#lake superior taking NO survivors as usual

[cleverwordsandotherstuffilike]

“What a menace, to live in bodies that are so frequently assumed to be corrupt.”

In Good Company

At the left edge of a field of ombré blue flies a rough-legged hawk, talons extended, the dark brown tips of its tail and wings unfurled, mouth open mid-key. This is the cover of my book Smith Blue. I loved the image from the first moment I saw it. I love the hawk’s unapologetic hunger and vigor. That hunger, those talons, were nothing for which the hawk needed permission. For the cover of a book about surviving—thriving, even—in a time of global and domestic strife, Dudley Edmondson’s photo of a hawk in the midst of graceful predation is perfect. Dudley lives in Duluth. The summer my daughter turned four, my family spent a few days in northern Minnesota, aiming to take a break from the routine patterns of our lives. On our final day in the state, the three of us, plus our friend Sean Hill, drove to meet Dudley at a restaurant on the shore of Lake Superior.

As much as I liked Dudley’s art, it was clear that day that Ray, my husband, and Sean loved Dudley even more. The three men grew loud and large over our lunch together. They all sounded blacker to me in each other’s company than they usually tended to sound. Which means that they sounded comfortable and happy in their bodies, that they cracked jokes in a particular kind of way about particular kinds of things, that they laughed upon receiving these jokes as well as on delivering them, that they danced a little when they walked. This is not to say all black people are good and constant dancers. It is to say that these three men were happy and light, that there was—as I have often heard said about others, but I have not often been able to say about my husband or these two friends—a spring in their steps.

There is a joke I have heard more than once that there are only five black birders in the country. Two of them are Sean and Dudley. Another, Drew Lanham, is also my friend. Which is to say that I am, according to lore, personally acquainted with 60 percent of the nation’s black birders. This would be shocking if my life weren’t filled with statistics that put me in company with others who are also virtually alone.

The three men spent lunch comparing notes about living in America in black bodies that were regularly confused with the bodies of other black men. Funny at first, the stories of being mistaken for a birder half a foot taller with completely different hair. But they soon became less funny. What a menace, to live in bodies that might be anybody’s, that are so frequently assumed to be corrupt. To be followed through stores by security. To be stopped and frisked as they walked to their offices. To be both erased and singled out. Their storytelling was a performance of one-upmanship. This story was worse than that story, was worse than the story one of them had just told, and always—this was the crux of the celebration, that it had not yet come to this—there was another story, much worse, that at any given moment the survivors might be left behind to tell.

After lunch, Dudley took us to one of the bluffs surrounding Lake Superior. “It was there and gone before I even saw it,” he said, crouching in the spot where he’d captured our rough-legged hawk. He’d snapped the picture, but hadn’t taken aim. Dudley is a masterful photographer. I am not writing this to underplay his skills. That is one of the things that keep me up at night: worrying that I’ll make difficult work sound easy.

His camera, Dudley said, just happened to be pointing the right way at the right time.

The monument

“You wrote about a lynching that happened in your hometown,” Dudley told Sean as we left the poetry reading we’d all attended after our shared lunch. “I want to take you up the street to show you the memorial to a lynching that happened here.” We are all telling the same story. When writing about race, there can perhaps be precious little wholly fresh revelation. As with writing about motherhood. It has been the same story for as long as anyone can remember. As with writing about the corruption of the body. As with writing about the landscapes of our world.

We walked up a hill and looked toward the corner of First Street and Second Avenue. Ninety-four years and fourteen days earlier, the mutilated bodies of Elias Clayton, Elmer Jackson, and Isaac McGhie hung from a streetlight. For the sculptures erected there to memorialize the three, artist Carla Stetson used young local men as models.

This is where I am supposed to tell you the story behind the lynching of Clayton, Jackson, and McGhie, though there really isn’t any reason for it. Clayton, Jackson, and McGhie were black bodies in the wrong place at the wrong time—which could be any place in this country, at any time.

