#Sports Authority Field at Mile High

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Baby, Let The Games Begin

Pairing: Jennifer Jareau x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~600

Warnings: fluff

Summary: You have a spontaneous snowball fight with your friends that ends with you hitting the wrong person. Who knew she'd get her revenge only weeks later?

Square Filled: free space for @badbitchesbingo

Author’s Note: JJ and the reader are in college

x

God, you fucking hate the cold. If you could live in a sunny place for the rest of your life, you would. Maybe when you’re older, you’ll buy a house in both the Northern and Southern Hemisphere so you don’t ever have to be in the cold weather again. Some people say the cold is better because you can bundle up and snuggle in blankets. Fuck that shit. You hate the feeling of chills running down your spine and goosebumps rising on your skin. It doesn’t matter how many blankets you bundle up in, that chill never goes away.

The only good thing that can come from cold weather is the snow. Snow isn’t so bad because you get to have fun outside. The more you run around and play with your friends, the hotter you get until the cold isn’t an issue anymore.

Still, you wish summer was here.

The path from the library to your dorm isn’t far but the cold makes the journey stretch to what feels like miles. You walk past a group of trees when you get ambushed by flying snowballs. You gasp and protect your face from the biting cold only to hear the familiar laughter of your friends.

“You little shits! You’re gonna pay!” you grin.

You grab handfuls of snow and start throwing, not knowing exactly who is getting hit. You grab a bigger handful of snow to throw at the instigator of the group but when you throw it at him, he ducks out of the way. The snowball slams into the face of a complete stranger. Everyone stops playing around as you approach the unsuspecting victim.

“I am so sorry. Are you okay?” you gasp.

The snow falls from her face and the bluest of blue eyes stares at you. She narrows her eyes in anger but you can’t seem to focus on anything but her beauty.

“Have better aim next time.”

She shrugs the rest of the snow off her before walking away. You’re stuck in your place; you can’t seem to move even if you wanted to. You stare at her retreating figure, and one of your friends slaps his hands on your back.

“Someone has a crush,” he sings.

“Shut the fuck up. This is your fault. You ducked out of the way.”

“Not my fault you’re too slow.”

You push him away from you and depart from your group of friends. That kind of killed the mood so you’re ready to go back to your dorm and dream about the mysterious blonde woman. 

A few days later, you rush over to soccer practice inside the huge dome field. They put the dome up whenever there is severe weather like heaps of snow outside so you can at least practice. You’re new to the team and this is your first practice. You’ve dabbled in the sport in high school and figured you’d give it a try in college.

You’re off to the side stretching when you hear people yelling. You look up just as a soccerball smacks into the side of your face. Whoever kicked it didn’t do it hard enough to break any bones, but you know there will be a slight bruise there later on.

You gasp and look around the field to see who might have kicked it. You lock eyes with the same blue eyes you’ve fallen for. She flips her hair back and smirks, giving you wide unapologetic eyes.

“I am so sorry. Are you okay?” she asks.

You want to be mad. You want to be pissed she did this out of spite. Instead, you’re smitten all over again. If she wants to play this way, you’ll play her games.

“Have better aim next time,” you tell her the exact words she told you.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#jennifer jareau #jennifer jareau x reader #jennifer jareau fic #jennifer jareau fanfiction #jennifer jareau fanfic #jennifer jareau fluff #jennifer jareau fiction #jennifer jareau fan fic #jennifer jareau fan fiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fluff #cm #cm fic #cm fanfiction #cm fanfic #cm fluff

[jessiejamesdeckers]

Denver Broncos Vs The New York Jets Game at Sports Authority Field at Mile High in Denver, Colorado - November 17, 2011

#jessie james decker #jjdeckeredit #performances #2011 #pe2011 #mine #edits #photoset

[weshipyourride]

Get Inspired: A Look Back At Our Favorite Cycling Stories from 2023

As a global bicycle shipping company, we have intimate knowledge of the many corners of the world to which people ship bikes. But it’s through our Ambassadors and staff that we learn all the different and truly inspiring places that bikes can take people. We took a look back through our blog and are sharing our favorite highlights from 2023, including stories of the people who most inspired us not only to ride more, but to better appreciate what being part of the cycling community can achieve.

Bikeflights Ambassador Lisa Gillespie leads the New York City chapter of Black Girls Do Bike, a national organization dedicated to “championing efforts to introduce the joy of cycling to all women, but especially, women and girls of color.” Lisa spends her days as an RN and clinical professor of nursing, but then she dons her “shero” cape and works to foster a love for cycling at all levels and disciplines of cyclists.

“It’s about visibility for riders that really aren’t seen. Black female cyclists are such a small minority of the field. People are not used to seeing us riding together. It’s important for us to claim a space in a place that we love,” Lisa says.

Read more about Lisa’s journey from mountain biker to triathlete to Black Girls Do Bike “Shero.”

Enzo Moscarella, another Bikeflights Ambassador, dedicated virtually no thought to bikes just a handful of years ago. Now, after authoring and illustrating a bike-themed children’s book and conquering some of cycling’s premiere events like the Leadville Trail 100 MTB, Enzo finds bikes occupying a significant portion of his mind, inspiring him in many aspects of his life.

“I found the phrase ‘send it’ happening more and more in my life,” Enzo says, relating it to situations in his life in which, “the worst that could happen is I fall and have to get back up.”

Read more about how Enzo gained a new perspective on life through riding bikes.

Bikeflights Customer Support Team member Lifan Irwin was helping people ship bikes with Bikeflights before helping people ship bikes with Bikeflights.

As a former bike shop owner in Las Vegas, Lifan brings a unique perspective to the Bikeflights Support Team. Not only is she adept at communicating with customers and aspiring to simply help people ride bikes, she’s a certified mechanic and endeavors to leave no cycling discipline untried. Whatever conditions Southwest Colorado provides, Lifan plans to attempt to ride it.

Read more about how an adventure race led Lifan to be a certified mechanic, former shop owner and Colorado-based member of the Bikeflights Support Team.

World Champion track cyclist and Bikeflights Ambassador Ashton Lambie had set out on a grueling 1,050-mile self-supported gravel race through the Flint Hills of Kansas. A day into the race he found himself sitting in a ditch, in the dark, questioning his resolve to continue. Could a call from NASA rescue his race?

Find out in our profile of Ashton’s Flint Hills Ultra experience.

Sydney Wenger is a fifth grade teacher (and Bikeflights Ambassador) who incorporates her weekend experiences into her lesson plans. As an elite mountain bike racer, Sydney finds a unique way to connect with her students.

“I feel that being competitive in a sport helps me connect with my students in a way most teachers cannot,” said Sydney. “Many students at this age have high hopes for their futures, and I may be one of the only adults in their life who they know striving to be the best they can be or simply even following their passion.”

Read more about Sydney’s double life as an elementary school teacher and elite athlete.

We often talk about what we gain from riding bikes. Bikeflights Ambassador Abe Alkhamees found a passion for cycling, and he lost a lot.

Abe lost 188 pounds. But he also gained a lot, like increased mental and physical health and two projects aimed at helping others appreciate riding bikes.

Read more about Abe’s journey from growing up in Kuwait to his life-changing discovery of bikes.

Learn more about and follow Bikeflights Ambassadors.

#bikeflights #bicycleshipping #bikeshipping #weshipyouride #shipthebestway #shipyourbike

[kumarseo]

The Vikings Made a Weird 'Worst' List

Oct 4, 2015; Denver, CO, USA; Minnesota Vikings free safety Harrison Smith (22) is congratulated for his interception by middle linebacker Gerald Hodges (50) and defensive end Brian Robison (96) and outside linebacker Chad Greenway (52) in the fourth quarter against the Denver Broncos at Sports Authority Field at Mile High. The Broncos defeated the Vikings 23-20. Mandatory Credit: Ron Chenoy-USA…

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[signaturewindowwashingfl]

Top places to visit in Denver

Denver is a big city with many things to do. You can go to the mountains, see animals at the aquarium or zoo, watch sports teams at their stadiums, and more!

The mountains

Denver is surrounded by mountains, so it's no surprise that there are plenty of great places to hike and ski in the area. If you want to get away from the city for a bit, head up into the foothills or go all the way up into one of Colorado's 14ers (that's what they call mountains over 14k feet).

The aquarium

The aquarium is a great place to visit. You can see many different kinds of fish, including sharks, octopuses and sea horses. There are several exhibits at the aquarium, such as an underwater tunnel through which you can get up close looks at some of the animals. There's also a restaurant and gift shop on site if you want lunch or souvenirs after your visit! The aquarium is open year round so there's no excuse not to go!

The zoo

The Denver Zoo is a great place to go if you want to see animals.

The zoo has many different kinds of animals, including elephants, giraffes, lions and more!

You can also see animals from all over the world at this zoo.

If you like seeing different types of reptiles or amphibians in your travels then check out their reptile exhibit!

Sports stadiums

Sports are a big deal in Denver. The city has four major sports stadiums, including Sports Authority Field at Mile High (home to the Denver Broncos), Coors Field (home to the Colorado Rockies), Pepsi Center (home to both Major League Soccer's Colorado Rapids and National Basketball Association's Denver Nuggets), Invesco Field at Mile High (home to Major League Baseball's Colorado Rockies) and Dick's Sporting Goods Park (home of Major League Soccer's Colorado Rapids).

Concerts and shows

Denver is a great city for concerts and shows. The city has many venues to choose from, which means there's always something going on. Denver is also known for its music scene, so if you love live performances, this is the place for you!

If you're looking to enjoy some time with friends or family while listening to some good tunes, check out one of these top-rated shows in Denver:

Red Rocks Amphitheater - This world-famous venue offers breathtaking views of the Rocky Mountains as well as an incredible sound system that makes each performance special no matter what kind of genre it represents (from jazz to country).

Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom - Located right next door is another historic spot where many famous artists have performed over the years--including Bob Dylan and Tom Petty--and continues today with acts like Guster or Amos Lee taking center stage during their tours through Colorado's capital city."

A Straight Up Fence Company

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Coors Distributing Company

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We are an LLC of Molson Coors Beverage Company but operate independently, building strategies and making decisions locally for our business. We believe this structure gives us a competitive advantage as it gives us insight into how breweries operate while also affording us valuable tools and resources to deliver excellence every day.

Signature Window Washing is the leading Residential Window Washing Services Denver. At Signature Window Washing, we understand that taking the time to clean your windows is not always the easiest thing to do. That's why our team is here to help you take care of this task with as little effort as possible.

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Signature Window Washing 1929 W 52nd Pl, Denver, CO 80221, United States (303)-551-1708 https://signaturewindowwashing.com/window-cleaning-denver https://www.google.com/maps?cid=14494640408978149463

[shorehyllested409]

What Is The Altimate Football Watch Party?

My brother-in-legislation is a diehard football fan who's at all times wanting for new and exciting ways to observe the sport. He's been residing it up this fall with a Saturday night tailgate get together that features s'mores, fireworks, and raffle prizes when the staff scores. But what does this imply for Football Watch Parties in the future?

How Football Works

The last word football watch social gathering is one of the best technique to get pleasure from the sport with friends. Here are some tips about the right way to make the party excellent. First, select a location that is comfy and has loads of space for everyone. Next, arrange some snacks and drinks and ensure everyone has a seat. Finally, get your Tv prepared and start watching the sport!

Different types of Football Players

With the Super Bowl just across the corner, it's time to get your sport face on and put together for some critical soccer action. Whether you are a fan of 1 workforce or another, there's little question that you're going to want to look at the big recreation in style. So, what sort of social gathering will you should throw if you are rooting for the home group? Here are a number of ideas: -A traditional tailgate social gathering with some scrumptious meals and drinks. -A watch social gathering the place you collect across the Tv to cheer in your favourite gamers. -An ultimate soccer watch party where you get dressed up in your team's gear and have loads of fun celebrating with your mates.

The History of Football

The history of soccer dates again to historic instances. It is believed that the sport originated in India and was later brought to Europe by the Moors. Europeans began enjoying soccer with one another as they traveled by way of international locations and regions. Eventually, football became well-liked in England and spread to other elements of Europe. The primary recorded association soccer match happened in 1858 between Edinburgh University and Marlborough College. American universities also started enjoying soccer within the late 1800s. Today, the sport is performed all around the world and is taken into account an necessary a part of many individuals's cultures.

The National Football League

The NFL is again and better than ever! The league has announced their official watch celebration places for the 2016 season. Whether you’re a fan of the Green Bay Packers, the Dallas Cowboys, or every other team, there is sure to be a watch celebration near you! Here are the details: Green Bay: Lambeau Field Dallas: AT&T Stadium Denver: sports Authority Field at Mile High New York Giants: MetLife Stadium Philadelphia: Lincoln Financial Field Washington: FedExField Oakland Raiders: O.co Coliseum Seattle Seahawks: CenturyLink Field Arizona Cardinals: University of Phoenix Stadium

Major Teams within the NFL

If you're searching for an NFL watch social gathering to attend this season, you are in luck! Below are a listing of the top teams within the league and their respective watch events. In case your team isn't listed, don't fret – there are nonetheless loads of different great events to check out. The Baltimore Ravens have hosted a number of watch events this season, including one at the Royal Farms Arena on October 15th. The Pittsburgh Steelers will likely be internet hosting their standard watch party at Heinz Field on December third. The Los Angeles Rams might be celebrating their first ever playoff appearance on the Forum on November 12th. And last however not least, the new England Patriots can be internet hosting their fifth annual White House Watch Party on December 8th. Whether you're a die-arduous fan or simply trying to socialize with friends, these occasions are positive to please. So get able to root to your favourite staff and take part on the fun!

National Championships

If you’re searching for an unforgettable method to celebrate your team’s success, look no additional than the last word soccer watch get together. This event offers fans the chance to attach with their favourite gamers and groups in a singular and unforgettable manner. Here are a number of the the explanation why internet hosting an Altimate Football Watch Party is the perfect solution to celebrate: -A night filled with enjoyable and happiness: Watching your group compete for a nationwide title is an amazing expertise, but nothing compares to celebrating together after they win. The ambiance at an Altimate Football Watch Party might be electric, making everyone really feel like part of the celebration. -Unique opportunities to fulfill gamers and staff: At an Altimate Football Watch Party, you’ll have the opportunity to fulfill your favourite gamers and workers in individual. This can be a as soon as-in-a-lifetime alternative, so don’t miss it! -An unforgettable expertise: There’s something special about watching your workforce play in particular person – it just feels extra special. An Altimate Football Watch Party gives you that very same feeling of excitement and satisfaction, with out having to travel wherever.

Super Bowl

Planning an excellent Bowl party? Make sure you have got an Altimate Football Watch Party ready to go! There are so many things to contemplate when planning your perfect watch party, but that is one in all the simplest: gather your mates and order Altimate football watches online! These watches are the proper method to show your support on your team and exhibit your model at the identical time. Plus, who can resist a watch that lights up and performs music? You won’t be able to find these watches anywhere else – so get them earlier than they’re all gone!

#sports

[taylors-husband]

Tonight, the Reputation Stadium Tour continues at Sports Authority Field at Mile High in Denver, Colorado for one night only. If you’re going, have a wonderful night. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️!!!

#Taylor Swift #Reputation #Reputation Stadium Tour #Sports Authority Field at Mile High #Denver #Colorado #United States #Rep Tour Denver

[dabs-or-tabs]

Forgot to post these!!! Saw Guns 'N Roses on Aug. 3rd at Sports Authority Field at Mile High! Such a KICKASS show!

#rocknroll #guns n roses #not in this lifetime #welcome to the jungle #denver #sports authority field at mile high

[13uswntimagines]

Better To Be Friends Than Competition (Lindsey x Reader)

Author’s Note: This Technically wasn’t requested, but @literaryhedgehog and i had a blast writing this. It’s the Harry Potter AU. Basically, reader is a muggleborn who really wants to be a chaser, but maybe there’s a better position for her on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. This is the beginning of what will be a multi-part series following the building romance between two amazing characters and how our golden octet help them out along the way. 

@sleep-deprived-athlete​

“Alright, you’ve all been told the rules and had the chance to warm up. So let’s start by dividing into groups. Anyone who wants to be a seeker follow Mia there to the far side of the field. Beaters to the left with Foudy. Keepers to the goalposts with Hope. And chasers with me up top,” Brandi said with a wave of her hand, kicking off of the ground and heading towards where her group was going to meet. 

You snuck a glance to either side of you as you also kick off and head to your position, trying to guess who out of the eight students around you is going to be your biggest competition. Surely you thought more people would have wanted a chance at a spot on one of the best teams at Hogwarts. Tryouts had been packed for the last two years. 

You wondered which drill Brandi was going to start with as you approached the group (said woman was idily tossing a quaffle lightly in her hands as she talked to another one of your competition). For the last 2 years it was always a set of passing drills, where would-be chasers played a very complicated game of catch up and down the pitch. 

Maybe those tryouts were supposed to be private, but how else could you prepare for them if you didn’t know what to expect? 

Quidditch was honestly a really weird sport. Well, American football made less sense, but you hadn’t exactly studied the rules as extensively as you had Quidditch. Like, the game literally would not end until someone caught the snitch. According to Quidditch through the Ages a game had literally lasted for months. You remembered watching a tennis game that lasted for four days before, but generally the muggle sports you grew up with were more consistent in how long each game took.  

“Oh yeah”, you thought, watching the beaters line up across the pitch, “and there is also a ball charmed to try and knock people off their broom. That’s not normal.” Though it was something your dad found hilarious. 

Sports were always something the two of you could talk about, even before you found out you had magic. He loved the fact that you loved football as much as he did, and was thrilled by the fact that you had enough talent to play it in your primary school. 

Though with your hand eye coordination you had done better with cricket, and baseball the few times you had a chance to play it in gym. So when you had joined the wizarding world you naturally had gotten into quidditch. Learned everything you could about the game so you could give him detailed play by plays about the games when you sent owls home. 

At this point you were dying to play. You were too short to be a beater or a keeper, but you knew you could be a chaser. You could catch like nobody’s business, and you had at least half of the tactics in The Beginner's Quidditch Playbook memorized. You were going to be the best damn chaser Hogwarts had ever seen. 

“Hey space captain, you ready for this?” 

“What?” You froze, heat flooding your cheeks at being caught not paying attention. You slowly turned to face the new presence. 

You knew the girl. Well. You knew of the girl (it was impossible not to know about the very pretty blond girl). She was in your house and year (and therefore in your dorm as well as all your classes) but the two of you had never really interacted before. She seemed to already know everyone and everything when she got to Hogwarts, so it didn’t really seem like she was looking for friends, and it was hard enough trying to figure out your new life without having people look at you strangely when you didn’t know a word they used. Not that Lindsey, you thought that’s her name anyway, had done that, but other purebloods did. It was easier figuring things out on your own to start, and by the time you did, you and Lindsey had already established yourselves in different friend groups. Was her name Lindsey? A Slytherin in your year was always calling her strange nicknames, so it was hard to tell. 

“The drill. Are you ready for the drill space captain?” The girl asked again. 

“Yeah, but I’m not a captain. I’m a second year, like you,” You said softly, your eyebrows furrowing. Maybe that was a wizard saying, but you had no idea what she was talking about. Your heart also dropped just a touch because if she thought you were a captain then she had absolutely no idea who you were. 

She shook her head with a giggle (showing off her dimples). “My dad says that’s what muggles call a person with their head in the clouds,” 

You cocked your head to the side, your brain running a million miles an hour to try and figure out what she meant. But then it clicked. “Oh you mean space cadet,” 

“I guess,” She shrugged, seemingly unbothered about the correct verbiage. 

