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mikkomacko · 4 years

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Dear Daisy 6

Harry enjoys Saturdays. For the past two months, Saturdays have consistently been his day off from patrolling. Occasionally he'll get Sunday or Friday off as well, but he doesn't get his hopes up. It doesn't matter to him. He's completely fine only having Saturday off.

A shop in town (one he's yet to learn the name of because he's still confused by the French language), had a nice leather bound journal he'd bought the first week of being stationed in the city. It's similar to the one he'd left at home, the one he's comfortable with, so it makes writing his letters easy. Which is what Saturday is for. A letter to Daisy, a letter to Anne, a letter to Gemma, and a letter to Niall who's unable to fight due to his old knee injury. Today he gets through Anne's, Gemma's, and Niall's letters quickly. He's addressing one to Daisy when he pauses, recalling the letters she sent last week. Harry quickly flips to a blank page, scribbling the name of a man he's only spoken to a few times.

Dear Robin,

I wasn't sure you'd remember me after all these years. The last time we spoke I was about thirteen, right before my uncle started grooming me on the steel business. I've changed a lot since then which is why it was quite shocking to hear about you from Daisy. She told me of your generosity, a quality I'll always remember you for if the books in my library are anything to go by. I'd like to thank you for taking Daisy in while I'm away and distracting her with the gift of baking. She may not look it, but I know she gets awful lonely when she's left to herself too long. I remember a few years ago, when I was maybe seventeen or eighteen, I'd passed by her near the park where she was sitting in the grass, chatting with a pigeon. Of course I teased her for it. What kind of nutter talks to birds? But she'd gotten flustered and yelled at me, told me birds need friends too. She also mentioned being stood up by a boy from my mum's neighborhood so she was complaining to the bird. It wasn't really my business, as she so snottily put it, but I knew she was continuing to speak me because she was lonely. I suppose I'm glad that Bill whatever didn't show up that day.

I was worried about leaving her. Her family has hurt her. She wouldn't want to spend much time with them. And her friend Summer has taken up a babysitting job so her time with her is limited as well. Knowing she's enjoying her time with you brings me comfort. I can't thank you enough for watching over my love.

She told me of your son's and I'm sad to not know them very well. I'm sure they're just as wonderful as you if not more. Perhaps you could give me their names or where they're stationed and I could keep an eye out for them? I believe it's a fair deal; you watching my family and I'll watch yours?

Wishing you a happy fall and hoping the bakery stays busy,

Harry Styles.

The bakery is a big company in town so he doesn't need to ask for the address. Finishing up that letter and stuffing it into an envelope, a titter of giggles flows through the November air. Harry peeks up through his eyelashes, finding two girls in long coats not so subtly looking at him. A red head one wiggles her fingers at him, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Harry thinks she's the kind of bird they'd put on a postcard around here. With the Eiffel Tower behind her, trees turning autumn shades that compliment her hair. It's a nice picture, but not one he'd like to look at forever. French girls are pretty, but he prefers English. Particularly English girls with frizzy brunette curls and freckles on her nose and cheeks. Light brown eyes that stir like honey and drip warmth into his veins when they look at him, whether it be through tears of frustration or sparkles of adoration.

He ignores the girls, shifting his shoulders under his thick army coat. At least the uniform is warm. Harry turns back to the letter he had started writing to Daisy, teeth sinking into his chapped bottom lip as he continues to scribble.

Dear Daisy,

I've never enjoyed autumn. I find it uncomfortable. That brief period between the peek of life in the summer and the bittersweet end in the winter. The one thing that I do enjoy, is my mother's pumpkin soup. I'm glad Gemma visited you on Halloween and I'm glad you had so many pumpkins. I would say I'm jealous but I think that'd give you an edge over me so I'll admit to nothing. As for the fighter pilot girl, I wish I could have seen her. My father was a fighter pilot and I use to have a photo by my bed of him in his plane. One time I had a dream that my daughter flew planes, crossed oceans and looked down at mountain tops. She might've looked like that girl you saw. I can't know for sure seeing as I'm here and you're there. Again, I won't say I'm jealous, but do you think there's a chance she'll be a pilot again next year?

Anyway, I'm sitting on a bench in the grass around the Eiffel Tower right now and there's two girls watching me as if they'd have a chance. Suppose I should tell them I'm a married lad? Or should I let them dream? I reckon it'd rile you up if I didn't say anything so I'll stay silent. Who's jealous now aye?

Think I'll go to the bakery down the street after this. You've given me an awful craving with that dream of us in our house, dancing as your pies burn in the oven and my roast beef cooks to perfection. One of my bunk mates gets cookies sent to him from his mum. He likes to brag about it. Think ya could send me some oatmeal ones? Oughta show his mum who's boss.

I don't like raisins though. If there's raisins in my cookies I'll have no choice but to divorce you.

Until then, I hope you're staying warm. Niall told me he'd drop by sometime, check the heater and leave some firewood for you. I don't know if you'll need it but there's extra blankets in my closet as well. My nan knitted a nice green one for me a couple years ago. Spilled some tea on it once but it's awful nice. Feel free to use it. It'll keep ya warm at night. Not as warm as me of course, but it should suffice. If it doesn't you can go to the church and complain to my Nan's grave. Tell her Harry sent you and maybe she'll only hit you a few times.

Heard a rumor the other day that if things are still slow around here by December a few of us might be able to go home for a bit around the holidays. Don't get your hopes up too much but know I'm brown nosing the hell out of my sergeant for the next few weeks. It'd be nice to be able to hit you with a snowball. And it'd be nice to spend my first Christmas as a married man with my wife. I promise I'll keep updating you (only if you send me cookies). Don't tell my mum or sister, they'll try writing to my sergeant about sending me home and I don't need him knowing I'm a momma's boy.

I'll dream of you baking cookies tonight, tossing raisins into the trashcan just for me and I hope you dream of me sitting here, getting oggled by some Frenchies. Happy November love, enjoy this time in the twilight zone.

I'll be home soon Daisy, I promise

The Harry Styles x

Harry's week has gone by too slowly. Typically, roaming the streets of Paris or cleaning up around the base is enough to keep him from straying but not this week. Everything he does, everything he sees, everything he smells pushes his mind to Daisy. Mopping the kitchen floors reminds him of the day they worked together to clean her room. The trees remind him of how it felt to sit in the backyard with her, listening to her soft breaths as she worked on her blanket. The smell of the bakery, flour and cinnamon, remind him of her warmth and the cold air only makes him long for her even more. He doesn't think he's ever had such a terrible week, so he decides he'll push himself to do more next week. Initiative will definitely earn him a ticket home for Christmas, right?

He tries not to let himself get too discouraged as he collapses onto his cot, fingers clutching to the envelopes he received today as well as the medium sized box addressed to him. He's got a letter from his mother as well as Robin, but it's the one attached to the box that he goes for first.

Dear Harry,

French girls may have cute accents but can they make Robin's famous oatmeal cookies perfectly on their first try? I really hope not because then I've really got nothing going for me. Except for the fact that I've already got your last name of course.

I don't know how often you go see the Eiffel Tower but I'd appreciate a thorough description and rating of it from you please. I'd love to see the Eiffel Tower one day but I think I'd like to see the whole world too. Maybe your daughter will be a pilot and she can fly us all over the planet. If not, I'll have to divorce you myself. Assuming you haven't already divorced me by then. I think it would be funny if we divorced each other all the time. Then we could just keep getting married over and over again. I wouldn't mind it if you wore that suit you wore on our first wedding day. You looked really handsome. I was thinking of dragging Summer to town with me to get our wedding photo. If you're nice I'll send you one. If not, I'll save it for the holidays when you come home. I know you said not to get my hopes up but I also know you. You're a born leader Harry whether you like it not, and I'm positive you'll be allowed home.

I just realized something a bit funny. Home. Home used to be my parents house. The home I grew up in. Then I thought it’d be your house, the one I took over by planting flowers everywhere and actually cleaning. I don’t know what home is right now. I keep telling you to come home but what does that matter if I don’t even know where that is? Maybe I’m overthinking it. I hope you know your home Harry and I hope you’re able to come back to it.

Enjoy the cookies, I put extra extra raisins and love into them.

-Daisy o

Harry heart pounds, teeth biting at his bottom lip as he lays the letter down on his pillow and wiggles his finger under the seal on the box. Tearing it open, he fights back a smile at the smell of cookies that hits his nose. They’re not hot or anything, but they’re relatively fresh and wrapped up in a cute basket with green ribbon.

“What’d ya get Styles?” Pip, a bunk mate, asks from two cots over. Harry pulls the basket out, smirking at the other man.

“Gift from my girl,” he says proudly, chest puffing out “she’s a baker.” Pip chuckles at Harry’s sudden uplifted attitude, peeking at the cookies that do look quite delicious.

"Hope they're better than Frank's wife's." He makes a disgusted face and Harry laughs. Frank only shared his cookies once and they were bloody awful. He's never tried Daisy's baking but he's sure it's better. She's better than every other girl on the planet. How could her cookies not be better as well?

Harry tucks them safely into the little bedside table he has, glancing over her letter one more time because he loves her words before tucking it into the drawer that holds all his letters from her. He can't help but think of her claiming she knows him. If Daisy knew him as well as she thinks she does, then she'd know that his home isn't some silly house. And she'd know that he's her home. He's always been her home.

Time is supposed to heal. That's what Harry's always been told. The words first arose after his father died and he has blown them off for a long time. Until they rang true. Because one day Anne stopped crying, and people stopped leaving casseroles at the house, and Gemma started going on dates again, and Thomas showed up to chat with Harry more than he used to.

Time. Harry thinks he's pretty tolerant of time. He'd waited hours to speak to Daisy the first night he met her. He waited years to finally be more than the boy who almost killed her. And he's held onto two big secrets for all these years because he knows she'll need time before she can see him as someone she doesn't hate anymore. Years flew by so months should be a breeze. Right? Harry thinks so, but the two months away from Daisy are agonizing, and they're getting worse as days go by. Since when did November turn from 30 days to 300?

Extra training. Extra shifts. Extra work. Extra letters. Extra sleep. Yet nothing is helping to speed the process. He's gotten snippy (snippier than usual) to the point that he pissed off Frank for saying his wife's baking was "absolute shit" and he snapped at that red head girl in town for batting her eyelashes at him. There's a chance he told her she's skin to something the dog would drag in but he honestly can't bring himself to care at all. He just wants a moment with Daisy. Just one moment so he'll know that she's still is because sometimes he feels like he's been stuck at an army base his whole life and their marriage is all one big dream.

When the final day of November rolls around, Harry breathes a sigh of relief. He tells himself that he'll see her soon although he really doesn't know when soon will be.

He's hunched over a table in the cafeteria, hidden in the corner because he really doesn't want to talk to anyone, with his journal and mail sitting before him. He'd told his mum how hard the days were getting and she started sending letters more often, filling him in on random events and gatherings happening back home. He'd just gotten one yesterday talking about the neighbors starting a victory garden so he's a bit surprised to have another one so soon. Surprised, but grateful.

Dear Harry,

We've gotten more snow this week, enough for Niall to come over to shovel out the driveway for me. He stopped by your's and Daisy's home as well, insisting he help take care of "Harry's gals" as he put it. He's awful nice and I heard he's been checking in on Daisy often which is great.

I know you've really been missing her, and I hope this letter brings you comfort rather than heartache. Daisy is devastated without you. I do believe she's happy when she's at the bakery with Robin which I find simply wonderful, but there's multiple nights where she's shown up at my doorstep. She cries for you a lot, misses you more than I think you know. I think she sleeps better here. I always put her in your old bedroom and she's out like a light.

Please don't worry about her Harry. I'm glad she's come to me. She needs companionship and nurturing, both of which I can give. Know that she's safe and happy in your old room, and she's safe and happy with Robin. I know this may not be the happiest of news, but I want you to focus on the good part. Daisy misses you, and to miss you means she's gotten comfortable with you. She's cares about you Harry. I remember the days where I'd hear nothing but you bellyaching about her hating you. Think of how far you've come Harry, and use that happiness when things are tough.

We're all watching over Daisy and taking care of her. Now you take care of yourself, you've got a family waiting for you. I love you very much Harry, and I'm so proud of you.

-Mom

Harry's chest aches, bones collapsing with the image of his sweet Daisy dripping rain, crying in the middle of his mother's living room for him. He knows she's shy, and that she had a hard time being comfortable around his family. Not that he blames her. She was practically forced into the Styles family, so to know that she actually sought out Anne is heartbreaking. He's only ever seen cry a handful of times, all of them his doing, and the most dreadful time were her tears at their engagement party. She had looked so small and afraid, so desperate for safety that he genuinely hated himself at the time too. Because he did that to her. Well, not exactly, but he didn't fix the problem that was caused by his recklessness.

He can see that same look in her eyes. The one that came to mind when he was signing up for the army. Doe eyed, vulnerable, sweet, and innocent. Too precious for him to risk being hurt. He supposes he'd rather being crying over him than being crying over someone else's cruelty. At least if it's his fault he knows she's still safe. He'd never hurt her, not like the world would. Not like secrets between family members, and arranged marriages, and a German army would. No, he only teases her. It's his own stupid but relatively harmless way of getting back at her. She's been breaking his heart for years. He thinks it's fair that he gets to fluster her enough to tears sometimes.

But he never wanted her devastated and broken by his absence. Maybe he did his job too well. He somehow got her to be romantic with him after a decade of nothing but hatred. He cared for her, nurtured her, but then he had to leave, and that sheltered place he created for her left. He hopes she can find some sense of peace with his mother. Anne's always been the best mother anyone could ask for and Daisy could use that love right now.

Folding the letter back up, Harry decides he doesn't want to keep this one. While he feels appreciated and cared for because Daisy actually misses him, he doesn't want to have to be reminded of her teary eyes every time he comes across it. Harry's crumbling the letter up when another envelope is being thrown in front of him, smacking against the table top.

"What's this?" Harry asks gruffly, because the envelope is blank and thick so it couldn't have come in the mail. He looks up, heart jumping nervously when he's met with the eyes of his sergeant.

"Ticket home Styles," he says, lips quirking up under his thick mustache. "you've earned it. Taken on more work than necessary here. And I here you got a bird back home that doesn't want to spend Christmas alone."

