#its ~7000 words but there are A LOT of bits that are only half-written as notes so i already know this fic will be Far Too Long | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

slashingdisneypasta · 4 years

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Offenderman x Reader || Oneshot

Title: When You Start Living Your Life- That’s Where You’ll Find The One Who’s Meant For You

Notes:

This is like a baby Offender x Reader since its been a while I’ve written anything for him and I’m slowly dipping myself back, haha. Possibly a Part 2 in the works, with more of the man himself.

Kinda based off ‘You Can Do Better Than Him’ from Bonnie and Clyde

Plot: A run-in with your ex-husband (Jeff The Killer’s son, for no apparent reason except so that he knows about Offender) causes a revalation between you and your lover.

Warnings: Some talk about sex, but its not explicit. Also, divorce.

~~~

I see him before he sees me, and I try to make an escape. Started gathering up my things and putting them away in my bag for departure, but... goddamn it, he sees me. “Y/N! Didn’t see you there! Man- its good to see you. Its been a bit, hasn’t it?” Nick puts his hands nervously in his pants pockets, ducking his head like the cute, awkward duckling that he is.

I plaster a smile onto my face, looking up at him from the grass. Jesus Christ, this is a ridiculous position. He’s like 7000 feet tall, my neck is going to start hurting any minute now. “Hi, Nick. Yeah, it has been a while! I haven’t seen you around since, a-ah… “I seal my lips firmly together, trying to be content in just avoiding eye contact with him instead of ending that sentence. Don’t say it. Don’t say it, don’t- “The divorce!”

“Aha,” He ducks glances up at me, and his smile is bright like it always has been, since we started dating. The smile I fell in love with, and used to make me feel on top of the world- capable. Like everything was going to be okay and I could accomplish any and all of my dreams.

Of course, one of those dreams was him… I think. That didn’t work out so great…

“Yeah. First meeting since the divorce, huh? Not so bad.”

That really does probe a grin from me. How does he say that while not making eye contact with m- Oh, oh, he is making eye contact! Oh, lord. This is hard. “Hah, no! Guess not… “After flashing another, little smile, I tuck in the last of my things to my satchel and close it. Then I struggle to my feet. God, how long have a been sitting there? I look back at the spot of ground that I had been lounging on, and see the grass still completely flat…

Before I make it all the way up or fall -whichever happened first,- , Nick takes my right forearm in his hand and puts his other on my waist, helping me up the rest of the way… which puts me at an uncomfortably close distance to him. Laughing nervously, I step back and occupy myself by patting dirt and grass off the back of my pants. “Um- how have you been? Uh,” I must have some information about him… didn’t Fran tell me something a month ago at our spa weekend? … Ah! “Fran said you got promoted at work?”

“Yeah!” Nick gets an excited glitter to him as he starts to talk about that, animating immediately and putting his hands on his hips- a huge beam stretches across his gentle, handsome features. Of course, the sun makes fluffy blonde hair look radiant like a fabric softener commercial. Reminds me of why I loved him.

I was determined not to fall in with a bad boy and get my heartbroken like all the girls on TV.

Turns out, it hurts just as much when you lose a good boy.

Its been a long time though, now. Half a year- and another half a year since we split up in the first place to get the divorce that became official 6 months ago. So, as he talks, I find a genuine smile come to my lips. I am, truly, glad that he’s doing well.

Of course, he never did anything, to me. The divorce was my fault.

When he’s finished talking about his job at the Oil and Gas company -Yeah, he’s a manager there. An awesome job, for the perfect guy. He was quite a catch before I ruined it, -, he asks me how I’d been… and if I’m still with… him. Nick’s pale blue eyes go dark, an obvious hatred deepens the creases in his face.

I wish he wouldn’t bring that up. We were having such a nice moment!

“Uh,” I seem to be doing a lot of ‘Uhhhh’s and ‘Ummm’s, here. Stop it, Y/N. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” He smirks, and I go pink in embarrassment.

“Well, uh- Well. I’m focusing on my own shit.” I strain the words ‘my own’. Truthfully, I wouldn’t know how to describe my relationship with… the ‘him’, that Nick refers to. Offender. And the thing is, I don’t really want to. I like the way things are. I don’t need a boyfriend, tying me down to one place, one job, one life. In fact, that was a huge problem with me and Nick. He was my first boyfriend and became my husband.

I was Y/N Woods for 3 whole years, and they were some of the most miserable of my life- and the thing is, I’m only starting to realise that, now. I didn’t know how profoundly unhappy I was during that time, when I was living it. But I know now, because when I’m with Offender I feel something dark, but good, that I never allowed myself to experimented with before, and when I’m not with him I can do whatever the hell I want. I have love, and sex, and freedom. That’s priceless.

“Right. You still think… “Nick, to his credit, does look regretful for what’s about to come out of his mouth and how. “You really think, that Offenderman, can actually care about you?”

I shrug. I have no reservations for saying what I do next. I have it lined up and ready. “I dunno, Nick. But I’m happy.”

Its that simple.

“Y/N, he’s awful.”

“I-I know… “In this moment though, all I can remember is him telling me that I own the earth I step on, and how he kisses me.

“You deserve someone better.”

My mind’s fuzzy with pictures of nights at my apartment, now. Me wearing a shirt that’s too big for me and not being self-conscious of my legs - the complete opposite, actually, - and him raiding my kitchen. Somehow his kiss still always tastes good, though. No matter what he eats. Bates Motel plays on the TV.

If a scene comes on the TV that looks good, its not out of the ordinary to replicate it- because we just can. Whether that be a recipe, trip, or something to do with sex. I hadn’t even realised you could just do things like that, before he showed me. Now it seems simple, of course…

And god fucking damn it. The sex, in the first place is better. And I’m fiucking allowed to acknowledge that. I like sex. There is nothing wrong with that. With Nick, it was planned. It was orderly, and status quo. Now sexual tension’s back in style for me, for the first time since Nick and I had our first time together and I am not giving that up.

Better than that, Nick??

“I tried that.” I snap, spine breaking finally. Is he really going to do this? Bring all this back? Glancing momentarily to set a stony look on his eyes, I pull my back up from the floor and place the strap heavily on my shoulder. He presses his lisp firmly together. “Didn’t turn out so good.”

“W- well, that was before. I’m different now, we would be happy.” My throat goes dry at Nicks words. Isn’t he over me yet? Over this? All we do is go around and around in circles. I need something else, and so does he. Why doesn’t he see that? Goddamnit… “I get that you needed- “I flash him a stern look. “Need. You need your space. I understand now, I like it to. But you’re going to have to settle down with someone eventually- and you know it should be me.”

“Nick… no.”

“No, I have to- “

“Nick!”

“You want kids, I know you do. I know you. I’ve known you since we were six. You’ve always been sweet, and bright, and gentle. I remember you drawing picture, after picture, after picture of that big blue house with a picket fence and remember the talks we had when we were older about the kids we would have. You think he’ll give you these things??” Nicks facial expression right now, is that of a desperate man. He gathers my hands into his and holds them close to his body. “He won’t.”

“I know that.” I tear my hands out from between his and speak slowly, so he gets it. “And I’m not that little girl anymore, Nick!”

Jesus Christ, this has gone south fast. I need to go.

Adjusting the bag strap over my shoulder, I make like I’m going to leave but Nick speaks up again before I can step off. “It’s a phase! -“

“Nick, goddamnit! I’m 29 years old! Get the fuck away from me with this phase, shit. I’m a grown woman. Now… “I glare at him, stepping by him. “It was nice seeing you. Bye.”

Walking off, I put my hands on my face and take a deep breath of the parks fresh air. I can still feel his gaze on me, and it doesn’t feel good.

But standing up to him, did.

Freedom.

Stopping by the bathrooms before my car, I fix my hair and look in the mirror. I can’t come back to this park, now! I’m going to need to find a new hang out spot… Pouting, I fix the strap once again over my shoulder and briefly think about whether Nick will be waiting outside - He knows what my car looks like! And the number plate, probably! – and worry, but then out of nowhere hands wrench me around and press me into the bathroom wall.

Its Offender, so I don’t panic except take a deeeeeep breath from being taken by surprise and look up at him sternly. Good god.

“Don’t underestimate me, Y/N.”

Oop, he sounds… moderately to extremely less chill then usual.

“… huh?” I’m confused. What’s going on?

“The park. In the park. What happened in the park- What the smile child’s idiot son said.”

I could not be more lost right now… The absurdity of this situation - after just having a run-in with my ex-husband who I left for the uncomfortably intimidating man who’s cornered me into a wall in a public bathroom,- mixed with the lack of context he’s giving me causes the most sincere look of confusion I have possibly ever made. “Which… Which part?”

He speaks in a voice that is somehow spot on, a carbon copy of Nick’s and for a second I’m starstruck about that until I realise Offender was listening somewhere to what was going on between Nick and I- and now he’s pissed. “’You really think, that Offenderman, can actually care about you?’, ‘You think he’ll give you these things? He won’t.’. Y/N, don’t underestimate me.”

“So… what does that mean?”

A dangerous grin tears across his sharp, wicked mouth. “I care a lot about you, kid.”

#Offenderman x Reader #Oneshot #Jeff The Killer #Offenderman #Offenderman x Reader Oneshot

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invisibletinkerer · 4 years

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Fic: 30 Seconds Later (chapter 19)

Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3 – Chapter 4 – Chapter 5 – Chapter 6 – Chapter 7 – Chapter 8 – Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19

Length: ~7000 words

AO3: archiveofourown.org/works/13715520/chapters/50933677

Strange.

Strange and pleasant and warm.

Opening his eyes seemed unnecessary. The novel state of comfortable half-sleep beckoned him to stay. Forever, perhaps. Forever would be nice.

It took an undeterminable but lovely amount of time to remember why it felt so strange.

Recollection brought with it a much more familiar surge of panic, causing him to a bolt upright, pain shooting through his abdomen and chest, eyes wide and hands immediately fumbling for his glasses.

