#nobody can identify their own remains and i am unable to identify my own
Text
Omar Ziyadeh, “Nobody Can Identify Their Own Remains, and I Am Unable to Identify My Own” (tr. from Arabic by Alice S. Yousef) [ID’d]
#omar ziyadeh#alice s. yousef#nobody can identify their own remains and i am unable to identify my own#words#poetry#typography#palestinian literature
8K notes
·
View notes
Text
Nobody Can Identify Their Own Remains, and I Am Unable to Identify My Own By Omar Ziyadeh.
Translated from Arabic by Alice S. Yousef.
67 notes
·
View notes
Text
In English you may not notice the difference but for languages that do mark hierarchy/status with pronouns, like Spanish, Spanish from Spain (and some other countries as well) doesn't give a shit about the formal "usted".
I was shocked when I first when to France and saw that all the women's magazines used "vous" insted of (what we see in Spain) "tu".
Over the years, this shock has reappeared often and unexpectedly as I come to realise in Spain we don't give a shit about formal pronouns or titles. In Spain nobody who has a PhD uses the title "Doctor" in everyday life, nobody will call you doctor even in academia amongst colleagues (they will though if you are a physician, but if you are too arrogant, nurses will make sure to let you know by calling you "licenciado"). Nobody in Spain uses "Ingeniero" or "Licenciado" as titles. You are lucky if you are called the standard "Señor/a". And because of this, we rarely use last names in formal situations.
This is a list of things I've noticed:
There is a sci-fi horror podcast in Spanish called Biotopía. All the characters are called by their first name. Everyone in Biotopía seems to only have their first name but callers to the radio news (what we hear) do have last names.
I had to go to the police because my phone got stolen. A police officer came to ask why we were there, wrote it down and asked us to wait. Then, he came out and called in order by first name. When writing down the events of the theft, they did address me with "usted" (it felt weird, they were my age) but they all addressed colleagues around with "tú".
Children will use "tú" with everyone and that includes teachers. Teachers are referred to by their first name. We don't know our teachers last names (unless there are two teachers with the same name and it remains to be seen, they could be identified with other markers). You call the parents of your friends by their first name. Again, adults around you don't seem to have last names. There is an exception to this: your own teacher will be called "Seño" or "Sita" when you are around 5-6 (short for "Señorita", no last name) or "profe/profa" (short for "profesor/a") when you are older. If you teach English in High School, you will be referred to as "Tícher" (the pronunciation of "Teacher") and it will become "la tícher" when speaking of you in the third person.
Yes, this means that, when in class, if you have a question, you raise your hand and say "Teacher, can you repeat?". I am making a literal translation of how it goes in Spanish. I am very aware that this sounds terribly rude in English but in Spanish this is perfectly ok, kind and polite. There is also the tone of voice and the body language to make it polite.
In university, you address your teachers by their first name and with "tú".
Only assholes want you to use "usted" towards them. If you ever has a teacher who insists you use "usted" and "señor Last Name", he is an idiot and nobody likes him. I've only ever met men to do this and not many (I literally can only think of 3).
Similar rules apply to the working environment. Yes, you call your boss by their first name and use "tú", unless they are an asshole.
In the service sector, shops, client service, hotels, etc. there usually is a rule to speak to clients with "usted" but often it doesn't hold further than the standard question "may I help you?" or "what do you want?" (again, very literal translation from Spain, rude in English, perfectly ok in Spanish).
It feels VERY weird to be addressed by "usted". I am almost unable to use it with my clients on the phone or in person, often because they can't use it either so it has happened (and will happen again) that we go back and forth with "tú" and "usted". In written form I can manage better.
I tend to explain this to overly polite foreigners when they come to Spain, and it takes them A LOT to understand how it works here. Not only for the words that we use, but for the general idea of what and how is "polite".
40 notes
·
View notes
Note
I’ll be sending this without identifying myself since I’m somewhat afraid of the reaction this might cause, and since this ask might be unwanted. If this is discomforting, you’re free to brush over this ask, but I felt it necessary to provide some of my own experiences with Rhys, even if behind a veil of anonymity. I don’t have much of a platform nor do I have anybody to share this with, and due to your experiences with him yourself, I was impulsed to write this. Again, if this is pushing a line, you’re free to delete this.
I was one of Rhys’s first (and longest?) relationships. Nobody remembers me in reality, and if they do, I’m sure Rhys spread an erroneous idea of me. I was unable to stand up for myself at the time, and he constantly brushed over my boundaries and discomforts. He would curse at me and tell me to be quiet constantly, make a mockery out of what I brought up, and he would in the end push the blame onto my person.
He ignored me and kept me on the side, and I felt isolated from everybody who surrounded me. It was almost as if I was unable to express basic concerns. He had utter control over me and I feared him to some extent, and when I finally parted ways with him, his influence over me was so strong I apologised for his misdeeds and allowed him to come into my life in several instances.
He has always behaved this way, and I surely doubt he will learn from this entire predicament with others. His ability to force others into his will is something he only keeps honing, and if he isn’t treated as the serial abuser he is, he will only continue.
Not unwanted at all, thank you for sending this in, and I completely understand the desire to remain anonymous. However should you want to message me directly, you or anyone else, is more than welcome. I am sorry to hear you went through this, and I am glad you have been able to get away from it since. He really has a way of making those he has victimized feel sorry for him. I do unfortunately agree that I can’t see Rhys changing, let alone anytime soon. At most I can hope he isn’t provided the opportunity to gain a platform again now that all this information has been made known.
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tetrachromat ||Harry Potter
Pairing: Cedrico Diggory x Reader // Hermione Granger x Reader
Summary: In a world where you can see 100 million different shades, every day means a new discovery. But among so many, you find something completely different in someone
Word Count: 2,6k
N / A: tetrachromatism or tetracromacia comes from the mixture of two words of Greekorigin,"tetra" means "four" and "Chroma" which means "color". A tetrachromat person has 4 cell cones, instead of 3 which is more common, and this makes him sensitive to a wider color spectrum.
Part II
I had just come home after a tiring day at work, when I came across a scene that I hadn't seen in a long time. There was a brown owl on the steps of my house, I looked around and then walked over to it, took the letter that was tied to one of its legs, and a few seconds later I saw it flying across the London sky back to Hermione, after all there is no one but her that I know in the Wizarding World. As she was waiting for me there for a long time, I'm sure my parents haven't arrived yet, as they would have let her in.
I left my bag on the sofa and sat down to read it immediately, I hadn't heard from her in over a year and sometimes I feared the worst had happened. The last thing I received was a warning, she had told me that she couldn't get in touch because she had an important mission to do and that when it was over, we could talk again.
“Dear friend,
It has been a week since the war ended, the Wizarding World is turned upside down but we are at peace and rebuilding ourselves now. I'm sending this letter to let you know that I'm going to visit my parents' house in a few days and I would like to see you too. After lunch next Saturday it seems like a good time.
I have more things to tell you than I can put into words, I would also like to ask you a favor, but we can resolve this later.
With love, Hermione. ”
This visit was only the first of many. We talked as far as she could tell me, some issues were still sensitive and very recent and I obviously respected that, but even without many details, knowing the things that happened was difficult to process and she also respected that.
We started seeing each other more than once a week, my parents managed to help locate Hermione's parents very easily, since our families have been neighbors and close friends for a long time. That was the favor she asked for and I immediately agreed.
Over the course of two months, things were returning to their proper place and I had been officially invited by the brunette to visit their version of London and of course, I accepted. I was looking forward to that day, in the last letter I received, she told me that she would like to introduce Harry and Ronald, her boyfriend, to me. It is strange to think that I had heard everything about them, literally everything that happened at Hogwarts I knew from letters, but that we never actually talked.
On the day that the visit was finally going to happen, I was more nervous than I had imagined. At 9 am, I was just getting ready when I heard a huge noise in the living room and for a few seconds I was scared, until I remembered that the girl warned me that this would happen.
I could hear my parents' voices downstairs and I didn't even have to worry about hurrying, the only thing that caught my attention were the steps on the wooden stairs and then a light knock on the door.
- Come in, Mione - I replied calmly, knowing who I was as I finished putting on my boots.
- It's really impressive how you always guess right - she replied with a smile and came in, sitting next to me.
- It's not very difficult, nobody in this house really knocks on the door before entering, although I keep complaining about it - we both smiled at my comment and I continued - I thought you were going to bring Harry and Ronald - I commented getting up and she immediately laughed , leaving me confused.
- It is weird to hear you saying "Ronald" so formally, it seems that you do not know him- she explained to me and I had to laugh too.
- I think so too, but as I don't know him personally, it doesn't feel right to be informal, I can't explain it, but anyway, I'm ready to go.
We said goodbye to my parents before apparating to a street with several different stores. We walked a lot and it was nice to see how people were happier after all the terror that happened.
Many people stopped to talk to Mione, she tried to disguise it but I noticed perfectly how well it did her, as if the whole sacrifice was worth it because no one would have to suffer or be afraid anymore.
It was only at lunchtime that we met with the others at a restaurant, that I had to insist a lot to go and exchange my money because Hermione wanted to pay, since I was the guest of the day.
Along the way, I noticed how this London is more normal than I imagined it to be, I have to look closely to see the less drastic differences.
- Is it true that you see different colors from everyone ?? - the redhead asked unable to hold himself and I just laughed at Hermione's indignant expression - Ouch! What? It’s not true? - He put his hand behind his head, where he had been slapped by the brunette next to him.
We had come in less than 5 minutes ago, I thought it was going to be a lot more uncomfortable than it really was. Right after the introductions, Ronald asked me that question and I admit that I was a little surprised. I had no idea that Mione talked about me for them.
- It is true, colors work in a different way for me. Around everything there are colors popping out before my eyes - I tried to explain as easily as I could with a smile.
- Around people too ?? Around us now, have colors ?? - his eyes sparkled with excitement when I agreed - what do you see around me ?? - he added with interest in his voice.
- Many shades of red, blue and orange - I said after analyzing him for a few seconds.
- Hey, it reminds me of that book you gave me. The psychology of colors - her smile opened immediately when she remembered.
- Psychology? It couldn't have a better word for a title? Nobody in their right mind would read that - Ron leaned back in his chair and Harry's posture changed, as if he expected what was coming.
- That book has the meaning of each color, I like to think that colors describe people but since you are not interested, I will not say it - the two went from water to wine in a matter of seconds.
- We are interested, how could I not have been told about this before ?? - The brown-eyed boy looked at her as if he had been terribly betrayed.
- We had bigger concerns Ronald, since the first year you two took me into trouble that could have cost our life or our expulsion - she stared at him seriously and not a trace of remorse stamped his face.
- But you don't regret living all these adventures, right? It was fun at least, most of them - he replied leaning over to her with a wide smile.
- Well, some choices could be decided much more sensibly, we weren't that much of a child - she said moving away to the side as the other approached - what are you doing, Ronald? - her cheeks burned a light pink.
- What is the definition of red? - Harry said suddenly, taking my attention from the couple next to me, he looked as comfortable as I did.
- Well, usually strong emotions. Passion, love, anger .. I see it in all of you, but it is not up to me to point out exactly what it means in each case - I said looking at the three since I received attention from the lovebirds.
- And do you have proof of that? Is it really true ?? - He asked me again, even more curious.
- In terms of colors and meanings, yes, but as there are few people with my condition, no researcher has identified the relationship of colors with what is around them. I like to believe it's true, so far it's not wrong and I have tested it several times.
We continued talking animatedly, even after our orders arrived. The topic of colors continued until everyone was satisfied with their definitions and then they decided to tell me some mini adventures that they lived together, which I still didn't know about.
- And after all this episode with the spider, he had the courage to say that they didn't do it wrong, as if my head had almost been eaten by mistake - Ron said with wide eyes while gesturing non-stop.
We all laughed but I lost focus on the conversation as soon as two men stopped by our table, clearly father and son or something, due to the clear age difference. Both had friendly smiles on their faces, but the youngest one caught my attention the most.
I just managed to hear an echo in my head of what the conversation was about, I obviously wasn't looking at him because it would be rude and it's not the kind of thing I would have the courage to do shamelessly.
- We haven't seen each other in a while, Mr. Diggory, oh by the way, this is a friend of mine - Mione nodded at me and I smiled, just before I introduced myself and they did the same.
Cedric, it’s his name. I remained distracted by my own thoughts until a tap on the shoulder woke me up, they were no longer there but I could tell they were at a nearby table.
- Hey, I was talking to you - she said with an expression of indignation and a little bit of concern too - oh, finally back to this planet - she completed it as soon as she got my attention again.
- What were you going to say, Mione? - I felt my face heat up but I tried to hide it as much as possible, the less attention for this moment of mine the better.
The brunette decided to leave the questions for later and I thanked her internally for that. After we finished eating, it was just the two of us again since apparently both of the boys had plans for the rest of the day.
- Did something bother you earlier? You didn't even look at us - I heard her say as we walked out of the restaurant.
- Yes, but you don't have to worry about that, I just needed a few seconds to put my head in place - I hadn't even realized what that could mean until I saw the smile on her face.
- Was just one "hello" enough for your head to get out of place? Not that I'm judging, that's usually how it was at Hogwarts - her tone was a little bit malicious and I instantly slapped your arm.
- It was nothing like that, I had never seen anyone or anything with so many colors before. He had a rainbow of colors, I couldn't even process it properly - I used the lowest tone I could, after all we were still in public.
- Are you sure?? Your vision may have confused him with the whole background - the rational side spoke first and I shook my head - well, it doesn't seem like a coincidence. Cedric has always been the definition of Hufflepuff, I couldn't think of anyone else who could be a rainbow, literally speaking - her smile returned even more prominent.
As a last stop, we went back to Diagon Alley because apparently the desserts there were the best. I was about to find out if this is true or not, when Hermione told me she was going to get a book, which really isn't a surprise to anyone, so I enjoyed my chocolate cake alone, sitting at one of the round pink tables.
- Hey, I didn't expect to see you here - it definitely wasn't a female voice, so as I looked ahead there he was again.
- I would go anywhere to have such a good cake - we both smiled and I motioned him to sit on the currently empty chair - and what is your reason? I asked with one eyebrow raised.
- I'm working as a house elf today, my dad ordered a huge order here and I came to get it - maybe I had paid more attention than necessary to his smile, but who can judge me?
- I don't want to disturb you, it must be important - I tried to be the most sincere in those words, but most of me wanted his presence for a few more minutes.
- He won't mind waiting longer, I couldn't miss the opportunity to spend a few more minutes with such a beautiful girl - he dared to wink at me.
Before I could answer, the cashier who also owns the place came to our table personally and what she said made me blush hard.
- Hello, your father's order is ready, Mr. Diggory and we also have a special promotion for couples, if you are interested - her smile was loving.
Cedric was as speechless as I was, both overflowing with redness in our face and the lady did not seem to understand the situation at all, she brought another menu with options for couples to our table before leaving us alone again.
- This is not what I expected to happen, but this colorful cake looks really good - I blinked slowly and couldn't resist it, I had to laugh and the confused expression on his face made me laugh even more.
- That was a very HufflePuff way of dealing with the situation and, by the way, you should try it. It suits you after all - I commented before eating my own cake.
- Do you study at Hogwarts too? I mean, studied when it wasn’t destroyed.
- Oh no, I'm not a witch. I know a lot about it ‘cause of Hermione, apparently you're quite popular - again I noticed the pink on his cheeks increase and I must say, it's amusing to watch.
- Not quite popular for sure, what else you know about me? - He regained his confident posture and raised an eyebrow in my direction.
- Not beyond what I have already implied, but I would love to know more if it’s okay for you.
Where did I get that confidence from? I'm not sure, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity and my attitude seems to have taken him by surprise as much as me. The words disappeared from his mouth as I grinned.
- Is there a problem Cedric? - I was having more fun than I expected this afternoon.
- I should have asked you out, but you were faster - he said so seriously frustrated but my only desire is just to laugh.
- Oh, do you want to go out with me? I meant to get to know each other as friends - he stopped to analyze me and I tried to be serious but before he apologized, I held his hand - I was just kidding, I would love to go out with you - I winked at him before letting go.
- You are really ... my heart is not going to have a minute of peace from now on, is it?
- I will try to take it easy on you Diggory, but I don't know if I will be able to do it for long.
An hour later I left to look for Hermione with a promise from Cedric, we would meet again next week.
Harry Potter Masterlist
#harry potter fanfiction#harry potter x you#harry potter x reader#fred weasley#imagine harry potter#harry potter#george weasley#george weasley x reader#harry james potter imagine#cedric diggory#cedric diggory x reader#cedric diggory imagine#cedric diggory fanfiction#draco malfoy x reader#draco malfoy#hermione granger x you#hermione granger#hermione granger x reader
37 notes
·
View notes
Text
the game is afoot
WHATS POPPING MY LITTLE MUPPETS WERE BACK YEEHA
ok serious time. there's been a murder! if you'd like to solve it you can, you'll have all the clues you need (and a few you don't!) let me know if you got it right in the replies!! if you don't want to solve along, just read like normal and enjoy a cute little victorian gay fit with a dash of murder.
also, I DID NOT COME UP WITH THIS CASE AND I OWN NO PART OF IT. I'm a whole idiot and not clever enough to come up with a sherlock level case on my own. so, people who made sherlock holmes: crimes and punishments, please do not sue me. i am a broke college dropout with no money. also, if you know the case, please don't spoil it for anyone else!
tw for murder and associated things (blood, mild gore, etc), internalized period typical homophobia, and drug mentions. if i missed any, please let me know!
otherwise, welcome back!!
---------
“Hullo!” Cady chirps as she enters the door to 221B Baker Street, not noticing the state her dear companion is in on the sofa. She looks up after hanging her coat on the rack to find her pale and perspiring, and hears a weak groan. “Good heavens, Janis!” Cady drops her things and runs over to her partner’s side. “Whatever happened to you?”
“I feel… deathly,” Janis groans.
“And you look it,” Cady tuts, checking her dilated pupils and feeling her temperature. “Don’t tell me you’ve returned to your old habits.” Janis allows Cady to check her pulse. It’s weak, far slower than it should be. “Your pulse is weak and dropping, we-we need to get you to the hospital straight away. You are dying.”
“The antidote,” Janis moans, pointing weakly to the table nearby. “Give it to me.”
“Antidote?” Cady asks. “You mean that you have been poisoned?! Don’t tell me you did this to yourself. Here, drink it all.”
“I was compelled to.” Janis takes the small bottle and downs the whole thing in one go. Just then, Mrs. Norbury comes into the room to announce the arrival of Inspector Hubbard.
“Oh, Ms. Sarkisian is unable to see anyone at the moment, she is unwell,” Cady says apologetically.
Janis suddenly pops upright behind her, seeming in perfect health. “Ah, Inspector. What is it this time?”
“A case for you, Ms. Sarkisian,” Damian says. “We’ve brought in two young bankers from the city. Sons of lords, members of the chamber, et cetera. They were found stranded in a rowing boat drifting down the Thames.”
“A romantic escapade gone awry,” Janis says boredly, turning around to examine her nails.
“What? Well-it’s true they were both in the buff, but…” Damian stutters. Janis simply raises an eyebrow at him and gestures between the both of them. He chuckles and nods. “I have another that might be more to your liking. Sir Rodney Bentcliffe has been murdered at the Roman Baths. And there’s no sign of a weapon.”
Janis turns to him again, eyes wide with delight. “I shall meet you there shortly. Are you coming, Heron?”
“I feel I must,” Cady tuts. “But I’ll have you know I’m against you going out, as your doctor and your friend.”
Janis boldly cups her face and kisses her forehead, making Cady blush. “I am fine, Cady. Now come on, grab your hat!”
—————
Cady looks around in apparent awe at the room they find themselves in. Janis does have to admit it is beautifully extravagant, decorated with large marble statues and a rather tasteful fountain in the center. “My, how beautiful!”
“With a dreadful murder,” Inspector Hubbard pipes up, casually approaching them. “The body is still in the steam room. We haven’t touched a thing, per your usual instructions.”
“Excellent,” Janis says. There’s a gleam in her eye as she continues, “Then let us begin. Were you able to identify the men who were with him?”
“Ah, yes! Sir Gregory Pitkin, the manager of the baths; Garrow, a lad from the city council; and Blinkhorn, an archaeologist,” Damian informs her. “I am of the opinion that it’s Garrow. He doesn’t seem right in the head.”
“We shall see,” Janis hums. “You found no murder weapon?”
“No, that’s why you were sent for. The victim and all three witnesses were locked in at the time of the murder, and remained so until we arrived. We had to pick the lock to enter!”
“Was anyone else here?”
“Yes, a Mr. Phillips, at the desk there. He called the police, and will be able to give you more details.”
“My thanks, Mr. Hubbard,” Janis says jokingly. Damian tips his hat in response.
“Anytime.”
Janis makes her way over to the desk then, and Cady follows once she realizes her companion is no longer by her side.
“Good day to you, my name is Janis Sarkisian and this is my friend and colleague Doctor Heron. Would you be so kind as to answer our questions?” Janis says with what Cady knows to be faux-politeness. At least people seem to buy it.
“Ah, certainly ma’am,” the man says, a hint of anxiety in his tone. Cady watches in slight awe as Janis’ eyes track up and down the man before them and she seems to learn several key details about him in just a few seconds. It never gets old, watching her friend at work.
“Please tell us the chain of events from the start of your day,” Janis asks to start with once her observation is complete. “Anything you remember. The slightest detail may be of utmost importance.”
“Very well, miss. I came in this morning at six-thirty to prepare the baths,” Phillips says. “I did my usual tasks, preparing towels and cleaning. The brazier was still burning.”
“Pardon? There was a fire burning all night?” Cady asks in slight worry.
“Yes, Sir Gregory ordered me to light the brazier yesterday,” Phillips explains. “It takes some time until the room is fully heated.”
“Ah,” Cady says with a nod, gesturing for him to continue.
“The gentlemen had a meeting at nine o’ clock this morning. I wanted it to be perfect,” Phillips says. “They had been in the steam room for… twenty minutes, when I suddenly heard shouting. I ran to the door, but it was locked. I couldn’t open it. So I ran to the street to call for the police. One constable came, then others, and they picked the lock. Then the Inspector came and informed us nothing should be touched.”
“And did you receive any other visitors this morning?” Janis asks, bouncing once on the balls of her feet as she scans the room.
“Nobody, until these men arrived. Sir Gregory was the first,” the man says. “Then while we were discussing work details, Sir Rodney and Mr. Blinkhorn arrived together. Mr. Garrow followed.”
“And then?”
“I waited until they had all entered the steam room, then I returned to the hall. The changing room door was open, so I should hear if they needed anything.”
“You would have heard if someone had entered or left the steam room?” Janis asks.
“Certainly, ma’am. The doors make a lot of noise,” Phillips says. One of the witnesses must be the murderer, then.
“Thank you, my good man,” Janis says, leading Cady off toward the steam room.