Before Harry can say anything, sergeant is turning on his heel and heading towards the door. Harry stares in shock at the envelope, heart thumping in his ears. Pip had to have told sergeant about Daisy because that's the only guy Harry's ever talked to her about. After snapping at those French girls, he'd sat Harry down and told him to him everything. And he had. And now's he's got his ticket to Daisy. His ticket home.

#Dear Daisy #Harry Styles #soldier Harry #ww2 Harry #arranged marriage au #1930s Harry #fanfic #fanfiction #harry styles au #alternate universe #enemies to lovers

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xanderwithanx · 3 years

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Chloe does night-time diary posts on HER tumblr, so I'm going to start doing them here, sometimes. It would be nice if you read it, but, please, don't feel obligated! This is more for me to write.

(I got tired of my normal journal, I guess. It's full of bad poetry anyway. Besides, where's the thrill of losing anonymity in a physical notebook?)

I've basically been asleep and depressed for several days, because I had withdrawal after not being able to get my adhd meds. But, I got it today, and DID THINGS. (This is SO much better than before!)

Today, I went to a small café or restaurant (focused on tea) called Alice's Teacup that was Alice in Wonderland themed! My long-standing obsession with Alice in Wonderland knows no bounds. It was a really cute place. I got pumpkin pancakes, and some really good iced tea. Like... REALLY good iced tea.

Still, it seemed like the entire place was geared towards having a pot of tea and snacks with your friends, which left me a bit lonely. The person I asked couldn't come, and by the time I heard back, I was more than halfway there. Still, I read Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead and watched Monty Python on my phone, so I still had a good time!

I dressed pretty eccentricly and effeminately all day, but, with my facial hair, I was ALWAYS coded as a man, even by people on the street! Pastels, a stupid hat, a crop top, and facial hair was a winning combination.

On my way, I was stopped by some guys soliciting for charity. I don't make a habit of stopping for strangers on the streets of Manhattan. What if it's a scam? What if I'm being pressured to buy something? What if it's a strange political rant? But, I had already taken my earbuds off, I wasn't in a hurry, and I'm terminally polite. The first guy said he liked my energy, which seemed to come from a genuine place, because I liked his too!

They were asking for donations for a breast cancer charity, the United Breast Cancer Foundation. After a discussion, it seems like the charity helps pay medical debt, medical bills, and other practical needs, which is much better than *some* others I could name. I regretted not being able to give their minimum there, as it was pretty high, but told them I'd give what I could when I got on the website.

I... did not. Money is tight, because I'm bad and irresponsible with money, even though this is more than a worthy cause. I didn't NEED to go to that tea place, and I don't NEED to spend so much money on food. Sure, I can justify it: I wanted to go to that place for so long, and it was near the college anyway! But, if I was responsible with money, you KNOW my friends direct fundraising drives would go first, worthy charities second. Still, I feel bad about it.

Then, I went to the college library, to get books to start my thesis research. I have literally been unable to go to the college itself, aside from getting my ID, so this was great! There just wasn't a reason. It was... very empty. I went to the library stacks, which was deathly quiet and deeply haunted by the old books. I half expected something to pop out at me, as I turned the stacks, but I wasn't even paranoid or anxious. It was like I was in something else's house. I was welcome, but on thin ice.

I picked up an irrelevant psychology book on the "schizophrenia problem" from the 1930s, out of morbid fascination, and quickly put it down when it threatened to shatter in my hands.

Some students walked past (which was a suprise in those monastic basement library stacks), and I added something to their conversation, in a totally natural and casual way. But, omg the poor girls, I made them jump! Luckily, I'm the least threatening person on earth, and we laughed it off.

After a lot of hunting, I got 5 out of my 10 books (for the most part)! (The rest are, sadly, online. I like to read physical copies.) Strangely, I only came in with a list to get 3 books out of 6.

Most of the books I got are about art in the AIDS crisis, which is the core of my thesis, I think, all with different value. One about exhibitions, one about the larger narrative of those gay artists, and another contradicting the larger narrative.

I also got a book about "Art and Homosexuality". Just, the parallel construction of both "art" and "homosexuality" across cultures and times, from earliest history to the modern age. It wasn't on my initial list, but I'm really excited to read it.

Finally, I got a book called "The Thief, the Cross and the Wheel", about the pain and spectacle of punishment in Medieval and Renaissance European art. I'm mainly interested in Italian Renaissance art of the crucifixion--and its masochism--for the second quarter of my thesis.

The rest are online, and Should mostly focus on Bacchus in the Italian Renaissance (especially through art) and what I call the art of "gay liberation", concurrent with the AIDS crisis (i.e. The Cockettes). These two topics make up the last half of my thesis.

I'm SO excited to get started!!

I even got to cross the college's sky-bridges! (The college is a few skyscrapers.) Still, the loneliness and novelty were kind of the same thought. Imagine if I had been here before COVID, or, if COVID hadn't happened. Who would I have been able to meet? What would the college buildings mean to me? Because, for now, they're just buildings. But, I got to see the street from above, and that was amazing!

Just walking through New York--the Upper East Side--on a cool, sunny day was beautiful. It takes 20-30 minutes to get from my place to the college (and the tea place), but it was great being able to listen to my music (a lot of They Might Be Giants on the playlist today) and see the city. You know, people, super cool old architecture being pushed out by terrible new architecture, and pigeons.

Oh my god, the pigeons. I took pictures, but none of them are good. I kept thinking about how pigeons and doves are functionally the same. We domesticated pigeons, which is why they're here, and no one is stopping to notice them? Even the ones that were splotched with pure white, like doves? There's only so many pigeons you can take until they're just white noise and a nuisance, I know, so don't think I'm blaming anyone! But it's so hard to look away from these quirky little birds.

Also, at one point my walk, I was vaping very strategicly. The mental task of searching through library stacks will do that to you, when you already have an addiction to nicotine. I made sure no one was around, and no one would be affected. I stopped on a corner next to an old, ornate Catholic church while the traffic light changed, and I almost juuled right next to a priest! I'm glad I stopped. I don't believe in Hell, but, I would have walked down there myself had I vaped at a priest. Still, the church advertised itself as LGBT+ friendly, so maybe they aren't so trigger happy on the damnation. Either way, I DIDN'T vape at a priest today, which is good.

Once I got back, I spent a few hours watching things with my amazing girlfriend Chloe, who you may know here as @cisphobiccommunistopinions. She is so beautiful, and I love her more every day, every time I see her. God, it's almost been 5 years!

I just wish I could spend more time with her. She's in Virginia, and I'm in New York. Like she said to me earlier, I'm flighty at the best of times, and, with my lack of object permanence for the digital world, I find myself not giving her the attention I deserve, or, the full connection I long to have with her. We used to live together. Luckily, someday we will live together again! All these problems won't be forever, and we can live together again.

We watched a lot of things, but we're pretty deep into Serial Experiments Lain right now. It's a postmodern anime from the 90s, and, wow, do I have no idea what's going on in it. It's about the internet, and potentially schizophrenia as well. However, I'm obsessed! One day I'll be able to crack this artistic code, and it's unreality, thematic knots, and double-meanings. I will probably understand it better on the second watch. I don't see myself in Lain, but I see my 14 year old self in her, when I had just developed schizophrenia. Her cyberpunk fate seems like it's railroaded towards tragedy, but I want to save her, even if it's silly and irrational.

I told Chloe that I was scared about spilling apple cider on my library books, and she referred to it as "The Great Apple Juice Disaster of September 11, 2021." To which I said that it was the second worst thing to happen in New York on that date. It was funnier if you were there, and also were in my brain at the time.

Anyway, tomorrow I'm meeting some online acquaintances from the college's "Queer Srudent Union" at a Japanese Culture Fair in a park. (I do not know which park.) It emphasizes "fun"! I don't know them very well, but they're friends with the one person I know irl, so it should be good.

Tomorrow night, I should Probably head downtown to check out a gallery show by MFA (masters of fine arts) students at Hunter! After all, I was in a group project with one of them, and they're absolutely brilliant. I missed the Thursday gallery opening by a landslide, because of the aforementioned lack of adhd meds and Being Asleep, which I infinitely regret. I could have listened to all the artists and curators talk about their art and exhibition! Maybe I could have even talked with the artists and curators. But, it's best for me to go sooner, rather than later, so I don't forget. And, I REALLY want to go.

It's "This dialogue which happened to be present in all other dialogues" at the Alyssa Davis Gallery. From the email I got, "Each of these works observes a threshold of transition. [...] [These] intimations [are] of a frame of mind shared by the artists. These works perform, record, access, engage, document, and entrap, embalming the viewer within the gallery space."

sgp is a really good artist, by the way. Their work is just next-level. Be sure to check out their art, if you have a chance. Let me link their portfolio: https://saragracepowell.com/

(I highly suspect spg and the other member of my group project ghosted me afterwards, but I understand. I was really in over my head. Still, they're both really sweet and kind people, don't get it twisted!)

I ALSO really want to see The Cake Boys. They're performing at the 3 Dollar Bill in Brooklyn on September 26th. (It's only $15!) They're the only all drag king collective in NYC! (Are... there any Other all drag king collectives out there?) Other than the fact that a lot of them are trans or nonbinary, which I love, this show is a totally non-judgmental competition for over 40 drag kings! I've heard their shows are hilarious and unique.

I just have to wait until I have $15 to spare. I... didn't eat dinner tonight, because I'm irresponsible with my money and don't want to ask my parents for money... again. Don't worry, it's literally fine, and I don't make a habit of doing this!

Which reminds me! For my birthday, my parents gave me a gift card to Lush! I'm definitely going to Lush tomorrow, which will be great. I would describe my personality as "Lush store employee acosting you about a bath bomb demonstration", so I'll fit right in.

I also made a transition timeline, to show how much I've changed on testosterone. For the better, I hope! I really believe I'm becoming, if not Have Become, the man I was always meant to be. It's so strange to look back at who I was not too long ago, and to know the absolute pain I was in. It's also strange, in a good way, to see the man looking back at me in the selfies. I'm so much happier now! Much more candid in my pictures, at least. But, I know that I'm so much more comfortable as myself than I was even 6 months ago. It's strange. Sometimes I think to myself, "I don't pass yet; I'm not who I Need To Be yet." Then, I look at my selfie from today, and... I'm THERE. My mind just hasn't caught up with my amazing, natural, normal reality.

The end. I have to get ready for bed, (even though I could be partying on a Saturday night in the city. I'm lame.) If you actually read this, I am kissing you on the mouth right now. I hope it made you calm down tonight, like a terrible bedtime story. If you didn't read it and just skipped to the end, don't worry: you did the rational thing.

#long post #diary entry

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encountersincamperland · 3 years

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Misty Mendip Morning July 1st 2021

The sound of a cockerel in the distance but close enough to wake me up heralded the dawn chorus. This must have been an old bird as he could barely manage a cock a doodle before taking a breath and finishing with a doodle do. Still he persisted and any birds which hadn't woken were surely to do then. And so the din began with blackbirds whistling, finches chirping, sparrows cheeping and pigeons hooting. But loudest of them all was the wren, its voice in indirect proportion to its size. The camper van was a blaze of sound from all directions and my hope of drifting back to sleep in the semi light faded like an evaporating dream.

I got up and peeped through the blinds. The field just across the the old drovers road from the campsite which had been full of cattle the previous evening was now empty of cows, gone for milking. The old road which figures on the map as a trusty lane to walk was clogged with nettles, clinging vines and other fast growing greenery and was not negotiable without a stout stick to beat back the vegetation or better still a portable strimmer. There was no going that way on our planned walk for the day. It needed some farmer or council worker to clear a path. In restricted times with less people walking and plenty of early summer rain, plants shoot up to cover the footpaths and trap unwary boots with bracken and bramble. Nettles sting bare legs and skin biting flies land to feed before being slapped to the ground.

Madeleine walking the path with Priddy church in the back ground

A summer mist hung over the Mendips which was to either clear with the rising sun or hang around all day reduced to a haze and reducing too the view that could be had from Ebbor gorge over Wells where we were heading.

Cheddar Gorge

The campsite we were on sits above Priddy on the road from Wells to Cheddar which spectacularly serpents its way down through the gorge to get to the latter place. We had cycled that road the last time we were there twisting down the gorge past rock climbers and goats perched equally perilously on outcrops, relying on precarious hand and hoof holds; and past walkers and other tourists intent on the tea rooms and nick nack shops that line the gorge road into the town.

Priddy is a strung out village along that road with a triangular village green, a pub, a church and a school that local children still attend. On our walk past the school we heard them in class singing and chanting a song the teacher had set them. It seemed an eternal sound, something Hardy or Lee might have referenced in their descriptions of Wessex and Cotswolds village life from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The school children seemed to be well provided with a teacher who valued culture. As well as the music, they had produced painted and laminated signs which had been posted round all the approaches to the village welcoming visitors but warning drivers to slow down. Some were more friendly than others with rainbows and polite requests. Others pointed up the dangers to cyclists by speeding drivers with a picture of a cyclist and a car coming from opposite directions and the admonition ' slow down ' with an exclamation mark to which the teacher had added a please. On the way back to the village we saw several of the children cycling slowly home at the end of their school day.

Village sign by local school children

The Mendips provide a relatively flat tract of upland once you are on top, and you can walk several miles with the contours barely undulating through fields which at that time appeared to have been allowed to revert to wild meadow, full of flowers including poppies, buttercups, red campion, dandelions, herb Robert and scabious. And in the walls separating the fields, bright yellow flowers favoured growing on the moss clinging to the stones. It couldn't have been better designed.

Madeleine climbing a great old Mendip stile

Our route which included parts of the West Mendip Way and Monarchs Way as well as cycle route 3 swung past farms where there appeared to be no activity, though the lanes themselves bustled with big wheeled tractors going about their business. Past fields of grazing sheep separated from us by low electric fencing we finally entered Ebbor wood and a steep decline that would have taken us to the Somerset Levels if we had continued but stopped short at Ebbor gorge and a sheer drop that put an end to the path we were on. Stacks of cliffs jutted up on all sides, coated in trees that mostly obscured the rocks but here and there where the drop was vertical and trees couldn't cling, the rock was exposed and revealed the danger waiting any stumbling pedestrian.

