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cheri-translates · 3 years

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[CN] Fireworks Event - Kiro

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for an event which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

Previous section: here

3rd Anniversary Masterlist: here

Prior to the Carnival, there were questions posed in the Go See You feature which affects which scenario the player sees during the Fireworks Event:

Question 1: Without thinking of any external reasons, if you were to visit the amusement park again, which attraction would Miss Chips want to experience the most?

Option A: Rollercoaster! I think this attraction really alleviates stress.

Option B: Hehehe, the haunted house should be given a name.

Option C: The dessert store! There are so many delicious foods in the amusement park.

Question 2:

Question: To Miss Chips, what is an essential element in a “perfect day”?

Option A: For you to be as romantic as in a fairytale.

Option B: For people to witness the most romantic moment. [no footage found]

[ PART ONE PROLOGUE ]

Time truly passes when one is having fun. In a blink of an eye, the night has already overtaken the sky.

I look at the guide map in my hands, thinking about which attraction should end our itinerary for today’s carnival.

Suddenly, Kiro grabs my hand.

Kiro: Let’s go!

MC: Have you thought of what we’re going to do last?

Kiro: Haven’t we already decided this since a long time ago~

[ Option A: Rollercoaster! I think this attraction really alleviates stress. ]

At night, the tracks of the rollercoaster are full of coloured lights. From afar, it looks like a dream-like track hanging in the sky.

It suddenly occurs to me that the seemingly insignificant question he asked a few days ago actually had a reason behind it.

Kiro: This time, we can enjoy the pleasures of the rollercoaster to our heart’s content!

He offers his hand to me, eyes sparkling despite being in the curtain of darkness.

MC: It’s the first time I’m riding a rollercoaster at night!

We’re seated in the last row, gradually climbing towards the peak. Our entire field of vision consists of the night and neon.

Kiro: MC, do you know about the legend related to rollercoasters?

MC: Do you create stories that quickly? We just sat on it.

Kiro: Nonsense, I was already thinking about it when we were in the queue!

MC: ...

Kiro: ...

Kiro suddenly clears his throat, his fingers making twirls in the air in a counterclockwise direction. Then, he lets out a soft “ding” sound.

Kiro: Miss Chips, do you know about the legend related to rollercoasters?

MC: Pfft.

Cooperating with him, I pretend to look contemplative.

MC: There are sayings related to rollercoasters?

Kiro: Hmph. Not everyone knows about this legend, because it’s only used for rollercoasters at night, and when you’re seated at the last row.

MC: Ah! What else?

Kiro: The rollercoaster will take 55 seconds from the moment it leaves the peak. If you have any wishes you’d like fulfilled, say it silently in your heart, then hold your breath. As long as you can press on till the end, this wish will be fulfilled.

MC: Isn’t the original setting in an elevator?

Kiro: Any similarities are mere coincidences. We’re reaching the peak soon. So? Want to give it a try?

MC: This legend has yet to be put to the test.

Looking at his sparkling eyes, I can’t help but want to tease him.

Kiro: You don’t trust me! But that’s okay, I can prove its success rate to you first.

With this, he closes his eyes, and I have no idea what wish he’s making.

Neon colours fall on his eyelashes, making his side profile look especially handsome.

Kiro: Done.

We’re about to reach the peak. Kiro grips my hand, his face filled with anticipation and eagerness.

Kiro: Let’s go!

MC: Ahh--!

Kiro: Haa... haa...

Kiro is breathing in as much fresh air as he can, and I can’t help but laugh while looking at his flushed face.

MC: You’ve worked hard. From the bottom of my heart, I hope your wish can be fulfilled.

Kiro: Are you secretly laughing at me? Don’t be envious when my wish comes true.

MC: What did you wish for just now?

Kiro: What I wished for...

He turns his eyes to me, then leans downwards slightly such that his face is in front of mine. He closes his eyes gently.

Kiro: I wonder if the intelligent MC can guess what it is.

MC: You’re just being unreasonable!

Kiro: I’m not. Maybe this is the result of my hard work from earlier?

Looking at the person before me who’s pretending to be innocent, I find it quite ticklish.

With a flushed face, I give the corner of his lips a light peck. He seems to have waited for a very long time. Just as I plan to flee, he pulls me back, once again locking me in a trance.

Kiro: Look - I said the legend was effective. You believe it now, don't you?

[ Option B: Hehehe, the haunted house should be given a name. ]

At night, the haunted house looks even more terrifying than usual. The gloomy and cold lights seem to be waiting for challengers to arrive.

Looking at the slightly tense Kiro beside me, it suddenly occurs to me that the seemingly insignificant question he asked a few days ago actually had a reason behind it.

Kiro: Miss Chips, let’s go!

MC: Actually, it’s okay even if we don’t go for this...

Kiro: It’s all right.

He pats his chest confidently, pushing his sunglasses down with one hand.

Kiro: This time, I came prepared.

In the narrow, strange and long corridor, Kiro and I walk unhurriedly, following the directions of the arrows.

Kiro: This is the third time we’ve come to a haunted house, isn’t it?

MC: Yup. It seems like we always have memories of running wildly in haunted houses.

Kiro: In that case, let’s walk slowly this time, and slowly enjoy the delights of the haunted house.

Just as he finishes speaking, a bloodied handprint appears on the paper door at the side with a thud.

MC: !

Before I can rally my emotions, continuous streams of ghost-like cries drift from the paper door beside us.

Kiro holds my hand, scanning the surroundings “coldly”---

From an unknown place, Kiro takes out a gigantic white sheet, covering it over us.

Kiro: If we can’t beat then, let’s join them!!

MC: Pfft!

Kiro wraps me in his arms. His breath is at my ear, which gives me an especially ticklish sensation in my heart.

Kiro: See? It’s no longer scary, isn’t it? When we hear sounds, we’ll simply return fire!

Passerby couple: Erm...

Kiro: [ghostly] Mmm...?

Kiro and I turn around at the same time.

Passerby couple: Ahhhh----!!!!!!

After a short silence, I lift up my head, and just so happen to meet Kiro’s lowered gaze.

Kiro: [chuckles] Even though I feel a little bad, but...

We burst into laughter at the same time. The white sheet seems to be a small protective screen, making us the only two people in the entire world, becoming our secret accomplice.

Kiro: I’ve finally found a way to decode the haunted house!

MC: Next time, why don’t we...

Kiro: Be the ghosts!

We complete each others’ sentences as always.

Kiro: This way, it doesn’t feel scary at all.

MC: You’ve got a good method~

Kiro: The method is one aspect of it. The other aspect is because you’re with me. Frightening things will always be frightening, and courage isn’t something that can be added or subtracted.

MC: But won’t you become braver after going through it more often and having more experience?

Kiro: That’s called getting used to it and growing up. It doesn’t mean you’re no longer scared. It’s because there are other things which triumph over the fear.

His voice is very soft, and his eyes turn from the view outside the sheet to me.

Kiro: For example, right now.

MC: It’s all right even if you’re scared. I’m here, and you aren’t alone!

Kiro: In that case, could I come nearer to you?

As he says this, he takes a step closer.

MC: [blushing] The staff would laugh at us if they see this...

Kiro: That’s fine.

His lips are at my ear, bringing with them a smile of someone who has gotten his way.

Kiro: No one will see us.

[ Option C: The dessert store! There are so many delicious foods in the amusement park. ]

At night, the dessert store looks even more well-lit. The adorable decor, together with the colourful neon lights, are reminiscent of the sweetest kiss of a couple.

It suddenly occurs to me that the seemingly insignificant question he asked a few days ago actually had a reason behind it.

MC: Doesn't this place require a reservation?

He smiles while talking out two reservation coupons from his pocket, a satisfied look on his face.

Kiro: Hehe. It’s been a long wait, my Miss Chips.

I scan the various limited edition couple desserts on the menu, each one of them looking utterly delicious, as though I can smell their sweet fragrance just from the pictures.

In the end, I decide to pick the dessert which Kiro is recommending whole-heartedly and with great force--

The double lava layer chocolate brownie.

Kiro: Trust me, this is the one. I’ve done a recon before, and found the most premium product from these premium products.

Under his solemn gaze, the double lava layer chocolate brownie is brought to our table.

It looks like a chocolate brownie with some frosting sprinkled on it, and seems to be pretty normal.

Kiro: Give it a try! I haven’t forgotten its taste even till now.

I cut it open gently, and discover that underneath the chocolate exterior, there’s a soft chocolate cake. Chocolate sauce in the centre flows out slowly.

Cutting a small piece carefully, I place it into my mouth.

In a mere instant, my throat, nose, and even the air I inhale, are all sweet.

The strong sweetness sweeps through all my senses. My tongue goes haywire, and it’s as though I'm biting into a hundred macarons at the same time.

Kiro sits opposite me, his eyebrows arching slightly, an insuppressible anticipation and teasing look in his eyes.

He has also prepared a guilty and apologetic look.

I see through it immediately.

MC: Not bad. As expected of your recommendation!

Kiro: Hm?

MC: It’s really delicious.

While saying this, I lift up the fork again, preparing to get another piece.

Kiro: Wait wait wait!

He immediately grabs my hand, his face filled with disbelief. Looking at me, he lowers his head and stares at the “scheme”.

Kiro: The taste is just right?

MC: Yeah, it is. Weren't you the one who recommended it?

Kiro: Well... you’re not wrong.

He looks at the brownie on the table hesitantly. He’s probably guessing that the store had changed its method of preparation, resulting in a different effect.

At this moment, it’s a showdown between Kiro the glutton and reason.

Slowly, he picks up the fork, and brings a small piece into his mouth.

Kiro: [groans] !!!

I immediately grab the lemon water at the side, flushing my ruined taste buds.

Kiro: You...!

His features are scrunched, and I can't help but laugh when I see this.

Kiro: Although I did it somewhat on purpose, you really endured it too well!

MC: Seeing this image before me is worth it hahaha.

Kiro: I’m letting you experience the wrong path I once walked on.

Saying this, he comes over to my side.

Kiro: If I’m at fault, you should have punished me by using the law! Not by killing me with this sickeningly sweet dessert!

MC: If you went down the wrong path, you shouldn’t have let others experience it either!

Kiro: But you’re special. I’ve suffered twice the harm and need treatment.

MC: Mr Kiro, you’re insatiable.

Despite saying this, I don't stop him when he slowly draws closer to me.

Kiro: [chuckles] All I need is a little normal sweetness.

[ PART TWO ]

By the time we return to the vicinity of the castle in the plaza, the fireworks display is about to begin.

Considering Kiro’s special situation, his wig and props have more or less finished serving their function. I decide to find a location with fewer people.

But suddenly...

I realise that Kiro is gone.

Scanning my surroundings, I just can’t find any trace of him.

??: Beautiful Miss Princess, what are you looking at?

I freeze.

As the fireworks from the castle continuously scuttle to the skies, I see a figure at the end of the light.

At the top of the castle, he’s wearing a white coloured suit. His white cape is flying in the night, and an exquisite white mask conceals his entire face.

Just like the phantom thief under the moonlight.

Passerby: Is that a performance?

MC: Ki-!

Akin to magic, he soars downwards, stepping through the night, his cape kneading the moonlight as it flaps up and down, descending before me.

Wearing a pair of white gloves, he reaches out and places his forefinger on my lips.

Kiro: Shh.

The entire world seems to have become silent in an instant, leaving behind only the sound of my violently beating heart.

He takes half a step back, his left hand behind him, giving me a slight bow while offering his right hand to me.

Kiro: Beautiful Miss Princess, are you willing to come with me?

A pair of sapphire-like eyes hide behind the mask, leaving me unable to see his expression.

Seeing the arm he’s holding out in mid-air, I grip his hand without hesitation.

MC: It would be my honour!

Once the words leave my lips, he wraps an arm around my waist and carries me up, bringing me into the deep blue ocean.

Kiro: Hold me tight.

He presses a special mechanism, and strings pull the both of us upwards, as though we’re treading on moonlight.

When we reach the roof of the castle, he lets me step onto the bricks steadily, then removes the mask from his face.

Kiro: The performance has begun.

He snaps his fingers. At the same time, all the fireworks in the night sky bloom.

[ FIREWORKS ]

The colour I had selected is especially brilliant, and it blooms under Kiro’s command.

It’s as though he's standing in the middle of the stage, and every firework is a musical instrument under his control. With his guidance, they become the most beautiful musical composition in the night sky.

I think about that question related to a perfect day, and a him who is as romantic as in a fairytale.

As the fireworks come to an end, he once again gives me a bow, and walks towards me.

Kiro: I wish to ask my princess if the me of right now has the qualifications to steal your heart?

MC: [blushing] Haven’t you already stolen it since a long time ago?

Kiro: Is that so?

