#oh to be a farmer living in the middle of the Great Plains

[technicallyaminecraftsimp]

field - anny

Fffarming

#I just watched some vids in school bout da homestead act #oh to be a farmer living in the middle of the Great Plains #livin life w me myself and a dog #/j #not mcyt #anon :D #anny!! #Anny’s Game

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

so i am back on the grima train and i was reading through your posts (absolutely quality, for which i can only thank you !! 💓) and you mentioned in one about his use of magic that you have a Lot of Feelings about grima in relation to gender and plz i need to hear them!! (if you want to share? 👀)

LOTR: Grima & Gender 

Oh man, so Grima and gender. My favourite topic. Other than Grima and magic - but they’re linked! So, that’s a bonus for us.

I want to thank you so much for asking this question. I have wanted to rant about this for Forever.

This became incredibly long, but the long and short of it is that Grima undermines social expectations of masculinity in Rohan through his disdain for martial achievements, his occupying a more private/passive role within the king’s household rather than the expected “masculine” public/active, his use of spells and potions being an “unmanly” and “cowardly” approach to problem solving, and his reliance on language and soft-power approaches to politics.

All of this works to position Grima within a more feminine role and character - at least within the context of Rohan’s hypermasculine performativity of manliness.

[It does allow us to read Grima as trans with greater ease in terms of fitting into the canon than the usual favourites, other than Eowyn. So, you know, do with that what you will. Eowyn and Grima both want to be queen. Let them be in charge! I’m going to get my ass bit for this.]

-

Grima’s gender performance needs to be quickly situated within the broader context of masculinity in Middle-Earth. Gondor’s ideal of masculinity is the gentler masculinity that everyone focuses on when they talk about men in middle earth being good models of what masculinity can look like. It’s a nurturing masculinity, it’s gentle, it’s healing-focused. Aragorn and others try and take the first off-ramp from violence or conflict whenever they can. There is no enjoyment in warfare or soldiering. It’s done because it’s necessary. Dick-swinging is limited to non-existent etc.

Rohan is different.

Faramir touches on this when he speaks to Frodo of how Boromir was more like the men of Rohan and how he thought that wasn’t a good thing as it meant he was seeking glory for glory’s sake, relishing war and soldiering as an occupation rather than an unfortunate necessity.

Of course, Faramir was also making (some very dubious) racial commentary, but race and gender are often bound up together (e.g. hyper-masculinization of black men and the feminization of East Asian men in the North America).

As R.W. Connell says, “masculinities are congurations of practice that are constructed, unfold, and change through time” — and, additionally, masculinity must be defined in opposition to femininity but, also, other masculinities.

For Rohan, there is a strong, militarized hyper-masculinity that threads through their culture. One of the reasons Theoden was seen as a failing king was his physical decline and inability to continue being a physically strong king. His aging emasculated him, more so when compared to Theodred and Eomer. (Something Theoden believed of himself and Grima capitalized on.)

For this, I’m going to speak of masculinity of the upper classes, since that’s what we see for Rohan. Masculinity, and how it’s to be performed, is contingent on social variables such as, but not limited to: age, appearance and size, bodily facility, care, economic class, ethnicity, fatherhood, relations to biological reproduction, leisure, martial and kinship status, occupation, sexuality etc. and as we never see lower class Rohirrim men it’s impossible to say what the “acceptable” and “expected” forms for a farmer or cooper would be.

Upper class men of Rohan are expected to be militarily capable - ready to ride and fight when called by their king or marshal. They are to be men of action over word, and when language is in play, it’s to be forthright and plain. No riddling. Marriage/Husband-ing is an expected part of manhood. Being strong minded, and capable of taking charge and making decisions is important. Fatherhood is also clearly prized, especially fatherhood that results in son(s).

(Theoden only having one child could be read as another “failure” in living up to Rohirrim ideals when compared to the older kings of his family who were far more prolific.)

The appearance of an “ideal” man is tall, fair, and handsome. Physically strong and capable in all ways (martially, sexually, fertile etc.).

Men should be able to demonstrate that they are capable of being in charge, taking control, defending and protecting families and homes. This slots in with more generalized expectations around bravery, honour and glory.

[Eomer: And that, in summation, is how you are to Be A Man.

Grima: Well that sounds utterly exhausting.]

-

So, with all of that in mind, let’s talk Grima.

First, let’s address the name and character construction as this is the least bound up in how he acts and its tension with Rohirrim ideals of Being a Man. It’s also interesting in that it can give a glimpse into Tolkien and the possible thoughts he had when constructing Grima.

Grima’s Name & Beowulf Stuff

Grima’s name is from old Icelandic Grimr, which is a name Odin takes during the Grimnismal saga.

Here are some lines from Odin in the saga:

I have called myself Grim,

I have called myself Wanderer,

Warrior and Helmet-Wearer,

[...]

Evildoer, Spellcaster,

Masked and Shadowed-Face,

Fool and Wise Man,

[...]

Rope-Rider and Hanged-God.

I have never been known

by just one name

since I first walked among men.

Not only is Grima’s name from Odin, more importantly, it’s the feminine version of that name. No man in the eddas or sagas goes by Grima. Only women. And most often they were seidr-workers or healers/magic practitioners of some kind.

"Other healers include Gríma from Fóstbræðra saga and Laxdæla saga and Heiðr from Biarmiland in Harald’s saga Hárfagra." 

- “Hostile Magic in the Icelandic Sagas,” Hilda Ellis-Davidson

And

"There was a man called Kotkel, who had only recently arrived in Iceland. His wife was called Grima. Their sons were Hallbjorn Sleekstone-Eye and Stigandi. These people had come from the Hebrides. They were all extremely skilled in witchcraft and were great sorcerers." 

- Laxdæla saga

This is most likely something Tolkien was aware of — I would be flabbergasted if he wasn’t. However, did he fully appreciate the implications in terms of gender and subversion of masculinity? Impossible to say, of course, but he certainly knew he was giving his male character a name that has only been used by women in historical texts.

It would be akin to naming your male character Henrietta instead of Henry. It’s a deliberate, explicit decision. And while I don’t think Tolkien expected most readers to track down the origin of Grima’s name, the --a ending, to most anglophone readers, signifies a feminine name, more often than not. At least, it rarely, if ever, signifies masculine.

So the name alone brings in, at a subconscious level to readers, feminine qualities.

Alongside this, Grima is loosely based on Unferth from Beowulf. The entrance of Gandalf et al into Meduseld directly mirrors Beowulf’s into Hrothgar’s hall (complete with Grima lounging at Theoden’s feet the same as Unferth at Hrothgar’s). Indeed, it was clearly Tolkien’s intention to make a call back to Beowulf with that scene. (He was being all “look how clever I am. Also these are Anglo-Saxons on horses. As a general fyi”).

Unferth is a fascinating character in his own right ,and there is much scholarly debate around his role within Hrothgar’s hall, as well as the text more broadly. While there isn’t enough time/space to get into Unferth, I will quickly note that he is another character who subverts his society’s ideas of manhood and masculinity — particularly with regards to expectations of heroism and bravery. Yet, at the same time, Unferth is noted for being very intelligent, cunning, good at riddling, and overall quick witted (also, a kin-slayer. Dude murdered his brothers for Reasons).

Unferth’s contrary behaviour that flies in the face of Anglo-Saxon norms and ideals of masculine bravery is clearly reflected in Grima. Particularly in Grima’s fear of battle and lack of interest in taking up his sword when called by his king.

This leaves us with a character who was given a woman’s name and who is loosely based on another character who is known for his inability to follow through on his society’s expectations for masculine behaviour. 

Grima, from the first moment we meet him, clearly reads more feminine than masculine - this is amplified when he’s contrasted with the likes of Theoden and Eomer. And, not only is his aligned with traditional femininity more than other male characters, he is specifically aligned with the more negative tropes of femininity (i.e. lack of bravery, unreliable, dubious morals etc.).

-

That is a brief overview of the bones of Grima’s construction: name and inspiration. Now for actions and characterization within the text. This will be subdivided into comments on his use of magic and how that interfaces with Rohirrim masculinity then we’ll get into power and language.

Grima’s key point of power is his ability to weave words in so powerful a way he could convince Theoden of his own infirmity and weakness thereby securing control over the king. Alongside this, we know that he was using certain “potions and poison” to further weaken Theoden. Most likely to amp up the king’s physical weakness so it coincided with Grima’s mental magic games.

Magic for Anglo-Saxon and early medieval Scandinavians was heavily rooted in the power of the spoken word. Runes were probably used but the historical support of this is vague. Which is to say, we know they were used, we’re just not certain how and to what extent.

We do know that rune staves were a thing. They were most often used to send your landwights after opponents or wreck havoc on enemies from afar. To make one, a magic-worker would carve the prescribed runes onto a large stave and position it in the ground facing the direction of their enemy. On top of the stave was added the head of a horse. (Lots of horse sacrifice happened for early medieval Scandinavians, alongside some human sacrifice.)

But, the brunt of magic for Anglo-Saxons and early medieval Scandinavians was spoken word. Which makes sense as their society was, like Rohan’s, predominantly illiterate or, at least, para-literate (though, there has been some recent archeological evidence that is starting to call that into question, for what that’s worth).

In particular, Grima’s spellwork aligns most closely with seidr, a fact I’ve gone about ad nausea. And, again, something we can assume Tolkien was aware of, which means he was also aware of the gendered implications of a man practicing the craft.

The mainstay of seidrcraft is, but not limited to, the following:

making illusions,

causing madness and/or forgetfulness,

brewing of potions and poisons,

prophesying,

channeling the dead,

channeling gods,

removal of elf-shot, and

recovering lost portions of someone’s soul.

The first three bullets are things Grima does to Theoden. That kind of magic — the kind that fucks with your mind and your sense of self, the kind that is subtle and quiet and lurks beneath the surface so you don’t know it’s happening, that’s cunning — that kind of magic is what women do.

It was considered unmanly/effeminate for a man to partake in it as it undermined the hypermasculine militarized culture of the time. Winning a battle or a fight through spells and poison was cowardly.

Therefore, in Rohan where we have this hypermasculine culture that so prizes military glory and grandeur and martial might, Grima pursuing his goals through spellcraft and potions/poisons is Grima pursuing distinctly unmasculine, effeminate modes of action.

Indeed, within Rohan it could call into question the entirety of his masculinity. It would make him ragr (adj. unmanly) because his actions are the epitome of ergi (noun. unmanliness).

"In the Viking Age, homosexual men were treated with extreme disdain and a complex kind of moral horror, especially those who allowed themselves to be penetrated. Such a man was ragr, not only homosexual by inclination and action, but also inhabiting a state of being that extended to ethical and social qualities. This complex of concepts has been extensively studied, and in the words of its leading scholar, "the unmanly man is everything that a man should not be with regard to morals and character. He is effeminate and he is a coward, and consequently devoid of honour". [...] What we would call sexual orientation was, in the viking age, completely bound up with much wider and deeper codes of behaviour and dignity, extending way beyond physical and emotional preference." -Neil Price, Children of Ash and Elm: A History of the Vikings

Though Price references specifically homosexuality in this passage, a man could be considered ragr for more than just that — and one of the other ways was through practicing seidr.

We see this with Odin, who learns how to do seidrcraft from Freyja, and is then mocked by Loki for how emasculating the practice is for Odin to undertake (as if Loki has any room to talk). Odin’s made himself effeminate, he’s made himself unmanly, he’s allowed himself to learn spells that could enable him to take a cowards way out of a situation, to be dishonourable etc.

Which is a neat tie-back to Grima’s name being one of Odin’s names, particularly when he is in disguise and using seidrcraft and wily ways to escape various unfortunate situations that he ends up in during the Grimnismal saga.

(As Odin says: I have been called Evildoer, Spellcaster, Masked and Shadowed-Face, Fool and Wise Man.)

It also mirrors him to Gandalf - another character who bears an Odinnic name. Gandalf very much represents the masculine, “acceptable” aspects of Odin. Grima embodies the darker, more dubious, and more effeminate, aspects of the god. As I’ve said in other posts, they are two sides of the Odin coin.

Though both are temperamental as fuck.

-

Alongside the spellcraft and potions, Grima’s performance of power does not align with Rohirrim traditions and ideals. He relies on his wits and his skill with language to navigate the world. Succinctly captured in the epithet bestowed upon him: Wormtongue. This is the modernization of Wyrmtunga, or, Dragon’s Tongue.

Wyrm can translate to worm, sure, and we see Saruman doing this on purpose when he refers to Grima as a worm, a creature that crawls in the dirt. But Wyrm, of course, is actually a form of dragon. And in Middle Earth, wyrm is used interchangeably with dragon (Smaug is called both wyrm and dragon), rather than denoting a specific species/categorization of dragon as it does in our world.

Grima’s approach to power is that of a gentle touch. He speaks softly, but doesn’t carry a large stick. He’s not Eomer or Theodred, who are much more traditionally martial, aggressive and forthright in their responses to a situation. Grima is clearly all about influencing those around him either through persuasion/use of words, or through spellcraft. He manipulates, he uses linguistic trickery.

-

Additionally, how he undertakes his role as advisor to the king places him more within the private world of Meduseld and the king’s household than the active, public world of marshals and thanes. And, of course, the private world of households was traditionally considered the woman’s domain while men were expected to occupy the public spaces of the world.

Of course, being involved in court politics is a public role as opposed to existing within a wholly private space (such as Eowyn. Who, in the books, takes a mostly private role until she is required to rule in her uncle’s stead while he and Eomer are off at war, and even then it is clearly considered a temporary situation and part of her duty as a woman). But the manner in which Grima occupies that public position is a more “feminine” one.

We can assume that if Eomer or Erkenbrand or Elfhelm occupied the role as advisor to Theoden, they would have a very different approach to the position. A much more aggressive, active and probably military-focused approach. Less carrot, more stick.

A quick note on his appearance in the film, aside from being entirely in black with black hair in a land full of blonds because he needed to be visually distinct as the Bad Guy. He is dressed in longer tunics and robes compared to Eomer and other Rohirrim men (aside from Theoden, but as soon as he is “healed” of his possession(?) he returns to the Proper Masculine shorter tunics than the Weak and Effeminate longer robes and tunics of before). Grima’s hair is longer than Eomer’s and Theoden’s, he wears only a dagger and not a sword, the furs and quilting of his clothes indicate wealth and status, of course, but also decadence and effeminacy.

-

All in all, Grima’s performance and actions undermine and subvert Rohirrim expectations of masculinity. If not outright transgressing gender norms. He uses spellcraft to achieve his ends which is cowardly and effeminate. When it’s not that, he relies on language and manipulation to ensure his position and rarely, if ever, willingly takes on an active, martial role that would be expected of a man who is in the king’s household and serves as an advisor and a quasi-second-in-command.

Here is a man, occupying a man’s role, but doing it like a woman. Subversive! Scandalous! Underappreciated by fandom!

Grima lives in a liminal, marginalized space that is at once gendered and ungendered but is absolutely Othered.

-

As for my note on Grima and being trans - absolutely a trans woman. Grima suffers from that thing of “I want to be you and sleep with you” re: Eowyn. That’s my hot take. (Similar to me and Alan Grant from Jurassic Park - I want to be him and sleep with him.)

But no, in all seriousness, a strong argument can absolutely be made for Grima being not-cis, however that might look for Grima. Grima and Eowyn are the two, within the trilogies, that have the strongest arguments to be made for not being cis.

(Grima is a bit of a foil for Eowyn, I think, while also being a foil for Gandalf.)

#grima wormtongue #lotr #Lord of the Rings #writing #lit #gender presentation #gender in LOTR #Rohan #masculinity #queer shit #history #anglo-saxon #viking

[jangofctts]

Quix·ot·ic (The Mandalorian x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 2.8K

Summary: He's an enigma. Something completely unattainable, but after finding yourself on the wrong end of trouble, that all changes. Who knew getting beat up would end up with a handjob.

Warnings: Smut, language, dirty talk, handjobs, mentions of blood and violence, reader gets beat up :(

You never knew for sure what you would end up doing in your life. You imagined you'd become a moisture farmer on Tatooine or a bartender on Coruscant, maybe get to see a drunken fight or two if you were lucky. Or maybe you'd end up in some Wild Space planet where you'd live out the rest of your days eating berries and soaking up the sun. Whatever the case, being hired by a Mandalorian was not on your list of positively exuberant made up occupations. Or, you know, having a teeny tiny crush on said man.

It's generous pay, a gracious 12 percent of his quarries, and you feel sorta bad because, truly, you don't do anything besides babysit the little green monster and occasionally fly the Razor Crest. You do however, manage to get the hyperdrive working up to a staggering 68 percent functionality rate that you're quite proud of. You're not sure if he cared when you mentioned it to him, but he did offer an impartial tilt of his helmet. You like to believe it was his way of saying that, Ah, yes, of course. I needed that fixed. Thank you so very much my beloved companion. What would I do without you?

He would never say that. In fact, he doesn't really say anything at all. You're used to bustling crowds and chatty folk and talking your way out of things because, hey, not everyone is a walking armory that's nigh indestructible. You don't think you've ever been this silent in your meager life, and so you've pushed yourself into a corner. You don't ask questions even if that miraculous shiny helmet and smooth modulated voice makes a million of them spring forth. You don't know a thing except for the highly exaggerated or just plain wrong theories you've heard about the Mandalorians, and you don't want to offend him. You're not willing to poke at his patience even if it is tempting.

Sometimes, when he brings back bounties, it offers you a bit of in-house entertainment. Seeing him wrestle them into carbonite is really, if you're being honest, hot. It shouldn't be and it terrifies you that he's that strong, but your dirty, disgusting ape-brain still gets a kick out of it.  

You end up just talking to the kid most days. It just coos and babbles, understanding jack-shit, but the Mandalorian is unattainable, a lonesome planet that's not even in your fucking orbit,  and you're pretty sure he forgets you exist most of the time.

And then everything shifts.

You go outside for once, antsy from being cooped up in the Crest for so long and you need stuff for the kid (and caf for yourself). Naturally, you wander through the markets, not really thinking, just letting your eyes graze over things, take in the buzzing crowds. It reminds you of home and you get so lost in your head (you blame it on your constant isolation) that you wander into some grubby cantina. They're playing Sabaac in the corner and somehow you're roped into playing. Stars, you don't even know how to play Sabaac very well and of course you end up loosing.

It wasn't even your money to begin with; you took the seat of a Bothan who angrily threw their cards down, but for some reason the stupid Rodian sitting to your left got the idea that you did, in fact, owe him a great deal of Calamari flan. You thought you outsmarted him by feigning the need to take a piss and then squeezing through the much too small window in the bathroom. Unfortunately, when you're halfway sticking out, wriggling around like some weird earthworm, the Rodian's got two more buddies with him and they yank you out the window.

Really, you're lucky that all they did was beat the living shit out of you instead of selling you to some Spice mine or to some seedy guy with a penchant for half-naked slaves. You tell yourself this as you manage to pick yourself off the grimy ground and limp, somewhat conscious, back to the Razor Crest.  

Your head is pounding noticeably by the time you reach it and fuzzy darkness is creeping at the edges of your vision. You're relieved that he isn't back yet, because this is embarrassing and you don't want him to think that you're some sort of trouble maker. He doesn't need more problems added on to his plate. You have just enough time to lower yourself onto the floor and pass out against a cargo crate.  

Hours pass before you wake up, and you know this because the sun is melting against the horizon like butter (wasn't it just morning?) and oh—the Mandalorian is hovering over you. The sun is reflecting off his armor and it almost hurts to look at him. You have to blink a few times to make sure you aren't hallucinating and he really is saying your name in that lovely baritone voice of his, all raspy and modified by the vocoder.

"Ah, shiny, you're back." You don't know why that's the first thing you say and you want to knock yourself out again.

"Who did this?" He's asking and you can't really process words right now, much less concentrate on anything but your spinning head. He sounds mad but you can't be sure if it's directed at your own stupidity.

Maker, how are you still alive?

You don't recall shutting your eyes again but two large hands that cup the sides of your face make them open. "Hey. Stay with me."

"Never left, Mando."

"Who did this to you?" He asks again and your brain finally catches up a bit and it's jarring to know that he cares about you. At least a little.

You try to sit up but he's gently holding you in place. "M'fine. Jus—jus' a few bruises."

Again, you try to stand but his hands are gripping your shoulders and forcing you back against the crate. Your heart pounds against your chest at his prolonged touch.

"Just stop—damnit! Stay still," Mando snarls as you try to wriggle out of his grip for a third time. "Let me see."

You stare up at that unforgiving mask as he pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, wincing at the movement. You know you have a black eye and the crusty feel of dried blood is lain on thick above your hairline and you wonder if it looks as bad as it feels.

"They did a number on you."

Yup. They sure did you wanna say but it hurts to move your mouth and your tongue feels swollen and puffy like you're allergic to your own blood.

He says something about moving you to the bunk but as his hand slips under your armpit and wraps around your waist, you're gasping in pain. Your breath gets sucked away like someone's punched you in the gut and you crumple back onto the floor. His gloved hand comes away dark red.

"Shit—Take off your shirt." He commands, leaving no room for argument.

You huff out a laugh that's closer to a faint wheeze. "B-buy me a dri—a drink first."

"Maybe later."

Now that certainly grabs your attention but you don't have time to analyze all that because he hooks his hands under the hem of your shirt and yanks it above your shoulders and off your head. You look down and holy fucking shit—when the fuck did you get stabbed? You don't remember those thugs having knives.

"Stay here."

Like I'll be going anywhere, you want to quip back. The Mandalorian shuts the hull, blocking off your view of the spectacular sunset and returns with the cauterizer in hand. You make a face and try to fend him off, because you are not in the mood to get your flesh singed back together but he's set on the idea. It doesn't take long for him to wrestle your arm down and under your back, exposing the bloody gash that stretches from the middle of your ribcage and down until it stops just above the last rib.

You don't like the way you're positioned. He's somehow got your legs trapped between him and the crate while you're half splayed over his lap, one arm stuck beneath your own weight while the other he holds in a death grip. It's too vulnerable and when he trades his hold on your arm for a hand on your hip to get a better hold so he can start pressing the laser onto your flesh, arousal sparks in your belly.

Unfortunately, you don't get to enjoy the weight of his long fingers splayed across your skin or let the fantasy of him fucking you into the next galaxy play out, because razor sharp pain is erupting throughout your whole left side. You jerk in his grip and your mouth falls open with a silent cry. You've been burned before from stray wires or way too hot sheets of metal, but this? This is pure fucking torture and you don't know how the hell he does this to himself. Let alone stay conscious.

You do end up passing out again (an embarrassing fact he doesn't mention and you're thankful for it) and you awake to something warm and calloused trailing up and down your exposed skin, avoiding the sensitive area surrounding the charred and throbbing wound. It's soothing and almost entirely masks the pain. It isn't until the tip of a forefinger is carefully tracing lines between your freckles, most certainly studying them, that you realize whose finger it belongs to. Sans gloves.

You go rigid and he stops. You bite back a whine at the loss.

"Is...is this ok?" He's saying softly through the vocoder. It still sounds warm and dark despite the mechanical tone to it. You can hardly form a comprehensive thought and you have to fight through the hazy fog to force out a jerky nod of your head.

"Y-yeah," you croak out and there's a half second delay, if not shorter, before he's touching you again. This time it's bolder, braver like his fingers are starved and the only thing available is you.

His breath comes out stuttered as you twitch under him. "You're so soft."

His hands are a beautiful sun-kissed brown, speckled with scars from past battles. You want to plant kisses over the slopes of his knuckles, trail your tongue over the lines of his palm, but you're still uncomfortably trapped in his lap against the cold beskar cuirass. It's torture.

The Mandalorian's fingers dance up your shoulder, your breath stuttering as they skim over your collarbone then sweep up the column of your throat you readily bare for him. He threads those long, warm digits through your hair, thumbing the strands then tucks them behind your ear. Your heart slams against your ribcage and you're sure it might just burst.

"Breathe," he says. You can hear the smile in his words.

Despite the shaky inhale, it's even harder to breath and you wonder if one of your lungs collapsed as well. He gently pinches your chin, cradling your jaw so you're staring up at him. You can feel is eyes on you through that shaded visor and you nearly miss the hitch in his breath when your tongue flicks out and slides along the pad of his thumb that traces your bottom lip.

Liquid heat pools in your lower belly as two of his fingers press at the seam of your lips. You part your mouth and he ever so slowly slips them in. You groan softly and curl your tongue around the two digits until the shine with sticky saliva, the surrealness of the situation making you lightheaded. Who would've thought you'd be here after getting beaten and stabbed after a Sabaac game gone wrong, and you're all but giving Mando's fingers a blowjob. You wouldn't fucking believe, but yet, here you are.

His hips twitch as you curl your tongue around his middle finger and slide it between the delicate skin there, and you can feel the firm bulge digging into your lower back. Desperate and burning for the chance to touch him, you manage to wiggle your arm behind your back, tracing the cuirass all the way down to the hem of his trousers. You palm at his cock through the material and his hips jerk into the touch, his torso hunching over you, the cold metal brushing over your arm. His fingers leave your mouth with a slick pop and he's reaching in between you to grasp at your wrist and grind your palm harder against cock. The angle in which your arm is twisted is uncomfortable at best, but your mind rears at the thought of moving. You don't want whatever this is to end.

"Shit," he hisses. "S'good—fucking good."

"Mando," you whimper. He feels just as firm as beskar if not harder and you know your underwear is far beyond salvaging as his other hand wraps around and grabs at your breast.

"You—you're so pretty an—and brave," he grunts, thrusting his hips in tandem with the hold you've got on his throbbing cock. Your heart swells and you're blushing for an entire different reason. "So b-brave for me."

There's a brief pause as he shoos away your hand and your chest seizes in worry that you've upset him somehow. That he'd suddenly changed his mind about this whole thing. Is going to kill you? Put you out of your fucking misery? Or—oh. Your fears are quickly stamped out once you realize he's shuffling his trousers down and tugging your hand back around him. He is searing hot, thick and pulsing in your hand and when you give it an experimental tug he makes a punched out sound.

It's an awkward angle, but Maker do you try. Mando doesn't seem to care and judging by the sticky wetness that's dribbling over your knuckles, he certainly likes it. Much too focused on your current task, you don't note his hand smooth over your stomach and slip under the waistband until his fingers are circling your clit. You gasp and buck your hips into his touch, your hand stopping.

"Keep—ah—going," he's muttering, lowering his helmet to rest on the curve of your shoulder. "Fuck. Don't stop."

It's hard (pun all intended), real hard to focus when his fingers are swiping down your soaking slit, gathering the wetness there then back up to draw meticulous patterns over the bundle of nerves. At this point, your brain is a muddled mess and you aren't doing much except for holding your hand loosely so he can fuck into it.

The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burn through you, drag you closer to the precipice, and you're whimpering out the only name you have for him. Wicked heat blooms in your abdomen, spreads through your core and sweeps out into your shaking legs. You arch into him and with a steady hand, he parts your lips, thrusts his fingers inside and grinds the heel of his palm where you need him the most.