At Ebbor Gorge

We sat and ate our sandwiches, taking in the view blurred by the persistent haze that did indeed linger through the day. Our options were to descend further to the caves and maybe onto Wookey Hole or make a return north choosing a different route. The prospect of having to climb back out of the gorge was too daunting to be tempted by the reward of further visual delights. So we reversed and found a path that took us back to Priddy and to the campsite where a brew of Darjeeling and a munch of tea cake restored our flagging energy. Almost ironically the cockerel started its crowing, though at that moment the time was nowhere near sunset or dawn on that still hazy midsummer evening.

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dansnaturepictures · 4 years

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10th August 2020-Peregrines and more at Winchester Cathedral and tree, garden birds and sky when home

I had to come into the office for something this morning working out of it for the first time since March, and so as not to take the risk of using the train in current circumstances my Mum dropped me off in the morning then picked me up during my lunch break and I resumed home working this afternoon. So within that lunch break we used it as a chance to go to Winchester Cathedral and look for the Peregrines. With a text from my Mum to say no sign at the cathedral where she was already, I walked down to meet her, Missy and her husband there via St. Thomas Church where they often fly and base themselves. One Peregrine did fly over there and disappeared but I heard it and got a spare binocular view the first time I used my old pair for months that live in my work bag. I got chatting at a safe social distance to someone who was working by a retro cinema type place where if you walk up some steps onto the forecourt you can see the church and where the birds perch it was a lovely chat about the Peregrines and how they get to their famous speeds etc. A chat I really valued, and I also valued seeing my first Peregrine since March because for a bird I at times of year see every day working at the office in Winchester as normal I don’t think we’ve managed to see one anywhere once coronavirus restrictions lifted slightly and we could drive to exercise at less local places on weekends and time off. I had wondered if it had headed towards the cathedral along the Winchester birds’ well known flight path.

And when I met my Mum there she was watching two Peregrines one of which I saw in the binoculars again which felt great. I took the the first two pictures in this photoset at the cathedral with my spare bridge camera also with me the camera I sneak into my work bag when in Winchester now and again showing a great vibe that there often is there. We then walked past on our way to the car in Colebrook Street car park the north tower where the Peregrines nest and sit here. Here as I did something I used to do so often but hadn’t since 20th March scanned the north tower ledge in my binoculars I was over the moon to spot a Peregrine one of the adults sat there. It was like I was never away, but did feel a bit surreal, as I used my long zooming bridge camera to snap some pictures of this bird including the third, fourth and fifth in this photoset. It was just as thrilling as it always is, being able to look up and see the fastest bird in the world and one of my favourite birds sat there looking very beautiful in the sun today. I was so happy to see it and watch it for a few minutes I could not stop looking at it really which is exactly what I did when I first saw them here and when I so regularly did with and without spare camera.

It did allow me to reminisce on the most amazing times I have had with these birds young and old mostly on work lunch breaks. I missed not seeing the chicks landed this year - one of the birds I saw today must have been a chick I think just not the landed one at the cathedral north tower of the five this year an unusually high amount that fledged for the species - but I was so lucky to get the views and pictures I did of 2019′s brood of young birds whilst working normally in Winchester and photographing them on a few occasions. And when in lockdown and working from home alongside actually seeing wildlife locally and taking photos on daily exercise walks watching the Winchester Cathedral 2020 brood especially and other local cathedral’s resident nesting Peregrines really was something so nice and positive to focus on. So it was just good to get this moment of connection with one at the end of the breeding season.

I really have missed the Peregrines in the flesh and it was as though I was having a flash back into my old life a bit today as cheesy as it sounds. The pictures I took ones I was so used to taking so it was nice to take some in more immediately modern times for me. Many looked like past ones of mine which was great. Its weird to think there are friends I’ve made on Twitter and probably here too in the past five months that have never seen me post Peregrine pictures as part of my day’s pictures. Its striking really considering I used to photograph Peregrines here so often there were days I didn’t manage it too at here and St. Thomas Church when I brought my camera but I photographed them at least once a month for a whole year. It always felt like I was getting something for nothing, a day I dressed in smart clothes and shoes and got on the train to come and work yet in my hour of freedom around Winchester I could take some photos to do and post that evening. Something mirrored in my working from home temporary but pretty permanent feeling necessary measure but at my local country park Lakeside and surrounding areas. Equally fantastic, but a slightly different feeling. So I had underestimated what a key part of my photography with my bridge camera a piece of kit I have had an amazing nearly two years with supporting my DSLR mainly with long distance shots. And it was just nice to go back to it even though this is probably a one off and if I have to go in again to the office it shouldn’t be for a long time I don’t think.

I took the sixth picture in this photoset of the cathedral grounds looking lovely in the heatwave in this later summer going into autumn period. A wonderful place to enjoy some time outside on lunch today as it always is. I brought the Peregrine and cathedral pictures into a much more modern right now for me set with some pictures taken when home more like the ones I have been taking and loving doing so much lately. This included the seventh of trees out the front with some with autumn leaves coming through, the eighth and ninth of a young Starling in the garden in the sun this afternoon and Goldfinches drinking in the bird bath like the Starlings usually do which I have noticed them do a lot lately and the tenth and final of a weird sky it looked like a sunset but was about an hour ahead of the time the sun should set right now but was fun to capture whatever. A very different start to my wildlife and photography snippets in my day week this week but a brilliant one. It will be lovely to then contrast it with tomorrow when a Lakeside walk will all being well be my daily exercise and I’ll be aiming to check on my new family to follow of another of my favourite birds the Great Crested Grebe which I have followed so much this year the family and the chicks especially the past few weeks. Great to have both, have a good week all.

Wildlife Sightings Summary for today: One of my favourite birds the Peregrine Falcon, Feral Pigeon including Violet one of the ones my Mum nicknamed after her late parents splashing in the bird bath, five Collared Doves in the garden at once at one point tonight which was very interesting, Woodpigeon, Starling, House Sparrow, Goldfinch and Large White butterfly.

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honeyrose-tea · 4 years

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Gaia, Hephaestus, and Nyx?

Gaia: Where’s your favorite place in the world?

there are so many

the hike up to an old castle in Assisi, Italy, abundant with poppies and stone walls older than the city I was born in. the overlook across the town abundant with little shops that contain beautiful unique trinkets and friendly shop dogs. the view of rolling farmland in the distance, sectioned off to look like puzzle pieces. tiny centuries-old catholic churches with an otherwordly calm and reverence for those of every faith

the boat ride across the big canal in Venice, the land on either side clotted with beautiful old buildings. the museums preserving what was once a kingdom. gelato shops ans gondola rides and windows laden with flowers in every color you can imagine

a tiny park in midtown NYC with a single statue. pigeons and people rushing by and the feeling of peace and self-assured invisibility. signs and advertisements all around you blurring into a rainbow of stimulus as you observe quietly and in the still what is something much bigger than you, teeming, pulsing, alive and aware. a consciousness that everyone is part of, a loneliness that makes you feel more alive than anything you've ever felt before

an old church in rural eastern Kentucky. the feeling of history, the black and white pictures on the wall, the red-cushioned pews and chandelier that's missing a few crystals. the broken stained glass that lets in the summer air. peace, stillness. decades-old hymnals. typewriters in the office room. an entire town that is a time capsule. discarded boots on the road, flowers covered in dew, new life in a place that has not seen it in years

there are many beaches and lakesides and mountain overlooks which hold special places in my heart as well. there is my great aunt's house in the country, the garden in Capri, a small town in England not far from Stonehenge, and many others. I fall a little in love with every place I go. it's why I'm always torn between going back to those places or finding new ones when the opportunity to travel arises.

Hephaestus: What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever made or built?

hmmmm... I can't really say. I don't make much. I have some writing that I'm proud of, but not much. I made something for Eli's cousin, who adopted him and is a bit of a maternal figure for him, and I'm pretty proud of that. it was an organizer for their mail, made of pallet wood with removable wire baskets. I painted their surname up at the top in cursive and it just turned out really pretty and she was very happy with it

Nyx: What’s your favorite nighttime activity?

maybe this is a dumb horny answer, but what immediately comes to mind is masturbation/sex. the night is so still and calm and freeing. it truly feels like you have all the time in the world to devote to pleasure. the closeness, the peace, the ecstacy, the freedom of feeling like you're completely alone in the night. the feeling of being able to lay down and go to sleep right after, chest still heaving and near-immediate blissful unconsciousness. being at one with your body and/or the body of your partner in the darkness

I also like checking on my chickens at night. when they're all settled on their roosts and ready for bed I'll sing to them for a while, they seem to quite enjoy it

thank you for the ask, anon❤️

#eli #anon

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airariaira · 4 years

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Quatrième - 04/03/2020

Alright, strap yourselves in lads, because I left the writing of this about a week later than I usually do so this post will probably be a bit of a long one. First of all I’d like to say again that yes, I feel that my French is improving quite a lot with each day here - even if I’m not perfect, but confidence is growing and I’m definitely more confident in saying the things I say often.

Now, let’s go back to the 13th of February. My journal entry from that day seems a bit of a negative one, because I was writing about my conflicting feelings that sometimes pop up - whether I should allow my classmates to approach me first and thus seem like the quiet and awkward exchange student, or whether I should approach them first and feel like I’m pushing myself on them. It feels a little overwhelming sometimes to be surrounded by so many cool French people when my language skills often can’t keep up (and perhaps a bit the same with my social skills too 😂). Sometimes it feels like I’m wasting the opportunity right in front of me when I don’t have the confidence to strike up a conversation. As mentioned by Alex in his blog, I know I shouldn’t keep myself at a distance from my peers, but it’s so hard not to fall into the trap of doing that when 1. I’m leaving in only a month (oh my goodness, it’s so soon 😱), and 2. the past two weeks have been holidays and I haven’t seen any of them at all (reasoning for that is distance, being busy, and/or the fact that the week following the holidays - this week - is their BAC blanc exams, which is prelim exams for all you NZ ppl).

The 14th was a better day. Of course it being Valentine’s Day, the Cœur de Troyes is a major attraction on that day. I should have wandered by it to see it all dressed up. That morning I was late to school (great first time French school experience...) I was close to catching the bus, but just not close enough.. How frustrating it was to watch that bus leave without me right before my eyes. I caught the next bus, but it turns out that my bus card had run out that day. However, the bus had already left so I took that ride without a working bus card (oh heck, is that police sirens I hear?) So all in all, that was a day of many bus hardships. Because of all that, I walked home and it was actually really lovely to take the chance to admire the city again. Sometimes I find myself getting a bit comfortable and I have to remind myself that omg I really am a c t u a l l y in France right now!

On Saturday the 15th I went to the market with Marie. The market here is so cool. Lots of bustling people buying all the things they need for the week, there’s live chickens, cheese of course, clothes, a whole lot of other random stuff... The market is a pretty big thing in French culture so I enjoy going and seeing it. That afternoon we drove to pick up Antoine from a friend’s house, who lives a few towns over. It was a really nice day, so the sun hit the rolling countryside really nicely that day. We also drove through some small towns I hadn’t seen yet, and they were very cute. I’ll never stop being impressed by all the beautiful old buildings in France. That evening I made a silly language mistake and mixed up the words for packing bags and doing the dishes, so now whenever I hear one I think of the other. 😅

Sunday 16th had us travelling down to Marseilles for out 5-day holiday. It was a 7 hour drive, but we took the whole day because we stopped off at Marie’s sister’s place for lunch. She and her partner live close to where Alex is placed, so I took this truly wonderful quality photo to demonstrate to him whereabouts I was:

For lunch we had raclette, the weather was very nice, and so was the company. Marie’s sister’s husband’s children were there too. Last minute, it was decided his daughter Ambre would come along on the holiday with us which was nice. So we switched to a bigger car and set off again. When we reached Marseilles it was almost pretty much dark, but I could still see the countryside - different but really nice. The city is an eclectic mix of old and new, and there’s even a Hollywood style sign (like in Wellington!) here’s another definitely really great quality photo...

Some of the highlights from our trip to Marseilles:

Visited the museum (called Mucem)

Place des Pistoles

The Cathedral

The Notre-Dame of Marseilles

Picnic on the beach

Visit to Cassis

It’s very easy to get around Marseilles, because there’s a card called “le ticket” which you can access not only the Metro with, but also the busses, which is very useful. The Metro system is also a lot more simple than the one in Paris, because it only has two lines. The city is also quite pretty because it’s this nice mixture of old buildings, street art, flowers and plants overflowing from balconies, sculptures, and sunshine of course. People’s accents in the south are also a bit different to in the places further north, so that was interesting for me to experience too. The first day (Monday) was a bit rainy, so we decided to visit Mucem, which was nice. The museum was incredible. The two exhibits I liked the most were one on voyages and travel, which had a mixture of different art pieces that I really adored. One of them was this light globe, which seemed cool... Until we noticed that the rug in the foreground had left out New Zealand! Typical 😂

The other exhibit I really liked was one on the life and work of the famous and very celebrated French author/poet named Giono. He was a part of the world wars, so a lot of his work is descried as being often very haunting. I hope to be able to read some of it sometime. I wish I could have stayed in the museum for longer and committed the exhibits to memory. After seeing the exhibits, we headed outside onto the roof, where there’s a pretty herb garden and a gorgeous view all around you of the city and the sea.

The following days, the weather was a heck of a lot better, with the sun out and about I almost forgot it was winter at some points! On Tuesday we visited a pretty old part of town, and walked along the Place Des Pistoles, which is an area of streets dedicated to street art. it was very pretty, and I guess you could say it felt ... right up my alley 😏

After that, we went to the Catheral which was nice - it was very very big inside, and the weather at that point was very very windy outside.

Following that, we continued with the church thing and went to visit the very high-up Notre-Dame of Marseille. Because it’s so high up we were able to take a bus thank goodness, and there was also a gorgeous view of the city below us.

The inside was incredibly extravagant and shiny...

On Wednesday we went for a picnic lunch on the beach. We definitely earned it, as we had many bus mishaps on the way there! It was a very sunny day, but the wind was very strong on the beach. We also amassed a small army of seagulls, pigeons, sparrows, and other miscellaneous birds while we were eating. This is the view back from the shore:

There was also this dude here across the road from the beach:

Thursday was a wonderful day. It was also the half way point of my exchange, whaaaat!? We drove out to the pretty nearby village of Cassis. It was even warmer there - so warm I didn’t even need to wear a jacket! We went on a short walk first, and got some nice views of the cliff-faces, water, and boats below:

(Cassis has always been a boating/fishing area. I can see why, with how beautifuul the water and the weather is!)

^ Ambre, Lola and I

Halfway through the walk, we stopped on some warm rocks for a rest and some lunch. It was really nice in the sun.