Under the moonlight of this winter day, his fringe is damp with sweat, and his eyes are filled with surprise.

Kiro: In that case, I won’t be returning it. Anyway, my heart happens to be with you too. Happy third anniversary, my Miss Chips.

Even the most precious day has to come to an end.

But the meaning residing in the future, which is the time we have next, will definitely be even more wonderful, and even more precious.

Until the end of life.

MC: Let’s go home!

Kiro: Mm! Let’s go home.

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc kiro

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causeiwanttoandican · 3 years

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Holy crap!

The Telegraph- Camilla Tominey

'She wanted drama': The inside story of the rift between Harry and Meghan and The Firm

As the Sussexes give their tell-all Oprah Winfrey interview, royal insiders reveal the 'other side of the story'

By Camilla Tominey, Associate Editor5 March 2021 • 9:00pm

There was something distinctly familiar about the Oprah Winfrey teaser in which Prince Harry declared: "My biggest concern was history repeating itself."

The words, due to be aired during the Duke and Duchess of Sussexes' tell-all interview on Sunday night, bore an uncanny resemblance to the statement released by Harry's communications secretary, Jason Knauf, in November 2016 after the Sunday Express had revealed that the Prince was dating the American actress.

Confirming that "his girlfriend Meghan Markle" had been "subject to a wave of abuse and harassment", the statement criticised the "racial undertones" of newspaper coverage, adding: "Prince Harry is worried about Ms Markle's safety and is deeply disappointed that he has not been able to protect her. This is not a game – it is her life and his."

The unprecedented salvo created two important narratives around the former Suits star – it formally confirmed her status as the woman in Harry's life but also positioned her, in the eyes of the palace and the public, as the victim at the heart of a media "storm". As the statement suggested, a line had been "crossed".

But the tirade "by the Communications Secretary to Prince Harry" also put Mr Knauf in a compromising position. How was the former director of corporate affairs for the Royal Bank of Scotland going to be able to handle media relations for a couple when the Prince had so publicly made plain their deep hostility towards the press?

Almost exactly two years later, the 39-year-old spin doctor would submit a a bullying claim accusing Meghan of driving two personal assistants out of the household and undermining the confidence of a third staff member.

The Sussexes have denied that Harry pleaded with Mr Knauf not to pursue it, claiming the couple are the victims of a calculated smear campaign based on harmful misinformation. They said the Duchess was "saddened by this latest attack on her character, particularly as someone who has been the target of bullying herself and is deeply committed to supporting those who have experienced pain and trauma".

Those highlighting the "outrageous bullying" say they want to "tell the other side of the story" to the picture expected to be painted by the Duchess on the Oprah special of her "almost unsurvivable" time in the Royal family. "Anyone who is a victim can't bear to watch it," said one.

The couple's lawyers insist Buckingham Palace is manipulating the press to peddle a "wholly false narrative" –notwithstanding the fact that the complainants no longer work in the royal household and the lack of palace action has now prompted an internal inquiry.

The Telegraph has spoken to a number of well-placed insiders who witnessed first-hand the turmoil within the royal household from Meghan's arrival as Prince Harry's girlfriend to the couple's decision to stand down as working royals last year.

All spoke on the condition of anonymity amid claims they had been operating in a "climate of fear", where employees were routinely "humiliated" in front of their peers and repeatedly subjected to "unreasonable demands" by both Meghan and Harry.

Unwilling to play a supporting role

It was not until October 2017, a year after Mr Knauf's unprecedented statement that Meghan gave an interview to Vanity Fair in which she declared of her relationship with Harry: "We're in love. I'm sure there will be a time when we will have to come forward and present ourselves and have stories to tell, but what I hope people will understand is that this is our time."

The public did not have to wait long. Just a month later, the couple announced their engagement with a photocall in the sunken garden at Kensington Palace and an interview with the BBC's Mishal Husain in which Harry described his fiancee as "another team player as part of the bigger team".

Yet behind palace gates, it was quickly becoming apparent that Meghan had no intention of she and Harry being seen as the "supporting act" to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, despite their seniority in the royal pecking order.

That Christmas, determined to walk side by side with William and Kate to Sandringham's St Mary Magdalene Church, rather than several steps behind, they were pictured together as the so-called "Fab Four".

The Cambridges invited the Sussexes to spend the festive period at their nearby bolthole, Anmer Hall, an experience Meghan spoke of fondly afterwards. "Meghan was very positive about it," said a former aide.

Two months later, the quartet appeared at their first official event together at the inaugural forum of their Royal Foundation – a highly choreographed event described by one royal insider as "designed to send a message that they would be working as a team. It was all very carefully rehearsed beforehand".

Disagreements with the Cambridges

After Meghan showcased her years of previous work with "larger NGOs and smaller grassroots organisations", both William and Harry acknowledged that working so closely with loved ones had led to "healthy disagreements" over how to best guide the foundation's work.

"Working as a family does have its challenges, of course it does," Harry said. "But we're stuck together for the rest of our lives."

By now, Kensington Palace staff had already become familiar with a mantra that would come to characterise the run-up to the Sussexes' wedding in May 2018.

"Want Meghan wants, Meghan gets" may have been shouted by Prince Harry to Angela Kelly, the Queen's personal assistant, following a row over a tiara – but royal aides were already well acquainted with the importance of meeting the Duchess's exacting standards.

"Everyone wanted her to be happy because they knew that would make him happy," said one. "Do whatever it takes to make it work for Meghan was the mantra. We all cared deeply about Harry. Contrary to this idea that they weren't supported, we were going to great lengths to accommodate their needs."

So much so that there was an extraordinary incident during the couple's first tour of Scotland when members of the palace PR team "body blocked" Meghan's former adviser Gina Nelthorpe-Cowne during a visit to an Edinburgh cafe in what one former aide described as "the most embarrassing moment of my professional career".

The Duchess had apparently expressed "a reluctance to make eye contact" with Ms Nelthorpe-Cowne, who was reduced to having to post an Instagram shot of her former close friend and client visiting the Social Bites cafe from a considerable distance. "Anyone from the past was a problem," observed the former aide.

Ms Nelthorpe-Cowne's name would later reappear in court documents accusing Meghan's close friend and stylist Jessica Mulroney of "putting pressure on her [Ms Nelthorpe-Cowne] to withdraw or change statements" she had made in an April 2018 interview with the Mail on Sunday.

The defence documents claimed the Sunday newspaper's features editor complained about the intervention to Mr Knauf, who allegedly responded by saying he would ensure "this does not happen again". In the piece, Ms Nelthorpe-Cowne described Meghan as: "Picky, not only when it comes to her clothes but also her colleagues, instantly dismissing those who didn’t share her 'vision'."

Describing how the Duchess had "given me a bit of a difficult time" after meeting Harry, she added: "Meghan likes to move on".

When contacted by The Telegraph, Ms Nelthorpe-Cowne declined to comment on the incident.

'Email bombardments'

As the world was gearing up for what the LA Times had billed as "a royal wedding for the 21st century", behind palace gates the atmosphere was becoming fraught.

Staff had grown used to "email bombardments" by Meghan and Harry, with one describing how "the last thing we'd do before going to sleep is reply to their messages and the first thing we'd do in the morning is reply to their messages. Weekends, holidays – there were no boundaries. They live on their phones all the time".

Despite publicly claiming they largely ignored the press coverage, in reality the couple were often consumed by it. "They're both very thin-skinned," said one former employee.

Meghan's supporters say staff members "who preferred a more genteel pace" could not keep up with the Duchess's "American work ethic" – with one close friend now suggesting the criticism was racially motivated. "Find me a woman of colour in a senior position who has not been accused of being too angry, too scary, too whatever in the workplace," the friend said.

Yet it was not just palace employees who found themselves on the receiving end of "inescapable screaming and shouting".

Much has been written about the bridesmaids' dress fitting, first revealed in The Telegraph in November 2018, that left the Duchess of Cambridge in tears.

Contrary to subsequent reports that the row concerned Princess Charlotte's tights, what actually happened was that the dress itself did not fit Kate's then nearly three-year-old daughter. According to a well-placed source, "demands were made about when subsequent fittings would be, and Kate left sobbing".

While Meghan's allies suggest that Kate did not make enough of an effort to welcome her future sister-in-law into the royal fold, allies of the Cambridges suggest she "tried to arrange social things" and invited her to watch tennis together but "there was a sense that Meghan never really wanted to be friends".

Those inside the palace concede, however, that the Cambridges can "appear standoffish" and are "often out of contact for extended periods".

Another former royal aide claimed the Duke, particularly, appreciated the "deflection" from his own occasionally demanding behaviour. "Bullying is endemic across all the households," the former aide added.

"The Meghan thing is a disgrace, but it's not in isolation. They cut you out, undermine you, talk down to you. One minute you're in – the next you're persona non grata. Some staff have special protection. I've never witnessed behaviour like it before. I wish I'd never seen behind the curtain."

A reprimand from the Queen

One member of staff afforded "special protection" is Angela Kelly, who has served as the Queen's closest aide since 2002. Rumours of Meghan being dubbed "Duchess Difficult" began to surface around the time it emerged that the Liverpudlian docker's daughter had been given a tongue-lashing by Harry.

Yet what was never accurately reported around the time of "Tiaragate" was that far from being denied the item from the Crown Jewels she wanted, Meghan was in fact given her first choice.

The argument erupted after the Duchess demanded that Queen Mary's Diamond Bandeau Tiara be produced for an unscheduled hairdressing appointment.

"Angela told Harry it was priceless and couldn't suddenly be handed over at short notice. He was furious and shouted: 'What Meghan wants, Meghan gets.' Suffice to say it didn't go down too well." So badly, in fact, that the no-nonsense 53-year-old, who has her own fearsome reputation among colleagues, reported the incident to the Queen, prompting a grandmotherly telling off for Harry.

Little did the Prince know at the time that staff had also given him a nickname: "The hostage".

According to one person with first-hand knowledge of the events: "They insisted that they had the same inflation-adjusted budget for the wedding as William and Kate – she got the choir she wanted, the dress, the carriage procession, the tiara – she got everything she wanted but it still wasn't enough.

"She was constantly looking for reasons to say she had been deprived. Also, she wanted drama from the very beginning."

Although the couple wanted their spokespeople to deny it, a story about Meghan requesting air freshener to be sprayed around the "musty" St George's Chapel was true, according to multiple sources.

Even The Kingdom Choir did not get off lightly after the couple changed their song 12 times before they were happy with the arrangement of "Stand By Me". As choir member Karen Gibson revealed: "Gospel music is all about the cherries on top and it's not about stinting on anything. But we got word back that they wanted something a little less, so we did a second version which had an Etta James arrangement but again we had word back that it wasn't right."

The group was then asked to meet Harry and Meghan face to face, before the couple finally settled on an arrangement after 11 previous attempts.

"The wedding was hugely stressful for everyone involved in it," said one former aide. "Staff were spending most of their time having smooth things over with suppliers."

Tears before the big day

The "Markle Debacle", when Meghan's father Thomas pulled out of the wedding at the last minute, only added to the tension as royal aides scrambled to "rescue" the narrative around the "big day" by having the Prince of Wales step in to walk Meghan down the aisle.

Despite Meghan later claiming to ITV's Tom Bradby that "not many people have asked if I'm ok", royal insiders insist they "rallied around" the couple – who were both in tears at times.

The Most Rev Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who officiated the ceremony, is also understood to have given "psychological as well as spiritual" support. The principle leader of the Church of England caused hilarity among his staff by failing to recognise Ms Winfrey at the lunchtime reception at Windsor Castle, asking the US chat show host what she did for a living.

By the time the couple had returned from their honeymoon, relations between the Sussexes, the Cambridges and their staff became so bad that Harry and Meghan appeared reluctant to engage with anyone at the June 2018 leaving party for Miguel Head, William's former private secretary.

According to two separate sources, the couple "remained aloof" throughout the bash in the private garden at Kensington Palace. "It was a really convivial atmosphere with William giving a touching speech about Mig, but Harry and Meghan just remained on the outskirts and didn't mingle with anyone. They were the last to arrive and the first to leave."

Eyebrows were similarly raised when, having shared the news of her pregnancy at the Champagne reception following Princess Eugenie's wedding to Jack Brooksbank in October 2018, Meghan declined to attend the evening do. The bride was said to have been "upset" that Harry only "popped along for a drink without Meghan" – although they were due to fly to Australia for their first Commonwealth tour the day after.

During the 16-day tour, which also took in Fiji, Tonga and New Zealand, the couple appeared reluctant to engage with the press. Although Harry managed to be persuaded at one point to speak to reporters at the back of the plane, he told them: "Thanks for coming, even though you weren't invited."

Bullying claims emerge

On the same trip, it was claimed that Meghan had cut short a visit to a market in Fiji because she was concerned about the presence of a UN organisation promoting women, with which she had previously worked but now was no longer associated.

