#behold the field in which I cultivate my vibes
Text
… I wrote two pages. Out of nowhere.
Well. Out of Valhalla really… but still. Hooray.
The ability to write is still in me after all.
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
If I were to write a piece of Ancient History RPF about Tellis and the battle of Tanagra, and was to post it to AO3, would anyone read it?
Why did this question fall so naturally into the if a tree falls down in the woods, and no one is there to hear it, does it make any sound format?
#Brasidas in childhood anyone?#Argileonis and Tellis shipping?#I may or may not have already started writing it#behold the field in which I cultivate my vibes#jpdoingwords#brasidas of sparta#Tellis of Sparta
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Quiet storm
ao3 link here
Chapter 1 of 3
Author's note: I was so fortunate to be a part of the R76 Big Bang 2017. This is the most fun I've had in such a long time. I was paired up with an artist who I totally adore - ohappyfair is an amazing partner and such a nice person, even when I act like a total putz. I'm so in love with their art, their wonderful attitude, and just the good vibes they have. Everyone did so well in the RBB, i'm so proud of everyone and so honor to be a part of it!
There was a time where the cities were only lit by candle light and the night was as still and quiet as the dawn. You could see all the stars in the sky, the universes in a world of endless black – the night bird song would ring through the air, and the embers that cooled in the hearth would keep the good people warm in their sleep. There was nothing like the cities we know now, the constant movement, the blurring lights and shattering noise; instead, towns were built with brick and mortar, their chimney pipes the only smog that clogged the air. People lived and died by the earth, the wind, the sea, and all clung to each other for support.
We know this as the time of Gods.
The Gods, who had overthrown their Titan parents, created the humans from the baked-red clay of the earth. The little clay figures lived in one spot and grew and grew.
Eventually, the humans broke into factions. Clay figures no more, they were travelers and explorers. Farmers, sailors, doctors and writers. They molded themselves after the Gods, their ever-loving protecters.
The powerful rose among those factions. Kings and queens graced their people with the word of their chosen God, using their wealth and status for gain and prosper. Lords and Ladies cultivated the earth with their citizens. Where there was once simplicity, complexity sprung forth.
Ironically, it was similar amongst the Gods. Although there were many celestials, there were only a handful that held any real power. The gods of sun and moon, earth and water, life and death – all children of the fallen titans and all guided by the one mother-goddess, Her Majesty, the Goddess of Wisdom.
She, who's words were soft as silk and still cut like a dagger, gave her brothers and sisters their titles and duties and let them go about their way. She stayed in her temple above them all, tucked away in the quiet libraries of all collected knowledge, writing in her scrolls and painting her murals. The gods organized themselves well and soon, a select few had collected into a celestial republic
The game of mimicry continued – the humans did the same. Peace, once so common, became a temporary gift. Given enough time and energy, humans will create mayhem the size of the titans themselves.
And so they did – a battle after skirmish after fight, until a war to end all wars rose above them. A conflict between the cities that turned into a war between the gods, all started by the idle tongue of a foolish young prince. He, who soon lost his head in the bloody fray, insulted the goddesses three – she who was filled with mercy, she who kept the hearth a-lit, and she who spurned the hearts of men into battle – by making a shallow choice of beauty. Turned against one another so quickly, the goddesses feuded, filling the hearts of their chosen people with bitterness. A foolish war broke out that would destroy the once crown-jewel of the states and leave the others scavenging to pick up the pieces, as the gods sat back and licked their wounds.
This is where our story begins.
~*~
In the scheme of things, Ilios isn't a very big city – it's more of a town, really.
But to the people of Ilios, their town was their world.
They had survived the Great War with very little collateral damage, one of the rare cities to be so lucky. A handful of their soldiers dead, some damage on the coast, but the Ilios herself was relatively unharmed. Life returned to normal fairly quickly. Sure, some of their sister-cities had taken a serious blow, but Ilios stood firm, the pearl of the ocean town looking towards the sea with a proud zeal.
The lord that lived there, a proud man under the House of Morrison, had headed a fleet into the war with his meager troops in support of the country of Gibraltar. He returned, scared and older, but victorious. It was a fact he almost seemed to gloat in.
Well, seemed in a very absolutely, consistently, non-stop kind of way.
(Let it be known that the House of Morrison, for all the good they do, has one major flaw – their mouthes)
Which started the whole problem in the first place – after a night of indulgence (one of many, we are loath to say), Lord Morrison stumbled through the town with his fellow senators, proclaiming his family the richest amongst the countries, his countryside the most fruitful, his children the most talented. He was blessed by the gods, he slurred to anyone who would listen, why else would he have come back from the war? Why else would Ilios be the town to pull their shattered country back together? It would be his wealth that would spurn the other lords and ladies into action, it would be his wheat that would bake the bread of the poor and destitute. It would be his children that would build a new world on the wreckage of the old.
“Not Gibraltar!” He sang at the fountain in the center of town, his toga coated in mead, “Not the City in the Oasis! Ilios!”
His senators crowded around him and cheered; one suggested wine, the other sent a servant for more and the display got even worse.
“The gods thought they could destroy us, but we survived!” The Lord Morrison sputtered, wine splattering down his front, “Raise a glass to their failure, my friends!”
On-lookers would report the Lord Morrison would make a number of (fairly gratuitous) claims that night, including (but not excluding) comparing his people to the industrious cherubs, his fields to the forest of the celestials and his senators to the congress of the gods.
He slurred to every passer-by: “My son would put Her Majesty of Mercy, in her beauty to shame! Compared to him, Our Most Glorious is a farm girl.”
Grandious as they were, not all of his claims were entirely wrong – the people of Ilios were well known for being hardworking and friendly and the town's congress had made fairly well thought-out decisions in the time of war, decisions that had tempered fate in their favor. Ilios wheat was bountiful, to say the least – ships filled to the brim with grain and corn and fresh produce left the harbor daily. And the children of the Morrison household really were something to behold His eldest daughter had long ringlets of spun gold and a keen tongue, his middle son had eyes as blue as the sea and the aim of a true marksmen.
But his youngest?
Oh...well that was a handsome young man. Fair, young skin dotted with soft freckles, eyes like crystals, hair so blond it was nearly platinum. His voice was as soothing as a coming storm, his body slender and sculpted like the finest marble...it was a beauty that people came far and wide to see, to study, to touch.
Even in his youth, citizens would walk by and talk amongst themselves, A handsome one, what a beauty.
The admiration grew as he became a young man – the royal soothsayer had suggested to the Lord Morrison that his son take to wearing veils when out amongst the commoners (a suggestion that would quickly followed). People who would once give him a passing glance now stopped and watched him walk by; more than once, a person would bow before him and proclaim his majesty, as if they were worshiping in the temples.
The citizens loved him, adored him in a way they had once loved their patron goddess.
It didn't take long for her to notice.
~*~
“A farm-girl, eh?”
Her hands shake, nails cracking into the crystal globe. In the darkness of her chambers, Mercy lets his hair flow free across her shoulders, wisps of spun gold whipping about her. She has thick skin – she has to. A lesser creature couldn't do what she does, caring for the sick, the crippled, the wounded and dying; the goddess of medicine, of relief, of mercy.
It's a fitting title.
But here, in her dark, quiet chambers, she's just Angela. Somber, quiet, tired Angela.
Beauty's not that important in her world. Sure, it feels good to look nice, but beautiful hands don't do much good when you've shoved them deep into the gaping gullet of a soldier.
(at least...at least that's what she thought)
Maybe that's why the comment stung so bad - “A farm girl”. A common, lowly peasant....
Was this what these people thought of her? As a lesser?
Angela places the globe down slowly, the temptation to dash the thing to pieces becoming overwhelming. She lays on her couch, listening to the winds that whistle outside her curtains. In the darkness, the ceiling plays tricks on her, warping shadows into beasts.
A farm girl.
She clutches her hand to the breast, letting the metallic taste wash over her tongue. It's not anger that begins to pulse beneath her fingertips, in the very root of his marrow – it's rage.
She would expect this behavior, this...slander from a city not under her tutelage but Ilios was one of her patron cities. The rare, few cities that actually brought her happiness after the nightmare that was the Great War and it's own leader would spit in her face and call her lowly.
It stings more than she's willing to admit.
There's a great shame that comes with being one of the three goddess responsible for the Horrible War. A niggling kind of burn that never seems to go away. The nail digs into her side one too many times.
Her rage takes shape within her, a burning ball in the pit of her belly. She sits up, brushing her hair down and standing from his couch. With a whisper, Angela calls her cherubs to her side.
“Tell my brother I'm paying him a visit,” She mutters, picking up the crystal globe and looking into it. The Lord Morrison is being escorted home by a young man with white-blonde hair – his tunic is covered in vomit, “Tell him I would like to cash in that favor he owes me.”
The cherubs float away quickly. Angela pulls on her cloak and throws the globe as hard as she can against her chamber walls.
It shatters to pieces.
~*~
The kingdom of the Gods rests in the city at the top of the White Mountains. And it's here that the gods create their home as they see fit – a vast paradise of environments the celestials have hand made. The road that stretches between each individual temple is paved with white marble and a river runs through it all, the crystal clear water cool and sweet.
It is night as she storms to her brother's temple, a garden house with agar walls and turquoise tiles – the smell of petrichor caresses her nose as flings the door open.
The pluck of a kayagum echoes against the lantern lit walls, a soft, sweet voice following each note. Angela lays her saddles at the door; soft grass tickles her toes as she walks through the halls, flowers turning their heads to watch her.
His sprites sing in his atrium, curled at the edge of his fountain – the startle when they see her walk in and quickly stand, bowing in reverence.
“We weren't expecting you so soon,” The first sprite says, rushing over to take her cloak as the second quickly moves the kayagum aside.
“That doesn't matter – where is my brother?” She snaps – they pale at the tone in her voice and quickly lead her towards a doorway where a thin curtain flaps in the night breeze.
“Would you like tea?” The second sprite says weakly, “Coffee? Wat-”
“No.” Angela interrupts her, pushing past, “I would like privacy. We're not to be disturbed.”
The sprites open the curtain for her, bowing once again with a quiet yes ma'am. They close the curtain and take their place at the doorway.
~*~
“Gabriel! Gabriel where are you?!”
Angela pushes a ferns leaves, nearly tripping over a thick ivy vine. She huffs in frustration, yanking a twig from her (already fairly messy) hair, “Don't you ever prune this place?!”
“No,” A voice to her left says loftily, “Normally, that would keep people from bothering me.”
Angela pushes her way past the branches – her brother stands in the small clearing, his flowers and plants all turned towards him affectionately.
She eyes the ceiling, where the glass dome shines with unfiltered moonlight. The grotto that is Gabriel's home is really very lovely in the nighttime – fireflies flutter about happily, moths of all sizes and shapes land peacefully upon her shoulders. There is a breeze within the grotto, making the entire area pleasantly cool (whether this is created by Gabriel or all natural is beyond her)
Angela sits on a fallen log and watches Gabriel work – he's standing at one of his beloved willows, snipping dead leaves from the orchids that have begun their strenuous climb to the top.
He doesn't properly great her, nor stop what he's doing. However, honeysuckle vines begin to creep by her leg, flowers turned upwards. She plucks one and quickly dabs the nectar onto her tongue – it's wonderfully sleep.
“Out of all the people, I really didn't expect this from you, Angela.”
She frowns, tossing the flower away and resting her arms on her knees, “You got my message.”
“Yup.” He snips another leaf, settling it in a basket beside him. They'll be chopped up and used as fertilizer for the next plant – the circle of life continues, “And I'm not doing it.”
“Gabriel-”
“You realize what you're asking me to do, right?” He turns slightly, pinning her with a tired glare, “Amelie trusted me with her tools, and you're asking me to go against everything she said. Sorry, but you'd best find someone else for your dirty work.”
Gabriel's home is in full bloom now, but it won't last long – the cusp of autumn in upon them. Soon, the house will be filled with orange and yellows, sprinklings of red, before everything settles down for it's long, winter sleep. Fragrant marigolds will litter the paths.
He'll keep hollies soon. Holly and pines and the house will smell like the coming of the new year.
Angela plucks another honeysuckle, turning it to look at the nectar that bubbles to the top
“I know I'm asking a lot. More than I should.” She doesn't have the gut to eat – everything tastes sour. She tosses the flower away (and tries to avoid the heartbroken way the flowers turn towards the ground), “Gabriel, you have to understand-”
“One of the humans under your care called you a mean name. That's what it boils down to, Ang.”
“Don't over simplify. It's more than that.” She stands from the log, crossing her arms, “He disrespected my authority. You of all people should understand how that feels!”
Gabriel doesn't respond immediately, engrossed in his work.
He does, to an extent. Gabriel was one of the rare gods that stayed as neutral as possible during the war but that doesn't mean he had no stake in it. After all, his only patron city had burned to the ground.
They cursed him as he tried to save it from the flames – the soothsayers called for the downfall of the gods, the royal family spat on his offerings, the people called for other gods but him and sometimes, in the dead of night, all Gabriel can feel in the lap of flames on his skin...
His sheers slip and he cuts a healthy leaf. Gabriel hisses, quickly catching the leaf and tossing the sheers away.
“Angela, let it go. It's not worth getting worked up over.” He hurries to his workbench, the fragile leaf in hand. A soft cloth is laid on the bench-front along with a glass jar and clean forceps. He grabs up the glass jar and cups his hand. What looks like golden honey pours from it, forming an almost perfect bubble around the leaf, “If we got upset every time a human said something unkind, we'd never have a moment of peace. You know that.”
“I told you it's not that simple.”
“It is, actually.” the bubble of honey quivers slightly, healing the cut ends of the leaf. He heaves a sigh and plucks up the forceps, turning back to the vine.