The changing room precedes it, a large rectangular room with marble benches and shelves to hold personal items. Three sets of neatly folded clothing sit on the benches. Janis scans them quickly and apparently doesn’t notice anything of interest, apart from the fact that one set seems rather more expensive than the others.
What does catch her eye is a bottle of champagne, unopened and in a bucket of ice to keep chilled. Clearly intended to be enjoyed after the session in the baths.
They enter the actual sauna room then. A constable guards the only door, and three men stand clad only in white towels at the other end near the brazier. Janis looks delighted as she heads to inspect the body first. Cady follows quickly.
“Good lord,” Cady breathes. “How dreadful.”
Sir Rodney lies sprawled against the marble bench, arms spread as he sits in a remarkably large pool of his own blood. Cady quickly learns the source, his left eye. Thin but bright red blood tracks down his face and to the floor around him.
“Yes, a death with a particularly… Roman flair,” Janis hums interestedly.
“Like the one you almost had an hour ago?”
“Come now, let us forget about that,” Janis says.
Cady watches as her companion crouches down to examine everything she can.
“The wound should not have bled so profusely,” Janis hums to herself, dashing around on her knees so as not to leave footprints and taint the scene. Cady observes as she inspects his nails and takes an earth sample from beneath them, and looks at the ring marks on his finger.
“Death would’ve been an hour ago at most,” Cady says when she’s allowed to inspect the corpse herself, judging by the temperature of the extremities and degree of rigor mortis. “And would’ve been instantaneous. A vile act of savagery.”
“Delightful,” Janis says, sounding genuinely excited. “Wait, don’t move!”
Cady freezes as Janis calls to her loudly, and watches as she bends to remove a small gold key from the pool of blood next to the corpse. Cady stands from the body once it’s been retrieved and turns to her colleague.
“We don’t have many leads here,” Cady says.
“What concerns me is that we have yet to find the murder weapon,” Janis murmurs, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “For now, we shan’t worry. Constable!”
“Yes, Ms. Sarkisian?” The constable guarding the door asks.
“Please have the body removed without disturbing anything else in the room,” Janis asks politely. A few more constables enter and gently remove the body, leaving only the pool of blood behind as evidence of a crime. Janis takes a small sample to be studied for more clues, then stands to begin assessing the rest of the room.
“Sarkisian,” Cady murmurs quietly, pointing to the man standing closest to the brazier. There’s a large, bloody handprint on his towel. He clearly discovered the body, but did he put it there?
“Hm,” Janis hums disinterestedly, turning a switch on the wall. Steam suddenly floods the room, making it difficult to see more than a foot or so away. Janis quickly flips it back off and waits for the steam to clear. “Interesting.”
She heads to the brazier then, assessing the embers as close as she can. A pair of spectacles rests on the edge, one lens cracked from the heat. Cady can tell from the thick glass that they are for myopia, otherwise known as the wearer being nearsighted.
Janis attempts to get closer, but the heat is too much. Some melted metal rests in the center. “Heron, please remind me to find a tool to remove this metal so that I may study it.”
“Yes, Sarkisian,” Cady says quietly, marking it down in her notebook. She wishes she could do as Janis does and store all the important information in her mind. But her notebook has come in handy more than once.
Cady dashes after Janis as she exits the steam room and is quickly approached by Inspector Hubbard, who asks if she has any objections to having the suspects taken to Scotland Yard. Janis says she has none, and the Inspector moves to he steam room to gather the men.
Janis heads to speak to Mr. Phillips once more to inquire about the key she found. “Mr. Phillips, how many people have keys to the steam room?”
“We have just the one, for now,” the man replies, standing from his desk to speak with them once again. “Sir Gregory gave it to me.”
“So, you opened the steam room this morning,” Janis says rather abruptly. “What happened afterwards?”
“I put the key in my desk, but when they called it had disappeared,” Phillips says, looking to his feet. “I-I don’t know where it is.”
“Did you leave at any point, or receive any visitors?” Janis continues.
“No, miss, I did not,” Phillips says. Even Cady can tell he’s lying.
Janis points to a bit of paper sticking out of his pocket. Cady notices it to be a sent telegram upon looking closer. “You are not telling the truth. You did leave your work this morning. You went to the post office to dispatch a telegram at around seven-thirty.”
“But-how could you-“ Phillips stutters. Janis smirks slightly.
“The telegram was for someone in Manchester.”
“But it’s imposs-“ Phillips stumbles again. Janis just raises an eyebrow, and he crumbles. “I shall tell you everything. My sister wrote to me yesterday, and she needed a reply. Our mother is unwell. I left the baths at around seven-twenty to tell her to pawn my old school uniform to pay for the medication. I was away for twenty minutes, and I closed the baths on my way out.”
“Did you check to see if the key was still in your desk when you returned?” Janis asks.
“N-no, ma’am,” the man stutters. “Please, don’t tell anyone about this. Sir Gregory would sack me. I need this job.”
“I see,” Janis says, slightly coldly. “Do you happen to know who left the bottle of champagne on ice in the changing room?”
“Champagne? No,” Phillips responds, seeming to come back to himself slightly. “Do you think that it’s important?”
“We shall see,” Janis hums. “Good day to you.”
Janis then heads to a door opposite the entrance to the steam room, marked ‘frigidarium’. The cold room. Just inside the door to the right is a shoddy door, with a plaque labeled ‘Sir Rodney Bentcliffe’ just outside.
“This must be his workshop,” Janis hums, pushing the door open and stepping inside. It seems rather hastily put together, temporary tables set up to hold small archaeological finds, and shelves with larger items line the far wall.
“Sarkisian, I would like to examine the blood again, if I may,” Cady asks. Janis waves her off as she takes a pair of tongs from a table and leafs through a few documents on the desk.
Janis examines a large, curved metal plate, with a carving of a bridge etched into it. A short document rests on top explaining that it is believed to be part of a larger, unknown structure. Janis leaves it for now and heads further down the corridor to the frigidarium. She’s halted in her tracks by a thunderous rumbling. She blinks and is suddenly on her behind, a large wall of rocks and debris blocking her path down. She shakes herself off and coughs a bit.
“Janis! Are you alright?!” Cady yells, barreling down towards her. She skids to a halt when she sees Janis perfectly fine, if a little dusty, sitting before her. “Oh, thank heavens!”
Janis begrudgingly allows Cady to assess her for injuries, and her eyes fly open when Cady suddenly rests a gentle hand on her cheek and locks their lips together. This is new.
Unfortunately it doesn’t last, as Cady seems to realize what she’s done and pulls back with a gasp, scrambling away and pressing her back against the far wall. “I-I-I-“
“It’s quite alright,” Janis says soothingly. She gently pulls herself back to her feet and takes a small step forward, but Cady shakes her head frantically and stops her in her tracks. “Heron, really. It’s absolutely fine.”
“I-I’ll see you back at Baker Street,” Cady says hastily. Before Janis can say anything she’s running back down the corridor and outside, coattails trailing behind her.
“What happened with her?” Damian asks. Janis just shakes her head and dusts off her coat. “Are you alright?”
“Bit dusty,” Janis tuts. “Is there another way ‘round this?”
“Not that we’ve found,” Inspector Hubbard says. “If it becomes necessary we can remove the debris for you. I’m off to the Yard, would you care to accompany me?”
“Not just yet, I’ll likely be there tomorrow afternoon,” Janis replies, following him to the exit.
“Very well. Good day to you, Sarkisian.”
“Same to you, my good man,” Janis chuckles. She grabs the metal from the brazier in the steam room with the tongs and follows him out the doors once it’s cool enough to handle.
-
Janis hops out of the cab when it arrives at Baker Street, quickly paying and pacing off to the flat. Her hand is on the doorknob before she freezes and turns around to cross the street.
“Wiggins,” she calls when she notices it’s him. A watch for her secret police division is always there, but Wiggins is her personal favorite.
“‘Ello Ms. Sarkisian,” Wiggins calls back, resting down a toy cart he seems to be repairing. “What can I do for ya?”
“There’ll be two guineas in it for you if someone can track down Heron,” Janis says. “Don’t let her see you, just make sure she’s alright and let me know where she is.”
“Easy! I won’t let you down, miss,” Wiggins says, saluting before dashing off down the road. Janis grins affectionately and heads back upstairs.
——
Janis is too busy worrying for her companion to get any real work done, so she decides to reorganize her mind palace for a while. Cady’s wing could use some decorating.
After a few hours, a great cacophony of noise suddenly echoes downstairs, followed by the calls of Mrs. Norbury. Whoever it is wipes their shoes on the mat briefly before heading upstairs. She can tell by the polite gesture and the energetic step that Wiggins has made a return.
“We found Doctor Heron, miss!” He calls.
“Excellent. How was she?” Janis asks, sitting up before heading over to him.
“She didn’t seem very well, to be truthful, Ms. Sarkisian,” Wiggins says. “She’s in the park. But she ain’t going anywhere, just pacing about and cryin’.”
“Hmm,” Janis hums sadly. “Not much I can do about that, then. Here’s your payment.”
Wiggins skillfully catches the coins she tosses his way. “At your service, miss.”
Janis is deep in thought once more by the time he leaves.
————-
Cady enters the flat several hours later, finding Janis in her usual pose. Flat on her back on the sofa, hands pressed together in the praying position just underneath her nose. Unusually, she pops an eye open and sits upright when she hears Cady enter.
“Hello,” Janis says quietly. Cady can tell she sees right through her put-together facade. Of course. When doesn’t she? “Are you well?”
“Fine,” Cady whispers in agreement. She sheepishly makes her way over and hands Janis a pile of papers. “Here.”
Janis flicks through them. “Our rent agreement?” Cady nods. “Whatever for?”
“So I can move out,” Cady murmurs. “You won’t have to see me again, I’ll-I’ll handle it all.”
Janis snaps her head up to look at her, tossing the papers aside. “Why do you wish to leave?”
“You know what I am, Janis. You know how-how I feel about you,” Cady whimpers. “It’s unnatural. Why would you want to associate with me now?”
Janis gently approaches her dear friend. “You are missing a key element of the narrative, my dear Heron.”
Cady looks both baffled and terrified as Janis gradually gets closer. “And-and what would that be?”
“How I feel for you,” Janis purrs gently, wrapping an arm around Cady’s waist and resting her forehead against the redhead’s. “I admit I’ve grown rather fond of you over the years of our companionship.”
“You have?”
Janis chuckles quietly. “I have indeed. I’ve always thought matters of the heart trivial, a weakness. Waste of valuable brain power. But you’ve managed to work your way in regardless. And I find myself not wishing to attempt to remove you.”
“Oh,” Cady hums, flushing a spectacular shade of pink. “How-how long?”
“I couldn’t say exactly,” Janis says quietly, staring into the brilliant blue of Cady’s eyes. “But a very long time. How long for you?”
Cady grins up at her slightly. “Since the day we met.”
“Really?” Janis laughs. “After all that. I’m surprised.”
——
“Kenya or Tanzania?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you from Kenya or Tanzania?” Janis repeats.
“I-Kenya,” Cady stutters. “How did you-“
Janis rolls her eyes haughtily, seemingly having been through similar conversations before. “Your skin bears a lingering tan that implies you grew up near the equator. Your accent is African, and you have a large scar along your collarbone that could only have been created by a creature with large claws, most likely a lion or a tiger. Tigers live mainly around India, not Africa, so it was most probably a lion. The largest lion populations in Africa near the equator are in Kenya and Tanzania.”
“Incredible,” Cady breathes. Janis chuckles under her breath and raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.
“That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do they normally say?” Cady asks curiously.
“Piss off,” Janis laughs.
—-
“You’ve been invaluable to me,” Janis murmurs. “I daren’t imagine life without you.”
“I love you,” Cady whispers back.
“And I love you,” Janis says. “May I-“
“Kiss me,” Cady demands. Janis happily obliges, resting a gently callused hand on her jaw and brushing their lips together. Cady gives a quietly delighted sigh and threads her arms around Janis’ neck, tilting her head for a better angle. Janis marvels in how soft her lips are. Maybe Cady will let her experiment on them.
Cady gasps quietly as Janis sucks her bottom lip between her own and gives a gentle nibble, allowing Janis to deepen their kiss and brush their tongues together. The soft groan Cady allows to escape nearly makes Janis’ knees buckle.
They both look a bit dizzy and disheveled when they have to break apart for breath. Cady gives the widest smile Janis has ever seen, and squeals in surprise when Janis scoops her up in retaliation. She has remarkable upper body strength for her build.
“You have no idea how precious you are to me,” Janis whispers, carrying her over and resting her down on her experiment table so their eye levels are just about even. Cady tries desperately not to think about the jar of-are those eyeballs?!- that Janis brushes away to make room for her. “My conductor of light.”
“Your what?” Cady asks lovingly, stroking a hand through Janis’ hair and gently scratching at the base of her scalp.
“‘It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but that you are a conductor of light,’” Janis recites. “I read that somewhere. Some people without possessing a spectacular amount of genius have a remarkable ability to stimulate it.”
“Cheers,” Cady grumbles.
“Not in a bad way, my darling,” Janis amends. “You give me a… lens, so to speak. To shine my light through, give it a purpose. Conduct it. A light on its own has no point. The sun would be near useless without the atmosphere.”
“Oh.” Cady says. “I suppose that does make me sound useful.”
“You’re more than useful, dearest. You’re invaluable. Irreplaceable.”
“Yours,” Cady concludes for her. “Forever.”
“Does it bother you that the world can never know of us?” Janis asks quietly, nuzzling her nose against Cady’s.
“My world already does,” Cady hums, holding Janis’ face between her hands gently and staring meaningfully into her warm brown eyes. “Nothing matters to me but you.”
“I should hope your patients matter to you,” Janis teases. “Else we may get some strongly worded letters arriving soon.”
“You know what I mean,” Cady says, rolling her eyes. “Would you stay with me tonight?”
“Always,” Janis purrs, lifting her off the table and carrying her to a bedroom. She can’t help but notice that they seem to fit together perfectly when she tips Cady down into the bed and is immediately grabbed and held close. Like a puzzle.
—-
Janis yawns and stretches when she wakes the next morning, rather shocked to find that she apparently slept for at least a few hours. She can’t remember the last time she actually drifted off so easily.
She’s sprawled on her back, with Cady pressed against her side and her face tucked into Janis’ neck. Cady snuffles discontentedly when Janis gently kisses her forehead and removes herself, tucking her in a little tighter with the warm wool blankets.
-
Cady comes padding out of the room a full half-hour after Janis finishes her small breakfast, still in her nightgown. Janis grins slightly when she sees that she’s decided to add Janis’ robe and slippers to her little morning ensemble.
“Good morning,” Janis hums when Cady presses herself to her back as Janis looks out the window over Baker Street. “You look cozy.”
Cady just gives a quiet hum, not up to speaking quite so soon after waking up. Janis turns around to hold her, and Cady sighs contently as she’s held against her love. Janis rests her chin on top of Cady’s still unbrushed hair and closes her eyes.
“Did last night truly happen?” Cady whispers, muffled by Janis’ warm skin.
“I believe so,” Janis whispers back.
“Prove to me I didn’t dream it,” Cady begs quietly. “Please.”
“Shh,” Janis calms before cupping her face and kissing her sweetly. She feels Cady’s relieved sigh puff gently against her cheek. “Good morning, darling.”
“Good morning, my love,” Cady beams back.
“Mrs. Norbury made your breakfast,” Janis murmurs after a long moment. “Should still be warm.”
“Have you eaten?” Cady asks knowingly, pulling back to look into Janis’ eyes.
“Yes,” Janis chuckles. “Not enough for your tastes, I know, but I have eaten.”
“Good,” Cady chirps. “I’ll get some calories in you yet. Where are you off to today?”
“Nowhere for the morning, I have some experiments to conduct here,” Janis replies.
“Anything I can assist with?” Cady asks politely.
“It’s nothing particularly interesting, just a few analyses on some evidence,” Janis replies. “I’ll be off to interrogate the suspects this afternoon, however, you can accompany me then if you wish to.”
Cady nods, allowing Janis to start her work. She begins with the sample of earth taken from beneath one of Sir Rodney’s fingernails. She finds it to contain pyrite, selenite, and white clay particles. Based on the composition, Janis deduces it is white clay, which is found only around the city of St. Albans.
Now to the blood sample. Under the microscope, Janis is able to observe that it’s still very liquid, and has not coagulated well. She drops a few drops of hydrogen peroxide onto the sample, which allows her to see that the blood has been heavily diluted with water.
All that’s left is the metal she discovered in the brazier. Janis believes it to be silver. A simple test is all that’s needed. Cady naively provides her with a silver penny. Janis drops a small amount of acid onto both the coin and the metal sample, and observes the same reaction on both. The result is the same red stain. The metal is, indeed, silver.
—————
Janis heads to the evidence room immediately upon arriving at Scotland Yard. Four evidence drawers await her on the table. Three suspects, one victim.
She begins with the victim’s belongings. Janis finds and sneakily pockets a hand drawn map, and closely observes an ancient coin, and a gold ring etched with an Egyptian symbol, which has been repaired by an amateur with silver. All that’s left is a small notebook.
“Heron, my dear, please fetch me a pencil and prevent anyone from entering the room,” Janis says, upon observing the last pages to have been torn out.
“Er… okay,” Cady says, handing over her own pencil and turning to guard the door. Janis sneakily removes Cady’s handkerchief from her pocket as well.
Just as Janis has finished carefully rubbing the pencil over the pages and smudging them with the handkerchief, a constable enters past Cady to inform them that the autopsy has been completed.
“Ms. Sarkisian, the body has been- but, tampering with the evidence!” He says in shock.
“‘Today, I almost found it. This date will go down in history,’” Janis reads from the book. “Sir Rodney was on the brink of an incredible discovery. Simple tricks, nothing terrific. I could only save the final words, however. The rest is lost.”
“Perhaps the autopsy can give us more information,” Cady says, skimming through the coroner’s report.
“I am not sure that I can allow you to inspect the body now,” the constable says anxiously.
“And I am sure that you must,” Janis hums disinterestedly, moving to the next drawer of effects. Cady waves him along and joins her partner at the table. The next drawer is Percival Blinkhorn’s, and contains nothing but a pencil and a letter from Sir Pitkin urging him to hurry his archaeological work. Rather threatening.
Garrow’s belongings are next, and contain only the bloody towel from the steam room and a small bottle of herbs. “Do you know what this is, my darling?”
“It looks to be St. John’s wort flower,” Cady says, flushing slightly at the pet name. “We use it commonly as a treatment for melancholia, but an incorrect dosage could cause a rash, or even hallucinations if especially poorly used.”
“Hm,” Janis hums, pocketing the phial as well. The last drawer is Sir Gregory Pitkin’s, and is apparently of the least importance to her. An embroidered handkerchief, a very expensive fountain pen with solid gold trim, and a business card.
Cady follows Janis down to the morgue then, to inspect the body in more detail. Janis carefully peels back the sheet to the dead man’s waist, and looks to Cady for details.
“Er…” Cady stutters, flipping quickly to the correct page. “Ah. No issues with the heart or lungs except traces of fungus, most likely contracted during his work in Egyptian tombs. No stomach or liver disease, if we are to accept that he was sixty three years of age and an occasional drinker.”
Janis carefully flips the body over, and observes bruising in lines around his shoulders and waist, caused by a rope. “He was descending.”
“Where?”
“That remains to be seen,” Janis says, turning him back over and observing his face.
“A strange wound, resulting in instantaneous death,” Cady explains. “Inflicted by a curved knife.”
“Curved,” Janis murmurs under her breath. “Well, my dear, I think we’ve seen all we can, do you wish to interrogate the suspects with me?”
Cady carefully washes her hands in the sink next to Janis. “Are they particularly dangerous, would you say?”
“I would think not,” Janis replies. “But then again, one can never know.”
“I suppose,” Cady says nervously, following her back up the stairs. “But be careful.”
“I always am,” Janis replies, taking her hand to help her back into the corridor. The constable unlocks the metal door for them and escorts the first suspect to the interrogation room. Janis heads over to the small wooden table in the middle and sits across from Sir Gregory Pitkin. Cady leans against the cold stone wall and attempts to look tough.
“Good day to you, Sir Gregory, I am Janis Sarkisian. I am aiding the police with the investigation of the murder that took place yesterday morning. Would you be willing to answer a few questions?”
Even Cady can tell that Sir Gregory is on edge, looking at them with a haughty air of disdain. He slams a hand on the table and demands, “Tell me, Ms. Sarkisian, will I have to stay here much longer?”
Janis decidedly ignores him and rests her hands on the table. “You are the manager of the baths, yes?”
“Yes. I wanted to restore the ruins. My goal is to open the baths to the public,” Pitkin says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back casually in the rickety wooden chair. “Living archaeology can be very profitable. Although now, I am not so sure.”
“I see,” Janis hums interestedly. “And when did you wish to begin your restoration?”
“When the archaeological researches are over, I am free to begin, it is the usual process,” Pitkin says loudly and haughtily, looking at Janis like she’s the scum of the earth. Janis simply raises an eyebrow before continuing.
“And what was the state of your relationship with Sir Rodney?”
“I’ll say we were not particularly close. He had an unpleasant temperament. Suspicious, authoritarian, unkind.” Pitkin spits. Cady thinks it sounds rather more like he’s describing himself.
“Was he obstructive in any way?” Janis asks. Pitkin seems to deflate slightly.
“Not in the slightest,” he admits. “Everything he did led us to greater success.”
Janis tuts slightly to herself before moving the discussion along. “Had Sir Rodney shown any odd behavior recently?”
“Now, see, I’m not a particularly suspicious sort,” Pitkin says. “But I think that he had professional interests elsewhere that he did not wish for us to know.”
“Why should you think that? Where?” Janis asks interestedly. Maybe they’re finally getting somewhere.
“I have no idea,” Pitkin replies with a shrug. Janis huffs slightly. “It’s not my business, after all.”
“How was work at the baths progressing before the arrival of Sir Rodney?” Janis asks, closing another lead in her mind.
“Rather slowly, I would say,” Pitkin replies airily. Janis pulls out a copy of the letter she had found with Blinkhorn’s personal effects.
“Then would you explain this letter? You expressed a desire to call off the work being done,” Janis says coyly.
“It’s all that damned Blinkhorn,” Pitkin spits. “Digging away merrily with little care and finding nothing of any value.”
“But Sir Rodney’s arrival changed your mind?”
“His work was extremely promising, and good for publicity,” the man explains. “So yes, I changed my mind.”
“Hm,” Janis hums kindly. “Would you please explain to me the events of yesterday morning?”
“It was a test, that morning, and a success,” Pitkin replies. “The steam was working well. But then, of course, that terrible murder.”
“And what did you witness?”
“The steam was too thick to see anything,” Pitkin says. “Ask that Garrow, he found the body first.”
“Ah, Garrow. Are you aware that Mr. Garrow is under a form of medication?” Janis asks.
