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thedeviltohisangel · 17 days

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All The Things I Did (Interlude): The One Thing I've Been Wanting

a/n: wow oh wow i think you guys are going to love this one. another mini novel featuring all the emotions and filth you could ever ask for. john and cass have their formal wedding in south carolina that he always promised her they would. a few little easter eggs in there i hope you guys want to scream at me about. hope you all enjoy, happy reading and love you endlessly!

warning: smut

In May 1946, almost one year to the day that John Egan hung an American flag in the middle of Germany, he was sat in a plush hotel room in Charleston, South Carolina looking at a photo of himself in a smattering of local newspapers and even The New York Times. Locally it was the front page, nationally a column right in the economics section. The headlines ranged from proclamations of a fairytale come true to rumors on how the match would affect the valuation of the Cooper empire.

He liked the picture they had all chosen though. It was from a photocall Mrs. Cooper had insisted they do just last week. Cass had worn a beautiful forest green skirt and white silk blouse, her smile perfectly measured across her face. There had been a bit of commotion over what John should wear. He wasn’t set to pin on Lieutenant Colonel until June and the communications team had proposed stalling the wedding until his new rank could be proudly displayed in the photographs. Might I politely remind you he is already my husband. If you make me wait one second longer to appease people with this party you will not enjoy the sight was how Cass chose to handle it. In this setting, one completely new and foreign to the boy from Manitowoc, he was entirely reliant on her to guide him.

In the final image, she was looking at the camera but he was looking at her. It was fitting. He was merely a planet orbiting around her sun. He looked stricken by her beauty and nothing could have been closer to the truth.

“Come in,” he called at the knock on the door. He folded the paper and tossed it onto the coffee table.

“You about ready to get out there? Don’t want Spook thinking you ran away.” Gale clicked the door closed and stood watching his friend. “You’re nervous.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“I don’t know why. I’ve been married to her for almost three years. Today is just a societal formality.” Marrying in secret in London was not how women like Cass were supposed to carry themselves, according to her mother. If no one was there to see it then they wouldn’t believe it. “Just…what if something changes?”

“What if something changes? Bucky, you two are still going to be the same people tonight as you were this morning. You’re still going to love the wits out of that girl just like she loves the wits out of you.” John stood and started to pace around the room.

“I know that. I know how I feel and how she feels won’t change but it’s now so formal. And there’s an audience and my wedding is in The Times, Buck, the goddamn Times!”

“The photo did look wonderful,” Gale pointed out as he nodded towards the papers on the table. “Your wife doesn’t need all this if you don’t want it, John. I am pretty certain that girl would run away with you to a farm out West if you asked her to.”

“No,” he shook his head, “all of this is good to be sure she is always provided for. When we have kids, they won’t want for anything.” Wealth like this was almost unmoveable during the Depression. John had been in college for the worst of it. Had seen the toll it took on his family and the people around them. Cass and he could make sure their kids never had to worry about that.

“When and not if, huh?”

“Buck, you of all people should know we aren’t exactly celibate.” Gale didn’t need the reminder. All too often he had found himself pleading for a moment of respite with the two of them. It didn’t matter when or where, he would run out of fingers and toes trying to count the sanctified places those two had breached. “She’s going to be the best mother.”

“And you’re going to be the best father.” John and Cass had spent the past year filling in all the blanks their time apart had forced upon them. They had gone to Wyoming for Gale and Marge’s wedding and not a single incident had occurred. It was as if John had never gotten on a plane to avenge Gale that day. They were so in love they talked about having a baby in nine months, talked about the perfect house to raise them in. Talked about names and nursery colors.

But then they had gone to visit his family in Wisconsin. And something had snapped. All the anger they had hidden from each other in the name of surviving the cold German winter had bubbled to the surface viciously. All the anger he had harbored towards her for putting herself in danger would not lay dormant any longer. Anger that every night when he closed his eyes he had prayed to keep his wife safe, that John could take any pain as long as she was spared, and she had negated it all without a thought. Anger that she had wasted almost two years of her life running herself ragged to maintain their relationship and he had been able to do nothing in return. Anger that no matter the horrors he had inflicted upon people, the horrors of Stalag Luft that kept him up at night, the horrors of not knowing who you were looking at in the mirror, that she didn’t find someone better.

“Buck, I’m sorry you weren’t there the first time Cass and I did this. But I am happy you’re here for this one. I couldn’t ask for a better best man.” John pulled him into a hug, clapping his back a few times.

“I only agreed to see you cry when you get a glimpse of her.”

“Yeah? You’ve seen her?” She had put him under strict orders that he was not to see her the morning of their wedding. Had even made John sleep by himself. He was missing her desperately at this point.

“She said the dress was a family heirloom. You didn’t manage to sneak out a parachute?” John blushed and looked at his feet.

“You’ll make fun of me if I tell you.” He had. They had just agreed to save it for a more special occasion.

“Not on your wedding day.”

“Cass had the idea that it might make a nice christening gown one day.” Wait until Marge hears how John Egan has gone all domestic on us Gale thought with a smile. “Did she get the gift I left for her?” It was a silver locket, the date and a note that simply said I love you and his name on the back, a photo of the two of them in Wyoming neatly placed inside.

“It’s her something new,” Gale answered. Her dress was something old, her mother’s diamond headband something borrowed and she had taken the time to stitch her favorite line from Blue Skies inside her skirt in blue thread. Gale cleared his throat. “She told me to pass along that you would get your gift from her…tonight.” All the girls had giggled furiously when Cass had asked him to pass along the message. There couldn’t have been a better man for the job.

“I think her asking you to tell me that is a gift all in itself, Buck.”

----

Cass was sat in front of the vanity mirror, admiring how her new necklace looked with a smile. She had already married John, had been through more life with him than any other couple she knew, but the prospect of the day still had butterflies in her stomach. It was the kind of day that flitted across her dreams as she had grown up. Wondering what kind of dress she would wear. What the ring on her hand would look like. Who would be waiting for her at the end of the aisle. Never before would she have pictured a man like John Egan but now not a day went by where she didn’t think of him and was waiting for both of them at the end of that aisle.

“Ma’am, all the guest have been seated and Major Egan is making his way to the altar in-”

“I’d like to see him.” Maybe that was what she needed to calm her nerves. Some needed whiskey or cigarettes but she just needed John. “He doesn’t need to see me, I just need to see him.”

And that was how, on his way to walk down the aisle, he was dragged into a room and told to sit patiently while the woman in charge of ensuring this entire wedding went off without a hitch, tied black fabric over his eyes.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked once his vision was completely obscured.

“Yes. Mrs. Egan requested it.” Gale sighed as the woman used Cass’ new last name. It always opened the door to something unscrupulous.

“Mrs. Egan,” John repeated with a wicked grin. “Mrs. Cassandra Ann Egan. My wife.” He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had asked Cass to write her new name for him just so he could relish in how it looked. How naturally her wrist and fingers moved to draft the letters. It was spectacularly wonderful and he was addicted.

“Gale? Is he successfully blinded yet?” Cass was getting impatient on the other side of the bedroom door. She could hear her husband and she could feel him. It was like torture not being able to see him or touch him.

“Spook?” John got up and turned in the direction of her voice, his shins colliding with a coffee table almost instantly. “Motherfucker!”

“I’m giving you two…” Gale ran through the numbers in his head. He had seen the feral acts the two of them were capable of committing in less than five minutes. Anything more than thirty seconds seemed like they would be consummating a marriage that hadn’t happened yet. “Forget it. You two wouldn’t listen to me anyways. Just remember your parents are right outside!” Gale escorted the planner out and shut the door behind him, a stillness settling over the suite.

“Cass, baby, they’re gone. Can I take this-”

“Absolutely not!” Her voice was no longer muffled as she opened the door and took in the sight of him. Her beautiful, handsome man. Hers and hers alone. The man she had fought for and lived for and loved every day no matter how treacherous. “We have done absolutely nothing the traditional way. Let me have this, please?” John never was too good at denying her anything.

“Fine, then let me have a kiss at least.” Cass gathered her skirt with a small giggle as he stood there awaiting her with his arms open. She pecked him quickly and he leaned forward in a chase for more. “I’m dying, Cass. You didn’t let me see you after dinner last night and now you’re right here in front of me and I can just tell you look heaven sent and now you want to tease me?”

“I’m just so happy right now, Johnny.” Now that name only fell from her lips when the emotions in her chest were too much to even say his name. Whether she was sad or angry or blinded by happiness. He had gotten so used to hearing John that anything different locked him in on a dime.

“I’m happy, too. Get to marry you all over again.” He felt a little better when her hands rested on his chest, his wrapping around her waist and pulling her as close as he could. His palms could feel lace until her hips and then silk. Maybe a bow at the top of her skirt. “I love you, Cass. Making things grandly official today won’t change anything about us. We’ll still sing as loud as we can in the car and share ice cream on the beach and count stars when we can’t fall asleep.” Her soul warmed when he said the exact words she had needed to hear, not knowing how John had ached with the need to say them.

“Those sound like the vows you should be saving for later.”

“I can think of a thousand ways to vow to love you forever, don’t you worry.” She indulged him in a proper kiss then, careful not to mess his perfectly coiffed curls and John restraining himself from tearing at the buttons going up her spine. Everything felt heightened, John unable to anticipate her next move with the fabric covering his eyes.

“What did I do to deserve you?” she asked softly as she knocked her nose against his. “You are so beautiful, inside and out, and intellectual and selfless and meet all my weaknesses with strength...”

“Sounds like a soulmate,” he whispered. “I can’t wait to do forever with you.”

“We deserve it, my love.”

----

John held his breath as he waited at the altar, all eyes on him as everyone waited for the orchestra to begin playing as a signal of Cass’ arrival. He fiddled with the front of his jacket, ensuring it was straight and smooth, smiling when he caught Olivia and Jill giggling at him from their spots across from him.

“Your sister is trying to kill me with anticipation,” he whisper-yelled.

“She’ll make it worth your time, Major,” Olivia teased. Buck clapped John on the shoulders just as the first notes of the Bridal Chorus began to sing through the grove of Spanish Moss trees.

“Here we go,” Gale said lovingly. Everyone stood and John breathed deeply as Cass’ niece, Jessie, slowly walked down the aisle with a shy grin, tossing rose petals as she did. Her brother Sammy was next to her, two silver rings on a plush pillow in his grip. John squatted down to be at their level as they approached.

“Thank you, princess. You look so pretty.” Jessie threw her arms around him as best she could.

“Thank you, Uncle John.” She ran off to take her seat by her father just as she’d been instructed to at the rehearsal.

“Sir.” Sammy summoned all seven years of stature he had in him to stand at attention.

“At ease, Sammy,” John chuckled. The young boy had fancied himself a future soldier. Had been amazed when he found out John was a real pilot just like in his comic books. “My best man, Major Cleven, is going to take those rings and keep them very safe.” Gale took them gently and locked them into his breast pocket.

“Good work, Sammy.” Buck saluted him with a smile and the little boy was off in the same direction as his sister. John stood to his full height and squared his shoulders, his eyes sharpening their focus on the ornate wooden doors that hid his love from his sight.

And when they opened.

And when she lifted her veiled face to look at him, finally.

And when their eyes met and their smiles matched and the tears welled in his eyes…

Everything felt right in the world.

Cass kept her eyes on him as she held her fathers arm down the aisle. She had to slip her bottom lip between her teeth to keep from giggling with glee at the sight of John waiting for her. As she got closer, she could see the glassiness in his eyes. He was always so strong. Her stability in this world. The man who had her back through anything with no questions asked. The one person in the universe that loved her unconditionally and with no strings attached and in the exact way that she needed to be loved.

“Do you give this woman to be married to this man?” John was itching to lift her veil and kiss her senseless now that she was this close to him.

“I do,” her father spoke with pride.

“I love you, Daddy,” she whispered as he pulled her into a hug.

And then finally it was just the two of them.

And then finally he was able to hold her hand and help her up the final step to stand across from him.

And then finally his shaking fingers found the lace trim of her veil and he finally exhaled as he lifted it over her head. Her eyes were full of adoration as she looked up at him.

“Hi,” he whispered. His hands landed on her cheeks and her hands rested against his chest.

“I’ve been missing those eyes.” Her own twinkled in kind. John leaned in, he couldn’t help himself, the officiant clearing his throat to stop them.

“We are gathered here today to witness the sacred union of John Clarence Egan and Cassandra Ann Cooper,” they smirked at each other. She hadn’t gone by her maiden name in almost three years. Not since London. “We stand here to honor and celebrate the love shared between these two people, as they come together to start their new life with a solemn vow, surrounded by their closest family and friends.”

A journey of love. Their love had already survived so much. From the moment their eyes had locked on an airfield in England, it had strengthened to withstand the tests of time. Their journey had taken them to the darkest corners of humanity the world had to offer. Had forced them to make difficult decisions in the name of survival. But all those decisions had led them here. All the darkness had led to this overwhelming light. Neither of them would change a thing.

A journey of understanding. They had come together and been torn apart and brought back together. And every stage had led them to becoming a new version of the person they had fallen in love with. They worked hard each and every single day to understand who was sitting across from them. Who was looking at them through the mirror. They had been off kilter for a little while but would always find their balance.

A journey of perseverance. This was the easiest for them to feel when they looked at each other. They were both stubborn. Bull-headed in their pursuit of survival and a life after war. Aggressively unable to give up on each other. Relentlessly devoted to the forever that they had promised each other.

“...and dedication to one another that lasts through time. As we stand here today to mark this occasion, we remember that what matters most is not the ceremony itself, but the love and companionship you will continue to share throughout your married life together.” John squeezed her hands. “There are no vows more meaningful and powerful than those which will be shared here today. Your wedding vows are a sacred declaration of your love for each other, the foundation of your relationship as a married couple, and the life you want to build together.” Cass thanked her sister as she handed her the piece of paper her vows were on, turning back to face John and letting his gaze give her the strength to lay bare her emotions.

“John, my blue sky, my love. From the moment I saw you, I couldn’t shake you. You were the first person in a long time to see me. To see all my faults and jagged edges and not to look away but to meet them like a perfect puzzle piece. Where I am weak, you are strong and you have spent everyday making me feel loved and safe and happy in ways words cannot capture.” John used his thumb to wipe a tear from her face and stroked his knuckles up and down her cheek for good measure. “I wouldn’t trade a single moment with you for anything in the world. Even the tough ones, even the painful ones, even the ones where I thought I was going to lose you. Because we’ve already proven our love can face anything and come out stronger on the other side. That forever will only be the beginning for us. And doing life with you, John Egan, will be the honor of my life.” Cass dabbed at the tears under her eyes, John knocking his forehead against hers.

“That was so beautiful, baby. I love you so much and-”

“Major Egan, you could just say your vows.” Gale smiled. Finally someone was getting a taste of what he had dealt with. He handed John the piece of paper and sent a wink in Marge’s direction. John looked down at the paper and swallowed before handing it back to Gale.

“Bucky-”

“I’d rather just tell you, Cass, how I feel in this exact moment because I have never been more in love with you.” She giggled as he held both her hands and locked his baby blues onto her eyes. “I fall more and more in love with you every second that I am with you. You are the reason I survived everything we went through, my love. The reason I made it through to the other side was because I knew that was where a future with you was waiting for me. You had this flyboy dreaming of growing roots from the moment I saw you. From the moment I saw you at a pub with your nose buried in a book, I knew I was done for. I knew you were going to challenge me and make me work to earn your love and it was so worth it, Cass, is still so worth it. We are going to build the most amazing life together, our own little solar system, and I will fight for you and our future every day, Cass. I promise.”

“And you’ve never broken a promise,” she whispered as the tears flowed freely down her face.

“I don’t plan on starting now, Spook…Can I kiss her yet, Father?” A gentle laugh rippled throughout the crowd around the tears they were wiping away.

“Soon, Major. Repeat after me.”

“I, John Clarence Egan, take you Cassandra Ann Egan to be my wedded wife.”

“I, Cassandra Ann Egan, take you John Clarence Egan, to be my wedded husband.”

“I promise to stand by your side through good times and bad times…”

“...for richer or poorer…”

“...in sickness and in health.”

“I vow to stay true to you and love you…”

“...unconditionally for the rest of my days.” They both finished with a smile, drifting closer and closer to each other as the words wrapped around them. There was no daylight between their torsos as she threaded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and he locked his fingers at the small of her back.

“Do you, John Clarence Egan, take this woman to be your wedded wife?”

“I do,” he said just to her, his blue eyes molten pool of crystalline love.

“Do, Cassandra Ann Cooper, take this man to be your wedded husband?”

“I do,” her heart skipping a beat as John licked his lips.

“It is now time for you to exchange rings. Your rings symbolize the eternal commitment that you make to each other, and the never ending circle of your love. May these rings always remind you of the commitment you are making here today.” Gale handed each of them a ring, John taking Cass’ left hand tenderly.

“I, John Clarence Egan, give you, Cassandra Ann Egan, this ring as a symbol of my love and commitment to you.” The silver band fit perfectly on her finger, John swiping his thumb over it a few times to ensure it was real. That after everything they had been through, the two of them were right where they had always wanted to be.

“I, Cassandra Ann Egan, give you, John Clarence Egan, this ring as a symbol of my love and commitment to you.” The band looked at home on his hand. Like he was always meant to be claimed as hers.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may-” He wasn’t able to get the word out as their noses bumped together in the urgency to connect their lips. Cheers erupted from the guests and he held her tighter and tighter and tighter against his body and she slipped her tongue into his mouth, John groaning with ecstasy. “It is with great honor that I present you Mr. and Mrs. John Egan!” Cass giggled as John dipped her triumphantly, his lips pressed to the side of her head as they faced the adoring mass in front of them. Her one hand was gripped tightly by his, the other holding her skirt, as they made their way back to the doors that led inside.

“Mr. and Mrs. Egan, congratulations! We have the reception area-”

“I think I need to change out of my dress, first,” Cass said to the woman but looking at John. Her fingers were already loosening his tie. “Would you like to help me, Mr. Egan?” He nodded wordlessly, catching her chin between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Don’t wait for us to start the party, ma’am. I’m going to take my time with my wife.”

----

The door to her suite slammed shut behind them and he was on her in an instant. They couldn’t help but laugh into each other’s lips as their noses collided, and her hair was falling out of its style and his hat landed on the ground.

“You make me so happy,” she whispered as her fingers carded through his curls, tossed his tie to the side and slowly began to undo the buttons of his jacket. “I love you so much, John Egan. Just the way you are.” John brought his hands, delicately, to the diamond headband in her hair, lifting gently and placing it on the table by the door.

“There was a time I would have done anything to hear you say those words.” She whined as he kissed her once then pulled away. Cass pushed his jacket off his shoulders. “I thought, after I heard them for the first time, that feeling would go away. I’d still do anything just to hear you say you love me.”

“I love you. I’m in love with you. I love you.” Her arm hooked around his neck and dragged him down to her lips, his hand fumbling to free her hair from the confines of her veil and pins.

“If I can’t get your hair out of this riddle…” Her kisses were doing nothing to help his concentration. And her hands on his belt buckle were doing even less.

“You haven’t even seen the complex feminine garments that are under this dress yet,” she teased.

“Cass, I’ll just fucking rip it off of you if you aren’t careful.” She reached her hand towards her hair, pulling one pin for it to cascade around her shoulders in bountiful waves. “How in God’s name…”

“You were going to get started on the buttons of my dress, Major?”

Thankfully, he was able to compose himself long enough to undo them without tearing the lace of her dress. The release of her corset and stockings allowed her to take a full breath and John lifted her into his arms, her legs around his waist and her chest between his lips.

“So, so beautiful,” he muttered in a daze as he laid her on the bed. “And all mine.”

“Let me see what’s all mine,” she breathed as she sat up and kissed down his chest, his fingers undoing the buttons of his dress shirt as quickly as he could possibly manage. She paid extra to kiss exactly where his heart would be. “This right here is the part I’m most honored to have.” She pressed her hand flat and he placed his on top.

“It’s all yours. Every last beat.”

Their kisses were sloppy and impatient as they were both fully bare, John crawling to hover over her and kissing a long line down, down, down. He kissed her clit softly, her fingers threading into his curls instantly. He moved oh so slowly and oh so softly and with direct intention behind every flick of his tongue and curl of his finger inside of her. “All mine,” he repeated.

“All yours, John,” she panted. Her hips lifted ever so slightly off the bed, his forearm pressing them back down into the mattress with force.

“You’re so pretty when you cum for me.” Two of his fingers curled against the spot that made her muscles quiver. “That’s my girl.” Cass propped herself onto her elbows to look him in the eye, exactly the way she knew he liked, as his thumb pressed against her clit in the same rhythm as his fingers.

“Oh, fuck, John. Faster.” He obliged. Watched in wonder as her moan caught in her throat and her chest blossomed with the flush of her orgasm. Her hips squirmed as she came back to reality but his fingers weren’t stopping.

“Want you to make a mess for me, baby.” Ever since he had first learned he could coax arousal from her in such a way, he had been focused on working it out of her again. “Think you could do that for me?”

“Yes, Johnny.” His fingers went deeper and faster and curled against the front of her with a sense of purpose only she would be able to inspire in him. Her hands gripped at her breasts as she moaned.

“Good girl. Just let yourself go, baby.” She gasped as her hips bucked again, John could hear the change in his fingers pumping in and out of her. Cass was so close he could taste it. When her nails scratched at his scalp and her back arched and her toes curled, he spread her thighs even wider latched his mouth onto her. It was like drinking nectar straight from the source. She writhed against his tongue as he lapped at every drop, John’s own hips seeking friction by rutting against the matress.

He looked absolutely sinful. Chin coated in her cum. A curl hanging down his forehead. Kissing at the inside of her thigh to make sure he didn’t miss a drop.

“John…” She was practically out of breath as he stroked her clit one more time just to watch the way her stimulated body reacted to his touch.

“You soaked the sheets baby. I’m so proud of you.”

“Need you inside me,” she whimpered as John stood, pulling her to the edge of the bed. “Need my husband to fuck me.”

“My wife needs my cock?” he asked rhetorically. She nodded, trying to move her hips forward to close the gap. He tapped her with the head of his length before teasing up and down her slit to gather her wetness. He saw stars as he pushed into her. She welcomed as much of him as physically possible, her brow furrowed and mouth agape as she watched him rock in and out of her gently. “Cass.” His hand reached to wrap around her throat as he picked up his pace. A moan escaping her lips in time with his thrusts.

“Cum inside me, John.” He almost lost his focus at her words. They had been so careful since getting back. Not wanting a child to complicate the things they had been working through. But maybe now that all of that was behind them…

“You mean that?” He needed to be sure, his hips quickening with a mind of their own.

“I’m cert- oh, right there.” She grabbed his wrist as he hit a particularly sweet spot deep inside of her, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Oh, Johnny, I’m so close.” Her own hand reached between them and began to work tight circles around her clit. John loved watching her touch herself. Had a habit of sitting behind her in a mirror and talking her through exactly how he wanted her to do it.

His hip snapped quicker, the sounds of skin on skin and her sweet moans echoing through the room. “Get there with me, Cass, come on baby.” She knew how many thrusts away he was based on the way his forehead creased and his moans sounded strangled and he would always seek out a kiss from her.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chanted as he stilled and she felt a warmth filling inside her that she hadn’t experienced before. He gripped her hips and pulled her forward, burying himself inside of her to the hilt. Her breath caught in her throat with a squeak as her whole body went stiff before it was shocked back to life by her orgasm. Her moan was the sweetest song as it caressed his ears, his chest heaving as he looked where their bodies were connected.

“Going to need to do that a couple more times before dinner,” he said, “Just to make sure I’ve gotten the hang of it.” A knock at the door broke their trance.

“We’re busy,” Cass called out lazily as John moved to drop his forearms on either side of her head. He kissed the side of her neck and she craned it to offer him more skin to love on.

“Mr. and Mrs. Egan, we’ve delayed your arrival as much as we can.” There was a very specific balance of timing for such an affair. The first dance and the dance with her father and his mother had to be cadenced perfectly with the toasts and the dinner. Not to mention the five tiered wedding cake and not to mention they had a ship that would be waiting in the morning to take them to their honeymoon. If they were any later, everything could be derailed. She knocked again.

“I am a little hungry,” Cass noted, her thumb smoothing over the crease in the middle of his forehead. “And you did promise you’d sing Blue Skies for me tonight.”

“I did, didn’t I?” She nodded. “Guess we better get you all cleaned up then.”

