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lathalea · 9 months

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The White Raven 6/9

Yes, it's happening, I'm back with a fresh new chapter of this fic, and I'm so nervous! It took me a while to get here but I hope you'll like the next part of Thorin and Carra's story.

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being an amazing and insightful beta reader and helping me out with Very Important Things Like Commas and Temporal Issues In Middle Earth😍🤣 Extra special thanks to @legolasbadass (yes, again, OMG, you're so popular! 🤣) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and very deep discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚 Thank you everyone who showed their support for this story, you motivated me to continue writing 💙 You are the best readers in the world 🤩🤩🤩

Khuzdul: Lulkh - fool Yasthûnê - my wife ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam - [the] greatest sacrifice Adad - father Tharkûn - Gandalf

Thorin did not know how much time had passed. A few heartbeats? An hour? An eternity? Vaguely familiar shapes circled the darkening sky above him. Ravens? Eagles? He did not know that either. Thinking did not come easily any longer. His thoughts were muddled. His wound pulsed in pain with the rapidity of trickling blood. And he could not move. His foe’s blade had pierced his body. Some unknown solid weight pressed him to the cold, unforgiving surface. It was difficult to breathe. His nostrils filled with the stench of Orc blood. The icy chill spread through his limbs.

He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out before Thorin lost the internal battle with his own body.

“Carra…”

Silence. Bird-shaped clouds in the sky. Snowflakes on his cheeks. Or perhaps tears. He could not keep his eyes open any longer. His mind slowly drifted off into the darkness.

***

“Uncle! Uncle Thorin!” A faraway voice invaded Thorin’s mind, stirring it awake. This voice sounded familiar. But he was tired. Too tired. The darkness beckoned, offering the comfort of oblivion. He needed to rest. Sleep.

“Look! Kili! He is here!” another voice replied, slightly deeper than the previous one. “Under that Orc carcass?” the first voice asked.

“There is so much blood… Isn’t that Azog?”

“Aye! Or what’s left of ‘im,” a third voice joined in. Older. Raspier.

“Look at his back!”

“Either that’s Orcrist’s tip or I’m the Goblin Queen! That son of a goat did it! Quickly now, lads, help me take that beast off Thorin. Fili, on my mark, pull!”

There was movement. More voices. Piercing pain. A dull grunt filled Thorin’s ears. Was it his own voice?

“He’s alive!”

“Thank Mahal! Uncle Thorin, can you hear me?”

“He’s unconscious, you lulkh!” “We need to get rid of that filthy Orc blade first. It’s stuck in ice.”

“Slowly now!” A sea of pain washed over Thorin, his whole body stiffening with each wave. But the darkness patiently waited for him and took him in its merciful arms once more.

***

“He’s still breathing!”

“Thorin, wake up! Wake up, ye lazy bastard!” someone growled straight into his ear. “Damn it!”

“Dwalin, look, we stopped the bleeding.”

Those voices again. Pulling Thorin back into consciousness. Into the pain and emptiness.

“Let’s finish dressing his wound and then we’ll take ‘im to Oín,” the growling one said.

“What’s that, Fili?” the young, familiar voice said. “Where?” “Over there, by that pointy rock on the other side of the river.”

“Looks like a dead Warg to me,” the one very close to him rasped out. A pair of hands kept on doing something to his chest. It hurt. He wanted it to stop.

“Too small for a Warg, Dwalin. It’s… by Mahal’s beard!”

“Where are you going, Fili? Wait for me!” The first voice sounded irritated.

A sound of hurried footsteps. Iron-heeled boots against ice.

“Those two can’t sit in one place in peace if their life depended on…” the raspily-sounding one grunted. “I tell ya, Thorin, when ye’re better, we’ll send them on guard duty. First morning shift for a month. That’ll teach ‘em!”

Somehow, it made Thorin want to smile. But now, even smiling hurt.

“It’s a raven! So big! Look at its wings! Why are you staring, Fili?” the youthful voice reached his ears again.

“I think it’s… the White Raven.”

“What?! It’s just a fairy tale!” “I’ve seen this raven before, Kili,” confidence rang in the second voice. “I think it followed us on the way to Erebor. It helped me fight off a Warg-rider in the Misties just before the eagles came.”

Thorin took a reluctant breath. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears.

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. There is so much blood… Is it dead, Fili?” “Let me see… That’s a nasty wound.”

Thorin’s muscles tensed. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to speak. But his body didn't want to obey.

And then he heard two gasps at the same time.

“What’s happening?”

“Do you see it too, Fili?”

“It’s… it’s magic!”

“No, it’s a shapeshifter!”

“Look! Look!”

“A woman?!”

Both voices intermingled in Thorin’s exhausted mind, making less and less sense. He needed to act. He needed to… He breathed in. The air smelled like snowdrops.

“Thorin! Ye’re back! And here I was thinkin’…” A tattooed forehead and a bushy moustache appeared before his eyes. “Stop squeezing my hand so hard!”

“Carra…” Thorin managed to rasp out. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“What are ye sayin’?” Dwalin demanded.

“Help…. her…” He tried again. “She is…” “What? I can barely hear ye.”

The last wisps of strength were leaving him. He could feel the darkness beckoning to him once again. “Yasthûnê…” Thorin articulated slowly. “My… wife.”

***

Warm rays of sun gently caress Carra’s cheek, and she enjoys the sensation for a short while before opening her eyes. It takes her a moment to adjust to the bright light. She lays on soft ground, the strands of her silver-white hair interlacing with the lush green blades of grass. A multitude of colourful flowers adorns the meadow around her, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air, intertwining with the lazy buzz of bees. She rolls onto her back and stares at the perfectly clear blue sky above. Then she takes a deep breath. A distant echo of pain rings out in her mind, but there are no bruises or wounds on her body.

When a puffy white cloud drifts into her blurred field of vision, Carra wipes off the wetness from her cheeks, stands up, and looks around. The endless meadow seems to stretch for miles in every direction. A soft breeze kisses her face, bringing the faint sound of water lapping against a distant shore. She follows it, and soon, a sparse grove of trees appears in front of her. Beyond it, she sees a stream, its silvery current sparkling in the sun. For a brief moment, an orange butterfly dances just above her nose and then flies off towards the meadow behind her. Carra’s eyes follow its flight when a curious harmony of sounds draws her attention back to the stream.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

It seems to be coming from across the stream, and Carra decides to find its source.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

As she walks through the grove, she encounters a young doe nibbling on a nearby shrub. It glances at her curiously and then trots away, as if deciding that Carra’s presence is disturbing its meal.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

Carra walks on, her bare feet sinking into the silky soft moss, step after step, until she finds herself at the edge of the grove. The stream is only several steps ahead. Its murmuring waters bring a hum of voices.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Ta-tap. Ta-tap. Tap.

An irritated sigh.

“Another broken thread?” A warm, feminine voice asks. It makes Carra think of spring in full bloom.

“Too many of them. It seems like another busy day for my husband.” Another woman speaks, her voice as melodious as the nearby stream.

“And you? You have been weaving since dawn,” the first one says.

“This pattern grows ever more complicated. It changes much too often for my taste these days.” The other woman sighs again. “Tell me that at least your work bears fruit.” “Some of these seeds refuse to sprout. The taint is spreading. I feel it in the earth.”

“The Fallen One is regaining his strength,” a third voice joins in. Deep and resonant. “I see his traces beyond the veil.”

Carra takes a careful step forward and focuses all of her attention at the opposite side of the stream. There, a garden of breathtaking beauty blooms before her eyes. Within it, she notices three silhouettes, the owners of the voices she hears. At first, their appearance seems similar to Elves, but soon after, Carra quickly understands her error. They are taller, their posture and movements are even more graceful, and there seems to be an otherworldly glow about them. Whenever she tries to look up into their faces, Carra has to squint—not only because of their radiance but also because their features seem to be ever-changing, fluid, like water in a mountain stream. Each of these noble figures is clad in finely ornamented robes that sway slightly when the same gentle breeze that brought her here plays with their hems.

One of the ladies kneels on the ground, ignoring the dirt stains on her garments. Their fabric is as green as her eyes. Her right hand rests over the brown, freshly turned soil and wisps of chestnut hair fall over her eyes. The other lady, her hair wavy and black as night, sits by a strangely-looking wooden frame with numerous threads attached to this elaborate contraption. Their colours form an intricate, multi-level pattern that seems to grow—bloom—in all directions in Carra’s eyes. She immediately feels dizzy and has to look away. Then her attention focuses on the third figure that joined the others a mere moment ago. A strapping man, his aspect equally stunning as those of his two companions, strolls towards them, his movements measured and dignified. As far as she can discern, he is clean-shaven, unlike Dwarves, and his long, white hair flows freely down his shoulders. In his hands, there is a silver jug, its surface glistening in the sun.

“Even though you bring morbid news, you are a welcome sight, brother-in-law!” the black-haired lady says, clasping her hands and moving away from her loom. “May I offer you some refreshment?” He bows reverently to his companions, and before they respond, he fills three silver cups with the contents of the jug.

Carra licks her parched lips.

“The sweet water from your fount!” The Green Lady stands up graciously and takes one of the cups.

“I know how fond you are of its taste.” The man’s hair dances in the wind as he speaks. An orange butterfly flutters among his flowing strands. “You come bearing gifts but it is not why you are here.” The Weaver looks into his eyes.

“I have simply come to admire your weaving skills,” he offers.

“Dear Dreamer, you are curious about my winged children, are you not?” The Green Lady gives him a nod.

“It is only natural,” he refills her cup. “Some of them bear our blessing, do they not?” “Indeed they do.” The Weaver approaches him with her cup and states, “How interesting that you chose today of all days.”

“My visions are blurred. Inconclusive.” He stills, gazing up into the sky, and then turning his attention back to the two women. “Tell me, have our gifts to them remained a blessing or have they rather turned into a curse?”

The Weaver sits back at her loom and looks closely at the glistening fabric; her fingers run along some part of the pattern hidden from Carra’s sight. “Your children have been fulfilling their duties well. Although the youngest one tends to make my work a tad more challenging.”

“The youngest one?” the man frowns.

“The one with wings dusted with silver.” The Green Lady takes a sip from her cup, her features schooled in a neutral expression.

“Silver? That certainly explains quite a bit. Your husband and his experiments…” The Weaver shakes her head. “Why now? Why this one?”

“I truly cannot say.”The Green Lady gives her an enigmatic smile and takes another sip. “But perhaps you would rather see her for yourselves.”

“Perhaps we would.” The Weaver’s fingers hover above the countless threads of her loom while the man nods. The butterfly lands on his shoulder, folding its orange wings.

“Very well. She has been listening to us long enough,” the Green Lady says, taking a look at the dark patch of planting ground under her feet. “Come, child.”

It takes Carra a blink of an eye to realise that she is not standing in the grove any longer. She gasps and blinks twice, but her eyes do not deceive her. Now she faces three luminous beings—in their garden across the stream.

“Great Mother!” she whispers and falls on her knees in front of the lady clad in green, bowing her head. In the presence of these great figures, blinded by their magnificent splendour, she feels like a feeble, featherless fledgling that fell out from its nest.

“Rise, Carra,” the Green Lady addresses her softly, and Cara does what she is told. “Do you know why you are here, my child?”

“I…” she croaks faintly, unable to stop staring into Great Mother’s incandescent face. A kaleidoscope of images fills her mind. The freezing ice. Thorin’s face when he notices her and his widened blue eyes. The Pale Orc, his teeth bare, with his blade pointed at her mate. Her bloodied talons clawing at Azog’s face. And then—darkness.

“I have died.” She hears her own voice.

In a blink of an eye, the images are gone, dispelled like a wisp of smoke on the wind. Only the orange butterfly swirls around her head.

“Do you know, child,” there is a frown on the Weaver's face when she turns to Carra from above her loom, “how thin these threads are? How delicate? Even the slightest whiff of wind can change the pattern—or destroy it as if it was a spider’s net.”

“I have only tried to protect the pattern,” Carra swallows, feeling three pairs of eyes on her.

“You have saved some vital parts of it, that is true, but I hear that you also left us with tangles in the weave,” now her life-giver speaks, her eyes glistening like emerald waters of a fathomless lake.