Slamming his eyewear in place with more force than was strictly warranted, it still took a moment for Stanford’s mind to spiral its way to the conclusion that there was no need to panic. He forced himself to breathe, a fist tight against his chest, slowly relaxing his shoulders. He was awake and no harm was done. He was in the ground floor study, inside the barrier that blocked Bill from his mind, and he was—he knew this—he was safe here. That’s why he’d been asleep.

The portal was broken, the rift was sealed in a container and locked up, and the journals were right under the couch where he’d put them previously. He should still do more, but nothing had happened to them yet, as far as he could tell. He leaned forward, arms on his knees, and closed his eyes for a moment. It was fine.

He was alone in the room now, but he hadn’t been so all night. The mattresses and crumpled blankets on the floor – not to mention the game books – was proof enough that last night had been real.

Ford ran a hand through his hair and took deep breath that turned into a yawn, ending with a quiet incredulous chuckle. He couldn’t believe he’d played DDD.

He couldn’t believe he’d played DDD, and slept, and he felt—he felt alright. His wounds ached and his heart was beating too fast in his chest, but the colors around him seemed brighter – reds, browns, purples, not just yellows – than they had been in weeks. There was daylight illuminating the window from the outside. It was another warm summer day, when it should have been freezing winter. Bill wanted to destroy the world, but Ford wasn’t going to let him, and for once the determination seemed like something more than a desperate last stand.

He wasn’t doing this alone.

The emotions attached to that thought threatened to overwhelm him.

He had Stanley back. He had something that resembled a family. Together they’d done things he never would would have managed alone, and then they’d played DDD. It seemed incredible, fragile, unreal.

He had Stanley back, and all it took was a one-way trip thirty years into the future. Now he had a twin brother twice his own age, his elder brother’s grandchildren, and no identity of his own.

Something twisted in his guts. He should have done things differently. Should have tried to explain better to Stanley when he arrived, should have reached out sooner, should have listened to Fiddleford, should have seen the warnings signs, should have never summoned Bill to begin with—the list of mistakes could go on forever if he allowed it to. He should have been a better brother. He should have been a better scientist. He should have been a better son, a better friend, a better person. It was too late for so many things, now.

And yet, here he was.

Rubbing his arms against the sudden chill, Ford looked down at his dirty, worn dresspants and rags of a shirt. He should probably change. Possibly also shower and redress the wounds if he could stomach it—no, whether he could stomach it or not.

As well as other things that needed to be done.

Wrapping himself up in the coat, he made himself slip out of the protection of the barrier and face a new day.

Stanley served him pancakes for the third day in a row, as if this was now a normal occurrence. Dipper and Mabel chatted about last night’s game. All three of them had already eaten earlier, but apparently they wanted to ‘keep him company’, which was probably just another way of saying to keep an eye on him – but if so, it was fully warranted and not completely unwelcome.

“So, did you sleep well?” Stanley asked from the stove soon after getting Ford to sit down at the table. “Didn’t hear ya wake up any, not even when me and the kids got up.”

Ford frowned at the implications, and the grammar. “I didn’t even hear you.” That was troubling, especially after the alien tranquilizers yesterday. If anything had happened, he might not have noticed in time. “I suppose I slept too well.”

Stanley laughed. “No such thing for you, Sixer. You needed it. I’m just glad you’re getting your head back on your shoulders.”

“It’s always been on my shoulders!” Ford bristled. “Well, technically, between them.”

Stanley laughed more.

Oh. “But that’s just a saying and now you’re messing with me.”

“Just happy you’re here, genius.”

Ford didn’t know what to say about that. Stanley’s smile was reminiscent of a better time, but set on a too-old face, and Ford had been gone for thirty years. An absolutely preposterous amount of time for his brother to spend trying to get him back, but little more than a nap for an immortal being like Bill. He bit his lip and tried not to think about the blue light of the portal, the rage on Stanley’s face turning to horror and the taste of his own panic as he drifted away. If they hadn’t fought—if things had gone differently—

Mabel broke the uncomfortable silence. “I slept well too! And Dipper didn’t have any nightmares!”

Dipper smacked her arm. “Thanks, Mabel, that’s exactly what everyone was asking about.” He looked up at Ford. “I did sleep well, though. I dreamt about DDD! Last night was amazing!”

Ford found himself smiling at that. “It was a good game.”

“We have to do it again sometime!”

“Yes, we—” Ford hesitated. The idea of playing regularly implied a level of permanence he couldn’t take for granted, but neither could he deny that he wanted to. “—we should.”

“What’s the matter?” Dipper sounded wary, perhaps taking Ford’s hesitation the wrong way.

“I need coffee,” Ford realized. There was no coffee on the table, and although it might be more of an addiction than a necessity today, he still craved it. He resolutely got up to make some.

Stanley tried to wave him down even as he was flopping pancakes around with a spatula. “Ah, I’ll get to that when I’m done with—”

“I can make coffee!” Dipper chimed in.

Ford turned around. “Don’t,” he said, making a horizontal gesture with both hands. “I’m quite capable of making my own coffee, thank you.” He wasn’t even the slightest bit dizzy at the moment, so any coddling was utterly unnecessary.

This was his own kitchen, even. It wasn’t as if Stanley had rebuilt or remodeled this part of the house. The coffeemaker on the counter wasn’t his own, but it was a similar model, just as easy to work. He filled it up and started to brew, then opened the cupboard above for a mug.

He narrowed his eyes at the plates. Just because the mugs weren’t in the exact cupboard he expected them to be didn’t mean he couldn’t find them. As it turned out, they were in the next cupboard. And just because the mugs were all unfamiliar to him didn’t mean—

Wait. Struck by an urge to examine the matter scientifically, Ford started taking down all the mugs from the cupboard one by one. Eleven, all in all. Most of them must indeed be Stanley’s, but some were so old and worn that it was difficult to tell. Only one was unmistakable. It was chipped and discolored, but wore a faded print that said “It’s all fun and games until someone divides by zero.”

Ford took a deep breath, more relieved than he’d expected to be. He remembered buying this during a visit to the east coast, three years ago. Thirty-three years ago. It still existed, but like Stanley, it was old now. Older than himself. He’d bought it before he’d met Bill, at a time when he’d just started to become frustrated with his own inability to produce a unified theory of weirdness, and the printed words had spoken to him. A simpler, more naïve time, but the sentiment written on the mug still seemed apt.

“Earth to Stanford.”

Ford spun around, bumped his wounded side into the counter and bit down a grunt of pain, still clutching the old mug in his hands. Stanley was by the table, having filled Ford’s plate with pancakes, looking at Ford with a concerned frown. “You okay?”

“Are you cleaning the cupboards?” Dipper asked, confusion clear in his voice.

“Are you making a mess?” was Mabel’s follow-up question, a bit more enthusiastically.

“No, I—Yes, I’m okay.” He glanced at the ten mugs on the counter. “I wasn’t trying to do either of those things, but I suppose I got lost in thought.” He turned back around and filled his old mug with black coffee, sipping at it while putting the rest of the mugs back in the cupboard.

“I’m sorry,” Stanley mumbled as Ford took his seat again and started pouring some syrup on the pancakes.

“I know.” Ford couldn’t think of anything else to say. He wasn’t sure what exactly Stanley was apologizing for – for taking thirty years? For replacing or wearing down his coffee mugs? For having stepped into the spot Ford left behind and lived a life? Ford got all that. He wasn’t angry, not the way he’d wanted to be a couple of days ago. It was just—it was a lot. Too much. “It’s fine,” he said.

Pressing the hot mug against a stinging part of his chest, the pain grounded him. He reminded himself that it didn’t matter. As long as Bill was stopped, the rest was unimportant details.

The first order of business after breakfast – technically brunch – was a shower.

That shouldn’t be a problem, and he’d assured Stanley as much. Going to great lengths to avoid looking at the cuts Bill had inflicted on him was irrational, as they’d be there whether he looked or not. Additionally, they did need to be kept clean, and he could only hope he wouldn’t suffer too badly from not having tended to them earlier. He certainly wasn’t going to let Stanley do it again – he did have a modicum of dignity when not thoroughly sedated by alien drugs.

Still. As much as he felt better, as much as the dizziness and tunnel-vision had faded with the sleep deprivation, his heart was beating like a drum in his ears when he met his own eyes in the bathroom mirror. They were perfectly human eyes, still a bit red, still ringed with dark sacks, but no yellow anywhere. Knowing that didn’t douse the adrenalin spike.

Irrational or not, he took a towel from the shelf and covered up the mirror before undressing. At least he wouldn’t have to look at the full-frontal view of the damage. Beyond that, he simply had to handle it.

The triangles were uncovered in stages as he unwrapped the bandages. Triangles upon triangles. Angry red lines.

There were so many of them. They moved as his stomach heaved, and suddenly he was retching.

He was in control. Bill couldn’t do anything to him, not right now. He knew that, and yet just looking at his own body somehow made the conviction slip through his fingers. It didn’t matter how much he tried to detach himself; his body was still there, still him, still Bill’s.

He threw up. He’d eaten too much anyway, filled himself too comfortably, as if he could afford to be comfortable. He stood, gripping the sides of the bathroom sink tight enough that his hands hurt, squeezing his watering eyes shut, but it was too late to keep Bill’s laughter out. It wouldn’t stop. He knew it too well.

“Did you really think you could stop me from doing whatever I want?”

No.

“You agreed to the deal, so deal with it! From now til the end of time, pal!”

No!

“It’ll be fun to watch you try! Cute, even!”

Stop it!

Ford forced himself to open his eyes again, facing his own skin. The large triangle right over his solar plexus met his gaze with a red-lined eye, not a mere symbol, but Bill himself somehow grinning up at him without a mouth.

In fact, Bill probably was here. The bathroom wasn’t shielded. Bill could be watching Ford’s reaction right now, from inside his own mind, from the triangles etched on his body, and there was nothing Ford could do about it, no way to stop it.

He’d done this to himself.

Swallowing bile again, Ford looked away. There were dark stains on the ceiling. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms, and he might possibly not be breathing.

This was nothing but trivial physical damage. No different from a fork stabbed into his thigh or a sandpaper scrubbed across his forearm. It didn’t mean anything.

