#why are there so many cursed moorish girls

[bluberimufim]

Cool and spooky-ish Portuguese legends and mythological creatures because it's nearly Halloween!!

I've been wanting to do this for a while now, because I've felt disconnected from Portuguese culture lately and I'm trying to get into it. So I wanted to share some cool things I found because Portuguese folklore is something no one talks about and I love to share my culture with people! Please be warned that the translations may sound kinda awkward and that this is almost 100% from Wikipedia since Portuguese mythological creatures are a super obscure topic, and the only other big resource I could find was a super expensive book. That being said, the Wikipedia sounds pretty legit because it sounds like it was written by an old person.

Now let's get into some of my favourites!

Werewolf

This is a basic one but I still find it pretty funny. When I visited Cova do Lobisomem (trans.: Werewolf Cave), I learnt that the legend there is that, if you have twelve kids, the eldest son (in the story it was a son, but I don't know what happens if your eldest is a girl) becomes a werewolf and has to go live out in the wilderness. Another closely related legend mentions they have to serve some kind of penitence, but I found nothing on it.

Peeira (or "werewolf fairy")

Known as the "female version of the werewolf" and is able to control wolf packs. Her power seems to be guiding these wolf packs by being a reasonable and more human-like figure in the group, and is described as "lovely and wild" (omg that sounds sooo pretty). Information contradicts in this bit, also saying that she either has feelings for the werewolves or that she lures men into the woods to feed them to her ghost-wolves. A girl becomes a Peeira by being a couple's seventh oldest daughter, or by being called upon by her "predestined/soulmate werewolf".

Bisarma

Ghost of colossal size that can stand over valleys with one foot on each mountain, and sing monotonous tunes in "huge voices" (idk how else to translate it). This mythological creature also shows up in parts of Spain.

Jã

Weaving spirits. If you leave out a bunch of linen and a cake, they'll make you a linen cloth as fine as a hair, but if you forget to leave out the cake, they'll burn the linen. Apparently, people used to claim their ancestors had sheets made by the Jãs.

Zorra Berradeira (trans.: "Screaming Fox")

Shows up in Algarve every 7 years and, when it's not there, it's theorized that it visits other countries. It's a fox spirit that screams all the time but can be heard better at midnight or midday and, if you mock it, it will chase you down until your death.

Velha da Égua Branca (trans.: Old Lady on the White Mare)

Appears in Algarve on full moon nights and makes a lot of noise in the fields with pots and pans. She rides a white mare, wears a white cap with red ribbons that look like lightning, and holds a knife in her left hand. She's been called a "personification of the night".

Homem do Chapéu de Ferro (trans.: Man in the Iron Hat)

Another spirit from Algarve, but evil. He appears at midnight on the sides of roads and fountains, or under olive or fig trees. He's always accompanied by an animal, which is the Devil in disguise: either a black pig, a huge black rooster, or a deer with antlers as tall as a church tower. He has a gigantic frame, is "bronze-coloured" (whatever that means) and wears an iron hat. He'll run away when he sees the Old Lady on the White Mare (oooooh Algarvian connected universe).

Hey, people who live in Algarve, blink twice if you need help with all the supernatural shit because this seems disproportionately hardcore

Okay, this next one is gonna be longer because it's a whole legend with a plot, but I still want to tell it because it's kinda spooky and I love it!!

The Golden Lamprey

On full moon nights, on the banks of the Minho River (northern border with Spain), you can see a very beautiful Moorish girl with golden hair caressing a giant golden lamprey. The girl spends the night combing her hair with a golden comb or singing a sad melody, and the lamprey swims close to her.

According to legend, the lamprey had once been a Portuguese knight, and the girl had been engaged to another man. The two had been sentenced to death for their forbidden romance and had both been cursed - he turned into a fish and she can only gain physical form under the full moon.

There were men who set out in boats to search for the girl, either to seduce her or to steal her fine silk dress, but none ever found her.

Until one night, a young man disappeared after being heard in the tavern, clearly drunk, declaring that he was going to search for the golden-haired Moorish girl. His plan was to make her fall in love with him, sell her comb, and then open an inn where he'd let curious travellers take a look at this supernatural river girl in exchange for large sums of money.

The next day, the lantern he'd set out with was found on some rocks near the river by a few fishers, and his body was found in the water, a bit further ahead. On his neck, there were the marks of small, sharp teeth, similar to the shape of a lamprey's mouth. But what startled the fishers more was the satisfied look on the young man's face. (not posting a pic of a lamprey's mouth bc it feels like it would warrant some kind of content warning but pls do look it up if you're curious, it's horrifying)

There was also another legend of another cursed Moorish girl but on a rock this time that I remembered reading in school, but I genuinely cannot find it. If you know anything about a story named "A Moura do Penedo" (not the cursed snake princess one) pls hit me up, I remember loving that one as a kid. "Cursed Moorish girl" is such a common trope in Portuguese legends that it's almost unsearchable.

And if you want to add anything or correct any of the information I presented, please feel free! This is very much "baby's first dive into Portuguese folklore"

That being said, I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did! There are other less-spooky legends I'd love to share, if you're interested! Happy Halloween/other coinciding spooky holiday!

[nerajaana]

The most irritating thing about these people who call Daenerys racist (and apparently all of us, lol) is that they think they are morally superior for supporting the martinis.

but the martinis aren't even poc, right?

Hit the bullseye nonnie!

Nothing can be more hilarious that some noobs screaming into the void about how the rl wocs stanning dany are a bunch of white feminists......ever used the brain cell your ancesters underwent evolution to obtain over millions of years? like, have some respect for them at least???? The ones who're still suffering the aftermath of the imperialistic colonial regimes are here stanning the fuck outta Daenerys Targaryen while many many of her haters, who accuse her of being a imperialist tyrant, are the same fucking people stanning the british royal family irl.....how much more hypocritical can they get?????????!!!!!!!! Who's gonna tell them this series is not for a bunch of bourgeoisie enthusiasts to live vicariously through the characters??? Absolutely pathetic.

(😣😭pls im a martell stan lets not call the canon ones martinis pls feel free to deride the fanon versions tho the book ones are bae💖💖💖#EllariaDeservedBetter #ArianneMyLove #FUGeorgeBringBackQuent2021 #FuckD&D)

The Dornish's race is something i don't think even the creator of the said characters has any fucking clue about. One time he goes they're a combination of Wales, Moorish Spain and Palestine (........tf george), another time he mentions how the sandy dornishmen are supposedly inspired from the mediterranean/greeks. Is it a case of colorism or xenophobia or a combination of both? It's definitely not just simple racism and bRoWn CuLtUrE....istg i will virtually throttle the next fool to talk about dornish culture being equivalent to the real world brown cultures- mr privileged ignorant old white guy has exposed his blatant orientalist attitude already why the fuck are you outing yourself as the same how the fuck will you justify that line of thinking you're all millenials and Gen-Zers you grew up with internet what's stopping you from educating yourselves what's your fucking excuse-

it's insulting as fuck, really. even the aryan remarks. do they even know what Aryan is truly about, before hitler and the french tart went ahead and desecrated it?? (and, gosh the aryan terminology also opens up the can of worms that is the caste system of my country and boyyyyy that's a whole another set of problems this bunch of wokesters will never even bother to look into, let alone attempt to understand)

Reeks of performative activism, they think they're championing for the oppressed or some crap while infantilising us in the same breath about how we don't know any better since we like dany and the targs ....what exactly are you lot attempting at you fools? The entire fucking human population can't be categorised into black, brown and white and call it a day. It's so much more complicated, the issues are way too fucking messed up and complex to be boxed into categories. The spectrum between white & black is so bleeding vast and beyond their understanding that wouldn't even fuckin know where to start, let alone draw conclusions and parallels to throw em about. Some rando comes up with bullshit about how Rhaenys being in dany's place wouldve been empowering.....how? how does reading about a half mediterranean greek/moorish spainiard and half elfin white girl being in the place of a character you call a white coded saviour trope woman make your woc self feel better? how's that supposed to work??? Oh and how seeing people like her being enslaved would make the issue of slavery more personal........newsflash hon, Lysenis, the ones who closely resemble Valyrians are right there in the slavers bay, shackled. The whole cursed thing isn't even about the race, the writer himself literally said how it's got to do with the Romans not what the fcking whites attempted at a couple centuries ago. Does he need to write a mfing essay about it?And really, isn't a bit of human empathy more than sufficient to want to abolish something as cruel and inhumane and disgusting as slavery? what the ever loving fuck-

*deep breath*

wow would you look at that length. Hope my answer's adequate nonnie, apologies if this isn't what you'd expected😓

have a lovely day ahead!