Lola, myself, Lola, and Olivier.

Clearly I missed the peace sign memo AND the cup holding memo!

After that, we wandered around the town a litte bit. It is truly a beautiful place - I couldn’t really believe I was seeing it all with my very own eyes.

There were also a few groups of people very intensely playing games of Petanque. I think Dad and Lisa would have appeciated that. We then had icecream while looking over all the boats. It feels very odd writing about the nice weather there when currently as I am writing it is 6pm and suddenly very rainy! That evening, we had dinner at a friend of Marie’s. It was very nice, and their family was lovely and welcoming. I did gett a little overwhelmed at one point because there was a lot of rapid French being spoken by a lot of different people all at once and it was difficult for my tired self to keep up after a big day. However it was still enjoyable. Us younger ones got along pretty well. It’s a little weird, meeting all these nice people here while I’m exchange and realising that I may very well never see some of them again... On Friday the 21st we drove back home, stopping off to drop off Ambre and to have some lunch there too.

That weekend was quiet. On Sunday Marie’s mother joined us for lunch. We then went to the house in Geraudot for a short while, then went for a walk along a different, bigger, lake nearby. I would love to see it in the summer, when all the restaurants and things were open, people camping just across the road, the golden sand in the sun... Here’s a picture from the ride home to demonstrate why the landscape here sometimes gives me (coming from Blenheim surrounded by hills) shellshock. Tell me, am I living in that Window’s screensaver we all know and love?

On Monday evening I went to watch my first sports game ever - a French football game (sorry Kiwi rugby diehards). The Troyes football team is called Estac. The game felt a little slow at times, but other times I found myself getting pretty into it! A good experience in general.

On Wednesday evening, three friends of Lola’s came for an early overnight celebration for Lola’s birthday. We played a game called “Ta Mere En Slip”, which is a little like “Heads Up”, but with a person and an action to guess. Here’s a photo from that:

Thursday 27 February - Paris no. 2

On Thursdays, usually Marie works in Paris, taking an early train there and an evening train back. We decided that it could be a cool idea for me to travel over with her and spend the day by myself. It was an... interesting day, to say the least.

We had an early start, took the train, and then recharged my Metro card once we got there. All good, mostly, except until the card didnt work, which was a little awkward and confusing 🙄 After getting through that, Marie and I parted ways; she on her way to a meeting at work, and I on a metro to the Louvre. I had some trouble with the many confusing lines once I got there, and another tourist even asked me if she was in the riht line, to which I replied that I was sorry I was also rather confused! I hope she found her way in the end, because we were both very much in the wrong line but for different reasons. I found the correct line for me, and then I was in the Louvre! I ended up spending upward of three hours here, there was so much to see. Beautiful paintings that are so nice to appreciate in person, Greek and Roman sculpture (my inner classics nerd was wilding, it was great to see these things that I’d studied up close), some gorgeous neoclassical and otherwise French sculpture, beautiful extravagant objects from past French royalty, even Eastern and Egyptian antiquities. There was just so much and of course it was impossible to see it all (though naturally I tried - my sore feet did not thank me later). That moment of awe you feel when you see something that you truly ove is near indescribable. Here’s some photos of some of my favourite things that I saw:

A bust of Alexander the Great

Some very impressive, large paintings

The very very extravagant ceiling in one of the gallery rooms

A view of the pyramid, the little doll people, and the not-so-great weather outside from the beautiful objects area with all the past belongings of French monarchs

A nice piece from the French sculpture area

I got pretty lucky with my trip to the Louvre for a few reasons. One was that my ticket was for the morning at opening time, so I managed to get in before the worst of the crowds. Pretty awesome being able to wander around without being hindered too badly by lots of other people also trying to get as close as they possibly can to every piece. The other reason I got lucky was because the Louvre is now closed. It closed on Saturday the 29th of February, and remains closed now, it being unclear when it may open again. This was following an announcement of a nation-wide ban of gatherings of more than 5000 people in a confined space. The Louvre, of course, falls under this category.

Anyway, after that very long musemum trip, I was happily full with appreciation for art nd culture, however I was also very hungry and thirsty (no drink bottles allowed in the museum haha). So I went outside and got myself a bite to eat from a bakery stall outside, which I had overlooking the pretty garden outside (yes it was raining a bit and the bench was a little damp too, so yes I sacrificed my rain jacket to sit on). The interaction I had with the person at the bakery stall felt like the most natural interaction all in French I had had with a customer service person so far. I think that was the proudest I’d ever been of myself simply for ordering a sandwich! 😂 It was nice to just sit down with my food and admire my surroundings and people watch for a while. I could even see the Eiffel tower fro my spot, which was nice. I then wandered all the way through the garden, admiring the flowers and fountains and sculptures and the many many empty benches. I’d love to see how it looks in the sun - I bet those benches will be pretty well occupied in the springtime. After that I went on a mission for toilets and discovered the truly wonderful and fantastic thing that is Paris’ tendency for toilets that cost money to use. After that delightful exprience I headed to see the Obelisk. I may have been walking against the wind and rain, but the area was still pretty.

I then walked all the way down the Champs- Élysées (my poor feet), until I reached the Arc de Triomphe. It was by then only the early afternoon and I realised I was at a bit of a loss as to what to do. I had options, of course, but the travel to them on the metro or busses or otherwise seemed confusing and I had the added issue of not having any data or wifi to use google maps with. (Next time I am definitely getting some data - that would have solved a whole lot of problems 🙄). Long story short, one thing led to another and I ended up stressy ugly-crying with a burger I didn’t want in a McDonalds just so I could use the wifi to try and make sense of the metro system, while messaging Marie. Then to top it all off, my bathroom grievances continued because, naturally, the bathroom in that restaurant was another one that costed, and I had spent the last of my change on that burger. Dang. Anyways, I decided to go down to the metro to try and find my way to the Montmartre church. However, my metro card problems continued, my confusion of the metro system continued, and I ended up on the phone to Marie who said she would come meet me. I felt very bad that she left work for me, she said it was all okay, but naturally I still felt bad. She found me eventually, a littel tearstained and very embarrassed, and we headed on the metro to Montmartre together. She tried to explain the metro system to me a bit more, which was good and I feel like I’ve got a liiiittle bit of a better handle on it now.

On the steep walk up to Montmartre there were lots and lots of tourist shops, and then a lot a lot of stairs, with some street art on the walls which was pretty cool. The church was very pretty. We didn’t go inside, but the outside was very nice. All the surrounding fences were cooovered in lovers’ padlocks

The viewn was also very nice. Paries views (and I think French views in genral?) are always interesting. A mix of that classic Parisian architecture, you know the one -modern buildings, well-known monuments, building cranes, oooold old buildings and monuments, and sometimes the odd bit of big street art on the high-up walla. It’s never the same view you expect to see.

After that nice wee trip we went to grab a coffee and stop off at the cafe’s toilets before we headed home. However, toilet grievance number 3 hit us suddenly because the toilets were out of order. After that we decided to head to the train station and leave a littel earlier than originally planned. I was so tired after a big day I couldn’t help but fall asleep on the train 😂 Once we were back home I recounted my metro meltdown and we all decided that perhaps public transport (missing train stops, being confused by the metro and bus syetems...) is simply not my strong point, lol. Anyways, despite the stressy moments of that day, all in all it was a good experience, and the good moments were really enjoyable. I’m not going to letit deter me, and I hope in the future I’ll have more chances to explore the city and improve my knowledge of how to get around.

Saturday the 29th was a good day. We had gratin dauphinois for lunch, which was cool because it reminded me of my Nanna because it was one of her specialties, and it reminded me of the one time I made it for a culture project for French class. That afternoon, Marie and I headed back to the museum with the section on bonneterie, because there’s a new exposition there at the moment. It’s on the brand of socks called Doré Doré, celebratng it’s 200 year anniversary (weird that a sock brand in France is older than the entire government in New Zealand), and the factories have been based in Troyes since the beginning. It was cute, and a littel funny with all the little socks and things. There were lots of these big sock wall decorations outside the exhibit:

Sunday was the last day of the holidays. In the morning Marie, Lola and I went to the bakery to pick up Lola’s birthday cake. Her birthday isn’t until the 7th, but on Sunday afternoon there was some family coming to celebrate. It’s funny when we go into any store, every time the cashier assumes I’m a separate customer, so I’m now well practiced at saying oh no thank you we are all together. For lunch, Marie’s mother, brother, his partner, and their young son Jack-Jack came around. There was nice conversation, nice food, and then a game of ‘Ta Mere En Slip’. They’re all very nice, and it feels easier now than every for me to speak French with groups of people. It’s still hard sometimes, but it’s much better!

Yesterday was interesting. It was sort of the first day back at school. I got up early, Marie took Lola and I to school as usual... However I had neglected to check what the case was with the BAC blanc exams this week. Turns out that no, there is no classes at all, and it is in fact just tests all throughout the week. So that was an interesting time for me, turning up there and my classmates finding it funny I was there at all. So I just headed back home after spending a little while in the school library, and sike! I have, in some ways, another week of holidays... I’m thinking I might do some more exploring, go back to the museum, I could go to the movies and try watching something in French again, I could write some postcards or things home... Today I’ve just been writing this blog entry this morning, I’ve gone out to eat pizza for lunch with Marie, but the weather today is lovely (much better than the rain last night), so I might go do something. I am in absolute disbelief that I have less than 4 weeks left on exchange. Where did the time go? I swear I must comment on how fast the time is going by at least a few times a day at this point. But wow, it really is going fast.

Until next time!

#france #student exchange #troyes #france exchange #nziiu #nziiuambassador #nziiustudentexchange #aria in france

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hookaroo · 5 years

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Vocivore, Ltd. (46 of 46)

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, @courtorderedcake, @facesiousbutton82 <3

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE AT THE END!!!!!!

Special thanks again to @sherlockianwhovian for organizing the event that started it all :)

A million thanks to @cocohook38 for the incredible art that I will never ever recover from! LET’S ALL TAKE ANOTHER LOOK AT PERFECTION!!!

COVER ART 1 ~~~ COVER ART 2 ~~~ CHAPTER 1 ~~~ CHAPTER 7 ~~~ CHAPTER 12 (ART) ~~~ CHAPTER 12 (ANIMATION) ~~~ CHAPTER 19 ~~~ CHAPTER 34 ~~~ CHAPTER 36 ~~~ @sancocnutclub WE ARE SO BLESSED BY YOU!!!!!!!!! (**APPLAUSE AND FLOWERS AT YOUR FEET**)

Thanks to everyone who stuck with it to the end and left such amazing and supportive comments!!! I love you all!

I have an idea or two for new stories, but it will be a while before anything is near ready for sharing. In the meantime, may I humbly direct you to my previous works on FFN?

“Or Sleep with the Fishes,” “They Never Bury Your Bones,” and “A Captain’s Heart” are all whumpy multichapter tales which I may someday also post to AO3. They can be read in any order but the latter two make small references to their predecessors so may as well read in date order.

Also @killian-whump has a wonderful collection of fics (and art!) by other amazing creators of whump so do check all of them out as well!!

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One month later…

Emma took her eyes off of the road for a brief moment to glance over at Killian, who was currently reclined in the passenger seat of the Bug. Just as she had suspected: fast asleep. She let him be, knowing that with the rough road coming up, his nap would not last much longer.

He had only been released from the hospital two days ago, Whale having declared that further recuperation could be managed on an outpatient basis, as long as he remained on bed rest and followed the prescribed regimen of medications to support his physical and mental well-being. Uncharacteristically, Killian was submitting to all of it without complaint, even though the drugs battling the brain deterioration, in particular, left him feeling wiped out and frequently sick. He had hardly been out of bed beyond scheduled short trips down the hall to stretch leg muscles and a stiff ankle, to prevent blood clots, and build strength in his recovering lungs. Apart from that, he had mostly been sleeping, although he never turned away the opportunity to have Hope nearby. Even when she was there against her mother's wishes. Killian would fix her with a tired smile, hold out a brace-encased hand, and invite her onto the bed next to him. Oreo-Eeyore usually joined them and, more than once, was left behind to keep Killian company after Hope had scampered away.

Today, Hope was attending a half-day Kiddie Cruise hosted by Captain Smee; the first two had been so popular that the Wish Realm captain of the Jolly Roger had been talked into arranging some shorter sailing excursions without the dire motivation behind it. Emma knew that Killian would have liked to attend as well, had he been a bit stronger, but they both trusted Smee and his crew, and Hope’s Auntie Alice was specifically in charge of the three-year-old this time.

Of course, there was still a small part of both of them loathe to let her out of their sight for any length of time. Emma was getting better about it; Killian still had major difficulty, as his perverse images of her tortured little body were quick to resurface when he didn't have her physically present to counteract them. But they couldn't be near her all the time, and their errand today was not an appropriate one to include a toddler in.

Just as anticipated, as the pavement gave way to mud and potholes, Killian’s breathing indicated his return to wakefulness. He did not stir or even open his eyes, but Emma saw the telltale signs of pain and tension in the way he held himself and the very controlled manner with which he drew breath.

“You okay?” she asked quietly. “We can still turn back; you don't have to do this.”

Killian merely tightened his jaw and nodded once. And really, she had not expected anything different, but she’d had to try.

*****

There had been much speculation over the origin of the ruined village which had become the Vocivore’s base of operations. Emma’s personal opinion was that it looked like a long-dead World War II village, and being within the borders of the Land of Untold Stories, it was likely the setting of some sort of war romance or similar BS. The bigger mystery was the origin of the monster itself, and how it had come to reside in the United Realms. She was convinced that they would never find a satisfactory explanation of that question.

Thanks to knowledge gleaned from three weeks’ worth of Exchanges, both Killian and Emma knew that they wouldn't find another Vocivore lurking anywhere nearby, and that it hadn't... laid eggs or whatever. But that possibility would have been a mere fraction of the rationale behind the village’s eventual condemnation, anyway. None of the buildings were structurally sound, and only a few could have been considered salvageable if someone had the motivation. No one did, of course. Suffering leached into every wall, broken window, and rotting ceiling, like blood stains that could never be scrubbed away. So they would be demolished, the materials repurposed when possible, and the land converted somehow; those details had yet to be determined. But today was day one of the destruction. And the church would be the first building to fall.

Killian shifted in his seat, and though his eyes were still closed, Emma could tell by the quickening of his breaths that he sensed their impending arrival.