“No,” Pitkin replies. “But I never liked that parasite.”
“Do you believe him to be capable of murder?”
“He did have blood on him,” Pitkin says. “Does that make him a murderer?”
“I shall ask the questions here. Do you know where the silver in the steam room brazier came from?” Janis huffs.
“Silver? No,” the man says with a hint of confusion.
“Did you bring champagne to the baths with you?”
“Absolutely not. Sir Rodney did, I think,” Pitkin replies.
“That’s all I have for you for now, good day to you,” Janis says politely, asking the constable to exchange him for the next suspect.
“Well, he was a pompous arse,” Cady huffs from her spot. Janis laughs and stands from her chair to stretch her legs.
“Agreed,” Janis chuckles. “I cannot say I haven’t been worse, but he is definitely one of the more… unique specimens I’ve interrogated. What are you thinking?”
“I think it’s either him or Garrow,” Cady replies. “Pitkin seems to me to be hiding something, and if the medication is anything to go by Garrow is clearly under some sort of duress.”
“Hm,” Janis hums. “Time will tell.”
The next man is brought in then. Janis waits for him to be seated and cuffed to the table, and apparently decides to remain standing for this one. Cady returns to her position and watches Janis assess the new suspect. His eyes are clear and focused, attentive. And Cady can tell from his clothes that he is most definitely not a man of wealth.
Janis gives her usual introductions, and learns that this man is Percival Blinkhorn.
“What is your occupation, Mr. Blinkhorn?” Janis asks almost kindly, as if they’re acquaintances simply getting to know one another.
“I am an archaeologist, I specialize in the Roman period,” Blinkhorn responds eagerly. His voice is clear, and remarkably soothing.
“Hmm,” Janis hums, sounding interested. “Can you tell me more about the baths?”
“Well, we were hoping to retrieve a great many interesting artifacts from the site, and to list any items of value before their eventual restoration and exhibition.”
“And has it proven successful?” Janis asks.
“It has, thanks to Sir Rodney,” Blinkhorn says. Cady detects a hint of melancholy in his tone.
“And what was your relationship like with him?” Janis asks.
“I couldn’t say that he was a kind man,” Blinkhorn replies. “But he was a talented archaeologist. I felt a great admiration for him.”
“Was this your first collaboration with him?”
“No, I had met Sir Rodney in Egypt, briefly,” the man says. “I shared my researches with him. Surprisingly, they convinced him to come here. He arrived only a couple of months ago.”
“Surprisingly?” Janis asks, leaning casually against the table.
“Well, Sir Rodney is-was, oh god- a cold man, and very secretive,” Blinkhorn says, looking at his lap. “But I learned a great deal from him in a short time. I cannot believe that he is dead…”
“Could you tell me what you saw yesterday?”
“We all entered the steam room and went to sit down,” the man replies. “The steam was particularly dense, and I couldn’t see anything much further after that. I just heard Garrow shouting. We all ran for the door and bumped into one another. I was very alarmed by this point.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, the door was stuck, and with all the steam it was quite frightening. I was barely able to see my own feet,” Blinkhorn says anxiously. “Garrow was covered in blood.”
“Do you believe that he killed Sir Rodney?” Janis asks. She does have to admit that much evidence seems to point his way.
“Oh, no,” Blinkhorn says quickly. “Garrow could not harm a fly.”
“Hm,” Janis replies. That certainly throws a small wrench in things. “Can you recall any recent behavior from Sir Rodney that would now strike you as strange?”
“Well, we had a small argument yesterday,” Blinkhorn admits.
“Is that all?” Janis asks, leaning closer to his face. It’s almost intimidating to Cady. And she’s not even nearby.
“No,” Blinkhorn says sheepishly. “Sir Rodney informed me that he was to attend the London Archaeological Congress with me. Then he rather aggressively advised me of the opposite.”
Janis nods slightly. “And how well were your researches progressing before the arrival of Sir Rodney?”
“Quite well, I would say,” Blinkhorn replies.
“Really?” Janis asks, raising an eyebrow as she catches the man in a lie. “This letter reveals that Sir Gregory was prepared to put a stop to your work at the baths.”
“Er… yes,” Blinkhorn stumbles, realizing Janis has him. “But since the arrival of Sir Rodney he had calmed down, allowed us to work. I’m not sure what they agreed on.”
“Hmm,” Janis replies casually, sitting on the corner of the table. “And what will happen now that he is dead?”
“Oh… I haven’t thought about that,” Blinkhorn replies quietly. He suddenly perks up a bit and continues, “But if it is needed I will fight to defend Sir Rodney’s expectations.”
“How admirable,” Janis replies boredly. “We discovered some melted silver in the brazier, can you explain its presence?”
“No, silver, you say?” Blinkhorn says curiously. “No, I don’t know how it got there.”
Janis nods, appearing to file the information away. She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out Sir Rodney’s ring. “Do you recognize this?”
“Why, certainly. It is the famous Assouan ring,” Blinkhorn says, seeming a bit more chipper. “Sir Rodney brought it back from his last campaign in Egypt.”
“He kept it for himself?” Janis asks. From what she’s heard so far, Sir Rodney does seem the type.
“Sir Rodney has-had- his own… particular ideals of archaeology,” Blinkhorn explains.
“Mm,” Janis hums. She folds her hands behind herself and walks to the other side of the table. “What can you tell me about Garrow?”
“He always looks so sad,” Blinkhorn says. “And… he has been acting strangely, lately. He complains of visions and voices. I will keep an eye on him, I am worried.”
“Hm. And did you place the bottle of champagne in the changing room?”
“No, I did not.”
“I thank you, my good man,” Janis says, rubbing her temples as Blinkhorn is exchanged for Garrow, the final suspect. It’s quickly obvious to both Janis and Cady that Garrow is not well.
He takes his seat in the rickety wooden chair and folds his hands beneath the table, wringing his fingers. His eyes dart around the room nervously and he’s rocking himself back and forth slightly. He doesn’t seem to notice Janis speaking as she introduces herself and asks him to answer their questions.
“Ah, uh… um-“ he stutters when he finally looks up. His eyes are sunken slightly, and he’s covered in sweat. “Good day. I-I am Tristram Garrow.”
Janis nods almost comfortingly. “And what is your occupation, Mr. Garrow?”
“I-I-I am a councilor at the district chamber,” Garrow replies, still rocking slightly.
“Then what were you doing at the baths?”
“Well… I-I follow the researches,” Garrow says. “I’m… interested in-in archaeology.”
“You ‘follow’ them?” Janis asks.
“Yes. So many things happened, and-and we need to know,” Garrow replies. “Or-or perhaps it’s better hidden.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, I-I meant nothing by that, I apologize.”
Janis hums under her breath before continuing the interrogation. “What was your experience working with Sir Rodney?”
“Oh, it was like-like working with a genius,” Garrow replies. “He was… a hard man, but then, this is a hard world. Always people who want to steal from you. And-and he trusted me… but-oh-“
“Are you feeling quite well?” Janis asks in concern as the man before her suddenly beings rocking much more violently and his volume escalates.
“I’m sorry-his eye,” Garrow says frantically. “I remember-“
“Do you need anything?” Janis asks, already preparing to reach for the phial of his medication in her pocket. She wants to get as much out of him as she can before giving it to him, but she will if it becomes necessary.
“I-I feel bad, I can hear-“ Garrow says, looking around him to either side, appearing to see something that Cady and Janis can’t. “No-no. Nothing, I feel better now. My apologies.”
Janis gives him another moment to gather himself before she continues. “Please tell me what you can recall seeing yesterday.”
“The-the room was so hot, I had to remove my glasses,” the man begins much more quietly. So the myopic spectacles are his. “I was not feeling very well in there.”
“And you found the body?”
“I saw the-the knife, you know,” Garrow says, growing frantic again. “Flying through the air! And the blood, I tried to-to-to escape, I don’t-don’t remember-“
“You saw the knife? Are you able to describe it?”
“It was as if-if in a nightmare,” Garrow shudders, hunching in on himself. “E-everything happened so fast. It-it was shining like-like gold.”
“Gold? Hm,” Janis says under her breath before she moves on. “Had you noticed any strange behavior from Sir Rodney, as of recent?”
Garrow seems to think for a moment before he gives a weak nod. “He-he had been rather secretive these past few days.”
“Can you provide me any examples?”
“Last Thursday,” Garrow says. “I saw him leave. It-it was very late when he re-returned. He showed me some-some wet coins, Roman coins, and… he started to laugh.”
Janis pulls the coin she found out of her pocket. “Something like this?”
“Oh, yes,” the man nods. “This is the coin he showed to me. It-it is from the third century!”
“It must be very rare.”
“N-no, I don’t know.”
Janis pockets the coin again before pulling out Sir Rodney’s ring. Before she can even fully remove it, Garrow recoils and starts rocking heavily again.
“His ring! It should be destroyed!”
“Why do you say that?” Janis asks calmly, removing it from sight in an attempt to alleviate some distress.
“It-it is a cursed ring,” Garrow says. “And it is after me now! I know it! I shouldn’t have worked on it, it is too late now!”
Janis won’t be able to get any more information from him in this state, and offers Garrow his phial of medication. He visibly relaxes upon the sight of it and reaches for it hesitantly. Janis nods.
“Thank you,” Garrow says as he removes the cork. “This will help me to calm down.”
“Do be careful with the dosage,” Janis says meaningfully. Garrow nods, but Janis leans against the table almost threateningly. “I mean it. Now, do you know anything about the bottle of champagne on ice in the changing room?”
“What? No.” Garrow says confusedly once he’s taken his medicine and had a moment to gather himself once again. Janis nods and clicks her tongue against her teeth slightly.
“What about the silver in the brazier, did you put it there?”
“It didn’t help, the power is too strong,” Garrow replies, seeming to grow anxious again. Janis apparently decides to end with that, and has Garrow escorted back into the cell.
“That last one didn’t seem very well, Janis,” Cady says anxiously. “He seems very disturbed.”
“That, or he is a good actor,” Janis nods, flagging down a cab to take them home.
————-
“Janis?” Cady asks from the sofa that evening. Janis turns from where she’s stoking the fire in the hearth.
“Yes?”
“Why… why did you choose to be with me?” Cady asks quietly. Janis knew she still had something on her mind. “Do I not make things more difficult?”
“Come here,” Janis coaxes, reaching out for her. Cady wraps her arms around Janis’ waist and rests her head on her shoulder. Janis holds her as well, and gently sways them around. “You know me well enough by now to know when I am lying, so I won’t say things won’t be more difficult for us.
“But you must know that you make things much better, my darling. I’m loathe to admit it, but there have been cases I would have been unable to solve without your aid. And you gave me a reason to stop my old habits, who knows where I would be if I had continued? You make me… human. Your love is my most useful detective tool.”
“Oh.” Cady says gently. “You make me better too.”
“I’m not sure I can believe that,” Janis chuckles quietly, but Cady shakes her head.
“You have. I was so uptight when I moved here, you help me slow down, ironically. You help me see things from a new perspective. Stop and appreciate the little details in things I would never have even seen otherwise. And you know how dark my world was when we first met. The things I had been through. But you brightened things up for me. Gave me a reason to stay.”
“I’m glad, then,” Janis murmurs, kissing Cady’s forehead. “Did you know I was never looking for a roommate?”
“You weren’t?” Cady asks, pulling back slightly.
“No,” Janis laughs. “I had told Aaron I found a flat in London, and he asked how I was planning on making rent. I guess he didn’t believe I could, and took it upon himself to find me a flatmate to help. He had tried a few times prior, but I refused every one until he brought you to me. I just got lucky that you could tolerate my presence as well.”
“I do more than tolerate you, my love,” Cady murmurs. “I always have. But I’m glad you took a liking to me, I would never have even gone with him if I knew you never wanted me here.”
“I did, after we first spoke. I knew you had something special to you,” Janis hums. Cady beams and cuddles back into her, following along with Janis’ slow waltz around the living room. After a second, she pipes up again.
“Jay?”
“Hmm?”
“What cases were they? That I helped you solve?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Janis teases. Cady whines in defeat. “Maybe we’ll read through some of your old case write ups and see if you can work out which ones they were.”
“Okay,” Cady whines. Janis kisses her gently to make her smile. Cady grins weakly and kisses her back.
“One moment, my dear,” Janis says, appearing to remember something. Cady pouts again but watches as Janis removes something from her coat pocket and heads to the map of London next to the door. “You’re good at mind game things, come help with this.”
Cady tilts her head in confusion, but comes up behind her. Janis is holding up the map they found among Sir Rodney’s belongings and trying to piece out where it is. “May I?”
Janis nods, so Cady gently plucks it from her fingertips and removes the framed map from the wall to carry both over to the desk. She flicks the small lamp on, which makes the paper easier to see through. She finds the matching section down near the bottom right corner.
“There.”
“Ah,” Janis says eagerly. “You up for a trip?”
“Always,” Cady says with a smile, craning her head back to look at her. Janis kisses her before running off to her room.
“Then pack a bag!”
————-
The next afternoon finds them on the site of an archaeological dig.
“Are you sure this is the right place, madams?” Their cab driver asks in concern. Janis turns around to see where they are, then to Cady, before she gives a nod.
“Certainly seems promising. I’d ask you to wait here, you’ll be paid for your time,” Janis replies as she holds out a hand to help Cady down.
“It’s rather eerie here,” Cady says, refusing to let go of Janis’ hand as they approach the gate. She shudders when a slight breeze blows through.
“We shouldn’t be terribly long,” Janis comforts. “And by the looks of things nobody is here, we’ve done far more dangerous and unsettling things.”
“Yes, that gives me so much more confidence,” Cady grumbles. “Look.”
Janis does, looking to the sign Cady is pointing to. It lists the name of the site, but has been painted over to say it’s been abandoned until further notice.
“Why would Sir Rodney come here, if it’s been abandoned?”
“Let’s find out,” Janis replies boldly, opening the gate and leading Cady in. They head to a cabin near the entrance first.
“They left the door open?” Cady asks in concern.
“They either were in great haste or rather careless,” Janis tuts, heading inside. There’s a desk directly across from the door covered in various artifacts. Janis takes a thick document from it, and skims through pages detailing the cult of Mithras. A map is tacked to the wall just above her. “We seem to be in the heart of an old Roman city, my dear.”
“I don’t particularly care for it,” Cady mumbles, arms crossed over her chest. “Why was it abandoned?”
“I’m not sure,” Janis replies. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t wish to, my darling. I can finish up here and meet you later.”
“No,” Cady insists. “It’s not safe here, I’m not leaving you here alone. I just wish you’d hurry.”
“I will, dearest,” Janis replies, kissing Cady’s forehead. Cady nods and enters the room further, turning to a desk just inside the door.
“What are these little cubes?”
“I have no idea,” Janis replies. “Nobody here to miss them, they could be useful.”
Cady manages to stuff all of them into her various pockets and under her skirts to take home. Janis chuckles affectionately. She takes a few more documents explaining more about Mithras, and a special curved, golden knife used in bull sacrifices.
“I think that’s everything of interest here,” Janis says, dashing back out the door and over to a series of very rickety walkways leading to various other areas of the site. She heads straight first, down a winding sort of path to a large fresco.
“Sarkisian, please be careful,” Cady calls anxiously from above. “We have no way of knowing when someone was last here, these paths could collapse at any moment.”
“I’m fine, darling,” Janis calls back from below. She points to the fresco she’s standing on. “It’s the cyclops. And Vulcan, at a forge.”
“Interesting,” Cady says, sounding as if she couldn’t care less. “Now come back.”
Janis does, heading up a slightly crumbled marble staircase back to Cady’s level. Cady walks around on solid ground to meet her and they both head over to some rigs. Janis grabs some rope resting on a crate.
“What is that for?”
“Not a clue. You never know,” Janis replies with a shrug. “Help me with this, there’s something down here.”
Cady helps tug on a rope pulley, bringing up a toolbox from the bottom of one of the rigs. Janis takes and pockets a sort of trowel, but leaves the rest of the archaeological instruments where they are.
Cady looks very relieved as Janis heads over to what remains of a building, instead of darting around some very deep holes. At least the ground is solid over here, and things are less likely to collapse on their heads.
Janis bends over a crate resting on the floor and pulls out a few construction hooks. Cady grows even more concerned than she was earlier when she pockets them as well.
“Who are these meant to be, Janis?” She asks of some nearby statues. She knows she’ll never be able to stop her partner being reckless. Janis follows her out of the building and over to them.
“That’s Neptune, god of the sea,” Janis says, pointing to the one on the far left. “And that’s Minerva.”
“And the middle two?”
“I’d guess Venus and… someone,” Janis replies. “I’ve not read up on Roman mythology in quite a while.”
“I never thought I’d see the day,” Cady teases, turning back around. “The great Janis Sarkisian doesn’t know something.”
“There’s a great many things I don’t know,” Janis replies casually, examining a statue of a bull they can now see. “For example, what happened to this leg?”
“Weather, I would guess, surely?” Cady replies, heading to her side. The hind left leg of the bull is disconnected from the hip.
“Most probably, yes,” Janis agrees. “Well done, love. This way.”
“Oh, not more of these dreadful walkways,” Cady pleads as Janis steps onto yet another rickety path. She follows Janis down this one, for… safety.
“A site like this would have had a hundred people working, and they all crossed these with no issue,” Janis comforts yet again. “I have good reflexes and I know how to fall, darling. I’m fine.”
Cady nods shakily as they reach the bottom and look around. Janis dashes over to an area she observes to have been covered with mud. Intentionally, and recently. She pulls out the trowel she ‘borrowed’ earlier and scrapes it away in chunks, revealing another fresco.
“The frigidarium,” Janis pants, pointing to the label. “At the baths. Someone covered this up intentionally.”
“Why?”
“You ask a great many questions I cannot answer, my dear Heron,” Janis says. “I’ll have to investigate there. Come along back up, I want to check this other shed.”
“What is this railway for?” Cady asks once they’ve followed the wood walkways back to the surface.
“Removing excess rubble,” Janis replies, carefully crossing over to the area of the shed. Yet again, the door has been left open. She heads to some shelves directly across from the door, and finds a drafted letter to Sir Gregory Pitkin’s boss, complaining of his behavior. “Seems Sir Rodney had a remarkable amount of control over his archaeological sites.”
“So Sir Gregory has motive,” Cady says.
“He does indeed,” Janis hums concernedly. “Ooh, a crossbow.”
“No,” Cady says immediately. It’s been disassembled, thankfully for her. “You’re bad enough with a simple pistol.”
“Oh, pish posh,” Janis scoffs. “I’m an excellent shot.”
“Need I remind you how many pigs’ carcasses we had to harpoon before you got it correct?” Cady says.
“And need I remind you that I only missed four out of ten vases? Blindfolded?” Janis retaliates.
“I’m still finding bits of china in my bedsheets,” Cady grumbles. “You had to do that in our flat? You nearly shot me.”
“Nonsense, I was aiming for the vases,” Janis tuts. “Anyway, one last thing.”
“Thank heavens,” Cady huffs, following Janis to a small platform over the river. A bulletin board of sorts sits to the left, and Janis heads to observe it. Another map of the site and a schematic of a gastraphetes are tacked up.
“They used the crossbow and gastraphetes for sieges,” Janis explains.
“How lovely,” Cady says. “Have you finished?”
“Yes, my dear, we’re done,” Janis says, taking her hand to lead her off site and back to the cab.
————-
Cady refuses to let Janis go that night. Janis allows her to cling to her and cuddle close as they lie beside one another in bed.
“What are you thinking about?” Janis murmurs gently, stroking the backs of her fingers over Cady’s cheeks.
“Nothing important,” Cady whispers back, pressing her face into Janis’ neck.
“Everything about you is important to me,” Janis insists quietly, twisting a few of Cady’s long curls around her fingers. “You’ve been acting strangely lately, I just want to make sure you’re alright, my darling.”
Cady nods against her with a quiet sigh. “I am. I’m more than alright. I just… ever since we’ve been courting, I’m… realizing just how dangerous this all is. I’ve nearly lost you twice in this case alone, and we’re still nowhere near solving it. Everything we do is so risky.
“And as much as I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you, you getting injured, or worse… I feel that asking you to stop would be somehow worse. Everything we do is so ingrained into who you are. If I made you retire you’d resent me forever as we lived out our boring, miserable lives. I’m simply trying to appreciate what the risk brings with it. But I’m not quite sure how yet.”
Janis blinks a few times as Cady finishes speaking, trying to process everything she’s just said. After a few moments, she takes a breath to speak. “It is a rather delicate balance. And I do have to admit the danger of it all gives me a rush like no other; the thrill of the chase is a key part of my desire. But, I’ve stepped back slightly. The cases I’m willing to take now are significantly less extreme than the ones I used to go for.
“Because I have… a purpose, now. In you. I have more than a companion. I have someone I provide for, someone I care for, and care about greatly. I have… I have a future in you, that I don’t have in my work. I have something to strive for. I have a life with you, and that’s something I value above anything. I don’t want you worrying for my safety like this, I hate seeing you so anxious. I have you to return to at the end of each day, I take great care to make sure I do. It may not seem it, but I take much time to work out any potential consequences of risks and ways I could be injured.”
“I believe you,” Cady nods. “I’m just… I don’t know. I know we’ve known one another for so many years, but I somehow feel that I’ve only just gotten you. I have what I dreamed of for so long. I’m afraid to lose it.”
“You won’t,” Janis promises. “Not for a long time. I’ll always come back to you.”
“I love you,” Cady replies, cuddling back into her spot.
“I love you too, my darling.”
Cady is silent for a long time, just breathing in her love and enjoying the moment. But she pipes up again when Janis shifts slightly and wraps an arm around her waist. “You said you want a future with me. Do you mean that you’ll retire?”
“Eventually, yes,” Janis agrees. “I’d be willing to say I’ll have to at some point. My body will eventually begin to deteriorate, along with my mind. Or maybe one day I’ll decide the lifestyle isn’t for me anymore. But I’ve been blessed with a rare opportunity for a life of excitement that I have no desire to leave any time soon.”
“I can’t imagine you retired, you’ll still be running me ragged in our old age,” Cady chuckles. “What do you think we’ll do?”
“I’ve always liked Sussex,” Janis murmurs. “The countryside. And… erm…”
“What? You’re all pink,” Cady teases, kissing Janis’ warm cheek. “Come on, you can tell me.”
“I quite like bees,” Janis says quietly, flushing a spectacular shade of scarlet. “I’d like to keep a few hives. Make honey.”
“You like bees?” Cady asks, rolling Janis onto her back and hovering over her. Janis nods with a slight pout that Cady leans down to kiss away. “Why are you so embarrassed? I think it’s sweet. I would never have expected you to enjoy something like that.”
“That’s why,” Janis replies quietly. “Everyone thinks I’m just… interested in death and the macabre. Something as cute as bees doesn’t fit my reputation.”
“I don’t want your reputation,” Cady says. “I want to know you. Who you really are. Tell me about your bees, my love.”