----

There was an empty chair at the head table the whole night because Cass refused to leave her husband’s lap. No one was surprised that they were late. That Cass’ hair was no longer in the elaborate style she had had previously. Both of their sisters certainly noticed the way her knees buckled and John tightened his arm around her waist. Gale and Marge recognizing the shade of lipstick peeking out from just underneath John’s collar.

“And now the best man, Gale Cleven, has a few words for the lovely couple.” John whistled as Buck made his way to the microphone, Cass kissing his cheek until he got the hint and turned to kiss her.

“If any of you are new to the John and Cass solar system, I can say with authority they are like this all the time.” The crowd laughed and John raised his glass before taking a sip, Cass burying her face in his neck. “I’ve spent a lot of time with John Egan. Known him from the moment he put on that uniform, making the choice to serve his country. He is a natural pilot. A natural leader. It’s natural for him to love others but hard for him to accept their love in return.”

“I think he’s trying to make you cry,” Cass whispered.

“He might.”

“When I was writing this speech, I was having trouble finding the words to describe the love these two have for each other. The love that never waivered, even on the darkest of nights. And that is because of two things. Firstly, Cass is his compass, his North Star. She guides him home. To safety, to her. To comfort and to love. In return, John chases away the shadows of the night and brings her a Blue Sky. His favorite song, that fact she stuck around after hearing his rendition should tell you all you need to know, and his favorite sentiment. That the presence of someone you love is enough to chase away all your blue days.” Buck turned and faced two of the most important people in his life. Those responsible for his survival in Germany. Who he would never be able to thank enough for getting him home to Marge. “You two gave me the strength to keep fighting. The strength to make it home to my wife. Because you two gave me the courage to believe in destiny and fate and the notion that our souls can find their other half.”

Cass used her napkin to dab gently at the corner of her eyes, John’s hand squeezing where it rested on her knee. His eyes were focused on his friend with a look of pure love. The look of a man who had survived unspeakable horrors but had his anchor keeping him sane. One on that stage and the other in his arms.

“I love you, John. I don’t say it nearly enough,” she said with her lips pressed to his cheek.

“Cass and John, I know you have the most incredible, love-filled days ahead of you and I cannot wait to watch the life you two build together because I know for a fact the world is a better place with your love in it. To my two favorite heathens.” Gale raised his glass, Cass blowing him a kiss and John tightly smiling and nodding in an effort to keep his emotions at bay. The flutes of champagne that were passed out went down in a single gulp, the band starting back up as Gale made his way back to the head table.

“Gale, that was so beautiful. Thank you.” Cass untwined herself from John’s grasp to wrap Buck in a hug. “Here I was thinking you were sick of us and our antics.”

“I am sick of catching you two working on my future niece or nephew but will never tire of watching you two love each other.” Buck went to shake John’s hand but John pulled him in for a hug instead.

“You got me through, Buck. Got me here with all these blessings,”John looked his friend in the eye, “I’ll never be able to repay that.”

“You repay me by loving your wife with all you got, every day.” Marge walked over to join them. “Hey, maybe you two even name your son after me!”

“Don’t count on it.”

----

The party showed no signs of dying down even a few hours later. Everyone was sufficiently drunk and full of cake. John had brought the house down when he sang just as Cass requested. She was giddy with her love for him.

“Get some fresh air with me?” she requested as he lifted her up and spun her around.

“Lead the way, my love.” Cass dragged him out the door and a few yards away, dramatically dropping into the grass with a giggle and John followed suit. “Haven’t gotten to just look at the stars with you in awhile.”

“We’ve been busy. I wouldn’t mind slowing down a little,” she murmured as her cheek rested over his heart.

“Me neither. A little time away is going to be nice.” A couple weeks on safari in Tanzania followed by a couple weeks on the beaches of Zanzibar. It sounded heavenly.

“It’s going to be perfect.”

One year ago, they had finally escaped hell. It had taken all 365 days since to learn the new intricacies of the person lying with them. To learn their new scars. To love them as equally as the old ones. To convince each other they were safe and could let their guards down again and love each other with the same reckless abandon they had back in England. They had found their way back to each other. Found their way back into the perfect synchronous dance they had mastered. Found their way permanently nestled in each other’s hearts. No longer two separate people but a union. Two halves of a whole locked into a willing embrace for the rest of time.

They had each other. And not a worry on the horizon.

#masters of the air #john egan #callum turner #mota #masters of the air fanfiction #john egan fanfiction #callum turner fanfiction #mota fanfiction #masters of the air fanfic #john egan fanfic #callum turner fanfic #mota fanfic #john egan x oc #john egan x reader #cass and bucky

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susiephone · 1 year

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ok here’s my pitch for a Neverafter version of Dorothy Gale, because the part of my brain that likes to make Ever After High-style OCs will never die

Dorothy blew in from some world unknown to most of the Neverafter, to the region of Oz, when she was about 12. in some loops she’s returned home, but in others, she’s stayed. sometimes by choice, sometimes not.

in this loop, Dorothy is now in her late twenties

she’s an oathbreaker paladin, formerly in the service of Glinda the Good

as a girl, Dorothy was guided on her journey by the two good witches, and was promised that if she found the Wizard who ruled Oz, she could go home. she traveled through Oz, facing much danger, but found friends along the way - a Scarecrow who wanted a brain, a Tin Man who wanted a heart, and a lion who wanted some courage

of course, the Wizard of Oz turned out to be a charlatan, an ordinary man from Dorothy’s home, with no real power, ruling Oz with nice-sounding lies and parlor tricks

in kinder versions of the story, everyone got what they wanted anyway.

not this time. this time, they were just stuck with what they had.

Dorothy’s friends promised to shelter her, and they did. the four retreated back into the unruly and wild world they’d traveled through, resolving to carve out a life for themselves.

when she discovered the Wizard’s lies, Dorothy’s love of the Neverafter was tarnished, and her trust in what she’d been told began to decay

Glinda the Good Witch of the South, possibly out of pity, kindness, or ulterior motives of her own, took Dorothy under her wing, teaching her magic and combat. Dorothy took an Oath of the Ancients and became a paladin under Glinda

as she grew up, Dorothy tangled more and more with cruel and even violent witches and fairies, and began to turn her back on the “good” witches of the North and South.

eventually, Dorothy met Ozma, a young woman who was the true ruler of Oz, kidnapped at birth and raised by a witch named Mombi (possibly with influence from the Stepmother)

quickly becoming friends, Ozma and Dorothy vowed to take the world back from the oppressive forces controlling it

staging a coup in the Emerald City, they killed the Wizard and officially cut ties with the witches, with Ozma taking her throne back and Dorothy taking on the role of the Wizard, officially going oathbreaker

as the new Great and Powerful Oz (she feels weird when people insist on calling her that), Dorothy works to grant the wishes of her and Ozma’s subjects, learning all the magic and alchemy she can to try and protect them and make them happy

eventually, she and Ozma fell in love and got married, technically making Dorothy queen consort of Oz. just “Dorothy” is fine, though. “the wizard,” if you insist on being formal.

Dorothy and Ozma now rule an increasingly-crumbling Oz together as a power couple, with the Scarecrow as Ozma’s advisor and The Tin Man and Cowardly Lion leading their army. Ozma’s own companions, Jack Pumpkinhead and Tik-Tok, are in her own royal court.

Ozma is an artificer, with Jack and Tik-Tok both being warforged

Dorothy prefers to wear simple clothes that harken back to the clothes she wore on the farm of her childhood, but for special occasions, can be spotted in somewhat masculine emerald green formalwear (she leaves the dresses and jewels to Ozma). the only exception is her choice in footwear - heeled silver boots, which provide her protection from most magic.

she still has a small scar on one of her cheeks, from where one of the good witches kissed her. if she gets too close to anything too dangerous, the mark burns.

she has a broomstick (taken from the Witch of the West - rumor has it she picked it off the crumpled remains of her body) and an alliance with the flying monkeys

Toto, due to the magic of the Neverafter, is still alive. he’s the spoiled, happy little lap dog he always was, always at Dorothy’s heels. however, he’s also a useful familiar, as Dorothy will sometimes use him as a spy, looking through his eyes and using Speak With Animals to talkto him about what he’s heard and seen

meanwhile, Glinda and the other witches are starting to want their kingdom back...

#dorothy gale #the wizard of oz #the wonderful wizard of oz #oz #neverafter #d20: neverafter #dimension 20: neverafter #neverafter oc #dimension 20

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bestworstcase · 1 year

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& since i’m on the subject of allusions tonight:

let’s talk about rwby’s actual oz allusions

so, generally speaking, the fandom—understandably perplexed by how tangential or even superficial rwby’s reference to the wizard of oz appears to be—takes the oz allusions in one of two ways: either, 1. the core ozian characters are deconstructions of the correlating oz character [the scarecrow drinks, the tin man throws his heart away, etc.] or 2. the oz allusions are a deliberate red herring intended to misdirect attention from the deeper or truer allusion to whatever, whence the g.u.n. theory or the bastardized norse myth madlibbing and so forth; or on occasion both at once.

the first camp has a lot of interesting things to say that i would probably find persuasive were it not for the fact that they also keep wrestling unsatisfyingly with the persistent questions of:

1. who is dorothy?

2. what about raven and summer and tai? (oh my)

3. how do the ozma/wizard/tip and ozma/ozpin/oscar trifectas fit together?

and the answers to all of these questions are in fact pretty straightforward...

...the trick is just that rwby isn’t alluding to the wizard of oz.

for the uninitiated there are a lot of oz books. there are-- there are so many oz books. fortunately for my sanity however rwby appears to be focusing primarily on one, the marvelous land of oz, which occurs not too very long after the wizard’s departure from oz at the end of the wonderful wizard of oz.

now, i will say up front that you are going to look at this list and immediately go “wait. what?” but just... trust me, ok? here we go.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? god of light → mombi* ozma → ozma/tippetarius ozpin → the wizard oscar → jack pumpkinhead glynda → good witch of the ✨north✨ [NOT GLINDA] theodore → dorothy gale lionheart → the soldier with the green whiskers ironwood → nick chopper [the tin woodman] qrow → the scarecrow raven → the woggle-bug taiyang → the cowardly lion [provisionally**] maria → the sawhorse summer rose → general jinjur and, last but not least, salem → glinda the good [TRUST. ME.]

*the god of darkness is sir not appearing in this book, but if rwby does what i think it will re: theodore, i’d place my bets on the nome king.

**taiyang is an unknown quantity in that i don’t think his primary role in the narrative has revealed itself yet; he might alternatively turn out to be the gump or the queen of the field mice. my money is on the lion, though, because the lion is also sir not appearing in this book but, like dorothy, appears in the next as a member of ozma’s retinue.

MARVELOUS LAND OF OZ ANY% NO GLITCH—

long story short, in the before times the land of oz was ruled by a king named pastoria who took up with the fairy-queen lurline and had a baby, ozma, rightful heir to the ozian throne; shortly thereafter, oscar diggs crash landed in oz, deposed pastoria, disappeared the infant princess by giving her to mombi, sorceress of the north, and became ✨the wizard✨. ...some... amount of time later, dorothy crash lands in oz, yellow brick road, silver slippers, smashes one witch and melts another, yada yada, the wizard sails off back to omaha in his hot air balloon, CUE MARVELOUS LAND; the starting positions are thus:

the scarecrow sits on the throne of oz in the emerald city, having been appointed to rule in the wizard’s stead on account of being Very Wise.

winkie country, liberated from the tyranny of the wicked witch of the west, is now the domain of the tin woodman.

dorothy is back in kansas where everything is grey and sandy and horrible.

the lion is...somewhere, presumably doing king-of-the-forest things.

glinda the good is occupied with research [trying to find out what the wizard did with ozma] in her home in quadling country, to the south.

QUOTE, the winged monkeys are now the slaves of glinda the good, who owns the golden cap that commands their services, END QUOTE.

mombi transformed the infant ozma into a boy named tippetarius because, why not, and raised him as her ward on a farm in gillikin country, to the north.

tip is a teenager and he does teenager things like making a life-sized puppet with a jack-o-lantern head to scare mombi with, as one does, and mombi has about had enough of this so she brews up a potion to turn him into a marble statue, as one does, and tip who does not especially want to be turned into a marble statue instead steals a pepper-box full of magic powder that makes things come to life, and runs away with his newly animate bestie/son jack pumpkinhead, AS ONE DOES. subsequently uses the magic powder to make a wooden sawhorse come to life so they don’t have to hoof it all the way to the emerald city.

the sawhorse is born with a limp and the personality of an octogenarian with no fucks left to give and also he periodically goes deaf on account of his ears breaking off, so when i say maria calavera is the sawhorse—

ANYWAY, minor hijinks ensue. jack blithely accepts everything his dear father says without question because his head is a pumpkin and he has been sapient for approximately eight hours, the terrible trio splits up for a bit on account of tippetarius falling off the sawhorse who likes to go real fast, consequently while jack and the sawhorse make it to the emerald city and meet the scarecrow, tip falls behind and crosses paths with general jinjur and her army of revolt.

jinjur is sick of the way things are and the powers that be and is therefore en route, armed with a pair of very glittery very pointy knitting needles and a lot of other girls outfitted in the same, to conquer the emerald city. tip is not about this revolution thing but tags along because he wanted to appeal to the scarecrow for help with the marble statue nonsense anyway; upon arrival jinjur and her army conquer the emerald city in approximately 0.2 seconds on account of the entire royal army being composed of one (1) man, the soldier with the green whiskers who guards the gates but squeals and books it at the first hint of a brandished needle.

tip races to the palace well ahead of the girls, who are busily sacking the city, to warn the scarecrow of the situation and reconvene with the rest of terrible trio, whereafter they and the scarecrow leave the cowardly soldier to his fate and gallop like the dickens to escape the city, heading west to regroup with the tin woodman. jack is now wracked by existential dread on account of the scarecrow having told him that pumpkins rot, meaning he spends the rest of the book worrying about his imminent decay and rapidly dwindling lifespan, this is fine dot jpg.

one unfortunate incident with a river and some drying-out and a nap later, they reach winkie country and rendezvous with *ahem* the magnificent! nickel-plated tin woodman, celebrated! emperor [it wounds his pride to be called only a king] of the winkies, nick chopper. who sweeps the scarecrow up in a hug because of how delighted! he is to see him again, tells jack not to be such a downer about the my-head-is-slowly-inevitably-rotting thing, and whose immediate response upon learning that the emerald city has been conquered is to declare, quote, we do not need an army; we four, with the aid of my gleaming axe, are enough to strike terror into the hearts of the rebels, end quote, also everybody gets tidied up and repaired and the scarecrow’s strutting by the time they disembark again.

somewhat less minor hijinks ensue on account of mombi not being pleased about tip skipping town and attempting to waylay them by means of dazzling, blinding illusions and, when that fails, dramatically altering landscape in hopes of getting them lost. the sawhorse breaks his leg and the group encounters the woggle-bug, who is very large and very keen to impress upon them that he is, having snuck into a schoolroom long ago and listened in on classes for months, thoroughly educated; eventually he was caught by the professor, transformed via magnifying glass into his present size, and subsequently ran away to do woggle-bug things. on his suggestion they fix the sawhorse’s leg by amputating jack’s, because jack is riding anyway owing to his poorly-fitted knees, and using that as a prosthetic for the sawhorse [LAUGHS NERVOUSLY]. from there the woggle-bug swiftly proceeds to earn the whole group’s ire by making an offensive number of puns at their expense. they navigate through four more illusory obstacles [a raging river; a granite cliff; a writhing maze of dancing roads; a wall of fire] with the aid of the queen of the field mice.

on making it to the emerald city they are promptly captured by jinjur, who plans to dismantle everyone except tippetarius on the grounds of their not being human, but is interrupted by the timely arrival of some mice who frighten her out of the room long enough for the gang to escape by constructing a... thing, called the gump, out of a pair of sofas and a stuffed elk-like creature’s head and various other bits and bobs and animated with the final pinch of magic powder. it flies them out of the emerald city and overshoots quadling country by a wide enough margin to crash them into a nest of nasty jackdaws somewhere not in oz, a misadventure which mainly serves to facilitate the discovery of a secret compartment within the now-emptied pepper-box and, inside that, three silver pills that grant a wish when swallowed.

tip tries one to wish the gump repaired, which doesn’t work because it pains him so badly that he instead wishes he’d never taken it; the woggle-bug does the same and succeeds, they fly back home, the pills are lost, and they reach quadling country at last.

the squad attempts to fill glinda in. she already knows everything.

she fills them in on what she’s been up to, presents evidence mombi aided the wizard in his scheme to disappear ozma, and marches with them to reclaim the emerald city, intending to capture mombi and force her to reveal the truth. further illusion-based hijinks ensue of which the most potentially interesting as it pertains to rwby is that mombi transforms herself into a red rose in an effort to escape detection.

glinda sees through the ruse. mombi transforms herself into a griffin and flees, pursued relentlessly by glinda until she collapses from exhaustion in the desert waste beyond the border of oz—whereupon glinda lassos her with a golden thread that stifles her magic, drags her bodily back to the emerald city, and demands that she tell the truth or else die by glinda’s hand. mombi tries to lie, glinda is furious and having none of it, and mombi begrudgingly reveals tip’s true identity, whereupon glinda forces her to undo the curse and then strips her of her magical power forever; tip is restored to her true self, jinjur is swiftly deposed, and peace restored, hooray!, the end.

QUESTIONS!

WHY ARE YOU SO SURE SUMMER IS JINJUR? frankly a decent case could be made for interpreting cinder as the allusion to jinjur instead: jinjur is a wrathful but cunning scullery maid raging against the powers that be, and after all it is cinder who sacks beacon academy—i.e., the emerald city stand-in.

but here’s the thing: after routing the royal army, jinjur installs herself as the queen of oz and rules without interruption for most of the story. she is not ousted from this position until the final chapter. cinder is grievously injured before the battle is even properly ended, returns immediately to salem’s side, and has been a thorn in her side and also the sides of the heroes ever since—meanwhile, all this time, salem has had an unknown lieutenant stationed at beacon, searching for the crown. somebody has been holding that throne, as it were, and we have a certain silver-eyed warrior still unaccounted for.

further, jinjur’s army of revolt makes quite a conspicuous show of being united from every province, and she herself wears the colors of all four; in the event summer turns out to be working for salem of her own accord, which i think likely, her presumable reason is something along the lines of having burnt out and shattered under the pressure of being the ideal huntress, the lone guardian, the blessed warrior—precisely in the same way that we have seen ruby begin to crack under the same—and this, i think, dovetails tidily with the imagery of jinjur’s revolt. a turncoat summer rose who still holds to ozpin’s ideal of strength and peace through unity, who is perhaps reinforcing salem’s numbers at beacon by recruiting the people of vale, is what ozpin asked her to become, turned against him for how she suffered in becoming.

also, look at this flower. common name, malay rose:

it’s not a true rose; it’s etlingera venusta, and it belongs to the ginger family.

sidebar, i don’t think cinder has an ozian allusion except insofar as i suppose she performs the functional role of glinda’s army through her relation to salem. she’s, well, cinderella, and in being cinderella also a symbolic repetition of salem through her rapunzel aspect—cinder echoes the desperately furious girl in the tower, the fairytale heroine trapped by forces beyond her control, not the formidable sorceress who would lay waste to the gods.

BUT SALEM AS GLINDA, THOUGH? REALLY?

while it is clear that rwby’s primary reference is to marvelous land, there are a handful of overt nods to the film adaptation of wizard of oz specifically, in theodore’s ruby gloves and the black-and-white photo of the girl in gingham with the little black dog. naming the good witch of the north glynda as a nod to the film (and pop culture generally) conflating the two is hardly out of the question, and a tidy bit of narrative sleight-of-hand besides.

and, listen. it’s not just enslaving the flying monkeys and it isn’t just serenely running mombi into the ground and forcing her to reveal the truth and undo the harm she did to ozma; it’s also not just that glinda the good plays a critical narrative role following the wizard’s departure and the good witch of the north does not. it’s also that of the pair glinda is the more powerful and more formidable by an order of magnitude, and indeed glinda is said to be ageless, ancient, and perhaps the most powerful sorceress in the land of oz; it’s also that the ozian color-coding checks out in both directions (in glinda’s quadling country, everything is red; and gillikin country is purple); it’s also that glynda goodwitch was faultlessly loyal to a secretive cabal and believed in ozpin, as the good witch of the north believed in the wizard, whereas salem, like glinda the good, knows ozpin for a fraud, despises emerald for her deceptive semblance, and has a keen intuition and a short temper for being lied to.

the only respect in which salem and glinda do not, within the context of rwby’s ozian narrative, almost perfectly align is that salem is an antagonist and glinda is not—but here let me remind you that rwby’s mombi is the god of light, with her deceptive shape-changing and illusions reimagined as defter subterfuge and symbolically intertwined with the blinding of rapunzel’s prince. the god of light poisoned ozma’s ear against salem so well that he persuaded ozma to drink the potion and become the wizard of his own volition, cursed and blind to the true nature of the gods, his mandate, and his lost love.

but tippetarius learns the truth and finds ozma again; rapunzel’s tears heal the ruined eyes of her prince.

where do you think rwby is going with this?

AND LEO LIONHEART, THE LION FAUNUS, ISN’T THE COWARDLY LION?!

he’s the easily-cowed and fully-bearded guardian of the closest thing rwby’s scarecrow has to an emerald city to administer on the wizard’s behalf, and he is in this capacity an army of one because he’s sent every other warrior in the faculty away and sold half the huntsmen in mistral out to salem. salem sends her needling bastard of a henchperson to menace him and lionheart folds like wet cardboard, handing over the keys to the vault without a whisper of resistance. and once the battle for haven is ended, the former allies he stabbed in the back shrug and leave him to his fate at salem’s hands.

leonine faunus or not, the role lionheart plays is precisely that of the soldier with the green whiskers, the solitary and pathetically inept guardian who betrays the scarecrow and his allies out of panicked cowardice.

meanwhile the cowardly lion does not appear in marvelous land at all, but he does figure in ozma of oz—the third book—wherein he professes himself a coward still but acts no less bravely than he ever did, now a loyal member of ozma’s retinue and accompanied by his new friend, the hungry tiger. taiyang, who has either been doing big important secret cult things or else trying to psych himself up to leave his empty nest depression cabin ever since beacon fell and ozpin died, is a much likelier candidate for being the cowardly lion’s true analogue by far.

IS RAVEN JUST THE WOGGLE-BUG BECAUSE SHE’S KNOWLEDGE?

that’s part of it but not the entirety; note that the woggle-bug is not merely intelligent but gleaned all of his knowledge by spying, for no other reason than burning curiosity; note the professor who caught him and irrevocably changed him, for better or for worse, and his hasty escape for fear of being exploited thereafter; note that he is pompous and anxious and performs intelligence far more than he shows it, and note that his often-callous and sometimes-snide commentary is met with such sharp hostility by the others that at one point nick chopper implies a threat to murder him if he makes another pun at a companion’s expense.

and note, finally, that the woggle-bug does not properly enter the narrative until after the protagonists leave winkie country, the province for which atlas is very obviously an analogue. raven played a major role in volume five, of course, one which thoroughly alienated her from the rest of the ozian characters on both sides of the conflict... but then she vanished into the ether without a shred of resolution for anything but the question of whether the relic of knowledge would be retrieved and by whom, and if that isn’t a mere prelude in her character arc i’ll eat somebody’s hat.

and as for what her future role in the story might entail. well. three silver pills that grant you wishes—and one that poisons tip when he tries, the same one the woggle-bug uses to mend their way home. three silver-eyed warriors ostensibly blessed by the god of light—and one a turncoat poisoned by the unbearable weight of ozpin’s ideals.

we still don’t know what raven knows, or who she learnt it from.

IF THE SILVER WISH PILLS ARE SILVER-EYED WARRIORS THEN, MARIA?

to activate the pills you need to swallow them and then count up to seventeen by two. the sawhorse is the one who solves the riddle, which is to start with half one, double it, and then count up by two from one to seventeen.

...WHAT WAS THAT YOU SAID ABOUT FOUR ILLUSIONS AND A MOUSE?

the ever after may be bleeding wonderland out of every frame—and oh boy is it!—but, look, what is rwby if not a gleeful mishmash of inspirations and in the trailer and preview clip alone we’ve got a helpful mouse and three of the four [twisting, impossible paths? check. impassible cliff? check. walls of fire? check, twice over]. as obstacles go a torrential river crossing is not exactly out of left field in any setting—and then there’s the girl on the beach who’s wearing ozma’s original colors.

to say nothing of how well those four obstacles align so very nicely, symbolically, with ruby (paths), weiss (flood), blake (cliff), and yang (fire).

it’s a little eyebrow-raising if nothing else. something to watch.

