#when it used to be very celebratory to share links and people would like. bond in livestream chats

[jattendschaton]

Genuinely, where are ML people congregating these days. None of the Discord servers I'm in are super active anymore and I barely see people in them posting about new episodes/specials and definitely not as they're airing. Where is the new episode camaraderie

There used to be so many active Discord servers and groups on Tumblr/Instagram who talked about where to find links for whatever was coming out and livestreamed episodes themselves and went crazy while watching them all together and I can't tell if this is something that has gone by the wayside fandom-wide or if I am a loser who just isn't invited to be part of these things

[fabulouspotatosister]

is it still you?

summary: getting left behind is never easy. being found is even harder.

word count:  6,127

gif(s) by: @gabrielokun, @elenaglbert​

a/n: hello there, everyone! welcome to my first proper fic since the school year started! you might have seen this on that wip title game i did a little while back, and here it is! thank you to @penguinwithitsarseonfire​ for reminding me that this idea even existed and inspiring me to write it :0 hope you’re all doing well lovelies!

~ o ~

“Amy, I’ll be fine.”

Amy rested against the console, one delicate eyebrow raised as she watched you hover by the Doctor’s side. You were watching him tinker with something on the console, but you could still feel Amy boring holes into you. “Right, just in case we forget the last time you said you were gonna be fine - remind me again why you’re the one doing this?”

“Because I’ve done it a bunch of times!” You glanced up at Amy, then shrunk back at her piercing gaze. You were definitely being judged. You swallowed the urge to say “sorry, mom”. “Reconnaissance. Right, Doctor?”

“Right,” the Doctor replied, sounding slightly distracted. He was peering at what looked like an earbud through a magnifying glass. His coat lay abandoned, flung carelessly over one of the chairs in the console room. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of large circular goggles rested over his face as he worked. He was cute, but you’d never say that to his face. “I’ve tracked the weapon to this planet, but they’re a hivemind - if they see me, they’ll raise an alarm. I need you to be my eyes and ears.”

“Aye aye, captain,” you said cheerfully, raising a hand to your forehead in a mock salute. “Racked up your fair share of enemies, huh?”

“Oh, you know me.” The Doctor poked at the earbud-thingie with a sparking device. “I’m like James Bond.”

“You wish you were like James Bond,” Amy piped up. 

“Oi!” The Doctor looked up, indignation written over his face even through the huge goggles. “I’d make a great spy.”

Amy grinned at you. Something dangerous glittered in her eyes. “You’d trip over those laser things and set off a bomb with those limbs of yours.” 

The Doctor made a frustrated noise, and buried his nose in the magnifying glass again. 

“Okay, maybe not James Bond,” you said. You let your hand rest on his shoulder, trying not to jostle him as he started connecting some very thin wires. “I think you’ve got the gadgets down, though. You’d be the Quartermaster.”

“The man in the chair,” the Doctor muttered. 

“Yeah, the man in the chair,” you repeated. Absentmindedly, you let your hand wander, travelling down his back slightly. The Doctor went still. “You’ve got a very important job.”

“...Yep.” The Doctor’s voice was strained. 

“Okay, enough, lovebirds,” Amy said. She raised a finger before the Doctor could protest against the “lovebirds” comment. “Is she gonna be gone long?”

“Hopefully not,” the Doctor answered. “Just long enough for me to find out where they’ve landed so I can shut off their queen. It shouldn’t be too far. Twenty minutes, tops. And - aha!”

The Doctor grinned widely at you, pushing the goggles off his face. “That should do it. Look -” He plucked the earbud from the console and beamed at it. “Your very own communicator. Brand new! You don’t even need your phone.” It gleamed silver as he turned it over in his hands. “It links up directly to the TARDIS so we can hear you twenty-four-seven. Or seventy-two seven here.”

“It’s beautiful,” you said, and if it was possible, the Doctor beamed brighter. You reached out to take it, but the Doctor moved forward before you could snatch it from his hand.

“Hang on, let me,” the Doctor said softly. He leaned down, brushing his hand against your hair, and you shuddered. Some kind of heavy silence fell over the two of you as he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and gently pushed the communicator in - it fit snugly, almost like it was made for you. Which it was. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed. “There we go.”

Amy met your gaze. Lovebirds, she mouthed.

Shut up, you mouthed back. 

The Doctor ran to the other side of the console, picking up the telephone and quickly punching in some numbers. There was the whining sound of feedback in your ear. He tapped the receiver, and the soft tap tap tap felt like someone tapping directly on your brain. “Can you hear this?”

“Loud and clear.” He tapped again, and you winced. “Ow.”

“Sorry,” the Doctor said. He raised the phone to his lips and spoke again, but quieter. The sound sent shivers down your spine, and you tried not to visibly tremble. “It doubles as a tracker, so I’ll know exactly where you are.”

“Useful,” you squeaked out. Amy waggled her eyebrows at you, and you didn’t have the strength to tell her to stop. “Anything else?”

“Nope!” the Doctor said, setting down the phone with a thunk. “Alright! I think you’re all set, mission control.”

You frowned. “I thought you were mission control.”

The Doctor opened his mouth, as if to say something, but caught himself. He settled on smiling instead, the corners of his lips turning up meekly. “My mistake. You’ve been mission control before, I just…”

“Yeah, when you lost the TARDIS with me in it,” you said, giving him the gentlest smile you could muster. “Remember that? Good times.”

The Doctor hummed in reply. He shifted in place, staring at you, his hands hanging limply by his sides. In the dim, yellowish light of the TARDIS interior, you couldn’t tell if he was blushing or not. He stood there for a moment, his lips slightly parted, seemingly lost in thought.

“Hey,” you ventured. The Doctor jumped at the sound of your voice, his gaze darting up to meet yours. “You okay?”

“Always,” he said quickly. “I’m just seeing you off. That’s what I’m doing.”

He was not, in fact, just seeing you off. This was typical Doctor behavior - he was dodging the question. It was almost frustrating, but the way he looked like he was pouting took the edge off the frustration a little bit. But only a little bit. “Are you worried?”

“Me?” The Doctor pulled a confident face, the one he put on when he wasn’t. “Never.”

If you weren’t looking at the Doctor, really looking at him, you would have believed him. But then there was rule one - after some time, the Doctor had turned into an open book for you. The way he stood, very still when he was usually bouncing off the walls, told a different story.

You met his eyes, and something shifted. His face morphed, from confident to bittersweet, to an expression that looked almost mournful. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Oh, bugger it,” the Doctor muttered under his breath. 

“Doctor - oh!”

He grabbed your arm and pulled you towards him, pulling you flush against his chest. He wrapped his arms around your shoulders and squeezed. He dipped his head down onto your shoulders, his face disappearing into your neck. Amy whistled, but you didn’t hear her - you were too busy focusing on feeling the Doctor’s lips on your skin, and his breath, warm against it, and - well -

“I wasn’t expecting that,” you gasped out.

The Doctor didn’t reply - just squeezed tighter. This face was most definitely a hugger, but they were mostly short and sweet. Little celebratory hugs. These hugs were reserved for certain moments, and certain people. 

“I’m the man in the chair, of course I’m worried,” he finally muttered. “It’s sort of my job.”

“You’ll keep me safe,” you said. You leaned back, and the Doctor lifted his head to look at you. “Mission control, remember? You’ll be there to guide me.”

The Doctor peered at you. “You trust me,” he said quietly, like he couldn’t believe it.

“After all this time, how could I not?” You gave him another soft smile. “You’re trusting me to do this, I’m trusting you to keep me safe.”

“Just -” The Doctor sighed, ragged, and squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened, they were filled with a familiar concern. “Promise me you’ll be careful. I can’t lose you too.”

The last part was nearly a whisper. The sound of his voice tugged at your heart. 

“You won’t,” you said, pulling away from his embrace. Disappointment flickered in the Doctor’s eyes as you stepped backwards towards the doors. “Ever.”

“Okay,” the Doctor said. He looked you over, his expression turning serious. “Ready?”

You nodded. “On your signal, captain.”

A grin slowly spread across the Doctor’s face, childlike. “Captain. I like the sound of that.”

Amy ran up to you, pulling you into another quick hug. She looked just as concerned as the Doctor when she pulled away, holding your face protectively. “Seriously, be safe, alright? I don’t want to be stuck with him without you.”

“Noted,” you replied, and Amy brightened.

“My company isn’t that bad, is it?” the Doctor asked. 

“It’s unbearable,” you joked, and the Doctor pouted. Amy laughed, you laughed, and eventually the Doctor joined in too, chuckling quietly under his breath.

The TARDIS doors swung open slowly, and a gust of cold air burst through them. You walked backwards, waving your fingers at the two in a two-fingered salute, and creeped quietly through the doors.

The first thing that startled you was the smell. The familiar smell of wet grass. A light drizzle fell on your skin, and you looked up. The sky was dark and full of stars - in the distance, you could see the faint lights of flickering street lamps and lit up windows. You could hear the faint sounds of people chattering and cars passing through the night. All of these things were things you knew -

“Doctor, we’re not in the right place,” you said, tapping your earpiece. 

A feedback whine, then the Doctor’s voice, loud and clear as if he was beside you. “What? No, the coordinates were right, I checked -”

“Check again.” Something felt off. You took a hesitant step backward, your back resting against the TARDIS doors. “This is Earth.”

“No, it can’t be,” the Doctor said, incredulous.

“I can see houses in the distance,” you said, “human houses. Unless this is a really convincing simulation, I’m really sure we’ve just landed back on my home planet.”

“Why’d you send us here, old girl?” he asked quietly, probably to the TARDIS. You could faintly hear the TARDIS hum and beep in reply. Then, sharply: “What?” 

"Doctor?” you asked. You tried to keep the fear from creeping into your voice.

“Come back inside, quickly,” the Doctor snapped. 

The urgency in his voice scared the hell out of you, and you straightened, whirling around to face the doors. The handles rattled, but the doors didn’t budge. “I can’t,” you gasped. 

“They’re not locked.” The Doctor’s voice sounded strange through the earpiece. It was getting fuzzier, the ends of his sentences tapering off into silence. “I’ve unlocked them, you should be able to get inside -”

You moved to try again… and your hand passed right through the door handle. You stumbled forward, shocked, and stared at your hand like it was the one that had turned transparent. Then the air started shimmering, and you heard the beautiful wheezing and singing of the TARDIS’s engines -

It was leaving you behind.

“No, no -” Your voice was like molasses in your mouth. You pressed yourself against the doors. They were still solid, still there. The door handles were impossible to grab now, just a faint image in the air, and a sob crawled up your throat. “Doctor, don’t leave!”

A yell ripped through the earpiece, and you winced - the Doctor only ever raised his voice when he was furious. You curled your fists and pressed them against the doors. 

“This can’t be happening, this -” Another strangled noise. It sounded like a sob, and your eyes blurred with tears. “Stay put,” the Doctor said, his voice trembling with emotion. 

If you imagined hard enough you could feel him on the other side of the door. “Okay,” you replied shakily, and sniffed. 

“I’ll come find you.” The Doctor sounded like a broken man. Your name falling from his lips sounded like a promise. “I -”

His voice cut off, and the TARDIS was gone.

You pitched forward and didn’t even bother to put up a fight - your knees buckled underneath you, and you fell onto your knees in the wet grass. Sharp rocks dug into your skin. You could barely feel their jagged edges. You looked up at the night sky as the drizzle slowly eased into a rainstorm, and suddenly your home planet had never felt so alien before. 

“Doctor?” you whimpered, your voice impossibly small. It was foolish, thinking the Doctor could hear you, but you didn’t care - “Doctor, can you hear me?”

Nothing. You were soaked now, raindrops running down your face and blurring with your tears. Biting back another sob, you tried again. “Please - come back, okay?”

The silence was deafening. 

You didn’t know how long you had spent in the rain. Long enough for the lights in the windows to shut off, one by one; long enough for chattering and the sounds of passing cars to quiet down; long enough for the rain to fall even harder than before. Long enough for you to stop shivering from the cold, and long enough -

Long enough for something to block the onslaught of the rain. Blearily, you looked up at the face of a young woman in a police uniform, holding an umbrella over the both of you.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” she asked softly. The tone of her voice was enough to make you start bawling again, as if you hadn't spent the last hour just crying your eyes out. “You shouldn’t be out here in the rain.”

“I know, I just -” How could you explain this to her? “I’m lost,” was what you settled on. 

The woman’s face brightened in a reassuring smile. “Not to worry, I'm here to help."

You nodded, bringing yourself to your feet. The policewoman held out her hand for support, and you wrapped your hands around her arm. You didn’t trust your legs to keep you upright right now. “Sorry, weird question, but - where am I?”

She probably thought you were drunk. That was a better alternative than the truth. “Sheffield,” the policewoman replied.

You hoped she was ready for an even weirder question - “What year is it?”

 A year passed. Settling in was easy enough - thankfully, you had your wallet and phone on you when you arrived back on Earth. All it took was a quick call back home, some trips back and forth to move your things, some paperwork, and you were officially a Sheffield citizen. 

You kept the earpiece. Found a way to wear it around your neck like some kind of ornament. It looked pretty enough, but it was hard to move on when you had a reminder of him resting like a weight on your heart everyday. 

You had tried talking into it on some days, on rainy days that reminded you of the day you were left behind. Sometimes, if you listened hard enough, you could hear faint conversation, sometimes laughter.

Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe he’d found another companion. Maybe he had gone off to find that Clara girl. It was none of your business now, and yet -

You could’ve gone back to your actual home. But it was so hard to leave - it was hard to leave when the Doctor’s last words had been stay put. Your rational brain tried to convince you that he could find you wherever you were, but there was just something that was keeping you from leaving. 

Yasmin Khan was the policewoman’s name, and she was your very first friend in Sheffield. She’d been the one to help you adjust, and had been the one to help you find a job - as a receptionist in a hospital. 

It was a little funny, working with doctors when none of them were him.

A bolt of lightning lit up the sky. You turned to look out your window - there was no rain, and yet the rumbling sound of thunder echoed across the land. Absentmindedly, you brushed your fingers against the earpiece. It was worn now, from all the constant sentimental holding. 

Your phone chimed. A weather forecast - scattered thunderstorms, it read. And your lock screen - a still image of you and the Doctor that Amy had taken, once upon a time. You were on your tippy toes, adjusting the Doctor’s bow tie with an exaggerated focused look on your face, while the Doctor just stood there, flustered.

They say take a picture, it lasts longer. You still had pictures of all your travels. They felt like tourist pictures, posing in front of alien architecture and making silly faces at otherworldly flora and fauna. They lay buried under pictures of paperwork and cute kids that came into the office, but they were still there.

A year. It would be seconds to him, but an eternity for you - and you couldn’t live an eternity hanging on to just memories of him. Your finger hovered above the delete button.

Sorry, Doctor, you thought. The mere idea of just deleting pictures made you feel sad, then you sniffed indignantly. You had to move on some time, and if it could be now, then -

Knock knock knock!

“Who is it?” you called. There was shuffling behind the door, and a hushed argument. “Hello?”

“Hello!” That voice sounded familiar - it was Grace, Grace Sinclaire, who used to be a nurse and someone that you worked with and who was notoriously really nice - “It’s me! Could you open up, love?”

“Coming!” you called back. You ran a hand through your hair and rubbed your face, wondering why she would be at your door at this hour when she should have been heading home with Graham -

You swung the door open and very nearly dropped your phone.

It was Grace, alright - Grace and her grandson Ryan, who was carrying an unconscious woman in his arms.

“Grace, what the -” you floundered. “What’s going on?”

“We need your help,” she said, and gestured to the woman in Ryan’s arms. “Can we come in?”

You were gaping now, craning your neck to try and get a good look at this woman’s face. “You need to take her to A and E, not to my house! I can drive you there, if that’s what you need -”

“I said that too,” Grace said slowly, like she was bracing to drop a bomb on you. “But right before she fell, she said -”

“Said she didn’t trust anywhere that was just initials,” Ryan finished, glancing down at the woman and then back to Grace, who gave you a sympathetic look. “She said your name.”

You swallowed. How -

“No.” An incredulous smile spread across your face, and you shook your head. “No, you’re kidding.”

“It’s true,” Ryan said. 

“...I don’t know this woman,” you said nervously.

“She knows you,” Grace said, almost pleading. “Please, love.”

There was no reason for them to be lying - the shell shocked expression on Ryan’s face was enough to tell you that he was absolutely telling the truth, whether you liked it or not.

And something that the Doctor had taught you - never refuse a call for help - echoed in your brain.

“Put her on the sofa,” you said quickly. “I’ll go get blankets.”

A few minutes later, you had a stranger lying limply on your sofa. 

She didn’t even make a noise when she was laid down. You laid a floral blanket over her middle, and it settled over her clothes - clothes that were obviously too big for her. The sight rang a bell in the back of your mind, of a night where a man climbed out of his broken ship in a past life’s clothes, clumsy and new -

There was a pull to her that you couldn’t resist. You sat down near her, gently taking her head in your hands and guiding it onto your lap like it was second nature to you. Her skin was warm, almost flushed, blonde hair falling over a surprisingly beautiful face.

Grace crouched down near the woman. “Do you know her?”

