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norabrice1701 · 9 months

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The Duke & The Witch - Ch. 2

Charles Brandon x Fem!OC, A The Tudors Slight-AU fic

Series Main List

Ch. 2 Warnings: Fire burn injuries; kinda-stalker Charles; weaponized aphrodisiac; discussion of witchcraft; period-typical attitudes towards everything (women, religion, witchcraft, etc.)

A/N: Thank you all for the notes, reblogs and likes! The Tudors is such an old show, but such a goodie and Charles is just yummy, so I'm glad there are still some folks reading fics for this fandom 😊❤

Dawn the following morning finds Charles on the road to St. Edmunds. Ever since the flour mill report reached him last week, he’s been remiss about paying a visit. But perhaps he was a little too eager to set out on his journey given the look of concern that haunted Joseph’s face during breakfast.

Unfortunately, the business of the flour mill has nothing to do with the witch. Last week’s courier brought the breathless news of a devastating fire, a sudden explosion that left at least one dead - a young boy - and the miller was likely to follow due to his extensive injuries. In that moment, Charles had done the only thing within his power - order missives sent to the other villages to support flour trade with St. Edmunds.

But now, he intends to survey the flour mill damage and pay his respects for the fallen. As he rides towards the small village, he prepares to hear that the miller has also perished. Once he does, missives will need to be sent to the other duchy villages to inquire about millers’ assistants capable of rebuilding and taking over operations.

It doesn’t promise to be the most uplifting of days, but after talking with Joseph last night, he hopes to find a silver lining. If people in St. Edmunds have tried to follow this witch when she appears, then he intends to learn more. Perhaps she even lives nearby and he can debunk the rumors once and for all.

He slows his horse, approaching the first outcropping of crude dwellings. They bear signs announcing the butcher, the tanner and other unpleasant trades that are unwelcome in village centers - and by all counts, St. Edmunds is still worthy of being called a village. It hasn’t prospered in commerce like Ipswich, nor in industry like Lowestoft. In fact, Charles doesn’t think he’s ever been to St. Edmunds before.

The rough road turns in towards the abbey that stands prominently at the center of the village commons, a visible landmark to everyone in the countryside. Passing commoners glance up at him, faces falling as they recognize the mark of his station and offering immediate murmurs of his address. It’s a routine sight everywhere Charles goes in his duchy, and he offers the occasional nod as he rides through the village.

“My lord, Your Grace!” An elderly, but surprisingly nimble man rushes towards him. “I am Elder Gideon, and can speak for this village. Forgive us, Your Grace… we were not expecting your visit today.”

Charles slows his horse. “I did not announce my intent to visit, so I do not expect you to have prepared.”

“On a future visit, Your Grace,” Gideon says, relaxing in visible relief. “We will honor your arrival with all due fanfare.”

In truth, that’s the last thing Charles wants. He glances out over the collection of structures and shacks, and the various lanes that weave between them. “I would like to visit the flour mill, and learn of the miller’s health.”

“The flour mill? Yes, yes – of course.” Gideon turns with obvious reluctance, motioning down one of the lanes. “Please allow me to show you.”

Charles nods and motions his horse forward as Gideon walks alongside him. He glances out at the village commons, drawing a breath. “Tell me what you know of the witch in the woods.”

“Your Grace?” Gideon arches a brow, turning a curious stare up at him. “The witch in the woods?”

“I will not repeat myself.”

“Yes, yes… she. Well, she comes out of the woods when we’re at our most desperate, it seems. When the flour mill burst into flame – such a noise, I’ve never heard – and the miller was so badly burned. We’ve not enough coins for any physician, and the miller’s wife was beside herself. Well, the witch came the very next morning.”

“The next morning?” Charles’ face wrinkles with confusion. That doesn’t make sense - if she does indeed live in the woods, then how did the news reach her so speedily?

“First thing, sunrise – yes, Your Grace. Wearing the same hooded cloak that she always has. The miller’s wife almost didn’t let her into the house for fear of accepting the Devil’s help, but she was so distraught.”

“Hooded and cloaked, you say,” Charles muses, noting the correlation to what Joseph had previously said. “Does anyone know what she looks like?”

“She doesn’t let us see her face and no one has dared to ask.”

“Have you heard her speak?”

“I have no desire to hear her Devil’s tongue, Your Grace.”

“And yet you willingly accept her help? Does that not strike you as hypocritical?”

Gideon sniffs indignantly. “I do not ask her to use her Devil craft to help us, but it is… hard to deny help when it is freely given.”

“But is it truly given freely?” Charles asks, glancing down at the elder. “What if she comes to the village one day to collect payment for services rendered? A culling of souls for the Devil’s satisfaction, perhaps?” The corner of Charles’ mouth wants to tick up, amused with his own teasing. Especially as he watches Gideon pale and swallow thickly.

“If that day comes, Your Grace, then may God have mercy on our souls.”

Charles restrains his chuckle, unable to hold in his smirk any longer. It probably shouldn’t make him laugh – for it could be entirely possible. If she is indeed a servant of the Devil, then who’s to say that she couldn’t claim souls for the Devil’s domain?

The sight of the burned-out husk of the flour mill kills his lingering amusement. Charred remains in various states of collapse and destruction litter the ground, and it’s impossible to discern anything about the shape or size of the structure that had stood here. It must have been quite the blaze, indeed.

Gideon sighs somberly. “A truly sad sight. We thought ourselves doomed until we heard the news of Your Grace’s swift actions to boost flour trade from other villages.”

Charles steps down from his horse. “The mill just burst into flames, you said?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Just a sudden… cloud of fire.”

Charles stares at the burned remains, intrigued. How does a flour mill just explode? He didn’t even know that flour could burn. He looks at the crude cottage that stands nearby the remains of the mill. “And the miller?”

Gideon nods towards the cottage. “He was pulled from the flames and the smoke, taken to his home – just there.”

“And he still lives?”

Gideon nods again. “I have not heard otherwise.”

Charles pulls off a glove, walking towards the cottage and raising his voice. “Miller and his wife! Stand present for the Duke of Suffolk.”

A couple of idling villagers in the lane freeze on his loud call, but he pays them no mind as he focuses on the cottage. At length, the door opens and a short, surprisingly handsome woman appears.

She looks out at Charles with wide, nervous eyes. “M-my lord?” She drops to a shaky curtsy before wringing her hands uneasily. “To what do… what can we do for you?”

“The miller.” Charles answers, moving to stand closer. “I wish to see him. I understand that he was badly burned and subsequently visited by the witch in the woods.”

The wife puts her hands together in the appearance of a pleading prayer. “Please, sir. Please – I only done what I had to. I wasn’t strong enough to resist her help. He – me husband – was dying and I couldn’t-” Her words cut off in a hiccupping sob. “I… I don’t want any more unholiness brought into our home.”

A flash of audacity sparks in his gaze as he tilts his head. “If you’re accusing me of unholiness, in league with the witch – then you would be wise to hold your tongue.”

“No, no…,” her eyes widen in sudden panic, supplicating her posture. “I meant no disrespect to you, sir. I just… I fear for our souls after accepting her help. Letting her into our home… after she killed that black bird with light from a storm! A-and she made that soup… and, I still - please, milord, can you offer redemption?”

Charles resists an irritated sigh. “No – only a priest can grant you that. I have merely come to see your husband.”

“He is abed, sir. He’s not able to stand.”

