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venusofthehardsells · 4 years

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No Rest for the Wicked [Dea ex Machina part one]

John ConstantinexAngel!Reader Summary: You travel to a remote island to put a murderous spirit to rest, but things get complicated when you run into one John Constantine. Warnings: swearing, mentions of mental illness, blood, smoking, ghosts, pining, is slowburn a warning? A/N: My first Constantine fic on tumblr, yay! This was originally written for a challenge aaages ago, but it got away from me and I couldn’t meet the deadline. I had so much fun with this though, Constantine is a great character to write for! There will definitely be more stories about him and this particular angelic reader in the future ♥

I’ve mixed elements from both the Vertigo comics and the NBC TV series, as well as from the general DC Universe, so don’t expect accuracy when it comes to canon. A special thanks to @nellblazer for support and linguistic aid, you’re the best! ♥ Let me know what you think and if you want to be tagged ~

Contrary to common belief, there had never actually been any ravens on Raven’s Rock. The tiny, windswept fleck of land in the North Sea had been named a few hundred years ago by a fool of a sailor, who hadn’t been able to tell a raven from a severely lost and consequently very confused Scandinavian pigeon. Said sailor had regrettably also been of some importance in his homeland at the time, meaning no one had bothered to correct the unfortunate mistake for fear of losing a head. Even though everyone who since came upon the island only ever managed to find gulls and puffins and various other seabirds, it had still kept its misleading English name.

The Celts, who by rights had been on the island long before the British, had chosen to play it safe and completely forego the bird names (although it had been suggested several times in later centuries to change it to the Gaelic word for seagull, or even pigeon, as a taunt). Instead, they had most likely looked to the ancient ruins that specked the island, jutting up from the rocks like broken teeth and, all things considered, had endured well beyond memory and history and legend. Or perhaps they had still been reeling from the mad determination that had brought them and their wooden ships so far from home. Whichever the case, they had called the stubborn, little rock Innis Seasmhach, “the steadfast island”.

That was its official name to this day, though most people, especially those who didn’t speak Gaelic (which in all fairness are not very many), still referred to it as Raven’s Rock.

The locals shrugged and simply called it “the island”.

There was only one village on the entire island, whose population on a good day might reach a hundred and thirty people. That usually only happened a few times during summer when the ferries from Stavanger and Aberdeen docked at the same time. The tourists came to see the ruins, buy a souvenir fridge magnet of a raven or a puffin, complain about the frightfully bleak weather and leave again on one of the ferries that departed before evenfall, secretly happy they didn’t have to spend any more time on the island.

On the day you arrived, the population on the isle of Raven’s Rock, was an astounding one hundred and forty four, which was quite unheard of in the middle of October.

What was even more unheard of, however, was the reason for all these untimely appearances.

A night ago, a pair of fishermen had discovered the body of a man in a small, secluded cove on the north side of the island. The body was placed so that it could only be seen from sea, unless one were to venture down a rocky and extremely narrow trail into the cove itself. It wasn’t hard to imagine someone slipping and ending up on the stony beach below. That kind of unfortunate death was of course tragic, but it hardly warranted the wide array of policemen and journalists the death had attracted. No, the reason for the sudden interest was the gruesome way the body had been displayed.

The dead man had been stripped bare and splayed out on the rocks like a cross with his arms stretched away from his torso. His skin was almost completely covered in symbols and writing no one could make sense of, though one expert, when consulted by the mystified and slightly desperate police, vaguely suggested it was possibly a rare pre-Arthurian dialect.

The more macabre specifics had so far been kept out of the press.

One was that the writings on the body had been done in blood, the corpse’s own, and another was that it came from where the head had been crudely severed from the rest of the flesh and spiked close by on a piece of driftwood.

Even hypnotised, the young sergeant who had told you, had looked slightly green when he related the information. You had padded him sympathetically on the shoulder before moving on. He wouldn’t remember revealing the details to you, but the information itself was seared into his mind forever.

His, along with the rest of the islanders’, you mused as you continued from the harbour and on into the village.

The locals called it “town”, but in truth it wasn’t really big enough to warrant that title.

It had one store that sold a little bit of everything depending on the weather, a church, a pub, a repair shop (it wasn’t specified what exactly you could get repaired there) and a public building, functioning as city hall, police station, post office, library and school in one. All the police reinforcements from Aberdeen had been moved into the city hall, seeing as the only two policemen permanently stationed on the island had never handled a murder case before. Meanwhile, the reporters and TV crews covering the case were taking up the pub’s five tiny bedrooms, both B&Bs and every single rental cottage Raven’s Rock could boast (nine in total if you counted the back room in the garage of the repair shop). Because you had left for the airport in a hurry and jumped onto the first plane to Norway, you hadn’t had time to secure a place to sleep on the island. You had pondered it on the ferry, but when it came down to it, you didn’t want to stick around longer than a day. If you worked fast, you could probably be on your way back to the mainland in the morning and wouldn’t need to worry about finding a bed. You had spotted a bench down by the harbour; it would have to do.

Besides, you didn’t have any time to waste as long as the murder case was unsolved. You could still hear Madame Xanadu’s words in your head like some annoying ominous echo.

A restless darkness will carry its evil across the water to be unleashed upon the twice-named rocks. The steadfast land will drink the blood of the laughing magician.

Fate was a menace when you had to deal with it like this, grounded and fumbling through the world with nothing but scraps to guide you. Not like in the old days when you had all of Heaven at your disposal… Being a proper angel had really had its advantages. You scoffed and walked faster. At least this prophecy had been pretty straightforward, which was far from what you were usually given to work with, you thought sourly, folding your arms around yourself against the wind.

A malevolent spirit that should have passed on, but hadn’t was easy enough to figure out; it happened all the time and you could deal with that. The location of the spirit had also been a walk in the park with so many hints to go on.

What really worried you was the second part of Madame Xanadu’s little mystic insight.

The steadfast land will drink the blood of the laughing magician.

Blood drinking was never a good omen in prophecies. It hardly ever meant vampires, usually just death. And the laughing magician, well, that one was always the same. The reason Madame Xanadu had called upon you to restore the balance in this place.

John Constantine.

Whenever one of her foresights indicated that the blonde warlock was walking into something he couldn’t handle himself, she sent you after him or, in this case, ahead to clear his path for him. Most times, he didn’t even know you had been there and you preferred it that way.

Like now.

The last you had heard of John was that he was in the States. Sufficiently far away, you thought. Even if someone had alerted him to the murder on Raven’s Rock, it would be at least another day before he could reach the windswept little island and by then you hoped to be long gone. It was best if you two didn’t meet at all.

You chewed on your lip as you thought of him. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see him, it was just… easier if you didn’t. The things you did, the jobs you took were simply too dangerous if your focus wasn’t a hundred per cent on the task in front of you. And with John around, your newly mortal heart had a tendency to make your better judgement evaporate.

You passed a phonebox on the main (and only) street that looked as though it had seen better days and a small tourist information office/part time bakery with its doors and windows shut for the night, before you reached the seemingly only building in town with light and, admittedly subdued, noise streaming out of it: the pub. Apart from the city hall, you reckoned it must be the oldest building around, but also by far the one in best repair. The wooden sign above the heavy green door was, unsurprisingly, in the shape of a very sinister looking gull and it swayed in the wind with an ominous creak that made a shiver run down your spine, as if trying to dissuade you from entering.

Well, it wasn’t very likely that you would get any information elsewhere. With determination in your steps, you walked the last few cobbled steps to the door and went inside.

Your eyes quickly scanned the room, the patrons, the energies... and you froze on the threshold.

On a stool by the bar sat the very man you had hoped to avoid. He had taken off his signature trench coat and his back was towards you, but it didn't matter; you would recognise him blindfolded. He was so thoroughly cloaked and shrouded in magical protections of all sorts that the space he occupied was practically a vacuum. It was damn near impossible to locate him by magic, you knew. If one weren't looking directly at him, like you were now, no sixth sense or intricate spell would reveal his whereabouts. But his was a vacuum you had come to know very well. So well in fact, that by now you could pin him down by his apparent lack of magic, rather than by his well-hidden magical signature, and yet, there he was, sitting only half a room away from you with a drink in one hand and one of his ghastly Silk Cuts resting between the fingers of the other. And you hadn't noticed. You hadn't even done a quick scan to see if there were other magical presences on the island when you arrived. Worse, you hadn't cloaked yourself as thoroughly as you normally would have done and your own signature reached him before you could even think to try and prevent it.

From the way he straightened his back and immediately snuffed out the cigarette in an ashtray as if someone had shouted at him to show some care, you could tell he knew you were there. He shifted ever so slightly as if making room for you and you sighed. There was no getting out of this one.

Getting rid of your raincoat, you went over and crawled onto the empty stool next to him.

You were met with that wicked smirk of his that made your heart stutter and stumble in your chest.

"Now, there's a pleasant surprise to brighten this hellhole," he greeted, raising his glass at you. "Must confess, I never guessed I'd be running into you on this godforsaken rock, luv."

"Hello John." You did with a nod, trying to keep your voice even. "Can't say I expected this to be your sort of retreat either."

The warm light in the pub shone in John Constantine's dark eyes and his smirk grew into a grin.

"It's good to see you, luv. I've missed that disapproving pout o' yours. The fact that I never know when I'll see it again makes it so much sweeter."

You rolled your eyes at him, but didn't attempt to hide your burning cheeks. The bastard couldn’t possibly know exactly how brightly your torch for him was burning, but he always acted accordingly.

"So, what are you doing here then? Odd place for playing tourist, innit?"

He leaned on the counter, his hand moving closer to where yours was resting and there was that little, dark gleam of hope in his eyes that always appeared when he looked at you. As if there was somehow some other reasonable purpose you could have to be in a place like this, at a time like this.

You shrugged, biting down a smile.

"I find the climate rather agreeable."

John threw his head back and laughed at that. Even the barkeep, who had overheard your words, snorted. You caught his gaze before he turned back around and ordered a sparkling water.

"Right. And I just happened by to see the sights, eh?"

"Well, what do you think of them then?"

You raised an eyebrow at him and took a sip of the fizzy water the barkeep placed in front of you. John grinned and gave you an obvious once-over. Your dirty boots and high-neck jumper didn't seem to put him off.

"Much improved since this morning. At this rate, I can't wait to see how they'll look in the night."

