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amyscascadingtabs · 4 years

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we’ve found a love to cross the ages

Jake and Amy celebrate their third wedding anniversary.

(happy anniversary, jake and amy 💕)

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Even though he’s only seven months into the joys of parenthood, Jake is starting to feel like he’s got the key points of it down. He’s mastered several valuable skills to near perfection - for example, how to best change a diaper without getting peed on, how to heat up bottles of pumped breastmilk in complete darkness, and how to feed yourself with one hand while you're holding your baby on the other arm. He’s learned that his son is objectively the best and most magical person in the entire Universe, and that he would do anything and everything to make sure his son is safe, happy, and loved. He's learned that the last part is a feeling that grows exponentially, strengthening by the day.

Most of all, however, Jake has learned that babies do not care about your plans. They don’t care if you're exhausted from your work shift and craving a night with more than four consecutive hours of sleep, they don’t care that it's the fifth time you've changed shirt today because of various baby-related stains, and they certainly, as proved obvious in the case of this particular night, do not care if it’s their parents’ third wedding anniversary, for which they had been planning a proper date night with fancy attire, dinner reservations, and Broadway tickets. At the very least, Mac doesn't.

Jake supposes it’s not technically his son’s fault. Double-sided ear infection, ruptured eardrum on the right, had been their pediatrician’s judgment when they took Mac there this morning, following a night of so much crying that in the end, their son wasn't the only one whose ears were seriously hurting. Amy had ended up staying home with him for the day, whilst Jake had spent his workday downing a dangerous amount of coffee to not incidentally fall asleep if he as much as leaned against a wall for a second too long, and they had ended up canceling the date plans. Mac wasn't his usual happy self, it wasn't fair to hand Charles a feverish baby for a night, and neither of them really had the energy to dress up for dinner at a restaurant when running on less than two hours of sleep. Date night - officially canceled.

“Well,” Amy groans as she confirms the babysitting cancellation with Charles over text for a third time, assuring him that yes, they would be okay, and yes, they would call him the next time they needed a babysitter. “This wasn't how I had planned for tonight to go.”

“I don’t think it was anyone’s plan,” Jake tries to comfort her from a distance as he starts on his n-th lap walking around the kitchen table while bouncing Mac in the Babybjorn. Through a joint and arduous effort, they’d finally managed to get their son to take some baby Tylenol without spitting it out, and half an hour later’s worth of crying, he was finally dozing off. “Least of all Mac’s, I bet.”

Amy pouts, watching her son with the same worried gaze that Jake recognizes from times in his life he’d rather forget - a car outside a farm in Pennsylvania, a filled courtroom, the nights after he came home and the nightmares kept them both up. “I know. It breaks my heart to see him like that - I wish there was a way I could just take that pain from him, because he doesn’t even understand it, you know? I’d much rather suffer myself than see him doing it.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “But I’m also sad about not getting to celebrate our wedding anniversary. I was going to wear a dress, and do my makeup, and get to hang out with just you for several hours and spend ninety percent of that time talking about how much we miss our baby, but still. I wasn’t planning for sweatpants and a sick baby.”

“I know, Ames.” He stops behind her on the kitchen chair, quickly pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Me too.”

“I’m just so exhausted,” she mumbles, pulling down the sleeves of her grey NYPD hoodie and resting her chin on her hands. “He slept for two hours, so I tried to do some work, but it’s riddled with typos, and I could swear there’s a dangling participle in there somewhere. Imagine if I’d sent that to Holt! I need a nap, and I need to pump, because he’s been glued to me for the entire day but he’s barely wanted to eat.”

“You could combine those things?”

Amy snorts. “I wish. If I’d figured out how to pump while asleep, I would be so efficient. But no.”

She lets out a yawn, and as much as Jake can feel his own exhaustion like a dull, weighted blanket on top of him, relentless despite the caffeine he’s tried to combat it with, he only needs to glance at his wife to know her day’s been worse. Sure, policework is tough, but he knows from experience exactly how much more demanding a full day of caring for a sick, fussy, baby can be. Jake loves his wife, but she’s categorically useless at letting herself rest sometimes.

“You can go to sleep for a bit,” he tells her, nodding when she raises an eyebrow. “Or pump, then sleep. Whatever you need.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Mac’s sleeping, and you’ve taken care of him the entire day. I’ll take him for a couple of hours, and you get some sleep, okay? You need it.”

“Rude,” she grimaces, but there’s an air of relief over her when she stands up, brushing her lips against the stubble on his cheek - shaving’s becoming less and less of a priority for him these days. “But okay. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” he whispers, and she gives him a knowing smile before heading towards their bedroom.

He had been looking forward to their anniversary date, too. Not for the reasons Amy seems to believe; Jake loves her in fancy dresses and makeup, but he loves her just as much when she hasn’t washed her hair in two days and she’s wearing pajamas with milk stains and baby spit-up on it. He had been looking forward to spending some child-free time with her, but not because he prefers it over an evening at home with her and Mac. No, he’d really just been longing for a chance to show his tired, hard-working, champion of a wife how special she is to him, how much he loves her, and the life they have built. A proper date had seemed like the perfect way to do that, whereas a night at home with their sick baby did not seem nearly as strikingly effective, but Jake figures that shouldn’t mean it’s impossible.

“Come on, Mac,” he whispers, stroking his thumb over his son’s still-rosy cheeks. “Let’s see if we can surprise Mommy.”

The living room is far from what Jake would categorize as messy, but he knows it’s already at a level that would bother Amy, so he starts by cleaning. He rinses the used water glasses, places a used muslin blanket in the laundry, folds the knitted blanket over the side of the armchair. He finds a number he knows he wrote down in his phone once, an Italian place that Charles recommended and which does delivery, and orders them dinner all while bouncing on a yoga ball to soothe Mac when he starts whimpering in the middle of the call. He closes the curtains, dims the lights, and finds the battery-operated tealight candles they’ve resorted to ever since Mac started trying to crawl, spreading them out on the dinner and couch tables. He puts on a Spotify playlist with piano music and finds a bottle of white wine he’s not sure when they bought, but which looks fancy enough for a date night.

It’s not much, he thinks, not when he has neither flowers nor a card nor a fancy anniversary gift to present - he’d thought to buy the first two things after work, then ended up rushing home to help Amy with Mac - but it’s something.

Judging from the gasp she lets out when she comes into the living room, and the puzzled look she gives him as she realizes, it seems that Amy agrees.

“What’s all this, babe?”

“Well, I thought…” He scratches his neck, shrugging as he looks to the makeshift table setting on the dinner table, “even if we can’t go out, and even if we’re in our sweats, that doesn’t mean we can’t still have a date night for our anniversary. I’m sorry it’s not much, but… I thought it could be nice.”

“Jake, this is…” She shakes her head, looking around at his improvised decorations. “Wow.”

“You like it?”

“I thought we were just going to eat frozen pizza in bed,” she says. “Seems like I was surprised.”

“Surprise,” he grins, and it makes her laugh.

They eat their dinner one at a time, because Mac begins to cry if they as much as attempt to put him to sleep on his own, but it’s still great, and Jake makes a note to text Charles a thank you for the recommendation. After dinner, they dig out a tub of salted caramel ice cream from the freezer, and the whole family snuggles up together on the couch as Mac eventually accepts a bottle, drinking the whole thing in Jake’s arms before he passes out again.

It’s far from the most glamorous or ambitious date night they’ve had. Jake thinks back to their very first official date as Amy leans her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, remembering to the haircut and suit and the Kamikaze shots needed to kill the initial awkwardness between them. He’d been so nervous before that date, deathly afraid to mess things up and scare her away, scared to love too hard and scared to love too little.

He hadn’t known it then, but it hadn’t been long before he’d started feeling the first sensations of something both ever-changing and permanent; a safety he hadn’t known before, but instantly craved more of. It had lingered, and it had grown, and it had brought him more happiness than he could have ever imagined that morning all those years ago when he kissed her for realz in the evidence locker and she kissed him back. Kismet, happenchance, or an amalgamation of the two - somehow, they found each other, and found the things in each other that made the work of building a relationship worth it.

Jake’s never needed fancy, anyway, he thinks as his eyes grow heavier and he lets them fall closed for a second. Life gets considerably less fancy when you have a baby, it’s part of the deal, and they’re always tired now. There’s less time for just about everything, and most days their topics of conversation circle around logistics and their baby ninety percent of the time, but having the safety of every day with her, with Mac, with his family - it’s more than Jake dreamed he would ever get, better than he ever thought he deserved.

“It’s weird to think he wasn’t here the last time we celebrated our anniversary,” Amy says, playing with the curls near Mac’s neck and using her newly acquired, already finely tuned, mom-reflexes to put in her son’s pacifier before he even notices that he spat it out. “It feels like he’s always been.”

“He was growing inside of you,” Jake corrects her. “But yeah. From a tiny little bump to a fully-fledged human. Or fully-fledged baby, at least.”

“Yeah.” Amy smiles. “You know, there are some days when I miss going out on nice dates, or sleeping through the night, or looking a little more put together than this,” she gestures to her uneven messy bun and oversized pajama pants, “but even on the hard days, like today, it’s still better than when he wasn’t here. So I guess, even with the canceled dinner, this is still my favorite anniversary.”

“I know. I think it’s mine, too.”

“Would you have guessed?”

“Guessed what?”

“Three years ago, when we got married - would you have guessed that this is how you’d celebrate your third wedding anniversary?”

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “Maybe? I don’t think I ever thought that hard about it. I knew I wanted the rest of my life with you, and then, well, you know how I felt about kids for a while; I wasn’t sure about the rest. But now… I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than here.”

“Me either,” she whispers.

“Would you?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Would you have guessed this?”

“Oh,” she says, pursing her lips and scrunching her forehead. “I hoped, I guess? I dreamed. But this is better.”

Sitting up straighter, she kisses him. It’s a little clumsy with Mac preventing them to get too close to each other, and it’s over way too soon when he starts whimpering and Jake is up on his feet again, bouncing his son slightly until peace seems to be restored.

“We’ll schedule another date, right? Once he gets better?” Amy asks as Jake tries to sit down again, Mac seemingly back asleep in his arms. “I know you say you don’t mind, but I really do want you to see me in something other than sweatpants at some point.”

“Sweatpants are like, my favorite outfit of yours,” he mumbles, and she gives him a surprised look. “But yes, definitely. Make-up anniversary date, as soon as our baby is healthy again.”

“Yeah. Happy anniversary, babe.”

“Happy anniversary.” He gets an idea, and even though he knows it’s risky when Mac literally just fell asleep again, he lifts Mac’s little fist anyway, imitating a voice that’s supposed to be their son’s before pretending to answer him. “Happy anniversary, mom and dad - why, Mac, thank you so much!”

Amy rolls her eyes at him, but she chuckles. Jake thinks that some things, no matter how much everything else changes, stay exactly the same.

#my writing #b99 fic #b99 fanfiction #jake x amy #peraltiago #peraltiago fanfiction #jake peralta #amy santiago #and i'm going with the timeline where mac is born in october 2020 so hence 2021 is their third anniversary #staying consistent #unlike the b99 writers

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everythinggeeky · 4 years

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Paper Rings | Bucky Barnes

Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: modest/innocent stalking lol, fluff, references to sex (sfw)

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: In a series of vignettes, you discover your recent relationship development with supersoldier Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier. From friends to more, in the most unexpected way.

masterlist

A/N: tag lists are open! This is part of my 5 Days of Oneshots! Based off Paper Rings by Taylor Swift! This is my first song fic, am I doing this right?

The moon is high like your friends were on the night that we first met

You were cleaning up the bar when you caught eyes with him across the room. He was handsome and put together neatly. His beard longer, but well-maintained; long hair swept back in a low bun at the nape of his neck. He wore a deep emerald green suit that complimented him nicely.

He raised his hand to take a sip of his drink when you caught sight of his metal arm. Was this the Winter Soldier? Seated beside Captain America, there was no doubt this was the man that occupied media coverage so many days throughout the year.

The Avengers were crowded in the VIP section of the downtown club that you spent so many hours working in. Sure, you were used to a variety of celebrity clients because of the upscale nature of the club, but the Avengers was a group that you didn’t expect to see on just any day.

Tony Stark had presumably dragged the team out for a celebration following the grueling mission that headlines the news for the last week. Their business was straining; surely everyone needed a drink every now and then.

But he looked stiff, uncomfortable, as though he was in a situation he felt he didn’t belong in. From what you knew about him, it could be expected that he would be a private individual. As America’s longest-serving prisoner of war, brain-washed by Nazis for nearly 70 years, the man had every right to abstain from social interaction.

When he happened to glance over towards you at the bar and caught eyes with you, you could only describe the connection as instant. When he realized that you met his gaze, he turned away, instead, shifting his focus to the rest of the group.

Went home and tried to stalk you on the internet

After getting off work that night, you sat curled up on your couch for the next few hours, reading and watching videos of the man known as the Winter Soldier. He matched the man you saw in the bar; metal arm and fiercely handsome good looks. The man was actually a ghost; one undercover social media account, but other than that, no trails of him whats so ever.

The wine is cold, like the shoulder I gave you in the street

Every once in a while, you passed the Winter Soldier, who you now know as Bucky Barnes on your early evening walks to work. New York was only so large, it was bound to happen at some point. You met his eyes once again, but you turned away quickly this time, walking into the bar for work.

Cat and mouse for a month or two or three

It had been a few months since you first saw Bucky at the bar, and he seemed to pop up everywhere. At the coffee shop that you regularly frequented before your shifts, grocery shopping, and every once in a while on the street.

One day, you confronted him about his incidental appearances.

“Hey- have you been following me?”

“Have we met before?” he asked, oblivious to the entire affair.

“No. But you were at the bar- 13 degrees- that night, with the Avengers. You saw me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember, doll. My apologies. Have a nice day,” he parted ways before continuing on his way.

Four days later, you walked into the coffee shop to grab your favorite vanilla latte on your Saturday off. The Winter Soldier was here, of course he was, sitting in the corner, sipping on a coffee of his own. After picking up your coffee from the barista, you walked over to him and took a seat across from him.

“My name’s Y/N,” you said bluntly, asserting dominance in the situation.

“Oh, from the grocery store,” he said, a tinge of confusion still hidden in his voice.

“And this coffee shop for the last three months. And on the street outside the bar.”

“I’m afraid I dont-”

You cut him off, “I know you’ve been following me and I know who you are.”

“I guess the game is up, huh?”

“Game?”

“Doll, I think you’re beautiful. I’ll admit, I’ve been trying to run into you for the last three months, just to get you to talk to me.”

“Is that even legal?”

“I promise I haven’t been watching you through your windows or anything like that.”

“Good.”

“I promise.”

You sat in the awkward silence for a few moments, unable to look back up at him.

“Would you like to come back with me, darling?” he extended to you, polite.

“I think I would, Mr. Barnes,” you teased.

Grinning, he picked up your hand in his gloved hand. Which he used to presumably cover his metal arm. He leads you back to the Tower, when you get there, a dizzying flurry of kisses with you pressed up against the wall and roaming hands quickly lands you in the supersoldier’s bed for the rest of the night.

Now I wake up in the night and watch you breathe

You rolled over to look at the clock, 4:35. You rolled back over to look at Bucky, sound asleep, bare chest expanding, and compressing with each breath. He looked peaceful here; it was hard to believe that this was the man that was so feared online.

Kiss me once ‘cause you know I had a long night

Your meetings and hookups became more frequent, Bucky coming to your apartment, and him inviting you over again. After long shifts at the bar, Bucky would be the one to keep you company. One night, following a seven-hour shift, he stopped by with dinner and a lovely bouquet of flowers.

He knew just how to cheer you up in the right way.

Kiss me twice ‘cause it’s gonna be alright

You and Bucky made it official after 6 months since meeting for the first time at the bar. He quickly became your best friend; knowing just how to make you laugh and keep you company.

Missions were rough; you were always stressed if he was going to make it back home safely to you. You made it a point to stop by the tower to kiss him goodbye before he left.

Today, he boarded the quinjet with Steve and Sam, stopping at the foot of the ramp to say goodbye. You held his chin in your hands and leaned in to peck his lips one last time.

“Come back home, soldier.”

“Every time, darling,” he grinned, before kissing you again, confirming that he was going to come back home to you again.

Three times ‘cause I’ve waited my whole life

When he finally landed on U.S. soil after two weeks of fighting, you were there on arrival. You stood in the landing pad, waiting to see your soldier walk off the very ramp he walked up just a few weeks ago.

He came down with a slight limp and a heavy bruise across his cheek. A slice across his cheekbone was repaired with a few bandages. You gasped upon seeing him, this your first run-in with the grave dangers of international crime.

He stumbled his way to you, and you embraced him in a tight hug. He grunted softly, and you backed away.

“I’m sorry, are you hurt?”

“Just a bit sore, darlin’. Nothing I can’t handle, c’ mere,” he said, pulling you back in.

You hugged him again, not as tight as before, tucking your head into the crook of his neck.

I like shiny things, but I’d marry you with paper rings

Admittedly, you had been self-indulgent your whole adult life. You attributed it to your growing up, with not much more than what your parents could afford to feed you and your brothers and sisters. Now that you’ve grown with your own job and career, you can afford to clothe yourself with finer clothes, accented by the occasional piece of jewelry.

Bucky took notice of this and spoiled you rotten. On your one-year anniversary, Bucky surprised you with a Tiffany necklace, a small heart pendant with a matching key.

“For you, because you have my heart in lock and key,” he said with a shy smile as he laced the thin chain around your neck, closing it shut.

“Thank you, babe, it’s beautiful. I love it, but you know you don’t have to give me these things.”

Darling, you’re the one I want

“I know, but I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this

Surprisingly, this had been the first time you muttered those words aloud to one another, but it couldn’t be more of the truth. Bucky had been a surprising introduction into your life, but you couldn’t see it any other way.