“Then, kindly move aside and let me pass.”

“No, sir – my Lord, please…” she withers under Charles’ stare as he approaches, but eventually steps aside, her shoulders shrinking. “Yes, sir.”

He squints in the dusty dimness of the cottage, struck by its barren state and meager furnishings. A pallet lays in one corner, poorly outfitted with bedcovers and bearing the lumpy shape of a man. He nears the rough bed, bracing against the pungent stench in the air as he crouches down.

The wife bustles around him to her husband’s side. “The witch, you see,” she says softly. “She came in here and put this mud on him. It didn’t smell like this when it was wet. Then, she put all them flat leaves over it.”

True enough, it proves an odd sight. The shape of a man covered in a thick mud paste and blanketed in a coating of leaves. Charles reaches his gloved hand out and pries up the edge of a leaf, looking closer at the dark substance on the man’s skin.

He tilts his head in curious study. “How long does it need to be left on his skin?”

The wife blinks owlishly. “I don’t know, sir. She didn’t say anything.”

Charles doesn’t possess too much medical knowledge, but he recalls what he’s overheard battlefield physicians say. “Best not to leave it for too long. Lest it stick to his healing skin.”

“I-I” the woman hiccups with uncertainty. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“He’s already hurt.” Charles says, standing to his full height. “You won’t be able to damage him further. But tell me – was he awake when she applied the mud to him?”

“No, sir – but he did wake up sometime later. Quite confused, he was, at what he was covered in.”

“Has he left this bed since then?”

“He jumped up when he awoke, startled as he was. Ran through that door to the street before he collapsed again.”

Charles almost can’t believe it. The passage of days between the explosion and his visit to Ipswich yesterday would have given the story ample time to spread through his duchy. Time to spread and time to grow into the fanciful mudman spectacle that the swordsmith’s apprentice had raved about.

He turns from the miller’s bed, moving through the dwelling and back out into the dusty lane. The gentle breeze washes a refreshing wave over him, even if it does smell of horse.

The soft sound of the wife’s footsteps follow him before she speaks. “What of him, sir? Will he live? Are we damned to hell?”

“I have no answers to give you,” he says, shaking his head. “But the fact that your husband still lives is rather humbling.”

“It’s the Devil’s work, sir. Surely!” She shakes her head, tears flowing. “I knew I shouldn’t have done it!”

He pulls his other glove back on, ignoring the woman behind him. Humbling, indeed. It isn’t a witch’s crafted man of mud that walks the village's streets, but the witch’s mud mixture has likely saved the miller from death. Or at least, postponed it. Perhaps she can’t turn a dog into a man with wolfsbane stew or play with ravens and lightning, but this woman does possess a mighty knowledge. Or is it even a woman? Could it just be a disgraced physician?

His mind churns with the questions and possibilities. If he could only just speak with this witch and assess for himself. Is it really the work of the Devil that needs to be routed out of his duchy? Or are her services able to be employed for better use?

What was it Gideon had said about how soon the witch arrived after the flour mill explosion? The very next morning?

He walks back to his horse, formulating a plan.

***

Two days of waiting now and nothing. Either he has seriously misjudged the witch’s ability to receive news in a timely manner, or the severity of the rumor isn’t strong enough to draw her out. Admittedly, neither explanation pleases him. If she doesn’t show within the next day, Charles will have to forgo this attempt and return at a later date.

And to think he’d been so sure when he visited the butcher.

“Your Grace?” The butcher stared back at him incredulously.

Charles nodded again at the purse of coins that rested on the worktable. “I said that I want you to spread talk in the village of an innocent accident. An apprentice who lost some fingers at the chopping block. A young boy trampled by draft animals from a game cart. But it needs to be severe.”

The butcher stared back at Charles as if Charles had gone insane. Maybe he had. At long last, the man agreed and hefted the bag of coins. The money jingled and Charles secured the man’s further promise that he could carry out the task without delay. For surely, if news of another severe injury spread through the village, the witch was sure to appear.

After leaving the butcher’s, Charles had returned to Westhorpe just long enough to gather some supplies for the field and two of his men. The three returned to St. Edmunds before sunset and took up a well-concealed post just on the village outskirts that boarded the surrounding woods. When the witch arrived, they would be ready.

Except now, his men are likely starting to agree with the butcher. And maybe they aren’t wrong. Maybe Charles has finally lost his mind. Finally so overcome with loss and grief that he’s fixated on smoke and magic to dull the pain.

He tilts his head back against the rough wall of the shed, sighing as his eyes drop closed.

“Sir - Your Grace!” One of his guards hisses. “I-I don’t believe it!”

Charles crawls forward, breath quickening with anticipation as he peers out the gap between two wooden boards. A hooded and cloaked figure emerges from the thicket of trees, the dark robe splashed with the brilliant red and oranges of sunset. The witch appears as a phantom spectacle - so dark against the light - and Charles has to blink twice to confirm that his mind isn’t just conjuring the image. But ast the dark figure steadily approaches the village, he can’t believe his luck.

“Come on, men.” He whispers, working stiff muscles. “Quietly now.”

The wood cutter’s shed door opens with a louder creak than Charles would have liked, but he keeps his gaze focused on the wraith-like figure as it draws ever closer. True to the rumors, there isn’t a single part of the witch visible beneath the cloak. Not even a glimpse of footwear or hands, and it increases his curiosity.

With his men in tow, they approach on silent footsteps and flank her side. If the witch sees them, she gives no indication, nor changes her path of travel.

Charles draws a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Witch in the woods!”

Her steps stop and the shrouded face turned towards him. The bright light of sunset is swallowed up in the impossible darkness of the cowl. He squints, trying to glimpse even the barest hint of a facial feature, but he finds nothing within the dark recess. But even if he can’t count her appearance as a victory, at least she has stopped at his call.

A smirk curls his lips as he takes another advancing step, motioning for his men to hold back. “So, it is you. You do exist.” He keeps a casual, easy tone. “I was almost starting to wonder if you were a spirit summoned by the commoners.”

The cloaked figure remains motionless as he continues.

“But you stand accused of witchcraft and must be detained for questioning.” He says, taking another step forward, now just within an arm’s reach away. “Surrender peacefully, and no harm will come to you. Resist, and we will respond in kind.”

The hooded figure moves without warning. A heavily draped arm shoots forward, expelling a cloud of red dust in the air right in front of his face.

He sputters against the invasion of the sweet-smelling red powder, feeling it tickle his nose. Coughs seize his lungs to keep from breathing it in, but each gasping breath draws it in to coat his mouth and throat. Dizziness starts to eat at his vision, heat blooming in his blood. His vision goes unfocused and he staggers, struggling to keep his balance.

The hooded figure takes a retreating step, but he can’t make his mouth form the words that he desperately wants. His body grows tense, taught like a bowstring, and he struggles through deep, labored breaths. Fire burns in his veins, his skin growing sensitive to every pull and stretch of his clothing. His balance falters, falling to a knee as he grasps for control against the mindless heat that consumes him, against the growing rush of blood hardening his cock beyond belief.

“Seize her…” He barely recognizes his own voice, choked and strained. “Get her!” He manages to lift his head up through the vertigo, enraged to see the hooded figure disappearing back into the safety of the tree line.