She had almost decided not to tell him, fearing that it would upset him too much to think about that place, even in the knowledge of its demolition. But an impulse had caused her to murmur the information in a casual, gentle way the night before he'd been discharged from the hospital. He hadn't said much at first; Emma had thought that maybe her initial instinct was correct and he didn't want to even think about it. But then, later, out of the blue and in a tremulous but determined voice, he had surprised her by saying that he wanted to watch. Once out of earshot, she had discussed the idea with Dr. Whale and Dr. Hopper, who had both given a cautious green light, thinking it could serve as therapeutic. But both men had also warned that revisiting the site of so much trauma could be more than Killian could handle so soon, and thus had extracted a promise that she would keep a very close watch on him the whole time. As if she would ever do any different.

Rounding the final bend, the trees began to give way to flashes of bright yellow construction equipment. And even though she was sure she hadn't given any hint, she could see signs of increased tension from Killian, as if he could sense their proximity without having to open his eyes. The ragged shape of the church’s bell tower loomed above the village, looking even more unstable than when she'd first laid eyes on it. She shuddered with an unexpected chill. This was also her first time back; she had not anticipated that it might be difficult on her as well.

The Bug bumped up onto the beginning of the cobblestone road that paved the village streets. Newer model cars lined both sides, indicating the number of United Realms citizens in attendance that day. The liberal application of yellow caution tape blocking doors and windows gave a cheery, bumblebee mask over the pall of death still present in the doomed community. Emma glanced at Killian and found him quietly observing their progress, working visibly to keep his breaths slow and even.

A rose-dusted pigeon strutted its arrogant little way along the gutter, and Emma battled a brief but powerful temptation to swerve in that direction. A few new scratches to add to the car’s nose would be a small price to pay for the satisfaction of flattening the feathered pest. But it wouldn’t make a difference to the problem as a whole, and Emma didn’t want to cause Killian any additional pain, so she contented herself with casting mental curses in its direction as they passed.

The pigeon quandary persisted, no easy solution to be found. Current suggestions included rounding them all up and transporting them to their natural habitat in New York City, trying to get them to interbreed with regular pigeons to hopefully dilute their ability to block magic, or create a strain of avian flu that would target them specifically and wipe them all out. That last one sounded like the premise of an apocalypse movie to Emma, but with the proven-but-painfully-slow success of his treatment for Vocivore-Slave-Brain, Dr. Whale now considered himself even more of an invincible Scientist! than he had before.

Meanwhile, the shield expanded, and Killian’s ability to survive a longer trek was worthless because even the furthest reaches of the United Realms were now stripped of their magic as well. A visit to another realm altogether was not out of the picture, but everyone, including Killian, had reservations about the effects of portal travel on his hard-earned progress, so that remained a task for the future. To be honest, at this point, not much benefit would be gleaned from exposure to healing magic anyway, though Emma would have liked to spare him the residual pain, and possibly reduce the visibility of some of his more gruesome new scars.

Later, she promised herself. When they were sure the forces of a portal would not disrupt the fragile healing within his brain and cause a relapse of the condition. Today was about his psychological well-being. She pulled into the village square and came to a halt directly in the center, a front-row seat for the crumbling of remembered demons. Maybe it was absurd to feel resentful towards a building for not falling on its evil occupant when it had the chance, but Emma knew she would feel a vindictive pleasure watching its destruction nonetheless.

*****

The car had stopped, but it was as if the church had continued moving, sliding near, swelling in dimension and darkness until it filled the entirety of Killian's view out the windshield. In fact, it seemed to fill the car itself, almost as if the car were inside the church and the church inside the car. Or maybe the car didn't exist at all. Maybe Killian didn't exist at all; perhaps it was his spirit hovering just beyond the crooked door, just out of sight of the cooling corpse it had recently vacated, now on its way to the place of white light and columns where screams no longer rent the cool morning air.

AT LONG LAST. MY TRIPOD HAS RETURNED.

The voice was not real. Logically, Killian knew that, had drilled the facts of the monster’s defeat over and over into his mind. The words were of his own creation, filling the space where harsh dominion once dwelt. Whale and Hopper had both confirmed that enough exposure to anything and the brain could replicate sensations even in their absence.

That knowledge did nothing to combat the feelings of despair taking root within Killian now.

I EAGERLY AWAIT YOUR PRESENCE, TRIPOD, his Master seemed to say. COME INSIDE AND YOU SHALL SCREAM AS YOU’VE NEVER SCREAMED BEFORE.

Emma placed an understanding hand on his forearm, which pulsed with residual and remembered pain. A muscular, slithery tentacle; Z’s leather strap, pulling on a ring that was no longer present, dragging him where he did not wish to go, restraining him with a shattering ache that had not truly subsided even after initial reconstructive surgery. The stake was gone; its oppression remained.

“Should I tell them to get started?” Emma's gentle voice was way out of place, startlingly jarring among the torture of memories. Killian winced, filling tight lungs with shaky resolve.

"I need to go inside," he whispered, and Emma's expression of patient understanding crumbled into doubt.

“I... Are you sure?”

Killian felt his tentative nod wobble side to side nearly as much as it bobbed up and down. This, apparently, did not do too much to convince her of his confidence. Suppressing a shudder, he reached for the door handle.

“Okay, just... Hold on,” urged Emma as she hastily unbuckled her seatbelt. “Let me get it.”

Even the flash of resentment at his temporary helplessness was not enough to fully drive away the monstrous voice.

YES, it confirmed, HELPLESS. YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO DEFEND YOURSELF OR YOUR FAITHFUL MATE SHOULD YOU ENTER. BUT YOU WILL COME ANYWAY BECAUSE YOU CANNOT RESIST MY COMMAND.

Killian allowed Emma to unbuckle his seatbelt and assist him to his feet, but his eyes never left the imposing scene of nightmares before him. Though so much had changed since his last time crossing that threshold, the ingrained feelings of reluctant terror still clawed at his being as he took a wobbly step forward.

There were strangers in hard hats gathered on the stoop. Their clothing bore little resemblance to sackcloth, yet their presence hearkened back to the revolving groups of dull-eyed guards endlessly cluttering the entrance. The ones who had listened to Killian's screams, watched the tortures, suffered some themselves. And the majority of whom were now dead.

Emma waved a cordial greeting to the relaxed construction workers, who nodded back casually, their posture normal, an ordinary, calm light in their eyes. No duress. No fatalistic numbness. Killian thought he may recognize one or two, but the blurred tentacles crawling across his vision prevented a positive identification. With the hand not currently helping to support her husband's weight, Emma flashed her badge and murmured some sort of explanation, to which one of them replied something about still clearing out the interior. Occupied with fighting oppressive memory, Killian focused on remaining upright, allowing Emma to do the talking.

And then the door was screeching open in a mockery of human suffering. And then he was walking through, joining a procession of his previous selves from the first to the last, each slightly more hunched than the one before, curling inward in anticipation of the pain, less and less able to face the scene ahead. Bowing, body and soul, to the dark of despair.

A blood-tinged shaft of light illuminated a patch of paving stone at the bottom of the stairs, as if highlighting the spot he had fallen so often, had lain in utter torment, visualizing his daughter’s corpse while it was he himself who cried and bled.

The altar was gone. Dismantled, decorative facing and heavy broken surface nowhere to be seen. A few scuff marks and differently colored concrete were the only signs of its once-looming presence at the top of the steps. Other stains marred the empty floor; Killian did not have to work very hard to guess their origin.

He did not wish to get any closer, but his unsteady legs took him forward anyway while dust particles and flashes of nothing became heavy, lurking pincer and wriggling tentacle in the corners of his vision. Each time he blinked, the instant of darkness filled with ghastly mental images: sometimes the Vocivore returned, sometimes the fictional Hope which he’d been working so hard to banish from his memory. He could hardly even feel Emma’s supporting hand under his elbow, or even her presence at his side; he'd always come into this room alone, come to face its worst alone, and his subconscious mind could not reconcile the change in paradigm.

Oddly enough, though, the remembered voice remained as silent as the empty cathedral. Fragments of disjointed scenes continue to play behind his eyes, their haunting soundtrack present but muffled, all firmly in the realm of past torments and absent any current threat. Could it be that the visual evidence of the Master's lair, empty, had shut up its voice once and for all? Killian scarcely dared imagine the possibility.

Only steps away from the scuffed stairs, Killian's weakened foot caught on an uneven stone and he staggered into Emma, who silently braced him up, throwing her arm around him and squeezing in a comforting manner. With a couple of one-legged hops, he managed to regain his balance, though he remained reluctant to put his full weight back on the tender ankle. Emma glanced around and spotted an upended pew in the periphery of the space.

"Can you manage on your own for a sec?" she murmured. At Killian's unconvincing nod, she carefully ducked out from under his arm and hurried toward the pew.

If Killian had felt alone before, the feeling tripled as Emma's presence vanished. The ghost outline of the altar shimmered into view. His arm resting atop with a spike driving into the bone. His savaged body pounding against the wood while he screamed. His bloodied hand, impaled amongst tarnished depictions of wheat stalks and grapevines, shuddering as the last vestiges of life drained away.

And then, again, the image and the words, louder than ever. The old mantra. Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead, no hope no hopenohope…

Quickly back at his side, dragging the long wooden bench along with her, Emma recognized his distress and gently eased him down onto its surface, pulling his aching fist away from his face, quietly urging him to relax, to breathe, reminding him that she was there and that he was safe. Tears dripped onto Killian's lap as he struggled to contain his sobs. Emma knelt before his hunched form, squeezing his wrist and stroking his cheek, shedding tears of her own in response to his emotional turmoil.

After several minutes, Killian managed to drive away the demons and settled into a quivery rhythm of intentional breathing; it was the only way he would escape an eternal spiral into overwhelming hopelessness. His chest ached from the strain, his hand throbbed with the effort of holding his emotions in his fist. The volume of the wrong mantra decreased but did not abate. Still stroking his cheek, Emma murmured,

“Are you okay?”

Killian gave a tentative nod, and he could feel the remnants of the involuntary tremors that still appeared whenever he was tired or stressed. “Just... Tell me it will get better.”

“It will,” she promised softly. “I really believe that.”

She delicately threaded the fingers of one hand inside his, gently but persistently nudging his fist to relax. When his fingers were finally uncoiled and his palm flat, facing upward, she began a careful massage of the tender flesh beneath the brace.

“We did a good thing, Killian. It's hard for us to say it was worth it. Hell, if we had known all the details, and how long it would take, I don't know that I would have been able to go through with it. But…” She leaned back on her haunches in order to look up into his face. “I've been thinking about what you said to Archie the other day, about how the scars will make it hard to forget everything. And I think… maybe that's the way it should be.”

Killian just looked at her through red-rimmed eyes. Continuing on, she explained,

"Each one represents a wound you bore so that someone else wouldn't have to. And, frankly... we'd all be dead if you hadn't done what you did. Sooner or later, in all likelihood, most of Storybrooke would be dead. So instead of looking at the scars and remembering the awful, I think you should give each one a meaning. A person whose life you saved by enduring all that pain, whom you can think about instead of the torture itself."

Killian studied her, eyes slightly brighter as he turned the idea over in his mind, and Emma flashed an encouraging smile.

"Need an example?"

Seeing his nod of agreement, Emma ran her finger along his palm, where she knew, underneath the stretchy fabric of the brace, a pinkish-white line marked the entry wound from the dagger stabbed through and into the altar.

"I can think of two people you’ve called your right-hand man in different situations. For a long while, that position was filled by Mister Smee." She turned his hand over and traced an approximation of the exit wound on the back. "These days, when you go sailing, it's always Henry who takes over the duties of first mate. So... you got this scar so Henry could live. And this one is for Smee." With each person named, she touched the corresponding line on his skin, so gently that there was barely a whisper of sensation in response.

A tear dripped off the tip of Killian's nose as, with head bowed, he watched his wife’s fingers brush his hand.

Quietly, Emma asked,

“What do you think? Helpful?”

Killian gave a hesitant, indecipherable movement of his head.

“Want me to keep going?”

“Please.”

The word was faint, hollow with ache but also a dash of hope. Emma clambered to her feet, her hand trailing along his jawline and down until it came to rest with fingers splayed over the twin lines on his shoulder which marked the transmitter’s brutal removal.

“Side by side,” she remarked. “Sounds like Mom and Dad; what do you think?”

Killian winced a tiny smile, and she took that as his approval. Emma sat gingerly on the pew next to him and held his blunted wrist in both hands, massaging the sides once skewered by cruel metal and asking,

“Detective Jones?”

“And Alice,” he added hoarsely. Emma smiled fondly. Then she sobered and laid her hand against his chest, approximating the site of the near-fatal stabbing. It had not fully knitted into a solid scar yet, the outer layers still supported by strips of water-resistant tape beneath padded bandaging. Sudden tears sprang to her eyes as her free hand came up to tangle absently in his hair.

“And this one,” she choked out, pausing to clear her throat before continuing, “nearest your heart… this one's for Hope, I think.”

Killian's vision blurred, and a sob jolted his chest, but instead of the corpse of his nightmares, he saw the charmingly misshapen sketch of the Papa bear, cradling the lump that represented his baby bear as he protected her from a frowning monster that only the mind of a 3-year-old could conjure. He sniffed, wiped his eyes with a careful knuckle, and breathed,

“Aye. For Hope.”

A long moment’s silence filled the sanctuary as tortures relived began to take on additional significance and gruesome mental images grew new outlines. Emma continued to make her presence known through comforting touch, and finally, over tense neck muscles, her tender fingers found two dime-sized pink discs which had only recently lost their scabs. The matching pair on the other side would be out of her view, but it was clear she referred to all four when she mused,

“I was going to say something about naming everyone in your life who could be described as a pain in the neck, but would that be too flippant?”

Surprising both of them with a quick-witted response, Killian deadpanned,

“Well, you've already assigned both Jones and Dave, so I'm not certain that leaves anyone else who fits that description.”

The moment of levity clashed so strikingly with everything the building had to come to represent, yet it felt improbably cathartic as well. Picking up on the mood, Emma leaned in to place a kiss on one of the scars, muttering in between pecks,

“Regina?”

Killian almost smirked. She kissed the other, saying,

“Doctor Whale?”

With a groan, he conceded that point.

“Most assuredly.” Then he added, “S'pose we can't list Regina without the inclusion of her sister.”