"Oh, I ought to slap that smirk off your smug face, wizard," you sighed, feeling how your stomach was practically fluttering at his suggestive tone.

"Is that a promise, luv?"

"You're insufferable."

"Aye, that I am, luv, but you keep coming back for more. Must be doing something right, eh?"

You bit your lip and looked down; he suddenly felt too close. And the general level of noise inside the pub from people chattering wasn't as high as you had hoped. It would be easy for others to overhear anything you said. Given the island-wide unrest over the murder, you were sure ears were perked more than usual and you didn't want to draw any attention to yourself, or John. You would have to gather more information some other way.

"I missed you, too," you confessed, staring at the bottles lining the wall behind the bar as if they were all of a sudden exceedingly interesting. "But I... I thought you were helping out a certain green vigilante overseas these days."

John visibly tensed up.

"Who told you that?"

You shrugged, still not looking directly at him. The truth was that he couldn't really hide from you, not even in your current state. If he found out though, you didn't doubt for a second that his heated flirting would be switched for a literal knife in the back before you could even think the word "portal". Well, perhaps not literal, but you had no doubt the outcome would be fatal for you anyway.

"Who told you to come here?," you countered, raising an eyebrow and John scoffed.

"If you must know, I got a call from an old friend. Looks like she's been scrying on her own and this little spit of land kept drawing all her energy. Didn't seem like something I could ignore."

"You should've," you mumbled, taking a large slurp of your water and doing your best to ignore the persistent little spark of envy starting to gnaw away at you at his choice of words. What old friend? It had to be someone he had slept with, it always was with him. Why couldn't you just not care? "Take my advice, John, leave. Go home and lay low. I'll handle this island."

"Is that concern for old Johnny I hear, luv?," he asked with mock-surprise.

"Maybe. Don't let it get to your head, your ego won't be able to fit into that coat of yours."

He chuckled, but the tension was still there and you didn't know how to break it without giving him the truth, or at least something close.

"Your turn, pretty bird. I don't believe in coincidences like this, so tell me. How'd you know to come here?"

Lying to John Constantine was out of the question. As was being honest with him.

You chewed on your lip a bit, weighing your options. It wasn't like him to accept any kind of help unless he was downright desperate and that was still a long way off. If you challenged him though, he was most likely to flee, that much you knew. But you didn't want to get on his bad side unless you had absolutely no other choice.

"Leave," you repeated. "This one's out of your league, John. Let me take care of it, please."

The way your eyes were pleading with him made him frown and you realised you might have shown too much of your hand.

"I'm not going anywhere, luv." His hand was on top of yours on the bar before you could move it. To anyone looking, it seemed like an affectionate gesture, but he was effectively pinning you in place. "Not until you give me a bloody good reason not to give you the same treatment as whatever beast it is we're dealing with on this island."

"Let go of me."

Your voice wasn't very loud, but you knew he could hear you. He answered by pressing down harder on your hand and you winced.

"Why is it so hard for you to believe I just want to keep you safe?," you all but hissed at him, emptying your drink with a sour expression.

"Oh, I trust you just about as far as I can throw you, luv. Every time I see your pretty little face it means there's trouble brewing just around the corner."

"I saved your life in Tennessee. And in Derry," you tried, but his hold didn't loosen. If anything, John was now gripping your hand so hard no blood could possibly flow to your fingers. "I am trying to do your stubborn Scouse arse a bloody favour, why can't you just for once in your damn life listen to me?"

"Tell me your name then and maybe I will."

Fuck. Somehow it always came down to that.

"Xanadu," you snapped through gritted teeth, eyeing John with what you hoped was an appropriate amount of ire. "Xanadu contacted me and told me about this place. Happy? Obviously, she wasn't going to tell you now, was she?"

John withdrew his hand from you as though you'd burned him. It felt about as pleasant as a punch to the teeth, but you tried not to let it show on your face.

"I suppose you're right...," he admitted. "What did she tell you then? Her usual cryptic nonsense I reckon?"

"For someone in your line of work, you're not at all keen on prophecy reading, are you?," you sighed, forcing a bit of humour into your words.

There was no love lost between John Constantine and Madame Xanadu, that much had been clear to you from the beginning. But even though she couldn't stand the sight of him, she believed John was instrumental in keeping the world safe and had begrudgingly agreed to help you protect him when she could.

"Not really my style. I prefer things more tangible, to the point. Besides, I don't need to worry about divination when I have you."

"You rarely do."

"Not by my choice, luv."

Your eyes flickered back to the empty glass in front of you and you had to take a very slow breath to try and steady yourself. His effect on you was too strong for you to be safe around him. Your job required a clear head - for both your sakes.

"A restless darkness will carry its evil across the water to be unleashed upon the twice-named rocks," you recited, steeling your voice as you averted his unspoken question the way you always did. "It wasn't that cryptic at all for once."

He didn't need to hear the other part. You could feel his eyes roaming your face, trying to figure you out, looking for something without fully knowing what. It was at times like these you missed your wings. Keeping secrets in a human body full of emotions and urges and reactions beyond your immediate control was frustrating at best. It was another reason you were better off keeping your distance.

After a while of searching your features, John sighed and gave up.

"Alright. So it's probably some kind of malevolent spirit then, wreaking havoc. Don't see why you're so worried luv, sounds like any other Tuesday to me."

The barkeep was close enough for you to signal for a refill to you both. He grunted something unintelligible, obviously not too keen on all the Brits suddenly hanging out in his pub. You made sure to send him a grateful smile as he filled your glasses, yours with sparkling water, John's with whisky.

"My weeks are all Mondays," you said and raised the glass to your lips; just as you had hoped, John did the same. "Did you get here in time to see the body?"

"Only after they moved it. Wasn't pretty..." He took another swig while staring at the wall with a distant glaze clouding his eyes that told you he wasn't seeing the wall at all. "Pathologist told me the man had been alive when 'is head was severed. The, er... the inscriptions..." John looked just as sickly green as the constable had done and very gently you put your hand on his shoulder. A small gesture of reassurance. "I'm tired," he whispered suddenly. He turned his head to look at you and your heart ached when you realised how glassy his eyes had become. "I am just so bloody tired. Demons, vampires, curses, spirits, the lot. No matter where I go, there're always more and people die, it never stops. Innocent people, good people... I just want a fucking break, but if I don't stop the darkness from spreading, who will?"

His voice was thin and on the verge of breaking entirely. You wanted nothing more than to lean forwards on the stool and put your arms around him, somehow make him know he wasn't alone, but the risk was too great. You were in too deep already.

"Sometimes I wonder whether it's all worth it..."

"Of course it's worth it, John," you said quietly, clenching his shoulder. "We do what we have to so they...," you gestured discreetly towards the patrons, ”they can go on living their lives and not... not know and see the things we do..."

"I know, luv, I know. I just... I want..." The gloom that was always lurking just below the surface of his existence was spilling into his eyes. He was weary to the bone, deep into his very soul. For a moment, you thought he was going to let the tears burst. "I risk my life every day and it's never bloody enough, is it? A man got his head carved off by some wretched spirit who should have been resting in peace. Fuckin’ Hell..."

He rubbed his eyes hard and you decided then what to do. You didn't like it one bit, but seeing John this worn down, well, you liked that even less. It meant you had been sleeping on the job.

As subtly as you could, you put your hand in your pocket and found the tiny zip-bag with a pinch of purple powder in it. It wasn't something you used often and it had never been meant for John, but you couldn't in good conscience let him go after a rogue spirit in his current state. While he emptied his glass again, you drizzled the powder into your hand and braced yourself.

"John, look at me. It's going to be alright. You are John Constantine and without you this world would have ended twelve times in the last decade, maybe more. And right now you are going to save this island, because that is what you do. So get off your sulking arse and stop feeling sorry for yourself. We have a job here. You're going to find that spirit and put it out of its misery before it hurts someone else, got it?"

He huffed, but even so raised his head and managed a small grateful smile at the reprimand.

"Yes. You're right. Thank you, luv. You always know what to say..." His eyes darted to your lips and for half a heartbeat, you did nothing, just sat there and waited for him to lean in the rest of the way and kiss you. It was far from the first time it had happened, but you still felt at war with yourself. There wasn't a single atom left in you anymore that didn't crave his affection. He was drunk and emotional and between the way he looked at you and the way there suddenly seemed to be less and less space separating your bodies, there was no doubt about his intention. It would be so easy just to finally give in and let it happen.

"Don't thank me."

Before he could lean back or ask you what you meant, you blew the purple powder straight into his face.

His eyes widened in shock, but his body immediately began to turn relaxed and pliant.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me...," he mumbled, but his gaze was already unfocused.

"I'm so sorry, John," you whispered, gently guiding his torso onto the bar.

He tried to say something more, but his words were slurred and within a few seconds, he was gone.

You had gotten the sleeping powder from a dealer in New Orleans, who had told you the effects would last at least four hours. They always oversold their stuff, but hopefully John would be out long enough for you to deal with the entire affair if you hurried up and took a few shortcuts. It was a messy solution, but then again, you hadn't planned on him being here. Desperate times and all that.

"He gonna be lying there all night?," the barkeep grumbled with a raised eyebrow at John when you hopped down from your stool. You put on the best smile you could manage under the circumstances and slid 50 quid across the counter.

"He'll come ‘round soon enough. If not, I'll be back for him in a few."

You practically fled the pub before he could ask you any more questions.

The road outside was deserted and you hoped no one was watching as you marched to the lonely phone box you had spotted earlier. It didn't look like anyone had used it in several years, but when you picked up the receiver the dial tone was there alright.

You took out a stained, battered playing card from the depths of one of your pockets (the seven of diamonds) and slid it into the credit card slot. You didn't own a mobile phone and neither did most of your acquaintances, but still you had memorised the few numbers you occasionally needed.

"Hey Chas, it's me," you said when the answering machine finally picked up. "I'm at the island with John and I haven't got much time. I don’t want to get John involved in this so I need to work fast. There's no need to worry, really, I've got it under control, but... just in case something unforeseen happens, uhm... if I don't call back in let's say ten hours, will you let John know where to find my body? He can't track me in his usual ways, so he'll need your help."

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. What you were about to do was risky, maybe even reckless.

