#gives their testimony a little more weight

[serenescribe]

i don’t have a specific prompt, but maybe something with malleus being soft for sebek, perhaps post-book 7? thanks in advance! i love ur writing!

[✐] ficlet frenzy (thank you for your kind words! ;v; i'm always surprised and happy that people enjoy my writing so much)

Malleus knows better than to complain after everything he’s done, especially when said complaints concern such mundane yet essential duties. There is plenty of work to be completed with handling the aftermath of his overblot, especially considering the absolute scale of it all — a monstrously massive dome of thorns that slowly, ever so slowly, began to envelop the entire world. Had it not been for a handful of heroes — the Shrouds, for one, but also Malleus’ loved ones: Lilia, Sebek, and Silver, along with the child of man and their direbeast — he would have undoubtedly succeeded.

Damage control is essential in these critical moments after his overblot. Plenty of magic and technology, though Malleus lacks a complete understanding of how the latter works, are being employed to clean up his mess. Malleus himself, though, is busy with meeting after meeting, day after day. Of conferring with the headmage, discussing matters with the Shrouds, and, perhaps most embarrassingly enough, needing to be lectured over and over again by his grandmother, who travelled personally from the valley.

He is still allowed to stay in Diasomnia throughout all this, though that is more because of convenience than anything else. It doesn’t mean much when all the students give him an even wider berth than before, his loneliness taken to a new extreme. Sure, Lilia has changed his mind and will now stay with him, and Malleus is still close to him, Silver, and Sebek, but…

The guilt eats at him nonetheless.

Regardless, there is little they can do on the side of diplomacy, save for giving their testimonies and standing up for him, an action that Malleus deems more merciful than anything else. Malleus is largely alone for most of these days as he wrangles this mess with everyone else, while the others return to their regular schedule of classes and studies as though a world-shattering incident had not just occurred.

So it comes as a surprise to him when he returns especially late one night, entering the dorm in the wee hours of the morning at a time when even Lilia wouldn’t be awake, and sees Sebek fast asleep on the couch.

Malleus can only stare for a while, blinking in utter surprise. Sebek is one who is typically early to bed and early to rise; had he passed out here somehow? It doesn’t occur to him until he gives it some thought that perhaps Sebek had only fallen asleep here because he’d been waiting for him — and it is with that realisation that something clicks, memories of seeing Sebek on this couch night after night whenever he comes back, sitting with the other two, rising to the front of his mind.

“Your neck is going to hurt, sleeping in such a position,” Malleus murmurs, leaning over Sebek and taking in the peaceful expression of his face, the light snore that escapes his parted lips. He doesn’t even think about it before he summons a spell; green sparks fly around them as, in the blink of an eye, they are whisked to Sebek’s room, filled with the snores of his fellow roommates who, thankfully, do not stir at Malleus’ intrusion.

Gently, he lowers Sebek on the bed with the help of his magic. The mattress dips under his weight, and Malleus busies himself with fluffing up the pillows (to prevent any stiff muscles in Sebek’s neck), and straightening out the blanket, snapping it wide open in the air with the flick of his wrist before draping it over the sleeping Sebek. He steps back, surveying his work for a moment, a swell of warmth blooming in his chest.

This is good.

He reaches out with a hand, hesitating before stroking his fingers through those tousled, green locks. “Rest well, Sebek,” Malleus whispers, his voice hushed. Sparks dance around his fingertips, and the sleeping boy’s face smooths out into utter bliss; “May you have the sweetest dreams.”

After all, it is only what Sebek deserves, after everything he has gone through to save Malleus from himself.

#my writing tag #ficlet frenzy #tumblr drabbles tag #twst #twisted wonderland #twst spoilers #twisted wonderland spoilers #twst ch7 #malleus draconia #sebek zigvolt #twst fanfiction #twst writing #i actually wrote this a couple hours ago but i'm posting it before others i've written bc uhhhh #stares at mid december ch7 part 6 update #yeah. yea

[chickenkupo]

Giving y'all a little something stuck in my head before I head out to a friendo gathering tonight. Also typing this on my phone so, thoughts and prayers for us all.

Comfort Care

Summary: After handling the incident with the Beret Society, Wriothesley begins to doubt his self-worth. His lovely partner offers him a moment of reprieve to remind him of his true value.

Warnings: A little bit of angst, mentions of trauma. Very light mention, though. I’m also not going to include spoilers other than mention of the Beret’s. That’s about it, surprisingly. I’m currently idle in Fontaine listening to the background music and this came to mind.

The bright blue sky was all he could behold as his head was resting in Neuvillette’s lap, the sun shining down on him and adding to the warmth that his lover’s lap also provided for him. A zephyr breezed by, and he could hear the trees in the distance, their leaves following the motions of the wind and offered a subtle shifting noise that brought him a wide sense of peace.

He then felt a gloved hand petting softly through his untamed hair, light scratches being provided as well as a soft pressure in a rhythmic motion. The more the ministrations continued, the more his thoughts seemed to slow, coming to a complete pause as he was consumed by the sensations. He shut his eyes, sighing deeply and began to feel himself drift away into an uncommon state of peace.

Archons, when was the last time since he was able to lay down and actually rest like this? Long before he was sentenced to the Fortress, which seemed like ancient history to him now.

“Wriothesley, though I admire you for your fortitude and discipline, I must say in some areas, you are certainly still lacking.” His lover said, hands continue to pet him and keeping him in his trance. Taking his words into consideration, Wriothesley frowned as he was about to reply, but was cut off.

“I know you will fight me tooth and nail about this, which is why I’m denying you the right for retaliation. You do not offer to me substantial proof that your character is lacking in any sort of fashion. Evidence submitted to me through observations, testimonies and the full known reputation of the Fortress shows how valued you are in Fontaine. You are called ‘Your Grace’ for many reasons, my soul, and none are of any negative factors.”

Wriothesley felt a shifting of weight below him, Neuvillette’s legs adjusting. He then felt a light pressure on his lips, causing him to open his steel-blue eyes in surprise, to take in the view. Neuvillette had leaned over to provide a soft, loving kiss, his white hair flowing around the two of them, like a light blanket of white rain.

Never in Wriothesley’s life had he felt so cared for, treasured like a fine gem that was found in the roughest pits. The scars of his past literally littered his body, haunting memories flooding through his thoughts at almost every waking hour. But now, that seemed all so distant. Lately all he could think about was this man and their future together. His heart swelled with happiness as he opened his mouth, deepening the kiss. He raised one of his hands, twirling the white hair on one of his fingers, feeling how soft it was.

They continued to share the kiss for a few moments more, until he felt Neuvillette pull away. Wriothesley was about to pout, until his partner continued to share more words with him.

“Wriothesley, I want you to understand that for as long as you allow me, I will do what I can with the powers within me to provide the life you were so easily denied. You will want for nothing. My love for you will never falter, I will support you however I can. Say the words, and it is yours.”

There was a brief moment of silence between the two of them as Wriothesley pondered his words, Neuvillette allowing him as much time as he needed. The Chief Justice knew that the Duke was not used to such affection, but the fact that Wriothesley had not physically attacked him or verbally denied him meant it took root, and was accepted. This made Neuvillette smile.

“Well if you’re not going to deny me anything, could ya maybe start back with the head scratches?”

Neuvillette swore if Wriothesley had a tail, it would be wagging like the happiest of dogs right now.

#neuvillette x wriothesley #wriolette #wriothesley #neuvillette #neuvillette genshin #comfort #fanfic #short writing

[bellysoupset]

hiii , could you maybe write a fic on vince being the sickie and wendy as caretaker bc he doesn’t get torched enough and he’s so cute when he’s sick

Wendy knew something was wrong when Vince barely answered her as they drove back to her place, his head resting against the passenger window. It was uncharacteristic, so she poked his thigh, keeping her eyes on the road.

"What's on your mind?" She asked, stealing a quick glance. He seemed surprise by the poke, as if he had forgotten she was in the car.

"What?"

"What's on your mind? You seem far away."

Vince shrugged, yawning, "nothing much. I'm sleepy, we had three school tours today..."

She opened s smile, "Oh no, the horror. You're now the favorite person of three different middle schools."

His cheeks heated up, "I mean, yeah," he replied smugly, although it was lacking his usual luster, "but have you dealt with a hoard of curious seven year old with sticky fingers before? One class is already a pain in the ass, imagine three."

Wendy grimaced in sympathy. She wasn't good with children, had never been. It wasn't that she disliked them, more that the little gremlins could smell weakness and knew exactly how to leave her panicked.

Next to her, Vince yawned again, squeezing her hand that was still resting on his thigh.

He all but marched to bed, much to Wendy's confusion. Yes, she knew he was tired, but this was uncharacteristic even for him. Vince wasn't the type to get cranky when he was sleepy, just when he was hungry.

She got ready for bed, then crawled next to him, crossing her hands on top of his naked chest and planting her chin on it, so she was almost draped over him, "hey."

"Hey yourself," he yawned, opening a tired smile. She reached in, pushing a strand of dark hair away from his eyes.

"What's wrong? No bullshit."

"My stomach hurts, you might wanna move," he smiled, "I really don't wanna puke on another bra of yours."

Wendy let out a snort, leaning in to bump her nose on his, "luckily I'm not wearing a bra right now..." she teased, before giggling at his eyebrows shooting up. She pulled back, rolling on the bed so she wasn't resting her full weight on top of him, just a leg intertwined with his, "you didn't mention feeling sick."

"Not sick," Vince moved uncomfortably, "but I don't know, dinner isn't sitting quite right."

"Can I do anything to help?" she glanced at him worriedly, "I have tums and pepto-"

"Nah," he interrupted, shaking his head, "rub my belly?"

Wendy squinted at him, glancing at his stomach. It seemed perfectly normal, it wasn't bloated or anything. Just as pudgy as ever, but not rounding out...

"Are you fucking with me?"

Her boyfriend let out a chuckle, shaking his head, "no, no I'm not.. But you do make it too easy, doll."

"Shut up," her cheeks burned. Wendy expected more teasing, but instead Vince simply let out a sigh, giving up on the matter, a testimony of how icky he must've been feeling.

She shifted on the bed, trailing a hand up his stomach. Despite the fact it wasn't bloated, Wendy immediately cringed in sympathy when the soft pressure of her hand caused his belly to let out a sloshy whine.

"Ow," she cringed, "that can't be feeling good."

"It's not bad," he cleared up, closing his eyes and moving her hand down, near his belly button, "just kinda gross."

Wendy opted for not answering, instead resting her cheek on his chest and continuing to rub his stomach. Vince didn't say anything else or make any other noise, so she wasn't sure how much the belly rub was helping, if helping at all.

She got sucked in by the movement, eyes dropping closed and very soon Wendy felt herself starting to drift in and out, waking up mid belly rub in order to continue, as if he somehow wouldn't catch on the fact.

Above her hair there was a noise and she glanced up, only to smile. Vince had fallen asleep, lips half parted, chest going up and down as he breathed in deeply. She moved up on the bed, snuggling closer to him and closing her eyes.

When she woke up again, Vince wasn't in bed.

"Vin?" She got up, yawning and walking to the bathroom. Wendy was surprised when the door opened and the place was empty and dark. Now she was fully awake.

"Vince?" she stepped out of the bedroom, rubbing at her eye and then frowned as she saw Vince's head over the couch's back, "honey, what are you doing here?"