#slams this down.#read the marvelous land of oz.

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verai-marcel · 2 months

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Another Chance (Astarion x Tav/OC, BG3 Fanfic, 18+, Part 1 of 2)

Summary: Phaedra Tiernan, a drow druid, savior of Baldur’s Gate, had not returned to the city in fifty years. When she returns, she meets up with old companions and renews a friendship… And perhaps, something more?

Author’s Notes: Is this some Tav/OC x Astarion bullshit that I’m about to write? Sure is. This is 100% based on my first playthrough of BG3, so my drow druid had romanced Gale, but her outfit matched Astarion and he was always in the party because I had multi-classed him a rogue/monk/fighter, and he was damn near unstoppable.

Tags: Gale x OC, Astarion x OC, angst, tragedy in the beginning, time skip, post-game content, friends to lovers, porn with feelings, prone bone, other positions probably

Word Count: 4099

AO3 link is here, sweetness.

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Chapter 1 - An End and A Return

Fifty years.

Fifty years since the defeat of the Absolute.

Fifty years since Gale had asked her to marry him.

And fifty years since Phaedra had been back to Baldur’s Gate.

Sure, she had sent letters to friends, met up with some of the others in Daggerford, a small town just south of Waterdeep, or invited old friends to visit the tower in Waterdeep proper. But she had never ventured back to the city she helped save.

It wasn’t as if Gale had kept her away; no, far from it. Gale had always asked, “Phaedra, my love, would you like to visit once more?”

She had always put it off. “Perhaps some other time,” she always said. There were always new lands to explore, after all.

But she could no longer say that to him.

Phaedra stared at the simple, yet beautifully decorated tombstone, Tara by her side.

“It was his time, dear,” the tressym said. “But I do miss him.”

Being a drow, Phaedra knew she would outlive Gale by centuries. But having to face that fact now tore at her heart. The only thing keeping her from spending another month crying in the tower was that Gale had given her one final mission.

Gale, the sentimental fool, had written a bunch of letters to their mutual friends, for her to deliver in case of his death. Perhaps he had guessed that she would need something to distract her.

No, he knew she would need the distraction. A final, farewell gift to show that he understood her. That he cared about her. That he loved her.

Phaedra swallowed the lump in her throat. “I miss him too, Tara.” She hefted the stack of letters in her satchel. “But I know for a fact that he doesn’t want me to stay still for too long. He knows… knew me, all too well.”

Tara wanted to stay behind and watch over the tower until she returned, or if she didn’t, wait for one of Gale’s apprentices to take over the tower, if she judged them worthy. That left Phaedra free to travel to Baldur’s Gate and hand deliver the letters to each of her fellows.

Her first stop was in the former Shadow-cursed lands. Halsin had greeted her warmly, hugging her tightly and seemingly unwilling to let her go. She spent a night there, entertaining his plethora of adopted children and touring the town, which has grown quite large in the fifty years she had been gone. The original children she had remembered were all grown up now, and these new children were either recently adopted, or children of the original war orphans who enjoyed spending time with ‘Daddy Halsin.’

Though reluctant to let her leave so soon, Halsin bid Phaedra farewell after wrangling a promise to visit sooner than fifty years. She traveled along the River Chionthar to find Shadowheart and her father, still taking care of their menagerie of animals and their farm, living a quiet, simple life. Phaedra gave her respects to her mother, who had passed long ago, leaving a small bouquet of wildflowers on her gravestone.

“I need to find Lae’zel somehow as well,” Phaedra said, staring at the letter that Gale had written for her.

Shadowheart held out her hand. “I’ll give it to her.”

She blinked. “R-really? You know where she is?”

The cleric shrugged. “She visits me from time to time, when she is able to take time away from her duties in the Astral Sea.”

Phaedra smiled. Wow. I’m glad they still see each other, to be honest. She hardly ever came to see me. “So how is she?”

Shadowheart shrugged. “She looks nearly the same as she did when she left. Apparently one doesn’t age in the Astral Sea.”

“Ah. Well, give her my best. And tell her to visit me, dammit.”

Shadowheart smiled. “Of course.”

Phaedra handed over the letter, had a pleasant dinner, and spent the night in the barn with Scratch's great-grand pup and the owlbear for old time’s sake. The next morning, she bid farewell and traveled onward towards the Gate.

Along the way, she stopped by the old ruins where they had first run into Withers. Though the tomb was empty, she left Gale’s letter for him on the sarcophagus and camped outside for a night. The next morning, she went to check again and saw that the letter had disappeared.

It didn’t take long for her to find Jaheira, though when she asked about Minsc, the High Harper only shrugged and would speak no further. But the shielded pain in her eyes said enough. Phaedra handed both letters to her and wished her well before visiting her next two companions.

Tucked away in the lower city, a small house with flowers and a signpost above the door, decorated with flames and two crossed swords, brought a smile to Phaedra’s face. She knocked on the door and waited.

A crashing sound, followed by the pounding of feet, made her cringe, but she managed to put on a smile right before the door swung open.

“Aunty Phaedra!”

A young tiefling woman immediately grabbed her and pulled her into a huge bear hug, lifting her off the ground and swinging her back and forth.

“I’m glad to see you too, Rieta,” Phaedra said, squeezing the woman in return. About two years after being forced to return to Avernus, Karlach and Wyll had found a way to fix her engine and they returned to Baldur’s Gate, as the Twin Blades of Avernus. They had made a good life, and though they didn’t officially retire, they had left most of the adventuring and fighting to their daughter while they helped train Flaming Fist soldiers.

“Soldier, it’s good to see you,” Karlach said as she came outside. She looked just as brilliant as she had the last time she had seen her ten years ago in Waterdeep. “Took you long enough to come back.”

As Rieta dragged her into the house, Phaedra smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry that… certain circumstances brought me back.”

Sitting at a dining table with Wyll, Karlach, and Rieta, Phaedra handed them the letters. “Gale… wanted me to hand deliver letters to everyone…”

She swallowed. She felt better with each letter she gave, as if the physical weight being lifted was lifting the weight off her heart as well. But it still hurt.

Fortunately, Phaedra was quickly surrounded by hugs, and they had a good evening of conversing about the past and catching up about the present.

“So who else do you need to visit?” Wyll asked, sitting with Karlach and Phaedra by their fireplace. Rieta had gone to bed, to be ready to wake up early for a mission in the morning.

Phaedra pulled a letter out of her satchel. “Well… just one more now.”

“You can probably find him at the Elfsong,” Wyll said. “He’s… changed.”

She tipped her head. “In… a good way?”

Karlach and Wyll shared a smile. “I’d say so,” Karlach said. Then she frowned. “Didn’t he send you letters too?”

“He did on occasion, but they were… not very descriptive. Mostly a ‘I’m doing great, murdering the bad guys.’”

They laughed. “Sounds like him. When you find him, maybe ask him more about it. He’s more of a talker than a writer,” Wyll said.

Phaedra nodded. Interesting.

***

The next morning, Phaedra went with Wyll and Karlach to help train the new recruits at the Flaming Fist. There were certainly some wide-eyed recruits who asked a million questions once they realized who she was, and she weaved them a tale worthy of a bard’s approval. After doing some actual training, she spent the rest of the day walking around the city, looking at all of the ways the city had grown, and reminiscing at the things that hadn’t changed.

And once the sun began to set, she made her way to the Elfsong.

Nursing a drink at the bar, she immediately sensed a certain someone making their way toward her.

“Darling, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Turning around, she expected Astarion to be his usual fabulous self.

Instead, she was surprised to see him wearing a dark blue shirt and leather breeches, simple adventuring gear. And yet somehow, it still looked good on him. Ridiculously good, in fact. “You’re not looking too bad yourself.”

He flipped his hair a bit with his hand and turned around to show Phaedra his outfit. “I look good in anything, my dear. But you already know that.”

She laughed. Gods, I didn’t realize how much I missed his sass. “Right, right.”

“But I’m sure you’re not here just to look at my clothes.” He looked around. “Where’s your other half? I’m sure I would have heard him lecturing me by now.”

Her lips trembled.

It only took a moment for him to realize it, and he frowned.

Ever since Phaedra had helped him kill Cazador, she had noticed that Astarion looked at her with a kinder gaze. He spoke with her more often, shared his thoughts with her more openly. They had become friends after everything, and she truly cared about his happiness.

After he had run off to hide from the blistering rays of the sun on the docks that fateful day, she had tried to look for him, but he was very skillful in hiding. She knew that, of course. It wasn’t until Withers’ banquet six months later that she saw him again, hugged him, and told him she had missed him. She had been pleasantly surprised to hear that he had become an adventurer and hero in his own right, dispatching criminals in the night.

“See you later, darling,” was the last thing he had said to her.

And now, he stood before her, close enough to see the kindness in his eyes once more.

It was enough to bring out her emotions once more. Shakily, she took a breath. “I… I have a letter for you, from Gale.”

Astarion stepped closer, not quite crowding her, but close enough so they could speak quietly. He took the letter gently from her grasp. “I am curious. Do you mind?”

Phaedra waved her hand. “Go ahead. I’ll just finish my drink.” Turning away to sip her mead, she subtly watched him as he read the letter. His eyes widened slightly before his expression went back to being neutral. When he finished, he tucked the letter away in his pocket.

“Thank you for delivering this, my friend.” Taking her hand, he squeezed it gently. “Did he have you deliver letters to everyone?”

She nodded.

He sighed. “That man.” Putting one hand on the small of her back, he led his drow friend away from the bar and into the moonlit night. “This can’t be easy for you.”

Phaedra shook her head. “I knew I’d outlive him. But… I wanted to hold onto him for as long as possible.” She stared up at the sky. “He talked to me before”—she swallowed—“before he passed, about how much I meant to him, and how much he wants me to be free after he’s gone. To go on living and loving with vigor, because that was why he fell in love with me.”

She realized that Astarion was walking quietly with her, taking her along well lit streets, letting her speak. “I think he knew that I would need this, to go on a journey, to see our old friends, to reconnect with the world.” Phaedra turned to him, a wry smile on her face. “I spent a whole month holed up in his tower, not doing a damn thing. That doesn’t sound like me at all, does it?”

Astarion laughed. “No, it doesn’t. I would have thought you were a changeling, if I had seen you like that.” His eyes traced the shape of her face. “You’ve grown your hair out since I last saw you. You always kept it to such a short length before.”

She shrugged. “I, erm, didn’t really… pay attention to much of anything, after Gale passed.”

He watched her for a moment, clearly thinking. “Would you, perhaps, like to help me with something tonight? If you’re up for it.”

“What am I helping with?”

“Oh, just a small problem.”

“I know how ‘small’ problems suddenly become larger with you, Astarion.”

He chuckled. “Alright, well, there’s this group of ruffians…”

***

It was invigorating, being in the fray once more, fighting the good fight, helping folks in need. Phaedra finally felt like she had come back home, after six months of staying in Baldur’s Gate. She was pleasantly surprised by how easy it was to distract herself with helping others, and in a way, giving her purpose.

She missed Gale, of course. She missed being in their tower, sitting on their favorite settee on the balcony, watching the sunset and sharing a book. She missed helping Gale with magical experiments, practicing her druidic arts in the yard with him taking notes, taking short trips to the surrounding areas to explore new sights, collect new herbs, and maybe help a few people along the way. It had been a lovely, idyllic dream.

Now, being back in Baldur’s Gate, she had a new dream. A dream with friends who were close by, that she could see every day if she so wished. She split her time helping Karlach and Wyll train the Flaming Fist, assisting Rolan at Sorcerous Sundries, accompanying Rieta on some of her missions, and even taking breaks to visit Shadowheart and Halsin.

But she spent most of her time with Astarion. Every night was a new adventure, whether it was breaking up a bar fight, getting chased by the guards of an illegal underground gambling ring, or reverse pickpocketing a small child who was begging for money in the alleys.

“So has this been your life for the past fifty years?”

“Has that much time passed?”

“I suppose it’s not long for us elves,” Phaedra said, huffing slightly in the cold night air. They were sprinting away from the Undercity, trying not to let the Zhentarim thugs on their heels catch up to them. However, the jangle of gold in Astarion’s pouch was giving them away.

“Well, it’s a drop in the bucket for me, since I’ll live forever.”

“Lucky you.”

“Perhaps.”

Phaedra glanced over, surprised at Astarion’s bittersweet tone.

But soon she had no time to ponder it, as they found themselves at a dead end.

“I thought you knew the Undercity!” she hissed.

Astarion shrugged as he pulled out his dagger. “Look darling, I don’t know every tunnel in this place. Especially since people keep digging new ones.”

Phaedra rolled her eyes as she got ready to wild shape. “Pick one.”

“Hm, I haven’t seen your owlbear form in some time.”

“Good choice.” Turning to see the thugs brandishing their swords, Phaedra grinned as she stomped on the ground, feeling the wild change take over her body. “Let’s go.”

***

Adrenaline running through her veins, Phaedra ran alongside her partner in not-quite-crime, laughing into the night air. She followed him back to his home, a simple townhouse in the lower city with a ground level and a large, windowless basement.

Just as she was about to part ways, Astarion cleared his throat. “Do you want to come in?”

Phaedra was a bit surprised. After six months, this was the first time he had invited her. “Sure. “I’m curious what kind of place you’ve been living in all this time.”

The ground level merely consisted of a vestibule with a small sitting area, a door to a small guest bedroom that was minimally furnished, and another door leading to a stairwell. The basement was very lavishly decorated, and she could see three doors that connected to other rooms. It also had an emergency exit into the dark alley behind the building, just in case.

“Gods, did you see the look on their faces when you transformed?” he asked as he led her into the living room in the basement. “I got a free hit on them, they were so dumbfounded.”

Phaedra cackled. “Good. Hope they dream of me beating their faces in while they’re passed out.” She dropped her gear on the table in the basement living area. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill them.”

Astarion shrugged. “I fed on one of those other thugs earlier, no need to murder all of them so quickly.” He sat on a luxurious armchair, taking out a rag to clean his daggers. “Have to keep some of my blood supply intact for the future, after all.”

“Wow, you really have changed.”

He laughed softly. “I’ve learned to enjoy life with a little bit of planning. Something I learned from the rest of you.”

Phaedra smiled as she looked around Astarion’s living room. There were classic paintings, some she recognized as loot they had taken from various heists around the city back in the day.

“Didn’t you steal that from Lady Jannath’s estate when she was preoccupied with that artist?”

“And you provided an excellent distraction. I never thanked you for that.”

Phaedra shook her head. “I probably would have told you to put it back.”

“And that’s why I never mentioned it.” He finished cleaning his daggers and put them aside as he got up. “And now it’s here”—he gestured towards the painting—“splendidly adorning my wall.”

She sighed. “Well, I suppose no one has missed it since then…” Getting up to join him, she admired the colors, the paint strokes, the whole composition. “I have to admit, it is beautiful.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Phaedra looked over at Astarion to see him watching her, a curious look in his eyes. Wait. That look. “Astarion?”

He stepped closer to her. “Yes, darling?”

“What are you doing?”

“You have some debris in your hair,” he said, reaching up to pick out bits of dirt from her snowy white hair. His fingers trailed down to the tips of her hair before he softly caressed her cheek with the back of his knuckles, his gaze softer than she had ever seen.

“Um, thank you.” Phaedra stepped back, suddenly shy. He’s been doing this more often as of late. It’s not unwelcome, but it’s certainly an odd development. “This is the first time I’ve been to your place,” she mumbled, changing the subject awkwardly.

Astarion stepped back, and he was suddenly his usual self again. “Well, let me give you the grand tour.”

It was only three rooms, but he chattered away as he showed them to her. The luxurious powder room had two sinks and a tub large enough for two, with a door that connected to a grand bedroom with minimalist, stylish decor. There was a king sized bed covered in black silk sheets, and night stands on either side with two drawers each, clearly stuffed with knick knacks and jewelry.

The last room was a classically styled office, with an ebony stained mahogany desk, and bookcases along all of the walls, floor to ceiling. They were all filled, and there were even a few stacks on the floor where extra books couldn’t fit.

“That’s… a lot of books.”

Astarion shrugged. “There might be a few duplicates in there, I’m never quite sure.”

“Did you pilfer these too?”

“Perhaps.”

Phaedra grinned. “Do you want me to help you pick out the copies? We could donate them to the library.”

“You’re always so… nice.”

“Those thugs we clobbered underground may not agree with you.”

He laughed. “No, I suppose they wouldn’t.”

They were back in the living room, Phaedra staring at her pile of loot and her quarterstaff leaning against a chair. “So, I guess I should head back to the Elfsong.”

“You’ve been staying there for the last six months. Why didn’t you take Karlach and Wyll’s offer to stay at their place?”

Phaedra shrugged. “You know me. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone, nor outstay my welcome.”

“You could stay here.”

“Did you not hear me?”

“I did, and I’m telling you that it’s more of an inconvenience to me, having to go over to the Elfsong to find you.”

She snorted. “Alright, that’s fair. But you have to help me move my stuff.”

***

Phaedra piled her stuff into the guest bedroom upstairs. It was a modest little room with a small night stand, a twin sized bed, a chest of drawers, and an empty bookcase.

“It’s like you didn’t even attempt to make this look lived in.”

“Why? No one comes here. And I’ve laid traps on all the entrances and windows. A thief would have to be extremely talented to get past all of that.”

She could only nod as she put her things away. She paused when she pulled out a small, dark blue brocade pouch.

Peering over her shoulder, Astarion hummed. “Is that the necklace I gave you back then?”

Phaedra nodded as she opened the pouch and pulled out the delicate silver chain, studded with small sapphires. It was an elegant and minimalist style, designed to be more like a choker. “It was so pretty, I couldn't bring myself to sell it with the rest of the loot.”

Her memories came bubbling up from deep in her mind.

“Where did you find this, Astarion?”

“Does it matter?”

“If I wear it and someone recognizes it, then yes, it matters.”

Astarion shrugged. “No one will recognize it. Just take it. When else will I ever be this generous?”

“True. Oh, did you need my blood tonight?”

His gaze was heated as he smiled, his lips curving perfectly. “Darling, I'm always up for a little treat.”

“Yes, yes, now put your seduction face away, you know it doesn't work on me. And Gale will get mad.”

Astarion laughed. “We wouldn't want that now, would we?” His expression softened as he stepped closer, placing his hands delicately on her shoulders. “I know I don't always say it, but it's a gift every time you let me taste you.” Dipping his head down to her exposed neck, he whispered reverently, “Thank you,” before taking a bite.

Astarion could tell Phaedra was spacing out, so he gently took the necklace from her hand. “Hold your hair up, darling.”

Phaedra came out of her memories and did as he asked.

His fingers glided along her skin as he carefully clasped the necklace around her neck. Staring down at her neck, Astarion felt the urge to hold her close and bite down, but he restrained himself. It had been so long since he had tasted her, felt her slight tremor as he drank. He knew she had fed him as a friend, but he still craved the closeness those few precious moments offered him.

Reaching up to run her fingers along the necklace, she turned around and tipped her head curiously at him. “Well? Does it look good on me?”

“Of course it does. I picked it out, remember?”

Remembering the myriad times he had pilfered a piece of jewelry or some other knick-knack that ended up being worth a sizable amount, even as they were trying to survive the onslaught of the Absolute and everything in between, Phaedra laughed and batted at his arm. “You always did have good taste, even if it got in the way of our work at times.”

She noticed that Astarion had stepped back. Looking toward the only window, she realized a faint sliver of dawn light was seeping through the blackout curtain.

“Oh. Right. Better get you back downstairs.”

He nodded. “Get some rest, darling. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Good, uh, well, have a good rest, Astarion.”

Smiling at her, he winked before heading back to the basement.

Phaedra remained unmoving until she heard the basement door close. Then, without really thinking, she plopped down on the bed and fell into reverie, letting the memories wash over her.

***

Astarion climbed slowly into his grandiose bed. Normally he’d revel in the feel of the silk sheets against his bare skin, but today, he longed for something else.

He longed for her. It pained him to have her so close, and yet she felt just as far as she had when she was in Waterdeep. He wanted her in bed with him, to feel her skin next to his. To touch her. Not even in a lustful way, just… skin to skin, laying beside her.

Sighing heavily, he fell into a trance, but his mind tortured him by remembering all of his interactions with Phaedra.

He'd be lying if he said this wasn't a common occurrence.

------------------------

Let me know what you think in the comments!

Chapter 2 Here.

#bg3 #astarion x tav #writing #fanfic #another chance

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thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires · 1 year

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The Barefoot Cajun Little Story Number Three

Lucy B they called her. Not really sure how she got her name; maybe it was because her life was lived on a tiny houseboat. The boat was named Lucille’s Water Cottage. Lucille had painted the name of the boat on a cedar sign using dye from her garden fruit and vegetable orchard and garden. The smallish house boat was banked right up against the bank of Bayou Toujours.

Lucy B had lived there for years with not much history to draw upon that anyone reputable could remember. A single woman during the mid forties, not a fashionable character, but hell, Lucy didn’t care, she was an independent woman taking care of herself.

Lucy B never traveled more than a twenty-five mile radius of Bayou Toujours. If her boat or her feet couldn’t take her, she stayed put. Lucy B was a short, plump woman; if I might be so bold as to describe her as pear shaped. Strong as an ox she was. On both sides of the bayou she farmed garden patches. When her old Mule, Nelly was not feeling well Lucy B pulled the plow herself.

Lucy didn’t need much in the way of material things. She sold a few vegetables and fruit from her vegetable gardens and fruit orchards. Seasonable money coming in, therefore Lucy B organized her money in coffee cans that she buried along the bayou. Dividing her money into two month intervals she buried six cans: three cans of Seaport and three cans of Luzianne. Lucy B tagged these under wild Louisiana roses with thorns thick enough to slice skin with loss of lots of blood. Legend has it that Louisiana roses had sliced off old Mr. Gros Doigt’s finger after trying to uproot one to plant in his daughter Clementine’s yard. Now that’s a real weapon. Who would mess with wild Louisiana roses?! NOT THIS AUTHOR FOR SURE!

Now back to Lucy B! That girl had an entrepreneurial spirit! It wasn’t money or fame she sought. Lucy suffered from an overactive inquisitive mind. She grew the most fantastical figs! Grown organically, many wondered about her secret to perfected figs. Sweet,purplish, plump, fleshy figs! Of course if you’re from the South you know figs are seasonal. If she wanted to strike it rich, she could! Demand for her figs grew! Lucy was not interested in fame or fortune. Her desire was the most perfected fig imaginable!

Now this was the 1940’s, a totally different time than today. Limited communication on Bayou Toujours was Lucy’s protection against overproduction. AND, Lucy practiced total organic gardening, mostly a tree hugger speaking to her fig trees each day, a total of seven and one-half fig trees to be exact. The one-half tree came from a bout with the strong wicked gale force winds of hurricane Plaquemine.

That tree Lucy named Plaquemine was bent in half at a forty-five degree angle. Lucy asked the Pastor of the little prairie church named L’anse Toujours to come pray over her tree. Pastor Tee came along with a delegation of his most fervent prayer warriors; brothers and sisters of the Focused on Prayers for Botanicals. He came with six and one-half of his mightiest prayer folk. The one-half was a six year old who had been known to pray miracles.

Together with pastor Tee there were seven and one-half pray-ers. One for each of Lucy’s trees. The seven adults would pray for the health of the seven trees and the miracle child would pray for the tree in the shape of a forty-five degree angle.

The next day Lucy woke up to a tree that stood as erect as a scaredy cat’s tale pointed to the heavens! That six year old prayer child became known as the Botanical Saint of L’anse Toujours.

One day a couple of city folk showed up at Lucy’s house boat on Bayou Toujours. Two men from California introduced themselves to Lucy B as commissioners of the West Coast fig association. They told Lucy B that a blight had practically bankrupted their fig production sales. The men went on to say that their business was hanging on by a thread. One of the men told Lucy B that they’d be much obliged if she helped them learn the production of her style of figs.

Lucy B answered with an overwhelmingly, of course! “It’s not rocket science,” she said. “You gotta love and hug your fig trees, even the one-half fig trees. Sometimes those are the ones that need the most love.”