“Zelena. Right. And the fourth?”

“That only leaves one, Swan. Let's see if you can name him.”

Emma truly did not have to think very hard to come up with that one. The uncontested champion of showing up at the worst possible time with tidings of woe. “Oooh! I know! It's Grumpy, isn't it?”

“Unlikely as it is,” said Killian, “this one is for Grumpy.”

Thrilled that he was taking to her idea so positively, she was about to try and make the dubious connection of "ankle biter" to Neal and Robin, neither of whom were anywhere near that category anymore, but at least he'd known them when they were... But before she could go down that path, Killian abruptly straightened and shifted positions so that he faced her a little more squarely.

"Distant friends and relations are all well and good," he said as he reached for her hand. "But there's one person immensely important to me whom we've not yet mentioned."

Emma took a slow breath. She really hoped he wouldn't be upset by what she was about to share. Placing a hand above his ear, she stroked his temple with her thumb for several heartbeats.

"Some scars you can't see," she finally began. "But are no less painful or important. So... the ones you carry in here..." Her fingers stilled, her hand an almost weightless representation of the burden he bore within his mind. "Those are for me. Because I have some, too. And mine are for you. They're the price I'm so willing to pay to have you here with me." Emma snuggled closer, dropping her hand to his back and resting her forehead against his. "It's a burden we'll carry together," she continued softly. "And that's why I believe it'll get better, Killian: we'll help each other."

Killian felt a new sort of pain at the thought of Emma's own trauma, and how she'd been dealing with it mostly on her own as he endured the grueling process of recovery. But he could not deny drawing a small measure of comfort from her words, her expression of empathy and promise of support. He leaned into her and they shared a moment of silent communication, where emotions and vulnerabilities and fears intermingled in an easy acceptance, where it was okay to have doubts and dark thoughts as long as they both clung to the shared hope of brighter days ahead. And in that moment of quiet, Killian mentally reached for the images that might one day replace, or at least live alongside, all the scenes of torture. He watched the brand scalding his palm, then thought of Granny, her false prickliness covering such warmth and generosity. That one was for her. He felt the pincer tearing at his ear and pictured Archie, patiently absorbing as much of the story as Killian was ready to tell, giving advice and professional support as needed; that one was for him. He saw himself pinned to the altar and struggling to breathe, and instead of succumbing to the imagined fire in his lungs, he clung to his tangible Hope, the ability to see her again in just a few hours, the proof of how she viewed her papa and what he had done for all of them. For Hope, he thought. Always and forever, for her.

"Which one are you hearing now?" Emma whispered into the silence, and Killian worked to direct the inner mantra as he'd been taught.

Hope, free. Hope, safe. Hope, loved.

"The good one."

Hope, free. Hope, safe. Hope, loved.

"I’m glad. What say we get out of here; let ‘em finish their work so they can smash this place to smithereens and we can go home?"

Hope, free. Hope, safe. Hope, loved.

Vocivore, defeated.

Hope, free.

Killian, free.

Free.

"I'm ready."

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#ouat fanfiction #killian jones #emma swan #captain swan #scars #trauma #tears #traumatic memories #angst #comfort #coping strategy #Vocivore ltd

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badwolfwrites-sometimes · 5 years

Text

Drawn Together

Hi! This is my first fanfic so criticism is welcome and encouraged. I'll probably update it slowly tho...

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18923374/chapters/44924251

The wheel of fortune never stops spinning.

Who was on the top, now is on the bottom.

And who was on the bottom, now is on the top.

-Giovanni Gondola, Osman

Feliciano never expected his entire life to change after a single doodle, but there it was. And it was not just a beautiful dream.

Chapter 1

Venice, 2018

"I have to buy more blue and green." Came from a young man watering his tulips on the windowsill. He brushed his light brown hair with his fingers away from his face, allowing it to bathe in the early morning sun rays. He wasn't normally the person who would wake up early in the morning, but duty calls and he had work to do.

His brothers had yet to wake up and, if we're being honest, he enjoyed the morning silence. It was always very noisy in the house. His younger brother Romeo had a habit of singing loudly and, sometimes, off key which pisses off his eldest brother Lovino. It was a good thing they lived a bit outside of Venice and not in the centre or else the neighbours would complain all the time.

And he, a stunning 22 year old man who answers to Feliciano, was always just there. He wasn't really all that flashy like his brothers. Sure, he had his talents, one being art which was also his job, but he was mostly known as the happy one from the Vargas family. Maybe that was for the best.

He just finished watering his tulips when he heard a loud thud followed by a bad word you probably shouldn't teach to your kids. Lovino was awake and if he wanted to live to finish his painting of the Adriatic Sea, he better make him some coffee.

He set down the watering pot and started the coffee machine. Knowing his brother, he has about 20 minutes till he gets ready enough to come down to the kitchen. Just enough time to make breakfast as well.

Feliciano opened the bottom drawer next to the washing machine to take some bread Romeo baked the night before as well as some jam and Nutella from the table next to the stove. He knew Lovino liked it when he made his special half jam half Nutella bread, even though the latter would never admit that.

Lovino was down right on time for breakfast and coffee which means Feliciano gets to live for one more day.

"Morning." Lovino greeted, his voice still sore from sleeping.

"Good morning, Lovi!" Feliciano returned and offered his brother two pieces of bread and his cup of coffee with some anime girls on it. "Are you driving Romeo to collage today?"

"No. Midget can walk to his collage. Maybe he gets some tan from the stupid sun blinding my eyes at 4 in the damn morning."

Despite being the shortest of the three, Lovino still had a bad habit of calling his brothers midgets. Talk about Napoleon complex.

"I was thinking we should all take a walk. It's a nice day and it's been too long since we took a walk together. Plus I need to buy more paint." Feliciano smiled as he made his own cup of coffee, with a picture of the Colosseum on it, and sat down beside his brother.

"When are you gonna get a real job? You can't just draw for a living. Get an actual job that pays well and you can do art in your spare time." Lovino looked at Feliciano, who has most certianly heard this all before.

"It's what I love, Lovi. It's what I want to do with my life. Believe it or not, money isn't everything in the world. I want to be happy with my life. I don't wanna waste it doing something I hate just because it pays well." Feliciano rolled his eyes.

"So you're planning on living off Grandpa's allowances, love and some drawings? That's more miserable than doing what you hate. I hate my job, do you see me miserable? No. Then why can't you do the same?"

"Because I'm not you and I don't wanna talk about this. It's my choice, Lovi. Not yours."

And with that the conversation died, the two brothers continuing their breakfast in awkward silence. Until...

There was a loud thumping and a red headed boy was before them in less than a minute. His messy hair falling on his face, the eyebags still visible. He was gasping for his breath.

"Why didn't anyone wake me up?!" He said in between smaller gasps.

"Romeo, you're 19. You're old enough to wake yourself up." Lovino said, not remotely fazed by his brother's state.

"Um, no. If you woke up before me, you should have woken me up. You know my phone alarm doesn't work. Or my phone at all."

"Fratellino, calm down. You're not in high school anymore, your collage doesn't start till 9. It's 6:40." Feliciano laughed. He had the same problem when he left high school too.

Romeo looked at the clock. It showed 6:40. His high school would start at 7 AM. His body still wasn't used to the new surrounding that was collage. He buried his head in his hands and sat down. "What's for breakfast?"

"My speciality." Feliciano offered him some Nutella-jam bread.

"I love it when you get up early."

"I know you do." Feliciano laughed and the breakfast was continued.

It was 8:00 when Romeo left the house for collage, leaving Lovino and Feliciano alone. Lovino was getting ready in his room while Feliciano wrote the list of things he needed to buy. They were running low on coffee and milk, but most importantly Feliciano wanted to buy a new brush. His old one had far too many stray hairs to be used for delicate painting. It's a shame, but he had it since he was little. Of course he needed a new one.

"Are you done?" Lovino asked, spraying himself with some 'manly' perfume that smelled like plastic strawberry.

"Yeah, I'm done. I just have to find my jacket." Feliciano said, throwing every single jacket they had hanging in the hallway on the floor. A strange method, but it worked because he found his dark green fall jacket and returned all the others back on the stall.

"Good. Let's go. I have to go to the town for some buissness so if we don't hurry bye bye vaporetto." Lovino cringed at the reaction his brother made. They lived close to Venice, but they still had to travel by a smaller ship called vaporetto to get to it. It was inconvenient, but it was good for the tourist season.

Feliciano practically skipped the whole way to the port. There was one vaporetto waiting for people to board. Lovino entered inside to ask when it will be leaving and to pay for their ticket. Feliciano waited outside for his brother and when he exited the room to tell Feliciano they will be leaving soon, Feliciano boarded the ship.

The ride to Venice would usually take them about 45 minutes to a full hour, depending on whether or not there were many tourist groups. Today there was only two of them. Germans. Feliciano had taken a course on German in middle school, but he had mostly forgotten it. He understood that they were talking about some kind of new book that was a hit among youth in Germany. A book about Venice itself. He wished he still knew how to speak German. He would have asked for a title.

They arrived on Riva degli Schiavoni, a bridge and a walk away from the magnificent Basilica di San Marco and it's large Piazza which was always crowded with either people or pigeons. Feliciano loved to run into pigeons, loving the way their wings moved as they flew away. He wanted to do that now, but apparently his brother wasn't planning on more walking and was talking, rather happily, to their old friend Antonio, who was a gondolier.

"Feli! I gotta go to post office, not pigeon chasing! Get your ass over here!" Lovino yelled, reverting back to his moody attitude. He jumped into the gondola and sat down, crossing his arms and legs.

"I'm coming, quit yelling! Hi Toni! I hope Lovi pays you for this." Feliciano greeted and jumped into the gondola and sat down next to his brother. He was looking foward to going under Ponte dei Sospiri. He was even preparing himself to breathe out while going under it.

"It's always free for you three. We're friends after all. Lovi can pay me with a little drink after I'm done with my shift." Antonio said as he adjusted his gondola and softly made his way to the post office near the Church of San Salvador.

Feliciano enjoyed everything he saw. He was born here, but in his entire lifetime he could never comprehend Venice's entire beauty. It was only when he saw a bookstore hidden well among tall buildings and restaurants, that he snapped himself out of the trance.

"Hey Toni, do you think you could bring me right here while we wait for Lovi to do his thing?" He asked, turning around to look at Antonio.

Antonio brushed his curly dark brown hair away from his green eyes and nodded at Feliciano. "Sure! Saw something pretty?"

"Yeah, a bookstore. It had a nice design and I wanted to check it out. Plus I need to buy more paint and bookstores tend to have good ones." He answered happily, oblivious to his brother rolling his eyes.

The ride to the post office was relatively short and quiet, with occasional comments from Feliciano and Antonio asking how their grandpa was doing. They dropped off Lovino and were on their way back to the bookstore Feliciano saw.

"You got a book in mind to buy?" Antonio asked.

"Maybe. I overheard some German tourist talking about this book about Venice or something. I thought I should check if they had it." Feliciano smiled softly at Antonio.

"I think I know what you're talking about. Armando recently bought this book called Silence in Venice, by a German author. I asked my German friend about it and he told me that it was all the rage in Germany now. Apparently, it's a love story about a boy who goes to war and leaves behind his childhood love. That's all I know, Andy didn't tell me much else to avoid spoilers as he says."

"A love story... I really like those. Thanks, Toni!"

Soon they arrived and Feliciano hugged Antonio as a thanks, promising he won't be long.

He entered the bookstore and was immediately striken by the smell of new books. That wonderful scent of paper that was about to be touched and read by many. It was so pleasant, he would have just kept standing there forever. But he had to move, Antonio was waiting for him outside and maybe even Lovino. Knowing his brother, if he waited longer than 10 minutes, he would lose his already short temper.

Feliciano quickly found the desired shades of blue and green as well as a new paintbrush that had small drawings on it. It was a bit more expensive than the normal brush, but it spoke to his soul so... how could he say no?

He was about to go pay for his things, when a book cover caught his eye. It had a picture of two people, a boy and a girl, on Ponte di Rialto, embracing each other like they were about to lose each other. The girl had long light brown hair tied in two side braids and was wearing a beautiful green dress. The boy had blonde hair that looked like it was previously slicked back, but messed up by the wind, and was wearing a war uniform. Feliciano knew which book it was. The title read Il Silenzio a Venezia. Silence in Venice. The book Antonio recommended to him.

Feliciano couldn't resist it. He bought it and happily skipped to the gondola on which Antonio waited for him. He clutched the book in his arms close to his chest, impatiently waiting to read it.

#gerita #aph gerita #aph germany #aph italy #aph north italy #feliciano vargas #aph feliciano #ludwig beilschmidt #aph ludwig #germany x italy #ludfeli #writer x artist au #hetalia #aph #hetalia axis powers

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anr1020 · 4 years

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Stonehenge and Bath

On Sunday, Stephanie, Julia, Kelsey, and I went on a trip through Regent’s to Stonehenge and Bath. I was excited to see Bath because it has appeared in many of the books I read for my British literature classes. We had to get up early so we could walk and take the tube to Embankment station where the bus picked us up. The bus was about ten minutes late, so we got nervous that we were at the wrong place and would be out 100 pounds. We tried to call the travel company’s out of office phone number and everything. But it ended up being fine. It took us two and a half hours to drive to Bath. It was actually nice to be able to relax and just listen to music. The second we left London it was just endless green fields. Some were filled with sheep, some had cows, some had the remnants of wilted fall crops, but many were just green, rolling fields. It was beautiful.

When we got to Bath, it was a very short walk to the Roman Baths. We waited outside to receive our tickets from the tour guide. There was a gorgeous church to the right and shops across and to the left of us. The street was all old, gray cobblestone. The Roman Baths are the preserved remains of a Roman religious spa. The museum was built around the original site. After the Romans, it continued to be used as a spa by Britain’s elite. They believed drinking the water had health benefits. The Roman Baths were beautiful. Getting to walk on thousands of years old stone was a surreal experience. We got to walk through the terrace, the great bath, the hot springs, the temple remains, the plunge pools, the changing rooms, and saunas. We each had a handheld device that gave us an audio tour, so I learned a lot. At the end, we got to drink some of the water from a fountain. The water was considered to be healing because of all the vitamins and minerals it contains. I was surprised to find that it was very warm and it tasted almost like blood because of all the iron.