“Forgive me, Great Mother. The line of Durin had to stay unbroken. I did my best. But I have failed,” Carra hears her own trembling voice. “Darkness clouded my dreams…”

“And so you staked out your own path, Silver One,” the Weaver speaks as if to herself, patting her index finger against her lips in reverie. “Which left us with all those new thread combinations.”

Then she exchanges a glance with her companions, and the man called Dreamer speaks.

“See for yourself,” his eyes, grey like a wolf’s fur, rest on Carra. First, he raises his eyebrow but then motions her towards a small rock basin. She can swear that this object has not been there a moment ago. He takes the silver jug and fills the basin with a narrow, glistening stream of water. The orange butterfly dances above it and then rises above their heads. The water’s surface resembles a mirror, and Carra’s eyes are drawn to the movement she seems to see in its depths.

Countless veins of silver run through coarse stone walls of a cave, glittering like gossamer strands that cover foliage at dawn, but instead of dewdrops, tears flow down from a Dwarf-woman’s cheeks, following the crevices of her wrinkled face. She wears a crown of snow-white braided hair and a dark blue robe with golden ornaments. In her weatherworn hand, she holds a piece of parchment with a green, rectangular seal at the bottom. Beside her sits a slightly hunched elderly Dwarf with bushy, grey whiskers and rows of faded tattoos on his bald head.

“Now we are the last ones, Dwalin,” the Dwarf lady sobs. “My boys… My brothers… And then Balin… Dain and his son… Gone.”

“Aye,” the old warrior gently closes his hand over hers. “But they will not be forgotten.”

“Gone…” Carra’s lips tremble as she stops herself at the last moment from touching the water. As she moves her hand back, a curtain of ripples falls over the image, changing the scenery.

The image of the familiar green and black shape of the Great Gate of Erebor fills the rock basin. An army of Dwarves rides to battle on their war rams, led by the King Under the Mountain. Carra recognizes his blade at once. Orcrist. It is Thorin! She gasps. The Raven Crown graces his temples frosted with grey. And his beard has the same colouring as her feathers. Silver-white. As the events unfold, she recognizes them from her past dreams. The Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills join forces with the Men of Dale. The battle is long and bloody, but the allied forces ultimately crush their enemies. At that moment, the vision changes. She does not recognize this new detail. An armour-clad warrior rides from Dale on a white war ram. As soon as Thorin sees him, he dismounts, and soon both men greet each other with a strong embrace.

“The city is safe, adad!” The young warrior grins, taking off his helmet. The wind plays with his entangled hair, which seems to glow in the setting sun.

“You did well, Thráin,” Thorin replies, his gaze softening. He presses his forehead against Thráin’s and whispers, “You made me proud, son.”

A faint whiff of wind kisses the water’s surface, transforming it into a flurry of silvery ripples.

By a gilded cradle sits a young Dwarf-woman. Her chestnut hair glints as if enchanted with fire, contrasting with the snow-white laces of her sleeping gown. The mithril beads in her braids clink when she takes her babe into her arms, and a smile brightens her heart-shaped face.

“You will be a king one day,” she whispers lovingly, kissing her little one on his forehead. Quietly humming a sweet lullaby, she adjusts the blanket her son is wrapped in. Carra notices that its hem is embroidered with little black and golden ravens.

A sudden wrinkle on the water disturbs its surface, making the water glitter like diamonds.

A cold, pale sheen illuminates the green marble walls when the King Under the Mountain ensconces on his throne. The source of this light comes from a jewel of unmatched beauty set over the king's head. The golden and obsidian crown rests on his raven-black hair. But the ruler of Erebor, Thorin II Oakenshield, is not smiling. A deep, menacing frown darkens his face. In his hand, he holds a wide dwarvish sword. Blood drips from its tip onto the cracked marble floor. There is no red-haired Dwarf queen beside him. There are no children playing at his feet. There is only deathly silence. And the shadow he casts is that of a dragon.

When the visions finally fade, Carra finds herself staring into the bottomless depths of a pair of grey eyes. She does not notice when the orange butterfly lands on the edge of the empty jug.

***

“Carra…” her name sounded like a helpless croak. Thorin’s throat was parched.

It took him a while to regain all of his senses and open his eyes. He lay on a large cot in a spacious tent that looked suspiciously like a work of Elvish hands. He grunted. Every single part of his body seemed to hurt. Bandages covered most of his torso, and he could not move his arm without inducing even more pain.

A louder groan left his lips when he tried to sit up and failed. Something in the nearest corner of the tent moved.

“Your Majesty…” A young Dwarf in a healer’s tunic appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “You are awake!”

“Where…” Thorin coughed. Even breathing drained his strength.

“All is well, my lord. Try not to speak, please. The enemy is defeated. Erebor is once again ours.”

“Is… my…” His attempt at speaking failed once more.

“Your kin and companions are alive and well, Your Majesty.” A mug was pressed against his lips, and Thorin greedily drank its contents. He welcomed the sweet taste of water on his tongue. It probably came from the spring at Ravenhill.

Ravenhill.

His heart sank.

“Carra…? Where…?” he whispered. Every word felt like a struggle.

“Forgive me, my lord, who?” the healer frowned.

Thorin did not respond. He was already asleep.

***

“The White Raven?” Dain Ironfoot’s brow furrowed as he clutched a tankard in his hand. “Here, in Erebor? Are ye drunk, Fili?”

“It’d take more than a mug of ale to make me drunk, Uncle!” the young dwarf protested. “I swear on Mahal’s beard. She fought the Pale Orc together with Uncle Thorin and…”

“She?” said Agnarr, one of Dain’s captains who sat on his left, raising his eyebrows, which resembled a thick, black caterpillar.

“Aye! I found her myself! And then Tharkûn said… well, he didn’t want to say anything about her at first, but I convinced him to tell me…” Kili started with a mischievous smirk, only to be interrupted by his brother.

“He followed the wizard day and night and bombarded him with questions, until Tharkûn had enough,” Fili whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards Dain.

“Well, I convinced him, didn’t I?” Kili huffed. “The wizard said that if not for her, Thorin’s fate would have been very different! You saw that wound of his.” “Aye, if that orc blade went in a bit lower, he’d be resting in the catacombs together with the kings of old,” Ironfoot muttered under his breath.

“Exactly. Besides, before he left, Tharkûn mentioned something about treasure, too!”

“A treasure?” Dain Ironfoot asked.

Kili shrugged in response, “I don’t think he meant the gold in our mountain…”

“Wizards and their riddles…” Dori sighed, pouring himself another mug of ale.

“So ye’re telling me,” Dain demanded, “that a creature straight from our legends appeared out of thin air and fought the Pale Orc with Thorin? And that the White Raven is a woman?”

“And a pretty one, too!” Bofur winked. “That hair of hers…! White as snow!”

“More like silver-white to me,” Fili puffed out a cloud of pipeweed smoke.

“Was she not supposed to be a great bird? Like the legends say?” Dain grunted.

“She is!” Kili nodded eagerly. “I mean, she was a bird, but then she turned into a woman, I saw it with my own eyes!”

“Now she looks more like a Dwarf,” Fili added.

“A raven looking like a Dwarf?” Vari, son of Nari, another of Dain’s soldiers, scratched his bald head.

“And a bit like an Elf, too,” Kili grinned and waved his hand in the air. “She has pointy ears, you know. Ouch, Fili, why did you kick me?”

Dain groaned, “Pointy ears…? By Mahal’s beard, I think I need another mug of ale.”

“Are ye drinkin’ without us, ye sewer rats?” Dwalin appeared by the table, followed by his brother.

“We’re all celebratin’ our victory over the orcs and wargs!” Captain Agnarr pointed at the multiple groups of Dwarves gathered around them in one of the least ruined halls of the Lonely Mountain.

“There’s nothing better for a soldier’s morale than a few casks of the Iron Hills ale,” Balin sat beside him and poured two mugs—for himself and Dwalin. “What would you say about a toast?”

“To victory?” Ori proposed.

“We drank for that last time,” Vari shook his head.

“If all you said is true, lads,” Drengi, a large dwarf, said, two golden teeth glinting in his mouth, “we should be toasting the White Raven.”

“To the White Raven!” strong voices echoed against the ceiling of the cavern as more dwarves joined the toast with their mugs raised into the air.

“To Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain!”

“To King Thorin!”

“To the Lonely Mountain!”

“To the Longbeards!”

In the growing racket, Balin turned to Fili and Kili.

“What did you tell them, lads?”

“Nothing much besides what we saw when we found Uncle Thorin after the battle,” Fili said.

“And that the White Raven helped us during the Quest,” added Kili. “Fili, I completely forgot! Remember what Uncle Thorin called her when we were taking him back to the Lonely Mountain?”

Fili nodded, but before he answered, Balin put his hand on Kili’s shoulder.

“That, my boy, is better left unsaid.”

“But Uncle Dain said that the King Under the Mountain will need a queen now and that he has a perfect candidate for Uncle Thorin. How can Uncle Thorin marry her if he…” Kili continued.

“This is the conversation that Thorin—and Thorin only—needs to have with Dain. Do you understand?” the elderly dwarf searched their faces solemnly.

“Aye, Uncle Balin, we do,” Fili reassured him.

***

“...since we moved his majesty into the Mountain. His fever has dropped and the wounds are healing well but he keeps on asking about someone named Carra.”

“Thank you, Nari, you were most helpful. Try to catch some sleep. I will stay with him now.” Words spoken in a soothing timbre of voice reached Thorin through the haze of dreams.

“Balin?” he blinked a few times, trying to chase the drowsiness away.

“I’m here, laddie,” a familiar silhouette in a burgundy robe stood before him. “You gave us a scare for a wee moment there.”

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling at the sight of the familiar face of his old mentor. As he attempted to sit up, an intense spike of pain ran through the left side of his body. The only thing he managed to do was lift his head slightly. At that moment, an additional pillow was placed beneath it. He grunted. At least the Dwarvish beds were much more comfortable than the Elvish ones.

“Carefully now, laddie. No sudden movements. Your foot needs time to heal properly. Your left shoulder and arm were badly injured too. The healers had to use a splint…”

It was a challenge to focus on Balin’s words, but as the dizziness subsided, Thorin’s thoughts became more coherent. Various parts of his body ached, his left leg felt heavy, and he could not move his left arm—it was indeed encased in a splint, exactly like Balin said—but he was able to take a look around the room. Even if he did not recognize this particular place, he recognized its walls hewn from the same greenish rock as the walls of the old chambers he used to live in as a young prince. A lifetime ago. And now, he was home again. Home.

“Tell me everything. Is Erebor safe?” With a pained grunt, he turned towards Balin.

“Aye. Worry not, the Mountain is well-protected. Dain is here with his warriors. We are working on making our home liveable again,” Balin replied, patting Thorin’s right hand, which lay on the bed. “You did well, laddie. The corridors and caverns are echoing with stories about the return of the King Under the Mountain who killed the Pale Orc and avenged his esteemed grandsire.”

Killed. He swallowed, attempting to ignore the memories of that fight that came back to him like an unstoppable flood—and of the price he paid to survive. Or rather, the price someone else paid for him. He lost her.

“King? Me? A Dwarf who succumbed to the curse that plagues his house? Who valued hoarded gold over…” With a sneer, Thorin looked away, his voice hollow. “I am not worthy of that title, Balin. Not any longer.”

“Do you remember that audience in the throne room when King Thrór met with the refugees from the White Mountains? You were still a prince at that time.”

“How could I forget? Not only did I break protocol, but also I interrupted Grandfather. I declared that if he would not send his troops, I would fight the Orcs who invaded their homes—on my own. Mother was truly ashamed of me on that day. And Father would not speak to me for a month.” “Ah, the impulsiveness of youth,” Balin nodded. “But you have always had your heart in the right place. Do you remember what I told you on that very day?”

“Life is like a battle. When you fall, you have to rise again and fight. Otherwise you lose,” Thorin said under his breath. He recalled the countless nights when he whispered those words to himself, lying on the hard ground, far from home, when the thought of retribution was the only thing that drove him forward.

