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morgana-ren · 4 years

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Come Down to the Black Sea

Summary: The sea seems to call to you, but it’s not the tumultuous clash of the waves you should fear. Something lurks deep beneath the black waters, something sinister with a piqued interest and ill intent.

Rating: Teen, unless I chose to post the later chapters. Then things get all dirty and stuff.

Warnings: Siren!Shigaraki. So, there’s that. Foul language, as always. Slight struggle.

Hello, please take my garbage. This was originally a discord exclusive ficlet that ended up too fucking long. I meant to post it a while back but got distracted. I’ve read over it and I hate it a lot more than I did originally, more than I can really convey, but I feel bad for not posting anything story related for a while and maybe some folks will enjoy this. I promise I edited, I swear. Never thought I’d write something like this. Ever. and by ‘like this’, I mean no filth less than 500 words in. Either way, here it is.

“What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams.”

The sea is as much a constant to you as the gentle breeze that blankets your little port town. Every action you take daily in some small way reminds you that not so far away, the unforgiving tides are lapping hungrily at the shore and the restless ocean waters stir miles from the coast. Every breath you take is somewhat tinged with the briny smell of sea salt and slight sulfur. Seafood stalls and restaurants dot the coastal region, making up a large portion of the diets and employ of the folks who make their homes here.

Yet, for as big of a part of their lives as it is, there is so little known about it.

The ocean’s mysteries are as vast as her expanse and as deep as the trenches that lurk within her depths.

Children are raised on cautionary tales, made acutely aware of the ever-present dangers of life near the open water. Rip currents and drowning, sailors lost at sea and boats that never make it to harbor. Hostile creatures that make their nests within the darkened deep beyond the pale of human experience. These things are often as mysterious as they are tragic and leave behind loved ones mourning not only the loss of lives, but the answers they’ll never have.

Sometimes, you can’t help but wonder if your kind has gotten just a bit too comfortable near the seaside.

You’re not the only one that thinks so.

It’s not by any stretch of the imagination to consider humans a loud and overwhelming presence. They dominate any space they come across, often having little to no regard for any other living creature and imposing their will on anything unfortunate enough to cross their path. Once tranquil steads are trampled, native creatures baited and hunted, and soon there’s no semblance of the beauty that once existed. Humanity leaves behind an impossibly large footprint that destroys whatever is caught beneath its crushing boot.

The ocean is no exception.

Sailors, whalers, and fishermen blot the waters, disrupting the natural cycles of the creatures that make their homes beneath them. Garbage, rot, and other various forms of filth are callously dumped and left to drift. Human hubris has seen the death of the coral reefs, the extinction of entire species, and even radiation left to leak and poison everything in its path.

The only place safe from the fecund shadow of destruction that looms wherever humans may roam are places far too treacherous to facilitate their survival.

You’ve come to believe that maybe beings that are forced to breed in that darkness grow to harbor a grudge against that which pushed them there.

Your little seaport city has always been relatively calm. It attracts enough tourists to keep it economically stable, but not so many as to make it a cultural hub. The signature beaches are only mildly clogged with tourist trap giftshops, and while the sands are busy, there’s not so much foot traffic as to make it unpleasant to visit.

Things have run relatively smoothly for your hometown, at least for the majority of your life. There’s the one-off oddity every now and again, but for the most part, it’s a fine place to live. The native folk are kind enough, and there’s decent opportunity for growth. Still, life always left something to be desired; some greater need that tugs at you and calls you toward the ocean.

Watching the fishing vessels come to and from the bay can be calming. What started as a time wasting hobby as a child has turned into a nightly practice. The marine layer makes it difficult to see early mornings, and the incessant chatter of tourists and their screeching younglings make it difficult to think during the daylight hours. It didn’t take long before the boats mattered little, and it was the time alone you valued. You’d curl up in the still-warm sand, gazing out into the horizon and watching the moon rise high above the waves, listening to the sound of the ocean and losing yourself in its subtle song.

Even as adulthood inevitably sought you out, you found time for your solitary moments that existed between no one but you and the horizon.

It brought you a sense of peace. No matter how much time passed, a part of you stayed anchored to the beach.

Yet, nothing stays peaceful forever, especially near the rocky shoreline.

It started with a missing boat.

It was the talk of the town. A small schooner had gone missing just off the coast and never returned. A band of brothers had set out for a weekend voyage and by Tuesday, no word of them had returned to shore. It had made the local news, pictures of the men aboard flashed across the screen, all smiling faces and sunburned skin. They were experienced sailors, raised on the waves and having spent more time in a boat than they did on land.

Surely, they were fine. Everyone hoped for the best.

At least until pieces of the boat washed ashore a week later, no sign of brothers anywhere.

That incident was the first of many.

Early morning swimmers began to disappear without a trace, divers vanishing without warning. More and more boats failed to make it to harbor despite calm conditions, and soon some people rejected the water all together. The missing persons board was filled with more macabre grinning faces that served as reminders than ever before, and inevitably, people became paranoid.

Superstition gained favor over logic, and tales spread of a malevolent being plaguing the coast began to spread. Children were warned against playing in the tides and tourists begin to shy away from the port. Locals and witnesses talk amongst each other, claiming to see a pair of vicious, glowing red eyes from deep within the water after dark.

Those who denied the possibility shunned those who fell into the myth, claiming that it was clearly boat lights and that folks were too finicky. There was no mysterious sea monster, only misfortune and the loose lips of idle handed fools.

Still, that didn’t account for the sudden surge in disappearances nor did it explain why no remains were ever found.

The mysteries intrigued you, but you worry little for the danger. While you weren’t entirely sure what to think, you never stepped far into the ocean on your nightly visits, mostly only skirting around the water’s edges and observing. Superstition be damned, this was the one place you felt a sense of utter calm and peace. You’re not disturbing the sea or her inhabitants; only sitting by her and admiring her beauty.

You mind your business along the beach and you think that keeps you safe, but that doesn’t spare you his wrath.

A lonely night walker, you loiter along the sands and drag your feet through the wetness. You never let the water flood past your ankles, opting to squish the damp muck beneath your toes instead. He watches you, just out of his reach and still so close. Rage simmers in his chest and his fingers twitch, longing to rip you apart, feel your heartbeat as it slows and ceases beneath his fingertips. He doesn’t dare try his luck against the surface, but you infuriate him.

Time and time again, he’s tried to lure you out.

You never fall for it, though he can tell by the way your eyes linger on the ocean a tad too long that you're curious. If he cared enough to place it, he'd say you look sad, maybe a little forlorn. After all, who comes to a deserted beach alone at night that isn't?

Always the same section of sand, always the same look on your face. You kick at the particles stuck to your grimy feet like it'll sooth whatever repressed emotion you're stewing in, and he can't help but scoff.

Humans are completely ridiculous.

Still, he watches, determined to see you inhale deep the waters around you while what little light you have left in your eyes leaves, same as the rest of your kind that has fallen prey to his deadly actions.

Night after night he waits, and night after night you resist. You don't fall for his tricks, even the ones that beguile the seasoned sailors. It's curious, he'll admit. No matter how longingly you look at the ocean like it could offer you something you need desperately, you never give into the temptation to wade just a little deeper, just take a few fucking steps forward. Perhaps you come from a sea fairing family who had elders that warned against the seduction of the low night tides, or maybe your primal human brain still holds an inkling as to what dwells deep beneath your world, but either way, it agitates him more than he'd like.

He's always had a wanderlust and never sticks around the same sections for long, but the fact that you've been evading the watery grave he dug just for you grates at him. He finds himself waiting moonrise after moonrise to see your form emerge, wracking his brain for ways to trick your feeble human mind into his waters. He's better than you, in every sense of the word. This shouldn't be this difficult.

If he didn't know better, he would say that you know. You never quite look directly at him, but your head is always turned in his direction, as if you have some sixth sense of his location. He doesn't like it. Even though you're the one in the sights of a predator, it makes him feel like a goldfish trapped in a tank. You piss him off.

But eventually, one night, his patience finally pays off.

Warily, you perch yourself on some rocks that stray into the ocean. You don't even dip your feet in, which, while not ideal, would have been enough for him to work with. Instead, you sit with your arms crossed over your knees, same distant grimace on your face that you sport every night. You seem hypnotized by the reflection of the moon on his waters, hardly blinking or even really breathing except for the occasional despondent sigh.

The thing that stirs you from your daze is a flash of silver just under the water beneath where you're sitting. At first you think it's a fish, since it's not uncommon to see them around when all the beachgoers retreat for the day, but the eerie luminescent glow is unlike any fish you've ever seen before in a life almost wholly occupied by the sea. You watch intently for a moment, hoping to see it again, but give up when all that greets you is the deep, murky blue of sunsetted waters.

Still, once you pull your eyes from the gently splashing waves, it catches your attention once more. You're curious if you're just seeing strange broken reflections of the moon, but that wouldn't explain why once you offer it your attention, it disappears.

You keep your eyes down and stare long into the water, and eventually it appears again. Long and stringy, it’s definitely unlike any fish fin you've ever seen. It's incandescent almost, reflecting the silvery light of the moon with an oddly hypnotizing pearlescent glow. You’ll admit, it’s strange, but what alarms you the most are the two crimson eyes staring up at you from beneath the tangle of silvered webbing.

You almost recoil, but you're anchored in place by some hybrid mix of fear and curiosity. The urge to scream becomes paralyzed somewhere deep in your throat when a thin, gangly arm reaches up and grasps at the craggy surface of the rock before your feet. It looks… human... or at least it would, if it wasn't for the slight iridescent sheen of the skin- if you look closely, you can almost make out what appears to be scales and a thin fin that runs the expanse of the forearm. Thick, slimy webbing coats the inside of each finger, becoming more apparent as long claws stretch and crawl toward your retracted legs.

Those maliciously alluring eyes draw closer and closer to the surface and soon enough, you can make out what appears to be a face somewhere just under the waves staring right back up you.

Another hand joins the one currently clinging to the rock and the figure hoists itself up partway from the water, and soon you're face to face with...

Well, you can't really say what.

You were right, it's human. He's human. At least… half human?

Drenched white hair slicks back just below his shoulders and clings to the sides of his face, beadlets of water sliding down from the wintery strands down to what appears to be a pair of gills that encircle the rounds of his neck. There's something akin to black fins parting the slicked hair where his ears should be, but even that's not enough to pull your attention from the perverse scarlet eyes burning into yours from behind the severely salt-chapped flesh of his face.

Unnatural hue aside, they’re utterly petrifying, and while something deep in your body tells you that you should run, you can't bring yourself to move from the spot.

He pulls himself up a bit, lithe torso exposed as he lazily rests his head on his finned forearms by your feet. His body language is completely contradicted by the obvious hate in his expression, which only makes it even more difficult for your brain to try and decide what in the fuck you're supposed to do in this situation.

What the hell is he?

You try to ask, but the shock of seemingly stumbling upon a possibly malevolent supernatural creature in the dead of night has caused a severe regression in your speech capabilities. The only thing your mouth is capable of producing is a series of incoherent babbles and sounds, hands shaking as your resist the urge to touch him to see if he's real or if you've been slipped some form of extremely powerful hallucinogen.

He studies you briefly through pale lashes and you could swear you see him roll his eyes before a prolonged blink.

I'm sorry, is this not the expected result? He's looking at you like you're the weird one in this scenario?

Regardless, he lets you stare at him and allows your feeble human brain to come to terms with what you're seeing. Amazing, how quickly your kind forgets you don't exist alone. He draws the line, however, when you finally find the ability to go to poke his fins. He swats you away with an unnaturally quick movement from his slippery, wet hand and you stare at the water spots he leaves behind like it's the strangest shit you've ever seen.

"Are you often so rude as to touch strangers, human?"

You skitter back on your ass, eyes wide and disbelieving even as the truth stares you back with a mocking expression. His voice is raspy and graveled, cracking from what you assume is disuse. It takes you a moment to process his words, despite being absolutely certain that you’ve heard them.

"Holy fuck, you're real!"

"Just grasping that, are we?"

"What the fuck are you?"

His face contorts and his lips lift in a snarl, revealing the extremely sharp looking fangs on either side of his mouth. Okay, so that might've been extremely rude. He's obviously sentient, so maybe saying something so brash and offensive wasn't really the way to go.

"Sorry, I mean -fuck - I've just never, uh-" You clear your throat awkwardly, still trying to decide whether or not to bolt. He watches you through tautly narrowed lids, and you get the feeling you should tread very carefully. Whatever emotion it is you see in his face, it certainly isn't patience.

"Are you a..." What would you call him? A mermaid? A fish-man? A sea spirit? It doesn't quite matter, since he doesn't give you time to finish your line of thought.

"Your people have no word for what I am." He speaks the words almost bitterly. "But just because your kind doesn’t acknowledge me doesn't mean I don't exist."

You're not entirely sure if you should apologize on behalf of the human race or admit yourself into a psych ward.

"What, uh, what should I call you... Um, sir?" Smooth. But you're not really sure what to say here. What exactly are proper honorifics when it comes to situations like this?

"My name," He sighs again, as if it's some great chore to introduce himself. "Is Shigaraki."

"Okay, Shigaraki," You say his name, trying to get the hang of it as it rolls off your tongue. "It's nice to meet you- I think?"

He pays your attempt at polite conversation no mind at all.

"What are you doing here, human?"

Okay, he's curt and to the point. Good to know. He seems to have very little consideration for your bewilderment, despite being the one that demanded your attention in the first place, which isn’t necessarily a good thing when you don’t really know how to answer his question between the confusion and the sheer oddity. To be frank, you can’t muster much of a response.

"Just... sitting here?"

"No, I mean what are you doing? Every single night, you come here, you look at the sea for hours. Why?"

His pointed tone demands an answer, seeming irate or even provoked by your harmless nightly activity.

"I don't know." For some reason, the question frustrates you as well, mainly because you really don't know. The ocean soothes you, even if you're just spectating it. It's too busy during the day, packed with tourists and teenagers yelling and bounding around in the sand, and while you're happy they're having a good time and all, the voices are impossible to drown out. Even the sea seems to protest their presence, the tide becoming higher and higher and more rambunctious until it almost forces the invaders out. More than once, folks have almost drowned for being too stubborn and refusing to cut their beach day short despite the obvious danger.

It seems to calm itself at night, waves gently washing ashore instead of slapping angrily at the feet of anyone treading the sand as if it's trying to coax them deeper only to pull them under.

"You don't know?" It seems more like a statement than a question, and it's an unimpressed statement at that.

"Yeah. I don't really know. I just like being here, I suppose." You shrug, letting your arms fall limp at your sides. It could be the shock, but somehow, you’re actually managing to carry on the conversation with him. "Is there something wrong with that?"

Something flashes in his eyes, and it sends a shiver down your spine. Once again his body language drastically contradicts the vibe you're getting from him. He leans back casually in the water, and just beneath the edge, you see something slick and shiny flutter where you're certain his legs should be. "I guess not. But if you like it here so much, why don't you ever come in?"

"I-I don't know... The water is dangerous at night..."

“Is ‘I don’t know’ all you know how to say?” He gives you a derisive smile, mocking your tone while swimming graceful circles back and forth in front of the rock with an inhuman grace that sets you on edge. "Don't tell me you're scared, little human."

"I'm not scared, I'm just not stupid."

He runs his tongue over his fangs and something akin to a smile crosses his features. "Sure you're not. A little girl like you could never be afraid of a little water."

He's taunting you and you know it, but the way his eyes stay locked with yours as he swims around and around and around is making you feel a little dizzy...

"I'm not afraid-"

"Come in then."

He dips into the water and disappears, and despite knowing better, you find yourself leaning over the rock to see where he's gone. He's waiting for you just under the waves. You can see the fluid flap of an ebony tail glimmering in the moonlight, silver hair haloed around his head. One clawed finger beckons you toward him, and you can feel yourself leaning further and further.

You're willing yourself to draw back, but the closest you can come is ceasing your forward movements. Even as you try, you can't pull your eyes away from his, staring unblinkingly up at you and glowing that foreboding sanguine shade that cuts even through the darkness of the waves.

'Come in, little girl. Show me you're not scared.’

His webbed hand threads up through the rippling surface, ready and waiting for yours.

You can't help it.

You reach.

You feel the slippery surface of his scaley skin interlocking with yours before something in his expression morphs into something wholly ominous and knocks you from your stupor. His magnetic eyes darken, sinister snarl hinting through the smile he’s straining to keep. This isn’t a serene sea creature playfully helping you face your fears; the ill intent is written on his face too prevalently as his mesmeric movements lure you toward the water.

This is a predator, one determined to sink his teeth deep into your neck and steal the life from your still beating heart. You can feel it as his grip begins to tighten on your own palm.

Whatever spell he might have been casting has been broken if only just enough for you to shake yourself free. He's almost fully closed his fingers around yours before you jerk sharply, yanking your hand away. In anticipation of your movements, he thrusts up and out of the water, sharp claws digging hold into the skin of your forearm. You cry out from surprise more so than the pain even though the tips of his pointed talons slice open your skin with little to no resistance.

Fangs bared and enraged, he’s clearly livid now. All facade of relaxation falls away as his tail flaps furiously trying to pull you into the water with him. He's strong, but your will to live is stronger. The layered skin of your knees breaks as it scrapes against the jagged rock, body thrashing and desperately try to release yourself from his unyielding grip

"Let go of me!"

"Get in, you little brat!"

"No!"

Falling backwards and trying to use your weight as leverage, you do your best to kick the creature off. You land a few good hits on his lean chest, but it's not enough to fully dislodge his grip. It takes a well-placed, hard slap to the side of one of his headfins to finally stun him. It was a last-ditch effort, but oddly enough, it works.

He instinctively releases you in favor of cradling his tender, damaged fin. It isn’t long before he realizes his error and comes to his senses, but it gives you just enough time to pull away. He snaps forward several more times in pure, seething rage, fingers clamping around nothing but air in his failed attempt to seize you once more.

Sputtering and hissing, he even crawls partway onto the rock as you're furiously backpedaling away from the water to save yourself, giving you good look at where his hips meet the sleek scales of his pitch-black tail. It’s fascinating, beautiful even, but your body knows better than to slow to give yourself a better look. The split-second flash in your memory will have to suffice, coupled with the sheer and utter terror that will no doubt be permanently ingrained in your memory from this encounter.

His inflamed face and vividly gleaming red eyes that watch you with palpable hate written in his expression are the last thing you see before pushing yourself up on your haunches and sprinting away from the sea as quickly as your little human legs can carry you.

He watches you run, slamming a fist down on the rock in frustration and spitting out curses. He almost had you. He was so fucking close!

Once he manages to calm himself, he allows himself to coax the sore fin on the side of his head. Its thrumming in pain, overly sensitive to the touch. It was like you had known just where to hit him to make it hurt. Yet, as angry as he is, he can't deny that you're interesting.

"You can't escape me, girl. You'll be back."

The sea calls to you, and you can’t resist that call forever. You can’t resist him forever.

#Shigaraki x reader #Tomura Shigaraki #Shigaraki #Hey Ho What the fuck is wrong with me #Siren Boy just wantsta love you I swear #It aint my best but I really love the sea right now

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years

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The Silmarillion as a TV/Netflix Series (Part 6)

This is by far the trickiest part, because I have no specific ideas for adapting the strategy and tactics of the War of Wrath. But there are a few big points to settle first. One of the major questions is whether the Valar themselves are going to be involved in the war.

If they are, it’s hard to imagine how the war could take 50 years.

If they aren’t, it’s hard to imagine how it could be won at all: the Vanyar-Noldor army of Valinorean elves is not especially larger than the original Noldorin forces in Middle-earth, and the remaining forces of the Sindar and Noldor of Middle-earth are so far depleted as to be neglibible. So, if it was virtually impossible for the Noldor to defeat Morgoth when they first arrived near the start of the First Age, or during the Long Peace, before he’d had the time to develop more and more dragons and other monsters within Angband, it’s hard to see why it would be possible for similarly-sized Elven armies to defeat him now. (Remember, the Valinorean Noldor are only 10% of the original group of Noldor.) Also, if the Valar aren’t involved, it’s hard to see how the war could be so cataclysmic as to literally destroy the landmass of Beleriand.

The Silmarillion states “The Host of the Valar were arrayed in forms young and fair and terrible, and the mountains rang beneath their feet.” I take this as meaning at least some of the Valar did go to war themselves; while it’s possible to read the phrase as referring to only Maiar, that seems like far from the most obvious reading. Manwë and Varda would not go (I think Tolkien said or implied this somewhere), but Tulkas and Oromë, whose purposes specifically include combat against evil things, certainly would. Ulmo, also, would undoubtedly be involved. And I think Aulë and Yavanna would as well, for love of the shapes and creatures of the world that Morgoth had destroyed and corrupted. I’m not as good as imagining Vana and Nessa in battle-shape, but it’s certainly possible. Of the Fëanturi, Lórien, Estë, and Nienna would come at some point, but in non-combat roles and to do what healing and cleansing of land and spirits as they could. And all these would be accompanied as well by large numbers of Maiar. (Including Melian! Likely including Curumo as well, he seems like the type of person who would want to be involved.)

If there’s a question as to why Eönwë would be commanding when Valar are there, I don’t see a contradiction. The general of an army is neither inherently the most powerful warrior nor the person of the highest social status. If he’s generalling, it’s because that’s the role he’s suited for.

The second major question lies in the basic contradiction between timelines indicating the War of Wrath took about 50 years, and the statement that the onslaught of the winged dragons lasted for “a day and night of doubt” and is one part of the battle noted where the Host of the Valar was on the defensive and retreating. Now, I have no military knowledge, but even to me it seems obvious that a war which lasts for fifty years and in which the largest setback for the victorious side lasts for one day make no freaking sense.

And on top of that, cinematically a fifty-year war would be very difficult to depict. So for the show, I think we’re better off having events proceed considerably more quickly than that.

As far as individual episodes go:

Episode 1: This episode is set-up. In Valinor, preparations for war, and the rising of the Star of Eärendil, seen in Middle-earth (including by Maedhros and Maglor, and Elrond and Elros). In Middle-earth, some scenes of Maedhros and Maglor raising the twins (I think it’s stated somewhere that they went far south, beyond the regions where Morgoth’s for es had a heavy presence). Some scenes on Balar dealing with the aftermath of the Fëanorian attack on Sirion. (What do they do with Fëanorians who surrendered afterwards? What do they do with Fëanorians who changed sides and fought on in their defence but who they still don’t trust?) The episode ends with arrival of the Host of the Valar.

Episodes 2 through 8 are the War itself, which, again, I have no idea how to construct. The Elves of Valinor are arriving by boat; and I expect that the Valar and Maiar would, for the most part, accomoany them. The landing would take place mainly all along the Falas, from Nevrast to the Mouths of Sirion, as well as farther north around the First of Drengist where Fëanor first landed.

Morgoth’s forces are spread throughout all of Beleriand, but vary in type. Hithlum stands out because it is not mainly inhabited by monsters, but by Men - the Easterlings and those among the Edain who are their thralls. I have an impression - partly from the Manwë’s reaction to the later Númenorean invasion, yielding authority to Eru even though the Valar certainly had the capacity to defeat Ar-Pharazon’s army - that the Valar and Maiar would be very uncomfortable about making war against Eruhini, even those who served Morgoth. So the portion of the invasion force at Drengist would be in large part the Edain, with some Elven and Maia support, and soon aided by uprisings among the Edain thralls. The role of Maiar or Valar here would largely be to keep the orcs and wolves and monsters of Morgoth at bay outside the mountains of Hithlum, but to leave the conflict against the Easterlings of Hithlum largely to the Edain and Eldar.