From some sort of innocent stalker that just happened to end up in the same places that you were for three months, to your lover. You were glad that Bucky Barnes was in your life. A protector, a friend, and so much more. He had filled the perfect space in your heart. And he was the key.

You’re the one I want

tagged: @kenobee @hxldmxdxwn @ilovesupersoldiers @jbarnesss @stephieraptorr

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader fluff #avengers fanfic #avengers fluff #avengers oneshot #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfic #marvel fluff #marvel oneshot #marvel fanfic #paper rings #everythinggeeky

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straykidsscribbles · 5 years

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For Who Could Ever Learn to Love a Dragon?

My one year anniversary fic- I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve written for Minho. Thank you to all of you, for all the support, patience, and kindness. You’re amazing. I hope you enjoy this, and my other works. My masterlist is in my description.

Summary: The mountain always looked terribly mysterious, and the dragon trapped inside was cruel and lost... never to be loved by anyone again.

Word Count: 9233 words, Beauty and the Beast AU, Minho x neutral reader

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a young prince. His name was Lee Minho, and he was well known throughout the lands as one of the most talented dancers of his generation. People would travel far and wide to come and see his performances. Minho received award after award, accolades aplenty, and adoration from all around him.

Unfortunately… the praise ended up getting to his head. And so, Minho’s talent morphed into vanity and hubris. People who had longed to learn from him or just meet him even were disappointed by his cutting words and cruel language.

A year passed in this manner, and Minho only grew more and more vain. He began turning away even the students that had studied under him for years and the teammates that he had once danced with. Minho grew single minded in focus, everything centering around the mastery of his art.

That is, until that fateful day.

Minho was practicing in his main studio, mirrors all around him so that he could analyze his own movements and perfect them as best he could. He was so engrossed that he didn’t notice one of the servants knocking lightly on the doorframe.

“Your highness?” the servant asked, trying to catch Minho’s attention. “There’s someone here to see you my lord. May I show them in?”

Minho looked up and rolled his eyes, turning away from the servant. “I’m busy. You have your instructions. If someone wishes to see me during practice, they can come back when I’m free. I’m not changing my schedule to accommodate anyone. Why on earth should I? I’m a prince after all.”

“My lord, you must see them!” The servant was getting more agitated, wringing his hands worriedly.

Fire flashed through Minho’s eyes. “Did you just imply that I am required to do something? Excuse me? Leave my sight right this instant, and if I see you again, you’ll regret it for the rest of your days.”

The servant bowed and backed away, cringing under the deadly glare Minho was directing at him, Minho turned back to his dance practice, stepping quickly into rhythm and letting the music float over him, carrying him with it.

Light footsteps sounded behind him.

“So, you really are as vain and horrid as they say you are,” a quiet voice mused from behind him. Minho whirled around, furious at being interrupted again.

“How dare you interrupt me?” he snarled at the black cloaked figure standing in front of him.

The figure laughed coldly. “How dare I? How dare you, Lee Minho? How dare you behave in such a manner to a witch with my power. Either you apologize right now, or regret it for the rest of your days”

Minho let out a scornful laugh. “Why would I, a prince, apologize to a stupid, ugly, pathetic old crone like you?”

And that was the last laugh that escaped his lips. The witch let out a snarl, smashing her stave against the stone floor of the castle. Curls of bright green magic spiraled through the air, filling the hall with the smell of acrid smoke.

“Your vanity has brought about your downfall young prince. I curse you to live as a creature befitting your ridiculous vanity—I curse you to be a dragon until you can learn the humility required to be human once more. You have until this flower dies to change your very being from the inside out, else you will be forced to take this form for eternity!” She slammed her stave against the ground three times, and a cloud of white vapor swirled around her.

When the vapor vanished, so had she. Only a pretty white iris lay in her wake.

Minho couldn’t concentrate on the woman’s disappearance however. Sharp pains suddenly wracked his body; the green curls of magic that had remained even after the witch disappeared wrapped themselves around him. He felt his limbs changing, his body growing longer and more lithe.

Then, his back began to burn. It burned as though someone had poured molten lava over it, scouring and puckering his skin even as he felt his shoulder blades growing longer and longer, until they became like a second pair of arms. He writhed in pain as his body twisted and morphed, until finally, blessedly, the world went black around him.

His final thought was only asking, begging, to know what kind of monster he had just become.

---

You pulled yourself up onto the kitchen counter, biting into an apple that you’d plucked from the tree outside. Today was your least favorite day of the month—departure day.

You and your brother Felix had been living together for many years in this town, studying dancing under a celebrated dance master who had moved to the country to establish his own school. The only real difficulty was in living so far away from your parents but having your brother with you helped deal with the loneliness.

That is, only when he was there. Which, incidentally, is what made this day so miserable. Felix would be leaving to go back home, while you remained to take care of your home alone—and while you took turns going back, the separation was never easy on whoever was left behind.

“Now remember, stay on the roads, and make sure you don’t wander! There are bandits and all sort of other dangers around here.” You instructed Felix.

He rolled his eyes as he pushed the last of his provisions into his bag. “I’m going to be fine you old worrywart. I’ll be back within the week, is there anything you want me to bring back?”

You thought for a second, mentally running through the list of items that you’d left at your parents’ home. “I think I left my favorite record at home, you know the one that we still haven’t come up with a choreography for? Bring it back with you, I’m sick of not being able to come up with something for it.”

“Anything else?” He pushed open the kitchen door to the yard, where the car was waiting.

“No, just hurry home soon would you?” Felix nodded and quickly started the car and waved to you from behind the wheel.

You waved back, ignoring the strange apprehensive feeling that kept fluttering in your stomach.

---

About a week later, Felix was driving as fast as he could in the pouring rain, trying to get home as soon as he could. The car had already made a few ominous noises, and he did not want to be caught outside in the storm, and that too on top of a mountain.

All around him, the wind shrieked through the trees lining the side of the road. Felix had even heard a few wolves howling wildly almost as though they were hunting for prey under the cover of the night.

His nerves were rising at every little sound that filled the small car’s cabin. He could hear every little creak of the straining engine, every whistle of the wind outside, every hair-raising, inexplicable noise that came through the windows and dove straight into his heart. The sooner I get out of this mess, the better.

Unfortunately, right as he had that thought, the car gave off a large splutter and died, smoke rising from underneath the hood. Felix groaned to himself, getting out of the car and over to the smoking hood.

He opened it, only to find more smoke and what looked like a battery that had shorted out from all the rain.

“Wonderful. This doesn’t look like I can fix it any time soon,” Felix grumbled as he went back to his seat and pulled out his bag. “Might as well try and see if there’s any caves or something nearby that I can shelter in.”

Right at that moment, a flash of lightning lit up the dusty country road. Felix glanced up and caught sight of a door cut into the side of the mountain he’d been driving up. He rushed towards it, disregarding the brambles that cut at his clothes and hands. Reaching the door, he pounded on it wildly, screaming for someone to open it.

No one responded. Felix’s cries grew more and more desperate in sound and he pounded a little harder.

And then, his fist caught on a hidden pressure plate in the door. It swung up without a warning, leaving Felix reeling and stumbling over himself as he entered the room behind the door.

That is, room was a bit of a misnomer. The area was enormous, with ceilings easily a hundred feet high and torches lining the walls wherever Felix looked. He shrugged off his soaked cloak and left it in a heap next to the door, moving closer to what appeared to be an enormous sunken fire pit in the center of the room.

Teeth chattering, he reached out towards the lightly glowing coals, trying to leech some semblance of warmth back into his fingers. Let me rest for a few minutes, then I can go back and try and get the car started again.

Those few minutes were enough though, and Felix’s eyes slowly began to droop shut, until he was fast asleep on the floor of the enormous hall.

---

“HOW DARE YOU WALTZ INTO MY CASTLE AND TREAT IT LIKE YOUR PERSONAL DRIP CATCHER!” A thundering roar shook the walls of the hall and Felix started awake, sitting up abruptly and almost hitting his head on something that had just appeared in front of him.

He blinked a few times, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes. “Wha- where am I?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

“You, pathetic little blob, are in my mountain castle. MY CASTLE!” The voice growled.

“I’m sorry, I only hid here to shelter from the rain. Please, forgive me for trespassing sir.” Felix doubted the apology would have any effect, yet he attempted it regardless.

“An apology is NOT enough. You dared enter; now you will never leave. Enjoy rotting here for the rest of your miserable life.” An enormous something came hurtling down towards Felix’s prone figure out of the middle of the air and scooped him up. Felix screamed at the sudden loss of solid ground underneath his feet. He hurtled through the air for a moment before crashing into a tiny nook about thirty feet in the air.

Felix figured he didn’t really have options aside from begging at this point. “Please, my family needs me! I can’t leave them alone! I beg of you sir, spare me and let me go.”

By now, the something that had scooped Felix up had gone back to the ground and was tapping the bag that he’d left near the fire pit. The contents of it soon spilled over the floor, and the something moved into the light.

Felix couldn’t stop the horrified gasp that escaped his lips as the light fell on his captor.

He was being held captive by a dragon.

A DRAGON. I’M DEAD. THERE IS NO WAY I’M EVER GOING TO ESCAPE. His breathing got faster, almost to the point of hyperventilation.

The dragon poked gingerly at the pile of items that Felix’s bag had contained. One in particular caught his eye- the record _____ had requested.

“You have a set of records but no instruments, only extra clothing and foot wraps. Are you a dancer?” The dragon’s voice had changed slightly in timber, an almost longing note lacing the edge of his question.

Felix gulped in a breath and replied in the affirmative. The dragon hummed thoughtfully, an utterly terrifying noise that shook the walls of the room slightly.

“I think I’ll keep this in my personal collection.” He swiped the record up and gingerly clutched it in one paw. Slowly, the dragon’s enormous wings spread, and he made to loft himself off the ground and back into whatever passages he may have been hiding in before.

Now or never Felix. You can’t let him take it. “Wait! That’s not yours! You can’t have it!”

The dragon cackled wildly. “Well, if the owner comes, we can discuss what happens with both you and your record. And you. It’s about time I had a dancer to perform my dances for me.”

And with that ominous statement the dragon lofted himself into the air, leaving gusts of wind in his wake that chilled Felix to the bone in his still damp clothing.

I hope _____ doesn’t come looking for me.

---

You frowned at the calendar. Felix was supposed to have returned two days previously, and he’d apparently left your parents’ home on time. Yet there was absolutely no sign of him anywhere, and none of the travelers from that direction recalled passing a boy around his age.

Needless to say, you were out of your mind with worry.

He was your younger brother, your responsibility, and you’d let him go off on his own. If I’d been with him, he might not have gotten lost. What if someone kidnapped him, or he got stabbed and left on the side of the road? What if he got enchanted by some witch? What if he-

You shook your head violently, trying to get the horrible thought out of your mind. Felix is fine, and I am going to go find him.

Mind made up, you quickly threw together some spare clothes, food, and money into a bag. Now that you had a plan, you felt slightly lighter, like someone had relieved the pressure weighing down on you. You quickly stuffed your feet into your boots and ran out the door, bag slung over one shoulder.

Hopefully the dance teacher will let me borrow his car if I say it’s because Felix is missing.

You stalked through the outskirts of town, walking quickly to avoid the somewhat sleazy gazes of the young men loitering in the alleys. It was the fastest route to the heart of town; a detour would only slow you down.

“Hey babe, how about you stop walking so fast? We’re just looking?” One of them called out. Another one whistled as he looked you over, eyes lingering inappropriately.

You ignored them, pulling your bag closer to yourself and walking faster, an angry glare painting your face. If those idiots even breathe on me I will scream bloody murder and claw their eyes out.

“Awww, don’t scowl like that babe, your mouth looks so pretty when you aren’t frowning.” The first one called after you as you stormed out of the alley onto the main road.

People. Finally.

You quickly knocked on the door of the studio, hoping that you wouldn’t be stuck outside for long. Within a few seconds the door swung open.

“____? Is everything alright?” your teacher asked, a worried expression clouding his face.

“I’m fine sir, I just… Felix is missing and he took our car. Is there any way I can borrow your car to go look for him?” The man’s face softened, and he nodded.

“I’d offer you tea or something but I’m guessing you want to leave immediately?” You nodded mutely. “Come inside, I’ll get you the keys and you can leave from the back entrance.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I just hope you find him safe and sound.” Me too.

Five minutes later you were cruising along the main road, eyes laser focused on the pavement in front of you.

---

Three hours later, your hands were beginning to hurt from how tightly you were clutching the steering wheel and you were almost sure that the second you took your foot off the accelerator it would cramp up. Pushing onwards with only willpower and desperation to fuel you, you began your steady descent down the mountain road.

You were on your way down the hill when you saw it. Sure enough, there was Felix’s car, parked at an angle to the road.

And it was empty.

You quickly pulled over and ran over to the car, searching wildly for any sign of Felix. Something, anything to tell you that he was still alive and not lying dead somewhere after rolling down the mountain side.

As you were examining the driver’s seat, you happened to glance up. The light was striking the side of the mountain at an odd angle, and you could almost swear there was a door cut into the rock with a path leading away from the door towards it.

“I wonder…” you grabbed your bag from the car and sling it over one shoulder, making your way up the path to the door. You scrabbled around on the smooth surface until your fingers caught on a latch and the door swung open.

A dark, empty space loomed in front of you, completely devoid of any light. You took a deep breath, and then stepped inside.

This is for Felix.

Almost immediately the door closed behind you, leaving you trapped in the darkness. The world was pitch black around you, making it seem like someone had trapped you deep underground.

The panic rose in your throat. Walls seemed to close in around you. A ringing began to sound in your ears. You’d never been stuck somewhere so dark before. Somewhere so utterly terrifying.

I’m going to die here, and no one will ever find me.

Suddenly, a crevice that spiraled all the way around the hall sparked to life, flames flickering and lighting the enormous hall in front of you. You immediately felt your breathing ease and the tension seep from your limbs.

And then, you saw the tiny, curled up figure tucked inside a niche on the other side of the hall. Bars covered the niche’s entrance, and all around you the walls loomed up in sheer black darkness.

“Felix!” you yelled, voice cracking in desperation. A narrow ledge connected the two of you and you clutched your way along the stone wall towards him, ignoring the steep drop below you. “Felix!”

He sat up, rubbing the sleep from tear encrusted eyes. “____?” You can’t be here, you have to leave!”

“I’m not leaving here without you! Do you have even the slightest idea how worried I’ve been? I was going mad waiting for you to come home. Good thing I did come, now we can get out.” You shook the bars roughly, trying to get them to swing open somehow. Come on, come on, open damn it! I can’t leave him.

Felix shook his head, pushing you away roughly. “Get out of here, before the dragon comes back. Please, I’d never forgive myself if you got stuck here with me. Tell Mom and Dad I love them, yeah? I’ll miss you.”

A sob escaped your throat as you turned to go back to the door. “I’ll get you out of this Lix, I promise.” Even as you spoke, an odd sense of foreboding filled your very soul. Why does it feel like I’ll never see him again?

“Just GO!” You shuffled along the ledge back to the door.

Your fingers scraped the smooth stone, trying to find the latch that would open the door once more from the inside. After a minute or so of frantic searching, your fingernail caught on a small latch.

And then, just as you were about to slip out the door, a thundering roar that shook you to your very bones filled the room.

“How dare you enter my home? Two intruders in three days, how lucky for me. Is this the one you begged me to spare?”

Wind rushed through the room. A sharp clicking, like metal clanking on stone floors, scraped your ears.

“Run _____!”

“Not so fast.” A paw reached out of nowhere and clamped down on your shoulder, before the paw’s owner took off. The floor dropped away beneath your feet, leaving only empty air below you.

“Shut up.” The voice said, setting you down next to the bars in front of Felix’s cage. “Now stay still. You have a decision to make.”

You couldn’t stop trembling. Every part of you shook with fear at what the unknown thing that had grabbed you would do to you.

Before you had a chance to blink and let your eyes get adjusted to the light, Felix was standing beside you. Chains were wrapped around his hands and feet, with another length holding him in place so that he couldn’t run to you no matter how hard he tried.

Taking matters into your own hands, you ran over to him, paying no heed to the rocky floor that threatened to trip you up. You pulled at the chains keeping him in place, but they wouldn’t budge.

A cold voice cut through the air, making your hair stand on end. “You have a choice now… run for your life and leave your brother behind with me…” A chuckle ensued as whoever the unknown speaker was saw your determined expression.

There is no way I’m leaving Felix here.

“Or…” the sly pauses the voice was making were just making you angry now.

“Spit it out!” you yelled into the darkness around you.

“You could take his place. I will let your brother go if you agree to stay with me for the rest of your life, in this place.”

All you could hear now was your own heartbeat rushing in your ears, faster and faster. What do I do? Take his place? Let him go.

You thought back to your home, to what awaited both of you. Felix had so much left he wanted to accomplish, so much potential that would be lost if he stayed behind.

I’m sorry Mom, Dad. This is for him.

“I’ll take his place.”

“No! _____, you can’t do this, I won’t let you! You’re insane if you think I can leave you here to pay for my curiosity.”

“Felix, this is my decision.” A small sparkling key came flying through the air and you caught it.

The voice spoke once more. “Unlock his chains and cuff yourself.”

You did as told, fingers shaking so hard you could barely hold the keys. You couldn’t meet Felix’s tear-filled eyes as you pulled the shackles off his wrists and tightened them around your own.

“I love you Felix, I love you and Mom, and Dad, and I want you to do everything you—”

The dark figure swooped down and grabbed Felix, carrying him up into the air and out of the light from the nearby torches.

The last sound you heard from your brother was his anguished scream as the little door in the side of the mountain closed, leaving you alone. The sound shattered you from within, breaking whatever reserve of strength that had held you upright while your brother was still there.

