#''I declare that I am england. you declare that I have drowned'' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ladywhistleclown · 3 years

Text

Benedict Bridgerton x M!Reader: Valentines Fools

Summary: Benedict does something special. Word Count: 3334 A/N: I read this post about Valentines in Regency England, and found it so interesting that I had to write about it. of course, I made it gay. duh. Also, I wrote the ‘poem’ later myself, but its inspired by many LGBT poets/writers from history who wrote poems like it, about hope for future LGBT folks, just very simplified. This is some of my best work, and I don’t want it to get snubbed just because its not f/m, so like, give it a chance! MLM fic is also fun :) Enjoy! Warnings: Fluff, Drinking, Giggly men doing giggly men things (being stupid) -- Valentines Day, in your mind, was a rather dreadful event. Ladies and Lords spent days agonizing over hand-made letters, writing disgusting poetry about love, or rejection. You had never partaken in the act, partly because you had never had anyone to write to, and partly because even if you had, you had neither the patience nor skill to craft such detailed notes of devotion. You thought it best to leave such things to artists and ladies, of which you were neither. This year was only slightly different. After having met Benedict at Lord Granville's, striking up conversations about art, women, and your places in society, you had developed a rather strange relationship, one that you would almost call a courtship, if it wasn’t so clearly an impossibility. Benedict simply wanted to explore something new, something outside the realm of society and expectations, and you, lovesick fool that you were, happily obliged him. It was nothing more than attraction and curiosity. Second son or not, Benedict could never marry a man. Even if he wanted to.

At least you could drown yourself in booze at Lord Granville's. He was a good listener, with even better advice, and you knew that he understood exactly your pain. It was here you found yourself, a day before Valentines, throwing down your sixth beer and lamenting to Granville, who sat patiently by your side. “Society is not kind to those like us.” You sighed, running the tip of your index finger along the outer edge of your glass, staring blankly at it, as though if you drank enough, the answers would appear in the liquor. “No, it isn’t. But we are kind to each other, and ourselves.” He replied, looking over you with pity. You had never been much of a drinker, not for as long as Granville had known you, but your infatuation with Benedict had brought it out in you, and he wondered if it was a mistake to invite the Bridgerton boy here, if it caused an old friend to suffer in a way that was very familiar and personal to him. He knew the pain of impossible love too well, and saw himself reflected in your morose state. “Of course. You’re too kind to me, Granville. I talk your ear off about my foolish troubles with Bridgerton, but never think to ask of yours.” “I am not nearly as troubled as you are. And as I said, we must look out for each other, as the ton certainly will not.” he lifted up his own drink, pausing just before it reached his lips to glance at you, “Perhaps I should dis-invite Bridgerton from future events?” “Oh hell, Granville, don’t torture the man on my account. He enjoys the art and the company, and besides that, I’d rather him here than at some brothel.” you grimaced as soon as the words left your mouth, an embarrassing slip revealing just how deeply attached you were. “Apologies. The alcohol has loosened my tongue.” “No bother. I understand that jealousy quite well.” Granville said, his voice still light and amused, and you couldn't help but laugh as he took a sip, winking at you before putting his glass down. “What jealousy?” Came a loud voice from directly behind you. You jumped, Granville almost knocking his drink over in his shock. Of course, he would arrive now, when you were drunk and foolish. You breathed out quickly, praying that you would say nothing incriminating before turning to face Benedict. He looked confused, glancing from Granville's face to yours, before reiterating, “What jealousy, Granville?” “Merely of other artists. I’m sure you know it too.” He recovered, taking another drink before gesturing to the table, “Care to join us?” Benedict sat in the chair closest to you, and you shot Granville a look of pure spite. In your drunken haze, everything seemed too much. His voice was too smooth, his smile too large, and the way he draped an arm across your chair, caging you in, was entirely too casual. You promised to whatever God was listening that you would slaughter Granville for this. “Of course I do. You know better than anyone.” He agreed, sliding easily into the conversation. You remained silent, not trusting yourself in your inebriation to respond beyond a simple hum of agreement or a grunt of displeasure. If you allowed yourself to speak freely, no doubt you would be weeping in Benedict's arms like a little girl within minutes. “What do you think?” You started, retreating from your thoughts to find both Benedict and Granville looking at you. Benedict’s eyes shone with thinly veiled concern, tilting his head and gently shaking you by the shoulder, while Granville simply smiled in amusement. “I..was lost in thought. My apologies.” You said quickly, waving Benedict’s hands away and sitting up completely. You were drunker than you thought, and briefly you wondered if you would even be able to make it to your carriage without help. You figured if you couldn’t, you would force Granville to escort you. He certainly owed you, after pulling this little stunt. “You’re wasted. Perhaps you should head home.” Benedict said gently. You huffed, shaking your head. “Don’t concern yourself with me, I can take care of myself. Now. My opinion on what, exactly?” “Valentines,” Granville supplied, glancing into his empty cup, “we were talking about all the effort that goes into such cards and letters. Artistry, in a way. What do you think of it?” “I find the holiday wholly unnecessary. And it takes far too much time to make such delicate things. A canvas is much more secure.” you huffed. Benedict stiffened beside you, although in your semi-consciousness, you barely noticed, your eyes fluttering between shut and open. “So you wouldn’t make any?” Benedict asked. “No.” “Would you receive them?” “I suppose it would be rude to deny such labors of love. But I have never received one, and I doubt I will this year. Ladies don’t send cards to men like me.” you shrugged, drooping over the table. The longer you sat, the harder it was to hold yourself up. If you passed out, it would be a good escape from such intimate topics with Benedict, so you allowed yourself to slump on the table, sighing. “Alright, that's enough. I’ll help you home.” Benedict declared, standing up and taking you by the arm, heaving you up. You groaned in protest, but didn’t fight as he slung your arm over his shoulder and half dragged you away from the table, Granville following behind. “Apologies, Bridgerton. Next time I won’t allow him to indulge quite so much. You may end up getting more than 10 minutes with him that way.” He said cheerily. “I’m sober enough to know when I’m being mocked, Granville.” you opened your bleary eyes to glare at him, finding his eyes twinkling with amusement. He patted your shoulder. “It’s no trouble. I was about to head home, anyway.” Is all Benedict said as he helped you into the carriage, climbing in after you and seating himself on the same bench. Granville waved you both off as Benedict rapped his knuckles on the carriage, directing your footman to take you home. “Now you have me alone and vulnerable. Not very gentlemanly of you, Bridgerton. What would the ton think?” you teased, leaning lazily against the side of the carriage, away from him. You hoped it was subtle, that he thought you were just drunk and loose and tired. You couldn’t bear the thought of him finding out just how weak you were for him. Then he would leave, and you would be crushed. “They would think nothing, because we’re men.” He pointed out, leaning closer to you. You hummed, acknowledging his words, but didn’t reply beyond that. It was only then that you realized how precarious a situation you were in. Drunk, alone, with a man you loved, who seemed to be moving closer and closer by the minute, although maybe you were imagining that part. Anything was possible when you were this drunk. “They would be wrong, though.” Benedict finished softly. He reached over, brushing his fingers along your jaw, moving downward to loosen your cravat. You sighed, tilting your head back to allow him easier access, cursing yourself but unable to shove him away. You were such a fool. “Are you planning something?” You asked. He finally managed to pull your cravat away, revealing your neck to him. He laughed at your question. “With you this drunk? No. I only wanted you to be more comfortable.” He tossed the cloth onto the other bench, leaning safely away from you to stare out the window after. While you were partly disappointed, you were mostly relieved. You wouldn’t have been able to resist, and only would have brought yourself more shame and confusion in regards to him. But Benedict was a good man, and he would never take advantage of you in your current state. Your heart squeezed. Too good of a man. “I’m sorry to be such a burden tonight.” you blurted suddenly. Benedict looked at you, his head whipping away from the window so quickly it almost made you dizzy. “I shouldn’t have drank so much. It was foolish.” “You’re never a burden to me.” He said, his voice soft and indignant, almost as if he was offended by the mere idea that you had inconvenienced him. “You shouldn’t have to chaperone me home like a weak debutante.” “I’d rather you than a debutante. Trust me.” You chuckled, shaking your head and glancing out the carriage window. You could see the square, and your home, fast approaching. It appeared as though your time with Benedict was over for tonight. Relieved and downtrodden, you sat up and attempted to right your swirling vision as the carriage came to a stop. Benedict stood, helping you up and out of the carriage. After explaining the situation to your housekeeper, he hauled you all the way into your home and bedroom, even being kind enough to help you out of your boots as you lay back in your bed, arm over your eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning. “I’ll be going, then.” He said quietly, standing up and brushing his hands together. You lifted your arm, making certain you weren’t going to puke before crooking one finger, beckoning him closer. “Come here.” You breathed. He obeyed, moving dutifully to your side, remaining silent despite the question in his eyes. You sat up slowly, ignoring your dizziness. Placing a hand on the back of his neck, you pulled him closer. Benedict, realizing what you were after, leaned down and forward, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. You flopped back into your bed after he pulled away, grinning, although you couldn’t see it, having already rolled over and buried your face in the covers. “Goodnight. I hope you enjoy tomorrow.” He said ominously, the clicking of his heels against the marble floor the only indication you had that he had left. Before you could even think of the meaning of his strange farewell, you were dragged into rest. -- The first thing you registered after waking was the pounding behind your eyes. Moaning in pain, you lifted your arm over your face, blocking out the light that your butler had let in through the curtains. “My apologies, My Lord. Should we have a cure made?” He asked politely, noticing your haggard state. “Quickly.” You begged. He nodded, bowing before swiftly leaving the room to procure you a bit of relief. Sitting up, you turned away from the windows completely, opting to try and find your balance. After a moment, you were able to make your way to your wardrobe, pulling on your breeches and doublet. Today you had no need to dress formally. Valentines was a day you dedicated to staying completely shuttered away from the rest of the ton, tending to your estate and business ventures. It was easier than being bombarded with reminders of love, and much easier than running into any Bridgerton, although one, of course, you wanted to avoid above all else. It would only pain you to see him giving or receiving such intimate letters, especially with the women of the ton. Once your butler had delivered your cure, and you had thrown down the slimy, disgusting mixture, you were feeling much improved. You made your way to your study, smiling at your maids as they bowed before rushing off, no doubt in a hurry to finish their work and make off with their sweethearts for the day. You felt a twinge of jealousy, smiling sadly as you opened the door to your study. Oh. In your study sat piles and piles of cards, all handmade, some gilded with gold while others were trimmed with lace. You picked one up, in awe at its intricate gold-foil flowers, embossed on the front and lined with sharp swirls and embellishments, all clearly hand done with a calligraphy pen. You opened the card. The script inside was as lovely as the rest of the card, although it was the words that brought tears to your eyes. I sit and I look into your face And I see those before us, Who have loved as we do, And I see those after, And I pray that our impossibility Will become their reality. Yours. You choked on a sob, quickly closing the card and setting it down. The last thing you wanted was to ruin something so perfect with tears. It was not signed, and it didn’t have to be for you to know. Benedict. You looked around the room. There were at least 3 large piles of cards, enough to last an entire year, all handmade and intricate. You wondered how long this had taken him. It would take you days just to read them all. Surely, your servants thought you were either the biggest rake in the ton, with all these notes. You couldn’t care less. You gathered them all, handling them as gently as you would glass, slipping them into your desk cabinet and locking it. They were yours, no one else's. Benedict's words were just for you. Dazed, you leaned back into your office chair, holding the first card, running your fingers over the edges and rereading the lines over and over. It wasn't quite a poem, nor a letter, but a sentiment. A dream, a wish. You would be lying if you said that it wasn’t your dream too. A future where love like yours would be special, not sinful. Love. You jolted. And then laughed. How could you ever have doubted him? Surely, it was only love that would drive him to do this. Only love that would have him escort you home, make sure you were safe and comfortable. That would make him sit for what must have been weeks, if not months, working tirelessly on card after card just to take advantage of the one day where letters between unmarried men and women could be sent freely. Of course, he did so for a cover. But was that not also love? He wanted to protect you from ire, from harm, and so he delivered all the letters he felt he couldn’t today, just to keep from drawing unwanted eyes. Crying and laughing all at once, you pressed the note to your chest. How had you doubted his love for a second? His devotion? You truly were a fool, although not in the way you had expected. It took you half an hour to calm yourself, and by that time, your headache was back and worse than before, thanks to your emotional outburst. But another thing was back, too. Your butler, standing in the doorway with an impassive look on his face, glancing about the room, no doubt looking for the heaps of cards the servants had dropped off. “Do you know what card came from which maiden?” You asked, holding up the first card. It was the only card you had yet to put away, and though you were loathe to show it to him, you thought you should make it try and seem as though you had no idea who they had come from. “The cards were delivered mysteriously early this morning, My Lord. No names, no signatures.” “I see. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. None of them will be receiving a response.” You laughed, setting the card down. “What is it?” “A visitor, sir. The Second Bridgerton. Says he has something to discuss with you, about Lord Granville's gathering last night.” Your heart stuttered. “Send him up. No doubt he wants me to apologize for making such an ass of myself last night.” You joked, and he smiled back, giving a quick nod before rushing off to fetch Benedict. You quickly tucked the last letter into your desk drawer, pulling out a decanter of whiskey and pouring yourself a small glass. “No better cure for a hangover than more drink, right?” Benedict stepped into your study, shutting the door behind him even as he teased you. You laughed, pouring him a glass as well. He took it gratefully, sitting down in the chair across from yours, the desk between you two. “You may mock me if you wish, Benedict, but I am feeling positively delightful.” you said dramatically, lifting your cup in cheers. Benedict touched his glass to yours, and you took a sip. He did not. “Would that have anything to do with any deliveries?” He questioned, a secretive smile spreading across his face. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” “That’s why I asked.” You snorted, shaking your head quickly. “It would, if you must know.” Dropping all pretenses, he leaned forward, smiling even brighter now. “So you’ve got them. Do you like them?” “Of course I do,” you breathed, leaning in as well, dropping your voice to a whisper, “how long did they take you? They’re beautiful. True artistry.” “Much too long, as you said last night. But they were worth it, if you like them.” You nodded once. Smiling, he brought one hand to rest on your desk, palm up and spread open. You took it, intertwining your fingers. “Do you truly...love me? In that way?” you asked nervously, avoiding his gaze in favor of staring at your two hands. “No, I spent hours of my precious time making hand crafted love letters for a man I consider a friend.” He rolled his eyes. “If anyone would do such a thing, it would be you, Benedict.” “Certainly not. It would be Colin.” You laughed, and he grinned. Standing, he quickly rounded your desk and pulled you up by your still connected hands, pulling you against him and kissing you firmly. It was sudden, but not unpleasant, and you wrapped your arms around him, carding your fingers through his hair before resting your hands on the nape of his neck. After a long moment, he pulled away, eyes shining mischievously. “I do love you.” “And I you.” you said quickly, desperate to reciprocate. You had spent so long convinced that Benedict only saw you as good fun, that the revelation of love had left you reeling. But you would be damned if you passed up this opportunity to tell him of the affections you had kept secret since your first meeting. In response, he kissed your jaw once before pulling away, still smirking. “But you taste of garlic and egg. You truly should not have indulged so much. Now I can’t kiss you.” Groaning, you turned away from him, clamping your lips shut even as he wraps his arms around your middle, pressing kisses to your neck and cheek lovingly, cooing affections like a lovesick fool. You smiled at that passing thought, leaning into Benedict and returning his whispers in kind, leading him with purpose to your bed chamber. Perhaps you were both lovesick fools. You could live with that.

#benedict x reader #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict imagine #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #netflix #male reader #mlm fanfic #mlm #x reader #mine #fanfic #bridgerton fanfiction

229 notes · View notes

hafanforever · 3 years

Photo

It’s Good to Be Bad

I’ve described in previous analyses that I have a strong affinity for villains in fiction, including those by Disney. But like any fan of Disney, there are villains that I love and ones that I deeply detest with every bone in my body. So for my last analysis of the year, I will discuss my five most favorite and five least favorite Disney animated villains, though I also want to list a couple of other characters as honorable mentions to explain why I like or hate them.