“We reclaimed our homeland thanks to you. You overcame the curse and led us to victory. You have fought and won this great battle, Thorin,” the elderly Dwarf spoke softly.

“I did not. Not alone,” Thorin admitted, unable to look Balin in the eye, his throat constricted. Something ached in his chest, and it was not his wound. “I had help.”

“Indeed. I saw the Pale Orc’s corpse. It bore marks of dwarven weapons… and others that bore resemblance to talons and a beak,” the older Dwarf said.

Thorin did not reply. Not because he chose not to speak but because the right words would not come to him.

After a pause, his mentor added, “Fili claims that he heard a deafening sound, like a large bird’s screech, only moments before they caught sight of you on the frozen river.”

“A screech…” Thorin repeated to himself. Something stirred in his mind; Azog’s hideous grimace, the ice beneath him reverberating with a strange sound that filled the air, and the moment when the tip of Orcrist’s blade plunged into the Orc’s chest. He blinked several times. His own words rang in his ears.

“Carra, no!”

He remembered the darkness that came afterwards. And pain.

A life for a life.

It should have been him.

Balin’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“... I heard the guards retelling the old legends of the White Raven. And a new tale is spreading through Erebor: a story about a large, white-feathered raven that bravely fought by the King Under the Mountain’s side at Ravenhill,” he said.

Thorin remained silent, staring at the white sheets that covered him. White as ice on that day. White as the feathers in her wings. He felt cold.

Silence seemed to stretch between them like the bottomless chasm beneath the Mountain until Balin spoke again.

“Help me understand this, laddie.”

Reluctantly, Thorin’s fingers found the leather band strung around his neck and pulled it from under the blankets that covered him. His old friend’s eyes widened at the sight of a silver-white feather.

“The White Raven…” The words in Thorin’s mouth tasted like ash. “Carra. I have known her for most of my life. After Smaug's attack, she left her nest behind and followed me to the Blue Mountains.” Thorin met his mentor’s eyes.

“The White Raven... The stuff of legend, eh?” Balin hummed, examining the feather with reverence.

“I am aware of what it must sound like. Legend or not, she is real. She was,” he corrected himself, swallowing hard. “At Ravenhill… Had she not intervened, Azog would have taken my life. She chose ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam and gave her life for me instead.”

“Thorin… By Mahal’s hammer, laddie, what are you saying?” The feather fell from his mentor’s hand onto the bed. “’Ugbalul ’uhaskhajam, the act of sacrificing one’s life in battle to protect another, is only performed by one’s kin!”

“Or a spouse,” explained Thorin flatly.

Balin looked down at the silver-white feather and then glanced towards the door before speaking again.

“Dwalin told me that you spoke of a wife,” the elderly Dwarf said. “We thought it might have been your feverish mind speaking, nothing more.”

“It was not. She is… Carra was my wife, Balin.” His own whisper sounded hollow.

Balin stayed silent for a few heartbeats and then cleared his throat, as if deciding on something.

“That certainly explains quite a bit—including a very curious occurrence. You see, Thorin, after the battle, we did not find any signs of this revered bird at Ravenhill. Instead, there is a strange woman of mysterious provenance in our infirmary, and the healers…”

“Here, in Erebor?! Alive?” Thorin grabbed Balin’s sleeve, seeing him nod. “Tell me, what colour is this woman’s hair?!”

“Her hair is like this feather: white, dusted with silver,” his mentor replied. “She lives and is under good care. We brought her into the Mountain together with you, but...”

“Thank Mahal!” Thorin rested on his right arm, lifting his upper body as much as he could. “Balin, take me to her at once!”

Swiftly, he moved to the side in an attempt to rise from the bed while a pang of pain shot through his body, sudden like lightning. He fell onto his pillows, taking deep breaths and fighting a wave of dizziness.

“I am afraid you are in no shape to walk, laddie,” Balin rested his hand on his uninjured shoulder. “You are on the mend, but the healers say that you will need time to…”

“Balin! By Mahal’s beard!” Thorin fisted his hand, trying to curb his temper and ignore the pain. “Do you not understand? I need to see her!”

“You are as stubborn as your grandfather,” the elderly Dwarf shook his head in defeat. “Let me talk with Nari and see what can be done. I will be back in a jiffy.”

Balin’s jiffy felt like an eternity to Thorin, but he waited, albeit impatiently.

Carra was alive.

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secret-smut-sideblog · 1 month

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Non Believer

Gale x F! Tav (named)

(Nightcall Part 2)

18+ longing, jealousy, possessiveness, near death, self sacrifice, fear, hurt/comfort, feelings coming to a head, heavy petting, urgency, slow burn nonsense ayo

Traveling into the Shadowlands, Gale can't help but be drawn nearer to his golden muse. When things get dire during battle, she must make a revealing decision to save him...

Masterlist, Part 1

"I, um, once read a book that explained in some detail the effects a brush with danger has one's desire for... other forms of stimulation."

She looked at him bewildered.

"Have you ever read anything on that subject?"

She smiled at him in that serene way, tilting her head slightly.

"What are you saying exactly?"

He knew that he was rambling but couldn't stop the passion that flowed sieve from him.

She had to know how ethereal she was. How much she meant to him.

"Only that I find you quite irresistible. Even illuminated by such rotten light this place produces."

He could feel himself getting to be too much. Course correcting slightly.

"Perhaps it's just the thrill of our undead experience talking, but standing at your side through such darkness and disrepair... it only makes me want you more."

Her wide eyes strummed his heart with equal parts longing and fear. An elegant hand coming up to shield over her heart.

Something he had caught her doing a lot. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he was searching for every opportunity to incite it from her.

Sighing, he relented again.

"Unfortunately, this is neither the time nor the place to indulge such feelings. So... we must be patient and push all such thoughts aside."

"For now." He added with a smile.

She bit her lip in a small smile, and it made his heart soar. He had rarely seen her flustered, let alone coy.

Always a pillar of grace, the perfect leader. There with a soft hand and endless patience, always making time.

It was nearly involuntary to be drawn to her if any of their companions wanting glances were any indication. He tried not to bristle at them as he understood implicitly.

The worst offender being Astarion, naturally. Hovering around her and licking her skin with teasing fingers. That did make his blood boil.

But she was nothing if not brilliant, seeing through him almost immediately. Effortlessly dodging and brushing away gently. Since that one shared night more than happy to assist in his bloodcall, but no further.

Gale felt a petty thrill when she would gracefully dance out of his reach, seeing the frustrated heat rise to his ears.

That's right, you don't get to have her.

But that was the greatest challenge he had faced with her so far. She was a master of deflection. Able to counter and twist so effortlessly most didn't even realize it was happening.

His best weapon was turning out to be raw honesty.

There had to be a deep well she was keeping from them. From him.

He was determined to dip his fingers in it.

"Gale's down!" Karlach shouted, bringing her greataxe down in a leaping strike.

He coughed, eyes rolling. Chest shallowly rising.

Aurum rushed to him across the battlefield, a running river of grace. Sliding and ducking under blows and reaching branches.

He watched her, smiling. Even near death she enthralled him.

Falling to knees next to his crumpled body, far back from the others. She played a low mournful note on her violin, lighting him up with just enough healing magic to bring him back from the edge.

But now they had a larger problem.

Their companions with torches were far ahead and quite busy. The darkness was starting to descend.

"Go. You're needed." He urged.

Her eyes were uncharacteristically uncertain, darting in an internal fight. Mouth a thin line.

"Aurum, you have to-"

He was cut off by her untying the front of her armor in harsh pulls.

Light.

There was light.

In silent gaping rapture he watched.

Her head fell back in relief, pulling her armor open. An endless chasm of light pouring out, pushing out through her ribs.

Surely he was dying. This had to be a hallucination.

It spread out through her limbs, reaching the tips of her fingers. Her golden hair rising like water. The air around her wavering.

Her mouth opened and let out a high scream of release. Several voices layering on top of each other, singing and shrieking in harmony. The sound of church bells rising. An earth shaking cry of many screaming songs.

It was blinding, but he couldn't look away.

He caught sight of their companions then, their mouths gaping in shock as his must be.

When the last of the brutish creatures were slain and torches rushed back to their side, she gripped at her chest. Pulling limbs into herself. A coiled ball of restraining energy.

The light began to retreat, her body dimming.

They all stood on shock, giving her a wide berth.

She breathed slow, both hands pressing hard into her chest. A faint glow still there.

"It's not... it won't go." Her voice was cracking, a vein of despair threading through her words.

He rose shakily to elbows, eyeline with her.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay."

She looked at him and, for the first time, seemed so lost.

He rested a hand over hers, still gripping into her chest. Pulled them away gently, letting the light out.

At camp it was naturally all anyone could talk about. Karlach giving a rousing and accurate recreation for those who had stayed behind. All eyes spellbound by her performance, darting to Aurum occasionally.

She sat with him, hand still coming up on instinct to shield over the light in her chest when the others would peer at her.

For once, words came difficult to him.

What could he even say?

She threaded her free hand into his subtly.

"Can we go to your tent?" She hushed, head down.

"Of course, here." He lifted under her arm, leading her up.

All eyes were on them as they walked, and he shot an incensed dissaproving look over his shoulder at their gawking.

Some of them had the decency to look ashamed.

He ducked them inside, pulling the flap closed with a mage hand.

He twisted his fingers and lit up the space. Constellations arched across the roof, small dancing lights bobbed around them. A cast of silence over it all.

"Finally, privacy." He sighed.

She sank onto a cushion, looking down at her chest. Holding her hand out, the light catching in her palm.

It was quiet, but he didn't mind, sitting down. More than willing to wait for her.

Her fingers moved slowly, the light dancing between them.

"I tried so hard." She whispered.

"I guess it was a fools errand. I can't fight what they made me. I cannot be more."

She looked up at him then.

"I owe you the truth."

"You owe me nothing, and I am more than willing to take less than what you have already given."

Her mouth formed that thin line again. Taking his hand.

Uncertain but determined, she brought it up to her chest. Pressing his palm hard into the light.

A holy fervor overcame him, burning a righteous spear through his soul. Like a thousand battle cries, he would rally her troops to the end of the earth.

She released, and he let out the air he had been holding. The thrall broken. Looking at her, then the light.

"Can you hold me again?" She whispered, tears dancing at the edge of her eyes.

He gathered her into his arms, threading his hand gently into her hair. Pulling her as close as she could get without being inside him.

She gripped into his back, head tucked into his chest. Softly crying.

He held her steady, his own tears threatening.

When she finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead to hers.

"You can call for me, no matter the circumstance. I will hear you and come to your side." He hushed, pressing her hand to his heart now.

She leaned up and kissed him in a soft whimper.

He melded into her, cupping her cheek. His heart soaring. Feeling in a dream again.

She pushed into his lap, legs straddling around his, hand pushing into his hair. Need pulsing from her mouth.

He wondered if this was wise in her condition. His as well. But his head was full of little but liquid desire.

His hands ran up the outside of her thighs, groaning. Her heat making him dizzy, mouths pleading silently.

She gripped his shirt, hips starting to roll.

His closed eyes were accosted by a pulse of light. Opening them, he saw her chest radiating out.

He knew he shouldn't be, but he was spellbound by it. Resisting reaching out for it again.

Only when the high singing started on the edges of her head did she pull away.

"I'm sorry." She gasped. Closing eyes again in concentration, reigning in.

"No need for apologies. I shouldn't have tempted fate, you're just so... I want anything you can give me."

She smiled at him from under her lashes.

"I just need time, I can control it again I promise."

"Is there anything I can do?"

She seemed to consider that. "I actually don't know. Maybe?"

A deep passion rippled in his chest. This was everything he was good at. Research, answers. Doggedly pursuing until a solution presented itself.

Already he was mentally flipping through all the tomes he had read.

But there was one piece he was missing.

"Do you know what causes this condition?"

She stiffened again.

"If it's too personal I won't-"

"It's my blood. Its... it's in the marrow of my bones."

That narrowed things down significantly for him.

"I'm going to dedicate all of my free time to this. You have given me another purpose, thank you."

She pressed her forehead to his.

He sighed, eyes closing.

"I'll see you in the morning, lovely." She hushed.

