#Neither Whole Nor Unbroken
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Short Story Release: Neither Whole Nor Unbroken (Barry Grivus Story- 3,036 words)
He didn't usually contract kills. But this hit was outside of his usual sphere of competence.
Barry kept an eye on the criminals and villains bustling through the convention center. There were so many options, if he really wanted to just get the first person who would agree.
But he was patient. He had one person in mind, with the specific skill set that he needed. He'd already reached out on the secure app on his phone. There hadn't been a reply, but that didn't mean anything.
A particular motion over the top of his newspaper caught his eye.
A slight figure in black was visible from his line of sight. She was in the narrow space between two booths, inches away from someone who had no idea she was present. Her posture and body language communicated control and tightly leashed violence.
He controlled the desire to smile. That was her.
As he looked up, her gaze snapped to follow a large, handsome man in red strut down the main thoroughfare. He was too busy chatting with Gene to see the assassin's whole body go tense as she honed in on him. Barry could see the whites of her eyes and her carefully controlled breathing from over here.
Even without seeing the man's face, he'd know that was the social media star, underwear model, and chronically small-time supervillain Hammer from her furious body language.
'She focused on him like a hawk,' Barry thought, bemused. 'She wants to attack him on sight, in a building with thousands of witnesses.'
The passion there always surprised him. Personally, Barry found Hammer to be a delight. But reasonable people can disagree on matters of taste. He broke his stare and cleared his throat.
"Harmes." His junior partner looked over from the other chair in their booth. "Would you mind getting coffee? I'll hold down the fort. I could really use the caffeine."
Harmes stood easily, clearly stir crazy. "Of course. The usual?"
"You know me," Barry agreed idly. "I'm a predictable man." He watched until Harmes was out of sight.
Barry folded up the newspaper and put it down on the booth.
"Echo," was all he had to say.
His contact sidled over with a swing in her hips. The furious tension in her shoulders was gone, for now. "Mr. Grivus." Her tone was flat, but he didn't take it personally.
"Did you get my message?"
"Yes. What did you need?" The rogue had a brisk, flat tone that he didn't really care for. She must not have thrived in customer service, he thought.
He looked around in his periphery. Harmes wouldn't be back for at least a few minutes.
He reached into the secret pocket of his blazer, and pulled out a thick envelope.
"Instructions and cash. Non-consecutive bills." A deft little hand snapped out, but he pulled back the envelope in time. He leaned down. He lowered his voice.
"Just make sure it gets done."
"I can do any job related to my skill set," she retorted. Barry smiled faintly and handed over the envelope.
A few minutes later, Harmes returned. He had already resumed his paper. There was nothing to indicate he'd talked to anyone or arranged for anything that would infuriate his business partner.
About an hour later, his phone buzzed.
The notification from his secure channel said only, "job complete."
He was tempted to arrange things so that he could be present for the discovery. But it's too sloppy. More than a few people know about his grudge.
Barry is patient. Barry waits.
The end of the conference comes and goes without any mention of a discovery. It's two days, nothing said. His anticipation is only going to make the eventual fallout better. There's no news on Saturday or Sunday either. It's agonizing.
It happens. Monday, Harmes comes into work. Tired. Disgruntled. Driving an expensive car that he damn well knows Harmes would never buy.
He's thrilled. He can't quite keep the predatorial satisfaction off of his face. As he pours coffee Barry casually asks, "Did something happen to your car?"
Harmes is still. Their expression is best described as dangerous.
He has a frisson of discomfort, a bad feeling that he's been caught.
Harmes can't possibly know, Barry tells himself. There's no way.
"No," Harmes lies lightly. "It's just in the shop. It'll be back, as good as ever." Their fingertips turn pale as they clench their teacup.
His jaw is tense.
'Not if I have anything to say about it.'
"That is terrible," Barry responds. He can't help it. It's too heartfelt to keep in. "That old heap is the worst thing I've ever seen. Holly agrees with me."
Harmes narrows their eyes at him. He's imagining the suspicion there. Did he overplay his hand?
No. It's fine. Harmes already knew he hated the car. That's the whole purpose of the exercise, the reason to contract a rogue mechanic. It would be more suspicious if he was empathetic or neutral.
"My mother isn't always right," Harmes says stiffly.
He's irritated now. Even though he knows that Harmes is lying! His hackles are up. Barry excuses himself to his office and paces. He does some deep breathing to calm down. He checks his message again to confirm that the mechanic really did get rid of Harmes' car once and for all. The message still says "job complete." It's unambiguous. The car has been murdered.
"It's dead," he says grimly. "I paid a ludicrous amount."
The empty office didn't answer him.
"It was a good use of 500 thousand dollars," he says darkly. "I never want to see that thing again."
He stops. He had been pushing down the urge to contract his hitwoman again, but for what he'd paid her? She can cope with a follow up question.
Barry glanced to the main office once more, to confirm that Harmes isn't lurking out there. His junior associate is in their private office. He won't be seen. He messages the hit woman.
"The car is definitely not repairable?"
He waits a while. She must be working. Barry lets out a sigh and gets back to work. He examines the invitation he received for another company's event with a sigh. The owner came to his booth personally at the conference to say hello and give invites to him and Harmes.
The owner is new, but doing admirably to establish herself in the villainous industry. He's a little fond of her. He nearly hired her, in fact. But Harmes was just a little more… innovative.
He sends his confirmation of attendance. It would be a bit of a snub to not attend.
His phone buzzes. The hitwoman has responded, "It was barely holding together before I got to it. I sent a letter saying that it's totalled and detailing the insurance payout for a replacement."
Barry chuckles. He steals a glance at the office. He narrows his eyes.
Harmes is standing by Janine's desk, holding a familiar invitation.
Hm. He pushes open his door and takes a step out, curious. He takes his nearly-empty cup of coffee to have something to do with his hands and a pretense for going out.
"decline," Harmes is saying. "I won't be alienating anyone too important?"
…Ah. He controls the urge to smile. He wonders if Harmes even remembers that Sunny Aviichen interviewed for the same position at Grivus Events that Harmes did, all those years ago.
"No," Janine agrees. She's examining the invitation. "It would be good to go, but I'm sure they're not looking for you specifically."
…He sips the last of his coffee. He had actually had the impression that Ms. Aviichen was quite eager for Harmes to see how well she was doing in her career. Ms. Aviichen seemed rather competitive, even before Harmes got the position. People like that never enjoyed losing.
"Barry?" Janine looks up and spots that he's already out of his office. "You'll represent the firm at this?" She holds up the invitation.
"Of course." He agrees calmly.
"Great." Harmes flashes a smile at him and Janine. "I have pottery class that day."
Janine snorts. "I wouldn't tell anyone that's why you're declining to attend the Vice President's birthday party."
Harmes shrugs and goes back into their office. Barry finds himself watching until the door closes.
He's always enjoyed that about Harmes, he muses. They just don't give a damn.
Ahem.
Someone has cleared their throat. He looks at her.
Janine's face is amused. "Barry, I saw that poor Harmes didn't drive the usual car today." Her lips twitch. "Would you know anything about that?"
"No," he lies smoothly. He tilts his head at her in faux confusion. "But I'm very busy today." He busies himself with getting some water and leaves his coffee cup in the sink.
"Mm," Janine agrees, in a way that lets him know she's certain he's full of it. She pulls open a drawer and withdraws a yellow envelope. "Tell Echo that I said hello."
He frowns at her. She knows too much. She knows everything that happens. "I will," Barry agrees, defeated.
The car is vanquished, he tells himself. He goes back to work. He's finally slayed the beast. It only cost him a year's earnings to never have to see that wretched amalgamation of rusted metal again. His mood begins to lift.
'I wonder what Harmes will buy with the insurance money,' he wonders indulgently. Harmes' actual insurance would never have covered a suitable car, of course. Luckily, the rogue mechanic is also certified in car insurance. She was only to keep half of the money he gave her, and have the other 250 thousand allotted to Harmes.
…He's not certain what a half decent car costs, but surely that would have covered it.
Waiting to see what Harmes buys with his money is the most interesting part of his week. The pleasant anticipation gets him through the vexation that rises when he discovers that that little worm Duke has made a dinner appointment via Janine. "We can't cancel," he says darkly.
"No, but I'll know not to take further appointments with him," Janine says, a little embarrassed.
Barry sighs. "You couldn't have known. I didn't tell you." He turns his gaze out of the window, to the parking lot. "We'll go, find out it's not a good fit, and not take his business."
"That'll work," Janine agrees. She tracks where he's looking, but she doesn't say anything this time.
Harmes is still driving the rental to work. Surely they'll buy one soon. The rental isn't their style at all. Barry's anticipation builds as the work days go on.
And then Harmes comes to work in something so wretched and old that he hears it two blocks away.
Barry stands up at his desk. That could be anyone's car clanking. But he has a miserable premonition. Slowly, he walks out to the main office.
Janine must have the same instinct. She's already at the window to pull back the curtains. She starts to laugh as Harmes pulls into the parking lot in a positively ancient truck.
"No," Barry breathes, wounded.
Janine starts snorting between gasping laughs.
He puts a hand on his heart. "This can't be happening." It hurts. Harmes is killing him. Harmes is doing him harm. This has to be purposeful.
Harmes drives over a curb. There's a demonic scrape as something unfortunate happens to the underside of the already ill-used vehicle. The car stops. Harmes clearly struggles to open the door. After a few seconds, they kick it open. It's somehow even more dented now.
Janine is fully laughing, and obviously struggling to keep the tears of mirth down. It's worse that she's pitying him.
Barry closes his eyes. "I'm going to go lie down." He feels faint.
Janine passes him an eye mask and hiccups a stop to her giggles. "Set a timer for your 10 o'clock, sir."
"Thank you," he says, bleak. He's going to become one with the darkness. He's going to break down into his components to escape the pain of reality. And then the door closes behind him and he has another idea.
He could sink into a black miasma of despair. But instead, he calls the mechanic. Maybe there's a solution.
As soon as they pick up, he starts to speak. "Harmes must not have had an adequate budget."
There's a pause. "Hello to you too," says a disgruntled voice. "What are you talking about? I sent them 200 thousand dollars."
"250 thousand," Barry corrects offhand.
The mechanic makes an acknowledging noise. "That's an adequate budget," she says dryly. "Harmes could get any nice car on the market."
Oh. "Perhaps. But there's a rusted 2013 farm truck in my parking lot," Barry confides in a tortured whisper.
There's a bark of surprised laughter so loud that he pulls the phone away from his ear.
Barry scowls. He wishes that other people would stop laughing about this disaster. He crosses his arms and waits with ill grace for her to calm down.
The mechanic controls herself. "Is there some kind of outdoor hobby that might have prompted that choice?"
He freezes. He's finally compared Harmes' regular schedule and the timeframe that the car died in. He knows what happened. "Rocking."
"....what?"
Barry ignores the question and starts to pace. "The car gave out on some muddy back road," he says to himself. Damnit. He curses himself for a fool. "Harmes thinks the solution is a better backroads vehicle." He hurries to his computer and checks his theory. Yes. The exact model is the first example of a reliable used vehicle that results when you search for heavy duty trucks.
"Is there something else I can do for you?" the mechanic asks. There's the sound of a car door opening in the background. "I don't think a follow-up letter from the insurance company saying that the new vehicle is subpar would convince your associate to reconsider."
"No." Barry clears his throat. "You're right. You did your part." He runs a hand through his hair and winces when he realizes he's messed up the style. "Thank you."
"Have a nice day." The mechanic hangs up first.
There is a grieving process. Barry takes his lunch in the attic so that he can gaze into the parking lot undisturbed. The truck… it is wretched. It is a pathetic thing.
He tries convincing himself that it isn't so terrible. He wanted to indirectly buy Harmes a car that was safe and made them happy. The truck, however damaged the body may be, seems to be in better shape than the old thing. It doesn't even give off white smoke. That's certainly an improvement.
He spends a brief dip in the bargaining stage. Perhaps Harmes would buy a second car, a work-appropriate car? How much money would he need to give for that?
…it's a moot point. Harmes doesn't accept gifts.
Barry lets out a beleaguered sigh.
The week passes. The truck is an open wound. It only falls to the back of his mind in the wake of the disastrous dinner meeting with Marc.
…It wasn't his best showing. He hadn't even considered that the weasel was a desirable client for his junior partner. That oversight was embarrassing in retrospect.
He comes into work too shame-faced to even sigh about the truck. It isn't there yet anyway. Barry writes an apology and leaves it on Harmes' desk.
There's some excitement that afternoon when Gene pioneers a new and exciting way to get a felony charge. But Barry can't really enjoy it, because Harmes is avoiding him so studiously that they miss out on the resulting office party.