“Er… okay,” Janis says. Cady presses back against her as Janis starts rattling off facts she knows about her favorite species. They both drift off tangled in each other, dreaming about some lovely beehives in the countryside.
————-
Janis and Cady return to the Roman baths the next morning. Mr. Phillips greets them as they enter, and eagerly informs Janis that the rubble has been cleared from the corridor to the frigidarium, as Janis had requested. Cady seems particularly displeased that Janis wants to enter the room that very nearly collapsed on her, but she just remembers what Janis told her yesterday and tries to calm herself.
Cady follows Janis down the hall and into a rather large bathing room. It’s overgrown and dilapidated, but still very beautiful. A series of pillars outline the large bath, and Janis approaches the one closest to them when she notices a symbol etched into the base. She traces her fingers around it and pushes, revealing it to be a sort of mechanism.
“Heron, could you mark this symbol down?” She asks, upon seeing there to be a sort of key-shaped symbol drawn that was previously hidden by the button mechanism. Cady carefully copies it down in her notebook and follows as Janis moves to the other pillars.
Nearly every statue turns out to have one of the mechanisms, but only three have symbols hidden inside. Cady watches as Janis seems to align the symbols in her mind and suddenly dashes over to a bust tucked against a wall. Janis rotates it, causing a great rumbling to echo through the room as a door opens.
“Incredible,” Cady breathes. Janis grins at her slightly and takes her hand, leading her towards the door. The door leads to a small room, with an open trapdoor. “Not more of this.”
Janis takes hold of the rope hanging into the door and climbs down. Cady follows anxiously, nearly falling until Janis grabs her around the waist and helps her down.
“What is this place?”
“I am still unsure,” Janis hums, looking around at where they’ve found themselves. “But everything points to it being the last place visited by Sir Rodney. I have reason to believe we’re approaching the end of this case, my dear Heron.”
“Thank heavens for that,” Cady grumbles. She points to the corner nearest the door, where several items lay apparently forgotten. “What could those be for?”
Janis heads over to investigate, taking and lighting the lantern to use. “A broken glass negative, and… an ice maker.”
“Why would Sir Rodney have brought such a device here?”
“With any luck we shall know soon, my darling. Only one way forward,” Janis replies.
“Or we could go back,” Cady mumbles unhappily, following her companion. “Whole place apt to crumble any minute, and all. Oh, of course not.”
“Look at this,” Janis says, pointing to one of the frescos on the wall. She’s either not heard Cady or chosen to ignore her complaints. Most probably the latter. “Mithras again.”
“It is beautiful,” Cady agrees. It’s clearly ancient and faded, but she can still see the fine details. Janis has already moved on to the next fresco. “A ladder?”
“Or a hierarchy,” Janis nods. Cady carefully writes down all of the symbols in the order they go in, just in case. “Right, this way.”
“Oh god,” Cady shudders when they enter the next room. It appears to be a catacombs of sorts. The walls are lined with mummies, and several large pillars outline the center passage through it. To Cady’s horror, large sections of each pillar are constructed from human bones and skulls.
“Heron, come look at this,” Janis calls, crouched against one of the far walls to look at something. Cady heads over and finds her to be examining yet another skeleton. “See his shoe. I’d date it to be medieval at best. This man was a tomb raider.”
“But look at his eye,” Cady says with a slight shudder. “His orbit is broken. This man met a rather similar fate to Sir Rodney. How dreadful.”
“‘By the eye he was punished for he saw what he was not worthy’,” Janis recites, recalling a transcript she’d read earlier. “Hm. Well, that’s enough of that.”
Cady gratefully leaves the corpse and follows Janis as she heads to examine the large pillars. They have small gaps in them, which contain brushwood. Janis lights the three she can, which causes shadows in certain shapes to be cast on the floor. But one of the pillars has collapsed.
“There should be a plate here,” Janis says. “Someone has removed… oh! Heron, wait here!”
“Wait, I don’t-“ Cady stutters, but Janis thrusts the lantern at her and runs off. Cady crosses her arms and tries not to think about where she is. It’s not as if she’s not well acquainted with death and corpses, but she still doesn’t care to keep their company.
Luckily for her, Janis is back within five minutes. There was a deafening metallic clang and then a small series of thuds, but Janis seems fine. She re-enters the catacombs carrying the metal plate she found in Sir Rodney’s office.
“Are you alright?” Cady asks as Janis dusts herself off slightly. “I heard noises.”
“Fell off the rope this time, I’m fine,” Janis replies quietly. So Janis had fallen through the trapdoor. Of course. “Over here, my love.”
Cady follows with the lantern as Janis heads back to the collapsed pillar. Janis holds up the plate to the same height as the others and closes her eyes. After a few seconds she opens them again, and heads to the shadows on the floor.
“A trident, a bull, and a bridge. Leads to Mithras,” Janis says, pointing to each. Cady can’t see the bridge, since that’s the one missing, but she trusts her partner.
“The dig site,” Cady realizes. “The statue of Neptune, and then the bull. The bridge must be missing.”
Janis looks at her with wide eyes, cupping her face gently and smashing their lips together. Cady gasps quietly before responding in kind.
“You have much more use than I think anyone gives you credit for,” Janis murmurs. “Another case I may never have solved without you.”
Cady smiles at her and kisses her again. “Can we please leave this place now?”
Janis chuckles and nods. “Yes, come along, my dear.”
“Thank goodness.”
————-
“Darling?” Janis calls from her analysis table the next afternoon. Cady pops her head out from her bedroom.
“Yes, Honeybee?”
“Honeybee?” Janis squeaks, flushing bright red. Cady chuckles and heads over to her.
“You said you like bees, I thought it was sweet,” she murmurs, kissing just beneath Janis’ ear. “Do you not like it?”
“No!” Janis says immediately. “No, I-I like it. Just… maybe not while I’m working.”
“Understood. What do you need, my love?” Cady laughs gently.
“I’d like to work out the purpose of these cubes,” Janis says, showing off the twelve cubes they had found the last time they were at the archaeological dig. “I thought it would be rather like a jigsaw puzzle, we could work on it together.”
“It does look that way,” Cady hums, nodding and picking up a few. “Come along.”
Janis grabs the rest and follows, sitting with Cady in front of the fireplace. Cady starts sorting them into groups based on where the notches are to make it easier for them. Janis knows she could have solved it on her own, probably in much less time, but this gives her an excuse to do something almost peaceful with her partner.
So, they sit and puzzle, chatting about things Janis used to find dull. With Cady even the most aimless of conversation is suddenly exciting and new. She hopes it stays this way. About half an hour later, the object is complete.
“It’s a mould,” Janis says. “Huh.”
“What does it make?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Janis says, delicately moving it back to her analysis table. Cady watches as she makes a quick dry plaster solution and pours it into the mould. A few moments later, when it’s solidified, Janis cracks the cubes apart to reveal…
“This is very similar to the knife that killed Sir Rodney,” Cady says in concern, as Janis holds out a small knife with a curved blade.
“You should not jump to any hasty conclusions, my darling,” Janis chides gently. “I’ll need to run some more tests. You up for another puzzle?”
“Always,” Cady grins, flipping the knife around a few times before resting it on the table. Janis lays out the pieces of the broken glass negative they had found while exploring beneath the frigidarium. This goes a bit quicker, since they can see where the pieces should fit together more easily.
“Could you process this with your old equipment?”
Cady nods, and carefully transfers everything to a tray to keep it together properly. She’s able to transfer it to photo paper, and gives the product to Janis to develop. Janis carefully prepares the proper chemicals and swipes them over the photograph. Cady comes to peek at what has been revealed.
“This is Sir Rodney, and another archaeologist,” Janis says. “Eating ice-cream in front of the Pyramids of Giza, in Egypt.”
“‘Ice-cream in the desert, we are indebted to the Romans who developed the technique’,” Cady reads from a note in the corner. “So salt and ice can be used to create ice-cream. That’s quite remarkable!”
“Indeed,” Janis murmurs in concern. “Thank you for your assistance, my dear.”
“Of course! Do you have anything else you need me for at the moment?” Cady chirps. Janis looks at the photograph once again.
“Actually… yes,” she hums. “Could you go purchase some ice?”
“Ice?”
“And salt?”
“Er… okay,” Cady replies. It’s far from the strangest thing Janis has asked her to acquire. Maybe Janis wants to make ice cream too. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Thank you darling,” Janis replies, kissing Cady goodbye as she tugs on her coat and heads out the door.
In the meantime, Janis runs a different experiment. She cleans out the pot she used to make her plaster solution carefully, and prepares her gas burner. She melts the lump of silver they had found in the brazier in the sauna, and pours it into the mould. It’s a near perfect fit. Janis pulls out the silver knife and stares at it, flipping it around in her hands. One possible explanation solved.
—-
Cady comes crashing through the door roughly an hour later, brandishing a small sack of salt and a brick of ice. She drops both at her feet carefully and is panting slightly as she unbuttons her coat once more. “Ice is… heavier… than I remember.”
“Are you alright?” Janis chuckles, kissing her in greeting and picking up her materials. Cady nods and follows her back over to her work table.
“What are you planning with it?”
“Ice knife.”
“What?”
“I’m going to make an ice knife,” Janis replies. She places the brick of ice in a wooden bucket and grabs her chisel, and pours the salt into another smaller container. The mould is placed into the middle of the ice cream machine they had found in the catacombs, and filled with water. Janis uses her chisel to produce some ice chips and surrounds the mould. “Could you pour a bit of the salt in?”
Cady carefully covers the ice chips with the salt, and they repeat the process until the temperature is low and steady enough to have frozen the water solid. Janis carefully pulls the mould out and splits it open once more to reveal the weapon.
“Either way, it was rather ingenious to create a weapon that could dissolve at the scene of the crime,” Cady says, picking up the silver knife.
“Yes, quite,” Janis hums. “All that’s left is to find Mithras.”
“Must we?” Cady whines.
“Regretfully, yes,” Janis chuckles. “Remember what we spoke of, dearest. We’ve been through many a case together and come out the other side. Now we shall do so hand in hand.”
Cady grins weakly at that and cuddles into her shoulder. They don’t have to investigate until tomorrow. She’s going to take all the time to cuddle her partner she can get.
————-
Janis heads back to Scotland Yard the next morning, wanting to gather as much information about Mithras as she can from the suspects before she attempts to go searching herself. Blinkhorn goes first.
“Hello again. What are you able to tell me about Mithras?” Janis begins, standing across the table from him. Blinkhorn lights up.
“Oh, so much,” he says eagerly. “It was the focus of our work. Why do you ask?”
“Were you searching for the Golden Knife?”
“Ah, I see you are an amateur,” Blinkhorn chuckles. Janis furrows her brow but lets him talk. “Yes, the Golden Knife was our… Holy Grail, so to speak. It is said that it bears the only explanation of the ritual of the Cult of Mithras.”
“I believe I read something about immortality?” Janis questions. Blinkhorn nods.
“A simple myth. It is said that the knife would provide immortality, to only the worthy one. And yet it is cursed, and it would kill you if you were not initiated.”
“And did you expect to find the Knife at the baths?”
“Well… Sir Rodney believed it might be. Did you see the knife representations around? They are extraordinary,” Blinkhorn sighs. “Oh, it’s a tragedy that he has passed away. And taken all his secrets with him. As soon as I am released I shall continue my researches. In his memory.”
“How kind,” Janis says dryly. “Thank you for your time.”
Blinkhorn is then exchanged for Pitkin, who grumbles the whole way across the hallway to the interrogation room, and looks as if he’s ready to spit on Janis when she sits across from him once more. “I understand that the paintings at the baths are focused on Mithras?”
“Yes. They are what make the place so remarkable,” Pitkin replies angrily.
“Are they why Sir Rodney came here?”
“He believed an important ritual item, the Golden Knife, was hidden somewhere around thr area of the baths,” Pitkin says. “I admit it would be wonderful, if it were true.”
“You are not concerned by the… reputation, of this artifact?” Janis asks, leaning back in her chair as if they’re simply having a casual conversation. Pitkin chuckles sardonically.
“What, you mean the curse? Before someone is dead, it is a blessing. After they die, it becomes a curse. Ha.”
Cady raises her eyebrows at Janis as Pitkin is exchanged for Garrow. He still doesn’t seem particularly well. But Cady supposes that spending several days in a cell would have significant effects on just about anyone.
Janis sits across from him and watches as he begins rocking slightly, the way he did the first time. “Could you tell me about the Cult of Mithras?”
Garrow snaps his head up to look at her, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “No! There is nothing to say! We are not the worthy ones.”
“But Sir Rodney believed that he was?” Janis asks, leaning forwards slightly.
“He was-was wrong! I have visions,” Garrow cries. “The Golden Knife, the-the mummy! Oh, it is all my fault!”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Garrow,” Janis insists. Garrow takes his phial of medication from his pocket and swallows a portion just before he is escorted back to the cell.
Now to find Mithras themselves.
————
Cady pouts slightly as they pull up to the archaeological dig once more, but she smiles as Janis carefully takes her hand to help her out of the cab.
“Would you be so kind as to hold these, my dear?” Janis asks, picking up the ropes and hooks she had left near the gate on their last visit. Cady holds out her arms, and Janis rests them in her hold. “Thank you. This way, we shan’t be terribly long.”
“We had better not,” Cady grumbles, following Janis to the far cabin near the river. Janis rubs her hands together excitedly when she gets to use the crossbow. It has been deconstructed, but Janis pieces everything together expertly in less than five minutes.
Janis carefully ties the ropes to the hooks, and loads the first into the gastraphetes. From the platform over the water, she takes aim at a pillar about fifty feet away.
“Stand back, my love,” Janis orders. “I am not well practiced in this exercise. Yet.”
Cady stands off to the side anxiously, watching as Janis holds her breath and fires. She misses the first time, but makes contact with the leftmost ring on her second shot. She ties the other end of the rope to the platform and reloads.
Once all three of the rings have been hooked and the ropes tied, Janis carefully tests the strength of them and beckons Cady back over.
“Would you care to go first?”
“No,” Cady says anxiously. “But I will. Are you sure it’s safe?”
“Not at all. Ready?” Janis asks, taking her hand and helping her onto their makeshift bridge. “Hold right to the sides and don’t look down. I’ll be right behind you.”
Cady listens, gripping the rope so tightly her knuckles turn white. She carefully inches her way across the rapid river below, until she reaches the far side. Janis follows, and accepts Cady’s hand to be pulled onto the platform. They head into the door that had been previously hidden to them, and down yet another trapdoor.
“Are we in the hidden temple?” Cady asks.
“I am not sure. We should be careful,” Janis replies, pulling out and lighting her lantern once again. She holds it in her left hand and Cady’s hand with her right, and they set off.
A staircase takes them down still further, until they enter an almost circular room, with several ways out. A symbol marks the floor and above each door. They look strangely familiar.
“Did you bring your notebook, my darling?”
“Always,” Cady replies, pulling it from her pocket. Janis takes it and flips through pages of various things until she finds the drawing Cady made of the hierarchy fresco beneath the frigidarium. The symbol of the door they just came through is one listed on the bottom level. Time to work their way up.
“Stay close to me, we should tread carefully,” Janis says. Cady nods anxiously and squeezes her hand. Janis looks back up from the book and picks a corridor, hoping desperately that her theory is correct and she doesn’t get them horrifically lost.
They head through a few tunnels, getting about a third of the way up the ladder in the drawing. One of the rooms they enter has every path blocked by a gate. A pillar sits in the middle of the room, with three columns and several stones on it.
“What do we do?”
“What we always do. Solve another puzzle,” Janis replies, carefully picking up a stone. When she rests it on a column, it sinks in slightly. Cady helps choose which stones should go where, until all three are at the same level. When they get it correct, the gates lift with a thunderous rumbling. “Back to it.”
Janis continues following the drawing, leading them through the doors with the proper symbols. Just at the end, they reach a long staircase up.
“Where are we?” Cady asks, looking around. A series of metal gates surround them, along with several small waterfalls. Directly across from them is a statue.
“The temple of Mithras,” Janis murmurs, approaching it.
“The golden knife,” Cady breathes, pointing to his hand. “But how to get it?”
“We shall find a way,” Janis answers, bending down to inspect a broken lamp. “This is not old, the oil is still fresh.”
“Perhaps Sir Rodney left it?” Cady inquires.
“No, I do not think so,” Janis says, standing once more. “He passed no further than the catacombs under the frigidarium.”
“So that means…”
“The murderer left this lamp,” Janis confirms. She heads back to the center of the room and looks around, spying a few levers on the wall inside one of the gates. “Wait here, my love, I believe this to be a two-person job.”
Cady listens, and waits for Janis to call instructions to her. Janis twists the lever in front of her, which locks her in but opens a way for Cady to go.
“What opened?” Janis calls.
“A gate, here,” Cady calls back. “Shall I go through?”
“Please,” Janis says. Cady goes through. “Have you any levers?”
“Yes, there’s one here,” Cady replies.
“Turn that,” Janis says. Cady does, holding it until she hears Janis say to let go. They continue this, calling instructions to one another and testing levers, until a way opens for Janis to escape, and Cady has a lever to open the gate in front of the statue of Mithras.
Janis approaches and carefully takes it, before she heads back to her series of levers and gates to free her partner. There’s a staircase out to the surface that has been blocked by yet another gate. They coach each other through until it’s opened, and escape into the daylight hand in hand, as Janis promised.
—-
Janis goes into her mind palace once they’re back in a cab. Cady has learned over the many years of their relationship that speaking to her in this state is effectively useless. Janis is connecting many dots in her mind, and so focused that she’s shut away all external stimulation.
Cady watches as Janis’ eyes move under her eyelids, her brain firing off rapid signals as she pieces together clues and information to conclude the case. Just as they pull back onto Baker Street, her eyes snap open and she gives a coy grin.
“Have you got it?” Cady asks, despite already knowing the answer.
“Have I indeed,” Janis replies, taking her hand and running back up to their flat.
————-
Janis carefully rests the Golden Knife on the wooden table.
Blinkhorn looks up at her in shock, gently taking it between his fingers to examine. “Is this… the Golden Knife? How did you find it?”
“I am also rather fond of digging, Mr. Blinkhorn,” Janis replies casually. “One never knows what one might find. On occasion, exceptional rarities such as this. The thrill of the chase, one’s enhanced reputation. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Are-are you suggesting that-“
“I am not suggesting anything, Mr. Blinkhorn. I know,” Janis replies. “You found the knife. You are an intelligent man. The ‘ghost’ knife shall remain one of the most ingenious creations I have seen in my career, I do assure you.”
“Wait, are you accusing me of the murder?” Blinkhorn says in alarm. “No! I-I deny it!”
“There is no use in denying it, Mr. Blinkhorn. I know the truth,” Janis says calmly. “You had no choice. Because it is you who discovered the Golden Knife, and therefore you who must be the murderer. Sir Rodney was prepared to take all the credit for the remarkable discovery, when in fact it was your work.
“He would have destroyed you, to ensure the truth was never revealed. But I uphold the truth. And I shall tell it.”
“What-what do you mean? That you will spare me?”
“What I mean is that everyone deserves a second chance,” Janis says. “Someone very important to me taught me that. I shall be following your career with utmost interest. Farewell.”
“Fare-farewell, Ms. Sarkisian,” Blinkhorn stutters.
————-
“Sarkisian, I am afraid I don’t understand how you’ve come to this conclusion,” Inspector Hubbard says, sitting across from her in the living room while Cady tends to the fire. She also turns around to look at her partner, curious to see how she solved the case.
“Shall I begin with the method?” Janis asks, clearly relishing in the opportunity to brag. Some things never change. Both of her companions nod, so she begins. “I had only to observe the pool of blood around the body. You surely must have noticed it to be significantly thinner than typical, and that it had not coagulated properly. A simple analysis revealed it to be heavily diluted with water. The steam in the room at the time would not have been sufficient enough to cause dilution of that degree.
“I admit, I didn’t know what the cause would be, until we discovered the ice cream maker in the catacombs. The killer produced an ice knife there, and stored it in the bucket of champagne until it was the proper time. Once they were in the steam room, he killed Sir Rodney, and the heat caused it to melt rapidly.”
“Incredible,” Damian says. “I would’ve thought it to be the silver you found.”
“I had only to speak to Mr. Garrow to dismiss that conclusion. He is a superstitious fellow, and he put the silver in the brazier for spiritual protection,” Janis explains.
“And how did you deduce it to be Blinkhorn? That’s the bit I’m missing.” Cady asks. Damian looks back and forth between his companions, noticing the way they’re looking at one another. He smiles slightly. They deserve happiness together.
“Because he is, given a significant amount of critical thought, the only suspect that would have made sense. Garrow was not of sound mind, he was too weak to have carried out such an elaborate and well planned crime. Pitkin, on the other hand, would not have served to gain anything from Sir Rodney’s death. He had no way of knowing whether the murder would have damaged the baths’ reputation, and he was not working closely with Sir Rodney to begin with. He had slight motive, but compared to Blinkhorn’s it’s vastly insignificant.
“Blinkhorn had made one of the most astounding archaeological discoveries of our era, and Sir Rodney was prepared to trample him to take the credit for it. So, he had no choice but to get rid of Sir Rodney to defend his own career. He chose a rather appropriate fate for him, I must say.”
“Well, I thank you for bringing this case to a close, and for revealing to us Sir Rodney’s true nature. We shall be keeping a close eye on Blinkhorn regardless, but he has been released,” Damian says, standing to leave. Janis follows him to see him out. “And on a personal note, my congratulations. It’s about time. I wish you all the happiness.”
“Maybe you’ll make a fine detective yet,” Janis chuckles. “My thanks, Damian. Farewell.”
Damian tips his hat and takes his leave. Janis returns to Cady and pulls her into an embrace.
“Another one for your stories,” she murmurs, looking into Cady’s blue eyes. “And one with several fond memories for me.”
“Most definitely,” Cady says, threading her arms around Janis’ neck and pressing up to kiss her. “I regret I can’t share more details of the events of this one. But I shall get to work on it immediately.”
“Maybe not immediately,” Janis coaxes. “I, for one, am quite tired.”
“Maybe not immediately,” Cady agrees with a chuckle. “Come to bed, Honeybee.”
“Always, my love.”
Until our next adventure.
----------
hope you enjoyed the adventures of... sherlockisian?? and watsheron??
anyway, back to modern day, I'm finishing up a few things for this blog (giving it a fresh coat of paint so to speak) and then ill have some exciting things coming up!! for me anyway, i hope y'all are into it too. just keep an eye out for things coming over the next few days!!
as always, thank you so much for reading, and ill see you all next week!!
lots of love,
ezzy
#cadnis#paint by numbers#space safari#cady heron x janis sarkisian#cady x janis#cady heron#janis sarkisian#damian hubbard#mean girls#mean girls musical#mean girls broadway#mean girls the musical#mean girls on broadway
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Truth Be Told Geralt x Reader
Request 1: So just like some cute fluff or something would be great (and a a bit of angst never killed nobody)
Request 2: Can I get some Geralt and reader fluff? I've been in a biG holiday depression funk so I was looking for like;; him helping her through a bad episode and like just being dorky to try and cheer her up n shit?