This would bring the northern portion of the army quite close to Angband, but they couldn’t attack from there - the Anfauglith would be packed with monsters and defenses, never mind the ever-present threat of Morgoth flooding the place with lava.

The greater part of the Valinorean forces would sweep east and north from the coast, facing substantial armies’ or Morgoth’s creatures (including cold-drakes, non-winged dragons, wolves, giant spiders, and really anything else horrifying you can think of; but the balrogs are being held in reserve by Morgoth for the defense of Angband). Various Maiar of Morgoth would be involved, including Sauron. One thing to note is that despite the presence of Valar, the Valar aren’t (aside from Tulkas and maybe Oromë) inherently suited to combat - that’s why Tulkas showed up in the first place. Even back in the Ages of the Stars, the Valar’s attack on Utumno was a hard fight - and that was when Morgith’s forces were far smaller than during the War of Wrath, though Morgith himself was personally more powerful then). So it’s not implausible for things to take some time and be challenging.

Episode 7 is the fight against the winged dragons and death on Ancalagon, and Episode 8 is the destruction of Angband and the casting of Morgoth into the Void.

Episode 9 includes Maedhros and Maglor’s demand for the Silmarils, Eönwë’s response, the brothers’ attempts to steal the jewel, and Maedhros’ death and Maglor’s departure from the known lands. This episode would also include scenes of the aftermath of Angband’s overthrow, the freeing of thralls and of captive spirits, in which the Fëanturi and their associated Maiar would have a large role (shout-out to @thearrogantemu’s latest fic!). At least a few of the Maiar who served Morgoth would genuinely surrender, which could be contrasted with Sauron considering surrender but ultimately choosing against it due to being unwilling to face consequences.

Episode 10 is the journey of (some of) the elves of Middle-earth to Valinor; the choice of others to stay (including Galadriel and Celebrimbor’s choices, and Galadriel’s last conversation with her father); and the promise of a new land for the Edain. It would also include the rebirth of Finrod in Valinor, giving hope that many of the audience’s favourite characters are not permanently dead, though it may be a long while before they return to life. I think having this at the very end is the best way to deal with elven rebirth without it feeling like a bit of a cop-out. If Finrod’s alive at the start of Season 6, you’re going to have pragmatically-minded viewers asking why the Valar don’t revive the Noldor as a whole and chuck ‘em at Morgoth - after all, if they die again, they can just come back again! Elven rebirth needs to be treated seriously, not as convenient respawning, so I think introducing it just as a possibility, for many years in the future, and at the end of the series, is the way to go.

This is also a great episode to show all the different reasons for different elves’ decisions on whether to return to Valinor. Returning out of weariness, or desire to see their families, or repentance, or simply having had enough of the endless wars and suffering of Middle-earth, or wanting to see the beauties of Valinor. Staying because they’re attached to Middle-earth; or want to make their own decisions outside the tutelage of the Valar; or are too ashamed to return and see the people they once knew; or, for some (especially Sindar) being unwilling to go to Aman if the Kinslayers can go there and be pardoned as well (“I’d rather live in the Anfauglith than have to share Valinor with them”); or still being curious about what the lands of Middle-earth beyond Beleriand are like; or wanting to know more of the Edain and Dwarves; or feeling a responsibility to aid and heal the world rather than leave it. I could even see a small handful of Vanyar or Valinorean Noldor choosing to stay for a while out of fascination with this world and its people, despite so much of what they had seen of it being horrible.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #maedhros #maglor #edain #elves #valar #war of wrath #sauron #adaptation

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eternalstrigoii · 4 years

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Unsullied Waters

Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Desert Warrior Dark Fey Reader

You saw it in him during the Revel most of all.

The tension in his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw. He wanted to be out there on the Moors. The Moor-Folk were small, fragile things – you, yourself, had seen them many times. You’d snatched them in bags from the shoulders of poachers, swept them from jars bounced away on surging vines. Released them in the trees only to circle back and bloody your claws. As loyal, as devoted, as he was to your kind above all, Borra was fond of those creatures. They could hardly defend themselves.

Conall didn’t want him to provoke war.

While it was the larger truth, that wasn’t what you did when you went to the moors with him. He was protecting them. Someone had to. Your kind were few and far between; you heard stories about the faerie, or the witch, that used to live there. The things she’d done, the admirable justice she sought.

If protecting your people cost mortal life, then it was a price for which only the humans were to blame.

You touched his shoulder between his wing and his armor. Your fingers curled, pressing in.

You were all warriors in some form. There was no weakness in providing for the man who led you. Who took you to his bed and mated you. Often.

Borra let out a low growl of frustration. He refused to let his gaze drift toward Conall, though some part of you knew their increasing friction was as much the source of his doubled rage as the increase in poaching.

You ran your hands deliberately down his back before you stepped away.

He made no move to stop you. He never did. He liked to watch you, just as you enjoyed being watched. Sometimes you felt his fury heat the air between you, as though the weight of his amber gaze alone would give the others wide berth from you, for it was him you belonged to and no other.

As though you would ever let him forget.

As though you were ever without a partner for long.

If anyone but Conall opposed the way Borra took hold of you, the way his talons bit deliciously into the rock-like texture of your flesh, they kept it to themselves. You called to him with the sway of your hips, demanded his attention. If you didn’t want him to claim you like the hawk seizes prey, you would have openly opposed.

His thumb talon brushed your jaw as your head fell back into his shoulder. Your wings splayed, fitting comfortably against his. The ease at which your bodies slotted together was no small pleasure, well beyond that of his clothed hips against yours; the caress of his claws along the hem of your trousers.

He snarled your name against the leaf of your ear. His touch lingered so near where you quivered.

Your hand, tangled in his hair, sought to guide his mouth to your throat.

The beat of his wings folded yours like a shield, as though you needed to be reminded that departure was not an intermission.

By the time you landed at his nest, he had already unfastened the chest-plate of your armor. His large, warm hands caressed your skin from the pronunciation of your collarbone to the swell of your hips.

He groaned; your sharp teeth found purchase at the junction between his neck and shoulder, and you tugged lightly at his trapped flesh. He nearly tore the waist of your pants as he opened them, palming your breast as the other settled between your thighs.

You stumbled, the both of you, clumsy with fixation. He parted you, caressing along the seam of your liquid heat. Your knees buckled only for his to agree when the straw edge of his nest-bed finally brushed your feet.

“Borra,” you gasped against his ear.

Your wings unfurled. He flung your chest plate to the floor.

Your hands fell from his hair. You’d undone the shoulder plate of his armor so often that his leather responded to your persistence. The moment it fell, you aided him in removing the last of the clothes left between you.

Sometimes you forced him to wait. Your lips traced a path down his chest, over the hardness of his stomach. You undid the waist of his trousers with deliberate care, gave them permission to slip further down his hips so you might rest your hands there. So the scrape of his talons on your scalp and the buck of his hips was never too much to prevent you from watching him.

You loved to watch him. Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted around his groan.

You loved to watch almost as much as you loved to shower his hips and thighs with marks of your own. The ones on his shoulders and his neck were possessive; those were just for you. And he always let you do them.

A low moan passed between your parted lips.

Your mate’s touch lingered well after you’d joined. His body fit so well against yours; you fit your arm along his where he ensnared your waist, never allowing himself to fully part from you. You were equals – when you fought together, when you sparred, when you mated.

“More,” you keened, and his hand closed over yours where you clutched his bed’s feather-down lining.

He made another low, animal sound.

His hips shifted, boosting yours. You spread your legs around him, allowing him to press closer from above. Your enthusiastic cries encouraged him.

The knot of pleasure at your center unwound abruptly.

His hips stuttered. A low snarl of pleasure punctuated the final snap of his hips, burying him inside you. As delightful the throb of pleasure between you, once was rarely enough. You rolled your hips against him, not stifling the sounds you made at his response.

You both would not rejoin them.

“You love him?” Udo asked you after she departed with Conall.

Maleficent. Protector of the moors. Alive. Powerful. She who allowed her people to be slaughtered in the name of her human pet.

You almost laughed. “I’ll die for him.”

He inclined his head toward you, and as terribly as you thought he must’ve wanted to keep his feelings to himself, he was disappointed with your response. Of course he was; he tended fledglings. He was a warrior, but he had no heart for war. “Try not to.”

“I want you at my side where you belong.”

You ignored the creeping tendrils of pleasure that spread through your skin like cactus flower. You smiled sidelong, assuming it would be in passing – but, no, he’d joined you at one of the desert’s high points, the filtered sun doing little to fully warm your skin.

“It’s my honor, Borra.” You nodded, and the serious set of his mouth softened some.

“During battle and after, Suren. I want you at my side where you belong.” He looked out over the sandy plain. The only flecks of green were spiny aloe, and some part of you recalled, in your youth, massaging its slick, malleable contents into the iron burns on his side.

“I’ve always been there.” Your voice lowered. “I always will be.”

He smirked, and you did nothing to resist your impulses. You scaled the sheer cliff face to be closer to him, unable to cut him off him before he teased, “I don’t want you running off with some forest-dweller once we’ve reclaimed the moors.”

You kissed him. Hard. Your fingers laced in his hair, your tongue parted the seam of his lips.

His arm encircled your waist, mouth hungry for yours.

You ran your hand up his chest, gripped the armor fastened to his shoulder. A dull throb of need settled between your thighs, and you nearly crawled onto his in search of satisfaction.

“I will always,” you said on a breath, only for him to reclaim your mouth again. He dug his talons into your hips. You moaned, and he caught your lower lip between his sharp teeth. “always be yours.”

“I love you,” he whispered, just for you, and the warmth that saturated his voice ensured that no amount of hesitation on his part to meet your gaze left you with no concern for its sincerity.

“As I love you. More than there are stars in the skies.” You kissed him again, far more gently. “Blades of grass on the plains.” Again. “More than rain joins with the tide.” And once more. “And the wind beneath my wings.”

The sound he made reminded you of a jungle cat’s purr. His hands traced your back, and you rested your forehead against his. Your horns bunted without meaning to, but then he shifted, doing it again with intent.

“You’ll fly with me over the moors again. With the sun on your back, this time.”

“Something tells me you’ll be more interested in my back and the ground before long,” you teased.

“Mm. We’ll have all the moors.” His hands crept higher. “I’ll take you in the treetops. In the mountains. On the shore.”

You could almost imagine sand giving way beneath your fingers. “In the water?” you whispered, keeping nothing of your desire to yourself.

“Wherever you want. Whenever you want. The moors will be ours,” he kissed you, too lightly. You wanted more. “And we will do whatever we please.”

“Protect the moor-folk,” you muttered, kissing him again. “Keep the humans at bay.”

“Claim the skies again,” he whispered, and his talons in your hips suddenly dragged you flush against him. He dove from the cliff-face with you in his arms.

Your wings spread out beneath you on instinct. You laughed, coasting high over your territory, clinging to him.

His wings curled around yours. He guided you to fold, your bodies shifting so you were astride him and he coasted on his back. You encircled his neck with your arms, your body spread along his.

The mountains and the treetops and the shore, the water and the desert and the tundra and the moors.

“Conall wanted peace. And they filled him with iron.”

War paint, cool and smooth on your skin. The elders, working in vain to heal. Every throb of your pulse, a new reminder of what you’re fighting for.

Udo. Conall. Shrike. Borra.

Your people. Your family. Your freedom. Your future.

It’s for you he waits. When you join him in the biting, bitter cold, his eyes lock with yours, and, together, you dive.

“Withdraw! Withdraw!”

What have they done?

You dove.

Poplar fleece is highly flammable. You know this. You’ve set it afire with sparks from stones and watched how quickly it burned.

This was iron. Gunpowder. Something else. The iron would be lethal on its own, like this – explosive and devastating. This evaporates your people. They join with the red clouds. Nothing of them falls into the water.

Shrike called for a divide. You stayed with him, at his side. Your wings are larger, louder. Your heart beats hard. Finally, you felt fear in the nerves of your fingertips.

You were beside him when you broke the castle wall.

More red clouds explode.

Your wings curled around you. You wove through them, biting back the urge to inhale. Borra surged ahead, grabbed someone, threw them from a height. There are so many of them, too many to think of.

Your best advantage is in the air, but the air is filled with iron bombs.

You swooped like an eagle, driving a man into the ground. Another fell with a sharp swipe of your wing across his neck.

They broke an axe across your horns.

You slammed your foot into one of their iron chest plates. The momentary sting at its collision with your flesh went almost entirely unnoticed; there were others, and you hadn’t the time. It wasn’t the first, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Borra circled high over the melee. Every so often, when you were afforded the chance, your eyes lifted from your opponents to find him in the skies.

It steeled you.

The talon at the apex of your wing tore into the neck of a man who’d dared come at you with a sword. You trapped another’s helmet between your horns and flung him into the palace’s stone façade.

Your people had the upper hand. He’d be on the ground with you if you didn’t. You knew this – you knew him. These fools looked at him, at you, and saw only your size. Your strength.

They knew not what a skilled mind he had. How well he’d learned from his violent youth. They knew not that your touch lingered on the mark iron left on his lips, the scald from their net on his sides. They couldn’t understand that your violence stemmed as much from love as it did from hate – and the roots you ripped from the ground grew thorns as well as flowers when you cast them over the walls of their fortress into the sea.

You wore marks of your own, lashed around your ankles and your wrists.

You, too, had been caught before. Several times. They had even tried to bring you to justice.

You killed then as you did now. Your enemy cared nothing of the life they took, nor did you for theirs.

Their blood dampened your hair. Decorated your arms to the elbow. And still, you flew. The beat of your wings threw them on their backs. The scrape of your talons rent trenches in their armor, and you spun – one sailed through a window, the other into the apex of the roof. You turned before the turret even impaled him.

When she arrived, you did nothing. It was no cause for your concern. She destroyed their weapons by the dozen, then the hundred; more of their men fell to Maleficent’s power than had to the collective of you.

You did nothing until you saw her, as you dropped another man from a great height, with her child-queen cowering before her.

Move, you thought. The bastard queen cocked her crossbow. Locked an arrow.

And Maleficent, the fool, gave her life for that child.

Idiot. A step to the left or a step to the right would’ve been sufficient – it wasn’t as if an arrow’s course could change after it had been fired!

And he thought she could save you.

The child-queen threw herself to the ground, crying out her agony. She touched the ashes that had become of her mother – gently, lovingly, as though she might be able to somehow gather them back together, and a part of you remembered when you were a child like her. The bite of iron into your flesh. The quick snap of Borra’s talons through the woven cords. Grabbing your raw wrist. Your brother lay dying in the thicket with an iron arrow in his heart. You, too, screamed that way once.

It had taken only the two of you to slaughter many men. And, as the queen’s guard appeared, the child leapt to her feet. She had no wings on which to catch herself, no mother to prevent her fall.

And yet, they couldn’t reach her before she threw herself over the edge of the fractured balcony with the dread queen clutching her arms.

You dove at the same time.

Ulstead’s mortal child-queen was not your people. She, and her mother, were strangers. Catalysts. The boiling point of a long-awaited conflict and nothing more.

And yet, it was your feet that slammed into the chest plate of the queen’s armor. Your arms that ensnared the child-queen, and your wings that beat so forcefully that the armored tyrant had no control over the propulsion of her fall.

Aurora screamed and flung her arms around your neck.

You flew, expecting arrows, presuming the battle rekindled once the queen’s men cocked their crossbows. You surged high, carrying the girl away from the heart of battle. It was the only sensible thing, preserving those who would defend you.

Those tender hands wove their way into your hair, the child’s trembling body pressed close as though you were ample surrogate for her fallen mother. “Thank you,” she whispered into your shoulder.

You flew her to the edge of the palace’s roof, where you meant to set her. She did not let go of you, and you thought, at first, that it was only because she was afraid.

It was because of the Phoenix that rose to greet you.

The beat of her wings easily overwhelmed yours. You landed, with the child, for your own protection. You held the child against you, shielding her against the wind’s force. You crouched, defensive – of yourself, of the sudden fragility of your wings at the beat of hers (they shuddered and buckled; you had to fold them for your own protection).

They held one another’s gaze much too long.

She let go of you, then, the fearless child-queen. She stood, balanced precariously on the sloped roof’s edge, and held out her hands.

If she’d wanted to be carried, you could’ve done that.

But, no. Her phoenix mother gathered her, and they descended, together, in the shifting black cloud of her mist.

You followed the roof to its apex. You couldn’t see his face, but you knew he saw you, so you dove.

He hadn’t let you kill her.

The bastard queen of Ulstead was wrapped in thorny vines, fighting her confinement. Your head perked curiously.

He and Shrike hugged the palace as they flew. His fingers were curled, guiding the blooming vines while they bounced and tossed the queen until she landed in the dirt at the palace steps.

And was promptly changed into livestock.

You took that as encouragement that she would be eaten, and joined with their descent.

The tension twisted inside of you fell when you were able to study him with your feet planted. From behind, while he spoke to her, he bore no wounds. Several of his feathers had been scalded by their bombs, but they would preen away in time.

“Borra,” Maleficent addressed your mate, and you knew you were not the only one with her full attention. “It’s time to come home.”

Home.

The air left your chest.

The nest was home, of course, in a sensible and practical way. It was your point of origin, your safety, home to your people as nowhere else in the world would allow.

But your home – all of yours – was in the skies. And the true Moor-Queen invited you to join her out of hiding. In the air. As you all so deeply wanted.

Though he said nothing to her, and her daughter called her away before long, when he turned, Shrike and Ini burst into cheers. You didn’t contain your smile – though it fell, somewhat, as you watched his face.

His wings reached out ahead of him to guide you, and you let them, your own folding until they were as near to flush against your back as they would get. You rested your hands on his chest, attention momentarily diverted by the sight of a new wound on his arm, and a cut on his throat that gave you real pause.

“Will you keep your word?”

He rested his hands on your back, and the warmth of his skin radiated within you. The sky. The wind. The treetops. The mountains. Every day of your future would be an act of defiance, a rallying cry to your people nearly destroyed.

“You are my home, Borra,” you whispered. “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

That night, there was a revel. There was no moon, and the palace grounds were still. The villagers were in hiding, the prince and his new wife in their bed. Even Maleficent and her raven had departed with her once-captive people, and, perhaps, to replace what was left of the essence of their fallen.

Yours would never receive the honor. No matter what Maleficent did, whatever they returned as would not be what they were. More Dark Fey lost to mortal slaughter.

But for every one you’d lost, you’d taken ten. And, at least for then, it was enough.

You bathed in the river until your armor ran clean.

You danced with Udo. With Ini and Shrike. The drums beat hard in Conall’s memory. A song for every one of your fallen. The old, mortal king watched from his balcony.

You were both exhausted when he caught your hand, but you danced anyway. For Conall. For your fallen. For the children Udo had gone to fetch, for the families newly shattered and the ones whose loss would finally mend. You danced for each other, and for yourselves, and for the future laid bare before you. You were wounded, as was he, wounds that pulled and pulsed as you moved, stung with every bead of sweat on your skin.

You tried not to think about how he washed the war paint from it. The cold, gushing river had been the only impediment to the act, for you both waded on its shallow banks, your thumbs and claws smearing with each caress.

You left for the moors at dawn. With him. There was no more need for talking. Only the beat of your wings. The kiss of the cool mist.

You slept, together, high in the peaks, on an outcropping where the bright sun warmed your skin. You wore no armor, though not because it had been pried away by eager hands.

You had both waited so long to feel the sun, to feel the kiss of the wind passing through your feathers, that it consumed the whole first day of peace. That, and sleep. Blessed, restful, dreamless sleep.

“I like you,” the raven Diaval said. Not that he had much business doing so. But you had fallen into a comfortable rhythm in the days after your war; the brooks and streams in the moors were for your drinking water and the homes of the beings who lived there. The water elsewhere, for washing and bathing. Which you and the bird had a tendency to both do early in the morning. He was not a mortal man even when he wasn’t a bird, and the sight of you elicited no unwelcome responses of any sort. He had been curious, at first, as to whether or not the fine cracks in your skin caused you pain.

“They’re decorative,” you’d joked, deadpan.

He laughed. His time with Maleficent was not all subservient.

“You’re good company. Are all fey like that? Dark fey, anyway?”

“Your mate isn’t the only one separated from mankind,” you replied. You ducked your head, and the rush of cold water through your tangled hair made you stifle a gasp. Pleasure and discomfort. The sensation never got old.

His cheeks flushed brightly. “Maleficent isn’t….”

You stared at him much the same way you joked. “Are you arguing with a fey what our courtship looks like?”

“Courtship?” he practically choked on the word.

“You preen her. You sleep near her. You’re nearly her constant companion, and it’s her nest you return to when the sun falls. You think you’re her servant.” You managed to pull your talons through one of the long-fought knots in your hair, and a brand-new sense of pride filled you. Look at you! Maybe you’d even give yourself hair like your child-queen one day. (Your smirk grew.) “She’s taught you well. I had to train Borra to lie still under me.”

“Oh!” Such delicate sensibilities for a wild creature!

“Did you think it was always my wings scraping the dirt, raven?” you grinned. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten – you’ve not once thought about my wings. Not when you’re so busy with hers.”

He splashed you. And, like a child, you splashed back.

Peace was beautiful.

You washed your clothes and dressed while they were wet. The radiant heat of your body would warm them in time. Udo and his charges were already navigating their new space, as you did from the earth.

You knew this place already, parts of it like the lines of your hand.

You’d just never seen it so teeming.

The willow sprites who’d been bothering you for days about the state of your hair descended on you again in a rush, and you stopped abruptly with a sigh. “For the last time, I will not let you toy with my hair. I’m very sorry, I understand how much that must distress you.”

They all spoke at once, in a flurry, voices overlapping one another. You caught bits and pieces – so pretty, so soft, like corn silk, no, like sweetgrass, and the corners of your mouth twitched.

“Tell you what, if you can find a comb capable of withstanding the job, I’ll let you brush it out. My only condition is that you mustn’t ask for one.” Skies knew Udo would give one to them gladly, then you’d be forced to endure their picking.

They agreed in high, excited chorus, dispelling from you as quickly as they’d come.

Borra laughed from the trees above. “Going soft already?”

“Udo won’t break my trust if he knows what’s good for him.” Your eyes lifted.

It should’ve been impossible for him to look any better. He wore his armor still, just as you did – you were still protectors of the moor-folk, after all – but the sunlight made his skin glint like quartz embedded in a canyon’s wall. You’d noticed it in yourself, of course, as had Diaval – and it had been one of the few times in your brief friendship that the raven quieted down.

His head quirked, and his smile spread past your own. “I don’t know. You’d look nice with your hair braided, sweetgrass.”

You hit him with your wing.

He laughed and leapt from the low branches to join you on the earth. He took your hand almost reflexively, just as you drew closer. You were about to ask him, quietly, if he felt the same as you did – if it was still nearly impossible to separate the advantages of the land from the fantastical scenery. It was on the tip of your tongue when something, somewhere, some tiny voice cried out only to be joined by what sounded like a hundred others.