Roustabout is one of the words used to describe Clayton, Jackson, and McGhie, which meant they worked for the John Robinson Circus as cooks and physical laborers. Consider outlandish: people—originally black people—who come from other places and bring with them “outlandish” ways of moving through the world. Consider hippie: in the Senegambian language known as Wolof, “hippi”—from which we get the terms hip, hippie, and hipster—means to open one’s eyes. And also to be sold downriver: a phrase that originally referred to the sale of enslaved human beings to more treacherous destinations along the Mississippi River basin. Words with derogatory shading—like roustabout— are often words that were associated with black bodies as they moved through America.

These particular roustabouts happened to be working in a circus that visited Duluth. On June 15, 1920, a mob of white men—some say more than a thousand, while others say as many as ten thousand—wanted them dead. The three men were being held in jail, supposedly for their protection. “The people who were outside were saying, ‘Just give us somebody,’ and that first somebody was a young man named Isaac McGhie,” says Michael Fedo, author of the book The Lynchings in Duluth.

Our little party spent a good deal of time walking around the monument. It fills a whole corner of the block and features quotations by people like James Baldwin, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Euripides. “The truth is rarely pure, and never simple.” Oscar Wilde. “The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing.” Albert Einstein. Siddhartha Gautama: “Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else. You are the one getting burned.” Over the top of the monument scrolls a quote from Edmund Burke: “An event has happened upon which it is difficult to speak and impossible to remain silent.” The quotations are familiar. If not in their particulars, at least in their ilk. Written against the damage we do to others and ourselves. The only new language on the monument is the description of the final hours of the lives of Clayton, Jackson, and McGhie.

I pointed my camera catty-corner across the street to the site where McGhie, Jackson, and Clayton were killed. (I keep using their names because I don’t want to let myself be part of the men’s erasure.) Duluth has maintained its brick streets in this section of town, but in places, as in the intersection of First Street and Second Avenue, there are tarred spots to patch potholes. My photo also reveals a crack in the sidewalk leading toward Second Avenue. The harsh climate in Duluth takes its toll.

In the image, the streetlight on that particular corner was attached to an arm from which hung a number of signs. The first sign read first st. The second was gray with a white p in a blue circle. Public Parking, it read. A white arrow indicated which direction to proceed. The final sign, closest to the traffic light—which was red in my photo—was black-and-white. It read one way. An arrow pointed in the direction of the Clayton Jackson McGhie Memorial. Sometimes it is easy to draw meaning from the arbitrary order of things.

Ray’s arms are long, and so it was he who captured a photograph of all of us in front of the monument. My four-year-old daughter, three of my favorite black men, Nancy, and me.

Routine traffic stop

That night in Duluth, dinner turned into a lingering dessert. The restaurant closed around us. Callie fell asleep with her head in my lap.

Our family had to fly back to Colorado early the next day. We finally said goodbye to Dudley. In the front seat of the car, Sean and Ray kept up their conversation. The two-lane highway was dark. Callie and I tried to doze in the backseat’s blackness. Ray passed two sedans. Lights and a siren filled our car.

When the Minnesota State Patrol officer approached the passenger-side window, he found two black men prepared for the worst. Sean’s hands were open and positioned on the dashboard. Ray’s arms were in the air, the wallet in his hand already open to his ID. Long before he met me, Ray attended police academy in California. There are over a thousand code violations you can come up with, he told me. If you want to pull someone over, he told me, you can always come up with a reason. He told me this three years ago, when we were driving in our new town in Colorado and, for no apparent reason, he was pulled over. I asked, What were you doing wrong? This, he reminded me, is an irrelevant question.

“Uh, sir,” said the officer, clearly startled by the two black men in their positions of surrender, “you can put your hands down.”

Ray did so, but very slowly, handing his ID to the officer as part of the arc. The cop, after trying to strike a balance between reassuring him and scolding him for speeding, walked to the squad car and ran the license numbers to see if there were warrants in Ray’s name. Mosquitoes swarmed through the open window as the officer handed Ray his citation. I slowly covered my daughter’s exposed skin with a light sweater, trying not to alarm anyone with a sudden slap.