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1883
A/N: I’m sorry if it’s a little OOC and if my writing isn’t up to par, it is very late over here. Also, no hate to Yennefer, I love her.
-------------------
The wind was cold and harsh against the faces of travellers. As it should be so high up in the mountains; mother nature made sure that some places be more dangerous than others and thus the higher you went the harder it was to survive. Despite knowing that the harshness of the wind was normal and that she had agreed to come along on this quest Y/N’s fears were not quenched. It had only been a day ago that they had started their ascent and only two that she was safe sitting inside an inn drinking beer. She tried now to remember how warm it had been inside the wooden walls, tried to remember the burning sensation in her throat as she drank what was possibly the worst beer in her life while watching Jaskier flirt with any woman who walked through the door. Or, perhaps how shocked she had been when the old man Borch Three Jackdaws had sat at their table asking Geralt to assist in slaying a dragon. The idea had almost been as ridiculous as the man’s name and for a moment it seemed out of the question. But when a certain witch had walked through the door Geralt agreed almost instantly despite Y/N’s and Jaskier’s protests.
So now here they were on the side of a mountain, risking their lives all because Geralt wanted to show off and get laid. Y/N rolled her eyes at the thought glaring daggers at the witch standing only inches in front of her. “You’re right” Jaskier’s voice cut through Y/N’s brooding bringing her back to the moment. “This is a shortcut…to death” he gulped and looked back at Y/N who rolled her eyes giving a quick glance to the Witcher standing next to her; Jaskier sighed. Lightly touching his arm Y/N attempted to bring Geralt’s attention to her, however, his eyes remained on the horizon grunting as he gave the suggestion of turning back. ‘At least he has some sense’ Y/N thought.
“No, we’re very close” Borch.
“And how could you possibly know that?” Y/N asked folding her arms over her chest. “We’re not going anywhere if we fall to our deaths.”
“Y/N…” Geralt warned.
“Don’t belittle me Geralt,” Y/N sneered. “I am not a child…this is too dangerous”
“It is a perfectly fine route” The leading dwarf growled, “As long as you don’t look down.”
Shoving her way past Geralt Y/N moved toward the front of the group, having no desire to walk behind the person she wanted so badly to push off the side of this mountain. If it weren’t for Geralt’s crush, then they wouldn’t be risking their lives right now.
-------------
When they had made it across and the time had come to set up tents Y/N’s mood had only worsened. Not only had they lost the lives of Borch and his companions but Geralt had risked his own life trying to save them; all because he wanted to show Yennefer how heroic he could be. But, despite the nagging voice at the back of her mind telling her that Geralt had wanted to save Borch because he was an innocent man she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything the Witcher did these days was because of her. Because he was smitten with a dark, beautiful and powerful woman. If truth be told Y/N was jealous, but she would never admit it to herself or anybody else. She sighed, taking a moment to admire the sunset abandoning the work on her newly pitched tent. One would never see a view like this from the ground, so magnificently beautiful it could bring any ordinary person to tears.
Looking at it now it was as if someone had taken a paintbrush and struck the canvas in uneven violent strokes but creating something quite the opposite.
Jaskier and Geralt were sitting together on a rock close to the cliff edge, speaking to each other Y/N unable to identify what they could be saying. She sighed giving one last glance to the sky before retiring to her tent. Ready to sleep away her troubles.
It was not long after Y/N had set up a place to sleep within the linen walls that someone else entered the tent. She did not bother to look up, already hearing the sound of Geralt’s leather armour as he moved toward her. “There isn’t room in here for the two of us.” Y/N said bluntly, still refusing to turn and face to man. She sighed dropping her blanket over her bedroll hindering all movement. “I am not in the mood for talking Geralt. Leave me be so I may sleep.”
“Look at me Y/N” he growled. “Jaskier sent me in here because he said you were upset and I want to know why...so turn around.”
“No.” Y/N knew that if she saw him now that she could not stop the tears already threatening to fall. Now that she had given herself time to breathe the severity of the situation had sunk itself into her heart, squeezing it so tight she thought she might die. Geralt could have died today, and she could do nothing to prevent it. “Leave me be Geralt, I do not want to talk with you”
“Well, I do!” Geralt all but yelled. “You have been ignoring me for weeks Y/N, speaking to me only when you want to start a fight,”
“I don’t want to…”
“Then what the hell is going on?” Geralt roared.
Shaking Y/N got to her feet, slowly turning to face the angry Witcher still, however, refusing to meet his gaze; finding the floor much more interesting. “You could have died.” She whispered.
“What?”, Gulping Y/N repeated herself, “Speak up Y/N!”
“I said you could have died you fucking idiot!” Y/N screamed. “You could have plummeted to your death all because of her.” She could no longer hold back her tears, hot salty water now streaming down her darkened cheeks. “You could have died because you wanted to show off to Yennefer because you want to fuck her…AGAIN” She cried, not caring if anyone outside the tent could hear her. Finally, Y/N looked up meeting Geralt’s golden eyes, rage boiling inside her. “I told you this was too dangerous and you didn’t listen, I told you that the Gin was a stupid idea and you didn’t listen. It almost cost Jaskier his life and now you’ve risked yours and everyone else’s because of a stupid witch.”
“Y/N…”
“Don’t.” Y/N growled. “Don’t speak I’m not finished”
“Yes, you are!” Geralt screamed stepping forward, grabbing hold of Y/N and shaking her. “You are done speaking to me as if you were my mother.”
“I am not speaking to you like a mother” Y/N counteracted, “I am speaking to you as someone who loves you!” Geralt’s grip loosened and Y/N took this opportunity to step back breathing deeply as she took in what she had just admitted. For a moment all was silent neither person wanting to be the first to speak. However, after minutes had passed in silence Y/N had decided that the silence was more torturous than speaking. Taking a shaky breath she gazed over to Geralt who had been eyeing the ground unblinking since the words had spilt from Y/N’s mouth. Thinking Y/N began to question if what she said had been the truth, did she love Geralt in the way both of them had been thinking for the past five minutes or was it a spur of the moment decision. Was it to make the man feel bad, or was it something that had finally bought itself up to the surface. It would explain her jealousy, why she had been so upset when she had looked through that window all those weeks ago and seen Yennefer in the place she thought she ought to be. Why when she thought back to the image of their lips touching almost bought her to tears. Why she had cried herself to sleep that night and why she had refused to talk to Geralt since, unless absolutely necessary. If she did love him, that would explain why she was so utterly terrified when it looked like he would fall to his death, and why the tears coming from her eyes refused to stop.
Looking up at the Witcher once more she had made her final decision and without a second thought wrapped her arms tightly around his middle. Hugging him so tight that it seemed almost impossible to let go. It took a moment, but soon Geralt had his arms wrapped around her, bringing her closer and burying his face in her neck. “You could have died today...” She whimpered against his chest.
“I know” he replied.
“You could have fallen...”
“I know”
“You could have died...and left me all alone”
“I know”
Y/N giggled, moving away from Geralt and wiping away her tears sniffling as she did so. “Stop saying that...” She said looking up to meet his golden eyes. “You could have died, and I would still be here. Without you.” her voice quivered. “And you don’t care.”
“I do care.” He said, voice soft.
“Then why did you...”
“Because I had to try Y/N,” he said. “I couldn’t let an innocent man fall to his death” he moved closer wrapping his arms around her once again. “I didn’t do it to impress Yennefer. Or anyone for that matter, I did it because I had to.”
“But I saw you...” Y/N stammered. “Through the window, after the Gin...” She gulped staring up at the man holding her. “You two were...”
“Fucking?” he asked. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I love her.”
“But...”
“No buts Y/N. It was nothing, it meant nothing”
Y/N nodded looking back at Geralt's leather-covered chest. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It is none of my business what you do with other women, but I want you to know that what I said is also true.” She sighed. “I love you...and not just in the way a friend does, or a member of one's family. But with my heart...I love you with all my hear Geralt and...” She could not finish for Geralt had lifted her chin upward and connected his lips to hers in one swift motion. The kiss was slow; gentle. But hiding a sense of urgency both people felt. Y/N bought her arms up to wind them around Geralt’s neck and pull him closer deepening the kiss, meanwhile, his hands made there way down to her waist holding her in place. The kiss ended all too soon for Y/N’s liking and she was about to protest when Geralt spoke.
“I have felt...something for quite some time now.” He said. “I didn’t know how to put it into words...and I still don’t” Y/N nodded listening. “I have tried to distract myself. But now I don’t think I can.”
“What are you saying?” Y/N asked.
“For now...all I am asking is if I can kiss you again.” Y/N nodded slowly as Geralt captured her lips with his once more turning the night into one of love and passion. And although it took a while for Geralt to say aloud what Y/N had already admitted both agreed it was worth the wait.
Neither one of them could be any happier.
#geralt imagine#geralt of rivia#geralt x reader#geralt of rivia imagine#geralt#the witcher imagine#the witcher#witcher imagine
298 notes
·
View notes
Text
Trope: “I thought I lost you.”
“Alright,” Tony glanced between Rhodey, Peter, and the two SHIELD agents that were their backup, “Rhodes, you’re with me. Spider-Man, you stick with our new friends and scout out that satellite warehouse. If you find access to their database, hook Karen up to it and see what you can do.”
One of the SHIELD agents raised their hands. “Uh, who’s Karen?”
“Spider-Man’s AI.”
“He has an AI?”
“Yeah.” He glared, although he knew nobody could see it through his helmet. “You got an issue?”
The SHIELD agent floundered for a second, glancing between Tony and Peter in a nervous rush. “No, sir. Of course not.”
“Good.” He turned to Peter. “Your comm stays on and linked to me the whole time. You got it?”
He may not have been able to see the kid’s eyeroll through the mask, but he sure as hell heard it in his tone. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be careful.”
“Yeah, you better.”
“I will.”
“Guys,” Rhodey said, exasperated, “can we do this later?”
“Fine.” He stepped back, had F.R.I.D.A.Y. charge up his repulsers. He offered a parting nod to Peter and the agents. “Good luck. Don’t die.”
As soon as he was in the air, scouting out the main base, he opened Peter’s comm line.
“Morning, squirt.” He grinned at the kid’s groan. “Talk to me. What’s happening?”
“I’m trying to be stealthy.”
He snorted. “Please, I already scanned the building for heat signatures. No one’s in there.”
Peter’s voice lowered. “Mister Stark, you’re embarrassing me.”
“Oh right. Forgot you were with your new SHIELD buddies.”
“Mister Stark, please.”
He chuckled. “What? You not a fan of my-”
“Shh.”
He fell silent right away, skin prickling. Peter never shushed him. Never.
“Pete?” He whispered, freezing mid-air. Rhodey came to hover beside him, and he could see a notification pop up in the corner of the screen, letting him know that he was trying to contact him. He swiped it away. “Buddy? Hey, you good?”
“Something’s wrong.” There was a shuffle, then the kid raised his voice, obviously talking to the agents. “Hey, guys, I don’t think that we should-”
He didn’t need to be connected to Peter’s comms to hear the explosion.
It ripped through the air, sending both him and Rhodey backwards as the shockwave hit them. He rushed to re-correct his course, nearly slamming into Rhodey as he came to a stop. He could see the debris from the sky, eyes locking on the flames that were already crawling through the wreckage.
And the only thing he heard on the comm line was static.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
“Peter!” He knew, logically, that he wasn’t choking on ash, that they were still hovering in fresh air, but it felt like it, because Peter didn’t answer. “Peter! Kid, talk to me!”
“I’m sorry, Boss, but we’ve lost the connection,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said.
“No, no, no. Get me his vitals.”
“I am unable to connect to his suit, either.”
“Fuck. Fuck.”
Please don’t be dead. Please. Please. Please don’t be dead.
He tried to dive towards the smoldering remains, heart in his throat, but jerked to a halt when an iron arm wrapped around his waist.
“Tony!” Since when did F.R.I.D.A.Y. put Rhodey’s comm request through? “Tones, you can’t go down there yet. Y’hear me? We don’t know if they’ve planted more explosives. We gotta keep our distance until-”
“Peter’s down there.” Tears, hot and angry, welled up in his eyes. “Rhodey, please-my... my kid. My kid. He’s down there. He’s-”
“Tony, listen to me-”
He fired his repulsers, growling when Rhodey just tightened his grip and hauled them backwards. “No, no. His-His comms are down. I can’t talk to him. Please. Rhodey, please.”
“Tony, man, I’m so fucking sorry, alright? I’m really sorry.”
Rhodey’s voice was strained with... something. An emotion Tony knew yet refused to acknowledge, because no. It couldn’t be that. Peter was fine. Please, please, Peter had to be fine.
“Rhodey, let go.” He strained against his best friend’s grip, and Rhodey hooked one of his legs around his shins, restricting his ability to maneuver. “You don’t understand. I have to protect him, it’s my... it’s my job.”
“I do understand, Tones.” The words were gruff. “What do you think it is I’m trying to do? You’re not the only one who’s got something to protect.”
He choked on a breath, sob bubbling up his throat. “I need him.”
“And I need you,” the admission was sudden enough that Tony’s escape attempts faltered, “so quit fighting and let me keep you from getting yourself killed, alright? The bomb squad’s on its way. They’ll handle it.”
He went limp, waited until Rhodey’s hold loosened just slightly, then sent a calculated kick to the War Machine armor’s left boot, destabilizing his thrust and giving him the chance to jerk away.
He felt a flash of guilt at the panicked way Rhodey called his name as he blasted towards the smoking rubble, but not enough to slow him down. He landed so roughly that he went down on his hands and knees, crawling forward a meter or two in panic before staggering back to his feet.
He heard Rhodey land behind him, still cursing. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., scan the area. I need heat signatures.”
“There are two human-shaped signatures approximately 35 feet to your left. One is rapidly cooling. I cannot identify the site of the third body, however.”
“Get me to the two you can find.”
She guided him through the rubble, Rhodey following closely behind. He’d given up trying to convince him to leave, just stuck close and periodically told him to slow down, to be careful.
He did neither.
He fell to his knees by the spot F.R.I.D.A.Y. indicated, tearing through shards of metal and splintered beams until his gauntlets hit flesh.
It wasn’t Peter. It was one of the SHIELD agents, laying face-down. His back was riddled with shrapnel, blood oozing almost lazily down the back of his uniform.
“F.R.I.D.A.Y.? Is he...?”
“I can detect no vitals, Boss. However, there is another body directly underneath this one, and my scanners are picking up a heartbeat.”
He shoved the corpse away, letting it roll down the mound of debris without another glance. He knew it was wrong, knew he should feel something over the loss of life, but he couldn’t, because then he was staring down at the familiar red and blue of the Spider-Man suit, and all he could feel was wild desperation.
Peter.
The kid was also sprawled out on his stomach, one arm bent unnaturally at the elbow. He was covered in splintered wood, but Tony couldn’t see any blood, any wounds. He carefully rolled him over, cupping the back of Peter’s head to stop it from knocking against the ground.
“Buddy, Peter.” He felt Rhodey’s hand on his shoulder, and promptly ignored it. He shook the kid gently. “Hey, c’mon. Nap time’s over.”
The suit’s eyes twitched at the shake, a little groan working its way out of Peter’s throat. As much as Tony hated hearing him in pain, the spark of life sent a thrill up his spine.
“Yes! Good boy.” He slipped the mask off his face, disengaging his own helmet at the same time. Peter’s eyelashes flickered as the sunlight landed on his face. There were tiny tracks of blood from his ears, and Tony tried to wipe some of it away. “Hey, kiddo. Wake up for me.”
Peter shifted, then winced. His eyes finally opened, gazing up at Tony dazedly. “Mister Stark?”
He hauled the kid into his arms, burying his face into his hair, lightheaded and drunk on relief. He didn’t realize he was sobbing until he felt the wetness of tears on his face.
“I thought I lost you,” he gasped. “God, Peter.”
You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive.
“‘M okay, Mister Stark. I’m okay.” Peter tried to hug him back, then gasped. “Oh, ouch. Maybe... Maybe ‘m not 100% okay.”
Tony pulled back and rushed to ease the kid back to the ground. “Your arm?”
“Yeah.” He coughed a little. “Broken?”
“Looks like it, yeah.”
“Awesome.” Peter squinted around the rubble, freezing when his eyes landed on the SHIELD agent’s body, sprawled out a few feet away. “Mister Stark, is he...?”
He gripped the kid’s chin and forced his back gaze to his face. “Don’t look, Peter.”
“You have to help him,” Peter begged. He looked so young. “Please. He saved my life. He pushed me when the bomb went off. You have to-”
“There’s nothing I can do, kiddo. I’m sorry.”
Tears welled up in the kid’s eyes. “He died because of me.”
“No, he died because a group of terrorists planted a bomb, a bomb that you had no way of knowing was there, because some people are just evil. Do you understand? You had nothing to do with this.”
“I should’ve been faster.”
“No, no. Shh.” He maneuvered the kid back into his arms, mindful of his injured arm. “You were brilliant. You did everything you could.”
“He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have saved me. I’m not worth it. I’m not.”
He shook his head, hand fisting in the kid’s curls, fierce and protective. “Maybe I’m biased, kid, but I can’t think of anything else that’s more worth it.”
#this bingo card is now just#'kat got tired of writing all her other fic so she'll do a prompt to keep her sanity alive'#enjoy this scenario that parkrstark helped me craft earlier this morning#tw: death#irondadbingo#irondad#tony & peter#tony stark#peter parker#losingmymindtonight writes
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
An unasked for “moderate” take on TERFs v Trans rights
Nobody asked, I might get cancelled for this (probably by both sides), and honestly I don’t have much belief that this will even be read by many people. But it’s frustrating seeing people being condemned for reasonable fears and requests and I just feel the need to put my opinions out into the ether just to have them out there and so I can stop dwelling on them every time I see stuff like this happen again.
Like, I just want to slap all the TERFs that purposefully misgender people and spout transphobic rhetoric. And I want to shake everyone who labels anything that complains about misogyny specific to cis women as TERF-y. God.
It seems like many “TERFs” are not actively malicious (although many definitely are), but are merely women who’ve been sexually assaulted or just been ground down by the patriarchy and are understandably (although not necessarily justifiably) scared/upset at the thought of any person with a male body coming into their safe spaces or into their fought for institutions. Whereas most trans people just want to live their lives and be accepted as the gender they identify as without wanting to cause any harm to anyone (although again, there are some they definitely do).
I personally found much of JK Rowling’s recent essay to be fear mongering, but given that she suffered abuse from her husband I could understand and sympathize with why she had those fears even though I disagree with her conclusions about the actions society/government should take regarding them. I honestly just feel sad for her. I feel sad that the experiences she’s been through have made her so scared. I feel sad that despite the millions of dollars she’s donated to charity and work she’s done to make the world a better place she has now hurt so many people and this action will be what she’s remembered for. I feel sad that the extremely angry responses she’s gotten will most likely only solidify her fear and perpetuate her actions that will most likely cause more hurt for more people.
I’ll also say that her original tweet that sparked it all was valid! It is dehumanizing to reduce people to their genitals (ironically something people say TERFs do) and it erases the fact that almost all of these people are targeted because they are women. And it feels somewhat sexist as I’ve never seen an article refer to a certain group as “penis havers” or “semen producers”. I can, however, still see how it would be exclusive however to only refer to “people who menstruate” as “women”. A better wording would’ve been “women and trans men”. Because then no one would be left out. And don’t @ me about that somehow leaving out ‘trans women’, because guess what, there are cis women who don’t menstruate! If we can recognize that “Not all men” is a bad take, why on earth are we accepting “Not all women” as a correct one?
Look, not all cis women menstruate. Not all cis women can or do become pregnant. But we still label these as generic ‘women’s issues’ because they affect a large portion of women. But it should go both ways! I believe that makes the gross femininity trans women need to perform to qualify for hormones a ‘women’s issue’ and the difficulty of getting insurance to cover said hormones a ‘women’s issue’. Because they’re issues that affects a large portion of women. Heck, I know most Transmen find the fact that some TERFs include them in their feminism irritating, but I’m also fine with including specific issues affecting the ones that don’t feel that way as ‘feminist issues’.
I am 100% against misgendering people, am 100% supportive of including trans women’s specific issues as part of the overall fight to help women, and I will happily state “transwomen are women”. But, I do agree that there are a handful of cis women spaces/institutions that it becomes morally grey to accept transwomen into without any sort of provisions. Especially given the fact that if there were absolutely zero strings attached to legally identifying a certain way, then there are definitely cis people who would abuse the system. Personally, I don’t think we should completely structure our society based on these fears - although I can again understand the people who have not had as privileged of a life as I have feeling differently (even if I ultimately disagree with them).
Anyway my take on said spaces/institutions:
Bathrooms: Single parents of opposite sexed kids already use the opposite gendered bathroom to teach them how to use it (and should be allowed to). If a cis man wants to rape you in a bathroom that you’re alone in, I don’t think the societal norms are really going to stop him. And since trans people just want to use the bathroom in peace, let them. Maybe it’s because I’ve never felt comfortable peeing in public and thus never felt the bathroom to be a ‘safe space’, but I’ve never understood the argument against this.
Changing rooms: Go where you identify. If you start acting like a creep, then there should be some course of action to either get you banned or limit your access to said changing room. That policy should hold for cis or trans people.
Women’s support groups: Already made my opinion on this clear I hope. Although I will say that if talk about certain genitalia/bodily functions is triggering, it’s not right to shut down all discussion regarding those things for the other people there. Instead we should have, you know, trigger warnings so that everyone can either prepare themselves accordingly or leave the room and no one is triggered or feels like they are unable to talk about their issues.
Rape shelters: It is 100% valid for a cis woman that was a victim of rape to not want to share their space with someone with a working penis. If there is absolutely nothing that can be done to make said person feel safe, then it should be the right of the shelter to refuse long term stay to the person causing that issue (through no fault of their own) - although the shelter should do everything it can to make sure the trans woman has a place to stay/go. On the other hand, if a trans woman was already there before such a victim, it would not be right to toss out the trans woman to grant access to the cis woman who has the problem with them.
Sports: I personally don’t know enough of the science behind it, but it seems to me that bare minimum they shouldn’t be allowed to compete without doing hormone therapy. And even then the skeletal differences and remaining hormonal differences may still prevent things from being reasonably fair (although I wouldn’t know). It’s definitely not fair to let a trans person pre-hormones compete on the team their gender matches with. Honestly, in an ideal world we’d somehow have an objective way to sort sports into co-ed groups based on athletic ability similar to how weight classes work for wrestling.
Prisons: Non violent crime? Go where you identify. Violent crime? Sorry, gotta go based on your sex (unless you’ve had bottom surgery). It is immoral to lock a convicted rapist with a penis in a cell with women who have no way of getting away from them. I mean, maybe we could have ‘wings’ for trans people so they could go to the prison they identify as and they’d just have separate cells. But until that becomes the norm, the few violent trans criminals should not be allowed to go where they identify.
