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#especially a semi conscious priest
adamcoleslawbaybay · 2 years
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nikkywrites · 2 years
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HI i am here to demand (ahem) ASK about the world of crimson daybreak!!
Hi Marine! The world of Crimson Daybreak was formed just to fulfill the prompt(s) and get the piece done, but for you I will delve into it a bit (lot?) more <3
First of all, I did admittedly fit in more worldbuilding into that than I thought I would. It’s one of my finer worldbuilding moments. For real, though, let’s just talks about the dragons because. well, that’s what bore the sacrifices that’s central to Crimson Daybreak.
(Note from future me: this turned into a retelling/overview/dive into the original ceremony that became the Crimson Daybreak sacrifice).
Read more because long ramble/explanation. To no surprise.
So there were dragons and they weren’t just big beasts, they were godlike beings. Like. Massive as all heck, formed the world and all things in it sort of godlike beings. They were older than known history and as the human race was starting to take off… the dragons were dying out. By that point, the Creation that formed them (this world’s chaos/stardust that forms literally everything) was running out. It was in the world, in the things that they had made. So there’s one dragon left. The youngest of them, the one that’s contributed least to the world it’s breathren made and the one that will be it’s tomb. The only known to humans and it’s so obvious that it’s ancient — curled atop the highest mountain peak, cracked and covered in ivy like an old ruin, hardly breathing, hardly alive. It’s there and for a while (years, decades, centuries), it’s worshipped. Is a temple and a god both.
The humans know little of the dragons, but they form prayers and ceremonies and a religion. The dragon is practically comatose — it’s eyes never open, it’s breaths are few and shallow and long between. It’s hardly conscious. But the humans can tell that it’s divine (it’s a knowing in the air). So they worship it. Send their priests (maybe a dozen or so) into the almost-cage of one of it’s claws, where the sun barely shines between the bars of its talons, to say once-a-moon chants, for good harvests or good weather or good fortune.
But every five-ish years (perhaps it’s a time made significant because that’s when the dragon blinks, for a few decades, until it’s eyes never open again. It’s a significant measure of time, akin-sorta to a decade for us due to something like that), the collection of priests choose one to stand before the dragon, not a foot from its face, to act upon a ceremony (on the day of dragon’s blink). It’s a dual purpose — to see the fate of the next five years (received from the wind, and, if the next years are to be especially favorable — from the dragon’s breath) and wish well upon the dragon, laying some sacrifice or significance before it (the object the chosen person holds dearest, perhaps). There’s a constant wind atop the mountain, drawn to and formed from the last spark of Creation there is that’s still semi-tangible (that’s keeping the dragon alive, that’s feeding the heart of the people’s religion).
Because of the dragon’s decline, breaths are becoming fewer and weaker and longer between. Details are kept tight, between the priests and the chosen person and other such high ranked people but some of it, inevitably, leaks.
And one year, the one chosen (they are chosen as children at 10 (and there’s requirements to even be considered but I’m trying not to get too off-rail), because of… something dragon related. A trinket — a chipped bit of scale or talon or tooth, from the dragon they know or a salvaged bit from one they don’t. There’s a reaction that makes them chosen and perhaps it’s a series of trials — a series of hoops that must be leapt through just right). Anyways, the one chosen one year is closely related to a priest. A daughter, or a niece, or something such. There’s a personal tie, where there’s been no recorded one before (not the records are that in depth, or plentiful). So there’s… a smidgen of doubt, that this child was truly chosen, among the other priests (did the priest spill secrets to the child? Taint the results?) but they continue because once a child is chosen, it’s done. The child is chosen the same day as the ceremony, so as one is fulfilling their part, another is being chosen to replace it. And they are trained/prepared for the next five years, until they are the one standing before the dragon and so the cycle goes, on and on. (And, to clarify: the last girl is not wrongly chosen, just believed to be so).
So a child, tied to a priest somehow is chosen. They — she, because it is a girl and this year and this ceremony and this day is ancestor to the one in Crimson Daybreak. This child, this teenager, for she is fifteen when it is her turn is pessimistic or realistic or just smart. She thinks that all of this: the ceremony, the religion, the dragon; is ridiculous. They see the pattern of the dwindling breaths, have a lack of faith where most/all others have trust. She knows the dragon will not breathe. Suspects that the things it is making her people do is unnecessary — she is not a believer, though she’s kept the fact hidden (she wouldn’t be chosen if it was known).
So she has a grudge, a bitterness, a rage to her. Perhaps on the last ceremony, there was little wind and no breath (like there’s been the last too-many times, tales of it’s breath too old to be really believed to be truth) and the day following it, a friend or family member was lost. And in her childishness, her naïveté, she places blame on the dragon. On the ceremony’s failure. On the religion entirely. The priests are saying that they are ones failing the dragon — there needs to be more worship, stronger worship — but the girl doesn’t believe the fault lies with them. Believes that the dragon is the one failing.
So she is angry and hidden in the large flowing robe, there is a sharpness — a dagger or a spearhead or a rock. And she expects the little response there is, but upon the stillness — the dying dragon, the lazy wind, the dry sky — in the face of it, her rage boils over. She draws the sharpness and strikes it against the dragon’s face. It is not a large wound, in comparison to the dragon’s size (the mountain is a small perch, considering and all of their priests hardly fit in the sacred room of it’s claw) but it is roughly the length of the girl’s forearm and it is deep enough to shed blood. Blood which has never been seen, for it is sacrilege to touch the dragon without proper reason or permission. It is a startling yellow, so bright it looks glowing.
It is a small wound, but to the dragon, who has hardly been living for centuries, to whom this is a revokation of the dribbles of Creation that has been keeping it hardly alive? It is enough. It is the last straw.
It dies.
The divinity falters, the air of life cut out in one harsh moment. The ceremony is done privately, just before sunrise, the chosen girl having made the climb up over the night before. And there is no grand destruction, no obvious revelation — no wind that picks up howling, no sudden onset of black clouds or rain, no out-of-the-blue thunder or lightning. But it is there, the death. In the air. A feeling brother to the one of breathlessness when the air is forced from your lungs. That breathlessness sweeps over the mountain and though there is no grand show of proof, it is known. The dragon is dead. The ceremony has failed. The girl is claimed a traitor of highest degree — she’s slain their god, their world’s heart.
And this day is what Crimson Daybreak’s celebration and sacrifice comes from. The events of Crimson Daybreak would not be if not for this day, twisted though the memory of it becomes.
The girl is blamed, immediate, for on this day the dragon is the chosen one’s responsibility (perhaps they are a keeper of sorts, until they’re twenty and the next person takes over). And her name is ill-remembered, butchered pronunciation of her name modern (meaning Crimson Daybreak time) translating to a grave insult. It’s one of the few shreds that’s survived the centuries between the times.
That, and what follows the dragon’s death.
The felled blood’s crystallized form, that hums under the right girl’s blood. The startling change of the sun — from always yellow to red.
The people are terrified at the change — believe it to be the end of the world, brought upon by the girl. And so she is hunted (the few priests were stunned to stillness or moved to the dragon and she quickly fled). And at some point she is captured — shortly after, at midday, just before the red sun is sinking. And she is dragged back to the dragon’s head and she is killed, as urged by the witnessed priests, who saw her slay the dragon, as retribution and sacrifice. And the night is a long, terrifying thing. People waiting for death, admitting their committed atrocious trying to salvage themselves (also urged by the priests, attempting to earn favor back from the world they think is dying).
And the sun rises yellow again, the next day.
The priests claim it to be because of their honest confessions. That regrets and sins laid bare is what salvaged the world from ending.
And time slowly warps the old ceremony, that day, into what it is during Crimson Daybreak. The terrified confessions turns into the burned ribbons — yellow after the dragon’s blood, burned in repetition of the sun rising and easing the people’s fear and honesty. The chosen girl turns into the sacrificed girl. The slab of blood that hums is the new choosing trial. The sigil the girl’s blood makes upon it is the one the chosen girl drew, all that time ago (then a call for good fortune, now a death sentence). The lone night before is the chosen girl’s hard climb. The room being so red is mockery of the day of the red sun — playing it out on her alone instead of the whole world and her sacrifice is to please the sun’s color shift into lasting just the one day. And so such.
Backtracking to explain a thing or two that didn’t quite come across in the ramble. The ceremony, roughly, is like so:
At ten, a girl is chosen via prerequisites (birthed close to the day of the ceremony?), trials and the last test done on the day of the ceremony. For the next five years, she is raised by the priests, or some other figures in the religion, in preparation of the ceremony. She is taught the loose magic of sigils, has to craft her own that will shape the five years following her day. And on the night before, she must climb to the dragon’s head via the front arm not attached to the clawed room (? Using the scale gaps as handholds? It’s not too long a climb and she is prepared to be capable of it beforehand. The climb is entirely lost, modernly, just the lone girl the night before is remembered). The priests participating in the ceremony, only a few, not all, take a longer route. When the time is right, the girl lays out a pouch of soft sand and draws the sigil she crafted into it. If it is blown away, there is good fortune, if not, there isn’t and the inbetween. The priests are stationed evenly behind the girl in a semicircle. They are to stand witness and they drop their own fistfuls of sand, to blow in the wind/breath.
The chosen one beforehand did not have to be a girl, just. The last one was and that’s what’s remembered so all modern chosen ones are girls. Because the last is all that’s remembered.
Is that. What you wanted, Marine? I got carried away with the original ceremony and kind of forgot that you just wanted more of the world in general, not necessarily the past but it is still knowledge of the world, so… it counts? I think? If you want specifics, you should ask the specifics. I get off track so easily.
If more of the Crimson Daybreak world is wanted (not necessarily Gianna-related at all, just the literal world)… ask? Kinda think I’ve given it too much worldbuilding to be just one thing but I’ve also (miraculously, surprisingly) escaped the Urge (but that may just be the mental exhaustion of doing this all), so. Maybe not? Let me know if there’s interest.
Leave a comment about this because it really took something out of me. Worldbuilding is not my favorite thing when not done on the fly as I’m writing a piece, so give me kudos for this.
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literenture · 10 months
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Near Rie’s death, when Gheriun asks Sho to leave the shrine with him.
Rie’s condition had worsened considerably over the past few weeks. The dark veins that stretched up from her abdomen to her chest grew ever more, consuming her body as Sho watched helplessly. She seemed to waste away every passing day.
He sat by her bedside every waking moment, and even slept by her any time he could. The priests did their best to get him out, as his own health suffered from lack of activity, but he was so set on being with his mother that eventually they gave up: any time they tried to separate the two the stress would send Sho into a fever.
Day in, day out, he sat with his mother. When she was conscious she would talk and sing to him, tell him stories, and for a moment he would forget the reality of her condition. On the days when she could manage a small walk around the compound’s inner garden, he would accompany her and pepper her with all sorts of absurd tales of adventure. She humored her son, feigning shock and surprise at his tall tales. Her days up never lasted long, and Sho cherished every one.
The last week had been especially bad. Rie’s fever had her in and out of consciousness, and when she rallied to waking she would hold Sho’s hands in her frail ones.
“He should be here for you,” Sho cried, not for the first time. “Why won’t he come?”
“Hush now, little sparrow.” She patted his hand weakly. “Your father has much to attend to.”
“But how could he just leave you here?” He wailed.
“Nobody left anybody. It’s okay, come now. There, there, my brave boy. He doesn’t mean any harm.” Rie hesitated. “It’s just that…this all has been much more than he expected.”
“He abandoned you!”
That made his mother pause thoughtfully.
“He’s a complicated man,” she started. “What we agreed to…well, life has a way of working out differently than one plans. But you mustn’t hold it against him. He cares…in his own way. He’ll take care of you when I’m gone.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” pleaded Sho helplessly.
“Shh, don’t cry my darling. Oh, my beautiful boy.” She cupped his tear stained cheek in one shaky hand. “All will be okay. I’m so proud of you. More than you could know. I know you’ll be strong for me.”
There was nothing Sho could say. He didn’t want to believe that his mother was dying, even as she lay before him, a shadow of her former self. Bloodstained tissues lay beside her from her coughing fits. At eight years old did not have the words to explain his complicated feelings about his father: all that he knew was that the Mask Seller had not come to visit in months. What could be more important than his mother’s life? It made him feel angry and frustrated and unable to express himself.
He had never known his father well. The man had been an inconsistent presence in his life, and Sho had been raised by his mother under his grandfather’s care in this far removed compound on the grounds of an old shrine. They were deep in the mountains of Xiu Tao on the border with Badhapur, and other than the occasional pilgrim or associate of his grandfather Sho had rarely met new faces. His father would visit sporadically, but even his semi regular visits had dropped off considerably. To Sho the large man was an intimidating presence, and the older he got the more anger he felt toward his father for his absence.
Now that his mother was sick the masksmith had only become more distant. Sho wondered whether he knew, or even cared, about his mother. Despite Rie’s words, Sho could not forgive his father for his absence.
Unlike his father, his grandfather visited quite regularly. He was getting quite old but his back was ramrod straight and he walked with confidence and elegance. Although not a warm man by any means, the fact that he was around made Sho trust in him more than his own father. The Founder ran some sort of energy company, but beyond that Sho did not know the details. Rie had been hesitant to let him spend much time with his grandfather but now, with her health in decline, there was not much she could do or say to stop him. Desperation and loneliness drew him to the taciturn old man’s side, heedless of his barbed words and cold tone.
On a cold day in the depths of winter, Sho awoke to the sound of hushed voices. He had fallen asleep at the little table in his mother’s sickroom, and he now stirred as he heard her speak softly.
“Please, Gheriun. Take him with you. We were foolish to think this would work. He’s just a child—if he stays here he’ll become a tool of my father’s. No matter what he’s told you, he only cares for his own goals.”
Her voice was weak but with an edge of desperation to it. Sho blinked open bleary eyes to see an enormous man sat beside his mother’s sickbed. From here he could only see his back, but he knew immediately that it was his father. Anger boiled up in him, coupled with a curiosity at what they were discussing. He decided to feign sleep and listen in while they murmured.
“Rie, I can’t. You know what your father would do if…” He shook his masked head. “We agreed to this, you and I both.”
“But he’s just a boy!” Rie’s voice rose before she lowered it again. “He needs you. I won’t be around forever.”
“Rie…”
The Mask Seller’s massive shoulders slumped. Their voices lowered further and Sho had to lean forward to hear. However he knocked the tin of crayons onto the floor, alerting both adults to his wakefulness.
“Oh Sho, honey, did we wake you?” asked his mother before a coughing fit overtook her. He rushed to her bedside as his father rubbed her shoulders and awkwardly held her through the fit. Blood as black as night and thick as tar dripped from the corner of her mouth as the masksmith dabbed at it.
“Maman, you should rest,” Sho pleaded, grabbing one of her hands in his. The skin was paper thin and the bones prominent.
“I’ll be okay,” Rie insisted. Neither Sho nor the Mask Seller believed her, but they said nothing.
“Your father was just telling me about his travels,” she added. “He’s been all over the world. Just like you want to one day.”
Her words were coming a bit forcibly, breath heaving. There was a rattle in her chest as she spoke, and she looked so weak there beside the large Mask Seller. Sho felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes but he sniffed and rubbed them angrily, not wanting his so-called father to see his pain. The man’s expression was impossible to read behind his face mask.
“But maman, you promised you’d read to me today,” Sho protested. He didn’t mind skipping it, but he didn’t want to have to spend the day with the masksmith. Rie however had other ideas.
“Sho, it’s been so long since you’ve seen your father. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear what you’ve been up to.”
That seemed to surprise the Mask Seller as much as it did his son. His shoulders twitched up and he shot his head around toward Rie, who just gave him a tired smile. Something unspoken passed between his parents’ gaze, some inscrutable message.
“Your mother needs her rest today,” he said at last.
He was right about that, that much even Sho could see. Rie was propped up on pillows but her head lolled weakly and it seemed to exhaust her to so much as lift one arm. That coughing fit was not a good sign. Sho wanted to refuse his father and stay here, but he knew he would only be in the way.
Finally, lamely, Sho inclined his head just so and kissed his mother on the cheek.
“I’ll be back soon, okay?”
Rie smiled weakly and reached up with an unsteady hand to caress her son’s rosy cheek.
“Try to have a good day my little sparrow.”
Her usual compliment made him turn beet red in front of his father, but the Mask Seller did not seem to notice. With one last look, both father and son left the sickroom, calling on the nurses to watch after Rie. There was not much they could do but relieve the symptoms as they occurred. It was simply hospice care for a long, unforgiving illness. One, Sho knew, that was given to her by his father.
He did not know the specifics, but his grandfather had sat him down one day and explained the manner of Rie’s illness. It was an aggressive infection of inky black veins webbed beneath the skin, coupled with a hereditary disease that she had been born with. When he had asked his grandfather how she had gotten sick, the old man had not hesitated to tell him that she had caught it because of his father. Ever since he had learned that, his already complex feelings about the masksmith became murky and turgid.
Now as he walked with him down the narrow corridors of the inner sanctum Sho was once more drawn to these thoughts. He slowed as they went until he was a good yard or two behind and the Mask Seller had to stop to wait for him to catch up. They repeated this dance over and over before they finally arrived at the wide entrance hall. Here the Mask Seller waited at the head of the stairs leading down onto the outer shrine grounds. Sho dawdled as much as he could until he finally made it to the large man’s side. The masked giant hesitated a moment before proffering one oversized hand in Sho’s direction.
“I’m not a baby,” Sho protested weakly.
The masksmith reacted like he had snapped at him, flinching his hand back. He stared at it as though it had been burned before clearing his throat and wiping his hand on his robes.
“Ah, quite right… I do apologize…”
It was that tone that rankled Sho the most, the pathetic, mealy mouthed platitudes that the large man offered up. It was almost like their roles were reversed, the Mask Seller hedging as though Sho were the huge, muscled adult. It made him sick to see his father simper, hem, and haw, and his temper flared. Still, his uncertainty of the near stranger kept his tongue.
“You don’t need to apologize,” was all he could manage, feeling embarrassed by the situation.
The two of them descended the stairs in silence, pausing here and there so that Sho could catch his breath. Much like his mother, he carried a certain genetic mutation that weakened his body and constitution. It was not nearly as bad so long as he stayed active, but he was limited in what activities he could partake in. The inner stairway was okay so long as he didnt try them all in one go and took at least one or two short breaks. The Mask Seller waited patiently each time, always a few steps ahead.
