READ THE DEATH NOTE PILOT CHAPTER HERE // * all information is based on the death note manga timeline, not the anime.

STATS:

NAME: kagami taro

KANJI: 鏡太郎

AGE: 13-20+, defaults at 20 for his main verse

DOB: 04/04/1990**

SIGN: aries**

HAIR: black

EYES: black

HEIGHT: 5'2-5'9 (157cm-175cm)**

WEIGHT: 98-123lb (44kg-56kg)**

GENDER: cis-male

PRONOUNS: he/him/his

SEXUALITY: demisexual, demiromantic, ace leaning **

FAMILY: single mother, father unknown

** not canon confirmed / headcanon based / not a primary focus **

TARO’S WIKI PAGE / THE PILOT CHAPTER’S WIKI PAGE

“The original Death Note pilot manga chapter stated that "names have been changed to protect the innocent," meaning that the real names of many of the characters are not stated. The chapter starred Taro Kagami, a 13-year old boy and student at OO Middle School.” — SOURCE: DEATH NOTE WIKI FROM THE TARO KAGAMI STORY

—> for my own sanity, while this is so clever, i will be referring to the names given to us. renaming them all would be horribly confusing.

APPEARANCE:

taro is a young boy with cheek-length, smooth, black hair, and he wears a school uniform consisting of a white-collar shirt and pants. later, when taro is an adult, he closely resembles teru mikami.

VERSES:

PRE-PILOT: before the death note pilot, taro is an average eighth-grader at 00 middle school. he is bullied daily.

THE PILOT: takes place during the events of the death note pilot. he has just found the death note dropped by ryuk, and is unaware that ryuk has dropped a second notebook into the human world. he canonically dies and is revived, changing his personality drastically. while the second death note is confiscated and burned by the police, freeing miura of its grip, both still have their memories of the death note.

TIME-SKIP // * MAIN VERSE: my primary verse takes place post-pilot chapter. the death note is a cultural phenomenon with its existence still in dispute by the public.**

** as it is not stated what taro does post-pilot, i assume at the age of 20 he is a sophomore at to-oh university where he is studying criminal law in hopes of becoming a prosecuting attorney. he currently has the original death note he found in his possession, and presumably the death eraser, as it is never outright stated it was burned or confiscated. he has not (yet) made the eye deal, and is still being followed by ryuk. **

from a post i made regarding his “main” verse:

“his time-skip verse is going to be his primary verse where i have him enrolled as a sophomore at to-oh seeing as the timelines basically coincide pretty well. in 2003, he would be roughly 4 years younger than light canonically … the pilot came out in shonen jump in august of 2003, while death note followed in late 2003 (dec 1). taro is 13 when his story takes place, while light is 17 at the start of death note.

in following the manga timeline, and not the anime, we’re to assume that the pilot takes place in 2003 when taro is 13 with there being a 7 year time-skip to when he is 20. this would be around 2010, and light has technically died in january of 2010.

while i’d like to make the pilot coincide with the main series in some verses, others will have to stand alone as their own canon since the pilot and main series are so different, while being very similar. this means there will be a split set of verses, all accommodating to death note in some variation. i do not consider musicals or any live action adaptions, though.

in his “main” verse, he still has the original death note he found, is going to to-oh to become a prosecuting attorney, and is being followed by ryuk as he has not forfeit ownership nor has he died.”

** this main verse can accommodate either going off as a standalone from death note canon, or it can follow the main series by having ryuk drop another notebook, being the one that yagami encounters. **

ALTERNATE UNIVERSES:

DEATH NOTE: completely unaffiliated with the pilot! following the main events of the manga and anime ‘death note’. taro is an underclassman to yagami light, attending to-oh as a freshman when yagami is a senior. he is not affiliated with ryuk, nor does he have contact with the death note. since he has not experienced any of the events of the pilot, taro went through life consistently bullied and became inspired to try and pursue law. he still lives with his single mother, helping her however he can. he is mild-mannered, helpful, and shy.

FAMILY MATTERS: the younger brother and/or twin to mikami teru.

X-KIRA: taro is the proxy to kira, not mikami. follows the death note canon.

ORIGINAL KIRA: taro intends to use the death note to “change the world” as semi-indicated in the pilot

WAMMY HOUSE: he is “K.” more tba!!

EYES OF GOD: he is gifted ( he has made the deal ) . more tba!!

MODERN: he is a law student, having lived basically the same life he did in the pilot sans the influence or appearance of the death note. he is an overall quiet man, a bit on the shy side, and has a strong sense of wanting to pursue justice for those held down by bullies and/or society. he stays with his mother, unwilling to leave her for very long. he can come off a bit serious, but is inquisitive. more tba!!

CONNECTIONS:

miura — the supporting protagonist, he acquires the second death note dropped by ryuk.

ryuk — his shinigami, a demon

agents yamanaka and takagi — they occasionally check in on taro, but he is not fond of their help

yagami raito — written by me!! the best and brightest of death note

MORE INFO DUMPING:

i was reading the pilot and it doesn’t confirm if the eraser is also burned with the “other” death note that miura found, but taro does keep the death note he found. if taro keeps the eraser, he has a lot more leniency with the death note and its consequences. if the eraser was destroyed with miura’s death note, then taro has more restrictions similar to light when it comes to using the death note. i lean towards taro keeping the eraser, which is what i tend to default to in verses where he is still the death note user stemming from his original canon.

inspectors yamanaka and takagi, taro, and miura all agree to keep the death notes a secret so only the four of them know, but seven years later there is a cultural phenomenon of the death note and its supposed existence ..... so either someone said something or someone saw something (im leaning towards miura, definitely not taro).

ryuk never appeared for miura*, just for taro, and stuck with taro through the pilot. even when the death note miura was using was in the possession of taro, miura, and the inspectors, ryuk told taro he was watching from afar. he only comes to taro’s side after taro leaves miura after the death note is burned, never revealing his presence or existence to miura or the inspector, just to taro.

** it is strange that he never saw ryuk, but we can also assume when his death note was burned, that is like forfeiting ownership, which could be the reason he cannot / does not see ryuk at the brief end where he and taro part ways after the climax (this is where ryuk speaks to taro about him having died and come back; where we see the shift in taro’s personality completely). that also being said, it is interesting that the idea of memories being wiped was not implemented, meaning miura will always know and remember what happened in relation to the death note. he will always be bonded to taro in that regard. **

ryuk also comments when he tells taro the rules of the death note that he thought taro was a coward at first, but that he likes taro now, so will “help him with whatever he does.” this is also drastically different from light’s version of ryuk, who is only helpful if required / forced / coerced to be. 

also there is no apple symbolism or usage. ryuk doesn’t ever mention eating or liking apples. 

ryuk is a lot more of a willing participant, seeming to have more of an outward agenda in helping taro than he does with light, who he reveals things to either by choice or necessity depending on the situation. he openly compliments taro and affirms his intelligence to both taro and the audience, and seems more invested for taro to succeed versus his more lax attitude with light (who is a lot more proactive).

taro does briefly mention using the death note for a peaceful world, but also mentions he isn’t thinking on such a grand scale — i would say he probably would think more on this the longer he has the death note, as well as growing up. it’s a different world, as the death note has become a cultural phenomenon somehow.

tl;dr: taro never gives his death note up to the police, instead keeping it. ryuk is shown at the end to still be with taro post-time-skip. taro’s main verse takes place when he is 20, following the rules of the pilot, not the canonical death note series.

IT SHOULD ALSO BE NOTED: taro’s death note does not have any written “rules” in it for him to know or follow, and the cover is in english. when he tries to return it to ryuk, ryuk says that he already has a new death note, seeming to not have the same problems from the canon death note series of getting a new book. ryuk also tells taro later, when taro is being confronted by the police, how some of the death note works, specifically the portion about heart attacks if no cause of death is written. the death note seems to still function in the same way that light’s would, for example, but it is not as clearcut. it is after the police leave taro’s home that taro is given the full explanation of the rules to the death note. he basically went in more blind than light, but with less restrictions. 

ryuk doesn’t seem to have to follow taro, as i mentioned he does not appear to miura that we know of, and he has his own death note separate from taro’s. in fact, ryuk was in possession (at one time or another) in the pilot of three death notes: taro’s, miura’s, and his own. 

one detail that confirms what canon death note does not is this: when you run out of room to write in the notebook, you may ask the original owner shinigami for another. so, how many death notes do you need? it is said that the death note has 60 pages, 38 lines per page, and you can write as small as you’d like so long as it’s basically legible. so, if you write small, you can really get a lot of use out of the death note as we see it in the pilot.

what are the other rules of taro’s death note?

the notebook can only be used by the one who found it. if the owner throw it away or drops it, the right of ownership will be transferred to the next person who finds it.

if you do not know the face of the person whose name you write down, there will be no effect. therefore, people with the same name will not be affected all at once.

if you write the cause of death after the name like this —> (name) died (cause), then that will happen.

you can write with any pen, color doesn't matter. if you stick a seal with a name on it, there will be no effect. please write directly in the notebook. it would be a good idea to change handwritings as much as possible.

these letters (the cover) cannot be rased, and if the cover is destroyed, the notebook cannot be used. be careful not to let other people see it. also, you will not die if you write your own name in here, but it is not recommended. **

** that’s a huge change from what we normally see. c-kira actually does perform suicide via this method. **

if you wait awhile after finding this notebook, the original owner, a shinigami, will appear. as long as you keep this notebook, the shinigami will follow you around. that shinigami's appearance and voice will not be noticed by other people. as a condition for letting you keep the notebook, a situation may arise where the shinigami will take it back. those who do not wish to be followed by the shinigami may simply give the notebook back or throw it away. **

** i know i’ve stated that it seems like the shinigami don’t have to follow their book borrowers, and ryuk does follow taro around, though seems to have preference. since ryuk dropped two books, allowing both taro and miura to use them, he should be seen by miura, or at least visited, but likely had not had the book long enough to be actually confronted by ryuk ... like a trial or grace period, the same as he did with taro (and light). it seems that, in this context, he is more bound to taro. i believe he does prefer him. especially after seeing death and returning ... interestingly enough, however, taro’s mental wellbeing seem to be very compromised post-death and return, whereas this does not seem to be the case with others that were killed by the death note, then returned to their life (so long as their body was intact). taro’s reaction could be more severe due to him being a user, and owner, of a death note. miura, a death note user, wrote down taro’s name. this is almost like a roundabout way of writing your own name down. they did not have the detectives write taro’s name down, thus securing ownership.

everyone else that was killed and brought back seems to have no recollection of this, though the people around them do acknowledge them dying, and then their return to life. as miura was not put in the same position as taro, it is unclear if he would have had the same experience. ryuk calls where taro went “the world of the dead”, and it is unclear if that is separate from the shinigami realm or not ... it could also be the place where the students were haunting taro from via his dreams. he is ultimately changed, and highly connected to the spirit world in some regard, as well as being a “death dealer.” 

in regards to the eraser, the only rule seems to be that the bodies have to be unburned. it is unclear if they would return in a decomposed state if left long enough, or what would happen were they to be autopsied. as it undoes what the death note does, it could also just reinstate them as normal. we never see a long enough time lapse for this, but all the deaths done in the pilot are rectified by taro and miura. 

it is unclear if, in the future, the detectives actually keep up with taro. their fate is ambiguous to me.

taro is basically a huge outlier. 

there is also mention of a prior case by the detectives that happened in the very late 70′s of similar means of death: heart attacks. this infers (likely ryuk’s doing) that the death note has been in the human world before, recently enough to be noticed. it has definitely probably come and go through early history. 

also just interesting to note that there is no visible difference between taro and miura’s notebooks. this could be because all death notes look and function the same, or because they were owned by ryuk.

I’ll Be Home (Coming Home After Being Away)

The seventh prompt in 12 Days of Christmas by @zelink-prompts​ | Prequel

Prompt List

Words: 4596

Summary: So, this is actually a sequel to tomorrow’s prompt but can be read separately?? I guess?? The rundown is that Link left years ago to search for his fairy and never returned. Zelda tried not to lose hope. He made her a promise, after all.

Ocarina of Time, child timeline?? Idk how the timelines work y’all please

Zelink-mas 2020  l  Masterlist 

“Your gown is ready, your highness.”

“Thank you,” Zelda answered, nodding in the direction of her lady-in-waiting. “I’ll be there shortly.”

When the door shut behind her, the princess turned her gaze back to the long dried flower. She set it carefully onto the page with the others and slowly closed the book, ensuring no petals or leaves crumbled in the process. The book was placed back on the shelf, right next to the Ocarina of Time and a dust-covered medal imprinted with the crest of Hyrule. She had no time to gaze at the reminders of her childhood this afternoon, because there was beckoning from all directions that insisted on getting her ready in time.

Zelda stepped through the doors of the washroom, where she was pleasantly surprised to see the water was still warm. A wash of her hair and a soap of lavender scent would treat her well and be pleasant to anyone in close proximity. She could not deny her maidens the credit--they always went above and beyond to make sure she was presentable in every fashion. A grand event called for twice the effort, so the princess sat without complaint in her robe as they brushed gentle powders over her face. 

“Are you excited, Princess?” asked a maiden as she painted a color onto Zelda’s closed eyelids. “I hear there are princes from outside of Hyrule coming to get a glimpse of you.”

“Oh, is that so? I hope one takes a liking to you, Elizabeth,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap. “You would fare well with royalty.”

“You’re too kind,” Elizabeth said, and Zelda could hear the blush on her cheeks. “No man would notice me.”

“Hold yourself high,” Zelda encouraged as she pried her eyes open. “Everyone is deserving of love and happiness.”

“Do you hope to find love tonight?” asked the maiden behind her, who was busy twisting her hair into an elegant knot. 

“I believe that whatever is fated will happen in time. If that time is tonight, then so be it.” It was a far better answer than telling them she had found love long ago and had no intentions of finding it again. 

Zelda could hardly blame the maidens for their excited chatter and shared whispers. She pretended not to notice them, because their one form of entertainment was to gossip. Anyone who gossiped with ill intention was not worth troubling herself with, and while they were far from it, she didn’t pay any mind to them. It was not her business what anyone said about her, or about the anticipated guests, or about themselves. She had other matters to concern herself with.

An hour had passed by, and she was finally permitted to stand from the chair and move to the next room. A silken slip hugged her form and protected her skin from the rough edges of the corset. There weren’t many layers, but she was still grateful for the design of the dress. 

It was a soft pink, a color to match the rose on her cheeks and paint on her lips. The skirt consisted of multiple layers that ruffled out into a pattern at the bottom. There were lace and glittering jewels sewed onto the bodice that caught the light. The neck cut low, but not low enough to be anything but modest. The top of her sleeves were rather poufy and the rest poured off in pink streams, but they were transparent and light. It fit her well.

The crown on her head, golden and sparkling with precious rubies made her look like a blossoming queen. She would turn heads tonight, more so than usual, and it was all thanks to her dressmaker and maidens. But she was already exhausted, and the ball hadn’t even begun. 

Yet she was being escorted through the halls of the castle and steered towards the ballroom, which was already filling up with people. She could see that the maidens were right--there were people from everywhere, even outside of Hyrule. She wondered just how many suitors her father had contacted.

She supposed she would find out shortly, because her father had gathered the attention of the crowd and was now introducing her. With no more room to run, Zelda stepped out from the archway and down the stairs. The king took her hands and pulled her in for a kiss, and she had to fight back a smile.

“I’m not married yet, father,” she said, reaching up a hand to brush away a tear from his cheek.

“No,” he agreed and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You really do look like your mother.”

“So I’ve heard,” she replied with a laugh. “It’s not too late to call them off. I could refuse to marry, stay with you.”

It was the king’s turn to laugh as he leaned his forehead to hers.

“Go,” he urged. 

She pulled her hands free and pressed a kiss to his cheek before gathering her skirts and descending into the crowd. Various diplomats were on her immediately, greeting her and complimenting her and talking her into a frenzy about their own nations and accomplishments, no doubt trying to impress her. All she could do was smile and nod and pretend she was interested until another person came along to sweep her away.

“My father owns quite the bit of land,” a lord whose name she’d forgotten boasted as he twirled her across the floor. “It could be an advantage for both kingdoms.”

“Yes,” Zelda agreed, but she didn’t voice her knowledge of where this was going. The kingdoms were far enough apart that they’d try to force her to move and give up the rule of Hyrule--which was not an option as far as she was concerned. So when the next person cut in for a dance, she was more than willing to switch partners.

“I hear Hyrule has been at the edge of not one, but two civil wars within the past century. I have no room to suggest anything, but I can offer some tactics that would help convince the provinces to obey,” said a prince from a nation she’d never heard of. 

“Hyrule has managed quite well on our own,” Zelda replied, fighting to keep the bite out of her voice. “But thank you. Should we need assistance again, we will be sure to reach out.”

“My father believes in discipline. That’s the only way to make a child listen,” continued the prince, as if he hadn’t heard a word she said.

“I’ve found that competent parents can make do without the use of force,” she stated simply and used a passing server with a tray of wine to make her escape. She was not technically of age to be drinking, but no one knew that as far as she was aware, and if the night was going to continue like this, then a glass or two wouldn’t hurt.

She was happy to find the wine dry but sweet, and she recognized the danger of something so tasty. While a duke rambled away to her, she reluctantly reduced her number of glasses to one for the night. The last thing she needed was for these men to think she was under any sort of influence.

When she was granted a moment to herself again, Zelda ducked further into the crowd until she found someone familiar to her. Nabooru, the not-so-new Gerudo chief, was in attendance, dressed in glittering Gerudo jewels.

“Princess,” greeted Nabooru with her arms open for a hug. “You look as lovely as a rose.”

“It’s lovely to see you again. How is Gerudo Valley fairing?” Zelda asked, taking caution not to spill her drink during the hug.

“Very well, thanks to you. The funds your father lent us were enough to not only build a proper town, but to conduct repairs to the Desert Colossus. With Impa’s consistent transport of food and resources, we’ve managed to turn ourselves around.”

“It does no good to dwell on the past. We can only own up to our mistakes and move forwards from here. Had it not been for our mistreatment of the Gerudo in the first place, Ganondorf would never have felt the need to avenge the pride lost in the civil war.”

“Lighten up, kid,” Nabooru said with a grin. “Things are looking up. Have you found a suitor to your liking yet?”

“Hardly,” Zelda replied, leaning closer as she lowered her voice. “The men I’ve spoken to so far are so full of arrogance and a lust for power.”

“That’s men for you,” Nabooru answered as she took a seat at a table. Zelda smiled and slid into the seat across from her, setting her glass down on the white tablecloth. “Don’t let any of them fool you. Ganondorf had a winning smile and the charm of a king, but look what he truly turned out to be.”

“For all of your skill and beauty, I cannot believe you settled for him.”

“Hey, Gerudo men are in very limited supply. When you’re a naïve girl, a powerful man giving you attention is enough to cloud your mind. I’m happy you’re able to see through that.”

“I would offer to marry you if you were younger,” Zelda joked as she picked up her wine to take another sip. “If any of your warriors are available and interested, I’d be more than happy to comply.”

Nabooru laughed.

“It’s going that badly, huh?” 

“I’ve danced with at least eight men so far tonight, and I think three of them were named ‘Edward’,” Zelda whispered with a laugh of her own. 

“I don’t think you’re one to talk, Princess. Which ‘Zelda’ are you again? The thirtieth? The forty-seventh?”

Zelda rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t reply because it would seem her time was up. There was a prince who spoke from besides her with an “I’m sorry to interrupt” (oh, he’d better be) and a request to dance.

“Find your prince charming,” Nabooru said, waving Zelda away with her hand. The princess gave her friend a playful glare as she took the prince’s hand and was pulled back towards the center of the ballroom.

“Might I ask who requested my hand in dance?” she asked with a polite smile. Now that she was closer, this prince seemed younger than her. Not by much, but by enough for her to be a little taller than him.

“My name is Prince Henry of the Liles Empire, just off the north coast of Hyrule,” he replied. “It’s a pleasure to see your beauty up close.”

“Likewise,” she said, though she hardly meant it. He was not bad on the eyes, but those who approached her with comments on her appearance struck her as vain and, well, in it for just that. She could be reading them wrong of course, but she’d learned how to navigate her instincts and properly react after Ganondorf’s plan had been thwarted. 

“If I’m being honest, I do not know how to hold a proper conversation with a lady such as yourself,” stated Henry as he led them in a circle. 

“I could not tell,” she replied with a patient and gentle smile. 

“My mother convinced me to ask you to dance. She believes an alliance would benefit our kingdoms.”

“A smart lady. Many of the others here tonight have said the same thing.”

“I don’t want to marry, though. You’re beautiful and kind, but I..” 

Zelda gave the poor boy’s hand a squeeze. She knew his position quite well, if she was reading him correctly. All people had their secrets and anxieties. She would likely never see him again, so she felt she could be his peace, even if only for a moment.

“It’s an unpleasant position to be in,” she supplied, twirling him in the direction of a smaller crowd.

“It is. I couldn’t force myself to love anyone else.”

“Oh? Do you have someone in mind?” 

A blush crossed the young boy’s face, but he looked eager to tell someone. He was the first of the night not interested in her or her land, so she was more than happy to indulge him.

“A kitchen girl back in my kingdom. She came to deliver breakfast one day when my servant fell ill and spilled tea on me.”

