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thatsthewrongwallcraig · 4 days

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The Candlemaker

Summary: “He might’ve lost it now, Ma’am.” The Quartermaster informed you with a nervous hiccup in his tone, not knowing that he was about to throw oil into the fire.

Pairing: Edward “Ned” Low x afab!Reader

Word Count: - 3.2k

Content Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat 18+!, Canon Compliant Violence, Explicit Descriptions Of Torture (Not Towards Reader!), Talk About Scars/Scarring

A/N: Massive thank you to @ohlookapan for relentlessly listening to my somewhat demented, somewhat horny rambles about musty pirate men from a show you know nothing about.

Tagging: @queer-crusader

When is a monster not a monster?

Oh, when you love it.

Oh, when you used to sing it to sleep.

- Caitlyn Siehl

Although the night had fallen hours ago, the air hung so thick and humid, clinging to your skin just like a thin layer of sweat that always accompanied you, that you felt like you were able to just slice it, cut through it with a fancy, Stirling silver butter knife.

“Why am I doing this to myself?” The rhetorical question dripped from your lips like a spill of oil, slow and laboured, as you hunched your back just slightly, leaning down to submerge your hands into a vat of piss-warm water that had once held the faint idea of being cold in the morning, however, it still brought you a direly needed sense of comfort.

Even warm water felt better to you than sweat, coaxed from your skin by hot and humid air. Regular water didn’t stink, didn’t stick to your fingers and temples in such a displeasing way…it just engulfed you, being kind enough to take the accumulated dirt off your palms simultaneously.

Exhaling a low hum, you gingerly splashed handfuls of wet up to your elbows, careful as to not soak the sleeves of your blouse. The comforting sensation lulled you in enough for you to zone out for a moment, eyes falling out of focus as you watched the surface wave and swap against the basin's brim. You basked in it, the brief moment where not a single thought flitted through your mind and you found yourself perfectly well entertained by the playful splashing of water. The breaking light distorted the image of your hands beneath the surface to the point that made them nearly look normal, painted in a sun-kissed tint just like they should look. However, you were all too aware that they didn’t and although your eyes weren’t fixed on them, you could see the bright welts of old scar tissue snaking along your fingers and wrists in wide lines. A nearly continuous streak of pale and sensitive skin that still told about unimaginable pains you’d been subjected to by a particularly gruesome British officer years before you’d set up shop in Nassau.

Before getting way lost in musings of times long past, you redirected your attention to the nice feeling the water against skin created. Maybe you should just pour yourself an entire tub of water and lie down in there for the night; chances that you found some sleep certainly higher than in your bed surrounded by thin linen blankets and dusty velvet pillows.

What violently pulled you back into your own head was a stern knocking at your workshop's door downstairs. The sudden noise caused you to crinkle your nose and arch your brows in an uncomfortable flinch and at first you didn’t even consider answering it until it got repeated.

“A moment, please!”, You yelled loud enough for it to echo through drawn curtains onto the street before pulling your hands from the puddle of water and shaking the wetness from your wrists, “It’s 2a.m, I reckon you don’t come to buy candles, do you?”

“Mr. Holmes?” The familiar face of a man in his early 30s, features framed with an unkempt copper beard, looked right at you with a faint smile, feigning a modicum of decency and trying to hide the discomfort he was carrying in his chest after you’d swung the wooden door open.

“Mrs. Low, please excuse this disturbance at such an unsavory time. Just hours ago we returned to Port Nassau and I assume the Captain hasn’t been with you yet?” The red-haired man stammered clumsily, his eyes averting yours as politely as he possibly could.

“Correct. So much so, that I wasn't even aware the Fancy was back in the Port, Mr. Holmes. Now, what is there that you need from me at 2 in the morning?” You watched him pursing his lips in an awkward movement.

“We, uhm, we might be having a situation at camp.” The just recently appointed Quartermaster shrugged his shoulders.

“A situation? And what kind of situation might that be, Mr. Homes?” You inquired with spiked curiosity, interest thoroughly peaked by your husband's fellow crewmate showing up at your doorstep at this peculiar time of night.

“He might’ve lost it now, Ma’am.” The Quartermaster’s informal comment came so straightforward that it made you snort out in amusement.

“What’s Ned doing? Dancing naked at the beach?” Words failed to convey the comedic relief you wanted Mr. Holmes to experience since his posture turned more rigid by the second.

“Not exactly, no, Ma’am, I believe you might want to see it with your own eyes.” He pointed his head towards the street that led down to the harbor.

“Sure.”, You sighed, instinctively fastening the heavy leather holsters that dangled from the wide belt resting on your hips, “Please, go ahead.”

Mr. Holmes practically jumped at your request to lead the way, immediately turning to haste down the dirt road with you following suit, wondering what exactly was important or more likely unhinged enough to get you involved in things Edward and you tried to keep as separate as possible.

“Mr. Holmes, do you think it possible to enlighten me a bit about the nature of this nightly endeavor?” You quipped, a sense of amusement and curiosity inspiring your steps to come lightly, feathery almost.

“The Captain appears to be in a particularly foul mood today, Ma’am. We were supposed to anchor sooner, however, some quarrels within the crew delayed very much that.”, The man walking in front of you turned his head over his shoulder to answer to you in a lowered voice.

“Quarrels about what?” You’re brows arched up again, mind still wondering what might’ve pissed Edward off to a degree his crew felt like they couldn’t handle their own Captain anymore.

“The cook.” Mr. Holmes stated, not being able to hide the extensive rolling of his eyes from you.

“The cook?!” He nodded at you, shrugging his shoulders anew.

“Some men wanted to eat before setting course towards the harbor and others did not, impatient about getting to shore as soon as possible… most namely of those Mr. Low.” Both of you slowed down as the path between the houses turned rather steep.

“So? His ship, his crew, his decision, no?”, You couldn’t really fathom how a bicker over dinner could cause an uproar amongst grown men, “Nobody’s going to wither because of a missed meal.”

“Truly not, Mrs. Low, nonetheless, the cook and a not quite insignificant amount of men started cooking, effectively slowing the entire agenda down.” The Quartermaster's explanation pieced the puzzle together, making you sigh into the night.

“The cook’s fucked.”, Knowing the whims of your husband, the harsh statement was easy to utter, “Was his food any good, at least?”

Mr. Holmes shook his head, his upper lip twitching lightly as he briefly mused about the culinary selection on board the Fancy.

“Already hanging on by a thread then, hm?” Getting gradually closer to the shoreline, you picked up your pace, already seeing the torches and fire spots drenching the beach in flaming orange flickers.

“Doomed from the start one might wager.” The Quartermaster’s voice called after you as you passed him by in wide and swift steps, nearly jogging toward a bustling campsite.

The still warm sand creaked and crumpled underneath the thin soles of your sandals, making you wish you’d taken the time to step in a pair of proper boots as the grains got everywhere from between your toes to scratching against the bottom of your feet. However, you tried to ignore the mildly annoying sensation since much more pressing matters awaited right ahead.

“No, no, nonono, please. I beg of you, Mr. Low, Captain, please-” The muffled sobs of the poor soul who must’ve been the cook in question echoed right through the pile of people standing closely jostled in a half-circle.

It needed quite the amount of determination to squeeze yourself through the gathering of sweaty, dirty skin and equally rancid clothes, causing heads to turn to you whilst doing so.

“Mr. Hillock, Blake, can I call you Blake, hm?”, Your stomach did a little flip upon hearing your husband's voice for the first time in weeks, making the corners of your lips tug upwards just as well, “You possessed the audacity to act on your own behalf and against my request, my demand, my authority, Blake.”

In the very moment, you’d pushed yourself up to the first row of spectators, your gaze fell onto Mr. Hillock who cowered in the sand, tears, and snot running down his jaw as he stammered his words and panicked excuses, a truly pathetic display of thrashing regret caused by severely wrong decisions.

“Miss Landrake?” Of course, you’d been noticed right away and it had only been a matter of moments until someone opened up his mouth about it.

Landrake, you flinched a tiny bit upon hearing your maiden name, the one you used to keep the facade alive and the red coats in the utmost literal sense at bay.

“Who?”, One of the crew members spat before another one jumped in to answer, “Miss Landrake the candlemaker, you dense fuck?”

You tried to stifle your own laughter but couldn’t hold it back as you heard quite a few of the men snorting in amusement. Knowing that the overall attention had rapidly shifted toward you now, you couldn’t ride the edge of anticipation any longer for it buzzed away in your stomach with such intensity that you tethered on the threshold of throwing up in excitement; your eyes searched for Edward’s, who was towering above the sobbing and sniffling cook, a scrunched up cut of rope dangling from his hand.

You knew what he was about to do, no need for it to be uttered out aloud, and just the thought of watching this kind of very exquisite spectacle had your lips twitching whilst you tried to keep your expression as neutral as possible. Only very few of his men knew about your much more intimate connection with one another and for the moment, you just exchanged glances; some telling about quiet happiness and some searching for something to find purchase on how to go about this possible, rather brusque outing.

“Mr. Homes requested for my presence.” You explained to the mumbling and whispering crowd.

“And why would my dear Quatermaster do that?” Edward looked right at you, his good eye and the glass one staring right through you alike, as he fought himself to suppress a grin.

“Because…”, Said Mr. Holmes caught up to the scenery, palms pressed to his thighs as he gasped for air, “Be-cause… Ned, this is unreasonable and you know it as well as I do. I believe the highly valued opinion of Mrs. Low might hammer some sense back into your terribly thick skull.”

Immediately, the formerly somewhat quiet whispers broke into widespread murmuring.

“Hold on, he just said that’s Miss Landrake, from the candle shop.”, Jonathan, one of the newer members and presumably a few sandwiches short of a picnic exclaimed his confusion loudly, “That don’t make no sense now!”

“There’s a Mrs. Low?!” Another one hollered and the tall brute right behind you shoved hard enough against your shoulders for you to stumble into the inner circle. Well, there went the already fragile play pretend for good this time.

“Easy now, Mr. Matthews”, The moment your statue had started swaying, Edward pulled his heavy flintlock pistol at the gruff man, “Wouldn’t wan’ta waste a perfectly good bullet on you of all people.”

“Aye…” Mr. Matthews, who you weren't much familiar with, huffed behind you and took a step back, hands raised in a calming gesture.

“Good, now… since Mr. Holmes is so invested in de-escalation, why don’t we leave it to the Missus then?” Your husband waited for a reaction from his crew and after one of the men already had a pistol being pulled on him, nobody dared to boo at the suggestion.

“Ah, yes, the sound of democracy.”, Ned bellowed an erratic laugh into the cooling shore breeze upon putting the gun back into its holster, “Civilization, truly.”

The poor cook’s eyes shot right to you, expression pleading and a mouth that started to run a hundred knots an hour begging unto you for forgiveness.

“Please, please, Madame, you have to hear me out, please, I beg of you this is all just one big misunderstanding.” He rambled in between broken wails and sniffled cries but you paid it no interest.

You knew Mr. Hillock had chosen his fate the very second he’d stoked that tiny stove on board and started cooking against his Captain’s orders. If Edward’s mind was set on one thing, be it arriving at shore on his preferred schedule, he had to realize it without any minuscule alteration, and any change of plan was set to face his wrath, and wrath he dealt plenty.

“Save that breath.” You shushed him sharply, slowly walking over to your husband who traced your every move with his good eye.

He was watching, observing you, pondering whether or not you’d join in on the mayhem, ready to act in understanding for both outcomes. He sure loved when you did and this truly fine opportunity to prove your stand in this hierarchy of violent men practically left you salivating, plated on a silver dish like that.