He didn't expect Angela to be right next to him – nor did he expect her eyes to be brimming with tears. He jumps, quickly catching the honey-bubble before it plops onto the ground.
“Whoa...whoa, Angela-”
“I scarified so much for that stupid city,” Angela sniffles as Gabriel sets the bubble onto his workbench and takes her shoulders in hand, “Don't you know that? Ilios is the one city that I loved that isn't still rebuilding! I felt my cities, my people burn around me, and that was the only city that I kept safe. I made sure they wouldn't be harmed, I tried to keep their people well, and instead of thanking me, he calls me a peasant.”
“It was just an accident, you don't really think they think that, do you?”
Angela wipes away a tear angrily, “How am I supposed to know?! Do you know what the other royal families called me as their cities were torn down? Witch. Demon – it wasn't even my fault, I did everything I could and they still cursed me!”
Gabriel pulls her into his chest, pressing a soft kiss onto the top of her head. Her shoulders shake as she sobs angrily, “Angela, they're scared, dumb humans – they didn't mean any of that, and neither does this one.”
Angela sniffles, fat tears slipping down her cheeks. She tucks her hands into Gabriel's robes, rubbing her face into his chest.
“It's not about mean names and getting revenge,” She warbles, “It's about telling them what is and isn't right. About giving them a little bit of humility, because apparently, I've failed to do that.”
She stands back, looking up at him. Her hands untangle from his robes to cup his face.
He winces – his wounds are still fresh and painful. Her thumb runs across the once smooth skin, across every tear, tracing the blackened flesh. Black steam rises from the exposed flesh.
“They hurt you. They hurt me. They don't understand how lucky they actually are, because we've allowed them to disrespect us.”
His hands mimic hers, a thumb brushing away a stray tear, “Please....please, Gabriel. I don't have anyone else I trust....do this for me, just do this one thing for me and I won't ask you for another thing.”
“I think we both know that's not true, Ang.”
Angela laughs, pulling back to wipe her face clean. She stands on tip-toe to kiss his cheek.
“So you'll do it?”
Gabriel huffs, turning back to the honey-bubble, “Yeah. I'll do it – but this is a one time thing, Ang. I hit the kid and then I'm out – understand?”
“Understood.”
He places the bubble against the snipped stem. The bubble pops, forming around the leaf – stems mesh perfectly, as if nothing had ever happened in the first place
~*~
In the kingdom of the gods, there are two pools. One with bitter water and one with sweet.
There was a time they were guarded and cultivated by the Goddess of Love and Lust – after the war, she abdicated her position and left to wander the underworld to mourn her long lost husband.
And so, when the people pray to the god of nature and life, they also find themselves praying to the god of love. What was once her quiver is now his, fitted for his rough hands, and what was once her waters is now his domain.
In the dark time where the moon has just set and the sun begins it's arduous rise, Gabriel fills two flasks – one with the sweet water and one with the bitter. He straps the flasks to his belt, her soft arrows to his back and looks down amongst the still slumbering mortals.
He begins the search for his prey.
~*~
Time has distorted the names of the people of the past. Language has changed and so translation changes with it – it goes without saying that the House of Morrison probably went by a very different name in the ancients times and this is just how we say it now.
For all intents and purposes, the youngest was called John.
Within the family, they called him Jack.
He wasn't the smartest boy (his sister took that title) and not the strongest (that was his brother's) but he was the bravest. While his sister cared for the household and his brother held the beaches with the remainder of the army, Jack braved the sea with his father and fought alongside him with the preliminary forces. Even in the brief battles that Ilios participated in, he took to danger head on, almost foolishly sprinting into the heart of battle.
There was very little that scared Jack – not the bite of iron, the lick of fire, the roar of the storm.
But this was like none of those things.
It's an unfortunate product of his birth – he's taken down giants of men, stared death in the face and now that it's all done and over with, his responsibility is being quiet and demure to the public. His brother and sister are both married with children of their own – now it's Jack's turn.
His parents have as many grandchildren as they want, as they need – the Morrison name will live on. Now it's all about giving Jack away like a present – such is the role of the youngest.
It's a sad, but true, fact – the moment his parents find a partnership with one of the neighboring cities that benefits Ilios, he'll be tossed to them like meat to a dog.
Formality has never been his strong suit – he's actually about as graceful as a duck on land. Jack would rather work in his garden then have to speak to the public, but this is his job now. He's part of the public face of the House of Morrison, and so it falls upon him to apologize for his father's behavior and pay for the damages.
He's fortunate to be well-liked in town – the barkeep laughs off the tab (“Your father was just having fun!”) and the clay-worker (who's wheelbarrow he'd fallen asleep on and promptly ruined) handed him an red earthen pot when he was finished paying for the broken items (“For your mother! She said she'd wanted me to hold the next one for her.” She waved away his money, “By the gods, she deserves it”)
The city wakes slowly, sleepily blinking their eyes into the sun. The people mill through the street, some going to their jobs, other getting their shopping done – they all nod their heads and smile as Jack walks by.
The Morrison family has done a lot of good in Ilios. Even when the Elder Morrison behaves badly (as has become the norm after the war), there is no debate where his heart truly lies.
Jack's stopped every few steps to talk to the people walking by. They ask their normal questions (When is your sister-in-law due? Will the Master join the hunt this year? What's the Mistress bringing back from Oasis?). Talking to people who treat him like he's a normal human being, not this beautiful angel, not a title...it feels nice.
They all have their roles to play: The Master Morrison leads the town. The Mistress Morrison is the trendsetter amongst Ilios' women, wearing only the latests fashions and speaking of only the highest bourgeoisie, the eldest Morrison sister holds frequent salons to stir the town's intellect, the Morrison son leads Ilios' coast guard and organizes the autumn hunt.
Jack's job is to look pretty, make friends among the people and stay quiet when his parents eventually hand him off to his rich Lord in a marriage that is 100% for political gain.
To a slim margin, he's accepted this as his end goal.
(not really)
The woman who runs the flower cart waves him over and begins to chide him about marriage again. She sticks trimmed white roses behind his ears and tells him about the girl down the street, fresh into womanhood and ready to take a husband.
“A boy just moved into town too, if you're interested in that.” She leans against her cart, taking a deep breath. She's a little grey-haired lady that's been selling her flowers since Jack was a little boy – her ancient donkey chuffs at him when he leans his forehead down against it's broad nose.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Jack laughs when Mulberry mouths at the front of his toga – he can smell the apple Jack's got hidden in there, “You got daisy's in!”
“Don't avoid the question,” She chuckles as he leans down to sniff at the petals – they're speckled red, little yellow stems bursting from the center, “You're getting to that age, it's something you need to think about.”
“Are any of these in blue?” he asks.
“You're handsome, you're charming-”
“Those two are the same thing,” He plucks the bundle up and drops his coins into her outstretched hand, “I'm just not interested in it right now. If you get any in blue, will you hold them for me?”
“Yes, yes,” The flower-woman waves him off, hiding the smile behind her veil – Jack's not stupid, the next time he visits her, she'll have another person lined up for him to sample. He'll tell her the same thing - “Not now”
He tosses Mulberry his apple before he takes his leave – the donkey knickers in delight and chomps down.
~*~
Jack has a routine – stop at the town center to pick up the flower-woman's latest bunch, walk to the fish market to see how the morning's catch was and then travel the remainder of the town to see where his help can benefit most. Nothing much ever changes around the town.
If he's lucky, he spends his morning in town and his afternoons in his garden house, tending to the fruit-trees and creeping vines there.
If he's unlucky, he'll be roped into the day-to-day chores of the Mistress Morrison.
There was a time where his time would be taken up by his studies – they've reached a hiatus, until he's “married away.” It's up to his future spouse to decide if he would continue his studies or if he'll just have to settle with what he knows.
When he was a kid, Jack would do everything he could to get out of his lessons – now he's wishes he could take them again.
(In a weird way, they continue. They've morphed into lessons about keeping an ordered household, given by the Mistress and her many, many attendants).
Jack takes the steps down to the wharf two at a time, the flowers tucked into the crook of his hand. Sunlight glitters from the ocean's blue surface – from where he stands, the sea looks rough this morning. White crests move along the ocean's surface, the seagulls cry echoing across the sky.
He looks out into the ocean – sometimes he daydreams about stealing a boat and sailing away into the endless blue.
What would he find out there? His brief time away from the town was on the beaches of Gibraltar, but there had to be more than fire and soot. He'd seen it on the murals in the temples, on the paintings that graced his family's walls – deep green forests, cities built from the golden sand, flat plains stretching out as far as the eye can see and filled with flowering trees.
When he was a boy, he would ride behind with his Father to the farms that settled at the edge of Ilios and work in those lucious fields. It was hard work, it was sometimes painful work, but it was good work.
And then, suddenly, he was thrust into the world of adulthood and forced into the tight box that was Formality.
Although his cage is gilded, it is still a cage.
~*~
“No fish?”
“None.” The sailor frowns, leaning over the edge of the boat, “Haven't been fish for days.”
Jack frowns, worrying his lip, “Have you tried fishing on the east side? The west?”
“And the north, hell, we've even pushed our boats to they very edge of our waters.”
Another sailor shakes his head, “Every time we try to go further, the water's too choppy. Ain't never seen anything like it, this ain't the season for the monsoons.”
Jack hums, tapping a foot thoughtfully. Monsoon season wasn't for another three months – the waters should be perfect for fishing right now.
“Anything you could suggest, we'd love to hear Jack.” The captain says – it's easy to tell that he's exasperated. No fish means no fish at market – no money in their pockets and no meat for the citizens. Fish play such a crucial role in the normal Ilios diet, having them go missing is a big problem.
“Have you all tried new bait?”
“Yeah – but maybe we could switch it up again?” The captain scratches his beard.
“Do that – I'll let my father know, maybe he knows what's going on.” Jack says sheepishly, “Sorry I couldn't be more help.”
The captain laughs it off, waving, “Don't you worry, Jack – we'll try switching the bait again. Stop by tomorrow, maybe we'll be lucky”
The sailors say their goodbyes, pulling their ropes and unfurling the sails.
Jack watches as the boat begins to pull away from the harbor – the sea shanties will start soon as the oars pull and the wind pushes the boat along, spurning the sailors on.
He turns back up the path and begins to walk towards the center of the city – it just doesn't make sense, where would the fish be?
~*~
“This is it?”
“That's it.” The grocer shakes his head, his arms akimbo. Jack looks over the meager wares - wrinkled apples and withered grapes, mushy greens and leafs, dehydrated stalks of corn, “I just don't understand, yesterday everything seemed normal.”
“When we went picking it looked like the locust had come back into town,” Continues a farmer, unloading his cart – two measly bushels of grains, the wheat is limp and frail looking, “Practically all my trees have come down with blight...I just don't get it.”
“Blight?” Jack frowned, “How sick have they been?”
“Not at all.” The farmer insists, “It appeared overnight.”
“Oh c'mon, blight can-” The grocer starts, as he arranges the meager wares.
“It appeared overnight.” The farmer stresses, an almost crazed look in his eye, “I keep my trees healthy, I ain't had a blight outbreak in over twenty years.”
The farmer and grocer continue to bicker as Jack looks over the stalks – they're not just frail, they're diseased, a dusty film covering their surface. He plucks one stalk up, grimacing as it practically falls apart in his hands.
“Go to the temple,” Jack says quietly, looking over the disintegrated plant. He tosses the stalk away, wiping the grit from his fingers on the hem of his robes. The men quiet quickly, “Get one of the priestesses to bless the water you're using. Maybe you've had blight all along, maybe it did appear overnight, but you're going to need the Goddess' graces for this.”
The farmer nods, pulling on his donkey's reigns. Jack plucks the crispest apple from the cart and gives his coins to the grocer.
~*~
The town looks off today.
Rust curls on the sides of the white houses, the plants in the window sills are beginning to curl. The cats (normally friendly creatures who patron the warf and come mewling to people for attention) all hiss and scurry away when approached.
He makes his normal stops – nothing seems to be going right. The smithee can't get his furnace to light, the seamstress needles have all bent, the librarian was fending off moths left and right. He gives what advice he can and they all appreciate it, but it's bandaids on open wounds.
Jack clutches his flowers closer, nails biting into their sensitive flesh. It makes no sense, why would everything in the town just stop working? If he didn't know better...
“Oh!”
A voice breaks Jack from his reprieve – he startles, nearly dropping his packages. Internally, he curses – he's strayed too close to the temple again. An old woman stumbles toward him, her hands pressed against her mouth.
“Oh, angel!” She begins to kneel, reaching for the hem of his stola, “Oh bless me!”
Jack tries to shoo her away, his cheeks flushing red – of all the days to walk out without his veil...
“No-No I'm sorry, I'm no-”
She ignores him, beginning to croon her preyers. A small crowd from the temple follows her, all beginning to croon the same requests – bless us, bless us with health, angel, bless us with fortune and love.
One of them grabs onto the hem and yanks – Jack yanks back just as hard and stumbles into a run, clutching his packages to his chest.
It's not the first time he's had to flee the temple – most days, he's smart enough to avoid it all together, only going to worship late at night. He was so engrossed in his thinking that he took the main path to the estate and stumbled right into the proverbial lion's den.
Wearing the veil has helped considerably; he hides his face whenever the priestess walk past, carefully avoids anything that seems like worship but it still happens more times than he would like – they call to him for guidance when they should call to the very deity that graced them with life.
Looking behind him, he sees the priestesses leading the people back into the temple. He's lucky, they never come to the estate to scold him for interrupting the parishioners – even he realizes it's not his fault.