He looked exhausted, but awake, "Can't sleep," Vince grimaced, "I think one of the gremlins gave me the flu. Do I feel warm to you?"

Wendy raised her eyebrows, then planted a hand on his forehead, "a little bit, yeah. Not that much, though... Let me get the thermometer."

Vince nodded, he looked completely defeated. Wendy rushed back into the room and then came back, this time carrying the entire first aid kit and a blanket.

"Put this under your tongue," she handed him the thermometer, then spread the blanket over his lap and sat down too, "anything else? Cough? Sniffles? Stomachache?"

"Just feel gross," he mumbled, voice muffled by the device in his mouth. Wendy pouted at him, he wasn't making it easy for her.

"I know honey, but I need to know what is this so I can give you the correct medication..." she noticed the lines of pain near his eyes and the fact his dark hair was contrasting terribly against the pale skin, "you don't look so good, Vin."

"Uhm," he nodded, then leaned in and rested his head on her shoulder, sighing deeply. She rubbed his arm, turning her face to press her lips to his forehead. He didn't feel overly warm, no more than what she'd expect from being in bed.

"Yeah, no fever, Vin," Wendy frowned, as the thermometer beeped a minute later and confirmed her suspicion, "I need you to talk with me."

He rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing, "I don't fucking know, Wen. I feel... Shaky, nauseous, my head is throbbing. None of it is major, I just feel crappy."

She winced in sympathy, "come back to bed, babe. I'll make you some tea, hopefully you're just wound up too tight."

He seemed to pounder it for a minute, before nodding and getting up, collecting the blanket. Wendy frowned, wordlessly reaching to steady him on his feet.

She didn't follow him into the bedroom, instead going to the small kitchen area and starting the tea. By the time she made it back, half of her expected Vin to be asleep again. It was, after all, four AM.

"Hey," he smiled at her, tiredly and Wendy's heart squeezed with sympathy. She might be sleepy, but he clearly was dead on his feet but couldn't sleep.

"Here," she handed him the large mug of peppermint tea and crawled on the bed, grabbing the remote for the television. It was obvious neither of them were getting anymore sleep that night, "anything you want to watch?"

"Put on whatever you want, Wen," He shrugged, leaning back and cradling the mug in his hands. As soon as she turned up the episode, Vince took another sip of the tea and put away the mug, turning to cuddle her.

She opened a pleased smile, the man was a huge teddy bear, all warm and soft and if she wasn't sleepy before, she definitely was whenever he held her like that. He nuzzled his face on her shoulder, planting a little kiss on the exposed skin and sighing as he attempted to sleep.

They stayed like that for an entire episode, her fingers running through his hair while her eyes grew heavier and heavier and the sun just started to rise. Until Vince, whom she thought was asleep, let out a groan and pulled away.

"Fuck," he mumbled, voice thick with pain. He grabbed on the headboard, stumbling up and Wendy sat up too.

"Vin? What's wrong?" she noticed his hand planted on his stomach, which was still just as pudgy as before, none of the bloat she usually saw when he was sick. It was all very unusual.

Vince didn't answer her, but stumbled to the bathroom and locked the door behind him, which told her enough. She cringed and got up, leaving the bedroom to give him some privacy and to heat up a hot water bottle.

It was nearly half an hour later when he stumbled out of the bedroom, face covered in a thin layer of sweat, now wearing a large orange sweater that she hated more than anything and had purposefully stolen from his dorm so he'd stop wearing.

"Hey..." she met him halfway and Vince grimaced.

"I feel awful," he groaned, melting as she pulled him into a hug. Now he felt slightly warmer than before, but not by much. She pulled him to sit down by the kitchen island and Vince slumped forward, folding his arms and pressing his cheek on top of them, looking completely worn.

"Did you eat anything with milk in it?" Wendy frowned, rubbing his back up and down. She heard his belly let out a little whine, complaining. He shook his head.

"No..." then gulped down, "Please don't talk about food."

"I'm sorry," she kissed his temple, "I heated up a water bottle for you, Vin, it'll help with the cramps."

He nodded, but didn't move a muscle. Instead all he did was let out another deep sigh and press even further against the counter, as if it was bringing some comfort to grind the hard surface.

"Vin, what do you need?" Wendy asked, hating feeling this useless. She was a doctor, she fixed people! She wanted to help him, "wouldn't lie down hel-"

He interrupted her with a shrug, followed by another groan, "I... I'm so nauseous," he mumbled, letting out a little airy burp. When Vince looked up, she could see his paleness had gone straight into green territory.

"I'm gonna get you a bucket," Wendy squeezed his shoulder, crossing the kitchen to grab a bucket in the laundry. This one was fully decorated with little tulips.

She guided him back to the couch and Vince quickly draped himself over her lap, like those overgrown dogs who didn't realize they were not lap dogs. Wendy chuckled, putting her feet on the coffee table and starting to pet his hair, "we can skip class, but I can't skip work later."

"It's okay, I'll feel-" he gagged, but continued talking, "- better soon."

She froze up, reaching for the bucket, but it wasn't a productive gag and Vince was once more slumped down, breathing through the waves of nausea.

Wendy cupped his forehead, regretting she hadn't thought to get a wet washcloth, even if he didn't have a fever. Yet, she could feel it was edging on feverish heat, just waiting for her to be distracted so it'd go up. Vince's fevers, she was learning, were always high and scary.

They stayed like this for a long while, long enough the sun had been up already when Wendy felt Vince shift and muffled a wet belch against her thigh, wrapping an arm protectively against his stomach.

She touched his forehead again, noticing the heat had steadily grown into fever territory, "Vin-"

He reached out for the bucket, but didn't bother sitting up, instead tipping over the couch to burp inside the bin. In this position she could feel perfectly as his stomach gurgled uneasily, pressed against her thigh.

His whole back arched as a violent heave went through him, harsh and causing him to cough. Vince spat in the bin, panting and letting out a whimper, "I don't feel well..." and then a rush of vomit exploded out of his mouth.

He got most of it in the bucket, but not all, and the minute he managed to breathe and open his eyes, Vince was groaning, sitting up straight, "shit, Wen, I'm so sorry-"

"It's okay honey, don't worry about the rug," Wendy pushed the hair away from his forehead. He was sweating profusely, "now you definitely have a fever."

"Uhm..." Vince couldn't answer her, too busy curling around the bucket and coughing weakly, bringing up yet another stream of vomit.

Wendy couldn't help but wince, it all sounded so extremely painful... She rubbed his thigh, hoping to bring in some small comfort, "get it up baby, the sooner you get rid of whatever's making you so sick, the sooner you'll feel better..."

He pulled back, resting his forehead on the rim of the bucket and panting, swallowing back gags. Wendy waited for him to say anything, but Vince was deadly quiet, clearly battling another round of nausea.

"Honey," she combed her fingers through his hair, "are you done?"

A shake of his head answered her, the bucket slipping a little on his grip so she reached in to hold it steady, "okay, take your time."

Wendy expected Vince to throw up again soon, everything was harsh and violent when it came down to Vin being ill, but instead he just stayed quiet, breathing shallowly through the queasiness.

"I hate children," he mumbled after a long while, startling her. Wendy let out a snort.

"You love children," she rolled her eyes, "you turn into a big mushy marshmallow around them."

"Uhm," he groaned, leaning in to burp over the bucket, spitting the saliva collecting in his mouth, "fuck, my back hurts."

"Here..." Wendy grabbed the abandoned hot water bottle, that now wasn't as warm and pressed it against his lower back, figuring it was the biggest offender with how he had to hunch down over the bucket. Vince let out a small, relieved sigh, before rocketing forward once more as a surprise gag brought up a stream of watery vomit.

She cringed as it melted down in a coughing fit, not just choking, but actual coughing, coming from deep in his chest, "aww, Vin, this isn't just a stomach bug."

"Great..." Vince whined, voice echoing inside the bucket, all scratchy, "fucking great."

#mywriting #vince monacelli #sickfic #stomach flu #fever #this meant to be long but now *I* am sick and too dead to finish sorry

[azalawa-scroggs]

In Which I Kill Miles Edgeworth Repeatedly

I really didn't need to be enabled, but who doesn't like to be enabled? So I signed up for @killacharacterbingo, in order to keep writing my little depresso shots and feel like I'm doing something productive with it. The challenge is to write several fics where the same character dies, and each fic crosses a box on the bingo card. I'm aiming for the black-out. I deeply apologise to all my followers.

More seriously, I know major character death is a big turn-off for many readers, which I fully respect. Feel free to block my tag for it, which will be #Miles Edgeworth Didn't Choose Death (even though in some of them, he will). There will also be specific content warnings where applicable. And MCD will obviously be warned for every time. If I ever miss a warning, feel free to tell me, of course.

Anyway, here is the first of those fics.

These walls echo with your absence

Rating: G Major Character Death Gen Miles Edgeworth & Gregory Edgeworth Tags: Alternate DL-6, Miles Dies Instead, Unhappy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Gregory Edgeworth Needs A Hug, Child's Death

Gregory doesn't die in the DL-6 incident. Instead he has to learn to live with the worst fate that can befall a parent.

Ray drove him home after the funeral. Gregory himself was in no state to.

He sat silently during the ride, clutching at the urn in his hands. His eyes were dry, staring ahead at nothing, as they had been for the whole service. He remembered nothing of it.

“Thank you, Raymond,” he murmured when they arrived. “I appreciate it.”

“Do you have something to eat for tonight?” Ray asked. Gregory smiled at him, touched by his concern even through the fog that had fallen over him. The expression felt foreign, and the muscles of his face stretched painfully, like they had fallen out of use.

“Yes. Don't worry about me, please. I'll manage. Thank you for everything.”

Raymond hesitated, then gave in, biding him goodnight and telling him to take care of himself. Gregory gave another difficult smile and watched as his assistant drove away.

Truth was, he wasn't sure if he had something planned for dinner. He couldn't recall. But it didn't matter. Cooking, eating, it all sounded exhausting.

Gregory knew that this was a dangerous cycle to fall into. The temptation to waste away was great, and all it would achieve was make the people who cared worry about him. He had been so good about it this last week, going through his last check-ups after being discharged from the hospital, giving the police his testimony, organising the funeral. And tomorrow he would be good about it again. He owed it to the people he still had left, so he wouldn't put even more weight on their burden, already so heavy.

But tonight, just tonight, he wanted to give in. To stop fighting for a few hours. He had just laid his only child to rest. He didn't have much strength left to carry him.

He turned the key in the lock, entered the house, turned on the light. The corridor was too cold and too silent, as it had been for seven days. No one came to meet him, no one shouted a greeting to him. Neither did he call out to announce his return as he always used to do, before.

It was startling, how quickly he had lost the habit to say he was back to an empty house.

Miles's snuggly sweater, which he always wore over his pajamas in the winter, still lay discarded on the back of the couch, abandoned in haste. They had been running late for the trial, and Miles had promised to put it away when they came back. Gregory hadn't touched it since.

Suddenly he realised that he'd forgotten to decide where to put Miles's ashes for the few days before he took them to the cemetery. He froze in indecision.

All that was left of Miles was this little urn, and Gregory had completely forgotten to give it a place in the house. His breath stuttered in his throat, his lungs burning. The decision seemed impossible to make now, as his mind stuttered to a halt.

Not Miles's bedroom, the most logical choice. Its door was closed. Gregory wouldn't open it again.

Not Gregory's room. He wasn't strong enough to lay eyes on it every morning, every night.

