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boldlyvoid · 3 years

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Amoreena | chapter one

summary: Heaven is a real place and it's located exactly 14.6 miles away from the FBI, Quantico Headquarters. Off behind a small park, under a fantastical willow tree surrounded by wildflowers, in every colour young minds can imagine.

Don't forget, heaven also comes with angels.

Warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort, depressed spencer, reader has a daughter, falling in love, strangers to lovers

word count: 3,147

Read on Ao3

There’s this small, tiny part, of Spencer that wants to run away.

He’s always felt like he’s never truly been home, a never-ending and long yearning, a homesickness for a place he didn't even know, eating him alive day by day. It made him want to drop everything and buy a cottage in the woods, to fill it with books and coffee and never see another person again.

It got worse after prison and after his mom asked to go back into a care facility, it hurt the most when Penelope left the FBI and things with Max fizzled out. Then he was really, truly alone again. His apartment felt cold and uninviting, the BAU felt like a chore, using his brain for anything other than taking care of himself was extremely hard.

He needed a break.

So when he walked out of work and straight to his favourite park for an escape, he wasn’t surprised that he didn’t stop walking. Going further and further down the trail, following the dirt path towards a pond, covered by a beautiful willow tree and surrounded by pink, purple, yellow and white flowers. The contrast of the green grass with the colourful flowers, the blue sky and the light green willow tree reflection dancing on the surface of the pond. It was like he walked into Eden, taking a seat by the tree and picking a book from his satchel.

For the rest of the week, it’s his own little sanctuary, escaping desk work and home cases as fast as he could. Even then it wasn't enough and he started going every afternoon, he’d sneak out for an hour and just relax. Reading his book, feeling the breeze on his face, the sound of ducks and frogs competing with the crickets for loudest being in the area. Eventually bringing his bike on the subway to work so he could get there faster.

It was beautiful.

Almost as beautiful as what he walked in on when he arrived Saturday afternoon. Parking his bike by the tree, looking at them carefully as he took his satchel off his shoulders and placed it by the trunk. Craning his neck so he could look at who it was, seeing the purest display of human affection known to man.

A mother and her daughter were having a picnic, dressed up like Miss Honey and Matilda as they had lemonade and snacks, spread out on a blanket as the mother handed her a sandwich wrapped in checkered red wax paper.

Spencer was in awe, sitting on the other side of the pond by a second tree, pretending to read when really he was glancing at them. Their laugher filling the field, bouncing around the trees and filling his chest with warmth.

It reminded him of all the afternoons with his own mother. His head in her lap, the sound of her voice as she shared worlds wisdom with him. He missed childhood, freedom, hope. The will to continue…

When the little girl finally notices that they’re not alone in this little world she’s creating, he sees her tug on her moms shirt, asking her a question before cheering. She picks something out of the basket and comes running towards Spencer.

“Excuse me, sir?” Her sweet little voice asks. “Are you an archeologist or a palaeontologist?”

It makes him laugh slightly, a large smile erupting on his face as he pushes his glasses up and puts the book down. “No sorry, I’m not, what made you think I was?”

“You have a satchel and glasses like Milo from Atlantis, but you have a dinosaur on your tie, you look like you work at a museum,” she rambled all her thoughts out, much like he did as a child.

“I’m actually an FBI agent,” he whispered.

“Wow,” she whispered back in amazement, “are you like a knight? Do you save princesses?”

“I do," he nodded enthusiastically, "do you know any in need?”

“Her,” she pointed. “I’m Lady Amoreena, the Princess over there says I was a gift to the kingdom but that she’ll never need a prince or king to take care of us, but I think a knight would work!”

He laughed lightly, seeing her mom shake her head as she overheard it, covering her face with her hand, she looked embarrassed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lady Amoreena,” he put his hand out to shake her’s as soft as possible, noticing the cookie in her hand. “My name is Dr. Spencer Reid,” he added softly.

“Would you like a cookie?”

He smiled as she placed it in his hand, “thank you.”

“Do you like Matilda?”

“It’s one of my favourite books,” he smiles.

“Do you want to have some lemonade and read with us?” Her face lit up, turning back to where her mother was watching from the pond.

“It’s okay, thank you for offering,” not wanting to intrude on their moment.

“We need a voice for Matilda’s father, please?” She begged, overly sweet and incredibly convincing.

“Alright, but I’m warning you if I upstage the princess with my awesome voices, it’s not my fault,” he smiled as he stood up, grabbing his things and starting to follow her over to the blanket.

She took his hand and tugged him along the edge of the pond, dragging him right to were her mother was sitting on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized softly as he sat down. “She’s very persistent about making new friends. We don’t see many people on this side of the park.”

“It’s fine, honestly, I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, by the way,” he introduced himself. “I work with the FBI, normally I’d advice women and their children to avoid strange men they don’t know when they’re alone in the woods like this.”

She laughed slightly, “Y/N Y/L/N, I’m the head librarian at the DC library, and you don’t seem that strange.”

“Neither did Bundy,” he tried to joke, knowing she got it and trusted him when she bit back a smile, eyes twinkling at him in the sunlight.

“My name is Amoreena, like the Elton John song,” her daughter cut in, noticing how they were staring at each other and trying to get the attention instead.

“It’s a beautiful song, no wonder you love it here,” Spencer smiled at her, “do you come here often?”

She nodded, a blush flowing through her freckled cheeks, “have you ever read Tuck Everlasting? The pond here can make you young forever,” her whisper was the cutest thing. She was so full of life, personality and joy.

“I have, you’re right this feels a lot like the field from the book, what other books do you like?”

“I love books,” she lays back against the blanket ever so dramatically. “Matilda, Anne of Green Gables, Beauty and the Beast, I love every story that ends with true love and happiness, and cats.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at her explanation, knowing that feeling all too well. “I have read almost every book ever, more than the entire DC library probably."

“We dress up every week for what ever book we are reading, next week is Peter Pan if you’d like to join us? We’re here every Saturday at 11,” Y/N offered.

“You haven’t even heard me read Matilda from memory and you’re already asking me to come back?” Spencer smirked as their faces lit up.

“No way, prove it!” Amoreena shouted, shoving him lightly to encourage him to start.

“The Reader of Books,” he began, seeing the pages in his mind as he repeated the words. “It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful.”

“Okay so you know the beginning,” Y/N teased, opening the book to a random page, “what's on page 32?”

"My name is Jennifer Honey," Miss Honey said. "How do you do, Mrs. Wormwood." Mrs. Wormwood glared at her and said, "What's the trouble then?" Nobody invited Miss Honey to sit down so she chose a chair and sat down anyway. "This", she said, "was your daughter's first day at school." "We know that," Mrs Wormwood said, ratty about missing her programme. "Is that all you came to tell us?" Miss Honey stared hard into the other woman's wet grey eyes, and she allowed the silence to hang in the air until Mrs. Wormwood became uncomfortable. "Do you wish me to explain why I came?" she said.

Amoreena thought it was the coolest thing ever, reading the page and jumping up and down when he was correct, “how did you do that?”

“I can remember every word I’ve ever read, I have a pretty interesting brain,” he explained it as overdramatic as he could, knowing she would find it magical.

“You’re so cool!” She swooned, dropping back against the blanket just as dramatically.

Y/N was all smiles, running her fingers through Amoreena’s hair and giggling slightly at the sight of her silly child. “Spencer, would you like to do the honours today?”

She handed him the book, knowing he didn’t need it. He gently opened it, starting on the first page and starting to read it the way his mother would. Bringing out voices, hand gestures, all the bells and whistles.

They were in the field together until the sun started to set, casting a purple and orange glow over the pond. Amoreena was resting in Y/N’s arms, legs extended over Spencer’s lap as they sat close. It was the most perfect Saturday he has had in a long time. Probably the best day of his life, actually.

“Matilda leapt into Miss Honey's arms and hugged her, and Miss Honey hugged her back, and then the mother and father and brother were inside the car and the car was pulling away with the tyres screaming. The brother gave a wave through the rear window, but the other two didn't even look back. Miss Honey was still hugging the tiny girl in her arms and neither of them said a word as they stood there watching the big black car tearing round the corner at the end of the road and disappearing for ever into the distance. The end.”

He closed the book softly, setting it down on the blanket and looking at them softly, “am I still invited next week?”

“Absolutely,” Y/N smiled, “I’m dressing as Tinker Bell, Amoreena will be Peter Pan, and you can be anyone else of your choosing.”

“I’ll keep it a surprise until next week,” Spencer smiled right back.

Amoreena crawled out of Y/N’s lap and leapt into Spencer’s arms, hugging him tightly in her small arms. “That was the best story ever, thank you!”

Everything in the world felt right then, hugging her back while he smiled at her mother. Y/N had a hand over her heart as she swooned, watching her daughter bond with the man who just happened to wander into their picnic.

“Can I get your number?” Y/N asked softly, “you know, so we can arrange outfits and stories as the week's pass.” She shrugged, licking her lips slightly as she blushed.

“Of course, I’m not on duty for the rest of the month, so if you wanted to go to a museum or anything, I’m free? Since I look so much like I should work there,” he teased Amoreena.

“I’m sure lovey would like that?” Y/N leaned over Amoreena’s shoulder, holding her around her waist and tickling her softly.

Lovey

It was a nickname that made perfect sense in his mind. Amoreena, the keyword being Amore, to love. She was very loveable, incredibly vibrant and full of innocence, a life that was full of possibilities, wonderful like her mother.

“We’re going to the Smithsonian tomorrow to see the Dino’s,” Amoreena’s face lit up. “Do you know anything about them?”

“Surprisingly enough, while I’m not a paleontologist, I know a lot about dinosaurs, and I might have some connections there to see the rare ones,” he exaggerated his voice again, watching her get so excited she started to run around with her arms in the air.

“You don’t have to if you’re busy,” she says softly when Amoreena is far enough away, picking flowers as she ran around.

“I’d love to, actually, thank you,” he whispers towards Y/N. “I haven’t been having the greatest week.”

“Is it okay for me to ask what you do?” She asked, just as softly as Amoreena kept running around the field.

“I’m a profiler, I consult on intense cases.”

“The strange man comment makes more sense now,” she smiled. “we’re looking for a literary historian at the library right now, I’m sure remembering every word in every book would get you hired, you know if you wanted to switch careers for something easier on your soul?”

“I have been thinking of leaving, in all honesty, I’ve actually been having more of a rough 15 years,” he tries to laugh but he just feels frustrated. “It’s been really hard.”

“For everything you see, you’re still a very sweet man, not many people would sit down and occupy his time with an autistic 7-year-old,” she complimented him with a smile, sharing something personal in a way that would fit right into the conversation and not make a big deal. “We really did enjoy your company today.”

He handed her a business card from his pocket, feeling a bit overwhelmed and emotional as he handed it to her, “I've had a wonderful time. I'm also autistic, I know what it's like to want to share the world while no one wants to listen, thank you for letting me join you. Let me know what time you’re going to the museum tomorrow and I will be there.”

Y/N’s face lit up once more, reading the card over before sliding it into her bag. “Do you want a PB&J or a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch tomorrow?”

“PB&J is a great museum lunch,” he bit his lip so he’d stop smiling, it was beginning to feel embarrassing with how much he liked her already. Not used to random kindness from smart and beautiful women.

Amoreena came running back then, handing Spencer a handful of flowers upon her arrival. “For you, Sir Knight,” she bowed as he took them.

“I bid you a good day, my fair ladies,” Spencer plaid along, standing to curtsy back.

“We’ll see you tomorrow then?” Y/N asked from the blanket as Amoreena dove into her arms.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Spencer smiled one last time.

“Bye Spencer!!” Amoreena cheered as he waved, walking back down the path towards the main park entrance.

With his satchel draped over his shoulder, he pushed his sleeves up as he walked towards his bike, overwhelmed by the feeling of joy still swirling in his blood. Peddling his way down the path with a smile on his face, excited to get home and plan for the Smithsonian tomorrow, he was an excellent tour guide.

And he did actually have some connections.

Calling the museum curator, an old friend from years ago who owed him a favour. Asking if there was any way he could show his friend and her kid around the un-displayed dinosaurs and fossils, of course she said yes. People seemed to do anything for Dr. Reid of the FBI.

He thought about her job offer then as he hung up, reaching the train station finally and making his way back to his sad apartment. It would be nice to change things up for a bit, it’s not like he couldn’t go back to the FBI in 20 years like Rossi did.

15 years in the field and a metric fuck ton of trauma later, he was officially fed up. Opening his computer the second he got home, writing his 2 weeks notice to be forwarded to Mateo Cruz.

—

He woke up with excitement, for the first time in years.

Well, at first he was happy, then he thought about it too long. Despair creeping in, it was truly sad to think that he’s been sad for so long, desperately needing the happiness Y/N and Amoreena brought to his life.

Like when he spent time around Henry or Hank, there was something so rewarding about witnessing a child see something for the first time. Explaining the world to them, seeing their eyes widen as they enjoyed the world around them.

It was the best thing someone could do, spending the day living with the happiness of a child.

Y/N had texted him right as he woke up, the chime of a new message actually making him smile instead of panic.

Y/N: hey smartie pants, we’re thinking 11 am today. Can we meet you out front?”

Spencer: sure! You should start preparing to hear me ramble all day long. Also my I suggest bringing proper shoes for lots of walking and a backpack for the things Amoreena will get to bring home!

Y/N: oh you weren’t kidding about those connections huh?

Spencer: nope!

Y/N: well, can’t wait to see what you have in store for us! (And to hear your voice all day ♥︎)

It made his heart swell, he could swear it grew three sizes as it pushed against his ribs. Trying to break free from him and run to her, he hadn’t felt this strongly about another person in a very long time.

It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t greed, it wasn’t desperation. He didn’t just want to sleep with her or use her to fill his time, she wasn’t just another friend to occupy his days and talk to when he had to, she was special. She was interesting, she was kind, she was beautiful, she reminded him of his own mother in a strange way that made him fear Fraud was right.

He found a comfort in her that felt a little like home, like all his running led him to her. She was the end of the finish line, the cold glass of water, the euphoric pride of a job well done. She was everything good wrapped up in a beautiful bow and he was gone.

Feeling like he did when he met Ethan, Derek, or Elle for the first time, even Maeve when they were just talking on the phone, that butterfly feeling that excited him to try something new.

Y/N made him believe in possibilities again.

It felt nice to look ahead, to dream and wish of the future and not see death and destruction. Instead, dreaming of them running through the fields, flowers dancing everywhere as they hear Amoreena’s laughter. It’s how life is supposed to be.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #amoreena #fluff

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slippinmickeys · 3 years

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Head Canon AU Mulder and Scully as Archeologist and Scientist at a dig in ruins in the Amazon.

Anon! Thank you so much. I saw this this morning and got that rare inspiration wherein I launched myself at this, and kind of love what I came up with. I hope you enjoy it! (It is unbeta-ed)

1. The University was being cheap. That was the first thing. Piggybacking off the hard work he’d put in: years worth of toil to arrange this meticulously set-up dig. If they wanted to send a team to study advanced medical uses of the vast biome of the Amazon rainforest, they’d do far better sending this approaching medical team into the interior. His team -- his dig -- was practically on the outskirts. The forest around them had already been explored and researched, catalogued and referenced. The real biological finds -- the cures for Alzheimer’s, cancer -- would be found in the unknown, in those places even the aboriginal people hadn’t stepped. The University was being cheap, plunking in a science team on a completely separate mission with his own, just to save some cash. That was the bottom line.

If it hadn’t been so oppressively hot so early in the morning, he might not have been quite so irritated. As it was, he stood on the bank of the river and ran an already sweat-soaked handkerchief over the back of his neck, willing the putting little outboard Evinrude to chug a little more quickly upstream. It was hot and stiflingly humid, and he’d wanted to be at the dig two hours ago, before the heat of the day set in. Too late, that.

The incoming medical team -- if you could call it a team -- seemed to consist of only one person. A short-statured wisp of a woman (if the high, top-knotted messy red bun was any indication of sex) who sat low in the backseat of the approaching riverboat, surrounded by expensive-looking boxes filled with technology that probably wouldn’t operate well in the humidity. He blew an irritated raspberry and shuffled his feet in the muddy squelch of the riverbank.

The stout block of the driver hefted a rope at Mulder as they approached, which Mulder caught easily and wrapped around a nearby tree.

“Tudo vai bem?” Mulder inquired as the man cut the engine and grunted an affirmative.

The passenger stood, keeping a hand on the side of the little tin vessel, its stern fishtailing out into the current. Mulder stepped up and held out a hand, which she grasped gratefully. He pulled and she took a confident leap, landing lightly on the ground next to him.

“Dr. Mulder, I presume?” she said on a light breath, looking up at him with a small smile, having to crane her neck to do so. She had astonishingly blue eyes, a color he’d only seen once, in an ice-cave in the far north. He shook his head after a moment and realized that he was still holding her hand. He dropped it, nodding.

“I thank God, doctor, I have been permitted to see you,” she finished, quoting the journals of Henry Morton Stanley.

Mulder outright laughed. He was smitten immediately.

2. “Be careful with that!” she’d barked, as Langly handed out her equipment to a couple of waiting locals that had been working on the project for three years.

Mulder held up a calming hand.

“You’re working with archeologists, Dr. Scully,” he said softly, “my team has the gentlest hands in the Southern Hemisphere.”

She quirked one side of a grin at him even as she threw a worried look over her shoulder at her equipment.

“Come on,” he said, giving her sleeve a gentle tug, “let me show you around.”

He showed her the latrine first, watching her face carefully for a reaction, but she just nodded nonchalantly and kept walking. Then the mess, and the tent where she’d be working when she wasn’t in the field.

“And this,” he said, taking her to an empty patch of jungle, “is where your bunk will be. My apologies that it’s not set up. There’s no female barracks and we were told you wouldn’t be here until next week. The radio communique we got this morning informing us of your arrival came as something of a surprise.”

“I’m eager to get started,” was all she said in response.

Mulder walked on and she followed him.

“I’m afraid the only empty cot is in my tent,” he said sheepishly. “Dr. Byers headed home for a funeral last month and we’re not expecting him back until March. I’ll be sure yours is set up right away, but takes some time as we have to build a platform first. Have you done jungle field work before?”

“I flew here from Borneo,” she said. “It’s not a problem.” With that, she flipped back the tent’s outer curtain and ducked inside like she owned the place.

She never did move out.

3. Scully’s father had been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer and hadn’t lived long enough to see her graduate from medical school. She would not let it happen to anyone else if she could help it, she’d said. She worked like a woman possessed.

Against all advice, she would march into the jungle alone and be gone for days at a time. When her grad students finally arrived, they couldn’t keep up with her, and she’d frequently leave them at base camp to work on the equipment (which, Mulder was not really that pleased to report, did have a tendency to malfunction in the miasmic humidity and heat of the Amazon basin. It wasn’t, he admitted, that easy always being right). Occasionally she could be talked into taking one of the local hires with her, but she felt bad taking workers that Mulder’s project funding paid for, and anyway, they weren’t trained in her science, she would tell him.

“I wish you wouldn’t go out on your own,” he murmured into the cup of her ear one night, a trickle of sweat running from her hairline and onto the tip of his nose.

She turned on the cot, a feat, considering its fairly narrow dimensions, and pressed her forehead against his, the flimsy pillow damp beneath them both.

“I’m careful,” she whispered, and threw a leg over him, her dewy mons pressing into the naked flesh of his thigh.

“It’s not safe-” he began to protest, but she’d captured his lips with her own and he fell headlong into the lush heat of her -- whatever concern that had been on the tip of his tongue lost to her rapacious mouth as it trailed a slick path down his torso and latched, vitae and greedy, around the rigid length of him. It was bliss. She was bliss. If he had ever thought he knew love, he was wrong.

4. The whole camp knew they were together. Her tent had become a kind of catchall storage area, and it’s not like nylon canvas could contain the breathy moans of their pleasure. That and she’d just plunk down and sit on his lap whenever the only camp chair available around the mess tent was the one with the tricky leg.

Anyway, what happened in the field stayed in the field, unless it was up for peer review.

“Are you guys going to get married or something?” Mulder’s newest grad student asked one night when the air had actually cooled enough to take the edge off of everybody’s temper. Beer had arrived with their latest resupply and Frohike had syphoned off some LN2 to cool it and it was frosty and rich and maybe the best thing Mulder had ever tasted aside from Scully’s skin.

Scully, from atop his lap, merely shrugged and took a leisurely sip of brew. Mulder pictured it sliding down her throat, the cold blooming into her belly and he dry swallowed, then leaned forward and kissed her shoulder.

“God, don’t be such a newb,” drawled Langly, pressing his glasses into his face compulsively.

Mulder knew what Langly meant. They’d all seen their share of field romances that fizzled the second your boots stepped back onto University soil, though something about Scully felt different; the way their minds worked together, the way she felt in his arms.

“I’m married to the job, bro,” Scully said, but reached back and squeezed the skin just above Mulder’s hip. He kissed her shoulder again.

“D’you tell her about the helo data?” Frohike asked, looking at Mulder from his own camp chair. The little man sat low and back in it with his shoulders hunched up, and Mulder thought he looked a bit like a toad, or an ogre guarding a burial mound.