"I'm going to the beach where they found the dead man and work my way from there. If... if I don't succeed..." It was as if your throat was suddenly full of gravel. "Chas, please, just make sure John isn't the one to take on that spirit. He is not ready for that." Too late, you held the receiver away from your face while you tried to suppress a sniffle. So much for convincing Chas Chandler that you had things under control. Forcing your voice to even out, you continued. "I have to go. Just help him if I can’t, okay? And don’t worry too much. I’ll probably see you in a couple of days.”

Before you could say anything even more stupid, you hung up and slid your helpful seven of diamonds back into your coat. Handy little thing to have on you.

You left the phone box in the last light of day and made your way down to the beach. It took you twenty minutes to reach the cove and less than one to sneak under the police tape unseen. There were just two constables standing guard at the scene and they only looked when you wanted them to. For an active crime scene, the site was unusually quiet, but you attributed your luck to the dusk that made searching for clues almost impossible.

Of course, that went for you as well, you thought sourly as you carefully stepped around the little plastic numbers the police forensics had put up all over the little stretch of beach. You could make out the bloody piece of driftwood and the large dark spatter running down the stones where the corpse had lain, but nothing smaller than those. Even if the place was rather secluded, you didn’t dare light a torch with the uniforms standing idly guard so close by.

Sighing, you closed your eyes and concentrated.

The place was tingling with dark energy and it became clearer the more you felt around, using your own magic.

A spirit, just like you had anticipated. A lost soul preying on the living for… revenge? Yes, the bloody traces sang with the mad desire for vengeance that so often kept the dead from their rest.

Bloodshed, the thirst temporarily quenched. Then what?

The movements of the spirit became blurry after that no matter how hard you tried to focus. The leftover energy had been disturbed and mixed with the signatures of all the people who had been to the crime scene since the discovery of the body and it was impossible to make out without assistance, even for someone as experienced as you.

If you couldn’t locate the soul, you couldn’t send it packing.

Luring it via séance required more people and it was too risky for everyone involved anyway. Without its name, summoning it was out of the question as well.

You groaned when you realised what you had to do.

Making sure for the last time you couldn’t be seen from the line of police tape above you, you took off your backpack and dark raincoat and shoved both of them under the nearest rock. Next, you loosened your boots and sat them next to the backpack, then your thick scarf and woollen jumper. With short, angry movements, you rolled your trousers down and folded them hastily, ripped off your socks and wriggled out of your top.

“You’re so bloody lucky I love you, John,” you mumbled through clenched teeth that were starting to rattle in your skull. With fingers already numb from the cold, you unclasped your bra and slid down your underwear before you could change your mind, and with a deep breath, you stepped into the waves.

Even before you went into the sea, your body had been covered in goosebumps from the chilly October air, but the surfs rising around your legs now made you heave for breath with every step forward. The rocks under your feet were dull compared to the sharpness of the water. When it reached you mid-thigh you had to stop and wait for the pain to subside enough so that you could get further out. You were too close to the beach and the water was still too shallow for your purpose.

A tangle of seaweed drifted past your ankle, or at least you hoped it was just seaweed. It was hard to tell for sure in the dark.

Your submerged muscles were screaming as you forced yourself out until the water reached your ribs. If only that wretched spirit hadn’t chosen the middle of the bleeding autumn to throw its tantrum.

“Sacred Nanuet, your humble servant speaks to you,” you intoned through gritted teeth and held out your hands on either side of you so the gentle waves touched the palms of your hands. “She beseeches you; allow her the honour of sharing in your wisdom. Blessed goddess, lend her your sight and expand her understanding, your humble servant begs of you, great Nanuet…”

The ancient language you muttered your request in felt strange on your tongue as always, but your flattery worked. You could feel the magic start to sing under your hands and so you took a deep breath and lowered yourself completely into the sea.

The stranglehold of the freezing water somehow got pushed into the background of your conscience and within a beat of your heart your mind was alight with images. Through the water, you could see most of the world, but you focused on Raven’s Rock and the little beach behind you. The water had seen it all. From the depths of the ocean, it rolled onto the sand and sneaked its way under the island’s rocks, seeped into the soil and was drunk by the hungry roots of The Green, stretching into the light above ground…

It wasn’t long before you managed to zero in on the exact event you needed. The Sight of Nanuet allowed your mind to access the memory of the watery abyss, which included as good as all water on Earth and not a lot of people mastered navigating it anymore. You had been forced to use a lot of wordly magic since you lost your wings and so had learned to find what you needed relatively easy.

Through the Sight, you saw the murder of the man on the beach, how the spirit severed his head and lapped at the blood before turning away from the scene. It lost some of its shape then, but through the dewy grass above the cove and the moist air, you managed to follow it away from the beach and across the land.

The spirit held its physical form, or at least the overall contours of it, and it made it easier to trail. From what you could tell, it definitely had been human when it had been alive. Poor thing. If only it hadn’t gone and murdered someone, maybe you could have sent it to rest.

But would you even be there if it hadn’t?

When the spirit finally settled, you had followed it to an old, abandoned stone house with no windows and a door rotting away on the hinges. The place must have been a farm. There were several small outhouses scattered around the main building and indents in the earth marking former animal pens. The roof had been a thatched one, but now it was more moss than straw and what still remained beneath the heavy green patches had long since turned mouldy and dark. A few shards of glass jutted from some of the window frames like crude, predatory teeth waiting to chew up whoever was unfortunate or foolish enough to get close.

You went after the spirit through the remnants of the front door.

A voice in the back of your head told you it was enough, you should get out of the house and the Sight and the water. You had what you needed for now.

But the way the spirit slumped through the dark rooms and up a ramshackle staircase, as if it had done it a hundred times before, as if it belonged there in that house, intrigued you. It didn't match your original theory, the reason you didn't want John involved.

Curiosity piqued, you followed the lonely ghost up the stairs, where it turned left and went into a room with what had been two alcoves in the wall but were now mostly caved in. The room didn't have any windows and it was hard to make out the details, but the flimsy shape of the spirit trudged towards one of the beds and with motions as if the bedding had still been intact, it lay down and pulled the memory of a blanket over itself.

You slowly got closer, unsure of what to do. The visible shape of the ghost was gone now that it was no longer in motion and the general gloom of the empty house made it near impossible for you to see anything clearly. But the person the ghost had been once seemed so at home here. You couldn't feel any hostility from it at all, not even a trace. Only peace, comfort. Quiet.

This had been its home once when it had lived, you were almost certain of it.

But the desolate little stone house, out of the way even for the island's standard, must have stood abandoned for several decades, maybe even a century or two. If the ghost had lived here it was much older than you had initially thought.

Which meant you might have knocked John out for nothing.

Fuck.

You had to find out more and fast, but it was unlikely the memory of the house before your closed eyes would yield anything further. Even if it was dark and late in the evening, you would have to go there physically. The chances of finding something would be higher, and besides, you couldn't stay in the water forever. You were almost human, after all.

The thought had barely crossed your mind before the reflex to breathe kicked in and you could feel the freezing seawater rush down your throat. One inhale was all it took for your lungs to feel heavy as a pair of burning bricks. A fleeting realisation, that drowning was one of the most unpleasant sensations you’d had the misfortune of experiencing since losing your wings, faintly made it to the front of your perception before the back of your head hit the sand on the ocean floor. Then the only thing you could focus on was the pressure of the water and the way your body grew ever more numb…

The room still flickered before your eyes, slowly losing definition as you lost consciousness. Strange, you mused with your last bit of coherence, that an angel from Heaven should die looking up at it from so far below, in the cold embrace of the sea. It wasn't even painful anymore, the water, but oddly comforting, lulling you to rest, holding you tight.

The only regret you had was leaving John…

The last thing you saw before your eyes fell shut was his face above yours and a faint smile moved your lips. How very considerate of your mind to conjure up his image as the last thing you would ever see.

You could feel his arms around you even, fingers digging into your skin, his body pressed down against your own…

“Bloody fucking Hell, let her go!” The words didn’t make sense to you and they sounded so awfully far away. “She isn’t yours, you stupid paegan relic, let go of her! Let go!”

But you were, you were letting go, there was nothing more you could do.

“Christ, luv, which heathen tosspot did you enlist to drown you?! Yam, Ægir? Tiamat? Nanuet? Nanuet, isn’t it?” At the invocation of her name, you could feel the ancient goddess slacken her hold on you, as if in surprise, and you vaguely realised that the embrace you felt didn’t belong to her or the water, but to John. “Oh, you always were a fickle tart. Let go of this servant or so help me God, I, John Constantine, will destroy you and every last shrine still bearing your blasted name! Let her go!”

With a cry you weren’t sure was even coming from you, your face broke the surface of the waves. You violently coughed up seawater and if it weren’t for John’s arms, you would have fallen right back down into the deep. Your head was spinning. The numbness gave way to a cold so freezing you might as well have been rolling in needles. Everything hurt. Your legs felt unsteady, no, your entire body felt as if someone had replaced your bones with straw and your muscles with jelly.

“J-John…,” you coughed, but he shushed you, keeping you close to him in the water.

“I know, luv, it’s a bloody miracle you aren’t dead, you’re welcome for that. Now let’s get you out of the water, yeah?”

He was really there, drenched in the North Sea in the middle of October at what might as well have been the edge of the Earth, just to save you from drowning. His white shirt and black trousers clung to his frame like film and from what you could make out in the light from the moon, he was shuddering from the cold, too. You had never wanted to kiss him so badly before.

“I c-can’t m-m-move,” you got out through teeth rattling painfully in your skull, suddenly all too aware of your proximity and your own state of undress. As much as you wanted to cling to him for warmth, for closeness, the logical part of your muddled brain was screaming at you to keep your distance. That was what you did, wasn’t it?

“‘Course you can’t. How long were you under for, anyway? Completely off your rocker summoning a paegan goddess alone at night in the middle of the bloody ocean! What were you thinking?”

“I-I saw the g-ghost,” you weakly tried stammering through your clattering teeth. “Saw h-how it killed-ungh!”

You let out a groan as John swiftly picked you up and started carrying you towards shore. Your severely tested heart felt as though it might give out entirely. Never had you been reckless enough to let him touch you like this before, to let him hold you, as if you were a lover who would readily indulge in such intimacy. If it weren’t for the fact that you were very likely about to freeze to death, your cheeks would have been on fire. Every inch of your skin would have been scorching.