She gave him a small kiss on the cheek and rose to feet, endless grace.

As soon as she was gone he buried his face in a pillow. Flopping face first, completely flat against the sheets.

He had a lot of work to do, but it would have to wait.

Hard to do research with jellied limbs, afterall.

Part 3

#sorry to the like three of you who liked the deleted chapter. BUT im much happier with this one!#gale x tav #gale smut #screenshot by @dailygale #lyrics from: would that I - hozier

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uzumaki-rebellion · 6 months

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"King Killmonger: The Golden Jaguar" Preview!

Summary:

N'Jadaka prepares to wed Yani, his influential Caribbean fiance, in the most anticipated social event across the land. The new King of Wakanda continues to make global changes on a level that T'Challa refused to do. The C.I.A.'s discovery of vibranium in the ocean brings on the re-emergence of Namor during a Mama Wati celebration. Wakanda's new battle with the Talokanil tests the Golden Jaguar’s resolve to transform his nation into the preeminent superpower on earth. He leans on Yani and Ramonda to reign in the serious infighting among the noble class while presenting Shuri with a life-altering choice: Take over the mantle of Black Panther in her brother's absence.

youtube

“I will be one of the greatest That is a vow, yeah, that is a promise Always wanted to be famous Just being real, yeah, just being honest

My haters gon' always be nameless Give them no cloud, I give them no power

Creators built different, they ancient Sooner than later, all will be ours…”

Iniko—“The King’s Affirmation”

King N’Jadaka Udaku of the Panther Tribe from the kingdom of Wakanda sat at the head table for the Congressional Black Caucus’s newly minted Pan-African symposium/dinner inside of the National Museum of African American History and Culture. The event brought together Black leaders from all over the world that wanted to take part in shaping their future with the influence of Black American politicians after the great disaster of the Infinity War.

The king sipped from a glass of lemon water with his young Executive Assistant Mpilo by his side, very much aware of the eyes dragging across his intimidating figure in the midst of seventy-five world politicians of African descent with their various entourages. Hundreds of women and men allowed to participate in the momentous gathering chanced looking his way to assess what kind of man he was on this rare occasion that N’Jadaka came to Washington, D.C.

He grew accustomed to being the rare Black man of real power surrounded by other Black leaders that tried to balance governing in the face of American neo-imperialism. The people in that room would’ve given up their firstborn child just to be in his presence, especially the representatives from Sudan and Ethiopia. Thanos’s ridiculous plan to snap problems away only created more dire ones on earth and Africa suffered as a result. The rise of new warloads and the loss of faith in democracy sprouted far and wide. Slavery, coups, and genocide had ramped up. Troubled nations in the motherland looked to Wakanda and not the U.S. for leadership, and that made N’Jadaka’s stay in his former homeland dangerous. The C.I.A. had a bench warrant of death on his head. Western powers wanted the king of Wakanda eliminated.

The Golden Jaguar sighed and pressed his hands on his thighs and flexed his fingers to offset the ribbons of tension coursing through him. Despite it being an all Black affair, there were enemy ops in the conference hall among them. The Dora Milaje and his Onyx Squad remained visible and dispersed throughout the perimeter, their smart-looking uniforms marking them as superior protection among the American security hired to keep unwelcome outsiders from trying to sneak an audience with the Wakandan king.

This attempt at a heavily-publicized gathering of Black international elites became a way for powerless Black politicians in the U.S. to rival and possibly supplant N’Jadaka’s influential UDC creation that made waves in under a year. No matter what power-to-the-people slogans were used to get them in office, Black American politicians were still…politicians. No different than their white counterparts that only worried about getting re-elected and stuffing their pockets with money, connections, and a fat board member assignment or consultation position on some corporations dime after retirement. No matter the pithy declarations about supporting the Black community he heard all evening, there were wolves in the room seeking access to more power. The white American power structure lit a fire under the CBC’s ass to put together something that would convince diaspora Africans to join with them instead of the Wakandans. N’Jadaka knew what it was and decided to participate anyway. Just to let the CBC know he was watching them closely and feigning diplomacy. America was a weak and decaying order. The bored king found solace in knowing he would be its demise.

N’Jadaka tapped his hand on the fancy table cloth. Mpilo took note of his mood and quickly checked his comm tab for the expected time of arrival for Yani and the children. The trip abroad had lasted two weeks, most of it spent at the United Nations in Geneva, and meetings in New York, London, and South Africa. N’Jadaka cancelled a trip to Saudi Arabia when one of the crown princes of an oil billionaire insulted him on a viral vid. He made an example of them by snubbing a much-anticipated visit there. Any form of anti-Blackness anywhere was swiftly aired out. Mexico, Argentina, Spain, France, Italy, and the Dominican Republic were already smarting from his public call-out of their treatment of Black people due to an increase of racialized violence targeting poor Black citizens in their nations. With Yani’s urging and Ramonda’s powerful voice as an ambassador, there was a rallying call against global femcide in the wake of the disappearance of so many people.

The U.S. didn’t let the great loss of citizens stop their continuing encroachment of resources and they took advantage of pumping predatory capitalism along. What could’ve been a moment of self-reflection, a shift in priorities, and a new way of being for the country as a whole was simply an opportunity to prey on weaker nations even harder. Their only hindrance in achieving more power was the rise of Wakanda under N’Jadaka’s leadership. He instilled fear in every nation that wanted life to go on the same way, and he also gave hope to those parts that saw a chance at progressive changes aligning with Wakanda. The western powers still gasped at his U.N. speech criticizing colonial apartheid in Palestine and Gaza. The gasp turned into full-fledged choking when he charged genocide co-signed and funded by the Americans. Once he pontificated on the historical similarities between Gaza, South Africa, and the Black American segregation of his own people, his War Dogs got wind of Mossad operations trying to penetrate Wakandan intelligence through the C.I.A.

Back home, the continent was split.

African nations that had long been ignored and left to suffer on their own benefitted from supporting Wakanda. N’Jadaka flooded their lands with tech support, agricultural advances, doctors, and a quick rebuilding of infrastructures with his Wakandan Humanitarian Corps that embarrassed the U.S.. At N’Jadaka’s urging, Azania and Caanan had stopped selling uranium, colbalt, and platinum to anyone outside of Africa in exchange for advanced agricultural expansion. Mining had ruined and polluted their lands with run-off depleting usable soil and water. Rapid climate change didn’t help them either and the neighboring nations were on the verge of famine. Wakanda helped clean their water, soil, and air for free, allowing farmers to produce a bumper crop that saved millions from starvation. Those who had been malnourished received the best medical treatment, and once snatched from the brink of disaster, Azania and Caanan were staunch allies for good.

Niganda and Mohannda were a different story, currying favor from the CBC leaders and complaining to the U.S. president that Wakanda was a global threat to sovereignty. The other African nations galvanized by the freely given help, threw all of their allegiance to the Wakandans, thus leading other unaligned African nations to fear him creating a United States of Wakanda to rule them all.

It wasn’t a bad idea.

He never acknowledged those types of concerns and just let the rumors grow to keep his enemies on their toes. His own father N’Jobu had flirted with visions of a united continent under Wakandan rule in his journals. Currently, N’Jadaka scrambled to replace War Dogs lost to the blip in order to keep his finger on the pulse of other nations.

“Princess Yani will arrive within the next two hours. They have crossed onto the Atlantic,” Mpilo said.

N’Jadaka nodded. He gave Mpilo a full-time job as his personal assistant since the loss of his father in the snap. The king had no idea the young man suffered that loss until months after the memorial honoring the lost ones. Mpilo did his work professionally until Yani brought the news to his attention. She recognized Mpilo’s family name from one of the palace attendants sending personal condolences to their staff on her behalf. When N’Jadaka questioned him, Mpilo broke down in tears in the king’s office. His father and two oldest brothers had vanished leaving behind his mother and baby sister. Barely an adult, Mpilo now had the responsibility of looking out for his immediate family. N’Jadaka terminated his fellowship and gave him a permanent job title as his executive assistant.

The king let out a sigh of relief. He needed to be with his family again. Normally Yani would be with him, but she was on her own global tour promoting her book, “The Wakandan Way of Birth”. Their children traveled with her and he caught interview segments of her in three countries. The world was enamored with the exotic princess. It was her first appearance outside of Wakanda representing the nation. N’Jadaka grinned thinking about the reaction of the Caribbean. The entire region went nuts finding out officially that an island girl had snagged the most powerful man in the world.

She promoted the book in St. Thomas first, and he hated not being there with her. She traveled to Jamaica next to visit the land of her father and paid her respects to their relatives there. In the midst of the new global normal, Yani’s book became a smashing success. All proceeds went to funding her midwifery scholarships to further the number of Black and Native midwives and doulas learning at the Wakandan birthing centers. The money allowed women to focus fulltime on their craft without monetary restraints. She planned to give more once she became queen because the palace allotted a salary for Queen Consorts that she planned to use for more income-based scholarships. Wherever there were Black and Indigenous women in need, Yani made sure they took priority over anyone else.

Everyone wanted their hands on the book. A Wakandan publishing company mass marketed the coffee-table sized manauscript, and they looked exquisite. The cover was created by a Birnin S’Yan artisan who made a vibranium-tinged dye that was threaded into a gorgeous royal purple and silver cloth overlay. The book had fifty full-page color photos that Yani spent months agonizing over from a total of 200. The cover photo itself deserved to hang in a museum. It showed a young woman holding her newborn daughter and they were both dressed in the vibrant colors of the River Tribe.

When the pre-release online sales skyrocketed, Yani made the decision to only provide non-online sales out of Wakanada through global Black bookstores. The international brick and mortar stores made bank with the flood of non-Black customers wanting their hands on something from Wakanda. Even people who weren’t even interested in childbirth or culture clamored to snatch up a copy just to get a glimpse of what Wakanda looked like from the inside. The first print sold out in one week.

The talks finally ended and the affair moved into a spacious outdoor dining area where a small jazz trio played music in a corner. The balmy weather made it comfortable to be outside and he took in a deep inhale of D.C. air.

Okoye and Ayo kept the pre-dinner rush to talk to the king at a distance, giving N’Jadaka time to snag a moment of peace. After ten minutes he shook hands and greeted caucus leaders, trying not to look annoyed at their requests for selfies with him. He obliged to be polite and to give an air of camaraderie. Everyone wanted everyone else to think they had connections to him by how loud they talked or laughed with him. He knew the drill.

The hosts ushered his entourage to their dining seats near the front of another podium. No one pretended to be sly about sneaking candids of him with their smartphones.

“King N’Jadaka, your son is here to see you right away,” Ayo whispered in his ear.

N’Jadaka looked around and spotted Riki walking out from the museum with his personal Dora, Quamba. All the diners stopped to watch the prince of Wakanda walk through with his hands behind his back and his eyes searching for his Baba. Some people tried to snap photos of Riki, but all of N’Jadaka’s children wore necklaces that thwarted any cameras from getting clear pictures of them by jamming up electronics and flash photography cameras.

Riki looked too clean.

Yani braided his hair in the spiral style of his Wakandan ancestors, threaded with shells and beads that bounced around his shoulders. This week, Riki wore jade and black fingernail polish decorated with mini panther claws in bright gold which was the rage of young children in Birnin Zana who loved their local team that played a popular sport called ukudlala ngomlenze…leg play. It was a game that required balance, and intense leg flexibility as two teams battled each other on a low swinging wooden bridge that moved across a deep body of water. One member of each team took turns standing in the center of the swinging bridge as the other team members of the challenging team split up on either side to rock the opponent off their feet, without any of their own teammates falling over too. The narrow bridge swung higher and higher, pushing athletes to go against gravity, their exhausted limbs put to the test for long durations. N’Jadaka had promised Riki a trip to the national competition in the River Tribe territory once they returned home.

Riki’s black royal sash rested snug across his chest with the family crest blazoned on it. The boy was seven-years old and sprouting a bit of height. He was almost as tall as Sydette and would probably surpass her by the time he was eight. Riki’s eyes lit up when he spotted N’Jadaka.

“Baba!”