Tag List: @kingliam2019

#charles brandon #duke of suffolk #the tudors #henry cavill #charles brandon x ofc #henry cavill x ofc #the tudors fanfic

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conservativetradlife · 3 years

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Despite having a tumultuous family life, I am blessed to have my maternal Aunt and Uncle, who chose to take on the role of my Godparents when I was still small. They have proven to be invaluable to me in my life and I can’t thank them enough for the things they have done for me, teaching me, raising me and allowing me to become a functional adult despite not having the best start.

I am once again, not in contact with my mother (a fact I feel as though I’ve shared in the past) and this lack of contact has been as final as I can manage. After the bad blood and history we have, its just not healthy for us to be in contact with one another, but this doesn’t mean she doesn’t believe she entitled to be a part of my life (or the lives of my children.) While I do speak to my sister (who recently reopened contact with our mother herself) I was given news that my mother has found out about my pregnancy is is circling the rumor mill about it with my grandmother, who shared the news with her via my personal medias.

I have relied heavily on my Godmother as a confidant in the last few days when I received this news, sharing my frustrations and feelings of anxiety and fear.

My Godmother has always been fair and to the point, choosing to always be honest with me rather than placating my anxieties with false truths. When I was younger, I found some of her advice unfair, but as I’ve grown, I’ve learned to appreciate her wisdom and experience. She sent me this image this afternoon after I sent her a few worrisome paragraphs about my familial anxieties where my mother is concerned. I find that the context fits, even if its not particularly immediately relevant to my worries about my mother and grandmother.

If you are lucky enough to have a woman in your ‘village’ who truly sees you, realize how much of a blessing she is in your life. Far to few ladies have people like this in their lives, and I can’t stress enough to value of people like my Aunt.

To me, this is a strong, beautiful, educated woman who has raised all four of my cousins, taught classes of children through her career as a teacher and has always been mindful towards me. She has dealt with a myriad of health issues in her family and gone through countless hardships herself, but she has never allowed herself to break in front of me, and always has offered me a shoulder to cry on and a warm cup of mint tea when I need to have the ‘hard talks’ of life.

Find your village. Find the people in your life who add honest value and aren’t afraid to hurt your feelings when you’re acting impulsively or foolishly. Not all family is necessarily blood and the people in your village don’t always have to be the ones who you share familial bonds with, but find strong people who always have your best interests at heart and hold onto them tightly, as they are a rare breed and incredibly important to walk side by side with when life gets tough.

#personal #traditional #traditional feminine #traditional femininity #traditional woman #trad #find your village

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n3rdybird · 3 years

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Healing Touch

Written for @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan‘s Hamilton Lyric challenge! This story went through so many re-writes and changes, god I hope this mangled mess is okay, haha. My prompt was the line “My name’s been through a lot. I can take it.”

Vikings

HeahmundxReader

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Some blood, talk about Church, self-flagellation etc (referenced, not described in depth) suggestive language, oogling a man of the church (haha)

Gossip was always a funny thing in small villages. Perhaps you had not been thinking clear when you established your home on the edge of the holy town of Sherborn. Nestled in the woods near a stream, you were both close enough to the town to visit for supplies but far enough away that your arrival stirred up a bit of mystery.

As an unmarried woman with no known family, you already raised a few brows of the more prominent families. But it was your talent for herbalism that set most of the tongues wagging. The smallfolk were more pragmatic towards your skills. They could overlook your marital status if it meant well-made salves and tonic for their aches and illnesses. With their payments, usually traded goods that you could not make yourself, and the bounty of the forest, you rarely had any need to visit the town marketplace. Which only furthered the mystique around you.

When you did grace the town with your presence, most of the townsfolk gave you a wide berth, allowing you to shop in peace. Even the merchants seemed to deal in your favor, giving you more than was due for your wares. You heard the rumors. Half the town believed that you were a cunning woman and would bring misfortune to any who wronged you. The other half sang your praises, that you were even more skilled than the clergy.

So it was to your great surprise as you kneeled to rearrange your parcels in your basket that a shadow loomed over you. You glanced upward, schooling your features as you saw the Bishop of Sherborne himself, Heahmund, standing over you.

You nodded your head in greeting before standing, slinging your basket over your shoulder. The bishop was a popular man, known for his devotion to God as well as to the sword. And lesser-known, his propensity for women. Mostly gossip, but living as you had, you knew there was at least a kernel of truth to any rumor. His handsome face did not help, nor the way his stubble gave him a rakish air. He was a far cry from the average holy man, fat and week from a sedentary lifestyle.

“Your Grace,” you greeted and dipped into a shallow curtsey, giving the most powerful man in Sherborne due deference for his position.

“You know who I am?” he asked.

“Of course. One could scarcely live in Sherborne without knowing of its Bishop,” you answered.

He nodded in agreement, before gesturing for you to walk with him.

“Please allow me to escort you home if you are finished for the day,” he offered.

You had no intention of spending any considerable time with the church official, but you erred on the side of caution and walked in step next to him.

“I apologize for not making my acquaintance sooner, I meet most of my parishioners on Sundays for mass,” he said, keeping his eyes forward.

You hummed noncommittally, but inside, you blanched. Heahmund's statement seemed polite on the surface, but you knew he was angling for an answer to why you had yet to make an appearance in church. In all honesty, it wasn’t that you weren’t Christian. You were, in your own way. It was the idea that one had to go to church to be considered religious that you didn’t agree with. So you had to pick your words carefully.

“Well then I am pleased that I’ve had the chance to meet you today,” you said, avoiding the point about the church, focusing on his former words rather than the latter. Heahmund cut his eyes towards you, clearly noting your evasion.

“Quite.” His tone was sharp and you felt as if you failed an unknown test.

The conversation dwindled to Heahmund telling bits of history about the town or gesturing to points of interest as the two of you left town. You were glad when you walked past the boundary of Sherborne. You were used to the curious stares when you were alone, but with the Bishop as company, it seemed the gazes were amplified. The gossip mill would soon be in a frenzy. The path home took you past the open fields and into the shaded forest along a winding path.

“Living alone, so far from town, must worry you,” he noted.

“Why would I be worried?”

“Well a woman such as yourself, living alone. You would be far better protected living in town. Roaming bandits, animals, or even the occasional Viking incursion.”

“I worry as much as the next, I suppose, but living in town has never appealed to me. Not to mention it is easier to collect wild plants,” you explained.

“Yes, I’ve heard of your skills. Where did you learn?”

You paused your walk, noticing a crop of comfrey sprouting from the ground. You knelt in the dirt, brushing the purple buds with your fingertips. Too young. You’d have to wait a few more days to harvest. You stood up, wiping the dirt off your skirt. You glanced back at Heahmund who had stopped several paces away. He was watching you closely but looked away as soon as your gaze met his.

“Family mostly, I’ve never learned formally. I’ve found that there is much in nature that can help or hurt. It only takes a practiced hand to know the difference.”

Heahmund stiffened, his hand resting on his sword. His gaze turned to stone as he eyed you critically.

“And do you only heal? Or do you hurt? I admit this meeting was no coincidence. There have been rumors that reached my ears. Half the town believes you to be a cunning woman, a witch, and I do not suffer pagans under my watch.”

You swallowed. You shouldn’t have disregarded the gut feeling you had the moment he began speaking to you. If the Bishop found any fault in your words, he could kill you now and be firm in his belief that he was in the right in his duty as a man of God. There was no one around who could come to your aid, not that any would stand against the warrior.

“Do you deny it?”