Kids: Not an institution, but definitely a hot topic. Personally, I think only puberty blockers until they hit adulthood and extensive therapy to make sure that they are in fact trans. Admittedly JK Rowling’s essay about this bit sounded a bit like, “The spooky trans cult is coming for your neurodivergent and gay children!” But it did have small feeling of truth to it as well. As a GNC, cis, autistic woman who had dysphoria as a teen I also worry that I might have been incorrectly diagnosed as trans if I’d been born later. But I don’t think it’s something we as a society need to be extremely worried about or use as an excuse to make things harder on trans kids and adults. We just need to make sure that kids get the therapy they need to sort out whether they’re trans or just having the common dysphoria you have as a teen and chafing against gender roles. We can rubber stamp adults if they want, it’s only kids that should have to go through some minor hoops.
Finally, on being “Gender Critical”. I have to say, the idea of smashing the concept of gender and everybody just living as they are with no societal expectations for them to be one way or another based loosely on their biological sex sounds wonderful. I’m just upset that so many who support this concept are so transphobic because technically in that future there would be no ‘trans’ people (except those that suffer dysphoria) and they feel this gives them the right to act horribly towards trans people. I did recently talk to some TRAs who explained to me that, unlike ‘Gender Critical’ proponents, their ‘gender’ model is split into multiple components. That you’ve got your biological sex (your parts), your gender identity (what you feel you are), your gender presentation (how you dress and act), and gender roles (how society expects you to act based on your gender). So it seems to me, that we can still reach a version of that wonderful future that doesn’t erase people. Smashing gender roles and the idea that there is a ‘correct’ way to present as a gender would achieve ‘female liberation’ while still allowing for people who still desire to identify a certain way. We shouldn’t completely do away with gender, just the things that society expects from it.
#long post#opinion#I almost put relevant tags on this but I don't feel like being cancelled by a large amount of people#I'd like to think I'm a reasonable person#so if I did say something super egregious#feel free to comment/send me an ask#if I missed an institution and you care about a random internet stranger's opinion about it feel free to comment/send me an ask#man I wonder if there are any other 'moderate' leaning blogs out there#Doing a balancing act between the extremes is exhausting#The more sane TERFs have lots of good things about misogyny and have little transphobia so I don't want to unfollow them#But the anti-terf blogs are either generic support for trans people or a range of reasonable-overly mean attacks against terf stuff
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
ISLAM 101: 5 PILLARS OF ISLAM: ALMS AND CHARITY: FIQH OF ZAKAT IN DETAIL:
RECIPIENTS OF ZAKAT: (Part 3)
DEBTORS
In normal circumstances, zakat should be given to a person in debt, irrespective of the person’s prior wealth. Although in one way, debtors can actually be classified among the poor and destitute, the main difference is that their unfortunate state is presumably only temporary. By declaring, “Charity is not permissible for the rich, except for the following five: A warrior in the way of God, a zakat collector, a debtor, a person who buys the charity collected as zakat, and a rich person who receives from a poor the gift that was given to him as zakat,”12 the Prophet has pronounced the eligibility for zakat of a debtor, even if he is rich. On the account of Abu Said al-Hudri, a Companion during the time of the Noble Messenger had bought fruit, which were destroyed before he could offer their payment. Upon hearing this, the Prophet advised the others to lend him financial support. After the amassed total fell short of the required amount, the Prophet said to the creditors, “Take from what there is, for there is no more,” insisting on some additional understanding and compromise on their behalf.13 Falling into debt must never be seen as a method of receiving zakator as a pretext for escaping it, practices strongly condemned by the Prophet and certainly subject to divine fury. The people declared by Islam as being eligible for zakat, in this case, are not those who are penalized for their avarice, but rather those who are going through rough patches while leading a planned and moderate life. The bottom line is that life is transient, man is expected to behave responsibly, and errors perpetrated in this fleeting life may lead to a devastating scenario on the Day of Judgment.
FI SABILILLAH (IN GOD’S WAY)
In line with the various connotations the Arabic term may suggest, “fi sabilillah” is basically the commitment to put aside all personal duties and dedicate one’s entire time to spend in the way of God. Initially, this involves seeking and learning the knowledge that brings happiness in this life and in the hereafter, and in time, may also require the removal of impediments that stand in the way of spreading God’s name to all corners of the world. It is exactly for this reason that a group courageously taking such an immense task is entitled to zakat, thereby encompassing the broader meaning of the term jihad, as all kinds of struggle offered with the sole aim of pleasing God.
Analyzing the issue from the perspective of the Prophetic Era, the Ashab al-Suffa (Companions that had dedicated their entire time to the pursuit of knowledge), whose numbers reached up to 400, throw more light on the issue as exemplary models, in terms of the duty they had accomplished. Enduring a variety of difficulties, they nevertheless remained incessantly alongside the Prophet, eager to realize his very command and imbibe from him pearls of wisdom. Having devoted themselves solely in this direction, they frequently suffered hunger, even facing, on occasions, the threat of falling unconscious. Abu Hurayra, an heroic example of this devotion, responded to certain criticisms that came in his direction by simply stating, “My brothers complain that I narrate too many hadiths. However, while my Ansar brothers (Medinan Muslims) were busy cultivating their lands, and my Muhajir brothers (Meccan Muslims) were engaged in trade, me and others alike were incessantly by the side of the Prophet, memorizing his words, “At the risk of fainting from hunger.”14 This illustrates the extent of the dedication and consequent hardship which devout followers encountered for the sake of serving the Qur’an and the Sunna—and also exemplifies the different manner in which believers struggled to support Islam. Of course, the Qur’an is far from quiet on such sacrifices, eternalizing their earnest devotions as follows, in a verse which was also critical to some of the earlier discussions:
Alms are for the poor who are restrained in the cause of God, unable to travel in the land. The ignorant man counts them among the wealthy because of their restraint. But you will know them by their appearance. They never beg people with importunity. And whatever good things you spend, surely God knows them well. (Baqara 2:273)
Despite of the difficulties they constantly faced, these Companions would not divulge their hardships, causing others to overlook them when they identified people in no need. Even though there still were a limited number of individuals who might have had a fairly good idea of their dire situation, it was impossible to know the full depth of suffering they concealed to establish the faith of Islam. To cut a long story short, the following account provides an excellent example by which to crystallize this description.
Said ibn Musayyab, one of the forerunners of the Tabiun generation (the praised generation who were acquainted with the Companions, though they did not see the Noble Prophet himself) who was the son-in-law of Abu Hurayra, tells the following story about his father-in-law, as the elder walking around gleefully in a linen robe:
Plunged in deep thought, he (Abu Hurayra) then turned to himself, muttering “Get over yourself, Abu Hurayra! You seem to have long forgotten the days when you would collapse from hunger and children would start treading on you, and others would hasten to you, conceiving it as an epileptic fit. Nobody would understand, bar the Prophet (upon whom be peace) and Jafar ibn Abi Talib, who would say ‘Come Abu Hurayra!’ where upon you would tag along with them. How many times you entered the home of the Honorable Prophet, satisfying your hunger with milk, presented by him!”15
Abu Hurayra, in fact, could not pursue anything else, conceiving this as the only path to revive one’s world and reach the eternal abode. Abu Hurayra’s desire and sensitivity in running to the need of the Prophet, and in memorizing every single word he uttered, was equally matched by his vigor in joining the armed forces, when required, where he confidently assumed the front ranks. Similarly, Abu Lubaba, and many others, displayed the same attitude.
Thus it was for the likes of these exemplary figures, that divine glorification was revealed. As conveyed, there were more than 100 Companions who, while prostrating in salat (prayer), would hold fast to their insufficient clothes to prevent an exposure of their private areas. As a matter of fact, all possessions and wealth had been abandoned in migrating from Mecca to Medina for the sake of God. The Prophet (upon whom be peace) nurtured a unique sensitivity for his Companions, and he would give them everything that came his way; and yet, especially in the early years of the faith, it still fell short of covering even their basic needs. He himself would endure days of starvation, to the point where he even tied a rock around his stomach to diminish his own feeling of hunger—and yet his soft heart could not bear the hunger of his Companions. So while he lived a life well below the standards of those around him, he displayed an unmatched sensitivity to the requirements of others.
Through his efforts, Abu Hurayra achieved such proximity to the Messenger that more often than not, he would refer to the Prophet as his Khalil(Confidant), such that he would begin his explanations by saying, “My Confidant told me…” Or, “I went next to my Confidant.” Or, “I conversed with my Confidant…” and so on. By using this term, Abu Hurayra alluded to the ache and longing he experienced whenever he was away from the presence of the Prophet. In one of his many visits to the Prophet, he witnessed him offering salat while seated, showing signs of agony and distress. Immediately after the salat was finished, Abu Hurayra asked the Prophet why he offered his prayer sitting, only to receive this response: “Hunger; O Abu Hurayra!” Abu Hurayra, having witnessed such a heartbreaking scene, broke down in tears and the duty of consolation was, again, left to the Prophet, who uttered these words of gentle comfort: “Don’t cry, Abu Hurayra, because surely, the least torment on the Day of Judgment will befall the starved who have indeed already suffered its hardships.”16
Such was the attitude displayed by this great “Confidant.” While the Prophet endured a variety of hardships, it would obviously have been utterly unconceivable for Abu Hurayra and the other 400 friends – the Ashab al-Suffa – to opt for lives of pompous luxury. Affirming their faith in God granted them such an immense maturity that they were constantly on the lookout for opportunities where they could lend their services. So even while they lacked the basic necessities of the day—a horse to ride, a saddle, a flask to carry water in, or a loaf of bread, for example—they would still come to the Prophet, asking for opportunities by which they could serve in God’s cause and thus vehemently insisting, “Provide us with means, O Messenger!” Evidently, the Companions always sought additional opportunities by which they could support the growth of their faith community and offer themselves increasingly in the name of God. Of course, understanding the depth of service of his close Companions, the Honorable Prophet would give them support and suggestions, as well as anything material he could provide, in order to increase their benefits before God. On the sad occasions when he had nothing left to give, and he was starving himself, he would suffer the unparalled and additional agony of having to turn back a Muslim who was willing to do more for his faith but simply had nothing more to offer. The Qur’an’s depiction of the preparations in the lead-up to the Tabuk campaign draws attention to this profound and moving situation:
Nor (is there any blame) on those who came to you, to be provided with mounts, and when you said to them, “I am unable to provide you with mounts.” They returned with tears streaming from their eyes, grieving that they could find no means to contribute. (Tawba 9:92)
As mentioned earlier, it is unimaginable in any healthy community for the rich to indulge in luxury while there are those who, out of insufficient means, are deserted to their own starvation and despair. Therefore, mobilizing all financial means towards those who have dedicated their entire lives for a noble cause—and who shed tears not for their own discomfort, but only for their failures in finding the necessary means to give more—would ultimately revive their vanished hopes, instigating an immensely efficacious movement by which the rewards of overwhelming sacrifice would be jointly shared—and enjoyed—by all the benefactors. Within the broadest sense of the term, the invaluable groundwork would thus be laid for talented students and followers, germinating in them an enormous eagerness to become passionate servants in God’s way, and upholders of universal ethics. This is, after all, the essence and vision of Islam.
WAYFARERS
On the word of the Qur’an, the last group of recipients which is identified is that of wayfarers— individuals who become needy during travel, even if they are essentially rich back home. It has virtually become impossible, especially today, to avoid traveling, whether it be for work or to spread the word of Islam to all the ends of the world. The quest to travel in order to serve in God’s way; to provide a righteous example of faith in parts of the world with little or no exposure to Islam; or to resettle in different communities in order to directly invite others to Islam is, in effect, an excellent motive to establish funds, in concordance with the Qur’anic directive to accommodate the needs of travelers and those who lend their services to the mission of God.
This command is simultaneously a verification of how Islam attends to a person’s financial requirements while also decreeing the spread of good and the purge of evil—for including these altruistic souls as recipients of zakat allays their financial concerns and saves them from lagging behind in devoting their lives to the search for thirsty hearts eager to be quenched with the nectar of Truth.
The Messenger of God enunciated the rich among those who may occasionally be eligible to receive zakat while traveling (and thus in need of resources).17 The mention of travelers in the hadith is simply an elaboration of the Qur’anic command in relation to wayfarers. Therefore, though a person may possess enough wealth to donate zakat, he may also be eligible as a recipient, provided that he is in need during travels.
WHERE ELSE CAN ZAKAT BE GIVEN?
The essential aim of zakat is to cure all social diseases that stem from inequality in the distribution of wealth and, ultimately, create a tightly knit community resembling a robust building. Evidently, there exist certain institutions which are aimed at serving the exact purpose for which zakat is intended, and these tend to be well known within a community. Even though these institutions have technically not been mentioned among the other categories of recipients, they do receive zakat owing to their particular social aims and functions. These institutions, which are formed around the core concept of charity, have the power to reach out to the deprived, to ease their lives and, as discussed above, help avoid or discourage potential social strife.
In the words of the Prophet (upon whom be peace), a Muslim society is like one body where all parts join the agony of a single limb; viewed from this angle, reviving one certain part of society is commensurable to breathing new life into the entire organism. Espousing this kind of an impetus, each member of society is expected to become active. Actualizing God’s will in all parts of society will, in effect, terminate theft and other crimes connected to financial instability, graciously giving the community a brand new lease on life. While charity and aid foundations, scholarship funds and orphanages may, at first, give the impression of being excluded from the eight groups delineated by the Qur’an, they each fundamentally relate and encompass one or more of the specified recipient groups. The dictates of the Qur’an, in effect, are both general and unrestricted—the essence of a vibrant and comprehensive system of ordinances for life. Therefore, conditions like poverty, traveling, being in debt, or striving in the way of God are inherently deemed to generate the need for assistance, so that individuals in such conditions clearly achieve eligibility for zakat, and organizations which provide such targeted assistance must receive available funds in order to deliver the appropriate relief.
Illat, in Islamic terminology, means the basic reason for determining the permissibility or the impermissibility of an action, and it constitutes a crucial foundation of Islamic jurisprudence. Recall that as far as the muallafa al-qulub are concerned, they receive zakat as long as, or whenever and wherever, they exist and there is a need for warming their hearts towards Islam. The situation is similar for wayfarers, as discussed above; namely,zakat is only given to such a group as long as it exists—that is, as long as individuals fitting this description can be identified. Therefore, looking from this perspective, we can say that the very existence of institutions or foundations which serve the needs of any of the individuals defined, and which have as their primary intent and purpose the support of these groups, is sufficient reason for their entitlement to zakat.
#allah#god#islam#muslim#quran#revert#convert#convert islam#revert islam#reverthelp#revert help#revert help team#help#islamhelp#converthelp#prayer#salah#muslimah#reminder#pray#dua#hijab#religion#mohammad#new muslim#new revert#new convert#how to convert to islam#welcome to islam#convert to islam
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Thanks for Waiting Chapter 2/2
For Rikunami Day 2019. Chapter 1 was posted for the actual day, and chapter 2 is getting posted today. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Length: ~2700 words
Summary: Riku and Naminé are an unlikely duo working towards a common goal: helping Sora. But as they spend more and more time together, they start to question if they’re doing the right thing. It’s easier to focus on that than on what might be happening between them. After all, a Nobody doesn’t have feelings of her own, and a human wouldn’t fall for a Nobody… right?
Characters: Naminé, Riku, Riku Replica, Kairi, Sora
Relationships: Riku/Naminé
Additional Info: Romance, Friendship, Angst, Mutual Pining, (Mostly) Canon Compliant, Missing Scene(s), Kairi and Naminé friendship, Sora and Riku friendship, Riku and Riku Replica friendship, KH3 Spoilers, Canonical Character Death
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Soft eyes and an enigmatic smile. More shadow than light, looking as if she might fade away at any moment, hard at work as she sketched how she saw the world. Riku knew his priority was supposed to be saving Aqua, but ever since he’d run into the other Riku in the Realm of Darkness, his thoughts kept wandering to Naminé.
He rolled over and sighed. Radiant Garden was looking better and better the more of it was rebuilt, but even though he and Mickey were staying at a cozy inn with comfortable beds, tonight was proving to be another sleepless night.
“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?”
Hovering beside him was the other Riku. They’d started having more and more chats like this, and Riku couldn’t say he really minded. It was nice getting perspective from someone who understood him so well and yet wasn’t him.
“I guess I am,” he said. “What Ienzo told us about the Replica project’s been on my mind.”
If there was a way to bring Naminé back, he wanted to. The time they’d spent together hadn’t exactly been surrounded by happy memories, and yet thinking about her brought a smile to his face.
“I understand,” the other Riku said. “My feelings for her might be fake—”
Riku raised an eyebrow. “They seem real enough to me.”
“I guess you’re right. But yours are real, too. And that means you can help her.”
“I’ll try,” Riku said at last, “but I can’t make any promises. Saving Aqua comes first.”
He had a duty to fulfill. He and Mickey had to get Aqua out of the Realm of Darkness as soon as possible.
“But then?”
“I’ll do whatever I can to save her. I promise.”
The other Riku looked content to hear this. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “And that’s all I can ask from you. For you and me both.”
Riku thought about the other Riku’s words as he tossed and turned. Would it be possible to bring Naminé back? If so… then yes, he did want to bring her back.
His thoughts wandered back to those months they’d spent together working to save Sora. If only he’d known what he had before he lost it. But that was how life worked, wasn’t it? Didn’t know what you had till it was gone. He’d been so fixated on helping Sora, and so had she, that neither of them realized what could’ve been till it couldn’t be anymore.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Naminé’s days were spent in slumber, and it was only at night, while Kairi dreamed, that they could speak. As far as Naminé knew, Kairi didn’t remember their little chats – not much of them, anyway – but they were nice all the same.
The two of them met in a vision of the white room back at the Old Mansion, Naminé’s drawings hung all over the walls as they sat at opposite ends of the table. She listened intently as Kairi talked about all the things she’d been learning lately, the magic spells and defense moves and special attacks. Imagined she was doing those things beside Kairi instead of watching from within a dream.
Kairi paused, her brow furrowed. “What’s wrong? I get the feeling something’s troubling you.”
“Oh… it’s just that…”
She hesitated. Should she really tell Kairi what was on her heart? Would that make anything better, or would it just make Kairi sad?
“You can tell me,” Kairi said gently. “I’m your friend.”
Naminé spent a few more agonizing seconds deciding what to do, then finally spoke again. “Hearing you talk, I wish I could experience all those things with you. It’s selfish, I know, but—”
Kairi shook her head. “It’s not selfish at all. It’s human. Of course you want to experience these things for yourself. When I lost my body and was inside Sora’s heart, I enjoyed seeing all the things he did. But it wasn’t the same as getting to see them for myself.”
“I understand.”
Kairi smiled sadly. “Anything else on your mind?”
“Well… there is someone I want to see again…”
“You will. I promise.”
How Kairi knew who it was, Naminé wasn’t sure. But the knowing twinkle in her eyes lifted her spirits a little. She might be unable to live her own life, but at least she still had Kairi.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Well, enough about what I’ve been up to. Anything on your mind?” Sora asked as Riku chatted with him via Gummiphone. His friend was chilling in the Gummi Ship while Donald and Goofy were shopping for supplies and Mickey was grabbing breakfast.
“Well, actually… yeah,” Riku replied.
Sora’s eyebrows furrowed. “What is it? You worried about rescuing Aqua? I know you’ll be able to pull it off. You rescued me, after all.”
“Right. I just… there’s something else I…” Riku sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was going to regret saying this, he just knew he would. All those years spent teasing Sora were about to come back and bite him in the ass.
“You miss somebody, don’t you?” Sora said sagely.
“How’d you know?”
“Gimme some credit here. I am your best friend. I have a pretty good read on how you’re feeling.”
“And who do you think it is I’m missing, oh wise one?” Riku teased. If Sora was gonna give him a hard time, he’d dish it right back.
“Hmmm, let’s see. Can’t be Kairi, ‘cause you just saw her. Can’t be me, ‘cause we’re talking right now. Selphie drives you up the wall, and Tidus and Wakka haven’t really talked to either of us much lately. So we’re all out.”
“What, are you a super sleuth now?”
“It must be someone you can’t talk to right now. Boy do I know how that feels,” Sora said with a sigh. “I’m gonna guess… Naminé?”
Riku didn’t say anything, and a smirk spread across Sora’s face. “I knew it! You do miss her, don’t you?”
“I didn’t realize I would until she was gone.”
“Riku, you’ve always been kinda dense when it comes to your own heart,” Sora said with a shake of his head, but the words were affectionate. “This doesn’t surprise me at all. I can see why you like her.”
Riku bristled. “I’m dense when it comes to my own heart? Sheesh, talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Maybe, but I’ve gotten pretty good at picking up on what other people are feeling. You wanna see her again, don’t you?”
“I guess. But I don’t see how that’s possible.”
There were a lot of big ifs to her getting a body of her own. And even if they did save her, would she even want to talk to him?
“C’mon, Riku, have some faith! I swore to Roxas I’d get him back somehow. I’m sure Kairi feels the same way about Naminé. And you said it yourself. Ienzo and the others wanna find a way to give them bodies. With all these people working together, I’m sure we’ll find a way to save them.”
“You’re right. I should have some faith. Comes with following my heart, doesn’t it?”
Sora grinned. “Yup! That’s the spirit.”
As they wrapped up their conversation and Sora said goodbye, Riku couldn’t help but sigh. He sure wanted to hope, but hope was dangerous. Hope easily led to disappointment.
But what was the alternative? Living without any hope? That was even worse. So maybe he’d give this whole faith thing a try. He would see Naminé again, and when he did, maybe he’d finally tell her how he felt.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ever since her birth, Naminé had teetered on the edge of existence. Was this new form really so different? This star full of empty hopes and wishes and regrets, barely hanging onto life in the Final World with nothing but blue sky and white clouds surrounding her for miles on end?
What was it that kept her here? Why hadn’t she passed on to whatever lay beyond this realm? Was it because Kairi still stubbornly clung to life and kept her here? Or was it her own regrets?
She did have a lot of regrets. But after lingering inside Kairi’s heart for a while, she’d finally identified her biggest regret of all. And now, all alone in this lonely place with nothing but her regrets left, it ate away at her.
No one really missed her. Roxas was the one they missed. They’d all be fine without her. And the person she missed the most, the person she wanted to see the most, didn’t seem to care at all.
Then Sora came along, tethered to the Realm of Light and retaining his form while Naminé did not. Of course. Someone cared enough about him to do that. Just another reminder that Naminé was alone.
But as he talked to her, he reassured her that everyone did miss her. He missed her, Kairi missed her, Donald and Goofy missed her, Roxas missed her… and most puzzling of all, someone else special wouldn’t let her down.