You stared at the woman’s face. Your answer would have been no, but now you weren’t so sure. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from her even if you tried - and you were trying. Very hard.

Your hands found their way into her hair, and soon you were running your fingers through it like it was the most natural thing to do. “I don’t know.”

“You look like you do,” Grace’s voice was soft. “You look at her like you’ve known her all your life.”

Your head shot up, and Grace just shrugged. She had a small smile on her lips as she reached for the woman’s arm.

“How do you know that?” 

“I can tell,” Grace said simply. “That’s how Graham looks at me, sometimes.”

There was a beat of silence as she took the woman’s pulse, then she gasped - “Ryan - look.”

The woman’s skin was glowing gold. 

“Whoah,” Ryan said. The woman’s eyebrows were pinched together, a small crease forming between the two of them. Gold patterns swirled under her skin, pulsing like starlight, and you jerked your hands away from her like she would burn you. 

Grace looked up at you, her eyes wide. “She’s got two separate pulses.”

The woman’s arm fell limply at her side as she exhaled - golden dust fell from her lips, floating around like a miniature star in the room. You followed it with your eyes, your mouth hanging open for what must have been the third time that hour.

“Oh my God, what is that?” Ryan asked, moving out of the way.

Grace stared. “I have no idea.”

But you had an idea. You knew. Only one person did that. Only one alien did that. If this was who you thought she was, then -

Suddenly, the woman shot up, sitting bolt upright, breaking you out of your racing thoughts - she clutched her collarbone, gasping, eyes wild and searching. “Who woke me up? I’m not ready - still healing, still -”

Still healing. Your mind was still reeling, still trying to pick up the pieces - her voice was so painfully familiar, and now you knew why. You reached out, placing your hands on your shoulders to soothe her. She startled under your touch.

“You’re alright, you’re fine,” you soothed. A part of you was saying that to yourself. “You’re safe, yeah? Look at me.”

The woman whirled to face you, and you shrunk back. Her eyes were striking, green flecked with yellow and brown. It looked like a galaxy.

“Safe - you…” The woman breathed, staring into your eyes. She stared for what seemed like forever, her gaze locked onto yours, searching your face for something. Then something shifted - her eyebrows quirked up, then pulled down, her face morphing from shocked to confused to mournful. 

“Oh,” the woman said. “Oh no, I’m too late, am I?”

Too late for what? you wanted to ask, but the woman had shot up again, crouching like a bird on the sofa.

"Can you smell that?” she asked, then stopped, one hand coming to press against her collarbone. “No, not smell. Not hear. Feel. Can you feel…” She trailed off, her expression serious. “Stay still, Ryan.”

“What is it? What’s the matter?” he asked quickly. The woman leapt forward to pull down Ryan’s shirt slightly. She exhaled, a worried noise, and spun to face the others.

“Show me your collarbones,” she said, a touch of authority in her voice. Everyone else in the room pulled down their shirts slightly, and you gasped. Small glowing dots, pulsing with a magenta light. You’d only ever heard of those kinds of devices, whispered in the dark alleyways of alien cities, hidden under layers of conspiracy.

“Oh, you’ve all got them,” the woman breathed out, eyes wide.

“So have you,” Ryan pointed out, and the woman looked down. Another blinking light on her collarbone. She made a face.

“Yeah, I have. Okay.” The woman inhaled sharply, straightening her posture, preparing to give bad news. You knew that posture. “Really sorry. Not good news. DNA bombs.”

You rose slowly from your chair. “What?”

The woman cocked her head towards you as she walked in a circle around everyone else, her hands behind her back. “Microimplants which code to your DNA. On detonation, they disrupt the foundation of your genetic code, melting your DNA.”

“But -” you spoke, and everyone’s eyes were on you. “But those are illegal in almost every galaxy, right?”

An unspoken how did you know that hung in the air, but the woman just nodded, her lips pressed together grimly. She reached out to press against Ryan’s glowing dot. “Right.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “How did we get them?” 

“Nevermind that, are they gonna go off?” Graham asked. 

The woman grimaced. “Quiet. I’m trying to think, it’s difficult -” Her expression changed, her eyes big and searching and so very new. “Brain and body still rebooting, reformatting… oh, reformatting! Can I borrow that?”

“Yeah, I guess so, but what for?”

The woman had reached over and grabbed Ryan’s phone. She was tinkering with it, her brows knit as she focused. “That creature. On the train. When you two came onboard, it zapped us all with these. Simple plan to take out witnesses. Very clever.”

“Merciless,” you piped up.

“But clever,” the woman continued. The phone beeped a few times, and the woman gasped, then held it up proudly. “I reformatted your phone!”

“No! All my stuff’s on there,” Ryan groaned, but the woman just grinned. 

“Not anymore!” She said cheerfully. 

She held the phone to her collarbone - there was a loud zap, then she was knocked back against the wall like she had been thrown. She looked up at everyone, gasping. 

“That nap did me the world of good. Very comfy sofa,” she said, breathless. She glanced down at the phone, gasped again, and then scrambled to her feet. She yanked her coat from one of your chairs, and headed for the door - “Come on, keep up!” 

Everyone stopped to stare at each other, then quickly turned to follow. You took a few steps forward, the woman still drawing you towards her - “Wait, let me come with you -”

The woman turned to face you, already halfway out of your door. She shook her head. “No.”

You frowned. “No?”

She stared for another moment, and you saw it - the familiar gleam of concern, of protectiveness that you had seen at least a billion times in another face. The way her mouth dragged downward and her eyebrows knitted together, an expression somewhere between angry and worried. Your breath caught in your throat, your outstretched hand frozen in place. 

“I’m not putting you in danger again,” the woman said, determined. “I don’t know why. Think I’ll find out later. But you -” Her gaze burned you, with eyes that seemed so old and so new at the same time. “You have to be safe,” she continued. “Please. Stay put.”

It sounded like a promise. The woman glanced down at your hand while you lowered it, drawing it close to your chest.

“Okay,” you said. “Go. I won’t keep you.”

The woman nodded. “Thank you.”

And then she was gone, driving off into the night with everyone else. 

You didn’t rest easy that night. Lightning flashed and crackled across the sky without any rain. You jumped every time the sky lit up - too on edge to be calm at all, too confused to try and get some rest - your hand thumbing the silver earpiece that still hung around your neck, strangely warm to the touch.

“This can’t be happening, this - stay put -”

“Please. Stay put.”

“Doctor,” you whispered. 

 Grace’s funeral was a few days after that.

At first glance, it didn’t seem like a funeral. The place was covered in balloons. There wasn’t a hint of melancholy in the air - the sun was shining bright through the windows of the church, not a single cloud in sight. No sign of the lightning from the days before. It was almost like the world had moved on.

You decided not to sit in the front. Tried not to think about the Grace that had brought the Doctor to your doorstep. Tried not to think about you had never thanked her for bringing her back to you. Instead you thought about happy, knowing Grace, and hoped that she could hear you, wherever she was now.

You found Ryan standing near the doors of the church. He was waiting - your heart clenched at the sight. Steeling yourself, you moved to comfort him -

And you stopped in your tracks. The Doctor walked up to him slowly, her hands in her pockets. Ryan glanced at her in acknowledgement. 

“What time did your dad say he’d get here?” the Doctor asked softly. 

Ryan kept on looking out, searching. “Two hours ago.”

“If he said he’ll come -” That was the Doctor, always trying to comfort -

“He says a lot of things,” Ryan said, gruffly. “He’s never been the best at being reliable. I mean how can he not be here? She’s his mum. She would have wanted him here.”

The Doctor nodded, pursing her lips. She kept that empathetic look in her eyes as she gazed up at him, not knowing what to say. That was another familiar thing that hurt. She still was so kind, still out to help others in need.

“I want him here,” Ryan finished. 

That was you, once upon a time. But things had changed, and you weren’t the one that left.

The Doctor’s gaze flickered to where you were, standing just a few feet away. Your eyes met for a second, and something passed over the Doctor’s face. Recognition. Her mouth opened like she wanted to call out for you, her mouth forming over the syllables of your name - 

You turned on your heel and walked away before she could see the tears forming in your eyes.

The door shuddered in its frame as you slammed it behind you. Stupid, getting emotional over her when you were supposed to be moving on like she had - your hands clamped onto the earpiece, gripping onto the small device like it was a lifeline. You hadn’t noticed that you were shaking, or that you had fallen on your knees onto the floor. You took in quick, shallow breaths, blinking the tears away like your life depended on it.

The earpiece was cold in your palms. You tried to let the feeling ground you, but even just remembering what it was made you nearly tip over the edge -

Knock knock knock.

“Yes?” Your voice was rough, and you coughed. “So - sorry, who is it?”

There were some hushed voices. 

“Isn’t it so weird how they know each other?”

“Not the strangest thing anymore, after what’s happened.”

“Hush, both of you.”

Then - a soft call of your name, warm and everything you’d ever needed. 

“It’s me," the Doctor said. “Could you open the door?”

You stilled, not trusting your ears. This wasn’t the triumphant reunion that you had wanted for the past year. That fantasy had faded over time. And yet there was a spark of hope in your chest, threatening to set everything alight.

The Doctor spoke again, her voice impossibly gentle and impossibly the same. “Listen -” Her voice cracked, and you bit back a sob - “I know it’s been some time, but I am so so sorry -”

That was it. You rose to your feet, red eyes and runny nose be damned, and flung the door open.

“No,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “No, don’t start.”

The Doctor’s beautiful new eyes widened a fraction. 

“Hello to you too,” she said quietly. She wasn’t as tall as she used to be - in fact, she was much shorter, so you didn’t have to crane your neck as much to take a good look at her face. She was dressed differently too, finally out of her raggedy clothes and into a new outfit that you’d say was cute, but never to her face. 

You blinked up at her, sniffed, and crossed your arms over your chest. “Don’t apologize.”

The Doctor frowned slightly. “I have to, I left you behind for - oh!”

You grabbed the Doctor by her new suspenders and pulled her against you so she was flush against your chest. You buried your face in the crook of her shoulder, throwing your arms around her neck. Someone - you weren’t sure who - maybe it was Ryan - whistled, but you didn’t hear him.

It took a moment for the Doctor to let her hands rest against your back. Maybe this face wasn’t much of a hugger. But she didn’t let go, and leaned in closer so her chin rested on your shoulder.

“Let me say sorry,” she whispered. “I promised I would keep you safe, promised I’d come back for you. You trusted me, and I let you down.”

“I didn’t think you were gonna come back,” you mumbled. You shifted, letting your cheek rest against her skin. “I thought you’d left me forever and I thought - I thought -”

“Hey,” the Doctor soothed, pulling away. She brought one hand up to rest on your cheek, her thumb delicately brushing tears away, and you sniffed again. You probably looked ridiculous. “I’m here. I’m sorry I took so long.”

You nodded. “Is it still you?”

The Doctor grinned, and the way it lit up the world around her made your heart do flips. “‘Course it’s still me.” She looked down at the earpiece resting against your chest and raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You kept the communicator.”

“I - I couldn’t throw it away,” you stammered, shrugging, “sentimental value. Or I just missed you. Maybe both.”

“Oh, you,” the Doctor said, her eyes glimmering. “You won’t need it anymore.”

Your hands shot up to grab it. You raised an eyebrow at the Doctor, whose grin was just growing wider and wider. You couldn’t help it - you let a smile slip onto your face. “Why is that?”

“Because I want you to come with me. Again.” The Doctor leaned backwards on the balls of her feet, and tucked her hands firmly back into her pockets. 

You felt like you’d just been kicked in the chest - all the air was suddenly gone from your lungs. Every last bit of eloquence that you’d had disappeared in an instant, and all you could manage was, “Uh.”

The Doctor smiled, a kind of nervous, polite smile. “What do you say?”

You could - take her hand and fly away with her again, like nothing had ever happened. Your gaze moved to behind her, where Graham, Ryan, and Yaz stood. They had seen this face before you did, and maybe - just maybe - 

“I can’t. Besides,” you gestured to the three of them, “you don’t need me anymore.”

The Doctor turned to face the three of them, and when she turned back to face you there was an intensity in her eyes that you weren’t a stranger to. The Doctor’s brows furrowed, and you curled in on yourself - that was something the Doctor never liked, when people put themselves down - but you thought it was the truth. 

The Doctor shook her head.

“Yes, I do,” she said simply. She leaned forward to press her lips against your forehead. It still felt magical. “I always have. Always will.”

She peered down at you, looking you right in the eyes, and you tried to find any sign that she was lying. Any sign that this was some kind of trick, some kind of fluke. 

But there she was, her voice gentle and earnest, one hand outstretched to take you back.

You took her hand and her lips quirked up just slightly. That same spark of hope instantly blossomed into a fire, comforting like a hearth on a cold winter evening. 

She led you outside, let you cross the hidden gap between a normal life and a life with her, again. Ryan, Graham and Yaz smiled as you stepped through, your hands intertwined with the Doctor’s.

“No ship, but at least I’ve got you,” the Doctor said cheerfully. Your head shot up to meet her sheepish expression, and you breathed out a laugh.

“The TARDIS? Really? Again?”

“Yep,” she replied, popping the “p” sound. You sighed deeply, but you couldn’t wipe the smile from your face. 

“Oh, you definitely know each other,” Yaz said, her eyes wide with amazement.

“Well? Just like old times,” the Doctor said. “Ready?”

“Aye-aye, captain,” you chirped, and the Doctor laughed.

And when all of you got spat out in the middle of space, in the split second between life and death, you met the Doctor’s gaze and grinned. Perhaps nothing had really changed at all. Perhaps this was just a new chapter.

Geronimo. 

[ucflibrary]

Pride Month has arrived!

While every day is a time to be proud of your identity and orientation, June is that extra special time for boldly celebrating with and for the LGBTQIA+ community (yes, there are more than lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender folx in the queer community). June was chosen to honor the Stonewall Riots which happened in 1969. Like other celebratory months, LGBT Pride Month started as a weeklong series of events and expanded into a full month of festivities.

2021 is also the 5th anniversary of the Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando where 49 members of our community were murdered on June 12, 2016. On the main floor of the John C. Hitt Library there will be display cases with items from the University Archives relating to Pulse memorials as well as a display wall honoring the lives lost. Both of these library memorials were created in partnership with UCF LGBTQ Services. UCF will also be hosting several events in June to help the community remember, grieve and grow stronger. Full listing of events is available on the Pulse Remembrance event calendar.

Additional Pulse memorial events will be hosted by the onePULSE Foundation.  An memorial archival collection from the first anniversary of the shooting can be found as part of the Resilience: Remembering Pulse in the STARS Citizen Curator collection.

In honor of Pride Month, UCF Library faculty and staff suggested books from the UCF collection that represent a wide array of queer authors and characters. Click on the read more link below to see the full list, descriptions, and catalog links. There is also an extensive physical display on the main floor of the John C. Hitt Library near the Research & Information Desk.