“Perhaps you could tell me which rumors have graced your ears, so I may better defend myself.” The words you spoke were calm and confident, the complete opposite of how you were feeling. The sounds of the forest melted away and all you could hear was your rapid heartbeat as you tried to control your fear.

Heahmund tilted his head as if trying to suss out your guilt or innocence.

“‘Which’ rumors? You are aware of what people say about you?”

“My name’s been through a lot. I can take it. Women are always subjected to gossip, especially unmarried ones. I would be a fool to believe otherwise. I hardly see the point in trying to change someone’s opinion of me. People do not like to be wrong.”

“Lord Oswald has claimed that you hold dark influence over his daughter, causing her to act out and defy her father. And that you placed a curse upon him, causing illness.”

At the mention of the man, you clenched your fist. You had first met his daughter when she visited you, draped in a cloak to hide her face. The purple bruise that spread across her cheekbone like a wine stain caused your immediate hatred towards the man she called father. You may have let out a few choice curse words as you treated the abrasion and consoled the young woman.

“That man is a pig. I couldn't care less what he thought of me. As for his illness, perhaps he should be blaming his poor diet.”

“Lord Oswald is an upstanding and-”

“Upstanding? That man would sell his daughter to the vilest devil on earth if it meant he’d get more power!” You blurted the words out, angry that that man would be considered upstanding.

“His daughter is his by rights, and as such may marry her to a man of his choosing. That is the duty of daughters,” the Bishop intoned, repeating the words drilled into him by years of church teachings.

You scoffed at his words, biting back harsh curses. Duty, you’ve never cared for that word.

“Duty, what a hollow promise. Is it not a father’s duty to protect his daughter? And not to lay a hand on her in anger?”

Heahmund’s face softened at that particular bit of information.

“Did you place a curse on Oswald?” he asked again, his voice low and stern.

“I wouldn’t have to. That man will drink himself into an early grave,” you spat. You nodded to where his hand was still resting on the pommel of his sword.

“So what is your judgment? Is thinking a man worth less than a pile of shit enough to die? Or not congregating with hypocrites on Sunday who profess their goodness only to hit their wives or cheat on their husbands or sleep with clergymen? Are those my crimes?”

The last bit of course was aimed at the Bishop. He was taken aback by your words. He too knew the hypocrisy of humans, he had seen it firsthand in others and himself.

“Regardless of any sin committed, man can repent and ask forgiveness.” It was what he told himself every time he failed in his duty to God.

“But I am judged by the words of one man, and that’s enough to condemn me? And what of all the kind words said in my favor? Because they are from the smallfolk they aren’t as important? But as soon as someone with ‘prestige’ speaks horrible lies, you must come running to investigate. Like a trained hound set out by its masters.”

Dismissing the warrior bishop, you shook your head. Rigid, sanctimonious, and arrogant.

“If you are going to kill me, kill me. I do not wish to suffer your presence any longer.”

When Heahmund did not speak but removed his hand from his sword you gave him a terse nod.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, your Grace.”

Heahmund watched as you walked away, your skirts swishing behind you. You had spoken the truth. He had no interest in you until the upper echelon started their complaints. He was all but demanded to get to the bottom of it. As much as your words stung, you were correct. He could have denounced the hearsay as soon as they were spoken, owing to the fact that smallfolk all but revered you. So he bowed under the demands to keep his place secure.

You, however, were not what he expected. Young, unmarried, and striking. He thought you might be an older widow, with the talk of your skills. Instead he got you, a fiery, educated young woman, who wasn't afraid of speaking her mind. It was almost refreshing to have someone not fawn over him. Yes, you treated him with respect but did not trip over yourself to please him. You had no problem criticizing him.

He rubbed the pommel of his sword, worrying the raised designs with his thumb. You were interesting indeed.

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After you left the bishop to mull over your words, you had hurried home, half expecting him to come after you and take you in for your supposed crimes. When he did not follow, your steps became shaky and you found yourself stumbling into the small cottage you called home. You flung the latch closed and leaned against the door, trying to regain your wits.

You had been accused of crimes, as untrue as they were. The Bishop himself was sent to investigate. And you had thrown a tantrum, insulting him and his life. The next few days you did not venture far from your home, fearing retribution. You debated leaving your home, going to another area. But you tired of running away. As the days passed, you breathed a little easier. No one had come to take you away, and the smallfolk continued to do business with you.

After a particularly grueling morning over a cookfire, and setting a poor child’s broken arm, you were exhausted. With the hot sun overhead, you plucked at your tunic as it stuck to your skin. A dip in the water would do nicely.

Gathering your satchel and clad in a lightweight chemise, you began your trek to your preferred bathing spot. A small bend in the river where the water calmed and you could bathe in relative peace.

Placing your bag within reach of the water, you glance around before unlacing your chemise, letting it fall to your feet. The water was cool, refreshing on your overheated skin. You ducked under the water, brushing your wet locks away from your face. You wiped the water from your eyes before reaching for your soap to wash away the grime of the morning.

“Perhaps you are not a witch, but a water nymph from Greek stories,” a familiar voice called out. You spun and stared gobsmacked at the bishop sitting near the edge of the water. You bristled at the nerve of him openly staring as you bathed.

“Shouldn’t a man of the cloth look away when a woman is bathing?” you retorted, wishing for the first time that the water was not so clear.

“Ah, but you have already judged me a hypocrite, would that not be proving you wrong?” he replied but turned his head away from you.

You grumbled, a bit irritated that he had thrown your own words back in your face. Making your way to the shore, you all but snatched your chemise with outstretched fingertips, and dressed with haste.

“Is there something you need, your Grace?” you huffed out, irritated that he had spoiled your bath. You grabbed your satchel, swinging it wildly over your shoulder, hitting his chest with the soft leather. You immediately dropped your pack in alarm when he hissed in pain.

“I came to apologize,” he said between clenched teeth. “Would that be amiable, or would you prefer to hit me with your bag again?”

The weight of your bag should not have caused him any pain, especially if it caused him to grit his teeth. You peeled back his tunic and gasped at the sight of several scratches adorning his chest. Though most were superficial, a few deep welts drug across the expanse of his skin.

“What on earth happened?”

Heahmund jerked away from your grip.

“It’s nothing to worry about," he said, brushing off your concern.

“I’d ask you not to lie to me. Take off your shirt.”

When he didn’t follow your command you rolled your eyes.

“Lord save me from bullheaded men,” you muttered, reaching for his shirt.

“You can either take off your shirt, or I will cut it off. It matters not to me what you choose.”

Heahmund raised a brow at your demands and pulled his tunic over his head with a grunt of pain. Kneeling in front of him, you tried to not ogle the Bishop as you took in his wounds. Most were already scabbed over, others dark with crusted blood. You curled your lip in dismay. You traced your fingers over his skin, the newer cuts crossing over old scars. Some of the deeper gashes were warm to the touch, a sign of infection. You looked up, his eyes watching your hand as it moved across his chest before looking at you.

You pulled your hand away, clucking in a scolding manner. Rifling through your pouch, you pulled out a strip of cloth and some salve. You dipped the cloth into the cool water, wringing out the excess before blotting at the wounds.

“You would think someone with your knowledge would know to treat cuts, no matter how trivial,” you said, as you washed the crusted blood away. “You look like you got in a fight with a cat,” you joked.

“Thorns actually,” he amended. When you looked at him confused, he clarified.