“Ah, a fairytale meeting,” Zelda replied with a small laugh.

“She’s beautiful. But my parents would never hear of it.”

“Stay true to your heart. I was always told that those fated to be together will find each other in time. To those who won’t agree, I say if you aren’t happy, how could you ever be expected to make a kingdom happy?

“They told me you were wise, but you speak as if you know the pain yourself.”

Zelda offered a sad smile. Perhaps one glass had been too many, because she was about to bare her soul to this young prince she’d met only minutes ago.

“I love a boy from my childhood,” she told him, cracking open old scars. “A little boy from the forest who helped me catch a tyrant. He disappeared years ago and no one has seen him since.”

“I’m sorry, Princess.”

“If I may offer advice, Prince Henry, tell your kitchen girl properly that you love her. But take care of your heart. It’s the only one you have.”

She tried to spend as much time around Prince Henry as possible. She found him pleasant company and he could be quite silly, but after an hour, the young prince could no longer keep the other suitors at bay. She was whisked away again, and she was growing very tired. 

Her feet were sore in her heels, and her corset felt tighter with every tick closer to midnight. Yet she wasn’t dismissed yet, and she was determined to make it through this. No one could say she hadn’t tried.

Zelda searched the crowd for Nabooru again, longing for another conversation with a competent person, but she’d hardly taken two steps before another voice interrupted her.

“Princess Zelda, might I request a dance?”

She held back a sigh and plastered yet another polite smile on her lips as she turned, but she was not a good enough actor to keep it from slipping away. Her eyes widened and she took a step back, because she was convinced for a moment that she was dreaming.

His eyes were a striking blue, a color she’d accustomed herself with long ago. His smile was charming instead of crooked, but his dimples were just the same. He was taller now and he lacked the forest color he once ran around in, but something about him told her he hadn’t changed that much at all.

“Link..?” she whispered out, then clamped her hands over her mouth like she was afraid of someone hearing her. A breeze slipped past them when a couple whizzed by, but that wasn’t why she was trembling.

“I realize I’m six years late, and I apologize,” he replied, his cheeks reddening with shame. “But I made a promise to you, and I couldn’t bear to break it.”

“You..” For all of her wise words throughout the night, she found it very hard to speak. She took a hesitant step forward, then lifted her hand. Her fingertips brushed over his cheek and once she knew he was solid, she pressed her palm against his skin. He was warm beneath her touch. Warm enough to feel alive. “Is it really you..?”

“Yes,” he answered, his voice soft and filled with more emotion than she’d ever heard it before. He placed his hand over her own, making her skin burn under his touch, but she couldn’t pull away.

For a moment, all she could do was look at him. She looked at his eyes, took in his face and his features, and tried to blink the stinging away. 

Perhaps the whole ballroom was watching, but Zelda dropped her hand and instead wrapped her arms wordlessly around his shoulders. She buried her face in his neck and squeezed her eyes shut as the first of the sobs escaped her. His arms circled around her waist and held her close, but it did nothing to stop the trembling. He was not the child she hugged all those years ago, but he still felt so familiar.

“Can.. can we go-“ She couldn’t finish her question.

She was aware of the scene she was making, and she didn’t want to embarrass her father any further, so she bit back another sob and kept her head down as Link led her out of the ballroom and onto a nearby balcony. The fresh air was icy on her skin and wet cheeks, but he took her face so gently into his hands that she felt like she would melt.

“I missed you,” he spoke. It was no louder than a whisper, but it reached volumes that deafened her to everything else. All she could do was hug him tight and cry harder.

“Goddesses, Link, I— where did you go?” she asked when she caught her breath again.

“Termina,” he replied. “I didn’t mean to be gone for so long, but they needed help.”

She’d never heard of it before, but she didn’t care because he was here. 

“I thought.. I didn’t know if you were even alive.” But her love for adventure hadn’t changed and she sat him on a bench as she demanded, “Tell me everything.”

And so he did. He told her of the troublesome Skullkid and the malevolent mask. He told her of the overhanging moon that threatened to fall, and of the trials he had to overcome. He told her of the masks he collected and of the god he had to fight. And Zelda’s heart ached for her hero who could not catch a break. Trauma followed him everywhere he went, and he hadn’t even found Navi. 

“Link.. I’m so sorry,” she said, gripping his hands tighter. “You’ve gone through so much..”

“It’s over,” he assured her. “Or at least, I hope.”

“I couldn’t imagine. I’m so happy you’re safe. Oh, you’ve grown so much..”

“And you look every bit the princess you were always meant to be.”

Zelda laughed, bubbly and weak, and buried her face in her hands.

“Goddesses, I missed you,” she murmured and wiped at her eyes. How he could still call her beautiful when she looked a mess, she didn’t know. 

“I made a pinky promise. Besides, I recall you telling me you’d be very mad at me if I didn’t come back and I don’t think I could live with that.” 

She lifted her head and sniffled.

“Well, you certainly took your time,” she joked and brushed some hair from his eyes.

“I hope this can make up for it.” Link pulled a box from his pocket and carefully pried it open. A sparkling blue jewel in the shape of a teardrop hung from a silver chain. It was almost glowing against the black velvet cushion.

“It’s lovely,” she breathed, running her fingers gently over the stone.

“It’s a Moon’s Tear,” he explained as he lifted it from the box. 

“From the falling moon?” she asked. Link gestured for her to turn around, so she shifted on the bench and set her back to him. 

“Clever girl,” he replied. She could practically hear the smile on his face.

The jewel was cold against her skin, but Link’s fingertips brushing the back of her neck as he clamped the necklace is what made her shiver. 

“You’re quite ridiculous, I hope you know that,” she said as she turned to face him again.

“It’s no ring,” he answered and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “But I hope it’ll do.”

Zelda blinked in confusion, fiddling with the Moon’s Tear as she watched him gather his thoughts.

“A ring?” she asked quietly.

“I.. promised to marry you when I got back. You’re perfectly allowed to decline, of course. I wouldn’t— I mean-.. is this weird?”

Her cheeks burned as she burst into a fit of giggles, pressing a hand over her mouth to muffle them. Link looked at her, flushed with embarrassment, and soon he was laughing too. The innocent promise of two children had lasted over years of distance, even if it was more of humor than anything else now that they were older. She leaned into him, holding her stomach as her muscles grew tighter. Goddesses, she missed his laugh so much. Six long years were not enough to change him at all. 

When their laughter quieted, Zelda lifted her head and took his face into her hands. He smiled at her, sending her head spinning.

“I wasn’t sure you’d ever return,” she whispered as she ran her thumbs along his cheekbones, relishing in his warmth and presence. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps she was being too forward—she just got him back and would rather not lose him again. So she reluctantly pulled her hands back to herself and fiddled with the necklace again.

“There were times I didn’t think I would,” he admitted. With the stories he recounted, she believed him. And she was beginning to understand the Princess’s decision to send him back in time in the first place. But it didn’t seem like he was fated to have an easy existence. 

“I’m sorry your search was in vain.” And even that wasn’t enough, but what could she offer him? What words could she say to him that could quell the sadness running deep in his veins, betrayed by his eyes despite how happy he looked to be back. For all the wisdom she held in her blood, she knew no answer. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Link softly, turning his gaze on her. The more she looked at him, the harder it was to maintain the poise she’d so very recently returned her hold on. So she looked away with a small smile and tilted her head to gaze up at the stars. 

“What would you say?” she asked, tracing the constellations painting the sky with her eyes. A thousand stories came with those stars, stories about their past and their future, stories about fate and things beyond their understanding. She always felt that the stars knew and could see everything, and hiding was a naïve comfort they were never really granted. Even when they were children, throwing themselves under a blanket and giggling, the stars could see everything--even the secrets they didn’t truly have. They had known all along what would become of her and of the Hero of Time. She didn’t know if she pitied the stars or envied them.

“I would say anything that leads me back to you is more than worth it.”

Zelda turned her eyes to him, where she found nothing but sincerity and a tired smile. She could remember a childish curiosity whenever he looked at her, but she couldn’t quite name the gaze his eyes held now. Heat blossomed over her cheeks again and with a laugh, she ducked her head.

“Welcome home, Hero,” she said as she shook her head. “I hope you’re able to find the life of peace you deserve.”

“To be honest, Princess, I think a life of peace would drive me to the brink of sanity. I didn’t return with the hopes of finding it. I don’t… I don’t think I’d even want it.”

There was no hiding the mix of confusion and surprise and concern that took over her features upon hearing his words. A life of peace did not interest him? She wondered for a moment whether he was already past the threshold of sanity, or if he’d simply left his mind in Termina.

“Then,” she began, treading lightly over what could possibly be dangerous waters, “what is it that you want?”

“I want a life by your side.” His cheeks were as pink as hers under the moonlight, but it could very well have been just an effect of the bitter cold. “I know we’re not kids anymore and.. and a lot has changed. But if I could be even just in your service, I would be satisfied.”

“You owe nothing more to Hyrule,” Zelda spoke quickly, taking back all sense of personal space as she held his cheek again. “You’ve done more for us than we could ever begin to thank you for. You reap scars and trauma we can’t even begin to imagine. We are happy to have you back, of course, but you needn’t swear your life to any more trouble, Link.”

“Serving you would be of no trouble at all, Princess.” His hands wrapped gently around hers, pulling it from his skin, and he brought her knuckles to his lips instead. His warm breath fanned over her skin and for the first time of the evening, she did not regret the gloveless design of her outfit.

She could hear her own words, hypocritical and laughable, pouring from her lips when she told little Prince Henry to follow his heart and to hell with those who disagreed. It was much harder to take her own advice--like it was a bitter medicine that brought her heart into her throat and made her tremble. But all she could see was the little forest boy giving her one last wave, so much alike with the man who sat before her now. Her heart lurched.

“I love you,” she said, hardly louder than the gentle breeze that circled them. “And I know that I’m not your Zelda--the Zelda you first defended Hyrule for-”

“You are every bit the same Zelda. The only difference is this time, we don’t have to say goodbye. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t,” she begged, gripping his hands tighter.

“Then let me stay with you.” 

He freed a hand and cradled her face. She leaned into his touch, into the warmth that batted away the cold, into the feeling that he really was here. And then he was leaning forwards, his breath fanning over her lips, and she closed the space between them with an eagerness that Impa would refer to as “unladylike”. His lips were soft and their kiss was slow and gentle, fanning a spark so that it blazed into a flame. In the years she had spent imagining how this reunion might go, she never quite got the magic of it right. It felt strong and peaceful, like something old and practiced but new and exciting all at once. And when they parted, Zelda was quick to recall that silly little promise.

“You meant to ask for knighthood,” she stated, a giddy feeling flooding her at the idea. “But how would you feel about prince consort?”

It was Link’s turn to laugh, and she laughed too as she closed a hand around the Moon’s Tear necklace glowing against her skin. Of course, they had a while to catch up on before any official announcement could be made. They were not granted the opportunity to grow into their relationship, and now was a better time than any to get started. 

Her Hero had returned, and Zelda quite liked the idea of never having to face any of the men who tried to win her hand ever again. Apparently, it was made evident enough by their return to the ballroom floor. 

Link had asked for a dance, after all. Who was she to deny him after so long?

Retracing The Past

This is a drabble based on my headcanon for Harmony’s FF7 verse. I talked about it on my muse’s profile and headcanons pages. The focus is more on world building and Harmony taking the time to remember the ones who were lost when the people fought with Seto against the Gi Tribe. This also takes place shortly after the events of the main game and based on interactions Harmony had with other roleplayers over the years.

It’s also inspired by the song “How the West Was Lost” - Link

I hope everyone enjoys this piece. 

Streams of light pierce the darkness and pools on the cold earth and rocks. The offer the lone visitor light to a realm long forgotten from decades ago when triumph and tragedy came to a head. Her lone, silver eye lowers to find dark sprays and splotches, the blood spilled on the fateful day when her own people took their last stand. The remnants weathered through the seasons, but it is still here, hidden from the world above these caverns.

Yes, Harmony remembers that story. It seems to be only yesterday when her father was alive and told her that tale of where she came from. She is a daughter of a tribe of people who believed Cosmo Canyon was promised to them from the sun goddess. Oklahashi, the People of the Sun. Those were her ancestors who once roamed Gaia, just as the Cetra have. Her father, heavens bless his soul, told her about these ancient people, just as his father told him.

A black leather clad hand rests on the cave’s wall. The very hand that is not her own, but a construct made of metal and wires, courtesy of Shinra’s Science Department after her supposed death. Dread washes over her when she faces the fact that she has served as a soldier, only to be cast aside as fodder when a mission ended with a devastating explosion.  She fell for the lie that the company is the gateway to a bright future. All will be well, they say.

So many were lost here...

Harmony thought and her hand moves away from the rock wall and dip in her messenger bag. She pulls out several flowers from inside and continues on. Vibrant, lush petals contrast the dreary surroundings. Footsteps are her only company in this silent world that serves as a mass grave of that fateful battle that led to the demise of her people and Cosmo Canyon owned by the settlers and Shinra itself.  These steps abruptly stop by each bone fragment, each piece of flint and black spots, gently setting one flower beside the object. An offering to represent a missing soul. A quiet apology to all who suffered and died for what they saw as the right thing.

It explains everything now. Why she is among small number of Oklahashi left, why there is so much bitterness and misery.

Her heart aches for the lost that have died for the deception the tyrant that is Shinra conjured. The very company that claims they want to defend the settlers who claimed the wild land, who lied to the surviving members of the tribe they will be in good hands, and the guardians of this Planet who perished for peace.

Her trek ends before an unusual sculpture. A lion-like figure stands alone with an array of weapons protruding from its body. The ghastly sight of Seto’s resting place is the reason why Harmony came all this way. He was a key player in the fight. He stood with the settlers against the Gi and Oklahashi warriors. Carefully, Harmony approaches Seto, her gaze unmoving. Lips part to finally speak as though he was still alive. 

“I imagine I may be the last thing you want to see...I have not come here with ill intentions or disrespect.”  Harmony’s voice is soft, as though afraid to disturb the others who rest here.  “When I was young, I did not understand why you sided with the settlers. I’m...I’m not sure if I fully understand it now. It hurts to see what has happened to you and my people.” She stands just a short distance away from Seto. Her one eye taking in all the details of how his last moments were. He has stayed with the Gi and many of the Oklahashi, sealed away from the world. Her other eye, replaced with another construct hides beneath the eyepatch. She dares not show it unless she must. 

She has given most of her flowers to every sign of death she saw, but saved something for Seto. “So much has happened since you were among the living. Gaia has almost dealt with the same fate all of you. We were so close to losing everything.” Eye downcast, the bitter memories of fear, the loss of her dear friends, and the catastrophe that ended one era and birthed another. The Planet is healing, slowly but surely, but the new period of uncertainty did little to help those who grieve in light of Geostigma and the deaths of thousands at the hands of their own hopes, dreams, and future. 

“You son...I met him. I don’t think he was quite fond of me, and...I don’t blame him. I don’t. I have hope that things will change. I only want to be his ally and friend.” Her hand slides back into her bag once more. “I know what I say and do cannot change what has happened. Just as our actions, though our home was spared, cannot reverse everything.” She pulls out a second bouquet with an addition nestled among the flowers: A single olive branch. 

“But I am here to say I’m sorry for the anger, tears, and spite that brought us here. I may not understand your intentions, but I forgive you and I know...I know you never wanted hatred to drive the issue of whether to share the land. I hope you can forgive me and my ancestors...Just as i hope they have moved on, leaving their anger behind forever.”  She takes a few more steps closer to Seto. “I wish only peace for every spirit who still dwell here. This is the least I can do for you...If only...” A sad sigh escapes the woman and she lowers herself, setting the bouquet before the rocks that serve as Seto’s base. Returning to her feet, Harmony gives a silent bow before slowly turning away and begin her return to the outside world. 

“If only fate smiled upon all of us.”

God’s a Right Bastard, But Then So Am I

I am very productive lately. It’s a nice change of pace.

As always, AO3 link here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633029/chapters/65660857

Or continue reading below:

Chapter 7

Pepper shouldered her backpack as she, Wensleydale, and Brian got out of Wensleydale's parents' car. The Them were immediately heading for Hogback Wood. They had all briefly wondered earlier where Adam was but had come to the joint conclusion that he must have fallen ill. And while they felt bad for him the kids were still keen to get to their games. School had been a long slog and they all deserved a break.

Besides, Wensleydale had gotten extra copies of the homework and planned to drop it off with the Youngs right before dinner.

“Anyway,” Brian said as though the conversation had never been interrupted, “I figure the Ninja Turtles could prob'bly take the Transformers.”

“So you keep saying,” Pepper complained, “But Optimus Prime could just ..step on them and then they're done for, right?”

“Actually,” Wensley interjected, hurrying to catch up with them “Optimus is a good guy, so he wouldn't fight the Ninja Turtles, I think.”

“Nah, you're missing the first rule of cross overs,” Brian insisted. Brian's comic book collection was growing lately and he was starting to form Opinions on the whole subject. “First rule is if they meet they gotta fight. That's why there was that Batman versus Superman movie that no one liked. First they fight, then they become friends.”

“We're not talking about it like it's going to happen!” Pepper was exasperated. “Obviously that's what would happen if they met in a comic book. I mean if they really were going to fight each other-”

“Now what are you youngsters getting up to?” The Them stopped short. Adults stopping them on their way to the woods or on the way to make mischief was nothing new. But this wasn't R.P. Tyler stopping them while on a walk with his dog or any of the mums who would sometimes fuss at them.

There was an inkling of recognition there, but none of the three could place the gentleman. He smiled at them. Brian and Pepper stopped and studied him, but Wensleydale took a step back. “Sorry sir,” he said, “But who are you?”

“Gabriel,” The smile grew wider. It was making all three of them uncomfortable. Right now Gabriel was basking – the kids weren't able to remember him due to a subtle manipulation on his part. And coming across all three at once like this? Perfect. “You know, I'm actually new here. And I just opened up an ice cream shop,” he twisted a bit and pointed in the direction of the town square. “Officially we open tomorrow but I was just thinking ...you know, it would really be a great idea to get some of the locals' perspective first. Make sure the flavors are uh...”

“Good?” Brian supplied.

“Yes, that would be best, right? Having good ice cream,” Gabriel said appreciatively.

“I mean, it's ice cream,” Wensleydale was still hanging behind the other two. He wasn't afraid, exactly, but something about Gabriel was setting him on edge. “Is it possible for it to be bad?”

“I've heard about there being places in America with like ...garlic ice cream,” Pepper made a face. “You don't have that, right?”

“No, no, not at all. I have all sorts of flavors. If you kids want to come on down? It's just a short walk, you could follow me.”

Smart children should never listen to strange men they meet in the woods (or in this case, right outside of the forest). And normally, the Them were in fact smart children. A little brash and impulsive, yes, but not dumb.

But none of them saw Hastur lurking just beyond, hidden behind a tree. As a demon, temptations were naturally a specialty. And Gabriel's own angelic powers were working in concert to remove the doubt and fear.

“I don't think we -” Pepper started to decline, but Hastur's manipulations were taking hold. “Actually, I can't see any reason not to follow this strange man we just met to go get ice cream.”

“I agree,” Brian said almost woodenly. “We should follow him immediately and without letting an adult know where we're going.”

Wensleydale said nothing. Part of his mind remained unconvinced, but his feet were also moving so that all of the kids were now following Gabriel. If anyone in town saw the group it didn't occur to any of them that something strange was going on.

They came to a shop at the village square with a large sign proclaiming it “ParadIce Cream”. An old style neon sign in the shape of an ice cream cone lit up as the group approached. The door swung open and Gabriel herded them in, taking one last glance around to make certain no one else was watching.

Beelzebub was behind the counter, slicing into the apple pie Gabriel had brought by earlier. Beelzebub plopped a slice on a plate and then scooped out a large portion of ice cream. They repeated this until there were three plates of apple pie, each with a scoop of solid white ice cream on top.

“Can't forget the drizzles,” Gabriel set one slice of pie before each kid, then removed three vials from the inner lining of his suit jacket. He poured the entire contents onto one of the slices then moved on to the next vial and the next slice of pie until all three were now covered in a drizzle. “Eat up, kids,” He handed them each a spork.

The moment they touched their utensils to the ice cream each scoop took on a change. Pepper's became a deep, violent red. Wensleydale's already white ice cream somehow became even brighter. Brian's took on a sludgy looking gray color. If they noticed they didn't say anything. They just ate in silence.

“You're sure they're good for this?” Beelzebub asked, watching them for a moment.

“They're perfect. What's more, they're the Anti-Christ's friends. If he wants them back-”

“Then he'll have to help us,” Beelzebub concluded. “But how will this get the kids to have the powers and get them to work with us? Seems like a lot to hinge on some brats.”

“It's beyond a demon's comprehension.”

It wasn't. Most anyone could follow it. The true difference between humans, angels and demons is that the first humans ate of the Fruit of Knowledge – that apple that Adam and Eve bit into at Crowley's urging. Angels – and demons too, for that matter – had basically had to figure it out for themselves based on what God modeled for them.

But the apple had granted humans the ability to know right from wrong. But as rules get more complex and society has changed the knowledge originally passed down genetically may no longer be right. Everything got all muddled and it's no longer clear. Not without some perspective.