At least Felix is safe, you tried to reassure yourself. At least it’s me trapped here and not him.

It hit you then that you really were trapped.

With only the monster for company.

At long last, the figure you’d seen swooping around came into full view.

Glittering dark green scales covered a lithe, muscular body. Spines that glowed with some sort of inner fire lined his back and neck, sharp as knives. The creature’s front paws had long claws over six inches long. Along his back you could make out folds of green leather, which had to be wings. A barbed tail curled around him almost like a cat’s would, swishing back and forth as the dragon, for that was what stood before you, breathed in and out. Steam rose from his nostrils, and rich dark eyes twinkled in the light of the torches.

Those eyes looked almost human in nature. Warm and mischievous rather than cold and unyieldingly cruel the way you’d expected.

“Well? Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Do you want to stay in that cell where your brother was?” The dragon’s voice was surprisingly soft given his horrifying appearance. It was loud and deep, yes, but it had a lyrical quality to it that contradicted the sharp fangs that were just visible in the corners of his mouth.

“Answer me! Do you have a name?”

“____.” You hid the waver threatening to make itself known. “I want to leave this hellhole of a cavern and get back to daylight.”

“Daylight?” the dragon mocked. “You think you deserve to see daylight, little one? After sneaking into my castle? You’re staying right here, my preciousssss.”

The dragon’s hiss sent shivers up your spine. Even his voice is terrifying. It’s like ice and poison and corrosive acid all at once—

“Now then, _____. Do you want to stay in the cell, or are you going to cooperate and let me take you to your new room?”

“Do I even have a choice?” Doubt it. He clearly has his own ideas over what to do with me.

“Cell it is then.” You cringed away as the dragon’s cruel claws came close to your shoulder.

“Room, please!” I can’t handle being carried by those daggers one more time.

“So, you can be reasonable. What a surprise. Come.” The dragon clicked down a hallway that had yet gone unnoticed by you in the corner of the large cavern. You followed, unsure as to how to respond to the twelve-foot-long dragon. Yet another thing no one ever told me how to deal with. I just hope Felix is safe.

Three corridors, two sets of double doors, and four large halls later, the dragon pushed open a large gilt door.

“This is your room. You will be joining me for dinner in the dining room in one hour.” He spoke curtly, with a careless, disdainful glance at you.

“What if I choose not to?” Might as well test my boundaries.

“That was an order, not a request.”

And with those words, the dragon turned, tail whipping through the air behind him and almost hitting you in the face. With no other alternative, you entered the room, slamming the door shut behind you with a clang that echoed through the hollowed-out mountain castle.

With little else to do, you threw yourself onto the bed and began to sob. You were trapped, in the middle of nowhere, with only a monstrous dragon for company. And even the finery around you couldn’t disguise the fact that you were a prisoner, in a gilded cage.

Golden bars were still bars after all.

---

Minho clicked down the halls back to wing where his old rooms used to be. He’d long since outgrown the bed he’d occupied as a child; now he simply had knocked down half the walls and turned the space into a very messy nest, with bundles of items lying all over the place.

Just because his claws couldn’t wrap the fabric properly didn’t mean he couldn’t order the servants to do it for him.

Speaking of servants, where were they? He mused as he settled down into the nest of soft blankets. Intimidating people really was a full-time job.

His eyes began to droop slowly shut, only to slam open as a small candlestick began jumping up and down on top of his scaled back.

“Prince Minho! Wake up! Who’s the person in the guest wing? Is it the one? Will they break the curse? Are they cute?”

Minho rolled onto his other side, flicking his wing to try and get him off. “Go away Jisung. Make sure ____ is down for dinner on time and tell Chan he has to make sure dinner tastes good.”

“Ooooh, trying to impress ____? Your new consort has a pretty name. You better behave well with them. No temper tantrums, and woo them properly, that’s the best way to get them to break the curse.”

“Would you shut up? I need a nap.” Jisung had veered uncomfortably close to the truth. Minho did hope that ____ would be the one to break the curse, but he also didn’t want to hope.

If he had hope, the chances of being hurt when he was trapped as a dragon forever would only be more painful.

As it is, he only had about half a year left before the curse became permanent.

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice Jisung leaving the room and going to meet Changbin outside.

“Is he alright?” Changbin asked, hands whirring worriedly on his face.

“I don’t know Binnie-hyung. I don’t know. Let’s just get things together and try and welcome our guest. It’s all we can do it this point.

---

You looked up at the knock that reverberated throughout your new room.

“Go. Away. I don’t want to see your scaly face,” you hissed at the door.

“It’s dinner time. Your presence is required.”

“Fuck off!” Something inside you snapped. “Do you think I’m going to sit and politely eat opposite the dragon that kidnapped my brother and blackmailed me?”

A loud huff came from the other side of the door. “If you don’t come and eat with me, you won’t be eating at all.”

“Good riddance! I don’t particularly feel hungry after being manhandled anyway!” You yelled back, before picking up a large, heavy looking hair brush and flinging it at the door. “You can bother all you want, I’m not coming out.”

“Then rot!” The dragon stomped away, his heavy footsteps clanking on the ground heavily.

You let out a heavy breath, feeling the tears begin to well up once more. You hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t hungry. Right now, the only feeling in your stomach was one of nausea and horror, horror at what you were probably going to face.

Who knows what the dragon’s going to do to me when I refuse to leave at his order?”

Exhausted, miserable, nauseous, and ready to collapse, you curled into a tiny little ball on the surprisingly soft bed. You didn’t have much else to do, might as well sleep.

You’d need all your energy to try to escape later on.

---

Your eyelids fluttered open after some time, feeling crusty and dry after your sobbing. You rubbed them carelessly, remembering the warnings your mother had always given you about your eyelashes falling out if you rubbed your eyes.

If I have a chance to listen to Mom nag me ever again, I’ll be the happiest person on earth.

You took the silence as an opportunity to explore your new room. A few shelves lined one wall, with various knick-knacks and decorations filling the space. Sheer curtains led outside to a window, surprising seeing as you had entered a mountain. Maybe it opens onto the valley inside. Like a castle courtyard, only the mountain and cliffs are the castle themselves.

A set of pretty wall hangings finished the other side of the room, along with a screen and a large wardrobe which seemed to be letting out a few large snores every now and then. At this point though, after seeing a dragon speak, not much would be startling you.

You went over to the wardrobe and poked it. It jolted awake with a shudder, blinking open carved eyes near the door.

“Oh, hello! You must be _____, the master sent me up to see to you. I’m Hyunjin, your new helper! We should get you into some night clothes so you can sleep, yes?”

You frowned. “I don’t want to go back to sleep. I’m going to explore and find the kitchen.”

The wardrobe—Hyunjin—opened his mouth to speak again, but you forestalled him by wrapping your cloak more tightly around you.

“Do me a favor and don’t tell the dragon?” You called as you slipped out the door. Hyunjin just stood there, unmoving in his shock.

Slowly, a little smile spread over his face. Maybe some challenges were just what the master needed to bring some light back into his life and spice it up a little.

Maybe Jisung and Changbin were right. Maybe you would be their salvation.

After all, you simply had to fall in love with a dragon. How hard could it really be to orchestrate that?

---

The answer, as Hyunjin, Jisung, Changbin, and the other plotters were soon to discover, was that it was really quite difficult to orchestrate two people’s falling in love with each other. Especially when one of those individuals was a cantankerous dragon who took no pleasure in anything other than brooding, and the other was an angry kidnappee who kept breaking things and sneaking around the passages to elicit a reaction from Minho.

Suffice it to say, things were not going well by any means.

And they were just about to get worse.

It was the middle of the night, and you’d dragged yourself out of bed, hoping that the late hour would ensure you wouldn’t be discovered. Lighting only a small candle, you slowly crept down the passageways back to the large cavern where you’d first met the dragon.

Tonight was the night you got out of this weird castle-cave-hollow-mountain-thing.

You tiptoed along, pausing at every slight noise you heard. Shivers ran up your spine and the little hairs on the back of your neck stood up. You had the distinct feeling that someone was following you, and yet when you turned your head, there was no one there.

Nervously toying with your fingers, you finally came up on the enormous cavern that you’d entered weeks ago. Slowly, you made your way up a narrow ledge to where the bars that had once imprisoned Felix now lay.

You tore your eyes away and forced yourself to look at the other walls, scanning for the slight crack that had unlocked the little door earlier. Fingers scrabbling against the smooth stone, you searched silently, hoping against hope that you’d find the door again.

And then, your fingernail caught on something.

Tamping down a squeal of excitement, you placed the candle on a nearby ledge, letting to soft light wash over your hands as they searched for the hidden catch within the crack. Within a few moments you’d found it and clicked it open once more. The door swung open, revealing a stormy night.

You tightened your hands into fists. I’ve come this far, no turning back now. You shoved the door open and slipped out the door, hiding your nose in your sleeve to protect it from the biting wind. You struggled down the path, steep as it was, until you came up on the road below.

Disaster struck.

Suddenly the air was filled with the sound of howling.

Only this time it wasn’t the wind.

This time, it was wolves.

Some sixth sense told you to duck, and not a second too soon. A large gray wolf sailed over your head, fangs snapping exactly where your head had been not a moment ago.

A scream tore itself from your lips. You curled tighter in on yourself, surrounded on all sides by slobbering, slavering wolves who regarded you with a cruel yellow light in their eyes.

I’m going to die here. I’m never going to see my family again, or breathe in the fresh morning air, or hear the applause after a performance. I’m never going to—

A roar split the air, and then beautiful emerald fire burned in a ring around you. The dragon swooped down from the sky and swiped angrily at the wolves, ignoring the snarling, snapping fangs and claws that slashed his scales away. He curled around your prone form, swiping away a wolf approaching from behind with one sweep of his tail.

“Get. On.” You did as told, too shocked to respond in any other way. Dying at the claws of your scaly savior would probably be less painful than being eaten by a bunch of wolves.

One of the wolves leaped into the air as the dragon took off and sank his teeth into the dragon’s left foreleg. You could feel him shudder in pain underneath you, but he shook it off, flapping his leathery wings and making his way back to the mountain-castle.

Huh. From this height you can see the towers and ramparts that the ivy grew over and hid. It’s actually a really beautiful structure. Clearly, the shock was making you a little loopy as well.

The dragon sank down in a courtyard with high walls all around it, at the very tip of the mountain. You slid off his back, preparing to complain about the cold ride and the fact that he still wasn’t planning on letting you go even though it was completely useless to keep you trapped there!

Then you saw the blood, surprisingly red and warm, welling up on his paw.

He did save my life… I guess I owe it to him.

You immediately knelt next to him and pulled the bleeding paw into your lap. Grabbing the corner of your cloak, you wiped it gently, trying to see how deeply the wolf’s teeth had pierced his skin.

Behind you, a little crowd was gathering. The servants were all staring as you tried to stem the bleeding.

“Jisung, could you get me some hot water? And maybe some towels, and some alcohol for cleaning this?” you asked, not taking your eyes off the dragon. If they’re going to stare, might as well be useful for a change.

“Of course, we’ll get them to you right away. Changbin come on!” the little candlestick hissed, yanking Changbin behind him. They soon returned with the items you had asked for and left without another word.

You finished wrapping the bandages rather haphazardly around the dragon’s paw. He was more awake now, staring at you with those rich green eyes and making you feel like you could never hide a single secret from him.

Stupid dragon. Dying might have been better anyways. It’s not like I even know his name.

“Get inside. Do you have a bedroom?” you asked, tugging the paw that had been in your lap towards the wall.

“Down the west hallway. First door,” he rumbled, rising from his prone position and entering one of the corridors. You followed, unsure as to where in the castle you actually were.

The dragon nosed open one of the numerous doors lining that hallway and slipped inside. The room was large—it had to be to hold someone so large—and it had pretty green and gold wallpaper covering the walls. A large pit lined with pillows stood in the center of the room, and the dragon fell into this now, cushioning his head on one of them.

“Thank you for saving me.” Some unknown force compelled you to speak. “I owe you my life… I know it doesn’t mean much but I am grateful Mister Dragon.”

“It’s Lee Know.” The dragon’s voice was so quiet you barely heard it.

“Lee Know? Like… the verb?”

The dragon—Lee Know—simply blinked and closed his eyes. You shrugged and turned away as well, ready to go back to your own rooms… if you could even find them.

Maybe escaping could wait until tomorrow night, when you were a little less tired.

---

“Are you absolutely sure about this? You don’t let anyone into your collection!” Changbin asked worriedly as he toddled as fast as he could to keep up with Minho.

“They’re just sitting there and gathering dust. _____ likes music and dancing, almost as much as I—well at least they’ll be used this way.”

“If you say so…” Changbin trailed off. “When she messed up anything and gets all cross don’t come crying to me.”

“Don’t you have clock-servant things to do?” Minho hissed, flicking Changbin with his tail. “Go away.”

Changbin snickered to himself as he made his way down to the kitchen. The others would want to hear this.

Meanwhile, Minho came up to the door to your bedroom and tapped lightly against it with one claw. He waited for a moment, unsure as to what your response would be.

To his surprise, you smiled happily at him and came out into the hallway as well. “It’s really lovely outside today isn’t it?” you asked, closing your door behind you. “Is your paw doing better?”

Minho was quite taken aback. “It’s—it’s doing a lot better thanks. I… I was wondering if maybe… you’d be interested in something to distract you, so you don’t have to spend all your time here bored.”

“Finally! I thought I’d go mad from just doing nothing! Where are we going?”

A small smile almost appeared on Minho’s face. “It’s a surprise. Close your eyes.”

You shrugged and did as told. If he’d wanted to kill you, he’d probably have done it by this point, you mused as you placed one hand on his neck and let him guide you through the maze of hallways.

“You can open your eyes now.” Minho’s voice broke into your thoughts.

Your eyelids fluttered open and you let out an involuntary gasp.

The room was full of shelves of records and sheet music. A large piano stood in one corner of the room, while the other side had a polished floor and long mirrors covering the walls. The room looked freshly cleaned, as though it had just been dusted the night before.

“Do you like it?” Lee Know asked, tail swishing nervously back and forth.

You threw your arms around his neck in a quick hug before turning to the shelves. “You have so much music in here, it’s ridiculous! I didn’t know so many pieces were available over here.”

“It’s yours.”

“What?” You couldn’t possibly have heard him right.

“I—I don’t have any use for them. Once, I might have, but now? It’s better that you have them.”

You stood there, gobsmacked, as he turned and left the room.

What was it about that dragon that kept surprising you?

---

A few months or so had passed since your failed escape attempt and Lee Know’s subsequent gift of the dance studio and music.

You were… strangely enough… almost happy. The only thing that kept ruining things for you was your constant worry for Felix. Already regarded as somewhat… odd… by the other villagers, you hoped he was alright.

Today however, was a special occasion. You’d spent ages coercing the dragon into trying to do a dance with you, even if it was just swaying in time to the music, and yet he had refused every time. He would spend hours watching you play or dance and never say a word, just looking mournfully at you with those sad green eyes.

Something about his eyes reminded you of royalty.

It was probably nothing.

But at any rate, today was the day you were going to manage it. You’d sent Jeongin along to convince him to come to the studio (no one could ever say no to the little teacup) and you had everything set up.

And then, the door opened, and the dragon entered.

“Excellent. You’re here! Now come on, today’s the day you get over your fears and you start dancing. It’s not hard, anyone can learn how to do it!” You pulled him over by the paw. “Now then, let’s get started. Here’s how you do a basic box step.”

“____, I’m not dancing.”

You turned to him and stared directly into his eyes. Eyes that shone like stars.

“You are. And that’s final. You spend all your time moping anyways, it’s about time you do something useful for a change.”

He rolled his eyes but followed, unable to say no.

“Hit it Jisung!” you called out, and the candlestick moved the needle of the record player into position. The soft strains of music filled the room, lifting you up a little almost involuntarily.

There was something about dancing that just felt… freeing.

“Okay, now then, one step forward, to the side…” you frowned a little. “You could look a little happier about it you know.”

“_____. I’m a dragon. We. Don’t. Dance.”

“Says who!” you placed your hands on your hips. “New thing. Let’s just put on music and you just… move in time to it.”

“____” he whined. There was absolutely nothing he could do as you switched out the records and put on one of your favorite pieces.

“Now close your eyes, let the music wash over you, and just move. Don’t think.”

Minho did as told.

And before he knew it, he could feel his limbs moving in time to the music again. The skill he’d lost as a child slowly came flooding back and even in his dragon body the rhythm and elegance were clearly noticeable.

He’s definitely trained. He has to be. Lee Know, who are you? You wondered as you watched.

A light push on the back of your knees sent you stumbling towards him.

“Join in ____!” Jeongin giggled from where he was pressed against Woojin’s side. The teapot turned to shush him, but the teacup simply giggled and turned back to watch.

You slowly stepped towards the dragon, analyzing his steps to see where you should join in. Almost involuntarily you felt yourself catching the tune and moving as well, weaving towards Lee Know and then moving with him in perfect synchronicity.

You were spinning in and out of each other’s paths, comets in orbit, never crashing. Simply spinning, spinning, falling, staring at those green eyes.

And then, the record stopped playing.

“Bravo!” Woojin let out a puff of steam. “That was amazing you two!”

You blushed heavily, but Minho’s reaction was far more telling. He simply turned and left the room, not even glancing back.

---

“I’m doing it and you can’t stop me!”

“Well we can’t but Chan and Woojin can!” Changbin yelled, jumping up and down on Minho’s back. “You can’t let your only chance at a normal life walk right out of here!”

“I also can’t keep _____ captive forever. They don’t deserve this life. I’m giving them the mirror and the ring.”

“On your own head be it!” The door slammed shut as Changbin stomped down the hallway.

Minho stroked a claw against the glass case that held the witch’s iris. The flower was dying, and he could feel his own strength deteriorating with it.