The whistle blowing brought both of your attention back towards Brandi and the first set of would-be chasers beginning the crossing drill. You coughed to hide a scoff when Lynn Williams raced at breakneck speed up the pitch, and released the quaffle at least 30 feet off where the chasing captain had instructed. 

You shook your head at the play. It was too sloppy, too open and it would never connect well with JJ and Alex up top. 

“Not impressed by what you see?” Lindsey asked, her eyebrow quirking up (trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t interested in your answer. You were her competition after all). 

“Not after Alex basically destroyed the same course last year. She’s got an 85% accuracy rating on goal and nearly 60% of her shots come off of left crosses. Williams isn’t getting high enough on the pitch to provide an adequate pass,”  You mumbled out quickly, wincing when Lynn made the same mistake on the way back, nearly sending her partner (a girl in the year below you named Mal) into the stands to catch it (though you were slightly impressed that Mal managed to grab it before it landed in the seats). 

“Yeah, I see what you mean. Her throws tend to either go too short or too long. Even if it doesn’t go directly to her partner it at least needs to be consistent so during a game the person she’s throwing it to knows where to intercept it before the other team does,” Lindsey said, taking a hand off her broom to shield her eyes.

“She’s fast but it won’t help if she forces the other chaser off her line to provide service to Alex in front of the posts,” You huffed. Having her on that side would be a positioning nightmare. It left the team open and vulnerable to so many different attacking options. 

“I am not entirely sure what that means,” Lindsey said, smirking as she looked sideways at you, “but it sounds like you don’t think she’s competition, which is good news for us!’

You opened your mouth to respond, only to be cut off by Brandi’s whistle. “Alright next pair up,” 

You gulped and tightened your fingers on your broom “Guess it’s showtime,” You muttered, surging forward to the starting line. 

“Good luck space captain, you’re gonna need it,” Lindsey called back towards you with a wink, taking the ball from Brandi. 

You shook your head. You wouldn’t need luck. A fucking golden retriever could beat out the performance you had just whitnessed. As long as you didn’t fall off your brooms, you both would be fine. 

***

You raced towards the hoops, reaching your arm out to pluck the perfectly timed ball out of its arc towards the ground. Okay, Lindsey was good. Really good. She HAD to have known how bad Lynn’s throws were, because hers were positively perfect. Your throws were good, but Lindsey had this way of arching the ball up through the air if a perfect loop so it practically fell into your hands. There was no way she didn’t practice over the summer. 

You neared the posts, starting to make your u-turn to pass the ball back when a flash of gold caught your eyes. Before you really thought it through, the hand anchoring you to your broom had already lifted to snatch it out of the air on instinct. You had played cricket for most of your life- it was instinct to reach out and grab a ball that looked like it was about to fly into your face. 

The next few seconds happened almost in slow motion. As your fingers closed around the cool metal, you realized just how far to your side you had to lean to reach the object, and how far off balance it had put you. Your legs crossed tightly as you flipped completely upside down on your broom, entirely unwilling to let go of the object you had just caught or the large quaffle still tucked tightly under your arm. Before you really knew what was happening, you were staring straight at the ground, your legs the only thing keeping you in the air. 

“Holy shit, holy shit. Um, hey Lindsey?” You called, eyes on the ground below you. 

“What?” You heard her call. You idly wondered why one of the captains hadn’t put a stop to this yet and put you out of your misery. 

“Catch?” You threw the quaffle, well tossed it really, up into the air towards where you thought the other girl was. You knew it was going to be short, but also knew that she was going to catch it anyway. She really was that good. With your now free hand you reached up and grabbed the handle of your broom so you could pull yourself to it and rotate back to an upright position. 

Only then did you look down at the tiny ball fluttering in your hand. The tiny, almost leathery, wings flapped like it was waving hello. You stared at it in awe, your lips ticking up. You had just caught the golden snitch. You never thought you would get to touch the snitch, much less catch it. 

“Hey you” a voice called from the pitch behind you. You turned to look as Mia flew from where the seeker candidates were staring hopelessly at the sky around them to land on the pitch. “Get down here. Yeah, you on the drills.” She motioned down to the pitch, indicating where you should land, then turned her head to call over her shoulder, “Brandi I’m taking number 2.” 

You quickly flew towards where she had pointed, shakily dismounting from your broom. You weren’t sure if it was fear, adrenaline or nerves, but your legs felt like jelly. You clutched the little ball in your hand so tightly that you were sure there was going to be an imprint in your palm later. 

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing in the chaser section?” Mia said, tucking her broom under her arm and throwing her hand up towards the group of would be chasers throwing a ball around at varying distances. (You tried not to wince when Lynn nearly pegged Mal in the face again). 

“Um, trying to be a chaser? I was always a good forward so I thought it might fit?” You mumbled with a shrug, scratching the back of your neck with your free hand. a light shade of pink covered your cheeks. It was a little embarrassing how clueless you were with the magical world sometimes, and how even after being here for two full years, you still felt completely out of your depth. 

“That’d be like using a cauldron as a teacup because they’re both the same shape. It’d work but what a waste!” 

“I…- I have no idea what that means. I know I caught the wrong thing, and I’m sorry. I’ll leave now if that’s what you want,” You stuttered out, suddenly finding the way your shoe poked the pitch underneath you interesting. 

“No, kid you misunderstand me. Look, you, what’s your name again?” Mia stepped closer, tilting her head as she looked at you. 

“Y/n. Y/n Y/l/n,” 

“Right, Y/n, you could play chaser. You’d even be a decent one with a bit of work. But that’d be a damn waste of talent. You’re a natural seeker. I’m not upset with you for catching the wrong ball, I’m upset you weren’t over in my section trying to catch the snitch in the first place. Look at that lot over there, they still think it’s somewhere over the stands.” Mia stepped next to you and turned, gestured to the group of seeker hopefuls flying in circles near the Ravenclaw seats. 

“Oh,” You breathed out, following her hand to look at the large group. They were squinting towards the stands and swooping low at whatever they thought they had spotted, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the snitch had been caught on the other side of the pitch and that Mia wasn’t even paying attention to them anymore. 

“I’ve had a lot of practice spotting this ball,” Mia said, tapping the snitch trapped in your hand. “I was able to see it within about a minute of it being released, and have been watching it since. None of them saw it when it was on their side of the field, but you saw it instantly- even when you were focused on something else. That is a talent Y/n. Why didn’t you try out for seeker in the first place?”

“I didn’t know how to practice for it, and that-. It wasn’t like any of the other positions I have ever played,” You muttered, trying to cover your insecurity with a nonchalant shrug. It seemed like the position that required the most innate ability, and as a muggleborn you didn’t think you had any. 

Mia nodded slowly looking at you. “Right,” she said, turning and mounting her broom, “I wanna run you through some drills. Come on.”

You blinked at the woman as she hovered in front of you. Your eyes darting between Mia and the object still clutched tightly in your hand. Where were you supposed to put it? Were you supposed to let it go? 

You brought your palm up so it was level with your eyes and opened your hand, half expecting the snitch to fly away. It didn’t. It’s wings slowly unfurled and it waved docilely at you. Like an old friend. 

“What’re you waiting for?” Mia called down at you.

“It won’t fly away!” You called back, looking up at the woman, who rolled her eyes indulgently. 

“Of course not, it’s yours. You caught it, and you can watch it like some love-struck puppy later- stash it in your pocket and come on!”

***

You were having a fucking blast, even though you had no idea what you were in for when you joined the seeker group. Every year when you watched tryouts, you never payed attention to what they had to do, as you never thought you would have to do it. Even without the advantage, you were killing it. 

You had been separated into pairs, just like the chasers were, but Mia had enchanted clear balls (the size of tennis balls) to randomly fly through the air. The balls were given a 5 second head start before you and your partner were allowed to race to catch it. Now this was familiar, the jostling of arms while racing after a ball and trying to prevent someone else from getting to it before you. Only once out of five rounds did your opponent get to the ball before you, but really, that elbow to your ribs was a red card if you’d ever seen one. 

Then everyone took turns hovering in the air as Mia took ten of the enchanted balls and flicked them up haphazardly one by one every five seconds. The goal was to catch as many of them as you could before they hit the ground, even as they were sent up in different directions and some much higher in the air than others. You didn’t get all of them, but the seven you saved still seemed to impress the other seeker candidates who didn’t scowl. The second highest number saved was six, but that girl still congratulated you as you got off your broom, since “those last few of them went way further out than they did for me- and you were an inch away from that eighth one!” 

You nodded, smiling at her, though you were probably more embarrassed than she realized about that eighth one. That one had been sent towards the far side of the field, where you looked up to meet Lindsey’s eyes. You had been placed perfectly to catch the ball as it started falling from it’s apex, but in the moment your hand faltered, and it brushed by your hand instead. You cursed and considered going after it, but then you flew back to where Mia had already released one of the last two on the other side of the field. 

“Alright, for our last drill, we’re going to try to catch a real snitch again,” Mia said, pulling another golden ball out from inside her robes and holding it between her thumb and pointer finger. Its wings sprung out and flapped wildly, unlike the slow waving of the one in your pocket. 

Everything in you wanted to catch the little golden ball. To tame it like you had the other one. For it to sit calmly in your hand and wave hello like an old friend. 

“Isn’t the other one still out there?” The same girl asked, her head tilting to the side. 

“It’s been taken care of,” Mia smirked and shook her head, sending a little glance in your direction. The girl stared at her wide eyed, opening and closing her mouth as though she wanted to say more, but Mia again cut her off with a stern glare. ”As I was saying, the first of you to catch it gets to keep it and also gets a boost to the points on their scorecard. Now line up,” 

You all flew low on the pitch, forming a circle with Mia and the snitch at its center. Your eyes never left the frantically flapping little ball as you waited for her whistle to blow. There was no way it was going to escape you and if you got to show off for the would be chasers watching you near the posts, that was fine with you too. 

***

“Congratulations Y/n! There’s no way you won’t get picked to be seeker,” the girl said, after Mia released you, promising that the results of the tryouts would be posted next week. 

“Oh, um thanks-...” You said trailing off towards the end, awkwardly rubbing the back of your neck. You didn’t know her name. 

“Oh, sorry. You missed introductions at the beginning. I’m Savannah, from two years above you.” Savannah grinned at you, a bit ruefully. “You know, I thought this was going to be my year to nail the seeker position. But with you on the team, there’s no WAY we’re gonna lose to Slytherin. And Lloyd can stop looking so smug about the cup win last year.”

“The only reason they were better is because they had Amy and Sydney scoring.  They won despite her and her stupid tactics. If Slytherin actually got a decent seeker then we’d be in trouble,” Lindsey said, throwing her arm over your shoulder and stepping to walk between you and Savannah. 

“Carli’s decent, just distracted I think. She had NEWTS along with scouters and stuff,” you muttered, a bit defensively. You know you weren’t supposed to like the Slytherins- house competition and all that- but Carli’s strategy was pretty impressive. The recruiters certainly seemed to think so, you heard rumors that the recruiters from the Wasps and Arrows had a bidding war before the Harpies showed interest. 

“Pshh it was just the Harpies recruiter. Even if they have Potter, she’d still probably tank their win streak. At least that’d help my team,” Lindsey snorted, shaking her head. 

Your eyebrows furrowed. The Harpies were the second oldest team in the league, and since they recruited Ginny they had been on a tear taking down the Cannons and the Magpies in the final games of the European cup three years running. You thought Carli’s strategy would fit nicely in their ranks. 

“I’m pretty sure there were Wasps recruiters and Magpies guys here too,” Savannah said to Lindsey. You noticed her eyes glanced towards Lindsey’s arm around your shoulder as she smiled widely. Lindsey dramatically rolled her eyes. 

“Which team is yours?” You asked softly, leaning your head on Lindsey's shoulder as you trudged towards the locker room, ignoring Savannah. 

“The cannons of course,” Lindsey said confidently. Savannah seemed to be hiding a smirk, and waved goodbye at you as she headed into the locker room. 

“They’re pretty alright, but Ronaldo is a little too cocky for me. Sinclare and Potter together are a lethal combo for the Harpies and with Angerer in goal they’re like unstoppable,” You hummed thoughtfully. You also liked that the Harpies were an all female team. 

“Ugh, you sound like Emily,” Lindsey said, rolling her eyes. “She and Sam are giant Magpies supporters.” 

“I mean the Magpies have a 75% score rate while the Cannons are only at a 60. And Messi catches the snitch within the first hour 80% of the time, while Ronaldo’s catches take about 85 minutes on average,” you rattled off. So maybe you were a little too into statistics. At least your dad never had to worry about your math skills. 

“No way, they’re super into team stats too! Maybe you can help me convince Emily and Sam that the Cannons are the best team!”

“But Emily and Sam, whoever they are, are right. The stats don’t lie,” You said with furrowed eyebrows. 

“Oh, Emily is my friend in Slytherin and Sam‘s in Hufflepuff. I’ll introduce you later.” Lindsey said waving a hand in the air. “Anyway, the Magpies may have Messi, but the Cannons have heart! And isn’t that what really matters to make a good team great?”

You paused, pulling Lindsey to a stop beside you. “I know they don’t teach math here, but Statistics beat heart any day.” 

Lindsey laughed and shoved you playfully to the side. “You haven’t even met them and already you’re ganging up on me.” 

“I’m just stating facts. The hat almost put me in Ravenclaw cause I just love random factoids so much,” you smirked, tucking yourself back under her outstretched arm (it was just so warm and it made you feel… safe). 

“Well, I’m glad you’re in Gryffindor. It's way better to have you as a teammate than competition Space captain. Now let’s go- if we hurry we can probably get to the library to work on that potions essay before curfew.” 

#uswnt x reader #uswnt imagines #uswnt imagine #literalhedgehog #harry potter au #hogwarts au #quidditch au

[whatareyousearchingfordean]

Mile Six

Summary: The Kings, and Queens, of Con take on the Central Texas Tough Mudder Competition and have a good time doing it. 

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Word Count: 2.3K+

Warnings: Language, suggestive themes

Author’s Note: So, this little thing was inspired by this post (x). I saw it and instantly went weak in the knees and thus this was born. I hope you enjoy my little musings. As always, I love to hear what you thought xo Alex.

Check out Alexandra’s Library for more works by yours truly!

Trees lined the wide expanse of the field, the grass below shimmering against the Texas sun that had settled high in the afternoon sky. A slight breeze blew across the space, rustling the edges of the leaves and sending a chill down the breadth of her wet body. 

“Your turn, Y/n,” the quirky voice of her team member had slipped past her consciousness as she watched the sun be eclipsed by a wisp of a cloud. “Y/n!” 

“Hmm, what?” The woman snapped her head back to the obstacle in front of her. 

“Go, Jensen’s gonna boost you,” Rob urged her forward with a hand on her shoulder. She shook off her daze, the exhaustion fogging not only her muscles but her brain as well. The team had officially hit the halfway point of the obstacle course and she knew that she was going to be sore for days. 

“Come on, baby,” Jensen smirked at her from where he was squatted against the tall wooden wall. He cupped his hands in front of himself and indicated for her to step one foot into his palms. Y/n halted in front of him as she placed her right foot in his hold and rested her hands against his broad shoulders. She glanced up at Jared and Rich sitting on the ledge, ready to help her in whatever way she needed. “You’ve got this.”

The mud-caked woman smirked back at the actor, who was still grinning from ear to ear. She rolled her eyes for effect but leaned in and pressed a quick peck to her husband’s lips before using her leverage on his shoulders to jump. Jensen responded easily, lifting her in one swift movement as if she weighed nothing and guiding her to step on his shoulder with her left foot. As soon as the ledge was in reach she wrapped her gloved hand around it and allowed Jared to take her other to assist. Every muscle in her body protested the action, but she pushed through until both legs were swung over the wall. She wasted no time in climbing down the other side just far enough that it was safe for her to jump the rest of the way. 

Cheers erupted from her team waiting on the other side, much like they had after every other obstacle they had overcome. Y/n ran straight into her best friend, Genevieve’s, arms and embraced her tight. Both of them knew they were kicking ass at this, having argued with their respective husbands about being able to keep up with the guys. They trained for months beforehand, building up their strength and nothing made them more gleeful than proving they deserved their spots on the team. 

The two relented their embrace as the three remaining team members clambered from the barrier.  They all exchanged high fives before setting off down the trail. It didn’t take long before they arrived at yet another pool of murky water directly in their path. The group wasted no time in heading straight into the muddy hurdle. Despite the rays of the early spring sun beating down unhindered, the water was bone-chilling slowly. A shiver ran up her spine as soon as it met her heated skin and she couldn’t be sure if it was refreshing or just shocking. Y/n could also feel her feet sinking into the thick mud at the bottom of the pit, making each step difficult and slowing their process through the course. 

Once on the other side, getting back out of the pit proved difficult, the sheer weight and stickiness of the surrounding sludge seeming to want to drag her back down with every advance. She finally made it out, running to the nearby grass to rub away what she could from her sneakers as her teammates joined her one by one. When everyone was back together, they once again continued on. 

They jogged a few hundred feet before the majority slowed down as the day began to wear on them. Rich pulled the recording camera from Osric’s head as he squeezed through the group. The spritely man stuck it in everyone’s faces, asking a myriad of questions.

“That footage is going to be hell to cut together in the end,” Gen turned to Y/n with a giggle. 

“I know that true,” she agreed before sending her only female counterpart a wink. “Watch this.” Y/n jogged ahead to be closer to the group and hollered. “Hey Speight, toss me the camera. I know what the fans are gonna want to see.” The guys all turned to look at her, confusion evident in their expressions. Rich frowned but obliged the woman’s request, who caught the small camera with ease. Her steps slowed to give the guys space, allowing her to fall back into stride with Genevieve. The woman rubbed the dried mud from the display as she steadied the recorder and pointed it at her target. Gen watched over her shoulder as her friend focused on the men’s backsides, one at a time. 

“This is the view Gen and I have had all day,” she narrated, emphasizing ‘all’ for her intended audience. As she came up behind her Texan husband, he peered over his shoulder at her, taking in where she had the lens directed. He rolled his eyes at her as she rounded the group and jogged to where Jared was leading a couple of yards ahead. 

“Now what are you doing?” Jensen furrowed his brow as she kept the camera pointed on them, now walking backward as the group continued to advance. 

“I’m getting ahead of you so I can get you all in the frame,” she explained, her eyes still trained on the display to ensure she was getting at least semi-quality footage. 

“You can see all of us, it’s a wide-angle lens,” Jensen retorted gruffly, earning a grimace from his wife. Her jaw dropped in offense to his comment, turning the lens on Jared. 

“Alright, I see Ackles got an attitude around mile six,” she huffed to the towering man who just shook his head with a grin. Y/n spun back around, now seeing the group gaining on her and Jared. 

“Turn it off, I’ll show you an attitude,” Jensen indicated the camera delicately balanced in her grip. His wife nearly choked on her breath, his unexpected words settling a heat deep in her belly.

“Oh, will you now?” The woman was quick to steady her composure and cocked a challenging eyebrow at the bowlegged man who now took up a majority of the display she was observing. The look set him off and he reached her in two swift strides, snatching the camera out of her hand and ducking to pull her over his shoulder before she could react to his movement. Y/n let out a shriek that faded into laughter as her husband gripped her legs against his body with both hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him quickly toss the camera to one of the guys, jetting off away from the path and the crowd. 