"That's it. Go-good girl. Cum—cum for me." Paired with his voice as his fingers press up and curl into something sickeningly good and you're gone. "S'good girl."

Your eyes squeeze shut as light compatible to hyperspace explodes behind your eyelids. You don't think you've ever cum this hard and it almost aches how good it feels as your legs lock and your nerves are set on fire. It burns through you and you wouldn't be surprised if your body goes up in flames. You twitch and jerk in his lap, breathing ragged, as he continues to thrust into your cunt, letting you ride out each and every tendril of pleasure until you melt into his lap. He still toys with your oversensitive clit and you have to push his hand away.

An overwhelming wave of exhaustion abruptly washes over you; a mix of getting stabbed and just having the best damn orgasm of your life you think. But Mando is still rutting up against your back and you fight the urge to close your eyes and pass the fuck out. With a shaky hand, you reach for his cock once again, a fresh wave of heat flashing through you as a lovely moan, soft and vulnerable echoes through the modulator.

"Maker," he gasps, "You—I'm—M'gonna cum.."

He wraps his hand around yours, squeezing around the hardened flesh and giving his cock a few more hard thrusts before a broken gasp rips through the modulator. His body stiffens and the Mandalorian cums hard. Hot ropes of liquid coat your hand and the small of your back, his cock throbbing and pulsing in your grip. He snarls out your name, still thrusting up into your fist, milking every last spurt of cum until it tapers off and swears are tumbling out.

Sleep is tugging at your eyelids when his rapid breathing begins to even out, his fingers spreading his seed over your back as if marking you. You shiver. "M'falling asleep."

"Yeah, ok," he's breathes. "You need rest. Brave girl—you did so well. Close your eyes."

You do just that and fall into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

#the mandolarian #the mandalorian x reader #reader insert #smut #the pedro pascal thirst is real yall #pedro pascal #star wars #uh oh sisters we back on some bullshit #my writing #itsspacecowboys

[yukeri]

[YURI&Co. Headquarters]

THIS PIECE CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE AND ARGUING - Starring: Hong Yumin, CEO Na Deokhyun - Synopsis: Yumin, feeling as if she has nothing left to lose, makes one last attempt to save her career. - Year: 2019 - Length: 1,867 w.

Yumin stood in the elevator nervously wringing her white linen top. Just go in and make your demands. Don’t take no for an answer.

A chime signaled she’d reached her destination, and the following robotic voice confirmed it. She could feel the temperature drop as she stepped out of the elevator and into the frozen tundra that is the CEO’s floor. But it didn’t discourage her; it’s no secret that the CEO is very sensitive to warmth and keeps his office floor cool. It also serves as a cheap ploy to subconsciously intimidate any industry adversaries coming to meet with him and make them more susceptible to his coercion, but it won’t work on her. Hong Yumin was on a mission that she had been psyching herself up for over the past several days. Nothing could destroy her resolve.

She strolled up to his secretary. “Hi, Jeongho,” she said as sweetly as she could without cringing, “Is the CEO busy?”

He glanced at the man's schedule; “Uh, not right now,” he said hesitantly, “But he has a meeting in 10 minutes.”

This is your chance.

“Sorry, do you have an appointment? I don’t see one--”

“That’s all the time I need,” Yumin said, strutting right past Jeongho and approaching the CEO’s office. She could hear the secretary’s stuttering protests as she reached the door. She paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and entered the breach.

I did it, she thought as she closed the door behind her. Yumin slowly turned around. She had only seen the eggshell walls and cement flooring of the CEO’s office on two occasions: the day she signed her contract with Tastemaker and about a week ago when TM Girls was disbanded. Such a rush of emotions came over her that she almost forgot why she had committed this career-threatening faux pas in the first place. Flustered, she swallowed her feelings and greeted the CEO politely: “Good afternoon, CEO.”

“Yumin-ah...good afternoon,” the CEO replied curiously, looking up from his thick-rimmed glasses. He glanced at his iPad confirming what he already knew, “According to my schedule, you don’t have an appointment with me.” Yumin stood visibly trembling as he looked her up and down. “So either my secretary just lost his job, or you’ve lost your mind,” he said with a dry chuckle.

Then he stared at her with that look, his eyes fixed upon her and his eyebrows raised. The look was not openly nefarious as he is the CEO and must keep the appearance of approachability even behind closed doors, but to anyone who knew him that look was just as effective as a gorgon's stare.

Just like that, Yumin froze. She felt all that hard-earned conviction drain from her body and immediately realized the grave mistake she had made. Stop freaking out! You got this, Yumin’s inner motivation coach called out trying to preserve the last ounces of confidence she had left. You’re already here; you might as well speak! She opened her mouth, not particularly sure as to whether coherent words or her breakfast would come out, “Yes-- I mean, no. I don’t have a-- er, an appointment.” Alright, looks like we’re getting somewhere. She started regaining her confidence and spoke again with a voice significantly less shaky; “But please, if I could have a moment of your time--”

Suddenly, Yumin heard the subtle tones of the CEO’s phone. She looked down at the cellphone on his desk, then back at him as he pressed the tip of his AirPod. “Hello,” he answered, “Oh, Kyungsoo-ya! How’s filming going?”

Then it hit her: all the emotions she'd swallowed. The years of anxiety facing the possibility that she might never debut; the anger from the relentless hiatuses she had no choice but to endure; the devastation when she was told for the second time that the group she cherished more than anything in the world was no more. They were all festering inside her and had amalgamated into a feeling she rarely experienced: pure rage.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Yumin thought. The CEO jerked his head up to look at her with an expression of plain shock. Oh, wait...no, she said that. To the CEO.

Before he could utter another word, Yumin’s hand had snatched the phone off his desk and ended the call with whoever was on the line. She clutched the CEO’s phone in her hand as he stared at her in disbelief. Yumin didn’t back down; she stared right back.

“Okay, I’m listening,” he said flatly, breaking the silence.

Yumin took another deep breath and finally spoke her mind, “The only reason I signed a contract with this company was because you guaranteed that I would debut within 6-8 months. That was over two years ago; I--”

The CEO groaned and rolled his eyes as he reclined in his chair, his folded hands on his chest and his eyes fixed on her. Sorry, am I boring you?! I can’t believe this smug bastard...

His phone began to vibrate in her hand, but she swiftly declined the call. “I-- I am tired,” she said in a tone louder than what she had intended. “I’m tired of getting calls from my grandparents asking me to come back home because I have no future here; I’m tired of training trainees half my age that debut before I do; I’m tired of being the oldest trainee I know that isn’t anywhere near a debut; and I’m tired of putting my faith in old men who so easily crush the dreams of young, hardworking trainees because they’ve never had to experience this disappointment in their life.”

The CEO glared at her with his eyebrows furrowed, clearly offended. She decided it would be better to switch up her argument: “Look, when I left JYP...I was devastated. I worked so hard and all I got in return was a cancelled debut. Looking back, I can see that if I had debuted then I would’ve left the group almost immediately. I wasn’t ready; I would’ve been torn to shreds for my lack of ability. But I am a thousand times better than I was all those years ago because of Tastemaker. I was an alright rapper when I got here; now I’m the rap instructor. I can out-rap any trainee under this label, male or female. I was a good dancer before, and now I can out-dance our choreographer-- her words, not mine.”

The CEO chuckled lightly at her claim before she continued, “I have leadership quality, an attractive personality, and great visuals...but what good is having those attributes if no one sees them?” The CEO nodded thoughtfully.

Now we’re here, she thought, the hardest part. She took one final deep breath and gave her ultimatum, “I’ll always be thankful to you...and to Tastemaker for making me better...but if you don’t plan on debuting me, then...then just let me go. This way, we can stop wasting each other’s time.”

There. Yumin had said her piece and now it was time to listen.

The CEO cleared his throat and began to speak: “Wow…how dare you speak to me this way?! You have absolutely no idea why I make the decisions I make, and I will not be told what to do by some little bitch who thinks she’s talented because she can rhyme two words together.” Yumin was speechless; she could see what could’ve been a successful career flashing before her eyes...now it’s all gone. She felt her heart sink as tears welled up in her eyes. “Give me my phone!” He snarled at her, snatching his phone from her extended hands; “By the time I’m done calling every agency and talent scout in my address book, you won’t be able to open a fucking YouTube channel! You’ll have to go back to your grandparents’ and become a turnip farmer, shoveling shit to make a living.” He pulled her contract from his drawer, “You want me to ‘let you go’? So be it.” He pulled out a lighter from his pocket and set it ablaze. Yumin could only watch and cry as her dreams literally went up in smoke. The CEO threw the remnants of her contract in the garbage, “Now get the fuck out of my office,” he hissed, “You’re done.”

But no, he did not say that. In fact, he did not say anything. The CEO simply glared at her without a word and all Yumin could do was glare back. Say something, dammit! She thought. Yell, scream, something.

After what seemed like hours of deafening silence, he finally spoke, “Wow...that was impressive,” he stated flatly while opening his iPad. “Tell me, Yumin, do you remember Moon Yuri?” She was still reeling from the thought of what could’ve happened, but responded, “Uh...yes. Wasn’t he involved in THE FUN FACTORY?”

“Correct,” the CEO replied while checking some emails and notifications, “That call that you declined a few minutes ago? That was him. ” He gestured towards the phone that was still in her hand; she’d almost forgotten she had taken it. “Moon has made a request to establish his own label within the company. I just needed him to confirm some last-minute details.”

Yumin clearly didn’t understand, so the CEO attempted to clarify as he reviewed some charts and graphs, “Yuri is planning to debut a new girl group next year and he’s looking for 6-7 girls to be in it. Tastemaker isn’t planning on debuting any other groups as of right now, so any Tastemaker trainee may audition for him. Whoever is accepted will have their contract transferred to his label. No hassle.” Yumin finally realized what he was saying.

“But-- when is the audition?” “That was one of the details he needed to confirm. I’d say about a month or two?” “And...I can audition?” “I recommended you personally,” he said, making eye contact with her for a moment before taking out a pen and flipping through some important-looking documents. “I was in the middle of drafting a memo with all the details.”

Yumin stared into space, feeling like a complete idiot. If I had just waited a little longer...

“Um, may I have my phone back?” the CEO asked politely, but sternly, “I do have some important calls to make.” Yumin snapped out of her trance and hurriedly rested the CEO’s iPhone on his desk. The CEO continued to split his attention between the graphs on his iPad, the documents on his desk, and now the iPhone which was connecting to no doubt some other big name in the industry.

Yumin didn't know what to say. “CEO...I’m--” The CEO started chatting with someone on the other line. She averted her gaze as she pondered what to do next, eventually deciding to leave. She turned and walked towards the door. “Oh, Yumin-ah,” he innocently called out just as she was about to exit the room. She turned back to him, “Yes, sir?”

“Don’t pull this shit again,” he calmly ordered, “Because next time you won’t be so lucky.”

Slightly unnerved, Yumin nodded in agreement and exited the CEO’s office with another chance. Fourth time’s the charm, I hope.

#aesxocnet #deluxeocnet #kpop oc #kpop idol oc #kpop oc group #fake kpop idol #fake kpop group #fictional idol community #fictional idol group #lovemonth.💚💚💚 #lovemonth.read #lovemonth.past

[spyvstailor]

Started a new novel, since I still feel weird releasing my zombie novel in the middle of a global pandemic. So, enjoy this free sneak peak at my prologue.

Coyote Flats had been built on 312 graves.

Not many people knew this, of course. If they did they wouldn't have moved to the small town when the boom hit in the early eighties.

Situated in a large basin at the bottom of a valley, Coyote Flats was farmland mostly. Canadian prairie grass grew at the top of the valley, the bottom of which was a large alkali salt plain where the creature for which the Flats was named roamed freely.

In 1978 a cattle farmer digging a well in the basin hit a piece of bone, digging up a mammoth in what would be the first of many late Pleistocene fauna.

That was the cause of the second boom of Coyote Flats.

Before that it was dried up and dead, had been since the thirties when the topsoil blew away from the rich earth at the top of the valley.

Now it was tourist town, small enough that it still had it's dignity. It wasn't trinkets and toys like some of the other dinosaur riddled small towns that dotted the prairies, but it still drew a crowd.

Seven thousand people resided within the Flats, half of that in the surrounding area, so it wasn't ever big, just big enough.

Within the town limits, past the Minnie the Mammoth statue by the highway sign, were homes built in the early eighties, peppered throughout with older homes. The front enclosed porch homes of 1912, the wide and squat bungalow homes of the 1920's and three large red bricked buildings in the centre, huddled around the park.

If one knew about the 312 buried beneath the Coyote Flats Park, then they would also know that McAllister Funeral Home to the east had always been a mortuary, that the Town Hall to the north was once a sanatorium where tuberculosis patients from all across the northern prairies went to seek medical help and rest, before ultimately dying of the white plague in the early days of the twentieth century and that St. Bernadine's Roman Catholic Church, in the south-west of the park had always been the church that offered sanctuary for the dying.

These buildings were the oldest in Coyote Flats.

The oldest residents, outside of the McAllister sisters themselves who lived in a turn of the century Victorian style home just east of the park, beside the funeral home that shared their name, though was never owned by them. No, these women, white witches teased by some, were members of the one of the oldest families in the Flats. Nearly a quarter of the town shared the name McAllister with them, though none were progenitors of these women as they were all single matrons, old maids as they were once called.

They lured both men and women, young and old, into their open home with the scent of sweets baking on a warm summer's eve, or the promise of good gossip, tea and maybe a home remedy or two.

When the wind blew from the south, they'd say, love will kiss thee on the mouth.

Oh Bonny Portmore, Charity McAllister, could be heard singing from their front porch on a quiet afternoon as she tended her window box flowers, I am sorry to see, such a woeful destruction of your ornament tree. For it stood on your shore for many a long day, til the long boats from Antrim came to float it away.

These women, tended to by their great grand-niece, granddaughter of their oldest sister Grace, may she rest in peace, were some of the only who knew about the 312.

Inside the brick building to the north, deep in the basement of the Town Hall, Eddie Hollander was another who knew of the 312. He knew because he worked the historical archives, he lived among papers and files and microfiche, he had gone to university to become a historian, only to be shoved down into the bowels of Coyote Flats where no one came, no one visited, no one seemed to care.

He lived, oddly enough, beside the McAllisters on Diefenbaker Avenue, just east of the park. From his front porch, as from the McAllister's, he saw the birch stand that separated the park from the rest of the world.

If he peered hard enough through the black and white trunks of the trees, he could see the back of St. Bernadine's. In the winter, he didn't have to peer much at all, the red brick building standing out against the white of the snow.

While the church became clear to see in the winter, the white marble angel behind it blended in.

She stood eight feet tall, eleven feet counting the pedestal beneath her sandaled feet, arms reaching out to the heavens in abject grief, wings spread tall and wide.

Anyone who knew about the 312, knew why this angel stood there behind the church. Those who didn't, assumed she was just some pretty piece of statuary in the park, confused, maybe, about why she stood behind the church and not in front of it or beside it.

But for as confused as people were about the placement of the white angel, they were just as confused about the black marble angel.

He knelt on his pedestal, about three hundred yards north from the church, backed by the birch stand that swooped in beside him and around to shield him from the bitter winds coming from the east and the north. The winds that brought visitors and storms, according to the McAllister sisters.

This angel was militant and vengeful looking.

His hood hid most of his features from the world, though anyone who really dared to peer into the shadows of the hood said he was sometimes disapproving, sometimes amused. With a sort of patrician nose in the classical style and piercing eyes carved into the cold stone, he was hunched on one knee, arm raised with a flaming sword in it, prepared for the kill. Wings spread intimidatingly or perhaps even in preparation for a flight into battle

He was frightening to children, threatening to men and abhorrent to women (though some would say he had an oddly thrilling charm about him).

Perhaps aware of this, the town council tried to beautify him somewhat, they planted wave petunias in a flowerbed at the base of his pedestal in the hopes of softening the threat.

He only seemed to drop his gaze to them in silent annoyance.

In the morning he was placid, almost smiling, by noon he was scowling, aggressive, before becoming a mild warrior of God once more in the evening.

Most didn't dare get close to him come nightfall, however. It just wasn't done.

No one entered the park at night, they didn't know why, they just knew it gave them odd feelings and sensations.

If you timed it just right, on a peaceful evening in mid-summer in Coyote Flats. Standing before the black angel with your back to him, gazing across the well trimmed grass to where the church stood shielding the white angel from MacKenzie-King Avenue in the west, you could be lucky enough to hear both Charity McAllister singing and the sound of a small town in the dying light of the sun. And you would forget, for a moment, the eerie feeling that crept upon you, standing in a park in the middle of Coyote Flats proper which was once a cemetery where 312 were buried.

#this is a chance for all my followers who post about supporting authors and creators to put their money where their mouths are #support me guys #need it #getting laid off from work #so i need to kick ass on this proper like and make some money from my writing #coyote flats #enjoy this free sneak peak #and if you do happen to like my work visit my actual tumblr page to donate to a struggling author #this has not been edited #lazy

[gilbirda]

Of bats, dreams and human connections. Chapter 1

SebastianxF!Player

Maybe, in retrospective, moving to the middle of nowhere and become a farmer wasn't Liz's smartest idea. The worst part wasn't getting up early or doing housework or meeting new people, no - the worst part was having to bathe in sun cream every morning and pray no one noticed she didn't age or got tired or hurt no matter what.

Did I mention that Liz vas a vampire? Well, she was. And even if for some she was the stupidest vampire alive, in her defense she just wanted to make new friends. Fortunately for her, the local goth boy of the town may be available.

Based on @beansthatscream ‘s answer

[Read on AO3][Read on FF.net]

Next Chapter >>

Moving to Stardew Valley wasn’t exactly at first in Liz’s plans. Who in their right mind came to a sunny village in the middle of nowhere? I mean, if I were to tell you that she inherited her grandfather's farm and she felt like not going anywhere and blah blah blah…

Well, the thing is, Liz wasn’t exactly your city-girl-goes-farming story. Because she is, in fact, a vampire.

The grandfather’s farm part is true, though.

He was human, a man her coven adopted when he was a lonely kid orphaned in a war. She remembered thinking how absurd it was that vampire like them would adopt such weak creatures, but it wasn’t like she cared much about it. With time, she stopped finding her new immortal life so fascinating and started following the strange and humble old man that chose to call her family despite knowing what he did about her world.

When he died, he left her everything he owned. Including a run down farm in the middle of nowhere, sunny-ville.

Liz breathed deeply, enjoying the cold spring night’s air, one hand scratching her new cat’s chin (maybe she was being cheesy by calling him Lestat, but sue her), looking at the few sprouts growing in the cleared patch she made early in the season.

A farmer vampire. Who would have thought.

At least she didn’t have to eat, so that’s money she saved. Everything she earned would go to the next crop.

It has been around a week since she settled there and getting used to the slow pace everything seemed to go by there was… difficult. She had wanted to leave coven drama behind and try her hand at going solo for a while. Who knows? Maybe she could start a coven of her own-

A family. What she wanted was a family. A real connection, like what she had with grandpa. After so many decades she had forgotten what it felt, how human connections struck deeper than convenient alliances of vampire covens.

That’s why she wanted this to work. She wanted to feel what grandpa felt for so long, she wanted to make memories like those he shared with her before passing.

An uncomfortable sensation in her mouth reminded her that she needed to feed soon. Her fangs were getting out of control the longer she let herself starve, and the last few days she got away with not appearing around town, but people were going to notice if she let it go too far.

She looked up at the moon and sighed. Lestat jumped out of her lap and meowed softly before going inside to sleep. She should too, but the idea of turning and tossing around, hungry, wasn’t exactly in her top list of things to do all night. This “daytime” vampire thing was hard to get used to, but it was a needed evil.

She got up and decided to go for a walk to see if she could get a bit tired and sleep another night with an empty stomach. Tomorrow she would go to the city and feed, there were many people there and no one would notice a little wound here and there. In a small place like this? Someone would definitely would.

And when they did, every hope of forming a real human connection would go out of the window.

***

Sebastian didn’t know what to think about the new farmer. Sure, he had seen her walking around all dressed in black and with an enormous black parasol, saying something about sensitive skin, and he immediately respected the aesthetic.

The woman herself? Not so much. She was a mystery, she didn’t seem like she wanted to settle there at all.

Not that I blame her, he thought as he took another drag of his cigarette. I would leave this place as soon as I could. If I could.

He looked back at his house from his position by the lake, the moon shining down on his mother’s fine work on the exterior of the building. Sometimes, when he felt weak and vulnerable, he didn’t want to leave his mother there with Demetrius. He feared what would happen in his absence, what kind of arguments he would use to drag Robin to his side. Would he make her forget about him? About his father?

Would he matter at all?

Sebastian shook his head, knowing it was silly. If he stayed or left shouldn’t depend on his mother, but his own sanity.

Finishing his cig, he threw it down and smashed it with his foot, ready to head back in and finish his last project. Another sleepless night it seems, he sighed.

He turned and was about to take a step forward when a sharp pain bloomed in his hand.

“Shit.”

He looked down at his hand, and there it was, a fresh new cut in the otherwise clean skin. Damn these trees and their unexpected sharp barks. Whatever, he could find some band-aids before going back to the computer.

He looked up and she was there. The farmer.

He frowned. He hadn’t heard her approach, and it was a rather quiet night.

“Hello?” He tentatively called. She just stood there in silence, eyes fixed on his bleeding hand. “Are you alright?”

The farmer blinked slowly as if waking from a deep sleep, looking up to his eyes. Somehow he expected hers to be a weird color, like red or purple, but they were just plain old dark brown, almost black under the moonlight.

She licked her chapped lips. “Uh, sorry, I heard someone here and thought it was… Uh… I mean, it’s pretty late.”

Sebastian watched silently as she took a step back. “You are not making any sense.”

“I don’t, right?” she chuckled. “This is awkward. Um, I’m Liz, the new farmer, but I guess you already know that.” She offered her hand to shake, but he looked down at his still very much bleeding hand. “Oh, fuck, yes, sorry. You need any help with that?”

“It’s a small cut. I’ll live.” He took a paper tissue from his hoodie pocket and cleaned some of the blood with it, revealing an already closing wound. “See? Everything’s fine.”

The face she made was as if someone had kicked a puppy, her eyes following each one of his movements.

Sebastian shuffled for a second, visibly uncomfortable with the situation. “Are you ok?” he asked again, noticing how her face had morphed into a painful grimace.

“Yeah. It’s just I… I- I just remembered that I haven’t had dinner yet. And, um, yeah. I should go. Nice meeting you!”

Liz ran away without waiting for a response, leaving a very confused man by the lake.

“But it’s like three in the morning,” Sebastian thought out loud.

***

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Liz ran and ran, hoping that leaving the lake, the town and the valley behind could erase the last fifteen minutes of her life.

She almost slipped. The one thing she swore not to, she almost did. And by stopping herself from doing so, she acted like a total freak in front of an innocent villager. Oh, damn, he was going to tell his friends and they will tell their families and then…

Well, the thing with pitchforks and torches may be outdated, but she would be ostracised. Vampires were a myth nowadays, but still, they will treat her like a freak and won’t try to be nice anymore.

Aw man, I don’t want to leave so soon!

She hoped a least a few decades before people started noticing her not aging.

“More like a few weeks, now,” she grumbled, stopping to calm her breathing. She was fast, some of the faster of her coven, but in her starving state she was weaker than a baby vampire.

Great, she was in the middle of more nowhere now. Trees, trees, and more trees. Somewhere, a car was passing through a road by the mountain; but apart from that, not a sound. And she was hungry. Very, very hungry.

Liz glanced up at the darkness trying to find a lonely creature that could satiate her at least until she could reach the city. Then, wash away the awful taste of animal blood with some random drunk human enjoying the city at night.

A tree branch creaked at her side. She looked up, finding a mountain lion crouching, watching her with distrust.

“Sorry, buddy.” She smiled at the animal and jumped.

***

Sebastian was going to kill Sam. It was official. I mean, how could he not when he was dragged from bed after barely getting a few hours of sleep, forced to look alive under the sunlight and be conscious enough to listen to his friends rambling about the incoming egg festival like it was a big deal. Who the hell cares??

“Right, Seb?” Abigail prompted, expecting his answer as if he was listening.

“Huh?”

“We were saying,” Sam tried to help, “that we could ask the mayor if we could play a few songs at the festival.”

He blinked slowly, letting it know his overall opinion of the matter. It’s just a stupid festival about eggs. He couldn't care less.

What he wanted was to get out of the sun and go back to sleep. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t get any sleep even after finishing his work, really; the dull pain of the small cut in his hand reminded him of the weirdest night of his life.

I wasn’t like he had any real opinion of the farmer (Liz, she said her name was Liz) before; but now he couldn’t help but keep his eyes on the road that led towards her farm from Sam’s house, as if expecting her to emerge any moment now. What would he even say to her? Last night he uttered barely a word before she bolted away. Did he expect this time to be different?

Suddenly, as if summoned, she appeared. All dressed in black and with her big parasol, looking down at her feet as she approached them. Was she ignoring him? Them?

“Oh, hey, Liz!” Sam, always bright and cheery, motioned her to join them. It wasn’t the first time he did, but it was the first time the mysterious woman obeyed.

“Hey.” Her smile was tiny, but welcoming. Even some pink gathered in her cheeks, clearly embarrassed with the situation. “What’s up.”

Sebastian wouldn’t say it out loud, but was glad of her parasol as it blocked some light for his tired eyes.

"Duuuude, you look half dead!" The blond commented, real concern in his face.

"Uh, I couldn't sleep last night," Liz smiled, shifting her parasol to cover her better. If she noticed Sebastian moving accordingly to receive some shade, she didn't say anything.

“Woah, it seems like we have a contender for the role of Pelican Town’s resident vampire, Seb!”

He rolled his eyes. “Just because I wear black hoodies and don’t like people doesn’t make me a vampire, Sam. And I already told you that last night I was finishing a commision.”

“Whatever you say, emo boy,” Abigail arched an eyebrow and turned to the newcomer. “What’s your excuse, not-vampire?” She made a gesture to her whole gothic get-up.

“Um, I’m allergic to sunlight. For real!” she laughed at the disbelieving faces. “It’s a real thing, look it up!”

“Then why become a farmer?”

This time Liz rolled her eyes. “I should have expected the question. It isn’t like Robin and Lewis asked that already.” She sighed. “It seemed like the right thing to do, you know? I was tired of being a nobody, of being lonely around so many people, and wanted a real human connection.”

“That’s deep, tho.”

“But if you are allergic to the sun, how do you do farmer stuff? At night?” the blond asked, one eye fixed on his best friend getting closer and closer to Liz, drinking up the shade from the parasol like a starving man.

“There’s this new invention called “sunblock”. Don’t know if you heard of it?” Liz smirked. “And my problem is direct sunlight. I burn if it touches me, but for the rest…” she shrugged.

Sebastian yawned, feeling his eyes close. Why was he even awake? Ah, yeah, Sam wanted to practise in case the Mayor let them play at the festival.