The reasons I have for liking my favorite villains are simple, if not somewhat shallow, because I don’t exactly have deep reasons for liking them. Regardless of how evil, sadistic, cruel, and ruthless they are, I like them primarily because they are funny or charismatic. But it’s so much easier for me to list why I hate my least favorite villains, which is largely attributed the kinds of traits they display (most of which I cannot stand in people), their motives for being evil, and how they carry out their evil deeds while showing their evil natures.

This essay has turned into a longer one than I anticipated, so I am adding the “Keep reading” feature. Before I begin, I want to thank my dear buddy and soul sis @minervadeannabond for coming up with this title. Here is yet again another analysis of mine for you to enjoy, sis! 😁😄😉❤️

Most Favorites

Scar - Since The Lion King was the very first Disney film I ever saw in theaters as a child, and the first one I remember well from my childhood, many of my favorites Disney things come from it, including Scar being my #1 favorite Disney villain. Yes, he is a sadistic, tyrannical, narcissistic, cold-blooded murderer, but I think it is because of his cunning, smooth, elegant, charismatic nature and how pivotal he is to the story, particularly with how much he turns out to be a dark reflection of Simba, is why I love him so much. Furthermore, his song “Be Prepared” is my favorite villain song and among my favorite Disney songs of all, further showing how much The Lion King has given me Disney favorites since I was a child. 😁

Hades - Another one I remember well from my childhood, Hades is undoubtedly one of the funniest villains from the Disney animated canon. Although he is as cruel, evil, ruthless, and sadistic as any Disney villain, Hades is also so fast-talking, sleazy, sarcastic, cheeky, and hilarious that it makes it hard for me to take him seriously as a menacing villain. And while he constantly goes into fiery rages and blows his hot-headed top when furious, these help make Hades far more a comical, rather than scary, figure. Heck, when I was a kid, I always laughed, rather than got scared, whenever he unleashed one of his temper tantrums (except when he blows up at Meg with “I OWN YOU!!!”). And James Woods’s performance, especially since he ad-libbed many lines, helps make Hades such an unforgettable and memorable, if not lovable, character. So yeah, Hades’s wisecracking, talkative personality made him a memorable villain for me as a child, and I’ve loved him for it ever since. 😆😂

Ursula - Much like Hades, Ursula is sleazy, scheming, and cunning, yet wisecracking and comical at the same time. Besides her dry sense of humor, Ursula’s eccentricity, flamboyance, and elegance have always been the traits that drew me to her, and Pat Carrolll’s performance of the character is pure excellence. 😉

Maleficent - Despite being an incarnation of pure evil, including with her self-proclaimed title as The Mistress of All Evil, to me, Maleficent is by far the coolest, most badass Disney animated villain of all! 😆👍🏻 Yes, she curses Aurora with no true motive whatsoever, and she’s sadistic, ruthless, blasphemous, and murderous, but her display of her ill temper and dark magic just makes her totally awesome, most especially when she zaps her minions for their stupidity and incompetence upon learning they were only looking for a baby during their 16-year search for Aurora. 😁

Ratigan - Again, Disney has an evil, murderous, sadistic villain in Ratigan, but I love him because he is very collected, calculating, sophisticated, and charismatic, not to mention Vincent Price delivers such a great vocal performance as the character. 😉 What I also love about Ratigan is the moment when he undergoes what is known as a villainous breakdown, which is when a villain snaps and goes utterly crazy. During the film, Ratigan has some moments of losing his cool, but just as quickly manages to become calm and regain his composure. However, upon seeing Basil and Olivia escape from him inside Big Ben, along with Basil having having foiled his earlier scheme to kill the queen and take over England, Ratigan finally snaps, turning from a formal, sophisticated, composed rat to a highly feral, aggressive, savage one. It is the moment when Ratigan reveals the monster within and looks like a true rat, with an aggressive expression, hunched back, elongated claws, and running on all fours. The fact that Ratigan’s breakdown juxtaposes what kind of rat he was for the majority of the film is why his villainous breakdown is my favorite of any Disney villain.

Most Hated

Gaston - I have stated this before in “Bride and Prejudice”, but I pick Gaston as my #1 choice as my least favorite Disney animated villain. And it’s not just because of his extreme vanity, egotism, chauvinism, and arrogance, which are the very traits I hate in people, but because of his inferior, sexist, misogynistic views of women. Gaston is THE walking definition of toxic masculinity, the fictional example of the worst kind of man, the epitome of what men should NEVER be! 😡😡😡 He thinks men are the superior gender and that women are inferior to men, with their only purposes being to serve men and be their sex objects. And since I am a feminist who believes in gender equality, I dislike men who have low, sexist opinions of women, and Gaston fits the profile of what I think is the worst example of such a man. I could go on and on explaining just why I loathe this monster of a man with all my heart, but you can just read the aforementioned analysis to find out more.

Lady Tremaine - If it weren’t for Gaston being my #1 pick because of his extreme sexism and misogyny, I would pick Lady Tremaine. She comes such a close second because her motivations for abusing, oppressing, and being so cruel to Cinderella are petty and stupid, ESPECIALLY because Cinderella never even did anything to deserve such treatment from her in the first place! 😠😡 Lady Tremaine hates Cinderella and is very jealous of her purely because Cinderella so much better-looking and kinder than her own daughters and herself. So they abuse her and make her their servant to make her miserable and unattractive so that they can look better than her instead. Additionally, Lady Tremaine has a deep-rooted obsession to be above Cinderella at all costs that she resorts to lying, manipulation, trickery, and cheating in order to stay above. I particularly loathe it when she manipulates her daughters into tearing up Cinderella’s dress just so that she can appear fair and keep her word regarding her side of the bargain (she says ”if you can find something suitable to wear”, and once it’s wrecked, it’s no longer suitable) while simultaneously making sure she doesn’t have to keep her promise since she never wants Cinderella to go in the first place. All that being said, do these sound like justifiable excuses for hating a completely innocent woman? I DON’T THINK SO!!! 😡😡😡

Claude Frollo - Now if weren’t for BOTH Gaston and Lady Tremaine coming first, Claude Frollo would come on top as well! 😡😡😡 Frollo is without a doubt in my mind the most evil villain in the Disney animated canon. Unlike most Disney villains, he is COMPLETELY devoid of any likable or redeemable traits, making me have nothing but feelings of pure hatred for him. Ruthless, cruel, blasphemous, racist, and evil to his core, Frollo holds a deep-seated hatred for the gypsies and seeks to eradicate them from Paris, making him not only murderous, but genocidal, especially since he seeks to kill them simply out of his own racism, supremacy, and superiority. Throughout the years in his quest to eliminate the gypsies, Frollo murders Quasimodo’s mother by violently kicking her, causing her to fall and hit her head on the stone steps of Notre Dame, then tries to burn Esmeralda at the stake, declaring that she must be killed because she has been practicing witchcraft. After killing the mother, Frollo even attempts to drown baby Quasimodo simply because of his deformity. What makes Frollo even more evil besides doing his deeds is that he is a judge with control over the city, yet he proves himself to be corrupt and hypocritical by violating the laws to accomplish his dark, sinister deeds. Perhaps what makes Frollo the most evil villain of all is that he is in complete denial about how evil he really is. He has a delusional belief that he is a good, religious man doing God’s work by trying to purge the world of evil, when all he really does is twist his “faith” and hypocritically use it for his own evil purposes. What’s worse is that Frollo never once takes an ounce of responsibility for his crimes; he makes excuses to justify his actions, painting himself as guiltless and his victims as the only ones at fault. So with Frollo being such a blasphemous, hypocritical, racist, genocidal, murderous, corrupt judge who never believes he is doing anything wrong and always lays blame on the victims of his misdeeds, I can’t say there is a single thing about him that I like, and I’m happy he met his death in a fiery blaze! 😡🔥

Mother Gothel - A character I see as being an amalgam of Gaston, Lady Tremaine, and Frollo, the reasons why I hate all three of these villains are also found in Gothel: vanity, narcissism, oppression, mental abuse, trickery, manipulation, dishonesty, hypocrisy, and flat-out cruelty. First of all, Gothel’s vanity, narcissism, and obsession with her own beauty makes her extremely insufferable and annoying, not to mention the fact that she hoarded the flower to herself for hundreds of years just to stay alive shows how incredibly selfish and possessive she is. And due to her selfishness, she kidnaps Rapunzel, hides her in a tower, lies to her about the outside world, and continually mentally abuses, manipulates, oppresses, mocks, and belittles her just to ensure that Rapunzel will never leave the tower and the flower’s magic in her hair will keep her (Gothel) alive and young forever. On par with her narcissism, Gothel is shown to be a very spoiled, childish, immature woman who seeks to always have things her way and throws tantrums or other emotional outbursts when she doesn’t get her way or what she wants, especially the very moment she wants it. Furthermore, Gothel possesses a martyr, or victim, complex, which is shown perfectly when victimizes herself and places all the blame on Rapunzel whenever any sort of conflict befalls their lives and relationship, especially when they argue. So with all these flaws in mind, like Gaston, Lady Tremaine, and Frollo, I can’t find any good reason to like Gothel at all. “Mother Knows Best”? More like “Gothel Knows Worst”! 😠😡

Governor Ratcliffe - I said above that I hate Gaston because of his bigoted, low views of women, and prejudice is the main reason why I hate Governor Ratcliffe. However, his prejudice is in the form of racism, the kind of bigotry that I hate the most. Ratcliffe displays this attitude towards the Native Americans, considering them savages and seeing himself as better than them all because of his race, which makes him a white supremacist. Besides his supremacy and superiority regarding his race, Ratcliffe is intensely greedy and selfish since he wants to keep any riches found for himself and believes that the Virginia land and anything he finds on it is his for the taking. In relation to his bigotry, he is also quite delusional and self-righteous, which makes him believe that any theory he has is right and he refuses to believe otherwise or listen to reason. For example, Ratcliffe dismisses Wiggins’ correct assumptions on why the Indians attacked the settlers and John’s claim that there is no gold in the lands after Pocahontas tells him this. The hatred I hold for Ratcliffe is significantly less than the other four listed here, but the reasons I gave are virtually like those I gave for Frollo, so I’m confident with Ratcliffe and his place on my list.

Bonus Mentions

Hans - Hans is a villain that I place in the middle between my most loved and most hated villains, because I love him for WHAT he is as a villain while I simultaneously hate him for WHO he is as a character. I have said it to friends and some of my other analyses before, but one of the reasons why I love Frozen is because it took many of the traditional fairy tale elements and tropes used in their preceding films, and turned them upside down. So rather than having another prince as the heroic male lead in this film, Frozen twisted that trope around by making him the villain instead. And when Hans finally reveals his true nature, you realize that he has fooled not only Anna and the other characters who interacted with him, but first-time viewers as well! So while I love Hans for being a villain who keeps his true nature under wraps for the majority of the film and almost gets away with his crimes because of it, I also hate him because of how cold, cruel, callous, ruthless, and sadistic he really is. When he reveals his true nature and explains his plan to Anna, he mocks her intelligence, naïveté, and desperation for love while explaining just how easy it was for him to deceive and manipulate her into being a pawn in his plan to take over Arendelle. Throughout the whole scene, Hans smiles wickedly and sadistically, clearly showing the delight he is getting from tormenting Anna and watching her suffer while he explains his scheme and extinguishes all light sources to accelerate her death. It’s also easy to see his sadism when he announces his plan to murder Elsa, and that he will get even greater joy out of carrying out the act itself (which we see when Hans smiles widely while swinging his sword over Elsa’s head as he tries to kill her on the fjord).

Chi-Fu - While he is not a true villain, and not even evil at all, Chi-Fu is a very detestable character, one whose guts I hate completely because he has the same traits that make me hate Gaston: arrogance, conceit, egotism, bigotry, superiority, and misogyny. Prejudice against women is a main theme in Mulan, and Chi-Fu is the one man whose prejudiced opinions never change. While Shang and Mulan’s fellow soldiers initially hold views that women are beneath men, they learn to change them after Mulan proves herself a capable warrior in the army (even after her disguise is revealed), most especially when she helps save China from Shan Yu’s reign of terror. Despite the majority of his bigotry being aimed at women, Chi-Fu is also detestable because he shows it towards nearly everyone else, except the Emperor. As the second-in-command to the Emperor, Chi-Fu sees himself superior to almost everyone else around him, which enhances his pompous, elitist, arrogant attitude. Because of all these antagonistic traits, I loathe Chi-Fu while I don’t hate Shan Yu at all, even though the latter is truly pure evil and genocidal! 😠😡 It just goes to show that some people who are neither necessarily good nor bad can be even more contemptible that the most malevolent, murderous people.

218 notes · View notes

scotianostra · 3 years

Photo

On May 11th 1685 Margaret Lachlane, or McLachlan, and Margaret Wilson were put to death.

The sins of our past are sair tae bare at times and this is certainly one that qualifies as such, what makes it all the more sad is that they had been reprieved, but the distance from Edinburgh to Wigtown but for reasons unknown it never made it to save the women.

Here’s the background, some of you might know but not all, back in 17th century religion was very important to most people in Scotland, indeed the worldover. The reformation waa over and Protestants were in the vast majority, especially in the more populace lowlands. By now The Stuart Monarchy ruled both Scotland and England, having survived a civil war in which Charles I lost his head, eventually his son, Charle II was invited back to take the throne. You would have thought that Charles II had learned his lesson, his old boy had tried to enforce the English form of the Protestant religion in Scotland but failed, young Charles tried again but the Scots were not having it, many Scots signed what is known as The National Covenant that pledged to defend “their” true religion against innovations like those down south. Many were put to death for refusing to swear allegiance to the King and “his” prayer book. Over the years there were many battles and lives lost, it is now known in Scotland as “The Killing Time"

ny way the people thought it might come to an end in February 1658 when Charles II died, those who had been hiding from persecution started returning to their homes, including the young Wilson girls who were sheltered at the home of Margaret McLachlan, a 63 year old widow who lived at Drumjargan in Kirkinner Parish. A local man betrayed them when they came into Wigtown, and the two girls were taken prisoner. At the same time, Margaret McLachlan was seized while at prayer in her own home, and held in custody with them. The women were required to take the Oath of Abjuration which had earlier been administered to everyone in the County over the age of 13 years. This had been introduced on 25 November 1684 by the Privy Council, in order to catch sympathisers of Richard Cameron. In a public declaration at Sanquhar Cross, Cameron had denounced the King as a tyrant and declared war on him.

Refusal to swear the Oath allowed execution without trial; men could be hanged or shot; a new sentence had been introduced for women: death by drowning. The women refused the Oath and were brought before the Commission. The Commissioners, Grierson of Lagg, Sheriff David Graham (Claverhouse’s brother), Major Windram, Captain Strachan and Provost Coltrane of Wigtown, have been described as “five of the most vicious scoundrels in Scotland”.

Margaret McLachlan with Margaret and Agnes Wilson were found guilty on all charges and they were sentenced “to be tyed to palisadoes and fixed in the sand, within the flood mark, at the mouth of the Blednoch stream, and there to stand till the flood over flowed them, and [they] drowned”. Agnes Wilson (aged only thirteen at the time) was reprieved, when her father promised to pay a bond of £100, a fortune in that day.

A pardon was issued in Edinburgh, dated 30 April 1685, for both women It remains a mystery what happened to it, since no record of it remains beyond the Council Chamber. They were taken out and tied to stakes in the waters of the Bladnoch on 11 May 1685. The older woman was tied deeper in the river channel forcing young Margaret to witness her death, in the hope that she would relent. Instead, she seemed to take strength from the older woman’s fate, singing a psalm, and quoting scripture.

The events are recorded in the Kirk Session records of both Penninghame and Kirkinner parishes, vouched for by elders and ministers who were present on the day, and the records confirmed by the Presbytery of Wigtown. The Penninghame records say that Margaret Wilson’s head was held up from the water, in order to ask her if she would pray for the King. She answered that she wished the salvation of all men, but the damnation of none. When her watching relatives cried out that this proved she was willing to conform, Major Windram offered her the Oath of Abjuration again, but she refused, saying “I am one of Christ’s children; let me go”.