At the time, officials suggested that it was because it was humid and the crowd was oppressive in the market. After Meghan had been ushered away, a female member of her entourage was spotted sitting in an official car, looking extremely upset. Meghan's female personal protection officer left her post shortly afterwards.

Lawyers for the Duchess said she met other leaders from UN Women later on the tour and denied she left for the reason alleged.

Although Mr Knauf had not gone on the tour, he is thought to have been "deeply concerned" by reports of the couple's behaviour overseas.

"There was a sense that they were just refusing to take advice, and insisting on doing everything their way," said one royal source. "No one, from the most senior to the most junior employee, wasn't under constant attack," said another.

Matters came to a head in October 2018 following the departure of a second member of the Duchess's private office.

Mr Knauf emailed Simon Case, then William's private secretary and now the Cabinet Secretary, after conversations with Samantha Carruthers, the head of HR. Mr Case then forwarded it to Ms Carruthers, who is based at Clarence House.

The email read: "I am very concerned that the Duchess was able to bully two PAs out of the household in the past year. The treatment of X* was totally unacceptable. The Duchess seems intent on always having someone in her sights. She is bullying Y and seeking to undermine her confidence. We have had report after report from people who have witnessed unacceptable behaviour towards Y."

The email, which also expressed concern about the stress being experienced by Samantha Cohen, the couple's private secretary, concluded: "I questioned if the household's policy on harassment and bullying applies to principals."

While Mr Case was "very personally supportive" of the individual members of staff, Mr Knauf expressed his concern in the email that "nothing will be done". The palace is now holding an investigation, having been criticised for failing to act sooner.

It was not until a month later that it was reported that Melissa Toubati, the Duchess's former PA, had "quit suddenly", just six months into the job. The following month, it was announced that Ms Cohen would not stay in post after the Sussexes' baby was born.

The couple were apparently "furious" about reports of their high staff turnover, piling more pressure on their PR team to "try to turn negative headlines into positive ones".

According to one former employee: "What people fail to understand is Harry's hatred of the media is probably one of the most important things in his life. It is defining for him. So the narrative is always – it’s the press's fault, never theirs."

That Christmas, the Sussexes were once again photographed alongside the Cambridges on Dec 25 but opted to stay with the Queen at the "main house" rather than Anmer Hall.

It came after an awkward staff Christmas party in which "all mention of Melissa's name was banned", according to one royal insider. "It was as if she never existed." Some employees found it hard to reconcile the couple's erratic conduct with moments of genuine kindness, such as when Meghan would buy female staff members flowers or even jewellery.

Relations break down

By the New Year, relations within Kensington Palace had "irretrievably broken down," with Prince Harry no longer on speaking terms with Mr Knauf after he had failed to persuade him to drop the complaint against his wife. The Sussexes' lawyers deny any such conversation took place.

Sources close to the couple say Ms Toubati, who was asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement, was sacked for misconduct, pointing out neither staff member made complaints of their own to HR. Ms Toubati's friends deny she was sacked for misconduct.

With Harry and Meghan already operating in a silo – and increasingly consulting the Duchess's US team of advisers rather than palace officials – a split of the two households at Kensington Palace appeared an inevitability.

It was around the time that the couple moved to Frogmore Cottage in Windsor in March 2019 that Amy Pickerill became the third of the Duchess's staff to leave her role, having served as her assistant private secretary since November 2017.

Mr Knauf also stepped down to work as senior adviser to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. He is now chief executive of the Cambridges' Royal Foundation. Friends say he "bitterly regrets" not warning Sara Latham, who was appointed as the Sussexes' director of communications in April 2019, how difficult working for the couple could be.

The American PR supremo, who used to advise the Clintons, quickly worked this out for herself when the couple insisted on secrecy around son Archie's birth on May 6, while trying to maximise global coverage.

Around the same time it was falsely claimed that the Duchess had been prevented from doing an interview with CBS anchor Gayle King, Ms Winfrey's close friend. In fact, insiders say "the Duchess was calling shots throughout."

It came after Meghan had attended a high-profile baby shower in New York with Serena Williams and Amal Clooney, without being accompanied by any palace press officers. Concerns were raised behind palace gates when freebies started arriving at New York's Mark Hotel, causing consternation for staff back in the UK having to wrestle with the Royal family's strict rules on gifting.

Having courted controversy throughout the summer of 2019 for snubbing the Queen's invitation to Balmoral and taking four private jets in 11 days instead, relations with the media were at rock bottom at the start of the Sussexes' September tour to Africa.

Royal aides were then left dumbfounded when what had been a surprisingly successful 10-day trip with Archie was overshadowed by Meghan's interview with Mr Bradby, in which she revealed the "struggles" she had faced adapting to life in the Royal family.

Duke's fears for wife

It came as Harry released an attack on the tabloid press as the couple announced they would be suing the Mail on Sunday over the publication of a letter Meghan had written to her father.

In a highly personal and scathing statement, Harry said some newspapers had "vilified her almost daily for the past nine months" and claimed they had published "lie after lie" at Meghan's expense simply because she was out of public view on maternity leave.

Referencing his mother Diana, Princess of Wales, who died in a car crash in Paris while being pursued by the paparazzi, the Duke said: "Though this action may not be the safe one, it is the right one. Because my deepest fear is history repeating itself. I lost my mother and now I watch my wife falling victim to the same powerful forces."

The interview set the tone for their January 2020 announcement that they would be "stepping back as senior royals" to become "financially independent".

As the world gathers to watch the most highly anticipated royal television event since Diana's Panorama interview in 1995, it will be left to the viewers to decide which version of history represents the truth.

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

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A Legacy Begun (2)

Chapter 2: The Wedding | Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: After a long time of running and fighting, you and Cal decided to finally settle down after all these years to raise a family. However, it was never a life of peace whilst the shadow of the Empire looms over your heads.

Prompted by Anon: Hiya! Still taking any requests? If so, can you write something about Cal and JediReader finally settle down and have a kid or something.

A/N: Alexa play A Thousand Years by Christina Perri & Steve Kazee ;;;///w///;;;

Also posted in AO3

Additional prompt: My fic idea

Tags: Scruffy! Cal Kestis, Daddy! Cal Kestis, Adult! Cal Kestis, Jedi Family, Jedi Offspring, Force-Sensitive Offspring, Settling Down, Rebel Alliance

Previous: Part 1 | Next: Part 3 | Masterlist

2 of ?

Two days before the big day, Merrin woke up early—perhaps the earliest you’ve seen her up—and she told you to wash up and get dressed. She dragged you along to the town that sat on the valley, a trek away from where the Mantis sat in a forest clearing.

It is clear that she was excited for you and Cal, and wanted to be of help to you in time for your celebration.

“Have you ever attended a wedding, Merrin?”

“I can’t say I have, but that’s what makes me excited—I get to see one for the first time, and it’s yours, no less!”

Her enthusiasm was new to you, normally, when she’s curious about something—beyond the knowledge that she has from living in Dathomir—she would only inquire, question after question until her mind has been sated. But this display of hers was unique—there was a child-like glee in her as she tugged your hand in hers, leading you into the town with the objective of the perfect dress.

“Don’t the Nightsisters and Nightbrothers in Dathomir have a sort of union?”

“We’re not a celebratory kind, [y/n]. Once a Nightsister finds her mate in the Nightbrother village, that is that, apparently,”

“I see,”

The city, known as Reema, was a sizable settlement whose business districts and residential areas mingled together—as well as the peoples that resided there. It was a town abundant in textiles, exotic foods, as well as a sturdy, construction material whose raw state originates from a bluish-green mineral called Zakora found in the planet’s oceans and deeper reefs—giving the citizens’ homes a decorative, mosaic-like effect.

You made it clear that you want everything to be simple yet perfect. Merrin already understood that you were not one for grandeur. There was one street in the business district that had a whole row of stores that sold fabrics and pre-made clothes. Some of the shops had a dress or two displayed behind their glass window; but you two girls skipped most of them since they didn’t fit your taste or they priced the clothes unreasonably… or both.

“I think we’ve swept the entire street in search of your dress, [y/n],”

“It’s okay, there’s no need to rush. We can take a break if you like, Merrin,”

“Of course,” the Nightsister’s eyes trailed over your shoulder. “There’s some shade over there.”

“Perfect! Come on,” you take her hand and bring her along to the bench underneath a tree.

After taking a breather, you and Merrin agreed to have one last sweep before heading home. Hopefully by then, you would have found what to wear before heading back to the Mantis. The two girls walked together through the street, passing by the same shops but stopping to look at the ones you’ve skipped.

Merrin gave a slight tug of your hand when she stopped to see a dress hop that stood out from the rest.

“This looks promising,” the Nightsister commented.

“Come on, no harm in trying,” you added.

Perhaps, it might be the smallest atelier you’ve seen in this street. The person who greeted you was a young woman, you’re under the impression that she was an apprentice seamstress, but upon examining the studio, you realize that she worked alone.

She was startled by the sound of her door chimes ringing upon your entrance, she fumbled about on her work desk and she stomped through piles of fabric that pelted the floor.

“H-Hello,” she stammered shyly, embarrassed by the mess. It seemed that she wasn’t expecting any visitors.

“Hi there,” you warmly greeted.

Merrin looked around the place, “Do you work alone?”

“Yes, m-my name is Milana,”

“Hello, Milana, is it alright with you if we take a look around your shop?”

“Please, by all means, miss,”

You flashed a friendly smile as you thanked her, she managed to repay the gesture and awkwardly leaned against the edge of her worktable. She constantly fiddled with a strip of cut fabric, anxiously watching these two ladies who just entered her shop. The young girl’s head was racked with questions that she answered herself in her mind.

“For what occasion, may I ask?”

“A wedding,” Merrin answered, then bobbed her head to you. “For her.”

The young lady’s eyes lit up, suddenly enthused, and she tried to break out of her awkward demeanor.

“Oh! I have a section specifically for that,” she chirped. “Please, follow me here.”

Her studio had another room, neater and less cluttered than the main space, two racks hugged the walls and another work desk sat by the window of the room—but a dress on the works occupied the table instead of drawings and sketches. She helped you out in deciding the designs by asking you what kind of style you wanted.

“Just something simple, Milana, please. I don’t want to go through puffy skirts and wide sleeves anymore!” you joked.

The young designer had an array of dresses that nearly fitted your taste—pertaining to your preference of straight skirts, slim sleeves, and minimalist designs.

Eventually, after scouring every dress she has out in the racks, Milana spotted you pulling out a particular white dress—its transparent neckline gave the illusion that white leaves, sown and expertly shaped with beads, crawled up to a lady’s bosom, though it lacked sleeves; and the skirt is made out of billowy tulle. You instantly fell in love with it.

“May I?” you smiled.

“Oh, of course, miss!”

Merrin helped you in fastening the back of the dress, minutes later, you come out of the fitting room—which was only a nook covered by drapes—and the two girls gasped upon your appearance. You walked up to the front of the mirror, turning around to get a look of yourself in different angles, you even attempted to do a little twirl so the skirt flared.

“Aww [y/n],” Merrin fawned.

“This is it!” you giggled.

“It’s perfect, Miss [y/n]! Simply immaculate!”

When you announced in the studio room that you’re taking it, the young designer ran towards a closet that sat beside the mirror. She pulled out one of the drawers and produced a small box.

“Originally, when I made that dress, it had to go with this,” she flipped the lid open, revealing a silver headpiece. The designer explains that it should be worn on the back of the head and no particular hairstyle is required for it to be securely worn on the bride’s hair.

While Milana explained, Merrin already knew what to do with your hair on the wedding day. Milana also provided a selection of shoes for you, admitting that you were used to boots for most of your life, you decided to play it safe and chose the cream-colored heels that were only two inches high.

You couldn’t thank the young designer enough, you insisted paying a little extra for her help and she had no other choice but to accept—although she did it with great gratitude and bade well wishes to you for your wedding.

—–

Today’s the day.

You wake up with a rapid heartbeat and clammy palms.

The wedding happens in the afternoon, Cal had found the perfect spot where the ceremony will be held. It was customary that bride and groom don’t meet on the day itself, thus, both of you slept in separate rooms—you slept in the same bunker as Merrin and Cere last night while Cal remained in the original quarters.

For the rest of the day, Merrin and Cere delivered food and drink to you and would allow you to go around the ship—granted that Cal was absent in the Mantis—and this went on until three hours prior to the ceremony.

“How are you feeling, [y/n]?” Cere asked, placing her hand on your shoulder.

“Nervous,” you awkwardly chuckled.

Cal had already got himself cleaned, his red hair slicked back while his growing stubble remained undisturbed, and donned his crisp black ensemble piece by piece: starting off with a long-sleeved tunic over a short, black leather vest, and finishing it off with black pants and boots.