His words stuck with her after he’d left, remained in her heart after he found their friends again and returned to the Realm of Light and Naminé to Kairi’s heart.
Could he possibly mean…
But hoping was dangerous. And yet, she couldn’t help but hope. Hoping was a part of having a heart, after all.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Riku watched, dumbfounded, as the other Riku gave up his chance at life for Naminé’s sake. Gave up his chance to be with her for Riku’s sake. With a few final words, he faded into a swirl of light and darkness, leaving nothing behind but the Replica body for Naminé as the wind whistled through this dry, empty place.
If that wasn’t love, Riku didn’t know what was. He would honor the other Riku’s sacrifice and bring back Naminé, whatever it might take. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to tell her what the other Riku had sacrificed for her. And… he wanted to tell her how he felt. She deserved to hear it, after he’d been so clueless about his own heart.
But first, they had a war to win.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The cruel irony of Kairi’s existence was that she could keep other people from dying and yet couldn’t save herself. Naminé screamed as she felt Xehanort’s blade strike Kairi’s back, wrenching her out of her safe home and sending her hurtling towards death. Kairi’s heart was likewise torn from her body right before it turned to crystal and exploded.
The two girls were flying through the Final World towards whatever lay beyond, and Naminé latched onto Kairi’s hand. At least if they were going to die, they’d do it together.
“Naminé,” Kairi said, her face twisted in sorrow, “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t keep you safe—”
“It’s not your fault,” Naminé replied, trying to reassure her.
“It’s too late for me, but not for you. I know the others can take it from here. I’m sorry I won’t be able to welcome you home myself. I really did want to be there for you. But at least this way I’ll be able to keep my promise to you.”
“No, Kairi, what are you saying—”
With the last of her strength, with the last of her light, Kairi anchored Naminé to the Final World. Her see-through hand was starting to slip out of Naminé’s grasp, but Naminé wasn’t about to let go so easily.
“Kairi no, please, you have to save yourself—”
“No! You deserve to live! You deserve to be your own person. Just because my time is over doesn’t mean yours has to be!” She smiled sadly as Naminé’s hand slipped out of her grasp. “Promise me you’ll live. Be there for Sora and Riku because I can’t anymore.”
“I promise,” Naminé choked out, her lower lip quivering. Kairi’s smile got bigger, and then she was wrenched away.
Naminé couldn’t really cry without a body, even though she wished she could. She couldn’t do much to help Kairi right now, either. All their friends were back where they belonged. All except her and Kairi. It would be easy to give into despair and just fade away.
But she’d made a promise to Kairi, and she intended to keep it. And when Sora found her again, she knew exactly what to do.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The battle was over. The long night had ended. It was morning, and Riku hovered somewhere between relief, exhaustion, and grief. Sora and Kairi were both gone, and while Riku had faith Sora would find her again and bring her home, he still missed them both. The memory of Kairi’s body floating helplessly as Xehanort struck her and Sora’s scream of agony that followed soon afterwards would haunt him for a long, long time. He’d failed them both when he’d wanted nothing more than to protect them both. And nothing except for seeing their smiles again, hearing their laughter again, would mend the wound of their loss.
But he couldn’t rest yet. Couldn’t grieve yet. He had one last task to complete. Mickey had come with him for it, and they trudged wordlessly through the maze that had been a battlefield before.
There. Up ahead. An empty body wrapped in a black coat. He gently lifted it into his arms and cradled it as Mickey brushed dust off the coat. This was going to be Naminé’s new body, after all, and it deserved the utmost care.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Naminé’s eyes blinked open. Standing before her were Zexion, DiZ, and Vexen. Smiles spread across their faces as she sat up and tested her new limbs. This wasn’t exactly the welcome committee she’d been expecting, but she was grateful they were trying to make up for their past treatment of her all the same.
“It worked!” Vexen exclaimed, his green eyes shining.
“Welcome back to the Realm of Light, Naminé,” Zexion said as she slipped off the gurney and stood.
“Come, there is something you must see,” DiZ told her in his deep booming voice. She followed along, exiting the bowels of the castle on her own two feet. She could walk. She could really walk on her own again.
Xaldin and Lexaeus were at the entrance of the castle to greet her, and she shielded her eyes from the bright light of the sun. How good its warm rays felt shining down on her again, and how lovely the breeze felt blowing through her hair.
And it was blowing because the Gummi Ship was landing. Flower petals flew through the air as it made its careful descent to the ground. And after it had landed, her face lit up as the person she had wanted to see more than anything came out to greet her, like a knight coming to sweep her off her feet.
He offered his hand, and she smiled and took it. She’d imagined their reunion over and over again, but nothing compared to the actual thing. His hand was warm and his grip was strong, and his voice was the most wonderful sound in the world. And best of all, his eyes weren’t hidden or the wrong color; no, they were their beautiful natural green.
“Welcome home, Naminé.”
“It’s good to be back, Riku.”
“Come on in. They’re all waiting to see you.”
As she entered the Gummi Ship and saw the smiling faces of their friends as they all greeted her, giving her hugs and exchanging tearful happy words, it really sank in. She wasn’t alone. She hadn’t been for a very long time. And now Riku was here with her. He’d come for her, just like Sora had said he would.
“Ready to head to Sora and Kairi’s welcome home party?” Riku asked as she took one of the seats next to him.
“Yes,” Naminé said as she smoothed her skirt. “Thank you for coming to get me. Your timing was perfect.”
Riku shot her a grin, and she smiled back.
“Anytime. Thanks for waiting for me, Naminé.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: I figured Sora knew about Riku’s feelings for Naminé somehow, otherwise he wouldn’t have promised Naminé someone special wouldn’t let her down, so I went into writing this part with that in mind. The rest was what I imagined could’ve happened behind the scenes during KH3.
I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!
#rikunami#namiku#naminé#riku#kingdom hearts#rikunamiday2019#rikunamiday#namikuday2019#namikuday#kh fanfiction#phoenix writes#phoenix-downer#long post#romance#friendship#pining#mutual pining#sora#kairi#riku replica#repliku#the riku replica#canonical character death#kh3 spoilers#kingdom hearts 3 spoilers
55 notes
·
View notes
Note
I keep hearing "if you're worried about being a bad person, you're not a bad person" and just wondering if that's true from a psychology perspective? The line of logic goes, a "real" toxic/abusive/narcissistic person wouldn't care that their actions hurt others, so if you're worrying about it, then you're definitely not one. Is that really the case though?
It’s... complicated. But no, not really.
So, for starters, there’s no such construct as a “bad person” in psychology. Or a “good person”, for that matter. “Bad” and “good” are value judgments, and psychology tries to avoid making value judgments; we simply aim to identify and describe certain patterns of symptoms of behaviour. The fact of the matter is that everyone does things that could be considered “bad” and “good”, and no one is perfect. We have all hurt other people in our lives, both intentionally and unintentionally. It’s also important to remember that morality is not black-and-white - many, many things fall into a moral grey zone, and different people will have wildly different perspectives on what is right and wrong, and who is a “good” person or a “bad” person. A doctor or psychologist cannot tell you if you are a good person or not. That is something that you ultimately have to decide for yourself, after carefully comparing your own actions to the values that you hold.
You are right that there are certain diagnoses that make a person much more likely to harm others in their lives without really examining their own actions too closely. People with narcissistic or anti-social personalities tend to center their own feelings, and disregard any hurt they cause others. Narcissistic people specifically think of themselves as being highly important, special, and deserving of recognition and success. They tend to enjoy being in a position of power over others, and they are comfortable manipulating and harming others for their own gain. People with anti-social tendencies and disorders, on the other hand, are easily bored and enjoy antagonizing others to get a reaction - any reaction. They are chronically irresponsible, deceitful, and uncaring, and they have no empathy for the people they hurt. If you find that you are chronically unable to feel any empathy for the people around you, or to regard their feelings in any way, that’s definitely a huge red flag that you’re probably harmful to the people around you - although of course, you won’t really care.
Unfortunately, though, caring if you hurt people is not a guarantee that you aren’t doing it. Life and mental health are just not that simple. Many people who behave in toxic or manipulative ways toward others are anguished about it, and constantly worry about it - yet they continue to do it anyway. I think most of us have been in the awkward position of having a friend who didn’t treat us very well, possibly due to serious mental health concerns (maybe too clingy, dropping in and out of our lives without warning, flaky, not interested in our problems, overly critical, etc) who also asked for constant reassurance that they weren’t a horrible person and that you didn’t hate them. My boyfriend has an ex with untreated borderline personality disorder; she constantly, constantly agonized over the possibility that she was a “toxic person”, while doing nothing to change the fact that she was actually being extremely toxic to the people in her life. She harassed my boyfriend for more than six months after they broke up, while still continuing to make public social media posts of herself crying and talking about how she never wants to be a bad person. Although it’s fictional, another good example of this phenomenon can be found in Bojack Horseman - the main character spends the entirety of the show grappling with what it means to be a good person, while also consistently hurting the people around him. It would be nice to believe that simply worrying about hurting others is a guarantee that we don’t do it, but it’s just not that easy.
Figuring out if you are being hurtful to the people you care about is a ongoing process that requires constant honesty with yourself, vigilance, and self-reflection. Being worried is not enough - you have to dig a lot deeper than that. For instance, you need to consider:
What does my relationship history look like? Everyone has relationships that end poorly or just don’t work out, for a wide variety of reasons. But it’s important to examine your relationships as a whole, to see if any troubling patterns emerge. When your relationships end, do you tend to just drift apart and lose contact, or do they tend to end with dramatic blow-ups? Do people tend to remain on okay terms with you after losing contact, or have you had a lot of people specifically block you and cut you out of their life? Again, everyone has had relationships go sour, but if there is a consistent pattern of people dramatically severing ties and relationships turning hostile and toxic, it’s typically a sign that there’s a problem in there that’s worth examining.
How do I react when I realize I’ve wronged someone? When you realize you have done someone wrong - either by your own realization, or by them telling you - how do you react? Do you accept responsibility and apologize, even if you think the incident was no big deal? Do you ignore the situation? Do you do something to try to make it up to them? Have you ever gotten angry or upset with someone for telling you that you hurt them? Again, fuck-ups and mistakes happen - we are human. It’s how you deal with those fuck-ups that matters.
How were the last few arguments I’ve been in resolved? Think back to the last few times you had a serious disagreement with someone. What happened? Were you able to resolve the issue in a way that worked for both of you? Did the argument escalate? Did one person steamroller over the other? Disagreements are inevitable, but the way that we handle even the most serious difference of opinion says a lot about who we are.
Am I generally reliable in relationships? Do you show up when you say you’re going to show up? Do you remember the things people tell you, or do you have to constantly be reminded about the basic details of other people’s lives? Do you send birthday greetings, answer texts most of the time, and make a point to be there for important events in others’ lives? Again, no one is perfect at this, but making an effort to be consistent about this stuff - and giving others a heads-up or apology when you are struggling to do it - is important.
Have I been insensitive with others? Are you sensitive to other people’s needs? Do you generally manage to use tact when discussing delicate topics with people? Do you remember to avoid certain topics with certain people, and avoid airing people’s personal information in front of others? Nobody has perfect manners, but it’s important to make an effort to consider the comfort and feelings of others.
How do I treat people that I dislike? How you treat the people you dislike - or don’t know - is almost as important as how you treat the people you do like. Do you ever behave vindictively toward people you don’t like? Do you gossip about them? Have you ever gone out of your way to make someone’s life harder in some way because you didn’t like them? It can seem satisfying or justified to get our revenge on someone who wronged us, but this can quickly reach a point where it’s unproductive and cruel.
Do I take no for an answer? Do friends and loved ones feel comfortable saying no to me? Do I tend to accept it when things don’t go my way, or do I tend to push and try to convince others to change their minds? Have I ever gone behind someone’s back after they’d already said no? It can be difficult to face rejection or an outcome that you don’t want, but being able to take it gracefully is important.
Obviously, this isn’t a comprehensive list of what it takes to be a “good person” to others, and you don’t have to hit every point on it all the time. We all have times where we are stressed and tired, or where we just drop the ball. Shit happens. But it’s important to keep examining ourselves in an honest way, and looking for places we can improve. Best of luck to you!Miss Mentelle
78 notes
·
View notes
Link
(The article is behind a paywall so I’m putting it here. You can also register to read 2 free articles a week.)
Inside the clinic rooms of the Tavistock, the private heartache of a new generation of “transgender” youngsters is being laid bare. There used to be about 50 referrals a year, mainly males with a history of gender issues.
Now there are thousands of young females reporting a sudden gender crisis for the first time. Many are convinced that transition — and the powerful drugs that make it happen — will be the solution to their problems.
Until now the specialists struggling to keep up with caseloads have stayed silent, but alarm over the number of adolescents being prescribed body-altering drugs, has prompted five former clinicians to speak out for the first time.
All five have resigned from the Gender Identity Development Service (GIDS) in the past three years as a matter of conscience.
“This experimental treatment is being done not only on children, but very vulnerable children, who have experienced mental health difficulties, abuse, family trauma, but sometimes those [other factors] just get whitewashed,” one female clinician said. “If someone was suggesting plastic surgery or any other permanent change we’d be saying, hang on a minute.”
The clinicians have warned that complex histories and adolescent confusion over possible homosexuality are being ignored in the rush to accept and celebrate every young person’s new transgender identity.
Clinical psychologists carry out each initial assessment at the Tavistock. They are the gatekeepers who decide whether to refer transgender youngsters to the endocrine clinic for the next stage of treatment. Therapists once had months to work through underlying issues before making decisions on medical intervention, but the clinicians claim that young people are now routinely referred for hormone therapy after as few as three hour-long sessions.
They believe that physically healthy children are being medicated in response to pressure from transgender lobby groups and parental anxieties.
So many potentially gay children were being sent down the pathway to change gender, two of the clinicians said there was a dark joke among staff that “there would be no gay people left”.
“It feels like conversion therapy for gay children,” one male clinician said. “I frequently had cases where people started identifying as trans after months of horrendous bullying for being gay,” he told The Times.
“Young lesbians considered at the bottom of the heap suddenly found they were really popular when they said they were trans.”
Another female clinician said: “We heard a lot of homophobia which we felt nobody was challenging. A lot of the girls would come in and say, ‘I’m not a lesbian. I fell in love with my best girl friend but then I went online and realised I’m not a lesbian, I’m a boy. Phew.’”
The specialists expressed concern at how little confusion over sexuality was explored when a young person requested treatment to change their body.
“I would ask who they wanted to have relationships with, but I was told by senior management that gender is completely separate to sex,” a third female clinician said. “I couldn’t get on board with that, because it isn’t. Some people were transitioning their gender to match their sexuality.”
The service said it was “a welcoming place for people from all sections of the LGBT community”, adding that it had made exploration of sexuality a “more explicit” part of the assessment in response to staff concerns.
Nevertheless, the clinician said that her unease grew after meeting an adult woman whose transition to become a man involved having a double mastectomy. She had since changed her mind.
“What can we do? We can’t reverse that. Do we suggest fake breasts?” she said. “We have such a duty of care to these confused young adolescents, but I think we are failing them.”
The clinic rejected the claims. “We always place a young person’s wellbeing at the centre of our work,” it said. “GIDS staff are engaged daily in thinking about the serious ethical dimensions of our practice. The diversity and complexity of individual cases will always be respected.”
Several clinicians suspected that some of the “transgender” adolescents were reacting to homophobia at home.
“For some families, it was easier to say, this is a medical problem, ‘here’s my child, please fix them!’ than dealing with a young, gay kid,” the third female clinician said. At the service’s “family days”, a parent was allegedly heard saying that they did not want their child to have gay friends because they “didn’t want them mixed up in that hedonistic lifestyle”. “It is converting people into heterosexuals,” one of the clinicians said. “We had so many families who would talk about not wanting their daughters to be lesbian.” Young people “repeatedly” confided their own “disgust” that they may be gay, according to the clinician.
In other cases, she felt young people had concluded they were trans because they didn’t fit traditional gender roles.
“Children’s bodies are being damaged in order to treat societal issues,” she warned. She recalled a case of a 13-year-old child “whose parents were really pressurising us for puberty blockers”. When the clinician refused to refer him, she claims one of the parents, a lawyer, wrote threatening legal letters to the service. The child was eventually referred for blockers.
She would have nightmares about her years at the Tavistock. “I would talk about it as an ‘atrocity’. I know that sounds quite strong, but it felt as if we were part of something that people would look back on in the future, and ask, what were we thinking? In the future I think there will be lots and lots of de-transitioners who feel their bodies were mutilated as young people and who will ask, why did you let me do this? It is very disturbing.”
Studies show that the vast majority of youngsters who begin puberty blockers go on to have irreversible hormone treatment at 16. Some go on to have gender reassignment surgery as adults.
All five clinicians expressed concern over how little young people and their families were being told about the impact of hormone treatment on fertility and sexual function as adults. One claimed young people were unable to give “informed consent” because it was regarded as taboo to discuss the impact of medical intervention on later sexual function in such a young cohort.
The clinic said there were no “taboo” subjects in its work, and that it did not “recognise this allegation as reflecting what happens in the service”. It rejected allegations of conversion therapy and insisted that youngsters were being properly advised on the risks of and about what is unknown about medical intervention. Time and care was taken at every stage to ensure that individuals grasped the potential consequences of their choices, it said, adding that the service had become “increasingly aware” of the need to discuss the impact of treatment on future sexual function.
The GIDS’s own internal review identified procedures around consent as an area of concern. It has recommended that written consent should be obtained before referral for blockers.
Another clinician described how youngsters entered his room enthusing about Alex Bertie, a transgender YouTuber, and My Life: I Am Leo, a documentary about a transgender teen broadcast in a teatime slot on CBBC.
“These are very simplified stories about how easy it would be to transition into being trans. . . that transition is a solution to feeling shit. That is very appealing to lots of teenagers,” the first male clinician said. I felt for the last two years what kept me in the job was the sense there was a huge number of children in danger and I was there to protect them from the service, from the inside.”
One female clinician estimates that she referred about 50 young people for puberty blockers. She now believes she referred too many. Their outcomes remain unclear. “When you start them on puberty blockers, you’re putting them on a pathway that could lead to sexual dysfunction problems and, for the younger kids, will definitely make them infertile. In what other specialism would physical intervention that leads to permanent change to the body be the first line of treatment for a vulnerable child? Activists will tell you it’s unethical not to intervene. But we know that not everyone with gender dysphoria will go on to identify as trans for the rest of their lives.”
One case has haunted her. “All the pushing was coming from the father to put the kid on puberty blockers. Thinking back on it now, I fear that the father was a paedophile and the child was being abused.” There is no suggestion the service knowingly ignored the case, and the outcome is unknown.
The clinic, which is run by the Tavistock and Portman Foundation Trust and whose director is Polly Carmichael, says it is tracking the progress of 44 young people who began puberty blockers in 2011, and that all available evidence is discussed with families. “This is a rapidly developing field and psychosocial and medical professionals are working hard to ensure that we respond to emerging evidence in an appropriate and considered way,” a spokesman said. The growing body of international evidence showed that “thus far, there is little reported evidence of harm,” he added.
“The service undertakes careful assessments over time and continues to see young people whether or not they attend the endocrine clinic following this assessment,” the spokesman said.
The clinic said it was aware of concerns and tensions between different perspectives raised by staff and “clinicians have a duty of care to raise safeguarding concerns”, adding that there were “safe spaces” and structures in place for staff to discuss anything that worried them. It would not comment on specific cases but stressed that a young person’s motivations and choices were discussed at each step.
What began in 1989 as a specialist clinic for gender issues is now under intense scrutiny. A report by David Bell, a former governor at the trust, revealed ethical concerns over “woefully inadequate care”. Staff were furious with the GIDS executive’s response to the report, which stated that its own review found no safeguarding concerns.
The whole service should have been halted when the number of “transgender” cases first exploded, one of the clinicians said. “That’s the point we should have stopped because we didn’t know what we were doing. Are we a service for kids with gender dysphoria, a medical disorder? Or are we a service for ‘transgender kids’?”
A GIDS spokesman said: “We are aware of tensions between different perspectives. These differences are inevitable in such complex work.”
One clinician said it was understandable if her former employer was defensive, saying: “If they are getting it wrong, you have to ask, are they making kids infertile by mistake? Because if they are to truly acknowledge [our concerns], then they will have to ask themselves, what the f*** have we done to thousands of children?”
Gires, GI and Mermaids all denied they viewed transition as a cure-all or that they exerted any undue pressure. Susie Green of Mermaids said the charity “does not encourage parents to demand any particular treatment.” Gendered Intelligence said the allegations against it were “unfounded”. Bernard Reed, founder of Gires, said: “In medical literature . . . failure to provide timely treatment is described as ‘psychological torture’. As far as we are aware, GIDS has adequate safeguards against irreversible treatments being given inappropriately.”
(Emphasis mine.)
#transing children#homophobia#lesbophobia#gender identity#sex not gender#gay children#resources#članak#gender roles#regressive progressives#child abuse#conversion therapy
61 notes
·
View notes
Text
REQUEST: their crush crying in front of them for the first time because of her depression they didn’t know about? please!
REQUESTED BY: anonymous
WARNINGS: references to depression/symptoms of depression.