It meant Bill owned him. It meant that he’d once voluntarily made a deal, and now he was a triangle’s plaything for the rest of his life. It meant—

“Well, I don’t care! It’s bullshit!”

Stanley’s words from yesterday cut through the moment, and suddenly Ford found air. He gasped, shoulders sagging, and somehow he found himself sitting on the edge of the tub, rubbing his eyes.

“You’re bullshit, Bill,” he breathed.

He’d slept without fear. Bill could no longer take him whenever he wanted to. Unless he massively slipped up, he might never have to be possessed again. Wasn’t that enough to not be owned? Maybe it wasn’t, not in the face of his own body’s evidence to the contrary, but it was enough for him to clench his jaws and get himself cleaned up.

It hurt, but it might as well. Pain meant he was alive and awake, and as such it was a good sign.

At least the wound from the alien tranquilizer gun seemed to be healing fine, and so was the one around his wrist from the handcuff. None on the older marks and bruises were a problem, either. And indeed, most of the triangles had scabbed over, too. It wasn’t that bad.

Still, despite Stanley’s efforts yesterday, a number of them were still tender and hot to the touch, and a couple of the triangles were shifting yellow with pus. The latter made Ford taste bile in his throat again, but it was bullshit. Just a few cuts that hadn’t been properly tended from the beginning. They were shallow. The infection was shallow, too.

All he had to do was have a proper shower, and then hopefully the inflammation could be controlled with what antibacterial ointments Stanley had available. Seeing a physician was simply not an option.

At least he had his own clothes. The fact that he did – that Stanley had preserved them for thirty years and had them washed and ready for use when Ford returned – seemed a minor miracle. A clean white shirt and a gray sweaterwest to hide away the new bandages improved his mood immensely. The marks were there, but he didn’t have to dwell on them.

As he put on the coat again – unlike the shirt and sweaterwest he’d worn yesterday, the coat was merely a bit frayed, not ruined – his hand reflexively went for the upper left inner pocket. It was empty, of course, not that it should matter.

Taking a deep breath, he emerged from the bathroom, glancing towards the locked door to the study. Surely if there had been a burglary, someone would have noticed. Surely the rift was still in there.

“Looking good!” Mabel said, startling Ford to pay attention to the two kids that had apparently been sitting on the floor right outside the bathroom, playing with some folded paper. “Wet hair makes less fluff, so you look even more like grunkle Stan!”

“Fluff?” Had they been waiting for him?

“I wonder if we could make grunkle Stan wear a coat like that?” Mabel continued, turning to Dipper. “We could make them pose like before-and-after pictures! Or if uncle Ford wore a suit, they could make a whole de-aging trick for the Mystery Shack!”

Dipper laughed, but cut it off when he met Ford’s narrowed eyes.

“I’m not going to do tricks for the Mystery Shack,” Ford said flatly. He was still trying to swallow the existence of the Mystery Shack. Turning himself into a freak show was the last thing he wanted.

“You don’t have to,” Mabel said breezily. “But it would still be fun to dress you and Stan up the same and confuse people. I bet Stan could rig it up with a smoke bomb!”

“Mabel and I do that sometimes,” Dipper added. “Not with smokebombs, but with confusing people. It’s fun!”

That, on the other hand, he could relate to. Ford sighed and leaned his back against the wall, a fond smile finding its way to his face despite some irritation. “That is one of the perks of having a twin,” he admitted.

“Did you and grunkle Stan switch a lot when you were kids?”

“When we could get away with it. Our mother always knew.”

Dipper nodded. “Yeah, moms have a superpower like that.”

“Moms can see right through you,” Mabel said, wriggling her fingers as if casting a spell.

“Well, anyone who remembered to look at our hands would figure it out, unless we could hide them.” Ford held out a six-fingered hand. “Still, it worked surprisingly often.” A wave of nostalgia was hitting him like hot air to the face, tinged with lingering resentment and overpowering regret. “Where’s Stanley?” he asked.

“He’s in his office with Soos,” Dipper replied.

Ford grimaced. “His office.” That was less than helpful. Ford had had several places to work and write in the house, but no room designated an ‘office’ as such. “And where’s that?”

“Oh. Um…”

“It’s the little room next to the museum,” Mabel supplied, which wasn’t actually helpful either. This house had changed so much, and Ford didn’t truly want to know what Stanley had done to it during all those years. The tourist trap of fake anomalies was... Well, if he were to express how much it hurt he would have to start yelling at Stanley again, and he didn’t want to do that. He got it, intellectually, and objectively it was a far more harmless activity than Ford’s had been.

“We’ll show you,” Dipper decided, to Ford’s relief. His discomfort might have been written on his face, but neither of the kids said anything about it, though Mabel took his hand and squeezed it as they led him off to the back of the house. The goal turned out to be the small guest bedroom next to the hall where Ford had collected his specimen.

Well. It was clearly an office, now. Decorated with Stanley’s weird mix of real and fake anomalies, as well as books, documents haphazardly thrown into boxes, and Ford’s magic photocopier, though the latter had obviously seen better days. Stanley and Soos looked up from a pile of documents on the desk as Ford and the kids entered.

“Ford?” Stanley said. “You okay?” As if the only reason he’d be here was that if he was having a problem.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Ford crossed his arms on top of the layers that covered the bandages. “Can I ask you a question? You seem to be busy.”

“Bah.” Stanley straightened up and pushed a piece of paper aside. It looked like some kind of invoice. “It’s just economy. Soos can handle it.” He turned to the younger man, adding, “You can, right? Just fake my signature if you need to.”

“Yes sir, Mr Pines!”

“So,” Stanley said as Ford tried not to stare. His brother’s mixture of carelessness, crookedness and utter trust was difficult to believe, especially the last part. Stanley nudged him back out to the big hall, leaving both Soos and the young twins behind. “Hit me with it.”

“What exactly—” Ford lowered his voice. “What exactly is this Soos person to you?”

His old twin grinned. “That’s your question?”

“Do I only get one, then?”

Stanley shrugged. “You get as many as you like.” He glanced around them. “Just don’t ask about the Sascrotch.”

Ford’s face hardened. He’d already glimpsed that particular fake pun-based abomination, but he refused to acknowledge it.

“Nevermind.” Stanley rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m just trying to—sorry. Anyway, Soos. He’s my handyman. Works at the Mystery Shack, keeps things together.”

That was not the whole story. “And what else?”

“Geesh.” Stanley grimaced. “Why would there be anything else?” They were moving back to the main part of the house, now.

“Is he or is he not a part of your family?” Why did it have to be so ambivalent?

“He is! Well. I mean.” Stanley fell silent. Ford waited.

“He’s been my handyman since he was twelve. His dad ditched him and I guess he kinda imprinted on me or something. Does that answer your question?”

Ford nodded slowly, filing the information away. “I suppose it does. More or less. And you trust him?”

“Of course I do.”

That didn’t solve the matter entirely, but it eased some of the worries. An explanation, a map of the immediate social environment, and some reason not to suspect the young man’s loyalties.

“But that wasn’t what you wanted to talk about,” Stanley added.

“No. It’s a minor thing, but I was going to ask what happened to the coat I was wearing—” —when I fell through the portal— “—three days ago.”

“I threw it in the wash. It’s in the dryer right now – you need it?”

Damn. Ford’s stomach sank. “You didn’t think to empty the pockets, did you?”

Stanley’s eyes widened, but then he smiled. “Yeah, I did.”

That was a relief, but suddenly Ford found himself tongue-tied regarding the actual item he was after. Stan’s smile already told him that he knew exactly what it was about, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t already admitted to missing Stanley. But he hardly had any good excuse to care about a childhood memento in his pocket when the fate of the world was at stake. He should just drop the matter, before he had to—

“And yeah,” Stanley added, interrupting Ford’s thoughts. “It’s in my bedroom. Come on.”

Stanley’s bedroom looked different now that Ford was fully awake and actually looking. Of course, it looked even more different from Ford’s own bedroom, the one that was now – thirty years ago – piled up with junk and unused for months. Some of the furniture was the same, though worn and rearranged, but most had never been Ford’s at all, and the mess had a very different flavor to it.

The photograph sat on a cluttered drawer, next to the pieces of a plastic credit card.

The latter was strange. “Is this mine?” Ford asked, picking up a piece. Had that been in his coat, too?

“Yeah.” Stanley grimaced. “I think Bill broke it and used the edges.” He didn’t say for what, but he didn’t have to. Ford dropped the piece of plastic like it had burned him, clenching his teeth and absolutely not thinking about that night.

It was the picture he wanted, anyway. He sighed, taking it gingerly in both hands and sinking down on the side of the bed. Two small boys looked up at him with pride from the wreck of an old boat. The memory of that day was still vivid, despite everything. The smell the salt air, the heat of the heavy sun overhead, the splinters from the broken hull. They’d both been so happy.

“It’s a good picture,” Stanley said next to him, sounding too casual. “Can’t believe how sunburned we were.”

“Indeed.”

Stanley opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. “I’m glad you kept it,” he said eventually.

“I’m glad you didn’t put it in the washer with the coat.”

“Hah. No, that woulda been a tragedy.”

“You must have others like it, though. I’ve got—I had a whole box of old photos somewhere.” Stanley wouldn’t have thrown them away, would he?

“Sure. But this one was missing, and it’s a good one. And, ya know—” He took a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re a bigger sap than you look, okay?” He looked so embarrassed that Ford released a huff of laughter, tension evaporating slightly.

“I’m not a sap,” he said prudently. “I merely—” He paused and drummed his fingers against the back of the picture. “I needed a reminder of something good.” Even with the estrangement, his childhood with Stanley had seemed more meaningful – more real – than anything he’d felt for the last few years with Bill. The Stan o’War might have been a pointless dream, but it had been harmless and fun. The portal had never been either, looking back.

Stanley grunted. “You know it’s gonna be okay, right?”

“I don’t know that.” He rubbed a hand over a particularly sore spot below his left shoulder. “Bill isn’t going to give up.” Besides, he wasn’t sure what ‘be okay’ would even mean anymore.