They reached the perimeter walkway between the nested buildings, and here the masksmith slowed. Sho got the impression that he was working up to saying something, and he was soon proved right.
“I know it must be very scary for you right now,” his father began, picking carefully at his words. “And things must feel very overwhelming. Your mother has told me… well, it doesn’t matter what she’s told me, but what you want.”
He seemed to be making his way around a subject he was ill equipped to handle, but he strove forward nevertheless.
“I know I haven’t been very…present, in your life.” The understatement of a lifetime. “I won’t force you to make a decision right now. But you’re going to have to decide whether you stay here with your grandfather or come with me when… If the need arises.”
His inability to speak directly, or even look in Sho’s direction as he spoke, caused a flame of rage to explode in the young boy’s chest. Sho bit down so hard on his cheek that he drew blood, the metallic tang steadying him.
“What are you saying?” he hissed. His father turned his masked face away as Sho tried desperately to get him to look at him. He could at least pretend.
“Your mother, Rie, she only wants what’s best for you,” the masksmith said haltingly. “But I told her that you deserve a choice in the matter. If you’d rather be with your grandfather, I would understand.”
The meaning behind his words did not fully register with Sho right away, but when they did he bristled.
“You’re giving up on her.”
“Son, no—“
“I am not your son,” snarled Sho. “You are nothing to us. You left us, and when mom got sick you disappeared. Now you’re here, acting so high and mighty?”
His voice had risen and cracked with exertion but he could not stop himself.
“She promised me! She promised me that you’d be here, that you’d care. But you never cared did you? We’re just a burden to you!”
He was sobbing now, but still the words would not stop. All the stories his grandfather had told him, how the masksmith spent his days in idle luxury while Sho and his mother suffered, alone and isolated in the mountains. How he had given up on a life with them to pursue hedonistic whims. How he had all but forgotten about them entirely.
“I don’t want anything to do with you,” Sho finished in a low tone, tears pouring down his face. “I wish you were the one who would die!”
He spat these last words out with all the vitriol his tiny body could manage before he spun on his heel and ran off into the old grounds of the shrine, heedless of his father’s shouts behind him. He ran out into the rain and the ruins, his heart close to bursting, his ears filled with the sound of rushing water. He wished the entire world might get washed away in the downpour, that nothing of this sordid planet remained behind. He wished he might vanish with the waters. He wished for anything but the reality he was now faced with.
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amphtaminedreams · 3 years
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Why Ethical Fashion Doesn’t Need to be Boring (In the Words of a Shopping Addict): Lookbook no.14
Hi to anyone reading,
Arghhhh.
I never know how to start posts when I literally just uploaded the other week because I tend to follow the very formulaic approach of summarising what I’ve missed due to sporadic posting…I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m still posting sporadically, it just so happens I’ve had more content to get up recently-sometimes lightning strikes twice, ya know, and I have a brief, if chemically fuelled, reprieve from the permanent state of exhaustion. It’s not like there isn’t stuff to talk about- the last month has seen a horrific murder and public outcry in response. There are a lot of important conversations going on about women’s safety and misogynistic violence that I really cannot do justice to in a paragraph and feelings that have been brewing for a long time that I can’t articulate yet and will not attempt to offhandedly do so in this post. Right now I just wanna say that I stand in solidarity with all those with histories of experiencing violence at the hands of men, those who aren’t here with us anymore as a result of that violence such as Sarah Everard, and those marginalised women whose stories don’t make national news. It’s very telling the way Sarah’s vigil was responded to by the same police force that have allowed mostly male anti-mask protests to go ahead with protestors unscathed, and solidarity with the women who were treated with such an unjustifiable amount of force at the vigil too.
That being said, women’s rights are something I wanted to talk about in this post, with regards to the way it ties into ethical fashion. None of us are perfect and it’s easy living in a first world country to detach yourself from the issues stemming from fast fashion, especially when you don’t have the time or money yourself to be selective about where you buy from. Don’t get me wrong, I do treat myself to some new clothes from fast fashion companies like ASOS and Urban Outfitters a few times a year so this is NOT coming from a place of preaching, but I have drastically reduced that to buying about 90% of my new clothes either second hand from Depop or charity shops or clothing stores that are upfront about their outsourcing practices. I love putting outfits together and updating my wardrobe and I don’t want to abandon that as a medium of self-expression because it does bring me joy, but to continue to update my wardrobe with the frequency I do by buying from fast fashion retailers on such a regular basis I accepted was going against the things I care about; around 80% of textile workers on poverty wages in developing countries are girls and women (opensocietyfoundations.org), and whilst fast fashion companies in the West continue to outsource manufacturing to said countries to cut costs and there is little regulation enforcing employers to pay women the same amount as men or even adhere to a minimum wage, they will continue to be forced into these roles where they are subjected to horrific working conditions, impossible production targets and frequent abuse (according to an article published in the Guardian in June 2018, 540 incidences of abuse, often of a sexual nature, were reported by women working in factories supplying the retailers GAP and H&M when they were interviewed on the subject). There is no denying that the fast fashion industry depends on and perpetuates the subjugation of women and systematically prevents them from making steps towards gender equality in their countries, be it through greater financial independence or the freedom to pursue higher education; the popular current practice by western fast fashion companies of outsourcing manufacturing to factories unhindered by workers rights and gender equality laws by association condones the sexual and physical violence that occurs as a means of punishment for not meeting targets, the exploitative pay which affords women little independence from husbands and families dominated by patriarchal values, and the long, exhausting hours which women have little choice but to take in order to avoid their contracts being terminated and to put food on the table. No, one individual completely abandoning fast fashion isn’t going to put an end to these unethical practices but if all of us make a conscious effort to reduce our consumption at least a little and make it clear why we’re doing so, we put greater pressure on fast fashion companies to act in a more responsible way. There isn’t going to be any kind of miraculous change of heart, so to force them to change we have to hit the industry and the people at the top who benefit from such practices where it really hurts: their profit.
SO, for this post I thought I would highlight some of my favourite more ethical online clothing companies to buy from; the more popular these more socially responsible brands become, the more apparent it becomes to fast fashion companies relying on an exploitative business model that how they treat their workers is of growing importance to consumers. It’s all very well and good Missguided and PLT talking about empowering women and making “girl boss” slogan tees but we need to make it clear that we’re aware of the hollowness of the gesture, and that we want less hypocritical talk and more action to actually enhance the lives of the women that work for them, not just the ones they show in their flashy offices on TV. I’ve included my favourite Depop shops too, because if you can shop second hand, that’s even better; though I like to treat myself to new clothes now and again, I’m aware that the impact the manufacturing process in general, whether or not the company acts in an ethical way with regards to their employment practices, has on the environment is more often than not detrimental. Depop has really been my saving grace this past year-if you know what you’re looking for and have the time and patience, you can find so many gems, and at this point the balance of my wardrobe is tipped firmly in the favour of the reuse and recycle approach to shopping. In the vein of reusing fashion, I thought I’d also include a mini lookbook for a cardigan I got from one of my favourite online retailers, The Ragged Priest, just as a reminder that 1). The best way to be sustainable is to rewear and 2). That with tweaks, one piece alone can give you multiple completely different outfits. Like honestly, outfit repeating doesn’t have to be a literal repeat. Sometimes it’s worth spending a little bit extra on something that looks good with everything, and making that investment into your ability to fool people that you’ve got your shit together by wearing something cool as fuck.
Quickly before I get into it, I’m aware that some ethical companies are a bit out of the average consumer’s price range, and so I wanted to sort them into price point categories which will work as follows:
£= most of their stock is £40 & under ££= most of their stock is between £40-£100 £££= most of their stock costs upwards of £100
Now, in no particular order (and starting with online retailers before moving onto Depop shops), here’s the list!
1. THE RAGGED PRIEST
PRICE POINT: ££
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Using recycled fabric to construct their pieces where possible and releasing clothing in small drops designed to sell out rather than following the typical fast fashion model of outsourcing the production of vast amounts of clothing overseas, the Ragged Priest is my absolute favourite clothing brand out there. It’s *semi* affordable and because they are all about those bold, in your face, your-grandma-will-probs-think-it’s-ugly kinda pieces, just one can do SO much for your wardrobe.
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I recently bought this cardigan from their The Simple Life drop and had so many outfit ideas for it that I thought I’d put a few of them together for this post just as an example of how you can take the same piece over and over again and still make it interesting, even when you don’t feel like straying too far from your personal style preferences. While we’re at it, I also wanted to use this mini lookbook to point out how fucking great Depop is! Literally everything in these outfits is from there apart from the shoes and the jewellery, the leather blazer on the right I bought a few years ago and then the top and skirt in the outfit from the far left which are both from Ebay. The shoes with that outfit are from Koi Vegan footwear-I didn’t include them in this list because I wanted to keep it consistent and focus on ethical clothing companies rather than retailers that focus on one specific thing such as shoes or jewellery, but they are my favourite place to buy shoes from and focus closely on ethical production too so definitely recommend.
2. MINGA LONDON
PRICE POINT: ££
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Towards the lower end of the ££ price point, Minga is probably the closest you’re gonna get to an ethical version of the Dolls Kill Deliah’s range. Their focus on being a socially responsible business is a huge part of their ethos and their pieces are put together in Portugal, where they're based, by a small in-house team; the majority of their fabric is sourced from local Portuguese businesses and even more amazingly, they recycle the fabric of the pieces they don’t sell in new designs. They are just a generally amazing company and I wish more people knew about them because their pieces are fucking adorable and wouldn’t be out of place (or overpriced) in your local UO.
3. ELSIE & FRED
PRICE POINT: £
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A small, black owned business set up by 3 siblings from Coventry, Elsie & Fred have earned themselves a reputation as a staple provider of the festival season wardrobe. Being an independently owned business, they have strict standards that their manufacturers must adhere to and a close working relationship with the owners of the two factories who oversee production in Guangzhou, China, to ensure fair wages and a safe working environment. On the environmental side of things, Elsie and Fred are working to incorporate recycled fabric into their designs as much as possible and have this year introduced compostable mailing bags.
4. HOUSE OF SUNNY
PRICE POINT: £££
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Follow enough British instagram fashion influencers and you are bound to have heard of House of Sunny in 2020-snagging what is probably my all time favourite coat from there in 2019 before all the hype is a humble brag I will allow myself on the basis that I haven’t been able to afford anything since, lol. Along with kooky, one of a kind designs, being decidedly anti-fast fashion is a huge part of their branding; HoS only drop 2 collections of limited stock a year, thoroughly screen suppliers and on their website you can find a tonne of information on how they’re working to offset their environmental impact too. If you can treat yourself to a piece from there at any point, the quality of the garments truly make the price point worth it.
5. JADED LONDON
PRICE POINT: ££
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Similarly to The Ragged Priest and House of Sunny, Jaded London go the route of dropping limited collections on a less frequent basis intending to sell out (particularly popular pieces are occasionally restocked) rather than needlessly manufacturing vast quantities of garments to flog for whatever they can get and cutting corners with fair employment practices to offset any losses. By employing independent staff in the manufacturing plants with which they liaise to ensure fair, dignified working conditions and also by working closely with charities such as the Trussel Trust and Stand Up to Racism, Jaded London demonstrates a level of commitment to corporate responsibility that set them apart from a lot of similar online retailers. They are at the top of their game when it comes to daring and experimental yet wearable pieces and so it’s cool that they recognise the need to conduct their business in a considerate way too.
6. THE HIPPIE SHAKE
PRICE POINT: ££
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Owned by UK based bohemian queen Naomi Hession, the Hippie Shake is not only a great small independent business to support but is also the definition of slow fashion. With a limited number of opulent 70s style pieces, I have always wanted to purchase something from here. I’ve yet to do so but I’m gonna make it my mission eventually.
7. VINTAGE HEARTS
PRICE POINT: £
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An affordable, gorgeous array of quirky handpicked vintage pieces that would probably take you forever to find in a charity shop or that you’d be charged a small fortune for if you found it in a high street second hand store, Vintage Hearts is where you should go if you want a timeless statement piece that may have otherwise ended up in a landfill. The added benefit of vintage clothing is that it is, by its nature, great for the environment, but you can also look fab and groovy as fuck as you do your bit for the planet<3
8. WE ARE COW
PRICE POINT: £
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Offering both original vintage pieces and reworked pieces using recycled fabrics, We Are Cow has both basic branded second hand items but also handmade streetwear style original designs all for a fair price. You can tell that it’s all high quality stuff consistent with their modern, functional aesthetic and it’s clear that the team behind the shop has a real vision in mind when they’re designing. 
9. OUT OF THE ORDINARY CLOTHING
PRICE POINT: £
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In the words of Corrie Davis, founder of OOTO "I start with the belief that fashion will be always be worn differently by the individual that wears it. Every collection from Out of the Ordinary is different to the last but undeniably Out of the Ordinary. I champion flamboyancy and embrace the cultures I've experienced around the world, merging the two and creating popular style trends in exciting textiles, prints and techniques to bring to you something a little Out of the Ordinary." That pretty much sums up the vibrancy, vivacity and bold elegance of the brand’s aesthetic perfectly, which is reflected by Davis’ commitment to ethical manufacturing based on relationships forged between the founders and family artisans and the sourcing of fabrics from textile markets around the world. Everything you need for a boujie summer holiday in the Mediterranean-when leaving the country is finally allowed again, lol, EVERYBODY GET YOUR FUCKING VACCINE-is here.
10. WILD THING
PRICE POINT: ranges from £-£££ depending on the brand
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Probs the closest thing you’ll get to an ethical ASOS, Wild Thing brings together a host of sustainable and independent clothing brands and puts them all in one place to present to us all a collection of the sickest festival style fashion out there. Whilst it’s super cool that this already exists and a slice of humble pie for myself to remind me that I am not in fact the revolutionary marketing genius I thought I was, I’m bummed to know that my idea of said ethical ASOS style website is already out there. Fingers crossed for the next grand money making scheme that comes to mind that I can use to distribute some wealth (yeah, there probably won’t be any because very few original thoughts enter my head, clearly, tehe) xoxo
11. SHOPFLUFFY
PRICE POINT: ££
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I know it’s 2021 and we all kind hate the idea of girl boss feminism and the connotations of privilege and exploitation that come with it but can we bring it back when we’re talking about women who embody what it was actually all supposed to be about? Because the owner of ShopFluffy, @lulutrixabelle embodies everything good about the term. Somebody who genuinely does (cue Ramona singer voice here) empower other women through her celebration of powerful female friendship and free spirited sense of personal style that should inspire every one of us to wear whatever the fuck we want (clashing patterns and over-accessorising be damned), Lulu handmakes all the designs on her site and very much places an emphasis on slow fashion by releasing only a few collections a year which you can clearly tell a lot of painstaking effort and talent went into. ShopFluffy is on the pricier side but the adorable crocheted coords LuLu specialises in, reminiscent of carefree childhood days and picnics in meadows picturesque enough to be the backdrop of a Jacquemus runway presentation, are a bold and beautiful expression of playful femininity worthy of departing with a bit more than you’d usually spend. After all, if you are gonna spend that money on a piece of clothing, supporting an ethical, independent woman owned business clearly built on carefully honed skill, passion and authenticity is the way to go.
12. SHOPEASYTIGER
PRICE POINT: ££
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It feels correct to follow up the ShopFluffy mention with ShopEasyTiger given the friendship between the former’s owner with Tigerlilly Winfield (is that not the most wonderfully storybook character sounding name of all time?), owner of Easy Tiger. Up there with my most revered style icons, Tigerlilly’s designs are as flamboyant and glamorous and daring and dramatic as her own personal style, and again, they are ethically made! If you want to get that psychedelic rock n’roll groupie that’s actually way cooler than the band itself kinda energy too, her shop is the place to start.
13. HOTTTRAMP 
PRICE POINT: ££
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Founded by the incredibly hot Belle_hott_tramp on Instagram, HottTramp is a collection of both handmade pieces and carefully selected vintage finds that blur the lines between 90s Courtney Love style grunge and 70s summer of love hippy that make me want to start my own all girl rock band and hire a camper van to paint black and road trip through the American desert. Given my complete lack of hand eye coordination, I’ll most likely never have the instrumental skills to do that but I never said it was a realistic fantasy, okay?
14. LAZY OAF
PRICE POINT: ££
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Is it just me that always thought Lazy Oaf was within the same kind of price range as The Ragged Priest? Because it’s a lottt more expensive than I thought. That being said, if you’re going for a playful, toned down Molly Goddard kinda look, anything bright and youthful, Lazy Oaf’s clothes 100% fit that brief. You are paying more, but part of that markup is reflected in their transparency when it comes to their ethical code, which includes ensuring that statutory minimum wage laws are adhered to in the supply chain as well as that all workers are of the legal working age for their countries and that their working hours do not exceed the legal limit. They are also steadfastly committed to donating a portion of their profits to charities dedicated to improving mental wellbeing such as Mind, Rethink Mental Illness, and Young Minds, something that is hugely important to me given my own experiences and the line of work I want to go into.
15. NEVER FULLY DRESSED
PRICE POINT: ££
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Similar in their aesthetic to Out of the Ordinary, Never Fully Dressed is big on colour, print, and elegance. They have both specially selected second hand pieces on offer and original designs too and the about us section of their website clearly states how passionate they are about their ethical manufacturing process, which takes place both here in the UK and in China.
16. TUNNEL VISION
PRICE POINT: ££
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Offering the dreamiest, one of a kind vintage 90s pieces, Tunnel Vision could just as easily be a grunge girl band come the craft themed moodboard as it is an online retailer. If the 90s isn’t for you-I mean, I don’t wanna question anybody’s taste levels but…-they also have the option of shopping by era, which I think is a really cool feature I wish a lot of irl vintage shops would incorporate.
17.  LOVE TOO TRUE
PRICE POINT: £
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Everything on Love Too True is fucking gorgeousss and it is no surprise that they manufacture their garments here in London because I feel their brand totally encompasses that stereotypical 90s East End punk vibe perfectly with a shit tonne of chunky boots and show stopping plaid pieces that makes my heart ache for a riot grrrl renaissance. Yes, when it comes to feminism’s place in mainstream culture, making sure the political goals and structural changes we’re aiming for are visible to all is by far the most important, but let’s have a resurgence of the grunge girl’s armour along with that and PLEASE let’s leave athleisure in the 2010s. No more Kardashian nude leggings, I beg (I AM being lighthearted, wear whatever you want! We’re not policing women’s clothes in this neck of the woods).