The boy ran past chuckling adults who admired the tailored royal suit and polished shoes. N’Jadaka held his arms out and his son jumped onto his lap and kissed his cheek. The happy king wrapped his child up in love.

“I’ve missed your busy behind,” N’Jadaka said. “Where’s your Mama and the girls?”

“Changing clothes. I couldn’t wait to see you,” Riki said, squeezing his arms around N’Jadaka’s neck.

“Good trip, Dumplin?”

“Yes. People went crazy for Mama and her book. I’m ready to go home though. I don’t like this country…the people here are so fake. They only like you if you’re rich or famous.”

“Hungry?”

Riki nodded and scanned the tables for the evening’s selection. He scrunched up his nose at the servers placing rolls and butter on the tables.

“Can we eat this food, Baba?” Riki asked.

“We have people watching the chef in the kitchen.”

The Udaku children had been taught to reject outside food unless their parents permitted them to partake. N’Jadaka had become cautious with poisoning and normally had his own personal chef make all of their food, but he opted to watch the American cooks this time around instead of turning down a plate. The head chef for the evening was a famous Black American from New Orleans who read that N’Jadaka liked food from that region and wanted to create a menu to impress the powerful king.

“Sit next to me,” N’Jadaka said, pulling out a chair for Riki.

Mpilo took a seat across from them at the circular table that seated twelve. Members of the CBC organizing committee greeted him then took their seats at other tables. The jazz music grew softer as guests took their seats all throughout the guarded space. A congresswoman from Philly took to the podium near N’Jadaka’s area and announced the arrival of Yani and Ramonda. Eager applause broke out and N’Jadaka stood up from his seat. He helped Riki stand in his chair so he could see his mother and aunt enter.

N’Jadaka’s Uncle Bakari escorted Yani and Ramonda together as Sydette and Joba walked in front of them wearing matching purple dresses with their hair twisted and pulled back with amethyst panther-shaped hair clips. Yani mesmerized the crowd in a shimmery emerald green dress that revealed all her curves. She styled her hair with extensions in an upswept fancy roll that denoted her status as queen-to-be. Ramonda had the crowd transfixed with her tall purple isicholo and deep purple gown. Uncle Bakari was dapper in his black tux. N’Jadaka’s grandfather Dante escorted Bakari’s wife Shavonne and they all made their way toward the front where their Dora Milaje escorts brought them to the king’s table.

Sydette and Joba dashed to him first and he picked up both girls and smothered their faces with kisses amidst their squeals of delight for being with him again. He put them down the moment Yani reached him and he couldn’t hide from the world his love for her.

His arms wrapped around her tight and he pressed his forehead against hers. The tense energy in his body drained down into the floor and he exhaled a long breath. Yani rested her arms around his massive shoulders, her perfume drowning him in memories of their shared bed and the last time they had been alone without the world watching their every move.

“Baby, I missed you so much.”

“I know. I couldn’t wait to get here and hold you.”

“You know these niggas is starin’ so we better play it cool for Ramonda’s sake.”

Yani giggled and pulled away from him. He kissed her hand and turned to Ramonda, giving his auntie double kisses on both cheeks. He hugged his grandpop next and finally showed love to his American aunt and uncle who raised him after his parents died. They all took their seats at the dining table. Yani sat at his right, and Riki, Joba, and Sydette took over his left side.

As the first courses of salads, soups, and finger foods were brought out, announcements were made. The head chef was brought out and recognized. N’Jadaka allowed the nervous man to take a picture with him holding up a plate of sausage gumbo with rice. There was special recognition given to Yani, along with a surprise plaque presented to Ramonda for her role as an ambassador fostering goodwill between America and Wakanda.

N’Jadaka caught up with his aunt and uncle and the family chatter reminded him of being home except they were being watched like fish in a fishbowl. When dessert and coffee were brought out at the end of the meal, Ramonda switched seats with Riki and leaned in toward the king.

“President Mubiri would like to have a nightcap with you during the mixer inside the museum,” Ramonda said.

“Why?”

Ramonda’s sharp eyes observed the guests.

“He believes D.C. is neutral ground and he would like to discuss rumors of you inciting a coup in his nation.”

“Sounds like C.I.A. bullshit.”

“Even so, it wouldn’t hurt to appear cordial. Get some photos taken that shows two rival nations talking together. Yani is your icebreaker. Madame Mubiri is here, too. A nice photo-op of beautiful African women mingling will make the CBC very happy.”

N’Jadaka glanced at Yani’s fingers. She had on her deadly finger armor. Hopefully she wouldn’t threaten the man again.

He signaled for Quamba and several Onyx Squad security to take his children and grandfather back to their penthouse suite at the hotel they were lodged in for the weekend. He hugged and kissed the children promising to read a bedtime story to them later. People moved out of the way and stared at his heirs. All three children walked like royalty, heads held high, backs kept straight.

The after dinner mixer started inside the lobby of the museum where a giant abstract art installation above their heads looked like the unfurling of giant bronze ribbons. N’Jadka read the description of the sculpture that was supposed to represent the swinging motions like a band of angels coming down to carry Black Americans back home like the old spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”. The artist, Richard Hunt, used suspended cables to anchor the work, and the swooping arcs of the bronze bands reminded N’Jadaka of his mother’s arms around his body when he was small.

Several servers traipsed the lobby carrying drinks and savory finger foods. A D.J. played contemporary R&B and the guests relaxed into full-blown partying mode. Bakari and Shavonne headed toward a display of Harriet Tubman’s shawl further inside the museum and Mpilo escorted Ramonda to meet some caucus members who were dying to be seen with her.

N’Jadaka held out his arm and Yani rested her hand on it. She walked with a majestic stride that matched his and they mingled for a bit. Yani’s charm was her greatest weapon and they spent a considerable amount of time discussing her book and tour. Her radiance overwhelmed a few people who couldn’t stop admiring her even as they moved on to other guests. The allure of power was a true aphrodisiac, and Yani wielded it well. All of her Wakandan training and years of experience dealing with all sorts of people paid off in spades as she delighted American dignitaries. He couldn’t stop staring at her himself. Her voice lit up his face and he smiled at everything she said. Yani’s youth also surprised people. She would be entering her late twenties soon enough, but carried a greater maturity and self-awareness in the last year representing Wakanda internationally.

They worked the first three corners of the lobby before the mixer branched out to the rest of the museum, and they headed toward President Mubiri and Madame Mubiri who lingered near a replica of a slave quarter. The Mohanndan president stood with a glass of liquor in his hand entertaining cronies as his wife watched her husband’s dour animated face with his uppercase gums spilling over his lowercase teeth. Her eyes sparked up when Yani approached holding out her hands toward the woman.

“Madame Habiba Mubiri, I finally get to see you again in a less formal setting,” Yani enthused.

Yani ignored Mubiri and immediately pulled Habiba away from her husband, touching her hand in informal friendship.

“Mubiri,” N’Jadaka said, offering his hand. Mubiri shook it.

“King N’Jadaka.”

Yani reached for a glass of wine from a server that had been freshly poured from the bar. She presented it to N’Jadaka using the ancient submissive stance of queens in Wakanda, holding the glass up to him with her right hand, while her other hand cradled the elbow of the serving arm. N’Jadaka caught the lust in Mubiri’s eyes again for his fiancé. He took the glass from Yani and kissed her cheek.

“Thank you, baby,” he said.

“May I please borrow Madame Mubiri? I would love to introduce her to the head organizer,” Yani asked Mubiri.

It was clear that Mubiri didn’t want his wife to do anything, but Yani’s seductive voice couldn’t be denied. She played on the man’s need to control women by asking his permission. Her earlier exaggerated submissive act toward N’Jadaka fed into the man’s cultural ego. Yani upped the ante by touching his arm and squeezing it. Her touch ignited something in the president and he lifted his wife’s arm and practically threw her at Yani.

“I’m sure you two have some important things to discuss without us present,” she added.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Mubiri said, his gaze plastered all over Yani’s figure as the two women strolled further into the heart of the museum.

N’Jadka pretended to drink his wine while being focused on something else until Yani was gone.

“I thank you for the personal invitation to your wedding King N’Jadaka. I didn’t think you would extend us any welcome to your country again.”

“It’s a time of celebration, not political intrigue. Yani wanted your wife there. They have been corresponding for a time getting to know each other. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“And miss the nuptials of that delightful woman you parade around like a trophy? Never. We will attend and enjoy the splendor.”

They both drank in silence.

“Did you like the tour of the museum earlier?” N’Jadaka asked.

“An intriguing history lesson. You must be proud of your heritage here.”

“I am.”

“Rebels at heart. I see why the Americans want to control you.”

“I know you don’t want to stand here and shoot the shit about my lineage. You want to know if I’m plotting to throw you out of office.”

Mubiri choked on his drink as N’Jadaka stared at his face. The Mohanndan’s cronies flicked their eyes away in embarrassment, not expecting the king to be that blunt.

“What would I gain from having you taken out, Mubiri? There would only be another leader who thinks the same as you, so nothing would change. Pinning your hopes on the Americans holding me in check has not paid off in a year. I offer nothing but hope and a chance at directing Africa’s vast internal wealth and ancient wisdom back to where it belongs…on all of our people.”

“Our people? You Wakandans are stand-offish and think only of yourselves. These little excursions into other African nations giving them little trinkets of your resources reeks of a ploy to rule over us all. At least your uncle acted like a benevolent father-figure in the west.”

“My uncle was not the man you all think he was. I am telling you now, to your face Barasa Mubiri…I have no plans for a coup, an assassination, nor war with your country. Did you not read my fiancé’s book? Wakandans value peaceful living, enhancements to prolong life, and self-actualization that benefits the whole and not just the individual. We kept to ourselves for centuries even when we had the means to colonize the world and bend it to our will. But we didn’t.”

“I still think that is an option in your arsenal, King N’Jadaka.”

“I am from the school of ‘don’t start none, won’t be none’. My goal is transformative liberation for whomever wants it.”

“So-called liberators often transform into something sinister, if given the chance.”

The king moved closer to the east African president, closing the small gap between them.

“I only plan to bring hell to those who mean us harm. Do you plan to cause problems for us with this U.S. administration?” N’Jadaka asked.

Mubiri shook his head and smiled.

“I want peace and prosperity for our people too.”

“Good. You have heard directly from my mouth what I want. Let’s spend the rest of the evening showing the world that Africans can co-exist on the continent without people confirming their biases about us being warlords and despots. We can be civil with our disagreements. Everything doesn’t have to be bloodshed, or rumors of hostile take-overs.”

N’Jadaka excused himself with Okoye by his side.

#King Killmonger The Golden Jaguar #King Killmonger #Killmonger Fanfiction #Wakanda Forever #Namor #Black Panther Fanfiction #Uzumaki Rebellion #Uzumaki Rebellion Writes #Youtube

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animehouse-moe · 1 year

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Skip and Loafer Episode 5: Prickly and Giddy

Five episodes in and we're already at the sports festival. Five episodes in and our characters are already so diverse and multi-faceted. Five episodes in and we're still finding new things to explore within the school setting. And five episodes in and Mitsumi is still our guide rather than our lead. Sure, this episode ultimately ends up about her, but the lead this episode is undoubtedly Egashira, who we begin to unravel more and more.

So to start, maybe a backstory? Egashira is very much the girl that many might have pegged her as with the movie episode, thanks to how the story approaches her. However, this episode dives deeper into it and presents more of the proper side of Egashira than just her negative thoughts that shape how we as viewers approach her.

Egashira was a chubby kid growing up, she wasn't in the greatest shape ever and she wasn't really ever that popular. Her experience in school led her towards anxiety and, as is common throughout this story, intense outward pressure from society which she in turn internalizes. It's not some special story, but the aim was never for it to be like that, it's meant to be a story that many girls around the world are able to relate to. Forcing yourself to give up the foods you like, to do things you never really wanted to. Learning and essentially studying how to look pretty, how to put makeup on, how to do things that boys will like.