I’d been in Minnesota the year before to teach at the same writers’ conference that had brought my family to the state that summer. The day I flew in the first time, self-appointed neighborhood watchman George Zimmerman was acquitted of the murder of Trayvon Martin, a seventeen-year-old black kid walking home from buying snacks. Our routine traffic stop happened just a week after Texas police shot and killed thirty-eight-year-old Jason Harrison, a black man. And one month earlier, Eric Garner, a black forty-three-year-old father of six, had been choked to death by New York Police Department officers. It was six weeks before Ferguson police shot Michael Brown, and five months before Cleveland police shot and killed twelve-year-old Tamir Rice while he played in a community recreation center. I made it clear to Callie that she should not open her mouth to ask what was going on.

Nine months before we were pulled over, unarmed twenty-four-year-old Jonathan Ferrell endured and died from ten gunshot wounds when he approached police officers while seeking help after a car accident. Moses Wilson, one of the jurors who sought a murder conviction for the police officer who shot Ferrell, said after the trial, “It became not what he did, or what they did to him, but more, what he didn’t do, what he should have known what to do, so that the police would not either beat him silly or shoot him.” These are some of the reasons that Sean’s hands remained on the dashboard when we were pulled over.

Sandra Bland had not yet been killed after a routine traffic stop in Waller County, Texas, but in June 2012, the unarmed twenty-three-year-old Shantel Davis had been shot by police just after shouting, “I don’t want to be killed, don’t kill me!” In a month, Renisha McBride would be shot in the head when she knocked on a door seeking help after a car accident in Dearborn Heights, Michigan. I wish I could say that the night my family sat on the side of the road in Minnesota I couldn’t have imagined that two years later, just thirty minutes from the airport we would use to fly out of the state the next day, four-year-old Dee’Anna Reynolds would find herself trying to console her mother from the backseat of a car whose driver, Philando Castile, had just been shot and killed by a panicked police officer. But I worry about such horrors all the time. These incidents, those that happened before and those that would happen later—like the monument we’d visited earlier that afternoon—were not irrelevant to our behavior that evening.

The four of us had no voices as we pulled back onto the highway and drove north through the pitch-black night.

After a few miles, Ray laughed, breaking our silence. “One thing we can say for sure,” he said into the darkness, remembering the officer’s shocked expression when we rolled down the window and he took us all in. “That was not a case of driving while black.”

These are the jokes you make when you are always, at some level, afraid for your life.

“Traveling While Black” is a modified version of an essay that appears in Guidebook to Relative Strangers: Journeys into Race, Motherhood, and History, published June 2017 by W.W. Norton & Company.

[rainydaydream-gal18]

Fili x Reader: Stranger

Author’s Note:  To the peeps who follow me for my Hobbit/LOTR stories, thank you for being patient!  After all that Star Wars stuff, I finally got some more Hobbit fanfics going here!  Not to toot my own horn, but I had a lot of fun with this idea.

This is set after Battle of the Five Armies where Fili, Thorin, and Kili all made it out and are rebuilding Erebor (the ending I’ve basically accepted instead of the one in the movies :D ).  I hope it is to your liking!

(ALSO please excuse my sorry excuses for Middle Earth names I put in here... I sort of invented them at work. You’ll know them when you see them :I )

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

    It was springtime in Dale, and everything was in full bloom.  The city had made an excellent recovery since the people of Lake-Town had made it their home again.

   Your relatives had been survivors of Lake-Town’s desolation and even had been successful enough to open a shop in the new city.  With the citizens of Erebor back in the mountain opening up trade again, Dale became a place of plenty.  It was because of this your relatives had sent word to your family offering a job and place to stay for any who desired a new start.  Your parents thought it would be a good experience for a young woman like you.  You’d learn the ins and outs of a successful business and also be of help to your relatives who needed the extra help as more customers came in.  Not to mention it would be an entirely new place with new people to meet.  You had been eager to travel a bit and see a little more of the world outside your little town.

   Your relatives were fairly distant, but you just called them Aunt Mirrim and Uncle Rhain.  They had two daughters that you referred to as your cousins.  Lilly and Gwennifer were sweet little girls, but also mischievous.  It wasn’t uncommon for them to play jokes on you or ask you repeatedly about your love life, to which you insisted you had none.  They just liked to hear your exasperated sigh, for reasons unknown to you.