18. NINE LIVES BAZAAR
PRICE POINT: £££
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Eurgh. Nine Lives Bazaar. I want it ALL. Their clothes give me all the Etro, Zimmerman, Torey Burch, modernised Stevie Nicks vibes on a slightly more realistic budget, though unfortunately for me said budget just isn’t realistic enough. You would think pieces being ethically produced is just a given when it comes to clothes within this price range but that’s not necessarily the case and Nine Lives Bazaar is one of the ones you can trust to actually be considerate of their employees needs when it comes to their approach to business. To anybody who can afford to shop here, I am insanely jealous. The rest of us, for now, can just browse the website n feel the fantasy, channel a Valentina level of delusion and pretend it’s just the import taxes from Australia that’s holding us back from making a purchase.
-DEPOP SHOPS-
1. @HOUSE_OF_EROTIQUE
PRICE POINT: ££
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Everything handmade and latex and form fitting to make you the baddest bitch in the room, I’ve got myself a few pieces from this shop over the past couple of years. Customer service is a bit hit or miss and there’s been times when I’ve had to wait a while for my purchases to get to me but because they’re all one of a kind and custom made to fit, it’s worth it, and when they have messed up they were kind enough to add something to my order for free.
2. @SACREDHAWK
PRICE POINT: ££
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If you picture raiding the wardrobe of a biker gang, snatching the Coachella bound suitcases of the Revolve ambassadors at Palm Springs airport, and then jumbling all those clothes together, that’s probably your best bet at getting an idea of Sacred Hawk’s aesthetic. Formerly an ASOS concession, the brand is now available on Depop and is a collection of the most lavish glam grunge pieces, all vintage or reworked vintage. Some things are a bit on the pricey side but I would say they are all priced fairly considering how unique and ornate a lot of the pieces are, and I reeeeally wanna be able to say I own something from there one day.
3. @IDENTITYPARTY
PRICE POINT: £££
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I struggled with how to categorise this Depop shop in terms of price point because although there are some fairly low-priced pieces, the standouts are the vintage coats which are understandably a lot more expensive-if you want to fully immerse yourself in the Almost Famous Penny Lane fantasy, you’re gonna have to fork out a little bit.
4. @RETRO_RAIL
PRICE POINT: £££
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Retro_rail is of a similar vein to IdentityParty, in that the standout pieces are the vintage coats which are usually upwards of £100-if you’re looking for one-of-a-kind statement outerwear to invest in, I can’t recommend this shop enough. If you’re like me and you’re looking for something more within the £ to ££ price range, Retro Rail is still worth a browse as inspiration for the kind of styles you might wanna try and find elsewhere on Depop.
5. @5THSEASON
PRICE POINT: £
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Most of the quirky vintage pieces you’ll find on offer on this Depop shop are within the £25 to £40 price range and though you’ve got coats similar to those you’ll find on Identity Party and Retro Rail and they are sill slightly more than the tops and trousers and dresses on sale etc., they are more modestly priced than the other 2 listed.
6. @DREAMERSREBELS
PRICE POINT: £££
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Another v pricey one, dreamersrebels specialises in the daintiest, most whimsical 60s style co-ords I’ve ever seen. Handmade upon purchase, which in turn guarantees little textile waste, you can find the kind of pieces you’d expect to see on a 21st century incarnation of Audrey Hepburn, all the soft pastels and timeless, retro silhouettes you could possibly wish for. I mean, wishing is pretty much all I can do rn but anyone with a near minimum wage retail job knows you need something to aspire to, lol. I managed to budget enough to treat myself to a Selkie dress so I’m manifesting that same level of self-discipline to get me a dreamersrebels piece next.
7. @AWKWARDPHASE
PRICE POINT: £
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Very affordable vintage pieces that range from cutesy mid-century style dresses and coats to grungy 90s jackets, perfectly styled and presented too in a way that will have you wanting to order something for yourself to replicate that modern spin on old staples and give them a second life.
8. @EVIEHALLOWS
PRICE POINT: £
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Another Depop shop where the clothes are styled so well, it’ll have you thinking you can make anything from a floral 1950s housewife style cardigan to a lycra jumpsuit look very intentionally on trend.
9. @JAHOOLI
PRICE POINT: £
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There’s also Jahooli, which I will just say ticks all the same boxes as the other two aforementioned stores to avoid repeating myself.
10. @LOVELYANDLOVELESS 
PRICE POINT: £
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In terms of price, I would put Lovely and Loveless into the same category as Jahooli, Awkward Phase and Evie Hallows, the difference being that the clothes available are more on the dainty, classically feminine side. People who have a Pinterest board dedicated to the cottagecore or light academia aesthetic (whew, the gen Z is showing), this one’s for you.
11. @CHLOESTJOHN
PRICE POINT: £
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Finally, we have the ChloeStJohn Depop shop and it’s definitely a good one to end on; picture the wardrobe of Carrie Bradshaw if she’d lived in Camden instead of New York in the 90s and hung out with a slightly edgier crew than Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha and there you have it, the vibe of the pieces on offer. Does it belong to a girl who probs lives near Primrose Hill and has access to all the boujiest second hand clothes shops available which she most likely routinely raids to resell on Depop? Potentially, but hopefully not because I am very here for this whole red wine in one hand and a cigarette in another back when people were allowed to smoke inside bars aesthetic. I’m sorry that the gen Z part of me once again jumped out in such an aggressive fashion with that last sentence, but I know you know what I mean.
And that’s everything! 
I did wanna close off the post with a reminder of how nuanced a discussion this is-having the time and money to be more conscious about your ethical footprint when you’re buying clothes is in itself a privilege; fashion shouldn’t be an interest reserved for only those who have the means to pay extra or spend time scouring the internet. It’s also important to be aware of the lack of size inclusivity-a lot of the “trendy” sustainable fashion brands tend to not stock anything larger than a size 14 and attempt to deflect attention away from this by categorising clothes as either XS, S, M, or L, which is in itself a bit of a pisstake considering that 12-14 is the average clothing size here for women in the UK, and so in no way large. Shopping from Depop and Ebay is hard too when so many brands fail to understand how to fit a non-straight size body which in turn necessitates trying stuff on before you buy it, something that isn’t possible when you’re shopping second hand. A lot of Depop shops fail to offer returns and even with those who do, chasing up that return can be a time-consuming and generally all round frustrating process.
Basically, when we’re having these kinds of discussions it’s important to consider everyone’s situations and avoid sitting on some kind of high horse. I feel like things have become even more complicated lately- with the recent closure of once popular high street stores such as Topshop and Miss Selfridge, it has got me thinking a lot about just how many people’s income here in the UK is dependent on fast fashion retailers too and their popularity. The job scarcity resulting from these kind of closures, which are often all that is available to a lot of people with the demands of the job market seemingly becoming more and more impossible each day even for those who have been in higher education, is clearly an issue when the kind of support you can expect from the government as someone out of work is so woefully inadequate and likely to become even more so as the conservatives push for further cuts to UC and PIP. The past year has really shown us just how shaky the ground that an intensely capitalist society stands on is and how quickly everything can go tits up when we don’t invest in a safety net for those who are struggling. People seem to have realised more than ever the extent to which those whose jobs we deem “low-skilled” are actually the backbone of society, and yet even here, whilst the situation may not be quite as desperate as it is elsewhere, we still haven’t seen pay rises that reflect that. Turns out all the clapping WAS an empty gesture, who’d have thought it (for fuck’s sake)? Fair wages really are a global issue that starts with paying people enough for them to comfortably live on and in time should lead to a shift in consciousness away from the concept of profit before everything else and towards an equal playing field for everyone, something we should take every opportunity to speak up about and demand from our “leaders”, however shit a job so many of those leaders do. It’s frustrating how the focus on making ethical purchasing choices is so often on the overconsumption of things that women historically are more actively interested in such as clothes and accessories and make up when the reality is that the wealth of every industry titan on this planet, NOT just the ones who dominate the fast fashion sphere, depends on them continuing to get away with exploiting people-we should be looking at how we can show our dissatisfaction in all areas. Maybe I’m perpetuating that with this post, since a lot of the online retailers I mentioned only sell women’s clothing, but that being said, I’m not about to do men’s work for them, lol-they should make the effort, if possible, to research into sustainable clothing alternatives too.
Anyway, that’s the end of this post! If you read to the end, thank you so much! If I’ve made any errors in my research or there are more sustainable clothing brands that I could’ve mentioned, feel free to inbox me them too, and I can add them to this post if Tumblr allows. It’s usually a little bitch when it comes to editing long posts but I’ll try my best:) Again, thanks for reading! And if you are, I hope you are safe and well!
Lauren x
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notapaladin · 2 years
Text
you just gotta let it go (redux)
What makes a sickfic better? More snarky bitching about being sick, of course! Poor, poor Acatl.
Also on AO3.
Original version here
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The second day of an illness was the worst.
Granted, the first day had been no garden of roses either. Acatl had gone home at the end of his long working day (two vigils, several hours’ worth of investigations into a nasty murder near the markets, endless accounts to square away) to a hastily-put-together dinner and the comfort of his own mat, but he’d barely lain down for an hour before his guts had begun to cramp and the first swelling of nausea had begun to travel up his throat. He’d thought—hoped—that it would pass. He’d always had a reasonably strong constitution, after all. Perhaps it was merely the heat.
And then he’d started vomiting. Poison had been his first thought, and he’d wiped his mouth and tried to stagger to the door only to faint after a single step. Praise the gods for Ichtaca; the man had heard him groaning as he passed and had leapt into action, sending runners for a healing priest before he could even think about protesting. Not that he’d been doing much thinking by then, honestly—whatever he’d eaten had come back for revenge, and he’d been far too busy trying not to completely disgrace himself.
Or at least trying not to faint. Fatigue had dragged at every limb, threatening to pull him under entirely; he’d collapsed on the floor next to the basin Ichtaca had fetched for him, unable to rise even to his knees as bone-breaking chills had shuddered through him. He’d barely even had the strength to continue throwing up, though his stomach had left him little choice. Dull, twisting pain wormed its way through his guts, and each blink had lasted an eternity. He been so exhausted that he hadn’t wanted to open his eyes again. He might not have if fear hadn’t compelled him, if a cold spike of terror hadn’t whispered if you close your eyes you’ll never open them again, and then where will you be? Do you want so badly for Teomitl to weep for you when you leave him behind?
He’d thought of Teomitl’s smile, Teomitl’s warm words and steady hands, and forced himself to remain conscious. Ichtaca stayed by his side and that helped, but when the man had helped him wipe his mouth—and gods, how humiliating had that been—he’d been sick all over again at the question that hissed through his mind like an arrow. Am I going to die?
He served Mictlantecuhtli with all his heart, but he did not want to meet Him yet. Not with so much left unsaid. The thought that it might be entirely beyond his control had been terrifying; in a brief burst of energy he’d thought of asking Ichtaca to summon Teomitl, but fortunately he’d thrown up again before he could voice it, and that had erased such rank stupidity from his thoughts. It would only make things worse if he survived.
He’d still been retching when the priest of Patecatl had arrived.
At least it wasn’t poison, he’d thought bitterly when he’d gotten the diagnosis. But the sort of illness you got from food that had gone off was downright humiliating, and to make matters worse the only cure was rest and plain meals. Plain. No chili. No other spices. Barely even any salt. If he’d been able to contemplate food without feeling nauseous again, he would have been miserable; as it was, he was waking only to drink water and drag himself to the chamber pot.
Because apparently, even when whatever had been in his guts was now quite comprehensively out of them, it had left its mark behind. He was exhausted. Even his experience with the plague hadn’t left him feeling quite this flattened; each limb felt like the Great Temple had come down on top of it, and he could barely rouse himself from his mat. At least he wasn’t afraid of sleeping anymore. When he spoke, he slurred his words like a base drunkard.
And of course he was forced to speak, because he had visitors.
He was awoken shortly after dawn by the arrival of not one but two more priests of Patecatl. Their cloaks marked them as part of the upper echelons of their temple’s hierarchy, and so he managed not to actually snap at them when they entered. It felt like an achievement just to speak coherently. “Thank you, but I’m feeling much better—”
The older one gave him a stare so full of judgement that he shut his mouth with a pang; it reminded him too much of Ceyaxochitl. “We have to monitor your condition, Acatl-tzin. You are our High Priest for the Dead.”
There were times he truly took pride in being High Priest for the Dead at all hours, whether at a feast or standing by the side of a pyre. This was not one of them. I don’t stop being High Priest for the Dead, no matter how sick I am. He made a face, but grudgingly sat up a little straighter. Or how much I’d rather be left alone.
At least submitting himself to a full examination didn’t require him to do much except be manhandled, and the healing priests were coolly professional and not inclined to make small talk. It still tired him out, and when the younger priest—Cuetzpalli, apparently—began casting a spell to strengthen his stomach, he actually found himself dozing off. The cut-grass smell of Patecatl’s magic was remarkably soothing when you were more than semi-conscious for it.
“Acatl-tzin?”
He blinked awake. Cuetzpalli had stopped chanting and was eyeing him with mild concern as he offered a hand to help him sit up again. He ignored it; he was not so far gone that he couldn’t manage that, even if the motion made his muscles ache. “My apologies. What’s the verdict?”
Cuetzpalli didn’t seem fazed by his curtness. No doubt he’d seen much worse, though he was barely a few years older than Teomitl; healing priests saw people at their very lowest, after all, and an irritated High Priest probably wasn’t even worth noting. “No poison nor magic that we can detect. Your dinner seems to have simply...disagreed with you. You’ll feel...ah, reasonably terrible for a week or so, but you are in no danger.” His face twisted in singularly unhelpful sympathy.
Acatl’s fists clenched in his lap. A week? Duality, I cannot afford to be laid low for that long! Horrible visions of his temple in disarray and the boundaries crumbling like old paper flickered through his mind, and he fought a grimace. No. It would be fine. He would return to his duties tomorrow, suffer through bland food until his guts settled, and everything would be fine. “Hrm.”
“You’ll be alright, young man.” The older priest—Necalli—didn’t smile, but his eyes softened slightly as he looked him over. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”
He couldn’t make any promises, but he was spared from having to lie; their visit apparently being over, Cuetzpalli was packing up their supplies. Soon they had both left, bowing very politely, and he’d collapsed on his mat again. Some vague twinge in his belly suggested he should attempt food, but even fetching one of the bland flatbreads Ichtaca had left for him seemed like a monumental effort. No, he would just lay here for now until he felt...well, not better, but at least more alert. The angle of the sunlight shifted through his one window, and he watched it blankly.
He slept. He woke, found the ache in his stomach had progressed to actual pangs of hunger, and choked down a few mouthfuls of dry flatbread and a cup of water before his gorge rose in protest and he had to set the rest aside. His stomach had been emptier than this for longer. He’d be alright.
He slept again. Time ceased to have meaning. There was only the sunlight moving across his floor, the humid air laying on his skin like a blanket. He lay like a lizard on his back, gently baking in the heat.
And then the entry curtain jingled. “Acatl?”
Oh, gods. Mihmatini’s voice. Groaning, he heaved himself upright, muscles protesting. “Ngghhh...” At some point he’d closed his eyes, and once again it seemed to take real effort to keep them open. Duality, he hoped the healing priests had been right and it was only an ill-chosen meal, and not something more serious. Last night’s panic had faded, but it was far too easy to bring to mind just how very inevitable—how very immediate—his death had felt. Lord Death, he prayed, do not take me into Your arms yet.
She sounded concerned. He was sick of concern. “We brought soup.”
...We…? The thoughts floating through his head were slow to arrange themselves into a semblance of order, but finally he realized that she wasn’t alone and managed to wedge his eyes open properly. There was Mihmatini, brow furrowed, holding a clay jug in both hands. And beside her, face twisted in worry, was Teomitl. “...Oh.” Oh, no. Not you. He felt vaguely nauseous again, and not just from the effort of sitting up.
She didn’t wait for him to invite her in, or even to rise; he watched, still feeling three steps behind reality, as she set the jug down on his table and went looking for spoons. There was a degree of bustling involved that made him dizzy to think about. “I really can’t believe I had to hear from Ichtaca that you were ill, Acatl, really—do you know how worried I’ve been? Food poisoning is nothing to dismiss!”
“It’s passed.” It had. Mostly. He had decided against making any sudden movements.
“Nobody gets over food poisoning that fast.” That was Teomitl, leaning in the doorway and frowning down at him. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
He frowned back, even as some part of his heart felt unaccountably warmed; Teomitl’s concern might be touching, but by the Duality it wasn’t as though he’d tried to get sick. Besides, he was a grown man. He didn’t need to be fussed over, especially not when it might make him start hoping. “...I take care of myself just fine.”
Teomitl turned his face away, glowering at the wall as though it had insulted his honor. Acatl knew by the face he made that he was probably chewing on the inside of his lip plug again; he wondered, not for the first time, if Teomitl had ever realized he only did that when he was agitated. He hoped he didn’t. It was oddly endearing, and he’d miss the sight. “What did the healing priests say?”
He grimaced at the reminder. “Very plain fare. And sleep.”
Mihmatini uncovered the jug, and the odor of plain, hot, and—suddenly most important for his stomach, which growled loudly enough that he blushed—salty turkey broth met his nostrils. “Do you think you could keep this down?”
For his sister, he’d try. Slowly, he nodded. “...Thank you.”
He hadn’t expected them to linger, but—evidently realizing that he absolutely wouldn’t be able to finish all of the soup by himself—they took their own seats at his table. It was pleasant not to eat alone in his own house for once. Teomitl was uncharacteristically quiet and kept glancing at Acatl out of the corner of his eye; before he thought of commenting on it, Mihmatini spoke up. “How is it?”
He looked down at his bowl and realized with a start that he’d nearly finished it. Each lift of the spoon to his mouth had been like trying to move a boulder, but he’d clearly been hungrier than he thought. He briefly had to struggle to remember how to speak; even the muscles in his tongue felt tired. A blink lasted longer than he liked. “...It’s good. Did you make it?”
Mihmatini snorted, shaking her head. “From the palace kitchens. I’m not this good a cook.”
Teomitl huffed, “You’re a wonderful cook.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “And you are a shameless flatterer.”
“I am being perfectly truthful—tell her, Acatl!”