They’d gotten the funding from a billionaire alumni to fly a helicopter over the whole of the basin in this sector of the Amazon, using light detection radar. Basically, it shot out billions of lasers as it flew overhead that were able to penetrate the rainforest’s canopy and map the landscape below.

“You had a chance to analyze it?” Scully asked, craning her head to look at him squarely.

He nodded, smiling. He’d been saving this to tell her especially.

“And you were able to combine it with the satellite data?” she asked, excited.

He nodded again. “Sóis,” he said, smiling. The settlements they’d found took their name from the Portuguese word for ‘suns.’ They were round villages, all with remarkably similar layouts, with elongated mounds circling a central plaza. When seen from above, they looked like the rays of the sun. “Pre-Columbian.”

She jumped off his lap, spilling half her beer in the process. It dripped down the bare skin of her knee, unnoticed.

“Are you kidding?!” her excitement made him giddy.

“It gets better,” he said, and she cocked her head, waiting for him to elaborate. “They’re laid out like the cosmos,” he said, giving her a full-watt smile as he rose out of the chair to stand in front of her. “We’re already plotted three different villages, all laid out in the exact design of southern constellations.” Her mouth dropped open. “Canis Major, Hydra, and Crux Australis.”

She launched herself into his arms, practically squealing -- something he’d never heard her do -- and he held her, looking around at the smiling faces of the other scientists in the mess. The find would make his career, and her excitement for him touched him profoundly.

5. Martim, one of their local hires, came careening into camp, breathing so hard he had to put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. His face was a mask of anxiety and fear. Mulder felt dread bloom in his gut, and he dropped what he was doing -- actually dropped the computer tablet he was holding to the wet forest floor -- and ran over to the man, grasping him firmly by the shoulder.

“Martim?” he said, “O que aconteceu?”

“Dr. Scully,” the man heaved, his accent thick. He could still scarcely breathe.

“Where is she?” Mulder didn’t have the emotional wherewithal to translate from English. “What happened?”

“Hurt,” the man wheezed, “she’s hurt.”

It took nearly thirty minutes to assemble a rescue party, and they had to let Martim rest for a bit and give him food and water before he could take them back out into the jungle where he’d left Scully. Mulder was beside himself by the time they finally started off, impatient as a recalcitrant child, sick to his stomach with worry.

It took three hours to hack into the area where she’d been doing her search, and a further twenty minutes of calling her name before they heard her weak call back.

Mulder raced ahead without thought to obstacle or danger, and skidded to a halt when he was practically on top of her. She was leaning back against the base of a large tree, holding onto her right ankle, which she had elevated on her left knee. There was a length of rope beside her and a climbing harness around her butt and waist.

“Scully,” he panted, falling to his knees beside her.

She smiled at him weakly, her face pale and sweaty.

“I think it’s broken,” she hissed, pointing at her ankle.

“What happened?” Mulder asked, as the rest of the rescue party trundled in behind him, pulling off backpacks and other equipment. Someone handed Scully a bottle of water.

“I saw a fungus I’d never seen before growing on the bark midway up this tree,” she said after guzzling half a bottle of Arrowhead. “The carabiner failed on my descent.”

“Oh, Scully,” Mulder said, reaching out to tuck a damp lock of titian hair behind her ear.

“I got the sample, though,” she said with a tired, but victorious glint in her eye.

They weren’t back into camp until well after nightfall.

Mulder picked her up from the field stretcher and carried her into their tent, depositing her gently onto her cot. Langly came in behind him and handed him two fresh cold packs before ducking back out without a word. Mulder popped them to activate the chemicals and pressed them gingerly on either side of Scully’s ankle.

“I’m going to call for a medical evac,” he said quietly.

“Don’t you dare,” she said, grabbing at his hand and squeezing it. “Mulder, don’t you fucking dare.”

“Scully, we’ve got to follow protocol here,” he said, trying not to sound put out.

“Do not take me out of the field, Mulder. Promise me.”

“Scully-”

“Promise me!”

“How will you even work?” he said a little desperately.

“It doesn’t need setting or surgery,” she said, gesturing to her injured limb.

“How do you know that without an X-ray?”

“I’m a medical doctor,” she said, by way of explanation, “I can secure it with supplies we have on hand. I can work from my cot for a few days and make crutches out of tree limbs. Please, Mulder,” she said, and he could feel himself relenting, even if it would get him in trouble. “Please.”

He sighed, and she smiled up at him weakly, though he didn’t say a thing.

“Thank you,” and closed her eyes, relaxing into her pillow, “thank you.”

Six weeks later the canvas of their tent ripped back and the greenish glow of leaf-filtered sunlight shone into the murky, damp depths. Mulder rose from where he was resting on his cot and looked to the entrance. Scully stood there, armpit resting on her improvised crutch, her hair a rich autumn frizz around her head. Her eyes were wide and shining, and there was something incandescent about her in that moment -- an energy pulsing from her that lit his soul from within.

“Scully-” he started, but she held up a hand to silence him. Her hands were shaking.

“I found it,” she said, her voice breathy with the triumph of discovery, “Mulder, I found it.”

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 3 years

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so @ahufflepuffhobbit tagged me in the First Line game which is great. :D I think I’ll probably end up doing a mix of fic and original writing.

Rules are: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line.

God this got long:

Cycles of Song (lotr, boromir/aragorn): Men who dream by daylight with eyes open are the most dangerous, Denethor said. It was after a council meeting and Denethor was wanting for the sun so they were in his favourite courtyard looking southward over the city.

Hungry Ghosts (original, in progress): The birth chart must be drawn up with care if it’s to be accurate. A city’s history, though, can be as variable as the water’s of the planet.

Palmdale (original, w/ sinking city review): Ruth wants to clutch entrails. Death is final and lacks decorum. She cannot walk back from this scene with its burnt coffee smell of off-brand hazelnut, its sound of screen door flapping in breeze. Praise Jesus this be a consumptive country; surely it will drown her.

be not afraid of plenty (lotr, grima/eomer): It’s a filthy winter. A filthy, filthy cold winter. Everything that is about to unfold is winter’s fault.

My Land is Bare (lotr, boromir/aragorn): It is in dusk’s purple blanket when Boromir stops running. Hands on knees he calls out, ‘I think I see something.’ This brings the other three to a halt. Aragorn is at his side and they’re being strange and shy so not looking at each other.

Pale Before the Fall (original, complete & being pitched): Once upon a time, Napoleon saw a dog howling over its master’s body. He looked at it and as he stepped forward his foot went through a man’s face. Half the skull missing from cannon shot.

I’ve been fucking dinosaurs in an effort to reclaim my ability to transform into a velociraptor (original, forthcoming in Humber Literary Review): A velociraptor lives under my bed. His name is Claw and I turn into him if I jump three times. Or he becomes me.

Sweet is the Air (lotr, boromir/aragorn): ‘Did you forget?’ Aragorn asks. ‘I didn’t,’ Boromir says.

Naming the World (lotr, boromir/aragorn): North of Minas Tirith there are a series of interconnected ponds, fearsomely ringed in fog, Boromir was taken to them as a child. They were foreign to him, at the time, only eight years old and uncertain. He gripped the pommel of childish sword as his father led him away from men and horses into mist.

This multiplicity (star wars, Tarkin/Krennic): Krennic falls. He knows moving one part of your body will cause you to flip because trajectory is overly affected by such minutia when in free fall. He twists, slightly, and yes, flips, so he is falling face first towards the planet’s incredibly firm surface.

The Lament of Geography (original, in progress): The Beginning was discovered in an outcropping of chalk at the border of her father’s fields. Bellefry and her sister had been at work digging up tubers to throw at one another when her hand trawl’s wooden spade hit something.

To-morrow and to-morrow (discworld, vetinari/downey): Every year at the Assassin’s Guild the seventh form is required to put on a play of their teacher’s choosing. Most often, it’s something with a good deal of blood as Guild teachers know what keeps their students’ attention and it’s generally endemic violence, witty one-liners, brutal executions, rolicking brawls, and vile political machinations.

Every creature responds to light (discworld, vetinari/downey): Downey once saw a man get his head blown off a mishap with fireworks he was ten years old the man was older, twenty or twenty-five, his head became crushed persimmons on cobblestones. His head became overripe strawberries caught in fingers a sticky summer afternoon spent with his grandmother and his mother a ghost in the background washing fine, thin china edges coloured Agatean blue.

To Conjure a Man (discworld, vetinari/downey): They were loved. This is clear in many burial sites exhumed by archeologists and, occasionally, farmers, carpenters, the Watch. There will be signs that the dead were tended to, cared for, and left with different objects they were understood to need in the afterlife.

Thus, Always (discworld, vetinari/downey): History is a cyclic poem written by time upon our memories. Take assassination as key example. There was the first assassination on the Disc. The details of it do not matter, only the fact that it happened. All assassinations after all are performances. They are theatered mimicry of the first.

The Mask of the Ordinary (discworld, vetinari/downey): One of life’s unexpected turn-ups was the time I found myself living with Vetinari when we were in our mid-twenties. While the fact that the Patrician attended the Assassins Guild is well known much of his early years are a blank slate for the denizens of this fine city. A state of affairs I believe Vetinari to be rather keen on maintaining. Naturally, I am here to put a small cat amongst the metaphorical pigeons.

A Year Out of Order (discworld, vetinari/downey): August, it always starts here although this is not the new year it ought to be. There should be a celebration like that Small God’s Eve but Small Mercies Eve or Small Miracles Eve. They do not call the days that allowed Vetinari to become Patrician a revolution or a rebellion or a revolt. A man for subtlety it simply was he was not there then he was. If you blink, you missed it.

Propagating Structure (star wars, Tarkin/Krennic): As a child Krennic once read that nothing enjoys the process of entropy, although it is unavoidable and the ultimate fate of everything including the universe. The universe most especially. Of course being hit with a laser from a machine of your own (mostly your own) creation is another level of something-literary-that-he-forgot-along-the-way entirely. Inertia is the end goal. Regardless of the means of getting there. Inertia. Nothing likes that either.

Wrack and Ruin (historical, Napoleon/Wellington): Getting to America wasn't the difficult bit. Which is, perhaps, the most shocking part to both parties involved. That it had taken so little to catapult them across the Atlantic.

no more a desolate thing (discworld, vetinari/downey): Vetinari is considering language, a hardly unusual occurrence, and he is deep in hazy recollections of ancient Ankh-Morporkian and modern Klatchian and the nature of vernacular languages in their relationship with the State.

I was trying to see themes or patterns and I suppose it’s mostly style. I tend to start with firm statements or action. Also, I think my writing of opening lines could be called muscular. Not all, of course, but it’s enough to be a thread.

My favourite? Probably Palmdale, Cycles of Song, Mask of the Ordinary and Palmdale. But it’s hard to choose a favourite - I can certainly say which are not my favourites haha (looking at you Propagating Structure and No More a Desolate Thing).

I’ll tag a few people: @pipuhattar and @becumsh @tatzelwyrm @tauremornalome @squadron-of-damned @suburbanbeatnik

I have followers & mutuals who may be writers and I’m unaware of it so if you want to do it please consider yourselves tagged!

#wriiting #lord of the rings #discworld #boromir #aragorn #lord downey #vetinari #tarkin #krennic #napoleon bonaparte #duke of wellington #star wars

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4pondsinabox · 4 years

Text

11XRiver & The Ponds

A/N Written for the sole purpose of giving Amy her “Molly Weasley Moment.”

River raced through the underbrush, weaving her way through the thicket of alien trees and leaping over fallen logs, while dodging the onslaught of arrows from behind. She ducked behind a large tree trunk and trained her blaster on her pursuers, shooting several down. When a dagger narrowly missed her ear, she decided to move on, making a sharp turn deeper into the woods. Thanks to her part-Time Lord biology, she had a much higher endurance than most and soon the angry shouts faded into the distance. River continued running long after the last arrow clattered against a tree behind her, until finally she felt safe enough to come to a halt. Crouching in some foliage, she listened intently for any sign of her pursuers. She had lost them. Unfortunately, River had also apparently lost the Doctor and her parents, which was much more problematic.

She pulled out her scanner and searched for nearby signs of human life, cursing the very day her husband had thought it a good idea to visit an uncharted planet on the outskirts of the universe. Admittedly, it’s not like any of them knew that the planet’s humanoid inhabitants were cannibals - or the otherworldly equivalent of eating anything that moved - but River wished the Doctor would think twice when her parents were on board. It was one thing when just the two of them were careening across the universe, but she’d be damned before she let anything happen to her mum and dad.

The archeologist heard a rustle in the surrounding foliage and her hand moved instinctively towards her blaster, when a familiar long nosed face appeared between the trees, looking rather lost. Relief washed over her. “Dad-” He turned just as movement caught the corner of River’s eye. “Get down!” Rory ducked as she whipped out her blaster, taking out the hunter behind him, who’d had a spear trained at his back.

He let out a long breath of air. “Thanks for that.”

“Anytime.”

River stepped towards the fallen figure, crouching to inspect it as Rory’s gaze warily swept the surrounding trees.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen Amy and the Doctor lately?”

River shook her head, unsheathing an unusually long dagger from the body’s scabbard. “I was hoping they were with you.” She stood, holding out the weapon to her father. “Here, you can never be too careful on wild planets like this one.”

He balanced the blade in his hands for a moment before gripping the hilt as one normally would a much bigger sword. River watched him with a thoughtful tilt of her head.

“I never asked, where did you acquire your sword fighting skills? Leadworth certainly hasn’t got any training facilities.”

Rory glanced at her before quickly looking away again. “Oh, I uh … It’s a long story.”

“Spoilers?”

“Yeah.”

River had taken out her scanner again but looked over when the other fell silent. Rory was once more observing their surroundings with apprehension.

“They’ll be alright, you know,” she said, reassuring herself as much as him. “They’ve been doing this sort of thing long before either of us joined them. From their point of view at least.”

Rory simply nodded, expression unchanged. The corner of River’s scanner lit up.

“I think I’ve found something.”

She motioned for him to follow her and they continued their way through the thickening trees – if that’s what one calls twisting umbrella-esque lifeforms that stretch hundreds of meters over an average human’s head. Silver leaves were visible covering the undersides of each umbrella top, glittering slightly in the breeze. River supposed the sight would be quite beautiful if they hadn’t just escaped from being made into a meal for the planet’s less-than-friendly inhabitants.

“River, come look at this.”

River backtracked to where Rory was standing, inspecting several dark markings on a tree.

“Burn marks from an Althurian blaster.” The same kind she had strapped to her leg, except she had never ventured to this part of the planet before.

“I didn’t know the specifics, but I did figure they weren’t your usual flame residue. And there’s also that.”

Her gaze followed his pointing finger up towards the tree canopy, where a long robotic arm hung, unmoving, from one of the branches. River’s breath caught at the peculiar sight.

“Now that is fascinating.”

“Have you seen one like it before?”

“Can’t say I have.”

Rory followed her as she tried to get a solid focus of the object on her scanner, eyes darting between it and the blaster marks.

“I don’t get it; the Doctor said this planet’s inhabitants were primitive. How could there be signs of superior technology here?”

“The Doctor’s been wrong before.”

“Except…?”

River turned to face him. “Except you saw their village, we both did. Mostly skin, bones, and earth; not a single piece of material that could conduct energy in sight. Which leads me to think whatever left these markings behind aren’t native to this planet.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we are likely not the first aliens to pay a visit here.”

She slammed the palm of her hand against the side of the scanner with an annoyed huff. “It’s too high up to get an accurate reading, this could take a few minutes.”

“I don’t think we have a few minutes.”

River looked up to find a curtain of bronze colored birds rising out of the mossy ground, squawking in distress.

“They’re coming, we have to move quickly.”

They ran, the thickening umbrella trees proving more and more difficult to navigate between.

“River, what do you think happened to the others? The visitors who came here before us?”

“Think about it, Dad, is that really a question you want answered right now?”

“Fair point.”

Suddenly, River stopped. They had reached an abrupt end to the forest and now stood before a towering cliff-face. The zig zag of reds and blues coloring its surface confirmed it was an alien mineral River couldn’t name off the top of her head. Rory came to a halt beside her, trying to catch his breath as he looked skyward.

“What now?”

“How good are you at climbing?”

“You can’t be serious.”

River was rummaging in one of her belt pouches, which held an assortment of immensely useful items meant for moments just like this one.

“Oh, I’m very serious. Unless you have another plan that doesn’t end with us being eaten by the locals.”

Rory looked from one end of the large land mass before them to the other, neither of which were visible from where they were standing.

“We could… walk around?”

River raised her eyebrows.

“Ok, fine. We’ll do it your way. Just please tell me you have some kind of alien climbing equipment, because I cannot promise I won’t fall otherwise.”

She handed him what looked like gloves with bits of metal woven through them.

“Cyberkinetic climbing gloves,” River explained. “They can latch onto every known natural substance in the universe, so you shouldn’t have any trouble scaling this cliff. Mind you, that is my only pair, so do be careful with them.”

Rory, who had been hurriedly pulling on the strange looking contraptions after tucking his recently acquired dagger into his belt, looked up sharply at her words.

“Your only- River, I can’t take these and leave you without a way up!”

“Who said I don’t have a way up?”

She grinned, grabbing ahold of the rocky cliff-face and hoisting herself up, only to find her dad’s hand on her arm. The look of panic on his face was something she’d only ever seen directed at Amy.

“Do you have any idea how stupidly dangerous this is?”

“No more stupidly dangerous than our usual outings.”

“If you fall from up there, you’ll die.”

For a very brief moment she was at a loss for words. She knew her parents cared about her of course, but it had always felt a bit disconnected, as though they still saw her as the dangerous space lady now married to their best friend. The look in her father’s eyes now said otherwise.

“I’d best not fall then.” River quipped, as the moment passed. She turned back to face the towering landmass before them and pushed forward, even as her dad continued to shout up at her.

“Do you really place so little worth on your life? Just once let someone else take the risks so you don’t have to.”

“Believe me, I have,” She muttered to herself, “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

River turned to look down at where her father stood, staring up at her. “I admire the sentiment, but have you ever scaled an alien cliff without proper climbing equipment before?”

“No. Have you?”

“There’s a first time for everything. I’d get moving if I were you, we don’t know how far behind us they are.”

Rory was clearly still less than satisfied with the arrangement but did as she asked, placing one gloved hand after the other to start climbing just several paces behind her. They slowly made their way upwards, the alien sun glaring angrily at their backs.

“Everything alright down there?” River called down as they neared the top.

“Yeah. I mean – I think so. There wouldn’t happen to be cyberkinetic climbing boots or something would there? Because those would really help.”

“Funny you should ask, yes. Quite the fashion statement aren’t they.” She showed off one of her boots to an incredulous Rory.

“You had them on the whole time-”

“I’m joking, these aren’t cyberkinetic hiking boots, they’re not even really hiking boots. I fully intend to get my hands on a pair though.” She made a point not to elaborate how.

River knew she was in for a proper scolding by the look on her father’s face, but a familiar voice from above cut him off before he could start.

“River! Rory!”

Her head snapped upwards to where a shock of bright red hair was visible on the cliff above them.

“Amy” her father breathed out in relief. He quickened his pace, clattering over the uneven rockface less than gracefully to bring himself up alongside River.

“Hello!”

The bowtie wearing idiot who gotten them into this mess appeared next to her mother.

“How’d you two get down there? Never mind, I’ve picked up a signal from the TARDIS, we shouldn’t be far now!”

He waved his sonic screwdriver in the air with enthusiasm.

“Sweetie.”

“Yes dear?”

“Next time I tell you not to mess with one of her settings, particularly when it involves immediate relocation in the face of danger, you’ll do well to remember this.”

He made a face but didn’t contradict her point. Amy pouted.

“Aww, but that’s half of the fun!”

“It’s truly astounding any of you make it anywhere alive without my help.”

River didn’t have to look over at her dad to know he was anything but amused. But he didn’t have a chance to reply before-

“Duck!”

River dragged Rory down the cliffside a few paces, just milliseconds before Amy’s warning cut through the air, an arrow lodging itself in the crevice where his head had been moments before. Her gaze followed the trail of falling rubble released from their sudden movement, stomach clenching at the sight that met her eyes. Their pursuers had gathered in a large mass below them and the first few were already swiftly ascending the tall edifice at a rapid pace. A handful had climbed up the knotted tree trunks that stood a few paces back, to better aim their bows at the escapees.

“Go!”

River nudged Rory back up the cliff, towards Amy’s outstretched hand, and he complied without protest. River pulled out her blaster once more to take out the closest attackers, feet braced uncomfortably against the rough face of the cliff for balance. She shifted slightly and another trail of rubble broke free beneath her right foot.

“River, come on!”

Eyes still trained downwards; River pulled herself slowly towards her mother’s voice as she continued to dodge the persistent arrows from below. One by one they clattered against the rock around her and fell back downwards. Her blaster made good work of the leading figures behind her, until she felt close enough to toss it over the side where her parents and the Doctor stood anxiously waiting for her. River reached for her mother’s hand and grasped it tightly, pulling herself upwards. She had barely reached the ledge where the others stood when several things happened at once. A deadly silver glint caught the corner of River’s eye as it sped towards them and cries of terror rang from both the Doctor’s and Rory’s mouths. Instinctively, she pushed Amy to the ground just as a searing pain entered her side.

