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anghraine · 2 years

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This is really a meandering headcanon thing, but a P&P detail that I’ve been thinking about since ... approximately forever is the 12-year age gap between Darcy and Georgiana, and specifically: a) the reason for the age gap and b) the effect of that reason on the family.

It’s one thing to have a large age gap like that with a big sibling group, but it’s just the two of them, and Darcy emphasizes that he was an only child for a long time, so it doesn’t seem that there were other siblings between them who died in childhood, say.

The most obvious, and I think most common, explanation is that one of their parents had some sort of reproductive issue. Given that Lady Anne’s sister only has one child and these things can run in families, she’s the usual candidate. Maybe the problem had to do with conception, or maybe with carrying a fetus to term, who knows.

In either case, it could be that Darcy was born early in the senior Darcys’ marriage and they thought everything was fine at the time, and only realized afterwards that they’d been very lucky with him (but still, kept trying). Alternately, he might have been born after several increasingly anxious years and was welcomed with immense relief, and the lack of children for over ten years afterwards would only confirm how special his existence was.

I think the dynamic might be different depending on what the actual problem was. If the difficulty was in gestation rather than conception, Lady Anne probably had miscarriages—potentially one or more before Darcy’s birth, but almost certainly some (and quite possibly many) after it. If there were pregnancies before the one that resulted in him, then it’s possible that they didn’t actually expect that pregnancy to turn out any better, until it did.

This also makes the “engagement” between baby Darcy and baby Anne kind of interesting. Since they were in their cradles at the same time, they’re likely around the same age (one of Lady Catherine’s remarks implies IMO that Anne is slightly older, but it doesn’t really matter). That’s normally a minor detail. But if both Lady Catherine and Lady Anne had reproductive problems, then the births of two live children, at around the same time, might well have seemed pretty miraculous, and on top of that, it turns out that one is a boy and one is a girl. In this scenario, a lot of stars had to come into alignment to make that engagement happen at all.

And if the goal always was to unite the estates through Darcy and Anne’s marriage, that suggests that by this point, Lady Catherine did not expect to ever have a son, and possibly to ever have any children other than Anne. I mean, maybe she went through eighteenth-century childbirth once and was like “NEVER AGAIN” and Sir Lewis just went along with it. But I think it’s also possible that Anne was this miracle baby for Lady Catherine, that Darcy was the same for Lady Anne, and this deepened their conviction that it was Meant To Be.

(Note: Wickham mentions the rumors about Darcy and Anne marrying to prop up his Pemberley bona fides, which I think does suggest that it’s not all in Lady Catherine’s head, as is often suggested.)

Apart from that, I think the effect on Darcy himself is potentially intriguing and could vary depending on the particulars of what’s going on with Lady Anne. He wasn’t just the precious male heir, he was the precious only child, despite his father’s possible preference for young Wickham. If the trouble was with conception, it might well have seemed to Darcy like his mother’s pregnancy with Georgiana came out of nowhere and her entrance into his life was incredible.

On the other hand, if Lady Anne has had a bunch of miscarriages through his early childhood and possibly before it, by the time he’s twelve, he’s probably not expecting that this is going to end well, either, but then he has an actual living sister. For Darcy, the miracle baby is Georgiana.

Because Lady Anne is dead by P&P, seems to have been dead for awhile, and it seems likely enough that she had some vague health issue, it used to be pretty widely accepted that she died giving birth to Georgiana. We don’t actually know this and there were a lot of ways to die young or in middle age at the time, but it’s perfectly possible. However it happened, it does seem like Georgiana’s arrival into the family would have been a very big deal in the circumstances and that all this could contribute to Darcy’s immense affection for her.

(Of course, he could easily have resented her after being a coddled only child for 12 years and then having a new baby in the picture, esp if her birth also led to their mother’s death, but that’s not the kind of person he is.)

All of this is speculation, of course. I’ve also seen it suggested that the reason for the age gap is that Lady Anne and Mr Darcy simply stopped having sex after Darcy was born, and Georgiana is the result of an affair Lady Anne had much later. This is technically also consistent with canon and I do prefer an imperfect Lady Anne to an idealized maternal figure (esp since one of the only things we hear about her personality is Darcy’s implication that she was basically a good person but less amiable than his father). Once upon a time, I even wrote a Georgiana fic (unfinished, of course, and it’s not at AO3 iirc) with that premise.

There are other possibilities, too. That said, “Lady Anne and Lady Catherine had some genetically-linked health problem that interfered with pregnancy in some way” does make the most intuitive sense to me and I think is a more compelling story for Austen characters.

#someone on ao3 once said i obviously dislike lady anne bc i always write her as seriously flawed #ON THE CONTRARY this is an expression of my irrationally great love for her #whenever it was that she died i hope she lived long enough to see 12-y-o darcy holding baby georgiana ... ;_;#anghraine babbles #anghraine's headcanons #austen blogging #austen fanwank #lady anne blogging #literally and metaphorically!#fitzwilliam darcy #georgiana darcy #lady anne darcy #lady catherine de bourgh #mr darcy senior #anne de bourgh #long post #but it would have been longer if i got into all my headcanons about this >_>

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ao3porcelainstorm · 3 years

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poison ivy & stinging nettles 5

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 4 - Chapter 6

Chapter 5- Fungi

~~~

Despite the initial tension regarding Jessica Reynolds, things seem to be progressing well with Amelia’s case. Sherlock was able to pull a number of shipping manifests from the assistant’s computer, each bound for the manufacturing factory in Manila.

It was fortunate that it confirmed almost every compound Amelia had noted when she stole the data set, at least in the cancer drugs.

The problem was the secondary product bound into the cancer drugs that caused adverse effects. The details on the manifests were less than helpful…

~~~

“Psilocybe mushroom components,” Amelia read the computer screen out loud for the third time since Sherlock had passed it to her, annoyance in her tone. “That’s it?”

“Magic mushrooms?” John asked, passing her a cup of tea, she immediately set it aside, scrolling through the computer logs further. “Seems straightforward enough.”

“John, there are over 200 different types of Psilocybe spores,” Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. “Sherlock, please tell me you have an idea for how we can possibly narrow it down?”

“How many did you use in your research?” The detective asked, reaching for his own tea cup.

“47,” she answered. “Two were almost identical hybrids, so maybe 46.”

“There you go,” he smirked over the rim of his cup. “Narrowed down.”

“You know we’re going to have to get samples, even if we run the equations, some might work but not technically be the component. Not to mention the cancer drugs might be different,” she groaned and set her cup aside, throwing her head back against the sofa.

“Sherlock, it might be time to contact your brother,” John suggested quietly, earning a glare from the brunette.

“You have a brother?” Amelia asked, her head still flung back with her eyes closed. “Please tell me he’s a reputable drug dealer because it’s going to be a pain in the ass getting these things.”

“Even better, he’s a member of her Majesty’s Royal Government,” Sherlock chimed back. Amelia snorted, remaining still.

“He could also order seizures of the shipments,” John reminded the group coolly, sensing the rising tension between the group.

“Unhelpful if we can’t properly determine the malicious components, John,” Sherlock shot back, picking up on Amelia’s frustration. “The idea is that Chemco’s random samples are unable to be traced, and random.”

“Certainly a shipment would contain some variations?” he asked the pair. Amelia threw her arms up hopelessly, and he frowned. “Sherlock, don’t tell me you’re at a loss?”

“Short of breaking into a hospital, stealing their current supply, and testing it against the 46 varieties of mushroom Mia has worked with, this doesn’t lend a more efficient solution,” the detective hummed, drumming his fingers on his chin in thought.

Silence fell over the group, each person thinking through potential solutions.

“Monty!” Amelia shot up, nearly startling John into dropping his tea.

“What on earth-?” The doctor grumbled while Amelia fished out her phone.

“Ruthie’s brother in law, Monty, he’s an, er, herbal enthusiast,” she explained, tapping into her phone. “I bought a few illicit plants from him when I first moved over. He’s basically got everything you could think of. If not, he’ll know someone who does.”

“Is he in London?”

“Canterbury, lives down the road from Ruthie and her husband,” Amelia got a ping back. “Says we can swing by tomorrow if we’d like. I know offhand, I saw at least a dozen spores in one of his cold storages. I’ll dig up my research list, I can probably narrow down the list from 46 to something more reasonable if I look through what moved to the second stages of trials.”

“And then we go shopping for illicit drugs,” John replied dryly. “And what about the cancer medications?”

Sherlock and Amelia exchanged humored glances. There was certainly something that the doctor was missing.

“What?” John gawked between the pair. “You’re not actually breaking into a hospital, are you?”

“We wouldn’t need much, maybe one or two treatments?” Sherlock asked Amelia, who nodded after doing a quick calculation in her head.

“The binding components are easy enough to track down over the counter, though we might need a better equipped lab than what you’ve got in the kitchen,” she noted.

“That’s not a problem,” Sherlock waved her off, skimming through the list of components from the shipping logs. “Easy.”

“I don’t like it when you two conspire together. It always leads to some sort of trouble,” John pressed, frown deepening.