“If we aren’t going to get any practising today then I’m going home. I need my beauty sleep.”

“Oh, sorry. I must get going too. I had some business to attend,” Liz smiled. “Nice talking with you guys.” She walked away, waving with one hand.

Sebastian didn’t whine when the sun hit his face. Uh-huh. He didn’t miss her calming and fresh presence and very wide and very convenient parasol.

Okay, maybe a little. The hoodie was starting to feel a bit too hot for the sunny spring day.

“She’s perfect,” the blond said watching the farmer go.

“Huh?”

“For you dude! You guys make a super cute goth couple! Ask her out already!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Liz! The farmer! You were making heart eyes at her all this time! Don’t deny it, I saw everything.”

“I saw it too,” Abigail nodded, “and the goth gods are smiling at you today, dude.”

He narrowed his eyes. It was way too early for this bullshit.

“I didn’t make heart eyes. And she is weird, that’s all.”

“Yeah right,” both friends snorted. “Whatever you say.” Sam shook his head.

“Look, we can practise or I can go home. Last chance.”

“Ok! Ok! Calm down Romeo, we’ll practise. And then you can go back to your coffin and sleep some more.”

***

Had he told them something? Didn’t he? He did, he totally did. That question didn’t come from nowhere. It couldn’t.

She was prepared to tell some bullshit about an allergy to sunlight, she had looked up the name for it (something very latin-sounding and technical that for the life of her she couldn’t remember); but it wasn’t a coincidence to be asked that barely hours after slipping like that. Or was it?

Sebastian didn’t look half alive either, and his interactions were rather minimal. She heard something about him not getting any sleep. Liz assumed it had to do with how awkward she had been. Oh my.

Calm down! She told herself. Panicking wouldn’t solve anything, no.

She had to go buy new seeds, for sure. That’s why she had went through all the trouble of covering her skin with sunblock, after all.

Pierre’s was small and it barely had any variety of products, but she preferred the homey sensation and the small town friendliness over the cold treatment at Joja’s. Since learning about the store in town she avoided it like the plague.

She fetched her seeds and approached the counter, adding a last-minute sandwich to help the illusion of being a normal human being. One was never too cautious about that.

***

Sebastian was ready to drop dead in his bed and sleep until tomorrow, for real. After a heated argument with Lewis they were allowed “only a few songs, but nothing inappropriate!” for the egg festival, and then Sam insisted on sitting down and choose which songs to play and then start practising on them.

The sun was starting to set by the time he got home, his mind focused on his cold basement and his bed, heaven on Earth.

What he didn’t expect was finding her sleeping in his house. Well, she was more like dozing on the sofa at the entrance, by his mother’s desk, but here she was - looking as dead as he felt. Bags under her eyes, the purple so dark it looked like it was tattooed on her skin.

Not knowing what to do, he postponed his escape to sacred grounds and looked for his mother at the kitchen, who was calmly drinking her tea as she prepared dinner.

“Why is the farmer sleeping in our house?”

“Huh?” Robin turned slightly, a small smile in her face. “We were talking about expanding the cottage and she fell asleep waiting while I checked something. I thought she looked cute so I let her.”

Cute? More like a walking corpse.

He must said so out loud, because his mother chuckled as she kept stirring something in the pot. “She reminds me of you, actually. You both work so hard at the cost of your health.”

“Don’t know what you are talking about.” He huffed, crossing his arms. First his friends and now his mother? They barely knew her, how could they know what was she like?

“Whatever,” he could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Could you wake her up? I’m almost done here.”

“She’s staying for dinner?”

“She will, when you invite her to.”

Sebastian rose his arms to the sky, wondering why he got the short stick in life. “Sure.”

Liz was sleeping in the same position he left her in, and he wondered how to wake her. He didn’t want to be rude, for real, but he didn’t know her enough to be comfortable touching her without her knowing. He sighed, not really wanting to be caught looking at the sleeping woman and seem like a creep.

“Hey,” he shook her shoulder. She didn’t move. “Hey, you.” He shook harder. Nothing.

Why? he asked the heavens, getting closer to her, deciding how to make his next move, when the farmer inhaled deeply.

“Hmm,” he heard her murmur before her unexpectedly strong arms seized his shoulders. Her face got closer, and he could barely see her eyes still shut as her head positioned somewhere between his neck and his shoulder. “Smells nice.”

He shivered, feeling her warm breath caress his uncovered skin, wondering what the hell was going on. Then, something hot and wet touched him. A tongue. He knew what it was.

Oh hell, no!

“Hey!” he tried to get free, but her grasp was like iron. “Let me go!” he hissed.

“Yummy, yummy…”

He closed his eyes, dreading whatever was going to happen. His heart raced with adrenaline, but his body was frozen in place, knowing it was useless to try escaping her hands. Her breath hit his wet skin, and then something sharp and solid touched it -

“Sebby, what’s going on in there?” Robin’s voice cut through the haze like a knife, stopping his racing mind as well as the woman assaulting him in her sleep.

Fingers that one second ago felt like claws gripping his shoulders let him go. He heard a gasp and opened his eyes, finding her dark eyes of the farmer looking back at him. For a split second they were like -

“Sebby?”

Both turned to look at Robin, Sebastian taking a step back, his heart beating louder than Abby’s drums.

“Everything alright?” His mom asked, a small smirk in her lips indicating that she thought something of the situation way different than what really happened. “Did you ask her?”

“Ask me what?” Liz’s voice was rough, but sounded calmer than she looked.

“If you want to stay for dinner!”

The farmer stood up abruptly. “I’m afraid I can’t. I have… I have some fish at home I don’t want to go bad. You know?” She took her closed parasol and went for the door. “Thanks for letting me rest here, Robin. Have a nice evening!”

The sound of the door closing was loud on Sebastian’s ears. He blinked, looking back at his mother.

“I’m not hungry. Save my plate and I’ll eat later, please.” And he run away to his basement, more confused than ever.

***

Stupid, stupid, and a thousand times stupid!

She had slipped again! In less than a day? Definitely not paying attention to her body had most certainly cost her only chance at happiness.

How could she? That poor boy! She almost bit him in broad daylight! In his own house! Oh yeah, she was utterly fucked.

Liz wanted to cry by the time she got home.

She looked at her few belongings, wondering if she should start packing up now or wait until people accused her of whatever and asked her “nicely” to leave the town. She had just started to gain some profits and she had to let it go so soon… Who would take care of her grandpa’s lands? The people were really nice, someone would-

Lestat meowed at her feet, unleashing a whole new wave of waterworks. Who would take care of her cat? Was his even “her” cat if she only had him less than a week? She hoped that whoever adopted him kept the name. Or not.

“Ugh,” she let her body collapse at the door, pulling up her legs to rest her head on her knees. “I should have slept in today.” It was a bad idea to go out today, the seeds could have waited one day more or she could have talked with Robin another day. She knew that she only pushed herself so far because she didn’t want to go through practically bathing in sunblock again so soon.

How silly it seemed now. Her own stubbornness and overconfidence put her in this position. Crying in fetal position against her door, waiting for the pitchforks and torches, real or figurative.

A knock at her door brought her back to reality. Showtime.

She got up and cleaned her face as best as she could. One wasn’t chased out of a town looking like a mess.

Once she felt like she could face an angry mob, she opened her door and… Sebastian was there? Liz looked around waiting for the rest of the group to appear, but it was dark and silent. A normal Stardew Valley night.

“Um, hello?” the boy in front of her said. She looked back at him, frowning.

“Where’s the rest?”

“The rest of what?”

Liz blinked slowly. “The rest of the people who knows I almost attacked an innocent man? And is here to ask me to leave?” her voice went higher with each word.

Sebastian snorted. “I haven’t told anyone that you are not human, don’t worry. Can I come in now?”

“Oh, I see, that’s nice- Wait what?”

He got tired of waiting and walked around her to get inside. Once in the small cottage, he approached the tiny table and put a container on it.

“Mom made you dinner anyway. She asked me to deliver it to you. But I guess you won’t eat it because you are a vampire.”

Liz turned, her mouth wide open. “How do you know that?”

“You just confirmed it,” his smile was tired, but brilliant.

“Oh, fuck.”

Sebastian flopped down on the only chair by the table, and rested his head on his hand, watching the farmer with a knowing smile.

“So, what is a vampire doing in Stardew Valley?”

“Farmer stuff, I guess.”

“And was that old man really your grandfather?”

“Not by blood, but we were close friends.”

“I see. Do you really burn in the sun?”

“As I told your friend, I can’t be under direct sunlight. And I use sun cream.” She blinked at the quasi-normal interview. “Excuse me, when is the moment you start to freak out?”

“I already did some of that. An hour ago. When you almost bit me. Because that’s what happened, right?” he gulped. “You almost bit me.”

She took a deep breath.

“Yeah. I, uh… I couldn’t sleep last night, you know?” she looked down, a bit ashamed. “And I guess you were really close and um, human blood is really tasty, not like animal, that’s just, ugh, and then I was dreaming about something nice and-”

“Do vampires sleep?”

“This isn’t Twilight. Please. And I don’t sparkle either.” She narrowed her eyes.

They both looked at each other for a few awkward seconds before starting to laugh. It was silly, Liz thought, to be talking normally like that after having a mental breakdown because of this same boy.

Oh, well.

“So… not freaking out? We good?” maybe she showed a bit of her fangs in her smile. Maybe.

“Yeah, we good. Surprisingly enough, it helps knowing that you aren’t just some weirdo.” He blushed and looked down, his face partially blocked by his hair. “And I guess it is pretty hot.”

Of course you would, you emo fuck

***

That night, once Sebastian got home, ate dinner and collapsed on his bed, he felt like waking up from a dream.

The farmer. She was… nicer than he thought. Once they cleared the stupid but necessary questions out of the way (no coffin, no aversion to garlic, yes to needing blood, no to killing people, a “you don’t ask a lady her age” and a “rude” to asking about religion) they simply chilled at her home, talking about everything and anything. It turned out that she liked the same branch of fantasy than him, even if she sometimes succumbed to cheesy romance novels full of porn; she had played some D&D before, but had heard about Solarion Chronicles (he invited her to the next session nonetheless); and she had tried her hand at piano for a while until she got bored a few decades ago.

He inhaled, remembering her dark eyes and her shiny black hair, how the light got caught in weird angles making it look like it had silver highlights sometimes. How she smiled when he confessed about his obsession with vampirism in his teenage years, how her laugh was contagious when she told the tale of how to get an annoying neighbour to move out by making her believe her house was haunted.

Oh, my. He had caught feelings.

Sebastian put a hand over his eyes, unable to stop the thoughts coming to his brain. How soft and huggable she looked. How she could fit perfectly in his arms, if he dared. How her soft hair would feel between his fingers. How her breasts bounced when she plopped down by the bed, complaining about not having enough chairs.

Yes, he had looked. Respectfully, though.

Who was he kidding? He was totally looking at her chest.

Next Chapter >>

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#sebastian sdv #stardew valley sebastian #stardew valley fanfiction #stardew valley #writeblr #gil writes #fanfic #look this is filled with memes and useless things #don't judge me #fanfiction #sdv sebastian

[fangirl-ramblings]

Reunited: A Stevie “Blackheart” Carwyn x John Marston drabble

For @theunholyoutlaw​ 

Happy Birthday you fabulous biatch (even though I’m cutting this rather close in your timezone, there’s still plenty of time to carry on celebrating here)  I’m sorry this isn’t much and is a bit all over the place but I just wanted to try and write you a little something (and I really hope I’ve done Stevie justice here) 😘

Using your own edits against you by taking this picture from here

c. 1907

It was late afternoon as Stevie growled “Another” at the barkeep, bringing her empty shot glass down onto the bar. Even though the day had started off well, with her and her friends managing to make another successful delivery of their latest batch of moonshine, none of them had counted on being ambushed by a bunch of revenue agents as they rode back to their camp to celebrate. After a small gunfight and everyone scattering far & wide across West Elizabeth, Stevie took the decision to cross the river and soon found herself sitting all alone in the Blackwater saloon.

      “I’ll pay for the next one” a familiar voice spoke from behind her. Stevie couldn’t help but smile to herself as she recognised John Marston’s raspy voice, once more feeling the fluttering of butterflies in her stomach that always appeared when he turned back up in her life. But unwilling to give John the upper hand, Stevie quickly adopted her poker face expression as she turned around to face him. “Well, considering I ain’t seen you around for a while, I know it’s not me causin’ your misery this time” John joked, attempting to lighten the obvious bad mood she was in. “So what’s eatin’ ya this time?”

Half joking, she looked down at her fresh glass of whiskey “Oh, you know me, just the usual wallowing in self pity, and if you know me like you do say, truth is I don’t really wanna talk about all that.” Looking back up, she purposely flashed John a seductive smile, while leaning forward a touch to allow him to glance down her blouse - knowing full well it would fluster him and make him unable to concentrate on finishing the conversation. Falling into her trap, John lost his train of thought, glancing over her curves as he sat down next to her.

    “So what brings you out to Blackwater then?” she enquired, reaching in her pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “Last I heard you, Abigail & Jack were living on some Godforsaken ranch in the middle of Big Valley”

     “You heard about that huh?” he chuckled, declining Stevie’s offering of a smoke, “then I guess you also heard Abigail finally left me - took the boy with her too”

Placing a hand on top of his, Stevie place a hand on top of his, naturally allowing her thumb to brush of the top of his hand  “No I didn’t actually, I’m sorry to hear that” 

     “It had been a long time comin’, I guess, but she’s right - they’re better off without me”

Quick as a flash, Stevie removed her palm and used it to strike John firmly across the cheek, a red mark appearing almost instantaneously “Don’t you ever let me catch you saying that again - you hear me John Marston? I know you and Abigail struggled to make it work, but I also know you sacrificed a lot for them”

Clutching his cheek he looked over Stevie’s features, simply quietly responding “Yeah, I gave up on us” 

Stevie smirked at John’s persistence; anybody else and she would’ve sent them packing the minute they walked through the saloon door, but with John Marston it was always different. As if no matter how the two of them tried to break free of the other - the universe kept throwing them back together. 

Shaking these thoughts from her head, but not willing to let herself be completely drawn under his spell just yet, she chose to ignore his comment and asked again:

     “So you still haven;t answered my question - why Blackwater?”

     “Oh I…er…I managed to buy some land, not too far from here you know” a proud smile creeping over his face.

     “You? Bought land?” she bit her lip to try to stifle a small giggle from escaping.

     “What’s so funny about that?”

     “I’ve known you for how many years now John & I never once took you for a farmer”

 He frowned at her cutting comment. “Hey, I have just spent the last few months learning how to be a ranch hand” unhappy that Stevie had responded like that.

     “Exactly, a few months shovelling shit won’t help you in running your own place” she sighed, taking a final drag of her cigarette.

Standing upright, John huffed “Oh why the hell did I even bother tellin’ you in the first place”

     “I dunno, why did you tell me? You looking for someone to warm your bed now Abigail has gone and left you all alone?” Stevie snarled, hurt by the thought of once again being his second choice “What’s the matter, isn’t your hand enough company for you?”

    “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,“ he growled, placing his money on the bar.

    "Then don’t” she sniped trying to hide the hurt in her voice as she watched him storm out of her life once more. A rogue tear fell down her cheek as she lamented herself for her harsh words and unwillingness to back down when it came to John Marston.

***

After a few days of drowning her sorrows, Stevie knew it was time to move on to another location. Hitching up Jagger up to her hunting wagon, she decided to head in the direction of Manzanita Post, to see if there was any game worth hunting to help fill up her camp and stop Cripps moaning at her when she returned.

With all the local wildlife seemingly hiding from her as she ambled across the Great Plains, she stopped to take out her binoculars. In the distance she could see  a few cattle grazing, and even better, there seemed to be no farm hands around to stop her from taking what she wanted.

Pulling her wagon up the perimeter of the ranch, Stevie hopped down and jumped over the fence, readying her knife and lasso as she crept closer to the enclosure.

     “No trespassers allowed” a familiar voice yelled from behind her, cocking their gun. Stopping her tracks as those butterflies in her belly appeared once more, Stevie placed her arms in the air and started slowly turn around, “But for you Ms. Carwyn…I’m always willing to make an exception”

Plastering on a smile, she lied to John “I thought about what you said and thought I’d come check your place out" 

     "Oh, you’re not tryin’ to steal cattle from an innocent farmer then?” He smirked back at her, nodding his head towards the weapons in her hand.

     "Fine, you got me.“ She chuckled, holstering her knife away, "I didn’t realise this was the place you were talking about the other day. Last time I was out this way,  it was nothing but a barren wilderness and a run down cabin.”

     "Is that your way of saying you’re impressed with what I’ve done here?“ He asked, lowering his gun, trying to read her her unfathomable expression.

Stevie took the time to look around at what John had achieved. A fine looking Ranch house stood proud below them, and while no crops could really be grown out here, Stevie was impressed that he had healthy livestock 

     "Are you trying to impress me Mr Marston?” she asked looking back at him.

     "Well…kinda" he grinned, rubbing the back of his neck “I did all of this for you…for us”. Stevie cocked an eyebrow as she listened “That’s why approached you in the saloon the other day. I knew it would only be a matter of time before our paths crossed again and couldn’t believe my luck when I saw your horse hitched up outside that night.”

     "John, sweetie - get to the point" 

     “I don’t want to live that life no more. I want to do somethin’ good and honest.“ he grinned, taking a hold of her hands "I know you’re a free spirit and don’t like stayin’ in one place too long - but I was hopin’ that, maybe you wouldn’t mind spendin’ a few days at a time here with me when the mood strikes you” For once Stevie allowed a huge grin to creep across her face, showing John exactly how she was feeling.

     “You know, I think there’s nothing I’d like more right now” she purred, kissing along his jaw and neck “One more question though”

     “What’s that darlin’?” 

     “How long am I going to have to wait for you to show me the bedroom” she teased, pulling him towards the front door.

#Happy birthday 😘😘 #john marston x oc #Stevie Blackheart #fangirl writes #rdr2 fanfic

[outroshooky]

my pretty sleeper | ksj

⇢ genre: series; part two (ghost!au; person b crying and screaming that they’re sorry, believing they caused person a’s death. person a’s ghost at their side, helplessly trying to comfort and hold someone they can no longer touch, or speak to, anymore.) (angst, fluff)

⇢ pairing: kim seokjin x reader

⇢ word count: 5.8k

⇢  warnings: major character death (reader insert); blood mention. there are darker themes here, please read with caution.

⇢ a/n: thank you for all of the positive feedback on part one!! this is a bit angstier than what i usually write but nonetheless, i’m proud of it. i hope you enjoy this winter-y fic; thank you to oh ms. believer for inspiring me all these years later (in the bleak bahamian summer, no less).

part two of the verses and vibes series. part three will be uploaded on wednesday, january 29, 2020.

“the woods are lovely, dark and deep,   but i have promises to keep,   and miles to go before i sleep,   and miles to go before i sleep.”

⤷ stopping by woods on a snowy evening; robert frost

Never in your life had you seen a more beautiful snowstorm.

Soft flakes drifted through boughs hanging like some great Gothic arches above you, a chapel of nature’s own wonderful creation. They swept past birds fluffed to fend against the bitter cold, settled around you in drifts like a miniature mountain landscape. Ahead you, the path stretched in peaceful calm, the white blanket an insulation for the sounds that leapt and tumbled with the puffs of wind exhaled from some indeterminable heaven. Somewhere to your left, a finch trilled a cheery tune, and the boysenberry vines rasped in scratchy reply. 

It was the picture-perfect scene to accompany what would, under all usual circumstances, be a nicely brisk walk in the chill of winter.

Unfortunately, these are not, by any standards, usual circumstances.

The snow falls delicately around your hustling figure, bound against the cold in nothing but the simple dress of a commoner and the jacket of a noble of the highest degree. Your outfit is completely contradicting, but it is not like you have a choice in the matter.

Because as hard as you try to will a speck of snow to settle gently in the crook of your palm, it does nothing but continue its downward descent, rocking to and fro hither and there. It passes through the translucent aura that is your hand, your arm, your entire body.

Perhaps the statement about how never in your life had you seen a more beautiful snowstorm needed to be amended to how never in your afterlife had you seen a more wonderful blizzard.

It is ever surprising to you how, though you are no longer made of tangible matter, the whistle of wind through endlessly tall trees will never cease to send a shiver down your transparent spine. The chill rests on your shoulders, curls around your neck with chilled lips; you know it must be cold, but you can’t for the life of you actually feel it. When you tread on the freshly-covered path, hurrying along in your urgency, the untouched pure white remains… untouched. When you glance behind you at the ringing of bells, no footsteps imprint on the finely frosted earth.

The horse is a dappled stallion, wide-eyed and foaming at the bit, hooves prancing high to escape the tug of the fallen snow. The gentleman sits, hands loose on the reins, comfortable in the saddle. He's handsome, with a jaw cut like glass and deep almond eyes peering out from a woolen scarf tucked beneath the folds of his jacket. As he passes by, wrapped deep in fur to fend off the chill, you step to the side of the path out of pure habit. It would take no effort at all to simply continue on your way, letting horse and rider barrel straight through your unseen figure, but you’ve learned by now that animals have a better sense of the preternatural and decided to spare the horse (and gentleman) undue panic.

The rider’s eyes never waver from the path ahead, confident and illustrious in his goings. He is bold and dashing and incredibly handsome, and you notice, too late, the scrawled insignia etched into the leather of the saddle, as refined yet regal as the very stranger who claims it.

The symbol of the nobility burns a brilliant gold against the black tanned skin, and your throat constricts with the pain of remembrance.

 Eyes as warm as the heat of summer sunshine; brow regal, fit for a king; tawny hair artfully sweeping across the breadth of his forehead; lips as plush as fat grapes in the fall; jaw as defined as a blade through wa-

The horse nickers, ridding snow from its hooves in dirt-flecked clumps, sending them straight through the aura of your petticoats.

You sigh, ruffling the folds of your dress, tucking tighter the corners of your jacket out of reflex. There are, you suppose, some benefits to being a ghost, but the complete and utter loneliness does tend to be a drawback. 

Indeed, the complete and utter loneliness makes you question whether your mission is even worth it in the first place. Is it worth trying to reconcile things with a lover when they can't even see you, hear you, feel you? You could caress their cheek with the most loving of touches, and yet they would guess it to be nothing but a passing breeze. The curse of eternity is one spent in solitude, a soul left to wander the earth with a purpose unfinished, aptly never to be ended. You watch as the horseman canters on, and something clenches in the space where your heart once nested, like the wrens that call the castle battlements home.

No. No. You cannot allow yourself to think like this. You cannot allow yourself to doubt, to assume that for a moment love is not a powerful enough force to wrest the bounds of time and shatter the fettered chains. Love is a blade more powerful than any forged sword, a fire more passionate than any raging mountain blaze. With love, one can mold a landscape to their liking, shift the sands of what is known into a brand new reality, a dawn previously inconceivable to any and all. 

Eyes as warm as the heat of summer sunshine; brow regal, fit for a king; tawny hair artfully sweeping across the breadth of his forehead; lips as plush as fat grapes in the fall; jaw as defined as a blade through wa-

The thought of him fills your mind; the gap in your chest mends. Every step you take is one step closer to him.

With every rise and fall of your boots, your boots seem to land in the tracks of the horse and rider, their figures now only a mere shadow against the backdrop of nature’s finest woodland cathedral.

The more you push on, the more memories seem to unconsciously surface in your mind. When you came to in that field, your mind was as untouched as the fallen snow. However, it took merely a wobbly rise to your feet for you to notice the massive jacket that hugged your frame, permanently welded to your aura whether you wanted it to be or not. Simply put, whatever you wore at the time of your death became your spirit’s regalia, and you often thanked the stars that you hadn’t decided to go riding in the buff that day. Not that you would in the first place.

With that jacket came the flood, as you called it. The waves of memories that lapped at the shores of your consciousness, their chaotic dances spilling foam into the crevices of your mind. They came back to you in one fell swoop, overwhelming in their sights and sensations and feelings, and you wondered how you could have, even if just for a brief moment, forgotten it all.

Eventually, the mouth of the forest opens to a broad, rutted dirt road, which has turned to mud with the advent of the blizzard. At the mouth sits a thatched roof shack, cheery with the ice that dangles precariously from the thickets of straw. Beyond it, fields of grain- sorghum and wheat and barley, their stalks cut low to the base. In a single breath, curling in on itself in the chilled air, your senses are flooded with thought and sound and breath.

“Catch me if you can!” Seokjin’s fingers slap at your shoulder, tagging you plain as day. He is barely thirteen, still gangly and slender with youth, but experienced eyes can see his frame beginning to thicken. There's delight in his eyes, a mirth that sparks double when he sees the fiery temper in your own. 

“Seokjin!” You hiss. He's playing a game of chance, egging you on as his father pauses at the edge of the forest to speak with the farmer who came bounding out of the newly-built barn. One of the things you loved about the king was his flexibility, his genuine interest in the lives of his subjects. He was willing to lend an ear to all, and it brought him a certain respect, from the lowest beggar to the highest knight. With that in mind, you dared not cross him. “Not now!”

“Papa’s not looking!” He teases, skipping backwards when you swing outwards with a well-timed smack. “Catch me if you ca-an!”

“Seokjin!” You hiss again with vigor, a concerned glance over your shoulder. “You’re not about to get us both in trouble!”

“You won't get in trouble.” He’s breathless, riled in his own games while his father talks business just beyond the magnolia bushes. “You're with me.”

“Just because you're the prince does not mean that I won't be sent to the gallows for participating in one of your stunts. This is an official business trip and I am thirteen and as so it happens your maid and I kind of need this jo-”

Without hesitation, the young prince saunters closer, leans in, and taps your nose lightly with a single digit. “I said,” Seokjin breathes, voice nearly a whisper. “Catch me if you can.”

In one fluid motion you lunge forward, your index finger landing squarely in the middle of his forehead. 

A smile breaks across his visage, radiant and mischievous, the grin of madmen. Or young boys. “Game on.”

You blink and the scene clears. The horses’ reins in your grasp evaporate, leaving you in front of a crumbling stone wall falling apart at the seams.

Peering closer, you realize the house has aged fast, too fast to be natural. The straw has grown thin in some places, the roof sagging inward, spine exhausted. The windows are grimy and cracked with age, and the foundation settles crooked into the soft earth. Beside the chimney, a rabbit twitches, darting into the brush at the inkling of eyes watching from afar. Something isn't right here, you think. Something is different from before.

You turn towards the horizon, the spires of the castle piercing the far-away arch of the sky, and continue on towards him.

He had never cared that you were only his maid.

You had been in his life as long as you could remember, and he had been in yours much the same. Your mother having been attendant to the queen meant that you inherited the duties for her royal child, born in the frigid chill of December a year and two months after you. From a young age you learned how to reorganize his endless closets and dressers, to attend him in a court of nobility, to keep a pitcher of cold water and a bottle of lavender on his bedside table every night. The fair-minded, fair-haired prince had never understood how you were any different to him- you thanked the stars his parents taught him humility from an early age- and as a result, he treated you much the same as he treated any of the other young boys in the court. You had never been “merely a maid” to him- you were a playmate, confidant, best friend, and later- much, much later- a lover. The only lover, in fact, that ever mattered to him.