The two men stayed with Lucy B for about a month. They pitched a tent on the banks of Bayou Toujours. Each day they followed Lucy, asked her questions and hugged fig trees. The men’s lives changed. You could see the transformation in their faces and overall body language. More relaxed, less stressed, and slower body biorhythms. Having coffee over a campfire one night after Lucy B had gone to bed, the men realized what was missing in their fig orchard business. Sure a blight had destroyed their crop; they’d lost hope. What they saw in Lucy B, a simple Cajun Prairie woman with a thriving fig orchard. It’s all in the love, the attitude, and laissez-faire life. Work is good, play is better; together play and work make for a successful venture.

The next morning the men were scheduled to leave to head back to California to try out Lucy B’s style of fig orchard farming. Lucy B made them a breakfast of hot water cornbread cooked in a black pot over an open fire topped with butter made from thick, luscious, yellow butter made from Lucy B’s milk cow, Clover. Lucy B topped off the breakfast with canned figs.

The men decided to honor Lucy B, their teacher and mentor, by naming their new and improved enterprise Lucy B’s fig orchard.

AND I might add, the most successful business fig enterprise in the history of fig orchards, with the exception of Lucy B’s seven and one-half trees!

#little stories #barefoot Cajun #Lucy B and the Figs #Cajun French #Louisiana Cajun Prairie #writers on tumblr

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lindsaystravelblogs · 2 years

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Friday

We made a late start today. By the time we got out of town (Egisstadir), it was after eleven and we set off to explore a place in the opposite direction to our final destination for the day. It was about 70 kilometres away, making it a long day - 399 kilometres: not far in Oz, but driving conditions aren’t quite as good here as in Australia.

We drove to Borgarfjiodur at the end of the road at the end of the fiord. It was an interesting drive out there, with some pretty awful roads, dodging some extensive roadworks and very confusing speed limits, climbing a long, very steep, winding road over a very high mountain in extremely thick fog, and down again into the very quaint fishing village. We passed lots of lovely scenery, including a series on small ponds near the road where we saw some birds, including some Red-necked Divers that we had only glimpsed very briefly 3 years ago. Our count for Iceland birds now stands at 47!

We walked around the village and took some photos and watched the birds - a wider variety than usual and some that we haven’t seen often. We ate our lunch in the car, out of the bitingly frigid gale that was blowing, before braving the same road back and continuing on the long drive south. It rained for at least half the day, never all that heavy, but we had the wipers going constantly for a few hours.

We stopped for fuel at a place that had an Olis service station - we have seen none of the familiar Shells, Mobils, Caltexes, etc. Hertz had told us that Olis and Ob stations were cheaper, but it didn’t appear to be so. We paid the same price there as elsewhere.

Other than that stop, we had few others on the day. The landscape here is a bit different than most of what we have seen. It still has lots of impressive rugged mountains rising directly above the road, sometimes cascading straight down too. All were partly hidden in cloud today but we also drove through areas that were pretty flat - wide expanses of grassland near the ocean. We drove quite a long way following the coast rather than fiords and with a good telescope, we could almost have seen Norway a few thousand kilometres away. The coastal drive had quite a different feel about it compared with the rugged interior. And with the cloud cover and rain enclosing us a bit, it seemed almost a little spooky outside and wonderfully warm and cosy in the car.

There have been quite a few bikes (and several hitchhikers) on the road and we have passed them many kilometres from the nearest place of accommodation. Unless the riders have made arrangements to stay at farms, they must often be riding very wet and bedraggled until late into the night to get to a hotel or similar. Fortunately, it doesn’t even start to get dark until about 11pm but many of the hills are very steep with long climbs so anyone riding a bike here would have to be very fit. Of course, all the long steep climbs are rewarding with a long fast coast down the other side. Interestingly, many of the riders appear to be middle aged rather than enthusiastic teenagers.

Our freebie mobile modem stopped working during the morning and nothing we can do will bring it back to life. It turns on and allows you to start connecting then just turns itself off. It is fully charged but will only stay on for about 30 seconds before shutting down again. No huge problem except it means we are solely reliant on hotel wifi at night.

There are more tourist busses on this side of Iceland too all commanding use of their half of the road as well as half a metre of ours – slow to a crawl and move to the extreme edge of the shoulder and pray!

Iceland is a colourful place – even if you ignore the frequent rainbow motifs in most towns. Nothing at all seems to be pastel. It is rich and vivid - red or black mountains with brilliant green skirts, black rock under glaring snow, houses that compete with each other with stark blues, yellows, reds, green, even the oiled black ones with the green sod rooves or the blue sheep-shed with the yellow roof, black beaches and white rolling surf, fields of purple or yellow – nothing is insipid and your eye is unavoidably drawn to colour after colour after exciting colour – but shouldn’t I be watching the oncoming traffic?

Toward the end of the drive we saw a few swans – like, quite a few! They were all Whooper Swans, very elegant and graceful white swans, but they filled the bay, and another bay, and the next, and a couple more. Rough guess: ten thousand of them and the only place to stop for a photo was right near the end where the numbers were lower and they were further out to sea. An amazing sight to state the obvious.

One interesting fact that we discovered at night is that we will hopefully soon be free of the foul taste that has been plaguing us for several days. We assumed that it was one of the effects of Covid, but it seems that it is a side-effect of the antiviral drugs we have been taking. Heather finished her course last night and I finish mine today so we hope we will soon be able to enjoy our food again.

We finally arrived at our digs in Hofn after 324 kilometres of fairly concentrated driving. We ate in our room and crashed after dinner. But what a beautiful day it had been!

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ccohanlon · 2 years

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notes from the dark heart of the bible belt

On the large, mushroom-like water tower above Elk City, Oklahoma, a rural town of about 11,000 souls just an hour’s drive from the border of Texas, a three-metre-high, hand-painted sign announced that this was the Home of Susan Powell, Miss America, 1981.

It was Sunday evening. My pregnant wife and I had driven all day across the dusty North Texas panhandle, a cold, hard wind blowing sagebrush and grit against the windshield. Now, as we passed fields of freshly tilled, red soil on the outskirts of Elk City, the air was still and humid.

“Tornado weather,” my wife said. A native of Oklahoma, she knew the signs well.

We turned off Interstate 40 to search for a motel, falling in behind a beat-up, black Cadillac Seville as it sharked from the exit to the town’s wide main street. As the old car pulled up in front of a small, steepled, white clapboard church, we noticed a bumper sticker on its rusted rear mudguard: I’m reddened by his blood. Jesus Christ. We slowed to look at some of the churchgoers. Stiff-necked, skeletal old men with the resigned demeanour of undertakers pulled disconsolately on their starched shirt collars as their wives, heavy-set women in ankle-length floral frocks, some with dense beehive hairdos that seemed to melt into the rubbery folds of their necks, gossiped among themselves. They shuffled past a black-suited pastor who stood like a shadowy, slightly sinister figure from an Edward Gorey illustration at the entrance to greet them.

Inside, the tinny wheeze of a harmonium accompanied a few discordant voices singing an unfamiliar hymn. The notes hung in the evening air like a lament.

Elk City was my first glimpse of the so-called Bible Belt, the deep, fervent trench of Protestantism that runs eastwards from the Texas and Oklahoma panhandles, and above them the Kansas/Colorado border, and straddles the traditional geographical and cultural divide between the old Union north and the Confederate south, to the coasts of Virginia, Georgia and the Carolinas. It threads through some of North America’s worst ghettoes of rural poverty, a poverty indifferent to the racially biased economics of its large cities: according to US census statistics, in the back-country farming communities across the South that are furthest from metropolitan centres, white, black, Hispanic and native American all share the same hard-scrabble grind that gives real meaning to the phrase “dirt poor”.

The land around Elk City lends itself to biblical metaphor. Neither expansive nor picturesque, there is something pared down and almost puritanical about the unkempt hedgerows and stands of gnarled hickory and oak that enclose fertile, arable smallholdings. The surrounding flatlands are stark and unprotected from the moist equinoctial depressions that bring fierce southerly gales, thunderstorms and the threat of destructive tornados and flooding. (As the adage has it: “When the wind blows in Texas, Oklahoma sucks!”) In winter, the temperature can drop a score of degrees below freezing, turning the air to ice and blighting the autumn plantings of winter wheat and sorghum. At the height of summer, a harsh sun heats even the few patches of shade to well above 42ºC, where it simmers for weeks on end until the last drops of moisture evaporate and the earth becomes as brittle as kiln-heated clay.

The locals are the spiritual ancestors of the Joads, the fictional Okie farmers who were the heart of John Steinbeck’s classic novel, The Grapes of Wrath. Memories of the Great Depression are still vivid among them. Back then, Western Oklahoman families were crushed by drought and debt so they abandoned their homesteads to migrate westwards from the worsening dustbowl to work as low-paid fruit- and vegetable-pickers on abundant southern Californian plantations: “Up ahead they’s a thousan’ lives we might live, but when it comes, it’ll on’y be one.” The long drive across half the country on the narrow, two-lane blacktop known as Route 66 – with the few possessions they had managed to keep out of the hands of county sheriffs piled high on the backs of small, rickety trucks – was a hardship, but traversing the last few hundred kilometres across the empty south-western desert was like an Old Testament trial of their faith. Somehow, they endured, despite the press of evidence that if their God did exist, he was all out of mercy and had long since turned his back on them.

Maybe it takes a long haul across the ragged flatlands of the central plains to begin to understand why the roots of American evangelism are planted so deep in this part of the country, and why it appears, much like the land itself, to be at once bountiful and unforgiving. It also takes some time living around it, as I did for three years in Oklahoma, to understand how it can insinuate itself into even an insistently secular life, comforting you with its fellowship, its pervasive sense of community, and presenting the solace of a reductive world view, in which everything is neatly constructed as a choice between good and evil. If you didn’t think about it too much, it’s easy to embrace – and the one thing that can be said of most people in this part of the country is that they are pre-Socratic: they don’t like to think. A few hundred kilometres to the north-east of Elk City, Oklahoma’s second-largest metropolitan area, Tulsa, is the self-proclaimed buckle of the Bible Belt. Home to several thousand Christian congregations and churches, very few of them mainstream, the business of evangelism is as important to Tulsa’s economy as American Airlines, medical care and energy.

It wasn’t always so. The area was first settled in 1836 by the so-called Five Civilised Tribes – the Cherokees, Choctaws, Chickasaws, Creeks and Seminoles. Forced to surrender their homelands east of the Mississippi to the federal government by the 1830 Indian Removal Act, the tribes were escorted by the United States Cavalry on a forced migration westwards along what became known as the Trail of Tears. Christianity arrived with the St Louis and San Francisco Railroad from the West coast in the form of a Presbyterian missionary, the Reverend Robert Loughbridge, who delivered the city’s first sermon from the front porch of a local store. But while the first church was, not surprisingly, also Presbyterian, its founding congregation was made up of converted Creeks. Creek and Cherokee pastors quickly established Presbyterian, Methodist and Baptist churches to serve native settlements.

It took more time to convert the rangy cowboys and Indian traders who were the city’s first white settlers. The first white minister, a Presbyterian, the Reverend William Penn Haworth, endured three years of his congregation’s unrepentant sinfulness before he delivered a fiery admonishment from the pulpit about the evils of alcohol. He was beaten bloody and left for dead in the street; when he regained consciousness, he resigned – and fled, like many before and after him, to California.

The city’s first black ministers, who arrived at the turn of the century, were a little more cautious, not least because racial prejudice was, and still is, a raw, ugly cicatrix across this part of Oklahoma. The first black churches were denoted as “Negro” — as in “Negro only” — on a 1911 city map published by Sanborn, and one of them, Brown’s Chapel, at 307 North Frankfort Avenue, went so far as to describe itself as “Colored Methodist Episcopal”. Still, that probably just inflamed Tulsa’s deeply ingrained bigotry. In 1921, when leaders of the prosperous black neighbourhood of Greenwood, in Tulsa, tried to thwart a mob lynching of a young black man unjustly accused of a sexual assault on a young white woman, it degenerated into an all-out urban war that became known as the Tulsa Race Riot, and black churches were among the first targets. About 300 blacks were killed – their bodies dumped into an unmarked mass grave at a municipal cemetery, where they lay undiscovered for half a century – and several thousand more were driven into the countryside as rampaging armed gangs destroyed their homes and businesses. God-fearing whites had no qualms about smiting down their black brothers, whose Christianity, they might have argued, was less righteous, less devout than their own.

There’s a rich tradition of cynicism and hypocrisy in the predominantly white Christian evangelism of the Bible Belt. The first charismatic preachers learned how to work a crowd at the feet of itinerant snake-oil salesmen and smooth-talking carney spiritualists who bilked small change from the naïve country folk that gathered to watch their shows. Fire-and-brimstone ministers at the turn of the century understood the importance of clever stagecraft – they kept the tents and wagons the snake-oil salesman left behind when patent medicines began to be sold at general stores – and the use of dire hyperbole to ensure a congregation’s rapt attention. But it wasn’t until nearly a century later, in the 1980s — about the time when American capitalism began to embrace the oily Gordon Gekko ethos, “Greed is good” — that Christian evangelism really found its ideal medium: cable TV.

Oddly, it wasn’t the urbane example of Billy Graham, until then the most successful Christian preacher in America and possibly the world, that set the standard for a new, less polished generation of television preachers. It was the ambling, “aw shucks” populism of the then president, Ronald Reagan. His well-rehearsed political choreography enabled him to dance around even the most serious issues that assailed his administration, while still appearing to be elegant and statesman-like to his well-heeled backers, and cosily humane and folksy to white working-class and rural voters for whom, amazingly, he embodied everything that was right and good about the American dream. He was, after all, as he often said, “blessed by God”.

With easy access to capital, and booming prices multiplying the value of their churches’ long-held real estate assets, it took less than a heartbeat for Reagan’s religious ward-heelers — Pat Robertson, who was already a wealthy evangelical media mogul, and the self-appointed leader of the media-conceived Moral Majority, Jerry Falwell, as well as the less credible but no less ambitious B team of Jimmy Swaggart, Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, and Oral Roberts — to 'get' it. Boosting their existing celebrity, built over decades of nickel-and-dime tent shows, travelling ministries and radio sermons, and increasing their quarterly turnovers by tens of millions of dollars, they each overcame their slightly cartoonish personas and country bumpkin drawls to become shrewd, rich media players courted by politicians who needed their endorsements and with them, the votes of their loyal television constituencies.

All it took was a few slick, if sometimes barely credible, crusades that no longer focused on the anachronistic notion of converting sinners but on capturing a bigger share of an audience — an audience that, thanks to cheap cable access, was now in front of a television set (and still listening to a radio) nearly 24 hours a day.

One of the most shameless of television evangelists was Jim Bakker, who misappropriated $US158 million of his TV ministry’s contributions, diverting them through 47 bank accounts in his own name and squandering them on, among other things, dozens of cars, six mansions, each appointed with $60,000-worth of solid gold bathroom fixtures, and hush money ($265,000 to be exact) to his mistress, Jessica Hahn. More shameless, in some ways, was Tulsa’s own, Oral Roberts. He claimed on television that he had had a vision of a 300-metre-tall Jesus, who told him to build (with his congregation’s money) his City of Faith Medical and Research Centre, a soaring tower in faux-gilded steel and reflective golden glass that opened in 1981 and closed eight years later when it proved too costly and impractical to run. In 1986, the then 68-year-old Roberts announced that God had told him he would be “called home” — in other words, die — unless he was able to raise $US8 million in donations over the next 12 months. When the deadline passed, Roberts announced that his life had been spared, but that didn’t stop him from claiming a few months later that he had recently resurrected the dead. As for his own death, the weaselly preacher claimed he would return soon after to rule the earth alongside Jesus Christ

Oral Roberts’s unvarnished (some might say blasphemous) attempts to blur the divide between evangelism and business came along just in time to “rescue” Tulsa.

In 1901, the discovery of oil in Red Fork, a small town just outside of Tulsa, on the southern banks of the Arkansas River, was the first of a series of strikes, including the rich Glen Pool Field, that over the next quarter of a century would turn Oklahoma into the biggest oil producer in the South and Midwest, bigger even than Texas, and Tulsa into 'The Oil Capital of the World'. With more than 2,000 wells in operation in the city, it was the logical headquarters for many of North America’s major oil drillers, refiners and distributors, fuelling a network of subsidiary economies as the demand increased for drilling rigs, derricks, storage facilities, pipelines and pipeline stations, refineries and processing plants, powerhouses (central power), loading racks, petroleum-production camps, tract housing for company employees, corporate buildings and mansions for wealthy oil executives.

By the middle of the century, the wells were running dry and although farming and mining sustained outlying communities, even the arrival of an American Airlines maintenance plant and the continued prosperity of one of the city’s largest employers, the Williams company – which moves 300 million cubic metres of natural gas through 23,500 kilometres of interstate pipelines every day to supply 12 per cent of the natural gas consumed in the US – could not stave off an economic slump. Thousands of unemployed, uneducated roughnecks and their families were sitting ducks for predatory charismatics who came from all over the state to set up makeshift churches and offer spiritual respite from the joyless hustle for below-minimum-wage jobs in a flooded labour pool.

I first went to Tulsa in 1989 when my wife, a Tulsa native descended from local Cherokee and 19th-century French and German settlers, took me there to meet her family. The city was still scuffling – whole blocks of the business district were empty and boarded up, and there were long lines of people queuing outside the soup kitchen at the Salvation Army mission downtown – but there was a sense that better times were just around the corner. American Airlines had turned a small maintenance facility at Tulsa International Airport into a major regional base, and with increased flights to American’s international hub in Dallas, a half-hour flight away, several large corporations, including Dollar and Thrifty Rent-A-Cars and TV Guide, were considering Tulsa for their national headquarters. The city had always remained the main resource of skilled oil workers for fields all over the world, including the Middle East and South America, but with the construction of several, new, well-equipped medical centres, day surgeries and private hospitals, and the expansion of the already large private hospitals servicing the city, Tulsa was becoming, in the words of a local politician, “the specialist care centre of the Mid-South”.

Thanks to Oral Roberts, from whose less-than-shining example the local charismatics learnt how to work their congregations to increase revenues from tithes, donations and even merchandise sales, Tulsa’s churches thrived even during the worst of the slump. Every day new ones appeared, sometimes in the most unlikely forms, in the most unlikely places.

There were still scores of small, unadorned, timber chapels in every neighbourhood, but there were also those set up as storefronts in strip malls, right there between the Starbucks or Denny’s franchise and Gap, Rite Aid or RadioShack, and even one in a nondescript warehouse on an industrial estate where the other tenants were a John Deere tractor-parts supplier, a timber yard, a bulk feed wholesaler and a specialist panel beater.

Then there were the bigger churches. Many had been founded as small, rural churches on tracts of unkempt land on the outskirts of the city. As Tulsa’s sprawling suburban development edged closer, they increased their congregations – and the value of the tithes they received. Some churches built primary schools or day-care centres for pre-schoolers or walk-in medical centres, others conceived even larger complexes that included small stadiums, theatres and broadcast facilities. The most successful bought high-rise corporate offices where they could manage their now multimillion-dollar financial operations, from the funding of overseas missions, mostly in Central and South America, to the negotiation of new cable and satellite slots to distribute church programming in foreign markets.

Every conceivable faith was represented – Anglican, Apostolic, Assembly of God, Baptist, Brethren, Calvary, Catholic, Church of Christ, Church of God, Congregational, Episcopal, Evangelical, Foursquare, Lutheran, Mennonite, Messianic, Methodist, Nazarene, Orthodox, Pentecostal, Presbyterian, Reformed, Seventh-day Adventist and Vineyard were just some of the Christian denominations – but it was the charismatic evangelicals that grew their churches into big businesses, with tax-free turnovers that ranged from hundreds of thousands of dollars to tens of millions. That these sums were derived in large part from donations by those in the community who could least afford them – and in many cases had sacrificed basic needs to scrape together the money – did not appear to give anyone, least of all the preachers, pause.

As Pat Robertson declared, 23 years ago, in an infamous taped sermon: “Satan has gone! God has just healed somebody! A hernia has been healed! Several people are being healed of haemorrhoids and varicose veins! People with flat feet! God is doing just great things to you!”

Evangelists work with missionary zeal to target those who will, quite literally, buy the idea that redemption is just a matter of the right-sized donation. “Give generously so that you will be saved,” one Tulsa preacher is famous for telling his working-class flock, which is transfixed by his vivid assertions of an imminent apocalypse, a biblical “end of days”, and his histrionic readings from The Revelation of St John the Divine. Maybe because it inspires such compelling performances, eschatology is not so much an area of theological study among charismatic evangelists as it is a sales tool. "I can feel the power of the Lord in this home,” the plumber said. He was standing in his damp overalls at the edge of our living room, gripping the wooden shaft beneath a bright red, rubber toilet plunger as he admired a wall decorated with Mexican crucifixes and crude devotional paintings of the Virgin Mary. My wife, who was not a religious woman, had collected them over several years as we travelled together around the American South-West. “I can tell these things,” he went on. “I can tell when the Lord has visited his blessings on a place. That’s why I became a preacher – to share my personal understanding of the Lord’s way.” Offering him a thin smile, I gripped his elbow and gently lead him back to the open maw of a cracked and leaking toilet bowl.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I, too, was a preacher. I had impressive documents — one from the World Christianship Ministries, the other from the Progressive Universal Life Church — attesting to it, both framed and hanging on the wall of my study, and my credentials, acquired on the web, had been filed with the court clerk of Bixby county to enable me to perform marriages anywhere in the state. I had even incorporated a church for which I had applied for tax exemption, not because I had any intention of gathering a congregation but because I wanted to see just how far, as a sceptical atheist, I could go in establishing a “legitimate” religious organisation. So far I had invested less than $500 in “donations” to the two churches that provided me with ministerial recognition, and in fees for the paperwork to create the legal entity of my church. All I needed now was a clapboard chapel, a sturdy pulpit and a congregation.

Actually, the clapboard chapel and pulpit were optional.

My wife, our three children and I were then living in a large, six-bedroom house on one of the many gated estates that had been built in the countryside south of Tulsa. Our neighbours were mainly white Anglo-Saxon Protestants – lawyers, cardiologists, plastic surgeons, computer-software designers and oil executives – who, when they were not working, pursued the predictable elements of the American Dream: they bought expensive foreign cars, which they polished every weekend, played golf at the local country club with colleagues, took their kids to softball and soccer practice and never missed a Sunday service at the local church. They also held prayer breakfasts at local coffee shops and took turns to host Bible discussion groups in their homes. One or two were credentialed ministers — their credentials just as dubious as my own, but taken a deal more seriously — who presided over Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas services in their homes attended by friends, relatives and neighbours.

Home services were common all over Tulsa. A few were the foundation for successful full-time “faith enterprises” that catered to congregations of no more than a hundred. As with other churches, these home operations were tithed, and even the most squirrelly of personal tax plans could not compete with the total tax exemption they claimed on their revenue. All you needed to make a buck was confidence, a little charisma and the correct choice of biblical references.

Well, not quite all. As a musician friend of mine from New Orleans observed, when he heard I had bought a house in Tulsa: “Ah, home to Jesus and crystal meth’!” If anything outnumbered the churches in the city, it was the garage laboratories synthesising “the shitkicker’s cocaine”. Thanks to the wholesale distribution networks of outlaw bikers like the Bandidos, the Mongols and the Rolling 30 Bloods, as well as the predominantly black street gangs, the Bloods and the Crips, and the Latino South Side Locos and Mara Salvatrucha, crystalised methamphetamine had become one of Oklahoma’s highest revenue commodities. "What’s the worst that could happen: that they learn to love their neighbour and learn the difference between right and wrong?”

Martha was a former oil executive who lived across the street from me. Her husband continued to work as a senior vice-president for a Texas drilling company. They were typical of the residents of our estate — rich, Republican and Baptist — except that Martha was black, and perhaps because of that, we became friends. I was the neighbourhood’s only foreigner, tolerated but not entirely understood, my accent as incomprehensible as Aramaic to most of my neighbours.

Martha had asked if my family would like to join her at a church-sponsored picnic in parklands adjoining her church after the Sunday service. I didn’t say anything — just cocked an eyebrow at her and smiled. She knew me too well to be hurt.