It was for the best.

---

You woke up to sunshine streaming into your window and warming your face as you lay in bed lazily. Something tells me today is a good day.

As you looked around, you noticed a small tray with two items resting on it sitting on the front of your dresser. You swung your legs out from under the covers and padded over, picking up the note that lay with it.

Put on the ring and say the name of the person you wish to be with three times, and you shall be with them. Say the name of the person you wish to see three times and blow lightly on the surface of this mirror, and you shall see them.

With these, I hope you always live happily.

Your freedom is yours, your life your own.

Thank you for giving me music again.

Prince Lee Minho, or as you better know me, the cursed dragon Lee Know

You sat down in shock, wondering if this was all simply a dream. My dragon was a prince? He gave me magical items that would get me home? What do I do?

Putting on the ring and slipping the mirror into your pocket, you whispered Felix’s name three times. A gust of wind swept around you and you closed your eyes tightly against the chill.

And when you opened them, you were home again.

And you could hear screaming in the yard outside.

“I’m not crazy! _____ has been captured by a dragon! Why won’t you people listen to me?” Felix yelled, fighting against the two men holding him steady.

I knew he needed me. I knew they would hurt him. Time to see if this mirror works.

You pulled it out and whispered “Lee Know” three times before blowing on it.

Nothing happened.

“Maybe you need to say Lee Minho,” came the piping voice of Jeongin from inside your pocket. You gasped and reached inside, pulling him out and setting him in front of you.

“How did you get here?”

“I snuck in when Prince Minho left the tray, and then I leapt into your pocket while you were reading. I wanted to see the world! Woojin never lets me do anything fun.” The little teacup pouted adorably.

“Well, first things first, let’s get my brother out of there. Show me Lee Minho!”

This time, the mirror worked as said.

Minho’s dejected face and sharp claws came slowly into focus, and you grinned to yourself. Perfect.

“Will you all shut up!” You yelled, pushing the door of your cottage open and holding up the mirror. “Felix is telling the truth! There is a dragon in the mountain, but he isn’t evil. He’s kind and sweet, and he’s the one who let me go!”

You waved the mirror around, showing everyone the image inside it.

And then, the mirror let out a howl. Minho appeared to be screaming in agony of some kind, barely able to stand as the pain wracked his body.

He sounds like he’s being tortured. What could have happened in just a few hours?

“The dragon!” “He’s evil!” “Look at him, screaming for blood!” “He must have bewitched these two!” “We have to kill him, to protect our children!” “To reclaim the mountain!” “Kill the dragon!”

“KILL THE DRAGON!” The crowd’s chant rose into a roar, and the mob shoved you and Felix inside your cottage before barring the door.

“We’ll deal with you later,” one of the younger men hissed, picking up a pitchfork.

Felix whirled to face you. “What do you mean, he’s kind and sweet? He was ready to imprison us!”

“Felix, you don’t understand!”

“Well, make me understand!”

You began relating the whole sorry tale. Your attempted escape, his gifts, the way he’d simply let you go at the end. As you spoke, Felix’s eyes softened.

“Maybe he isn’t so bad. But why is he screaming all of a sudden?”

Jeongin piped up from your pocket. “Woojin said Prince Minho was cursed. And that he had to get someone to fall in love with him, or else he’d DIE. Do you think he’s dying ____?”

You exchanged a look with Felix. He knew you better than anyone; he could tell what you weren’t saying.

“Fine. I’m coming with you though.” He reached out and took your hand, and you whispered Minho’s name to the ring.

A gust of wind later, and you were standing in your bedroom again.

“Wow, this is fancy!” Felix exclaimed, moving over to the window. “How come you got a cool room and I got a cell?”

“You were the one who got captured, dork.”

“Carry on.”

“We need to find him, the ring only brought me back here. I don’t know where he could be!” You slumped into your chair, head in your hands.

“I’ll go tell the others to prepare for an invasion!” Jeongin jumped down from your pocket and toddled outside. “Maybe Jisung or Changbin knows what to do!”

You turned to Felix. “Let’s start looking then.”

The castle was unreasonably enormous. Every other corridor seemed to branch off and leave more doors to be searched. Jeongin found you again with the others in tow, and upon further questioning it turned out that they too didn’t know where Minho was.

Hours had passed in vain, searching for the dragon of the castle, when a large thump sounded against the walls, shaking them.

“They’re breaking down the door!” Jisung yelled. “Come on, we’re going to hold them off. ____, it’s up to you to find the prince.”

You nodded and went the opposite direction. The flower… the image in the mirror… maybe he’s in the west wing? Or the tower? We hadn’t gotten there yet.

Taking the stairs two at a time, you clambered up towards the tower. Your breathing came heavily, forcing you to slow down if only to be able to breathe.

Outside the highest window, you could just make out the prone figure of the dragon lying curled up on the balcony. His head and arm lolled off one end, limp and lifeless.

“Minho! NO!” The scream was torn from your lips as you sank down next to him, pulling his head into your lap. “Please, wake up! You have to wake up!”

Minho’s eyes fluttered open, the emerald flames that had always sparkled within them almost dead.

“I’m done for _____. I love you you know. And if you love someone, let them go.”

Tears you hadn’t even noticed dripped onto his face.

“So I let you go.”

And then, the spear came sailing out of nowhere, and lodged itself in his heart, slipping underneath his arm. Even the balcony hadn’t protected him against the force of the blow.

A little puff of steam rose from his nostrils, and then you could feel Minho’s steady heartbeat fade away.

Sobs spilled out of you uncontrollably. “I can’t do this Minho. I love you too! Only I’m not going to let you go.”

And then, green curls of magic seemed to float up around him.

The swirls of smoke curled around the dragon, pulling his head off your lap and into the air above the tower. Below you the mob of villagers seemed to suddenly calm themselves, no longer in a murderous frenzy.

The air exploded with bright green light, and you flinched away involuntarily. What is going on?

And when you opened your eyes, a dragon no longer lay in your lap.

No.

The figure in your lap was a prince, wearing a simple green tunic and black pants. An emerald and silver crown adorned his head; thin green leather boots graced his feet.

And then, he met your eyes.

A tiny gasp escaped your lips. His eyes weren’t the emerald of the dragon you’d grown so used to seeing. They were warm brown, the color of chocolate, but the stars that had lain dormant in them before now sparkled in full glory.

“Well, ____, you can’t take it back now. You love me hmmm?” A lilting laugh escaped the prince as he sat up. “You broke the curse.”

“I might have done it sooner if you hadn’t been so rude!” You quipped, the reaction almost a reflex now from the hours spent bantering with him.

“You cured me of that too I guess.” He lowered his face a little closer to yours, and your eyes fluttered shut as he pressed his lips to your cheek gently. “I owe you my life, my love.”

You sat there, dumbfounded as Minho laughed a little at you again. He pressed another little kiss to your nose. “You fell in love with dragon me… I wonder how you’ll handle the craziness that is human me?”

Something inside you told you that it would be just fine.

Absolutely perfect in fact.

Anyone who could learn to love a dragon would probably have no issues dealing with a human. Even if he was a prince.

And so, our little ensemble lived happily ever after.

---

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epochxp · 3 years

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The 1980s – A Historical Wargamer’s Retrospective

Yes, I am doing a write-up about the decade that I became a wargamer, and not just that, but a historical wargamer and how a “kid’s eye view” of the hobby can differ from a grownup’s. This is going to be a bit more nostalgic than most of my pieces, but I wanted to discuss this because a lot of wargamers I know wistfully miss the 1980s. Let’s face it, there was a lot to choose from, and the gaming hobby was exploding as a whole. This won’t be every game I ever owned…heck, I can’t remember them all! But this is a way to describe the games that made an impression and are still meaningful to me today! Every wargamer has such a list, and I wanted to share mine, maybe to inspire new generations of wargamers.

So, where did I start?

I was eight years old in 1983. And though I was too young to recognize most of it, there were a lot of historical things happening - KAL 007, Able Archer, and the Day After. But for me, my most significant event of that year was none of those things. Instead, it was my grandfather doing something he came to regret later: He bought me a copy of Avalon Hill’s Tactics II.

Tactics II is an old game, it was 30 years old when I got it as a gift in 1983, but the truth was, Avalon Hill produced the game for years as an introductory game to get people into wargaming. And it worked. I played that thing to death as a kid. I am not sure I got even half the rules right, but I will say it taught me more about math than most math classes! That said, I was happy overall with the game, and I was hooked. (Incidentally, I also procured at one point the original Tactics 10th-anniversary edition!)

Well, as they say in the hobby, one game usually follows another, and before long, my mom bought for my 9th birthday the 1981 Avalon Hill edition of Battle of the Bulge.

To me, it’s still one of the best Bulge games around. I’m on my second copy now, and the game’s a lot simpler than I remember, but as a young man, I remember the joy of figuring out just how in the world the SS Panzers were going to cross the Meuse. I can’t say I ever succeeded, which is a good thing from a historical retrospective!

I soon graduated to more tactical games and more esoteric subjects, and for a while, was playing such games as Panzer Leader and Luftwaffe. Panzer Leader was a great game and still is, though I wish the guys at Compass or MMP would update it. I suspect they already have, and I am just ill-informed?

As I got older (11) and more into the tactical arena, I discovered the game all tactical WWII aficionados discover sooner or later? Yep, Squad Leader. I also discovered how much I loved Eastern Front games, especially Stalingrad (I think the Tractor Factory map in Squad Leader was probably getting worn out based on how many times I played it). Yep, I had all four modules, and one summer, I spent it playing every single scenario I had and then made up some for a “campaign” I made up for France ’40.

You’ll note that I stuck a lot to Avalon Hill. Yeah, that was pretty much the wargaming company back then, and I did a lot of World War II, but as I hit my tween years, I was about to discover…there was another and that there were other periods besides World War II! That year, I purchased and played to death NATO: The Next War In Europe and enjoyed it immensely. I even used it for a later school paper in Junior High!!!

1985 was a formative year for me. I discovered one of the substantial gaming obsessions of my life: Twilight: 2000. Now, the game isn’t historical (We haven’t had a civilization-ending nuclear war between the US and the Soviets, did we?), but it used then-real-life gear and postulated how things might look in the 1990s. I was hooked, and the company, Game Designer’s Workshop (GDW) became my new go-to company. I think the list of games I bought from them in the 1980s was staggering.

In short, I think I bought a lot from the GDW catalog, and I still collect what I can when I can (I didn’t list most of their science-fiction offerings as we’re not about that here at Epoch Xperience!) I will say beyond that, there were other games as well, as my Cold War Gone Hot obsession took over.

West End Games also had some good games on the topic, and I especially loved Air and Armor as well as Eastern Front Tank Leader (I’ve shamelessly stolen the C3 system from Eastern Front Tank Leader for my own miniatures rules efforts).

But as the 1980s waned and the Cold War ended, so too did my obsession with things Cold War Gone Hot. It wasn’t long before I discovered the joys of miniatures, with my first being a set of Airfix US Paratroopers and German Infantry, using Command Decision for the rules!

I eventually discovered like-minded friends through a little game called Battlewagon! That game was played to death by yours truly, and I even made a campaign for it too! (Yep, I was a game designer even before what I really knew what that entailed!)

That soon had me writing my own rules, entitled “Take Cover.” I can happily say the rules were influenced by way too many viewings of Cross of Iron by an impressionable 12-year-old. I still wish I had the photos of the game aftermaths!

The rest continues in the 1990s, also known as, “watch all the companies I loved go poof!”

At Epoch Xperience, we specialize in creating compelling narratives and provide research to give your game the kind of details that engage your players and create a resonant world they want to spend time in. If you are interested in learning more about our gaming research services, you can browse Epoch Xperience’s service on our parent site, SJR Research.

(This article is credited to Jason Weiser. Jason is a long-time wargamer with published works in the Journal of the Society of Twentieth Century Wargamers; Miniature Wargames Magazine; and Wargames, Strategy, and Soldier.)

#Wargame Miscellaneous #wargaming #history

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vidyasury · 4 years

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Number - 17. That's how many years I've been blogging. This month my blog vidyasury.com completes 17 years. A cherished sweet seventeen anniversary. I started my blog in 2003, writing my first post on 9 July. Little did I know that it would become a core activity in my life. Writing is something I've always loved, thanks to my Mom's constant encouragement. As I grew up it became a coping mechanism and kept me sane. I begin my day with coffee and writing for twenty minutes... anything that comes to mind. Sometimes it becomes a blogpost and sometimes it's a private venting. I will not rant in public. My blog was initially about random stuff... Life experiences, opinions, musings. Over the years I've become more focused and today, I write about personal development, self help, mindful living, parenting, travel, wellness, diabetes, books, food, and gratitude. I host the gratitude circle blog hop on the last Thursday every month (since 2014). You're welcome to join. I have a #wednesdaywisdom series on my blog with anecdotes, short meditations, stories and reflections. Incidentally, my health blog at @yourmedguide turns 12 this month. (I have 6 blogs). I write to collect smiles. I'm honored to say that I donate my blogging income to charities. Picking a tag line for vidyasury.com wasn't difficult. My mission is to create a positive space online and I always want to know... Did you smile today? My heartfelt thanks to everyone connected with me, and those I'm yet to connect with. Thanks again! #vidyasury #fmspad #fms_number #collectingsmiles #blogging #anniversary #instadaily #positivevibes #personaldevelopment #selfhelp #travelblogger #foodblogger #reflections #bloggerlife #gratitude https://instagr.am/p/CCsMgLwFgW7/

#IFTTT #Instagram

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illwynd · 7 years

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Fimbulwinter (10/10)

(AO3) (tumblr tag for other parts)

Fimbulwinter, the winter without end, has begun. The people of the village have somehow endured. But then one day, Thor, born at the end of the last summer, meets a stranger in the woods.

Note: This story was inspired by Terry Pratchett’s Wintersmith and Steeleye Span’s collaborative album of the same name. Listening to the song “You” has always made me want to write a thorki AU for it, so here it is.

Here we are at the end at last! I didn’t mean to make everybody wait so long for this, but I got stuck on final edits and then I looked at the calendar, and, well, happy equinox! (Incidentally, tumblr tells me today is also the 5th anniversary of my blog. So yay party.)

Many thanks to @gorgeousgalatea and @schaudwen for their help with this chapter, and thanks to everyone who has been reading. Hope you like the ending!

When they left that morning, his mother was already in the greenhouse, and Thor didn’t think he could bear to say what could very well be goodbye to her. He might not actually leave if he tried. Instead he spent a few minutes at his desk, the nib of his pen scraping across the paper, trying not to get too choked up as he apologized, explained, apologized again, all the things he needed to tell them and none of the words feeling like the right ones. None of them seeming like enough. Surely they would forgive him, though, when summer returned.

In the end he left the folded notes on the kitchen table, the house echoing with quiet around him, heart racing as he looked around at it all, the cupboard and the stove and the little jars of dried herbs, all so familiar and comfortable, and realized he was probably doing so for the very last time.

Loki followed his gaze, studying the space with mere curiosity, and Thor couldn’t stand it any longer. He grabbed Loki’s hand and led him toward the door. He kept his footsteps as quiet as he could without feeling like he was sneaking, a few more steps…

They were passing the door to the greenhouse when it opened and Sif emerged. It was only a moment before her face fell in horror, realization in her eyes as she glanced between them, at the pack Thor carried, at Thor’s guilty face.

“Thor, where are you going?” she asked, sounding choked, eyes wide.

And he could not lie to her.

“To the seer,” he said. “To ask how I go back to being the summer spirit.”

“Go back? Thor…”

“The winter will never end as long as I’m here. I have to go back.”

She shook her head, fervent. “No, you don’t! You don’t have to.” Her brow twisted with distrust as she gazed at Loki, who was waiting at Thor’s side and half a pace behind, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, making the floorboards softly creak. “You told me before that what you remember is being miserable for thousands of years. How can you want that again?”

Some little flame burned hot in Thor’s chest. “It won’t be like that now,” he said. “But even if it would be, I would still want to do this, because I’ll be saving you and Mama and everyone. I can put an end to this winter and bring summer back again. How much longer do you think our people can survive? And I can save them. I have to do this, Sif.”

Her fists clenched and she bit her lip.

And—after a moment—he reached out to take her hands in his, smoothing his thumbs over her knuckles until the tension eased out of her fingers. She was his oldest friend, and he studied her face as he groped for words.

“It will be alright, Sif. I will be alright. And… you’ll be able to do what you truly want with your life rather than forever working in the gardens. I know that was never what you dreamed of. Promise me, when summer returns you’ll do what will make you happy.”

Sif blinked a few times, rapidly, and tears sneaked down her cheeks, something he hadn’t seen since after her parents died.

“I don’t want this to be real. But it is, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s actually true, and you’re going to be gone.”

Thor tried to answer, but all he could manage was a shrug.

After a brief hesitation she cursed softly under her breath. Then she threw her arms around him and held tight until he felt the dampness soaking through at his shoulder.

When she stood back, her eyes were rimmed in red, and they flickered toward the door to the greenhouse.

“Should I go and… ?”

Quickly, Thor shook his head. “No, please, just… please tell her for me. Tell Mama that I’m grateful for everything she ever did for me. And tell her that I love her, and that I’m going to bring back the summer storms for her. And I love you too, Sif.”

Sif nodded once more, and Thor tore himself away at last, pushing quietly out the door with his heart in his throat, Loki trailing along beside him.

Out into the snow-covered lane between the taller drifts, tiny flakes pricking cold and wet against his eyelids, and he did not look back until they were at the edge of the village and the sight of the house was lost among the grey-white of ground and air and sky.

It was much different from what such a journey would have ever been before the storm. Much harder, much more treacherous. And though he had the winter beside him to help, that only made it possible, not simple.