Acatl blinked again, discreetly pinching himself to stay awake. Passing out in his soup bowl wouldn’t convince his family he was hale. True, Mihmatini was a skilled cook—but it was equally true that no priest of Patecatl would prescribe her food for him. It had entirely too much flavor, and the way she made soup would put meat back on the bones of a corpse. “...He’s right. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m in no state to appreciate it at the moment.”
She looked supremely unimpressed. He could actually see the moment she swallowed a sharp retort and picked up her spoon again. “I can see that. You look awful.”
He had to admit she had a point; he felt awful. Eating had helped briefly, but as soon as it settled in his stomach he had to battle another spike of nausea. If he stopped leaning on the table, he had a feeling he’d fall over. “Thanks.”
Mihmatini sighed, pushing her now-empty bowl away. “I wish I could stay, but I have to get back to the Duality House.”
“Guardian lessons?”
She made a face. Acatl couldn’t blame her; she hadn’t told him much of what her unexpected ascension to Guardianship had entailed, but what little she’d let slip suggested it was unpleasant. If nothing else, she was having to learn in weeks what took most women years. He did not envy her. “Guardian lessons.”
Teomitl reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’ll see you later.”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, and for a moment Acatl was concerned. Had they had a fight at some point? But then she smiled, warm as always. “You’d better. Remember what we were talking about earlier.”
Teomitl swallowed hard and nodded. “Mm.”
And then she rose gracefully, favoring Acatl with that same narrow-eyed assessing look. “And as for you, you’d better take it easy. Ichtaca told us you collapsed a few times last night.”
It wasn’t like he’d made a habit out of it. Besides, the floor had been comfortable even with that nagging, irrational concern that he might fail to wake up. On a full stomach and with something approximating sleep under his belt, that fear felt ridiculous now. He glared back at her. “I’m not that sick. I’ve no intention of fainting on anyone.”
“Don’t worry.” Teomitl smiled, and the brief flash of radiant warmth made Acatl’s face heat. “I won’t let you.”
She sniffed, unswayed. “Hm. I’ll be back later to check on you.”
And then Mihmatini left, and they were alone. Acatl found, suddenly, that he couldn’t quite manage to look Teomitl in the face. The gods knew Teomitl had seen him injured before—had taken care of him, even, and Acatl knew he’d never forget confident hands bandaging his wounds or strong arms helping him to safety—but battle wounds were an acceptable form of weakness, one that struck down even the greatest warriors. It was entirely different to be ill and run-down in front of Teomitl, who valued strength so highly; a man who thought limits were for the weak surely couldn’t still respect him when he could barely muster the energy to stand. In a moment. In a moment I’ll get up and clear the table. I don’t need a—a nursemaid, Tlaloc’s lightning strike me. He just needed to brace himself and move slowly.
Teomitl beat him to it. He was already on his feet and clearing away the remnants of their meal when Acatl set a hand on the table to heave himself up; when he caught sight of the movement, he shot him a savage glare. “Stay still. I’ll handle it.”
He could force himself to his feet; he’d worked in worse conditions and through much greater pain. Nothing would ever be as bad as the plague had been. But somehow, it didn’t really seem worth it to argue. So he stayed where he was and prayed for patience, staring at the knotted pine grain of the table. It needed a wash. “...So you’re to keep me company, then?”
Teomitl turned to look over his shoulder at him, eyes dark and serious. “Someone should.”
He took a slow breath. Even through his exhaustion, the reminder of his state—that Teomitl looked at him and thought he shouldn’t even be left alone—stung bitterly. Even though he could be weak, came the treacherous thought. Even though Teomitl would let him. Would help him lay down, put his arms around him...no. He shook his head firmly, banishing those thoughts before they could make him remember what had come to him in the dead of last night’s pain. It was still hopeless, and he would not plead his way into Teomitl’s heart. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”
“I know you aren’t.” And then Teomitl smiled, teasingly innocent, and Acatl’s heart skipped a beat even as he continued, “But isn’t it the job of the student to tend to his master’s needs?”
His eyes narrowed. Irritation was starting to revitalize him; in some small part of his mind, he suspected this was Teomitl’s plan. “...And you aren’t my student anymore.” He hasn’t been since...the courtyard? No, before that. It just took me too long to see it. He is my friend, my brother-in-law, and one day he’ll be my Revered Speaker. But he’s not my student, and he shouldn’t have to take care of me even if he was.
The table clean, Teomitl sat down by him within arm’s reach but not touching. Acatl found himself glad for that; he wasn’t sure if he was alert enough not to give in to the absurd urge to lean against him. His former student’s shoulders looked appealingly solid. “And we’re all glad for that. But that doesn’t change the fact that you could use some company, if only for a distraction. I’m good at that.” A smile still tugged at the corners of his lips, warm eyes looking Acatl over. “Please?”
Oh, no. Not the please. It struck him harder than a physical blow, and he had to look away. Duality preserve him, he’d been right. Teomitl would let him be weak. And he’d thought his feelings would fade? That he’d be able to bury them forever? Gods, he was such a fool. It was a terrible time to be proven wrong. I should be stronger than this. “...I won’t...” He yawned, suddenly almost too tired to make his tongue work. The soup had only been a temporary boost after all. “I’m sorry. I won’t be a very good host.”
“...That’s alright.” Teomitl was gazing at him with fond exasperation, and he couldn’t bear it. “Rest, Acatl. I’ll be here when you wake.”
He couldn’t let that pass without comment, no matter how much that same small, treacherous part of him was warmed by the thought of companionship. “You have a job. Your own duties...”
Now Teomitl did reach over, putting a hand gently on his shoulder. It warmed him to his bones. “Over for the day. Lay down.”
He couldn’t do anything but obey. Even the simple act of sitting up and eating had wrung him out like a damp rag; he could have passed out on a bed of obsidian shards. His thin mat was a miracle in comparison, and he managed to keep his eyes open just long enough to watch as Teomitl settled down on his haunches and swept him with a slow, considering look. The thought that slid through his mind like a snake—gods, you could kiss me if you wanted—still wasn’t a match for the tides of dreamless sleep pulling him under.
When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was Teomitl’s back. It was, he thought idly, a very nice back; Teomitl had shed his cloak for the sake of the heat, and so Acatl had an excellent view of the line of his waist and the curve of his spine. There were no scars upon it, for he would never be one to willingly turn his back on a foe. The knowledge lifted his heart with a kind of soft pride. My fearless man. You who will lead Tenochtitlan to glory. I cannot wait to see what kind of Emperor you’ll make.
Then Teomitl stretched, back arching, and the affection curling gently through him sparked into something hotter and darker. Gods, he’d almost forgotten. He could go days now without thinking about the warmth of Teomitl’s voice or the strength of his hands, but here he was being viscerally reminded that they couldn’t be ignored forever. That the feelings which had sustained him through many long nights wouldn’t melt with the dawn. That not even what he’d thought with sharp terror would be his actual death could successfully smother them. Duality curse me.
He must have made a noise, because Teomitl turned to look at him. “Acatl? Ah, you’re awake. Do you need anything?”
His mouth had gone dry at some point. Swallowing didn’t help. “...Water.” If nothing else, it would be cold. He could use the cold.
Teomitl rose to fetch water, and he busied himself with trying to sit up. It took a few attempts as his heavy limbs fought his control, but by the time Teomitl returned he’d managed the disgustingly difficult task of rolling over. Teomitl’s hand between his shoulderblades steadied him as he heaved himself up the rest of the way, and for a long moment he drank in silence. His stomach felt better, but his heart didn’t.
It wasn’t until Teomitl took his hand away and sat down next to him that he found words. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”
Teomitl jerked away, glaring at him; for all that he’d only spoken the truth, Acatl still felt himself flush as he snapped, “Did you think I would leave you alone?!”
“It must be late.” It was. The afternoon sun had turned dim and gold, sinking into Teomitl’s skin and hair. Sunset couldn’t be far behind, and he would be well enough to properly offer blood to the gods again. There was no need for Teomitl to watch over him like a mother jaguar with cubs. But he wants to, because he cares about you, whispered his mind, and he took another sip of water to cool the heat of his skin.
“I don’t care.” Duality, and he growled like a jaguar, too. Though he huffily turned his face away, Acatl saw his hand twitch; it was all the warning he got before it came down to rest atop his own free one. “You stayed with me when I was ill, and that was contagious. Do you think I wouldn’t do the same for you?”
He couldn’t think. Teomitl’s hand was on his, callused and warm, and he was fairly sure all sensation in his body had been rerouted to that single point of contact. He was surprised he hadn’t dropped the cup, and managed to set it down before he could. “I...uh.” He was unconscious, deep in his delirium. I didn’t think he’d remember. Gods, I was so afraid he’d never even wake. But he did...and…
It seemed to take an eternity for him to dredge up a full sentence from the mire of his thoughts. “You don’t...have to...”
Teomitl’s voice held nothing but certainty. He might as well have been making a royal proclamation. “Yes. I do.”
“...Oh.” It seemed to be all he could say. There was more locked behind his teeth—you are the best of men, I don’t deserve you, you’re a reckless fool sometimes but that’s alright because you still hold my whole heart safe in your hands—but he didn’t dare open his mouth and let it fly out. If he started down that road, he’d never stop. And Lord Death had not seen fit to take him into His embrace last night, so a sudden and fatal relapse wouldn’t save him either.
For a long while, Teomitl was silent. Though he sat as still as a statue, the fingers covering Acatl’s own twitched as though he wanted to curl them around his hand. Finally, still without looking at him, he spoke. “Do you have any idea how I felt when I learned how sick you were?”
“I was not that sick—” he began.
Teomitl didn’t let him finish. “Yes. You were. Ichtaca was shaking when he told us you were finally keeping down liquids.”
He dropped his gaze to his lap. Mired as he’d been in his own terror, Ichtaca had felt like a rock beside him. He’d had no idea the man had been frightened too. “...Oh.”
“Oh,” Teomitl mimicked, a spark of nastiness in his voice that faded almost instantly to that tight, flat restraint. “You terrified us, Acatl. You terrified me.”
Storm Lord’s lightning blast him. He couldn’t even attempt a reassuring smile, for Teomitl’s words struck him to the core. Still, he mustered up the energy somewhere to make an effort. “I’ve felt worse than this and lived. You needn’t have worried.”
Teomitl swiveled around to glare at him, eyes hot and suspiciously bright. “Don’t say that! Don’t you know how important you are to me?”
“Ngkh.” He knew he was blushing again, but he couldn’t have torn his eyes from Teomitl’s face if his life had depended on it. It was one thing to be pretty sure Teomitl cared about him, but another thing entirely to hear it confirmed. “I...” I am High Priest for the Dead. His teacher. His friend. That’s all he means. “But...”
“No buts.” Teomitl shook his head, squeezing his hand tightly. There was a terrible tremor in his voice. “You have to take care of yourself, Acatl. Understand? I don’t...I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. I can’t lose you.”
His heart stuttered in his chest, and for a dizzying moment he thought he was going to faint again. “I know how you feel.”
“..Do you?” The bite of skepticism couldn’t quite hide that moment of hopeful hesitation.
He inhaled. “...Last night...” He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t. But Teomitl wasn’t saying anything; he was giving him the space to find his words. That made the difference, in the end. “Last night...I thought I was going to die.” He still wondered idly at the possibility, but it no longer filled him with heart-clenching fear. There was only one thing he would have regretted, after all. Now Teomitl was staring at him in horror, but he made himself press on. “And I thought of you.”
Teomitl’s eyes were wide, his fingers trembling. Now Acatl knew the expression on his face, that stunned sort of hope that didn’t quite dare to step into the sunlight yet. “Me?”
He nodded. Yes, you. Always you. “I thought—if I died here, I would never get to tell you that I—” But courage failed him, and he swallowed with a dry click.
Teomitl was still staring at him. Unfortunately, this didn’t let him off the hook. “That you what?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. It was a coward’s move, but then he had always been one, hadn’t he? Or else it wouldn’t have taken the fear of death to force the words out. “I love you,” he blurted out, and when Teomitl didn’t immediately react in rage or disgust he added, “I wanted to be sure you knew.” Even if you don’t love me back in the same way. Even if you’re about to break my heart, I’m giving it to you to break.
He heard a slow, deep breath. A shaky whisper of “Acatl,” more shock than outrage.
And then Teomitl kissed him.
His mind went entirely blank. There was only the soft pressure of warm lips on his, slow and careful and gods, so gentle. He had no idea what he was doing, but Teomitl clearly did; he tilted his head just so, parted his lips just a fraction, and Acatl was lost. Gods, he thought dizzily, I love you so much. Teomitl slid strong arms around his waist, and for a moment he thought that hold was the only thing keeping him upright. He wondered if it was possible to swoon just from a single kiss. Well, he was still ill. It might be.
When Teomitl pulled away, his eyes were shining. “I can hardly believe...Duality, Acatl.” He gave a little shake of his head, as though to express the utter impossibility of their situation. A wry little disbelieving smile tugged at his lips. “I was halfway to convincing myself to give up.”
Acatl blinked at him as the words rearranged themselves into something that made sense. His brain clearly wasn’t up to its full capacity yet, because Teomitl couldn’t have said what he thought he said. “You what?!”
Now it was Teomitl’s turn to blush. “I have wanted you for—gods, for years. I knew it was hopeless, but when I thought I would lose you...”
Things clicked slowly into place in Acatl’s mind. Passing glances, lingering touches, a hitched breath. Years, he said. Years. “...Does Mihmatini know?” He remembered her hard-eyed stare, the way Teomitl had looked almost nervous at whatever she’d said, and ice gripped his heart again. He wouldn’t be the cause of strife between them, no matter how much Teomitl made his heart race. He wouldn’t do that to her.
Teomitl drew himself up, glaring at him. He was still flushed, but Acatl judged it more embarrassment than guilt. “She does. Do you think I’d go behind her back, especially after the last time?” He didn’t have to elaborate. Things between him and Mihmatini had been so frosty for a few weeks that she’d practically spat when mentioning his name. Acatl wasn’t sure how they’d reconciled, but he was starting to get a few, somewhat embarrassing, ideas.
The ice was starting to thaw. He took one deep breath, and then another. If she knows, then... “Then...what she mentioned, about you two having spoken earlier...”
“You know how she is. She...suggested I consider the possibility of mentioning my feelings a while ago.” Knowing Mihmatini, suggested was probably far too polite a word. Teomitl quirked up a smile and added, “But I wasn’t expecting you to beat me to it.”
He found it much easier to breathe when he knew he wasn’t ruining his sister’s marriage. “After last night...I had to let you know. In case fate saw fit to separate us. I didn’t want to die without telling you how I feel.”
Teomitl’s gaze had softened like melted wax, and it was just about as hot. “Maybe you should tell me again.”
His heart kicked within his chest. Feeling suddenly bold—he’d come this far, after all—he shot back, “Why don’t I just show you?” Even raising the possibility of what such a demonstration might entail made him blush all over again, but...well. Teomitl deserved to know the full truth of his feelings, and honesty had already brought him great rewards. I took vows of chastity, of celibacy. I would break them all for you if you asked. Gods, I would break them all if I thought you might ask.
For a moment, Teomitl simply stared at him—face flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes heated—and Acatl knew he was going to be kissed again. Knew it and welcomed it, lingering illness be damned. He would figure out a way to be kissed by Teomitl if he were dead.
And then he grinned teasingly and murmured, “Then you’d best focus your energies on getting well again, hadn’t you?” and Acatl had to stifle an urge to groan.
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thorinthehottotty · 4 years
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Dwemer or Dwarrow - Part 1
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A/N: Based on semi-true events in my skyrim.
Summary: Thorin's found himself in skyrim. These are his adventures.
Warnings: cursing
"Honestly, I've always been told the Dwemer were extinct," you offer gently, not wanting to offend the small man.
"We are called Dwarrow where I'm from," he snarls through his perfect teeth.
"Dwarrow?" You repeat and nod. "Alright fair enough." You turn back to the fire, twisting the salmon on your spike slowly. It's an awkward silence for a long moment as he stews in his rage.
Finally, he breaks it. "What happened to make them go extinct here?"
"To be honest, I'm not sure. Dwemer- ah, er, Dwarrow ruins, don't sit well with me. Draugers I can handle, the damn machines are a pain in the ass to destroy."
"Machines?"
"Yeah. Your people are quite the craftsmen. Protecting their secrets even after their fall. I peeked at some crossbow schematics that I retrieved for an acquaintance back in the Dawnguard."
"Dawnguard?"
"Vampire hunters." Thorin sighs. In his world there were no such thing. His first occurrence with them enough to make him hate them like the folk of Skyrim.
"I'd like to visit some of these ruins," he admits. You give him a groan and a glare.
"I didn't sign up to be your tour guide, ya know," you puff out. In good conscious, you couldn't abandon him to that fate. "Whatever. I'll take you."
"Where is the capital for these ruins. We should start there." You wince at that.
"Ohhhh... About that..." You trail off, glare turning sheepish.
Thorin raises an eyebrow, preparing for your next words, but somehow, he was never prepared. Next you'd be telling him that the city had sunken into the Earth like a living fortress.
"I'm kind of wanted in Markarth, like... Really, really badly wanted."
"By the guard? Or those cultists that are after you? Or the Thalmor?" It was too hard for him to keep up with everyone who wanted you dead. It might be easier to list off the ones who were your friends. Between the shifty cat folk that often deal potent moonsugar potions and those uglier than normal elves, Thorin thinks he'll keel over from a heart attack before he gets home.
"The city guard, there was an... Incident."
With a sigh, Thorin lowers his head into his hand. He murmured something in his native tongue. "What's the bounty on you there?" When you didn't answer, Thorin glances to find your lips pursed as you focus on the fish cooking over the fire. "Y/N."
"Well... Something like... Ten thousand gold?" Thorin is baffled by this.
"TEN THOUSAND GOLD!? WHAT IN MAHAL'S NAME DID YOU DO? DEVOUR CHILDREN?"
"No!" You protest weakly, "it's a long story."
"Well, start telling it."