“I’m not giving up either. Still gonna find a way to punch him, too.”

Ford had to smile. “I very much want to see that.”

“Do you want a frame for that picture?” Stanley asked after a moment of silence.

“A frame?”

“Put it up somewhere. Makes it easier to look at whenever you want to.” His eyes went to a small frame on his bedside table, containing a picture of Mabel and Dipper making ridiculous faces at the camera.

That was the sort of thing you did when you made a home.

“I’ll think about it,” Ford said, putting the picture away in his inner pocket with a soft sigh. “Right now I’m more concerned about safeguarding the rift. I want to seal up the window in the study again, to prevent it being used by burglars.”

Stanley looked alarmingly skeptical. “You wanna live in the dark?”

“Lamps exist, Stanley.”

“Sure, but—” He shook his head, apparently thinking better of it. “It’d make you feel better?”

“It’ll make us all safer.” Ford narrowed his eyes, hoping that Stanley wasn’t just humoring him. “And yes, that would make me feel better, yes, if that is your order of priorities.”

“Right,” Stanley agreed. “Let’s do that, then.”

With Stanley’s help, the work on boarding up the window went quicker than anticipated. The room did get darker, of course, but it could also be argued that summer daylight was too bright. It also got a lot less likely that anyone would be able to use the glassed hole in the wall to break in. Nothing was one hundred percent secure, but this was better.

They were almost done when Mabel stormed into the study and announced, “Ten minutes to the Ducktective finale!”

“The duck-what?” Ford asked, hammering in the last of the nails before turning around.

Stanley was sitting back on the couch, looking tired but otherwise pleased. “Good thinking, sweetie,” he told Mabel. “I had almost forgot.”

“You can’t forget, grunkle Stan! It’s the finale!”

“The duck-what?” Ford repeated.

“Duck-tective!” Mabel yelled, gesturing at the portrait of a behatted duck on her sweater. “It’s about this duck that solves crimes and—”

“It’s a kids’ show,” Stanley explained. “But I like it. It’s got some clever mysteries and a lot of humor that goes over kids’ heads. Wanna watch it with us?”

That was not part of Ford’s plan for the day. “I don’t—”

“You should!” Mabel interrupted. “It’s great, and the duck is so cute!” She tilted her head slightly. “But then again it’s the final episode, so you’d have all the spoilers if you watch the rest of it later. That’s a dilemma.”

“No, it’s not,” Stanley said. “Just watch it with us for fun, ‘s not like you have to take it seriously. See what TV is like in the twenty-first century.”

“Why would I—” Ford shook his head. “No.”

Stanley looked disappointed. Why would he be disappointed that Ford didn’t want to watch a kids’ show about a duck? Even if he did want to catch up on popular culture – which he didn’t – that would hardly be his first choice. He still had work to do.

“So will you watch the whole series with us later?” Mabel asked with a hopeful smile.

“I—” Ford bit his lip. “Perhaps.”

“Okay, then,” Stanley said. “You gonna be alright here, or…?”

“I’ll be in the basement,” Ford told him.

“With the portal?” Stanley’s eyes widened. “I’ll come with you, then.”

Mabel made a frustrated sound, looking from Stanley to Ford.

Stanley looked guiltily at the girl. “I know, pumpkin, but—”

“I’m fine.” Ford sat back on the couch and sighed, waving his brother’s concern away. “I don’t actually need a babysitter, Stanley. Bill can’t possess me unless I fall asleep or unconscious, and that is exceedingly unlikely to happen within the next few hours.”

“What’re you going to do down there, anyway? The portal’s already busted.”

“Probably, yes. But I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You can’t wait an hour?”

Technically, he could. But that would mean succumbing to unfounded fear – Stanley’s, certainly not his own – that he couldn’t handle the remains of his own creation. He’d slept well. He wasn’t going to faint. The portal’s existence sat like was a heavy weight on his mind, and he didn’t want to postpone facing it because Stanley thought he was weak. “No,” he said.

Stanley hesitated, worry clear on his face. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

“Of course not.” He might be prone to working too hard, but if the safety of the world depended on him not blacking out, he thought he could manage that. Knowing Stanley, though, he probably wasn’t thinking about the safety of the world at all. Ford patted him on the arm. “Look, I’m still not going to spontaneously combust or otherwise turn to dust.”

“Or disappear in a flash of light?” Stanley tried to grin, but there was an obvious shudder in his shoulders.

Oh. Or that. “Most certainly not,” he replied. “That was unpleasant.”

Stanley’s smile turned slightly more genuine. “Yeah. See you in a bit, then.”

Stanford stepped carefully into the large chamber of the basement, ramrod straight and hands clenched behind his back. The portal gazed back at him silently. Leaning on its side, edges broken and surrounded by shattered equipment, it was less impressive than it had been.

His own previous assessment – as well as Stanley’s – was, of course, correct. The portal was hardly in an operable state. It could never be accidentally activated like this. Not only had the very support beams collapsed, panels cracking and wires tearing, but he had no doubt that the energy surge had caused delicate components to burn out and fuse all over the machine. It was a mess, surely similar to the mess Stanley had been faced with thirty years ago. Possibly worse. The portal must have been open longer this time.

Regardless, if Stanley had been able to repair it once after a full power-up, it could be done again.

He had to destroy it. Pull it apart, scatter the components, hide the journals with the blueprints. No, he should destroy those, too. He should destroy everything.

He'd put so much of himself into his machine, his hopes and dreams and ambitions. He wanted it gone. He’d barely dared touch it before Stanley arrived. It would have been his masterpiece. He hated it with all his being. It was supposed to change the world. It was now one of the few pieces of evidence left that he had ever existed at all.

He could see now that it wasn’t a masterpiece at all. It was sloppy. A piece of equipment that broke immediately upon full usage was hardly a practical tool for anything, even if it had been able to do what it was supposed to. He’d even known it wasn’t sturdy enough for the forces it handled, but Bill had reassured him, and he’d trusted Bill’s judgement above his own.

If this was a masterpiece, it was Bill’s.

It did exactly what Bill had meant for it to do.

Ford licked his lips and took a deep breath. This machine was a monster. He’d poured his soul into it, but all it reflected was Bill.

An hour or so later, Ford was busy prying, tearing and unscrewing protective covers and underlying components, throwing them in piles on the floor and swearing at himself. His hands were covered in tiny scratches and cuts, and maybe he should be wearing gloves, but he doubted his own specially made gloves even existed anymore. He didn’t care.

Every part he touched reminded him of the work he’d put into making it. The discussions with Bill over physics and metaphysics and mathematics. The lies and the half-truths and the actual truths and many times he couldn’t tell them apart even in hindsight.

He wasn’t making any headway. The portal was too big, too well put together – courtesy of Fiddleford McGucket who may or may not even be alive anymore – and there was a strange, unwelcome nostalgia welling up inside him as he worked. Bill had made so much sense. Bill had taught him so much. He’d felt so special, chosen to receive and apply knowledge beyond the rest of humanity’s level. How deeply had he been deceived? Did this one relay truly regulate the flow of Higgs bosons? The math had checked out, but there were too many unknowns, too many fundamental aspects taken on faith by Bill’s word. Even without outright possessing him, Bill had still twisted him to his will.

How much did he understand of anything?

“How’re you doing?”

Ford looked up, not even surprised to see Stanley emerging from the control room, wrinkles and fez and all. “Great,” he said. “I’m doing great.”

Stanley smiled wryly. “Quit sounding like me.”

“What.” Ford pried the screwdriver into a crack between two panels locked together and tried to tear them apart.”

“I said, you sound like me.” Stanley sat down on a nearby fallen beam. “That is, if anyone had ever tried to ask how I was doing when I was down here swearing at that damned piece of technology.”

Ford huffed.

“Look, I—"

The panel Ford was working on snapped open with a pop, revealing the components underneath, wrapped in— Ford swore again. “Is that goddamn duct tape!?”

“Whoa.”

“Did you repair this with duct tape?” Ford snarled, not really meaning to. The duct tape didn’t matter, the way Stanley had affected repairs on the doomsday machine he should never have touched in the first place didn’t matter, and Ford’s overwhelming frustration with everything didn’t matter.

“I might’ve?” Stan stood again to take a look at the guts of the newly opened panel.

“Do you even know what this part is?”

“Dunno what it’s called, no. I have a decent idea what it does.”

Ford blinked. “You do?” Tossing the screwdriver to the floor, he threw up his hands. “Because I don’t! There’s duct tape on it and I don’t know how much of what I thought I knew about the whole machinery was true in the first place!”

Stanley looked pained. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? For using duct tape?”

“No, for—” He stopped with a sigh, instead wrapping an arm around Ford’s back. When Ford didn’t pull away immediately, he squeezed him in a sort of half hug.

“It’s dangerous,” Ford said. “It must never be repaired again.”

“I know.” Stanley looked up at the portal frame and laughed softly. “Great Moses, I know. You wanna tear it apart, you really should’ve waited for me.”

“Why?”

“I spent thirty years of my life on this thing. Think that entitles me to be in on the revenge.”

Thinking about it, that was a fair point. “Yes.” Ford drummed his sore fingers against his legs. “You’re right.” In a way, the portal had been Stanley’s life work, too. “I have to admit I still find it hard to believe you did that.”

“Mm-hm.” Stanley’s face tightened slightly.

“I didn’t—this technology is beyond anything on Earth, or at least Earth as I knew it.”

“Still true, pretty much.”

“Yes, and I don’t even know to which degree my own calculations make sense! The basic idea was Bill’s from the start. Some of it isn’t even based on human science. To reverse-engineer that enough to repair it, without the full blueprints—” Without a high school degree. With no documented interest in science whatsoever.

“It took thirty years.”

Ford sighed and leaned his back against the portal frame, looking down at the floor. “Most people in your position would have given up within a month, and rightly so.”

“So you admit it’s pretty unlikely that anyone’s going to come down here and repair it now?”

