Lonesome Transcendence

MKR Sun Wukong with a Timelord s/o

Part of this was inspired by a dream I had last night. Plus I've been wanting to write something with a little Doctor Who in it. As for what a Time Lord is... Basically they're a race capable of building machines that can cross through time and space called a Tardis. One of the many traits being they have two hearts instead of just one. There is a lot more but it isn't that important for this.

Maybe for a later headcanon. Anyway, let's get started. This can be gender neutral or preferred gender. Enjoy.

Earth, a great place for all sorts of strange stuff to occur. Being a Time Lord, you were usually dragged into any oddness both interesting and dangerous. A good chunk of alien species did not like your race.

You currently were in Taiwan, on your way to visit the temple dedicated to the 'Great Sage Equal To Heaven', Sun Wukong. Mythology being something you loved, always gleaming to find any possible truth from them. This particular one being something you really fancy.

Back onto the topic of good ol' strangeness. Apparently even a sacred temple isn't safe from bollocks messing with stuff they shouldn't. Someone running away with an artifact in hand as security followed behind, so you obviously tripped the thief.

Quickly catching the item, a peculiar monkey statue made of jade. All you did was blink before you found yourself deep in a forest. The jade monkey nowhere to be found nor any civilization in sight.

'For Hanuman's sake, you couldn't give me a chance to even try calling my ship! And I happen to love monkeys too. Such adorable mischievous creatures.'

Well, you weren't exactly alone for a while as strange creatures came out of the woodwork. Considering how the day has been going, the beasts attacking wasn't unexpected.

Good thing you had a pair of good legs and a Sonic Screwdriver! Using your trusty tool to set as many obstacles as you could. Set a bush on fire, clip any vines holding a large log and even pissing off a few wasp nests. Home Alone: The Hunted edition.

You found your escape route being a nice rickety bridge. It wouldn't hold the added weight from those creatures which is what you were looking for. Once halfway across you Sonic'd the ropes to the bridge.

The creatures plummeting to the chasm below while you swung across on the rope. Original plan had been to climb up using the stone wall as a foothold. That is until something fuzzy wrapped itself around your waist and you found yourself flying.

Looking up to be greeted by the face of a monkey like being. It didn't take long to realize who this is from the cloud underneath his feet and the golden band around his head.

Welp! Sun Wukong is apparently real which means you were in Ancient China. Teleported by a jade monkey to later end up in the arms of an (in)famous trickster god. Your kind of luck.

"Thanks for the save, Handsome. Would you be so kind to put me on solid ground? Negotiations don't really work well midair with nothing to stand on. Tried it once and didn't work out well for the other guy."

The Monkey King couldn't help but stare at you before letting out a chuckle. "I definitely like you." Best to have a possible friend cause knowing this stone monkey, the Journey To The West is guaranteed to be your next adventure.

Who knows? Maybe it'll help you find your way back to 2022. Whether by discovering a way to successfully summon your ship or get help by any magic being here. Might as well have some fun while at it.

And that's it! Just like the Doctor, the Reader doesn't really fight head on. Often using logic, cunning and their brain to handle problems especially with a Sonic Screwdriver.

Sonic Screwdrivers can do a LOT of stuff and are mainly defensive tools. This is the list as writing the whole thing would make this too long.

Until next time folks, I'll see back on the TARDIS for our Journey West.

Before I forget, this is your Sonic Screwdriver.

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter One; Lifeblood.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ and @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3

Trigger warnings; This is a slow burn story. NSFW comes later, but there is gory descriptive violence in this later on- I’ll tag the chapters with warnings-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilisations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it. 

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia. 

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

   ~  ~  🥀 ~  ~  

 Hampshire, England. 1816.

Winters here were always of the bitterest kind.

Everything hardened by frost. All of nature slaughtered and gnarled and made ugly by it. Everything deadened and driven away until yellow spring sunshine butters it all up. The ground wintry solid and as unyielding as the bite of stinging chill in the air.

Every loud footstep from under her cracked boots crackled and crushed with ice-crusted mud. Her treads echo off about her in the oppressive silence of the air.

Iris Ashton walked along the lonely pale road. The path ahead scattered with linen-white snow, thick like cloth, settling down in ghostly sprinkles - like fluttering ash.

Snow comes from a sky as thick and as soft as a eiderdown. Graphite grey smeared all over the horizon signaling the worst yet to come. Sky is heavy and blotted with it. Flecks already kiss and cling at her hair and her blue wool coat collar.

She can feel them land and melt on her cold numbed lips. Feels her raspy silver breath run them away.

The trees in the dark wood surrounding her on either side of the ribboning track and the pallid ground; stand majestic and strong. Like a darkly Prussian-blue swathed army standing silent attention. Frost crawls determined up their sturdy trunks. The horizon peeping through the trees is white, like a puff of spilt flour. The craggy black tips of the regimented trees scrape at the thick churning sky.

One hand laden with her heavy wicker basket. Hanging solidly down by her thigh. Handle creaking so under her glove from it’s heavy contents. Her elbow is locked straight and aching fully from the strain of it.

Mother had sent her off on one of her errands; paying calls to give some wrapped linen food parcels to the church. Cold meats and half-loaves of day old bread to give to the poor and needy. And on the way back she’d stopped and called for tea with her doddery great Aunt Lavinia. A more belligerent old dragon never drew breath.

Iris was her favourite of all the Ashton girls. All three of them. Unfortunately the lot of being the eldest and families general paragon of hope, fell onto Iris. Next was her sister Flora who is fifteen, and then there was Posy, at sixteen.

A whole compliment - a bouquet - of Ashton ladies. As the gossip columns always so proudly and wittily declared.

Iris was the level-headed, sensible elder sister at three and twenty. The one who was seen and never heard. The one with unremarkable grey eyes and fair skin. Her teeth were supportable, and her conversation was, well, fine, really.

She didn’t have dazzling honey blonde hair or a sultry head of brunette curls. Her hair was brown. Not chestnut. Not sizzling auburn blaze. Just. Brown. Like mud. Like bark. Like flat Turkish coffee.

The sensible Ashton girl, with eyes as dull as dust, and hair the colour of twigs.

She was pale, with a oval face and a stout figure that was passably pleasing. She had a fine bosom that some men liked to gawp at, and mother insisted she had a touch of child bearing hips. Which would strongly come into her favour when she’s married. As she had once said;

“Your future husband will be much delighted with such a valuable commodity, Iris.” Her Mother remarked once when she was a young girl and she was tugging and yanking her long hair into a plait ready for bed.

Iris can remember how badly she wanted to do something out of spite purely to ruin that chance. But really she couldn’t alter the shape of her skeleton with much ease.

Maybe she wasn’t a diamond of the first water. She’ll never be one of those girls who glide elegantly through a ballroom like a bevy of silk swathed swans. Preening, poised and primly perfect.

To her own mind and credit she was just - plain. Tolerable.

Adequate.

She is sometimes remarked to be too acerbic with her tongue, or her remarks. She’s certainly got a backbone and another quality that stumped men of the ton - a mind of her own making. She doesn’t suffer fools and she likes to venture that she is a blue stocking with a decent and level understanding of this world.

She’s sufficient- she supposed. Simply that and nothing more. She’ll never have poems written about her, or have a man declare he fell wildly in passionate love with her with one glance.

It suits her well enough. The fact that she looked like a dusty dull unrefined ornament next to her polished preening sisters. She’d rather fade into the wallpaper than be a dazzling spectacle of ridiculousness, like that of her two siblings.

Her simpering, inane sisters. Who flirt with any man donning a scarlet coat in the Militia. Flora and Posy, who worry obsessively about ribbons, and seek to pay no mind to anything, of any real consequence.

Iris is never one for fits of jealousy, but she is sometimes envious of their light-hearted puerile, worries. About making up their bonnets or, the next ball, or the most unbecoming stain on their new pelisse.

Aunt Lavinia greatly despised the merest sight and intimation of the younger Ashton ladies too. Iris is usually requested to go to tea with her Great Aunt, alone.

“Silly chit of a girl. The pair of them.” Was her relative’s most favoured and overused phrase.

She’d cackle it as one of her clawed elderly hands - talons - gripped her teacup. And she wouldn’t be happy until she’d griped and moaned and complained about every beast and man put on this earth. For they’ve all been put there with the sole purpose of vexing her greatly -Naturally.

Tea today was no different to any other occasion she pays a visit.

Iris sits with the sniping old matron in her freezing-cold front parlour with a piffling fire barely going. Her Aunt is always bedecked in enough black muslin to cover all of Hampshire.

A black lace matron cap staunchly on her head. Black fichu covering at her shoulders. An inky shawl on her arms and on each of her skeletal fingers sit glimmering gleaming rings which clackclackclack and scrape when she moves and points that every disapproving finger. Big fat stones of amber and ruby and topaz weighting down her frail claws.

Iris always teeters politely on the most uncomfortably hard settee opposite her. Cradling the hot spode bone-china cup of tea that her Aunt shoves in her hands. Sugar staining sickly saccharine on her lips - she never let her guests have unsugared tea.

Quite why she is the favourite Ashton, Iris has no clue. She is always interrogated by the woman as she barks nosy question after nosy question at her.

“Yes, Aunt. No, Aunt. I don’t believe so, Aunt.” As the harridan gripes about beef or sugar or candle taxes, or the local Reverend, or the gaudy new fabric on display in dressmakers window.

A whole ream of grudges being spewed out that wrinkled puckered mouth. Face pale, craggy and screwed up with lines like a sheet of crumpled parchment paper.

Her dark eyes shine forth like raisins sunk deep into scones. Glittering black and always always always dissatisfied with the whole world, and determined to find fault with everyone in it.

Iris brings her the ointment her Aunt asked for. She was suffering a hacking cough that worsened in the winter. Lavinia insists its a damp affliction brought on by unclean air.

Iris bought the woman a bottle of liniment rub, spiced with rosemary oil, camphor and spirit of wine. Her Aunt harrumphed at her offering. Stabs her walking cane into carpet in disfavour. Shoves the bottle away and insists Willow bark tea is what will cure her ailment.

Next she’ll be insisting on leeches and blood letting to balance out the humours-

Iris doesn’t fight her stubbornness - it’s a battlefield over which she will never win or hoist a flag of victory.

She drinks down three more cups of the cloying tea, interrupts the interrogation and insists rather bravely that she must be on her way - for Lord and Lady Hearst are throwing a ball this evening. On their vast estate. And she needs to scurry home to ready for it. That earns her another harrumph in response. Lavinia detested balls.

“Breeding ground for senile men and stupid women. And all that inane leaping about they now call dancing...” She grimaces.

The whole county is in uproar for this ball - little else to recommend or appreciate in this bleak dull midwinter. Whispers flourishing around town seemed inclined to favour that a mysterious Lord from the continent is in attendance tonight...

A Lord. From Bavaria no less. Apparently he owned a vast castle high up in the snowy forest smothered mountains.

Quite why he’s bothered to travel the length of Europe to this savage spit of society in the Hampshire countryside, she cannot fathom. If she was lucky enough to live in a castle, she’d never be seen again.

She recounts that scrap of gossip about the prospective Lord to her Aunt. Who thunks her cane loudly on the floor and scoffs in derision;

“Foreigners are always a grave source of disappointment - and they are so riddled with lice and ill bred manners.” So wisely declares Aunt Lavinia.

She says that about anything to do with anything and anyone not born or formed on good british soil.

She had said the very same thing last week about the pews at Church-

She leaves the little bustling hamlet. Shuts her Great Aunt’s warped cottage door. The wood shuddered, catching on the doorstep. Her arm shot through with needles of pain. Aches slipping up her back, her neck and sparking her shoulders. She hooks the heavy basket onto the crook of her elbow and sighs as she plods homeward.

Away from the small tudor, mouldy mustard walls of Lavinia’s cottage. A pretty little house. Always cold. Formed of thick stone walls and mahogany creaking stairs. Austere bare furniture sparsely filled every room. Wedged into a street with crossed glass windows and a petticoat brown tiled roof.

It was a meagre six miles from here to home. And she appreciates the walk. Or atleast she might be more inclined to favour it, were her coat more substantial.

As it is the blue wool thing is possibly a might too small for her now. It tugs and pinches so across the shoulders. And the hem ends right up her calves. Pebble-grey Kidskin gloves on her fingers, knuckles knotted stiff and her fingertips are tingling with cold.

The hem of her plain cotton voile dress, is dark with damp from the snow. The bluebell cobalt of it leeched darker at her hem. She’s shivering because her stockings aren’t the warmest wool. Her legs are trembling cold and she only wore her lightest chemise. However she is glad she bothered with the scarf.

She hadn’t put on a bonnet today. She can’t stand the fuss of one. Ribbons flapping at her ears. It was uncommon - but she went without.

Simply tied her hair back into a low coiffured bun secured with a snip of wheaten muslin. By now and with lugging this basket across all of the Hampshire countryside, some straggles of hair have come loose. Flopping uselessly to her shoulders.

She ducks her chin into her scarf to escape the exposure of a battering bitter gale, and continues trudging on with wearied, aching determination. She always trudges on. She has too. Is always the one who must endeavour to continue, no matter how bleak she feels.

It gets tiring, carrying great tonne boulders of expectations on her shoulders. She likes to think she bears the task nobly.

As her Mother takes great pains and lengths to always endlessly remind her; she is the vessel in which all hopes for the survival of the Ashton family, are stored.

She will make a good marriage match; to a gentleman of high rank or fortune - preferably both. She will save the estate from destitution. Her sisters from ruin. And her father from debtors prison. She will be the one to keep her family in the moneyed style to which they are accustomed. They will not lose Westwell to the bailiffs.

They have risen far within the ranks of society. And they will not lose their clutch or their pride. Or their respected place among it. Her fathers estate is not a vast one; but it is more than his father before him had. A meagre merchant selling spices and furs out of Putney during the Restoration.

Now the Ashtons are country gentry. With a modest dwelling of an estate, abutting a working farm. Westwell. A manor house of not much splendour and merely thirteen rooms.

Built of gold cotswold stone with huge white windows looking out onto a self-effacing garden of some prettiness. There was a pond where swans flocked in summer. Enclosed wilderness all around. A plank of wood swing hanging off one big oak chestnut that stooped over the front of the house. To the back the garden is walled, full of sculpted beds and privets and the wide green lawn is rather uninspiring in this decimating winter

They had one gardener. Two maids. A cook and a Housekeeper. They live comfortably and hardly ever exceed their income.

Her mother hopes to change that this calendar year. She wants her eldest daughter promised to someone upstanding and rich.

Iris thinks her shrew of a mother would settle with wedding her to any man . So long as he looks pleasing in a cravat, and still has all his own teeth.

She treks on through the snow. Hoping. Dreaming. Dreaming for so many unattainable things.

Wishing her basket was lighter. Wishing her parents had sired a son. So that this evening she wouldn’t have to be bound into a pinching dress, and paraded around the Hearst’s ballroom as if she’s some prized slaughter pig at a county fair.

Wishing that she could instead stay home in her untrimmed, plain nightgown. No laced stays crushing her ribs. With a hot brick at her feet. A dog-eared Swift novel in her hands. Cracked open to the good passages. She’d read by tapered candlelight and be perfectly contented, poised to encounter spinsterhood.

Instead, a painful evening of savage society awaited her.

Poison filled smiles from nasty debutantes or their matronly mama’s. Sniping at her dress or her hair or her pale skin, or her lack of fortune. Crushed mangled toes from dancing with some portly red-faced Lord-whoever-from-wherever. One who stank of port, had bad breath, and tried to pinch her bottom with fat lecherous sausage fingers, when he thought no one was looking their way.

She has no aspirations for marriage or love. She’s not a fool. She doesn’t have her head swimming with fancies from novels. No rapturous desires of tall, sable-haired men, with chiseled marble bodies seducing her astray. No cloaked villain sweeping her away in the dead of night to send her to ruin, to then have her dashing savior ride in on horseback to rescue her.

If she’s one thing at all - it is sensible. She doesn’t like to reflect on the proposition of marrying some stranger simply to arrange the business of money and bearing him heirs. She’s not a broodmare-

She’s a woman. She has a thumping proud heart and a strong-working brain and she hopes there’s more measure to her life, than submitting her body and weak will over to be governed and quieted by a future, faceless husband.

She’s sure many girls of three and twenty have felt this way. She’s sure many generations upon generations of them will continue to do so, until women cease to be sold like chattel - or like cattle at market.

Sold solely to men for the priceless untarnished commodity that lay between their thighs. And based and viewed purely on that frail scrap of fleshed dignity, alone.

She wraps her coat tighter around herself. Distinctly feeling a sense of dread starting to slither sickly cool up her spine from the prospect of the evening ahead.

Mother will wrangle her into her finest restrictively crushing silk gown. Have the maid tug and pull her hair and wrench it into a pleasing style. Jabbing hair pins in her head. Mother will see to it that she splash plenty of Yardley’s water of jasmine blossom, orange and lavender on the pulses at her wrists, and at her neck.

Then, she’ll be practically shoved into the chest of every single eligible gentleman in the room tonight in the hope they deign her to be pleasing. She’ll be pushed and prodded and maneuvered and pummeled-

And she’s exhausted. She only hopes she finds the strength to endure such torture-

She kicks through the frosted ground. Pebbles scatter and skit in her wake. She nudges the sparkling white stones with the toe of her cracked brown boots. Her feet were slowly growing numb. Toes stinging with cold. She should have worn some thicker stockings. Then again, money was not exactly a moderate opulence at home. They had to husband their resources as a family very carefully- which meant Iris couldn’t have some new leather half-boots for romping about the wilds of the countryside.

But she could have as many new hair combs, fans, or gloves and embellished stockings as she wanted. Anything that might help snare a man into visions of matrimony. Not wasted on such a thing as a new wool coat to help keep her warm in winter; or boots that didn’t let the muddy puddles seep in.

For appearances sake, the Ashton’s wealth went solely into ballgowns, perfume and finery for their girls. Some household money of course went into sensibilities like candles, meat, flour and soap. Iris was taught that she should be hugely grateful for everything that was lavished upon her.

Flora so often griped at her that she was so lucky to have such amounts spent on her. She got new gowns of printed cottons and muslin and silks and whatever she wanted. Where her and Posy had to make do with alterations and hand-me-downs to their dresses and bonnets.

Flora was so blinded by jealousy and immaturity that she didn’t quite look - really look at her sister - and realize that Iris didn’t really want any of those things-

She ruminated on all tonight might bring her. She wondered what kind of state her silly sisters would both be in when she gets home. Already donning their paper curls, lacing each other into their stays and chemises already. Arguing over who wore the best pair of silk slippers they had between them.

Mother will be in one of her bitter moods. Trying to determinedly order all her girls ready for tonight.

Moods sour with each other already and they’d be seething and spitting nasty fury at Iris. She had new things especially for this ball tonight. New pair of satin gloves and a printed silk dress. They did not. They never did.

Iris would lend Flora her old reticule - the one Mother had bought for her from Bond street. And she’d give Posy her pearl hair comb to slide into her auburn coiffure. A little balm to both of them to gently encourage some sisterly affection. She didn’t want to be at war with them all night.

She’s halfway down the narrow pale road, kicking snowy stones, when an almighty sound kicks up over the horizon, barreling in her direction. She turns her head back and hears the distant rhythmic rumbling of hooves hitting track and the clack and creak of enormous coach wheels.

Hardly surprising when this is the biggest road leading back to Pembleton, her little village.

She sees through the fog of snow, a huge black shape dominates the road. Moving fast. She lifts her skirts and steps onto the crunching grass so that the raring coach might pass her safely by. At the tremendous speed it’s going she reckons she didn’t have long before it caught up to where she’s walking.

She hears it gaining, closer and closer. Wood and hooves and snorting horses eating up the distance of the road. She dares a glance at the impossibly loud and fast carriage.

It’s a beastly thing. All looming black wood. A black liveried driver in grey wool coat. Two footmen clad the same, on the back stand. Black sturdy luggage safely stowed on the roof. Two hulking beasts of shimmering onyx shire horses are stamping and galloping and heaving the great thing along with no difficulty. Silvery wisps of air pour from their nostrils and the dripping whites of their eyes look nearly devilish past their full cupped blinders. The tack of black leather lost on their gleaming coal coats.

The noise is deafening now. It’s almost passing her. Kicking snow and frosty gritted mud out from under the churn of the hungry wheels.