“My self-penance, along with asking for your forgiveness.”

You paused in your ministrations, horrified at the thought.

“You believe God would want you to harm yourself to seek forgiveness?”

“It brings me clarity, to better understand what path God wishes me to take.”

You shook your head before reaching for the salve.

“What is there to understand? God gave us free will, for us to make the choices in our lives. Maybe making mistakes is part of his plan?” you said softly, applying the paste with deft fingers.

“I fear I make too many mistakes, stumble too often in my path,” Heahmund confessed.

“You were right. About Oswald and the rumors. His daughter confirmed it in confession. She was quite worried about you when she heard I came to visit you.”

You shook your head, sighing. The last thing you wanted was to cause more trouble for the young girl.

“I hope you told her she was not at fault. I can take care of myself. Please tell her not to worry.”

He took your hand in his, his calloused fingertips running along yours. Your hand was calloused, but not from holding a sword. You had burn scars from hot pots, tiny cuts from mishaps with knives. Your hand that he had accused of witchcraft and misdeeds was the hand that wiped away his blood and applied medicine, something he did not deserve. A healing hand.

“Choices and mistakes shape our lives, make us who we are. My life brought me here, to Sherborne. As your choices brought you to me. It was your choice to let, rather than kill or imprison me, something I am grateful for,” you said matter of fact.

Heahmund laughed.

“We shall see if that works in my favor. Provided you didn’t poison me,” he said, nodding towards his chest.

You rolled your eyes and licked your fingertip, still coated in salve. Heahmund’s eyebrows jumped in surprise at your action.

“Well if it were poison, now I would die as well. So fear not your Grace, you should be on the mend quickly,” you jested with a smile. Heahmund returned your smile with one of his own. You felt your stomach flutter at the expression on his face, and the threat of a blush warmed your neck.

He brought your hand up to his lips and planted a warm slow kiss on the back of your knuckles. The rough brush of his stubble sent a zip of desire down your spine. This was dangerous. This was a mistake in the making. But you found yourself caring little as you stared into his eyes.

“Please, allow me to repay you.”

#vikings fanfic #heahmund x reader #star's hamilfilm lyric challenge #heahmund fanfic #vikings fanfiction #bishop heahmund

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dearlazerbunny · 4 years

Note

Can I have Kylo for fluff alphabet please? Thank you!

All of them?! I mean if you ~insist~

(Alphabet prompt here)

Kylo x Reader Fluff ABCs 💜

Activities: Free time is scarce, so he’ll mostly visit you at night when the two of you can curl up in bed, watch the stars, and talk about anything and everything. Technically it’s always night in space, but when he’s with you the black seems to dim a little, and the stars shine brighter. It’s the best sort of night, the ones that make you think there are as many possibilities as there are planets in the sky.

Beauty: Kylo LOVES your smile. You smile so easily, whereas he can count on one hand the number of times he’s smiled in the pas year- each time because of you. And he still has to remind himself how to breathe anytime he makes you smile.

Comfort: He’s excellent at holding you close and just letting you cry it out, running his fingers through your hair, and keeping his lips pressed to the top of your head so you know he’s there. Sometimes he’ll tell stories- the same ones his mother told him, about adventures in space and good defeating evil and how hope makes the universe turn. He doesn’t know if he believes in those old stories anymore- but he knows you do.

Dreams: Somewhere quiet, somewhere far away from any war or light side and dark side and Jedis and metal monstrosities that destroy planets on a whim. It’d be a simple house- maybe in a forest, set away from a tiny village- with just enough space for the two of you and maybe... maybe a child. The three of you would lie in the tall grass- a little boy or girl tugging on his mother’s clothes and giggling at the feeling of the dirt beneath his feet- and tell new stories. Because now he doesn’t need those old stories telling him about light and hope- he has his own, sitting right in front of him.

Equal: Kylo is not used to someone standing up to him and calling him on his bullshit. Kylo cannot remember the last time someone called him “Ky” without having a rather vicious meeting with the glowing end of his lightsaber. Kylo definitely isn’t used to someone being in his personal space- a touch on his arm, holding hands, a leg wrapped around his when the two of you are in bed. He might a six-foot-something menace in all black and a scary sword, but you have an infinite amount of little ways of telling him that he is not the boss of you. Period.

Fight: Fighting is loud- there’s a good amount of yelling and stomping around. Most of it stems from insecurities: he can’t get it out of his head that you aren’t going to drop him on a whim someday when you realize how broken he is; you hate that he’s constantly diving headfirst into a war where you can’t do anything to protect him. One night, after a particularly horrible bout, you voice the idea that the insecurities get smaller when the trust gets bigger. So now, any argument, big or small, is only over when the two of you can look at each other and honestly say, “I trust you.”

Gratitude: He knows you’re doing... something, but he doesn’t really realize how much until one day he’s sitting with you, your fingers intertwined, laughing at something ridiculously stupid and only funny to the two of you, and he’s looking at you and how your eyes sparkle when you laugh and he notices he hasn’t heard any of the voices in his head since you started giggling. He’ll tell you later- he wants to hear your laugh for just a little bit longer.

Honesty: Kylo definitely keeps secrets- mostly his fears. He’s scared you’ll leave him, that one day you’ll walk away and won’t come back. He wants a future with you- not just a future, but an endgame- and every day it seems less and less likely. He worries he isn’t what you deserve. He’s scared he’ll hurt you accidentally; he’s terrified he’ll hurt you intentionally. He’s never told you any of this, but the funny thing is- you kind of already know.

Inspiration: You’ve changed him for the better, and keep doing so every day. Much like the realization from Gratitude, he won’t quite know the extent of it until one day it smacks him in the face and he finally thinks, oh.

Jealousy: Yes, and it’s something the two of you have to work on. Constantly. To his credit, he went from hunting down one of your work friends in the middle of the night after he gave you a hug in the mess hall to (occasionally) haltingly and frustratingly voicing his feelings. It’s progress, and you’re willing to stick by him for however long it takes.

Kiss: Your first kiss was incredibly tentative, soft, and barely there. You weren’t quite sure it even had happened, except Kylo’s look of absolute shock clued you in that it very much did. Then about five seconds later you realized that was probably Kylo’s first kiss. Ever. He doesn’t really get it at first- he’s stiff and awkward and at one point frustratingly blurted out ‘but what do I do with my hands.’ He’s much better now. Practice makes perfect after all, and let’s be real, kissing this man is a hardship you are more than willing to bear.

Love Confession: He wanders into your room one night, antsy and agitated and very thrown off by... something. You don’t know what, because he refuses to tell you- just paces your room clenching and unclenching his fists while you desperately try to figure out what’s wrong. Eventually, he faces you, bewildered, looks you dead in the eye, and says I love you- which spirals you into a cacophony of relief, giddiness, happiness, and laughter all in about five second’s time. While he’s looking put out from you laughing at him, you kiss him on the lips once... twice... and say, I know.

Marriage: He thinks he’d like to marry you someday. It’d be simple- you’d carry a bouquet of wildflowers, maybe with some braided in your hair as well. The rings would both be a beautiful smoky grey, and yours has a small piece of his kyber crystal set in the center. He doesn’t know who would be there... Hux? The two of you are friends. The people you work with... well, they don’t know about you. He knows it’s impossible, but he always pictures his mother there too, to give you away.