“That’s—” Ford looked down at his fingers. “You’re right, that’s extremely unlikely. Perhaps if Bill possessed someone and did all the work himself… But what I meant to say was that you did something incredible.”

Stanley’s face softened.

“And you’re almost as foolish as I am.” Perhaps in different ways, but nonetheless.

“I think I’ll take that as a compliment, too.”

Ford banged his forehead against Stanley’s shoulder with more than a little fondness. “You’re a knucklehead.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Poindexter.”

“I still want the portal gone.” He turned back towards the monstrous machine and sighed. “Did you duct tape the graviton converter? Is that what you did?”

“If you mean that tube that changes extra radiation into anti-gravity, then yeah. I did that.”

Ford froze. Hearing Stanley so casually mention the inner workings of the portal was strange. The description made sense, but those were not the words he would have used. Nor Bill.

“Stanley?”

“Did I get it wrong?”

“No, that’s what it was meant to do. I was just thinking—if you want to help me disassemble this—”

“Yeah, I want it gone too.”

“—then could you do me another small favor? I’d like you to tell me your own understanding of how all these components work!”

Stanley frowned. “Is there a reason for that? I’m pretty sure you know better than me.”

“Maybe. But—” But maybe if Stanley described it he wouldn’t have Bill’s voice, Bill’s teachings, Bill’s flattery and braggery and lies ringing in the back of his mind every time he thought about complex metaphysics. “—I built this portal together with Bill. I’d like to hear about it from another perspective.”

“Huh.” Stanley grimaced. “Can’t say no to that, can I? I can try, but if you laugh at me I’m gonna flick your nose.”

Ford accepted the threat without argument.

Stanley’s descriptions were a breath of fresh air. They cut through Bill’s voice in his mind, vastly different from how Bill had talked about it, or how Ford himself had talked about it with Fiddleford. There was no theoretical sophistication, no air of pride or flattery or ambition or knowing exaggeration. When he didn’t know, he just said so. Stanley used plain layman’s terms wherever possible, describing things clearly and concisely, with none of the flair he used to put into speeches. However, his plain, utterly unacademical understanding of the inner workings of a machine that punched a hole in the fabric of space-time was quite frankly amazing. It mostly aligned with his own knowledge – no great revelations, and some of Stanley’s explanations stood on less theoretical and more pragmatic grounds – and the subject matter was still a disaster. The question marks and the foul taste of Bill’s lies remained in the back of his throat. But this was Stanley, talking science, and as such it was beautiful.

And yet Stanley seemed uncomfortable with it. When Ford tried to ask questions about how in the world Stanley had managed to figure some particular aspect out, it was more often than not met with sad eyes and a tired sigh. He did have some stories to tell about procurement of materials and misfired attempts at starting the device – things he had obviously never told anyone before – but they weren’t many, and he didn’t tell them with anything near the usual glee that telling stories about himself used to incite from Stanley.

“Believe me, Sixer, you do not wanna know how many useless notebooks I filled trying to make sense of stuff like space-time. Basic stuff to you.” He pulled the crowbar and a large part of protective covering fell away from the portal with a loud clatter. “Okay, so here’s the last part of the anti-gravity thing, and then that box is one of the six that spins fermions. Plus some part of the electronic control rig there in the back. Don’t think we can get to it yet.”

“Didn’t you ever—” Ford stopped, unsure if the question should be asked, but curiosity got the better of him. “Didn’t you ever take pride in this?”

“Why would I? I kept failing for thirty years.”

Ford opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to say something, but his brother’s answer was so abrupt and horrifying in all its simplicity. He shuddered. His own foolishness burned hot with pride and ambition and willful ignorance, threatening to take the world and everything on it down in the flames. But Stanley’s foolishness was like relentless ice that simply wouldn’t budge until it had done what it meant to do.

He swallowed. “Thank you,” he said eventually. “For not giving up on me.”

Stanley released a sharp breath, smiled, then looked down. Before he could say anything, Ford looked back at their progress and changed the subject.

“We should get power tools.”

#gravity falls #fanfic #it writes #30 seconds later

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the-record-columns · 5 years

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Sept. 11, 2019: Columns

A forgotten father-in-law

The grave marker for Albert L. Hamby in the cemetery of Stony Hill Baptist Church in Purlear

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

Anyone who reads this space knows I like to write about mother-in-laws.

For a guy who has managed to get married every time he turns around, I have lots to choose from.

Father-in-laws, however, are another matter entirely. My relationship with them all was good to downright wonderful. I have often written stories about my favorite father-in-law, Dr. William L. Bundy. He is the one with whom, I by far, spent the most time, both during my stint with his daughter, and thereafter—when he would make me feel good by still introducing me as, "Kenneth, my son-in-law."

But today, I want to talk about my first father-in-law, Albert Hamby. Al for short.

Yes, the husband of my famous mother-in-law of the family reunion/burning hot dogs.

Albert was born in1916 in the Purlear area of Wilkes. While his education was very limited, Al had a talent for sizing up a stand of timber like no other, and made a good living doing just that. He was a World War II Army veteran who was on the beaches of Normandy on June 6, 1944. While he was pretty closed mouth about the war, later on he did share one story with me.

And one only.

It was several days into the Normandy invasion and he was among thousands of troops fighting their way inland. Al, like all his brothers, was a crack shot with his rifle, an ability borne of hunting the forests of Wilkes from his early childhood. He was proud, he said, that when he sighted in on a target, he knew it was going to be a deadly hit most every time.

To that end, his story begins. Again, his aim was deadly and as he approached a dead German soldier he had just killed, he thought about getting a souvenir or two. He said he had walked by several men he knew he had just shot, but never stopped and for the life of himself, he couldn't say why he stopped this time. A German Luger pistol was an oft taken prize and he took one off that soldier.

Then he saw a wallet in a coat pocket. He took it out, opened it up, and his life changed forever that day. Thinking about retrieving some German money, he instead was struck like a bolt of lightning by a photo of the soldier, his wife, and his three children staring up at him. Albert said he threw down the wallet and the gun and ran to another place for cover. For seven days he didn't fire his rifle. When there was someone who might notice, he said he pretended to be on guard and prepared to fire, but never did.

All he could see was those five folks staring up at him in that wallet as if from a grave, and the realization that the soldier he killed was doing just what he was doing—as he was taught, and as he was told.

At some later point, as he basically went through the motions of being a soldier until an artillery round came so close to him that the sound of the explosion practically deafened him and killed several soldiers near him. From that moment on, he resigned himself that it was kill or be killed, and resumed being an active soldier for the duration of the war.

I don't know why Albert Hamby was on my mind this morning. Perhaps it was the fact that today is September 11, or that this year is the 75th anniversary of D-Day, but he is a good man to remember any day.

While I was still married to his daughter, Albert sold off his logging equipment and got all his affairs in order. He then told his family he just didn't feel well, and it turned out he had a massive brain tumor that robbed him of his life in 1974.

He was just 57 years old.

He was the proverbial good old country boy.

His handshake was his bond.

He was proud of his service to his country.

He signed a note to help a scrawny son-in-law buy a car.

He died too soon.

Albert Lee Hamby

May 29, 1916-March 24, 1974

Rest in Peace

Incentive to kill

By AMBASSADOR EARL COX and KATHLEEN COX

Special to The Record

Most would agree that crime doesn’t pay, and they would be right, unless the reference is to jailed Palestinian murderers and terrorists. You see, if a Palestinian murders a Jew and is captured, tried, convicted and incarcerated by the fair and impartial Israeli judicial system, they and their families will receive hefty lifetime monthly payments from the Palestinian Authority. There’s something very wrong with this picture.

As a reference point, almost 16 years ago, Palestinian terrorists from Gaza carried out two consecutive suicide attacks in Israel; one at a bus stop near a hospital and military base and the other at a cafe on a busy street in Jerusalem. A total of 75 Jewish people were injured, some losing limbs and eyes, and 16 others lost their lives. Since that time, the Palestinian Authority has paid 3,248,900 NIS (New Israeli Shekel) in financial rewards to those who carried out these two attacks. In U.S. dollars, that equates to more than $800,000. To put this in a context to which all can relate, that’s more than $32,000 per year for 25 years with no end in sight. Quite a nice retirement pension and this is in addition to the payments received by the families.

Among the victims of the cafe attack were Dr. David Applebaum and his daughter Nava, who was to be married the day after the attack. American-born Dr. Applebaum was chief of the emergency room and trauma services of Jerusalem's Shaare Zedek Medical Center and a specialist in emergency medicine. Before the attack he had just participated in a symposium where he taught terror-trauma procedures to medical professionals. It’s important to note that Israeli medical professionals treat the victims of suicide (homicide) attacks as well as the perpetrators, if they survive their evil deed. Ironically, in the emergency room, the innocent victims may be receiving treatment right next door to the person who perpetrated the crime and Israeli doctors do not discriminate. Their job is to save lives and they do it well. Any judging is left to God and the justice system.

Alon Mizrachi, the security guard at the café, was killed when he identified the suicide bomber and shoved him toward the door just as he exploded. While Mr. Mizrachi died, his quick actions saved many others. Alon Mizrachi was the uncle of Ziv Mizrachi, an IDF soldier who was murdered by a Palestinian terrorist in November 2015. There is virtually no one in Israel who has not been impacted by Palestinian terrorists in some way yet the olive branch of peace is constantly extended only to have the Palestinians trample it underfoot.

The PA has vowed to continue paying martyrs and terrorists and has even taken their “pay for slay” program to a higher level. Those who manufacture the suicide belts used by the terrorists now also receive monthly salaries of 7000 NIS or approximately $1750.00 USD per month. The average Palestinian could work a 60 hour work-week and not earn this much!

So, back to the question of, “Does crime pay?” The answer is yes, crime does pay if you happen to be a Palestinian who wants to kill Jews.

Payments to terrorists are guaranteed by Chairman Mahmoud Abbas (a.k.a. Abu Mazen) and his Palestinian Authority (PA). In addition to guaranteeing terrorists in Israeli prisons a monthly salary, the PA passed the “Law of Prisoners and Released Prisoners” act which prohibits the PA from signing any peace agreement that does not include the release of all the Palestinian terrorists being held in Israeli prisons and this includes the murderers.