So, a recipe to restart Armageddon:

Take three kids – and the age is important here, because their brains haven't fully formed yet – and give them one of the apples of Eden. Right now, every good thing and every bad thing is playing in their heads like an old time newsreel, coming in so quickly that they can barely comprehend what they're seeing.

In addition to the apple, take the essence of temptation and doubt and pour all over the Eden apple pie (the ice cream just helps it go down more smoothly and to help the store's cover of being an ice cream shop. Can't have an ice cream shop without ice cream or the few humans paying attention might notice something was off).

They were almost done eating now, their movements mechanical. Even hypnotized, Brian managed to spill some on his shirt. He came to momentarily, dabbed at it and then stole a bite of Pepper's ice cream to make up for it.

“Hey!” she snapped out as well, just for a moment. She elbowed him in the rib cage before both of them resumed eating.

Once they'd all polished off the last of it, all three of them passed out, their heads on the table.

“What do we do with them until we're ready to start?” Thinking ahead on things had never been Hell's strong suit, so Beelzebub figured Gabriel must have a plan.

“How the hell should I know? That's your problem now.” And with that, Gabriel disappeared.

“Bastard,” Beelzebub muttered.

After heavenly intervention to make Mr. and Mrs. Young see that their son staying with an older man they hardly knew was, in fact, a terrific idea, Adam was now gearing down and trying to figure out where he was going to sleep. He'd wanted to go back to Crowley's place, but the demon had said no.

“It's safer for him here,” Crowley insisted. Aziraphale had gone along with it, but made it very clear he expected more information from the demon as soon as possible.

“What aren't you telling me?”

“Nothing!”

“Oh?”

“...That I can tell you right now,” Crowley's resolve broke almost instantly. “Just let me try to handle my part. It's a lot and I don't quite have all the pieces fit together yet.”

“We could help!” Adam suggested. “I bet the three of us together could figure it all out. Wensleydale's got all these detective books and I'm great at figuring out what happened and who did it.” He wasn't. Adam just didn't know he was rubbish at it because he never bothered to read the pages at the back of the book that explained the solutions. Even if he had, he would have preferred his own explanations.

“Might be worth it to give it a go,” Aziraphale agreed. “If you keep things from me, however will I help you?”

There was nothing for it. Crowley made them both promise to sit tight and then had run out, saying he'd be back shortly. When he came back Aziraphale and Adam were sitting in the backroom which now had a plush couch (which Adam occupied) and two lounge chairs (one of which Aziraphale was sitting in – the other was presumably for Crowley). Aziraphale offered him a cup of tea, not realizing his hands were full.

“Oh! The gramophone I gave you!” Aziraphale sounded delighted. “So glad you like it-”

“That's not why I brought it,” Crowley said darkly, setting it up on the coffee table that Aziraphale must have miracled up while he'd been gone. “Oi, start talking,”

“About what?”

“Not you, Angel! She knows who I'm talking to!”

 Aziraphale is still an angel. There may be a recording of this conversation now.

Aziraphale dropped his tea cup. It shattered on the floor, the tea running every which way and staining the carpet. He was too in shock to clean it up. “...God?” He croaked.

 Yes. Hello, Aziraphale. It's been a while.

“Yes, I'd say it has,” he pulled at his shirt collar nervously before turning his attention back to Crowley. “How long have you been talking to Her?”

“It's not like this was my idea!”

“Crowley!”

“I didn't invite Her to my place, had no clue She could do this. She just comes in without a … just wants me to do whatever She asks and I've got to do it, don't I? Can't say no to Her, can I? Damned for all time and yet somehow, someway, She could probably make it worse.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not blaming you for this. I just want to know how long.”

“Ask Her!”

 The day of Crowley's birthday. So not long. A few days. ...Happy birthday to both of you, by the way.

“It wasn't even actually my birthday,” Crowley had gone into full fit mode. “And some present you are, anyway. Just show up and start demanding things of me and not even telling us....go on, tell them what you told me.”'

“Is that really God?” Adam sat forward and poked at the gramophone. “I just thought the voice would be deeper...”

“Too many movies,” Aziraphale said dismissively. “But...Lord, if you would be so kind as to explain yourself?”

A sustained sigh came through the gramophone. I needed someone who could act as a free agent. As you know, when I speak to angels things are recorded in the Records Room. If I speak to Humans, they're recorded in the Prayer Room.

“But there's no one listening in to you talking to demons,” Aziraphale was quick on the uptake. “Which means if you spoke to Crowley then no one would be recording.” he turned his gaze in his friend's direction. “Why would you bring Her here? This conversation is going to be recorded now!”

“I know that, but would you have believed me otherwise? Would anyone have? 'Oh, Aziraphale, by the way, God's talking to me and She's using the gramophone you gave me.'. I still remember how that bit went down for Joan of Arc, don't forget!”

“I was there, too, I remember,” Aziraphale frowned. “I see your point. But I like to think I would have believed you. No point in wondering now.”

“No, there isn't. And She is going to tell you the absolute worst part of this whole thing, the part She was hiding from me. Aren't you?”

 Yes, Crowley. As we agreed. Aziraphale. ...Guardian of the East Gate. I can no longer see all of Heaven, nor can I peer into all of Hell.

“I'm sorry, what was that?” Judging by how big his eyes were, Crowley figured Aziraphale had heard her just fine. “Crowley, I must have misunderstood Her. It sounds like you're both saying that God ...can't see what the angels or demons are up to anymore.”

“That is exactly what She's saying.”

 It's true. I don't know how they managed, but they did. As I told Crowley – I can get a feel for about where they're at and snippets of what they may be doing. But it's no longer clear to me. I can't tell you how to stop them because I can no longer figure out what exactly there is to stop. Just that they're planning something.

“Ah. Well... That is...” Aziraphale stammered for a while. “Disappointing, to say the least.”

“Disappointing? Disappointing?! This is the Alpha and Omega admitting she doesn't know shit!”

“Language in front of the child!”

“I've heard worse,” Adam offered. “A lot worse. Like-”

Aziraphale cut him off before he could finish. “We managed last time. We can do it again, right?”

Crowley sighed. “I dunno. But I'm guessing we have to try, right? No just running off to the stars?”

“That will be Plan B. But for now...why don't you,” he looked at the gramophone, “Both of you, tell me everything that you do know for now. Then we'll start working on Plan A.”

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 28

AO3 link here

Peggy tells him she’s pregnant on Christmas morning, after they’ve exchanged gifts. He finds himself overcome with giddy laughter all through their breakfast, and has a baby announcement card mocked up before supper. The following February, she miscarries. It happens again that summer, and then midway through the next year: that process of hope, ever more careful now, then despair, swallowed and borne and hidden by each for the other.

Steve knows it’s him. In Peggy’s other future, with her other husband, she had two children. He’d met them. Peggy tells him fiercely that she won’t allow him to feel guilty about it, that he certainly didn’t go into fertility specifics with her elderly self so he might not know everything that he thinks he does. He feels guilty anyway.

“There are other ways to have kids,” Bucky points out around a bite of hot dog as they take in a ballgame. (Steve’s been trying to get to as many Dodgers games as he can. They’ll be moving the team next year.)

Steve takes a bite of his own, pretending to mull over what Bucky has said while already having rejected it in his mind. But it comes back that night as he finishes washing up and starts down the hallway to join Peggy in bed. He passes by the little room that they always keep closed now. They’d been nearly five months along last time. Halfway had seemed a safe enough time to buy the few things now gathering dust: a rocking chair, a blanket, a little stuffed bear.

How would it feel to have a baby lie beneath that blanket, to sit in the rocker and soothe them to sleep? Even if it were a baby that didn’t share blood with him or with Peggy, Steve thinks suddenly that it can’t feel as bad as keeping that room shut forever.

He sits staring at his book, propped up against his pillow. Finally he turns to Peggy, waits until she can tear herself away from her novel to notice.

“What would you say,” he asks carefully, “about adoption?”

She bookmarks her page thoughtfully, staring at him for long, slow moments. Finally she says, “I’ve actually been wondering about it myself.”

They don’t adopt a baby at all. It becomes obvious pretty early on that the babies are the easiest to place, that this is what most of the other couples are looking for. Instead they are introduced to Rosie, four years old, stubborn and furious in a way that puts both her parents to shame. One look at her clenched fists behind the yard fence at the Sheltering Arms Children’s Home, at the way her hair has been crammed into bristling pigtails for their meeting and how her face is as red as her name, and they know they have to take her home.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy.

They learn quickly to put anything they don’t want broken higher than the reach of a four year old on a chair. Peggy takes her time getting ready in the mornings, knowing that any perceived weakness or retreat will be latched onto, but she breathes a sigh of relief every time she gets to drive away from the house. Steve figures that outings are a no-go just yet after she bites a boy who tries to take her swing at the park hard enough to bring blood. He becomes expert at fitting in bits of housework around the times Rosie exhausts herself and collapses into a nap.

“Giving up now will only make things worse for her later,” Peggy says one night in the dark of their bedroom, and Steve can tell just from her tone that she’s setting her jaw the way he’s familiar with from European battlefields. “It will only teach her that other people are not to be relied upon or trusted, that those who promise to love you will give up.”

She’s right. She’s right, and Steve has to keep reminding himself as he closes all the windows so the neighbors won’t also have to listen to Rosie shrieking unceasingly that she hates him, hates him, hates him.

Sometime in 2014, or perhaps 2015, he read an article about how important early childhood education is for development. The question of sending Rosie to kindergarten is not so much a discussion as an accepted impossibility. Steve makes first grade his goal instead. When she pounds her feet on the ground or smacks the walls, he puts pillows beside or beneath her and reminds her not to hurt herself, bandages her fingers if she does. While she shouts, blistering up with rage and curses that he didn’t even know someone could learn that young, he sits quietly beside her with his sketchpad, taking deep breaths in and out until she starts to copy him without realizing. If she throws a tantrum during dinner, she has her food in her room and they ask if there is something to do to make it better for tomorrow. He knocks on her bedroom door and waits before he ever walks in. When he gets the urge to yell, he turns away.

One afternoon she steals his wedding ring while he is washing the lunch dishes and flushes it away before he can get it back from her. He sits on the rim of the bathtub with his face in his hands and for the first time he thinks with a bit of relief about waking up alone in that SHIELD-constructed room, about the realization of the snap: I have been through worse than this, unrelenting and encompassing and hopeless worse.

And then he feels her close to him. No hand on his arm or nuzzle against his shoulder, but soft peanut butter breath and a tiny voice saying, “I’m sorry I did that. I want to get it back,” and even if it is too late for some things, it is just the beginning for others.

When Rosie enters her first grade classroom, it is with reminders to count to ten and then to twenty, with a warning that hurting someone else was not acceptable (they’ll get into the nuances of this later), and with a note from her father that says that she should be excused if she feels that she needs to be. When the teacher and then the principal ignore this last, they learn just why it’s a mistake to try that with Grant Carter. (When the principal retires the next year and her replacement is equally dismissive of such indulgent special instructions for a second grader, it becomes quickly and terrifyingly apparent that it’s even more of a mistake to try that with Peggy Carter.)

In third grade, Rosie wins the spelling bee, has a playdate with one of her vast array of friends nearly every week, and leaves the class only twice between September and December. Her teacher describes her as bossy and stubborn and self-righteous and smart as a whip. Bucky reads over her report card while twirling spaghetti around his fork, and reminds Steve with stifled laughter that Mrs. Leary did always say that retribution would be visited upon him for his behavior in her class.

Just before Christmas, as they decorate the tree together, Rose mentions to Peggy, though certainly loudly enough for Steve to hear from the kitchen, that she is the only one of her friends who does not have a brother or sister and that it would probably be a good idea to fix that.

“Hmm,” Peggy says casually, focusing on ensuring that the ornament she’s just hung isn’t too heavy for its branch. “Your father and I will have to think about that,” as if Steve hadn’t suggested something similar only two nights before.

It will never be entirely clear precisely how old Emma is. Apparently the children’s home had estimated nearly two, but she was left with only a short note with her name and an apology, so no one really knows. It’s speculated that she likely lost her hearing shortly before being left there, probably due to illness, and that her family felt that they couldn’t take care of her after that.

Peggy and Steve made it clear from their first meetings years ago that the sorts of things that might deter other couples - older age, race or ethnic background, “difficult” personality, medical issues, the circumstances of birth - don’t matter to them. And still, even the afternoon Emma is placed in their arms, the adoption caseworker lets them know that they can still change their minds.

“Why on earth,” Peggy asks, rising, Emma's eyes following her with cautious curiosity, “would we want to change our minds?”

She’s a sweet little girl, healthy now and smiling, and Steve is incredibly worried about her. He shows up at the New Jersey School for the Deaf before the adoption is even completely finalized, asking about sign language lessons. (When Howard recounts the story, Steve is always storming in and pounding on the superintendent’s door, but there was actually mostly a lot of showing off Emma in her soft, pretty dress to the school secretary, followed by polite but slightly confused conversation over tea. Generally, hearing parents who arrived looking to speak with the superintendent sought promises about perfect speech and reassurances of future employment, and had no interest in learning to sign themselves even if they were going to allow their children to do so.)

He and Peggy actually buy a second car so he and Emma can drive regularly to the Trenton home of Caroline Linzer, a Deaf former teacher from the school who had left to raise her own children. Mrs. Linzer is warm and funny and reassuring, patient with Steve as she leads him through the alphabet, numbers, basic vocabulary, and then slowly on to conversation with Emma watching all the time. He’s still scared that there might have been too much of a delay between when Emma lost her hearing and when she started learning to sign. He doesn’t know enough about brain development and childhood language acquisition, and neither does probably anyone in this time. He has another of those moments - a surprise each time - of missing the internet with all of its knowledge and answers. He wishes, in a way that he never expected to, that he could open up an email and contact the lead experts in anything, and have them eagerly respond for Captain America.

It seems to be alright, though who knows what might have been otherwise. Their dinner table is soon full of signed chatter, Emma putting together fragments of sentences with her chubby fingers, Peggy’s quickening hands admonishing Rosie for flicking food at her sister even as Rose protests in both sign and sing-song that “she likes it, Mumma!”

“The first legislation about public schools accommodations won’t be passed until the mid-seventies, I think,” Steve tells Peggy as they wash up from dinner while the girls play in the next room. By their guess, Emma isn’t even three yet, but it’s probably already too late to lay groundwork for a change before she’s ready for kindergarten. And would they even want to? The School for the Deaf is bigger and farther away, not the familiar neighborhood grade school where Rosie has been growing up, but would it be better among peers there than to be the only child in class with an interpreter, if they could even find one willing to do the job?

Steve drives Emma over to the nursery at the School for the Deaf himself, every morning. He lays to rest the image of his girls walking to school beside each other, but the reality of Emma running to greet her friends in the schoolyard, grinning and heedless with hands alive before her, is better anyway.

They have a family meeting about adopting more kids. Well, technically they have one meeting where they agree that maybe adding a brother to the family actually sounds like a good idea, and then they have a second discussion when the caseworker presents them with two files from Boystown; the state will split up siblings if it means making a sure match for one, but will certainly seize on the possibility of placing both in a home together, and how could Steve and Peggy consider taking one of these children without the other?

“Would you make us split up?” Rosie demands fiercely, clutching her sister too tightly, while Emma chants in fluid, furious sign, “Brothers should stay together! Brothers should stay together!” They don’t seem to notice that neither of their parents are actually opposing them.

“That last room can likely fit an extra bureau,” Peggy says, and Steve nods.

“Bunk beds could work.”

Their first worry is that the new additions won’t be able to pick up sign, that they will all end up divided along who in the family can communicate with who. But they watch Emma and Rosie demonstrating with patience the correct way to form letters, the facial expressions that go along with certain words, and they begin worrying instead about their oldest two. Rosie’s big sister authority has been accepted easily until now, but with another oldest sibling now in the house, one closer to her age and with a forceful personality to match hers, things are changing.

“I can’t help but think,” Peggy says, after they’ve broken up a bristling argument over whether it’s possible to cheat at The Game of Life (strangely, the opinion of both sides is yes and that the other one had done it), “that this might be a real piece of luck for Rose, finding another child who doesn’t simply allow her to have her way.”

Steve asks, not really wanting to know the answer, “But will the house be standing when she’s fully learned that lesson?”

They’re still working through that situation when Steve starts noticing something that he can’t help but focus on instead. There must have been signs earlier - dress-up clothes clung to after playtime, people examined with careful, wondering eyes as they passed in the street - but Steve first sees this: it is a Saturday, not quite turned to spring and Nathaniel is getting over one last cold, so Steve has taken the other children to try the new bakery in town, an attempt to leave the house a little quieter for him. The kids are pointing to their favorite pastries, leaving finger-smudges on the display case. Emma blinks a cookies! sort of charm up at her father. One of the bakery employees - an older woman, neat, flour-dusted apron, curled hair tied back - passes them to get back behind the counter.

“What beautiful daughters you have,” she tells Steve, smiling. He glances over, seeing what she does: three small forms still bundled in coats, hair blond, darker, and darkest peeking out from beneath knit hats, all to the chin or longer. Steve is still waiting for warmer weather to take them for spring haircuts.

“We’re two daughters and one son,” Rose corrects the woman, and as she trills, “Oh, my mistake!” before disappearing into the back, Steve watches two children return obliviously to picking treats and one turn away, sudden light suddenly dimmed, arms hugged against skinny chest, staying quiet, quiet, quiet.

The weather gets warmer, and Steve, acting on a hunch, asks who would like to get a haircut instead of simply adding it on the calendar. In the end, he goes to the barber and so does Nathaniel and that is all.

He tries to make himself as approachable as possible, says that he will answer any question, that there is no need to worry. But he wonders if the question has already been asked and harshly answered by someone else - another parent, a teacher - in a different way than Steve would.

One day, during homework time for those who have it, Rose finishes early, and then it is just two of them in the kitchen. Steve is thinking through the grocery list to the soundtrack of small feet swinging in that familiar, beloved, and entirely irritating way.

The question, when it comes, does not sound as expected.

“My first parents used to take us to church before they died.”

“We can go if you want,” Steve offers, mind still partly on the grocery list, partly on the muffins he and Emma have just put into the oven. He and Peggy haven’t really thought much about what to do if this stuff came up, though they probably should have considering the back and forth about what children they should even be allowed to be matched with in the first place based on their “mixed marriage” (Steve was down in the records as Catholic, Peggy as Anglican, which apparently counted as Protestant). But none of the other kids remember their lives with their birth parents much, not even Nathaniel who has someone to remind him, and so it hasn’t seemed much more than intellectual until now.

“No,” he hears back hurriedly, and Steve looks up to see blue eyes pointing themselves down toward the math workbook on the table. The feet have stopped their swinging. Steve goes alert, the muffins forgotten. “I just wanted to know…Do you think that people get made wrong sometimes?”

Steve is likely not really prepared for this conversation. But he supposes that he’s more prepared than he might have been.

He stands and comes over, crouches beside the chair and says carefully, “I think everyone is exactly right the way they are, including you. But if you feel like something is making you confused, you can tell me and I’ll try to help.”

A tiny headshake, nervous, tentative, which is not normal at all. Steve’s heart breaks a little. He tries something else.

“If you could pick any name for yourself, any name at all, what would you pick?”

“I already like Andrew, promise! When we looked up our names in Boy Scouts, the book said it means brave. And it’s the name my first mom and dad gave me.”

“And I’m sure that your first parents would know that if it’s not the right name for you anymore, we can change it. I know they would be happy if you picked a name that you liked better,” Steve fibs.

For a moment, Steve worries that the pencil is going to break in that little fist. Then, the voice, small and trembling and fearless: “Andrea also means brave. I checked.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah, it does.”

Peggy knows people who are gay or lesbian, “confirmed bachelors,” presumed spinsters. There are Angie’s theater friends and people she met in the war, men and women alike. Their kids call both Josie and Violet “aunt” now. None of that has ever troubled her, nor has countering ignorance or hatred in that area.

Questions of gender are something else. It isn’t something she has encountered much more than anyone else, and the things it implies in this era are almost entirely lurid and wrong. Steve remembers them discussing Christine Jorgensen a few years back when the headlines were everywhere, and how he had tried to explain how things would come to be understood later, at least as he understood them himself.

“What would you have done if this had happened...then?” she asks, waving a vaguely future-ward hand over their late night (technically, early morning) tea. He can’t tell what she thinks just yet.

The idea of Steve having had children in the future is nearly laughable. Tony, then. What would Tony have done if Morgan had come to him and said he’d been wrong about having a daughter, or at least not entirely right? Said, “Gender neutral name, Pepper’s a genius,” probably, and then protected his kid with everything in him.

“For now, we listen,” Steve says. “Later, it might mean finding a doctor, but for now we listen and see and try to make the best choices, the way we would for any of the kids.”

1963 suburban New Jersey is not exactly where and when Steve would have chosen for this, but in another way, this is what he chose, to be with his wife and his children here, as much as he wishes things could be different.

“I like to pretend that when people call me Andy, it’s really Andi, like a girl,” Steve hears one night at bedtime, whispered while Nathaniel is still brushing his teeth.

“You are Andi,” Steve whispers back, tucking the blankets in tighter. “I’m always calling you Andi.”

They have to keep it in whispers for now, and Steve hates that, because Steve has never been able to be quiet about things that are right. But this time it isn’t about him getting his face bloody in an alley in order to stand up, it’s about his child, who has friends and kind teachers and people who smile in passing in the street, and who would lose all of that and maybe more out of ignorance about the truth.