NOTES: each one of these is long and as detailed as possible, because this is a subject i hold very close to my heart, so i’ve split them up and am going to make them all with their own individual post. as someone with major depression, i know how it feels to try your hardest to hide it, and how awful it feels when you finally begin to crack. please know that there is always someone for you to talk to on this blog, as my messages are open to anyone and everyone and my notifications are always on. it doesn’t matter if it is four in the morning or two in the afternoon, whether you want to talk or just have a distraction, i am here. always remember: you never walk alone.
five days. five days, ten hours and fourty three minutes.
days, for you, have begun to bleed together into nothingness, until time has become all but irrelevant and you stopped trying to keep up with it -- the only reason you knew just how long it had been since you decided to virtually drop off the face of the earth is because every text message you sent to the last person that tried talking to you was timestamped and dated.
granted, he tried a few more times to get something, anything, out of you, but you wouldn’t budge. you couldn’t. you couldn’t, because that would mean subjecting him to who you are, who you really are, when you can’t force a smile anymore and there is no light to be seen at the end of the tunnel.
even as you stared at the screen long enough for the letters of his name to burn into your irises you couldn’t bare to reply, couldn’t even lift a finger to type out a single letter. it was better this way, you thought. better for him to be away from you, for him to forget about you, because otherwise you didn’t think you could bare for him to see you like this and what would inevitably come next.
and, maybe that was really why -- not because you were trying to save him the trouble, but because you just didn’t want to watch him leave when the trouble proved to be too much.
so, you did the leaving. you did the leaving in the only way you knew how -- cutting yourself off from everyone around you and hoping they’d let you go, convincing yourself all the while that they’d be fine.
five days. five days, ten hours and fourty three minutes.
that’s how long it’s been since jungkook has heard your voice, since he’s gotten more than two words out of you over text messages, since he’s seen you. he wasn’t counting -- really, he wasn’t -- but it was so hard not to take notice of the time, when you weren’t there to fill it. still, he tried to give you space, because he thought maybe that was what you needed. maybe you just... needed to be alone for a little while. he understood that -- hell, he got like that himself all the time -- and he really tried to respect it. still, it got harder and harder to do that the longer and longer you took to be away from him. harder still to think maybe he was the reason for your behavior, that maybe he did something to elicit this response, and that you were avoiding him over something he had no idea he’d even done.
it was enough to have his leg bouncing every time he sat down and for him to fidget with every little thing that was sat in front of him, until all he was left with was his own fingers and the strings of his hoodie. by the time someone pointed it out, he was already down to chewing on his bottom lip and nervously picking at the skin around his fingernails until both bled.
if it wasn’t enough that his anxiety didn’t seem to give him a break, thoughts of you continued to distract him from doing the things that normally brought him peace, or at least some semblance of control over his own mind. things couldn’t continue like this -- it was a split second decision, but he’d always been too impulsive for his own good, and by the time he thought twice about it it was too late.
any speech he prepared, any practiced words or sappy monologue he’d gone over in his head, it all just slipped out of his mind when you were finally sat in front of him, though. surprisingly ( to both of you ), you’d let him as soon as he knocked on your door and said absolutely nothing about him showing up out of the blue.
and, with your weight settled heavily against his side you’d think he’d feel grounded, solid, but with every tremor and shake of your body against his he felt himself drifting out of his own and into nothingness. jungkook would tighten his grip on you, shuffle you a little closer, but none of it felt like it was enough — it was as if he was holding all your shattered pieces in shaky hands, trying desperately to piece you back together and hold you there, but unable to understand which part of you goes where. every sentimental and loving thought he’d ever had about you seemed to disappear in the wake of your despair, and suddenly he couldn’t find a single word to express his own sorrow in the face of yours.
he couldn’t help thinking that you had to have someone else that would be better at handling this situation, someone who could actually provide you comfort, but you’d chosen him — you’d chosen him, and he wanted so badly to be a reliable shoulder for you to lean on.
if it wasn’t enough that he didn’t know what to do, it didn’t help that you seemed to cling to him with all the strength you could muster, your fingers curling tightly into the material of his shirt like he was your final lifeline. you’d completely tucked yourself into him, head balanced loosely between his shoulder and his throat and your legs haphazardly tucked between your body and his. it occurred to him that you were trying to hide, though he didn’t know if it was from him or the misery hanging just over your head.
❝ i'm sorry. ❞
the first two words you’d mumbled to him in the last hour and a half, and they were raw, soggy and thick with the sound of hopelessness. the absence of the usual light sarcasm and silly lilt was still just as jarring as it had been over the phone, and it had his body tensing up against you and his brows furrowing together tight enough to leave a residual ache between them.
that ache only grew when you opened your mouth to speak again and all that came out was a hitched breath and a sound he could only describe as the aftermath of a heart breaking.
❝ don’t apologize, ❞ jungkook started, pausing only to swallow thickly as his eyes grew misty and his words lodged themselves in his throat. ❝ please don’t apologize. ❞
grief was not something he was especially familiar with, but he knew it when he felt it — such a feeling was one of a kind, something identifiable even without experience, even if it was all that remained and you were sure every other sense had left you numb.
he wondered, briefly, if what he was experiencing was even a fraction of what you were feeling right then.
tears collected along his lashes as such thoughts collected in his head, and it became near impossible to keep himself from wrapping his arms around you completely. if you wanted to hide, he’d let you — he’d be your shield from the rest of the world for as long as you needed, as long as you wanted, even if there was nothing else he could possibly provide for you.
❝ i’m sorry, ❞ he finally continued, voice shaky and wet with this newfound share of sorrow. ❝ i’m sorry i don’t know how to help you, and i’m sorry you’re hurting. i really wish i could take the pain away, but i can’t. i can’t — i can’t, and i hate that i don’t know what else to do. ❞
weakly, you dug your fingers deeper into his thin shirt and felt your nails lightly scrape along his skin, the sensation leaving an impression of ‘ please don’t leave ’ and ‘ i don’t want to be alone ’ as a shiver ran up his spine. his own fingers mirror yours and dig you further into his embrace, one step short of picking you up and sitting you right in his lap; he’d never had you closer, but you'd never felt farther away from his reach. that feeling is suffocating, pressing down on his lungs and making his eyes burn -- he can’t stand it.
❝ e-explain to me, help me understand. please. ❞
❝ i can’t -- it’s not -- ❞
with the next words he spoke, it was almost as if you could hear an echo of your own misery coated in something so indescribably jeon jungkook — something woven in warmth and endless love and so much empathy that he had no idea what to do with.
❝ i can’t... i can’t understand, not completely, but i know you’re in pain and i want to help. i don’t know what to do, but i’m here. i’m here and i’m not going anywhere, i promise. you can lean on me. ❞
and, at that you cry more, curling yourself up into him until you physically can’t anymore. you were never the type to cry in front of others, but the feeling of loneliness had consumed you so wholly that finally having someone by your side broke the dam you’d built up.
❝ it just hurts -- it hurts and i feel so empty all the time. it’s -- ❞ you take in a sharp breath. ❝ i didn’t want you to see this, because i don’t know how to deal with it and it’s ugly -- it’s so ugly. i can’t stand it and e-everybody -- everybody always leaves, because i’m too much. it’s too much and i try so hard to deal with it myself, but i just can’t -- i can’t do it anymore. i don’t know what to do. ❞
❝ i’m not going anywhere! ❞ he says it quickly, impulsively, but he means it. he means it more than he can say. ❝ i would’ve been here the whole time, but i thought maybe you needed space o-or that i did something or -- i don’t know. but, i want to help! i want to be here! ❞
❝ you didn’t do anything. you’ve been the one thing keeping me sane lately. but, i didn’t want to overwhelm you or make you see me differently. this always does. i’m either sad all the time or hyperactive and nobody wants to deal with that. ❞
❝ i’m not dealing with you. that makes you sound like a chore or something -- it’s not like that! ❞ jungkook exclaims it like nothing else could possibly be truer.
❝ i don’t know what else to do. i can’t handle this stuff myself, so how are you supposed to? ❞
he’d hug you in closer, squeezing you as if to reassure you of his presence, while he thinks of the right way to answer you.
❝ maybe... maybe we can find someone for you to talk to. i mean, you can talk to me, but i don’t really know what i’m talking about half the time... we can find someone professional. someone that will work with you, you know? someone that can really help you. ❞
somehow, his words quiet your tears, though you still feel the tightness in your chest. and, after a moment of consideration, you reply: ❝ i don’t know where i’d start to even just look. ❞
❝ i don’t either, but we can both look. i’ll help! that way you know i’m not going anywhere. and, when we do find someone, i’ll still be here. i’m not... really sure how this stuff works, but it probably takes a while, right? i mean, i don’t plan on going anywhere, anyway, but this way i can be there every step of the way. ❞
you pick your head up to look at him, then, like maybe he isn’t real -- and then he smiles at you. his eyes are still tearing up and his chest hurts from just imagining the pain, the emptiness of what you feel, but he smiles.
❝ it must be really hard for you, ❞ he continues, softer this time. ❝ you’re really strong for feeling stuff like this everyday and still trying. but, you don’t have to do it by yourself anymore, okay? you’re not alone. even if you think it’s ugly or it gets messy or it takes a long time, i’m going to be here. look, i’ll even pinky promise. ❞
you start to object with the sound of his name on your tongue, but he stops you, sticking his pinky out and nudging it in your direction. slowly, you unfurl your fingers from his shirt, your grip leaving a wrinkle in the otherwise pristine fabric, hesitating to curl your pinky around his.
❝ you don’t have to do this, ❞ you say, glancing up at his eyes when he squeezes his pinky around yours.
❝ i know i don’t have to. i want to. ❞
with another squeeze, you wipe the remaining tears on your cheeks away with your free hand and smile the slightest bit. it’s small, barely noticeable, but it’s enough for him.
❝ promise? ❞
❝ promise. ❞
#reactions.#requests.#bts reactions#bts reacts to#bts reader insert#bts scenarios#bts fluff#jeon jungkook
65 notes
·
View notes
Text
Inside the clinic rooms of the Tavistock, the private heartache of a new generation of “transgender” youngsters is being laid bare. There used to be about 50 referrals a year, mainly males with a history of gender issues.
Now there are thousands of young females reporting a sudden gender crisis for the first time. Many are convinced that transition — and the powerful drugs that make it happen — will be the solution to their problems.
Until now the specialists struggling to keep up with caseloads have stayed silent, but alarm over the number of adolescents being prescribed body-altering drugs, has prompted five former clinicians to speak out for the first time.
All five have resigned from the Gender Identity Development Service (GIDS) in the past three years as a matter of conscience.
“This experimental treatment is being done not only on children, but very vulnerable children, who have experienced mental health difficulties, abuse, family trauma, but sometimes those [other factors] just get whitewashed,” one female clinician said. “If someone was suggesting plastic surgery or any other permanent change we’d be saying, hang on a minute.”
The clinicians have warned that complex histories and adolescent confusion over possible homosexuality are being ignored in the rush to accept and celebrate every young person’s new transgender identity.
Clinical psychologists carry out each initial assessment at the Tavistock. They are the gatekeepers who decide whether to refer transgender youngsters to the endocrine clinic for the next stage of treatment. Therapists once had months to work through underlying issues before making decisions on medical intervention, but the clinicians claim that young people are now routinely referred for hormone therapy after as few as three hour-long sessions.
They believe that physically healthy children are being medicated in response to pressure from transgender lobby groups and parental anxieties.
So many potentially gay children were being sent down the pathway to change gender, two of the clinicians said there was a dark joke among staff that “there would be no gay people left”.
“It feels like conversion therapy for gay children,” one male clinician said. “I frequently had cases where people started identifying as trans after months of horrendous bullying for being gay,” he told The Times.
“Young lesbians considered at the bottom of the heap suddenly found they were really popular when they said they were trans.”
Another female clinician said: “We heard a lot of homophobia which we felt nobody was challenging. A lot of the girls would come in and say, ‘I’m not a lesbian. I fell in love with my best girl friend but then I went online and realised I’m not a lesbian, I’m a boy. Phew.’”
The specialists expressed concern at how little confusion over sexuality was explored when a young person requested treatment to change their body.
“I would ask who they wanted to have relationships with, but I was told by senior management that gender is completely separate to sex,” a third female clinician said. “I couldn’t get on board with that, because it isn’t. Some people were transitioning their gender to match their sexuality.”
The service said it was “a welcoming place for people from all sections of the LGBT community”, adding that it had made exploration of sexuality a “more explicit” part of the assessment in response to staff concerns.
Nevertheless, the clinician said that her unease grew after meeting an adult woman whose transition to become a man involved having a double mastectomy. She had since changed her mind.
“What can we do? We can’t reverse that. Do we suggest fake breasts?” she said. “We have such a duty of care to these confused young adolescents, but I think we are failing them.”
The clinic rejected the claims. “We always place a young person’s wellbeing at the centre of our work,” it said. “GIDS staff are engaged daily in thinking about the serious ethical dimensions of our practice. The diversity and complexity of individual cases will always be respected.”
Several clinicians suspected that some of the “transgender” adolescents were reacting to homophobia at home.
“For some families, it was easier to say, this is a medical problem, ‘here’s my child, please fix them!’ than dealing with a young, gay kid,” the third female clinician said. At the service’s “family days”, a parent was allegedly heard saying that they did not want their child to have gay friends because they “didn’t want them mixed up in that hedonistic lifestyle”. “It is converting people into heterosexuals,” one of the clinicians said. “We had so many families who would talk about not wanting their daughters to be lesbian.” Young people “repeatedly” confided their own “disgust” that they may be gay, according to the clinician.
In other cases, she felt young people had concluded they were trans because they didn’t fit traditional gender roles.
“Children’s bodies are being damaged in order to treat societal issues,” she warned. She recalled a case of a 13-year-old child “whose parents were really pressurising us for puberty blockers”. When the clinician refused to refer him, she claims one of the parents, a lawyer, wrote threatening legal letters to the service. The child was eventually referred for blockers.
She would have nightmares about her years at the Tavistock. “I would talk about it as an ‘atrocity’. I know that sounds quite strong, but it felt as if we were part of something that people would look back on in the future, and ask, what were we thinking? In the future I think there will be lots and lots of de-transitioners who feel their bodies were mutilated as young people and who will ask, why did you let me do this? It is very disturbing.”
Studies show that the vast majority of youngsters who begin puberty blockers go on to have irreversible hormone treatment at 16. Some go on to have gender reassignment surgery as adults.
All five clinicians expressed concern over how little young people and their families were being told about the impact of hormone treatment on fertility and sexual function as adults. One claimed young people were unable to give “informed consent” because it was regarded as taboo to discuss the impact of medical intervention on later sexual function in such a young cohort.
The clinic said there were no “taboo” subjects in its work, and that it did not “recognise this allegation as reflecting what happens in the service”. It rejected allegations of conversion therapy and insisted that youngsters were being properly advised on the risks of and about what is unknown about medical intervention. Time and care was taken at every stage to ensure that individuals grasped the potential consequences of their choices, it said, adding that the service had become “increasingly aware” of the need to discuss the impact of treatment on future sexual function.
The GIDS’s own internal review identified procedures around consent as an area of concern. It has recommended that written consent should be obtained before referral for blockers.
Another clinician described how youngsters entered his room enthusing about Alex Bertie, a transgender YouTuber, and My Life: I Am Leo, a documentary about a transgender teen broadcast in a teatime slot on CBBC.
“These are very simplified stories about how easy it would be to transition into being trans. . . that transition is a solution to feeling shit. That is very appealing to lots of teenagers,” the first male clinician said. I felt for the last two years what kept me in the job was the sense there was a huge number of children in danger and I was there to protect them from the service, from the inside.”
One female clinician estimates that she referred about 50 young people for puberty blockers. She now believes she referred too many. Their outcomes remain unclear. “When you start them on puberty blockers, you’re putting them on a pathway that could lead to sexual dysfunction problems and, for the younger kids, will definitely make them infertile. In what other specialism would physical intervention that leads to permanent change to the body be the first line of treatment for a vulnerable child? Activists will tell you it’s unethical not to intervene. But we know that not everyone with gender dysphoria will go on to identify as trans for the rest of their lives.”
One case has haunted her. “All the pushing was coming from the father to put the kid on puberty blockers. Thinking back on it now, I fear that the father was a paedophile and the child was being abused.” There is no suggestion the service knowingly ignored the case, and the outcome is unknown.
The clinic, which is run by the Tavistock and Portman Foundation Trust and whose director is Polly Carmichael, says it is tracking the progress of 44 young people who began puberty blockers in 2011, and that all available evidence is discussed with families. “This is a rapidly developing field and psychosocial and medical professionals are working hard to ensure that we respond to emerging evidence in an appropriate and considered way,” a spokesman said. The growing body of international evidence showed that “thus far, there is little reported evidence of harm,” he added.
“The service undertakes careful assessments over time and continues to see young people whether or not they attend the endocrine clinic following this assessment,” the spokesman said.
The clinic said it was aware of concerns and tensions between different perspectives raised by staff and “clinicians have a duty of care to raise safeguarding concerns”, adding that there were “safe spaces” and structures in place for staff to discuss anything that worried them. It would not comment on specific cases but stressed that a young person’s motivations and choices were discussed at each step.
What began in 1989 as a specialist clinic for gender issues is now under intense scrutiny. A report by David Bell, a former governor at the trust, revealed ethical concerns over “woefully inadequate care”. Staff were furious with the GIDS executive’s response to the report, which stated that its own review found no safeguarding concerns.
The whole service should have been halted when the number of “transgender” cases first exploded, one of the clinicians said. “That’s the point we should have stopped because we didn’t know what we were doing. Are we a service for kids with gender dysphoria, a medical disorder? Or are we a service for ‘transgender kids’?”
A GIDS spokesman said: “We are aware of tensions between different perspectives. These differences are inevitable in such complex work.”
One clinician said it was understandable if her former employer was defensive, saying:
“If they are getting it wrong, you have to ask, are they making kids infertile by mistake? Because if they are to truly acknowledge [our concerns], then they will have to ask themselves, what the f*** have we done to thousands of children?”
Gires, GI and Mermaids all denied they viewed transition as a cure-all or that they exerted any undue pressure. Susie Green of Mermaids said the charity “does not encourage parents to demand any particular treatment.” Gendered Intelligence said the allegations against it were “unfounded”. Bernard Reed, founder of Gires, said: “In medical literature . . . failure to provide timely treatment is described as ‘psychological torture’. As far as we are aware, GIDS has adequate safeguards against irreversible treatments being given inappropriately.”
#transgender#transgender children#homophobia#conversion therapy#gender critical#Child abuse#Forced sterilization
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
ENNEAGRAM .
LINK. GO HERE AFTER COMPLETING. Feel free to shorten your results!
Type 4, THE INDIVIDUALIST
The Sensitive, Introspective Type: Expressive, Dramatic, Self-Absorbed, and Temperamental
Type Four in Brief
Fours are self-aware, sensitive, and reserved. They are emotionally honest, creative, and personal, but can also be moody and self-conscious. Withholding themselves from others due to feeling vulnerable and defective, they can also feel disdainful and exempt from ordinary ways of living. They typically have problems with melancholy, self-indulgence, and self-pity. At their Best: inspired and highly creative, they are able to renew themselves and transform their experiences.
Basic Fear: That they have no identity or personal significance
Basic Desire: To find themselves and their significance (to create an
identity)
Enneagram Four with a Five-Wing: "The Bohemian"
Key Motivations: Want to express themselves and their individuality, to create and surround themselves with beauty, to maintain certain moods and feelings, to withdraw to protect their self-image, to take care of emotional needs before attending to anything else, to attract a "rescuer."
When moving in their Direction of Disintegration (stress), aloof Fours suddenly become over-involved and clinging at Two. However, when moving in their Direction of Integration (growth), envious, emotionally turbulent Fours become more objective and principled, like healthy Ones.
Type Four Overview
We have named this type The Individualist because Fours maintain their identity by seeing themselves as fundamentally different from others. Fours feel that they are unlike other human beings, and consequently, that no one can understand them or love them adequately. They often see themselves as uniquely talented, possessing special, one-of-a-kind gifts, but also as uniquely disadvantaged or flawed. More than any other type, Fours are acutely aware of and focused on their personal differences and deficiencies.
Healthy Fours are honest with themselves: they own all of their feelings and can look at their motives, contradictions, and emotional conflicts without denying or whitewashing them. They may not necessarily like what they discover, but they do not try to rationalize their states, nor do they try to hide them from themselves or others. They are not afraid to see themselves “warts and all.” Healthy Fours are willing to reveal highly personal and potentially shameful things about themselves because they are determined to understand the truth of their experience—so that they can discover who they are and come to terms with their emotional history. This ability also enables Fours to endure suffering with a quiet strength. Their familiarity with their own darker nature makes it easier for them to process painful experiences that might overwhelm other types.
Nevertheless, Fours often report that they feel they are missing something in themselves, although they may have difficulty identifying exactly what that “something” is. Is it will power? Social ease? Self-confidence? Emotional tranquility?—all of which they see in others, seemingly in abundance. Given time and sufficient perspective, Fours generally recognize that they are unsure about aspects of their self-image—their personality or ego-structure itself. They feel that they lack a clear and stable identity, particularly a social persona that they feel comfortable with.
While it is true that Fours often feel different from others, they do not really want to be alone. They may feel socially awkward or self-conscious, but they deeply wish to connect with people who understand them and their feelings. The “romantics” of the Enneagram, they long for someone to come into their lives and appreciate the secret self that they have privately nurtured and hidden from the world. If, over time, such validation remains out of reach, Fours begin to build their identity around how unlike everyone else they are. The outsider therefore comforts herself by becoming an insistent individualist: everything must be done on her own, in her own way, on her own terms. Fours’ mantra becomes “I am myself. Nobody understands me. I am different and special,” while they secretly wish they could enjoy the easiness and confidence that others seem to enjoy.
Fours typically have problems with a negative self-image and chronically low self-esteem. They attempt to compensate for this by cultivating a Fantasy Self—an idealized self-image which is built up primarily in their imaginations. A Four we know shared with us that he spent most of his spare time listening to classical music while fantasizing about being a great concert pianist—à la Vladimir Horowitz. Unfortunately, his commitment to practicing fell far short of his fantasized self-image, and he was often embarrassed when people asked him to play for them. His actual abilities, while not poor, became sources of shame.
In the course of their lives, Fours may try several different identities on for size, basing them on styles, preferences, or qualities they find attractive in others. But underneath the surface, they still feel uncertain about who they really are. The problem is that they base their identity largely on their feelings. When Fours look inward they see a kaleidoscopic, ever-shifting pattern of emotional reactions. Indeed, Fours accurately perceive a truth about human nature—that it is dynamic and ever changing. But because they want to create a stable, reliable identity from their emotions, they attempt to cultivate only certain feelings while rejecting others. Some feelings are seen as “me,” while others are “not me.” By attempting to hold on to specific moods and express others, Fours believe that they are being true to themselves.
One of the biggest challenges Fours face is learning to let go of feelings from the past; they tend to nurse wounds and hold onto negative feelings about those who have hurt them. Indeed, Fours can become so attached to longing and disappointment that they are unable to recognize the many treasures in their lives.
Leigh is a working mother who has struggled with these difficult feelings for many years.
“I collapse when I am out in the world. I have had a trail of relationship disasters. I have hated my sister’s goodness—and hated goodness in general. I went years without joy in my life, just pretending to smile because real smiles would not come to me. I have had a constant longing for whatever I cannot have. My longings can never become fulfilled because I now realize that I am attached to ‘the longing’ and not to any specific end result.”
There is a Sufi story that relates to this about an old dog that had been badly abused and was near starvation. One day, the dog found a bone, carried it to a safe spot, and started gnawing away. The dog was so hungry that it chewed on the bone for a long time and got every last bit of nourishment that it could out of it. After some time, a kind old man noticed the dog and its pathetic scrap and began quietly setting food out for it. But the poor hound was so attached to its bone that it refused to let go of it and soon starved to death.
Fours are in the same predicament. As long as they believe that there is something fundamentally wrong with them, they cannot allow themselves to experience or enjoy their many good qualities. To acknowledge their good qualities would be to lose their sense of identity (as a suffering victim) and to be without a relatively consistent personal identity (their Basic Fear). Fours grow by learning to see that much of their story is not true—or at least it is not true any more. The old feelings begin to fall away once they stop telling themselves their old tale: it is irrelevant to who they are right now.
6 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
peachyeviee
anime girly gal
wannabeskin4ndb0nes
Paulina
mloor
Sin título
deception-and-disgrace
On Hiatus.
kelieahsotherblog
oh, you're using made up names