They understood – it had started fairly early in his life, after all. The Goddess' blessing towards the Morrison family had given them a son of almost perfect beauty, that's nothing to be ashamed of. It's something to be celebrated and rejoiced -.it would make sense that he would look like one of her Messengers. It's not like he likes the attention – frankly, he hates it. It feels like the ultimate blasphemy, having to guide (or sometimes order) them back into the temple. It's the height of humiliation.
He leaps the fence onto the estate and it's only then that he stops, leaning against a tree. The tender stems of the flowers have bruised on his crushing hold. He hisses, pulling the flowers away from him to examine them.
They're a little worse for wear, but they'll be fine. A little plant food, some sunshine, he may be able to coax them into sprouting.
Jack pulls them back into his chest and begins the trek to the villa.
~*~
Morrison Villa is a sprawling estate, filled with trees and flowers. A barn to hold the livestock, a kennel for the hunting dogs, a spring for bathing.
To Jack, it's his sanctuary.
He takes a quick detour to the stables, carefully avoiding the servants and the stablehands. Jack sneaks to the furthermost stall, behind the door and directly to his best friend.
The horse snorts in delight when he enters, immediately stomping towards him and nuzzling his cheek.
“Hey, hey – don't be pushy.” Jack laughs quietly, scratching behind her ear, “And no, these are not for you, Ovid.”
He pulls the flowers away as she tries to chomp down on them, “Be good, or you don't get the present I brought you.”
Ovid nickers, stomping a foot and nodding her head. Her ears flick happily. Jack flops onto a clean pile of hay – the stablehands have come by and cleaned her stall before Jack could get to her.
It's not considered proper for a young man of prestige to clean his own horse's stall, but it's never bothered Jack that much. He remembers mucking when he was a kid, beside his brother and father with the two horses they had – a dapple mare and her spotted foal.
The spotted foal isn't a foal anymore, but she's still Jack's favorite. Her stall is his home away from home, the tiny room packed with all of his comfort items – his favorite sandals, his well-warn saddle back, his prized bow-and-arrow hung on the wall far enough away that Ovid can't pull them down. She protects his things, sleeping on them for comoft.
He produces the apple from the pouch on his robe and tosses it – she catches it midair, happily munching away.
“You glut.” He laughs, leaning against the barns walls – she pays him no mind.
Jack takes the stems of the flowers and starting to braid them together, “The fish are gone. The fishermen said they hadn't seen them for a while.”
Ovid snorts, chomping on the last half of the apple. Her ear swivels towards him.
“Same thing with the grocer – all of his produce was just...mush.” he sticks his tongue out, working his fingers in the delicate knots. Ovid clops to him, flopping down and laying her head against his thigh.
“They said it just started – seems weird, doesn't it?” He smiles at her, running a hand over her mane. Her neck twitches at his touch.
There's a window beside the pile of hay he sits on – tension ebbs from his muscles – a soft wind whistles through the trees. He can smell the ocean, the salty tang that tingles his tongue.
Jack looks out onto the morning, the clouds high and fluffy against a perfectly blue sky. There's a tinge of grey in the clouds – they'll have rain soon, he can smell it in the salty air. Good, Jack thinks. Maybe rain will wash away whatever going on in town.
“Maybe it's a sign...” He says quietly, his fingers still braiding the flowers together. He's almost finished with the crown, tying the final flower on, “We always said we'd run away when we got a chance...maybe the Goddess is telling us now's the time.”
Ovid blinks and huffs again.
“I don't know what stops me. It wouldn't be too hard to buy a boat-”
She nickers.
“Yes, yes, a boat that could hold you too.” He corrects, placing the crown on her head and adjusting her ears, “A few days of previsions, some fresh water, a map...we'd be out of here in no time. I wonder where we'd go...”
She flicks her tail against the ground, nuzzling closer. Jack scratches her cheek and watches a blackbird soar through the sky, lighter than air itself.
Would it be nice to fly like that, he thinks, watching as the bird dips and dives. To just up and leave whenever he wanted – not confined by tradition and title and responsibility just....totally free.
They sit like that for quite some time – his leg is fast asleep, but Ovid's such a peaceful sleeper, he can't bear to wake her.
~*~
Ovid hears the raucous before Jack does – her head shoots up, giving a short whiney.
“What is it?” He asks, leaning forward. His answer is quickly answered.
“Jack? Jack!”
“I'm here,” He says, sitting up proper, “What is it Leslie?”
He can hear his sister storming towards him. She slams her hands on the stall's door.
“Where have you been?? We've been looking everywhere for you!”
Leslie is taller than him, slimmer. Golden hair always pulled up in a messy bun and with a tongue sharper than a sword – out of all the Morrison children, she's the leader.
She was the first married off, to a tradesman from the far east. A good man who made good money and took care of her well. He traveled constantly and so Leslie lived on the Morrison Villa with her two children.
“What's going on?” Jack stands as Ovid gets to her hooves, whinnying in delight. Next to Jack, Leslie is her favorite person.
“What do you mean, “what's going on”?!” She snaps, “Father has his luncheon with the senators today! They're just starting to sit down to eat, you are supposed to be entertaining!”
Jack huffs, brushing stray bits of straw from his robes. Ovid leans over the stall door for pets – Leslie scratches her moist nose fondly, “For real? Again? Didn't they do this last week?”
“And the week before that, and the week before that.” Leslie quirks an eyebrow, “And probably the week before that - How in the world did you forget?”
Jack shrugs, “How long is it going to last this time?”
“How long do they ever last? The senators won't be leaving until tomorrow, if we're so lucky. Malcom's still hasn't slaughtered the hog for dinner, Mother's gone mad. So can you please?”
“All right, all right. Though, I don't know what he even wants, I just sit there.”
“You're the eye-candy.” Leslie teases, opening the stall door for him, “Remember that senator from The City of Oasis? Do you know how many times he asked Father how much you cost?”
Leslie closes the stall door behind him and presses a soft kiss to Ovid's nose – and then she's off, walking towards the house. Jack waves to Ovid and is fast on her heels, struggling to keep up.
“I'm surprised he didn't sell me off.” He grumbles, plucking a stray strand of hay from his collar.
“He probably would have if the price was higher.” Leslie shrugs, “Count your blessings Jack, apparently, the guy's a true bore. You'd probably die from it within a week.”
Ovid huffs and stamps her hooves – they'll be back in the evening with scraps specially for her, she knows that. But she never likes to alone. Her ears prick forward, patiently awaiting Jack's return.
The blackbird lands on the barn's roof, watching the two with careful eyes.
~*~
Morrison Villa is built similar to the classical rustica style – a massive complex with a giant atrium in the center. It housed the main family, the cousins that would stop by periodically and the servants that kept the place in ship shape. Ironically, it was considered one of the smaller royal estates.
They enter through the backdoor into the kitchen – the smell of roasted chicken, baking bread, freshly cut greens makes Jack's mouth water. In the center he can see his mother conducting the staff like an orchestra, pointing this way and that, taste testing every dish that leaves the door and ensuring everyone looks prim and proper.
Mistress Morrison runs the Villa household with an iron fist. She does very well considering the circumstances – she was engaged to Master Morrison at a fairly young age and took to her role quickly. Mistress Morrison is unafraid to get mouthy in a world that really wasn't built for her – she's made her own platform in the town and, subsequently, in the capital her husband as built.
She frowns at them when they enter the kitchen.
“I found him,” Leslie says, ducking under a pair of servants carrying a tray of a full-sized peacock made from watermelon and sugar cane, “He was hanging out with Ovid again.”
“Of course you were.” Mother chides, “What am I going to do with you, you smell like a barn.”
“Sorry.” Jack says sheepishly, “I can go change.”
“Quickly. You know how impatient your father is.”
A young man sits on the counter beside her, chomping at a string of grapes. Unlike his sibling, his hair is curly and wild, his beard full. He kicks his legs, trying to snag morsels from every plate that comes by.
“Yeah – no man wants a horse for a wife.” He gives a sardonic laugh; Mother snatches the grapes from his hands, putting back on the tray they'd been sitting on. She snatches Jack by the shoulders and tilts his head down, plucking bits of grass and hay from his hair
“Aren't you supposed to be cooking, Mal?” Jack grumbles, wincing when she gets a few too many strands of hair with the next pluck.
“Yes he is and if that hog isn't slaughtered and cut in the next thirty minutes, we'll be using your hide as a replacement.”
(She leans to Jack's ear and whispers, “We may be rid of his horrible wife then.”
Jack can't hold back a chuckle.)
Malcom groans and hops down from the counter.
“Fine.” He trots out of the kitchen, off to the livestock, off to slay the fattest hog they have, “Better than being at this bore of a party anyway.”
Leslie plucks the last of the hay from Jack's hair and follows behind Mother to begin serving wine. Jack quickly makes his way to his room to change.
~*~
It only takes a few moments (five of which are spent shoo-ing away Mother's aids and assistants – he can dress himself, thank you very much) but he quickly works his way into his best blue stola. He chews on his lip as he ties the robe together, brushing his hair back – when he returned from across the ocean, he'd found all of his togas and bracce gone and replaced with these too-long, too-heavy things.
His lot in life, Jack supposes - anything to make him seem smaller and gentler. He's probably very lucky – the librarian once showed him scrolls of people across the ocean that paint their eyes and lips in ink and rouge.
Jack's not sure he could do that every day.
He ties his sandals, slips on his finery. He owns a special veil for events, attached to a golden, woven crown of ivy. Perfectly white, barely translucent – Jack has to have help when he wears it, but he knows his house like the back of his hand.
Grandmother had given him a mirror when he was a boy – polished silver, the handle shaped like a lion's paw. He looks at himself...what he's told is himself. The detached self, the self that conforms to his family's wishes. It's like looking at a different person, an entirely separate Jack...
He quickly puts the mirror down – looking too long into it's reflective surface just puts him into a bad mood.
~*~
There's a rambunctious cheer when he enters the dinning hall – the smell of wine is almost overwhelming. Jack has to hold his breath as he takes his place with his mother and sister, sitting in the center of the couches and tables so they can quickly refill drink and food. They hearth still isn't lit, so the room hasn't become sweltering with so many people.
His father, at the top couch, stands and embraces him, kissing the top of his head. There's not a lot of bad you can say about Master Morrison – he's a braggart, sure, and maybe a little too interested in drink but he's a kind soul. A good soul. There's a lot of love in Jack's heart for his father.
Maybe that's what made the entire scene so...embarrassing to begin with. Before the war, they weren't these kinds of people – sure, there were parties every once in a while and well known men and women would stop by the house but more often than not, they would be in town, living a fairly average life.
Now it's seems like Master Morrison is racing at a breakneck pace towards outward appearances of grand wealth. He was never a particularly modest man, but this is extreme, even for him.
“Here he is!” His father booms, slapping an arm around Jack. Jack is very grateful for the veil as his cheeks begin to heat, “My son! My celestial boy. Look at him, even The Goddess herself would feel inadequate next to him!”
There's another cheer, cups clinking together, laughter, and calls. But Jack can see the way the servants hide their faces, their grimaces. Even his mother frowns at the comment.
~*~
“Maybe it'll get better,” Jack thinks quietly, as he slaps away another hand tugging at his veil, “Maybe it will be quick”
~*~
It gets considerably worse.
~*~
Night falls. The storm comes with it, thundering into town. The servants have well prepared for the luncheon (now a dinner) but that doesn't make the pace any less chaotic.
They take turns, getting up to get more food, more drink, more bread and cheese (and just getting a chance to stretch their legs).
(“We should be happy.” Mistress Morrison wheezes at one point, leaning against the kitchen counter. Her back is close to giving out, the pain apparent on her face, “This could have been a formal party – at least it's just a few of his friends.)
Up and down, up and down. Stay quiet, stay still. Keep conversation with the men that speak to him, but don't have conversation with his mother or sister. Look interested at all the mind-numbing dull things the senators talk about and smile when they look his way.
Jack wonders if empresses and emperors ever get this bored.
He excuses himself to replenish their olive tray, carefully avoiding every wayward brush of the hand.
The kitchen is awash with people running back and forth, the stifling heat of the oven hitting the cool breeze of the rain – the kitchen is humid and uncomfortable and a welcome oasis of calm.
Jack tosses the leftover pits and stems into the garbage and begins to refill his tray, stretching out his back.
He almost misses the tiny meow.
His eyes catch on the tiny creature sitting at the doorway. It's tail curled around it's feet protectively, wide eyes watching every dish. It was a small thing, skinny, it's fur hanging off it's bones.
“Hey,” Jack frowns, putting the tray down and walking to the door. The cat doesn't move when he approaches, mewling, “You can't be here.”
It's ears flick twice and it meows again. It's got a distinct pattern, Jack notes as he stoops to pet the creature on the head. Black fur speckled with white snow. Amber eyes mixed with streaks of gold. It leans towards the hand that dwarfs his head.
“You can't be here.” Jack repeats, scratching the thing under the chin, “We don't feed strays. No scraps for you, kitten.”
He starts as his name is called – his sister stands at the doorway, yelling at him to “get his ass into gear”.
The cat is quickly forgotten.
That is, until he comes back into the kitchen, wiping wine from his stola. He curses, grabbing the first rag he can find and begins trying to blot the liquid off. The dark red stands out strong against the soft blue and he curses again – it's not that important, it's just a stola...but it was his favorite stola.
It's raining harder now, a gentle rumble of thunder now a snarl. Lightning runs across the sky. His eyes dart towards the door once, catching on the cat.
The drenched cat. It's starting to shiver, ears flopped over it's eyes.
“Why are you still here?” Jack asks, still trying to blot the stain from his clothes. He walks over, frowning down at the cat, “You can't come in, we don't have food for you. Go away.”
The cat whimpers, eyes closing miserably. The bitter cold chill whistles into the humid kitchen.
Jack stares at the cat. The cat looks at the ground, whiskers dripping.
Jack feels a headache coming on.