Eventually, Barry coaxes Harmes out. He's tentatively hopeful that he hasn't done anything irreparable to their working relationship.
Two mornings later, Janine gasps.
Barry makes a questioning sound. He's facing the counter, making his morning coffee before heading into his office.
"You're going to want to see this, Barry."
He puts down the cup with a clink. He turns around slowly. Her serious tone has his full attention.
Janine is standing at the window. Harmes doesn't drive over the curb this time, carefully whipping around the corner in a precision turn.
"This is worse," Barry says numbly.
Janine pats his back in sympathy. "It is," she says. Even she can't laugh about this. She goes back to her desk solemnly.
Barry can't move. He's still stuck there staring out the window in open-mouthed horror when Harmes walks in.
"Good morning, Janine. Good morning, Barry."
Janine responds. He can't.
Harmes walks over to him. "New car," they say cheerfully. "I'm just going to use the truck for rocking." Keys jingle.
He tries to respond. The sound he makes is a croak.
"Isn't it nice?" Harmes asks innocently. They indicate the bright red, shiny sports car in their parking spot.
Harmes bought a volcano car. Harmes gave his money to that insufferable businessman Duke.
Barry finally tears his gaze away and makes eye contact with Harmes.
Harmes is waiting for it. They hold prolonged eye contact.
"Marc gave it to me." Harmes keeps staring at him. There is something unhinged in those eyes. Barry blinks, and four seconds pass. Harmes doesn't blink.
His stomach twists faintly in disgust. Marc? Harmes was on first name terms with that twerp now? He can't find the wherewithal to muster a response.
The seconds stretch on. Janine staples something. Someone washes their hands in the next room. Harmes is still looking deeply into his eyes in some sort of sick dominance play.
"That's nice of him," Barry says weakly. He looks down as blood begins thumping in his ears and dimming his vision. He retreats into his office.
He's lost. Barry knows that now. He sits at his desk and buries his face in his hands.
Did Harmes know? Did Harmes realize he'd assassinated the car and do this to punish him? Or was it even worse- was it fate? Had he pushed Harmes and Duke closer together?
Barry inhales a long, shuddering breath. He lets go of his face. He accepts the total loss, and he gets back to work.
NOTE:
This was originally posted on my Patreon, where I am continually writing other character stories for Deplorably Devoted. Check it out here!
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OK OK HERES A WEIRD PROMPT: "splinter"
Madeleine/Willy - Factory Era
This is not technically done but it was getting extremely long, was turning into essentially a speedrun of what should be a pretty long multi-chapter fic, and any further than this was going to dive into some pretty heavy, dark stuff, so - capping it here for now! I will probably come back in the next few days and write the rest.
---------
Looking back, years down the line, Madeleine would be able to put her finger on a series of fracture points: here is where it began, here and here and here is where it got worse, and here the grand denouement.
At the time, however, it was just -- a mess. An incomprehensible, gut-churning, living nightmare. Piles and piles of sales reports, forecasts, data split every conceivable way, but none of it giving her the answers she so desperately needed: the product, or the tactic, or even the fucking magic spell, that would save the factory.
Ça coûte bonbon, she had jokingly told Willy when he first brought up the idea of the factory, while they were still in the cosy little apartment above the shop on Cherry Street. While they were growing apace, flush with success, but still a small business: Madeleine had not been able to imagine how they would raise the capital for such an endeavour. Especially when, in true Willy fashion, he insisted not just on a factory but the biggest factory in the world, fifty times as big as any other.
Typical Willy; not satisfied with anything less than being the biggest, brightest, best. He grinned, laughed, flashed those perfect white teeth and showed the world the image of a young genius who had been touched by the wand of destiny. It was only Madeleine who, behind closed doors, saw the moments when certainty failed and doubt crept in. The nights when he lay awake, haunted even now by the father he has not seen in years but whose memory drove him ever further on to prove, against all possible doubt, that he was a success.
The biggest chocolate factory in the world. Taken at face value, it was absurd. Better, more sensible, surely, to start small and work their way up in a managed, sustainable way.
But it was Willy’s dream and Madeleine knew, just as she had when he was sleeping on her sofa and peddling chocolate across London, that he had everything within him he needed for success, if he was just given the opportunity. So while Willy poured everything he had into his own awe-inspiring brand of confectionary alchemy, Madeleine sat up at night reading books on business accounting, investment, managing corporate loans. She set up meetings with banks and private investors, lugging cases filled with candy and business plans across the country, and she sold that dream to anyone who would listen.
Vouloir c'est pouvoir. It became her mantra. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.
Willy was a genius, already garnering international attention in the confectionery world, and Madeleine flattered herself that the business plans she’d pulled together were pretty damn good too, but it was also the right moment to try. The economy at the back end of the 80s, after a decade of volatility, was booming again: lenders were optimistic, unemployment was low, normal people had money in their pockets for luxuries. It was the best time to invest in a growing candy business headed by an unmatched visionary.
It all happened so fast. The lenders said yes, the loans were eye-wateringly large but the interest rates were low, everyone had so much faith in Willy - they didn’t even have to put up much in the way of collateral relative to the amounts, just the Cherry Street shop and then a lien against the factory itself. Madeleine, aware in the midst of all the excitement that she was out of her depth, all but begged Willy to sit still long enough for them to comb through the contracts together, but he was too giddy to care about anything as mundane as paperwork.
“I trust you, Maddy!” he kept saying, more concerned with drawing up plans for the factory with the architects and engineers; often infuriating them with his ideas that should not have worked but somehow did. “You know more about it than me, anyway. It will be fine. We’re going to make way more money than we’ve had to borrow, right?”
And Madeleine had to admit there was no reason to think that was not true.
They laid the first foundation stone together in the autumn of 1989, as delighted with it as any other couple might have been with a positive pregnancy test. Indeed, it felt like the factory was their child: Madeleine had certainly laboured to bring it about. Six months later, Willy cut the ribbon to open the completed factory, and that very night asked Madeleine to marry him.
They were the king and queen of candy - they were a team; Willy the face of his wild and wonderful creations, Madeleine the face of the business side - they were invincible.
**
Oh, God, they were not invincible. Not even close.
**
When the economy began to take a downturn, Madeleine was not initially worried. Candy was one of the most affordable luxuries; even when money was tight, most people could still find the spare change for a bar of chocolate or a bag of sweets. Besides, Wonka Candies was now a wholesaler, not a retailer; as long as their partners kept placing orders, the factory prospered.
Even so, ever cautious with money, and aware that there was a lot of money on the line, Madeleine made a point of bringing in more accounts, more clients, and most importantly more prestigious clients. Willy made candy for the love of making candy, but even he was proud as punch when they finally achieved the vision Madeleine had had in London years before: a display of Wonka candy in the window of Fortnum & Mason. Target the audience with money, was Madeleine’s reasoning, and they would be insulated if the economy continued to spiral downwards.
It turned out to be a smart decision. Before they had even reached the second anniversary of the factory opening, the country was officially in recession. Interest rates spiked sharply, and Madeleine almost cried when she saw the jump, month on month, of the loan repayments. They could afford it, but it seriously curtailed their floating cash - which, in turn, limited Willy’s ability to invest in technology for the factory for new products.
“But I need this,” Willy protested as they stood in Madeleine’s office, looking over plans he had drawn up for new machinery, and pages of complex formulas that Madeleine could not begin to follow, all spread across her desk. “It’s for my latest idea - you ought to like this, it’s economically appropriate--” said with finger quotes, “--I’m calling them Everlasting Gobstoppers. For kids who don’t get a lot of pocket money anymore, they can buy one and it will last forever. Well, pretty much forever.”
Madeleine hated that her first reaction was to think that was a terrible financial decision. She pushed the thought away, guilt clenching her stomach, knowing how many children would be ecstatic to have candy that would never run out. What was this job doing to her?
“It’s a great idea, I just…” Madeleine shuffled through the papers until she found the estimates Willy had drawn up for the materials he’d need. She ran a finger down the column of figures and bit her lip. God, she felt like a monster, but if theoretically they’d only sell one unit per customer on this outlay… and if the target customer was kids without much money, price per unit would be low… And would any of their accounts even take a one-and-done product like that? Madeleine quickly ran through the mental maths and her heart sank. “I don’t think we can afford the outlay, not right now.”
Willy stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. “But we have loads of money. Didn’t we make record sales last month?”
“Record sales, yes,” Madeleine admitted. “But not record net profit. The loan repayments keep going up, and I’m nervous about some of the smaller accounts potentially pulling out if the economy doesn’t pick up. Then there’s payroll - we’ll have to put wages up again, inflation is going mad: I think it’s at nearly seven percent now. That’s going to affect our cost prices, too; we’re losing margin already on at least half of our products, and that won’t change until we renew our contracts at the end of the financial half. If you came to the sales meetings,” she couldn’t help adding, “You’d know all this.”
It was a petty jab and Madeleine regretted it as soon as the words left her mouth, especially when Willy flinched, visibly hurt.
“I’m working too, you know,” he retorted. “These prestigious accounts you were so eager to get are being pretty damn demanding about how many new products they want each month. Then they all want different new products, so they can outdo each other.”
It was on the tip of Madeleine’s tongue to point out that, with the biggest chocolate factory in the world, they should be equal to fulfilling those demands - but then she looked at Willy properly. Looked at him and really saw him, for what felt like the first time in weeks. Saw that his skin, always pale, was now chalky; his eyes sunken and shadowed; his mouth turned down into a frown rather than his usual smile; the lines forming between his brows that hadn’t been there before.
“You should have told me it was getting too much,” she said instead, reaching for his hand; a gloved hand, he’d taken to wearing those latex gloves almost constantly, but she hoped he could still feel the warmth of her hand through the material. “I’ll call them tomorrow, see if I can renegotiate the contracts.”
“No,” Willy said quickly. He pulled away from her hand, and Madeleine had to restrain herself from snatching him back. “No, I--I can do it. I can. It’s what I do, isn’t it? I just -- I don’t have time to come to meetings, okay? That’s what I need you for.”
“Okay.” Madeleine looked down at her hand and flexed it, still fighting the urge to grab at Willy again. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I shouldn’t have said that. I know how hard you work. Look, let’s… let’s clear this away for now. We can’t do anything else tonight anyway. I’ll make dinner, what do you want?”
But Willy just shook his head. “I’ll keep working for a while. I want to run some more tests; I’m trying a new flavour of Wonka bar, something with fudge and marshmallows, but it’s taking some time to get right.”
“Oh -- okay, I’ll wait for you, then.”
“No, don’t, I could be a while. Just leave me a plate or something.”
“Willy--”
“What do you want, Madeleine?” Willy burst out. He spread his hands out, inviting a response that Madeleine did not feel able to give. “Do you want me to fulfil these contracts or not? If they’re that important then, yeah, I need to keep working! Unless you have another chocolatier hidden up your sleeves?”
Madeleine’s chest clenched; her pulse raced; she tasted static electricity in the back of her mouth. Willy had never, never, spoken to her like that before. They had disagreed, yes, of course, even had their spats - but she’d never known him be so… sarcastic, so venomous.
“But… what about the team you put together, the additional designers?”
Willy sighed heavily. HIs arms dropped back to his sides and he shook his head. “They’re doing the basic stuff; alternate flavours, things like that. I don’t… I don’t like them doing the big things. It’s mine. What if they leave, and take their recipes with them, ‘cause they’re the ones who came up with them? I can’t have that. It’s Wonka Candies. It’s mine.”
They stared at each other in silence; both aware, perhaps, that they had gone too far and not sure how to find their way back to the right side of the line.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Madeleine again; she didn’t know what else to say. If it was one of their usual spats, she would sweet-talk him back into a good mood, or tease him until he admitted he was overreacting. Now, though, he wasn’t overreacting, and Madeleine didn’t know how to surmount the problem.
Willy made a little gesture; half shrug, half nod. “It’s--” he sighed. “I need to get back to work.”
WIth that, he made a swift exit, the door slamming closed behind him. Madeleine stared after him, feeling numb, wondering how and where that conversation had gone so very wrong.
#willy wonka#charlie and the chocolate factory#catcf 2005#johnny depp#depp wonka#tim burton#willy#madeleine#you'll be free (if you truly wish to be)#neither whole nor unbroken#which is the working title for the full version of this#angst#relationship breakdown#behold: two idiots who have been in love for years and still cannot communicate#to save their lives#or their livelihood
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Breakfast in Margate (Alfie Solomons x Reader)
Genre: Romance, Fluff, Modern AU
Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Fem!Reader
Word count: 3.2K
Warnings: A grumpy Papa Solomons (yes, that is a warning) and a whole lot of tooth-rotting domestic fluff
Summary:
Mornings aren’t always easy. For example, it’s terribly difficult to not be caught making breakfast for your fiancé, a workaholic who always takes the task upon himself.