“My god, Ned, that’s old wax, will hardly do you any good. See how that’s just flaking off!”, Letting your sly grin shine through eventually, you took the cut of rope from his grasp, allowing the rough yet partially greasy material to run through your examining touch a few times, “Let me fix that.”

What kind of incompetent candlemaker would you be without having some of your tools on your person at all times? They certainly came in handy in many a situation.

Eyeing the poorly soaked rope with pursed lips, you pulled a block of softly reddish wax from the leather purse on your wide, corset-imitating belt. The palm-sized pebble of soft-to-the-touch and lightly scented wax hailed freshly from the latest batch, commissioned by Mrs. Mapleton to illuminate and tenderly fragrance the brothel near the Port.

Although you found yourself well aware of the plenty pairs of eyes resting upon you, you took your time with the rope, letting it grate and chafe against the wax until every last fiber clung together, and in-between spaces were closed with a greasy film of rosy red.

“Here we go, that’ll burn proper!” Satisfied with your work, you slipped the wax pebble back into the purse and crouched to be eye-to-eye with Mr. Hillock, who was shaking and trembling in his sweat-stained linen shirt.

“You see, Blake, I’m inconsolable but I can’t help you here.”, You grasped at his already bound hands, starting to wrap the waxed rope around his wrists and through his fingers like your personal work of art, “From time to time, I do treat myself to the delicious thrill of talking back at my husband but you need to understand that I am in the position to do that and you, dearest Blake, are very much not.”

From the corner of your eye, you recognized Ned staring down at you, face beaming in a twisted and delightfully wretched sense of unfiltered adoration. You’d do everything and anything for one another, and scenes like those left no doubt about it.

“If Ned commands you to put down the potato knife because he wants to anchor at the Port, what do you do?” Your stare drilled itself into Mr. Hillock’s watery glazed eyes, fueling the terror thrashing in his ribcage.

“Did… did he do that t’you?”, He sniffled breathlessly, yet, the quiet uttering caught you off guard, “Did he do it? Fucking monster burn’d your pretty hands?”

For a brief moment, the crowd fell dead quiet, only the flames licking at damp wood crackling amongst the tense gathering.

“How dare you look at my hands with your filthy eyes?!” The words left your mouth in a cutting, shrill shriek that had some of Ned’s men flinching in shock, Blake shaking before you, whereas Edward’s demented grin only spread.

“Let’s try that again, Blake, shall we?”, Picking up on your hand gesturing to the side, Ned handed you one of the torches and you allowed the brightly hot flame to dance right onto the prepped rope, the layer of wax fueling it immediately, “What do you do when Ned commands you to put the knife down, hm?!”

At first, Mr. Hillock tried to shake his incapacitated hands vigorously for the rapidly spreading flame to die just as quickly but instead, the movement only fed it with more oxygen, making it all the worse for him. He screamed and wailed as the heat started to eat at the back of his hands first. You heard it; flesh burning, the low sizzle being carried to your ear by the salty breeze of the sea amongst Blake’s broken cries.

“Come on now, stay with me here!”, In an attempt to pull him back to the question you’d asked, you served the entire side of his face a firm smack, “That’ll all be over the very moment you answer to me.”

The slap pulled a wash of tears to gush from Mr. Hillock’s eyes but none of them led you to feel just the slightest hint of remorse or pity for subjecting him to this suffering. He disobeyed, he deserved punishment; the rules were simple, idiot-proof even.

“I.. I-”, Blake brabbled through snod, tears and drool dripping from a quivering bottom lip, “I- hmnnng, I putitdown! Dow’ !”

“There we go!”, You cheered, throwing your arms into the air before standing back up, pulling the brutalized cook with you, “Go on, make a run for it!”

You pushed him towards the shoreline, suggesting him to dash for the saving grace of softly rolling waves.

As you, alongside the crew and Edward, watched Blake stumble through the sand, a yawn slipped past your lips and you let your shoulders hang slack, a rush of exhaustion taking you by storm.

“Now that this matter is settled, I would prefer to excuse myself to the comfort of my own home again, gentlemen.”, You turned your head in the direction of Mr. Holmes, his expression clearly telling you about having lost all his admiration in exchange for gaining future compliance through plain fear.

He nodded quickly and so did the crew.

“And you might want to hurry or I’ll lock the door.” You threw at Ned accompanied by a sly smile before waving the bunch goodbye and turning on your heels to make your way back home, leaving the crowd to stand in in the sand, staring at each other in brutal silence.

#black sails #black sails fanfic #ned low #edward low #edward “ned” low #ned low x reader #ned low x you #tadhg murphy #hello and welcome on another episode of tam being hung up on characters nobody talks about 🥲

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headcanonsandmore · 5 months

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"All Alone (For The Holidays)", Chapter Three

Summary: Tegan and Nyssa explore the sights of Stirling. But the mix of the holiday atmosphere and their growing closeness may just help them realise some things...

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My apologies for the lateness of this chapter, everyone; I originally intended to publish this about a week ago, but I've been bedridden for most of the holiday period with a bug. I am thankfully up and on the mend now, so please enjoy this chapter despite the unfortunate delay (hopefully the extended length may compensate for the wait).

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Read on AO3.

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Tegan stirred slightly.

She was dimly aware that she was cuddled up against something, and that the something was very soft and very warm. As to what the something was aside from that, she had no idea. And found it difficult to focus her brain to think further about it.

Letting out a contented sigh, the Australian nuzzled closer.

‘Tegan…’ said a soft voice, gently. It sounded familiar. ‘…you might want to move.’

Tegan groaned, and nuzzled yet further into the softness.

‘Why…’ she mumbled, sleepily.

‘Because breakfast finishes at 9 and, while I do enjoy having your head nuzzled into my chest, I don’t want us to be late.’

Tegan’s eyes snapped open as she realised where she was, what she was doing, and who was speaking. With dawning terror, she moved her head upwards out of the softness she had been nuzzling against.

‘Good morning,’ said Nyssa Traken, with a giggle as she looked down at the Australian. ‘I take it you slept well.’

‘E-er…’ Tegan stammered, feeling her face burn. With a start, she came to the realisation that she was lying on top of Nyssa. Several very soft places were pressing against her, including one of either side of her head. ‘I… er…’

‘Not that I’m complaining, but you may want to move both your hands.’

Hands?

Tegan suddenly became aware that one of her hands was on Nyssa’s upper leg, while the other was on Nyssa’s side nearby her armpit, dangerously close to… to…

Tegan pulled herself quickly off Nyssa, becoming tangled in the duvet and landing with a bodily thud on the mattress next to her. It was already half-light, and weak sunshine was beginning to filter through the curtains.

‘S-sorry!’ she stammered, feeling her stomach churn with a lot of conflicting emotions. ‘I-I swear I didn’t mean to…’

‘Oh, no matter,’ Nyssa said, cheerfully, sitting up and flashing a smile. ‘You’re very adorable when you’re all dozy first thing in the morning.’

‘I… I… did I…’

‘I thought it best to wake you before your hands started moving places you’d been mortified about when conscious.’

‘Oh, no!’ Tegan put her face in her hands and groaned.

She could hear Nyssa giggling. A few seconds later, the mattress dipped slightly, as Nyssa got out of bed.

‘Oh, please don’t be embarrassed,’ Nyssa said, still giggling. ‘I consider it very flattering.’

‘That’s easy for you to say! You weren’t the one who… who…’

‘True, but it was rather enjoyable nonetheless. I’ll hop in the shower first, if that’s alright?’

‘S-sure,’ Tegan said, not trusting herself to look round.

‘Thank you.’

There was the sound of the bathroom door closing. A few seconds later, there was the sound of a nightie hitting the floor.

Tegan ignored the fizzing in her stomach, and sat up against the headboard. She picked up her book, desperately trying not to think about the woman currently having a shower barely a few feet away.

Rather enjoyable?

Oh, dear…

Tegan was still feeling a little flustered when she and Nyssa left the room half an hour later. The Englishwoman seemed completely at ease, but Tegan couldn’t ignore the butterflies in her stomach, mixed with a certain amount of fizz that refused to go away.

She had tried to take a cold shower, but she was frazzled nonetheless. Well, hopefully she’d feel better after eating breakfast. It was a little easier to be calm around Nyssa when the younger woman was wearing more than just a sheer nightie, after all.

Not much easier. But it was easier.

‘Ah, Mrs and Mrs Jovanka-Traken,’ said the middle aged man behind the front desk. He was tall, with long sideburns and a working class southern English accent. His name-tag identified him as “Benton”. ‘Breakfast is being served in the communal eating area’

Tegan goggled at him, but Nyssa simply nodded, smiled and thanked the man. Blinking quickly, Tegan stumbled after the Englishwoman.

Tegan was in a state of barely-disguised shock by the time she sat down.

‘M… Mrs and Mrs Jovanka-Traken?’ she whispered, after one of the waiting staff (a young man called Ryan) carefully poured them both a cup of tea.

‘They probably just got confused,’ Nyssa replied, apparently not remotely bothered. ‘I mean, most single women don’t share a bed in a bed-and-breakfast, do they do.’

‘Doesn’t it bother you?’

‘Well, I admit it is a change,’ Nyssa replied, taking a sip of her tea. ‘But it could be a lot worse. Yasmin was probably so tired that she didn’t write our individual surnames.’

‘I guess. Still…’

‘Tegan, it’s fine; please don’t worry about it. This isn’t just because you’re embarrassed about feeling me up during the night-’

‘No!’ Tegan exclaimed, cheeks flushing. ‘Will you please stop mentioning that?’

‘And miss out on you getting adorably embarrassed?’ Nyssa giggled, smirking. ‘Oh, all right; if you insist… Mrs Jovanka-Traken.’

Tegan relented, and let out a chuckle, before taking a sip from her own cup. It was hard to feel too embarrassed, given how utterly unbothered had been about it. A few moments later, their highland breakfasts arrived, and the two women spent a few minutes tucking in before they resumed talking.

‘So… what do you want to do today?’

Nyssa stared at her.

‘What?’

‘We’re stuck in Stirling for the foreseeable future,’ Tegan elaborated. ‘We might as well have a look around the city.’

‘I…’ Nyssa’s eyes had widened in confusion. ‘You… you want to spend the day with me?’

‘Well… yeah,’ Tegan said, feeling slightly bashful. ‘I mean, if that’s okay with you?’

Nyssa’s mouth broke into a wonderfully soft smile.

‘Oh, Tegan,’ she said, grey-green eyes twinkling. ‘That’s more than okay with me. You’re so sweet.’

‘N-no worries.’

‘Where shall we go first?’

‘Well…’ Tegan said, thinking for a moment. ‘I’ve heard the castle is supposed to be a worthwhile visit, so we can head there first. Then get some lunch, and afterwards maybe look around the shops.’

‘Wonderful!’ Nyssa exclaimed. ‘It’s a date!’

Tegan smiled, ignoring the spike in her heartrate at that description.

The castle was, of course, spectacular.

It had taken them both a while to walk up from the city centre itself, but the views were absolutely worth it.

The castle stood on the top of a large hill overlooking the city. There was the mighty Forth, snaking its way through the landscape and, in the distance, Tegan and Nyssa could make out the enormous stone tower of the National Wallace Monument. It was a fantastic-looking landscape, and Tegan had seen a fair few in her time.

Nyssa pulled out her phone, and immediately turned it towards Tegan.

‘Cheese!’

Tegan smiled, and Nyssa took the picture.