Thor remembered the way. But everything looked different, and quite often the path he wanted to take proved too awkward, snow piled in mounded drifts twice their height or lying in peaceful slopes where Thor was sure steep trenches lurked below. It was a little easier under the trees where the snow had not fallen as heavily, but there he found even fewer signs of the path he had taken before, the route Mimir had shown him.

Loki had asked at first where they were going, and Thor told him all about the seer and his wisdom and how Thor had gone to ask questions of him before. Loki had listened, nodding along, but when Thor was done Loki had seemed just a little doubtful, uncertainty on his face.

“If he’s just a mortal, though, how will he know what to tell you?”

Thor shrugged. “How did he know you’re the winter? It doesn’t really matter, as long as he can.”

Thor wasn’t sure if that answer had satisfied, but Loki fell silent anyway and seemed to accept it.

As they trudged onward, that same silence reigned.

Thor crunched through the deep snow, feeling the cold in his toes, and trying to push down the swirl of his own feelings. There was anticipation bordering on nervous fear, growing with each step he took, and guilt clenching inside him. The memory of Sif’s face and the goodbye that he had not said to his mother. A feeling of loss, leaving his entire life behind, the hard, satisfying work of eking out survival in a tiny, isolated village in the endless winter. The weight of responsibility upon him and the sensation of thousands of years of memory that could not quite fit within his mind.

It was only bearable if he kept his mind off it. As long as he kept his gaze focused on the horizon, on his goal.

At night, that was harder to do. In the dim twilight they made camp beneath creaking ice-heavy boughs, the sound of wolves’ howls echoing in the distance, and by the time they bedded down it was far too cold to do more than kiss a bit and hold each other beneath the blankets. Exhausted and sluggish, with the chill in his bones, Thor would squirm and huff and shudder while Loki pressed against him, the mild warmth of his body welcome.

“Too cold,” Thor hissed through chattering teeth. “Under, under.”

With blankets pulled up over their heads, huddling together, Thor tried to sleep, but his thoughts were restless.

“You should sleep,” Loki whispered after interminable time had passed, his eyes anxious in the dark. He yawned, a gesture he had been imitating from watching Thor ever since he had learned that it was contagious.

Thor grumbled in reply. “I know. I’m trying.”

Eventually Thor did, surely, though it hardly seemed like it in the bleak, misty chill of morning, eyes stinging in the grey light.

Another day, and another… and a feeling that they would never reach their destination. Frustration building as he wondered how it could be so hard to find, and worry about what would happen if they never did. Pushing himself until he sweated within his coat and shuddered afterward in the bitter wind, because what mattered was that he didn’t stop.

Another day of nibbling a few bites, all of it seeming dry and tasteless, just to keep himself going, and trying to ignore the hollow, nervous feeling in his belly. His brother beside him putting a hand to his arm, and Thor tried to smile at him but felt like he was fooling no one.

Another night of lying down to the feeling of a grey dullness creeping over everything. It felt like it had been forever since he’d been warm, but he wouldn’t spare the time it would take to build a fire, and he didn’t have the energy anyway.

Thor slept, the bitter wind wailing outside, the cold working its way into the marrow of his bones.

When he woke again, it was to a silence filled with crackling, and to the feeling of Loki’s hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him.

“Brother, wake up,” Loki was pleading. “Come on, I’ve made a fire. You need to get warm. You’re too cold. Come on.”

It was hard to piece the words together into meaning, the sounds slipping through his mind like wet ice through clumsy fingers, but with difficulty he did as Loki coaxed, struggling to sit up and then to lever himself out of bed and toward the promised warmth.

When at last he did—after Loki had gotten him perched safely on a log, blankets tight and thick around his shoulders and the fire’s heat seeping through them—he realized that the wind had died down utterly.

Slowly, the greyness began to clear, letting color back into the world. The yellow-red of the flames, bursting in flares of bright blue-white where sap threaded through the branches. The brown of the wood, blackening before his eyes.

He flexed his fingers under the layers of blanket, a few stray shivers still jolting him.

He had always been careful before. Twenty years of stories of what happened to those who lost their vigilance against a winter night. Twenty years of knowing full well how quickly the cold could kill those who let it.

But when he turned his face to Loki, the guilt and dismay he saw there made his own shame fade into nothing.

“You didn’t tell me you were so cold,” Loki said, and it was odd for Thor to see the tears shining in his eyes. Yet another mortal action that Loki had learned in such a short time. “I didn’t realize until… your skin was like ice and you wouldn’t wake at first when I touched you. All I could think of was a fire. Is it going to be enough? Are you alright now?”

Quickly Thor nodded, and he was. He was already feeling much better. “It’s good. It’s exactly what I needed. It’s not your fault, though. I should have known too.”

Loki glanced away, shaking his head.

Thor sat there, unsure of what to say.

“Is there anything else?” Loki ventured. “What do mortals do to fix this?”

Thor thought for a moment. “Could you make me some tea?”

Loki blinked, eyes empty of recognition.

“Heat up water in my cup. Then… I have some herbs in my bag, you just put them in when the water’s steaming. Please?”

Instantly Loki obeyed, disappearing into the tent for the herbs, then perching the cup over the licking, hissing flames, watching anxiously until white tendrils began to curl from its surface. Bringing it to Thor, fussing over him.

Thor sipped it, the hot liquid feeling good going down, banishing the chill, making him realize how cold he still was. He sighed, shoulders drooping.

Out of the silence, Loki spoke.

“We should go back.”

Thor startled, fingers tightening on the cup, eyes flashing up to Loki’s face. “What? Why?”

“Because you should stay. I almost didn’t notice in time that the cold was killing you. If you come back, I'm just going to get it all wrong again. And anyway, your mother and your sister will miss you if you go.”

“Yes, they will, but… but that’s not the point,” Thor answered, brow furrowing. This was a hard enough conversation without the greyness still lingering in his brain. “Loki, it won’t be like that.”

“It will be. You were miserable for thousands of years with me. She said so. And you were happy with them. I know you were.”

Thor remembered those words, the echo of Sif’s voice. He remembered telling her that when he had first explained it. But it no longer seemed real. It had been a mistake, a misunderstanding, one he was forgetting with each hour he spent with his brother beside him.

“It’s not like that,” he insisted. “And anyway, I have to go back. I have to, to save them.”

Loki made a soft noise of distress, and his eyes gleamed in the firelight. His lip trembled. There was a very long pause that only grew longer, and Thor could feel his brother working himself up toward something. He could hear the shakiness of Loki’s breaths.

“Alright. I’ll help you. But then I’ll go.”

Thor frowned. “Go? Where will you go?”

Loki shrugged. “I can stay at the edge of the realms. I’ll keep winter there with me and it should be enough. Things will grow and you can save all the mortals and you won’t have to be miserable.”

“Loki, what are you talking about?”

Loki still wouldn’t look at him.

“I want you to be happy. And you weren’t happy with me even though I was happy with you,” Loki said, confusion in his voice as if these two things still didn’t quite fit together for him. “So I’ll go. So you’ll know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Thor could take no more. Though the cold air hurt his skin, he shrugged the blankets off his shoulders and tried to get up, which only resulted in Loki springing to his feet, horrified, and rushing to his side to pull them back over him.

But at least it meant Loki was close enough that Thor could grab hold of his hands, could pull them toward him, pressing them against his sternum, his heartbeat resonating through both their fists.

“No, you won’t.”

This was the cruel winter, who now couldn’t meet his eyes. The young man who had tried to bring him gifts though he couldn’t understand mortal needs. The lonely wanderer who merely wanted to look at him if Thor would grant him nothing more than that. Loki was all of those things, and now he was trying to sacrifice his own happiness for Thor’s.

The winter spirit Thor remembered would never have done that. Or so he had believed. But even if he had been right, it didn’t matter, because he was doing so now.

“I’m going back with you, and you’re going to stay with me when I do,” Thor demanded. “You said we fit together, and we do. You’re going to stay because that’s how we’re supposed to be.”

Loki looked uncertain, but Thor held his gaze, unyielding, trying to put all his determination into his eyes.

“We’re supposed to be together, and I won’t be happy without you.”

Loki stared back at him, brows drawn, and eventually he nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “If you mean that.”

Thor grinned and dragged Loki close enough to press a kiss to his lips.

Loki insisted upon him taking the rest of the day to recover, to sit warm and relaxed by the fire, to eat more than a few bites of food, and Thor didn’t really complain. He wanted their journey to be over with… but also, this would hopefully be his last few days of mortality. There was no point in not taking some notice of it, some enjoyment.

Each time the fire began to burn low, Loki would disappear, returning minutes later with another armful of sticks and broken logs, bark crumbling from them as he set them down with a muted clatter. He tended the little blaze—somehow under his hands it seemed like penned wildfire rather than the tamer hearth fires of home—and made sure that Thor was warm and comfortable. The weather also turned milder that day, the wind calm, the clouds a soft blanket above. It was almost pleasant. When Thor asked, Loki confirmed that it was his doing, a flicker of guilt on his face.

“It’s a little difficult, because I’m not used to it,” he shrugged. “I’m sorry I didn’t try before, though.”

“It’s alright,” Thor murmured.

The rest of the day passed gently, until they were lying down in the tent again, Thor feeling much better, the warmth of the fire somehow lingering. And a thought that had been brewing in him spilled out from his lips.

“There is something I will need your help with tomorrow,” he said.

Loki perked up, attentive.

“Do you remember when you said it was always easy to find me?”

Loki gave a nod.

“Do you think you could help me find the seer that way?”

Loki’s brows drew together. “You’re like a candle in the dark, you have been ever since I found you. But I’ve never even seen this seer of yours before. How am I supposed to know what to look for?”

Thor thought about this and wondered again how different the world really looked to Loki. How different it might look to him once he was a spirit once more.

“I’ll try, though,” Loki added.

“Thank you,” Thor murmured. “That’s all I can ask.”

When they started out again the next morning, they seemed to make good progress, Thor following where his brother led, Loki staying near him, protectiveness radiating off him.

Loki was just as quiet as before, but Thor was less impatient. The miles passed beneath their feet and never once did they cross their own paths or end up faced with impassable terrain. Loki would gaze out at the horizon, peering into the misty distance, eyebrows twisting.

They made camp early that night, again at Loki’s insistence, leaving enough time for him to gather up wood for another fire, time enough for Thor to sit in front of it a while before the need for sleep.

When they curled up together, Loki lay behind Thor’s back, arm latched around his middle, breath on his neck.

The faint blue moonlight seeped through above them, and Thor felt the occasional small twitch of Loki’s hand curled against his breast, like he wanted to be grasping something but wouldn’t.

“We’ll reach your seer tomorrow morning,” Loki said in the hush all around, lips brushing against Thor’s shoulder. “If we walk for an hour, we’ll be there.”

Thor’s heart thumped and his breath caught, and he felt himself smiling. “Will we?”

Loki nodded but said no more. And it wasn’t so cold that Thor couldn’t turn in Loki’s grasp to kiss him, wetly, eagerly, pulling his brother into his arms and feeling the sweet press of his body against him.

One more night and they would really be together again. But this was enough for now. And Thor held tight until sleep swept his eyelids closed.

The next morning, they had been walking for just over an hour when the sight of the shack rose before them at last, nestled into the same little valley amidst the trees, though now deeper in the snow.

This time, Loki gripped his hand as they approached it together.

Just like before, the seer let them in without a word and sat down before what seemed exactly the same embers, exactly the same fire.

“So you return,” the seer said when they had both seated themselves across from him.

Thor took a breath. “Yes. I need to know what I have to do to become the spirit of summer again. I know I must. And I’ve tried. But I don’t know how to do it.”

For a long moment, silence. Then the seer murmured his reply.

“The flesh does not wish to relinquish what it possesses.”

Thor blinked in confusion. “What does that mean?”

The seer then reached over and placed the palm of his hand against Thor’s forehead, pressing lightly in its center. “Your body must die for your spirit to be freed.”

An uncontrollable shiver traveled down Thor’s spine, and he couldn’t help glancing to his side, meeting Loki’s worried eyes, the firelight ruddy on his pale face. It made sense now that the seer had said it, and Thor thought he should have realized it before, but the idea was still frightening. He had died as a spirit, countless times… but he had never had a body then. This had to be different. He took a breath to calm himself.

“Is that all? Is there any particular way it must be done? Is there anything else I should know?”

The seer’s wrinkled mouth twisted, his dark eyes piercing into Thor’s. “You should know of your peril. There is a great danger in this, for your spirit has learned how to be mortal. It may have learned too well. There is a chance that dying will release you only to the world beyond, not to the realm to which you wish to return. There is a chance that you will die truly, and then all will be lost.”

Thor’s heart was in his throat. Its thumping was racing faster as the words sank in.

“So… what do I do?”

The seer wasn’t looking at him anymore, but instead to his side.

“He must be near to catch you. To guide you. He must be more than near, as close as can be—so near, his hand must be the one to release you, so that he can grasp hold of you as soon as it is done. And you must trust him enough to be certain that you will go with him gladly, no matter what tries to pull you away.”

Now the beating of Thor’s heart was painful.

Loki had to be the one to kill him.

They left soon after, the seer bidding them a solemn farewell, raising a hand before disappearing again into the shadows within and closing the door behind himself, and they were left standing alone in the snow, the white fields spreading out all around, empty and still.

They walked out into it, over the first rise of the land so that they were even more alone, and the whole time Thor was thinking of how they could achieve it. There was no reason to wait. He wanted to do it right away. Any delay would just be time for fear to take hold of him and make it all worse.

He tried to breathe slowly against the thumping of his heart. This was what had to happen.

And he had just opened his mouth to tell Loki what he intended when Loki instead spoke first.

“I don’t want to do this,” he said, voice thin and frightened.

Thor gazed at him and took his hands. “I know. But we have to.”

“No we don’t. Maybe I could just become like you instead. Then there would be no more winter either.”

For a moment, the idea struck Thor. He envisioned it all: a world with neither summer nor winter. With no change of seasons at all, merely an eternal in-between, and Loki becoming mortal within it as well…

He envisioned it for only a moment before the vision shattered. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he was certain in his bones that that was not an answer. That was not a world that could continue after their lives had ended. It would be the safer way for only a little while, and then… then there would be no way out at all. No one to bring either of them home.

He shook his head. “No. I have to come back with you. It’s the only way.”

Loki looked even more frantic at his resolve. “If I kill you, you’ll believe again that I hate you. Nothing is worth that.”

“I won’t,” Thor promised. “I know you love me.”

In a smaller voice, Loki went on. “But what if I lose you?”

At that Thor smiled, though the corners of his mouth trembled.

“You won’t. I trust you. I know you won’t let me fall.”

The ice-green of Loki’s eyes was watery and pale in the thin sunlight that reflected off the snow and filtered through the barren trees. His chest rose and fell.

“Are you sure?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” Thor nodded in haste. “Just don’t make me wait much longer.” And he told Loki his plan, the way he wanted it to be done.

When he finished, Loki reached out to run careful fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his face delicately, as if Thor were something fragile that he barely dared to touch. And there under the open sky, they embraced.

Thor had endured the cold all his life, lived with it and sometimes hated it and sometimes felt it was a part of him. The winter had almost killed him as a child, and a few times since. And it would finally do so now.

After a few moments, feeling barely able to breathe, he whispered to Loki that he was ready.

The cold flowed into him from Loki’s hands, and Thor shivered only a little as it took swift hold. It flowed through him, making everything seem to grow dull and fade slowly away, his eyes slipping shut, the scrape of cold lids a brief twinge. A sharp burn of cold throughout his body turning into a tingling ache, and then numbness. Even his thoughts froze, going sluggish in his head until they were completely still, but he was not afraid.

The last thing he felt—if he truly felt it at all—was a soft kiss upon his icy lips.

There was a moment of darkness. Of nothingness. Of absence. Something tugging him into a deeper, emptier dark.

And then a feeling like that of a hand around his wrist, catching him.

And then light, glowing and warm and filling him and overflowing, and he was rising, soaring, the dark pull sloughing away.

Freed, the summer spirit spread throughout the world again, borderless and powerful, like sunrise spilling across a golden landscape, his full awareness rushing back to him like air, like breath, and he felt joyous laughter all around him, realizing only after a moment that it was his own.

They had done it. He was back.

And his brother’s happy laughter was woven in with his, a sound like triumph. His brother was there with him, chasing him, swirling around him, within him. Touching with long, invisible fingers. Embracing as if in disbelief, as if he could not get his fill, holding tight to him, interweaving himself with him until the summer spirit could feel his brother everywhere, could feel his joy and adoration, his excitement and his relief. And there was a newness to it, something threaded into the touch that he had not felt there before.

He was so much more now than the mortal boy he had been, but he was not the same as he was before. He felt it all more deeply. The sensations seemed richer. Everything was more precious, each brief moment full of light.

The summer spirit became aware that the winter spirit was whispering to him, whispering into his ear as he glided against him. We will still have to fight, you know. We must. But it will be different now, I promise. In the spring, I can simply let you win.

The summer spirit smiled, with all the warmth of the sun and more happiness than he had thought he could feel. His brother was still strange to him and probably would always be. But now he understood, and things would be different. Things would be better. They would be better to each other.

Breathless with memories and love, he replied: And in the fall, I will submit to you.

We all felt it when the winter was over, heralded as it was by a sight none of us had seen for many years, though we did not immediately know what it was we saw.

The seer—none of us knew his name—was spotted coming into the village, a cloth-covered sled dragging behind him through the snow, ice crusted on its edges, and he hauled it by a rope over his shoulder through the lane, toward the house where Sif and Frigga lived.

Beneath the heavy fabric lay the body that we would bury later, the one the two women wept over then.

When their tears had dried enough for words, the seer was still waiting there, a quiet and unassuming form swaying slightly in the cold, hands shoved into pockets, and Frigga caught herself and invited him inside and put a kettle on. There are those among us who recall that she, who still kept the treasure of a little handwritten book of seiðr on her shelf (now with a note folded safe and secure among its pages), spoke to the seer for hours, and when their conversation was done her heart seemed eased.