The Kirkinner records state that Margaret McLachan’s head had been “held down within the water by one of the town officers by his halberd at her throat, til she died”. A popular account adds that the officer said “then tak’ another drink o’t my hearty”. Legend has it that for the rest of his life the man had an unquenchable thirst, and had to stop and drink from every ditch, stream, or tap he passed, and he was deserted by his friends.

Likewise the constable named Bell, who had carried out his duties with a notable lack of feeling, allegedly said, when asked how the women had behaved, “O, they just clepped roun the stobs, like partans and prayed”. Clepped means web-footed, partans are crabs. Bell’s wife bore three children all with “clepped” fingers, and the family was referred to as “the Cleppie Bells” which was believed to be the sins of the father being visited on the children.

It was not only women who died, William Johnstone, John Milroy and George Walker were hanged in Wigtown the same year, for refusal to take the oath, but Margaret Wilson, due to her young age has become the most famous of the martyrs and is the subject of a famous painting by the English artist John Everett Millais called The Martyr of Solway.

Art conservators have x-rayed the painting and found out that Millais had originally painted the upper torso of the young woman naked. However when the painting was exhibited in 1871 there were strong puritanical views on nudity in paintings and Millais’ work offended Victorian sensibilities. It was badly received and was the butt of many negatively critical reviews. Hence it was painted over to save the Victorian eyes of such a sight!

The photo is from Stirling Old Town Cemetery a monument to the Wigtown Martyrs, further afield a Victorian statue of Margaret Wilson’s martyrdom is on display at Knox College, University of Toronto, Canada, as seen in the second pic, the third pic is the Martyrs' Grave, Wigtown parish church, Dumfries and Galloway

#Scotland #scottish #martyrs #religious martyrs #the killing time #religious history #history

25 notes · View notes

ragingbookdragon · 3 years

Text

A Christmas Eve Proposal

A Haytham Kenway x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1,500 Warnings: Explicit Language, Alcohol Consumption

Author’s Note: DAY 5 CF! WOOWOO! ENJOY! -Thorne

Spending Christmas Eve in the tavern wasn’t his ideal way to pass the night, but there were worse things he could be doing, he figured, and the thought of being surrounded by Charles and the others made his mood sour like curdled milk. He briefly remembered a happier time with his family when he was younger, but it was fleeting.

It wasn’t necessarily busy, with most people being at home with their families for the evening, the only people there really were the usual drunkards. He was heading for a table in the corner when he caught sight of a young woman sitting alone at the bar, her head lowered on the counter. A tankard was in her hand and she kept tapping it with her pointer, telling him that she wasn’t passed out drunk. But what really intrigued him was her dress—a wedding gown, the hem of it dirty from the streets of Boston.

He narrowed his gaze and walked over, taking the seat beside her. Evidently, she’d felt his presence because she muttered, “Pal, I’m not interested in anything you’ve got to offer.”

Snorting, he waved the bartender over. “I was going to offer you a shoulder and an ear.” He looked at the man. “An ale and another of what she had.”

The bartender walked off and she picked her head up, slightly glaring at him. She’d taken her veil off, having tossed the lace on the bar beside her, and he thought she looked like an angel. An incredibly angry, possibly drunk angel. He’d handled worse things in his life, but this felt like the new challenge.

“I don’t care what familial relation you have to Gabriel. I don’t care how far this will take you with his terrible, deceptive family.” She spat. “I’m not going back to the church and I’m not marrying him.” Her eyes narrowed and she looked into her tankard, hissing, “He can go fuck himself for all I care.”

He arched a dark brow, steel eyes taking in the sight of her seething rage. Either she’d been stood up, or she’d discovered a dark secret. He chose the latter—no man in his right mind would leave a woman as beautiful as her at the altar. “Sleep with someone you know?” he wondered.

She scoffed, rubbing her temples like it’d soothe the headache she had. “My fucking maid of honor actually. Got her pregnant too!” Her eyes met his. “I’ve lost two friends in one day.” A scowl appeared on her face and she took a swig of her drink, face scrunching up at the taste.

He peeked over her shoulder and looked down at its contents. “I take it you’re not accustomed to drinking ale?”

“Overpriced wine and champagne are more my natural area.” A sigh left her. “I wanted to see if I could drown myself in cheap alcohol.”

“Why not overpriced liquors?”

She scowled again. “Because then I’d have to go home and listen to The Iron Lady patronize me that I should’ve done a woman’s duty and married him anyway.” She slammed the tankard down, ignoring how it spilled on the counter and her hand. “Overbearing, stubborn, pug nosed, bitch.”

He would have been appalled by her language, but the mention of the woman overrode it. “I’m sorry,” he started, “Did you say, ‘The Iron Lady’? As in Lady (L/N)?”

Nodding her head, she propped her chin on her hand, lazily staring at him. “Mhm. My mother.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh my god.” He blurted out. “You’re (Y/N) (L/N)?”

(Y/N) sighed. “Fantastic. A member of the elite is just what I needed to run into right now.” Her eyes drew up his figure and she reached over, flicking a finger under his cravat. “You’re way too overdressed for our colonial asses. Which part of England are you from?”

He huffed a laugh. “Queen Anne’s Square.”

“London,” she mused, clearing her throat as she straightened up slightly. “What’s your name, Londoner?”

His jaw twitched at that, but he smiled politely, offering his hand. “Haytham Kenway.”

(Y/N) reached for his hand, but he took it and pressed a kiss to the back of it, tasting the ale on her skin. “A pleasure to meet you,” he murmured, watching her gaze narrow.

“We’ll see in time, Mister Kenway.”

“Haytham.” He corrected, and when she arched a brow he added, “Since we’re both seeing each other at an informal moment.”

Her eyes dropped to the front of her gown and she said, “Oh, I’d forgotten about that.” She chuckled. “It’s my fault you know, for trying to get married on Christmas Eve.” Waggling a finger, she quipped, “Father Christmas didn’t like me taking his night.”

Haytham chuckled and she heaved a sigh. “Oh, I can’t even imagine going home like this,” (Y/N) gestured to herself. “I’m never going to hear the end of it from my mother and I know that Gabriel’s family is going to harass me forever.”

She dropped her head down onto the bar. “A good man. That’s all I asked for. Hell, he didn’t even have to be a good man, just faithful at least.” Another sigh passed her lips and Haytham thought he saw a tear slide down her cheek. “I knew the Livingstons were trouble and yet I allowed Mother to make this marriage happen. Should’ve run away when I had the chance.”

“You’d leave it all behind? The money, the fame, the better life?” he enquired, genuinely curious behind her reasoning—no elite in their right mind would wish for a common life.

(Y/N) picked her head up and looked at him with such a clarity that it made his heart race. “What good is never wanting for a thing if you’re never happy? What good is living in a mansion, draped in pearls, and rolling on silk sheets, if you’re lonely? What good is life if you can’t find someone to love and be loved in return?”

She looked away. “Look at us, Haytham. We have everything we could ever want. Money, power, titles…and yet,” her eyes met his steel ones. “we’re both sitting in a bar on Christmas Eve because we’ve no one to spend it with.”

Haytham gaped at her, pure unbridled shock running through him from such a declaration. He found himself again, and against his better judgment, he murmured, “Would you like to spend Christmas Eve with me?”

(Y/N)’s eyes went wide, jaw dropping at the forwardness of his request. “I—” she shut her mouth and dropped her gaze, trying to find the words. For a moment she didn’t respond, then she glanced at him. “We just met like thirty minutes ago, and you want to spend Christmas Eve with me?”

He nodded, flirting, “What better to do than spend a holiday with a beautiful woman?”

She scoffed, but a grin crossed her lips. “Toss a better line my way and I might consider it.”

He took her hand where it rested on the bar. “This is going to be forward, (Y/N)—”

“I’m not surprised,” she countered, rolling her eyes when he glared at her interruption.

Haytham cleared his throat and said, “You’re looking for a husband, I’m looking for a wife.”

She stared at him like he had three heads. “Did you just offer to spend Christmas Eve with me and then propose in the same minute?”

“I did.”

“We just met. Why in God’s name would you even want to marry me? You know nothing about me?”

He smiled. “That’s the beauty of marriage.” Haytham pressed a kiss to her hand. “We get to learn about each other.”

(Y/N) sent a withering look his way, scrutinizing him like a test subject, then she asked, “And how do I know you won’t abuse me? Or commit adultery?”

Haytham’s face turned solemn. “I’ve never laid my hands upon a woman in a dishonorable way. I never have, never will.” He took a sip of his ale. “As for the adultery…if I were to sleep with another woman, you’d never learn of the dalliance.”

She scoffed. “That’s not exactly a trust building offer, Haytham.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps not, but I am a man of my word. You’d never learn of it.”

“How many women have punched you because of that?”

“Only one.” he quipped.

(Y/N) huffed a laugh then went silent, staring into his eyes. He searched hers, an amused expression on his face.

“How about this—we start the courting process, and we’ll see if we’re compatible. If we’re not, we never see each other again.” She offered.

“And if we are?” Haytham countered.

She grinned. “Then I’ll be sleeping on the left side of the bed, and if you try and move me from my spot, I’ll bloody your lip.”

Haytham barked a laugh and raised his tankard, watching her raise hers. “That’s fair enough.”

(Y/N) winked. “To Christmas Eve and new beginnings.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he replied, tapping his drink to hers.

77 notes · View notes

lauwrite1225 · 4 years

Text

The Fire in the Heart || Finan x reader

A/N : God! It took me a long time to figure out a story, but thanks to @othermoony and @bird-on-a-wire20, I finally found something ! I tried my best to do a good fluffy fic and not fall into smut lol. So I hope you'll enjoy it 😌💕

Masterlist

Warnings: FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF. Maybe a little angst ?

Words : 3603

The loud scream of Ragnar made you shivered. Sat against the wall of one of Dunholm’s houses, hands on your injured arm, blood streaming between your fingers, you closed your eyes. Finally, Kjartan was dead. Years you wondered what you'd feel the day the man you had pledged your sword to would die. And now, you knew.

You felt nothing. You despised Kjartan. You were pledged to him only because your father was loyal to him.

You couldn't help but smile through the pain. You were free now. You could go wherever you wanted. The idea was pleasant. You wanted to leave right now, see more of the world. Fight for other earls, for new lands. You were a shieldmaiden. Fighting was what made you feel alive. Every time you gripped the handle of your sword, it started a fire in your chest.

The idea of travelling somewhere far from here overwhelmed your mind. You could see the sea and the boats ready to leave. The smell of salt water tickled your nose and the feel of sand under your feet made you forget the pain of your arm. You started to run to the boats, screaming them to wait for you. But you didn't even have the time to reach the water that a hand on your shoulder woke you up.

You slowly opened your eyes again, narrowing them, blinded by the sun. And suddenly the sunlight faded and you met two brown eyes. You couldn't look away from them, they were hypnotizing. But mostly, and strangely, they were lightening a fire in your heart.

"Are ya all right?"

You blinked several times, finally staring at the whole face just in front of you. It was a man, around your age but his skin was damaged and marked by scars still healing, making him look older. His hair, dark and thick, was attached and a beard was covering his jaw.

The pain of the deep cut on your arm started to resonate in all your body again and your face writhed. The man looked down to your wound, concerned. The blood had started to dry causing the bleeding to moderate. His fingers grazed your arm and you squealed, muscles contracting in reaction of the touch.

“Ya need to fix tha’.” He muttered, frowning. He stood up and lent his hand to help you.

You hesitated a moment. He wasn’t one of Kjartan’s men, what could keep him from killing you? Seeing your wary, he smiled.

“The fight is over, I won’t kill ya.” He narrowed your eyes, studying him. He was thin for a warrior, but his arms were strong and his shoulders broad. “I promise.” He added.

You sighed and caught his hand. He lifted you, not too harshly, and he guided your hand so your uninjured arm was around his shoulders. You wanted to complain that you could still walk, but when you made a step, your head started to spin because the amount of blood you lost. You relied on him and he led you to the Great Hall of Dunholm.

“Kjartan is dead?” You asked him. Even if you knew the answer, you needed to hear it, to make it realer. He nodded and you smiled widely.

“I saw you fighting.” He said, admiration sparkling in his voice. “A real devil.” He grinned.

You chuckled a little as you finally made it to the Hall. Other people were being healed, of both armies. The man walked you to an empty chair and you slowly sat on it, sighing.

“Thank you.” You said him, bringing your arm against your stomach. “What’s your name?”

“Finan.” He smiled.

“Y/N.” He nodded. He took a stool and sat in front of you, leaning to rest his elbows on his knees.

“You’re not of Ragnar’s army, right?” Finan asked.

“No, I am… I was pledged to Kjartan.” You answered, sinking in your chair.

“You don’t look sad that he’s dead.” He raised an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth lifted, probably knowing the answer.

“I despised him.” You admitted, now that it could be no longer a secret.

He was ready to say something else, but a healer came to both of you.

“Well, now that you’re in good hands, I should leave ya.” He declared, standing up. You kindly smiled at him as he swung a little on his feet, seeming hesitant to leave. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“Maybe.” You repeated, your smile not leaving your face.

After, slightly shaking his head up and down, he finally left you with the healer. In an hour, the cut in your arm was stitched and a bandage was wrapping it.

Finan staid in Dunholm a week. During this time, you spend time with him. First, it was just small talks during dinner with others, and as days passed you came to spend time just both of you. You learned he came with Uhtred, Ragnar’s brother, whom, since he was free of a life as a slave, he had decided to follow.

But what you mostly retain, was the fire building in your chest every time he was around. Never before, someone made you feel that way. Each of his smile made your stomach flip and your cheeks burn. It was a strange feeling, that only him could create. And yet, even if he had that power over you, you couldn’t help but feel confident with him. So, you talked to him about your own life, good and bad moments. It could last until the middle of the night, when only the night birds were witnesses of your discussions as you were both laid in the grass outside Dunholm.

Unfortunately, the moment to leave for Uhtred and his men came. You joined Finan in the stables where he was saddling his horse. He turned to you when he heard your footsteps, a wide smile on his face. You gave him back, but yours was tainted with sadness.

“How’s your arm today?” He asked, pointing to your bandages with his chin.

“Good. The healer took a look this morning.” You said, lifting it and slowly shaking your hand, proving that the pain was fading.

“I am glad it’s gettin’ better.” You nodded and he turned back to what he was doing. “What are ya goin’ to do now?”

“Hum… I don’t know.” You admitted. You wanted to do many things, but where to start ? And anyway, your mind was too filled by thoughts of a certain Irishman to think about what you’d do when your arm would be heal.

“You said you wanted to travel. To fight and discover new lands” He looked at you above his shoulder. “You should do it.”

“You are probably right.” You admitted, looking down to your feet.

“Of course I’m right, I am Irish.” You giggled cheerfully and you perceived some sort of sorrow in his eyes. “I’m gonna miss that laugh.” He confessed, just loud enough for you to hear him, looking away.

You stared at him, your lips parted as you realized the meaning of his words. The flames grew in your heart, making your body feel hotter. You let out a sigh like it could weakened the fire that was consuming you. But it didn’t.

So, you took a step toward him. Your hand found its way to his shoulder, causing his eyes to meet yours. You hold your breath a moment as your fingers ran to his neck then to his cheek. Your thumb rubbing it, he leaned his head a little on your palm.

“I am going to miss you.” You admitted, not only to him, but to yourself. You knew the feeling would leave with him.

You stood a moment like this, staring at each other in silent, just enjoying the last time your heart will burn for something else than the adrenaline of a fight. When you finally removed your hand, he leaned toward you until his lips met yours. You gasped, not expecting it, but you quickly let yourself drown in the kiss. His lips were still bruised by his life on the slave ship, but you didn’t care. Your hand slid to the back of his head, deepening the kiss.

When you separated, you were both breathless. Your hand ran down his arm and your fingers meet his, touching sheepishly.