However, what makes it harder today is the fact he loathes food made with recipes found online. Fortunately for you, though, Alfie isn’t the only one who’s good at playing games when he wants to push his own agenda.
Especially those that concern a sweet reward.
Author’s note: I've kept Alfie's adherence to his Jewish heritage quite loose. Nevertheless, I hope that the aspects I did incorporate in this work have been done so properly. If not, let me know and please don't hesitate to educate me (in a polite and respectful manner) because I love learning about different cultures and religions.
Tag List: @potter-solomons @zablife @wandawiccan60 @dreamlandcreations @liliac-dreamer @buttercupsandboys @vir-tual @rose-like-the-phoenix @hoodeddreams13 @mollybegger-blog @solomons-finest-rum @hecatemoon87 @babaohhhriley
TH Masterlist
Mornings like this are rare, these quiet moments unbroken by the usual ruckus in the kitchen. Now, it’s solely my bare feet on the wooden floor and the waves crashing onto the shore. No clanging of metal, no muttered curses in Yiddish or Russian, nor the scent of freshly brewed coffee.
In the living room, Cyril lays in front of the hearth. The first rays of sunshine fall over him like a warm natural blanket, highlighting the ginger undertone in his fur. One of the many features he shares with his owner.
As soon as I pass by, he lifts his head, tilts it in wonder, and lets out a low bark. After all, it’s Alfie who’s more often than not the first one to wander around the house at the crack of dawn. That is, if he’s slept at all. However, recently he’s started properly adhering to the Shabbat. Although, as much as he allows himself to because if Alfie Solomons is one thing, it’s mighty stubborn. Moreover, he’s an incurable workaholic. As hard as he works at The Old Rum House Bakery to let the business flourish and maintain his position as the fearsome Mad Baker of Camden, just as much effort does he put into our relationship. In fact, it’s not only towards Cyril and I his attention goes, but also to the house.
Our home.
Alfie has become a lot more domestic since we started dating, shortly after meeting one another on a train to London. Disregarding his tendency to walk around naked, he cooks and cleans, assuring me time and again I don’t have to help. When we go out for our weekly grocery trip, no matter how tired he is, he carries the bags to the car so that I don’t have to. Neither do I have to put away what we got, more often than not shipped off to the luxurious red sofa in the living room with a cup of coffee or tea to pair with whatever he’s baked at night.
Nevertheless, regardless of the otherwise very loose relationship with his heritage, Ollie and I are glad he’s at least taking a day off in the week to rest up. The bakery has recently started taking its toll thanks to an influx in customers, which means extra stock as well as staff is needed. In turn, this means more part-timers to train and more admin work. In other words, everyone has to pick up the pace to meet the current demand. Such is the power of marketing, especially on social media. Alfie is loath to admit it, but Ollie and I can tell he’s secretly grateful we managed to convince him to let us handle the bakery’s socials.
We don’t get cinnamon buns on Monday anymore, though.
I stop in my tracks, turn to Cyril, and put a finger to my lips. “I know, love, but Papa is still sleeping. It’s finally Mama’s turn to make breakfast again.”
Seldom do I get the chance to experiment in the kitchen, let alone try a recipe I’ve found online. Or worse, via Youtube or Instagram. Now, that’s usually enough to make Alfie bristle. Nevertheless, mention the word ‘viral’ and a scowl will twist his lips.
Sometimes I wonder whether or not Alfie and Cyril are the same person because he lowers his head onto his paws and lets out a deep sigh that sounds like sarcastic resignation.
Thanks for the faith, buddy.
“It’s gonna be okay. No fire in the pan this time, I promise. How about we go stretch our legs after brekkie, hm? That sound good?”
Cyril huffs in agreement and closes his eyes, back to enjoying his luxurious pillow.
We bought it for him when we went antique shop hopping in London last week. Although, perhaps it’s better to say I bought it after convincing my grumpy companion we should occasionally pamper our adopted four-legged child and I couldn’t fix his old pillow anymore. Of course I could, but I was more than done with constantly needing to fix the seams and re-stuff the thing.
Borough Market has become a regular stop on our weekly grocery trip, mostly because I used the splendidly efficient strategy of batting my lashes and pouting. Artisan goods and fresh produce can be luxuries, something to only occasionally splurge on. After all, why spend a fortune when there is a cheaper alternative that’s just as good?
Nonetheless, Alfie developed a taste for supporting local businesses soon after our first visit. To some he has proposed contracts, offering them a position as a supplier to his bakery. Granted their goods are kosher, of course.
Yesterday, we got some wonderful fresh bright yellow bananas, eggs from a local farm, and oat flour from a mill a little ways away from London. Alfie thought little of it when I plonked them triumphantly in our grocery bag, having occupied himself with the fresh stock one of the florists was setting out. I glance at the colourful bouquet of wildflowers on the table and for a moment I’m back to him holding out to me, face full of the warm tenderness that stands in stark contrast to the stern and unpredictable persona he portrays when I’m not there.
Right then and there, he wasn’t The Mad Baker of Camden, the fearsome King who rules the borough.
He was a sweet and caring gentleman.
Simply Alfie Solomons.
Nevertheless, in spite of these small moments of tenderness, he can still be awfully grumpy.
Especially if he hasn’t had his coffee.
“Mornin’, dove.” Two big warm hands glide over my hips towards my lower stomach. Those very same palms pull me flush against a naked chest grown soft with neglected muscle, slightly clammy with the remainder of last night’s late summer heat. Alfie presses his lips to the side of my neck and hums, tightening the embrace as he does so. The sonorous trill in his voice sends a shiver down my spine and rekindles a familiar heat. Nonetheless, the way he leans on me betrays he isn’t entirely awake yet. The slight slur in his words serve to confirm the lingering drowsiness, sounding like they’ve been pulled out of bed only moments before too. “That shirt looks good on you.”
“I’m glad you think so because you’re not getting it back any time soon.” I briefly stop mixing the batter to scratch his beard. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch as a content sigh escapes him. “You slept in.”
“Still woke up to an empty spot, though. If you want me to sleep more, yeah, which you know I find a terrible waste of time, I’ll need my wife to ‘old.”
I pat his hands to placate him. The thin gold band inlaid with a modest diamond around my ring finger matches his. I had thought Alfie would pick something elaborate for himself, but instead he chose a simple thick gold ring and got it engraved. It says: Ani l’dodi, v’dodi li; I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. “Don’t get hasty. We aren’t married yet.”
“Let’s just go to the courthouse today.’’ He slips his hands beneath the fabric of the shirt I stole from him, letting them rest on my stomach after a brief caress. It’s a gesture he often makes nowadays. ‘‘Sign the paper, right, and be done with it so the desk eaters are ‘appy. We can always celebrate it later. Throw a party as big as the whole of bloody Camden, like a proper coronation ceremony to celebrate our union.”
“Tempting as it is, I’ll have to refuse. Besides, it's Shabbat today and you need to take a break. I promise I can wait a little while longer to officially become Mrs Solomons.”
“You ‘ave been from the start, Y/N. I don’t need a ring to call you my wife. ‘Sides, you well know ‘ow I am. Which reminds me, breakfast is my job, innit?” A wary tone creeps into his voice as he leans away to check what’s in the mixing bowl. “Is that edible?”
“It will be,” I say, continuing to mix the ingredients until they’re well combined.
“I’m not eatin’ that goo. Looks fucking awful, that stuff.”
“It’s healthy goo! Uses the bananas, eggs, and flour we got yesterday.”
Nose scrunched, Alfie peers at me. “Oh, so yesterday was all a little scam to get me to eat whatever this is?”
“You aren’t the only one who can lie. Although, it’s not really a lie, is it? More like a half-truth.’’ I shrug. ‘‘I simply never told you my plan. Would ruin the surprise.”
“Which is?”
“Baked oats that taste like cake. They just haven’t been baked yet.”
“Where’d you get the recipe?”
“YouTube…”
He groans, wide awake now that the conversation has taken a turn towards a point of absolute irritation. “Fucking ‘ell, dove, ‘ow many times ‘aven’t I told you not every recipe on social media-’’
“Don’t judge before you’ve tried it.” I put the spatula down, turn around in his embrace and steal a kiss off of his lips. “Said so yourself, didn’t you?”
“Don’t use my words against me.”
“Oh, I will. If only to keep things fair. Have a little faith in me. It’ll be fine.”
I hope.
A warning finger raised and pointed at me, he leans in until our faces are mere inches apart. “Fine. But I’m gonna make us coffee, right, so we’ll at least ‘ave something to get us fucking started.”
I can’t suppress a chuckle at the grumpy gesture. “Sure.”
The threat turns into tenderness when he cups my cheek. His palm has grown rough with the hours spent at the bakery, proof of his hard work. Tenderly, he presses his lips to mine. “Ikh hab dir lib.”
“I know.” To show I accept his usual indirect apology for his bad mood and avoid coming across as being cross with me, I run my fingers along his jaw. “I love you too.”
Resting his forehead against mine, he nudges my nose with his. “Mhm.”
“Why don’t you take Cyril for a brief walk, eh? The oats have to bake for twenty-five minutes anyway.”
“We can take ‘im on a walk later together. I’ll go set the table.”
“First put on a pair of knickers.”
“No.”
“You know the rules, Alfie. No buns on the chairs during summer.”
“I ain’t sweating.”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe you’re the one who isn’t.”
I cock an eyebrow, fighting the smug smirk threatening to break out. “That so?”
“Yeah,” he drawls, “first we’ll ‘ave coffee, right, ‘cause otherwise neither of us functions. Now, ‘ow about after we’ve started the day proper I’ll fuck you like last night, hm?”
Until I black out.
The prospect of it mixes with memories of last night. Sea blue eyes, usually so steady and full of hidden temperaments, barely able to refrain from going cross-eyed. The fight with the stutter in his hips, gradually growing closer to the edge of pleasure but also exhaustion. Big hands reminiscent of wolf paws gripping the headboard for support while I was already lost in a satisfied delirium. The absent-minded glance to the bruises on my thighs adds to the steadily growing heat between my legs, perversely longing for more.
For him.
Nevertheless, the haze clears in an instant with a single sharp thought. I take a step back, crossing my arms as I search his expression for confirmation. However, as usually is the case, Alfie keeps his true motifs to himself. And this time, behind a mask he tends to put on when he wants something from me in particular. “So you can make breakfast. That’s what you’re getting at, aren’t you?”
“No,” he purrs, stealing a kiss as soon as he has bridged the distance between us, “not at all, dove. I just want my wife. I wanna make love to you.” We softly start to sway, slowly making our way out of the kitchen. “Let me make love to you.”
We come to a halt on the threshold. “Later. After you put on a pair of knickers and we’ve eaten.”
He blinks, the cheeky smile grown stiff. I can feel his muscles tense, unconsciously causing him to grip me a bit tighter than before. “But-’’
“Knickers, Alfie.”
“One round.”
“Alfred Solomons Jr, knickers. Right now.”
The use of his full name provokes a menacing snarl, the kind which is usually preserved for those who cross him. “Those oats better be fucking worth it, yeah, ‘cause otherwise you’re payin’ for lunch.”
I trace his cock, the skin hot and hardening beneath my fingertips with every sharp intake of breath. Perhaps this game won’t go on for as long as it usually does before he loses control. “Somehow I don’t think I will.”
He roughly grips my face, the thrill of every low-voiced word against my lips travelling throughout my body. “I ought to do somethin’ ‘bout that attitude of yours. Big fucks small, Y/N, always.”
Game over.
Except for the one card I have left to play.
“I know,” I wrap my hand around him, barely able to grip him properly, “but first some knickers. Please, Papa?”
“Clever bird, ain’t ya?” He growls into the kiss when I lightly squeeze him and let go. “Maybe I should carry out my own personal form of stigmata later. Add to those pretty bruises.”
Like snow in the spring sun, his attitude melts and changes. Alfie gently nudges my cheek and makes for the bedroom. A few moments later, he returns and starts setting the table while I pour the batter in the ramekins and plop them in the oven.
Despite the promise to make coffee, I reach for the cupboard to grab a mug. After all, old habits die hard.
Nevertheless, I find myself cut off by a hand that gently lowers mine, away from the handle.
“I said I’ll make us coffee,” Alfie grumbles. “Let Papa Solomons do ‘is job, yeah. Go sit in the livin’ room. I’ll be there shortly.”
I nod at the baking aftermath in the sink. “I got some washing up to do.”
“Nah, that can wait. Coffee and, ‘opefully, food first.” He places his hands on my shoulders and kindly coerces me out of the kitchen. “Go on.”
I let him guide me, feigning defiance by pouting. Yet, the act quickly falls apart with a lighthearted giggle. I suppose I still have a lot to learn from him concerning the art of masks. “Alright.”