Being at home seems comfortable enough. They haven’t mentioned anything to the other kids yet; Andi says it is okay, that it would be good, but they know that Rosie especially might have a hard time not letting something slip. The ASL that they use as a family doesn’t need pronouns and Emma made a name sign that can just as easily stand for Andi. At school, though, there is a particular expectation of who Andrew Carter should be which would be dangerous to deviate from. Steve sits in uncomfortable silence with the idea that Andi doesn’t seem to even consider asking for anything to be different, with the realization that he wouldn’t be able to grant such a wish, at least not now.

(There is, he and Peggy have realized, likely only one thing to be done.)

It is already close to summer, and they pack up as soon as school is over. Howard thinks nothing of letting them take over the secluded beach house he bought in Maine. (Apparently he “picked it up” a few years ago, an idea that Steve can barely think about in reference to a carton of good ice cream, much less a whole house that its owner has apparently never used.) The kids spend most of the day running in and out of the water or building castles, while their parents lounge on the sand and occasionally call them over to eat or reapply sunscreen, such as it is. (Steve is extremely diligent about this, regardless of how effective this decade’s variety might actually be. None of his kids have his Irish skin, but they don’t have his healing, either, and he tries to help avoid sunburn and skin cancer alike.)

Andi’s dark hair, uncut for months, continues to lengthen; by the middle of July, it is a sort of thick shag and still growing. Peggy brushes it into a ponytail every morning and redoes it as the activity of the day musses it back up.

It is Peggy’s first vacation in a long while, though she leaves them for a few days every other week or so; work and responsibility is still calling and she can’t entirely forget it all. She does stand firm in her promise to avoid thinking about those sorts of problems when she’s with them, and it’s beautiful to see her glowing from the sun, relaxing with a book or loud with laughter as she chases one or another of the children down the beach. The housekeeper Howard sends over once a week agrees to stay for an evening, and Steve takes Peggy dancing. It’s only a visiting trio on stage at the local community center, just this side of the high school dance that Steve never attended, but with them, it’s always more. Among the couples, Peggy leans into his chest, sweet and upright and familiar now. She is more his partner now than he ever dared hope.

During the last week of July, it rains for days in a row, and midafternoon on the third, Steve and Peggy exchange a glance and know that it’s time to break the news to their children.

They talk to Andi first, and Steve, eagle-eyed, sees the rise and fall of those narrow young shoulders, the way they do not brace themselves but relax: a sigh, a finally, finally.

They find everyone gathered in the great room, cushions dragged into a nest on Howard’s shined, artfully rustic wooden floorboards with the kids settled in a semicircle on top of them. Books and games are scattered around, playing cards hiding at random beneath the pillows; they’re getting down to the last of the indoor entertainments, anxious for the weather to clear and allow them to break back outside. Steve seats himself on the stone ledge by the raised fireplace and Peggy sits beside him.

“We have some things to tell you all,” Steve starts.

“Is this about Mom’s work? Nate says you’ve been doing a lot of secret talking,” Rosie demands, fingers flashing, apparently having appointed herself to speak for the group. Nate has the sharpest eyes, the most acute nose, for these sorts of things, but he does not look troubled, merely curious. He has his bear sitting in his lap, as if Edward is an attentive part of the family meeting as well. “And we all know that a lot of Mom’s work is secrets,” Rose finishes keenly.

(Steve knows that Nate probably didn’t phrase it exactly that way, and not just because Rose puts her own spin on things. He and Peggy have always said that none of their children need to call them Mom or Dad until they are ready. With Emma it was barely a question, barely a thought, but it took Rosie more than a year. It hasn’t been quite that long for Nate, but he apparently still hasn’t quite settled into the idea. He mostly avoids calling them anything, which Steve admittedly prefers to the insults with which Rose once addressed him.)

“It is about my work, a bit,” Peggy says carefully. “Your father and I moved years ago because Uncle Howard and I were starting an office in New Jersey. But part of my job has always been working with our elected officials and my colleagues in Washington - that’s difficult when we don’t live nearby.”

“What Mom does is very important,” adds Steve. “When she needs to go away for meetings - I know it’s hard for all of us. And we decided that it might be easier for us to all be in Washington together.”

“We’re moving?” asks Nate, more clarification than anything.

Rose’s hands echo him explosively. “We’re moving?! What about our friends and our school? What about Nana and the aunts and uncles, everyone? I don’t want to leave our house!”

Emma looks between them all, flighty curls shivering as her head turns. She looks down at her own lap before she adds, “Everything will change if we move.”

“Some things will stay the same,” Peggy says. “You will have school and friends - new school, new friends. Our family, that will still be the same. You’ll still do chores.” That actually teases out a bit of laughter.

“But some things will be different.” Steve moves his gaze to each of them in turn. He catches Andi’s eye last. He leans forward. He’s practiced this; his ASL is still not entirely fluid, and probably won’t ever be, but he wants to be clear. “Here is something that might seem different. When babies are born, we make guesses about what kind of people they will be when they grow up. Some are right and some are wrong. But when we make guesses - we can push people to be different than they want to be. Maybe we think we’re right or maybe we forget to ask how they feel.”

“I don’t understand,” Rose says, flicking the sign beside her shaking head, mouth puckered downward. “Why is this about moving?”

“Because when we move, I am going to be a sister instead of a brother and you should all call me s-h-e. Everybody thought I was a boy and pushed me to be a boy and told me it was not allowed for me to be different but that was wrong - Dad says, and also Mom. Some people might still be mad if they find out, but when we go to Washington, I am going to be a girl named A-n-d-r-e-a .” She spells out the new name; who knows if she will keep her old name sign or take on a new one. Then she adds, shoulders firmly set but not stiff, “Everybody should call me D-r-e-a. I decided.”

Rose has questions. Emma has quieter, more hesitant ones. Peggy and Steve begin trying to answer them as best they can. Nate leans his head onto Drea’s proud shoulder, tucks Edward more tightly against his side, and lets his eyes fall shut.

The three girls make their feelings about the move apparent: Rose clearly displeased, Emma worried but with some interest, Drea boldly excited. Nate listens to the others but keeps his own counsel about how he feels. So, after days of watching him for clues, Steve simply asks him.

It is a hot morning and they are walking together into town on a few errands: dropping off some library books, picking up more tape for the boxes even now piling up back at the house. Steve waits until they are past the toy store and its many distractions before he asks, “What do you think about us moving someplace new?”

Nate tilts his head. “I don’t know yet. Maybe it will be scary, but I think it will also probably have good parts. That was what happened when Drea and me came to this home.” Steve realizes with a pang that Nate, just turned four, has already lived in three different places. He puts a hand onto Nate’s shoulder and squeezes a little. Nate looks up at him. “But we aren’t there yet, so I don’t know how it will feel.”

“It’s okay to not know,” Steve tells him as they come to the corner and wait for the cars to pass.

Nate responds, “I know that,” and laughs at his own joke. Steve laughs with him, watching that sweet, gleeful face, not caring that he is stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

“I think it’s our turn, Daddy,” Nate says, taking Steve’s hand so he will notice that the cars are stopped for them. “Daddy, look, it’s our turn to go.”

Steve swallows. He smiles. “Yes, it is,” he says, and keeps ahold of Nate’s hand as they cross the street together.

The house Peggy found in Maryland could fit their old place in twice and still have room left over. Rosie has maintained an impressive sulk through their return from Maine, all of the packing, their various goodbyes, and the drive down south, but even she drops the attitude to race through the new space and argue about who gets which room.

Steve, unpacking bags from the car, keeps glancing up to take in the bits and pieces of this new place, the things he missed in the pictures that Peggy brought back: the windows, all of them, everywhere, and their shutters; the heavy wooden door which hangs open into the summer air so that he can hear the kids screaming excitedly from room to room; the path and the lush areas of the yard which will be perfect for flowers in beds and borders.

He feels a hand on the small of his back. Peggy, who slides an arm around him and presses her mouth to the side of his neck, holding there for a moment.

“How long do you think we’ll be waiting,” she asks, “until someone comes along offering a pound cake and hoping for some gossip about the new neighbors?”

“Well,” he says, sliding an arm around her waist, “we have trees, probably a mile of driveway, and I think we are officially on the outskirts of town. So I'd say we'll have at least fifteen minutes to ourselves.”

“Sounds lovely,” she says. “Some time to settle in, just the family.”

“Just the family,” he repeats. He could mention that it’s just been the family for the two day drive from Jersey. Instead he glances at her, leans back a little to take in the house beneath the broad blue of the sky, beginning to be filled with the voices of their children, the joy and life and everything that they can bring to this place. He holds her against him. Just them, just all of them here together, here at the heart of things.

More chapters here

Holy Land Retrospective - Day 4

Reminder: clicking on the link for each photo (links are all in red text) will take you to the Flickr page where you can see the photo in larger sizes. 

Start with DAY 1, or go back to DAY 2, or DAY 3, or read on!

PHOTO 17: On the fourth day, we boarded our coaches in Jerusalem quite early in the morning for a journey of over three hours (as I recall) to Galilee. As we travelled to the very northern end of Israel, this Eastertide antiphon resounded in my mind: “Jesus said, 'Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to set out for Galilee: there they will see me, alleluia’." (cf Mt 28:10) Yes, we were setting out to Galilee to see him! Incidentally, for many of the pilgrims on this trip, this would be their first chance to see (and hear from) Jim Caviezel who played Jesus in ‘The Passion of the Christ’. When I asked Jim, jokingly, who the crowds on the two boats around ours were looking for, he said wryly: “Fake Jesus”! 

But here in Galilee, where Jesus lived and healed and exorcised and proclaimed the inbreaking of God’s Kingdom, we would all have an experience of the real Jesus, not least because we would have Mass later that day on the site of St Peter’s house in Capernaum. 

Driving past Magdala (where we would later have our lunch consisting of grilled St Peter’s fish), we headed straight for the shores of the Sea of Galilee, also known as the Sea (or Lake) of Tiberias, or Kinneret. This is a freshwater lake, some 21 km long and 13 km wide. Although it was calm when we boarded our boats, we could see the rain clouds in the distance, and a cool wind whipped up the flags on the boats. One could understand how the disciples could have been out in the middle of this lake, and a storm could quickly engulf them (cf Mt 8:24-27). We were in three boats, with the priests and Jim and group leaders in the middle. And then, in the middle of the Sea of Galilee, surrounded by a landscape largely untouched and unchanged since the days when Jesus and his apostles fished here, we prayed. Here, led in song by John Michael Talbot, we prayed and called upon the Holy Spirit to fill our lives, and the wind, a Biblical sign of the Spirit’s presence, duly picked up around us. And then we just bobbed on the water in silence, with just the natural sounds of the lap of the water against the sides of the wooden boats, and the cry of birds overhead, and the flapping of the flags in the persistent wind. And in the silence we prayed, and God was heard in the silence.

“Getting into one of the boats, which was Simon's, he asked him to put out a little from the land. And he sat down and taught the people from the boat." – Luke 5:3.

This photo was taken on the boat after that time of prayer, and it features an anchor which, like the peacocks and labarum that I shared yesterday is yet another early Christian symbol. The anchor, firstly, resembles a cross, so it was easily adapted as a secret Christian sign when Christians were being persecuted. It was also engraved in the Roman catacombs and on Christian graves as a sign of our Christian hope in the resurrection and eternal life through the Cross of Christ. For Scripture says: 

“We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner shrine behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf". (Heb 6:19-20a) 

What I noticed, in taking this photo, was the striking colour of the sea, and of course, I thought of the phrase “fishers of men” (cf Mt 4:19). All of us were here on this sea because we had been fished out of the murky waters of sin, and we had been plunged into the regenerating fresh waters of baptism. All of us were here because we had been enlivened with faith in the Cross of Christ, a faith which anchors our lives and gives us hope of eternity. And all around us, presiding over all this, was the ruah Adonai, the holy Breath of God, the Holy Spirit, who blew over us, and stirred the waters. (cf Jn 5:4)

PHOTO 18: After our lunch of grilled fish in Magdala we paused for reflection and quiet time in Tabhga, an area whose name comes from the Arabic version of the Greek name, Heptapegon, meaning, the place of seven springs. When Egeria visits the area in the 4th-century she mentions that here there “are seven springs each flowing strongly.” There are several holy sites in Tabhga and we visited first the Church of the Beatitudes where we listened to the Gospel (Mt 5:1-11), and had time to explore the grounds and take in the view. Afterwards, we went down from the Mount of Beatitudes to the shoreline, to the Church of the Primacy. The rain clouds had moved on by the time we reached the water’s edge; some plunged into the cool waters, but I merely waded in the shallows, feeling the black basalt-like grains underfoot. 

It was here that the Risen Lord had met his disciples, as he had promised, and indeed, it was here that he cooked them a breakfast of grilled fish. Inside the little church, therefore, is a rock under the altar named the ‘Mensa Christi’, the table of Christ. It was also here that St Peter was confirmed as chief shepherd of Christ’s Church on earth. Hence, both Pope St Paul VI and Pope St John Paul II visited this site when they came as pilgrims to the Holy Land.

“Jesus said to them, "Children, have you any fish?" They answered him, "No." He said to them, "Cast the net on the right side of the boat, and you will find some." So they cast it, and now they were not able to haul it in, for the quantity of fish. That disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, "It is the Lord!" When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on his clothes, for he was stripped for work, and sprang into the sea. But the other disciples came in the boat, dragging the net full of fish, for they were not far from the land, but about a hundred yards off. When they got out on land, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish lying on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, "Bring some of the fish that you have just caught." So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred and fifty-three of them; and although there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, "Come and have breakfast." Now none of the disciples dared ask him, "Who are you?" They knew it was the Lord. Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and so with the fish. This was now the third time that Jesus was revealed to the disciples after he was raised from the dead. When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." He said to him, "Feed my lambs."” – John 21:5-15.

We prayed for the Holy Father here, and also for the Pope Emeritus. 

PHOTO 19: The Petrine-Papal theme continued as we went finally to Capernaum, just 10 minutes away. Capernaum was effectively Jesus’s base during his Galilean ministry, and his first disciples, St Andrew and St Peter lived here. The very modern church where had Mass is built right on top of the house of St Peter, and the glass floor in the middle of the church allows one to look down into the octagonal 4th-century church that once stood here (and which Egeria visited), and also to see the remains of St Peter’s house, which is a stone’s throw from the (now ruined) synagogue of Capernaum. 

Jesus certainly knew this house well, and there are inscriptions dating to the 1st-century that attest to this site being the place where Jesus had lived and ate, preached and healed, and cast out demons. Here, on this holy site, we had the joy of celebrating the Holy Mass! Here, in St Peter’s house in Capernaum, we encountered the Lord as he promised, and through his Holy Eucharist he healed us and gave us strength to serve him. 

“And he went down to Capernaum, a city of Galilee. And he was teaching them on the sabbath... And he arose and left the synagogue, and entered Simon's house. Now Simon's mother-in-law was ill with a high fever, and they besought him for her. And he stood over her and rebuked the fever, and it left her; and immediately she rose and served them. Now when the sun was setting, all those who had any that were sick with various diseases brought them to him; and he laid his hands on every one of them and healed them.” – Luke 4:38-40

As the sun was setting, we had to leave Galilee and the drive back to Jerusalem was long; we arrived only shortly before the Holy Sepulchre closed its doors for the night.

Tomorrow: Christmas in Bethlehem!  

Prepare For a Rant | Lair of Dreams by Libba Bray

Started: February 10th, 2020

Finished: February 14th, 2020

I have a lot of thoughts about Lair of Dreams [Goodreads] and most of them are negative. It took me what felt like several lightyears to finish this book and the reading experience sapped the joy of reading out of me for a while. This is going to be a long one folks, so buckle in. Before we jump into things I’d like to warn that this is going to be a spoilerific review so heed my warning before you jump in.

Lair of Dreams takes place shortly after the events of the first book in this series The Diviners. The city is on the cusp of an all-out outbreak as more and more cases of Sleeping Sickness, a mysterious illness that causes the afflicted to fall asleep and never wake up again, are cropping up in Chinatown. While the gang goes on wildly different adventures in this book they all ultimately come together to solve the mystery of the sleeping sickness.

On Character

My biggest problem with this book is the characters. They’re selfish, self-centered, naïve and don’t understand that actions hurt others. This is most evident in Evie, but every character in the book has moments of this scattered throughout the novel. However,  I feel uncomfortable throwing this fact as a criticism of the book because all of these characteristics are fundamental character traits of teenagers and I find it obtuse to criticize a young adult novel for accurately writing teenaged protagonists. But I can’t divorce this understanding from how absolutely infuriating I found so many moments in this book.

I will say just because our protagonists, and especially Evie, were annoying doesn’t mean they didn’t have depth. Libba Bray is a good writer and fully fleshed out every character in this book mellowing some of my frustrations with them. The perfect example of this is Sam Lloyd. The bad boy character archetype has been done to death in YA, but Sam stands apart from the crowd of tousled haired edge-lords by having a tragic backstory with legitimate weight to it. His search for his mother never felt like an afterthought or quirk. I genuinely felt his deep desire to find the truth and it made him well rounded. The same could be said about all the other characters in the story.

Evie was the only character I truly hated while reading this book. I understand the reason why Evie is the way she is and how her past influenced her bad behavior. But understanding that her PTSD and trauma are the cause of her actions was never enough to get me to sympathize with her. Every single character in this book has been through just as much if not more than she has and they never went as far as to abandon and betray their friends as consistently as Evie did. I could never get behind Evie, her selfishness went above and beyond teenaged immaturity and her inability to own up to her mistakes and change angered me.

Now on to Jericho Jones, my second least favorite character in this book. I genuinely liked Jericho in The Diviners, but his behavior in this book was appalling. I will admit he had the misfortune of falling into one of my least favorite tropes out there: “The Monster Inside Me“ [TV Tropes]. However, his particular brand of self-loathing went further than that. At the end of The Diviners Jericho was rejected by Evie causing a cycle of self-pity that verged on incel behavior. His constant monologuing about how “girls just don’t like guys him” was eye-roll inducing and his hurry to lash out at others because a girl he liked rejected him was gross. His actions depict a man who sees Evie as a prize rather than a human being.

Another problem I had with this book is how central protagonists from The Diviners were sidelined in the novel. It’s almost impossible in a reasonably sized book to follow eight different characters and give them all their due. The characters I feel most negatively effected by Bray’s shift in focus to new POVs were Memphis, Theta and Mabel. It would take over 500 more words to deep dive into my specific thoughts on each of their character arcs so in summation: these three were barely given anything to do and their character arcs didn’t move forward in any significant way. Mabel was given the harshest treatment of all because she had literally nothing to do in this book but pine after a guy who didn’t like her. No other character conflict she had from the previous book in this series was even mentioned or explored.

On Romance

Possibly my least favorite element in this book was its romantic subplot. So much page time was dedicated to it that it could reasonably be dubbed the main plot So here’s the rundown:

Mabel likes Jericho, but Jericho likes Evie.

Evie thinks she likes Jericho but doesn’t want to date him because of girl code.

Evie fake dates Sam and they both start catching feelings.

Jericho goes out with Mabel even though he knows that Mabel likes him and he still has feelings for Evie.

This is the kind of conflict I hate in books. This love triangle was so convoluted and contrived. It did nothing but make me hate Evie and Jericho, and I found none of the romantic tension exciting because the dynamics explored were built on a foundation of miscommunication and lies of omission.

On Representation

While I was pleasantly surprised by the anti-racism in The Diviners I was uncomfortable by the way some of the themes of diversity were explored in this book. In Lair of Dreams, we are introduced to Ling Chang a half Chinese girl with a recent case of infantile paralysis causing her to wear leg braces. She has a lot of self-hatred in regard to her disability. This trope while cliche wasn’t my problem, my problem was how this internal conflict is resolved. Another one of our protagonists, Henry, finds out about her disability and all her self loathing is resolved by him telling her she should love herself. This interaction is that it places Ling’s self-worth in the hands of an able-bodied person rather than focusing this her arc on self-acceptance. As an able-bodied person, I don’t want to cry ableism without shouting out actual disabled people’s voices on the matter so I would highly encourage you to seek out these voices. I’ve yet to encounter an ownvoices reviewer’s thought on Ling’s arc (believe me I looked) and this observation should in no way take away anything from disabled people who appreciated Bray’s writing.

There is so much that Bray does right when it comes to diversity and representation. I find her honest depictions of America’s ugly history timely and relevant and I admire her willingness to starkly show anti-semitism, homophobia, xenophobia, police brutality of the time. She clearly parallels America’s history with America’s present reminding you not so subtly that these toxic ideas still exist. I will warn readers that Bray graphically depicts racist imagery and I found the descriptive scenes of lynch mobs and the like very upsetting so be prepared for that.

One aspect of Bray’s depiction of American society I really liked was her pointed observation of the link between Evangelical Christianity and racism and xenophobia. I also liked how she depicted the ways people use American Exceptionalism (the idea that Americans are inherently superior to all others and that their position as a dominant world power is a God-given right rather than luck and historic subjugation) as a justification for bigotry and all detractors of this ideology is consistently labeled as anti-American by the people who benefit from bigotry.