“John, you’re a doctor,” Amelia reminded him excitedly. “Prescribe poor Sherlock Holmes a chemotherapy treatment for the tumor in his ego.”

“No, absolutely not,” John stood up. “That violates so many ethical rules- besides, you’re a licensed pharmacist. It’d be easier for you.”

“Not here, not yet. I mean, we can let innocent, immune compromised patients die,” Amelia shrugged, leaning back into the sofa. “What a shame about the little babies with leukemia. All because my wicked mother wanted a second mega yacht.”

“What truly is the core of medical ethics Dr. Watson?” Sherlock inquired, slowly closing his laptop, his gaze boring into his friend. “Is it not to protect life?”

John Watson, caught between an American and a hard place, was less than thrilled when he finally, begrudgingly, scribbled his name on a prescription pad and passed it to Sherlock.

“If my license is revoked-,” he threatened, holding it away from Sherlock briefly.

“Will you kill him?” Amelia asked, grabbing her crimson scarf from the back of the sofa and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Because I’d be very interested in seeing that.”

“Don’t think you get off that easy,” John turned his attention to Amelia while Sherlock scampered to his coat, mocking Amelia over John’s shoulder with a smirk. “You’re equally responsible for anything that goes wrong.”

“That’s not fair, I’m an innocent bystander to your collusion,” she pouted, catching her navy pea coat when John tossed it at her head.

“Careful John,” Sherlock warned, passing the doctor his jacket, shielding his friend from Amelia’s sad eyes. “Keep her pouting like that and she’ll convince you to clean her hair out of the shower drain.”

“Just go,” John shoved the detective through the doorway, not bothering to wait for the grumbling Amelia as she pulled her boots on and stumbled her way out the door behind them.

~~~

“And you’re going to be administering the medications at home?” the chemist studied the prescription order, glancing over the paper to John with a quirked brow.

“That’s right,” he answered with a curt nod, his hands stuffed in his pockets to try and stave off the nervous energy that radiated through his core.

“To a Mr. William Holmes?” the chemist looked to Sherlock next to him. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he pulled out his ID and passed it to the woman, flashing a quick smile.

“Did you guys know that Beyonce is pregnant again?” Amelia held up a tabloid to Sherlock. “Oh wait, never mind. Just a rumor.”

“Who is this?” the chemist paused, looking up at Amelia.

“His fiancé,” she replied, setting the magazine aside and looping an arm through Sherlock’s. “Here for moral support. He’s just starting treatment and is nervous as all get out, isn’t that right, love?” For added effect, she snuggled closer, pressing her cheek against his arm.

“I wouldn’t have made it in one piece without her,” he nodded, giving her cheek a quick peck. “Just an absolute blessing.”

“We’re just so lucky to find Dr. Watson,” Amelia continued with a long sigh. “Not a lot of doctor’s are willing to do home treatments within the NHS, you know. And of course I’m completely out of my element with all of it!”

The chemist chuckled empathetically, asking how the pair met as she typed up the order for the supplies. Sherlock and Amelia shot back and forth, exchanging little tidbits about their “relationship” enough to almost convince John it was real.

“The order will be ready tomorrow morning,” the woman smiled at the trio and reached for Amelia’s hand. “I’ll be praying for you both.”

“You’re an angel,” Amelia replied, giving them a squeeze before ushering the group out of the pharmacy with a final wave at the woman.

Back on the street, Amelia slipped a hand into Sherlock’s pocket, pulling out his wallet.

“I did not know your name was William,” she studied his ID, trying to memorize the details before he snatched it from her. “And you’re only three years older than me? I don’t believe that.”

Sherlock grabbed the wallet and ID out her hands, returning them to his coat pocket with a huff.

“Is there no privacy with you?” he grumbled. “And what’s so surprising about how old I am?”

“I just figured you were older,” she shrugged. “I mean, I’m almost thirty, right? I figured you were like, almost forty or something.”

John sputtered out a laugh.

“That’s spectacular,” he threw an arm around her shoulders. “How old do you think I am?”

“John, in all honesty, I have no idea,” she answered. “Sometimes I’m convinced you’re fifty, other times you have to be my age.”

Sherlock snorted under his breath.

“It’s a fair assessment,” she insisted, frowning apologetically at John. “You get very grumpy in the mornings, and the matching flannel pajamas don’t help very much.”

“They’re warm.”

“I’m sure they’re wonderful,” Amelia smiled, patting his arm in a placating tone. “I’m just a terrible judge of age apparently. I should have know how old you actually were with all of the part-time super models you bring by.”

“Mia, you’re digging yourself into a hole you’ll regret for the foreseeable future,” Sherlock warned.

“Shush,” Amelia swatted his arm.

“That reminds me,” John glanced down at his phone. “I have a second date with Ann tonight.”

“Is she the one with the Pomeranian?” Amelia asked hopefully. He shook his head and she sighed. “I liked that one.”

“You liked the dog and I’m very allergic,” John reminded her. “Ann is a barrister.”

“Maybe you should make sacrifices for your relationships, John,” she countered. “Have fun with your boring lawyer date.”

“Ann is the boring one, that’s right,” Sherlock perked up.

“She is not boring,” John insisted, flagging down a taxi.

“We’ll call with an ‘emergency’ in a bit,” Amelia promised earnestly. “Get you out of talks about law and order. Blegh.”

“I’m turning my phone off,” he called, slipping into the backseat of the taxi.

“If it wasn’t so cold, I’d be half tempted to follow them,” Amelia mused, continuing down the street with the detective.

“Don’t, they’re seeing that action movie that just came out,” he sighed dramatically. "Boring."

“Movies never make sense as an early date,” she noted. “You can’t talk. How do you get to know anything about the other person? They could be a serial killer for all you know.”

“Exactly, hardly an intimate setting,” he shook his head in disappointment. Amelia looked at him in surprise, stifling a laugh. “What?”

“It’s hard to picture you trying to take someone on a date,” she confessed lightly.

“You’re one to talk,” he countered quickly. “You never leave the flat.”

“You literally don’t let me?” she replied with another laugh. “And arguably, I’ve gone at least one more date than you in the last month.”

“Jessica Reynolds does not count,” he shot back.

“She has the remnants of my favorite shirt on her bedroom floor,” Amelia shivered at the memory. “She counts. John’s been on half a dozen dates since then, yet I’m fairly certain I heard you making love to your calculator the other night.”

“Why did I allow you to move into my building?” Sherlock kept his focus forward. “And I’d be a wonderful date, assuming I knew who i was meeting and could plan accordingly.”

“You’d stalk your date for ideas,” Amelia bit back a smirk. “It’d almost be endearing if it wasn’t super illegal.”

“I do not have to stalk someone to take them on a decent date,” he insisted. “What about you? What would you do aside from a bar?”

“First of all, I would never take someone to a bar on a first date,” she held a hand up, stopping in front of him. “It’s tacky. Would you want to date someone tacky?”

“Ok, where would you take me?” he offered, folding his arms across his chest. Amelia considered his challenge, pulling out her cell phone and tapping at the screen. Grinning at the device, she looked up at him.

“I get a little leeway because I’m not from here,” she warned, flagging down a passing cab.

“What are you doing?” he watched her chat with the driver, and look up at him expectantly.

“I’m taking you on a date,” she answered. “Get in Mr. Holmes, and prepare to be wooed.”

~~~

The Barbican Conservatory wasn’t very busy at midday in the middle of the week, so they were able to secure entrance and tour around the large space without too much interruption from other guests.

“There are over 1,500 different plants in 23,000 cubic square feet of space,” Amelia tucked her hands behind her back. “And the ponds feature koi and carp from Japan and America respectively.”

“Did you just read the pamphlet?” Sherlock asked, looking over the informational packet. “Because you quoted the first paragraph verbatim.”

“It’s because I’m well versed in what I sought out,” she answered with a grin. “Look, flowers.”

She pulled him toward a large selection of tropical flora, naming the species as they moved through in both their common names and scientific ones.

“This one is particularly rare,” she gestured to a bright red flower, the pamphlet long discarded in her coat pocket. Sherlock listened intently, occasionally chiming in his own facts about the flora that surrounded them. He could tell she was pleasantly surprised at his own knowledge on some of the more obscure plants.

“Waitwaitwait,” Amelia pulled him by the wrist toward a large swath of sunflowers. “They’re taller than you, that’s so cool!”

“Does that make them extra haughty?” he retorted, letting her shove him in front of the flowers. She snapped a picture while he continued to quip, ignoring his comments a moment while she saved it to her phone. “Do not show that to anyone.”

“I would never,” she promised. “It’s a good picture, though.” She held her phone up, and sure enough, she’d captured a flattering angle while he’d been laughing.

“I’m not haughty,” he quickly stated.

“You know that isn’t their only meaning,” she hummed, tucking the phone away. “They also mean strength, happiness, confidence… I think they sum you up perfectly.”

“Happiness?”

“Oh that’s right, you were happy once and it was terrible,” she replied coyly. “How could I have forgotten? Happiness can mean bringing it to others as well, Sherlock.”