We know also that in the days that followed, the first hints of spring came at last. The first warm day, the sun’s rays melting through the snow and turning it to little rivulets of clear, sparkling water. Most of what was uncovered was dead and black, the roots of all the little growing things decayed in years of winter. But life had endured, just as we had, and here and there the green things began to stretch toward the sun. In bare branches, a lone songbird sang.

It was strange how graciously the winter relinquished its hold upon the world. But regardless, the long, cruel winter was finally over, and the world had not ended. Perhaps it had been reborn.

In the weeks that followed, as the spring truly began to set in and it became more certain, the inevitable doubts and worries overcome, the young people who had never known anything but ice and cold ventured out more and more with awe upon their faces. The seasons to come would be filled with discovery. The scents of acre upon acre of rich dark soil and the things sprouting and growing within it. The sounds of a warm summer night, crickets chirping in the tall sweet grass. The healthy sweat of a day’s work in the height of summer’s heat, the breezes the only respite, a longing for winter with summer all around.

All of these things were yet to come.

And when the first summer storm hit some months later, the rain sheeting down warm and the thunder tearing the thick grey clouds, Thor’s mother was seen standing out in it, a smile on her face and her eyes far away, arms lifted as if to embrace the entire sky.

#thorkiedit #thorki #my fic #fimbulwinter

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aruneshgoyal · 4 years

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XIV. Relations Changing Like Clothes

What Salma aunty had married Akhtar miyan, her second husband, just for the sake of his money and wealth was a fact hard to digest and believe. Nobody could make out anything fishy or murky even as Salma aunty doted not only on Akhtar miyan but also his two sons – Nanu & Dadu. In fact, she had got herself operated upon so that she could no longer become a mother after her marriage with Akhtar miyan even as her first issue from her earlier marriage with Rustam master happened to be a case of miscarriage and consequent abortion.

Akhtar miyan was a close friend of Rustam master but soon developed differences with him, which took a turn for the worse on account of Salma aunty’ s advances towards Akhtar miyan.

Quite understandably, Akhtar miyan was far more handsome than the shabby looking Rustam master, but surely, this couldn’t be the only reason for Salma aunty’ s fascination for Akhtar miyan. Rustam master was just not manly enough and succumbed repeatedly before the pressure applied by his aged parents, who wanted a working daughter-in-law. On the other hand, Salma aunty was a good homemaker but was not by any means an extrovert personality. She remained aloof from Rustam master and his parents as she didn’t quite get their love or liking as she expected or desired from them.

Anyway, one day, as she was preparing the evening meal, Rustam master quietly came into the kitchen and tried to hug her. Salma aunty pulled away from him, asking Rustam master – “what has happened to you today? Has the sun changed its course and risen from the western horizon instead of the eastern one?” “Nothing! I just adore and love you” – was Rustam master’s cool reply. “Oh! So, you have realized what love is and even have time for love-making. This is your new game, I see!” “Whatever you say, jaan” – retorted Rustam master – “but, I do have a soft corner for you in my heart of hearts. In fact, I just realized how madly I’m in love with you!”

“Just keep away! These things don’t look good coming from an unmanly man like you” – was Salma aunty’ s reaction to Rustam master’s quip. “What did you say? I’m unmanly! I’ll just show you!!” – so saying, Rustam master tugged at her sari and removed it in a flash. Next, he caught hold of her and carried her in his arms to their bedroom wherein he cupped both her breasts with his two hands and slowly massaged them. Salma aunty just didn’t know what had come upon Rustam master, who in the meanwhile, had removed her black petticoat and white blouse as well. He made Salma aunty sit on the bed and stroked her curly golden hair. Very soon, he had undressed her completely and was now removing his own clothes.

Salma aunty still tried to get away from him but today, he was just in no mood to let her go in any way. And, then they made love, violent to some extent, but still love!

In the end, it was just the sort of love in which Salma aunty hardly responded and lay like a lifeless dead corpse and Rustam master had to do everything, leading from the front.

As it is, Salma aunty conceived but as mentioned earlier, it was a miscarriage more due to the role of violence in lovemaking rather than anything else.

After this encounter, Salma aunty became even more aloof from Rustam master, keeping to herself and talking in mono-syllables, if at all!

Akhtar miyan was peeved to see her condition and asked her casually if he could do something. Salma aunty literally broke down before him and recounted her entire tale of horror and violence, hearing which Akhtar miyan prevailed upon her to seek an immediate divorce from Rustam master and be his wife instead. The fact that she already had a strong liking and adoration for him helped to a large extent in this context.

Finally, when Akhtar miyan and Salma aunty were man and wife, Salma aunty was a happy woman. Not only was Akhtar miyan rich and wealthy but he was also not a coward before his parents and knew to differentiate between right and wrong.

Moreover, he was very caring and loving as were his two sons, Nanu & Dadu (names already mentioned) from his first marriage with Nayantara, who had incidentally died in a car accident about twenty years back.

At first, Akhtar miyan had found it hard to forget her but with time, the wounds had healed somewhat, and now with the arrival of Salma aunty as his second wife, his whole life blossomed and took a turn for the good.

Even though Salma aunty had got herself operated upon so that she no longer could conceive (and could give full attention and care to Nanu & Dadu, a fact that Akhtar miyan really appreciated), her sex life with the latter was good and healthy. In fact, in contrast to Rustam master, she used to pine for Akhtar miyan’ s love and company (there being so many servants and maids in the household, she hardly had to do any chores from morning till evening).

Very soon, the day of their first wedding anniversary arrived. Akhtar miyan had brought a special gift for her today, a gold necklace studded and glittering with diamonds all over!

Salma aunty was touched by the gesture and asked

casually – “it must have cost you a lot. Why do you have to spend so much? You could easily have brought a bouquet of roses for me and I would have been more than satisfied even then!”

“The necklace is not more costly than you, Salma dear” – retorted Akhtar miyan.

“Is it really so?” – quipped Salma aunty.

“Yes, upon my loving sons – Nanu & Dadu!!” – was Akhtar miyan’ s cryptic reply.

“Oh! You love me so much!”, commented a happy and smiling Salma aunty even as she slowly and gently placed her head on Akhtar miyan’ s broad shoulders.

“So, you are happy today, Salma darling. I’m also happy then”, saying thus, Akhtar miyan kissed Salma aunty full on her apple like cheeks and scarlet red lips.

Salma aunty responded slowly but surely, getting fully absorbed in the act herself.

Akhtar miyan, in spite of himself, just couldn’t control it today and proceeded to kiss Salma aunty all over – her shapely legs, her palms, her curves, her lotus like shining eyes, her ears, everywhere.

Then, he took off his pant and shirt and removed Salma aunty’ s salwaar-kameez as well.

He gently stroked her breasts for a long period at the end of which, they were both naked, taking off each other’s undergarments in a flash and getting ready for the final ‘act’ of the day.

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inezepez · 6 years

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☀️Happy summer solstice☀️ I used to dabble in poetry. This one I wrote 13 years ago when I woke up with the rising sun 🌻🌅⠀ 🐈Today incidentally marks Karel’s 6.5 year anniversary with my parents (see yesterday’s post). He may be in the winter of his life, I still want to celebrate his fiery spirit on the longest day of the year!🌻 .⠀ ▪️⠀ ▪️⠀ ▪️⠀ .⠀ #poetrycommunity #poetry #poem #poemsofinstagram #collage #summer #summersolstice #summersolstice2018 #litha #longestdayoftheyear #sun #wicca #sabbath #adoptdontshop #sunflower

#summersolstice2018 #summersolstice #longestdayoftheyear #summer #wicca #sunflower #poetry #collage #litha #poem #poetrycommunity #sun #adoptdontshop #poemsofinstagram #sabbath

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goaskmeanthingthings-blog · 6 years

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‘The Arrangements’: A Work of Fiction

By CHIMAMANDA NGOZI ADICHIEJUNE 28, 2016

The New York Times Book Review asked the acclaimed novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie to write a short story about the American election. A second work of election fiction — by a different writer — will follow this fall.

Melania decided she would order the flowers herself. Donald was too busy now anyway to call Alessandra’s as usual and ask for “something amazing.” Once, in the early years, before she fully understood him, she had asked what his favorite flowers were.

“I use the best florists in the city, they’re terrific,” he replied, and she realized that taste, for him, was something to be determined by somebody else, and then flaunted.

At first, she wished he would not keep asking their guests, “How do you like these great flowers?” and that he would not be so nakedly in need of their praise, but now she felt a small tug of annoyance if a guest did not gush as Donald expected. The florists were indeed good, their peonies delicate as tissue, even if a little boring, and the interior decorators Donald had brought in — all the top guys used them, he said — were good, too, even if all that gold yellowness bordered on staleness, and so she did not disagree because Donald disliked dissent, and he only wanted the best for them, and she had what she really needed, this luxurious peace. But today, she would order herself. It was her dinner party to celebrate her parents’ anniversary. Unusual orchids, maybe. Her mother loved uncommon things.

Her Pilates instructor, Janelle, would arrive in half an hour. She had just enough time to order the flowers and complete her morning skin routine. She would use a different florist, she decided, where Donald did not have an account, and pay by herself. Donald might like that; he always liked the small efforts she made. Do the little things, don’t ask for big things and he will give them to you, her mother advised her, after she first met Donald. She gently patted three different serums on her face and then, with her fingertips, applied an eye cream and sunscreen.

Continue reading the main story

What a bright morning. Summer sunlight raised her spirits. And Tiffany was leaving today. It felt good. The girl had been staying for the past week, and came and went, mostly staying out of her way. Still, it felt good. Yesterday she had taken Tiffany to lunch, so that she could tell Donald that she had taken Tiffany to lunch.

“She adores all my kids, it’s amazing,” Donald once told a reporter — he was happily blind to the strangeness in the air whenever she was with his children.

To keep the lunch short, she had told Tiffany that she had an afternoon meeting with the Chinese company that produced her jewelry — even though she had no plans. Tiffany had cheerily forked spinach salad into her mouth, her California voice too pleasant, too fey. Her wrists looked fragile and breakable. She talked about how much she loved Ivanka’s new collection; she talked about a vegan recipe, reciting details of berries and seaweed, as though Melania would actually ever make it. She played a recording of her singing and said: “It’s not there yet but I’m working on it. You think Dad will like it?” Melania said, “Of course.”

Now she found herself warming to Tiffany, perhaps more because the girl was leaving today. Tiffany was nice. Tiffany courted her. Tiffany acknowledged her power. Tiffany was different from that Czech woman’s children — she never disputed, with her manner, the primacy of Melania’s place in Donald’s life.

Not like Ivanka. Melania breathed deeply. Even just thinking of Ivanka brought an exquisite, slow-burning irritation. That letter Ivanka wrote to Donald after their engagement. She would never forget it. Congratulations, Dad. At least your ex-wife was pure. It lay carelessly on the desk, as most of Donald’s papers did, and Melania had read it over and over, and later, unable to control herself, had shown it to Donald. What does she mean by this? Donald laughed it off. Ivanka gets moody and jealous, he said. I am here! Melania had wanted to shout once at the girl, golden-haired and indulged by Donald, one summer when Ivanka joined them for breakfast in Palm Beach and did not once glance at Melania.

“Melania looks great, but we have to think about how to make her more relatable for the convention, maybe less contour makeup and her smiling and not squinting so much,” Ivanka said just two days earlier, at a meeting with Donald’s campaign team. Melania was seated there, next to Donald and part of the meeting, and yet Ivanka spoke of her as though she were invisible.

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Donald said. He always agreed with Ivanka. Ivanka who spoke in eloquent streams of words that meant nothing but still impressed everyone, Ivanka whom Donald showed off like a glowing modern toy that he did not know how to operate.

Remember, only praise for his daughter when he is there, her mother told her whenever Melania complained.

Her phone chimed; a text from Donald. I’m leading in the latest poll. National! Nice!

It was probably what he had tweeted as well. He copied and pasted his tweets to her in text messages. Once she had suggested he hold back on a tweet and he replied that he had already tweeted it. He showed her his tweets after he had sent them, not before.

That is so great! she texted back.

She sagged suddenly with terror, imagining what would happen if Donald actually won. Everything would change. Her contentment would crack into pieces. The relentless intrusions into their lives; those horrible media people who never gave Donald any credit would get even worse. She had never questioned Donald’s dreams because they did not collide with her need for peace. Only once, when he was angry about something to do with his TV show, and abruptly decided to leave her and Barron in Paris and go back to New York, she had asked him quietly, “When will it be enough?” She had been rubbing her caviar cream on Barron’s cheeks — he was about 6 then — and Donald ignored her question and said, “Keep doing that and you’ll turn that kid into a sissy.”

She forced herself to stop thinking of Donald winning. There was this evening to look forward to, with Donald and her parents and a few friends, food and flowers, the butler’s creaseless service, and the magnanimous ease of it all.

Barron had told her last night that he would not join them at dinner. “Too boring, Mom,” he had said in Slovenian. She missed his delicious younger days, when he was pliable and happy to go everywhere with her, when she would brush his hair and hold his perfect little body close and feel it almost one with hers. Now, he had an individual self, separate and wise, with knowledge of golf and video games; when she kissed him he twisted away. At least she had persuaded him to come down and say hello to the guests after they arrived.

She had asked the chef for a menu that was both “old and new,” and he suggested steak and watercress and quinoa and lobster and something else she did not remember. Her mother would like it. When she was growing up, her mother used the French or English terms for the food she cooked, as if the Slovenian would make them unforgivingly ordinary. She would serve a ragout for dinner, after a long day at the textile factory, her lips still carefully rouged, her waist tightly cinched, always striving, always trying to escape the familiar. A woman had to hold herself together, her mother said, or end up looking like a wide middle-aged Russian.

◆

The butler called her bedroom. “Miss Tiffany would like to say goodbye, Mrs. Trump.”

“Yes, thank you,” Melania said, and waited for Tiffany to knock on her door.

“I’m so sorry, didn’t want to bother you,” Tiffany said. Her blond hair extensions were distracting; too long and doll-like.

“No, no problem,” Melania said. “You look nice.”

“Thank you so much for everything! See you in Cleveland next week!” Tiffany said, hugging her.

“Take care.”

At the door, Tiffany turned back and said, “Ivanka donates to Hillary.”

“What?”

“I saw it on her laptop when I went over there last night. She uses a fake name. It’s the same fake name she uses to order stuff online. I thought you should know.”

Melania swallowed her surprise. Why was Tiffany telling her this? Around Ivanka, Tiffany was like an eager insecure puppy, as though she would not truly be part of the family but for Ivanka’s good grace — a grace that needed to be fed with loyalty and adulation.

So why tell her this? And could it be true? Tiffany was watching, waiting for a reaction. She was determined to say nothing, just in case Tiffany was reporting back to someone. She always suspected intrigue among Donald’s children — and she would not tell Donald about this, not yet; she would first discuss it with her mother. Whether it was true or not, this was a morsel to be saved, molded, used in the best way.

“I must get ready for my Pilates, Tiffany,” she said firmly. “See you in Cleveland.”

Donald called just after she ordered the orchids. He had some meetings, but his big event of the day was a luncheon organized by the Republican National Committee.

“How is it going?” she asked.

“Great. Did you see the polls, honey? Can you believe this?” His voice had an ebullient pitch. He still did not entirely believe this was happening — his lead in the polls, the new veneer of being taken seriously. She could tell from the disbelieving urgency of his actions, and from the way he flipped through cable channels and scanned newspapers for his name.

“Remember I told you: You will win,” she said.

She always tried to sound casually believing, as if the polls were merely incidental, and her faith had conjured his victory. But she was as startled by his rise as he was.

When she had first told him “you will win,” that balmy day in Florida last year, drinking Diet Coke in tennis whites, she had meant he would win at what he wanted: the publicity, the ego polish. It would help his TV show, and impress those business associates tickled by fame. But she had never meant he would actually win the Republican primary, nor had she expected the frenzy of media coverage he received. Americans were so emotionally young, so fascinated by what Europeans knew to be world-weary realities. They were drawn to Donald’s brashness and bluster and bullying, his harsh words, even the amoral ease with which untruths slid out of his mouth. She viewed these with a shrug — he was human, and he had his good points, and did Americans truly not know that human beings told lies? But they had followed him from the beginning, breathlessly and childishly. There were days when every television channel she switched to had his image on the screen. They did not understand that what he found unbearable was to be ignored, and for this she was grateful, because being in the news brought Donald the closest he could be to contentment. He would never be a truly content person, she knew this, because of that primal restlessness that thrummed in him, the compulsion to prove something to himself that he feared he never would. It moved her, made her feel protective. Even the way he nursed his grudges, almost lovingly, unleashing in great detail slights from 20 years ago, made her protective of him. She often felt, despite the age gap of more than two decades, that she was older than Donald. Her response to his agitations was a curated series of soothing murmurs. Be a little calmer, she told him often. In bed, she had learned to gauge Donald and know when he expected her to gasp. On nights when she did not have the mental energy to act, she would tell Donald, “It is not a good night today,” and he would kiss her cheek and leave, because he liked her air of delicate mystery.

◆

The butler knocked and brought her lemon water on a tray. “Janelle is here, Mrs. Trump.”

He did his characteristic almost-bow. He liked her, mostly because of how little she said, and how she encouraged an air of enigmatic formality.

“Thank you,” she said.