The cat makes a noise akin to a yelp as Jack snatches it up, bundling it into the front of his stola. Like a shot, he takes off running, snatching a roll from the counter before the servants can notice.
“This is so stupid,” Jack mutters, running through the halls to his room, “Stupid stupid stupid.”
He slams his door behind him, dropping the (very confused) cat onto his bed. He makes a soft murr, tilting it's head to the side.
“Look. Just...look, okay.” He drops to his knees beside the bed, holding the roll out, “You're not supposed to be here, I'm not allowed to have like...you know, pets, but you can stay the night. You just have to promise to stay here and not get in trouble.”
The cat considers the bread roll, sniffing it closely. It takes a tentative bite.
“Promise okay?”
The cat grabs the rolls between it's front tow paws, snatching it forward. It meows loudly, devouring the sweet roll.
“I'll take that as a promise.” He throws off the stola, quickly redressing in a clean one, “I'll be back in a few hours, just...I don't know, sleep, whatever cats do.”
~*~
“By the gods, when is that meat going to be ready?!”
Jack can't help but think the same thing – Malcom had left hours ago to slaughter the hog, it didn't take that long to strip the meat! Of course Malcom would take his sweet time, he wasn't the one sitting on his knees watching on an empty stomach as others enjoyed the food.
If they're lucky, the senators would fall asleep after eating and they'd be able to take a rest.
Mistress Morrison stands and says she'll check on the hog's progress. She looks relieved. Jack and Leslie are left to fend for themselves, serving the rowdy guests and keeping them calm.
One of the men grabs Jack's arm and pulls him close, gesturing for another pour – Jack obeys, nodding only half heartedly as he slurs how nice Jack must be in bed.
“I wouldn't know.” He says, untangling himself and returning to his sister.
His knees ache. His back hurts – all he wants to do is go to bed, but he's stuck playing host to drunk men hyped up on their own egos. For a moment, Jack thinks about the blackbird, soaring through the air, dipping and diving at it's heart content. What he would give to taste that freedom...
The door to the dinning chamber opens with a slam and Malcom walks ahead of the servants, ever the victorious.
“Gentlemen!” He proclaims, introducing his slain wares, “May I introduce the most high quality meat you've ever had the pleasure to taste!”
The guests cheer, the servants rush about towards the fire spit in the center of the room, tinder on hand.
Tradition in Ilios dictates that the main meal is cooked before the guests. The thick slabs make Jack's mouth water as he watches them being brought forth – wonderfully red meat with beautiful white marbling.
The tinder is set in the center, servants crowding with a flint and knife to start it...and start it
...and start it.
Mistress Morrison sits forward, beginning to frown. The servants continue to try to light the tinder to...nothing.
The raucous cheers die down until silence fills the room, watching as the now nervous servants try to light the pyre. Master Morrison stands, suddenly sober. He takes the flint from the servants and begins to try to light the pyre himself.
Mistress Morrison leans towards Leslie, whispers, “Go get the priestess.”
Jack looks between them as Leslie runs off, pulling her shawl around her.
In Ilios, the hearth is the most important part of the house The Goddess dictated it so – to make a guest truly feel welcome in the home, let the host entertain them around the hearth. It was a sacred place to her – warmth brings health, after all.
The food is cooked there, the family gathers there, the children are educated there in the evenings. The hearth pulses heat into the entire house, centers the family.
When the hearth doesn't light, something has gone very, very wrong.
Jack stands, walks beside his father, watches as he desperately tries to light the pyre.
His heart thunders in his chest. This is bad...this is so very, very bad. If the pyre doesn't light...that means-
“Master!”
A servant bursts through the door, soaked to the bone. He's panting, a splatter of blood across his cheek.
Master Morrison snaps towards the servant, standing quickly.
“Sir!” The servant stumbles forward, “Sir, the dogs-your dogs!”
“What about them?” Master Morrison, catches the servant as he begins to fall on his knees, “What's going on?!”
“They've got rabid! They've escaped, they're running wild!” He heaves, hands shaking.
It's like a switch is flipped – adrenaline rushes through Jack and it's like he's on the front lines again, giving orders to his soldiers. He bolts past his father, turning towards Malcom, “Keep everyone in here!”
“Where you going? Jack, where are you going?!” Malcom calls after him as Jack runs through the house. He pushes past frightened servants in the kitchen out onto the grounds. The quiet storm still thunders on as he runs out onto the grounds, running towards the barn. He can hear yells over the rain, the sharp, terrifying barks and howls of a pack run wild. The kennel door's slam against their hinges as the wind whips past, the chain nowhere to be found.
Servants are helping each other off the ground, more than a few sporting painful looking bites.
Jack bursts into the barn, running towards Ovid's stall – the horse whinnies as he enters, stamping her hooves. She can feel the excitement in the air.
He snatches up the hanging bow-and-arrow, throwing open Ovid's door. Jack doesn't put her saddle on, instead, leaping onto her back and grabbing her mane. She isn't shaken, crying out again as she gallops towards the door at his direction.
“Let's go, Ovid!” They race into the rain towards the sounds of chaos. Her hooves pound against the ground, kicking up clumps of grass.
“Where'd they go?!” He slows her near a dazed servant – they point south, and south they fly The dogs are running towards the fence, he realizes quickly, he has to be fast.
Lighting strikes across the sky, thunder booming through the air, so loud Jack can hear it in his chest. He kicks his heels against Ovid's flank and she lurches forward, running even faster.
They move in almost perfect fluidity – she was a clumsy foal, too small, a runt even by pony standards. He was just a child when they moved onto the Villa and Ovid had just been born – they grew together, learned together, rode together at their hearts desire. As the war rolled across the nations, he chose her as his steed and together they ran headlong into battle, unafraid of the clash of steel.
He can feel the powerful muscles beneath the skin, hear the beat of her heart – when was the last time they got to ride like this? He'd almost forgotten how it felt, the power, the speed.
The grounds flash by them – branches lick at his legs and his arms. Jack ignores the sting, hands still buried in Ovid's mane. She leaps over a fallen log, splattering mud everywhere which way.
Just up ahead he can see the pack running towards the gate – the guards have readied their spears, but there's only two of them – all of the other guards are at the house. A pack of skilled hunting hounds move like the sea – they would drown the solider's easily would take them easily, slam against the gate and flood the streets.
Jack clenches his thighs around Ovid's flank, steading himself on the racing horse. He grabs an arrow from his quiver – if he can take out the alpha, he could possibly stop the entire heard.
Ovid's quick, but the dogs are lower to the ground, more spry. She's racing towards them, but she's out of practice – they both are. She's about to lose stamina – he's only got one shot at taking down the dog.
Jack balances himself on the careening horse; his core aches. He's so close, so close – one shot, he only has one shot. If he fails, the dogs will be in the town, running towards the people... Even in the dark and the rain, he can see the alpha's eyes shimmering in the darkness, wide and wild. There is no more dog left in that creature, no wolf either. Just madness.
He can see the shot now, the arrow in perfect alignment. The alpha howls, they're only a few steps to the gate. He has to take the shot, he doesn't have any time to waste.
He pulls the arrow back and lets it go.
The arrow flies true. With a sharp screech, the dog flies away, tumbling into the grass. Ovid bursts forward, ahead of the dog, quickly taking the place as the leader – she makes a sharp turn left, leading the hounds along the edge of the gates. Jack replaces the bow onto his back and grabs onto her mane once more, steering her into another left – the pack follows behind him dutifully, barking and howling at each other.
“Good girl!” He calls over the rain, “You did amazing – let's get them home.”
~*~
The dogs practically flop to the ground when they finally arrive at the barn's kennel. Two stand, panting, the others literally collapsing onto their sides, heaving, whimpering. Ovid snorts and shakes her head as Jack jumps down and runs to the dogs. They all wag their tails, crawling towards him for love and affection – whatever madness they had fallen under was gone.
A few bleeding nails, a bruised side or two, but the dogs all seem...fine. Healthy even. The servants take their collars and lead them back into their kennel, swarming around Jack to see if he's okay.
“That was brilliant!” One says, taking his bow from him, “You haven't lost your talent, have you?”
Jack says nothing, leaning against Ovid's side. It didn't make sense – Father cared for those dogs like they were his own children. He would have never let a rabid one amongst the flock and he certainly wouldn't have left the door to the kennels open so they could run amok.
He presses a hand against Ovid's chest and leads her back to the barn. She's panting but obviously happy, prancing beside him.
It just doesn't make sense, he thinks, guiding her into her stall, It just doesn't make sense.
His sandals are torn at the edges. There are marks on Ovid's flank – he'll take her down to the town doctor in the morning, see if he's accidentally hurt her. His fingers, his arms are numb, the stinging bite of cold seeping into his bones and there are lashes from the branches etched onto Jack's legs and arms .
The once quite storm seems so much less peaceful...
Ovid snorts, shaking her mane again. She pushes him with her nose, dark eyes boring into him.
“I'm okay. You?”
The horse whineys, pressing his nose against his chest. Jack sighs, leaning his nose against her snout, eyes slipping shut, “That was...that was really...something.”
Scary, he thinks. It was scary. Sure, he'd been on the hunt before, but he'd never seen the hound's eyes take on that kind of horrible gleam...Jack's not sure he ever wants to see it again.
“Thank you.” He breathes, running a hand over the short, bristly hair, “I don't know what I'd do without you.”
~*~
The servants are gone when he enters the house, his pace slow and careful. In fact, everyone is gone – he doesn't hear the chatter of guests, the clank of silverware.
He enters the dinning hall – it's empty, save for his family and a tall woman in dark green robes. The senators have all been escorted home.
“The man of the hour.” She says quietly, standing to greet him. The Morrisons flock to him as soon as he opens the door, Mother pulling him close to her breast.
“Don't you ever do that again!” She demands, pressing her lips against his forehead, “You should have let your father do that!”
“I'm proud of you son.” Master Morrison rumbles, placing a hand on his shoulder. His siblings push past to wrap their arms around him.
“You're freezing. Need a blanket?” Malcom asks softly, examining the red tinge his fingers have taken.
“Yes...yeah that would be really nice.” Jack smiles weakly as Leslie kisses his cheek.
“The priestess is here. She needs to talk to us.” Leslie whispers into his ear, clutching his hand close.
They walk together and take their places.
Her Lady, Orisa of The Goddess of Mercy stands at the mouth of the pyre, looking over the ruined scraps of tinder. She's a beautiful woman, skin dark and rich, eyes filled with a wisdom deeper than the ocean itself. Jack sees her at the temple during service, speaking to the crowds that could sooth a rampaging giant.
Jack bows before her, as is custom. She returns the bow, raising her hands for them all to sit before her. They've pulled a table away from one of the couches and set it up in front of the pyre. Her tools are laid before her, a bowl of clear rainwater is set in the center, branches still brimming with bright green olive leaves at her left.
“You have performed your duties bravely.” Orisa says quietly, “It is no wonder your father chose you to follow him into battle.”
Malcom returns with the towel, draping it over Jack's shoulders. He takes his gratefully, blotting out the water in his hair.
“The dogs were just...it was like something possessed them all, some sort of madness.” he says, fingers curling into the soft cloth, “But the first one...the alpha, he just looked...”
“Evil.” Mistress Morrison breathes, finishing his very thought, “My god, we've never had a dog go sick before. And with the pyre-”
“It's not just the pyre.” Jack worries his bottom lip, “Something's not right – the fish are gone-”
“The fish?” Master Morrison frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “How? They've had a boon for fish.”
“I know, but it's not just that – the wheat and the fruits...the walls of the houses, everything.” Jack looks to Orisa. Those dark, deep eyes, “You know what's going on, don't you? You have to.”
Orisa says nothing at first. Instead she raises her hands again for quiet Slowly, methodically, she reaches down and takes an olive branch.
She plucks leaf after leaf, placing them gentle into the bowl. Her voice rises, croons a song that Jack doesn't understand the words to. Cold fills his belly, but it's not from the water, he can tell.
The priestess is working her magic.
A hand finds his – Leslie watches the soothsayer closely, but holds onto him. He squeezes back, tighter. He can't tell who's hand is shaking – hers or his.
The water seems to move on it's own, leaves swirling together gently. Her voice carries in the chamber, wrapping them all in cool serenity.
“What do you see?” Mistress Morrison says, leaning forward, “Orisa, what are the god's saying?”
Her voice reaches a high note, holding it, warbling. And then she stops, the noise echoing in the high ceilings. Orisa places her hands on either side of the bowl, looking deep into the water.
Her hair, in tight braids, unravel from their neat bun. They float around her, like vines in water. Her eyes, so deep, seem to glow in the low chamber's light. The hand in his own tightens, Leslie's nails biting into his skin.
“Oh gods of East and West, Goddess of the Seas, God of Life, and God of Death. Goddess that has protected this island, has brought us prosperity and joy. Speak so that we may hear, teach so that we may know, your glory and your majesty. Shape my lips to your words and let me proclaim your holy word.”
Her head leans forward, eyes rolling to the back of her head. She takes a deep, shuttering breath, in, in, in...out, low and long.
Slowly, she folds her hands into his lap, sitting back on her knees. Her hair, still floating around her, ties back into it's neat bun. With a weak breath, she opens her eyes, hazy and almost distant looking.
“Lord Morrison,” She starts gingerly, not quite looking anyone in the face, “You've committed a grave error. I think Efi calls it “screwing the pooch”.”
“Excuse me?” Master Morrison begins to stand.
“The gods have been angered.” Orisa continues, paling by the second, “You placed yourself above them, do you remember? When you compared your children to the celestials and proclaimed your son's beauty? Humans have no businesses in the arena of the gods, but you willingly stepped inside. They've called your bluff.”
Master Morrison sits, eyes wide. His jaw has gone slack.