He had had suitors from when he was as young as ten years old, coming to seek his hand in uniting their great kingdoms. They pranced about him in grand dresses of silk and lace, curtseying and bowing and placating themselves for his eyes. More than once, they’d nearly popped out of his head at how tight their bodices were. And yet, he never took one to be his bride- never even expressed interest in having one as his bride.

You secretly pondered if he was the stuff of legend, Ancient Greek myths that whispered of men coming together in ways that male and female could not. Meanwhile, as the years passed, you grew all the more closer to him, and he all the more closer to you. Often he'd tug a sewing needle out of your hand to insist that you go riding together, pulling you away from mending the jacket he’d torn the last time you went riding with him. He would beg you to visit him in the sparring circle to show you some new masterful combination he’d learned with sword and shield, even taking such liberties to teach you yourself some swordplay techniques. He would even take you down to the market to buy fresh vegetables for your grandmother, or new silks for a coat. It was clear that he cared about you deeply, deeper than he’d ever admit to himself for a long, long time.

Your journey continues on mile after mile; the closer you get to the center of the kingdom, the more broken down it all feels. Granted, it is the dead of winter, but the world seems to have fallen into disrepair along with it, lulled by the hypnosis of the cold into a weary, uneasy slumber. Cattle shuffle stiffly along their paddock fences; dry tufts of grass poke through the chilled mud. Civilians too hustle, wrapped in rags without splendor or hint of grace, trying their hardest to protect against the frosty bite. So much has changed in the brief time you've been gone, and for the first time, worry begins to gnaw at your thoughts with true voracity. It doesn't feel right, none of this does; but you know in the core of your being, that this, somehow, is home. 

With every landmark you pass, a new memory washes over you, scent and sight and feeling. You make a left at the second crossroads and continue on at the third, but your mind flashes back to the times you went right and then left to the beekeepers’ fields, or left and then right to the carpenter’s shack. Every memory rekindles a bit of something in you, something that you can name only as humanity, and you swear the chill’s begun to set in a little colder than it was before. You are more alive now than ever, you think.

It is as if in the brief time you slumbered, the world aged a hundred years without you. The miles to the city walls pass quickly, but not without mention. The closer you get, the more decrepit it all feels- richly constructed halls now ground to sawdust, fields of grain and vegetables now plains of snow and ice. The walls themselves are in poor shape, the dull stones lacking the regal glory they once held, and you ache at the sight. Once the pride and joy of the kingdom, now a sad hallmark- if there was anything left of the kingdom to begin with. 

A mere trickle of people flows on either side of the gate, a much, much slower stream from the constant push-pull of the tides you’re used to. Here, the roar was once chaos- a wave of crowds jostling in, a tide of jovial citizens pouring out in a flood of color and sound and energy. But the banners flutter threadbare, flapping without statement in the wind, as if they have fallen asleep at the helm, in the bleak of midwinter, in the midst of it all.

You crane your neck to see the guards as you approach, careful to keep your space from the few stragglers limping up the path along with you. In your youth, you knew every castle employee, every knight and guard and maid. Now, you squint till the nearest stern face comes into view, and realize, with a jolt of clarity, you don't recognize him at all.

His face is cold-cut, molded from a block of iron. His lips are pressed tightly together, back as straight as a ramrod, mouth as firm as an oak tree. He is completely unfamiliar to you, and for some reason, trepidation begins to roll a metaphorically thrilling drum beat in your stomach.

The fear, which had numbed to a gentle stream in the back of your conscious (if you could call it that), rose to a fever pitch. 

Something was horribly, horribly wrong, and you were absolutely determined to find out what.

You had a feeling that this is what you were brought back for, to get to the bottom of this horrid stunt, to find out why everything you knew had been thrown off its axis in one fell swoop. It thrummed in your silent pulse, lofted like owls’ wings through the quiet of the forest. No was simply not an answer, and when a renewed sense of determination beat in the space where your heart would have been, you touched your chest with a sudden burst of fondness. Seokjin was close, so close. It would be like old times; together, you would solve this, bring closure to this plague of wintertime. And you, his wonderful bride, reunited with him as if no time had ever been wasted in between. Not to mention you were home, back in your city, the place you had labored to visit for days, weeks, even months since you’d awoken in that godforsaken wheat field with a royal riding jacket wrapped around your shoulders.

Unassumingly, the guard turns his head and stares straight at you, gaze blank, numbly focused.

You hold your breath for one moment, two.

He blinks, stark eyes staring right through you, and thumbs the rutted shaft of his spear. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from his own, and, with only a moment’s hesitation, stride unfailing into the heart of the kingdom.

Your walk to the castle, at the very top of the city, is seemingly the longest, most arduous part of your journey by far.

Everywhere you look, in every corner seems to be darkness and despair. Shapeless forms, nameless figures cluster around pathetic fires, which sputter and lick with the will of the wind. Dead leaves tumble down the cobblestones to embed themselves in snowbanks, piled up high, effective barriers against the frost for the unlucky souls with no other place to go. Doors are wrenched shut but rattle every now and then, the muted glow under their edges a telltale indicator of the separation between poor and poorer. You hasten to avoid those clusters around the fires, god forbid a careless sweep of your petticoat extinguishes what little hope they have left. You pause for a moment when you see a mother clutching a child to her chest, wishing not for the first time you could simply reach out and make her problems melt away. If anything, you’d only make her feel worse, the lofty draft of your fingertips an added stress upon her already narrow shoulders.

With every step you take, you can feel the individual consciousnesses trapped here crying out for you, flocking to you, a bright burning candle flame against a backdrop of nighttime. There are so many souls beneath the ground, you wonder if there was some sort of famine. Does Seokjin see any of this? Where has he been? The questions plague you one after the other, much like the howling spirits that crowd the back of your mind, individually vying for your attention. No, you reassure yourself. I know him. Seokjin must have the situation under control, or if not, he's working to get it under control. The kingdom will be saved; happily-ever-after is just out of your reach, soon within. It simply cannot be any other way.

The higher and higher you climb, the more desolate the path becomes. It is clear that the only people who trek up here nowadays are the guards on their shift rotations, but even then, you’ve noticed less and less the closer you get to the castle. We had plenty of guards; I don't understand why the sudden lack, you think to yourself. Sooner or later you will have your answer, though, because you find yourself at the base of the castle, and your mouth drops open in some sickened form of awe.

Ah yes, what's the name of that feeling?

Horror.

Your home has fallen into disrepair, a state of shambles that never would have been allowed in the days of your lifetime. 

There are cracks and crevices that fracture the bones of the grand hall, splits and nicks in the wood from years of neglect. There once perched gargoyles and flowers and creations atop the limestone columns, so wonderfully sculpted that they seem to leap from their very material constraints into living, breathing figures. Now, only shattered fragments of the beasts remain, flower petals chipped away to fall hundreds of feet to the stiff dead stalks of grass below. A castle, once inhibited with beauty and life, now lies dormant, sleeping, decaying. A single piece of limestone, the wing of a butterfly, shears off, rebounding off the gutter to tumble to the dirt. From dust it is made, and to dust it shall return, but if you had a heart, you swear you would have felt it break.

Once again, it is the thought of him that keeps you moving, pushing on, except the fear is all-consuming now, a snarling dog snapping at the heels of your fantasy. You can barely think as you approach those great dark oaken doors, palm flat against the decaying planks as you pause, your eyes fluttering shut.

You still, readying yourself for this. This, the thing you have been waiting for, the only thing to keep you going, demanding that day after day you push on. Anticipation of it has pulsed in your veins for days, weeks; the closer you got, the more anxious and excited you became, but it is here now. It is here; there is nothing you can do to stop the hands of fate, for she brought you here to reunite you with him, Seokjin, the prince of your land but the king of your heart.

The toe of your boot eases into the splintering wood, and in one beat, your entire body passes through into the grand entrance hall.

For all of your preparation, however, nothing could possibly steel you for what lay on the other side of those doors.

The grand hall looked like it had been ransacked by an army. 

The stone arches above your head no longer bore their weight proudly, but drooped with depression suggesting hopelessness. A flurry of activity buzzed around you, a servant even stepping through you by pure mistake, but it was not the kind of bustling, cheery frenzy you were used to. This was a quiet kind of frenzy much like silent fury, the calm before the storm. Footsteps resonated against the grand ceilings flaked with paint, yet there was no exchange of greetings, no playful step of the servant children. It was an atmosphere so foreign it may as well have been a completely different house, rather than the home you knew so well as your own.

The throne room is many paces away from the entrance hall, but with your internalized map of the castle, it took a few mere passes through walls (and a left, another left, and a right) to land you in the hall of kings, or the waiting room outside of the throne room. There is a layer of dust that sits upon the artifacts, the Staff of Arrn’och, among others, nearly broken in two in its display case. Everywhere you looked, it seemed, was desolation. God forbid what the throne room itself would look like.

With a sudden bang!, the doors at the far end of the room were thrown open, a ragged, hunched figure stumbling through the open gap. Male or female you could not discern, matted strings of hair shielding its twisted visage, but the sobs its lungs produced pierced you to the core. The pair of guards at the opposite end of the room strode forward, collecting the pathetic creature by the underarms and practically dragging it down the muddy rug. Although you could pass through whatever surface you pleased, your instinct urged you through the gap in the closing doors, and you managed to slip past just as they slammed shut behind you.

In front of you lay a dias, fifty feet in diameter, upon which two thrones of the same size sat, both lonely, one bare. While large windows perched over the dias, casting blocks of light across the stone floor, any natural light that managed to filter into the high-ceilinged hall was dulled by grit and grime. Torches flickered low in their sconces, doing their best to compensate, but instead casting shadows across the walls that seemed to flinch at the quickest intake of breath. Indeed, the throne room had suffered much in your absence; it was as if you stepped into a nightmarish equivalent of your past life.

It was too dark to see the face of the king as you approached, his profile framed by shadow as he argued with an attendant.

“-can’t turn down every citizen who wants to make an audience with you and has good reason to do so,” The attendant insisted, his tone desperate. “The people are starving, but they haven't lost hope! They're looking to you, Your Majest-”

“And why would they look to me?” The king snapped, voice gravelly, a thickness there that you’d never heard before. “What good have I been to them? Haven't they seen enough of me yet? Every day, a miserable existence, and they seek to know my counsel on matters such as one calf between them?”

“One calf, my king, would provide food for their children for three days,” the attendant murmured gently. “Your people need you now, more than ever.”

But the king seemed not to hear, dismissing the attendant with a flick of his hand. “I can't hear any more.”

The attendant hesitated just a fraction, but bowed respectfully. “As you wish.”

It was at this moment you realized there were only two thrones, not the three you had been expecting. Although the queen had passed many years before, they had always kept a throne in its place for her, in her honor. You wondered now at this- where was Seokjin’s throne? 

The king, bowed over with the bridge of his nose pinched between two fingers, paid you no mind as you approached, dipping a respectful curtsy out of habit. He’d certainly gone grayer in these last few months, his shoulders having lost their proud touch, and he looked as if he was a completely different man, aging a hundred years in the mere two hundred hours it had taken you to get back to the place you so lovingly called home.

In your living days, you would not have dared step up the dias to look at the king eye-to-eye, god forbid he strike you down himself. But you were not alive, and these were desperate times, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

And so, with one fluid motion, you stepped atop the dias, skirt swirling around your ankles as you paused, waiting for something, but you did not know what. 

The king lifted his head, and as your eyes met his, aged with the aches and pains of ruling, you felt as if someone had ripped the very carpet out from underneath your feet and cast you back to the underworld below.

Because these were not the clear eyes of the king, sparkling and gentle in their mirth. These were not the bright pupils that brought forth memories of afternoons spent on the lake, or crystal clear waterfalls that tumbled through mysterious glades. 

No, these eyes were dark, once as rich as chocolate, but now as muddied as silt. Cataracts strung silky webs across the clag, weaving intricate patterns in the depths of emotion, rendering not only the viewer incapable of reading emotion, but the seer incapable of, well- doing just that. While crows’ feet stamped their corners and fine lines etched their lids, you would know those eyes even if you had seen them once in ten thousand years, for they stamped themselves onto your soul all that time ago, never to be undone by any mortal power.

“Seokjin?” You gasp, and at once, all of time seems to stand still.

For it is indeed Kim Seokjin who sits on the king’s throne, his beautiful features softened with age and the passage of time but still regal, ever unforgettable. He is enthrallingly handsome, but your heart aches evermore, because you have missed it all.

You have missed seeing the aches and pains of early, and then middle age set in. You have missed watching his child, the prince or princess (and surely more than one), stumble across the floor of the nursery for the first time. You have missed him sleeping in the early morning, worrying in the late evening; you have missed him in bed and in combat and all things in between. For it has been years, perhaps decades since your death, and in one horrifying moment, it clicks into perspective.

And then he tilts his head up at you and whispers your name, and it is as if every weight on your metaphysical shoulders has been lifted. “Is it really you?”

“Yes,” you warble; somehow tears streak your cheeks, pale in their sheen. “Yes, Seokjin, I'm so sorry; I'm here now, it's me-” you grab for his hand, but it passes right through, and he recoils at the draft. “I'm so fucking sorry.”

Flashes. A golden field, merry horses, a beautiful spring day. “Take my jacket, my darling. It will keep you warm.”

Hooves pounding, heart racing. The royal horses are afraid of practically nothing, their one fear far from your mind, unworthy of mention. Together you dash through the meadows, up and over hills and valleys. What you would give to run free with him forever.

“She's here,” Seokjin’s voice nearly breaks as he half-rises from his chair, extending an arm to brush his thumb along your cheek. “After so long waiting for my queen, she's finally here.”

“You can see me?” You beg for clarity, but alas, he does not reply.

You pause atop a hill crested with wildflowers, white and pink rivers that cascade down the landscape, tumbling, flowing unbridled and uninhibited. Seokjin is a mere few paces behind you, slowing to appreciate the beauty ahead of you.

“My lord?” The attendant steps forward

“Can you not see her?” Seokjin turns, gesturing to you. “She's right here. She's come back to me after so long,” and there's so much fondness, so much promise in his voice that you know, just know that things will be okay. You will right every wrong, fight every demon- “I have missed her dearly.”

“I've missed you too,” you choke. “With every bone in my body I have missed you; I have been walking for days, Seokjin, I'm so sorry-”

It is then that your horse nickers and tenses, rearing without warning and whinnying like the devil himself. He panics, lashing and whirling about, and you can only hold on for so long before you are thrown from his back like a rock from a slingshot.

Seokjin is screaming. You have never heard him scream like that before, a sound that seems to so purely channel fear and terror and anguish, all in one. He is a roaring fury, knife drawn from his belt, and he beheads the snake lying hidden in one fluid motion before dropping to his knees at your side. His shoulders shake as he weeps, cradling your body to his as your eyes roll back in your head and you cough, frame shuddering, barely conscious.

“Sire, there is nobody there,” The attendant says, as softly, carefully as he can.

“Don't leave me,” he’s sobbing, over and over. “This is all my fucking fault, I'm so sorry, so so sorry-”

“My love,” you whisper, fingers brushing the inside of his palm. It is all the strength you can muster. “I will have gone a thousand years, but to still find your eyes imprinted on the breath of my soul.”

He’s whimpering, blubbering, desperate, screaming for help. Screaming and screaming, but there is no one to stop the ceaseless flow of blood, and your final act of life is to stain the sleeves of his riding jacket crimson where it lies comfortable across the breadth of your shoulders.

“I have never forgotten you,” he exhales. “It has been sixty years and not one day have I gone without envisioning your face in my hands, beautiful.”

“I’ll fix this,” you promise, but it's starting to fall into place now, why everything around you is falling apart. “I'll help fix the kingdom if you would just tell me what's wrong, Seokjin. Please, I want to help. Tell me what I can do.”

“I have loved you perhaps too much,” his voice cracks, wobbles with ache. “I've neglected these people, our people. I say our people because you have always been my queen; I have never taken another; there is no one who is worthy of replacing you.” 

“Perhaps you should retire for the night, my king. You've had a long and tiresome day,” The attendant tries to coax Seokjin, but he pays the servant no mind.

“You're here in this moment for a reason, my sweet. You're here and we will fix this, I promise you,” Seokjin is nearly begging, the urgency in his voice bleeding scarlet. He rushes forward towards you. “We will fix this together-”

“Seokjin, my love-” You rush towards him with the same intensity, but your hand passes through his chest, and suddenly you are staring up at him, and his eyes are blank, unseeing.

The attendant clears his throat. “Your Majesty, there is no one there, sir. It is merely a draft.”

“I want to help you,” you plead, fingers tracing his sternum, his ribs, his heart. “I'm here, Seokjin. I'm here, right in front of you; I'm here. Believe in me. Believe in us; believe in love as I have believed in love. Please.”

The once-legendary prince, now dishonorable king looks out over a barren, desolate throne room as a zephyr of cold brushes icy digits down his shoulder, along his chest. “Ah,” he utters, sounding exhausted all at once. “I believe you're right.” A small chuckle parses his lips. “What am I saying? Perhaps I shall retire for the night, yes.” He pauses. “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

“Goodnight, my lord.” 

“Yoongi?”

“Yes, my king?”

“Start keeping the fire burning in the hearth. It's too drafty in this hall in the evenings.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Sleep well.”

“You as well, my faithful servant.”

#bts #bts angst #bts fluff #kpop angst #kpop fluff #seokjin angst #seokjin fluff #kpop fanfiction #bts au #verses and vibes #outroshooky

[naagi]

My Family’s Slave

By Alex Tizon

--

The ashes filled a black plastic box about the size of a toaster. It weighed three and a half pounds. I put it in a canvas tote bag and packed it in my suitcase this past July for the transpacific flight to Manila. From there I would travel by car to a rural village. When I arrived, I would hand over all that was left of the woman who had spent 56 years as a slave in my family’s household.

Her name was Eudocia Tomas Pulido. We called her Lola. She was 4 foot 11, with mocha-brown skin and almond eyes that I can still see looking into mine—my first memory. She was 18 years old when my grandfather gave her to my mother as a gift, and when my family moved to the United States, we brought her with us. No other word but slave encompassed the life she lived. Her days began before everyone else woke and ended after we went to bed. She prepared three meals a day, cleaned the house, waited on my parents, and took care of my four siblings and me. My parents never paid her, and they scolded her constantly. She wasn’t kept in leg irons, but she might as well have been. So many nights, on my way to the bathroom, I’d spot her sleeping in a corner, slumped against a mound of laundry, her fingers clutching a garment she was in the middle of folding.

To our American neighbors, we were model immigrants, a poster family. They told us so. My father had a law degree, my mother was on her way to becoming a doctor, and my siblings and I got good grades and always said “please” and “thank you.” We never talked about Lola. Our secret went to the core of who we were and, at least for us kids, who we wanted to be.

After my mother died of leukemia, in 1999, Lola came to live with me in a small town north of Seattle. I had a family, a career, a house in the suburbs—the American dream. And then I had a slave.

At baggage claim in Manila, I unzipped my suitcase to make sure Lola’s ashes were still there. Outside, I inhaled the familiar smell: a thick blend of exhaust and waste, of ocean and sweet fruit and sweat.Early the next morning I found a driver, an affable middle-aged man who went by the nickname “Doods,” and we hit the road in his truck, weaving through traffic. The scene always stunned me. The sheer number of cars and motorcycles and jeepneys. The people weaving between them and moving on the sidewalks in great brown rivers. The street vendors in bare feet trotting alongside cars, hawking cigarettes and cough drops and sacks of boiled peanuts. The child beggars pressing their faces against the windows.

Doods and I were headed to the place where Lola’s story began, up north in the central plains: Tarlac province. Rice country. The home of a cigar-chomping army lieutenant named Tomas Asuncion, my grandfather. The family stories paint Lieutenant Tom as a formidable man given to eccentricity and dark moods, who had lots of land but little money and kept mistresses in separate houses on his property. His wife died giving birth to their only child, my mother. She was raised by a series of utusans, or “people who take commands.”

Slavery has a long history on the islands. Before the Spanish came, islanders enslaved other islanders, usually war captives, criminals, or debtors. Slaves came in different varieties, from warriors who could earn their freedom through valor to household servants who were regarded as property and could be bought and sold or traded. High-status slaves could own low-status slaves, and the low could own the lowliest. Some chose to enter servitude simply to survive: In exchange for their labor, they might be given food, shelter, and protection.

When the Spanish arrived, in the 1500s, they enslaved islanders and later brought African and Indian slaves. The Spanish Crown eventually began phasing out slavery at home and in its colonies, but parts of the Philippines were so far-flung that authorities couldn’t keep a close eye. Traditions persisted under different guises, even after the U.S. took control of the islands in 1898. Today even the poor can have utusans or katulongs (“helpers”) or kasambahays (“domestics”), as long as there are people even poorer. The pool is deep.

Lieutenant Tom had as many as three families of utusans living on his property. In the spring of 1943, with the islands under Japanese occupation, he brought home a girl from a village down the road. She was a cousin from a marginal side of the family, rice farmers. The lieutenant was shrewd—he saw that this girl was penniless, unschooled, and likely to be malleable. Her parents wanted her to marry a pig farmer twice her age, and she was desperately unhappy but had nowhere to go. Tom approached her with an offer: She could have food and shelter if she would commit to taking care of his daughter, who had just turned 12.

Lola agreed, not grasping that the deal was for life.

“She is my gift to you,” Lieutenant Tom told my mother.

“I don’t want her,” my mother said, knowing she had no choice.

Lieutenant Tom went off to fight the Japanese, leaving Mom behind with Lola in his creaky house in the provinces. Lola fed, groomed, and dressed my mother. When they walked to the market, Lola held an umbrella to shield her from the sun. At night, when Lola’s other tasks were done—feeding the dogs, sweeping the floors, folding the laundry that she had washed by hand in the Camiling River—she sat at the edge of my mother’s bed and fanned her to sleep.

One day during the war Lieutenant Tom came home and caught my mother in a lie—something to do with a boy she wasn’t supposed to talk to. Tom, furious, ordered her to “stand at the table.” Mom cowered with Lola in a corner. Then, in a quivering voice, she told her father that Lola would take her punishment. Lola looked at Mom pleadingly, then without a word walked to the dining table and held on to the edge. Tom raised the belt and delivered 12 lashes, punctuating each one with a word. You. Do. Not. Lie. To. Me. You. Do. Not. Lie. To. Me. Lola made no sound.

My mother, in recounting this story late in her life, delighted in the outrageousness of it, her tone seeming to say, Can you believe I did that? When I brought it up with Lola, she asked to hear Mom’s version. She listened intently, eyes lowered, and afterward she looked at me with sadness and said simply, “Yes. It was like that.”

Seven years later, in 1950, Mom married my father and moved to Manila, bringing Lola along. Lieutenant Tom had long been haunted by demons, and in 1951 he silenced them with a .32‑caliber slug to his temple. Mom almost never talked about it. She had his temperament—moody, imperial, secretly fragile—and she took his lessons to heart, among them the proper way to be a provincial matrona: You must embrace your role as the giver of commands. You must keep those beneath you in their place at all times, for their own good and the good of the household. They might cry and complain, but their souls will thank you. They will love you for helping them be what God intended.

My brother Arthur was born in 1951. I came next, followed by three more siblings in rapid succession. My parents expected Lola to be as devoted to us kids as she was to them. While she looked after us, my parents went to school and earned advanced degrees, joining the ranks of so many others with fancy diplomas but no jobs. Then the big break: Dad was offered a job in Foreign Affairs as a commercial analyst. The salary would be meager, but the position was in America—a place he and Mom had grown up dreaming of, where everything they hoped for could come true.

Dad was allowed to bring his family and one domestic. Figuring they would both have to work, my parents needed Lola to care for the kids and the house. My mother informed Lola, and to her great irritation, Lola didn’t immediately acquiesce. Years later Lola told me she was terrified. “It was too far,” she said. “Maybe your Mom and Dad won’t let me go home.”

In the end what convinced Lola was my father’s promise that things would be different in America. He told her that as soon as he and Mom got on their feet, they’d give her an “allowance.” Lola could send money to her parents, to all her relations in the village. Her parents lived in a hut with a dirt floor. Lola could build them a concrete house, could change their lives forever. Imagine.

We landed in Los Angeles on May 12, 1964, all our belongings in cardboard boxes tied with rope. Lola had been with my mother for 21 years by then. In many ways she was more of a parent to me than either my mother or my father. Hers was the first face I saw in the morning and the last one I saw at night. As a baby, I uttered Lola’s name (which I first pronounced “Oh-ah”) long before I learned to say “Mom” or “Dad.” As a toddler, I refused to go to sleep unless Lola was holding me, or at least nearby.

I was 4 years old when we arrived in the U.S.—too young to question Lola’s place in our family. But as my siblings and I grew up on this other shore, we came to see the world differently. The leap across the ocean brought about a leap in consciousness that Mom and Dad couldn’t, or wouldn’t, make.

Lola never got that allowance. She asked my parents about it in a roundabout way a couple of years into our life in America. Her mother had fallen ill (with what I would later learn was dysentery), and her family couldn’t afford the medicine she needed. “Pwede ba?” she said to my parents. Is it possible? Mom let out a sigh. “How could you even ask?,” Dad responded in Tagalog. “You see how hard up we are. Don’t you have any shame?”

My parents had borrowed money for the move to the U.S., and then borrowed more in order to stay. My father was transferred from the consulate general in L.A. to the Philippine consulate in Seattle. He was paid $5,600 a year. He took a second job cleaning trailers, and a third as a debt collector. Mom got work as a technician in a couple of medical labs. We barely saw them, and when we did they were often exhausted and snappish.

Mom would come home and upbraid Lola for not cleaning the house well enough or for forgetting to bring in the mail. “Didn’t I tell you I want the letters here when I come home?” she would say in Tagalog, her voice venomous. “It’s not hard naman! An idiot could remember.” Then my father would arrive and take his turn. When Dad raised his voice, everyone in the house shrank. Sometimes my parents would team up until Lola broke down crying, almost as though that was their goal.

It confused me: My parents were good to my siblings and me, and we loved them. But they’d be affectionate to us kids one moment and vile to Lola the next. I was 11 or 12 when I began to see Lola’s situation clearly. By then Arthur, eight years my senior, had been seething for a long time. He was the one who introduced the word slave into my understanding of what Lola was. Before he said it I’d thought of her as just an unfortunate member of the household. I hated when my parents yelled at her, but it hadn’t occurred to me that they—and the whole arrangement—could be immoral.