She’s curious as to who could possibly be residing in such an opulent coach. No one from these parts, she’s certain of it. The richest Lord from here was two villages over on a vast estate. Lord Hexham. Who was one and eighty and had a hunched back. And he was a doddery old recluse. He hardly went raring around town in such an imposing manner.

When it draws level with her she dares a vertiginous glance up at the small arch of the door. A crest is splashed there in gold and scarlet. Like a splash of blood on a gold sword scabbard. Or a healing wound.

It’s no shock that the crest there is unfamiliar to her. It’s entwined with wolves and scarlet banners, and a shield crossed with swords. Some monstrous carnivorous coat of arms perhaps? Maybe this person’s ancestor’s had won victory in some ancient bloody battle dating back to the Normandy landings.

She looks up from the door and to her very great shock, she glimpses a man’s face.

It was a dark carriage, drawn to privacy with scarlet velvet curtains covering at the windows. But the one this side closest to her is peeled back.

Her heart thumps loud in her neck and her chest claws with slight panic and embarrassment having caught this gentleman’s eyes.

Such savage, unyielding eyes.

Bitterly black. Slicing outwards from an alabaster pale face. She barely made out features of a full proud face. A blunt roman nose, full pouting lips, and raven sable hair. Length; rakish.

It makes her inhale a sharp breath. Quickly averting her gaze. Embarrassed. Lowering her eyes.

Gawping openly at the upper echelons was never a good idea. They probably held her in the same standing as that of the mud on the bottom of their very polished boots.

He was probably some uppity Duke or Earl who didn’t wish to be gazing at the common stock. She looks to her feet. Feels the wind whip at the tendrils of her hair. Unfolds them from her scarf and whips them back over her face. Baring her neck. Snow lands on her skin. Flecks of it melt ripping like bee stings onto her hot throat.

Pale, corded, thrumming throat. Bared to the wind and the snow and the cold-

He can hear her pulse and it’s like a sweet sirens call.

She feels the strangest sensation then; no one was looking at her. But it feels like they did. It feels as if eyes are pinning her down. Raking over her skin and assessing her.

When she looks back up, dazed, the rattling loud coach is past her now. Off into the distance, into the snow.

Foggy white and smeared and blurring into the horizon. Roaring away up the track road. Away from her sight. She blinks after it’s wake. Snow tangling into her lashes. She’s shivering now if she wasn’t before, and she can’t fathom why.

She switches the basket into her other arm. Let’s it take the painful strain of the still heavy thing. Items within clunk and thump around. She steps off the crusted grass and back onto the stony pave of the hard road.

She continues on; winding homeward. She thinks about her silk gown, and new pearl earrings. And then of darker things; like devilish horses, and eyes. Eyes darker than inky shadows and deeper rich, like charcoal.

As the coach thunders off into the snow. Rutting and cracking over every bump on the road, Kylo shifted back on the scarlet bench seat. He lifts the curtain on the back window with a suave flick of his fingers, and set his black gaze once more back down the track road.

Looks back upon the lone girl in the blue coat who was walking there.

The scent of her still cloyed up in his throat - Oh, and in all the best ways.

He scented her from a mile down the road. Lavender, clary sage and sharp heat of bursting peppermint on salty skin.

The musk of her made him pant and his chest ragged. His arousal and bloodlust stirred in his chest. The drooling gnashing hell hounds of his appetite waking up and baying to be fed.

He watches her hair sway over her neck. A big gust of frosty wind blew her flavour right into his path.

His eyes rolled back in his head as he savoured her.

It made his mouth water. He’d all but outright moaned. It’s been a few moons since he last fed. His nails dig into the upholstered scarlet bench. Muscles strained. Veins corded tight in his body. Pulled taut.

His butler, Jomar. Speaks up from where he is sat opposite.

Blue silk Dastar covering his silver hair. His goatee beard was arrowhead shaped and always neatly trimmed. It stood out all the more from his bronze skin. His Punjabi cadence Kylo always thought was like cinnamon dashed in milk. He had a comforting warm voice.

“I wonder, shall you like the society hereabouts, your lordship?” He seeks curiously. Melting walnut eyes finding Kylos over his gold half moon spectacles, and looking past the small red leather backed Voltaire, open in his hands.

Lord Ren smirks. His eyes glimmer. Cool and hungry. Silver black like daggers.

“Absolutely.” He wets his lips. “The local cuisine looks delicious.”

     ~  ~  🥀 ~  ~  

Oak and Ash

PART ONE    PART TWO   If there was one thing Lucien Vanserra learned young, it was to control himself.  But control in the world of Autumn had always been more than half deception- and Lucien was lying more and more each day. That he really was a Spring Lord in all but birth. That Feyre was fine and Tamlin was just. That the rot that had began under Amarantha was being cleansed, not grown right into the soul of a stagnant season.  Burning inside him every day, it became harder.  Without fail, he woke with magic kindling in his veins, sweating out his pores in raging heat. It made no sense to him. Elain was human. He could practically hear the mortal beat of her heart if he focused hard, soft as spring rain falling over Tamlins estate.  But still, Lucien dreamt.  Of Elain dancing, spinning through the figures of Autumn Court dances. The Hunters Moon high in sky, his beautiful savage home a safe place- Elain Archeron wild with joy and framed by bonfires, all dimples and clever eyes. Maddeningly impossible, with faery bright skin. Her curls unbound and soft to the touch- his touch.  There was no world in which those forests might call Lucien home, no story where he would ever be crowned again in rowan and bone, no life where it wasn’t a land ruled by a murderous tyrant.  Lucien spent long night hours staring at the sky, slowing his heart, the fire in his blood, the longing trying to burn him up inside. In some ways, he decided, it was even worse than the death wish he’d carried in the time of Amarantha. Something inside him was waking up, the embers stoked for the first time in centuries.  Something a human girl who wanted only to be his friend had brought to life.  It was as though he’d been half awake for decades. Now his eyes were open, and Lucien couldn’t stop looking. If he’d been asleep, his power had been half dead. It would have been easy to write off on the long imprisonment of Prythian, but deep down he knew that wasn’t true.  No fox worth a forest den lied to himself too.  Lucien thought perhaps he hadn’t felt even a spark of it’s full strength since the day Jesminda had burned. Hadn’t wanted it- not really, not to live or to feel- and that truest, most intrinsic part had listened.  Until he’d stumbled into a rose garden. Winnowed straight over the Wall armed to the teeth.  And every day he rose, the ostentatious costume of a spring noble never more false. It reminded him so much a of her laugh; this girl who he’d known less than a heartbeat, seeing the truth that easily. If his tiredness showed, Tam didn’t comment. Maybe he didn’t notice, too busy celebrating a victory even Lucien was tired of lauding. Too busy seeking ways to kill Rhysand, for all that his fell bargaining had likely saved them all.  It took bitter, constant focus not to melt the gold all around him.  Lucien understood saving face, but he knew sacrifice much more. Hated that he understood the pallor that dulled even Feyre’s glowing immortal skin.  He hated it- hated as he went through every motion, thoughts buried deep. His duties filled his day, but they meant nothing. Emptiness, Lucien learned, only brought the flames higher. He was helpless, had been for a long time, he was realizing. Facing that he hated this fetid court. That Lucien had no home to return to, couldn’t fathom a place in this damned whole land he could safely call his own, with his mother’s fire so bright gold spiked and burned in his gaze.  With Elain Archeron’s smoke and dew flower scent living in his lungs like a haunting.  So Lucien did what he was best at, and didn’t return. No matter that the Wall buzzed like a beacon in the back of his mind every day he spent in too bright, too frozen forests, he didn’t turn toward human lands. Refusing the siren song of his name on the wind, no matter how it hurt. Instead, Lucien winnowed to the furthest of the rebuilding villages and built until he was made to leave.  To return to stand at Tamlin’s side- more and more, to stand and not speak.   He knew how to run, how to fight, turning those gifts inward was nothing at all.  Nothing at all, until the High Lord of Night rescued Feyre from her own wedding, and Lucien was relieved. — Elain would never be so rude as to hide from her own guests.  She was naturally- as she’d explained to the simpering lord who’d escorted her outside- simply overwhelmed by the heat of the ball room, and could he be so kind as to escort her and oh, perhaps fetch some lemonade she’d forgotten inside?  Alone, Elain sank down on the balcony, this years frothy skirts poofing against the cold stone.  They had standing in the community again- riches and place, prospects and respect. Nesta, unable to hide how much she hated the false cheer, had retreated hours ago. But Elain had smiled- danced on and on, familiar burn beneath her ribs writhing.  She wanted- she wanted out of this gods damned corset, wanted to throw every idiot vying for her hand, for her wealth, out of the house. To know her baby sister was safe, to know her older sister would be okay.  The music, audible from the ballroom, shifted into a faster reel, and Elain pressed her face into her hands.  Unbidden- and she would blame the frustration later- the thought of dark ink on golden skin came to her. Careful lines to make a tangle of plants, true and perfect. At this point, Elain could have traced the shapes in her sleep.  She wanted Lucien to come back.  Which was madness. But she’d thought- hoped, assumed- that they were something like friends. The specter of that fascination twisted hotly in her chest, but here, alone, she let it come. Lucien was her beautiful, impossible faery friend.  Who’d never again answered her summons.  Elain knew it was what she should have expected. Could even, perhaps, be so simple as a difference of species. What were a few long months to a man- creature - who’d live forever? A solid piece of her young life, but to Lucien? An eye blink, an afternoon.  But just as truly she couldn’t shake the image of him striding in from the storm, wild and burning. He’d come for her, to make sure Elain was alright. Savage and protective, but he’d taken her offer to stay and drunk hot chocolate out of dainty china cups like it was a wonder.  The soft slide of one of the glass doors opening had Elain jumping to her feet, excuses on her lips before she saw the shine of her older sisters skirts.  Silently, Nesta walked down the balcony to Elain and sank down onto the cold stone herself. In the moonlight, her pale grey dress and tired face were much the same luminous color. Elain thought, not for the first time, that her older sister might have been better off if she were the one dragged to faery. Stillness- the lack of real answers- to be backed into a corner was what always ruined Nesta in the end.  “I thought you went to bed,” Elain murmured, sinking down until their shoulders touched.  Nesta sighed and Elain felt the moment her straight spine curved. “Lord Macon arrived,” Nesta said, colder than the night air. Elain knew well enough none of that sharpness was for her. “We have to indulge him, at least until father returns.”  They both knew their father was never coming home. But even alone here, neither would say those vulnerable words with their house full of gentry.  The Acherons were rich again- safe again. But how safe could two heiresses be in the wild human country that bordered the Wall? The second they’d had the funds to secure ships their father had disappeared back to the sea. Only the noble blood in their veins and the fair lines of their cheeks remained of the long dead Lady Asteria Acheron.  The sisters were on their own, as they always had been.  So Elain became a darling- she hosted balls and gave to noble women’s charities. Established committees and revelries, provided them every cover gentility could allow.  Tonight’s smiles had made her face ache. “That fucking prick,” Elain sighed, lips twitching as Nesta choked on a laugh.  Her sister’s cost had been far higher these long months. She played the part of a very long, very slow traditional courtship to a lord two decades her senior- and hadn’t stabbed him yet.  Elain had contemplated poison.  Because she knew- better than anyone else could, that Nesta Archeron truly believed in love. That deep in unbending heart of her cold, impossibly strong sister lived a woman who was all fire. And she’d burn herself out for the people she loved- would keep on giving pieces of herself away if it kept Elain safe.  She leaned harder against her sister’s side, pleased and horrified at the press of metal from beneath Nesta’s skirts.  The faery daggers were shared between them, and Nesta was wearing them strapped to her thighs.  The morning Elain confessed to Nesta about Lucien- about tea and poison, danger and beauty- her razor edged sister had wept. Not for Elain, but with the knowledge that somehow, Feyre was alive out there in ageless lands.  And then refused to speak to Elain for days in horrified fury, but that was something else entirely. Neither of them could imagine Feyre’s life now- or a sure way to keep themselves safe if fae continued to come over the Wall- but they couldn’t throw away the connection either. Lucien. Inside, the orchestra shifted to a spring reel, frantically fast. Nesta sighed a second time and let her eyes fall shut, tilting her head back to rest on the stone wall.  Echoing the motion, both sisters sat face to face with where the Wall lay. In the day it was a solid line of disturbance- like looking at the sun a second too long, or trying to read a completely foreign language.  Tonight, in the full light of a red tinged moon, it was invisible.  This was the part they never, ever admitted aloud to each other. Not even on the late nights they gathered in Nesta’s rooms, long after the house was asleep, to speak of faeries. To guess at Feyre’s whereabouts, for Nesta to share the illicit and entirely illegal research she was doing- to wonder and worry, to plan.  What neither sister would admit- but knew, both, buried between them- was something close to envy. They were safe. Worried for Feyre and scared for her, but safe in human lands.  Feyre was free. — Lucien seen it on Feyre’s face, in the weight she somehow kept shedding, in the frozen fear he could taste on the sweet Spring breeze. There was no world in which Tam, with his hunters senses, hadn’t smelled it too. Could feel it, see it.  But then Feyre was gone, and the world was red. Red wedding roses shredded on the lawn, poisoned Spring twisting garden vines into thorns and bleeding flowers. Tamlin, roaring out that rage that had a voice in Luciens head whispered to snarl back. He’d survived centuries with his head down, but suddenly all at once the required submission turned his bones molten.  Lucien wanted to defend himself against the pain he knew was coming. He wanted to defend Feyre, not a possession to be stolen from Tamlin.  He fought it, locking joints and face to the ground. Not placating Tamlin, but trying to tame the flames that had licked their way up into his eyes, magic settled in seething gold. Lucien had his eyes squeezed shut, counting the beats of his heart. It was a second- it was a moment- but it was enough for him to miss the first death.  He didn’t miss of sound of the body hitting the ground.  He didn’t throw himself forward fast enough to stop the second, to pull his friend- not his High Lord, his friend- back from mindlessly tearing through Feyre’s guard detail. But it wasn’t his friend who looked back, who roared anew as Lucien’s shoulder slammed into him, who fought his unrelenting grip.  They went down hard, Tamlin’s beast aspect a muddle of gold and blood as claws dug into Lucien’s forearms.  Dug and cut, the wetness of blood the only physical anchor Lucien had as his entire left arm went numb, Tamlins claws too deep. He had to get him away, had to push Tamlin away from the soldiers that would die too fast in this conflict.  Faerie dominance was a fickle and instinctual thing. Deadlier than the weapons they forged, stronger than the magic that defined their endless centuries of life. Lucien had learned it young and learned it well, the too bright, too magical youngest son of Prythian’s bloodiest court. Knew the feel of it like breathing, could pick out noble heirs and sense mate bonds a mile off, knew other faeries magical gifts with an instinct so strong it might have been some magic itself.  He knew it all, but somewhere, he’d made a mistake.  Tamlin was stronger than Lucien like this, half transformed and more than half mad with rage. But he’d always been faster than his friend. Like breathing- like he’d always stupidly done- Lucien let himself be hurt to twist in Tamlin’s grip and pull him further from the ruined wedding.  Bleeding- his arm was bleeding too damn much- Lucien kneeded Tamlin in the side, the crunch of breaking bone as much a surprise as a balm to the instincts screaming at him to fight for real.  But Tamlin still didn’t flinch, come to the surface. Instead he snarled, the roar of a creature neither human or fae, teeth dangerously close.  Distantly, Lucien had the horrible thought that the High Lord of Spring had never been this crazed when Amarantha was still alive. This unhinged.  True fear, cold even through the fire, slide down his spine.  It was the last thing Lucien thought, before claws slid up under his ribs. Like a handle of bone, crushing horrible pain as his skin parted- but he didn’t feel it. Lucien didn’t feel anything at all. He wasn’t in his body.  He was- red blood, green blood, her blood- broken ribs screaming as he was ground down into a polished marble floor. He was bleeding- how can there be so much blood from burning? Willow sap blood, autumn’s cost, his brother’s blood staining his skin. He was in the air- Eris had him against the wall by his throat. He could take him in an even fight- he could- but not like this, not with her- He was flying- transformed into an owl, into a wolf, at Tamlin’s behest- red blood, green grass, the world was blurring past his eyes- Elain’s laugh-  He was burning.  Lucien came to the beat after impact- head ringing, body ringing, the riven trunk of the tree Tamlin had thrown him into- thrown him through- catching fire at the touch of his skin. Teeth bared, vision blurred, but it wasn’t a Spring Lord who sat up and looked for Tamlin.  But the High Lord had transformed and vanished, the sound him running through the forest unnaturally loud in Lucien’s ears.  Leaving him, gasping and bleeding, responsible for the bodies of two soldiers he’d trained since their youth.  No. Tamlin was responsible.  Lucien could still feel his friend’s empty eyes. The gaze of the High Lord of Spring, where madness and becoming lived. Where something might have been broken for a long, long time. Lucien had fought with Tamlin before, interceded in years past, but Tam had never looked at him like a true opponent. Like Lucien was an equal, a challenger, and he was going to rip off his fucking head.  Had torn through Cian and Oisin like they were nothing at all.  Lucien knew , without a doubt, Tamlin had felt that magic fighting to be free in his oldest advisor and dearest friend. Had met it head on and decided in that bloody instant, that he was fighting a real enemy.  He couldn’t stay here, dazed and lost in the growing dark. Couldn’t help these males he’d trained, finish the village rebuilding, stay to talk Tamlin out of declaring war on the Night Court.  Because even when Tamlin found his reason his again, Lucien wouldn’t be safe.  The second he’d fought back he’d sealed his fate- not an adviser, a challenger. There was nothing of his friend left right now- and perhaps there hadn’t been for a long, long time. Lucien couldn’t help these faeries, but there was someone left he could.  Someone Lucien was sure Tamlin knew about, and wouldn’t hesitate for a second to use somehow to get Feyre back.  Sky bright, blood trailing after him, Lucien followed the roaring into the woods.  He could feel it now- the Hunters moon as it rose in his veins. The ease of it, to bleed wicked spring blood into old spring soil, like hunting any wild beast. Lucien was the son of forests far older than these. Once he’d earned his crown of bone, under the power of the dying year, the hate of a high lord watching over him. Flooded with fear and adrenaline, the old magic of violence danced beneath his skin.  Lucien shook off the crushing pain. He was a survivor, and after all these miserable years, he burned still. Even among Spring green trees, he could have slaughtered Tamlin.  The absolute fact of that knowledge took whatever breathe had remained in his screaming lungs, made him stand straight in the blood loss haze.  Through the ringing in his ears,  Tamlins rampage could be heard, the only thing dividing the sound of a fae lord from the animals he killed roaring volume. Killing, because even after all these centuries, Tam couldn’t channel the rage. Lucien had always known it, like knowing that he was cornered in Spring, that Tamlin resented the power in his blood instead of bending it to his will.  But it was that power that had saved Lucien, once upon a time ago. Power that had made him stay- and made him think he was weak. He owed Tamlin his life for that day, when Lucien really had been weak, been determined to die after the worst loss of his life. But now?  Now Lucien, blood covered and listening to the leader he’d followed howl like a beast, had to face that the old debt between them was more than repaid. He’d crossed the gods damned wall for Tamlin, ready to give his life. So miserable and grateful, so cut off from himself, to sacrifice every endless year of an immortal life just so that the broken faerie that saved him might break a curse.  For what? Lucien’s vision blurred around the edges, darkness as tempting as a caress. Pain pounded in the same tempo of his heartbeat. But he made himself walk, pulled forth the the strength to run. Not after Tamlin, but toward the Wall. He’d wanted to die, been ready to die for his friend again and again, and what had he gotten in return?  The opportunity to be a good servant? Not an ally. To have Feyre waste away before them, unable to help, unable to make the faerie he’d thought to be his closest friend listen to him even for a minute. Betrayal that twisted in his gut, churning with the concussed nausea that would take hours to heal. He was glad Rhysand had Feyre with him, glad his oldest of enemies could keep her safe from the lord who loved her.  He had to slow, staggering to boundary oaks that marked Spring Court land. If he passed out in these woods, he wasn’t sure he’d ever wake up. Were Tamlin to find him, it was easy to assume he’d kill before he thought. If Lucien didn’t get away, if he stopped holding back, he was going to kill his friend. Fire in his veins and confusion in his heart, fracture lines on every surface. Lucien knew he would do it- if Tamlin beyond reach of logic came at him, Lucien would kill him rather than take the pain ever again.  Dizziness pulling at him hard, Lucien didn’t notice when his footsteps began to leave smoldering prints in their wake. In his ringing ears, he could just feel the pressure of the Spring boundary, taut against him. Teeth gritted, he bore it, bearing down until it couldn’t hold him, until even the poison of the Wall before him faded.  He was too incoherent to think about it, but later, much later, he’d return to find immortal oaks ash, their enchantments cleaved to nothing.  So bleeding and burning, lost and found, Lucien Vanserra staggered into human lands, and found he wanted to live. @breath-of-sindragosa @flxwer-petals @ladyvanserra @missanniewhimsy @tntwme @illyrianinterrasen

Last stop in China - Kunming

On 16th October we were dropped at the tiny Shangri-la airport for our short flight to Kunming which is a city of 6.6 million and 625km away.  There were no trains servicing Shangri-la and the bus journeys were too long for me, especially with kids who get motion sick, due to the mountainous terrain.  But it was amazing to see the close mountain ranges on both sides of the plane as we took off, and I hoped the pilots had good training.  We’d decided to stay for the remaining time we had in China in Kunming as we’d heard it was a pleasant city with lots to do nearby and we didn’t think we had time to go to Guilin as we’d earlier planned.  Kai especially was getting very fatigued with our constant travel and was keen to stay in one place for a bit longer.  Our Airbnb was a small but clean and recently renovated apartment right next to Green Lake Park which was where we’d been recommended to stay.