I will say though, it walks a somewhat fine line. It's hard, it's really hard and I do give them credit for the positivity their message exudes. The challenge being, you can't turn back time. You can't remove those core experiences of a little girl being forced to refuse the things she likes, dedicating so much of her time to finding a way to be "popular" and "liked". The best case scenario would be to wash away those experiences, but at the very least Skip and Loafer is taking a realistic approach. Mitsumi can't remove those pieces of Egashira, but she can reaffirm what rests at the center: her dedication. Egashira deserves the credit for battling through those experiences to be accepted within society and achieve the status she desired. And Mitsumi does a wonderful job with that in this clip here.

It's funny, it's light, and it doesn't cut right to the issue. It's not Mitsumi speaking directly to Egashira's heart, it's Mitsumi being the adorable little oddball that's come in to shake up everybody's high school life. Egashira is the one that connects the dots, and I think it makes for a far stronger moment. She resented Mitsumi, no matter how she may word it. She loathed that Mitsumi could be herself and be accepted.

But she doesn't hate her, and that's what allows this moment to happen. She's jealous, but not so much against Mitsumi as to not hear her words and have them cut through that thick exterior.

It's really just incredibly wonderful, because it's such a great message to put out there. There's people that will be accepted as they are, and people that will have to fight for that acceptance. There's people that have had different experience than you in the world, and that shapes how they approach things. The country girl doesn't have anything on the city girl in terms of expectation and experience, but that naivety can make a world of difference in accepting and appreciating what the other's gone through to get to where they are.

And differences are something that this story is really hammering home with Mitsumi and Egashira. Even simple things end up creating space between them like which pair of shoes each remembers from the little altercation in the gym.

It's such a simple moment, but it speaks volumes to Egashira's character. She's forever unsatisfied with herself because she can't be herself, and when she is herself, she chastises those pieces like we see here. Even in just the small actions like balling her fist or how she talks, Egashira has a lot to overcome to accept herself. In that sense, I really feel like she's the opposite/rival to Mitsumi. There's more and more to unravel, and as we do the pair grow closer.

Now, there's a bunch more I could go on and on about between this duo, but I'm going to speed along to direction! I think there's certainly good pieces that place a focus on body parts to convey emotion, but past that it leans into a more typical sports festival feel. I wouldn't say it's bad, considering what all we get, but I was hoping for a bit more.

Thankfully, the good sequences are really good, and we've got quite a few of them! Like this little piece of Egashira walking down the hallway and Mitsumi catching up to her. It really speaks volumes to the strides that the two have taken as friends, and that Mitsumi is unwilling to let Egashira further isolate herself in the pursuit of social acceptance.

Or even simple pieces like this little dandelion that's used to show how much time has passed in practicing for the Sports Festival. Impressively enough, I'm having a really hard time deciding whether or not this is CGI. It feels like it has that depth, but at the same time it blends so ridiculously well with its surroundings that I'm unsure.

Speaking of CGI, I feel like a lot of the CGI cuts from this episode are really solid. Stuff like this volleyball are missing a lot of the weight that 2D animation can ascribe to it, but overall it's well composited within the scene.

And there's pieces like this basketball net. It certainly stands out more, but for how well it's done I can appreciate it, really nice movement on the mesh, and there's even a bit of movement to the rim. Some people may not like the concession of 3D for such a short scene, but in my opinion it's more than well enough done to be justified.

Now, where P.A Works really shines with their 3D work is in the environments. Their compositing is really really well done to the point that you wouldn't even blink twice at it when it's the focal point of the scene, like this one. Though, the giveaway is how the camera moves so smoothly through it, it's too well done for it to be 2D, so if you're paying attention it's a sort of process of elimination for it.

Now, I'm not here to just talk 3D, there's some really great 2D scenes as well, like this very intense volleyball cut!

Alright alright that's the last of it. This episode was probably the weakest in terms of direction, because it was so straightforward and didn't really have a super strong vision it wanted to follow, but it's far from bad. There's still a lot of Deai's vision in it with the wider and more full shots, and there's also pieces from the episode director that allow them to call it their own. Alongside that, they do a really great job conveying Egashira's story this episode, so much so to the point that I feel like they could have gone even more over the top and emotional with it.

But, at the end of the day, it's another great episode for a great series, that contains some really great messages and sentiments that are important to high school age people. Continually impressive, and constantly inspiring.

#skip to loafer #skip and loafer #スキップとローファー #iwakura mitsumi #mika egashira #yuzuki murashige #makoto kurume #sousuke shima #shima sousuke #mitsumi iwakura #anime recommendation #anime review #anime and manga #anime #romcom anime

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v3nusxsky · 1 year

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Could you maybe do like a part 2 to the angel baby one, where its a few years later, its mother day, and r is feeling really guilty so larissa reassures r they did the right thing 💞

Hello my darling, here’s the part two for you. I’m sorry it’s two days late for Mother’s Day but I hope it’s okay for you <3

Still a mother| h&c

*Authors note~ I know this was a new request but seems as mothers day for me was yesterday I just wanted to get this one out for you all*

Trigger warnings~ miscarriage, depression, self loathing

Prompt~ see the ask^^^^

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

*******************previously********************

"What if I just called them dove?" You murmured. Shot sweet and not tied to a gender. Dove could also be related back to death which seemed to tie in perfectly. Your little dove too precious for this world.

"Dove is beautiful little one. Your little dove" Larissa was quick to confirm it was a beautiful name. "Y/n your exhausted I see the flowers, let's get you back to your dorm and all tucked up in bed hmm? We will start the process in the morning if it's what you want, I'll be here every step of the way. I may not be biologically your mum but every student at Nevermore our my little ones. I'd do anything to help and protect any of you..." she trailed off noticing your breathing had shallowed out and little pink flowers now took up residence where the blue were. Your skin a mixture of pink and purple as you dozed in her embrace.

*************************************************

Florakinesis was your blessing and curse. Being with the plants soothed you in ways no other could but also the dead giveaway for your emotions was the flowers that would bloom in your hair. So that is how you knew that Larissa would instantly see what you were internally battling. Black roses and deep blue flowers crowned your head. Self loathing or hatred and sadness. Yep that summed your feelings up perfectly. After all it made sense. The day that it is was a day you should be celebrating yet you got rid of your reason. Your one who made you a mother... well until you did the unspeakable act and ended their little life too soon. Now you would sit here every year, every day and wonder just who they could've been, if you had just been stronger.

With no way to hide your own emotions you settled for hiding away. Nevermore had the yearly tradition to hold a Mother's Day weekend, one where the mothers of the students had the opportunity to come to Jericho and see their child with the opportunity to spend some time together at Nevermore and in the town. You'd done so well to be present on the Friday and the Saturday but today? The actual day for mothers you just couldn't face it. That made your self hatred worse, you couldn't even handle the fact you gave up your chance to be a mother but you couldn't handle the idea of being a mother either. Truly you beloved dove must have left you for a reason.

You knew what flowers had bloomed in your hair, you didn't need to see it so you just hid yourself away under the covers watching your comfort show. The show usually would distract you from the reality of this world, transporting you into the greatest minds of the FBI as they hunted down un subs. Your favourite agent was Emily prentiss, and her backstory really resonated with you. She'd been through so much shit yet continued to get up and live every day. And that was a strength you admired.

Before you knew it your feelings of guilt and self loathing had you in tears, crying for the life you could've had if you'd been strong enough to keep your dove. Instead you were stuck loving and missing someone that only two others knew about. One, the dead beat dad who used you for bragging rights and the other being the very stunning Larissa Weems.

She had been there as promised, holding your hand and hushing your cry's. Just like any mother would their upset child. Her comfort and support was honestly all that got you through it. You reminded Larissa of that every now and then and she simply dismissed the praise as though it was unnecessary. To her, it wasn't she did what anyone would do, but to you it was very necessary. That fact was why you weren't surprised to see the Headmistress letting herself in your dorm and sighing at the sight. Of course you'd be struggling today. In fact she was cursing herself for not noticing sooner. How long had you been crying alone?

"Little one? Is it about Dove?" She murmured coming to sit on the edge of the bed, never touching you, but close enough to offer the choice. You let out a sob at the name and nodded. Tears falling uncontrollably as you sobbed for your baby, to precious for the earth. "It's my fault, I would've been a bad mother. I killed them Isa. I'm a horrid person. Imagine what they'd be right now. A little giggly three year old, running around causing mischief and they'd absolutely love you. I know that. They'd cling to you and you'd spoil them rotten. But I took that all away from them. From you. I'm so sorry Isa. I'm so so sorry. I'm sorry dove. God I hate myself" you mumbled, the mini rant being broken up through your sobs.

See one fact that had changed, Larissa had supported you through the process and as time trickled on you two became an item, that's how you ended up on the Nevermore staff. You knew she loved you and that she wouldn't blame you for not keeping the precious dove but you couldn't help but grieve the child that you had lost.

"Don't love, don't torture yourself like this. You did what you needed to do at the time. I know for a fact Dove doesn't blame you, you will be a great mother some day, when your ready for it. And Dove knows that. Darling, you are still a mother love, you still carried Dove for a little while, you deserve to be celebrated just as much as every other mother out there." She reassured you before offering her arms outwards indicating you could hug if you wanted. You threw yourself into her arms and sobbed, her hands come up to rub gentle slow circles on your back as you cried in her arms.

She held you for as long as it took for you to calm down. Only when you were calm did she try to redirect your attention from your troubled thoughts to your show. With a small chuckle she mumbled "oh my darling, Emily prentiss again? What episode?" To which you mumbled into her shoulder "season 4 episode 3." With attention directed else were she pulled a simple fake red rose from behind her back and called your name grabbing your attention.

"My darling Y/n, happy Mother's Day not only from your little dove in the skies above but from all the students of Nevermore that look to you for comfort, support and love. We all think the world of you and you should know how truly amazing you are. Dove may not be here but you'll always be there momma, and hopefully in a few years to come, maybe we will get to see you in action." Her speech never faulted, truth soaking every word. Had she just indirectly told you she wished to have children with you? With shakey hands you took the rose and whispered, "why not a real one Isa? She could tell by your actions alone you were confused so she readily explained her thought process, "its not a real one bc those have the capability to wilt. This one however will not. Just like your love for dove and ability to be a brilliant mother." Larissa truly believed in you. And that right there was enough for you. You truly love and miss the child you should've had every single day, but it was better for them at the time. And deep down you knew they knew that.

Word count~ 1370

#fanfic #larissa weems #wednesday netflix #gwendoline christie #larissa x reader #larissa weems x reader #principal larissa weems x reader #larissa x you #principal larissa weems #mothers day #anon request #💞anon

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uwmspeccoll · 1 year

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Livy’s Admittedly Biased History of Early Rome

Throughout all of written history there has been one commonality in all works of this kind. Due to the nature of humans, we all have preferences and experiences that make up biases, and thus every text about history is biased. It doesn’t matter whether the events were recorded at the moment of their occurrence or thousands of years after the fact. Even works with multiple authors are not free of bias due to differing views, but rather have multiple different biases. There is no way to remove bias for historical sources, so the question now is how do historians provide the reader with a clear recreation of past events?

On of the oldest solutions I have found comes from the 1st century BCE Roman historian Livy. The copy found in our library, titled Livy: The History of Early Rome, is a 1960 Limited Editions Club production, with a translation by Aubrey de Selincourt and illustrations by Raffaele Scorzelli, printed in Verona at the famed Officina Bodoni by Giovanni Mardersteig in an edition of 1500 copies signed by Mardersteig and Scorzelli . Despite the legendary tales of rivers protecting generals and consuls battling dragons, Livy is still able to provide the reader with an acceptable history due to what he says at the beginning of his work. In the first few pages of this lengthy read, Livy plainly tells the reader about his bias, stating that he believes Rome is the greatest civilization to have ever existed. This is then followed by both a hope that this view will not affect his writings and an instruction to remember this hope.

Livy’s histories do fall into the land of fiction at various points, yet with that instruction, readers have the ability to understand why they are present and hopefully can better interpret the events behind the legend.

View more of my Classics posts.