You frowned. It would have to wait.

You both ran until you found them on the banks of the little brook, scores of little flower-people and dragonfly-people and They of the Dandelion Bodies. Groups of them gathered where several had fallen, and fear hit you suddenly, making your wings stir.

Borra gave you his back, his thoughts much the same. Were you under attack? Was it iron powder, launched in burning casings from the sky?

“Where are your healers?” you asked, far more gently than you felt.

You didn’t understand them all. Some of their dialects were lost in the din of the others, not that you would have understood the languages you did not speak. They were a buzzing in your head, and you couldn’t resist shushing them with a wave of your hand. “Please. Not all at once. I wasn’t asking a question, I was telling you to get them.”

Dozens immediately took the cue, surging for the skies.

One of the little dragonfly people lay still in the arms of another. They made high, squeaky sounds at their fallen companion, tiny, bright-shelled hands touching their face.

“May I?” you offered your flat, open palms.

They assisted in lifting their fallen so you could cradle them.

Your thumb traced their chest. Iron burned, but the iron powder you’d faced caused your people to incinerate. If it was iron, especially in the lungs, would they not have already suffocated?

“He’s very warm,” you said to Borra and Borra alone.

“As though burned?” He hadn’t yet turned toward you, ever the tactical mind. If they had all fallen here, something must be wrong. But you heard no men in the trees, you smelled no gunpowder. Only a faint sweetness that gave you pause. You looked to the other little ones, offering a hand, and you sniffed them.

“…no. No, something is wrong.”

The fallen smelled sweet, but not too sweet. Like fruit…and ash? Your nose twitched, and you rubbed it on your forearm.

“Tell me,” you said to one of the little mud men lingering at the fringes, concerned but unharmed. “Are there fruits that could poison you here? Is it possible something’s turned?”

What are you saying? A being in the trees asked in a wisp-like voice.

“They smell sweet and strange, like ash and berries. Like…” As soon as you said it, you paused.

Borra finished for you, his voice hardly above a growl. “Rowan.”

You’d never smelled it firsthand. Frankly, you’d almost thought it was a children’s tale meant to soothe them when iron wasn’t available, rowan berries in your pockets to protect you from the fey. If only Conall could tell you.

The little creature in your palms grew still.

For a moment afterward, you stared. Their lovely, jewel-toned body became limp, slowly at first, and when the gentle tremor of their pulse abated, your eyes rose.

Borra shared your horror, though not as quietly.

“Do you see?!” he bellowed.

The other little creatures who’d gathered around you looked to one another with open fear. Some of them, the other dragonfly people, quietly wept.

“Do you see what becomes of trusting your enemy?!”

One of the muck-men swooned. Your heart clenched, and you looked to all the others around you. One of the dandelion children had flushed cheeks, and the thought came to you suddenly.

“The river.”

The river between the kingdoms. Between Ulstead and the Moors.

“They’ve poisoned the river!” you cried.

But your audience was already ailing.

Those of them that went had already begun to succumb. Those who stayed farther inland bore no ill effect; they rushed to the aid of the others, and you called to the gaggle of petal-sprites who were smart enough to bathe in the mists, “Fetch our healers! Tell them! We must do whatever we can!”

“I’ll fetch Queen Aurora!” someone cried.

You knew Borra would protest. You looked to him, and the fear that yielded so fast to fury redoubled.

His face was flush. His eyes, glassy. He stumbled, and rested a hand on one of the tree-men.

“Borra!”

You leapt over the ones who could not get out of your way quickly enough.

Your mate went to his knees. His arm folded around his middle, a sound of pain leaving him that you only rarely heard. “Let them.” He swallowed, and you were afraid that he was struggling to breathe, but, no, he dropped his head when the dizziness became too much to handle. “Send for our elders. Take our children to the nest.” Protect them.

“Go,” you said to whatever decided to call for Aurora. You wrapped your arms around him for support, allowing him to release the tree-creature. “Bring her, and her mortal healers! Now!”

“Make them tend you,” he rasped. He’d gone earlier in the morning than you had, and you’d nearly gone with him then, but you’d gotten caught up in chasing off Pinto.

“I have time,” you whispered, though you didn’t know how much. “I’ll take you to her—”

“No.” His grip on you was still tight. “We can’t trust them. Trust the girl if you must, but not the others.” The pain in his stomach made him flinch, and you lowered beside him, folding his body in your wing.

“I won’t let you die,” you whispered. Fevered sweat had already broken out on his brow, and you wiped it away gently. Your stomach growled, though you’d eaten not long ago.

You brought him closer to the trees, into the dampness of the moss. You were slow with him, gentle, pretending you didn’t feel the flush of heat creep up your skin, the increasing unrest in your stomach.

“Tell Diaval to find some,” you offered to whatever was near you. Your head began to spin. “The berries or the wood.” You laid down beside him, facing him. Just briefly. Just so you could gather the strength to get back to your nest.

There was a buzzing. Faeries. Something. And pain twisted inside of you suddenly. You drew your knees into your stomach and moaned at the nausea that overtook you.

You were both sick in waves, fever and pain alternating with violent illness. You tasted blood in your mouth when whatever you had inside of you rose to join the leaves. You were weak. Trembling. Your people never left your side. Were it not for Maleficent’s strange abilities, you knew they would have retreated to the nest across the sea with the both of you in tow.

They would have rekindled their desire for war.

The pain intensified, for you, not long after the dawning of the second day. The cramps in your stomach spread, and you lay there, writhing against Borra while he tried so vainly to comfort you despite the shaking of his hands and the fever that engulfed you both.

Your thighs were slick.

You struggled to right yourself enough to take measure of the blood. When you moved, your head spun so severely that you couldn’t find the strength to call for Ini, though she trained to heal alongside the elders. You sunk against Borra with a cold shiver, and pressed your face into his throat.

“I won’t let you die,” he rasped, arms folding around you.

Your insides seized so suddenly, so sharply, that you whimpered. Your fingers curled to fists against his stomach and his side.

“Suren, I will not let you die.”

You trembled, sweating, panting softly with the strain of your body’s rejection.

“Promise me,” you whispered.

“I promise,” he said without thought.

“Promise me you will not die.”

You supposed if he was not also bleeding, he would be quicker to recover. You presumed if anyone was to die from poisoning, it would be you with the way you soaked in the river, the strange desire you had to mingle your hot skin with the cold.

“I promise.” He drew your head to his, the bump of your horns a familiar comfort. You were shaking, sweat-soaked and weak. All the same, he kissed you softly, his hand on your cheek and the blood-soaked sweetness of rowan berries on both your breath.

You awoke with ice on your belly, and sighed with relief.

Borra slept beside you, wings folded. The poisoned fever had left his face and, largely, also yours. He used one of his arms for a pillow, curled beneath him, and you allowed your weak muscles the satisfaction of rolling over onto your other side.

“Careful,” Udo murmured, steadying you. “There is still some left to pass.”

“Thank you, old friend.” You patted the tundra fey’s icy hands, only to pause abruptly. Udo was tending you?

“Did Ini--?” Fall ill? Did the poison spread inland?

“Ini remains with the river-small. They’ve suffered the hardest.”

You nodded. Of course. But you still didn’t understand. “The elders?”

Udo did not meet your gaze. Cool water ran over your skin where the ice melted, which he was doing his best to preserve.

“The king’s men stand guard along the river. They’ve plucked whatever berries remained from it; it’s in all of our best interest to wait until well after their remnants wash into the sea.”

“How long will that be?”

He met your eyes, then, and you hated that he had. A profound loss weighed upon him, and you struggled to sit up. You were still tired, still weak, but nowhere nearly as sick as you had been. “They killed our children.”

“Only one,” he replied.

The anger in your heart returned the way wildfire engulfed dry plains. You propped yourself on your palms, your teeth set.

“Borra will want vengeance.”

He nodded, solemn.

“Could anything be done?”

“No.” He looked to you, and the gravity of his gaze made you afraid. You heard your heart pounding dully in your ears as you searched his face.

“Suren,” he said, gentle and so very patient.

The way he said your name was enough. You knew before the words even left him, though he rested his hand over yours, cold fingers curled gently around them as though he knew you could have violently beat the earth. “You carried a child.”

You fought denial as violently as you fought understanding. “Carried?” you repeated, the violence in your voice unmistakable.

“Poison killed your fledgling. It died inside of you.”

You threw back the cover that had been laid over you, but your clothes had been replaced, the blood cleaned from you and the areas around you. You tried to struggle for your feet, but Udo’s grasp on your shoulder was gentle and steadying. “You need to lie still.”

“I need an audience with the queen,” you whispered, no lacking measure of ferocity in your voice. Borra would not want vengeance, he would seek it.

“Then I will have her summoned.”

“Udo!” you hissed. He knew why you wanted to leave the nest to do it!

The straw beside you rustled.

Udo remained where he was, perpetually composed.

Borra’s eyes opened, and fell partially closed once more. He shifted, reaching to draw you back into the safety of his arms. “You feel better.”

No. You felt worse. Your hatred consumed you. You thought, just once, and only half-heartedly, about flying over Ulstead, stealing children from the sky and drowning them in the river. Retribution for the child you had lost. One you hadn’t even known about, but, you realized much too late, that you would’ve welcomed.

A life of peace on the moors. Your mate and your baby. Protecting them, loving them, watching your child grow to fly alongside Maleficent. Another life stolen by humans!

He heard your silence, and it awoke him fully. He held your wrist, listened to the fierce pounding of your heart, and slowly – so slowly; you hated knowing that he was ill beside you and yet still rose to join you – shifted until he was seated at your side.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, just to you, as though he couldn’t see Udo beside you.

You grit your teeth and closed your eyes.

You could do nothing with your hatred. Nothing but let it consume you.

You shook your head. Please don’t tell him. Please don’t say anything. I will when he’s recovered. But you couldn’t bring yourself to speak those words, nor would you ever be able to say the ones you knew you’d have to.

Udo told him.

Hot tears raced down your face. Your fledgling. Your baby. His baby. A child you made together, borne from love. Survived the war only to be killed while still in your belly.

Borra surged to his feet.

You followed him. Despite Udo’s protests, despite the dull throbbing that immediately took hold of your waist without ice to dull the pain, you caught your mate by the wrist. “You’re ill, Borra, please. Please, wait until you’ve recovered.”

He moved so quickly you almost believed he already had. The hateful twist of his mouth didn’t match the way he gathered you, pressing you close to him. “Our child,” he hissed, war-monger once more, “Our child! They murdered our child!”

“And if you retaliate now, I’ll also lose you!”

You were bleeding. You felt it, and Borra, for all his desire for bloodshed, had no intention of shedding yours. He radiated fury even as he gathered you, returning to the nest with you in his arms. He lay you down near Udo, who rested the ice on your waist.

“Borra,” you begged. You begged him. You let him see you lying prone, your legs pressed together as though that would stop it from coming. “Please. Stay with me. Stay with me until I can join you. Will you do that much?”

He was silent, talons curled into his fists. How easily he could have flown to Ulstead and begun another war, all while you lied there on your back like his ornamental wife.

“I deserve to share in our retribution!”

“I know you do.”

He didn’t fly.

When he left you, it was on foot. Into the Moors, into their forests. You waited to hear him, hear the rush of his powerful wings cutting through the trees as soon as he was out of sight, but the sound never came.

Queen Aurora had a unique position, which she was intimately aware of. Not only was she the primary ruler of two kingdoms, having bequeathed something akin to democracy upon the third, but her husband and mother had the tendency to clash over that which should and should not be her problem – including issues that belonged to both kingdoms and were of the more life-threatening nature.

Rather, Philip had hoped to keep as much of the rowan-berry incident from his wife as possible, in the name of allowing her the freedom of joy and peace and believing their people were preserving the treaty that their love secured at the cost of countless lives.

Maleficent, however, did not answer to a boy of his age, size, or mortality, and told her daughter the truth in full. If not for justice, than because it was Aurora’s kingdom of origin, and she had every right to attend the funerals of her people.

Aurora did not take it well.

Funerals for the moor people had taken days, as though the tomb-bloom field hadn’t been replenished to an extent after the Battle of Ulstead. Her people, to their credit, hesitated to leave her on her throne of flowering redbud, though all were tired and none ceased to mourn.

But it was her right, as queen, to do her own mourning in private, so she had sent them all home. With the exception of her godmother.

“This is all my fault.” Aurora folded yet another kerchief into a thoroughly-soaked ball.

“No, it wasn’t,” Diaval had taken over comforting her in the last short while. “You’ve got no control over what people do. You can lead them, and you can punish them…but they have t’ want peace. We’re gonna have to teach them what good can come from bein’ good to us.”

Still, she sobbed, folded over in place. She doubtfully would have noticed anyone approaching had it not been Maleficent’s touch to her shoulder in warning.

“This is what you’re protecting?!”

Aurora abruptly sat upright, though it was not to her Borra spoke.

“You look better,” Maleficent quipped.

“Protector of the Moors!” He showed his teeth. “What have you protected since this child came along, besides yourself?!”

A bright coil of green swirled around her staff. Diaval sprung to his feet.

“Her father hunts you and you fight; the moment the child is yours, you leave your people to fend for themselves. You’ve done nothing to protect them since you appointed a human for their queen.”

“Are you finished?” Few words were ever so clearly spoken as a threat.

Borra’s wings flared. “I’ve protected them from Ulstead’s poachers. I agreed to peace. They set poison on our doorstep, and you expect – what? For us to bow and take it?”

“After all you’ve lost, Borra, are you so eager to return to war?”

Maleficent’s composure was thin. The hatred that burned anew in him was unmistakable. She had seen it in the nest, and she had seen it on the battlefield. Though she understood his reasons, all the progress he’d made in Conall’s honor had become new, violent opposition. One she would not allow.

“You know nothing of loss! This poison – this poison your peace was supposed to prevent – murdered my child.” In the passing of a heart’s beat, all of his rage, all of his hatred, became raw pain. It was not hers to see, let alone her child-queen, yet it laid bare for them both. “I demand justice.”

“You’ll get it,” Aurora responded.

Maleficent secured her grip on Aurora’s shoulder, but the young queen shook her head, her trembling curls and flushed cheeks painting her ever more the picture of innocence – all the more naïve.

“I promise. Whoever’s responsible, we’ll bring them---” to justice, she’d intended to say.

“You’ll bring them,” he cut her off in a low, half-animal snarl, “to me.”

You were a warrior, the same as him.

He had been chosen to lead your people; in everything else, you were equals.

You did not seethe.

Your mourning was as violent as the moor-people’s was sedate. They returned to their homes. They wept.

You ripped the earth open with your bare claws. You screamed.

“You get three days. Bring justice to your people in three days--”

“Use caution with your threats.” The coil of green mist had grown thicker around Maleficent’s staff; the green of her eyes brightened.

“--Or they will not be your people anymore.”

Aurora swallowed. She shook her head again, more vehemently. “…You wouldn’t do that.”

“Where I come from, our leaders are chosen, not given to us. I give you three days to prove to your people that you are capable, or they will choose a leader of their own.”

“Sorry,” Diaval interrupted, “did you…happen t’ ask the people of the moors who they were gonna pick?” If they were unhappy with Aurora for a queen, there was a good chance everyone would have known about it.

He snarled. For a moment, he considered going after the raven like the mortal he so looked.

“I will,” Aurora replied. The girl was smarter than she looked, braver than those who loved her believed her to be. “I swear on the Moors. I’ll find them. You’ll get justice, I promise.”

Beside her, Maleficent seethed.

Your mate tired of his fury remaining contained. You were right, though he would never say so aloud; he needed the days to recover and to plan. He needed days for you to recover, so you would not be deprived of the vengeance you deserved.

The tightness in Aurora’s chest did nothing to alleviate when he departed. “Godmother?”

Diaval held the girl’s shoulders.

Maleficent chose her words particularly carefully.

“Borra is a capable leader who led a successful campaign.” Successful depended upon the standards one held it to; there were great casualties, but there had been great casualties on both sides. “The folk of the Moors are not war-like people. They’ll be of no practical use. When he offers them protection…it would not be conditional upon their ability to join him when he breaks peace.”

Aurora didn’t understand what about that would be significant. She shook her head slightly, her delicate brows furrowed.

“If he breaks peace, he will not bring danger upon the Moors. He will deliver vengeance to Ulstead just as they betrayed us.”

She truly, physically, could not imagine what that would mean. She had no heart for violence, no penchant for cruelty. Truthfully, she still thought differently of Borra – and the other Dark Fey, no matter their ways or from whence they’d come. So far, there had been no hostility on their part. They obeyed peace.

“I don’t believe that.”

“You should,” Diaval pressed.

The young queen shook her head. She hadn’t watched you, or Borra, take human lives. She hadn’t seen the way you fought as Maleficent had. Even if she had, his reasons were good – Aurora believed deep in her heart that, while violence could stem from love, the beauty of it would always overwhelm the pain.

She balled her soaked kerchiefs and lifted her skirts, stepping neatly from her dais.

“Aurora!” her godmother warned.

“Trust me,” was all she said. She had fought so hard and so long for both her kingdoms – she would not allow herself to be manipulated again. This time, the child-queen intended to be her own hero, to whatever extent she was capable.

This time, the child-queen intended to be yours.

Udo left you when you’d calmed.

You’d torn the earth apart. You’d ripped thorny branches from the ground and built awful spires well above the tress. It was nothing but wasted energy, and had done nothing to cleanse you, or to alleviate your pain, or calm the bleeding, and so you’d let your friend tend you once more and insist upon your rest, and he had left to give you time to grieve peacefully.

A task you were not suited for. Not in the slightest.

You should have known.

You should have been more careful. You should have watched the moons.

What would it have been like, if you’d known? If you’d told him when you realized you hadn’t bled? You were at peace – the thought of your mate’s hands on your belly, his laughter, his joy, would you have believed in the fairytale then? Gathering your shed down and building up a small cradle for the life that was to come – wouldn’t that have been far worse cruelty than this? The expectation of hope before hope was lost?

His return brought you from your thoughts. You adjusted, reaching for him, glad when he gathered you into his arms and folded his wings around the both of you.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered.

“It’s not your fault.” He traced your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Never your fault.”

“I should’ve known—”

“They should’ve obeyed.” His voice was hard, suddenly, and you curled into him, taking more comfort in his anger than you wanted to admit. “They’ll pay for it. That, I promise.”

His arms around you were familiar and secure, but the part of you that burned was pain enshrouded in hatred. Like this, when you could do nothing, you wanted to stoke the fire for as long as possible, so you took one of his hands and settled it low on your stomach. “Would it’ve been good news?”

It was rare that you felt him breathe out his tension altogether, but he did. He moved closer to you, fingers tracing the plain of your flesh, and his arms around you softened. “Thought about asking if you wanted one. The night we lay together in the peaks.”

Your heart shattered. You didn’t think anything worse could have been said.

“It was almost real, you and I settled down like this.” His face was pressed into your hair and you felt the graze of his lips against the leaf of your ear. “Thought you would’ve killed me.”

“I could’ve been convinced.” You would’ve made him make love to you to prove he wanted it. Kiss as much of your body as he could. He’d done it before, leave you trembling before he’d even joined with you, kissing your ribs, your hips, your thighs, your knees. You would’ve held him when he kissed your belly until you both understood the choice you made, and then you would’ve given him your heart and your body and held his hands in the down and the straw while he made love to you, whether or not you had already been with child.

You knew what was behind the familiar warmth of your hatred, but you did nothing about it until you felt his quivered breath – until you knew he was trying not to weep into your hair.

Then, you wept.

You laid there together, wrapped in one another as you always had, but his arm covered your chest as though he had to protect you, and his hand rested where you’d left it, and your fingers were laced with his there, and you clutched him, and you cried in horrible, body-wracking, ugly sobs that twisted the knife of pain inside of you until you felt truly, and thoroughly, wrong.

Aurora of the Moors saw you. Aurora of the Moors bore witness to your pain. She saw glimpses of your face, twisted in agony; the tears you shed behind the veil of your mate’s wing. She saw the dreadful spires that were already beginning to crumble, thinning into thorny vines that eventually sunk back into the moss with little more than scars upon the earth where they’d emerged. The child turned princess turned queen had walked freely, stopped freely, released a quiet breath, and neither of you heard her.

Nor did you hear her turn and run back into the forest with her skirts raised, running barefoot for Ulstead.

Hurrying to bring justice without concern for the price she might pay.

Aurora was the people’s queen.

No guards left their posts at the river. No men with armor came barging into homes. At first, no one who answered their door realized that it was the queen who’d come to them, her dress dirty and feet bare, cheeks still damp with tears and a leaf dangling somewhere unreachable in her hair.

“Hello,” she said, to each and every person she spoke to. “Do you know anything about who might’ve placed rowan in the river?”

She sat with people, at their tables. Refused their food, though out of practicality rather than hesitation. She implored them – men, women, children, families of all of the above. If you know something, please, please let it be known. People I care for have been harmed. Faeries died. Please, help me bring their killers to justice. I won’t harm anyone, but they have to be caught.

There were people whose only motivation for not throwing her out was the fact that she was queen.

The parish priest begged her to turn away from them, and it was she who left of her own volition. A group of schoolchildren made jokes that earned them a stern and quite legal reprimanding. If you’d known the lengths that Aurora of Ulstead – Aurora of the Moors – went to for you, perhaps you wouldn’t have doubted her.

The girl walked until her feet began to bleed. Nearly talked herself hoarse.

Her husband found her in the village square with the tea merchant, where she’d paused for a good cry. She ached for the people of the moors, you and Borra most of all, and she ached physically. He gathered her into yet another warm, secure embrace, and she practically fell into him. These were not the happy marriage-days she’d been hoping for.

“Where have you been?” he asked, gentle and so full of love.

She told him.

Philip had known about the funerals, but everything after – Borra, the bargain she’d made for her kingdom, disobeying Maleficent, watching you mourn and deciding to canvas the village herself – he hardly knew what to do with it. In his defense, it was a lot for one boy who’d been raised in a castle to unpack all at once.

“Come home.” He rubbed circles in the backs of her palms. “We have three days.”

“I have three days,” she reminded him. “I am queen, it’s my responsibility.”

“And I am your husband. I won’t leave you to do this alone.”

She thought of you again, as she had between every house, and every moment she spent with the parish priest. (She would not tell Philip that she’d yelled at the man that men like him were the reason people in the village were cowards enough to murder babies, but she had, and you would’ve been proud of her child-fury.)

“Will you hate me,” she whispered, “if I let them seek justice of their own?”

He paused. He was a good boy, gentle and loving, but he often felt he understood the gravity of the situation more keenly than she did – as though the child-queen did not know what she proposed.

“What are you saying?”

“If I can’t find their child’s killer in three days, I will tell the guard to stand down.” She lifted her eyes, doing her best to square shoulders and face the man she loved. “I’ll let them into Ulstead. I won’t allow innocent people to be harmed—”

“Aurora—”

“—but I can’t sit by and let nothing happen. Philip, your mother went unpunished.”

“My mother is a goat!”