“Do you know anybody treated the way she’s treated?,” Arthur said. “Who lives the way she lives?” He summed up Lola’s reality: Wasn’t paid. Toiled every day. Was tongue-lashed for sitting too long or falling asleep too early. Was struck for talking back. Wore hand-me-downs. Ate scraps and leftovers by herself in the kitchen. Rarely left the house. Had no friends or hobbies outside the family. Had no private quarters. (Her designated place to sleep in each house we lived in was always whatever was left—a couch or storage area or corner in my sisters’ bedroom. She often slept among piles of laundry.)

We couldn’t identify a parallel anywhere except in slave characters on TV and in the movies. I remember watching a Western called The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. John Wayne plays Tom Doniphon, a gunslinging rancher who barks orders at his servant, Pompey, whom he calls his “boy.” Pick him up, Pompey. Pompey, go find the doctor. Get on back to work, Pompey! Docile and obedient, Pompey calls his master “Mistah Tom.” They have a complex relationship. Tom forbids Pompey from attending school but opens the way for Pompey to drink in a whites-only saloon. Near the end, Pompey saves his master from a fire. It’s clear Pompey both fears and loves Tom, and he mourns when Tom dies. All of this is peripheral to the main story of Tom’s showdown with bad guy Liberty Valance, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Pompey. I remember thinking: Lola is Pompey, Pompey is Lola.

One night when Dad found out that my sister Ling, who was then 9, had missed dinner, he barked at Lola for being lazy. “I tried to feed her,” Lola said, as Dad stood over her and glared. Her feeble defense only made him angrier, and he punched her just below the shoulder. Lola ran out of the room and I could hear her wailing, an animal cry.

“Ling said she wasn’t hungry,” I said.

My parents turned to look at me. They seemed startled. I felt the twitching in my face that usually preceded tears, but I wouldn’t cry this time. In Mom’s eyes was a shadow of something I hadn’t seen before. Jealousy?

“Are you defending your Lola?,” Dad said. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“Ling said she wasn’t hungry,” I said again, almost in a whisper.

I was 13. It was my first attempt to stick up for the woman who spent her days watching over me. The woman who used to hum Tagalog melodies as she rocked me to sleep, and when I got older would dress and feed me and walk me to school in the mornings and pick me up in the afternoons. Once, when I was sick for a long time and too weak to eat, she chewed my food for me and put the small pieces in my mouth to swallow. One summer when I had plaster casts on both legs (I had problem joints), she bathed me with a washcloth, brought medicine in the middle of the night, and helped me through months of rehabilitation. I was cranky through it all. She didn’t complain or lose patience, ever.

To now hear her wailing made me crazy.

In the old country, my parents felt no need to hide their treatment of Lola. In America, they treated her worse but took pains to conceal it. When guests came over, my parents would either ignore her or, if questioned, lie and quickly change the subject. For five years in North Seattle, we lived across the street from the Misslers, a rambunctious family of eight who introduced us to things like mustard, salmon fishing, and mowing the lawn. Football on TV. Yelling during football. Lola would come out to serve food and drinks during games, and my parents would smile and thank her before she quickly disappeared. “Who’s that little lady you keep in the kitchen?,” Big Jim, the Missler patriarch, once asked. A relative from back home, Dad said. Very shy.

Billy Missler, my best friend, didn’t buy it. He spent enough time at our house, whole weekends sometimes, to catch glimpses of my family’s secret. He once overheard my mother yelling in the kitchen, and when he barged in to investigate found Mom red-faced and glaring at Lola, who was quaking in a corner. I came in a few seconds later. The look on Billy’s face was a mix of embarrassment and perplexity. What was that? I waved it off and told him to forget it.

I think Billy felt sorry for Lola. He’d rave about her cooking, and make her laugh like I’d never seen. During sleepovers, she’d make his favorite Filipino dish, beef tapa over white rice. Cooking was Lola’s only eloquence. I could tell by what she served whether she was merely feeding us or saying she loved us.

When I once referred to Lola as a distant aunt, Billy reminded me that when we’d first met I’d said she was my grandmother.

“Well, she’s kind of both,” I said mysteriously.

“Why is she always working?”

“She likes to work,” I said.

“Your dad and mom—why do they yell at her?”

“Her hearing isn’t so good …”

Admitting the truth would have meant exposing us all. We spent our first decade in the country learning the ways of the new land and trying to fit in. Having a slave did not fit. Having a slave gave me grave doubts about what kind of people we were, what kind of place we came from. Whether we deserved to be accepted. I was ashamed of it all, including my complicity. Didn’t I eat the food she cooked, and wear the clothes she washed and ironed and hung in the closet? But losing her would have been devastating.

There was another reason for secrecy: Lola’s travel papers had expired in 1969, five years after we arrived in the U.S. She’d come on a special passport linked to my father’s job. After a series of fallings-out with his superiors, Dad quit the consulate and declared his intent to stay in the United States. He arranged for permanent-resident status for his family, but Lola wasn’t eligible. He was supposed to send her back.

Lola’s mother, Fermina, died in 1973; her father, Hilario, in 1979. Both times she wanted desperately to go home. Both times my parents said “Sorry.” No money, no time. The kids needed her. My parents also feared for themselves, they admitted to me later. If the authorities had found out about Lola, as they surely would have if she’d tried to leave, my parents could have gotten into trouble, possibly even been deported. They couldn’t risk it. Lola’s legal status became what Filipinos call tago nang tago, or TNT—“on the run.” She stayed TNT for almost 20 years.

After each of her parents died, Lola was sullen and silent for months. She barely responded when my parents badgered her. But the badgering never let up. Lola kept her head down and did her work.

My father’s resignation started a turbulent period. Money got tighter, and my parents turned on each other. They uprooted the family again and again—Seattle to Honolulu back to Seattle to the southeast Bronx and finally to the truck-stop town of Umatilla, Oregon, population 750. During all this moving around, Mom often worked 24-hour shifts, first as a medical intern and then as a resident, and Dad would disappear for days, working odd jobs but also (we’d later learn) womanizing and who knows what else. Once, he came home and told us that he’d lost our new station wagon playing blackjack.

For days in a row Lola would be the only adult in the house. She got to know the details of our lives in a way that my parents never had the mental space for. We brought friends home, and she’d listen to us talk about school and girls and boys and whatever else was on our minds. Just from conversations she overheard, she could list the first name of every girl I had a crush on from sixth grade through high school.

When I was 15, Dad left the family for good. I didn’t want to believe it at the time, but the fact was that he deserted us kids and abandoned Mom after 25 years of marriage. She wouldn’t become a licensed physician for another year, and her specialty—internal medicine—wasn’t especially lucrative. Dad didn’t pay child support, so money was always a struggle.

My mom kept herself together enough to go to work, but at night she’d crumble in self-pity and despair. Her main source of comfort during this time: Lola. As Mom snapped at her over small things, Lola attended to her even more—cooking Mom’s favorite meals, cleaning her bedroom with extra care. I’d find the two of them late at night at the kitchen counter, griping and telling stories about Dad, sometimes laughing wickedly, other times working themselves into a fury over his transgressions. They barely noticed us kids flitting in and out.

One night I heard Mom weeping and ran into the living room to find her slumped in Lola’s arms. Lola was talking softly to her, the way she used to with my siblings and me when we were young. I lingered, then went back to my room, scared for my mom and awed by Lola.

Doods was humming. I’d dozed for what felt like a minute and awoke to his happy melody. “Two hours more,” he said. I checked the plastic box in the tote bag by my side—still there—and looked up to see open road. The MacArthur Highway. I glanced at the time. “Hey, you said ‘two hours’ two hours ago,” I said. Doods just hummed.

His not knowing anything about the purpose of my journey was a relief. I had enough interior dialogue going on. I was no better than my parents. I could have done more to free Lola. To make her life better. Why didn’t I? I could have turned in my parents, I suppose. It would have blown up my family in an instant. Instead, my siblings and I kept everything to ourselves, and rather than blowing up in an instant, my family broke apart slowly.

Doods and I passed through beautiful country. Not travel-brochure beautiful but real and alive and, compared with the city, elegantly spare. Mountains ran parallel to the highway on each side, the Zambales Mountains to the west, the Sierra Madre Range to the east. From ridge to ridge, west to east, I could see every shade of green all the way to almost black.

Doods pointed to a shadowy outline in the distance. Mount Pinatubo. I’d come here in 1991 to report on the aftermath of its eruption, the second-largest of the 20th century. Volcanic mudflows called lahars continued for more than a decade, burying ancient villages, filling in rivers and valleys, and wiping out entire ecosystems. The lahars reached deep into the foothills of Tarlac province, where Lola’s parents had spent their entire lives, and where she and my mother had once lived together. So much of our family record had been lost in wars and floods, and now parts were buried under 20 feet of mud.

Life here is routinely visited by cataclysm. Killer typhoons that strike several times a year. Bandit insurgencies that never end. Somnolent mountains that one day decide to wake up. The Philippines isn’t like China or Brazil, whose mass might absorb the trauma. This is a nation of scattered rocks in the sea. When disaster hits, the place goes under for a while. Then it resurfaces and life proceeds, and you can behold a scene like the one Doods and I were driving through, and the simple fact that it’s still there makes it beautiful.

A couple of years after my parents split, my mother remarried and demanded Lola’s fealty to her new husband, a Croatian immigrant named Ivan, whom she had met through a friend. Ivan had never finished high school. He’d been married four times and was an inveterate gambler who enjoyed being supported by my mother and attended to by Lola.

Ivan brought out a side of Lola I’d never seen. His marriage to my mother was volatile from the start, and money—especially his use of her money—was the main issue. Once, during an argument in which Mom was crying and Ivan was yelling, Lola walked over and stood between them. She turned to Ivan and firmly said his name. He looked at Lola, blinked, and sat down.

My sister Inday and I were floored. Ivan was about 250 pounds, and his baritone could shake the walls. Lola put him in his place with a single word. I saw this happen a few other times, but for the most part Lola served Ivan unquestioningly, just as Mom wanted her to. I had a hard time watching Lola vassalize herself to another person, especially someone like Ivan. But what set the stage for my blowup with Mom was something more mundane.

She used to get angry whenever Lola felt ill. She didn’t want to deal with the disruption and the expense, and would accuse Lola of faking or failing to take care of herself. Mom chose the second tack when, in the late 1970s, Lola’s teeth started falling out. She’d been saying for months that her mouth hurt.

“That’s what happens when you don’t brush properly,” Mom told her.

I said that Lola needed to see a dentist. She was in her 50s and had never been to one. I was attending college an hour away, and I brought it up again and again on my frequent trips home. A year went by, then two. Lola took aspirin every day for the pain, and her teeth looked like a crumbling Stonehenge. One night, after watching her chew bread on the side of her mouth that still had a few good molars, I lost it.

Mom and I argued into the night, each of us sobbing at different points. She said she was tired of working her fingers to the bone supporting everybody, and sick of her children always taking Lola’s side, and why didn’t we just take our goddamn Lola, she’d never wanted her in the first place, and she wished to God she hadn’t given birth to an arrogant, sanctimonious phony like me.

I let her words sink in. Then I came back at her, saying she would know all about being a phony, her whole life was a masquerade, and if she stopped feeling sorry for herself for one minute she’d see that Lola could barely eat because her goddamn teeth were rotting out of her goddamn head, and couldn’t she think of her just this once as a real person instead of a slave kept alive to serve her?

“A slave,” Mom said, weighing the word. “A slave?”

The night ended when she declared that I would never understand her relationship with Lola. Never. Her voice was so guttural and pained that thinking of it even now, so many years later, feels like a punch to the stomach. It’s a terrible thing to hate your own mother, and that night I did. The look in her eyes made clear that she felt the same way about me.

The fight only fed Mom’s fear that Lola had stolen the kids from her, and she made Lola pay for it. Mom drove her harder. Tormented her by saying, “I hope you’re happy now that your kids hate me.” When we helped Lola with housework, Mom would fume. “You’d better go to sleep now, Lola,” she’d say sarcastically. “You’ve been working too hard. Your kids are worried about you.” Later she’d take Lola into a bedroom for a talk, and Lola would walk out with puffy eyes.

Lola finally begged us to stop trying to help her.

Why do you stay? we asked.

“Who will cook?” she said, which I took to mean, Who would do everything? Who would take care of us? Of Mom? Another time she said, “Where will I go?” This struck me as closer to a real answer. Coming to America had been a mad dash, and before we caught a breath a decade had gone by. We turned around, and a second decade was closing out. Lola’s hair had turned gray. She’d heard that relatives back home who hadn’t received the promised support were wondering what had happened to her. She was ashamed to return.

She had no contacts in America, and no facility for getting around. Phones puzzled her. Mechanical things—ATMs, intercoms, vending machines, anything with a keyboard—made her panic. Fast-talking people left her speechless, and her own broken English did the same to them. She couldn’t make an appointment, arrange a trip, fill out a form, or order a meal without help.

I got Lola an ATM card linked to my bank account and taught her how to use it. She succeeded once, but the second time she got flustered, and she never tried again. She kept the card because she considered it a gift from me.

I also tried to teach her to drive. She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand, but I picked her up and carried her to the car and planted her in the driver’s seat, both of us laughing. I spent 20 minutes going over the controls and gauges. Her eyes went from mirthful to terrified. When I turned on the ignition and the dashboard lit up, she was out of the car and in the house before I could say another word. I tried a couple more times.

I thought driving could change her life. She could go places. And if things ever got unbearable with Mom, she could drive away forever.

Four lanes became two, pavement turned to gravel. Tricycle drivers wove between cars and water buffalo pulling loads of bamboo. An occasional dog or goat sprinted across the road in front of our truck, almost grazing the bumper. Doods never eased up. Whatever didn’t make it across would be stew today instead of tomorrow—the rule of the road in the provinces.

I took out a map and traced the route to the village of Mayantoc, our destination. Out the window, in the distance, tiny figures folded at the waist like so many bent nails. People harvesting rice, the same way they had for thousands of years. We were getting close.

I tapped the cheap plastic box and regretted not buying a real urn, made of porcelain or rosewood. What would Lola’s people think? Not that many were left. Only one sibling remained in the area, Gregoria, 98 years old, and I was told her memory was failing. Relatives said that whenever she heard Lola’s name, she’d burst out crying and then quickly forget why.

I’d been in touch with one of Lola’s nieces. She had the day planned: When I arrived, a low-key memorial, then a prayer, followed by the lowering of the ashes into a plot at the Mayantoc Eternal Bliss Memorial Park. It had been five years since Lola died, but I hadn’t yet said the final goodbye that I knew was about to happen. All day I had been feeling intense grief and resisting the urge to let it out, not wanting to wail in front of Doods. More than the shame I felt for the way my family had treated Lola, more than my anxiety about how her relatives in Mayantoc would treat me, I felt the terrible heaviness of losing her, as if she had died only the day before.

Doods veered northwest on the Romulo Highway, then took a sharp left at Camiling, the town Mom and Lieutenant Tom came from. Two lanes became one, then gravel turned to dirt. The path ran along the Camiling River, clusters of bamboo houses off to the side, green hills ahead. The homestretch.

I gave the eulogy at Mom’s funeral, and everything I said was true. That she was brave and spirited. That she’d drawn some short straws, but had done the best she could. That she was radiant when she was happy. That she adored her children, and gave us a real home—in Salem, Oregon—that through the ’80s and ’90s became the permanent base we’d never had before. That I wished we could thank her one more time. That we all loved her.

I didn’t talk about Lola. Just as I had selectively blocked Lola out of my mind when I was with Mom during her last years. Loving my mother required that kind of mental surgery. It was the only way we could be mother and son—which I wanted, especially after her health started to decline, in the mid‑’90s. Diabetes. Breast cancer. Acute myelogenous leukemia, a fast-growing cancer of the blood and bone marrow. She went from robust to frail seemingly overnight.

After the big fight, I mostly avoided going home, and at age 23 I moved to Seattle. When I did visit I saw a change. Mom was still Mom, but not as relentlessly. She got Lola a fine set of dentures and let her have her own bedroom. She cooperated when my siblings and I set out to change Lola’s TNT status. Ronald Reagan’s landmark immigration bill of 1986 made millions of illegal immigrants eligible for amnesty. It was a long process, but Lola became a citizen in October 1998, four months after my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. Mom lived another year.

During that time, she and Ivan took trips to Lincoln City, on the Oregon coast, and sometimes brought Lola along. Lola loved the ocean. On the other side were the islands she dreamed of returning to. And Lola was never happier than when Mom relaxed around her. An afternoon at the coast or just 15 minutes in the kitchen reminiscing about the old days in the province, and Lola would seem to forget years of torment.

I couldn’t forget so easily. But I did come to see Mom in a different light. Before she died, she gave me her journals, two steamer trunks’ full. Leafing through them as she slept a few feet away, I glimpsed slices of her life that I’d refused to see for years. She’d gone to medical school when not many women did. She’d come to America and fought for respect as both a woman and an immigrant physician. She’d worked for two decades at Fairview Training Center, in Salem, a state institution for the developmentally disabled. The irony: She tended to underdogs most of her professional life. They worshipped her. Female colleagues became close friends. They did silly, girly things together—shoe shopping, throwing dress-up parties at one another’s homes, exchanging gag gifts like penis-shaped soaps and calendars of half-naked men, all while laughing hysterically. Looking through their party pictures reminded me that Mom had a life and an identity apart from the family and Lola. Of course.

Mom wrote in great detail about each of her kids, and how she felt about us on a given day—proud or loving or resentful. And she devoted volumes to her husbands, trying to grasp them as complex characters in her story. We were all persons of consequence. Lola was incidental. When she was mentioned at all, she was a bit character in someone else’s story. “Lola walked my beloved Alex to his new school this morning. I hope he makes new friends quickly so he doesn’t feel so sad about moving again …” There might be two more pages about me, and no other mention of Lola.

The day before Mom died, a Catholic priest came to the house to perform last rites. Lola sat next to my mother’s bed, holding a cup with a straw, poised to raise it to Mom’s mouth. She had become extra attentive to my mother, and extra kind. She could have taken advantage of Mom in her feebleness, even exacted revenge, but she did the opposite.

The priest asked Mom whether there was anything she wanted to forgive or be forgiven for. She scanned the room with heavy-lidded eyes, said nothing. Then, without looking at Lola, she reached over and placed an open hand on her head. She didn’t say a word.

Lola was 75 when she came to stay with me. I was married with two young daughters, living in a cozy house on a wooded lot. From the second story, we could see Puget Sound. We gave Lola a bedroom and license to do whatever she wanted: sleep in, watch soaps, do nothing all day. She could relax—and be free—for the first time in her life. I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

I’d forgotten about all the things Lola did that drove me a little crazy. She was always telling me to put on a sweater so I wouldn’t catch a cold (I was in my 40s). She groused incessantly about Dad and Ivan: My father was lazy, Ivan was a leech. I learned to tune her out. Harder to ignore was her fanatical thriftiness. She threw nothing out. And she used to go through the trash to make sure that the rest of us hadn’t thrown out anything useful. She washed and reused paper towels again and again until they disintegrated in her hands. (No one else would go near them.) The kitchen became glutted with grocery bags, yogurt containers, and pickle jars, and parts of our house turned into storage for—there’s no other word for it—garbage.

She cooked breakfast even though none of us ate more than a banana or a granola bar in the morning, usually while we were running out the door. She made our beds and did our laundry. She cleaned the house. I found myself saying to her, nicely at first, “Lola, you don’t have to do that.” “Lola, we’ll do it ourselves.” “Lola, that’s the girls’ job.” Okay, she’d say, but keep right on doing it.

It irritated me to catch her eating meals standing in the kitchen, or see her tense up and start cleaning when I walked into the room. One day, after several months, I sat her down.

“I’m not Dad. You’re not a slave here,” I said, and went through a long list of slavelike things she’d been doing. When I realized she was startled, I took a deep breath and cupped her face, that elfin face now looking at me searchingly. I kissed her forehead. “This is your house now,” I said. “You’re not here to serve us. You can relax, okay?”

“Okay,” she said. And went back to cleaning.

She didn’t know any other way to be. I realized I had to take my own advice and relax. If she wanted to make dinner, let her. Thank her and do the dishes. I had to remind myself constantly: Let her be.

One night I came home to find her sitting on the couch doing a word puzzle, her feet up, the TV on. Next to her, a cup of tea. She glanced at me, smiled sheepishly with those perfect white dentures, and went back to the puzzle. Progress, I thought.

She planted a garden in the backyard—roses and tulips and every kind of orchid—and spent whole afternoons tending it. She took walks around the neighborhood. At about 80, her arthritis got bad and she began walking with a cane. In the kitchen she went from being a fry cook to a kind of artisanal chef who created only when the spirit moved her. She made lavish meals and grinned with pleasure as we devoured them.

Passing the door of Lola’s bedroom, I’d often hear her listening to a cassette of Filipino folk songs. The same tape over and over. I knew she’d been sending almost all her money—my wife and I gave her $200 a week—to relatives back home. One afternoon, I found her sitting on the back deck gazing at a snapshot someone had sent of her village.

“You want to go home, Lola?”

She turned the photograph over and traced her finger across the inscription, then flipped it back and seemed to study a single detail.

“Yes,” she said.

Just after her 83rd birthday, I paid her airfare to go home. I’d follow a month later to bring her back to the U.S.—if she wanted to return. The unspoken purpose of her trip was to see whether the place she had spent so many years longing for could still feel like home.

She found her answer.

“Everything was not the same,” she told me as we walked around Mayantoc. The old farms were gone. Her house was gone. Her parents and most of her siblings were gone. Childhood friends, the ones still alive, were like strangers. It was nice to see them, but … everything was not the same. She’d still like to spend her last years here, she said, but she wasn’t ready yet.

“You’re ready to go back to your garden,” I said.

“Yes. Let’s go home.”

Lola was as devoted to my daughters as she’d been to my siblings and me when we were young. After school, she’d listen to their stories and make them something to eat. And unlike my wife and me (especially me), Lola enjoyed every minute of every school event and performance. She couldn’t get enough of them. She sat up front, kept the programs as mementos.

It was so easy to make Lola happy. We took her on family vacations, but she was as excited to go to the farmer’s market down the hill. She became a wide-eyed kid on a field trip: “Look at those zucchinis!” The first thing she did every morning was open all the blinds in the house, and at each window she’d pause to look outside.

And she taught herself to read. It was remarkable. Over the years, she’d somehow learned to sound out letters. She did those puzzles where you find and circle words within a block of letters. Her room had stacks of word-puzzle booklets, thousands of words circled in pencil. Every day she watched the news and listened for words she recognized. She triangulated them with words in the newspaper, and figured out the meanings. She came to read the paper every day, front to back. Dad used to say she was simple. I wondered what she could have been if, instead of working the rice fields at age 8, she had learned to read and write.

During the 12 years she lived in our house, I asked her questions about herself, trying to piece together her life story, a habit she found curious. To my inquiries she would often respond first with “Why?” Why did I want to know about her childhood? About how she met Lieutenant Tom?

I tried to get my sister Ling to ask Lola about her love life, thinking Lola would be more comfortable with her. Ling cackled, which was her way of saying I was on my own. One day, while Lola and I were putting away groceries, I just blurted it out: “Lola, have you ever been romantic with anyone?” She smiled, and then she told me the story of the only time she’d come close. She was about 15, and there was a handsome boy named Pedro from a nearby farm. For several months they harvested rice together side by side. One time, she dropped her bolo—a cutting implement—and he quickly picked it up and handed it back to her. “I liked him,” she said.

Silence.

“And?”

“Then he moved away,” she said.

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“Lola, have you ever had sex?,” I heard myself saying.

“No,” she said.

She wasn’t accustomed to being asked personal questions. “Katulong lang ako,” she’d say. I’m only a servant. She often gave one- or two-word answers, and teasing out even the simplest story was a game of 20 questions that could last days or weeks.

Some of what I learned: She was mad at Mom for being so cruel all those years, but she nevertheless missed her. Sometimes, when Lola was young, she’d felt so lonely that all she could do was cry. I knew there were years when she’d dreamed of being with a man. I saw it in the way she wrapped herself around one large pillow at night. But what she told me in her old age was that living with Mom’s husbands made her think being alone wasn’t so bad. She didn’t miss those two at all. Maybe her life would have been better if she’d stayed in Mayantoc, gotten married, and had a family like her siblings. But maybe it would have been worse. Two younger sisters, Francisca and Zepriana, got sick and died. A brother, Claudio, was killed. What’s the point of wondering about it now? she asked. Bahala na was her guiding principle. Come what may. What came her way was another kind of family. In that family, she had eight children: Mom, my four siblings and me, and now my two daughters. The eight of us, she said, made her life worth living.

None of us was prepared for her to die so suddenly.

Her heart attack started in the kitchen while she was making dinner and I was running an errand. When I returned she was in the middle of it. A couple of hours later at the hospital, before I could grasp what was happening, she was gone—10:56 p.m. All the kids and grandkids noted, but were unsure how to take, that she died on November 7, the same day as Mom. Twelve years apart.

Lola made it to 86. I can still see her on the gurney. I remember looking at the medics standing above this brown woman no bigger than a child and thinking that they had no idea of the life she had lived. She’d had none of the self-serving ambition that drives most of us, and her willingness to give up everything for the people around her won her our love and utter loyalty. She’s become a hallowed figure in my extended family.

Going through her boxes in the attic took me months. I found recipes she had cut out of magazines in the 1970s for when she would someday learn to read. Photo albums with pictures of my mom. Awards my siblings and I had won from grade school on, most of which we had thrown away and she had “saved.” I almost lost it one night when at the bottom of a box I found a stack of yellowed newspaper articles I’d written and long ago forgotten about. She couldn’t read back then, but she’d kept them anyway.

Doods’s truck pulled up to a small concrete house in the middle of a cluster of homes mostly made of bamboo and plank wood. Surrounding the pod of houses: rice fields, green and seemingly endless. Before I even got out of the truck, people started coming outside.

Doods reclined his seat to take a nap. I hung my tote bag on my shoulder, took a breath, and opened the door.

“This way,” a soft voice said, and I was led up a short walkway to the concrete house. Following close behind was a line of about 20 people, young and old, but mostly old. Once we were all inside, they sat down on chairs and benches arranged along the walls, leaving the middle of the room empty except for me. I remained standing, waiting to meet my host. It was a small room, and dark. People glanced at me expectantly.“

Where is Lola?” A voice from another room. The next moment, a middle-aged woman in a housedress sauntered in with a smile. Ebia, Lola’s niece. This was her house. She gave me a hug and said again, “Where is Lola?”

I slid the tote bag from my shoulder and handed it to her. She looked into my face, still smiling, gently grasped the bag, and walked over to a wooden bench and sat down. She reached inside and pulled out the box and looked at every side. “Where is Lola?” she said softly. People in these parts don’t often get their loved ones cremated. I don’t think she knew what to expect. She set the box on her lap and bent over so her forehead rested on top of it, and at first I thought she was laughing (out of joy) but I quickly realized she was crying. Her shoulders began to heave, and then she was wailing—a deep, mournful, animal howl, like I once heard coming from Lola.