All Adults Here by Emma Straub Emma Straub's unique alchemy of wisdom, humor, and insight come together in a deeply satisfying story about adult siblings, aging parents, high school boyfriends, middle school mean girls, the lifelong effects of birth order, and all the other things that follow us into adulthood, whether we like them to or not. Suggested by Rachel Mulvihill, Downtown Library

 All the Young Men: a memoir of love, AIDS, and chosen family in the American South by Ruth Coker Burks & Kevin Carr O'Leary A gripping and triumphant tale of human compassion, is the true story of Ruth Coker Burks, a young single mother in Hot Springs, Arkansas, who finds herself driven to the forefront of the AIDS crisis, and becoming a pivotal activist in America’s fight against AIDS. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

 And the Band Played On: politics, people and the AIDS epidemic by Randy Shilts An international bestseller, a nominee for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and made into a critically acclaimed movie, Shilts' expose revealed why AIDS was allowed to spread unchecked during the early 80's while the most trusted institutions ignored or denied the threat. One of the few true modern classics, it changed and framed how AIDS was discussed in the following years. Suggested by Becky Hammond, Special Collections & University Archives

 Big Gay Adventures in Education: supporting LGBT+ visibility and inclusion in schools edited by Daniel Tomlinson-Gray A collection of true stories by 'out' teachers, and students of 'out' teachers, all about their experiences in schools. The book aims to empower LGBT+ teachers to be the role models they needed when they were in school and help all teachers and school leaders to promote LGBT+ visibility and inclusion. Each story is accompanied by an editor’s note reflecting on the contributor’s experience and the practical implications for schools and teachers in supporting LGBT+ young people and ensuring they feel safe and included in their school communities. Suggested by Terrie Sypolt, Research & Information Services

 Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman The sudden and powerful attraction between a teenage boy and a summer guest at his parents' house on the Italian Riviera has a profound and lasting influence that will mark them both for a lifetime. Suggested by Rebecca Hawk, Circulation

 Fun Home: a family tragicomic by Alison Bechdel Meet Alison's father, a historic preservation expert and obsessive restorer of the family's Victorian house, a third-generation funeral home director, a high school English teacher, an icily distant parent, and a closeted homosexual who, as it turns out, is involved with male students and a family babysitter. Through narrative that is alternately heartbreaking and fiercely funny, we are drawn into a daughter's complex yearning for her father. And yet, apart from assigned stints dusting caskets at the family-owned 'fun home, ' as Alison and her brothers call it, the relationship achieves its most intimate expression through the shared code of books. When Alison comes out as homosexual herself in late adolescence, the denouement is swift, graphic, and redemptive. Suggested by Michael Furlong, UCF Connect Libraries

 Gender Queer: a memoir by Maia Kobabe; colors by Phoebe Kobabe In 2014, Maia Kobabe, who uses e/em/eir pronouns, thought that a comic of reading statistics would be the last autobiographical comic e would ever write. At the time, it was the only thing e felt comfortable with strangers knowing about em. Maia's intensely cathartic autobiography charts eir journey of self-identity, which includes the mortification and confusion of adolescent crushes, grappling with how to come out to family and society, bonding with friends over erotic gay fanfiction, and facing the trauma and fundamental violation of pap smears. Started as a way to explain to eir family what it means to be nonbinary and asexual, this is more than a personal story: it is a useful and touching guide on gender identity--what it means and how to think about it--for advocates, friends, and humans everywhere. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

 Heaven's Coast: a memoir by Mark Doty The harmonious partnership of two gay men is shattered when they learn that one has tested positive for the HIV virus. Suggested by Claudia Davidson, Downtown Library

 Hurricane Child by Kheryn Callender Born on Water Island in the Virgin Islands during a hurricane, which is considered bad luck, twelve-year-old Caroline falls in love with another girl--and together they set out in a hurricane to find Caroline's missing mother. Suggested by Rebecca Hawk, Circulation

 Last Night at the Telegraph Club by Malinda Lo Seventeen-year-old Lily Hu can't remember exactly when the question took root, but the answer was in full bloom the moment she and Kathleen Miller walked under the flashing neon sign of a lesbian bar called the Telegraph Club. America in 1954 is not a safe place for two girls to fall in love, especially not in Chinatown. Red-Scare paranoia threatens everyone, including Chinese Americans like Lily. With deportation looming over her father--despite his hard-won citizenship--Lily and Kath risk everything to let their love see the light of day. Suggested by Claudia Davidson, Downtown Library

 Laura Dean Keeps Breaking Up with Me by Mariko Tamaki & Rosemary Valero-O’Connell All Freddy Riley wants is for Laura Dean to stop breaking up with her. The day they got together was the best one of Freddy's life, but nothing's made sense since. Laura Dean is popular, funny, and SO CUTE ... but she can be really thoughtless, even mean. Their on-again, off-again relationship has Freddy's head spinning - and Freddy's friends can't understand why she keeps going back. When Freddy consults the services of a local mystic, the mysterious Seek-Her, she isn't thrilled with the advice she receives. But something's got to give: Freddy's heart is breaking in slow motion, and she may be about to lose her very best friend as well as her last shred of self-respect. Mariko Tamaki and Rosemary Valero-O'Connell bring to life a sweet and spirited tale of young love that asks us to consider what happens when we ditch the toxic relationships we crave to embrace the heathy ones we need. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections

 LGBT Health: meeting the needs of gender and sexual minorities edited by K. Bryant Smalley, Jacob C. Warren, K. Nikki Barefoot A first-of-its-kind, comprehensive view of mental, medical, and public health conditions within the LGBT community. This book examines the health outcomes and risk factors that gender and sexual minority groups face while simultaneously providing evidence-based clinical recommendations and resources for meeting their health needs. Drawing from leading scholars and practitioners of LGBT health, this holistic, centralized text synthesizes epidemiologic, medical, psychological, sociological, and public health research related to the origins of, current state of, and ways to improve LGBT health. Suggested by Sandy Avila, Research & Information Services

 Lived Experience: reflections on LGBTQ life by Delphine Diallo  A beautiful series of full-color portraits of LGBTQ people over the age of fifty, accompanied by interviews. Suggested by Jacqui Johnson, Cataloging

 Love is for Losers by Wibke Bruggemann When Phoebe's mother ditches her to work as a doctor for an international human rights organization, she is stuck living with her mom's best friend, Kate, and helping out at Kate's thrift shop. There she meet Emma. Phoebe tries to shield her head and her heart from experiencing love-- after all, love is for losers, right? Suggested by Pam Jaggernauth, Curriculum Materials Center

 Man Into Woman: an authentic record of a change of sex edited by Niels Hoyer This riveting account of the transformation of the Danish painter Einar Wegener into Lili Elbe is a remarkable journey from man to woman. Einar Wegener was a leading artist in late 1920's Paris. One day his wife Grete asked him to dress as a woman to model for a portrait. It was a shattering event which began a struggle between his public male persona and emergent female self, Lili. Einar was forced into living a double life; enjoying a secret hedonist life as Lili, with Grete and a few trusted friends, whilst suffering in public as Einar, driven to despair and almost to suicide. Doctors, unable to understand his condition, dismissed him as hysterical. Lili eventually forced Einar to face the truth of his being - he was, in fact, a woman. This bizarre situation took an extraordinary turn when it was discovered that his body contained primitive female sex organs. There followed a series of dangerous experimental operations and a confrontation with the conventions of the age until Lili was eventually liberated from Einar - a freedom that carried the ultimate price. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

 On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong This is a letter from a son to a mother who cannot read. Written when the speaker, Little Dog, is in his late twenties, the letter unearths a family's history that began before he was born -- a history whose epicenter is rooted in Vietnam -- and serves as a doorway into parts of his life his mother has never known, all of it leading to an unforgettable revelation. At once a witness to the fraught yet undeniable love between a single mother and her son, it is also a brutally honest exploration of race, class, and masculinity. Suggested by Rachel Mulvihill, Downtown Library

 Queer Objects edited by Chris Brickell & Judith Collard Queer lives give rise to a vast array of objects: the things we fill our houses with, the gifts we share with our friends, the commodities we consume at work and at play, the clothes and accessories we wear, various reminders of state power, as well as the analogue and digital technologies we use to communicate with one another. But what makes an object queer? 63 chapters consider this question in relation to lesbian, gay and transgender communities across time, cultures and space. In this unique international collaboration, well-known and newer writers traverse world history to write about items ranging from ancient Egyptian tomb paintings and Roman artefacts to political placards, snapshots, sex toys and the smartphone. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

 Real Life by Brandon Taylor A novel of rare emotional power that excavates the social intricacies of a late-summer weekend -- and a lifetime of buried pain. Almost everything about Wallace, an introverted African-American transplant from Alabama, is at odds with the lakeside Midwestern university town where he is working toward a biochem degree. For reasons of self-preservation, Wallace has enforced a wary distance even within his own circle of friends -- some dating each other, some dating women, some feigning straightness. But a series of confrontations with colleagues, and an unexpected encounter with a young straight man, conspire to fracture his defenses, while revealing hidden currents of resentment and desire that threaten the equilibrium of their community. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections

 Riley Can’t Stop Crying by Stephanie Boulay While his sister tries everything to help, a young boy isn't sure why he can't stop crying in this transitional picture book. Suggested by Pam Jaggernauth, Curriculum Materials Center

 Supporting Success for LGBTQ+ Students: tools for inclusive campus practice by Cindy Ann Kilgo This book aims to serve as a one-stop resource for faculty and staff in higher education settings who are seeking to enhance their campus climate and systems of support for LGBTQ+ student success. Included are theoretical frameworks and conceptual models that can be used in practice. Suggested by Terrie Sypolt, Research & Information Services

 The City and the Pillar: a novel by Gore Vidal Jim, a handsome, all-American athlete, has always been shy around girls. But when he and his best friend, Bob, partake in “awful kid stuff,” the experience forms Jim’s ideal of spiritual completion. Defying his parents’ expectations, Jim strikes out on his own, hoping to find Bob and rekindle their amorous friendship. Along the way he struggles with what he feels is his unique bond with Bob and with his persistent attraction to other men. Upon finally encountering Bob years later, the force of his hopes for a life together leads to a devastating climax. The first novel of its kind to appear on the American literary landscape, this remains a forthright and uncompromising portrayal of sexual relationships between men. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

 The Invisible Orientation: an introduction to asexuality by Julie Sondra Decker Julie Sondra Decker outlines what asexuality is, counters misconceptions, provides resources, and puts asexual people's experiences in context as they move through a sexualized world. It includes information for asexual people to help understand their orientation and what it means for their relationships, as well as tips and facts for those who want to understand their asexual friends and loved ones. Suggested by Dawn Tripp, Research & Information Services

 The New Testament by Jericho Brown The world of Jericho Brown's second book, disease runs through the body, violence runs through the neighborhood, memories run through the mind, trauma runs through generations. Almost eerily quiet in even the bluntest of poems, Brown gives us the ache of a throat that has yet to say the hardest thing-and the truth is coming on fast. Suggested by Claudia Davidson, Downtown Library

 The Prophets by Robert Jones With a lyricism reminiscent of Toni Morrison, Robert Jones, Jr., fiercely summons the voices of slaver and enslaved alike, from Isaiah and Samuel to the calculating slave master to the long line of women that surround them, women who have carried the soul of the plantation on their shoulders. As tensions build and the weight of centuries—of ancestors and future generations to come—culminates in a climactic reckoning, masterfully reveals the pain and suffering of inheritance, but is also shot through with hope, beauty, and truth, portraying the enormous, heroic power of love. Suggested by Rachel Mulvihill, Downtown Library

 The Ship We Built by Lexie Bean A fifth-grader whose best friends walked away, whose mother is detached, and whose father does unspeakable things, copes with the help of friend Sofie and anonymous letters tied to balloons and released. Includes a list of resources related to abuse, gender, sexuality, and more. Suggested by Pam Jaggernauth, Curriculum Materials Center

 Tinderbox: the untold story of the Up Stairs Lounge fire and the rise of gay liberation by Robert W. Fieseler Buried for decades, the Up Stairs Lounge tragedy has only recently emerged as a catalyzing event of the gay liberation movement. In revelatory detail, Robert W. Fieseler chronicles the tragic event that claimed the lives of thirty-one men and one woman on June 24, 1973, at a New Orleans bar, the largest mass murder of gays until 2016. Relying on unprecedented access to survivors and archives, Fieseler creates an indelible portrait of a closeted, blue- collar gay world that flourished before an arsonist ignited an inferno that destroyed an entire community. The aftermath was no less traumatic--families ashamed to claim loved ones, the Catholic Church refusing proper burial rights, the city impervious to the survivors' needs--revealing a world of toxic prejudice that thrived well past Stonewall. Yet the impassioned activism that followed proved essential to the emergence of a fledgling gay movement. Fieseler restores honor to a forgotten generation of civil-rights martyrs. Suggested by Andy Todd, UCF Connect Libraries

 Transgender: a reference handbook by Aaron Devor and Ardel Haefele-Thomas This book provides a crucial resource for readers who are investigating trans issues. It takes a diverse and historic approach, focusing on more than one idea or one experience of trans identity or trans history. The book takes contemporary as well as historic aspects into consideration. It looks at ancient indigenous cultures that honored third, fourth, and fifth gender identities as well as more contemporary ideas of what "transgender" means. Notably, it focuses not only on Western medical ideas of gender affirmation but on cultural diversity surrounding the topic. This book will primarily serve as a reference guide and jumping off point for further research for those seeking information about what it means to be transgender. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

 Transnational LGBT Activism: working for sexual rights worldwide by Ryan R. Thoreson Thoreson argues that the idea of LGBT human rights is not predetermined but instead is defined by international activists who establish what and who qualifies for protection. He shows how International Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission (IGLHRC) formed and evolved, who is engaged in this work, how they conceptualize LGBT human rights, and how they have institutionalized their views at the United Nations and elsewhere. After a full year of in-depth research in New York City and Cape Town, South Africa, Thoreson is able to reconstruct IGLHRC’s early campaigns and highlight decisive shifts in the organization’s work from its founding to the present day. Suggested by Sandy Avila, Research & Information Services

 Upright Women Wanted by Sarah Gailey Esther is a stowaway. She's hidden herself away in the Librarian's book wagon in an attempt to escape the marriage her father has arranged for her--a marriage to the man who was previously engaged to her best friend. Her best friend who she was in love with. Her best friend who was just executed for possession of resistance propaganda. The future American Southwest is full of bandits, fascists, and queer librarian spies on horseback trying to do the right thing. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections

 Walt Whitman's Songs of Male Intimacy and Love: "Live oak, with moss" and "Calamus" edited by Betsy Erkkila This volume includes Whitman's handwritten manuscript version of the twelve "Live oak, with moss" poems along side with a print transcription of these poems on the opposite page, followed by a facsimile of the original version of the "Calamus" poems published in the 1860-61 edition of Leaves of grass, and a reprint of the final version of the "Calamus" poems in the 1881 edition of Leaves of grass. Suggested by Rebecca Hawk, Circulation

[fangirlshrewt97]

DuckTales Fic - Hey Brother, I’m Back!

Author(s): Fangirlshrewt97

Fandom: DuckTales (2017)

Pairing: Della Duck & Donald Duck

Characters: Della Duck, Donald Duck, Scrooge McDuck, Mrs. Beakley, Others mentioned

Rating: Teen and Up (1 swear word)

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: Sibling bonding, Reunion, Late Night Conversations, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Banned Together Bingo 2020, Prompt: Talking Animals

Summary: My take on Della and Donald’s conversation post-reunion

“I thought you were dead.” His tone was flat, eyes hard, fists clenched.

That shut her up.

Link to A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550339

                                                           /////

It was nearing midnight when the Duck Family finally retired for the day, each exhausted after a packed day of reunions, failed plans, and a Moon invasion. Those didn’t happen every day after all. Launchpad had offered to take the moon people to one of Scrooge’s safe houses until they were able to integrate into Earth’s society or decided to return to the moon.

Or rather, most members of the Duck family went to sleep. Della tucked her children into bed as had become the routine ever since her return from the Moon. It was a long process that involved them clinging to her and her clinging back. These were her babies, the ones she had missed, yearned to hold, fought so fiercely to come back to. It didn’t matter what had happened that day, what fight or adventure, or mundane squabble they might have had. Bedtime was sacred. She tasted the regret of every second she had missed of their lives bitterly on her tongue. She never hurried bedtime, stretching it to the last possible second, and staying until all three were asleep, just watching over them.

But tonight, Della left as soon as her sons were tuckered out, which was pretty quick, considering they were asleep the second their heads hit the pillow. She quietly closed the door to their room, gently leaning her head against the wood, breathing in the reality. Assuring herself that the ground beneath her foot was real, the smooth wood under fingertips too.

She stepped away and turned to look out the corridor, walking towards a destination without ever realizing it.

As she reached the attic, a chill breeze blew past her, and a smile started to form on her face. Making her way through the familiar hoard of treasure and trash Uncle Scrooge kept up here, Della made her way up the hidden stairs at the end of the room. The steps up the roof were slightly dusty out of disuse, and she briefly wondered if the boys realized there were stairs beyond the attic.The air was even cooler once she got to the roof. Muscle memory guided her feet as she reached the little alcove above the attic window that gave them a safe perch to sit on.

“I had a feeling you’d be up here.”

Donald’s nod was barely perceptible. He stayed quiet until she settled down comfortably, and shared a minute of silence. 

Then “I stopped talking to Uncle Scrooge after you disappeared. Stopped coming to see him. Stopped visiting this house. I didn’t regret that, I was mad at him. What I did miss was this spot.” Donald’s voice was clear, but the pain was even clearer to Della.

Della felt a weight on her chest. “Don-”

“I thought you were dead.” His tone was flat, eyes hard, fists clenched.

That shut her up.

“I hoped and waited for so long, Della will come back, Della always comes back, she is the best of us.” Tears gathered at Donald’s eyes, slowly started to pour down his cheeks. “But you didn’t. And I wanted- I wanted to drown my sorrows, I wanted to build a rocket and bury myself among the stars with you, I wanted-” Donald hiccuped as he curled his fingers into a tight fist. His voice was shaking with anger.

Della felt her own tears racing down her cheek.

“I wanted to find you Della. Or I wanted to die trying. All I knew was that I couldn’t live in a world without you in it.” Donald hiccuped again as he rubbed at his eyes. “The only thing that kept me here, kept me sane, were your hatchlings.”

“I spent every second I wasn’t with you trying to get back to all of you.” Della whispered.

Donald turned to finally face his sister, looking her in the eye. “I know you did. I know it in my bones. But that still doesn’t erase the fact that you left Della. I know you didn’t mean to get stranded. Or to take so long to get back. But for so long.” Donald cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve before taking Della’s hand in his.

“So long I was angry. I was sad. But mostly I was lonely. I was raising my nephews and it was so unfair. They should have had you. The first face they saw when they hatched was you. When Dewey said his first word, it should have been ‘Mom’. When I finally managed to coax Louie to eat that damn banana, you should have been with me to cheer. When Huey took his first steps, you should have been the first to catch him. And it.” Donald choked. “It is all so, so, so fucking unfair Della.”