On the face of it, she had made a seductively simple point. Any parent wants his young children to grow into upright, socially responsible adults and anything that might contribute to that, including going to church, should not be dismissed too quickly. And yet I had a problem with that “difference between right and wrong”. America’s politicians, civil servants and military commanders might stoop to baby talk — “we’re the good guys, they’re the bad guys” — to defend their country’s reasons for being at war, but I was unconvinced that the definition of good or bad was so easily articulated. I also wasn’t sure how I was going to get across the subtle but still essential nuances I saw in it to my children, or even if I should, but I suspected that the preacher at Martha’s church would not have the same hesitation. Resolve is part of what evangelical Christianity is all about. There is no questioning, no hesitation; as I heard one television preacher put it, “With faith, there is always certainty”, even if there is really none to be had. In the main, evangelicals toe the line of middle American prejudices, having no truck with socialism, pacifism, homosexuality, evolution, gun restrictions (all good Christians should own one) and liberal attempts to take God out of the classroom, court and local and federal government. They were encouraged by America’s split, under George W. Bush, into “faith-based” and “reality-based” constituencies, and are happy to concede irreconcilable differences with that half of the country that is not yet willing to give up reasoned discourse or a confidence in scientific investigation. These days, they also stand ready to go mano-a-mano with Islam. To hear some of the faithful tell it, their born-again Texan President should get on and finish the job that was started by the Crusaders 908 years ago: “Just nuke them troublesome Ay-rabs and Eye-raqis out of existence!” an elderly woman demanded during a phone-in on a popular Tulsa radio show. The trouble is, the rectitude of the Bible Belt, where faith-based politics have been the way of things since the1950s, does not stand up well to scrutiny. Collectively, the Bible Belt states have the highest teenage pregnancy rates in the country, about 105 per thousand — overall, the US has the highest rate in the world — and the highest rates of syphilis and gonorrhoea. Oklahoma has the country’s highest infant mortality rate and the highest mortality rate — three times the national average — of abused children. In Tulsa alone, 20 per cent of all children live at or below the poverty line. And along with Texas and Louisiana, Oklahoma has the highest rates of incarceration: worse, of the approximately 22,000 people arrested each year in Oklahoma for drug offences alone, 2,000 are under 18. In the end, we went to church with Martha. My children enjoyed the experience and although I cavilled silently about every line in the earnest, young preacher’s down-to-earth homily, I was taken with the sincerity of the shared faith, and afterwards, the friendliness. I wondered, just for a minute, how we non-believers are able to live with the spiritual void within us. How do we find meaning in the everyday of our lives? It’s easy enough to find reasons to live but meaning, and the restless longing for it, is more complex, more elusive and insistent. A religious faith sublimates it and for many people, especially those millions all along the Bible Belt for whom every day is a struggle, that is probably enough.

For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. [Romans 8]. First published in Griffith Review, Australia, 2005.

#oklahoma #biblebelt #christianity #fundamentalism #tvpreachers #raceriots #racism #gangs #oil #hypocrisy

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witchesoz · 2 years

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Oz Lore: The Wicked West (1)

There is a comic book series called "Legend of Oz: The Wicked West"

The first series was published in 2012 (the first volume being called "Over the Rainbow"). It is a clever and entertaining re-imagining of The Wizard of Oz in a Wild West setting.

Dorothy Gale (known only by "Gale" since she hates being called Dorothy, only her Aunt and Uncle called her that and hearing the name makes her miss them) was a young farmwoman/cowgirl who one day got swept away by a tornado into the magical land of Oz, a supernatural version of the Wild West-era America. Now, a lonesome cowgirl with for sole company her horse Toto, she has been following the Yellow Brick Road for three years now, in search of the Emerald City and its fabled Wizard...

The comic mixes elements from both the MGM movie and the original novels in a unique mix.

The East

We do not know much about the "Witch of the East" in this context, merely that she was killed when Dorothy's barn fell upon her after the tornado.

The "ruby slippers" are now here the "ruby trappings", aka the ruby spurs and pistols, two powerful magical set of items the Witch of the East wielded. Their exact powers are left unknown and Gale herself ignores the extent of their power - she only mentions that Glinda, the Witch of the South, gave them to her, and that people around Oz fear and respect the items. The ruby spurs can break chains with one kick, while the ruby pistols actually shoot ruby bullets, and does not need to be recharged - though they seem to act like regular bullets.

Later, at the end of the story, Dorothy actually learns the true powers and the true charm of the Ruby Pistols - they can open up doors and portals to any location and place existing in the world. You simply need to state either the name of a place, of a time era or of a loved one, and then shoot three times in front of you. It will open up a portal to said place/era/person. But beware, because the portal won't close like that, and things can follow you...

The land of the East, the territory of the Munchkins, is described by Gale as a "feast or famine" place, one minute you are in a place of farms and fields filled with people, but as soon as you set out you find yourself in a desert filled with canyons, before finding back towns and fields, and then again a desert.

There is the "forest of the Kalidahs" where the unfamous beasts live and that people rarely get out of - but there is one escape. At the end of the forest, there are huge statues of Kalidahs. Or so it seems - in truth they were kalidahs petrified a long time ago by a man named Pipt who used a "liquid of petrification". Ever since, the kalidahs fear going near this area of the wood (out of "superstition". Because here the animals do not talk, but they are nonetheless intelligents and emotional enough to understand humans or, in the case of the kalidahs, have superstitions).

The Yellow Brick Road is actually extremely hard to follow because the bricks were stolen by reckless and greedy people: they were bricks made of gold, pure gold. One of those groups of road-breakers are seen in the story - but as it turns out what seems like common bandits were actually winged monkeys. Indeed, recently the East has been more dangerous because winged monkeys sent by the Witch of the West have invaded the area, usually disguising themselves as cowboys, bandits or (in the case of females) as prostitutes. You can however pierce their human glamour by their glowing green eyes - the magic of the Witch of the West is green in color. [A small note, female homosexuality is apparently allowed in Oz since the prostitutes offer with no shame some "business" to Gale].

Interestingly, the Road was only destroyed in the most Eastern part of the East, where there's towns, salooons, farms and deserts. Past the forest of the Kalidahs, the Road is untouched and the vegetation lush and vibrant - but this area of the East is wild and filled with dangers and strange beings. Even if you survive the Kalidahs, you have to escape the sentient poppies and the warrior field mice.

The Munchkins are mentionned as the "little folk" who welcomed Gale upon her arrival in Oz and helped her. They gave her "Munchkin perfume" (whose exact purpose is unclear but that apparently is a strong perfume that fades away only after a very, VERY long time), and they are visibly reputed as makers of sugary goods: they used to hold candy stores (under the Lollipop Guild control), the Witch of the West mentions "Munchkin sweets" and the Tin Man (here a cold and aloof but good elder sheriff as talented with guns as he is with axes) says they make the best "sugar bread" of all Oz.

The Emerald City

The Emerald City is the heart of Oz, and the end of the Yellow Brick Road (in fact at this point, the Road floats in the air, showing that magic is high around here).

Officially, the Emerald City does not exist anymore. It was abandonned by its inhabitants and fell into ruins. Are only left a huge green tree in the middle of the desert, with nearby a house/farm in which live Pipt with his daughter, Scraps (who looks like a regular human being, until you notice the stitches covering her and the numerous scars and patchworks of flesh). They claim they are the last inhabitants of the Emerald City - but in truth they are its guardians.

The Emerald City used to be a mining city, on top of emerald mines (hence the name) and it went underground - now a full underground city build in the grottos, caves and emerald mines. Pipt is supposed to guard the entrance to the upper world (the giant tree). The city underground is led by Jinjur, a young woman, but she is but the assistant and servant of the fabled Wizard of Oz, who appears to Gale and her group as a giant green and glowing head - but the head seems different depending on which side you are. In the front it is an old man's head ; on the right it is a monstrous black head ; on the left it is the head of a beautiful and solemn woman.

Note that in this first series the truth about the Wizard is not revealed - the first series ends when Gale vanquished the Witch of the West. Oh yes, because the mission the Wizard gives Gale is to kill the Witch, just like in the book.

The West

The Witch of the West is of course the main antagonist of the series. Ruler of the West, land of the Winkies. Her appearance is heavily based on the one of the MGM movie. An old, withered, green-skinned crone, with a crooked chin and hooked nose, red claws, glowing red eyes and black hair. She wears all black - a black hat, a black cloak, and instead of a black dress rather black bandages wrapping her body. She is said to be one of the oldest witches around, if not THE oldest witch, being roughly two-hundred years old (though the Witch herself claims that she lived five times a human lifespan, and defeated death several times - Death personified as a "he" so it implies she literaly met and vanquished Death on several occasions).

Just like the Witch of the East, the Witch of the West has a weapon - a black rifle (though she can turn it in black pistols, which she does to fight Gale - but the ruby bullets and her own black bullets annihilate each other, because visibly the witches' weapons are of equal force). When it is under the shape of a black rifle, the Witch can shoot it in the air - one single black bullet can not just cross the entire land of Oz, going from the West to the East, but it also can turn into a gigantic swarm of black bees (yep, the deadly bees of the book? They are the Witch of the West bullets).

The Witch keeps other items with her - for exemple instead of a broom she rides a creepy horse who can walk through the sky (and the horse is actually a parody of the color-changing horse of the MGM movie, here still a rainbow/color-changing horse, but visibly made of fire and with glowing red eyes) ; and she has a crystal ball she uses to spy on Gale (but when activating it the ball glows green and emits fire). Just like in the movie, the Witch is also associated with fire - she has been show producing fireballs out of her clawed hands. The Flying Monkeys (who are actually gorillas with bat wings) obey her because she owns the Golden Cap, but they resent her and how little she thinks of them (when she throws magic attacks she doesn't care if her own troops are in the way - the Witch does not care how much or how mnay people are hurt as long as she gets what she wants).

The Witch of the West is obsessed with the Ruby Trappings. She believes that she owns them by "right" since they belonged to her "sister". She also mentions that she wants them to "free" Oz of the Wizard's rule and grip, which might seem to be a benevolent move and put her as a anti-hero... Except that at the very end she reveals that if she wants to free Oz of the Wizard, it is to take over Oz herself and become its absolute ruler. Not just that - but she also plans on conquering all the universe existing. You see, she claims to have been to several other worlds that she conquered, and she wants the Ruby Bullets to open up portals to even more worlds to conquer and add to her empire. (And yes our world is considered a separate world from the one of Oz). In fact it seems a good part of her powers come from her exploration of other realms - she says her fire comes from the "depths" of Oz" and she mentions having control over winds coming from "unseen worlds" (she threatens Gal to tare her apart with the four winds of Oz).

Of the West land in itself we do not see much. We only see the black castle of the Witch, which is located beyond the "Haunted Forest". At first it might seem like a regular forest, just filled with dark and dead trees... But if the Witch casts the appropriate spell, the entire forest becomes alive, each tree now a hateful monster trying to harm whoever stands near them.

The other regions

We do not see much of the other lands, but we have a bit of Glinda, the Witch of the South.

She is said to have been the one to give Gale the ruby spurs and pistols, taken from the crushed body of the Witch of the East. She only appears in person near the end of the story, when Dorothy is imprisoned in the Witch of the West's castle.

While at first she seems to appear in flesh, surrounded by a blue aura and clouds of bubbles, in truth she merely appeared in Gale's dreams to guide her (though the Witch of the West notices bubbles in the castle, which makes her guess Glinda is acting up). In fact, upon discovering Glinda helped Gale escape, the Witch of the West makes an oath to make Glinda pay - visibly Glinda had never stood up directly to the power of the West, but by her helping Gale she declared war on the West.

Glinda appears in a white outfit, as blond woman - with her outfit and manners, she seems to have been fashioned after the "Southern Belle" archetype (given this Oz is a mythical United-States it makes sense that the South would be the Ante-bellum South). Gale has a strange relationship with her, because while at first she thought her a friend and helper, when Glinda revealed to her she knew all along of the ruby bullets' portals, Gale lost her trust in her. In a similar way, Glinda says she cannot help much Dorothy because her abilities are limited - but it is unclear if this is really the case or if she just withdraw her powers, the same way she did not say anything of the Ruby's powers. The fact that she clearly is a Southern Belle also puts in doubt her "goodness" given, you know, the dark side of the USA South.

Apparently, each Witch has a weapon, a gun, which is her most precious item and main source of power. The East had her ruby pistols, the West her black rifle, and Gale asks to see and know what is Glinda's weapon - but Glinda refuses to show or tell her. The only items she is seen holding are a white fan, and a magic wand with at the end a huge pearl (a nod to the pearl necklace of Glinda in the books).

#oz lore #oz #the wicked west #comic book #the wizard of oz #oz geography #wicked witch of the west #ruby slippers #munchkin country #glinda #emerald city

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violetsandshrikes · 4 years

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Save the Sea Weed Eating Enderby Island Cattle!

Enderby Island. Barren. Roaring Forties. Albatross, sea lion and penguin territory. A small island in the sub-Antarctic Auckland Islands. Exposed to gale force winds almost all year round.

465 km South of New Zealand's Mainland a small herd of cattle survived for over a hundred years in challenging conditions after being abandoned due to a failed farming venture on these remote islands, only to be eradicated by our Department of Conservation. Fortunately one cow and some semen were saved by members of the Rare Breeds Conservation Society of New Zealand. We now have 3 small flocks with a total of about 30 animals in captivity but these precious animals could be wiped out by the stroke of an MPI officer's pen if they are exposed to a disease like M. bovis.

Funds will be used to preserve 3 embryos, more if extra funds are collected! $100 of $5,000 goal as of the 8th of October 2020.

#doc is wrong for this one tbh #also they’ve been trying to raise this money since 2019!!#conservation #cattle #cows #enderby Island

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“Jeanne Boydston’s study of housework suggests another possible explanation for the tendency of parents to withdraw their daughters from domestic employ: the devaluation of housework itself as an activity of any economic value. The introduction of a cash economy into the interstices of post revolutionary American life meant that activities that did not customarily generate cash—including those myriad duties of domestic maintenance—became ‘‘invisible,’’ defined as something other than work both by those who did housework and by those who did not.

Women themselves increasingly devalued the importance of their own work, as evidenced by Lydia Almy of Salem, Massachusetts, who ‘‘wove, attended to livestock, made cider, carted wood, tanned skins, took in boarders,’’ but nonetheless, recorded in her diary that she was disturbed to know that she was ‘‘in no way due any thing towards earning my living,’’ unlike her mariner husband. The increasing tendency to define housework as hardly work at all, because of its unwaged (or low-waged) character, influenced the calculations of parents as they made decisions about their daughters’ lives.

Mary Virginia Terhune’s advice explicitly attributed a cash calculation— and an invidious distinction—to the attitudes of both daughters and their fathers toward daughters’ work, especially when girls had received educations. Fathers, she felt, imagined that ‘‘the labor of an educated woman,—especially if that woman is his child, and her scholastic education has cost him thousands of dollars—should . . . command a better market-price than that of an illiterate Celt, whose schooling cost nothing.’’ Daughters themselves might have adopted a wage theory of value to assess the value of their own labor, Terhune speculated. A middle-class daughter’s ‘‘time and strength are worth more than a seamstress’s, or chambermaid’s or cook’s wages. The world teems with seamstresses, chambermaids, and cooks, clamoring for the very work she abhors.’’

Frances Willard’s book of advice to girls put a different spin on the situation, based on a similar hierarchy of class. She urged middle-class daughters to aspire to higher work than housekeeping, arguing that opening a place for a domestic servant in their homes created a place for a destitute young woman who otherwise ‘‘might be tempted into paths of sin.’’ (Prostitutes themselves often compared the two vocations, to the disadvantage of housework.) Writing in the 1880s,Willard and Terhune did not lament the graduation of middle-class girls from housework; they seemed to agree that middle-class girls either had priced or should price themselves out of the market for domestic labor.

…One of those who worked for her living was Ann Ware Winsor herself, who ran a school from their home and sought other ways to eke out the family’s subsistence. In a letter to her daughter the previous summer, she informed Annie of several schemes she had for making money; for one, the boys would raise chickens. ‘‘While they make money out of hens, I expect you girls to make it out of small fruits, and I have engaged a lot of plants to be delivered here in the Spring for you to cultivate!’’ Ann Ware Winsor assured her daughter that not only would it provide a welcome contribution to the family coffers, but ‘‘That’s the way out of head-aches and other ails. Read some books on the subject and you will grow enthusiastic.’’

Despite the economic worries of the Winsor family, however, only one child, a middle son, actually worked at a paid job outside the home in 1880: seventeen-year-old Paul was a clerk at the railroad office. The eldest, Robert, was in college, and all the rest were in school, including nineteen-year-old Mary and fifteen-year-old Annie. Presumably the ‘‘opportunity costs’’ of educating the girls were low enough that it weighed against sacrificing their education. Family calculations also suggested that the daughters’ extra energies would be better used in assisting in teaching in their mother’s school than in doing housework. For the 1880 census indicated that the Winsor family employed three female servants. (Annie’s private journal recorded cryptically, ‘‘Maids are an abomination for children.’’)

…The growth of the market economy during the course of the nineteenth century meant that girls as well as their parents felt the need of cash. Those without access to cash sought strategies to make some, whatever their attitudes toward women’s wage work as a social development. Away at school in the cash-poor South, and largely abandoned as well by her father, Mary Thomas fantasized about alternative lives. In one of them she sold things, ‘‘for I mean to work a patch next year and make some money, if I don’t have to come back to school; and then at Christmas, I will have a right good lot of money to do as I please with, I think I shall get a watch with it.’’ Despite her clear disdain elsewhere in her diary for the notion of working for a living, Mary Thomas was willing to countenance work for wages in order to be able to participate in a consumer economy.

A fourteen-year-old subscriber to the youth magazine Harper’s Young People reported that she had earned the money for her subscription herself ‘‘by sewing for the black people.’’ She reported that she had to sew ‘‘very cheaply, because they are so poor’’; presumably her low wages also reflected her low level of skill. A correspondent to St. Nicholas also reported that she and her brother had earned the money for their subscription themselves—in this case by selling hickory nuts and onions. Elite girls came late to money earning. Mary Virginia Terhune charged late Victorian parents with discriminating against girls in their differential training in the basics of money management.

‘‘Jack raises chickens and sells the eggs and ‘broilers’ to Mamma. Willy splits kindling-wood for the kitchenfire and draws his lawful wages from Papa as would any other laborer. Mamie comes down to breakfast, as gay as the morning, hair bound with a blue ribbon that matches her eyes, waltzes up to Papa, in a gale of affectionate glee, throws her arms around his neck and begs for a kiss. She gets two and a gold dollar, fished up from the vest-pocket nearest the paternal heart—‘because she looks so pretty today.’’’ Terhune’s charge that girls were not given experience managing money had some basis.

Women were not paid wages for housework; instead, their work was supposed to come ‘‘from the heart,’’ and to be inspired by devotion to the family good. To the extent that girls shared in their mothers’ lots, they too were encouraged to dust, to make beds, and to shell peas not as entrepreneurs but as part of their responsibilities to womanly service. However, just as housewives made some cash through the nineteenth century for a variety of home manufactures, girls too might learn to work for profit in performing those home tasks still considered ‘‘productive.’’

…Good parents saw to it that daughters had some skills in handling their own money—and because few urban girls had the money-making possibilities available to Margaret Tileston on her family’s farm, some of them began to receive small sums in the form of a regular allowance. An 1897 study on ‘‘Children’s Sense of Money’’ found that 7 percent of all girls were given a regular allowance. Jessie Wendover, the daughter of a prospering Newark grocer, was one. At the age of nine in 1881, she received ten cents a week allowance, which was raised to twenty-five cents by the time she was fourteen. She kept a careful account of every expenditure.

At fourteen, her expenditures included an occasional soda water (ten cents), ice cream, Sunday school donation (five cents), a variety of school supplies, carfare, ribbons, music. Although she was not usually responsible for buying her own clothes, she also recorded paying twenty-five cents several times for a bustle, perhaps because it was not encouraged by her mother, or more likely because it was one of the few ready-made items in her wardrobe. She paid for her own magazine subscription to St. Nicholas, $2.75, or nearly three months’ allowance. As befitted her regular habits, Jessie Wendover customarily carried a balance of $5 or so from month to month, except when depleted by the Christmas season.

By 1887, when Wendover was fifteen, she was receiving fifty cents a week, and recorded paying twenty-five cents ‘‘to see picture ‘Christ on Calvary.’’’ At sixteen, she developed a taste for milkshakes, a habit of occasionally eating lunch out, and a preference for having her bangs cut by a salon. Chewing gum, peanuts, and marshmallows made their appearance in her accounts in the summer of 1888, but so did regular contributions to the missionary box, and in the fall, a donation for yellow fever sufferers. The following year she noted frequent small outlays for hokeypoky—ice cream—and she once spent seventy-five cents to have her hair shampooed.

But in October of that year she was sufficiently ahead to deposit $3.00 in the bank, and in September of 1892, her twentieth year, $20.00. Clearly Jessie Wendover’s ample allowance and her own prudence allowed her early to learn not only how to spend money and account for it but also how to save it—all important lessons for bourgeois helpmates. Another pattern though seemed to be gaining currency at the same time. Increasingly, household chores began to creep in as part of the way that parents justified giving money to youth.

…Occasionally, and unevenly, girls’ diaries began to suggest that they themselves were beginning to expect and to receive wages for work done for their families. Marian Nichols reported receiving wages for family sewing. ‘‘Worked on some drawers for Margaret. Mamma is to pay 30 cts a pair for them.’’ The next year she reported that she was even getting paid for exercise. ‘‘Went to school. Walked in and out by myself. Rosy doesn’t like my getting money from walking out. I get 3 cts.’’ Jane Addams’s father paid her for every volume of Plutarch she read and reported on, as well as for every volume of such things as Irving’s Life of Washington, ‘‘after the manner of Victorian fathers,’’ according to Anne Scott.

The custom of paying daughters for their work in the bourgeois family suggested a new approach to girls as well as to family economics. The same study that tracked the development of the ‘‘allowance’’ also discovered that fully a quarter of all girls reported making money for doing housework. It is no wonder that girls increasingly began to resist doing housework as part of their womanly lot that others were getting paid to do. Giving girls allowances was good Victorian practice—encouraging regularity of habits, responsibility, careful accounting, and prudence.

Yet in its tendency to evolve into a quid pro quo for performing household and other kinds of chores it contributed to a radical new notion well expressed in the economic writings of Charlotte Perkins Gilman—the notion that daughters, if not their mothers, were autonomous economic beings in control of their own labor, and able to exchange it for currency. When Victorian fathers paid their daughters wages for housework, they were laying the seeds of turn-of-the-century rebellions against conventional notions of female self-sacrifice as woman’s natural lot.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Daughters’ Lives and the Work of the Middle-Class Home.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#jane h. hunter #history #american #victorian #class #how young ladies became girls

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mynthara · 3 years

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*NEW RELEASE*

Tin is the most famous fae in Oz for all the wrong reasons. Cursed with a stone heart, he is the perfect assassin: ruthless, efficient, and merciless with thousands of kills to his name. When his old friend, Lion, offers him a small fortune to deliver Dorothy to the South for his lover to wear the girl’s head as her own, Tin doesn’t hesitate to accept the unsavory deal.

Dorothy Gale lost everything—her family to illness, her dog to age, and now her farm to foreclosure. The entire town thought she was crazy for believing in a faerie world called Oz, but even after ten years have passed, she can’t help knowing she was right. So when an emerald green portal opens in her wheat field, she jumps at the opportunity to return to the only place she ever felt like she belonged.

Tin wasn’t expecting a grown woman to step through the portal, just as Dorothy wasn’t expecting Tin to have his stone heart back, but Oz holds more unexpected things than either could have imagined. Magic has hidden dangerous lies behind glamour, trapped innocents in curses, and left the land of Oz in turmoil—none more so than the South. As Tin and Dorothy travel together for the second time in a decade, their lives begin to make sense again. Soon, they must decide who to give their loyalties to before Lion takes Dorothy’s head and Tin’s cursed heart is forever doomed.

Perfect for fans of Sarah J. Maas and Laura Thalassa

Available now on Amazon

#literature #enemies to lovers #childhood friends to enemies to lovers #bookedit #book rec #book recs #book recommendations #tin #faeries of oz

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

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Beside The Dying Fire (part four)

[DnD AU with the tour!verse]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Word count: 3397

-------------------------------

The sloshing of mud was REALLY starting to get on Katherine’s nerves.

After sleeping through most of the day, Katherine and her companions were on the move. But because of the heavy rainfall the roads had been reduced to an ankle-deep mass of mud and slime. The wetness wormed its way into Katherine’s fur shoes, completely ruining them, and she guessed it wasn’t much better for Joan, who couldn’t even wear shoes. Her hooves and the white skin around her feet were a dark brown color, and Katherine wondered if it would be stained that way forever.

The tragedy was still weighing heavily in all of their minds, especially Katherine’s. Everything kept replaying in her mind- the fire, the violence, the screaming, Anne’s death… Anne may have been silly and loud, but she was still her cousin. They grew up together. And now she was gone.

“Kat?”