   The days were busy with plenty for you to do in and out of the shop since Dale was still in the process of rebuilding in some areas.  You had even caught glimpses of the short and stocky  citizens of Erebor that came down from the mountain to trade or purchase goods.  Some were gruff, hesitant to trust your people since there had been a battle over gold merely months before.  Most were relatively friendly, however.  The women were generally more friendly towards you.  Your family sold clothes and accessories among other things, and even though the females had superior items made in Erebor, they expressed curiosity about the fashion and goods your people produced.  Once in a while you’d get questions or compliments from them.

   Today in particular was a beautiful day.  The air was warm and fresh, and yellow sunlight shone down from a clear blue sky.  Some trees had started to bud while others bloomed flowers.  You stood outside admiring the way white petals fell from a small tree in front of your aunt and uncle’s shop.  A spring breeze carried them gently to the stone walkway where they lay scattered.

   Uncle Rhain poked his head out the front door.  “______________, would you be so kind as to help me raise the banner?” 

   You nodded, taking the cloth banner from him  “Of course!”   The banner was a way for customers to know when the shop was open.  You paused, waiting for your uncle to take the other rope and help you raise it, but he had disappeared back inside.  “Oh, well, I suppose I’ll do it myself.  Shouldn’t be too much trouble!”  Normally he helped because the pulley could be tricky, but perhaps he forgot.  Rather than bother him, you figured you’d try to raise it yourself.  You unfolded the banner, hooked it onto the rope, and began to hoist it up.  It got stuck a few times, but fortunately, you seemed to be able to handle it.

   Then a gust of wind blasted through.

   It pulled the banner swiftly, dragging you forward as you grappled with securing the rope.  A few passersby watch with concern.  You were sure you looked silly.  Another strong gust of wind attempted to pry the banner from your hands, and you gasped as it tugged on your limbs.

   A set of masculine hands grabbed the rope in your peripheral.  He -whoever it was- pulled the entire banner straight up to its rightful place at the top front of the store.  You quickly tied it down and exhaled in relief, brushing hair from your face. 

   “I can’t thank you enough,” you told your rescuer, turning to face him.  He was clearly from Erebor, much shorter than the average man and of stocky build.  For someone to have been able to raise that banner as quickly as he did alone, he must have been very strong.  He had a long blonde mane and beard with blue eyes that shone in amusement as he smiled at you.  

   “No worries,” he assured you.  “What are you doing out here wrestling with this thing all by yourself?”

   “I, um,” you were a little stunned.  He was quite handsome, after all.  “My uncle usually helps, but I think he got a little distracted.  It’s very busy around here.”

   “I’m sure.  It’s been a period of rebuilding for all of us.”

   You nodded.  “Yes, it has.”

   “My name is Fili,” he introduced, extending a hand.  

   “I’m ___________.”  You took his hand briefly in greeting, marveling at how warm and strong it was.

   He gazed at you as if searching for something.  For a minute, you weren’t sure what to say.  Finally, he spoke again.

   “You’re not from Lake-Town, are you?”

   “Oh, no I’m not.” You shook your head.  “My relatives are.  After Smaug was defeated, they opened up this shop.  Since things are going so well, they invited me to come work for them a few weeks ago.”

   “I thought so.  See, I went to Lake-Town when Smaug paid his...visit… And I don’t recall seeing you.  I’m sure I would’ve remembered you if I had.”

   You fought the warmth that crept into your cheeks at his words.  “I’m sure you say that to all the young ladies you meet here.”

   “Definitely not,” Fili chuckled.  “This has been my first time here since the Battle.  I’ve heard good things about the progress your people are making here, and I was curious.  I wanted to see for myself.”

   “And what do you think?  Now that you’ve seen it?”

   “I think…” he narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment.  “I think I like it.”

   You smiled.  “Well, I’m honored to have been part of your first visit to Dale since it was a pile of ruins.”

   “I’m honored that you’re honored.”

   The conversation ebbed into a mutual silence, though neither of you seemed bothered by it.  Things changed when another shorter man with long hair, though lacking in a full beard, approached.

   “Fili, we need to get our things and get back, or Thorin would be much displeased.”  He took notice of you and smiled.  “Well hello there.  Are you a friend of my brother’s?”