Eventually he set it on the ground in the living room, just next to the bookshelf. Miles had often sat in that very spot to read, even though Gregory never failed to remind him that there were more comfortable couches barely a few feet farther. But Miles was too impatient. When he grabbed a book, the book grabbed him back, and he needed to start it immediately. At least now he wouldn't get a sore behind from sitting on the floorboards...

He rose up and stood for a long while, paralysed, staring at the urn that stood in his son's place. What was there still left to do? What was he supposed to do now? There was nothing left but this void in his chest. He couldn't bring himself to move, as if somehow his gaze burning into the urn would bring Miles back, or at least let him accept the reality of it all. As if by staying frozen here he could escape the pain tearing him apart.

This was all that remained of him. Just a few bones and ashes which didn't even fill half the urn. He had looked so small in his little coffin, when they had surrendered him to the flames...

He pushed a stuttering, difficult breath out of his lungs, forced himself to move. He had to keep going. There was no other choice. It was too early for bed, so he picked a book from the shelf, barely looking at its title. He sat, not on the floor, but on the couch. He opened the book, read the first page once, twice, ten times. He couldn't think of anything but Miles.

The doorbell rang. He frowned, wondering who it could be at this time of the night. Some well-wisher, perhaps. He wasn't sure he had the strength to deal with that.

For a second he considered staying here until they left. But the bell rang a second time, and he realised the visitor wouldn't let him ignore them. So he got up, closed the book, and went to answer the door.

“… Detective Badd?”

“Edgeworth... once again, all my condolences... for your loss,” he said. For once there was no lollipop in his mouth, and his face looked even more sombre than usual. “May I... come in...?”

Gregory mechanically moved back to let him in.

“Is there something you wanted to discuss?”

“Yes...” Badd took a few more steps, then turned back to face Gregory. “It's about... the trial.”

Gregory grew rigid.

“I already told you. I will not be testifying.”

“They are charging... Yogi. The case... goes to trial tomorrow... there is practically no evidence...”

Gregory pinched his nose. The fools. He couldn't even say he was surprised. “I fail to see how that is of any concern to me.”

Badd sighed. “Is there really nothing... you remember...?”

Gregory's throat tightened. Voices rang in his mind, the visceral fear as Yogi started losing his mind, knowing Miles was in the elevator with them. He couldn't recall a gun being involved. He knew it wouldn't matter to the prosecution. “No.”

“Without your testimony... he will certainly... walk free...”

“As he should, with how much reasonable doubt surrounds his guilt,” Gregory snapped. “The prosecution are fools to move to trial with so little proof. I have nothing to add.”

He would never understand this country's prosecutors' obsession with conviction, conviction, conviction. There was nothing decisive against Yogi. They needed to investigate further, instead of losing time and money indicting a man that was guaranteed to walk free. Gregory couldn't care less about his son's death becoming one more meaningless win on some uncaring attorney's record. He wasn't going to become a tool for that.

“There was... no one else,” Badd said. “This is why... they arrested Yogi. We need to find... the truth... to bring your son justice...”

“My son is dead, Detective,” Gregory retorted, teeth gritted. “Justice can't do anything for him.”

Yogi had no motive. He had just been panicking. There was no reason for him to pick up his gun, steadily point it at Miles's heart and shoot. It made no sense for him to be the culprit. Miles's death had been too purposeful.

Purposeful. Gregory's hands started shaking, his throat burning. Somehow, someone had stepped into that elevator. They had looked at his son, his little nine-year-old son, and they had coldly shot him in the heart. A life full of promise, a thousand possible bright futures, cut short with the press of a finger. Just like that.

It was unimaginable. It was unthinkable. It was monstrous. Who could look at a child and want him dead? Who could see such a harmless, beautiful little being and decide they no longer deserved to live? Why would anyone ever desire to do that?

Did Gregory really want to know? To face that person, in court or otherwise, look them in the eye, and know that they took everything from him for no reason at all? For there could be no reason, no reason at all for anyone to want to kill Miles, innocent and precious Miles, the joy and pride of his heart, who had never hurt anyone in his life...

Gregory took a trembling breath, balled his hands into fists. Badd was looking at him with pity.

“Edgeworth...”

“Please leave.” He couldn't do this. Couldn't stand here and discuss it any longer.

Badd reluctantly moved towards the exit.

“If there is... anything... I can do...”

“Thank you, Detective,” Gregory said, forcing one of those painful smiles.

There is nothing anyone can do. Miles is gone. And I have to keep living.

Detective Badd respectfully bowed to him, then with a last sorrowful glance, walked out. Gregory closed the door behind him.

He closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe. The air felt solid around him, with how difficult it was to expand his chest, with how much the simple movement hurt. For a moment he tried to think of nothing but breathing.

Miles was gone. He would never sit on the floor again, engrossed in a book too serious for his age. He wouldn't hug Gregory, wouldn't laugh as he babbled about Phoenix and Larry and the Signal Samurai, ever again.

Aimless steps brought him back to the living room. His gaze fell on Miles's discarded sweater once more. In a surge of courage, he picked it up to put it away.

Miles was gone. Gregory had to move on.

The piece of clothing was so soft. He understood why his son had loved it so much, barely ever allowing Gregory to put it in the wash for how often he wore it. It still faintly smelled like him...

He fell to his knees and buried his face into the fabric.

#Ace Attorney #Gregory Edgeworth #Miles Edgeworth #fanfiction #my fanfic #samurais and mockingbirds #cw major character death #cw child death #kill-a-character bingo 2024 #DL-6 Incident #except worse #Miles Edgeworth Didn't Choose Death

[heartofstanding]

What are the famous rumors about Margaret of Anjou? What's the attack on her? Is there a book that objectively describes her? As for her son Edward, is he really an arrogant and cruel person in the description?

Hello anon, I answered the first part of your question on my Lancastrian history sideblog here.

The book I always recommend on Margaret is Helen Maurer's Margaret of Anjou: Queenship and Power. This is less of a biography and more of an academic study of her queenship so that may not be what you want, but it's pretty much the standard text on her. Maurer writes in her preface that she thought Margaret was a "real bitch on wheels" before she began her research but found a much more complex and sympathetic woman throughout the course of her research so that might count as "objective" in the sense that this is where Maurer's research led her rather than a pre-conceived idea directing her research.

The other books on Margaret are:

Jacob Abbott, Margaret of Anjou. I don't recommend this because it was published in 1877 and is therefore superseded by well over a century of research.

Amy Licence, A Marriage of Unequals: Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou. Licence isn't the best with sources (often giving Victorian historians the same weight/authority as a medieval source) and from memory, she's a bit too forgiving of Margaret but it's fine.

B. M. Cron, Margaret of Anjou and the Men Around Her. I have a copy of this but haven't read it in full; Cron is sympathetic but sometimes judges Margaret harshly. I'm not fond of some of her summations but Cron is one of the leading scholars on Margaret and her stuff is always worth reading.

B. M. Cron and Helen Maurer, The Letters of Margaret of Anjou. This is collection of the surviving letters Margaret wrote, not a biography. Could be interesting for further reading, though.

Joanna Arman, Margaret of Anjou: She-Wolf of France, Twice Queen of England. I haven't read this and I don't have a copy yet so I can't comment fully on it; I believe it's a sympathetic take and I've enjoyed Arman's scholarship on Henry V so I'm cautiously hopeful.

As for Edward of Lancaster...

The truth is we know very, very little about Edward of Lancaster. He was only alive for eighteen years and spent most of his life in exile. The most famous description of him comes from Giovanni Pietro Panicharolla, a Milanese ambassador in France, who wrote:

As the king [Louis XI of France] persisted in his praise of the Earl of Warwick, the duke [of Calabria, Margaret's brother] said that as he was so fond of him he ought to try and restore his sister in that kingdom, when he would make sure of it as much as he was sure at present and even more so. The king asked what security they would give or if they would offer the queen’s son as a hostage. This boy, though only thirteen years of age, already talks of nothing but of cutting off heads or making war, as if he had everything in his hands or was the god of battle or the peaceful occupant of that throne

Panicharolla detested the Angevins (Margaret's birth family and on whom she and Edward were reliant while living in exile in France) so we should hesitate to put too much weight on his testimony. We also have to accept that Edward was living in and had lived in circumstances where this sort of attitude was entirely understandable. From a Lancastrian perspective, the Yorkists were traitors. They had deposed his father, attainted his entire family, disinherited him, and had spread rumours of his mother's adultery and declared him a bastard. They were the reason he had lived pretty much "on the run" since he was a small child and were the reason why he and his mother were living in reduced circumstances and in exile. He was also only twelve years old at the time so he does very much have the excuse of youth.

Chief Justice John Fortescue also gives us a few snapshots of Edward of Lancaster in De Laudibus Legum Angliae. This was a text that appears to be a legal treatise combined with a "mirror for princes" advice text, so whether or not the Edward Fortescue wrote about is the "real" Edward can probably be debated - he might represent an ideal Edward or a figurative Edward who plays the role of studen to Fortescue's teacher. Fortescue includes a wish that Edward would be as

devoted to the study of the laws with the same zeal as you are to that of arms, since, as battles are determined by arms, so judgements are by laws.

But it's impossible to tell if this is a real reflection of Edward's character or a construction of Edward as a student in need of Fortescue's legal knowledge. Here's another snippet:

The prince, as soon as he became grown up, gave himself over entirely to martial exercises; and, seated on fierce and half-tamed steeds urged on by his spurs, he often delighted in attacking and assaulting the young companions attending him, sometimes with a lance, sometimes with a sword, sometimes with other weapons, in a warlike manner and in accordance with the rules of military discipline.

This might sound alarming but it's important to remember that Fortescue seems to be viewing this positively - this is what Edward should be doing (note the reference to "in accordance to the rules of military discipline"). We could also look to the idea that this was something a medieval king or prince was supposed to be doing. Thomas Walsingham criticised the favourites of Richard II by saying:

they were the knights of Venus rather than knights of Bellona [Roman goddess of war], more valiant in the bedchamber than on the field, armed with words rather than weapons, prompt in speaking but slow in performing the acts of war.

We also find a similar comment about Henry V's wild youth, where the Vita Henrici Quinti records that, "although under the military service of Mars, he seethed youthfully with the flames of Venus too". In other words, if Fortescue's criticism of Edward of Lancaster was that he paying too much attention to warfare and not to his legal studies, he at least wasn't neglecting his studies and his military training to become "more valiant in the bedchamber".

Again, this is understandable from an emotional perspective. The only way Edward's family could return to the throne is through warfare so of course he's going to dedicate himself to readying himself for war.

We have very little evidence of anything else. Beyond Panicharolla's account (which, as I've said, is hardly an unbiased account), there is little to suggest that Edward was "arrogant and cruel". Yorkist efforts at denigrating him seemed to focus most on the question of birth and legitimacy. Yorkists (both contemporary and modern) have tended to want to demonise Edward as the head of the Lancastrian resistance, to undercut any support and loyalty he might claim and show him to be the inferior alternative to Yorkist rule. It's not uncommon to see a modern day Yorkist snark about how the Lancastrians were fully aware of their status as illegitimate kings and thus should have stepped down and bowed down to the Yorks. In other words, Edward's arrogance is his refusal to accept that his claim was inferior to the Yorkist claim.