There was a gentle touch on her shoulder; Katherine turned her head to see Catalina, looking worried. She quickly wiped her eyes with her knuckles.

“Yeah?” Katherine said in her best not-upset voice.

“Are you alright?” Catalina asked.

“Yeah,” Katherine said again, this time slightly weaker.

Catalina frowned and took her hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

Katherine sniffled lightly and nodded.

But nothing felt okay. Not anymore. Her home was burnt to the ground, so many of her friends and family and neighbors were dead, she didn’t even know what happened to her father… And now she was on a mission to stop a war that she didn’t even know how it started.

For nearly the entire day, they walked on in solitude, Katherine and Catalina hand-in-hand, the sounds of the forest and the occasional flitting birds their only other companion. Therefore, it was almost a surprise when they all heard the clip-clop of iron-shod hooves, and the rattle of wheels rising from the road ahead.

Soon, the source of the sound comes into view, a handful of riders leading four heavy, covered, ox-pulled wagons: a merchant caravan.

Katherine got a better look as the distance between her group and the caravan slowly closed. The outriders were clearly ready for danger, clad in vests of boiled leather, swords and maces belted to their hips. A few others sit in the wagons, children mostly wearing sturdy, well-made traveling garb.

At the head of the caravan were a man and a woman, both rippling with tension. Katherine sized them up as they approached, but none of them bore the wolf marking of Henry’s troops. The woman was a hard-faced and dangerous-looking centaur, armed and armored in the same fashion as the outriders, with a wide-brimmed kettle helm on her head and the equine body of a muscular shire. The man, on the other hand, was a rather short air genasi with pastel blue skin and halo of crystals growing from his head.

“Hail, friend!” The genasi shouted, earning a disapproving look from his centaur companion.

Katherine dared to wave back. “Hail to you as well!” She responded. The caravan guards seemed to relax visibly as she did so.

“Well met, girl!” The genasi replied as he halted his caravan before the trio. “We haven't seen a lot of travelers on the roads these last few days. What with the war and all.”

The centaur woman beside the caravan master kept her distance. As far as Katherine could tell, she was entirely preoccupied with scanning the road ahead for threats. Judging by her expression, she seemed less than amused by the momentary stop.

The caravan master extended his hand to Katherine. "I am Gale of Edinburg, this is my caravan, and the centaur next to me is my associate, Gaddison. You must excuse her; she thinks threats are everywhere.”

“They are everywhere,” The centaur replied bitterly, stamping one of her back hooves. She glanced at Katherine’s group and her furry ears pricked up in surprise when she saw Catalina. “You’re pregnant.”

Catalina groaned. “God, is that my entire personality trait now?” Katherine rubbed her shoulder comfortingly, and Catalina crossed her arms and huffed in annoyance.

“I don’t mean to offend you,” Gaddison said. “I’m just impressed to see that you’re out in these conditions, that’s all. War rages everywhere.”

Catalina ruffled the feathers on her head. “I can take care of myself. I’m very strong.”

“She is,” Katherine nodded.

“Well, that’s good,” Gaddison said. Her eyes slid over to Joan, but she didn’t say anything.

“By any chance, do you know what has caused the war?” Katherine asked the caravan master.

Gale blinked a few times. “I do not.” He said. “I don’t think anyone does.” He swung his head to the rest of the caravan, but they all either shrugged or shook their heads.

“I see.” Katherine said.

She and the two caravan masters chat for a little while longer before the wagons take off again in a grinding of wheels, stomping of hooves, and squelching of mud. It wasn’t long before the caravan was just clouds of dust in the distance. Katherine and her companions began their trek once again.

Hours passed. The sun began to set and the last of summer’s humidity weighed thickly in the air. It would be autumn soon, which meant cooler temperatures, but more wind, rain, and snow. Katherine wasn't sure which was worse.

That being said, the sight of a large building up ahead, with brightly lit windows and smoke coming out of its chimneys, and a surrounding village was welcome indeed.

The smell of farm animals and manure floated on the wind, getting stronger and stronger as the trio got near. Bleats and snorts and clucks whisked around the village as they entered. Some people glanced over, mainly at Joan or specifically Catalina’s stomach, but didn’t stop them.

They soon came to a two-story hall accompanied by a row of stables and surrounded by a waist-high stone fence. Sounds of music and laughter spilled out of the open windows, and a bright watchfire burned at the fence's gate, next to a crudely-painted wooden sign of a sleeping creature, hung from an iron post set into the gatepost.

“The Sleeping Dragon Inn,” The sign said to them in bright red letters visible by the light of the watchfire. Katherine and her companions made their way past the fence, through the courtyard, and into the main hall.

The high-ceilinged common room of the Sleeping Dragon In was bright and filled with the stink of spilled ale, roasting meat, and burning wood--all the aromas of civilization. Maybe half the benches in the big room were empty; the rest were filled with merchants, caravan guards, and other travelers, each busy with their own amusements, whether that be food, drink, dice, or song. A few glance over and whisper something to each other, but don’t speak up directly.

Katherine walked up to the bar. Behind it stood the stout, scruffy dwarf innkeeper, idly polishing a bottle of some dark fluid she had never seen before. She asked him for a bed for the night for her and her companions.

In response, the innkeeper rattled off a long list of options and their associated costs, from the expensive and luxurious to the downright squalid but cheap. Katherine ended up purchasing a comfortable private room and plain dinner for fifteen gold.

Katherine and her companions sat down at a booth as they were served a supper of thick brown bread and a bowl of stewed game birds seasoned with a tiny dash of valuable black pepper. Katherine was given a tankard of freshly-brewed ale, while Catalina and Joan were given a simple glass of water.

“Do you think they’d let me have some ale?” Catalina asked Katherine, not at all joking.

“Absolutely not.” Katherine said instantly.

Catalina wrinkled her nose. “Come on! Just one drink!”

“No.” Katherine said again, and Catalina huffed in response.

Katherine looked over at Joan, and saw that she was looking all around the inn. She appeared to be searching for something, but stopped when she noticed that Katherine was watching her. She slumped down in the booth and nibbled on her bread.

After they ate, they were shown their room on the second floor, which was, admittedly, a little cramped, but it had four walls, a roof, two cots with a straw mattress, and a bed, which was all they really wanted.

“We’ll go to the market in the morning,” Katherine said. She and Joan had taken the cots, while Catalina got the bed. “We may need to purchase some things before we get moving.”

“Sounds good to me,” Catalina said, and Katherine heard the sheets she was laying on crinkle when she shrugged.

“Alright, let’s all get some rest,” Katherine said. “Goodnight.” She closed her eyes and dreamt of fire for the rest of the night.

------

Colorful flags of different trading companies fluttered in a strong wind above the market square, which was bustling with activity that morning. Though Holm was fundamentally a small town, a fair number of traders bearing mundane goods such as grains, dyes, and cloth were stopped in the square, as did monster hunters and treasure hunters offering hard-to-appraise finds from nearby ruins. The merchants mostly traded from impermanent tents open at one side, but some wander through the crowd and act as their own auctioneers: “Who will give me fifty, fifty for a silver ring from the time of the ancients? Fiftyfiftyfifty thank you fifty-five-fifty-five-fifty-five I have fifty-five…” The air was sweet with the smells of cinnamon and curry spices from the south, and stinky cheese from the north.

Currently, Katherine was in a tent that sold clothing, and was squinting at a big, jaunty lime green hat with a huge feather. By her side, Catalina ran her hands over a golden robe while the shopkeeper eyed her suspiciously, probably wondering how she would fit in the cowl. When Catalina noticed this and the glances her belly was getting, she scowled and stomped over to Katherine.

“I hate it here,” The Aasimar grumbled.

Katherine reached up a hand to massage her friend’s shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sorry, honey,” She said. “I have enough to buy some fresh clothes for all of us. Would you like some?”

Their clothing seemed to finally be fully dried from the perpetual wet of the rain and river, but still bore the stink of smoke and burned flesh. Several people seemed to notice this by the way their noses wrinkled when they would pass by too close by.

“No, it’s okay,” Catalina said, tugging on her black nun’s robes. Her pregnancy was easily seen through them, earning a lot of incredulous and judgemental stares.

“Are you sure?” Katherine asked. “I don’t mind, really.”

Catalina shook her head. “I’m good.”

“Hm.” Katherine said. “Alright.”

Just as they’re about to walk out of the shop, they hear a halfling woman cry, “Thief!!!”

Katherine spun around to see someone in a drab brown cowl brazenly running off with a basket of red apples, leaving a large gap in the offerings of a halfling’s fruit cart. They easily bobbed and weaved around all the townsfolk who try to get in their way. The halfling uselessly shouted, “Thief! Thiieeef!” until she started to lose her voice.

The thief was about to get away when a huge mountain of an orc stepped in their path and they fell backwards. The hood came off, and Katherine hissed underneath her breath.

“Oh, shit,” Catalina said helpfully at her side. “That thief belongs to us!”

Townsfolk rushed to pick up the fallen apples--the “count of five” rule seemed to be an old tradition for judging the edibility of fallen food in Holm. Then they return the fruit to the halfling, because honesty must also have been a tradition in the town.

Two of the town guards show up, but Katherine and Catalina have to step in before they can strong-arm the thieving albino Tiefling away.

“I am so sorry about her,” Katherine said. “We should have kept a better eye on her.”

One of the guards looked Katherine up and down. “This rat belongs to you two?”

“Yes,” Katherine said. “I am so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Thankfully, the guards took mercy on them and left them with just a warning. Katherine breathed a sigh of relief when they were gone, then gave Joan a stern glare.

“What were you thinking, young lady? Stealing?” She said.

“Sorry,” Joan whispered, her ears drooping. “I-I just thought that we would need some food… Especially Catalina.”

“Rude.” Catalina said. “But fair.”

Katherine sighed again, then knelt down in front of Joan, since the little Tiefling was so short. “Then I can buy some. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Joan nodded, avoiding eye contact. Katherine ruffled her hair, then stood up straight. A few people were muttering and glaring at Joan, but the whole matter of the thief was quickly forgotten when a man down the street shouted, “Death cloud!”

Katherine blinked, looking around. To the east, she could see a dark purple-and-black cloud on the horizon. The cloud looked big, maybe as big as the town. And judging, by the sudden pandemonium broken out through the market, its appearance was not a good thing.

Immediately, the merchants broke down their tents, and many market patrons hurried into their houses and basements. Shutters snapped shut all down the street. The animal sellers hastily bargained with landowners, then pushed their sheep through storm doors into basements. A baby cried madly despite her mother’s tense reassurances. Some people uprooted flowers as they passed them; they’ll be no good to anybody else soon enough.

“What’s going on?” Catalina shouted over the panic. But the only answer she got was more screaming and yelling.

Joan yelped loudly as someone stomped on her tail. Katherine was shoved into Catalina, and then promptly got her foot trod on. They were all going to be trampled if they didn’t get away soon.

“Oi!” A voice suddenly called out. “Get in here!”

The three of them whirled around to see a man waving from out of his front door. They hurried over and inside the safety of his home.

The house was filled to the brim with artifacts and art. Various geared axles from larger defunct automated artifacts, and some compelling-looking sleek metal cylinders etched with symbols that look very powerful gleamed in the light cast from conjured glass orbs all throughout the rooms. A whole alchemy set, composed of vials, beakers, and burners that laid out across a mahogany desk; a sculpted dragon egg, which was swaddled in some sweaters; a torc of life and death from an old laboratory; some rather fancy clothing on mannequins; an assortment of spare automation parts; and, of course, a shined bookshelf packed full of hefty tomes of magic- all of these things decorated that household that pulsed with magical energy.

Their savior was a young wood elf man, swathed in forest green robes with sparkling gold hems. He had bronze skin that was speckled with blue and pink paint, dark coppery hair, and deep, rich brown eyes. An amber sparrow earring dangled from one of his pointy ears, and he was wielding a hand-carved paintbrush. He hurried around the house, slamming shutters and curtains, but then turned to them with a warm smile after he finished.

“That was close,” He said. “You three must be travelers. Mostly everyone in the area knows about the storms.”

“What was that?” Catalina asked.

“Death Cloud,” The elf said. “It’s been going on for a few years, now. King Henry conjured it over our village after we refused to fight in the war with him. Better than being raided and killed or kidnapped, I suppose.”

Katherine winced internally. So other villages were being terrorized by Henry, too. She wondered what would have happened if Ghent had gotten a Death Cloud instead of being raided.

Would Anne still be alive?

“Anyway, I’m Hans Holbein,” The elf said with an elegant bow. “Who are all of you?”

“Katherine Howard,” Katherine said. “These are Catalina and Joan.”

Hans swept his eyes over the three of them, focusing on Joan. “Stars above,” He murmured. “An albino Tiefling! Wow, I’ve never seen one before! I didn’t even know they existed!”

Joan shuffled her hooves, glancing up at Katherine with an anxious expression. Katherine patted her head comfortingly.

“Hokka, banos,” Came a deep, rumbling voice.

Katherine’s eyes widened as a large stone golem came lumbering out of one of the other rooms. Its rocky grey body was covered in clumps of moss and streaked in green engravings. Its eyes were glowing bright green as it stared down at the trio.

“Hokka, slogeils,” It said.

“Woah,” Catalina said.

“Oh, right!” Hans presented the golem with a grand gesture of his arms. “This is Rocky, my two ton enchanted stone golem!”

“You must have been feeling very creative when naming it,” Joan said.

Katherine felt a jolt, but Hans laughed loudly, clearly not offended.

“You are absolutely right, little one,” Hans said.

Outside, the storm began to pick up. Katherine heard the wind buffeting the house and heavy rain pelt down on the roof. There was also the sizzling of something. Hans ran over to a ladder leading up to a loft and peered through a periscope. He whistled.

“It’s real bad out there,” He said, then looked over at the trio. “Wanna see?”

One-by-one, they each took a look through the periscope.

Katherine watched as the black-and-purple cloud engulfed the entire town, building by building. At the cloud’s touch, flowers withered, trees dropped their leaves, and wooden shutters blackened as though charred. Black raindrops fell against tree trunks and melted the bark in grooves.

Finally, the cloud came for Hans’ building, blocking her view of anything but its own darkness. She quickly stepped back, and Hans retracted the periscope and shuttered the hole.

“Looks like there’s nothing to do but wait,” Hans said. “You all can stay with me until the storm ends. Make yourself at home!”

------

It’s been two days since the Death Cloud rolled into Holm and Katherine had raging cabin fever.

As hospitable as Hans and Rocky were, she hated being cooped up inside when she had a war to stop (even if she didn’t exactly know how to stop it just yet). She read Hans’ wide collection of books, painted, and even tried casting spells, but nothing could get rid of her boredom. She was ready to go back out and continue her adventure. So, on the second day, she approached Hans.

Hans was in a small alchemy room, grinding up some fire salts in a mortar and pestle. Joan was asleep in their bed chambers, curled in a small ball, while Catalina was reading peacefully. Surely they wouldn’t mind Katherine’s plans.

“We need to get going.”

Hans’ ears flicked up and he turned to Katherine with confusion on his face. “But the storm is still going.”

“Hosa, banos. Hosa, rauo’nd.” Rocky interrupted to offer a plate of deviled eggs it prepared itself.

“Thank you,” Katherine said, taking one. “And I know,” She continued. “But we really need to get moving again. We kinda have a mission.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” He put the mortar and pestle down. “I suppose I have something that can help you get through the storm. Come with me.”

Hans took Katherine to his bedroom and presented her a selection of masks and waxed clothes. Katherine ended up choosing a stag mask and fresh fur clothes, Catalina chose a hare mask and padded light armor, and Joan chose a bird mask and grey robes. Hans stuffed the noses of the masks with incense and herbs that he said would protect him from the poisonous fog outside in the storm, then handed them a small, pocket-sized tome of spells.

“Just in case,” He said. “You three be careful out there. And remember me when you’re legends.” He flashed a smile.

“Thank you, Hans. You too, Rocky,” Katherine said, dipping her head. “We won’t forget this.”

“No problem,” Hans said. “Go on, now. Good luck.”

Katherine nodded, opened the door, and then ventured into the Death Cloud with her companions.

#dnd au #six the musical #six the musical au #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfiction #six fanfic #six fic #katherine howard #tour katherine howard #catherine of aragon #tour catherine of aragon #tour joan on the keys #hans holbein the younger #hans holbein #beside the dying fire

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punkandsnacks · 4 years

Text

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter 17; Highlands Part I

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Masterlist-

Trigger Warnings: No warnings in this chap- slightly naughty bits

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

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

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

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

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

Everything was soft, and warm. Her whole being is snug and safe and lost. Completely lost to sleep and rest.

Mellowness spreading out through each of her limbs like warm embers of an amber fire or a splash of spicy whisky. As if she’s laying in a bath full of silk rose petals and perfectly warm water.

Best sleep she’s ever had in her life. She owes it to the influence of his being near.

Fur pelts and blankets wrapped around her as she’s slumbering on the velvet bench. Curled up in a swathe of them, Kylo smiles, she’s all bundled up, like a little burrowing bug. Her head slumped onto his strong shoulder. Fine wool of his coat scuffing her pale cheek red.

He had his arm around her back and every now and then leaned over and nuzzled his mouth and nose into her hair. Breathing in the plain perfume that he so adored. Kisses her brow. Hints of salty lavender and sage peppermint soap pouring off her. Her skin and her clothes all amalgamated into the encompassing scent of his Iris. The one that he never could resist. The one he knows so dearly by now.

He’s so glad she’s here.

She’s in his arms. It makes him smile he just can’t help it.

He slept a little - in fits and starts mostly. When she’s so warm and sweetly tempting laying her head on his shoulder how could he not? Nestles his nose into her hair and falls asleep too, with a smile on his face, and calm peace taking up his chest. Spreading through him like clouding smoke.

Every muscle in her body coaxed into that sleepy calm lull by a gently rocking motion that sent her engulfed into dreams, like a newborn being swayed in their rocking cradle.

Its the gentle pitch of the coach as it tumbles over rocky highland roads that does it. Crackles and jolts over the stony lanes that cut through the miles and stretching glory of the emerald glens and the heather strewn hills.

He flickers the curtain back from the window his side with his free hand, and milky sunshine spills gold into the scarlet cabin from a clouded heaven.

He peers out the glass, clouded sunshine snatched at his eyes. Quite a stunning vista awaited his attention. He’s used to fish filled lakes, mountain scenery and the lush impossible green of Bavarian landscape under a searing sky. He was made and formed and still sustained, all these years later, by bitter snow and cold rocky climes. Inbetween layers of sinking crushing snow and pine trees was he was formed. Moulded out of such a savage ground as that of his Nordic homeland.

Scotland has a hint of this too: a savagely beautiful terrain. A vast portion of its wilderness remained.

Hulking mountains, the glitter of a loch in the sunshine. Catching like a cascade of sapphires and diamonds in the sun. Dense forest woodlands and rolling hills crested with purple-pink heather. A native plant, as hardy as the landscape and people it sustains.

The sun chips through the clouds and dapples over the valley of the brown-tawny green mountains they’re travelling between. The loch lies spilled and landlocked in the middle. The sky is clear but the wind is howling and icy, and he can feel it’s bitter gale wrapping around the coach.

Scotland is a land he can recall very little of. His previous tours of England over the years kept him mostly in the southern regions. But he remembers some viking settlements on the coasts, in a time when his clans and kin ruled the seas. Pillagers, plunderers and warriors claiming the land for their own like a wandering pack of rabid dogs.

He remembers being at sea, seeing these shores coming into view. Cliffs clearing out of the misty horizon. Stood at the front of the langskip as it rowed him closer to a new land. Some slithers of his memory can still recall.

The woven tunic rasping his cold skin. The taste of sea salt crusted on his lips. Cruel heavy rain pelting into his braids and stinging his head like a thousand needles. The studded leather cuffs and tunic he wore cold from the exposed elements of a ruthless sea. His usual black fur wolf pelt lining his massive shoulders. He can recall how long his hair was back in those days. Braided and knotted and twined with silver ornaments. Kohl smeared on his already dark eyes. He made quite the picture of a savage.

He was on this island a mere two months before he sailed back home. And fate would set its hand on the path towards him being turned by Draegan during that portentous battle.

How different it all is now. Being here, in these very different, yet same, highlands, all these centuries later. With his perfect love of his life, under his arm. On their path towards matrimony.

However dishonourable their actions to get them here. He would’ve slaughtered the whole county if that’s what it took.

He strongly suspected her mother would be in such uproar by now, she’d send for the police or the local magistrate. He can see it now: some six-horse phaeton being governed at impressive speed, by a stony faced police duty constable, haring it down the hair pin roads after them. Mrs Ashton will have painted him the perfect black hearted villain of the peace. Seducing away her eldest daughter to ruin.

Kylo’s smirking at the thought. How correct it is. Except he will not be such a Byronic blackguard as to seduce her and then abandon her like a stray.

He will bed her with such fierce passion make her his Lady. And by god- this wedding can’t come soon enough for his liking.

He admires the scenery a moment or two longer. Before turning back to her.

He nuzzles his mouth to her forehead. Her warm creamy skin against his mouth and he takes a gentle kiss of it. “Dove?” He calls to her through her sleep. His voice a rumbling hush. Chipping through her engulfing pretty dreams.

Her eyelids flutter and she gently comes too - his mouth a loving press on her temple. His lips are a silky wisp on her skin and it makes a beautiful thrum of conscious delight run through her. He feels it pluck along every nerve in her spine. Like a knife carving and picking through stitched thread. His nearness undoes her so brutally.

Her eyes peel open and he watches the sunshine catch in them. Oakmoss and honey. “We are in the highlands?” She asks.

Voice eclipsed under a husky tone that sleep still clings to. He smiles at her. Tucks a straying curl of hair back behind her ear. Her cheek so pink and warm from her slumber.

“Take a look…” He gestured to the window with a casual nod. Smile glowing with love of her, in such an adorably mussed state.

She rubs the bleariness of sleep away and leans across him to admire the prospect.

The breath is quite snatched from her lungs.

She never knew the scenery of these British isles could differ. For years she’d been the landlocked country miss. So used to the frosted green-brown fields and flat valleys of the genteel farming countryside of the south. The unexciting stretch of her home county.

She never knew a landscape could be this vast. Such huge mountains with golden and green grass and purple heather crawling up them. So high they stabbed into the searing grey of the sky and snow dusts their tips where the icy wind blazes. She’s never seen such colour and brutality in such a vista before. It’s quite a refreshing sight to her innocent eyes.

She cranes her head to catch a glimpse of the loch sandwiched between the mountains. The severity of the grey sky fills the waters. But it still looks like a great stretch of Prussian blue ink. She feels like she’s seeing the world for the first time with wide open and educated eyes.

“Goodness…” She gasps in amazement. Kylo smiles looking at her sweet creamy profile bathed in sunlight. The clouds are roiling in temper in front of the sun, Grey and churning, interrupting the light pouring down from the heavens. Kylo suspects there will be rain soon.

She sits back and unfolds some of her cocooning blankets from her legs. She was quite warm enough when she’s holding his hand. Fingers sloped and tangled together in her lap.

“Whereabouts are we?” She enquires.

“Near Kinlochleven. That peak there…” he gestures out the window with a pointed finger. “Is called Ben Nevis. The highest peak in all of Western Scotland.”

“Without meaning to take a liberty; I thought we were intended for Gretna green?” She asks.

He chuckles and leans over to pluck a sweet kiss on the corner of her mouth. He pulls back and rests his forehead to hers. Nose nuzzled against her cheek.

“Take all the liberties you should like, my love. You won’t offend me so easily.” He tells her.

“I must confess I had considered that if your mother is hateful enough to send someone to stop our union, Gretna Green would be the first place she’d look.” He smiles cunningly.

“I thought we had better err on the side of caution.” He insists. “Not that slobbering hounds from the very bowels of hell could stop me marrying you-“ He drawls lovingly.

“But I thought it best to avoid a nasty encounter if there is one to be had.” He tells. “You don’t mind? Do you?” He seeks with a frown.

“Mind?” She repeats. She leans close and kisses his cheek.

“You could tell me our wedding is being hosted in a ditch and I’d still be delirious with joy.” She tells him.

He chuckles kindly at her sentiments. Smile crinkles up his eyes and cheeks. She wants to follow those sweet dimples with her fingertips. Like trailing well-work paths and lines and dips in a map. Skimming over roads travelled.

“I had planned for a little better than a ditch. I sought out an Inn that looked most comfortable. Rather rustic. I’m afraid it’s not going to be a grand manor house overrun with servants.” He tells her. Preferring honesty over catching her in a lie.