‘Oh, you look beautiful!’ Nyssa said, as she hurried over. ‘Look, see…’

Nyssa selected the photo, and looked up, only to see that Tegan’s eyes had not moved from her face.

The Australian blinked quickly and looked down.

‘O-oh, it looks good, yeah,’ Tegan stammered, before coughing. ‘Dunno about beautiful but-’

‘You are,’ Nyssa said, softly. ‘You are, Tegan.’

The cold wind whipped their faces, and the two women edged closer together. It wasn’t snowing much, but it was enough that Nyssa’s pale skin was tinged with a pinkness. Oh…

Nyssa smiled at Tegan again, and gestured over her shoulder. Nodding, Tegan followed her. They set off for the castle itself, heading through the large gatehouse which provided some shelter from the elements. Once they had entered the main castle itself, they found themselves warming up, and quickly took off their hats and gloves.

Normally, Tegan wasn’t that fussed about history, but Nyssa was clearly in her element. The Englishwoman had clearly been trying to hold in her excitement because, once they had started looking around, her eyes had lit up and she began discussing the history of the place.

Well, “discussion” wasn’t the right word, given that she was talking so animatedly and excitedly about it. It was more like staring into a very happy sun, and Tegan wasn’t remotely irritated.

In fact, when Nyssa stopped for breath to stare around the throne room they had arrived in, Tegan found herself unable to tear her eyes from the younger woman.

‘Tegan?’

‘Hm?’ Tegan grunted, blinking as she realised had said something. ‘Sorry; what were you saying?’

‘I was saying,’ Nyssa said, with a giggle. ‘that I hope I’m not boring you with my ramblings. I know I have a habit of…’

‘Infodumping? It’s all good,’ Tegan replied. ‘I think it’s amazing how you can remember all this stuff.’

‘Oh, stop it…’

‘I’m serious!’

Nyssa’s cheeks flushed red, and Tegan felt her stomach flip over.

Was this a date? The Australian wasn’t sure. She had been on a few dates in her time, but this was… different. For one thing, she was already sharing a room with this woman. She’d woken with their limbs entangled and her head in Nyssa’s bosom that morning, for goodness’ sake!

Not that she was trying to remember that, of course. Definitely not.

But when Nyssa was smiling at her like that, with her cheeks flushed and mouth stretched into a warm smile, Tegan found it rather difficult to think of much else aside from the wonderful woman stood barely a foot away from her.

They eventually arrived back in the city centre around lunchtime, rather hungry and cold, but cheeks flushed with exertion. They quickly made for a nearby café, ordered hot food, and sequestered themselves in a warm booth with two large cappuccinos.

‘Well, that was wonderful!’ Nyssa said, sighing contentedly as she cradled her mug in her hands. ‘Thank you for suggesting the castle, Tegan; I had such a fun time.’

‘No worries,’ Tegan said, smiling across the table at her. ‘Glad you enjoyed yourself; didn’t I say this would be a fun idea?’

Nyssa giggled.

‘And you were right,’ she said, but her smile then slipped and doubt crossed her face. ‘Did… did you enjoy it?’

‘Of course!’ Tegan replied, earnestly. ‘You’re so passionate about it; how could I not enjoy it?’

Nyssa’s cheeks pinkened slightly.

‘I…. thank you,’ she said, shyly. ‘Usually, people tend to switch off when I start getting excited about things.’

‘Those people are clearly not worth your time.’

Nyssa smiled.

‘Thank you, Tegan. For the record, you are absolutely worth my time.’

Tegan felt her heart well.

‘Nyssa…’ she said, leaning forwards slightly. ‘Everytime you talk about people not respecting you, it… oh, Nys…’

‘It’s fine, Tegan. I’m going to the Orkneys on my own,’ Nyssa said, softly. ‘Because there’s no-one else.’

Without thinking, Tegan reached out and gently squeezed Nyssa’s hand with her own.

‘There’s me.’

The grey-green eyes met the brown, and Tegan found her heart beating frantically against her chest.

Nyssa’s cheeks dimpled as she gave a gentle smile.

‘You really are too sweet, Tegan,’ the Englishwoman replied, quietly. The look of quiet sadness in her eyes was enough to make Tegan’s heart ache. ‘But I couldn’t ask that of you. You have family to see-’

Tegan squeezed her hand.

‘If I can’t come with you,’ she said, almost at a whisper. ‘Then can I at least make sure you have a good time here in Stirling?’

Nyssa blinked, tears forming in her eyes.

‘O-okay.’

They walked through the snow-covered streets. At some point, Nyssa’s hand found Tegan’s, but neither of them commented on it. Their faces were pinkened from the cold, so Tegan had no idea whether Nyssa’s face was also flushed as hers was.

She hoped it was, though.

Tegan’s boots gently crushed the snow underfoot as she followed Nyssa, trying not to stumble too much. The feeling of their gloved hands intertwined was rather wonderful; she almost wished it wasn’t so cold, so she could Nyssa’s skin against her own.

‘So… shopping?’

‘Alright. Do you have anything you want to get?’

‘No. This is your day,’ Tegan replied, squeezing the younger woman’s hand. ‘We’re here for you.’

Nyssa’s face seemed to flush deeper.

‘I don’t think I really need any new clothing.’

‘Nys,’ -and Tegan found herself again using the nickname- ‘Please. Just humour me.’

Nyssa smiled, cheeks dimpling again.

‘Oh, alright,’ she chuckled. ‘If I must.’

They found themselves in a shop selling a lot of various tartan things. It was obviously a touristy place, but Tegan didn’t really mind. It was hard to mind when Nyssa was gazing so intently around them.

Over the next fifteen minutes, Nyssa compiled a small bunch of things she wanted to try, and headed into the changing rooms. Tegan stood around nearby, looking in vague curiosity around her. She wondered how much the staff got paid during the winter season. Were they unionised? That was -she though, happily- becoming much more common nowadays, despite the difficulties of the retail sector. She nodded in greeting as a shop assistant emerged from the storage room door and came to stand behind the till area nearby.

There was the sound of curtains being slid aside, and Tegan turned.

‘How… how do I look?’

Nyssa was wearing a long tartan skirt. It was of a light burgundy pattern and swung as she walked out of the changing room. Her eyes seemed to glitter under the overhead lights, and her hair dangled softly off her shoulders onto her burgundy jumper. Seemingly oblivious to her own mesmerising quality, Nyssa fixed Tegan with a smile, and the Australian felt her mouth hang half-open.

Tegan could also suddenly feel her heartbeat in her ears.

‘Er… Tegan?’ Nyssa said. ‘How do I-’

‘B-beautiful,’ Tegan stammered, quickly. ‘You look beautiful.’

Nyssa smiled wider, cheeks flushed.

‘You… you think so?’

‘Course. I could hardly think anything else, could I?’

‘Tegan…’ Nyssa said, softly. ‘I… well-’

‘Oh, your wife looks lovely!’ exclaimed the shop assistant, smiling widely as they hurried over. ‘That pattern matches your eyes so well, ma’am!’

W-wife?

Tegan blinked hurriedly.

Nyssa bit down softly on her lower lip, clearly trying not to smile too much.

Tegan turned away, ostensibly to put her hat on but mostly so that Nyssa couldn’t see the wide grin threatening to overwhelm her mouth.

The sun had already set, and the city streets were covered in lights for the holiday season. Everywhere, people were excitedly discussing their plans, their arms weighed down with bags of gifts.

As Tegan and Nyssa headed through the crowded streets, they came across someone trying to hoist -was that a sofa?- into a van.

‘Martha, you alright on that side?

‘Almost… there we go!’

The woman called Martha high-fived the other woman and walked off. The other woman then turned, and Tegan realised that she recognised her.

‘Yasmin?’

‘Oh, hello,’ said the young Yorkshirewoman, wiping sweat from her brow. ‘How are you both? Enjoying your stay.’

‘Very much so, yes,’ replied Nyssa, with a smile. ‘Er… why were you moving what appears to be a gift-wrapped sofa?’

Yaz’s cheeks flushed.

‘Well… my partners always been on about getting a purple sofa so…’

Tegan and Nyssa exchanged a smile.

‘I’m sure they’ll love it,’ Tegan said, turning back to Yaz. ‘Your partner sounds a bit of a character.’

‘They are,’ Yaz said, smiling softly. ‘They’re… absolutely brilliant.’

Tegan and Nyssa smiled.

A good hour later, Tegan and Nyssa, sat back in their chairs, feeling just full enough to feel relaxed. They had just finished eating; the Italian restaurant they had found was rather lovely, and filled with the happy chatter of people looking forward to the holiday season. There were even a few tables clearly made up of work holiday parties.

‘Tegan,’ Nyssa asked. ‘Have you noticed how we keep getting mistaken for a married couple?’

‘Er…’ Tegan mumbled, feeling her stomach flip over. ‘Yeah. That… yeah.’

Nyssa giggled.

‘You don’t sound pleased about it.’

‘I am pleased!’ Tegan exclaimed, before realising what she had just said and feeling her face flush scarlet.

Nyssa let out another giggle.

‘Well, that’s good,’ she said, cheeks dimpling. ‘Because I am too. You’d make a woman very happy, Tegan.’

‘Thanks,’ Tegan said, quietly. ‘Er… have you enjoyed today, by the way?’

‘Yes,’ Nyssa replied, with a wide smile. ‘I’m very happy indeed.’

‘Oh. Er… good. Pleased to hear it.’

Nyssa reached across the table and squeezed Tegan’s hand.

‘Did you enjoy today?’

Tegan’s stomach did another flip.

‘Y-yeah,’ she stammered. ‘But it’s not over yet.’

‘True. Oh, the sales assistant in that shop gave me a flyer for something happening this evening, let me grab it…’

A few seconds later, she had passed the flyer over.

‘Fireworks, by the looks of it…’ Tegan said, before looking up to Nyssa. ‘Fancy watching?’

‘It does sound wonderful,’ Nyssa replied, with a nod. ‘Are you happy to?’

‘Oh, absolutely!’ Tegan exclaimed, grinning as she stood up. ‘C’mon, we can get some mulled wine on the way!’

Nyssa chuckled, and wrapped her fingers around Tegan’s outstretched hand. The Australian’s cheeks flushed slightly.

Tegan and Nyssa arrived at the venue for the fireworks. It was nearby the castle, with a view over the surrounding valley. The night sky was picturesque and filled with stars which twinkled softly. The snow crunched under their boots.

‘Look there,’-Nyssa leaned close to Tegan and pointed upwards-‘That’s Orion’s Belt, see?’

Tegan nodded, suddenly feeling her heartrate accelerate at the close proximity. She could practically feel Nyssa’s breath on her face, and could smell the beautiful scent of her hair, despite the woolly hat pushed down to just above her eyes.

The Englishwoman smiled in the half-light, and gave Tegan a squeeze around the middle. Tegan felt gooseflesh erupt up both her sides, and she returned Nyssa’s smile breathlessly.

Nyssa, who was apparently unaware of the effect she was having, put her hand down but continued to stand close, presumably due to the large amount of people around them.

There were a fair few people who had clearly been delayed on their train journeys as well, but the vast majority were locals.

At a platform a short way off, a man climbed up the stairs and stood with his arms aloft.

‘It’s Mayor McCrimmon!’ exclaimed a local nearby.

‘Good old Jamie!’ said another.

‘Welcome!’ exclaimed Jamie McCrimmon, smiling widely. ‘To Stirling’s Fireworks Display! Thank you all for coming along this evening, and we hope you enjoy it!’