The apparently obvious inferiority of the Lancastrian claim was not obvious at the time, either. There was considerable confusion around the succession throughout the late Middle Ages, no clear-cut answer as to who had the "rightful" claim. And even if there was, the simple fact is that had any Lancastrian king or prince willingly stepped down, they would still be a focal point for resistance to the new king and whether or not they were willing to play that role, they knew this would put them at serious risk. From Edward of Lancaster's perspective, he was the son of the anointed King and Queen of England, his father, grandfather and great-grandfather had all been anointed kings.

We also have to consider the impact of the Ricardian movement on Edward's reputation. Edward, after all, was Anne Neville's first husband and Richard her second. Ricardians generally accept the Yorkist image of Edward as arrogant and cruel, but react to the marriage in two ways, by downplaying the marriage or by insisting on its violence.

In the first option, it is argued that the marriage was never consummated because Margaret wanted to keep Edward free for a more advantageous marriage and intended to get the marriage annulled. Thus, the marriage was never a "true marriage" and Richard III was Anne's one and true husband (with all that entails). Usually, Edward and Margaret treat Anne like dirt - after all, she is not "worthy" of the marriage - to emphasise how horrible this marriage would be for Anne. In the second option, Edward is abusive and rapes Anne, who is generally assumed to be nothing but a tragic pawn forced to reluctantly marry her enemy and bear this abuse as best she can, allowing Richard III to soothe her trauma and show her what love, marriage and sex is really like.

There is absolutely no evidence for either option. It is possible that this is what happened but, imo, unlikely. It would be rather short-sighted, cruel and remarkably stupid to mistreat Warwick's daughter when they were still reliant on Warwick (they did not know of his death until their return to England in 1471) to gain back his throne. They could not risk antagonising him, even if they wanted to - and we don't know that they wanted to. They may have been justifiably angry at Warwick was his past wrongs but Anne was not her father, it doesn't follow that they automatically took their anger out on her as a stand-in for her father. They may have very logically understood that a 14 year old girl was not responsible for her father's actions, and endeavoured to have a positive relationship with her. Hell, they might have even liked her for herself. Edward and Anne could even have become friends or fallen in love! We just don't know because there's no evidence.

We know very little about Anne Neville herself. The fact that Edward was commemorated as her husband in the Beauchamp Pageant (probably commissioned by Anne Beauchamp, Anne Neville's mother, probably made over 10 years since Edward's death) suggests that Anne and her mother's feelings about him were more complex than historians and historical novelists have tended to allow her.

In conclusion: we have no idea but there's not a lot of evidence to support the idea that he was especially arrogant and cruel. This reputation seems to be the result of largely non-contemporary Yorkist and Ricardian narratives and is fairly unevidenced.

#edward of lancaster #margaret of anjou #asks #anon

[semper-legens]

11. Society of the Snow, by Pablo Vierci

Owned: No, library Page count: 358 My summary: October the 13th, 1972. A plane carrying a rugby team, some of their friends and family, and a few other people who decided to take a cheap ticket, crashes into the Andes. Months later, two of them stumble down a mountain, having walked over the mountains to bring help for their friends - sixteen survivors out of forty five people. This is their story. My rating: 5/5 My commentary:

Well, it's happened again - Jamie's reading books about the Uruguayan Flight Disaster. I don't think this should come as a surprise to anyone who's followed this blog for more than a few months. Still, this book surprised me. I have a lot of knowledge about the disaster (survival cannibalism is one of my weird special interests) and while this book didn't teach me anything new with regards to the facts, it did have a lot to say about the opinions of the survivors, their reflections on this horrific event, and the impact of the disaster on the rest of their lives. I didn't know that the author of this book, Pablo Vierci, was a member of the community where the boys came from, and personally knew most of the people involved in the disaster. Although he refrains from editorialising until the end, it's clear that this connection colours the way he chooses to tell this story, and the clear compassion and humanity that shines through his narrative here.

The book is structured with alternating chapters - the first will tell a third-person episode from the disaster in roughly chronological order, the second will be a testimony from one of the survivors, where they mostly talk about their reactions to the disaster and their philosophies around it. All of the survivors are reflected here; the book was written before the deaths of Javier Menthol in 2015 and Coche Inciarte in 2023. As I alluded to in the opening, one of the things I really appreciated here was the space allowed to the survivors to just talk about how they feel about the crash. Reactions ranged from those who openly talk about their ordeal on the mountains, giving lectures and motivational speeches, to those who have not spoken of it at all in the years since. Yet all of them gave their voices to this book. And even through the disparate opinions, some commonalities can be drawn. Not wanting to be seen as heroic for surviving, when it was just chance that meant they lived while their friends died. Helping each other no matter what, the love and kinship felt between the survivors even when their personalities clashed. Respect for those who died, wanting their names to be remembered with equal weight.

Every one of the survivors' chapters ends with a little biographical information about them. It starts with the facts - year of birth, career - then dovetails into a description of their character, as Vierci sees it through their interviews. He is respectful to all of them, shining a light on this diverse group of men and their personalities, showing them in the best light. It's really sweet. Vierci is giving the survivors the humanity that the press sensationalised away, particularly after the cannibalism became public knowledge. These were real human beings who were fighting for their lives, and it's unfair to judge them from the safety and comfort we enjoy. Those who died, and cannot speak for themselves, are still immortalised in the memories of those who survived, and by the printing of the names of all who were on that plane within the book. Vierci wants their stories to be told. And I think he did an admirable job here.

Next up, drama and intrigue in 18th century London, as a fortune teller tries to claim her inheritance.

#Society of the Snow #Pablo Vierci #bookblr #book blog #book blogger #5

[unmaskthewriter]

Ocean Eyes {Anakin Skywalker x GN!Reader}

A/N: Welcome back, dearest reader! I wrote this on the spur of the moment late last night and this morning, the song came to me: ocean eyes by Billie Eilish

I do not give permission for any of my work to be copied, published and/or translated on any platform including Tumblr.

Summary: You watch the rise and fall of your best friend and love, Anakin Skywalker.

Word count: 1336

Warnings: mentions/depictions of violence, reader is blind

GIF not mine, credit due to stylesluxx

I’ve been watching you for some time

Can't stop staring at those ocean eyes

You wait patiently in the sparring area overlooking Coruscant. Obi-wan Kenobi was on another domestic dispute mission which left you in charge of training his Padawan while you were away. Of course, he could have taken him if he wished to bore Anakin with yet another domestic dispute. These opportunities allowed you time with your favorite Jedi in training.

You were only knighted months ago at the young age of 21. Anakin was jealous of course, but you had to remind him you were older and therefore naturally ahead of him. You and Anakin grew up together in the Jedi temple, growing closer over the years. Of course, the two of you danced the fine line between friends and something more. You knew you both made a commitment to the Jedi but there was no denying your feelings.

“You know, if I didn’t care for you, I don’t think I’d put up with such an excuse.” He would say. You heard his footsteps long before he entered the room.

“You walk heavy, Anakin. Does something trouble you?” You ask, turning to face him. He lets out a soft sigh, looking away for a moment.

“Would it be worth it to lie?” He smirked. You chuckle and shake your head, approaching him as you reach for your pocket.

“I would like to try something different today.” You revealed a blindfold, raising it up and tying it over your eyes. You step back, allowing your bare feet to read the room and energies.

“This lesson is no different than the training droids we used in earlier training. Only this time, there is a live target.” You explain with a nod, giving the padawan permission to begin.

“Aren’t you going to use your lightsaber?” Anakin asked, a little confused, “I’m not going to fight a defenseless opponent.” He argued.

“This isn’t about me being defenseless Anakin. Be mindful of the force. The Force will guide me. Let’s begin.” You insist as the buzz of his lightsaber alerts you. He rushes toward you, preparing the first blow.

~

Ten years have passed and much has changed between you and the Skywalker. After the bombing of the Jedi Temple hangar, your sight had been taken from you. Of course, you knew Ahsoka, Anakin’s padawan, to be innocent from the very start. You never once blamed her, but you felt a change in Anakin after she left the Jedi order. He came to visit you frequently in the medical bay shortly after the attack.

Burning cities and napalm skies

15 flares inside those ocean eyes

“How do I look?” You attempt to joke. Beneath the wrappings, your eyes were shut and heavily scarred.

“Would it be worth it to lie?” You could hear him chuckle. You feel a dip in the bed beside you, and you weakly push yourself up. There’s a moment of silence between you two as the heavy truth lingers. You had lost your sight. You could sense the weight that Anakin had been carrying. Guilt, Anger, Hate.

“No use… how is Ahsoka? I heard they’re putting her on trial.” You quickly change the subject, hoping to deflect the attention from yourself.

“Yes, and the Council has already refused to listen to your testimony!” Anakin fumes. You reach for his hand.

“Ani-“

“I have to prove her innocence, {Y/N}. She’s my padawan, I know she wouldn’t do this.”

“Be mindful of these feelings. It is only natural to feel anger towards the Council right now. You will learn the truth and bring justice not only to me, but to Ahsoka and the others who suffered that day.” You tell him with a great sense of confidence.

“Thank you, Y/N, for always having confidence in me.” Anakin spoke, placing a gentle kiss to your bruised knuckles.

All of those blindfolded lessons with Anakin had served their purpose.

Now, you were hiding in the harsh desert world of Tatooine. You had made a home for yourself just outside of Mos Espa, filled with small wares and simple comforts. You made a living trading and selling scavenged parts and wares to various people of all walks of life. After the events of order 66, the Jedi had scattered across the galaxy, going into hiding from the rising Sith Lord, Vader. There were rumors of a fellow Jedi in the Jundland Wastes, not that you’d ever seek him or her out. Safety was not in numbers among the Jedi these days. The less attention you attracted, the better off you were.

Your heart ached at the thought of the Sith Lord you had once considered a great friend, perhaps even more. Every flashback, even these odd ten years later, would still make you wince.

You ‘saw’ what he had become that night, and it frightened you.

You really know how to make me cry

When you give me those ocean eyes

You were in the Jedi Temple teaching a group of younglings when the clone troopers entered your classroom.

“Yes?” You asked, feeling as though something was off. You could hear the moving of their blaster rifles and you immediately jumped out, saber drawn and deflecting their bullets. The children had all hid behind you, mortified. After defeating the clones in your classroom, you swiftly led the children through the halls, taking down any clones that had crossed your path. Luckily for you, being blind has taught you to rely on your other senses. You could feel footsteps and hear from a long distance away.

You gathered the younglings that you could find, and had almost made it to the temple entrance when he entered. You almost couldn’t tell it was him, there was such a disturbance surrounding him. You felt something evil and elusive. A sith.

“Children, go!” You shouted. Luckily, a few other Jedi had been nearby. Two had broken off to usher the younglings to safety. Whoever it was, they walked closer and without much warning, grabbed your hand. You tilted your head, confused and felt his skin.

“Ani?” You ask, composing yourself and gripping your saber tighter with your free hand.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were-“

“No, I’m here. Ani, please. Do not lie to me.” You speak softly. With a single hand, you reach out and place a hand on his chest. You feel the turmoil, the whirlwind of emotions. He gently grasps your shoulders.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Anakin, I won’t allow you to do this.” You insist, taking a step back as tears come to your eyes, “Snap out of this. We can help you… I can help you.”

“The Jedi cannot help me no more than they can help themselves, {Y/N}. Join me, together we can rule the galaxy-“ He takes a step towards you, hopeful. You back away, trying to increase the distance between you two.