“And she killed them! She killed innocent people, my people and theirs! He’s right – I’ve done nothing to protect the Moors. It’s not Maleficent’s duty to care for me and the moor-folk and whatever else comes! I am queen, Philip!” You would have been even more proud of her then, the backbone she seemed to grow without the donning of a corset. “Capable leaders don’t allow their people to suffer.”

“You’re backing one man’s grudge against an entire kingdom.” He tried to close the distance between them, but Aurora of the Moors was Maleficent’s daughter, and she withdrew her hands from grasping range. She straightened, and, though her lips were pressed in a perpetual pout, she almost seemed to grit her teeth.

“I am backing the protector of my people in his time of loss. I know you’d do the same for Percival.”

Philip loved his wife, truly, but he couldn’t hide his irritation. “I’ve known Percival all my life. You don’t know this man, and you don’t know his people—”

“Do you know his name?”

Philip stopped. Every time he thought he had the advantage, Aurora thought of something that ripped the rug right out from under him.

“Would you know him by sight? Would you call him by his name? Even if he is a stranger to you,” and to me, “does that keep you from respect?”

Of course he knew him. Knew of him. The fey that could have killed Percival, the fey he’d held at the point of his father’s sword. The one he’d thrown down his sword for. A leader, he could believe, but he would have been lying to say he had given any of the newcomers much consideration.

It wasn’t exactly as though he’d had time.

“Tell me his name and I’ll wait for you.” He has no excuse not to, I’ve just said it.

Philip stared at her, and whatever reservations he’d had about Aurora’s plan unraveled. “Borra,” he repeated, careful to pronounce it as she did.

Aurora breathed deeply in what felt like the first time in a very long time. She straightened, her head back and hands clenched at her sides. “I trust him, Philip. I trust them all. They won’t break peace. Not if I help them.”

“Well,” King John emerged from the stables with a procession of horses – Aurora’s white and Philip’s plain one, as well as one of his own. “Then I suppose we’d best get to work.”

“Father, what are you—?”

Aurora grinned and rushed to him, throwing her arms around the good King’s neck. She hugged him as she hugged Diaval, and paused to ensure her cheeks had been properly dried before calmly, easily, lifting herself onto her horse without the help of shoes or a footman.

Philip stared at her, and the love in his heart only grew.

“Come on, we’ve got almost the whole village!” She snapped her reigns but once, and only softly, and yet her horse knew her well. She rode off into the heart of Ulstead on her brilliant steed, dirt-stained pink dress flowing along its flanks.

“Good choice in wife,” King John quipped, though he was not as quick in mounting.

Shrike was furious. Ini backed her call for retaliation. You heard them, you heard their war cries, and you heard Borra’s silence.

“I want to bury my child,” you murmured to Udo.

He nodded. You supposed he had been waiting for you to regain your strength. He gave you little more than a bundle of bloodied cloth and down, nothing of substance, and yet you took it to the spot where Conall had been slaughtered.

So much of your people’s blood soaked this land. Though nearly all of your fallen died in the Battle of Ulstead, the moors had already seen Conall’s, Borra’s, Maleficent’s, and yours. And your child’s.

Were you right to include her?

You dug your hole in the earth by hand. Thought of encircling it with river stones. The ones that looked like eggs, from the banks of the brooks and the streams in the moors that had gone without pollution – round and speckled and wholly unsullied.

If she’d never come, if you’d never met her, you and your mate would have remained in the nest. You would have noticed that you had not bled (you told yourself), and your people would’ve thrown a grand celebration. They chose Borra for one of their leaders, they would celebrate his child like no other.

Conall would’ve loved to know you were with child. Your eyes stung with tears at the thought; in this fantasy world you created for yourself, he came to you and Borra after the announcement, when your mate’s hand still lingered on your belly. He would have told you, though your child deserved the freedom of flight over the trees, that you could find peace in your love for them. And, in this fantasy where nothing was as it would’ve been, you thought you could have. Curled in the cool dark of your nest, nursing your baby. All of you, so warm. The soft down of their baby-feathers under your fingers, under Borra’s. How easily you would’ve sunk into each other. How comfortable a cradle his wings would’ve made. How beautiful he would’ve looked, carrying your child in the crook of his arm – how fiercely he would have loved them.

You felt him before he joined you. You made no attempt to wipe your tears away.

He helped you dig a shallow hole, a little grave that rent your chest more severely than it should’ve.

“Suren.” Finally, he spoke. “Look at me.”

You did. Kneeling in the dirt, crying. What sort of warrior had you become?

“I told them to stand down.”

You closed your eyes and buried your face in your filthy palms. Fresh sobs wracked you, though, at first, the tangle of your emotions left you unsure why. He had no right – you needed justice. But he was right; you couldn’t endure more death. Not his. Not yours. Especially none of your friends.

He gathered you close. You were unhappy, of that you were sure. Not with him. Never with him. He thought too far ahead; if the odds weren’t in your favor, then what else could be done?

“Whatever happens,” he said into your hair, “it’ll be you and I. On our own.”

“I hate them!” you cried, and the way your voice scraped on your sobs made your stomach twist. “They’ll pay! I want them to pay!”

Still, he held you while you cried and you left dirt-streaks on his shoulder and then his chest. He held you until you pressed your cheek into his neck and wept to him alone I want our baby.

You felt the strength of his heart against your chest. Even when he was silent, he spoke so loudly. His hands rested on your arms, drawing you closer. His body against yours steadied you. You clung to him as you never had, needing him more than you ever thought.

Carefully, silently, he gathered you. He brought you close to the bundle you intended to bury, and he pressed his jaw against your temple.

He wouldn’t do it alone.

You were not the only one crying, though you had fallen apart to shudders and sobs. Your hands trembled when you gathered one end, his steady on the other, and you placed your bundle of blood-soaked down gently into its earthen cradle. It didn’t require both of you to smooth the dirt back over, but together you did. You patted it, pressed it, as though its damp softness might give you some clue as to what their skin may have felt like, whether they would have felt like a new center of warmth as they grew.

He plucked a feather from his wing and placed it, gently, in the earth. You did the same, though a part of you wished you had buried it with them. Given them something of you in return – regardless of how much they’d already taken.

“Are you in pain?” he murmured.

Yes. Yes, you were. Your heart had never felt like this. You never thought yourself capable. Damn Maleficent. Damn her daughter. Damn them all, all but him, for encouraging this fantasy.

You shook your head. But you couldn’t ask him to plan with you like this.

“Let’s get you clean.” His arm slid beneath your knees, and you tried, in part, to withdraw.

He was surprised. He let you.

“I’m so sorry,” you repeated, vehemently. “I’m stealing all of this from you. Your mourning, your plans—”

He opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked tired, you thought, and the thought became a realization. Oh, yes, you had stolen his mourning. Only recently did you all mourn for Conall and now…

“My plan is to clean you up in the brook and take you home, and we will see if you feel better in the morning.”

It was unfair. Your people called for war. They were right. He should’ve backed them.

But that was what he did.

He carried you to one of the quiet, gently-bubbling streams. He washed your hands, your arms, and lightly brushed the dirt off his. Your back never left his shoulder when he covered his hands with cool water and soothed your face. You thought, faintly, how you must look. Sniveling and weak.

But there was no shame in taking care of you. Not for him. He washed your tears away patiently, soothing the persistent fire in your cheeks. He kept doing it until you did little but lay there and let him preen your massive wings, his chin on your shoulder, the caress of his talons through your plumage painfully familiar.

“I love you,” he repeated, though how long it had been since you last said it out loud you’d lost track of. “I want you to tell me if you want to stay.”

“No,” you whispered, immediately. “Do you not want me?”

“Never. I’ll always want you. By my side, where you belong.” He stroked your feathers, coaxing the dead ones to drift off along the banks of the bubbling stream.

“I’ve always been there,” you repeated. “I always will be.”

He kissed you. Softly, and only once. And though you knew he must’ve known, you had the strangest feeling that, this time, he hoped you wouldn’t follow.

Things got a little more official once King John was involved.

It became a formal inquest. Surrender to the crown or face justice.

Everyone believed justice involved death on the moors.

Suddenly, every pie-maker who’d harbored lingering hostility toward them, every tradesman and merchant to profit from a faerie’s suffering, arrived at the castle with evidence of their crimes and begged the young king and queen – and King John – for forgiveness.

Philip issued more citations for petty crimes, and Aurora had more poachers jailed, than either knew what to do with.

It was a start.

The silence between you grew overwhelming.

You wanted to withdraw only to push yourself closer. Borra drew himself closer to you only to withdraw. You were in distinctly separate realms of thought, you knew, and it made you wring your hands in frustration.

Were you planning revenge, or were you planning surrender?

“You’re doing better this morning.” And yet, he watched you like you were crystal. As though a tumble from a momentarily unsafe hand would leave pieces of you scattered across the desert.

“I want to know of our plans.”

He twitched his shoulder. He’d never stopped wearing his armor, save for the first day you rested and the days you’d both been sick. You knew him too well to pretend he didn’t have a plan, and he knew you too well to propose you do anything he felt you might be uncertain.

“It’s been three days. I know you’ve done something, and I need you to tell me what it is.”

You thought he was about to lie to you, to insist there had been no plan. Instead, he sighed, and it came with a low hum of irritation.

“I’ve called it off.”

“What was it?”

For a moment, he deliberately did not meet your eyes. The night before was the first night either of you had slept moderately well, and as much as you would’ve liked to justify it with the restlessness that followed bedridden illness, you knew shared grief played far too great a part. He was still tired. He was in no state to plan. Whatever it was, you were glad he had – there was no use in rushing to the slaughter for a second time.

He smiled, and the wryness in the corners of his lips soothed the sting on the edges of your broken heart. “Hadn’t gotten that far. Did a little bit of yelling at the queen, made it her problem. After that…” He rested his arm over his knee, remaining seated across from you. “Couldn’t exactly figure out how to make sure anyone was unarmed, considering they’re not gonna come to us.”

He had thought of something, but it had only been fragments. He’d considered a slaughter, and the relief of it sagged your wings. “I wasn’t impeding you?”

“No.” His thumb-claw found the mark on his lower lip, traced it like he had to remind himself of how it was earned. “You’re always right beside me. You never slow me down.”

You moved your breakfast aside to stroke what was left of the cut on his cheek. He’d healed well – the burn on his neck was gone, though the wound on his arm lingered, likely to be another scar.

“I don’t want war,” you admitted, finally, sinking to the ground beside him. “Justice, yes, but…not that way. No more of our people should be sacrificed.” Not even, you thought ruefully, hatefully, theirs.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” he admitted, dropping his hand so it brushed through your hair.

You sighed, and you gazed into his half-lidded eyes, and he half-smiled at you again.

You built up to war the last time. You would have justice again.

You thought. Until his eyes widened, hardened, and he snarled your name as he threw his body over yours. “Suren!”

A bolt flew past your horns. Past his, embedding deep within the trunk of a non-living tree.

Of course, your plans were decided for you.

You looked to Borra quickly – as long as he was safe, it was his place to command. He knew this land, he’d fought in the field of tomb-bloom flowers after the queen’s guard stripped it bare. It wasn’t the most dishonorable thing a human had ever done, attack in such a sacred place, but at least they had given you an excuse.

He glanced back to you. One man, both of you. It was hardly fair.

Your mate tore the roots from the very earth before your mortal foe had the chance to fire his crossbow again. It was torn from his hands, wrapped thickly in foliage just as he was. Borra drew him up between the branches in a blooming spider’s web, and your claws pricked. You yearned for vengeance.

“Was it you?” he snarled. “Are you the coward who put rowan in the water?”

The vines constricted him. You watched his skin flush, heard the small sounds of pain he made as his trapped limbs squeezed.

You could have cut him open like a rabbit. Swift with your claws, from his belly to his brain. It would’ve been so easy, and it would’ve been nothing you hadn’t done before. You approached him, came to stand before where the branches were most taut.

“Why?”

The man choked. He stared at you with nothing but hate, burning in him just as it raged inside you even then. You should do it. You should end him.

“What did you imagine you’d accomplish? It’s the river between Ulstead and the moors. It has falls, it leads into the sea. You succeeded by chance – and only then in the murder of faeries as big as my hand.” You paused, though why you weren’t entirely certain. “And I was with child, until you poisoned them inside me. That is what you killed. Sprites and a baby.”

The branches grew so tight you thought Borra might tear him apart before you’d finished. He was smothering, pricked by a thousand different thorns, when your child-queen came running. “Wait! Wait!”

“No one else waited,” you called. “No one else hesitated, why should we?”

“Because he wasn’t alone!”

You hated that your fury wasn’t strong enough to endure that sort of blow. You recoiled in disgust.

“King John,” she was panting, “asked around! He spoke to many of Queen Ingreth’s friends – they were trying to provoke more violence. Their men were afraid to go into the moors, so they came to the bridge…and they threw in the rowan from the churchyard! They never thought they’d kill anyone, they thought it would all wash to sea!”

“I don’t care what they thought, they did!”

“And they’ll pay for it!” Aurora’s eyes were so large, so wet, so doe-like. “Suren, please. Please. Let me bring them all to justice. Let me do it. I don’t want you blamed.”

You made a sharp, disgusted sound.

“They’ll kill you when they find out. You know they will. And Borra.” She swallowed. You thought it was in response to your mate’s summoned gaze, but obvious guilt crossed her features. “They know it was you killing poachers rather than Maleficent. They don’t like you very much anyhow.”

So there was no good reason not to kill one more.

“Please,” The girl was braver than you thought, even taking small, ginger steps toward you. “No more blood should be shed. Not yours, Borra’s, or your baby’s.”

Your eyes snapped to her face, your sharp teeth bared.

But she came to you as she went to her godmother. She wet her soft lips and let the quiver in her breath be seen. “I am so sorry. I know that’s not enough, I know I should’ve done more to protect you, and I will. I promise. It’s my duty as your queen to take care of my people, and I swear to you – specifically to you, by name, Suren of the Desert, that I will never let humans harm another faerie, or Dark Faerie, or anyone else. But,” she touched her soft fingers to yours and you nearly recoiled. “I need you to let him down. I need you to trust me.”

Borra watched you. She hadn’t asked him, despite the curl of his fingers betraying that he commanded the branches and not you.

“If you betray me, Aurora of Ulstead,” you whispered, just to her, “you will know the pain I’ve suffered.”

She was not afraid of you when she should’ve been. She looked up at you, and she held your hand in both of hers, and you met her wide, spring-green eyes.

“I promise.”

Borra let him down.

You wondered if she knew the bargain she’d just made, the future she’d placed in jeopardy, but you knew by the set of her jaw and the way she inhaled as she drew herself up to her full diminutive height that she did, and it was a cost she was willing to wager.

Foolish girl. Admirable, but very foolish.

You were starting to like her.

The man, even without his crossbow, took a sharp, lurching step from between the trees – and found himself with the point of Philip’s sword pressed against his throat.

“I wouldn’t,” the boy-king said with the sort of theatric fluff that you hadn’t seen since Borra was a boy his age.

“What does your godmother think of the bargains you make, Aurora of Ulstead?”

“Aurora of the Moors,” she corrected, “and I hope she trusts me with them.”

After all Maleficent had done for this child – the lives cost protecting her, the exile her guardianship placed her in – you were confident that she did.

There was always a guard along the river, with their backs to the moors. They were well-paid, so as to discourage corruption, and the men were always the same.

They knew the difference in the beat of your wings from Queen Aurora’s faerie godmother.

You landed on the balcony first. Ducked your horns beneath the doorframe, and stepped onto a pad of carpet that your toes sunk into like moss.

You made a face and stepped over it to join her at her bedside.

“You came!” Aurora exclaimed.

Her face was always rosy, you’d realized after a time (after a time of fussing over whether the heat of your skin was too much for the child, before you made the effort to stop referring to her that way). Her large, doe-eyes were bright, and her golden curls hung like apple blossoms around her face.

“You asked us to.”

Borra landed on the balcony, and you strongly suspected he had done a loop in search of Aurora’s husband, who ought to have been there. You both watched him duck his head, and respond to the carpet with disgust as you had.

“I’ll have it moved,” Aurora said.

He gave her a sound of acknowledgement.

“I have something very important to ask,” she slipped her hand into yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I hope you’ll say yes. Both of you.”

You glanced to one another. No sooner had he settled his hand on your back then a door you assumed went further into the palace (with its inconceivably narrow halls) swung open, and King John ushered Young King Phillip in.

Carrying things.

Carrying babies.

Two of them.

“They’ve arrived!” King John exclaimed, and you did your best to hide your surprise that he seemed so very….fond of you. “Philip tells me you’re both well-respected warriors.”

You nodded, your brows furrowed.

“In that case, I intend to return the favor – you may not be able to wield iron, but you can certainly use bronze!”

“Dad,” Philip stage-whispered.

“John,” Aurora said fondly.

“Bit ahead of myself,” the jolly old man said, and gestured enthusiastically to the group of you. “Go on, continue.”

“Borra,” Aurora summoned your attention, “Suren. You are both exceptional warriors, and your presence on the moors is one of the reasons we’ve kept peace.”

“So it’s with no measure of uncertainty,” Philip continued, moving closer to his wife (as well as the both of you), “we’d like to ask you both to be our children’s godparents.”

You looked at one of the squirming, swaddled bundles, and offered your hands.

The boy-prince (who you’d made no such promises about) passed the child you desired to you with a smile.

It was very human. It had a little, flushed face, very pink, and no claws, horns, or sharp teeth.

“It’s going to be hard to take care of,” Borra murmured.

You nodded, and Aurora bubbled with laughter. “Oh, no! No, you don’t have to raise them! Not unless something were to happen to us.”

“A curse,” Philip offered, “or a war.”

“We would never wage war with you,” you reminded him.

“Not with you,” Aurora beamed. She rested her hand on whatever part of the bundle your arms weren’t currently encasing. “With other humans, probably.”

“We would not let other humans go to war with you,” Borra amended. He’d gathered the other child from its father and held it, carefully, in the cradle of his arms.

You had to look twice. The first sight was pleasant; the second rekindled the warmth of your longing, and you glanced down at the child in your arms. “You have an advantage, little thing. You’ll be older.”

“And there are two.”

Philip looked at you both in confusion. Aurora lit up. You didn’t think her face could get any brighter, but, somehow…

“We plan to return to the nest we came from for the winter,” you told her, “but when we return in the spring…they’ll be much bigger, won’t they?”

You thought she might spring up from bed, so you lowered beside her. You placed her baby in her arms and kissed her temple.

“Do you mean it?” she gushed, “Really?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips rising. “This will be the first month. We wanted to be sure.”

“You will definitely need armor,” King John added from well across the room.

Borra placed the second child back into Philip’s arms, and the sight of him tucking the edge of their blanket over the fold of their cocoon made your heart squeeze. “Your godmother already knows of our plans.”

“As she does of ours,” Philip replied. “We needed Maleficent’s blessing.”

Their customs were strange, but if it was a blessing they desired…

You leaned in close to the child in Aurora’s arms, and whispered to them, “May you grow strong and always be healthy.”

“And you,” Borra said to the other, his voice low and fond, “And know peace.”

“Both of you,” you agreed.

They weren’t particularly magical blessings, as far as other fey’s gifts were concerned, but Aurora beamed at you as though you’d given her everything she could’ve ever wanted. “I’m so glad.”

“And I’m for you.” You squeezed her hand once more before you stood, and you turned to the old king with new interest. “You spoke of armor. Why? Do you believe we’ll be at war?”

“Well, not with any urgency, but you both live a long time, don’t you? Can’t hurt to be prepared. Better protection than leather, should you ever need it. And – oh, swords! And shields! And your children will need lessons in using them.”

You would need lessons in using them, but if it was to be an exchange of gifts, well. Borra joined you, sighing from the depths of his chest. “I hope they’ll never need them.”

You laid your head on his shoulder, and your fingers linked ever so slyly with his. He knew what you were doing and brought his hand to settle over your stomach. The radiant warmth of his palm soaked into your skin. “They are warriors. And if it’s peace they’re to preserve, there’s no harm in teaching them.”

“Them?” he repeated.

“I’ve been with child for the last two springs.”

He feigned fond exasperation as he stared at you, though his fingers traced the plain of your belly with the utmost love. “Remind me next time to wait until summer.”

“Harvest,” you teased.

He grinned, the points of his sharp teeth glinting in the morning of a new day.

#Borra #Borra Maleficent #Maleficent Borra #Borra x Reader #Dark Fey #faerie boyfriend #uh cw for a lot of things #Genocide (comma) hate crimes (comma) a lot of Heavy Grief #I'm sorry I didn't add more of Maleficent /in/ this but I feel like this is becoming its own world so there's a chance I WILL get to it??#also haa I left that open for a grey-alignment sequel because I love causing trouble #Also I ship Aurora with a Backbone and some Guts (hi philip you're a nice boy)

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years

Text

Earth is Space Australia “Storm of Ice.”

“Are you going to bother telling me where we are going?” Krill wondered examining the camera feed from the hull of the ship and out into the vast darkness of space.

Compared to what he was used to, this part of space was relatively empty, no nebulae, no ice fields, and only the distant arm of a spiral galaxy to add light to their movement.

The captain waved a dismissive hand, “Oh, nowhere important.” Krill panned the camera around to face forward watching as the bright yellow of a terribly average star winked at them from the darkness. As fast as they were going, the star ahead slowly began to expand.

“Initiating breaking sequence, Captain.” One of the crewmen announced.

Krill panned the camera a little further to their right and watched in mild awe as the gas giant grew large in his vision dwarfing its moons a thousand times over. Bands of wind spun upon its surface varying from different shades of red and cream. They entered the pull of the gas giant at just the proper angle to cut across its field and around slowing all the while form the resistance of its gravity before continuing off into space and towards that average main sequence star expanding in the camera’s lens. Expanding much slower now that they had decreased their speed.

A couple of ships detached from the hull as they passed the next planet over.

Krill panned the camera over again in time to see the dark side of a planet winking at him with a thousand distant lights.

“Where are we, Captain?”

“Oh, that, just a midsized human colony.”

The ship was forced to turn following in a circular arc around the sun as they raced towards the next planet, a distant speck in the vastness of space barely visible against the light of the sun.

The captain took place at the helm and manually began slowing the ship even further. He wouldn’t have risked doing the same thing as fast as they had been going earlier, but now he was able to bring the ship to a slow drift as they approached the planet. Despite the captain’s wishes, Krill moved over to the navigation console and seated himself bringing up the current statistics on the system.

“Main sequence star eight planets.”

“Nine.”

“Sorry what?”

The Captain cleared his throat… nothing I uh…. Nothing.” Though Krill could still detect a hint of annoyance on the man’s face. He wondered what that was all about.

“Home to A class C habitable planet, with terraforming, and a class A-7 death planet.” He went quiet, “Captain, we aren’t visiting another death planet are we?”

The captain’s grin was barely visible at this angle, but Krill swore he could still see it, “You know me to well.”

Kill groaned inwardly pulling up the statistics on this supposed death planet, when he received an error message, he switched to a quick planet wide scan.