She’s still smiling. “I’m not a grand kind of woman. Cosy sounds wonderful.” She insists. She had no qualms about his doing or acting upon anything that could make her uncomfortable.

“I’d take a cosy wedding with you - over anything cold and grand and proper. Like my supposed wedding to Sergeant Hux would’ve been.”

She could see it all so clearly; a stifling preconception of wedded life.

A big society affair - Maratella and Mama would invite every old matron and stuffy Lord of their acquaintance within a fifty mile radius. Anything to show off the grandeur of the match. They’d be wedded under no less than a hundred pairs of eyes, and the odious, foul-breathed, Reverend Potter, watching them.

With a tepid kiss on the lips and duty done, the party would retire to a wedding breakfast hosted at Cavenham - Maratella would insist. They’d spend the wedding night there before setting off on honeymoon the next day. If there was to be one. Probably some boarding house in Brighton or something that wouldn’t remove them too far away.

Iris shudders at the merest intimation of bedding Hux.

He wasn’t repulsive but if his conjugal manner was as alike in every other cold attitude that he treated her. She was in for an uncomfortable procedure in consummating their marriage. It would be very polite, and sharp and quick. A fumble and an insulting rut and she’d be done with him.

He wouldn’t kiss her. Or lay into her with glimmering affection and wildly consuming love in his eyes. He’d do his duty and then she’s damn certain he’d have retired to his own bedchamber. Leaving her there, sore, bleeding and sticky-warm between her thighs. It completely crushed her heart to think that may have been her existence. Loveless encounters until she was beget with child.

He would never hold her. Never kiss her for pleasure. Never walk into a room she’s in, and not dream about taking her in his arms and kissing her like he won’t possibly survive if he doesn’t. He won’t take her hand and hold it the way Kylo is this very moment.

She doesn’t regret her choice. She’ll never regret her choice.

“I shall defer the grandeur until we get to Ranlor. And you will be cherished and spoiled and treated as a Lady should. As well you deserve to live.” He pledges.

Thoughts and the prospect of her new home fill her with giddy desirous joy. She blushes a little at the warm tone of his words.

“What’s Ranlor like?” She beams.

Oh, they’ve had many a courteous back-and-forth in ballrooms with every matron in the world breathing down their neck. Here there is no pretence or cautiousness;

She needn’t be worried she’ll be remarked upon for gazing at him too long. For smiling too much when he talks to her. He need not show less than what he feels for her. Here, like this, their love is unconfined.

It’s no one but the two of them and he’s absolutely full up of delight to remark upon it.

“It’s the one place I’ve had that’s ever felt like a true home to me. The downfall of an existence like mine. I’ve drifted through so many fine houses and châteaus and dwellings. Such a rootless way of spending life.” He begins.

“You would not want me should you have seen where I grew up. I was raised in a dim timber hut no bigger than ten metres square.” He chuckles lightheartedly.

“I can safely assure you. That wouldn’t deter me.” She tells to the handsome man who owns her entire heart.

She tentatively reaches up to skim her palm down his cheek. Can’t quite fathom that she can touch him like this- adore him. Admire him. All those things she never seemed able to do. Now they are all within her grasp.

He takes that dear sweet hand of hers and holds it to his lips for a second. Kisses her knuckles and a shiver of delight crosses her whole being. Rubs his fingertips along the smooth pink oval stones of her neat fingernails.

“Better finding a home at last than years of living in a place that never quite agrees with you.” She tempers softly. Her whole happy childhood spited and soured by her mothers greed for a good marriage.

He feels that comment deeply from her. “She was very wrong to take that feeling from you. Of your native land. Your centre of being.” He explains. “I should hope she is paying sorely for her mistake of you, and no less.” He observed spitefully. And he means it.

Iris doesn’t blame him for it - rather she empathises greatly. She smiles in her agreement.

“I hope Ranlor Castle will serve well. And in time that you may think of it as your home. Because I would want nothing less than your being satisfied and happy with it.” He hopes.

“The way you speak of it- I don’t see how I could not adore it already.” She tells.

“How long have you been in residence?” Fully expecting his answer to be of a shockingly long timeline.

“Since the late 1500’s.” He casually offers.

“Ranlor was an impulsive purchase of land. I admit. But I was sick of war. Of moving with army encampment from country to country. Sick of living in dirt and wet muck and fighting. I bought it because I wanted to wake up each morning and be the master of the land where I lay my head. To know the view I wake up too, is the same one I shall be greeted with at sunset.” He tells her very poetically.

“I’ve lived in attic garrets, huts made of straw and mud, and postage stamp sized rooms. But by that same token, I’ve stayed as a guest of honour at Versailles. Lived with princes and kings and queens and been a companion warrior to many number of emperors in my time.” He offers. “But in Ranlor I found I appreciated having a place to return to where everything surrounding me is entirely my own.”

Iris is blown away by the stories he must have to tell. “When we sup tonight, I absolutely insist you tell me about some of the places and the people you’ve seen. I am my fathers daughter after all. I am an unabashed glutton for history.” She chuckles.

He takes her chin and brings her face closer to his. Melts their lips into a slow bruising kiss. Passion sparks at her skin and it feels like it bruises her.

“How can I possibly deny such a request?” He drawls against her lips. Breath rasping against her scorched cheeks. Her blood simmering hot under her skin and the smell of it is beautiful-

“I want to know every intimate thing.” She begins. He bites back a groan. Good god, how she’ll have it…

“Keep kissing me like this Iris and I’ll give you anything you want…” He sighs in desiring agony into her lips and wraps his big fingers around the back of her head. Completely dwarfs her skull in his grip.

She clutched at his shoulder - otherwise she’s sure she’d simply float off up to the moon in bliss.

“Kissing you is more than enough. I am wholly satisfied by that alone.” She says when they break away. Not able to deny how alluring he is in this way-

Impassioned to the point of fever. His eyes as dark as storm clouds above them. Calls to mind things like granite, and crows feathers and black leather. Dark but light touches so deep. His lips are a raw sweet-cherry pink and he looks like the starving wolf about to gobble up a baby deer.

“We’ll be near to our Inn soon.” He comments. “We are but ten miles from it I believe.”

She smiles and lays her head on his shoulder. Happy to watch the scenery roll them by. Joining her hand with his again in their lap. He takes up a vast proportion of the velvet bench but she cuddles nicely into his side. He kisses her hair again and then turns and watch their coach rumble along the roads.

She could happily drift away again. The scent of him calmly infused into his clothes. His cologne and the soap and sandalwood oil he uses. Pine from the forest, thorny tumbling brambles full of rich, tart fruit, and an undercurrent of eucalyptus and mint. Rich delicious and earthy. And he is a man sprung from the salt of the earth. She adores how his roots are humble, and he’s come so far as to rise into a Lords title. It’s a quality she admires.

Not before long, houses to start to crop up out of this beautiful Scottish countryside. Low little stone houses and then suddenly a fine granite clad town is before them. A promenade of wooden shops socketed into grey brick buildings above. Full of wares and goods for sale.

It’s quite a bustling little town and the outcrop of the splendid mountains is it’s backdrop. The loch nearby for fishing. The land for hunting game and meat. This was a rich land in so many ways. Bursting with scenery and culture. So different from her sheltered upbringing.

The coach takes them along the centre of the road. Up the slope of a hill a little way. Past some more shops and dwellings and there it pulls onto a lane that leads them to a small brown stone building. Set back from the road with a swinging sign on a post announcing its name. A silvery depiction of an animal hangs on that signpost. The White Stag.

She smiles as the coach follows the curved road. Leading to a modest wooden porch. The place was tavern like in appearance. A small and long, squat stone building. Burrowing into the earth after many years of standing. There’s a pretty wilderness of garden surrounding it. Crumbling stone walls sprouting heather. Every window peers out across the wide plain of the glen before them. It’s an open terrain. Bare to the expanse of the elements. But when a place is so happily situated, Iris can’t think it could look anymore handsome.

The coach lumbers to a creaky stop. They gather themselves and step out. She puts on her bonnet, pulls her coat up her arms as he steps out. He turns back to offer her a hand down.

Their driver - a very obliging young lad from Hellford, Sampson was his name - was kind enough to see to their luggage. Even her meagre carpet bag.

He was a nice boy. Kylo had said he was eager to drive a coach, even in the driving snow and frost. Kylo wouldn’t want such an uncomfortable job but he seemed keen. He had a way with the horses. Had the touch with them. And Erland even likes him so that’s as high a praise as can be bestowed.

He was a beanpole lad with muddy hair and jug handle ears. Poky shoulders and a towering stature. Two reed thin legs shoved into his tall boots. Coat swathing his lanky body.

When they broke their journey to take luncheon at a roadside inn near Lancaster, and to feed and water the horses.Kylo insisted that they all seek some sustenance to keep them going.

The pair of them sit in the sunny window in the small, dim pub and share a platter of succulent honey roast leg of ham, cut into thick wonky sliced chunks of juicy meat, with golden roast potatoes and buttered leeks. Served with mugs of sweet crisp apple cider on the side.

The food was splendid and they smile and talk intimately - she found great joy in the fact that no one around them censured or took interest in them like back at home. With every pair of eyes watching permanently it seemed. They sit opposite each other, in the window alcove, around a wobbly pub table and she couldn’t be happier. Nor could he. The smiles on their faces reflect this fact.

Before they ate, Kylo excused himself and quickly went to the bar and said something to the kind serving maid. Slipped a coin into her hand. And came to sit back down next to her. She raised a brow. She knows what he’s just fixed.

Sampson seemed most grateful that they sent him a plate of meat stew, roast ham and a flagon of cider out to the mews for him. The dear boy stumbled and blushed and wrung his hat on his hands and told them it was most kind when they returned to the coach to continue their journey. He told Kylo his last employer wasn’t nearly so generous.

Iris overheard all this as she stood feeding oats to the horses - even though Kylo told her not to spoil them.

Erland was shifting with excitement that she’s fussing him. The silly old thing. Kana was still a reluctant girl. But she seemed fond of Iris all the same.

Kylo smiled at the young boy. Told him he was looking forward to what the young lad would make of the stables at Ranlor. For he was pledged to make the crossing with them.

He wouldn’t be staying in the inn with them. Kylo booked the boy comfortable rooms closer to town. Told him to have a rest whilst he and Iris get on with proceedings of marriage. But he’ll be there at the weeks end to take them to the port to make the ship.

He gathers their luggage. Manages easily even though he looked about as tensile in strength as a lanky wet rag. Kylo takes her arm and leads her into the Inn. She’s getting rather used to the dim glow of these places of late.

He holds the door for her and she ducks in first. He has to swoop low to avoid stubbing his head on the doorframe. Her boots and his clack on the clean flagstone floors. Recently swept she guesses. Every table was wiped and adorned with little vases of wildflowers. Framed pictures and etchings hang straight on the lumpy stone walls. A fire crackles gently in the open fireplace. Horse brasses pinned to the bar glimmer as if polished. Thick plum and grey tartan curtains float poker straight on the brass curtain piles above each window.

The place is clean and tidy and not full of rowdy drunks with straw and ale spewed across the floor. She simply adores that it’s a tavern that takes pride in its neat as a pin appearance.

A few men sit around some tables enjoying a drink in the cloudy milky sunshine of the window. There’s some chatter and laughter in the din of the room. It’s beautifully warm and the air smells like ginger and oats. Something delicious being baked in the kitchens no doubt.

A matronly woman, very pretty with a tumbling shock of frizzy greying red hair greets them from behind the bar. A beige wool dress and apron tied around her middle. She was very beautiful in her late age. A warm face with ruddy cheeks and a complexion that had seen just enough sun. Eyes were a healthy moss green. Her weight lay entirely in her wobbly plump hips. She carries herself proudly.

She’s wiping down the pristine oak bar surface before her. But she stops and smiles when she catches sight of them. Kylo in all his sheer dark mass was impossible to resist or ignore, after all.

“Good Morning, Sir. Miss.” She beams and nods at the both of them. Handsome scottish brogue in her voice sounds kind. Iris likes such gallantry. Most people didn’t bother greeting young ladies when men were present.

Kylo smiles at the woman. Doubtless she was the landlady. “I’m looking for Mrs McCormack, I’ve written to secure lodgings upstairs.” He asks her.

“Aye.” She smiles fondly. “You’d be Lord Ren and Miss Ashton, I presume?” She asks. Looks to the both of them.

“The very same.” He confirms. Stroking Iris’s hand where it lay resting on the crook of his arm.

“How wonderful it is to see you both. I must welcome you the highlands.” She smiles. Laying aside her cloth.

“You have a beautiful Inn, Mrs McCormack. I’ve never seen the like.” Iris smiles at her.

“You’re very kind miss. I thank ye. I take great care to keep my threshold clean and presentable as possible. Everyone here calls me Mrs M. So don’t you be afraid too. If you’d come this way I’ll show you to your rooms.” She nods. Moving behind the bar and out to the stairs set into the alcove of the wall near them.

Kylo lets Iris walk up first. Of course. Watches her smile as she eyes the frames on the wall and asks the kind Mrs M about the White Stag’s history and it’s stories as they all alight the creaky wooden stairs.

He listens to them talk as they walk along a creaky landing with cream wallpaper studded with scarlet roses smeared all over the thick walls. Candles and heavy curtains in every window. Shutters ready to block out the harshest of Scottish winter nights.

Mrs M leads them to a door with a worn gold handle and opens it for them, guiding them inside. Iris instantly sees what he meant about the rooms being cosy rathe than grand. It is cosy and she’s take this handsome room over any gilded grand manor bedchamber.

The walls are tumbling exposed gold bricks. The floors are ancient groaning oak. Worn and bleached an old grey from years of heavy treading boots. The double bed is the centre of the room. A huge soft mattress and downy pillows, foot of it laden with blue and green tartan blankets and a sheep’s skin draped across the end. The mahogany headboard cresting in waves at the foot and the head of the bed is carved and ancient and so very elegant.

There’s a ginormous fireplace at the end of the bed, across the room. Already lit. Popping sparks and blazing heat out into the sunny room. There’s an alcove of a window seat stuffed with cushions and another wool tartan rug. Juniper green cloth armchairs reside by the far wall surrounding a small end table. The room is undeniably snug and home-like. Emphasised in earthy tones of blue and grey and green. Very much like the dazzling highland hills in which it sits.

Iris is so quietly giddy with contentment. She also spies a door to a yet unseen anteroom.

“There’s a private dining room for your particular use through here. Though you’re very welcome to come down and fast in the tavern if you wish. We serve three hot meals a day if you should like. Our cook can make anything you fancy.” She promises.

Her keen eye then spots a crease in the bed linens which she frowns and steps across to smooth out. Iris can see she had a very discerning eye. Kylo lingers in the doorway behind them. Hands folded as he watches her take it in.

He observes as she walks across the room and peers through into the dining room Mrs M spoke of. It’s charming too. Red covered chairs, a long mahogany table. Candlestick of brass shines in the sun. Fire blazing by the dining table.

“Your washroom is just here too. For your convenience.” She moves towards a door opposite the head of the bed and opens onto a small chamber. Installed with a copper bath and a side table with a jug and basin and a screen. “Bessie is the chamber maid and she’ll attend ye’ with any water you’ll be needing.” She tells.

Iris loves it.

“It’s an exquisite room. Mrs M. We are very happy with it. Aren’t we, Kylo?” Iris smiles. Unlacing her bonnet.

He smiles at his intended. “We most certainly are.”

Mrs M seems fascinated with his first name. “Aye now that’s an interesting name. Your lordship.” She puts a hand on her aproned hip and surveys him with friendly curiosity. “I’d wager there’s some Scottish somewhere in your family tree wi’ a name like that.” She nods.

Kylo smiles. Iris’ slate and honey eyes glimmer warmly at him across the room in the cloudy light. Slight beams of it coming though the window are twirling lazily with dust. “There is some Norse I believe. Lingers far back with my ancient ancestors.” He tells their landlady.

“I would’na be surprised mi’lord.” She wagers with a fond grin.

“Oh. I’ll forget me own head next.” She explains. Rummaging into her apron pocket. Drawing out a heavy iron key. “Your room also has its own entrance. Though of course you may always come up through the tavern if you wish. Thats the key to door at the end of the landing there.” She points out the door. Hands the key over to Iris.

She then nods politely to them both. “It is nearly noon. Can I fetch you both a tray of tea? Cook just baked some shortbread I believe.” She smiles.

“That would be heavenly. Thank you.” Iris concludes. Setting her bonnet down on the bed.

“Might I also request you send your maid up to have the bath filled? My fiancée has had a long and tiring journey.” Kylo asks.

“I’ll send her up right away. Your lordship.” Mrs M insists. Moving to the door and shutting the latch softly after herself.

Kylo turns back to her after she leaves them. Iris has her back to him, slipping off her shabby blue coat.

He’ll have to get her another. She’ll be his Lady soon. She’ll need a finer coat than this beaten old thing. It gets stuck on her elbows. He walks across and aids her. Grips the back of her collar and helps guide it down.

She blushes when he leans down and holds her shoulders delicately as he kisses the join where he neck meets spine. A tendril of lose hair curls at his nose. He smiles against the back of her neck. Arms slipping down to draw her into an embrace. Big palms crossing at her stomach.

She places her hands over his. Savours the silence and the feeling of his solid comforting weight at her back. Enclosing her in love.

“You truly like the room?” He seeks. She conceals a blush - rather poorly - when she reflects that the bed she’s now looking at that they will be sharing. On their wedding night. He will bed her in this room and that thought makes her knees weak.

She twists in his arms. His palms rasp over her wool dress. Slides to her hips. She smiles sincerely up at him. “Truly. And I adore its surroundings. And especially its occupant at present.”

He smiles and leans down to claim her mouth in a sweet kiss. She’s so sweet. Sweeter than brown sugar and cream and tart fruit. He drinks of her lips like the greedy pillaging viking he absolutely is. He sucks and nibbles her bottom lip and holds her close when her knees wobble with it. Smiles and breaks the kiss remarking how weak his kisses make her.

“Have a nice long soak, and that cup of tea, my love. You’ll be stiff sore from sleeping in that coach on my shoulder.” He insists. “I may ride Erland into town to fetch a few things…” He tells her.

He had to take care of her, after all. He will not fail in that duty as others had. He was far too gallant. And in love-

She can’t deny how heavenly a soak will feel on her aching bones. And she did have a stiff neck- And although his coach was most comfortable, she is clad not to be in that jolting rumbling box for another night.

“To approach the subject not very delicately-” She starts. Wringing her hands for distraction. “When is the wedding ceremony?” She asks.

That makes him grin. “Four o’clock today. My love.” He smiles.

He wishes there was an artist here with a palette of oils and a bare canvas to hand; for her face is a picture.

“I had the banns read three weeks ago. Paid out a considerable sum to secure the church. All we need do is turn up to the chapel in our best, and the Reverend will wed us. Then and there.” He smirks.

Iris laughs. Smiling in disbelief. She places a hand to hold her middle. She feels almost faint with happiness.

“I think then, that I had better take to that bath.” She chuckles and blushes. He crosses back and kisses her cheek. Cups her neck and gives her a kiss that leaves her shivering long after he pulls his mouth from her.

“I won’t be long. Dove.” He promises. With one last kiss to her hand, he strides for the door and ducks out. “Drink your tea. Wallow in your bath. Make ready to marry me.” He smirks and winks.

Leaving her reeling with the force and memory of his insolently handsome smile.

The room feels doubly empty and so lifeless without him in it. There’s more oxygen without him. And she means that in a sincerely loving way.

When he’s here she’s aware of every smile, every move. Every touch he gives her is magnetic. She’s a bundle of blushes and nerves when he’s near. A giddy silly girl who trembles at the touch of his hand. Who hears the pounding of her heart hammer furiously in her chest when he’s near.

She does as he instructs. Mrs M sends the kind Bessie, the chamber maid, up with a tray of tea and then a big steel jug of hot water for her tiny copper bath.

She drinks the tea and nibbles a biscuit as she unpacks her meagre clutch of things from her luggage that Sampson brought up. As crimson appeared to be Kylo’s preferred colour; she chose accordingly. Hoping her gown wasn’t too crushed from it’s journey in the trunk.

She brought one good gown and a handful of plain cotton and wool ones. The one she would marry him in was a plain ruby-wine red. French Burgundy was the colour name.

It had a ruffle of demure lace stitched all around the scooping neckline and the brocade silk is gathered and stitched intricately at the back. Forming a beautiful slight train and cutting a severe figure. Her mother would have made a comment about it being a red dress. She couldn’t fathom the energy to care.

It makes her in such a passion she wants to pen a letter to her mother right then and there; tell her she’s marrying Lord Ren in a red dress. Like a harlot. See what she makes of that. She wants to watch her face crumble and her rage come snarling forth when Iris signs the letter as Lady Ren. See what her termagant of a mother makes of that…

She hangs it up to ready it for later. Smiles at the sight of it hung on the wardrobe door. Ready. As she should be- she hastens toward her bath.

The kind chambermaid was even so good as to leave a little organza pouch of dried heather and lavender on the side for her. With a little white pebble of honey and oat soap.

Iris catches sight of it as she unlaced her gown and rugged away her stays. She thinks it’s most kind of her to spare the expense of a little trinket. The steam of the piping hot water is muggy and sluggish in the air. Clouding up the mirror behind the jug and basin.

She sinks into the water. Lavender that she sprinkled into the tub spices up the air with its plain floral hint. She smiles gratefully as she submerged fully in the milky cloud of delicious heat. Rubbing the cake of soap along her arms and legs and sudsing up every inch. She does the same with her hair. Wets it and combs through a little oil. Scrapes her scalp with her nails and rubs the soap in and then rinses it.

She scrubs and scrubs until her skin is pink and every inch of her has been kissed and rubbed with soap. She climbs out and dries. Combs her hair out and rubs it. Repeating the process sitting by the small bath chamber fire until it feels significantly more dry. Ready for her to manage pinning into a coiffure. She could manage one on her own; Meg had taught her a few tricks over the years.

She pulls on a new chemise. A sleeveless one that would fit under the dress she’d chosen. She’s rubbing her hair with a flannel towel and takes her silver hair brush with her to go sit by the fire in their chamber. She brushes and brushes until her muddy locks look less and less like a wet soggy puddle.

She hears his treads on the cracking creaking stairs as he comes back.

The afternoon shifting later as the sun slides along behind the clouds. The door latch lifts from the other side and her handsome fiancé comes back in. Nudging the door open with his foot. For his arms are laden with boxes. His hair flounced by the wind and his cheeks pink from it too. His eyes were deviously bright with the exercise- it’s also because he’s caught her sat there in her shift with damply drying hair like some tempting forest nymph.

In all his dark coated glory, he completely fills the doorway to their chamber. His white shirt peers through the gap in his unbuttoned coat. A black cravat is knotted up his neck. Moulding into the stretch of his coat and his big polished boots peeling out where it ends at his calves.

Bessie comes after him. Carrying more boxes. Kylo gives her a coin and a smile of thanks. She bobs and scarpers quick and silent from the room.

Kylo looks across to his intended with a frown of confusion. Had he scared her? Or maybe she found their engaged state sharing a room to be shocking - some people were very strict on such matters.

“I think she is perhaps a little shy. And-“ she leaves her explanation there.

She merely gestures to how tall and big, and handsome, he is. He made Iris tremble in her skin with his smile, and she was years older than the serving maid. To an impassioned young girl prone to crushes and passing fancies, Iris imagines he’s an Achilles heel of blushes and furtive glances. She thinks of her sisters’ reaction to him. All lashes and rosy smiles. Like gardenias coming into bloom for the sun.

He makes a noise of agreement. And that’s when he brings around his arm that had previously tucked behind his back. He brings around a bouquet of flowers. Tied with a grey ribbon that reminded him of her eyes.

“I cannot allow my beautiful bride to be flower-less on her wedding day.” He explains. Setting them before her in her lap as he crouched in front of her.

She is touched beyond words. She grips the flowers and lifts the blooms up to her nose to drink in their scent. Purple thistles, pink and mauve heather, bluebells and wild violets. Harebell and myrtle and a Scottish primrose. A beautiful clutch of green, white, purple and blues.

“They’re beautiful.” She comments. Stroking her fingers along the frail petals. Their nectar and greenery spicing up the air.

“Thankyou.” She sighs onto his lips as he leans in for a slow kiss. He stays on his knees for her - the only way she could reach his lips.

“I fetched some other things for you…” he explains. Taking her hand and pulling her up. He leads her to the bed and her heart thumps a tad faster - thinking they’ll be doing this later on tonight, in a handful of hours, for entirely different reasons.