“She has taken her blessing from Ilios.” Orisa continues, “For so long we have lived in her good graces...but now, she's turned her back on us all.”
She points to Jack
“My boy, you will have to pay his price.” She says quietly, “They've given your hand away, to one of their pet war beasts. In three moons, the beast will meet you at the summit of Mount Lijian – from there, I cannot say what will happen.”
A palpable silence fills the rooms – Orisa sighs and looks back to her leaves, “If you go, Ilios will prosper once more. The fish will return, the fields will bloom. If you don't-”
“If I don't, then we'll perish.” Jack finishes, his eyes slipping shut. He runs a hand through his hair.
He doesn't quite hear what happens next – his mother and brother begin to wail, his father and sister begin to shout and argue. The Lord Morrison proclaims to his children that he'll gear every soldier on the island, he'll hire any hero to slay the great beast.
In the chaos of it all, Jack's hands fall into his lap and stay limp. Tears well in the corner of his eyes...he doesn't want this, this wasn't...
Well. Maybe it was.
He'd longed for freedom, asked for it, begged for it even. And now, here it was, handed to him on a silver platter – his freedom, directly into the jaws of some horrible creature.
He jolts when he feels a soft hand on his shoulder. Orisa leans in close, a sad smile on her face.
“The leaves know,” She whispers in his ear, “As do I, but I cannot tell you your fate. You have nothing to fear.”
She pulls back and takes both his hands into hers, squeezing reassuringly, “Trust yourself and the skills that you have learned. You'll know what to do when the time comes.”
Comes for what? Jack wants to ask.
But he doesn't – he struggles to smile back at her.
She takes her leave from the family quietly, not bothering to address the arguing family.
~*~
He falls into bed face first. His entire body aches, skin itchy and uncomfortable.
All he wants to do is sleep...maybe he'd wake up and figure out this was all some sort of horrible nightmare. He'd bidden his family good night, waving away questions of “do you want to sleep with me?”
Jack just wants to be alone now.
He waves his hand as he feels the paw touch his head.
“Okay, look.” he looks up at the pink nose sniffing at his face. The cat leans forward, giving the soft murr sound as Jack frowned at him, “I just got some really bad news – think you could give me some space for a minute?”
The can purrs and rubs it's face against's Jack's cheek.
“Guess not. And don't get pushy, of course I didn't forget.”
He pulls a slice of dried fish from his robes – the cat's tail flicks and it happily pounces on the morsel, purring as it eats.
Jack forces himself up, leaning back on his hands, “What am I even going to do with you? I can't take you with me...”
He stands, starting to undo the ties to his stola. It falls away easily – his skin, sticky under all the fabric, tingles with relief.
“I don't know what to do, cat. I mean...I guess I do.” He kicks the stola away and searches through his clothes, finding a large shirt. He slips into it eagerly, the soft fabric heavenly, “I just don't...it's not like I'm afraid but who wants to marry a...”
He can't say it. He flops onto his bed, hands between his knees.
All it once it hits him – he has to marry a monster. A “war beast”, a pet of the gods...he would give anything to marry the boring Lord of the Oasis now or even one of Father's drunken friends. Hell, he would rather be forced into the priestesses' nunnery...anything but this.
“Damn it.” his hands cover his face, fat tears slipping through his fingers, “Damn it all. It's...It's just not fair.”
He sniffles, curling in on himself, “I didn't ask to be born this way, I didn't ask for my Father to act like a complete idiot. Why am I getting punished for it?!”
In the dark and lonely cocoon of his room, he cries like a child, muffling his sobs through his palms. He's read the stories, hell, he knows the stories by heart – might as well slit his throat now and throw him to the wolves.
He's a boy, walking into the labyrinth without a ball of golden thread, off to the Minotaur.
“I don't want to!” He cries, shaking, “I don't want to go to some creature, I don't want to be some cow to be sold, I just want to be left alone! Why can I be left alone?!”
A head is pushed against his arm. Jack starts, blinking back red, watery eyes. The cat rubs against his arm, purring loudly. It stands on it's back legs and gently taps at Jack until Jack leans over and picks the thing up. The cat rubs it's head against Jack's chin, purring even louder.
Jack pulls the cat close as it purrs and rubs and begins to lick. He cries into it's soft fur.
“You stupid cat!” He blubbers, “Why did you have to come now...I can't take care of you when I'm being eaten, why didn't you come sooner?”
The cat tolerates being held. It continues to purr as Jack pulls his sheets aside and climbs inside them.
“Malcom will take care of you I guess,” He sighs shakily, “I'll leave him a note. His wife likes cats...you'll see.”
He looks down at the cat blearily, scratching behind it's ear. The cat's eyes close, lips pulling into a grin.
“She's like that – likes animals more than people. She'd spoil you rotten, cat.”
He laughs as the cat meows in delight.
“I can't keep calling you cat, cat. I mean, I guess I can, but it doesn't seem very nice, does it?” He sighs, settling into the pillows, “I guess I ought to think of a name for you so Malcom can introduce you properly. Let's see...”
His bed sits beside the window – he looks out onto the cloudy moon, the rain finally starting to pass, “Dusty? Stormy?”
Jack shakes his head, “No, neither one of those work.”
He lists off name after name, his eyes fluttering shut. It's been an eventful day – it's catching up to him. Even as terrified as he is, his body needs rest.
“What about Reaper?” He jokes, eyes still shut. The cat meows loudly, tail flicking again.
Jack opens one eye, “You like that? You don't really look like a Reaper...but I guess it doesn't really matter, does it? Reaper it is.”
His eye closes. Jack laughs, curling around the cat, “What a silly name to give you. Reaper, Reaper, Reaper....I do like saying it, Reaper.”
He yawns, sleep finally taking him, “Good night, Reaper.”
~*~
“Good night Jack.”
~*~
Jack wakes as the moon rests in the sky, a curled crescent.
There is a man in his room.
He stands at the window, over Jack's body.
Jack's unafraid.
The man leans down. He smells like the hearth, like grass. Like the spring wind and the brook that babbles through the forest.
There is pressure on his mouth. Lips against his. Jack doesn't think, but he does react, pressing back.
A kiss to seal them together.
Jack falls back asleep.
~*~
Jack wakes up once more.
It's in the space between dark and dawn. The time where the sun hasn't begun it's rise and the moon is settling down for slumber.
He sits up, looking over his room.
He knows what he has to do.
It's like clockwork – Jack stands, pulls spare clothes from his cupboard, odds and ends that he'll need for travel. He wraps them together in a bundle and sits at his desk, pulling a scrap of parchment from his leftover scrolls.
It doesn't take long to pen a note to his family.
Dear Mother and Father,
I won't let Ilios die for me. Do not look for me.
I love you.
-Jack
(p.s. - the cat is named Reaper. Please ask Malcom to care for him. His wife will love him.)
His hands shake as he writes. Jack takes a deep breath, sitting limply in his chair. Master Morrison had promised his son he'd kill whatever creature came from him, but Jack's too old to believe in fairy tales. He knows how this ends – the island goes without the Goddess' graces and they all wither away.
He can't do that to his people. He can't do that to his family.
Jack looks around the room once more. The cat is curled where he left it, snoozing peacefully. Jack leans down to kiss it's head before spiriting off.
He packs as much food as he can cary – dried meats, figs, olives. Anything he can easily carry with him that won't go bad too quickly. He fills two wineskins with water, tying them to his belt.
The servants aren't up yet – the halls are empty and quiet and as he looks around his home, he tries to remember every detail, every minute nook and cranny. He wants something to look back on as he stares death in the face.
He walks to the barn and quietly enters, trying not to interrupt the animals.
Ovid starts the moment he goes near his bag. She nickers in greeting, stamping her hooves.
“Quiet! Shh, girl, quiet.” He grabs her snout, petting her nose, “Please, you can't wake anyone.”
Ovid seems to understand for a moment, giving a snort. They're going on some fun adventure – he can tell that's what she thinks. He's finally found that boat for the two of them and they're going to sale away.
Jack packs his items in the bag, tying it shut tight. A lump forms in his throat.
She nickers again as he turns to walk away, catching him by the collar with her teeth. Horses have an uncanny ability to know what's going on at any time...she's always been smarter than she looks.
“You dummy.” Jack says fondly, pressing his nose against her again, fighting tears. He kisses her fondly, “Take care of Mother for me. Okay?”
He steps back from the horse quicker than she can catch him. And then he's off, ignoring her desperate nickers and whinnies.
Where is he going, she thinks. Does the boat not fit them both?
Jack wouldn't leave her, she thinks as she lays onto his pile of hay and looks out the window. Jack would never leave her behind.
Right?
~*~
Jack runs across the estate grounds, taking well memorized paths and hopping the fence. He wipes tears from his face and begins to walk towards the northern star.
~*~
It's grueling.
Jack follows the stars by night and the wind by day. He walks and he walks.
When he tires, he sits on the roadside and tries to rest his weary feet. His food runs in short supply quickly as does his water. He took little coin with him (a poor decision, thinking back on it) so he doesn't waste a dime on inns or restaurants. He scavenges what he can find in the thickets and the trees.
Sometimes a kind farmer lets him ride in their cart some of the way. These are the times Jack likes best – he can rest and gain some traction towards his goal. They all frown when he tells them he's trying to get to Mouth Lijian.
“Best forget about it boy,” One says frowning, “I'll take ya as far as I can go, but if you're looking for trouble, you're gonna find it.”
He walks until his sandals break. He rips them off and continues.
He walks until the hem of his robes are torn.
He walks until his feet bleed from the stones in the road.
He walks and he walks.
And when he reaches Mount Lijian, he begins to climb. His fingers bleed from the jagged cliffs, his already aching feet scream.
He climbs until he can't climb any further. Until his limbs refuse to carry him.
And there, on that ledge, Jack leans against a rock and stands as proud as he can. He flops his hands against his side, eyes searching through the nothingness around him.
“Here I am!” He cries into the clouds. Night is upon them, the sunset a bloody red swatch across the sky, “Here I am you bastard. You wanted me and now I'm here, so come and get me!”
Jack waits. Waits as the bleeding sunlight finally drips across the horizon and the moon begins his rise.
He doesn't startle as he sees the creature fly towards him. Pushes away from the rock and walks to meet it at the cliff.
A giant owl.
Black, with stars speckled in it's wings. A perfectly white mask across it's face. It lands gracefully in front of Jack, pitch black eyes sparkling in the star's light.
“Here I am.” Jack repeats, limping to the bird. It leans forward, extending one wing – Jack climbs onto it's back, legs around it's chest. He twits his fingers into the bird's feathers and holds tight as it gives one flap, two, and takes off into the night sky.
~*~
Gabriel watched him.
In the white flowers...the blackbird, the lonely cat.
He watched.
That night, as Jack slept, he could feel Amelie's arrows heavy in his hands.
One arrow that held sweet water for loyalty. One that held bitter water for longing.
He knows his godly-nature can be fickle – he could love one thing one moment and not the next...but Gabriel knows how to make this love permanent. It's all he wants now.
He embeds the arrows into his own breast as Jack sleeps. Jack blinks up at him and Gabriel can't stop himself – he steals a kiss, binding them together.
And now, flying through the air, feeling the hands tucked in his feathers, joy makes him feel dizzy.
He is in love. His Majesty, Gabriel, The God of Life Itself has fallen in love with a human.
May the Goddess have mercy on his very soul.
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
* World Travel Tips : What Winemakers Want You To Know About Virginia’s Wine Renaissance
Travel Tips -
I arrive in Charlottesville before noon on a pristine spring day, the rolling green hills a far cry from where I started my morning, before sunrise in an Uber to JFK. I’m here to learn about Virginia’s unique wine culture. My first guide is Gabriele Rausse, an old school Italian winemaker known as the father of Virginia’s modern wine renaissance.
My image of an intimidating wine expert evaporates upon meeting Rausse. With a laidback demeanor that is standard fare around here, Rausse offers to take me on a tour of the surrounding vineyards, and soon we are cruising along winding country roads in his 1979 Mercedes. Rausse begins to unfurl Virginia’s wine history. From the canopy of sun-dappled maples to the rolling hills dotted with vineyards, I am struck by the lushness of Virginia’s countryside.
Vintage Roots
Like most American success stories, Virginia has had to crush a variety of obstacles on its 400 year path to becoming a respected winemaking region. In the early 1600s, the first colonists tried to cultivate the area’s native vines to produce a cash crop, but ongoing attempts were thwarted by the region’s diverse climate.
By the 1770s, European winemakers were commissioned to try their luck with planting the European Vitis vinifera outside of Williamsburg, but even the experts couldn’t achieve a successful harvest. Construction began at Monticello, and along with Jefferson’s grand vision for a mountaintop estate, the founding father ensured that wine would always have a legacy in Virginia.
Rausse and I head back to Monticello to walk around the grounds where Jefferson planted 330 varieties of fruits and vegetables, along with two vineyards in which he planted 24 varieties of grapes sloping down the mountainside. Jefferson’s original crops didn’t survive, but he continued to establish wine as an important part of Virginia’s culture by importing more than 400 bottles from Europe a year to serve at Monticello’s famous dinner parties. He even installed dumbwaiters from the wine cellar to the dining room to keep the vino flowing without interruption.
Modern Revival
Rausse and I stop to admire the tight green clusters of grapes now flourishing in Jefferson’s original vineyard. Overseeing Monticello’s grounds and gardens for the past 22 years, Rausse has brought Jefferson’s dream to fruition by restoring the vineyards with several of the original vine varieties that Jefferson planted back in 1807. Several vintages produced from these grapes are now sold in Monticello’s Museum Shop, including a crisp Chardonnay and Bordeaux-style blends.