   “We only just met,” Fili replied, rolling his eyes, before looking at you again.  “This is my brother, Kili.”

   “Pleased to meet you,” you said, smiling.

   “Not as pleased as I to meet you.”

   Fili rolled his eyes again.  “Well, I must be going...  Although, I wanted to ask,  what sort of things do you sell?”

   “Dresses and accessories as well as traveling gear.”

   He nodded.  “Traveling gear? Very interesting... I think I’ll have to stop by.  Mind if I come by tomorrow at the same time?  Perhaps I can help you with the banner again.”

   You beamed.  “Of course.  I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

   “Yes, see you tomorrow.”

    “Have a good rest of your day,” Kili chimed in.  

   “You too!”

   Even as Fili and his brother walked away, he snuck a glance or two back at you.  In fact, he almost walked right into another gentleman’s way since he wasn’t paying attention like he should.  After he was gone, you found yourself unable to stop smiling.  You went back inside the shop thinking over your interaction with him.  A part of you was surprised and uncomfortable with the fact you found him so attractive and couldn’t wait to see him again.  After all, you were from two totally different cultures. 

   “You look so deep in thought, __________.” Aunt Mirrim’s comment interrupted your thoughts.  “Is everything alright?”

   “Oh yes, everything’s fine.”  You quickly resumed organizing some of the items that had been misplaced by customers the day before.  “I just wanted to let you know we will be expecting a customer right when we open tomorrow.”

   She grinned.  “Very well!  Might I say that we really appreciate your help, dear.  We’ve noticed more customers since you came along to encourage people and help them find what they need.”

   “I appreciate this opportunity,” you insisted.  She walked past to continue her work, and your thoughts returned to the mysterious Fili.  What was his job in Erebor?  Was he a blacksmith or tailor?  Perhaps he was some sort of writer or educator?  You figured you’d ask him the next day.  Either way, you counted the minutes until your paths crossed again.

#hobbit imagine #hobbit reader insert #hobbit x reader #erebor #dale #fili x reader #fili imagine #fili #hobbit fanfiction #kili

[gayregis]

vampire headcanons 2020, pt. 2

part two: “society” and culture

this post is more based upon canon than the previous one. the next will be almost purely conjecture/headcanon.

(previous post)

> how vampires view the conjunction of the spheres, population of vampires on the continent

“I’m the descendant of survivors, unfortunate beings imprisoned here after the cataclysm you call the Conjunction of Spheres.” 

Baptism of Fire, pg. 219

regis says “survivors,” but avallac’h also uses this term to refer to humans who arrived on the continent from the conjunction of spheres (The Tower of the Swallow, pg. 243) and when he speaks later about the conjunction, it is in purely logical terms, suggesting that there is not much regret and longing for the other world they came from.

“After the Conjunction of the Spheres there remained approximately one thousand two hundred (1,200) higher vampires in your world. (...) Since the Conjunction - once again calculating according to your reckoning - one thousand five hundred (1,500) years have passed.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 297

for comparison, dandelion mentions that novigrad has around “thirty thousand (30,000) dwellers, not counting travellers” (Eternal Flame, pg. 134), and even though this is quite unique and remarkable for a city and dandelion tells this fact to geralt in context of describing novigrad as “the capital of the world,” this is a significantly larger number than the amount of higher vampires who arrived to the witcher world during the conjunction of the spheres. there are not that many vampires living on the continent, there were less vampires than the population of a large public high school. 

this population is likely spread across the entire continent (the northern realms, the empire of nilfgaard, islands and archipelagos like skellige, and distant places like the far north and zerrikania), so they’re incredibly widely dispersed. geralt calls vereena a “rare bird” (The Last Wish, pg. 62), and did not consider regis to be a vampire until he purposefully revealed himself, which further suggests that higher vampires are extremely rare.

i tend to headcanon that the vampires were more condensed as a group during the time when regis partied (approx. up to 300 years ago) as dandelion describes the world during that time period:

“You’re reading Roderick de Novembre? As far as I remember, there are mentions of witchers there, of the first ones who started work some three hundred (300) years ago. In the days when the peasants used to go to reap the harvest in armed bands, when villages were surrounded by a triple stockage, when merchant caravans looked like the march of regular troops, and loaded catapults stood on the ramparts of the few towns nights and day. Because it was us, human beings, who were the intruders here. This land was ruled by dragons, manticores, griffins and amphisboenas, vampires and werewolves, striga, kikimores, chimerae and flying drakes. And this land hand to be taken from them bit by bit, every valley, every mountain pass, every forest and every meadow. And we didn’t manage that without the invaluable help of witchers. But those times have gone, Geralt, irrevocably gone.”