The world is insane to expect Israel to live side by side with such evil-minded people. The days are long behind us when we could count on people, especially our elected officials, to “do the right thing.” Those who know the truth have a duty and an obligation to speak out in support of Israel by using our voices, our pens, and our votes.

Pass the Pawpaw Please

By CARL WHITE

Life in the Carolinas

Carolina days in late summer provide us with humid warm weather, afternoon showers and the anticipation of a colorful fall season.

This time of the year also provides a forgotten or little know tasty treat.

As with all things, there are those “in the know” who are glad our largest native American fruit remains somewhat elusive. It means less competition in finding and consuming this vintage delicacy.

In case you haven’t guessed, I’m talking about the Pawpaw fruit. While it is grown in about half the nation, due to its short harvest season, ease of bruising and short shelf life, the pawpaw is not found in common grocery stories. You may find them at local farmers markets and even then, only for a few weeks during the year.

I have had the opportunity to introduce the curious fruit to several people this year. Some have said that it will take some getting used to and others have proclaimed their profound gratitude for the introduction. To me, the Pawpaw has the blended flavor of a mango, banana and pineapple.

A few words of wisdom to those new to the Pawpaw: It’s a bit like a custard. It’s important to pick them when they are ripe. They are best when the flesh is yellow and soft, but not too dark and mushy, unless that’s the way you love them.

It’s flexible and can be used in just about anyway you like. It’s like anything else, you just need to experiment and see if you find something that works for you. Pawpaw ice cream is a favorite of many. A cup and half of mashed Pawpaw, two cups of cream, two cups milk, a cup of sugar, a teaspoon of vanilla extract and five egg yokes. Apply your ice cream making method and then you will have an amazing treat.

For those of a certain age, the Pawpaw Patch Song will bring back memories. The Pawpaw Patch Song has several regional versions. This is one of more common versions of the youthful folk song:

Where, oh where is pretty little Susie?

Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch.

Come on, boys [or girls, or kids], let’s go find her,

Come on, boys, let’s go find her,

Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch.

Pickin’ up paw-paws, puttin’ ‘em in her pockets,

Way down yonder in the paw-paw patch.

It’s hard to say how many Pawpaws you can get in your pocket because they vary in sizes.

Dr. Greg Reighard, a Professor in the Department of Plant and Environmental Sciences at Clemson University, is conducting research on Pawpaws. Clemson Musser Fruit Research Center has a good size grove of Pawpaw Trees with a variety of cultivars. The fruit can be small or up to a pound or more. So, you might only get one of those in your pocket.

While the flesh is good to eat, you should not eat the skin or the seeds. A lot of research is being done on the tree leaves and bark as they seem to have anti-cancer properties.

Another note of nature wonderment; The beautiful Zebra Swallowtail Butterfly comes for the larvae that take its primary food source from the leaf of the Pawpaw tree.

Please pass the Pawpaw; It’s warm outside and I need to make some ice cream.

Carl White is the Executive Producer and Host of the award-winning syndicated TV show Carl White’s Life In The Carolinas. The weekly show is now in its 11th year of syndication and can be seen in the Charlotte market on WJZY Fox 46 Saturday’s at noon and My 12. The show also streams on Amazon Prime. For more information visit www.lifeinthecarolinas.com. You can email Carl at [email protected]

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smolpocketmonstercoffee · 7 years

Text

HoA 04

H E A R T _ O F _ A R S O N

Ulfric has faced many years since the Great War but there is a face that has hung in silence in his mind since then. All those years later, finding that face again would draw new memories to be made in the wake of the war he waged against the claws of the Empire. And the matter of other claws that would sink into the very flesh of Skyrim itself brought its own problems, along with a mysterious stranger. The path of the future was not certain. But the fresh return of that face in his mind brought questions. Ones he felt needed to be answered.

START, PREVIOUS, NEXT

TW: Dragon Attack and Mayhem, Nameless Character Death, Minor Character Death

FOUR

In the weeks that followed after the Greybeards very vocal announcement of the coming of the Dragonborn, there had been increased sightings of dragons and more and more signs of dragon activity.

Places that were rumored to be home to dragon remains were stood corrected as they no longer were home to remains but living dragons as well. And Ulfric was grateful that he had sent word ahead to the forts and camps and holds under the Stormcloak banner to arm themselves better and seek better shelter if they were out in the elements.

One Imperial camp in the Rift had been burned to the ground by a local dragon and as far as Ulfric was aware, the dragon had yet to be killed either.

And then there was the rumored Dragonborn.

There was not much known about the Dragonborn himself except for the three things that all the rumors about the Dragonborn had in common: that he was a man, that he was very tall, and that he was entirely shrouded by his strange armor.

As far as anyone knew, only Whiterun had been graced by the Dragonborn’s presence, that was a fact for certain, but there was also rumors of a tall man entirely hidden by his armor going through Ivarstead on his way up the 7000 steps to High Hrothgar.

A week later, he heard that a man of that same description passing through Morthal, and a few days after was spotted in Riverwood.

It seemed that the Dragonborn was being kept busy.

From the rumors Ulfric also got to hear, the Dragonborn had killed at least two dragons in the hold of Whiterun, one in Morthal, and another near a Nirnroot farm not far from Ivarstead.

And then, as Ulfric walked the streets of Windhelm with Galmar, discussing matters of the city, there was a terrible sound in the distance to the south.

Galmar had never heard the sound a dragon could make, and his startled reaction only suited Ulfric enough to state, “Believe in dragons now?”

His housecarl skulked and huffed, putting away his weapon that he had drawn on instinct. “I’ll believe in them when I see one. Especially once I put my axe through its head.”

No, friend, I don’t think you would really want to see one, Ulfric thought.

It wasn’t long after that a guard hurried to him.

“My lord, there’s been a dragon sighted at Kynesgrove!”

Kynesgrove.

Fuck!

If there was any time to swear, it would be now, and Ulfric stepped past the gate, Galmar’s hand closing around his wrist and that was as far as he went, seeing black wings flying away from Kynesgrove and heading north, north-west of the city. That big black bastard of a dragon flew right over the mill to the west. In the south though, where Kynesgrove rested just barely in view of the city from the gate, Ulfric could see movement in the distance, a dragon circling and bringing down flames.

It was attacking something.

Or something was attacking it.

Ulfric watched on baited breath, counting the seconds in between each Thu’um that he heard and each Thu’um that he saw. For each Shout that he saw, there were two Shouts that he heard. Someone was attacking the dragon as a dragon.

Dov verses Dov.

No.

Dov verses Dovahkiin.

Dragon verses Dragonborn.

The Dragonborn was in Kynesgrove.

And then, the dragon’s flying shadow disappeared, and for a long while after, there was only one Thu’um that he heard, echoing across the landscape like a rumble of thunder in the distance.

And then there was nothing but stillness.

Ulfric held his breath, straining his eyes to try and see anything that might have been happening, but there was nothing he could see.

There was stillness though.

And if Ulfric had learned anything about dragons from Helgen, it was that a dragon didn’t stop until either everything in its sight was dead.

Or it was dead.

And with the close quarters Kynesgrove held to Windhelm, that meant that if the dragon had won that fight, it would either retreat to lick its wounds or it would turn its attention to Windhelm.

The Jarl of Windhelm stood in deathly silence, housecarl at his side and all the guards watching with the same intensity as him for a very long time.

But there was no sound other than the distant rush of wind.

No sound of wings nor Thu’um, no sight of smoke rising in the distance.

There was only the single inn and a few other small buildings in Kynesgrove, and if Helgen was any example, if the dragon had won that battle, the buildings would have been burning as well.

The Dragonborn had won that fight.

“I want a patrol to head to Kynesgrove. I want every sign of that fight observed and brought back. If there are any dead or wounded, I want the wounded cared for and the dead brought back for inspection. Immediately,” Ulfric ordered.

“You heard the Jarl,” Galmar said sharply.

And the men jumped into action, the next shift that was supposed to be sent out to Kynesgrove taking up the task and they set out quickly while Galmar and Ulfric went back to the Palace of the Kings.

Ulfric felt anxious.

The Dragonborn was so close to Windhelm, which meant that there was a chance that the Jarl might have an opportunity to meet the man of legend himself and perhaps pose the question of the Dragonborn joining the fight to free Skyrim.

It was a chance that Ulfric was anxious to try and seize.

He needed strong allies, and the Dragonborn himself would be among the strongest.

If the count was correct, the Dragonborn had now killed five dragons.

Talos only knew how many words of Thu’ums there were to learn.

The Jarl knew that a Dragonborn was supposed to be able to absorb not only a slain dragon’s spirit, but also absorb their knowledge, allowing the Dragonborn to be able to quickly master a Thu’um.

Five dragons dead and the Divines only knew how many words there were for this Dragonborn to master.

His head was spinning from how hard he was thinking about all this and he sat down at the desk in the War room, his face resting in his hand and he breathed deeply.

He remembered the ruins of Helgen.

It had been over a month since the first dragon attack, and this was the second he had witnessed, the first one from afar but it was still too close to the city that he loved.

The city that was his.

Ulfric was so nervous with anxiety from the wait to hear anything back that he could barely eat his supper, even with Galmar doing what he could to ease his Jarl’s nerves with some good mead and some short, cheap talk of old things that would have made him laugh but now only drew small, tight smiles.

And then he heard the door of the main hall open and he was on his feet quickly, seeing two men of Stormcloak colors approach, a scout and a soldier.

“Jarl Ulfric, we’ve brought back the report for Kynesgrove,” the soldier told him, the written report ready in his hands and Ulfric took it to read.

What was written wasn’t enough information though. These were soldiers, not analysts, and he wanted to know what had been found in Kynesgrove.

“Tell me what you saw,” he requested.

Two dead Stormcloaks of the regular Kynesgrove patrol, a sign of what was assumed to be a dragon fight, and a huge dragon skeleton. The details just weren’t enough. He needed to know what the soldiers had seen.