“Aw, come on, Ackles,” Jared’s voice faded as Jensen carried the woman to the nearby tree line. “Be quick!” 

Shade enclosed the two completely before he set her back on her feet. Jensen pushed her back a step until her body hit rough bark. He placed one hand on either side of her head, caging her against the oak. She took a deep breath now that her stomach was no longer restricted by his shoulder and looked up at her husband through her lashes her stomach fluttering as she took in his hooded gaze. 

“I feel like you want to say something.” A hint of a smile twitched at the corners of her lips which was instantly reciprocated by the actor. He raised a gloved hand, trailing his exposed fingertips light as a feather across her jaw and down her neck. His eyes were trained where his digit tucked into the collar of her destroyed tee and pulled it away from her skin. 

“You’re cold,” he noted, the smug upturn of one corner of his lips telling her he had noticed her condition a long while ago. Y/n followed his gaze, noting the faint outline of her nipples seeping through the sports bra. She cursed silently, having hoped the material would have done a better job at hiding her modesty throughout the day. 

“Maybe-”

“Maybe?” His eyes flickered up to hers, amusement hidden throughout the familiar verdant iris’ that she loved so much. Dragging out the moment, the woman chewed on her bottom lip and took the opportunity to enjoy the visage of her husband. His hair was a wild mess, pushed away from his face with a sweatband that matched the color of his shorts and tennis shoes. He was caked in mud from head to toe, much like she was. A lot of it had dried and caked to the skin of his face and his beard while his body was dripping with the foggy liquid and his sweat. Even through all of it, he was somehow still as beautiful as ever. Still Jensen Ackles. 

“Maybe I’ve just been enjoying the view,” she teased him, her hands gripping the stretched-out material of his shirt to pull his body flush against her own. He was warm and refreshingly cool at the same time. Y/n breathed in his musky scent, mixed with the fading aroma of his signature cologne. It was her favorite thing in the world, something reserved just for her and the times he spent ravaging her body. 

“I can’t take you anywhere can I?” The hot breath of his chuckle fanned over her face. He let go of his hold on her tee, the material shrinking slowly back against her wet skin. 

“Not when you are looking like a whole damn meal,” she purred before pushing up on her toes to press her lips to his. He froze at first, his brain taking a second to catch up to her before he responded in kind. His hands fell from the tree to cradle her head in place as he deepened the kiss. Y/n let her body relax against the wood as her husband sucked her tongue into his mouth, pulling a moan from inside her chest. He picked up the pace, devouring her in the shadows of the competition that was continuing around them. As her hands dropped to the elastic of his shorts, he begrudgingly pulled away and gripped her wrists to halt her movements. 

“Fuck, we can’t,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. His eyes were screwed shut as he breathed deeply. She exaggerated the pout on her face even though he wasn’t looking at her. 

“That’s unfortunate, considering your little problem there.” Y/n jutted her hips forward, coming in contact with the situation now in her husband’s pants. 

“Oh, I hate you so much right now,” Jensen pushed away from his wife, putting a respectable distance between the two of them. 

“Hey, you are not the only one suffering right now. Lucky for me, my panties were already soaked.” Before he could utter a word, she ducked away and back into the heat of the Texas sun. He watched her jog away, but not before she glanced back over her shoulder, a wide grin on her face. 

It didn’t take her long to catch up to the group, her and Jensen having not been gone as long as she thought. Her eyes scanned the crowd of people for Jared, knowing his tall frame would stick out to her first. And she was right, the mess of hair on top of his head towering over everyone else, guiding her to where they were huddled waiting for the group ahead to finish the next course. 

“Where’s Ackles?” Jared chirped as she moved through the people to come and stand with the Kings of Con. 

“He should be right behind me,” she snorted out the words in an attempt to hide the laughter bubbling up inside her. Jared narrowed his eyes at her as if he didn’t believe what she was telling him. Not that it mattered much, as her husband’s voice drifted towards them. 

“I’m here, I’m here,” he promised, only slightly out of breath from sprinting to meet up with them. “What’s next?” 

“‘Hold Your Wood’,” Jason answered as he turned to where a massive log was being placed in front of the lot of them. Y/n nearly fell over as the barely contained laughter spilled from her lips. She brought a hand to her face as the laughter turned silent and tears ran down her cheeks, the action muffling the squeals of delight that came with each breath. 

“Yes, it’s all very funny, babe,” Jensen frowned at his wife, the downturn of his lips only fueling the hysterics inside her. 

“What the hell is wrong with her?” Rich had the same look of concern on his face as the rest of the group. Even passersby were beginning to stare at Y/n where she stood shaking with laughter. 

“Wood,” was the only word she could force past her lips as she held up her hands, gesturing to indicate length. 

“Jensen had a boner,” Jared clarified for the group, ready to keep moving. 

“Dude!” Jensen smacked his friend upside the back of his head, sending his wife into further giggles. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Y/n finally was able to force a semi-coherent sentence. “Jay, you are just too easy.” 

“That’s what she said,” Rob and Rich shouted in tandem. 

Jensen rounded on Osric, who still had one of the action cameras attached to his head, and pointed at the lens. “You can cut that out.”

“No,” Y/n protested, grabbing her husband’s arms as he reached for the Go Pro. “Keep it in.” 

Forevers: @22sarah08​ @440mxs-wife​ @akshi8278​ @anathewierdo​ @asgoodasdancingqueen @atc74​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​​ @briagallen​ @callmekda​ @dawnie1988​ @deandreamernp​ @deangirl93​ @deanwanddamons​ @ellewritesfix05​ @emoryhemsworth​ @foxyjwls007​ @hobby27​ @janicho88​ @jbsgirl4ever11​ @jensengirl83​ @lunarmoon8​ @lyarr24​ @mishacollins4evah​ @miss-nerd95​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​ @msmarvelouswinchester​ @polina-93​​ @sleepylunarwolf​ @squirrelnotsam​ @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan​ @suckmyapplejacks​ @supraveng​ @tatted-trina6​ @thoughts-and-funnies​ @traceyaudette​ @tranquility-or-chaos​​ @waywardbeanie​ @winchest09​ 

A line through your URL means Tumblr won’t let me tag you... sorry :/

#jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles fanfic #jensen ackles fic #jensen ackles #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fic #supernatural rpf #supernatural real person fiction #spn fanfic #spn fic #spn rpf #spn real person fiction #rpf #real person fiction #supernatural #spn #alex writes #mine

[diamondlife02]

#panorama #sports authority field #mile high #denver #Denver broncos #beat the cowboys #happy #amazing

[misophoniainternational]

Does your family eat together? Kelly Bruno offers an explanation on why it's okay if they don't!  I ran out the kitchen door with a skip in my step. It was my turn to ring the dinner bell. Dad was up the hill, across the field, and deep in the garden, weeding. My brother was building a bike jump out of a random chunk of cement and plywood on our dirt driveway. I reached up as high as my little arms could stretch and gripped on tight, pulling down with all my might. The sound echoed for miles around. Soon, we all sat around the dinner table. Bowls were placed in the center to be passed around and the food quickly filled our plates. Metal spoons hungrily scraped the mushy mashed potatoes off from our plates. Mouths opened and closed, working hard on their steak. The words and laughter filtered through our moist, broccoli stuffed teeth. "Kelly, close your mouth when you eat," my mom said, then sipped her tea. She always taught us our manners. Our dinner table was the picture of family values, "A family that eats together, stays together." Maybe you have heard the quote before. Today, I cringe at the idea. Not because I don't like it, or think that it is untrue. Eating together as a family can be a beautiful thing: a time to come together, talk about everyone's day, relax, and laugh. It can. Or, it can be a nightmare. A nightmare if you, or someone in your household has Misophonia. Misophonia. Where every sound and sight through a meal can switch your brain instantly into a fight or flight response. The metal spoon scraping across the dish, mouths opening and closing, the moist, smacking chews or crunch, the words, their sound as they mesh together with food being chewed, and even the slightest sip from another, just politely taking a drink: all of these things, these normal, everyday actions and sounds that we see with our eyes and hear with our ears, they each have the potential of destroying the very heart of that family value quote. So for you, the family with Misophonia, I offer you this instead, "A family that eats together, will most likely not stay together." I do not apologize. It is a hard fact, and one that is lived by many. For us, we have come to accept that family meal times are times where the family can eat where they want, when they want, in separate rooms, with music and televisions playing loudly, and sporting big, bulky noise cancelling headphones. And, that is ok. It is ok in this day and age to be different. We can find other ways in which to connect. We can go for bike rides, a hike in the woods, swimming, to a concert, and so many places more. We can connect through understanding, that sitting together at a table with food is hurtful to the sufferer, and so, we will not participate in it. And for that, we should be proud. So the next time you are in the process of filling out that random questionnare, and the question pops up of whether you sit as a family to eat your meals, remember, it is ok to check, "No." It does not make you a bad person or make your family of a lesser value. If you, or a member of your family suffers with Misophonia, for what you are doing (or, not doing), I say, "Hooray!" And, "Good for you!" It is ok. Let us stand up for ourselves and our families. Let us tell others about what Misophonia is and what it means to live with it. Because the more we do, the more we can finally shine the light down on our own family values and ways. Let us lead the way. Written by Kelly Bruno, author of Sound. 

#misophonia #sensory #sound #spd #advocacy

[percontaion-points]

Raven King chapter 6

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions.

Chapter 6

Nicky was bringing Jim from his improv class...

I thought Nicky had a long-term boyfriend?

Well, if he did, he probably doesn't anymore. Not with all of Nicky's jokes about cheating and him taking some rando to the big dinner.

Blackwell was slow to appear in the distance, but it didn't take long to spot the two stadiums. The football and Exy stadium were on opposite sides of the campus like massive bookends.

I'm still having a really difficult time swallowing that society completely shifted because of a sport invented some 30 years earlier.

Like I'm willing to overlook a lot for the sake of a story. But for society to just go completely and utterly apeshit over a 30 year old sport makes zero sense. AND I READ THE STORY WHERE THE LADY HAD SEX WITH THE LITERAL BULL.

Wymack pulled a bottle of vodka out of the bag and put it down beside Kevin. "You have ten seconds to inhale as much of this as you can. I'm timing you. Go."

It was alarming how much a man could drink when he needed an emotional crutch.

WOW THAT'S SUPER FUCKING HEALTHY.

Like I get that his foster-father and brother abused the shit out of him. But therapy is much better than alcoholism.

Madison was using the home locker room to change right now, so the Foxes had to go all the way around to the away side.

I really love how there's this big fancy banquet dinner where they invite all of the college exy teams, and they literally have to change in the locker room.

My high school did this band banquet, too. But we didn't have to fucking eat dinner out on the football field with our parents... We had the school cafeteria for the evening.

Out of touch author can't even think of a world where these idiots would want to rent a banquet hall. Oh no... it's got to be at the fucking stadium, for some unholy reason.

Judging by Neil's quick headcount, the Ravens hadn't brought dates. They hadn't brought any color along, either. All twenty-two of them were dressed head-to-toe in black. The twenty men wore the same shirts and slacks, and the two women wore identical dresses. They even sat the exact same way, all with their right elbows on the table, all of them with their chins in their hands. Another team might look foolish going so far, but somehow the Ravens looked imposing.

I joke about the fox characters outside of Neil, Kevin, and Andrew being cardboard cut-outs... but this ain't got nothing on those cardboard cutouts.

"I know who you are," Riko said. "Who here doesn't? You're the woman who captains a Class I team. You've done admittedly well despite your disadvantages."

CASUAL SEXISM.

The man to Riko's right stood up as soon as the Foxes were settled and walked behind the Ravens until he was across from Neil. Two fingers to the woman's shoulder got her out of her chair and she moved to the newly-emptied seat. The stranger sat across from Neil. As he did the Ravens fell out of their frozen poses, but they did so only to lean back as one in their chairs.

Did they practice this ahead of time?

The black three tattooed on his left cheekbone meant he could be no one but Jean Moreau.

Imagine getting a tattoo of a college sports number. Of which you would only get to play for a few years before being forced out.

It took him only a few seconds to realize the Ravens were coming. The entire team was crossing the court toward Kevin, walking in V formation like a flock of birds going south.

I can't with her descriptions of the Ravens. Like one team's colors are orange and white, and the other is black and red. ONE OF THEM IS GUD AND THE OTHER IS EBUL. THE RAVENS ARE EBUL, AND THEY'RE ALL HENCHMEN ROBOTS.

"We're sure it is," the Raven striker said, "seeing how you're dating a prostitute."

"Stripper," Dan corrected...

[…]

Neil tried not to stare at her. He would have dismissed the Raven's insult as an outright lie if not for Dan's easy response. Too late he remembered her telling him she'd worked an overnight job during high school to make ends meet.

THE AUTHOR DOES REALIZE THAT YOU HAVE TO BE 18 TO WORK JOBS LIKE THAT... RIGHT?! Like please tell me that the author didn't write about a 15 year old getting a job as a stripper.

This series is bad enough without needing to drag child strippers into the mix.

The others fell asleep within a few miles, but Neil spent the entire ride thinking about Riko and his father.

Chapter 6 summary: So it's time for the banquet. They do a random lottery draw where they decide which school will host the banquet this year. The school picked is only about four hours away. The banquet itself lasts for two days, in order to justify some of the travel time for those further away. However, the foxes are of the opinion “fuck that; we're not staying the entire two days”.

As they get closer to the school, Kevin starts to have a panic attack. As the others leave the bus, David gives Kevin some alcohol, and tells him to chug it. Which... yeah, that sounds fucking healthy. They have to change out in the locker room, which is fucking weird if you ask me. And then they go into the stadium, which has been turned into a banquet hall. The sight makes Neil angry, and mood. Rent a fucking banquet hall for this, assholes.

They're upset to see that the foxes are randomly supposed to be sitting across from the ravens. And the ravens are all dressed like evil henchmen, and are even randomly acting in unison. Talk about zero personality. David warned the others not to pick a fight, but obviously wasn't counting on Riko bringing his planet-sized ego with him. A rando Raven player named Jean-- who is the embodiment of every French stereotype you can think of-- starts to antagonize Neil, and calls him by a bunch of Neil's former names. He then moves on and starts insulting everybody else.

Their little pissing match goes on for a long while. But hey, it's not like anything else is going on, so this might as well happen, I guess. Finally, Riko antagonizes Neil into speaking, and Neil calls Riko out on his shit, saying that he's a whiny, entitled little brat who doesn't have anything going for him. Then, Jean and Riko start to act like they “own” Neil, which has fucking creepy slavery undertones to what they're saying.

David finally shows up to say that they're trying to move the foxes to another table. As they get up to leave, Jean can't help but name-drop Neil's father. The others rally around Kevin and Neil once they're away. Kevin is sent back to the bus to drink some more liquor, and Neil thinks about following. Not only that, but just fucking leaving. But he doesn't, because then this series would be put out of its misery.

After dinner, then they put all of the tables away and everybody starts socializing and networking. The ravens come over, act like they've never met the foxes before, but then continue to insult them. I'm really fucking over this. Riko's uncle and the raven coach comes over. The two teams awkwardly stare at one another, and the only thing this scene needs is some dramatic finger snapping. Tetsuji says that he ran fingerprint test off of a glass Neil drank out of back during that dumb morning talk show, and knows who he is. He yells at Neil about crimes that Neil's dad committed against The Family©, as if Neil himself personally did all of that. However, Neil stands his ground and refuses to be bullied by these assholes.

Matt finally drags Neil away, and threatens to tell the exy board about Riko's shit behavior and have him benched for the rest of the season. They all go back to the bus finally, and start to head home.

#All For The Game #The Raven King #chapter 06 #Nicky Hemmick #I don't even know anymore #do you even know how the world works? #i have seen some shit #Kevin Day #alcoholism is not a personality trait #i'm done goodbye #random background characters are random #Riko Moriyama #Danielle Wilds #casual sexism #What Is Happening #Jean Moreau #playing sports is not a personality trait #paper-thin metaphors #I cannot deal with this #Neil Josten

[jackywroteabook]

World Building: How to Create a Fictional Small Town in 10 Steps

Small towns are a classic literary setting, making appearances in all types of genres and forms. Maycomb County from To Kill a Mockingbird, Bedford Falls from It’s a Wonderful Life, Stars Hollow in Gilmore Girls – all dreamy little towns that have become staples of the American image. You could even argue that fantasy has its share of small towns – the Shire from Lord of the Rings immediately comes to mind.

In my first published novel, The Last Summer, I chose to set my story in a small Southern town called Valia Springs. Here is how you can create your own small town setting that is charming and magical, while at the same time realistic and universal.

Psst! Grab your small town world-building checklist/brainstorming worksheet here. It’s in my free resource library.

1. Pick a region.

If you’re focusing on mainly a setting within the United States, you’ll want to choose a region as the foundation for your town’s culture. Is it in the South? New England? The Midwest? The Southwest? Each part of the country carries with it its own specialized problems, cultural norms, ethics, and colloquialisms. If your goal is to be less specific (meaning it isn’t necessarily set in the US), you should choose a geographic feature or biome to construct your town around. Is it on the prairie? In the mountains? Lakeside or coastal? In the desert? Surrounded by wheat fields, or corn, or vineyards, or cattle?

2. What created the town?

Now that you know the region or environment, consider what your town’s main industry would be. What brought people to live there in the first place? What is sustaining the town? Why is it so small? Is it part of a dying industry? Common small town industries include mining, oil rigging, fishing, farming or ranching, tourism, or one main factory. Or it could have been a common stop on a route towards a popular destination. Maybe it was the only place with water for hundreds of miles, due to a natural spring. These are all common reasons a small town would crop up and remain small for its duration.

3. What are the town’s problems – both overt and underlying?

Consider what obvious problems your small town is struggling with. Typically, this would be finance-related and replacement-rate related. Besides this, what not-so-obvious problems might the town have? Is the town government or police force corrupt? Are there underlying prejudices that run deep in the community? These problems will typically be part of your story’s conflict: sometimes the central conflict, sometimes the cause of or backdrop for the conflict, sometimes a secondary conflict. It’s a great way to connect with universal problems that almost any reader can relate to, because they’ve seen or experienced it in their own community.

4. What is the social structure?

Who in the town holds power, influence, or authority? Is it an individual, or a group? Who lives on the fringes of the society, or are outcast? How do the various social classes behave? What mannerisms or customs do they adhere to? What factors differentiate those in power from those not in power?

5. What are the town’s hidden gems?

Is there a special place or event within or around the town that evokes wonder or magic? It could be a hidden pond/lake, a scenic overlook, a cave or old mineshaft, an old abandoned house, a fair or festival, a broken down factory, an old railroad bridge – anything that can be made magical through its mystery or reputation.

6. The townsfolk characters should be archetypes.

Even though it may sound stereotypical or cliché, part of creating a universal small town is filling it with characters that reflect the people we encounter every day in real life. These include characters such as the trickster, the mother-figure, the control freak, the underdog, the athletic hero, the good citizen, and so on. (For a solid list of 12 archetypes, click here.)

7. What are the customs, behaviors, and mannerisms all the townspeople adhere to?

Are there certain societal norms that are accepted by all the townies? For example, is there a certain way they greet one another? Do all the ladies gather for coffee and Euchre at a different house each Friday afternoon? Does everybody attend a religious service each week? Are there any legends or stories that all the townies are familiar with? Is there a word, phrase, or accent that everyone uses (that isn’t common to the rest of us readers?) Is there a parade or festival that they host every year? If so, is it related to the town’s main industry or history? Is there a sports team that the whole community rallies behind?