As it were, you were too cold and too exhausted for your body to produce that kind of heat. Surrendering to the fatigue in your bones, you allowed your head to rest against him and closed your eyes. He could carry you to shore or to Hell on his hands. You weren’t going to argue. For the first time in all your human life, you completely let your guard down.

#john constantine x reader #constantine x reader #john constantine #constantine #john constantine fanfiction #hellblazer #vertigo hellblazer #nbc constantine #dc fanfic #dc fanfiction #dc x reader #dc x you #john constantine x you

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gayregis · 4 years

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vampire headcanons 2020, pt. 2

part two: “society” and culture

this post is more based upon canon than the previous one. the next will be almost purely conjecture/headcanon.

(previous post)

> how vampires view the conjunction of the spheres, population of vampires on the continent

“I’m the descendant of survivors, unfortunate beings imprisoned here after the cataclysm you call the Conjunction of Spheres.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 219

regis says “survivors,” but avallac’h also uses this term to refer to humans who arrived on the continent from the conjunction of spheres (The Tower of the Swallow, pg. 243) and when he speaks later about the conjunction, it is in purely logical terms, suggesting that there is not much regret and longing for the other world they came from.

“After the Conjunction of the Spheres there remained approximately one thousand two hundred (1,200) higher vampires in your world. (...) Since the Conjunction - once again calculating according to your reckoning - one thousand five hundred (1,500) years have passed.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 297

for comparison, dandelion mentions that novigrad has around “thirty thousand (30,000) dwellers, not counting travellers” (Eternal Flame, pg. 134), and even though this is quite unique and remarkable for a city and dandelion tells this fact to geralt in context of describing novigrad as “the capital of the world,” this is a significantly larger number than the amount of higher vampires who arrived to the witcher world during the conjunction of the spheres. there are not that many vampires living on the continent, there were less vampires than the population of a large public high school.

this population is likely spread across the entire continent (the northern realms, the empire of nilfgaard, islands and archipelagos like skellige, and distant places like the far north and zerrikania), so they’re incredibly widely dispersed. geralt calls vereena a “rare bird” (The Last Wish, pg. 62), and did not consider regis to be a vampire until he purposefully revealed himself, which further suggests that higher vampires are extremely rare.

i tend to headcanon that the vampires were more condensed as a group during the time when regis partied (approx. up to 300 years ago) as dandelion describes the world during that time period:

“You’re reading Roderick de Novembre? As far as I remember, there are mentions of witchers there, of the first ones who started work some three hundred (300) years ago. In the days when the peasants used to go to reap the harvest in armed bands, when villages were surrounded by a triple stockage, when merchant caravans looked like the march of regular troops, and loaded catapults stood on the ramparts of the few towns nights and day. Because it was us, human beings, who were the intruders here. This land was ruled by dragons, manticores, griffins and amphisboenas, vampires and werewolves, striga, kikimores, chimerae and flying drakes. And this land hand to be taken from them bit by bit, every valley, every mountain pass, every forest and every meadow. And we didn’t manage that without the invaluable help of witchers. But those times have gone, Geralt, irrevocably gone.”

The Last Wish, pg. 162

the vampires were present enough during this time, and we can corroborate this history with regis’ account:

“So I partied. Revelries and frolics, shindigs and booze-ups; every full moon we’d fly to a village and drink from anyone we found. The foulest, the worst class of ... er ... fluid. It made no difference to us whose it was, as long as there was ... er ... haemoglobin ... It can’t be a party without blood, after all!”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 293

there were enough vampires in the past 400 years to hold parties on the full moon, actual genuine parties. but we never hear of vampires raiding villages during this time period, and geralt who is a current witcher, when asked of dealing with vampires, doesn’t say anything about these revelries and instead describes when he has been asked to deal with vampires but the threat was in fact non-existent (Baptism of Fire, pg. 152). thus we can assume that the vampires just don’t hold such raucous parties anymore, perhaps for a couple of potential reasons: their numbers are more dispersed and there are less vampires who live together in groups nowadays, and they have also likely lost leading figures like regis who were absolute mad lads and led the parties on.

> society, tradition, and language

vampire “society” is loosely tied together, and there exists no rules or authority amongst them:

“With humans, however, there exists a system of rules and restrictions: parental authority, guardians, superiors and elders - morals, ultimately. We have nothing like that. Youngsters have complete freedom and exploit it. They create their own patterns of behavior. Stupid ones, you understand.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 293

from this anarchy comes a culture defined by partying, i.e., drinking from human villages during the full moon:

“Generally, the statistically average vampire drinks during every full moon, for the full moon is a holy day for us, which we usually... er... celebrate with a drink. (...) The number of teetotallers - because there is a considerable number of them - balances the number who drink excessively, as I did in my day.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 297

and also characterized by hanging out in crypts, apparently:

(...) It got rowdier and rowdier,” the vampire continued. “Occassionally I went on such benders that I didn’t return to the crypt for three or four nights in a row.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 294

the full moon is a celebration to them because when it is full, they are granted their full powers: they can shift easily between forms and dematerialize / rematerialize at will. it could also be because the full moon was the thing that they saw when they first arrived on the continent and thus every full moon is now an anniversary of sorts.

i headcanon that their societies, when they manage to have one, are largely based upon these celebratory drinking festivities. whoever is the best at partying is admired and well-liked. it’s a popularity contest of sorts. think of your local annoying fraternity boys.

but if they have no authority in the form of parental or elder guardianship, how do they receieve their names? regis only says this on the topic of vampire naming conventions:

“(...) I’d insisted on adopting the name Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. Vesemir thought it was ridiculous; pretentious and idiotic. I dare say he was right.”

Dandelion snorted loudly, looking meaningfully at the vampire and the Nilfgaardian.

“My full name,” Regis said, a little piqued by the look, “is authentic. And in keeping with vampire tradition.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 316

which is incredibly vague and unhelpful. all we know canonically is that vampire names are traditionally long and comprised of many names, likely in the same structure that regis’s is constructed in.

my suggestion to all of this is that vampire names are given to them by their peers, and they likely have developed their own various traditions of giving individuals names, based upon their most apparent qualities. regis is a latin name meaning “king” (genitive singular form of rex), which could be based in how the other vampires viewed him and how fun he was at parties.

it doesn’t really make sense for vampires to be using latin, but latin does exist as a language in the witcher universe, and regis uses a bit of latin randomly in an otherwise useless exchange:

The Witcher stood. “ Go on. Run off and pack. And be quick.”

“It won’t take me very long. Omnia mea mecum porto.”

“What?”

“I have very little luggage.”

(Lady of the Lake, pg. 139)

this is a reference to bias of priene, one of the seven sages of greece, quoted by cicero in his stoic paradoxes (paradox i), as saying “i carry with me all my possessions” / “all that is mine i carry with me”. this is likely just a reference that was intended to compare regis with bias of priene, who is known for his integrity and defense of others, his philosophical and humanist nature.

thus latin being the language of the vampires likely does not hold any ground, because regis is not the only individual that uses latin in the books. season of storms is infamous for its overusage of latin (“primo, secundo, tertio,” anyone?). in addition, vereena is not a latin name. vampires do have their own language, but it is unidentifiable to geralt yet is still able to influence him with feelings of terror:

He heard singing. He didn’t understand the words, he couldn’t even identify the language. He didn’t need to - the witcher felt and understood the very nature, the essence, of this quiet, piercing song which flowed through the veins in a wave of nauseous, overpowering menace. (...)

He could still hear her song, even though her thin, pale lips were held tight and not the slightest sound emerged from them.

The Last Wish, pg. 62

from what we can glean, vampires do not typically speak aloud like humans do. regis is an outlier as noted by geralt in the quotes cited in the previous post. in the last wish, vereena speaks solely through telepathy to geralt:

You. You will be the first to grow weak, Sorcerer. I will kill you.

The bruxa’s lips didn’t move, but the witcher heard the words clearly; they resounded in his mind, echoing and reverberating as if underwater.

The Last Wish, pg. 65

the only aloud vocalizations vereena makes are the screams she does in combat and when she screams in pain, which can be considered common for vampires.

(next post)

#vampire headcanons #the witcher #vamp squad #regis #why did regis randomly quote cicero. does he even know who cicero is. do humans in this universe even know. what the fuck #long post /

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morbid-n-macabre · 5 years

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This one is local for me. The perpetrators are in my approximate age group, I was 16 when this occurred. Most of us locals who remember when this was going on hold a seething resentment towards this group of punks, and for good reason. Let me tell you why...

So, The Lords of Chaos were a teen militia group who did their very best to terrorize Fort Myers, Florida back in 1996. This crime spree ended with the murder of the very much loved and respected Riverdale Highschool band director, Mr. Mark Schwebes. The teacher was a truly good and decent human being who went out of his way to help the kids around him. Sadly, his killers knew this and used it to their advantage.

The Lords of Chaos lived in one of the more remote areas of Lee County, a place called Buckingham. The group consisted of teenagers with ridiculous nicknames: Kevin Foster was the leader who referred to himself as "God" (yep, the sociopath had a bit of a God complex), Pete Magnotti was "Fried", Derek Shields was called "Mob", and Chris Black was a bigger boy referred to as " Slim". Those 4 were the main members of the gang, but there were others who were less involved: Thomas "Dog" Torrone, Chris "Red" Burnett, and Craig Lesh. The only one in the group to have a criminal record was their leader, Kevin, albeit mostly driving offenses. His parents owned a local pawnshop so Kevin had access to an arsenal of weapons which he was apparently not taught to respect; the weapon which would be used to commit murder, a 12-gauge Mossberg 500 shotgun with an equipped suppressor, had been a Christmas gift when he was just 13. Kevin is described as charismatic, homophobic, racist, and bigoted; he was enamored with the cult leader David Koresh, serials he'd seen on television like Norman Bates, outlaws such as Billy the Kid, and the homegrown terrorist Timothy McVeigh. Kevin wanted to do something big to catch a name for himself, he wanted a reputation; the rest of the group had no problem with following his lead.

This group's crime spree appears to have begun at the end of March when they stole a couple of Jeep Cherokees. They drove the new vehicles out to Lehigh Acres and set them on fire, just sat and watched them burn. Next, Kevin filled a Coke can with something which resembled gun powder and attached wires to it with duct tape; said can was placed on a shelf in a Walmart pharmacy. Kevin then called the store and told the employee who answered that there was a bomb inside; panicked shoppers were evacuated, police flocked to the store, it was a mess. This group did their best to destroy everything they could; they spent their time searching for things to steal, random windows to break, or places to set fire to.