There was a cheer from the crowd, and Tegan and Nyssa joined in with the clapping. After the noise had died down, Jamie McCrimmon turned around.

‘Ace, hit the starter!’

A woman in a jacket (covered in patches) grinned, and hit the button. She then hurried back and wrapped her arm around a pretty woman with long bushy red hair.

The fireworks exploded above them, and there was an admiring whoop from the crowd. The sky was suddenly full of explosions in all sorts of colours.

Tegan turned, about to comment to Nyssa about how beautiful the fireworks looked.

Nyssa was gazing happily into the night sky, her face reflected in the pink-and-purple lights from the fireworks above. Her grey-green eyes glittered in delight, and her mouth was formed into a wonderful smile.

Tegan’s words died in her mouth, and she felt her heart ache.

‘Oh, that was wonderful!’

Nyssa was smiling happily as she removed her hat. The two women had followed the rest of the crowd back down to the city centre, and had found themselves in a lovely pub in a back street. Tegan nodded, removing her own hat and following Nyssa through the crowd of merry people towards a quiet alcove.

A band were gearing up to play nearby.

‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ Tegan said, sitting down across the table from Nyssa. ‘The night’s still young; do you fancy getting some drinks?’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Nyssa replied, cheeks dimpling as she smiled. ‘I’ll have some mulled wine; hang on, let me get my purse-’

‘Nah, it’s fine,’ Tegan said, waving her hand absentmindedly. ‘You insisted on paying for the firework tickets, after all. Let me get this round, alright?’

Nyssa giggled.

‘Oh, how chivalrous, Mrs Jovanka-Traken.’

Tegan felt her face burn, but she couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. She stood up and headed across the room to the bar. After gently elbowing her way through the patrons who had already been served, she leaned against the bar and saw-

‘What the- Yasmin? What are you doing here?’

‘I work here as well,’ replied the young woman, with a smile. ‘I see you and your wife are having a nice time.’

‘She’s…’ Tegan began, before deciding it was too late to correct that mistake. ‘Yeah, we’re having a wonderful evening. Did you get that sofa home without your partner knowing?’

‘Eventually,’ Yasmin chuckled. ‘They’re super excited about finding out what their mystery present is gonna be. As for me, I’m mainly looking forward to having a little time off work and relaxing at home with the person I love, to be honest.’

‘I used to work in retail; I know the feeling.’

‘Thanks. So, what’ll it be?’

‘Two mulled wines, please.’

About a minute later, Yasmin handed over the drinks and Tegan paid.

‘Thanks, Yasmin. Happy Holidays.’

‘You too. Send my regards to Nyssa.’

Tegan smiled, nodded, picked up the drinks and headed back through the crowd. She gently set Nyssa’s drink down in front of her.

‘Thank you,’ said the Englishwoman, with a smile. ‘Cheers!’

‘Cheers!’

Their mugs gently clinked together and they drank.

‘Was that Yasmin you were speaking to at the bar?’

‘Yeah. She sends her regards. Although she still thinks you’re my wife.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ Nyssa giggled, with a smile. ‘However will I cope, knowing that people think I’m married to the delectable Tegan Jovanka?’

Tegan found her cheeks flushing.

‘I… I suppose I could the same about you.’

Nyssa’s own cheeks pinkened prettily.

They passed the next few minutes in silence, as they nursed their drinks. They could hear the band beginning to warm up.

‘Er…’ Tegan said, feeling a little awkward. She quickly downed the rest of her mulled wine, and drew courage from the cosy feeling it gave in her stomach. ‘Fancy a dance?’

‘I’d thought you’d never ask,’ Nyssa replied, face flushing slightly. ‘Yes, please.’

Tegan stood, took Nyssa’s outstretched hand and led her out of the alcove.

“There’s a story I’ve heard told… of an unfamiliar road…”

The two women stood up and began to sway in time with the music. Nyssa reached out and took Tegan’s hand in her own. The Australian could feel her heart welling with delight and exhilaration, oblivious to the world outside of her and the woman dancing barely a few inches in front of her.

“Cause I want to dance with a Highland girl… where the skies reach out for miles… I want to feel the breeze of the Hebrides on the far side of the world…”

The two women swayed faster, and the Englishwoman gave a happy laugh as Tegan spun her around.

As they came together, Nyssa’s face was now close enough that Tegan could see herself reflected in those grey-green eyes.

The song ended, and the audience erupted in applause, to which Tegan and Nyssa joined in. Had the song really ended? It felt like they had barely been dancing for a few seconds, but maybe that was because Tegan hadn’t wanted it to end.

The two women then headed back to the alcove. However, as they made to sit down, Tegan realised that Nyssa had not let go of her hand.

‘Oh,’ Nyssa said, looking upwards. ‘Look at that.’

Tegan’s eyes followed. Sure enough, it was a clipping of mistletoe, suspended to the ceiling above.

‘Yeah…’ Tegan breathed, softly. ‘I’ve heard it’s bad luck not to… not to…’

‘I’ve heard that too,’ Nyssa said, her cheeks flushing beautifully in the half-light. ‘Care to test it out?’

Tegan’s joy was clearly visible on her face, because Nyssa then gave a giggle and leaned forwards, pressing her lips to those of the awestruck Australian.

Nyssa’s hand came to gently rest on Tegan’s back, pulling them closer together. Tegan found that one of her own hands had ended up enmeshed in the back of Nyssa’s jumper, while the other had reached up behind her head, sinking into the soft tresses of the Englishwoman’s curls.

Their lips parted.

‘Wow…’

Nyssa giggled.

‘Indeed,’ she said, smiling happily, cheeks aflush. ‘That was rather wonderful, wasn’t it.’

‘Agreed,’ Tegan said, with a grin. ‘I think we ought to go ahead, just to make sure it wasn’t just a fluke.’

Nyssa grinned, and pressed her lips to Tegan’s once again.

Tegan closed the door behind them, and bent down to take off her boots. Nyssa was already removing her hat and coat.

Tegan placed her boots onto the mat, put her hat and coat away in the wardrobe, and then strode over to the bed, removing her jumper as she did so. This had been a wonderful day, she thought. She’d never imagined that she’d get to kiss Nyssa and her heart was still beating happily against her chest. Her stomach gave a shiver. But maybe the kissing had just been the emotions of the evening getting away with them. There was no way that Nyssa would be interested in-

There was the sound of a jumper hitting the bed nearby, and Tegan looked up.

Nyssa was stood at the foot of the bed, shaking her head slightly to move her hair out of her eyes. She was already undoing the buttons of her shirt and, a few seconds later, the shirt joined the jumper on the bed, followed by her trousers.

Tegan felt her mouth fall open, and she gazed in awe at the woman stood barely a few feet away.

Nyssa’s eyes met hers, and the Englishwoman’s cheeks seemed to flush. She began to fold her clothes neatly, and then crossed the room to pack them away and place her shirt on a hanger.

Tegan’s gaze followed her and, as Nyssa returned, her eyes were glinting in the soft light of the room.

A few seconds later, Nyssa’s underthings had also been discarded. The woman stood, pale skin reflected in the cosy light of the room, and smiled shyly.

‘Can… can you pass me my nightdress?’

Dazed, Tegan nodded and picked up the requested item, which she held out to Nyssa. Nyssa moved her arm, and her fingers skimmed softly along Tegan’s arm, sending gooseflesh along the Australian’s skin.

The nightie fell limply from Tegan’s hand, landing softly on the floor with a gentle swoosh.

Neither woman made any attempt to pick it up.

‘Enjoying the view?’ Nyssa said, very softly, cheeks flushed as she stepped closer. Her hand came to rest on Tegan’s waist.

‘Er…. you could say that, yeah.’

Nyssa giggled, twirling a curl of brown hair over her ear with her other hand and looking at Tegan through her long eyelashes.

‘S-sorry, I’m being a perv,’ Tegan stammered, bolting past Nyssa and stepping over to the wardrobe. She placed her jumper onto the shelf inside. ‘I’ll just get changed in the bathroom and-’

But, at that moment, Tegan’s mouth promptly forgot how to work, because Nyssa stepped up behind her and slid her arms around Tegan’s waist. The Australian was suddenly aware of two very soft places pressing gently into her back, and the smell of Nyssa’s engulfing her senses.

‘You’re not being a perv,’ came Nyssa’s voice, barely an inch from her ear. ‘You’re being wonderful, as always.’

Tegan gave a giddy breath, heartrate accelerating.

‘Too much?’ Nyssa whispered, into her ear. ‘I can stop if you-’

‘N-no, it’s fine,’ Tegan replied, eyes fluttering shut as Nyssa gently began to press kisses to her neck. ‘I… ooh…’

‘I can go as slow as you want,’ Nyssa breathed, softly. ‘If I’m pushing you too hard, just say the word and I’ll stop.’

‘I… I don’t want you to stop,’ Tegan replied, scarcely able to focus on anything aside from the feel of Nyssa’s lips against her skin and the way Nyssa’s hands were already beginning to slip under the material of Tegan’s trousers. ‘K-kinda the opposite, to be honest…’

‘That’s good,’ Nyssa said, before inclining her head and softly pressing her lips to Tegan’s.

The kiss was long, tender and immensely delicate. Tegan felt as if her feet were levitating off the floor. With a soft thud, Tegan’s trousers descended to the floor.

One of Nyssa’s hands began to gently slip inbetween the buttons of Tegan’s shirt.

‘Can… can I…’

Tegan nodded, breathlessly.

Nyssa’s skilled hands began to work at the buttons and, a few moments later, the garment lay at Tegan’s feet.

Tegan turned around, and wrapped her arms around Nyssa’s waist. Her stomach fizzed excitedly as the younger woman pressed their bodies together. Their lips were hungry as they met, and Tegan felt Nyssa’s hands slip down her back, working the clasp until the material relented. As the undergarment was discarded over Nyssa’s shoulder, the Englishwoman’s hands slipped further down Tegan’s back, eventually slipping under the thin material of her knickers and sinking into the soft flesh of her-

Tegan moaned against Nyssa’s lips, and the Englishwoman seemed to take strength from this, her tongue slipping inside Tegan’s mouth.

Tegan’s legs gave a shudder.

‘Beautiful,’ Nyssa whispered, her eyes sparkling as her pulled back. ‘Utterly beautiful.’

‘I could say the same of you,’ replied the Australian.

Tegan leaned forward and pressed her lips tightly to Nyssa’s.

The two women, kissing as their lives depended on it, stumbled across the room back to the bed. They landed on the duvet with a gentle thud, and Nyssa slipped her hands around the thin material of Tegan’s knickers, pulling them off with a fluid motion.

‘Oh,’ Nyssa said, with a wide happy smile. ‘Well, I must be doing something right.’

‘T-that’s an understand,’ Tegan stammered, breathlessly, as Nyssa straddled her thighs. Their lips met. God, this was amazing! This was incredible! This was-

As one, Tegan and Nyssa’s phones beeped.

The two women shared a quizzical look. Nyssa climbed off of Tegan, and they both reached for their phones.

Your previously-halted train to Aberdeen will be departing from Stirling tomorrow morning at 9.15am.

Tegan felt as if the bottom of her stomach had fallen out. Looking up, she saw that Nyssa’s face had gone oddly slack, as if trying to disguise her own shock.

‘Nys…’

‘Yes, Tegan?’

‘I… given that this is our last night in Stirling...’

Nyssa nodded.

‘What…’ Tegan said, slowly. ‘What do you want to do?’