[honestsycrets]

Little Crow [ Ivar x Niece!OC (Platonic), Ivar x POC!Reader ]

❛ pairing | ivar & sigurd’sdaughter!niece (father figure relationship), implied!ivar x POC!reader, thora x hvitserk x amma

❛ type | platonic, family oriented oneshot

❛ summary | after ivar murders sigurd, his guilt keeps him from keeping his niece. but-- he can’t help himself from trying to crawl back into her life.

❛  tags | verbal arguments, osteogenesis imperfecta issues, fighting, referenced death, referenced murder, orphan child, adoptive mother, adoptive relationships, family dynamics, mention of polygyny.

❛ sy’s notes | this fic implies Bjorn sailed away to Sweden after avenging Ragnar, Aslaug does not die. 

In everything, anger is a release of tension. That is as true for cooking instruments as life. Water boils with the anger of a flame and chucks its lid off to release itself all over the kettle or pot. Likewise, the moment the axe left his hand, Ivar felt the rush and the release of tension. It was gratifying. It was what he wanted. For it all to stop.

“Are you sure?”

He looks back, once, past the flickering flame to the little hands pushing and prodding her pale skin. She looks happy here, free of the realization of a few months ago, before the sail back to Kattegat, before Bjorn sailed away to Sweden, before the accident. There is security in a warm longhouse with nothing but beautiful, strong women. Here she could learn.

Ivar kisses her palm and doesn’t look back.

For her coming of age, he sends her a gift. It’s quiet. Until it isn’t.

“She’s renamed her Aslaug,” his mother came into the throne room one day, standing before him with soft eyes as he sat in his mother’s chair. Ivar bounced clicked his fingers along the arm of the chair.

“Ironic,” he noted, and his hand dropped from his lip. “She has your old name.”

“The crows come to see her.”

Odin is taking care of her. Ivar hmphs, a small noise, almost unmoved until his mother steps up to set her hand on his shoulder. It stings different. “Why don’t you go see her? She is very beautiful.”

He’s not sure if it’s his niece she’s talking about-- or the carer out in the fields. It’s better this way. Less of a risk for her to be involved with such a family. Ivar stares, plain and long, trying to isolate why his mother was speaking like this.

“Why are you pushing me?”

Her lips curl into a knowing smile. She heads down from the throne to the backrooms.“I’ve invited them to eat dinner.”

Fantastic.

Mother was right. She is beautiful. he can’t tell which of the women he’s speaking about.

The young girl, who is no more than twelve, with cool blue eyes plagued with the spiral of jörmungandr, or her mother who isn’t really her mother. Not in the flesh, anyway. Her skin is far too pigmented, her eyes too deep to belong to the sea serpent, but maybe the deepness and depth of the soil that nurtured the chunk of a pig on his plate.

“--I came after Ragnar’s victory in Paris,” he catches the tail end of the statement. His father’s name is old but familiar. He hasn’t been back from Europe so long.

“That was not so long ago.”

“It’s long if you’re a slave.” There was nothing he could say to that. “Thank you for that Ivar.”

What you mean to say, is for the coin that set you free, from Ivar’s pocket. He took a little more than he should have after his father came back. Perhaps it wasn’t with just this in mind-- but who knew when a young boy like him would come upon such money again? At the very least, he put it to good work.

“I can’t stand to see beautiful women as slaves.” He gestures, and you tease him further, that if you were ugly he would not?

No, he reminds you, women are his soft spot. He’s kissed more than one woman’s hand-- and they weren’t all young. “He’s a woman’s man,” Aslaug brought her knuckle to his high cheekbones. Little Aslaug stares off in annoyance between the bantering, complaints of how he had no wife-- and maybe, a tease at the prospect in the future.

“In its time,” he remarks to the two of you. Ivar sat idly chewing on it when his eyes caught with little Aslaug’s across the table. Her eyes flicked down, to his plate, then up again. “Still hungry?” he asks lowly, a soft draw with gentle eyes.

She reaches for it. It being his plate and drags it over to sit in front of her. Your idle chatter with Queen Aslaug is cut off by the abruptness of the motion when you set your eyes on Ivar’s. “Aslaug.”

“No, no.” Ivar waves, reaching for a chunk of fruit. “I am not so hungry today.”

“You know better than that.”

“And why?” Aslaug pulls a strip of meat off the meat. She looks at him past the wave of her long brown hair tumbling to her flat chest. “He sent me away. He should be so lucky to have me here with him.”

Aslaug leans over. Ivar-- if he could have given her a look sooner-- might have stopped what was about to come from his mouth. “He sent you away to save you. Mismanaged girls don’t often grow into women.”

“If you’re their mother, they don’t. I grew up just fine on my mother’s farm. No drownings, or almost drownings, or visions of hurricanes. No cursed mothers of the water.” Little Aslaug flicks her bone onto the plate, bobbing her head in a way that seems to be just like looking in the reflection of a golden plate, right back at him.

Aslaug reclines back in her chair.

There’s nothing you can say. In the absence of words, you lean over and press a kiss to her soft hair. Little Aslaug turns to your long braids, pushing the wooden beads away from her, because there’s something she wants to say-- and she’d say it. She was like her father, like her uncle. It’s something that he quickly realizes when she mutters something he can’t understand and leans over that long table, her crutch under her arm.

“I needed you and-- you sent me away. Like shit under your mangled legs.” When she hobbles out, leaning into her metal crutch, Ivar is left with a closed fist and a dozen questions. You spare him a look of pity on your way after her.

“I need help.”

Sigurd never needed help. Not from him. Not from really, anyone. It happened long ago that he stopped asking for help. So when the news came, he wasn’t altogether sure what he was hearing from his brother. Only that he knew what it was about.

When he set his little niece down, Ivar knew. She couldn’t even move.

“Set her down,” Ivar gestured toward the ground. Dusty, but clean for him to crawl upon. She’d broken her legs not once, or twice, but thrice. Once on the ground, he knew that the little girl was scared to move. So he showed her how, limp legged and tense armed, he dragged himself a hundred times around her.

And she giggled. And for the first time in a long time, Ivar and Sigurd laughed together.

He could have walked away. Theoretically, of course. Pretend he doesn’t have a niece. Or anyone. But he finds himself plagued with the knowledge of abandonment and reflecting on his own abandonment. And that’s how he ends up in the merchant’s square, looking for the particular women.

Ones that brought up other women’s children with long draping skirts, braids woven tighter than the fates written by the Norns, and baskets carrying goods upon their heads. Moorish, beautiful women.

“Sorry,” his brother Hvitserk slides by, jumping jovially beside him. The many different groups of Kattegat all traded in harmony. The ones of the east with the ones of the south, the ones native to home. Hvitserk bounces while walking backward. “Brother! Amma and Thora say they trade beads at the edge of the marketplace.”

“Why do you even have two wives,” Ivar grumbles, jutting his crutch into the soft ground, holding his hand over his muscular leg for balance. “Is one not tiring enough?”

“I have love to give.” Hvitserk rattles his laughter. “Why should I close myself off to another?”

“And one can’t be deserving enough?” If it were him-- he’d surely love one, and only one, because that was the sort of man he was. He doesn’t need more. He would have all that he needed and that would be enough.

“Your trouble is that you haven’t fucked enough,” Hvitserk says pointedly. “If you fucked that woman from the other day--”

“This isn’t about her.”

“You wouldn’t be so wound up all the time. Here you are attacking me, for instance.”

Ivar doesn’t respond. At one time, maybe, he thought that he could have it all and more. He could be happy with a wife with fifty children and that would be good for him. Now that it wasn’t… feasible, he supplies in his mind, this should be enough for him.

They kick up dirt as they arrive into the hearth of the marketplace. Honey, furs, slaves. Those were the good things there. His interest was less so in the simple things and more with the luxurious items at the very edge of the trade center. Expensive things like beads, jewelry, clothes. Things you traded on your rich red throw on the ground.

“Two Ragnarssons this time, I must have the blessing of Frigg this cycle.” You sat among young children, retelling a story he’s cut in on while weaving beads into a blonde-haired woman’s hair. “Something tells me you aren’t here for me.”

“You might be correct.” Ivar looks among the heads of young girls. Light-skinned, dark-skinned. Blonde hair, orange hair, black hair. None look like his little niece. “Where is Aslaug?”

“Searching a new name.”

“Alone?” he demands.

You pull a loose golden strand through your fingers. Then, looking up, you laugh at him. “You make for an overbearing father.”

Warmth floods into his cheeks. You whisper something into the ear of your daughter selling beads, and she drags them off to the side. With a pat of the blanket, Ivar slides beside you. “I’ll let you know something, Ivar, for when you have a child of your own. There are some times you press them…”

“Or dress them up,” your customer looks over. The orange beading seems to pronounce her slight freckles dotting over her cheeks and around her eyes, sunspots that indicated she worked outside the home on occasion.