Nicknames: Kylo isn’t really one for nicknames. You call him Ky, love, babe when you want to get a rise out of him- but every so often, in the dead of night, when you’re half asleep and not quite sure if you’re dreaming it, he’ll pull you close and whisper my queen before pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

On Cloud Nine: Nobody knows. Not a single soul. Have you seen that man’s poker face? Hux and Phasma can guess something is up, but that something being ‘Kylo Ren in love’ is so far out of the realm of possibility that it doesn’t even make the top 101 Things That Might Be Going On With Ren. You think it’s hilarious, and also kind of sweet- he saves that side of himself for you and you only.

PDA: See the above. PDA is not a thing with him, for a multitude of reasons: he has an image to maintain, he doesn't want you to get hurt if potentially being used against him, he simply doesn’t know how to initiate such things. You respect his want for privacy- you don’t want to be rumor mill fodder either. But on the very few occasions you find yourselves out and alone together, you’ll give him a peck on the mask where his cheek would be. That’s enough for you.

Quirk: I don’t know if the Force counts as a quirk, but it definitely makes you laugh when he decides to do stupid party tricks in an effort to cheer you up (think Aang and his marble trick in A:TLA 😂). In the back of your mind, you can’t help but imagine him doing the same innocent magic tricks to the delight of your son or daughter someday.

Romantic: He’s romantic while having no sense of traditional romance. If you mention a favorite flower, there’ll be a vase of them in your room the next day. When you tease him for doing something sweet, he just looks baffled. “You said you liked these. So I procured some. You’re welcome?” The fact that he doesn’t get how much his gestures actually mean makes them that much sweeter.

Support: Kylo thinks you could probably end this whole war single-handed if they plopped you down in the middle of the battlefield. Not that he’d ever test that theory. But if someone has the capability of making him start thinking of things like a future, they have more power in their fist than he does with the entirety of the Force.

Thrill: Considering this is all still fairly new to Kylo, even something like kissing the back of his hand sends him into shutdown mode for a second or two. You’re taking it slow. It took him a whole two months to even get used to the idea of holding hands on the regular.

Understanding: Kylo worries this is an area he’s lacking in. What he doesn’t know is that he instinctively knows when you need a hug, picks up on your moods before you even know what that mood is, and often knows what you’re thinking before you say it. He doesn’t think highly enough of himself to say that he knows someone as wonderful as you so intimately, but the truth is he’s pretty much got you on lock.

Value: You are everything. If he knew there would be no repercussions, and you’d be safe, he would drop everything and move to that little house in the forest with you, War, Skywalkers, and Snoke be damned. At some point, he stopped fighting this war to rid himself of his past and started fighting it so that you and he might have a future.

Wild Card: You have a tendency to pull hair whenever you get really frustrated, so Kylo offered to let you play with his instead- obviously, you are infinitely more careful with him than you are yourself. This eventually morphed into you being able to craft Disney-princess-worthy braids and updos with his hair. Sometimes he’ll let you tuck a flower in it if he really wants to see you laugh.

XOXO: This poor man is touch s t a r v e d. The second you start being physically affectionate with him, he never wants you to stop- laying by his side, holding your hand, playing with his hair, wrapping himself around you. Not that anyone outside of the two of you would have any idea.

Yearning: You aren’t a Force user, but you’re connected to the point where when he’s away on a mission, he can send you a thought or a feeling to let you know he’s thinking of you. More than once you’ve felt the slight sensation of his fingers on your cheek or him walking beside you, even though he’s lightyears away.

Zeal: if you and Luke Skywalker were standing side by side, and he could only reach one of you, he’d grab you by the hand, start running, and never let go.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren fluff #abcs #abcs of kylo ren #kylo ren headcanons #kylo ren imagine #request #star wars request #star wars fluff

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brieannakeogh · 4 years

Text

Ambition, Butter, and Wine- Chapter 7

Ambition, Butter, and Wine- Kylo Ren x plus sized reader. Crack! Fic. You’re a new First Order recruit. Trained in the culinary arts at the top schools and they dare make you serve the common folk. What happens when you have the opportunity to serve Lord Ren?

Master List / Previous Chapter

Took so long to get another chapter ready! So sorry about all that. Also I think it’s pulling away from crack fic stuff. It’s still going to be funny and epic but I think more to cannon and changes to that.

Chapter 7

Still upset at him at dinner, you give him the cold shoulder. Which is perfectly fine with him as he reminded you that there would be consequences. In the morning at breakfast he tells you to be ready to head down to the planet Jakku, which you had never heard of. This time you are quiet for different reasons and he almost tells you to stay on board. He hadn’t ever seen you timid or nervous, other than you’re first interactions with him and even that you pushed through. He was confident that you could handle it and if not he would easily be able to protect you from the riff-raff on the surface.

Loaded onto the First Order transport ship, you double checked that your blaster was on your hip and your shoes were tied. You saw the subtle shake of Lord Ren’s head as you imagined tripping on your shoelaces and shooting yourself in the gut with your own blaster.

Thankfully that didn’t happen. The villagers looked like scattering ants below as you looked out the port windows. Once you landed and Lord Ren stepped out, chaos ensued. It was loud and gunfire was raining all around, mostly from the troopers to the unarmed villagers. You weren’t really in the mood for cold blooded murder but when some started firing at Ren, you saw red and were out for blood, or deadly burn wound, but that just didn’t have the same ring to it.

He let you take out your aggression on a few before he caught a blaster shot out of the air and pushed you back behind him. This one he captured. This was the one he came here for. This was the one that made him more grumpy. You sat on the sand beside Ren and glared at the man that thought he was so funny and charming.

You were quite proud of yourself after the whole ordeal. You hadn’t panicked, had actually fired and hit some people that had guns too. The important part is you didn’t freeze up, unlike that one stormtrooper that you saw walking back to the shuttle like nothing happened. Lord Ren cocked his head to the side and his helmet followed your eyeline, turning back to you. Replaying what you had seen in your head to the man beside you.

Back on board Lord Ren left you to your personal devices. You watched him stalk towards the ship’s bridge, admiring the way his cowell and robes flowed out behind him. Even if you were still a little upset with him, you could appreciate the way he walked away.

He seemed to be in a better mood at lunch, and even gave you a compliment. Well he said you were “adequate”, so you assumed that counted. You had just sat down his dinner when the ships alarms went off. The order to “Stay here.” was robotinized as he quickly threw on his helmet and left. You weren’t sure what was going on, but didn’t want to disobey orders, so you sat at the little table and waited, and waited, and waited some more.

It was several hours later that he came back and from the set of his shoulders, you could tell he was fuming. “What are you still doing here?” His words clipped and even with the voicecoder you could hear the menace he was invoking.

“I’m sorry sir but you told me to stay here, so I did.” His shoulders slumped a little and removed the mask. “Did you want me to reheat your food? I put the plate in the cooler while you were gone or I could fix you something else?”

He just shook his head and started removing his outer layer, throwing it on the small couch. “You may go.” You just nodded, not wanting to upset him further with your words, but before you could make it to the door he spoke again. “You were right.” It brought you up short. “The storm trooper, he defected and helped the prisoner to escape. On top of which we couldn’t even track them down on Jakku. Hux should just listen when I tell him to use clones, then things like this wouldn’t happen!” He sat heavily on the couch with his fingers pulling at his hair.