The Last Wish, pg. 162

the vampires were present enough during this time, and we can corroborate this history with regis’ account:

“So I partied. Revelries and frolics, shindigs and booze-ups; every full moon we’d fly to a village and drink from anyone we found. The foulest, the worst class of ... er ... fluid. It made no difference to us whose it was, as long as there was ... er ... haemoglobin ... It can’t be a party without blood, after all!”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 293

there were enough vampires in the past 400 years to hold parties on the full moon, actual genuine parties. but we never hear of vampires raiding villages during this time period, and geralt who is a current witcher, when asked of dealing with vampires, doesn’t say anything about these revelries and instead describes when he has been asked to deal with vampires but the threat was in fact non-existent (Baptism of Fire, pg. 152). thus we can assume that the vampires just don’t hold such raucous parties anymore, perhaps for a couple of potential reasons: their numbers are more dispersed and there are less vampires who live together in groups nowadays, and they have also likely lost leading figures like regis who were absolute mad lads and led the parties on.

> society, tradition, and language

vampire “society” is loosely tied together, and there exists no rules or authority amongst them:

“With humans, however, there exists a system of rules and restrictions: parental authority, guardians, superiors and elders - morals, ultimately. We have nothing like that. Youngsters have complete freedom and exploit it. They create their own patterns of behavior. Stupid ones, you understand.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 293

from this anarchy comes a culture defined by partying, i.e., drinking from human villages during the full moon:

“Generally, the statistically average vampire drinks during every full moon, for the full moon is a holy day for us, which we usually... er... celebrate with a drink. (...) The number of teetotallers - because there is a considerable number of them - balances the number who drink excessively, as I did in my day.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 297

and also characterized by hanging out in crypts, apparently:

(...) It got rowdier and rowdier,” the vampire continued. “Occassionally I went on such benders that I didn’t return to the crypt for three or four nights in a row.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 294

the full moon is a celebration to them because when it is full, they are granted their full powers: they can shift easily between forms and dematerialize / rematerialize at will. it could also be because the full moon was the thing that they saw when they first arrived on the continent and thus every full moon is now an anniversary of sorts.

i headcanon that their societies, when they manage to have one, are largely based upon these celebratory drinking festivities. whoever is the best at partying is admired and well-liked. it’s a popularity contest of sorts. think of your local annoying fraternity boys.

but if they have no authority in the form of parental or elder guardianship, how do they receieve their names? regis only says this on the topic of vampire naming conventions:

“(...) I’d insisted on adopting the name Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. Vesemir thought it was ridiculous; pretentious and idiotic. I dare say he was right.”

Dandelion snorted loudly, looking meaningfully at the vampire and the Nilfgaardian.

“My full name,” Regis said, a little piqued by the look, “is authentic. And in keeping with vampire tradition.”

Baptism of Fire, pg. 316

which is incredibly vague and unhelpful. all we know canonically is that vampire names are traditionally long and comprised of many names, likely in the same structure that regis’s is constructed in.

my suggestion to all of this is that vampire names are given to them by their peers, and they likely have developed their own various traditions of giving individuals names, based upon their most apparent qualities. regis is a latin name meaning “king” (genitive singular form of rex), which could be based in how the other vampires viewed him and how fun he was at parties.

it doesn’t really make sense for vampires to be using latin, but latin does exist as a language in the witcher universe, and regis uses a bit of latin randomly in an otherwise useless exchange:

The Witcher stood. “ Go on. Run off and pack. And be quick.”

“It won’t take me very long. Omnia mea mecum porto.”