“I’m gonna miss this even more.” He smirked and you chuckled again, catching his hand to bring him in another kiss.

Only the voice of Uhtred was able to broke this moment. Finan’s lips left yours to press them against your forehead. He moved away to untie the reins of his horse and lead him outside the stables.

You followed him and before he got into the saddle, he turned to you.

“Promised me you’ll follow your dream.” He said on a serious tone. You pinched your lips a little before shaking your head up and down.

“I will.” You smiled at him.

“Promised?” He insisted.

“Promised!” You chortled.

“Good, you’ll have to tell me everythin’ when we’ll meet again.” You couldn’t help but smile at the idea of seeing him again, even if it seemed improbable to you.

And on these words, he got on his horse, looked you one last time and rode toward the gates. As he went away, you felt the flames in your heart diminish.

…

You kept your word. For years you traveled across England and other land at the other side of the sea. You even went to Ireland once. And as many times in all those years, you couldn’t help but wonder where could Finan be.

You fought a lot, following different Earls wishing to gain lands or take them back. You got even more skilled with time, able to fight man over twice your weight. Fighting became once more the only way to bring fire to your chest. And sometimes it saddened you. You missed Finan and the few memories you had could only light blazes. So, you just learned to leave without, loosing yourself into more and more fights. Just like that night.

After coming back from Frankia, you decided to go back to Dunholm for a time. Basically, you wanted to rest for a time before leaving again, but you handed up playing at one of the many games Ragnar organized each night.

“I win.” You said, knee on your opponent’s chest and sword just under his throat.

The man under you was still stunned by the fall and couldn’t push you away. You smiled, proud and finally stood up. You raised your arms in the air in response to the shouting crowd around. It was the third fight you were winning tonight. The fight implied no blood, but you enjoyed it anyway.

You laughed when one of your friends wrapped an arm around your shoulders and handed you a cup of ale. You drank all of it and threw the cup, the crowd cheering you even more.

“Who will fight me?” You exclaimed pointing your sword to the peoples in front. You knew most of them and probably trained with all of them.

As you scanned the men and women in front of you, you gasped when your eyes crossed ones you knew well. Flames grew and you almost dropped your sword. Finan was widely smiling. He had changed, a lot, probably just like you. His hair was shorter and messy. You could notice some wrinkles on his skin as the torches illuminated is face, but not the healing wounds from slavery he used to have.

He winked at you before moving to blend in with the crowd. You blinked several times, catching the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You turned your back to the place Finan used to be and forced a smile on your face.

“You know what? I think none of you merit to fight me.” You quipped, handed the training sword to the first person you crossed the way and walked to join Finan.

When you managed to pass through the crowd, you finally perceive him, backed up to a wall. As you approached him, you felt the feeling you missed so much overwhelmed your body. You stopped just in front of him, studying him a moment. He clearly looked in better shape that the first time you met him.

“What are you doing here?” You asked him, still amazed that he was right here.

“Uhtred had some troubles in Wessex.” He said raising his eyebrows and looking to the side. “So, we ended up ‘ere.” He shrugged before straightening. “And ya? What are ya doin’ in Dunholm?”

“Well, I came here to rest before leaving again.” You said, your eyes unable to leave his.

“You weren’t really restin’ right now.” He chuckled stepping toward you, making the step between you two smaller. “You still fight like a devil.” He smirked.

“I had time to improve.” You answered, on the same tone as him.

You both remained silent for a moment, simply staring at each other. Discovering new marks and scars, signs of the years who had passed. But time didn’t change the way fire ignited your heart. As the gap was getting even more smaller, your fingers touched. You sighed, wishing you could go further than an accidental touch.

“I missed you.” You said, not daring to meet his eyes. You were a shieldmaiden, never scared of a rough fight, but you couldn’t hold his gaze while admitting a truth. But yet, you kept talking. “Wherever I went, for whoever I fought, you were still in my mind.”

Finan’s fingers gently came under your chin, lifting it so you looked at him. And suddenly, his lips crashed on yours. First gently, but then deeper. You wrapped your arms around his neck and his hands found your waist, bringing you closer. And fire spread in all your body as you felt filled by the feel of his mouth on yours.

Finan broke the kiss, but your noses were still touching. “I missed you too.”

A large smile spread on your face, you ran a hand in his thick hair to meet his lips once more. That night, the fire didn’t go out and when morning came, Finan was still in your bed.

You woke up at the feel of his finger on your naked back, running along the tattoos. You slowly opened your eyes, meeting his smile. You smiled back, enjoying the feel of his hand on your skin. He then removed it to rest it at the other side of your body, leaning to kiss you. You turned on your back and brought him closer to you.

“You need to talk to me about your tattoos.” He whispered against your lips. “Just like of your travels.”

“I will.” You breathed, fingers travelling on his bare chest.

His lips caressed your neck, making you sighed at the feel before he let himself fall on the bed. “I need to join Uhtred.” He said, disappointment clear in his voice.

You sat up, bringing your legs against your chest, crossing your arms on your knees and resting your cheek on them. “Then go, I’ll see you later.” You gently smile at him. He loudly sighed and stood up to get dress.

It was the first of many nights he got to share your bed. The fire never faded during the days Finan spent into Dunholm, your eyes always finishing to meet his. You told him about all your travels, the beautiful landscape you saw, the terrible storms and the warriors you met. He told you about Coccham, Winchester and the new battles he fought alongside his Lord. And you could listen to him for hours, your head rested on his chest and his arms around your waist.

But it couldn’t last, and after the arguing of Uhtred and his brother in the Great Hall, the Irishman ran to you.

“Come with us.” He almost begged you, his hands holding yours.

His brown eyes were pleading you to accept but you were unable to decide. Leave with them but to where? You were a Dane, you never wished to fight for some Saxon Kings. You wanted to travel until you the end of the Earth. But in the other hand, there was Finan. Just him. And all the feeling he made you feel, the flames he created in your heart. But could it be enough to replace the life loved?

You avoided his gaze and removed your hands from his. “I can’t, Finan.” You immediately regretted your words, but you couldn’t take them back. He didn’t move for a moment, like he wasn’t sure of what you said.

“Alright.” He said, his voice so cold it blew away the fire.

He made a step back as you held tears to run down your cheeks and he finally left you.

…

Days and weeks passed and regret grew even more. You thought you could handle his absence just like you did during years, but you couldn't anymore. Missing him wasn't just a feeling rising in the middle of the night, when you felt alone, it was every day and at any time. Wherever you were in Dunholm, it somehow felt empty without him.

You missed his presence in your bed, where he used to talk for hours with you after he had made your mind forget the world and your body shiver with pleasure.

But as you were grieving his departure, the world change and you found yourself joining the Dane army, walking South to defeat Wessex. At least a fight would make you forget him just for a time.

When you heard the first screams of battle, a smile spread on your lips and you caught the handle of your sword. Fire exploded in your chest as you shed the first blood. Your blade doing precise movements, you enjoyed the sound of steel against steel.

But suddenly, your attention was caught by a voice you well knew. Your eyes widened as you saw Finan, killing danes with fierce strokes of his sword. He must have seen you, because for a moment you swore you could have seen his eyes sparking the same way they did when you were alone with him. And once more, regret overwhelmed your body. But you couldn't let yourself drown into it. Not now. Not in middle of a battle.

You took a deep breath and tightened your grip on the handle. You rushed toward him, avoiding bodies on the floor. When you were close enough, you raised your sword and split the air in direction of his shoulder. He hadn't seen you coming and he stopped your blade at the last second. But it was what you wanted.

For a moment you thought he'd push you away, that he hadn't forgave you for the decision you made. But he didn't and your eyes met. You could feel his breath on your face, jerky because of the fight. Flames he created join the one born with the battle.

"When it's over." You said. "Join me to the lake."

He frowned, confused. You removed your sword, freeing him from the pressure you were exerting. You raised your eyebrows, waiting for an answer. He finally nodded and you smiled at him. You stepped back, leaving him still confused but the battle quickly brought him back to reality. Just as you.

You let yourself drown in the fight, your mind already thinking of the end of it, no matter the winner. You just needed to survive and leave for the lake you noticed earlier in the day.

Your muscles were aching when you finally heard someone shouting to retreat. It was a Dane earl. You lost the battle, but you didn't even feel disappointed. You simply ran from the battlefield with others and find a place to hide until the night.

When dawn fall, you could only hear the scream of joy from the Saxons. You stood up, your body tired, and you managed to leave the forest to the lake. When you arrived, a shadow was already there.

"Finan?" You called him and he turned to you. A wide smile on your face and a heart in fire, you ran towards him. "I am sorry." You told him as he was frowning. "I should have joined you."

His eyes widened a little at your words, but you couldn't see them, to focus on your hands as you apologized.

"I thought, I could handle to leave without you a second time. But I couldn't. You are always in my mind. Day and night and…" He cut you by bringing his hands to your cheeks and leaning his head until his mouth met yours.

You froze a moment and finally close your eyes appreciating the kiss you so longed for. Your whole body was burning as he left your lips.

"It's alright." He murmured, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs.

You smiled to him, small tears of relief shining in your eyes before you wrapped your arms around his neck and hid your face in it. He was smelling blood and dirt but you didn't care.

"Will you come with us then?" He asked you, hope clear in his tone.

You moved away from him, just enough to meet his eyes. "I will."

His smile widened so much, you thought the corners could touch his ears. He pressed his lips against yours, kissing you deeply, lightening the fire that never faded in your heart since.

Tagged: @geekandbooknerd @amyyreblogss @for-bebbanburg @bird-on-a-wire20 @beowulfsdottir

#finan #finan the agile #finan x reader #the last kingdom #the last kingdom fanfic #fanfiction #finanfanfiction #request

142 notes · View notes

bopinion · 3 years

Text

2021 / 28

Aperçu of the Week:

"For some reason, the climate issue has suddenly become a global issue."

(Armin Laschet, current Minister President of, of all places, North Rhine-Westphalia, who apparently lacks both foresight and perspective. Yet he leads in the polls to become Germany's next chancellor).

Bad News of the Week:

Last week I wrote: "Who still doubts the man-made climate change: look out of the damn window!" And now it is really here, the climate change. Or rather its effects. On our doorstep. No more threatened islands in the South Pacific, no more melting polar ice caps far away, no more fires in North America, no more sinking groundwater in the Middle East - here, in our neighborhood, immediately, now.

It doesn't take a tsunami, a tornado, an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption. It just needs rain. Much rain. Lots of rain. Former small streams burst their banks as torrents, mountain slopes slide down, floods rush through inhabited areas, sweeping everything away. Entire towns are under water, houses collapse, cars are thrown around like tennis balls, complete infrastructures are destroyed, people drown - almost 200 so far.

In parts of Bavaria and Saxony, but especially in North Rhine-Westphalia and Rhineland-Palatinate, the pictures look like a war zone. Not only because military recovery vehicles are often the only vehicles that can even pass the roads full of rubble and mud. The suffering of fellow citizens who have lost a loved one or simply their entire possessions from one moment to the next seems incomprehensible. Overcoming the consequences is a joint task. Politicians are putting together aid packages, while the solidarity of individuals and the commitment of many volunteers are setting standards.

One of the hardest hit places is called "Schuld", literally "Guilt". And this brings a bizarre realization: yes, we are guilty for what is happening. Not an unexpected phenomenon that comes out of nowhere. But the concrete result of what we have done and are doing. Or rather, what we have not done or are not doing.

It is always said that a crisis is the hour of the executive. Because it can decide, take concrete measures, send help, make money available. Normally, this is done - yes, we are currently campaigning for the federal elections in September - at the expense of the opposition, which, in the absence of government responsibility, can really only show concern. In this case, the Greens, the strongest challenger to the current governing coalition of conservatives and social democrats. But they are the ones who have always warned about the consequences of ignoring nature, who have declared sustainability to be the guiding principle and who are the only ones with concrete environmental and climate protection plans in their party program. Let's see how this realistic far-sightedness and this credible commitment will carry the day when the voters have to put their crosses. Hopefully in the right place...

Good News of the Week:

At the Eurovision Song Contest, many are always surprised by the hardly known countries in Europe (okay, we'll leave out the questionable participations of Israel or Australia). This includes for example the Republica Moldova. A small country between Romania and Ukraine, (almost) on the Black Sea, one of the many former Soviet republics. It shares the same classic fate of autocratic structures, corruption, an ailing economy, isolation from the West, and dependence on big brother Russia. In Transnistria, there were already pro-Russian independence efforts supported by Moscow before there were more high-profile ones in the Ukrainian Donbas region.

But just as in Ukraine, a democratic spring is dawning. Back in the 2014 parliamentary elections, pro-EU parties won a clear majority of 55 seats to the pro-Russian 46, but then failed due to cronyism, dubious entanglements and sabotage. But then came Maia Sandu. Coming from the World Bank as a lateral entrant, she first gained a reputation as a fearless fighter against corruption as education minister in the Liberal Democratic Party before failing as prime minister due to a lack of support for her radical judicial reform. In 2020, however, as the candidate of the "Partidul Acțiune și Solidaritate" ("Action and Solidarity Party" / PAS), which she co-founded, she finally won the presidential election with 58% in the runoff against incumbent Igor Dodon.

In last week's parliamentary elections, PAS was now the clear winner, winning a clear absolute majority in parliament with 63 of 101 seats. Memories of Emanuel Macron and "En marche" are awakening. PAS and Sandu now have the power to shape the government, freed from coalition concessions or multiparty dependencies. And their objectives were unambiguously defined as democratization and turning toward Europe. Sandu: "The people here have been lied to and disappointed so many times". The election results express "the desire of our people that order be established in this country and that corruption be fought. People want law and justice."

The great challenge will be to rid the country's institutions of the felt, to clean up and reorganize the administrative apparatus. For only on this basis can an economic perspective emerge for one of the poorest countries in Europe. It is precisely this lack of prospects that has caused an exodus of those willing and able to perform: one-third of Moldova's population now lives abroad. Sandu's first priority is therefore to modernize the education system and infrastructure and to develop a healthy sector of small and medium-sized enterprises. Only then would positive outlooks for the future have been created for the population - by their own efforts and they could then seek cooperative support from the EU. That this is not a foregone conclusion can be seen by looking across the border to neighboring Romania: a member of the EU for 14 years, the country is still struggling with economic misery and fundamental structural reforms. One can only wish the Republic of Moldova all the best and Maia Sandu a lucky hand.

Personal happy moment of the week:

I don't really know...

How pleased am I that Japan will not succumb to the commercial temptation to allow the same spectator madness at the Summer Olympics starting next week as England and Hungary did at the European soccer championships?

How satisfied am I to have found a solid solution to a complex challenge in weekend work that I can present to colleagues in the office tomorrow?

How relieved am I to live neither on a riverbank nor in a valley and therefore to be exposed to flood hazards only in underground garages and underpasses?

How happy am I that my wife will be standing in the kitchen tonight while I open the red wine, listen to the spherical sounds of Tangerine Dream and comfortably read the newspaper?

In some weeks you just have to be satisfied with the little pleasures in between. All good.

I couldn't care less...

...that insurance companies fear being confronted with claims arising from the flood disaster. After all, their business model should be to provide support in the event of an emergency. And not to look for backdoors and exclusion clauses in the fine print of their cryptic contracts.

As I write this...

...I'm tasting delicious olives my daughter brought back from her graduation trip in Tuscany.

4 notes · View notes

astraeagreengrass · 4 years

Text

Hope Springs Eternal

Bucky Barnes has one last thing he needs to do before he goes to war

Pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 2.583

Warnings: angst, mentions of war and war-related themes, light smut - not explict, but please don’t read if you’re under 18!

A/N: This is my extremely late submission for @thinkoutsidethebex’s 600 Follower Writing Challenge - thank you Bex for having me! Special thanks to @xbuchananbarnes for proof-reading this. This story is part of When The World Was At War We Kept Dancing, but can totally be read as a stand-alone. The banner picture was found here. I hope you like it ♡

It was an ordinary wedding.