I hadn’t come sooner to deliver Lola’s ashes in part because I wasn’t sure anyone here cared that much about her. I hadn’t expected this kind of grief. Before I could comfort Ebia, a woman walked in from the kitchen and wrapped her arms around her, and then she began wailing. The next thing I knew, the room erupted with sound. The old people—one of them blind, several with no teeth—were all crying and not holding anything back. It lasted about 10 minutes. I was so fascinated that I barely noticed the tears running down my own face. The sobs died down, and then it was quiet again.

Ebia sniffled and said it was time to eat. Everybody started filing into the kitchen, puffy-eyed but suddenly lighter and ready to tell stories. I glanced at the empty tote bag on the bench, and knew it was right to bring Lola back to the place where she’d been born.

----------

Alex Tizon was a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and the author of Big Little Man: In Search of My Asian Self. This article originally appeared in the June 2017 issue of The Atlantic and needless to say it was difficult to hold back the tears while reading this incredibly moving piece.

#alex tizon #slave #family #slavery #mother #maid

[awkwardplant]

Finding Magic chp 1

(Feel free to leave feedback!) {Fantasy: 2450 words}

A knight dropped his weapon to the lush plains of the field. Dusk approached, and he stood in the middle of battle. He glanced from his fallen sword to the huge, fire-breathing dragon that opened its mouth, preparing to blast him. Moments ago he’d been fearing for his life, about to cast an ice spell from the tip of his blade against his enemy. But instead he wondered: why did dragons breathe fire? They were just fat, enchanted lizards. Magic made little sense sometimes.

For example, now, when his magic left him and he uhhh didn’t… care? The knight thought of his grocery list for a moment. The dragon’s flames hurriedly approached him. The knight realised he didn’t care much for his errands either. He had no magic, no food for dinner, and if this dragon had its way: no life.

"God has forsaken me. Huh."

"Renato! Get out the way!"

A body charged at the knight, shoving him to safety. The body belonged to Pepi, Renato’s twenty-one-year-old squire. Pepi’s hair stood on end, as if to match his anxious demeanour. His beard was seldom more than a few hairs clinging to his chin. He’d been much too busy helping Renato and the townsfolk these past few weeks to take care of his appearance. Pepi’s eyes flitted back and forth to the dragon and Renato, who he lugged along while running away.

"Oi, what the hell were you doing back there, standing and doing bugger all?!" Pepi yelled.

"Thinking 'bout lizards. Food. Magic. God. Quite a few things. I have a lot of thoughts in me head."

Pepi pushed Renato onto the ground, grabbing fistfuls of his own frizzy hair. He went down alongside Renato, shielding them both behind a large rock.

"For someone with a load of thoughts you haven’t got any damn sense!"

"Hey." Renato rolled over to watch the sky which had turned orange with black creeping in at the horizon.

"Listen, I’d say sorry for overstepping boundaries but you hired me to keep your butt out of danger-"

"I can't use me magic. It’s gone."

Pepi turned to Renato; his fury fell away as he kneaded his forehead with worn fingers, letting out a hard sigh.

"First the townsfolk, the knights, now you. I swear there’s a curse on this town. It also doesn't help that you’re the only experienced magic healer too- hold your horses, how come you look different? Also, your voice is pure weird."

When the battle began, Renato had shiny black hair and a chiselled jaw befitting the hero people knew him to be. At present, Renato had curly blonde hair, fatigued eyes, large buckteeth, and acne riddled cheeks. Renato’s speech had become heavy with a Geordie accent similar to the townsfolk yet unlike his usual smooth voice.

"I use so many cantrips every day. S’pose they aren’t working either. Aah well. It was fun being bonny while it lasted."

"What a waste of spells. We’ll have a chat about vanity and misusing magic after this, but right now we’ve got to figure out how to get this dragon out of town."

"Tell it to go home. Say "go to bed you little cunt". Do you think dragons have beds? I think it wants one of ours."

Pepi rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Aye I’ll give it a gift basket with a fifty meter long bed and a few townsfolk to munch on.”

"Just saying. You never know."

Pepi stood up and jogged towards the dragon. He waved his arms to get its attention. Night was approaching quickly and stars peppered the sky above. The dragon coiled its tail and narrowed yellow eyes at the human with a clear death wish.

"Truce! Please! I don't know if you understand me but just leave us alone! Go away! Us humans all taste like shit anyway, because that’s all we eat! I’m not being paid enough for this I tell you."

The dragon raised its scaly neck, seeming to touch the stars with its head, and unfolded its great wings. With a huge gust of wind the beast propelled itself into the air and flew away. Pepi lowered his arms from his face after the wind quietened, placing his hands onto his hips.

"Maybe I suddenly developed the ability to talk to dragons. Or maybe the dragon left because the temperature dropped, and lizards are lizards no matter how big and fiery they are. The world will never know."

Still sitting by the rock, Renato called out to Pepi. "Is it gone now? Gone to bed?"

"Aye. How you holding up? Don't suppose you've suddenly regained your magic have you?"

"… I don't know. I want to go see if me mam's made any pie."

"Pie? That's the last thing you should worry about. You haven't lived with your mum since you became a knight."

"I know and I'm not worried, it's just that she makes a nice apple pie. I don't really want to eat but me stomach is hurting, and it's annoying." Renato's stomach grumbled, as if the only magic he had left was comedic timing. "I'm tired too. Can I go home?"

Pepi sighed. "Listen, pal we've got to figure this out, we have to speak to Lord Paule. His so called Chosen Protector of Llantry isn't much of a protector anymore, are you? And we can't leave a thousand citizens on their own. They also have no magic. They aren't so familiar with using weapons either."

"I suppose.. that would be the right thing to do. I don't care, but I also have strong morals, and me instincts tell me we should help them. Protect them. Lidion's the God of Protection and he chose me." Renato paused, a faint glimmer of thoughtfulness flashed through his eyes. "You don't suppose he's unchosen me has he? Why would he do that?" He gasped. "Maybe it's because I was using so many cantrips and now Lidion doesn't like me."

"Wouldn't put it against him, but no. Most people have innate magic. Sure, some get chosen by Gods, however I don't reckon every single person in town has done something bad enough to get their magic revoked entirely. In fact, I don't think they've ever done much of anything besides eat, work, and sleep. You folk are boring as hell."

Pepi began to guide Renato by the shoulders towards the Lord's manor. "Let's speak to the posh folk and see what they have to say."

Two of Farmer Dunn's sheep in the fenced area of the field stared blankly at them as they drew closer to the South Gate. Renato and Pepi were let inside by a bored looking guard and reached the main path leading to the town center. The two of them walked by the temple, a humble building built to be a quiet haven for meditation and rituals. The townsfolk went there often these days. But sitting in silence for hours on end had done nothing to cure their magic loss.

Three people stood by the entrance looking as if they'd just buried somebody in the temple's cemetery. None of them noticed Renato or Pepi. Or maybe they did, but couldn't muster up the energy to care. Across the street, the stone-mason Anier wept by Lidion's shrine, begging for forgiveness. You knew something awful was going down when the town's most stoic citizen had tears and snot on his face. Pepi guided Renato with a hand on the knight's shoulder. They took a right and walked through Crystalcoin Borough where the gentry lived.

At the end of the street, a single knight guarded the walled manor on top of the gatehouse. He hadn't been much of a knight lately, what with all the magic loss and his lack of talent in wielding a weapon of any sorts. Pepi frowned. The knight looked at nothing and half-heartedly changed posture when he noticed the pair.

"Halt. Who goes there?" The knight held a crossbow towards Pepi. The pointed end of the arrow was facing the knight's chest.

"Careful Dumpster, you might shoot yourself with that thing."

"It's Sir Dempster, not Dumpster. State your business Squire."

The knights hadn't been fun to tease from the moment Pepi stepped into this town. The magic loss began spreading at the beginning of the year, according to Renato. Possibly the only excitement they'd had this year (or any year) was two months ago when Pepi arrived as a candy merchant while travelling South. He drew a large crowd and sold out within an hour. Then upon seeing Renato, Pepi pointed a finger in his direction and said with wide eyes: "Hey, you! I'm supposed to be your assistant!" Then immediately tried to retract his statement, as he didn't know why he said it.

But it convinced Renato that Lidion had sent Pepi and promptly fired his very inexperienced and annoying ten-year-old Page. The furious Page kicked Pepi in the shin, stole a piece of candy, and ran off. (These days the ex-Page stood unmoving in the river for hours on end while staring at the sky.) Pepi's poor memory of his recent journey and the general rarity of visitors that came to Llantry only made Renato more certain that he had to hire him. Since then Pepi had lived in Llantry, stuck doing chores for Renato and cursing himself for speaking impulsively. His family probably wondered where on Earth he could be. At least he got to sleep in the manor, even if it was only so he could guard Renato's bedchamber door.

"Well, we live here so that should be reason enough to let us in." Pepi rolled his eyes. "But right now we need to speak to Lord Paule. Your head knight's magic buggered off." Pepi knocked on Renato's armour. Renato jolted like he'd just woken up, then went back to looking dazed (and thinking of apple pie).

"I see. That's not good at all. The town is now in a state of emergency. Oh dear. I will let you inside." Dempster pulled a lever and opened the drawbridge for them.

Pepi and Renato walked through the gate and the courtyard, heading to the parlour. Like the temple, the manor was as humble as a nobleman's house could be. Tapestries lined the walls showing scenes of knights fighting creatures that had tried to attack the town. Pepi called over one of Lord Paule's servants.

"Where's Lord Paule?" he asked.

"In the dining room. The Lord has guests over, important guests. He requested that no-one disturb him." A stray lock of hair fell in front of the servant's face. She didn't seem to notice it obscuring her vision.

Pepi shook his head, clicking his tongue. "This is important, maybe even more so than those guests. Thanks."

In the dining hall, Lord Paule wasn't in his usual seat at the head of the table. Instead he was a few seats down. The important guests seemed to be Lords of neighboring towns, the Baron, the Count, and various other noblemen who constantly fought over how high their rank was (because nobody really knew how feudal hierarchy worked). Visitors were rare enough as it was but high ranking visitors were basically unheard of. At the head of the table sat the Duchess who was the only person speaking.

"Lord Paule, if you cannot provide enough knights with magic who can go into war when the King requests it, you must pay more taxes to cover your lack of support." Her voice was gentle but firm.

"Your Grace. With all due respect. The vast majority of my people can't work. They are sick with something. But it's not something a doctor or magic healer can cure. The healers said they can only cure the ill effects of magic, not a loss of magic itself."

Lord Paule stared at his untouched wine glass with vacant eyes. His clothes were wildly unkempt. Judging by the noblemen next to him who covered their noses with their sleeves: Lord Paule needed a bath. "There's also a massive food shortage as the farmers are ill. Punishing them does nothing. Even if someone else took my place they would have the same issues. We're not able to support the King until we can support ourselves."

A cup-bearer poured wine into the Duchess' glass. Or rather that's what he attempted to do but he just couldn't seem to gather enough energy to tip the bottle down. "I see," the Duchess said. "Just leave the wine here I can pour it myself. Try to conserve your energy young man." The cup-bearer set the wine bottle on the table and went to slouch in a corner of the room. "Perhaps we need to bring in scholars who can study the people and see if they can find patterns. Lord Paule, you seem to be rather poorly yourself. But as far as I know you cannot use magic, is that correct?"

"You are correct, I wasn't born with or granted the gift of magic. Perhaps the illness is contagious. Oh," Lord Paule noticed Renato. "The chosen protector of Llantry. I wasn't expecting you. And uh, you look a little different..? Ahem. I take it you're here to announce your defeat of the dragon roaming the fields."

Pepi's lips tightened. Perhaps he should've waited until the noblemen and Duchess left so he didn't embarrass the Lord. But then again, maybe if he sounded desperate enough they'd help Llantry. And the Lord was already doing enough to embarrass himself.

"My Lord, I'm afraid Renato is… out of commission. So to speak. That means absolutely no one in town has magic. Bit of a bummer, isn't it?" Everyone stared at Pepi and sweat formed on his forehead. "Sorry to crash your wee party. And nice to meet you, Miss Graceness..? I don't know what they call posh folks like you. Uh, I bet you live in a castle nicer than this dump. Aye I'd sure love it if you could take me back to your place."

Pepi had met no nobles as high ranking as the Duchess before and prayed he hadn't made a bad first impression in his awkward moment of timidness. The Duchess glared at him. Pepi jumped at the intensity of the anger in her eyes. He blurted out another sentence he would soon wish he'd never said;

"I know someone who can cure the townsfolk."

Thanks for reading!

Llantry is inspired by Newcastle, England and Pepi's from a country which is based on Scotland. (I took out the dialects to make it easier to read.) This story is pretty much just me playing D&D by myself. Let me know if you liked it so far! If you want to leave feedback, here are some ideas:

Do you often read fantasy? If so, did this chapter strike you as original?

Where did you feel the story dragged/was slow?

Which character would you most like to meet and get to know?

Would you get rid of any characters?

Anything that made you think "Eh... that doesn't sound right"?

Finish this sentence: I continued reading because...

#writing #fantasy #writeblr #original fiction #writblr #writers on tumblr #original writing #novel #plantpost

[starswordartblog]

Quick author’s note: this is for @oc-growth-and-development​‘s OCtober prompts, day 4: Nature. I’m glad to be finally writing Moira having speaking lines.

It hadn't been long since Moira and her sister Mirian had come to Fortune Forest. Mirian had already perfectly integrated with the mage community there, which basically meant she was showing off her strength and competing with them over any little thing. Mages had no interest in self control, it seemed.

Moira wasn't much into all that rowdiness, and was content for now to stay in the sidelines as Mirian's cute little sister to anyone who cared to look. That didn't mean she wasn't enjoying magic though. She loved all the different kinds of powers that were there, how they all seemed like a part of who the user was. Mirian, always so bossy and rebellious, could animate anything around her to be a servant or a weapon. The graceful and dignified Rita could control gravity to fly and twirl weightless. The easygoing Evelyn could manipulate luck and always had some random fun thing going on for her.

Moira wanted to have something like that, too. To express herself so freely in her own way. Not to pick fights or scare others when angry or nothing hurtful, just to make her happy memories and feelings shine. That's why she had started her little grimoire. She would fill it with happiness, page by page. She strolled through the usual road between the forest and the nearest town, humming a cheerful tune, intending to pick up some groceries. 

She was distracted by the smell of smoke coming from somewhere off the road. Had there been an incident in some nearby farm? She became worried and rushed to look.

Thankfully, it was nothing so terrible. Like most things in Fortune Forest, it was just a mage doing their thing. A boy who looked around Moira's age was shooting fireball after fireball on the trees and rocks nearby. Both things had papers stuck on them with target marks. Target practice then, but, even when he didn't hit the targets with the balls themselves, some of the sparks that flew from them would, and the paper would quickly burn anyway. Not a well thought exercise...

"You're not gonna burn down the fields, are you?" Was what she decided to comment on instead, for it was a much more pressing issue. Sure, this region was rocky and the trees sparse, but not very far from there were patches of lush grass and then the town's farms. If he was powerful and careless enough (and he looked like it) he could do some serious damage.

"Hey, I said I'd stay from-" he started angrily, then cut himself as he got a better look on her. "Oh. You're not that farmer. Wait, so there's more than one? I can't stay here hearing complaints all day!" The anger was immediately back. His personality was already very obvious: a hotheaded fire mage.

Moira smiled. "I guess I'm not the first to warn you then." She came closer. "I'm no farmer though, I just live around here. My name is Moira. What about yours?"

"I'm Nathan," he said, then scowled. "So, you think I'm gonna burn your house down? I know where I'm shooting at, geez. Also I didn't even see any houses around here."

"Sorry, I wasn't insulting your aim or anything," she clarified. Last thing she wanted was an offended fiery mage trying to prove himself. "I was just worried about how far the fire can spread, that's all. Though come to think of it, does magical fire spread the same way normal fire does? I'm not sure." Her sister was the one who devoured magical books for breakfast, Moira had learned only tidbits from her and other mages she'd befriended.

"Well, it can, when you use magic it's always easier to work with nature than against it," he explained naturally, lighting a finger on fire, "so if you use fire it's gonna want to do what fire does. But if you're a great enough mage," he grinned, "you can get it to burn wherever you want." To make his point, he pressed his finger on the tip of a leaf of the tree above them. Instead of burning the whole leaf, the ember crossed in a straight line only in the middle, burning it until it split into two halves and fell. The original ember remained at the final spot, flickering.

"'Course, if you're a great mage you can also make a lot of it." The remaining ember then exploded into way more flames, burning down almost the whole tree. Moira couldn't help letting out a little squeak at the destruction. But as she stared at the aftermath, she realized that whatever else had caught fire by the sparks didn't burn for long.

"Well, that sure was impressive," she said, only a bit shaken. Living with her sister had prepared her for such displays of power. "It must be really useful to control it that way, you can go on the offense but you can also protect people from it!"

His smile had gone from cocky from just plain gleeful. "Awesome, isn't it? Though I haven't really protected people so far, I think, I just have to know how to not burn down a forest every training, or else I wouldn't have anywhere to live." He crossed his arms and looked away. "I'm not saying I don't, I, I could protect anyone if I had to, okay? I'm gonna learn how to do all the other fire things one day, I'm, I'm just better at burning."

"I'm sure you will, since you seem to be working hard at it," Moira said, patting his shoulder lightly, even if she didn't quite get why he got so upset. "What are the other fire things though?"

"Well, the other fire things are, uh," he hesitated at first, then started listing them as naturally as his last explanation. "It light up places, it warms you up, it keeps you safe, because it keeps the beasts away, so fire is peace too. Fire is home."

"Home?"

"Yeah, home. It's your food and your warmth and your sleep."

"Oh!" something lit up in Moira's mind. "That's right! I knew I had something like that in my grimoire, let me show you!" she took out the thin book from her backpack and started flipping pages. Nathan, eyes wide as soon as she mentioned a grimoire, stared at it over her shoulder.

"That's a grimoire? I've never seen one so full of pictures." he commented. Moira's grimoire was nothing but drawings she had made of memories precious to her.

She stopped at a page that was mostly painted black. Some brown tree branches stuck out from the sides, with an owl perched on each of them. In the center were two stick figures huddled together, covered with a blanket, in front of a campfire.

It was a scene from Moira and Mirian's travels before getting to Fortune Forest. Moira had loved all the places they'd been, getting to enjoy the wonders of the wilderness, her sister always there to protect her.

"See, here it is! Memory Spell: Owl Campfire."

The spell draw forth Moira's feelings. The illusion of a dark night, the hooting of the owls, the feeling of someone's fingers running through your hair, the crackling of the fire and its shapes, getting blurrier and softer as the sleepiness grew. Moira looked at it lovingly, just like she once did at the real thing.

"So, this is what you meant, ri-" she turned to Nathan, but the boy wasn't there. He was sprawled in the floor, completely knocked out.

Moira turned off the spell, silently covering her mouth. She poked him, and he didn't react, looking so peaceful and so out of the world. What would she do? She would feel bad waking him up, and even worse leaving him all alone there...

She sighed and sat down next to him. Her groceries wouldn't get done that day, it seemed.

#oc tober #writing #original story #original characters #fantasy #magic #despero #moira of the unicorn grimoire #nathan of the true fire #2019 #yup i still don't have last names for any of these people! life is pain! #edit: life is still pain but i have names now #moira owen #nathan truefire #i'm not sure on nathan's yet but let's put it here #in the future looking at these tags will be very funny

[wild3flow3r]

Chapter Eight

January 26th

“What the hell are you doing here? It’s only half past bloody eight in the morning on a Saturday, Harry.”

Harry stood right outside the door of Lorelai’s flat. He had two boxes in his hands. One from some bakery Lorelai’s never heard of, and the other was holding the teapot Lorelai’s still refused to accept. The grin on his face was unmistakable, and although Lorelai could tell he was trying to hold it back, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He moves past her and towards her kitchen, not even waiting to be invited inside.

Lorelai woke up this morning by someone pounding heavy knocks onto her front door. In her dazed state of mind, she yelled at them to go away from her bed loud enough that she was sure she was heard. But still, the knocks persisted.

“Why’re you holding a baseball bat?” Harry asks as he sets both boxes down on her limited counter space.

Lorelai follows Harry the few short feet to the kitchen. She always kept the bat by her bed just in case anything ever happened in the middle of the night. The area Lorelai lived in was nice enough, but you never knew. She grabbed it just before, though, because she was ready to beat up whoever it was that wouldn’t stop knocking.

“Was about to murder you,” Lorelai grumbles as she leans the bat against the side of her refrigerator.

Harry chuckles as he opens the bakery box to reveal several different types of pastries. Lorelai takes an interested step forward and Harry laughs a little harder.

“Pick whichever one you like,” he mentions as he nods towards the box. He doesn’t move away though, so Lorelai has to brush her arm against his chest to get a better look. “Didn’t know which one was your favorite, so I got the ones I thought looked best.”

“What are you doing here?” Lorelai repeats her earlier question. Her brain was all muddled right now from both having just woken up and by Harry’s surprise visit.

Harry had been driving her home all week no matter how much Lorelai protested he didn’t have to. Even though he wasn’t supposed to start picking her up until that Tuesday before, he texted her that he’d be there on Monday as well to get her. Most of their conversations went back and forth, one opinion clashing with the others, but it was never mean or cruel. It was just some banter, and Lorelai didn’t find herself hating it.

“Texted you this morning that I was gonna stop by,” Harry tells her. He watches as she picks up a ham and cheese croissant.

Lorelai looks towards her bedroom where her phone was charging on her nightstand. She then stares back at Harry with her eyebrows raised. “You didn’t honestly expect me to be awake that early to see your message, did you? You could have at least waited for me to wake up and give you a reply.”

Harry rolls his eyes and picks up his own croissant, this one being a plain one. “If I had waited for a response, you would’ve told me no. Would rather ask for forgiveness, not permission.”

Lorelai opens her mouth to argue, but closes it with one look from Harry. He was right, she would have told him no.

“Well you’re still on acquaintance level,” Lorelai notifies him.

Harry shakes his head, one of his curls falling in front of his face. Again, he wasn’t wearing his typical formal wear. Harry being dressed down was something Lorelai didn’t think she would ever get used to. The light blue jeans paired with the white t-shirt and the black cardigan did put a smile on her lips though. She had to give Harry that, he did know how to dress well.

“I’m working my way up though, aren’t I?” Harry asks with a smug look on his face.

Lorelai only shrugs in response before turning on her kettle. She had to admit, the Harry she’s been seeing this last week was different than the one she was used to. Maybe it was because they weren’t spending hours upon hours, days upon days, with each other. Or maybe the environment Bertram set in Clemens & Son was just too toxic for either them to properly communicate in. Either way, although she wouldn’t admit it to Harry, he was working his way up.

Lorelai opens one of the cupboards above her stovetop to take out two mugs for her and Harry. She leans up on her tippy toes to get the mugs off the top shelf when she feels a hand on her hip. Then there’s a chest pressing against her back, and Lorelai tenses up from her head down to her pinky toe. Her head snaps back to look at Harry, and she watches as he leans over her to grab the mugs she could barely reach. He places the mugs on the counter and smirks, the fucker had the gall to smirk, while Lorelai’s cheeks flame to an ungodly shade of pink.

Harry takes two steps away from her. “Looked like you needed some help.”

Lorelai has to clear her throat and turn away from him. “I was doing just fine on my own.”

“Oh, I know. But sometimes it’s good to accept a little help every now and then.”

Lorelai nods before mumbling out a quiet, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry replies, sounding all too pleased with himself.

“I’m gonna… I’ve gotta change.” Lorelai looks down at the pajamas she was wearing. The heat in her flat was relentless at night, so she typically slept in a pair of shorts and a tank top. She didn’t even think of covering herself up before answering the door, but now that she was aware of the amount of skin she was showing in front of Harry she was ready to dress up into a spacesuit.

“I’ll finish making the cuppa then,” he lets her know, not seeming fazed by anything. Did anything faze him? Ever?

Lorelai scrambles out of the kitchen and into her bedroom. She shuts the door behind her with a quiet thud. She quickly flicks through the hangers on the two clothing racks she has propped against a wall. Lorelai has always been comfortable in her body, even if she has always been a little bigger than the girls she went to school with, or even all of her sisters. But she was her, and she loved herself and she wouldn’t change a thing about her. Even with the few boyfriends she had in the past, she was never scared of showing off some skin. With Harry though, well she didn’t think she was that comfortable around him yet, or ever.

Lorelai emerges from her bedroom about five minutes later, now dressed in something she was more comfortable in. Immediately, she notices the new teapot inside the glass cupboard she keeps her collection in in her living area. It was the teapot Harry had bought her.

“That sneaky son of a bitch,” Lorelai mutters under her breath as she walks closer to the cupboard. She’s about the open it up and take the teapot out, but Harry’s hand wraps around hers over the handle.

“Just leave it, Lorelai.”

Lorelai jumps but keeps her grip firm on the handle. Harry’s hand was still placed on top of hers. She wasn’t sure if he’d been in the room the entire time, or if he’d just spotted her from the kitchen.

“I’ve told you before, I can’t accept this.”

“Well I say you can.”

“Well if you haven’t picked up on this before, I’m shit at listening to you.”

Harry squeezes her hand. He squeezes it again until she finally looks up to him, her brown eyes connecting with his green ones. “I am asking you to please accept this gift. It was my grandmum’s alright, and she was just going to toss it out. I thought it would have a better place here then broken up in some dump somewhere.”

Lorelai frowns as she looks back to the teapot. This thing looked like it cost thousands of dollars, more money then Lorelai will ever make in any career she chooses, and someone was just going to throw it out? How rich was Harry’s family exactly if they were just going to throw out something that cost more than Lorelai’s rent for a year?

“Fine,” Lorelai relents with a quiet sigh. Harry squeezes her hand once more before backing away from her.

“Good,” Lorelai turns to see Harry smiling to himself. “Now let’s finish the tea so we can start our day.”

“Our day?” Lorelai furrows her eyebrows as she follows Harry back into the kitchen.

Harry nods in response before handing her a mug. “Our day.”

***

Lorelai’s sides hurt from laughing so much. Every time she looked at Harry, she would burst into another fit of giggles. And every time he would scowl at her and grumble to himself under his breath. That action would only make Lorelai laugh harder.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Harry groans as he presses his face into his hands.

“Yes it… was,” Lorelai gets out between heavy breaths. “You should have… seen… your face.”

Harry drove him and Lorelai about forty minutes outside of London to a small farm. He’d told her that his mum used to take him and his sister there when he was a child, and that he thought she’d like spending time with the animals. The idea, Lorelai had to admit, did make her excited. And she did have a great time with the animals. Harry, on the other hand, not so much.