On Everything Else

I will say Lair of Dreams was fairly well-plotted. Though the mystery element of this book very much felt like a subplot with the character conflicts taking center stage. While I didn’t find the sleeping sickness as outright terrifying as Naughty John in the first book Bray is good at building tension and suspense and the final climactic scene did get my heart racing. Bray’s ability to capture a creepy gothic atmosphere shines in this book and I loved her interlude chapters that showed brief snippets of our characters and the city itself.

Stars 🌟🌟🌟

I don’t know where I stand with this series. I found so much of the reading experience frustrating, but I am still invested in so many of the characters in the series and I would like to see how the final mystery unfolds. We’ll see if I continue on with the series because right now I don’t know.

Sonata in A! K331! 3rd Movement!

Funny thing is, this is surprisingly accurate. 

And by that I mean: The Kingdom of Back by Marie Lu!

You don’t have to be a music fan to know the name Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. In fact, you probably have no idea what in the hell a Sonata in K K331 Third Movement even is until you hear it. Then you’ll know it immediately. In fact, you can know nothing about Mozart but still be familiar with many of his pieces. Maybe you had the misfortune to be forced to watch the movie Amadeus* in your German class (a movie that is probably not appropriate to show public high school students even if it’s dubbed in German) or have seen the 30 Rock parody episode where, instead of writing music, they create a porn video game. My point is: you know Mozart. Everyone knows Mozart, especially kids who were made to learn piano. Or, in my case, piano AND violin**. The main reason for that is, well, public domain, but also because Mozart is the shit. 

I mean, I’m more of a Beethoven girl myself, and I have a lot of love for the 19th century Russians (Tchaikovsky and The Five FTW!), but, seriously, if you learn anything about music, you learn about Mozart. And, as someone semi-fluent in German, who has dedicated most of her life to learning German, you have no choice but to learn about the greats of German music. Yes, Austrians count as part of German music. As I’ve mentioned before, there was no “Germany” until 1871, and I’m including any and all native German speakers as part of German music. Austrians speak German. Kind of. I mean, 99.9% of my German teachers were either from southern Germany or Austria, so I may have a bit of a bias...though my main bias is against Swiss German which literally is not German stop calling it that, Switzerland!

What were we talking about?

Oh. Yeah. Mozart. 

You know he had a sister, right? One who was a musical prodigy in her own right, who used to play for the courts of Europe alongside her little brother, right?

No?

Yeah, you probably don’t. Because back in the 18th century, women weren’t allowed to be composers or musical prodigies. Once they grew up, they got married, had children and were subsequently erased from history while the men in their family achieve immortality. 

Meet Maria Anna Mozart, known by her family as Nannerl. 

The Kingdom of Back is Nannerl’s story.

Salzburg! 1759! Nannerl Mozart is only eight, but is desperate to please her father and prove her mettle as a musician. The Mozart family is in a perpetual state of one-missed-paycheck-away-from-homelessness, and Nannerl’s stage dad, Leopold, hopes to cash in on the whole child prodigy thing. Unfortunately, Nannerl’s first demonstration for a court musician goes wrong when she’s distracted by her baby brother, Wolferl. That night, Nannerl dreams of a beautiful kingdom full of music, and of a beautiful boy with glowing blue eyes. 

As she gets older, Nannerl is as shocked as her parents when Lil Wolferl shows a knack for music. She’s horrified to discover that she feels jealous of her baby brother, who idolizes her. One night, Nannerl and Wolferl are woken up by a strange light coming from their music room. When they investigate, they find the beautiful boy from Nannerl’s dream, in the flesh. He steals Nannerl’s music notebook then promptly jumps out the window.

Like so:

Complete with broken glass.

Anyway, the next time Nannerl sees the boy, she’s out in Salzburg with her brother on a shopping trip when she opens the door to a shop’s storage room, only to find it leads to the magical kingdom she’d seen in her dream. The boy, Hyacinth, wants Nannerl’s help to reclaim his throne. In exchange, he will make sure Nannerl gets her greatest wish: to be remembered forever.

Shortly after, Nannerl and Wolferl are called to Vienna to play for the Emperor and Empress. Wolferl puts on quite the show, charming everyone in the room and even proposing to the Emperor and Empress’s youngest daughter. It’s after this that Nannerl and Wolferl’s parents decide to take them on a massive tour of Europe. In the long, dull carriage rides between destinations, Nannerl and Wolferl come up with a name and origin story for Hyacinth and the magical kingdom that they saw: The Kingdom of Back. As the tour continues and Wolfer’s fame rises, Nannerl worries more and more about being forgotten - that her fate is sealed: she will never be a composer and a musician, instead she will become a wife and mother and nothing more than a footnote in history.

But the Kingdom of Back is more than just a fantasy story shared between two bored kids. Hyacinth’s magic has an effect on our world, causing calamities and illness. As Nannerl struggles to cope with her conflicting emotions, Hyacinth starts to seem less like a fairy prince and more like something sinister. But his promises of fame and immortality to Nannerl are so very, very tempting. I mean, wouldn’t you be a little jealous if your baby brother was an 18th century child rockstar? 

(Ok, the throwing of underthings may not have happened to Mozart, but it definitely happened to Liszt so that episode of the Simpsons isn’t entirely inaccurate).

 If you come into The Kingdom of Back expecting it to be something like Marie Lu’s other novels - namely, action packed sci-fi/fantasy serieses - you are bound to be disappointed. The Kingdom of Back is unlike all of Lu’s other novels - it is a standalone historical fantasy dedicated to someone who, in spite of her talent, was relegated to the dustbin of history just because she was a girl. I adore Marie Lu’s books (the Legend trilogy is probably one of the best YA trilogies ever - if you haven’t read it, stop everything and do that now, please) and I’m also a fan of music, 18th century Germans, and 18th century German musical composers so I wasn’t at all put off knowing that The Kingdom of Back wasn’t going to be like her other books. It was more like “holy shit, Marie Lu is wrote a book about Mozart’s sister, put it in my brain immediately, please.” The Kingdom of Back is just wonderful, you guys. Lu beautifully captures what it’s like to have a sibling that you love, but also envy. Lu’s writing is lyrical and enchanting without crossing into purple prose territory. Music can be difficult to capture in prose, but Lu manages to do so without alienating the reader with too many weird technical musical terms that would be off putting to the average reader (hi!). The way time works in the book is weird - you’re never quite sure when you are at any given time or how old anyone else, unless you have the timeline of the Mozart children’s grand tour open while you read. Months can go by in a single sentence which can be a bit jarring, but the book manages to condense a decade into 300 pages. I’d rather have 300 pages and a few pacing issues than way too much detail within 900 pages. 

My absolute favorite aspect of this book is Nannerl herself. Nannerl, as an 18th century girl, is bound by 18th century constraints - she’s not allowed to compose openly, as herself. She’s not allowed to talk back. She’s expected to look after her brother, as her position as older sister makes her mom-in-training. Nannerl is a good and proper 18th century lady, and she hates it. She hates the limits placed on her by society, but at the same time, she’s desperate to please her parents and earn their praise. Because what else can she do? It’s the shit situation women have experienced since time immaterial: conform, or else. Nannerl may seem meek and submissive compared to the likes of June from Legend or Emika from Warcross, but make no mistake, she is just as strong as they are. Her strength lies in her quiet resilience. Nannerl can’t exactly fight back against the system the way June and Emika do, so she rebels in other, quieter ways. She maintains eye contact for her father, waiting for him to break first or stays quiet when she’s expected to voice her praises. She creates a whole fantasy world in which to take refuge. Nannerl’s way of fighting back is subtle because it has to be. 

Unfortunately, it takes only a click of a Wikipedia link to know how Nannerl’s story ends. It is bittersweet and something that will definitely strike a chord (pun absolutely intended) with any girl or woman who reads The Kingdom of Back. 

RECOMMENDED FOR: Any girl or woman who has ever seen her accomplishments ignored or passed over in favor of a man’s, anyone with a sibling they’re just a little bit jealous of, music fans, Mozart fans, Marie Lu fans, anyone in the mood for a gorgeously-written YA historical fantasy.

NOT RECOMMENDED FOR: Haydn aficionados, Leopold Mozart, children who were forced to learn piano, men’s rights activists, people who would mistake an 18th century girl’s quiet resilience for weakness.

RELEASE DATE: March 3, 2020 - hey, I promise cromulent reviews, not “on time” reviews or “reviews in advance of publication.”

RATING: 4/5

MOZART RATING:

BEETHOVEN FANS, WHEN ENCOUNTERED BY MOZART FANS:

You can hear the 5th symphony with every haw.

*Please remember the movie Amadeus is also a historical fantasy - Salieri and Mozart were peers and were most likely friends, if not friendly. Also, Salieri had like, 8 kids and at least 1 mistress, he wasn’t some pious weirdo like he’s portrayed in the movie. I mean, he was Italian. F. Murray Abraham was awesome in it, though. My point is, don’t get your history from movies. It’s a bad idea.

Get it from Wikipedia, like a normal person.

That soundtrack, though. If you want an intro to Mozart’s music, that is a good way to go.

**Ahahahaha I was, then and now, and will forever remain, terrible at both. 

Journal Entry N.02 || Chapter 1

|| This journal will act as a recap for everything that has happened during Chapter 1. This means there will be information that Airi would not realistically know. This is only for the sake of the recap. If you’re confused on who’s who, here’s a link to the roster page. ||

@despot-despair

It’s been some time, hasn’t it? A lot has happened since I last wrote in this journal. This may take a while and my wrist will probably hurt from writing this much, but I’ll survive~

I was able to get around and mingle with lots of people after we escaped that wretched dungeon! I have a sneaking suspicion not many of them like me. It’s a bit upsetting, to be honest :’(

However! I’m not the most hated person here, since Yuu decided to stir the pot even more. During our first conversation, which got rather heated, he threatened to rip my nails off. My beautiful nails! Thankfully, I escaped with all my nails in tact.

Apparently, he also got into huge shit with Hitomi and Ivy too. Yuu grabbed the rabbit girl by the ankle and started dragging her across the courtyard so he could dunk her into one of the ponds. Hitomi was there and, in an attempt to stop the local blue menace, hit him right in the neck with his gas tank. Ivy was freed, but I guess that encounter scared her pretty bad. Hitomi must’ve felt guilty too, ‘cause he stormed off the second Yuu was knocked to the ground. 

That isn’t all. He also bullied Tsuguyo, the small origami artist, by giving her the same treatment of grabbing her to drag her along the grass. Apparently he was trying to throw her into the nearby pond. Only after Tsuguyo bit and threw rocks at him did he let go, due to being knocked half-unconscious.

Yuu’s honestly such an annoyance, and that means something coming from me.

A day or so passed and Raiouji announced that he prepared a feast for everyone. Some sort of welcoming party, maybe? Either way, it was far from welcoming, as the dinner quickly took a turn for the worst when the dead body of Sujaku was discovered underneath one of the serving domes. He told us that we needed to investigate what happened to the phoenix or face punishment, aka mass execution. 

Safe to say, not many were pleased with that. But we had no choice, so everyone split up to investigate.

I had paired up with Kliment Holloway, the Clarinet Boy. All was going smoothly, when, in one of the stalls in the restroom, we found some graffiti that said “Airi x Koko best ship.” I still have no idea who wrote it. Kliment had absolutely no idea what it meant. At the time, I was disgusted. Funny how much my feelings have changed since then. I’ll... get to that later.

z̵̬̩̳̾͛̏@̸̫͉̠̼̭̪̇̐̉͊Ȇ̷̮̠̠̥̰ͅ@̷̡̼̝̫͍̔̏̀͗͑̉͗̇͘̚C̷̛̙̦̓̅̍͂̆̀̍:̴̬̜͓́̽̆̉̈́͐̎͗̈̈́͠͝]̷̢̢͔̲͎̻͍̩̲̱̝̘͆͗̽͊̌͐́]̵͔̬̦̑͂̂͛̾̒̃̋̒͘]̷̬̦̈́́̈́̏͛̊̇̑

In any case! We were going to have a trial. A trial for a robotic bird. It was a joke, so I treated it like one. To add onto the stupidity of this mock trial, Klim entered the graffiti we found as actual evidence. I wanted to die of embarrassment. Explaining what a ship was took forever, and I still don’t think he gets it.

The trial ended pretty quick - faster than any trial I had been to. Turns out Yunime stomped Sujaku to death because Sujaku had spoken ill of Raiouji. As stupid as it sounds, it was written in the rules that it’s forbidden to insult him. No one was killed for it, as Raiouji deemed Yunime’s actions as acceptable punishment.

In the end, we avoided execution and were to resume our lives in captivity. Mukuro, Sujaku’s mate, was pretty upset about the whole thing. Not sure why she’d stay loyal to Raiouji after that.

Raiouji, however, wasn’t going to sit around and just wait for a body to appear. So he prepared a motive - an incentive to kill. After gathering everyone in the foyer, what could only be described as the screams of the damned started blasting throughout the castle. Mukuro confirmed that it was Sujaku’s mixtape. Yes, his mixtape. It sounded awful.

Remembering what happened after that... really annoys me.

I made a joke. One simple little offhand comment about how Koko should die first. Then those witches decided to swarm me while pretending to uphold some bullshit justice. Sakura and Mari especially. Sakura hit me twice, yet she pretends to be some righteous hero who opposes violence. What a bunch of hypocrites.

x̶̢̡̰̻̜̪͇̝̠͇̥͇͖̓̍̇͊͘͝ͅ ̵̢̨̛͕̬̼̘͈̯͍̜̩̏̆̔͊́̑̋͜9̵̧̧̜̱͇͍͍̲̩͔͔͎̗̿̂̍̽̄͑͗̋͋̋͜2̴̛̦̫͗͂̆̾͛̉Ę̶̼͔͇̰̮͗̽̍̿̾̈́̿̈́̍͗͝6̵̩̭̱̻̈́ ̵̢͈͚̥͎̰͎́̐̈̂͑̓͒̆͗͜E̷͖̭̱̯̞̥̼̠̞̬͔̘̍̓̉͋̍̾̏̾̉̎̈͆͘̚͠9̶̡̙̪̘̺̯̙̯̪̰̱̏̕͘͘6̶̡̞͖̭̱̖͕̈́͊̋͆́̀̇͌͝͠>̶͙̩̯͉͍̹̜͍͉̺̟͊ͅ]̶̧̛͎͈̗̩͇̼̤̦͙̐̔̃̅̉͜ͅͅ

I was so mad and I had to get out there before I did anything reckless. So I left to the dining room, where I found Ivy looking downcast. She tried to comfort me, in a way. Ricky Boy was there too, but I’m sure he was only wanting to hear some gossip. He isn’t sincere in the slightest. 

I cracked. I freaked out and told them about how I was going to make their lives miserable. I even snapped one of my nails off. Writing about it like this reminds me of how crazy I must’ve looked. Ricardo and Ivy panicked and took me to the bathroom to wash the blood off. Though Ricardo only came after I promised to give him what he wanted: that scalding hot tea. (I hate myself for writing that.)

Ivy retrieved a ribbon from her room and used that as a makeshift bandage. Honestly, I’m really grateful for it. I wouldn’t be able to stand having some ugly wound ruining my perfect appearance. Ricky left after we subtly threatened each other and that was the end of it. 

I still haven’t forgotten though. Of the unfair treatment I received simply because I’m deemed the villain. Oh no, this was only the beginning. 

Once the motive was dropped, there was tension hanging everywhere in the castle over whether or not someone would truly kill over this. Hitomi, %̷̨̢̍̔̅̃̕9̴̲͙̹͓̑6̵̭͇̯̊͐̈́ ̸̨̭̗̥̈͑3̷̛̻̘̘̬̋̎̓͜@̵̞͂̃͌̾͝@̴͔̼͕̞̙̓Ě̵̥̜͠ ̷̻͝=̴̛͈̀̇̿̕͝:̵̢̧̜̞̉͋̅͛4̵̭̻̻͇̯̱̍̅̌<̴͓͓̽͐͊̉6̴̟̜̰͈̣̄̏̂͘̚͝C̷̡͙͎̯̊ Sakura and %̴̩̥̖̌̈̀̾̚ͅ9̸̧̛̿̌͗6̴̩͙̘̣̈ ̶̠̐3̸̛̥̓:̸̢̺͔͙͎̓͜E̵̛̦̱̗̣͓͉͗͋̑̑̕4̶̤͖͙̳̗̼̊9̵͛͌̃̏ Mari tried to brainstorm some way of preventing such a killing from taking place. They created some rules to enforce - rules they never bothered to tell anyone else. Quite the oversight I must say~ 

Their plan failed. 

But that’s enough about them! Time to talk more about me ★ And Koko. She’s pretty important to this equation.

If I could trace back a specific point in time which was the trigger for everything, it would be that fortune telling session Koko hosted for all who stopped by. I, of course, don’t believe in any of her garbage spirit talk, but I was interested in what she would say. I went second, after Gam, and I was given a rather positive reading. The reading itself wasn’t the start, but a simple comment meant to tease me. Koko joked that she was 0.1% attracted to me. I’m not sure why it bothered me as much as it did, but I was quite distressed over it.

Later on, I went to her room, Room 7, to confront her about it. Call it petty, but I needed to clear the air. We were supposed to be rivals! Everything changed with that single visit to her room. 

Koko confessed to me. Koko had feelings for me. That Koko, who berated me and I insulted in turn. She liked me, for some reason I couldn’t comprehend. I kissed her, after she dared me to. I don’t think she expected me to go for it, since her face turned bright red. I’m sure mine was just as red, too. 

We talked for a while. She gave me a name, her real name. Kotori, she said. Told me that she and I were quite similar. It opened my eyes. For the first time, I found someone who knew what it was like. Though it was slightly different, she knew. She understood. I had an ally and I couldn’t let her go.

The following event was one I honestly wasn’t expecting, even though I was the instigator. After getting into a slight argument with Cai Collins in the group chat, he challenged me to a fight out in the courtyard. Of course, I wasn’t going to back down. We met outside, with a few others watching.

I taunted him quite a bit, as he seemed hesitant to hit me. I know how to take a punch, so I wasn’t afraid of him. He did hit me, though it was only in the gut. That was when I decided to turn up the heat. I took a nearby rock and smashed it into my head, throwing it to Cai’s feet in an attempt to frame him. I passed out shortly after, so I’m not sure what happened between then and when I woke up. Kotori and Liya were by my side in my room, having patched me up. They told me my plan failed, as everyone believed Cai’s side of the story. I was really disappointed. Although, I took some satisfaction in knowing that I traumatized Cai-chan just a little bit. It was worth the concussion I gave myself. Does that make me a horrible person? Hahaha~

One night, I found a tarot card taped to my door. It was The Lovers, with some drawings on it. An apple and a star. Not a difficult riddle. I went out side and found Koko waiting for me. She said we were to stargaze for a bit. I didn’t quite understand, but I agreed. So we laid next to each other, looking up at the sky and talking about lots of different things. We kissed a second time. I believe that was the trigger for my own feelings to start bubbling to the surface, though I wouldn’t realize it until the next morning. 

When I did, I needed to tell her. It was so early in the morning and no one was awake, but I needed to tell her. She didn’t seem surprised. Was it so obvious to everyone but me? I’m honestly a little embarrassed, but I’ve never had these feelings before, so how could I know what they meant!? In any case, we were now an official couple.

If only I knew that I would soon lose her.

The next day, we were met with quite the horrid sight. Ami Mochizuki, the SHSL Librarian, was found dead atop the chandelier. The killing game had started and we were to have a real trial after some investigation. I have to admit that, as a detective, I was a bit excited to expose the mystery behind this murder.

I did my investigation with Ivy, who was rationally upset and scared by the killing. She didn’t like to approach anything relating to blood or the body, which was fine by me. More investigation work for me~ I got to jump onto the chandelier, so that was fun! Ami was clearly stabbed with a knife, but the question was who did it and how the body got onto the chandelier. 

The evidence we found wasn’t much, but it was all we had as we went into our first official trial with a real trial grounds. Though this one was different from those I was used to. We were all standing in a circle. I guess it was so we could see one another as we accuse each other.

The trial went on for some time as new evidence came to light. Ricardo had the room key to Ami’s room, and Yuu’s Primpod was missing. Both were suspicious, so they were two major suspects in the case. I even accused Ricky Boy. Hopefully he didn’t take it to heart~ 

The damning evidence was a piece of cheap gold found in the Treasure Room. I immediately knew who it belonged to and my heart had sunk into my gut. I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe it! 

Kokoro-koro was voted to be the killer. And it turned out she was. She killed Ami by stabbing her in the Treasure Room. Ami had apparently threw herself onto the chandelier. I have no idea why, but I didn’t care. Kotori was the killer. 

And she was to be executed for failing to get away with her murder.

Before that, she had approached my podium. She gave me her final words, as well one to remember her by. I... I need to figure it out what it meant. It wasn’t a Japanese word. Kotori kissed me one last time, before knocking me out with a punch to the jaw... so that I wouldn’t have to see her execution.

Apparently it was rather horrible and depraved, one that humiliated her before she died. I’m glad I didn’t have to see it. I know I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

When I woke up, she was gone. Kotori, the girl I liked and wanted to be with, was dead. I still struggle to accept the fact that she’s never coming back. I could never hear her voice or hold her in my arms.

I lost it. Consumed by my grief, I went off the deep end. To be honest, I don’t remember much of what I said. I know that I made a promise. A promise to bring everyone else here to their knees with despair. They took my happiness away and I wasn’t going to let them get away with it. 