You slowly walk up to him and pry his hands away from his locks. “You shouldn’t be so rough with your hair. You wouldn’t be half as attractive without it. Then Hux really wouldn’t listen to anything you say.” He huffed out a startled laugh, not expecting your reply. Combing through his hair, you set it back to rights. “Why don’t I make us some comfort food? Was there anything you liked to eat as a kid?”

His eyes darkened a bit and he stood up abruptly. “No, just leave.” Walking into his bedroom and slamming the door. Sighing, you do as he asks.

On the way to your quarters you hear from the rumor mill what happened. What Kylo had told you was true. A storm trooper helped the prisoner escape, but what he really wanted was a little BB8 unit that also escaped Jakku with two fugitives. The disturbing part is the fact that the messenger to Lord Ren was force choked and is now in the medical wing, along with a whole section having to be closed from light saber damage. You decided at that moment you didn’t care what he said, you were going to make him something anyways.

An hour later you were walking back to his quarters with a tray full of all your favorites from childhood, along with some milk and cookies, because who didn’t love milk and cookies? You knock on his door when it doesn’t immediately open up for you. “Open please. I made you second dinner.” You knock again. “I made all...I mean my...well I just guessed what you liked. If you don’t open up I’m gonna sit here and eat it all.” The door opens then and you see him standing in his bedroom doorway in his PJ’s and wet hair.

“Of course you would eat it all, they are all your favorites.” He moves to the little table to sit as you start to unload the pile on, pulling out two plates.

“Don’t blame me. You refused to tell me what you wanted so I figured that most kids were alike.” He snorts at this. Pulling off the lids and setting out containers he looks questionable about a few dishes, but those were regional items and your mom wasn’t the best cook in the world, plus she liked to experiment, but you still craved it sometimes. He doesn’t comment when you take a seat beside him filling up your plate while he does the same. It’s mostly silent while you eat, other than the scrape of metal on ceramic. He finishes before you again and very unsubtle looks around like something is missing. “Can’t wait for me to finish before dessert?” Raising an eyebrow to him and you smile as he clears his throat, settling down, almost becoming deathly still. You get up, even with food left on your plate, to go heat up the cookies and pour the milk.

The plate is hot to the touch, but you make it to the table without burning yourself. Simple chocolate chip cookies set in front of him with a glass of cold milk. His shoulders slump a little more after each bite and you know he’s starting to relax a bit more. It’s at this time you want to know the truth. “Are we going back to the freezing world?” He ignores you and continues to eat the cookies. “I just need to know if we aren’t because I would have to change the food choice. I’m surprised they didn’t stock the kitchens enough.”

“It’s because of me. I told them we would only be gone a few days, but Hux fails along with Captain Phasma not sending that traitor to a mental reset!” His voice starting neutral before converting to harsh venom. The sound and clatter when his fist hits the table has you react startled, more so than the first time you met him. This time you weren’t in fear for yourself but in fear for him. Even though none of it had been his problem, and his failure, he was being blamed for everything. You could hear the talking whispers about what happened in the last few hours, the officers and troopers alike giving him the blame, not their superior.

This thought went straight through your head before you looked up to make sure he wasn’t reading your thoughts. His eyes locked onto yours and you knew he had. That he had seen all of the guilt people were placing on him. “I know already. They don’t matter, none of them matter. Snoke will trust me on this. He has to trust me...Regardless, I will fix it and learn what I need, even if I kill them all.”

“So do you think that will take one week or two?” He smirked at your confidence as you both went back to eating.

Next Chapter

Alright! Hopefully next chapter won’t take so long. I got to go back and watch the first movie of this thing so I can keep it close to what happens, at least at first. Let me know what you think!!

If you want to be added to the tag list let me know.

@stevieang, @albinotigerpython, @paintballkid711, @lilypalmer1987, @tnupsweetpie, @ebonyqueen-1, @mbaku-babygirl, @grandloser

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x plus size reader #plus size reader #kylo x reader #star wars fic

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oswald-hanciles-posts · 5 years

Text

THE OSWALD HANCILES COLUMN (July 25th 2019 edition)