Della bit her lip, closing her eyes and letting the pain she had been pushing away all these years to finally break, and soon she was heaving sobs. She felt her brother envelop her in a hug so tight it must have been hurting him too, but the twins clutched each other tight, letting go of over a decade’s worth of pain together. “When I saw the Spear crash site, I thought I was dreaming. I called out for you, so happy you had made it home, relieved, I had been right. My sister had found her way back home even from the stars.” Della sobbed harder, and Donald rubbed her back comfortingly.

“Of course then I accidentally wound up on the moon, but that’s a story for another day.” He joked. Della just sniffled.

Donald held her until Della’s cries petered out, replaced with small hiccups. Donald started to move away only to be pulled closer to Della as she grabbed his arm and held it in place around her. When he settled behind her, she leaned on his shoulder.

“When I was up there, everyday, every single day, I was trying to get home Donald. To them. And to you. I wanted to see all those things, and I could picture it all so clearly in my head. But you know what I never had to worry about?”

When Donald stayed silent, Della turned her head to look him in the eyes.

“I knew that no matter how long it took me to get home, you would be with the boys. I am so sorry I put you through all this, for thinking I was dead.” Della felt her voice crack at the next part. “But thank you. Donald, thank you so much for raising them. You have done such a good job. Probably better-”

“Shut up Della.” Donald interrupted, voice equally annoyed and fond. “Just. What did you think I was going to do with them? Abandon them? They are my kids too Della. I consider them my kids, not my nephews. Every day, I was so scared I was not doing right by you, that I was messing things up, and it would have been better if you had been here.”

“You would never abandon them Donald. But you did not have to make them your responsibility either. And that is something I am never going to be able to repay you for. You are a wonderful dad to them Donald, and I am so proud of them all. I can see so much of myself in them, and I know that is because of you.”

“I would never have let them forget you.” Donald said sincerely.

Della gulped again, rubbing her eyes hard to stop herself from crying again.

“I missed you so much.”

“Me too Dell, me too.”

Della laughed a wet laugh.

“You’re the only one who calls me that.”

“I’m the only one allowed to call you that!” Donald replied, faux indignation flooding his voice.

Della laughed again, hard enough to make her belly hurt. By the time she quietened, Donald was looking at her fondly.

“Yeah you are Donny.”

Donald started to quack in real indignation this time, setting Della off again.

The two stayed up for a little longer, long enough to see colour start to flood the horizon again before they got up and made their way to Della’s bedroom.

She was not ready to part with her brother just yet.

///

Come morning, Scrooge was making his daily round through the mansion, enjoying the short while the place was still asleep. As he walked past Della’s room, he saw the door was slightly ajar, so went to close it, only to pause when he caught a glance at the scene.

There, in Della’s queen size bed, the twins were curled up close together, in the same position Scrooge remembered seeing so very often when they were wee kids, running around and causing havoc in his house. He’d even bet a dollar that they were holding hands in between them.

Feeling a newly-becoming-familiar warmth flood his heart, Scrooge stood for a few minutes just watching them, a fond smile over his face. A cough from the end of the hallway had Scrooge closing the door loudly in surprise, only to find Beakley at the end of the hallway with a knowing look in her eyes.

“Your whole family is back under one roof Sir.”

Scrooge cleared his throat, straightening his back even as he felt the strangest urge to sink to his knees in relief and happiness. “So they are. I think it deserves a celebratory breakfast doesn’t?”

Beakley bowed her head slightly. “I’ll get started on it right away.”

Saying so, she moved away, heading towards the kitchen.

Scrooge cracked the door open just the tiniest gap to see both Donald and Della were still fast asleep, and then walked back to his room to start his day, a feeling of complete contentment making him feel like he was floating.

[eternalstrigoii]

Unfettered - III

Original; I, II Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Forest Dark Fey Reader; Philip x Aurora; King John is Everyone’s Dad (reprise)

                    Your people did not celebrate the way they should’ve.

It should’ve been a glorious occasion – you were, at last, after centuries of destruction, on the path to justice. To true peace.

But Shrike kept only Ini for company, and you had yet to apologize for your outburst in the courtyard. You told yourself with increasing frequency that you did not mean it, though you were painfully aware that you did not speak because you had.

Because Percival went before them again afterward, and he told them of you. He told them that he was aware of your and the other fey’s captivity. You had known by the look on Philip’s face that the boy mandated the door be left open so you would not feel caged again, although you had.

The only comfort you had regarding that betrayal was that he had never partaken directly in your torment. He knew of it. He did nothing. And he answered honestly when Lord Azarias asked if he supported it – at first, he had.

You owed Shrike so much for standing beside you. You felt like you owed her your life; never once did she take your hand once she’d finished crying. She was like Maleficent, like Borra, like you would never be. She had her moment, her pain returned to fury, and if she could’ve burned him alive with her stare, she would’ve.

Even when he told them of how he stood beside her at Aurora’s wedding, and he saw, just as they did, how beautiful she was. He was rightfully wary, especially after you were found. He was open to change, since Philip was. Since Borra hadn’t killed him. But he expected retaliation, and so he waited.

He waited until he saw her fly during a great storm. It had been late in the evening; many shops simply closed for the night before their time. The torchlight in the palace, the hearths were all stoked. It was a cold rain, and it came down in a fierce, white blanket. He had seen her, felt the crash of thunder in the breastplate of his leather armor, and went to the highest point of the battlement protecting Ulstead from the sea. He stood on the very ledge where her people had been fired upon, battered by the ocean spray, and held out his hand.

You saw tears well in her eyes, but they never fell.

The ribbons of her bodice clung to her leather breeches. The braid in her hair was windblown; tendrils of rainbow jerked to and fro with every gust. And he called to her, the fool, catching his death in the storm to make sure she was safe.

That was when he decided to know you. All of you. To know you as Philip did, to love you as Aurora did. And he did, now. He loved your children. He cared for the moor-folk. He sat at your fire, he heard your stories, he brought sweets for your fledglings. He respected Maleficent.

And it did not erase what he’d done or what he hadn’t.

The tribunal lasted until sunset. You endured the full account of Lickspittle’s torment of the moor-folk; how he came into Ingrith’s servitude, how he could justify his actions to himself. How the poaching began, how it escalated, what he hoped to learn. What he intended to do. Why he never stopped her, or helped them, or let them go.

You were the subject he danced around the longest, and you knew it had something to do with the man at your back who did not know how to stand still or contain his frustration. Borra was not stationary. Borra was not powerless. And yet he heard, as did you, in excruciating detail how you entered the dungeon of a room, hauled in by a trio of poachers, bleeding from your wing.

You were delirious with pain. You didn’t recall what you’d done. You didn’t recall fighting, though he said you had. You were strong enough to knock things from the tables, nearly strong enough to break yourself free, had the third of them not restrained you by the throat.

Philip asked, gently, with his eyes locked on your mate, if Lickspittle knew their names.

No, the gnome had replied. He couldn’t even point them out if he saw them in the square, there had been so many poachers over time.

At some point, when your story began to interlock with theirs, you no longer craved solace. You stopped yearning for the vivid hues of pleasant memory in between his account of pouring the first dose of tomb-bloom treated iron powder onto a dandelion fey, and the way Borra recoiled as though intending to tear the very stone from the walls when Lickspittle revealed how your wings never fit in the ice bath – how you were never fully conscious when you were submerged, and yet you didn’t drown. (Ingrith was intrigued by that after Maleficent plunged into the sea; you did not recall it occurring at any increased frequency, though he attested that it had.)

You were still trying to make sense of it afterward.

After Aurora found the room. After Aurora found the missing fey. After Ingrith launched her attack and he hid for the duration of the battle. After she found you, and he almost thought after everything he’d done, they might show mercy.

Borra laughed out loud at that. The sound was sharp and musical and very much his.

Even Lord Azarias paled in response.

John declared the tribunal would resume in the morning once Lickspittle was finished with his urgent amendments – he swore he had plans to repent for the error of his ways, he’d nearly put them into action when the crown brought him to justice, and you smiled at that just as sharply as Borra laughed.

They walked home with you from the tribunal as though you were all too tired for flight. As though the citizens of Ulstead didn’t flock to their windows in numbers they hadn’t dared assemble in when the sun revealed them, as though their shadows blotting out the light didn’t give them away.

You walked home to the moors among the glowing toadstools and the dancing will o’ the wisps, several of which rushed to greet you once you crossed back onto unpaved land. You could’ve kissed the soil. You felt filthy and wrong after standing in their dusty little room for so long – your legs hurt. Your feet ached. Though, it was all the more pleasant to sink down in front of the fire and rip the meat from your falsely celebratory goat.

You did not say two words to one another until new steps approached. Booted steps.

Half of you sat upright with curiosity. You did. Borra did not.

“Hello,” Philip greeted them. He wore only his dressing shirt, no doublet, no coat. You blinked at him; wasn’t that considered half-obscene by his people? Like – well, walking around like one of you.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He sounded equally tired, though, and you hoped that he’d brought his horse lest he walk all that way by himself. “I wanted to make sure you were all alright.”

Borra did not look at any of you. Not even to you, and you felt that was fair of him.

“I plan to ask you both to speak before the tribunal tomorrow.” He didn’t approach, though it wasn’t out of wariness; he wasn’t in attendance as frequently as Percival, but he understood your custom better than you thought he did. Though only five of you were directly involved, it was a matter of the collective, and he offered it just as anyone would’ve had you retained the meeting-cove. “If you’re willing.”

Borra finally looked to you. Were you? he asked with his eyes.

You nodded. Are you?

His eyes hid nothing. He would not keep his anger from them. It was a detriment to your people, and yet, if Philip offered him the floor, he would take it.

You linked your fingers securely through his. I will be with you every step.

“Does your father know of your decision?” Borra asked, and you pretended not to hear the note of mocking in his tone.

“He does. As does Aurora.” His posture was soft though he stood straight. “They know what you have to say will be necessary.”

That it will be unpleasant, and cause problems. But they want you to say it anyway.

Borra stood, then, allowing your hand to fall from his grasp. His wings perked, and the sheer difference in size between them with regards to his horns and his wings should’ve been off-putting.

Philip never faltered.

“You trusted me when I said I would not let her ruin your kingdom. Trust that I will not allow them to silence you, no matter what it is you have to say.”

His down bristled a bit, and you dug your feet into the soft earth to stand. They wanted to give you justice, but they gave him no outlet to act upon what he learned. Your people didn’t have law, you had sense. You had compassion. Empathy – for each other and your fellow creature.

Knowing that a man who came to you with love in his heart for your sister could be responsible for your father’s slaughter reflected poorly upon them as a whole, and that was the most drastic understatement you could make of the matter. Borra was right to be angry.

“Will you sit with us?” you asked.

You kept nothing from each other. You were family regardless of your blood-bonds. Without unity, you never would have survived.

Without unity, you still would not.

There were decisions to be made, and they came for you one after the other. Do you trust him? Do you trust any of them? Yes. In spite of it all, Philip was not his mother, even though when he frowned he shared the same partial pucker of his soft lips. He was an open, gentle creature, and he had come to you, knowing what had been said, knowing that you would be angry and hurt and desperately in need of rest. If he was afraid, it didn’t show. If he distrusted you once, he certainly placed his life in your hands now.

He looked to Borra. He wanted to make sure that it was alright, though your mate said nothing. Borra always knew what to do, what to say. He had never waited and watched from the sidelines. Your father implored him to, but he didn’t. There was action to be taken, justice to be dealt.

This was different. Now, he was forced to. Now, you all had been asked to trust an ornamental ruler whose people didn’t even choose him. You had to trust a murderer’s husband and a pair of children to bring you justice and preserve your peace – all, while they asked the man you love, who led your people for a reason, not to act.

Did he feel just as powerless as you, or had he already planned for the alternative?

“Come.” You held out your hand to Philip and rested the other upon a bare spot on Borra’s arm. He nearly recoiled at your touch, and that made you slip your talons into his braces and pull him closer to you.

Philip took your hand. Let you guide him over the logs and toward the fire. He saw the goat you ate, and you nodded toward the leftovers in event he desired some for himself.

“No, thank you.” He sunk down with you on the red-needled earth. “Frankly, after this afternoon, I haven’t much of an appetite.”

“It’s there if you want it.” You folded your legs under yourself, and the shiny strips of skin that ran from your knees nearly to the ends of your calves glinted in the firelight. You touched them absently, and it made you painfully aware of Borra, rigid beside you, so you claimed one of his hands and rested it on your knee.

“I’m sorry.” You had to begin there; before you could ask Philip anything, you had to reconvene with him. “I know I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He took a slow, deep inhale. Stars, he was seething. “You shouldn’t feel that way.”

“I shouldn’t, but I do. I depend upon you. You have obligations that I shouldn’t impede.”

“Do you still?” He did not share in your feelings, which you knew, but it still stung that whatever you said had to be breeched one subject at a time.

You were also aware that Philip, and the others, did not know of what you were speaking.

“When I feel overwhelmed, I do,” you admitted. If not for the immediacy of your fingers in his, he would’ve withdrawn. “I can’t ease my pain, and I have no outlet.”

“You’re not alone.” His frustration bled into his voice, though you knew it wasn’t at you. “You depend upon me,” he repeated, and you reconsidered; maybe he was upset with you. “As though I didn’t choose to be there.”

“My pain isn’t something you should have to endure.”

“I don’t endure it, Cas. I hate it when you cry. I hate that you flinch when someone moves toward you, I hate the way you shy toward me when they look at you. I hate that you need to hold my hand to cross the river, and I hate that you fear each and every last one of them – you, who are so powerful that you can still look at them and see their faces when you do.”

You ran your thumb over his fingers. It never ceased to compound your hurt, knowing that you caused him pain.

“If you died,” his voice lowered. Though sitting beside you, Philip was entirely forgotten. “If you died while you were still in the palace, I would’ve mourned. I could have respected your father’s sacrifice.” He lifted his uncovered hand to hold your face the way you liked, so you were resting in his palm like it was made to cradle you. “I would not if they took you from me now. By their hand, or yours.”

After what they did, you should not be alive. Just because you shouldn’t be did not mean you weren’t.

He did not take breaking peace lightly. He never had, not after the way your people suffered. Your suffering couldn’t be elevated, you thought, but you didn’t know if anything like this had been done before. Your people, slaughtered, yes – violently, cruelly, without regards for their age, frailty, or innocence. But to endure what you had, to survive in spite of it…

Perhaps he wasn’t wrong about you. About your strength.

“I cannot stop using you for my tether, and it frightens me,” you whispered, “It’s why I dream what I dream. If anything happened to you, I could not imagine what would happen to me.”

He stroked your cheek. You held his eyes, searched them for something, anything, that would help you find peace.

“You’ll be safe.” He could offer you no comfort but his immediate certainty. “Only once did they manage to shed my blood.”

You hoped he meant it as a joke, but you didn’t treat it that way. You kissed the heel of his palm and closed your eyes.

“I won’t let that happen.” There was a promise in Philip’s voice that you trusted without question.

He watched you, both of you, and somehow managed to hold Borra’s gaze when he said, “Our kingdoms are united. You have my full support.”

You didn’t want to lift your head from his palm, but you had to. Not for yourself, not for Philip, not even for your people – you raised your head from his hand so you could ask the impulsive question that had been nagging at you since you started trying to wade through your iron-fevered memories.

“Philip?”

His head perked.

“Tell me about the man in red. Why does he look at us the way he does?”

“Lord Azarias?” he asked. You saw in his eyes that he had some manner of answer, though you doubted it would be pleasant. “He distrusts you.”

“He hates us.”

“That as well.”

“Does he have reason?”

Philip hesitated. You braced yourself, so to speak; tensed the muscles in your wings little by little to distract yourself from your blooming anxiety. The ones that could respond, did; the ones that couldn’t quivered.

“His father was the advisor to King Henry that encouraged him to go to war with the moor-folk. They have had something of a crusade against fey for generations.”

“You let him sit on your council?” Borra interjected.

“We have to. He funds several smithy in Ulstead as well as Perceforest.”

Iron. What made the color of his coat so best resemble blood – the iron that bound you, the iron that gave you fever and left these marks upon you, it was his?

Borra stared at him, surely sharing your conclusion.

“He needed no role in my mother’s operation,” Philip said, lowering his voice as though it kept any of the others from hearing. “She had her own methods. I didn’t even know the cutlery wasn’t silver until Maleficent’s visit.”

“Methods like what?” Ever the tactician, Borra had to know the odds. He had to know what you faced when you returned to Ulstead in the morning – whether or not it would be of grave consequence.

“Annexation of the Midlands. She made a deal with their nobility; iron and weapons in exchange for the benefits of unity. Increased military support, access to the sea, no taxes upon trade.”

Access to the sea.

You tried so hard not to let your blood run cold, but even Borra bristled beside you. War was inevitable, then; had Maleficent not been rescued, it would’ve marched right to your home. It would’ve slaughtered each and every last one of you on the shores of your own land.

“I can’t arrest him purely because of his trade,” Philip was bright enough to understand your feelings, at least in part, “but I do keep an eye on him. He’s made no secrets of the enemies he makes.”

“And what will it mean if he makes an enemy of us?”

You dared ask, though the gravity in the young prince’s expression betrayed him long before he put the thought to words. He looked at the altered flesh around your wrist while you kept your grip on Borra, and it was to that part of you that he replied, “He won’t make an enemy of you. He’d make himself your enemy.”