“Ani…” You warn, raising your saber slightly. Your fingers tighten around the grip until your knuckles turn white. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “Whatever path this is, I cannot follow. For the sake of myself, the younglings-… I loved-“

“Then you’ve given me no choice.” His face darkens.

“Don’t try it.” You warn. His lightsaber hums to life and you nod to him. You return your saber to its hilt on your waist and take a deep breath.

“So be it.” You respond as he charges toward you. You do not move, but allow the saber to pierce your stomach. A small grunt of pain escapes your lips as he pulls the saber out, looking down as you collapse to your knees. Your clouded eyes search desperately for him. Anything that the Force would allow you to see, but nothing. He pushes you down to the floor with the tap of his foot before moving onward, leaving you for dead. Or so he thought.

I’m scared

I’ve never fallen from quite this high

Falling into your ocean eyes

#star wars #anakin skywalker #anakin Skywalker x reader #gender neutral reader #obi wan kenobi #star wars fanfiction #kenobi #anakin x reader #anakin imagine #tatooine #planet: coruscant #order 66 #darth Vader

[yr-obedt-cicero]

I heard somewhere Hamilton gained weight and lost sleep after Philip's death, is this true? And damn that's sad :(

Yes and no.

Hamilton was already gaining weight before Philip's death, as reported repeatedly from 1790 and so on.

Angelica Church wrote a letter to Elizabeth from London concerning the reports of her husband's weight gain;

“Colonel Beckwith tells me that our dear Hamilton writes too much and takes no exercise, and grows too fat. I hate both the word and the thing, and I desire you will take care of his health and his good looks, why I should find him on my return a dull, heavy fellow!”

(Source: The Intimate Life of Alexander Hamilton. By Allan Mclane Hamilton.)

Baron Von Steuben also showed concern for Hamilton's, not only emotional, but physical health. In a letter [16 December, 1790] he suggests Hamilton a diet containing more vegetables than meat, and says he should go on horseback rides every morning for eight or ten miles, and claims his walks on foot are doing him no good;

“My good friend? I learn with sorrow Your indisposition I am persuaded that the lack of Exercise is the principal Cause, I conjure You to bring the remedy there, give You a small bidet and trot Your eight or ten miles all the Mornings, Your races on foot is not enough. Saved that Health so dear to so many people, and So useful to this tender Miss Collumbia.

I have consulted my friend Tissot, I order you to eat a lot of roots, such as refort or horsraddish, carrots, parsley roots in your broth, turnips, chicory and saddlery, a little meat and a lot of exercise—I become Charletan—but what will I not become for You?”

(Source: Founders Archive)

Hamilton must have taken on the Baron's suggestion, as apparently in 1791, AH corresponded with Henry Lee, regarding a horse to assist him in getting out and exercising. Hamilton requested a gentle horse, and Lee made sure to find one that would meet with his needs. Lee then wrote to Hamilton [12 August 1791];

“Mr Cox was about taking to you my riding horse, but my apprehension of yr. necessary hurry & my wish to compare him with a horse I have sent for, concluded a procrastination of my execution of your request & my ardent desire. No other consideration could have induced me to postpone a measure you reckon essential to your health.

Nor shall time be lost in presenting you with this trivial testimony of the zeal with which I engage in any matter which goes to your comfort.”

(Source: Founders Archive)

I don't think it was anything detrimental, truthfully. Hamilton was prone to ailment and being slim with a short stature, I think the couple of pounds he put on was just more noticable due to this (Stop shaming him for his dad bod, okay). Trumbull's 1792 portrait gives a perspective of it though.

So, no; this was a couple of years before Philip's death. But there are hints to Hamilton losing sleep during his long period of grievance, like this 1805 portrait that shows Hamilton's strikingly plane luggage worth of bags under his eyes;

#amrev #american history #american revolution #alexander hamilton #historical alexander hamilton #history #cicero's history lessons #sincerely anonymous

[jesternene]

Our Ending to First Duty

Hey guys! I wanted to share a little one shot about how I think The First Duty in The Next Generation should have ended. I haven't written fan fic in a while so please bare with as I am a little rusty. This story is what we didn't see during the episode and how I think it should have gone. Hope you like it!

In a deleted scene, Beverly explains to Picard that she knows Wesley is in trouble and that he is partly responsible of the accident.

After his exchange with Picard, Wesley summons the courage to explain to the court what really happened and this is the aftermath.

Admiral Brand stood tall as the proceedings began to come to a close. She walked around the table to face the few somber looks in the courtroom. She looked down for a moment, trying to gather the right words to speak to her audience. She took a deep breath before she began…

“I have asked the cadets to step out as I announce our decision. This decision did not come likely but with the recent testimony from Mr. Crusher, I feel it is the right one” Admiral Brand said with a somber tone and continued to explain the decision they had made.

Beverly Crusher began to slowly tune out what the Admiral was saying. The thought her son was a part of such a tragedy that could have been avoided, made her stomach turn in the worst kind of way.

How could he do something so reckless?

The thought of losing her only child was a thought she couldn’t even comprehend. The more she kept thinking about it, the tears began to well up in her eyes. It wasn’t until she heard the bell ring that snapped her back into reality. She was startled by the noise, something that Picard noticed. His heart ached for her, he couldn’t imagine what she was feeling at this moment and it hurt him he couldn’t take away that pain.

He never had children of his own, a choice he made, but Wesley was like a son to him. His best friend’s spitting image. As Wesley got older, he noticed more of Jack in him every day. To know that he could have lost Wesley so easily as he lost his friend was an unbearable thought but the pain and fear were no match to what Beverly was feeling. Without thinking, he reached over and took her hand, giving it a slight squeeze. This made Beverly look over at him and with all her energy, gave him the smallest of smiles.

“Would you like me to be there when you tell Wesley about his sentencing?” Picard thoughtfully asked.

It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t paying enough attention to know what exactly that sentence was. “Um, no. If you don’t mind, can you tell him?” Beverly hoped he would say yes. 

Picard was surprised. He assumed Beverly would want to handle this. After all, this is her son, not his. He knew this was affecting her in different ways. He wanted to be there for his friend and support her in any way he could.

“Yes, of course” He answered, placing his other hand on top of hers, giving her more assurance he was there for her. She smiled, bigger this time, a little bit of that weight taken off her shoulders.

“I appreciate it, Jean-Luc. Please tell Wesley I’ll see him in my quarters before we leave” She explained. Picard just nodded and let Beverly leave the courtroom.

____________________________________

It had been almost an hour since Beverly left Starfleet Headquarters. She let her staff know she will not be returning to work until the following day and decided to get more comfortable in her quarters. Slipping into a more relaxed change of clothes, Beverly gathered her favorite lemon tea and sat down on her couch. Just then, the door chimed.

“Come in” Beverly answered.

Wesley appears as the doors slide open. His hands were placed behind his back as if entering to see a commanding officer and not his mother. Beverly placed her tea down and stood up to greet her son before she noticed his uneasiness.

“At ease, Cadet” she quipped. Wesley relaxed a bit but the tension in the room was still thick of his mother’s disappointment and his guilt.

“Sorry” Wesley quietly said. “Captain Picard told me you wanted to see me. When do you leave?”

“Soon. I just wanted to say goodbye and…” Beverly trailed off. She looked down at her teacup for a brief moment before she looked back at her son. She didn’t want to dance around the subject and be uncomfortably polite to him. With her eyes filled with tears, she broke the pleasantries, which made Wesley’s guilt turn into complete heartbreak. He knew he disappointed his mother, but to see her cry was almost too much for him to handle.

“And I wanted to know why?” Beverly asked, almost pleading.

Wesley’s silence was deafening. He couldn’t answer what his mother so desperately wanted to hear. After a few moments, Beverly continued.

“I didn’t raise you to be so careless, Wes. You participated in something that cost one of your friend’s life. And understand just how close you were to almost losing your own life in the process. A decision you didn’t even give a second thought about or how it would affect me!” Beverly’s tone grew higher as her anger towards her son grew more intense. Yes, she was angry; and she had every right to be.

“I’m so sorry, mom. I didn’t mean to hurt you or anyone else. I just wasn’t thinking” Wesley explained, in a not-so-convincing manner. Truth was, he had no excuse and Beverly knew that.

“You’re right, you were not thinking!” Beverly nearly shouted, causing Wesley to wince at that moment. Beverly began to pace the room, trying to gather her thoughts before she looked at her son again.

“There are no guarantees when you are in Starfleet. It is a dangerous yet humbling job to have. I could lose you on any mission you seek out, just like how I lost your father” Beverly’s voice cracked when mentioning Jack. “But this… this is beyond a mistake, Wesley. This is beyond sorry. And I hope this is something you can live with because I can’t help you when it comes to that”

Wesley absorbed every word his mother threw at him. She was right, this was something he was going to have to live with. This situation has forever changed him. He is no longer the naïve but yet intelligent young man he was on the Enterprise. Today, everything was different.

“I can’t undo the decision that I made, and I will forever have to live with that guilt. But I hope you know that disappointing you is the worst thing I could have ever done. And know I will try my hardest to have you trust me again” Wesley explained, with a hint of emotion in his voice.

The sincerity in Wesley’s voice made Beverly feel guilty, as if she was gut-punched. She didn’t want to be so hard on him and knew he was sorry for his decision. She took in a deep breath to compose herself before she released the few tears that were remaining. She quickly grabbed her son and hugged him tightly. He returned the embrace, burying his head into her neck. Few moments pass of them standing there, holding each other in silence. Beverly slowly let him go and placed her forehead to touch his. It was something they had always done since he was a little boy. She then looked into his eyes and put both hands on his face.

“You’re the only family I have. The thought of losing you…” Beverly trailed off, not sure what word can best describe the feeling. Wesley took both of her hands into his and held them tightly.

“I know” he said, understanding. Beverly sighed before hugging her son again.

“I love you” she quietly stated.

“I love you too, mom” he replied.

As they broke off their final hug, the tension was no longer there. Which was a massive relief for Wesley.

“I better get going” he said. Beverly quietly nodded at him and smiled.

“I’ll see you in a couple of months for the holidays?” He asked eagerly.

“You bet I will. I’m always here for you, Wes” Beverly answered and reassured him.

“Thanks, mom” He smiled.

As he began to walk towards the door, Beverly stayed where she was. He looked back at her one more time. “Goodbye”

Beverly didn’t say goodbye, but blew a kiss instead and smiled. Then he turned and the doors shut.

Beverly's smile slowly disappeared before turning and sitting back down on her couch when her door chimed again. She assumed it was Wesley, probably forgetting to tell her something.

“Come in?” she answered curiously. But it wasn’t Wesley at the door, It was Picard.

“I saw Wesley leave and I thought I would come to check in on you” he said lovingly.

Picard had waited outside her quarters. He didn’t want to intrude but his mind couldn’t focus on anything else that day and needed to see her.

Beverly nodded and smiled. Her heart was full of gratitude over his gesture. He came over and sat next to her and with no words exchanged, she placed her head on his shoulder. Picard instinctively put his arm around her and just held her. Moments passed before Picard noticed the soft sobs coming from Beverly. She was finally letting out all the emotion she was holding in. Picard knew he couldn’t take away her pain but being there for her was exactly what she needed.