“Um, Captain, I really don’t think we want to be here. This planet is terribly unstable. The volcanic activity alone make it uninhabitable. I mean the crust MOVES and shifts and breaks apart causing terrible earthquakes. This planet has hundreds of earthquakes every minute some of them large enough to topple mountains. There are at most 1,500 active volcanoes and at least 20 right now that are ERRUPTING. And that doesn’t even begin to cover the sheer mass of wind storms, and electrical storms captain….. LIGHTNING ON A PLANET. Don’t you think that is a bit extreme? It gets even worse, it gets so cold here that water crystalizes in the atmosphere and falls as ice.”

Frustratingly, the more he talked, the larger the human’s smile grew.

He clearly wasn’t understanding the dangers, so Krill continued, “Its highest recorded temperature was 134 degrees, captain, a little more than halfway to boiling.” When that elicited only laughter he continued, “The lowest recorded temperature was -128 degrees”

The captain turned in his chair, “Damn, that’s cold.” He grinned and went back to work.

Krill stared at him, “Didn’t you hear me captain that’s 184 degrees kelvin, you cannot survive.” He plowed onward, “The winds can reach up to 253 miles per hour, and due to the massive oceans this fuels huge costal storms. These storms the produce smaller cells of wind that spins so fast it can uproot trees. The atmosphere and the sun would literally cook you alive if you stayed out in the sun long enough. And if that’s not enough, the planet produces flash flooding.”

Now humans all around the bridge were giggling maniacally.

Krill was growing annoyed now, “The instability of the earth’s crust mixed with the oceans can cause extreme waves that would be deadly were you to be on the coast.”

The giggling was growing louder.

“Are you PEOPLE INSANE! This planet’s continents might as well be in the shape of a giant middle finger”

They were absolutely howling now bent double clutching their stomachs and kicking their feet.

The captain was doing his best to contain himself as they slowly moved in towards the planet’s single moon, and its large docking station. Krill kept grumpily silent as their ship was accepted into the bay, and the crew made preparations for their landing. Many of the ships auxiliary pods were being used. It seemed as if the effort to study this death planet was a well-organized one. He wondered what would be so important about this place that they would risk death.

The captain saw the other pods off before returning to krill, “You’ll be accompanying me on this mission.” He said as he began to pull on his gear. Krill wasn’t thrilled to see it was a heavy winter jacket, snow pants, and excessive rubber boots. The gloves the hung around his neck would make it nearly impossible for him to do anything useful.

Waffles, his dog, sat at his side already arrayed in a pair of dog booties tongue lolling past her sharp K-9 teeth.

Krill was never going to get used to her.

He followed grudgingly after the captain staring dejectedly at the large glass specimen container that would be his home for the duration of this mission. He wasn’t as durable as either the humans or the dog.

Unfortunately for them, they began by heading towards northern hemisphere of the planet, the half that was tilted away from the sun and likely to be freeing cold. And just as he suspected, when they entered the atmosphere, it was terribly volatile. Their ship was thrown back and forth and then back again rattling as if it was about to shake apart and sent them spinning down into the atmosphere to their deaths.

Eventually, the ship evened out above a thick layer of low-hanging clouds. The sky above was a clear crystal blue.

Ahead, the captain’s face was split with a wide grin.

Then they plunged downwards into the clouds and were immediately rocked by a terrible gust of wind and flurries of white. After the first shock, of impact, Krill wondered what the white substance was, he assumed it might be dust, but a closer inspection saw rivulets of water leaking down from the wings.

“What is that?” Krill wondered in horror and awe.

“Snow…. Looks like a blizzard.”

Krill clutched his seat, “A blizzard?”

“Yeah, mix high winds with extreme cold and that falling ice you were talking about.”

Krill’s eyes widened, it had never occurred to him that you could mix those things since one seemed bad enough.

“Captain, I think we should turn back.”

“Not a chance.” The man called.

Another terrible gust of wind rocked their craft blindingly white in the darkness. A proximity alert began to blare. The captain gripped the joystick of the craft teeth clenched pulling the craft into a level flight lowering the skids as he did. The ground as barely visible against the gusting snow as they skidded to a halt and the captain cut the engine. The noise didn’t abate, the sound of the roaring wind outside was enough to make Krill apprehensive as the man pulled on his gloves hat and a scarf.

Krill didn’t see an oxygen tank, “Captain, what about oxygen…. We can’t know what the atmosphere is like or what the cold will do to your lungs.”

The man just laughed as he clipped a leash to the dog’s collar ushering Krill into his heated and enclosed specimen tube.

The human took a deep breath and then opened the door.

He was immediately struck by a terrible gust of wind and flurry of snow that staggered him backwards, but he kept his footing and pushed out into the darkness. Krill looked on in worry just waiting for the human to drop dead from an inhospitable atmosphere, but he pushed onwards out into the darkness hands held up against gusting flurries of snow. Even the dog walked with her head down ears held back against the lowing wind as they trudged through the darkness puling Krill along behind them through the snow.

Not for the first time, Krill was reminded of the humans sheer adaptability and survival instincts imagining its ancestors covered in furs, and trudging through the inhospitable wilderness of their planet, of course nothing could really be worse than were they were now, and Krill was almost sure they would drop dead before reaching their intended destination, whatever that was.

They appeared to have been going for a long time before a bump in the trail lead them down onto a wide flat surface. Krill did his best to peer through the darkness and was surprised to find structures looming out of the darkness.

They were tall snow covered squares still and dark in the eerie white landscape. As the human walked Krill saw more structures towering up on either side of their wide flat path as if placed into neat manicured rows.

Large, dark skeletal structures loomed from the darkness breaching upwards like the spreading veins. Krill shivered at the alien structures wondering what they could be.

The wind had died down allowing the snow to fall in large lazy flakes from a black sky. Enough of it had fallen that the human pushed through it at about knee height as the dog leaped and pounced though the white at the human’s side.

Was this some remnants abandoned civilization, the ghost town of a people that had abandoned it due to some extreme climate? Krill couldn’t blame them.

Just as he was beginning to wonder if they would ever reach their destination, the man turned sharply moving towards one of the looming structures clad in snow and long jagged teeth of ice glittering in what little light was provided. A single glowing light glittered from the structure catching krill’s attention.

The captain let go of the animal’s leash, and the dog bounded up and into the little alcove before the door.

The human followed sluggishly kicking the snow from his boots as he reached the spot.

A gloved hand hammered on the door.

Krill couldn’t understand what the man expected to find, but then a door was thrown open allowing a burst of warm yellow light out into the darkness.

The dog rushed inwards, and the captain followed shedding snow as he went. The door closed behind them to reveal something Krill did not expect.

A completely furnished human den.

And at least three of the creatures warm, and well fed smiling from their places. The captain threw back the hood of his jacket smiling as a well-padded female human came forward and embraced him in a crushing human hug.

Through the glass, Krill’s translator was just able to pick up.

“MY BOY!”

The human hugged her back, as an older, grey male human shuffled over embracing them both.

The captain began struggling after a moment, “Alright, alright, it’s good to see you too.”

They backed away as the man shed his coat onto the floor releasing the specimen tube from behind. A sharp hiss marked the opening of the tube creating a wash of warm air over krill.

He looked up at the captain, “I don’t understand.”

Captain Vir grinned, “Krill family, family meet Krill.”

Off to the side the humans looked on in shock, curiosity and wariness.

“You mean.”

Another grin, “Oh yeah, welcome to Earth, our home planet.”

A planet where the winter rains ice, the summer breeds fire and every continent harbors death as a ward.

#humans are space orcs #humans are weird #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #earth is space australia

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deviationdivine · 5 years

Text

Blue Blush (Connor!Prompt Request)

TLDR: Connor’s having one of those days at the DPD that just culminates in him winding up naked...

Word Count: 2,837

TW: Fluffy Boy Connor, Language, Suggestive Themes

A/N:Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Nothing to see here.” “Um, you’re fucking naked!” - @sammyreh request! Here we go! My main man Connor’s back with more fluff to cure my chronic angst. Thanks for participating baby!

How lovely you look today. Any day will be beneficial to his visual component analyzing each detail for memory storage. Already he has seen you first entering DPD but that does not stop him wanting to be around you approximately twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, four weeks in a month and-

Calculations drop out of range the closer you come. Realizing that he fell into distraction reminds him of what Hank calls it. The lieutenant says he is ‘whipped’ but Connor is unsure if you would partake in the sexual gratification of S&M. Whips appear to be quite popular in the area.

A flood of information filters in his scanners. Oh. That is not what the lieutenant meant.

Wiping out a flood of sexual content he automatically steps forward with a cup of coffee brewed specifically to your preferences. “Good morning, Love.”

“Good morning, Detective.”

Your greeting is airy with a wisp of mischief. Catching him off guard is rare. After all he will hear a pin drop with that supersonic hearing. It isn’t so much surprise but confusion settling into his cute face. Then he plays off your formal address all too cleverly.

“We are much more than colleagues now, Y/N.” The android admonishes teasingly, offering the hot beverage to you. “In fact, I do believe we are dating.”

Is that so? You laugh at the little joke. Breezing past his lips husky and endearing; your body leans into his chest acting as a harmonious magnet. Tangling fingers around silky tie pulls him down just enough but directing him isn’t necessary.

Connor places a sweet kiss that quickly transforms in a sultry tango to your lips. Wanting to curve fingers with the shape of your face, cradling, claiming you as his, he does remind himself of current priority. This is work. He does not wish to cause an uncomfortable climate. Most have no opinion about this new relationship the two of you have begun.

Hank obviously rolled eyes when Connor first admitted. Actually, it was not in disgust. The lieutenant thought it was “about time they worked it the fuck out” in his usual unpleasant terms.

There is a nudge of doubt still weighing through his system. Even as you come to hold a place for him in your rapturous human heart; Connor imagines if he did not become deviant.

Never will he doubt you or these feelings. He doubts how good he truly is for someone like you. Someone who is a lively spark in this world, making him feel further human. If he may hold, protect you forever that will be enough. Even if you decide to move away from this connection for your sake as a human dating an android; Connor drops his gaze. Being free with thoughts and decisions empties his mind for only his internal voice to ruminate. At times being alone is not best for a deviant.

“Connor? Are you OK?”

Stroking his cheek draws him up in a snap. Indicator flickers in a call sign interrupting this pleasant sensation reserved only for him. He reserves for you as well. As long as you want to be with him perhaps that is enough. To hold a moment tenderly expecting an end or his days of struggle eclipse logic too severely.

He is more adaptable than this. Having something precious to lose makes the android surge with an entire new string of emotions.

Maybe he should ask Hank. On second thought, let’s not ask Hank.

Connor smiles now. Appeasing worry is part of his programming. He is meant to integrate in an amiable way. He still follows patterns of protocol but more so out of choice. An unmistakable need to make you happy fills him with purpose.

“I just received an emergency call,” Connor breathes against your hand. Tiny peck of the android’s bottom lip grazes palm where you continue to offer a soothing caress. Tasting the natural chemicals held within your body spiking for every touch and affectionate fondle of skin.

“It seems I will be out in the field earlier today. And – Hank is late.”

Anderson is late? Shocking! You smirk. “Well, that’s on him,” you chide. “But still… I’d like you having backup. Do you want me to-?”

“No, Y/N.” Connor is quick to shut down the suggestion. He knows of the astonishing capability you possess. There is more at stake.

Arguing won’t change his mind. He’s pretty good at making his own decisions. It makes you happy to see him not tied down to code or orders. He’s also pretty good at this coffee thing. Sipping it now creates a warm spread.

“Mmm,” purring approval gets him going.

Lusty clouds dot caramel cocoa, those same eclipses you notice each time kissing turns into heavy petting. Connor lets go of his pristine, intelligent personage while loving you. He takes breath away. Can only dream of how it will be when you two have sex. “Exact amount of cream. Connor, if you weren’t a detective you’d make a delectably hot barista.”

“Hey, hey, hey! Take your lovey dovey shit outside!”

Wrenching back from Connor’s warm, loving space is a good opportunity to roll eyes in disgust. You blatantly ignore the obnoxious entrance of Reed. “Be careful,” a little whisper floods your feelings. They always were like this for Connor but knowing he’s yours? It adds extra uneasiness.

He does not seem to be worried at all. That smile can light up the earth. He warms you like the sun.

“Androids are capable of avoiding unnecessary injury to biocomponents, Love. My model makes me quite effective.” Connor pulls at the threads holding your blissful laughter at bay. Poking gently, hoping to spill splendorous sound tinkling like china glass. Whenever you laugh the metal melts a bit more around his artificial heart.

You bless him with a diminutive giggle. All is right within his world then. It means everything he desires now. Deviancy opens gates, unleashing his true self. He-he wants to hold this forever along with your perfect form in his arms until the end of time.

“Gonna keep eye fucking or do your job tin can?!”

Connor’s smile snaps into a line. Drawing fingers against your waist as a silent disengagement and promise to remain safe, the prototype detective walks out of break room on a clear path to Gavin Reed.

The human detective yawns not worried. He snorts at the droid. “The fuck you looking at?”

“Opening your mouth to Detective Y/L/N will need proper adjustment,” Connor explains smoothly. “Would you like me to assist you, Detective Reed?”

Any jokes Gavin had on loop don’t make it past this plastic asshole’s balls. Getting in his face he must have a big pair of gonads! “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten your stunt in the evidence room motherfucker!”

“I’m sorry,” the prototype snipes sarcastically. “I suppose this concludes our bromance then.”

“You motherless piece of shit!”

Unfazed by the varying degrees of dirt that escapes Reed’s mouth, Connor takes a page out of Hank’s book as the lieutenant would say: “Do go fuck yourself, Detective Reed. I believe that will solve all of your problems.”

Gavin is too stunned to even harp back. That’s a first! Goddamn android saunters off like he’s some hot shot too. Anderson taught him this shit! He knows it! Well…he’ll get this prick back. Today.

“Uh, Connor?” Chris Miller’s eyebrows rise at the android. Coming in slopped up in mud and – that better be mud! “What happened to you?”

“I had a minor accident.” Explaining crisply, Connor’s perturbed affectation is due to his constant gathering of humanity. More simply put: he is pissed off. Holding up his arms did not lessen the entirety of this ruination. His jacket is completely soiled.

“Just minor?” the officer snorts, returning to computer. “Wait til Hank sees this.”

Ignoring Officer Miller’s amusement puts Connor on a path for locker room. A swift move that Gavin takes notice of. Removing feet off desk, Reed gets up casually before taking off in the same direction. Whistling on the way downstairs echoes in stairwell but Gavin shuts up by the time that prick could be in earshot.

Jacket, jeans completely caked in mud, dirty liquid already seeps through white shirt. Jumping a fence into several pedestrians did not end well despite calculations. The thief in question decided to use collateral damage to slow his pursuit. Connor fell face first in a giant puddle of soggy dirt from last night’s rain shower.

The android strips dirty clothing. Resting shoes atop bench they are remarkably unscathed. Obtaining a locker for himself is both beneficial and rewarding. He never imagined much need for it being an android. Hank was right this time.

Connor smirks. Stepping out of aisle to enter shower stall he needs to rinse splatters of dirt from synthetic skin.

Reed takes a peek now seeing the coast clear. “Let’s see you get out of here naked plastic prick.” Gavin proceeds to gather up the droids clothes intent on humiliating the bastard. This will stick it to him on a lesser note but he’ll sit back and laugh his ass off all the same.

“What the hell did he fall in?!” Gavin holds the muddy pile away from himself. If he gets anything on this jacket he’ll kill somebody.

Wet tousled hair smoothes in a comb beneath Connor’s fingers returning to locker. He freezes, running a searchable scan. Where are his clothes?

“Connor!?”

Jolting around at your frantic voice floods indicator scarlet. Priming himself to jump into action and protect he steels his fluid stance. You are alone. There is no sign of any distress besides your rising heart rate. Oh.

The android peers down assessing his current absence of clothing. “Nothing to see here.”

Nothing to see? How about broad shoulders ripe for finger digging, clavicles made for flush kisses and a muscle toned body stark naked in the DPD locker room? Connor is absolutely wow. No, really. This is…what???

“Um, you’re fucking naked!”

Raising eyebrows at your language does remind him of Hank. The android remains standing without sense to hide anything about his state of undress. Simply he gazes at you fondly and free of inhibitions. Obviously this is far too intimate. Even in a relationship your embarrassment is palpable. “Are you all right, Y/N?”

A breath escapes in poor answer. Frankly there is nothing to say without making a fool of yourself. It shouldn’t be this nerve wracking. After all you two have been together but not this far yet.

Connor cocks his head with a tiny smile. Obviously it does not bother him. However, he does not wish for you to feel uncomfortable. “I apologize. Would you like me-?”

“Connor.” Pressing a palm to his chest stills the entire world. Bare and chiseled just as his sharp cheekbones, sculpted jaw he is a beautiful statue. He’s an ancient work born out of Greece. Tall perfection making you weak in the knees fully clothed. Without you need to start fanning yourself before passing out.

Keeping eyes up is difficult. You swallow.

Your touch melts him into you, eyelids drifting in a flutter. His eyelashes are like snow kissing against yours when he leans in to overtake lips. Right now he quietly stands absorbing closeness. Somehow you think this vulnerability eases him and how can you complain?

Cyberlife be praised. They were good for something at least. You giggle. Reaching up to cup his face pulls his head to meet your level.

Connor’s lips mimic yours touching softly at first. Arms thread to the warm curves of your body. Pulling you flush produces a shared groan into your mouths. His LED is ablaze, frame shuddering pleasurably into your figure.

Ohhh. You can feel him pressing fully into your groin.

“Connor.” Bracing hands against the android’s bare chest establishes more. This type of intimacy is new. Wanting it is a personal truth but down in the locker room of the DPD?

“I realize we have not had this opportunity. Removing our clothes for one another.”

“No,” you agree quiet. “We-we haven’t.”

“Does it bother you?” Worry replaces lust in your android lover. “If so I will-”

“Connor, nothing in the world involving you would ever make me uncomfortable. Besides, I love what I see.”

The android grins crookedly. Sweeping you close to show you everything he will offer. His back collides with lockers allowing you power over him. It is a silent turn on for the android known for dominating in combat.

Tender kisses raining over your lips as stardust. Connor is a star. He’s your star. Glowing forever in your heart and this is the only thing.

“My Heart,” he whispers into the sweet crook of neck. His tongue traces skin tasting what he loves most in this world.

A dangerous shiver causes a soft moan to slip. Tracing fingertips down his perfect torso creates a light shade of blue. Shimmering in a blush to synthetic skin, you gasp, smiling up at him.

“What the fuck!” Reed nearly throws up finding you pressed up against that plastic shithead. Like he needs to see a human and android fucking!

Wrenching back from your boyfriend leaves a serious problem. It’s pretty obvious since there’s nothing in the locker. You sneer already suspecting! “Get the hell out, Gavin! Better yet. Get Connor’s clothes you asshole!”

The detective snorts. Crossing arms over his chest, he takes one good look at this fucking shit and doesn’t bother hiding disgust. Fucking androids. Now they’re over here stealing humans for themselves. What a joke.

“Didn’t take the plastic prick’s shit.” Reed denies but pulls off a cocky smile. Let’s see you prove it. “What? You gotta problem with your robo boy’s package? Ain’t got one?”

Connor sidesteps from behind you without care. He throws a hot glare onto the human.

“Ah, fuck!” Gavin turns his head. “You son of a bitch! I didn’t need to see your dick!”

“Certainly were interested enough to bring it up though.” You sneer at the idiot. Can somebody fire this scumbag? “Does that answer your question? Oh, that’s right. You’re embarrassed. Because my boyfriend is obviously way bigger than your teeny pencil dick.”

Honestly, you know this boy is nice. You saw with your own eyes. Accidentally but knowing what’s in store for later is nice. Better than nice.

“What the fuck did you…?”

Connor moves in front of you purposely aware of Detective Reed’s disgust. That is why the android smiles.

Gavin throws in the towel. “Jesus Christ! Go ahead and fuck him down here if you want. I’m out!”

Saying there isn’t satisfaction in Reed squirming like the scummy worm he is would be lying. You did enjoy watching him lose it. The filthy comment out of his mouth is so expected at this point nothing phases. Not even Connor still naked as the day he was created. This vantage gives you a direct view of his toned ass. Talk about sculpted perfection.

“Connor.” Calling for him to turn around, averting eyes to save your life, you reach to snag onto his forearm. Bringing the nude android towards lockers the idea is simple. “Um, wait here. And I’ll find where that jackass took your clothes.”

“Y/N, wait.”

Catching onto your waist stills everything. His voice is uneven. Checking his LED it’s not crimson but amber. What is he thinking?

“Then you do not mind seeing all of me.” Hesitation poisons his statement. Part of him does not want the truth. If you do not believe he is worth you- “As this. As my true self?”

A gentle smile answers in place of words. What can be said that is good enough? He is everything in your world. Can that be enough? Of course it is. Love is whatever you want it to be. This is what you want it to be.

“I know your true self. This.” You rub fingers across his chest. Beneath synthetic skin it’s easy to know what he is but that is what you love. All of him no matter what others see.

You indulge firm hands resting on hips. Thankfully deviancy means being bolder. He’s still a cinnamon roll though. Cinnamon roll that can kill you but still fits. “I only see you, Connor. Skin, no skin why should that mean anything? When I love you?”

The android is flooded with readings. Listening, analyzing each hastened beat of heart radiating out of you. Those beats are erratically for – him.

Connor’s smile transcends beyond that cheap grimace that used to twist his mouth. This is bright. Vibrant in humanity, dimples and pride knowing he can have what he wants.

“My Heart,” he pledges an oath. “I love you too.”

That pet name is going to make you drop. Who knew androids could be this romantic? You clear your throat, pointing down but keeping eyes on his. “Want to put that away now?”

“Oh. Obviously.”

Tag List: @elydith @your-taxidermy @tropfenlady @connorswink @tommy-10-k

#connor rk800 x reader #connor x reader #dbh connor rk800 x reader #rk800 x reader #dbh rk800 x reader #dbh #detroit become human #spicy fluff #follower/reader appreciation request #get lost gavin #wanna talk shit #get hit #sammyreh request #part of the blue series

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our-smooty · 5 years

Text

Motion in the Ocean

Fandom: Gorillaz

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: 2Doc

Tags: Public Sex, Beach Sex, JAMAICA, Murdoc prioritizing sex over his own physical wellbeing

Summary: Sprained back be damned, 2D looked good enough to eat in his beach outfit. His baggy jean shorts hung low on his skinny hips, accentuated by that stupid red floaty he’d picked up at some point. The dull aching in Murdoc's back had nothing on the burning arousal in his gut. The only problem was they were out in public place, not a private bush or port-a-loo in sight. Murdoc sighed and leaned back in the sand, just barely noticing a splash of dark wood in the corner of his vision. The pier, he could work with that.

Sprained back be damned, 2D looked good enough to eat in his beach outfit. His baggy jean shorts hung low on his skinny hips, accentuated by that stupid red floaty he’d picked up at some point. The dull aching in Murdoc's back had nothing on the burning arousal in his gut. The only problem was they were out in public place, not a private bush or port-a-loo in sight. Murdoc sighed and leaned back in the sand, just barely noticing a splash of dark wood in the corner of his vision. The pier, he could work with that.

“Oi Dullard!” he shouted. At first, when he’d fallen out of the tree 2D had panicked, but now that he realized Murdoc wasn’t close to death (he’d caught the bassist taking a photo of something, so he must have been fine), he was back to spacing out, staring at the ocean. Murdoc’s shout broke him out of his trance with a jolt.