Nyssa leaned forward, pressing their lips tight together again. Her tongue slipped inside, tenderly. Tegan gave a moan against Nyssa’s lips, and the Englishwoman pressed herself closer. Tegan could feel a lot of very soft places pressing against her. Her stomach began to fizz more and more intensely, and her heart was pounding in her ears.

Nyssa gave Tegan’s rear end a squeeze as she pulled back slightly, her eyes hungry as she stared into Tegan’s brown orbs.

‘I want to make some memories with you.’

Tegan nodded, pressed her lips to the Englishwoman’s, and their bodies melted together within the small confines of the room.

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

Thanks for reading, everyone; hope you enjoyed this chapter! I really wanted to highlight the cosiness and softness between Tegan and Nyssa, so hopefully it came across that way. Happy holidays, everyone!

#'all alone (for the holidays)'#doctor who fanfiction #tegan jovanka #nyssa #nyssa of traken #tegan/nyssa #nyssa/tegan #tegan x nyssa #nyssa x tegan #indestructible #heathrow scientific #tyssa #happy holidays

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riley1cannon · 7 months

Note

Trick or Treat! Thank you 🎃🎃

Yay, thank you! Here you go, a little bit of a BBC Sherlock/ACD canon mash up fic I started once upon a time, and occasionally think about completing. It was meant to be for Halloween, in fact, with thrills and chills (so I hoped), so it seems appropriate:

Sid sat up straighter and reached for the pile of documents he had deposited on the table among the tea things. “They are, yes. Don’t you see, Dr. Watson, these faux societies modeled themselves after the Société des Corps D'elite. The Société des Corps D'elite is who the Illuminati and all the others aspire to be. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” Sid earnestly appealed to them both, and there was something so authentic in that gravity of manner that Sherlock almost wished he could believe him, “I realize what I’m telling you sounds fantastic but if you would only look at my evidence,”—here came another sheaf of papers, some typed, some handwritten notes, all stapled and clipped together—“you would understand. Here,” he pulled one document free and held it out, “just look at this. It clearly shows the connection between the Society and the Hellfire Club--”

“No.” Sherlock held up a hand to forestall him. He had heard enough now. “No. We have gone from cryptids and sacrificial rites to Spring-Heeled Jack and the Illuminati, and now arrive at Sir Francis Dashwood and the Hellfire Club? No, enough.” He extended a long arm, finger pointed at the door. “Leave, now.”

“Mr. Holmes--” Sid stood and began to gather his papers and books. He dropped some, and then dropped some more as he stooped to retrieve the first batch. “Mr. Holmes, you are making a terrible mistake. This is real. You must look into it.” He continued to implore even as Sherlock escorted him to the door. “Culverton Smith and Grimsby Roylott are the Society’s most treacherous agents but Baron Gruner’s up to his neck as well, and--” He broke off then as though he finally grasped his failure to make a convincing case. Disappointment and a kind of fatalistic resignation crept over his expression as he murmured, “I expected so much more of you, Mr. Holmes.”

Unaccountably stung by that last comment, Sherlock shut the door firmly as Sid Persano took his leave at last. He waited a moment and then crossed quickly to the windows where he plucked aside a curtain to watch as Sid emerged from 221 and stood, hapless and forlorn, on the sidewalk. As John came over to join him, Sherlock asked, “Is this where you tell me that was a bit harsh?”

“Thought that could be taken as read.” John peered out at Baker Street where Sid still lingered, shifting his bundle of papers and books. “He does need help.”

“Consulting detective is not a term synonymous with psychiatrist.”

“And just because someone has an irrational obsession doesn’t mean they can’t be in real danger.”

No, no it didn’t. And Sherlock couldn’t deny that the one thing that had rung crystal clear and authentic throughout the entire interview was that Sid Persano was profoundly afraid.

And because I feel extra generous (and am bemoaning that once again I didn't have anything to post for Halloween), here's a preview of a fic I dearly do want to complete one day:

~Vampires of Gotham~

Klarion the Witch Boy was infuriated...

“Pfft!” He spat at the television screen as the local news carried on with its coverage of Casey Stirling’s appearance in Gotham City tonight. Author of the inexplicably popular Grymwood Chronicles, this Stirling woman was scheduled to do a book signing at the Page Turners book shop where her latest volume of hackneyed paranormal twaddle would make its debut.

Would Eden Cordray, tortured vampire with a soul, finally proclaim her love for dashing adventurer/inventor Ransom Wingate? If she did, how could Eden ever resist the temptation to turn Ransom and keep him at her side forever? What of brooding and beautiful Father Alexi, torn between devotion to God and the charms of that femme fatale of a sorceress, Isidora Thane? Had the twins, Verity and Jack, finally unearthed the truth of who had murdered Professor Farradine two books ago, and why? And could the true mastermind behind everything be quiet and unassuming Cecily Dillane, everyone’s best friend and confidant, keeper of all the secrets?

Not that Klarion cared a whit. He had neither read any of the novels nor watched the equally successful films based upon them. His knowledge had been gathered as he lurked on fan sites filled with endless chatter on these and many other matters. The sheer minutia of these fans’ obsession often came near to driving him mad. To gain some relief, he sometimes responded to their postings anonymously to correct misconceptions about sorcery, vampires, or the djinn, or simply to point out how thoroughly feeble minded they all must be, always in an ultra-supercilious manner so as to guarantee the most dramatic hissyfits and demands that he go be a troll elsewhere.

This amusement had its limits, however, and as he watched the zealous acolytes of Casey Stirling lined up outside the bookstore, many of them costumed so as to mimic a favorite character, Klarion felt a powerful urge to do something far more profound.

“What eldritch horrors should we unleash upon them?” he murmured as his cat, Teekl, curled itself around his shoulders and purred a suggestion into his ear—a perfectly wonderful, awful idea that made Klarion rub his hands together and smile with a glow of pure malevolence. “Yes,” he said as he warmed to it. “They dote upon these romantic incarnations of supernatural terrors but how would it be, eh, if the real thing walked among them?” This could make for glorious mischief indeed!

“Come, Teekl, we have work to do…”

~*~

“Spoilers, Master Timothy,” Alfred warned as the boy persisted in skimming through The Necromancer’s Notebook. “We shall uncover its secrets soon enough,” he added and hefted his own copy as they edged ever closer to the front of the line.

Tim closed the book with noticeable reluctance. “I know I’m right about Cecily,” he said.

“We shall see.”

Tim flipped to the back of his copy again, this time to check the page count. “Eight hundred and seventy-five… You know I can’t go online again until I’ve read the whole thing,” he said, a fretful note in his young voice.

“We shall apply our best efforts to the endeavor, never fear.” Where some books with such an inflated page count could easily be trimmed by at least a third and be none the worse for it, Miss Stirling was the rare author who truly delivered what was commonly known as bang for the buck. Alfred would not find it a chore to keep pace with Tim’s literary marathon.

“I still think you should have dressed up,” Tim said as he tugged at the collar of his own neat cassock, a twin to the one worn by the tortured priest, Alexi. “With your chauffeur's livery and a really cool pair of goggles you’d be just like Zedekiah Zane.”

Alfred appreciated the comment. Zedekiah was, after all, the most trusted confidante of Ransom Wingate. “Alas, I fear my cosplay days are long behind me, Master Timothy,” Alfred said and cast a look about at the colorful array of steampunk gothic adventurers, vampires, scholars, sorcerors, and others too numerous to catalog, “Besides, this family dresses up quite enough as it is.”

#hallowe'en #bbc sherlock #acd canon #dceu #klarion the witch boy #tim drake #alfred pennyworth #and yes there would have been eventual superbat in case anyone wonders

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scotianostra · 10 months

Text

July 20th 1304 saw the Fall of Stirling Castle.

Edward I of England laid siege to the Castle as part of the the Scottish Wars of Independence.

Stirling was, and indeed still is a formidable castle and the Scots were holding out so Longshanks ordered the building of the trebuchet or as it became known “The Warwolf” the work on it commenced within sight of the castle walls. According to medieval sources five master carpenters and 49 other labourers were given the task of constructing this siege weapon, the biggest of its kind ever to be built. It took three months to finish it and according to modern estimates, the trebuchet would have risen to a height of 300 to 400 feet. It could effectively raid stones at a wall 200 yards away, hurled at a speed of 120 miles per hour.

Witnessing the construction of such a mammoth trebuchet, it is claimed the Scots tried to surrender to Edward but Edward sent back a part of the Scottish garrison into the castle so that he could still test his trebuchet’s prowess.

When used against the Stirling castle, the trebuchet destroyed the gatehouse and was as formidable in its use as its size. Given its size, it could toss stones of up to 300 pounds in weight which, when thrown against the Stirling Castle, effectively demolished the parts of the curtain wall where they hit.

Other mentions of the trebuchet is that Edward ordered the payment of 10 shillings to the workers and the overall construction of the trebuchet itself cost upwards of 40 pounds, and of another worker being paid for guarding the material used to construct the trebuchet. Apart from these, no detailed mentions of the weapon exist nor are any remains of it today, not surprising as it would mainly have been made of wood and to e moved elsewhere it filled up to 30 wagons.

Stirling would remain under the occupancy of the English until 1314 whem it was surrendered after Bannockburn.

#scotland #scottish #history #stirling castle #edward i #longshanks #england #the first war of scottish independence

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 3 months

Note

16 - daybreak for Diana or Frankie, please?

I'm beginning to realise I have object permanence issues when it comes to my ask box because I COMPLETELY forget there's stuff in here so I'm sooo sorry this took so long to answer! I've gone with Diana for this one, and for context, this is set the morning after the events of Chapter 7!

The sudden squawk of a gull on the windowsill woke Diana with a start, sucking a quick breath of air in through her nostrils as she bolted upright, months in the desert ensuring she was alert the very moment she gained consciousness. Her temples throbbed with the steady emergence of a hangover, and Jas was still sleeping soundly on the opposite couch. She snored, but she'd never tell her - she'd just deny it anyway.

Diana groaned, pressing the balls of her palms to her eyes as she adjusted to the sudden light of dawn. It was barely daylight outside, but the rising sun was at just an angle that it shot a beam of warm, golden glow straight through the curtains, the yellow tide skirting across the floorboards. Someone was snoring loudly in the next room and she let out a chuckle, more at the mental image of Reg, Pat and Kershaw sharing the guest bedroom than anything else.

Pushing herself up off the couch, she muttered a curse at the creases that had been firmly carved into the silk of her dress, crumpled with the effect of a good night's sleep. Glancing downwards, she struggled to suppress a snort at the stark red lipstick stain that she'd left streaked across one of Stirling's expensive cushions, a testament to her unwelcomed intrusion.

The butler was going to be furious.

#oc: diana #one word prompts

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regseekings · 10 months

Text

small snippet, unconnected from i wonder if the stars regret me for the Dragon Age AU

feat. a recovering Eoin and an entirely too gleeful Sadler, on top of a Skyhold fortress wall. For those keeping score, this takes place during Dragon Age Inquisition's timeline, but you don't really need to care.

9:40 Dragon

Eoin leans back on the sun-warmed stone, flaking lichen gritting beneath the skin of his palms. He half-closes his eyes, breathing deep. From one of the open tavern windows, the bard Maryden’s voice is rising prettily, something high and sweet and sad. The sky is too blue, he thinks, as the song drifts over him, too blue and too wide and too open to let the delicate artistry of melancholy touch him today. There will be time enough again for all that, and he is too familiar with how the cycle of it all moves now to think that it will be anything other than sooner than he might wish.