On the evening of April 13th the Lords of Chaos decided to vandalize and rob a restaurant called The Hut. This restaurant happened to have an outdoor patio where customers would sit and eat, and there were two beautiful macaw parrots kept in a large cage. When Kevin heard the two macaw parrots talking, he decided to light them on fire. Macaws are not stupid animals, they're very intelligent parrots with a lifespan which rivals ours. Thankfully one of the birds did somehow survive this, but it lost its mate.

At midnight on April 20th Kevin decided to do something big, it was the anniversary of the Waco siege. The group drove to a historical landmark, our Coca-Cola bottling plant, one of the only original bottling plants in Florida. While Kevin carefully filled a soda can with gunpowder and stuck a 25 foot fireworks fuse inside of it, his buddies strategically placed stolen propane tanks all around the building; they carefully ensured that once Kevin's bomb went off, the whole building would blow. Once it was all set up, the teens sat in a safe spot across the street and watched the explosion; firefighters did their best to put out the fire, but our beloved historical building was lost.

So, it's probably obvious that all of this really upset people, by this point the entire county was beyond angry! A local reporter wrote an article about the ongoing vandalism, and said article was very insulting towards the group of punks who were responsible for these terrible acts. The group read this article, and it only added fuel to the fire, so to speak. In turn, they wrote a manifesto which they had intended to mail off to our local newspaper, the News Press. For whatever reason the manifesto was never sent; nevertheless, it read in part:

"Lee County is dealing with a formidable foe, with high caliber intelligence, balls of titanium alloy, and a wicked destructive streak. Be prepared for destruction of biblical proportions, for this is the coming of a NEW GOD, whose fiery hand shall lay waste to the populous.

THE GAMES HAVE JUST BEGUN, AND TERROR SHALL ENSUE..."

The spree continued with the robbery of a woman named Emory Shields; Emory was not only the owner of a small restaurant called Alva Country Diner, but she had been one of the teen's landlord. After robbing Ms. Shields, they stole her vehicle. At one point the gang took a trip to the Edison mall in hopes of stealing some clothing. They attempted to let off a grenade inside Dillard's, but thankfully it was a dud. Next, Kevin and his buddies decided to attend Grad Nite, which is a big deal for highschool seniors because they get to run around Disney World throughout the night. Kevin had a plan to steal one of the character suits and shoot up Disney, to kill as many teenagers as possible, but thankfully he chickened out.

On April 30th the teenagers drove to their own school, Riverdale, with the intention of trashing it. They stole several things, set off multiple fire extinguishers, then filled up a bottle of bleach with gas and threw it though the highschool's auditorium window. Riverdale's beloved band director, 32 year old Mr. Mark Schwebes, caught the group outside. He confiscated all of the items which they had stolen from the school, and threatened to tell the resource officer. Kevin knew that once the vandalism inside the school was discovered, the teacher would put two and two together and the group would be busted; he decided that the band teacher had to die before that could happen.

The teens found Mr. Schwebes phone number and address by calling 411. They dialed the teacher first, to ensure that they'd obtained the correct information; after hearing Mr. Schwebes voice, Kevin, Pete, Derek, and Chris Black all jumped in their vehicle and drove over. Kevin knew that the teacher would answer his door for a student he recognized, and since Derek had been a member of the band, that's who was sent knocking. At approximately 11:30 pm the teacher opened the door for his student, and Kevin immediately shot him in the face with his aforementioned 12 gauge. It's said that Mr. Schwebes probably never knew what hit him. When the teacher hit the ground, Kevin shot him once more, this time in the buttocks because he wrongly assumed Mr. Schwebes to be homosexual. The group didn't even bother to pick up the spent shells, they just left them at the scene.

There's really no telling what else would have happened or who else would've been hurt or killed had this group not been caught when they did; it's said that they had been planning to rob a local Hardee's restaurant when they were finally caught. Thankfully they were braggarts, and one of the teen's girlfriends couldn't keep the secret, she went to the police.

Craig and Brad faced no charges, while Tom and Chris Burnett both took deals; they plead guilty to lesser crimes and received very little punishment in exchange for their testimony against the main members of the group.

Chris Black, Derek Shields, and Pete Magnotti all pled guilty to first degree murder. Pete received 32 years imprisonment while Chris and Derek are serving life. The only one of the group to go to trial was Kevin Foster. On June 17th of 1998 Kevin was sentenced to death; he has appealed his conviction, but recently it was undecided if the penalty would stick. From what I understand there was a new trial in which Kevin blamed his upbringing for his actions and asked that his own life be spared. It was decided that Kevin will ultimately be put to death by the state of Florida.

*I think it was Dateline which aired a two hour special on this case, I would link it if I could find it. This special kinda irked me because, idk, it almost seemed like the man who covered it fell in love with Kevin. It made the small-time gang leader out to be more than he was, like he was this highly manipulative cult leading criminal mastermind, which just wasn't the case. Kevin wasn't well known, there was no big following, he was not a force to be reckoned with. In all actuality Kevin Foster was a nobody until he and his buddies came up with a menacing name, vandalized our city, burnt parrots alive, and murdered an unsuspecting teacher who would've kicked his butt had he not been ambushed. If you're interested in knowing more, there's a really decent book about the case, "Someone Has to Die Tonight" which is worth the read.

Sorry for the opinions on this one. This whole case upsets me, and if you know me at all then you are already aware that I am a parrot person. Some obsess over cats, other dogs, for me it's parrots; I have 6 of them. My husband is still ticked off about the Coca-Cola plant.

This is a link to Mr. Schwebes sibling's blog. She's a Rabbi, and these are her feelings about the murder, and the new penalty trial which Mark's family has recently had to endure-

https://barefootpreachr.wordpress.com/category/thats-life/mark-schwebes/page/2/

#true crime community #thrill killers #cult #killer kids #Florida #fort myers #true crime #true crime blog #morbid n macabre #murder #school shooter

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lokirupaul · 3 years

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Lokiru Paul : The Life and Suspicious Death of Cachou the Bear

The Life and Suspicious Death of Cachou the Bear

Cachou the brown bear was found dead on the mountains just above the village of Les, in the Aran Valley.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

Conservationists saw the 6-year-old brown bear as a symbol of hope. Villagers saw him as a menace. Then he turned up dead.

By Laura Millan Lombrana for

Bloomberg

July 8, 2021, 7:01 AM GMT+3

Para leer el reportaje en español.

Ivan Afonso checked his computer one last time before picking up the phone. It was April 2020, and like most of Spain, Afonso was stuck at home under a strict Covid lockdown. But his mind was in the mountains.

An environmental scientist, Afonso also served as head of the environmental division in the Aran Valley, a tiny area of the Pyrenees mountain range that forms a dent along Spain’s border with France. For the past three years, his duties had included monitoring the movements of Cachou, a 6-year-old, 130-kilo (287-pound) brown bear. The bear was a local celebrity, one of the few males born in the wild in the Pyrenees and living proof that conservationists’ efforts to rejuvenate the region’s struggling brown bear colony were working.

The task had been a nightmare from the start. Cachou was young and fiery, and—to the dismay of conservationists and farmers—prone to wreaking havoc. Like most bears, Cachou had a sweet tooth. He’d started with assaulting bee farms, but by 2019, he’d learned to hunt horses many times his size. Eventually, authorities put a tracker on him, but even that didn’t work. At one point he was blamed for four attacks within two weeks.

Aran Valley

Source: USGS, EarthExplorer

Cachou had given Afonso and horse breeders in the valley some rest during winter. But the tracker showed the bear had come out of hibernation earlier than usual. He’d been in France in March, but a more recent ping put him somewhere in the mountains above Les, a tiny village of fewer than 1,000 people. After that he’d ventured deeper into the forest, close to a trail—and then stopped. The next 24 pings were all in the same spot. Afonso couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“Either the tracker had dropped, or he was dead,” he thought.

The Garona river, seen here from the village of Bossost, is born high on the Pyrenees and flows into the Atlantic Ocean in France.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

In light of the vast extinction event currently underway on Earth, the death of a single bear might seem less than significant. And yet, on the morning of April 9, 2020, Afonso decided it was time to do something. He called the head of Aran Valley’s government first, then dialed the valley’s ranger corps and requested two trustworthy agents who could discreetly hike to the place the pings were coming from.

Finally, he dialed the head of Catalonia’s park ranger corps in the Northern Pyrenees, Anna Servent. Spry in her early 40s, with a resolute expression and brown hair cut short on one side, Servent heads a small, semi-secret team of investigators who specialize in animal poisonings. Their methods are unconventional. While most rangers focus on analyzing animal remains, the people on Servent’s team spend years building networks of local informers. They wear plainclothes, change vehicles often, and tend to visit their sources in the middle of the night to avoid drawing attention.

By the turn of the 21st century, brown bears were almost extinct here after decades of indiscriminate hunting and poisoning. In 1996, just three survived in the entire 430-kilometer (267-mile) mountain range. While the population has recovered after several European Union-sponsored conservation projects, it remains Europe’s smallest colony, with a count of 64 bears as of 2020. The lower Aran Valley, with its thick forests covered in old beech, oak, and chestnut trees and a milder climate, has become a breeding ground for the endangered predators.

But what conservationists consider a victory, many who’ve grown up in the mountains see as a declaration of war. “Naturally, when you reintroduce a species that has been previously eliminated on purpose, you’ll run again into similar conflicts that caused the reduction in numbers in the first place,” says Elisabeth Pötzelsberger, head of the resilience program at the European Forest Institute, an EU research center. “It would be quite naive to think everyone will be happy and clapping hands.”

Anna Servent heads a small, semi-secret team of investigators who specialize in animal poisonings.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

After talking to Afonso, Servent and one of her investigators—whose identity can’t be revealed to avoid compromising ongoing cases—jumped in a car and drove fast through deserted, meandering roads into the Aran Valley. The view on the way in is bucolic, with rocky peaks covered in snow and slopes so steep one fears they might collapse onto the bright green pastures below. The stone towers and slate roofs of Romanic churches dot the expanse, which is split in two by the Garona river. Those who live there still speak a modern version of Occitan, a romance language troubadours used for songs and poems before the Renaissance. They’re proud of their rural roots and tend to look suspiciously at anyone coming from south of the Pyrenees.