“The dragon mound, it looked like it had…” and the scout searched for words, “exploded. From the inside. There was rocks and dirt everywhere. And the skeleton…”

“I’ve never seen bones so huge, sir! Its teeth alone were as long as my hand!” the other gushed, and for a while, the two spoke only of the dragon. It was large, it was terrifying, even dead it was terrifying. And the site of the fight… It looked like the dragon had not spent much time on the ground before it had been killed, its claws had scored the ground from walking, and there was a lot of blood on the ground, and there was a spot on the ground that looked like it had been pounded flat and tight maybe from the beast’s tail. There had been some blood on the ground a bit further away from the skeleton, among the padprints of boots, but not enough to be dragon’s blood.

Perhaps the Dragonborn had gotten hurt in the fight.

The shadow Ulfric had seen had not looked like a skeleton but full of flesh and blood, and he had heard rumors that when the Dragonborn fought his dragons, those corpses were reduced to nothing more than piles of bone and skin and whatever had been the dragon’s last meal most likely.

And then, at last, the two reporting Stormcloaks spoke of the two dead Stormcloaks.

And that was where Ulfric felt odd as the scout spoke first, telling him how the bodies had been laid out on the ground, one looking like it had been bitten almost in half yet they were rested side by side like soldiers waiting to be buried, clothing straightened, weapons in hand, eyes closed. Peaceful.

Like the person who had moved them wanted to honor them as warriors.

And Ulfric found himself drawing in a breath to speak but words evaded him.

Whoever had tended to the bodies respected those men as warriors and left them ready to be brought back home looking like great heroes who fell in battle.

“Were they taken to the Hall of the Dead?” Ulfric finally asked.

“Yes, my lord. The priestess is probably down there doing her work with them now,” the soldier said.

The Jarl nodded.

“Thank you for your report. You are dismissed.”

And at the wake of their leaving, Ulfric rubbed his mouth, falling deep into thought.

Those two dead soldiers had been with the Dragonborn and they had died in the fight. One nearly bitten in half by the dragon. And the Dragonborn respected those two dead boys enough despite his own injuries to make sure they looked like proper heroes to those who found them.

And Ulfric sighed, rubbing his face. He felt sick to his stomach and he wanted answers, but answers wouldn’t be able to come unless he gave the priestess of Arkay enough time to examine the bodies.

So he took a very long bath to try to sooth his nerves and he went to bed early.

And that night, he dreamed of dragonfire and the carnage of Helgen, and woke with Galmar’s hand around his wrist, preventing him from striking his housecarl in his thrashing.

Another bath was drawn and Ulfric meditated while he soaked. He needed to be calm.

Peace.

Drem.

Su’um ahrk morah.

Breathe and focus.

He went to the Temple of Talos and prayed for strength.

And then, he descended into the depths of the Hall of the Dead.

Ulfric was quiet among the coffins waiting for the ground to thaw enough to be buried, and when he stepped into the room where the process of preparing the bodies was done, he found himself taken by the sight.

All items on the bodies had been collected and removed, leaving the two soldiers bare and cold and dead on the examination table, one with deep teeth marks that covered the meat of his ribs and his abdomen, severing one arm at the wrist and the other near the shoulder, the man’s arms settled right where they belonged and stitched back to his body so that they would be in proper arrangement for when he was to be buried. The other man looked like he had suffered burns but they were the least of the damage. What had really killed the man was the way his ribs had been shattered and turned concave. One man had been killed by the bite of the dragon and the other had been killed with a flick of the tail.

Helgird looked up to him.

“You have impeccable timing, Jarl. I just finished with our boys here.”

He nodded. “What can you tell me?”

She started with the obvious. Her little joke that they were dead, which lead to an unimpressed expression from the Jarl, before she moved onto the causes of death, followed by little details he didn’t need to know like their immediate health right before death, the state the bodies had been in when they had been brought back to her like the wounded on stretchers rather than two dead men, and that she had also found something strange.

Something that didn’t belong.

And Helgird cleared her throat before she picked up something off the table. “Both bodies had these in their mouths, put under their tongues.” And when she extended her hand to him, he picked up the two chips of stone, smaller than coins, and they were an unusual blue-white color.

He had never seen anything quite like it.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You may want to ask the Smith that, I’ve never seen this sort of material before. All I know is that it’s hard and it doesn’t belong on a body.”

Ulfric quietly nodded. “I see. Was there anything else?”

“No, Jarl, there wasn’t.”

“I will let you return to your task then.”

She didn’t seem to mind as he turned and left the Hall of the Dead, allowing Helgird to finish preparing the bodies now that she was done examining them.

Oengul War-Anvil himself was sitting at his forge on his break for a bite to eat when Ulfric approached, the smith’s apprentice staring with a look of enamor upon her face as he stepped past and greeted the smith calmly, much to Oengul’s surprise.

“Jarl Ulfric, what can I do for you today?” he immediately greeted and asked, seeming both startled and pleased by the untimely visit he was making.

“It was suggested to me that you might recognize what this is,” Ulfric said, offering to him the two small stone chips and the smith picked them up from his hand and held them out to gaze at them in the sunlight before he let out a startled breath.

“Shor’s beard! Enchanted ice!” he marveled aloud and Ulfric’s brows pinched in curiosity.

“These are pieces of Stalhrim, a material that’s only found on Solstheim. I’ve seen a weapon made out of the stuff maybe twice in my life. The Skaal are deathly protective over the ore though and I would be too. A pound of Stalhrim ore can cost twice as much as a single ingot of gold! These pieces though, they weren’t just leftovers from forging some weapon or piece of armor,” the smith explained in amazement before he held up the pieces for the Jarl to see.

And he wondered just what the smith was trying to show him.

“Look at the shape, the size. They’re the exact same, and there’s holes for them to be stitched to something. With more pieces like these, someone could make some damn fine scale armor.”

That got the Jarl’s attention.

Scale armor made with chips of Stalhrim. And if a lump of ore alone cost 200 Septims, he could only imagine how much scaled armor of the stuff would cost.

And the person who had placed these two ‘scales’ of Stalhrim under the tongues of those two dead soldiers either didn’t know the worth of the chips or didn’t care.

And Ulfric let out a breath of amazement.

“Thank you for your help, Oengul,” he finally said.

The smith just seemed grateful that the Jarl bothered to stand by the forge for five minutes and easily gave the pieces back to Ulfric.

If the Dragonborn was carrying around Stalhrim scales, Ulfric could only wonder where the man was from. Was he from Solstheim? Morrowind? Had he traveled all over? Ulfric was deathly curious about the man and he didn’t even know the name of the man. Balgruuf the Greater would though.

After all, if rumors still held any truth to them, the Jarl of Whiterun had made the Dragonborn thane of the hold in return for killing that first dragon spotted since the destruction of Helgen, which also meant that every guard in the city of Whiterun knew the name of the Dragonborn, if not the entire hold itself.

Perhaps it was time to write a message to that quiet contact in Whiterun?

No, it would be best to wait. It would be best to hold onto that resource until he really needed it, not use it for something as petty and simple as a name.

Tall, male, shrouded by mystery, and carrying scales made of precious ore.

Well, one day Ulfric would have the opportunity to meet the Dragonborn, and if Windhelm was the last major city for the Dragonborn to visit, Ulfric would be patient.

A man of that importance would find his way around, especially if he was hunting down legendary beasts like dragons. Either that or someone or many someones who might know of anyone’s interest in having the Dragonborn side with either side in the war might encourage the Dragonborn to pay a visit to the leaders of each fraction.

It was a lot to think about.

And frankly having the dragon attack just yesterday was still enough to make his head spin. And with today’s discovery of the Dragonborn’s method of showing respect for the dead, Ulfric brought those two scales back to the Hall of the Dead and told Helgird to place the stone chips back where they had been. It was how the Dragonborn had wanted them to be, and unless the Dragonborn stated otherwise, let the two men be buried with the Dragonborn’s sign of respect.

She shrugged and did as requested, Jarl’s orders and what not, she could see the logic behind it despite the oddness, and when Ulfric took himself back to the Palace, he told Galmar of the finds as well.

“This Dragonborn fellow is an odd one,” he stated flatly as he took a long drink from his tankard at supper.

Ulfric couldn’t help but agree.

He wanted to meet him.

Badly.

The next few days lacked anything of interest or of note aside from dreams of dragons instead of war and that suited Ulfric just fine. He had sent more men over to Kynesgrove to see what repairs were needed to the little settlement and he had letters to read from the captains at the different forts and camps. Any sight of dragon activity was to be written and reported back to him.

If they ignored their dragon problem in favor of their focus on the war, they would all get roasted alive by enormous flying lizards. He wasn’t certain about the movements of Imperial troops in regards to this whole dragon business but he did not doubt that General Tullius would make equal efforts as Ulfric in regards to avoiding losses of good men.

Losing men to dragons was not particularly favorable to either side.

Losing Skyrim to dragons was among the list of things he did not wish for.

And that thought followed him into his dreams on the fifth night after Kynesgrove’s own encounter.

He was back at Helgen, back in gag and binds, but instead of the Imperials and their headsman and his block, the Thalmor were feeding soldiers of the Empire and Stormcloaks alike into the horrible gaping maw of that awful black dragon, its eyes glowing red and its body a cruel twist of power, talons scoring the ground.

The heat from the beast was scorching, even without its mighty Thu’um.

And just as the Thalmor grabbed his shoulders to push him forward, a shadow flew over the square in a whisper of silence and for a moment, everything stopped. The Thalmor, the soldiers, even that black creature. All eyes turned skyward.

And then, with all eyes in the wrong direction, Ulfric witnessed a great flash of scales like shimmering sunlight streak down from the sky and slam into the black dragon with its entire body, sending that one sprawling away from the prisoners and directly into the Thalmor.

Crouched on the ground was a sleek creature with spines scattered over it shoulders and jagged scales armoring the hearty muscles at its wings, its body shifting colors in the light but all of them were tones of yellow and fire.

And then, the golden dragon lifted its head and released a great Thu’um to the sky.