Paddy has been gone for almost a week now, and it is strange how strange it feels. They have not been parted so long since they met. He tries to picture what they must be up to now, Paddy and Stirling and Kershaw and the rest, on their way to Val Royeaux, but then his heart thumps jaggedly and he decides he will not think on it more. He rubs his hand over his still-aching hip and stays exactly where he is.

Footsteps behind him, and a shock of blond hair appears in his peripheral vision.

“Good spot for some languishing,” Sadler says, cheerfully. He hoists himself up on the wall next to Eoin. “How sorry for ourselves are we feeling today?”

“Lasa adahl su nar masa,” Eoin says, though he doesn’t bother to try and put any venom behind it. Sadler just grins.

“Seekings taught me that one the day we met. Also it sounds dreadfully uncomfortable,” he says. “So I don’t think I will.”

Eoin shakes his head, unable to stop the smile forming. “I am not languishing,” he says. “I’m just-” He frowns, jaw jutting forwards.

“Bored?”

“Fucking bored.”

Sadler hums and digs a hand into a pocket, before producing from seemingly nowhere a slightly squashed looking bun. His quick fingers tear it in two and he tosses half to Eoin, who catches it reflexively. He looks at it dubiously.

“It was only in there for a minute,” Sadler says, voice already sticky. He sounds vaguely affronted. “Had to sneak it out of the kitchen. They’re getting wise.” He sucks his tongue across his lip, chasing crumbs. “Sera’s fault you know.”

Eoin worries a piece of icing from his own portion and lets it melt, lemon-sweet on his tongue. “You don’t think it might have something to do with your affection for stolen pastries?”

Sadler sniffs. “You can be absolutely ridiculous sometimes,” he says. “Anyway, I need a favour.”

“From someone so ridiculous?” Eoin takes another bite. “You must be desperate.”

“Quite so,” Sadler agrees. He shifts on the wall, lifting his knees so that he is sitting cross-legged opposite Eoin. His face is twisted into a grimace, but even in the small pantomime of despair, there is no mistaking the flash of mischief that peeks out from somewhere behind the curtain. “But then you know what they say about beggars and choosers.”

“Flattery isn’t your strong suit, is it?” Eoin says. Sadler shrugs.

“Never really saw the need. Are you in?”

“Do I get to know what this is about first?”

“Yes, it’s about you being bored and me needing a hand with something.” His voice lowers, a touch dramatically, Eoin thinks, but the effort is appreciated. “Something I would prefer if we don’t let Commander Cullen know about.”

Eoin’s eyebrow raises. Sadler’s teeth gleam as he bares them, sucking in a whistling breath.

“Or…. Fraser,” he adds, more slowly, considering. “No, I don’t think he’d approve either.”

Eoin swallows the last of the bun and licks sugar from his thumb. His hip twinges again and he stretches his foot to the floor, pressing down with a gentle, soothing pressure. If Sadler notices, even his expressive face does not betray it, and Eoin is grateful for that.

“Fuck it,” he says, letting his own voice tighten into a conspiratorial stage-whisper that seems to set Sadler cackling with now-unhidden glee. “I’m in.”

#sasrh dragon age au #eoin mcgonigal #mike sadler #dalish eoin #dwarven sadler #sas rogue heroes #sas: rogue heroes

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just-barrow · 8 months

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day 6 of @almost-a-class-act's War Is Helloween prompts!

SAS: Rogue Heroes - David Stirling/Doctor Gamal

Invited to a weekend at a cabin in the woods OR the car breaks down on a dark country road.

Asim adjusted his backpack as he trudged through the thick layer of dried leaves covering the path to the cabin. He had been to the estate before, sitting through a very uncomfortable family dinner before David had hurried him up the stairs and into his room, where they had spent the rest of the evening making out and drinking their way through Mr. Stirling's stash of expensive alcoholic beverages.

This time, David had asked him to hang out at a cabin on the estate for the weekend. It was located deep in the woods, but David had assured him that there was electricity, running water, and a fireplace. Asim didn't really care; he was just happy to have found some time in his busy schedule to relax far away from the hospital and his duties as a doctor. He loved his job, but vehemently hoped cell service was horrendous out here.

David greeted him from the doorway, puffing away on his pipe and wearing a woolen vest. Asim scoffed. David Stirling was a pretentious arse and the oldest young man he knew and he was disgustingly fond of him.

"That's going to kill you," he said conversationally as he kissed him hello.

David leaned back against the doorway. "I have an excellent doctor."

The cabin was wonderfully old-fashioned, filled with wooden furniture and hunting trophies, the warmth from the fireplace chasing away the chill that had settled in Asim's bones on his walk over. David made him tea, and they curled up on the sofa.

Darkness had rapidly crept into the days over the past month, and as the trees blocked out the remaining daylight the cabin had gone completely dark long before dinnertime. Asim enjoyed the cozy atmosphere as they ate, but he'd watched enough horror movies for it to also creep him out just a little bit. He felt watched by the dead eyes of the hunting trophies. The sound of the occasional branch tapping against the windows also did not help.

Not wanting to be alone, he casually followed David around the cabin as he puttered around.

Apparently he wasn't being very subtle about it.

David smirked at him. "Relax. I've stayed here many times before, and not once has someone tried to murder me with a hatchet. Not yet, at least."

A twig snapped outside, and Asim gave him a pointed look.

David shrugged. "Wind. Old trees."

"Hatchet murderer."

"Tomato, tomato." He poured Asim a drink.

They returned to the sofa, and Asim felt himself relax aided by the alcohol and the fire and David's mouth on his neck. The noises outside faded to the background, and he hummed happily as he slowly sank back into the cushions with an enthusiastic David in his lap.

Something scratched at the front door.

Asim froze. "I heard something."

"Falling branch," David mumbled against his collarbone.

The noise had stopped, and Asim's focus was slowly returning to David when something heavy seemed to fall over right outside their window.

"David."

"There's nothing there."

More scratching, at the back door this time.

"It's moving around the house." He was really trying to stay calm and rational, but there was definitely something outside.

David looked at him, exasperated. "It's the wind."

Suddenly, Asim bolted upright, nearly knocking David to the floor. "What the fuck was that." He could have sworn he saw something big moving outside through a gap in the curtains.

"Fuck's sake. If I have a look, will you calm down and let me ravage you like god intended?"

Eyes wide, Asim watched as David put on a coat and yanked open the back door, muttering something about city boys under his breath as he stepped outside.

A few minutes passed, agonizingly slow. What was taking him so long? Asim got up and moved a little closer to the back door. "David?"

There was a loud crash from the back porch, followed by an eerie howl.

"Shit, shit, shit." Were there wolves in Scotland? Asim had lived in cities his entire life, fuck if he knew. The largest wildlife he had experienced was a fox trying to raid his bins. He quickly checked his phone. No service. Shit.

For a moment all was quiet, and then he heard David moan outside.

"Shit." His doctor's instinct kicked in. He had to help him. His heart hammered in his chest as he frantically looked around for a weapon, thinking a cabin filled with hunting trophies must be full of them, but all he could find was the poker from the fireplace. It would have to do. He held it in front of him, knuckles whitening as he carefully tiptoed his way to the back door. He slipped outside onto the porch, wielding the poker. David was nowhere to be seen.

Then he looked down.

David lay sprawled at the bottom of the porch steps, covered in leaves, a big chocolate brown labrador excitedly wagging its tail and licking his face.

Asim's shoulders sagged with a combination of relief and exasperation. "I told you there was something outside."

David grinned up at him apologetically. "It's just Vincent."

"Vincent?"

"Vincent Van Dog."

Asim pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus fucking christ."

"He's very attached to me." A beat. "I think I've twisted my ankle."

"Of course you did."

They slowly made it back up the steps, David leaning on Asim and Vincent bouncing along next to them. Once he had deposited David on the sofa, Asim went looking for something cold to put on David's ankle. As he knelt in front of the freezer, Vincent came over and sat down next to him.

"You gave me a fright, mate."

Vincent tilted his head, ears flopping, and put a paw on Asim's knee.

"Yeah, it's alright." He gave him a pat on the head.

Satisfied that his apology had been accepted, Vincent bounced back up to all fours and padded over to the living area to lie down next to David.

Asim chuckled to himself and grabbed a bag of frozen peas.

After a quick examination Asim determined that it was a sprain, as he had suspected, and he propped David's foot up on a pillow, putting the bag of peas on top. "Stay."

Two pairs of big brown eyes looked up at him.

Asim's heart may have melted just a little bit.

As the wind continued to howl outside, he walked around the cabin, locking doors and closing curtains as he went. He was determined not to let anything else disturb them tonight. Finally, he returned to the sofa with more drinks and some snacks. He also dropped a wet cloth directly onto David's face.

"Hey."

"I'm not kissing you when you're covered in dog slobber."

David grinned and wiped his face. "Fair."

Vincent, mildly insulted, put his head on his paws and huffed the kind of bone deep sigh only dogs can produce.

"Not quite what I had in mind when I fantasized about playing doctor with you," David said as he settled against Asim's side, a small smile pulling at his lips.

Asim put his arm around David's shoulders and pressed a kiss to his temple. "Pity, really. I was looking forward to the ravaging."

"Oh, you know, the night is still young."

#war is helloween #my fic #sas rogue heroes #david stirling #doctor gamal

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bonesandthebees · 10 months

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On a positive note!!! I just got home from seeing Andrew Bird live!!!!!! That was such an amazing concert omg

He's a violinist (well multi-instrumentalist, buttt I love him for his violin), and god it was such a beautiful show, and the lights were super coooool

I have now gone to three concerts this year and it's kinda surreal to me, but I am very much enjoying being an adult and getting to choose what I spend my money on lmaooo

I went to a half alive concert a few months ago and HOLYSHIT IT WAS THE COOLEST SHOW EVERRRR they performed the first two songs (Tip Toe and the Fall) behind a sheet, and used the lights so we could see their shadows and holyyyyy shitttt it was so cool and then during the Fall, the curtains dropped before they went full blast into the last chorus and--

Yeah shfkfk i like concerts

They can get very overestimulating for me, but MAN THEYRE WORTH IT IDEC

Ik you've gone to Lovejoy but have you gone to anyone else?? /nf

Also what's your personal fav part of concerts :0

For me I'm not really sure... since like all the concerts I've gone to have been so different. For Andrew Bird, I'd probably say just how beautiful and relaxing it was. For half-alive, I'd say the energy of dancing (i was on the floor) and singing along and seeing how happy the band and the audience was. The Crywank concert was dope bc of how personable it was. There was like only 50 of us in the room? Maybe? And we got to talk to them and shout out song suggestions n stuff. My mom took me to a Twenty One Pilots concert when I was younger (despite me literally only knowing their most popular songs and never listening to them lol) and that concert was super cool bc of like the show. They lit a whole ass car on fire it was very intense ahahaha

But yeahhh!! Concerts man . /pos

I cant wait to go see Lovejoy live man rahhhhs, one dayyy! One day sooon. I just need to renew my passport lol

I'm actually really surprised i've never heard of andrew bird considering I love violin music and used to listen to a lot of string instrumentalists. that sounds so fun though I'm glad you had a good time!!

literally the best part of being an adult is getting to decide what to spend your money on. like I can go get mcdonalds if I want I can buy concert tickets if I want I can take a trip to visit friends if I want it's fantastic

half alive is so good!! the curtain thing sounds so cool holy shit. I love tip toes seeing it performed like that would be so sick to me

while I have been to a few other concerts I didn't start going to them regularly until I got into lovejoy. my first ever concert was a katy perry concert I went to when I was 12 which was fun. although I've never actively sought out lindsey stirling concerts I've just ended up going to two of them?? her concerts are very fun the lighting and all that is very cool. one of those lindsey stirling concerts was also an evanescence concert bc they were touring together at the time and the person i went with was a huge evanescence fan while I'd literally never listened to them except for bring me to life, but it was really fun!! amy lee has a gorgeous voice. she also sang for lindsey stirling's shatter me and it was really cool. oh also I went to a billie eilish concert once her voice is soooooo pretty oh my god. hearing 'i love you' live hit so hard

when I was in college my uni used to host a big concert in the spring and so I went my freshman year and they had hayley kiyoko performing which was awesome. so many girls threw their bras at her it was great. also joji performed there too and he was really drunk. also he kept being super hype in between songs like "LET'S FUCKING GOOOOO" and then would immediately jump into singing the most depressing ballad you've ever heard in your life. the juxtaposition was insane.

i think the concerts (besides lovejoy) i've had the most fun at were really small ones? at my college there was this super tiny music venue right next to campus. it was student run and they'd host very small shows there. the first time I ever moshed was at one of the shows they had for an indie rock band called sitting on stacy. I'd never heard of them before the show but the energy was fantastic and I found out I loved moshing bc of that. a few years later the venue was having a whole afternoon + evening event with just different small bands rotating in and out. a guy I knew invited me to it as a date and it was so much fun. I moshed so much and got to hear some really good music though there were so many bands I don't remember the names of any of them. my date and I ended up hanging out with these two girls we met and when we were all talking later I found out one of them was an mcyt fan which was pretty funny. bc this was only a few months after I'd finished clinic and sirentwt had happened. my date did not know I was into mcyt. it was a time.