He shows her the collection of items he’d purchased.

Save for two gold wedding rings - it’s all for her. She is speechless.

There’s three new exquisite silk and lace gowns. An entirely new Scottish-wool coat. Parchment, ink and quills for any letters she wishes to write. Some ribbons and hair pins and pretty silver baubles and combs to decorate her hair coiffures. Five pairs of embroidered stockings, and some round little cakes of oat soap.

Her mouth gapes as she looks to him. He shrugs and offers an explanation - Looking deuced too smug. “You deserve trinkets aplenty to remember your wedding day by.” He explains handsomely. She holds his hand. Quite stunned and not knowing what to say.

No ones ever told her she deserves to be spoiled before. It’s quite a new sensation for her to fathom.

“It’s not a day I’ll be forgetting in any hurry. Believe me.” She tells him.

She sees his eyes dart across the room to where her wedding dress is awaiting being worn. Hung on the door. He smiles fondly at her choice. Looks back to her.

“I can help you with your gown fastenings if you’d like?” He asks. Voice uncharacteristically husky.

She rises to meet his challenge. “If you’re offering.” She smiles. Bravely looking him in the eye.

She turns away and breaks the spell his eyes cast. Walks across and fetches her dress. Steps over to him and he encloses it around her after she steps into it. The fastenings already loose.

He slides it to skim over her hips. Up past her waist. Rests it at her waist and pulls the two sides together over her shoulders.

The way she tugs her hair aside makes his mouth water. Throat bobs where he swallows.

Lovers have done that for him before- countless times and countless lovers- But her doing this, nearly undoes him.

He focuses on his task. Tugs on the hidden laces at the back of her dress. Laces her into it, closing the ties at her shoulders. Eyeing the curve of it that cut around her lovely shoulders. Ruby red against her creamy skin. It’s too tempting to even indulge that certain route of his thinking-

He works efficiently. Fingers brushing the brocade silk and her back. The scent of lavender and spicy oat soap tantalising him as he laboured in this favour for her. He gets to the last tie and he mourns being able to be this close. Parts by stroking his hands down her back, the span of his fingers meet her waist easily. He kisses into her tumble of still drying hair. Inhales her. Cherished the moment of him being pressed against her back.

He called for the bath to be refilled when he came back- and honestly the chambermaid was too damn efficient. Her knock rattled the door and kylo blinks and nods her to come in. Their lusting spell is broken again.

Iris flushed and steps away to round the side of the bed to fetch a pair of stockings. Holding her skirts aloft.

The sight of the curve of her ankle sends his mind reeling into the squalid plains of Male frustration. He swallows and lets the maid fill the bath for him. He was in need of a scrub too. Not exactly covered in the grime and dust of the road but he’d relish the chance to run some soap over his skin before his wedding ceremony.

When he looks back to his beautiful intended, she is sat in the window alcove that’s stuffed with cushions and a tartan rug. Framed by sunlight. Hair turned into spun bronze and gold. Eyes sparkling like polished moonstone. She’s looking down in her lap, with two ivory embroidered stockings in her hands. Running a thumb over the garter ribbon. It was a soft blue. He likes blue on her.

He tries not to envisage that particular part of her anatomy that the stockings will rise up to, too much. He waits for his bath to be drawn and counts down the frustrated and rife minutes as they pass, like the truly impatient Lord he is.

#between wolves & doves #vampire!kylo #kylo ren x oc #adam driver #Regency era #slow burn

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whispersafterdusk · 4 years

Text

Lost in Time - ch 1

Winter had been very eager to shove fall out of the picture this year.

It had announced its presence with a torrential downpour that turned to sleet that had eventually given way to a heavy snow that had hammered Portia for a good five, six hours straight and brought with it a bitter cold that was a stark contrast to the chilly but tolerable temperature from only a few days prior.

It wasn't often that Arlo lamented living on top of a steep hill but he certainly did now as he and the rest of the Civil Corps struggled to clear the pathway without taking a sliding tumble down said hill; after several hours of work they'd only managed to clear to the topmost landing of the sidewalk ramp and they were all soaked, tired, and bruised up from repeated slips and slides -- if this was a sign of what kind of winter they were going to have this year then it wasn't going to be a pleasant one, and they'd likely need more than the one old shovel and broom they'd pulled out of the closet to get through the season. ((Continued below cut))

Arlo himself was armed with that broom and shovel and was quickly tiring of moving the seven inches of snow that sat on top of the three inches of ice and had, within the last hour, stopped piling it neatly alongside the path they were clearing and instead was just happy to move it out of the way however he could.

Behind him, as he cleared away the top layer of snow, Sam and Remington worked together on the ice - Remington cracking and lifting, and Sam getting it out of the way. Theirs was perhaps the harder job even if Arlo technically had more to move by volume, and after a while (after she chucked a double handful of ice chunks off to the side) Sam straightened from where she'd been bent over, rubbing at her lower back. "Man, even with my gloves on I can't feel my fingers."

"This is weather only Papa Bear's suited for," Remington grumbled as he wedged the blunt end of the pickaxe under the edge of the next section of a freshly-revealed layer of ice. They'd tried earlier to use the actual pick end of the pickaxe to try and shatter the ice but had, in the process, accidentally gouged the sidewalk a few times; the only way to prevent any further damage was to use the other end as a makeshift pry bar - it was harder and would take longer but was better than the alternative.

Remington grunted and threw his weight against the haft of the pickaxe and there was a crackling sound as the ice began to splinter and pull away from the stone beneath it. As the sheet lifted Sam bent again to slide her hands under into the gap between ground and ice. "--think Selene could rig something up to make this any easier?" she grunted as she lifted in tandem with Remington's prying.

"Think of it as strength training," Arlo replied. "We can't run today so this'll have to do."

"Let me rephrase that - think Selene could rig something to make this faster?" Sam went on, huffing a bit and stumbling as the ice came loose and she shoved it off to the side. "It's going to take a couple days just to get this ramp cleared off at the rate we're going."

Remington rested the head of the pickaxe on the ground and leaned against the handle, panting. "Let's switch gears and get the snow out of the way - maybe with some sunlight on it the ice'll melt enough to not be such a pain to pop loose."

"Sounds like a plan to me - give me that broom."

----------------------------------------------------

For the last three days, thankfully, the weather had been clear and sunny, if still frigid. Remington had been right regarding the sun and the ice -even with the arctic temperatures it had thinned out enough that they'd managed to clear down to the landing near Gale's house and also the ramp and stairs that connected with Central Plaza. There they'd linked up with Paulie and managed to get a narrow footpath carved out around the border of the plaza leading north to the research center and south to Martha's bakery within an afternoon of work.

There were, out of sheer necessity, already compacted paths along Main Street made by Portia's townsfolk and the few stranded tourists present; once they'd gotten walkways open to Martha's and the research center they'd started working on what had already been worn in by stomping boots around town. It was a bit easier to bust up the compacted pathways and if more willing hands joined them they'd have it done soon enough -- Arlo had estimated another four or five days at most to get it clear even if it was just the three of them the entire time (assuming it didn't snow again). Knowing there was an end coming helped keep spirits high as they shoveled, slowly digging Portia out from under the worst storm anyone could recall in recent memory.

"At least the kids seem to be having a blast," Remington had chuckled as Toby and Polly went whizzing by on polished wooden sleds to thud into a pile of snow they'd left mounded at the base of the tree planter in the center of the plaza. "Going to have to keep an eye on them, make sure if they go out into the countryside they don't go flying out on top of the river - don't need anyone falling through."

From off to their left they heard a sudden cry then, and turned in time to see Erwa lose his footing and fall backwards onto his rump; with the snow mostly cushioning his fall he at least didn't go sliding down the incline behind the two kids but the ice under the snow left him floundering right at Martha's doorstep, unable to get enough purchase to get his feet back under him.

"-speaking of someone falling," Sam grinned. "Come on, let's go help him out."

Arlo turned his back to hide his smile - it felt impolite to laugh at Erwa rolling around in the snow - and kept shoveling, listening as Sam and Remington's footsteps crunched over toward the portly man. The crunching eventually stopped, as did the sound of shoes scratching against ice, and for a brief moment there was the sound of a conversation that was slightly too far off to hear -- the sort of noise where you could recognize someone was talking but not actually make out the individual words.

"'ey, Arlo - have YOU seen Dawa yet today?"

Well, he definitely could hear that. "Can't say I have. Why?" He jammed the tip of the shovel into the snow and turned toward the trio in the distance - Erwa was back on his feet and had his hands out to his sides for balance.

"Because I can't find him, is why," came Erwa's answer. "He wasn't home when I popped in yesterday, and he's not home right now, and I didn't see any new footprints in the snow aside from mine so it doesn't look like I've just missed him each time. It's not like him to NOT be at the tree farm - not for any length of time, anyway. No one else has seen him either."

Arlo frowned - this was NOT the kind of weather anyone should be wandering around in. "Right. We'll look for him. Did anyone see him recently?"

"Not since the day after that storm hit - Emily said she saw him busting ice off the gates to the farm but she's the only one since then."

"Guess we'll start at the farm then and work our way out from there. Let's get moving," Sam said. She took a careful step around Erwa and began to pick her way up the path, trying to stick to the well-worn and frozen over footprints in the snow. Erwa wobbled a bit in place and Remington steadied him with a hand on the shoulder and then Remington was off up the hill too.

Sticking to the path they'd made Arlo headed toward Paulie's store first and left the broom and shovel leaning against the counter, then he too began to carefully climb up the path and toward Peach Plaza. He didn't see anyone else along the way (not that he blamed them - it was bitterly cold) and it didn't take long to meet up with Sam and Remington at the city gates and head out as a group toward the tree farm.

Erwa was right in that there didn't seem to be any new tracks up this way; Arlo could pick out a single set, shaped in such a way that it looked like everyone who'd walked it had all stuck to the same footprints. They too stayed within the tracks, walking in single file all the way up to the farm's gates and beyond, following the footprints up toward the house where the trail then split into five different ones with only one leading up the steps to the building and the others angled out in various directions all seeming to lead out into the groves.

Arlo eyed the tracks - they were all spaced out enough that he doubted any of them met up anywhere close. "Everyone pick a trail and see where it leads. We'll meet back here in a half hour and see what we've found."

Remington picked a trail that headed along the fence line, and Arlo watched the snow fall from the fencing as the man kept a hand on it to steady himself as he headed off. 'Hope his knee isn't bothering him too much,' he found himself thinking -- he tried not to let it slip his mind that Remington's knee wasn't in the best shape but the man went out of his way to hide when the joint was aching anyway. He'd gotten on his case about hiding injuries or aches before but it always seemed to go in one ear and out the other. 'At least we don't lack for ice packs at the moment.'

Arlo shook himself from his thoughts; Sam appeared to have picked a trail that led out to the middle of the tree farm so Arlo chose one that was nearer to the house but angled to the west, and then seemed to veer to skirt along the northern border of the farm. He knew Dawa liked to walk the property a lot -- he needed to, to be able to catch any issues or potential signs of disease in the trees early enough to do anything about it, so him walking about was a usual occurrence...it COULD be that Erwa had just missed him each time he'd visited, and with the weather being so cold no one was really going outside unless they had to so it was possible Dawa had been outside when no one else was around to see him. Both of those were equally as possible as the man being in trouble somewhere out here and Arlo preferred to hope for sheer poorly timed coincidence as he plodded along.

The branches around him sagged and creaked under the weight of the ice, and the further he went the more trees he spotted that were wrapped in heavy rope and what looked like burlap, and in a few places he saw a couple of trees that looked to be slowly splitting in half; one of them he recognized as a tree that had been struck by lightning a few summers ago -- there were thick metal rods connecting the two halves of the tree, and steel cables up in the crown of the tree holding the two halves together. The repair, as ghoulish as it looked, appeared to have actually saved the tree as, once he got up near it, he could see signs where the bark had grown over and bulged out near the bolts that held the rods in place.

Dawa's tracks led right up to this particular tree and went in a circle at its base so clearly the man was keeping a close eye on this one; Arlo edged around the tree and kept going, eying the trail ahead of him and noting how it stopped its meandering among the trees and, about fifty feet ahead of him, straightened out to...hmm.

To the northeast of here Arlo knew was a bridge that crossed the lake that separated the Somber Marsh from the northern shore of Portia's territory along that lake. Unless he was mistaken it sort of looked like Dawa's path was going to lead him directly to that bridge -- the trail had definitely straightened out enough for that to be a viable destination unless it suddenly veered away far enough ahead that Arlo couldn't spot it from here.

It certainly seemed to be case as he drew nearer to the abandoned Old World building that made up part of the northwestern border for the tree farm, and sure enough as soon as he'd walked the length of that building and gotten to the far side of it he could see the bridge in the distance, and Dawa's tracks bee-lined straight for it.

"Why would he go out there..." he wondered aloud. It didn't make sense to go out to the marsh - there wasn't anything out there except monsters and ruins (even the fishing out there was poor). Dawa wasn't the sort to go anywhere near a ruin, he didn't fish, and so far as Arlo knew he'd never gone after monster-based resources on his own -- he wasn't even the sort to deal with monsters when they happened to invade his farm: he'd always enlisted someone else's help to shoo them away or exterminate them.

As he hurried along Arlo mentally cursed the weather as he didn't dare move at a pace faster than a brisk walk unless he wanted to take a tumble; it felt like it took an age to reach the bridge and even longer to carefully climb up the ice-coated wooden ramp and metal steps. Up at the top he could see the tracks heading straight across the bridge; he followed them across and then began to follow a path that seemed to crisscross at random between crumbling rock wall sections, rusted old buildings, and even a couple of gigantic trees that had gaps between exposed roots.

It almost seemed like Dawa was searching for something...but what? What could possibly be out here that he'd be looking for?

The bridge he'd crossed led to one of two large islands in the marsh's lake -- this particular island was known for the two ruins on it: the Deepest Ruin and the Somber Marsh Abandoned Ruins. Dawa's tracks at least didn't lead up to either of those (not that Arlo thought he'd have any reason to go inside either) but eventually the tracks ventured outside of the crumbling, circular stone walls that partially enclosed the ruins, and once those tracks weren't sheltered by the walls they quickly disappeared -- erased by the cutting wind out here that had blown most of the snow away and exposed the ice to the sun (in fact he could almost see dead grass in several spots where the ice had almost melted through).

So Dawa had come out here, searched around, and then headed out of the walls to... The only other places out beyond the walls was another ruined building and a crashed ship that doubled as a bridge to the far side of the marsh, but surely Dawa hadn't gone out THAT far, right?

Rather than trek out there Arlo instead turned to look at the walls -- they were tall enough that maybe they'd give him enough of a vantage point to see if it was even worth it to check the other side of the lake. He fumbled a few times as he climbed (numb fingers - this cold weather was beginning to get on his nerves) and once he was at the top of the wall he saw an unmistakable black smudge on the far shore to the northeast. It was just far enough away that between distance and the glare of the sun off the snow Arlo couldn't make out much more than a dark mark on the ground but whatever it was was pretty big.

He'd definitely need to head over there now, if only to see what that was.

It was too steep to climb down the outer side of the wall so he had to go back the way he'd come up and then take the long way around; the wooden foot bridge that spanned across the two halves of the crashed ship was thankfully still intact and was even mostly thawed out so he got across without issue, and then it was just a matter of getting over to whatever the big black smudge was.

The trees were thick on this side of the lake, both in number and in canopy cover, and the snow had the branches sagging low so it was difficult to see through them; the big black smudge remained a big black smudge until finally Arlo was almost on top of it, and there he noticed two things.

One: the big black smudge was a freshly opened sink hole.

And two: there were footprints in the mud that ringed the opening that led to a long skidmark suggesting someone had slid in.

The sinkhole wasn't perfectly circular and was about twenty feet across at its widest point, surrounded by upturned rocks and broken tree roots, and the wind whistled eerily over the gaping hole. The earth around the sinkhole was sludgy and angled sharply downward toward the opening as well - he didn't dare get close enough to look into the sinkhole or else he'd risk falling in himself.

'I guess Dawa must have heard this thing opening up and came looking for what caused the noise, and fell in.'

"Dawa?" he yelled toward the opening. His voice echoed back to him; there wasn't a response. "Dawa?" he tried again, louder. Again there was no answer aside from the howl of the wind in the hole.

...if the wrapped trees were any indication then Dawa had to have rope stored somewhere on the farm, and there were trees enough here to tie off to provide a handhold to get close enough to investigate.

Arlo turned and began to hurry back the way he'd come -- by now Sam and Remington would probably be waiting for him anyway, and he'd need their help to get down into the hole.

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"You sure about this?"

"Yeah. You and Sam got me beat in the raw strength category, and if I do find Dawa down there he might need the help to haul him out. I'm pretty sure I can get down there and back out without a problem but I can't promise about him - especially if we don't know how far down this thing goes."

Arlo nodded at Remington; he did have a point - they had no way of knowing if Dawa was in any shape to climb out of there. "All right. Sam and I will wait up here - tug on that rope four times if you need us to help pull you up."

"Give me that other coil, there -- no telling how deep this goes."

Sam handed over a spare coil of rope which Remington slung over his shoulder bandolier-style, then with a nod he grabbed hold of the other rope - the one carefully tied to a nearby tree - and began to carefully edge his way forward toward the sinkhole's edge; the mud here went up to his ankles and then midway up his shins before he got to where he could slip over the edge and begin to carefully rappel down into the darkness.

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Once he was over the lip and down about fifteen feet the incessant howl of the wind across the sinkhole's opening ceased, and now all Remington could hear as he picked his way down was the crumbling of dirt and rock each time his boots touched the wall, and somewhere he could hear a trickle of dripping water -- probably melting snow, and the last thing this sinkhole needed was more moisture to cause a further collapse.

He estimated he was about thirty feet down when he wrapped his legs and one arm around the rope to hold himself in place long enough to use his other hand to click on the little headlamp they'd borrowed from Selene; around him the dark dirt seemed to swallow up the pale yellow light and as he looked down his heart jumped a bit as the lamp illuminated roots and vines that jutted out of the sinkhole's walls.

And the vines looked like they'd once been thick and had choked this entire area out but now there was a large gap through their center, and he could see the glimmer of sap leaking out of hundreds of split and broken ends of the plants as he steadily lowered himself toward them.

"Well, at least something slowed the fall," he mumbled as he went -- he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been silently panicking a little bit as the depth of this hole began to sink in (no pun intended) coupled with the fact that he hadn't seen Dawa or even signs of him until this point. If the vines had slowed and cushioned the man's fall then there was a pretty good chance he'd survived the drop.

Remington kept at it with his steady rhythm as he rappelled, and then just above where the vines began his boots hit the wall with a muffled thump; again he held himself in place as he experimentally stomped a boot against the wall and again got the thump -- it almost sounded like metal. He let himself drop a few feet more and then used a hand to dig and pry at the wall ahead of him; something bit into his finger and he yanked his hand back and (perhaps stupidly) stuck his fingers into his mouth but there in the light of his headlamp was a dull, reflective metal visible through the grime he'd scraped free.

This sinkhole must have opened into an underground ruins.

The way down became more difficult as now he had to pick his way through the vines that crisscrossed what he suspected was some sort of ancient elevator shaft as he was starting to see door-like shapes at through the gloom and vine cover regular intervals as he went. Eventually he reached the end of the rope he'd been using to climb down and he wedged himself into a little gap in front of what he was now sure was a doorway, and tied off the rope's end to the coil he'd brought down with him. When he was certain it was securely tied he let the coil drop and listened as it hit something not too far away beneath him -- apparently there WAS an intact bottom to this shaft, and it was a lot closer than he'd thought.

He went the distance of four more "floors" and then finally he was almost on top of a rusted out elevator...pod? Car? What did the Old World call these things? It was the thing that carried people up and down the cables - whatever it was called didn't really matter at the moment, honestly.

From here he could see the ragged hole in the top where Dawa must have either fallen or climbed through, and the metal around that hole was sagging under the weight of the rope coil he'd tossed down; without a doubt it would fully collapse under his weight, so Remington was careful to aim himself at that hole and slide down through it, pulling the coil of rope with him and finally getting his boots back on solid ground within the elevator...thingy.

The air down here was heavy and smelled of dirt and rot; Dawa had already forced the elevator doors open and beyond it was a hallway full of dust and moldering old carpet. Remington could see footprints in the dust (really, the carpet had mostly rotted into dust itself) and began to follow them...not that he really needed them as there wasn't anywhere he could see to go except down the hallway, though there were doors to his left and right. He did stop to try one of the doors and couldn't see a way to get it open -- they had no handles and were almost flush with the walls.

"Dawa? You down here?" he called ahead of him.

There wasn't anything except his own echo so he kept going. Ahead of him the hallway turned to the left, and the closer he came to the corner the more apparent a thudding, dragging noise was beginning to become, until finally--

"Dawa!"

There around the corner was Dawa -- he had his hand up shielding his eye's from the glare of Remington's headlamp, and was dotted with bruises and cuts that left dozens of bloody spots across his clothing. "Never been happier to see someone in my life, I was running out of matches," came the man's reply.

"The feeling's mutual - had no idea what to expect to find down here," Remington laughed. He reached up to slide the headlamp over to his temple so he could look at Dawa without blinding him. "You in one shape, more or less?"

"I've been better - not worried about a few bruises but I'm ready to eat an entire cow by myself."

Remington nodded. "I bet. Come on, let's get you out of here."

"Yeah, about that... Don't know that I can climb out of here. Not on my leg, anyway."

Dawa gestured toward his left leg and Remington brought the headlamp around again; the yellow of the lamp made the bruised and swollen ankle look ten times worse than it probably was, but even still it was the size of a small melon and looked rather painful. "Ah. Hmm. Well, we've got Sam and Arlo up there ready to pull you out."

"Don't know if I'd trust that -- I mean, don't get me wrong, I trust THEM. But at current I don't trust gravity, friction, or the structural integrity of a regular ol' rope. Not even sure I could hold on the entire time to make it out of here either."

"How'd you end up down here anyway?"

Dawa huffed out an annoyed sound. "It's dumb. It's really dumb. So, I heard a noise out here and went looking - you know how I've been keeping an eye out for Aadit, after that Knight scared him off. So I hear this noise and I think to myself, maybe it's him, or maybe it's that damned Knight come back and is up to no good. I wait out the storm then walk out here and it takes awhile to find anything weird - but eventually I find this hole, and when I went to look at it it became a bigger hole and I fell right in."

Remington blinked at him. "Became a BIGGER hole?"

"Yeah, a bigger hole - it was barely bigger than I am when I spotted it. I guess it'd started opening before all the snow and ice hit, and the storm must've formed a crust over the actual size of the hole because I definitely wasn't near the opening when it all broke loose under me and dumped me in." He paused and looked around them. "Who knew there was an old ruin out here completely underground? Usually these things have some sort of above ground entrance. Wouldn't have gotten near if I'd thought it'd lead to this."

"Yeah...wouldn't have expected something like this." Remington rubbed at his chin, thinking -- if Dawa couldn't make it out on his own and didn't think the others could pull him out, then they'd need to find another way up. "You know, on the way down here I saw a lot of elevator doors lining the shaft. We're down pretty deep but maybe we can find a way to link up with a floor that's higher up and climb up out of that floor's door."

"Yeah...yeah, I like that idea. I think I could do a shorter climb, no problem. And I DID find another elevator back that way-" Dawa jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Couldn't get the door open though, and even if I could've I don't think there's any power going to it anymore."

Remington nodded and then dropped to a knee to swing his pack off his back; he rummaged through it and pulled out an old, battered water bottle. "All right, here's the plan then: I'm going to climb back up and let Sam and Arlo know you're all right, and have one of them get Selene or Higgins so we can get this elevator back up and running." He handed the bottle to Dawa, who began to chug from it noisily. "-I'll also get them to bring you something to eat, too."

"You're a lifesaver, Remington. In this case literally."

With a chuckle Remington pulled his pack back on and tightened the straps. "S'what we do. You need anything else in the meantime?"

"Don't think so. It's actually not so bad down here if you get away from the shaft and around the corner."

"What's ahead of here?"

"There's this big room back there - it's got some old furniture in it, some tables and chairs and a counter. Might've been some old cafeteria or something. Been back there since it's warmer."

"All right, then. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Remington heard a 'don't slip' behind him as he turned to head off; it was going to be a long climb back up.

#Lost in Time #lit #Lost in Time - ch 1 #Arlo #Sam #Remington #Erwa #Dawa #Builder #My Time at Portia

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