“How do I look, BD?”

“Beee! Trill, chirp!”

“Yeah? Thanks, buddy,” he chuckled. “Well, here goes.”

He marched out of his quarters, passing by the bathroom door and heard the water running, he heard you humming and giggling in between the song. He smiled to himself and imagined what you’d look like when you come marching towards him.

You finished washing yourself, returned to the shared room and Merrin delivered your entire outfit. The Nightsister assisted you once again in fitting the dress, only now did you realize that the dressed emphasized your curves, you put the shoes on while seated and she began working on your hair. Merrin’s slender fingers created an elaborate braid that crowned the back of your head, she secretly used a little bit of her magick to make sultry waves on the remaining length of your hair, and for the finishing touch, the crown of silver leaves nestled above the braid. You also splurged on some makeup for this day: you drew winged lines on your eyelids, painted your lips to a soft pink, and brushed your cheeks with powder and blush.

“There, you’re ready,” Cere cooed, examining you from head to toe and resting her fingers underneath your chin.

Merrin stood by Cere’s side to take a look at you as well, she smiled, triumphant and proud of her masterpiece on the bride.

“You’re so beautiful, [y/n], the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen,” the Nightsister fawned.

"Thank you so much," you squeaked, grateful of the help you've received from the two ladies.

“We’ll see you there, okay?”

“Okay, Cere,” you breathed.

They embraced you and kissed your cheek one by one before leaving the room. Five minutes later, you finally walk out of the ship. Your bouquet of flowers rested on the lounge table. The entry ramp was left open and you take the deepest breath you’ve ever taken in your life.

“Here it goes, [y/n],”

You take the first step out of the ship, you were so nervous at the moment that you could feel your footing unstable—even though you practiced walking on the ramp with the shoes on for a whole day—but you managed to get to flat ground. You were surprised to find one of the male partisans back in Kashyyyk. It was a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one. He was to deliver you to the aisle, to your husband-to-be.

“Cere said it was a surprise,” the partisan added.

You gripped your bouquet and continued your march with the partisan guiding you, following the path showered with flower petals of all colors.

Cal stood by the lake, awaiting for your entrance; Merrin, BD-1, Greez, and the rest of the witnesses stood at the side of the path waiting for you as well. When a splash of white caught Cal’s eye, and you appeared in the arch that the trees formed, he almost stopped breathing. His heart leapt at the sight of you—dressed like a demure goddess, the length of your hair spilled over your shoulders, and your face naturally glowed with the sunset as you smiled while walking the aisle.

“Wow…” he gasped.

Cal found you more beautiful than the sunset behind him. Your eyes spanned across the lake’s clearing and found some familiar faces like Mari Kosan and a few partisans you’ve personally befriended. In the gradually shrinking distance, you and Cal traded shy smiles. It felt like your legs were moving on their own, but you didn’t resist them. You knew that you were walking into a newfound life to share with the man you love.

His tears instantly welled up and he had little to no time to fight them back, and then his heart pounded faster and faster for every step you took. You finally stood a mere inch away from him. He bit his lip as he smiled, you caressed his cheek and then a single teardrop escaped his eye.

“Darling…” you whispered, running your thumb across his cheek to wipe away the tear.

He offered you his arm and you linked it with yours. The both of you turned to face Cere who presided the ceremony.

“Here I stand before two individuals, whose bond was forged, grown, and then strengthened by time and by the Force. They have willed to nurture that bond through this ceremony of marriage and for the times to come,”

Cal couldn’t help but steal a glance at you, the gesture was returned when you turned to smile back at him as Cere stated her opening remarks.

“May the words of their vows express their unbreakable connection that run as deep as the Force itself.” She cued.

The bride and groom faced each other.

Cal reached for your hand and you willingly took it as he recited his vows.

“Lo, behold my Maiden, for she will cast away my fears that reside in the Dark. She is my torch that will lead me away from the shadows of doubt, to whom I will forever hold on to. To you, [y/n], my beloved wife, I commend my heart, life, and soul—all this as the Force wills it.”

Next, you reached for his free hand to which he gladly took as you said your vows.

“Lo, behold my Knight, for he will combat the haunts of the Dark. My shield to conceal me from the evils, to whom I will always find shelter in thy arms. To you, Cal, my husband, I commend my life, heart, and my soul—all this as the Force wills it.”

Finally, Cere took a step back and ignited what used to be Trilla’s lightsaber—instead of a bright red beam, a blade as white as bleach emerged from the hilt—and she instructed both of you to kneel.

“By the will of the Force, I dub thee, [y/n] Kestis—wife of Cal Kestis.” She hovered the saber above your shoulders and then concluded her dubbing by hovering the blade over your head.

She then repeats the gesture when it was Cal’s turn, “By the will of the Force, I dub thee, Cal Kestis—husband of [y/n] Kestis. All this as the Force wills it, and so shall it be for your joined days until the end.”

After her oration, you and your husband stood up.

“You may kiss the bride.” Cere declared.

Cal cupped your cheeks, pulled you in for the sweetest, most tender kiss of your life, his stubble tickled your face but you didn’t care; you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your lips against him as you smiled in between kisses, and applause and cheers filled the forest. When he pulled away, your new husband snuck another kiss on the tip of your nose, warranting a tiny chuckle from you.

“I love you,” he whispered to you.

“I love you too,”

The wedding was immediately followed by a banquet celebration courtesy of Greez. The Lateron really cooked up a storm when he served the slow-cooked Nerf roast to the table, a Jogan berry cheesecake, and Phillak steaks. Pouring two glasses of wine, the newlyweds linked arms with glasses in their hands.

“Bottoms up!” you and Cal said in unison as you drank the wine from each other’s glasses, chugging down the slightly strong liquor and fighting off the bitter taste.

Your guests laughed and applauded once both of you finished your wine. Evening had washed over Cerinda, the moonlight’s reflection rippled in the lake and fireflies dotted the space like starlight while you and Cal perform your first dance as husband and wife.

“To the newlyweds!” Mari Kosan proposed a toast, raising her glass and everyone followed suit.

They lightly tapped their glasses, urging the two of you to kiss, Cal was the first to cave in. When he spun you in his hand, he pulled you in closer to him so that his lips meet yours once more. Applause filled your ears once again, both of you could feel each other smiling in the middle of the kiss.

Your fingers raked his hair and then your hand trailed to his jaw, the prickly hairs of his stubble brushed roughly against your nails.

“This is the best day of my life,” Cal cooed.

“Here’s to forever?”

“Forever and ever, my wife, until the galaxy ends.”

64 notes · View notes

aroworlds · 4 years

Text

The Vampire Conundrum, Part Two

When Rowan Ross is pressured into placing an aromantic pride mug on his desk, he doesn't know how to react when his co-workers don't notice it. Don't they realise he spent a weekend rehearsing answers for questions unasked? Then again, if nobody knows what aromanticism is, can't he display a growing collection of pride merch without a repeat of his coming out as trans? Be visible with impunity through their ignorance?

He can endure their thinking him a fan of archery, comic-book superheroes and glittery vampire movies. It's not like anyone in the office is an archer. (Are they?) But when a patch on his bag results in a massive misconception, correcting it means doing the one thing he most fears: making a scene.

After all, his name isn't Aro.

Contains: One trans, bisexual frayromantic alongside an office of well-meaning cis co-workers who think they're being supportive and inclusive.

Content Advisory: This story hinges on the way most cishet alloromantic people know nothing about aromanticism and the ways many trans-accepting cis people fail to best communicate their acceptance. In other words, expect a series of queer, trans and aro microaggressions. There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual", but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with romance.

Length: 3, 737 words (part two of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks.

“His name’s Aro,” Melanie says after lunch, showing a new volunteer around the office. She pats Rowan on the shoulder as she walks behind his chair, startling him enough that the clipping path he’s making around a photo of Damien’s head goes veering off to the side. “He does our website, our flyers and the information guides we send out. Aro like from the Twilight movies!”

Introductions once only encompassed Melanie’s habit of overly-stressing pronouns when referencing him—a dysphoria-triggering reminder that she doesn’t think him masculine enough for people to assume it. Isn’t that bad enough without her also getting his name wrong?

He sighs, frustrated. Complaining about this, when trans people are in desperate want of a working environment free of outright antagonism and discrimination, feels unreasonable. Hell, Rowan knows aromantics who’ll revel in being named “Aro”, so isn’t his hurt just pettiness? Isn’t this why he’s no longer welcome at home, a man too intolerant of his family’s mistakes? How many times did they tell him that his harping on about little things demonstrates a concerning lack of gratitude for their acceptance?

His co-workers do seem to believe in Rowan’s masculinity; he shouldn’t take that for granted.

Instead, he feels like he’s failing at being both transgender and aromantic.

After a fair amount of editing, he places Damien’s image in the brochure mock-up and exports to PDF. The office will make suggestions, some useful, some ignorant and some so absurd that Rowan will laugh with his friends later on, but that’s fine. He can’t expect otherwise in a workplace where everyone considers him possessed of unknowable ability with computers. They’re good people, in the main, and they care about their work.

It’s just complicated, and Rowan hates the feeling that complicated is the best cis people will let him get to a normalised acceptance.

“Aro? An Arrow fan called Aro? Really? Do you like comics or are you one of those people only into DC TV?”

Rowan looks up from attaching his PDF to an email to find the volunteer sitting on a creaking office chair and crab-walking it over to Rowan’s desk. “Comics?”

“Oh, good.” The volunteer sighs as if in relief. “I mean, the TV show? It isn’t terrible—better than most of DC’s movies, at least—but I’m so tired of people who call themselves fans but have never touched a comic book.”

Rowan glances at his journal cover, ponders its possible similarity to the show’s motif and nearly bursts out laughing. He’s never read a comic and doesn’t plan on doing so. He prefers indie podcasts and audiobooks on account of increased representation and greater ability to sew and cook while listening. “I’m not an Arrow fan. Sorry.”

Another show about cis people possessed of everyone-should-pair-up amatonormativity?

Hard pass.

“You’re not?” The volunteer gapes, waving his hand towards Rowan’s cluster of pride mugs. Three, now. Only one contains coffee, which feels like a terrible oversight. “Is this a joke, then? Are they getting you arrow stuff because of your name? Like some office thing?”

Aro.

His name is not Aro.

Rowan once thought the concept of snapping a mere storytelling device, something as ludicrous or impossible as “glittering eyes” or “romantic interest that lasts after getting to know someone”. At best an experience had by people without a brain that doesn’t devote most of its time to screaming alerts at the prospect of anything dangerous. Absurd, irrational, void of any real-life relevance.

Not even with his family has he felt this chilling, all-encompassing moment of enough.

He looks back at his computer, attaches a second PDF file to his email and, before he considers pesky things like consequences, clicks send. Then Rowan climbs up on his office chair, steps up onto the desk and whistles like a country boy who owned a border collie prone to sneaking off the property and rounding up the neighbour’s sheep.

Everyone in the office gapes up at him with a motley assortment of parted lips, unblinking eyes and, in Melanie’s case, the pointing of a long, vermillion-polished fingernail.

Up high, the room reeks of nesting rodents and the popcorn ceiling desperately wants refinishing.

Now Rowan’s brain tells his limbs to shake and his chest to heave; of course, he thinks as he shoves his hands behind his back, anxiety kicks in after he’s neck-deep in it! “My … my name is Rowan. I chose it.” He looks at the vent on the opposite wall, fighting to sound collected. Is that black mould? “Dad told me if I rejected my deadname, I was rejecting them. That I was being cruel and selfish. I earnt my name!” He stops, gasping for breath like a hooked fish—which, given his terror, feels far too appropriate a simile. “My identity is aro, short for aromantic, like being queer—one way of my being queer. So ... there’s a PDF booklet in your inbox about aromanticism. Read it! I’m proud of being aro, but you need to call me by the name I chose! It’s Rowan!”

He jumps down off the desk. The creaking laminate and the thud of his dress shoes, a little too large for Rowan’s feet, sound abominably loud in the sepulchrally-quiet room. Heading past giddy into faint, but pushed on by a heedlessness of the “this can’t possibly get worse because I’m going to be fired” variety, Rowan snatches up his satchel and reaches into the side pocket to pull out his handful of print leaflets. He drops one in the lap of the gaping volunteer, tosses the rest on an empty desk for luddites who prefer paper, and returns to his chair.

Seven sets of speechless eyes bore holes through his skull, shoulders and spine.

Rowan jams on his headphones, opens his no-romance metal playlist and turns his music up to a volume just short of deafening before queuing new posts to the project’s website.

When he invented the God of Trans Men as flippant rhetoric to cope with Melanie’s questions, is it right to pray to him?