Time slowed down. It so often did at the worst possible moments, but never had he wished it to stop moving entirely as he did now. The Doctor watched in horror as River once more sacrificed herself for another, the arrow cutting sharply through the air and into her side. The force knocked her body forward, taking Amy down with her. A strangled scream echoed in his ears. Was it his? He wasn’t sure. The Doctor raced to their side, but Rory beat him to it and was already helping an ashen-faced Amy gently shift their daughter off her.

“River … ohmygod River-”

“She’s still breathing, but I can’t know for certain there hasn’t been serious damage in the body until I have a proper look – Doctor -!”

He had rudely pushed himself into the nurse’s space but couldn’t be bothered to apologize at the exclamation that followed. The Doctor had eyes for only one person, and she lay with an arrow shaft protruding from her side. He reached for her wrist and held it until he was certain: a pulse. Placing a second hand on her cheek, then forehead, the Doctor felt his pounding hearts subdue somewhat. Warm but not too warm. The wound itself was a clean cut but it was difficult to tell what the damage inside was-

“Hands, Sweetie.”

The Doctor’s head snapped upwards to find River staring at him with a bemused expression.

“Not that I would normally mind, but I’m afraid we’re on a bit of a tight schedule; wouldn’t you agree?”

“Your...”

Alive? Conscious? He wasn’t sure what word he was looking for; but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy to see those captivating and very alive green eyes fixed on him. Her gaze dropped down to where the arrow stuck out of her side and her smile faltered.

“Right… well, I suppose I’ve had worse.”

River shifted slightly to try and prop herself up on her good side but stopped to clench the Doctor’s arm as she inhaled sharply. It was Rory’s turn to intervene.

“River stop, you’ll only make it worse.”

“I can… manage.”

“You’re not moving until I have this looked at, nurse’s orders. I can’t risk pulling out the arrow until I know exactly what it has hit.”

River was shaking her head, eyes shut against the pain.

“No time.”

The Doctor didn’t have to look over the side of the cliff to know that she was right. They had to find cover and fast.

“Rory, take River and go; the Doctor and I will cover for you.”

He tore his gaze away from his wife for the first time to stare at Amy in shock.

“I can’t just leave her Pond-”

“You can and you will, because right now you’re emotional-”

“I’m not-!”

“-And I will not have an emotional Time Lord crowding my daughter when what she needs right now is medical attention.”

Amy’s eyes blazed, daring him to argue. The Doctor clenched and unclenched his hands, belatedly realizing they were still holding River’s. How to explain that he had stay by her side and try by every means possible to make her well again because, last time, in another life, he was never given the chance.

“Amy…”

“Doctor, I’m a trained nurse. Please let me do what I can.”

The Doctor looked back and forth between the two Ponds before settling back on Amy’s penetrating gaze. Fish fingers and custard. He had to trust her on this, his Amelia Pond. Sometimes he forgot how grown up she was. Reluctantly, he let go of his wife’s hand to pull out his sonic and hand it to Rory.

“Find the TARDIS. Keep River safe.”

“Always.”

They all gave a start at the sound of a blaster discharging. While the three of them had argued over how to best handle the situation, River had been the only one paying attention to what was happening behind them. Slowly but stubbornly, she had reached past Amy to pick up her fallen blaster and train it on the first of the locals who had made it over the edge of the cliff, sending it right back over. Three more went down before River’s arm fell back in exhaustion, the grip on her weapon slackening. Amy was quick to snatch it out of her daughter’s hands and start her own crusade against the attackers, motioning urgently for Rory and River to get a move on.

“Go! Now!”

The Doctor and Rory helped River to her feet, her face draining of color as she steadied herself against her dad for support.

“River, if you can’t stand-”

“I’m fine.”

Her words were sharp and final but clearly not as confident as she wanted them. The Doctor shared a concerned glance with Rory, but they didn’t have time to argue.

“May I?”

He indicated the dagger tucked in Rory’s belt. The other man obliged, taking it out to hand over to the Doctor.

“Doctor, a little help here!” Amy shouted from behind him, and he spun around to find a line of very hungry looking locals advancing on her. The blaster was the only thing remotely keeping them at bay, but that was evidently not going to last for long. He padded his coat pockets, before remembering – his bowtie. The Doctor quickly undid his favorite neck accessory to tie it very precisely around the dagger’s hilt, with a sizeable loop hanging out.

“Amy, get back!”

Picking up an adequately sized stone from the ground, he fit it snugly in the fabric and rotated the contraption above his head, letting the stone fly. Amy had scrambled backwards and watched in bewilderment as it hit its mark, the unfortunate hunter tipping off the side of the cliff it had just arrived on seconds before.

“Did I ever tell you I was the slingshot champion of the seventh Grecian Olympics?”

Amy shook her head as he loaded another stone into his makeshift slingshot, giving him a sideways look.

“Didn’t the Ancient Greeks compete naked?”

“Yep!”

“Right. I don’t think I will ever unsee that mental image, thanks.”

Amy dropped to the ground as a spear sailed over her head, rolling to her left to aim River’s blaster at the hunter nearest her. It took three attempts before her aim finally rang true.

“Hang on, slingshots were definitely not a part of the ancient Olympics. How did you manage that?”

Three stones left the Doctor’s slingshot to connect with three of the of the newest arrivals on the cliff. Each fell backwards one by one like bowling pins.

“Amy Pond, shouldn’t you know by now you humans are the worst when it comes to accurately documenting your own history? The Olympics were first recorded in 776 B.C. but the Greeks had been holding the games for approximately 567 years by then. I may have accidentally gotten the slingshot banned at the games in 980 B.C. which is why they don’t show up on any records.”

“Of course you did. Should I be worried you’re just tossing these guys over a thousand-foot ledge or …”

They bolted out of the way as a hunter charged at them, moving farther from the growing group at the cliff’s edge. Amy grabbed the spear that had fallen behind her earlier and rammed it against their shins. It toppled over and was knocked out cold.

“Not at all!” Replied the Doctor, far too cheerfully. “I’ve noticed the locals here are a far less breakable lot than you humans. That thick skull of theirs isn’t hiding a larger brain at all, but gives them extra cushion, so a fall from this height will stun them for maybe an hour at most.”

“Great, so you’re telling me we’re up against invincible aliens?”

“We’re the aliens here Pond, and not invincible, no. That thing you’re holding will do about equal amount of damage here as it would anywhere else in the universe.”

Amy looked down at the blaster in her hand as the Doctor tossed another couple stones at arriving hunters, each making direct contact. He glanced over at Amy and noticed her face had hardened.

“Good.”

She aimed the weapon once more at the unbelievably persistent hunters before them and the Doctor was surprised when he made no attempt to stop her from pulling the trigger. Seeing River’s body appear as lifeless as it had, for even a split second, had awoken something immensely dark inside him he had thought long dead. No Cyberman or even Dalek could ever be on the receiving end of a fury unleashed by those who dared try to take his wife out of the universe. He found himself wishing he’d thought to reach that blaster for himself before Amy had.

The number of carnivorous locals had multiplied to a point where stones were no longer helping. Amy lacked the practiced aim of her daughter so, while the hunting party was no longer its former formidable size, the Doctor realized she was no match for it. They were outnumbered.

“Amy.”

“Yeah; run.”

They turned on their heels and made after Rory and River, both of whom had disappeared.

“You realize,” panted Amy, “we’re leading them directly to Rory and River, yeah?”

“I’m working on it Pond, just keep moving!”

The pounding footsteps behind them appeared to only grow in volume as they raced across the barren, rocky landscape. The Doctor whirled around to plunge the dagger into the ground with as much force as he could muster. At first, nothing happened. Suddenly, a deep rumble uttered from far beneath them and the terrain shook, splitting from where the dagger had entered it.

“Uh oh.”

He backed away, before turning back around to run for his life – only to find Amy no longer in front of him.

“Wh-!”

Suddenly, the ground disappeared beneath his feet and he was sliding down a steep incline into the alien terrain. The Doctor’s feet hit flattened rock, grinding him to a sudden halt. He bolted upwards, peering into the dark to try and find a familiar face.

“Doctor? Amy?”

Rory. The Doctor dug into his pockets again to pull out the large torch that had been so handy in Venice, and it filled the cavern with its brilliant blue light. He made out Rory’s figure a few paces back but didn’t have time to wonder why River was no longer beside him, because Amy had taken off back towards the entrance where the first of the hunters had started to make an appearance over the edge.

“Amy, what are you-!”

She was training River’s blaster back on them again, each shot punctuated with the Scottish fury of her words.

“Not. My. Daughter. You-”

She was cut off by a loud rumbling overhead.

“Amy!”

The Doctor ran forward, grabbing her by the hand to pull her farther into the cavern as large pieces of rock began falling from above. It wasn’t long before the entire entrance was caved in, leaving their attackers and any form of sunlight trapped on the other side. They paused to catch their breath as the dust settled. The Doctor wasted no time rounding on Amy.

“What in the hell were you thinking Amelia Pond? Do you want to get yourself killed? I suppose arrow was next on your list for Bravado Bingo-”

“Oh, don’t lecture me on bravado Doctor,” she snapped, “This is my family and it is my choice how I protect it!

“Yes, and we’ll be eternally grateful when we carry your lifeless body off of this planet!” He’d overstepped and he knew it immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“I know.”

They looked at each other, and the bright flame in Amy’s eyes subdued somewhat. The Doctor could almost feel a sense of relief creeping up on him, until-

“Doctor.”

He directed the torch towards the sound of Rory’s voice, which sounded far too urgent for his liking, his hearts coming to a full stop when he noticed who the nurse was kneeling beside.

River no longer appeared to be conscious, what little color that had remained her cheeks now gone. The blue lighting that filled the cavern only accentuated the deathly pallor that had spread across her skin.

“I don’t know what happened,” Rory rushed to explain, as the Doctor wasted no time to join him, setting down his torch in the process, “She was fine - I mean hurt, but moving without much trouble – when suddenly she just … collapsed. Doctor, I’m no expert on arrows but I do know a normal one could not have done something like this.”

“You don’t suppose it was poisoned?”

Amy hovered anxiously nearby with her arms folded tightly across her chest.

“That’s what we need to find out.”

Rory had taken out his small bag of medical equipment and was carefully picking through it, placing several items on a pristine, white cloth he had lain on the ground beside him. The Doctor reached for his sonic, which he had noticed lying at River’s feet, and did his usual scan for information. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw the results.

“Rory, get that arrow out of her now!”

“Wh-”

“It’s been too long already, it’s a miracle she’s still breathing-”

“Doctor, an arrow can’t just be taken out without the possibility of creating more damage to the body; I need to do this properly. It would help if I knew what the problem was.”

The Doctor was busy cupping his hands around River’s face, speaking in a low, rushed tone as though they were the only ones in the room.

“River please, please if you can hear me, don’t fight it. I know you have been, and I know you still want to, but that will only make it worse. Please.”

He touched his forehead to hers, eyes closed for a moment, before pressing a kiss to her forehead. He could feel Rory’s eyes on him, waiting. How was it that he always managed to be so patient? So trusting and relaxed even when facing death itself? It both aggravated the Doctor and inspired him. But, he supposed, that’s what made the man such an excellent nurse.

He ran a hand through his floppy, brown hair and stood up to pace restlessly. They couldn’t waste another moment, wasn’t it clear that River’s life was on the line? But Rory deserved an explanation. They both did. No matter how much it pained him to relive those memories.

“It shouldn’t be possible; I don’t know how they managed to get ahold of this technology. It should have been destroyed with everything else that day. Mind you, it wasn’t even finished-”

“Tell us what is wrong with our daughter Raggedy Man, or so help me I will jab this blaster where it really hurts.”

“Right. Yes.” Stalling. He was ever so good at that. The Doctor swallowed.

“In the final days of the Time War, my people – the Time Lords – were developing a new kind of weapon, to be used not just against the Daleks but any misbehaving citizen who didn’t follow orders. Meant to be an addition to every high-tech weapon on the planet, it would drain its target of all immediate energy. Like a modified virus. The more someone would fight against its effects, the faster it would act. Intended to bring down the strongest fleet of enemy soldiers, so they could be brought in for a more “suitable” execution. Of course, I could never let something like that get out in the universe.

“The problem was it was never perfected. The casualty range was too broad with far too devastating results to serve the Time Lords as they needed it to, so the weapon was never used in battle. I’ve never seen one compacted into something as small as an arrow before.”

Rory was looking at him, aghast. “This is Time Lord technology?”

“But how is that possible?” asked Amy. “Everything in their camp was made of stone, skin and bone; how could they have known how to use something like this?”

“River and I came across some remnants of what could have been a robot earlier, do you think these people have been taking whatever they can understand from the ships and visitors that have landed here?”

The Doctor was pounding the palm of his hand against his forehead as he paced, in a vain attempt to make all the dots connect somehow.

“I don’t know, I don’t know. None of this makes any sense!”

That weapon, like so many of the others the Time Lords had had in the works, should not have even had the chance to leave the planet, let alone be improved upon. Its mere existence as it is now should be impossible.

Rory’s voice broke through his thoughts again.

“Doctor, what should we do? This technology is more advanced than anything I’ve ever worked with; how do we help River?”

The Doctor stopped his pacing, facing away from the three people he had long since allowed himself to consider as family. He felt his hearts sink further at his next words.

“A Time Lord virus can only be cured by Time Lord technology. That’s what makes them so deadly to contract off-planet.”

“There must be something we can do.”

“Remove the arrow, block the signal. That much I know.”

He waited until he heard Rory begin preparing for surgery, and then took off deeper into the cavern. Amy called after him but knew, for once, she wouldn’t follow. Not with River in her condition. He felt guilty for leaving them, but the Doctor knew there was only one way he could ensure his wife’s survival and that was by finding the TARDIS. River Song did not die here, she couldn’t. Their timelines were too fixed for that. Yet her final words in that library still echoed in his ears. Not one line, don’t you dare. He wasn’t willing to risk even the possibility of that happening.

The ground sloped downward, and he broke into a jog. How he was going to find another way out from down here, he didn’t know, but a plan usually manifested in his head somehow. Any moment now would be ideal, an irritated voice in his head chastised. But he was finding it incredibly difficult to focus when River’s all too pale face remained fixed in his mind. A face that was always and meant to be brimming with life.

The Doctor activated his sonic again, which made little difference in the surrounding dark, but at least made him feel like he was doing something useful.

“Come on, do this for me just this once.”

But those readings couldn’t be correct, he was far too deep underground. Just another thing to add to the list of things on this planet that didn’t make sense … he paused. There was a faint glowing up ahead, with a bluish hue that was all too familiar to the Time Lord. Had he really come full circle and rejoined the Ponds again? He couldn’t have. It took only a few steps more for him to realize what shape was standing out against the inky blackness of the cavern.

“Impossible.”

But there she stood, as tall and proud as the day they had first run away together from Gallifrey; the bluest blue in all the universe. The TARDIS brightened as he ran over to greet her.

“You’re here, it’s really…”

The Doctor ran a thumb down where the doors met, unable to believe his luck. Their luck.

“You’re cutting it a bit fine you know; I don’t suppose you could have parked any closer at a more convenient point in time?”

The TARDIS emitted what could be interpreted as a noise of indignation.

“Yeah, I know I know, it’s my fault.” He sighed; forehead pressed against the door. “Isn’t it always.”

“She needs you Old Girl, River she-” his throat tightened, and he shut his eyes for a brief moment. “I can’t save her, but you can. All those memories, my future … I can’t risk losing them. I can’t risk losing her.”

A low hum came from the TARDIS and the Doctor felt a new energy burn through him. He wasn’t alone in this, he had her. His constant companion and confidant, the best doctor in the universe. No virus could compete with that. A robotic arm and impossible technology were problems for another day. There was something far more important that needed doing first. As he opened the door to step into the consul room, there was no doubt in his mind that River Song would live and laugh again.

#dw ff #doctor who fanfic #the pond family #11th doctor #eleventh doctor #amy pond #rory williams #river song #new who #yowzah #river x eleven #why yes I did leave a lot of loose threads hanging for a reason :)

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ambroseshaw · 4 years

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🌙 — ALL ABOARD ! The HMS PROMETHEAN welcomes ( AMBROSE SHAW ) to the expedition in their capacity of ( THE MARKED ). They are ( FORTY YEARS OLD & CISMALE ) and might be painted as ( ZACH MCGOWAN ). When you strike up an acquaintance, address them as ( HE/HIM ). Their deeds on land precede their arrival — people say they are ( COMPELLING, CUNNING, and STEEL-WILLED ) but ( VAINGLORIOUS, RECLUSIVE, DISTRUSTFUL ) when the tide turns. Their purpose aboard the Promethean falls in line with ( ESCAPING THE SINS OF HIS PAST — BY ANY MEANS ).

HISTORY

I. Ambrose and his younger brother are born to a woman who has fallen from grace -- Elizabeth Shaw is by no means remarkable, but she used to be something, and from what Ambrose can remember of her, she always despaired over what she could have been. Her family was quick to turn their gaze when they discover she’s been leading a married man on an affair that has ended in a swelling at her belly and no ring on her finger. She’d been no older than eighteen when the cast her out, and just like that, any mention of her was struck from the books. She pleaded with her lover to show the kindness he’d promised with gentle words in her ear, but he was too poor to even entertain the thought of ruining his own bit of kingdom to try and maintain her own. Ambrose is born not long after Elizabeth Shaw has found her place in a brothel in the slums. It is here that he grows up, an ugly and unremarkable child, running secrets back and forth from room to room in exchange for the skill to read and write. His mother does not so much as acknowledge him, or William, for that matter.

II. He doesn’t know who does it, never bothered to ask, but when Elizabeth dies -- he is twelve, then, and William is nine -- someone comes to get her. That someone is a cousin by the name of Cunningham, distant but wealthy, who’d been close to Elizabeth. Older, yes, but close. He’d been searching for her a long time, he explains to her boys, who look so much like their mother it’s almost astonishing. Cunningham takes them both under his wing and sweeps them out of the slums of London without so much as a second thought. Ambrose doesn’t trust him, and the first year is... difficult. They know their letters, but neither of them are educated, and both brothers drag their heels in the dirt trying to hold onto the rowdy beasts that have taken root in their chests. It is not until Ambrose discovers his love of history that he truly settles, and the difference is like day and night. Cunningham plies Ambrose with historical texts and novels, and in exchange, Ambrose makes the effort to learn how to be charistmatic and good and pristine. Few know about his mother, and when Ambrose meets his uncles, his aunts, his grandparents, their scarcely mention her. It is terrifying, really, how easily people are wiped from existence, just that fast.

III. Cunningham buys him his education, and from that education stems advancement. Ambrose learns, grows, works, writes, becomes a professor first of Roman history, Egyptian history soon to follow, and with every piece he publishes or collaborates on, his fame only increases. At twenty-seven he is offered an observational position on an expedition to old Roman ruins in an effort to unearth hidden treasures, and he accepts without so much as a second thought. William accompanies him for these first few journeys, although his younger brother discovers he does not quite have the taste for it. Ambrose, on the other hand, is ravenous. Forget writing; he’d much rather dig as far his own two hands will take him. The expedition returns successfully, and the pieces of old art and sword pommels are hung up in a museum, displayed for and lauded by the wealthy. Ambrose develops an appetite. He funds and embarks on another expedition, this time to the Valley of the Kings, and does not return empty-handed. He is soon sponsored by the British Archaeological Association, and archaeology becomes his life. He returns to London after every trip with some sort of piece or tale, develops a reputation as an adventurer. The airy and stiff-backed Shaws of old are buried by Ambrose Shaw: charming, handsome, daring Adventurer of the world.

IV. The glory days are by far the best. His renown grows insurmountable, the height of mountains. Most turn their gaze from his more unsavory qualities -- his temper, his ever-present status as a bachelor, his sharp tongue and tendency to remark on ugly qualities in others -- in favor of the gleaming, the gold. The stories he tells, the shape of his frame, what he gives away, the parties he hosts. For each successful expedition it is nearly a guarantee that Ambrose Shaw will return and provide nectar of the gods alongside decent entertainment, and worse still, he’s good at that too. No one can touch him, even when he wants to, and he’d like to keep it that way. Over the years William appears on his doorstep, pleads with him to give it a rest (you’ll run yourself into the ground, Ambrose), but Ambrose ignores him in favor of emeralds in the tombs of dead queens and kings, blades polished until they’re silver anew. He doesn’t even attend Cunningham’s funeral, when the old man dies -- he’s on his second world tour by that time, and there’s not much point in turning a ship around for a dead man without much to him, is there?