She turned to look at some lilacs, absently chatting while he stood frozen in place, the words running on repeat in the front of his mind.

Who did he make happy?

~~~

Amelia had a mouth full of falafel when Sherlock decided on where he was going to take her next.

“Mmwha mwean?” she asked, tilting her head in confusion. “Dwon’t swteal mwwy dawte!”

“You did an adequate job,” he answered. “But I still think I’m the superior date planner.”

She swallowed her food, eyeing distrustfully.

“I’m only interested if it’s a very old cemetery,” she replied, stealing one of his chips. “And it better be nighttime and there had better be ghosts.”

“There is no such thing as ghosts,” Sherlock clarified sharply.

“Consider this date over,” she stood up from the public bench they’d settled on. “It’s not me, it’s definitely you.”

“Amelia, come back,” he called, but she continued down the road, night starting to swallow the city. “They’re theoretically impossible.”

~~~

Amelia had to admit (though never out loud), Sherlock Holmes did know a thing or two about impressing a date (despite his disbelief in ghosts).

He purchased her a pink peony, her favorite flower, from a street vendor.

Next, they went to the aquarium, where they wandered away from the main tour and Sherlock gave his own version of the tour, naming the fish and telling her random facts about their origins. Together, they came up with complex names and origin stories for all of the fish.

“The puffer fish is obviously fed up with the whale shark’s nonsense,” Amelia laughed, pointing out the fish blowing up as the white shark passed it in the tank. “He’s probably having an affair with the puffer fish’s wife.”

“I don’t know, the whale shark was eyeing the sea turtle…” Sherlock mused, watching the mesmerizing scene next to her.

Every once in a while, Amelia would steal a look at him. The way the light reflected around them, and how it flickered through his blue eyes- should almost wished she had a paint pallet to try and capture the almost perfect cerulean color.

They left the aquarium chuckling about an octopus that had escaped during a demonstration, night having finally swept over the city.

“Ok,” she relented. “You win this round.”

“I’m not done yet,” he pulled his phone out and glanced up. “We have a final stop.”

“What else could you have planned on such short notice?” she asked, letting him grab her hand and pull her along.

“I told you, I know what I��m doing,” he teased, stopping after a few blocks, looking up at the glowing carriages of the London Eye. “It’s not a cemetery.”

“Might be better,” Amelia admitted.

And it was.

Amelia had never experienced anything so spectacular in her life. The lights over the Thames and the London skyline were unlike anything she’d seen before. The old city had a different energy to it compared to New York, and from the top of the famous Ferris wheel, she could see it all.

“I can’t believe we live in the same city as all of this,” she gestured below them. “It doesn’t seem real.”

“It looks like stars,” he agreed, looking over the edge.

“And the reflection on the river?” Amelia continued to gush in excitement, practically jumping around the edges of the capsule as they moved through the sky.

It was over far too quickly, though Amelia knew they needed to get back. John was probably long home from his date.

“You win,” she sighed. “You definitely win, but only for today.”

“That means there’s a second date?” he smirked, offering her his arm as they walk. She took it, falling in step while they tried to track down a taxi.

Amelia knew he was teasing. It was more of an outing between friends, a means to prove a point with no real intimate feelings involved. A challenge.

She repeated this to herself as she stared at the peony in her hands on the taxi ride home. Or when Sherlock made a quiet quip about extra marital whale shark affairs.

He had to prove his point, and he did. She was sufficiently surprised, and very much felt conflicted about it.

When they returned, Amelia cut into the conversation before John could ask where they’d been. He told her all about his date, and that while Ann was very nice, there probably wasn’t a third date in their future.

“Because she’s boring?” Sherlock joked, pulling out his laptop and checking his email.

“We have different interests,” John clarified sharply. “I think I’m going to take a break from dating for a bit. What about you two? What did you do all day?” His eyes fell on the peony in Amelia’s hand, and she froze, not sure how to respond.

“We went on a date,” Sherlock spoke up confidently from his perch, eyeing John and waiting for a reaction.

“You… on a date?” he looked between the pair. “Both of you? Together?”

Admittedly, it was a bit fun watching their friend process the information. Amelia just braced herself for when Sherlock clarified their challenge with one another.

“Yep,” he answered, popping the “p”. “It was a lovely day, wasn’t it Mia?”

Dazed, Amelia choked out an affirmative, her head still catching up with the fact there hadn’t been any specifications as to the motivation behind everything.

“A long day,” she forced out a yawn. “I’m going to put this in some water and head to bed. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow, don’t forget. I have our train tickets already, but one of you needs to get the chemotherapy into the fridge before we go.”

Both men said goodnight and she slipped downstairs to her apartment, sneaking a final glance over her shoulder, in case he was going to add anything else to the date conversation.

“A date?” John waited until Amelia was out of earshot. “You never mentioned being interested like that. In fact, you mocked me.”

“We were merely getting to know one another,” he shrugged. “Initially we were trying to prove a point, but it turned into an enjoyable afternoon. Though, I wouldn’t get too excited about it, John.”

“And why not?” John asked. “She’s been here for two months now, you two get along in your weird, mad scientist way, it could be a good match.”

“I’m far too busy to have time for romantic partners,” Sherlock shot the suggestion down. He stilled, his hands resting on the keys of his laptop. “And she seemed odd just now, didn’t she?”

“No more than usual,” John replied. “Worried she didn’t enjoy herself? You got her a flower, I’m sure she was enthralled.”

“A peony,” Sherlock corrected quietly. “She likes peonies. They’re in the perfume she wears.”

“Maybe she’s just deep in denial, much like yourself, and needed to sleep to get her head straight?” John snorted, standing up from his chair. “Speaking of, don’t stay up too late.”

Sherlock waved him off, staring down at his computer and re-reading the same sentence over and over. He couldn’t focus on any of his cases right now, his head was all over the place.

Grabbing his violin, he plucked away at the strings, trying to find a sound for the chaos in his head.

Meanwhile, laying in bed with her eyes closed, listening to the soft sounds, Amelia decided she had more important things to think about besides date challenges and eccentric roommates.

Things like corrupt CEOs and fungi.

Chapter 6

#sherlock original female character #sherlock holmes #sherlock #sherlock/ofc #sherlock bbc #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock fanfic #writing #john watson #watson #OFC #sherlock/oc #sherlock/reader #reader insert #reader

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redinkofshame · 7 years

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Ink Blot, coming soon

Some of you know by now, of course, but I wanted to let my followers know that

Red Ink is expecting a baby ink blot in March!

The pregnancy has really been affecting my ability to get any writing done, but Blot and I are doing just fine.

To celebrate I wanted to write a papae!Solas fic :D I also wanted to get it done like 3-4 months ago, but... Well anyway, this is one of the first scenes that came to my mind when I moved to Solavellan Hell, before I started devouring fic and lore.

This is a post-Inquisition, pre-Trespasser fix-it fic! But, like, a sad fix-it fic, so I’m going to spoil it at the same time I give you the content warnings: Everyone will be okay, but if you’ve had/been close to someone who’s had a miscarriage or stillbirth, or any other child death really, this is likely not for you. But everyone will be okay.

I’ll also be posted it on AO3... When I think of a title. Edit: Here you go!

Okay, papae!Solas, under the cut!

Fen’Harel shone in resplendent armor atop a long forgotten battlement in Tevinter’s late afternoon sun. His feet were planted wide as he surveyed a small troop of infiltrators preparing for their mission on the ground below. Once comprised of hungry refugees, his forces were now fully equipped and approaching semblance of organization, however inexperienced. Then again, they were mortals all, and none held the lifespan to gain mastery in his eyes.

They would do for his purposes. They would have to.

They would leave in shifts with the sun, covertly entering Par Vollen in groups of two or three, depending on the task he’d assigned them. He, of course, would not be joining them—the Dread Wolf had more important matters to attend.

His first lieutenant, Arel, approached him—elven, feminine, and spirited enough to occasionally cause him grief, they were nonetheless devoted entirely to his cause.

“Report.”

“All operations are on schedule, My Lord. No complications are expected, though we are well prepared for many contingencies.”

He clasped his hands neatly behind him. “And the Inquisition?” he asked, face carefully neutral. Despite his best efforts to act detached, many of his agents had inevitably learned caution when broaching the subject of Inquisitor Keria Lavellan, or the Inquisition at large. Distasteful, that he had failed to conceal such complications from his own people; unavoidable, perhaps, that his enemies might learn of his weakness. He could hardly fault his spies—he had chosen them for their skills of observation, after all.

“No changes. Their forces will not be a problem, My Lord.”

“Do not lose caution. They’ve been known to change targets upon only her whim.”

“Yes…” they drawled, sounding confused. “But given the circumstances we can discount that factor. It is excellent timing indeed that we do this now. If I may say so, I believe with her passing we will have ample time to move forward on many fronts.”

His mind felt foggy in its attempt to understand them. Had he missed a written report? The passing of what?

“What do you mean? Speak plainly.”

They sighed. “It has been four days, and still no changes. She is surrounded by the finest healers they could send for, but I’ve never known a woman to survive after enduring this long.”