***

Two hours later, doing his best to radiate an aura of do not disturb on pain of your bloody death, Rowan fights to pay attention to the last event write-up. Leaving early means asking permission and walking down the row of desks, risking stares and comments; he instead corrects Melanie’s idiosyncratic punctuation. Didn’t Melanie go to school at a time when they taught more than English comprehension? How doesn’t she know when not to use an apostrophe?

There’ll be consequences. Warnings? A formal discussion in the private office the supervisors only use for interviews? A request that he undergo counselling? A strong recommendation for psychiatric assessment? Firing? It isn’t like they can’t throw a rock and hit thousands of people under the age of forty with general computer skills and design ability who aren’t prone to standing on desks to make unwanted announcements.

No. Focus on the damn comma splices.

Should he ask his psychiatrist for the soonest possible appointment? New meds?

A tap on the shoulder makes Rowan’s head threaten to brush the probably-asbestos-riddled ceiling; he gasps and yanks off his headphones, trembling.

Melanie stands beside his chair, holding out her phone in its glossy pink case. “Those words that are underlined? Can I click on them to find out what they mean, like on a website? Like ... al-lo-sexual?”

“Hyperlinks in an interactive PDF—the file on your phone—work the same way as on a website,” Rowan says without thinking: in the last three months, he’s been asked this ten times. “If you click on those links, they’ll take you to a glossary at the end of the document with definitions.”

Damien sits facing his usual computer, his head tilted as if watching out the corner of his eye.

Melanie smiles the expression of a woman in an alternate dimension where Rowan doesn’t engage in embarrassing outbursts. “You’re so good at all this stuff, Rowan.” She stresses his name just enough that he can pretend she didn’t. “Where did you learn it all?”

He once tried to explain his philosophy of clicking on things only to realise that while the concept of generational divides requires excessive generalisation, a difference exists in terms of his willingness to fearless experimentation with electronic devices and programs. “School. Uni.”

“You’re so lucky. School was nothing like that when I was a girl. You have so many more opportunities now. And identities.” Melanie sighs and pushes a wisp of grey hair back from her eyebrows. “It’s good, it really is.”

Rowan blinks, startled into silence by a rare glimpse of validation stripped of performance and demonstration.

He hadn’t thought anyone here capable of it.

“It says that some people feel repulsed by romance? Are you like that? Should we do something? Do we need to not talk about romance in the office? Like, if I describe my daughter dating her boyfriend, not that I want to, is that bad? Do we need to hold a meeting? Damien—Damien—”

Damien turns, wearing the blinded look of a rabbit frozen in a spotlight. “Yes...?”

For how long has Damien worked with Melanie? For how long has the office rolled with Melanie’s interruptions and proclamations, her meetings called about the slightest of issues? For how long has the office accepted Shelby’s incessant reminding and Damien’s inability to surrender event photography to someone who knows how to modify their flash settings? Isn’t there a chance that they’ll tolerate Rowan’s occasional moments of desk-blathering?

A trans aro should be able to sew a patch on his bag reading “aro” without provoking cis weirdness. Since when does someone read a new word on his bag and assume that’s now his name? Isn’t that another over-the-top demonstration made by awkward cis people trying to prove their acceptance, something that’s never made Rowan feel safe?

Even when he’s aromantic, he never gets to avoid cissexism.

He slides his hands between the seat and his legs, aware of Melanie’s once again drawing the office’s unbroken attention. “I, personally, don’t care if people talk about their romances,” he says, certain that Damien needn’t answer Melanie about meetings, “but I do care when people assume I must want one. I do care when Sh … some of you just keep asking if I’m dating anyone.”

Rowan long set aside the need to bother with romance. He isn’t aromantic in the way most people first think of the word, as he does fall in love, but it describes his frayromanticism nonetheless. Why put himself through the inevitable messy, angry break-up when his partners don’t understand why what started as romance ends up to him as a friendship? When dating isn’t without trans-related challenges, why force himself into a type of relationship that he knows won’t last?

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks, in the same way it sanitises his equally-threatening bisexuality. If queers are holding hands and exchanging rings, just like cis and heterosexual couples, they’re safe.

He wants to be normal, but not that normal.

Melanie surprises him again by nodding. Opaque red only colours the corners of her lips; the worn centres reveal the brownish-pink beneath. “Like how we now don’t assume everyone’s—what’s the fancy word you use for not being you?”

“Cis. Yeah.”

“At my first job, I never dared yeah my elders. Can I ask what’s this a-sexual thing? Not-sexual? That’s a thing that can go with your a-ro-manti-cism? Am I saying it right? Is that something people can be?” Melanie grabs the volunteer’s vacated chair and wheels herself up to Rowan’s desk. “Tell me about this. Please.”

Damien gives a theatrically deep sigh, winks at Rowan and turns back to his keyboard.

Rowan’s tangle of feelings bewilders him too much to be simple relief, but he doesn’t appear to be at immediate risk of losing his job.

***

“We need to have a meeting!” Melanie announces ten days later, striding up to where Damien peers over Rowan’s shoulder to approve the touch-ups on a series of scanned photos. Rowan grasps the want to have a section on the website showcasing past events, but surely Damien’s film-camera predecessors weren’t all unable to take decent pictures? “Today. Perhaps before lunch?”

“Do we?” Damien doesn’t bother to turn his head. “What’s the number on the urgency scale, remembering that whiteboard markers aren’t a five?”

“I’m aro-ace.” Melanie stresses the words, beaming with the confidence of a child presenting a new finger-painted masterpiece. “I didn’t know, but I definitely am. I’m aromantic and asexual.”

“I’m glad for you.” Now Damien faces her, scratching his shock of unruly brown hair. “I don’t know why this needs a meeting? Do you want something addressed?”

Rowan leans back in his chair, too startled to do anything but watch. Melanie’s interrogation of him about all things a-spec over the last few days left him certain that she was questioning, but he didn’t expect this announcement—or Damien’s reaction to it.

“I’ve been reading, and I sent around a list of links everyone else should read, too. We must do something about our website. And, of course, everyone should know I’m aro-ace, and then let people ask any questions. Then we should consider changes to our submission forms, and then...”

Already, Melanie has done more to integrate her identity into the office and its projects than Rowan ever dared risk. Why, then, does he feel as though he’s being pressed inside a metal suit three sizes too small? Shouldn’t the end result be worth enduring a staff meeting in which she announces she’s aro-ace? Melanie being Melanie, she’ll gladly answer questions about aromanticism. Doesn’t that give Rowan everything he wanted—ability to be out as aromantic but someone else’s dealing with allo nonsense?

Matt’s right.

Rowan’s just a coward.

Damien nods at Rowan. “What do you think about that?”

“Uh...” Rowan draws a delaying breath, fighting against a brain too bewildered to be useful in forming comprehensible speech. “Uh … you’d have to run form changes past someone higher up, wouldn’t you? We have to ask about everything else? But...”

He doesn’t name Melanie a friend, but fellow aromantics aren’t common enough that Rowan will reject a companion—even if they’re cis and have subjected him to half a year’s discomfort, anxiety and alienation. He slides his restless hands under his legs, biting his lip against the sickening realisation. Melanie’s enthusiastic fearlessness may make this office and program better for him as an aro, but how can it answer all the attitudes that made Rowan fear coming out in the first place?

If he’s a coward, doesn’t he have reason?

“We do need a meeting,” he says slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like blast beats in death metal. “On better integrating marginalised people into our office. Because the way you emphasise my pronouns, Melanie, or the way Shelby reassures me five times that I can correct her … that doesn’t make me feel safe. It makes me feel reminded. Different. Too visible. And that’s why...”

“You ended up standing on a desk?” Damien asks with the gruffness of a middle-aged cis man trying to sound gentle.

“Yeah,” Rowan mutters. “That.”

Melanie clasps her fingers to her lips. “Oh! I didn’t mean anything by it! I just wanted people to get it right!”

How many times has he suffered through well-meaning people explaining that in response to his saying that they made him uncomfortable? How many times has he heard people justify their actions as though good intent always mitigates bad impact?

“You’re … you’re still making this about you! The only answer I want or need from you is thanks for telling me, Rowan, I won’t do it again! That’s all! Not your reasoning, not this effort to justify! I want to know that you hear me, that you’ll acknowledge that your intent however good still made me come home crying from dysphoria, and that you’ll stop because I don’t want to put up with it anymore! That’s all!”

For the second time in less than a fortnight, a chilling silence envelops the office.

“We need a meeting,” Rowan says breathlessly, reminding himself that at least this time he isn’t standing on his desk, “discussing how to include marginalised people in our office. Discussing all the microaggressions. Maybe you need to find … educators, trainers who come in and do this. I don’t know. I’m just so tired of never feeling safe or normal, never feeling like I can say anything because this isn’t hate and at least you’re not my parents! Like I don’t ever get to have anything better!”

He stands up, unsure what to do past fetching himself a distracting cup of coffee.

Maybe, then, he’ll be able to survive the way Melanie looks at him—as though he just ran over her puppy.

She just came out, and he did run right over it.

“I’m sorry.” Rowan sags onto his chair, leaning forwards to grab his satchel despite the unpleasant giddiness. “I’m sorry. It’s wonderful, Melanie, that you now know who you are and that you can come out. And it’s amazing that you’re doing things already, when I needed like six months just to get used to my knowing I’m aro. I just...” He reaches inside the satchel and pulls out a rough oblong shape wrapped in white tissue paper. “Here. I’m sorry.”

He, an allo-aro man, screwed up an aro-ace woman’s coming out. Shouldn’t he know better? He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to curl up in a ball and hide under his desk. Even now, when he’s trying to get what he needs as a trans man, he’s being the worst kind of aromantic!

Her lips pinched, Melanie takes the present in her hands, worrying at the top piece of tape with her long, pink nails.

“We’ll have a meeting.” Damien runs his hand through his hair as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I’ll talk to the heads about … sensitivity training, I suppose this also is. Would you be willing to write me an email outlining some of these behaviours and any ways we can make this office safer for you? Is that an appropriate thing to ask of you?”

“I don’t mind,” Rowan says. As long as he doesn’t go ignored, he’ll send a few emails—and he already has a few blog posts on which to draw. “Thank you.”

“Do you … want anything, now? To talk privately to me or anyone else? Or to a senior supervisor? Or someone with the government body? Can I do or arrange anything else?”

“Coffee. Please. And … and then to go back to fixing photos as though absolutely nothing happened because I don’t … do this sort of thing.” Rowan heaves a shaking sigh, pushing aside the thought that nobody can have failed to observe this. “Thank—thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He notices Damien gesturing at Melanie, notices that Rowan’s aro flag mug leaves with both and returns a few minutes later—now distracting from the office’s musty odour with its rich bitterness. He takes a few sips, but only by throwing himself into his work can he survive the gibbering, chattering thoughts building into a crushing tsunami of what the hell. Why did he do that? Why—no. Photos.

The soft clunk of crockery hitting laminate makes him look up.

Melanie leans against the edge of Rowan’s desk, her hand resting atop her new orange, yellow, white and blue aro-ace flag mug. “I’m sorry. Thanks for telling me.” She draws a deep breath, tapping her nails against the rim. “I didn’t know I could … that there’s an explanation, until I read your booklet. It described me. Things I didn’t realise about me! Things I’d been feeling! But … I’ve been learning about things like micro-aggressions. I didn’t know I’d been doing them myself. I’m sorry. I’ll keep learning. And thank you for my cup.”

“I know,” Rowan says softly, thinking back to the day when he realised the words “aromantic” and “frayromantic” describe him. A belated voicing of confusion and alienation; the naming of a constant sense of difference from the world. Revelation, understanding, explanation. “I know. I’m sorry, too. I don’t like … scenes. Or asking people things. I’m an anxious coward. So it just...”

He waves his hands, trying to mime an explosion.

Melanie, wide-eyed, jerks her head. “I couldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t done it first—and I wouldn’t have known to say anything if you hadn’t! And you’re asking us to do things knowing that we don’t understand, which must be frightening at least. You’re brave. And you shouldn’t be sorry.”

Rowan stares at her, unsure what to say in response. Never has anyone in his life freely offered such a sentiment. Never has anyone offered him something so generous without subsequent critique of Rowan’s intolerance for and impatience with their struggles to deal with him, praise softening the following reproval.

Brave.

His throat tightens and his eyes blur.

“Would you work with me on a proposal to put together for the submission forms? Damien insisted that I work with you, if you want to.”

“Uh … yeah?”

Melanie grabs a stack of papers from her desk and a chair. “I’ve gone through the old forms and highlighted passages. Do you want to read through and see if there’s anything I’ve missed or anything that should be left?”

He nods and takes the papers. Is this an alternate universe, the world flung upside down? Or, if people possess a minimum of decency, can he make needed change by addressing his problems instead of letting everyone talk over him? Can he build a world where he doesn’t endure cis or allo microaggressions by believing that their inconveniences aren’t worth more than his discomfort?