END

© JESTER_NENE 2022

#beverly crusher #jean luc picard #the next generation #star trek #star trek tng #tng #picrusher #wesley crusher #fan fic

[quietly-by-myself]

Chapter 9 - One Year After the Fall

Masterlist

This is it! I can hardly believe it. This chapter is somewhat lighter - it's a happy ending for everyone involved. Hopefully, it's also a satisfying one. Also, a little shorter! But it's the length it needs to be.

Themes: slavery, post-traumatic stress/mental illness/panic attacks, aftermath of abuse, trauma, dehumanization, war, POWs, and the aftermath of, fictional countries/politics/organizations/happenings, past noncon (will come up in some chapters more than others), homophobia in a military context.

CW: name changes, legal/court/testimony, grief, cholera, PTSD guilt, mention of killing people, depression/poor mental health, flashbacks

Previous

---

Like the decision to testify, Louka found that the decision of what he wanted to be called came to him rather easily.

Perhaps it was that feeling of safety with Atticus that allowed him to think so clearly. Louka knew that he didn’t need to try to please Atticus, at least, he knew that now. Without the need to please someone, Louka felt a weight lifted off his shoulders. As long as he was with Atticus, he could think.

Like with Allen and Faolan.

Louka had never felt the longing to visit a graveyard, but he wished the two had graves. He didn’t have it in himself to go back to Victory Hill. Even now, knowing King William was gone and Vavalon was defeated, he would never be able to visit that place again.

What a wretched name for the place.

If there was any name Louka would change, he’d choose the name of Victory Hill. Though it might’ve stood for some great victory in antiquity, the place was now the site of such a horrible event. Louka now understood that the world saw it the same way he did - as a mark of pure brutality and complete inhumanity. He also knew now that the world wouldn’t blame him, even if he would blame himself for the rest of his life.

Could his friends rest now, knowing that he was safe with Atticus? Would their souls finally find rest now that Vavalon had fallen?

Louka didn’t think that they could.

That was why he was going to testify. Once the officers that slaughtered his friends were punished for what they did, their heads could finally rest. They could finally stop watching over him. They could finally think that they hadn’t abandoned Louka to a cruel fate. It was the last and only gift he could give to his friends.

Well, not the only.

However, he would need help with giving his other gift to his friends.

One day, in all their silence and books, Louka approached Atticus and took a deep breath.

“Atticus, I think I decided on a name.”

Louka fought the flinch when Atticus dropped his book in shock. They’d left the topic to hang for a little while. Louka imagined that Atticus thought he’d given up on picking one.

“Well, I’m not really sure what I should say.” Atticus chuckled a little in that awkward way that Louka had come to know well. “Congratulations?”

Louka chuckled and smiled a little. “I want to be called Faolan.”

“F-way-lawn?”

“Fway-lin.”

Louka gave a nervous smile to Atticus who looked at him rather blankly.

Eventually, Atticus spoke. “Can I ask why that name?”

“I had two close friends among the resistance leaders. One was my partner… Allen. Allen was the love of my life. Then there was Faolan. He was my wingman.” Louka laughed a little. “I wouldn’t have asked Allen out for the first time without him. I want to take his name in memory of everything he did for me.”

“I think he’d be very proud of you, Faolan.”

…

Atticus couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face as he looked upon Louka - now Faolan. His heart swelled with pride as he looked upon Faolan who’d grown so much in that short time they’d been together.

Part of the feeling was definitely of honor. He was honored that Faolan trusted him so much after the world had treated him so poorly. Atticus could’ve so easily been another awful person out there to abuse him, like General Rudas, but Faolan trusted him well.

“I have something else to ask, Atticus.”

Faolan looked to the ground a bit and got that nervous face he always got before he said something big.

“It’s okay, Faolan. Go ahead.”

There were tears in Faolan’s eyes as he looked up at Atticus. 

Nothing could’ve prepared Atticus for what Faolan would say next.

“I-I wanted to take your family name. N-not in a marriage type of way. But you’re more family than I’ve ever had before now. My mother was a prostitute and didn’t care much for me because my father abandoned her with me shortly after. I-I had a little sister, but she died young of cholera. So did my mother. You’ve been so kind and you’re the only person left that I really know. It would be an honor to be part of the Dufort family.”

It was Atticus’ turn to find his eyes full of tears.

It was a weight off his shoulders.

I’m not a bad person.

Though Atticus knew it somewhere within himself to be true, he found himself needing reminders, constantly, that despite everything, he truly did the right thing.

With Louka, Faolan, in front of him, asking him to take his family name in honor of what Atticus had done for him, there was no doubt. Even if it was only for a moment, it was one of the sweetest tastes Atticus could’ve ever had.

He stood on shaky legs supported by a crutch and pulled Faolan into an embrace, sobbing hard, ugly sobs.

Atticus calmed down quickly, but the intensity of the emotions remained.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Faolan.”

Faolan was crying too.

“It’s okay. I understand if you don’t accept. I’ll use my family name instead.”

Atticus cut him off.

“Every day since I first took a life, Faolan, I’ve had trouble falling asleep at night.” Atticus steeled himself for what he was about to say, not wanting to give tears to it. “I’ve thought ‘what kind of person am I if I can take a life so easily?’ I believed I was a bad person for what I did at war and still do.”

Atticus took a deep breath.

“Looking at you, I know I did the right thing. I went to war to save people like you. I’ve saved you. I’ve helped you become a person again. I couldn’t be more honored that you want to take my name. In truth, I have no family left, either.”

Atticus gave Faolan a shaky smile. It was quickly returned.

“Thank you, Atticus.”

“No, thank you, Faolan.”

They both started to laugh heartily. 

“I think we’ll order out tonight. A celebration to Faolan Dufort.”

Faolan smiled at Atticus - the biggest, brightest, happiest smile he’d ever seen on the man.

“To Faolan Dufort.”

---

Atticus had expected the anniversary of the Fall of Vavalon to come much more abruptly than it did. The letters started a whole two months prior - a school near Givreshaw wanted him to come speak to the students that week. Atticus had happily agreed, expecting to have a rather quiet week of peaceful celebrations at home.

Unfortunately, only the “celebrations” part of “peaceful celebrations at home” came true. On the first day of the last month before the anniversary, Atticus was flooded with letters. All carried a different request - come speak here, go to a ceremony there, oversee a wedding in some remote village, receive a blessed sword from a neighboring country.

Frankly, all of it was overwhelming. If there were some way he could stop the post, Atticus would’ve done it immediately. He couldn’t tell right from left at the end of each day after opening every individual letter. It felt like he was back in the United Peace Forces, except he was without his secretaries. 

Well, Atticus had once been told he was an opportunist. At the time, Atticus had argued that he wasn’t an opportunist - he was just smart.

Perhaps both could be true at the same time. Perhaps it was impossible to be intelligent without being an opportunist.

Regardless, Atticus used the volume of letters to teach Faolan how to read.

Not long after that conversation about his name, Faolan had expressed interest in going back to school.

“Atticus, I want to study. Study formally.”

It had caught him completely off guard. Faolan had, at most, a second-grade education. For him to get back on top of everything he’d missed at twenty-six was an admirable wish, but not one achieved easily. 

“I want to be a diplomat. I want to study how to create peace. I want to stop what happened to me from ever happening again.”

It was a wish Faolan often repeated. Atticus had started him on some books. Faolan tore through them with the passion of a new soldier. Perhaps that soldier’s spirit had never died, because the dedication to a mission pushed him through book after book, mathematics problem after mathematics problem.

He also insisted on helping Atticus with his work that month, so Faolan read and sorted the letters for Atticus to read. Although he slipped up here and there, Atticus never told him. He appreciated the help and he didn’t want Faolan to shut down at the notion of having done something incorrectly. Instead, he would simply add an extra lesson or two about what he’d missed to the books he’d give Faolan.

Eventually, with Faolan’s help, his schedule was set. He had a meeting or speech every day of the week up until the celebrations at the royal palace.

At the end of every day, when Atticus would come back to the car, he was completely exhausted. After the third day of speeches and meetings, Atticus had fallen into deep self-loathing.

“I’m no hero.”

It was the first time Atticus had ever told anyone his thoughts on the matter. Faolan, who traveled everywhere with him, who stayed every night with him in a hotel room, seemed like the only person on the planet that wouldn’t judge him.

He sat quietly, listening to Atticus.

“I murdered people. I did awful things. I- when the war was over, I felt jealous that my family had to die. I thought it was so incredibly unfair that I fought and fought and all these people survived, but my family didn’t. Anyway, I’m powerless. If the big countries want to fight again, I’ll just be forgotten. That’s not doing something heroic. That’s doing something people find convenient to praise for the time being.”

Faolan opened his mouth and Atticus went quiet. They sat in silence until, eventually, Faolan finally spoke.

“Go on. It’s okay.”

They were words that Atticus had remembered all too well. He’d said them to Faolan so many times that he could hardly imagine them being thrown back at him.

He laughed a bit.

Faolan gave him a strange look, but Atticus could only smile in his tired delirium.

“What the hell is life for anyway?”

It was a question that had been on his mind a lot. If he was turning thirty that year, what had he even done with his life? Sure, he had a degree. He fought a war. He saved Faolan and made a friend of him. But what was that really?

Faolan was quiet, his eyes glazed over. Atticus wondered what was on his mind - if he’d misspoken. The guilt ate at him, but he didn’t have the heart to ask Faolan what he’d said wrong.

---

Faolan did his best not to dread the moment he’d walked up to the royal palace. Atticus’ mental health was going downhill and so was his. It was approaching the anniversary not just of the Fall of Vavalon, but of Victory Hill.

Well, it was more the anniversary of the start of his torture. Faolan didn’t distinguish between the two anymore. He found differentiating all the guilt and grief’s sources to be an unnecessary exercise in misery. However, he knew there was a lot of it, so much that it felt like his chest would explode with all the pain.

Before Faolan knew it, the two of them were in front of the royal palace. Suddenly, he wasn’t there. He was in front of Master’s palace, in key and lock, being forced to the ground. That first bit of resistance had earned Louka a swift punishment from the guards. They’d thrown him to the ground and beaten him, called him horrible names, and went on and on about how great the King was and how much he would suffer.

Faolan found himself bolting away from the front of the palace with tears in his eyes. Eventually, after running for what felt like forever, he curled up next to a tree, cuddling under its safe branches, sobbing his lungs out.

When he heard those gentle footsteps behind him, Faolan curled up more. “I can’t go back there. I can’t go back there!”

He was practically shouting it. The anxiety clenched a tight fist around his heart as he laid there, in that position he’d learned quickly to sleep without the kick that would wake him hurting too badly.

“Please don’t hurt me. I know I screwed everything up and you have every right to. But please have mercy. I can’t do this. Please don’t hurt me. I tried my best, I really did.”

Atticus put a gentle hand on Faolan’s shoulder, his crutch hitting the ground with a gentle thump. He sat rather awkwardly on his injured leg, then pulled Faolan into a tight hug.

“It’s okay. I don’t think this whole thing is going to work for either of us.”

Faolan looked up at Atticus with that ancient fear in his eyes.

“I’m-” Atticus was having trouble putting his works together. He often did, Faolan had come to find. “I’m struggling, too.”

Faolan felt tears of relief bubbling up in his eyes as he looked upon the man who’d saved him.

“I don’t want to give that speech. Every time the car starts, I start panicking. I- I was in a landmine accident. My car blew up. I was the only one who survived and it’s responsible for my leg. I’m told it’s a miracle I can still walk. The- the point being that I want to do something else. Being in crowds scares me. I don’t want to be on a stage. So, I’d prefer if you and I walked or drove somewhere quiet. We can pick up food and eat it there instead of all this.”