V. It should be obvious by now that a fall always accompanies pride, and with Ambrose, his fall takes the shape of a dog-headed sculpture, painted all black, with eyes that shine like rubies in spite of the fact it lacks gems. Tucking it away without thought had been foolish, and putting it on display is worse, but it is put up in a glass case and he lays his head down on the pillow without nary a thought to his deeds. And then the restlessness comes. At first, it’s subtle. Sleep avoids him. He takes to long night walks. And then his body aches. He’s not old, necessarily, but the pains which plague him cannot be soothed even by the strongest of opium. He takes to keeping his hair down -- pulling it back reveals the strands easily pulled from his skull. And then what can only be described as moments of madness. He is always awoken from slumber by the hot breath of a hound on his face, gleaming white teeth in the dark, pink tongue lolling, its claws digging into his chest. It trails after him, from room to room, building to building, place to place. He shuts himself up in his apartments, stops hosting guests and holding parties, but becoming a glorified recluse only makes it worse. This hellhound is an awful fact of life, and in his ear it whispers every mistake he’s made, every foolish thing he’s ever said, every missed opportunity for glory. It haunts him,

PLOT POINTS

I’M THE BEAST / RATTLING THE CAGE, ASKING FOR SLAUGHTER. Why would an archeologist go to a place devoid of history? And ah, there’s the rub. Why would a man who’s dedicated his entire life to keeping his head bowed towards the dirt, always digging, suddenly see fit to turn his gaze towards the sky? Rebirth, renewal, repentance. I’d love to explore (through his relationships with other characters and his developing relationship with himself) the parallels between the man Ambrose so obviously was with the man he is now.

Can others see the corpse he’s unwillingly dragging behind him? Can they see through the flecks of gold as easily as he can to the dirt underneath? I’m sure it shines through, every once in a while. He’s not always unpleasant to be around, even if he more or less shambles around like a dead man walking. I’d like to see if there’s something underneath the horror he’s encased himself in, or if the charismatic and charming Ambrose Shaw is well-and-truly-dead. He feels like a beast walking in human skin, otherworldly in his not-so-subtle bouts of madness, like he cannot control his own body in a way that means anything. Do others see this, and if so, do they confront it, or do they turn their heads?

I SEEM TO BE BUSY TEARING DOWN WHAT I WAS. I’d love for Ambrose to meet with others who have never heard of him. I know that sounds a little silly, but he craves a world in which he has not shared every piece of himself, a world in which there is no Ambrose Shaw, the archeologist of great renown, and instead… Ambrose Shaw, the man. Relationships of any kind — antagonistic, friendly, romantic — they all feel beyond him now, and I can see him clinging to any person who might see him for what he is beyond his reputation, might go so far as to say they’ll be the only ones keeping him even remotely sane.

On the flip side of this, I’d love for Ambrose to interact with characters who have similar burdens. Sometimes the truths of guilt and grief aren’t genuinely opened to you until you’ve shared them with others, and up until now, he’s found himself silenced, biting down on his own tongue.

WHAT YOU CAN’T GIVE AWAY YOU MUST CARRY WITH YOU. I think that Ambrose almost certainly has lessons he could impart upon less-experienced crewmen and guests, with stars in their eyes and metal in their mouths, searching for a taste of adventure. It might be why some of them boarded The Promethean in the first place. The unfortunate reality is that Ambrose wholly believes the adventure he once adored to be something ugly, beast-like, a journey which warps and changes you beyond recognition.

I’d like to see him impart some of his stories and lessons upon those willing to listen to what he has to say; he used to love hosting, after all, even if now he hates it when someone so much as breathes the same air as he. It might take some time, some thawing of the ice in his middle, but I think he’d share eventually.

TO FEEL ANYTHING DERANGES YOU. What does Ambrose see on the back of his lids, when he closes his eyes? Is it a place, a person, a beast, a being? There’s no doubt in my mind that the further along The Promethean’s journey extends, the deeper Ambrose is going to sink into despair, and until he finds a place he cannot dig into with his two bare hands, he will be haunted. He’d boarded the ship in an effort to run from his ghosts, only to discover they'd trailed after him, nipping at his heels like a great black dog. He is unsure of his end, and if he’s to meet it sooner rather than later, but I’d like to explore his willingness to meet it. Would he accept death, if it meant escaping what shows itself to him in his sleep, even if it meant hellfire?

CONNECTIONS*

*These are purposefully vague, and by no means set in stone. I’m absolutely willing to adjust accordingly with whatever plots and relationships The Marked may have had beforehand! I did one for every skeleton, in hopes of providing a jumping-off point for plotting! If you’re looking for your character, CTRL+F and type in their skeleton title!

I. THE VETERAN: They are similarly haunted, even if the shape their ghosts take the form of is different by a wide margin. Their suffering does not appear to be quite so physical, in Ambrose’s eyes, although he recognizes their stiff-legged gait and paranoid gaze as well as he recognizes his own. I could see the two of them growing close, in the fleeting way that friendships through trauma and regret are forged.

II. THE DOE-HEARTED: In her, Ambrose sees the faces of his own family. His brother tried to sway him from his path, time and time again, and he ignored him in favor of grit beneath his nails and the taste of glory. He wants to tell her there might be no hope at all: once a man is swayed towards the path of hubris, it’s difficult to pull him off of it, and if you do manage, the consequences are often dire.

III. THE IDOL: In them, there is the spirit of expedition, the same spirit he’d harnessed in his youth to carry him far and wide. Their fire is by no means unfamiliar, although they have a different flavor than the usual doe-eyed naivete he encounters from men and women too young. They carry a ghost in the shape of their superior with them, and Ambrose can’t help but feel a streak of pity for them, the same pity he holds for himself.

IV. THE CAPTAIN: Pride makes men cruel, angry, ugly, and so does ambition. It’s… odd, this need to shake them by their shoulders and tell them they’re being a fool, but it’s there nonetheless. He doubts he’ll ever work up the courage, but if there were ever a mirror-image of his old self atop The Promethean, Ambrose fears it takes shape in the form of The Captain.

V. THE SCION: He circles The Scion like a bird of prey because he knows of nothing else to do. They were both caught in the throes of London’s glory, both caught up in the pride that comes from being something. But The Scion was kind-hearted, even if they now find themselves setting it aside, where Ambrose certainly wasn’t. He was nasty, cruel-mouthed and sharp-tongued, basked too much in his glory to bother extending his reach to the common people he once worked alongside. His ghosts and his guilt make him similarly ugly, and I’d like to explore if this is any different from the implied connection he and The Scion had beforehand, if their interactions were surface-level or went beyond that.

VI. THE SHADOW: A wolf is a wolf is a wolf, and in them, Ambrose sees hunger that stems neither of eagerness or inexperience. Their hunger is borne from desperation, and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t unsettle him. He, too, has donned sheep’s clothing time-and-time again, lied and cheated and stole to get his hands on the fingerbones of corpses and through the doors of old tombs. He used to be just as hungry, but now his belly has been slit, filled with stones, and any appetite he once had is gone… but The Shadow might reawaken old cravings.

VII. THE IDOL: In them he sees exactly the sort of thing he would have been digging for. Grief, sorrow, and ambition forged into one being, coated in gold and perfect to be put up in a museum. It makes sense, then, given his pretenses, that he would do his best to keep his distance, at the cost of several potentially awkward interactions.

VIII. THE CLAIRVOYANT: They see the thing that hangs around Ambrose’s head. They see the great, hulking wolfhound he has become, alongside the pale imitation of himself that lurks in his shadow. Make no mistake: he may be more terrified than they are, fears answers as much as he seeks them. He dances around the confrontation, skirts around the truth, knows it will find him eventually, knowing they might be the one to bring it.

VIX. THE NOBLE: Their voice refused to harmonize in much the same way his did. They have probably encountered each other, at some point or another, and it seems to be some cruel joke, the way he cannot escape from the very people he once used to entertain. He tries to weave them stories, in the way that he used to, but the words never seem to fit the right way in his mouth.

X. THE COMMANDER: Enough of humility, they declare, and Ambrose wants to tell them he’ll trade his pride for their humility, but he’s seen their silent companion called insecurity dog after as many as twenty men, men he’s dragged around on expeditions and men he’s dug up from graves. Most kings die from insecurity, from a want to be something bigger themselves. Ambrose himself is in the process of decay; he can’t help but wonder if The Commander might follow suit.

XI. THE EMPRESARIO: In them he sees his old self, and when they share the same space, it’s something like a light trying to spark on in the dark. Their ambition is familiar, as is their eagerness to forge a new path ahead. He, himself, had been much the same, in his fleet-footed days as a professor, and he seems to mirror their attitudes and somehow encourage them with ease even with the warning tugging at his tongue, begging to fall from his lips.

XII. THE ROMANTIC: If their brother is a soothsayer, then they themselves are just the opposite. Ambrose takes an admitted comfort to the fact they seem to denounce their sibling at every possible turn, if only because it means there’s a chance his affliction (ghosts, always ghosts) are just… figments of his imagination, lies he tells himself.

XIII. THE LOVER: Beauty is nothing without dread. If history has taught Ambrose anything, it is to fear those who are beautiful above all else, and in that vein, the ghost at his ear whispers to fear The Lover, who has clever eyes and a clever heart. Were he his old self, he thinks he could easily go toe-to-toe with them, but he finds himself older, weary, less capable, and so he holds his tongue.

XIV. THE ENIGMA: He would have trusted them on an expedition in a heartbeat, there’s no doubt about that. They’ve certainly got capable enough hands to do well in a career of bloodshed for a little bit of kingdom. He feels compelled to trust them now, might share a piece of himself here and there, were they willing to let him do so, although he heels more often than he howls.

XV. THE PURSER: They value money the same way he once valued glory, and frankly, that might be all there is to it. By default these days he’s cautious around those who make him think too much of himself, and as someone who vaulted similarly from the slums of London to a position of power, he is waiting for them to meet their Icarian downfall in the same way he did.

XVI. THE DOCTOR: Opium addiction is not uncommon among men in Ambrose’s old circles, and it’s not unfamiliar to him. In fact, these days it’s the only thing keeping Ambrose afloat. I’m not totally sure as to whether or not it’s accessible, but if The Doctor will provide the one thing… that wins him a few sacred minutes of sleep? He’ll be certain to make himself familiar.

XVII. THE CHRONICLER: Theirs is the pursuit of truth, and there’s no doubt in my mind that at some point or another at the height of his fame, they published something unsavory about Ambrose’s endeavors. Something ugly about the way he relished in digging for the dead. He doesn’t much like them, I figure, and he’d rather avoid them than he would hold a conversation, but… some things are just unavoidable, aren’t they?

XVIII. THE STOWAWAY: When given a choice, Ambrose chose to claw and climb his way to the top, at the cost of his relationship with his mentor, his old friend, his colleagues. He had once been nothing, and given the chance to be something, there was no hesitation at all. He understands them, but once again cannot put words to his understanding. They are lost on him, as most things these days are.

XIX. THE SOCIALITE: He entertained them and their family, once or twice. In fact, it might have been the case there was something between them, every blue moon, when hunger of a different kind struck. But the man he used to be and the man he is now are different creatures, and whatever capacity in which they knew each other has surely changed as a result.

XX. THE SONGBIRD: He’d enjoyed their singing, at one time, when he’d stood at the peak of London’s mountains, but a lark is still a lark, and even the most beautiful of songs can sound sour to the wrong ears. Their fall from grace seems to mirror Ambrose’s, however, and the notion makes him uncomfortable.

XXI. THE HARUSPEX: Regret tinges each and every one of his interactions with The Haruspex, no matter how much he wishes it were otherwise. He might be an old dog, but he is a dog with teeth, and The Haruspex reminds him of a whelp that doesn’t know any better. He wishes he could guide them towards a prosperous future in the way he used to guide his students, but his hostility is now reflex, and he doesn’t know how much it’s going to take to shake them off before he outright tears their throat from the rest of them so they’ll stop yapping.

XXII. THE CHAPLAIN: Faith has no power over terror, but he is willing to try, for the sake of achieving the silence he so desperately yearns for. He will pray, repent, confess, do whatever it takes, but there’s something that wonders in the back of his head if The Chaplain can see through this facsimile of worship as easily as he does.

XXIII. THE WILDCARD: It’s a true tragedy to watch someone who is never wrong make mistakes, but Ambrose keeps an eye from a distance anyways. He could attempt to warn them, if he chose to. He does not, and the reasoning for why that is is unbeknownst to him.

#* intro.

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thebibliomancer · 4 years

Text

Essential Avengers: Avengers #209: The Resurrection Stone

July, 1981

“The Resurrection Stone: will it save the universe -- or destroy it?”

Well, the universe hasn’t been destroyed, at least circa the comics I read this morning. But it hasn’t really been saved either.

Still, pretty intriguing tagline. Pretty intriguing cover.

And written by J.M. DeMatteis. One of the Kraven’s Last Hunt guys. He doesn’t seem to do a lot of Avengers.

Let’s see how he do Earth’s Mightiest Team of Specifically This Four On the Cover.

We start with some silent intriguing intrigue as an alien ship crashes into Nevada and an alien crawls from the alien wreckage. Instead of distributing rings to people, he gets shot by a green guy who likes purple. I sure can’t think of several people that this applies to.

The shooter checks some possibly alien PDA but then beams up as the ship explodes.

How baffling.

Ok, J.M. DeMatteis. You have my interest.

So we start chapter one-

Chapter one? What is it with fill-ins and putting chapters in Avengers books. That three dooms one from a while back also did this.

Anyway, chapter one of this normal length Avengers adventure: “Love... and Death!”

So on specifically April 10th, 1981 2:17 PM (a fact which we must firmly ignore in these sliding timescale days), Beast has brought an old flame to Avengers Mansion to meet Wonder Man, Vision, and Scarlet Witch.

Presumably all of the other Avengers couldn’t make it. Or Beast didn’t want them meeting Vera.

Oh, and she’s not a new old flame.

Vera Cantor goes back to X-Men #19 in 1966. She knew him before he blue it! And she was the one who got away because mutant biz kept getting in the way.

But they had a chance meeting in a Soho bar and they’re giving it another shot!

I guess Beast is finally settling down from his wild party dating multiple women at a time days.

And y’know what? He and Vera are cute together.

Beast is exuberantly in love with her. He’s apparently been talking about nothing else for weeks.

Scarlet Witch: “Vision -- just look at the Beast’s eyes -- I’ve never seen them sparkle so. He must be in love.”

Beast is so excited he’s bouncing on the couch and jumping all over the place and bumping into Jarvis. Knocking the tea tray out of the butler’s hands.

Beast, pls. Reign in.

He does manage to catch the tray in his feet though. No spilling.

Its a bit weird that Jarvis is here to be bumped into. He’s supposed to have one of his days off to visit his mom and get some of that “near-mythical Yorkshire pudding.”

But he brushes off the question with concern over the bad impression all of this is giving the guest.

Vera doesn’t mind though. She’s used to his obstreperous (“noisy and difficult to control”) nature and finds how energetic he is to be part of why he’s so cute.

The blue fuzz surely does not hurt!

Oh. And then Vera takes a sip of the tea Jarvis brought and immediately keels over dead.

The butler did it??

Jarvis. You made it too strong!

No, no. Surely not. Jarvis would never make such an error or miss out on Yorkshire pudding.

“Jarvis” is actually... A SKRULL!

Beast wastes no time slamming the Skrull into the wall but said Skrull says ‘hey you want the woman to live again maybe keep your hands to yourself.’

And Beast backs off, sensing some truth in the Skrull’s tone.

The Skrull: “Ah -- that’s a bit more like it. Even in this vile atmosphere, I do so value my ability to breathe!”

By the by the by, this guy goes unnamed until 2008 in a Secret Invasion infobook but I’m not about that. His name is Jaddak.

Jaddak channels his inner-Darkseid and sits in the comfiest chair provocatively and begins on THE TALE OF THE RESURRECTION STONE!

Seems that millennia ago there was a space civilization in space that merged high science and high sorcery to bring an epoch of peace and plenitude to all then known worlds.

The epoch of peace and plentitude looks a lot like someone jammed Medieval knights and castles into rocket times.

Which I guess fits the whole union of science and magic thing.

And then the greatest scientist-wizard, Tus'Au, invented the Resurrection Stone and ruined everything.

The stone, as the name implied, could bring life back to the dead. And while that doesn’t seem too impressive by today’s standards where plot devices to resurrect the dead are so numerous (including just teleporting out of heaven) that it doesn’t bear counting, remember that this was an earlier, more innocent time. A filler time.

Everyone wanted this Resurrection Stone and a great war ignited that eventually ruined a thousand, thousand planets.

Amidst that nonsense, the stone itself was lost forever.

Until an Anthigorite archeologist named Krru, like, did some serious research. Around about 5,000 years worth of research. And thanks to all his book learning, he eventually found the stone.

Which was unfortunate because Jaddak had been stalking him this whole time, sure that he’d eventually find it.

He chased Krru over twelve solar systems, finally blasting him out of the sky over Earth. But when Jaddak searched Krru’s ship and checked the recorder-log, as we saw in the opening two pages, he learned that Krru had decided that the Resurrection Stone was inherently corruptive and should have remained lost.

You know an ancient magical stone is bad news when an archeologist goes ‘actually you don’t belong in a museum.’

So when Krru was shot down, as a last ditch effort, he broke the stone in two and sent both halves into Earth’s past so they’d be lost forever.

I have so many questions.

If they were sent to the past then they’d be in the present now unless destroyed in the past. That’s how time works.

Two, dick move, Krru. You think this thing is inherently corruptive and you drop it into Earth’s past, possibly altering the timeline? Fuck you.

But with the stones in the past forever inaccessible clearly, Jaddak decided, hey this should be the Avengers’ problem and not mine.

Jaddak: “I knew then that I needed... pawns. Powerful pawns.”

Wonder Man: “Pawns... as in -- Avengers. And that’s why you struck down an innocent woman?!”

Jaddak: “It seemed a splendid idea at the time!”

Pffffffft.

Ok, I know. I know. This is a terrible situation in-universe but also out of universe because they brought back Vera only to immediately stuff her into the fridge.

But this skrull going ‘look it seemed like a good idea at the time’ cracks me up.

Seemed like a good idea doesn’t cut the mustard with Wonder Man who just hauls off and punches Jaddak into the bookcase.

Vision even verbally pats him on the back for it.

Vision: “Well played, Simon. -- There was no need to listen to this madman's rantings any longer.”

But as the Avengers congregate to stomp on Jaddak’s head a few times, I presume, Beast stops them.

Cradling Vera’s body he says he’ll do anything to bring her back.

;__;

And that brings us to chapter two: “DOOM in the DARK AGES!”

Let me just get ahead of any hypothetical questions I wouldn’t even be able to hear until after the fact anyway. Tragically Doctor Doom does not show up.

Whoof, a lot of exposition at the beginning of chapter 2. Because a lot of stuff happened off-panel, between pages.

Real Jarvis had been contacted to make sure he’s okay. The four Avengers took a Quinjet to the Fantastic Four and told Reed Richards what’s going on. Reed went ‘sure I’ll lend you Doctor Doom’s time machine and send you to the coordinates a SKRULL gave you.’ And Jaddak went to go wait in his spaceship with Vera’s body.

So now the Avengers are in September 16, 1348, England. Prompting Vision to start giving a lecture on the bubonic plague.

Scarlet Witch: “Darling, please. Not now.”

Save it for the bedroom, Vizh.

The locals respond, understandably enough, with hostility to the people that just appeared in thin air dressed like clowns. They call the Avengers demons and unholy creatures and tell them to tell a wizard Devlunn to fuck off and that he can’t have any more of their dead.

Wanda decides that explaining time travel and superheroes from the FUTURE is more trouble than its worth. Instead, she plays along.

Scarlet Witch: “Devlunn? We are far greater than that upstart! He is a mere wind -- we are the storm!”

And then she fires off some of her bolts to cow the villagers so she can ask if anyone wants to take her to “this weakling Devlunn.”

See Wanda figured out based on the one comment that someone toying with the dead might be linked to the half of the Resurrection Stone they’re here to find. Or one would hope someone toying with the dead has a dumb magic reason for it!

One of the villagers does volunteer to take Wanda to Devlunn.

Villager: “I pray you four are as powerful as you appear -- for it will take great magicks indeed to best this lunatic child.”

Because, yup, Devlunn is a ten-year old child.

And yup, he has half of the Resurrection Stone.

He also has a big crowd of locals begging him to return their dead since they did promise to follow him and give him all that they own. Really, that’s a fair trade for some moldy old corpses, right?

Devlunn: “Why should I listen to you? When this talisman fell from the sky and whispered to me -- I knew then it could make me a god! And gods do as they please!”

Welp.

Beast: “No one should play god, Devlunn. -- Least of all obnoxious little boys! C’mon guys -- let’s get this over with!”

And Wonder Man punches the tower Devlunn is standing on and Vision SOLAR BEAMs it and a ten year old child falls off a tower.

And then he just stops in midair and floats.

Not sure why the Resurrection Stone also has flying powers. That seems beyond the scope of what it was designed to do.

That’s like if you had a scroll of fireball that also did your taxes.

Yes, that would be amazing. But the two things aren’t related things.

Anyway, Devlunn takes these four weirdos in stride.

Devlunn: “Ah -- so I’ve impressed you with my little trick! Good! For, you see, I know who you are! You are spirits from heaven to test me to see if I’m worthy of godhood -- to see if my talisman can do more than merely hold me on high like some wingless bird! You wish a show of strength -- a little play! And what you wish -- Devlunn-the-god shall grant!”