If his co-workers doesn’t object to correction, if they’re willing to make changes and investigate training, is the problem one of Rowan’s overreaction?

Does that mean he can talk to Matt the way he spoke to Melanie and Damien?

“Is something wrong?” Melanie asks, frowning.

Rowan shakes his head and plucks a pen from his frayro mug. “No.”

For the first time in a long time, that’s mostly true.

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elesianne · 6 years

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A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter sixteen

Chapter summary: Fëanáro chooses a bad moment to talk to Carnistir, but Makalaurë offers his brother refuge and words of wisdom.

Rating: Teen and up audiences; Chapter length: ~2,900 words

Chapter notes: This is the shortest chapter so far, but it needed to be posted on its own. This is also all from Carnistir's POV, while the next chapter will be from Tuilë's.

Fëanáro doesn't come across as a very nice person in this chapter. As always, it's not because I 'hate' him. It is because of the circumstances and because he is seen here through the eyes of Carnistir, who has good reason not to view him favourably at this time.

(Read on AO3)

Chapter XVI // Breaking out and settling down

Carnistir doesn't go home after his meeting with Tuilindien.

He sits in the palace garden, dwelling on his guilt and his anger towards himself until he no longer feels the uncomfortable bench he is sitting on. Instead he feels soft grass beneath bare feet, and there is a sound of water close by, and in the air there are many whispers, some soothing, some frightening. He slips further into the restless dream, deep enough that he is badly startled by a nearby bird beginning its paean to the arriving morning.

When Carnistir comes fully back to himself, he finds his body stiff from long stillness on the bench and his boots slightly dampened by dew. He glares at them, stands up, stretches and starts the walk home.

The first person he runs into once he arrives home is the last person he would have chosen to meet – his father. He tries to stride past him but Fëanáro calls to him, insistent and a little angry.

Carnistir yells 'Not now' and keeps walking. This all feels familiar.

Fëanáro comes after him and says, 'Yes, now. You will talk to me when I request it, Morifinwë.'

Carnistir dislikes being called by his father-name at the best of times and now resents it. He knows his father uses it as a show of authority, and he hates that, and in this moment hates his father and his cool voice and the hard look in the blue-grey eyes. Fëanáro can be warm, caring even, but never when his sons show disobedience. Carnistir is loyal to his father but not in a mood to be obedient. This isn't the first time he has felt that way and because of it he has quarrelled with his father more than any of his brothers, with the possible exception of Tyelkormo who is as quick to yell as he is to laugh.

Carnistir does not stop walking and does not speak to his father until he is at the door of his room and finds Fëanáro still behind him, just as stubborn as his son.

'Father, I would speak with you later', Carnistir says, trying to control his rage. He would not try even this if he hadn't had reason to regret his anger so deeply lately – if not for Tuilindien.

'That will not do. You did not come home last night, nor did you send word. I need to know what happened.'

'I do not want to talk about it. And I am of age anyway.'

'It is that Vanya who put you in this mood, isn't it?' Fëanáro's gaze is cold and challenging. 'I told you that she would make you unhappy.'

Carnistir unclenches a hand to open the door of his room, inviting his father in with a curt gesture, letting hot fury gather and coil around himself, feeling the heat of it on his face and in his chest. It keeps him warm even when what Fëanáro has to say threatens to freeze him.

What a relief it is to get to explode at his father, and to feel justified doing it.

An hour later Carnistir knocks – or rather, bangs violently – on the door of Makalaurë and Tinweriel's home. A young maidservant appears soon, peering nervously round the half-open door. Carnistir had rather unreasonably expected that his brother would come to the door himself, and for a second he just blinks at the little maid.

'Is your master home?' he manages to ask.

'Yes, my lord, he is having breakfast with my lady.' The maid steps aside, clearly wary of her master's famously ill-tempered brother who had moments ago sounded like he was trying to break down the door.

Carnistir pushes past her towards the dining room and a fleeting thought goes through his mind that perhaps he shouldn't disturb Makalaurë's morning meal with his wife, but he is still so angry that the anger quickly drives away all other thoughts.

He needs to make sure that he does not have to go back to his father's house, so as soon as he barges into his brother's dining room he asks, 'Can I stay with you for a while?'

Makalaurë and Tinweriel stare at Carnistir (he knows he must be a sight – breathing heavy, face flushed, frowning ferociously) and then they look at each other.

Tinweriel recovers first. 'Of course, brother', she says, and Carnistir has never before been as glad that Makalaurë married a woman who honours all family ties. She stands, elegantly picks up her plate of dessert cake and her wine glass, and bends down to receive a confused little kiss from her husband. 'I will leave you two to talk in peace', she says and leaves the room.

Makalaurë looks after his departing wife for a moment, then at Carnistir. 'Sit down, Moryo. What is wrong?'

Carnistir takes a seat, his jerking movements scraping the chair against the floor. Makalaurë winces, then fills his own wine glass to the brim and pushes it to Carnistir.

'Wine at breakfast, Cáno?'

'No complaining, or I'll take it away from you.'

Carnistir takes a big gulp of the wine; he isn't complaining about it. 'I had a fight with father.'

'The kind where things are thrown and broken and you shout so loud that the neighbours get a sudden urge to visit their friends?' Makalaurë's voice is mild. This is nothing new, and he must believe that it will pass eventually.

'Yes. And also the kind where I tell him I'm not coming home again and mean it. I truly mean it this time, Cáno. That's why I came here. I hope I can stay until I can make other arrangements.'

Many times since he was a little boy Carnistir has during his furious rows with their father declared that he was going away and never coming home again, but he had always returned after sulking somewhere for a few hours, or a few days when he was older. But the way he says it now must make Makalaurë believe that he really means it, for he replies, 'You're welcome to stay, as Tinweriel already said'.

Makalaurë hesitates a moment before continuing. 'Would you like to tell me what you disagreed about?'

'Father was gloating, saying that he knew that Tuilindien would make me unhappy.'

Makalaurë's elegant brows rise. 'Has she?'

'Have you not left home for two days?' Carnistir asks, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ornate ceiling. He is uncertain whether he is more relieved that Makalaurë hasn't heard gossip of the public scene he caused, or uncomfortable that he has to tell him all about it himself. 'I thought that the whole city must have heard about what I did by now.'

'As a matter of fact, I haven't left home for three days. Tinweriel and I have been composing. We finally finished the troublesome symphony last night. I will accept your congratulations on it later.' Makalaurë pours more wine into the glass that Carnistir has half-emptied. 'So what did you do, brother?'

'I made her unhappy.' Carnistir grimaces. 'In all his wisdom, father did not predict that.'

Makalaurë chooses not to comment on their father, instead asking, 'How did you make her unhappy? I presume it wasn't intentional.'

Carnistir digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and tells his brother everything that happened at the teahouse and at the palace gardens late in the evening. Without waiting for commentary or advice concerning Tuilindien, he continues on to ranting about the shouting match with his father just an hour before.

'He told me that it was to expected that my relationship with her would end badly because the Vanyar aren't to be trusted – that they are too biddable and foolish, dedicating their lives to bowing down to the Valar, and too different to marry. Damn him.'

Makalaurë raises his brows again.

Carnistir huffs out a breath. 'He deserves that, Cáno! You know that he is saying all those things because he dislikes Indis and her children so much. It can't all be true and it isn't fair to Tuilindien. She isn't all of the Vanyar, she is just one woman, the woman I love.'

At the last word, Makalaurë twitches in his chair and his eyes widen in reaction. Carnistir barks out, 'What now?'

'You said you love Tuilindien.'

'Well, I do.'

'You sound angry about it', Makalaurë observes.

Carnistir's last few words had come out more angrily than he intended. He didn't plan on declaring his love out loud, but he doesn't regret it. It is true, after all, and he has known it deep inside since the moment he kissed her in the glade and she was sweeter and warmer and more radiant in his arms than he could ever have imagined.

'I'm not angry about it, or with her', he says. 'I'm angry with father. And with myself.'

'It is always someone with you, isn't it, Carnistir?' Makalaurë sighs. 'If you are not angry with anyone else, then at least yourself.'

'I deserve it', Carnistir answers, and continues before his brother can argue. 'For the look in her eyes after I gripped her too tight, Cáno. She was so afraid of me in that moment and she made this little sound of pain. I didn't know what to do with myself then. Or now.'

Makalaurë is listening intently and his eyes show a reflection of Carnistir's own pain, but he stays silent apart from a little thoughtful noise. Carnistir is reminded of how, when he was an intense little boy who would barely let his older brothers to comfort him when he was angry and distraught, Makalaurë had been the one he talked to.

Tyelkormo had always given up trying soon – and had in any case often been the cause or target of Carnistir's upset – but Maitimo and Makalaurë had kept trying to give him comfort. Maitimo would try to make Carnistir talk about his unhappiness by asking leading questions, but Makalaurë would just sat next to him while he sat scowling, arms crossed. Makalaurë would hum or play something quietly or just sit with him in silence, and eventually Carnistir would tell him what was wrong.

'I think I shall take up the breathing exercises again', Carnistir says after a while. His parents had taught them to him when he was a child, and the meditative exercises had helped to some degree. He had given them up some years ago when he was growing into adulthood and busy with apprenticeships. Clearly he shouldn't have.

'That sounds like a good idea', Makalaurë agrees.

'And there is nothing to do but wait for Tuilindien to contact me. If she ever does.' Carnistir kicks the table leg, not that hard, but the table is less sturdy than it appears. It wobbles, and the long-stemmed wine glass of delicate crystal falls over. Thankfully the glass falls into the half-eaten cake so it doesn't break, but the mess is spectacular.

After Makalaurë scrambles to dry off the wine with napkins and the edges of the tablecloth before it can drip onto the floor, he says, 'One piece of advice and one command. The command first: stop kicking my furniture, Moryo.'

'I'm sorry', Carnistir says sheepishly and crawls under the table to fetch fallen cutlery.

'It's alright. And my advice: yes, you should wait for her to approach you again. She asked you to do so, so it would be the right thing to do anyway, but the reason for her asking makes even more important that you don't intrude.'

'I know', Carnistir says. 'She deserves the time to consider whether she can stand my temper.'

'It is a lot to take in, you know. To tie oneself to, forever.'

'I know', Carnistir replies again.

'Do you, really? Have you considered all the implications if she decides to marry you?'

'What do you mean?' Carnistir tries not to grow irritated. Advice is what he came here for – well, that and a place to stay. He will listen to what Makalaurë has to say, though it stings that his brother might be wiser when it comes to Tuilindien than Carnistir himself.

'Think of the changes that will take place if you two end up marrying. You will gain a wife and move to a house of your own, and that is all that will change for you. All for the better, I dare say.'

Carnistir nods. Not living in the same house with his father would be a relief, even if he would miss his mother and his brothers. Well, Maitimo and the twins, at least.

'But Tuilindien – she would have to move to Tirion, for you would not go live among her people, would you?'

Carnistir has never even considered it. In all his hopes and dreams, he builds Tuilindien a house here in Tirion and they live there happily. 'No', he confirms and lets Makalaurë continue explaining things to him as to a child, things he had known but not realised the gravity of.

'Thus if she marries you, she will have to change her whole life: to leave her home, her family and her own folk and come to live among yours, with you as her only anchor in her new life. We – I mean, mother and Tinweriel and I and most of our brothers, if not father – would of course try to make her feel welcome and part of our family, but it would still be a lot for her to give up. For you.'

'It is no wonder if she wonders if I am worth it, especially after I scared and hurt her.' Carnistir groans. He has been aware of everything that Makalaurë has just said, but he has not thought much about it. Blindly, selfishly, optimistically he has just assumed that Tuilindien would simply overcome these concerns, accepting without difficulty that they came with him.

'Her needing time to think does not have to be a sign of her lesser love, it could be just that she has all these things to consider and that she is a careful person. Is she?'

Carnistir sighs and messes up his hair some more. 'Yes, she is careful and cautious. That's why she finds it hard to understand me, why she doesn't realise that I would marry her tomorrow if she would have me.'

'Coming from the Vanyar, she may never even have met anyone like you before.'

'Probably. I don't think either of us understands how we came to fall in love with each other when we are so different.'

'Love is incomprehensible, that is why there are so many songs about it. We keep trying to solve its mystery, but not even the Valar know.' Makalaurë hums a few notes. 'So do not give up on all hope yet, Moryo.'

Carnistir straightens himself up in his chair, still restless yet also more at peace now. 'Thank you, Cáno. I won't. I am good at holding on to things, at least', he says wryly.

Makalaurë nods with a similarly wry smile. 'You and I have that in common.' Then he changes the subject. 'What will you occupy your days with while you stay here? I assume you won't be continuing the projects you had with father, and you can't do breathing exercises all day.'