Next, we got lunch at a tiny place that specialized in baguettes. They also had a lot of baked goods. I got falafel, tomato, cucumber, and hummus on a baguette. While we ate, we got flocked by about five pigeons who ate the breadcrumbs we dropped. Then we went on a walking tour with our tour guide. She walked us through Bath, explaining the architecture of the buildings and the lives of the people who used to visit it.

Afterwards, we got back on the bus and drove one hour to Stonehenge. I didn’t know too much about Stonehenge so I listened intently to our guide. She explained that there are many myths and theories surrounding it. It was built so early that nobody left behind written records of what it really is. One theory is that it is a calendar. Another is that it had religious significance. Another is that it is a place of healing. Once we arrived at the visitor center, we received our tickets and an information pamphlet. Then we got on another bus that would then take us to Stonehenge. That bus ride was about ten minutes. Finally, we saw it. It was not what I expected. The circle was smaller than I thought but the rocks were much taller. It was also cloudy and a bit foggy; most pictures I have seen of it were taken when it was sunny. People used to be able to go up, touch the rocks, and even chisel off a chunk to take home with them, but for the sake of preservation it is now roped off. We walked the path around it. Nearby there were massive fields filled with sheep. Once we completed the lap, we rode the bus back to the visitor center and got back on the bus. Stonehenge is the main focal point of a much larger world heritage site. If we had more time, I would have loved to explore the cursuses, which are massive burial mounds. I also wished we saw the exhibition in the visitor center that built up Stonehenge around you virtually so you could feel like you were in the middle of it.

The bus back to the Embankment tube station was brutal. We hit a lot of traffic coming back into the city, so the hour it should have taken stretched into two and a half. But the day we had was worth it.

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ginnyzero · 4 years

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Getting Your Message Across

In today’s social media driven knowledge and talent economy everyone (supposedly) has a brand and a message that they’re trying to get out there to say “look at me, hire me, buy my things, I’m you!” (Some people are a lot better at it than others.) It didn’t used to be this way or at least it wasn’t as important. For writers, this trying to convey a message through words is something that we have been doing for hundreds of years whether we mean to or not.

And sometimes our messages in our books and stories gets through. And sometimes, the messages that are found in our stories aren’t the messages we thought we put in and that’s okay. Sometimes, we don’t think we have a message because we have a story we want to tell and that’s okay too. The story can be the message, something about that story is important to you even if you can’t verbalize what it is.

It can be okay to not be able to verbalize something. You might not know what you needed to get out of that story until it’s done and you’re finished and you can step back and evaluate and go “yeah, that’s it, that’s what I wanted to say.”

Writers most often come across this conundrum in the parallel problem of expressing emotions. Because emotions are things you feel rather than something you can touch, taste, see, smell or hear. Emotions are bound up in thought and many people don’t know what they are or how to express them properly. They’re ephemeral. And your message can be just as ephemeral.

Messages and emotions have to be worked around and expressed explicitly at times to convey them and have them hit home. Because your message serves absolutely no purpose if no one understands it or even gets that it’s there.

Other people are not in your brain.

Unlike the science fiction and fantasy worlds that I write in and that I love to read, people in our reality tend not to be telepaths or empaths or psychic or mind readers. Especially when it comes to the written word. They don’t know your thought process or that you spent hours of time agonizing over five variations of the same dialogue or how to convey character movement without making the characters appear like they’re fidgeting. (Unless the character is a chronic fidgeter.)

So, you, the writer, are going to have to convey your message in different ways. You’re going to have show it and tell it. (Throw that "show, don’t tell" advice out the window on this one. It’s show and tell time, ladies and gents. Just like back in kindergarten when you brought in that cool action figure.)

Comics are a great medium to study to learn about this. They are a very constrained medium. Many comics use four panels per day or week to get their point across. And there are a lot of different types of comics. There are funny comics. There are dramatic story comics. There are comics that are political and comics that are about life.

A really good comic that I love to read (because it fits my “brand”) is Manly Guys Do Manly Things at thepunchlineismachismo.com by Coelasquid aka Kelly Turnbull (a storyboard artist for Ben10 and all around amazing person tbh. I wish I had her health, seriously.) Those are the first two messages right there, the name of the comic and the website URL. I know instantly that this webcomic is about to revolve around beefy action hero types doing action hero like things.

The main original character is named Commander Rock Lobster Badass for goodness sake. You’ve got Canada Guy running around randomly killing moose. And everyone from Ganondorf to Duke Nukem popping their heads in and making commentary. (Riddick runs the occasional DnD session.) And then you’ve got Jared. And Jared is the everyman with limp noodle arms and a magikarp in this insane world to give a reason for the Commander to translate all this craziness for us to understand.

There are one off funny comics, there are story arcs, and there is the occasional political lampoon commentary, lots of bits about Overwatch, and then there are bits where the Commander explains the philosophy of Marlon Brando and his own version of actually very healthy masculinity. (Round pegs don’t go in square holes and square pegs don’t go in round holes. Do what works for you.) And there are other places where he shows healthy masculinity in being an all around awesome dad and mentor. (Seriously, don’t be Goku standing around screaming for hours.) I love the fact that Commander Badass is in a relationship with Jonesy that he refuses to pin down with labels. Because not all romantic relationships need labels!

And she does this once a week despite holding down a demanding job and breaking her limbs in motorcycle accidents and going off to Wasteland every year and keeping pigeons. (That inspired some adorable velociraptors.) Even her pictures reflect her brand!

And if that’s the type of content you might enjoy, I encourage you to check out Commander Badass. Or go read and analyze your favorite comic(s.) (I also recommend Girls With Slingshots.)

As a writer and a storyteller, you have to show your message and you have to outright tell people your message in your stories and through your stories. And some characters might not be quite as literal as Commander Badass there.

Say your story is based on the message of “Girl, you need that man like a fish needs a bicycle.” (See entertaining Sinfest Comic strip.) So, you’re story is probably going to open up with your female character thinking she needs the male in her life. Her friends and family don’t think so and tell her so and probably try to encourage her to be more independent. “You don’t need him!” “You’re better than that!” But she’s stuck in that thought pattern that she needs a man.

And she’s not going to change until she comes to the realization on her own quite possibly at her lowest point when he’s betrayed her in whatever way is the most important to her. (Or she’s done something that even shocks herself that she’d thought she’d never do.) Then she’s going to believe “Oh, I don’t need that man. “And no doubt, she’s going to think it and she might get angry about it. Now she wants to get free and be independent and she wants it badly. She’s hurt. She’s lashing out. And she may or may not lash out constructively! (Conflict! Angst! Girl Power! Boo Yah!)

Then you have to show you quite possibly kicking this man out of her life. And then doing whatever it is that needs to be done to be more independent and take care of herself. Then, the character is going to have to figure out why emotionally and psychologically she thought she needed that man. (Therapy is good people.) Or else, she’s just going to fall back into the same pattern and not learn anything or grow as a character. (Character growth is the best.) So that when she finds a new man, that man is nice and all and she likes having him around, but she doesn’t need him to fill whatever emotional or psychological need that the previous man was filling.

Give it a fancy title that reflects your message of freedom or breaking chains or independence and call it a day! (Simplistic example is simplistic.)

It’s the age old problem of show versus telling. But in this case you have to show and tell to get the point across. The point being that somewhere in your story that your main character or a character around your main characters in a not preachy way manages to say your message clearly and succinctly.

Because brevity, brevity, brevity.

People don’t come to a story for the message. They come to be entertained and yeah, the message or the theme may resonate with them. They want to see the message in action more than they wanted to be talked at about the message for a good hour or 300 pages. (Look, if I want a moral lecture I’ll go back to church.) If your brand is about romance, the story should focus more on the romance and answering the question of “why can’t they be together right now” than the message of “You don’t need that man, honey.” (Okay, contradictory to an extent, but um, not at the same time. Healthy romances, HEALTHY folks.) If your stories are like mine and are about adventure and explosions with a side of finding your place in the world, then the story should focus on action, explosions and finding your place in that world.

Your message needs to be clear and consistent and even though you as a person might not agree with something that a character is doing, it doesn’t mean that you endorse what that character is doing. You can always show that the character is wrong, that their methods are bad by giving them consequences.

And remember, just because your story has a message, it doesn’t have to be about the message. You can still save the universe and convey that being gay is okay or that racism is wrong or true love can strike twice. Stories are allowed layers.

The key being that if no one at all gets the message you wanted or the opposite message or no message at all when you’ve tried to put one in then you’ve failed as a writer. And that’s not okay.

#Writing tips #writing advice #writblr #writing tumblr #personal #themes

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mermaidenmystic · 5 years

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painted wooden ceiling panels from 1109 to 1114 in the romanesque St. Martin Church in Zillis, Grisons, Switzerland

I found this info from Flickr:

“The earliest preserved, figuratively painted wooden ceiling in Europe can be seen above the nave of St Martin's Church in Zillis. Today only three other painted ceilings from the Middle Ages remain: they are located in Hildesheim (St Michael's), in Peterborough Cathedral and in Dadesjo (Sweden). The Swedish church in Sodra Rada was destroyed by fire in 2001.

The ceiling paintings in Zillis demonstrate such a rich variety of form and contents as is only found in great works of art.

And so today the ceiling serves to illustrate the Gospel, Sunday for Sunday, from spring to autumn. In winter the parishioners do without heating in the church for the sake of the paintings and hold their services in the parish hall. Only funeral services and the school Christmas celebrations on Christmas Eve take place in the moderately heated church during the cold season.

St Martin's Church is situated below the historic centre of Zillis. At first, the church possibly stood directly above the wide bed of the Hinterrhein River. Zillis is one of the two settlements nestling at the bottom of the Schams Valley (Romansh: Val Schons), an inner-Alpine valley basin, through which a route has traversed the Alps at least since the Roman era. It used to link Bregenz with Milan, Lake Constance with Lakes Como and Maggiore. The Schams is the secondhighest section of the Hinterrhein Valley. It lies directly south of the Viamala Gorge, which on the northern side of the Alpine ridge represented the main obstacle on the route from Chur over the Splugen Pass to Chiavenna, resp. over the San Bernardino Pass to Bellinzona and Locarno. Throughout all the centuries Zillis occupied a very peripheral position on the inner border of the Alps, but was always on a route connecting the major settlements flanking the Alpine ridge.

THE PAINTED CEILING

THE CONCEPT OF THE PAINTED CEILING

The Zillis ceiling comprises 153 painted panels. They are slotted into longitudinal battens, which until 1938 were attached to the ceiling beams by long nails. Cross-battens are inserted between the painted panels as a connecting link, forming a regular grid. Doubled longitudinal and cross-battens accentuate the junctions of the grid, creating the shape of the cross.

The ceiling is enhanced by a meander frieze which was created at the same time; the greater part of the frieze was restored in 1938-1940. In the frieze we see female busts, representing the Classical sybils, whose prophesies were taken fro(ll late Antiquity onwards as a reference to the Advent of Christ.

The 153 panels are arranged as on a medieval map of the world. There is a border representing the ocean surrounding the Continent, on which the Life of Christ and the legend of St Martin are portrayed.

The border

At the edges of the ceiling, resp. on the borders of the world, swim mythical fish-tailed creatures; there are even some manned boats and music-making sirens on a continuous band of wavy lines, which represent the sea in a simplified and abstract form. Only the angels sounding their horns in the corners, marked as the south wind Auster and the north wind Aquilo, stand on firm land.

The inner cycle

On the interior fields, i.e. the Continent, the Life of Christ is depicted on 98 panels. One half describes Christ's childhood and youth, the other half recounts his miracles, his teaching and Passion. The individual scenes frequently continue over several successive panels. Each half has seven rows with seven panels. The last row of the interior panels is dedicated to the church patron St Martin.

The choir is the best place from which to view the first half of the cycle portraying the Life of Christ. Since the 1940 rearrangement the visitor has been able to «read» the pictures like a text from this vantage point, in rows running from left to right. The cycle begins with a gallery of Christ's ancestors, the Kings of the Old Testament, and the personifications of Synagogue and Ecclesia. The story of Christ's Life begins with the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin, followed by Joseph's Dream, the Visitation and the four panels on the Nativity.

15 panels describe the Journey of the Three Magi. This is followed by the Purification and the the Presentation of the Infant Jesus in the Temple, the Flight into Egypt and the Massacre of the Innocents in Bethlehem, the Miracle of the Clay Pigeons, the 72-year-old Jesus in the Temple and the Sermons of St John the Baptist.

The second part of the Christological cycle begins with the Baptism of Christ and the Temptation by the Devil. These are followed by cases of miraculous Healings: in addition to the Wedding Feast in Cana and the Raising of Lazarus, we see the Healing of physically and mentally sick persons. The mentally disturbed were considered to be possessed by demons. After the miracles follow the Teachings of Jesus, the Transfiguration on Mount Tabor, the Entry into Jerusalem and the Expulsion of the Moneychangers from the Temple, the Last Supper, the MOunt of Olives, the Betrayal by Judas, Christ before Pilate, the Mocking of Christ and the Crowning with Thorns.

The cycle then breaks off. There is no consensus among researchers on whether this was, in fact, the original end of the cycle or if the Crucifixion and the Rising from the Dead were formerly depicted on the north wall of the nave or in the former Romanesque choir.

The last seven panels of the interior fields describe episodes from the life of St Martin, commencing with the Sharing of the Cloak, probably the best-known element of the legend. This is followed by the Consecration and the Miracle of the Raising from the Dead. The conclusion comprises three panels on St Martin's Encounter with a King who pretended to be Jesus but turned out to be the Devil.

As mentioned above, the panels were rearranged on the ceiling in 1940, the 1938 sequence having been described by experts as «absurd» und «unsystematic». An attempt to reconstruct the original order, based on the sequence of the pictures before 1938, gives the following results: the panels were arranged to be read by following the rows in an S-shaped order. In the centre of the ceiling there was the depiction of Christ's Baptism; in front of this, the scenes with St John the Baptist; behind, the four panels on the Temptation of Christ by the Devil.

During the Reformation the sequence of the panels was probably altered. In the cycle depicting the Life of St Martin, the consecration scene was removed from the central axis. The sermons of St John the Baptist and the Temptation of Christ by the Devil disappeared from the central row and were replaced by the cases of miraculous healing and depictions of Christ's teachings. From the 16th century until 1938 the Expulsion of the Moneychangers from the Temple, as a symbol of one of the Reformation's main tenets, was set in the centre of the ceiling replacing Christ's Baptism.”