Early Sunday afternoon, in a tiny church in Prospect Park. The ceremony was brief, less than thirty minutes long, presided by a minister that confused your last names.

"Barlow sounds nothin' like Barnes,” you heard Steve grumble from Bucky's left, cut off by Becca's loud shush. You didn't have it in your heart to rebuke the priest: your wedding was his fourth of the day, and he still had a dozen or so more to go ahead of the sunset. Besides, he'd been kind enough to move the nuptials forward when Bucky's furlough dates changed, so you could grant him that mishap.

The groom wore his army greens. Olive jacket and pants, shirt and necktie in shades to match. The gold buttons shone bright and brand new, like American glory. The long months at Camp McCoy had changed Bucky - his hair was shorter, his shoulders broader, his palms rougher. You'd waved goodbye to a man in November and welcomed another in June: a Sergeant, with a suit and cap to match his responsibilities.

You felt the calluses as you slid the ring on the left finger of his right hand - the same hand he now used to reload bullets and pull triggers. According to Steve, Bucky must’ve been extremely good at it, otherwise they’d never have promoted a young, conscripted soldier like him to Sergeant so quickly.

You wanted to be happy about it. To not feel an atom of fear as the minister declared you husband and wife. To not tremble behind your veil or choke in the words you had to repeat. There was no time for personal vows - too many women in white were waiting to walk down that aisle, wondering if they'd only ever be granted two weeks with their spouses before a war they never asked for ended their marriages that never had a proper chance to start.

Uncertainty was a typewritten letter on military-stamped stationery, a snow-barren Wisconsin field, a ship departing to England on the fifteenth morning of July. It left a bitter taste in your mouth when you and Bucky kissed for the first time before God, your families and your country. From that moment on, you were his and he was yours, the minister said.

You just couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he was more theirs than he was yours.

My love,

In seventeen hours, I’ll be home. One last bus trip and one last train ride until I see your face again. This letter will probably arrive at your doorstep after I do - and by then I hope you’re not there anymore. I hope it gets lost in the mail because you’ve changed your name and moved to the home you’ll share with your husband. And I hope you know that lucky bastard will be sure to tell the postman you’re Mrs. Barnes now. Y/N Barnes. It sounds pretty good if you ask me.

“Promise me you’ll write as soon as you get there?” you asked.

The train’s whistle drowned out Bucky’s answer, and you grimaced, muffling out the deafening noise with your gloved hands.

When it was over, Bucky gently removed your palms from your ears and laced them with his. He gently pressed his thumb to the knuckle of your finger, feeling the ring underneath the fabric. It was a simple band with no stone, far from luxurious but still more expensive than he could afford. He was almost embarrassed as he proposed, mumbling about the ring “not being enough” for you, but you shushed him with a kiss, whispering that you’d marry him with a twisted piece of wire.

“I’ll write to you everyday until I get home,” he promised. “You’ll beg the postman to stop delivering my letters.”

“Never,” you swore.

Three minutes to nine and you were one of the last couples lingering at the platform. Bucky's train would leave at the top of the hour to Chicago, and from there he'd go to Camp McCoy in Wisconsin until the army granted him a short furlough before the eventual departure to Europe. You were trying awfully hard not to think about that last part.

“I’ll miss you, Jimmy,” you said, holding back tears.

A shadow of a smile bloomed on the corner of his lips. Your handsome soldier - strong and unwavering, even as the unknown lurked on the corner of his life.

“I’ll miss you a lot more, doll,” he declared, pulling you in for a hug.

“Impossible,” you replied, voice muffled by his jacket.

Bucky grinned.

“Wanna bet a dance on that?”

The train whistled one more time and the railway man started screaming for the last passengers to board. Your answer was lost to the smoke billowing from the locomotive.

“Take care of my girl for me, will ya? If anyone gives her trouble, tell ‘em her man’s away at training camp. He’ll be back before she knows it.”

You rolled your eyes.

“She’ll be fine. Just hurry home.”

One last peck and Bucky was gone, the last passenger in before the train door shut with a bang that echoed in your heart. You waved at your fiancé from the edge of the platform until his figure was long gone, the engagement ring he gave you weighting your hand down with all the promises this war was daring him to keep.

My journey home seems longer than wintertime in Wisconsin. Did I ever tell you that there was still some ice on the ground in early April? I thought nothing would ever bloom in that place, but then some daisies sprouted on a patch of grass near the barracks a couple of weeks ago. They reminded me of Mrs. Roberts and the daisies she used to keep at the front windowsill of the boarding house. Are they still there? Do you think you’d like to have some daisies at our house? Or maybe roses?

The conscription letter burned a hole in Bucky's pocket.

He swore he could smell it, even. There was something foul prickling his nose and he thought it was the letter aflame, scorching the paper, his pants, his life. It's what he wished he'd done to it, anyway: set the rough parchment on fire like he would a cheap cigarette, then step on the stub for good measure, but it was useless.

The letter was Bucky and Bucky was the letter. It'd given him a number made of ashes, and now he was no longer man - he was ember, stoking the flames of the fire that laid waste to his world and time.

All the way to the boarding house you called home, Bucky thought of Steve. He'd hate that Bucky was drafted - to the 107th, no less - and he wasn't. It would only make him restless, even more determined to join a war that Bucky wanted no part of. And he hated the part of him that was envious of Steve's bravery right now, because the other part was busy making plans to run away with you to Mexico.

Bucky was supposed to marry you, not sail across the Atlantic. You'd been dating for over two years and he'd saved enough money for an apartment. His Ma kept complaining about grandchildren and Becca resorted to dropping not so subtle hints over Sunday lunch, like if you'd rather have emeralds or sapphires on your engagement ring. His savings weren't enough for neither, but Bucky still hoped you'd take him as your husband.

Hope was a funny thing for a young man like Bucky Barnes to have in 1942. Hope that you'd marry him. Hope that Steve wouldn't find a way to join the Army. Hope that he wouldn't lay to rest in a shallow grave with hundreds of other men in Europe.

Mrs. Roberts, the landlady of your boarding house, was tending to her daisies when he approached. She was a grouchy old woman whose husband died in the Great War - the greatest one so far, at least - who ignored Bucky most days, unless he did something she considered incredibly scandalous, like bring you home after 10 P.M. Today, however, she cast him a glance from behind the bushes.

“Well then,” she started. “They called ya name, didn’t they?”

Bucky was confused.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve seen that look on your face before,” Mrs. Roberts said, plucking a flower from the stem with a pair of gardening scissors. “It was the same look my husband had when he came out that very door to get the mail one morning and found out he’d been conscripted.”

She waved to the front door of the boarding house with the hand that still held the scissors.

“How are you planning to tell her?”

Bucky cleared his throat.

“I’m not sure yet.”

The woman shook her head.

“There’s no easy way to do it - and I mean all of it. Wars are nasty things, son. No one really wins them.”

In a fraction of a second, Bucky thought he could see a young Mrs. Roberts, before the grief and the heartache, yet as quickly as it came, it disappeared.

“I’ll marry Y/N before I go,” he declared with all the certainty he could muster, but his promise sounded empty.

Mrs. Roberts smiled, and before then Bucky never knew that a smile could be sadder than tears.

“Just don’t forget to come home to her.”

Whatever you want, we’ll have it. One of the boys in my regiment said you should toss rice on the newlywed couple as soon as they leave the church, did you know about that? According to him, it’s good fortune. Or maybe he was just teasing me (‘cause he said something about a garter belt, as well. Now, I am no Becca Barnes, wedding expert, but I’m sure that can’t exist).

You and your husband walked out of the church hand in hand, under a soft smattering of rice thrown by your few guests.

He kissed you under the arched entryway, pulling you in against his chest with more vigor and less modesty than he had on the inside. The buttons of his green jacket pressed your breastbone through the fabric of your dress.

Steve was the first to congratulate you, hugging you and Bucky at the same time. You were surprised to see that, behind him, Ms. Roberts was discreetly wiping her tears. Bucky’s mother Winnifred was delighted, cheerfully announcing to the guests of the next wedding: “Look at my children!”

There was no reception or party. The greetings at the front lawn of the church were brief, and soon another bride was walking down the aisle and Bucky was holding the door of a taxi open for you.

"You look beautiful, Mrs. Barnes," he whispered in your ear as Brooklyn rushed by.

The apartment was a small two-bedroom on the third floor of a building that probably housed more people than it should, yet, in your eyes, it was perfect - even with the handed down pots and pans, and the two or three boxes of clothing you hadn't had the time to unpack the previous week. It was simple, modest and perhaps a little messy, but it was yours.

Bucky surprised you by lifting you in his arms and carrying you through the threshold. Your giggles echoed off the walls, dissolving in a sigh when he laid you gently on the bed. The sheets smelled like him from having slept on them the night ahead, comforting you. It wasn't the first time you and Bucky had sex, but it was the first time you'd do in your own home, your own bed, as husband and wife. This realization brought a shiver down your spine.

He took your shoes off, placing them on the floor with care before running his hands carefully up your ankles and calves, through the light fabric of your stockings. When he got to your knees, Bucky pushed the white fabric of your dress skirt away just far enough that he could graze your thighs, until his fingers brushed your garter belt.

He grinned, blue mischief tinkling is his gaze.

"I knew it!"

You wanted to hide your face in embarrassment, and curse Becca for having such a terrible idea in the first place, yet Bucky was quicker, pulling the garter down with the left stocking and then quickly reaching for the right one. He turned the strip of lace in his hand, a sly smirk in his pink lips.

You rose to your knees, pulling him to you by the green tie. You ripped the jacket from his shoulders with such force that some of the gold buttons flickered to the ground in twinkling melody. The bed creaked and Bucky laughed at your eagerness:

"Did you miss me?"

"Yes," you breathed into his collaborne, pressing kisses in whatever bit of skin you could find.

“Do you love me?”

“Lots more.”

His deft fingers found the zipper of your dress, and he pulled apart just enough to undress you. Your lingerie was made of the same fabric as the garter belt, and Bucky's eyes widened.

"How did I get so lucky?" he breathed.

The muscles of his back hypnotized you as he took off his shirt, dragging you to his lap, legs tangling together in the mattress. Your nails left indents on his biceps and a twisted thought occurred to you that maybe they could stay there forever.

That way even Death herself would know Bucky was yours, and wouldn't dare take him from you.

“Touch me,” you gasped. “Touch me, James, please.”

Your lovemaking was lascivious and fast. You and Bucky had been apart for too long and there was too much frustration, absence and lust clouding your judgements. Tiny droplets of sweat descended from the underside of your chin down your throat and the valley of your breasts, which were pressed firmly against Bucky’s chest. You wanted to keep your eyes open, to record in your memory the way his hands gripped your waist and his hips girated against yours, but the absolute ecstasy of having him again was nearly maddening.

Bucky came mere just seconds after you did, groaning curses in your temple. Your tired bodies collapsed in the bed, yet your feet were still somehow entwined, making it look more of a tumble and less of a graceful catch of breath. The late afternoon sun reflected on your husband's wedding ring and you wondered how long it would take for him to have a tan line.

Bucky pulled you to him and you rested your forehead on his shoulder.

"I love you," he said.

You didn’t reply, instead just breathed in the salt on his skin. After the pictures, the greetings and the sex, fear showed it’s ugly face again. You weren’t religious, but you found yourself hiding in the crook of Bucky’s neck, praying to the same God that united the two of you in matrimony.

Please don’t take my husband away from me.

I want more than two weeks.

I want a life.

Bucky called your name, raising your chin with the tip of his forefinger.

“I love you,” he repeated. Then smiled: “Mrs. Barnes.”

Something in the sound of it made you believe that everything would be alright.

“I love you too, Mr. Barnes,” you laughed. “I really do.”

I guess I'll see for myself when I arrive. It won't be long now, darling. Wait for me, I’m almost home.

Always yours,

Bucky

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #1940s!bucky x reader #40s!bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #corneliabarnes #my writing #hope springs eternal

24 notes · View notes

maaaddiexo · 4 years

Text

Chapter Seven | Peter Pevensie

[Red Series Book Two: Ribbons]

Rosemary returned to England to find things just how she left them - her father and brother missing and her mother drinking in her bedroom. But Rosemary wasn't going to give up this time. She took charge of her family as the Pevensies took charge of a country.

But it's been a year since all five of them returned to England, and when they are called back by Susan's magic horn, they return to a completely different Narnia. Magic has been dormant for centuries and men now rule Narnia but with brute force and terror.

The Pevensies know why they've been called back to Narnia but Rosemary is once again left in the dark. And with Aslan making himself sparse, the five kids are left to their own devices to answer their own questions.

Do they trust the exiled prince? Can they save Narnia again, and this time without Aslan swooping in to save them? And in Rosemary's case, why was she called back?

[Chapter Eight] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

From behind a pile of logs, Peter watched as hundreds and hundreds of men worked. The Telmarines worked in teams: some cut down trees, some removed branches in order to prepare them, and others worked on building the bridge across the river. Most of them weren't soldiers - they didn't have helmets or weapons aside from the tools provided for work. The only soldiers that were present oversaw the work but didn't seem to be lifting a hand.

"They're expanding their territory," Trumpkin observed. "If they get far enough North, they'll find us."

"We won't let it get that far," Lucy insisted. But looking at the sight in front of people - the number of men available to build a bridge - she wasn't as certain anymore.

A horse whinnied close by and they all ducked just in time to not be seen by approaching Telmarines. Rosemary covered her mouth with her hand to muffle her heavy breaths.

"Perhaps this wasn't the best way to come after all."

"You think?" Rosemary interjected, though she knew Susan's words were meant only for Peter. One more glance at the building site and the group of six were off with Peter retracing his steps back to the River Rush. Rosemary easily caught up with him. "How are we going to cross?"

"I don't know but we couldn't stay. The longer we stayed only increased the risk of being seen."

The group was far enough behind for Rosemary to grab Peter by the elbow. He stopped and turned back to look down at her. "That scene back there may not prove that Aslan existed but either way, you owe Lucy an apology. You don't have to believe that Aslan was there, but act like it for Lucy's sake. Please, Peter."

Peter squinted at Rosemary before glancing back at Lucy, who was looking back where the bridge was. He could see the fear in her eyes and understood what Rosemary was implying. Believing she saw Aslan was what was motivating Lucy. He looked back at the group once more and after confirming no one was looking, he leaned down and pecked Rosemary's temple. "Okay."

Rosemary smiled as the familiar blush crept up her neck and to her cheeks. "I am so happy I don't have to swim."

•

"So where exactly do you think you saw Aslan?"

"I wish you'd all stop trying to sound like grown-ups. I don't think I saw him - I did see him."

"Sorry, Lu. It's been sixteen years." Peter hesitated. "I'm trying."

Lucy nodded, glad to see a bit of her brother poking out from behind the dark cloud that had been hanging over him since they left Narnia. "It was right over-" She screamed as the ground below her gave way and she dropped out of sight.

"Lucy!" Edmund surged forward and peered over the edge, expecting to see his sister's body in the water far below. Instead, she was just a few feet below them on another ledge. Safe.

"Here."

Edmund laughed breathlessly. "Guess you found our way down."

Up close, the river was much less daunting. It was more of a stream now, no more than five inches at its deepest point.

"I thought you said you were learning to swim?" Peter asks as Rosemary kept as far away from the water as possible. "Not that you could even swim in it, though I'd like to see Edmund try."

"Ha. Ha." Rosemary stared unamused at Peter. "It only takes two inches to drown."

"How would you drown?" Edmund wondered from behind. Rosemary could hear him trying to hide his laughter behind fake coughs.

"I could trip, fall, and hit my head on a rock and fall unconscious or something."

"Then we would pick you up and carry you. And Lucy has the cordial. Rosemary," Peter grabbed Rosemary's hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth. "Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise."

Rosemary looked between Peter's azure eyes and their joined hands. She could see the determination and surety in Peter's eyes and feel his assurance in his grip on her hand. Firm but gentle. She was brought back to the time they crossed the melting river - a situation fairly similar to the one they were currently in. Peter had taken it upon himself to take care of Rosemary when he had no loyalty to her. She wasn't part of the prophecy so her death wouldn't have had any impact on the outcome of Narnia's fate. Still, Peter took it upon himself to care for others.