Soon after he joins me on the porch, where I’ve settled down with Cyril to enjoy the salt air. The beach across the street is still empty, devoid of the plethora of towels. The breeze is silent, not yet filled with the chatter of tourists and locals alike.
These hours are ours.
This is our Margate.
“'Ere you go, love.” Alfie hands me a steaming mug of cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso, the milk soft and foamy, before he sits down next to me. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes as I take a sip. “Nice, innit?”
“Mhm.”
Thus we sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the view and each other’s company. Cyril has started to doze off, although he tries in vain to keep his eyes open. One glance to the side tells of Alfie fighting the same battle. Occasionally he pulls a face or lifts his hand to stifle a yawn. It’s strangely funny to watch him continue to take a sip afterwards, a small gesture of hope. Surely he should be readily awake before his cup is empty.
Because sleeping isn’t an option.
He’s tired of the nightmares.
The faint sound of the oven going off disturbs the domestic bliss.
Alfie groans as struggles to get up, glad to have my arm to use as support while he pulls himself to his feet. I say nothing, knowing full well how his sciatica influences his mood.
And it’s already rotten enough in the morning.
As Alfie washes his hands, I get the baked oats out of the oven and place them on the plates. Meanwhile, Alfie warms up a few slices of babka and the challah bread we made together yesterday. “Just so we ‘ave somethin’.”
He sits down while I wash my hands. From the corner of my eye, I see him poke the oats with his fork. “It’s kosher?”
“It is,” I say, drying my hands before I sit down across from him. “Shall I go first?”
“Very funny.” He scoops a bit of the oats onto his fork and puts it in his mouth. His brows knit together, contemplating the taste.
“And? Do you like it?”
Remaining silent and gaze fixed on the ramekin, he pokes his oats again.
I swallow hard, my excitement crushed under the stones of dread. A nagging voice in the back of my head feeds into the fear of his judgement. Funny how one connects their self worth to food. Then again, it was that which started our relationship. A cup of coffee, a slice of babka, and a slice of plant-based carrot cake. Back then, though, my stomach didn’t quiver this badly nor did my ribs feel like they were caged in a very tight-strung corset. “You don’t.”
“Dove,” he begins, but doesn’t continue.
Not until after he’s had another bite. “It’s good.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or simply trying to appease me.”
“I’m serious.”
“You are?”
“I am,’’ he says, raising his voice ever so slightly in spite of the effort to keep it even. Alfie finally meets my gaze and I can tell he’s being sincere regardless of the way he accusingly waves his fork at me. ‘‘But I still don’t like 'ow you got this off of the internet. ‘Ow many times ‘aven’t I told you, hm? You should know better by now.”
I chuckle as I at last taste the baked oats myself. They’re chocolatey with a subtle banana undertone, which is warmed by the cinnamon. “I gotta find new recipes somehow.”
“There are cookbooks.”
“Too limited and they take up too much space.” While nibbling on a piece of challah bread, I take a sip of coffee. “Can I make this more often?”
“It does taste like cake,” he reluctantly admits, spooning up another bite. “Yes, you can.”
“Why do you make it sound like there’s a condition?”
“You can make these oats, yeah, if I get to serve you something sweet in return.”
Something not to be had in the kitchen.
‘‘Deal,’’ I lean in, biting my lip as I play my final card, ‘‘Papa.’’
Alfie clenches his fork upon hearing his favourite nickname, the title he is secretly proud of. A dark haze clouds his eyes, the gloss in them highlighted by the morning sun. The smirk on his lips has evened out, his jaw tightened with the effort to practise self-restraint.
Game over.
I won.
And the prize is something sweet with lots of cream.
#alfie solomons#alfie solomons imagine#peaky blinders#peaky blinders imagine#alfie solomons x reader
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Beast; Day 1 of @tes-summer-fest
In the wooded heart of Skyrim, it is ill-advised for a lone child to travel too far, for the devious and the divine lurk inseparably entwined, waiting to cast their snares.
In Atmora of old, there were no children left by the end. By the end of the end, neither were the woods.
Year by year, season by season, the world got smaller; the storms surrendering a little less land from howling snow and lashing branches. Those who had neither foresight nor good fortune to be taken by the woodsman soon found themselves staring down the endless ocean, herded by creeping glacial giants. The fey ones, the woodwalkers, the spirits‘ playthings and companions, all penned in on the piers their mellower counterparts had long since set forth from. Ushered onto boats jauntily bobbing on the torrential currents, the last woods of Atmora creaking underfoot.
With ice nipping at their heels they were forced onto the vast expanse, unwell and seething under the hands of the oarsmen. Unwashed bodies smelling putrid in and under furs, meat rancid where there was any to be had. The crisp smell of the shore a distant memory before the tang fermenting slickly on the planks.
Skyrim is stuffy, claustrophobic with its many peoples dispersed through the land, inhabitants old and new and newer still the silent raving sentinels of Atmora. Sweltering coasts and swamps and woods all carved up in a fever, parcelled out and jealously guarded. Tumorous sproutings of towns and villages all over, people domesticating themselves in one last betrayal of their frozen home.
A veritable cacophony to senses weaned on glacial waters; honed on ritual hunts. People talking incessantly and clamouring and shouting the very earth into submission. Cages within cages. There’s a lord over them all now, by his own admission and ambition. He summons the mighty, the furious insane. Even among the last feral hermits his invitation is passed, there’s talk of accepting.
The eastern lands sound cruder still than this drab shadow of mighty Atmora, heaps of foreign novelty. Many slink away from the fires, the settlements, called back out by blood. The wolf pelted earth breaker is among them– they won‘t be some scrawny king‘s lap dog.
Skyrim is divvied up, and yet there is enough wilderness to swallow them whole. Where there isn’t, the less reclusive Atmorans take it back, boasting and clamouring. Little farms and homesteads, almost Nord themselves now. The fey and the woodwalkers return to their pacing, territories vast like feral beasts. Not even time will make them band together.
The wolf roams the lands deep south beyond the pearlescent lake that even with the spring thaws does not gleam quite as bright as their glacial home. They run from the clamour and cloying until harsh mountains cut their path. For a while it is peaceful, and ever restless they endeavour to keep it thus with claws and teeth.
They have no word of their people who with conquering swords and shouts never returned from the east, but the Nords spread like a disease. One year people settle on the lake, then further deep where snaking mountain passes meet a pleasant rushing stream. The last children of Atmora wish more to run than to fight, and the wolf sheds not their pelt to scream their protests unto land and sky. Wordless, out of sight, they surrender the ground.
The ever receding depths of the forest –crushed now by sullen hands not gleaming sheets of ice– remain a sanctuary not intruded upon, warnings of one too far line crossed written in blood and pain. Atmora’s lost children live long lives, but even they might not outlast the torrential unbroken tide of just a few trees more below the axe.
Instead they live long enough to be found. The dun pup, hapless and toothless, anointing them with blackberry sup alike enough to blood.They let the boy name them 'Mara'. They let the boy call them 'she'. The boy speaks with hands more than words, and she learns fast like remembering a hazy half-dream, teaching him the language of beasts in trade.
The seasons slow for them, curled up on a bed of rust coloured needles in a yew grove, sharing jam and pies as rain platters overhead and the trees weep red blood. Warm summer storms pass over them unminded, turning the stone slippery and the loamy hillsides navigable, until they run cold and sleety, mist rolling down the forested mountain slopes.
They sing at the stars and moons overhead, drifting lazily together in snow or mellowing summer heat. Around them the birds sing and the streams gurgle, and she hears the earth itself hum a contented lullaby. They roam between the village and the lake, smelling and tasting and running. He gets overwhelmed, and sometimes so does she, seeing this land through fresh eyes.
She hunts them game, the boy perched silently on her shoulders. With him, she never hunts down the woodcutters and mushroom gatherers and intruders into her woods. She doubts he‘d mind, but her pup has to grow his own fangs before they can truly feast. He picks berries from between the brambles, staring silently as hands dart cleverly between the thorns that would cut her muzzle. They catch fish in nimble claws and marvel at the gleam of sun on scales.
The townsfolk grow weary of them, their urge to roam a distant memory. Even she can bury her bitter longing for home now. For a while.
One crisp spring, the boy leaves. She follows him to the edge of the mountains eternally draped in ice, where her woods break on sheer rocks. She knows he knows she’s there, an unspoken offer like all between them. Still, she dislikes the mountain, the dragon, and she will not abandon the wilderness she has carved herself in this overflowing land. He looks back once, hesitates too long, places a precious sweet before the steep incline of the mountain pass.
He leaves. She stays. The seasons stumble on.
Time is a vague notion, when not measured by the inexorable creep of ice. She tastes the change in the air, startled over a bloody meal. The earth sings of their approach, humming in delight at the dizzy of one and one, coarse crude notes intertwined into a simple haunting harmony. Soft vibrations of the forest floor, crunching of mud and leaf, the smell of furs and foreign lands and ferns snapping underfoot. Yet in her heart she knows.
It is inadvisable for a child to travel alone in the deepest woods of Skyrim. But the pups have travelled far further and stranger, never alone. And they have grown up.
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In Fog -- 4
Sunlight, blessed water, crosses, sharpened holy wood. These are the items my secret research bade me seek...to kill the monster wearing your face. It slept in the daylight, sated in blood and moaning bliss—an offering it expected after every meal, and I am loath to say I gave it, drenched as it came in vibrant reds.
It was not you. I knew by the twelfth night as surely as I knew the first. But it pretended so well, my love, so well that I questioned. I doubted my senses, my heart, and gave it all it asked...all it purred for.
I procured items and plotted as it slept. I did not sleep, not much. How could I sleep with a monster beside me? A monster intent on devouring all that lived in our town, our home.
They were looking for it then, for us, but they did not know what they sought. The authorities hunted a beast, a rabid wolf or bear. Fools. I should have corrected, explained, lead them to it...to you. I did neither. I allowed it to take you, to continue feeding when I could have stopped it and so I would dispose of it, of you.
Only I could.
My research failed me.
While it slept by day, it was preference alone; it did not need the cover of night. We stayed in a lodge outside town, in a room with an open balcony that it adored watching the sunrise from—paid for by stolen funds...as my shame holds no ceiling.
And it feared no cross. It kept the one Father William meant to banish it with, played with it nightly, laughing and stabbing itself in the chest—your chest. Those wounds healed as any other, leaving not a mark, no scab or scar. On one baleful evening it drove the cross fully through, delighting in my horror as it pulled it free to show your heart still beating. Dry it beat, dry and white as ash—as fog—but whole...unbroken.
Blessed water did burn, but not enough. Nor did I wish to try again after the response I received, dripping it as I did into the wine we shared. To see your eyes so cold was torture, but rage-red outweighed it by miles.
All of me screamed then, every fiber of me, that you were gone. You could not be in that flesh any longer. You would never do what those hands did, those teeth. My blood stained your lips, your fingers, as surely as it stained my back, my chest, my neck.
So close it came, so close. I heard the thrum of my life droning, pouring down its throat and all the wounds it tore...but it would not kill me.
No. It would never kill me.
But it tricked me.
With sweet words and sweeter blood, so soothing your hands, yours yes, surely yours...somewhere in there, they had to be yours.
“Darling, why did you do it?” you whispered to the gashes you rent in me, healing though they were with the taste of your blood on my lips, “Are you not happy with me?” such gentle kisses to my temples, to my forehead sang of a kindness unknown in the moments before, “What I have done for you...for us?”
Confusion broke the spell of touch, souring my mood more than the bites, the scars, “All that bloodshed, that, that slaughter...was for us?”
Unmoving, unable, frozen beneath your claim I could but flinch as you pressed more weight onto me.
“A few for meals, of course,” you whispered through tender kisses on the closing wounds of my neck, “but my family, yours,” I drew your lips to mine with that confession, hungrier for them than ever I had been, for I did not know mine were among the fallen. I had not been witness. And part of me, oh, my love, so dark that part of me, had wished it. Harder your kisses came, spurred by my acceptance, so eager and searching your tongue, but there were breaths between, to explain, to placate, “That was for us alone, and when I take those nosy miscreants tomorrow night, I will have bought our freedom.”
“Is this...is this really you, my love?” Foolish it was to wonder, to ask, as I knew already. I did, somewhere, somewhere I did.
You pulled away from me, and the hands I held you with—kept you with, so tight, so desperate. And you smiled with those teeth too long, those eyes too bright...skin so smooth. Again I knew, I did, that it was wrong, that you were wrong.
“Of course it is, darling,” Your voice, echoing ever so slight, poured over me too warm, too perfect. “Who else would I be?”
A demon, a beast, some foul monster that stole your mind and skin, my thoughts were not my own. Not then or any moment with that thing.