You give a whine and finally seem to decide your food is finished. "Alright. So the moment I enter the city gates, there is an inn and a two little shops. This man sweeps in out of no where, murders a woman, and then I kill him. People are going on about the Forsworn, hysterias breaking out, its a mess." Thorin settles in, knowing you're on your way for another dramatic rendition of your life. "This guy comes up and gives me this note that I 'dropped', obviously I didnt. It tells me to meet him at the Shrine. I get stopped on my way to meet him by this priest. We break into some abandoned house that's been used for something weird- aaaaaand that's not that important, I get it. Deadra, blah, blah, murder, blah, blah, I won the gods favor by beating this jackass priest screwing with his shrine, the works."
He hates to admit but he finds her stories pretty amusing. Even the dark ones.
"So turns out the city is corrupt. I got framed for murder. Befriended the Forsworn king and his enormous orc bodyguard in prison. Shivved a guy. Broke out of prison, accidently killed a guard. Then I had to kill a whole bunch of guards. And now everytime I go back my bounty goes up a lot."
"Why don't you pay your crimes off. You've got plenty of money."
"I was saving it for a house in Markarth, thank you." Thorin gives a groan of frustration.
"You have two houses already, just serve your time. Besides, how are you supposed to buy a house in a city you're wanted in?" She purses her lips at him, looking like she's debating smacking him. His 'tour guide' was his best hope for navigating this strange and dangerous world.
"If I go back, who's to say you're not going ot ruin into some dangerous ruins by yourself." The two of you glare each other down for a long moment. You emphasize your point by biting into your salmon.
Thorin debates for a moment. Despite everything, you'd proven yourself in many ways. A talented warrior, a good friend, and proved to be tender hearted. Truly you were a problem solver. He wasn't the only one you'd helped. He watched you give children homes, help perfect strangers and even stop to help farmers. You were always his best option. Yes, he wanted to go home as soon as possible, but getting there unscathed would be where his problem lie.
"I suppose your right. I'd really prefer not to go back to jail. Everyone wants to fight the dovakin, you know? Especially in prison." You laugh to yourself and he frowns.
"Dovakin?"
"You know... Dragonborn?" Thorin feels a deep sense of unease fill him at that title.
"I do not." You pulled a face, something akin to embarressment.
"You're not going to like this..." You nibble lightly on your salmon, avoiding his gaze. All he was imagining now was you birthing his child covered in scales. Did he say his? No. No, he did not. "So... I am the first one in centuries, but I have... dra...ood."
"Do not mumble." You wince and glance up at him.
"I have dragon blood."
"What does that mean?" He demands, glaring you down.
"I am born with the natural ability to shout." He'd heard that term before. He was unsure he understood it's full meaning. "The dragons have their own language. Each of their words give me the ability to do each of them. You could potentially learn them too but it takes years."
"So any new word you learn you gain magic automatically?"
"It's not so simple..." You turn fully toward him, looking ashamed. "I... I have to absorb a dragon soul for each word..." He watches you, unsure of how to react.
"Absorb?"
"I HAVE TO EAT A DRAGON SOUL OKAY? IT JUST KIND OF SUCKS INTO MY BODY LIKE LOUD LIGHT AND THEN I CAN DO SHIT OTHERS CAN'T!" Oh... That was... Different. Though he's more curious than angry now and his slow nod seems to relax you.
"Like what?" You sigh and stand up.
"This is the most basic I can show you. It's called unrelenting force," and you turn away, a deep breath in an then... You shout.
He can even see it, the edges glowing blue with magic. It's loud, like thunder clapping in his face and when it hits a dead tree the trunk breaks apart, the whole thing falls, crumbling down. He's awed, finding himself smiling.
He'd never been so attracted to anyone. Here you were, a dragon-soul-eating, prison-breaking, big hearted moron dressed in dragonbone armor and dear god was he falling in love with you.
"I normally don't shout for people, consider yourself lucky," you pout, dropping down onto your log and nibbling disinterestedly at your food.
"What other shouts do you have?"
Taglist: @tomisbaeholland @dabisburntnut @fizzyxcustard @queenofmankind @saviorsong @dumbassunderthemountain
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ancientechos · 4 years
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Laurelis’ Never-Ending Survey
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Rules: Repost, do not reblog
Tagged by: @whitherliliesbloom
Tagging: @iona-xiv​ + anyone else who wants to do it!
BASICS.
FULL NAME: Laurelis Thyme
NICKNAME: ---
AGE: 22
BIRTHDAY: 28th Sun of the Third Umbral Moon (March 28)
ETHNIC GROUP: Sun Seeker Miqo’te
NATIONALITY: Thavnairian
LANGUAGE/S: Common
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Heterosexual
ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Heteroromantic
RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Taken by Haurchefant /// maybe single based on AU
HOME TOWN / AREA: Limsa Lominsa....
CURRENT HOME:  ....but has an apartment in The Lavender Beds
PROFESSION: Adventurer, odd jobber, medic.
PHYSICAL.
HAIR: Pink. Mid-length, usually fashioned with bangs.
EYES: Left eye is silver, right eye is violet.
FACE: Oval.
LIPS: Pink, semi-full, usually wears slight lipstick.
COMPLEXION: Pale.
BLEMISHES: None.
SCARS: Present.
TATTOOS: None.
HEIGHT: 5′1″
WEIGHT: 110 ponze
BUILD: Slender but muscular and wiry, athletic.
FEATURES: Bright eyes, a perpetual smile, miqo’te marks on her cheeks and forehead.
ALLERGIES: None.
USUAL HAIR STYLE: Bangs, along with two pigtails and side-bangs framing her face.
USUAL FACE LOOK: Typically wears natural or very mild makeup.
USUAL CLOTHING: “Anything cute!” She’s addicted to glamour prisms and adores trying new styles and outfits.
VOICE CLAIM: Japanese: Probably Touyama Nao, at least the sort of voices she uses for Yuigahama Yui and Kirisaki Chitoge (minus the tsun tone). English: Whoever does female miqo voice 4.
PSYCHOLOGY.
FEAR/S: Losing those she loves, being useless, being powerless
ASPIRATION/S: To save everyone!, to be seen as competent, to open a soup kitchen
POSITIVE TRAITS: agreeable, persevering, cheerful, empathetic, loyal, patient, caring, optimistic, reliable, generous
NEGATIVE TRAITS: stubborn, overemotional, overprotective, oversensitive, clingy, naive, impulsive, reckless, materialistic, insecure
TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine MBTI: ESFJ or ENFJ
SOUL TYPE/S: The Priest, The Server
ANIMALS: Cat  Horse
VICE HABIT/S: Refuses to speak her mind if it seems “personal”, won’t acknowledge negative emotions, fidgeting with her hair or fingers.
FAITH: None.
GHOSTS?: Well, if there are any, we have to help them, right? There must be a reason they’re still around after all!
AFTERLIFE?: Maybe...
REINCARNATION?: She’s never really thought about it, but perhaps. It would be nice, at least. ALIENS?: A-aliens?! Huh...t-that’s a weird thought...maybe...she’s never thought of that, either...
POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: None.
EDUCATION LEVEL: Mid-level.
FAMILY.
FATHER : A jewelry merchant, money-conscious and warm, somewhat reclusive but would never turn down a conversation. A mathematician, extremely good with keeping track of sales and his own spending.
MOTHER : A clothes merchant. Sews her own merchandise and takes custom orders. Quite a spendthrift herself and enjoys going to parties and dancing. Had a brief start as a singer before an accident made her anxious of taking the centre stage.
SIBLINGS : None
EXTENDED FAMILY: None
NAME MEANING/S: Thyme symbolizes courage and deep affection.
HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: None
FAVORITES.
BOOK: Probably a cooking book.
DEITY: Nophica
HOLIDAY: Starlight Celebration because she gets to give everyone she loves gifts.
MONTH:  Whenever spring starts.
SEASON: Spring
PLACE: Her home.
WEATHER: Sunny and warm, not too cold and not too hot
SOUND / S: The voices of those she loves, crackling of fire, quills on parchment
SCENT / S: The smell of cooking or baking, especially cookies or stew; lilacs
TASTE / S: Sweet things, savoury things
FEEL / S: Warmth from fire, soft blankets, chocobo feathers
ANIMAL / S: D-does she have to choose? Hmm...otters!
NUMBER: 7!
COLORS: Green, especially mint green
EXTRA.
TALENTS: Cooking/baking, sports, mathematics, domestic chores
BAD AT: Being creative, managing money, saying “no”, controlling her emotions
TURN ONS: Kindness, loyalty, gentleness, perseverance
TURN OFFS: Sadism, choleric behaviour, anyone argumentative, violence
HOBBIES: Shopping, cooking/baking, domestic chores, sports
TROPES: Plucky Girl, The Reliable One, The Chosen One, Girly Bruiser, Honor Before Reason, Wide-Eyed Idealist, Skilled But Naive, Barrier Warrior, Martyr Without A Cause, The Fashionista, The Heart
QUOTES : “People only do bad things because they don’t have any other choice.”
MUN QUESTIONS.
Q1: If you could write your character your way in their own movie, what would it be called, what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?       A1: Hmm...she’s more likely to be a side character than a main character, but if she were a protagonist, the movie is probably going to be something about saving the animals or building a shelter or something ambitious like that.
Q2: What would their soundtrack/score sound like?           A2: A lot of pop and happy music. Q3:  Why did you start writing this character?         A3: Because I heard a song that inspired me to create a character with a personality somewhat like hers...and as I developed her more and thought of her more, Laurelis was born.
Q4: What first attracted you to this character?         A4: Her enormous heart and contagious optimism. 
Q5: Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse. A5: I too-often have second doubts wondering if she’s mary sue-ish or perfect. Q6: What do you have in common with your muse?           A6: We’re both stupidly overemotional, though she’s definitely a more extreme version.
Q7: How does your muse feel about you?          A7: I’m not sure. I guess she’d think I needed someone to cheer me up. Q8: What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with?       A8: Illya, a lalafell girl she met soon after coming to Eorzea. After numerous attempts from Laurelis’ side, they became friends, travelling together as the FFXIV story unfolded and become best friends. Q9: What gives you inspiration to write your muse?     A9: Music. My love for her. Q10 : How long did this take you to complete?   A10 : Much too long tbh.
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vdssfdsf · 5 years
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ST. JOHN ALLERDYCE  AKA PYRO 
YOU ARE A GOD AMONG INSECTS. NEVER LET ANYONE TELL YOU DIFFERENT.  
BACKSTORY
based on x-men movies + headcanons. ( tw exorcism, burn injuries. )
CHILDHOOD + BEFORE X-MEN
ST. JOHN ALLERDYCE was born to a poverty-stricken catholic family. he began to help out the family at very young age, working every small job he could get in their neighborhood for some buck — mowing lawns, walking dogs, cleaning pools, etc. due to the constant struggles they faced, st. john’s father entered a life of crime to provide for the family. his father ended up in prison but even after the sentenced was served, he never returned to the family. as the oldest of his siblings, st. john became the “man of the house” at a very young age and juggled responsibilities his mother had given him as she worked multiple jobs. 
st. john’s mutant abilities first manifested when he was thirteen years old. his mother was at work when he had to cook dinner for his siblings and an accident caused a fire that quickly engulfed half their kitchen. he called 911 and quickly tried to stop the fire by himself to prevent further damage but to no avail. as the firefighters seemed to take their time, st. john was scared for the outcome of possibly losing their home. it was the only property they own and losing it would mean life in the streets. afraid for his family and all out of options before the fire spread more, st. john yelled and cried for the fire to stop — and it did. the fire was gone instantaneously and although their kitchen was still in ruins, at least their family weren’t harmed nor end up in the streets.
upon realizing that he might be a mutant, st. john quickly began to practice his abilities in secret  — he couldn’t generate fire on his own but he could manipulate it to do whatever he desired. however, st. john’s own mother turned on her son when she discovered his son playing with his constructs of fire one day and believed his son to be possessed by a demon that could harm his siblings. despite st. john attempting to explain that he was a simply just a mutant, she immediately brought him to their church and asked the priest to exorcise st. john. angered by his mother’s unsound fear of him and the priest’s attempts to exorcise him through prayers while he was strapped down on a bed, st. john had no choice but to utilize his powers to free himself, producing a blaze from the priest’s lit cigarette and manipulating the flames as he desired, st. john burned off his straps and everything around him. although spared, his mother and the priest suffered burns and injuries from incident which prompted authorities to arrest st. john. 
sent to juvenile detention, charles xavier managed to negotiate st. john’s release, with a condition to his parole that he must live and study at xavier’s school for gifted youngster to further learn how to control his mutant abilities. his mother also wrote him a letter that he was never to come home and see his siblings again. 
XAVIER’S SCHOOL FOR GIFTED YOUNGSTERS
st. john started off as aloof and unfriendly, until he met classmate, bobby drake. although they seemed to be opposites, the two boys managed to get along well --- with bobby often being st. john’s impulse control, while st. john always encouraged bobby to take more risks and be less self-conscious. st. john grew an attachment to bobby, often feeling jealousy whenever the other boy would give others more attention --- especially since he considered bobby as his only real friend and best friend. 
despite a better life in xavier’s school than he ever had anywhere else, st. john grew increasingly paranoid as mutants continued to be feared, threatened, or killed for simply existing as they were. afraid that charles xavier’s pacifist nature wouldn’t protect them once the anti-mutants come for them. st. john thought long and hard about joining magneto’s brotherhood. and once he made a decision, he asked bobby drake to come with him but the other declined, creating a rift between the friends. 
BROTHERHOOD
upon joining the brotherhood, st. john felt less inhibited and unlocked great potential within his powers that he would have never been able to if he stayed at school --- where the use of his powers where regulated due to its destructive tendencies. supplied with magneto’s ideology of taking back their liberties from their human oppressors, st. john became a vehement member of the group and took small leadership roles where he could.  
after losing magneto and numerous brotherhood members to thanos’ snap, st. john decided to join an alliance with the avengers to bring back the ones they lost. this decision also reunited him the x-men and former classmates. but he knew that once they saved magneto and all the mutants they lost to the decimation, he’d never take orders again from the avengers. 
POWERS
PYROKINESIS: st. john has the psionic ability to cause any fire, however small, to increase or decrease in size, heat, and intensity and to take any form that he desired, even that of a living creature. he can cause walls of fire, streams of flame that can effortlessly disintegrate normal men, and cause fiery explosions even just from barely burning ashes of cigarette or small sparks.
he can psionically manipulate the flame to do whatever he imagines, and sometimes induces it to take semi-solid form as an animate flame being (these creations, though capable of movement and of grasping or carrying solid objects, are not alive and do not think or act on their own). for example, if he causes a fire to take the form of a gigantic bird of prey, he can mentally direct the "bird," to fly and attack a victim. the degree of pyro's concentration necessary to manipulate a flame construct is directly proportional to the construct's size, power, and flame.
pyro’s abilities are only limited by his concentration, imagination, and inability to generate his own fire. pyro is also invulnerable to any fire that he places under his psionic control. however, he can be harmed (just as any ordinary human would be) by any fire that he does not mentally control. 
one of his biggest weaknesses is that he is unable to produce fire of his own. initially, he would carry a lighter to compensate. but after joining the brotherhood, he was given dual wrist-mounted flamethrowers by magneto. 
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mentalmimosa · 5 years
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i hate this, but i love this, too
Prompt: If we're going to die, then dammit, let's go out with a bang. Prompt from this generator.
In Tony’s defense, he was sure they were toast. Not that he didn’t have faith in his own ingenuity or Cap’s strategic application of fists, but the circumstances they were staring down demanded a hell of a lot more than their powers combined.
Which was why, he tells himself, sitting in a cave at the center of an actively dying planet, they were part of, you know, a team . And if said team hadn’t fucked off to parts unknown chasing the space serpent (seriously) who had knocked this planet from its axis in a fit of intergalactic pique and left Tony and Steve to solve what had seemed at the time the more straightforward problem of saving the world’s inhabitants from smashy doom, they wouldn’t be in this position, he and Steve; wouldn’t be trapped under miles of rock wrapped in the small comfort of having saved everybody else’s day except their own.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says somewhere in the dark.
“For what?”
“We shouldn’t have gone back for their book. We should’ve pushed off with the last transport, like you wanted to.”
Tony squints across the space, seriously missing his visor, wishing his visual interface hadn’t been so FUBAR’d by the fall. “Steve, hey. Don’t do that. Self-flagellation in this particular situation is 100% not helpful.”
A deep sigh. “I should’ve told their priest no. I should’ve said we’re leaving now and that’s it.”
“Maybe. But I understand why you didn’t.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. I saw the look on zur’s face. Or faces, what have you. That book was important to zur, these beings’ equivalent of the Ark of Turin or the Shroud of the Covenant.”
Steve chuckles. “I think you’ve got those backwards.”
“Probably. Point is: zur asked and you said yes.”
“And you came with me.”
“Exactly!” Tony slaps his hands in the dirt. "So if I’m going to die here because of your do-gooding heart, it’s totally my own fault.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“Look, where are you, Rogers? I know you and your super soldier peepers are fine, but I’m struggling in all this dark.”
He hears a rustle from across the ways, the shuffle of steps, and then Cap is settling down at his side, close enough so their shoulders sort of touch.
“Is that better?”
“Yeah,” Tony says, “much.”
They sit for a while, breathing steady, listening to the groan and crack of the world all around them.
“So we’re going to bite it here, huh?”
“Yeah,” Cap says. “It looks like. You’ve got no juice left in your suit.”
“Nope. And even you can’t punch your way through miles and fucking miles of weird outer space rock.”
“Not today, no.”
“Huh,” Tony says. “So. There’s something I should probably tell you. Since we’re about to be crushed to death and all.”
He can feel Cap turn towards him. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“I have had the most goddamn stupidest crush on you for...hell, for years.”
“You--you what?”
Tony laughs, laughs, because what else can he do staring down the barrel of his own mortality with the bane of his existence/the love of his life about to bite it by his side? “Steven Grant Rogers, I’ve wanted to climb you like a tree since practically the first day that we met.”
Steve snorts. “As I recall, you spent most of it yelling at me; challenging me every two seconds and generally being an ass. That the day you’re talking about?”
“Duh,” Tony says. “God, you really are sucky at this stuff, aren’t you?”
There’s an edge to Steve’s voice now. “How so? And sucky ? That’s not a word.”
“It is, too, and I was bitching at you for two reasons: one, you were wrong; and two: you were so fucking gorgeous even while being wrong that I didn’t know what to do with myself.”
“Other than to yell. Is that it?”
“Basically, yeah. And I wasn’t yelling. I just wasn’t kowtowing. I can understand how you’d be unable to distinguish the difference, what with all the smoke Fury was blowing up your ass.”