And then she remembered Aslan's words. Don't doubt your importance.

She didn't know if Narnia would be different without her, but she didn't have to wonder because she didn't need to know. Peter would keep her safe and that was enough for her. "I believe you."

"You better." Peter pulled her closer to him, their arms bumping. "I mean it."

•

When Rosemary woke up the next morning, it wasn't to Peter gently shaking her awake. Edmund was practically jerking her from side to side. Through blurry eyes, she could see his mouth moving but it took a moment for the words to register in her mind.

Peter and Lucy are missing.

Rosemary jumped up, gathering her things. She noticed Susan and Trumpkin doing the same. They stood for a moment, wondering which direction the two could have gone. It wasn't like there were any paths for them to take.

"Wait," Trumpkin held his hand up. "Listen."

There was yelling and the faint clanging of swords in the distance. Peter was obviously fighting with someone.

"Where's it coming from?" Susan asked, spinning in circles. The sound was echoing in the trees.

Rosemary chose to stand still. Like her father had taught her, she closed her eyes and focused. The skill was meant for hunting, listening for where the prey was. But listening for Peter and Lucy would work too. "This way." She ran north.

The clanging of swords had stopped but Rosemary continued to run. She trusted her instincts and they were rarely ever wrong. She spotted a familiar shade of orange in the distance and pushed herself to move faster. Lucy. Emerging behind a bush, she saw what had Lucy frozen in her tracks. A sword was being held at Peter's throat while Narnian creatures simply surrounded them and watched. She raised her bow. "Lower your sword."

"Rosemary?"

The Protector briefly looked away, her hair flying. "Over here, Ed."

A faun squinted, spotting the red ribbon in her hair. "Is that..."

"Peter!"

Susan, Edmund, and Trumpkin ran up behind Rosemary and Lucy, observing the scene in front of them. Rosemary glared at the man holding Peter at swordpoint. "I won't tell you again. Lower your sword. I don't miss."

"High King Peter," The man whispered in disbelief, glancing at the sword in his hand. Peter's sword. Slowly he lowered it and Rosemary approached, her arrow still aimed at the man's heart.

"I believe you called."

When she no longer considered him a threat, Rosemary lowered her bow, the nocked arrow aimed at the dirt in front of her shoes. "Alright, now who's this joker?"

"I am Prince Caspian the Tenth," The man argued, clearly offended he wasn't recognized. "And who are you?"

"She's the Protector!"

Rosemary turned, smiling at the faun. With her back turned to him, Caspian could see the signature red ribbon. His professor had told him stories about her. After she left, nobody wore ribbons in their hair - especially red ones - as a sign of respect. "Rosemary is just fine."

"I thought you'd be older," Caspian breathed, still staring at Peter. Part of him couldn't believe he was real and the other part couldn't believe he was standing in front of him. Caspian was only a prince, but the boy standing in front of him was a king. The King.

"Well, if you like, we could come back in a few years."

"No!" Caspian rushed to correct himself. "That's alright. You're just...not what I expected." He particularly glanced at Susan when he admitted the last part. Rosemary giggled.

"Neither are you," Edmund replied, warily glancing at a minotaur close by. His time with the White Witch flashed before his eyes.

"A common enemy unites even the oldest of foes," a badger declared, standing next to a dwarf.

Someone else stepped forward. A mouse. It bowed at Peter's feet. "We have anxiously awaited your return, my liege. Our hearts and swords are at your service."

"Oh my gosh, he is so cute," Lucy whispered to her sister. Her eyes were on the mouse while Susan's were on a long-haired boy. Still, the older girl heard and giggled.

"Who said that?" The mouse held his sword up, scouring the crowd for the gossiper. Nobody called him cute.

Lucy stood up straight. "Sorry."

"Oh." The mouse hid his toothpick-sized sword behind his back. He went down into another deep bow. "Your Majesty. With the greatest respect, I do believe 'courageous,' 'courteous,' or 'chivalrous' might more befit a Knight of Narnia. My name is Reepicheep."

"Well," Peter smirked. "At least we know some of you can handle a blade."

"Yes, indeed. And I have recently put it to good use, securing weapons for your army, sire."

"Good. Because we're going to need every sword we can get."

"Then you'll probably be wanting yours back."

Peter gratefully took his sword back from Caspian, securing it in its sheath. He didn't feel like himself when it wasn't with him.

"How much did you take from the Telmarines?"

"Enough for two of their regiments," Caspian smirked, recalling the message he'd left on one of the weapon carriages.

You were right to fear the woods. X.

[Chapter Eight] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

#narnia #the chronicles of narnia #chronicles of narnia #peter pevensie #susan pevensie #lucy pevensie #william moseley #peter pevensie x oc #peter pevensie x fem!oc #peter pevensie imagine #peter pevensie series #peter pevensie fanfiction #love #romance #fantasy #action #adventure #edmund pevensie #prince caspian

8 notes · View notes

worms-wav · 4 years

Text

Inhabiting The Body

I began this essay wanting to write a structured, academic piece about the body as a home. Habitat. But the more I searched, the more I realised academia is not the framework within which I can best unpack and understand my (or anyone’s) relationship to the body. I grew up being told that Western forms of knowing were the only ones that were correct. You cannot write an essay without citing sources. It is not enough to just know something, or to inherit knowledge passed down in whispers. Real knowledge is double-spaced, Times New Roman, and cold. This is not to say that I don’t think that kind of research and knowledge is valid. I think there are certainly situations where I want to understand something through the lens of academia, through other people’s research, through a bright, naked paper trail.

But trying to write this essay has taught me that that can’t be the only kind of essay I try to write when I want to understand. Which has been a difficult thing to unlearn, especially when the body has always felt like a site of public discourse. Even more so when the body is femme, grew up as a cis girl, of mixed heritage. Less so because the body is able-bodied, light-skinned, Chinese-passing, and cis-passing. The body -- and I say ‘the’ body instead of ‘my’ body because in analysing it, it rarely feels like my own -- is a crazed intersection of privileges, learned behaviours, unlearned truths and internalised value systems. Who owns the body? Who has a right to the body? When do these people have a right to the body? What is the body in the context of the self? What is the body in the context of society? What is the body in the context of other bodies? These are questions that, perhaps, can be trudged through in Scopus and JSTOR, but are really, honestly, best understood through turning inwards, thinking, and speaking quietly to the people who don’t necessarily wish to filter their experiences through the pipes of academia. Western academia feeds into the myth that the mind thinks, and the body follows. The genesis of an idea can never be in the doing -- it is in the conceptualising, the theorising, the thinking. So when we think about the body, we think of it as primal and lesser and full of instincts we must evaluate before following.

And even as I write this, I know that this essay is not exactly the anarchist anti-academia piece it wishes it was. Perhaps I am Southeast Asian, but I have been so colonised that my regional awareness is clinical, not cultural. I come from Singapore, which has been dubbed ‘the imperialist of Southeast Asia’ because of how passionately we suck the empire’s cock and try to distinguish ourselves from the rest of Southeast Asia. Last year, we celebrated the ‘Singapore Bicentennial’. What is that? It was a nationwide commemoration marking the 200th anniversary of Stamford Raffles’ arrival in Singapore. Raffles was the British son of a slave trader, whose arrival on our shores marked the beginning of our colonisation. So when I speak about the body outside an academic understanding of it, as much as I want it to be an ode to local, indigenous ways of understanding the body, I know it never will be.

So here is the first marker of my body: colonised, but also, coloniser. Literate, in someone else’s tongue. Literate in someone else’s tongue that, for most of my growing-up years, was indistinguishable from my own.

This essay is self-serving. It’s not meant to be a great essay. There are millions of great essays out there by much more qualified people than I. All I want through this essay is a space in which my thoughts and feelings can visibly exist. I speak about my own body and my own feelings, and I understand that academia does not always enjoy these things. We are meant to be rational and disconnected, a voice displaced from personality. But again, perhaps academia is not the entity that needs to read this, and perhaps there is merit in writing about my own experiences and those of the people around me. If art is about externalising the internal, then here is my contribution.

The genesis of this project lay in my own tangled relationship with my body. I used to believe it was normal to be unable to perceive my body accurately -- after all, we drown in images of other people’s bodies on the daily, and we’re constantly told what our body should and shouldn’t look like. It was unsurprising to eleven-year-old me that the sight of my body in mirrors and photographs repulsed me. But the nonchalance turned to concern when the repulsion morphed into vivid hallucinations, also often centred on my body. They ranged from the mild (the body grows old, then it is a man, then it is my father) to the terrible (the skin on the body melts off flesh, exposing neon maggots within).

I wish I could package that discomfort neatly within my relationship with my gender. I wish I could make a broad, sweeping statement like, “once I acknowledged I was non-binary, the hallucinations stopped, and I felt more connected to my body” but this is wholly untrue. I’m sure, deep down, there is some connection between my gender trouble and my disconcerting grip on reality, but on the surface at least, the only thing they have in common is my body. And so this is where we begin - at the body. At my colonised, coloniser, dissociating, disconnected, immaterial, tangible, hallucinogenic, Queer body.

I think most of us begin to conceptualise the body as a space long before we find the words for it. We explore our bodies, trace topography, memorise shortcuts, collapse geography, navigate terrain. We know what goes where, what feels good, what hurts, what is part of our body and what is outside it. We create a distinction between our own bodies and other people’s bodies. Just as geography is not simply a matter of cartographic divisions, the borders between bodies are not simply physical. Our bodies and what they mean, where they are, bleed into each other in meaning and solidarity and sex and pain. How do we group some bodies together, decide the societal value of bodies based on similarities and differences? A friend named Ants points out that the body is not truly separate from the world around us - we are a microcosm of organisms and other things, the “edges” that cut us off from the air around us do not truly exist. Art teachers tell you to look at the world and recognise there are no lines -- this is true on a bodily level as well. This friend points out, ‘the notion of a “home” relies on the ability to invite in and to refuse entry - but actually wow humans are more permeable than we like to admit.’

This permeability goes beyond the physical entanglement of us and our surroundings. We are not the only ones residing in our bodies - we share the room with a thousand other people’s opinions of us, some more dangerous than others. Some bodies, the system has decided, do not belong to themselves. There is a lot to be said about the colonisation of the bodies of Black and Indigenous People of Colour (BIPOC) by the violence of white systems of power within which much of the world operates. There is also a lot to be said about the gentrification of our bodies to fit in, the policing of femme bodies by a patriarchal system, the cheapening and exploitation of some bodies, and the way some bodies must mortgage themselves to imposed power structures in order to survive.

If the body is a space, then capitalism wants to cut us all up into little bitty pieces and make sure each of our components is most efficiently and clinically used. And, as dystopic as this idea is, it has already been achieved. We all labour under capitalism, our bodies are broken and exploited (again, some more than others. Some much more than others.), and we all go to sleep only to wake up to do it again. When the world is constructed such that nothing belongs to you without capital, the body feels like precious real estate (or, conversely - the body feels incredibly fucking distant). We want agency over it, we want control over it, we want it back. We want to feel comfortable in our skin, so we pay a premium to make sure our physical, spiritual and emotional selves line up with the identity we have created for ourselves in our minds. We find ways to slide ourselves into our bodies, we look for things like connection and authenticity. We want our bodies to feel like home. And yet, the language we are given to talk about habitation of body, of space, corner us to think about our agency in very specific terms.

When we think about habitation, we think about the home. ‘Where do you live?’ is the same question as ‘where is your home?’ or, more transparently, ‘where is your house?’ Although the concept of home is arguably intangible, we find ways to ground it in a very material context. Linguistically, we position ‘home’ through idioms like ‘home is where the heart is’, ‘a man’s home is his castle’, ‘home ground’... The English language has developed a very extensive range of phrases that link ‘home’ to a sense of permanence, ownership and identity. This conceptual positioning of the home is mirrored in very tangible ways. We want to buy a house, not rent one. We have landlords who own our houses but do not live in them. We deliberately build walls, doors and locks to demarcate ‘our’ space. And ‘our’ space is defined mostly by the fact that it is not anybody else’s.

We think of habitation in terms of property. It is not really surprising that England declared the legal definition of property in the 17th century, around the same time the colonial empire was established. Theorists like John Locke tried to naturalise the concept of ownership -- in the process, also cementing who was viewed as a person and who was not. Property is an inherently racist, sexist and problematic idea. And yet, we don’t view home ownership as the selfish offspring of imperialism (see: mass deaths and poverty). The home, by all means, is a warm, comforting concept. The home is where the heart is! The home is where we take off our bras, put on a stained shirt and dance arrhythmically to Diana Ross. It is a safe space, where we unfurl, exist without fear of being watched, exist without concern about acing the performance. The home is apolitical - you don’t have to have the right opinion when you are at home. You can just be.

Before thinkers like Proudhon, Marx, Lenin and Mao called for the abolition of private property, there were indigenous peoples who viewed the land as sacred, as living, as relatives and ancestors, who continue to view the land in this way. We do not own the land - we exist alongside it. In many ways, we owe our existence to it. In 2017, New Zealand’s Whanganui Maori iwi won a 140-year-long legal battle to give their ancestral Whanganui river the same legal rights as human beings. India’s Uttarakhand high court cited this case when it ruled that the Ganges River and the Yamuna River have the legal statuses of people. I’m going off on a tangent. The point is that before we dive into thinking that abolishing private property is a radical new thought, it is important we remember it is the age-old thought of the voices we have drowned out.

The relationships between land and humanity, between property and agency, between capitalism and the individual, are complex and political. So when I speak about the body as a site of habitation, there are thousands of unavoidable histories inherent. When I refer to the body as a home, that claim does not exist in a vacuum of happy thoughts and first-world identity crises. Bodies and land are both sites of violence and ownership - historically, they have been, and presently, they continue to be. I move away from describing the body as a ‘home’ because of the way I’ve unpacked it in this essay - but I also want to be clear that I am not trying to police the language we use to discuss our bodies, our relationship to the land, the spaces between us.

In my work, I spoke of the body as a habitat. A space, landmark, geographical love letter. The home is not a habitat, and vice versa. While ‘home’ conjures images of place and ownership, ‘habitat’ alludes to something more natural, more accidental. The space we end up in because it is best for us. The space that feeds us, shelters us and places us within a larger ecosystem of which we are an essential part. When I ask ‘how do we inhabit the body?’ I am not asking ‘how do we make the body a home?’ because the home has already been made for us. It is a question, then, not of altering the body to a point of marketability, but of peeling it back and returning to the state that feels the most comfortable.

So what does it mean to inhabit the body? What does it mean for Queer people whose bodies often feel inherently hostile? How do you slide into a body that, for one, does not feel like the body you want to slide into, and for another, does not feel like it belongs to you? How do you exist as a transgender and/or non-binary person whose body doesn’t feel like the habitat it is naturally supposed to be?

At this point in the essay, I got stuck. I messaged a friend saying, ‘I forgot what my point was.’ And was promptly reminded that I started this essay to de-intellectualise the relationship I have with my body. To feel my way through the words, rub out this idea that I have to have sources and academic knowledge to discuss my primary site of existence. If that was the point of this essay, then you and I both know I have failed. I’ve intellectualised the hell out of the body. And I realise a lot of us Queer people do this - we see the body as distant, so it is much easier to evaluate it without engaging directly with the sense of loss that comes with putting ourselves inside our bodies (not to mention the fact that most of us are rarely, if at all, inside our bodies). But perhaps this, too, is a Western approach to Queerness. I think of the thousands of indigenous cultures that treated Queerness as the norm until their land was colonised and their beliefs stamped out to make way for Western laws. Singapore’s ‘main’ ethnic groups and our indigenous peoples all have long histories of non-binary genders: from the five genders of the Bugis people to the gay Hainanese sex workers to the Malay sida-sida. Was gender ever supposed to be this complicated? Or are the complications a Western import? You can understand my rage with Western LGBTQIA+ activists who view Southeast Asian countries as ‘behind’. ‘Behind’ is a flaccid word coming from those who tread on us until we could no longer walk forward.