She applied concealer and lip gloss and highlighter, checked herself in the mirror. She had not worn makeup with Amy, her last instructor, but Janelle made her want to look attractive. After Amy moved to Los Angeles and recommended Janelle, Donald saw her — he was home on Janelle’s first day and said: “Really? I didn’t think they did that Pilates stuff. It’s not like Pilates is hip-hop or whatever.” She, too, was taken aback when she first saw Janelle, sinuous and small, skin the color of earth, locs pulled up in a bun. She’s professional and discreet, Amy had said. Now, weeks in, Melania wished that Janelle were not so professional, so singularly focused on straightening Melania’s feet, flattening Melania’s belly, and never saying anything personal.

“Hi, Mrs. Trump. Ready for the warm-up?” Janelle asked, her face, as usual, a pleasant mask scrubbed of expression.

“Yes,” Melania said.

Janelle was beside her on the mat, legs aloft. She smelled of grapefruit. Melania wanted to reach out and taste her — the smooth skin of her arm, her full, brownish-pink lips. She followed Janelle’s lead and wondered about Janelle’s life. Was there a boyfriend? Someone like her, dignified and quiet? Each time the Pilates session ended, she considered asking Janelle to stay for lunch, or just a glass of juice, but she feared that Janelle would say no.

“Oh, I must get a massage, for my thighs,” Melania said, tentative, desperate to say something personal and yet safe.

“A warm bath should help,” Janelle said. “Have a good day, Mrs. Trump.”

Melania felt deflated. Had she expected Janelle to offer to give her a massage? It was so silly of her. Had Janelle meant anything more by “warm bath”? She was trying to read what was not there. But she would not allow herself to be sad. There was the evening to look forward to.

◆

Her phone chimed. Another text from Donald.

Hope says fashion people are asking what you’ll wear to convention. Has to be a big name. An American designer. Have you decided?

I have three and will choose tomorrow, she texted back.

Donald had never taken much interest in what she wore. Not like Tomaz, her ex, who had picked out her clothes and liked the smell of her sweat. Why had she suddenly thought of Tomaz? Tomaz smoked thin cigarettes and walked the world in an existential haze of disapproval. After she was interviewed in a French magazine some years ago, Tomaz had sent her an email through her sister Ines. Now you have what you always wanted, you have forgotten Ljubljana? It had annoyed her and of course she did not reply. Unlike Tomaz, Donald was not a sensual man. But it was what had attracted her to Donald in the beginning: He was not a man who traded in complexities. After brooding, Sartre-quoting Tomaz, Donald came as a relief.

She checked the time. Donald would be done with his luncheon. She would call, to remind him to be back on time. He sometimes forgot himself at these things.

“The dinner party?” he said. “Of course I’ll be home.”

“You want me to wear those first diamonds?” she asked, light and teasing. It was their joke; the first time they made love, she had worn nothing but those earrings. It had also been his first gift to her, in a pretty black box, and he asked her to open it, humming with a need for her gratitude. He was not eager to please her, she realized, he was keen to be pleased by her pleasure. And so she gave in, thanking him, wreathing her face with delight, even though she wished the diamonds were bigger.

“Yes, wear them. I bet those beauties have tripled in value,” he said. “I have to go, honey, I’m meeting with the top five guys of the committee. They’re all dying to talk to me.”

She undressed and examined herself in the mirror. There was a new dimple in her thigh. Donald would say something if he noticed it. “You need to get these fixed soon,” he had said a few months back, cupping her breasts, and when he got up from bed, she looked at his pale, slack belly, and the sprinkle of bristly hair on his back.

◆

In the bath, sunk into scented foam, Melania settled down to read the latest coverage of Donald. There was a story about his money; they kept saying he did not have as much as he claimed to have. What did it matter? He had a lot. She glanced at the comments at the end of the article and the name “Janelle” caught her eye. The commenter wrote: Trump needs to modernize those ill-fitting suits, throw away the bottle of orange tan, get fake teeth that actually look like teeth and let himself go bald like God intended. How many Janelles were there in America? Of course it could not be her Janelle. Still, seeing the name excited her. It was unfair that people made fun of Donald’s hair but she could not help smiling, reading it, imagining her Janelle writing it.

There was a story about some of his angry supporters, displaying swastikas on their trucks, and she cringed reading it. Extremes of anything discomfited her. The day Donald announced he would run for president, she had been filled with light on their glorious descent in the escalator, eyes and cameras on them, and everything dazzling. Afterward, she escaped to the cool white of her bedroom, and lay still for a long time, and then looked online at the coverage. She loved the way her smoky eyes popped in the photographs. A heady sense of accomplishment suffused her. But she did not want too many more of those moments, because they shifted her balance, left her spirit vaguely disjointed.

She Googled herself and enlarged some of the photos. Why did some news sites choose the most unflattering images? It was deliberate. She was scrupulous about presenting the best angles of her face to the cameras, practicing the tilt to her neck that ensured a slim silhouette. Yet some photo editors were determined to use the few bad shots. They were jealous of Donald; nothing else could explain it.

She hoped Donald would not open her bedroom door tonight; this was the kind of day that he would come, exuberant and expansive from victory. It had been almost two months. The last time, he kissed her, eager and dramatic and sweaty as he often was — he hated her initiating things, “aggressive women make me think I’m with a transsexual,” he’d told her years ago — and then fumbled and shifted and suddenly got up and said he had a phone call to make. Only then did she understand what had happened. They did not talk about it, but for a few days he had sulked and snapped, as though it were her fault.

◆

Donald came home red-faced, his lips a snarl of rage. He ignored the butler’s greeting. Melania kissed him hello and braced herself.

“Can you believe these losers? They’re talking about 2020,” he said. He flung his jacket down on the living room floor and she picked it up.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Reince pulled me aside after the meeting. He’s a great guy, always nice to me. He said all the top guys at the R.N.C. have decided to focus on 2020, and put very little money and effort into my campaign. Like I don’t even have a chance at all!”

“It makes no sense what they want to do. You have many votes. Look at the polls. People love you.”

She knew how easily mollified he was by praise, but he barely seemed to hear her, consumed as he was, typing furiously on his phone. She hoped he would not hurl the phone at the wall, as he had done after a newspaper wrote about Trump University, after which he stayed up all night writing hasty, flagrant letters to journalists.

The doorbell rang and there was Ivanka, her face dewy as though she had not had a long day at work, lips crimson. Too crimson; Melania herself favored nude lipsticks. She imagined Ivanka sending money to Hillary Clinton’s campaign, using a fake name. Could it be true? What name did she use? Thinking of a fake name made her think of Janelle.

“Hey!” Ivanka said. A general greeting, but she was looking at her father.

“Ivanka. What a surprise,” Melania said.

“Ivanka wanted to come over to discuss this,” Donald said, glancing up from his phone. He was only telling her now. He would expect her to ask Ivanka to dinner and she would have to endure Ivanka’s polished voice, that fulsome surface that shielded cold metal.

“Oh, what gorgeous flowers,” Ivanka said. “Are they from Alessandra’s, Dad?”

“No. I used another florist,” Melania said. Ivanka’s admiration pleased her, and she resented Ivanka for it.

“Can you just believe these losers?” Donald said testily, impatient with talk of flowers. “They want to sabotage me!”

Donald admired in his daughter qualities he would not abide in a wife. Not that Melania minded, she told herself, watching them. Ivanka moved like him, loose-limbed. Like him, she was comfortable with display. Like him, she was always selling something. The difference was that you knew what Donald was selling; Ivanka left you wondering.

“It’s utter sabotage and unacceptable,” Ivanka said.

“I’ve got to hit back at these guys.”

“You do have to hit back, totally,” Ivanka said. “We have to figure out the best way.”

Why did she not calm him down? Melania was annoyed. Her evening would be ruined, Donald’s churlish mood would darken her dinner, and he would probably leave after the main course, without apology. He had done it the day after Cruz beat him at a primary, and they had been with guests that he had invited.

“I’m leaving the Republican Party. That’s it. If they’re going to treat me this way. It’s not nice. That’s it,” Donald said.

“But you need the party,” Melania said.

“This isn’t Europe, honey. You don’t know anything about this,” Donald said and turned back to Ivanka.

She would not be annoyed, not with Ivanka to witness it. Donald used “Europe” to belittle her sometimes, but he also used “European” as Americans did, like an aspirational word. European chocolates. European bread. European style.

“Can we set up a three-way with Paul and Hope in the study, Dad?” Ivanka said, looking amused. “Is Barron in his room? I’ll just go say a quick hi.”

Melania felt an unreasonable urge to get up and drag Ivanka back. You do not go to my son’s room without my permission!

If only Barron didn’t like her. It was Ivanka with whom he discussed tennis and golf.

“Look, honey, can we do this dinner another time?” Donald said after Ivanka left. “I need to think about this. These losers can’t do this to me. Your parents will be fine. They’re here most of the time anyway, and I can fly them back in if they want to. . . .”

He was still speaking, but she could no longer understand. A tightness had gripped her temples, her hands shook. “Donald, I want this,” she said. “We have not hosted my parents. It is 50 years of marriage for them. Their friends are coming. I have planned for one week. I want this today.”

Donald looked up astonished from his phone. She dug her nails in her palm and stared back at him.

“O.K., O.K.,” Donald said sighing. “Just give me some time to talk to Ivanka.”

He went inside, and a new elation settled in Melania’s bones.

They emerged half an hour later, Donald’s face relaxed, Ivanka laughing, pushing her hair away from her face, fondly indulgent of her beloved man-child father.

“We can’t keep letting them think you’re going to be Caligula when you become president, Dad,” Ivanka said.

“Whatever,” Donald said with a grin. He turned to Melania. “Honey, we have a plan. I announce two days before the convention that I’m done with the party. My supporters don’t care about the party anyway. It’s Trump they want. If I’m an independent they’ll still come to me. So that leaves the R.N.C. with one day to try and fix things. I’ll give them a list of my conditions, they need to show me plans and figures for how they’ll support my campaign, otherwise no deal. It’ll knock them down. Let’s see what they do with that!” He sounded gleeful.

Melania was startled. How could Ivanka have agreed to this? It would only lose him votes. His supporters were already with him, but what about the people who would vote for him only because of the Republican Party? Would that not turn them off? She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it. Ivanka had the smallest of triumphant smiles on her face. A well-oiled smile. Melania remembered that smooth smile at other times, when Donald insulted John McCain, when Donald boycotted a Republican debate. Ivanka always egged him on, never dissuaded him; she stirred the pot with her fulsome words.

But Donald was calmer and her evening would go well and her mother would be happy.

After dinner, she would ask Donald to come to her room, and she would be soft and subtle, and wear the jasmine scent he liked, and tell him Tiffany had come to her this morning, upset and crying, because she had discovered that Ivanka was supporting Hillary Clinton. She would suggest that Donald do and say nothing about it, hopefully none of the dishonest media people would find out, because of course it would be terrible if he had to publicly denounce his daughter, and Ivanka was so wonderful really, even though she was always telling the press how she didn’t agree with all of her father’s policies.

“Ivanka, will you join us for dinner?” Melania asked, knowing Ivanka would decline.

“Thanks, but I have to get back to the kids,” Ivanka said.

Melania smiled sagely. “Of course. Say hello to the family.”

The doorbell rang. Her guests had arrived.

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fatimakhans12345 · 7 years

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Speech by Federal Foreign Minister Sigmar Gabriel at the opening of the Global Forum on Migration and Development

Colleagues and fellow ministers, Ladies and gentlemen,

Welcome to Berlin! Welcome to the Global Forum on Migration and Development!

I am delighted that so many international guests have come here, including some with whom we have recently enjoyed close cooperation on many aspects of refugee and migration issues.

And I am particularly delighted that we, Germany, are co-hosting the Global Forum on Migration and Development with Morocco.

That is a great sign that we do not have two opposing sides on this issue. The idea that there needs to be north-south cooperation on migration issues and on establishing a fair migration system is, incidentally, not entirely new.

Forty years ago, a former German Chancellor adopted this approach: Willy Brandt, in his role as Chairman of the so called North‑South Commission. It was established by the Secretary‑General of the United Nations and is now approaching its 40th anniversary.

And if we look at its final report today, we have to ask ourselves self‑critically what we have actually been doing in the past 40 years. For many of the questions, and, by the way, the answers, are still relevant today.

I remember the words of an Indian Food Minister who once said to us Europeans: If you don’t manage to overcome the gap between rich and poor in the world, one day we will be sending you our children.

As it has turned out, it is not the Indians who have come, but many others. Yet the warning that we need a different approach to dealing with prosperity in the world – today we would say that globalisation should not mean wealth for the few but prosperity for all – that warning is not new but has been an issue for the international community for many decades.

The final report of this North-South Commission, entitled “North-South: A Programme for Survival”, recommended global cooperation in order to establish a fair system of “international mobility”, as the report terms it. We evidently did not comply with this recommendation sufficiently, otherwise we wouldn’t have to be discussing the same topic again today.

I believe that today, more than ever before, we have a mission, and also a responsibility, to ensure fairness with regard to international mobility.

A global responsibility shared by all players, as the United Nations 2030 Agenda makes very clear.

Ladies and gentlemen,

if we really want to establish a fair migration system, we first need to clarify what actually lies at the heart of migration.

At its heart is, firstly, an individual and not a state decision.

People make a decision to leave their country of birth, their homeland, and to put down roots elsewhere.

They do so because they hope to obtain better prospects for themselves or their children, or because they want to escape from dire need or inequality with regard to professional opportunities and income.

So we are dealing with millions of individual decisions, individual destinies and hopes for a better future.

These complex individual motives and pressures do not only clash with the realities of the societies in the countries of origin, transit and destination.

They also come up against their laws. And those mainly consist of things that are prohibited.

It is truly remarkable that significantly greater legal restrictions are imposed on migration than on the global movement of capital and trade, for example.

We want to take a look at this complex network of regulations and restrictions.

For what we need in order to make a success of migration policy are not only bans, but also regulations that allow us to use migration as an opportunity.

Not only for ethical reasons, but also to protect our own vested economic interests.

I say this quite clearly as the representative of a country that also struggles to acknowledge the positive aspects of migration in this context.

For immigration is vital for growth, and Germany in particular needs experts from outside the country, not least because the population is shrinking.

In Europe one of the largest experiments lies ahead of us: within a few years we will lose millions of people of working age. Yet our population will not shrink, because, thank God, people are living longer. That will be a major challenge for us as an industrialised country, and for that reason alone we should be discussing the issue of migration more openly than we often do.

The German Chamber of Industry and Commerce speaks of half a million jobs that already need to be filled. Eighty percent of small and medium-sized enterprises, which are so crucial for our country, are already reporting problems in finding staff.

Yet another point is at least as important: if we approach migration in the right way, it will, of course, also benefit our society.

I can see that quite clearly in one of the most visible results of European unification:

in my country even 20 or 30 years ago, migrants from Spain, Italy, Greece, the former Yugoslavia, Morocco, were referred to as guest workers. With the sentiment that they would be coming here for a while and then they’d be going back home.

Incidentally, the people who came here had the same idea. For example, the children of Turkish parents were sent back to Turkey with the words: You’d better go to school in Turkey, because we won’t be staying here long.

Today, the people who used to be described here as guest workers have long become part of our country. Some have become German citizens, others have not, but regardless of this they are an important, integral part of our country and have also enriched the culture of the nation as a whole.

Ladies and gentlemen,

I therefore believe that we need to completely rethink our approach towards migration policy.

Both internationally and in our own societies. And to this end all countries, whether countries of origin, transit or destination, need to be ready to review their own policy in dialogue with others.

Here in Europe we are sometimes very good at telling others that they need to change.

That being the case, I think we ought to take a look at what we need to do differently in order to establish a fairer migration system.

I therefore want to highlight three points that, in my view, illustrate why we need a different approach to migration in Germany and Europe.

Firstly, in Germany we have long been a country of immigration, so we should be able to control this process more effectively by means of an immigration act.

For Germany, too, needs attractive and modern regulations if it is to be a country of destination for migrants.

Such an immigration act could work with a demand-based points system, like the one in Canada. Whatever form it takes, it needs to provide a transparent, understandable and straightforward regulatory framework and link in with integration measures.

The reason for this is simple: without people from other countries, our society, and the European community will not stay as strong as it is at the moment.

That is why we need legislation to lay the foundation to help us view immigration as an opportunity for our country and not just a threat.

Secondly, our efforts to create a better migration policy cannot stop at our own borders.

On the contrary, establishing a fair immigration and migration system is a global task, as, indeed, is the responsibility to treat refugees with dignity.

No country can isolate itself forever. That is an illusion that nationalists of all shades keep propagating.

We therefore need to actively conduct this debate. For a just world with just migration will not come about if more and more walls and fences are built.

And thirdly, fair standards could perhaps also help us in the fight against human traffickers and people smugglers, who exploit the predicament of migrants for profit.

After all, if we want to counteract illegal migration, we need to create legal immigration opportunities.

I don’t want to spell that out in detail here, but transparent “migration options” counteract the impression that you can only build up a livelihood in Europe if you claim asylum on the grounds of persecution, even if you are not really in need of protection. And especially if you put your fate into the hands of human traffickers and thereby put your life at risk.

When legal forms of migration exist, such options create incentives for countries to cooperate with us more willingly in taking back their own citizens.

Ladies and gentlemen,

Those are just a few thoughts on what Germany, as a migration destination, should be doing.

Of course, the interests of other countries are shaped by quite different realities. Countries of transit and origin naturally have a different view of migration and its consequences.

That is why it is so important for us to tackle this issue together. To develop an even better common understanding and draw concrete conclusions.

With this in mind, we intend to draft a Global Social Compact here and to consider regulations which will be incorporated into the Global Compact on Migration in 2018.

These regulations should unite the needs of migrants, first and foremost, as well as their countries of origin and of destination.

Maybe some of you will prick up your ears when you hear the word “regulations” and once again associate it with barriers and bans designed to restrict migration.

That is not our goal. The call for more regulations for migration stems from the simple realisation that it is the irregular migrants who are usually exploited. They are simply not the winners.