On our first night in the city, Hung and I stumbled across one of the snack street areas which was next to several large shopping malls. We tried some Chinese noodle dishes which were different to others we’d had previously then we found a supermarket and stocked up on cereal, eggs, bread, milk, pasta, pesto, bacon and cheese which were the staples we were always looking for when we arrived somewhere new and kept the kids, especially Kai, going.  The following day we met Anders (a Swedish man we met in the TLG) for lunch at Salvador’s which is supposed to have the best western food in town and enjoyed some Mexican food which was pretty good.  We wandered around checking out the surrounding streets for the afternoon and on our way home we found the Kunming Zoo which was 60 rmp ($11) for us all to visit so we decided to check it out.  Some of the enclosures were fairly small but they have a huge variety of animals, including a black panther, and we didn’t manage to see them all.  Leon’s favourite was the sloth while Lani loved the otters and snakes.  They both were surprised how big the camels were and said that was the first time they’d seen a camel in real life.

The next day Leon woke early and for some reason suddenly thought that there must be some new books out that he hadn’t read and we spent a morning checking out bookshops looking for the new Diary of a Wimpy Kid, but after some online research we found out it wasn’t being released for another month.  We did find some bilingual versions of books he has, as well as a couple of new books in English which we bought.  Then we spent a few hours in a café with a good coffee enjoying them.  We came home to get Lani and we visited the zoo for the afternoon to check out the rest of the animals we hadn’t seen on our first visit. We also managed to see an acrobatic show in the zoo theatre which was as good as the one we’d seen in Beijing, although the clowns were really annoying and noisy.  Hung and Kai went for a wander in town together for the afternoon to check out the shopping areas while we were at the zoo.  

There were several interesting day trips from Kunming. One day we got a car out to the western hills area or Xishan scenic spot which is an area to the west of Kunming with forested mountains and various temples.  From the ticket office we got a bus to the cable car station to get the cable car to Dragon Gate overlooking Dian Lake from where we could walk along a rocky path cut into the steep cliffs looking at the views and temples along the way. The area, like most places we visited in China, was very crowded with domestic tourists which definitely takes away from the quietness of visiting these natural areas.  Lani wasn’t too happy to find out that we had to walk down the side of the mountain once we had arrived by cable car with her asking, ‘What’s the point of going up if you just have to walk down?’.  But once we had descended down the path we got another cable car which crossed a section of Dian Lake from where we got a bus back home.

Another day we caught a bus to the Stone Forest which is 75km from Kunming and apparently just far enough away from Kunming so most people who live there never visit it.  It is a set of limestone peaks which looks like a stone forest and covers over 400 sq kilometres.  As you wander through the site it feels like a stone maze with huge limestone peaks with many different formations.  The kids enjoyed exploring the different areas, especially once we got away from where the bulk of tourists seemed to be.  After a couple of hours we decided to get a taxi to the Jiuxiang caves which are about 40km away.  After we arrived our taxi driver wanted to wait for us to see the caves and take us the 45min back to the stone forest and he refused to shut off the meter, but after some discussions with broken English we told him that we didn’t need him to stay and wait for us.  The caves are a cluster of 100s of caves and we walked along the designated path through some of the largest caves which were interesting but filled with coloured lights which made it seem artificial.  It was quite busy and we followed along behind several tour groups all talking very loudly and taking many photos.  There were several large waterfalls inside the caves which were very beautiful and there was meant to be a boat ride but we couldn’t seem to find it.  At the end of the path, we got a cable car back to the entrance and had to rush as we were told the last bus out was about 5pm. After getting on the bus we waited for about an hour before leaving which was annoying as we’d rushed through the caves to get on it but the kids were all tired and enjoyed just sitting as we’d walked a lot in the heat during the day.  We then had one of the bumpiest bus rides I have ever had with the road very poorly maintained and the bus with either too much or not enough suspension, I’m not sure.  I just know it was about 2 hours of constant bumping and almost hitting the roof with our heads.  We arrived at a  central bus station in I’m not sure where but from there we got another bus back to Kunming. It was a very long day but I was pleased we’d managed to see both areas in one day.  When we got back to Kunming, Hung was keen to jump on a bus for a few hours and to checkout some other local surrounding areas but in the end decided he was too tired.  

We spent several mornings and evenings wandering through the Green Lake Park and found a constant supply of Chinese people, young and old, playing games, singing, chatting and dancing together.  On the weekend, there were groups of 100’s of people dancing together for hours in different areas according to their dancing style.  This aspect of Chinese culture, with people joining together in parks, promotes community togetherness and encourages people to participate and I’m sure there are less people alone at home than in many western countries.  

Several other things are really well done in China, including the public toilets which you can find on most streets.  They are free and fairly clean, although smelly, but a necessity with several children in tow.  We also appreciate their various delivery services which are cheap and very efficient. One evening we needed water and after contacting our Airbnb host we had a deliver driver at our door 20mins later with a full bottle of water ready for installation.

On our last Sunday in Kunming we had a relaxing day, as Lani and I got up early and wandered around the park.  We found a man selling fishfood and she fed fish with another girl for a long time.  After a couple of hours we went home to get the boys and Kai took Leon and Lani for a ride in one of the electric boats for rent on the lake and they went around all over the place shooting things with water and crashing into bouys.  It was good to see Kai out enjoying the ride with Leon and Lani as it is easy to forget that at over 6ft he is still a 13yo kid. We all enjoyed Kunming but especially Kai, as he had a desk in his room overlooking the lake where he could play computer games as well as a Starbucks around the corner where he could duck out for drink when he wanted.  But by the end of our stay we were looking forward to traveling onto Vietnam.

House of Cards: Sacrificial Lamb 3

{Chapter Three}

Rated M Pairing: ReaderxOT7 Genre: Horror? Angst? Vampire/Demon AU a/n: I’m still trying to figure out how to do this bit lol. I’m open to any pointers on how to improve the appearance of my blog and posts. o-o

You didn't know how long you spent curled in a ball, willing yourself to wake up. But you didn't want to stand idly by while waiting for these.. these monsters to come looking for you, either.

Sliding out of bed, you quickly went to the door to check it, finding it unlocked. Which is odd considering you were a prisoner..

Back tracking, you slowly approached the floor length mirror across the room, taking in the damage. Even though you were bandaged up, it was plain as day where you were wounded, as blood seeped through the cotton patches and wraps.

Gingerly touching the two on your neck, you took in the rest of your wan, pale appearance.

Wasn't someone helping me before?

As you thought back on it, there was a person taking care of you while you were coming to. Would they help? It's possible they aren't like the ones who attacked you. After all, what killer would give you tea? Maybe they would help you escape..

Swallowing down your hopes before they get too high, you explored the room. At first, you assumed it was themed specifically in an older style, but now you could see that it was almost like a collection of things from several time periods and cultures. Chinese fine china displayed next to a Walkman. A french vase filled with coins from all times and all countries by the look of it. Rapper bling necklaces wrapped around the artworks neck.

Raising a brow, you couldn't help but notice the 1950's pin-up calendar with scantily clad women, and the modern playboy one right next to it, hung up above a beautiful statuette of a Grecian woman.

“I'm sorely judging whoever’s room this is..” You grumbled.

You turned to take in the rest of the room, but instead of the weird collection aesthetic you were expecting, all you found were books and the bed. What must have been hundreds of books. Put away on shelves, all stacked on one-another. New ones and old ones alike. Some scrolls and some parchments.

Ok.. So the pervert likes reading.

You spot your dress and jacket you were wearing before, resting on one pile of books. The jacket was a goner for sure. Stiff and completely saturated with blood. But the dress was still mostly clean aside from the dirt and smell of alcohol from when you must have spilled on yourself.

Quickly sliding it on, you had to laugh to yourself. They even grabbed your heels that you thought you left behind.

Yeah, fuck that. You weren't about to try and sneak out and run for it in those things again.

Padding to the door, you softly pushed the handle until you heard the faintest click. After a brief silent moment, you peaked your head out, scanning the area.

It seemed like an ordinary house except.. More weirdly random decorations. As you made your way down the hall, you even spotted a pinball machine in another room. Next to work out equipment.

The house was dead silent, however. Giving no hint whether anyone was home. All that could be heard was your uneven breathing and the slight creak of a floorboard every now and then.

Taking the steps two at a time, you went downstairs and turned a corner, finding yourself  the kitchen, which you assumed was where they.. Where they fed from you.. Shuddering and feeling nauseated, you unconsciously scratched at your neck, continuing through the silent expanse.

You were just beginning to think you were home free once the front door was in view, but then you spotted a figure sitting in a chair just off to the side of the door. As if they were waiting for you to make a run for it. He just blinked, unsurprised.

“I was just-”

“So you are that stupid.” He simply stated. Entirely deadpan.

All you could do was gape your mouth like a fish before he was already in your face. Intense silver eyes staring a hole right through you.

“Where exactly did you think you could run to? From us?” The black haired male mocked. Clearly thinking little of you. Backing up against the door, you eyed him wearily, watching as he stuck his tongue into his cheek, annoyance clear in his piercing eyes.

His skin was soft perfection like the others, looking more like a painting than a person. His exotically almond eyes aglow with their silver coloring. Black hair standing out against the white. He was startlingly beautiful.

Like a black widow.

Reaching for the handle behind your back, you managed to slip out just as he reached for you, his fingertips brushing against your back.

In your head, you imagined a grand escape, running like a rabbit away from wolves. However, the reality was much different. More pitiful.

The bite on your thigh stung as your muscles worked, attempting to run down the porch and the stone paths, but more like hobbling. The getaway being made only more difficult once you ditched the path, running over rocks, pine needles and sticks with your bare feet.

You could just cry in frustration.

When you heard him approaching from behind, you began screaming, trying to call for help even though you couldn't see any other buildings in sight. Only forest and the lake.

“Shut it!” He snapped, just before you were bulldozed to the ground, a much larger body over yours, pinning you down, then picking you up off the dirt despite your thrashing, kicking and screaming.

“I got her, Yoongi.” The new stranger bit out as he tried to subdue you, carrying you back to the cabin they were holding you in.

“Oh, yeah. Looks like you have a real handle on it.” The shorter one with black hair, Yoongi, commented with sarcasm dripping from his tongue. But not arguing further, he walked ahead of the one carrying you, hands in pockets.

“Let me go!” You screeched, clawing his brawny arms.

“You should be grateful I caught you instead of Yoongi, you know. He wouldn't have held back.” He grunted, throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, giving you the perfect opportunity to jab him in the ribs with your knees, earning a resound swat on your ass from his gigantic hand.

Yelping, you stilled. The stinging making you freeze up until you were inside, being thrown down on the floor of the living room with a loud -oof-

The one standing over you brushed his fingers through his soft brown hair while glaring down at you. His towering muscular figure intimidating you to the spot. He was young, but with masculine features. Looking like a jock or Calvin Klein model as he clenched his teeth, his cheek and jaw muscles flexing under the soft flesh.

“So you managed to catch the fish, hm?” Another gigantic male questioned, entering the room. This one, also with black hair, was more matured, his fair-skinned face statuesque.

What's with all of them looking like masterpieces? Why can't they be as hideous as they act! You briefly thought to yourself, looking between the two would-be models with disdain.

The taller, older male kneeled beside you, making you flinch as he reached for you. “Shh little one.” He murmured, plucking a stick from your hair. “Y/n, was it? I'm Jin.” He then gestured to the muscular one. “This is Jungkook.” When you didn't respond, the muscular one, Jungkook, huffed.

“We should get her back to Namjoon's room before the others see her out here.”

“You're right.” The one named Jin nodded in agreement before standing, then looked about for the 'others' they were so concerned about.

Jungkook held out his hand, clicking his tongue when you didn't take it. “Come with me, or you get fed to my friends.” He sighed, rolling his eyes.

Taking the offered hand, he had to pull you up himself because you were too weak, then you limped after him, anger seeping through your bones and frustrated tears forming in your eyes.

You were so close.

Or was I? Did the attempt even matter? Would I have been caught, even at my best? But you knew the answer. You remembered how the blonde angel toyed with you in the park. How he could be all around you all at once with no effort. Any normal escape attempt would just end up the same way. With you getting grabbed when they wanted to grab you.

Once you were back in that initial room, the brunette left you with a nod, locking the door behind him. As you heard the click of the lock trigger, you slid down the door, tears falling from your eyes.

You were tired and sore and bloodied with disappointment and fear wracking through you. All you wanted was to go home to your friend's house and put on your sweats, eat all the ice cream you could handle, and go back to when your ex was your only nightmare. Now, you were living in a real one.

You weren't sure how long you had been crying, but you must have passed out because you were jarred awake by the door suddenly pushing you over.

“What the-? I give you my bed for a day and sleep in the study on the sofa, and you just sleep on the floor? Seriously?” Namjoon complained, shaking his head before pulling you up to your feet.

Before you could mumble a reply, he began pulling you out of the room. “Let's go meet the boys.” He announced, dragging you, sputtering and pulling, all the way through the house to the living room, where he practically threw you to the floor.

As many times as you've been thrown at it, they might as well get this over with and make you a rug..

The one named Jin entered the room after you, a steaming bowl in his hands, carefully setting it on the coffee table. “Really, Namjoon..” He admonished silently, helping you sit up and ushered you to the bowl of what looked like, chicken and rice soup.

Glancing around the room, various familiar faces were scattered about. You felt like a fly caught in a web as all predatory eyes watched you curiously. Namjoon took a seat in the living-chair behind you, making the nerves on the back of your neck tingle.

“Since she'll be here with us for a while.. Assuming you don't kill her too quickly.” He paused, as if pointing stares. “We might as well get to know each other a little better.”

Jin nodded at you in greeting, a friendly smile on his face. “You know me and Jungkook already.” He gestured to the brunette who was sitting on the love seat, legs strewn over the blonde angel, playing on some portable game.

“We've met, but my name's Jimin, beautiful.” The blonde winked, leaning over the younger male's legs to send you a flirtatious smirk.

“Call me Suga.” The one they were calling 'Yoongi' muttered, half interested from another living-chair across the room.

Then, with a bright smile, the one who made your skin crawl slowly approached, squatting beside you, peering at your cringing face. “We met too, remember? Name's Hoseok.” He licked the corner of his lips as his sunshine smile faltered to a more sinister smirk, brushing his finger to his lips thoughtfully as his eyes landed on your lips.

“Then there's V, upstairs. He doesn't come out much.” Namjoon commented from behind.

When you didn't say anything, the silver fox's booted-foot landed squarely on your upper back, nudging you. “What do you say?”

Well, if you were going to die eventually..

Defiantly, you raised chin high and glared at each individual who was placed casually throughout the room.

“Nice to fucking meet you.” You hissed.

[Wolfstar/Jily] Narrator: That's how they existed.【1】

· When Remus Lupin was still alive, he said to me in a half-joking and half-serious tone：You know, in the psychiatry of Muggle World, some people can have multiple personalities at the same time to dominate the body, one gentle and orderly, one cruel.

· He whispered, "Did I look like such a person?"

· I wanted to answer, I am a Muggle, of course I know.

· I asked him calmly: Do you mean you are mad?

· He looked at me with sad green eyes: the madman in the Muggle world could be forgiven by law and morality, but the Werewolf in the magical world could not.

· When he said this, I finally did not go too far without any trace, and could not bear to look directly at his cracked and broken expression.

· I've always wanted to tell you that Remus has beautiful eyes, no less than Lily's. People are used to praising Lily's beautiful green eyes. When they face the sky, their delicate pupils will shine in the sunshine - but ignore Remus. His eyes were always hidden under his quiet drooping hair, and his eyelashes trembled slightly as he bowed his head to read.

· What's different is that Lily's eyes are touching and Remus's eyes are heartbreaking.

· I'm not even sure if those eyes belong to Remus or the wolf.

· They dare not touch the sun as Lily’s does.

· You ask me how I know?

· Lily told me.

· Do you think her bright green eyes are ornamental? She could see what those who were complacent about their wizard lineage could not see.

· Of course, there are some things even Lily didn't see.

· Sirius described him as a bear-like giant Grim, lying next to Remus waiting for the his deformation of full moon night. Deep in the forbidden forest, the full moon fell with silver, and Remus's face with tusks and fur raised painfully. More transparent green eyes than ever reflected the moonlight's flawless refraction and stunned Siris.

· The next day he came back with dust and fatigue and told Jame, the fool who was holding his face, drawing Lily's portrait, which painted like a house elf, —— I seemed to be in love.

· James absent-minded: That's a real congratulation. Need I, who's going to say goodbye to solo, teach you a few tricks to get rid of the bill?

· Sirius looked contemptuously at his almost horrible portrait, which he was supposed to give Lily as a Valentine's Day gift, and said, "You can have it."

· Shy enough to continue to spoil the fool's mood, Sirius did not finish.

· As for why Sirius told me. Well, that's another long story.

· The immediate reason was that he wanted to ask me how to try to get close to Remus. I stared in surprise at the words.

· I thought you knew Lymes better, I said.

· Syris looked down at me. The burglar with long black hair blinked his fucking beautiful grey eyes and clapped his hands: Yes.

· Then he ran like a dog to Moony.

· It's silly, isn't it? But it's cute, too. If there were no war, they would be such a bunch of silly, intelligent, lovely and charming boys.

· Well, you know, I said if.

· When James and Lily died, Remus cried. It was the first time I saw Remus crying. It's amazing that Remus, who has suffered so long, has never tolerated death and betrayal in silence, but suddenly falls into the winter dust like a broken spider thread, making his strong sad mood collapse and rush towards me.

· You don't want to see Remus crying. I saw it, as if I had watched a beautiful pale china crash on the ground a meter away from me.

· He was tired of crying and fell asleep on his dilapidated suitcase. Tear-blinded eyelashes soak into turbulent dreams. I went out silently to take the door and spit out all my breakfast by the sink.

· Then scratched the sink and wailed.

· Many, many years later - yes, when the Resurrection Stone is turned again. Lily came to me with a long-standing nostalgia and said that when she was killed, her soul was in a trance, thinking about how sad Remus would be when he heard of their death. So she was driven to come to him by strong perseverance and saw the weeping Remus. She was distressed to wipe her friend's tears with her hands. Those pearl-like tears passed through her hands without substance and could not be retained and dripped into the night.

· Sirius was imprisoned in Azkaban. I only looked at the graceful black-haired teenager from afar. His handsome face was full of panic, fear, grief, hatred, shackles and cages that bound his unruly body. The Pegasus took away his prison car. They flew into the clouds, and I could no longer see their outlines with all my eyes. At that time, I thought I would never see the Black again.

· No more again.

· I didn't reach out to let him see me through the window. I was still a useless Muggle.

· Naturally, I saw him again after that. Twelve years later. I haven't spent much time with Remus in these twelve years. He has been wandering, meeting different people, looking for different jobs, and then being abandoned because of the same "problem". His footprints painted lonely circles one after another on the Marauders’ map in Filch's office.

· Oh, of course, you haven't forgotten that the Predator's map only shows Hogwarts. I just don't want to admit that this poor little werewolf can't go back to his homeschool for seven years.

· The occasional reunion with Remus happened when he found me on his own initiative, when he couldn't find any place to settle down. I often wander around the world, but I am far less depressed than he is. At the Wizard's Hotel, I helped him cut his messy, moist hair short, and then silently counted out a few more white hairs - not counting, obviously a lot.