The Aran Valley community is so tight, Servent’s rangers hadn’t been able to groom informants in the area, so she hoped their car would go unnoticed as she and her teammate neared Les. They headed up the mountain trail, climbed through the steep forest, and reached Cachou’s body at roughly the same time as the local rangers.

Joan Vazquez, founder of environmental organization Ipcena, holds a picture of a book showing Cachou’s body in the forest where it was found.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

The bear was lying belly up at the bottom of a 40-meter rocky cliff, a single canine sticking out of his half-open mouth. There were signs he’d been there for a long time, but that the death was quite recent, indicating that he could have lay there suffering for a long time, which happens sometimes in poisoning cases.

Servent speaks in a low voice and a calm tone as she details their inspection of the body and the surrounding area, but her face is serious behind a blue surgical mask. “We didn’t see any signs of poisoning initially,” she says. That made them even more restless. Before they left, Afonso had told them: “If you don’t find an obvious cause of death, look for antifreeze.”

Ivan Afonso likes to think of himself as a man between two worlds. He was born of the Pyrenees, but not of the Aran Valley, and completed his university degree in cosmopolitan Barcelona. At 47 years old, he still feels more at ease in the mountains looking for endangered birds or scouring remote ponds for rare frogs than he does in his small office in the Aran government’s headquarters.

Born in the Pyrenees and educated in Barcelona, Ivan Afonso likes to think of himself as a man between two worlds.

Photographer:Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

It pained Afonso not to be able to go out into the mountains to find Cachou, but he had reason to believe that they’d be walking into a crime scene, which meant that the fewer people there disturbing evidence, the better. Twice during 2019, he told Servent’s rangers, he’d overheard a man from Les talk about using antifreeze against bears, according to court documents seen by Bloomberg Green—once during a private meeting, and once during a public speech. This same man had once headed the Aran Valley Land Department, and was partially responsible for overseeing 2.4 million euros ($2.8 million) of EU funds intended for brown bear conservation in the Pyrenees.

“I didn’t pay attention to him at that time. Maybe it was a mistake, but I was skeptical,” Afonso says. “There are rumors about killing bears all the time. People boast about having killed a bear and the next day we see it appear on a surveillance camera.

“Even if I had paid attention,” he goes on, “what could have I done? Everyone in the valley has antifreeze. I’ve got two bottles at home.”

A rusty trap used to catch bears is kept on a storage room on the basement of the Catalan rangers’ headquarters in Tremp (left). Aldicarb (right) is a pesticide now banned in Europe. A small quantity is enough to kill a wild boar.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

Antifreeze is a ranger’s worst nightmare. Used to prevent car engines from freezing and therefore widely available in shops and petrol stations, it goes undetected in common post mortem tests and vanishes from corpses within days, if not hours. It can only be found if the body is fresh, and if pathologists are specifically looking for it.

A few hundred miles from where Cachou’s body was found, wildlife pathologist Roser Velarde was sitting in in her office at Universitat Autonoma de Barcelona’s Faculty of Veterinary Medicine, surrounded by microscopes and deer skulls, when she got a call from Afonso, telling her that the bear would be on her operating table by the next day. With 20 years of practice behind her, Velarde didn’t flinch—Cachou’s would hardly be her first animal autopsy, and certainly not her most challenging. Once, much to the amusement of her students and colleagues, she performed a necropsy on a whale on the patio outside because the animal wouldn’t fit inside her lab.

During Cachou’s necropsy, Velarde spoke in the same patient, explanatory tone she uses with her students. The body had no bullet wounds, no broken bones, cuts, or major signs of violence. Some superficial teeth marks on the side of his head suggested that an animal, most likely another bear, had bit him, but that was ruled out as the cause of death. As she opened him up, she also ruled out death by common poisons, as most cause massive internal bleeding. Velarde spent four hours cutting, weighing, measuring, gathering samples, and taking pictures, but she found nothing. It wasn’t until after all that that Servent’s investigator, who attended the necropsy, told Velarde about Afonso’s antifreeze suspicion.

A professor at Universitat Autonoma de Barcelona, Roser Velarde has been performing necropsies, mostly on wild animals, for 20 years.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

Back in her office, Velarde processed samples of urine and brain tissue. Three days later, the university’s head of wildlife eco-pathology confirmed that the samples contained crystals of calcium oxalate, which are consistent with the presence of ethylene glycol, the chemical that comprises between 90 and 95% of antifreeze.

About 12 hours after ingesting the antifreeze, Cachou’s neurological system would have started to malfunction. He would have felt severe stomach irritation and possibly slipped into a coma. His lungs and heart would have started to shut down within hours, but he could have stayed alive for as long as nine days later, until his kidneys finally failed.

“Cachou the bear suffered a slow and very painful agony that went on for days—until he died,” Velarde concluded in her report, according to court documents. That, combined with the signals from the tracking device, meant Cachou was poisoned on or around March 26.

“The first thing we did was to request the judge to keep the investigation secret,” Servent says—something typically only done in highly sensitive cases such as those involving drug trafficking and political corruption, and never before for the suspected murder of a wild animal. “It terrified us that people would find out and start getting ideas—and obviously we didn’t want the poisoner to know we knew.” Her request was granted. As a result, details of the investigation haven’t been made public.

Bees in the Aran Valley were among the first victims of Cachou’s attacks—like many bears, he had a sweet tooth.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

With no reliable sources in the area, Servent knew her team’s usual methods wouldn’t work, so she put in a call to the Catalan police, also known as Mossos d’Esquadra.

Deputy inspector Cesar Jou tried to hide his surprise as the voice on the other side of the line told him about his next case. After 25 years as a policeman, most of them on the Mossos’ crime unit in the Pyrenees, he was used to homicides, drug trafficking, and organized violence. But Cachou was his first bear victim. “I was surprised when they asked me to investigate the death of a bear, but we treated it as if it was a homicide. It was a challenge,” he says.

Jou’s first move was to go to Les with his agents and ask locals if they’d seen anything strange in the days around when Cachou was poisoned. In places where everyone knows each other, crime is often seen as an attack on the community as a whole, Jou says. With the country on a strict lockdown, surely someone would have noticed something, he thought.

He was wrong. “No one knew anything, no one had seen anything,” Jou says. Cachou’s killer was perceived as the savior of the village. “There was a sense of angst among the ranchers.”

Anti-bear sentiment in the region goes back generations. “Living with the bear is an obligation, something we haven’t decided,” says Frances Bruna, the current head of the Land Department in the Aran Valley government. A horse-breeder himself, Bruna talks dearly about his mares and explains that he, too, has suffered bear attacks in the past. “They’ll give us subsidies, aid, they’ll pay back whenever there are attacks. But inside us there will always be that feeling.”

Bruna’s various responsibilities are often at odds with each other. He’s charged with leading environmental and bear conservation initiatives in the valley, but he also looks after the wellbeing of farmers and their animals. Catalan authorities have spent years trying to mediate between these two worlds. The regional government now compensates ranchers for each animal killed by a bear, and last year spent 84,500 euros to install fences and pay for shepherds and mastiff dogs to watch over sheep and cattle in the Pyrenees during the summer months. It also pays for the animals’ insurance and has hired an external company that acts as a mediator between farmers and the administration.

“Bears were something imposed from Europe, paid with European funds that I guess someone was very happy to collect,” says Marc Cuny, the president of the Association of the Pyrenees Catalan Horse in the Aran Valley. “No one asked for our opinion, they just told us it would be the panacea—and it wasn’t.”

Marc Cuny feeds two of his mares at a field near Vielha. Breeders’ bond with their animals is emotional and goes back generations.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

It isn’t a matter of money, says Cuny. Standing in his field next to Ines, Monica, and Nera, three of his 16 mares, he keeps a close eye on a filly born just hours ago that his young daughter has named Peppa Pig. Horses are an important part of the valley’s traditions, and breeders’ bond with them is emotional, he says.

“Poisoning the bear was a mistake, and whoever did it wasn’t thinking about the consequences,” Cuny says. “But when a beast kills 12 or 13 horses and is not removed from the mountain, you can understand that someone decided to do it themselves.”

Two Mossos d’Esquadra agents hike across the steep slopes of the Pyrenees to the place where Cachou’s body was found.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

With no cooperation from locals, the investigation into Cachou’s death advanced slowly. Eventually, police identified five potential subjects, including the official who had talked publicly about poisoning bears; a local ranger who was part of the bear restoration program and had access to Cachou’s positioning data; two people whose phone signals showed they had been in the area around the date of the killing; and one who’d installed a surveillance camera near the place where the body was found.

Still, the investigation bore no real clues until the end of June. After weeks of fruitless interrogations, one witness—a ranger with the Aran Valley government—finally broke the code of silence, divulging the existence of a WhatsApp group called, bluntly, the Anti-Bear Platform, according to court documents. All the messages in the chat had been deleted, but Jou’s investigators could see that the group had over 140 members. Among the administrators was the official who’d talked about poisoning bears.

Jou’s agents had already begun tapping the phones of the suspects they’d identified, but the Anti-Bear Platform gave them the key they needed to begin deciphering how the group operated. In the latter half of 2020, however, the investigation took an unexpected turn. The taps showed a network of people who were changing phone numbers frequently, working in tight shifts in a house in the valley. Some of them had Colombian accents.

On March 29, Jou’s team arrested 12 people suspected of belonging to a cocaine trafficking ring. Agents seized almost 2 kilos of pure cocaine worth about 200,000 euros, an unprecedented amount in an area where no one had previously suspected of drug-dealing activity of this magnitude. The Aran Valley is famous for the high-end resort of Baqueira, which attracts jet set skiers and mountain hikers from both sides of the border, including the Spanish royal family, and many now suspect the traffickers were serving its rich patrons.

“We thought it was Cachou’s way of saying ‘thank you’ for having investigated his death,” says Jou jokingly before getting serious again. “It’s been the most important cocaine operation for Mossos d’Esquadra in the Aran Valley for several years.”

More than a year after Cachou’s murder, the investigation is almost complete.

In November, police arrested two of their original five suspects, including the ranger who had access to Cachou’s positioning data and had been caught on a tapped phone discussing the position of a different bear entering the valley. The ranger denied the charges—which included the commission of a crime against fauna, revelation of secrets, and perversion of justice—and refused to give a statement. He was eventually released and remains a member of the Aran Valley rangers, although he’s no longer involved in bear-monitoring activities, according to the local government. The judge also summoned the official who’d boasted about antifreeze-soaked sponges, but he, too, refused to give a statement.