With your voice, it laughed and then it was at my ear, cold lips somehow hot on my skin, “Then what would that make you...for staying?”
#writeblr#snippet#horror#in fog#trying to squeeze exposition in there#hopefully not clunky#horror romance#novella
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no one reminded me but i remembered anyway lets talk about broken swords :)
we see a lot about what dave thinks of swords. the apartment is littered with 'shitty anime swords,' but bro's katana is real and badass. he hopes to have a sword as cool as that one day, but he's still learning. he's heard a thousand times from rose about the phallic imagery he surrounds himself with, and closes his eyes to it because its not a gay thing (and thats neither here nor there, but it IS a masculinity thing. it represents the ideals dave has been learning from bro. heroism. strength. coolness. irony. stoicism.) the swords are a symbol of what bro stands for. every time bro helps him, its with a sword; every time bro hurts him, its with a sword. its the thing dave wants to be better at, believes he can learn how to use, and then bro cuts his sword in half. scratches the record, permanently fucks up his strife specibus, saves the day by splitting the meteor in half before it kills them both.
and now, dave is hounded by shitty, broken swords. every sword he touches splits in half in his hands, except for the one sticking out of his bro's corpse. (that one repels him, throws him off into an undignified heap.) its comical. its stupid. its yet another reminder that hes a failure, that he wasnt good enough to be a real hero, that he couldnt and never will live up to what his bro wanted him to be. but hes given the ability to fix his own mistakes, to still fight anyway. hes given a sword with the ability to travel back in time to an unbroken state. he can still hold a real sword, even if its just through a loophole. but hes still, fundamentally, a kid who deserves nothing better than a broken, shitty ass sword. davesprite sends him the legendary (piece of shit) sword on derse, when he's ready for a suicide mission, when he's being more honest with himself than he ever has been, and it falls apart like putty in his hands. he carries it with him to become a god.
and then we meet dirk. dirk, who calls dave's bro's sword--HIS sword, now--the unbreakable katana. and for dirk, a sword still means the same thing, but different. its a connection to a brother he loves, lost through time. its HIS strength, not a paltry imitation of someone else's. its tied up with masculinity, sure, and not a small amount of homosexuality, this time, but above all else its the symbol of a hero. its the sword that eventually kills the condesce.
and three years of trauma processing later, dave meets dirk. he meets this genuine, excited kid who shares his brothers face and feels older than he ever has. because dave is a broken sword kid, and dirk has a childs faith in an unbreakable katana. dirk doesnt know what it was LIKE. and dave realizes that his bro is gone. that dirk isnt him. hes never coming back. and dave enters the final battle with a complete, whole sword. the hero's sword, the one he was fated to kill lord english with, the one from his quest. and he fights the closest stand-in for lord english, and eventually is the one to kill him in a three for one deal. and with that same strike, the unbreakable katana breaks; the boy who shares his bro's face is killed. dave is a hero. dave can fight on his own terms. and the shadow of his bro hanging over him has been split in two.
#it me#homestuck#dave strider#bro strider#dirk strider#daves got a lot of baggage surrounding the term 'hero' but by his own standards i think hed call himself one in that moment#ough im so PROUD OF HIM!!!!!#brought to u by me rewatching collide ln and noticing dirk's katana break and SCREAMING
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What really annoys me about the whole devs talking down BG3 thing is that a few months ago when TOTK, another massive game with no micro transactions that launched unbroken, came out all the responses to it from other studios I saw was mainly praise and astonishment that they managed to get it to work like that on the hardware it’s on
Now of course most people probably wouldn’t be dumb enough to talk about Nintendo like these devs are talking about Larian but it does somewhat disprove their whole point, BG3 is not an anomaly
Now yes of course TOTK is a very different game to BG3. What they do have in common however is that they both very obviously had a lot of time and effort put into them, especially when compared to many other AAA releases and it shows in the finished product’s quality and the response they’ve received from players
2 games released 3 months apart
I’ve also seen a lot of people comparing the industry response to BG3 to the industry response that Elden Ring received last year, which yeah, again it’s the same story. Also last year GOWR, again quality game that was neither broken nor included micro transactions but it was a Sony game and like Nintendo, game devs aren’t going to try to knock them down to attempt to make themselves look better (well provided they had any brains as doing so probably wouldn’t look so good in their chosen career)
This kinda got away from me but what I’m trying to say is that while yeah BG3 is in a genre that rarely sees new releases these days and even less so on its scale, it is not in any way an anomaly in the level of care that went into creating it, despite what some devs may want us to think because that’s what they’re trying to say with those tweets. They’re not saying nah we’re not gonna make a CRPG like this, they’re saying nah we’re not interested in putting the time and money into creating a similar quality product
And considering for more linear games the amount of time and money required to make it a similar level of quality would be far lower. And considering it seems that the majority of devs that have talked down BG3 and ER have been from very big studios that should have more resources in the first place. Well it’s really not a good look
Anyway it’s late and I’m tired so I’m going to stop rambling now just writing my thoughts out really before I go to sleep because yeah, no game devs we may not see another game like BG3 this gen because it is a more niche genre. There are however still a few studios that will put the same amount of effort that goes into 2 or 3 of your games into 1 game that they release as a complete and playable product. It’s rarer than it should be but certainly still happens
#baulders gate 3#bg3#loz totk#elden ring#gow ragnarok#larian studios#video games#I don’t know why I’m so annoyed about this but hey I’m probably misdirecting anger at other stuff onto this because this is simple
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24th January 1502 saw a “Treaty of Perpetual Peace” agreed between King James IV of Scotland and King Henry VII of England.
The peace turned out to be until you piss me off, rather than perpetual and it ended officially with arguably Scotland's most devastating defeat at Flodden.
Relations between Scotland and England were difficult throughout the 15th century with both countries either attacking one another across the border or negotiating truces that never lasted. In 1460 James II freed Roxburgh Castle from English occupation. In 1474, James III proposed the marriage of his son to a member of the English royal family but this plan failed. In 1480 Edward IV invaded Scotland.
When James IV was crowned king of Scotland 1488, Henry VII was king of England. Henry had survived the Wars of the Roses between the rival Lancaster and York families to take control of the throne but he continued to face revolts from other claimants, including Perkin Warbeck. James took advantage of this situation and invaded England in 1496 and 1497.
In November 1501, Henry formed an alliance with Spain through the marriage of his eldest son, Arthur, to Catherine of Aragon, the daughter of King Ferdinand. He started lengthy negotiations with James to bring an end to hostilities and form a political alliance between Scotland and England. In 1502, they agreed a peace treaty based on the marriage of James to Margaret Tudor, Henry’s elder daughter.
When the royal marriage was arranged, Henry and James put their signatures to the Treaty of Perpetual Peace. To give the alliance extra importance, a clause was included that threatened excommunication from the church if either party should break the peace. Pope Alexander V issued a papal bull (a formal order issued by the head of the Roman Catholic Church) to this effect on 28 May 1503.
Each party produced a very elaborate document agreeing to the terms. The document shown, decorated with roses, is the English ratification of the treaty, signed by Henry at Westminster on 31 October 1502. It was delivered into the hands of the Scottish court and survives today in the National Records of Scotland in Edinburgh. James signed the Scottish version of the treaty, decorated with thistles, on 17 December 1502. It was delivered into the hands of the English court and survives today in the National Archives in London. The treaty promised everlasting peace between the two countries, the first effective lull after 200 years of intermittent warfare.
The wedding took place in August 1503 at a sumptuous ceremony at Holyrood Abbey. Margaret was 13 and James 30. She brought with her a dowry of 30,000 golden nobles (£10,000). The marriage was heralded as the union of the thistle and the rose, bringing the two royal families together. William Dunbar, the Scottish court poet, born around 1460, wrote his poem, The Thrissil and the Rois, in celebration of the marriage.
Here is an extract from the Treaty;
… keeping in view the bond and amity, truce, friendship and alliance which presently exists between our most illustrious princes… and also the marriage to be contracted before Candlemas next, we will… that there be a true, sincere, whole and unbroken peace, friendship, league and alliance… from this day forth in all times to come, between them and their heirs and lawful successors…
It is agreed that neither of the kings aforesaid nor any of their heirs and successors shall in any way receive or allow by their subjects to be received any rebels, traitors or refugees suspected, reputed or convicted of the crime of treason.
… Although it happen the said king of England or his heirs and successors aforesaid or any of them to levy war against any of the said princes comprehended herein, then the king of Scotland… shall wholly abstain from making any invasion of the kingdom of England, its places and dominions, as well by himself as by his subjects, but it shall be lawful to the king of Scotland to give help, assistance, favour and succour to that prince against whom war has been levied by the king of England, for his defence and not otherwise.
… It is agreed that each of the foresaid princes shall… require the sacred apostolic see and the supreme pontiff to impose sentence of excommunication… on either of the said two princes and on their heirs and successors who shall violate, or permit to be violated, the present peace or any clause of the present treaty…
(A Source Book of Scottish History, Vol II, edited by WC Dickinson, G Donaldson, I A Milne, 1953, p. 59-61)
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The Master: Neither mad nor broken
I really dislike it when people call the Master "mad" or "manic" or "insane."
When people do this, they're often trying to evoke the character's sadistic glee, energetic cruelty, penchant for performative melodrama, hamminess, mood swings, ridiculously complicated plans, etc. But, because people aren't using those words, but words associated instead with mental illness, it's very easy for statements about the Master's "madness" or "manic energy" to come across as "He's nuts."
The blurring between sadistic glee, energetic cruelty, performative melodrama, etc. and being nuts implies that sadistic glee and all those other traits are hallmarks of mental illness. To call the Master "mad," then, reinforces the popular conception of mentally ill people as similar to the Master: mean, nasty, destructive, violent, and loving it.
This is, of course, complete bullshit because people with mental illness range widely in what kind of people they are, just like people without mental illness. In particular, the pop culture concept of a mentally ill person as violent belies the fact that mentally ill people are statistically much more likely to be victims, rather than perpetrators, of violence.
Relatedly, I also really loathe characterizations of the Master as "broken."
You see this a lot with other people talking about Sacha Dhawan's portrayal of the Spymaster. Hell, I'm pretty sure even the actor himself said something to that effect about the character in an interview.
Giving the Spymaster a general characterization as "broken" ascribes his thoughts, feelings, and actions all to his unwhole state. If he was unbroken, he would be whole, right, happy, and good. But, because he is "broken," he is also implied to be defective, wrong, miserable, and bad. He is wrong and bad because he is "broken." He is also "broken" because he is bad.
As I've noted at length before, Sacha Dhawan plays the Master as neurodeviant and quite possibly mentally ill. [I'm using the term "neurodeviant" instead of "neurodiverse" because it seems fitting for a character who would relish declaring himself a deviant!] The character's neurodeviance and mental illness are neutral traits, neither good nor bad.
However, when the Master is called "mad" and "broken," his neurodeviance and his mental illness are marked as defective, wrong, and bad, along with all of his other character traits. His deviations from the norm are seen as intrinsically deleterious, even though his neurodeviance and his mental illness aren't necessarily so.
It's very ableist.
Instead, I'd say that the Spymaster is a really unhappy person, quite possibly experiencing major depression and definitely suicidal inclinations. Between his incorporation of the Matrix and the Cyberium, he has overtaxed his mind and discombobulated himself. With the once fixed tenets of his life now in flux, he doubles down on sadism and violence as a way to prove to himself that he's still the same as ever. His desperation, confusion, and terror persist, however.
He's also neurodeviant [autistic at the very least!] and mentally ill, but these traits do not arise from him choosing to be a really mean-spirited, manipulative jerk with horrendous coping mechanisms. Instead, his mean-spirited jerkiness and horrendous coping mechanisms affect the manifestations of his mental illness and neurodeviance.
@natalunasans @sclfmastery
#the master#doctor who#dw meta#sacha dhawan#the spymaster#spymaster#why I love Dhawan Master#HELP I WUVS HIM#madness#brokenness#ableism#mental illness#neurodeviance#neurodiversity
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𓍊𓋼𓍊 Total chapters: 4
𖡼𖤣𖥧 Taglist: @raiha-storm65557, @linsyfelisyya
Ⱄⱄ. 𓆏 .ⱄⰔ
III: Curiouser & Curiouser
(➳ Chapter the Second)
“Hey you, pesky peacock!” she called out, panting and bent over. “Do you… by any chance know who or what may be the cause of the strange events happening up until recently?”
“My goodness, child. What a fright you've given me!” the peacock squawked indignantly. “No ‘good mornings’ or ‘here is your fresh set of fruits that you deserve for being so lovely and obedient’, but that coming from you I suppose is not a phenomenon happening anytime near. Lovely, what do you wish to know?”