Atticus waved his hands to what stood behind him.

“But what about?” Faolan couldn’t find the words.

“The speech?”

Faolan nodded.

“Fuck that.” Atticus laughed a little. “I’m a fucking war vet on the anniversary of the end of the war I fucking fought it. They’re just going to need to deal with it.”

It startled Faolan a little to hear Atticus speak like that. He had to take a shaky breath to try and release some of the tension in his body.

“Let’s go, Faolan.”

Faolan gave Atticus a tearful smile as he stood to help Atticus stand. His hip gave a mighty pop as he stood. Atticus gave a pained look, but Faolan stood there and helped him stand until he was stable enough to walk again.

---

In the end, they ended up going home. Atticus was in too much pain and far too panicked to drive properly, so he had the chauffeur of the King drive him back home.

Back in those days before the War ended, Atticus never thought he’d be able to call a place “home” again. However, that cabin in a small town, away from the business, away from the chaos, with Faolan, had truly become a resting place for his heart. Every time he stepped through the doorway, the tension left his shoulders and the air that filled his lungs was clean.

This time, the homely scent of the wood and linens was shocking. He’d forgotten the smell of home after leaving for a long time. It was just as relaxing as he remembered it being before.

He smiled a bit as Faolan helped him to the couch so he could lie down. They’d talked about moving Atticus’ bedroom to the bottom floor and his office to the second because of his crutch. Atticus was starting to understand the merits of Faolan’s argument.

In fact, he’d fallen asleep without realizing. When Atticus came to, Faolan had covered him with a blanket and left him to rest. 

He smiled a bit when he saw which blanket it was. It was Faolan’s - the one he’d given Faolan at the beginning, when he’d stare out the window for hours in a little cocoon. 

Atticus soon found that Faolan, too, had fallen asleep. He decided to cook their dinner ahead of time so they could go out and look at the stars. It had become a favorite pastime of theirs and a perfect way to get rid of that tension, that fear from a past that would never again be.

It took Atticus all of an hour and a half. Once he was done, he looked upon his work with pride. He’d baked one of Faolan’s favorite desserts and one of his favorite on-the-go meals. 

Waking him up didn’t come with any of the usual chaos.

Faolan just stirred a little, before groaning in his language about something - probably a headache.

“Faolan, we’re going to go eat outside.”

Faolan grumbled a little before sitting up. “Sorry, Atticus.”

“It’s okay. Be ready to leave soon.”

Faolan was ready a lot sooner than “soon.” It took him only a few minutes to join Atticus downstairs.

They walked despite Atticus’ bad hip. Atticus had no desire to get in a car and Faolan was more than happy to help Atticus walk.

The night sky that day was much brighter than the nights previous. It was a full moon and it almost seemed bigger than it normally did. A super moon, right? Atticus had a vague memory of learning something like that in school, that sometimes the moon appeared much larger - but only for a brief day or two.

The sky almost looked navy under the bright light of the super moon. Atticus couldn’t help but look at it in awe. He was allowed his quiet awe as Faolan set up the blanket and unpacked the basket for them to eat.

“It’s beautiful out tonight.”

The littlest bit of frost came from his breath as he tried to strike a conversation.

“Yeah, I don’t remember seeing the moon that big back home.”

Atticus looked at Faolan, a little surprised. 

“You’ve never seen a super moon?”

Faolan shook his head. “I lived in a city. Even if there was such a time, the lights and pollution would’ve obscured it.”

Atticus nodded a little, remembering what Faolan had told him.

“I think we should eat Faolan. Before it gets too stale.”

Faolan chuckled and nodded his agreement. It seemed to Atticus that these peaceful days spent in the company of one who knew him well were the greatest treasure on the planet. In fact, perhaps this treasure was worth more than whatever laid beyond the stars.

---

The day of the trial came suddenly. The summons from General Rudas gave them less than three days to fly all the way to the now-occupied territory of Vavalon.

It took all the courage Faolan had within himself to be able to go back there. Though it was what he had to do and what he wanted to do, he never wanted to see Vavalon again.

Atticus had thrown a fit, despite Faolan’s pleading for him not to. However, even someone as powerful as Atticus couldn’t have prisoners moved for one testimony. Either Faolan would remain a slave, Louka, or he would testify in Vavalon against the ones who’d murdered his friends.

I can’t use Faolan’s name if I don’t.

He needed to honor their memories. That purpose was too far beyond himself. His life was one of fourteen - the only one that remained. Of the fourteen, it was his sole job to allow the others’ souls to rest. In comparison to the grand purpose of the task ahead, Louka’s suffering was nothing. He’d go through another five years of suffering if he could put their souls to rest and be free to live how he pleased with Atticus.

Atticus held his hand up to the back door where the people who were testifying would enter the courtroom from. Though he could feel the tears in his eyes, Faolan gave Atticus a brave smile. He couldn’t let Atticus worry more than he already would. He couldn’t be a burden, not while doing something so important.

“You’ll do amazing.” Atticus squeezed his hand a little. “I’ll be here for you when you’re done.”

Faolan - Louka - whatever he would be called on the stand - smiled back at Atticus. “Thank you.”

He pushed open the doors to the faces of King William’s generals. He recognized three of them from Victory Hill and the others from war room meetings he’d been forced to sit in on.

Suddenly, Master’s hands were back on him, touching him, asserting that quiet dominance over his body while the war room met. It was the one to the farthest right who’d mentioned that he was a distraction, right?

The judge said something. The prosecutors said some other things. Then, he heard his name called.

“Do you, Louka, swear to tell the whole, solemn truth, and nothing but the truth?”

A book was in front of him for his oath.

He looked up at the man holding the book.

“I was once called Louka, but that’s not my name.”

Faolan cleared his throat.

“My name is Faolan Dufort and I swear to tell the whole, solemn truth and nothing but the truth.”

It was the moment he’d waited for - the quiet shock from the generals and the fear in their eyes, the surprise of the courtroom, and the subtle disdain in the prosecutor’s eyes. It was just as sweet as he imagined.

Goodbye, Master. I’m not yours any longer.

The judge broke the silence caused by his declaration. “I call this session to order.”

Suddenly, what he was about to face didn’t seem so hard. After all, he wasn’t Louka anymore. He was now Faolan Dufort, a free man who, though once property of King William, was his own person now.

---

The whole testimony took hours. Faolan cried. Faolan shouted in anger at one of the generals who had the audacity to speak against him. Faolan had even refused to answer one question he felt was too intrusive.

As he walked down that stand, his body felt too light from the lifted burden. The weight of the thirteen had been taken off of his body as he felt their souls leaving the earth, moving on, knowing that he was safe now. He’d avenged his friends with little more than his words.

True to his word, Atticus, with proud tears in his eyes, held that small piece of paper.

“General Rudas told me that they made a new form based off of this.”

He handed it to Faolan, while Atticus cried a bit more.

It read simple words that Faolan had come to understand.

On this day, Faolan Dufort, known as the slave ‘Louka’ during his time with King William IV of Vavalon, is freed for his brave and heroic deeds in combat and unfair imprisonment that lead to slavery. This certificate shall replace that of his birth and prove his citizenship in Freinleau, the country he wishes to reside in.

Faolan looked up to Atticus with tears in his eyes, then ran to hug him.

That day, Faolan felt the most free he ever had. Something inside him suspected that Atticus did, too.

---

Previous

Masterlist

Tags: @hold-him-down @the-blind-one-speaks @pumpkin-spice-whump

#vavalon #whump #whump writing #louka #atticus #cw are above #whumpblr

[wowbright]

Fic: Blessing

Found a very old thing while looking for something on my computer today. Not sure why this didn't make it into Small Things. Maybe I ran out of time and thought this was to sketch-like?

Anyway, here’s around 850 words of Mormon!Kurt going to get his patriarchal blessing.

Need context? Here's my Mormon!Klaine Masterpost. (More recent posts are in bold.)

_______

When Kurt's a junior in high school, after his dad and Carole get married, he comes out to his dad and his bishop. They're all like Jesus, loving him no matter what. Kurt's hasn't felt this safe since he was a kid.

"I've been praying about you," Bishop Longquist says to Kurt one Sunday a few weeks after Kurt comes out. "I think it's time you had your patriarchal blessing."

A patriarchal blessing only comes once in a person's lifetime. It's a piece of personalized Scripture, delivered from God to a faithful member of the church by an ordained member of the priesthood called a patriarch.

Kurt is caught off guard. "I thought-- Shouldn't I wait until I'm ready to go on my mission?"

"The time to hear the Lord's guidance for your life is now, don't you think?"

"But I'm ..." They're in the hallway. A group of women stand outside the Relief Society room. Boys are filing past them in twos and threes to priesthood quorum. He lowers his voice. "My problem."

Bishop Longquist smiles. It's a sad, knowing smile, full of love and carrying the weight of the world with it because of that love. "You're worthy, Kurt."

A few weeks later, Kurt and Burt and Carole drive up to Toledo to where the patriarch lives. Kurt's never met him before. His house is large, practically a mansion, and overlooking Maumee Bay. The patriarch's wife is in a pink rayon dress with front pleats. She wears pearls around her neck. She guides them to the home office and sets glasses of ice water on coasters that line the edge of the patriarch's desk.

The patriarch himself has white hair, white skin, and a dark suit with an understated gray silk tie. He's exactly what Kurt expected.

They talk for a few minutes about school and Kurt's longing to go on a mission. Kurt doesn't mention fashion or Glee club or the fact that he finds so much beauty in other boys. He keeps the talk safe, to things one wouldn't be ashamed to mention at a fast and testimony meeting. He can't bring himself to let go of Carole's hand, even though his own is raining sweat.

Then the patriarch says a short prayer as they sit on opposite sides of the desk, inviting the Holy Ghost to be with them. He asks Kurt to pray, too. Kurt's so nervous, he has no idea what he says. Something rote, he's certain, but that's okay. Heavenly Father hears those prayers just as clearly as the spontaneous ones. Just because it follows a pattern doesn't mean it's not heartfelt.

Then it's time. Burt and Carole scoot their chairs back a little to give the patriarch room. The patriarch's wife sets a digital recorder on top of the desk and makes sure it's on so the blessing can be typed up later for Kurt to keep with his Scriptures. Kurt takes deep breath after deep breath, preparing himself for the moment the patriarch is going to lay his hands on him. Even after all these years in the church, he can't get used to strangers touching him. His body wasn't wired that way, to be eager for human touch. Not unless it's someone who knows him inside and out, like his mom and Dad and Carole, and sometimes Mercedes.

But the sacredness of this moment overrides Kurt's inhibitions. He closes his eyes and bows his head, feels the warmth of the patriarch's hands radiating near him before they actually make contact. They're so warm, Kurt thinks of fire, and then The Spirit of God like a fire is burning! It's the first line of a hymn Kurt's been singing before he even knew how to read, and when the next lines follow--The latter-day glory begins to come forth; The visions and blessings of old are returning--he knows the Holy Ghost is already there with them in the room, in Kurt's heart, witnessing that this blessing is from God.