Finally, in early June, police arrested the ranger who’d disclosed the existence of the Anti-Bear chat. His statements to the police were full of contradictions, and in tapped phone conversations with the other arrested ranger, he’d discussed deleting possibly incriminating messages. He also refused to give a statement and was freed on the same day.

The inquiry into Cachou’s death is the first criminal investigation into the death of a wild animal in Spain, and possibly anywhere else in Europe, environmental groups say. But it’s unlikely to be the last. The EU has made the conservation and restoration of natural habitats, including increasing biodiversity and expanding forests, an essential part in its fight against climate change, wildfires, and disease outbreaks.

Wolves, lynx and bears play a key role in that plan. These super-predators are known as umbrella species; because they’re at the top of the food chain, they can only thrive if every other animal and plant below them is healthy too. Their success or failure is therefore seen as a proxy for the state of conservation and biodiversity efforts, on which the bloc plans to spend 20 billion euros ($24 billion) a year over the next decade.

A police agent looks down at the exact place where Cachou was found, deep inside the forest at the bottom of a rocky cliff.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

The trial could also bring further scrutiny to how European conservation funds are spent. In addition to the former Land official who was once in charge of administering this money in the Aran Valley, the ranger who allegedly leaked Cachou’s location was paid entirely by EU conservation funding.

“Aid must come with conditions,” says Joan Vazquez, founder of conservation organization Ipcena, which will appear as an individual prosecutor in the trial. “States are not watching how that money is spent, they just send reports to the EU saying everything’s going perfect. And the EU believes it unless there are cases like Cachou’s proving the contrary.”

This is not an isolated case of dubious oversight. A recent report by European nonprofit Bankwatch Network documented biodiversity plans by several Eastern European countries. Analysts found that some, including Bulgaria and Poland, directly infringe current laws, while others engage in greenwashing or other deceptive practices, all while receiving EU funding and applying for more.

In this harsher, more bureaucratic light, Cachou wasn’t just a bear, he was a bellwether. The fact that he was wearing a tracking device—and that Afonso moved fast to locate him—meant rangers got to the scene before his body deteriorated, which allowed Velarde to prove the cause of death in a way that would stand up in court. Because of Cachou’s fame and the existing tension between the Aran Valley’s bears and humans, the judge encouraged investigators on the case, include Servent and Jou, to use all means necessary to find the killer.

The judge in Vielha, the capital of the Aran Valley, is expected to formally charge the ranger, the public official, and potentially others when she closes the investigation, likely within the next few months. At that point, a different judge will bring the case to trial sometime next year in the city of Lleida, about 160 kilometers south of the valley. The mystery of Cachou’s death has raised so much attention that authorities fear Vielha’s tiny courthouse won’t be big enough to hold all the interested spectators.

Back in Les, locals await the start of the trial with a mix of uneasiness and indifference. On a foggy morning in April, a few of them read the paper and eat breakfast at an old cafe, casually chatting about whether the end of the lockdown would bring French tourists back. On the wall hang black and white pictures of dead bears and smiling hunters.

“I remember old people in the villages telling us stories about bears,” says Bruna, the current head of the Land Department. “Whoever arrived to the village with a dead bear was hailed as a hero and everyone wanted to be in the picture with them.”

Frances Bruna, the current head of the Land Department in the Aran Valley government, remembers the times when bear hunters were hailed as heroes.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

The investigation of Cachou’s murder has done nothing to erase those decades-old lines, Afonso says. Locals who either sympathized with the bears or who didn’t care either way have since turned against them after being summoned to testify, realizing their phones were tapped, or seeing the names friends and relatives written about as suspects in the local press. If anything, it’s made the community even more wary of strangers.

At base, the case is a clash between two ways of seeing the environment, Afonso says: the Araneses’ pragmatic view of nature as a profitable resource, and the outsider’s more romanticized view of humanity’s duty to protect and preserve.

“The most extreme examples of these two worlds are represented in this case,” Afonso says. “Very zealous justice and police systems that acted as if a person had been killed, and a wise guy who decided to take matters into his own hands.”

Servent thinks it will be a turning point in how authorities treat wildlife deaths. About 40 bears have died since 1996, some in circumstances that have never been properly investigated, according to Ipcena. Mysterious bear deaths include that of Cachou’s father, Balou, who according to reports by French authorities was hit by lightning and fell off a cliff.

“Everyone who has participated in this has taken it very seriously so it wouldn’t end in nothing,” Servent says. “Everyone has seen that the death of a bear can’t go unnoticed.”

The Pyrenees mountain range acts as a natural wall that isolates the Aran Valley from the rest of Spain. Its inhabitants are proud of their distinct identity and speak a modern version of Occitan.

Photographer: Angel Garcia/Bloomberg

As for Cachou’s killer, there are different views of who did it. The police and rangers think it was someone from the area who had access to Cachou’s confidential positioning data, knows the forests well, and knows how to use poison. The perpetrator has also likely suffered bear attacks, they say, possibly at the teeth and paws of Cachou himself.

Afonso has a different guess. He suspects someone has been killing bears for a while, but that Cachou wasn’t necessarily the target. The area where his body was found is a route frequently used by bears, and at a time when sightings are increasing everywhere on the Pyrenees, they’re falling precisely in that place.

“If I was the poisoner, I wouldn’t kill the only bear that’s wearing a tracking device,” he says. “That person was unlucky that Cachou passed by. I’m quite sure of that.”

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toddkelly2 · 5 years

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The Toughest Turkeys

Hard-Hunted Gobblers: The Toughest Turkeys

By: Brian Lovett

Here’s a simple statement: Human hunting pressure makes turkeys more difficult. Now, here’s the oft-ignored second part of that equation: Pressured turkeys are not impossible. They are still turkeys, and you can still kill them.

Here’s how.

Defining Pressure

Like any other wild critter, turkeys react and adapt to human hunting pressure. A Wisconsin Eastern on public land will be much harder to hunt than a South Dakota Merriam’s on a sprawling ranch. The difference is pressure. That’s easy to understand. The manner in which turkeys change their behavior in response to pressure is more complicated.

Turkeys are a prey species and are “pressured” every day by critters trying to kill and eat them. They rise above that, of course, because of their amazing survival powers: great hearing, tremendous eyesight, a paranoid mindset and the physical tools to escape in a flash. Basically, a big chunk of a turkey’s personality is the result of eons of pressure.

So how do humans pressure turkeys and make them tougher? Many folks blame calling, but that isn’t true. Turkeys don’t become wary of calling or avoid bad calling. After all, they hear turkey noises every day of their lives — much of it is so bad it wouldn’t get past the first round of your local calling contest — from other turkeys. Further, turkeys cannot reason, so they simply don’t equate bad box-calling from a pop-up blind with predators. That’s just another noise in the woods to a turkey.

As turkey hunting guru Ray Eye has said repeatedly, “Turkeys do not get call-shy. They get people-shy.” They react after being bumped, boogered and spooked by two-legged menaces. When hunters hit the woods, they often bust turkeys out of trees, spook strutters in fields or startle breeding flocks while stumbling through the woods. After a day or two of such encounters, gobbling seems to decrease, and hunting gets tougher. Studies in Missouri and other states back this up.

Because hunters were calling to turkeys during this period, they often equate the decrease in gobbling and success to birds becoming call-shy. But remember, the birds have heard all those noises before and are not reacting to lousy, incessant calling from boxes, slates and diaphragms. Rather, they’re reacting to avoid all the new two-legged predators in their home range.

I can hear some of you now, saying, “Hold on! I drive past turkeys every day or see them while walking the dog, and they just sort of let us pass by.” True enough, but that’s because turkeys have learned to discern the difference between humans passing by at a safe distance from humans acting in a predatory manner. So, turkeys in a field will often let you drive slowly by and wait for you to pass, those turkeys will act quite differently if you park the car and crawl toward them in the ditch. You’ve changed from an everyday encounter to an immediate threat.

Of course, there’s another obvious reason why turkeys get tougher as the season progresses. Many of the eager jakes and gobblers are dead. You don’t have to kill too many male birds from a specific area to change the scene. That’s an extreme oversimplification of turkey population dynamics, but the basic principle holds true.

Many folks debate how turkeys react to pressure. Often, they believe a decrease in gobbling or turkey sightings means spooked turkeys have left the area, but that ain’t so. Turkeys have relatively small home ranges, and even birds that are spooked out of their minds rarely leave those home ranges. Why? According to noted turkey expert Lovett Williams, a turkey would gain no biological advantage by leaving its home range. After all, it knows its home range like you and I know our back yards, and instinct and experience have taught it how and where to avoid predation within that area. A turkey would be unfamiliar with a new area, and even though relocating might let it escape immediate danger, the bird would face new and unfamiliar threats in its new home.

The bottom line is that pressured turkeys don’t go anywhere. They might shift locales somewhat within their home range — perhaps roosting in different spots or avoiding areas where they were startled or shot at — but they stick close to home.

And yes, they probably won’t gobble as much or be as visible while pressure persists. But remember, if turkeys stopped being turkeys — that is, gobbling, yelping, breeding and feeding — after being pressured, there wouldn’t be too many of them around. Pressured turkeys are still turkeys. They will feed, strut, breed and, yes, gobble when the mood strikes them — probably after the perceived threats to their well-being have let up somewhat.

So if they’re still in the area and still behaving like turkeys, you can still score, right? You bet.

The Pressure Game

I’ll be honest: There are no secrets for killing hard-hunted turkeys. It’s just like Turkey Hunting 101 — but magnified. Think before you act, and analyze every move you make. Further, rely more on basic skills and common sense than gimmicks or crazy tactics.

First and foremost, redouble your scouting and reconnaissance efforts. As we’ve established, pressured turkeys don’t go anywhere. They might avoid certain areas or behave a bit differently, but they’re still in their home ranges. Get out there and learn what they’re doing.

Find good vantage points, and listen for birds during mornings and evenings. If you establish roosting patterns or, better, nail down a consistent roost, you’re well ahead of the game.

Glass fields and open woodlots during the day. Try to see where birds go later in the morning, where they loaf when the sun comes out and where they feed in the evening. After you learn a couple of pieces to the puzzle, you can combine that with your roosting info and begin to formulate a game plan.