“Or know when to leave them alone.”

Hvitserk shifts his weight onto one leg and shrugs. “Women are complicated,” he gestures. “Girls too.”

“You aren’t someone she wants to see.”

“I’ve gathered,” Ivar says, bringing his hand to his temple, rubbing the stress free. “I should never have sent her away.”

“You shouldn’t have.” He bows his head and looks over the soft beads. He finds himself comparing which would look the best, and you seem to know, running your fingers over the rich green that reflects like bits of grass. “But you can make it right. I would take… six of these. Fashion her a necklace. Go see her in the valley where the crows gather.”

“I don’t take it you’re giving them to me?”

“Not men,” you quip playfully, patting him square in the middle of his chest.

“No deals for men!” the young girls tease all around. He supposes, in a place made up of beautiful women, that he has no choice but to be cheated out of his coin. Hvitserk crouches at eye level, picking out two for his wives. “I’ll cash in that favour now.”

Make that eight.

What you failed to tell him was just how far this so-called valley was. His legs began to ache sorely with the calibers weighing down every step. His legs hurt, his hand hurts from supporting his wealth of muscle, and so does his head with the memory of what little Aslaug had said. In the dusty grey sky, crows fluttered overhead. Their black bodies obscure what little light peers through fat bulging clouds.

It was a day like this, not too long ago -- at least in his memory, that the accident happened. Not his loss of control or the flare-up of anger that transferred from father to uncle, to niece. But a grey day of crawling through the valley with legs that did not work and a storm that was too sudden. The sodden ground led to a sick two-year-old-- and a sicker, plump wife. Not his wife, that was.

“If you can’t keep her safe, don’t keep her at all.” It was those words, mixed among a heated exchange, that stuck with him. He sat dripping water on the new planks of Sigurd’s bedroom-- looking toward where Sigurd disappeared with his giggling girl. Sigurd meant that.

“You’re thinking too much.” Hvitserk is kind of like a bird. The kind of bird that you want to knock out of a tree when he’s following you, chirping obvious things, even when he wasn’t asked. Not that my opinion matters but… Or I think you’re an idiot… the usual.

“Shut up, Hvitserk.”

They find her in a clear valley where the bones and the spears of decades past are still lodged into Midgard. Hvitserk glances between the remnants of a long old battle, scavenger hunting for goodies, while Ivar ascends the hill. She’s more your daughter than his, Hvitserk says, because he’s so much help.

There she was at the top of the hill. Her arms were folded, a scowl slapped across her face, deepening with his every drag to an eventual stop beside her. He collapses at last beside her and sets his crutch across his tired legs.

“Mother sent you to find me.” She states. There’s a crow between her thin legs. That makes sense. She pets its head.

“Hm?” Ivar reclines back on his forearms. “Not this time. Something about space.”

“Like I said. Mother sent you to find me.”

So maybe you did. Ivar came to that helpful realization with a necklace wrapped around his wrist and a much lighter pocket. You’re no con woman, but you aren’t a stupid woman either. He reminds himself that a woman-- a once was slave -- was a crafty woman when looks alone just wouldn’t roll the stone.

“Do you hate it?”

“Maybe.” She answers quickly. “I don’t know why she wants me to see you. You--”

“--sent you away. I know. I thought I did it for you. Maybe I--” he pauses then, searching, thinking. “Did it for me.”

“I never would have guessed.”

Ivar unwinds the necklace from his wrist, staring at the beads as if they were bones he could shake-up for the right answer, like a seer. Instead, he finds himself asking why when she interrupts. “It’s one thing to kill my father.”

He glances up.

“I think… all of Kattegat knew one of you would kill another. So I hear from my mother. Baby, and all.” She says pointing to all of herself. “It’s one thing to do that. Another thing to abandon me.”

“Would you have preferred to have no mother?”

“No,” she clicks her tongue, turning her head away. “I love my mother. All of us do. She is much better than my grandmother. But you left.”

It’s a statement he doesn’t imagine he’ll stop hearing soon. Ivar rubs his temples and turns on his side just as she tugs her legs around, heavy in the calibers he had sent her for her coming of age, the thing that incited everything. He leans over, fisting the necklace, and sets it in her hands.

“Forgive me then, Aslaug.”

“Kraka.” She takes the necklace, fitting it around the crow’s head, who strangely doesn’t move. He must be seeing things now because she fits it under her arm like a ball and stands to her feet. “I want to be called Kraka. Now hurry up. With your legs, we won’t be home before the rain falls.”  

Its a different name, one that she’ll probably change again and again. Or maybe none at all. Maybe, he thinks, this is what being a parent to a young girl is. Finding himself in the same way she found herself. He doesn’t feel so angry now.

“I hate to remind you, but yours are no different, Kraka.”

And somewhere, in the field, Hvitserk chirps-- I found a coin!

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071​ @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer​ @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt​ @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever

[vesperlionheart]

The Barn 5

[part1][part2][part3][part4][Here]

Sakura remembered the words she learned from before she left the shadow of the coven.

‘The difference between a blood witch and a bone witch is all in their names. There’s not much more to it than that.’

Sakura had believed the lie for years. In hindsight, she was embarrassed at how naive she could be. She had listened when they told her that all witches were primarily the same, that there wasn’t anything more to the labels they picked up after become dames and dons.

The more they clashed, the more Sakura saw it; the lie of uniqueness’ death.

Blood favor made Karin fast with her magic humming so close to the surface, but her blows didn’t stick and sink as well. Sakura’s magic was heavier and slower, but carried far more heart when it struck true. Bone favor made her stronger than stone.

The game between then was speed and strength; winning hinged on who balanced their strengths with their weaknesses better. Karin had the advantage of tailored practice keeping her spell casting fit, but Sakura was far more rested and ready to unload spell after spell.

Between the two of them, the game of stamina would always favor Sakura, but especially after Karin was weak from a blood letting. The difference was like a lake verses a sidewalk puddle.

It didn’t last long, but seconds were hours when magic was hot in the air. It felt like forever to Sakura who made her body a conduit.

“Repel.”

“Force.”

“Break.”

“Unbalance.”

“Strike.”

The commands came out so loose and easy. Sakura would shout them while Karin seemed to kiss the air with her words before flickering out of focus. Unlike Sakura, she didn’t waste as much time on hand signs or gestures to guide the flow of her magic.

Sakura crossed her hands in an X formation over her chest and shouted ‘shield’ before uncrossing her arms and shouting, ‘shatter!’ with her fingers spread wide.

Karin reached up to try and shield, but the magic was thin. That was the difference between a blood witch and a bone witch. Sakura might not have been able to catch Karin, but that mattered less and less when the fight was head on.

The bones in Sakura’s hands had been broken and fractures so many times, making the calcium buildup thinker in the healed places. She had forgotten what that felt like until her magic was rushing over it. As the seconds stretched forever, more details glared at Sakura, bright and unyielding.

Karin slouched against the couch, blood trickling from her nostrils. The red color made a pretty contrast on her paper white skin. Sakura thought Karin looked like the marble from the receiving hall, with her veins standing out darker and closer to the surface; some still pulsed with magic.

“No fair,” Karin croaked, sounding even more out of it than before. “You’re supposed to be out of practice. You reek of inexperience. What was it they said about old dogs? You’re too old to be learning new tricks without a teacher. You’re not a little girl anymore.”

Sakura folded her left arm across her chest, resting her hand above her heart and holding it there. It shook worse than the rest of her and she knew it was because of the accident years ago. Magic made the nerve damage harder to ignore. 

Bone witch didn’t mean flesh witch.

“You went easy on me,” Sakura said.

She approached her cousin and stopped at arm’s length to crouch down. They were at eye level when Karin finally looked up and grinned. Blood dripped out of the corner of her mouth.

Somehow, she still looked pretty. Sakura could believe there were still dozens of boys and even girls who would be willing to kiss Karin, bloodstains and all. Karin had always been the ‘pretty one’ of all the cousins. Labels like ‘pretty’ got you to all sorts of horrible places though, and Sakura didn’t envy Karin for that, not one bit.

“Are you going to be okay?” Sakura whispered.

“You’re cute, cous. You should know better than to worry about the witch that’ll stab you in the back the second you turn around.” Karin did her best to hike her eyebrows, but even that effort seemed to exhaust her.

“You shouldn’t have fought me if you were feeling so bad,” Sakura hissed. “You were practically dead on your feet. Why did you have to go and be a hard ass about letting Madara go? You should have known you wouldn’t win in that condition.”

The golden chains had all but faded. Madara rose to circle around the chair and join Gaara who flanked Sakura from behind. He didn’t seem any worse for wear and there were no outwardly signs of distress or abuse as he rubbed his pale wrists.