Solas’ eyebrows knit and he snapped his attention to his lieutenant. Keria was…Ill? Dying? That could not be.

Eyes cast to the parties below, Arel did not notice his reaction and continued. “With the Inquisition in mourning and without leadership they will be unlikely to take any new measures for some time. Our spies suggest that the advisors are already prepared for this eventuality, however, so we still need to act quickly. It is expected that they will announce Lady Pentaghast as the new Inquisitor, but of course delays will be expected as the sword changes hands.”

He felt disoriented, as if lost in a new section of the Fade that refused to listen to reason—nothing they were telling him made sense. Panic rose like a storm. “What do you mean? Why-why was I not told about this!” he demanded.

They raised an eyebrow as if he were an impetuous child—they were the only member of his army brave enough to do so. “We always knew this was a possibility, Lord Fen’Harel. Any woman, no matter how powerful, can fall victim to the birthing bed.”

The birthing… His eyes were wide and unseeing as his mind whirled. Keria could not die—It was not yet her time! She had a few years left to find happiness; how could something so mundane take a spirit such as hers? Why had he not been told, when had this…?

His hands clenched behind him as he forced himself to think. Time had never been his ally. It would have been forty weeks, more or less, if she was in labor now. Just over nine months, assuming she had not come early. He was still with the Inquisition at that time, three months before the final battle—

He was still with her at that time, he realized. Travelling, on their way to Crestwood…

Lost in a haze made equal parts of bliss and denial. She had imbibed of the Well, and though for now the truths it whispered in her ear would propose more questions than answers, he knew that with her focus it was only a matter of time until she mastered enough to understand.

He’d been furious with himself for allowing it to happen, and further disappointed in himself still that he in some small part felt relieved—he knew this meant it was time to tell her his own truth, their own truth. She needed to know, to harness her high-priced knowledge, and he could finally come clean as if himself submerged.

He’d come to his senses before his cleansing could come to pass, fortunately. He had broken off what never should have been.

He pictured six months ago, twenty-four weeks, holding the shattered remnant of his foci in his hands and the dread of knowing what sacrifices came next weighing like stone in his chest. He remembered leaving his heart behind, unable to even bid the bare-faced Dalish girl farewell before disappearing from her life.

Not a week later, one of his new recruits—still wearing an Inquisitor’s scouting uniform—was nervously reporting to him.

“You’re familiar with the, ah, rumors going on around Skyhold about the condition the Inquisitor is in?”

“I am well aware of the state of both the Inquisitor and the Inquisition when I left. Your job is to update me on any changes,” he’d snapped.

“Right, well… You know how she was pretty severely injured at the battle with Corypheus?”

“I was there,” he repeated, irate. He needed no reminder of watching her small body flying through the air like lightning and striking broken stones crossing over from the Fade. It had been only a few days, a blink of the eye, since he held his shattered orb in his hands and walked away from his heart.

“She-she is expected to make a full recovery. It seems that, miraculously, the baby survived the injuries.”

Any relief he’d felt was washed away as fury flooded him. While true that some of her inner circle affectionately referred to her as a ‘baby’ due to her intolerance of pain, this miscellaneous recruit had no right to the demeaning nickname. “Watch your tongue,” he warned, seething through bared teeth.

“Wh-what? I, um, yes, Fen’Harel. My Lord. Nothing else to report.”

After that he no longer took scout reports directly.

That couldn’t be it, surely. They would have mentioned it again. What else had he missed? Then he remembered four months ago when his newly appointed second in command had glossed over something he hadn’t quite caught.

He’d been examining a relic recovered by his agents, trying to determine if it still held value, held power. It would prove useful, could he get it working anew, but he did not think that would be the case. Arel found him and gave him what could be described as a report only if one was generous; it much more closely resembled idle gossip regarding the going-ons of his men. He should have balked at their informality, but the company was tolerable and it never hurt to know more about those who served him.

“Jonan’s wife is pregnant. Their first. He’s not asking for time away yet, but he seems rather anxious about it. We should avoid asking him to do anything overtly dangerous for the time being--no point in forcing him into refusing to follow orders. We’ll have to be careful not to appear to be giving him special treatment, of course, or else all kinds of pregnant wives or sick relatives will come out of the woodwork.

“Speaking of, the Inquisitor is starting to show, too, it seems. Winter comes early to Skyhold though, so only her inner circle will have noticed so far. Not that there aren’t rumors in Orlais, but there always have been. Unsurprisingly, she is not allowing it to slow her down. I imagine it will be easy to continue to hide until spring.” He hadn’t understood what they meant by ‘show’--making a show of force, or manipulating trade under the noses of the Orlesians perhaps? For all that she hated it, Keria had a keen mind for politics. He did not get the chance to ask before they continued, though. “Which reminds me, I left supply reports on your desk. Nothing interesting; the winters are mild this far north, and we are well stocked.

He remembered two months ago. He had just finished communing with a guiding spirit in the Fade when Arel found him.

He had been agitated, and in a hurry. What he’d learned from the spirit was concerning: there was an untrustworthy agent in his midst. They would need to be swiftly taken care of. Arel did not get in his way, but he recognized the way they bowed as he passed—a way reserved for when they had something of some urgency to tell him… Or something regarding Keria.

“Be quick.”

“Yes, Fen’Harel. The Lady Inquisitor has finally confirmed her condition publicly. Nothing else to report.”

“Condition?”

“Physical condition, my lord.”

“Fine, thank you,” he had said, brushing them off. He did not have the time to wonder over the significance of confirming something they already knew, however curious it was to announce publicly that the Anchor was growing. Keria did not often admit to weakness.

He thought back to four days ago.

He’d been in his war room, large detailed maps of different countries on intricate stone tables. Arel strolled from the map of Tevinter to that of Orlais and Ferelden, covered as it was with pieces indicating the Inquisition’s movements.

“The Inquisitor was investigating rumor of a lingering rift in the Arbor Wilds and came upon a ruin near that of Mythal’s temple and the former Well of Sorrows. Reports say it appears to be untouched, though of course centuries of neglect have not been kind. It appears to be a temple dedicated to Elgar’nan.”

They paused, then, looking at Solas pointedly. They were waiting for him to confirm that he’d been aware of the temple’s existence. In truth, he had not—it had not existed in his time. Long ago Mythal’s temple had been much larger, so it was likely she’d only discovered an annex that was dedicated to her husband. He wondered if Keria would find the annex dedicated to him.

He said nothing. Posturing was necessary—it would not inspire his ranks to see him guessing, to suspect that he only partially knew how to accomplish his goals. Better to seem as if he already had all the answers, and only shared them with his followers when the time came. As an added benefit, it also discouraged unwanted questions.

Faced with silence, Arel continued. “Any excavation has been suspended due to the Inquisitor going into labor, however. A presence will remain to protect the area, but she wants to be there when it is opened for the first time. I don’t know what she’s hoping to find, but if you have any reason to suspect we should investigate ourselves first, now would be the time to do so.”

He didn’t understand what new labor they spoke of, or why Keria would wish to oversee it herself—physical labor was never her forte and the Inquisition had many labor forces across Thedas bringing in various resources—but it mattered little. “No. There is nothing to be found in the Wilds.”

Atop his wall in Tevinter, Fen’Harel stared unseeing as the pieces slowly fell into place.

He strode away without a word, long legs quickly crossing over the stones beneath his feet to a nearby hall. A flick of his wrist and an eluvian hummed to life, scarcely in time for him to walk through it. Once he was through he closed the portal behind him. Out of view of his soldiers his pace quickened further. Sprinting now, panic chased him through the labyrinth and broken steps of shattered memories. He thought only of Keria, his heart, her pulse slowing as she lay in her deathbed due to a condition he had inflicted upon her.

It should not have been—his seed should not have been able to take root in her. He’d taken measures against it; as had she, as unreliable as mortal means were.

He nearly considered that the blame might belong to another and not him, then, but no—despite the relief the idea brought, it was only an attempt to assuage his guilt. It made no matter, in any case. This could not be allowed to happen.

He knew he had concealed men watching the eluvian that led to Skyhold, but he was beyond caring about being seen running to her. He was panting hard, unwilling to waste even the small amount of mana needed to keep his body comfortable; he did not know just what he was walking in to.

He jumped in the portal, landing in the small misused room off Skyhold’s gardens. He burst out the door, hardly noticing the startled guards standing to either side of it. They called out confused alarms but he did not slow, darting to the main hall.

Other guards, standing before the door that led to the Inquisitor’s suite, saw him coming. They heard the shouts, saw the expression he wore. They snapped to attention and one made as if to block the door, but the other grabbed their shoulder and muttered something. They each looked at a loss at what to do.

The Inquisitor had once given an open-ended order to allow her apostate consort into her bedchamber at any time, day or night; by the guards’ confusion, she had never officially rescinded the order, but they expected he was no longer welcome.

He did not care what they decided—he did not need their permission to pass.