· He still smiled politely: Harry was in third grade.

· I was frozen for a moment, and said: Hmm.

· Dumbledore arranged for me to return to Hogwarts to teach Black Magic Defense.

· I was stunned for a long time: Hmm.

· His green eyes, which were the only not old, laughed: I could go to James's children, and you should be happy for me.

· I looked at him for a long time, or in my calm tone: Remus.

· He knew what I was talking about, and he quickly lowered his head.

· Sirius escaped from prison. From Azkaban.

· I want to see him. I have no doubt about that. I really want to see him, though he is a traitor. I want to see the boy with elegant black hair, whose name is Star.

· A few days ago, Remus drank a lot of alcohol at one go - Muggle kind, more intense. He lay down on the old leather sofa in the bar and murmured something to me: he met a big black dog after he was fired from the last newspaper, got wet in the rain, and rubbed his black nose on his trouser legs with a little grievance. Maybe it's begging for shelter. He watched with embarrassment as his dilapidated suitcase was spotted by the black dog. It looks like Sirius, except that size is smaller. He called out Padfoot subconsciously, and then warned himself wickedly not to think about the traitor.

· The more vicious he is, the more he knows that he can't forget. He knows very well.

· Eventually they split up, just like Remus and Sirius. He would never be able to adopt it. He had just been swept out of the house because of his "hairy little problem" with only a few chocolates on his body.

· Dogs can't eat chocolate.

· There's only one dog in the world that can eat Remus’s chocolate . That's Sirius.

· This is a sad truth.

Zenyatta-week 2018 Day 5. Travels

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I have no idea lel. Take this as one of those stories-with-very-non-linear-plots, mmkay? I honestly had no idea what to do to this one haha. Warnings: ANGST. Like holy fuck there is a lot of angst in this one. Mentions of Mondatta's death. Mentions of panic-attacks. Omnics cry coolant-tears. They can also dream because BUTTERFLY-VOICE-LINE BITCHES. Interactions can be taken as Genyatta but can also be seen as platonic if you like that better.

Travels Tekhartha Zenyatta had seen most of the world with his own optics. He had seen the mountains of Nepal, buzzing streets of India, industrial sheen of Korea, wonderful shrines of China, and the cherry trees of Japan. He had seen America, great and powerful. He had been in the calm forests of Canada. He had resisted the heat and moisture of the Amazon. He had seen the people of Africa, poor and hungry. He had admired the pyramids of Egypt. He had traveled trough Europe and felt like he had been in every nook and cranny there was. The old castles of German. Fields of Poland. Factories of Russia. He had seen the snowy mountains of Sweden, camped in the fresh forest air in Finland. And he loved them all. They all had their charm to themselves that made the place unique, and that fascinated Zenyatta. How people were so different, and yet so similar in each place. How they worked, how they lived, the social structures, nature and technology. The omnic found appreciation for each centimeter for the world. Expect for one place. One place he could not enjoy no matter how hard he tried. No matter how many times he went there, the pain was always the same. King's Row, England. He didn't have to explain himself to anyone when they found out he didn't fancy the place. Everyone knew why. And if they didn't, all they had to do was to look around a bit and they understood. Hate towards omnics was everywhere in the city. Writings on the walls, posters torn and painted on, omnics being told to go and stay underground. Zenyatta had seen many places where omnics were treated like enemies, but somehow King's Row seemed like a lost cause to him. That no matter where he turned, everyone wanted him crapped. Maybe it was the dim lighting of King's Row's streets, maybe it was the stares of the people, maybe it was the hateful shouts thrown his way... Or maybe it was that golden statue of Mondatta in the middle of it all. Zenyatta had officially visited the statue twice. Once with the Shambali, once with Genji. Both times it was clean and polished by the staff of the King's Row's City Hall, just for him and his fellow visitors. But when he would visit it without informing the City Hall, he would find the statue littered with graffiti. Hurtful things written all over it, covered by peace- and equality-posters only for them to be covered up too. Zenyatta would stand there, sometimes for hours if he could, just reading the texts and trying to understand the hate behind them. He never truly could. When some punks had then came with the intentions to destroy the serenity of the statue even more, who was Zenyatta to stop them? If he beat the young ones up, it would only create more discord between the omnics and human here. It was just hard sometimes, to watch the only thing you have left of your brother being destroyed over and over again... Mondatta was not here. He was buried in a morgue in the Monastery, under another huge statue of himself, this time made out of humble stone, not gold. His body rusted away in the stone-chamber, where the higher monks would visit once a year to bring incense and flowers. But Zenyatta would never be able to visit that place again. He had visited it once, on Mondatta's funeral. That was the last time he saw his brother's physical being, and it was inside that cold stone room... He could not even fathom the idea of seeing him now. Rusted and faded... Zenyatta wanted to remember Mondatta as a shining, tall and strong figure. He wanted to remember his voice, deep and booming, yet calming and serene. He wanted to remember his touch, strong yet gentle. He wanted to remember his embrace, his soothing words of comfort, his promise that everything was going to be okay, that they would be free one day, that they would forever be together- Zenyatta woke up with a jolt in his systems. He could hear the little mechanic voice in him repeat the same warning of overheating over and over again. Zenyatta sighed and turned the warning off. The cool air of the night would cool his systems up soon enough. It had been like this for a while now. Zenyatta would have dreams of his past travels, beautiful places, beautiful memories. Only to end up in King's Row, and eventually the damn omnioum he was created in and trained to do his job, beaten and spat on. It would not be so bad if it wasn't for him appearing in the dreams every time, as vibrant and feeling and sounding so damn real. Zenyatta could still feel the touch of his brother's hand on his shoulder. His sensors didn't notice his own hand trailing on that spot as if to reach for Mondatta until he indeed didn't feel anything on his fingers except for his own shoulder. Empty. Cold. Zenyatta's machinery hiccuped. He curled into a ball and let the coolant drip from his optics as the little voice in him started blaring the warning again.

"Master?" Zenyatta didn't remember falling back into rest-mode. Hearing Genji's voice woke him up from it as he slowly onlined his optics to find himself still laying, curled up into a ball, one hand resting on his empty shoulder. "Good morning, Genji." he mustered out of his voice-box. He was surprised it came out so calm and soft. So normal. "Master, is everything alright?" the cyborg asked, sitting next to Zenyatta in a lotus-position. The omnic held back a sigh. He had so hoped Genji would not notice his sorrow. Not anymore. He got up, slowly, to make sure he would not seem too eager to get out of the situation. "I'm quite fine, my student, thank you for asking." the omnic chimed, putting his legs into lotus-position as well and slowly floating up just few inches. He hated to lie to Genji, to anyone really, but he didn't want to bother his student with his own problems too much... He had already done enough. It had been six months already. Since they got the news from Mondatta's fate. They had been visiting a small village with only one working tv, situated in a local pub. The news were on when they sat there, Genji enjoying a stiff drink and Zenyatta drinking some oil. Zenyatta was just about to tell one of his favorite jokes when his audio-receptors caught the faint sound of the Tv saying "Earlier today, Shambali's leader Tekhartha Mondatta was assassinated on King's Row". Everything had been a blur since then. He could only remember few moments from here and there. Genji's voice calling his, either by "master" or the very rare case his actual name. Feeling of being carried and gently put down on something soft, most likely a bed in the local cheap motel. Waking up screaming and crying. Being held close and hearing soothing words, though Zenyatta could not remember what the words said exactly. He also remembered a song. Well, more of a rhythm of the song, since he could not remember the words. It had taken Zenyatta two whole weeks to start functioning properly again. And when he did, he begged Genji to tell him it had all been a bad dream. Genji didn't say anything. He simply sighed. Sad. Hollow. Mourning. They were in Nepal, and Zenyatta later found out that the Shambali had send a drop-ship to pick the two up after Genji had informed them of his situation. Zenyatta felt awful to have caused so much trouble, but Genji, and everyone else he had apologized for, told him that his reaction was completely justified. Mondatta was gone. He was never going to come back. He had died. Zenyatta repeated this to himself many times a day, trying to cope with the thought. His dear brother, first one who showed his love and affection, first one to call him family, first one to protect and care for him. His rock, his mountain. Was gone. Zenyatta often found himself overheating on the floor, sobbing and hiccuping as his processors were coping with his mental progressing. Each surfacing memory, each familiar scent, feel and even color could trigger what must have been the omnic-equivalent of a panic-attack. And each time Genji would find him, hold him, sooth him with words, and... hum. That same tune Zenyatta remembered from those two painful first weeks. The funeral was absolute pain. Not the fact that he would have to stare his offlined brother for what must have been the longest day of his life, listen to visitors giving their condolences, having to shoo off media and reporters trying to break their way to the private funeral. It was fighting back every processor inside him telling him to run to his brother, hold him, beg him to get up, get up and live, damn it! He could not die! Not like this! He was supposed to live long and happy! With his brother! With his family and friends!! Thank the Iris for Genji. Dear, strong and sweet Genji. He was always there, right besides Zenyatta. He would stand there, giving moral support. He would land his hand on his shoulder, like he had, or arm for reassurance. When a reporter would ask for an interview, Genji would take a freedom to ever so kindly kick their asses off the monastery. When there was a quiet moment, or when Zenyatta needed one, Genji would pull him behind the corner and embrace him. That gave Zenyatta enough mental energy to power trough the day. Zenyatta refused the leadership the first thing next morning. He didn't want to linger in the place any longer than he absolutely needed to. He gave hasty goodbyes to everyone and left to continue Genji's training. He need to. His soul begged him to MOVE. Months flew by and the panic-attacks stopped. Memories started to fade. Pain started to go numb. But the dreams. They stayed. And Genji knew they did. He must have seen it. Many times by now. It didn't help that they often shared a tent or a spot on the soft grass to rest in. Genji was indeed still part human and needed at least 8 hours of sleep. And Zenyatta needed to recharge his machinery. Genji refused to sleep far away from Zenyatta. He wanted to be close. And part of Zenyatta was glad. Feeling the cyborg's presence helped him power off for the night. But it didn't take away the nightmares. "Master." Genji said, with a serious tone. "Please tell me if something is bothering you." Zenyatta stayed quiet a second too long to seem truly innocent. "I do not quite understand what you me-" "Don't lie to me, Zenyatta." The serious tone and the usage of the real name made Zenyatta float down on the grass and sigh. He felt his walls come down again. "Master, I know you have nightmares every night. I know they are about Mondatta. And I know they bother you." Genji said. "It hurts me to watch you suffer, master." the cyborg then said, almost like a whisper. "And not being allowed to help..." Zenyatta didn't really realize what he was doing before his arms already were around Genji's neck and his faceplate resting against the cyborg's shoulder. But it felt right so he didn't abort the move. "I'm sorry Genji." the omnic stuttered. He was overheating again. "I just... don't want to cause you more trouble... You've done so much to me already, I can't possibly ask for more!" Genji didn't wrap his arms around the omnic which made Zenyatta panic for a second, had he stepped over his boundaries? Instead the cyborg held the monk's shoulders with his strong hands and gently pushed them apart only so he would face Zenyatta. "Master. You helped me find peace with myself and my new body. You helped me forgive my brother, the mad who I have hated more than ten years of my life! You showed me wonderful things on our travels! You made me whole, Zenyatta." A pause. "Helping you become whole again is the least I can do to pay back to you." Now Genji embraced the omnic, who found coolant falling from his optics again. This time due to a different emotion than sorrow.

"Genji?" "Yes Master?" "Can you... do something for me?" "Anything!" "Can you... sing that song? The same you did when..." Silence. A small laugh from Genji. "Of course..." Hearing the familiar tune soothes Zenyatta. He lays his head back in Genji's lap. It feels weird, having their roles switched like this. But it's nice so the omnic doesn't complain. This kinda reminds him of when he and Mond- His core freezes for a slit second. But Genji's voice brings him back. Zenyatta's fans kick in and start bringing in the cool air around him. Omnic's way of taking a deep breath, you could say. Zenyatta looks up to the cyborg. He feels safe. He feels happy. True, it will still hurt. For the rest of his life it will hurt. Each time he thinks of Mondatta. Each time he goes to King's Row. Each time he thinks of home. But now Zenyatta knows that he isn't travelling the path of life alone. Zenyatta let's his systems go offline while he listens to Genji's voice. And he dreams again. But this time it's different. Zenyatta is on one of the fields of Poland. Mondatta is there, sitting and gathering flowers for a flower-crown he is working on. Besides him Genji lays and looks at the clouds while chewing on a string of hay. Zenyatta feels the embrace of the Iris in him again. He feels happy. He sits between his brother and student and gently leans on Mondatta's shoulder. Mondatta simply puts his hand on his brother's shoulder. Zenyatta reaches to touch it. He wishes he could smile. It's there. He can feel it. END

The Stone Knight

Part 1/? - Two Statues Part 2/? - A Curious Interview Part 3/? - John Doe Part 4/? - Escape Attempt Part 5/? - Making the News Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - More Impossible Part 8/? - The Shield Thieves Part 9/? - Reality Sinks In Part 10/? - Preparing a Quest Part 11/? - The Marvelous History of Sir Stephen Part 12/? - Uninvited Guests Part 13/? - So That’s What It Does Part 14/? - The What and the Where Part 15/? - Gearing Up Part 16/? - Just Passing Through Part 17/? - Dinner with Druids Part 18/? - Kracness Henge Part 19/? - A Task Interrupted Part 20/? - The Red Death Part 21/? - Aphelion Part 22/? - The Stone Giants Part 23/? - Nat the Giant Killer Part 24/? - An Interrogation Part 25/? - Guilt Part 26/? - Rushman’s Brilliant Idea Part 27/? - Hunter in Hiding Part 28/? - Ridiculous Part 29/? - The Guy from Barton Part 30/? - Sherwood Forest Part 31/? - Buckeye’s Fall Part 32/? - Robin Hood Part 33/? - Fantasies and Consequences Part 34/? - Swords of Damocles Part 35/? - The Road to London Part 36/? - View from the Top Part 37/? - Storming the Castle Part 38/? - Beneath the Chapel Floor Part 39/? - Jurisdiction Part 40/? - Royal Assent Part 41/? - The Calm Before

I never have any idea how these stories get so long.

           The Queen got a phone call halfway through breakfast and wandered off to deal with whatever it was, leaving her guests to finish their breakfasts by themselves.  Servants cleared away plates and brought Sir Stephen seconds, thirds, and fourths, and offered everybody else tea to finish off with.  Sir Stephen looked like he was afraid he’d break the gilt-edged teacup if he so much as touched it, and held up a hand to refuse.

           “I would prefer ale, if you have it,” he said.

           Robin Hood took a cup and ignored the handle, instead drinking as if from a bowl.  He didn’t seem to like what he tasted.

           “This stuff’s weak,” he told the waiter.  “You got any of the other kind?  Coffee.  That’s the good stuff.”

           “Right away, Mr. Hood,” the waiter relied.  He was a very tall thin man with a bit of silver hair around the edges of a shiny bald head, and the expression on his face suggested that he had resigned himself to a very long day entertaining these strangers.  It made Nat wonder how often, exactly, the Queen brought random strange people home with her.  This couldn’t possibly be the first time.

           “I wouldn’t mind coffee, either,” Allen spoke up.

           “Two coffees,” the waiter nodded and looked at Nat.

           “I’m fine with tea,” she assured him.  Sharon and Sam, who already had their drinks, nodded.

           The waiter went to get the coffee made, and silence fell in the room.  Nat shut her eyes and savoured it for a moment.  A couple of the windows were open, and she could hear swans honking to each other in the palace gardens and traffic on the roads a long way off, but other than that the only sound was the clink of a spoon on china as Sam added sugar to his tea.  There hadn’t been a lot of silence in the past few days, and it seemed like something she should enjoy while it lasted.

           “I never thought I’d be having tea in Buckingham Palace,” Allen observed.

           “Me either,” Natasha said, then opened her eyes and looked at him warily.  Was this it? Were they going to have to keep pretending that they were a normal family and everything was okay?

           “Natasha?” he asked.  “It’s Natasha, right?”

           “It’s actually Natalia,” said Nat.  “I go by Natasha or Natalie, because those are more common in the west.  Honestly, you can call me whatever you want.”  She sipped her tea, and hoped he wouldn’t take that as an invitation to continue calling her Ginger Snap.

           Allen nodded and took a dee breath.  “When I said goodbye to you last night…” he began.

           “Do we have to talk about it?” asked Nat.

           “Yes,” he said.  “At least, I think we’d better.”

           For a moment she was torn.  Allen Rushman seemed like a decent person and it wasn’t his fault he was in this situation.  She didn’t want to break his heart, and yet if she were going to learn anything from this mess it had to be that truth was always better.  “I said what I said because I thought you needed to hear it,” she told him.  “It wasn’t… it wasn’t real.”

           “I know,” he replied.  “I just thought you were putting me up there as an excuse to leave me behind, and I figured if I were never going to see you again I just… I wanted to go out on something nice.  If I’d known you really were coming back for me, I wouldn’t have done that.”

           “Oh,” said Nat, surprised.  “Really?  You really thought we’d just leave you behind?”

           “I haven’t been the most useful guy on this trip,” said Allen, “and you didn’t want me here to begin with.”

           “If we were going to leave you behind because of that, we would have done it after Flotta,” said Nat.  

           “Why didn’t you?” he asked.

           That was a good question – and the honest answer to it wasn’t the one he wanted.  Truth was best, Nat reminded herself – even the truth that hurt people. Nobody learned anything from a lie. She did, however, tried to phrase that ugly truth as gently as possible.  “Because that would have been mean,” she said.  “You’d be all alone in a foreign country, and you weren’t in any shape to find your own way home.  We couldn’t just leave you there.”  Even when she’d been angry with him, Nat hadn’t intended to do that.

           “So you were stuck with me, huh?” he asked plaintively.

           Nat groaned.  She couldn’t tell if he were being passive-aggressive or just whiny – either way, she really didn’t want to be having this conversation, but escaping from it would be cruel as well as rude.  “What do you want me to say?” she asked.

           “Nothing.”  Allen lowered his head.  “I’m sorry, I just want something to not be a lie.”

           “This is not a lie, Allen,” said Sir Stephen, and rapped on the table with his knuckles.  “We are eating at the Queen’s table – that is true.  You are flesh and blood, you are surrounded by friends, and we are on a quest to save the land.  You are a good man, though not a warrior, and you love your daughter.  All of these things are true.  If we cannot trust to our histories or even to our memories, we can trust in the moment we are experiencing, and this is real.”

           The waiter returned with coffee in silver-plated cups that Natasha suspected had last been used by Queen Victoria.  He handed the first one to Allen, who thanked him and then held the coffee under his nose to smell it.

           “Yeah,” he said quietly.  “That’s real.”

           The Queen returned about twenty minutes later, by which time Allen had gotten up to admire the art, and Robin Hood had lain down on one of the fancy chaise lounges under the window and was fast asleep and snoring.  The Queen shuffled up to him and poked him in the ribs.

           “Wakey-wakey,” she said.

           Robin woke with a start and quickly got to his feet. “Sorry, your Majesty.”

           “Princess Alexandra embroidered those cushions herself,” said the Queen.  “Every stitch.  Good to see somebody finally using them.”  She turned to the others, who were gathering to see what she had to say. “General Fury wants you back at the Tower to inspect his preparations,” she said.  “Since you’re the ones who know what this Red Death character is capable of.”

           Nat didn’t know about anybody else, but she was pleased to have an opportunity to get back in the action – even if it meant leaving the silence behind.  “Of course, your Majesty,” she said.

           “I do not think the fortification has been built that could stop the Red Death completely,” said Sir Stephen, “but we can perhaps hope to slow him down a little.”  He finished the mug of beer the waiter and brought him, and set it carefully down on the table.  “If everyone else is ready?”

           The others didn’t look particularly ready, Natasha thought.  They looked like they’d much rather join Robin Hood in sleeping on the priceless antique sofas.  But one by one they stood up, straightened their clothes, and nodded.  Even Allen Rushman – he didn’t want to be here, but if the others were calling on him, he was ready to go.  It made Nat feel bad about thinking of him as a coward.  He was braver than even he thought.

           If the Tower had been a hive of activity by the time they’d left at sunrise, that was nothing compared to how they found it when they returned, having had a chance to wash up and change their clothes before leaving, around noon.  The whole place had been thoroughly fortified, and there were almost as many soldiers in it as there were tourists on a normal day.  People were shouting orders.  Flowerbeds were being dug up.  The animal sculptures had been piled under a tent near the Royal Mint, and the bronze cannon moved to make way for what looked like an anti-tank gun.  A checkpoint had been set up at the main gate where the ticket takers usually were, and a man came up and saluted when the Queen’s limousine pulled up.