“You,” Cap says, edging toward a head full of steam, “are such an arrogant asshole sometimes, Tony, you know that?”
“No shit. But usually with good reason.”
“No,” Cap snaps, “arrogance is your default. Deliberation, consideration: they’re your Kryptonite, Stark.”
“Bullshit. I consider plenty; it’s just the longer that I do, the less likely I am to agree with you. Doesn’t mean I don’t still think you’re hot.”
Steve’s breath hitches like a record scratch. “What the hell.”
“It’s fine,” Tony says, spreading his hands through the shadows, through the close and hollow dark. “Look, I’m just trying to clear my conscious here at the end of my life, but if you don’t want to hear about it, fine. I’ll let you live your last minutes in relative peace.”
“I can’t believe this is what we’re talking about.”
“It’s not. Forget it.” Tony’s face feels hot, a heat that curls up and over his ears, and damn if he’s going to waste his last breaths on feeling embarrassed, god. So he said a thing he shouldn’t have, admitted something that in any other circumstances, even Doom couldn’t drag out of him, and Steve’s shot him down pretty fucking spectacularly, and yes, every part of his brain that told him so, you were right, he was wrong, ok? “Jesus, Cap. Forget I said anything.”
“If it’s all the same to you,” Steve says, stern and gravel, “I’d rather not.”
Then his hand’s on Tony’s neck, a warm, solid cuff, and he’s pulling, turning Tony’s body until they’re curled into each other, face to face.
“It wasn’t day one for me,” Steve says. “Probably more like day 200 and something. But regardless, I don’t want to kick the bucket without laying one on you at least once.”
There’s a semi-hysterical bubble in Tony’s throat-- lay one on me? thanks, Grandpa--but only semi because when Steve kisses him, opens that broad, soft mouth above and then into his own, that sound drowns in the rush of Steve’s breath, the eager noises he makes when Tony goes all in and kisses him back.
There are rocks jamming into his shoulders and poking him in the thighs and the knees. What’s left of his armor is busted and he’s got bruises everywhere, big ones, the kind that’d turn yellow if given time, but time’s what they don’t have and Steve more than makes up for it. Even through the shield of his suit, Tony can feel every twitch of his muscle, every shudder, especially when Tony snags the thick curve of his hip and bites at the swoop of Steve’s lower lip.
“Oh, god,” Steve groans, “oh, god, Tony. Come on.”
Tony laughs, rubs the sound against Steve’s fevered cheek. “Not going anywhere, big guy, believe me. Right now, I’m all yours.”
That gets him yanked into Steve’s lap, gets Steve’s hands tucked under the swell of his ass, and Tony might be ashamed of his own impatience, the way he leans back into that solid steel grip even as he rocks his hips up, looking for friction, except that they’re dying, are soon to be crushed, and fuck if he can’t think of a better way to go that with his tongue in Steve’s mouth and his dick winding up and up towards stiff.
“Fuck,” he hisses between kisses, “I’m sorry I never got to ride your cock. I bet you’ve got a pretty one, don’t you?”
Steve claws at his ass, at the base of his back. “It’d look even prettier sinking inside of you.”
“Yeah? You think about that a lot?”
“Mmmm. Yes.”
Tony traces his tongue around the edge of Steve’s mouth. “When?”
“When did I think about fucking you?” Steve asks.
“Yeah.”
There’s a roar above them, the close shatter of rock, and they press together tighter, try to drown out the world inside the circle of each other’s arms.
“Any time you were mad at me, or I was pissed at you.”
Tony grins. “So all the time, basically.”
One of Steve’s hands snakes up his back and forms a fist in Tony’s hair. “Uh huh. You’d say something infuriating and I’d have to stop myself from marching over and licking all that stupid from your mouth.”
Something in Tony goes jelly. “Oh, fuck.”
“It was better when we were with people,” Steve rasps, “but god, when we were alone, you don’t know how many times I had to stop myself, how many times I had get away from you and get a hand on myself and think about coming all over your face.”
“That’d shut me up, is that what you thought?”
Steve laughs. “Hell, no. I knew it wouldn’t. Even if you had my cock in your mouth, you’d still be running it, still me telling me all kinds of shit with your eyes.”
“And if you fucked me,” Tony says, “god only knows what would come out of my mouth.”
Cap tugs on Tony’s hair until their lips are flush, until they’re panting between each other’s breaths. “I hate that I’m never going to find out.”
It’s dirty and it’s wistful and Tony can’t help but kiss him for that, try to taste it, that strangle combination that is Steve like this, somehow both filthy and sweet.
“Tony?”
“What, honey?”
Steve bites gently at his chin, at the rough line of his jaw. “I think I could’ve let myself fall in love with you, if I’d given myself the chance.”
“Oh,” Tony says and lets it slip, the biggest confession of all; but hey: certain death, so fuck it. “Oh, god, Steve. Me, too.”
A pleased little hum. “Yeah?”
“Uh huh.”
Their mouths find each other again and the kiss is different this time, deeper, slow and unhurried despite the screeching of the cavern around them, the unmistakable snow of crushed rock tumbling down from above.
“I hate this,” Steve whispers. “But I love this, too. God, Tony. I’d never have guessed.”
There’s a prick at the edge of Tony’s eye, something that feels too much like a tear. “Well, now you don’t have to. Now you can go off to Valhalla or whatever with your mind at ease.”
“No,” Steve says, the split second before a gut-wrenching roar brings the planet down on their heads, “but at least I’ll know what I missed.”
***
Except, of course, the roar is not the planet biting it.
It’s Thor. Thor and War Machine and a whole army of suitbots, descending on them in a loud, rock-shattering storm.
Which, hurray, means they’re not dead.
Which--oh shit. Means they’re not dead.
*****
“I don’t really know how to say this,” Tony says, hovering at the edge of Steve’s door, after; contusions tended to, showers taken, a solid 12 hours of sleep behind him. “But I meant every goddamn word.”
Steve freezes. Looks up from his desk like a startled cat, pencil poised over thin air. “You did?”
Uh oh. “Yeah,” Tony says, doing his best not to bristle. “Didn’t you?”
The pencil keeps hovering. “I can’t believe you have to ask that.”
“Well, dying declaration and all that. I didn’t want to, you know. To assume.”
“You seemed--when we rescued, you seemed uneasy with me. With the whole thing.” Steve’s face is still now, an uncertain mask. “You didn’t look at me on the way back.”
Tony flushes. “Steve, we’d just gone from certain death and dying love to a Macy’s Day Parade saving ours lives. Forgive me for not being super chatty. I was kinda overwhelmed.”
“So was I. That’s why I wanted to be close to you. Hold your hand, put my arm around your shoulders, something.” Steve looks away. “But it seemed pretty clear you wanted me to steer clear.”
“I didn’t want you to steer clear forever, Rogers! God. I just couldn’t--” Tony runs a hand over his face. “Jesus, I was embarrassed, ok?”
“Why?”
“Why? Seriously, why? Because I’d just dumped my heart out all over the ground like cheap tequila and instead of stomping on it like I figured you would, goddamn it, you told me you liked me back!”
A beat. The sound of a pencil settling back on a desk. “You were mad at me because I agreed with you?”
“Yes! No! No, I wasn’t mad, I was--”
Steve is on his feet and then they’re nose-to-nose, a real-world mirror image of what’d happened in the cave. “You were impossible, Tony. Like always.”
Tony has to cut his eyes away. “It was overwhelming, that’s all. Hearing you say all that. And then having to process it.”
“What was there to process? I said what I meant. And I know you did, too.” Steve turns his knuckles over Tony’s cheek, a slow, easy graze that draws Tony back up to his gaze. “You don’t have to think everything to death, you know. Sometimes you can just do. Thinking you’re about to die is real good for that, believe me.”
It doesn’t take much for Tony to lift his arms and wind them around Steve’s neck.
It takes everything.
All that and a little bit more for Tony to tip his head back and peer up into Steve’s eyes. “The let’s try this,” he says. “Some lip, some tongue, some enthusiastic groping, and we’ll see how it goes. What do you say?”
Steve’s grin is electric and it tastes like the tip of his pencil, like the beginning of the best kind of dream. “I say, shut up and kiss me already, Stark.”
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deadendtracks · 5 years
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@yanderevenom
As requested, rambling on Tommy and reaction to his family in 3.06!
I love that last scene SO MUCH there is SO MUCH going on in it, and so many layers to the whole thing, especially after you factor in he knows the whole time that everyone is going to be arrested. 
Anyway to focus in on the part about what Tommy’s angry at his family for and what he’s not --
Like I was saying, he doesn’t seem to hold John responsible for his role in the violence with the Italians that led to Grace’s death. Even when John gets in his face in 3.03 about Mrs. Changretta and his secretive plans, and Tommy is like, two seconds away from completely losing it, what he ends up yelling about is how Grace was killed by a bullet meant for him, not anything about John’s role in things. He doesn’t ever seem to express any anger or resentment about that at all. And like I was saying, I think that’s because ultimately it was his choice to escalate things with the Italians after John’s initial provocation, and he sees himself as the commanding officer so responsible for that choice and all the consequences. Possibly part of that is also that he felt like he should have been there when they met with Changretta in 3.02 in the first place? But couldn’t get out of the meeting in London with the Russian that was sprung on him. 
And there’s more to be said about how everything that happens in s2-3 as he gets pulled farther and farther into Churchill’s dirty plans is because of his choice to keep the guns and use them as leverage, which got Churchill’s attention on him and his family in the first place, especially after he, you know, starts contacting Churchill directly and making demands. Everything that happens in the series dominoes from that choice, and that was Tommy’s responsibility alone.
And I talked about Polly, but it’s unclear to me whether or not he actually remembers that Hughes told him it was Polly that gave away the plan. He was pretty fucked up and only semi-conscious at the time. But there’s hints he does remember: he jumps to assuming she had too much wine and told Reuben about the tunnel after Charlie was taken, which is a pretty specific echo of what happened with the priest.
As for his anger at his family, I think a lot of it is that they want things from him that he doesn’t feel he can give them, they want him to be a different person, the person he was before the war, and he can’t be that person for them. This comes out when he talks about all he can give them is money, when they’ve given him their souls. And when he says “this is who I am.” It’s an ongoing theme since s1, his reactions to everyone when they refer to his pre-war self is always... very internal but there. It bothers him, I think. 
He knows the war fucked him up and he knows he can never get back to who he was before and I think he accepts that but feels like the people who love him can’t, and that hurts. Even Arthur and John and Freddie, who were there with him, want him to be this other person who died in France. And I think a big reason he was drawn to Grace in s1 was she didn’t ever know that other man, and loved the man he was in the present. So she had nothing to compare and he wasn’t constantly seeing her mourn someone he couldn’t get back to. Of course that ... gets complicated by season 3 when she wants him to be someone else as well, wants him to get out of the “old business” etc, and so I actually think a lot of his rage at the end of season 3 was repressed/denied anger at Grace, but uh this is me reading a lot into things probably and yet another post worth of thoughts.
Cillian Murphy made some comments about Tommy being angry about how his family values the wealth he’s brought them which also made me interested in the idea that he’s pissed at them. I don’t remember where I saw that, I’ll have to find it again. But there is definitely some bitterness in him about it despite the fact that ... driving them beyond the betting shop was 100% his ambition not theirs, so he’s got some complicated fucked up shit going on about all of it I think, that I’m still working out. Like when he tells Ada in s4 that if he dies “you can all go back to how you were before” or whatever. 
He’s pretty messed up in the head about a lot of this stuff, because he gives everyone orders and keeps everything secret but at the same time seems to resent the fact that they look to him and depend on him -- like it’s only been a couple of days after Grace was murdered and he’s really, really obviously still super fucked up over it and barely functional but Polly’s already talking about how they need him back, you know? But part of him jumping right back into the business is also because that’s the only way he knows how to cope and keep himself sane, and he was about five minutes away from... very not sane in 3.03 and I think he knew it.
There’s also the bit where he gets really angry about their reaction to what he’s asked them to do -- the part about “if you take the king’s shilling you kill” or whatever? The whole thing is a bit odd and conflicted, he apologizes to Arthur for getting into Russian business but that *wasn’t a choice* -- he was forced into it due to a threat that they’d all hang. So it makes me think he’s really apologizing for his original play with the guns, idk. But again, he apologizes, feels guilty, and is also still angry at their reactions to what he asked them to do. It was either they blow up the train or his son is killed, but also it was still they do what the Odd Fellows ordered or they all hang, so ... maybe he’s not necessarily referring to himself as the King but the actual King. They took the Kings shilling so they all had to do the King’s killing, himself included? I’m still mulling over that bit. 
Uh.... this is really long and I don’t feel like I’ve really dug into everything so if I get the chance I’ll dig into it more later, but one key line reading to me in 3.06 when he says that Lizzie was the one who stopped his heart from breaking “and no one else” like... Cillian really puts a lot of anger and bitterness into that line and while he says it he gestures at his family as if they *didn’t* keep his heart from breaking, and that is so interesting to me. Because I don’t think Tommy can at all handle anything like care from his family and yet he wants it? He outright cuts Polly and Arthur off when they try to express anything emotional to him about Grace dying, but he’s also angry and seems to feel abandoned/betrayed by them.
And also he’s already really feeling guilty because he knows everyone is going to be arrested any minute so that’s also a layer.
in other words he’s a total disaster in that scene, just pushed totally beyond his ability to handle anything and he’s all over the place, apologizing one moment and bitter and angry at them the next, sometimes over the same thing.
anyway enough rambling for now.
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dwellordream · 3 years
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“The first thing we need to talk about is the physical location of Rome and the peoples directly around it. I am going to save a fuller discussion of all of the people’s of pre-Roman Italy for next time, but we need still to set the board, as it were. Rome in its earliest history was, essentially, a frontier city, placed at the very northern end of Latium, the region of Italy that was populated by Latin-speakers.
Rome’s position on the Tiber River put it at the cultural meeting place of the Etruscan (and Faliscian) cultural zone to the North, Latium to the South and Umbrian-speaking peoples in the Apennine uplands to the North-East. To the West, of course, lay the Sea, which by Rome’s legendary founding date was already beginning to fill with seaborne merchants, particularly Phoenician and Greek ones (we’ll talk more about Greek colonies in Italy next time). These patterns of settlements and cultural zones are both attested in our literary sources but also show up fairly clearly in the archaeology of the region.
Rome itself, a cluster of hills situated at an important ford over the Tiber (and thus a natural trade and migration route running north-south along Italy’s Western side), was already inhabited by the close of the Neolithic, with small settlement clusters on several of its hills. As you might well imagine, excavating pre-historic Rome is difficult, due to the centuries of development piled on top of it and the fact that in many cases pre-historic evidence must exist directly below subsequent ruins which are now cultural heritage sites. Nevertheless, archaeology sheds quite a lot of light. That archaeological evidence allows us to reject the sort of ’empty fields’ city foundation that Livy implies.
Rather than being ‘founded,’ the city of Rome as we know it formed out of the political merger of these communities (the technical term is synoecism from Greek συνοικισμóς, literally “[putting] the houses together”). There is, importantly, no clear evidence of any archaeological discontinuity between the old settlements on the hills and the newly forming city; these seem to have been the same people. The Palatine hill, which is ‘chosen’ by Romulus in the legend and would be the site of the houses of Rome’s most important and affluent citizens during the historical period, seems to have been the most prominent of these settlements even at this early stage.
A key event in this merging comes in the mid-600s, when these hill-communities begin draining the small valley that lay between the Capitoline and Palatine hills; this valley would naturally have been marshy and quite useless but once drained, it formed a vital meeting place at the center of these hill communities – what would become the Forum Romanum. That public works project – credited by the Romans to the semi-legendary king Tarquinius Priscus (Plin. NH 36.104ff) – is remarkably telling, both because it signals that there was enough of a political authority in Rome to marshal the resources to see it done (suggesting somewhat more centralized government, perhaps early kings) and because the new forum formed the meeting place and political center for these communities, quite literally binding them together into a single polity. It is at this point that we can really begin speaking of Rome and Romans with confidence.
What does our archaeology tell us about this early community at this point and for the next several centuries? The clearest element of this early polity is the Latin influence. Linguistically, Rome was of Latium, spoke (and wrote their earliest inscriptions) in Latin and it falls quite easily to reason that the majority of the people in these early hilltop communities around the Tiber ford were culturally and linguistically Latins. But there are also strong signs of Etruscan and Greek influence in the temples.
…Archaeological evidence for the Sabines is less evident. Distinctive Sabine material culture hasn’t been recovered from Rome as of yet. There are some clear examples of linguistic influence from Sabine to Latin, although the Romans often misidentify them; the name of the Quirinal hill, for instance (thought by the Romans to be where the Sabines settled after joining the city) doesn’t seem to be Sabine in origin. That said, religious institutions associated with the hill in the historical period (particularly the priests known as the Salii Collini) may have some Sabine connections. More notably, a number of key Roman families (gentes in Latin; we might translate this word as ‘clans’) claimed Sabine descent.
…So on the one hand we cannot say with certainty that there were Sabines in Rome in the eighth century as Livy would have it (though nothing rules it out), but there very clearly were by the foundation of the Republic in 509. The Sabine communities outside of Rome (because it is clear they didn’t all move into Rome) were absorbed in 290 and granted citizenship sine suffrago (citizenship without the vote) almost immediately; voting rights came fairly quickly thereafter in 268 BC (Vel. Pat. 1.14.6-7). The speed with which these Sabine communities outside of Rome were admitted to full citizenship speaks, I suspect, to the degree to which the Sabines were already by that point seen as a kindred people (despite the fact that they spoke a language quite different from Latin; Sabine Osco-Umbrian was its own language, albeit in the same language family).
The only group we can say quite clearly that there is no evidence for in early Rome from Livy’s fusion society are the Trojans; there is no trace of Anatolian influence this early (and we might expect the sudden intrusion of meaningful amounts of Anatolian material culture to be really obvious). Which is to say that Aeneas is made up; no great surprise there.
But Livy’s conception of an early Roman community – perhaps at the end of the sixth century rather than in the middle of the eighth – that was already a conglomeration of peoples with different linguistic, ethnic and religious backgrounds is largely confirmed by the evidence. Moreover, layered on top of this are influences that speak to this early Rome’s connectedness to the broader Mediterranean milieu – I’ve mentioned already the presence of Greek cultural products both in Rome and in the area surrounding it.