Sakura noticed that his black slacks and white button front long sleeve were not the ones he had left Sakura’s house in. They were nicer, newer, and didn’t stand out as much.  He had rolled up his sleeves a quarter of the way and didn’t bother to fix them as he crossed his arms and watched the scene unfold. Beside him, Gaara was just as silent.

“You think Auntie dearest would have liked to hear from me, how I let the outsider waltz in and take something else from the family? She’s pissed you have the house right now. She’s pissed you showed up her sons. She’s pissed you were able to do something the boys and I couldn’t do. Man, it would have been nice to see her face if I was the one that broke the curse. What a sight that would have been. Now all I’ll see is that...that look, the one she makes when she sees a water stain on the coffee table, or dirt on her hardwood floor. I couldn’t even keep the familiar she gave me.”

“Kushina? What right would she have to do such a thing? Kakuzu was the one who-”

Karin reached up and bopped Sakura on the nose. “Silly rabbit, who do you think he works for? She told him he could be your familiar if we took the others from you. There aren't a lot of years left for him now that Mito has died.”

Sakura curled her lip before she could stop herself. “I’m not taking a familiar. It’s barbaric.”

“That’s cause you don’t understand anything about how any of this works. You turn your nose up at the rest of us and tromp off to get a fancy education and a perky little job perfect for all your tidy vests and penny loafers.”

Karin’s words were acid, but Sakura didn’t flinch.

“You think you’re better than the rest of us because you don’t use your magic, but all that makes you is stupid. You’re sitting on a goldmine of power. All those Shinobi are one step from zombie food. They’re ‘vessel empty’ as the old farts would say. Once their magic runs out, so do their bodies. They’re not going to feel whole unless they’re tethered back to this world.” Karin swallowed  and blinked back a headache before saying more. “If they don’t get witches they go back to being screaming ghosts on the moorish highlands.”

Sakura flinched at the truth of it. There had been no equivalent exchange made when Sakura gave form to the ghosts haunting her house. It didn’t make sense to make something out of nothing, even when there was magic involved. Something had to be exchanged to make the transfer work.

When witches pulled creatures from the other worlds to form familiar contracts, there had always been something offered up in addition to the rites of wedding or the rites of binding or even the more rare rites of scholarship. Sakura hadn’t done any of that for her ghosts. She hadn’t thought she needed to. How was she supposed to know they were shinobi and not spirits trapped in limbo?

“There are other ways to avoid such a fate. I’ll find a different way.”

Sakura didn’t meet Karin’s eyes, but instead watched the trail off red glisten as it trailed down Karin’s smooth face. Blood leaked from her left eye now.  

“Maybe, but you don’t have years to explore that possibility. Mito killed a man for Kakuzu’s original bonding rite, and with her gone he’s got maybe one or two more years before he loses it and the decomposition catches up with him. Too bad no one here wants him. Your friendly barn ghosts on the other hand...I doubt you harmed a fly to manifest their bodies. You think you can get away with four-five, no six,” Karin hesitated before finishing, seemingly caught on a wave of dizziness that forced her eyes to close and her head to sway. Karin reached with her hands to steady herself on the floor. “Those six freeloading magic users who have no claim on this plane of reality. Kushina said you have weeks before the first one snaps back.”

Sakura wanted to bite out that she hadn’t know that when she pulled the ghosts out of the madness they were once trapped in. It wasn’t her fault she forgot the step in the process that tethered them to this world.

Sakura heard Gaara and Madara shuffle behind her, and remembered Konan was a flower pinned into her hair. Now wasn’t the time to snap out excuses.

“I’ll figure something out,” Sakura said before whispering. “And I only pulled out five.”

“Yeah…” Karin closed her eyes, slouching even more. “Maybe, but in time? Naruto and Menma have the blue brothers...you know. I’m a slush but those two...huh...heh. Yeah, those two will give you a run for your money. You’re not up to...snuff.”

Karin sighed and it was a sound that rattled her from the inside out. Her eyes went slack as her efforts to try and kept them open ceased. She slouched the rest of the way and would have fallen if Sakura hadn’t reached out to catch her.

“What are you doing?” Gaara asked. “She tried to hurt you. Why are you helping her? I thought she was our enemy.”

“Maybe that’s how it is, but even if she is my enemy, Karin is still my cousin and she is still a girl that’s been chewed on by far nastier jaws for far longer than she deserves. I can’t leave her like this.”

“Will she come after us?” Gaara asked.

“If they tell her to, Karin will obey, but that doesn’t mean I have to be cruel.” Sakura felt an emotional weight make her weary. “I think there is enough cruelty in this world as it is without me having to add to it. Let me be kind even if it’s foolish.”

The last of her words came out as a whisper and Sakura wasn’t sure Gaara or Madara heard, but that was okay. Her words didn’t need to be for them as much as they were for herself. It was easy to be angry and hate. Karin and her were on opposite ends of the chessboard, dressed in different colors, but that didn’t mean Sakura had to play the game.

Karin was light as paper when Sakura moved to lift her cousin and set her down on the daybed not far from the fireplace. There was a throw blanket draped over the side Sakura yanked down to unfurl and drape across Karin’s form. Her dress was lovely in sinful ways, but Sakura doubted it would do much to keep her warm in the library.

Sakura turned when she heard Madara draw up behind her. He was all smiles and rakish black eyes that promised something more. He reached for Sakura’s hand just like he had when they first met. When he spoke his words were just as warm and sugar coated.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come, but I think I knew better, somewhere in my heart. I had faith you wouldn’t leave me to her clutches.” His smile stretched and his eyes danced. “You were lovely in all your magic.”

Sakura chose not to react to the touch, fearing he just did it to get a reaction out of her. Behind him, Gaara was glaring at Madara’s back, though he said nothing.

“I’m sorry I realized my mistake so late. I shouldn’t have trusted Kakuzu or risked the three of you like that. I should have known better.”

“You couldn’t have. Until the matriarch witch showed up, it really was how Kakuzu said it would be. He went through the process of getting us new names and identities in this world when she interrupted and had us...reassigned. Naturally the woman wanted me, I’m gorgeous, how could she have resisted me?”

Sakura snorted before she could help herself, and dropped his hand. “That and I think you look like a boy she used to have the most massive crush on, way back in the day. It explains why she was so excessive with the chains.” Sakura glanced back over her shoulder at her sleeping cousin. “The last one ran away.”

“He must have been handsome,” Madara muttered, mode souring. He took a half step closer to Sakura and put on a new smile for her. “Don’t worry about what she said regarding a body. I’m sure I’d be able to find one for use if I actually tried to look. You can have me bonded to you before the end of the week.”

“You don’t need to think like that, I’ll find some other way around this situation. I might have been a paper witch for how much I studied. Mito’s barn has a lot of books, I’m sure one of them will have some insight.”

Marina raised his chin and Sakura saw his lips part ever so slightly as he watched her from a new angle. His tone changed when he spoke next. “If you say so, but...I don’t mind being bonded if it was with you.”

“Karin and the rest of the family might treat it lightly, but committing yourself to another person in a bond, even the most basic level of one, is something that should be entered into with fear and trembling. I’m not ready to be responsible for another soul, so I shouldn’t.

His voice was still soft when he spoke to her. “It’s not so much your responsibility as it is a...partnership. It might be nice to have a partner in this strange new world.”

Sakura looked behind Madara to see Gaara, who was watching the exchange with silence and keen attention. Sakura didn’t know how she felt about that.

“We can talk more about this later, but right now I’m tired and Karin was right when she said the walls here have eyes. It’s only a matter of time before more show up and I’m not in any condition to exert myself.” Sakura winced at the feel of her next few words before letting them loose. “I’ll have to come back for Kisame and Zabuza another day.”

“Agreed,” Madara quickly voiced, turning around to stand at Sakura’s immediate side. “Those two can handle themselves until you are in a better condition to be taking on twin brats in bad clothes.”

“You’ve seen the twins?” Sakura asked, heading with Gaara towards the door. As they walked the redhead reached out and grabbed onto the sleeve of her dress, silently latching onto her.

“Worse, I heard the pair of them. The blond one never shuts up. Zabuza might kill him. I would if I had to be stuck with a brat that happy. It’s bad enough to have to endure the stink of someone who’s chakra was implanted.”

Sakura stopped walking, catching Madara by his shirt sleeve. “What did you just say about Naruto?”

“He’s a brat. I’m sorry if he’s your cousin but-”

“No, about his chakra-magic, being implanted. That’s not his magic?”