We pause to take in the spectacular panoramic view of the Piedmont and Blue Ridge Mountains that unfurl beyond Jefferson’s vineyards, where 30 wineries welcome guests along the Monticello Wine Trail. All these wineries are located within 25 miles of Charlottesville, making this a great destination for wine lovers to enjoy tastings, wine festivals, live music, or just soak in the beauty of the Virginia’s countryside.
Jefferson laid roots for winemaking in Virginia, but it wasn’t until the 1960s that Virginia’s winemaking really took off. Looking to expand internationally, Italian winemaker Gianni Zonin bought a parcel of land outside of Charlottesville, taking a risk on a region where many had failed. He sent his vineyard manager, Gabriele Rausse, to find a fresh solution to get the wine flowing in Virginia.
Upon arriving in Virginia in 1976, Rausse was up against a healthy dose of skepticism from locals, who assured him that pinot noir could not be grown in Charlottesville. But these challenges invigorated him: “Before I came, I checked the climate of Charlottesville, and it was exactly the same climate of my town in Italy. So I said, why shouldn’t it grow here?”
Over the next six years, Rausse cultivated the fields of what is now Barboursville Vineyards, becoming the first vintner to successfully plant Vitis vinifera in the region. And in the spirit of generosity that Virginia seems to cultivate, Rausse shared his trade secrets with other local vintners. The number of wineries in Virginia steadily grew from a handful in 1980 to more than 300 today.
Like all great winemakers, Rausse let the land guide him. He realized that the grafting process had to be perfect to survive the region’s drastic seasonal changes. And when it comes to climate, Rausse tells me that “Virginia does whatever she wants.” While growers in California can rely on a mostly stable climate with temperate growing conditions, in Virginia, “there’s no year that the climate is the same.”
This is how underdog stories go. Every time the climate or seasonal variation throws a new challenge at Virginia’s winemakers, they adapt, and it’s this spirit of innovation that has allowed Virginian viticulture to thrive. With a harvest season that runs according to Mother Nature’s whims, the result is constant experimentation. For wine lovers, that means discovering a new and unique flavor profile with every visit to Virginia’s wineries.
History Preserved and Perfected
I say goodbye to Rausse at Monticello and make the 40-minute drive to Barboursville Vineyards, often credited as Virginia’s top winery. A quick rain shower en route leaves a pleasant earthiness in the air and the sun re-emerges to confirm the tranquility of Charlottesville. Even the highways here feel steeped in nature, reminding this longtime city dweller of the simple pleasure of cruising along a beautiful country road.
I pull into Barboursville and am struck by the size of the vineyard, a sea of rolling green hills and orderly rows of trellises stretching farther than the eye can see. It feels like a respite from the real world.
Luca Paschina, general manager and winemaker at Barboursville, has offered to show me around. Like Rausse, Paschina comes from a family of Italian winemakers, and made his way to Virginia in 1990 to run Barboursville.
I climb into Paschina’s SUV and we make our way along sloping hillsides covered in neat rows of vines. Paschina tells me about the 18 varieties of grapes they have planted, and how even small changes in the slope can lead to hugely different yields. In his 17 years at the helm of Barboursville, he has grown the vineyard from 45 acres to almost 200, and launched a tasting room and restaurant that welcomes 80,000 visitors per year. Paschina is particularly excited about the burgeoning interest in aged red wines in Virginia, and the tasting room features a large collection of older vintages, offering yet another draw for wine connoisseurs.
The vineyard’s bestselling wine is called Octagon, a harmonious blend of Bordeaux, Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon and Petit Verdot with a smooth-bodied finish. The wine is enhanced by its historical connections, with the name Octagon chosen in honor of the octagonal shaped dining room of James Barbour’s mansion, whose ruins flank the inn on the Barboursville property. Designed by Jefferson, the mansion burned to the ground in 1884.
Winemakers are preservationists, and Zonin has instituted an ongoing restoration process to shore up the crumbling ruins from further disrepair. With their stately brick remains coexisting peacefully with the bucolic countryside, the ruins are a sight to behold, and yet another reason to add Barboursville to your next wine tour itinerary.
I am staying the night at the 1804 Inn, adjacent to the ruins and built a century before. I’ve got the Vineyard Cottage all to myself, and the quaint 18th century dwelling is perfect for travelers seeking tranquility and privacy. I take a stroll to the ruins before turning in for the night, thinking that Jefferson would be pleased at how things turned out around here.
Laidback Luxury
The next morning I drive back toward Monticello, where I am meeting Kirsty Harmon, winemaker and manager at Blenheim Vineyards. Whereas Barboursville is steeped in history, Blenheim takes a more casual and contemporary approach to wines. “The nice thing about Virginia wineries is that every single place you go is going to be radically different than the next,” said Harmon. Visitors to Blenheim are encouraged to bring the whole family to enjoy music festivals, food trucks, and tastings at the 30-acre vineyard.
Blenheim is owned by musician Dave Matthews, who designs new bottle labels every year. Harmon says that some visitors come because of Dave Matthews, and learn a bit about wine in the process, and some come for the wine and learn about the Dave Matthews connection.
The vibe at Blenheim may be laid back, but its wines are rooted in Harmon’s deep scientific knowledge of winemaking. As one of only 20 or so female winemakers in Virginia, Harmon got her footing in the industry when she met Gabriele Rausse, who became her mentor. She’s been running Blenheim since 2008, and in that time has seen a huge increase in wine tourism. Blenheim welcomes 45,000 visitors a year for tastings.
True to her vineyard’s laid back vibe, Harmon creates wines that are fruit forward and approachable, meant for everyday drinking: “We try to present wine in an approachable but laid back way. Wine can get very intimidating and stuffy, but it doesn’t have to be that.”
My wine journey is nearing its end. I’ve learned firsthand that a spirit of generosity is as much a part of the winemaker’s job as a deeply ingrained knowledge of the land, from its history to its soil composition. Jefferson runs deep around here.
But the wineries of Virginia aren’t just bringing Jefferson’s dreams full circle; they’re also taking Virginia’s wine culture into bold new territory, where laid back and luxurious can coexist, making Charlottesville the perfect weekend destination for both newcomers and wine aficionados alike.
Experience the rich flavors of Virginia’s wines for yourself. Check out Virginia Tourism for a guide to the best wineries around the state and plan your next trip to relax in the laid back luxury of Virginia’s beautiful vineyards. Because Virginia is for wine lovers!
type=type=RelatedArticlesblockTitle=More From Virginia Tourism + articlesList=57b73572e4b03d5136881586
-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.
World Travel Tips : Find cheap flights, hotels and car rentals. Plan your trip with travel guides, personalized recommendations, articles, deals and more. When you travel, you want your bags to travel with you. Follow these tips from travel professionals on how not to lose your luggage.
0 notes
Text
GGS Spotlight: Melissa DiLeonardo
Name: Melissa DiLeonardo
Age: 39
Location: Chicago, IL
What does being a Girl Gone Strong mean to you?
So much. On the surface, it means I am a woman who loves to lift. Weightlifting has been a game changer in my life. I’ve worked in health and fitness for over ten years, but did not start actually lifting (powerlifting, Olympic lifting) until 2009. It was hard at first and required a lot of patience (it still does), but cultivating and realizing my own physical strength provided me with new levels of physical and emotional confidence. Within that emotional confidence lies the deeper meaning of being a “Girl Gone Strong.”
I am capable; I am independent; I am not perfect, but I am enough. I may fall down, but I get back up.
How long have you been strength training, and how did you get started?
I became a group fitness instructor in early 2007 and taught cardio kickboxing classes at several area gyms. Soon I was teaching weight training classes at these facilities to broaden my scope. My students kept asking if I was a personal trainer and telling me how much they wanted to work with me one-on-one. I figured it made sense to become a personal trainer and was certified by the end of the year. A few years later, my husband became interested in CrossFit and asked me to accompany him to a trial class. I expected not to enjoy the trial, but immediately fell in love with the vibe and community. Through CrossFit I started powerlifting and Olympic lifting. I eventually certified as a CF Level 1 Coach and coached for the next two years.
What does your typical workout look like?
These days, I work full-time in the corporate well-being field. My office fitness center is not accommodating to barbells, so I keep a 1 pood (~16kg) kettlebell in my office. I rely on swings for quick workouts during busy workdays. I create 15 to 20-minute circuits or AMRAP workouts (as many reps as possible) when I am short on time and use a mixture of loaded and bodyweight exercises. When I’m at the CF gym, I powerlift and then often perform 15 to 20 minutes of conditioning incorporating volume and speed. (I love squats: back squats, front squats, overhead squats. I. Love. Squats.)
Favorite Lift:
Overhead Squat
Most memorable PR:
It happened in mid-January. I am working on a new back squat PR – aiming for 205 pounds by my 40th birthday in June. Lo and behold, I did a 3-rep max at 185 pounds! Made me happy…and I feel pretty confident I can hit that one rep once I am mentally ready.
Top 5 songs on your training playlist:
Wow, Beck
Roses, The Chainsmokers
F**kin’ Problems, A$AP Rocky
No Problem, Chance the Rapper
Pretty much any hip-hop circa the 1990’s
3 things you must have with you at the gym or in your gym bag:
Graphic print leggings and a racer-back tank top – preferably with a great graphic;
Lifting shoes
Rehband knee wraps
Do you prefer to train alone or with others? Why?
Lately, I have to train alone, and it’s OK. It’s kind of Zen. However, I love the energy I get when I work out in a group. I definitely push myself harder when I’m side-by-side with another athlete.
Most embarrassing gym moment:
I don’t know. I usually laugh at myself a lot. I often wish I had a highlight reel of my random acts of clumsiness at the gym. When I was pregnant, my boobs got bigger. I had always been relative small in that department, so having new upper body curves took some getting used to. Pretty sure the barbell and my new boobs collided at least a dozen times, when doing cleans. Embarrassing? Maybe. Funny? Definitely. Painful? A little.
Best compliment you’ve received lately:
A student thanked me for some coaching advice. She said I was a great teacher.
Most recent compliment you gave someone else:
I recently reminded my husband that he is an amazing father to our 14-month-old son.
Favorite meal:
Tacos al Pastor and the cheese and mushroom quesadilla from one of our fav Mexican spots…or bhindi masala from one of our fav Indian spots, or spicy tuna rolls from my fav sushi place…ugh, can I just say my favorite meal = food?
Favorite way to treat yourself:
Dark beer. A long shower. Peanut butter M & M’s. (Not necessarily in this order.)
Favorite quote:
I wish to learn what life has to teach, and not, when I come to die, discover that I have not truly lived. — Henry David Thoreau
Favorite book:
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers
What inspires and motivates you?
My husband, Dana, and my son, August (Gus)
What do you do?
For seven years, I was self-employed as a full-time personal trainer, coach and yoga teacher. Now, I am a wellbeing program manager for a recreational products manufacturing company. I just finished implementing a new company wellbeing program for over ten thousand users throughout the US. Now that the program is live, it’s time to get to work and drive user engagement. I believe in this program and think it can help people make positive changes in their lives. When I am not at the office, I teach a few fitness and yoga classes at some area gyms because I don’t want to give up teaching and coaching completely—it’s too much fun!
What else do you do?
A new baby has changed the “what I do for fun” answer, but when I can find the time, I enjoy dancing, reading, hiking, relaxing at the lake or the beach, riding my bike, cooking and savoring a dark beer or specialty cocktail on a relaxed Saturday afternoon. I love to travel with my family and am looking forward to some new destinations this year. Hopefully places that involve either the mountains or the ocean…or both.
Describe a typical day in your life, from waking up to bedtime:
I rise at 5:15 a.m. I am still breastfeeding, so I pump before my son wakes up. If it’s a workday, I get ready for work, eat oatmeal, drink coffee and pack my lunch. I am out the door by 7:30 and commute to my office via regional rail. I catch up on email and social media on the train. I am at the office from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. Over the noon hour, I either teach a fitness or yoga class or do my own workout. I have a sit-to-stand desk, and I try to move throughout the workday. Back on the train by 4:30 p.m. and work while I commute back to the city. When I get home, I walk the dog and pick up my son from daycare. We eat dinner (thank goodness for the crock pot!), we play, and then it’s baby bath time, followed by baby bedtime. If my husband is not working (he trains clients at night), we hang out. If he is working, I catch up on chores around the house. I aim to be in bed no later than 11 p.m., but try for 10:30 most nights. Baby sleeps through the night 75 percent of the time, which is pretty great. Fortunately, I am only in the office four days a week, so Fridays are a bit more relaxed. I also get to lift heavy at the gym. Weekends are a mix of work, exercise, and rest…and with luck an extra hour of sleep in the morning both days.
Your next training goal:
As I mentioned, I am working on a new PR for back squat: 205 pounds by June 28, 2017 – my 40th birthday! I have never set a training goal before, and usually focus on professional and or personal goals in other areas of my life. This year, I wanted a goal that was all about me—not my career, not my family, just me! So far, so good. It’s tricky because I only have access to barbells once or twice a week right now. I am focusing on a Wendler cycle protocol and tempo squats when I have a barbell. On days when I can’t lift heavy with a barbell, I practice high volume kettlebell swings and heavy goblet squats.
What are you most grateful for?
My husband, my son, and for living in the diverse and wonderful Chicago neighborhood that is Rogers Park. (The RP community is amazing!)
What life accomplishment are you most proud of?
I have many professional accomplishments. However, the birth of my son, August (Gus), is what makes me most proud. I didn’t think I could do it. It was the strongest day of my life.
Which three words that best describe you?
Loyal, Grateful, Curious
Tell us about a time when you overcame fear or self-doubt.