They were heading towards Harry’s car now. He held a plastic bag filled with his clothes that he’d been wearing earlier. One of the horses they’d met, Bullseye, did not take a liking to Harry. Although he’d let Lorelai stroke his mane, as soon as he spotted Harry, Bullseye made a run for him. To prevent himself from being trampled by a horse, Harry jumped out of the horses way. But in doing so Harry landed himself backwards in a pile of mud. His entire backside was covered in the dirt, and Lorelai hasn’t stopped laughing since. It got even worse when the farmer, who’d apologized profusely to Harry, gave him a spare change of clothes. The man, who was double Harry’s age, gave him a pair of overalls that were a bit too tight on him. Luckily for him, his cardigan had saved his shirt from getting messy, so he didn’t have to wear any of the crazy colored flannel the farmer had offered.

“I should make you drive us back for being so rude,” Harry mutters as they near his car.

Lorelai smiles softly in response. “Not unless you want me to get us killed.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “You a bad driver?”

Lorelai shrugs. “Don’t know, I haven’t tried in years.”

Harry stops walking causing Lorelai to do the same. They were only about three feet away from the car now. “You don’t know how to drive?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve always been too scared to,” she answers truthfully. “I tried once with my father back when I was eighteen, but he started yelling at me because I’d clammed up at the wheel. Swore I was never going to do it again no matter how many times my parents pestered me, and I haven’t since. Besides, I don’t really need it here in London when I’ve got the Tube and buses.”

“But it’s a good skill to have. When you-”

Lorelai cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t start. You’re starting to sound like my father.” She finishes the final few steps before she’s standing by the passenger side door and waits for him to unlock it.

Harry’s still stood at the trunk of his car. He’s staring at her with curious eyes, but he seemed too far into his thoughts to be properly looking at her. He was still twirling his keys around his index finger.

“Harry,” Lorelai calls out to grab his attention.

Harry breaks out of whatever thought he was stuck in. Then he suddenly sends Lorelai a smile that instantly told her she wouldn’t like whatever was about to come out of Harry’s mouth.

“I’m going to teach you how to drive,” he declares.

Lorelai rolls her eyes. “No you won’t.”

“Yes I will.”

“I need to be willing to learn for you to teach me.”

“I’ll trick you into doing it. When you’re least expecting it.”

The eyebrows raise on Lorelai’s head. “You can’t trick me into doing it.”

Harry takes a few steps forward until he’s standing directly in front of Lorelai. She takes a step away from him, but just ends up pressing herself up against his car. He gets even closer until there’s only a few inches between them and she’s forced to look directly up to look him in the eyes. A smug look is plastered along his face.

“Watch me,” his voice taking on a deep tone Lorelai’s never heard before. Harry reaches behind her and Lorelai freezes. He’s even closer now, his chest just brushing hers. Lorelai closes her eyes.

And then he opens her door for her. The sound has Lorelai’s eyes flashing open. Her cheeks flame up and she can’t even look at him. She scrambles into his car with a quiet, “Thanks.” She honestly didn’t know what she expected Harry to do, but it hadn’t been that.

~

January 29th

They were at a pub, Harry and Lorelai. Usually, she would never go out to one on a Tuesday night, but Harry insisted. It was different than the one they went to on Christmas Eve. This one was smaller, and not a lot of people were around. And they instead chose to sit at a table towards the back instead of at the bar.

Harry was leaning back in his chair. His tie was loosened, and he had even taken off his suit jacket. Lorelai had let her hair down from her tight bun and let it fall down her shoulders in crazy waves. It was clear that both of them had had a hard day, for they would have cared more about their appearances otherwise.

“What?” Lorelai asks for the sixth time in ten minutes.

“Nothing,” Harry replies while his lips tip upwards ever so slightly.

He’d been staring at her since they entered the pub. At first, Lorelai hadn’t minded it, but the longer he did it the more it freaked her out.

“Do I have something on my face? Did I smudge my makeup?” Lorelai starts reaching towards her purse to pull out her compact mirror. Harry reaches across the table and grabs her hand before she can reach it.

“There’s nothing on your face.” He lets go of her hand.

“Then why do you keep on staring at my face?”

“I’m just curious.”

Lorelai frowns and leans back in her chair. She crosses her arms over her chest. “About what?”

Harry’s silent for a moment. He opens his mouth once, twice, three times, before he finally answers. “What’s your favorite color?”

The creases between her eyebrows become even more prominent. “That’s what your curious about?” Lorelai asks disbelievingly.

Harry nods earnestly. “Yes.”

Lorelai sighs and sets her hands back onto her lap. “I don’t think I have one.”

Harry barks out a laugh. “Yes, you do. Everyone has a favorite color.”

“What’s yours then?” Lorelai shoots back.

“Ruby red.”

Lorelai lets out an amused breath from her nose. “So specific?”

Harry nods again. “There are so many shades of red, thought I would be as specific as possible.”

“Mine’s royal blue then,” she responds, mocking the posh accent Harry typically spoke with.

Harry stares at her with wide eyes, his eyes crinkling when he sends her a huge smile. “Are you making fun of me?”

Lorelai blinks at him innocently. “Who, me?”

“You’re quite rude, you know.” Harry shakes his head while chuckles fall past his lips.

Their waiter walks over to them then and sets down two plates of food in front of them. Lorelai thanks him, and he smiles at her before walking off. She had to admit, he was not bad looking at all. If they were in a different setting, and if she hadn’t been with Harry, Lorelai would have even tried to get to know him.

Harry clears his throat to catch her attention. She’d been watching the waiter walk away. When she looks back at Harry, he has an eyebrow raised and the playful look he was sporting thirty seconds ago had disappeared.

“What’s that about?” He asks her.

Lorelai shrugs. “What’s what about?” She grabs her fork and knife and starts eating her food.

“You were looking at him as if you wanted to jump him.”

Lorelai scoffs. “I was not.”

“Then what were you doing?”

“I was just admiring, is all. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“He’s trying to work, Lorelai.”

Lorelai frowns at him. “I wasn’t bothering him, Harry. I’m a woman and I’m allowed to look, just like you can with the girls at the bar,” she nods towards the women who were sitting at the bar. She caught a few of them stealing glances at Harry, but not for long.

“Well I’m not,” he snaps.

Lorelai freezes and her eyes turn hard as she looks at him. “God, what’s got you so riled up? I’m here with you, aren’t I? I’m eating dinner with you. I mean, we were having a bloody good time and now you’re going on and ruining it.”

Harry looks like he wants to say something, but bites his lip to prevent himself from doing so. Lorelai watches as he takes a few seconds to recollect himself. She notices the way his body slowly releases the tension he had been harboring. Finally, when he looks at her again, his eyes are softer.

“I know, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Lorelai tries to hide the shock on her face but fails miserably. She’d been sure that whatever good times she and Harry had been having these last few weeks would have been ruined in just minutes by whatever he had to say. She was prepared for the old Harry to make a reappearance, had an insult already on the tip of her tongue, but instead he held himself back and said something she never thought she’d hear come out of his mouth.

“Did you just say that I was right?”

Harry nods his head ever so slightly. “Yes.”

Lorelai lets out a deep breath. “Alright then. I’m glad we can both finally agree on something.”

Harry rolls his eyes now, the demeanor he’d had before coming back in full swing. “Don’t get a big head now.”

Lorelai smiles at him, the smuggest smile she can muster up. “Too late.”

#1dff #cmiyc #cmiyc8 #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #one direction fanfiction #eeeeppppppp let me know what you think!!!! :)

[firelxrdsdaughter]

Cruel Symmetry | Preview Chapter

And here’s the second piece I did for the @avatarbaang!

Honestly this one was one that excited me more out of the two? I ended up taking the concept over to rp on here as well. HAHA. Then again, Azula is my main lady, no matter how much I love Suki. x)

This one’s a bit of an au anyway. Post canon.

Cruel Symmetry 

synopsis: After escaping her confinement in the Fire Nation, her bending stripped from her by the Avatar, Azula finds her way to the Earth Kingdom. Fourteen years pass, during which she has joined the Earth King’s forces and made a name for herself under an alias. No one the wiser that the child general who once conquered Ba Sing Se could be the honoured Commander Hui Yin. 

On the fated day in which she is brought to the Capital of Ba Sing Se to receive accolades for outstanding military service, Azula’s new life comes crashing down around her ears when an unexpected guest recognizes her for who she truly is. 

I

She already knows, as the walls split before her, that she ought to have rejected the invitation. What’s another year on the run, when she looks at her life in hindsight? The only problem is, where would she go?

Azula fidgets, her nails biting into the worn leather of the reigns that she holds, her back ramrod straight as she passes through the first ring of imposing walls (as easy to invade as the last time that she was here), trying to force herself to be calm. Trying to will her shoulders to fall and her easy confidence to return. It’s been fourteen years. There’s no way that they could possibly recognise her. Not in Earth Kingdom green. Not leading a retinue of Earth Kingdom soldiers, and not with her mother’s face plastered over her features.

She chews her bottom lip covertly, turning her attention upward at the towering walls of each section of the city. The men behind her, who due to complaints of the heat have been lagging since their trek across the desert, now walk a little more lively than before. Their attentions, too, are caught on the grand splendour that is the first ring of an even grander city to come. They do not notice her discomfort.

That is all just as well.

She hears the scrape of the ostrich-horses’ claws on the stone walkway and listens in the distance to the way the wind off of the mountains whooshes through the hollow spaces of the agricultural ring. An ostrich-horse snorts at her right elbow. She turns in time to see her second in command draw even with her, a grin on his otherwise rather plain face. Azula cocks an eyebrow.

“Well?” His smile stretches perceptibly wider.

“Well, what,” she returns in question, watching as Guangting’s gaze sweeps the vast expanse of the outer ring around them. He returns his attention to her.

“You said you’ve never been to Ba Sing Se before,” he points out with a sense of ease that Azula wishes were her own, “what do you think?”

She thinks that she’s already made a big mistake in coming here. She could have excused herself from the meeting. Feigned illness. But she did not. Azula notes that her hands have tightened once more against the reigns, and she loosens them consciously while she mulls over her response in her mind.

“It’s very grand,” she says after much deliberation, “probably too grand for someone like me.”

Even though the Earth Kingdom is and has always been much different from the Fire Nation, the city of Ba Sing Se reminds her of her childhood in Caldera…But Hui Yin, the commander of the hundred-and-eighty-seventh regiment of the Earth King’s army, has never been somewhere so ostentatious as Ba Sing Se. She has spent her life in the backwoods of the Earth Kingdom, scraping by, using her superior intelligence to make a name for herself in the army after the death of her farmer parents.

And that is how it must remain.

“Well it has to be, doesn’t it,” Guangting says then, “it is the capital city of the Earth Kingdom.”

In name, Azula thinks.

In truth, their reach is not as far stretching as it should be for the Earth King to be effective, but she is slowly remedying this for him. Slowly. Being the commander of a notably small force of soldiers is hardly worth much salt, just enough to get her noticed and summoned here.

“I suppose so,” she answers distractedly.

She feels Guangting grow covertly closer to her, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the men following their lead before he closes the gap between them.

“Don’t be so nervous. You’re being lauded for your part in the King’s efforts to unite the Earth Kingdom. This is a joyous occasion.”

Azula turns and offers Guangting a tight smile.

“I’ve never done well in cities,” she excuses.

Guangting snorts.

“It’ll be okay. I’ll show you the ropes.”

Azula laughs, smirking at him.

“That’s right, you grew up here, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Lower ring though. Not a great place to be but…well, I got out of there, and I made a name for myself. And my parents can afford to be in the middle ring now and — Sometimes it’s just nice to be home, even if you don’t have fond childhood memories of the place.”

Her stomach twists. She presses her mouth into a line and looks back at the second wall looming before them—the wall to the lower ring of the city proper. The part of the city  that Guangting originates from, that houses the city’s poor.

She remembers thinking in her youth that it was a rather clever system, the segregation of the classes by walls. No one had to see the squalor that some people had to live in. It was easier to keep the city under control that way too, the Dai Li’s ultimate role.

Thoughts of stone hands flying out of the shadows and enveloping her before she can call out invade her thoughts momentarily.

Azula trains her eyes on the horn of her saddle, watching the passage of the clouds

overhead on its surface.

Guangting’s rough-knuckled hand comes and plants itself over her own. Azula looks over at him. The silent And it’s all thanks to you sits between them unspoken.

Then, he says,“You should meet my parents before we go.”

Azula feels her face heating, just a little, and swallows against a suddenly thick throat, her heart fluttering.

“I wouldn’t want to impose on them when they haven’t seen you in so long,” she replies, training her attention on the ground beneath her ostrich-horse’s feet.

“Nonsense, I’ve written to them about you. They’ll be eager to meet you.”

Her heart clenches. She clears her throat, and then finally, reluctantly, nods.

“If you say so, then of course I’d be honoured,” she lies. This is something for which she will feign illness.

He’s placated for the moment, however. Besides — it would be a lie to say that she is not flattered by the notion that he wishes for her to meet them, or that they would ever wish to meet her. They wouldn’t, but he’s being polite.

Azula pushes the thought back into the recesses of her mind. She can examine that later.

They slow to a halt at the second set of guards posted outside of the lower ring’s walls. The men there stare at them stonily for a moment before nodding and parting the newest set of walls with their bending. The earth trembles; Azula can feel the vibrations all the way to the top of her skull.

For a brief moment, she hesitates. The sounds and sights of the city waft on the breeze toward them, revealed through the now present giant gate. It’s accompanied by the strong scent of human living, and she makes a conscious effort to breathe through her nose.

With a sense of finality, Azula urges her party forward, and they pass onward into the lower ring of Ba Sing Se.

*

Azula is combing out her freshly washed hair with some effort when the official arrives at her door. Guangting’s footsteps pad across the floor and down the hallway to her private suite after a brief few minutes, identifiable even from where she sits alone in the room. She watches him come through the circular porthole, a missive in his hands, scrolled and sealed with forest green wax.

“What’s that?” Azula continues in attempting to tease the knots from the bottom of her hair, wincing at each tug of the comb from her careless hands, still watching Guangting’s expression in the surface of her mirror.

“Mm, something pretty official looking,” Guangting answers distractedly.

Azula raises a dark eyebrow in response. Her hands have paused in her hair, and she watches as Guangting crosses the space between them and settles himself beside her. He looks up at her with his black eyes, smiling briefly before he returns his attention to the scroll in his hand. He breaks the seal, unravelling the paper.

Azula returns to her work, waiting.

“Ah,” he says after a moment of silence, “the King’s second cousin, Lord Shenlong, has invited you to a gathering of the nobility and high ranking ministers of the city.”

Her eyebrows raise.

“A party?” She doesn’t quite manage to hide the disdain in her voice. Or maybe it’s apprehension. She has enough experience with high society parties that she’d be hard pressed to truly enjoy one now. She knows all  too well what goes on at functions featuring the nobility.

“Yes.” He smiles, rolling the scroll back up and setting it down on the vanity. “A party.”

Azula’s right eyebrow raises a little higher than the left in response, and she purses her lips. Guangting snorts.

“Don’t be like that,” he says with a laugh, “they like you. They’ve heard all of the stories and they want to rub elbows with you. Not bad for someone from some farming village in the Northern Earth Kingdom, no?”

A smirk tucks itself into her cheek.

“I’m not very interested in rubbing elbows with most of high society,” she answers. “I don’t suppose that we can refuse?”

He leans back on his hands next to her, bemused.

“Making connections here will only be good for us,” he points out, too logically for Azula’s taste, “we could get a lot of help and a lot of supplies if you impress enough of the rich people here in Ba Sing Se. I should hardly think I’d need to tell you that, though, oh wise commander.”

She offers him a withering look for the mocking way in which he uses her title.

Turning from her second, Azula goes back to pulling the turtle shell comb through her tangled mass of damp hair one handful at a time. She winces as she catches yet another knot, closing her hand a little tighter around the offending section, working at picking the matt out with one of the comb’s fine teeth.

“Hui Yin…” Guangting takes her hand in his broad palm, wresting the comb from her and shuffling yet closer, going to work himself on her hair. She lets out a sigh, and allows him the intimacy. “We cannot afford to offend these people.”

She rolls her amber eyes up at the ceiling.

“I am aware,” she responds flatly, “but it doesn’t make me want to do this any more than I did in the first place.”

If she had still been a princess she could easily have refused the invitation. Gone to bed early. Done whatever she liked rather than go to the party, really. As a peasant girl from the Earth Kingdom, who has worked her way up the social ladder to Commander, she has no right to do as much. There are precious few times that she has missed being the princess that she once was, in all honesty, but now she longs for the privilege.

That same privilege is also part of the problem, however. She has no doubt that there will be those among the guests who would have lived through her coup of the city. There are those that might even think they recognize her from somewhere or other, surely. At least with only a court proceeding to attend, she would run less of a risk of being recognized. She’d bow before the Earth King, far enough away from most of those in the palace that anyone who could possibly identify her would not be able to clearly see her face...

Azula takes a steadying breath and tries not to think of the what ifs. This is happening, whether she likes it or not. She must simply prepare herself the best that she can.

Her scalp tingles at each pass of first the comb and then Guangting’s fingers through her hair. His kind, dark, eyes catch her gaze in the mirror once more. She feels the curve of her spine relaxing downward.

“Your parents would have been proud of you,” he tells her quietly. Azula feels her stomach sink, but keeps her expression passive where she meets his eyes in the mirror.

No, she thinks, but  forces the briefest of smiles, and makes certain it reaches her eyes for the full effect.

“Perhaps,” she says out loud, forcing lightness into her tone, “It’s certainly not the life they could have possibly pictured me living.”

“Maybe not,” he concedes, “but certainly any parent would be happy to see their child succeed in the way you have done.”

She closes her eyes, and tries to will herself not to think of her mother or father.

When she opens her eyes again, Guangting is smiling, and he settles her combed out hair carefully against her back.

“You’ll need a nice dress,” he comments. Azula glances at the scroll where it sits loosely folded against the vanity’s surface. She grimaces.

“Surely one of my nicer uniforms will do?”

Guangting snorts at her.

“You don’t know the nobility like I do,” he says, “you will need something nicer than that. Something that doesn’t shout military across the room. Something…refined. Lucky for you, I’m better at managing your stipend than you are. You have more than enough for something modestly presentable.”

Azula rolls her eyes again but cannot help the smile that splits her face from cheek to cheek briefly.

“What would I do without you, Guangting?” she asks.

Azula sighs, fluttering her eyelashes prettily at her second in command. The man raises his eyebrows and sets her comb aside.

“Go hungry, probably,” he answers dryly, a twinkle in his eye.

*

Despite the relatively dry heat of this region of the Earth Kingdom, Azula finds the room humid.

It is the press of bodies and the mingling voices that make it so. She remembers a hundred parties in her youth spent regulating her own temperature with her bending for just this reason. Now that it’s no longer there, held just beyond her reach, she finds the pressing heat nearly unbearable.  

The people are even more unbearable, if that is possible.

The invitation, when she had deigned to read it, had implied that this soiree was, in fact, a celebration of her accomplishments. But, as is often the case of gatherings featuring the world’s most wealthy and haughty elites, it had been a front for the catty sort of gossiping nosy nellies who would show up just to see someone allegedly as low born as herself stumble over her own iniquities amongst high society.

How lucky for her that she has not entirely forgotten her courtly etiquette. She doesn’t see how she could have, not with years spent at that finishing school under her belt. And surely not with years spent trying to make certain that everything she did in deed and words was perfect.

Azula doesn’t remember it being quite so exhausting, however.

Eventually, she will purposefully allow herself to slip. She can’t let rumours spread.

Guangting is a shadow at her right elbow, hovering close. He looks far more overwhelmed in this setting than she had imagined he would. He always seems so collected. It’s why she’d singled him out for promotion amongst her officers when she had first earned rank. But his floundering shows in this crowd.

Azula keeps her hands clasped firmly either at her back or at her sides, resisting the urge to reach out for him in the sea of people. She feels dangerously normal in the silk robes they’d managed to find at the shop earlier in the day, and she wants to anchor herself back to her new normal. She doesn’t dare act on the impulse in front of a crowd.

To her left, some noble women glance at her from behind their open fans, leaning in to whisper to one another. To her right, some men let out a raucous laugh and continue on in their private conversations. She is not wanted in either crowd.

Azula turns to look at Guangting, and though she is careful not to let too much slip, he reads the exasperation in her features all the same. He offers her a tight smile.

“Should I get you something stronger?” he asks, nodding at her cup. Azula glances down at the cleverly disguised glass of water that she holds poised between her fingers, and then shakes her head.

“No. I wouldn’t want to lose my composure around these people.”

He nods, surveying the room with a sweeping glance.

“Hard to make friends and connections when everyone is avoiding you,” Guangting says then.

Azula scoffs. “I feared that it might be this way,” she answers.

Guangting looks at her in surprise. She realises she’s slipped up. She backtracks.

“I just mean that when you’re born outside of privilege, it’s not as though the privileged in this country are all that interested in raising you up to be their equal.”

Guanting nods again, expression softening to understanding of the observation. Azula takes a sip of her water.

Out of the crowd, a man wades toward them, his dark hair slicked back into the long braid that seems popular still amongst the Earth Kingdom elites. His face closely resembles what she remembers of the build of the Earth King’s features. Azula turns to face him, expecting that she is finally about to be greeted by the party’s host.

When he stops before her, she is proven correct.

“Commander Hui Yin,” he bows just slightly, hands out before him, “it is truly a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Azula returns the gesture, bowing far lower, knowing her place. The ornamentation on the top of her head strains at her scalp, pulling at her hair with the downward momentum of her bow. She frowns at the floor before schooling her features as she straightens once again.

“I am Lord Shenlong, Grand Secretariat of Ba Sing Se. I am so glad that you could make it to this small gathering of mine.”

The title shocks her somewhat. Azula manages to keep her expression schooled, unaffected, but her heart thunders loudly in her ears, fluttering behind her rib cage. She knows what the title truly conceals, and it is as though her worst nightmares  have come to life before her eyes, staring at her in apathetic interest.

Shenlong, Grand Secretariat; Leader of the Dai Li.

She knows that her posture has stiffened. She can feel the strain in her shoulders and her gut. She forces herself to smile cooly, demure.

“Lord Shenlong,” she greets, bowing her head once more, “it is an honour to have been invited to mingle with so many members of Ba Sing Se’s upper echelons. I am flattered by the thought you have spared for me.”

“Yes, well…You are an anomaly,” he says with an oily smile of his own, “and when I heard that you would finally be visiting our fine capital, I knew that I could not let the opportunity to meet you face to face go to waste.”

Azula forces a light, lilting, laugh.

“My Lord has spared far too much thought for one so lowly as myself,” she tells him. “Growing up, I could not have imagined myself in a place like this.”

“I would guess not,” Shenlong answers. When he smiles it is knife thin and insincere.

Azula feels herself relax. This is a game that she knows.

His intrigues are, like those of all of the nobles in this room, of the lowest brow imaginable. At least in this context. She can feel the disdain dripping from him at the idea that someone as lowly as Hui Yin has made it as far as Azula has managed to push herself. From backwoods foot soldier to ranking officer ready to receive accolades and appointments from the court. The intrigue is petty, and ill thought out, and predictable. Perhaps the worst offence of all, especially in the hands of the leader of the Dai Li, whose power Azula knows first hand.

She takes another sip from her cup, unruffled, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For the first time, she notes the presence of a couple of other noblemen, hovering by Shenlong’s elbow, waiting to see what happens, or to participate if they feel that they might be able to do so.

“And how do you like the upper ring,” he asks then, “if I heard correctly down the grapevine, and I always do, you are to receive more than just accolades for your accomplishments. My cousin is set to award you a title as well. Soon you’ll be the honourable Hui Yin. Perhaps a military minister even.”

When she is certain that she will be able to speak without the wavering of ambition and excitement in her voice, Azula opens her mouth to answer, “It is very fine; I’m unused to such luxuries, even with my rank. There’s little that could be described as glamorous about manning a desert outpost or wading through mud in the Southern swamps.”

“So I would imagine…” he says, eyebrows arched.

There is a calculated look in his eye that has Azula’s spine crawling. It’s a look that she knows from childhood. Her father’s look, the look of Long Feng, their last Grand Secretariat. Probably a look that Azula has worn a hundred times in her life or more. He is trying to discern something about her, or figure out what might be her weakness. How to get under her skin. How to control her; find her vulnerable underbelly so that he can turn her iniquities to his own advantage.

Or, he already knows something and the Dai Li are lying in wait for her back in the borrowed house that she is staying in.

She wonders how good Guangting would be in a real fight. They’ve hardly seen the sort of battle that Azula was used to in the war. They’ve mostly been herding peasants and quelling their unorganized uprisings. She looks down briefly at the toes of her silk slippers, peeking out from under the robes that she purchased for the party.

Guangting’s an earth bender. He will be better than nothing.

“I must say that I am surprised commander,” Shenlong says then.

Azula looks up at him once more, eyebrows raised in a mild expression.

“I had heard rumours of your beauty,” Shenlong continues, “but I had thought them greatly exaggerated. It’s strange enough that a woman should be serving in the army at all, let alone one with a face such as yours.”

Recognition of the slight flickers briefly through Azula’s mind, and then a sharp smile spreads her red painted lips thin against her teeth. She holds herself perfectly still, feeling the anger tremble in her pulse despite her best efforts. Ah ha. He had found an edge to pick at after all.

“I’m afraid that I have no idea what you mean, my Lord. What do my looks have to do with it?” She plays dumb, though she is coiled tight as a snake, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

“Well, surely it is just the novelty of a woman strategizing like a man that has gained you such recognition,” he posits casually. Around him, the men that have come to hear her speak look at one another, snickering, hiding smug smiles behind their sleeves as though she has not already seen them.

In the Fire Nation, Azula reflects, no one would have had the gall to say such a thing to her, whether she had been the princess or not. A fighting body was a fighting body, and military talent was prized amongst men and women. What her face looks like would have had nothing to do with it.

She feels her smile strain at the edges, and at her elbow, Guangting shifts. She thinks perhaps he might say something on her behalf, so she quickly responds before he has the chance to defend her.

“You are probably right,” she says, forcing her voice to steady sweetness. With his lean features and pointed beard (the slope of his nose), Shenlong reminds her once again of her father. Or perhaps it is merely his words which are playing a trick on her mind.

Even when he had been lifting her up, her father had had the uncanny ability to make her feel lesser than.

“But even this lowly woman’s tactics have led my men to many victories for the Earth Kingdom, in the name of your second cousin, our benevolent King.” She bows again, hands folded against her thighs this time. The soft ties of her deep green, waist high, ruqun strain at her middle as she breathes deeply into her gut, settling her anger.

“That is all of the assurance that I need to know I am following the correct path in my life, my Lord.”

He says nothing, but Azula can feel the force of Shenlong’s gaze against the crown of her head.

“Of course,” he says, “you are so humble. Our great hero.” There is a sneer in his voice, but he remains as poised as Azula. Around him, the men that have gathered to listen murmur their agreement, hiding their own disdain behind their politicians’ facades once more.

“Come, Commander. Walk with me. Let’s leave this hubbub so that we might speak more privately. I’ve been just dying to pick your brain.”

Azula straightens, searching his expression for any hint of what might be to come. There is no hint there.