Madara scoffed. “Maybe some of it is, but there is a foreign agent in the child’s chakra, along with his twin. They share a power source that is additional in nature. No, I doubt those boys were worth much when they were born, but I’ve seen it done before. Clan heirs have to be strong and perfect. If they’re anything less, clan heads fix it.”

Beside her, Gaara flinched. Sakura might not have noticed if she didn’t feel it from where he hung onto her. She reached back for his hand and entwined her fingers with his, not caring that those were her damaged fingers, the ones that shook outside of her control. He didn’t seem to mind.

“How could you tell something like this?” Sakura asked.

Madara shrugged, eyeing the way Gaara held onto Sakura with a critical expression that turned colder as the seconds went by.

“I’ve seen it done before, so I was sensitive to it when we were first introduced. The blond wanted the ‘grumpy one,’ and his brother wanted the chakra powerhouse, but even though I was passed over-tasteless shit heads- I was in the room when they both tried to force the others into bonds. Zabuza and Kisame resisted. They felt it too, the other chakra.”

Sakura glanced downwards, trying to remember the last time she was around either cousin while they used their magic. She had heard more than mere stories about how powerful both boys were, and how gifted the coven would become. Sakura always assumed that was because her cousins were born that strong. Madara’s revelation changed things.

What had Kushina done to ensure her boys were in positions of power? What had Kushina done to ensure her boys inherited the clan? What had Kushina done?

“That doesn’t matter now. We need to leave,” said Gaara.

Sakura nodded in agreement before tugging both boys along. Madara grinned at the contact, but Sakura didn’t pay it any mind as she navigated the hallways that were starting to seep illusions like slime between the seams. She cut through and dispelled what she could before finding the main hall that led them out. It was empty without a soul in sight.

Someone was in the hallway behind them, but Sakura didn’t slow and instead urged both males into a faster walk straight out the front door and down the stairs at the front.

She meant to lead them back to the marble receiving house and magic them all back, but her plan dried up when she saw at the base of the main exterior stars was a car already waiting. Leaning against the hood was Kakuzu, missing the sunglasses and grace mask. When he looked up Sakura could see the gray lacerations still healing across his face.

Fresh wounds.

‘Those weren't there yesterday, were they?’

“Get in. Your magic won’t work in that place anymore. They’ve cut off your means of escape since you stepped foot on the property.”

Madara growled at the sight of the shinobi but Sakura tugged him along and guided both boys into the back seats before whirling on Kakuzu with magic as thin as a knife’s edge along her fingertips. It was a warning when she pressed it to his jugular.

“Don’t betray me again or I will show you how much of a witch I can be,” Sakura warned, eyes narrowed and deadly.

Maybe she hadn’t been much of a witch when he first looked her over, but he would regret dismissing her if he didn’t recognize the storm she could be now that she was pissed.

Kakuzu didn’t seem bothered by the knife, but was oddly fixated on her hand flaring with magic. He looked up and their eyes met. She could see the color of her green magic burning in his oddly colored eyes.

“I won’t,” he promised.

Sakura stepped back with her magic and he rounded the car, opening the door to the driver’s side while she slid into the passenger’s side.

The radio was off but Sakura jammed her thumb against the button until it clicked on. She punched in a number and turned the dial up until music was all she could hear.

[sailorgreywolf-legacy]

Forbidden Fruit

A/N: This is one of many Spain POV stories that were written much later, but I’m trying to put them after the chapters they correspond to.

Spain was sitting on a soft couch and had a copy of a new novel in his lap, but he wasn’t paying very much attention to the words. It was some fantastic story about a confused man jousting windmills, but at the moment Spain couldn’t find himself caring. He had decided to bring all of his colonies to the palace that the Moors had built at Granada to let them enjoy the summer heat and the lavish pools. It wasn’t particularly Christian to allow his young colonies to play in the fountains and pools, but Spain could allow some indiscretion for today. He was not going to rule only with fear. He could allow for some frivolity. He told himself that as long as he was watching, they couldn’t do anything that really violated his rules.

So, he was attempting to read a book while the young boys splashed around in the water. It was fascinating watching the way they socialized with each other though. If not for Spain, would these boys ever have met each other? He doubted they would have. They would have stayed in their tribal conclaves, the Aztec and the Incan never even coming into contact with each other.

The boys he had taken from the Incan empire seemed to be close, even if the youngest seemed a little distant. They were engaged almost entirely with each other. There was probably some comfort and familiarity in having a brother who understood your culture. But, perhaps the youngest was sired by someone else; he seemed so different than his brothers.

Spain was listening carefully to hear if they slipped into their native tongue when speaking to each other. The others did not have the same slips because they knew no one else would speak their tribal language. It was dangerous for them to cling to their tribal roots. He also would not understand what they said, and that had its own danger. Spain had only bothered to learn a few words in Nahuatl, simply so that he could personally correct New Spain.

But, the times where New Spain would search for a word and only come up with the Nahuatl were becoming fewer and farther between. The boy was picking up both Spanish and Latin very quickly. So quickly that he was starting to read his way through Spain’s library. His Spanish was accented with the over annunciation of his native tongue, but it was understandable and pleasing to the ears. Some of the others were not making the same progress. Spain was right in his first judgment: New Spain was special. The others were gifted in their own ways, but the little Aztec boy had carved out a special place in Spain’s heart.

Spain scanned the pools, looking for his favorite colony. At first, he didn’t seem him anywhere. Then, he noticed a form under the glistening water. As he watched, New Spain broke the surface. He shook his head, flinging small shining droplets of water from the tips of his raven black hair. Spain found himself transfixed as he watched the sun dance across the boy’s hair.

When it settled, it clung to the amber skin of his neck. The black hairs accentuate the soft curves of the neck and the shoulder. New Spain reached up and ran one hand through his hair, as though attempting to reimpose order upon it. The gesture released a single drop of water that Spain couldn’t tear his eyes away from. It traveled slowly down the skin of the boy’s neck and then down between his shoulder blades. It skirted just left of the eagle tattooed on his skin, following the indent of his spine. Spain felt a heat mount his cheeks as he followed the drop of water even lower down the boy’s back. The curve of his lower back looked tempting.

Spain shook his head as soon as the thought entered it. He wasn’t thinking that and he certainly wasn’t aroused. But, the warmth had set into his skin was not dissipating. There was a certain level of discomfort to it. Spain put down his book and tried to concentrate on the logical reasons he should not be feeling what he was feeling. New Spain was little more than a child.

But, he had noticed the burgeoning muscles under the skin of the Aztec boy’s back. It was a sure sign that puberty had at least partially set in. It was always harder to tell with countries because of how slowly countries matured. How had Spain not noticed that his colony had grown out of a child’s body? It was as though he had turned his back and New Spain had become a lanky, beautiful teenager. Spain was no longer paying attention to any of his other colonies. His eyes were still on New Spain, who had made his way to the side of the pool and planted his hands on the side. He pulled himself up onto the side of the pool. The muscles of his arms bulged as he pulled himself up, confirming the strength in them. He was wearing thin pants, but they were wet and clinging to his legs. The boy might as well not be wearing anything, and that was not improving the thoughts that Spain was trying not to think.

It was clear that the boy was no longer the round faced child that Spain had taken from the ruins of Tenochtitlan. When did he grow up and get so irresistible? He had to be physically at least 15 or 16. Which, Spain noted with a rising sense of discomfort, was about the age he had become aware of his own sexuality. The thought, once it had dawned in his mind, propagated more. Perhaps his colony was not completely naive; perhaps he was already having the sensual dreams of adolescence. If so, Spain mused, who did he dream about?

New Spain had lay down on the smooth stone next to the pool, his eyes closed and his chest still bare. He appeared to simply be enjoying the sun on his bare skin. Usually, Spain would object to this state of undress, but at the moment he did not care. It gave his eyes license to wonder over the boy’s body. New Spain had never exactly been soft, his mother’s warrior legacy was clear in his build, but the muscles that had begun to develop were definitely new. They look delectable. Spain found himself wondering what the boy’s amber skin tasted like.

Spain had not taken a lover since he had thrown off the Moors. He had sworn off whores because they were sinful and temporary. Queen Isabelle had chastised him about his whoring, and he had decided it best to be celibate until he could find a lover he did not have to pay. Perhaps that was why his mind was so far out of line. After all, the boy was what Spain thought was his type: lithe and beautiful with a touch of the exotic. But, there was an important difference that the part of his mind that always drove him to confession reminded him of: New Spain was an innocent who could be groomed. He could be taught how to please his colonizer.

The thought horrified Spain. He was not going to treat the boy as a concubine. He firmly reminded himself that he had meant to raise the child away from heathen influences, to cultivate a loyal colony. And yet, as Spain shifted the position he was sitting in, he realized that just watching New Spain had made his partially hard. He let out a slow breath, trying to calm himself. He carefully crossed his legs and tried to look anywhere but at New Spain’s ample bare skin, which was shining with a very thin layer of water.