I will see it through. Until my heart stops, I will assure that I destroy everyone here, no matter the cost.

Signed, Airi Akahoshi

Book: Truly Madly Plaid

By Eliza Knight

Series: Prince Charlie’s Angels, Book #2, 386 pp

Publisher: Sourcebooks

Overall Rating:

1)Celtic Barb’s Saltire Book Review Blog

2)Celtic World of Historical Book Reviews

3)Tartan Book Reviews

4)Purple Tulip Book Reviews

Heat Rating: 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 Sizzling Hot!

Overall Rating: Five Stars and Five Saltire Flags

Scottish Highlands

April 1746

Three women were angels of bonnie Prince Charlie Stuart. These women had been each other’s best friends since childhood and made a sacred promise to each other. The three angels of the prince would never abandon their positions or beliefs in the Jacobite cause! Just like their ancestors, grandfathers, fathers, Uncles, brothers and all their male relatives, none had fought just to lose courage, abandon their positions and quit!

This is Annie MacPherson’s story as she is Bonnie Prince Charles healer. The man they are trying to put back on the Scottish throne. She is best friends with Jenny Mackintosh, the warrior, from the last book, “The Rebel Wears Plaid”, and Fiona MacBean, the secret messenger in the next book “You’ve Got Plaid.” Each of these women had a nickname, but Annie was called either Angel or Dr. Annie, even though she wasn’t a doctor. Yet she was probably the best healer in Scotland, as she was the bonnie Prince’s healer and all the Jacobite warriors too. Including the fact she was a bonnie site and half the men in the Jacobite army were in love with her. Beside’s her bonnie looks, she could bring a man who was at death’s door and bring him back to life. She was definitely very well respected and an Angel in their opinion.

Now it was January 1746, Annie and her brother’s Graham’s best friend, Lieutenant Craig MacLean had met after the Battle of Falkirk Muir. Yet she had contacted the illness from the bonnie prince and all the soldiers were spreading the illness she had been caring for. She is so ill she becomes delirious and thinks Craig is one of Cumberland’s butcher’s. She even throws a dagger at him that nicks him and he was only trying to aid her. She actually passes out but after that he kept his distance from his friends crazy sister except Annie has no memory of this meeting. So when they meet again at her Cullidunloch her family’s castle you can feel the attraction. Annie’s brother Graham wanted her to rest at their family home. It is after her brother’s cat attack’s her that Craig actually stitches Annie’s arm that the animosity they have for each turns into mutual respect and attraction.

Now when they return to the the battlefield on April 16, 1746 Graham won’t allow his sister on the Culloden battlefield. Shortly after this The redcoats destroy Annie’s home and beat her youngest brother as the women and children hide in the family crypt. Annie returns to the battlefield to report to her brother Graham, the chieftain that they no longer had a home. Yet she does set up a temporary hospital nearby and it is here she finds Craig near death when looking for the wounded after the battle. She mends his wounds and he is convinced he would have died if left on the Culloden Moor battlefield.

However they are racing against time as Cumberland’s men are murdering Jacobite survivors on and off the battlefield. Looking to where the Jacobite soldiers are hiding so they can imprison and execute them. Yet even during such a devastating time and time is of the essence to be able to hide from Cumberland’s forces. However both Craig and Annie also fall completely in love and she will do anything to keep the man who owns her heart alive!

Will Annie and Craig have a happily ever after or will these two have to go their separate ways? As they both made vows to help Prince Charles Stuart retake his rightful place on the Scottish throne. Will Craig go find his men and Annie locate the Prince to make her next move? A move that would separate them both. Find out and read this amazing book that any lover of Scotland and history does not want to miss!

Warning: Definitely have a couple boxes of Kleenex. I have cried during reads but not like this one! Eliza Knight is one of those rare writers who writes with her heart and soul! I discovered Eliza about eleven years ago as she was my first digital and indie author. It was her Highland Brides book that absolutely blew me away. I read this book “Truly Madly Plaid” twice calling out to my Jacobite heart. Plus having Scottish ancestry and the fact I have visited Culloden battlefield in Scotland which was extremely emotional for me too. So this novel was very special to me for a variety of reasons

This novel has all the elements that Scottish historical readers love, but it also shows the reality of this time in history too. It tells the story of brave women who did their part in the jacobite movement. Yet the setting was phenomenal, brilliant dialogue and the characters were absolutely awe-inspiring and the plotting just took my breath away. This was another riveting, page turning, action packed, emotional story that weaves true history and a fiction romance which was a total masterpiece!

This is definitely one of the best books I have read in a long while and I can’t recommend this amazing book enough! I would give it a hundred stars if I could. Yes I loved this book that much and excited to read Fiona’s book next!

Prince Charlie’s Angels

1)The Rebel Wears Plaid (Jenny & Toran)

2)Truly Madly Plaid

(Annie & Craig)

3)You’ve Got Plaid

(Fiona & Brogano)

Disclaimer: I received a complimentary copy and an advance reader copy from the Sourcebook publishers. I voluntarily agreed to do a fair review and blog through netgalley. All thoughts, ideas and words are my own.

Buy Links:

https://www.amazon.com/Truly-Madly-Prince-Charlies-Angels-ebook/dp/B087V65V6V/ref=nodl_

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/truly-madly-plaid-eliza-knight/1136916989

https://books.apple.com/us/book/truly-madly-plaid/id1514030608

https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Eliza_Knight_Truly_Madly_Plaid?id=X0zgDwAAQBAJ

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/truly-madly-plaid

Revelations Chapter 4

Fandom: Stormlight Archives

Pairing: Kaladin/Adolin

Spoilers: For WoK and WoR

Also on AO3 http://archiveofourown.org/works/13169070/chapters/30119982

Links to Chapter 1, Chapter 2,  Chapter 3

Chapter 4

The empty stone wall didn’t budge under Adolin’s dark gaze but that didn’t stop him from continuing to stare it down. He was in a bad mood.

Usually, he would go out and distract himself. Spend time with the lighteyed lady he was courting at the moment. Invite her to lunch or dinner, if he had the time. Look at jewellery or clothes in the various stalls and shops throughout the busy camp. Visit the practice grounds and train with his blade until his hair was dark with sweat and his muscles told him to rest and whatever had soured his mood forgotten through the exertion.

Storm whoever it was for attacking him. Storm the bridgeboy for coming up with a plan that kept him safe but also a prisoner of his own quarters.

Thinking about the bridgeboy didn’t improve his mood by any means. In a way, Kaladin was the reason for Adolin’s bad mood.

Adolin left the wall alone and his displeased gaze fell upon the, by now replaced and very much poison-free goblet.

Rubbing his temples and making a conscious effort to stop frowning, Adolin exhaled slowly. At this rate, there was a headache looming in his near future.

8 hours previously

After his father left Adolin went over to his bed, tired and exhausted by the day’s events. Stripping down to his underclothes, he folded his uniform and placed it neatly on top of the dresser, his boots on the floor next to it.

The first thing he saw when he pushed back the covers was a long, dark hair, contrasting with the pale cream colours of the bedlinen. He picked it up with a scowl and let it fall to the floor.

He remembered the bridgeboy groping the sheets and crawling around on the mattress like some kind of axehound trying to find a trail. He should’ve found it hilarious. If only it didn’t make him feel like he missed a step and stumbled. Been thrown off-balance.

Dismissing the thought, he placed a thick piece of cloth over his bedside lamp, a clear goblet filled with spheres, and slipped under the sheets. They rustled softly as Adolin turned, trying to find a comfortable position. He burrowed deeper under the covers, curling up slightly, more for the comfort than because of the slight chill in the night air.

The clean smell of a freshly made bed registered, but it was mixed with something else. A subtler yet more pronounced smell. Richer and darker than the gentleness of fresh sheets, but no less pleasant. More tangy and salty.

Blood rushed to his face. Cheeks burning, Adolin cursed under his breath and shoved the sheet away from his face with a jerky motion.

It didn’t help much and Adolin felt mortified at somehow still being able to smell it. Clinging to his senses like some sort of haunting phantom-smell.

Turning onto his back, Adolin stared up at the dark ceiling, willing his hear to slow its beat.

Storming bridgeboy!

Breathing in and out through his mouth and resolutely ignoring the urge to further investigate the smell, Adolin fell asleep.

1 hour previously

No light filtered into his room, as it had no windows. Just like the majority of the soulcast barracks and buildings. Sometimes the soulcaster would add windows later. It was harder for people to sneak in that way, but if you asked Adolin it was storming annoying was what it was.

As it was, Adolin didn’t think about soulcast buildings or the time of day at the moment. His mind was still foggy, thoughts flowing slow like a trickle of water making its slow way across a surface.

Comfortable warmth surrounded his body and his muscles were relaxed.

His breath quickened in anticipation as he let his hand slowly travel down his body.

It had been a while since he had let himself linger in bed for some drawn-out pleasure in the morning. Usually, he would either ignore his hardness or work it quick and efficiently, more like running a drill than pleasuring himself.

Today he had no morning duties to attend to. Since he was supposed to be ill from poison and all that.

Fingertips ran over the well-trained muscles of his torso, stroking up and down. Exploring his chest, teasing for a bit before he grew impatient. He let a finger dip inside his belly button, relishing the ticklish sensitivity of the skin there, before finally allowing his hand to reach inside his undergarments.

At the first touch, Adolin inhaled sharply through his mouth, eyes closing in delight at the sensation that coursed through his body. Grip loose and caressing, slightly squeezing as he neared the tip. He worked himself slow and languidly, not wanting to rush his release. He let his thumb rub over the slit, smearing his slowly gathering wetness over the head. A shudder ran through his body as he squeezed more firmly, still keeping up his steady and slow pace. The motion of his hand encountered less resistance now, the evidence of his rising pleasure spread over the length of it.

As he grew closer to completion he bit his lip, wanting to keep any sounds to himself. He turned his face, burying it into the pillow as he squeezed just right and breathed in sharply through his nose. And promptly let go of his member, as if burned, as a distinctively tangy and salty smell filtered through his lust induced daze.

Between heavy breathes, Adolin let out a few colourful curses.

There was no way his bedding still held the bridgeboy’s scent.

Face burning, he groaned in frustration as his member gave an insistent throb. Just a bit more. He contemplated shortly if he should just continue. His thoughts stubbornly kept on returning to the captain of the guard. Predictably following the principle of thinking about something the more you didn’t want to think about it.

The warmth suddenly seemed stifling and Adolin pulled the covers back, pushing them to the foot of the bed as if they had personally offended him. His soft and lazy mood had evaporated like water left over a fire for too long.

He got out of bed, feet hitting the soft carpet covering the stone floor. The undergarments were restraining his hardness uncomfortably, reminding him with an almost painful throb that it was still there. He grimaced.

He would have been happier if it had started to flag as soon as his thoughts had turned to the bridgeboy.

now

After having paced for a good twenty minutes, Adolin decided that Kaladin had ruined his mood long enough. That the man in question had no idea about it nor was at fault didn’t matter. Being angry at the bridgeboy felt better than cursing his brain for recalling the phantom-smell or questioning why it had brought forth the smell in the first place.

Forcing himself to relax, Adolin grabbed his fashion magazine and sat down in a chair. It wasn’t a new magazine or one he hadn’t looked at before but, being confined to his quarters, he had little else to do.

The drawings inside the magazine were coloured and showed detailed sketches of various shirts, trousers, jackets and even shoes. They were not necessarily drawn by masters of their craft but that didn’t mean they were bad. A lot of artists felt that drawing fashion wasn’t their calling, instead turning to make studies of plants and animals or travelling to different countries to capture the contrast to their own culture and landscape.

While Adolin had little knowledge about art, he could still tell that the drawings in the magazine were very well done. The articles of clothing depicted had a feeling of substance to it and it was easy to tell whether the fabric was heavy or thin. The people wearing the clothes were often drawn without faces but Adolin preferred it that way. He would feel a bit odd scrutinising pictures of people he didn’t know, especially in public.

The coloured pages of the magazine were filled with faceless people wearing mostly frilly clothing in all sorts of fabrics and colours. The page he currently looked at showed a light blue shirt that looked playful with the ruffles at the collar and the wrists, but also showed off the form of the body underneath. The shirt was a bit tight but not as much as to stretch.

It would surely be another one or two years at the least before the war ended and Adolin could lay his uniform aside and freely decide what he wanted to wear. It wasn’t that he disliked the uniform and it suited him rather well, or so he had been told on multiple occasions. But wearing the same outfit every day for so long was frustrating and annoying, especially since wearing the latest fashion was considered good form even in the Shattered Plains. But also, when going out to dinner or shopping with whomever he was courting at the moment. Most ladies complimented his looks in the uniform, but half of them later complained about him never wearing anything casual.

The pants in the drawing were a bit tighter than the military standard ones he was currently wearing and looked like they were made from thinner material, with the way they followed the outlines of the legs so closely. He was sure the ladies would appreciate it, if he wore one of those, especially with one of those shortened coats over it.

A knock on the door forced Adolin away from his appraisal of the clothes. The door opened after Adolin gave permission to enter and he could see a tray with food and something to drink before the person carrying the tray became visible.

His appetite all but evaporated and his stomach lurched. Retreating behind the cover of his magazine, Adolin hoped his face wasn’t as hot as it felt.

There was no reason to feel embarrassed, he told himself. But it did very little to let him forget about this morning. That was precisely the reason he didn’t think about anyone specific when pleasuring himself. Not that he had thought about the bridgeboy.  Not really. That had been an unfortunate accident. The most unfortunate and tragic accident of his life but he would not let it make him feel miserable or awkward. He refused. Even if that decision didn’t necessarily make him feel better. But being a soldier, he had faced far more embarrassing situations. Namely when he was wearing Shardplate on the battlefield and had to relief himself.

“Why are you here this early?” Kaladin looked about as thrilled about being here as Adolin felt. At least they could agree on something.

“Dalinar gave the order for me to guard you until the threat is found.” Adolin felt a fool. His father had told him the very same thing last night. It also seemed reasonable that the bridgeboy would get his food. The less people knew about the ploy, the less likely it was people found out that Adolin was in perfect health.

“It’s not like you can stand guard all day and night.”  As Kaladin set the tray with dishes on the table he glanced at the fashion magazine, then at Adolin and raised a brow. Adolin refused to react to the provocation.

“No, I can’t, but I can guard you twenty bells each day before I need some rest.”

Slightly perplexed, Adolin watched as Kaladin plucked a spoon from the tray and started eating a few spoonfuls of the two dishes that were placed in bowls as if that was a normal thing. One seemed to be the spicy porridge the kitchen prepared for Adolin most days. The other bowl held some pickled fruit.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Even if you have more stamina, you can’t tell me you can properly train with me or fight with that little rest.” He stared as long fingers plucked a piece of fresh bread and salted meat before putting it in his mouth and chewing slowly. “Are you now also my food taster or do you not get enough to eat, bridgeboy?”

Swallowing the breakfast, Kaladin looked up at him. “Since your last food taster is still recovering from food poisoning and I don’t know your new one, I thought it important to check again. And you’re right.” Adolin thought he had heard wrong. “It’ll be difficult to do my best with that little rest. I don’t know how well the Stormlight can compensate.” Kaladin frowned. Or rather, frowned even more than he did already. Kaladin seemed to ponder about the problem as he sniffed at the drink, Adolin guessed it was herbal tea by the smell, before taking a sip. He shoved the tray in Adolin’s direction, indicating that it was safe to eat.

As Adolin picked listlessly at his food with a second, clean spoon, and ate a bit of the porridge, he watched as the bridgeboy took a few steps towards the middle of the room before stopping and turning to stand guard at the door. He guessed the bridgeboy had wanted to search his rooms again before remembering that he had just done a thorough search last night. But Adolin could understand the sentiment. He would rather actively do something instead of standing around and waiting for something to happen as well. He understood the urge to act instead of standing still.

“You could always shorten your shift,” Adolin prompted, tired of waiting for Kaladin to come to the same conclusion. “Your men do a good job as guards.”  Kaladin’s face brightened slightly at those last words.

Honestly, his father might have told him to guard Adolin personally at all times, but the bridgeboy couldn’t be taking that literal, could he? Judging by Kaladin’s plan of guarding him all day except for four bells to rest, he seemed to be taking it quite literal.

“Alright, but I’m still going to taste all your meals. I don’t trust the new food taster and I don’t want to risk my men getting poisoned.” Adolin hummed in agreement as he emptied the cup of tea. That meant Kaladin would be his guard throughout most of the day still, perhaps with a small pause after dinner as to not draw attention when Adolin made his way to the chasm. If the disguise arrived. Perhaps, with it, they would be able to go into the chasms earlier tomorrow.

“Rumour has already spread that you have fallen ill and people are gossiping whether it’s a normal illness or something else.” Adolin was pleased to hear that. Trust the rumour mills to spread whatever they heard far and wide in a matter of hours. A doctor they trusted to stay silent had been send into his quarters before his father had left last night. It was almost worth admiring how fast some people spread rumours.

“That’s great. Let’s just hope that keeps anyone from attempting to maim me for a while.”

He dismissed Kaladin, gaze lingering on his retreating form in consideration. With those long legs, the current fashionably slightly tighter trousers with their thinner fabric would work splendidly for the bridgeboy.

Notes:

Well, if we're being honest Adolin's bed probably would not have any of Kaladin's smell, unless Adolin's mother was an axehound, but I couldn't resist writing this chapter. And since Adolin is still in denial about finding Kaldin attractive but I still couldn't resist writing something like this you'll just have to bear with me here. Direct any complaints you have towards Adolin, he'll collect those and burn me on a stake with all the letters of complaints bc he isn't so happy about the scenario I put him in.

Btw would you be interested in a chapter that has Kaladin's POV? I've already written a bit ahead bc I won't have as much time over the next few weeks, so the next two-three chapters are Adolin's POV. I had actually planned of changing POV throughout each chapter, like the beginning of ch 1 indicates but I kinda just stayed in Adolin's...

Hope you enjoyed the story so far! <3

Next week: the author is gonna make fun of some of her plotholes by pretending it's the characters fault. Please tell me if you encounter some bad grammar or other mistakes or give a shout if you would be interested in beta-reading the story!