Every solders binds were cut. Every solders hands held weapons.

And the black beast roared its challenge at the golden one.

And the gold one huffed powerfully, head lifted proudly, and the dragon shot into the sky with a simple sweep of its wings, the gust powerful enough to knock the Thalmor down and ground the black dragon for a moment. And when the black dragon had its bearings, it took to its wings as well.

The Thalmor were downed again by the blast, and the Empire and the Stormcloaks remained standing.

And while the dragons took their own fight high above them, the men and women of Skyrim and the men and women of the Empire stood beside each other as brothers and sisters in the Great War once more and they brought their rage down upon the Thalmor like a headsman’s axe.

Ulfric found himself fighting shoulder to shoulder besides Tullius, Elenwen herself facing off against the two and she held her own like a whirlwind of fury, wounding them both multiple times in the same amount of time it took for each of them to manage only one successful wound on her.

He watched Tullius parry an attack before she brought the general down to his knees with a cheap strike and kicked him away and the woman turned her full attention onto Ulfric, that same nasty smile she always wore when she tortured Ulfric on her lips and fear rose in his throat.

She rose her blades and he lifted his to try to block, and a fierce gust of wind descended upon them before great golden jaws closed down over Elenwen just as it landed, snatching her up and tossing her high like a child would throw an apple high into the air in hopes of trying to catch it.

Elenwen never came back down, as two dragons, one with scales like wine and white wings and the other the color of earth and rot and with tattered wings, both snatched up the woman and tore her apart.

The sleek golden dragon watched the two dragons above before turning great amber eyes with slitted pupils to Ulfric and the wounded Tullius.

And the beast sat back on its haunches, knuckles of its wings bracing it to sit tall and proud before the two leaders.

And in a low and rolling Thu’um, the golden dragon rumbled out three words.

“Su’um ahrk morah.”

Ulfric blinked in surprise before he drew in a deep breath.

“Drem, Strunkodaav. Drem, Sahqokonahrik. Yuvon hokoron fen mah.”

“What is it saying?” Tullius asked, clutching at his crippling wound.

And Ulfric translated.

“Peace, storm-bear. Peace, red-general. The gold enemy will fall.”

And the dragon almost hummed in satisfaction.

“Viing dovah ahrk bah mun. Hi fen kron.”

Wings of dragon and wrath of man. You will win.

You will win.

And Ulfric woke to sunlight on his skin and that Thu’um echoing in his mind.

And as the haze of sleep wore off, so did his memory of the dream and all he was left with was the image of that golden dragon and one fact.

That dragon did not speak as though to Thu’um came naturally.

It was like how Ulfric himself had began to speak in Thu’um. The words were there, they were known, but they didn’t feel right. It had taken Ulfric himself almost the entire time he lived among the Greybeards for the words to sift into the right spots when he spoke. Yet that dragon…

That dragon was a new speaker to the language of dragon tongue. It knew the words but saying them just wasn’t right yet.

It bothered him.

And even that fact faded away as Ulfric bathed and meditated all at once.

Peace.

Drem.

Su’um ahrk morah.

Breathe and focus.

And when he felt ready, he dressed and stepped out of the palace.

He needed to speak to the captain of the guard that morning who was currently stationed just outside the gate and as Ulfric and Galmar passed the path just by the graveyard, Ulfric heard one of the guards speaking.

“You look a little sick, are you sure you shouldn’t be at home in bed?”

“Not when ye ol’ Skyrim weather is saving my ass yet again.”

Ulfric stopped dead in his tracks with wide eyes, blinked, and backtracked.

He hadn’t heard that voice in almost two months.

And there on the streets of Windhelm stood that face.

The Altmer, Loriel Elsinlock.

Identical brother to the Thalmor aid.

The last time Ulfric had seen him, the Mer had been wearing chainmail underneath his blue merchant’s clothes and looked well enough to spit skulls despite his injuries at the hands of the Thalmor and received under dragonfire.

The person he found himself seeing this time was a tall Altmer standing on the stairs, wearing a loose miner’s shirt that was comfortably soaked with sweat that dripped down the Altmer’s neck, a dark blue merchant’s shirt folded over the satchel he carried, his golden face on the rose-gold side and misted with perspiration, and hair the color of harvest wheat swept back and tied up off his skin.

And the feverish fool was enjoying the weather.

“Perhaps you should head to the White Phial, friend, get a potion to cure you,” Ulfric commented, making the Altmer look away from the guard and his mouth quickly curved into a smile, brows rising in humor.

“If a potion could cure me, I wouldn’t be walking around in the cold to keep myself from being miserable. Good morning, Jarl of Windhelm.”

Ulfric huffed out a laugh.

“Good morning, fugitive. What brings you to the city?”

It was Loriel’s turn to laugh.

“Beauty of Dawn.”

Ulfric blinked in confusion.

“That was the song I was singing the first time I saw you. I was just past Radiant Raiment’s and you were leaving the city after having just killed Torygg. The guard who opened the gate for you was Roggvir. He used to pay me six Septims to sing Ragnar the Red when he had just gotten off shift every Tirdas. It always put him in a good mood. He’s dead now, just so you know. Because he opened that gate. And until the Thalmor are kicked out of Skyrim, I can’t go back to the Bard’s College. I bet the Thalmor confiscated all my stuff too. And visiting Imperial-sided holds will be troublesome.”

Loriel was smiling the entire time he told him all these details, and Ulfric got the feeling that he was less than happy about the latter half of his statement.

Every detail was a further punctuation as to what a problem Ulfric’s rebellion had caused for the elf.

Every detail behind the misery the Mer currently had to face was Ulfric’s fault.

And Ulfric drew in a breath.

“Windhelm is far from being Solitude, but if you can find it in yourself to tolerate the city until the war is over, you are welcome here. Just don’t cause any trouble,” Ulfric told him, his last statement holding a faint note of teasing.

Loriel gave a huff of a laugh.

“One measly Altmer bard on the run in Stormcloak country, what a story to tell my brothers,” he commented with a cheeky grin. “I’ll see what mayhem I can create without too much effort.”

And the Altmer gave a playful two-fingered salute to him before he walked off to possibly explore the city.

Ulfric found himself amused at the presence of the wanted fugitive in their midst.

A bard.

If the elf knew the Beauty of Dawn, Ulfric wondered what other older-era songs he knew.

It would lend some more vibrant variety to the people.

And variety always offered a means to make more people happy.

Ulfric would certainly have to wait and see how things would go with the elf’s added presence. There weren’t many Altmer in Windhelm, just the general goods merchant woman and the owner of the apothecary shop, so the addition would be noticeable to the people but only slightly. The Altmer seemed to be the biggest minority in Windhelm but they still lived better than both the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter and the Argonians who weren’t even allowed into the city.

“That elf was too comfortable with you,” his housecarl said gruffly.

What Galmar really meant was that he wasn’t comfortable with how casual the Altmer had been with him.

“That’s the elf I told you about. The one who escaped Helgen with Ralof.”

And Galmar frowned.

“Lucky elf, I’d say. Looks like a peasant.”

Loriel probably was in comparison to the rest of the soldiers.

“He’s can swing a sword as well as he can sing a tune.”

And Galmar scoffed.

“As long as he stays out of the way, I don’t care,” he stated, and Ulfric felt himself absently shrug before returning to the Palace of the Kings.

And Ulfric continued about his life, not worried about the presence of the elf in Windhelm, but he found himself staying absently aware for mentions of him.

At the end of a week, the bard had made himself rather popular, singing in the inn during the times the normal bard was sleeping and resting her voice, occasionally the two performing duets for the amusement of the patrons of the tavern, and he also heard whispers among the guard that the Altmer bard was doing performances in the Grey Quarter on certain nights and even going down to the docks some afternoons and singing for the Argonians while they worked.

Over all, Ulfric could simply note that the bard really loved to sing.

And had quite the collection of songs to sing.

The song that he sang the most though was Three Hearts as One, the song of the Ebonheart Pact.

Ulfric had heard the story perhaps once or twice in absence in his youth but he was not incredibly familiar with the tale or the history behind it. But he did know that it was about the three different races who rose together in arms in the Three Banners War, calling their alliance the Ebonheart Pact, Nords fighting beside the Dunmer and the Argonians, and that in the war that came, the army that had developed the biggest foothold, before cooperation between the armies was found to defeat a greater evil than each other, had been the made by the cooperation of the people of Skyrim, Morrowind, and Black-Marsh.

And with the song, Loriel had stirred the hearts of the Argonians and the Dunmer, and Ulfric found himself being approached more frequently about how the two races were treated.

But there was still concern in Ulfric’s heart.

The reason why he kept the segregation had not been out of hatred or disdain for either race, but because the Argonians and the Dunmer had more recently been at each other’s throats than they had been allies, and Ulfric wanted to avoid bloodshed in the city should those bad-blood feelings still linger.

But the rousing of spirits Loriel had done had given the Jarl of Windhelm something to think about.

And then, three weeks after he came, Loriel wandered out the gate of Windhelm wearing a cloak over some cheap leather armor he had bought from the city’s blacksmith, and he disappeared.

They had not spoken since that very first day that he came to the city.

And from what he overheard from the guards was that the gold bard had told the grey bard that he was going off adventuring for a while and promised that he would be back before she knew it.

But when one was out adventuring, there was a tendency to lose track of time.

And with the bard being so little known outside of Windhelm itself, Ulfric got to hear little news of the bard and his adventures from word of mouth from visitors to the city or even guards.

And in his absence, Ulfric found that things went back to the way they had been before he even came, ignoring the fact that the greyskins and scalebacks still had their newfound vigor from the bard which made the aquatic dockworkers and the dark elf laborers work harder though.

So the bard had turned out to be good for business after all.

To the Jarl of Windhelm, that was good enough for him.

And just when Ulfric’s thoughts were starting to dwindle away from their dragon problem due to the lack of reports, the Dragonborn came to Windhelm.

#Heart Of Arson #HoA #Ulfric Stormcloak #Loriel Elsinlock #Skyrim

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