Greek and eastern artistic motifs (the latter likely brought by Phoenician traders) appear with the ‘Orientalizing’ style in the material culture of the area as early as 730 B.C. – no great surprise there either as the Greeks had begun planting colonies in Italy and Sicily by that point and Phoenician traders are clearly active in the region as well. Evidently Carthaginian cultural contacts also existed at an early point; the Romans made a treaty with Carthage in the very first year of the Republic, which almost certainly seems like it must have replaced some older understanding between the Roman king and Carthage (Polybius 3.22.1). Given the trade contacts, it seems likely that there would have been Phoenician merchants in permanent residence in Rome; evidence for such permanently resident Greeks is even stronger.
In short, our evidence suggests that were one to walk the forum of Rome at the dawn of the Republic – the beginning of what we might properly call the historical period for Rome – you might well hear not only Latin, but also Sabine Umbrian, Etruscan and Greek and even Phoenician spoken (to be clear, those are three completely different language families; Umbrian, Latin and Greek are Indo-European languages, Phoenician was a Semitic language and Etruscan is a non-Indo-European language which may be a language isolate – perhaps the modern equivalent might be a street in which English, French, Italian, Chinese and Arabic are all spoken). The objects on sale in the markets might be similarly diverse.
I keep coming back to the languages, by the by, because I want to stress that these really were different people. There is a tendency – we will come back to it next time – for a lot of modern folks to assume that, “Oh well, these are all Italians, right?” But the idea of ‘Italians’ as such didn’t exist yet (and Italy even today isn’t quite so homogeneous as many people outside of it often assume!). And we know that the different languages were mirrored by different religious and cultural practices (although material culture – the ‘stuff’ of daily life, was often shared through trade contacts).
Languages thus make a fairly clear and easy marker for a whole range of cultural differences, though – and we will come back to this as well – it is important to remember that people’s identities are often complex; identity is generally a layered, ‘yes, but also…’ affair. I have only glanced over this, but we also see traces of Latin, Etruscan, Greek and Umbrian religious practice in early Roman sanctuaries and our later literary sources; Phoenician influence has also been posited – we know at least that there was a temple to Uni/Astarte in Pyrgi within 30 miles of Rome so Phoenician religious influence could never have been that far away.
We thus have to conclude that Livy is correct on at least one thing: Rome seems to have been a multi-ethnic, diverse place from the beginning with a range of languages, religious practices. Rome was a frontier town at the beginning and it had the wide mix of peoples that one would expect of such a frontier town. It sat at the juncture of the Etruria (inhabited by Etruscans) to the north, of Latium (inhabited by Latins) to the South, and of the Apennine Mountains (inhabited by Umbrians like the Sabines).
At the same time, Rome’s position on the Tiber ford made it the logical place for land-based trade (especially from Greek settlements in Campania, like Cumae, Capua and Neapolis – that is, Naples) to cross the Tiber moving either north or south. Finally, the Tiber River is navigable up to the ford (and the Romans were conscious of the value of this, e.g. Liv 5.54), so Rome was also a natural destination point for seafaring Greek and Phoenician traders looking for a destination to sell their wares. Rome was, in short, far from a homogeneous culture; it was a place where many different peoples meet, even in its very earliest days. Indeed, as we will see, that fact is probably part of what positioned Rome to become the leading city of Italy.”
- Bret Devereaux, “The Queen’s Latin or Who Were the Romans? Part I: Beginnings and Legends.”
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harryknowsme · 7 years
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What are some of the stories you are reading right now? I would like some new ones. Love Tangled Yarns ❤️
First of all, thank you so much for making the trip to Wattpad to read Tangled Yarns. That means the world to me, and I’m so glad you’re enjoying it. Now for a list of what I’m currently reading.
New writer @a-butterfly-on-his-tummy has started writing the cutest stories about Harry and his daughter Grace. You can read Hide and Seek and Ballerina Bun for now, but she’s got a plethora of adorable ideas that she will be sharing in the next few weeks. 
You have GOT to read @heart-attack-harry‘s brilliant semi-AU fic set in the 1970′s. It’s called The Entertainer, and it’s certainly keeping me entertained. The way she skillfully integrates the music of the time with what we know to be true about Harry touches my soul. Really well-written. 
@hes-a-rainbow just started writing a new fic called Wild World about NYC Harry. I didn’t like her Harry at first, but he’s growing on me. Plus, she’s got the sweet A Rose by Any Other Name which is an AU about Gemma’s roommate. 
@icanseeyourholo is currently writing Porcelain Skin about Harry of the future becoming a dad of sorts. It’s cute and sweet. While you’re at her masterlist, check out Lock Yourself Out, an AU about locksmith Harry. 
Although I usually stick to Harry stories (unless they are by my dear friends), I sometimes will read other stories, especially if the writing is good because quality writing transcends the characters, so I’m also in the mist of reading The Meaning of Flowers by @nocontrolforlouis which is about Niall Breslin. 
And I would be completely remiss if I didn’t mention my writing partner’s intense and superb AU story of forbidden love where Harry is a priest in the 1910s. It’s called Pater’s Rose, and it’s amazing (as is it’s author @little-black-dress-24).
I will also always recommend my sweet friends: @niallandharrymakemestrong has finished the lovely Betting on More, a Niall fic. @emulateharry has the incredibly skilled Story of My Life (which not nearly enough people have found and read). And @melissas173 is just starting a fic about boss Niall as head of Modest Golf that is going to be dynamite, so check out the stories currently on her masterlist while we wait for her first chapter to be published (I’ve read it. And it’s wonderful.)
I am confident I forgot someone I am currently reading (especially since @harrysofluffy dropped something in my inbox yesterday), and I know there are plenty of fics I should be reading. A few months ago, I got frustrated with the lack of writers who were reading my work, and I decided I couldn’t change their actions, but I could change mine. Since then I’ve made a conscious effort to read the writing of other authors who gift us with their brilliance for free. All they ask for is a little feedback. 
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smilecake · 7 years
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Wings 2.0: Alternative Ending
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A/N: The much requested alternative ending to WINGS is here!! Sorry that it took so long, but I got a semi-writer’s block on this one, but I managed to finish it! Pfew! Enjoy reading!! <3 <3 
Pairing: Jungkook x Reader
Genre: Angst and FLUUUUFFFF Guardian Angel!Jungkook
Word Count: 4012
Summary:  When a guardian angel is assigned to become your companion, love is forbidden between human and angel. Once those three words are spoken, the guardian angel is set to fade and be replaced.
Your heart started beating when headlight shone into your eyes. It was one sharp sound, before it all went wrong.
It was one last look you gave him, before everything blacked out in front of your eyes and your body was rolling over the car front and your head hit the concrete.
There was blood everywhere. Sirens sounding through every corner as people gathered around you and a helpless boy called for help.
"Please! Call the ambulance! Please! Oh god, Y/N! Stay with me!" Jungkook half-cried and yelled. "Please...!" He begged, but you were already losing power to stay awake.
"Oh god, no!" He panicked, before he moved his hands to your arms and the same bright light you have seen earlier in the bathroom appeared. It felt warm and gentle, but sadly, his powers were not strong enough to heal your injuries.
His cries echoed to the back, your own conscious slipped away and the darkness engulfed you completely when everything went silent.
It felt like some sort of thud, when you felt your head being pushed back to something soft and your whole head started to twist. There was something pressuring your head, and you had to try and open your eyes to see what it was.
What seemed like glue sticking to your eyelids, you forced them open and looked around. You found yourself in a white room with a open window, allowing the summer breeze to come in and refresh the room. It was quiet, except for the little birds chirping from outside.
You realized you were in the hospital from the sudden barge in of a nurse. Her eyes were widened and her jaw dropped. You being awake seemed like a shock to her, as she pressed the clipboard to her chest and went on to call for a doctor. It didn't take them long, before a whole group of doctors gathered in you and gawked at you as if you were an animal in the zoo.
"Miss Y/N, you are awake! How are you feeling?" One of them asked, as he walked over to check your eyes with his medical pen light. You moved your hands and sat up straight, seemingly comfortable in every position.
"I'm okay, I think?"
"Magnificent! Your voice is even stable!" He remarked, before  he scribbled something down on his clipboard. "Do you feel pain?" He continued, to which you frowned and shook your head.
"No, I don't feel any pain." You responded, to which the doctor rounded his eyes. "It's a miracle!" He responded, looking back at the others.
You cleared your throat and blinked at him. "What is?"
He looked back at you and gestured with his pencil towards your body. "This all! You recovered completely within two nights!"
"What? I have been asleep for two days?" You asked, and he nodded.
"From such an impact, we have estimated you to be in a coma for a whole week, at least. But somehow... your bones healed itself in a very rapid speed when we reached the site of accident. It was something we haven't seen before." He admitted. "It's a miracle!"
You opened your mouth to voice your disbelief, but then everything came back crashing in about the accident and to how Jungkook had tried to heal you. Of course, it must have been him!
"Oh..." You let out, before you turned silent and you looked around for him. He wasn't around, which was odd. Where did he go? Scanning the room through the curious gaze of the doctors, your eyes wandered down to a boy sitting next to your bed. He was extremely young and innocent. You didn't recall having any cousins or family members younger than you, so it was odd to see him. Especially as the others didn't seem to notice his presence. He had black hair and his big round eyes were focused on you, as he started to grin like a fool. He placed a finger on his lips and then shifted his gaze to the doctor.
Just like you, even if he was invisible, he and you felt uncomfortable and you quickly thought of a way to dismiss them so you could talk to him, but the problem was, you didn't even know how to lie yourself out of this.
"Erhm... I feel tired... C-Can I rest more?" You tried. It was weak, but at least it sounded legit for them to leave you alone. It was the least they could do, and like anticipated, they all nodded with concern and left the room, but not before ordering the nurses to give you you more CT and MRI scans.
The door closed and you quickly turned around to the child in front of you. "What? Who are you? Why can't they see you? Are you lost? Do you know where Jungkook went? He has black hair and is tall. He-" You fired all your questions, hoping he would answer them all completely, but instead, he just blinked at you, which made you silent instantly. He didn't seem to understand anything at all, only that he was looking at you as if he trusted you. You narrowed your eyes and a crazy thought went through your mind. He did have familiar looks, could he be?
"Jungkook?" You asked him, and still he didn't reply. The child grinned wider and showed his bunny teeth. Those familiar bunny like teeth and doe-eyes were strikingly similar to Jungkook. But if he was, why was he not responding to you? You rounded your eyes as he shrugged his small shoulders. Clasping his hands together, he yawned.
"I... sleep..." he let out. What the hell? Who is this kid?
He then rubbed with his small hands into his eyes, before he jumped down from his seat and rounded your bed. He then quickly grabbed onto what seemed nothing, but then a handsome face appeared in the room and a tall guy dressed in white clothes which made him look like some priest stood at the end of your bed, shocking you. His hands engulfed the boy's little hands as he kneeled down and stroke his hair.
"Ah, you just blew my cover." He chuckled to the young boy. The boy grinned, before he clutched himself to his arm and tugged for his attention to you.
The guy stared at you, before he broke into a friendly smile. He had blonde hair and something in his aura told me he was an angel, instead of a priest. Like Jungkook, he was too good-looking to be human, but he already proved it by appearing out of nowhere. Would he, perhaps, be another guardian angel?
"Who are you?" You started, mesmerized by his appearance.
"I am Jin, the head of all guardian angels." Even his voice was angelic. Not too high, not too low. Perfect enough to cast a relaxing effect on you. But you couldn't help but feel your heart clench together from anxiety. Why was the head of Guardian Angels here? Did Jungkook do something wrong? Or worse, was he here to take Jungkook from me, because he failed in protecting me?
You blinked with your eyes and you nodded slowly. "A-Are you here to get Jungkook?... He isn't here."
Jin grinned wider, as his smile reached his eyes, making them sparkle. "Oh, but Jungkook is here."
Confused, you looked around another time. "He is? Then why can't I see him?" You asked, to which Jin chuckled in amusement. He turned his head down to the young boy, and then motioned to me. The young boy smiled as he let go of his hands and jumped onto the bed. Slowly, he crawled towards me and settled himself next to me, burying his head in the crook of my neck and hugging me.
"This is Jungkook, but in his 8-year old self."
You rounded your eyes and looked down at him. "H-How did this happen?" You asked shocked, slowly placing your hands on his back. "I-I mean, the Jungkook I know can't be this young."
Jin let out a sigh. "When an angel gets weak, they revert back to the age of 8 to preserve their power. I don't know if you are aware of it, but you almost died in that car accident if it was not for Jungkook, and what Jungkook did was, he sacrificed everything to save you, which turned himself into stardust. He didn't have any power left to revert back to his younger self."
"He did what? B-But how is he able to be here then?" You said, and you felt your heart aching from his decision. Jungkook sacrificed himself, all because of me. It was all my fault. If I didn't run away from him, the car accident wouldn't have happened and he would still be with me. Why did he do such thing to save me?
Tears formed in your eyes and you were on the verge of crying, until the little boy looked up at you and frowned with a pout.  However, Jin just said that this little boy is Jungkook? Does this mean that he somehow saved him?
Jin chuckled, upon hearing my thoughts. "Yes, I granted him a permanent human body for his heroic act."
You shifted your gaze back to Jin. "He became human?" You looked down at the young Jungkook who had turned away his head. Jin nodded, but then a sigh followed, which made you concerned. "What's wrong?" You then asked. He tilted his head and then looked at Jungkook.
"There is no guardian angel assigned to him, since he is not born naturally. It will be difficult for him to live his life, that's why I came today to ask you for a favor."
You blinked his eyes at him and nodded, while you tightened your grip on the young Jungkook. "Tell me."
"Please watch over Jungkook fondly on my behalf. Take care of him, protect him, until he is back to his old self and has regained all his memories."
"I can do that." You said smiling, as you felt the boy clutch himself tighter against you. But then you realized you have missed the real problem. "How long? How long will it take him to regain back his memories?"
Jin tilted his head to look at Jungkook. "I don't know. It can take days, weeks, months, or even years. It depends how he grows as an individual."
"Oh... D-Does he know who I am?"
Jin smiled. "Yes, he does. When I created his human body, I could feel a strong fondness for you in his stardust. Even now without his past memories, I can see he is very attached to you. There's also something remarkable about him. His angel powers aren't lost completely from his stardust, which allows him to grow faster. That's how I learned that everything will be okay as long as he is with you. I can't promise you, but I do believe it won't take long for him to be his old self again. You hold a special place in his heart. "
It's been one week since you were released from the hospital. Jungkook still  looked  the same. He was still the shy and quiet 8 year-old Jin left you with. You didn't know if you were doing something wrong since Jin promised you that he would grow fast, yet nothing seemed to have changed about his appearance. But he did mention that it could take him weeks for something to happen. At first, the waiting did look easy to you, but as more time passes, you started to realize the loneliness, despite Jungkook being there.
It felt like you were reverted back to your old situation, where no one would want to talk to you now that Jungkook was not by your side anymore. On top of that, rumors had started to spread about your reason of your stay in the hospital.
"Hey! Suicide junkie!" They laughed again as your books fell on the ground and your shoulder was pushed back against your locker. A loud bang echoed through the hallway and some stopped in their tracks to look back at you. In front of you were two people standing with their arms crossed. They had a smirk on their faces and looked as if they were superior to you.
Your heart hammered in your chest when you avoided their gaze and looked down at your books. You weren't even worried about your books, but more about the fact that they would lash out any moment when you make eye contact with them. Just like that, it's been 3 days in a row that they started again, and that one fear you had slowly seeped back into your heart. Your confidence had hit rock-bottom again and the only thing you wished at the moment was to not have your legs shake in fear for them to see.
"Yah! I called you! You should respond!"
Your body shook as you were pushed harshly against the locker again. Your eyes flickered to the corner of your eyes to look at the bystanders. Some of them looked horrified, some of them disgusted, but no person would respond to the message you send with your eyes. They just proceeded with their stuff and then pretended not to see you.
"Where did pretty boy go to? Couldn't he stand your face and went to change schools? I saw you at Zico's party! I heard from Nayeon that you got jealous by seeing Jungkook making out with another girl. And because of your stupid feelings you tried to commit suicide, looking all pitiful while trying to make Jungkook come back to you. Yah! Don't you think it's too selfish of you?!"
You frowned and clenched your fist. What do they know about?! You received a slap against your head and then, something snapped inside of you. Your face got heated, as you harshly pushed the person in front of you back, making her trip over her feet.
"What do you know?! WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT ME TO JUDGE ME LIKE THAT?!!!" You screamed out in tears at them. The bottled up anger from the past days had finally exploded inside of you. You were so frustrated and sad that whatever you did at that moment felt right. Even if it made you look bad, you didn't care.
The girl screamed underneath you as you punched her face, before being pushed back by her other friend. Your head bumped against the locker and you winced in pain. The one you attacked stood back up on her feet and walked over to you. She grabbed a big chunk of your hair and dragged you by it through the corridor. You wept and screamed in pain as the other person kicked you in your stomach.
"Fucking junkie! The doctors should have left you dying! Your filthy existence is what makes this world so rotten!"
The very next moment you realized your surroundings, you were thrown and locked inside a small janitor room. Their laughs echoed behind the door, before the school bell rang and their steps hurried away from the door. You turned the doorknob and kicked the door, but nothing happened. You were locked in here again. Placing your hands in front of your eyes, you slowly let your tears slip down. Softly, you started to cry as you sat down on the edge of the mop bucket cart. Very softly, as you didn't want anyone to know how much you were hurting. Like always.
It was at these moments you felt heartbroken. Even if Jungkook wasn't really gone, he wasn't the same person you wanted. Like you warned yourself, once you tasted the bliss of life, there was no turning back from how that little monster inside of you had grown greedy for happiness. You wanted Jungkook there to unlock you from that locker room, to protect you from those bullies or simply, just to comfort you. But he was just a kid now. He did not know anything of this world, yet.
You were simply alone again.
Two weeks went past and Jungkook still hadn't changed. Instead, he turned to be more needy and clingy, much to your dismay. Even if it was practically normal for a kid to act this way, it was hard for you to keep up, along with the bullying. You felt trapped. You were giving so much to others, and no one looked back to you. You were losing yourself into nothing.
This caused you to become extremely moody and irritated, and it made you snap at the one person you thought you would never do.