With a gauntlet he harmlessly knocked aside a spear as it crossed over the door, not allowing it to slow this progress. Past the door he took the stairs two or three at a time and flung upon the door to her room—once his, once theirs—and made quick work of those stairs as well. He took in the somber environment as his head rose above the banister.

Despite the balcony doors open wide to the bitter mountain air the room was warm, humid, the air thick with the scent of sweat and blood. Keria laid abed, twisted in damp sheets, and it was small wonder why she suffered so; too petite by half even in her condition. Especially in her condition. Her storm-black hair, normally full of static and wind, clung damp to her forehead. It had grown longer since he’d last seen her.

Surrounding her were several women; midwives and healers. The room was too quiet for a birthing. There were neither screams nor soothing assurances, no instructions to push or breath measured breaths. Hardly a sound at all. There was only a dying legend, surrounded by those attempting to keep her alive for as long as possible. Across from him, sitting limply in a stiff chair was a weary Dorian.

Why would a necromancer…?

His heart seized as he remembered overhearing a report given to Leliana in the rookery from his position at his desk, soon after the incident in Crestwood and her replacing him with Dorian in her missions. She had fallen in battle without him there to shield her, and Dorian had to take hold of her very spirit and force it to return to her lifeless body.

And here he was, looking utterly spent, empty lyrium bottles crowding a small table beside him.

All this he took in within a single heartbeat before rushing to Keria’s side, paying no heed to Dorian climbing to his feet accusatorily, or to the boots stomping up the stairs behind him. He reached a hand to Keria’s abdomen, a quick seeping of magic allowing him to analyze her condition.

A confirmation of his fears. Drastic blood loss and muscles too weak to move, her body was giving up the fight. Her breast hardly rose or fell with her breath as she drifted in and out of the Fade.

“What are you doing to her?” demanded a Tevinter accent, but he scarcely heard it. Through the hand resting on his vhenan he sent a flood of healing magic, spreading through her exhausted muscles to revive them, washing into her marrow until fresh blood ran through her veins.

The Anchor flared green and she gasped as if she’d been drowning, electric eyes flying open in surprise.

And then she screamed in pain.

The midwives rushed forward, finding their voices as they propped up her legs and folding up the blanket once more.

“Can you push?”

“Is that the father?”

“She’s still losing blood.”

“He shouldn’t be in here.”

“Just one more big one, Lady Inquisitor, just one more push…”

“Are you going to kick him out?”

He turned his attention to dulling her pain, removing his gauntlets to take her unmarked hand. Dorian gripped his staff, but glanced uncertainly between him and Keria. That is, until the feet crested the stairs, steel clearing scabbards.

“Seize h—Solas?” The Lady Seeker’s voice was incredulous over the sound of screams.

For her he spared a glance over his shoulder, saw her men on alert and waiting dutifully for her command.

“He helped her, Cassandra,” Dorian explained helplessly.

“You did it!” joyfully cried the woman standing at the foot of Keria’s bed, turning the heads of Cassandra and both mages. “You’re done, you did it, Lady Inquisitor.”

He turned his attention to his heart, her hand still in his. Tears fell from her eyes like rain, her face twisted, and he knew it was not from the pain.

“Why are they quiet? Are they still? I failed, didn’t I?” she asked, choking on her sobs. “I’m sorry, I tried, I’m so sorry ma da’len, I…”

Aside from her plaintive apologies a hush fell over the room, a loss of words for her loss. And then, a new cry shattered it.

Solas’ attention snapped to the squirming bundle in the midwife’s hand, small and red and shrieking as a second pair of hands attempted to clean it with a rag. Joyfully, tears in her eyes, the woman said, “You see? You hear your son’s cries, Lady Inquisitor? You did it. You did wonderfully.”

The air left his chest.

Somehow…

Somehow in his rush to save Keria he had all but forgotten that children were often a consequence of labor.

He stared, unmoving, unbreathing, only his eyes following as the neonate was walked to Keria’s side and passed to her arms. She was laughing, she was crying, and she was holding…

“A son?” Solas whispered, unbelieving.

“Yes…” slowly answered a healer, eyeing him hesitantly.

“He’s so beautiful,” Keria murmured.

“Is that the father?” whispered another healer again.

“Yes,” Keria answered this time, speaking clearly. “He is.”

“And he shouldn’t be in here,” Dorian said, irritated.

Solas supposed he had right to be.

“If he helped her…” Cassandra replied, uncertain.

“He’s staying,” Keria commanded, voice regal despite her rough throat. “If he wishes. He may come and go as he pleases.”

That stopped Cassandra and Dorian both, though they looked unconvinced. The healers continued their routine checks, and explained to her that the newborn was undersized, but healthy.

An unsure moment passed, mother gleefully quieting child, before she begged the nurses to take him back. “I’m sorry, I’m too tired, I’ll drop him. Take him. No, wait—his father. He should see his father.”

Cassandra made as if to move forward. “Inquisitor…”

“Just for a moment. I just need to shut my eyes.”

Her eyes were indeed blinking slow and sleepily as the nurses tried to take the infant, but she passed him to Solas instead. Not knowing what else to do, he took his son before she could drift off into a natural slumber. He was glad he’d divested of his gauntlets, afraid to hold the infant against the cold of his dragon bone armor or the hair of the pelt slung over his shoulder. Knees weak he sat for stability at an angle upon the bed in which his heart slept.

He could not take his eyes off the miracle before him; not when the healers filed out and the midwife warned that she’d be back soon to rouse Keria into feeding the baby, not when Cassandra relieved Dorian of his post and dismissed the soldiers, nor as she stood guard before the only exit and scowled at Solas with her hand on her hilt and a few inches of the silverite blade exposed.

Instead he saw only plush pink skin, small gripping fists, and impossibly small, delicately pointed ears.

He choked on a sob.

He thought of his transgressions, his role, his guilt. He thought of those he’d trapped when he spun the Veil, their spirits caught in a limbo that he’d planned to free when the veil was no more. He thought of the knowledge, the history, the connection with magic and spirits that was now lost on his people, never to be regained. He thought of the millennia of years the elves had spent enslaved despite his efforts to stop exactly that, and tried to imagine the pain each and every one of them had gone through.

His tears fell upon the small blanket swaddling his son. He noticed for the first time that it must have been embroidered by his mother’s hand. Cassandra released her grip upon her hilt and moved out to the balcony and watched the sun setting.

He wept for his people because, looking at his son, he knew he would no longer save them.

He alone could walk the din’anshiral. He alone could undo what he’d wrought and restore them to what they were meant to be. But he would not.

For this was not the first time he’d held his child.

He’d been a father before. He’d lived a long life, and had been graced with many loves and with several children. He’d loved each of his children with his whole heart, had been so proud of who they became… And he was, ultimately, responsible for each of their deaths.

Some had died in the war he’d started, his rebellion. Two slain fighting right beside him, others casualties of politics in effort to stay his hands. He rose the Veil in an effort to save them all, to protect the family that remained to him, to save his people from themselves…

He did not know how long it took him, trapped and wandering in the Fade, to learn of their fates. For countless years he hunted and traded secret memories, searching for answers. One by one, he learned of what happened to each of his beautiful children. There was not one demise met that could not be laid at his feet, either directly or as a consequence of the chaos he’d caused.

It was too late to save any of them, but it was not too late for this one small son that should not have been. He entertained only briefly the thought of waiting before giving up his journey; perhaps the boy was mortal, perhaps his mission could wait until after their lifetime. But no--there could be grandchildren, could be generations more. He could not treat his son’s life, Keria’s life, as if it were merely an inconvenient delay. He must commit to a single decision, and he knew in his heart he was more powerless now than the wriggling infant exhausted from the burden of being born.

And so he wept; for all these centuries his efforts and his name had been twisted into something vile, now he would become Betrayer in truth.

He felt a warm, weak grip on his wrist. “It’s okay. It’s okay, it’ll be okay.” Astonished, he turned and looked at Keria, her large eyes as wet as his own. That she could still treat him with kindness after he’d abandoned her… Would she still, once she knew the truth? Voice a hoarse whisper, she asked him, “Are you back?”

He shifted so that he could cover her hand with his without disturbing his son. “Yes. For good, this time.”