                     You did not know how often your father looked toward Ulstead, when he was alive.

It had been generations since your people had connection to the earth the way Maleficent did to the moors’ tomb blooms. You never regarded the way you oriented yourself in the cage as your instinct to point yourself toward home – toward family and safety, the magnetic lines of the earth drawing you back like a compass. Your people were displaced, and you had felt displaced, disoriented as you were, and yet it wasn’t Borra’s comings and goings that motivated those instincts in either of you.

He knew you were alive with the same intuition all parents possess; you were tethered to one another by more than blood – by every beat of your heart when you were small and tucked into the safety of his arm, by every braid he wove into your hair, and every day when it was just the both of you, after your brother left the nest and the loss of your mother cooled in you both to a dull, reminding ache.

Your tether to this world was the reason you carried his name in yours.

Even when you were lost, you’d known the way home. Even when you were caged, half-dead, weighted and silent with exhaustion, you’d begun to cry when your tether slipped.

Lickspittle the Gnome remembered the sound of your quiet weeping. He’d attributed it to the presence of the sentry as they left bushel upon bushel of tomb blooms around the laboratory, more and more of them infringing upon your nonexistent space. You had been silent for some time; he’d nearly thought you slipped away. Then, he thought you may have been sentient enough to have heard his plans.

“Shut up,” one of the sentry struck the front of your cage with a pole-axe.

You were so weak, you didn’t even flinch. You were hardly sentient, not even delirious with pain. Your body had, nearly altogether, given up. You were dying, and then you felt…distant. And afraid. It was as though you’d lost your homing signal.

You did not know that your father had been shot. How many times.

You did not know of the iron coursing through his blood and yours. The way it had fallen, thick like molasses, half-congealed from the heat, into the grass; the way it coated Maleficent’s skin.

Your father felt you dying, just as you felt him.

You whispered for him, in your iron prison. Your wrists bled anew as you trembled.

“Shut up!” The sentry struck it harder.

You were so close to him. Just over the river. The tears that ran down your face were swift and silent, and took more strength to release than you had. “Papa,” you whispered in a child’s broken voice. You were afraid, and you didn’t want to die.

“Conall!”

When the infantrymen were dead – thrown from heights, dragged with branches into early graves deep within the earth, clawed, strangled, and otherwise destroyed – Borra rejoined them. Maleficent was barely strong enough to keep her shield, but, for your father, she had. She was weak again, breathing heavily, and his blood soaked her bodice and her skirts. They had gone deep, left several punctures through his great, dark wings. There were more embedded in his back, and Maleficent couldn’t contain the emotion in her voice.

“I’m trying to heal him,” she said. “I’ve been—”

“Can you fly?” Borra drew her attention from them, lest she start to see him choke. If they returned quickly enough, the elders…

Not even he could lie to himself that well.

“Maleficent,” his voice sharpened; she caught the sound of your father’s hitching breath and had to be drawn back to him. “Can you fly?”

She nodded. Her eyes were damp and her frown had begun to quiver.

“Then go. We have to get him home.”

It was a struggle for him to lift Conall by himself; they were nearly the same size, and his low-hanging wings would create problems. He nearly sent her ahead to warn them, to try to save his life.

There was so much blood. It saturated the grass where they landed. It soaked into the cracks of your now-lover’s skin, mingled with their lightly-toxic mortal blood as though it was necessary to wash it away.

“Find her,” Conall rasped.

The fury in Borra burned anew. He set his jaw, flattened his wings and took off. He had to beat them hard, waste precious energy, but he would not leave him, and he couldn’t very well ask Maleficent for the help. She was supposed to save them all, and yet she hardly had the strength to summon branches.

“Find my daughter,” Conall pressed, and, for a moment, he nearly sounded like himself despite the roughness of his breathless voice. “Bring her home.”

“I will.” There was a vow in the words he hadn’t been asked to make.

He hoped you didn’t feel him, wherever you were. He hoped you weren’t bound to them the way Maleficent was to her ancestors. He hoped you weren’t, but he also hoped you were – he hoped that Conall felt you, even now.

He hoped you knew that he was coming. That he would find you. That he would not abandon you, wherever you were.

By the time Conall had been laid beneath the Tree of Life, on the Phoenix’s eternal grounds where all of your once-living people rested if they were able to return to the nest in time, Borra hoped, above all, that you could wait for him. That you were strong enough. Because if you weren’t, then he would kill them for you. In your name and your father’s.

You felt it, when he slipped. When dawn broke and he chose to give Maleficent what little strength he had left in hopes of it being able to save her – to save you all, just as Borra said. You couldn’t breathe under the weight of the iron on your chest. You didn’t have the strength to cry out for him, though the agony of loss crushed you from within.

You felt lost. Truly.

No help was coming.

You were going to die in there, in that little iron cage that Aurora didn’t even notice.

You didn’t have the strength to cry at all, and yet, tears sizzled on your oven-hot skin, like the ashes of the phoenix from which they said your kind was born.

                    Say nothing of what you now know of him while you’re in Ulstead, Philip cautioned before he left, and you were still mulling over the severity of his voice as you crossed the bridge the next morning. You wore the purple of new dawn, which you felt was appropriate.

You slept well again in spite of the day before. It was becoming a habit, and you weren’t entirely sure if it was Maleficent’s doing or Borra’s.

Even after your outburst in the courtyard, he hadn’t left you. He had every right to turn heel and go back to his nest, to his privacy and space all his own, but he had stayed with you again rather than take flight over the moors. He held you in the curl of his wings, punctuated the silence with gentle kisses, and you fell asleep against his chest with the sound of his heart reverberating through you.

You held his hand as you walked the bridge, and you weren’t even clutching him.

Perhaps, in truth, you were emotionally drained. One day of it was enough for a lifetime, one day of watching things collapse as though a gust of wind displaced a child’s stick-pile in the high canopy left you feeling raw and tired and you hadn’t even spoken to anyone but those who were already beside you.

You gently bunted with his arm before you crossed to meet John, and you thought there might’ve been a hint of a curl to Borra’s lips when he huffed out a sigh.

John wasn’t present for the battle, and you both had that in common. It was part of the reason why he moved toward you both in his robes, trying to embrace you both at the same time as he did Aurora and Philip.

Borra took a step away, though, and sacrificed you to John’s enthusiasm instead.

You weren’t even upset about it; you hugged him as tightly as you could, bumping your wings on his arms. “Good morning, John.”

“Hello, Cassia.” He squeezed you like you were a child, and the warmth of it eased your worries. You relaxed as you let go, breathed out your tension as he straightened and nodded respectfully to your mate. “Borra.”

The hint of a smile was no longer on his lips. He nodded back, silent. Waiting.

“I need to warn you,” he gently laced your arm through his as you entered the great courts of Ulstead on foot for the second time. There were more people out and about, almost as though they’d forgotten about the tribunal. Peasant women hung their laundry like flags between the gables of their above-shop homes, “I have already given Lord Azarias a talking-to this morning.”

“The iron-monger,” Borra said, and you sighed profoundly when you looked at him.

John looked surprised, but not disappointed. “Don’t repeat that in front of him. Yes, he’s been…rather difficult about the impacts that the reparations treaty has had on his business.”

“Tell him to make silver,” you replied, and it was a joke though it didn’t sound that way.

People were staring. Again. It unnerved you, but none of them approached. None of them tried to touch any of you this time, or get within the berth of your personal space.

“I wish it was that simple.” He paused with you right there in the streets of Ulstead, and your whole collective drew to a stop with you. You were all wary of them, even Udo who loved their children; they kept eyes for you while you held John’s.

“I also came to fetch you this morning, personally, for a reason.”

You waited. You hoped your tension wasn’t palpable.

“I owe you an apology, Cassia. Though it will never be enough, I swear to you that I believed Ingrith could change. I truly believed that if she knew you, she would understand why, for so long, I’ve wanted peace. She could be a cold and distant woman, but I never thought her capable of what she did. That is as much my fault as Percival’s.”

You drew in a deep breath. An apology was insufficient in ways he would never understand. You didn’t want his justification. You already trusted that he was innocent because you knew he was a very kind and gentle man – and also rather foolish. It was endearing, though your feathers bristled anyway.

“It is not as much your fault as Percival’s.” You were not your father, though you often wished you could at least pretend to be; you hid nothing from him with your face or your eyes or your words. “It is as much your fault as Lickspittle’s.”

John was taken aback. Still, there was a profound and genuine sadness in his eyes, and he rested his hand on your cheek for a moment as though you were Aurora and there were not scores of eyes upon his every move. “You are a very brave girl, Cassia. Your father would be proud.”

Your eyes dampened.

“I certainly am.” He touched his lips to the marks painted on your forehead, and you poorly resisted the urge to grip his sleeve.

John was a kind man, kind to the point of foolishness, and he loved you. He loved you like he knew the appearance of your people was not the catalyst for Ingrith’s war, just as you knew that Maleficent’s plunge into the sea was not the catalyst for yours.

And you were grateful, for once, for the pain that bloomed anew in your chest. John had to enter before you, being king, and it gave you the chance to linger in the courtyard with your fingers on the etched blue stone around your neck. You could almost feel it, the gentle bunt of your horns against your father’s before he’d gone to join them for council.

“I love you,” must’ve been the last thing you said to him. Your voice was dancing; it was as much a dismissal as a reminder, because you were redoing your braids and his lingering blocked what was left of the fading light.

You recalled, all by yourself, the way he smiled at you. The kindness that radiated from him always, the sadness and the love in his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

Borra stepped toward you, and Ini fell in at his back to keep eyes.

“Don’t hold back with them,” you whispered. It was the opposite of what you should’ve said.

He touched your chin, guided your face upwards, and bunted horns with you gently. He would be there when you needed him. You could be weak; he would be there to keep you from drowning.

“I hope I give you the strength you’ve given me,” you admitted, knowing well that you had to withdraw. You took a breath of him, the heat of the desert radiating from his skin, and you held on to your newly acquired calm.

He touched the downy hair at the back of your neck lightly, brushing his thumb over the little curls too short to be trapped in a braid, and let his lingering touch speak for him. You did, and it would be alright for you again. You weren’t alone.

Ini touched your back, and you rested your hand over hers. You nodded, and the five of you, watched so closely by the people of Ulstead, rejoined the tribunal in their chamber with the wide-open doors.

Philip introduced you again, as though they had forgotten who you were. It must’ve been a formality, though the rest were shorter than they had been; the date was declared, and the purpose cited as established. There was almost no time at all between when you entered and when Philip looked up at you, you and only you. “Cassia, are you ready to join us?”

No. Yes. What you wished to do was not what you must.

You still touched Borra’s arm to support yourself, though it was also to remind him that, just this once, he did not have to follow.

This was not your people’s meeting-cove, but it was functionally the same. You perked your lopsided wings to keep them from dragging on the floor, and when the left one started to tremble from the effort, you let it. You let them see what had been done to you in the light under which they were gathered.

The nobility, whom you’d heard in passing had been rather unkind to Aurora before she was queen, exclaimed quietly in shock at the shine of your scars.

You breathed, and the tall posture at which you held your wings relaxed. The left one sagged significantly; you let them see how it drooped from the very joint. Even Lord Azarias sat forward, his head canted at the sight of you.

He had never seen you beyond the shadows, you realized. You wondered if he could see any of you back there, since he looked that way so often and so intently.

“Cassia Born-of-Conall,” Philip spoke to you, “how did you arrive in Ulstead?”

Again, you breathed. They watched you, their faces so nearly like yours – nearly as colorful as the lot of your people’s, their eyes nearly as bright. Were it not for their mannerisms and their dress, your similarity might’ve been a source of comfort.

“I left my home on impulse.” It was the first time you’d said it, and it made you feel like a fool. “My father was at council with the others, and I wished to fly freely. Truthfully,” you remembered, now, why you’d gone. “I wanted to taste the sea-breeze. I missed the brine. I missed the clouds and the stars; so rarely did I leave, I had just…grown restless.” It was still a foolish reason, but it was a reason you’d forgotten. “I veered close to land, though it wasn’t intentional. I saw a man in your river, struggling against the current. He was headed toward the falls.”

You saw him in your mind as clearly as if he’d been in front of you, no more than a little black dot at first. Had he not moved so strongly, you might’ve thought he was a bobbing log.

“My father, Conall,” your heart bloomed with pain, and you let yourself reach up to touch his pendant against your chest, “he sought peace with humans. Your kind as a whole have decimated ours since the dawn of our existence; we want only to live freely in nature. Beside you, rather than among you. We mean you no harm.”

There was a low murmur from the nobility; it sounded like approval.

“I reacted without thinking. I flew down to pluck him from the water, and carried him to shore. No sooner had I set him down than I was shot,” you tried to raise your left wing, and had to reach back to part your feathers. The scar was severe, pink-shining even then as though unhealed. “I was shot by another poacher.”

“Would you have saved him,” Lord Azarias interjected, “if you had known what he’d done?”

“Yes,” you replied, and the ease at which it came startled you. “He was drowning in the river, Lord Azarias. Not even the other poacher helped him.”

“Why? Men were slain on the moors for what they’ve done to your kind.”

“My father wanted peace,” you repeated. “I wanted freedom. Those things are rarely achieved without some measure of empathy.”

“To your kind, perhaps,” he pressed. “I’ve heard this story already; you were shot and dragged through the courtyards kicking and screaming, you tried to fight your way out—”

“I was shot through the base of my wing,” you cut him off. “I was in pain. I went for the river myself before I was caught; I tried to escape. Yes, I was dragged through the courtyards of Ulstead – by my wings. I was blind with pain. I couldn’t run, let alone fly. I don’t even remember making it inside.”

“What do you remember?” Philip’s gentle voice interrupted.

You focused on it, on piecing together your past like shards of broken crystal. Glimpses of the stars from the ground, drips of dark blood congealing on the pale stone, the sear of iron melding into darkness.

“…His arm was already around my neck.” His hand over your mouth to quiet you. You couldn’t breathe, and you were afraid, and you dug your heels into the stone until you choked. You were so afraid, beating your wings. Trying to gather up wind only to be crippled by pain. You twisted, and darkness encroached… “I was unconscious before they entered.”

The whispers died abruptly.

You pretended you did not feel the heat of Borra’s eyes. The weight of his fury.

“I remember pain.” And you did. “Iron touching me.” You’d jolted, coughed. You weren’t even fully awake. “I tried to step away, but the floor was made of it. My wings hit the bars. I must’ve cried out. My back…”

You were pushed into the bars, and you screamed. You lurched forward only to have the door slammed in your face. You struggled to your feet, gripped the bars, begged the sentry man – please! It burns! Oh, stars, it burns!

“…she was there.”

“The queen?” John asked.

You nodded. “Ingrith.” You saw her just as vividly, too, in her iron-bright dress with shiny ornaments in her white-blond hair. “She stood behind several of them, at first. Watching me.”

“Is that a faerie?” she’d asked Lickspittle in the same manner of accusing tone she used when she felt he wasn’t working quickly enough.

“Yes, your majesty,” the gnome replied. “They call them dark fey. Maleficent of the moors is one of them.”

You’d never heard that name before. You hardly paid attention. The iron scalded your feet and burned your flesh and you were woefully under-dressed; you tucked your right wing as close to flat against your back as you could get it and curled the left around yourself, cradling it to keep it from sagging.

“Please,” you repeated. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone where I’ve been.”

“No,” she clicked her tongue at you as she approached, parting the sentry with her hands. “You won’t. Come here.”

She reached in toward you, even though one of the men repeated her title. You thought she was going to be benevolent, so you did; you went to her, and she only recoiled a little before placing her gloved hand upon your chin.

“I see it now.” Her voice was cold. You didn’t understand what she meant; no one had ever seen your eyes or your cheekbones or felt the warmth of your skin and disliked them. Not even the tundra-children when they falsely swooned and told you that you were going to burn them to death like iron, being from the temperate forest, oh being out of the snow was such a tragedy!

“One bolt injured it?” She withdrew her hand, and herself, to walk toward the gnome at his table.

Injured what? you’d thought.

“In the wing, yes,” Lickspittle replied. Your skin was still burning and you didn’t understand; you shifted, restlessly, trying to alleviate the pain in either foot.

“Would another be fatal?”

The gnome was quiet for a moment, as though contemplating how quickly you might be killed, though you were slow to realize it. At first, you truly didn’t understand. Then, you hadn’t wanted to. You did your best to believe differently, but your skin was peeling and you hurt and you couldn’t take refuge anywhere.

“If you struck her somewhere vital, yes. In the back, the belly, the head or the heart.”

You recoiled. The hiss and bite of iron into your flesh nearly made you scream, and yet when you peeled yourself off the bars against the wall, it wasn’t by far.

“Which is the most vital? Does it have defenses?”

“She is not all that different from you—”

The iron queen’s hand came down on his work abruptly, and you thought you saw the gnome startle. You didn’t think her voice could get any colder, but she never moved closer when she said to him, “Do not show sympathy for that beast. It is not human.”