And then he sicks a horde of zombies on the fearless foursome.

The four realize the truth of Devlunn’s half of the Resurrection Stone. Because this is a cool magic artifact that conceptually splits in half instead of just physically or in terms of output or whatever.

Devlunn’s half gives life to the dead but only life without the spark of the soul. Aka, zombies.

Also, not very impressive zombies. They’re more pitiable than formidable. And Devlunn isn’t much of a necromancer.

The Avengers fight them. Well, except for Vision. Vision just lets them flail against him ineffectually.

Beast rushes through the pack of zombies, even grabbing one with his thighs to toss out of the way?, towards Devlunn and then takes the 1/2 Resurrection Stone like candy from a baby.

Revealing Devlunn to not be a great and powerful wizard but rather a very sad child.

Devlunn: “My stone give it to me! Give it back, I say! I was... nothing until it came to me! My family -- my friends -- all died! But the stone made me important! It gave me control over death! It made me safe! Please give it back! Please -- I want to be a god! I have to be a god!”

And then he collapses to the ground and starts crying while the Avengers are whisked away into the future by Reed.

So, that’s sad.

And I don’t imagine chapter three (“Rosenblatt’s Dance!”) is going to be any cheerier.

It’s now April 13, 1945. Dachau.

So. Yeah.

The Avengers blink into existence right in the middle of some Allied troops chasing some Nazis. And not being ones to miss a chance to go ape shit on some Nazis, Wonder Man goes ape shit on some Nazis.

Unlike the dark ages peeps, the Allied soldiers see some random people with superpowers wearing bright clothes and go ‘ah, superheroes’ and ask if they’re with the Invaders or the Liberty Legion.

Wonder Man: “Right. I’m... uh... Captain America.”

Phew. Timeline secure.

Anyway, they’re glad to see some superheroes because they’ve got a messy situation at Dachau. And its nothing that punching Nazis can fix.

So, yeah this is set at a concentration camp so its not going to be particularly happy.

The one who has the other half of the Resurrection Stone is a man named Rosenblatt. And this half of the stone also has half the power of the full stone. But in this case it returns the soul to a lifeless husk.

And Rosenblatt has used it to revive his dead wife and daughters and he’s joyfully dancing with their lifeless bodies while they beg him to let them go and free them of this existence.

It’d be really messed up if the usual superhero methods had to be applied here but thankfully the less employed but still common superhero empathy is in the quiver.

Beast approaches the guy and just talks to him.

Beast: “You have to set their souls free.”

Rosenblatt: “Are you the devil, come to take them? Well -- they’ve been in hell long enough. They’ll never be yours!”

Beast: “Look at them, my friend -- they will never be yours either. Not the way you knew them. The way you cherished them. Give me the jewel. P-please...”

And his words get through to the man who hands the half Resurrection Stone off to Beast.

And as before, the instant they have the stone, Reed yanks them forward in time.

Y’know. This only occurred to me on my second read. Maybe if Reed hadn’t instantly pulled them out of that time, it would have occurred to Beast ‘hey wait I have both halves now, I could combine them and bring this guy’s family back to life for real and not in some cursed half existence.’

Doesn’t really work with how the book goes, but it’s a thought.

And now for the thrilling conclusion: Chapter 4 The Cost!

April 10th, 1981, SPACE.

So we’re back in the then present.

A Quinjet flies into space, as Quinjets can apparently do, to meet with Jaddak’s spaceship. Jaddak contacts them over the space Zoom and tells Beast that he’ll have to teleport over alone with the Resurrection Stone.

The other Avengers think this is reeeeeaaally fishy and don’t really like the idea of letting Jaddak get the Resurrection Stone but they can’t tell Beast what to do. This is his weird fill-in issue quest and it has to be his decision.

So Beast teleports over alone. And finds himself in a chamber with a video screen. Skrull ain’t taking any chances.

He’s hidden behind an unbreachable wall. Through the video screen he tells Beast to deposit the stone in a portal which will send it over to the skrull who will test it for authenticity.

Then, he’ll use it to revive Vera. Swearsies.

Beast: “And why should I trust you?”

Jaddak: “Because I am a Skrull. Treacherous and savage as my people are -- we value honor more than life.”

Doubt.

Beast pauses to consider the power of the Resurrection Stone. Thinks about Devlunn and his zombies and Rosenblatt’s dance.

Beast: “Vera... I’m sorry. But this power is too much for any man to hold. I hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do -- and I hope I can forgive myself!”

And then Beast slams the two halves of the Resurrection Stone together, KRUNCHing them into dust.

Jaddak: “Y-you crushed it! But that is... impossible! My plan was perfection! The vagaries of human love should have assured me victory!”

Wonder Man: “There are higher forms of love, Skrull -- but don’t strain your brain trying to figure out what they are!”

Because, yes, Wonder Man, Scarlet Witch, and Vision are also here now.

Vision intangibled onto the ship while Jaddak was distracted and used Jaddak’s own teleporters to bring the other two aboard.

As for that unbreachable wall?

Nah. Totally breachable. Wonder Man peels it open like nothing.

Jaddak tries to use Vera’s dead body as a hostage but Scarlet Witch blasts the gun apart in his hands with a SQUAKK.

So there may be a bird that used to be a gun loose on the ship.

And that just leaves one thing to take care of.

Beast jumps at Jaddak and starts slamming him around.

Scarlet Witch protests that Beast is going to kill Jaddak but Wonder Man tells her that Beast has to left off some steam.

Wonder Man: “He has to vent some steam or he’ll really snap! Besides you know Hank as well as I do -- that Skrull will get some much-needed lumps -- but that’s all!”

Beast: “Yeah. That’s our Beastie. A hero to the end. Can’t even bring myself to play the old ‘eye for an eye’ game. Not that it would do me one stinking bit of good. I’ve lost her -- forever.”

AND THEN AN EPILOGUE. Later that day at the Baxter Building.

Reed has been involved between panels this whole story and now he gets exposition exposited to him to fill in the gaps and in return he’s going to exposit too.

Wonder Man explains that he, Wanda, and Vision always intended to destroy the Resurrection Stone if Beast went through with the deal with Jaddak. Not that they thought he would. Knowing Hank McCoy and all.

But its a subversion of the ‘this is something he must do himself’ trope. Where they left the decision in Beast’s hands but also planned to go over his head if he made the wrong decision and put the scary power of phoenix down in the hands of the Skrulls.

Gotta keep your friends honest or something.

So now Reed has news. Weird news about Vera.

The poison that Jaddak used was super rare, so rare that Jaddak didn’t even know how it worked. He just had to be a murder hipster and goofed up.

Its actually a slow-acting poison that takes days to fully kill someone so Vera is technically only mostly dead. She could theoretically be cured one day.

So Reed has thrown her into a suspended animation tube and hopes to come up with an antidote eventually (which he doesn’t but Vera ends up cured anyway in Defenders #105 about a year later in another story by J.M. DeMatteis).

What is it about weird filler stories and having someone end up in a freezer tube to be maybe cured later?

Reed Richards: I know it’s not much of a chance, Beast -- but at least there’s hope.”

Beast: “There’s hope -- !”

Follow @essential-avengers because one day I’ll be up to date on that blog and it’ll have Essential Avengers stuff and no miscellaneous reblogs of other stuff. Wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe? Also like and reblog if you like to reblog.

#Avengers #essential avengers #Beast #Wonder Man #Scarlet Witch #the Vision #skrulls #essential marvel liveblogging #geez beast's focus issues are always so weird

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fanficfreekspn · 4 years

Text

1-1: Meet Lily

☙❶❧ | ☙❷❧ | ☙❸❧ | ☙❹❧

"That's gotta hurt," Dean stared at the grizzly scene. A middle-aged man had been bludgeoned to death with a blunt object and cut on the inside of his thigh, through the femoral artery.

"Shouldn't there be more blood than this?" Sam looked around. There was a small pool by the victim's head, but nothing around his leg.

"Probably..." something caught Dean's attention as he looked up at the police tape, holding the civilians back. He noticed that there was a woman, quite a bit younger than his brother and him, taking a few photos with her phone before lifting it to her mouth and whispering into it. "What do you make of that?" he nodded as Sam looked up and studied the woman. She was dressed in a purple and black flannel shirt over a black tank top, grey cargo pants, and boots.

"Looks like a hunter to me," Sam smirked.

"You'd think she'd want a closer look at the body, if that were the case."

"You can always go and ask her," Sam continued to write notes in his journal as Dean nodded in agreement before casually walking up to her.

He slowly reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his badge before flashing it to her. "Special Agent Nugent, FBI. Is there something I can help you with?"

She offered him a knowing smirk. "Ted, is it? Surely you can do better than that, Winchester."

He raised his eyebrows and looked around before taking a step closer. "Do I know you?"

She offered her hand to him. "Benatar. Pat Benatar."

"Touché," he laughed as he shook her hand.

"Seriously though, this is the third vic I've seen in this state with their skull bashed in and their crotch sliced."

"We only knew of the one in Boise."

"Idaho Falls three days before that."

He cocked his eyebrow as he looked her over. "How'd you get all that information from way over here?"

"I'm just that good," she tilted her head and smiled. "Would you and your brother like to meet up for dinner and compare notes?"

"The burger joint on Main St. at 8:00?"

"Perfect," she nodded before walking off.

He turned to return to his brother's side, and when he looked up she was already gone.

"What's the verdict?" Sam looked up from his notes.

"She's a hunter, and she seems to know us. I guess I'll have to make a few calls before we meet her for dinner."

"Did you get a pic of her to send Garth? Maybe he knows?"

"Nope," he pointed to his temple. "It's all up here," he winked.

As soon as the brothers entered their motel room, Dean dialed his phone as Sam walked to their refrigerator for two beers.

"Hola, mi amigo!" Garth answered in his typical, chipper way.

"G-man, how's it goin'?" he couldn't help but smile as he accepted his open beer from his brother.

"I am wonderful, my friend! What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you knew of another hunter who might be here, working on the same case you sent us on."

"Another hunter?"

"Yeah, a tiny little brunette with a big ego. Seemed to know everything, and she even knew us."

"You may have to be a bit more specific, Dean. Everyone knows you and Sam."

He rolled his eyes around the room. "Dark curly hair, blue eyes, about 5'8" and 130 pounds."

Sam smirked and raised his eyebrows. "Not that you were checking her out."

"I'm an observer," he whispered.

"Did she have a silver amulet on a stone necklace?"

"That's oddly specific. Um... yeah, I think so. Purple stones."

"Congratulations, my friend! You've met the allusive Lily Rose!"

His mouth dropped open as he looked across the room at Sam. "I thought she was a myth."

"Not a myth, my friend, just very protective of her ass. You two must have come across some strange shit if she's there on the same case."

"Yeah, and she told me of another case in Idaho Falls we missed. We're supposed to meet her for dinner to compare notes later."

"I am truly jealous," he sighed wistfully. "Is there anything else I can help with?"

"Not at the moment. Thanks, man."

"Via con dios!"

He hung up and looked at Sam. "Lily Rose."

"So she is real?"

"This is huge! I've been wanting to meet her for years! I've got to know the real story about the giant!"

"And the Grindylows!" Sam became excited.

"Let's go!”

Lily was set up in a corner booth with two iPads and a MacBook Air, typing away and looking between all of them as Dean and Sam approached her. "Gentlemen," she spoke without looking up.

Dean slid into the seat first, with Sam following. She looked up to see both of them grinning back at her. "Lily," they spoke at the same time.

"I see introductions aren't necessary," she laughed.

"So you are... Lily Rose? THE Lily Rose?" Sam asked.

"Yes," she answered slowly.

"You single-handedly took down a Jack-In-Irons?" Dean asked.

"I poisoned him first, but yes."

"Do they really carry around the heads of their victims?"

"Unfortunately, yes," she scrunched her nose.

"And the spiked clubs?"

She pushed her shirt aside to reveal a scar on her right shoulder. "Very large, dirty, and painful."

"Wow," both men sat back, but Sam jumped in next.

"And the Grindylows?"

"Unfortunately, it had gotten three children before I got to it," she dropped her eyes.

"It? Only one? I heard there were three."

"There were. She had to feed her children somehow."

"Wow. You are definitely the expert on European spooks who shouldn't be here," Dean looked up at the waitress. "A beer and a burger, please."

"I'll have the same," Sam followed.

"Keep the coffee and Red Bulls coming, Sarah," she smiled.

"Sure thing, Patty."

Both men's eyes widened as she poured the last of the Red Bull in front of her into a coffee cup that she topped off with the carafe of black coffee.

"That is wicked cool," Dean mumbled. "My heart would explode with that much caffeine."

"Brain fuel," she winked at him before turning one of her iPads around. "What do you know of Redcaps?"

"What, like mushrooms?"

Sam rolled his eyes before answering. "They kill for blood that they use to paint their hats. If the blood dries out, they die; so they keep killing."

"More European spooks?" Dean raised his eyebrows.

"They normally hang out in abandoned castle ruins," she sat back and took a drink. "It just so happens that our first victim was an archeologist who had just gotten back from a two-week vacay in Scotland. I think he went sightseeing and a Redcap hopped a ride back to the States."

"Maybe he took something from the castle he shouldn't have?" Sam offered.

"That's possible," she looked down at her second iPad and swiped through some photos.

"What makes you so sure that's what we're dealing with?" Dean asked.

"The footprints," she turned her iBook around and pointed. "They wear iron boots, and they’re only about three feet tall.”

He squinted as he looked at the photos of each crime scene. "I'll be damned. I missed that."

"Iron boots? How fast can they be in iron boots?" Sam scoffed.

"Trust me, you cannot outrun a Redcap. If they're hunting you, they will get you."

"Then how do we gank them?" Dean asked.

"Now that... I'm not sure," Lily sighed. "All I've ever been told was to stay away. If you do come across them, you'd better know the lay of the land better then they do and hide."

"Are they related to anything else?" Sam rubbed his chin.

"The closest thing is a Vampire," she shrugged her shoulders. "They need blood to survive, albeit a different way."

"If they wear iron boots, then iron's not an option," Dean thought aloud.

"Capture it and let its hat dry out?" Sam asked.

Lily stopped and glanced at Dean.

"Trap it, tie it up, and steal its hat," Lily agreed. "That's genius, Sam."

He blushed as he looked away, their beers and burgers arriving and placed in front of them.

"So, Lily Rose. You probably know more about us than we know of you," Dean dug into his sandwich. "Spill."

"There's not much, really," she looked between them. "If rumor's true, you two have seen some pretty heavy shit yourselves."

"I still don't believe some of it myself," Sam huffed.

She looked between the both of them. "My mother... is Fae."

"Fae?" Dean swallowed down his sandwich. "Like Fairy?"

She nodded silently. "Since I'm a half-breed, I wasn't welcomed into the family and she dropped me off at my father's doorstep. He in turn found the nearest orphanage."

"That is harsh," Sam gave her the saddest puppy dog eyes she had ever seen.

"I have no idea why I just told you both that... I've never told anyone."

"We have that effect on people," Dean smiled for her.

"So the Fae are all about threes. When I turned 12, I joined the collective. I can connect to my family bloodline. I know what they know. Since they're Fae..."

"You have a direct line to information on these European monsters," Sam grinned. "That is very cool!"

"I don't know, it's kind of like the Borg to me," Dean grimmaced.

"A bit," she agreed. "When I turned 15, I was able to see through the veil."

"So you can see angels and demons?"

"And ghosts, spirits, and other Fae."

"18?" Dean had already finished his burger and had started on his fries.

"I have a few magic abilities, but not a lot. Elemental, mostly. The basics."

"Elemental? Like earth, fire, air, and water?" Sam asked.

She again nodded.

"That will definitely speed up drying out that blood," Dean suggested.

She nodded her agreement.

"So you're on your own?" Dean watched her.

She rolled her eyes and looked around. "It doesn't feel that way with your ancestors’ voices in your head."

"How can they talk to you and not accept you?" Sam asked.

"They needed to wait and see how strong I am. Human brains weren't meant to wield the kind of power mine does. They didn't want to bestow honors upon me only for me to die in my teens," she rolled her eyes again. "I've been invited to meet the family. I told them to kiss my ass."

Both brothers grinned.

"Have you looked for your father?"

"No," she answered plainly. "I have no desire to meet the man who handed me over to total strangers."

"Would you even know where to start? Do you have a last name?"

"My Celtic name is Lilwen Manon. I've never known my surname, and I'm not about to ask my mother. As far as I'm concerned, my family is only good for helping me do my job and that's it."

"Well then..." Dean raised his beer. "Here's to deadbeat dads, something Sammy and I know a lot about. We orphans need to stick together."

She tapped her coffee cup against their beers and nodded before drinking it down.

Chapter 2>

#Supernatural #SPN #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic series #fanficfreek #fanfiction #fan fiction #fan fic #fanfic #sam and dean #sam winchester #dean winchester #the family business #lily winchester

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lothirielswan · 5 years

Text

“Wanna Smell Books with Me?” [19]

Join the journey on AO3 too!

Quest Objective: Someone please hold Jaina's beer.

~Wrathion, the Violet Citadel~

“You have what was promised?”

The banners of lilac and cobalt churned at the top of the alabaster steps. Torches played games with shadows across the floor. Dalaran was known for its knowledge, and yet everything seemed hidden by a layer of smoke.

Grand Magister Rommath gestured with his hands, and a wooden crate settled on the cold ground.

Left and Right guarded the staircase at the bottom, so no one would interfere with our transaction. Anyone who came close was given a death stare along with a long rifle pointed at their nose. Such ferocity. Such power.

I lifted a talon. Two more agents descended from the shadows and cracked open the lid with their blades. Rommath raised a slender eyebrow, but gave no reply.

The artifact rested on cushions of silk. It's intricate golden design was uncanny, created by beings of much higher thinking. Certain parts of the strange machine gave off a soft glow. There was a subtle familiarity to it; it looked exactly like my visions from the Thunder King.

“Our archeologists scoured Northrend, the Badlands, Uldum. We found the pieces scattered throughout.” The Grand Magister explained. His features were bathed in twilight hues of gold, azure and violet that made up the room. The dark velvet of my robes were sun-kissed by the gleam of the artifact, like the first rays of dawn. A new beginning.

I hummed with satisfaction. No more hiding. No more shame. The Black Dragonflight will reclaim what is rightfully ours.

“It was a pleasure doing business, Grand Magister,” His title rolled off my tongue. I snapped my fingers, and two more lackeys emerged from the darkness of the room to carry the crate out of sight. Rommath’s quirked eyebrow grew more rigid.

“You have an abundance of recruits.” He said.

I lightly shrugged my shoulders with a pinch of modesty. “I’m comfortable. I’m afraid you can't say the same.”

I heard of the plight of the sin’dorei. The filthy remains of the Scourge still ran across their homeland, and the elves’ numbers were few. It was a shame, such powerful sorcerers turned to arcane addicts. They did not wander ruins simply for the joy of finding lost artifacts.

Rommath did not appear pleased to bring up the state of his homeland. “That is not a Black dragon’s business.”

“But it could be.” I said.

The bare muscles of his arms stiffened. Rommath muttered, “In what way?”

“I have plans, Grand Magister. Plans that will change the course of Azeroth,” Said I. I was poised and proud, shoulders out as if I had my wings on display.

“Your people are near extinction; I can modify that. Your forces can join mine, and I will reward you.”

Rommath was silent for a moment. “You sound like the Betrayer.”

Illidan Stormrage. Another famous figure. I never had the luxury to meet the former Lord of Outland, but he surely lived up to his reputation during the Legion’s recent invasion.

I replied, “The Betrayer did what was necessary to achieve a higher goal; he opposed the Legion-–”

“And many died in that campaign.” Rommath took another step closer. His fists were clenched like two threatening boulders of marble. The bridge of his nose creased like cracked alabaster. “Many suffered. Many are still paying the price. I would caution you with whatever plot you have come up with.”

“...So that's a no on joining me?” I remarked, unfazed by his closeness and the pain laced within his voice.

The Grand Magister’s head cocked to the side. “The fate of my people is not for me to decide; that is the Regent Lord’s will, what little remains of it. I will inform him of your offer, and the costs.”

Rommath gave a curt nod with his scarf still covering his lips, a last mockery that I still did not know everything he did.

His back was to me when I called out one last time. “Grand Magister?”

His shoulders slumped from exhaustion, and faced me with his expression still disguised behind scarlet silk. “Yes, Black Prince?”

My lips curled into a smile, baring my teeth with sharp points to be persuasive. “I urge you to consider my proposal. I doubt your people would like to be on the wrong side of history a second time.”

Rommath’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you should follow your own advice.”

~Eona, the Purple Parlor~

“Jaina, please-–”

“No. Jaina’s not here right now. Jaina’s on vacation.” Jaina held up a cautionary finger as she slumped down into one of the padded chairs. Her interest moved to the bookshelf near her as I pleaded with her.

“I don't know where Khadgar is and I got a bad-omens vibe from Chromie! Please? I’ll pay you back for the danish.” I replied.