The friction of his change in position sent a wave of arousal through him. Spain put a hand over his mouth to make sure no sound slipped through. He was suddenly very glad that all of his colonies were occupied elsewhere. This feeling had blindsided him; only a couple hours ago he had been thinking of New Spain as the Aztec child he had saved. But, now he was realizing how little he had been noticing. Years had passed and he hadn’t been paying attention to the way New Spain was changing. He had to question how he had been so oblivious to such beauty.

Looking away from the boy had not improved his degenerate musings. Without New Spain in his sight, his mind started to fabricate more appealing images. Spain bit into his own lower lip as the image of New Spain completely undressed, straddling him flashed across his mind. A moan he could only imagine echoed through his ears. He couldn’t help but think of the way those young, supple limbs would be grasping for him, holding him tight.

Spain cursed himself; this was not what a good Christian should be thinking. New Spain was at least 10 years younger than him, and certainly not well versed in carnal relations. He knew that New Spain was past the age when mortal girls were considered marriageable. Would it really be such a sin to invite him to his bedroom of a single night? Yes, Spain argued to himself, it would be. It would be wrong to force himself on a child who may not even want his advances. Not every country shared Spain’s taste for men, and it would be impossible to tell if New Spain did unless Spain watched him very closely.

It would be completely wrong, Spain reasoned, to force his colony to discover his sexuality before he was ready. The Moorish caliphate had done that to him by insisting at a certain age that it was about time Spain had a woman. Then there had been the whores, beautiful young women who would find their way into his room. He vividly remembered the first time one of them got undressed in front of him.

She had removed her sheer dress and let it fall to the floor. It was apparently an attempt to finally coax him into sex, arousing him with the sight of the naked female body. Spain felt the very old uncertainty and terror again as he thought back on it. He had just stood there, staring at her and actually hoping to feel something. The bible said it was a sin for a man to lay with a man, so young, naive Spain had hoped that he would feel something for a woman. But, nothing had come to him. In defeat he had picked up her dress and handed it to her, apologizing under his breath for not being able to do anything with her.

The memory of that encounter was enough to make sitting comfortable again. He blinked away from the haze of memories and returned to the moment. New Spain was still laying on the side of the pool, letting the summer sun kiss his skin. Spain couldn’t allow him to continue to be so tempting. Spain cleared his throat in an attempt to sound as though he had not been contemplating ravishing his colony.

Then he called out, his voice ringing across the open area, “Alejo.” New Spain immediately recognized his own name. His golden eyes opened and he turned over to look at his colonizer. There was a glimmer of fear in the boy’s eyes, as though he feared he was in trouble. But, if Spain was angry he would have used his full name. To clarify his intention, Spain said, “Come here.”

It was worded like an order, but it was a request. But, all of his colonies knew better than to deny him. New Spain quickly grabbed his shirt, which he had left not far from the side of the pool, and pulled it on. Spain was glad for it; he did not know if the boy would be able to recognize the look in his eye. It was better that all that skin was covered, so that Spain could not feel the urge to touch him.

But, there was an appeal to watching the way the boy walked. He had a coordination and grace that many would envy. It was clear that he had been taught to have an awareness of his body from a young age. The newly awakened part of his mind seemed to smirk at him and add, “That will make him even better in bed.” Spain silenced it. This was not the time to be thinking that. New Spain was young and too innocent.

Only once the other was standing right in front of him did Spain realize he didn’t have a plan. He had only asked New Spain to come over to force him to stand up and put on more clothing. The Aztec boy spoke in a voice that Spain only noticed now was starting to deepen, “Am I in trouble?” The question was verging on impudent, but the tone of it remained somewhat deferent.

Spain let it be since he was still trying to organize his own thoughts. His libido wanted to order New Spain to strip off all his clothing and climb onto his lap. But, that would be improper on several levels. Even if he thought New Spain would follow that order, and he did not, it would not feel right to have him here in front of all his other colonies. Spain was not an exhibitionist and it was not like him to show off his sexuality like a pagan emperor.

He answered the question with authority, even though he was not certain what he wanted, “No, but I want you to sit with me.” To clarify the request, Spain gestured to the open spot next to him. New Spain looked slightly perplexed, but he acquiesced to the request without another question.

There was not that much space where Spain had chosen to sit, so the other was pressed against him. He could feel the moisture that still clung to the boy’s skin, even through the shirt. The slight chill of it did nothing to cool the heat that was racing through Spain’s skin. He wondered if it had been a mistake to invite New Spain to sit with him. Now, the temptation was even more real.

But, as Spain turned his head to look at his colony, he caught those deep gold eyes looking directly at him. For a moment, he was reminded of the way he had read emotions in those eyes when they had not had a language in common. Those eyes granted him some restraint; there was still something of the child in them. Spain couldn’t steal that naiveté away. He decided firmly, he was going to wait until he got some indication that his colony was aware of his own sexuality before he made his move.

The Spaniard spoke again, “But, you should know not to parade around without a shirt. It is not proper.” He neglected to mention that the reason he wanted New Spain to be better dressed was to reduce his own improprieties. The boy was looking confused, as though he had not expected to be reprimanded. As was his nature, New Spain asked, “But why?”

It was usual for him to question orders. It was never intentionally defiant. It was just New Spain’s nature, he was curious and voracious. Every time he questioned something, Spain could tell that he genuinely wanted to know the reasoning behind it. He refused to take anything on faith, except for faith. Spain wouldn’t usually mind, but now he was scrambling to find a reason. He fell back on the answer that he knew would not spawn any more questions, “You do not want anyone thinking you are a sinner.”

He stopped himself halfway through his explanation. He realized that he was still speaking to New Spain as though he was a child. But, as he had been observing today, his colony was no longer a child. Maybe it was time for him to trust the boy with more nuance. He shifted his explanation to include more of the truth, “It encourages untoward thoughts when you dress like a harlot.”

The other nodded, but still looked slightly doubtful. He seemed to be grappling with something, and then he decided to speak, “But, I don’t understand. Who is going to be thinking that about me?” Spain couldn’t answer honestly, so he decided to evade. He reached over and brushed back a piece of wet hair off of New Spain’s face. His fingertips felt like they were on fire as they brushed against his colony’s skin. It was tempting to let his fingers trail on other parts of the boy’s body. He already had a clear idea of how deliciously tempting the boy’s chest looked. He said, “You should maintain a pious demeanor at all times. Earthly eyes aren’t the only ones you need to worry about.”

It was a lie, but Spain sounded convincing to himself. He knew that sins could be pardoned with the right penance, and he would certainly have to do some for what he was thinking. His personal confessor always granted him a way to absolve himself. But, the answer seemed to be enough to placate the young boy. He nodded again and then remained silent.

Spain decided to take a risk and put one arm around the other’s shoulders. His heart was thundering so hard he could swear that New Spain could hear it. But, he didn’t feel the other pull away from him, so he spoke as though there was not an unspoken feeling just beneath the surface, “Why don’t you spend time with the other boys?”

This question was genuine. Spain had noticed that New Spain kept to himself far more than the others. He seemed to prefer his own company to that of other colonies. Even the initial friendship with Cuba that had opened him up has withered in comparison to the boy’s passion for books. There were times, becoming all the more common, that Spain would find the boy perched like an eaglet on the very edge of a chair, his eyes fixed intently on a book. This might be part of the reason his Spanish was improving so rapidly. But, it puzzled Spain that a boy of his age was spurning company.

He waited for the answer, and watched his colony’s face as he did. He was noticing the fine details now, the parts that were clearly aging, the parts that still bore a strong resemblance to his mother. She had been like Penthesilea, beautiful but savage. Spain had been aware of it then, but he had never truly appreciated it until he realized how beautiful her features were in her son’s face. But, he was beginning to develop the sharpness of maturity.

New Spain responded, “They are so-” He paused for a moment, and it was as though he had been speaking without thinking. He looked up at Spain, his eyes seemed to be pleading for understanding. Spain decided it was best to let the boy say what he wanted. If what he was about to say was wrong, Spain would correct it then. He said, trying to coax out the rest of the sentence, “What are they?”

A possible answer occurred to him. Were the others jealous of the attention he was personally giving to New Spain? Were they driving him to solitude because of it? He quickly added, “Are they being cruel to you?” If the answer was affirmative, then Spain would meet out justice on his other colonies. They had no right to torment New Spain.

But, to Spain’s relief, the boy shook his head and attempted to answer the question, “They are not. Well, Peru doesn’t like me, but I do not care. They’re all so simple. They talk about the same things all the time and it bores me.” He stopped speaking and his pleading eyes met Spain’s. For a moment, the Spaniard could see the word that the boy didn’t dare to say. What New Spain wanted to say was, “They are uncivilized.” He wouldn’t say it though, because he was aware that the same words had been used to describe him.