“I would like to know…” she carefully explained, “if my house has been broken into by someone or something. True, there are neither doors nor windows which have been deliberately broken at all but, don’t you suppose someone or something appearing out of thin air and making all these strange events happen to be quite ridiculous?”
It cocked its head, questioningly. “What… kind of strange events, young lady?”
She clicked her tongue then proceeded to explain how a few days ago, a grand banquet mysteriously appeared in front of her eyes and how the mountain of treasures were piled up in her chambers the night before.
The bird was fleetingly silent when suddenly a chuckle erupted unexpectedly from it. “Unbelievable. What a surprise!” it clucked. “You see, I’m simply incapable of doing such things; given in this form that I’m in, how am I supposed to be performing any sort of godly miracles? Only deva and devi are capable of doing such things. I, myself, am only a humble, little, and pretty bird perfect for your collection of hats. Now, enough nonsense, off you go with your next assignment!” it firmly dismissed her.
She wasn’t very delighted with its response. “You sound absolutely certain that you know nothing that might cause such unordinary phenomena to happen. Was it perhaps… you? Who did all this?” she sniggered.
She did not expect the silence from its unbroken gaze, “Not at all. Why would you suspect an old, good-for-nothing bird like me to cook you hearty meals and deliver you a whole mountain of treasury? Don’t be silly, dear girl. Only those with hands and feet can do so. Take a good look at me, I merely have a pair of claws which are made for scraping the soil and trapping my prey, a train which can fold and unfold depending on if I’ve found a worthy mate and a quite chattery beak which could drive people senile.”
Silence. She raised an eyebrow, visibly disappointed however she decided not to push it as it would just go round and round and headed back inside. She was meddled with uncertainty more than ever.
Days went on before they turned into weeks, and then months. Occasionally, she would still ponder on who the culprit might be; with each and every time the heiress did something out of generosity and selflessness, she was rewarded tenfold with something similar and she gradually grew happier and happier though she found it quite difficult to admit it. She had since then gotten used to the strange happenings in the mansion and decided not to question it.
Not only that, she was starting to appreciate and bask in the feeling of a newfound companionship and news of her good deeds spread throughout the whole village quicker than a wildfire.
Once days had been getting better and the village was once more thriving, she was met with one more surprise that led to all of these thrilling train of events.
“Good morning, have you made the preparations yet?” a familiar voice crooned.
“I sure have! However, I do not know if I’ve prepared enough delicacies to satiate all the mouths for the biggest feast of the year. The gifts I’ve prepared to be exchanged are in check, the house is decorated with the help of the servants and I’ve also prepared sweets and tiny presents for the children. I hope this Deepavali will be better than the years before.”
“That is very good to hear. I have a final assignment for you, actually. I shall be taking my departure and I'd like to see you once more before I go. When the moon strikes high, come up to the balcony. A surprise shall await you there.”
➳ Chapter the Fourth (end)
#my writing#my story#short story#short stories#fable#fairy tale#my original story#original fable#original fairy tale#original short story#stories derived from dreams#drabble#my drabbles#masterlist#stories of slumber
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late 1998 - Scars
((Content warning: body image issues / shame))
((Promptspiration:
@whumptober-archive 2023: day 27:
Scars / "Let me see." ))
Genre: angst
Romance level: none
Angst level: 3/5
Draco's headspace: shame -> retrospective
((words: ~1100))
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It was inevitable that eventually Draco would poorly time his morning routine, especially when he had a hard night of dreams and had to drag himself out of bed. This morning he was still dressing when his mother checked that he was up with her normal habit of rapping on the door and then pushing it open without a pause.
He immediately turned away, buttoning his shirt, and she started to close the door, but then stopped. "Is that a scar?"
He resolutely continued facing away from her, and buttoned his shirt up to his throat. "It doesn't matter."
"Then it is." She let herself into the room. "Show me."
He neither answered nor obeyed, but took his robe from the wardrobe and shrugged it on.
She put her hand on his shoulder before he could button it. "Let me see."
"It's years old, Mother. It doesn't matter."
"You understand that that's worse." She gently but undeniably turned him to face her and unbuttoned the top of his shirt.
He took over so that at least he was the one doing it, if it was going to be done. Two buttons and he could pull the shirt aside to show her the edge of the scar on his chest.
"What is that?" She pulled his shirt down with two fingers, trying to find the edge of it. "You weren't injured like this in the battle…?"
"No." Reluctantly, he completely unbuttoned his shirt and held it open so she could see the whole scar, and looked away. He wished she wouldn't look — not just at the scar, but at him. He needed the shield of tailoring and fine materials to hide himself, because without them, the truth was just pale, narrow, sunken weakness.
"That is enormous," she said with a frown, touching the top corner absently. It extended from the top of his left shoulder, all the way diagonally across his chest, until it disappeared under his ribs on the right side, in one harsh, unbroken line. It wasn't dark or raised or particularly thick, but it was very present.
A proper wizard shouldn't have scars. It was some sort of personal failing, to have gotten in the way of something that brutish. Only Aurors and beast handlers and curse-breakers acquired scars in the course of their rough work. Not their sort. Certain not from something so… stupid.
Honestly, the fact that it wasn't even from anything important was worse. A shameful mark with a pathetic story written across his disgusting body.
He couldn't take being looked at any longer and turned away to button his shirt again.
"That looks like it could have killed you."
"Almost," he said, looking distantly at the wood of the wardrobe. "It was worse than it looks now. It cut up my face, all across my chest… Thirty more seconds of bleeding out and he'd have been a murderer. But Snape handled it. Only the worst one scarred."
"Who did that to you?"
"Harry Potter," he said.
He sensed more than heard an angry hiss of her breath. "Why didn't I know about this?"
"It was sixth year… There were more important things going on."
"There are not more important things than someone trying to kill you! Even that."
"In all honesty…" He let out a small, reluctant sigh. "I don't think it was intentional. He was still stood there gawping after Snape got there and saved me. Between him and Crabbe, it seems like it's only ever idiots who don't know how their spells work that run the risk of killing me…" Well, them, and the Dark Lord…
"I still should have been informed."
This time he didn't speak until he had finished buttoning his shirt, maybe half a minute. "What good would it have done?" he finally said quietly. "They wouldn't have punished him."
She crossed her arms firmly. "I would have seen to it that they did."
"How? Even if he weren't their little golden boy, how could he get any consequences without me explaining how it all started because he burst in on me crying because I couldn't find a way to kill Dumbledore? Anyway… I tried to Crucio him in the same duel," he admitted. "I'd have been the one punished. Even though I never managed to touch him," he added with some bitterness. That was just his lot in life, it seemed — try to do something wrong, fail miserably, and still be punished for it.
She lightly touched the hair at the back of his head. "You still should have told me. I don't like the idea that you can nearly die and I don't even know. Even if I can't help, I need to know."
"I know," he admitted quietly. "But you had enough to worry about."
"It isn't your job to protect me, from worry or anything else."
"I want to," he murmured. And he had tried to protect her. Even though he'd never done her a single iota of good, he had tried…
He was silent for a moment, buttoning his robe mechanically, and she continued playing with his hair absently for that time. "Snape was the only one who knew," he mused distantly. "And it turns out that Potter was his pet, too. If you hadn't trapped him with that Vow… maybe he would have let me die there."
Her hand slid down to rub his shoulder. "I genuinely don't think so."
The words were hollow, though. The only reason he would have not to was if he cared, and Draco didn't have any reason anymore to think he ever truly had. He had probably always been lying, to stay close to his father, out of usefulness and just in case. He was bitterly stupid to have ever trusted him. Now he had to look back at his whole life and try to pick out which parts were real and which were Snape using him. Probably more realistic to assume all of it.
"It had to have crossed his mind. It would have saved him a lot of trouble. It would have saved Dumbledore… It would have saved him."
"'Saved him'? Severus' death isn't your fault."
Not directly. But if he hadn't been the one to kill Dumbledore…
Maybe an awful death was just the lot of a traitor… or a hero…
"I know," he told her, because his actual thoughts were too complicated to put into words, and she didn't need to be subjected to that anyway. He had already said too much.
He straightened his sleeves and ran his hand through his hair once to fix it, then turned back to her, calm, all his scars and the truth of weakness hidden under the polished outer shell. "I'm sorry I held you up."
"That's all right. Come down to breakfast."
#whumptober2023#no.27#scars#“Let me see.”#fic#harry potter#draco malfoy#draco whumpee#narcissa malfoy#snape#teen draco#splendidissimus writing#narcissa is clingy#narcissa needs some boundaries#he's not 4 anymore#pls ffs don't barge into your 18 year old kid's room and start undressing them
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nor whole and unbroken
Back during the Gretsin arc Taber rolled a nat 1 to get out of the blast zone of a factory we'd rigged to explode, and she lost an eye as a result! Calling this fic a spiritual successor to this one. Featuring canon dialogue that I've had written down for two years now because I feel as insane about these two in 2023 as I had in 2021
175 words, exactly 1,000 characters (cw: eye gore (alluded to))
Even flying high above the explosion site, Felix already knows something's wrong. Nymerinae in her eagle form flies them closer to the ground. Headcount: Belasco, Rachel, Ophelia, Aracelli, Bonnie…
Then he sees her, and his heart explodes, too.
"Taber!" he screams. He runs before his feet touch the ground, and crouches next to where she's lying prone. "I'm here. I'm right here." In clear agony, she can't whimper quietly. He takes her hand in both of his. "It'll be okay, vehera."
She turns her head to him. A huge piece of shrapnel makes blood pour down her face. "I'm s-sorry."
…What the fuck?
"Y-You shouldn't… have to see me like this…" She sobs.
"No. Don't apologize." He chokes, then brings her hand close to his chest and squeezes. "Don't you dare apologize. I swear to the gods, Taber, don't apologize to me ever again." Neither can stop crying now.
Nymerinae, an elf again, kneels down and puts Taber's head in her lap. Grateful, he lets her work. His heart can mend once Taber is okay.
#DnD talk#Taber party#Taber Lamburn#Felix Lamburn#Nor Whole and Unbroken#As Mason put it: this was Felix's moment of realizing 'oh my g-d you need therapy so bad Taber'#Like. She was apologizing that everything went to shit like this on the same day that Felix arrived#But apologizing for him having to see her get blown up! What! Girl!#QR Quickwrites
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Chapter 13 - The Streets of the Burg of the Four Friths
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Audio
Synopsis:
Ralph wanders the streets of the Burg and learns a bit about life there, and he does not like what he sees.
Summary:
Lo! thine are the wethers, and his are the kine;
And the colts of the marshland unbroken are thine,
With the dapple-grey stallion that trampled his groom;
And Giles hath the gold-blossomed rose of the loom.
Lo! leaps out the last lot and nought have I won,
But the maiden unmerry, by battle undone.
Ralph went through the streets and found them to be much like the one which they had come in through the north gate by. And just as before, he found the buildings unadorned either by carving or painting. There were plenty of folk in the street and Ralph, being Ralph, looked especially at the women, and thought most of them were little prettier than the men, being short and darker. Neither men nor women wore flashy clothing, being dressed plainly and stoutly like their houses. But here and there he found a woman taller and whiter than the others, as though she were a foreigner among them. All of these were dressed differently from the darker women, their heads uncovered except for a garland or a band of silk, their gowns yellow like straw and fancifully embroidered, sleeveless and short, barely reaching their ankles, and so thin that the more covered by the embroidery than the cloth. They wore sandals on their feet and each one had an iron ring about her right arm.
Most of the men had weapons and cudgels nearby, and wore short jerkins of brown or blue, and looked ready to fight if they had to, but among the men were another group, these mostly taller, unarmed, and wearing long gowns of fair colors and thin, brightly-colored webs of cloth about their head. Ralph took these to be merchants, as they were often standing in booths and shops, and so there were some of them on every street, though the market for food was over for the day and few people were out shopping now.
Out from one of these markets, which sold fish and poultry, he came into a long street that led him down to a gate right by where he had entered the Burg, and as he came to it he saw that there was a wide space between the wall and the houses, so that armed men could go easily from one place to another, and he also noted that this wide path linked every exit from the town, and all of these were gates. But he did not see a castle in the town, and when he asked someone about one, the man laughed in his face and said that the whole Burg, houses and all, was a castle, and that it would be a hard one to conquer, and in truth Ralph agreed with that assessment.
He was just inside the south gate when he had this discussion, and there were many people around already, and more coming in. So he stood there a little while and now and then heard the sound of horns and trumpets along the wall, and thought he heard other trumpets outside the town responding. The outer horns grew louder and the people got to either side of the street, and then the gates were opened wide (before only the small door had been opened) and in came a group of armed men, foot-soldiers, with polearms, bows, and fully-armed knights and sergeants on horses.