You were so scared. Your heart pounded; you wished for them, though you were afraid to do it. You wished your father, or your family in some combination or other, would come to your rescue. You were afraid that she would kill you. You had no way of knowing that she would rather make you wish for it; that you were folded around yourself not too unlike the way Maleficent would be when she first laid eyes upon them.

“I don’t know how long she kept me there, at first.” It could’ve been hours, it could’ve been days; you had no way of knowing the measure of time by the sun, and your body felt the effects of exposure quickly. You were not Borra; you never exposed yourself with intent to build tolerance, though it struck you as a very good idea at the time.

“I sacrificed parts of my covered legs in rounds. Sat there on my knees. My heels. Tried to reason with him.” You shook your head. “I was so sick I couldn’t even remember when I’d last had water.”

You recalled, in parts, the way the sickness took you. Iron is lethal to fey, everyone knows this. You were sick, and then you were tired, and, though the pain was immense, eventually, you laid down on your broken wing. You used it for a shield and a pillow and tried to curl your body onto it with no such luck. It was hard to sleep, but even harder to be awake. You were dizzy and nauseous and grew weak.

“She put the collar on while I was asleep.”

You woke to the burn of it. The pain. You screamed and fell on your back, grabbed at the hands of the men who put it on you. You wouldn’t have hurt them; you wanted them to take it off.

“The shackles followed.”

Strung through the iron-bar door, your hands were left on the outside. You were forced onto your knees, and you furiously beat your good wing in hope of doing something to free yourself. Blinding pain in your neck, your wrists, your legs. Your toes lost your grip on the bloody floor.

“Stop that noise,” Ingrith ordered, and one of the sentry grabbed the end of your wing. You screamed and fought, pulling hard. You felt the joint roll, but he had good hold of one of the hollow bones toward the apex.

“He snapped it.”

Right below the claw, like an extra thumb. You’d screamed at the top of your lungs, and that earned you another. The other wing flared out on instinct, the bad one, and someone else grabbed it. The first time she had your wings broken might not’ve been intentional, but you’d seen the pleasure on her face – the ecstasy in response to your pain.

You screamed yourself hoarse. You screamed until you could do nothing but cry. Until you shook, and you were limp, and the fever in your skin claimed you fully. You put your head on your arm and wept, and your tears did nothing to heal your burning skin.

You prayed, out loud. You recited old rites. Ancestors, please guide me; ancestors, give me strength, my body is weak but my soul will join you—

How quickly she had you struck for it. So violently that you were dazed. Your stomach lurched from the force and you laid your head back down on your arm.

“I lost track of time quickly. I was wholly engulfed in sickness and pain. Once she bound me, I lost the ability to move. To resist.” You moved then, though, and the stiffness in your gait betrayed you – how long you’d been left in one position. Your joints sometimes forgot what it was like to be mobile. “At some point, someone fed me. Water and bread, I think. I do recall water,” so cold that it felt wonderful in your raw throat, like it might break your fever if you were submerged. “being given from a leather flask. It didn’t burn when it touched me.”

“Forgive me,” Philip interrupted, “but do you have any idea of how long you were there?”

“The tide was high,” Ini said from where she stood with the others. “It was a full moon. One and a half before Maleficent came.”

You were doing well, you thought. Shaking, but sentient. Lost to your memories but not the emotion. You still couldn’t look at Borra, because you knew he saw all of your scars and knew of their making, now.

They were silent, aside from John. “Six weeks?” he whispered. Six weeks in an iron prison? Did that seem right? Six weeks sought to erase the entirety of your life – how had you not succumbed?

“Can you recall anything else?” Philip asked.

“Your majesty,” Lord Azarias interrupted, “We know this story. I understand that it’s a formality—”

“It is more than a formality, lordship, Lickspittle is not an authority on Cassia or the other fey. Hold your tongue. And wait to be spoken to.”

You told them all in painful detail of the re-breaking of your wings. That the memory was so violent that it haunted your nightmares and your waking dreams. You told them of the guards and the jab of their weapons, the scars on your body that they would not see. You told them of the ice baths’ abrupt addition, and that you supposed it was because your blood had baked solid and offered you some measure of relief. You told them of the addition of the iron weight, and that you didn’t know why. Just that you shook with chills and burned with fever and you knew that you were going to die in between your fitful periods of waking. You knew that you would close your eyes and you would not wake up again. That there was a long period in between when you lost consciousness and when you regained it in a royal bed.

You did not see that Philip was no longer looking at you.

“You should have been dead,” Borra agreed. There was a familiar harshness to his voice that comforted you; you knew it wouldn’t offer the humans the same, but you knew him, and you were happy that he joined you on the open floor. It was like your council again. “Aurora stayed with you when she found you in that cage. She couldn’t lift you.” When he spoke, it wasn’t to them. He sought your eyes and no one else’s. “I did.”

You suspected, but confirmation still warmed you in a strange and twisted way. You hated that you caused him pain, but you were so glad he gave you comfort.

“All of this,” he lifted your wrist, brushed his fingers over the scars at your throat, “was bloody and raw. You were drenched in it. You stunk of blood and burnt flesh. Your wings barely fit through the door. They were limp and wouldn’t bend.”

There was no hiding the anger in his voice, and you didn’t want him to. He only told them because he was also telling you – filling in the gaps of time lost.

“I had to hold you to hear your heart beat. You were so weak you barely breathed. She gave you a bed, and it wasn’t big enough.” He blinked, and you knew he saw the sight of your freshly-unfurled wings in the brightness of his memory. “You were so broken I didn’t even see the shot that started it. They had to send for the elders.” His jaw flexed. He suddenly had to look anywhere else but at you. “I thought they’d start giving you rites.”

You let your eyes fall closed. You let yourself worry your pendant over the imagined memory of shared heartache.

“They’d given them to your father that morning. Couldn’t deal with it if they had.”

Aurora silently blotted her eyes.

“Couldn’t leave you even if they would  have. Couldn’t bear to touch your wings.” He did, then, lightly, like they might break again because of the remembered action. “No human in the palace would touch you; they thought cleaning your wounds would make you bleed out. They wouldn’t even dress you.”

You thought, faintly, back to when you awoke in pain. Your change of clothes and how you never even noticed what it was you wore.

“I did.”

You met his eyes again.

You fledged together; blind as you were to his feelings for you, there were periods in your life when you felt you knew him better than you knew yourself. You always knew of what befell him, how he got each and every burn. You’d been there when his kinsman’s fledgling – the little, desert girl last born to his niche of people – rushed up to him at the bonfire with the braid of woven grass he wore around his ankle. For luck, he’d whispered to her, and you hadn’t hid your smile.

“I saw the wounds on your sides. How fresh they were. I stayed with you,” and his voice was different – strong still, hard still, but not the same. Because he wasn’t speaking to them. Pain bled through his anger. “Every moment that the elders cleaned your wounds. Every balm, every salve, every tonic they used. You slept for a day.” He moved again, the restless shift of his feathers brushing across the stone such a familiar sound. “I couldn’t watch them set your wings.”

“Where did you go?” you whispered. You hadn’t meant to sound so forlorn; you didn’t want him to share in your pain, and yet you couldn’t understand why he hadn’t.

“The balcony.” He hadn’t gone far. You could almost see him, the shift of his weight as he listened for a break in your silence. “The others went to the moors with whoever desired to stay; everyone else returned home.”

“Why didn’t you?” Philip asked, and you assumed that was equally a formality.

His eyes spoke volumes only to you, volumes that did not match how he responded to the young prince. “After your men shot her father,” the anger returned in full, and you loved him for it. You loved him because he would rather incite their fury in return than make you vulnerable by admitting that he loved you. “All he could ask was that she be found. Brought home.”

“So why haven’t you left?” Lord Azarias asked.

You thought, for just a flicker, that you’d have to hold him back. No, you had to give him more credit than that; he wasn’t foolish.

“She cannot fly,” Borra replied, the hiss of emphasis on the word drawing many eyes back to your lopsided wing.

“Perhaps, but can you not carry one another? Wouldn’t it have been more simple for you to just…go back where you came from?”

You were unprepared to interject if they needed you to. You were, but Philip was not. “Lord Azarias, I do believe I’ve made my feelings on your questions quite clear.”

“I represent the people, your majesty, and it is with their best interests in mind that I ask what I do.”

You hadn’t fought a war to run back home. Even a mortal knew that. Their people conquered territories; your family stood together to liberate themselves. And that was what Udo said when Borra didn’t justify the bait with an answer.

You knew it was in your collective best interest not to allow your emotions to get in the way, but you touched him when he got close. You met his eyes and apologized, and the hardness in his refuted it. You have nothing to apologize for.

“And yet, little lasting physical harm was done. Your people were free to go, as were the moor-folk, and you have the ability to travel back and forth as you wish. It wasn’t as though the crown infantry disrespects the honor of even a savage.”

They didn’t understand, but you did. You had to turn away. You caught Percival’s eyes by accident, and the horror in them betrayed, much to your relief, that they were too prejudiced to think that way. Oh, you had never been so glad that Ingrith’s hatred came wrapped in disdain.

“Azarias,” Philip interjected, much more forcefully than you thought the boy knew how to be. “Leave.”

The iron-monger blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Leave. The sentry will escort you.”

“Sire,” he didn’t even try to soften his voice, “you understand my intentions.”

“No, I do not. For that, I am increasingly relieved.”

“Philip,” John cautioned, which made Aurora sit straighter. The poor girl. They should’ve let her keep her rabbit.

“I will not have this tribunal derailed by your provocation. Leave. You are welcome to rejoin us in the morning.”

“What did he say?” Provocation wasn’t lost on Borra; you ended up holding onto his gauntlet, and his attention turned to you.

“It doesn’t matter,” Percival tried to quell the unrest before it began. “The crown sentry operates with honor and nobility. Lord Azarias speaks only for himself.”

Somehow, you felt like that only made the situation worse.

“What did he say?” Borra repeated, over your head. To Philip, directly.

The young prince did not respond. You didn’t even look up to see what expression he made; you thought you could cling to Borra and it would stop him, but something in Philip’s face told him. The young men of the crown sentry who knew well of your mate’s ferocity, having trained with him, did not move to stop him the way you did.

They were all afraid of him, and they should be. He was strong; he swept you behind him gently, his wings fanned out against yours as though they would act as your shield while you wound your fingers through the leather straps of his armor where they crossed on his back.

“You’re brave enough to speak to them. Say it to me.”

If Azarias was smart, he wouldn’t. Your experience with humans – humans who were not of the immediate crown family – had shown you differently.

He was arrogant enough to look your mate in the eyes despite the fact that you were holding on to him, practically begging not to let this escalate any further, and respond to him clearly. “No human sullied your little wife. Her virtue is intact, and yet the lot of you stand there posturing for sympathy.”

Even you were confused by the phrasing, though you still believed you understood. What in skies is a virtue?

When Borra breathed, you were surprised no growl followed it. You weren’t surprised that not even digging in your heels stopped you from being pulled along when he went forward; when his talons clicked deliberately on the wooden box surrounding the nobility and the gentry’s seats, as though anyone else had the nerve to join you.

“Posturing for sympathy,” he repeated. There was the growl, an undercurrent in his voice that soothed you like a big cat’s purr. “As though you don’t insult us to our faces.”

He raised a brow, nearly saying out loud that he didn’t imagine any of you understood.

“Do you know why poachers were killed on the moors?” It shouldn’t have made you feel so safe, the dangerous gravity in his tone. “They were cowards, just like you. Robbing sleeping children from their beds, shedding blood like animals.”

They were all fixed on him, but none of them dared look him in the eyes. Only Azarias did, and it reminded you so strongly of Ingrith that you felt the phantom weight on your chest return.

“Look at her like prey one more time and you will not have eyes.”

“That is a threat,” Azarias replied – posturing for sympathy.

“That is a promise,” your mate replied, and you had to hide your smile in his shoulder when the human collective jumped at the sound of agreement that arose from Ini, Udo and Shrike.

“Your majesty, you reason with savages.”

You thought John might muster some benign comment meant to placate you both, but his voice over your shoulder was hardly disappointed. “Yes, it seems I do. I agree with Philip’s motion to dismiss you, Lordship, and I remind you that your place in my gentry is contingent upon your willingness for diplomacy. I can, and will, excuse you if necessary.”

You knew he felt you smiling against his skin, and you knew that you weren’t supposed to, but it was so satisfying to hear John back you without regards for their feelings that you almost forgot what manner of unrest all of this might cause.

His lordship didn’t.

He left his seat without escort, departing from the hinged entrance to his box, and circling it down toward you. Borra’s wing canted around you like a shield, and the blood-red man paused in front of him. “So it was you killing innocent men on the banks of the river, then?”

“They weren’t on the banks of the river when I met them,” Borra replied, more even-toned than he’d been in some time.

“Is that a yes, or a no?” Azarias asked, and his deliberate enunciation made both of your pinfeathers bristle.

He got a cold smile for his trouble, and your mate deliberately, brimming with false and wholly performative innocence, cocked his head like he had no idea what it was he was being asked. Anyone with eyes could know the answer, and yet, the blood-red man stalked past you both. He was not afraid to weave through the gap between Udo’s and Shrike’s wings so he might exit, and John, to his credit, recalled the gathered humans’ attention nearly immediately.

“I apologize to our guests for the outburst, as well as his lordship’s blatant lack of diplomacy.”

“Apologize for nothing, John,” Borra replied, though you put your hands on his back in hopes he still might calm. “Best they don’t hide their intentions.”

“It’s not like that for the rest of us,” Aurora promised. She was so sad, and you felt for her, but you also had begun to feel something like relief. This fight was familiar – this stalking, this talking, the exchange of thoughts in a great chamber before a crowd. This was all so familiar to you that it was as though the war, and your captivity, solved nothing.

You stayed with him when Philip asked about the moor-folk. You stayed, though your fixed place behind him changed once you could breathe normally again.

You took your place at his side like your painted-on marks warranted. You listened, and you devoted your every breath, every pulse of your still-beating heart, to the lives that had been taken.

Lickspittle the gnome looked at you sidelong. The fear was plain in his eyes, though Percival nudged him with the side of his boot to make his gaze shift back to the tribunal. You held yourself differently. Like you were less burdened. From the iron-fire in your veins, despite the immobility of your wings, you perked them. And you held them up. Even as they trembled, even as they struggled to stay aloft. It was an instinct that you did not even notice until Borra’s hand on your back reminded you to let them down before it hurt you.

There was phoenix blood in your veins. And you were in the midst of her fire.

                         Lord Azarias made himself your enemy while you were still in Ulstead.

In the taverns, the smithy, and even the chapel, he spun stories with his iron tongue. They were lies, and many were afraid.

But fear was not the control he wanted.

The silence of it made his ears ring when he should’ve heard the pounding of the hammer upon the anvil. The renewed roar of fire in the forge.

“Bring me the human-slayer,” he said when no one rose to his call for action, “and you will be paid whatever it weighs in silver.”

There were many, still, that said nothing; the very idea was against the law, and if they were to fear the fey, they had to also fear their influence upon the king. Word traveled quickly of the way John touched you, the barrier your people made between you both and the outside world.

“Dead or alive?” one man dared ask. It was a joke to them, but Azarias set down a piece of silver before him, thick and beveled with the great, slain beast on Ulstead’s crest.

“It is a wild animal, killer of men. If I didn’t want to mount the whole of it, I would tell you to bring me its head.”

[romancatholicreflections]

8th March >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Matthew 9:14-15 for Friday after Ash Wednesday: ‘The time will come for the bridegroom to be taken away.’

Friday after Ash Wednesday

Gospel (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

Matthew 9:14-15

When the bridegroom is taken from them, then they will fast

John’s disciples came to Jesus and said, ‘Why is it that we and the Pharisees fast, but your disciples do not?’ Jesus replied, ‘Surely the bridegroom’s attendants would never think of mourning as long as the bridegroom is still with them? But the time will come for the bridegroom to be taken away from them, and then they will fast.’

Gospel (USA)

Matthew 9:14-15

When the bridegroom is taken from them, then they will fast.

The disciples of John approached Jesus and said, “Why do we and the Pharisees fast much, but your disciples do not fast?” Jesus answered them, “Can the wedding guests mourn as long as the bridegroom is with them? The days will come when the bridegroom is taken away from them, and then they will fast.”