-- LauraJean, Special Collections Undergraduate Classics Intern

#Classics #Ancient Rome #Roman History #Livy #The History of Early Rome #limited editions club #Aubrey de Selincourt #Raffaele Scorzelli #Officina Bodoni #Giovanni Mardersteig #fine press books #historical bias #LauraJean

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martyrbat · 11 months

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batman: the knight #6 • batman annual 2022 • dc pride 2023

[ID: Three panels from separate comics to draw parallels. In the first one, Minhkhoa Khan and Bruce Wayne are fighting in the snow after their mentor, Luka, was shot dead by Minhkhoa. Minhkhoa throws him into the ground next to Luka's bloodied corpse as he tells Bruce, “Luka was a master painter... who threw his brushes away.” Bruce shouts that he's insane but Minhkhoa corrects him, “No, Bruce. I just have vision... you and I could be the greatest artists alive... (— but you're too much of a coward!”)

In the second photo, Bruce and Minhkhoa are fighting a group of armed criminals together some time in the near future. Minhkhoa has his Ghostmaker mask on that covers his upper face as Bruce wears a black mask that's similar to Zorro's. They're in the middle of a quarrel with Bruce telling Minhkhoa not to be reductive before Minhkhoa continues talking, “This is an art. An artist doesn't let someone else handle their paintbrush. We've given our life to this. You can't just bring in others and expect them to be able to do what we can.” Bruce argues, “What's the point of it if we don't help others and share what we learn?”

The third photo is a closeup on Ghostmaker's helmet after he compared a battle to a dance. His internal narration reads, ‘Some say I feel nothing. But I appreciate art. I respect it.’ END ID]

#hiiiii is this anything....#sorry for the weakest parallel post ever lol its just him reusing a metaphor but i like that its something kinda consistent so :3 #i think minhkhoa should paint... it can be something he did as a young kid or something he learnt for his training or whatever #or something he does while meditating or relaxing (& i know it can be debated how much he'll do it) but.... idk i just think itll be nice :#also sorry for editing their speech bubbles blank instead of leaving them being petty and arguing about who took down the most ppl #its funny but didnt really fit the post vdjfhf #c: batman annual | 2022 #c: batman: the knight | i: 6 #crypt's panels #posts from the crypt #minhkhoa khan #ghostmaker #bruce wayne #batman #EDIT THANK YOU EVYN FOR REMINDING ME OF THE 3RD PHOTO....

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scotianostra · 10 months

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On July 13th 1249 Alexander III, King of Scots, was crowned at Scone.

Alexander is regarded as one of our country’s greatest rulers. His reign marked a period of peace and prosperity in Scotland.

Alaxandair mac Alaxandair; became king at the age of seven after the death of his father, Alexander II. The years of his minority, (that is when he was too young to rule himself), saw a bitter struggle for the control of affairs between two rival parties, the one led by Walter Comyn, Earl of Menteith, the other by Alan Durward, Justiciar of Scotia. The former dominated the early years of Alexander’s reign.

In 1251 he married Margaret, the eldest daughter of Henry III of England. The wedding has been described as “the most spectacular wedding in the British Isles during this age.

On the one hand, he successfully maintained Scotland’s freedom resisting his more powerful neighbours’ territorial ambitions. On the other hand, his traders sold produce across Europe, so he did not isolate his small nation from the world beyond.

In 1262, Alexander laid claim to the Western Isles, at that time ruled by Norway, continuing a policy that Alexander’s father had pursued. King Haakon of Norway rejected the claim, but in 1263 he was defeated by the Scottish at the Battle of Largs. In 1266, by the Treaty of Perth, Norway gave Scotland control over the Isle of Man and the Western Isles. Alexander invested the title of Lord of the Isles in the head of the Macdonald family, Angus Macdonald, and over the next two centuries the Macdonald lords operated as if they were kings in their own right, frequently opposing the Scottish monarch.

Queen Margaret died in 1275, the monarchs had three children, their two sons died between 1281 and 1283, the daughter Margaret married King Eirik II of Norway. According to the Lanercost Chronicle, Alexander did not spend his decade as a widower aloneone chronicler wrote: "He used never to forbear on account of season nor storm, nor for perils of flood or rocky cliffs, but would visit none too creditably nuns or matrons, virgins or widows as the fancy seized him, sometimes in disguise.”

The death of his sons prompted Alexander to marry again in an attempt to produce an heir. Five months after his second marriage, on 19 March 1286, Alexander died after falling from his horse.

Alexander’s rule has been described as a period of little internal conflict. Scotland achieved a prosperity disproportionate to her size, due to excellent trade relations; “Her ambassadors and merchants contacted and carried on commerce with many nations” under his guidance.

Unfortunately his death left the country without a proper heir Edward I of England started his interfering in Scotland’s affairs, leading to decades of turmoil during The First Wars of Independence.

#scottish #scotland #royalty #monarch.#history

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er1chartmann · 5 months

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Gerda Bormann

These are some facts and curiosities about Gerda Bormann, Martin Bormann's wife:

She was born on October 23, 1909

she was Walter Buch's eldest daughter

She was a shy, sensitive girl with an artistic sense when she met Hitler, who immediately took her under his wing. The future Fuhrer was a regular presence in the little girl's life.

Reflecting on her childhood, Gerda complained that her father '' he was a guest. He never stayed with us long.'' In essence, Buch's greatest contribution to his daughter's life was introducing her to Hitler.

Shortly after his release Hitler immediately resumed contact with the Buch family. Gerda would later remember him sitting ''next to our tile stove'', intent on confirming his dedication to the battle.

Raised in the orbit of Hitler and his theories, Gerda was unable to form an independent critical spirit: her vision of the world was completely shaped by Nazism, her faith in the movement was absolute.

Gerda began to frequent Martin Bormann out of rebellion against her father, who considered Bormann a useless scoundrel.

In April 1929, returning from one of their long walks, Bormann formally asked for Gerda's hand. The two were married on September 2, with Hitler and Hess as witnesses.

Gerda was convinced that only a radically new social order could help National Socialism. So she looked for ways to abolish monogamy and introduce “people's marriage.” In February 1944 she supported the creation of several parallel marriages in the interests of the state.

Gerda was also a convinced anti-Semite. The attitude resulting from her upbringing was reinforced by her radical husband and environment. In her letters to her husband she abandoned her usual reserve and insistently insulted "international Jewry".

Shortly before the collapse of the "Third Reich", Gerda fled to South Tyrol. After a few weeks she was taken to the military hospital (the children remained at their home), where she was diagnosed with uterine cancer.

On March 23, 1946, Gerda died from mercury poisoning, contracted from chemotherapy.

Sources:

Nazis written by James Wyllie

Wikipedia: Gerda Bormann

If you don't like go with your life.

I DON'T SUPPORT NAZISM, FASCISM OR ZIONISM IN ANY WAY THIS IS AN EDUCATIONAL POST

#ww2 germany #reichblr #ww2 history #martin bormann #nazism #gerda bormann #walter buch

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psalm22-6 · 4 months

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Did you know that the "V" in "Eugene V. Debs" stands for Victor? Yes, the parents of political activist Eugene Debs named him after Eugene Sue and Victor Hugo. Les Miserables was apparently his father's bible and it became Eugene's favorite book, which he read over and over again.

The character of Fantine (whom he calls "the greatest character in fiction") inspired him to write the following article, "Fantine In Our Day," in 1916. It was originally published in the International Socialist Review (I came across it in the Brisbane Worker.) In it, Debs examines sex work through the framework of worker's rights and the exploitative nature of labor under capitalism. Some of his arguments are rooted in misogyny, to be sure, but I was surprised by how much the article holds up (in my opinion) and in any case, it's an interesting historical document.

Read it yourself beneath the cut.

Fantine in Our Day by Eugene V Debs The reader of "Les Miserables" can never forget the ill-starred Fantine, the mournful heroine of Hugo's immortal classic. The very name of Fantine, the gay, guileless, trusting girl, the innocent, betrayed, self-immolating young mother, the despoiled, bedraggled, haunted and holy martyr to motherhood, to the infinite love of her child touches to tears and haunts the memory like a melancholy dream.

Jean Valjean, noblest of heroes, was possible only because of Fantine, sublimest of martyrs.

Fantine—child of poverty and starvation—the ruined girl, the abandoned mother, the hounded prostitute, remained to the very hour of her tragic death chaste as a virgin, spotless as a saint in the holy sanctuary of her own pure and undefiled soul. It was of such as Fantine that Heine wrote: "I have seen women on whose cheeks red vice was painted and in whose hearts dwelt heavenly purity."

The brief, bitter, blasted life of Fantine epitomizes the ghastly story of the persecuted, perishing Fantines of modern society in every land in Christendom. Everywhere they are branded as "prostitutes" and shunned as lepers. Never was the woman born who could sink low enough even in the upper class to be called a "prostitute," and the man who calls a woman by that hideous epithet bears it upon his own forehead.

Why are the Fantines of our day charged with having "gone wrong" and with being "fallen women"? Not one in all the numberless ranks of these sisters of ours who are so despised by the soulless society of which they are the offspring has "gone" wrong and not one has "fallen" to her present debased and unhappy state. If there is on earth a woman who has "fallen" in the sense usually applied to women who mortgage their honor in the battle for bread I have yet to see or hear of her.

There are certain powerful social forces which in the present order of things make for what is known as "prostitution," but it is to be noted that there are no "prostitutes" in the upper classes of society. The women in the higher strata may be sexually as unchaste as they will, they are never "prostitutes." The well-to-do woman, not driven by these forces to sell her body to feed her child, may yet fall into the grossest sexual immorality through sheer idleness and ennui, but she has got "gone wrong"—no one thinks of her as a "fallen women," or dreams of branding her as a "prostitute," and unless she is flagrantly indiscreet in the distribution of her favors her social standing is not materially affected by her moral lapses.

But let a poor shop-girl, a seamstress or domestic servant—in a word, a working girl—commit some slight indiscretion, and that hour her doom is sealed, and she might as well present herself at once to the public authorities and have the scarlet letter seared into her forehead with a branding iron. She may be pure and innocent as a child but the "benefit of the doubt" never fails to condemn her. She has "gone wrong," is now a "fallen woman," and the word "prostitute," coined exclusively for her, now designates the low estate which is to be her lot the rest of her life.

A rich woman may sink as low as she can—and a woman can sink very low in the moral and spiritual scale without necessarily indulging her carnal appetites—she is never a "prostitute." She does not sell herself from necessity but indulges herself from desire and therefore is not a "prostitute."

"Prostitution" as generally understood has economic as well as moral and sexual significance and application. "Prostitution" is confined to the "lower class" and hears a direct and intimate relation to the exploitation of the "upper class."

The Fantines of modern society, the "prostitutes", of the present day are wholly of the working class; the segregated area is populated entirely by these unfortunate sisters of ours, and the blasted life and crucified soul of every mother's daughter of them pleads in mute agony for the overthrow of the brutal, blighting, bartering system which has robbed them of their womanhood, shorn them of every virtue, reduced them to the degraded level of merchandise and finally turned them into sirens of retribution to avenge their dishonour and shame.

As these lines are being written the report of the Vice Commission of the State of Maryland appears in the press dispatches to inform the public that investigation of vice recently concluded in the great cities of that state discloses the fact—not at all new or startling to some of us at least—that many of the girls who "go" wrong and recruit the ranks of the "fallen" women have been seduced and ruined by their employers; bosses, and other stripes of "superior" of one kind or another, AS A CONDITION OF THEIR EMPLOYMENT. Countless others, cheated of their childhood, pursued from birth by poverty, were doomed before their baby-eyes opened upon a world in which it is a crime to be born, a crime punishable by cruel torture, by starvation of body and soul, and by being cast for life into a den of filth to glut the lust of its beastly keepers.

The innumerable Fantines of our day, found lurking like scarlet spectres in the shadows wherever capitalism easts its withering blight of exploitation, are typified in the child of the garret described by Hugo, the child of slum and street: "There was in her whole person the stupor of a life ended but never commenced." It is these deflowered daughters of poverty, robbed and degraded, that are forever "dropping fragments of their life upon the public highway."

The story, inexpressibly pathetic, is a commonplace. It has been repeated a thousand times in every tongue. Here it is again as told by a writer of today: "She has been fatherless. She has gone hungry. She has known bitter cold, shame, rags, scorn, neglect, want in all forms. She has needed dolls, flowers, play, songs, brightness, sympathy, care, love and has been given the stone of hard |abor instead. Of all the blessings to to which childhood is entitled this child has been robbed. In the brief life of this child there is pathos, endurance, long-deferred hope, experience that scars, denial, self-pity, hunger of the spirit, STARVATION OF A CHILD'S SOUL FOR LOVE, HOME, HOPE, HELP.