Jaina shot me a foul look at the mere mention of the pastry. But she didn't answer. Instead, Jaina pulled a random book from the shelves, opened it, and hid her face behind the cover.

“Oh,” She moaned into the ink-smothered parchment filled with knowledge. “I miss that smell. I miss books. I miss my youth.”

I lowered her book so I could meet her gaze. “You’re still incredibly young.”

“Ha!” Jaina settled back in her chair and propped her feet up on the nearest table. “Young. What is young? Innocence. Ambition. Love…”

Her fingers suddenly clenched the leather cover of the novel. “Arthas is dead.”

I flinched and felt a pang of guilt. I managed a breathy response, “Yes, he is.”

Jaina gently tugged at the bottom of her braid. So much of her blonde locks had been consumed by the frosty white arcane. Her eyes were black and blue, like ice in the dark. Her voice was melodic like a river, and it had been frozen over. She was still young. But she looked exhausted, like the years had feasted on her spirit.

“It's an odd thing to say, but...I feel like him now.” Jaina’s attention was lost to some illusion that I could not see. Her fingers twitched towards the brooch. “Arthas, he was such a contradiction. He loved his people. He fought undead. He opposed dreadlords. Then he changed. He killed his people. He lead the undead. He took orders from dreadlords.”

Jaina stroked the crest with her thumb. “And now here I am. I used to have faith that everything would work out alright. I used to have faith in myself. Now...”

She shook her head, not for long, but with intensity, as if she could banish the thoughts like one could wring blood out of a healer’s rag. “Now I'm young. And my youth is gone.”

I didn't know what to say. I stole a chair from the other side of the table and dragged it next to hers. At random I plucked a book from one of the shelves and glanced over at her.

I bit my lip as I held up the novel. “Wanna smell books with me…?”

Jaina’s eyes were glassy as she stared at the cover. She nodded, a small smile on her lips. She wiped at her eyes. “I thought you would never ask.”

Our arms brushed together as I opened the first page and started to read. Yes, Khadgar and Dalaran needed us. But Jaina needed this more.

“The girl’s fiance dies in that one.” Jaina remarked.

I looked up at her smirk. “This is what I get for stealing your danish?”

“You brought a bookworm along to smell books, Eona. You should’ve known that something would get spoiled.”

~*~

We were still reading in the Purple Parlor when the air thickened from a teleportation spell. Arcane crackled across my skin and light filled the chamber.

I blinked a few times, stunned by the new change in the atmosphere. Jaina was used to the way of magics and was already standing, staff in hand. Her expression turned grim.

“Khadgar!” I ran to him as I made out his form.

I caught his arm as he stumbled, feeling the coldness of his skin through his dark blue robes. He was pale, and his forehead glistened with sweat as he swayed on his feet.

Archmages Modera and Aethas materialized on his sides. They wore the same drained expressions. Jaina helped Modera down as Khadgar teetered in my grasp.

“Eona...you never told me you had sisters,” Khadgar gasped. I held onto his arms, trying to still him as best as I could.

“Huh?” I said.

“Yes,” Khadgar held up a finger, pointing to the air around me. “There’s three of you...am I counting right? Aethas! What do your elf eyes see?”

“Stars...so many stars...” Aethas groaned and yanked off his hood to massage his temples.

I lead Khadgar to a one-armed sofa as he spoke in his dreamy state of delirium. “You know, I bet if Sylvanas raised me from the dead...I’d be like Beetlejuice.”

I sat the Archmage down and frowned as I leaned over him. “Please don't give me that mental image, Khadgar.”

“No, it's perfect! You can be Lydia! IT’S SHOWTIME-–wee!” I urged Khadgar down to lie on the sofa, smoothing out his hair as I did so.

I glanced over at Jaina as she examined the other two mages.

“What happened to them?” I asked. I wonder if Anduin is still here. He’s a skilled healer, he might know.

“You know, Eona, you smell really nice.” Khadgar rasped below me. “Kind of like strawberries. Which is funny, you look like a strawberry. You’re covered in seeds…”

I crossed my arms. My white linen shirt came down to my elbows, so the freckles drizzled across my arms were still visible.

“Where were you last, Modera?” I heard Jaina ask.

I joined the two mages across the parlor. Modera seemed less hysterical than Khadgar, but just as exhausted.

“Violet Hold,” She gasped. “the prisoners escaped...we went to track them...they trapped us there. Kalecgos is still with them-–”

My eyes flew open. Jaina and I exchanged a look.

“–-then we faced the Vampyr…” Modera’s head tipped back as she gulped in air.

Jaina nudged my arm. She didn't need to. The two red dots on Modera’s neck said it all. I sprinted back to Khadgar. His skin was branded with the same two marks.

“Aethas too,” Jaina said quietly, smoothing her robes as she stood upright.

We backed away from the three limp mages, watching as their movements seemed to slow.

“If they…” I swallowed. “does that mean they’re stuck that way?”

“No. We have spells to remove it, and it's usually temporary. I can ask Anduin or Malfurion to tend to them.” Jaina glanced up at her own staff, then quickly retrieved the long weapons from where the mages lay.

I nodded, moving my hair away from the front of my face. As I did so, Khadgar leaned up slightly, sniffing the air.

“What about Kalec?” I said.

Jaina returned to my side with their staffs and her eyes flickered over the sleeping bodies. “We’ll get him together. I’ll meet you at Violet Hold. Let’s clean up the Kirin Tor’s mess before the summit has the chance to notice.”

We stepped back into the shimmering portal and our feet echoed as we appeared at the staircase of the Violet Citadel. Jaina raced towards the Anduin; I took the steps two at a time with my thoughts on Kalec.

I squinted as a familiar face lingered at the bottom of the steps. Grand Magister Rommath looked to my coming, his eyes analyzing me like a spellbook.

“Eona, I must speak with you.” He said as I was halfway down the mountain of steps. My calves were burning and I didn't care. Kalec’s face kept flashing before my eyes.

“I'm sorry, now is not a good time.” I remarked.

“It’s important-–”

“Then we’ll discuss it later.” I finally reached the bottom of the stairs and sped past him.

“You are going to slip if you move too swiftly, Lady Sunstrider.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I love cliffhangers :3

Chromie: Me too! Although, I usually see them coming with my powers, but they're still entertaining--but that's not why I'm here. Author, you're messing with the timestreams!

Author: Don't worry, I have a permit.

Chromie: I'm sorry, Author. That bowl of edible cookie dough that you offered the Bronze Dragonflight was delicious, but it does not allow you to go willy-nilly with the past. The Dark Portal was closed for twenty years, making Eona's existence impossible!

*Awesome freaky lightshow happens. Nozdormu, Lord of Time, appears*

Nozdormu: Author, well met. I must say, your work with this new future for Azeroth is...entertaining, but Chronomu is correct.

Author: Jeez, Marvel didn't have these kinds of laws set up--then again, Deadpool was my co-writer. Protectors of Time, please hear me out! I have a loophole!

Nozdormu: Very well, Author. Do as you must. We will be watching...and if you can spare me a cameo, it would touch this old dragon's heart. You even let Kalecgos have a minor role in this story, and he's practically invisible!

Kalec: ...Thanks.

Author: Will do, Lord Nozdormu! Thanks for stopping by, Chromie! As for you Awesome Adventurers, you can actually witness the first time Eona's parents met now, in the recently updated "Protectors of the Present"! Hope you enjoyed c: love, fortune and glory to you!!

#featuring Khadgar the undead Beetlejuice #thrilling adventures of eona #World of Warcraft #khadgar #Jaina Proudmoore #kalecgos #archmage modera #aethas sunreaver #Eona Strider

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akhmenawkward · 6 years

Text

Lost - Part 2: Ahkmenrah x Reader

Request: Can you do a second part of lost. I’m so curioius how it will go on between Ahkmenrah, his parents and the reader 😍 I’m obsessd with “lost”

You woke up, blinking several times. You noticed the room was dimly lit, not in a way you remembered your hotel room. You felt someone move next to you. You glanced back and saw Ahkmenrah laid down next to you. He was shirtless, the sheets covered his waist and legs, his muscular back visible.

You silently cursed before looking down at yourself under the covers. You were naked. “Fuck…” You mumbled to yourself, getting out of bed, picking your clothes off the floor. You legs felt like jelly and you cursed Ahk for this. You jumped at his voice. “What a nice view to wake up with.” You blushed and tried to cover yourself with your hands. Ahk chuckled, also getting out of bed. You tried not to stare, but had a hard time not looking down. You quickly put on your underwear and sat on the bed. “Ahkmenrah, I really need to go home, my parents are probably worried sick.” You turned to him, and saw he was already fully dressed, except his crown, and his cape-thingy. “You will join me for breakfast, then I will guide you back out.” He said kind of harsh, you nodded and put on the rest of your clothes. After you finished dressing yourself, you followed Ahk through the halls, wondering how he could see the difference between them.

“Y/n, welcome, take a seat!” Shepseheret said to you, pointing at a seat in front of her. She was set on a large table, were at least 20 people could dine at. You noticed Merenkahre wasn’t there. You took a seat, Ahk sitting next to you. “If I may ask, isn’t Merenkahre joining us?” Shepseheret shook her head, taking a sip from her drink. “He’s a busy Pharaoh, Y/n. He doesn’t have time to have breakfast.” You nodded at her. Two guards walked into the room, carrying trays with cans filled with some kind of wine, and bread and olive oil. They filled your plate, and wine glass. You waited for Shepseheret and Ahkmenrah to begin eating, not wanting to be rude. You didn’t know if they prayed before they ate or something, but Shepseheret dipped her bread in the olive oil and took a bite, Ahkmenrah doing the same. You dipped your piece of bread in the olive oil and took a bite. Not the best thing you ever ate, but it was okay. “Y/n, explorer of the world, where do you come from?” You looked up at Shepseheret and swallowed your food. Already cursing yourself for giving them such a stupid name. “I travel the world, but my birthplace is (H/T).” She looked at you confused. “I don’t remember anything called (H/T).” She looked at Ahk and he shook his head. “Me neither.” You took a sip of your wine, not liking the taste of it in the morning and responded to them. “When was the last time you got out of your pyramid? A lot has changed out there. I mean planes, cars, bike’s…” Shepseheret cut you off. “What do you mean? Planes, what are these things you’re talking about?” Ahkmenrah turned to you, staring at you intently. “Planes are like birds, they fly through the sky, carrying several people to other places.” Her eyes widened and so did Ahk’s. “That’s impossible. Humans can’t fly.” Ahk responded, but you shook your head. “You’re missing a lot from out there, we created them almost 50 years ago.” They stared at you confused and you got your phone out of your pocket, They both gasped as you unlocked it. “What is this thing you have?” Ahk asked, mesmerized by your phone. “It’s a mobile phone, I can call my parents with it and take photos.” You turned your camera on, setting it on selfie mode, you leaned into Ahk. “Smile!” He smiled and you took a picture, then showed it to Ahk. “How did you do that?!”Ahk exclaimed taking the phone from your hands, showing the photo to his mother. Her eyes widened and she smiled. “That’s extraordinary! How does that work?” You chuckled at their reactions, letting them toy with your phone for a while.

“Ahkmenrah, I really need to go home.” He handed you your phone, and his smile faltered. He nodded. You said goodbye to Shepseheret and Ahk guided you towards the guest room. You walked in and was immediately pushed against a wall by Ahk, connecting your lips together. “Please don’t leave me, I love you.” He caressed your cheek with his thumb, as you looked him in the eyes. “I wish I could, Ahk. But my parents will never let me, they’re probably worried sick and came looking for me.” He nodded and let you go. You already missed his body against yours. You picked up your back pack, and followed Ahk through the paths, arriving at a brick wall. Ahk pushed one of the bricks in, and the wall slowly slid open. You could see the open air in front of you. You turned to Ahk, you felt tears form into your eyes. “Guess this is goodbye-“ Ahk connected his lips to yours once more, letting them linger for a few seconds. “When will I see you again?” You shrugged, smiling up at him. “I don’t know, Ahk. I don’t know.”

*Several years later*

“Thanks you so much, uncle Larry. This helps a lot!”

You were at the National History museum. You needed to write a paper about ancient Egypt. Because of everything that happened , you chose this topic to write about. “No problem, Y/n. The museum closes in 5 minutes, get ready!” You knew about the whole museum comes to live thing, and Larry told you about the Egyptian exhibit. You were invited to come spend a night at the museum and you were stoked. “So the Egyptian exhibit is pretty new, and the Tablet is what brings everything to life.” You nodded already writing things down in your notepad. Suddenly you could hear Rexy rawr, and walk up to you. Sniffing with his non-existent nose. This was a sign that the museum has come to life. “I told him to meet you here, so he could be here any moment.” You looked at Larry confused. “Who-“ “Y/n?” You turned around and saw Ahkmenrah walking towards the two of you. Your eyes widened and a gasp escaped your lips. With little hesitation you moved towards him and immediately wrapped your arms around his frame. “Ahk, how did you get here?” You mumbled into his shoulder, as he embraced you. He put you down and cupped your cheeks in his hands, pecking your lips. “I’m so glad we finally meet again.” You nodded happy tears falling down your face. Pecking his lips once more. “Archeologist found our tomb. They took everything from us while we were sleeping. When my father woke up, the first thing he did was curse the Tablet and told us to hide in our coffins, doing the same thing himself. He gave the tablet to me in my sarcophagus. The Tablet has powers to make everything come to life at night. They separated me and my parents, and I ended up here.” Your eyes widened at his story. “You died? So the Tablet brings you back to life every night?” He nodded and pointed to the Tablet in his arms.

Larry interrupted the two of you, his eyes narrowed in confusion. Why did his little cousin knew this ancient exhibit, and more importantly; why did she kiss him? “Y/n, where do you know him from, h-how did you…?” You chuckled at his stuttering and explained the story to Larry. He was fascinated by your story, although you did keep some parts out. Ahk noticed and bit his lip, smirking while looking at the ground. “…And that’s how we met!” Larry looked at you with wide eyes. “What a coincidence.” You wrapped your arms around Ahk’s waist. He kissed your temple and put his arms around your shoulder. “But how did you end up in the pyramid?” You looked up at Ahk, who was looking down at you. “Well, I fell in one of his traps, and tried to find my way out, but I guess you could say I was…” You laughed and looked at Larry.

“…Lost.”

#ahkmenrah imagine #ahkmenrah #ahkmenrah x reader #natm #natm imagine #reader insert

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daedalcs · 6 years

Note

"❤"

dial ❤ for kisses || accepting

Since she had seen how well the agent had responded to the thought of receiving a hug from her the thought of a kiss went over in her mind about as well as a lead balloon. However, the red-headed assassin still placed a hand on his shoulder to stand on her toes and press a kiss to his cheek.

Bonus under the cut :3c

Oldest trick in the book in her opinion. Two assassins playing the part of the couple to fool a target into a false sense of thinking they were harmless tourists on a holiday. Played out over and over in movies, books, shows, and now they were living the part. Jean’s sundress caught the light breeze that snaked through the legs of tables on the rooftop restaurant in the bustling Jemaa el-Fnaa marketplace in Marrakesh. While it was going on nearly 9pm at night the lights and sounds of hawkers and entertainers in the courtyards below still drift upwards on the warm spice-scented air. Sipping strong red tea out of a tiny flower painted cup Jean lightly taps the leg of the table with a sandal-clad foot as her eyes scan across the patrons who were idly chatting with one another. Her usual red hair was dyed back to a chocolate brown and hung in loose waves around her shoulders. “So what do you think? Do the gardens tomorrow and then perhaps go see if our friend is around?” She suggested brushing a few strands of hair out of her face. Across the table 47 sat in a khaki silk shirt and slacks making the pair look like a duo of French tourists. “I’ve heard good things about the Majorelle gardens, there is a fountain that I’d like to see there. I know that you may find some interest in the poisonous plants' section.” the agent replies with a hint of amusement in his voice, his expressions were rather hard to detect but Jean found she was getting better at picking them up. Laughing lightly as a waiter comes by to replace their teapot the assassin lifts her shoulder in a slight shrug. “Maybe I’ll find a flower I like who knows?” Placing a manicured hand over his that was resting on the table she leans in with that little smile making it seem like they were sharing a secret whisper before continuing. “I believe that our archeologist friend over in the corner has noticed us. Maybe time to leave don’t you think?” Tapping the top of his hand in the direction of the stick thin man sitting alone in the opposite corner of the restaurant. He wore his silver hair disheveled and a pair of round spectacles framed cold eyes. Currently, he was disinterestedly flicking through the pages of a leather-bound book. Waiters seemed to give him a wide berth only ever approaching when he asked them to, which usually was to refill a large water pitcher in the middle of the table. He fit every description they had been given. As Jean speaks about him the man looks their way and locks eyes with her. She offers him a saucy little wink. 47 hums quietly at this information and nearly rolls his eyes when Jean winks at their mark. Sometimes honestly those little flirty tendencies didn’t help things at all. As they sit back from one another he notices that what she succeeded in doing was turning their archeologist a bright shade of pink and putting his face deeper into the book. Getting their check and standing to leave Jean reaches forward to lace her fingers with his as they head for the set of stairs that lead down to the streets. Bumping shoulders lightly with the agent as they walked through the late night throngs of people that were still trying to buy last minute spices and kebabs from the merchants that were left in the marketplace. Winding through the streets and coming back to the hotel the pair pause in the lobby. From a distance, the smooth sultry tones of a live tenor saxophone and piano duo drift through into the marble-floored front area. “I think I’m going to have a drink at the jazz bar and see what they’re playing.” 47 tells Jean as she walks a step or two away toward the bank of brushed silver elevator doors. Moving back to him and placing a hand on his chest the assassin lifts herself on her toes slightly to press her lips to his in a kiss that’s full of promise. As she pulls away there’s a little smirk on her red painted lips and Jean replies with. “Try not to keep me waiting upstairs for too long alright? I’ll step into the bath in the meantime.” Wiping just a bit of her lipstick off his bottom lip with her thumb Jean gives him a little wink before turning on her heels, the sundress fluttering out just a bit, and sauntering away.

#xlviiagent #&& -- 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 ( ANSWERED )

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davebanksmedia · 4 years

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A continuation from Life in the City of Angels: When You Can’t Get Published, Fuck It, Give It Away!

Chapter One link:https://davebanks.wordpress.com/2020/06/10/life-in-the-city-of-angels-when-you-cant-get-published-fuck-it-give-it-away/

Jimi Hendrix’s version of ‘All Along the Watchtower’ was blasting out from Mark Hufnail’s BMW stereo, fuelling our adrenalin and chest-beating machismo. During Jimi’s solos, I strummed the invisible strings of my air guitar and glanced over at Mark, catching him head-banging to the beat.

Two middle-aged white guys, reminiscing about hippie living and experimental drug days, we were now living on the highs adventure brought. Potential ‘fixes’ dangled from the grueling schedule before us to shoot three documentaries throughout Middle Egypt, along the Nile. With some security concerns, Mark and I drove from his Burbank office to the west side of Los Angeles, for one last advisory meeting with the only Muslim we knew, Attallah Shabazz.

After directing Discovery Channel’s ‘Eco-Challenge, Australia’ – Mark was the Executive Producer – we’d gained a reputation for productions in remote and hostile locations under adverse conditions. We’d delivered a five-hour adventure race on time and on budget to the Discovery Channel and now we were ready for our next big challenge. Mark’s company, MPH Entertainment, had been contracted to produce three documentaries: ‘Akhenaten, Egypt’s Heretic King’, the ‘History of Sex’ for the History Channel, and ‘Tutankhamen, Egypt’s Boy King’ for A&E Network.

All three had to be shot simultaneously in sixteen days, to produce seven hours of programming. Before any overseas assignment, it was my responsibility to budget for and rent the cameras, audio gear, and small lighting package, as well as estimate how many cases of videotape we needed to take for the shoots. Before leaving the States my anxiety started, not from the threat of kidnapping by terrorist or being shot at, but due to the hell of red tape: the filling out of the carnet form or Merchandise Passport. A ‘carnet’ is an international customs and temporary export-import document that’s used to clear customs in foreign countries. Successful completion means you don’t incur duties and import taxes on your gear, or ‘tools of the trade’, if they’re to be re-exported within twelve months.

With ten anvil cases of gear, cross-referencing serial numbers and descriptions of each piece of gear was a tedious and daunting task. If just one serial number was off by one digit it could mean spending precious time and baksheesh (bribe money) in a foreign Customs office, sorting things out. The last thing I wanted to explain to a burly, foreign custom agent is why my boxer shorts had yellow smiley faces on them, having packed them in the equipment cases along with my other clothes.

Being a boy scout taught me to ‘be prepared’; if you know that there are no McDonald’s in the Sahara desert and little time during the day to stop and eat, you pack away enough food for an army. The most important thing to take, however, when shooting in exotic locations, is toilet tissue and baby wipes.

Having spent time in the Middle East previously, I took it upon myself to research the locations, assessing any potential risk. I was well aware of the current affairs in the Middle East and I was able to identify and assess a number of specific threats, not only to our production but also to us.