8. I think it’s best to have a town that is, for the most part, considered very safe.

The sense of security not only adds to the magic (because many readers associate security with the safety and comfort of childhood), but when that sense of security is violated, it rocks the town and adds to the conflict, causing fear, suspicion, and mob mentality.

9. When considering the conflict, it’s best to account for how it will either divide or bring together a small, tight-knit community.

I grew up in a small tourist town on the coast of a major lake, so I know first-hand what shakes a community and what brings it together. A local middle-school girl who got terminal cancer caused the town to rally, hosting fundraiser spaghetti dinners and 5K walks for the cure. When she passed away, the memorial service was huge (practically the whole town attended), and I think a scholarship was created in her honor.

On the other hand, a local high school boy who was murdered while working alone at a pizzeria chilled my town to the bone. People pointed fingers at many of the usual high school troublemakers in the town, and some kids were jailed though innocent of the crime. No one felt safe anymore. Suspicion raged, lawsuits followed, and everyone was left in shock that something so cold-blooded could happen in such a tight-knit community.  

10. Keep the town a typically uneventful place where nothing out of the ordinary seems to happen, but then capitalize on the one or two dramatic things that do happen.

How might they have affected the town? What was their lasting impact? How did people react? Were the incidents covered up, or were they made public to set an example?

This is my recipe for creating an unforgettable small town that readers will fall in love with. I personally think stories set in small towns have the ability to relate to the most readers and lay the groundwork for the most impactful storylines. To quote Gregory Peck, who played Atticus in the movie To Kill a Mockingbird:

“The Southern town…reminds me of the California town I grew up in. The characters of the novel are like the people I knew as a boy. I think perhaps the great appeal of the novel is that it reminds readers everywhere of a person or a town they have known. It is to me a universal story – moving, passionate and told with great humor and tenderness.”

I believe the same could be said of any literary small town. I consider this one of the highest compliments an author can receive.  

Don’t forget to snag your small town world building checklist/brainstorming worksheet! It’s both helpful and free.

#am writing #world building stuff #tumblr writers #writers on tumblr #writblr #writeblr #writerscreed #writing a book #writing inspiration #writing tidbit #writing tips #writing advice #worldbuilding #fiction #writing about writing #writing a story #nanowrimo

[yeoldontknow]

Ciperion: 1/2

Author: @yeoldontknow​ as part of the Anchors & Arrows collaboration with @imdifferentshadesofpurple​ Pairing: Jaebeom x Reader (oc; female) Genre: fantasy!au; shipwreck au; jaebeom is a fisherman; romance; angst; elements of horror; ghosts; eventual smut Summary: Everyone on the Isle Indolon knows the story of Ciperon, though none believe it is true. Over centuries, the tale of the long lost ghost ship on the high seas has become little more than urban legend. In his youth, Jaebeom always thought the story was heartbreaking, and he did his best to avoid it - the same way he avoids the missionaries that have taken occupation on the island. On the anniversary of Ciperion’s ill-fated port date, you wash up on sea, and only you have the answers he’s always been seeking. If only you could remember who you are. Rating (this part): PG-13 Warnings (this part): angst; shipwrecks; references to head trauma; jaebeom does CPR; jaebeom rescuing an unconcious woman; allusions to sexual assault but it didnt happen, he just is protective and misinterprets everything; anxiety; ptsd; vomiting; ghost stories; graphic depictions of violence; mentions of blood; non-major character death; themes of horror; lots of grief; memory loss; jb doesnt really know what to do with himself; mentions of becoming a widow; it sounds really sad but i promise its not that bad; tbh oc is a really great sport Word Count: 17.5K

Three hundred miles off the emerald coast of Isle Indolon, Second Mate Ansil Green looks up at the shimmering night of the dark sky and feels a chill of apprehension burrow deep within his bones. 

There are only three days left to their journey, and for five months he has charted each with meticulous accuracy. It is easy to rely on the stars, he thinks. Their steadfast illumination and the reassurance found in their seasonal rotation have brought him immeasurable comfort throughout his life, and not once, not even on nights when storms threaten to eat their way through the ship’s bowsprit, have they ever led him astray. 

In the berthing hull, the missionaries say their prayers with tightly clasped hands, while others read their scrolls in preparation for new lectures once they reach the shore. Back in Indolon, Ansil’s wife and two children anxiously await his triumphant return, and everyone, every crew member and stow away rat, is eager to breach land. Even now, he can see it clearly - his wife’s pretty eyes as she laughs, small crescent moons that remind him of the night sky; the youthful, almost violent laughter of his sons as they play in the fields; the creaking if their iron bed frame as he rocks between her thighs, not unlike the ship as she rocks against the sea. 

Tonight, he wonders if these simple treasures have fallen too far out of reach, if they have slipped, imperceptibly, out of his grasp. 

Because tonight, the stars are wrong. 

Gripping the mahogany banister, he leans against the side and cranes his neck, angling his view slightly to the right in the hopes of correcting the pattern. Something about this is terribly wrong, wrong enough that the deepening doubt bites at him, heating his skin like a fever. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he does his best to swallow this worry,  attempts, rather meekly, to focus on the light flapping of the mainsail above him, on its rhythmic and soothing white noise that often helps him drift, hazily, through sleepless nights. Now, it offers him little comfort, the wind that moves the ship rustling through his hair, stroking against the shell of his ear, carrying whispers of splintered wood and rocky shores blackened by sea water mixing with spilled blood.

Heavy footsteps make their approach from behind, the purposeful strides and confident gait of Captain Grier L’Allante causing the heels of his boots to shatter the false sense of peace. Ansil does not move to greet his Captain, and while this would be considered an insult on any other crew ship, he supposes Grier has become used to his flippant and yet focused attitude when the stars are out, decades of manning ships alongside one another having reduced the rules of propriety almost entirely non-existent. Keeping his gaze on the sky, he feels Grier come to stand beside him, the heat of his closeness full of pride and awe; admiring the vastness of the sea before him, he exudes an energy that puts a sour taste in the back of Ansil’s throat. 

How he hates to ruin the evening.

‘We’re going in the wrong direction,’ he announces, feeling Grier stiffen rather than deflate entirely.

His captain hums in consideration, never one to give over to fear or uncertainty. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the stars.’ Ansil corrects his posture and regards his friend with pleading eyes. It is, perhaps, the first time he has ever shown signs of fear with his captain, but Grier maintains his composure and presses his lips into a thin line. ‘They’re at the wrong angle by about twenty-six degrees,’ he continues to explain. 

Pointing up at the constellation Cassiopeia, he gestures a long straight line back behind him, back towards the foresail, in the direction of Hydra. Turning once again to look at Grier, he waits for some kind of flicker of emotion to pass over his features, and when nothing comes, he simply sighs, pressing his friend for more. 

‘This distance shouldn’t be this wide,’ he offers grimly, straightening his posture to stand at his full height. ‘Did we turn?’

‘No.’ Grier barks his reply with forceful authority, though, behind his eyes there is a storm brewing, a brief flash of concern that placates Ansil. ‘I helm this ship myself, and you know in your heart we haven’t turned. You said straight on until dawn, and the wind is steady at four knots to the South-West. We’re still on course.’

In unison, they turn back to the sky, and Ansil tightens his grip on the railing. ‘There’s something bad about this. I can feel it.’

Grier chuckles amicably. ‘What you’re feeling is five months staring at the same bloody lights in the sky.’ His gaze falls on Ansil’s profile, and he can feel him regarding his features with probing scrutiny. ‘You didn’t even take a woman at the last port,’ he states, nudging his shoulder with a force that makes Ansil lean to the side. 

‘They’re not precisely the same,’ he admonishes with a laugh. Grier regards him expectantly, but all Ansil can manage is a sigh of longing. He’d love to laugh at this kind of crude joke, and normally he would, but three days is somehow longer than five insurmountable months, the ability to count them transmuting the number into something brutal. ‘And you know I’d never do that to Mala.’

Taking off his hat, Grier runs a hand through the greasy black strands of his hair, grimacing through his laugh. ‘Too loyal for your own good.’

This is something Ansil can tease him about, and he offers his friend an impish grin, taking his own opportunity to nudge Greir’s shoulder roughly, revealing his hidden strength. ‘And your prick is too slippery for your health.’

It’s childish, the way they punch their fists into one another’s arms, the jovial nature of this making him feel as though they are teenagers once again. At once, he is nineteen and Grier has just convinced him to come out to sea, to stow away on his father’s vessel, and they are laughing at the reckless foolishness of this idea. But they are smiling, already hungry for the adventure, already wanting the spray from the waves and the salt that shall never leave their skin. They are young and they are hopeful, and now, even after the bloodshed and the violence and the horror they have seen among the ocean, he thinks they have never been quite as dangerous as they were then.

‘You need rest, mate,’ Grier advises once they’ve settled back against the railing. They look out over the ocean, the water as black as the night it reflects, light of the moon illuminating the peaks of waves and casting shadows behind them as long as the sea is wide. Releasing a deep sigh through the flare of his nostrils, he suddenly becomes alarmingly serious. ‘Otherwise, it’s scurvy.’

A beat of silence passes between them, a pregnant pause in which neither one of them breathes, the word hanging heavily between them both, unwilling to be touched. Until, they erupt into laughter, Ansil leaning against the railing to steady himself atop the wet baseboards. A wave hits the side of the ship and sprays gently against his cheeks, cooling his skin and for a moment, he is grounded in the happiness of this. For a moment, the sky is clear and he can see Grier’s warm, too kind smile; can see the way the ship is heading home, steadfast and unyielding in her journey.

For a moment, there is peace.

Calming his breath, he runs a hand over his face and nods. ‘What I would give for a peach.’ 

Ansil waits for the inevitable hum of commiseration, a sound of companionship in the memory of the juicy ripeness of Indolon peaches - the yellow of their fruit so moist it would leave their hands sticky for days. He can almost taste the burst of flavor in his mouth, tongue wet in desperation for something other than the salt and brine of oysters and trout, and finds the only consolation for this hunger is that they shall arrive in time for the peak season. 

Ansil waits for Grier, but the sound never comes, his captain watching the waves beyond the ship with lips parted in pale shock. Knotting his brow, Ansil takes his time turning to look where Grier’s focus rests, the tendrils of dread rising once more within his belly. The fear in him feels almost inhuman, taking full control of his joints as they stiffen, keeping him rigid and held firmly in place. Grier continues looking out to sea, blood rushing away from his cheeks, likely retreating within to service more important pieces in preparation of survival. 

When Ansil finally gathers his strength, he swallows thickly, and looks out to the water. He has lived through war - a great many battles on Naval ships both larger and smaller than this. He has seen dying men beg for both life and death, the fear in their eyes making it unclear which they crave more. He has seen waves rise taller than the ships he crews, seeking an immortal companion for her enduring loneliness. 

But he has never seen fog overtake the earth quite like this, or with such wrath.

It comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once, swallowing both sea and sky as it crawls across the horizon. From its center, an ethereal light seems to glow, a beacon to herald the nothingness that surrounds them, but even this light too is a half formed shadow, the core of its rays smeared across miles as it spreads within the clouds. The blood in his ears in unrelenting, the rush of his blood to his thunderous heart making his head begin to hurt as he watches it spread. Has anything ever been so fast? 

The fog works quickly to cover everything in sight, racing towards the ship at a speed he simply cannot comprehend. When he was young, and newly appointed to Third Mate Naval Officer, he sailed aboard the Cygnus, the fastest ship Indolon had ever produced - reaching a record breaking thirteen knots in the correct wind conditions. Somehow, this fog is so much faster, ravenous for absolutely everything it touches as the waves begin to still beneath its touch. 

The wind ceases.

The waves still, cannibalised by the fog.

And as he looks to Grier, their eyes mirroring the horror they find in each other, he realizes the ship has come to a full stop.

It is when the fog touches the boat that he hears it, the anguished screaming of men beneath their feet. Even at war, he has never heard such terror as this. The sound is born from men suddenly learning that they will die, this death an ambush to the unsuspecting and therefore all the more gruesome in its wake. He regards his feet with a disgust that taints his numbness, the abjection of this noise releasing a myriad of feelings within his veins - the urge to run, the urge to scream, a tightness in his throat so painful he fears he may suffocate on the size of it, and the overwhelming desire to cry. Yet, it seems his body cannot decide upon any of these, and so settles on none, rendering him absolutely and completely silent. 

They stand above the berthing hull, listening to the missionaries burst to life for one extraordinary moment before their echoes die one by one, their last breath a wail of anguish. As Ansil takes in a long, slow inhale to steady his growing panic, he can smell the acrid stench of blood and piss wafting up between the boards, bile rising to the back of his throat. The silence that befalls them in the aftermath is threatening, an eerie calm that raises gooseflesh along his skin. Bones brittle and mouth dry, he simply stares at Grier and takes in every detail he can, unfailingly certain this is the last time they will see one another. 

In the distant horizon a tall mast looms beyond the mist, the main mast taller than that of their vessel. The crow’s nest is empty, and if he focuses long enough he has the passing sensation he could look right through the wood into an empty, eternal void. 

‘It can’t be,’ he whispers, reminding himself it is just a legend and that legends are buried in the past.

They are buried.

His voice carries no echo, the atmosphere around them tight enough his voice lives and dies before him, reaching nowhere else but his own ears. Grier does not even react, does not make any movement at all, save for the shifting of his attention to the world behind Ansil, eyes trained on something that makes his adam’s apple bob in the effort of swallowing his trepidation. 

A bead of sweat glides down Ansil’s spine, and he can feel an angry shadow looming behind him. Burning like hellfire, he waits for the scent of his own flesh bubbling beneath his chemise to reach his nose, readying for immolation. Death comes slowly for people like him, he supposes. It likes to take its time weighing the worth of his soul and the value of his existence. He has made love and he has made life, but he has taken far more than he has created, and so he suspects this slow conquering of his person is deserved - retribution for the bloodstains etched into his palms.

‘Ciperion,’ Grier says, eyes widening in sudden, terrible realization.

It is the last thing Ansil sees and hears before cold hands wrap around his jaw, pressing fingers into his mouth and pulling until the pain in his bones, his skin, his muscles is so great the world turns black.

Standing on the old oak dock behind his home, Jaebeom stares out at the open sea and knows that, today, the water is ruthless. 

He can feel the rage beneath her waves, the violent and unforgiving aggression of the current guiding the water as it rolls up against the edge of the dock, shaking its legs as if testing the foundation’s strength. The first light of morning is unable to penetrate the intense cloud cover along the horizon, their peaks and valleys tinged with red shadows behind the murky green and black. Awake far too early to begin his descent to the jetty, he balls his fists in the pockets of his linen coat and eyes the gathering storm with suspicion. 

Once again, he’s been brought out.

Pulled from his feather bed by some unseen force, it has become a habit for him to spend his early hours on the dock, overtaken by a profound sense of longing. Rooting himself to the wood, he has grown used to the passage of time that drifts beyond him, and finds that he is unencumbered by these lost moments. It’s been happening more often as late, his sleep interrupted by the desire to see and to know, an endless stream of questions burning at the back of his mind that chase the sleep from his limbs. But, always, the words are garbled, the thoughts unclear. 

It is worse today - somehow, he knows this with all of his being. Even as he stands, completely alone and unseen, he feels naked all the way down to his nerves. Narrowing his eyes, he peers at the water, unblinking, taking hold of the ache within his chest. Something is missing, has been lost. Or, perhaps, it was taken from him, the intense longing in his chest delivering him a nostalgia too great to be expressed or understood. If he looks long enough, he can almost envision it emerging from the horizon, precariously balanced as though hanging on a thread. 

But the image never fully forms, never reveals its nature, and he is left bereft, hissing a sigh of frustration between his teeth. 

Gulls pass overhead, making way for the Southern shore. Their calls are the music of the morning, a siren song that only serves to mire him deep within his thoughts, and he blinks several times as he rolls his shoulders back, trying, and failing, to collect himself. The current sends a rough breeze through the thin fabric of his chemise, the uncharacteristically cool summer air nipping at his skin, and he bristles though he does not shiver.  Digging his nails into his palm, he struggles to gather the will to leave, every bone in his body telling him he must wait.

Each morning Jaebeom finds himself in this position, looking out to the open water and waiting - wanting to write love letters, wanting to write odes, often wanting to simply cry or curse the tide for what it has taken, but he remains mute, dumbfounded, lingering expectantly for an answer that will not come. And he is angry, muttering to himself that he must leave, that there is no purpose here, but the thought of missing it only serves to aggravate his insistence on keeping still, on looking and looking harder. 

‘Come on,’ he mumbles, as if willing a response from the sea.

When nothing comes, the muscles in his arms and thighs tense as he presses himself into the dock. ‘Show me,’ he hisses, emphatically.

Immediately he feels terribly silly, not even certain to whom he is speaking. It is not the first time he has made these demands, not the first time he has called out to the sea as if it would even deign to reply. The answering silence and empty air should neither surprise nor disappoint him, but as his posture curls and his chest deflates, he finds both of these things happen in quick succession. Something is out there, something beyond the place the light touches, and he thinks what frustrates him most is the endless unknowing. 

Voices along the shore break his concentration, a group of missionaries walking side by side, barefoot in the warm sand as they talk, sometimes laugh, amongst one another. The sound of their chatter breaks the magic of this hour, an unwelcome interruption to the morning solitude. At once he returns to himself, hands in his pockets relaxing out of the fists he’s been holding, and suddenly he feels rather neutral about his position on the dock, about the ocean, and the thick clouds overhead. 

The town has started to wake, the missionaries commencing their morning walk a sign that he is late - terribly late, and the time it will take him to prepare his sails and his nets will likely cause him to miss the golden fishing hour. Closing his eyes, he hangs his head and sighs, certain he will lose the best crabs of the day. 

Briskly walking along the shore to the jetty, he keeps a wide berth from the missionaries as he passes. Jaebeom keeps his eyes trained on the rocky jut of the shoreline, keeping his posture rigid in the effort of not being overtaken by the staggering sense of unease that gradually drops his feet to his stomach with each step he takes. He’s certain they must feel this, must feel the crushing weight of his discomfort, and he furrows his brow, swallows thickly, and grits his teeth as he prepares for conversation. 

‘Good day,’ they chime in unison, bowing their heads in greeting. The steely chill in their voices makes him shiver. ‘May Deus keep you.’

Jaebeom simply nods politely, but says nothing, finding no solace in their words. On instinct, his attention diverts to the slotted diamond shaped symbols on their rosaries, a sense of nausea rising in his stomach. Lifting his gaze to their faces, he focuses on their features - their eyes, their well practiced smiles, their royal blue square hats - but all the while, he battles against himself, soul willing him with all its might to look, once more, at the rosaries. 

Quickening his steps, he hurries past them, releasing a breath he did not know he had been holding. Running a hand through his hair, he chastises himself sheepishly for his disrespectful behavior. He’s old enough now, nearly thirty and well past the age of childish anxiety, to know they are harmless, it is harmless, but still he feels a rattle in his bones even after they have disappeared from view. He remembers the monthly service ceremony - his mother, her pleading eyes, and his frightened distress as she brought him along. Long into the night, he would be plagued with the memory of their long faces and their empty expressions, the fear and hatred in him making him feel sick with fever. 

Eventually, he grew out of this level of anguish but still his maturity and his logical reasoning do not serve as a comfort. In the numerous missionaries that occupy Indolon, he finds no refuge, no joy, somehow more sure now, in his old age, than ever of their wrongness.

