief.

With attention on agency and the self, Slavic witchcraft encourages healing and identity formation. It focuses on reflection and connection. Even if they aren’t recognized as religious practices, the cornerstones of many Slavic witchcraft traditions can be uncovered in small Ukrainian dolls, Slovenian kitchens, and large celebrations. Ukrainians and their allies are preserving these traditions for solidarity, fundraising, and strength.

The presence of magic may not be obvious, but it is simply a matter of perspective. That perspective may bring people closer to culture they may feel disconnected from in diasporic communities or from being part of a marginalized people. It may bring them their own version of spiritual happiness and cultural enrichment.

Emma Cieslik is a museum professional in the Washington, D.C., area and a former curatorial intern at the Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage.

Alexandra Sikorski is a writing intern at the Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage and a master’s student in public anthropology at American University. When she isn’t researching contemporary witchcraft, she enjoys dissecting material culture and design.

[asingularcanadian]

you had a skull infection??? how did that happen

oh shit man ok

so back in 2018, i've just gotten home from macedonia, my mom is off work i'm off work my sister is off work, mom goes hell yeah we should all go swimming, swimming i my favorite, was swimin almost every day in macedonia, cant wait to go swimmin at home at the beach i know. so we go to the beach, love da beach, im in the water for like 4 straight hours just swammin, find out a friend of mine is moving out of toronto so spur of the moment decide to go see them for afew days, day 1 of the visit im like ah shit my ear hurts, i'm probs getting a ear infection from swimmin so much. I have a terribly sensitive left ear and have had an ear infection from swimming about once a year since i was 10ish. No big deal whatever I'll go to the doctors when I get back from visiting my friend. Mom goes to pick me up from my friend's place, imediately upon me getting into the van i'm like k i need to go to the hospital as soon as i get home I've got an ear situation, the infection has gotten so bad that it's aing it hard for me to move my jaw. I go to the hospital I get the antibiotic drops, go home.

Next day I wake up at 4 am, I am in such pain it is almost hard to see. I tell my ma hey i need to go up to the hosptal something is incredibly wrong, I know what these ear infections feel like they have never been this bad. it basically felt like the whole left side of my had and face was going to explode. It was throbbing and stabbing and just hell. Instead of going to the emerge she managed to get me into my family doctors, upon taking one look at it he goes ok we're sending you to the emerge we're going to call this doctor up there for you to see specifically you're going to need a scan of your skull, the soonr the better. Went up and got the scan.

APPARENTLY

when you leave ear infections untreated for long enough it can evolved into something called mastoiditis. your mastoid cells are pockets of bone and air kinda behind the ears

so when you get mastoiditis these pockets essentially fill with infection causing them to swell and damage tissue so it felt like my skull was going to explode because thats what legit was going on. I was cryin n screamin in the hospital just inconsolably sobbing and heaving cause i was in so much pain. Apparently it was one of the leading causes of death amongst children before the invention of antibiotics so now whenever I see woowoo antivaxx assholes onlie who wont give their kids antibiotics for ear things i always give the a good tongue lashing cause 1. not only should no child ever go through what a grown adult couldn't handle but 2. you're gonna kill ur kid in one of the slowest painful ways possible! and you should probably not do that