           “Can I see some identification, please?” he asked, as the group piled out of the car.

           “Oh, go find something useful to do,” the Queen told him.  Sir Stephen reached to help her get up from the car seat, but she swatted him away.  “I’m not dead yet,” she told him.

           The man who’d asked for ID bowed to her.  “I just need to make sure everybody’s cleared, your Majesty,” he said.

           “They’re with me – of course they’re bloody cleared,” the Queen said.

           They headed inside, and Nat realized there might be a problem with having all these people in here.  “I don’t know about the crowds,” she said.  “If the Grail can bring lies to life, do we really want so many potential liars in here?”  Any one of these men or women might be telling a lie right now… about their family, about what they did last night, about anything, really.  Most of them would be fairly harmless, but what about the ones that weren’t?

           “I know not,” Sir Stephen admitted.  “I do not like so many knowing its location, myself, but this is all too much for we alone to handle.”

           “If that thing just granted wishes willy-nilly we’d have heard about it by now,” the Queen said.  “There’s stories about all sorts of things going on here, but so far as I know none of it involves miracles.”

           Nat thought about that.  “I had the fragment in my hand when I was talking to Sue about my father,” she remembered, “and also when I told you guys I’d figured out where the Grail was.  Maybe it won’t work unless you’re touching it.”  She remembered the fluid snatching up the Queen’s pink clutch.  “Have you told people not to touch?”

           “Somebody better have,” said the Queen.  “Though I’d hope people would have the sense to figure that out for themselves.”

           When they rounded the White Tower to the chapel side, Natasha was startled to see a yellow mechanical shovel parked next to the ruins of the Wardrobe Tower, and people standing around in fluorescent vests and hard hats.  The archaeologist in her wanted to run up and demand to know what they were doing – the spy in her, knowing what was in the chapel, wanted the same.

           The man who came up to salute the Queen was the man with the glass eye, whom Natasha had earlier warned about horseshoes and ivy.  General Fury. “Your Majesty,” he said.

           “At ease, Nicky,” said the Queen.

           “What are you digging up?” Natasha demanded.

           General Fury looked a little offended for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure why he should answer to this stranger – then he caught the Queen’s eye, and saw her nod.

           “Her Majesty requested that we get the, uh, Grail, out of the White Tower basement so it can be properly disposed of,” he explained.  “The problem is, according to our architects, that the Grail was put there first and then the Tower was built over it. It’s twice the size of the basement door.  We obviously can’t tear the keep down, so we’re going to try digging a tunnel in from the side.”

           “What’s under the lawn there?” asked Natasha.  It was probably something historically important – this was the Tower of London, after all.  Even as she’d been digging up the basement floor, she hadn’t intended to damage any more of it than absolutely necessary.

           “Professor Gates is trying to figure that out right now,” said Fury, nodding to one of the people in the hard hats.  This was a man with a ginger beard and round, John Lennon-type sunglasses, peering at a computer printout.  “Professor!” the General barked.

           Professor Gates looked up, and did a double-take when he realized the Queen had arrived.  “Your Majesty!” he said, hurrying over with his printout in hand. “We tried to do a geomagnetic survey, but it turns out the power cables for the Royal Armories run right through here. We’ll need to bring in ground-penetrating radar.”

           “Whatever, get on with it,” said the Queen.  She turned to look back at the group.  “You lot are supposed to know your onions on this,” she said.  “Have you got any better ideas?  Is the Grail that whole mess, or just the black bogeys in the middle?”

           Nat shrugged.  She looked at Sir Stephen, but he didn’t know, either.  The only person who knew the answer might well be the Red Death himself, if even he did.  “Going in from the side sounds like about the only choice,” she said.  “We don’t know which part is the Grail, so we have to assume it’s the whole thing.”

           “You don’t know a damned thing about it, but neither does anyone else.”  The Queen snorted.  “Typical!”

Stranded {Part 4}

Fandom: Marvel/Avengers

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Female Identifying)

Series: Stranded

Warning: N/A

Writer: @imaginesofeveryfandom aka @thequeenofthehobbits

Summary/Request: Merman Bucky AU: You find yourself stranded on a desert island no thanks to a stupid group of pirates...you happen to make a friend, however, who’s determined to show you how to survive.

Part 1 X, Part 2 X, Part 3 X

@ria132love @thepoet1975 @inumorph @chameerah @shadyphangirl18 @mirkwoodshewolf @shadow257 @iamthemaskhewears @fandomsinabookshelf @theasparagusawakens @mundane-cup-noodles @fuckmewintertucker @fangeekkk @blissfullylostinarabbithole

The new clothes do not fit quite right, but you can wear them and they’re better than the ragged clothes you’d been wearing for a week. You now have 2 different outfits, you can wash clothes, alternate. It makes you feel better kept, less messy. You can’t thank your silent helper enough, strange as it is, and strange as the thought that merpeople are real is. You might not have truly seen them, might have only seen flashes, but that was enough to confirm it for you. That tail could belong to nought but a merperson.

You’d been organising your little camp just a bit more, planning really. Thinking about making some sort of shelter in case a storm blew in. Rain while obviously not frequent was still something that would happen and being stuck in a storm wasn’t your idea of fun. Not that you really knew how to make a shelter, wood, some rope maybe? Those vines in the forest could work? You had absolutely no idea.

“Hello” When a sudden voice came from behind you, male and friendly, but so sudden that you let out a tiny scream and physically jumped from the fright. You’d been alone, for so long, well, alone without anyone to speak with, but not quite alone, that it scared you.

You turned around to see him, or at least by human standards he was a him, sitting? Lounging on the rock. His tail was just as you remember it silvery blue, almost pearlescent, with finds like chiffon. It looked delicate and yet you were sure it was strong enough to hurt. He was what you would probably say was tall if he were human, long brown hair at his shoulders, wet from the water, with the starting of a beard across an impressive jawline. Blue eyes that reminded you of the waters around you and tanned skin from the sun. His left arm is no longer there, amputated? Or taken? You’re not sure. He was a handsome man? Merman…and this was your helper…

You stared at him for a few moments, jaw dropped, blinking almost to check that this wasn’t some sort of hallucination. “You’re real.”

“Of course I’m real, who else was feeding you?” It was one thing to imagine that he was real, to think you’ve seen things, to rationalise the fish that were left. It was another thing entirely to see him sat before you, to see a merman in full glory.

“I’ve managed….”

You’re a little offended at the suggestion that you need help, after all you’d made your fishing spear, you’d caught your own fish, you’d found fruit and root vegetables and water. You’d managed. But in those early days having a helping hand was certainly a godsend.

“I noticed, you humans have always been resourceful. I suppose you don’t need me anymore, doll.” He made to turn as if to go back into the ocean and you stepped forward quickly, terrified you were going to be left alone again on this blasted island.

“No! Please don’t go!” You watched him stop and turn to smirk at you realising that he had been teasing all along. It was a strange concept that the creatures from your fairy tales could tease and joke…but it was a welcome interaction.

“Why were you left here, little doll?” His head tilts in a way that says he’s curious, not threatening, not demeaning, just curious. And you’re curious too, curious about this name he’s taken to giving you, something that sounds so human from someone that isn’t. You are unsure about it. Names like that aren’t given lightly where you’re from they’re either demeaning, enticing, or from someone close to you. This somehow has a different sort of innocence to it.

“Doll?”

“You remind me of those china dolls your people make.” It was strange to think that he knew so much about humans and the things you made, but then you supposed a lot of those things ended up in the ocean when merchant ships were sunk in storms or by pirates. It wasn’t such a strange concept that he would come across such a thing.

“Creepy? Strange?” You remember always seeing those dolls in shop windows, too expensive for you to afford. They had always seemed strange to you, too real and yet not real enough. Glass eyes staring at you blankly. You’d never liked them.

“Sweet, cute. You humans are so delicate and yet you adapt, you are strong and delicate and it’s like a doll.” You can’t say you agree with his belief that dolls are cute, but nonetheless you feel yourself getting flustered at the compliment. You supposed that if you could find him handsome then the same could happen on his end towards you.

“What do people call you?” You ask, you can’t keep thinking of him as the merman or the helper. He has a name surely.

“Bucky.” It isn’t what you imagined a merperson would be called, but then you knew no real truths about them. Other than that they could indeed be beautiful, that they had beautiful tails and that maybe some of them were quite helpful.

“Bucky, my name is Y/N…” You’re not sure he’ll use it. He seems to like the moniker of doll for you instead, but it’s only polite to return a name with another name.

You take more steps towards him and he seems to encourage it smiling at you brighter each step until you’re in front of the rock so close that you could touch him if you wanted to. Up close he was even more beautiful, you could understand the stories of mermaids luring men to the ocean, such beauty was likely to draw you anywhere if you didn’t think properly.

“May I?” You reach a hand forward, you want to touch, to confirm this is real, solid…but your curiosity is also begging to be sated.

He nods his head with a smile and you carefully reach forward. The scales are warm beneath your hand, so incredibly warm, just like your own legs would be. There was strong muscle beneath the scales that shifted under your touch. They were smooth, like polished stone, and their colour shifted with the light. It was absolutely beautiful.

You jumped at the sensation of a finger poking at your cheek and you looked over to see him staring at you curiously. “I’ve only ever seen humans from afar…you’re soft.”

“You are too, here.” You point to his chest, although in truth he isn’t that soft. He is the same skin and muscle that you are made from, very much human, but obviously a lot stronger. Tougher and he smiles at you in a way that says ‘oh, my dear’, as if you were naïve enough to belief that he was truly soft.

The finger poking your cheek becomes a hand that trails over your skin curiously, pushing at soft flesh and prodding at times in places that make you giggle from the ticklish sensation. “Merpeople as you call us, we are much more…resilient. You get ill, you get hurt, we….are tougher. Stronger.” You don’t doubt that, you don’t doubt that even without legs and missing an arm he could hurt you badly simply without a thought. There’s something dangerous about him, but it’s a danger that makes you feel safe. You trust him. You trust that he wants to help you, that he’s curious and not dangerous to you at least.

It is strange having someone touch you, having someone this close. You’re unused to this. In your society things are more restricted, touch is for close friends, family, partners. Closeness is not for strangers, but you supposed that you weren’t in your society anymore. You could do anything you wanted. It was lawless and rule-less and so strange.

The hand finds its way into your hair, where it quickly becomes stuck. Your hair is knotted and matted from days without maintenance and care. It’s horrible and you hate it. It’s a source of embarrassment as Bucky stares at it between his fingers before pulling back and shifting his hand to a small bag at his side. It is made of some sort of netting and you watch as he pulls out a comb, bone by the looks of it and old.

“May I?” He throws the words back at you with a grin and you wonder if all merpeople are this cheeky or if it’s just a trait that he’s developed.

You nod and turn to make it easier for him to reach your hair. It hurts, the knots are large and it is slow going, each step of the way he apologises for the pain and works. Each section slowly being untangled. It’s strangely intimate but you rationalise that you need someone to help because your hair is so knotted you’d fail to do it on your own. You tell yourself that this is acceptable even though your 18th century sensibilities tell you that it’s not.

“Are you alone?” You ask as he works on another section of hair, you’re alone, but maybe he isn’t. Surely, merpeople have their own cities or communities, families. He seemed very social so it would only make sense that the rest of his species were as well. But it seemed better to ask and assume and you were curious about him.

“Alone? I’m with you.”

“I mean…do you have a community?” A family, a group of people to look after you. You had a family once, a community…now you have nothing. Now you don’t even have a city to live in, just an empty island.

“Ah, like those human towns? No. I did and then…they didn’t want me after I lost my arm.” You don’t understand. You don’t understand why they’d get rid of him simply for something like losing an arm. He seemed to be doing well, didn’t seem hindered by it nor a problem because of it and even if he was…human communities seemed far more forgiving, people looked after each other, after family regardless of their ability.

“Why?”

“They thought I was a liability, my friends tried to fight for me to stay, but…elders always get the final say.” He think back to Steve, to Natasha, to all his friends who had fought for him to stay and failed. It was alright, he was alright on his own…it was just lonely sometimes.

“They just kicked you out? But you...that’s not fair!” He had helped you survive and was still here himself, it seemed completely bizarre to you that they’d get rid of someone at all, let alone think he was a liability. But you didn’t understand it and maybe that was a cultural difference between you.

“It’s alright, doll. I’m fine on my own…and now I have you.” He finished the final section of hair, the last knot coming free. It was a relief, your hair felt better, freer and you just felt better for it.

“That means you’re not leaving me alone?” You turn back to face him. You hope he stays, it’s so lovely having someone to talk to again, having a person, a real person, tail or not, in front of you. It doesn’t help that he’s nice to look at and feeds you.

“I think we both need the interaction.”

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 40791/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7

Read on: Ao3

Emma wonders how thin the floor below her is. She also wonders if the person who lives below her can tell that she’s been pacing for the last hour. It’s always been her nervous vice- when starting a new family, before English exams, waiting for grad school acceptance letters- she’s always taken to walking in circles. And despite what Killian told her the day before, despite the millions of assurances she’s told herself- it’s not stopping her from walking in circles around her apartment’s floor.

When her phone rings, she flinches before pulling it out of her bag. The phone was an early investment, a Misthaven Sim card so that she’d be able to get calls while here. Now, she extracts her phone from her purse on the counter.

She’d spent hours before worrying over what to wear. What does one wear to meet a queen? She finally settled on a navy knee-length skirt that tied at the waist, a striped blue and white button up, and fake pearl earrings. A little make up, a professional pony tail, and a suitable brown leather tote finished her look.

“Hello?” She says into the phone.

She still hasn’t mastered area codes, but she can tell from the country code that it’s a Misthaven number.

“Hallo? Dis eez Jacques, of zee Queen’s securitay,” He says, his Misthaven accent thick and hard to understand, “Zye am waiting outside, when you please.”

“Oh right,” Emma mutters, “Um, merci? I’ll be there in a moment.”

She grabs her purse, gives her pony tail a final tug, and then heads down the stairs.

Waiting for her outside the apartment is a black car with the royal seal on it. Emma’s beginning to get familiar with it now having seen it on the Royal Box at the opera, but also on many other public places in Misthaven.

The man exits and opens the door for her. She steps in, a little bewildered by the treatment. Inside, there are bottles of sparkling water inside the cup holders, an assortment of fresh fruit between the two seats. Emma tries not to feel completely out of place.

“Eet well be a twenty-minute drive to zee house of zee Queen,” The driver says, as he slips into the front seat, “Zif you need anyting, please just let me know, Madame.”

“Merci,” Emma manages again.

She watches from the window as the car drives through the familiar streets of her neighborhood, before giving way to more unfamiliar areas. They drive past the outskirts of Misthaven City, where there are still a few rundown buildings left to be restored. The sight of them gives Emma the chills, remembering the pawn shop of her first week.

Still farther they drive and the city gives way to the countryside. Misthaven is a very small country, but it does have a sizable amount of countryside considering how small it is. There are friendly green farms, cheerful windmills, and old grey cottages flicking past her window.

Slowly they begin to drive up the mountain, there are more trees here, along with winding mountain roads. Occasionally she gets a peak of the town from mountain side, and each time it is farther and farther below her. Emma can imagine why a Queen like Mary Margaret would want to live here- far from city center and the troubles and stress that come with it.

Finally, the car stops in front of the small chateau. It’s elegant, light grey stone and archways. Emma can see some stained-glass windows farther up. Did Chagall do these ones too? There are gardens going off in all directions- a neat rose garden, organized in Tudor patterns, then beyond that an English-style garden with follies and wild flowers.

“Emma!” Queen Mary Margaret’s voice calls.

Emma had been so engrossed in taking in the estate, that she didn’t notice the Queen’s arrival. The woman is waving brightly, walking down the main stairwell to greet her.

“Your majesty,” Emma says, dropping a curtsey.

“Oh my dear,” she says, “Don’t feel the need to engage in such dramatics. You are at my home. It’s much more casual here.”

“Oh, right, okay,” Emma says, trying to figure out what ‘casual’ means to a queen, “Well, it’s great to see you again.”

“You as well, my dear,” the Queen replies, taking Emma’s hand to give it a friendly squeeze. “Come on in. Welcome to my house.”

The inside is just as seriously insane as the outside. There are ancient tapestries lining the entrance hall, fine dark wood, and golden embellishments. Emma feels like she’s entered some sort of historical display house, not a place that a real person actually lives in.

“This is a really lovely place,” Emma says politely.

“Oh,” the Queen replies, “It’s just our old summer place really. It’s not as ornate as the main castle. I wanted a simpler life when I returned here.”

Simpler life? Emma not certain this exactly what she’d describe as simple.

“Do you have a lot of these?” Emma asks, “Other houses?”

The Queen sashays her way down a corridor and Emma follows.

“Yes, of course,” She says, “There is family home by the seaside, close to the Belgian border. And then in south there is a small, little estate that has been in the royal family for years. It was supposed to go to Emma.”

The Queen pauses and gives a little glance back before adding, in a more melancholic tone. “My daughter. Princess Emma.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma replies softly.

There is a moment of silence that falls between them, as Emma looks down awkwardly, picking at her nails.

“She’s out there,” The Queen replies, “I feel it inside me. One day she’ll return to the kingdom and she’ll have her house in the southern valley.”

It’s a lovely thought. But Emma can only think of Killian’s thoughts the day before. She’s probably dead. If not, she could be anyone.

“I know it sounds silly,” the Queen says, “but I’m very bad at giving up hope.”

“That’s admirable, your majesty,” Emma tells her.

The Queen smiles softly, ruefully, before leading Emma towards a pair of French doors.

“Let me show my favorite room in the house,” She says, her voice is brighter now.

She leads Emma into a small green room with gold stripes. The room is circular with long windows that open out onto the woods nearby. Upon further exception, realizes that the walls aren’t just green and gold. The walls are a forest.

The gold stripes work as illustrations of trees, diving the walls into a multitude of foliage. As Emma gets closer, she sees more- knots in trees, tiny fairies and nymphs peaking out of trees, birds and butterflies, mushrooms and moss- all of it detailed into the walls.

Her eyes turn to the ceiling, it’s decorated so that one half shows the night sky and the other the day. Puffy white clouds and sunshine on one side and glittering constellations on the other.

“I see why it’s your favorite,” Emma remarks.

“I call it my Enchanted Forest Room,” the monarch tells her.

“It’s dazzling,” Emma murmurs.

The Queen beams and leads Emma over to a table. The table has already been set for tea with fine china cups with delicate floral designs. Seconds after they sit down, a servant (holy crap a freaking servant) brings over cart with a pot of hot tea and three-tiered tray of treats and sandwiches. The whole thing is so beautiful that Emma’s fingers twitch as she tries not to Instagram the scene. Seriously, this place would get so many likes.

“Is tea alright for you?” The Queen asks, “Or would you prefer coffee or hot chocolate?”

Emma would always prefer coffee and she’s pretty sure that Princess Emma would ask for a hot chocolate, but the truth is Emma’s nervous and doesn’t want to disturb the woman.

“Tea is perfect,” She replies.

The queen nods at Emma and she knows that it’s her cue to pour the tea. Emma’s listened to enough of Belle’s talk on regency books to know that it is a sign of respect to the elder woman to have the younger pour the tea. But that doesn’t actually mean that Emma knows how to pour the tea. Especially when the tea pot is hot and heavy (and like, obviously, not in the good way).

She tentatively reaches for the pot, not sure where to put her hands. Does she keep her hand on the lid while she pours? Will her wrist actually hold the weight of the pot? Emma puts the handle in one hand and the spout, but she’s instantly burned.

“Fuck,” she hisses, pulling back her hand.

The queen looks up at her, eyes wide.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry your majesty!” Emma says, “I didn’t mean to use foul language in front of-“

“Oh please,” she laughs, “I may be a queen, but I’m still human! Let me show you.”

The queen takes the pot gingerly in her hand, one hand on the handle and the other on the lid.

Dang it. It was the lid!

The queen pours Emma’s cup and then her own. She takes a bit of milk and sugar, before adding a small lemon tart to her plate. She nods at Emma to do the same. In turn, Emma swirls in a splash of milk and puts a small pink macaron onto her plate. She’s pretty sure that there are sparkles somehow baked into the cookie.

“So, Emma,” the Queen asks, “How are you liking Misthaven so far?”