Spain had to concede, only to himself, that the boy had a point. In comparison to some of the islands, the Aztec empire had been far more advanced. But, it was better not to let New Spain know that. Instead, he watched as the other uncrossed his legs, which sent another flash of heat across his skin. He steeled his resolve to keep his colony chaste for now, regardless of what he was craving.

He picked up the book he had been trying and failing to read and used it to change the subject. He said, “You’re very clever. I can see why the other boys bore you. But, if you’re not going to socialize then you should stay with me and improve your Spanish.” The reason for the day’s outing was to allow his colonies some indulgence for the day, but watching New Spain’s body was far too tempting. If not for this new feeling, he would not care about New Spain’s aloofness. He felt a certain reluctance at the idea of letting the boy leave him now. The reason for keeping him here was little more than a ruse.

New Spain smirked and there was something exceptionally familiar about it. When he spoke, there was still the self-assured superiority of a young prince in it, “You know I don’t need it. If you’re worried about someone, it should be Peru.” If it were not so amusing, Spain would have taken issue with the arrogance. He didn’t bother to correct it though, instead he responded, “Peru’s tudor is responsible for him. I am responsible for you. I am happy with your progress, but that is no reason to stop now.”

He reached over and placed the book he had been reading in New Spain’s lap, letting his hand linger on the Aztec boy’s leg a moment longer than it should have. He could feel the warmth of the boy’s skin just beneath the fabric. It had been so long since Spain had felt warmth like that next to him in bed. He had almost forgotten how good it felt to have the warm body of a young man pressed against him. That was enough of a reason to keep New Spain right next to him.

He pointed to the beginning of a passage that he had not yet read and said, “Start here and read aloud.” With one more slightly confused look, New Spain complied. His voice rolled over the words annunciating all the syllables, and it was very pleasing. There was a cadence to the way the boy’s voice rose and fell. As he realized what the story was about, New Spain started adding emotional inflection. The story that had seemed quite dull before was suddenly quite interesting. Spain smiled and tightened his hold on his colony. In the soft light, the boy’s face was all the more stunning. It was animated by the emotion of the story. This moment was pleasant and warm, and enough for now. ______________________________________________________________________________

Spain was laying out parchment to compose yet another letter to England. This one, like many of the others was a polite veiled threat. If the man thought he was going to become an empire with his piracy, then he was very mistaken. Then, a sharp knock sounded on his door. It was early in the morning and Spain hadn’t been expecting any interruption.

But, if one of his colonies needed to speak to him that desperately, then he would allow it. If it was not one of his colonies, then it was a mortal messenger, which meant that something even more important was happening. Either way, Spain could not turn the person at the door away. He said, “Come in.”

The door swung open timidly, and Cuba walked through it. The boy had never been as confident or bold as other colonies. His fear of Spain had been enough to keep him from misbehaving at all. He had also been useful in pulling New Spain out of his grief. But, his presence here was puzzling. He very rarely had a reason to talk to Spain. He was never in trouble and he never had complaints about anything. The only way to clarify his reason for being here was to ask, “Good morning, Carlos. Do you need something?”

The boy looked up at him, which was a strange occurrence in itself, and Spain realized that he looked really troubled. He immediately corrected his question, “What is wrong?” Cuba chewed on his lower lip for a minute before finally speaking, “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but I think you should know.”

He paused and looked down again. Spain let out a sigh, if this was important then he wanted the boy to just get it over with. It was clear that he was informing on another colony, and Spain welcomed it. He said, trying to calm the boy, “The punishment will be sufficient for the crime, as always. I am fair.” This did not appear to really reassure Cuba, but the boy decided to speak anyway, “I know how much you like Alejandro, but I can’t keep his secret.”

Spain gasped. He never would have guessed that his favorite colony was the one in trouble. Despite his arrogance and occasional impudence, New Spain was not one to actually break the rules because he valued his privileges. Now, Spain was intrigued. He could not imagine what the boy had possibly done. Oblivious to the way that Spain was reacting, Cuba continued speaking, “He should know what the bible says about sodomy, but that didn’t seem to matter to him.”

Spain felt his mouth fall open in shock. He had been wishing for this day for quite a while now, but there was still something surreal about actually hearing the words. But there was something else that sent a burning jealousy through him. There was no way that Cuba could levy accusations of sodomy without two people involved. New Spain had to have done something without another colony. The idea that someone else had taken the boy’s virginity made Spain’s blood boil. He had thought of that right as exclusively his.

Trying to hide how angry he really was, Spain said, “Tell me exactly what happened. I want to know every detail.” Cuba looked even more scared than when he walked in. He was withering beneath Spain’s gaze and immediately started to spill all the details, “We were just playing some games. It’s all Enrique’s fault. He stole some of your wine and we all drank some of it.”

Spain felt an angry spasm go through his muscles, causing him to grimace. He had told all of his colonies that wine was only for communion until they were older. And it was for precisely this reason. Wine could be used to ply ones senses.

But, there was something more important at issue. Cuba was continuing to tell the story, “But Enrique had other intentions. I thought Alejandro would push him away when he kissed him. But he didn’t.” Spain hissed to himself. Of course it had been Colombia. The boy was a constant problem, and he did have the slyness of a fox. It was like him to use wine to seduce New Spain. The thought only added to the anger in his blood. But, at least it was nothing more than a kiss.

He expected this was the end of the story, but Cuba kept talking, “That was about a week ago. I thought it was just the alcohol. But last night I heard Enrique’s voice in Alejandro’s bed.”

Spain clenched his hand into a fist on the table. He didn’t need to hear more. He knew what young men did with each other when they both shared an attraction. His own imagination had given enough ideas about what he would do if he was alone with New Spain. He said, his voice no longer hiding his raging jealousy, “That is enough!”

He stopped when he saw the way that Cuba cringed away. He hadn’t meant to scare the boy for giving him information. If anything, he was grateful. So, he softened his voice and said, “I have heard enough. Thank you for coming to me, Carlos. Tell both Enrique and Alejandro that I want to talk to them.” Cuba didn’t immediately follow the order, instead he said, “Please don’t be too hard on Alejandro. It isn’t his fault. Enrique is taking advantage of him.”

Spain smiled softly, thinking about what avenues this opened. New Spain was no longer an impressionable virgin; he could be seduced. Even if he had already lost his virginity, it had been with a boy his own age. It was probably all clumsy touches and uncertainty. An older, more experienced lover could make him feel things he could hardly imagine.

Spain said, “Don’t worry about Alejandro. I will treat him kindly.” He waited until Cuba had left the room before licking his lips and reflecting on the news. Although the thought of Colombia touching New Spain made him feel a raging jealousy in the pit of his stomach, it provided him with an affirmation that he needed. New Spain was discovering his own sexuality and he did enjoy male company. Now, there were no barriers, no reason to hold back. Yes, he would be kind to New Spain when he confronted the boy. More than that. He would show the boy what he was really missing. There was nothing left to do now but wait.

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WEEKEND TV HOT FILM PICKS!

Check out my guide to the top films on TV this weekend and the best of the rest. Enjoy!

LATE FRIDAY 14th JULY

HOT PICKS!

5* @ 1900    Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991) *****

This is one of my guilty pleasures. I adore this film and it is one of my most watched films to date. It is my favourite Robin Hood film packed full of action and comedy. The very American Kevin Costner robs the rich to feed the poor along with his Moorish companion Azeem played by Morgan Freeman. After an escape from their imprisonment by the Turks during the Crusades, Robin and Azeem arrive in England to find Robin’s home and world have been turned upside down. His father has been murdered for crimes he did not commit. Robin swears to avenge his fathers’ death and is pitted against the Sheriff of Nottingham who is brought life by the great Alan Rickman in one of his most memorable performances. He has some of the best lines in the film and adds an edge of brilliance to an already great film. It’s full of adventure and action with stunning rural backdrops of a medieval England. I just dare you not to enjoy yourself - it’s a great film for kids and adults alike.

E4 @ 2100     Star Trek (2009) *****

Before you dismiss this under the clause “I’m not a Trekkie” Don’t! J.J. Abrams, the man behind the popular TV series Lost, the 80’s saturated adventure film: Super 8 & of course Star Wars: the Force Awakens - delivers an exciting and visually stunning space romp with a host of amazing characters that you won’t forget in a hurry. From the charismatic James T. Kirk, the straight laced and emotionally challenged Mr. Spock to the comedy relief of Scotty played by Simon Pegg, the cast is rich with variety and each one holds their own impressively considering the sheer number of characters in the film. It is set before the original TV series and introduces the character James T. Kirk from birth through to success as a Starfleet Captain.