That is why we need to establish a clear regulatory framework that is able not only to reflect the interests of the countries of destination in a one-sided approach, but which focuses on the interests and rights of all parties.

Migration should not be portrayed as a one-way street. Rather, development opportunities for the countries of origin also need to be outlined which show that we are not interested in a one-sided brain drain in an attempt to attract the cleverest people, but that we are concerned with fair principles, fair migration, as Willy Brandt called for in the North-South Commission.

I am well aware that this is a complex task. That is why conferences like this are so crucial. And that is why we need partnerships between countries of destination and origin, such as the one exemplified by Morocco and Germany through their Co-Chairmanship.

But also partnerships with civil society and the private sector. For this cannot be achieved by states going it alone – neither at national nor at international level.

That is why I am so pleased that all of you have accepted our invitation to come here today.

And for the Forum’s joint work on establishing a fair migration system I wish us perseverance, productivity and ultimately a successful outcome for all those involved!

Thank you for your attention.

from UK & Germany http://www.auswaertiges-amt.de/EN/Infoservice/Presse/Reden/2017/170628-BM_GFMD.html?nn=479796

#UK & Germany

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ricardotomasz · 7 years

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Such is life! Behold, a new Post published on Greater And Grander about Commencement to America's Film Students

See into my soul, as a new Post has been published on http://greaterandgrander.com/2017/06/commencement-americas-film-students/

Commencement to America's Film Students

USC families, and families of USC.

Students and faculty, faculty and students.

That should take care of everybody.

Well, I thought my razor was dull until I heard his speech. And that reminds me of a story that’s so dirty I’m ashamed to think of it myself.

Those words were said by comedian and movie star Groucho Marx, not at the dawn of cinema… let’s just call it the breakfast time of cinema.

He was a satirist and a scoundrel. A jester and a genius. Apart from Charlie Chaplin, he was the most notable and famous film star of the early 20th century.

He was one of my idols growing up.

Things to Keep In Mind From USC

Don’t believe the USC fantasy they sell you. My screenwriting professor, Eddie Di Lorenzo, a 70 year old Italian curmudgeon said, “At USC, they sell you the fantasy. They sell you the fantasy.” And he was right. People are gonna tell you when you graduate, the USC mafia will take care of you, and you’ll soar in Hollywood, and there’ll be unicorn parks, and people will fart rainbows, and you’ll live happily ever after. If you want to succeed in Hollywood, know that this is just a first step, down a long and hard road, and you are gonna have to work harder, longer, and faster than anyone else just to get in the door. Which leads me to my second point…

Always push yourself. Because if you don’t push yourself and what you’re capable of doing, no one will. No professor, no friend, no boss, will ever push you harder than you’re willing to go, so in order to climb that mountain, you’ve got to push yourself. That means volunteering. That means extra responsibilities. That means learning new technology and software. And yes that means sacrifice every once in a while. And if you can’t cut pushing yourself, then you can’t cut this town; a town filled with egomaniacs, narcissists, and people insecure about the fact that they shouldn’t be there, and that’s just me.

Learn how to budget. Budget your money. Budget your time. And budget your favors.

Reach Out! Reach out to other students in other departments. Reach out to working professionals. Reach out to students in other film schools. Because these college years are your time to grow, and no one can grow alone, and in the dark… well, maybe fungus.

Read. Don’t even buy a TV or an X-box until your junior year. Just read. Dive into books, and dive into movies. You’ll learn more reading about the lives of Sherry Lansing, Robert Evans, John Ford, and all the people who came before you, than by studying contemporary culture. If you came to college with them already, sell ‘em! And only take cash.

Fail! Don’t be afraid to fail. When you try things, you will stumble, and you will fall flat on your face occasionally. You know who’s failed lots of times? Me. I tried to get into USC film school three times before I was finally accepted, but with each rejection, I got back up, learned from my mistakes, and tried again. Because experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted.

Work in the real world, because no matter how expensive that overzealous grad student makes his thesis, it will never be as good as a real production. When I attended USC, I was constantly reaching out to production managers to try and get them to hire me for weekend shoots. Sometimes I worked on these productions for free; and I wound up never hearing from these fly-by-night companies again. Sometimes I worked for half-rate because I was green, and I wound up working with those people again. And sometimes I agreed to work for free, and got a surprise envelope of cash on the last day because I worked so hard. These gigs were good, bad, and ugly, but all of them taught me something new.

Start keeping an address book. When I started film school, I put every contact I had in an Excel spreadsheet, which was great, until I discovered software like plaxo, which updated real address books automatically. Keep a real address book, and remember birthdays, family birthdays, anniversaries, and form real relationships with people, rather than just touch and go business relationships.

As far as actual practical filmmaking experience, I can tell you this:

Don’t jump into production unless your story is good.

Don’t just try to be clever with your student films.

Don’t use a deus ex machina.

Don’t rent too much gear.

Don’t rent too little gear.

Don’t lose sight of what makes a good film.

Don’t stab people in the back.

Don’t try to make “Gone With The Wind” on every production.

Don’t take an opportunity to make a film for granted.

Don’t take it personally when people criticize you or your work.

Don’t try to emotionally manipulate the rest of the crew.

Don’t spend too much money.

Don’t be an asshole.

Just out of school, I got a job working for Penny Marshall, and I quickly learned about her passion for sports. I couldn’t understand it, because I had always hated sports. Too much energy for just a game. And then one day I realized, it wasn’t the sport itself, it was the accomplishments of the individual players. Everything they had to go through to get their brief moment of sunshine, was what she loved. As Larry Page, founder of Google said, “The best people want to work on the hardest projects.” And as Tom Hanks said in Penny’s film “A League of Their Own” “It’s the hard that makes it great.”

But some of you aren’t gonna take this advice to heart. Some of you are gonna walk through these next four years, or two and a half if you’re a transfer student. Not taking advantage of this time, not quite sure what to do, a little scared of what your friends or parents would think.

No longer a child, but not quite sure yet if you’re an adult, you have to realize that no one will, or needs to give you permission to become an adult. Only you can do that. So in that vain, everyone stand up. Stand up everybody, and raise your right hand!

And Repeat after me.

I do give myself permission…

…To manage my career and my life…

… To think critically and compassionately…

…To ignore my friends and family when they’re wrong…

…To follow my gut when I’m right…

… To learn the difference between the two…

…And to kick ass and take names, until the day I die.

Students of the Class of 2000, fifteen years ago I sat where you sit now and I thought exactly what you are now thinking: What’s going to happen to me? Will I find my place in the world? Am I really graduating a virgin? I still have 24 hours and my roommate’s Mom is hot. I swear she was checking me out. Being here today is very special for me. I miss this place. I especially miss Harvard Square – it’s so unique. No where else in the world will you find a man with a turban wearing a Red Sox jacket and working in a lesbian bookstore. Hey, I’m just glad my dad’s working.

It’s particularly sweet for me to be here today because when I graduated, I wanted very badly to be a Class Day Speaker. Unfortunately, my speech was rejected. So, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to read a portion of that speech from fifteen years ago: “Fellow students, as we sit here today listening to that classic Ah-ha tune which will definitely stand the test of time, I would like to make several predictions about what the future will hold: “I believe that one day a simple Governor from a small Southern state will rise to the highest office in the land. He will lack political skill, but will lead on the sheer strength of his moral authority.” “I believe that Justice will prevail and, one day, the Berlin Wall will crumble, uniting East and West Berlin forever under Communist rule.” “I believe that one day, a high speed network of interconnected computers will spring up world-wide, so enriching people that they will lose their interest in idle chit chat and pornography.” “And finally, I believe that one day I will have a television show on a major network, seen by millions of people a night, which I will use to re-enact crimes and help catch at-large criminals.” And then there’s some stuff about the death of Wall Street which I don’t think we need to get into….

The point is that, although you see me as a celebrity, a member of the cultural elite, a kind of demigod, I was actually a student here once much like you. I came here in the fall of 1981 and lived in Holworthy. I was, without exaggeration, the ugliest picture in the Freshman Face book. When Harvard asked me for a picture the previous summer, I thought it was just for their records, so I literally jogged in the August heat to a passport photo office and sat for a morgue photo. To make matters worse, when the Face Book came out they put my picture next to Catherine Oxenberg, a stunning blonde actress who was accepted to the class of ’85 but decided to defer admission so she could join the cast of “Dynasty.” My photo would have looked bad on any page, but next to Catherine Oxenberg, I looked like a mackerel that had been in a car accident. You see, in those days I was six feet four inches tall and I weighed 150 pounds. Recently, I had some structural engineers run those numbers into a computer model and, according to the computer, I collapsed in 1987, killing hundreds in Taiwan.

After freshman year I moved to Mather House. Mather House, incidentally, was designed by the same firm that built Hitler’s bunker. In fact, if Hitler had conducted the war from Mather House, he’d have shot himself a year earlier. 1985 seems like a long time ago now. When I had my Class Day, you students would have been seven years old. Seven years old. Do you know what that means? Back then I could have beaten any of you in a fight. And I mean bad. It would be no contest. If any one here has a time machine, seriously, let’s get it on, I will whip your seven year old butt. When I was here, they sold diapers at the Coop that said “Harvard Class of 2000.” At the time, it was kind of a joke, but now I realize you wore those diapers. How embarrassing for you. A lot has happened in fifteen years. When you think about it, we come from completely different worlds. When I graduated, we watched movies starring Tom Cruise and listened to music by Madonna. I come from a time when we huddled around our TV sets and watched “The Cosby Show” on NBC, never imagining that there would one day be a show called “Cosby” on CBS. In 1985 we drove cars with driver’s side airbags, but if you told us that one day there’d be passenger side airbags, we’d have burned you for witchcraft.

But of course, I think there is some common ground between us. I remember well the great uncertainty of this day. Many of you are justifiably nervous about leaving the safe, comfortable world of Harvard Yard and hurling yourself headlong into the cold, harsh world of Harvard Grad School, a plum job at your father’s firm, or a year abroad with a gold Amex card and then a plum job in your father’s firm. But let me assure you that the knowledge you’ve gained here at Harvard is a precious gift that will never leave you. Take it from me, your education is yours to keep forever. Why, many of you have read the Merchant of Florence, and that will inspire you when you travel to the island of Spain. Your knowledge of that problem they had with those people in Russia, or that guy in South America-you know, that guy-will enrich you for the rest of your life.

There is also sadness today, a feeling of loss that you’re leaving Harvard forever. Well, let me assure you that you never really leave Harvard. The Harvard Fundraising Committee will be on your ass until the day you die. Right now, a member of the Alumni Association is at the Mt. Auburn Cemetery shaking down the corpse of Henry Adams. They heard he had a brass toe ring and they aims to get it. Imagine: These people just raised 2.5 billion dollars and they only got through the B’s in the alumni directory. Here’s how it works. Your phone rings, usually after a big meal when you’re tired and most vulnerable. A voice asks you for money. Knowing they just raised 2.5 billion dollars you ask, “What do you need it for?” Then there’s a long pause and the voice on the other end of the line says, “We don’t need it, we just want it.” It’s chilling.

What else can you expect? Let me see, by your applause, who here wrote a thesis. (APPLAUSE) A lot of hard work, a lot of your blood went into that thesis… and no one is ever going to care. I wrote a thesis: Literary Progeria in the works of Flannery O’Connor and William Faulkner. Let’s just say that, during my discussions with Pauly Shore, it doesn’t come up much. For three years after graduation I kept my thesis in the glove compartment of my car so I could show it to a policeman in case I was pulled over. (ACT OUT) License, registration, cultural exploration of the Man Child in the Sound and the Fury…

So what can you expect out there in the real world? Let me tell you. As you leave these gates and re-enter society, one thing is certain: Everyone out there is going to hate you. Never tell anyone in a roadside diner that you went to Harvard. In most situations the correct response to where did you to school is, “School? Why, I never had much in the way of book larnin’ and such.” Then, get in your BMW and get the hell out of there.

You see, you’re in for a lifetime of “And you went to Harvard?” Accidentally give the wrong amount of change in a transaction and it’s, “And you went to Harvard?” Ask the guy at the hardware store how these jumper cables work and hear, “And you went to Harvard?” Forget just once that your underwear goes inside your pants and it’s “and you went to Harvard.” Get your head stuck in your niece’s dollhouse because you wanted to see what it was like to be a giant and it’s “Uncle Conan, you went to Harvard!?”

But to really know what’s in store for you after Harvard, I have to tell you what happened to me after graduation. I’m going to tell you my story because, first of all, my perspective may give many of you hope, and, secondly, it’s an amazing rush to stand in front of six thousand people and talk about yourself.

After graduating in May, I moved to Los Angeles and got a three week contract at a small cable show. I got a $380 a month apartment and bought a 1977 Isuzu Opel, a car Isuzu only manufactured for a year because they found out that, technically, it’s not a car. Here’s a quick tip, graduates: no four cylinder vehicle should have a racing stripe. I worked at that show for over a year, feeling pretty good about myself, when one day they told me they were letting me go. I was fired and, I hadn’t saved a lot of money. I tried to get another job in television but I couldn’t find one.

So, with nowhere else to turn, I went to a temp agency and filled out a questionnaire. I made damn sure they knew I had been to Harvard and that I expected the very best treatment. And so, the next day, I was sent to the Santa Monica branch of Wilson’s House of Suede and Leather. When you have a Harvard degree and you’re working at Wilson’s House of Suede and Leather, you are haunted by the ghostly images of your classmates who chose Graduate School. You see their faces everywhere: in coffee cups, in fish tanks, and they’re always laughing at you as you stack suede shirts no man, in good conscience, would ever wear. I tried a lot of things during this period: acting in corporate infomercials, serving drinks in a non-equity theatre, I even took a job entertaining at a seven year olds’ birthday party. In desperate need of work, I put together some sketches and scored a job at the fledgling Fox Network as a writer and performer for a new show called “The Wilton North Report.” I was finally on a network and really excited. The producer told me the show was going to revolutionize television. And, in a way, it did. The show was so hated and did so badly that when, four weeks later, news of its cancellation was announced to the Fox affiliates, they burst into applause.

Eventually, though, I got a huge break. I had submitted, along with my writing partner, a batch of sketches to Saturday Night Live and, after a year and a half, they read it and gave us a two week tryout. The two weeks turned into two seasons and I felt successful. Successful enough to write a TV pilot for an original sitcom and, when the network decided to make it, I left Saturday Night Live. This TV show was going to be groundbreaking. It was going to resurrect the career of TV’s Batman, Adam West. It was going to be a comedy without a laugh track or a studio audience. It was going to change all the rules. And here’s what happened: When the pilot aired it was the second lowest-rated television show of all time. It’s tied with a test pattern they show in Nova Scotia.

So, I was 28 and, once again, I had no job. I had good writing credits in New York, but I was filled with disappointment and didn’t know what to do next. I started smelling suede on my fingertips. And that’s when The Simpsons saved me. I got a job there and started writing episodes about Springfield getting a Monorail and Homer going to College. I was finally putting my Harvard education to good use, writing dialogue for a man who’s so stupid that in one episode he forgot to make his own heart beat. Life was good.

And then, an insane, inexplicable opportunity came my way . A chance to audition for host of the new Late Night Show. I took the opportunity seriously but, at the same time, I had the relaxed confidence of someone who knew he had no real shot. I couldn’t fear losing a great job I had never had. And, I think that attitude made the difference. I’ll never forget being in the Simpson’s recording basement that morning when the phone rang. It was for me. My car was blocking a fire lane. But a week later I got another call: I got the job.

So, this was undeniably the it: the truly life-altering break I had always dreamed of. And, I went to work. I gathered all my funny friends and poured all my years of comedy experience into building that show over the summer, gathering the talent and figuring out the sensibility. We debuted on September 13, 1993 and I was happy with our effort. I felt like I had seized the moment and put my very best foot forward. And this is what the most respected and widely read television critic, Tom Shales, wrote in the Washington Post: “O’Brien is a living collage of annoying nervous habits. He giggles and titters, jiggles about and fiddles with his cuffs. He had dark, beady little eyes like a rabbit. He’s one of the whitest white men ever. O’Brien is a switch on the guest who won’t leave: he’s the host who should never have come. Let the Late show with Conan O’Brien become the late, Late Show and may the host return to Conan O’Blivion whence he came.” There’s more but it gets kind of mean.

Needless to say, I took a lot of criticism, some of it deserved, some of it excessive. And it hurt like you wouldn’t believe. But I’m telling you all this for a reason. I’ve had a lot of success and I’ve had a lot of failure. I’ve looked good and I’ve looked bad. I’ve been praised and I’ve been criticized. But my mistakes have been necessary. Except for Wilson’s House of Suede and Leather. That was just stupid.

I’ve dwelled on my failures today because, as graduates of Harvard, your biggest liability is your need to succeed. Your need to always find yourself on the sweet side of the bell curve. Because success is a lot like a bright, white tuxedo. You feel terrific when you get it, but then you’re desperately afraid of getting it dirty, of spoiling it in any way.

I left the cocoon of Harvard, I left the cocoon of Saturday Night Live, I left the cocoon of The Simpsons. And each time it was bruising and tumultuous. And yet, every failure was freeing, and today I’m as nostalgic for the bad as I am for the good.

So, that’s what I wish for all of you: the bad as well as the good. Fall down, make a mess, break something occasionally. And remember that the story is never over. If it’s all right, I’d like to read a little something from just this year: “Somehow, Conan O’Brien has transformed himself into the brightest star in the Late Night firmament. His comedy is the gold standard and Conan himself is not only the quickest and most inventive wit of his generation, but quite possible the greatest host ever.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, Class of 2000, I wrote that this morning, as proof that, when all else fails, there’s always delusion.

I’ll go now, to make bigger mistakes and to embarrass this fine institution even more. But let me leave you with one last thought: If you can laugh at yourself loud and hard every time you fall, people will think you’re drunk.

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