His schrooning boat is docked at the base of the rocky cliff side, just below the lighthouse and pushed far away from the crowded wharf. As he makes his approach, he feels the eyes of other fishermen bore into his spine, their judgement of him, his lack of a First Mate, a crew, and his placement of his boat always deeply felt at this hour of the morning. But he does not mind. 

Since he was small, Jaebeom’s understanding of the sea, of her nature and her cruelty, has kept him at a great distance from his peers. As a child, he preferred to listen - to listen to the ocean and to watch it change, finding a deep affinity in her tumultuous loneliness. This kind of loving relationship, he thinks, has developed into a skill that keeps his family well paid, a roof over his head, and the bellies of many full. Maintaining a crew would simply distract him, his mind less on the water and more on the work of his members. 

And while he, too, might have agreed the placement of his boat against the rocks is reckless at best, it is placed where he would catch crabs as a child with his father - the best location to spot their lavender and purple shells as they eat the moss along the stones. And just below, the bright vermillion of the king crabs glittering as they sink to the ocean floor.

Stepping onto his boat, he sheds his linen jacket and cranes his head back to observe the large mast, its mainsail tied neatly at the base with a strong sailor’s knot. Rolling up his sleeves, he lets the sea breeze kiss his warm skin, heated and dewy with moisture from his walk, and watches light behind the clouds do its best to illuminate the land below. The rains will likely start soon, the hours left in the day for adequate fishing conditions dwindling, and so he hoists himself up on the shroud, untying the sail in quick, easy motions. 

Climbing up the iron ladder connected to the mast, he reaches for the rope at the center of the sail and latches his fingers, giving one large tug to set the sail free. It flaps loosely in the wind, releasing itself to its full length, and as he makes his way down in the cover of its shadow, he looks out to the lighthouse, admiring the way the tall grass is somehow more viridescent beneath the grey skies as it reaches upwards, asking for rain. Autumn is nestled in the branches of the trees, the peak summer season soon to give way to the burning gold of autumn, but as he regards the lighthouse field he finds it difficult to imagine the world any other way than this. It’s as though the earth has always been green, always been bright, too alive to ever fully be witnessed.

As he takes in the splendor of the earth, letting pleasure root itself against his ribs, he notices, rather curiously, a pile of cloth discarded amongst the rocks. Strewn carelessly across the sharp incline, the ivory cloth has been yellowed and torn, resting long forgotten in the shallows. Narrowing his eyes, he steps off the shroud and leans over the edge of his boat, glad that it is still tied to the fender and not drifting away with the sudden displacement of his weight. As he continues to look, the ivory gives way to the vitality of flesh and long limbs, and his mouth runs dry. 

‘By Deus,’ he whispers, the dread in his veins restricting the volume of his voice. ‘It’s a person.’

Limbs moving of their own accord, Jaebeom is carried back to the dock, hands working quickly to remove his boots. Gaze unwavering, he keeps his eyes on the body, transfixed and horrified, afraid of letting his eyes wander for fear of it disappearing altogether. His heart beats like thunder against his sternum, warring with too many emotions and unable to allow any one a victor. Behind the worry, the confusion, the terror, a curious sense of relief is building, a calm that would almost have him believe he is not in the process of coming undone. 

If he focuses on it, he gets the sense that this is what he has been waiting for - not just in the morning before the dawn breaks, not just in the crash of waves against his boat and their icy waters demanding his spirit, but for always. In this moment, the hollowed sensation in his heart, the sense of something long absent, is scabbing over with each breath he takes. 

Barefoot, he moves at a slow run, something like grief and hope mixing in his blood and putting a swell in the joints of his fingers. Jaebeom stifles these feelings, grounds himself in the reality that someone might be hurt, might be in need, and reminds himself, dutifully, that it is not the time to be carried away with his emotions. Still, there is a tingle at the base of his neck, an urgency that goes beyond humanitarianism, pushing him forward with exhilaration.

'Help.'

A female voice is carried on the wind, musical in its cadence and pleasurable in the way it sings its request. The ocean spray delivers it to him at the same moment the water bursts over the rocks, the sea mist rising up against his cheeks before retreating through the crevices in the earth, cooling the flush beneath his skin. Inside him, it burrows, reaching down and deep to nestle in the long empty caverns of his heart. As he moves over the rocks, carefully placing his feet to maintain his balance, he strains to hear it once more, certain it is a woman he is racing to help and she is begging to be saved. 

'Help heal.'

'I'm coming,' he calls out, voice as shaky as his legs and echoing over the ocean’s roar. 

He does his best not to cut his toes on the angular shards that have been eroded over years of rough sea water, but with each step he takes the water rises over the rocks with an aggression bordering on feral, demanding all of him within its foam. With each rush of water, he has the feeling it is reaching for his ankles, hands desperate to clutch at his person and drag him down, and down. 

Yet, the closer he gets, the more he feels as though he could weep - from joy, from desperation, from loss - and this alone is enough to make him want to rush, pushing through the erratic rhythm of his heart and beyond the lump in his chest that makes each inhale ache. Now, with a clear vision of the body, it is as though you have been spit from the ocean’s mouth, cast out for your transgressions and all the corrupted ways you have disappointed the ocean. There is tragedy in the way you are draped over the rocks, body poised at woeful angles for having displeased the gods. Now, you have been forced to greet the horror of your retribution. 

Only a few rocks away, Jaebeom allows himself a brief pause and takes you in, letting his eyes take their time in their discovery of your person. Hugging himself, he suddenly feels conflicted, as though he is learning your shapes while still becoming reacquainted with something long missed. This state of being is a paradox, and in the full emptiness of it, he has the passing sensation that he is learning the essence of love, and little else. 

Shaking himself free from his idle reverence, he takes a few steps closer and notices the silk of your dress is ruined, perhaps permanently. His jaw drops slightly at the still gleaming shine of the fabric, the most expensive silk he has ever seen. It clings to your skin, dampened and tarnished, fraying at the ripped edges but still doing its best to hold you delicately, clinging to you in the effort of keeping you safe. Something about the cut of the dress triggers a memory he cannot quite reach, a familiarity in its lines and shapes that make him recall there was a purpose behind this outfit, a reason that it is both extraordinary and unforgettable, but it vanishes from him as quickly as it came. The fog in his mind is heavy, muddling his thoughts and pulling at the edges of his concentration and he knits his brow together to keep himself grounded.

In the aftermath of this brief recollection, he bites a whine of longing burning at the back of his throat, a pathetic sound of loss, regret, mourning. Your hair spills over the rocks, eyes closed and skin bruised though not scraped to bleeding. Flickers of recognition press at him, mind racing around the image of your soft lips, the high angle of your cheekbones, and the delicate elegance found in your wrists. Struggling to recall your name, Jaebeom approaches gently, coming to a kneel at your side, unsure what to say at all.

Pressing two fingers to the pulse point in your neck, he feels a dull, yet ever present, throb of life beneath your skin and releases a breath he did not know he had been holding. Alive, though just barely and unconscious, lungs likely full of sea water. Everything about you is soft, the warmth of life fading quickly beneath his fingers and rendering you terribly fragile, and he retracts his hand for fear of his touch giving bloom to more marks along your flesh. 

Glancing around the cliff face, he looks for signs of wood, other bodies, ripped sails or bent iron, but finds nothing. No signs of shipwreck, no signs of a waiting party to receive you. You are alone in this torment, rejected by land and sea, and forced to exist within the limbo of life and death. 

Before he can stop himself, he lifts you to his chest, cradling you close as he rises to a stand. If you were awake, you would be shivering, would tremble in the chill that means to overtake your very bones, and he hurries as best he can back to his boat and the woolen blankets he keeps in case of cold summer rains. Moving quickly over the shore, he stumbles slightly, feet tripping over themselves in surprise as he feels you burrow into him, seeking warmth with a low moan, and brow furrowed in what he hopes is simply the effort of healing. 

Finally aboard once more, he takes you into the small cabin beneath the helm and tucks you into the straw bed he keeps for nights when the winds are threatening and violent, remaining on the boat in case the waves should do their best to reclaim the wood. Draping several blankets over you, he crawls close enough the heat from his chest could radiate into your skin, encouraging a rush of blood in your veins. His fingers twitch, wanting to brush stray strands of hair out of your eyes, but he presses the flat of his hand into the bed, resisting his urges. 

The medic will need to be informed. This realization hits him with a bitterness that speaks of separation, chest restricting and tightening against the air in his lungs until it hurts to breathe. Against his bones, his muscles battle the urge to hold you close and he shuts his eyes with a grimace as a headache blooms at the base of his skull. Yet, as he strains to focus in the quiet of the cabin, he is acutely aware there are no traces of your breath, no labored wheeze no even inhalation, and so he resolutely declares that he will ferry your oxygen, coming to sit up on his knees as he plugs your nose and presses his lips to yours, opening them slightly. 

Cradling your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Jaebeom exhales deeply, letting the strength of his breath travel into the limit of your lungs. Squeezing his eyes closed, he exhales for as long as he can manage, giving everything within himself to you before, all at once and all over again, he feels as though he has stepped out of himself. 

Once more, voices materialize at the back of his mind, these new sounds more like echoes that erupt from nowhere and no when, fingerprints of a bygone era carried to him on wings. Their words are a garbled mess of sounds, undeterminable cadences lacking diction or emphasis, but he hears the sound of a man, low and gentle and wondrously tender.

He hears a man, and the man is unmistakably, unfailingly, him. 

Opening his eyes, he drinks you in, and surrenders to the notion he is being conquered by the mere sight of you. One word from you, and it would be as violent as a new beginning, a great shattering of all the comforts he knows of the world. And he would welcome it, knows, as if by magic, that he has given over to it before, would give over to it again, the power in you so great only ritual could contain it.

Blinking several times to clear the shock from his mind, he quickly moves his hands to your chest and presses against your sternum in the rhythmic way his sister taught him when he announced he wanted to be a fisherman, just like their father. Her eyes had glazed over then with the memory of loss and strife, and so she laid him on the floor and promptly taught him how to save a life should the sea threaten to claim a man as her own. The muscles in his harms strains as he continues pressing, and he thinks maybe he will need to press his lips to yours once more, bracing, instinctively, for more voices to fill his head, but a rush of water bursts from between your lips and he quickly moves back, turning you to your side to let it drain completely.

Falling back on your side, you release a cough but you do not wake, the small puddle of water between you both at once threatening and sacred, a reminder that everything Jaebeom has seen and felt is real, tethered to this moment. Tethered to you. 

‘Who are you?’ he murmurs, but even as he says it, even as the words leave his mouth, he knows this is not the right question. 

In the oncoming silence, the correct words swell on his tongue, nearly tumble from his lips, but, instead, he chews the inside of his cheek, aware that the right question will insight a riot in him he is unprepared to endure. 

When Jaebeom carries you into his home, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, overtaken by the staggering weight of deja-vu. 

He’s been in this position before, holding you against him in the center of his small kitchen as the elasticity of his emotions stretches outward for an eternity. There is an awakening occurring at the very center of his soul, bursting like a new star as its white heat slithers down his spine. Glancing down at you, your soft lips, your closed eyes, and your limp frame, held so closely to him, he feels the earth move beneath his feet, the shifting tectonics of his life all leading to this single moment. 

Shaking his head, he releases himself from this, moving to his bedroom with focused steps as he places you in his bed. Igniting the oil lamps, he works quickly to bathe you in warm light, covering you with his down comforter before moving to the furnace tucked in the corner of the room. In summer, he keeps little coal and kindling but he uses the last of the brush wood he’s saved from the recent winter to ignite a small fire that burns red and gold behind the latched closing.

He regards your still form with a frown, running a hand through his hair in distress and grits his teeth. The last several days have been almost unbearably hot, but it seems August’s heatwave has been broken by the cool wind of the day, the overall gloom breaking the humidity and blocking the sun from her usual path. Of all days, it pains him that this would be the day the sea released you from her clutches, sent you from the cold depths of her darkness back to the shore where the sun refused to keep you. 

From his kitchen, he takes a small linen cloth, inspecting it for cleanliness, and folds it into a long rectangle. Warming it in front of the furnace, he rotates it in circles before he feels it is sufficiently heated, just enough to ease tension in your muscles and restore heat where you need it most. It warms his hands, palms already swollen and grown clammy, room becoming relatively stuffy as he slides the cloth beneath your neck while you sleep. Already, a pink flush has begun to settle within your cheeks, the relief in him not unlike a rapture.

What will you say when you wake, he wonders. How will you sound when you look him in the eye, unsure of where you are? More importantly, he worries if you will wake at all, if perhaps the rush of blood beneath your skin is the last tour it will take before it stills altogether, heart too sluggish to keep a steady flow. The thought sends a tremor of heartbreak into the base of his spine, and a pained gasp tumbles through his lips, scorning the very notion of the thought. 

He needs an occupation to distract, needs a purpose to feel as though there is progress being made, and so he turns on his heel and grabs his coat, supposing that when you do wake, he should at least be ready.

The walk to his sister’s cottage is not long, one that he usually relishes in the spring when the path is lined with blossom trees and the foxes play around their dens, their ruddy tails bouncing amongst the high grasses. Today, his strides are long but the journey feels endless, the path reaching well beyond the limits of the land, his mind thinking only of arrival rather than enjoying the view. 

Another group of missionaries passes him along the dirt road, and he crosses to the other side to give himself space, freedom, liberation from their watchful eyes. Offering them sidelong glances, he studies the way they regard him conspicuously, whispering to one another as though he cannot hear the faint sounds of their voices, the conviction of their stares a judgement he feels with all of his body. Do they somehow know that he has found and kept a woman? Have they heard the voices too, the echoes he is resurrecting just by being near you? 

He finds he cares little for the answers to these questions, deeming their existence as something infinitely less important or significant in the light of resolute purpose. 

Byeol answers the door after three hard knocks, her face a picture of confusion that still does nothing to mar her beauty. She stands just shy of his height, one hand on the door and the other on her hip, the laugh lines along her cheeks carrying a secret smile within them. 

‘Jaebie,’ she announces, more a question than a statement. Arching a single brow, her brown eyes bore into his with the chastising admonishment only an older sibling could manage. ‘Shouldn’t you be fishing?’

Jaebeom nods, a noncommittal gesture of affirmation, and presses his way through the doorway, past her slight frame. He wastes no time slipping off his boots as he fumbles for an explanation. 

‘Sorry for the unexpected arrival,’ he mumbles, only partially apologetic. ‘Something’s…’ his voice drifts away, eyes looking everywhere but her face as he searches for the right words. To tell the truth means he must tell the whole truth, unable to hide anything from her, and so he settles for one single, vague word. ‘Happened,’ he says, finally.

Immediately, he regrets it.

Byeol’s eyes widen, hands raising to gently cup his face in her palms. Satisfied he is whole, they run down his shoulders to his arms, searching. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, no.’ He pulls himself from her grasp, hands raised in surrender, offering her a sheepish smile of amiable regret. ‘Nothing like that. I, uh, need to borrow some of your clothes.’

She takes a single step back, brow knit together in bewilderment. A myriad of emotions pass over her face, and Jaebeom does his best to count them all, the youth of her features rising and falling between her fear, her amusement, her apprehension. Eventually, she settles on curiosity as her eyes rake him up and down, one hand resting on her chest, perplexed yet surprised.

Rolling his eyes, he turns away from her and moves through her home, heading towards the wooden staircase. ‘They’re not for me.’

Byeol follows close behind, hot on his heels. ‘You’re telling me you…’

There’s too much excitement in her voice, the sound and volume of it making him close his eyes as if bracing for a storm. In one fluid motion, she rounds in front of him to block his path, eyes wide in delight as she makes an inappropriate gesture with her hands. 

‘No!’ he scolds, though he finds he must swallow the early threads of a laugh. ‘Not that either.’

Resting his hands on her shoulders, he feels a slight flush creep into his cheeks as she giggles in childish glee. Gently easing her to the side, he continues up the stairs with heavy thuds of his feet. It always amazes him how easily, and how quickly, Byeol can manipulate the atmosphere in the room, her energy always barely contained and always terribly infectious. Questions are burning at the back of her throat, and she follows closely behind, the bounce in her step echoing around the house behind him. 

Just like their mother, she will not let this go until she is satisfied, will not let him leave until she has received at least one answer, and so he releases a silent sigh as he reaches the landing, turning down the hall towards her room. He should be commended, he thinks, for the bravery he must assume to endure her interrogation.

‘There’s a woman -’ he begins slowly, only to be cut off.

‘You bastard!’ she exclaims delightedly, slapping his shoulder blade with enough force to make him stumble. 

She takes his slight hesitation as an opportunity to run ahead of his once more, the glee in her eyes wild and bright, a look he once found vindictive in their youth. Spreading her arms wide, she presses her hands into the frames of her bedroom doorway, full of impish joy as she stares him down. The love he feels for her blurs together with his frustration, the affection in him rising like a tide.

‘Would you stop?’ he pleads, though now he does not bother to stop his laugh. ‘I just need some stays. A chemise and some trousers, too, if you have them.’ 

Standing to her full height, she raises her head elegantly, full of self-importance and authority, swallowing her smile for a serious expression of warning. ‘You can borrow them on the grounds that you give me her name.’

Exasperated, he looks away, letting his gaze move to the side and into the small rectangle that is Sun Hee’s room. It’s messy, the bed unmade and several books piled onto their mother’s antique rocking chair. Atop the books, her stuffed crochet kitten rests, presiding over the chaos like a queen. Along the walls, sepia portraits of his mother and father hang beside cross-stitch pieces his sister did while pregnant: one a rabbit, another a bundle of wild flowers, one a vestige of the sea. In the center of the wall, above her small wrought iron bed, a portrait of her father is framed and hung, the frame a silver gilded edge that catches all the light, even when the clouds threaten to block the sun.

When he looks once more at his sister, he sees how his silence and avoidance has riled her further, her wry grin returned once more with all its damning inquisitiveness.

‘Do I know her?’ she presses, narrowing her eyes.

He shakes his head, and offers a small shrug of his shoulders. ‘No,’ he explains, ‘I actually don’t know it.’

Jaw dropping, she reaches forward once more and slaps his arm. ‘Jaebie!’

Dropping his head, he presses his fingers into his eyes and wishes, with all of him, that her assumptions of his perpetual loneliness and solitude were not such a concern. Wishes, more than anything in this moment, that Sun Hee did not frequently ask for an auntie to play with, her lack of a father rendering her wishes for a sibling obsolete. For any other man on Indolon, a woman in his home, let alone his bed, would hardly be news, would hardly warrant any discussion at all, but Byeol has watched him try, and fail, over the years to find a woman who loves as ardently, as openly, as intensely as he does. 

She has watched him resort to his life by the sea, watched him spend days alone on his boat, returning at sunset and smelling of brine and salt. All her life she has watched and she has worried, alluding to the full weight of her concern only in jest.

‘Can I please just have them?’ he groans weakly.

Lowering her arms from the doorway, she steps to the side and welcomes him through. ‘Yes,’ she acquiesces. ‘Take what you need from the closet, but this isn’t over. And be quick, I’m on my way out.’

Jaebeom tosses her a silent expression of gratitude over his shoulder, moving through her room with quick steps. ‘Where are you going?’ he asks, sliding open her wardrobe and taking things he knows she keeps but does not often wear, certain she will not miss them. ‘Isn’t Sun-hee already at school.’