Carnistir toys with a wine-stained, crumpled napkin. 'I have that supervisory role at lord Ninquiner's mansion worksite. It takes up two or three days a week. For the rest… do you think grandfather Finwë might have some work for me?'

Once again, he has said something to make Makalaurë raise his brows. 'What kind of work?'

'Clerical, administrative, something to do with assisting him.'

'You hate the court and the people there – you are always complaining they are inefficient and pretentious.'

Carnistir shrugs. 'I do hate it all. That's why I was thinking that it might be a good opportunity for me to practise self-control.'

Makalaurë looks like he's stifling laughter. 'I'm sure it would be.'

Carnistir glares at him.

'Really, it sounds like a good idea', Makalaurë assures him. 'And since grandfather has found a place for every one of his grandchildren who have expressed an interest in working for him so far, I'm sure he will find you something to do. Even if you scowl and glower the entire time.'

Carnistir chooses not to reply to Makalaurë's last words. Instead, he says, 'Turukáno moved to a new administrative position recently. I don't know if grandfather has chosen a new private secretary yet.'

'I think not', Makalaurë says after mulling it over for a few seconds. 'You should ask him as soon as possible.'

'I'll ask today', Carnistir says. 'A little later, though.'

Makalaurë stretches luxuriously. 'Choose a guest bedroom of your liking and settle in. Or stay and eat. I can ask the cook for more food.'

'I'm not hungry', Carnistir says, eyeing the mess on the table. 'I promise I will be a better houseguest from now on. I don't want to cause strife between you and you wife.'

'Don't worry about it', says Makalaurë dismissively even as he moves a piece of wine-soaked cake to his plate. 'But even though you are welcome to stay with us as long as you like, please think about whether you can forgive father at some point. You know it grieves mother when we are in discord with him.'

Carnistir rises from his chair, careful not to shake the table again. 'At some point, I might think about it. For mother's sake', he says. 'And only if father admits he is wrong.'

A/N: In the next chapter, we'll see how Tuilindien deals with the time and space she asked for. It will also be a short chapter but the one after that is likely to be a monster.

As always, thanks for reading <3

#silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #caranthir #caranthir's wife #tuilindien #I UPDATED AFTER ONLY 2 WEEKS #woohoo #and the next chapter is progressing well too #your spirit calling out to mine #romance #my fics #elesianne's fics

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sadoverstyles · 7 years

Text

Changing Lanes; Chapter Two

story page

Tuesday, September 1st

Sometimes I debate calling my parents to have a serious conversation about whether or not I was shaken as a baby. Then I also have to consider whether it was being held upside down for too long, or having the soft spot on my head touched an unreasonable amount. This multitude of questions keeps me from actually making that call, as it seems it would stretch more than five minutes with them, and I've set that as my personal limit. I don't intend on breaking my promises to myself; who can you respect if not yourself?

Either way, I'm left to deal with the consequences of said actions, which means reciting three paragraphs of the speech-that-must-not-be-named out of order. This also means becoming incapable of intelligible thought when under pressure, read: leaving my phone, socks, underwear, and likely other things that I can't even recall now at Niall's flat. I've learned to keep extra underwear in my purse, along with a contact and emergency makeup. Although, as super prepared as I am, I somehow don't keep a spare phone on me.

It's not as though I make an abundance of calls throughout the day, but I'll bitch about not having my phone with me all the same. I don’t have it in my heart to blame it on Niall, as he’s the reason my legs are still slightly jelly and it’s just kind of tough to be angry with him sometimes. So I stick with being angry at my parents for the soft spot/dropping/upside down thing.

As I take my seat in the rows again, the girl to my right assures me that it went so well! I’m not entirely convinced, but tumbling out is a small smile and a thanks! We’ll find out next week when my grade comes.

Class passes slowly as we all wait out the day’s other presenters. Deciding to take advantage of being phoneless (read: distractionless), I work in the library after my next class until I can retrieve my things from Niall’s.

Of course, half an hour into some serious Latin revision, I being to lose focus. The thought flies that I need to call my cousin. Following is the thought that I need to buy toothpaste. Not shortly behind is that I wanted to drop by the bookstore and look around later this week. Next, the thought comes that these phoneless hours will be wasted if I spend them reminding myself of various tasks that are not at all pressing.

I browse my lecture notes for Latin yet again. Mentally checking off phrases and tenses in the recesses of my mind, I feel glad this isn’t my second language. I read somewhere that once you learn your second language, the following ones are cake walks. Recalling the struggle of French lessons, I decided the idea is vindicated.

Hours later, while driving to Niall’s, I know why my professor kept avidly repeating palma non sine pulvere during syllabus week. No reward without effort.

7872

0716

Third branch on the right.

As the knob is turned, my booted feet push immediately through the threshold, “I can’t believe I left my phone here ea-“

Throat tightening, the words are caught before any more can escape. There are more eyes in the room than I was expecting. Four heads, three more than I had initially assumed, are cocked in my direction. Since there isn��t the faintest clue on what to do rolling around in my subconscious, just standing there seems to be the default. Right palm on the doorknob, mouth open only slightly, right foot planted confidently in front of its match, widened eyes glued to the only familiar ones in the room.

I know them all from Niall’s stories, the tabloids, their movie. The only issue is that they aren’t supposed to know me.

“Well, hello.” Louis intones. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Evaline, you’re here.” Niall burst. His near disbelief is understandable. Two and a half years that these three didn’t know I existed, all demolished in the last fifteen seconds. It almost seems like the end of an era.

In previous discussions on what to do if I ever met the boys, Niall and I had never planned for this scenario. More cunning than this, we thought. Found inflagrante delicto, I was to gush over them and play the ever doting fan. Waving in adoration from the exit as Niall passes the afternoon off as just a one-time thing with a willing woman. My number was never saved in his phone, we both never acknowledged that he had long ago memorized it, so that if seen he could complain about never having anything private from those who made them so famous. He was to then promptly change his number and suggest the boys do the same. You can never be too careful; he was to mimic his mother.

There was no game plan in place for me walking in, knowing how to pass all three security measurements, and seeing his partners. Certainly no strategy to shove under the rug my announcement of having been here previously.

“I don’t have my phone.” I declared, by way of explanation. The time was surely after four, when Niall told me to return. He likely had sent me a text to not come. Now knowing this of course wouldn’t help me, but the ideas of anything else at all to say were so appallingly absent that I couldn’t stand not at least thinking something. Wide-eyed, Niall’s mind seemed to be churning a symphony of gears.

“So you’re a friend of Niall’s? Wha’ luck, us too!” Louis tries again.

Accepting that Niall was getting nowhere fast, I decided it was time to snap into place. Merely thirty seconds had passed in total, but I knew even that mere moment would need serious damage control. Returning my limbs to a normal position, and with no flicker of a guess as to where the sentence would be ending, I began “Yes, Nia- “

“Eva and I are friends, from Ireland!” Niall’s eyes shone with pride, glazing around the room at the other three boys. The others accepted this for a second, glancing back at their bandmate. The story seemed acceptable, as far as I know they weren’t childhood friends. The only issue that came was that-

“But you aren’t Irish?” Harry’s eyes were skeptical on mine.

Before the first word could fully pass my lips, Niall jumped in again, “American, spent summers in Ireland.” Harry nodded, still not acquiescing to be fully convinced by a lie that felt so blatantly obvious. “We kept in touch,” Niall added.

Liam smiled fondly, full accepting Niall’s explanation, and introduced the three of them. Invited to sit down and join them, I seal the door and glide over to the seat closest to Niall. Deep discomfort and anxiety guided most actions for the moment. When Liam asked what I went to Ireland for, I was pleased for something I could fabricate without much thought at all. “I was visiting family,” I said, “my aunt and uncle.”

Questions toed the tediously expected path; what I do, where I live, when I came to England, why we had never met before. Working to minimize the web of lies we were weaving to his best friends, I kept as close to the truth as possible. We discuss the classes I take at Imperial. I glaze a sweet sugar coating over the reality of my move from Oregon and thankfully no one seems to notice Niall’s thumb drawing slow, small circles at the small of my back. His reassuring fingers return to the chair’s back when the topic moves on, but the movement seems to have been caught by Harry.

Nothing is said if he did happen to see the comforting action. However, green eyes seem to flicker over to Niall more often than the other pairs. Sensing this as a signal that I need to weasel my way from the apartment, I begin the dance of exiting without my desperate longing to do so being clear.

Fingertips itching to check email, I excuse myself to the bathroom. My phone is snatched on the way, three texts from Niall project the screen’s glow.

4 isn’t going to work, come by after 7?

Eva

boys are here, I’ll drop by yours later

I can’t justify the effort of trying to get my payment and sneaking it into my purse that was currently occupying the space between Niall and Louis. Instead, with tight shoulders pressing back and a gracious smile playing on bitten lips, I return to the room clutching my phone. “It’s been great to meet you guys, but I’ve gotta get going.” The lie is easy, common. My tongue doesn’t fight and stumble under the weight.

Niall stands, deciding to see me out. Grateful for Niall’s choice, I almost brush off Harry’s voice, telling myself he’s just saying goodbye. But he’s not. “Come to dinner this weekend, we have to meet you properly. Can’t find out we don’t know someone of Niall’s and not induct them as we should.” The difference in ‘someone’ of Niall’s and a ‘friend’ of Niall’s is not lost on me as it seems to be the rest of the room. Just as well, green eyes are daring me to say no. Daring me to be told that no won’t be an option here.

Waiting for my response, everyone is silent again. I genuinely cannot think of an acceptable reason for me to tell Harry no, and Niall isn’t giving me any clues on whether he thinks I should join or not. Short of dodging the question and seeing myself out without providing an answer, my best course of action is compliance.

“Of course,” I say. Oh no! Mountains of coursework! I think.

Pleasantries are exchanged as I work towards the exit. I am told they’ll make sure Niall lets me know more about the dinner, but I’m not concerned. My heavy handed professor can ‘drown’ me in tasks at any moment; the beauty of imagination!

Out in the hall, past the sealed door, safe from prying eyes and ears, Niall and I breathe twin sighs of relief. “So sorry,” we splutter in unison. My forehead drops onto his sturdy shoulder and we sit for a moment in comfortable silence.

“Yours at eight?” He mumbles into my hair. This of course was going to have to be Discussed. What’s next? I wonder if he’s going to suggest I pop in and ‘visit’ with him every few months now, keeping up the ruse with a gentle distance. I choose not to wonder if he’s debating ending the arrangement. Not only is my time with Niall a big reason as to why I’m not living on the street, he means a lot to me. Even without talking about it expressly, after a while this had become more than a transaction. Mornings of bright light on crisp sheets and late night texts saying he needed me and that I was all he could think about would be sorely missed. The idea of not seeing Niall anymore, employer or not, worked as a firm hand guiding my forehead deeper into his shoulder. The arm that slung itself over me, the vigilant fingers that gripped my shoulder, and the five other fingers that laced into my own were the only reassurance given that the invisible hand was acting upon him too.

Needing to return, Niall saw me off with a small smile and a playful smack on his favorite spot. The silence in place of teasing banter was deafening.

At a quarter past eight, Niall let himself in to my small apartment. The familiar grumbles about the unlocked door were reassuring, and beyond that they were ignored behind the TV’s hum. The bolt was flipped, shoes were toed off, a jacket was dropped at the kitchen table, and the couch’s other half sunk. “The Office?” he mumbles. A warm weight is placed across my shoulders again, a soft support for my neck.

I lean into the planes of his chest, nodding. A moment is spent this way, and it crosses my mind that my visual nonverbal of nodding was received by tactile means, he felt it rather than see. The thought is amusing, yet not enough to make me nod again. The silence holds for a few minutes longer until the episode fades to black.

“How did it go, with the boys?” My head is tilted back just far enough to see his face at it’s angle toward me.

“Believed it, all of ‘em,” A smile rests calmly on his lips. I don’t ask about Harry, trusting that he would know better than I if there was an issue. However, the skeptical eyes on Niall’s hand earlier don’t seem to leave my mind.

It wouldn’t be the end if they all thought we were dating, it just wasn’t preferable. So much time had been spent now without the influence of others, and the situation seemed delicate to begin with. With all on the table, we both knew Niall was paying me. The money stopped being the only reason to answer his texts a long time ago, but without it I’d have been back in Oregon before I could finish my first term at Imperial.

“Yeah? Guess you do seem like the type to keep a pen pal for seven years.”

“Oh yah, call me Mr. Impractical, babe.” Two rows of straight-laced pearly whites sat at my eye level as his eyebrows gave spirited jumps

The next episode begins, and we maintain the quiet to watch. Having already seen every episode of The Office (UK version of course, I binge watched on arrival in London), my thoughts were instead focused on the dinner Harry had proposed. While I felt like not going would be the best course of action, I still had to see what Niall thought. Maybe he’d pass along the fib of homework and then tell me to meet him in his bed when he got home.