“What? Can’t reach your martini?” he joked. Murdoc rolled his eyes and tried to sit up, failing quite spectacularly until 2D swooped in and helped him. “Oho, be careful old man.”

The bassist shook those helpful hands off with a growl, but only because he felt himself leaning into the warm touch. “Watch yourself there Pretty Boy.”

“Or what, you can’t catch me like that anyway.” Satan the singer had gotten cocky in their time apart. It was a little hot if Murdoc was being honest. He had to get them under that pier.

“Shut up and help me up,” he ordered. Surprisingly 2D obeyed—old habits die hard—and after a few pained noises and unflattering grunts, Murdoc was standing on his own. Mostly. With a little help from Stu. “Now to the water, I wanna swim.”

“You hate swimming,” the singer deadpanned, helping Murdoc take a few shaky steps. To his credit, the bassist went slow and kept the whining to a minimum. “Like, I’ve never even seen you take a shower in your life, Muds.”

“Live a little Dents, we're in Paradise,” Murdoc snapped, dipping a toe into the sea and suppressed a shudder. The water was lukewarm and smiley. It probably smelled and tasted of fish. The things he did for a little arse. He valiantly pushed forward, wading until the water was up to his waist before turning around to look at the singer. “Come on then.”

2D looked conflicted, he’d spent most of the afternoon letting his jorts dry out after a morning swim, but it wasn’t often Murdoc made an effort. So he shrugged and followed along, hoisting the floaty up around his hips to avoid tripping.

“Murdoc, why’re you goin’ so far that way?” Murdoc pretended not to hear him, knowing Stu would be too curious not to follow. He slowly waddled his way over to one of the pier supports and rested against it, one hand on his back. Maybe he tweaked something serious. Not that it mattered now; no the only thing on Murdoc’s mind was the way 2D slunk his way over, the water making his skin oddly greenish.

“Stop your whinin’ and come look at this.” he heard 2D splashing up behind him. Murdoc pushed past the pain and made his way behind the support and out of view of the beach. Finally, they were alone.

“Look at what? There’s nothin’ here! It’s all gross and slimy…” 2D complained. Murdoc tried not to groan as he turned around to face the younger, his back leaning against the support. He could feel his speedo riding up in the back and he was sure the half-drowned look was not sexy, but he really wanted this.

“I thought we could… have a little fun?” he growled, reaching out to snag his thumbs in the singer's belt loops. Stu stumbled forward, his floaty falling a little around his thighs.

‘What! Are you jokin’?” Murdoc smirked and started playing with 2D’s trouser button. He didn’t miss the way the singer’s eyes darted around, or the way his cheeks coloured.

“Yes, Stu. I’m jokin’ and I waded all the way out here with a broken spine and a hard-on jus’ to make fun of you.” 2D looked a little stunned, but he quickly seemed to warm to the idea.

“You couldn’t wait until we got back to the hotel? And what about your back?” He shuffled closer, smiling coyly, his hips pressing against Murdoc’s crotch. “I don’t want you to get hurt or nothin’.”

Murdoc barked a laugh. “Cut the shit and bend over Dents, don’t pretend you aren’t already poppin’ a stiffy at the thought.”

2D pouted a little but started to turn. “Wouldn’t it be easier for me to get you? With your back?”

Murdoc grabbed the lube he’d tucked down the back of his speedo that morning and slicked up a few fingers. “No, because I’ve been thinkin’ about your arse in those tight little shorts all day and I need to be in you.” He dipped a finger between 2D’s cheeks and heard him gasp. “That alright with you, Bluebird?”

“Y-yeah,” the singer stuttered, jutting his hips back so the floaty wouldn’t fall down. “Hurry up, it’s disgusting under here.”

“Quit your whinin’,” Murdoc warned, slipping a finger inside the younger man. “Mmm you’re still stretched from last night.”

"Then get on with it!” Stu moaned as Murdoc edged in two more fingers; he was so ready. They were pretty far from the beach, but the very idea that someone could maybe see them made him tremble.

Meanwhile, Murdoc was beginning to realize he was in a bit of a predicament. His back was definitely too sore for him to give 2D the pounding he really wanted to, but he’d already committed. Crossing his fingers Murdoc hoped for the best as he replaced his fingers with his cock, pulling 2D onto him rather than pushing in. The water splashed around their knees and covered up their groans and pants.

“Oh, oh!” 2D cried, getting the hint and fucking himself on Murdoc’s cock as he leaned on the beam for support. “M-Murdoc it’s s-s-sensitive!”

The bassist grunted, using his hands to spread 2D’s cheeks apart and watch himself disappear inside him again and again. “I-I would imagine so, love. Especially a-after las’ night…”

The red floaty ring was becoming more of a hindrance the faster their pace got. It made an annoying squeaking noise every time Stu moved in just the wrong way. 2D had one hand on it, trying to keep it up, and another braced against Murdoc’s hip. His shorts floated around his knees in the water, threatening to trip him if he moved so much as an inch. Neither of them cared.

“Wanted your arse all day. F-fell out of—fuck!—of that soddin’ tree cause I was starin’ at you,” Murdoc gasped, rocking his hip as much as he could with his back. “S-Satan, I always want you so much.”

“Murdoc~!” 2D mewled at the dirty talk. His was drooling a little, his own prick hard and leaking between his legs. The bassist felt his orgasm coming, dark and all-consuming, and he reached forward to take 2D in hand, stroking him along with the movement of his hips.

“Come on, D. F-fuckin’ come on my cock like a—shit, shit!—g-good little whore,” he moaned, knowing he was right on the edge. 2D yelped as Murdoc pumped him, his hips losing rhythm to roughly fuck himself on Murdoc’s dick.

“Oh oh-oh!” he cried, releasing into Murdoc’s fist and clenching down on the cock inside him. Murdoc didn’t stand a chance, the pressure and feeling of 2D coming around him enough to send him careening over the edge and spurting into the singer. Even though it’d been less than half a day since they'd last fucked, Murdoc felt like he came for hours, his come oozing out of Stu’s hole when he finally pulled out. That idiotic red floaty was still around the singer’s hips.

“Fuck, that was good,” Murdoc sighed, tucking himself back into his speedo. He was nice enough to help the singer with his shorts, the sopping denim clinging to his skin. When he was redressed 2D turned around to look at Murdoc, his face still red and sweaty.

“You’re the worst,” he said breathlessly, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. Because Murdoc was Murdoc, he tried to deepen it, leaning forwards and prodding at the singer’s lips with his tongue. At least, he did until his back twinged something fierce, forcing him to straighten out against the pillar.

“Think I may have really done somethin’ really bad to the old back, Stu-Pot,” he said through clenched teeth. Sex had been a good distraction from the pain, but it had also made it 10x worse. “Might have to call the coast guard.”

2D sighed in exasperation before getting a sly smile on his face. Carefully he stepped out of the tube and placed it over Murdoc’s shoulders, securing it around his waist. “So you can have your Bay Watch moment? No need, we can jus’ float you in.”

If Murdoc had been in less pain he might have flipped his lid, but as it was he didn’t really have any other options other than moving in under the pier. “Fine, but if you so much as make one invalid joke I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Float angrily at me?” Stu helped Murdoc wade out from under the pier, then helped him paddle the floaty to shore. He made sure to occasionally splash water in the bassist’s face “by accident” no fewer than 10 times. Payback for the sore arse, he claimed as they got to shore. Murdoc just growled and let himself be pushed through the water. The singer had no idea what he’d be in store for once his back was healed...

#2doc #fanfic

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loretranscripts · 5 years

Text

Lore Episode 28: Making a Mark (Transcript) - 22nd February 2016

tw: graphic violence

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

I talk a lot about New England folklore. One of the biggest reasons for that is because the north-east part of the United States serves as a sort of cultural bridge between the old world and the new. It was there, more than anywhere else, where the old tales and superstitions first set root on American soil. The witch hysteria of the late 1600s was an aftershock of a larger tremor that shook Europe for decades. The American version of the vampire has roots in eastern European folktales and legends. Even holidays like Christmas and Hallowe’en were really just old-world injections into the cultural soft tissue of America, and the needle pierced us in New England first… most of the time. There are other parts of the country that played host to pioneers and adventurers as well, people who risked their lives and loved ones to travel across the cold Atlantic and build a new home here on these shores, and the age of colonization brought more than just settlers and supplies. It brought lore. Settlers up and down the east coast of what would one day become America came ashore with heads full of superstitions and a propensity to attach meaning to things we might overlook today. Put another way, they brought food for their journey, and the seeds to grow more here. They came with minds that were perfectly wired to build new folklore on the backs of old tales: new fears, new legends, new hauntings, and we can still find those creations in many places along the eastern seaboard - places like North Carolina. Before the vacation homes and sun-baked tourists crowded along the sandy shores of the Outer Banks, pioneers were attempting to carve out an existence there. Those that survived left behind more than buildings and descendants, though. Today, the Outer Bank is home to tales that still send shivers down the spines of locals and tourists alike, because folklore, whether its new or old, has a way of leaving its mark. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore. Brigands Bay sits on the northern coast of the southern part of Hatteras Island, between the towns of Frisco and Buxton. Hatteras is part of the Outer Banks, which, on the map, look like nothing more than a thin string of earth and sand a few miles off the coast of North Carolina. Imagine the island as a backwards capital L, hugging the coastline near the Pamlico River. But don’t let that thin strip of sand and stay-parks fool you – Hatteras, like many of the other islands out there, is still big enough for stories to take root, and that’s because it has a long history, longer than most parts of the country, in fact. Near the northern tip of the island, just to the west, is Roanoke Island, the site of England’s first settlement in the new world. Although the colony there disappeared sometime between 1586 and 1587, Europeans didn’t stay away long, and it was their constant activity in the region that gave rise to so much of the local stories, still told today. There’s a legend in Hatteras of the horrible deeds of one particular captain. According to the story, in 1710 an English ship crossed the Atlantic carrying refugees from Germany. They were known as “palatines”, and they had initially fled the middle Rhine area to settle in England, but there were so many that the English decided to help them move to the new world. When these refugees boarded the ship, they hid their valuables, afraid that they might be stolen by the ship’s crew. After a successful journey, the ship entered the waters inside the Outer Banks, heading toward New Bern on the coast. Their new home was in sight, and after such a long journey it must have been a relief to see it. Sensing they would soon disembark, the palatines removed their valuables from hiding and gathered them together for the final leg of their journey. Now, maybe it was the sight of all that treasure – the jewellery and coins and precious heirlooms – that triggered what happened next, or perhaps the crew had planned it all along. But here was their chance, and they decided to act. Claiming that the weather wasn’t good enough for a landing, they told the passengers to return to their cabins and wait until morning. During the night, the crew moved systematically throughout the ship, killing the sleeping refugees and stealing their treasures. After killing the passengers, the captain and crew set fire to the ship and headed to shore in lifeboats, but the ship didn’t sink. Instead, the legend claims that the flames grew higher and higher while the ship began to move forward into calm waters. Fearing for their lives, the crew abandoned the lifeboat and were never seen again. To this day, locals whisper of a ghost ship that can be seen under the first full moon of September. This ship, orange with flames, passes near the Ocracoke inlet three times, and then vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Another prominent local story involves the capture of the legendary pirate, Edward Teach, also known as Blackbeard. Teach patrolled the Atlantic and Caribbean in his ship, Queen Anne’s Revenge, for a little over two years, and in the process became one of the most feared pirates of his day. As history records, Blackbeard was finally cornered by Lieutenant Robert Maynard and his men in November of 1718, just inside the Outer Banks near the southern tip of Hatteras. In a battle that was horribly bloody for both sides, the great Blackbeard suffered no fewer than 20 sword wounds and five gunshots before he was finally brought down. The English beheaded his corpse and tossed the body into the sea. His head, though, was kept. Maynard hung it from the bowsprit of his ship, and it was turned in later to collect his reward. Locals there near Ocracoke tell of a spot known as Teach’s Hole, where the legendary pirate once anchored his ship. If the stories are to be believed, Blackbeard’s ghost haunts the location – there are those who have claimed to see strange lights, both above and below the water there on the coast. They say it’s Blackbeard, swimming through the waters he used to patrol. Others say you can hear voices there. When storms blow in and waves crash against the shore, locals claim you can hear something besides the rain and thunder. It’s the sound of a man crying out in pain, the same words, over and over: “Where is my head?”

Hatteras is still popular with visitors today, though I would assume none of them are pirates. People still build homes there, they have streets and restaurants and parks and trees, tourists flock there every summer to take in the scenery, but right there on Snug Harbour Drive, near Brigands Bay, is a tree that’s called the island home for centuries. In fact, it was most likely ancient when the colonists first arrived hundreds of years before, and although most of the people driving by it are completely unaware, this tree has a story to tell. According to local legend, it starts with the arrival of a women near Frisco back in the early 1700s. They say her name was Cora, and she brought along a baby. They were always seen together, the child held tight to her chest or strapped into a sling. For an area frequented by sailors or widows of those who were lost at sea, this wasn’t an unusual sight. The Brigands Bay area was even more wooded then than it is now, and it’s said that she took up shelter in the forest there rather than in the small community that was forming on the coast. But it wasn’t living on the literal outskirts of society that earnt her a reputation as an outsider, it was her knack for the… unusual. Some have said that cows she touched would dry up and turn sick; when the fishing got rough and the nets were empty, Cora still managed to bring in enough to feed herself and the child; and when a local boy decided to poke fun at the baby, legend says that he got so sick he nearly died. Naturally, people talked. People always talk when things don’t fit the norm, and that talk spread. In an era when it didn’t take much more than an unpleasant disposition or off-colour comment to earn a woman a reputation as a witch, it seemed Cora was making it a little too easy for the locals to be suspicious.

The legend also tells of how during Cora’s stay, a ship called the Susan G ran aground off the northern coast of the island. The captain and his crew left the ship and came to town, and from there they made plans to repair it and continue their commercial journey. It sounds simple, right? Just repair the damage and move on – but doing so meant unloading all of the cargo, piece by piece, and bringing it to shore. The captain’s name, according to the legend, was Eli Blood. Now, that better have been his real name, because… come on, how perfect is that, right? Captain Blood. This captain enlisted the help of locals to move the cargo off his grounded ship and in the process, he got to know quite a few of them, which was a good thing judging by the repairs, he and his crew from Salem, Massachusetts, were bound to be there for a very long time - and it was during this long stay that he and his crew heard the stories of Cora and her baby. The heart of the rumours pointed to one, single, sensational conclusion: Cora was a witch, and the child she brought with her was her familiar, her supernatural pet. And, as it turned out, Captain Blood was probably the last person on earth that this mysterious Cora wanted to draw the suspicion of. The captain, it seems, was not just a sailor from Salem, Massachusetts. He claimed to know Cotton Mather, the puritan minister who was a passionate voice in support of the Salem Witch Trials. He had read Mather’s books, he was a student of Mather’s methods, and apparently shared the man’s intense hatred for the dark arts. So much so, in fact, that he considered himself a “white witch”, someone trained in combatting the forces of darkness with their own brand of magic. He claimed to have his own familiars, which he fed with drops of blood, and those familiars acted like spies for him, informing him of black magic nearby. Captain Eli Blood considered himself a witch hunter. Now, I realise this sounds incredibly hypocritical, which it is of course, but back then it was also heroic – it gave the people of the island a feeling of safety. At last, they might have said, we have someone here who can deal with Cora, the witch, if she gets out of hand. And that’s when the body of a man washed up on the beach.

The body wasn’t one of Captain Blood’s men, but it drew his concern nonetheless. It was the body of a young man from town, and although no makes could be found that pointed to the cause of his death, there were a number of other clues. Local legend tells of how the man’s face was twisted into a horrible expression of fear. His hands, they say, were clasped together, as if he had been kneeling before someone powerful, begging for his life. The man even had the numbers “666” carved into his forehead. The most damning evidence of all, however, were the footprints in the sand near his body. They were smaller than a man’s, and they moved away from the body in a clear, definable direction: the woods. Someone needed to investigate the man’s death, they said, and who better to do it than the witch hunter himself, Captain Eli Blood – he had little else to do while he waited on the ship’s owner to send help and supplies. This sounded like the perfect job for his idle mind. Captain Blood, for his part, agreed. He gathered his men, mostly slaves from Barbados who all had a healthy cultural fear of black magic, and together they went in search of Cora’s shack in the woods. When they found her, she was inside making breakfast for herself and her child; the men seized them both and brought them back to town. They accused Cora of witchcraft and murder, of course – how could they not, in a society governed by deep suspicion and intense fear of people who failed to fit in? Now, before you write them off as barbaric, remember that this is a flaw we have yet to overcome – we still fear those who are different from us. Maybe it’s genetic, or maybe it’s culturally ingrained. That fear is like a snake hiding in the bushes, always ready to strike, and it struck hard for Cora.

Captain Blood had her bound, left hand to right ankle, right hand to left ankle, and then carried her to the shore. There, he ordered her to be thrown into the water – it was a test, he said. If she floated, she was a witch, and seeing as how the tide was low and the waves were calm, of course she didn’t sink, how could she? Satisfied with the results, the captain moved on to his second test. Pulling his knife free, the man tried to cut a handful of Cora’s hair, but the blade failed to do its job. More proof, he declared, that she was, in fact, a witch… or at least proof that he needed to sharpen his knife, but hey, I’m no witch hunter. The final test was the most creepy and ambiguous of them all. Taking a bowl of seawater, the captain asked each of his crew to cut their fingertip and drip blood into the bowl. When they had all done so, he stirred this mixture with his knife until it foamed and swirled, and then he chanted words that no one else understood while staring hard into the bowl, and then raised his face in triumph. “She’s a witch,” he exclaimed, and then, as if needing a second opinion, he passed the bowl around to the others. Each of them, according to the story, saw two things in the bowl: the devil and the face of Cora. That was all the proof they needed – Cora was a witch, pure and simple, and now her execution would be completed.

The captain had his men gather firewood and branches and pile them at the base of a large oak tree near the bay, and then Cora and her child were tied to the tree, ready to be burnt alive. Now, what happened next will sound unusual. That’s the fingerprint of an old story – they sometimes take on a patina of oddities and otherworldliness. Sometimes, the patina adds texture, even value, to an antique – I’ll let you be the judge. According to the locals who tell the tale to this day, Captain Blood approached the tree with a lit torch in his hand, ready to set fire to the wood and burn the witch and her familiar alive, but another captain, a local man named John Smith, held him back, asking instead for Cora’s trial to go through the proper, legal channels. Smith, you see, being a sane man, wanted to do things right, but as the men argued, two things happened. First, the child in Cora’s arms twisted and writhed as it transformed into a large, black cat with shimmering green eyes. Second, a dark, ominous cloud began to gather overhead in an otherwise cloudless sky. Both men cried out in horror, and then Captain Blood lunged forward with the torch to ignite the kindling. It was at that very moment that the cloud overhead rumbled, and a lightning bolt flashed down, striking the tree and blinding everyone around it. When the smoke cleared, the tree was empty. The ropes were still there, as was the pile of branches and firewood, but the woman and the cat were gone without a trace. Well, that’s not true, there was one clue, and it’s difficult to believe. There, etched by lightning into the bark of the old oak tree were four, clear letters, which spelled out one single word: C, O, R, A. Cora.

The Outer Banks is just like any other place in the world on many levels. It has a history, and over the centuries that comprise that history, stories have been told. In a lot of ways, story is one of our greatest legacies. Wherever we’ve been, we’ve left story in our wake like footprints in the mud. Some stories are true and act like time capsules. Some are exaggerations of the truth and are meant to entertain later generations more than anything else. Some, though, serve to fill in the blanks, to answer those lingering questions or to explain the things we can’t wrap our minds around. Are there really fiery ghost ships and headless pirates haunting the Outer Banks? Was the word on the Cora tree, a word that you can still go see for yourself if you want, really carved into the bark by lightning? The chances are pretty good that it’s all just a collection of old, entertaining folktales, but some stories do both. Beneath their decorative paint and fantastical flourishes, they conceal a grain of truth deep in their core. The most famous local legend in the Outer Banks, by a mile, is the story of the lost colony of Roanoke. The island is located of the west coast of Hatteras island and, when the English settled there in 1585, they knew they were on the edge of the world. Building a settlement there took a lot of guts, but it came with a lot of risk and danger. When John White and a hundred new settlers landed in July of 1586, the first settlement was gone, so they stayed to investigate. They set up their own fort there, and also worked to establish relations with the local native American tribes: the Croatoan on what is now Hatteras and the Coree on the mainland. White left for England one year later to get supplies, but didn’t return for three years. When he did come back, no sign of the English could be found. He’d left them with a plan, though: if they were forced to leave, they’d been told to carve a cross into a nearby tree so White would know they’d been attacked, and he did find a carving, but it wasn’t a cross. It was a single word: Croatoan. This was good news because it meant they’d departed peacefully. White wanted to search Hatteras immediately, but when a terrible storm blew in, his men refused to stay. However painful it might have been – after all, White’s own granddaughter was among the missing – they left the very next day. It’s interesting to note that the Croatoan lived in southern Hatteras, in the area between modern day Buxton and Frisco, right by the Cora tree, and if it wasn’t really lightning that carved those letters, perhaps it was an actual human being. Sure, it could be nothing more than a centuries old prank or just a bit of lover’s graffiti, anything’s possible. Or maybe, like a myth with a grain of truth at its heart, this tree is the last hint in a chain of clues that point to the final destination of the settlers from Roanoke. You see, the Coree tribe on the mainland went by a few other names. Some called them the Cores, or the Coranine, or interestingly enough, the Cora.

[Closing statements]

#lore podcast #podcasts #podcast transcripts #aaron mahnke #cora tree #blackbeard #north carolina #hauntings #dark history #transcripts #28

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aestheticvoyage2019 · 4 years

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Day 334a: Saturday November 30, 2019 - “Twelve Apostles”

Put in a long week of work with 5 straight days of onsite, but with each passing session I daydreamed about how much closer we were to the weekend and 12 Apostles. Today arrived like a reward, starting with a plate full of breakfast with the birds in Lorne. Even before we set out, I was so grateful I wasn’t running this road alone; that my wife was here with me to see this road and this place. I was grateful too for the opportunity; the luck of it all. I certainly didn;t feel worthy - which would make the view that much sweeter when we got there.

I first knew of this place several years ago when seeing it on the Insta and thinking it looked like a Suped up version of Michigan’s Pictured Rocks, one of those important places. I remember looking it up to see where this “12 Apostles” was on the globe. It popped up way down on the Southern Coast of Australia - wow, thats way out there! “When will I ever get the chance to go there?! Too far to drive!!” Funny that I remember, distinctly, thinking Id never be there. The irony of remembering that on the day that I planned to point the car there. I tried to think of any other far off places that I thought might be impossible. Lets call those forward next! Bora Bora bungalow anyone?! The world is getting smaller with every new trip. Seriously though, feeling really blessed to have the opportunity to come down under to spin my trade, and though its been a lot of work and effort this week, I finally get my play day. And Id spend it on a roadie through the Southern Coast with my best mate; glad I gave up the Thanksgiving holiday for this! (literally yes, this is how I made my decision on this one).