Nicole Xiao

Basics Name: Nicole Xiao L’Ane she was born Xiao Nicole L’Ane but she switched her first name and her second name, her surname is luxembourgeois Ethnicity: Eurasian (father of pure luxembourgish family established in China for years and Chinese mother) (mother is daughter of Bengali father and Chinese mother living in Laos for decades) so (dad -> white & asian mom-> bengali and chinese) Age: 22 Sexuality: Straight, grey-aromantic Employment: Writer Birthday: 7 janvier 1995 Sign: Capricorn Eye Color: Amber Hair Style/Color: straigt black shoulder length hair Height: 5’03 Clothing Style: conservative, colorless (brown sometimes) Favorites Color : pale brown Animal: rodent Movie: Westerns,Japanese horror films & Asian actions film Game: pc games Music: alternative rock, blues, rocknroll, Electro pop, basically all her playlist Drink: milk tea Food: All Chinese street food involving pork Thoughts Your First Thoughts Waking Up: I don't waste time, I wake up and go no time to wander What You Think About the Most: my adoptive parents John and Authrine What You Think About Before Bed: Why Liun and I can move to welcome 3 more people to live with us You Think Your Best Quality Is: My apathy really, I love the fact that I have the ability to dissociate and be immune to what hurts others the most, the people I'm close too feel comfortable telling me anything, bc most of the time it don't phase me and I never judge nobody, I'm like a blank page….” Childhood memories/Relationships/Idols/etc. Nicole fave memory as a child is the birth of her little sister Vili as her and Liun felt lonely since brother was always at school and mom work 3 job and is only home sumdays, they took care of her like their 3rd twin. Mother (Xue Han): She was not close to her mom at all bc she was barely home working 3 jobs first at a local laundry from 12 to 4pm, in a hotel from 6pm to 10pm and as waitress from 10pm to midnight, therefore she slept at their aunt house and left Nicole,Liun and baby Vili alone with their brother who went to school from 9am to 6pm. So they barely had time to bond plus the mom had an exhorbitant love for money when she married she just did bc he impressed her with his family rich reputation in China and the fact he was half white(she was very ashamed of her Bengali heritage in a white beauty supremacy Laos & China) so she urged to marry him and weirdly she had a child shortly after as a “surprise” (huh she was pregnant before meeting him she took the opportunity by marrying what she thought was a rich man to make him believe the baby was HIS and secure the wealth she wanted) after the marriage she realized Qiang was not a direct heir of the “L’Ane” family wealth but just a cousin of the Heir he had an argument with and they cut him out of financial support, they became lower middle class, by that time she was pregnant with twins and didn't announced to Quiang, who signed paper saying that his family had just one Child and no plans of another bc China population was too much and birth had to be limited. They recieved 5,000 for accepting the “agreement” not to have children but then she announced her pregnancy after Quiang decided to hide the kids by not declaring them at birth, just the time to get a lawyer to annul the agreement. Fearing to get arrested bc Quiang didn't find a lawyer that will accept to be paid a lower middle class family revenue she declared the children, Quiang accepted but left the house not taking care of the newborn twins for 5 month, And Xue had to payback the 5,000¥ so she took a job and had her family track Quiang down they found him, homeless and hungry he came back home w no explanation and was a stay at home dad for the twins and Xue worked. To payback the money he secretly got into the Chinese mafia and sold drugs and firearms in secret places. Him & Xue never talked in that period he hated her to have put them in this situation of payback and she hated him to have lied about his wealth. Within 2 month they paid back now everybody's just acted like this never happened and the subject wasn't talked again. Xue stopped the working and rebecame the stay at home mom, Quiang continued to mysteriously bring much money home but Xue didn't question it as they became upper middle class and her lifestyle was fancy. Quiang was depressed bc he wanted out of the mafia but that's impossible unless death, he put Kein in a high private school. But 2 years later the twins were 3 year old, Quiang brutally left the house, they got kicked out their wealthy mansion and back to their lower middle class life, Xue was in the last stage of her pregnancy and Kein was not kim led out of school as it was vacations but for the rentrée Xue had to find a solution she send the twins to her aunt and went work in the capital while pregnant. And continued to work after Vili birth that she left at the aunt house and Keon still went to school. The mother was close the twins as baby but unable to bond as they grew very mature at the age of 3. And even know Xue is like a old connaissance who gave them up for Nicole. Father (Quiang L’Ane): Weirdly she gets along beat with Quiang even if he was an on and off dad she as no difficulty or awkwardness talking to him maybe because Nicole is Schizoid she really not is big on social relations so even if he don't talk to her in weeks she won't hold no grunges against him, talking is very spontaneous with Quiang and Nicole it's that personal daughter-dad bond that only them can get. After he left when she was 3, he came back a month after her sister birth and secretly took them (Nicole,Liun & Kein) with the permission of the aunt who stayed with vili and told nothing to Xue, and they stayed with him and he will introduce them to “cousins” Wen & Lam and he frequently did that half month without Xue ever knowing the only time he came see her was to file for divorce BROTHER/SISTERS: Nicole and Kein where very close he was the perfect big brother at least he tried, stealing stuff for them to eat, reading them stories celebrating their birthday by telling every neighborhood who gave them flowers, coming to take them after school everyday being the funniest and indépendant from anybody. When they got adopted he was way more depressed than Liun (who wanted her momma) and Kevin didnt understand how she felt nothing he got bullied at school bc he couldn't talk English and always fought and got in trouble after school because in China he always hang out with his dad and dads friend ( who he didn't know where mafia and Chinese Gamgsters) so he had a strong character. The bullying didn't last and he was the most feared/respected at school. So at home it had an effect on how he didn't interact with sisters or adoptive parents (who he HATES) anymore from his high school years. When he went to college he got back to his old self as he saw his dreams of big study came true slowly bc he makes himself remember how his dad made everything to have him in school and how proud his momma was so he got right to the only memory of his parents that he had his sisters. Just has everything went good John and Authrine went to Laos with all the children for vacations and they linked up with Xue, Liun,Kein and Ovi were the happiest and Nicole was very apathic with her mom but was polite. So they linked up and spent few days with her she asked about college for Kein then (OF COURSE) for some money as if what she was sent monthly by the rich family was not enough. And she revealed in an argument with Quiang that Kein wasn't his son after Quiang came out of nowhere to say hi to his kids, and Quiang revealed that Wen and Lam were his children. This was what déclenched an identity crisis for Kein he took the first plane back to New York and didn't give any news to anybody but a text to John and Authrine saying he is fine and back in college. They didn't question it. So that he was already lost to he was in high school he was back broken in the identity crisis stage with no answer to who brought him to this world and it's been 2 year he hasn't talk to any of his sisters or adoptive parents or “biological” parents nobody came after him because he sends news every month from a cab somewhere in NYC Your character’s relationship with their mother or their father, or both. Was it good? Bad? : Were they spoiled rotten, ignored? Do they still get along now, or no?: Where (and when) did they grow up? How did they view it as a child, and did that change as they matured? How do they feel about the place now? : Describe their best and worst memories from childhood : Who was their idol growing up?: What were they like as a child?: How do they feel about their family? How does their family feel about them?: Do they have siblings/cousins?: Sex/Romance What are they attracted to in a partner?: Do they have any particular fetishes or kinks?: Is there anything in particular that they won’t do?: Have they ever hurt someone they loved?: Do they fall in love easily?: Who is their current partner, and what attracted the character to them?: What kind of a relationship is it?: Misc Questions (less personal) Do they have any allergies? : What is their weapon of choice if they had to use one?: What is their preferred method of transportation?:. What kind of weather makes them happy, and what kind makes them sad?: What languages do they speak?: Do they eat a healthy diet? A varied one?: As a child, what did they want to be when they grew up?: What do they do when they need comfort?: What are they like when they are drunk?: Where in their body do they keep stress or tension?: Do they have any pet peeves or dislikes, and how do they react to encountering them?: Do they like to travel?: How well do they take criticism? How do they react to others noticing their flaws?: What are they like when they get sick? Do they have a particular system (ears, lungs, etc) that illness gravitates to?: How do they react to being physically injured or undergoing medical treatment?: 1: What’s your OC’s biggest insecurity and how would they react if someone pointed it out to them? 
2: If your OC wants to buy a firearm, what it might be for?
she owns one and it’s for protection (it was a gift from one of her brothers) 3: Does your OC behave differently around different people, if so with whom and how? 
4: Would your OC want to involve themselves in humanitarian work ? If yes, then for what? If not, then why not? 5: How would your OC generally react to someone being verbally abusive towards them for no apparent reason?
 6: Does your OC have a realistic image of their own intelligence?
 7: Does your OC have any irrational phobias? 
8: How is/was your OC’s relationship with their parents? 9: Does your OC feel a pressure to achieve or are they content and calm with doing what 10: Does your OC guard their emotions by being tough? If not how would they?
 11: How would your OC react to hearing they’re adopted? 12: What is one of the most primary things your OC feels that is missing from their life?
 13: What kind of situations does your OC avoid the most?
talking about feelings 14: If your OC gets into a fight with their best friend, would they wait for their friend to make up with them, or would they try to make up with their friend?
 15: Does your OC consider themselves a good person?
 16: Is your OC good at giving others validation of their feelings and making them feel understood?
 17: Does your OC suffer from any mental health issues?
 19: What boosts your OC’s confidence the most?
 20: Does your OC hurt others often unintentionally? If yes, how?
 21: Does your OC hurt others often intentionally? If yes, how?
 22: How does your OC usually show affection? Are they openly romantic or more restricted with their affectionate emotions?
 23: Does your OC tend to hide something about their personality/essence when meeting new people? If yes, what?
 24: How would your OC react if they got humiliated by someone in a group of people? 25: How would your OC process the grief caused by the death of a loved one?
 26: What is the most intense thing your OC has been battling with?
 27: Does your OC practise any kind of escapism? If yes, what kind?
 28: How would your OC react if a bully stole their lunch money in high school?
. 29: How does your OC behave on the face of a conflict?
 30: What makes your OC defensive quickest?

Prison is Hell

Original Link By SamMarduk

I hate it here.

Granted, I deserve it.

I'm currently locked down behind massive, concrete walls and solid steel doors in a maximum-security penitentiary. I was locked up what feels like a lifetime ago now. I earned it, I did. Every second I rot here is justice, but that doesn't change the fact that I hate it.

It is cold here. I have a single concrete cot and toilet. My clothes itch and are too thin to keep any chills out. The walls are a grey with a sickly green tint due to the dull, swamp-like tile that sends a grossly colored glow into the room reflecting the buzzing florescent light above me. The door is thick and unmoving. They paint it the same shade of sickly green as the floor. I assume it is lead based to save on cost. (Maybe, if I lick it enough times, maybe I can kill enough brain cells to forget I’m here.) I have no roommate, as many don’t who are perceived as “extreme risks.” Thankfully I can still have time outside and shower without being entirely supervised. More than I can say for many in here.

My only commodity is my toilet paper and my journal. I earned the journal through much work and good behavior. The pencil I write with is dull and has no eraser; like that a golfer would use to keep scorecards. I am allowed 4 hours per day with it: between breakfast and lunch. I receive the journal and pencil with my meal and return it in kind. If the pencil has any pieces missing or there are any extensive tears in the pages then I will lose it for the following day. So I comply. I comply so I may have some mild comfort in this concrete cage in which I slowly die.

Again, I definitely earned it, but that doesn't change the fact that prison is hell.

I earned my place here because I killed people.

I killed many people.

I killed 20 people to be exact.

This is the first time I’ve actually written it.

I beat the Cannibal’s number, which for some reason gave me a sense of accomplishment. However, what gave me more satisfaction was the evenness of the number. Twenty.

Two, ZERO.

20

20

2 0

2-0

2....0

20

Even and smooth.

My Compulsion made it this way. 21 would have made getting arrested a living hell. 15 would’ve been ok, but 20 was much cleaner. Increments of five. Always increments of five. Sometimes during a shopping trip I would grab a stick of gum so as to have 20 or 10 or 30 items even. However, in the case of the killings it was much more intense.

The problem was the itch I felt in between. It was a gnawing pain in my mind from 1-4 and 6-9. The itch was not as bad during 5’s but 10’s were the best. However, that number will eventually attract attention. That number is partially what got me caught, but I had to “scratch the itch” so to speak. It made me empathize with vampires in the old horror stories- the sensation of aching thirst that cannot be quenched. It is nightmarish.

The same remained true for my age: 40. I finished at 40, which made me content. I hated not having an even age. I could force down the bad feelings my age ended in 5s or even numbers but I always had bad years with 1s, 3s, 7,s and 9s.

I digress. I understand it is abnormal behavior, but it’s a compulsion. I have it manageable so that most would never notice in a day to day routine.

I have to reminisce on these pages because I have no way of going back. It started many years ago, and the urge only grew from there.

The first time I killed was interesting. I should have felt the need to immediately kill again, as I did in later years, but I didn’t. They say mental illness worsens with age. I guess that’s what kept me from acting again so soon, but I’m not sure.

The first time I killed was pretty lackluster. . I was walking home from school through the woods where very few kids were bold enough to cross. While walking, I stumbled upon a man. He was clearly injured and even at the age of 12 I knew he had little time left. He sat, holding his side, panting in labored breaths. He didn’t see me yet. From my vantage point I could see a long, white bone jutting from his leg, which tells me the pain from what his ribs were doing was worse than that of a broken leg. That, or he was just in shock.

Far above this section of woods was a road, and from what I could see a vehicle burst through railing. The wrecked vehicle, a ‘69 Chevy C20 truck, lay decimated some 40 feet below the roadway in the brush and rocks. I remember this truck, because I wound up purchasing one many, many years later in a secret nostalgia for myself. Either way, the driver had pulled himself from the wreckage and crawled in agony upwards of 50 feet to the nearest tree, where his strength was slowly failing him.

I remember seeing a large shard of metal which had been ripped from the side of the truck and picking it up. I walked slowly to the man who reached pitifully towards me for help. I slowly shoved the sharp edge of the metal into the man’s throat and watched as blood began to spurt from the wound and his mouth. He gargled like a drowning sow on his own blood, and after a time he ceased all movement, forever.

It was a rush of which I cannot explain. The excitement of ending a human life is next to none. I was content for a fleeting moment. I stared at the body for some time before taking a bloody shred of his pant leg that was hanging by a thread. I just wanted to have a keepsake.

That was my first kill. I was never caught, nor even suspected. Growing up in the mountains of the south allowed much privacy, and it allowed me to get away with murder. As time grew, so did the feeling of power and accomplishment. I felt like God.

No one even knew I was the way I was. I would never be a suspect, because I knew to hide.

I hid well, because I knew how to hide. From the time I was a boy I knew how to blend in. Sometimes it was a challenge because of my appearance, but I learned a simple skill: how to hide in plain sight.

I was able to work hard in the background. I made good grades and maintained very few close friendships throughout school, so no one would discover anything about me. However, I made sure everyone had a nice thing to say about me, carrying groceries, helping kids with studying, always using manners. I graduated in the upper ranks of my class and soon attended the local college. After I earned a degree in business, I worked hard where I could and raised enough money to buy my own Rig. I worked by riding the highways as a trucker for years and eventually bought 2 more rigs. By 35 I was a respectable business owner in my old town with a dispatch and a few drivers. I obviously still drove, even as the owner, because it kept me close to my only real passion.

I hid well in plain sight because white people love a nigger. In a town of 90% white and 10% “other” I learned to blend despite being a minority. Learn to talk like them, learn to walk like them and you can manipulate them into whatever you want.

I hate them. Not white people; all people.

My mother died shortly after I graduated high school from heart failure, and I felt liberated, for I held her opinion highly. Her opinions often kept me in line and respectable. When she died, I was free to pursue my own interests. My father, while a good man in his own right, never held much weight in my actions, so I walked the path I chose for myself despite what his feelings may be.

Either way, I dwindled for some time after the first murder. The urge slowly grew. By high school I kept my eyes peeled for another opportunity to snuff out a life. Finally, that day came.

The second time I murdered was equally uninspiring. I found myself at a graduation party and the whole senior class was drinking heavily. All except me that is. We were at the home of a wealthier student who had maintained a spotless record through both junior high and high school and wanted to go out in a way where she could get out of her preverbal box.

I learned two things that evening. The first, that a well mannered, well educated young lady was no different than anyone else in regards to having a darker side. She wanted to be remembered for a party. Not her good grades, not her generous deeds, not her modest manner of dress, but a party. Everyone has a dark side in some way. This was the first thing I learned. The second was that if everyone is drunk and dancing on the roof, you could bump a certain young lady discreetly enough to send her three stories down into the concrete and make it look like an accident. She landed with a smack that can only be replicated in my dreams. This was the first time I was aroused by a killing. I’m not sure why. She was in a two-piece (which I assume her parents knew nothing about) and her skin was pale, and smooth. Her deep brown hair flowed past her shoulders and the look of utter confusion and terror in the face of innocence was priceless. Blood pooled from her head and seeped into her nearby swimming pool. I fancied her you could say, but only because she represented something that does not exist. Human innocence. When her skull cracked hard against the pavement, I was instantly excited. I had to sneak away to handle it, and steal a memento from the girl’s room. Meanwhile, the remaining partygoers descended into madness trying to repair a situation that was far beyond broken. The chaos I caused that night again resurfaced my deep sense of accomplishment that only comes from death.

This was the second time I killed. 18 years of age. By the time I hit my stride I stood at 6”2’ at 260lbs. I had always enjoyed lifting weights and working towards my overall health. A fat predator is a bad predator. I maintained this level of fitness for most of my adult life. I had to in order to pursue my passion.

Of course, things would have a way of catching up with me. I was incarcerated with an unfortunate mountain of evidence. I wouldn’t say I covered every base perfectly to ensure not getting caught, but I felt like I was careful enough. I guess not in hindsight.

I remember the day I was arrested. I had turned 40 the month prior and was on the road delivering a shipment of plywood. I was behind the wheel of my rig in rural Alabama. I was taking a back road because I enjoy the scenery, and when you’re the boss you can set your own schedule. At this point, I had killed 19 people and the itch was present. I would have to rub the back of my neck when I thought about it. It needed to be scratched. I needed to take care of it.

That’s when I saw her.

Miles from any structure or any living person was a broken down, baby blue Volkswagen Beetle. The emergency lights were flashing and a woman was looking into her engine compartment. The height of my Truck allowed my to scan both her car, and the area surrounding us. It was tall, uncut grass and trees, covered in utter blackness due to the overcast night. There was no one for miles and miles. We could be alone together. I pulled in behind her, with my low lights so as not to scare her.

When I stepped out of the truck I addressed her.

“Pardon me ma’am,” I said calmly. I know how to disarm. I have worked on my speaking voice for years in order to betray their security into my hands, “Are you alright?” She stepped out from behind her hood and I saw her in better light.

She was a young, Hispanic woman. Her clothes were tattered, but I think that was intentional. She had silky, dark hair to her shoulders and black librarian glasses. She was pretty, which was a bonus for me. Consider it like a dinner. You’re going to get your meal, but when it includes dessert then it is all the better. I also knew she could complete this cycle. She could be the 20th and I could rest. Best yet, she was petite, so there would be little fight.

“I think the engine is shot,” She said in a desperation that these dark woods certainly played well into. She just wanted to get out of danger... little did she know.

“I can give you a ride, I own this company so I can make the time,” I didn’t want to sound presumptuous, but I knew by making myself a manager it would remove the “creepy truck driver” mentality.

“I don’t know...”

“I promise,” I edged, in my best “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” voice, “I’ll take you straight into town and we can find you a phone. My wife would kill me if I let a young lady stay stranded in the woods.”

I wasn’t married, but that is another way of disarming her. A spouse always makes a man less dangerous, or again, as she thought.

“Ok,” She said, with her fear betraying her skepticism, “Thank you.”

“I’ll get the door for you.”

As she walked to the passenger side I held the door open for her. As she took her first step up I grabbed her ankle and pulled her straight down with as much force as I could manage.

Her jaw connected with the studded metal stairs full force. I know some teeth were broken by the crunch that emanated from her skull. She fell limp to the dirt as I lifted her onto my shoulder. She didn’t stir long enough for me to grab a large socket wrench from my rig. I could feel the warm blood from her mouth pouring down my shoulder.

I carried her into the tall grass, just out of sight. We made love then. I had made love before to some, but this was special. She was the 20th. She would complete the need. Halfway through she began to wake and struggle. From there I had to act. I took the socket wrench and began to hit her. She struggled to scream due to her shattered jaw. I hit her in her pretty face, over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over.

When I had finished on all fronts I took her wallet from her jeans off beside us. Hannah, I believe her name was. I took her glasses as the fell off when her face collided with my truck and avoided the wrath of the socket wrench. They had her name engraved inside the temple.

I drove. Leaving the scene entirely. I had to re-enter the highway some time later and saw lights in my mirror. I had been stopped before. Once even with a body in the back, so I was not worried.

The officer walked to the side and called me out. “You Williams (my last name)?” He asked with an unreadable demeanor.

“Yes sir,” I answered coolly, holding my id and paperwork for the truck and delivery.

He then spoke into his radio.

“Yeah, we found him.”

“Officer what’s this ab-“ I was cut short.

“Sir, please turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

“Why?” I demanded, I was not about to be cuffed and restrained for no good reason.

He then turned me violently to my truck and slapped cuffs around my wrists. From there He sat me on the pavement and called for backup.

When other officers arrived one finally noticed the blood on my back. They then found the glasses. They then found the poorly wiped down socket wrench. They then received word of a brutal mutilation several towns over.

They had stopped me initially because one of my drivers was caught with a brick of marijuana and they wanted to stop all trucks from my dispatch to make sure we were legitimate. It would be funny if it weren’t so infuriating. I was brought down on a technicality.

My run lasted from 12 to 40. I was undetected for that entire time. I changed my MO. I killed strangers only. I was so careful. A technicality was the only thing that could have done this.

My simple home was turned about until they found my treasure box (a shoebox of souvenirs and news clippings). From there it was easy to put me at every single murder. Every homeless person stabbed to death in cities. Every transient prostitute with their heads missing. Every unsupervised child in crowded streets. I was linked to them all.

Now, one may ask, “Why would you be so stupid as to keep mementoes?”

To that I would say I had to. It was my passion and the only thing that gave me meaning. I had to keep something around. They were the only memories I could have of those times.

Like I first wrote, I deserve to be in prison, but I don’t regret in the slightest what I’ve done.

The trial was grueling and irritating. Since I killed across state lines there was arguments as to where to have my trial, but it became a federal issue, which only meant more bureaucracy. My lawyer explained many of the killings would be circumstantial at best, but just as many have my now connected DNA to the scene and are going to be nearly impossible to deny. I decided to throw in the towel. The media was out for blood, the public was out for blood, and the jury was out for blood. I had my fill, so now it was time to pay the favor forward. There was no way to avoid a life sentence so I may as well come clean and get regale the tales of my exploits to a room of terrified jurors and family members burning with hatred.

Despite the difficulties of finding some evidence of murders, I was still convicted for 18 of the 20. However, I was punished for them all regardless.

The day of sentencing I stood still and stoic before the judge. I could feel the eyes of all those present attempting to sear me, but failing.

The Judge looked down at me and rambled on about my cruelties and resentment for man. The entire time he droned I stood with the thought that the death penalty was illegal in this state. It was utterly satisfying to know the uproarious crowds calling for my head when the law wouldn’t allow it. I snapped out of it when he got to the sentence.

“Seeing as how the death penalty is illegal in this state, I can only do the most with that in light. I hereby sentence you to one thousand and one life sentences.”

He was being melodramatic. Not in history had there been such an absurd sentence. What's worse, The number was uneven. Meaning the rest of my life I would have to say one thousand and ONE when discussing my sentence. He knew this.

My demeanor slightly shaken, I asked the Judge, “Why 1000 and one?”

The courtroom was silent. The families, friends and jury looked at me with contempt, but that didn’t matter then, even less now.

The Judge leaned over his podium. He smiled with a smugness that still boils my blood and he calmly replied... “To torment you.”

That’s how I got where I am now. I don’t interact with the other inmates or the guards. I just mind my business as best I can. I don’t like to think about my sentence because it makes me itch. Similar to when you haven’t paid a certain bill, but don’t have the funds. It’s a wincing, mental discomfort.