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queenslasharchive · 5 years

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Fathoms Below

Features: Anderson’s Little Mermaid and Jolly Sailor Bold by Disney

Merry Christmas!!! @matcha-maru

“Upon one summer’s morning,

I carefully did stray

Down by the Walls of Wapping,

Where I met a sailor gay.

Conversing with a young lass

Who seemed to be in pain,

Saying, William, when you go

I fear you’ll ne'er return again.”

Brian woke up, when he felt a small hand tug sharply at the end of his curled ponytail.

It was his one vanity, sea-foam green in color and always intricately braided back with ribbons and sea-glass or fragile shells, anything pretty and decorative that the strands could hold. Currently it was tossed over one shoulder, long and thick as a fist.

And the next time that little hand reached for his braid, he caught it deftly without a second thought, thanks to the inborn reflexes of an apex predator, quickly recognizing the rough callouses from holding a drumstick on the pads of the fingers. Along with the gnarled little scar on the thumb web, a memento from a bad run in with some fishing-line when they were children.

“Angel, why the hair? Why must you always go for the hair?”

He didn’t even need to look over, or even open his eyes, to see his lover pouting in bed beside him, their love-nest illuminated by the foggy window, torrential rain was falling outside, the smell of Roger and rainstorm was heavenly, better than any of the scented candles Freddie would drag in and light up in the flat.

For the ambience, darling!

The delicate hand he still held by the wrist, twisted into a familiar vulgar gesture.

“Yes, Roger. I love you too,” He yawned, showing all his teeth, naturally asserting dominance over the boy he’d loved for just about all of his life.

“Brimi, you’ve been sleeping forever.” Ah, yes, the bitching to remind him that his lover was eternally five years old.

He grunted an affirmative, he had been sleeping forever.

Roger could have said a million other things and Brian would have happily agreed for five seconds more peace. The only thing that spurned his wakefulness was the heavy weight that Roger laid on his chest. A wrapped parcel.

He blinked open his mismatched eyes to see the blonde looking at him with the most impish smile, biting at the corners of his mouth in excitement. “Happy Anniversary, Ariel.”

Inside was a book, but not just any book.

It was a beautiful copy of Anderson’s fairytales, the kind with a fat embossed cover and words that seemed to come off of the page, pictures etched by hand, from old ink-wells and feather quills.

“Rog, its beautiful.” He gasped, it practically took his breath away. He didn’t even mind the silly nickname. “Would you like me to read you something?”

The devilish blonde nodded into the guitarist’s narrow pigeon chest, like that was what he’d wanted all along, his ear resting just over Brian’s heart, lulled by the sound of the beat as his current pillow was so often lulled by the lapping waves of the sea.

Sometimes Brian wondered how it was possible to love someone so much. To be happy to watch your heart live outside of your body. To be resigned to the fact that you would never, ever be enough for them. That you would never ever deserve them.

“Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower, and as clear as crystal, it is very, very deep; so deep, indeed, that no cable could fathom it: many church steeples, piled one upon another, would not reach from the ground beneath to the surface of the water above. There dwell the Sea King and his subjects…"

Rog snored a little in his sleep, snorting like a piglet, and Brian couldn’t keep the fond smile off of his face.

‘“When you have reached your fifteenth year,” said the grandmother, “you will have permission to rise up out of the sea, to sit on the rocks in the moonlight, while the great ships are sailing by; and then you will see both forests and towns.”’

Bri slowly slipped his own thick red bracelet off his wrist, a small clunky chain, with one hand and squeezed it tightly until it was a thick red blanket, one that he tucked securely around the both of them. His cohuleen druith. His soul. The mark of a Merrow. One who would always belong to the sea.

“At last she reached her fifteenth year. “Well, now, you are grown up,” said the old dowager, her grandmother; “so you must let me adorn you like your other sisters;” and she placed a wreath of white lilies in her hair, and every flower leaf was half a pearl. Then the old lady ordered eight great oysters to attach themselves to the tail of the princess to show her high rank.

“But they hurt me so,” said the little mermaid.

“Pride must suffer pain,” replied the old lady.“

Then as if he’d thought better of the change, the blanket melted away, until it became a sold tiny ring that nearly fell into the crevice between them.

Its base was a twisted circulatory system, redder than the most glittering garnet, deeper than the most ravishing ruby, all of the tendrils curling in towards the center, where an enormous creamy white pearl rested.

Pearls that size were only found in the deepest, darkest and most treacherous parts of the sea. No mortal bride would ever have a pearl that big. No one but his Roger, who deserved so much more than Brian could ever give him.

He slipped it onto Roger’s hand as delicately as he could, kissing the blonde halo of hair that he had known for most of his creation.

“Happy Anniversary, my prince.” My love.

-X-

Freddie asked how they’d met once, as he and Deaky had sat huddled on the couch.

Brian and Roger had been wrapped around each other as always, lying on the floor in a heap, practically nose to nose. Simply existing in each other’s presence as they were wont to do.

“You know what I’ve always wondered? How did you two meet, darlings? Was it love at first sight? Lust?”

Instead of rolling his robin-egg eyes, Roger had flashed that same wicked gremlin grin of his.

“At the beach when we were kids. So I’m not sure I wanted into his trousers quite yet.” His voice turned wistful as his tongue peeked out of the corner of his round lips. “Although it certainly didn’t take very long.”

All joking aside, Roger had only been five years old then, running rampant in Truro, the tiny little fishing port that it was. Small, homely.

He had known his way around the stones and rocky shoals of the local beaches like the back of his hand, even back then. And so was often left to play there alone.

The feckless child had wandered too close one day however, just after a storm, a frightening squall, when the beach was fraught with debris and danger, the shoreline was slick and the waters dark and murky.

Hiding the remnants of ships smashed to bits, and he likely would’ve died on the jagged rocks that peppered the wide-open breaks, if a long webbed hand hadn’t stopped him in his descent.

The hand had belonged to an older boy sitting up on the aforementioned rocks, who had managed to snag the back of the untucked and oversized school uniform shirt that Roger wore, with his predatory reflexes.

Having done so, only seconds before the blonde would’ve met an untimely end in the watery depths below.

Fathoms below.

Roger had whimpered softly at the sensation of it all, sniffling more so out of shock than fear, as the youth gently placed him into a little dip, an alcove on the rock’s side.

“That wasn’t very smart.” Brian had sighed, clucking over the bright red blood that welled up from a small gash on the young drummer’s knee.

Running on the slopes like a little fool.

Rather lacklusterly, he’d mopped at it with the corner of the bright and violently red hoodie he wore.

But Roger had paid no mind at all to his battle wound and was far more interested in gawking at his odd-looking savior.

Brian, long before he had introduced himself as being so, long before his name even was so, with his long wet hair that hung in tangles around his round face and trailed far down his back, green of all things, was certainly a sight for sore eyes.

His hair was green like the seaweed that stunk in the hot summer’s sun and washed up in clots on the sand.

His pale hands were webbed between the first-knuckle, as were the toes on his flat feet, and his shining eyes were strange.

Two completely different colors, one was the beautiful blue-green color of splashing sea-foam, of playful days spent in the surf, the other was so dark blue-violet that it was like the sea during a tempest, fierce and frightening, a warning to all who dared come close.

Rog had cried out then, not at Brian’s odd appearance, but because the salty water pressed into his aching knee stung like St. Elmo’s Fire.

He flinched away from the tsking youth, who hummed a soft apology. “It’s a natural disinfectant. But you’ll want your Mum to take a better look when you get home.”

Roger’s Mum had always been a special kind of woman. (It was she who would adopt Brian as her own, when he finally came from the water and chased her cruel husband away).

An inquisitive girl even as a grown woman, full of freckles playing peekaboo on her exposed shoulders and impossibly red tresses that curled up and around her like the embers of a dying flame.

As a child she’d so eagerly swam with the seals that basked on the shoals of the beaches, near her sleepy little village home.

And would often nap on the sunbaked windswept hills near the cliffs, once the day’s play was done.

As a little girl she’d believed in the old stories and songs that permeated everyday life there, like an invisible presence, a gentle fleeting touch of old.

At night, she listened for the banshee’s wailing cries, and tried to catch a glimpse of a dullahan on his glossy black steed. She could recite the tales of Lir’s Swan Children and the Tuatha Dé Danann who made their home in Tír na nÓg, the land without time.

But above all else, Rachel, whose Gaelic name was Muirín ‘born of the sea’, was a child of the surf and sky.

It was her second home and her father often joked, fluffing her red curls with his calloused hands of fishhook and twine, that she would marry a Selkie and have half-seal babies one day.

He was wrong.

The man she married was a cruel cold man of the earth, who treated her like silt beneath his boots and little more than a dirty maid.

Yet she bore him one son, born with his sandy locks and her face.

She would run into the crashing crystal blue surf with her baby boy perched on one hip and he would shriek and cling to her curls with joy. And eventually with the years, he grew to be big enough that they could run in and jump out together.

The man she married slowly stole the life from her body, the song in her soul.

Eventually she simply collapsed on the beach outside their cottage in the middle of the night, crying desperately, desolately into the sand.

Screaming for something, someone, begging.

The pockets of her dress were loaded down with cowrie shells and other heavy island debris, her long red curls rocked with the waves of the ocean that swallowed her up. Swirling, twirling russet-red.

But she didn’t drown. Her son was not left without a mother.

She woke up with a mouthful of sand and a pair of vivid mismatched eyes just inches away from her own.

He stayed.

So she was unafraid of leaving her child unattended in the surf.

Muirín Taylor was a woman who grew up with the spirits of Ireland dwelling safely in her heart.

She was unfairly hurt and wronged by a life that she shouldn’t have lived in the first place. The poor girl eventually gave up and forgot the old ways of her once vibrant world, but they never forgot her.

When she cried, the ocean listened.

When her son cried, the ocean listened.

Brian sat on his rocky perch and waited, listening.

Then the little drummer boy noticed that the red hoodie was all that the older boy wore.

“Where are your clothes?!"

Brian had simply shrugged, tossing back his hair and batting those unforgettable eyes.

“I don’t need any underneath the water.”

Roger still hadn’t picked up on the strangeness of it all. It would be years still, before he saw the bloody red tail that could cut through the surf like butter, the scales far sharper than daggers that glittered in the moonlight, the predatory teeth and slitted eyes, made for tracing the movement of appetizing prey. The true apex predators of the deep.

"You live in the water?"

Brian had nodded.

"On a boat?"

The mismatched eyes creased slightly when he frowned, and then he’d just shaken his head to the contrary.

"No, not on a boat.” An obliging smile graced his wind-chapped lips as he finished the makeshift bandage. “You should be heading home though, this place is not safe for your kind, especially not for one so young."

It was far more than the suggestion that his soft tone alluded to, it was a warning.

Now Roger may have only been a child then, but he was a child who knew the sound of angry voices and the touch of violent hands.

Perhaps even better than the gentle and soothing ones that he had always craved. His father was not a patient man, and he felt even less inclined to give favor to a son who had still shown no promise at anything of value.

Roger had been beaten senseless many times, and for an instant, he feared that the boy on the rocks with his too-sharp teeth and strange eyes may do the same.

As if Brian had been the same sort of monster that Roger had come to fear.

Then, just as he was standing once more, hunger pangs hit him sharply and his stomach let out a growl that just wouldn’t be stifled.

He was mortified, sick, by the loud sound and flinched away, wrapping his hands tightly around his concave middle and waiting for the angry hands and yells that would often follow such rudeness.

But none came.

Only the gentle concerned eyes of the boy Brian was, who seemed to realize the true extent of the younger child’s plight before him, within the same breath.

Webbed pale hands helped Roger to sit down once more.

"Sit. Stay."

Twin orders, that would most assuredly be followed, before Brian stood upright, balanced in a single graceful motion and dove into the frothing waters below.

Roger thought he saw a hint of something red and shiny, perhaps even a fin, but it soon left his field of vision before he could see properly.

When the older boy returned it was with four fat fish being tossed up onto the rock-face, before he climbed there as well. Green hair flying haphazard with the wind and his red hoodie sticking to his skin as if loathe to leave it.

Three of the still-quivering fish were pushed towards Roger, while one was seized by Brian himself and a mouthful of flesh torn away, revealing shock-white bone and dripping entrails.

He swallowed the chunk whole and even licked his lips before foisting the messy carcass into Roger’s hesitant little hands, as if expecting the child to do the same.

Abject horror was plain as day on the little one’s face.

"Oh.” It seemed to dawn on the older boy then as well. “You cook fish."

The blonde child nodded vehemently, and was quick to hand the masticated fish back with a grimace.

Brian reclaimed it with another little laugh, devouring the rest with a terrifying speed and ferocity that almost brought back Roger’s original fear, or would have, if it hadn’t been belied by the funny faces the green-haired beanpole kept making to assuage them.

He then softly instructed the younger boy on how to hold the three fish all at once, to transport them safely back to his family.

Roger and Rachel would eat well for one night at least.

The odd youth guided the tiny boy away from the broken rocks and back onto the dry land.

And surely would’ve left right then, but Roger, as if expecting such an escape, had hastily seized a small webbed hand within two of his own.

“What’s your name?"

Brian had paused for a moment, before almost sighing the word, ”Muirgeilt.“ Sea-wanderer.

"That’s a pretty name… But I can’t really say it properly. Do you have another one? I’m Roger Meddows Taylor.” So proud of it. Like he'd practiced saying it aloud with conviction.

A small sad smile graced the elder’s lips.

"It is very nice to meet you, Roger. You can call me whatever you’d like.”

”…If I come back tomorrow, with a name, will you be here?“ Pleading eyes.

Brian turned his head slightly, angled towards the ocean as if called by some silent siren song. One hand touching the place where Roger’s blood had seeped into his red hoodie.

"Yes, I will be." Forever it seems.

And he was.

“Yeah.” Brian smiled, years upon years later, slowly eskimo-kissing the love of his life, who still rested in his arms. What a wonderful thing, to be able to hold one’s whole world.

“At the beach when we were kids.”

-X-

“My sailor is as smiling

As the pleasant month of May

And often we have wandered

Through Ratcliffe Highway…

My heart is pierced by Cupid

I disdain all glittering gold

There is nothing can console me

But my jolly sailor bold.”

#maylor #deacury #submission #au #brian: merman #relationship: established #fic #secret santa gifts

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