PONDER MY THOUGHTS BY Andrew KeiliPRES. BIO: “THE REPORTS OF MY DEATH ARE GREATLY EXAGGERATED.” Who wants our President dead? Well, President Bio should not be unduly worried as he is in good company as we learn later in this article. The fact is that conspiracy theorists also abound.I, more than most people acknowledge that conspiracy theorists are in our midst. One of my uncles in my village of Baiima prevailed on my dad to open a shop for him. Unfortunately, he got his two rascally sons to run the shop, which obviously ran at a loss as things kept disappearing. He was made to believe by his sons that his neighbor across the road, another relative had “Indian magic” and made things disappear from the shop with a wave of the hand. This was the story line he had for us when we visited on holidays. The neighbour had one ear clipped off during an altercation with someone on the train, who chewed off one of his ears and the half ear was very noticeable. My uncle was explaining this “Indian magic” phenomenon to me on one occasion when the neighbour popped up in his front verandah in his “bobani”, yawned and stretched his arms up-obviously out of tiredness. “You see what I was telling you, Karmoh”, my uncle exclaimed. What?, I asked. He hid behind the door, peeped through a small door opening and touched his ear as if he was going to clip it- obviously calling my attention to the neighbor with the clipped ear. “Shhhh-He is signaling again. More things are going to disappear soon”, he tried to convince me. No matter what my protestations were, he kept insisting the neighbour had “Indian magic”. The poor neighbour did not even notice he had such powers! The sons emptied the shop in no time and that was the end of the business!The way some people try to convince others that the President is sick is worrisome. It has been going on for quite a while and more recently the rumour has got translated to death. There was a time when the rumour mill was rife with talk that President Kabbah had died when he was in office. President Koroma also endured “many sicknesses” and “near deaths”. But why do people wish our leaders dead? Why the false news and exaggeration? In May 1897, the great American humorist, novelist and social critic Mark Twain was in London. It was one of the stops on a round-the-world speaking tour he’d embarked on in 1895. He hoped to use the fees from speaking engagements to pay off the considerable debts he owed in the United States, due to a series of unsuccessful investments and publishing ventures. While Twain was in London, someone started a rumor that he was gravely ill. It was followed by a rumour that he had died. According to a widely repeated legend, one major American newspaper actually printed his obituary and, when Twain was told about this by a reporter, he quipped: “The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.” The story is also told of Northeastern University political economy professor Barry Bluestone who found himself quickly eating his words after publicly wishing death on President Trump. During a lecture about the rule of law and inequality in the U.S., Bluestone told his students, “Sometimes I want to just see him impeached. Other times, quite honestly — I hope there are no FBI agents here — I wouldn’t mind seeing him dead." The video was posted on YouTube, causing controversy for the private Massachusetts-based university. Northeastern quickly issued a statement to the Boston Globe condemning the video. “The university and its leaders steadfastly oppose violence in all its forms,” the statement read. ……As a result, we have decided to take down the video of this event.” Realizing that the university didn’t back him and that his 17-year career at the school may be at risk, Bluestone attempted to conduct some quick damage control, calling his comments “stupid”. "What I should have said is, ‘I would love to see him disappear, I’d like him out of the White House,’” Poland's leading Archbishop deplored comments by a senior conservative priest who had wished Pope Francis a quick death if he does not open to "wisdom." Krakow Archbishop Marek Jedraszewski said he heard about the comments with "great pain and regret". In his speech, Staniek, who is a prominent theologian, said he was praying for wisdom for Francis and a "heart open to the Holy Spirit, and if he does not do that, for a quick passage to the House of the Father," meaning death. He said that Francis has departed from the teaching of Jesus and was wrongly interpreting mercy as opening up to Muslims and allowing communion for divorced Catholics, who, according to the church, live in mortal sin and are not allowed communion. Nigeria has had its share of Presidential deaths and “exaggerated deaths”. From the reality of death for Sani Abacha and Yar’Adua to the constant rumours about President Buhari, the rumour mill has always churned. In the case of Abacha, one columnist quipped “Till now, we cannot tell with confirmed certainty if it was liver cirrhosis that killed Abacha or the mysterious “Indian escorts.” In Buhari’s case the President’s spokesmen constantly talked about his “annual vacation” and “medical trip” to the United Kingdom. As rumours swirled about the President’s death, one supporter wrote: “Those who want the President dead are malevolent souls who are still sore Buhari defeated their candidate in the 2015 election”.Let’s come back to our own President. Seriously, why would anyone want our President dead? Rumours have swirled a while about him not being well, only to find out that he robustly copes with his punishing schedule. It would seem this time the rumour went from sickness to death. The situation was not helped by the President’s spokesmen keeping mute on his whereabouts. Rumours were rife that he was in a hospital in London. When nobody could trace our President, the Deputy High Commissioner in the UK muddied the waters, lending credence to the maxim “silence is golden”. No doubt the Press release was puerile and further raised suspicions.The Release started with- “This is to inform all that our President Julius Maada Bio is very Well and Hearty. He is only relaxing and enjoying a little break from his very hectic schedule in London.”. She might as well have said “Our President is chilling!” It continued- “VP The Honourable Mohamed Juldeh Jalloh is holding the fort and he knows that the President is very well and fit and that there is nothing to worry about.”. Why for goodness sake was the VP brought into the equation? “There is nothing to worry about” reminds one of the Krio statement attributed to a thief -“Una lef me, a nor go run away”. Suspicions were further raised. Then the press release went for the jugular of detractors- “It is unfortunate that some people are still bent on spreading lies. It is unfortunate that the rumour is said to come from the High Commission. I can authoritatively state that it just a figment of someone’s imagination and nothing else.” Come to think of it, Governor Clarkson’s prayer could have come in handy here! Non-government commentators like Dr Sylvia Blyden seemed to tell us more about the President’s whereabouts in Kenya-with pictures and all, than any government spokesperson. Anyway, all is well that ends well. Someone said, “Being a good Catholic, he resurrected from the dead three days later in Kenya”. We were all pleased that our President was vacationing with his family in Kenya and even had time to discuss ways of promoting tourism and boosting trade between Kenya and Sierra Leone with the Kenyan President.The President’s media team has not covered itself on this issue with glory. There is nothing wrong for the President and family to go on vacation, especially with his recent punishing schedule of local and international travels. Many others have also legitimately questioned his spate of overseas visits with a coterie of government functionaries to a host of countries and wondered about the costs and benefits to the nation. This is always fair comment that his spokesmen have an obligation to address. A President is not judged by the number of trips he makes to foreign countries. There are legitimate questions to be asked-“Does he bring home the bacon?. “Is he running to stay in the same place?”. When there is a news blackout, the rumour mill takes over. Such rumour mongering may be a response to the failures of the government to properly communicate with people. When people cannot get reliable official information, they make up their realities and hawk them around until they acquire some truth value.One Nigerian columnist writing on such an issue opined: “Until our leaders learn to preempt rumours by making their health conditions public information, they will expend themselves putting out fires. In the post-truth world, rumours and fact-free truths travel the world without a visa and debunking them, unfortunately, sometimes assert their validity.”I wonder the point of rejoicing at someone’s death when none of us is beyond mortality. Death is one of life’s many realities. We must instead pray for our leaders. Nowhere is prayer more needed than for the leaders of our government and nation. Whether your prayer is for the President, Parliament or the Judges of our land, they need prayer support. Even our Policemen!No matter who is leading our country as President, we offer our prayers on behalf of his/her position. I rather like this prayer I have edited for our President after all this death wish. “Almighty God, thank You for our President who has pledged his life in service to our country. Give him a true servant spirit. Anoint him with the Holy Spirit’s power, that he might feel Your strength in every situation. Let integrity and honesty guide every decision as He first looks to You for divine help. Turn his heart from distractions and temptations that could bring harm rather than help to his life, his family, and to the people he serves. Make him a leader in every respect, morally and spiritually strong. Enlighten his mind with discernment, wisdom, and fairness. When others tempt him to embrace arrogant power rather than humble service, give him an undivided heart. Help him to stand firm, knowing that You will fight his battles with him. As You surround him with godly counselors, give him accountability to them and the people he serves, but first and foremost to You. Bless him with joy when righteousness and goodness prevail. But give him a heart that weeps for the injustices and sorrows around him. Guard our President against unfair criticism and unfounded accusations. When he stumbles, give him the courage to admit his mistakes. Strengthen his character, guard him against hurtful compromise, and give him a listening ear for the people he serves. In danger, surround him and our country with Your angel protection. From the time he begins in office until his time is complete, may he serve you and our country as a true leader with an undying love, an unswerving faith, and an unending hope in the only One who can make our country great.Amen” The death of our President is greatly exaggerated. Let us pray for him that he may lead us with discernment, wisdom and fairness. Ponder my thoughts lled from SLAVE SHIP-FREEDOM SHIP Group 1 forum ☝🏾Posted by Engineer Andrew Keili in SLAVE SHIP-FREEDOM SHIP Group 3 forum. (Engineer Andrew Keili has over 20 years as a mining engineer in the diamond and titanium industries in Sierra Leone. After the RUF rebels attacked the Sierra Rutile mining where he was working in 1996, Andrew Keili joined two other veteran mining engineers - Alex Kamara; and Tani Pratt - to establish the engineering consultancy, CEMMATS. CEMMATS has grown up to be incomparably successful in Sierra Leone; clinching engineering contracts in African and Asian countries; providing employment for hundreds of Sierra Leoneans over the past twenty years. Andrew Keili was an aspirant for the SLPP candidacy a couple of years ago. He failed there!Andrew Keili was Vice Presidential candidate to the candidacy of Kande Yumkella of the NGC in the 2018 presidential election. He failed there!!Methinks, Engineer Andrew Keili should just eschew politics and stick to writing where his talent obviously shines. I pause, Oswald Hanciles, The Guru. July 25, 2019 12:40 hours in Freetown, Sierra Leone When I grow up, I will want to be an excellent a writer as Engineer Andrew Keili!! Look for the three best Sierra Leonean writers today and Andrew Keili will be one of them. Andrew Keili is probably the best columnist in Sierra Leone today! (Of course, that does NOT include "The Guru" - of THE OSWALD HANCILES COLUMN - in that contest!!💪🏾💪🏾). Andrew Keili writes his wisdom, and profundity with captivating wit. 'Nar Andrew Keili wan grain normore sabi cuss man pan ee article dem and di cussed would applaud him! The downside of Andrew Keili's writings is that he is always too nuanced; using a surgeon's scalpel even when a butcher's axe would be necessary. But, then, what would you expect of this son of the first non-Krio bishop of the preeminent Krio church in Sierra Leone? I pause, Oswald Hanciles, The Guru. July 25, 2019 12:24 hours in Freetown, Sierra Leone

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