I write the rest of this in a testament to what happened yesterday in hopes it reaches someone on the outside. My day started normally. A loud bell rang and I stood to my feet. From there, my door opened and I walked to the shower facility. I tried to find myself at the end of the line so as to get the most time out of my cell. I also like my privacy. The inmates here are insufferable. They are uneducated criminals who would have no life outside of these walls. My fellow black inmates gave me hell for being “crazy” since African American serial killers are considered such an abnormality. The other races tended to stay to themselves, minus a few Aryan brotherhood members casting the occasional slur my direction. I entered the shower as normal, but I felt an innate sense of dread that I don’t know how to describe. I just felt... unpleasant. I felt watched and alone at the same time. I felt completely hopeless and near despair. I quickly finished my shower and left the facility. The halls were quiet and the stationary guard was not at his post in front of my cell. I was alone in this hallway.

Suddenly, I felt a large hand grip my shoulder and order me forward. The next thing I knew I was being escorted to the Warden’s office. I was somewhat stunned, but complied.

I walked the tight enclosed halls until I reached the last room on the right. Inside was totally dark apart from a dim lamp illuminating a desk. The hand shoved me in and slammed the door behind me.

I saw the silhouette of Warden and he beckoned me to sit. I sat across from him in uncomfortable silence. He didn’t move and neither did I. I would force him to make the first move.

After what felt like an eternity he spoke up.

“Let’s go over your file.” His voice carried, a mild southern accent sprinkled in.

I did not respond. He gave no indication as to why, so I would bide my time.

From here I will paraphrase what was said, as my memory can’t perfectly recreate the entire conversation.

“Count 1. Confessed. Not convicted. Man falls off cliff and you assist him in passing. You were 12 so it wasn’t included in your final file, but it warrants mentioning.

Count 2. Confessed. Convicted. You confessed to shoving a young woman off a roof and then robbing her home of a trophy. You were 18

Count 3. Confessed Convicted. Homeless man near your college, you stabbed him and cut out a tooth. You were 20

Count 4. Confessed. Not Convicted. You claim to have shot a prostitute in Texas. The souvenir you took could not link you to the crime and she had no family. You were 24. Not convicted, but you know what you did.

Counts 5 through 9. Confessed. Convicted on all counts. You killed five lot lizards before changing your MO. That was smart. They were all strangled and you kept a lock of hair. Left them on the highway.

Count 10. Confessed. Convicted. You took a lost 12-year-old and drowned him. You kept his retainer. You were doing well in life by this point, but murder still called. Didn’t it?

Count 11. Confessed. Convicted. Ah, this one was special wasn’t she? That Gas station employee who you stalked for a while? Followed her home and broke in. Took your time and did it right. She broke your perfect streak and you were going to make her pay right? Kept her locket as a token of your affection.

Count 12. Confessed. Convicted. You took a young man to your from a local club in Missouri. Strangled him the moment the door was closed. Chopped him up and kept his teeth.

Counts 13 through 17. Confessed. Convicted on all counts. The Hitchhiker phase. Here it seems you just wanted to close the gap. You got sloppy. Left a lot of evidence behind. I guess because they were vagrants it wouldn’t have mattered.

Count 18. Confessed. Convicted. You killed a Housewife in Florida. You were on vacation at them time. You spotted her and just had to do something. Waiting until her husband left and had yourself a time. Another rape and strangling. You took her bloodsoaked necklace.

Count 19. Confessed. Convicted. You saw a jogger one morning and followed in your truck. When you knew their routine you waited in the bushes until he passed. You killed him with a hammer and took one of his shoes.

Count 20. Confessed. Convicted. The one that brought you down. You couldn’t resist her. You were too careless. Too excited. Now you’re here. You took her glasses and bashing her head in and assaulting her.”

He took a deep breathe and his outline sat back.

“Do you know you know what they call you?” He asked me incredulously.

I was livid. He completely bastardized my work. I had done so much and he swept over it like an obituary column. I glared at him in the dark before answering, “The Scavenger Hunt Killer?”

I hated that name. They donned me the Scavenger Hunt Killer because my murders spanned so far and I collected odd, disconnected items. Again, my works and efforts were reduced to a joke. It still makes me sick. The warden spoke up again, “Are you sorry?”

I sat for a moment before responding, “Would it matter?” He chuckled in a deep throaty laugh. “No,” He said settling in, “I guess it wouldn’t.”

He continued, “I don’t get it really. You’re a highly intelligent, healthy and well spoken man, why on earth would you throw that away?”

I sat in angry silence. I refused to give this man the satisfaction of an answer.

“Do you believe in God?” The Warden asked, his tone now changed.

I chewed my tongue before responding, “No.”

“Pity,” he responded lackadaisically, as if my response didn’t really matter, “That would make what I’m about to tell you much better.”

I waited for him to continue.

“Your sentence is being commuted.”

I raised an eyebrow in disbelief, “really?”

“Yes,” He sat, still shadowed, but I knew he was smirking.

“What does that have to do with God?”

I know I should have had much more important questions to ask in that moment, but I was curious. I assumed he meant I should be thankful.

“Well,” he said, his voice trailing, “That would make this next part easier. You passed away this morning, son.” Before I could respond, his hand tossed a few photos in front of me.

It was me. I lay covered in blood on the shower floor. I had been stabbed from the looks of it.

“Yeah,” The Warden, or who I thought was the warden spoke up, “some Aryan fellow wanted to prove his might by stabbing a serial killer to death in the shower. Didn’t work though, since he was caught and will most likely be in solitary until it does irreparable damage. If that’s some comfort.”

I stared at him. I stared at the photographs.

I simple could not accept it.

“This is absurd,” I felt insulted and the prospect.

“I know it seems odd, but hear me out,” He sat upright, ready to make his case, “Do you know what the Universalists are?”

“No”

“Well,” He continued without missing a beat. “Basically it states that everyone gets into heaven. Even if you aren’t necessarily in their denomination.”

“This is heaven?” I was ready to laugh. This was a joke.

“No, see that’s the bad news,” He continued, “Catholics, Muslims, some Buddhists, see they believe in a temporal plane so they’re also sort of right. See everyone does eventually move on, but before anyone can move on, they must resolve all their earthly obligations... and judgments."

Before I could remark, he caught his breath and explained further.

“You died this morning. You served ONE of your 1001 life sentences. Welcome to number 2."

I stood up, “This isn’t funny. I’m leaving.”

I couldn't move. I was frozen in place. Unable to use my body. My eyes felt like they were being pried towards the seat.

“Please,” I heard The Warden, though his voice was now much deeper, sinking my gut, “sit.” I returned to my seat with a sensation that was new to me: fear.

“Now,” he continued, his voice returning to normal, “You are not dead. You just started another sentence. Everything will be back to normal when you leave. When I dismiss you, you will leave here and return to your bunk, do you understand?”

I nodded. Still stunned by what I then knew as truth. His voice. The unexplained dread I felt that morning.

I walked out of the Warden’s office that day, feeling a hopelessness I have never known. The prison was the same, but it wasn’t. It was lonelier. Darker.

That feels like forever ago. I learned since then.

First, “Lifetime” does not mean from the age you are incarcerated. I expected a 40-year “life” sentence. But after speaking with a few other inmates serving like myself, who I see sometimes sparingly, I learned that it varies somewhere from 80 to 120 years. It varies, but it is always at least 80.

I guess the guards don't notice after a certain point. Also, I assume they don't register that we never seem to leave. Inexplicable, but that's what's happening.

Second, each go around... changes you. The prisoners don't notice you. The others like you have fewer words. The guards seemed always outside of the line of sight, even when they would interact. They were like fleeting shadows.

I am cracking mentally. I will walk into the showers and see someone shaving, even speak with him at length. However, when I turn a corner or close a stall door, he’ll be gone when I return.

Next, I learned that suicide doesn’t work. I learned the same way every inmate in here like me does. I slit my wrists and they just ached for a week. I swallowed bleach and had a miserable stomachache, but no death. I hung myself where I choked and flailed, fully conscious, for 8 straight hours until a guard found me while bringing my breakfast the following morning.

I learned that being murdered decreases time, but murdering adds it, so no one on life row attempts murder here.

Finally, escaping isn't an option. We have runners sometimes. Men, who just finished their first sentence. The guy just snapped. I guess he pulled maybe 60 years before dying in his sleep. He just panicked and ran. The snipers didn't even turn. He grabbed the fence and immediately fell to the ground. From there he shook violently. He died right there of a heart attack.

I saw him a week later. 3rd life sentence. Half crippled. I guess we get punished if we try to leave. I don't know if its permanent. He was a wreck upon returning. It reminded me of the cats in my neighborhood as a boy. The first time you hurt it, the animal twitches and becomes neurotic, but given enough time, it accepts its fate. The man now spends his days staring silently behind dead eyes at whatever light source is around.

To some this is limbo. Where we remain trapped in the prison in which we were condemned until our body, and soul, have finished their sentences. To others this is some kind of purgatory. Where we are groomed for eternity in paradise. Either way, we are forced to remain, forced to live until we pay our dues. Never truly dying.

I don't even know if time is the same now, but if you're reading this I managed to successfully get these pages out.

I have handful of plans, which I cannot record. I cannot risk ant future attempts should this fail.

I’m leaving this journal for anyone who is a criminal or wants to become one. I have between 80,000 too= 100,000 years left. I do not feel remorse, but I do wish I knew then what I know now. This is simply a warning.

100,000 years on a concrete slab. A hard, unforgiving surface.

100,000 years with one hour a day in a dying earthscape I barely recognize.

100,000 years of sickly green floors and cold steel doors that move for nothing.

100,000 years of mopping floors, or scrubbing toilets

100,000 years of being monitored by beings I cannot fully comprehend as their burning horror erupts in the back of my mind.

1001 life sentences.

1000 to go.

Only one small thing gives me comfort.

With 1000 life sentences at least it’s a nice a clean number.

I hope I don’t die too soon and ruin this nice, even lifetime...

...because the next one will be hell.

Cannabis Smoke: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

The last few days we’ve seen a flurry of activity related to smokable cannabis products.  It’s been tough to keep track of everything that’s gone on, so today I’m going to take a page out of legendary Italian director Sergio Leone‘s book and break down the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in all things related to cannabis smoke.

The Good. On September 13, 2019, the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of Indiana struck down Indiana’s ban on “smokable hemp” deeming it unconstitutional (shout out to Kristen Nichols, editor of Hemp Industry Daily, for covering this case and for linking to the court’s Order at the top of her story).

Why is this decision good? Preemption! When a state law conflicts with federal law, federal law wins due to the Supremacy Clause of the Constitution. With that in mind let’s take a look at the match-up between Indiana’s smokable hemp ban and the 2018 Farm Bill.

The 2018 Farm Bill removed hemp from the Controlled Substances Act (“CSA”) and defined “hemp” as the Cannabis sativa L. plant with 0.3% or less THC “and any part of that plant, including . . . all derivatives, extracts, [and] cannabinoids . . . whether growing or not[.]” The 2018 Farm Bill did specifically did not preempt states or Indian tribes from passing laws regulating the production of hemp more stringently than federal law. However, the 2018 Farm Bill did explicitly preempt states and Indian tribes from passing laws that “prohibit the transportation or shipment of hemp or hemp products produced in accordance with” the 2018 Farm Bill.

In response to the 2018 Farm Bill, Indiana passed SEA 516 to legalize the commercial production of hemp in Indiana while also criminalizing the manufacture, finance, delivery, and possession of “smokable hemp,” i.e., hemp derivatives that can be introduced to the human body through inhalation. Notably, the ban on smokable hemp did not reference the “production” of hemp. This lead to the Midwest Hemp Council and several other hemp stakeholders to sue Indiana for violating federal law and to enjoin the state from enforcing portions of SEA 516 pending the lawsuit.

To recap, federal law says that states can’t interfere with the right to transport hemp products in interstate commerce. Indiana law says that it’s illegal to manufacture,  finance, possess, and deliver certain smokable hemp products and does not limit that prohibition to intrastate activities. The court ruled that the Plaintiffs had a high likelihood of success on challenging SEA 516 as being preempted by the 2018 Farm Bill and granted the injunction.

It’s also worth noting that the court considered Indiana’s legitimate claim that the passage of the 2018 Farm Bill made it difficult for law enforcement to differentiate between hemp and marijuana, especially smokable hemp. However, the court was not convinced that these challenges were enough to justify an outright ban on smokable hemp especially when other options were available (e.g., earmarking funds to purchase THC testing equipment; increasing penalties for knowingly selling marijuana packaged as hemp).

This court order won’t immediately impact states outside of Indiana but does show the impact of the 2018 Farm Bill on all hemp products, including smokable hemp.

The Bad. Donald Trump found out about vaping and announced that his administration would ban flavored vaping products. The Food and Drug Administration (“FDA”) issued a News Release shortly after Trump’s announcement stating that:

the FDA intends to finalize a compliance policy in the coming weeks that would prioritize the agency’s enforcement of the premarket authorization requirements for non-tobacco-flavored e-cigarettes, including mint and menthol, clearing the market of unauthorized, non-tobacco-flavored e-cigarette products.

As this is the Canna Law Blog, you may be wondering how this ban will impact cannabis, including both marijuana and hemp-derived vapor products. We’ll certainly get more insight once the FDA announces its compliance plan referenced above, along with promised guidance on how the FDA will regulate Hemp-CBD generally.

However, even though we don’t have the full picture, we already know this ban is bad policy, and likely to lead to an increase in unregulated and illegal vapor products. To understand this, I want to break down the vapor market into five major categories:

Legal vapor products containing nicotine or tobacco;

Illegal vapor products containing nicotine or tobacco;

Largely unregulated hemp-derived CBD vapor products;

State-legal marijuana-derived vapor products; and

Illegal vapor products containing marijuana.

Trump’s ban will have the biggest impact on lawful manufacturers of tobacco products in category one, who can no longer sell flavored vapor products. For years, the FDA has been focused on moving tobacco product manufacturers from category two to category one. The FDA even provides resources specifically designed to allow small businesses to comply FDA regulations in manufacturing tobacco products, which have changed a lot in the last few years.

In 2009, the Tobacco Control Act (“TCA”) granted the FDA regulatory authority over any “tobacco product,” that is, a “product made or derived from tobacco that is intended for human consumption, including any component, part, or accessory of a tobacco product.” In 2016, the FDA expanded its regulatory authority to include as e-cigarettes, cigars, pipes and waterpipes. Trump’s ban isn’t going to make it easier for the FDA to get illicit manufacturers to “buy in.”

Trump’s ban is also likely to cast a shadow on categories three and four:  manufacturers of Hemp-CBD and state-legal marijuana vapor products. The FDA’s website (here and here) seems to suggest that the agency currently does not interpret “tobacco products” so broadly as to include products free of nicotine or tobacco. Accordingly, it’s plausible that the FDA will not enforce Trump’s ban to explicitly ban Hemp-CBD and marijuana vapor products that are nicotine or tobacco-free.

Despite these jurisdictional issues that may limit the FDA’s enforcement ability, Trump’s ban places a target on all flavored vape products. This could mean seizures of cannabis-based vapor products in states where they are legal. It could also cause state regulators to ban certain marijuana and hemp vapor products.

In reality, the only products that won’t be impacted are likely marijuana and tobacco vapor products that are currently being manufactured illegally under federal and state law.

The Ugly. People are getting sick and dying as a result of vape-related illnesses and it’s likely going to get worse before it gets better because no one really know what’s going on. Let’s assume for a second that I’m totally wrong about Trump’s ban and it effectively kills the flavored vape market. If that happens do we really think vaping will be safe? Probably not because it doesn’t seem like flavoring is what’s causing illness and death.

What about vitamin E acetate? On September 6, a few days before Trump’s ban was announced, the Washington Post reported that FDA investigators found vitamin E acetate present in samples of cannabis oil linked to vaping illnesses across the country. Vitamin E acetate is an oil derived from vitamin E that naturally occurs in certain foods like almonds and olive oil. It’s found in topical products and dietary supplements. However, it’s very dangerous when inhaled. This is a chilling reminder that otherwise harmless articles can be dangerous when inhaled.

To further complicate things, vitamin E acetate may not even be the biggest problem. In a warning about THC vaping products the FDA wrote:

No one substance has been identified in all of the samples tested. Importantly, identifying any compounds that are present in the samples will be one piece of the puzzle but will not necessarily answer questions about what is causing these illnesses.

Scientific American also reports that though these vaping illnesses are popping up across the country, the symptoms vary wildly from person to person. This is an ugly, and frankly scary situation with more questions than answers.

We’ll continue to monitor smokable hemp, Trump’s ban, and these troubling vape-related illnesses and report the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Cannabis Smoke: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly posted first on http://ronenkurzfeld.blogspot.com

Column: Was a joke about putting kids in the microwave funny? Yes – Los Angeles Times

I think I’ve done everything at this paper except cover sports.

I’ve been a feature writer, a culture writer, a national reporter, a section editor. I’ve covered mass shootings, hurricanes, political campaigns, presidential conventions, Oscars, Emmys and film festivals.

I’ve written travel stories, obituaries and celebrity profiles.

But my favorite post is columnist, an assignment I’ve had at this paper, on and off, since 1992. It is a dream job.

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Your work is to help make sense of this messy, beautiful world. You get to tell readers what you think, and why. You try to persuade, engage, enlighten and inform. All of it is an honor.

I am not immune to criticism, but I have a very thick skin. You may call me a bedbug, or worse. It won’t hurt my feelings and I won’t try to get you fired.

When I wrote for the California section, a recurring complaint from readers is that my political views had no place in the news pages.

“You should be on the opinion page,” they would say.

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I have good news for the critics: The Los Angeles Times has finally put me in my place.

::

My first Times column ran in the old feature section — “View,” which became “Life & Style” before its final incarnation as “Southern California Living.” All those format and name changes were, in retrospect, a harbinger of the newspaper industry woes to come. Try as we might, we would find no magic formula to increase readership and advertising. The digital revolution upended all of that.

In the early days, I explored what many people would call women’s issues: sexual assault and abuse, reproductive rights, domestic violence, workplace discrimination and of course, parenting. They aren’t really women’s issues, of course. They are human issues, but my male counterparts here never seemed especially interested in those topics, so I had a lot of running room.

I also wrote about my personal life, hoping that my struggles and joys would resonate with readers, or at least keep them entertained. The greatest compliment I ever got was when readers told me they’d clipped my column and taped it to their fridge. (Does anyone do that anymore?)

Nora Ephron’s admonition — “everything is copy” — was my motto.

You soon learn, however, that everything cannot be copy; in the interest of marital harmony, for example, I gave my then-husband veto power over anything I wrote about him. He exercised his power judiciously.

My daughter, thankfully, was fair game. She couldn’t read yet.

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When she was 3, I wrote about her intense tantrum phase, a shock because she’d been an angelic 2-year-old. I consulted her wry pediatrician, Harvey Karp, who would later go on to fame as the best-selling author of the “Happiest Baby” series of parenting books.

Karp always had the answers. Unlike 2-year-olds, who are clueless about their place in the universe, he explained, 3-year-olds have started to grasp that they are tiny and powerless, which creates anxiety, which can lead to outbursts.

He gave me a few tips, then added: “If all that fails, you simply have to go to the next step.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“Putting them in the microwave.”

The deluge of outraged mail accusing me (and Karp) of advocating child abuse confirmed what my English professor father had always warned: Unless you are a writer the caliber of Jonathan Swift, satire is very difficult to pull off.

I still think that microwave joke was funny, though.

::

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Like the politics of so many urban, coastal Californians, mine are left-of-center.

Here are a few things I believe:

The job of government is to improve people’s lives. Corporations run the show. Gay and transgender people deserve equal rights. Racism, misogyny and patriarchy must be smashed, but never will be.

The Supreme Court’s Citizens United decision was a disaster. Freedom of speech is seriously endangered on college campuses.

You can hate the way Israel treats Palestinians and not be an anti-Semite.

Republicans only care about deficits when Democrats are president. If Sarah Palin had looked like Margaret Thatcher, she never would have made it out of the Alaska governor’s mansion.

I do not consider the label “secular humanist” an insult; it is entirely possible to be a moral and ethical person without relying on religion, or believing in God.

President Trump is a cold-hearted con man who is not just ill-suited to the presidency, but dangerous to the world order. I hold with New Yorker editor David Remnick, who, shortly after Trump was elected, said the whole thing felt like a “hallucination.” Still does.

We do not need a wall on our southern border, we are not being invaded by Mexicans and Central Americans, and separating children from their parents who are seeking a better life is betrayal of the principles on which this country was founded.

No one should own military-style weapons; if you want to shoot an assault rifle, join the Army. When it comes to the American epidemic of mass shootings, mental illness, ideology and alienation may play a part. But the availability of these guns is the irreducible cause.

I pray every day for the good health of Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Anita Hill and Christine Blasey Ford are heroes.

Over time, my thinking on some issues has evolved.

After covering the abortion wars for many years, including the 2009 assassination of Kansas late-term abortion doctor George Tiller, I no longer couch abortion as something that is tragic but necessary. It’s not tragic; it’s a social good. It allows women to control their lives.

I accept that vaccines have injured a vanishingly small number of children, but I am appalled by parents who place their feelings and fears above science. Gov. Gavin Newsom should sign the new state bill that puts greater scrutiny on medical exemptions.

I don’t stop talking to people just because they disagree with me. I have spent endless hours in conversation with people who sincerely believe abortion is murder or that vaccines are poison.

One last thing: I will not argue with you about tacos. There are already enough people at this newspaper doing that.

Let’s block ads! (Why?)

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