And yet, ‘behind’ is such an important position to us -- in Singapore, we want to be ahead. Myself, in my body, wants to be better, as if better is an absolute point that can be reached if I just do the right things, am the right type of person. ‘Better’ is a weird thing to want for a body that does not really feel like it belongs to you. Early in the morning, my mama chides me: ‘you’ll never know what it’s like to fight until you have your own children.’ and I think about the life that I fight to live and I wonder if that’s not real fighting because the body I am fighting for is so far removed from my soul, the soul that is trying its best to inhabit it. And again, what does it mean to try our best to inhabit a body? At what point have we succeeded in being?

This essay is maybe useless academically, but it is useful spiritually. Writing this piece has felt like detangling a very long clump of hair in a drain, spreading them out on wet tile bathed in sunlight and watching them dry til they curl back in on themselves. I am no longer interested in coherence. I am interested in this dissonance, the words I say versus the words I learned, the land I walk on versus the land taken away from me versus the land that was never really mine to begin with. The body as its own agent but so bounded by words and language and bullshit that I have to write an entire essay just to arrive at the point of: oh. Perhaps it is okay for all these feelings to be messy, to be just loosely strung together. Perhaps it is okay that the only thing that they have in common, is my body.

10 notes · View notes

popolitiko · 4 years

Photo

“What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?”

Frederick Douglass | July 5, 1852

Mr. President, Friends and Fellow Citizens:

He who could address this audience without a quailing sensation, has stronger nerves than I have. I do not remember ever to have appeared as a speaker before any assembly more shrinkingly, nor with greater distrust of my ability, than I do this day. A feeling has crept over me, quite unfavorable to the exercise of my limited powers of speech. The task before me is one which requires much previous thought and study for its proper performance. I know that apologies of this sort are generally considered flat and unmeaning. I trust, however, that mine will not be so considered. Should I seem at ease, my appearance would much misrepresent me. The little experience I have had in addressing public meetings, in country schoolhouses, avails me nothing on the present occasion.

The papers and placards say, that I am to deliver a 4th [of] July oration. This certainly sounds large, and out of the common way, for it is true that I have often had the privilege to speak in this beautiful Hall, and to address many who now honor me with their presence. But neither their familiar faces, nor the perfect gage I think I have of Corinthian Hall, seems to free me from embarrassment.

The fact is, ladies and gentlemen, the distance between this platform and the slave plantation, from which I escaped, is considerable — and the difficulties to be overcome in getting from the latter to the former, are by no means slight. That I am here to-day is, to me, a matter of astonishment as well as of gratitude. You will not, therefore, be surprised, if in what I have to say I evince no elaborate preparation, nor grace my speech with any high sounding exordium. With little experience and with less learning, I have been able to throw my thoughts hastily and imperfectly together; and trusting to your patient and generous indulgence, I will proceed to lay them before you.

This, for the purpose of this celebration, is the 4th of July. It is the birthday of your National Independence, and of your political freedom. This, to you, is what the Passover was to the emancipated people of God. It carries your minds back to the day, and to the act of your great deliverance; and to the signs, and to the wonders, associated with that act, and that day. This celebration also marks the beginning of another year of your national life; and reminds you that the Republic of America is now 76 years old. I am glad, fellow-citizens, that your nation is so young. Seventy-six years, though a good old age for a man, is but a mere speck in the life of a nation. Three score years and ten is the allotted time for individual men; but nations number their years by thousands. According to this fact, you are, even now, only in the beginning of your national career, still lingering in the period of childhood. I repeat, I am glad this is so. There is hope in the thought, and hope is much needed, under the dark clouds which lower above the horizon. The eye of the reformer is met with angry flashes, portending disastrous times; but his heart may well beat lighter at the thought that America is young, and that she is still in the impressible stage of her existence. May he not hope that high lessons of wisdom, of justice and of truth, will yet give direction to her destiny? Were the nation older, the patriot’s heart might be sadder, and the reformer’s brow heavier. Its future might be shrouded in gloom, and the hope of its prophets go out in sorrow. There is consolation in the thought that America is young. Great streams are not easily turned from channels, worn deep in the course of ages. They may sometimes rise in quiet and stately majesty, and inundate the land, refreshing and fertilizing the earth with their mysterious properties. They may also rise in wrath and fury, and bear away, on their angry waves, the accumulated wealth of years of toil and hardship. They, however, gradually flow back to the same old channel, and flow on as serenely as ever. But, while the river may not be turned aside, it may dry up, and leave nothing behind but the withered branch, and the unsightly rock, to howl in the abyss-sweeping wind, the sad tale of departed glory. As with rivers so with nations.

Fellow-citizens, I shall not presume to dwell at length on the associations that cluster about this day. The simple story of it is that, 76 years ago, the people of this country were British subjects. The style and title of your “sovereign people” (in which you now glory) was not then born. You were under the British Crown. Your fathers esteemed the English Government as the home government; and England as the fatherland. This home government, you know, although a considerable distance from your home, did, in the exercise of its parental prerogatives, impose upon its colonial children, such restraints, burdens and limitations, as, in its mature judgment, it deemed wise, right and proper.

But, your fathers, who had not adopted the fashionable idea of this day, of the infallibility of government, and the absolute character of its acts, presumed to differ from the home government in respect to the wisdom and the justice of some of those burdens and restraints. They went so far in their excitement as to pronounce the measures of government unjust, unreasonable, and oppressive, and altogether such as ought not to be quietly submitted to. I scarcely need say, fellow-citizens, that my opinion of those measures fully accords with that of your fathers. Such a declaration of agreement on my part would not be worth much to anybody. It would, certainly, prove nothing, as to what part I might have taken, had I lived during the great controversy of 1776. To say now that America was right, and England wrong, is exceedingly easy. Everybody can say it; the dastard, not less than the noble brave, can flippantly discant on the tyranny of England towards the American Colonies. It is fashionable to do so; but there was a time when to pronounce against England, and in favor of the cause of the colonies, tried men’s souls. They who did so were accounted in their day, plotters of mischief, agitators and rebels, dangerous men. To side with the right, against the wrong, with the weak against the strong, and with the oppressed against the oppressor! here lies the merit, and the one which, of all others, seems unfashionable in our day. The cause of liberty may be stabbed by the men who glory in the deeds of your fathers. But, to proceed.

Feeling themselves harshly and unjustly treated by the home government, your fathers, like men of honesty, and men of spirit, earnestly sought redress. They petitioned and remonstrated; they did so in a decorous, respectful, and loyal manner. Their conduct was wholly unexceptionable. This, however, did not answer the purpose. They saw themselves treated with sovereign indifference, coldness and scorn. Yet they persevered. They were not the men to look back.

As the sheet anchor takes a firmer hold, when the ship is tossed by the storm, so did the cause of your fathers grow stronger, as it breasted the chilling blasts of kingly displeasure. The greatest and best of British statesmen admitted its justice, and the loftiest eloquence of the British Senate came to its support. But, with that blindness which seems to be the unvarying characteristic of tyrants, since Pharaoh and his hosts were drowned in the Red Sea, the British Government persisted in the exactions complained of.

The madness of this course, we believe, is admitted now, even by England; but we fear the lesson is wholly lost on our present ruler.

Oppression makes a wise man mad. Your fathers were wise men, and if they did not go mad, they became restive under this treatment. They felt themselves the victims of grievous wrongs, wholly incurable in their colonial capacity. With brave men there is always a remedy for oppression. Just here, the idea of a total separation of the colonies from the crown was born! It was a startling idea, much more so, than we, at this distance of time, regard it. The timid and the prudent (as has been intimated) of that day, were, of course, shocked and alarmed by it.

Such people lived then, had lived before, and will, probably, ever have a place on this planet; and their course, in respect to any great change, (no matter how great the good to be attained, or the wrong to be redressed by it), may be calculated with as much precision as can be the course of the stars. They hate all changes, but silver, gold and copper change! Of this sort of change they are always strongly in favor.

These people were called Tories in the days of your fathers; and the appellation, probably, conveyed the same idea that is meant by a more modern, though a somewhat less euphonious term, which we often find in our papers, applied to some of our old politicians.

Their opposition to the then dangerous thought was earnest and powerful; but, amid all their terror and affrighted vociferations against it, the alarming and revolutionary idea moved on, and the country with it.

On the 2d of July, 1776, the old Continental Congress, to the dismay of the lovers of ease, and the worshipers of property, clothed that dreadful idea with all the authority of national sanction. They did so in the form of a resolution; and as we seldom hit upon resolutions, drawn up in our day whose transparency is at all equal to this, it may refresh your minds and help my story if I read it. “Resolved, That these united colonies are, and of right, ought to be free and Independent States; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown; and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, dissolved.”

Citizens, your fathers made good that resolution. They succeeded; and to-day you reap the fruits of their success. The freedom gained is yours; and you, therefore, may properly celebrate this anniversary. The 4th of July is the first great fact in your nation’s history — the very ring-bolt in the chain of your yet undeveloped destiny.

Pride and patriotism, not less than gratitude, prompt you to celebrate and to hold it in perpetual remembrance. I have said that the Declaration of Independence is the ring-bolt to the chain of your nation’s destiny; so, indeed, I regard it. The principles contained in that instrument are saving principles. Stand by those principles, be true to them on all occasions, in all places, against all foes, and at whatever cost.

From the round top of your ship of state, dark and threatening clouds may be seen. Heavy billows, like mountains in the distance, disclose to the leeward huge forms of flinty rocks! That bolt drawn, that chain broken, and all is lost. Cling to this day — cling to it, and to its principles, with the grasp of a storm-tossed mariner to a spar at midnight.

The coming into being of a nation, in any circumstances, is an interesting event. But, besides general considerations, there were peculiar circumstances which make the advent of this republic an event of special attractiveness.

The whole scene, as I look back to it, was simple, dignified and sublime.

The population of the country, at the time, stood at the insignificant number of three millions. The country was poor in the munitions of war. The population was weak and scattered, and the country a wilderness unsubdued. There were then no means of concert and combination, such as exist now. Neither steam nor lightning had then been reduced to order and discipline. From the Potomac to the Delaware was a journey of many days. Under these, and innumerable other disadvantages, your fathers declared for liberty and independence and triumphed.

Fellow Citizens, I am not wanting in respect for the fathers of this republic. The signers of the Declaration of Independence were brave men. They were great men too — great enough to give fame to a great age. It does not often happen to a nation to raise, at one time, such a number of truly great men. The point from which I am compelled to view them is not, certainly, the most favorable; and yet I cannot contemplate their great deeds with less than admiration. They were statesmen, patriots and heroes, and for the good they did, and the principles they contended for, I will unite with you to honor their memory.

They loved their country better than their own private interests; and, though this is not the highest form of human excellence, all will concede that it is a rare virtue, and that when it is exhibited, it ought to command respect. He who will, intelligently, lay down his life for his country, is a man whom it is not in human nature to despise. Your fathers staked their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor, on the cause of their country. In their admiration of liberty, they lost sight of all other interests.

They were peace men; but they preferred revolution to peaceful submission to bondage. They were quiet men; but they did not shrink from agitating against oppression. They showed forbearance; but that they knew its limits. They believed in order; but not in the order of tyranny. With them, nothing was “settled” that was not right. With them, justice, liberty and humanity were “final;” not slavery and oppression. You may well cherish the memory of such men. They were great in their day and generation. Their solid manhood stands out the more as we contrast it with these degenerate times.

How circumspect, exact and proportionate were all their movements! How unlike the politicians of an hour! Their statesmanship looked beyond the passing moment, and stretched away in strength into the distant future. They seized upon eternal principles, and set a glorious example in their defense. Mark them!

Fully appreciating the hardship to be encountered, firmly believing in the right of their cause, honorably inviting the scrutiny of an on-looking world, reverently appealing to heaven to attest their sincerity, soundly comprehending the solemn responsibility they were about to assume, wisely measuring the terrible odds against them, your fathers, the fathers of this republic, did, most deliberately, under the inspiration of a glorious patriotism, and with a sublime faith in the great principles of justice and freedom, lay deep the corner-stone of the national superstructure, which has risen and still rises in grandeur around you.

Of this fundamental work, this day is the anniversary. Our eyes are met with demonstrations of joyous enthusiasm. Banners and pennants wave exultingly on the breeze. The din of business, too, is hushed. Even Mammon seems to have quitted his grasp on this day. The ear-piercing fife and the stirring drum unite their accents with the ascending peal of a thousand church bells. Prayers are made, hymns are sung, and sermons are preached in honor of this day; while the quick martial tramp of a great and multitudinous nation, echoed back by all the hills, valleys and mountains of a vast continent, bespeak the occasion one of thrilling and universal interest — a nation’s jubilee.

Friends and citizens, I need not enter further into the causes which led to this anniversary. Many of you understand them better than I do. You could instruct me in regard to them. That is a branch of knowledge in which you feel, perhaps, a much deeper interest than your speaker. The causes which led to the separation of the colonies from the British crown have never lacked for a tongue. They have all been taught in your common schools, narrated at your firesides, unfolded from your pulpits, and thundered from your legislative halls, and are as familiar to you as household words. They form the staple of your national poetry and eloquence.

I remember, also, that, as a people, Americans are remarkably familiar with all facts which make in their own favor. This is esteemed by some as a national trait — perhaps a national weakness. It is a fact, that whatever makes for the wealth or for the reputation of Americans, and can be had cheap! will be found by Americans. I shall not be charged with slandering Americans, if I say I think the American side of any question may be safely left in American hands.

I leave, therefore, the great deeds of your fathers to other gentlemen whose claim to have been regularly descended will be less likely to be disputed than mine!

My business, if I have any here to-day, is with the present. The accepted time with God and his cause is the ever-living now.

Trust no future, however pleasant, Let the dead past bury its dead; Act, act in the living present, Heart within, and God overhead.

We have to do with the past only as we can make it useful to the present and to the future. To all inspiring motives, to noble deeds which can be gained from the past, we are welcome. But now is the time, the important time. Your fathers have lived, died, and have done their work, and have done much of it well. You live and must die, and you must do your work. You have no right to enjoy a child’s share in the labor of your fathers, unless your children are to be blest by your labors. You have no right to wear out and waste the hard-earned fame of your fathers to cover your indolence. Sydney Smith tells us that men seldom eulogize the wisdom and virtues of their fathers, but to excuse some folly or wickedness of their own. This truth is not a doubtful one. There are illustrations of it near and remote, ancient and modern. It was fashionable, hundreds of years ago, for the children of Jacob to boast, we have “Abraham to our father,” when they had long lost Abraham’s faith and spirit. That people contented themselves under the shadow of Abraham’s great name, while they repudiated the deeds which made his name great. Need I remind you that a similar thing is being done all over this country to-day? Need I tell you that the Jews are not the only people who built the tombs of the prophets, and garnished the sepulchres of the righteous? Washington could not die till he had broken the chains of his slaves. Yet his monument is built up by the price of human blood, and the traders in the bodies and souls of men shout — “We have Washington to our father.” — Alas! that it should be so; yet so it is.

The evil that men do, lives after them, The good is oft-interred with their bones.

Fellow-citizens, pardon me, allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here to-day? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? and am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us?

Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer could be truthfully returned to these questions! Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and delightful. For who is there so cold, that a nation’s sympathy could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to the claims of gratitude, that would not thankfully acknowledge such priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish, that would not give his voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation’s jubilee, when the chains of servitude had been torn from his limbs? I am not that man. In a case like that, the dumb might eloquently speak, and the “lame man leap as an hart.”

But, such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad sense of the disparity between us. I am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. — The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought life and healing to you, has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth [of] July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak to-day? If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn you that it is dangerous to copy the example of a nation whose crimes, lowering up to heaven, were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that nation in irrecoverable ruin! I can to-day take up the plaintive lament of a peeled and woe-smitten people!

“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yea! we wept when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there, they that carried us away captive, required of us a song; and they who wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land? If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.”