Byeol moves behind him, gathering her headscarf from atop her bed and tying it with a hum of confirmation. ‘I’m going to Mala Green’s. Her husband’s ship was meant to port two days ago. It never made it.’ 

Jaebeom stills, clothes draped haphazardly over his arm as he turns to greet her eyes. Together, they regard one another in silence, a cold chill seeming to overtake the room. He remembers the look he sees in her eyes now, remembers the bone deep anxiety and the way she did not sleep for weeks, not even months. In a single moment, it is four years ago and they are both bereft.

‘The Pyxis?’ he murmurs, remembering how he and his sister and his niece, and all the town had watched it sail away from port eight months ago, waving until it disappeared from the horizon. 

She nods minutely, a small motion almost imperceptible had he not been watching her intently, looking down at her hands where she nervously picks at her fingernails. ‘She is thinking the worst.’ 

Dropping the clothes to the bed, Jaebeom takes a few strides and comes to stand before his sister. Letting his hands rest on her shoulders, his thumbs press idle, reassuring circles into her muscles, hoping his expression looks hopeful, at least. ‘It could just be delayed.’

Taking in a shaking breath, Byeol nods but does not lift her eyes to his, gaze trained instead on the unsteady  motions of her hands.‘We always like to think that, but…’ Falling quiet, she glances towards her vanity, a distant expression of longing painting her features. He knows she is looking at her wedding photo, but he does not mention it. ‘A woman always knows, doesn’t she?’ she finishes, finally looking at him with an empty smile.

And just like that, in the length of the shallow stretch of her lips, they fall back in time to Port Vela. She clutched his hand as the Aquila departed, the strength in her grip enough to turn both their knuckles white. The intensity of this touching reminded him that to love is to open the heart to grieving, that to love means to welcome the notion of losing, and so he pressed his fingers against hers with the same force, joining her in solidarity. 

Even before the missionaries declared him dead, she knew he was lost. The tears she shed in childbirth were not those of bodily trauma but those of heartbreak, once more holding his hand and begging for him to tell her why Dong Hyun wasn’t there with her, why the missionaries were forcing her to believe he was still alive. She said it hurt to know they were teasing with the heart of a widow, that moment perhaps the last time he ever feigned trust in the gods and their mortal vessels. 

Dong Hyun had left to deliver a group of missionaries from a nearby port, and they were angry for weeks at their failed return, citing a growing population that needed more help. Jaebeom never knew why they didn’t come to the funeral, his sister and his newborn niece crying in unison against an empty coffin while he pressed his feet into the wet grass. He wanted them to see what their selfishness had done, the rage in him putting a sheen of sweat on his neck, the most angry he had ever been. 

‘He’ll be okay,’ he states, pulling them both out of the darkness of their thoughts. ‘They will all be okay.’

It’s a nice thing to say, he thinks, something that sounds reassuring and optimistic, but he wonders, quietly in the back of his mind, to whom he is offering this confidence.

Byeol startles slightly, eyes glassy and slightly glazed over with memory as she takes him in. ‘Yes, well,’ she begins, stepping out his hold to gather her things. ‘It will be good to be there for her.’

Jaebeom watches her move towards the door, hands balled into fists and pressing his nails into his palms. It’s more visceral now, somehow more tangible than ever, the unease he feels when he thinks about their blue cloaks - their endless, royal blue. 

‘Launder those when you’re done please,’ she says, coming to a halt and pointing her long index finger at the clothes piled on the bed. ‘I don’t want to be wearing any of your remains -’

Jaebeom’s eyes widen, the spell of his thoughts broken by Byeol’s teasing giggle. ‘Byeol!’

She simply steps into the hallway and moves down the stairs, her laughter carrying through the house as though the sadness had never been let in. 

It was only when you said you were leaving, announcing the date of your expected departure with wild eyes and ink stained hands, that he thought maybe, horribly, he had not told you he loved you enough. 

You showed him the boarding papers, the crew notes, the bonds list and you were laughing, disbelieving that good fortune could shine on the persistent. Years of work had culminated in this opportunity, and you could not tear your eyes away from the King’s signature, it’s black script so formal you pressed your fingers to your lips to hide the ferocity of your smile. He loved you most then, burning in silence and struggling to find the right way, the best way, to tell you that his love for you demanded he become monstrous, too many hearts in his chest to contain the totality of this wanting.

‘It will be the longest we’ve ever been apart,’ you said, chancing a look at him, and the briefest flickers of grief walked across your face. In an instant, you tucked them away, smoothed your smile over and put the light back in your eyes, hiding from him the very thing that could bring him to his knees.

‘I’ll send a hawk to woo you,’ he offered, the smile tugging at his lips only half genuine, only half true. 

He was certain you knew it, too, but you simply chuckled, arched one perfect brow and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

‘You’ve already done that.’

He only had a week to show you that he loved you beyond reason, beyond the human capacity for emotion. One week, and you would be gone, drifting away from him at sea, and he would be waiting, always waiting. 

‘Then I’ll do it again.’

Again and again he would do his best to win you over, holding you tightly against his chest and reminding you there was nowhere as safe, nowhere as sacred as against his skin, against his heart. You leaned up to kiss him, always eager and impatient for the things you wanted most, but he breathed against your lips, let your twin exhales unify your heartbeats and reminded himself that you were still here.

He could feel you. You were still there.

Jaebeom wakes with a start, hairline dampened with warmth, stress, and confusion. 

The dawn breaks through the sheer curtains of his bedroom window, the heat in the room oppressive and stifling as the embers within the furnace strain to match the gleam of the sun. Curled in a ball atop the lambskin carpet at the foot of his bed, the joints of his knees and elbows are aching, having been forced into one position too long. Tentatively, he stretches his limbs with a low groan, elongating his back against the floor and does his best to remain quiet in his relief. 

When he’d returned home, you were still sleeping. Unchanged and in the exact position he had left you, a brief anxiety overtook him at the sight of your too relaxed face and the weakness in your limbs. There was a fragility in you that frightened him, a treacherous sort of quiet that promised great annihilation consuming the room and reaching down, deep within his ribs, compressing his lungs. He would have shed tears for you, would have unleashed an expression of grief so holy and so silent it would have broken worlds - but you moaned, almost regal in your suffering, and, for a moment, he was weightless.

In the tense tranquility that followed he slumped into the reading chair beside his bookcase, head buried in his hands, and sighed. With his eyes closed, he could pretend things had not changed, that he was still himself, that he still belonged to himself. It was as though there were two of him, battling within his blood - the one that knew nothing, that craved the assurance and predictable simplicity inherent in the life he had built for himself. 

But the other is violent, a torrent against his bones reminding him this life is not his, that you are his life, and the passion in him is pushed into madness at the notion of not being able to follow where you have gone.

‘All this?’ he lamented into the rough skin of his palm. ‘All this over the desire to be loved?’

The moon was midway through its journey across the sky when he fell asleep, nestling into the rug at the foot of your bed - at your feet, though still giving you the distance, giving himself the distance. And all night he had seen you, felt you, let his whole world become enamored with you.

Pressing the base of his palms into his eyes, he groans, letting the dark become coloured with reds, whites, and purples under the pressure. Rustling from somewhere in the room makes his heart stutter in its rhythm, motions still and muscles tense with the effort of not moving, simply listening. His is not the only breath in the room, and when he takes his hands away from his eyes, his vision adjusts to see you - your face framed by your hair as you lean over the bed, regarding him curiously. 

Startled, Jaebeom sits up, head dizzy with the sudden movement, and he presses a hand to his temple though he does not close his eyes, fearing he might still be dreaming. A dark night lives in your irises, hungry for everything that comprises his very being, and even as he lets his vision focus, lets himself recline into the intensity of your stare, he feels as though you are burning inside him, tearing your way through his sinew, the most voracious thing he’s ever seen. You regard him, unblinking, studying every detail and nuance of his features with tension in your brow and parted lips. 

Briefly, he wonders how long it has been since someone looked at him like this, looked at him as though he is both the universe’s greatest secret and its most coveted answer.

‘You’re awake,’ he manages, throat dry and voice constricting beneath such coveted attention.

Instantly, he curses himself for such a simple and obvious statement. All night he had imagined hundreds of first conversations with you, knowing his first words with you would ultimately be the most important, and already he has betrayed himself. You’ve taken all the power from him, left him in such a state of shock, he supposes his words have withered, nothing in the world as sacred as your eyes on him. 

But the smile you offer him at the sound of his voice could combat the sun, the world brightening around the fullness of your cheeks and the pleasure you keep at the corner of your lips, like a secret. A blush burns at the tips of his ears, and he is glad it does not immediately live in his cheeks, pleased he has learned, somehow, to not give himself away all at once. 

‘I am,’ you nod in affirmation. A chill walks down Jaebeom’s spine, the sound of your voice an echo of his dreams, exactly as he heard it all night long. ‘You found me.’

Seconds stretch between your bodies, an infinite eternity between your last syllable and his first breath, his eyes on yours like a pledge of loyalty. 

‘Were you looking for me?’

Hope invades his words without his permission, helpless against their desire to be the thing you sought most, to be lucky enough to be your prize. His fingers press into the soft strands of the carpet beneath him, and he watches as you fall back against your legs, shoulders slumped as you look around the room. All at once, emptiness overtakes you, the light in your eyes dimming as you search within yourself for an answer.

‘I don’t know,’ is your whispered reply. Looking at him once more, he feels as though you are rooting within his soul, continuing the expedition within him. But still, you are lost, voice adrift and lost at sea. ‘I can’t remember.’

He smiles encouragingly, wanting you to know, more than anything, that it is okay. For himself, he reminds you both that everything is okay.

Inching along the carpet, he clears his throat as he rests his arms on the bed, gazing up at you as though he is making wishes on the moon. He wants to be close to you - more than he’s ever wanted anything, Jaebeom wants to be in your orbit, close enough he could taste the salt that still lingers on your skin. Biting his tongue, he swallows all his rushed, messy emotions and clears his throat, choosing instead the words of logic, the words of practicality. 

‘What is your name?’

Little by little, your smile slowly fades, burned by this simple question. Still, you remain calm, perplexed and unsure of how much of you has truly been misplaced. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s okay,’ he reassures you gently. ‘My name is Jaebeom.’ In saying his name, he waits for a flicker of recognition, a response that would confirm all he has spent the night feeling, but you simply regard him blankly, glad for the conversation. Shaking his head, he sighs. ‘How did you get here?’ he tries, keeping his voice calm so you find no reason to panic or run.

Now, your smile disappears completely and all that is left behind is you, your sadness, and the way it clings to your body like a shadow. The smallness of you in this moment puts an ache in his chest that feels like an inheritance - something he has been owed, that you owed one another having vanished in the completeness of your unknowing, and, together, you grieve. With a slow shake of your head, you confirm there is a void surrounding the nature of your being and the reason for your arrival, and the longer he looks the more he sees how this torments the deep desire that quakes inside you.

He knows nothing of you, knows only that you are here and you are tangible and you are emptied, but still he can sense you are a wild, impossible beast of a woman. The storm in you could tear the world asunder, and so he tries a different tactic, choosing to ask what is felt rather than what can be recalled, wanting to hold onto as much of you as he possibly can.

‘Are you hurt?’

For a long moment, you consider his question, as if thinking through the concept of hurt, the very notion of it, rather than the truth of it. Running his eyes over your frame, he notices that some bruises on your arms have already faded, as if the midnight sky was your healer. You are far healthier and far more whole than the person he found yesterday, but there is a strangeness to the way you look at him, to the way you think through his questions that gives him the passing sensation that you are not there at all.

He fears, all the way down to his marrow, that if he were to look away, you would disappear completely.

‘It does hurt, yes,’ you admit finally. Offering him a small nod of confirmation, your eyes grow wide as though you yourself are surprised by the experience, the ability to truly hurt a clandestine experience.

Jaebeom had feared this. Always, the most lethal of wounds are the ones not worn on the skin. ‘Where?’

Slowly, you lift a hand to your chest, right above your heart. Pain etches itself on your face, the turmoil of bewilderment and confusion, the misery of things long lost, making a home of your soft features. He watches your brow knit together as you regard him, a slight downturned frown tugging at your lips as you silently beg him for answers. 

Reaching a hand forward, his fingertips nearly graze the smooth skin of your knee, exposed between the ripped threads of your silk dress. When he’s close enough he can feel the warmth from your skin, he remembers himself, retreating back to curl his hand into a fist.

‘Did a man hurt you?’ 

He hates the way the words taste, sour and acrid on his tongue, but he supposes this dress is your wedding gown and he’s seen more than his fair share of broken hearts around town. This, of course, would be the worst he has ever seen, but he chooses not to worry you further, keeping his voice soothing and calm.

‘No,’ you shake your head, looking beyond him into a distance that is both contained within and expanding outward. ‘Not one,’ you continue with a dark whisper. ‘Many.’

Jaebeom does not think himself a man prone to violence or aggression but, in a single moment, he feels his heart is a weapon. His spine straightens as he rears back slowly, relying entirely on the support of the floor beneath him. His hands are no longer his own, knuckles taught with the desire to tear his way through flesh and sinew. There is no limit to the monstrous creatures he would face standing up for you; he’s burning, fully ablaze alongside you, and it surprises him how quickly kindness can burn away.

‘We can report it when you are well enough,’ he announces, clearing his throat in the effort of remembering himself. As much as he would go to battle for you, he similarly does not want to frighten you. ‘When you remember the details we can report it. They won’t get away with it.’

Shoulders relaxing, your hand falls away from your chest as you find comfort in his words, and a small sense of pride prickles at his ears and neck. With anyone else, he’d be sheepish that he is giving himself and his emotions away so quickly with you, but he can’t help it, he thinks. Not when you look at him like this, like he’s the part of summer you’ve been anticipating most and are pleased by the mere sight of him. People don’t look at him like this, especially the people he wishes would look at him and want to continue the mere act of seeing him. You make him feel like someone, and he is more with you than he ever has been on his own. 

Keeping your eyes on his, you shift so you rest on your hands and knees, crawling across the bed towards him. Jaebeom leans back, pushes himself away from the bed and it is only when the heat from the still burning furnace threatens to sear his chemise that he pauses, looking over his shoulder to pout at the proximity. Your hand presses against his foot, stopping his movements and he returns his focus to you once more, all breath and blood flow halted in his veins. 

You’ve climbed off the bed, settled on the floor with your hand on him and a glimmer behind your eyes that says you know he has longed to be touched. Has he been real before this moment? Has he truly existed until the moment you placed your hand on his skin, a paradoxically cold warmth that sends a chill up his legs and into his groin. Until this moment, he has been afflicted with the strangest sense of object permanence, but only of himself - himself and his relation to you, the only thing that has ever truly mattered.

‘You won’t come close to me,’ you explain, sounding terribly sad.

Deflating, he leans forward and places his hand on yours, finally, running his thumb along your knuckles. The salt from the sea has turned your skin into the softest thing he’s ever touched, and he applies just enough pressure to remind himself you are tangible, real, present. 

There’s something familiar and, simultaneously, ephemeral about the way his hand moves over yours. He finds it impossible to look away as he explains, ‘I wanted to give you space.’

‘I’ve had enough,’ you counter, and the sharpness in your words has him taking in your lips, your cheeks, your face in wonder. You are every bit the tempest he knew you would be, and he smiles, amused and gladdened by your confident vehemence.  

Pulling your hand out from under his, you raise it to the side of his face, tucking strands of hair behind his ear and letting your fingers glide along his cheekbone. The intimacy leads him, momentarily, to believe that he is completely naked, exposed to you in all the ways that could truly break him. Once more, he feels you searching within him for something you can almost grasp. Words live and die on his tongue, answers he too craves fading before he has the chance to truly process them.

You are unified in this complex looking, the act of remembering both a mysterious and a fact.

‘You’re familiar to me.’ Cocking your head to the side as you speak, the childlike curiosity you exude has him pressing his hands into the carpet, reminding himself it is still too early to take hold of you, too early to hold you against his heart as he had done in his dream.

‘Have we met before?’ he offers gently.

Excitement colours you, has you straightening as you pull your hand from his skin. ‘Do you know me?’

It’s his turn to shake his head, his turn to smother hope with little disappointments. ‘No.’

‘Then I suppose not.’ 

With a slight shrug, you return your hand once more to the side of his face, palm cupping his cheek to trace the contour of the bone. Little by little, your eyes soften and a silent yearning overtakes your features. Jaebeom wants to tell you everything when you look at him like that. Things he’d never breathe to another person, things he had long since forgotten rise up in his throat and he nearly chokes on them, wanting you to have absolutely everything.

Running your thumb over his bottom lip, a blissful sigh escapes from the center of your chest, eyes slightly glazed as you luxuriate in the texture of his skin beneath your finger. ‘I don’t mind, though. I like looking at you.’ 

How like a child he feels when he is with you - suddenly restless and impatient and young, the boundaries and the calculated logic he has spent years cultivating in his adulthood dissolving the moment he learns you are pleased with him. In his dream, he somehow knew your kisses were a hurricane, all raindrops and wild winds that made his skin feel electric. The way you seem to tear through him now is a confirmation he was correct, the summer in you so immaculate he thinks it is always the bloom of July in your soul.

Were he to look elsewhere in the room, he is certain it would be a betrayal - the treachery of looking away from the gods’ sky. Jaebeom is calmed by the sight of you, the anxious itch in the back of his mind dormant simply because you have decided he is worthy of being adored. He wonders where he has been looking all this time, if he has truly seen anything at all until this moment, the colours of the world infinitely more rich because of how you choose to wear them. 

Clearing his throat, he looks briefly at your hand where it holds his foot like a cross and trembles. ‘I like looking at you, too.’ It feels so silly and unimpressive, repeating your words back like a parrot, but he means it - there is more conviction in those small words than any other promise he has ever made and, when he looks at you again, he hopes you can feel it.

Your answering smile is so rich and full, he finds his thoughts are rendered unintelligible, and so he lowers his gaze to the ripped dress that does its best to maintain the echo of its former shape.  

Clearing his throat, he slowly pulls his foot out from your grip, skin tingling from the loss of contact. The warmth from your hand still lingers, and he frowns, regretting his decision even through his commitment to the choice. Pressing his hands to the floor, he rises to stand and brushes off his trousers, looking for ways to keep his hands busy.

‘Can you stand?’ You look up at him, expectant and congenial. ‘Are your legs strong enough?’

Copying his earlier movements, you press your hands into the floor and, unsteadily, lift yourself to a stand. For a moment your knees wobble, but you keep your eyes on his, shoulders rolling back as you take in a slow inhale. Finding your balance takes focus, brow knotted together with the effort of standing on weakened muscles, but you keep your feet planted, hands spread at your sides to aid in maintaining your center of gravity. And when you stand, stable and sure, at your full height, you nod proudly, delighted you have surprised yourself.

‘Good.’ The most natural thing in the world, he finds, is praising you; a long dormant habit awakening once more ‘I’m actually not sure what I’d done if you couldn’t,’ he admits sheepishly.

Amidst your infectious giggle, Jaebeom finally has an opportunity to truly take in the state of your clothes. He wonders what torment you have seen, what hell you’ve walked through that has torn the silk and chiffon down to the essence of their threads. The bodice hugs your waist, but the whalebone corset is torn at the ribs, threatening to expose your skin. There will be no saving the sleeves that hang limply off your shoulders, falling behind your back like a ragged cape. Sea water has stained the silk to a tarnished, bleak yellow, the sand of the seabed nestled deep within the folds of your skirts. 