I’m reminded of the time Niall had called me over, only to be interrupted by multiple calls from Liam alerting that he was supposed to be shooting an interview in half an hour. With hot lips on my chest and quick fingers on my back I was told in no uncertain terms to still be there when he returned. Never a rule breaker, I made use of the new copy of Flowers for Algernon in my purse. Upon return three hours later, Niall found me still in bed, naked save for the book dressing my face. Had I not been near finishing the novel I might have put it away upon his entrance. Either way, Niall didn’t seem perturbed by the sight.

“How about after that dinner this weekend I meet you in your bed, working on that mountain of homework I’ll be building on Friday?” I didn’t look up at Niall as I said it, working to be the purest picture of nonchalance next to him; nose to the screen, eyes glazed, muscles relaxed.

“I think that sounds great, babe, but I figured you’d accompany me to that dinner.” Solid fingers squeeze my shoulder in earnest and I can tell this is one of those moments, where something in the back of my mind is screaming that this means more than just the words he’s saying. Doing anything to tell me that my decision means more than what I think it does. Now that we weren’t wholly a secret anymore, the voice was bolder than ever. “Don’t see the point in hiding now that they see you’re my old friend.”

The noise in my mind calling for thought tugs my attention away from answering, and Niall continues. “They’re all big fans of you, even from the minute that you all talked. ‘Specially Harry, always excited to meet someone new.” He pauses for a moment, and I still have not come to reply. “Not like we can’t take advantage of all your coursework later, I’m sure I can come up with some review exercises.”

I know what he’s really asking (I think), and I can’t find a reason to deny. Just like I couldn’t find a reason to deny him calling me babe, or him visiting my home, or talking about things that really don’t have anything to do with my job. So I tell him I’ll go to the dinner, and that afterwards I’ll memorize chapter four of my Basics of Entrepreneurship textbook line by line in his bed. He quibbles over some of the plan’s details.

The third episode is ending, and the fading screen seems to be a cue for Niall’s hand to roam south. Noses land just left of each other and lips crash. The routine is familiar, but welcome. His broad chest guides me back, molding against my own as I flatten against the cushions. There’s no push to go farther, and roaming hands stray no farther than weak cotton barriers. Making out like this feels like high school, and I remember lazily kissing Christopher Lock my junior year, when making out seemed like the main event.

Older, more experienced, and cockier, Niall is a much better partner. Even knowing that making out isn’t the last base, it’s just as fun. Fingers and lips and palms and a tongue that knows exactly what to do, exactly what I like and how I like it. I don’t know exactly how much time passes before he pulls away, but when he does we sit in silence and watch the last few scenes running on the TV.

When he stands up and drops the fifties on the kitchen table, I don’t watch. He reminds me to lock the door as he’s closing it.

#1dff #1dffupdates #liam payne fanfiction #niall horan fanfiction #one direction fanfiction #changing lanes #I'm sorry to say that there isnt actually any pizza in this chapter the graphic is a lie #its just there to look nice #oh well #let me know thoughts!!!

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pikanique · 7 years

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I GOT NO WHEELS

So, on Tuesday, I was in a car accident.

I was headed to work, (already a half an hour late which sucked! I’ve never been good at waking up to my alarms. But this is just a side note.) And on the highway I take to work, there was construction happening. The construction caused the Eastbound vehicles (myself included) to come to a complete halt. I was stopped behind a row of seven or eight other vehicles, patiently waiting until I could resume to normal speed.

I looked down at my lap or my steering wheel, (it’s such a blur) for just a moment, and WHAM, I was nailed from behind. It felt not only like a vehicle had hit my car, but also like someone double my weight was sitting in my back seat, and with force, used both feet to kick the back of my chair. I let out a scream. Please note, it was a scream of frustration, and not one of terror.

The impact was so intense that it caused my vehicle to slide forward into the truck ahead of me despite my foot remaining on the brake, and despite the forgiving allowance of space I left (and always leave) between me and the car ahead of me.

For some reason, my first instinct once my car had stopped moving was to immediately shut it off. I’m not sure at all what told my brain to do that, but I did.

Upon impact, my phone went flying from my cupholder and landed on the floor of my car among my feet. I took a breath to collect myself, and then reached down to grab my phone, as I knew I was going to have to use it very soon. To my surprise, I heard a knock on my door, and then I heard my door open. I looked up to my left and was confronted with the face of the woman in the car from behind me.

“Excuse me.” She said, “I just hit your car.”

Bewildered, I replied, “I know.”

I don’t remember exactly which way that short conversation headed afterwards, but it ended with my being able to shut my door again for a few more moments of privacy while I sorted through a few of my thoughts. The most prominent thought being of sadness for my car. I love(d) that car SO much. But we’ll get into that.

By the time I emerged from my vehicle, the women from the car behind me and the couple from the truck in front were all outside of their vehicles and in front of mine. I walked forward and took a peek at the front of my car. Despite it looking exactly how I’d just imagined it would, I was distraught. I swore very loudly a few times and rambled loosely about all of the frustrations I was feeling in that moment.

At one moment the woman who hit me said something about wondering what we should do, to which I quickly and firmly stated that we would be exchanging information and I would be calling the police. At another moment, the people in the truck from in front of me said something about having to pick up their friend from the airport.

After a small while of standing at the front of my car, processing all of this new information, I realized I had some phone calls to make. I stepped away from the highway and from all of the sounds of traffic so I could hear and be heard better on the phone.

The first call I made was to my boss. I got his voice mail. In the beginning of leaving my message, I sounded calm and informative, and then somewhere in the middle I lost my mind. I started hysterically trying to explain my situation before I abruptly hung up. I feel badly for my boss having to listen later to that message.

The second call I made was to my mother. I was still in hysterics at this time. I also got her voicemail at first. All she could hear on her end when she received the message was “blabber blabber sob accident sob blabber blabber sob I’m f***ed.” So she thought I was dying. (Sorry, mom!)

She immediately called me back and tried to get a better understanding of what had happened and what was happening to me. Her and my dad headed on their way to me almost instantly.

Finally, I called the police. (By this time, thankfully, my voice was much calmer.) The woman on the other end of the phone asked me a series of expected questions to understand what actions needed to take place. After what felt like a full assessment, the end of the phone call went a little something like this;

“Alright, ma’am.. I think that’s all I need from you.”

“Okay sou-”

“Wait... One more thing I nearly forgot.... What’s your name?”

I found that kind of comical. Perhaps that required, nearly forgotten information is just a little relevant.

Also, while I was on the phone with the cop, I watched the truck that I was smashed into drive away. That was odd and unexpected for me. I would never dream of leaving the scene of an accident, even if there was no damage done to my vehicle.

Then there was this empty space in time before my parents or the police arrived that seemed to last for an eternity. During this time, I learned a little about the woman who had hit me. I learned that she and her girl friend were headed on a road trip together. I learned that she was around sixty years old and had never before been in a car accident. Her and her friend were both very kind to me, and both very empathetic for me.

The woman who hit me suggested that we move our cars out of the way of traffic as to not disrupt the flow or cause any more incidents. She reparked her car on a small gravel road just up a little ways. I decided not to entirely relocate my car, but because my wheels were nearly touching the dotted line that separated the traffic moving the opposite way, I got into my car, restarted it briefly, and just moved my tires over enough that someone coming wouldn’t be too near to my car.

Then, the police showed up. I stood up from the place I was seated in the grass, and the woman who hit me encouraged and urged me to tell the cops first what had happened. The woman knew that she was at fault and felt it was better left to my responsibility to be the first to inform the police.

Two cop cars showed up, expecting for one to have to hunt down the couple in the truck that had driven off while I was on the phone with 911. But as it turned out, the couple had given the women their information before they took off, and the search was deemed unnecessary.

My parents showed up shortly after the police, beyond ready to help me out in any way I needed. My dad started doing walks around my car, and my mom helped me interact with the police. After I had told the officer my full story, she gave me a form to fill out explaining all of the necessary facts about the accident. As I was filling it out, I realized the level of improbability of this accident actually happening. Admittedly, I sort of snickered to myself. It was not to spite the women who hit me, it was just comical to me at the time. Some of the boxes I checked off were; road conditions - dry. weather conditions - daytime, sunny, clear. highway conditions - straight, even, flat.

Then the tow truck came to take away my beautiful baby. I took as much stuff as I could remember in the moment was in my car out in order to definitely keep it. Though, I keep recalling things now that I’ve left behind. The driver commented a few different times on the state of my interior. (I am a fairly messy person, and there may or may not have been several drive-thru bags among other useless nicknacks on the inside of my car. Don’t judge me.) When the driver went to load my car, he said that he tried to start it and that it wouldn’t. Now, as you may remember from earlier, I did mention that my car had been both shut off and turned back on since the accident happened. I think the driver failed to realize that my vehicle is a manual, not an automatic. But who knows... maybe my car just needed a few more minutes to completely give up.

Then, my parents gave me a ride home. (My boss texted me just before the police arrived telling me that I could take the day off.)

It wasn't until I was on my way home that I started feeling any pain because of the accident. The entire time I was busy with the women and the police and my parents on the side of the highway, I could’ve sworn to you that I had suffered absolutely zero physical damage. The pain simply did not exist at that time. But, while sitting in the back seat of my dad’s Rav4, I started to stiffen up a little bit. I reported my newfound pain to my mom, and she called in and booked me a doctors appointment later on that afternoon.

In with the doctor, I learned that my neck and my back were sprained. He said it could possibly take a couple days for the pain to kick in.

It did. And... It did. I am so sore today. My mom says I’ve been moving all day like C3PO. I can’t turn my neck in any direction more than just a few centimetres without being in severe discomfort. Twisting my back also isn’t exactly the most pleasant experience.

My insurance company can’t do anything for me until they’ve contacted the insurance company from the woman who hit me. They can’t get the information until the police have finished filing their report... Which apparently, could take up to a week. So I am extremely frustrated and left in limbo with very little information to go off of.

Also, apparently in the eyes of the law, I am partly at fault for hitting the truck in front of me. Because it could be argued that I was parked too closely behind him if I hit him when another vehicle collided with me. I find this law to be very unreasonable. I don’t feel like I deserve that kind of information being put onto my record, not do I feel I deserve to suffer any repercussions of any kind due to this being a law. I know for a fact that I was not parked closely because this is a good habit I have formed and never broken in my entire driving history. It is something I am adamant about. It’s also a pet peeve of mine. And the law is unrealistic. Regardless of how far behind someone you are parked, (unless its beyond ridiculous,) if you’re hit hard enough, there’s a good chance you're going to slide into the person in front of you. That’s just physics. And I was hit pretty hard. So this is probably the most frustrating account of this experience so far.

Now, let me take a moment to tell you about my car. Her name is Belle. Originally, her name was going to be Black Beauty, (both those words being accurate descriptors of her.) The car I had before her was named Black Betty, so I thought it was kind of funny that way, too. But I knew that I didn’t want to keep her black forever. I had a dream of one day painting her a very deep purple. I didn’t want her name to stop making sense one day, so I named her Belle after the princess.

She is a Toyota Celica 05 6 speed with leather interior, and she is perfect in every way. I was so happy when I found this car (with the help of family and friends) in the first place. It was one of those meant to be, but improbable scenarios where right when I needed a new car, she shone through at a reasonable price and in excellent condition. I’ve never loved a car so much before. I would have kept her forever had I been able to. I would kill for another Celica now. Honestly, such an incredible car.

The reason why I got her was right before I had her, I had Black Betty. Black Betty was an Oldsmobile Alero that I hated more than anything. I literally hated it from the day I got it, (nay... the moment I laid eyes on it) until the day I FINALLY got to get rid of it. (One of the happiest days of my life.) That car screwed me over multiple, multiple times. It was in the shop constantly and was always somehow broken or breaking in a new and seemingly creative way. A gas tank ($40) would maybe last me two days if I was lucky. Sometimes, it would just get stuck in park and refuse to move into any other position. Sometimes, the key wouldn’t turn. One summer, it didn’t have air conditioning, and one winter, it didn’t have heat. Like honestly, the longest most ridiculous list of things that had always ALWAYS gone wrong. Plus, it’s not the most beautiful vehicle to look at. The only reason I ever had that car was because I was desperate for a vehicle and I needed some means of transportation as soon as possible. And I kept that thing for way longer than I ever thought I would. Like, I hated that car more than I have the time to sit here and explain to you.

Oh, have I mentioned what kind of car hit me on Tuesday? It was an Oldsmobile Alero.

I’m being haunted.

#car crash #car accident #accident #vehicle #celica #alero #story #story time #blog #blogger #haunted #my life #sad #tuesday

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