I guess my favorite part of concerts is usually having that kind of intimacy you mentioned you had at the crywank concert (btw, so fucking jealous you got to see crywank. they were on tour with lovejoy for one of the shows I went to and they were so good I desperately want to see them at one of their own shows). like the small concerts I went to at that venue at my college were so much fun bc it was just like house party size stuff. and then while lovejoy shows are getting bigger and bigger with every venue, it's still so much smaller than most other concerts I've been to in the past (like compared to giant stadium gigs). the bowery ballroom gig was like 500 people I think? and it's definitely my favorite lovejoy gig I've been to so far (out of 2 tho so not saying much. will update you after next week I have 2 lovejoy shows lined up). bowery was so cool, I was pressed right against the stage to the point where I had to move my phone off the stage so wilbur didn't step on it (and also had to move so he didn't hit me in the head with his guitar). the music was amazing, it was lovejoy's first ever show in the US so that was great, the queue throughout the day had great vibes, me and firesnap asked mark and joe lovejoy if they wanted to take tequila shots with us, it was so fucking fun

SD was definitely fun but didn't hit the same. I have a really good feeling about pioneertown though :)

#ask #icyfox17

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bahbahhh · 2 years

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@zelinkweekofficial

also on A03

Suggest Listening - Lindsey Stirling ft. Amy Lee - Love Goes On and On

Set in the same story as The Killing Moon. You don’t need to read it but there is context you will miss out on because I take canon and set it on fire. An expansion of a tiny memory sliver in Chapter 7.

Happy Zelink week, y'all.

----

Burning embers flurry around them in the wind. It is almost beautiful.

Guardians swarm over the field; spiders on a web of earth torn up. He can smell smoke and rain. The taste of his own metal is in his mouth. Zelda stands behind him. He can feel her shivering with adrenaline, her hands on his back, trying desperately to peel him up from the ground.

How many hours had it been since he pulled her from the Spring? Where the last thread of restraint he had snapped under the weight of her sorrow? When destiny clicked into place with a kiss?

She’s still in that ridiculous gown. It folds around him like a burial shroud.

When her strength fails, she begins pleading with him in a hushed whisper. “Link, save yourself. Go! I’ll be fine! Don’t worry about me!”

Too much blood pools in his mouth. He gags, leaning on the Sword so he can remain upright. He won’t waste breath telling her to leave him.

They are standing in a shared grave if he can’t figure out how to get them across the field. If he can-

Link looks up through a curtain of wet hair. In the distance their destination, Fort Hateno, is under siege. The stronghold is on fire, a burning Cheshire smile cracked wide on the horizon. A skywatcher whips around violently and crashes into the barrier, exposing part of the bailey and the garrison like a nerve. Guardians begin to scale the wall.

His entire body throbs, electricity shooting between damage points until he has a map of the carnage. Parts of him are missing. Entire pieces carved out by blasts from red lasers that trailed them relentlessly all the way from Hyrule Field.

He won’t make it out of the swamp.

There is nowhere left to run.

A stalker emerges through the blackness in front of them. Flushed with corruption, gears chittering. A blue eye fixes on Link and bulges triumphantly. Link is certain one of his legs is broken by the way it screams at him to ease the weight of his body off it as he rises, but he rises anyway, pushing himself up as a shield - his last shattered a mile ago - in front Zelda.

It lifts high on six metal legs over the rubble. A laser beams out and marks the center of Link’s chest. He can’t even lift the Sword.

“No!”

A star falls from the heavens in front of him. Blinding, golden light. The entire world bleaches whiter than white and then snaps back like a rubber band with Zelda at the center. The Guardians around them immediately power down, folding in on their legs under the weight of lifeless casting shells. Energy burns off them and disappears into the sky with a sudden gust of wind. As brilliantly as she burned, she fades in an instant, balking at her hands in front of her.

The sight of it takes the last of his strength.

“No, no!”

He doesn’t remember falling but he’s flat on the earth when she reaches him, gathering him up against her. Link is so proud. He wants to tell her he is so fucking proud of her but he’s unraveling quickly in her arms. The tide pulls more of him away with every wave.

Zelda's speaking mostly to herself, rattling off a prayer of feeble assurances, trying to figure out how to plug the holes in his body with her Power. She tells him he's going to be fine, that she's right with him, that she loves him. He sighs in relief, the breath rattling in his throat. With her Power awakened, she is the sun and all the stars in living flesh.

If only he could stay and witness her exhume the bones of the Kingdom that doubted her.

Tears splatter on his face. Goddess, she’s warmer than the rain. Through the cracks he begins to split and look at her with different eyes.

(He’s floating away on a Red Lion in the sea.)

Link can feel her trying to pour gold into him.

(He’s on all fours, head bowed, confined to the atavistic form of Twilight's curse.)

Her Power rolls off him and spills onto the earth. She commands him not to leave her.

(The air smells like sulfur and burning flesh. Hylia’s Realm has been torn open at the seams, a festering pool of black rot remains. Evil’s thumbprint. A glimpse of the world He promises to build. Link can feel a shiver of courage stretch over his skin, the invisible net he cannot escape. It strains and begins to pull him toward his soul’s destiny. He braces himself over the gaping mouth of Hate. Over his shoulder he can see her, glowing dimly where she fell. Nearly soulless. Fading. He’s her only chance.)

He looks at her.

(They stand face to face in the sky. She’s holding an ocarina with both hands and he only realizes what she is doing just as she moves to do it. A flute song fills his ears, drowns the words in his throat. Beams of light surround him. They start to dance and spin, her image dissolving into the blue. He strains against the force pulling him skyward, desperately committing every detail of her to memory.)

She’s looking at him. A thousand goodbyes on his useless tongue. He starts to move his hands, fingers spelling her name in the language that is theirs alone.

He looks at her forever. She's the last thing he ever sees.

#zelink week 2022

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openingnightposts · 14 days

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#HenryPurcell #MariaKowroski #NJBallet #NJPAC #VictoriaL.Dammer #ZacPosen

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a-night-like--this · 3 years

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When Chvrches’ Lauren Mayberry met the Cure’s Robert Smith

The musicians discuss collaborating on the Glaswegians’ new single, what’s great about rock — and what needs to change

Pictures of you: Robert Smith of the Cure sang with Lauren Mayberry on How Not to Drown from Chvrches’ new album, Screen Violence C FLANIGAN; GREG CHOW/SHUTTERSTOCK

Last week, rather thrillingly, I had a long and delightfully discursive FaceTime chat with Robert Smith of the Cure and Lauren Mayberry, the singer in Chvrches. Not an interview anyone really expected, but then their collaboration — on Chvrches’ recent single How Not to Drown — was a shock too. Mayberry, 33, originally from Scotland, is in Los Angeles, where she lives, appearing on video in front of a yellow flower. Smith, 62, from Crawley in West Sussex, is on the south coast, with, yes, his scraggly dark hair and eyeliner, curtains drawn to keep daylight out. The Cure turned 40 three years ago: has he got any advice for how to keep Chvrches — who are ten — going for that long?

“We’ll be dead!” Mayberry says, laughing. “We started too late.” “That’s what I thought,” Smith chips in. “Not that you’d be dead,” he clarifies quickly. “But there is no secret. It’s very easy for me to say now, but at a very young age I thought I’d rather fail on my own terms than succeed on someone else’s, and I still feel like that. It doesn’t guarantee longevity, but whatever time you have is of value and that’s more important than having a long career and thinking it was rubbish.”

How Not to Drown is from the chart-topping electro-indie trio’s forthcoming fourth album, Screen Violence. “It is weird to talk about you in front of you, Robert,” Mayberry says. “But the fact that you sang a song with us and didn’t send it back circled in red pen saying, ‘Terrible metaphor’? Well, we’re very pleased.” Mayberry says that her boyfriend jokes that all of her favourite singers can’t sing, to which Smith flinches. “What?” he exclaims. “Put him on!” When Smith says that he has been listening to Chvrches, it appears to ever so slightly blow Mayberry’s mind. When she was in her teens she would take a bus to Stirling to browse CDs by the Cure. “It’s definitely not lost on me that you’re still in love with music,” she says, beaming.

Hitting the right note: Chvrches collaborated with the Cure’s Robert Smith

Their collaboration is a jagged and pummelling blast of bass and synth, with lyrics about Mayberry feeling overwhelmed: suitable for when most of us feel, well, overwhelmed. “Somebody around the band said radio stations aren’t going to play songs that are depressing because everyone’s already depressed,” Mayberry says. “I thought, ‘God. You’re not going to like the album then.’ But I also thought it was a load of crap. I wasn’t listening to any party bangers last year.”

“If you talk to someone and you’ve got a problem, you don’t expect them to tell you jokes,” Smith says, in agreement. He has a wonderful knack for a blunt conclusive statement. “There are moments you really don’t need to laugh, and what I’ve always tried to do with my band is, when I feel like I’m going to do happy stuff, I do happy stuff. It’s just about how I feel at different times of my life. I’ve never thought of what I do as a career and think it would be incredibly difficult to be an artist that had to fit into a genre. When you’re young and growing up you think, ‘I hope I never turn into that person.’ That’s really been my main driving force — I had this image of who I don’t want to be; I had no idea who I wanted to be.”

When Chvrches write their songs, bandmates Iain Cook and Martin Doherty create sounds for Mayberry to write stories over. Smith is fascinated by this way of working, fitting words to somebody else’s tunes. He compares it to Tin Pan Alley.

Has his own writing process changed? “It’s slowed down!” he says and laughs loudly. The Cure have made 13 albums, including maudlin masterpieces Pornography and Disintegration, and huge chart hits Friday I’m in Love and Close to Me. There is a 14th record in the works, but then that has been the case for years.

Robert Smith: “I think the modern world has gone down a really weird detour” AMY HARRIS/REX/SHUTTERSTOCK

“I must admit,” he says, with sadness, “I’ve struggled more with finishing the words to these new Cure recordings than at any other point. We recorded 20-odd songs and I wrote nothing. I mean, I wrote a lot, but at the end I looked at it and thought, ‘This is rubbish.’ The difficulty is I’ve become such a harsh critic of myself I think, ‘Who’s going to be interested in that?’ It is really that bad. I was listening, thinking this is the best music this band has made and my words are drivel.