Reflections (5)

(i) Friday after Ash Wednesday

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus affirms the value of the Jewish practice of fasting for his followers. ‘The time will come for the bridegroom to be taken away from them, and then they will fast’, he says. Jesus is looking ahead to the time after his death and resurrection. He declares that beyond that time fasting will be appropriate for his disciples, but not during his public ministry which is equivalent to the joy of a wedding feast. In today’s first reading, Isaiah declares that fasting must be in the service of just relationships with others. He speaks of a fast that breaks unjust fetters, that leads to sharing our bread with the hungry and sheltering the homeless poor. Fasting can seem like something negative, a saying ‘no’ to something that can be good in itself, but, the prophet reminds us that this ‘no’ is always in the service of a more generous ‘yes’ to the Lord and his people, especially his most vulnerable people. We deny ourselves so that others can live more fully. We have become more aware in recent times that we need to say ‘no’ to others, to fast, so that our natural environment can also live more fully. Pope Francis reminds us of our responsibility to our environment in his wonderful encyclical ‘Laudato Sii’. We deny ourselves not only for the sake of others but for the sake of our natural environment. The Pope expresses this bond we have with all of creation very beautifully in that encyclical, ‘Everything is related, and we human beings are united as brothers and sisters on a wonderful pilgrimage, woven together by the love God has for each of his creatures, and which also unites us in fond affection with brother sun, sister moon, brother river and mother earth’

And/Or

(ii) Friday after Ash Wednesday

Both readings this morning speak of fasting, one of the traditional Lenten practices. We tend to think of fasting in relation to food. To fast is to deprive ourselves of certain foods for a period of time. In the first reading, however, Isaiah defines fasting much more broadly than that. He understands it as fasting from all those ways of relating to people that damage and oppress them and replacing such ways of relating with working for justice on behalf of those in greatest need. Isaiah seems to be saying that fasting can never be separated from that other Jewish practice that we associate with Lent, almsgiving, the sharing of our resources with others. On Ash Wednesday the gospel reading put before us the three great Lenten disciplines of prayer, fasting and almsgiving. Isaiah reminds us this morning that all three stand or fall together. They are three expressions of one way of life. We cannot focus on any one to the detriment of the other two. Fasting is saying ‘no’ to something. Isaiah reminds us that such saying ‘no’ is always with a view to saying ‘yes’, a ‘yes’ that finds expression in greater service of our neighbour. Such service of others makes our prayer more acceptable to God. In the words of our first reading, ‘Cry, and the Lord will answer; call and he will say, “I am here”’.

And/Or

(iii) Friday after Ash Wednesday

In the first reading Isaiah makes a strong connection between fasting and almsgiving and working for justice. The kind of fasting that pleases God, according to Isaiah, is one finds expression in feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, letting the oppressed go free. We fast so as to be freer to give ourselves in the service of others. In the gospel reading Jesus affirms the value of fasting for the period after his death and resurrection. He too linked fasting and almsgiving closely together and he linked both with prayer, as was clear from the gospel reading that we read for Ash Wednesday. Within the Christian vision, fasting or abstaining is not about losing weight. Rather it is about become free of what is not essential so as to be able to give ourselves more fully in love to God and to our neighbour. We all have something to fast from; it may not necessarily be food or drink. We all have something to let go off so that we can be more available to the Lord for his work in the world. There may be something that absorbs us too much and that blocks our relationship with God and with others, especially those who need us most. Lent is a time when we ask for the grace to fast and step away from whatever that is holding us back, and hindering us from being all that God is calling us to be.

And/Or

(iv) Friday after Ash Wednesday

Jesus’ words in the gospel reading suggest that there is a time to fast and a time not to fast. He speaks of himself as the bridegroom, suggesting that his ministry is like a joyful wedding feast, when the divine bridegroom reaches out in love through Jesus to his bride, God’s people. There is no place for fasting at a wedding feast. There is no need for the bridegroom’s attendants, his disciples, to fast. However, alluding to his forthcoming death, he declares that the bridegroom will be taken away from his attendants and that will be an appropriate time to fast. In the words of Qoheleth in the Jewish Scriptures, ‘there is a time for every matter under heaven’, and we could add to his list, ‘a time to fast and a time not to fast’. Lent has traditionally been understood as a time to fast. It is a time when we identify with Jesus on his way to Jerusalem, the city of his passion and death, the city where he was taken away from his disciples. The first reading from Isaiah reminds us that our fasting is always to be linked to one of the other traditional Lenten practices, almsgiving or service of the needy. According to that reading, our fasting is in the service of letting the oppressed go free, feeding the hungry, sheltering the hungry and clothing the naked. We die to ourselves so as to give to others. We deprive ourselves so as to become more sensitive to those who are deprived and to serve them from our resources.

And/Or

(v) Friday after Ash Wednesday

The gospels suggest that people often asked Jesus the question, ‘Why?’ In particular, the religious leaders asked him why he was doing this or that or not doing this or that. There was clearly something new and different about the ministry of Jesus which gave rise to this repeated question, ‘Why?’ In this morning’s gospel reading, it is the disciples of John the Baptist who ask the question ‘Why?’ They wonder why Jesus and his disciples do not follow the fasting practices of the disciples of John the Baptist and of the Pharisees. In the gospel reading for Ash Wednesday, Jesus affirmed the value of the key Jewish practices of fasting, prayer and almsgiving, provided they are not done to attract attention. In this morning’s gospel reading, he indicates that the celebratory aspect of his ministry means that fasting cannot have the same significance as it does for the disciples of the Pharisees and John the Baptist. Jesus’ ministry is more like a wedding feast than a funeral, with himself as the bridegroom and his disciples as the bride. Jesus goes on to say that this celebratory element of his ministry does not exclude fasting. However, it does give it a different tone and focus. That celebratory element of the Lord’s ministry continues today in the church. The risen Lord wants his joy to be in our lives, a joy the world cannot give. Our fasting is with a view to entering more fully into the Lord’s joy; it is in the service of deepening our loving relationship with the Lord so that the joy of his Spirit may be in our lives. As Isaiah in the first reading reminds us, and as Jesus would confirm, our fasting is also in the service of a more loving relationship with others, especially those in greatest need.

Fr. Martin Hogan, Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin, D03 AO62, Ireland.

Email: sjtbclontarf@eircom.net or  frmartinhogan@gmail.com

Parish Website: www.stjohnsclontarf.ie  Please join us via our webcam.

Twitter: @SJtBClontarfRC.

Facebook: St John the Baptist RC Parish, Clontarf.

Tumblr: Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin.

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

28th February >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Matthew 9:14-15 for Friday after Ash Wednesday: ‘The time will come for the bridegroom to be taken away’.

Friday after Ash Wednesday

Gospel (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

Matthew 9:14-15

When the bridegroom is taken from them, then they will fast

John’s disciples came to Jesus and said, ‘Why is it that we and the Pharisees fast, but your disciples do not?’ Jesus replied, ‘Surely the bridegroom’s attendants would never think of mourning as long as the bridegroom is still with them? But the time will come for the bridegroom to be taken away from them, and then they will fast.’

Gospel (USA)

Matthew 9:14-15

When the bridegroom is taken from them, then they will fast.

The disciples of John approached Jesus and said, “Why do we and the Pharisees fast much, but your disciples do not fast?” Jesus answered them, “Can the wedding guests mourn as long as the bridegroom is with them? The days will come when the bridegroom is taken away from them, and then they will fast.”

Reflections (6)

(i) Friday after Ash Wednesday

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus affirms the value of the Jewish practice of fasting for his followers. ‘The time will come for the bridegroom to be taken away from them, and then they will fast’, he says. Jesus is looking ahead to the time after his death and resurrection. He declares that beyond that time fasting will be appropriate for his disciples, but not during his public ministry which is equivalent to the joy of a wedding feast. In today’s first reading, Isaiah declares that fasting must be in the service of just relationships with others. He speaks of a fast that breaks unjust fetters, that leads to sharing our bread with the hungry and sheltering the homeless poor. Fasting can seem like something negative, a saying ‘no’ to something that can be good in itself, but, the prophet reminds us that this ‘no’ is always in the service of a more generous ‘yes’ to the Lord and his people, especially his most vulnerable people. We deny ourselves so that others can live more fully. We have become more aware in recent times that we need to say ‘no’ to others, to fast, so that our natural environment can also live more fully. Pope Francis reminds us of our responsibility to our environment in his wonderful encyclical ‘Laudato Sii’. We deny ourselves not only for the sake of others but for the sake of our natural environment. The Pope expresses this bond we have with all of creation very beautifully in that encyclical, ‘Everything is related, and we human beings are united as brothers and sisters on a wonderful pilgrimage, woven together by the love God has for each of his creatures, and which also unites us in fond affection with brother sun, sister moon, brother river and mother earth’.

And/Or

(ii) Friday after Ash Wednesday

Both readings this morning speak of fasting, one of the traditional Lenten practices. We tend to think of fasting in relation to food. To fast is to deprive ourselves of certain foods for a period of time. In the first reading, however, Isaiah defines fasting much more broadly than that. He understands it as fasting from all those ways of relating to people that damage and oppress them and replacing such ways of relating with working for justice on behalf of those in greatest need. Isaiah seems to be saying that fasting can never be separated from that other Jewish practice that we associate with Lent, almsgiving, the sharing of our resources with others. On Ash Wednesday the gospel reading put before us the three great Lenten disciplines of prayer, fasting and almsgiving. Isaiah reminds us this morning that all three stand or fall together. They are three expressions of one way of life. We cannot focus on any one to the detriment of the other two. Fasting is saying ‘no’ to something. Isaiah reminds us that such saying ‘no’ is always with a view to saying ‘yes’, a ‘yes’ that finds expression in greater service of our neighbour. Such service of others makes our prayer more acceptable to God. In the words of our first reading, ‘Cry, and the Lord will answer; call and he will say, “I am here”’.

 And/Or

(iii) Friday after Ash Wednesday

In the first reading Isaiah makes a strong connection between fasting and almsgiving and working for justice. The kind of fasting that pleases God, according to Isaiah, is one finds expression in feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, letting the oppressed go free. We fast so as to be freer to give ourselves in the service of others. In the gospel reading Jesus affirms the value of fasting for the period after his death and resurrection. He too linked fasting and almsgiving closely together and he linked both with prayer, as was clear from the gospel reading that we read for Ash Wednesday. Within the Christian vision, fasting or abstaining is not about losing weight. Rather it is about become free of what is not essential so as to be able to give ourselves more fully in love to God and to our neighbour. We all have something to fast from; it may not necessarily be food or drink. We all have something to let go off so that we can be more available to the Lord for his work in the world. There may be something that absorbs us too much and that blocks our relationship with God and with others, especially those who need us most. Lent is a time when we ask for the grace to fast and step away from whatever that is holding us back, and hindering us from being all that God is calling us to be.

 And/Or

(iv) Friday after Ash Wednesday

Jesus’ words in the gospel reading suggest that there is a time to fast and a time not to fast. He speaks of himself as the bridegroom, suggesting that his ministry is like a joyful wedding feast, when the divine bridegroom reaches out in love through Jesus to his bride, God’s people. There is no place for fasting at a wedding feast. There is no need for the bridegroom’s attendants, his disciples, to fast. However, alluding to his forthcoming death, he declares that the bridegroom will be taken away from his attendants and that will be an appropriate time to fast. In the words of Qoheleth in the Jewish Scriptures, ‘there is a time for every matter under heaven’, and we could add to his list, ‘a time to fast and a time not to fast’. Lent has traditionally been understood as a time to fast. It is a time when we identify with Jesus on his way to Jerusalem, the city of his passion and death, the city where he was taken away from his disciples. The first reading from Isaiah reminds us that our fasting is always to be linked to one of the other traditional Lenten practices, almsgiving or service of the needy. According to that reading, our fasting is in the service of letting the oppressed go free, feeding the hungry, sheltering the hungry and clothing the naked. We die to ourselves so as to give to others. We deprive ourselves so as to become more sensitive to those who are deprived and to serve them from our resources.

 And/Or

(v) Friday after Ash Wednesday

The gospels suggest that people often asked Jesus the question, ‘Why?’ In particular, the religious leaders asked him why he was doing this or that or not doing this or that. There was clearly something new and different about the ministry of Jesus which gave rise to this repeated question, ‘Why?’ In this morning’s gospel reading, it is the disciples of John the Baptist who ask the question ‘Why?’ They wonder why Jesus and his disciples do not follow the fasting practices of the disciples of John the Baptist and of the Pharisees. In the gospel reading for Ash Wednesday, Jesus affirmed the value of the key Jewish practices of fasting, prayer and almsgiving, provided they are not done to attract attention. In this morning’s gospel reading, he indicates that the celebratory aspect of his ministry means that fasting cannot have the same significance as it does for the disciples of the Pharisees and John the Baptist. Jesus’ ministry is more like a wedding feast than a funeral, with himself as the bridegroom and his disciples as the bride. Jesus goes on to say that this celebratory element of his ministry does not exclude fasting. However, it does give it a different tone and focus. That celebratory element of the Lord’s ministry continues today in the church. The risen Lord wants his joy to be in our lives, a joy the world cannot give. Our fasting is with a view to entering more fully into the Lord’s joy; it is in the service of deepening our loving relationship with the Lord so that the joy of his Spirit may be in our lives. As Isaiah in the first reading reminds us, and as Jesus would confirm, our fasting is also in the service of a more loving relationship with others, especially those in greatest need.

 And/Or

(vi) Friday after Ash Wednesday

There are only two days of fast and abstinence in Lent, Ash Wednesday and Good Friday. Yet, many people chose to fast from some form of food or drink for the season of Lent. According to the gospel reading, Jesus’ disciples were criticized by the disciples of John the Baptist for not fasting in the way they did. John the Baptist was a more austere man than Jesus. Jesus once referred to John the Baptist as one who had come eating no bread and drinking no wine, and to himself as the Son of Man who came eating and drinking. It seems that neither Jesus or his disciples were as much into fasting as John the Baptist and his disciples. There was something more celebratory about Jesus’ ministry in comparison to the ministry of John the Baptist. In the gospel reading, Jesus speaks of himself as the bridegroom and his disciples as the bridegroom’s attendants. Jesus’ life and ministry had something of the celebratory quality of a wedding, and who fasts at a wedding? Yet, Jesus also acknowledges that a time will come when fasting will be appropriate, ‘the time will come…’ Jesus is looking ahead there to the time of the church. When we fast from some food or drink, we are showing that it is not vitally important to us, that we are not dependent upon it. What really matters to us is our relationship with the Lord. We fast so as to as to grow in our relationship with the Lord. In the first reading, Isaiah links fasting to our relationship with those in greatest need. We fast so as to be freer to respond to the call of those who most need our help. Fasting is always in the service of our love of the Lord and our love of others. If fasting is a saying ‘no’ to something, it is always with a view to our making a more generous ‘yes’ to the Lord and his people.

Fr. Martin Hogan, Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin, D03 AO62, Ireland.

Email: sjtbclontarf@eircom.net or  revmartinhogan@gmail.com

Parish Website: www.stjohnsclontarf.ie  Please join us via our webcam.

Twitter: @SJtBClontarfRC.

Facebook: St John the Baptist RC Parish, Clontarf.

Tumblr: Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin.

[seven-oomen]

So today’s moments of random thoughts (and attempts at including links) are brought to you by the fact that today they replaced the back office computer at work that controls the store’s music, so it was uncomfortably silent for several hours, meaning that my brain suddenly had to provide the soundtrack again, and that’s always a total craps shoot.  Will it be 48 hours straight of “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher”?  Will it be some surreal all day medley of AC/DC, Rihanna, and the South Park version of “Pokerface”?  Will it be a non-stop Disney sing-a-long?  Who knows?  Everyday is an adventure with an ADD brain jukebox. 

One of today’s tracks of choice was “Little Red Riding Hood” by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, a favorite since long before I was old enough to understand the implications or subtext.  And since you enjoyed the last terrible porn scenario so much, why not throw out another classic?  Because there is NO WAY they haven’t done this one.  Like.  Just no way.  Oh no, will the brave and daring young hunter woodsman manage to subdue the wily Alpha wolf, or will poor innocent Omega Riding Hood be devoured by the lustful lupine?  (I think the only correct answer here is yes to both.)  And because part of me wondered if such a thing even existed (I just had to know if I could bring in the plaid), I searched Google and found this (for a more casual approach) or this (for if they’re feeling fancy) for Noah, preferably paired with some tall black combat boots, perhaps (also, just saying, both would be a great option for a chase night).  For “Grandma”, I was thinking something along these lines (theoretically demure, yet also highlighting the collar bones, especially if unbuttoned slightly and allowed to slide off one shoulder.  Perhaps in the blue to bring out his eyes. XD ) because it comes across innocent in all the ways Peter would very much not be at that point.  All Chris would really need is his tightest jeans, deepest v’d henley, and maybe a nice denim or suede trucker jacket.  (Have I spent WAY too much time thinking about this?  Probably, but in my defense it kept me from snapping at all the idiots out without masks who refused to properly distance.  So.)  And because why the hell, not, I haven’t confused my Google search enough yet, here’s a couple of options for Chris that are a little more classy, as far as such a thing can apply to an outfit like this.  I mean if the other two are getting nice, quality outfits in that scenario, dammit he deserves the same.

Oh, and to briefly segue it back towards the more serious (and god, I really hope this comes out the way I mean it to, I am legit terrible at trying to word stuff like this), I would just like to say that frankly this version of how the physical/biological/however you want to phrase it aspects of the male/female vs alpha/omega spectrums play out makes so much more sense than a majority of the a/b/o I’ve seen.  I may not read it often, but I’ve been in fandom too long (and in a few too many small ones) not to have read a fair amount.  There have been a number of times where I just end up going “…his body has/did what now?…"  Whereas with yours it’s just like "oh, cool, that makes total sense”.  It’s natural, logical, and easy to understand, unlike my first few experiences back in the day when I kept having to Google the whole Omegaverse concept (a TERRIBLE idea, btw) to try and figure out how things worked.  So, yeah, I, at least, am a fan of this variation/interpretation/whatever.