She nods finally, gesturing to the Grand Secretariat to lead the way. Shenlong accepts the invitation, wading through the crowd. It parts before them once everyone has noticed who is trying to get through. She is glad for the warmth of Guangting at her back.

They step out of the large gathering hall and onto the walkway which overlooks the estate’s grand gardens. Azula has grown appreciative of such things in her adulthood. She breathes the sweet scent of late summer blossoms in through her nose and smiles briefly before she returns to the task at hand.

Namely, what Shenlong is planning, and how she will avoid it, if she can.

He comes to a halt, hands folded at his back whilst he observes the full spread of his gardens.

“Remind me, Commander, where was it that you’re from again?”

“Nowhere that my Lord would likely have heard of,” she answers simply, coming to stand even with him at the edge of the walkway. A breeze brushes against her cheek, cool. It comes off of the mountains. They might be in for a storm.

“Humour me,” he requests.

Azula smiles again, bemused. He suspects something, she thinks, but she isn’t certain what tipped him off. It could have been any number of things, she supposes. The colour of her eyes comes to mind, though there are plenty of men and women with something akin to them in the Earth Kingdom. A hundred years of colonization will do that.

“Northern Chu Li,” she answers finally. A place that had long been occupied by the Fire Nation. The best choice for someone who looks like her to say they’re from, if they’re lying.

“And your parents?”

“Passed on, my Lord. They were farmers.”

“Simple farmers?” He sounds slightly surprised by the news. She had thought that her fabricated story would be more well known by now. Then again, perhaps he is lying, just like her. “And yet you have such a military mind.”

Azula lets her smile grow mild, tolerant.

“Just because we were farmers does not mean that we are not capable of thought, my Lord.”

Behind her she can hear Guangting shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“I suppose that is true,” he answers in a drawl. She sees Shenlong look sidelong at her out of the corner of her eye. “Did you know that the man who was cultural minister of Ba Sing Se before myself came from a similarly remote province. Similarly small. He also came from nothing, and yet he managed to become Grand Secretariat of Ba Sing Se…”

Shenlong turns his attention back to the garden, and Azula waits for him to make his point, bemused. Of course she had known at the time. His history had been written all over him. She had seen his struggle in the lines of his face, and the way in which he had stubbornly clung to power despite knowing already that he had lost.

“No my Lord,” she answers simply, “I didn’t.”

“Yes…He was a powerful man, too, but in the end it was nobility who overthrew him, and it is nobility now who stands in his place. Better at his job than he ever was.”

She might contest that, but Azula does not know Shenlong all that well, and anything is possible. Long Feng had not been the best of the best but he had been close. Anyone could be overthrown given the correct circumstances.

“I don’t think I am following your point, Lord Shenlong,” she says after a moment, sounding a little bored. Azula looks over at him, straining her chin upward to take in his full height. He looks at her too, green eyes crinkling at the edges in a smile.

“My point is that you enjoy quite a bit of power now, and will likely enjoy more, but given your humble beginnings I have no doubt that eventually you will fumble in that power. It was not meant for one such as you. But I can help you hang onto it as long as possible, and perhaps set you up for life after that power is gone.”

Azula raises her eyebrows, amused.

“That is a very generous offer, my Lord. What exactly would you want me to do for you, should I accept the invitation?”

“Errands…Taking care of things here and there for me when I cannot take care of them myself…” He gestures lazily with a hand, pursing his lips.

Azula swallows a laugh and a smile.

“..May I consider the offer at length and come back to you with my decision,” she inquires.

Shenlong looks at her for some time, expression inscrutable, and then finally nods, seeming satisfied with the answer.

“Of course. Is a week long enough? You should be on your way back to your station by then, yes?”

“That’s correct,” she replies, “I will have my answer for you by then.”

This time he does smile, and he reaches out a hand toward her, seeming confident already that she will agree to his terms. Azula accepts his hand, and they shake firmly for a moment. Not exactly an Earth Kingdom tradition, but it’s as good as anything to seal a verbal contract.

Shenlong slips his hands into his sleeves, and bows his head briefly toward her.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Commander. I look forward to hearing your answer,” he says, turning to walk back in to the party.

Azula watches him go, expression smooth as glass, and only when he has disappeared into the crowd does she look at Guangting, raising her eyebrows. She smirks. He returns the expression, though he seems considerably more troubled by what has just happened than she is.

*

The evening ends in a fashion that is not entirely uncommon these days. Her back pressed against a wall, and Guangting’s mouth on hers as they paw at one another’s clothing. When they break for air, panting, Guangting picks Azula up off of the floor to lumber with her over to the bed. He smiles broadly before tossing her down to the soft mattress.

It’s too soft. She misses the solid ground under a thin cot.

“I suppose after tomorrow I am going to have to start calling you ‘my lady’,” he says playfully, climbing in after her. The mattress bounces with every movement he makes, crawling up over her body.

Azula checks covertly for anyone watching in the shadows, amber eyes flashing about the room to see if the Dai Li stand waiting for them. Waiting to begin her undoing, waiting to take her to Lake Laogai and brainwash her on behalf of Shenlong. They are not there.

Guangting's dark hair has fallen from its top knot, her own handy work. It’s a curtain about them. Azula can feel one of the pins in her own hair digging into her neck uncomfortably. She ignores it and returns her full attention to what she’s doing in the moment once again.

“Don’t call me that,” she says flatly, neck tilting back to expose more flesh to his searching lips while he trails wet kisses along her skin to her collar.

“Mm…what? You don’t like the idea of being a lady,” he teases. Azula digs her nails into his sides and a hiss of breath sucks its way through Guangting’s teeth. It’s her turn to smile, knife thin and satisfied.

“No,” she answers, breathless. Her expression has turned wicked.

If anyone asks, she had not been looking for whatever it is that exists between herself and Guangting. Certainly, she’d almost been actively avoiding it her entire adult life. But whatever sits between herself and her second-in-command seems to come as naturally as breathing to them. And it does feel good to give in, every now and then.

His tongue traces the raised skin of an old scar which runs like a crevasse over her abdomen. She shivers, gasping out involuntarily. Azula bites her lip and lets her head tip back against the silk pillows of the borrowed bed in their borrowed apartments. Her borrowed apartments.

He brings his head back up, hovering close in the ever dimming light of the few candles that still burn in the room. She can feel his breath against her face.

“Well, Lord Shenlong was right about one thing.”

She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. He is very quickly killing the mood, and she’s so very rarely in the mood in the first place.

“And what might that be?” she asks, snappish.

“You do have a face that’s meant for portraits.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes.

“Is that so?”

“It is.” He grins at her, and Azula cannot help but find it…slightly endearing. Slightly.

Guangting kisses her deeply, and Azula’s mind falls dizzyingly silent. She allows herself to be wrapped up in him.

#ooc #theavatarbaang #my writing #Cruel Symmetry #fanfiction #avatar: the last airbender #azula #princess azula #alternate universe #Guangting's an angel and I hate it

[mad-hare]

ag question: any thoughts on how to make farming more sustainable in North American deserts?

This is … such a great question… and I will do my best to present a justifiable answer… Short answer: you need to mimic and work alongside nature.

First of all, the true North American deserts, honestly, probably shouldn’t be farmed. But, arid grasslands for sure have agricultural potential. And, thanks to desertification, we are losing good farmland to expanding desert. This is a huge problem in North America, but also in Africa. And I might know more about this in terms of looking at arid regions of Africa, but lets see how I talk my way through this problem.

Life, and agriculture, is all about water. And while most of us will think of this as precipitation levels, much of the farming we do relies on ground water. Aquifers are underground stores of clean, fresh, water, that slowly rise up to let life go on, even far from rivers and lakes. Aquifers naturally replenish themselves, often with spring snow melt seeping back down into them, but humans currently bring up water from them at a much faster rate than they can replenish. I’m sure most of us have heard about the great rivers of the west that have been dammed up so they no longer reach the ocean. Depletion of the aquifers is a much less known about crisis that threatens a huge area.

Below is a map showing major areas of aquifer depletion. Right in the middle of America, that dark red and red/yellow striped aquifer, called the high plains or Ogallala aquifer, probably the most famous one. Here is a link to a huge report on US groundwater depletion if you wish to learn more about this topic (map from the report).

How, has the white man done so much damage in such a short time being here? Well, this is probably why (image taken by NASA):

Probably not what you imagine when someone says crop circle (sorry), but that is crops being grown using giant sprinklers, that take up that sweet, sweet, Ogallala water. It’s sort of pretty, at least? In North America this is just, how the country has been set up to run, and it should be fine until the aquifers drain out completely. In Saudi Arabia, they actually do the same thing in their deserts– but they use desalinated sea water. It is a very wasteful practice (desalination is hard), but SA is a rich country, and they do it because countries generally like to be able to produce some of their own food, even if theoretically they don’t need to.

There are other causes of rapid desertification. Our landscapes were shaped by wildlife. Bison, wolves, and prairie dogs. Three heavily persecuted species. Bison used to move across the plains, trampling down and consuming grass. Wolves would follow the bison, and encourage them to stay tight in their herds. Without bison, grass gets tall, dries out, and decomposes very slowly (and catches fire more easily). There is a Navajo saying, “without the prairie dog, there will be no one to cry for rain.” Ignoring indigenous knowledge has caused harm in many parts of the world. These little critters are considered to be pests by farmers, and have been killed en masse in many areas. While they don’t exactly cry for rain, their complex, deep, tunnel homes passively bring up groundwater and can help to prevent droughts by keeping vegetation green!Read more: Eliminating prairie dogs can lead to desertification.

“Oh yea, my people make it rain. Please don’t kill us”

Okay, so reintroducing these animals is great for the environment, but they don’t really do much to feed us. Due to climate and precipitation in the areas in question, without artificial irrigation, these lands are very delicate. All of the crops we grow on a large scale, minus pasture and hay land, are annuals. They live, go to seed, and die within a year. Perennial plants (including pasture), shrubs, trees, all live for much longer, which gives them more time to establish complex root systems. These root systems stay alive throughout the winter, which is a very good thing. I’m going on for too long, but I could talk about this for pages. Basically, perennial roots support soil life and structure 365 days a year. Ecological succession is the process where, over time, nature naturally becomes a complex system.

The way we grow crops, keeps land at a very low level of succession. The reason it is so hard to grow monocultures is because every bug, weed, that grows in a field, is nature’s attempt to move to a higher level of succession (more biodiversity keeps soil healthy and stable, you can see how the dark top soil grows deeper with increasing succession).

We can manage animals such as sheep and cattle (ruminant animals), in the way bison and wolves originally helped the land, on a smaller scale. This method is called Holistic Management and was invented by Allan Savory. Allan Savory on Climate Change- TED talk that changed my life. His work was done on wildlife reserves in Africa!

Some innovative farmers even follow cattle with pigs or chickens on smaller scales (mimics the way manure would get spread and scratched up even more). More complexity = more productivity.

These perennial areas build good stuff like soil carbon and organic matter fast. Land that is holistically managed is also drought and fire resistant. Like, big time. Farmers practicing holistic management with their cattle herds have seen their neighbours struggle with drought and flooding just across their own fencelines. Over time, holistic management helps build ecological succession and resiliency. Below is one of Allan’s plots in Zimbabwe, but much of North America is starting to look like this:

In addition to healthy cattle, this beautiful land helps support all native wildlife– even wolves. Since the cattle are carefully managed packed together more closely, wolf losses can be lower, making farmers more tolerant to wolves.

So how do we grow crops on this land? On a large scale, these plots could be tilled up and cropped for a few years, before being turned back to grassland. In organic agriculture, we often look at crop rotations that can last 7-10 years, as opposed to short 1-2 year rotations. The smaller these annual plots of our crops are, the more benefit from the surrounding pasture biodiversity they would get. Less water stress, less insect pressure, probably lower disease incidence. The annual crops would deplete soil organic matter and carbon, which naturally store water, over a few years before being turned back into grassland.

To do this, would require a paradigm shift in the way we manage most of our lands. There are innovative farmers doing a lot of what I talked about though, and slowly we are realizing the value of these long-term management styles. Even if things seem impossible today, there are farmers out there thinking ahead, taking risks, and getting results that can slowly lead to large scale changes like this..thank you for reading my post I hope this answered some questions.

#anonymous #agriculture #farm school

[rosamelancholica]

Tolkien Tag 2018

1.  What's your favorite Middle-earth story/book?

My! Such a hard question, like all of these, really.

I would have to say The Lord of the Rings, despite I love The Hobbit with all my heart too and it was my first Middle-earth story, as I think it should be.

Both stories never fail to make me feel at home but the first time I read Lord of the Rings I found a solace in it that was very much needed at that time and I read it with such love and enthusiasm, I had a wondrous time. I mean, I loved The Hobbit too but I read it before I really got into Tolkien so I didn’t have this passionate love for it yet, nonetheless I still enjoyed it a lot and it’s definitely up there with Lord of the Rings. Also, every time I read The Hobbit, I can’t help but miss Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin and the rest of the Company, while Bilbo is in Lord of the Rings too, so I don’t have to miss anybody when I read it.

2.  Do you have a favorite subplot?

Does the part from where Frodo, Sam and Pippin set out for Crickhollow and reunite with Merry until they all leave Tom Bombadil’s house and reach Bree, including their adventures in the Old Forest and the Barrow-downs, count? If so, that one.

3.  What's your favorite theme in Tolkien's books?  (Can be in one specific story, or overall.)

I would have to say the importance of home and hearth and a jolly good time, I mean, isn’t that what we all truly need? The part where Thorin says that if more people valued home and food over gold and treasures the world would be a better place resonates a lot with me, because he’s totally right.

I also love the theme of pity, I think it is very important in such a hard world as the one where we live.

4.  Do you have a favorite weapon from Middle-earth?

Sting, ‘nuff said. :)

Though I also especially love Elvish blades in general, Legolas’ Galadhrim bow, Andúril (who wouldn’t?) and Rohan swords.

5.  Would you like to be a hobbit?

Are you kidding me? I would say it is my biggest wish right now. I just ADORE hobbits: their customs, lifestyle, their homes, their clothes, the Shire, basically everything about them. My own sister even says it’s as if the Shire was my home (and I was like “it is indeed”).

I was playing The Fellowship of the Ring PS2 videogame (based on the book) she brought for me the other day and marveling at the fact I could explore the Shire and it was wonderful. When you got near the houses, the names of their owners were shown and I knew all of them so well my sister was surprised. She was glad I was having such a great time living my dream in the game. ^^

Ah, what I wouldn’t give to live in a hobbit hole in Hobbiton and truly be acquainted with all my friends, take long walks in the Eastfarthing woods, read their fascinating books, visit the Green Dragon Inn and Ivy Bush Inn, Tuckburough, Buckland, the Old Forest, Frogmorton, you name it; get to know all about the most important hobbit families and even the less important ones, explore the Farmer Maggot’s crop, Brandy Hall and Michel Delving with all the curious mathoms, enjoy their wondrous parties with stunning displays of Gandalf’s fireworks...

My other biggest wish probably would be to be able to attend Bilbo’s 111th and Frodo’s 33rd Birthday Party.

6.  Do you have a favorite romance/couple?

Sam and Rosie, I’m second in command of their ship with Frodo at the lead as its captain. ;)

Though I also love especially Pippin and Diamond, Merry and Estella, Primula and Drogo, Mirabella and Gorbadoc, Paladin and Eglantine, Esmeralda and Saradoc, Hamfast and Bell, Belladonna and Bungo (despite we don’t know much about them), Éowyn and Faramir, Aragorn and Arwen, Beren and Lúthien, Elrond and Celebrían, Galadriel and Celeborn and Thingol and Melian.

Wow, I hadn’t realized just how many good couples there are.

7.  What's your favorite Middle-earth creature?  (Can be "real" or "imaginary.")

I would say the Ents, I LOVE the Ents, and the Eagles, Radagast’s Rosgobel rabbits, Bill the Pony, Brego, Shadowfax...

But I think the Ents are my favorite. ;)

8.  What character do you look the most like?

Oh, gosh, I have no idea. I’m told I look like Galadriel because my skin is very pale in contrast to that of most people around me so I’ve been nicknamed “Lady of Light” at times. But I don’t have the blond hair or blue eyes and I probably don’t look that much like her, even if I do, I don’t consider myself worthy of being compared with the Lady of Lórien.

I’m always told I have Elvish looks and I’m like “No, I’m a hobbit!”, and I don’t really believe it honestly, I mean, Elves are just too beautiful. My beauty is more plain, so I like to think I’m a hobbit with Elvish looks like Frodo and Elanor.

9.  Are there any books about Middle-earth or Professor Tolkien (but not written by him) you recommend?

Any you can get your hands on (that’s my philosophy) but the ones I would recommend in particular are The Complete Guide to Middle-earth by Robert Foster and The Atlas of Middle-earth by Karen Wynn Fonstad. From my experience, works by Christina Scull and Wayne G. Hammond are very good too.

10.  List up to ten of your favorite lines/quotations from the Middle-earth books and/or movies.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit, not a nasty dirty wet hole full of worms and oozy smells. This was a hobbit hole and that means good food, a warm hearth and all the comforts of home.

He doesn’t approve of being late. Not that I ever was, in those days I was always on time, I was entirely respectable and nothing unexpected ever happened.

My dear Sam, you cannot always be torn in two, you will have to be one and whole for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be and to do. Your part in the story will go on.

It is special. It’s a little bit of home.

Courage, Merry, for our friends.

I think you have strength of a different kind and one day your father will see it.

It was a compliment and so, of course, not true.

I love him. He’s like that, and sometimes it shines through, somehow. But I love him, whether or no.

I wonder if we’ll ever be put into songs or tales. What? I wonder if people’ll ever say “Let’s hear about Frodo and the Ring”, and they’ll say, “Yes, it’s one of my favourite stories. Frodo was really courageous, wasn’t he, dad?” “Yes, my boy, the most famousest of hobbits and that’s saying a lot“. You left out one of the chief characters, Samwise the Brave, I want to hear more about Sam. Frodo wouldn’t have got far without Sam. Now, Mr. Frodo, you shouldn’t make fun, I was being serious. So was I. Samwise the Brave.

It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered, full of darkness and danger they were and sometimes you didn’t want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow, even darkness must pass. A new day will come and when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those are the stories that stayed with you, that meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand, I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going because they were holding on to something. What are we holding on to, Sam? That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo and it’s worth fighting for”.

Many thanks to Hamlette for hosting this wonderful party! ^^

#theedgeoftheprecipice #tolkien party 2018 #tolkien #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit #thoughts and musings #questions #mine #hobbit day #tolkien party #hobbit day 2018

[nataliehegert]

I met Catherine Czacki in a Zoom yoga class. The instructor was our mutual friend Linnea Vedder, an artist based in New York whom I’ve known since we were both high school exchange students in Germany twenty years ago. Participants in the class were scattered around the U.S., from New York to Wisconsin, to California.

“Oh, you two should know each other,” Linnea said to me and Catherine, “I think you live really close to each other.”

I live in Lubbock, Texas, out in the middle of the high plains, far from pretty much everything. Turns out, Catherine lives in Portales, New Mexico, a mere hundred miles away. That day, Linnea sent us both an email with the subject line “connections.” “What a wild coincidence that you both live so close and are so like-minded and interested in similar things!” she wrote.

The isolating effect of the pandemic, with our bodies sheltering in our respective domestic spaces, has conversely allowed us, in some cases, to reach out and intermix with others in virtual spaces while geographically dispersed. If there is one bright spot from the pandemic, for me, it is that I have been able to seek connections with old friends in far-flung places, and participate in or watch events such as artist’s talks and readings that I would not have been able to attend otherwise, in any capacity. These social spaces, performed virtually, intimate yet removed, are one way I have been able to push against the motivation-sucking crisis-mode-reaction of my everyday life and try to regain a sense of being here, being present, and still listening.

As Catherine and I talked in a virtual “studio visit,” the sun set and our respective rooms darkened, with only the glow from our laptops illuminating our faces. We traced the orbits of our mutual friends, between San Francisco, New York, San Diego, and now the Southwest and Llano Estacado region. We would have met eventually, that much is certain, but our meeting would not have had the same emotional tenor.

Czacki moved to Portales in 2019 to teach art history and ceramics studio classes at Eastern New Mexico University. She lives with a large and lovable, mischievous dog named Big Buddy. She makes objects, sculptures, paintings, talismans, and wall hangings from a variety of different materials—clay, fabric, beads, found objects—and writes poetry and sews clothes and plays music and works in her garden. These multifarious practices find their ways in and around her oeuvre.

While the pandemic and the lockdowns hit many of us hard, coping with limitations and finding workarounds is a practice Czacki has honed over many years. “There have been so many times that I was going and going, and then suddenly everything fell apart and I just had to stop everything,” she says. “But going through it so many times, I know what to do.” Meditation, yoga, and other spiritual practices, and eating clean, healthy food are part of it, but the real trick is adaptability, switching tasks frequently, and finding ways to circumvent problems. Can’t type? Record with the voice. Right hand injured? Make a sculpture or play music with the left hand “and whatever comes out is the art.” “I think that is partly why my artwork is so idiosyncratic,” she says.

Czacki studied painting in undergraduate school at the San Francisco Art Institute, but soon switched to new genres, intending to focus on video and installation. At the time, she says, she wanted to make “big objects,” but it never really felt right. For many years she felt the pressure to “follow that bureaucratic hierarchical order” and “get really good at one thing,” as either a painter or a sculptor, or to go big-time contemporary artist-style and form a studio with hired assistants. None of this felt right. In grad school, at Columbia University in New York, a faculty member stated “We didn’t know if you were an outsider artist or a genius,” she reveals. “For a while I let it poison me, and then I gained my self-confidence back.” After New York, Czacki pursued a PhD in art history, theory, and criticism at the University of California, San Diego where she produced a dissertation that is part theory and art history, part experimental writing and poetry. Through all these experiences, as some of her peers abandoned object making in the name of Marxist critique, Czacki continued to be drawn to “the making impulse.” “I had read all the art history and theory, but what was missing was the making,” she says.

Returning to object making, and exploring craft, she felt she was accused of participating in “some kind of fetishism” with regards to material. “I did a lot of research on the idea of the fetish as a colonial concept,” she says. “This idea of us being separate from the material world has a lot to do with Cartesian dualism; it’s a very masculine and Western-centric concept of the world.” Western art history privileges history painting over craft, and hand-made ritual objects that existed outside of European aesthetics were denigrated as “fetishes” and eyed with suspicion. Contemporary art theory continues to support this negative view of the “fetish” with the primary means of discussing the value ascribed to objects as “commodities.” Czacki resists this ascribing of hierarchies of value as supporting entrenched institutional, bureaucratic powers. “How those things do and don’t get seen as serious art has a lot to do with people’s relationship to institutional power,” she claims.

“There’s something radically healing about making my own art, and taking the time, turning off my phone for a whole day and focusing on cooking a bunch of meals, making one or two ceramic objects and sewing a patch on a shirt,” she says. For Czacki, the pleasure of indulging in the material, the “beauty and magic” of making, has a subversive side. “I could have continued to launch a critique against Western art history and I still do feel that,” she says, “but in the work is that [critique] while also giving me the pleasure and the healing that I need.”

In her research, Czacki discovered a kind of ancestral link in her attraction to the handmade and her own family history, though she is wary of emphasis on biography. Czacki lived in Poland in her twenties and learned there were deeply complex and conflicting narratives to her family history. “A lot of what I’m doing feels recuperative,” she says. Her relations on the maternal side were farmers and quilters and exhibited a strong relationship to the land—something Czacki has returned to in some ways as well, in the form of growing her own food and creating artworks from leftover fabric and stolen beads (her mother has an impressive bead collection).

Czacki’s fabric works are created intuitively, sometimes suggesting clothing or referencing the body, sometimes taking the form of wall-hangings or tapestries. Her clay works range from the functional to the talismanic, including a whole series of what she calls her “demons.” “I’ll make them when I’m feeling frustrated,” she says, showing me a green-glazed clay object that fits in the palm of her hand. “When I was doing union organizing work I had my ‘union demon’; I had my ‘PhD demon,’ or my ‘person-I-was-dating-last-week demon,’ or ‘my-dog-ate-a-whole-bag-of-rice demon.’” The most planned works, she says, are the paintings, which start from a vision, a color, or a drawing. “I don’t have a hierarchy between the planned or the intuitive,” she notes. “I let myself flow. The art is the easy thing at this point.”

This flow continues through Czacki’s practice in poetry and music. “My poems are telling people verbal information about the art that’s not didactic or narrative or essayistic,” she notes. “It’s pretty simplified and it’s on purpose. I want it to be about a sort of resonance with the material world that I’m trying to have.” The poetry contains an anticolonial endeavor as well: in her dissertation, she references Audre Lorde in how poetry strives for an “irreducible form of knowledge,” and Aimé Césaire, that “Poetic knowledge is born in the great silence of scientific knowledge.” Czacki recently published a 310-page book of poetry and images, entitled Creosote, with Line Script Diary Press, in collaboration with editor Adrienne Garbini.

Czacki is currently collaborating on an album of sounds with Andrew Weathers and Gretchen Korsmo of Full Spectrum Records, based in Littlefield, Texas—between Lubbock and Portales—who are more mutual friends between us (since 2019, Andrew and Gretchen have curated an experimental concert series at the gallery I co-founded in Lubbock). She met them by playing in the Llano Estacado Monad Band (LEMB), which bills itself as a “decentralized, asynchronous, collective, free” improvisational group, and discovered they all had friends in common from San Diego. “This is not uncommon in my life,” she says. “With a lot of my collaborators we will circle around each other in life, and then find a resonance. Collaboration is like everything else in my practice, I end up in a space and a time and a moment where you’re just around certain people and it makes sense.” The limitations of digital collaboration offer another opportunity to discover workarounds and circumventions. Since the pandemic began, LEMB has produced several improvisational pieces performed and recorded via Skype, as well as a couple of socially distant concerts. “I have learned to forgive the digital,” she says. “We’re all having this existential moment where we are learning the limits of the digital while at the same time we have to allow ourselves to let it be what we need.”

The real isolation Czacki felt after her move to Portales became a reality for most of us as we entered this age of social distancing. Czacki evocatively describes her dispersed social world as a “gummy tendrilled support network” or a “forcefield” of people scattered around the world that she can draw on for support. “These ways that we have these spread-out networks—this softness, these reserves—that we have to touch base with,” she gestures with her fingers inching forward. “At this moment we are feeling disjuncted in a lot of ways, so we are reconnecting with people that we’ve gathered along the way.” She adds, “If at any point in life we can take a positive view of something, it’s important, because life is shit and life is hard.”

As we talked, Czacki’s words struck chords of wisdom. Slowing down, pursuing contentment in everyday tasks, focusing on art every day, remaining optimistic—all are ways she has found to “deal with all the pain and trauma in life.” Everyday things become spiritual groundings—“write a poem, make a sculpture, do the wash.” Repeat, rotate, switch tasks. Work with the material, and find pleasure in it.

Feature Posted on 2/8/2021, Printed in Southwest Contemporary, Vol 1, Spring 2021

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