They poured in until Ralph saw that it was a huge group that was entering the Burg, and he got excited because of how warrior-like they were (though not tall or strong), for their weapons and armor, and the signs of battle on them.
After a while, groups of animals came, cows, sheep, and horses, which were the spoils of war that the men had taken. And then came wagons filled with weapons and armor and goods and household stuff. Last came captives, some going afoot and some being so tired that they had to be carried in the wagons, for these were all conquered slaves, women and girls, and of there was not a single man among them. Ralph thought the women looked fair, despite their grief and hardship, and as he looked at them he thought that they must be of a similar folk to those fair white women he had seen in the streets, though they were not dressed like them, wearing many different outfits.
So Ralph watched the procession until they had all gone passed, and by then he was tired from the heat and the dust and the noise of the street, and since most of the people had followed the large group, the streets around the edges of town were empty and peaceful. So he turned down a narrow street that went east from the South Gate and was shaded from the afternoon sun, and he went slowly, meaning to follow the inside of the wall until he came to the East Gate, and so cross through town after the crowd had dispersed.
He saw no people in the street except for an old woman here and there sitting at the door of her house, sometimes with young children about her. As he came to a bend in the street, he saw such a woman sitting on a clean white doorstep on the sunny side, partially shaded by tall oleander shrub in a pot, and she sang as she sat spinning thread, and Ralph stayed to listen in his idle mood, and he heard her sing in a dry, harsh voice:
[Original]
Clashed sword on shield In the harvest field;
And no man blames The red red flames,
War's candle-wick On roof and rick.
Now dead lies the yeoman unwept and unknown
On the field he hath furrowed, the ridge he hath sown:
And all in the middle of wethers and neat
The maidens are driven with blood on their feet;
For yet 'twixt the Burg-gate and battle half-won
The dust-driven highway creeps uphill and on,
And the smoke of the beacons goes coiling aloft,
While the gathering horn bloweth loud, louder and oft.
Throw wide the gates
For nought night waits;
Though the chase is dead
The moon's o'erhead
And we need the clear
Our spoil to share.
Shake the lots in the helm then for brethren are we,
And the goods of my missing are gainful to thee.
Lo! thine are the wethers, and his are the kine;
And the colts of the marshland unbroken are thine,
With the dapple-grey stallion that trampled his groom;
And Giles hath the gold-blossomed rose of the loom.
Lo! leaps out the last lot and nought have I won,
But the maiden unmerry, by battle undone.
[Translated]
Sword beat on shield in the harvest field,
And no one the red red flames,
War’s candle-wick on roof and thatch.
Now the farmer lies dead, unmourned and unknown,
On the field he had plowed, on the furrows he’d sown;
And among all the the goats and the cows
The women are driven with blood on their feet;
For between the Burg and the battle, half-won
The dusty highway goes on and on,
And the smoke of the bonfires goes coiling above,
While the gathering horns sound loud, louder, and often.
Throw wide the gates
For night will not wait,
Though the hunt is over
The moon is risen
And we need the space
To divide up the spoils
Draw lots from a helmet, because we are brothers,
And what goods I do not get, you get instead
And look! You get the goats and he gets the cows;
And you get the unbroken colts of the marshland,
With the dapple-grey stallion that trampled his rider;
And Giles gets the fabric with the golden roses.
And Look! that last lot is drawn and I have won nothing,
But the unhappy maiden, ruined by battle.
Even as the old woman finished singing, one of those fair, yellow-gowned young women came around the corner of the street, carrying a light basket full of flowers: she looked up and saw Ralph there, then went slowly and lowered her eyes. It was pleasant for Ralph to see her, for she was as pretty as could be, her corn-colored gown was delicate and thin, and would have hidden little if not for its silver embroidery. Her ankles were rosy against her white sandals, and there were rings of silver and gold on her arms along with the iron ring.
Then she lifted her eyes and looked shyly at Ralph and he smiled at her pleasantly, and thought it would be good to hear her voice, so he went up to her and greeted her, and she seemed to accept this greeting happily, but glanced quickly at the old woman in the doorway.
Ralph said: “Fair maiden, I am a stranger in this town, and I have seen things I do not completely understand; would you tell me first who those slaves that are now being taken through the streets are? Where are they from?”
Immediately the young woman changed; she abandoned her delicate actions and drew herself upright and stiff. She looked him in the eyes, face flushing red, her brow furrowed, and then passed by him quickly and loudly, like one who is both angry and ashamed.
But the old woman who had watched the two with a grin on her wrinkled face also changed, and cried out fiercely at the young woman, saying: “What? Are you afraid of a handsome young man? And he was so kind and gentle with you, you wench! Yes, I suppose you work for some foolish young mistress, one who has not learned how to deal with the women of your accursed folk. Ah! if only I had the money to buy one of you, a good one, she’d do things for me other than showing off to young men; and I would pay her for her long legs and her white skin until she cursed her fate that she had not been born short and dark-skinned and free, with her heels not wet with the blood of her back.”
Thus she went on, though the young woman was long out of ear-shot of her curses, and Ralph did not wait to get away from her spiteful babble, which he now partly understood; that all these yellow-clad women were slaves to the folk of the Burg, and likely related to those captives he had seen being taken into the Burg.
So he wandered away thinking about what he should do until the sun set, and he came into the open space by the walls and had gone along until he came to the east gate: there he looked around a little and found people coming back from the main square, where they had gathered to see the armed men gathered and the spoils they had won; then he continued along the wall and did not notice when men turned and looked at him curiously, for he was thinking deeply about the things he had seen and heard, and about what might have happened to his brothers since they parted at the crossroads near the High House of Upmeads. The main thing he wanted was to get away from the Burg, for he felt trapped there; and he said to himself that if he were forced to stay among these people, that it would have been better for him to have never left his parents; and he thought that it would be best to do this the next day and return to the High House of Upmeads. But then he thought of how his life would go at his old home, and there seemed to be something missing, and when he questioned what it was he immediately thought of the Lady of the WIldwood standing before the armed men in her torn clothes, moments before he had come upon them. And in truth he smiled to himself with a thrumming heart, for above all else he desired to see that Lady, whatever she might be, and he would follow his adventure until the end to meet her.
Amidst these thoughts he came back to the North Gate, where he had first entered the Burg, and then it was as dark as Summer nights get; he came back from his daydreaming and walked quickly to the Flower de Luce.
Notes:
The text says “and now Ralph, as was like to be, looked specially at the women,” which is great.
Morris, being a Socialist, was opposed to racism, but this was the 19th century and depicting good people as tall and fair and wicked people as short and dark was pretty ingrained in the culture. I will say however, that one should keep in mind that the Lady was described as dark in much the same way. Also note that while I’m fairly certain the terms used to contrast the two people groups (“dark” and “whiter”) do refer to their complexions, it’s possible that he’s describing their hair, skin color, level of melanation, or sun-tannedness, as “dark” and “fair” were used for all of these at the time. The reason I do think it’s skin is because “whiter” isn’t something I’ve seen used for general coloring, hair color, or similar features, and there are later explicit references to skin-color (though again, it’s unclear if it’s talking about complexion, tanness, or melanin). It’s very possible that I’m wrong, though.
The foot-men are said to have “bills” which is a hooked, halberd-like weapon which I had heard was designed to pull riders out of their saddles, but I don’t see that on Wikipedia and I’m not going to research further.
Another song, this one of very different character than the last. It describes first the men of the Burg attack a settlement, then coming back to the Burg and dividing up what they’ve stolen by drawing lots. Another note: the “goats” are specified as “wethers” which means they are castrated, and the cows in the first half are called “neat” and the cows in the second half are called “kine”. Both of these terms for cows have been used before, but I don’t know what differentiates them.
The old woman is referred to as a “carline” (see previous notes about carls, franklins, etc) and the young woman is referred to as a “damsel” (which I believe was also used for the Maiden in her introduction). The word I translated as “wench” was originally “jade”, which is just a rude term for an unpleasant woman (“wench” seemed to fit that well enough, and fit her standing as part of the servant-class).
Map:
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James Bridle's "Ways of Being"
[Image ID: The cover for the Farrar, Strauss, Giroux edition of James Bridle's 'Ways of Being.']
It’s hard to pin down the thesis of James Bridle’s Ways of Being, published today in the USA by Farrar, Strauss, Giroux — it’s a big, lyrical, strange and inspiring book about the “more than human world” — a world that encompasses the worldview of animals, ecosystems, and software.
https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374601119/waysofbeing
[Image ID: A photo of James Bridle’s ‘Autonomous Trap 001’ installation. It depicts a compact car in an empty parking lot, inside two concentric salt circles, the inner circle is a solid line, the outer circle is a dashed line. The photo is taken from a high point overlooking the parking lot, and encompasses rolling green hills and distant snowy mountains in the background.]
Bridle, an English artist and technologist who lives in Greece, pulls on so many threads to tell this tale. Some will be familiar to people who encountered some of his viral work, like the homemade self-driving car he “trapped” in a salt-circle that simulated the unbroken lane-markings the car was trained to respect.
https://jamesbridle.com/works/autonomous-trap-001
[Image ID: A still from the now-deleted Youtube children’s animation ‘BURIED ALIVE Outdoor Playground Finger Family Song Nursery Rhymes Animation Education Learning Video,’ depicting two rows of cartoon characters such as Elsa, Spiderman, Venom, Hulk and the Joker; the forward row has been buried up to its necks.]
Or his investigation “Something is wrong on the internet,” which revealed a vast web of incredibly disturbing children’s animation and programming, much of it automatically produced, that had taken over kids’ Youtube and was absorbing billions of hours of viewing time worldwide:
https://medium.com/@jamesbridle/something-is-wrong-on-the-internet-c39c471271d2
These are two of the threads woven into Ways of Being: that two “inanimate” objects — a homebrew self-driving car and a recommendation algorithm — both have distinct worldviews (Bridle uses the cybernetician’s term umwelt) and these worldviews create desires, which impact us.
The impact is bidirectional. Our own umwelt and desires impact these inanimate objects, too; we are inextricably tangled up with them. Their actions result from our actions, and our actions result from theirs.
This dynamic doesn’t stop with recommendation systems or autonomous vehicles. The whole world — from microscopic organisms that are neither animals nor plants to birds to primates, to plants and the fungi that interpenetrate and coexist with their root cells — is part of this phenomenon.
Indeed, the interconnectedness of everything is so profound and so undeniable that any close examination of any phenomenon, being, or object leads to the inescapable conclusion that it can’t be understood as a separate, standalone thing, separate from everything else.
This kind of abstract claims of interconnectedness aren’t new, but Bridle ranges far and wide to find concrete and marvellous ways of illustrating it. Many of his examples come from cybernetics and computer science, describing the ways that computers transcend their limits when they are combined with noncomputers. These examples range from random number generators that use lava lamps as seed values to analog computers that use actual water to model fluid dynamics to computer-human collaborations.
But these technological examples lead smoothly to examples from the natural world, where Bridle finds a wealth of category-confounding phenomena, including things that can only be called “language,” “democracy,” “negotiation,” and even “intelligence.” These examples include elephants and tree roots, far-ranging wolves and river watersheds.
Bridle wants us to understand that our convenient categories are not just useful handles that empower us to grab onto abstract concepts — they also limit us, by forcing us into umwelts that are walled off from the most powerful, useful ways of relating to the rest of the world.
One of Bridle’s most provocative moves is mixing of the natural and the technological worlds, which he pulls off in a way that is implausibly convincing. Computers are actually a very good way of understanding nature. The models of networks that we built after the emergence of the World Wide Web turn out to shed light on the webs of nature that had been right there all along.
New technological endeavor, such as machine learning systems, likewise illuminate concepts that have been missing from our understanding of the natural world. The fact that we can build systems that we can’t interrogate or fully understand — but still find useful — is a way of settling the most troubling aspect of the collapse of our categories argued for in the book’s first half.
Finding ways to co-exist with systems we can’t fully explain or control — finding ways to collaborate with those systems — is an ancient idea, one that connects well with indigenous ways of being and ancient animist practices. It’s also the underlying premise of cybernetics — the use of feedback mechanisms and sensors to understand the wider world.
Sometimes cybernetics seeks to steer the world — in the same way that a beaver builds a dam, or a First Nation uses controlled fire to tend to ancient forests, or the way that we build seismic dampers into our tall buildings. But just as often, cybernetics simply seeks to accommodate the world, the way livestock run away from a volcano before it erupts, or the way a First Nation moves from a summer settlement to a winter one, or the way we respond to weather forecasts by changing our weekend plans.
Thus, drawing on cybernetics, Bridle builds a bridge to the “more than human” world, where a kind of personhood can be imputed to machines, the environment, animals, and plants — a personhood, moreover, that can never be separated from our own.