Fantine is the greatest character in fiction and the highest type of social martyrdom. The face of Fantine, in which we behold "the horror of the old in the countenance of a child," is the mirror which reflects society's sin and shame.

The Fantines have been raped of their virtue, robbed of their womanhood, dishonored, branded, excluded; the ignorance of childhood is with them still, but not its innocence; they have been shamelessly prostituted, but they are not prostitutes. They are girls, women who have walked the path of thorn and briers with bare agony and bleeding feet; who know the way of agony and tears, and who move in melancholy procession as capitalist society's offering to nameless and dishonored graves.

The very flower of womanhood is crushed in capitalism's mills of prostitution. The girls who yield are the tender, trusting, loving ones, the sympathetic and unsuspecting, who would make the truest of wives and the noblest of mothers. It is not the hard, cold, selfish and suspicious natures that surrender to the insidious forces of prostitution, but the very opposite and thus is the motherhood of the race dwarfed and deformed and denied its expression.

The system which condemns men to slavery, women to prostitution, children to poverty and ignorance, and all to hopeless, barren, joyless lives must be uprooted and destroyed before men may know the meaning of morality, walk the highlands of humanity, and breathe the vitalizing air of freedom and fellowship.

#les miserables #fantine #lm inspired #lm irl #eugene debs #I was excited when I found this article but it's literally on the wikipedia page for Fantine so I could have just found it there #fans through the ages

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selfdestructivecat · 1 year

Text

Do you know what time it is?

That’s right, folks! It’s time for…

Another! Random! Theory!

(Featuring our favorite sassy Dark Sides: Virgil and Janus!)

So, the story of Sanders Sides. We love it, right? The slowly escalating drama, the growing tension between all of the Sides, the breaking point looming on the horizon like the consequences of every bad decision we’ve ever made…

The story also has the added complexity of doubling as a metaphor for our own personal inner turmoils. That’s what the show is about, after all, right? That courtroom battle between Patton and Janus wasn’t just two characters fighting for the moral high ground; it represented a very relatable dilemma, where someone was placed in a difficult situation where they would have to choose between opportunity and the supposed “right thing to do”. Logan and Virgil’s debate wasn’t just two characters arguing; it represented how anxiety can impact our ability to reach logical conclusions.

And while not all of the analogies are perfect (and we can’t expect them to be), the way the Sides interact with each other has always had that fascinating double meaning that has provoked interesting reflections and discussions.

However, one point that I’ve seen being made by some people, and one that I happen to agree with, is that one dynamic doesn’t quite fit with the others. While it is certainly interesting from a story and character perspective, it doesn’t make much sense given the context of the Sanders Sides universe. These two characters, due to their aspects, don’t seem to have much of a reason to harbor bad blood. And yet, these two loathe each other, arguably more than any other pairing in the entire series.

Of course, I am talking about Virgil and Janus.

Now, this hatred between the characters is interesting and, well, confusing, for two main reasons. First, this hatred seems to stem from something we, as the viewers, don’t know about yet. From their very first interaction on-screen, they are immediately trading insults.

“And Virgil, I adore the more intense eyeshadow, it totally doesn’t make you look like a raccoon.”

“Nice gloves. Did you just finish washing some dishes?”

(Janus and Virgil, “Can Lying Be Good”)

Not only are these insults the first things they say to each other, but there is also a familiarity to this back-and-forth. Virgil was ready with a retort, like he expected Janus’ insult and was prepared to fight back. This animosity between them isn’t anything new.

However, it is never explained. And given how this is the first time c!Thomas has seen the two interact (as well as, obviously, the first time he’s seen Deceit period), their distain for each other stems from something Thomas isn’t aware of.

And this leads us to our second reason why this dynamic doesn’t quite fit in the context of the show: it doesn’t appear to stem from an internal conflict from Thomas. At least, not one we are aware of. Otherwise, it would have been a video, or at least mentioned in passing.

The show has set a precedent towards explaining why certain characters don’t get along. Roman and Virgil were notoriously antagonistic toward each other in season 1, to the point where Roman basically declared Virgil his enemy. And they very clearly explained this: Roman puts Thomas in danger by ignoring Virgil’s warnings, and Virgil prevents Thomas from achieving Roman’s dreams by weighing him down with fear. Their dislike for one another made sense.

Currently, Logan and Remus don’t get along. Remus is, by his very definition, illogical. His demands make absolutely no sense. Why would Thomas kill his brother? What purpose would he have to jump out of a moving car? Of course Logan would be frustrated with him! And Logan has also proven to be a source of frustration for Remus, as he repeatedly hindered Remus’ schemes in WTIT. Their aspects directly contradict each other, and even hinder each other. Logan’s logic is the greatest weapon against intrusive thoughts, and Remus’ distressing brand of “creativity” is strong enough to pull Thomas away from Logan’s logical reassurances and routine.

Hell, even Roman and Janus’ hatred for each other makes sense. While their goals aligned at first with the callback, Roman ultimately decided that, as Thomas’ drive and desire, he wanted Thomas to be a good person more than he wanted that callback. And even now, after SvSR, he still wants Thomas to be a good person! That’s why he had such a prominent role in SvSR, even though it was primarily a debate between Patton (morality) and Janus (selfishness). Roman wanted that callback desperately. So why was he still engaging in this discussion? Why wasn’t he just siding with Janus? Because he wanted Patton to prove that he made the right choice. He wanted his desires to be justified. Even after all this time, he wanted Thomas to be a good person more than he wanted that callback. And in that moment, Janus was fighting against that desire. Janus was his enemy.

But what about Janus and Virgil? Where does their relationship fit into all of this? How are their aspects in conflict?

Because looking at it at face value, it doesn’t make any sense.

Why do we lie? Well, in most cases, it’s because we fear consequences for something we did and are trying to escape them. We lie because we are scared. We lie to protect ourselves.

Well, that’s odd. It seems like, not only do Virgil and Janus seem to be working towards the same thing, but that they often work together hand in hand. Think about “Can Lying Be Good”. In every scenario acted out, Thomas lied because he was afraid of the consequences of telling the truth. He will get fired from his job, he will hurt a friend in mourning, he will traumatize a young child. Yes, there were definitely other factors contributing to his choice to lie in each scenario, but I think we can probably all agree that there was strong, underlying fear motivating these lies. Virgil (and, of course, Janus) was trying to protect Thomas through these lies.

So if there doesn’t seem to be any conflict of interest, then why the hell do Virgil and Janus hate each other so much?

Well, one possible reason (and one of the most commonly accepted headcanons I’ve seen) is that they had a falling out in their past, possibly driven by Virgil leaving the other Dark Sides. And yeah, this is very juicy drama that adds some interesting character depth to both of these Sides, but in terms of how the show has dealt with all of the characters and how they interact with each other as aspects of a personality, it’s a bit… disappointing, for a lack of a better word. What are we supposed to learn from this conflict? How can we, as viewers, compare this bitterness between Virgil and Janus to strife between our own anxiety and our tendency to lie?

So I’m going to propose another possibility for this conflict, one that may be slightly less interesting than the mostly-accepted headcanon, but is much more satisfying in my opinion.

So, Anxiety and Deceit… how can these two contradict each other? Well, to narrow things a bit, I will declare right out of the gate that Janus’ role as self-preservation doesn’t fight against Virgil’s role at all. While anxiety can lead someone to make decisions that can harm more than help (such as freezing rather than acting or running away in a dangerous situation), anxiety’s ultimate purpose is to protect. Fear is self-preservation at its core.

So instead, let’s focus on the facet of deceit. As we’ve previously established, most lies are told out of fear. So this would suggest that these two can’t contradict each other, right? Well, no. While we lie mostly out of fear, the act of lying can be very anxiety-inducing. In fact, I’d say that’s a pretty common fear a lot of people have.

Especially, say, if someone was terrified of being a bad person, and was convinced that the act of lying contributed to a lack of morality.

This is HUGE in the context of season 2! The pivotal conflict of this season is Thomas trying to figure out what makes someone a good person. He wants to be a good person so badly that he is terrified of the idea that he may not be one. Patton’s entire driving force behind fighting so hard to prove that he’s right, that Thomas is good in both SvS and SvSR, is because he wants to reassure Thomas. Because he loves Thomas so much that he can’t stand to see him look so scared.

“I don’t want to be a bad person…”

“…Ok. Then I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you’re not.”

(Thomas and Patton, “Selfishness v. Selflessness”)

“Like I told you before, sometimes I don’t know the way. But when I told you that, you were so scared. I couldn’t bear it. So I said to myself: ‘Alright, Patton. Thomas needs you. You’re responsible for his morality. You can never not have an answer for him.’ And then I promised you that I would keep fighting.”

(Patton, “Putting Others First - Selfishness v. Selflessness Redux”)

Virgil wasn’t present at all during the redux, and he had a very minimal role in the original court trial. So one would think that anxiety plays a very minor role in this conflict. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Fear is at the very center of it all. Thomas wants to be a good person because he is terrified of the alternative. He’s so terrified of this possibility that he spirals, arguing with himself and desperately trying to justify his feelings of frustration after the wedding, grasping for an answer that would make him feel justified in his anger without jeopardizing his integrity.

But that answer doesn’t exist. And it terrifies him. It terrifies Virgil.

Janus’ proposal, that Thomas should act more selfishly and prioritize himself more, challenges everything Thomas believes in. Based on the rules previously established, rules Patton had repeatedly endorsed, doing what Janus says would make Thomas a bad person, something Thomas fears. And finally, we reach our point of conflict between the two main subjects of this discussion.

Virgil wants Thomas to be a good person because they both fear the alternative. Listening to Janus would mean allowing the terrifying possibility of becoming a bad person. And Virgil doesn’t want that.

And you know what? That also explains another strange character dynamic that emerged following SvSR! This explains why Virgil is so mad at Patton!

Because sure, the idea that Virgil is upset that Patton hurt his bff Roman is absolutely adorable, but is that really all there is to it? It’s a very drastic change in attitude, especially considering that Patton and Virgil were incredibly close before the whole wedding fiasco (and I would go so far as to say that Patton was the person Virgil trusted more than anyone. He was the first to fully accept Virgil, after all.)

But if Patton started to act in a way that went against Virgil’s aspect, like if he started making decisions (or letting someone else make decisions) that added a lot of fear and uncertainty into Thomas’ life, then suddenly Virgil’s icy demeanor towards the fatherly Side makes a lot more sense. Patton’s choice to start trusting Janus and to allow Thomas to make more selfish decisions wasn’t just a betrayal to Roman and his decision to forgo the callback, it was also a betrayal to Virgil and the security Patton had previously given him. It’s like if your parents had made the decision to suddenly move your family to a different place without your approval, completely uprooting your life and sense of security and thrusting you into a different, uncertain, and scary environment.

And it’s been repeatedly established, in both season 1 and season 2, that Virgil despises change! Routine is safe. Familiarity is safe. Change is bad. Janus is proposing, and Patton is supporting, a HUGE change in the way Thomas should approach his life and the decisions he makes from here on out! Of course Virgil would be mad!

So I have a feeling that Virgil’s role in this entire situation is far from over. And we’ve got FOUR entire parts planned for the season finale, suggesting that we have a lot of ground to cover. I would be very surprised if Virgil didn’t have a few choice words for Janus and Patton, and I for one can’t wait to see where everyone stands when the dust finally settles.

#sanders sides #sanders sides theory #sanders sides analysis #janus sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #sanders sides c!thomas #my ramblings #this also doubles as my ‘you better fucking be nice and respect patton’ argument #he ADMITS in SvS that he doesn’t fully know what he’s doing #and that janus might be right #he only backpedals when thomas expresses fear over this #and begs patton to prove that he isn’t a bad person #patton loves thomas so fucking much it’s not even funny #maybe I’ll make another post focused on that specifically #because patton doesn’t get nearly as much love and appreciation as he deserves #such a good character

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