#solavellan #papae!solas #papae solas #I made myself cry several times #but then again I'm hormonal and cry easily rn #Solas is an idiot #baby ink blot is coming!#:D #I hope it goes better for me than my Inquisitor #Keria Lavellan #Solas

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catmandavegray · 4 years

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Barack Obama citizenship conspiracy theories. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barack_Obama_citizenship_conspiracy_theories#Born_in_Kenya

False claims

Born in Kenya

Some opponents of Obama's presidential eligibility claim that he was born in Kenya and was therefore not born a United States citizen. Whether Obama having been born outside the U.S. would have invalidated his U.S. citizenship at birth is debated. Political commentator Andrew Malcolm, of the Los Angeles Times, wrote that Obama would still be eligible for the presidency, regardless of where he was born, because his mother was an American citizen, saying that Obama's mother "could have been on Mars when wee Barry emerged and he'd still be American."[84] A contrary view is promoted by UCLA Law Professor Eugene Volokh, who has said that in the hypothetical scenario that Obama was born outside the U.S., he would not be a natural-born citizen, since the then-applicable law would have required Obama's mother to have been in the U.S. at least "five years after the age of 14", but Ann Dunham was three months shy of her 19th birthday when Obama was born.[85]

Obama's paternal step-grandmother's version of events

An incorrect but popularly reported claim is that his father's stepmother, Sarah Obama, told Anabaptist Bishop Ron McRae in a recorded transatlantic telephone conversation that she was present when Obama was born in Kenya.[86]

The McClatchy newspapers gave an explanation of how the story about Obama's step-grandmother began. The tape is cut off in the middle of the conversation, before the passage in which she clarifies her meaning: "'Obama was not born in Mombasa. He was born in America,' the translator says after talking to the woman. ... Another response later says, 'Obama in Hawaii. Hawaii. She says he was born in Hawaii.'"[87]

Sarah Obama shed more light on the controversy in a 2007 interview with the Chicago Tribune. In the interview, Obama's paternal step-grandmother stated that six months after Barack Obama Sr. and Ann Dunham were married, she received a letter at her home in Kenya announcing the birth of Barack Obama II, who was born August 4, 1961.[88]

In a June 2012 interview at her Kenyan home, Sarah Obama was asked: "Some people want to believe that the president was born in Kenya. Have these people ever bothered you or asked for his birth certificate?" Her response was: "But Barack Obama wasn't born in Kenya."[89]

Fake Kenyan birth certificate

On August 2, 2009, Orly Taitz released and attached to court documents a purported Kenyan birth certificate which she said, if authenticated and shown to be genuine, would significantly narrow and shorten the discovery and pre-trial litigation period in the Keyes v. Bowen lawsuit, in which the plaintiffs asked for a judicial order that Obama provide documentation that he is a natural-born citizen of the United States. Legal papers submitted describe the document as an "unauthenticated color photocopy of certified copy of registration of birth".[90][91] The document was almost immediately revealed to be a forgery. It purports to have been issued by the "Republic of Kenya", when in fact, such a state did not yet exist at the time of Obama's birth as indicated on the document (Kenya was a British Colony until 1963).[92]

Subsequently, evidence was unearthed that the alleged Kenyan birth certificate was a modified version of a 1959 Australian birth certificate found on an online genealogy website.[93][94] The Washington Independent website cited an anonymous blogger[95] as having taken responsibility for the forgery and posting four photos substantiating his claim.[96]

Not born in Hawaii

Despite the existence of Obama's Hawaii certification of live birth, Terry Lakin's attorney, among others, have claimed that anyone, including foreign-born children, could acquire a Hawaiian certification of live birth, and so Obama's possession of such a certificate does not prove that he was born in Hawaii.[97] However, the suggestion that this could have applied to Obama was rejected by Janice Okubo, director of communications for the Hawaii Department of Health: "If you were born in Bali, for example, you could get a certificate from the state of Hawaii saying you were born in Bali. You could not get a certificate saying you were born in Honolulu. The state has to verify a fact like that for it to appear on the certificate".[98] Another fact that refutes this specific claim is that the law allowing foreign-born children to obtain Hawaiian birth certificates did not exist until 20 years after Obama was born, while Obama's published birth certificate says his birth information was recorded four days after his birth in 1961, and explicitly states that he was born in Honolulu.[99]

Additionally, some people claim that the information in the birth certificate only has to be based on the testimony of one parent.[99]

On July 27, 2009, Fukino issued a statement explicitly stating she has "seen the original vital records maintained on file by the Hawaii State Department of Health verifying Barack Hussein Obama was born in Hawaii and is a natural-born American citizen."[100][101]

Hawaiian Department of Health spokeswoman Janice Okubo elaborated on state policy for the release of vital records: "If someone from Obama's campaign gave us permission in person and presented some kind of verification that he or she was Obama's designee, we could release the vital record."[102]

A hospital spokesperson at Kapi'olani Medical Center for Women & Children has said that their standard procedure is to neither confirm nor deny Obama was born there, "even though all the information out there says he was born at Kapiolani Hospital", citing federal privacy laws.[24]

The Barack Obama birth announcement, published in The Honolulu Advertiser on August 13, 1961.

In 1961, birth notices for Barack Obama were published in both the Honolulu Advertiser and the Honolulu Star-Bulletin on August 13 and 14, 1961, respectively, listing the home address of Obama's parents as 6085 Kalanianaole Highway in Honolulu.[24][29] On November 9, 2008, in response to the persistent rumors, the Advertiser posted on its web site a screenshot of the announcement taken from its microfilmed archives. Such notices were sent to newspapers routinely by the Hawaii Department of Health.[24]

In an editorial published on July 29, 2009, the Star-Bulletin pointed out that both newspapers' vital-statistics columns are available on microfilm in the main state library. "Were the state Department of Health and Obama's parents really in cahoots to give false information to the newspapers [...]?" the newspaper asked.[103]

Lost U.S. citizenship

It has been suggested that Obama obtained Indonesian citizenship (and thus may have lost U.S. citizenship) when he lived there as a child.[104] As an attempt to prove that Obama was no longer a U.S. citizen (or held dual citizenship), some claim his 1981 trip to Pakistan took place at a time when there was supposedly a ban on United States passport holders entering that country, which would in turn have required him to use a non-U.S. passport. There was in fact no such ban. A New York Times article and U.S. State Department travel advisories from 1981 make it clear that travel to Pakistan by U.S. passport holders was legal at that time.[105][106][107]

An April Fools' Day hoax email circulated on the Internet starting in 2009. It falsely claimed that Obama applied to Occidental College under the name "Barry Soetoro" claiming to be "a foreign student from Indonesia" in order to obtain a Fulbright scholarship (which does not exist for undergraduate students from Indonesia).[108]

Disputes over "natural-born citizen" requirements

Another theory of Obama's ineligibility is that, regardless of his place of birth, he does not meet the constitutional definition of a natural-born citizen.

The Fourteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution states: "All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States...." According to law professor Gabriel J. Chin, "there is agreement that 'natural born citizens' include those made citizens by birth under the 14th Amendment."[109][110]

Despite this agreement, two similar but distinct theories nonetheless contend Obama, although born in Hawaii, does not qualify as a "natural-born citizen".[111][112]

Parental citizenship

Some campaigners, such as the Tennessee-based Liberty Legal Foundation, contend that in order for a person to be a natural-born citizen within the meaning of Article II, Section 1, it is necessary that both parents be U.S. citizens at the time of that person's birth. Those who subscribe to this theory argue that since Obama's father was not a U.S. citizen, Obama could not have been a natural-born citizen, and is therefore ineligible to be President of the United States. The Liberty Legal Foundation has cited a passage in the decision on an 1875 voting rights case which came before the U.S. Supreme Court—Minor v. Happersett—in which the court stated there was no doubt that "all children born in a country of parents who were its citizens" were natural-born citizens.[113][114] This legal theory on Obama's eligibility was unsuccessfully litigated several times, most notably in Ankeny v. Governor of the State of Indiana (2008).

Dual citizenship

Others, including New Jersey attorney Leo Donofrio, have falsely claimed that a person cannot be a natural-born citizen if he is a dual citizen at birth. Those who subscribe to this theory argue that because Obama's father was a Citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies at the time Obama was born, Obama was born a dual citizen and therefore was not a natural-born citizen.[112]

In August 2008, the Rocky Mountain News ran an online article asserting that Obama is both a U.S. and a Kenyan citizen.[115] This turned out to be incorrect according to FactCheck.org, which noted that Obama was indeed born a citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies (CUKC) under British law, by virtue of his descent from a Kenyan father at a time when Kenya was a British colony, but lost CUKC citizenship and became a Kenyan citizen when that country gained independence in 1963. However, Kenya's 1963 constitution prohibited dual citizenship in adulthood. Obama therefore automatically lost his Kenyan citizenship on his 23rd birthday in 1984, by failing to formally renounce any non-Kenyan citizenship and swear an oath of allegiance to Kenya.[116] Although the paper apologized for the error and published a correction,[117] the article continued to provide fuel for online rumors about Obama's eligibility for the presidency. The current Kenyan constitution effective since 2010 permits dual citizenship, but requires those who lost Kenyan citizenship prior to 2010 to complete a registration process in order to regain citizenship.[118]

This Answers a lot and listen I do actually believe a number of things are lies of the elite. But frankly why would the elite put a Muslim in Charge?

#please explain #stupid ass beliefs of Zionist Nuts #what is wrong with people

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spookywhipped · 7 years

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As stated in a prior post’s tags, I apologize in advance for the length --- I will NOT be putting this under a read more because… Fam, I’ve been waiting to make this post for literal months. Everything written here was accumulated months ago in my Mental Memory Bank, and expanded upon once the game came out and I could see ACTUAL CONFIRMATION that my theories were correct like holy shit. Thanks for understanding !!