His big doe eyed-eyes started to tear as he looked up at you. You just snapped at him and now guilt was crashing down on you. How could you get angry at him?
His nose scrunched and his face contorted into sadness. Big tears slipped down his cheeks as he cried and let out loud sobs. You pressed your hand against your forehead and sighed. Great! You just made Jungkook cry. But the worse of them all was that you didn't even want to comfort him. You had enough of everything. Why did you even agree in taking care of him? You were useless. He was not growing with you and now all you can do was make him upset.
When he took a step forward for comfort with his arms spread out, you stepped back and sighed. You couldn't handle him. You had enough.
His cries got louder when you stepped away from him into the living room. You sat down on the couch and laid down to calm yourself. Everything was tiring and you just wished that someone could take care of you instead. Someone able to comfort you. It remembered you of the Jungkook who would lay in bed with you and open his arms for you to cuddle, or hold up chocolate whenever you felt sad. You just missed him, a lot. You wanted to love him, but it was not right for you to love an eight-year old. Nothing was right and it hurt.
Soon, you noticed that the cries had stopped. It was quiet in the room and you wondered why. Raising your head from the pillow, you called for his name. There was no response and it made you concerned. He didn't run away, did he? Or worse, did something happen to him?
You sat up right and looked over the couch to the place he stood seconds ago. He wasn't there anymore. Where did he go?
The moment you put your feet down, you jumped when you noticed him sitting on the ground against the couch. He was biting his lip and slowly pouting, with his hand holding onto something that looked like his favorite snack.
"Jungkook?"
He tilted his head and blinked with his doe-eyes at you. You could still notice tear stains around his eye area, but there was a weak smile on his face. Slowly, he stood up and walked over to you. Without saying anything, he nudged his favorite snack into your hand and took a step back looking guilty, as if he did something wrong.
He just gave you his snack, which means he shared his snack with you. He never did it before. He never did it once when you were near him. Overwhelmed, your heart fluttered and tears started to spring into your eyes. Slowly, you broke into a smile and held out your arms for him. He broke into a smile too and ran into your arms. You lifted him up on your lap and embraced him.
"I'm sorry, Jungkook. I'm really sorry for getting mad at you." You muttered in his ear, before kissing the top of his head. Jungkook shook his head and hugged you closer.
That moment, you guessed that everything was not as bad as you perceived, as long as Jungkook was here.
That night, you watched a movie together and while you insisted Jungkook to go to sleep early, you were the one who fell asleep on the couch before the movie had played halfway. You were unaware of your surroundings, until the next morning came and you felt the warm sun seep in through the curtains. You rolled around and felt something moving next to you. Immediately, you eyes shot open as you were afraid that it would be Jungkook and you were suffocating him with your weight. That was, because you couldn't remember if you had put him in bed.
Once your eyesight had cleared up, you noticed strands of black hair tickling your forehead as his breath stroke your neck. His face was very up close and the first thing you noticed was how mature he looked. His button nose was more prominent and his jaw line more sharper. You immediately lifted your head and looked under the blankets.
He had muscles, abs and a toned body. Then, he had...Oops!
You quickly covered him as your cheeks blushed and you felt him stir in his sleep. Soon, his eyes opened and he looked at you with hooded eyes and a smile. "Good morning, Y/N." He murmured. You widened your eyes as his voice was much more lower than yesterday.
"Jungkook?" You asked. He hummed a reply and sighed.
"Did you sleep well?" He asked, raising his finger to stroke your cheek. You leant into his touch, before you raised your hand to touch his cheek.
"You have grown..." You whispered and he was chuckling from your reaction. He nodded and tilted his head. "Obviously, and you are still as pretty as yesterday."
You scrunched up your nose at how cringing he could be, before you leant closer to his face. "Do you remember everything?"
His eyes flickered from your lips back to your eyes as he nodded slowly again. "Yes. I'm glad you are alright."
You chuckled to yourself. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you down against his chest from under his blankets. This caused you to place one leg over his waist, but not before you accidentally touched something hard. You flushed immediately when Jungkook frowned and bit his lip.
"Yah, is this how much you missed me?" he laughed and you quickly shook your head, letting out a relieved sigh that he was back again.  
"Why are you naked on the couch any way?" You laughed, but not before you could feel his hands tracing small circles on your back. You shivered from the ticklish feeling, before you leant in closer to listen to his heartbeat.
"There's something called a growth spurt. Those clothes got too small for me, so I took them off."
"Yeah, but what's with the m-morning wood? Do you need to pee?" You joked, to which he licked his lips and shook his head smirking.
"Say... There's something I want to try ever since I got this human body." He started being all serious, to which he sat up right and urged you to look at him. You looked up at him, hopelessly drown in his brown eyes. Your heart fluttered at the sight of him being in front of you.
"What is it?" You asked softly.
"You. Me. Let's love each other." He smiled, flashing a cheeky smile and you gasped when you felt him grab you and replace you on his lap, feeling his hardness press against your clothed core. "I have been waiting so long for this moment."
You blushed and inched closer by wrapping your arms around his neck. "Then say the magic words..." You giggled and Jungkook smirked. He leaned closer with his head until both of your lips were only a few inches away.
"I love you, Y/N."
"I love you too, Jungkook."
With that, he pressed his soft lips against yours and you tasted him. He was gentle and sweet, almost too out of this world.
But who were you kidding, he was an angel before this all happened. Your guardian angel, who has loved and protected you your whole life and proceeded to do so by becoming your life long partner.
The End.
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Hollyoaks theory time!
Its dinnertime on 7th November and I'm here to solve the mystery of who shot Mercedes!
It isn't James. It definitely isn't James as he was semi conscious thanks to Marnie when the murder/attempted murder took place.
I am pretty certain it isn't Grace or Liam as they were still at the hairdresser's, a fair distance away from The Loft when the murder took place. Although they were both talking about how she had to die, they both appear to be too far away from the crime scene.
Goldie and Nana McQueen were both furious with Mercedes but neither of them have ever really been violent before so although there's a chance it could be one of them, I'm gonna say it's very unlikely.
The next most likely people are Sylver and Breda - but the way she was killed doesn't match the style of either as Sylver is a strong brute of a man who would have beat her rather than just shot her, especially as a scorned lover. Breda is a killer but she's sneaky and creative, if it was her she would have poisoned the wine or cocaine or knocked something over onto her, crushing her.
That's why my prime suspects are Joel and Diane.
Joel is an ex priest, training to be a vicar. He gave up his whole life to be with Mercedes' cousin Goldie and she could have ruined everything. He took his collar off angrily with menace in his eyes, Mercedes threatened him and made him fear for his life. The killer had biker gloves on and Joel is the only biker in the village that I can think of.
However Diane was furious when Mercedes insulted her and her family in front of the whole village, smashing glasses and throwing her clothes in the lake. She was heading towards The Loft to confront Mercedes shortly before she was shot.
I am about 60% sure it's Joel, 40% for Diane.
James, Liam and Grace are very lucky as they will be quickly wrote off the suspect list - which is good for them as their history could mean they get life if they are suspected for killing her.
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republicstandard · 6 years
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Jews used Irony and Wrote History when Corbyn’s Ancestors were "Savages"
In 1835, Daniel O’Connell, Britain’s first Irish Catholic Member of Parliament, attacked Benjamin Disraeli during a by-election. In the course of his unrestrained invective, the Irishman referred to Disraeli’s Jewish ancestry calling him the “worst possible type of Jew”.
Disraeli shot back with characteristic chutzpah and brio in a letter to The Times. “Yes, I am a Jew,” he replied, “and when the ancestors of the right honorable gentleman were brutal savages in an unknown island, mine were priests in the temple of Solomon.”
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From the moment Disraeli became Prime Minister, the Liberal press indulged in anti-Jewish innuendo against him. His Liberal successor William Gladstone, when opposing the pro-Turkish policies of Disraeli’s Conservative government, accused English Jews of loyalty to foreign Jews. “Gladstone was convinced that Disraeli’s Jewish origins were an influence on his conduct of policy,” writes historian David Cesarani. “The accusation that Jews, from Disraeli downwards, were motivated by dual loyalty gained in volume,” he states.
Over a century has passed. The accusations against Jews remain as stereotypical as Shylock in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice. Jeremy Corbyn, leader of Britain’s Labour party is proving to be a worthy successor to his anti-Semitic forbears in Parliament.
This week, the media broke the story of Corbyn’s speech at a pro-Palestinian conference in London in 2013. There, the leader of the opposition not only accused British Jews of dual loyalty, but also disparaged them for being stupid. Corbyn pontificated in The Times:
“Zionists … clearly have two problems. One is they don’t want to study history, and secondly, having lived in this country for a very long time, probably all their lives, they don’t understand English irony either. They needed two lessons, which we could perhaps help them with.”
Luciana Berger, Labour MP for Wavertree, tweeted that as “a proud British Jew” she felt unwelcome in her own party. Not surprisingly, the merry host of responses on Twitter hummed back a common theme – well, in that case, why don’t you get out of such an anti-Semitic cesspool? Berger added: “I’ve lived in Britain all my life and I don’t need any lessons in history/irony.”
The video released today of the leader of @UKLabour making inexcusable comments - defended by a party spokesman - makes me as a proud British Jew feel unwelcome in my own party. I’ve lived in Britain all my life and I don’t need any lessons in history/irony.
— Luciana Berger (@lucianaberger) August 23, 2018
Berger’s rather pedestrian response makes me long for a vintage Disraeli-like response to Corbyn’s fatuous remarks. Jews don’t understand English irony? Jews don’t want to study history? Doesn’t Corbyn know that Jews practically invented history? Jewish prophets were lacing their invective with irony and Jewish priests were chronicling history in Solomon’s Temple when Comrade Corbyn’s ancestors were brutal savages running around draped in animal skins, thumping each other with clubs and communicating in grunts and snorts – they were not even as cute as the Flintstones. I'm exaggerating, of course, and hope Corbyn understands a figure of speech – it is more likely his ancestors were singing battle-songs around campfires.
Corbynistas have leaped to their leader’s defence claiming that his comments were targeted at “Zionists” – not all Jews. In that case, count me in. I’m offended, because I’m an ardent Zionist. The label of “Zionist” as a pejorative term is a standard anti-Semitic trope. In effect, anti-Zionists are insisting that Jews abandon their loyalty to the Promised Land and profess sole allegiance to the country they live in. But Israel as a “people” inextricably bound to a “land” is as essential a component of Judaism as is Torah and belief in monotheism.
Hence, insisting that a Jew surrender his belief in the nation/land of Israel or the right of the Jewish people to a state is anti-Semitism in the highest. Anti-Semites over centuries have demanded that Jews relinquish one component or another of their religion in order to be accepted. Corbyn is asking them to give up Zion.
We all know Corbyn is a rabid anti-Semite. Now we know Corbyn is a moronic and semi-literate anti-Semite. He lectures Jews about irony. Has he never heard a Jewish joke? Does he not know that the people best known for their humour are Jews? Corbyn, like most lugubrious Leftists, doesn’t have a funny bone in his body. Anyone ever seen a picture of Karl Marx laughing? No wonder just eleven people turned up at his funeral!
The Hebrew Bible is dripping with irony that would make Corbyn shuffle his feet. Irony uses words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning. God himself uses irony in the book of Judges. “Go and cry out to the gods whom you have chosen; let them save you in the time of your distress,” God tells the Israelites who have been flirting with the pagan Baals. The Israelites don’t take God literally; they get the irony and repent of their sins.
Irony peaks with the prophet Elijah on Mount Carmel jeering at the priests of Baal as to whose God can light the fire on a giant-sized barbecue. “Cry aloud, for he is a god,” Elijah taunts his opponents. “Either he is musing, or he is relieving himself, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is asleep and must be awakened.” No, Mr. Corbyn, Elijah didn’t believe in the divinity of Baal or that Baal was desperate to use the toilet.
When King David dances before the ark with naked exuberance, his wife Michal confronts him with very English irony and icily tells David:
“How the king of Israel honored himself today, uncovering himself today before the eyes of his servants’ female servants, as one of the vulgar fellows shamelessly uncovers himself!”.
Jesus and Paul, both Jews, use irony and even the Roman soldiers hail Jesus as “King of the Jews”! Carolyn Sharp’s book on Irony and Meaning in the Hebrew Bible is only the latest in a long list of academic works exploring Jewish irony.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I heard Corbyn say that the Jews “don’t want to study history”. If it weren’t for the Jews, we’d still be singing with Engelbert Humperdinck. Turning and turning the world goes on, we can’t change it, my friend; and clinging to a cyclical notion of time, which means we’d have no sense of history! The religions of the ancient Near East and Indic religions like Hinduism and Buddhism all believed in a cyclical notion of time.
One of the most radical innovations of the Jews was the idea of God breaking into history and superintending Israel’s history and the history of the nations; when every other ancient religion believed in deities who controlled only nature. The Hebrew Bible begins with archetypal stories and genealogies but goes on to use historical material drawn from the “Books of the Chronicles” of different kings (the term is used 45 times in the Hebrew Bible).
Every Jewish festival is rooted in historical events rather than in agricultural seasons. A droll Jewish gag sums up the historical nature of Jewish festivals:
“They tried to kill us. We won. Let’s eat!”
The Jewish philosopher Sir Isaiah Berlin (can’t get more British than having “Sir” prefixed to your name) wrote, “All Jews who are at all conscious of their identity as Jews are steeped in history.” In fact, Jews are so steeped in history that the Hebrew language does not have a word for it. Instead, the Bible uses the word ‘remember’; because Jews are called to study and remember history.
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If only Corbyn knew a little real history (his view of history is limited to Marxist historical materialism), he’d recognize that over millennia the superpowers of Egypt, Assyria, Babylon, Persia, Greece, and Rome imploded, crumbled and fell to the dust. No one worships their gods anymore. No one reads their books anymore, except a few scholars of Oriental Studies. Because the Jews retained a deep memory of their land and their history – Israel came back to life in 1948 after the Romans destroyed it in 70 AD.
Corbyn understands neither irony nor history. Never mind his ancestors romping around on an unknown island that had not yet discovered tea when King Solomon was writing an encyclopedia and composing proverbs and psalms; the delusional, dystopian socialist is still a semi-literate Philistine and an anti-Semitic savage.
from Republic Standard | Conservative Thought & Culture Magazine https://ift.tt/2wuMZ7M via IFTTT
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newstfionline · 6 years
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Irish Border Lives and Livelihoods Hinge on Brexit Outcome
AP, Dec. 9, 2017
FLORENCECOURT, Northern Ireland--Farmer John Sheridan drives his mud-caked Land Rover up and down country lanes and roads, back and forth across the snaking border separating Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. There’s little sign he is crossing an international frontier.
But Sheridan remembers when this was a place of customs posts and troops. Since Britain voted to leave the European Union, he has feared Brexit could threaten the borderless life that he and his neighbors have built, putting up new barriers to trade and heightening political tensions in a region still moving on from decades of violence.
Looking out over a stretch of starkly beautiful grass and bogland where he raises sheep and cattle, 56-year-old Sheridan said that during Northern Ireland’s violent “Troubles,” traveling between farms meant being “stopped here, there and everywhere” by army and police patrols.
“For about a mile and a half you went through semi-permanent checkpoints of British army in the north here, southern Irish army in the south,” he said.
“You were always conscious that you were in a war zone and you tried to be careful. Sometimes it was all right, and for other poor devils it wasn’t.”
Britain and the EU agreed Friday that after Brexit there must be no return to a “hard border” between Northern Ireland, which is part of the U.K., and Ireland, which will remain a member of the EU.
How that will happen has yet to be negotiated, but Sheridan said the breakthrough gives him “a certain amount of comfort” that the border will remain open.
Outside Northern Ireland, few people in Britain were thinking about the border when the country voted in June 2016 to leave the European Union. But the 310-mile (500-kilometer) line will be the United Kingdom’s only land border with an EU country once Britain leaves the now 28-nation bloc in March 2019.
Concern has been mounting here since the referendum about whether Brexit will mean a return to customs duties, vehicle checks and other border apparatus.
There has only been an international border in Ireland since 1921, after a war that saw mostly Catholic Ireland break free of Britain--apart from six counties in the Protestant-majority north, which remained in the U.K.
The border severed areas that had long been intertwined. In the northwest Ireland village of Pettigo, it cut the town in half: One side of a small bridge was in Ireland, the other in the North.
Resident Mona Flood, 80, can remember when a trip across town involved border checks, documents and customs officials hunting for smuggled goods.
She showed visitors the customs booklet that her mother had to get stamped each time she drove across the border, and recalled how local people commonly hid cigarettes, alcohol, and especially butter.
The border began to blur after the EU’s single market for goods, services and people was born in 1993, with both Britain and Ireland among its members. There was no longer a need for customs posts.
Northern Ireland’s 1998 Good Friday peace accord brought a winding-down of the Troubles. The British army withdrew, its bases and watchtowers dismantled.
The very idea of the border began to fade. Today, almost the only sign a frontier has been crossed is a switch in road signs from miles on the U.K. side to kilometers on the Irish one.
“In this community there is a sense of Brexit being so unimaginable that it is unreal,” said Pettigo’s local priest, Father Laurence “La” Flynn, as he paused on the bridge where the two countries invisibly meet. “We don’t believe that the border will come in as a hard reality. Our minds can’t get to that.”
The economies of north and south have become deeply intertwined. Thousands of people cross each day to work, shop or study, and 2 million vehicles a month traverse the border carrying goods of all kinds.
Ireland’s famous Guinness beer is brewed in Dublin, then shipped to Belfast to be bottled. A third of Northern Ireland’s milk is sent south to be processed into butter, cheese or baby formula.
Friday’s agreement says the U.K. promises to keep that trade flowing by maintaining full regulatory alignment with the EU on issues affecting Ireland--essentially a promise that Ireland and Northern Ireland will continue to follow roughly the same trade rules.
What that phrase means in practice will be fought over by politicians and negotiators in the months to come.
Sheridan, who relies on the ability to export meat from his sheep and cows easily to the EU, was worried that Brexit could mean new tariffs and competition from cheap imported meat currently barred under the bloc’s rules.
He’d been thinking of selling his Aberdeen Angus herd. After Friday’s deal, he plans to keep them.
“This is certainly a stay of execution, and the future looks brighter for them,” he said. “The doomsday scenario is avoided.”
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