Still, too much of your skin is visible to him. The skirts have pulled away from the bodice and a large portion of your thigh remains bare, the other leg free of clothing from the ankle to just above your knee. Standing before him, he sees you as a survivor of a slaughter that bore no claws, and he aches to pull you close, to keep you safe, to remind you that you are whole.

Perhaps, he thinks, the reminder is mostly for himself.

‘I brought you some clothes,’ he announces gently. Gesturing vaguely to the wardrobe in the opposite corner, his nerves get the better of him, words becoming bashful. ‘You look like the size of my sister, so they should fit.’ Running a hand through his hair and gripping the strands to alleviate the tension in his wrists, he pulls himself out of your orbit and heads toward the wardrobe.  ‘We need to go into town anyway to see the medic, so I can get you some if these don’t fit properly. I just…’ 

Opening the doors, he pulls out the clothes he borrowed from his sister- stays for night time, two pairs of trousers, a woolen skirt he remembers buying for his sister one solstice that she has never worn, and three chemises he hopes will fit you. He lays them out delicately on the bed, arranging them into outfits he hopes you find comfortable. Fixating on the trousers, he looks at them too long as his stomach drops. Indolon is one of the few islands where women wear trousers, their propensity for skirts just as enthusiastic and common. He hops the sight of them will not offend you.

‘Thank you.’ Approaching the bed with light, careful steps, the smallness of your voice does little to mask your immense gratitude, hands coming to graze the myriad of fabrics he has selected. 

Something about the feel of them between your fingers astounds you, a stunned silence turning adding a weight to the room that did not previously exist. 

‘These are beautiful.’ Your hand moves to the skirt, the difference in its texture putting a glee in your eyes that makes his heart swell. ‘Thank you for caring for me,’ you finish, finally looking up at him once more.

Time bleeds past him as he falls into you, falls beyond himself and into a love that consumes him. Around your body, light seems to vibrate, uncertain how to hold you and so it holds all of you, and none of you, at once, bending around your back until he wonders if the very nature of this conversation is merely an illusion. Should he look away, he worries you would vanish, that he might forget, and so he steps near enough that he might touch you. 

Keeping his hands forced at his sides, he drowns momentarily in his wanting before he speaks. ‘Anyone would do it.’

Lowering the skirt, you reach up to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. A shiver walks down his spine, followed swiftly by an unfamiliar heat in his blood as you speak. ‘I don’t remember much of the world, but I do remember that is not true. Not everyone would do as you have done.’ You lean into him, close enough your breaths touch between your bodies, his entire existence narrowing to this single moment. ‘I’m grateful for you.’ 

All of him craves giving in to the boundless lust that rages within his chest, memories of his dream resurfacing to haunt his bones. There were other memories within that dream, memories of your body wrapped beneath his, memories of your lips and the way you always pressed hard against his mouth, ensuring he would feel you long after you had departed. Jaebeom wants to live in those memories now, wants to force them into his reality so badly his hands and his sides start to shake.

But in those memories, lives the texture of your skin and the way his fingers have mapped every node of your spine. And it is only when he recalls the distant blur of this experience, so foreign to him it is as though it belongs to someone else, that he remembers there is nowhere in his home for you to undress.

When he had selected this house by the sea, he had assumed his life would contain the dawn, the dusk, the ocean, and little else in between. His home is merely one large square, the kitchen bleeding into his open bedroom and the sitting area tucked into corners he felt would be comfortable. There is, fundamentally, no element of privacy, and this is the only thing, he thinks, that gives him the strength to pull away - the desire to keep you comfortable and to be polite his only saving grace.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, taking one small step back. It is enough for his head to become clear, enough for the sadness in your eyes at the separation to not sting like a bullet. ‘I can leave you to change.’ 

He moves around you, not really certain what he would say should you inform him you will need assistance with your bodice and corset. They are torn enough and ruined enough he imagines they will not be a problem, but the mere idea of his fingers accidentally caressing the smooth expanse of your back puts a tightness in his chest the magnitude of which has him both frightened and bewildered. 

Jaebeom does not want people like this, certainly does not want them this badly and with this much conviction, and so he walks through the bedroom and into the kitchen, the cool metal of the doorknob a balm against his skin. And it is only when he is outside, eyes closed as he lets the breeze overtake his heart, his spirit, his soul, does he feel like himself once more.

It is only when he is in an entirely different location, far enough away from you he cannot feel you, that he remembers to breathe.

The walk to town, by your side, is among the most eventful experiences of his life. 

Having roamed the island roads all his life, he has grown used to the view, the unchanging scenery resulting in him finding it to be rather dull and grey. He cannot remember the last time he saw this world with fresh eyes, the last time he took in the trees, the slope of the land and felt joy - the last time this world brought him pleasure. You however, combat the very essence of his ennui with your inherent enthusiasm, taking in every sight and every sound as if it is, not the first time you have witnessed them but, the first time you have reunited with them after many years away. 

In you, a language of reconciliation is being cultivated - one that only you will be able to understand, and one that makes Jaebeom cast you curious side long glances as you press your hands together in consternation. Your scrutiny of each detail slows the walk considerably, your presence somewhat distant and hollow as you struggle to define the essence of familiarity within you. Each time, it fades miserably and quickly, leaving you momentarily disheartened only for new wonder to replace the frustration once more. 

Through you, he begins to see the town as something eternal, something so long lasting and sacred that, even if it is forgotten, it is still unchanged and important enough to be missed. Selfishly, he ponders what place he held in your old life, if he held any place at all, aware that, sometimes, you look at him with this same questioning fixation. In his own life experiences, you appear missing, but the way you look at him and touch him assures a small, needy piece of his heart that he is remembered, and therefore not ephemeral. 

Still, he is certain you have been here, on Indolon, that this is your home and nowhere else. Having decided to forgo the shoes he had taken from his sister in favor of your bare feet, claiming it felt more natural to feel the earth beneath your toes, your steps are confident as you walk. Your eyes take everything in with too much intensity, but your steps are sure, certain of the placement and used to the cracks and the gravel that line the journey. When you are not focused on a building, a face, a view, you do not follow behind him. Instead, you are perhaps just a hair’s breadth ahead of him, relaxed in your inherent certainty. 

‘Is any of this triggering your memory?’ he quietly tries, hoping he does not completely disrupt your train of thought.

‘Yes, but at the same time no.’ Your lips continue moving even as your voice dies, murmuring mysteriously to yourself as you look around. ‘It’s like I’ve seen this before in a dream, but then anything can look like anything if you want it to badly enough.’ Offering him a sly smirk, you peer up at him through your eyelashes. ‘I still like looking at you the most, though.'

Heat paints pink smears along his cheeks, and he glances down to his feet momentarily to smile at himself, flattered and, helplessly, twitter-patted. With you beside him, so close, his fingers dig into the pockets of his coat, gripping the cloth in the effort of stifling the desire to reach for your hand.

'Thank you,' he begins, his smile unwilling to fade. Still, he does his best to warp his features into a serious expression. 'I'm glad I'm more interesting than trees and brick.'

The music of your laugh is an eruption, the juicy fullness of it breaking over his tongue and filling his mouth with unprecedented gladness. You are unshy with your laughter, endearingly liberal and letting it echo through the air, demanding everyone hear your pleasure. Jaebeom swallows thickly, feeling almost as though he can taste you on the wind, in his mouth, and he holds his breath wanting to keep you inside him just a moment longer.

'I'm serious,' you tease, nudging into his side

Passing the field of pink and blue wildflowers, you become transfixed by a group of small children playing amongst the grass. Holding hands, they jump and dance in a circle, their laughter interrupting the song they are singing in broken unison. He recognizes the nursery rhyme of Ciperion immediately, remembering how his sister and some of the older children would make him play this game with them, dancing in a circle until the song ended and they had to remain completely still. Always, one of his sister's older friends, usually the boy she had a crush on, would play Ciperion, choosing a victim to steal away from the group. Only then would the circle continue dancing over and over until only one player remained and they had to outrun Ciperion to win.

He chuckles at the memory, how petulant he always felt at being the first one out - always, and without fail. Now, he realizes it was merely because of his strong reaction to being taken that made it more entertaining for his sister's friends, his cries and yells something they would tease him about for days.

‘What are they singing?’ you ask softly, interrupting his thoughts.

Jaebeom hears your voice and looks to his side, finding you are no longer with him. Turning, he finds you have come to a halt alongside the edge of the field, watching the children with a dark fascination that runs a chill down his spine.

He approaches you slowly, looking between the children and you, finding the tether of your fixation to be unbreakable. ‘The song of Ciperion,' he explains gently. 

When you look at him again, your inquisitive expression is marred by such a sincere sense of aloneness his throat runs dry. Your prying eyes demand more from him, demand explanations and answers, so greedy and so painfully hopeful he wonders what the word wounded in you. 

‘It’s an old urban legend on the island,’ he begins, looking back at the children who have now stilled, a little girl roaming behind the group with her hands raised like claws. ‘Everyone knows it, primarily because we grow up hearing it from friends or parents. It’s really just a ghost story. Parents tell it to make sure their children don’t go too far near the shore if they can’t see them, and kids tell it amongst friends just to see who is the most brave.’

Mystified, you keep your eyes on the group of children. ‘And it’s a song?’ 

He shakes his head, meeting your eyes on the raised arms and laughing faces of the children, hoping this contact of just your twin gazes is a comfort. ‘Not really, no. It’s a story, but it’s so old it’s become a nursery rhyme.’

‘Tell me.’

Jaebeom hums, trying to remember the way his mother told him this story when he was small. ‘Centuries ago, there was a ship called Ciperion that was meant to arrive at Port Vela.’

At the word Ciperion, you bristle, eyes widening slightly, though if in terror or recognition he cannot tell.

‘It was commissioned by the King, back when there were Kings,’ he continues, watching your reactions in the corner of his eye. ‘In those days, it was the fastest ship ever created, and had been assigned one of the largest crews - they called it the jewel of the sea. The crew was composed of experts in every field - cartography, cosmology, anthropology - and the ship’s sole mission was exploration.’

When you finally look at him, the heat from your gaze puts a fire in his veins, the sheer fervor and earnestness of your attention making him shudder. Swallowing thickly, he continues. 

‘Legend says that they reached an island and saw how corrupt the Indolon King had been, how far reaching his power and torment really was.’ In the field, a little boy is taken by a young Ciperion, his scream of surprise mingling with the relieved laughter of the other children. ‘They rushed home to stop him from destroying their land, but the ship never made it. No one knew where the ship had gone, especially because the waters had been calm the night of their intended arrival.’

‘So they all perished?’ Even as the words leave your mouth, your focus turning back to the children, he knows this question is not meant to be answered, a small voice in the back of his mind advising him you already know this answer. Its rhetorical nature is anguished, lost, full of a yearning he presumes no language could ever express.

Coughing to clear his throat, Jaebeom nods knowing you cannot see him, and continues. ‘The lighthouse stayed on for weeks, even on clear nights. But still, Ciperion never came back.’

The silence in you is a sea, and once more he presses his fingers in the fabric of his jacket, warring within himself to keep his hand still. Your own hands look lonely, hanging limply at your sides as though you have been defeated by something much larger, and much more complex, than just your lack of memory. As he studies your changing expression, he counts the emotions that swim over your features - anger, fury, loss, grief, and, strangely, happiness - before you settle on none of these, choosing instead to remain empty. 

But the magnitude of this choice renders you disheartened, tears pooling in your eyes, and he watches you swallow, fighting them back to the depths within your heart.

‘There’s never been any proof that Ciperion was real,’ he offers, hoping this will aid in bringing you comfort. It was never real, he supposes, and so there is no need to mourn the loss of made up things.

Yet, this consolation does not help, only serves to insight frustration, hands at your side curling into small fists as your eyes narrow. 

Looking back at the children, Jaebeom combats the ever creeping flush at his neck and ears with the rest of the story. ‘Some say that every twenty years, on the anniversary of its port date, you can see the ghost ship Ciperion sailing along the horizon, looking for ways to dock. Only if the night is clear, that is.’

‘And if it isn’t?’ you question, a bitterness biting at your words that takes him aback.

‘If it’s cloudy,’ he offers delicately, ‘the fog along the water is so thick it blocks the lighthouse altogether. It moves up from the water onto the shore, looking for ways into houses or into town as if it has a mind of its own. And if it touches land, you can hear screams in the clouds themselves.’

As if they never happened at all, as if, all along, you nothing of this story had touched a bleeding wound within you, the tears in your eyes seem to dissolve. Your hands unfurl from their fists, and a touch of pink warms your cheeks. There is contentedness all over you, and you turn to face, a pleasant smile tugging at your lips.

‘That’s a nice story,’ you say, simply, blinking up at him in genuine interest.

A laugh bursts from his chest, one that comes from nowhere at all and instead is a bark of surprise rather than a logical expression of amusement. Furrowing his brow, he laughs to himself through the fear and the confusion, waiting for your earlier expression of grief to overtake you once more. But when it does not come, when you giggle along with him merely because it is something to share rather than an honest or sincere experience of humor, he silences himself with a low grumble and kicks the stones at his feet.

‘Yes,’ he agrees quietly. ‘It’s just something we grow up hearing, but nothing ever comes of it.’

‘Is it the anniversary, then?’ You smile up at him, seeming happy to be included in a story, happy, too, to be sharing his company, and you press your bare feet into the stones, making little shapes with your toes. ‘They’re singing with so much fervor.’

‘Yeah,’ he hums in confirmation, watching you draw circles into the earth. ‘Actually, I think it’s tomorrow.’

‘And will you look for the ship?’ 

Cocking his head to the side questioningly, he studies your face as he speaks. ‘Would you like to?’

‘Are you asking me?’ you press, tilting your head to the same angle as his. The sight of you makes his breath catch, your beauty always somehow the most arresting, the most bewitching, but watching you mirror his position creates an uncanny sense of unease in his belly. ‘I’m not sure what I would be looking for,’ you finish, uncertainty lacing your tone.

‘I’m not either,’ he laments, furrowing his brow as he takes you in. There are so many things he’d like to say to you, only to you, so many things he’d like to ask, but starting feels painful, complicated, as though he’s attempting to speak a language he does not yet understand, so he swallows, drawing the same circles as you with his shoe. ‘I haven’t gone looking for it since I was a kid.’ Your circles are so clean, while his are oblong, and he is unsure why this matters, but he is excited, fundamentally, that there is so much he can learn from you. ‘The last time it was here, I was eight, and even then we didn’t see anything.’

Nodding in understanding you hum, knitting your brow together in consideration of his words. ‘It would be...fun?’

‘If you want to, we can,’ he chuckles, peering at you through his lashes, still waiting for another response of sadness, of melancholic heartbreak to rise up in you again. The legend of Ciperion stirred something in you, touched pieces of your spirit denying access to all else, and he thinks, perhaps, it is the tragedy of lost life and torn wood that triggers memories of spilled blood. Anyone would weep at the horror of this, and so he clears his throat, remembering true horrors are the ones humanity can touch.

‘But,’ he begins, loud enough the children in the field turn to look at them, worrying their play will be halted before continuing to sing once more, ‘you washed up on the rocks.’ Looking at you fully, he feels his chest tighten, remembering the shredded silk and the way your hair wound over the rocks, latching into deep crevices just to keep you safe. ‘People don’t just come from the sea. If there’s a shipwreck somewhere, we’d have to tell the medic and the council. That’s a more pressing ship to be looking for.’

Biting your lip, your eyes grow distant and glassy as you retreat inward, mind racing towards shadowed images that render your voice small and soft. ‘I don’t remember where I was before this.’

‘Sometimes that can happen with trauma,’ Jaebeom advises, and it strikes him that your admission does not bring despair, only annoyance at your failing memory.

Through all of this, not once have you expressed fear at the notion of death, unafraid for your own mortality even after the very essence of it has been threatened and challenged. It hits him now that the only time you have ever been afraid is when confronted with the notion of others experiencing a fate meant for you. One tale of a shipwreck, and so soon were you unmade into a dark beast, woven together by sorrow. 

Kicking the stones away from his feet, he tilts his head encouragingly, wordlessly advising that you continue alongside him. ‘The medic is one of my old school friends,’ he explains with a small grin, readying for Stefan’s loud laugh and teasing sarcasm. ‘He’ll be able to tell you more once he can run a few tests. You’ll like him. He’s quite funny.’

Walking beside him, there is a bounce to your step. ‘I remember that I like funny people,’ you announce, tossing him a playful smirk. ‘Maybe I will like looking at him as much as I like looking at you.’

Jealousy tightens itself around his ribs, the selfish desire for him to be the only thing that brings you pleasure rising in his throat like bile. It is an entirely new experience for him, the notion of love that one must remember its fragility, the sacredness of a lover's admiration more divine than the gods. Already, every breath he takes is heavy with you, body and soul hypnotized by your existence, and, in the effort of appearing aloof and affable, he grits his teeth through a humorless laugh.

‘Better not,’ he teases, though the jovial nature of it is almost nonexistent. As soon as he says it, he becomes upset with himself, the statement alone so preposterous and out of his character he shivers to shake the sound of it off his skin.

You, however, do not seem to notice, nudging into his shoulder once more as you continue on the journey.

Jaebeom has not seen the entirety of Isle Indolon, his ability to travel limited by his small income and the availability of everything he needs being centered to the town. However, he has never truly felt the need to explore, their small city of Sunridge Keep the capital of the island and therefore so full and bustling with activity he finds it impossible to muster the desire to leave. Orange red brick buildings decorated with limestone columns line the road, the gravel and dirt of the path turning into smooth cobblestone, warmed by the light of the blazing sun. 

Hissing slightly as your toes touch the warm stones, you pull your foot back in surprise, only to place it back down with careful movements, mind racing once more as you take tentative steps forward. Immediately, your eyes are everywhere, touching everything all at once. You are hungry for absolutely everything, reading names of shops, studying faces of strangers as they pass, watching the florist hand out daffodils from her wicker basket as though nothing has ever been so marvelous. The bread maker offers you a warm sticky bun, and you look instead to the man’s face, not to the pastry held in his large palm, studying him as though his name might arrive on your tongue.

Jaebeom guides you away, offering the vendor a dismissive wave of his hand, only to find your eyes latched onto something else. He grows light headed watching the trajectory of your focus, your wild discontent and ravenous hunger gnawing you into a frenzied state of almost savage inquisitiveness. There is not a single thing your gaze does not touch, and occasionally you stop in front of shop windows to look in, eyes searching ever deeper for something familiar. 

The center of town always smells the sweetest to Jaebeom, and so he leads you in this direction, hoping that the star shaped expanse and its wide angles will ease some of your tension. Childishly, he plans to acquire some roasted chestnuts, certain their candied deliciousness will provide you comfort even if it does not inspire remembrance. The throng of people eases as he approaches town center, the citadel bell chiming the late early hour, and you pause, looking up into the sky in awe. He’d always loved the bell tower - even if he did not trust the missionaries, even if he made himself believe it was deception that lurked behind their irises and not concern, he always appreciated their music. 

Leading you to the large fountain directly in the center of the star, he settles on the warm marble and gestures for you to sit beside him. The rushing water calms his erratic heartbeat, and, yet again, with his eyes closed he can pretend he is small, little more than a boy who belongs completely to himself and to his mother, the whim of his will the only thing that stirs his reason.

‘We have a bit of time to rest here,’ he says, leaning back and closing his eyes as the sun cascades over his skin. It warms him from within, the magic of his childhood returning on the breadth of a sunbeam. ‘I always like to sit here a while before I run my errands. One can never deny music, can they?’