Beneath the massive limestone cliffs near Luxor is one of Egypt’s most popular tourist attractions: the Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut. This was the site of the Luxor Massacre; on November 17, 1997, 62 people were killed – mostly tourists – by Islamist extremists and the Jihad Talaat al-Fath (Holy War of the Vanguard of the Conquest).

As we went into preproduction for the three documentaries – on February 23, 1998 – Osama bin Laden and Ayman al-Zawahiri, a leader of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad, along with three other Islamist leaders, co-signed and issued a ‘fatwa’. This called on Muslims to kill Americans and their allies, saying it was their duty. The declaration was made seven months prior to our scheduled departure to Egypt.

I’d also read somewhere that Osama and Zawahiri hated Americans so much that they wouldn’t even drink a Pepsi. On top of all that, there was rumored to be a bounty of $16,000 for every American’s head in Egypt. I found this a bit insulting: why couldn’t they round it out? I thought I was worth at least $20,000.

Since the Luxor Massacre, tourism had been pretty much void there. To capture or kill a western film crew like us would have been equivalent to bagging a top prize. Protocol suggested that I went through specific official channels. I presented my assessment and ‘deal memo’ to one of the producers. In my deal memo it specifically requested that MPH accepted financial responsibility to have my body shipped back to the States, should anything have happened to me.

To my surprise and shock the producer said, ‘No deal’. I can only assume that she was ignorant of current affairs and only perceived the rest of the world as a studio back-lot. Unfortunately for me, her world revolved around recreational television, celebrities and Hollywood gossip. This was a serious issue that couldn’t be handled by a mid-level producer so I gave the assessment to Mark. That is how we got to be on our way.

We were meeting Attallah Shabazz at a kosher Italian restaurant. Ms. Shabazz is the eldest daughter of El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, better known as Malcolm X, the powerful civil rights activist of the ‘60s. Mark and Attallah have worked together on several television productions and have become very good friends over the years, to the point that Mark’s daughter, Megan, refers to Ms. Shabazz as ‘Aunty Attallah’. I’d also worked with Ms. Shabazz on various television shows in the past, but I hadn’t had the opportunity to get properly acquainted.

We walked into the restaurant. Sitting at a table alone, in the middle of the busy eaterie, we could not help but notice Ms. Shabazz immediately. Strikingly beautiful, tall, and wearing her trademark African print pillbox hat, she acknowledged our arrival with a broad smile that seemed to light up the room.

Mark set the stage to our trip, telling Attallah that we would be the first American crew to travel by vehicle through Middle Egypt in ten years, according to our fixer in Egypt. Our security was our foremost concern; we’d be two unmistakably-American white guys shooting at various locations

Attallah interrupted Mark. ‘You know, I don’t thing you have anything to worry about, traveling through Middle Egypt,’ she reassured us. ‘The Egyptian government cannot afford another massacre, it would be devastating to their economy. You will be well protected. Think of it as an adventure, don’t let the threat of a small group of extremists hold you hostage.’

We placed our orders for our meal and our conversation turned to shop talk and a bucket full of scuttlebutt. It’s traditional amongst our staff and crew to collect the best pithy quotes during production which we then use as a catchphrase during shooting when things get a little too heated. Over our kosher pasta with meatless sauce, we told Attallah that we’d collected three favorite quotes for the History Channel’s documentary, the ‘History of Sex’:

‘Does the composer actually see the show he’s composing?’

‘Regardless of their academic achievement and expertise, try not to use any male or female archeologist over forty years of age’.

But the killer quote, and my favorite when shooting ancient Egyptian statues, was: ‘You can shoot as many penises as you want, as long as they don’t move’.

*****

We landed in Cairo around mid-afternoon. I was still a bit spaced-out from the residue of the Ambien still in my system and I gave off an odor like fermented Gouda cheese. It had taken us close to eighteen hours to get there, not including the ten hours we’d took to prep our gear before departure. In customs, with all ten anvil cases of equipment, we started the tedious process of cross-referencing the serial numbers of the gear against our carnet. A short, oval-shaped Egyptian customs official, in a blue shirt with wet stains under each arm, raised an eyebrow. There was a bead of sweat resting on the top of his pencil mustache that I couldn’t stop staring at.

The larger gray camera case he found to be empty of the Betacam camera. I was holding it in my hands after carrying it on the plane with me. Inside the case, in place of the camera, were a dozen or so boxer shorts bearing acid-yellow smiley faces, which prompted a smirk from the agent. ‘My underwear,’ I said, pointing at the shorts.

‘Yes, yes, very nice,’ the agent said.

‘Jesus, Dave, can’t you wear regular underwear, like ‘tighty-whities’?’ Mark asked.

‘I, er, have a problem with chafing. I’ve big thighs. Boxers really help with that problem.’

‘But couldn’t you just buy regular boxers?’

‘These were on sale,’ I protested, ‘besides, I’m going to throw them away after I wear them.’

Pointing at the camera case then the carnet, in broken English, the oval-shaped agent asked, ‘Where is this item, the camera?’

‘This is the camera,’ I said, holding the camera up further and pointing to it.

‘But it’s not in the box. The carnet says ‘camera and case’. I need the camera in the case.’

Standing before him, with the camera case at my feet, I pointed again to the camera I was holding. ‘This is turning into a Monty Python skit,’ I thought. ‘This is the camera,’ I repeated, ‘I carried it on the flight so that I could use the camera case to store my clothing.’

‘I understand. But I need the camera in the box.’ This time, his voice was raised.

‘Do I understand you? That if I put the camera in the box, you’ll be satisfied?’

Opening the camera case, I pulled out my boxer shorts and all the other items I’d put in there and placed the camera into its case. I smiled at the inspector who remained stony-faced. It suddenly hit me: Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching.

In my mind I heard Pink Floyd’s ‘Money’. The signs for baksheesh were simple – how had I missed them? The term ‘baksheesh’ describes tipping or, as the local authorities call it, ‘a charitable donation’. I call it ‘bribery’.

The government officials could have held the camera gear in protective custody until an ‘understanding’ was reached. Other signs of baksheesh could be: incorrect stamps in your passport or ink of the wrong color; your visa looking forged because the official emblem is smudged, usually after a government official has rubbed his thumb across the stamp, purposely smudging it. My favorite was the palm extended with a smile: simple, to the point and immediately recognizable for what it was. Baksheesh is a common practice across most of the Middle East; it’s common for western film crews to carry large sums of cash, just for these ‘unseen expenses’. Especially American film crews – it seems that we Americans have a reputation for throwing money at any problems we encounter. Good old American know-how.

Once our payment had been graciously accepted we cleared Egyptian customs. Porters loaded the gear onto a flatbed dolly and wheeled it out to the curb. By the time we’d finished loading the van we’d spent about $350.00 – and one carton of Marlboro cigarettes – in baksheesh…I mean, ‘charitable donations and tips’.

On the way to the hotel I decided to ride on the roof of the van with the cases of gear, to shoot B-roll of as we traveled from the airport to downtown Cairo. The driver of the van sped across El-Galaa Bridge that crosses the Nile and an insect the size of a ping-pong ball smacked me between the eyes, leaving little red blotches on my left cheek that looked like a target. I hoped that wasn’t a sign of things to come.

Our schedule was grueling and left so little opportunity for rest and recuperation that I was confused as to what day of the week it was as we rushed from the Pharaonic Village, Giza, to the Cairo Museum. Just like all shoots, we hit the ground running, apportioning no time to acclimatize. With pressure to shoot three documentaries there was no time to appreciate Egypt and its culture, it was just ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am’.

For two sweltering days we’d been inside the Cairo museum shooting Paranoiac antiquities, artifacts, and ancient stone penises (but not the moving kind). Alone, and in a rare moment of quiet, I was on the second floor of the Cairo Museum framing the camera to shoot an artifact belonging to the most iconic of all Egyptian pharaohs: the solid gold mask of King Tutankhamen. The 11kg gold mask sat behind protective glass on a high pedestal and I’d found just the right angle to shoot the mask which didn’t also capture my reflection in the glass. I had King Tut all to myself as I began my work.

Then, from nowhere, hordes of tourists from Germany swarmed in, surrounding me and the exhibit. The lens of the camera blocked the tourists’ view; there was much pushing and shoving as they tried to get closer – so much so that the camera and tripod were nearly sent flying. I stepped back from the gaggle of Germans and could not believe my eyes when I noticed several wearing lederhosen. It was freaking hot – at least 28°C – with high humidity and no ventilation.

One man, in the shortest shorts I’d ever seen, started to pick up the tripod and camera to move it. ‘Sir, don’t move the camera,’ I warned.

In a thick German accent, he turned and snapped, ‘You shouldn’t be here! This is for tourists!’

‘I understand, sir. We’ve all come a long way to see King Tut. Just leave the camera alone. Okay?’

He persisted, putting his hands on the tripod. I stepped forward and removed his hand, which is when he elbowed me on my left cheek. It was bang on the place where the kamikaze insect had whacked me several days before.

‘Ouch!’ I muttered, before tensing, ready to defend my space. Sanity prevailed for just a moment as I thought about Mark, and that the last thing he needed was me being thrown out of the Cairo Museum for fighting with a tourist. Luckily, at that moment, a woman – also in leather lederhosen and thigh-high white stockings – grabbed the man’s arm and started scolding him in German. None of the other tourists seemed interested in our struggle for territory as they snapped pictures and left. Now, at least, I was alone with the king, sporting a painfully bruised cheek.

Eventually, we’d shot every stone penis in the museum – erect and non-erect. Our work was over in Cairo and now it was time for our road trip through Middle Egypt.

Attallah was right: we were escorted by seventeen Egyptian bodyguards as we traveled south along the Nile Delta to Luxor in Middle Egypt. Our caravan was made up of several vehicles, including a sky-blue armored personnel carrier complete with fifty-caliber machine gun, and a black 4×4 Mercedes-Benz SUV that carried our four bodyguards. They sat in comfort, in their polyester suits and sunglasses. Except for the front windscreen, the side and rear windows were bulletproof glass, tinted almost black. In the middle of each passenger window were gun ports that looked like small, black puckered lips, ready to give any adversary a stinging kiss of death. On occasion you would see copious amount of smoke stream from the gun ports; most of the time the bodyguards sat in their SUV with the air conditioning on full blast as they played their favorite Egyptian pop music. As a result, the SUV vibrated with a ‘thump, thump, thump’. Jimi Hendrix, it was not.

In contrast, we were stuck in a white minibus, with painted hieroglyphic symbols and a giant portrait of a pharaoh on the hood. The interior seated roughly ten passengers; it would have held more but our camera gear filled the back of the coach. With our security so obviously in tow, this bus shouted ‘tourist on board!’

Driving in Egypt is not for wimps or the faint of heart, which is why I was happy to let Mohammad, our driver, take the challenge. I’d assumed we were safe outside the city of Cairo, where car horns blast continually, insults are spat and universal hand gestures given at the slightest provocation; little did I realize just how dangerous the road to Luxor was. Most roads had two lanes of tarmac, but the condition of the ground varied greatly. The scariest part was when giant trucks frequently passed other trucks already passing cars. I lost count of my ‘sphincter twinges’ during the day but they went off the scale when we drove in the dark. It was a Mad Max movie in reality; the Egyptians didn’t use their headlights until they thought they saw an oncoming vehicle – then they’d flash their lights. Thank God we were in an official convoy, with an armored personnel carrier leading the caravan.

We made numerous stops along the way, shooting B-roll to enrich our documentaries. I shot video and still photographs at each location for ‘cut-away footage’ that could be added to scripted voice-overs or expert interviews. This adds greater dimension to the storylines in our productions, an alternative to the traditional ‘talking head’ pieces. As we continued our trek to Luxor day turned to night. Suddenly, our motorcade came to a complete stop. We were near our destination of Al Minya, at a goat crossing.

I grabbed the camera and jumped out of the van. I started shooting the goat herder and his goats against the van’s headlights when four tourist police intervened. With their Uzi machine guns they hustled us back into the van.

‘Jesus! What was that all about? It’s just goats,’ said Mark.

‘Maybe someone just got his goat?’ I chuckled at my own joke.

One of the security men from our convoy came into the van, still wearing his sunglasses. ‘Keep down! Keep down!’ he said. ‘A madrasa is down the road: the most radical of Islamic schools in Egypt. We believe Osama Bin Laden is inside. The goats are a way to stop people, so they can see who approaches. Just stay down.’

There was a lot of movement outside the van and raised voices. The goats still surrounded us. A second bodyguard came to the door. ‘The local authorities and the village elders fear retaliation from Islamic fundamentalists at the madrasa for hosting you Americans. We cannot stay here or in Al Minya. We have to find another place to stay the night. Please, stay down, and do not get out of the van.’

We waited, keeping a low profile as our security team herded the goats out of the way. The goat herder had disappeared. After traveling south for half an hour, our security team found an abandoned hotel outside an unnamed village. Oddly, there was a flickering light-bulb several floors up. Despite our hesitation, we had been at it for sixteen hours and we were dead tired. We carried the cameras and battery chargers up the dark, shadowy, concrete stairs that offered no handrail. I was so dazed from lack of rest that when I plugged in the charger for the camera batteries I forgot that Egypt’s electrical current was 220v. I neglected to plug in the transformer and the charger blew like an indoor firework display. As the sparks flew, I grabbed the plug and pulled it out of the socket, only to get a jolt. ‘Crap! Crap! Crap!’ I shouted.

‘Are you okay?’ said Mark.

‘Yeah, I’m okay. I just feel like a complete idiot.’

‘You’re tired, Dave, don’t beat yourself up. We’ve another charger,’ said Mark.

As I moved away from the socket I heard a loud crunch. Lifting my boot, I saw the largest cockroach I’d ever set eyes on. The floor of the building was concrete and it was cold; the walls looked to be peppered with bullet holes and the windows didn’t bear glass but iron rods shooting up from the windowsill.

Mark looked out. It was deadly quiet outside. ‘Hey, Dave, there are guards outside, on the ground. I think this is serious.’

The flickering light was a beacon to a frenzy of moths, unidentified flying insects, cockroaches and five-legged bugs, the like of which I’d never seen. We were too exhausted to care and slept on the floor, only to have the creepy-crawlers roam freely on and around us. ‘Mark, are you awake?’ I asked.

‘Not really. It’s difficult when you have creatures crawling on your face. Shit! One just tried to crawl up my nose! Jesus H Christ.’ Mark was now sitting up. He was pale with bags under his eyes and desperate for some sleep.

‘Hey, why don’t we use the djellaba I picked up in Cairo?’ I suggested. ‘We could wrap it around ourselves like the Shroud of Turin. We could wrap our kefflyehs around our faces too, to keep the marauders away.’

‘Great idea. Let’s do it,’ said Mark.

So, there we were: two guys from California in Middle Egypt, beneath a winking light on a concrete floor, shoulder to shoulder and draped under a makeshift shroud. Neither Mark nor I remembered much of the drive from the abandoned ‘roach’ hotel; we slept most of the way. We eventually pulled up at a deserted parking area. Before us was the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut, which sat atop a series of colonnaded terraces, accessed via long ramps that were once graced with gardens. Built into the limestone cliff face that towered above the temple, there were three layered terraces reaching 29m high.

It was midday, and at least 40°C. Walking up the ramp in the scorching heat was going to be challenge. I drank my last bottle of hot orange Fanta, grabbed the camera and started shooting Arab workmen breaking up the limestone walkway to the temple. It seemed to me to be perfect B-roll for the documentary, but what I didn’t realize at that moment was that they were replacing the bloodstained path where the 62 people had been massacred nearly a year before.

Hot, hot, hot! The tripod legs burnt if touched; the metal of the camera was sizzling and I could feel the heat of the scorching sand through my Doc Martin boots. I took off my kefflyeh, soaking it with water and placing it over the camera, so as not to burn up the electronics. Our Egyptian crew stayed in the van with the air conditioning on and with the hood up to keep the engine cool. Our four bodyguards sat in the comfort of their Mercedes-Benz SUV, smoking and listening to music. Mark and I continued to shoot for two hours, taking breaks in the shade of the Temple’s columns. The Sahara heat was unrelenting and oppressive, though, and I gave up when the glue on my boots began to melt. Because my kefflyeh was on the camera, the back of my neck was naked to the sun. It was now horribly blistered. Back in the van, a sunburned Mark took a long drink from a Fanta he’d kept hidden.

‘You bastard!’ I said. The sun’s heat lost its grip as I stepped into the van. Mark leaned over and pulled out another warm Fanta, handing it to me. ‘Cheers, Dave. You ready to go home?’ he said.

I’d lost all reference to time. I had no idea what day it was or how long we’d been in Egypt. This often happened to us when documenting fragments of time long since gone – you lose your own place in time.

We barely made our flight back to the States and had to sacrifice taking a shower and changing into clean clothes. I wasn’t too upset; there’s something magical about carrying the sands of the Sahara in your boots with you as you arrive home.

Days later, I was back at the NBC Studios. The guests that night were David Spade and Kate Capshaw, the musical element provided by Deana Carter. I was still painfully sunburned and therefore moved slowly; I could continually smell the odor of fermented Gouda and, during rehearsals, I found a strip of bubble wrap that seemed to resemble the blisters on the back of my neck.

During lunch at the NBC Commissary I told my cousin, Hank Geving, who was also a cameraman on the show and dedicated reader of Ancient Egyptian history, about Queen Hatshepsut and her temple. She was the first great woman in recorded history, the forerunner of such figures as Cleopatra and Catherine the Great, and female pioneers of our own age, such as Madonna. He listened intently, and it gave me a huge glow of satisfaction to have stood where she had, centuries before. Many people living there don’t acknowledge that there’s life outside Hollywood. How wrong they are.

Cue The Camels: Chapter Two, Al Minya, Bed Bugs and Sex. A continuation from Life in the City of Angels: When You Can't Get Published, Fuck It, Give It Away!

#cuethecamels #historychannel #ABOUT #Blog #Dave Banks #dcoumentary filmmaking #Egypt #Egyptian Archaeology #Journal #travel #Travel Writing #writing

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floraexplorer · 5 years

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Mysteries of the Desert: A Nazca Lines Flight in Paracas, Peru

I confess: I may have been hungover on my Nazca Lines tour.

It’s a necessary admission, because I couldn’t tell whether the rolling feeling in my stomach was due to alcohol or the flight itself.

Let’s face it: any bit of research will tell you that the Nazca Lines flight can make you airsick. The combination of boarding a tiny Cessna plane, flying at a turbulent-friendly low altitude and being subject to constant twists and turns during the 90 minute ride? Even the strongest-stomached passenger might feel a little queasy.

As the pilot made yet another lurching turn and we bounced and whirred through the Peruvian skies, I stared down into the desert sands, thought back to last night’s Pisco Sours and felt a strong sense of regret.

What are the Nazca Lines?

The reason I’d decided to go flying on a hangover was in order to see the infamous Nazca Lines of Peru, which lie in a huge stretch of desert 200km away from the capital city of Lima. They are a series of ancient geoglyphs which date back as far as 800BC, and are made up of hundreds of little trenches, only ten or fifteen centimetres deep.

Although nobody knows exactly why they were created, it’s clear that hundreds of hands were responsible for their creation, lifting away red sand and dark stones to reveal crisp white clay beneath.

The first modern day discovery of the Nazca Lines was in the 1930s: a wandering archeologist stumbled across them when out walking, but it was pilots flying commercial jets over the area which revealed the Nazca Lines’ true enormity.

There are straight lines and geometric shapes, but the most fascinating are the outlines of animals and plants: over seventy illustrations which include a hummingbird, whale, monkey, spider, condor, parrot – even a pair of hands and an astronaut-looking human figure with his arm raised.

Oh, and all these shapes are absolutely HUGE.

Some designs are over 1200 feet long, the length of three football pitches – they’re so big, in fact, that seeing them clearly from ground-height would be impossible. The exact reason for their creation has left scientists at a loss for years.

Why would a community of people create such huge designs which they couldn’t even see the full scale of ? What purpose did they have?

One of the most popular theories is that the Nazca Lines were intended as messages to the gods worshipped by the Nazca people. They could have been asking for rain, for abundant crops, for the location of fresh water sources, or even solely to express their devotion to a higher entity. Of course, there are plenty of other possibilities posed by researchers and laymen alike, all of which have some sense behind them:

– The Nazca Lines could serve as an astrological map, illustrating the movements of the sun and the moon and thereby predicting when seasons would change and how agriculture would be affected.

– The lines could be a way of channelling water from place to place via underground aqueducts. This theory has particular weight because it explains how the Nazca people were able to live and prosper in the middle of a harsh, arid desert by using irrigation techniques.

– There are even some people who believe the Nazca Lines are messages to ancient aliens (a theory which mutually benefits the discovery of ‘alien skulls’, known as the Conehead Skulls, in nearby Paracas, Peru).

Embarking on our Nazca Lines flight

You might be surprised to know that I’m not too fond of flying – thanks to a couple of dramatic flights a few years ago (and thanks to my grief-related anxieties, too). But for some reason, the smaller the plane, the less worried I seem to be.

And the Nazca Lines plane is the smallest I’ve ever flown in.