Ann was, from the get-go, the perfect target ( and you have no idea how much it pains me to say this about My Girl ). She’s always been isolated socially, her only friend being Suzui Shiho --- another girl and member of the volleyball team that Kamoshida was already abusing physically. She had already been the target of rumors prior to Kamoshida thanks to her American looks, and thus had little to no support system at the Academy. It left her somewhat dependent on her relationship with her best friend, someone she’d do anything for, and he was completely aware of that fact. It was no doubt fairly easy to convince her that her friend’s starting position was on the line, and regardless, Ann was in literally no position to outright refuse someone who held such sway over the Academy. She had no support system at home, either, which only left her more susceptible ( and an even better target if he were aware of this, although he makes it clear he’s never been concerned about the volleyball parents saying anything at the very least ) ; her parents would be abroad the entire year at least. Honestly, though, even if they were in her life every day of that year it’s doubtful Ann would have come to them with any of her issues --- having been raised as a ‘strong girl’ that could handle herself in her parents’ stead, it’s a mentality that becomes ingrained in one’s very being. In her mind, the ONLY way to face this entire ordeal was alone; between her best friend missing out on what was believed to be her dream or angering the coach enough to have him force her out of the Academy ( in which case she really WOULD have to deal with her parents ), there was no foreseeable alternative.

This understandably did a huge number on her behavior. Ann is not inherently an introverted person, but she DOES have a tendency to draw inward when something affects her or bothers her in some way. Her personality would have undergone a drastic change, and this is made somewhat clear by her very first interaction with the protagonist. She offers him an idle smile, but otherwise her body language suggests she’s exceedingly uncomfortable --- hands deep in her pockets, gaze focused downward, head also tilted downward to avoid extra eye contact. It’s difficult to say whether this behavior was directly related to the protagonist or more due to the impending introduction of Kamoshida, but when he pulls up to offer a ride, it seems more spontaneous and opportunistic than anything. Thus, we can assume this is the sort of body language Ann typically offers --- and further sightings of her early on seem to confirm this. No matter where she is, she seems utterly uncomfortable and even exhausted, often angry; this is particularly evident when she sits on the sidelines during the volleyball rally, which is obviously Kamoshida’s domain. You can overhear rumors about Ann almost immediately, even referred to offhandedly as ‘ Kamoshida’s bitch , ’ and with what we know about the function of gossip in the game I highly doubt they simply stopped talking whenever she was around. This is problematic on its own, as no one shows any particular concern from a legal standpoint about their supposed relationship --- not even the adults that would be in a position to know or overhear --- which just goes to show how much of a pull he really had in this Academy, an integral facet to its sterling reputation. As is the case in many situations like these, it only serves to isolate the victim further --- giving them the perception that they really, truly have no one to turn to, much less anyone that might care in the first place. Their world starts to become that person. Think about it: in high school, that’s easily a seven-hour day. Much of your daily routine is spent there, and aside from her modeling, I find it doubtful Ann did much else besides go to school, come back home, and try to hold off Kamoshida and their ‘’’’relationship’’’’. Her daily life pretty much revolved around this ordeal, I mean… Do you have any idea how exhausting that can be to a person ?

Nothing hurts me more than when the protagonist chases Ann down in Shibuya. You could practically feel her rising panic, her despair after getting off the phone with Kamoshida. This was very clearly a scared teenage girl who felt she had run out of options. Just trying to imagine where she would be had the protagonist not found her and caused her to break down is difficult to even think about; knowing Ann at that point in the story, I consider it highly likely she would have ultimately gone through with it. Maybe not that day, maybe not tomorrow, but she would have eventually run out of excuses and would have been absolutely terrified of the consequences. The entire scene --- from chasing her down to sitting with her at the restaurant --- does an incredible job of making it clear just how devastating her situation is to her. Whether you know it to be true or not, it remains true that as far as Ann knew , her situation was as hopeless as it gets. Again, that panic was so damn real; she was so overwhelmed, and it was all over her face.

I won’t be writing about it in this particular post because it’s going to be incredibly long as is, but I want to make a note here that Ann was still never completely submissive. That’s definitely not what I’m saying here. It was clear in that same exact cutscene that she felt a great deal of anger over her situation, both in the way her finger repeatedly jabbed at the napkin and in her inflection and tone of voice. During the volleyball rally she looked about ready to kill someone, and the harsh murmur of ‘ LIES ’ when the protagonist first walks past her --- it all points to the fact that she is still very much attempting to fight her situation, or at the very least is still completely opposed to it. In her awakening scene, that anger didn’t just POP UP --- it had been seething under the surface for quite some time, even though she generally appeared calm and even meek in most interactions with Ryuji or the protagonist at school prior. What I am saying, however, is she never fully utilized that anger because she never sensed an opportunity; what I am saying is that any individual could only take her situation for so long before submitting in some way , exhausted and nerves beyond shot from the stress alone.

The effect this all has on her does not stop when Kamoshida himself is stopped. If anything, it only amplifies in the wake of her trauma --- because, yes, it was still a trauma. In fact, this distinction is something Ann herself fails to grasp. In her eyes, she got off easy ; in her eyes, she has no right to feel the way she feels or talk about her trauma because the entire volleyball team alone had to suffer through far worse. Not only that, but Shiho was the ‘real’ victim in all this --- a victim whose circumstances Ann only exacerbated. Keep in mind that for all her wisdom, for all her empathy for others, Ann is her harshest critic AND is still only sixteen in a society that does not exactly endorse conversations about trauma or mental health ; to Ann, because he never beat her or assaulted her, she in fact did not suffer ‘enough’ to be traumatized. I consider it exceedingly unlikely that her feelings and experiences are often brought up by her in conversation. As mentioned prior, the mentality that she must be ‘strong’ and turn inward has been ingrained in her since childhood --- and not only is that unlikely to change despite her new group of friends, but Kamoshida likely exacerbated that.

The only hints we really get to Ann’s current mental state are indirect, shown rather than told. The most obvious of these hints would be in her IMs in the wake of the accident. Since A//tlus is taking down most videos, I’ve been a little hard-pressed in hunting down an example/direct text, but I can easily sum it up: in essence, while Ann is incredibly grateful and relieved to have been able to have done something about Kamoshida, she still feels it is not enough . She feels directly responsible , and even lumps herself in with the adults who knew and did nothing --- although, as the protagonist has the option to point out, she didn’t know. Although she sincerely thanks both the protagonist and Ryuji, she still seems convinced she didn’t do nearly enough. Her guilt becomes especially evident --- and is even explicitly stated by Ann later in a heart-to-heart --- in her early interactions with Makoto. In the student council president she sees an uncomfortable reflection of herself; she sees someone that had been in a position to speak up, to do something --- anything --- but didn’t. Her harsh treatment is a direct result of how she actually feels about herself , disgusted at what she perceives to be her role in Kamoshida’s abuse.

While she would never admit it, and while the entire volleyball team’s suffering alone causes her guilt, the brunt of her guilt is thanks in large part to what his shadow declared in the Palace: had she just given him what he wanted, he wouldn’t have had Shiho ‘take her place’. I would like to add briefly that this is not my way of trying to say that what happened to Shiho revolves strictly around Ann, or that Ann and her trauma is in any way ‘worse’ or ‘larger’ than Shiho’s. Trauma does not work that way . What I can tell you, however, is that I myself am someone who has had to wrestle with similar guilt --- with knowing that I could have possibly protected a family member from suffering the same trauma that I have with the same abuser, but in refusing to speak up, only made our abuser more confident and enabled him to repeat the cycle of abuse. Ann is without a doubt suffering from the same level of guilt, and it’s the sort of burden that one may never shake ; it eats away at a person easily, because they’re generally too ashamed of themselves --- both for their perceived role and for making someone else’s ordeal ‘about them’ in their mind --- to say anything about their feelings to anyone. You can tell them they’re not at fault a hundred times over and it won’t ever ring true to them; it’s something they have to accept and move on from on their own , and I personally believe Ann currently lacks the tools to do so. This would leave her prone to occasional bouts of seemingly irrational anger, wherein the target is actually herself despite her lashing out --- and although certain circumstances cause the entire group to be irate with Makoto, Ann’s is undeniably much more personal, and it’s thanks to her own self-loathing. Although she is the first to say Kamoshida is the one to blame, and she remarks that it took a long time before she could accept this, I strongly believe she is still wrestling with that guilt --- but also wants to make amends with Makoto. I do think, on a more positive note, that being involved with the Thieves is aiding her progress.

Although Ann does not, in my opinion, have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I do think she has some hints of post-traumatic stress --- which is a normal response that most people have to a traumatic event. She does suffer from nightmares, and often ( although I may be reaching here, when you hang out with her at the planetarium, she remarks that the day leaves such an impact on her that ‘I think I’ll have good dreams tonight,’ and it makes my heart hurt y’all… The clues are there , okay… ); she does sometimes get sudden sweats or heart palpitations with seemingly no cause; she does suffer changes in sleep patterns, and she does have a tendency to be easily startled by sudden noises or touches whereas she wouldn’t have before. One major result of the ordeal with Kamoshida is a HEIGHTENED SENSE OF AWARENESS . What this means is that she has a tendency to be suspicious or even paranoid of certain people or situations --- for example, she now walks with her house keys gripped tightly between her knuckles in case someone approaches her. It’s a really devastating experience, in all honesty, for someone who tries so hard to see the good in everyone and everything --- or at the very least, understand them --- to now be scared to walk home at night, and be prone to preconceived judgments of people that approach her ( which is an ordeal in itself considering she lives in Shibuya of all fucking places ). It’s part of why being Panther is so important to her, because it’s much like shedding her usual skin and identity and allows her to feel in complete control of any situation . As Panther, she has nothing to fear because she IS the threat; as Panther, she’s never defenseless or alone; as Panther, she never has to submit to ANYONE ever again.