Anyway…having hopefully managed to avoid cramming my whole entire foot into my mouth, would you care for some more assorted headcanons?  Maybe one day Stiles and Noah are in the attic working on sorting and organizing some things (Stiles is about 14 or 15 at this point), and after going through a couple boxes of Claudia’s sketchbooks, he finds one that contains a few mangled pairs of fishnets, a mesh shirt or two, maybe a pair of extremely short black cutoffs, some studded bracelets and collars, and he’s just like “man, Mom was a little more hardcore than I would have guessed."  After a couple moments of pointed silence, Noah finally offers ”…that’s not your Mom’s stuff, Stiles" while very determinedly not looking his son’s direction.  Cue a hysterical sequence of microexpressions of shock and horror contorting Stiles’ face, culminating in a brief full body flail and ending with him shaking his head with all the intense desperation of someone trying to clear an Etch-A-Sketch, before he just quietly goes back to sorting through the other boxes and they just never speak of it again.  Alternately, I would accept this same scenario for Chris and Allison (thinking the box had belonged to Kate), because I feel she would have the next best reaction faces to Stiles (less grimacing, but more internal screaming), with basically the same end result.  Or perhaps both had an incident like this, and they use it as some sort of bonding moment.  They’re an odd family after all.

 Don’t think I didn’t notice that the preview changed again.  Just going straight for the feels this time, huh?  God, poor Peter.  I feel so bad that he’s missing out on all the cuddles (familial and romantic), but I’m sure they’ll all be more than willing to make it up to him later.  Really hope he was doing that super speed thing on the way back to the hospital, or the Sheriff’s station might get some strange reports of a naked man running through neighborhoods.  

On the subject of the kids and education, I would vote BioChem for Allison.  It would be useful in learning about all the stuff hunters use, and figuring out ways to combat them, as well as potentially offering some overlap with Lydia’s degree.

I’d vote Criminal Law for Jackson.  It would be both a nod to his adoptive dad in the show having been the D.A. and offer a connection to the traditions of the family he’s just now learning about.  And I suspect that it’s entirely possible that if Stiles went after a Criminal Justice degree (or similar, I’m not entirely sure what it would be called), they’d likely have some overlapping classes, which would just piss Stiles all the hell off.  So win-win, really.

I think Malia could do really well with either type of Engineering.  I want to lean more towards Mechanical, particularly for the auto repair aspect, but part of me really wants Electrical for the Ant-Man connection (speaking of high Intelligence, low Wisdom…)  I think she would hate it while she was getting the degree (WHY DID NO ONE WARN ME THERE’D BE SO MUCH MATH???!!!), she’d be so proud once she’d graduated.  I feel like I could see Derek partnering with her on the shop (he’s working on a Master’s in Business.  Anything Law just felt too close to what he’d lost, but he also couldn’t bear to stray too far.  So, business.  Eventually I think he’d join in with the artsy side of the family and go after a degree in Design, so he could help build up the shop that way, as well.)

Totally agree on the other two.  I can also totally see Kira and Malia coaching some sort of intramural sport for kids one day.  Soccer (football), Little League, Lacrosse, doesn’t matter which.  They absolutely love it, and the kids love them (they totally get the smaller Pack kids involved, too).  Eventually they talk Isaac into creating a team for some of his kids that are looking to socialize more (they make sure that the experience is 100% positive for any of them that play.  They refuse to tolerate any bullying or poor sportsmanship of any kind.)

Hmm…not sure about the others, either, but I like the idea of Boyd ending up as a professor of Mythology and Folklore.  He was the one that actually thought about whether he wanted the bite, and whether it would be worth it in the long run.  He seemed the most interested in the reality of being a werewolf.  I can see him learning as much as he can about the supernatural from Peter and Noah (and some of the other side of things from Chris), and utilizing that in getting his degree (and eventual Doctorate).  And let’s face it, after dealing with the Pack’s shenanigans over the years, college kids aren’t intimidating in the slightest.

And before I forget, may I just say that “People buy it because it’s Tumblr, why wouldn’t two gay dads run a wolf rescue?” had me laughing so hard I started snorting.  Moving on; I know you recently shared a post that featured shots from the episode where Stiles gets his dad drunk to distract him from reopening the Hale case (I have Opinions about that black shirt, and how disappointed I was that it Never Showed Up Again, so I notice when it pops up in Tumblrs I check, okay?  Don’t judge me.), and some of the other blogs I try to keep up with have shared some pics of J.R. in glasses, and now I can’t help but wonder if that becomes like a Thing for Peter at some point.  Like, once they start to get a little older (once Chris has grown out his beard again, and maybe Noah has retired [my uncle was a cop and retired in like his mid-forties, I think] and started letting his hair get just a bit shaggy again) and his husbands start occasionally wearing glasses for reading, or fine detail work, etc.  (I would not judge him if it did, because, uh…, hard same.  I blame too many years of anime.)  Like, they slip them on and his brain just immediately starts going to more terrible porn scenarios.  Stern librarian, called to the principal/headmaster’s office, courtroom shenanigans.  Actually, if Peter is supposed to have been a lawyer they probably do that one anyway.  The Prosecution and the Defense take turns attempting to sway the Judge/Jury Foreman in their favor.  Who is who just depends on their mood at the time, and who feels willing to put on a suit (god help Peter if he gets both his mates in well cut suits and at their persuasive best.  He can barely keep it together long enough to stay halfway in character.  They are fully aware of their power, and file the information away for use in anniversary/graduation/other celebratory settings.)  Wow…that kinda got away from me.  Again.

Anyway, I tried to do the reader poll thing, hope my responses went through/made sense.  Hope the assorted links I’ve attempted work, I’ve never tried adding them to something before.  I probably still have the tabs open if I need to try again, unless my computer randomly decides to close them, which I have had it occasionally do.  Glad that you are feeling somewhat better, and that it doesn’t appear to be anything serious (and possibly even somewhat positive, in the long run, at least?  If it’s a sign of things trying to heal?)  Sorry in advance if some of this makes assisting customers difficult tomorrow.  XD  I feel like it should just be implicit, like my brain just compels it’s own warning in general.

I think I’ve read through this at least ten times because it’s just so good. I don’t really have the energy to reply to everything, but I do want to leave you with some headcanons of my own. 

Mainly Hogwarts houses:

Ravenclaw: Lydia, Melissa, Natalie, Julio, Stiles

Gryffindor:  Noah, Derek, Kira, Allison, Boyd

Hufflepuff: Scott, Chris, Jordan, Ben, Isaac

Slytherin: Malia, Jackson, Peter, Danny, Erica

Ben’s super cute playfulness as a wolf pup

Peter definitely wears a pair of wolf ears during sex, although he’s a little sad that he can’t mark up Chris and Noah as he used to. He liked to bite hard and draw blood, but with him as an Alpha, that’s just not an option anymore. Although there are plenty of other ways he can mark them up and he enjoys finding new ways. Even if they’re not as visual and permanent.

Peter also makes time for each of his kids and enjoys being a father. He revels in the role and loves reading bedtime stories to his younger kids, PTA meetings (he rises to the top of the rank really quickly, starts a turf war with a Karen but gets backed up by Mack’s mom. So it’s all cool.) And With his older kids he finds new ways to guide them through life as young adults. He’s there for every homework assignment, every break-up, every report card, and all the little moments he’s had to miss out on.

Also when Noah is pregnant, he’s closely monitored by Melissa and his licensed midwife. (He’s given birth to Malia and Stiles at home, he’s planning to do it again. Chris too, only has had homebirths, although Ben had to be rushed to the hospital because the doofus swallowed amniotic fluid during birth and turned blue after ten minutes. (Which is based on a true story, my brother had that complication after homebirth. Homebirths are very common in my country which is why I put them in my fics.)) And Peter and Chris go into protective overdrive. He keeps working for as long as he can but at four months pregnant with twins, he has to take a step back and only work desk duty until he’s 7.5 months along. He takes some time off after that and gets time to recuperate and rest. 

Chris for his last pregnancy also chooses to have a homebirth, Julio comes to work for him to do his arms deals and meetups while Chris takes a step back and works from his office until the day he goes into labor. And even then he’s still trying to get this deal done while breathing through contractions.

Also, imagine Peter getting to experience both of his mates being pregnant again. I like to imagine the smile on his face when he hears the heartbeats for the first time, how he just knows when his mates are pregnant, he recognizes the scent change now. He knows Chris is pregnant before Chris does. With Noah it’s a bit more of a tie since Noah can pick up the twins’ energy signatures and heartbeat at 4-5 weeks. Which is when the scent change happens.

I imagine the three of them curled up together after the youngest has been born, all tuckered out and completely passed out. The new baby curled up in the cosleeper next to the bed. Malia sneaks in without waking her dad and starts snapping pictures for the family album. And at one point during the night, Ben and the youngest twins end up sleeping in their parents’ bed as well. It becomes a routine until Ben is ten and generally likes to sleep alone. (Unless he’s upset, then he comes running.)

Also, the mere image of Chris wearing glasses and Noah wearing his police sunglasses (or regular glasses), like yes, sign me up. Also, Peter shows solidarity and starts wearing glasses later in life too. Which doesn’t only do wonders for their sex life (though that was never bad, to begin with) but also every single parent at Ben’s high school and the twins’ elementary school suddenly have the hots for the three extremely hot dilfs.

It also helps with getting justice for Ben when his son is being bullied at school and Chris has to convince Peter not to kill anyone, Noah shows off the sheriff’s  badge and starts suggesting a few things, and Chris likes to remind people that his son (Jackson) is now the youngest DA in the country and works from Beacon Hills and his other son (Stiles) is now an FBI agent who certainly wouldn’t mind digging into the past of whoever is bullying his little brother. (Not that he ever has to get that far, usually he smiles warmly and charms the principal or the teacher with his trademark smile and within a day Ben’s bullies are disciplined by the school.)

I have no idea where I’m going anymore as I’m pretty tired at this point. But these were stuck in my head and I had to share.

(Once again, I adore every single headcanon you’ve send me. <3)

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

8th March >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Matthew 9:14-15 for Friday after Ash Wednesday: ‘The time will come for the bridegroom to be taken away.’

Friday after Ash Wednesday

Gospel (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

Matthew 9:14-15

When the bridegroom is taken from them, then they will fast

John’s disciples came to Jesus and said, ‘Why is it that we and the Pharisees fast, but your disciples do not?’ Jesus replied, ‘Surely the bridegroom’s attendants would never think of mourning as long as the bridegroom is still with them? But the time will come for the bridegroom to be taken away from them, and then they will fast.’

Gospel (USA)

Matthew 9:14-15

When the bridegroom is taken from them, then they will fast.

The disciples of John approached Jesus and said, “Why do we and the Pharisees fast much, but your disciples do not fast?” Jesus answered them, “Can the wedding guests mourn as long as the bridegroom is with them? The days will come when the bridegroom is taken away from them, and then they will fast.”

Reflections (5)

(i)  Friday after Ash Wednesday

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus affirms the value of the Jewish practice of fasting for his followers. ‘The time will come for the bridegroom to be taken away from them, and then they will fast’, he says. Jesus is looking ahead to the time after his death and resurrection. He declares that beyond that time fasting will be appropriate for his disciples, but not during his public ministry which is equivalent to the joy of a wedding feast. In today’s first reading, Isaiah declares that fasting must be in the service of just relationships with others. He speaks of a fast that breaks unjust fetters, that leads to sharing our bread with the hungry and sheltering the homeless poor. Fasting can seem like something negative, a saying ‘no’ to something that can be good in itself, but, the prophet reminds us that this ‘no’ is always in the service of a more generous ‘yes’ to the Lord and his people, especially his most vulnerable people. We deny ourselves so that others can live more fully. We have become more aware in recent times that we need to say ‘no’ to others, to fast, so that our natural environment can also live more fully. Pope Francis reminds us of our responsibility to our environment in his wonderful encyclical ‘Laudato Sii’. We deny ourselves not only for the sake of others but for the sake of our natural environment. The Pope expresses this bond we have with all of creation very beautifully in that encyclical, ‘Everything is related, and we human beings are united as brothers and sisters on a wonderful pilgrimage, woven together by the love God has for each of his creatures, and which also unites us in fond affection with brother sun, sister moon, brother river and mother earth’

And/Or

(ii) Friday after Ash Wednesday

Both readings this morning speak of fasting, one of the traditional Lenten practices. We tend to think of fasting in relation to food. To fast is to deprive ourselves of certain foods for a period of time. In the first reading, however, Isaiah defines fasting much more broadly than that. He understands it as fasting from all those ways of relating to people that damage and oppress them and replacing such ways of relating with working for justice on behalf of those in greatest need. Isaiah seems to be saying that fasting can never be separated from that other Jewish practice that we associate with Lent, almsgiving, the sharing of our resources with others. On Ash Wednesday the gospel reading put before us the three great Lenten disciplines of prayer, fasting and almsgiving. Isaiah reminds us this morning that all three stand or fall together. They are three expressions of one way of life. We cannot focus on any one to the detriment of the other two. Fasting is saying ‘no’ to something. Isaiah reminds us that such saying ‘no’ is always with a view to saying ‘yes’, a ‘yes’ that finds expression in greater service of our neighbour. Such service of others makes our prayer more acceptable to God. In the words of our first reading, ‘Cry, and the Lord will answer; call and he will say, “I am here”’. 

And/Or

(iii) Friday after Ash Wednesday

In the first reading Isaiah makes a strong connection between fasting and almsgiving and working for justice. The kind of fasting that pleases God, according to Isaiah, is one finds expression in feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, letting the oppressed go free. We fast so as to be freer to give ourselves in the service of others. In the gospel reading Jesus affirms the value of fasting for the period after his death and resurrection. He too linked fasting and almsgiving closely together and he linked both with prayer, as was clear from the gospel reading that we read for Ash Wednesday. Within the Christian vision, fasting or abstaining is not about losing weight. Rather it is about become free of what is not essential so as to be able to give ourselves more fully in love to God and to our neighbour. We all have something to fast from; it may not necessarily be food or drink. We all have something to let go off so that we can be more available to the Lord for his work in the world. There may be something that absorbs us too much and that blocks our relationship with God and with others, especially those who need us most. Lent is a time when we ask for the grace to fast and step away from whatever that is holding us back, and hindering us from being all that God is calling us to be. 

And/Or

(iv) Friday after Ash Wednesday

Jesus’ words in the gospel reading suggest that there is a time to fast and a time not to fast. He speaks of himself as the bridegroom, suggesting that his ministry is like a joyful wedding feast, when the divine bridegroom reaches out in love through Jesus to his bride, God’s people. There is no place for fasting at a wedding feast. There is no need for the bridegroom’s attendants, his disciples, to fast. However, alluding to his forthcoming death, he declares that the bridegroom will be taken away from his attendants and that will be an appropriate time to fast. In the words of Qoheleth in the Jewish Scriptures, ‘there is a time for every matter under heaven’, and we could add to his list, ‘a time to fast and a time not to fast’. Lent has traditionally been understood as a time to fast. It is a time when we identify with Jesus on his way to Jerusalem, the city of his passion and death, the city where he was taken away from his disciples. The first reading from Isaiah reminds us that our fasting is always to be linked to one of the other traditional Lenten practices, almsgiving or service of the needy. According to that reading, our fasting is in the service of letting the oppressed go free, feeding the hungry, sheltering the hungry and clothing the naked. We die to ourselves so as to give to others. We deprive ourselves so as to become more sensitive to those who are deprived and to serve them from our resources. 

And/Or

(v) Friday after Ash Wednesday

The gospels suggest that people often asked Jesus the question, ‘Why?’ In particular, the religious leaders asked him why he was doing this or that or not doing this or that. There was clearly something new and different about the ministry of Jesus which gave rise to this repeated question, ‘Why?’ In this morning’s gospel reading, it is the disciples of John the Baptist who ask the question ‘Why?’ They wonder why Jesus and his disciples do not follow the fasting practices of the disciples of John the Baptist and of the Pharisees. In the gospel reading for Ash Wednesday, Jesus affirmed the value of the key Jewish practices of fasting, prayer and almsgiving, provided they are not done to attract attention. In this morning’s gospel reading, he indicates that the celebratory aspect of his ministry means that fasting cannot have the same significance as it does for the disciples of the Pharisees and John the Baptist. Jesus’ ministry is more like a wedding feast than a funeral, with himself as the bridegroom and his disciples as the bride. Jesus goes on to say that this celebratory element of his ministry does not exclude fasting. However, it does give it a different tone and focus. That celebratory element of the Lord’s ministry continues today in the church. The risen Lord wants his joy to be in our lives, a joy the world cannot give. Our fasting is with a view to entering more fully into the Lord’s joy; it is in the service of deepening our loving relationship with the Lord so that the joy of his Spirit may be in our lives. As Isaiah in the first reading reminds us, and as Jesus would confirm, our fasting is also in the service of a more loving relationship with others, especially those in greatest need.

Fr. Martin Hogan, Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin, D03 AO62, Ireland.

Email: sjtbclontarf@eircom.net or  frmartinhogan@gmail.com

Parish Website: www.stjohnsclontarf.ie  Please join us via our webcam.

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