There are a few companies who offer Nazca Lines tours, all of which depart from airports in Nazca, Ica and Pisco. I flew from the latter because I was staying in Paracas, a short drive away – but Pisco airport is also the most popular place to fly from because it’s only 3.5 hours drive from Lima.

Tips for an Nazca Lines tour:

– Research which company you fly with. We flew with Aerodiana – a reputable company who, thankfully, gave me nothing to complaint about. However, I’d still recommend doing your own research, as there have been a number of accidents over the years. This World Nomads article on how to choose a safe airline is really helpful.

– Book an early flight. The potential for turbulence is at its lowest, the visibility is better, and the lower light means better shadow definition when looking at the lines.

– You have to pay departure tax. It’s a nominal fee (around 25 soles), but it’s worth remembering to bring some change with you.

– You’ll be weighed before boarding. Because weight has to be evenly distributed in the plane, there’s a weight limit of 90 kilos (200 pounds) per passenger. If you weigh more than this, you’ll be asked to pay an additional fee. Your weight also determines where you’ll sit in the plane – I was fascinated by the game of ‘Passenger Weight Jenga’ which seems to happen every flight!

– Don’t forget to bring your passport! A man on our flight was turned away from boarding because he didn’t bring any ID. As it’s still a fully functioning airport, staff are very strict with passports.

Once we arrived at Nazca airport we had to wait an hour or so before boarding our flight. I used that time wisely: sitting extremely still, sipping a lot of water, and silently willing my hangover to magically vanish before we clambered into a tiny twelve seater Cessna Grand Caravan.

And before I knew it, we were in the air.

Speaking into our connected headsets, the pilots explained that they would fly past the lines multiple times, banking steeply and sharply so we could see as much as possible. They’d also show the lines to each side of the plane so we didn’t have to crane our necks to the opposite windows (information I was very grateful for).

Once we were airborne, I felt that familiar swirl of pressure inside my head. In an attempt to distract myself, I looked at the leaflet map which the man at the ticket counter had pressed into my hand.

It seemed so improbable that these sketched out shapes were actually stretched across the desert below us.

Just then, the plane began to tilt alarmingly – which meant we were officially in Nazca Lines airspace. I held my breath and pressed my face/camera lens up against the window in expectation.

Flying above the Nazca Lines

From high up in the air, the lines are actually smaller than you’d think. Half the time we couldn’t immediately spot them. That didn’t stop the pilots though: both were shouting out the placement of each shape as I blindly snapped photos through the window.

But it didn’t take long before I realised the effort of trying to focus my lens on the ever-moving landscape was making me much too nauseous to properly appreciate where I was.

It was a much better idea to put the camera down and simply stare out at these ancient patterns instead.

The Nazca Lines spider

The Nazca Lines hummingbird

The Nazca Lines monkey

The Nazca Lines condor

As I followed the tiny shadow of our plane edging closer to the huge outline of a condor, I felt like the strangest sort of tourist: looking down on modern technology and ancient ritual, separated by centuries yet sitting literally side by side.

Did the Nazca people who constructed these geoglyphs ever leave this part of the desert? Did they ever realise the kinds of scenery and landscapes which lay just beyond them? And could they have ever imagined that asphalt-smooth highways would eventually appear just metres away?

What’s next for the mysterious Nazca Lines?

The Nazca Lines were deemed a UNESCO world heritage site in 1994, but various parts of the lines continue to be destroyed by wanderers, animals, vehicles and the construction of the Pan American Highway, which cuts through a few of the designs and borders others. Even Greenpeace were admonished for leaving footprints beside the hummingbird while campaigning for renewable energy in 2014.

It’s sobering to realise that these ancient markings have lasted for hundreds of years but modern-day activity is repeatedly jeopardising them. That and climate change: the normally arid deserts in Peru are experiencing increased rainfall, and there’s every chance that the Nazca Lines will eventually be eradicated.

From my Cessna window seat, I could almost pretend I was seeing the hundreds of Nazca people creating these designs for the first time. Was it to impress their gods in the sky? We’ll probably never know. But then again, the best kind of mystery is one which we can never solve for certain.

Have you ever flown above the Nazca Lines? Would you dare?!

The post Mysteries of the Desert: A Nazca Lines Flight in Paracas, Peru appeared first on Flora The Explorer.

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euroman1945-blog · 6 years

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The Daily Thistle

Friday 22nd June 2018

"Madainn Mhath” …Fellow Scot, I hope the day brings joy to you…. Once more we have arrived at the day of discovery, more and more things are being found, or being looked at again, and the advent of new technology, is certainly giving archeologists a reason for a second look at what was once found. Dates for occupation are constantly being rethought and in most cases pushed back new machines that can Carbon Date finding in moments rather than weeks are now being utilized and giving a harder more firm date that the old Carbon 14 method, I’m sure it won’t be long before they arrive at the conclusion that Scotland was the Garden of Eden….. but then, we all knew that!

3-D MODELS MADE OF NEOLITHIC CARVINGS…. EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND—Hugo Anderson-Whymark of National Museums Scotland has created 3-D models of balls of stone intricately carved during the Neolithic period using photogrammetry, according to a Live Science report. Sixty models are now available to the public online. More than 500 such regularly sized carved balls of stone have been found in northeast Scotland, the Orkney Islands, England, and Ireland. A single one has even turned up in Norway. Scholars have suggested the objects may have been used as parts of weapons, standardized weights for traders, rollers for moving megalithic monuments, or wound with twine or sinew and thrown. Some of the balls bear carved motifs that are also seen in carvings at Neolithic passage tombs. Anderson-Whymark said the similarities could indicate that people living in different regions interacted and shared common ideas. The new, detailed photographs of the carvings have revealed marks on some of the balls that had been hidden, and could offer new insight into their possible use. “We might be able to get a little bit more of that story out in the future by more detailed analysis of these things,” Anderson-Whymark said, “but they’re always going to be slightly enigmatic.”

POSSIBLE PREHISTORIC SETTLEMENT FOUND IN NORTHERN SCOTLAND…. THURSO, SCOTLAND—BBC News reports that a prehistoric site, including a hearth made of stone slabs, a hammer stone, rubble, and tools, has been found in the Scottish Highlands. The possible building may have been part of a larger settlement, according to Pete Higgins of the Orkney Research Centre for Archaeology. Further investigation could reveal if the structure was a broch—a monumental, tower-like roundhouse made of drystone walls, or a wag—a semi-underground dwelling featuring a central aisle made of stone slabs that support a stone slab roof. A well-preserved pig’s tooth suggests someone of high status could have lived there.

FIT FOR A SAINT…. IONA, SCOTLAND- Analysis of charcoal from Scotland’s monastery island of Iona has concluded that a wooden hut often associated with Saint Columba indeed dates to his lifetime in the late sixth century. Columba, an Irish abbot and missionary, was a dominant force in the spread of Christianity throughout Scotland. He founded the monastery on Iona, which stood as a bastion of literacy and scholarship for centuries and attracted legions of pilgrims until Catholic Mass was made illegal during the Reformation in the sixteenth century. Originally uncovered in the 1950s by archaeologists Charles Thomas, Peter Fowler, and Elizabeth Fowler, the charcoal comes from an ash layer of Tórr an Abba, or “Mound of the Abbot,” on the monastery’s grounds. While the three scholars believed they had found evidence of Columba’s cell, which appears to have been turned into a monument not long after his death in 597, they were never able to prove it. After storing the Iona samples for years in his own garage, Thomas bequeathed them to Historic Environment Scotland, which teamed up with archaeologists from the University of Glasgow to radiocarbon date the material and revisit the site. “What they excavated in the 1950s was a hut that didn’t look like it had many stages, perhaps one or two constructions,” says lead archaeologist Adrián Maldonado. “At some point it burned down and that’s the charcoal we were able to date.” The latest possible date for the charcoal is A.D. 650, making it likely that Columba, and perhaps later abbots too, used the cell.

17TH-CENTURY CLAN LANDS SURVEYED IN SCOTLAND…. ARROCHAR, SCOTLAND—The Scotsman reports that a team led by Heather James of Calluna Archaeology found more than 80 archaeological sites dating to the seventeenth century during a survey of the western shores of Loch Lomond, which is located in west-central Scotland. The sites include farmsteads, bridges, sheepfolds, earthen banks, quarries, cairns, and almshouses for travelers. The territory has long been associated with Clan MacFarlane, whose castle was located on the loch’s island of Elanvow. A possible watchtower site, discovered on Tarbet Island, may have been used by the MacFarlanes to monitor the area. “They were a clan who struggled to keep their head above water, but they eventually made peace with their rivals, the Campbells, which helped them for a while,” James said. The lands were eventually sold in the eighteenth century to pay off debts at a time when many of the clan’s men moved to other parts of Scotland, Ireland, or America. The land is now part of a national park.

NEW DATES FOR PREHISTORIC SCOTLAND… ABERDEENSHIRE, SCOTLAND—Stone artifacts have been found in Scotland’s Mar Lodge Estate, suggesting that people were in the Cairngorm Mountains as early as 8,000 years ago, or thousands of years earlier than had been previously thought. At this time after the last ice age, there were permanent snow fields in the region and glaciers may have even been reforming. “It is incredible to think that what we have discovered at this one spot in a vast landscape may represent a small group of people stopping for only a night or two, repairing their hunting equipment and then moving on,” Shannon Fraser of the National Trust for Scotland said in a press release. “Glen Geldie is a very chilly place today, even with all our modern outdoor clothing—it is hard to imagine what it must have been like in the much harsher climate 8,000 years ago,” he added.

On that note I will say that I hope you have enjoyed the news from Scotland today,

Our look at Scotland today is of a lemur who was enjoying a healthy snack while Karen Brown was on a photography course at Edinburgh Zoo.

A Sincere Thank You for your company and Thank You for your likes and comments I love them and always try to reply, so please keep them coming, it's always good fun, As is my custom, I will go and get myself another mug of "Colombian" Coffee and wish you a safe Friday 22nd June 2018 from my home on the southern coast of Spain, where the blue waters of the Alboran Sea washes the coast of Africa and Europe and the smell of the night blooming Jasmine and Honeysuckle fills the air…and a crazy old guy and his dog Bella go out for a walk at 4:00 am…on the streets of Estepona…

All good stuff....But remember it’s a dangerous world we live in

Be safe out there…

Robert McAngus #scotland #news #blog #history #archeology

#robertmcangus #robert mcangus #archeology #travel #news #history #blog

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inexchangeforyoursoul · 6 years

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chapter 13- that’s my lucky number. too bad it’s wasted on what’s p much filler with Robin lmao

“... that's cheating, you know.” Law took note of the lack of soft thuds and paper sizzles a few minutes ago; that's what made him check on her eventually, turning on his chair sideways.

Kat ignores the remark, and continues juggling the pocket watch mid-air as she teleports it above the other paper pile. Then does it again, and again. After a few more, she responds:

“You say that, but... I'm doing the same thing. Plus wannabe telekinesis, minus property damage. It's a win-win, if you ask me.”

“While you are not wrong, it will also be impossible to tell when you get it right,” he notes, leaning onto the back of the chair.

She shrugs. “Honestly, it doesn't make a difference until I can put my finger onto what's right whenever it works out in the first place.” That, and she's also having more fun with this godforsaken task like this. She has no watch of her own and there's no clock in his room that she's aware of, but she's dang sure the bells rang for noon a while ago. Started doing this right after... a little surprised it took Law so long to notice the change, though.

“...” After some delay, Law sighs and gets up. “Well, do as you like. I'm off to eat lunch.”

“I'll be going, too, then...” she muses. “As long as you're in the hall it's less likely that I run into Shachi. Would be... awkward after yesterday.”

“That it would be,” Law drawls with an amused expression. Having shoved the chair back in its place, he puts a hand under his chest.

“You really are hungry, huh?” Kat asks, ambling direction door herself.

“Guess so,” he replies. “Even though I ate a bit more for breakfast than it would have been necessary for your size... also felt sick for a while. Guess that was your routine speaking.”

“Duh,” Kat rolls her eyes at that. “How were you not in that state yesterday before walk, anyway? Also... I'm surprised you are hungry again? My body is low maintenance, after all,” she adds, wondering. He's had a proper breakfast, and she can get by easily with two mediocre meals a day plus some snacks...

“Yesterday I was wide awake as early as 4 am. I have the suspicion it's your blood pressure fucking you over with breakfast, now that I'm thinking about it,” he says, donning his hat.

“I could see that. Either way... my 'wolf days' hit every other week and I downed a whole pizza, a big plate of soup and spaghetti the other day, so that...” She drifts off; there is one thing she sometimes mistakes for hunger or stomach ache, and that's... “Umm...”

“What is it?” he asks, noticing her vaguely worried expression.

“Actually... I don't think it's your stomach,” she concludes. As Law takes some time to catch on, she adds “I mean the problem is more likely to be here,” pointing at her lower abdomen. This could very well be her uterus making its usual ruckus.

Hearing that, he takes a deep breath and looks around with weary eyes. How conveniently he forgot about all that... first things first, the pads. God, where did he--- or actually, she, even put that stuff?

Before he could start looking for the oversized bag, Kat has already lifted it and peeled the plastic skin off the bunch of clothes levitating in mid-air; the package they're looking for is poking out from right between the layers of shirts and hoodies. Law doesn't even need to move as she's done getting it and repackaging her clothes within a few seconds.

“Godspeed,” she sighs, opening the door as he snatches the pads. Doing so she notes that her neck is getting antsy over such trivial tasks again. Oh well. As they part ways at the entrance, she shouts after him; “See you later, will be on the other ship today if I'm not back.”

“Noted,” he groans, picking up speed towards his private bathroom. Yep, hit the nail on the head.

Boarding the Thousand Sunny, she runs into quite a few of the crew hanging outside despite the cloudy day. Kat also can hear Franky and Zoro doing their thing somewhere unseen, too. It's quite chilly... she should get something warmer from one of those drawers.

“Hi, guys,” she waves, looking out for Sanji while at it.

“Hi, Kat,” is what the council of Usopp, Luffy, Carrot and Chopper say in unison while discussing something with quite some zeal at the railing. Nami and Robin, who seem to be on their way inside, wave back; without further ado, she joins them.

“Hey,” she greets them again upon catching up. Nami just nods and hums as she's already engrossed in the fresh newspaper she's been holding.

“How's it going, Miss Kat?” asks the archeologist with a gentle smile on her face.

“Out on food hunt,” she replies, also breaking into a smile. Seeing Robin being pleased has this... odd effect on her; it's almost as if she was proud of herself. A foreign feeling, but even if she thinks of it as undeserved, it's nice to have. “It feels rude to ask, but do you think I could join you guys today? I'm trying not to anger Law and things... have also gotten awkward on the other ship.”

“Well, we've already finished... but if you'd like, we could ask Sanji for something and you can join us for dessert at the aquarium,” she responds, sprouting an arm to hold the door for Nami, who sings a 'thank you~ ♡'.

“That sounds great, actually.” She does like the place quite a lot, after all.

Arriving at the seats, she stops and Nami plops down immediately, while Robin talks into a door on the middle of the pillar that's definitely part of the ship's main mast; Kat can hear Sanji's enthusiastic voice echo from inside. Whatever's going on, he's been waiting for her arrival.

“What is this?” she asks stepping up to the woman, pointing at the mechanism.

“A small elevator for snacks. Cute, isn't it?” Robin smiles.

“Can't argue with that.” Practical, too... thinking about it, this is right under the kitchen. She peeks a little up the hole. “That's cool... stuff like this has always fascinated me, but I never really took the time to get into mechanics.”

“You should ask Franky or Usopp, I'm sure they'd love someone listen to their rambling,” she says, sitting onto a nearby chair. “You spend quite some time over here now, after all.”

Kat hums; she's right. She could pick up some technical stuff from those two... even botany from Usopp, her mother has a green thumb, after all. Might as well hit up Brook for fencing lessons, she's always wanted to try her hand at that... Could even ask Chopper (or Law, to be honest) some questions about medicine and such, Sanji for some simple recipes while he's still calm around her... the possibilities on this ship are near limitless and so very tentative. The excitement over it tickles her heart.

She has to find the courage and energy to engage any of them, though. But she knows herself better than to wait for that.

On the other hand... “That's a pretty good idea... maybe you could also share some cool stuff I don't know about?” She has little to no qualms chatting with certain people who she finds just... always so easy to talk to.

A small glint appears in Robin's eyes. “And what is it that you would want me to tell you?”

Kat furrows her brows while thinking. “Hard to pick... you know basically everything there is to know know, you know?” With that, she also sits down.

She laughs. “That's a stretch, but a flattering one.”

Before she could continue, the mechanism next to them is put into motion and once the elevator hits their level, a muffled 'bon appétit, my fair ladies~' resounds through the shaft. Or just the floor... he must have been too much into it and made a pose facing away. Either way, that was damn fast.

Robin takes out two sets of cake slices and what appears to be cocktails and passes one of them over to Nami a bit farther away through some extra limbs.

Noticing that, she looks up from her newspaper. “Robin, you really didn't have to...”

She just smiles back at her, then returns her attention to Kat, who has carefully lifted out the glass of orange juice and a plate of what appears to be a dish consisting of a variation of mashed potatoes and some fish with dressing. The glass of white wine remains inside.

“You don't drink?”

“No. Well... at times I drink a cider in summer, and am willing to down a glass of champagne at New Year's, but that's about it,” she says, rather eager to dig in; the food smells really nice. “I don't like the bitter taste of alcohol, nor its effects.”

Robin leans onto an arm and watches her for a little bit, then hums. “Had some unfortunate experiences with it, I assume.”

Kat swallows the food she's been shoveling inside. “Eh, that too, yeah.” She's kinda thankful to her grandfather for trying to make her drink wine when she was about five years old. She's always hated bitter things, and that sealed the deal for a lifetime: one less alcoholic in the family.

“It's understandable. You know,” the woman starts after taking a sip of the reddish drink, “how about you tell me about yourself a little first?”

“Oh... I... already talk too much about myself whenever I don't pay attention, though,” she protests, settling her eyes on her plate.

Robin cuts a piece of cake, contemplating. “I've yet to hear one of your famous rants... Since you are unsure about what to talk about, it would make my job easier to decide where to start with this 'basically everything' I know, you know? How about this question instead: what kind of life would make you happy?”

Kat stuffs another spoonful of those delicious potatoes into her mouth. This sounds like a school assignment for children... not a terribly hard to answer one, either. “A simple one. With a small and comfortable place to live in, close to some settlement and next to the woods. I would earn enough to buy the food and drink I need, or the material for anything I'd like to draw or make. Maybe participate in fairs with my junk, and bake cookies for schools around some bigger holiday.” She nods. That's the basics. “A library of my own... and some animals would be nice, too. Chickens, a cat... some goats, maybe.” She's always found them rather charming. But she doesn't trust herself with taking care of anything, be it animals, children, or even plants, so it's all just fantasy. It wouldn't be so lonely with either, though. She wouldn't leave the house for human contact if she magically had everything at home that money could buy, after all. “All in all, just take up as little space I can... then disappear without a trace.” With noone to mourn her. As if she never existed.

She hums with another piece of sweet dough in her mouth. Those were more the words of a disillusioned child than that of a budding young woman technically co-leading a successful little business. “Quite a romantic image. That's not a whole lot, though.”

Looking back onto her near-empty plate, Kat takes a deep sigh. The air feels so heavy in her lungs. “It's not... that's why it always weirds me out when I think about it. That it's so little to wish for and yet seems unattainable, I mean.” External and personal hurdles notwithstanding. What she has now is likely the closest she could ever get, and it's fine that way.

Robin takes another long sip from her drink. “True.” Putting the glass down, she continues; “Would you like to see what kind of stuff I've dug up lately, then?”

The archeologist sees Kat's eyes light up before she gives some decisive and enthusiastic nods as the last remainders of her lunch interfere with a verbal answer. She smiles anew- children do love playthings, do they not?

“You'll love the panel painting and grail we've found hidden in a cave that turned out to be the entrance to an old burial place,” Nami chips in as she walks over with the empty dishes in her hand and the haphazardly folded newspaper under her arm. “Nice stubble, by the way,” she giggles before continuing her read, leaning against the counter behind Kat with one ear open.

Latter touches her face- welp, Nami's not wrong. Didn't seem to be that bad in the mirror and with soap on, but realizing how prickly she's gotten will annoy her on the long run. Will have to ask Law about that. Later. There's a much more exciting topic to pay attention to now.

“What are they like?” she asks, swinging the seat under her to the sides.

“They need a little restoration, but are fine and elaborate pieces from about three hundred years ago,” Robin states. “Long missing pieces from a monastery in the West; we must have found the stash of some long dead thieves or pirates,” the older woman sighs. “The actual graves were from a much earlier period than the artifacts, though, and still had human remains in them.” She can't help but wonder what else may have been there before the savages disturbed the bones...

Kat is all ears while slurping her juice. Sometimes she thinks about giving up archeology as soon as she started learning about history- keeping track of all the numbers and dates she acknowledged she wouldn't be able to do, after all. Even that wouldn't have changed dropping out of college, though. Either way, she wants to see this.

“I'm so skipping the sucky training for this tomorrow,” she states with enthusiasm to both of the girls' amusement.

#Kate writes #KMKY

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