The 12 Apostles is part of the Great Ocean Road - a stretch that starts on the surf coast north of Lorne and follows along the most southern point at Ottway, the rolling farmland West of there. Its Aussie’s Big Sur. I got the first crack at driving, but didnt last long. As we wound along the tight lanes and the dark deep blue waves, listening to Australian classics on spotify, my partner on the left side of the car started to claim car sickness, which might have been hiding the general stress of riding in our driver seat, with no control. I knew exactly what that car sickness/stress felt like, but admitting easily, that Audrie was the much better opposite-side-driver, (especially with all these views to peep at) I turned over the keys and let her have at it. We made the switch in a quaint little beach town called Apollo Bay where we also snatched up some souvenirs at the Saturday market, some coffee (long black), lemon tart, cider, and even crashed a garage sale where AC got a fancy australian made plate dish to take home, and a useful soft sided cooler to keep our road-treats cold over the weekend. $12 AUD and we were on our way! I imagine the sun shines in Apollo Bay all day every day all summer long - its that kind of place and takes its place alongside other random exits of 2019 like Rock Springs, Kingston, Finger Lakes, and Natchez. And from there, the rest of the weekend would pretty much look like this: Audrie driving, running the road perfectly and letting me hear about it, and me pointing the Nav and playing the DJ sharing my favorite ramble tunes, and both of us providing commentary aloud for what we saw and what we felt and what we thought. Im not sure what I expected of the Australian countryside - not sure I ever stopped to think about it. But I do know, that I didnt expect what we saw. Rolling wide open green fields like an English country side lined with happy cows and sheep with room to spread out and enjoy the grass and sunshine. Where it wasnt green farmland, it was forests of fern and eucalyptus and signs to watch for kangaroos and koala bears. We zipped down the forest road through Ottway National Park and felt like Kerouac and Cassidy; a couple of coyotes howling at the wind and the occasional wowing of seeing the ocean, googling random curiosities as we went, snacking on our supply of provisions built up over the week like fancy cheese and leftover thai, and wondering what itd be like when we finally got to the 12 Apostles.

I played it cool throughout the day - worked on staying present and not being in a hurry to get to the highlight. By 3p, we crossed over some farms and arrived at the coast and there it was. Just like that. When you see the views of this place, its hard to imagine that across the road, literally, is a large expanse of green fields filled with Sheep. No Joke. I loved the irony and surprise in that. One of the fun bits of getting eyes on a place and knowing it for yourself is that you can see it in scope and know the geography around the photo. The bustling car park area greeted us to what would be a worldly experience. I dont know why I was surprised about the pack of people here to have the same experience we’d travelled so far for.. I mean, even with all my experiences in the US National Parks, it never dawned on me that thered be busloads of Asians here too! I imagined thered be other people out there with us - but not by the busload! I mean, we’re pretty far out down here, but none the less, this simple coastline attracted the goofiest wanna-be influencers, and gangs of mindless tourist groups, and the people peeping turned into just as much an event as the apostles themselves. Wow, people are strange. I imagine these people from far-off countries and cultures thinking the same about us as we strolled by. We definitely stood out! With the crazy amount of people here, youd think we were all paying witness to some biblical creation and it felt as strange as everyone gathering around to see Ole Faithful blow. We made it through and got eyes on for the first time and while it was ever so tempting to go through my Nikon like a kid with a new water gun, popping off in every direction, I opted instead for standing still for a moment and holding Audrie real close and just soak it in. “We’re along way from home” and I just appreciated that moment to be there together. In actuality, the place was beautiful and note worthy, but no more so than Rialto or the northern coast of Superior. Ive seen a lot of beautiful places and I wont say this one was overrated but I will say, it was made more special by how far we’d had to come to be here - like a lost coastline, its specialness was in the journey to find it and know it and to be able to tell of it more than some jaw dropping eye popping beauty that hadnt been seen before. Basically, its one of those end-of-the-earth kind of places, and I’ll give it bonus points for that.

We took a walk to stretch our legs and to try to get down onto the beach via Gibson’s Steps but found the gate locked. I know AC wanted to jump it anyway, despite the dead skippy laying there in the sand, but I talked her out of it. With our luck, we’d get stuck down there by the tide. I understand the pull, I wanted to get down and get closer to the action too, and away from the droves of people... We walked back to the car via the road and I just continued to be shocked by the idea that on my right was sheep farm and on my left was the roaring coast of instagram dreams. Those sheep must have had some good karma in a past life. We picked up our road trip from there and continued through country side and coastal towns, stopping for some refreshments like Johnny Walker and cola in a can, and some Mercury Tasman Cider at 7% - both were excellent. Always fun raiding gas station provisions when traversing in a new country. In all, it was the Saturday Id been hoping on all week - the sweet reward for the effort put in - one of those days you hate to see end, but move through knowing itd be a stand out chapter for the year. The sea stacks stood proud under blue skies today, and we rambled - both just simple and easy, being what we be. As we drove on, I wondered at the name - no doubt given by some far off explorer, new to the area. But apostles to what?! But there weren’t 12? Maybe was overthinking it, but wondered at maybe the explorers forethought to envision busloads of people coming here to appreciate Ma Nature’s creation and the celebration of how random and beautiful the planet could be.... probably not, but I decided I liked the version, and hoped they would keep the good gospel up.

Song: Drake White - Happy Place

Quote: “Every believer should be an apostle ('one sent forth') since each believer is sent by the Lord Jesus to go and bear fruit. As a sent one, not every believer can preach like Peter to thousands...as in the beginning of Acts. However, every believer can be an apostle in a house, and can teach and experience fellowship as Paul did at the end of Acts. This conclusion opens the door for every believer to continue the writing of the book of Acts of the Apostles by visiting homes and opening their own house to build the assembly.

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phroyd · 5 years

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For 63-year old U.S. Post Office carrier Peggy Frank, that Friday marked her first day back at work after recovering from a broken ankle. At 3:35 p.m., Frank was pronounced dead after paramedics found her unresponsive in her non-air-conditioned truck. In September, the Los Angeles County coroner’s office confirmed what seemed a forgone conclusion: Frank died of hyperthermia — she overheated.

A few months later, in November, the Woolsey Fire swept through Malibu and parts of the San Fernando Valley. The blaze killed three and forced the evacuation of almost 300,000 people, burning 96,000 acres and destroying 1,643 structures. Then, after heavy rain in areas scarred by the fire, came the mudslides in December and January that killed one person and closed portions of the Pacific Coast Highway.

For most of the population, climate change is too big a thing to grapple with. As the theorist Timothy Morton argued, it’s a “hyperobject” — it is too big, too sprawling in time and space, and too complex to see fully from any single vantage point. It’s numbing. But by narrowing our focus, we can catch more than a glimpse. It may be easier to understand climate change at the regional level, says Katherine Davis Reich, associate director of UCLA’s Center for Climate Science. “We can all appreciate what climate change impacts would be in our backyard and act on that, much more than at the global level.”

Los Angeles, the second-largest city in the United States, is perched precariously on the edge of the Pacific. Not long ago, it was the nation’s frontier; today, its cultural industries produce the globe’s films, music, and television, always hunting for the next new thing. Here, the line between the present and the future has always been thin. As it swelters, burns, erodes, and collapses, that barrier may have been swept away altogether. For L.A., 2018 was not a sign of things to come. It’s a sign of things that have arrived.

That Los Angeles should exist at all is itself a tale of the extraordinary becoming commonplace. An underpopulated backwater until the discovery of oil in 1892, today’s L.A. is a thick smear of civilization over what may not actually be a desert, but what certainly has the mythic feel of one. Precariousness is the resting state of L.A.’s collective unconsciousness.

The city has been grappling with ecological collapse since its beginnings — and not just in films like Chinatown or San Andreas. In 1927, the Los Angeles Times warned of an environmental reckoning: “I was pessimistic enough to imagine that self-confident Los Angeles had forgotten Babylon, Palmyra, Palestine, China and Timgad. What I now saw was our own beloved land. And I saw sand dunes, sage brush, aridity, stately ruins, idle derricks, desolation.”

“By the end of century, a distinctly new regional climate state emerges.” This climate includes a new, fifth season: a super summer.

Even the most dire predictions don’t suggest that Los Angeles will go the way of Timgad — a Roman colony in modern-day Algeria that is now covered by sand. People will still flock here, and even if the city were to collapse, it would happen over a much longer time scale. Still, by 2069, Los Angeles could well be on the way to a new season of misery.

“With the exception of the highest elevations and a narrow swath very near the coast, where the increases are confined to a few days, land locations see 60–90 additional extremely hot days per year by the end of century,” one study concluded. Downtown Los Angeles could experience up to 54 days measuring 95 degrees or higher by 2100, a ninefold jump. By then, temperatures in Riverside could reach over 95 degrees for half the year.

“By the end of century,” the authors of the study found, “a distinctly new regional climate state emerges.” This climate includes a new, fifth season: a super summer, driving people indoors for weeks at a time, stressing the power grid with heavy demand for air conditioning, and wreaking havoc on agriculture and, by extension, the food supply.

Climate change plays favorites, and the heat increase would not be evenly felt. In fact, its unequal distribution could create an “environmental justice story,” explains Davis Reich. “Areas like the San Fernando, the San Gabriel Valley, or the Inland Empire, where the extreme heat burden is already greater, are where the season of extreme heat will occur — parts of the region that are arguably less well-equipped to deal with compared to places like Santa Monica.” There’s a dark irony there, since wealthier people produce more carbon emissions. “The people who have contributed to the problem the least are going to suffer from it earlier and more,” Davis Reich says.

Meanwhile, beaches in Los Angeles will be facing their own threats. Rising sea levels will attack the coast in at least two ways: inundating beaches and eroding cliffs. “Our beaches are compromised. Not just from overall sea level rise, but also coastal storm events,” says Lauren O’Connor Faber, the city’s chief sustainability officer.

In 2017, scientists modeled the effects of sea level rise on 500 kilometers of shoreline in Southern California. A sea level rise of 0.93 to two meters, they predicted, would result in the loss of 31 to 67 percent of beaches in Southern California, including some of its most well-known. A separate USC studyconcluded, “In Malibu, both low and high sea level rise scenarios suggest that long segments of beach will essentially disappear by 2030.”

“Those beaches are the basis for a lot of California’s identity,” said the first study’s lead author, Sean Vitousek, an assistant professor of civil and materials engineering at the University of Illinois at Chicago.

Vitousek was part of another research project predicting that because of rising sea levels, sea cliffs in Southern California would erode, on average, up to 120 feet over the next 80 years. By comparison, the rate of cliff erosion in California over the past 80 years maxed out at 1.5 feet. At the end of the century, the model predicted an increase in cliff erosion of “27–185% above historically observed retreat rates.”

Those changes put more than just surfers and beachcombers in peril. In 2060, sea level rise will likely put between 414 and 3,979 homes along the coast in the L.A. region at risk of flooding — up to $3 billion in value. Beach nourishment — artificially adding sand to bulk out the shoreline — is one option but may not be enough. The coast could be armored with sea walls, cliffs shored up, and sea gates constructed. Vitousek says that a shoreline retreat strategy might be needed — but it won’t be easy. “Because there is so much money involved in all of this, people will fight tooth and nail to keep themselves on the coast for as long as possible,” he says.

And as the coastline advances, the forests around Los Angeles have already begun to burn.

In December 2017, a series of 27 wildfires ignited in Southern California, including the Thomas Fire, which burned more than 281,000 acres across Ventura and Santa Barbara counties, resulting in two deaths and the evacuation of more than 200,000 people. Less than a year later, the Woolsey Fire burned 96,949 acres, spreading south from the mountains into Malibu, where it destroyed hundreds of homes and killed three people.

If you think think of 1994’s Northridge earthquake as L.A.’s signature disaster, the coming decades may make you reconsider. Because while climate change may not have much effect on earthquakes, it will lead to more — and more destructive — wildfires. The area burned by Santa Ana fires is predicted to increase by 64 percent by the middle of the century, compared to 1981 to 2000, while non–Santa Ana fires, which occur from June to September and are concentrated inland, will increase by 77 percent. The number of structures destroyed will rise as well — 20 percent for Santa Ana fires and 74 percent for non–Santa Ana fires. Santa Ana fires currently threaten 3,400 structures in an average year, while non–Santa Ana fires put 440 structures at risk per year.

Eventually, all that risk adds up.

“One thing that often gets lost is that wildfires are perfectly natural,” Davis Reich says. “These landscapes were made to burn and need to burn periodically to be healthy. When we build into our wildlands, there is a risk that our buildings will burn. We have to confront that more seriously than we have in the past.”

After fires destroyed a neighborhood in the Bay Area in 2017, local politicians debated the wisdom of rebuilding homes in high-risk areas. There was little appetite for such a move there (or for similar efforts in parts of Southern California), but eventually it may become too expensive to continue rebuilding in high-risk spaces. The Los Angeles Times mapped the 1.1 million buildings in California located in zones at highest risk for fires, showing clusters in the Santa Monica Mountains, the Palos Verde Peninsula, Mission Viejo, and Yorba Linda. Nearly all of Topanga, Paradise, and Malibu were also at risk. Few political leaders want to discuss managed retreat yet — but in 50 years, they may have to.

Climate change is no longer on the horizon. It has arrived.

The masterstroke that allowed Los Angeles to grow may be the one that causes it to retract: Los Angeles depends on imported water, whether from the Owens Valley or farther abroad. As the globe warms, those supplies will dwindle and become harder to manage. Sixty to 70 percent of the water used in Southern California comes from the San Joaquin River and Tulare Lake basins, the Sacramento River basin, Mono Lake, and the Colorado River basin. (The bulk of the remainder is pumped local groundwater.) Of that, 75 percent is drawn from spring snowmelt from the Rockies, the Sierra Nevada, and other mountain ranges.

The Fourth National Climate Assessment, released in November 2018, projected “substantial reductions in snowpack, less snow and more rain, shorter snowfall seasons, earlier runoff, and warmer late-season stream temperatures.” Snowpack reduction in Southern California mountains could reach as high as 50 percent by the end of the century. At the same time, water flow in the Colorado River could be down 35 to 55 percent.

Water demand in 2050 is projected at 1.4 million to 1.7 million acre-feet per year, while supply is projected at 1.4 million acre-feet per year. At best, it’s break even. At worst — well, ask Cape Town.

And those estimates may underrepresent the risk to L.A.’s water supply. A 2015 study concluded that “the mean state of drought in the late 21st century over the Central Plains and Southwest will likely exceed even the most severe megadrought periods of the Medieval era,” causing “an unprecedented fundamental climate shift with respect to the last millennium.”

Another study conducted in 2016 found “a pronounced increase of droughts and aridity in the Southwest during the latter half of the 21st century.” A megadrought — one that would last multiple decades — “could become commonplace.” Droughts of that magnitude were associated with collapse of the Angkor, Anasazi, and Maya civilizations.

“There are two futures in front of us,” says O’Connor Faber, CSO of Los Angeles. “One in which we do not act, do not take leadership. We let the disasters happen. That’s an untenable future. The good news is that’s not at all the future that L.A. accepts.”

It’s not a future that the state of California hopes will come to pass. In 2006, the state enacted a cap-and-trade system to reduce its carbon emissions. A new state law mandates that by 2045, California will rely solely on clean electricity. In recent sessions, state legislators have begun to reshape the laws that govern the state’s housing market, hoping to encourage denser buildings oriented around mass transit, rather than sprawl that forces drivers onto jammed freeways.

For its part, the city of Los Angeles has embarked on an ambitious effort to do what it can. As Mayor Eric Garcetti told Rolling Stone in September, “We’re not waiting for Washington. The cavalry isn’t coming.”

So the city is building up local water supplies and curbing demand, increasing the tree canopy and building out cooler infrastructure to reduce its heat island, spurring the installation of solar power, and armoring its beaches and the ports of Los Angeles and Long Beach. Progress has already been made: Emissions at the port have dropped by double digits, tens of thousands of electric vehicle chargers have been installed, and improvements in public transit are coming.

As she works through the list, Faber O’Connor says she recognizes the magnitude of the task but has reason to hope. “I’m feeling very positive,” she says. For her city, climate change is no longer on the horizon. It has arrived. And like a car speeding down a clear freeway, the city is racing to catch up.

Phroyd

#climate change

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bat-losers-inc · 6 years

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Collisions in the Dark (Ch 2): En Prise

Warnings: dubcon, depictions of violence

Summary: The scene is set and promises have been made in hushed tones. If everyone plays their parts right they might all just make it out of this alive.

Pairings: Jason Todd/Tim Drake, Ra’s Al Ghul/Tim Drake

Chapter Notes: En Prise: French "in take" A piece or pawn that is unprotected and exposed to capture

Do you know how it ends? Do you feel lucky? Do you want to go home now? There’s a bottle of whiskey in the trunk of the Chevy and a dead man at our feet staring up at us like we’re something interesting. This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish.” — “ Wishbone ”, Richard Siken.

8 Hours Ago…

“I’m sorry you wanna repeat that?” Jason blinked, his face scrunched in annoyance like he thought someone was messing with him and he wasn’t in on the joke. Tim couldn’t blame him for that, he wished he was joking. Honestly, he was surprised Jason hadn’t shut the door in his face already.

He exhaled and tried again in as serious a tone as he could with Jason glowering at him.

“I need you to kill someone for me and help me stage the murder to look like I did it.”

Jason straightened up from where he was leaning against the door jam, with his arms crossed, and slid his foot away from the door. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said. I’m calling Alfred to bring you home. Get some sleep, Replacement, come back when you’re thinking clearly.”

He moved into his apartment, swinging the door shut as he went. Tim lunged forward and caught his arm against the door before it closed. “No, Jason. Wait!”

He pushed inside to find Jason standing at the kitchen island, scrolling through the contacts on his phone. Jason’s eyes flickered up to him before returning to his screen.

“I don’t need to deal with any of your crazy, Replacement. I’ve got enough crazy of my own to spare. Honestly, shouldn’t Bruce be dealing with this?”

“Bruce already knows about this, that’s why I’m here. I need your help if our plan is going to work.” Tim replied.

Jason stopped what he was doing to look at Tim full on now. “I’m sorry… Bruce… Batman , has decided on a plan that entails you murdering someone?”

“Technically you’d be doing the murdering— which is nothing new,” commented Tim, “but yes, because we’re attempting to trick the smartest villain of all time and he won’t believe anything less.”

Tim watched Jason’s forehead crinkle and imagined the gears turning inside his head. He seemed to come to his conclusion and swallowed thickly, like the answer didn’t agree with him.

“Ra’s… You’re planning on tricking Ra’s?”

Tim nodded. “I need to get inside his compound, work undercover there to find the answers I need, and I’m going to need your help to do it. You don’t have to say yes, but you should know if you help me with this, you’re in it with me for the long run.”

Jason stared hard at his hands, thinking it over for a long minute. When he refocused his gaze, he gave a half-shrug. “I didn’t have anything exciting planned for this week anyway. So, who do I have to kill?”

“Know of any scumbag that have it coming to them?” asked Tim.

Jason grinned in that devilish way that was usually only reserved for nights he patrolled in his domino mask as Red Hood. “Let me get my naughty list.”

The gunshot rang out in the alley later that night, drowning out the sound of pouring rain beating against asphalt for a split second. Tim forced himself to watch as the bullet tore into the criminal’s head, splattering brain matter onto the brick wall behind him. He was still staring when the man’s body fell from his kneeling position onto the ground and Jason pressed his still warm gun into Tim’s slack hand.

“Put it in the holster I gave you.” Jason instructed.

Tim repeated to himself the man’s past crimes— everything from drugs, to arms dealing, to human trafficking— hoping it would incite his rage and disgust again. This was supposed to be a crime of passion and Tim would need to make himself a lot bloodier if the scene was to look believable to any spying eyes.

“Tim,” Jason snapped, drawing him out of his thoughts. “Put the gun away and help me shift the body.”

Tim slid the gun into the holster on his thigh and moved to help Jason who was crouched by the man’s shoulders. Tim stationed himself by the man’s feet. Up close he could see were part of the man’s skull was missing, blood clotting into his hair. The sight made Tim want to run away and be sick.

Jason slid his hands under the man’s shoulders. “Grab his feet, we need to turn him onto his back.”

With shaky hands, Tim grasped the feet of the dead body in front of him. They lifted the dead weight and turned, dropped the body back to the pavement with a unsettling flopping sound.

Jason stood and looked back down towards the mouth of the alley, checking to see if the coast was clear. “You’re turn, Replacement. Kneel over the body and aim for the face, the nose especially. It’ll get the most blood.”

Tim kneeled in the growing spread of blood that was creeping outwards in a halo around the dead body. He clenched his hands into fists, his heart hammering in his chest at the prospect of beating up a dead corpse. This wasn’t right, none of this was right, he wanted to say, but knew it had to be done. Sacrifice one man who Jason was planning on killing anyway to save who knows how many lives. He struck out as hard as he could, bruising the man’s cheek and opening up a cut. He put all of his anger and fear into his blows, continuing even when the man’s nose broke and sprayed blood across Tim’s face, continued until the man’s face was an unrecognizable mess and Jason’s strong hands were grasping his own to still him.

“Easy, that’s enough. That’s enough.” Jason’s words were gentle as he pulled Tim to his feet, like he was trying to calm a child. He pulled Tim until he could lean breathlessly again the brick wall.

Tim tried not to stare at his bloody hands as Jason put two fingers to his lips and whistled something that sounded like a bird call. Nothing happened at first, then out of the murky darkness, a boy appeared. He was thin and dirty with worn sneakers, and stared openly at the bloody corpse for a minute before turning to Jason. Tim realized he must be one of Jason’s information runner. Jason pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and handed it to the boy.

“Spread the word that Red Robin killed a human trafficker in Crime Alley. Make it as graphic as possible. I want everyone to hear about this, you understand me?”

The boy nodded and dashed out into the darkness.

Jason turned back to Tim. “I’ll call it in to Bruce and see you back at my place tonight.”

Wearily, Tim nodded. And just like that Jason was climbing up a fire escape and disappearing into the night. Tim slid down the wall until he was sitting on the ground, his arms resting on top of his drawn up knees. He stared out at the mouth of the alley and waited for Batman to arrive.

36 Hours Ago...

Tim came into the cave to find Bruce and Dick standing side by side at the bat computer. Tim looked at the screen to see the newest report from the Justice League along with a video feed that Bruce had playing on repeat.

“When did you say this happened again?” Asked Dick, his hand stroking his brow thoughtfully.

“The video feed is timestamped for last night. The laboratory cameras seem to have been tampered with— see there they go black for awhile— but when they come back on the disease samples are missing. Clark reports that the same thing happened in different labs across the country, perhaps even on different continents, but we have yet to be notified.”

“What’s going on?” Tim asked, approaching the screen for a closer look at the video feed.

“Someone’s stealing anthrax samples from the CDC laboratories across the country.” Dick replied, flashing Tim a welcoming grin that conflicted with the dire topic of conversation.

“How many samples have been taken so far? I mean, on what kind of scale are we talking in terms of crisis. Is this more of an evacuate the building or evacuate the city type of scenario?”