Kurt feels the words more then hears them. He has flashes of his past and his future: the safety of the preexistence, living beside his Heavenly Parents without fear or desire; the comfort of sitting in his mother's lap when she was still alive, him so small and her so large and all-encompassing; a solid hug from his father; the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement as he walks alongside his missionary companion, an indescribable warmth in his heart; pink sunlight bathing the interior walls of temple rooms he's only imagined but never seen; the squirming solidity of children in his arms, his children, when they come home for the first time; a hand holding his, firm and loving and the same size as his, its pads fitting perfectly into the grooves of his own palm; a man's voice--not his father's, not the patriarch's--a voice Kurt can't place and yet feels like home to him, saying, "God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him."

There's silence for a minute after the patriarch is done speaking. Kurt keeps his eyes closed and lets the emotions settle inside him.

#mormon!klaine #mormon!kurt #wowbright writes fic #glee fic #klaine fanfiction

[writefightandflightclub]

(please do not feel obligated to respond to this)

I just wanted to say that your most recent story with the Moon Boys really resonated with me. There were two reasons: one was the content, and the other was your author's note about trying to get a diagnosis for autism.

First, the story is absolutely relatable. The feelings you talk about in that story are things I know the weight of, and your writing reminded me that even a familiar weight can be exhausting to carry all the time, and that it's okay to stop and rest (and you write so beautifully, by the way, but that should be its own ask).

Second, at risk of infodumping (and again, you are not obligated to respond to this message), the difficulty you've been having getting a diagnosis? BIG MOOD. I got informed that I was autistic when I was 22. My running joke is that it was like The Sixth Sense because everyone knew but me, apparently. I think the conversation about autism has shifted tremendously in the past few decades, and the scope is being widened in regards to severity and gender, but still, in trying to find the words for myself, things I have always felt but never had the words for, it's hard! It's hard to find writing by autistic women, and that's incredibly frustrating. And so by you being vulnerable enough to even mention that you were going through this, you help widen that scope, and by doing so, more people can feel seen.

A memoir I recommend is Pretending to Be Normal: Living with Asperger's Syndrome by Liane Holliday Willey. The book first came out in 1999 so the term Asperger's was still common, but autism diagnoses for women were still pretty scarce at the time. This book was one that made me ache in that way of seeing my own experiences written in someone else's words. The section where she talks about her (good) relationship with her husband made me cry at my place of work, and that is my testimony regarding the quality of the book.

Anyway, tl;dr, you're lovely.

Please know I appreciate this so much, and I have read it several times to absorb it.

I don’t have the energy today to Words Real Good, so I certainly can’t do justice to your thoughtful ask, except for to say thank you!

It really means a lot that you took the time to think this through and share with me, and also to share part of your own story as well!

Firstly, I’m so happy the story resonated with you. Idk what it is but for me personally with this one, I feel like sometimes things are more real when we make them fictional, if that makes sense? It helps us notice familiar things in a new light? But mainly, it is super validating to hear that the themes in there are things other people have felt / feel (in all sorts of contexts and ways), so I appreciate you and others for being real about that bc it is hugely comforting to me! 🧡

Absolutely though. Stopping. Resting. I wanted the fic to be a little about giving permission to do that.

Secondly, tysm for noticing the lil author’s note about autism specifically, and reaching out about that too. That means a lot! I probably can’t say much on this topic rn without saying “too much”, as it’s still something I’m very much in the midst of… but I will say this, cheesy as it may sound, idec: thank you for seeing me.

I will look up the book you suggested also.

Tl; dr: YOU are lovely! 🧡 Thanks for being so kind!

#autism things #also omg I will never be mad at anyone infodumping

[axvoter]

Blatantly Partisan Party Review XVI (federal 2022): Jacqui Lambie Network

Running where: TAS for Senate and four of its five lower house seats (not Clark)

Prior reviews: federal 2016, federal 2019

What I said before: “I have misgivings about her, but her platform has improved, and although she is not a great option, there are far worse parties running.”

What I think this year: This year is the first time the Jacqui Lambie Network (JLN) has contested a federal election without Lambie herself on the ballot. JLN did contest the 2018 Tasmanian election without her as a candidate and ran fourth overall—but a distant fourth, not entitling it to any seats. At federal level, Jacqui improved her polling from 8.3% in 2016 to 8.9% in 2019, although because the former was a double dissolution, she got in with a quota in her own right in 2016 but needed preferences to get over the line in 2019.

This time around, she and her party have thrown their weight behind lead Senate candidate Tammy Tyrrell. JLN has appropriated the old stereotype about Tasmanians having two heads to frame it positively: the appeal to the voters is that “two heads are better than one”. JLN urges voters to consider what Lambie has achieved on her own and what more she could achieve with two votes in the Senate. It seems to me that Tyrrell needs to develop a bit more of her own voice, but it’s clear that JLN thinks the key to winning votes is to use Lambie’s reputation. JLN is also running candidates in four of Tasmania’s five seats in the House of Representatives, but not nearly as prominently, and judging by a “coming soon” slot on their website they intended to find a Clark candidate and didn’t.

Look, by this point you probably know what Jacqui stands for: “battlers”, veterans welfare, protectionist manufacturing policies, a federal ICAC, and a strong aversion to China. So, JLN's website has powerful language about greater transparency in political donations and an overdue ICAC “with teeth”, but there is also Sinophobic language about a “wrecking ball” coming for Australia.

You probably also know that Lambie has a sense of humour and a cult following, the two embodied together in the party merch shop’s offerings, which include prints of her in a bikini strangling Jabba the Hutt with Clive Palmer’s head. She speaks for a distinctive constituency, a traditionally working-class one that is often either belittled as bogans or actively claims to be bogan.

Lambie started out clearly on the right of politics with exclusionary and nationalistic rhetoric, but to her credit she has clearly matured in her time in parliament and her views have modified. I would now place Lambie fairly well in the centre of politics, at least the centre of Senate politics at present. The website is full of populist rhetoric and very little on policy. It’s just platitudes.

Honestly, I disagree with Lambie regularly, but she does seem genuinely responsive to community concerns, personal testimonies, and informed advice—and she also seems mightily pissed off with some leading figures of the Morrison government. You get a sense of Lambie’s centrism with her recommended preferences: in Bass (marginal Lib) and Franklin (safe Labor), she recommends a better preference for the Liberal candidate over Labor, but in Braddon (marginal Liberal) and (marginal Labor), she recommends a better preference for Labor's candidate, and in the Senate she places Labor above Liberal—and, in all cases, both above Green. Curiously, despite her antipathy to Clive as so vividly suggested by the merch link above, she still recommends her supporters send a preference to the UAP. Her Senate suggestion is JLN, Shooters (ugh), Labor, Liberal, UAP, Green. What an odd jumble of parties to choose out of the 14 on the Tasmanian ticket.

The Sinophobia is off-putting, some serious dog-whistles there, but there is much worse than JLN in the Australian political landscape—not least the Liberals.

My recommendation: Give the Jacqui Lambie Network a middling preference above the Liberals

Website: https://lambienetwork.com.au/

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Air Conditioning West Palm Be

Air Conditioning West Palm Beach Today air conditioning is a essential in the majority of families; as well as with it you discover that you will certainly require a trustworthy air conditioning fixing firm you can require upkeep or fixing. Just how do you recognize the most effective air conditioning solution? Are there any kind of particular criteria that would certainly point you in the best instructions?

While we are speaking about air problem fixing, it is essential to understand that you can entirely do without it. If you protect your house effectively, as well as guarantee it has enough ventilation - you can eliminate your air conditioner as well as really feel healthier. You would certainly likewise be doing your little bit for the dying earth. In the meantime, have a look at the following factors prior to you select which solution you require your air conditioner: 1. Reviews of the firm - the initial as well as essential of all are the testimonials this firm gotten. The testimonials would certainly inform you whether they do their job well or otherwise for only the clients that have booked the solutions of this firm can leave testimonials. Realize if you have going crazy testimonials throughout. This could be incorrect. If you have any kind of questions, look at the net for more testimonials or testimonies from previous clients - if there is any kind of genuine grievance this firm is conspiring to hide, you will certainly discover it. Mostly, the negative testimonials are often true. 2. Recommendations - inspect about as well as ask individuals that have a/c unit where they have their machines solutions or fixed. Such referrals are worth their weight in gold, for they would certainly give the true story. You can extremely safely go for such recommendations for these would certainly point you to trustworthy solution. 3. Firm solution - you can search for the service station of the firm to which your air conditioner belongs. For instance, Provider Firm would certainly most certainly send their individuals for maintenance and repair to your residence if you have a Provider air conditioner. It would certainly be wise in such a case to authorize upkeep as well as extended service warranty contract with them so you would certainly no more stress over your air conditioner. 4. Private technician - every community has its own handyman. This is most appropriate if you reside in a close area, which soon find out to rely on a regional talented person that would certainly be available whenever of the all the time. In case, there is one person like this, it would certainly be very good to grow him for their solutions would certainly commonly be a little fraction of the price of what the solution individuals would certainly charge, while the job would certainly be as qualitative. 5. DIY jobs - obtain the handbook of the air conditioner as well as you will certainly discover that most of the upkeep you can do yourself with no outside assistance. Furthermore, if you look meticulously at the technical descriptions of the device as well as repairing recommendations, most of the issues you can fix yourself. A diy job will certainly give you a lot of contentment as well as you will certainly save a lot of money.

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Morning and Evening with A.W. Tozer Devotional for March 18

Tozer in the Morning The Fallacy of "Insignificant Sin"

Persons out of Christ often try to comfort themselves with the remembrance that they have never in their lives committed any really great sin. Little trifling acts of wrongdoing perhaps, but nothing of any consequence, so surely God will overlook their rather insignificant transgressions when He settles their accounts.

In the first place, a man's status before God is decided not by the number and enormity of his sins but by whether those sins have or have not been forgiven, whether he is on God's side or the side of the devil.

The soldier who mutinies is held responsible for his mutiny even if he does nothing more than stand up and let himself be counted among the rebels. His crime lies in his break with his superiors and his willingness to go along with the enemies of his country. That he performs no extraordinary feats of violence may mean no more than that he is an ordinary fellow incapable of great deeds of any sort for or against his country.

Tozer in the Evening God the Heart Opener

About the intimate workings of the Holy Spirit in the human heart there is a highly personal relationship in which no third person can share. The sacred work of redemption was wrought in darkness. No strange eye could see what was taking place when the sins of the world entered the holy soul of Christ that He might die under their weight and thus make ?his life a guilt offering? (Isaiah 53:10; 2 Corinthians 5:21; Matthew 27:46).

That there is a deep mystery about the new birth is plainly stated by our Lord.

"The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit." "How can this be?? Nicodemus asked. ?You are Israel?s teacher,? said Jesus, ?and do you not understand these things? I tell you the truth, we speak of what we know, and we testify to what we have seen, but still you people do not accept our testimony. I have spoken to you of earthly things and you do not believe; how then will you believe if I speak of heavenly things?? (John 3:8-12).

It is bordering on the irreverent to suggest that this sovereign work of the Spirit can be induced at the will of a personal worker by means of a textual recipe. The moment this is attempted, the Spirit withholds His illumination and leaves the worker and the seeker to their own designs. And the tragic consequences are all about us.

All any Christian worker can do is to point the inquirer to ?the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world? (1:29). That was all John the Baptist did. He did not attempt to create faith in any of his hearers. The Spirit alone can open the heart, as John well knew. It is our task to arrest the sinner?s attention, give him the message of the cross, urge him to receive it and meet its conditions. After that the seeker is on his own. The individual is out of the hands of the instructors and helpers and in the hands of the God with whom he has to do.

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