Jaebeom awaits your response, what feels like his very spirit existing in anticipation of you. But when it does not come, his skin begins to tighten amidst another wave of unease, and he opens his eyes to find you have retreated so far within yourself the shock of it lives on your features.

Hands in your lap, your back is rigid and straight, gaze flicking between the citadel tower and the people mingling at its base - up and down and back again, rushing between each as though you will never have your fill, teeth chewing at the inside of your cheek. Your fingernails pick at your skin before pressing crescent shapes into your palms, adrenaline putting you in a state of anxiety so severe he finds he, too, is sitting up straight and watching the crowd for familiar faces.

‘Do you recognize something?’ It takes work to keep his voice calm and soothing, doing his best not to startle you.

‘There’s something wrong with this,’ is all you whisper, and Jaebeom scours the crowd for a sign of injury, panic, even an out of place cart, but he comes up empty, finding nothing untoward in the surroundings.

Once more, he studies every face that passes, every horse drawn carriage that moves past, wondering which of these is the culprit for your turmoil. It is only when your hand moves to his thigh, gripping tightly enough he comes to see your grip as a vice, that he notices what it is that has you so undone. 

At the base of the citadel, the crowd has started to dissipate, the smiling faces of mothers and their children departing after receiving their blessings. A group of four missionaries stands, handing out pamphlets and greeting passerby with neutral, unreadable expressions. Their royal blue cloaks catch the late morning sun, the velvet of the fabric gleaming in all their expensive glory, putting cerulean shadows on the limestone behind them. In this way, they are glowing, ephemeral visions that at once are otherworldly and oppressive, the sort of power in their light that would bring one to their knees.

As always, he shivers at the sight of them, but your grip on his leg tightens and when he looks at you again you are murmuring to yourself and he feels his jaw go slack.

‘Murderers,’ you hiss, softly enough that only he can hear but you say the word over and over, voice rising in pitch until your voice dies altogether.

You watch them, unblinking and repulsed, the fear and loathing in you so great he sees you now as a mere apparition of the woman you once were. A great tremor has started to creep through your limbs, body rocking back and forth as though you are at sea, your center of gravity warped as you continue to look and look. 

Running his hand up and down your back in an effort to calm you, Jaebeom feels his own voice start to waver. ‘What is it?’ 

You say nothing, merely shake your head, unwilling to speak for fear that they may hear you. All his question manages to do is inspire another round of mumbling, calling them murderers only to yourself and only to Jaebeom, simply because he is close enough for your voice to reach. His eyes scour the crowd for a discreet way to remove you from the fountain, looking in the direction of Stefan’s practice only to drop to a disappointed frown. In front of the pathway, at his end of the star,a group of people have gathered to inspect a vendor of Veruvian silk.

‘Murderers,’ you say again, and this time it is loud enough that a young boy passing by hears your voice, his eyes widening in surprise. 

Jaebeom grimaces apologetically, waving the boy along as he pulls you into his side, holding you close. Even in his state of panic, his heart breaks that this should be the first time he holds to him, the first time you would be able to remember, the comfort his arms reduced to merely a time and a place, and not a feeling. The trembling in your muscles is palpable, tangible enough his hands feel as though they are gripping something monstrous, something absolute in its knowledge and power. In a single moment, you have become something Other, shaking against his ribs with enough violence he fears you may tear the marble of the fountain asunder. Your hand leaves his thigh and comes to grip your seat, fingers pressing against the stone until your knuckles turn white. 

He’s certain the missionaries must see you, certain this will turn into something holy and something wholly unwelcome, but they seem to pay you both no mind, their attention devoted instead to the good and to the whole.

And just when he thinks he may be able to ease words out of you, the noise of you reduced to slow, deep inhales between your parted lips and the shaking in your muscles coming abruptly to a halt, you bed over, eyes wide in shock, as you vomit sea water, seaweed, and, most horribly of all, blood at your feet.

Author’s Note: lord god, im telling you i thought this was going to be a very short story but here i am...all this with so much more to go. im just really in love with this world and actually really proud of it? ive never done anything like this and ive been in love with fisherman!jb ever since the dye preview pics came out. ive had this in my mind since i messaged @imdifferentshadesofpurple​ in may about it and im just so glad it lives. did i make an entire story out of that one promo pic and the oyster dress by alexander mcqueen? sure bet but you cannot blame me.

tag list: @red-exo​ @heatofmyexoheart​ @majci​ @yehet-me-up​ @lamichellee​ @ahgishaman​ @softly-savage-mint-yoongi​

#jaebeom x reader #jaebeom x you #jaebeom smut #kwritersworldnet #got7 smut #jaebeom angst #jaebeom fanfic #jaebeom fanfiction #jaebeom au #jaebeom romance #jaebeom scenarios #jaebeom scenario #jaebeom fantasy #got7 au #got7 romance #got7 fanfiction #got7 fanfic #got7 scenario #got7 scenarios #im jaebeom #im jaebum #jaebum x reader #jaebun smut

[weavingthetapestry]

"Scotia is so named after the Scottish tribes by which it is inhabited. At first, it began from the Scottish firth on the south, and, later on, from the river Humber, where Albania also began. Afterwards, however, it commenced at the wall Thirlwal, which Severus had built to the river Tyne. But now it begins at the river Tweed, the northern boundary of England, and, stretching rather less than four hundred miles in length, in a north-westerly direction, is bounded by the Pentland Firth, where a fearfully dangerous whirlpool sucks in and belches back the waters every hour. It is a country strong by nature, and difficult and toilsome of access. In some parts, it towers into mountains, in others it sinks down into plains. For lofty mountains stretch through the midst of it, from end to end, as do the tall Alps through Europe; and these mountains formerly separated the Scots from the Picts, and their kingdoms from each other. Impassable as they are on horseback, save in very few places, they can hardly be crossed even on foot, both on account of the snow always lying on them, except in summer time only; and by reason of the boulders torn off the beetling crags, and the deep hollows in their midst. Along the foot of these mountains are vast woods, full of stags, roe-deer, and other wild animals and beasts of various kinds; and these forests oftentimes afford a strong and safe protection to the cattle of the inhabitants against the depredations of their enemies; for the herds in those parts, they say, are accustomed, from use, whenever they hear the shouts of men or women, and if suddenly attacked by dogs to flock hastily into the woods. Numberless springs also well up, and burst forth from the hills and the sloping ridges of the mountains, and, trickling down with sweetest sound, in crystal rivulets between flowery banks, flow together through the level vales, and give birth to many streams; and these again to large rivers, in which Scotia marvellously abounds, beyond any other country; and at their mouths, where they rejoin the sea, she has noble and secure harbours. Scotia, also, has tracts of land bordering on the sea, pretty level and rich, with green meadows, and fertile and productive fields of corn and barley, and well adapted for growing beans, pease, and all other produce; destitute, however, of wine and oil, though by no means so of honey and wax. But in the upland districts, and along the highlands, the fields are less productive, except only in oats and barley. The country is, there, very hideous, interspersed with moors and marshy fields, muddy and dirty; it is, however, full of pasturage grass for cattle, and comely with verdure in the glens, along the watercourses. This region abounds in wool-bearing sheep, and in horses; and its soil is grassy, feeds cattle and wild beasts, is rich in milk and wool, and manifold in its wealth of fish, in sea, river, and lake. It is also noted for birds of many sorts. There noble falcons, of soaring flight and boundless courage, are to be found, and hawks of matchless daring. Marble of two or three colours, that is, black, variegated, and white, as well as alabaster, is also found there. It also produces a good deal of iron and lead, and nearly all metals. 'The land of the Scots', says Erodotus, 'in the fertility of its soil, in its pleasant groves, in the rivers and springs by which it is watered, in the number of its flocks of all kinds, and its horses, where its shore rejoices in inhabitants, is not inferior to the soil of even Britain itself'. Isidore tells us: 'Scotia, with respect to the wholesomeness of its air and climate, is a very mild country; there is little or no excessive heat in summer, or cold in winter'- and he has written of Scotia in nearly the same terms as of Hibernia. In Scotland, the longest days, at midsummer, are of eighteen hours, or more; and, in midwinter, the shortest are of not fully six; while in the island of Meroe, the capital of the Ethiopians, the longest day is of twelve hours; in Alexandria, in Egypt, of thirteen; and in Italy, of fifteen. In the island of Thule again, the day lasts all through the six summer months, and the night, likewise, all through the six winter months. The manners and customs of the Scots vary with the diversity of their speech. For two languages are spoken amongst them, the Scottish and the Teutonic; the latter of which is the language of those who occupy the seaboard and plains, while the race of Scottish speech inhabits the highlands and outlying islands. The people of the coast are of domestic and civilized habits, trusty, patient, and urbane, decent in their attire, affable, and peaceful, devout in Divine worship, yet always prone to resist a wrong at the hand of their enemies. The highlanders and people of the islands, on the other hand, are a savage and untamed nation, rude and independent, given to rapine, ease-loving, of a docile and warm disposition, comely in person, but unsightly in dress, hostile to the English people and language, and, owing to diversity of speech, even to their own nation, and exceedingly cruel. They are, however, faithful and obedient to their king and country, and easily made to submit to law, if properly governed. Solinus, the historian, in describing the manners and customs of the Scottish nation of olden time, says:- 'In its social observances, the Scottish nation was always rugged and warlike. For when males were born to them, the fathers were wont to offer them their first food on the point of a word, so that they should desire to die not otherwise than under arms, in battle for liberty; and when, afterwards, they are grown up and able to fight, the victors, after drinking of the blood of the slain, besmear their faces with it. For they are a high-spirited race, of sparing diet, of a fierce mettle, of a wild and stern countenance, rugged in address, but affable and kind to their own people, given to sports and hunting, and to ease rather than toil'. 'The Scottish nation,' writes Isidore, 'is that, originally, which was once in Ireland, and resembles the Irish in all things- in language, manners, and character. For the Scots are a light-minded nation, fierce in spirit, savage towards their foes, who would almost as soon die as be enslaved, and account it sloth to die in bed, deeming it glorious and manly to slay or be slain by, the foe in the field; a nation of sparing diet, sustaining hunger very long, and rarely indulging in food before sunset; contenting themselves, moreover, with meat, and food prepared from milk. And though they are, by nature, a people of generally rather graceful figure, and goodly face, yet their peculiar dress much disfigures them.'"

Chapters 7-9 of the fourteenth century ‘Chronica Gentis Scotorum’ by John of Fordun, edited by W.F. Skene and translated by Felix J.H. Skene, 1872.

There is a reason I have quoted these chapters at some length, and it is not just for their interesting description of the mediaeval Scottish landscape. The last paragraph (Chapter 9) in particular is an infamous passage, and it has frequently been used to summarise the so-called ‘Highland/Lowland divide’ even in the modern day. In fact, it is a passage with a complex history and should be taken with a large pinch of salt, especially since Skene’s translation, though the most famous and widely used, is itself very much a product of its Victorian context.

John of Fordun was probably a priest who hailed, as his name suggests, from the village of Fordoun in the old county of Kincardineshire (now Aberdeenshire). His ‘Chronica Gentis Scotorum’ (’The Chronicle of the Scottish People’) is perhaps the earliest surviving example of an attempt to write a comprehensive history of Scotland from its mythical origins. Traditionally the entirety of the work edited and translated by the two Skenes in the nineteenth century was thought to have been composed by John of Fordun some time in the late 1300s, but recent research suggests that he only composed the first five books, covering the history of Scotland from its earliest times to the death of David I in 1153...

John of Fordun’s views on Scotland would be interesting because of his status as the country’s earliest surviving ‘historian’ alone, but chapter 9 (the last paragraph quoted above) in particular has a long history of its own. This firsthand description of Scotland by a fourteenth century Scot, who grew up in the Mearns only a few miles from the Mounth, is invaluable. Many have taken John of Fordun’s words in Chapter 9 at face value, and the first half of the chapter is frequently quoted in modern history books, though historians have often then reinterpreted the passage to fit their own preconceptions. For Victorian historians, his depiction of linguistically distinct, mutually antagonistic, peoples with markedly different dress and lifestyle seemed to confirm their heavily racialised view of Scottish history, with “Noble Savage” Highlanders and canny Lowlanders locked in an eternal struggle. More recent historians, less concerned with simplistic ethnic categories but still seeking to establish the roots of the so-called Highland/Lowland divide, have taken the account as evidence that the fourteenth century witnessed the birth of the Highlander as a distinct entity to be reviled by the ‘Lowlander’. 

However some have argued that Fordun’s account might not have been entirely original. He references several Classical authors, which is not particularly unusual, but in some sections he seems to rely more on the accounts of these authors than the experience we might assume he had as a Scot himself. It has therefore been suggested that this part of John of Fordun’s history may have drawn on an earlier account, perhaps one composed by the author of Gesta Annalia I- this was possibly Richard Vairement, a thirteenth century Frenchman who acted as chancellor to Alexander II’s queen Marie de Coucy, and who would certainly have had cause to rely on classical accounts of Scotland. This raises further questions about whether the views of Scotland expressed in John of Fordun’s chronicle really reflect his own fourteenth century experience, or if they perhaps reflect an older viewpoint, perhaps that of a French immigrant in the 1260s.

Even if the account is John of Fordun’s original work, there are issues with both his viewpoint and the way it has been interpreted in the modern era. It is worth pointing out that the chronicle never uses the terms ‘Highland’ and ‘Lowland’- Skene’s use of the term ‘highlanders’ above is actually his own interpretation of the original Latin which seems to refer instead to the people who inhabit the islands and mountains. Instead of ‘Lowlanders’ we have the ‘people of the coast’, who speak the ‘Teutonic’ language- probably to be identified with what we now call the Scots language, which, like its close relative English, is a Germanic language. The people of the mountains are said to speak the “Scottish” language, presumably Gaelic. However despite first impressions, the people of the coastal plain and the people of the mountains cannot be easily equated with the modern concepts of Lowlanders and Highlanders. If we are to see the divide between the two peoples as linguistic, then it must be pointed out that, during the fourteenth century, Gaelic was widely spoken in many areas which are not generally considered to be the ‘Highlands’- notably Galloway and Carrick in the south-west of Scotland, but also parts of Fife and other areas. 

If we are to see the split as geographic, with Lowlanders inhabiting the coastal plain-then it must be pointed out that areas which some people now consider to be ‘Highland’, such as Easter Ross, fall into this category, while many areas of southern, Scots-speaking Scotland, such as the Southern Uplands, are hilly and remote. And even if we decide to abandon the somewhat anachronistic terms ‘Highlander’ and ‘Lowlander’ when referring to Fordun’s account, I would argue that the ‘division’ of Scotland between two separate peoples was a lot less distinct, and a lot more fluid and complex in the fourteenth century than the chronicler suggests. Thus, although a fascinating source, we should beware of stereotyping ‘Highland’ and ‘Lowland’ Scotland during this period, especially if these stereotypes look rather like a Romantic fantasy of Barbarian Highlanders and Civilised Lowlanders. 

Some additional notes:

- It seems that John of Fordun means Hadrian’s Wall when he says ‘Thirlwall’, and it looks like he associates the wall of Septimius Severus with Hadrian’s Wall as well, though the location of Severus’ wall is actually a bit of a mystery. 

- The Northern Isles of Orkney and Shetland were not officially part of the kingdom of Scotland during the fourteenth century, which is why John of Fordun says that Scotland stretches as far north as the Pentland Firth, which is the strait between Caithness and Orkney. The whirlpool he refers to may be the Swilkie.

- Since Fordoun is only around ten miles from the Cairn O’ Mounth, a well-known pass through the Grampian mountains which was used by several armies in history, it is interesting to note that John of Fordun describes the mountains that “formerly separated the Scots from the Picts” as “Impassable (...) on horseback, save in very few places, they can hardly be crossed even on foot, both on account of the snow always lying on them, except in summer time only”.

- John of Fordun’s description of the upland parts of Scotland as "very hideous, interspersed with moors and marshy fields, muddy and dirty; it is, however, full of pasturage grass for cattle, and comely with verdure in the glens, along the watercourses” is intriguing. The ‘romantic’ appeal of Scotland’s upland scenery does not seem to have been widely appreciated in the Middle Ages, and although the first part of John of Fordun’s description, regarding the ‘hideous moors’, reflects this, his other comments are not wholly negative.

- The account of Scottish diet and agriculture seems to be accurate- peas, barley, and oats were common crops, while wool was an extremely important export. Certainly the country was rich in fish and, although the Scots were not able to exploit the herring to the extent that others did (the Dutch for example), Scottish salmon was a notable export. Highland hawks were also much sought after by the nobility.

- ‘Thule’ is a mysterious location often mentioned by mediaeval and early modern writers- theories as to its identity include Iceland, Shetland, Orkney, and Greenland.

-  When John of Fordun states that the people of the mountains are ‘unsightly in dress’ we cannot necessarily assume that they wore what we consider to be ‘Highland’ dress nowadays- kilt, plaid, e.t.c. Kilts came into use in the later Middle Ages (it’s worth noting they are not likely to have been in use in William Wallace’s time) and even then they looked very different from the neat modern version.

- The statement that the people of the mountains are “hostile to the English people and language” raises a couple of questions. For a start, late mediaeval Scots speakers often used the term ‘Inglis’ (English) to refer to their language, rather than the Middle English spoken in the south of Britain, which was sometimes called southron instead. However Middle English and Old Scots were still often seen as being the same or similar languages, so should we assume that, by the ‘English people and language’, John of Fordun is stating that the people of the mountains hate the people of the coastal plain (i.e., that so-called Highland/Lowland divide?). Or should we interpret this as meaning English in the modern sense, and that the people of the mountains hate the English even more than their fellow Scots on the coastal plain? Since the next phrase talks about how they don’t like people of their own ‘nation’ either, this might be the case, but in the aftermath of the Wars of Independence, there was no shortage of anti-English sentiment among the people of the coastal plain either. 

-  “They are, however, faithful and obedient to their king and country, and easily made to submit to law, if properly governed.” - this is a sentiment which would not have been out of place in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, but it must be remembered that it comes from a very different, mediaeval context, not a time of kilted Highland regiments fighting for the Empire. There was some feeling in late mediaeval Scotland, however, that one of Robert Bruce’s successes had been his understanding of the west. 

- The last part of chapter 9 is taken up by two passages from the ancient authors Solinus and Isidore and, although they are used to prop up John of Fordun’s own account, it would be wise to remember this before they are used to draw conclusions about the behaviour of fourteenth century Scots. 

All in all, these chapters, and especially chapter 9, are an important and well-known source. Even though I would caution against taking the whole work at face value, it is certainly worth becoming familiar with, since it has influenced so many subsequent accounts of Scotland, for better or worse. For further reading, I would also recommend perusing Martin McGregor’s article “Gaelic Barbarity and Scottish Identity in the Later Middle Ages”, and Dauvit Broun’s “Attitudes of Gall to Gaedhel in Scotland in Scotland before John of Fordun”, both published in the book “Mìorun Mòr nan Gall: 'The great ill-will of the Lowlander'? Lowland perceptions of the Highlands, Medieval and Modern”, ed. McGregor and Broun.

If anyone has any questions about any of the statements made here, please feel free to fire them my way!

#Scottish history #British history #Scotland #mediaeval #fourteenth century #John of Fordun #Quotes #Sources #Primary Sources #the highlands #the lowlands #Highland/Lowland 'divide' #Gaelic #Gaidhlig #national identity #culture #language #Scots language #landscape #everyday life #clothing #agriculture #environment