The opening sequence of this film is brilliant and one of my personal favourite first 10 minutes of any film. It introduces the birth of James Kirk on a star ship under attack, although the audience has been thrown into a busy scene with limited introductions Abrams masterfully draws the audience in and somehow instils emotional attachment to characters that have only been on the screen for a matter of minutes.

Abrams takes advantage of the futuristic shiny surfaces in this film to great effect with his personal addiction of the use and inclusion of lens flare and there are blinding reflections in almost every shot, a surprisingly effective choice here. Admittedly they do get a little tiresome with every re-watch but they do work in this futuristic setting. Whether you are a Trekkie or not - who cares! This is a strong and impressive standalone film, ultimately accessible and a great Sci-Fi action extravaganza.

Best of the rest:

TCM @ 1920     The Hunt for Red October (1990) **** 

W @ 2100         Jackie Brown (1997) ***

Syfy @ 2200      Scream (1996) ****

5* @ 2200          Django Unchained (2012) *****

TCM @ 2200     Wolf Creek (2005) ***

Film4 @ 2245    X-Men: First Class (2011) ****

Dave @ 0000    Training Day (2001) ****

TCM @ 0000     The Deer Hunter (1978) *****

Horror @ 0020  Society (1989) ****

SATURDAY 15th JULY

HOT PICKS!

ITV1 @ 1050  Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004) ****

This is one of my favourites of the Harry Potter films. Chris Columbus did a great job starting the franchise but after seeing Alfonso Cuaron’s more grown up approach to the world of Potter I was very impressed. Not only do we see an accessible film to all ages but also we see maturity in all the characters that was previously missing. A darker, wittier more intelligent film with an emotional depth that really made it difficult to match.

Film4 @ 2100     X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) ****

Although I am getting a little tired of the franchise this certainly pulled out all the stops. I was really pleased to see a great job from McAvoy this time round, whose credibility has gone up 10 fold in my book since his impressive turn in Filth. Here he gives us a whole new side to Charles Xavier. Fassbender is as charismatic as ever and his tooth filled face remains sombre here for the most part, focusing more on the floating and effects than the character, but he easily goes through the motions here as he’s quite perfect as Magneto. Our main character in this X-Fest is Wolverine and Jackman gives a storming performance that we have now come to expect… However all of these were overshadowed by a fantastic yet frustratingly short introduction to Quicksilver played by Evan Peters who did some great work in the American Horror Story series. Quicksilver is an awesome character but, just like his powers, as quickly as we are introduced he is snatched away from us, turning the story back to our main cast. The Quicksilver Pentagon slow motion scene is by far the best of the entire film, giving as many gasps of awe as there was laughter. Funny, impressive and pure X-Men magic.

The story is a more complicated one, playing out in two time lines inexplicably linked by some blue brain light that Ellen Page can muster from her hands. She sends Wolverine back to 1973 to round up the troops and stop the scaly, sexy, blue skinned Mystique from fucking everything up by killing Tryion Lannister. Why? Well.. Somehow this is the one single event that causes the future demise of everyone through the creation of massive ultra-powerful and unstoppable sentinel machines… Of course. I will try and forgive a little here as there is always a degree of ‘turn-your-brain-off" and “Stop-saying-what-if-this-and-what-if-that” with all time travel films, but the film scoots over the detail quickly enough to recapture audience attention before disbelief descends.

There is a post credit bit that no doubt fan boys and girls will lap up. I find myself out of touch these days with so many character reveals that I’m left two steps behind, but after a bit of post film googling it looks like we could be in for an interesting next instalment of the X-Men franchise. I’m yet to see Apocalypse. Reviews are frankly quite mixed.

Sony @ 2100    The Game (1997) *****

David Fincher has done what he does best and created a rather dark, action packed thriller that absolutely must be seen. We follow Michael Douglas as the wealthy business man - Nicholas Van Orton, the man who has everything and is on the top of his game. His brother (Sean Penn) gets him a rather strange birthday present: a ticket to a company called CRS (Consumer Recreation Services) who specialise in custom fit games for wealthy executives, but this game turns out to be a lot more than anyone had bargained for as it begins to consume Van Orton’s entire life. This is an excellent thriller from the director of the amazing film Seven. There are some impressive and believable performances particularly from Michael Douglas and Sean Penn. This is a great story which you won’t forget in a hurry. A dark, intense and immersive thriller. Watch this.

BBC1 @ 2210    Die Hard with a Vengeance (1995) ****

It’s only on this most recent watch that I’ve realised Die Hard with a Vengeance’s true greatness. First of all here is a third parter that doesn’t suffer the third parter curse of being an utter disaster. It also manages to surpass the second film in merit (although I do have a big soft spot for the relentless action trash that is Die Hard 2)

Everyone’s favourite cop, John McLane is back in this big and bold third parter. This film follows the recipe that made the first a success. Some fantastic character interaction between our leads, enough action and explosions to keep the audience more than occupied and a quality bad guy. This time round a rather menacing Jeremy Irons gives a splendidly sinister performance.

Yes there’s a few over the top moments and a couple of unnecessary and almost redundant characters but this is a very solid sequel to one of the best Action films ever made.

ITV1 @ 2145     Inception (2010) *****

I still hold this film in very high regard. In a world of remakes, sequels, prequels and reimaginings it was a delight to see something fresh, new and challenging. This film does have some serious merits. It immediately reminded me of Satoshi Kon's brain twisting dream travelling Paprika from 2006 and I'm pretty sure Nolan must have taken some inspiration from it. Regardless, Inception is an amazing accomplishment, intoxicating and completely immersive. It's a complex action packed Sci-Fi Thriller which could capture the complete attention of even the most fidgety of cinema goers. I'm always left in silence and awe.

Director - Nolan, Lead - DiCaprio, Music - Zimmer... now there's a recipe for success. Watching Inception showcases all 3 and they can now stand a lot taller as their already king-like CV's are boosted with an eternal stamp of skill and success. Huge kudos to the editor of this film. It really is micro-second perfect and cuts between the scenes seem more like master strokes of storytelling and really help drive home what is actually going on in this multi layered mind fuck.

For me this was one of the strongest films to come out of 2010 in a year with some serious competition.

Best of the rest:

BBC2 @ 1315     Forbidden Planet (1956) ****

ITV2 @ 1910       Gravity (2013) *****

W @ 2100           Election (1999) ***

Dave @ 2100      Heat (1995) *****

5* @ 2100           There's Something About Mary (1998) ****

TCM @ 2100       The Deer Hunter (1978) *****

Horror @ 2300    Phantasm (1979) ****

Film4 @ 2335      Evil Dead (2013) ***

Sony @ 2345      Donnie Brasco (1997) ***

TCM @ 0030       Goodfellas (1990) *****

Syfy @ 0030        Strange Days (1995) *****

Film4 @ 0130      The Duke of Burgundy (2014) ****

SUNDAY 16th JULY

HOT PICKS!

C4 @ 2335    The Lincoln Lawyer (2011) ****

Before McConaughey did anything good at a time when mediocrity saturated his filmography with sub-standard Rom-Coms and Sahara… I hate Sahara…. Anyway - Here we see him in a fantastic role as (you guessed it) a lawyer who works out of the back of his car - a Lincoln… See what they did there! I’m a sucker for a good court room drama and this is certain one of those. Plenty of twists. Stand out McConaughey. Great supporting cast. Don’t miss it.

Syfy @ 0030    Akira (1988) *****

This is without a doubt one of the most revered animations in my film watching life. Akira blew me away on my first watch and made me want to get back deep into its luxurious and detailed world immediately as the credits rolled.  It’s a completely extravagant eye-gasm of luscious animation and a brain bending futuristic story that will burrow deep into your soul. Super powers, Telekinesis, war, violence, disaster, horror… this is a one of a kind and at almost 30 years old it still has an interesting, complicated yet current story to tell. So complex it is sometimes confusing – so I look forward to challenging myself once again with this awesome animation experience. I just hope it’s not dubbed – it’s always bloody dubbed.

Best of the rest:

Film4 @ 1630         The Jewel of the Nile (1985) ***

Universal @ 1800 Despicable Me (2010) ***

BBC2 @ 2000        The Lone Ranger (2013) ***

E4 @ 2100              Speed (1994) ****

Spike @ 2100         Enter the Dragon (1973) ****

TCM @ 2100           Goodfellas (1990) *****

Film4 @ 2100         Men in Black 3 (2012) ***

C5 @ 2200              21 Jump Street (2012) ****

5* @ 2200               Django Unchained (2012) *****

ITV4 @ 2340           Crank (2006) ***

Horror @ 0045       Night of the Living Dead (1990) ****