“Very nicely,” Emma replies, “The university is very supportive. It’s a beautiful place to spend a semester.”

“It is, isn’t it?” the queen smiles, taking a sip of tea, “The library is just breathtaking. When I was getting my degree, I used to try to sneak in there to study. I’d dress like a commoner- with a baseball cap and everything. Normally my security would find me and drag me out, you know, off to study in the royal library- but the few minutes I’d get in there would be amazing.”

Emma smiles, taking a nervous sip of tea. She’s drawn in by a specific detail.

“You have your own royal library?”

The queen blushes and smiles, “I do, a few actually. There is one in the main castle, but mostly it’s just filled with legal books now that the parliament has relocated there. A lot of government scholars study there. I’ve moved most of the fiction to my private library here. And the overflow to the Princess’s castle in the valley.”

“Wow,” Emma murmurs, “I can’t imagine having so many books to myself.”

“I know that being queen comes with immense privilege, trials too, but definitely privilege. I think that all the books are the biggest part of that, and the free opera tickets,” She laughs.

“I remember the first time I got a library card,” Emma says, a little wistful between munches of macaron, “I felt like I won the lottery. All those books, as many as I wanted to read, all for free. I’d never felt so lucky.”

The queen smiles, “Well, Emma, since we are friends, you are welcome to use my library whenever you wish.”

The Queen of fricken Misthaven just offered her library to her?

Emma gapes a little bit, “Thank you. I’d really love that.”

The Queen blushes again and takes a sip of her tea.

“So what do you like read?” Emma asks.

“All sorts of things,” The Queen replies, “Classics, of course, Austen, Eliot.”

Dang it, she should’ve meet Belle instead, Emma thinks.

“But I also have a soft place for fairy tales,” She adds.

Emma looks up from her tea, a smile playing on her lips.

“Me too,” Emma blurts.

“Do you?”

Queen Mary Margaret’s eyes look as bright as Emma’s own.

“The Red Fairy Book saved my life,” Emma tells her, “Seriously, those books were my first favorites.”

The queen looks like she might cry, “I had a copy of those that I meant to give my daughter. The shoe books too- you know Ballet Shoes, Dancing Shoes, Theater Shoes- those ones. And all the Little House on the Prairie. And Anne of Green Gables. And Little Women. The Secret Garden. And of course, The Little Princess. I wanted her to read all the little girl classics.”

Now Emma feels like crying too. She has never thought that she’s the kind of person who could feel bad for a queen, yet she feels overwhelmingly sad for this woman who never got to watch her daughter grow up. A daughter which Emma is trying to impersonate, kinda. Emma doesn’t know how to react so she reaches for another macaron and shoves it in her mouth.

Then she mumbles, “I’m sorry you didn’t get to read them with her.”

“Thanks Emma,” she says, “What other things do you read?”

“Well, I like kind of post-modernism and contemporary things. You know? The weird, techno-infused, inventive things,” Emma says, “Creative, unique stuff.”

She takes another sip of tea before she keeps going.

“I’m also into world literatures. I like the concept of books as nations. I’m really interested in how we tell stories about different places and cultures, and how those stories change based on who is writing them,” Emma explains.

“Wow,” The queen says, “Your interests seem to be all over the place, yet you seem to be very articulate about what you like.”

Emma smiles, pleased.

“My favorite,” she continues, “is Blanche Neige. Have you heard of her? I think you’d like her since you like fairy tales.”

There is a small pause as the queen grimaces, searching for what to say. Her voice is grave when she responds.

“Actually, sorry, not to be rude, Emma, but I don’t really care for Blanche Neige.”

Emma feels like she’s been slapped in the face.

WHAT DOES SHE MEAN SHE DOESN’T LIKE BLANCHE NEIGE?

Emma is immediately grateful that she’ll have Killian to call tonight to rant to about this whole situation.

The queen continues, “It’s just that I don’t think she has the right to speak about Misthaven. This tiny country is my life, my whole life, and she uses it as a plot device.”

“That’s not fair,” Emma snaps, “She uses it to encourage revolution. She uses it to stand up for Misthaven during a time of oppression.”

“Does she?” The queen asks, “Or does she take advantage of the oppression to capitalize on a story?”

Emma gapes. She can’t believe that the queen doesn’t like Blanche Neige.

“Do you even know if she lived in Misthaven at the time?” The queen demands, “There is no proof that she cared about Misthaven. She was just someone making money and getting sympathy by using exploited people.”

Emma gulps. The woman is taking down the most important person to Emma and it makes her feel borderline sick. Blanche Neige is Emma’s life. The idea that Blanche Neige is anything but a hero seems blasphemous to her.

“Does that mean that no one can write about exploited people? Tons of people write everyday about the Holocaust, about genocide, refuges, war, oppression of all forms.”

The queen frowns, “I’m sorry if it sounds harsh. This is the real world, my real world, not an academic classroom. My husband died for Misthaven. My daughter died for Misthaven. My friends, my guards, my subjects- they all died for Misthaven. If Blanche Neige thinks it’s as easy as climbing a tower to find a savior, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Emma swallows and exhales before saying, “I’m sorry for bringing her up, your majesty. I truly didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay Emma,” She says softly, her tension defused after her outburst. “Your heart is the right place. I won’t dislike you for liking her writing, but just please respect my request to never mention her again in my house.”

Emma nods.

“Would you like a tour now?” The queen asks, rising.

Emma stands immediately. That seems like another Jane Austen-y thing to follow. Don’t sit when the queen is standing? Not that there are queens or kings in Jane Austen, but still it seems like a proper thing.

“Sure,” Emma says.

“Let’s start with the library,” The queen says, “I wasn’t lying before, you really are free to use it whenever.”

She leads Emma down several hallways, before she approaches a pair of doors. She gives Emma conspiratorial grin, before throwing them open.

It’s an immaculate library. Emma’s never seen anything like it.

While the Misthaven University library is all dark wood, this room is bright with long windows. It’s all marble floors, gold leaf, and ornate blue reading chairs. Emma wants to explore it all immediately. Just from where she’s standing, she can see several large fairy tale anthologies. She wants to devour them immediately.

Emma can only begin to forgive Queen Mary Margaret for the Blanche-Neige-hating-thing because she has an impossibly perfect library.

“Can I really use this anytime I like?” Emma gasps.

“Of course, my dear, you are very welcome here,” The queen tells her.

“Do you mind if I look around?” Emma asks.

“Take your time,” The queen smiles. “I’ll leave you to it. Just give me a ring when you’re done and I’ll finish the tour.”

“Thanks,” Emma mumbles, as the queen backs out of the room. Emma gazes around at the gorgeous library, grinning, before pulling a stack off the shelf and curling up in a chair.

Killian is just finishing his shift when Emma calls.

“Ah, there you are, love,” He says, flopping onto his bed, the exhaustion of the long shift leaving him.

“Hey Killian,” She replies.

He listens to her voice. There is something tired and hesitant about it.

He’s been thinking about her all day. Her meeting with queen. He’s proud of her for even agreeing to the thing, despite her walls and baggage. He knows how it is to open one’s self up to vulnerability after being hurt by someone. In essence, it’s what he’s doing with Emma now.

“How’d it go, Swan?” He asks.

She lets out a moan, “Good I guess, but also horrible.”

“Horrible,” He repeats. “How so?”

Emma lets out another sigh.

“Here, actually, stay where you are. I’ll be right over,” He replies, hanging up.

He stops at Mamie’s on the way, grabbing two drinks, before heading towards the tram. It’s early evening and chilly. Killian’s wearing a lumpy knitted navy jumper (a gift from Ruby’s mamie last Christmas) and a pair of jeans, but it’s almost not enough. Early September has brought with it a kiss of fall.

It’s hard to jump the turnstiles with two warm beverages, but Killian Jones isn’t an ordinary rapscallion and he manages it surprising grace (or so he tells himself).

He arrives at Emma’s apartment twenty minutes after her call. He rings her apartment and she buzzes him up. She waiting at the door when he arrives.

She’s dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants, the European jogger style ones that stay close her legs. She also has a bright pink sports bra and a thin tank top over that. Her blond hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders. The whole look is obvious casual, so it’s alarming how incredibly sexy she is. Damn it Emma Swan.

Yet all the same, he can see faint smears of black on her face. Smeared mascara. She’s been crying.

“Emma,” He says softly, “What’s wrong?”

She lets him. Her grey blanket is crumpled on the couch. Her stack of Blanche Neige books are scattered across the sofa and coffee table. He wonders what she was doing before he arrived.

“Ugh,” She groans, “it’s all so stupid.”

“What’s stupid?”

He takes a seat on a stool at her counter. She slides in beside him.

“The reason I’m upset,” She replies, folding her arms on the counter and pressing her head into them.

“There’s no stupid reason to be upset,” He laughs, “Out with it, Swan.”

She makes a grunt from where she’s buried her head.

“I’ve brought Mamie’s cocoa, if that will tempt you to tell me,” He tells her.

She reluctantly raises her head, rolling her eyes as she takes the mug.

After a sip she says, “Is there cinnamon on this?”

They both let loose into laughter.

After it calms, she tells him.

“Queen Mary Margaret doesn’t like Blanche Neige.”

Killian laughs again.

“Swan, this is what you are so upset about? Her majesty doesn’t share your same taste in literature?”

Emma takes another sip of cocoa.

“No, it’s not just that. She doesn’t just dislike Blanche Neige, she abhors her. Or moreover, she seems to think that there is something morally abhorant about liking Blanche Neige.”

Killian is beginning to put it together. Blanche Neige is Emma’s life. The queen’s condemnation of the author feels like a condemnation of Emma herself.

“She thinks that Blanche Neige had no right to write about Misthaven and their troubles. She doesn’t think that she was encouraging revolution, so much as profiting off of it,” Emma continues to explain.

“I’m sorry Swan,” Killian says.

She nods at the book messy, “I’ve been spending the rest of the afternoon rereading her books, trying to prove to myself that Blanche Neige is a good person.”

“Of course, dear old Blanche is good,” Killian laughs, “She saved our lives.”

Emma nods, “I guess. I mean this is a huge issue in literature today. Who gets to tell what stories? Can you tell a story about a place you’ve been? Can you tell a story about a struggle you’ve never been through? Are you bringing attention to a place or people in need? Or is it merely profiting off their tragedy?”

She sips her hot chocolate.

“I always thought that the argument was irrelevant. Who cares who tells the story? Literature isn’t about the author or the author’s intentions. The novels we read need to analyzed on their own,” she continues.

Emma removes the lid of the cocoa, using a spoon left on her counter to eat a bit of cinnamon flavored whipped cream.

“But it’s different now that I’ve met someone whose life has been so affected by the tragedy. Queen Mary Margaret lost everything. Does someone have a right to capitalize on that pain? I don’t know. The whole thing makes me feel sick.”

“Oh Emma,” He says.

He stands and moves behind her. He sweeps her hair from her back and over one shoulder in a single movement. Emma might be afraid of kisses and not ready for anything beyond friendship, but he’s realized that he can help her make progress in small, tender gestures. Holding hands, hugs, shoulder rubs- they are all enough to start to break down Emma’s walls. She deserves to be touched by someone who cares about her.

“Is it okay I rub your shoulders?” He asks.

“Sure,” she says, resting her chin on the counter.

He begins to soothe soft circles into her shoulders. Her skin is smooth underneath his thumbs. Beneath the skin, he can feel knots in her muscles. She holding a lot of tension and stress in.

“Did you tell her that Blanche Neige is your dissertation?” He asks.

“No,” Emma mutters, “I don’t know how she’d react if she found out. This whole thing would probably come to a halt.”

“Is it really that bad?” Killian asks.

“She told me never to mention Blanch Neige in her house again,” Emma sighs.

“Yikes,” Killian remarks.

“I know,” Emma laments, “And she invited me to use her library. She wants me to keep coming back and having tea with her to talk about books. It’s going to come up at someone point.”

“So ride it out till it does,” Killian says, “Or make up a fib if she asks. Or tell her you can’t answer.”

“That’s true,” Emma agrees, “It’s just that she’s so much of my life. It’s hard not to share it with her.”

“I know,” Killian says. “What you need, love, is something to take your mind off of this predicament.”

Emma turns to him and he nods over to the couch. Her eyes widen a bit, making an assumption.

“Not that,” He says, chuckling.

He walks over to where her books are scattered and begins to stack them neatly, sliding them onto her shelf.

“I think you need a break from Blanche Neige,” He says, “You can read her tomorrow when you’ve had time to clear your mind.”

Emma walks over to her couch, her hot chocolate in hand, and pulls the grey blanket around her. Killian perches on the corner of the sofa.

“What do you say to another book?” He asks.

“What do you have in mind?” She replies.

“Have you read The Princess Bride?” He asks.

“I remember being a group home where it was one of the few VHS tapes we had,” Emma muses. “I think I watched it a million times that year. But, uh, no. I never read the book.”

Killian grins, “Well, good. You’re in for a treat.”

He slides of the arm of the couch to settle beside Emma. Her legs are tucked under her and she leans in a little to listen. Killian can smell a light floral scent waft off of her, probably her shampoo.

He pulls up the novel on his phone and settles into the story. He’s always liked reading out loud and Emma is good listener. Stories are part of her DNA and so she reacts spectacularly, her eyes wide with wonder at the most surprising turns, then glazed with tears when she thinks the lovers had lost each other for good. Killian tries not to smirk to see such rawness on Emma’s face. While she seems self-assured, walled-in, she has a secret soft spot- at least for characters in books.

In a few hours, Killian has made his way through half of the book. Somehow, between Buttercup and Wesley losing and finding each other again, Emma’s legs turned up over his. By the time they make it out of the forest, Emma’s head has drifted to his shoulder. Killian tries not to all out grin as Emma’s comfortability around him.

Okay, so they might not be dating for now. Killian hates it, but he can accept it. He can accept it if it means tender hugs like they shared yesterday. He can accept it if it means her falling asleep on his shoulder, her lovely legs draped over his. He can accept it if it means her late-night calls, showing up at her apartment to find her in her pajamas. He can accept it if it means this quiet, unspoken intimacy. Sure, they aren’t a couple, but they are close. It’s only been a few weeks of friendship and they are this close. He can live with that.

Her eyes begin to flutter shut, so he nudges her.

“Emma, love, you’re falling asleep,” He says softly, “I should go. We can finish the story when you are more awake.”

She stirs a bit, humming.

“I should go,” He says. He doesn’t want to. He wants to more time with her.

She hums again, mumbling something that sounds like, “Keep reading.”

“I don’t want you to fall asleep and miss part of the story,” He tells her.

“I guess that’s fair,” Emma says, detangling herself from him. She stretches and gets up to let him out.

“Are you a little less perturbed?” He asks her, as he makes his way to the door.

“I guess,” she says, her voice still sleep-laced.

She runs a hand through her hair, making her waves dance. “I just wish I knew who she is.”

“Who?” Killian asks, trying to follow her sleepy thoughts.

“Blanche Neige,” Emma says, “If I knew who she was, I could just ask her why she wrote it. I could figure out if she was here or not. I could figure out if she is as bad as Queen Mary Margaret thinks she is.”

“If anyone can figure it out,” Killian says, “It’s you. I’m pretty sure it’s you.”

Emma rolls her eyes lazily. “Thanks Killian.”

“Good night, Emma.”

--

Tagging some pals: @sambethe @lenfaz @pocket-anon @the-corsair-and-her-quill@kmomof4 @kiwistreetswan @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story @shady-swan-jones @katie-dub@1handedpiratewithadrinkingprob @midnightswans

Bhutan: Heaven on Earth

It was the first time in my life that I would take a journey lasting more than about five hours, and with a tour at that. I usually prefer to plan my travel myself and journey with friends. This tour was different, though. It was a spiritual pilgrimage organized by my dear friend Hasan Sonsuz Çeliktaş, and this increased my fervor. Our first stop was actually Nepal, where we stayed for 10 days, but that’s the subject of another article. It is not possible to fly direct from Turkey to Bhutan anyway. What’s more, not every pilot can land a plane at the famously challenging Paro International Airport of Bhutan. This means if you want to go to Bhutan, you must fly with their airlines, which means travelling via China, Nepal, or India. If you choose Nepal, like we did, you get to see the Himalayas from the plane. When I later shared the photos I had taken in Bhutan, I used the phrase “Heaven on Earth.” The country’s area is 70% forest, not just because the constitution states that the forested area cannot fall below 60%. (Although they have rich underground resources, they do not exploit them to avoid damaging the forests.) The real reason why I compare Bhutan to Heaven is how its people regard life, their culture, and the worth that they ascribe to humans and other living beings. As soon as we landed at Paro, they met us with their smiling faces. You are like a guest rather than a tourist. Moreover, the people of Bhutan do not believe in coincidence, so they believe there is a reason why a person enters their lives, and they have something to learn from them. For this reason, your presence there is very valuable to them and they always make you feel this. While listening to our local guide’s first talk about Bhutan, I got very emotional. Could such a country exist? It sounded so utopic. Finally, I was in the country that I presented as an example in my economic development classes, and it was real. This country measures its development level by a happiness index rather than its GDP. For them, the progress of a country should be measured according to the happiness of its people rather than their productivity or income. They have a king who is incredible and loved by his people. He actually wanted to bring democracy to the country, but the people rebelled against it because they are so content with how they are ruled. They believe that you cannot be a king unless you are born a king. As our guide told us, “Every person born in the US, no matter how insignificant they may seem, has a chance to become president. Here, however, no one has the chance to become a king, because you cannot be a king unless you were born a king.” Their fourth king will abdicate when he is in his fifties, despite being greatly loved, and his son will take his place. The king says that after 60, people lose some of the abilities needed to rule a country. He really is wise, and it’s not surprising that the population refused democracy. The people have no anxiety about the future. Our guide said, “If things went bad and tourists no longer came, I would just talk with my king, and he would give me some land to grow rice on.” As you would guess, there are no beggars, no pollution, and even no traffic lights. I haven’t heard any horns blasting either. It is even forbidden to smoke outside. Tourists can smoke, but only in certain areas away from people. You also pay a high tax to get your cigarettes through customs there, with this tax, like others, going to the education system. Like most bans, however, this has served to make it more attractive, and most of the young people smoke in night clubs (according to my friends who went to one). However, for me personally, it was one of the best rules in Bhutan. Of course, you cannot say, “I love this place so much! Let’s move to Bhutan!” Foreigners cannot own anything there, and even if you have a job, you can only stay for a fixed period. The only way to move there is to marry a Bhutanese citizen, assuming you’re single. Even then, they say it’s a lengthy procedure. At the end, though, you would get a job in your field, because needless to say, there is no unemployment. Education and health care is free. Children are educated in English starting at elementary school. They only lack medicine schools, so instead they send their successful students abroad to study with a scholarship. Although their main sources of revenue are rice and tourism, they are very cautious about tourism. There is an annual quota for tourists, and you cannot enter the country without promising to spend certain amount of money every day. In paying this, you can choose one of the packages they offer that includes all accommodation, catering, transportation, and guided tours. Now you’ve had a short introduction, let’s move on to the main tourist locations. The country’s energy and people are so beautiful that every place seems unique and magnificent. After the first day at Paro, we moved to the capital Thimphu. On the way, we stopped by a bridge made of wire that led us to Tachog Temple. Passing over this bridge, with such clean water below, was such a pleasure for me. A friend of ours from the group left her fear of heights behind in this place.

Thimphu The hotel that we stayed at in Thimphu was just in front of the Memorial Stupa (Thiumphu Chorten). You can always find many people whispering mantras and turning around this stupa, which was built in 1974. Of course, the first thing we did was to go here and experience the energy. While you are in the capital, you of course have to see the official buildings complex. This was the only place where they searched our bags before entering. They have such nice security guards, however, that as we left, they offered us fruit they had collected from the garden. The Thangthong Dewachen Nunnery at Zilukha, which is close to Thimphu, houses about 60 nuns. Another impressive place close to Thimphu is Dochula Pass (Druk Wangyal Chortens), which is 3100 meters high. It hosts 108 stupas that were constructed by the Queen Ashi Dorji Wangmo Wangchuk in memory of the soldiers lost during a war that occurred in this area. They pay respect to the soldiers of both countries and emphasize peace for all parties. In the same area, you can also find the Druk Wangyal temple. By the way, “druk” means dragon in the Bhutan language, and you see this word used in various places from airlines to temples The world’s biggest sitting Buddha statue (Kuensel Phodrang) is also located close to Thimphu. According to legend, it was predicted centuries ago to be built at this location. Its construction began in 2006 and was intended to be finished in 2010, but it only opened to the public in 2015. This 52-meter bronze statue has a third eye made from diamond. Paro After checking in to our hotel in the middle of the rice fields, our first stop was Rinpung Dzong, which was built by Shabdrung Ngawang Namgyal and comprises many temples and chapels. In Paro, we went to so many Buddhist temples that I cannot recall all their names, but one of the oldest was Kyichu Lhakhang, which dates back to the seventh century.