“Last year I just gave up. I thought, ‘I can’t do it. They can all be instrumentals.’ And this year I sort of came back to it. Last year was difficult for a number of reasons, not least the pandemic, but what I wrote this year I have enjoyed.”

Yet it is still a struggle. “You write a certain number of songs and, honestly, you repeat yourself,” he admits. “How many things are there to write about? Seven stories or something? You try to find different words for something and it steps out of your normal use of language and sounds terrible. I want to sing as I speak and my vocabulary is reasonably OK, so I thought, ‘I’ll put “undulating” in a song.’ That is one I tried. Then I think, ‘You’re not singing f***ing “undulating”!’ ”

Smith is hugely enjoyable company. At one point we reconnect because he is a bit muffled and he apologises for trying “£10 in-your-ear bluetooth things”. Rock stars are up there on stage, as icons. A fulfilment of our wildest desires. But there is very little more relatable than fiddling with cheap tech.

He just loves a chat, revealing humour and vulnerability. “The new Cure stuff is very emotional,” he says. “It’s ten years of life distilled into a couple of hours of intense stuff. I can’t think we’ll ever do anything else.” On Glastonbury, which the Cure headlined on the Sunday in 2019, at the last festival that took place, he quips: “Yeah, we closed Glastonbury!” Then he talks about a Miami festival years ago. “It was f***ing awful: 100,000 people chanting, ‘Tiesto.’ ” Tiesto is a DJ. When I ask if Smith’s new lyrics have anything to do with the weirdness of lockdown, he replies, “I don’t see anyone anyway!” before clarifying that he knows he had it easy. He had space. That was key to contentment, and Smith, the songwriting issue aside, now seems full of it — a happy man best known for era-defining sad songs.

There is another new Chvrches track called Good Girls, with the line: “Killing your idols is a chore/ And it’s such a f***ing bore.” It is about artists who do something reprehensible and is a subject Mayberry has spoken about before. On a panel once, she jokingly pleaded for “one nice straight white man in a band”.

Lauren Mayberry: “It’s up to each person whether you divorce the artist from the art” REX/SHUTTERSTOCK

“Well, Robert’s the unicorn,” she says, grinning. “The unicorn who has not done anything terrible in any of those newsworthy ways.” Smith looks sheepish. Mayberry had an argument in a pub once with a friend who wanted to continue listening to an unnamed singer after an indiscretion had been revealed. “It’s up to each person whether you divorce the artist from the art,” she says. “But I feel like we spend so much more time talking about a handful of disappointing males than anything else. People get more annoyed at people saying, ‘Isn’t he a rapist?’ than they do at the artist who broke their heart by doing such and such.”

Smith asks if she can divorce the art from an artist, and she says if someone is the lyricist, she finds it harder because it is their universe we are being invited into. “Who cares what the drummer’s up to!” Smith says with a laugh. “But then,” Mayberry adds, “it’s not up to people to live up to my standards.” It is a continuing discussion. “I find it difficult to divorce art from the artist,” Smith admits. “But the best way is just to avoid the internet. Pretty much everyone is going to let you down and it’s really difficult for people to come to terms with idols having feet of clay.” He pauses. “Unless they die?”

Mayberry and Smith navigate a very different world of pop music. From the early days of Chvrches, Mayberry has been very online — writing a powerful article about pop misogyny; using the internet to engage with fans and fight fires. Smith, on the other hand, has never had a smartphone. He talks about doing the job that he and Mayberry do pre-internet. On their first tour to New Zealand the Cure had a fight and their hotel room was trashed. It made the Daily Mail and Smith was told off by his parents when he got home.

“But you had to really do something newsworthy to make the newspapers,” he says. “There was a limited space so the threshold was high to make a headline. Now there is no threshold. It’s just everything. I think the modern world has gone down a really weird detour, to be honest. And at some point we will say, ‘We just took a wrong turning.’ People are just overwhelmed. I’ve realised that my life, in technological terms, is simple.” He pauses before talking about FaceTime. “This is really novel,” he continues. “This is my third time doing it and I hate it.” Mayberry, a screen-savvy millennial, apologises but Smith says it is OK. “It’s a communication device,” he admits. “But you can’t look at someone when talking to them. I’m finding it difficult, so I realise I fell off the merry-go-round. But I feel better for it.”

I finish by asking Smith if he knew that Mayberry once dressed up as him for Halloween. She cringes. I found a photo online. “You see. Social media is cruel!” Mayberry protests. Smith grins and suggests he pops a blonde wig on so he can have a Mayberry costume. “People asked if I was Edward Scissorhands,” she says.

I could have talked to these two for hours. What enormous fun and emotions. But she has an album to release and he an album to — finally — finish.

Screen Violence is out on Aug 27

#new interview #new article #text #quote #the cure #robert smith #chvrches #lauren mayberry #iain cook #martin doherty #how not to drown #music #alternative rock #indie #2020s #2021

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scotianostra · 2 years

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July 20th 1304 saw the Fall of Stirling Castle.

Edward I of England laid siege to the Castle as part of the the Scottish Wars of Independence.

Stirling was, and indeed still is a formidable castle and the Scots were holding out so Longshanks ordered the building of the trebuchet or as it became known "The Warwolf" the work on it commenced within sight of the castle walls. According to medieval sources five master carpenters and 49 other labourers were given the task of constructing this siege weapon, the biggest of its kind ever to be built. It took three months to finish it and according to modern estimates, the trebuchet would have risen to a height of 300 to 400 feet. It could effectively raid stones at a wall 200 yards away, hurled at a speed of 120 miles per hour.

Stirling would remain under the occupancy of the English until 1314.

#Scotland #scottish #The first war of Scottish Independence #medieval warfare #history #english

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ithinkthiswasabadidea · 2 years

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It just occurred to me that I never showed my finished Penhurst portrait!

And, Bonus! A snippet of his backstory, aka. the tragedy of the Greyhame family, and the reason why Penhurst has such an affinity for ghosts and spirits...

Greyhame Manor, once a proud and sprawling estate house watching over vast swathes of land, now sits collecting dust, still and lifeless. Well, almost lifeless.

No one ventures there anymore, the Greyhame lineage all but forgotten. Tales of ghosts and spirits haunt the Manor, just enough to make one question whether they are real, and a tragedy did occur there, or if they are simply tales of woe.

Penhurst Greyhame was a young boy when it happened. Only ten when the sickness took his father, and all of twelve years old when his eldest brother, the last of his family, died too.

As far as he remembers, it was a sickness of the blood.

Healers came from many far off towns and cities to see if there was anything that could be done for the Greyhame family, but none could find a cure. The sickness was insular too, only those of Greyhame Manor became ill, and it quickly became apparent that the entire family, inevitably, would fall to it.

Penhurst’s father Castro was first, before the family even understood that something terrible would become a plague upon their lives. Castro withered away in a dark drawing room on the top floor of the manor, too weak to pull the curtains to let in the light and surrounded by paintings that became all too crimson at the end of his days.

His youngest sister was next; baby Winnie was not even three. Her little cot remained forever the way it did when her life left her body, but somehow the enchantment on the butterfly mobile above her crib never ended. The iridescent wings of the insects eternally flapping in slow circles above the head of the cot like a perverted halo.

Penhurst’s younger brother Vance, and two older sisters Quinn and Henrietta followed quickly over the next year.

Lithe and quick young Vance, who would once spend his days sitting upon the staircase banisters singing songs to himself and the family, grew too choked up to continue. Where once his lungs were filled with joyous notes and melodies of the songs he created himself, now they filled with blood, suffocating the fledgling songbird.

The two girls, their dance steps captivating any who watched, spent their last days together in the ballroom. The sisters willed their bare feet, too stiff for shoes, to trace the steps they so much loved, leaving bloody smears across the beautiful white marble tiles. They died but hours apart.

Penhurst’s mother Ariana struggled against the disease for the longest time of any of them, dragging herself into the ballroom to play her beloved grand piano for hours every day, month after month, until the ivory keys were stained red, and then black.

Finally, the disease caught up to both Penhurst and his eldest brother Stirling, a strong young man of twenty four. Penhurst thought, at the time, that if any of his family could make it, it would be Stirling.

The two of them tried for so long to pretend like things were still normal, that they still had time. Penhurst would walk slowly each morning to the landing above the grand staircase leading from the entrance into the manor, to weakly play his violin as the sun rose on yet another cursed day upon Greyhame Manor. His body grew thinner and thinner, and the strings of his beloved violin turned red beneath his fingers.

Stirling, the dutiful man of the house, would listen to his brother’s music echoing through the airless halls and into his studio, and let it bring some small comfort to his ever weakening body. The older man spent his hours, shorter and shorter each day in those last weeks, weaving his final garment. A long, shimmering cloak, blue as ink, and scattered with shining specks of starlight.

The cloak itself was never truly finished, a foot of fabric still hadn’t been woven into it. But when Stirling made to leave his studio one evening as the light had finally faded from the sky, he realised there was no more time left. Gently, he snipped the thread at the end of the cloak, his fingers too gaunt and stiff to be able to tie a knot and stop it from fraying, but it was his final piece of work, and it still needed a home.

Stirling slowly brought himself to Penhurst’s room, seeing his younger brother already asleep and exhausted from the illness they shared. Stirling’s last act was to fasten the starlight cloak around Penhurst’s bony shoulders and tuck it around his head and body, before making his way back to his own bedroom, and falling into one last, dreamless sleep.

Penhurst slept through the entirety of the next day, his small frame taking every ounce of respite it could from the disease that had ravaged his body. When he finally awoke, weak light filtering through dusty curtains, one would imagine that he was alone… but not quite. Upon opening his eyes, the boy saw a world different to his own, coated in shadows and silvery whisps of something he didn’t understand. The whisps began to take shape as he sat in his bed, clutching the cloak around his frail shoulders.

First his father, and cradled in his arms, dear baby Winnie. Mama with her arms around the two girls, and Stirling, with a hand on young Vance’s shoulder. All of his family looked as they once did before the disease had taken them, fresh faced and healthy. They peered steadily at Penhurst, as though they had been waiting, but he never joined them.

Stirling spoke, gently, “We can’t keep waiting, Pen.” He looked over his shoulder at an unknown beyond, “I think this might be the last time you see us for a while. It looks like you made it.”

There was a soft smile on his brother’s lovely face, and Stirling reached out a hand, the silver light that he was made up of becoming corporeal for a brief moment. Stirling pulled the cloak more snuggly across his little brother’s shoulders, straightening it and refastening the clasp, before turning.

As though one of his father’s brushes swept through the oil paint he so loved, the Greyhame family was brushed along into a fading grey void, the last memories of their smile’s and faces taken with them as Penhurst gazed on with tears falling down his cheeks.

The next year of Penhurst’s life was almost as difficult as it was to watch his family succumb to their disease one by one, as he tried to figure out just what he was supposed to do for himself and the only home he had ever known.

He left Greyhame Manor shortly after turning thirteen. A starlight cloak fastened to his shoulders, his precious violin stowed in its case, a few small trinkets, and now Penhurst himself was like any other Greyhame ghost, beholden to where the wind should take him.

#dnd character #d&d #d&d character #dnd #dnd bard #dnd rogue #oc Penhurst #art #my art #digital illustration #digital art #The Soul Hunters

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