Bridle argues that every time our human societies has expanded their view of personhood — of the right of something to be respected on its own terms, rather than because it is beneficial to “real” people — everyone has benefited. The extension of personhood to enslaved and colonized people, to women, to children, and, in limited ways, to animals, was universally beneficial.
Again, Bridle moves from this abstract idea to a broad swathe of concrete examples. One of my favorites is the story of the Gitmo iguanas. For decades, the people whom the US government has imprisoned and tortured in Guantanamo have been denied access to the US courts. US government lawyers argue that Gitmo is outside of the jurisdiction of US law, and thus a place where humans have no right to legal protections.
That started to change in 2007, when Reuters reporters tipped off detainees’ lawyers to the fact that Guantanamo soldiers were prohibited from harming the endangered iguanas on the base, subjected to penalties under the Endangered Species Act. This led the detainees’ lawyers successfully arguing to the Supreme Court that Gitmo was within US legal jurisdiction.
https://www.nbcnews.com/id/wbna22161810
Bridle describes this as “the iguanas speaking for the humans,” or, more prosaically, the decision to protect iguanas — not because we find them pretty or delicious or useful, but because they deserve rights on their own terms — increased the protections for people, too.
Ways of Being is a book that argues against systems of control and category, and for systems in which everything is understood to be connected to everything else, valuable both on its own terms and because we are part of it and it is part of us.
It’s a book that doesn’t come to a crisp articulation of this thesis, because it is a book that argues against crisp articulations themselves. It is broad and weird and complicated, delightful and poetic. At one point, Bridle recounts how, during a lecture, he briefly and radiantly understood quantum mechanics. It was a transcendant but fleeting experience.
At many points in Ways of Being, I had similar experiences — moments of illumination and understanding. In retrospect, I find myself struggling to describe these moments. But that is Bridle’s point, after all. The inability to define the universe is, in the end, a feature and not a bug.
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Weaktober Day 10: Incandescent
“Well, if it isn’t Jack B. Nimble.”
“Har-har.”
Jack couldn’t say he was glad to see Officer Yang, but this was a huge deal. He and Jimmy had been going up and down town, hollering and advertising at the top of their lungs about the new magic lights they’d been touting since its invention.
He and Jimmy found their current supply of lightbulbs next to the train tracks when they went “treasure hunting” (read: plundering) at night. The express was always liable to dropping boxes from unsecure cargo holds and coming upon the box of unbroken, expensive light bulbs that were probably on their way to some rich bastard’s estate was like hitting the gold mine.
Jack would go up to an old woman struggling with her lantern and take her by the hands. “Ma’am, let me help you.” He’d take out one of the brand new incandescent light bulbs he kept in his backpack and hold it out like it was the key to world hunger. “This, right here...this will change your life.You’ll never have to sleep in the dark or look for castor oil ever again.” He’d sell one for one dollar and feel bad about not mentioning one needed electricity to use a lightbulb.
Jack was the smooth talker, the proverbial peddler selling his wares. His business partner, Jimmy, was a little more aggressive. He liked to call them “guerilla selling tactics” and Jack supposed that was the nicest term someone could coin Jimmy’s shake-down of adults who they knew had fragile egos and the overwhelming desire to be perceived as well off. Only wealthy people could afford electric lights in their house and their town had no want for posers.
The boys quickly gained a reputation for constantly promoting their merchandise. Officer Yang was particular to calling Jack, Be Nimble. “You know what, Jack? You and your buddy with the damn light bulbs remind me of that poem.”
Jack knew the one. Jack, be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick. Then the Constable shortened that to Jack “B.” Nimble and very frankly, Jack felt like punching the man every time he heard it.
Now, Constable Oscar Yang was extremely old fashioned. Was a general in the war, donned a top hat to work, believed electricity was witchcraft. The whole nine yards. Jimmy and Jack would’ve ignored him in favor of easier clients, but Officer Yang held a special sort of power: people actually listened to him. If they convinced him to install the lightbulbs in his station, business would boom and he and Jimmy could finally move out of that rink dink town. They were halfway there; during Officer Yang’s vacation to the countryside, the town council voted to “improve” his police station and install electrical circuits as a point of community pride. Jack didn’t see the point of impressing the highway criminals that regularly came through, but that was neither here nor there.
“I told you boys, I don’t want your glowing bauble,” Officer Yang said, yawning as he thumbed through his crossword book. It was sunny and warm in the small personal office to the side of the station. He looked up when he noticed Jack and Jimmy hadn’t moved. “Hey. I said scram.”
Jack fiddled with his hands, nerve wracked. “Just hear us out one last time,” he started. “One demonstration is all we ask.”
Officer Yang didn’t smile, but he didn’t kick them out either. Jimmy exchanged a smug look with Jack before setting his suitcase up on one of the tables and opening it, revealing a small table-top lamp. “Do you have an electrical plug, Constable?”
Officer Yang grunted and pointed in the general direction of a spot behind his desk. Taking the full opportunity for visual spectacle, Jimmy moved the lamp right in front of the constable, where he could see the intricate designs on the shade and the fine wood-working on the base. Small-town folk were enchanted by finer things. The lamp had cost Jimmy a small fortune, but he’d told Jack not to worry about it. They’d make back their investment in no time.
Jack quickly rushed with the set up, producing a lightbulb from his knapsack and carefully screwing it in place. He closed the office’s blinds, shutting out outside light and giving Jimmy a thumbs up, ready to go. Jimmy plugged in the lamp and picked up the oil lantern on Officer Yang’s desk, ignoring the constable’s protest and blowing out the lone flame of fire inside. The room went dark.
Jack crossed his fingers behind his back and turned the knob on the lamp.
At first, nothing happened. The room remained pitch black and Officer Yang snickered. “Nice try, boys. Now kindly take your contraption and lea--”
Fwish.
Light suddenly flooded the vicinity and all three men in the room squinted at the harsh change in illumination. The lamp made an audible crackle, and for the shortest moment, Jack was afraid the lightbulb would explode.
But not even seconds later, Officer Yang was leaning in and staring at the glass globe, eyes wide at the yellow, glowing filament inside. His mouth was slightly open and Jack could see the reflection of the electricity in his eyes. “Would you look at that,” he said softly.
Jack looked over at Jimmy and grinned, knowing they had him on the hook. They were gonna leave that town and they were never coming back.
#they came back btw#they missed their families too much#weaktober day 10#weaktober#jack kang#jimmy bae#weak hero#webtoon
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Wings of destiny
As school year ended for me early this time, I needed to write something really edgy. Suddenly, OC idea was born out of it. And as a practice before my english exams! *Smiles*
Jade Margaux was a daughter of the heavy work culture. Born to two hard working parents in winter of 1996, she had been continuously taught two bare things - to work hard and dream big. Since early years of her existence, she never dared to question neither of her parents, nor the past events that drove them out of their sheltered home in Belgium. All Jade knew was, that her mother decided to follow her husband as their grandmother sickened and died - yet even after her passing, they stuck around in NYC. Her mother was granted US citizenship, eventually taking over family business - positioned in side alley that leaned closer towards the subway station. Father played the role of a manager, struggling to understand all the numbers and bills and so his sister took extra time to teach him the base of things. In between family squabbles, Jade grew up with a dream of soaring up there - in the skies bluer than anything known to mankind.
If somebody asked her, she'd pinpoint one hot summer day as she was about to go to middle school. They were at festival dedicated to veterans that fought in second world war, therefore Blue Angels partook in the celebration as to honor those that fell. Jade fell too that day, fell in love.
Being filled by emotions child like her had no way to understand properly, she swore by the name of her ancestors that one day, may the stars guide her, she'd sit in a cockpit of one of the beautiful battle birds. And her predecessors heard her call, allowing her to borrow strenght to pull thru military academy and fight her way to the top. At 17, in year 2013, one of America's most sucessful airborne regiments - the Night Stalkers - opened their gates for female aviators for the very first time and Jade? Little Jade, aged barely 17, made it to the selection that included severe testing - psychological and physical alike. Many of her superiors that worked with her thru out the years praised her stubborn and hardworking spirit, but foremost the skill that young woman attained thru giving up on her childhood and basic teenage needs. Jade lived to serve her country, her parents and get her brother thru college so he'd be the one standing on the big convention's center stage with the fruits of his labor.
For them, she'd do it again. Break her bones, tear her muscles - yet her spirit stood unbroken. And eventually, her statue towered in the matching uniforms, as her new commander congratulated her and gave her one pin, that she swore to wear till the day she dies. And even then, her last wish would be to get laid to her final rest in her aviator gear, with her sunglasses and flag. Of course, not everyone believed in her right away - in fact, nobody besides commander truly contained the faith that this lean, weak looking girl could operate such a machine effectively. Jade understood, swearing that she's going to prove herself.
And she did. Wishing She could see how everyone's eyes widened at the sight, how they stared - mouth unhinged and agape- at the scene that played out live right there. How her plane twisted in the air, engaging in a fight that others retracted from - engaging in a fight she won. And the cheers of those that greeted her when she got out of her bird, the looks of amazed peers and high ranking officers as she passed the unspoken exam of bravery, opening their eyes for the true strenght sleeping within all Aviators. And since that day on, Night Stalkers became her whole life. Jade, who sacrificed everything - albeit she never spoke of sacrifices made - was finally on top of her world, one of the most promising fighters that Commander had the honor to meet and train further, she was easily sent on missions that required top notch dedication and skill. And she led her fireflies out the misery each and every time. Callsign Red became the name her squadmates called her.
Until that one mission. Their cover got blown, and they had to face enemy aviators above ocean, resulting in Jade having to take the risk of deciding upon the crucial outcome. Retracting her fellow soldiers from battle, it was her who remained behind as a decoy. "I am not going to be burried, not tonight!" Of course, Red was confident. Trained in all means of combat, experienced fighter and pilot - not once did she fall. She still remembers how her squadmates dissapeared from the radar, how her eyes relaxed - before impact hit her left side, breaking silence into the ear piercing beeping. Not expecting such a blow, her hands tried to pull the bird up to no avail. She was going down, for sure. The fatal blow came only seconds after, sending her machine straight towards the ocean blue. As her eyes became blurry, only then she'd realized how tears cruised her cheeks. Did they make it out? Is she going to die here? Everything went dark, but only for a brief, as cold ocean water splashed on her face the moment muscle memory forced her hand to grip the emergency button. Jade wouldn't recall the moment as a whole, nor details of how terrifying and hurtful it was. How the pain increased as water fought with her. Her body was slammed against the sandy banks, crawling out as far as she could. Her left hand was broken, her head was bleeding, ribs making it way harder to compute the movement. Her ears were loosing the function. And even thru the winter months, She felt as if she was burning. Being covered in her own blood, somebody must've alerted the coast guard and they took it from there. Jade woke up in a country, not understanding a word of theirs.
Japanese contacted her Commander, her superiors and reported it to the war committee. From what she was able to read out of looks, she knew she's going to get real lucky if they don't take it as an act of agression from United States. However that turned out to be least the problem. When she recuperated enough to return to base, she went towards the hangars to see new bird assigned to her. But the more young woman neared towards the runway, the slower she walked. Until she stood there, her lungs closing in on her, as she fell on her back. Everyone ran towards her, realizing the young aviator got into severe panic attack. Her shoulders tense, as she felt the looks of her squadmates falter. They knew, and so did Jade - it's over, she was finished. Her Commander pulled her aside.
As she stood there, her eyes fighting back the burning tears. His eyes softened. "You're going to be honorably discharged, retire early." Jade gasped and shook her head. "Sir, in all due respect! I want to continue serve!" Commander's gaze felt almost appologetic, as his brows curled showing empathy and sadness. He knew just as she did, that this Aviator will no longer soar. He then took out papers, tossing them on the table before her. "Green Barrets, Rangers, Black operations, special forces..." He spoke out loud. Young woman didn't quite understand. "Sir?" She pleaded as he stood up, looking her into the eyes. "They will all fight for a soldier like you, I know them all personally. And I am going to praise you to hell - just to get you repositioned with them." Jade held her breath, as if it gave away her feelings. "Margaux, you're one of the best Aviators I have had the honors to work with, I admired your strenght and dedication and I can see it in your eyes - you want to serve, but your wings were broken. Once you heal, you will start anew." Commander's voice was silent, as if he didn't talk to a soldier but to a daughter. "To me, you will always be a Night Stalker." As he said that, her eyes watered and she let out a loud sob, her hand shooting up into one last salute. "Sir, you will always be my Commander."
And since that day, Jade looked towards the sky with silent disdain and unspoken pain, that was present only in birds of a feather that lost their wings in a battle. She still remembers the looks of those that were her squadmates, rivals and friends - all alike, salutating as she walked down that hall for the very last time. Her head held up high, her heart bleeding as her dream collapsed.
You will no longer soar, Jade.
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