The Tiger’s Nest The most significant place in Paro, if not in Bhutan, is the Tiger’s Nest (Taktsang). It is one of the symbols of Bhutan. The Taktsang temple was built in 1692 in the high hills of the Paro Valley. It is centered around a cave where Guru Padmasambhava, who brought Buddhism to Bhutan, meditated for three years, three months, three days, and three hours.  There are many legends about Padmasambhava, such as how he came from Tibet on the back of a flying tiger, which is why this place is called Tiger’s nest. The temple sits 3120 meters high on the hillside, and climbing up there takes about three hours. Hiring a walking stick eases the climb, however, and if you really cannot do the climb, you can also rent a mule. The people of Bhutan believe that as the climb becomes more difficult, they shed more of their sins. It is a very enjoyable climb, though, a journey where you can see white monkeys and some plants that only live in a pure oxygen environment (they die even at a very modest carbon dioxide level).  It is certainly not easy, but if a person like me without any climbing experience can do it, I guess any able-bodied person can. On entering the temple complex, you have to leave your bag, your camera, and even your water bottle in a luggage locker. They don’t even let you take anything small in your hand like a scarf. If you want to make a vow inside, I recommend that you carry your prayer flags or some money in your pockets. I took a prayer flag with me, but that day was not suitable according to their beliefs. Instead, a monk blessed it and told our guide that I could hang it some other day. You feel as light as a bird in that place due to the height and the amount of oxygen, as well as the energy of the place. Your mind becomes silent, and even thinking becomes heavy. For this reason, the return trip passes more quietly and, thanks to gravity, faster. I found the climb down more difficult, however, because the path was slippery from the rain, and I did not want to leave such a wonderful place. Another Bhutanese tradition is to take a hot stone bath on the night after climbing to the Tiger’s Nest. We went to a traditional Bhutanese house on our last night to both have dinner and experience this traditional bath. The house very much resembled a traditional Turkish village house. There were floor cushions, and a few generations lived there together. They filled the wooden baths with water, and then they put stones, which they had warmed on the fire, into the baths. The water became so hot that I had to add cold water before I could enter it. I then experienced a miracle. As you might guess, as someone who has never climbed so much in her life, I had a lot of pain afterwards. I was unable to sit cross-legged earlier, so I could not sit on the cushions as I had wanted when we first arrived there. After 15 minutes in the hot stone bath, though, all my pains disappeared. I now understood why people do this after every climb. After the bath, I could easily sit cross-legged on the cushions and enjoy my meal. We only stayed in Bhutan for four nights, so we could only see certain places. Our local guide said that there are many other spiritual places to visit, especially around the middle area of Bhutan. I intend to visit there as soon as I can. It was very difficult to leave the country, where we had been treated as guests. The people were so kind that they put their mean sauces away, acknowledging that we were coming from a different culture and finding us something more to our tastes instead. After going hungry in Nepal, the restaurant of our local guide’s mother was the first place I felt satisfied. In short, if you are looking for clean air, green landscapes, lovely people, silence, peace, and tranquility, then Bhutan, where life is oriented around Buddhism and happiness, is just for you. Read the full article

Love is Blind

Strange Magic Week- Day 1: Cannon-Divergence   

AO3

When the Bog King came to he was in an immense amount of pain. His jaw ached and a newly formed lump pulsed on the back of his knobbly skull. The real problem was when the King tried to raise his hands to assuage said bump he found they were bound together behind his back.  The Bog King’s back was stiff, and his poor wings were trapped under him. Worst of all though was when he opened his eyes, the Bog King saw nothing, nothing at all, just black.

The Bog King of the Dark Forest let loose an almighty roar that was worthy of his title. 

“I think he’s waking up” a nearby voice said, speaking in hushed tones. It was a voice the King recognized as belonging to one of his most trusted men.  

“Should we tell him what happened?” asked a higher pitched voice.

“Ya, you can tell him,” replied the first voice with some trepidation, “he likes you.”

“Really?” asked the second, full of shock and that earnest, eager-to-please quality that made him so damn annoying.

“Ah’m waiting” the Bog King growled, not a man known for his patience it was a miracle he had stayed silent for as long as he had. His foot tapped out a nervous rhythm on the stone floor and his teeth grinded together.

“Well” began Thang, “it’s kind of a funny story, sire, you see we ambushed the Elf Festival, and everything was going as planned, but then it wasn’t, and umm, umm.”

“Damnit Thang! Ah dornt have all day, jus’ tell me why Ah’m handcuffed and blindfolded, and where in the Seven Hells are we?”

“Well sire, it’s ah, you umm, it’s… it’s” Thang stumbled and stuttered until he was a quivering mess.

“You were love-dusted” Stuff’s deep voice finally cut through Thang’s bumbling explanation.  

“WHAT!!!”  

The furious roar of the Bog King echoed through the halls of the fairy palace, rattling chandeliers and fine china as it made its way to the ears of the eldest princess, this was a political disaster.

***

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Stuff asked, and the King actually found his trusted second’s deep voice to be calming.

“Ah,” Bog thought back, he remembered taking centre stage at the Elf Festival, belting out his grievances with his neighbours.  

An elf had trespassed in the forest with the intent to conspire with the Sugar Plum and have her make a love potion. The only time the Bog King had witnessed the effects of the potion nothing had happened and he had taken the Sugar Plum out of spite, locking her away so she couldn’t pawn her false love off on anyone else.  

However that begged the question, if the love potion didn’t work, as the King had suspected all these years, why was he currently bound and blindfolded, and being kept under a watchful eye by the royal guards of the fairy kingdom in the palace’s dungeons.  

“Ah was singing” the King said, his brain was still foggy and the memory was taking it’s time coming back to him.

“Yes, yes, good” Stuff encouraged.

“And then…” the King scrunched his brow in concentration, something had bumped into him, he looked down but all he saw was a cloud of pink. He was quick to turn around but not fast enough, an image rose through his murky thoughts, a heart-shaped face with big honey-golden eyes and a cute little nose, with a wild tangle of moss-soft hair all stuck up, she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and then she punched him.

A stupid grin spread across the Bog King’s face, an expression his subjects had never seen before. His heart thudded loudly as a song filled his being and burst forth.

***

Marianne paced the length of her room several times as Dawn sat on her bed keeping her distance. Dawn was positively gleeful at the events that had conspired and was gearing up for this to be something best watched from afar.

“What am I gonna do Dawn? What am I gonna do? I punched the Bog King, in the face!” Marianne panicked.

“Ya, I was there, it was epic” Dawn enthused.

“Dawn!” Marianne scolded, although part of her swelled with pride.

“Ohmygosh, you’re blushing!” Dawn accused.

“I am not!” Marianne countered, even as she brought her hands up to feel her cheeks, which had indeed grown warm. I punched the Bog King, she thought happily.

“You always said you wanted to have open talks with the Goblins” Dawn reasoned, “this is a great opportunity.”

“Oh is it?” Marianne said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “do I just walk up to them and say ‘hi, I’m Princess Marianne, you know of the fields, the one who punched your King. Yes, I was just wondering if we could all be friends now’.

Marianne scoffed, “that’s not how real life works Dawn.”

“Don’t forget” Dawn chimed in, “he might be in love with you!”

Dawn squeed in glee at the face her sister pulled.

“Oh yes, how could I have forgotten that” Marianne rolled her eyes, “there is the tiniest possibility that the Bog King may have seen my face before I punched his lights out.”  

The two sister’s fell into a riot of giggles.

A frantic knocking at her chamber door had both Marianne and Dawn sobering up.

Marianne opened the door and the gilded green armoured knight on the other side swiftly fell into a bow, “your majesties, I am here to inform you, that our guest has awoken, as per your request.”

Marianne let out a long suffering sigh, it was time to face the consequences.  

“I should warm you, his majesty is” the guard looked side-to-side making sure the hallway was clear, “singing” the guard whispered.  

She gulped.

“Thank you, we’ll be down in a moment” with a cut nod Marianne closed the door and let out a screech of frustration.

***

“You know, there’s always the chance he didn’t see your face” Dawn tried to comfort as the two sisters made their way down to the dungeons.  

“He looked right at me Dawn, I don’t see how he couldn’t have” Marianne sighed again.

After her failed engagement the previous spring, Marianne had wanted nothing to do with love anymore, it was something meant for someone else, but not her. It would be some cruel twist of irony if the only other being who disliked love as much as her was to fall in love with her after being hit with a love potion.  In specific the love potion he had banned from ever being made again.

“How do you think Sunny is making out?” Dawn asked as she worried at her lower lip.

Marianne huffed again, this was technically all Sunny’s fault, but he would have to be dealt with later.  

“I still don’t know how you forgave him so fast” Marianne huffed.

If someone had come after her with a bottle of love potion they would be hanging by their ankles in a blueberry bush as lizard bait faster than you could say ‘primroses’.  

When Sunny explained about the Imp creature stealing the bottle of love potion and running off into the Dark Forest Roland had immediately stepped up to the plate, offering to get it back so that it might be destroyed. Sunny had volunteered to go with him, as a show of good faith and the fact he had already traversed the forest once.  

Roland had begged the fairy King to let him assemble an army but the wise old King had pointed out he didn’t need one. When their King had fallen unconscious the Goblins had frozen in shock, unsure on what to do next. There was no plan B, they were to fly in, take a hostage, make some threats and then leave with either the hostage or the love potion if someone turned it over.  

Half of the Goblins were sent into the forest with Roland, a trio of Knights, Sunny, and a few of the Elf villagers in search of the Imp. The remaining Goblins carried their knocked-out King up to the fairy palace where they were shown to the dungeons.  

“I’m sure he’ll be fine Dawn” Marianne assured.

They were almost to the dungeons when Marianne’s ears caught the sound of singing. A feeling of dread washed over her. Fairies and, it seemed to, Goblins only sang when they became overwhelmed with an emotion, usually love or anger. Marianne began to pray it was the latter and not the former.

“Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer, not a trace, of doubt in my mind, I'm in love, and I'm a believer, I couldn't leave her if I tried…”

Marianne’s jaw dropped when she rounded the corner into the dungeons and saw the almighty Bog King flying around his cell, doing flips and singing while his five Goblin guards stood by looking on with a mixture of awe and distaste. Three fairy guards stood on the other side of the hall with similar looks on their faces.  

Well at least they have something in common, Marianne thought.  

“Hey, Bog King” Marianne shouted, cutting through his singing, her voice coming out gruff.

The King floated down to the ground, “is that the voice of my love?” he asked so eagerly.

A small part of Marianne’s heart jumped at the endearment, but she knew he really didn’t love her. It was all an effect of the potion.  

“You might as well untie him” Marianne said to one of his guards who sprung forward to complete the task.

He had been tied up and blindfolded for his own good so as not to accidently see someone and fall in love with them, but it was too late for that it seemed.  

***

The King’s dragonfly wings pattered nervously as Stuff untied him and removed his blindfold. His love was here to see him, she was right there; he was going to get to see her again. Every beat of his heart longed to sing to her, of her.

It didn’t register to the Bog King he was in a dungeon, the cell door wasn’t even closed, he was to be treated as a guest until they could cure him. The only thing he saw was her. The edges of his vision were blurry, and nothing else mattered anyway.  

The beautiful creature stepped forward and began speaking, “Hello, I’m-”

The King cut her off, as he filled with song once more, “Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name?”  

“I, I am Princess Marianne of the-”

The King launched himself into the air doing a series of spins and flips, Marianne! Her name was Marianne! That had to be the most beautiful name in the whole world!  He started singing again, but then she was suddenly in front of him, her slender finger pressed to his lips.

“I've been cheated, been mistreated, when will I be loved, I've been put down, I've been pushed 'round” She poked at his chest and though he didn’t think it possible the Bog King was falling even more in love with this feisty fairy.

He giggled, who would have thought a gobbling falling in love with a fairy!

He sighed, “oh silly, ‘Some people say my love cannot be true. Please believe me, my love, and I'll show you. I will give you those things you thought unreal. The sun, the moon, the stars all bear my seal.”

“Oh!” the pretty fairy blushed a very becoming shade of pink, which not only covered her high cheeks but traveled all the way up to the tips of her ears.

***

It was difficult not to believe the words the Bog King was singing, he sung with such conviction. They would have to try and find an antidote, and soon.  

“Perhaps we should, stretch our wings?” Marianne asked as innocently as she could.

There was only one being who would have the remedy, the same one who created this disastrous potion in the first place.  

“Good idea, good idea!” the Bog King nodded along enthusiastically.  

His fingers tapped against one another nervously and he looked around the cavern as if he were looking for a place to hide.  

Marianne spotted what he must have been looking for before he did.  

“Your scepter, your Majesty” Marianne offered, handing him the gilded staff.

Instantly he snatched it from her grasp and held it close in front of him as if it were a shield and not a stick.  

“Bog” the King said.

“What?” Marianne asked, thinking the King had simple made a funny noise.

“You may call me Bog” he offered her the most adorable lopsided smile as they exited the dungeons, his guards and her sister in tow.

Her heart thudded and Marianne knew she had to be careful not to fall in love with this fake version of the Bog King. They would fly to his castle, acquire the cure from the Sugar Plum, and everything would go back to normal.

It was going to be a long night….

(TBC)

The Dothraki: Essosian Population Control Experiment

Yes, yes, it’s a crackpot, but please consider adding this to your crackpot collection. So, I have to admit, the first time I read ASOIAF, I didn’t think much about the Dothraki. Actually, I missed a lot of stuff on the first read. Even later though, on rereads, I didn’t think too much about them. I mean they are just your ordinary nomadic “barbarian horde”, yea? On the first read, I was discounting much of the prophetic elements the story as world building and character motivation. Later, I just viewed the Dothraki as convenient for Daenery’s prophetic destiny. Fate or providence or maybe R’hllor has placed them on Daenerys’s path, because Daenerys needs a cavalry to invade Westeros and fight the Others.  So there isn’t much to think about regarding the Dothraki there, yeah?

I assumed that the Stallion That Mounts the World, was just a local prophecy and unimportant. On my second reading I assumed it was a garbled version of the Azor Ahai or Prince that was Promised prophecies.   I also, totally missed the bit where Jorah tells Daenerys about why Vaes Dothrak is so big.

Here it is, if you missed it too:

“Only the crones of the dosh khaleen dwell permanently in the sacred city, them and their slaves and servants,” Ser Jorah replied, “yet Vaes Dothrak is large enough to house every man of every khalasar , should all the khals return to the Mother at once. The crones have prophesied that one day that will come to pass, and so Vaes Dothrak must be ready to embrace all its children.”  GoT- Daenerys IV

So the Dothraki aren’t just prophesying a messiah. They literally have built a place for the messiah to gather all the tribes. (This by the way is a religious tolerance deal breaker for me. If you believe in a messiah, we are cool. If you are building a military base for the messiah’s army, we can’t be friends.) Why do they need a base for the messiah’s army? Let’s consult the Dosh Khaleen.

“[The crone] proclaimed in a thin, wavery voice. ‘The thunder of his hooves!’ the others chorused. ‘As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name. . . .  the stallion who mounts the world!’  GoT- Daenerys V

So are they going to kill all the milk men in their stone tents? It would appear so. Are they passively waiting for this to happen? I don’t think so. On my first read, I just kind of took Illyrio’s  and Visery’s perspective on this. Khal Drogo might or might not want Daenerys. If he did, it was because she was exotic and there was some prestige involved, because she Valyrian. He would help Viserys invade Westeros, in return for Danerys, because the Dothraki like doing that sort of thing. I mean, really we don’t get any kind of a deep explanation from the Dothraki perspective. It then seems highly suspicious, that the Dothraki do not seem to be super shocked when the Dosh Khaleen declare that Daenerys is carrying the Dothraki messiah. I mean the imminent birth of the messiah is kind of a big deal. Yet, it seems like everyone kind of expected it. It seems likely that the Dosh Khaleen had already told Drogo that he needed to go marry this Valyrian princess and she would give birth to the Stallion.  The point being that the Dothraki are not passive about their destiny. They are actively trying to fulfill a religious prophecy and bring about their own eschaton.  Obviously, there is a piece of evidence I just made up, there. We don’t know why Drogo agreed to the deal, but it seems likely. (For the record, trying to breed the messiah in order to fulfill a genocidal eschatology is also a religious tolerance deal breaker for me.) So what does this Dothraki manifestation of heaven on earth look like? Well, if we look at The World of Ice and Fire, we get the following. The Dothraki did not seem to exist before the fall of Valyria. It was during the Century of Blood , following the Doom of Valyria that Khal Mengo first united the tribes of the grasslands to form the Dothraki. It is suggested that his rise to power was influenced by his mother, a witch queen named Doshi. (Apparently, the Dosh Khaleen derive their name from Doshi, or else the maesters have mistaken a title for a name.) Mengo’s son, Khal Moro is killed by Khal Horo, who is the last Khal to command all of the Dothraki. What did the Dothraki do during the Century of Blood? They destroyed two old and powerful civilization, almost completely, the Sarnor and the Qaathi. The Sarnor were, according to legend, descendants of the Fisher Queens, potentially having knowledge that might date back to before the Long Night. The Qaathi clearly had access to powerful magic, if the Warlocks we see in Qarth are sort of a degenerate version of the former glory of the Qaathi. So with the Valyrians destroying the Rhoynish, the Doom destroying Valyria, and the Dothraki destroying the Sarnor and the Qaathi, we have in a short period of time the destruction of all the major magical powers in Western Essos. I don’t want to get too far into that yet, though.

Do the Dothraki settle the lands they conquer, like normal “barbarian hordes”? No. Two generations after Genghis Khan, Kublai Khan ruled China as an educated worldly emperor. Similar transitions occurred with groups like the Manchu in China, and the much of the same can be found in the history of Eastern Europe and Western Asia.  Not the Dothraki, though. After over three hundred years of raiding and pillaging, extorting the free cities, and partying in the grasslands, they are still going strong.  They don’t settle cities. It’s not normal. It’s almost like it is against their religion to build cities and to farm. Actually, this appear to be literally the case.

The Dothraki have a cultural prohibition against farming. They believe the Earth is their mother and take this pretty seriously, so they consider it sinful to tear into her with plows and axes. This is all stated bluntly in the World of Ice and Fire. When they conquered the cities of the Qaathi and the Sarnor, they burned the farmlands and converted as much as they could back to grassland. They disparagingly refer to the milk men, in their stone tents. They hate on civilization. They want to burn it all down and return it to nature, and if the Dothraki, under the Stallion, actually managed to conquer the free cities, invade Westeros, or push past the Bones to the east, we would expect them to do the same, burn the cities, burn the farms, turn it back to grassland, and ride free over the Reach, undoing all of Garth the Green’s hard work, introducing agriculture to Westeros.  If the Stallion actually mounted the world. It would be the end of human civilization, not of humans, just of their civilization, and the forest would be left to . . . the Children, the Giants, and large herds of wild aurochs?

So now, we get to crack some pots.

I’m generally not a big fan of The Children Created the Others, The Children Brought the Doom to Valyria, The Children Created the Faceless Man Religion, type theories. I don’t like the idea of everything coming back to the Children trying to take their vengeance against or otherwise stop humanity. At the same time, if you are going subscribe to such theories, you might as well add in the Dothraki. At the very least, they have already made over half of Western Essos uninhabitable to agricultural society including prime agricultural land in what was Sarnor They have cut off the northern forests from much of human contact, and we have some evidence that the Wood Walkers of those forests are probably Children, if they are still there. If the visions sent to Doshi, and the Dosh Khaleen in general, were sent by the Children, you have to admit that it was a pretty effective ploy. How much the better if they can actually lead the Dothraki into wiping out the Slaver’s Bay, the Free Cities and much of Westeros. They just needed Daenerys, but now it would seem that their plan has been hijacked, but by whom? Some glass candle operator like Quaithe or Marwyn? Blood Raven or rival Children factions that see the bigger picture of the oncoming Long Night?