If turkeys simply aren’t vocal or visible, look for other telltale signs of their whereabouts. Seek droppings, scratching, feathers, dusting areas and the like. Be careful in the woods, though, as bumping spooked turkeys will only make your quest more difficult.

My advice for calling to pressured turkeys will sound idiotic, but here it is: Go ahead and call to them, but endeavor to be a turkey. That is, let the birds be your guide on how much and how aggressively you call. Be conservative with roosted birds, and after they hit the ground, take your cue. Are hens yucking it up and gobblers hammering at every faint noise in the woods? If so, they will probably be fairly responsive to calling. As always, start softly and sparingly, and ratchet it up as needed. It’s more likely that pressured turkeys will be fairly soft-spoken. Gobblers will likely talk a bit on the roost and substantially less after hitting the ground. Try to get a fix on his mood by sounding like a hen going through her daily routine. Hit him with some soft clucking and purring and perhaps a few soft yelps. If that doesn’t seem to work, try some louder yelps and a bit of cutting. If the bird ultimately acts disinterested or drifts away, don’t hammer him with incessant calling. Refer back to your scouting, and try to find a better setup. Let the birds do their “turkey thing” — feeding, breeding and the like — and hope hens leave the gobbler later in the morning. Find the best setup possible, settle in, and be patient.

There’s one final way to beat a pressured turkey, but it’s very difficult. Leave him alone, let him get back to normal, and hunt him later. For some folks, this isn’t an option. If you can only hunt a 40-acre farm or small wildlife area near your home, you’ll likely be after that pressured turkey as often as possible. But if you have multiple spots or lots of acreage, it’s wise to leave pressured birds alone for a while and chase them later.

How long? That depends on how hard the bird has been hunted and the turkey itself. Sometimes, a day or two is plenty. Other times, a bird won’t “get right” for an entire season. There’s really no way to know in advance how a bird will react. Leave a hard-hunted turkey alone for a few days, if possible, and then try him during an ideal morning. If he acts better, you’ll feel like a genius. If he’s still tough, try not to make matters worse during your hunt, and consider giving him some more time off.

Conclusion

Hard-hunted turkeys represent a microcosm of turkeys in general. The birds are typically difficult and hard to kill. You must be on top of your game and use your head to succeed. Take that philosophy to another level, and you have your formula for killing pressured turkeys.

The post The Toughest Turkeys appeared first on Morning Moss.

from Morning Moss http://morningmoss.com/13696-2/

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vitalmindandbody · 7 years

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‘ We craved democracy ‘: is Hong Kong’s two-systems venture over?

As China stiffens its grasp on the city over which British govern purposed 20 years ago, pro-democracy activists are still fighting against corrosion of freedoms

For President Xi Jinping, the 20th anniversary of Hong Kongs return toChina is a moment to toast the reunification of a nation and acclaim its unstoppable rise. But for activists such as Eddie Chu, one of the leading lights of a new generation of pro-democracy politicians, it has become an reason for something very different.

Boot-licking. Unprecedented boot-licking! he says, a smile interrupting across his appearance as he reflects on how many members of the local society had been decided to marking two decades of Chinese govern by plastering their homes and business with patriotic slogans and red flags in the hope, he believes, of currying financial favour.

That is quite the opposite of what Hong Kong people wanted to see in 1997. We wanted to see republic. Democracy is not boot-licking.

On Saturday morning, Chinas authoritarian ruler, who is shaping a rare three-day tour of the former British settlement, will produce festivities of two decades of Chinese control alongside Hong Kongs incoming chief executive, Carrie Lam.

At a flag-raising formality simply down the road from where the umbrella revolution happened an unprecedented eruption of disagreement in the fall of 2014 the pair will recollect the moment this city of seven. 3 million residents returned to China after 156 years of colonial regulation. A flypast and a ocean procession will follow. By darknes, the skies over Victoria harbour, from where the imperial boat Britannia departed on 1 July 1997, is likely to be decorated by a splendid 23 -minute blaze of fireworks.

The moving reason of Hong Kongs return to the motherland like a long-separated child coming back to the heated espouse of his mother, is still color in our memory, Xi told a dinner on Friday night.

But for members of Hong Kongs democracy movement, the anniversary are complying with a profound feel of mistrust and trepidation.

Eddie Chu and followers support against the detention of 26 beings opposed to the Chinese authority. Photograph: Yan Lerval/ Sipa/ Rex/ Shutterstock

Twenty years after Britains departure thrust this hyperactive lair of capitalism into the hands of a Leninist dictatorship, activists such as Chu fear Beijing is about to up the bet in its duel for control.

Ten pro-democracy legislators, of which “hes one”, are at risk of losing their jobs as a result of government-backed legal challenges against them. There are fears that under Hong Kongs brand-new lead, who was elected by a tightly seen collection committee, there will be a regenerated push to pass controversial anti-subversion legislation.

And while Xi has sought to ten-strike an upbeat tone during his visit, recent commentaries by another senior Communist party figure who committed to consolidate Chinas control of the former colony has put activists on edge.

The relationship between the central government and Hong Kong is that of delegation of influence , not power-sharing, Zhang Dejiang, Chinas number three official, said, adding that Hong Kong could only be governed by those who posed no menace to[ its] prosperity and stability.

Feeding into activists gumption of foreboding is the feeling that numerous western governments have now cut them liberate for anxiety of damaging their economic relationships with “the worlds” second largest economy.

Martin Lee, 79, the elder statesman of Hong Kongs democracy movement. Picture: The Guardian

The foreign secretary, Boris Johnson, questioned a carefully worded proclamation about the anniversary on Thursday, saying it was vital that Hong Kongs autonomy be preserved. But Johnson formed no direct mention of thriving anxieties about the erosion of Hong Kongs liberties, or even of Beijings alleged abduction of a local bookseller who nursed a British passport.

The British government is just awful. Im afraid I cannot find any kind words to say about that, says Martin Lee, a 79 -year-old barrister who is the elder statesman of Hong Kongs democracy movement.

Like numerous, Lee is convinced that China is gradually depriving away the freedom of the media promised to Hong Kongs citizens for the purposes of the one country, two systems formula and that Britain has done nothing to intervene.

On Friday, a spokesperson for Chinas foreign ministry appeared to confirm those suspicions, telling reporters that the joint declaration, a transaction negotiated by London and Beijing pledging Hong Kongs way of life for 50 times, was a historical document that no longer had any practical relevance.

Suzanne Pepper, a veteran chronicler of the citys quest for democracy, says activists can no longer count on London or Washington for reinforcement: As long as there is no such thing as blood in wall street, they dont care.

Not everybody is lamenting Saturdays landmark anniversary, nonetheless. The streets around Xis waterfront hotel are scattered with clusters of pro-government boosters and decorated with banners that read I desire Hong Kong and One country, two systems has the strong verve. Lilac posters hanging from connections and lampposts carry the celebrations official catchline: Together. Progress. Opportunity. Skyscrapers have been decked out in shining blood-red banners and neon displays that read: Warmly celebrate the 20 th anniversary of Hong Kongs return to China.

Amid the omnipresent information, there is also sincere patriotic fervor. Hong Kong people should be proud of the achievements of the motherland and all the progress home countries has constructed, enthused Li Li, a steer at a government-sponsored exhibit about Chinas space programme that has been erected in Victoria Park to coincide with this weeks party.

Many more have saluted the commemoration and the presidential visit with carelessnes.

Chu estimated that about a third of the population was divided between pro-democracy and pro-government supporters. The remain couldnt care less about the commemoration, and is very much to be concerned about the traffic jams caused by the massive security operation to protect Xi.

Swaths of the citys waterfront are sealed off with towering grey and off-color obstructions, with agents patrolling the streets with assault rifles in their hands. Too many police! jokes one of hundreds of officers patrolling the field, sweat beading on his neck.

Lee says the lack of interest numerous young person are showing in Xis visit mark how disconnected they seem from mainland China and how Beijings programmes have lost their hearts and souls.

Oh, this is the ruler of a neighbour thats what they feel, he says, pointing to a recent poll suggesting that only 3% of 18-to-29-year-olds consider themselves Chinese, the lowest charge since 1997. The young people want republic. They dont is intended to be brainwashed.

For all the indifference and mistrust, Hong Kongs protest motion shall be published in buoyant feeling. Tens of thousands are expected to turn out on Saturday afternoon for an annual progress tagging the return to China. Their rallying cry will be Twenty years of lies.[ It] was going to be Communist party bureaucrats, get out of Hong Kong, but they decided that was a bit extremely provocative, says Pepper.

Last September, a record number of young anti-Beijing activists were elected to Hong Kongs legislative council, or Legco, in what one conqueror called a democratic miracle. However, many of them could now be forced from power, principally because of government legal challenges over protests the activists took part in while being blasphemed in last year.

If two to three of them “losing ones” fannies, then the whole political poise will change totally, and then Beijing will have absolute control of this legislature, alerts Chu, which was intended to call Democracy and self-determination and Tyranny must die while taking his oath.

Xi Jinping at a variety show to celebrate the handover commemoration. Photo: Keith Tsuji/ Getty Images

Pepper said she was not rosy that Beijing would volunteer concedings to activists, although there are Hong Kongs incoming chairman has pledged to heal the partition and build bridges. This is a bridge between democracy and tyranny, said Pepper. How she is going to bridge that, I dont know.

Chris Patten, Hong Kongs last governor, has offered a more upbeat rating of the city he formerly passed, saying he was encouraged by the really profound feel of citizenship of its young activists. Above all, I repute I am pleased about the acces in which Hong Kong people themselves are the reason for it still being a reason of optimism rather than pessimism.

Lee, who is famed for an impassioned defence of democracy that he granted after Britains withdrawal, says he is an eternal optimist about his movements hazards under a new, young leader. These young people are our hope for the future. Im very proud of them.

Sitting in his enclosures between a bust of Winston Churchill and a statuette of the Goddess of Democracy, the epitomize of the 1989 Tiananmen Square declarations, Lee recollects strolling through the umbrella flows main camp, a sprawling of tents and political debate, three days before police lastly cleared it, in December 2015.

There were two little birds singing on the ground.[ It was as if they were saying :] I please I were free, you are familiar with? The air was fresh, he remembers. I miss those days.

Additional reporting by Benjamin Haas and Wang Zhen .