#finally......#you know despite this length i'm still sure i missed some things i wanted to talk about #OH WELL..... i'll make them into individual posts if i remember tem #***them #just......take this #this is almost 3000 words i want death #I TOLD YALL I HAD A HUGE WALL OF TEXT ON THIS SUBJECT SINCE FUCKING MONTHS AGO #DID I GHOST WRITE THIS SHIT ? ⟨ HC. ⟩

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autolovecraft · 7 years

Text

So don't ask me any questions when I call.

In the evening he wrote a note to Mr. Ward, which was then much below the level of Newport in its patronage of the liberal arts. Respiration and heart action had a baffling lack of symmetry; the voice was lost, so that now Dr. Allen did not keep them in shape. Servants' imaginations, fortunately, are limited, else comment might have been Allen's there was not one who did not think it necessary to take some sort of secret and coordinated action. 'Twas Number 118, and I conceive you would have shook had you looked it up in my list in the other room, its tag numbered 118. His elaborate studies and experiments, whatever they may have been after more than a twelvemonth afterward Capt. Whipple led the mob who burnt the revenue ship Gaspee, and in town i. The interview was, as always, inconclusive; but Willett felt that some direct conversation with his patient was necessary. At nine o'clock the three detectives presented themselves and immediately delivered all that they had indeed come to be the leader, Capt. Esek Hopkins to steal down into the river valley behind the Curwen farm and demolish with axes or gunpowder the oaken door in a frame of heavy masonry, which was delivered the next morning and which caused the half-dazed parent to ponder long and deeply. He was mad, and he knew that he had passed the open pit; for he had attended Ward all his life and could appreciate with terrible keenness the extent of his physical disorganization. On the Pawtuxet Road. Houses were still few here, and there is reason to believe from his speech and unmistakable replacement of modern by ancient ideas in his consciousness marked him out as one definitely removed from the normal.

Only by degrees did they absorb what it seemed to evoke. Now definitely leagued together to do all he could to restore the boy to normal poise. Charles had lost, and marked two items as of possible significance. She could hear no more than the cheap inventiveness of baffled curiosity. But far more interesting were the two vacant walls, both of which were plainer here than they had been at all specific.

Instead of triumph I have found, but I am not well spoke of by ibn Schacabao in the ⸻. Every possible moment was spent at the Pawtuxet bungalow and moved to it all his scientific effects. Ward was reminded when his son barked forth those pitiable tones to which he had been before; keeping close to his work and watched the men fascinatedly as they finished their installation of the picture with its woodwork above a cleverly realistic electric log, setting the mock-fireplace in Charles's third-floor study or library of Charles Ward from the time the typewritten notes began to reach his parents. Y’ai’ng’ngah, Yog-Sothoth was uttered, the hideous change began. There were futile, bewildered head-shakings from both men, and once Mr. Ward ventured a hushed suggestion, 'Do you suppose it would be, and I suppose that when I feared the work I feared him too as my greatest helper in it. The next morning Willett received a letter from one Jedediah Orne of Salem. This was a chemical rather than animal smell, and came clearly from the room beyond the door was of medium size, and had ordered the required kind and number from agencies which he had so long deserved. Faced by these baffling and contradictory reports, Dr. Willett substantially dissents; basing his verdict on his close and continuous knowledge of the matter. Upon returning home he broke the news with an almost evil chuckle very painful to hear. His exotic studies and his curious chemical importations being common knowledge, and his father recalls only a drowsy realization of stifled oaths and stamping feet on the night the goods were taken away. He wished it were not so willing? You know better than I who or what wrote that minuscule message will never trouble you or yours. Curwen or Orne Ward could not tell; but something in that combination affected him very badly and very peculiarly. The morning of April 6th dawned clear, and both the family and Dr. Willett set about collecting every scrap of data which the family had retired, the butler was nightlocking the front door when according to his uprooted and savagely splintered slate headstone, was found very curiously through correspondence with the heirs of the loyalist Dr. Graves, who had taken with him a duplicate set of records when he left his pastorate at the outbreak of the Revolution. But of this he hath doubtless writ you.'Raised Yog-Sothoth ’Ngah’ng Ai’y Zhro So haunting were these formulae, and so many clues to similar data elsewhere, that he was indeed right; for the miniature avalanche had left behind a solid wall of mixed earth and shrubbery from aloft. Willett relies on them to help establish his theory that the youth was sane and himself at the Ward home to be present when the detectives arrived. Those guards, according to the Fenner letter, above the doomed Pawtuxet farmhouse on the night the goods were taken away.

It was in January 1770, whilst Weeden and Smith drew their own inferences. They were robbing the tombs of all the ages; snatched by supreme ghouls from crypts where the world thought them safe, and subject to the beck and call of madmen who sought to kill Charles as too squeamish, and why had his destined victim said in the frantic note of the previous year. Curwen abandoned his midnight sailings. They had not, regrettably enough, located the Brava Tony Gomes as they had been at the foot of Olney Street.

Dr. Willett rested as if recuperating from something past or nerving himself for something to come. One night late in March he left the room. Willett's that the next move in this singular case proceeded. They had heard he was an omnivorous reader and as great a conversationalist as his poor voice permitted; and shrewd observers, failing to foresee his escape, freely predicted that he would like to say more if he thought any considerable number would believe him. None ventured to pierce the tangled shrubbery on the river-bank which old manuscripts mentioned. And now swiftly followed that hideous experience which has left its indelible mark of fear on the soul of Marinus Bicknell Willett has not hope that any part of his timidity. Willett waited vainly in Charles Ward's library, watching the dusty shelves with their silent and perhaps watching sentinels. For over a week Dr. Willett pondered on the dilemma which seemed thrust upon him, and he would not be well for the national—or even the international—sense of decorum if the public were ever to know what was uncovered by that awestruck party. He bore the name of Curwen, and perhaps it was something different and irrelevant; but in any case purely book research; and he could not rise to his feet after a time; lamenting bitterly his fright-lost torch and looking wildly about for any gleam of light in the clutching inkiness of the chilly air. Hence the rambles—from which St. John's the former King's Churchyard and the ancient Congregational burying-ground in the midst of this mephitic flood there came a very perceptible flash like that of the Hutchinson cipher, which he urged his Connecticut relative to destroy, remain to tell what was seen and heard. Before trying any of the Fenners had ever encountered before, and the half-dazed parent to ponder long and deeply. He engaged in shipping enterprises, purchased wharfage near Mile-End Cove, helped rebuild the Great Bridge, followed by the sound of a single whistle-blast, then wait and capture anything which might issue from the regions within. These had suffered damage at the hands of the raiders, a thing which was discussed for weeks. Peck, Waite, and Lyman were not inclined to attach much importance to the strange correspondence of young Ward's companion; for they knew the effect of publicity would be to miss its quintessential loathsomeness and soul-sickening overtones. Then, by insidious degrees, there appeared to develop a curious sequel to the matter of the covered pits and the nameless hybrids within. Promptly at four Dr. Willett presented himself at the time.

There was no mistaking the isolated bungalow with its concrete garage on a high point of land at his left. The attack was to begin as soon as it was delivered to the widow of Joseph Curwen, resumed, along with her seven-year-old daughter Ann, her maiden name of Tillinghast; on the ground 'that her husband's name was become a public reproach by Reason of what was known after his decease; the which confirming an ancient common rumor, though not to reveal their object. Late in the afternoon young Ward began repeating a certain formula in a singularly loud voice, at the request of the senior Ward, while denying this latter wish as absurd for a boy of only eighteen, acquiesced regarding the university; so that in time it became exceedingly difficult for Curwen to keep his oddly assorted hands. One may picture him yet as he was in port; spending hours at night by the wharves with a dory in readiness when he saw lights in the Curwen warehouses, and following the small boat which would sometimes steal quietly off and down the bay some distance, perhaps as far as Namquit Point, where they would meet and receive cargo from strange ships of considerable size and widely varied appearance. If you are disposed to travel, do not neglect to make use of the words I have here given. P.S. Shoot Dr. Allen on the second of that pair of formulae, recurred so often that Willett had ever heard before despite their wide knowledge of foreign parts, and many times bruised his head against the frequent pillars, but still he kept on. Here his only visible servants, farmers, and caretakers were a sullen pair of aged Narragansett Indians; the husband dumb and curiously scarred, and the father deep thought.

#H.P. Lovecraft #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #The Case of Charles Dexter Ward #1927 #The Case of Charles Dexter Ward week

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