And while we are cracking pots, what about the Squishers? Sorry, I mean the Deep Ones. I’m a little bit vague on who the Fisher Queens really were, but we do have Vaes Dothrak situated at a lake, called the Womb of the World, that was once part of the inland sea of the Fisher Queens, and we are told by reliable and citation conscious Jiqui that the lake has no bottom. (It is known.) I find it deeply suspect that in the wake of the defeat of the Rhoynar and the Doom that the Dothraki have destroyed and continue to advance on anyone who could have knowledge of how the last Long Night began or ended. So, while I am mostly joking about the Squishers, I am curious about the idea of some force actively trying to take down forces that could resist an invasion of Others.

All of this assumes that prophecy is solely derived from the agency of mysterious individuals or groups, manipulating those people who receive prophetic visions. Obviously, there are many different approaches one can take, ranging from none of the prophecies are real, to the gods are real and the prophecies are real, to the prophecies are all planted by the Children or glass candle operators, to all the prophecies are planted by one greenseer or glass candle operator in the future, to the gods aren’t real, but there is some kind of providence built into the universe that allows prophecies to occur and be true. I actually think there is a lot of evidence for the last one, but I think there is probably some combination of all of these at play except for the second one. I’m curious to hear other people’s take.

the manipulator during the epidemic

I wrote an article I have not yet published that explains how good guys underestimate the amount of bad guys. And that bad people reveal themselves a lot more in times of crisis. I thought about wars or revolutions. But the current crisis is also accurate.

My estimation, based on books, observation, logic, history and, dare I confess, clairvoyance, is that there are around 35% of negative people in most democracies, the countries where we are less traumatized and thus, not pushed into survival mode.

In non-democratic countries, where this survival instinct has been activated, it has also the side effect to have people put the best of humanity aside, compassion and love, and it's my belief that in Russia and China, for example, the positive citizens are a minority. And it must be hell for a person with empathy, I feel, to live there.

Among this negative people, there are roughly 30% of selfish persons, who do not manipulate and can still have some conscience wake-up calls, 40% of narcissists who are manipulators without conscience but less Machiavellian cleverness than the other 30% of psychopaths or sociopaths. And this is to bring back to the total. In any given democracy, it means there would be roughly 10% of psychopaths.

And in peace time, this little world of egotistical people is more or less hiding behind the social norm of our "modern" times. But when there is a crisis, they clearly enjoy being themselves.

It could have been arrogance or it could have been a tough childhood that had the manipulator cut himself form a good part of his emotions. Notably the best part: at the bottom of his Pandora box, there is only pleasure left.

And with this spectrum of emotions which has him feel more like a stone than a human, it will be so much easier for him to adapt to social distancing - doesn't know anguish, nor depression - and to boast, from this "moral" point of view, that it's very easy to cope with the stuff, that you "just" have to lounge on a couch, or "just" have to watch TV.

And when, on Instagram, some people expect followers to admire their example, telling them that you "just" have to push on your internal happiness switch, as if we were all just clocks, I would bet a lot, that they are manipulators. And more so when this advice is written under a selfie.

The manipulator doesn't fear much but he fears being discovered, getting old, getting sick and death.

Not for those he loves, of course, he loves nobody but himself. Or yes, sometimes, those he sees as a projection of himself. His survival is essential to him, it may have been the reason he chose to cut himself from emotions. I do not mean here, that we, positive people, have reached a Buddhist detachment but that we are able to take risks for others and believe in something or someone more important than we are. For the manipulator, his own end is the end of the world. And the spectre of this Coronavirus has him lash out; anger is one of the emotions he has left. I'm  not surprised, then, when I read that conjugal violence is rising. As do divorces. And racial crimes.

Some negative people, in France, will harass medical staff, putting messages in mailboxes, asking nurses to think about their health - the nerve! - and move. Some owners will even put an end to rental contracts without notice. And I dare say it's not even legal.

Without a spouse or a scapegoat, you can always lash out on Twitter or from a window. Lynching and stoning is a group pleasure no negative person could refuse. And social media, in our “civilized” times is quite as good as the real thing. "Stay home" will he shout without bothering to know what the purpose of the walk is. The good old mask of virtue and common good allows some to express anger and hate with impunity.

The solitary walk in a forest is, it would seem, after the masturbation, the least dangerous activity in these dangerous times and it has been, within limits, authorized in France. And this hasn't prevented some, there, on Twitter, to clutch their pearls and threaten to shoot the walker. I even saw a picture of a tarpaulin under which the would-be-murderer claimed he wished to put his future victims. Murdering someone or talking about it, in the name of an hypothetical common good, in general, is a good indication of hypocrisy or manipulation. Torquemada comes to mind, who, in his own time, would have had the reputation of a saint, taking care of others’ souls, while enjoying the legal torture. Or Robespierre, claiming that in the name or purity and the good of a whole country, he was ready to behead half of it. And would have done so if he hadn't succumbed to his own tool first.

And it will be the same profile, and even the same person, who will walk his dog ten times a day or rent one, still clothed with the same respectability cloak, because in this case, you use the basis of the law, if not the spirit.

There is also some anger that can at least express itself in some French regions when they slash tires or damage the paint of cars that seem to come from other counties, worst of all... from Paris! They can at last show what they really think about the loathsome Parisian. And certainly, some people who have run to their secondary house when travelling was forbidden and they knew the consequences on the local community, may have been negative people. But it was not necessarily the case of those who had this reflex at the beginning of everything when they had no apparent symptoms. If I had been living in a flat at the time, in the absence of rules and thorough information on the matter, honestly, I don't know what I would have done. And the good people who indiscriminately damage others' cars (one local doctor whom it happened to, had a borrowed car with a "foreign" license plate ) should think that they should take care of their reputation. Because it would have an impact on tourism and their future prosperity.

When, in front of the crisis, and in the absence of any possible panic attack, so many citizens are hoarding toilet paper or disinfectant, hurting others who will have none, this lack of solidarity, this selfishness can also be the sign of someone being negative. Some go farther still, selling this stock at higher price: taking advantage of chaos and others is so manipulator 101.

In the united States, we have the selfishness and narcissism of young people who don't want to skip Spring Break and party on the beach before coming home and redistributing generously the virus among their families. The youngest among us are also those with the less symptoms and I hope they'll think twice before kissing their grand-mother. As, in a recent post, I spoke about this possible tendency, for older persons, to worry more and feel bitterness, I can as well have all generations hate me, telling that there are negative people of all ages.

And freedom, this right this country holds dear shouldn't be a right to be selfish.

Because those of us with a conscience know that our freedom stops where the others' begins.

We witness also, in the same country, the most extraordinary protests of negative people: a collective of Trump fans who protest in compact groups during a pandemic, against the closing of shops and stay at home orders. In the name of extreme individual freedom, the one that has no respect whatsoever for others' and is just selfishness in disguise. What I find interesting is that what I've seen written the most on their placards, is a demand to go to the hairdresser, which is plain shameless narcissism. The faces are scary masks of hatred and anger, the talk without any empathy, nor ambiguity: "these people will die anyway". No matter the number of deaths among others, as long as I can have my my my haircut. A speedy class on the sense of priority of negative people.

The most odious is when these people harass or insult medical staff that work day and night to save others, risking their mental and physical health. So, of course, there are also negative people among the medical staff, - I've been raised among them, I should know - but I can't imagine the anguish and sadness for the positive ones among them who work to save others. The horror.

The manipulator, the negative one, reveals himself in time of crisis.

And I think about my fellow good people who take risks to help others, without judging or condemning those who wouldn't be as exceptional. For example, this doctors who will maybe have to cure some of these protesters with nice haircuts who spit on them the previous day.

I think about my fellow empaths who, as well as having to fight against their own stress and fear, will be enclosed with a negative person focused on draining their energy. Who will suck them, and unload on them and generally show the whole range of his toxicity off.

The only good side of this is to have to toxic ones reveal themselves. Also their values and influence on a world and a destructive economy.

And when the worst will have gone, they will have learned nothing and won't have changed.

We will have to be the ones to learn from it and fix the mess.

CCIE employment direction ccie r&s written dumps pdf

 More ccie written dumps and ccie lab dumps are at PASSHOT, cheap and sure to pass!

CCIE has many directions, such as routing and switching, security, big data, and so on. When you pass these CCIE exams, the job is good to find, but find a good job, but also find it! So do CCIE to find a job guide!

Let's first take a look at a section of a piece of Keiko and Zhuangzi written by Zhuangzi in the Xiaoyao Tour:

Keiko said to Zhuangzi: "Wei Wang gave me a big gourd seed. The gourd I planted with it has a large capacity of five stones. It is used to hold water, and its hardness is not enough to bear; it is cut open. In the scoop, it is too big to be released. This gourd can't be said to be small, but I broke it because it was useless."

Zhuangzi said: "You are too bad at using big things! Song Guo has a person who is good at making anti-hand cracking medicine. His family has been relying on important things for generations to rinse." One guest heard, willing He paid a hundred gold to buy his prescription. He then summoned his own people to discuss and said: 'We have been washing the silk for generations, but the income is not a hundred dollars. Now I can sell this medicine and I will get a hundred gold. Please allow me to sell it to him. "When the guest gets this prescription, he goes to lobby Wu Wang. At this time, the Vietnamese troops sent troops to invade Wu, and Wu Wang sent him to lead the enemy. In the winter, he fought against the country and defeated the army. Wu Wang then Mark the land to give him a gift. The function of the prescription for cracking is the same. Some people use it to get a reward, but some people just use it to rinse the silk. This is because the party’s use is different. Now you have five stones. The capacity of the big gourd, why not consider it tied to the waist to float the rivers and lakes, but just too much useless! You really do not open!"

Most people use CCIE's value to get a satisfactory job. The monthly salary is 20K, and the 7K-15K is more common! A small number of people are not striding a lot, and wages are not sesame blossoming! In fact, CCIE is like the prescription mentioned above. It is a "golden" light flashing itself, but it has a different value with different people's different uses. Moreover, CCIE is also like the big gourd, but there are some people who don't really know its use like Keiko. Of course, more people like Zhuangzi can use it to smile. "Zhuangzi" read it all for fun, and "Keiko" may have to look carefully! ! !

We know that the process of finding a job is a process of selling yourself out! A salesman must follow two basic principles: First, be sure to believe that your product is of great value to customers. Second, we must find a customer who has real needs for this product. Here, the product is your own. The salesman is also your own. You must know yourself and know each other.

Your value

(1) CCIE is the king of technology

Anyone who has passed CCIE knows that CCIE has a wide range of knowledge, including routing, switching, bridging, security, QOS, voice, multicast, etc. for routing and switching. According to Cisco's official statement, all Cisco IOS12.0 support all features are within the scope of the exam. More than 500 M docment CD documents are just a part of all Cisco documentation. And the examination is very detailed, such as the routing protocol, always test some of the experience problems encountered in the ordinary work, when the "bird" encounters these problems, it can only be a word "dish", when the "shrimp" encounter To these problems, it will become a "big" word, tired lying on the ground can not afford. Can get such a complex network in a short day. It can only be the husband of the iron fan princess - not only the cow, but also the word of the devil! Therefore, people who have passed CCIE are not only useful to the company from a technical point of view, but also useful. For the company that is "killing the cold", you are in the snow, for the company with high skill, you are the icing on the cake!

(2) The number of CCIE itself is worth

To apply for Cisco's gold and silver agents, you must need a certain number of CCIEs, including 4 for gold medals, 2 for silver medals, and a lot of big projects to bid. When bidding, the company with CCIE can specify the price. How many points are added. These are the real benefits of CCIE!

(3) CCIE is more expensive

At present, the number of CCIEs in China has exceeded 1,000, but with the rapid development of China's network construction, CCIE is still in short supply. And today's CCIE figures are not really the number of CCIEs in China. Many people do not engage in civil wars after they have passed the exam in China, but go abroad to "aggress" other countries. Also, everyone does not see the United States now. There are 3,977 IEs, but IE is still a white-collar worker in white-collar workers!

IE has two thresholds and decided not to flood in a short period of time. (1) The technical threshold, as I have seen from above, how difficult it is to test a CCIE. There are no years of experience in blood and tears. There are no N-months of cantilevered thorns. Those who are not strong will be discouraged. (2) The threshold of funds, everyone knows that in general, a CCIE has invested a total of 50,000 yuan. You think that the average person can't get this number by personal strength for several years. People who don't have a wife don't want to save money. This is my personal experience. However, I have taken my wife, and the money is almost spent. In short, there is no money. Therefore, many people are sucking blood everywhere, but the successful vampire is a minority! A penny can kill a hero, a situation of 5 million? Therefore, there are more heroes and heroes who have more than enough power, and they have more than enough money. They are in front of IE all day, and their heroes are short-lived. You should be convinced that the days when IE is everywhere will never happen.

Another point is that in order to maintain the value of CCIE and prevent oversupply, Cisco has a certain amount of control over the growth of CCIE every year. Now it is about 1,000 people per year worldwide! Fully synchronized with Cisco's product sales growth pace!

(4) CCIE has great brand value

But if you are engaged in the IT industry, few people do not know CCIE, because CCIE is a symbol of technical masters and a symbol of the company's technical strength. Even some Meimei know, because for them, CCIE is a symbol of money, CCIE = Ports + L'Oreal. CCIE has a great "name" effect. The brand value of Coca-Cola is more than 700 million. If the brand value of CCIE is evaluated, it is estimated that there are several billion. Your value is not only reflected in your technology, but also in the goodwill that the company brings. And the value of these things is immeasurable. You should raise these things because you should be confident.

(5) People are divided into groups

Some people look for a boyfriend, extremely a Shih Tzu, but the boyfriend who is looking for is a hardcore Wu Dalang, all of them are angry, feeling and drooling, looking for it, suddenly, cheerful, the man’s brother’s brother is one The rich merchants also made a fortune by selling sesame seeds, and now they are the chairman of a famous sesame seed group company! This is the relationship, the power of one person, after all, limited, it is difficult to become a forest! CCIEs are a group of people who excel in various fields. They come from different fields, and they are savvy and savvy. In addition to CCIE, they all have stunts in the original field. Everything is fine, there are very few people, and there are people like this, and ordinary companies can afford it! Moreover, anyone who pursues CCIE is a person who has a different opinion about life, and such a person is destined to work hard. According to the principle that the reward must be paid, it is naturally the promotion of the promotion and the fortune of making a fortune. So, you are CCIE, there must be such technical and social relations resources. Even if you are not good enough, I have heard of the Ravens, and the disgusting crow mouse has changed his identity as long as he stands on the platform. This is also called "fox fox tiger", enough enough! Oh, CCIE is a master, and vegetables and shrimp are relatively speaking. So, you can talk about how your friends are interested in it. Of course, everyone often discusses the problem together. Hehe! How to say, this is called "talking and laughing, there is no ruddy!" Raise yourself!" But, please note that everything can't be too much, other people's things can't be yours after all, this method should be properly and moderately applied, not as a pillar of life! Yi Yi: "Hey, Heng, Xiaoli has a rush." ​​I realized it, I can't understand it and ask me! :)

(6) Beyond CCIE

This is a relatively high level, suitable for those who can be comprehensive. The real master is to understate CCIE, left to talk about it! It’s hard to hear the words, and the technology is to rely on the hand to make money (laborers), and the management is to rely on the mouth to make money (workers). The laborers are the people, the laborers are the people. The process of people going to the heights and going to success is actually the process of changing from the laborer to the laborer. I think of many IEs who are decades old and still go to the routers, and the nose is sour. Because I don't know, CCIE has become his wing, or has become his shackles. The true master should come from technology and beyond technology. Without CCIE, there would be no us today, but forgetting CCIE, maybe we will have more tomorrow. This sentence is not everyone can understand! We all know that CCIE is a certification issued by Cisco, and we are crazy about Iraq, but how many people can explain why CCIE has such value? The success of CCIE is only a small part of Cisco's success, and who can have a clear idea of ​​Cisco's success! For a company's success, technology has never been dominant, and Cisco has a well-known theory that is technology agnostic! For such a company that started with technology, how much courage and courage it takes to get such a theory! And doing so ensures that Cisco's technology is leading step by step! This is a reasonful dialectic! Isn't we not only learning Cisco's technology, but also learning more from it? What's outside of technology is what Cisco really is. If you are a master in this area, then you will adopt this strategy and believe that your salary will double. Because you can not only make money for the company, but also guide the company to make money!

To sell things, of course, find one you want to buy. If you go to the monk to sell the comb, whether you are boxwood or something ivory, whether you are 10 yuan or 1000 dollars, he will not buy it because the comb is for him. Useless. Can you go to those who have enough food to sell Mercedes-Benz cars? It certainly won't, not because they don't want it, but because they can't afford it. After understanding these reasons, then you will seize the essence of "sell yourself"! The first is to find a company that wants to be your own, and the second is to find a company that can afford it.

(-) Network equipment manufacturer

These companies have made a fortune with the development of the Internet. Because of the financial affairs, they are so savvy that they can throw hundreds of millions of dollars or billions of dollars into their eyes. Therefore, your annual salary of hundreds of thousands of RMB, for them, is like watching an elephant, then going to see the ants, only pity in the heart. And you, like a big fish fell into the Pacific Ocean, whatever you jump! Cisco, Nortel, Alcatel, Lucent, Juniper, 3COM, Ericsson, extreme, foundry, intel, Huawei, harbor, UT Starcom, etc. These names are glittering in front of us like gold, and every brand is worth Liancheng. Of course, CCIE is mainly based on Cisco, so Cisco will certainly not refuse. But will other companies accept it? Will do! There are three reasons. One is that CCIE itself has a good technical foundation. Network technology is generally a standard technology. Each manufacturer is the same, and the configuration is similar! A good technician can be used to bypass the class and it is easy to get started. The second is the convergence of some manufacturers' products with Cisco. These manufacturers often adopt the following strategy. Cisco is like the rabbit, while other manufacturers are like turtles, biting the tail of the rabbit tightly, so the rabbit runs. How fast, how fast the turtle will be! Therefore, CCIE is like training for them, so of course it will be accepted. The third reason is that "captives" are more convincing. We watched the Eighth Route Army's movies and often saw the use of some old prisoners who had already been sincere, to persuade those new prisoners, and to say tears of the Communist Party, the Kuomintang's bad, this This way is very lethal. The same reason, other companies generally use CCIE to come out and say, generally say: "I am CCIE, so I know quite a lot about Cisco. In fact, Cisco's things are also very general, but the market is doing well, we This product is similar to Cisco's, and even stronger in some respects, and the price is only..." However, these companies are implementing three high policies, high investment, high risk and high return. You are the two highs that belong to the front. Because of the network bubble in the past few years, the strength of these companies has been recovering in recent years, so it has become a four-high, plus a high blood pressure. Therefore, to go to these companies to find a job, the salary can not be opened too high. Generally recommended for foreign companies: 10000-20000 / month, domestic companies: 7000-15000 / month, of course, depending on your position flexible adjustment.

(2) Related industry manufacturers

Network devices are relatively basic facilities, and only if they work properly, other applications can run correctly. Therefore, network equipment is like roads and bridges. If they are not built well, it will be impossible. Normal network communication is even more difficult to talk about. Internet technology is so complicated, so there is OSI seven-layer model technology. Because of this complexity, each manufacturer can only put eggs in a basket. Therefore, it caused some problems. Let's look at a situation. A company that produces firewalls went to another company to install the firewall. Because the firewall was added later, it needed to make some changes and settings to the original network, but the network product was made by another company. Therefore, communication is extremely inconvenient, so you need a person who is very familiar with network products. If some companies' business is very critical and urgent, this is even more true. Otherwise, the security products have not been installed, and the network of people has been paralyzed. This is a big joke. There is also a company that develops streaming media technology, to install products for people, and to configure multicast and QOS on network devices. And this is not something everyone has to do, so these companies need some network experts. Many of these companies are companies that produce firewalls, companies that develop databases, and so on. At that time, always remember to find a big company. Of course, if you are a CCIE and a master of some other aspect, this compound talent can be the technical director. If you are not going to be a technical director, you are advised to offer: 7000-12000/month.

(3) Telecom operators

China's telecom companies are now in a 5+1 format, China Telecom, China Netcom, China Unicom, China Railcom, and China Mobile. They are all big ponds, and how big a fish can be raised. Radio and television is also a better choice. The final data must be carried by IP, which is already a consensus, so no matter which big carrier is developing IP bearer network. Whether it is a simple network device or a so-called multi-service platform, what CCIE has learned is indispensable. Therefore, the demand for network talents by major operators is huge. There is also a consensus that these telecom operations