Throughout my career, I have repeatedly accepted tasks that I was not quite sure how to accomplish. I seem to thrive in these situations as they force me to deal with my fears, learn new skills and figure things out. After my son was born, and much to my surprise, I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and anxiety. When my maternity leave ended and I went back to work, I was a mess. I knew that I needed to keep it together for my family and trusted the coping tools I had been learning in therapy. Within three months after returning to work, I was offered a promotion – my current job. It included greater visibility and responsibility.
I was scared and unsure I could handle it, but, like always, I took the plunge and trusted that I would figure it out. Initially, I kept thinking that I was not smart enough for my new role. When I would get overwhelmed, I relied on the mantra, “Just do the work.” Gradually, after a few small successes, I realized that I was being too hard on myself. That I had every right to own my new position. I am grateful I did not back away from this opportunity. I find my work challenging and rewarding. It gives me purpose and helps me continue to heal. The Lesson: Trust your gut. Tell the negative voices in your head to f— off. Just do the work.
What’s the coolest “side effect” you’ve noticed from strength training?
Mental confidence. I know I can take on any challenge presented to me in both my personal and professional life. I feel capable. I also feel “swimsuit ready” 365 days a year, despite having cellulite, a postpartum midsection, and other things society has tried to convince me are “problem areas.”
I am not perfect…no one is. I’m over it. I love my body, what it can do, and all that it has done for me. (If only I had figured this out ten years ago.)
How has lifting weights changed your life?
In addition to making me stronger mentally and physically, it has also afforded me many exciting opportunities: working out at trade shows, a brand ambassadorship, an opportunity to travel domestically and internationally as well as presenting at a global fitness conference. Lifting has connected me to some amazing friends and mentors (male and female) as well as the Girls Gone Strong Community. GGS is a constant source of motivation, inspiration, support and camaraderie. Finally, lifting has allowed me to help other women discover their strength. Strength that empowers them in all areas of their lives. THAT. IS. LIFE CHANGING.
When did you start the Moms Gone Strong? Why did you decide to start and what helped you make the decision to start?
I started the program when I was approximately 17 weeks pregnant. I had met Molly at a ReebokONE event years ago, and followed GGS from early on. I assume Molly saw that I was expecting via social media and reached out to me about the pilot program. Around the time she contacted me, I was really struggling. I felt miserable during my first trimester and was feeling lost about how to move safely while still feeling challenged at the gym. Being “fit” and pregnant was a lot harder than I expected. I jumped at the chance to work with Girls Gone Strong and be a part of a program designed for pregnant women.
What has been your biggest challenge in the Moms Gone Strong program?
The biggest challenge for me was acceptance. It was hard to transition into my pregnant body and its limitations. A year later, I look back and am so proud of myself for sticking to the program and for trusting that it made sense. That said, there were days where I missed my pre-pregnant body and its abilities — days when I feared I would never feel “strong” again. I know now how strong a pregnant woman is, and I am grateful for the commitment I made to the program, because it motivated me to keep going on days when I could barely look at myself in the mirror, much less muster up the energy to work out.
What is your “BIG” goal you’d like to achieve by the end of Moms Gone Strong?
The BIG goal was the healthy arrival of my son, Gus — and he was almost nine pounds…so he was a big goal, indeed!
What has been your biggest success in the Moms Gone Strong program?
I worked out throughout my entire pregnancy. I was fortunate and did not have any physical setbacks or conditions that prevented this. I worked out the morning of my scheduled induction. (I was 10 days past my due date.) I believe the endurance and stamina that the program helped me maintain throughout my pregnancy allowed me to navigate a scheduled induction, a failed epidural, Pitocin contractions without pain management, back labor, and ultimately look back on the day my son was born as the best (and strongest) day of my life.
What do you like best about the Moms Gone Strong community?
I gained a new friend via the MGS community. A very good friend who I lean on for advice and support regularly. She became a close confidant while I was treated for postpartum depression and anxiety. She is a person a really admire. So…I guess the thing I like “best” about this community is the shared bond that moms have with one another and the tremendous support provided by that bond.
What is the habit you’re currently working on most?
Making time for self-care…I am not good at this. I take small steps…even if it’s taking just a few minutes to close my eyes and breathe or listen to my favorite songs.
How has Moms Gone Strong changed your life?
I know how to help other women navigate a healthy and fit pregnancy. I now also have an additional support system for the many ups and downs of motherhood.
What would you tell a woman who’s nervous about starting Moms Gone Strong?
That there are no gimmicks and no judgements; that the MGS program is designed to make you feel confident physically and mentally and that you will be surrounded by women who are ready to lift you up when you are down.
What do you want to say to women, in general, who might be nervous or hesitant about strength training?
There is nothing to lose and so much to gain. Whether your goals are aesthetic or functional, whether you use dumbbells or a barbell, strength training is one of the best things you can do to feel better over time. Find a good community or coach—a place or person who make you feel supported—and be patient with yourself. Strength has no uniform appearance or weight requirements, and knows no age or background. Strength is for all of us, Ladies. You already have more than you realize so get started and don’t give up.
Exercises To Do And Avoid During And After Pregnancy
There are so many myths about exercising during and after pregnancy, it can be hard to know if you’re doing the “right” thing. Our education materials are carefully vetted by OB/GYNs, PhDs, Registered Dietitians, Women’s Health Physiotherapists, and Pre and Postnatal Exercise Experts, and we have put together this FREE handbook where you’ll learn:
The best exercises to do during and after pregnancy
Exercises to avoid during and after pregnancy
1. Select Your Handbook
Handbook for Moms
(and Moms-to-be)
Handbook for Trainers
(who may also be Moms)
2. Enter Your Information
Learn More
The post GGS Spotlight: Melissa DiLeonardo appeared first on Girls Gone Strong.
from Blogger http://corneliussteinbeck.blogspot.com/2017/03/ggs-spotlight-melissa-dileonardo.html
0 notes
Photo
New Post has been published on http://fitnessandhealthpros.com/fitness/ggs-spotlight-melissa-dileonardo/
GGS Spotlight: Melissa DiLeonardo
Name: Melissa DiLeonardo
Age: 39
Location: Chicago, IL
What does being a Girl Gone Strong mean to you?
So much. On the surface, it means I am a woman who loves to lift. Weightlifting has been a game changer in my life. I’ve worked in health and fitness for over ten years, but did not start actually lifting (powerlifting, Olympic lifting) until 2009. It was hard at first and required a lot of patience (it still does), but cultivating and realizing my own physical strength provided me with new levels of physical and emotional confidence. Within that emotional confidence lies the deeper meaning of being a “Girl Gone Strong.”
I am capable; I am independent; I am not perfect, but I am enough. I may fall down, but I get back up.
How long have you been strength training, and how did you get started?
I became a group fitness instructor in early 2007 and taught cardio kickboxing classes at several area gyms. Soon I was teaching weight training classes at these facilities to broaden my scope. My students kept asking if I was a personal trainer and telling me how much they wanted to work with me one-on-one. I figured it made sense to become a personal trainer and was certified by the end of the year. A few years later, my husband became interested in CrossFit and asked me to accompany him to a trial class. I expected not to enjoy the trial, but immediately fell in love with the vibe and community. Through CrossFit I started powerlifting and Olympic lifting. I eventually certified as a CF Level 1 Coach and coached for the next two years.
What does your typical workout look like?
These days, I work full-time in the corporate well-being field. My office fitness center is not accommodating to barbells, so I keep a 1 pood (~16kg) kettlebell in my office. I rely on swings for quick workouts during busy workdays. I create 15 to 20-minute circuits or AMRAP workouts (as many reps as possible) when I am short on time and use a mixture of loaded and bodyweight exercises.
When I’m at the CF gym, I powerlift and then often perform 15 to 20 minutes of conditioning incorporating volume and speed. (I love squats: back squats, front squats, overhead squats. I. Love. Squats.)
Favorite Lift:
Overhead Squat
Most memorable PR:
It happened in mid-January. I am working on a new back squat PR – aiming for 205 pounds by my 40th birthday in June. Lo and behold, I did a 3-rep max at 185 pounds! Made me happy…and I feel pretty confident I can hit that one rep once I am mentally ready.
Top 5 songs on your training playlist:
Wow, Beck
Roses, The Chainsmokers
F**kin’ Problems, A$ AP Rocky
No Problem, Chance the Rapper
Pretty much any hip-hop circa the 1990’s
3 things you must have with you at the gym or in your gym bag:
Graphic print leggings and a racer-back tank top – preferably with a great graphic;
Lifting shoes
Rehband knee wraps
Do you prefer to train alone or with others? Why?
Lately, I have to train alone, and it’s OK. It’s kind of Zen. However, I love the energy I get when I work out in a group. I definitely push myself harder when I’m side-by-side with another athlete.
Most embarrassing gym moment:
I don’t know. I usually laugh at myself a lot. I often wish I had a highlight reel of my random acts of clumsiness at the gym. When I was pregnant, my boobs got bigger. I had always been relative small in that department, so having new upper body curves took some getting used to. Pretty sure the barbell and my new boobs collided at least a dozen times, when doing cleans. Embarrassing? Maybe. Funny? Definitely. Painful? A little.
Best compliment you’ve received lately:
A student thanked me for some coaching advice. She said I was a great teacher.
Most recent compliment you gave someone else:
I recently reminded my husband that he is an amazing father to our 14-month-old son.
Favorite meal:
Tacos al Pastor and the cheese and mushroom quesadilla from one of our fav Mexican spots…or bhindi masala from one of our fav Indian spots, or spicy tuna rolls from my fav sushi place…ugh, can I just say my favorite meal = food?
Favorite way to treat yourself:
Dark beer. A long shower. Peanut butter M & M’s. (Not necessarily in this order.)
Favorite quote:
I wish to learn what life has to teach, and not, when I come to die, discover that I have not truly lived. — Henry David Thoreau
Favorite book:
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers
What inspires and motivates you?
My husband, Dana, and my son, August (Gus)
What do you do?
For seven years, I was self-employed as a full-time personal trainer, coach and yoga teacher. Now, I am a wellbeing program manager for a recreational products manufacturing company. I just finished implementing a new company wellbeing program for over ten thousand users throughout the US. Now that the program is live, it’s time to get to work and drive user engagement. I believe in this program and think it can help people make positive changes in their lives. When I am not at the office, I teach a few fitness and yoga classes at some area gyms because I don’t want to give up teaching and coaching completely—it’s too much fun!
What else do you do?
A new baby has changed the “what I do for fun” answer, but when I can find the time, I enjoy dancing, reading, hiking, relaxing at the lake or the beach, riding my bike, cooking and savoring a dark beer or specialty cocktail on a relaxed Saturday afternoon. I love to travel with my family and am looking forward to some new destinations this year. Hopefully places that involve either the mountains or the ocean…or both.
Describe a typical day in your life, from waking up to bedtime:
I rise at 5:15 a.m. I am still breastfeeding, so I pump before my son wakes up. If it’s a workday, I get ready for work, eat oatmeal, drink coffee and pack my lunch. I am out the door by 7:30 and commute to my office via regional rail. I catch up on email and social media on the train. I am at the office from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. Over the noon hour, I either teach a fitness or yoga class or do my own workout. I have a sit-to-stand desk, and I try to move throughout the workday. Back on the train by 4:30 p.m. and work while I commute back to the city. When I get home, I walk the dog and pick up my son from daycare. We eat dinner (thank goodness for the crock pot!), we play, and then it’s baby bath time, followed by baby bedtime. If my husband is not working (he trains clients at night), we hang out. If he is working, I catch up on chores around the house. I aim to be in bed no later than 11 p.m., but try for 10:30 most nights. Baby sleeps through the night 75 percent of the time, which is pretty great. Fortunately, I am only in the office four days a week, so Fridays are a bit more relaxed. I also get to lift heavy at the gym. Weekends are a mix of work, exercise, and rest…and with luck an extra hour of sleep in the morning both days.
Your next training goal:
As I mentioned, I am working on a new PR for back squat: 205 pounds by June 28, 2017 – my 40th birthday! I have never set a training goal before, and usually focus on professional and or personal goals in other areas of my life. This year, I wanted a goal that was all about me—not my career, not my family, just me! So far, so good. It’s tricky because I only have access to barbells once or twice a week right now. I am focusing on a Wendler cycle protocol and tempo squats when I have a barbell. On days when I can’t lift heavy with a barbell, I practice high volume kettlebell swings and heavy goblet squats.
What are you most grateful for?
My husband, my son, and for living in the diverse and wonderful Chicago neighborhood that is Rogers Park. (The RP community is amazing!)
What life accomplishment are you most proud of?
I have many professional accomplishments. However, the birth of my son, August (Gus), is what makes me most proud. I didn’t think I could do it. It was the strongest day of my life.
Which three words that best describe you?
Loyal, Grateful, Curious
Tell us about a time when you overcame fear or self-doubt.
Throughout my career, I have repeatedly accepted tasks that I was not quite sure how to accomplish. I seem to thrive in these situations as they force me to deal with my fears, learn new skills and figure things out. After my son was born, and much to my surprise, I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and anxiety. When my maternity leave ended and I went back to work, I was a mess. I knew that I needed to keep it together for my family and trusted the coping tools I had been learning in therapy. Within three months after returning to work, I was offered a promotion – my current job. It included greater visibility and responsibility.
I was scared and unsure I could handle it, but, like always, I took the plunge and trusted that I would figure it out. Initially, I kept thinking that I was not smart enough for my new role. When I would get overwhelmed, I relied on the mantra, “Just do the work.” Gradually, after a few small successes, I realized that I was being too hard on myself. That I had every right to own my new position. I am grateful I did not back away from this opportunity. I find my work challenging and rewarding. It gives me purpose and helps me continue to heal. The Lesson: Trust your gut. Tell the negative voices in your head to f— off. Just do the work.
What’s the coolest “side effect” you’ve noticed from strength training?