“Based on my calculations right now, it’s enough to build a small bomb, but the reports keep coming in. If this keeps up, it could be enough to infect a city the size of Shanghai.”

“So we’re most likely looking at bioterrorists.”Dick confirmed and moved to the side of the computer to search through their database. The action seemed pointless to Tim. He already knew who it was.

He also knew about that person’s annoying habit of planting bugs in the cave. He put his finger to his lips with a knowing look towards the computer console and motioned Bruce and Dick away into the med bay. Hopefully their voices wouldn’t be picked up by any mics in here.

“If it’s a bioterrorist, there’s only one who would do it on this big a scale.” Stated Tim, crossing his arms. “Ra’s.”

“It is his M.O.” Bruce agreed, though he looked less than eager to go up against Ra’s al Ghul and his league of assassins again.

“If it is him, there won’t likely be any threat made to the Justice League or the media. His endgame is always the decreasement of the world population until only the strong are left to build the world anew. Any notification of a threat would cause mass migration out of cities around the world which would be counter effective. If there is a biological weapon threat from Ra’s, we won’t know about it until it happens.”

There was a moment of intense silence as the trio of superheroes tried to think of a solution.

“Alright, “ Dick started. “But Ra’s is a pretty arrogant guy… I mean if Damien is anything to go by. Maybe we can draw it out of him. Trash talk him on the media until he makes a threat. There’s a chance he’ll slip up… “

Bruce shook his head. “That won’t work. Ra’s is too smart for that. The most that will get you is a bunch of his assassins waiting for you when you get home to put a sword through your back.”

Tim had an idea, a horrible idea that was just guaranteed to work if they played it right.

“If we could get someone inside his compound and close enough to him, then we’d stand a chance of learning the location of the bomb.”

“Damian?” Dick asked automatically, concern spreading over his features. “I don’t think he’d be willing to go back there now.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Bruce. “Ra’s won’t buy it anyway. Damian has outright told Ra’s whose side he’s on in the past. He’s done nothing to make Ra’s think otherwise—”

Tim shook his head.

“I’m not talking about Damian. Me, send me. The man trusted me enough to let the White Ghost take me to one of his compounds and remove my spleen. Why wouldn’t he trust me again?”

Dick held up a hand with a mocking smile. “Well that was before you single-handedly demolished his entire organization. That kind of thing can make someone vengeful.”

“Uh, I think he got his revenge. He tried to kill everyone I know and when that didn’t work, proceeded to kick me out a window . I’d say we’re square.”

Dick blinked, and stared hard at the ceiling for a minute like he was doing the math in his head. “God, in what kind of screwed up world does that actually makes sense? Our lives are so weird.”

If Tim was being honest with himself that wasn’t the real reason he got kicked out that window. It was the blatant rejection that had stung Ra’s the most, the realization that nothing he felt towards Tim would ever be reciprocated in kind.

“Once again, Ra’s isn’t going to buy it.” Interrupted Bruce, forever the voice of pessimism. “What motive would you have to change sides?”

“Easy,” responded Tim. “Make it my only option. I break the most sacred rule you have and you’ll have no choice but to disown me.”

The silence was heavy for a minute as Bruce thought it over. He nodded his approval, if begrudgingly.

Present Time…

“God, I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but this is like asking to be chopped to pieces. How do we even know he’ll keep me alive?” Jason sat next to Tim on the worn leather couch in his apartment. His hands were steepled under his chin, resting on his bouncing knees.

“We don’t.” Tim cringed outwardly at the realization of his own words. Suddenly this didn’t seem like the best plan… though it never sounded like a walk in the park to begin with.

“Well at least I’ll go out in style.” He arched his eyebrows towards his hairline like he was considering the idea. “ Death by ninja home invasion. That’s not so bad.”

Tim snorted.

“It sounds like the action scene of a low budget movie they’d play on the SyFy channel.”

“Oh shut up, Babybird.” Jason sighed. The silence settled heavily between them for another moment. The only sounds were the nightlife of Gotham through Jason’s thin walls. Someone on the floor above them seemed to be getting lucky, if the continuous thumping and moaning was anything to go by, but the noises didn’t hold Tim’s attention long enough to take his mind off their present situation.

Finally, Jason seemed to gather the courage to broach the topic he’d been dancing around for the past twenty minutes. “You know in order for this to work you’re going to have get close to Ra’s and gain his trust, right?”

“That was the plan wasn’t it? I resist at first and then decide to join him. It’s more believable that way.” They were dancing right on the edge of the true topic and God it would be Jason who was giving him this talk.

“Ra’s has always been weird when it came to you. It’s more than an interest… it’s an obsession of sorts. I just want you to understand...without Bruce to stop him, he’s not going to restrain himself—”

Tim pressed his fingers into his eyes, nausea creeping up the back of his throat at the thought of it. When he spoke, his tone was sharper than he’d meant it to be. “I know, Jason. I know his feelings for me and I’m consenting to it now before you get it into your head that you have to defend my honor or something like that.”

“I’m just saying that this wouldn’t be the first time Bruce has sacrificed someone else to get what he wants. If you’re uncomfortable with this, we can figure something else out. It doesn’t have to go down this path.”

Jason’s warm, rough hand covered his own where is rested on the couch. Tim looked over at Jason, suddenly so glad that he was going to be at his side throughout this whole mess. Well… if everything went to plan.

Tim gave his hand the faintest of squeezes. “I can do this. I can.”

Jason smiled, though the worry on his face didn’t vanish completely. He squeezed back— right before the power cut off. The two of them sat completely still in the dark knowing exactly what was going to happen now. Tim let a shuddering breath escape through his lips.

The windows blasted inwards, spraying glass across the floor and furniture. Jason’s hand was no longer on top on his own but pressing his head down towards his knees to dodge the worst of the shrapnel. Tim turned his head against Jason’s grip, eyes searching through the dark. In the faint light that seeped into the apartment, Tim could see the outlines of figures clad in black dropping onto the floor. Jason was torn away from him in the struggle that ensued after that, though Tim did not remember much of it. He punched instinctively towards where he thought an assassin’s head was and before he knew what was happening a needle was slipped into his arm and he was falling to the ground in a heap of numb limbs. Before he passed into unconsciousness, he caught a glimpse of Jason illuminated in the moonlight flooding in through a broken window, caught in a fight with two assassins. Tim could only hope that Jason would still be alive when he woke up again.

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quakerjoe · 5 years

Text

50 years ago today, a photograph was taken that would reframe how we humans saw our planet. As I reflect on the year that’s been, I am thinking of all the news reports on the damage being inflicted on our fragile Earth.

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There is an image you’ve probably seen of a bright marble set against complete blackness. The marble sits in a shadow. It is mostly blue and swirling white, with a hint of green and brown. In the foreground of the photograph is a swath of barren gray. This picture is considered one of the most iconic images in human history. It altered our sense of ourselves as a species and the place we call home, because that marble is our planet seen from the vastness of space, and the gray horizon we see in the foreground is the moon. The photograph has a name: Earthrise.

The image was captured by astronaut William Anders of Apollo 8 on the first manned mission to orbit the lunar sphere, and the photograph can be seen as a mirror image for every vision humans had ever experienced up to that point. From before the dawn of history, our ancestors looked up in the night sky and saw a brilliant moon, often in shadow. But in that moment on Apollo 8, three men from our planet looked back and saw all the rest of us on a small disk with oceans, clouds, and continents.

This image, so peaceful and yet so breathtaking, was taken at the end of a turbulent year. It was Christmas Eve 1968, but from up there you would never know that a hot war was raging in Vietnam or that a Cold War was dividing Europe. You wouldn’t know of the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. or Bobby Kennedy. From that distance, people are invisible, and so are cities, countries, and national boundaries. All that separates us ethnically, culturally, politically, and spiritually is absent from the image. What we see is one fragile planet making its way across the vastness of space.

There was something about that photograph that struck deep into the souls of many people about our place in the heavens, and a year later it appeared on a postage stamp (six cents at the time) with the caption “In the beginning God . . .” The photograph is also widely credited with galvanizing a movement to protect our planet. Over the course of the 1960s, people increasingly spoke of a Spaceship Earth, a notion eloquently voiced by United States ambassador Adlai Stevenson in a speech he gave to the United Nations in 1965. “We travel together, passengers on a little space ship, dependent on its vulnerable reserves of air and soil; all committed for our safety to its security and peace; preserved from annihilation only by the care, the work, and, I will say, the love we give our fragile craft.” With the Earthrise photograph, suddenly Spaceship Earth was no longer a metaphor. It was there for all of us to see.

The 1960s and 1970s were times of such social upheaval that the environmental movement is often overlooked. But real action was happening. In 1962, Rachel Carson, a trained marine biologist, published one of the most important books in American history, Silent Spring. It focused on the dangers of synthetic pesticides like DDT, showing how these chemicals could insidiously enter an ecosystem and wreak unintended havoc on the health of a wide range of animals, including humans. The book hit like a thunderclap. The reaction from the chemical industry was fierce and unrelenting, but the public uproar was even more substantial.

The moral weight of Carson’s argument changed the equation for how we measured our actions; the health of the earth became part of the discussion. That book contributed to the rising pressure on government officials to act to protect our planet, and in 1970 we saw both the founding of the Environmental Protection Agency (signed into law by President Richard Nixon) and the first Earth Day (organized by Wisconsin’s Democratic senator Gaylord Nelson). The year also saw an important expansion of the Clean Air Act (first passed in 1963). The Clean Water Act would come in 1972. The environment was now an important national priority, and support for it was bipartisan.

For all the talk of Spaceship Earth and Earth Day, however, there was a belief at the time that environmentalism was a series of local battles. When it came to air and water pollution, we worried about the health of the smog over Los Angeles and the chemical runoff into the Hudson River. Over time, we saw environmental threats become more regional, with acid rain and the depletion of the ozone layer. It was hard to imagine, though, that we could harm the planet on a global scale. But all the while, ever since the start of the industrial revolution, an odorless and invisible pollutant was being pumped into our atmosphere with increasing volume — from our tailpipes, smokestacks, and the clear-cutting of forests. We now know that carbon dioxide and the resulting climate change is a threat of a magnitude unlike anything we have ever seen before. Those are the stakes we face today.

In the summer of 2007, I traveled 450 miles north of the Arctic Circle to the Canadian tundra to report on a development that was shocking for any student of history. For centuries, famed explorers had searched for a shipping route from Europe to Asia through the frigid north. It was dubbed the Northwest Passage, and it proved to be a deadly and illusory dream, as many ships and men went in to never return. So when my colleagues and I heard reports that melting sea ice was possibly unlocking the passage, we set about to document the dramatic climate change at the end of the earth. Some of my crew spent days aboard a Canadian Coast Guard research icebreaker, and I met them in the Inuit village of Arctic Bay, population about 700 hardy souls.

What both the scientists and the local inhabitants understood was that a world of ice was undergoing rapid and unpredictable change. I remember taking a walk along a rocky shoreline with an elderly Inuit woman, who pointed at the open water and explained how, even in the summer, it had once been largely ice. She talked of seal pelts that were not as thick because of the warmer water and her worries that her people’s way of life was in danger of being irrevocably lost. Meanwhile, on the research boat, scientists were rushing to understand how this changing climate was affecting marine life and whether they could find clues to the arctic environment of the past by dredging the bottom of the sea.

It is an awesome realization that Earth, which has always seemed boundless, is so susceptible to the negative byproducts of human activity. Perhaps that is what makes it difficult for some to accept climate change. As we walk through nature, it seems so robust and permanent. And for the vast majority of the history of our species, we did not have the power to destroy the planet.

But if you look back to the beginning of the environmental movement, you will see that it sprang from a dawning realization of how damaging humans could be. In the late nineteenth century, the mighty bison of the American West, estimated to once have numbered in the tens of millions, were slaughtered over just a few decades to the brink of extinction. Hunting parties would shoot indiscriminately from train windows as sport, leaving thousands of carcasses to rot in the sun. A seemingly limitless resource suddenly was on the verge of disappearing. By then, a growing spirit of naturalism was capturing the nation’s attention, personified by writers like Henry David Thoreau. And leading citizens in the United States, men with political power like Theodore Roosevelt, decided to act.

They formed conservation clubs that began to have an effect on the federal government. Yellowstone National Park, considered the first national park in the world, was founded in 1872. Yosemite was added in 1890. A movement had been born. But meanwhile, a very different revolution had begun half a world away. The first modern internal combustion engine was built in the 1870s, and in 1886 German engineer Karl Benz patented the first motorcar. Over the ensuing century and decades, as the environmental movement grew in its scope and importance, Earth was getting sicker.

None of this was known when I was growing up. The Texas economy of my youth was literally being fueled by oil, and there seemed to be nothing incompatible with black gold and the health of the wide world outside my door. Some of my earliest memories were of running through the wild meadow that bordered my neighborhood on the outskirts of Houston, looking at bugs, lizards, and, it being Texas, a lot of snakes. There was a creek a little farther out, and when I was young, my mother made it known to me that it was a boundary I dare not cross. Beyond the creek lay deep woods, and as I grew older, I was allowed to wander alone beneath the strong oaks and towering pines, turned loose in nature. In the midst of the woods was the Buffalo Bayou, and I learned how to swim in its languid waters. In truth, the bayou had already been polluted by the oil refineries and chemical plants around Houston. But we boys, frolicking in the water, didn’t know that. We were living out our fantasies of being latter-day Tom Sawyers and Huck Finns.

In that great meadow and the forest beyond, the world seemed exciting and alive. It was teeming with rabbits, squirrels, and the occasional coyote. There were birds in the skies and all those snakes on the ground. Most were harmless, but there were poisonous ones as well — rattlesnakes, water moccasins, coral snakes, and the spreading adder, what we called the “spreadin’ adder.” My mother worried about snakes, but she knew that they were part of the Lone Star way of life. You had to be alert, knowledgeable, careful, and a bit lucky — just like in life.

My father was the kind of hunter who believed that you shouldn’t hunt something you don’t know a lot about, and he instilled in me a deep respect for the natural world. As we walked together on warm summer evenings, his hunting rifle in hand, he would explain the life cycle of rabbits and that the best place to find squirrels was where the “hardwoods met the pine trees,” because squirrels liked the height of the pine trees and the nuts of the hardwoods. Whether this was provable from scientific study, or even whether someone has ever chosen to study such a thing, I do not know. But it was the kind of wisdom that came from a lifetime of observation, and nature tends to make all of us open our eyes and think.

My father also believed that you ate what you killed, and so my mother had a number of recipes that fit both rabbit and squirrel interchangeably. Sometimes we just ate the meat broiled with a side of sliced tomatoes or homemade pickles. Other times it was stewed. More often, it was fried. It might not sound like much, but it was pretty good. My father would also usually get a couple of deer during the hunting season, which was the legal limit. We would eat every bit that was edible, and that could take quite a while. Dad was terrific with a shotgun, so we spent many a time cleaning, then eating, ducks and quail.

In the nature around my house I learned life lessons — an overworked phrase, I grant you, but an apt one. When I was nine years old, my friends and I came across a giant softshell turtle in the Buffalo Bayou. It was the biggest one we had ever seen, and we spent the entire day tracking it. After many foiled attempts, we finally snared it, bound it up, and walked back the mile or so to my parents’ house. We filled a tub with water in the backyard and put it in. We felt like conquering heroes, but that only lasted until my father came home from work. When he saw what we had done, he was furious and explained to me how such behavior could harm a wild animal like this turtle. Even though it was after dark, he insisted that I carry the turtle back to where we’d found it. Now, this wasn’t the equivalent of a valiant effort to save an endangered species, but my father’s instinct was the same: Nature was not there for us to exploit or toy with. It is a lesson I have never forgotten.

Going into the forest with my dad was a backdrop to my young life. It was just what people did. I was expected to be able to identify the species of trees and to know how to avoid getting lost. Nature wasn’t something that you drove to, or planned on seeing, or for which you bought a fancy outdoor wardrobe. I worry that now it is an activity that must compete with soccer practices, homework, piano lessons, and all the other responsibilities that fill up the calendar of a family with children. All those are surely wonderful and rewarding, but so too is just letting your legs wander through the trees and meadows, and having your mind wander as well.

Today most of us encounter few animals and plants in our daily lives, and most of what we do see are either the ones we have domesticated or the vermin and weeds that can thrive in the cracks of modernity. Growing up I was enthralled by the night sky. But now most of us can see only a few faint stars at night, the ones bright enough to make it through the domes of light that enclose our metropolises. For all of human history, the night sky told stories, delineated time, and guided voyagers. Now 30 percent of the people on the planet can’t even see the Milky Way from their homes. And in the United States, 80 percent of us can’t.

We as a nation have done much to exploit the land, despoil it, and pollute it. From wildlife to wildfires, we have been shortsighted in our management. For too long the cost of doing business ignored the cost of that business to the environment. Still, we have been world leaders in conservation, preservation, and environmentalism. And that is what makes this moment in time so baffling and worrisome. Somehow the environment has become yet another point of contention between Democrats and Republicans. It is striking that those who live in urban centers and are more isolated from the natural world tend to vote for Democratic candidates who mostly favor stricter environmental regulations. Meanwhile, those in rural areas tend to vote for Republican candidates who more often advocate for laxer oversight of land, water, and pollution. I am not exactly sure how this came to be. Some of it likely has to do with the coarsening of dialogue between the two major parties on almost every issue, and ultimately the environment gets sorted along those binary lines as well. Research also suggests that those states whose economies are built on oil, gas, coal, and mining tend to be less likely to support environmental regulations, and understandably so. But whatever the cause, it is important to note that these political and social divides over the environment were not always this way.

It was an odd experience watching the heated debate as a cap and trade bill for carbon dioxide emissions and climate change made its way through Congress in 2009. The opposition from Republicans was fierce, with only a handful voting for final passage in the House of Representatives. Dozens of Democrats in conservative districts also voted against the bill. In the end, the legislation barely passed the House and was never even brought up in the Senate. And yet the very idea of cap and trade as a way to deal with environmental problems, where you set limits and allow polluters to trade in credits, had been the brainchild of Republicans. President Ronald Reagan had used cap and trade to phase out lead in gasoline, and President George H. W. Bush had used it to cut the pollutants causing acid rain.

When I sat down recently with George Shultz, who had served as secretary of state under President Reagan, he spoke with pride of the Republican legacy on the environment, stretching back to President Theodore Roosevelt. Secretary Shultz has become a vocal advocate for protecting the planet against climate change, and he reminded me that major environmental progress — from the founding of the EPA to tackling the ozone and acid rain problems, to strengthening clean water and air acts — had happened under Republican administrations.

Questions of the environment boil down to acts of leadership. Most people would say that they want clean air and water. The concerns that you hear about pitting economic growth against environmental protections are legitimate; we need a balanced approach. Our modern lives require that we mine, till, fish, generate electricity, and discard refuse. We will never return to some mythic state of environmental purity. Nor would we want to. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be wiser about how we use our limited resources and protect our planet. I believe that if there was leadership on this issue in both political parties, the American people would rally to action.

We humans seem to have a hard time measuring risk. We can see the dangers in the moment, but threats that stretch over the course of generations are hard for us to judge, let alone act to remedy. Climate change is just such a problem. Even though we already see very worrisome fluctuations in Earth’s functions — extreme weather, vanishing sea ice, rising temperatures, and rising oceans — the most dire effects will not strike with full force until well after I am gone. We can hide from the truth for now, but it will not last. In my interview with Secretary Shultz, he described climate change as a clear and present danger even if many of his fellow Republicans do not see it that way. I asked him how he felt about this state of affairs. He said those who deny climate change now will ultimately be “mugged by reality.” Mugged by reality. It is a strong phrase. The danger is that when the climate deniers are finally mugged, it will be, by definition, too late. Already we are seeing the glaciers melt in Greenland and massive ice sheets breaking off Antarctica.

Often I find myself thinking back to my boyhood out in the forests and meadows and how those experiences spurred in me a love of our natural world. One of the joys of my later life has been the summer days I spend in quiet contentment fishing in the upper Beaverkill River in the Catskill mountain range of western New York State. My eyes are mostly focused on the action in the stream, watching the currents and eddies, casting flies, looking for trout willing to bite. But I often glance up to contemplate the flora and fauna of the riverbank — particularly the birch trees that are rooted just on the edge of the water. They favor the embankments in many northern climes, and sometimes, as I take in the scene, an old African American spiritual comes to mind. I begin singing slowly, “Just like a tree planted by the water, I shall not be moved. I shall not be, I shall not be moved. . . .” The hymn may say I shall not be moved, but I often am, in that strange and mystical way engaging in nature often moves us.

There is an elegance to birches, tall and slender, with their distinctive white bark. I’ve always liked them because my long-departed mother loved them so. Born, raised, and buried on the semitropical Texas Gulf Coast, she never saw a live birch, only pictures in a book. Mother’s favorite tree, however, was the native magnolia, which flourishes all along the Texas Gulf Coast and adjacent piney woods. She loved their strength and the fragrance of their large white blossoms. That scent permeating and enveloping in the heavy humidity of Texas nights is among the fondest memories of my childhood. I smell it often, even when a magnolia is nowhere in sight.

I like to sit out there on the river for a long while, and take a deep breath and close my eyes. Nature doesn’t please only our sense of sight. I can hear the soothing sounds of running water and swaying leaves in the background. Nature has the power to inspire one’s mind and move one’s soul like great music or poetry. It can fill you with humility when you encounter the otherworldliness of the Grand Canyon. It can fill you with awe when you tilt your head back and try to tease out the top of a towering redwood. It can spark your imagination as you try to visualize a time when the entire continent was as wild as Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. And it can fill you with sadness when you see how much the glaciers in Glacier National Park are receding. What are we doing? What have we done?

I am an optimist by nature, and I believe we can find a will to save the planet. We have a strong and growing environmental sensibility in this country and around the world — especially among the young. But there are hurdles, not the least of which come from many of our elected officials. We have seen the undue influence of big money from the fossil fuel industry, along with their allies in government, actively undermine climate science. We have seen crises like what has taken place in Flint, Michigan, call into question our national commitment to equal access to clean water and air. To the countless generations yet to be born, what world will we leave for them? We have seen that we can make progress and repair damage to the environment. But now, when it is needed with an urgency we haven’t really seen before, we are blinking. How can we open our eyes once again to the notion of a fragile planet, our only home?

Apollo 8 was on its fourth pass around the moon when the commander, Frank Borman, initiated a scheduled roll of the spacecraft. On the audio recordings, you can hear William Anders, who was the lunar module’s pilot, react to a sight no human had ever seen before: “Oh my God! Look at that picture over there! There’s the earth coming up. Wow, is that pretty.” Anders called out to the third crew member, Jim Lovell, asking if he had color film. There was a scramble inside the spacecraft to get the picture taken before it was too late. They got their shot.

The astronauts were not looking for Earth when they went on their mission. The space historian Andrew Chaikin said Anders told him later, “We were trained to go to the moon. We were focused on the moon, observing the moon, studying the moon, and the earth was not really in our thoughts until it popped up above that horizon.” We need this vision of a unified and cohesive Earth to pop up once again over the horizon of our global complacency. We need to consider, with awe and humility, the future of our fragile home.

- Dan Rather

(Above is the "Environment" essay from my book What Unites Us)

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