Fellow-citizens; above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions! whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are, to-day, rendered more intolerable by the jubilee shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorrow this day, “may my right hand forget her cunning, and may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!” To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme, would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world. My subject, then fellow-citizens, is AMERICAN SLAVERY. I shall see, this day, and its popular characteristics, from the slave’s point of view. Standing, there, identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine, I do not hesitate to declare, with all my soul, that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this 4th of July! Whether we turn to the declarations of the past, or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is fettered, in the name of the constitution and the Bible, which are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate slavery — the great sin and shame of America! “I will not equivocate; I will not excuse;” I will use the severest language I can command; and yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not blinded by prejudice, or who is not at heart a slaveholder, shall not confess to be right and just.

But I fancy I hear some one of my audience say, it is just in this circumstance that you and your brother abolitionists fail to make a favorable impression on the public mind. Would you argue more, and denounce less, would you persuade more, and rebuke less, your cause would be much more likely to succeed. But, I submit, where all is plain there is nothing to be argued. What point in the anti-slavery creed would you have me argue? On what branch of the subject do the people of this country need light? Must I undertake to prove that the slave is a man? That point is conceded already. Nobody doubts it. The slaveholders themselves acknowledge it in the enactment of laws for their government. They acknowledge it when they punish disobedience on the part of the slave. There are seventy-two crimes in the State of Virginia, which, if committed by a black man, (no matter how ignorant he be), subject him to the punishment of death; while only two of the same crimes will subject a white man to the like punishment. What is this but the acknowledgement that the slave is a moral, intellectual and responsible being? The manhood of the slave is conceded. It is admitted in the fact that Southern statute books are covered with enactments forbidding, under severe fines and penalties, the teaching of the slave to read or to write. When you can point to any such laws, in reference to the beasts of the field, then I may consent to argue the manhood of the slave. When the dogs in your streets, when the fowls of the air, when the cattle on your hills, when the fish of the sea, and the reptiles that crawl, shall be unable to distinguish the slave from a brute, then will I argue with you that the slave is a man!

For the present, it is enough to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro race. Is it not astonishing that, while we are ploughing, planting and reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building ships, working in metals of brass, iron, copper, silver and gold; that, while we are reading, writing and cyphering, acting as clerks, merchants and secretaries, having among us lawyers, doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators and teachers; that, while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises common to other men, digging gold in California, capturing the whale in the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hill-side, living, moving, acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives and children, and, above all, confessing and worshipping the Christian’s God, and looking hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave, we are called upon to prove that we are men!

Would you have me argue that man is entitled to liberty? that he is the rightful owner of his own body? You have already declared it. Must I argue the wrongfulness of slavery? Is that a question for Republicans? Is it to be settled by the rules of logic and argumentation, as a matter beset with great difficulty, involving a doubtful application of the principle of justice, hard to be understood? How should I look to-day, in the presence of Americans, dividing, and subdividing a discourse, to show that men have a natural right to freedom? speaking of it relatively, and positively, negatively, and affirmatively. To do so, would be to make myself ridiculous, and to offer an insult to your understanding. — There is not a man beneath the canopy of heaven, that does not know that slavery is wrong for him.

What, am I to argue that it is wrong to make men brutes, to rob them of their liberty, to work them without wages, to keep them ignorant of their relations to their fellow men, to beat them with sticks, to flay their flesh with the lash, to load their limbs with irons, to hunt them with dogs, to sell them at auction, to sunder their families, to knock out their teeth, to burn their flesh, to starve them into obedience and submission to their masters? Must I argue that a system thus marked with blood, and stained with pollution, is wrong? No! I will not. I have better employments for my time and strength than such arguments would imply.

What, then, remains to be argued? Is it that slavery is not divine; that God did not establish it; that our doctors of divinity are mistaken? There is blasphemy in the thought. That which is inhuman, cannot be divine! Who can reason on such a proposition? They that can, may; I cannot. The time for such argument is passed.

At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed. O! had I the ability, and could I reach the nation’s ear, I would, to-day, pour out a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern rebuke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man must be proclaimed and denounced.

What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy — a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.

Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms of the old world, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the everyday practices of this nation, and you will say with me, that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival.

Take the American slave-trade, which, we are told by the papers, is especially prosperous just now. Ex-Senator Benton tells us that the price of men was never higher than now. He mentions the fact to show that slavery is in no danger. This trade is one of the peculiarities of American institutions. It is carried on in all the large towns and cities in one-half of this confederacy; and millions are pocketed every year, by dealers in this horrid traffic. In several states, this trade is a chief source of wealth. It is called (in contradistinction to the foreign slave-trade) “the internal slave trade.” It is, probably, called so, too, in order to divert from it the horror with which the foreign slave-trade is contemplated. That trade has long since been denounced by this government, as piracy. It has been denounced with burning words, from the high places of the nation, as an execrable traffic. To arrest it, to put an end to it, this nation keeps a squadron, at immense cost, on the coast of Africa. Everywhere, in this country, it is safe to speak of this foreign slave-trade, as a most inhuman traffic, opposed alike to the laws of God and of man. The duty to extirpate and destroy it, is admitted even by our DOCTORS OF DIVINITY. In order to put an end to it, some of these last have consented that their colored brethren (nominally free) should leave this country, and establish themselves on the western coast of Africa! It is, however, a notable fact that, while so much execration is poured out by Americans upon those engaged in the foreign slave-trade, the men engaged in the slave-trade between the states pass without condemnation, and their business is deemed honorable.

Behold the practical operation of this internal slave-trade, the American slave-trade, sustained by American politics and America religion. Here you will see men and women reared like swine for the market. You know what is a swine-drover? I will show you a man-drover. They inhabit all our Southern States. They perambulate the country, and crowd the highways of the nation, with droves of human stock. You will see one of these human flesh-jobbers, armed with pistol, whip and bowie-knife, driving a company of a hundred men, women, and children, from the Potomac to the slave market at New Orleans. These wretched people are to be sold singly, or in lots, to suit purchasers. They are food for the cotton-field, and the deadly sugar-mill. Mark the sad procession, as it moves wearily along, and the inhuman wretch who drives them. Hear his savage yells and his blood-chilling oaths, as he hurries on his affrighted captives! There, see the old man, with locks thinned and gray. Cast one glance, if you please, upon that young mother, whose shoulders are bare to the scorching sun, her briny tears falling on the brow of the babe in her arms. See, too, that girl of thirteen, weeping, yes! weeping, as she thinks of the mother from whom she has been torn! The drove moves tardily. Heat and sorrow have nearly consumed their strength; suddenly you hear a quick snap, like the discharge of a rifle; the fetters clank, and the chain rattles simultaneously; your ears are saluted with a scream, that seems to have torn its way to the center of your soul! The crack you heard, was the sound of the slave-whip; the scream you heard, was from the woman you saw with the babe. Her speed had faltered under the weight of her child and her chains! that gash on her shoulder tells her to move on. Follow the drove to New Orleans. Attend the auction; see men examined like horses; see the forms of women rudely and brutally exposed to the shocking gaze of American slave-buyers. See this drove sold and separated forever; and never forget the deep, sad sobs that arose from that scattered multitude. Tell me citizens, WHERE, under the sun, you can witness a spectacle more fiendish and shocking. Yet this is but a glance at the American slave-trade, as it exists, at this moment, in the ruling part of the United States.

I was born amid such sights and scenes. To me the American slave-trade is a terrible reality. When a child, my soul was often pierced with a sense of its horrors. I lived on Philpot Street, Fell’s Point, Baltimore, and have watched from the wharves, the slave ships in the Basin, anchored from the shore, with their cargoes of human flesh, waiting for favorable winds to waft them down the Chesapeake. There was, at that time, a grand slave mart kept at the head of Pratt Street, by Austin Woldfolk. His agents were sent into every town and county in Maryland, announcing their arrival, through the papers, and on flaming “hand-bills,” headed CASH FOR NEGROES. These men were generally well dressed men, and very captivating in their manners. Ever ready to drink, to treat, and to gamble. The fate of many a slave has depended upon the turn of a single card; and many a child has been snatched from the arms of its mother by bargains arranged in a state of brutal drunkenness.

The flesh-mongers gather up their victims by dozens, and drive them, chained, to the general depot at Baltimore. When a sufficient number have been collected here, a ship is chartered, for the purpose of conveying the forlorn crew to Mobile, or to New Orleans. From the slave prison to the ship, they are usually driven in the darkness of night; for since the antislavery agitation, a certain caution is observed.

In the deep still darkness of midnight, I have been often aroused by the dead heavy footsteps, and the piteous cries of the chained gangs that passed our door. The anguish of my boyish heart was intense; and I was often consoled, when speaking to my mistress in the morning, to hear her say that the custom was very wicked; that she hated to hear the rattle of the chains, and the heart-rending cries. I was glad to find one who sympathized with me in my horror.

Fellow-citizens, this murderous traffic is, to-day, in active operation in this boasted republic. In the solitude of my spirit, I see clouds of dust raised on the highways of the South; I see the bleeding footsteps; I hear the doleful wail of fettered humanity, on the way to the slave-markets, where the victims are to be sold like horses, sheep, and swine, knocked off to the highest bidder. There I see the tenderest ties ruthlessly broken, to gratify the lust, caprice and rapacity of the buyers and sellers of men. My soul sickens at the sight.

Is this the land your Fathers loved, The freedom which they toiled to win? Is this the earth whereon they moved? Are these the graves they slumber in?

But a still more inhuman, disgraceful, and scandalous state of things remains to be presented. By an act of the American Congress, not yet two years old, slavery has been nationalized in its most horrible and revolting form. By that act, Mason and Dixon’s line has been obliterated; New York has become as Virginia; and the power to hold, hunt, and sell men, women, and children as slaves remains no longer a mere state institution, but is now an institution of the whole United States. The power is co-extensive with the Star-Spangled Banner and American Christianity. Where these go, may also go the merciless slave-hunter. Where these are, man is not sacred. He is a bird for the sportsman’s gun. By that most foul and fiendish of all human decrees, the liberty and person of every man are put in peril. Your broad republican domain is hunting ground for men. Not for thieves and robbers, enemies of society, merely, but for men guilty of no crime. Your lawmakers have commanded all good citizens to engage in this hellish sport. Your President, your Secretary of State, our lords, nobles, and ecclesiastics, enforce, as a duty you owe to your free and glorious country, and to your God, that you do this accursed thing. Not fewer than forty Americans have, within the past two years, been hunted down and, without a moment’s warning, hurried away in chains, and consigned to slavery and excruciating torture. Some of these have had wives and children, dependent on them for bread; but of this, no account was made. The right of the hunter to his prey stands superior to the right of marriage, and to all rights in this republic, the rights of God included! For black men there are neither law, justice, humanity, not religion. The Fugitive Slave Law makes mercy to them a crime; and bribes the judge who tries them. An American judge gets ten dollars for every victim he consigns to slavery, and five, when he fails to do so. The oath of any two villains is sufficient, under this hell-black enactment, to send the most pious and exemplary black man into the remorseless jaws of slavery! His own testimony is nothing. He can bring no witnesses for himself. The minister of American justice is bound by the law to hear but one side; and that side, is the side of the oppressor. Let this damning fact be perpetually told. Let it be thundered around the world, that, in tyrant-killing, king-hating, people-loving, democratic, Christian America, the seats of justice are filled with judges, who hold their offices under an open and palpable bribe, and are bound, in deciding in the case of a man’s liberty, hear only his accusers!

In glaring violation of justice, in shameless disregard of the forms of administering law, in cunning arrangement to entrap the defenseless, and in diabolical intent, this Fugitive Slave Law stands alone in the annals of tyrannical legislation. I doubt if there be another nation on the globe, having the brass and the baseness to put such a law on the statute-book. If any man in this assembly thinks differently from me in this matter, and feels able to disprove my statements, I will gladly confront him at any suitable time and place he may select.

I take this law to be one of the grossest infringements of Christian Liberty, and, if the churches and ministers of our country were not stupidly blind, or most wickedly indifferent, they, too, would so regard it.

At the very moment that they are thanking God for the enjoyment of civil and religious liberty, and for the right to worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences, they are utterly silent in respect to a law which robs religion of its chief significance, and makes it utterly worthless to a world lying in wickedness. Did this law concern the “mint, anise, and cumin” — abridge the right to sing psalms, to partake of the sacrament, or to engage in any of the ceremonies of religion, it would be smitten by the thunder of a thousand pulpits. A general shout would go up from the church, demanding repeal, repeal, instant repeal! — And it would go hard with that politician who presumed to solicit the votes of the people without inscribing this motto on his banner. Further, if this demand were not complied with, another Scotland would be added to the history of religious liberty, and the stern old Covenanters would be thrown into the shade. A John Knox would be seen at every church door, and heard from every pulpit, and Fillmore would have no more quarter than was shown by Knox, to the beautiful, but treacherous queen Mary of Scotland. The fact that the church of our country, (with fractional exceptions), does not esteem “the Fugitive Slave Law” as a declaration of war against religious liberty, implies that that church regards religion simply as a form of worship, an empty ceremony, and not a vital principle, requiring active benevolence, justice, love and good will towards man. It esteems sacrifice above mercy; psalm-singing above right doing; solemn meetings above practical righteousness. A worship that can be conducted by persons who refuse to give shelter to the house-less, to give bread to the hungry, clothing to the naked, and who enjoin obedience to a law forbidding these acts of mercy, is a curse, not a blessing to mankind. The Bible addresses all such persons as “scribes, Pharisees, hypocrites, who pay tithe of mint, anise, and cumin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy and faith.”

But the church of this country is not only indifferent to the wrongs of the slave, it actually takes sides with the oppressors. It has made itself the bulwark of American slavery, and the shield of American slave-hunters. Many of its most eloquent Divines. who stand as the very lights of the church, have shamelessly given the sanction of religion and the Bible to the whole slave system. They have taught that man may, properly, be a slave; that the relation of master and slave is ordained of God; that to send back an escaped bondman to his master is clearly the duty of all the followers of the Lord Jesus Christ; and this horrible blasphemy is palmed off upon the world for Christianity.

For my part, I would say, welcome infidelity! welcome atheism! welcome anything! in preference to the gospel, as preached by those Divines! They convert the very name of religion into an engine of tyranny, and barbarous cruelty, and serve to confirm more infidels, in this age, than all the infidel writings of Thomas Paine, Voltaire, and Bolingbroke, put together, have done! These ministers make religion a cold and flinty-hearted thing, having neither principles of right action, nor bowels of compassion. They strip the love of God of its beauty, and leave the throng of religion a huge, horrible, repulsive form. It is a religion for oppressors, tyrants, man-stealers, and thugs. It is not that “pure and undefiled religion” which is from above, and which is “first pure, then peaceable, easy to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy.” But a religion which favors the rich against the poor; which exalts the proud above the humble; which divides mankind into two classes, tyrants and slaves; which says to the man in chains, stay there; and to the oppressor, oppress on; it is a religion which may be professed and enjoyed by all the robbers and enslavers of mankind; it makes God a respecter of persons, denies his fatherhood of the race, and tramples in the dust the great truth of the brotherhood of man. All this we affirm to be true of the popular church, and the popular worship of our land and nation — a religion, a church, and a worship which, on the authority of inspired wisdom, we pronounce to be an abomination in the sight of God. In the language of Isaiah, the American church might be well addressed, “Bring no more vain ablations; incense is an abomination unto me: the new moons and Sabbaths, the calling of assemblies, I cannot away with; it is iniquity even the solemn meeting. Your new moons and your appointed feasts my soul hateth. They are a trouble to me; I am weary to bear them; and when ye spread forth your hands I will hide mine eyes from you. Yea! when ye make many prayers, I will not hear. YOUR HANDS ARE FULL OF BLOOD; cease to do evil, learn to do well; seek judgment; relieve the oppressed; judge for the fatherless; plead for the widow.”

https://teachingamericanhistory.org/library/document/what-to-the-slave-is-the-fourth-of-july

#Frederick Douglass #Fourth of July

1 note · View note