Mental confidence. I know I can take on any challenge presented to me in both my personal and professional life. I feel capable. I also feel “swimsuit ready” 365 days a year, despite having cellulite, a postpartum midsection, and other things society has tried to convince me are “problem areas.”
I am not perfect…no one is. I’m over it. I love my body, what it can do, and all that it has done for me. (If only I had figured this out ten years ago.)
How has lifting weights changed your life?
In addition to making me stronger mentally and physically, it has also afforded me many exciting opportunities: working out at trade shows, a brand ambassadorship, an opportunity to travel domestically and internationally as well as presenting at a global fitness conference. Lifting has connected me to some amazing friends and mentors (male and female) as well as the Girls Gone Strong Community. GGS is a constant source of motivation, inspiration, support and camaraderie. Finally, lifting has allowed me to help other women discover their strength. Strength that empowers them in all areas of their lives. THAT. IS. LIFE CHANGING.
When did you start the Moms Gone Strong? Why did you decide to start and what helped you make the decision to start?
I started the program when I was approximately 17 weeks pregnant. I had met Molly at a ReebokONE event years ago, and followed GGS from early on. I assume Molly saw that I was expecting via social media and reached out to me about the pilot program. Around the time she contacted me, I was really struggling. I felt miserable during my first trimester and was feeling lost about how to move safely while still feeling challenged at the gym. Being “fit” and pregnant was a lot harder than I expected. I jumped at the chance to work with Girls Gone Strong and be a part of a program designed for pregnant women.
What has been your biggest challenge in the Moms Gone Strong program?
The biggest challenge for me was acceptance. It was hard to transition into my pregnant body and its limitations. A year later, I look back and am so proud of myself for sticking to the program and for trusting that it made sense. That said, there were days where I missed my pre-pregnant body and its abilities — days when I feared I would never feel “strong” again. I know now how strong a pregnant woman is, and I am grateful for the commitment I made to the program, because it motivated me to keep going on days when I could barely look at myself in the mirror, much less muster up the energy to work out.
What is your “BIG” goal you’d like to achieve by the end of Moms Gone Strong?
The BIG goal was the healthy arrival of my son, Gus — and he was almost nine pounds…so he was a big goal, indeed!
What has been your biggest success in the Moms Gone Strong program?
I worked out throughout my entire pregnancy. I was fortunate and did not have any physical setbacks or conditions that prevented this. I worked out the morning of my scheduled induction. (I was 10 days past my due date.) I believe the endurance and stamina that the program helped me maintain throughout my pregnancy allowed me to navigate a scheduled induction, a failed epidural, Pitocin contractions without pain management, back labor, and ultimately look back on the day my son was born as the best (and strongest) day of my life.
What do you like best about the Moms Gone Strong community?
I gained a new friend via the MGS community. A very good friend who I lean on for advice and support regularly. She became a close confidant while I was treated for postpartum depression and anxiety. She is a person a really admire. So…I guess the thing I like “best” about this community is the shared bond that moms have with one another and the tremendous support provided by that bond.
What is the habit you’re currently working on most?
Making time for self-care…I am not good at this. I take small steps…even if it’s taking just a few minutes to close my eyes and breathe or listen to my favorite songs.
How has Moms Gone Strong changed your life?
I know how to help other women navigate a healthy and fit pregnancy. I now also have an additional support system for the many ups and downs of motherhood.
What would you tell a woman who’s nervous about starting Moms Gone Strong?
That there are no gimmicks and no judgements; that the MGS program is designed to make you feel confident physically and mentally and that you will be surrounded by women who are ready to lift you up when you are down.
What do you want to say to women, in general, who might be nervous or hesitant about strength training?
There is nothing to lose and so much to gain. Whether your goals are aesthetic or functional, whether you use dumbbells or a barbell, strength training is one of the best things you can do to feel better over time. Find a good community or coach—a place or person who make you feel supported—and be patient with yourself. Strength has no uniform appearance or weight requirements, and knows no age or background. Strength is for all of us, Ladies. You already have more than you realize so get started and don’t give up.
Exercises To Do And Avoid During And After Pregnancy
There are so many myths about exercising during and after pregnancy, it can be hard to know if you’re doing the ���right” thing. Our education materials are carefully vetted by OB/GYNs, PhDs, Registered Dietitians, Women’s Health Physiotherapists, and Pre and Postnatal Exercise Experts, and we have put together this FREE handbook where you’ll learn:
The best exercises to do during and after pregnancy
Exercises to avoid during and after pregnancy
Originally at :Girls Gone Strong
Written By : GGS
#DiLeonardo, #Melissa, #Spotlight #Fitness
0 notes
Text
Went to see Return of the King at the cinema last night (twenty years! What?!) and I just gotta say:
a) I still want to climb through the screen and strangle Demethor with my bare hands for pulling that bullshit with Faramir.
b) the charge of the Rohirrim is still incredible to watch with the bass so loud your whole body vibrates.
c) god dammit Viggo Mortensen is so frickin good in that role.
d) the music will one day kill me with all the feelings.
30 notes
·
View notes
Text
I’ve just finished reading Crime and Punishment so I’m just going to write a few of my thoughts about it here while it’s fresh.
It reminded me a lot of Keep the Aspidistras Flying by George Orwell; had the same sense of doom and hopelessness pervading it; scenes of poverty and how that beats a person down; the same type of (frankly) irritating protag who seems incapable of doing a thing to improve his own situation even though they’re surrounded by opportunities and people trying to help/support them; though Raskolnikov is significantly less stable. They end on a really similar note, too.
It has a similar, dense style to English lit from the same period (1860s) but then with *so* much less primness about it. It’s unflinching in a way English lit never really is. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the dream sequence of the horse being flogged to death; but there’s many other examples where I did a double take at the brutal descriptions of the suffering poverty inflicts upon people, or that people inflict on each other.
Something written by Dickens or Gaskell, who were hailed for highlighting the suffering of the poor, would *never* openly address prostitution and the effects that has with compassion for the girl (any trespass against Christian values meant death for the girl in English lit - the ‘harlot’ must be punished!) or actually describe an attempted rape. Or suicide. Or attempted murder. Or actual murder. Like - it genuinely does not look away.
It’s worth the slog to read, lots of interesting themes and ideas bubbling away in there, but it is definitely about 150 pages too long (I know this is because it was serialised and back then they paid by the word - that really shows). The last quarter dragged.
Oh - and one final point - to the person who once told me my paragraphs are too long, even when they’re literally a few sentences: this dude wrote paragraphs that run literally unbroken for three whole pages. I think I’m ok 😆
(It was good natured criticism, I’m not at all salty - I just couldn’t stop thinking about it as these monster paragraphs just kept on going, and going…)
#crime and punishment#fyodor dostoevsky#next up:#war and peace#leo tolstoy#gods give me strength#currently reading#just finished#behold the field in which I cultivate my vibes#russian literature
31 notes
·
View notes
Text
I wrote the thing because no one else would.
Sometimes now I read the thing again, then spend my day stalking around my house screaming on the inside.
My heart is an alligator.
#That’s a#Hunter S Thompson#quote#about the alligator#TheGoodSpartan#fanfiction#behold the field in which i cultivate my vibes#ahhhhhhhh!!!!!#jpdoingwords
24 notes
·
View notes
Text
Husband goes away to work and my brain immediately rubs its hands together and gleefully says, ‘time to deep clean the kitchen and drink late coffee and not sleep tonight! What a delightful time we’ll have!’
And I dunno man. I think it might be pushing a bad idea lol
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Action really does cure fear. Even the smallest steps.
And meditation. Meditation helps too.
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
I really should stop paying attention to the AI stuff but this is seriously getting to me; so much so that I’m considering quitting writing altogether.
I’ve been digging into my thoughts about this lately and I wanted to break it down a little here; to explain to myself, as well as you poor souls who engage with my bullshit, why I think AI fundamentally sucks and why I’m struggling to find a way to share my work anymore.
It begins with the fact that I strongly dislike the entire concept of traditional publishing.
In a nutshell, publishing houses get to decide what you, the consumer, will read, always based on what will be popular and make them the most money. They have the power to decide what you can’t read, what you shouldn’t read.
How many excellent stories have never been published because they weren’t riding the zeitgeist?
Millions. Millions.
And let’s not get into the ridiculously low percentage of income an author makes from a book published by a traditional publisher. Holy shit, it’s appalling.
Even as an indie author I earn about 32c for every $12USD sale of an ebook at best, and it is much, much worse through a publishing house.
Anyway. I digress.
In my opinion, all stories have a place, a meaning for the people who are listening for them, which is why finding the fanfiction world was so amazing to me.
Every voice here has an equal chance of being heard, and equally, we all have a chance to find the story we’ve been looking for. No one can stop you from publishing whatever it is you feel compelled to say. Whatever it is that drives and moves you.
It was honestly a relief to find stories without perfect prose and grammar getting the love they rightly deserve. Stories with silly or fun premises, LGBTQ+ people taking centre stage or - *insert thing that the publishing world would never publish here* - because it makes people ‘happy’ (whatever emotional form that takes) - both to write and to read.
But that well is poisoned by the people cashing in on that work via AI scraping, making unknowing slaves of creative people - pouring their love and time into a piece of writing only to have it stolen.
And in their own way, people using AI to make stories are just as bad. They too want to take advantage of the labour of others to get some buzz of dopamine from kudos/likes or whatever, which is completely unearned and undeserved.
I’m just going to mention here, while I’m on the subject - if you’re one of those wretches feeding other people’s unfinished fics to the AI to get an ending - I hate you so much there aren’t words. You are actually the worst. I hope none of my followers would do this - but if you do, check yourself.
Moving on…
The thing is, I just can’t understand how writers especially (and not just fic writers) can’t see that AI rips out the heart of storytelling.
Writing as a process is entirely personal; it comes from inside the self. At least in my experience, the process is more important than the end result. The discovery and exploration of themes and emotions entirely your own is only to be found in the process; it can’t be replicated by a computer spitting out strings of words others wrote.
It just can’t.
And I’m just going to say this now - if you, as a writer, don’t think this is important at all - if you don’t think that coming up with ideas and developing them yourself is literally what writing is - then I honestly don’t know what you’re doing, but it isn’t writing.
Anyway (again).
Where in all of this is there a place for a writer who doesn’t want their stories to be grist for the mill, to be regurgitated in some altered, souless form and sold off as if it was someone else’s?
Who’s sick to death of putting money in some other son of a bitches pocket, while they do the work out of love and passion?
I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore.
As it stands, we are powerless to stop any of this unless we simply stop writing, or sharing that writing. That’s a miserable acknowledgment to have to make for someone who quite literally just wants to write and share those stories with others without them being stolen.
It shouldn’t be a lot to ask.
#long post#AI#Anti-AI#anti trad publishing#writing#behold the field in which i cultivate my vibes#it’s been salted
22 notes
·
View notes
Text
I woke up with a ball of anxiety in my gut at 4am which didn’t go away, despite going back to sleep. Had a dream I can’t recall now, but I woke up from it tense, thinking ‘well, I’m glad that was just a dream.’ I had to go to the supermarket - overwhelmed as always by the sensory excess of all the noise added to the social anxiety - an amazing time. Had to rush away from the the fridges crying, having witnessed a very elderly lady being helped with her shopping by a carer - reminded of mortality, or my grandmothers already lost, or both.
I got home and just curled up in the sun in my backyard for a while, feeling utterly wrecked.
But into this mental landscape came an urge - so I opened up AO3 and started reading - after months of being unable to really engage with fiction (which happens a lot) I read and I read and I was taken somewhere else, somewhere better - out of my head, out of my own overload.
I share all this here not with self-pity or asking for pity from y’all - the gods know this is just my life and it is what it is - but to say to all you fanfic writers out there:
Thank you. You are truly a blessing. Your stories are incredibly valuable. You never know when your words may be the thing to drag someone out of a shitty headspace or worse.
Keep writing. Keep publishing. Ignore the numbers. You’ll never know how valuable your contribution is.
#really thank you#living with anxiety is bullshit#behold the field in which i cultivate my vibes#fanfiction
15 notes
·
View notes
Text
Its ok to change. Something about realising that your future life is a story you’re telling yourself in advance, that power rests in telling yourself a better story.
The same applies for your present self, the act of re-authoring yourself. Not lying about the past, just talking to yourself differently about it. Seeing it for what it was - you doing what you thought was right, knowing what you knew. Learning the only way we can learn. Forgiving yourself for all that entailed.
Because in the past you were different. Tomorrow you’ll be different. The change comes from that narrative. It comes from yourself.
I have been many versions of me. I will be many more before my time comes, gods willing.
- Letter to Self, 29 Nov 2019.
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sorry to all the lovely people who have tagged me/sent me asks in the last week and more. I appreciate them all, but the usual winter hibernation has set in.
It’s cold and grey and motivation is extremely hard to come by. I’m basically snuggled under a blanket gaming by day, and snuggled under a blanket watching stuff by night.
I will emerge again at some point, better and brighter for the rest.
Just wanted to say I appreciate you all in the meantime🤍
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
I’m finally leaving the city this weekend - going back to my hometown for a week. The last time I did that was in 2018.
I’m genuinely looking forward to the quiet, the fresh air, and the enormous sky.
So - I’ll be dropping off the planet for a bit, but know I’m just out there, writing and reading and enjoying the lack of distractions in a place where the earth is very red, sheet metal clangs through the night, and somehow, everyone’s still listening to 80s music (that’s not a complaint) :)
13 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
seashellshane
Say his name wrong and it'll be your last words
mudjoe2-blog
Chat Webcam Girl
white-heather
White Heather
gettingto95
All we can do is keep breathing
chterzidislaw
Χρήστος Μ. Τερζίδης Δικηγόρος