“What?”

“I have very little luggage.”

(Lady of the Lake, pg. 139)

this is a reference to bias of priene, one of the seven sages of greece, quoted by cicero in his stoic paradoxes (paradox i), as saying “i carry with me all my possessions” / “all that is mine i carry with me”. this is likely just a reference that was intended to compare regis with bias of priene, who is known for his integrity and defense of others, his philosophical and humanist nature.

thus latin being the language of the vampires likely does not hold any ground, because regis is not the only individual that uses latin in the books. season of storms is infamous for its overusage of latin (“primo, secundo, tertio,” anyone?). in addition, vereena is not a latin name. vampires do have their own language, but it is unidentifiable to geralt yet is still able to influence him with feelings of terror:

He heard singing. He didn’t understand the words, he couldn’t even identify the language. He didn’t need to - the witcher felt and understood the very nature, the essence, of this quiet, piercing song which flowed through the veins in a wave of nauseous, overpowering menace. (...)

He could still hear her song, even though her thin, pale lips were held tight and not the slightest sound emerged from them.

The Last Wish, pg. 62

from what we can glean, vampires do not typically speak aloud like humans do. regis is an outlier as noted by geralt in the quotes cited in the previous post. in the last wish, vereena speaks solely through telepathy to geralt:

You. You will be the first to grow weak, Sorcerer. I will kill you.

The bruxa’s lips didn’t move, but the witcher heard the words clearly; they resounded in his mind, echoing and reverberating as if underwater.

The Last Wish, pg. 65

the only aloud vocalizations vereena makes are the screams she does in combat and when she screams in pain, which can be considered common for vampires.

(next post)

#vampire headcanons #the witcher #vamp squad #regis #why did regis randomly quote cicero. does he even know who cicero is. do humans in this universe even know. what the fuck #long post /

[garryspolicememories]

                                       Policing Memories of

                                 Garry Crawford Circa 1962

                                                 Part XV

     When I first arrived in Wawa in the Spring of 1971, to the best of my recollection there were no civilian radio dispatchers. I believe it was sometime in the next year or so that they started hiring dispatchers. I mention them because they are the unsung hero’s. They are the lifeline for the field officer. They are the ones who would answer the phone and get the necessary information that could mean life or death to so many. The caller in a domestic dispute, or life defining incident. The Officers who would be dispatched to know just what they were walking into. The information they received and dispatched could make all the difference. They received little or no training. They worried about the civilians and their officers on the road. They knew what was happening, where the dangers were and did what they could to support us. If they had not heard from an officer for a certain length of time you would get a check call. At the end of the day, they had to take all of these pressures home with them and they were not to speak to anyone about them. Please remember them and thank them where you can.

     I am listing the names I remember in the early days, some of them moved on the Sault Ste Marie and other Districts. I apologize for any I have missed or have mistakenly listed. These are the ones that come to mind. I thank you all for having our back. Olga McCluskie, Joyce West, Ray White, Roly MacDonald, Dave Doucette, Mullen, Kathy Toop, Rose O’Hearn, Marilyn James. I can remember so many times I would have conversations with these people that were so helpful. The smart ones would ask a question in a very diplomatic way, so often they would make you take a  second look at your decisions and adjust accordingly.

      Linda Skorniak was our secretary and filled in, in so many ways. Brian Ringrose was one of the custodians who was our chief cook on some of our larger bush searchers. Without his volunteering we would have had a pretty hungry group. He always added to the espirits of the group

     I have to tell a little story that comes to mind when I think of Linda Skorniak. One day I was working in the back end of the Constables Office. Linda was also in the office at that time. A lady came in to the front desk and on seeing me she asked Linda if I was Corporal Al Jordan.

     Linda replied: No Al Jordan is a really good looking guy. I forget just what the lady wanted, but between the two of us we satisfied her query and she left the office. I then said to Linda: Linda I overheard what you said to that lady about Al. If Al is the really good looking one, what the hell am I. Linda kind of stammered then replied: Oh you are a more rugged looking guy. To this day I am still trying to understand whether that is good or bad.  I do know I appreciated Linda.                                

         The Sinking of The Edmund Fitzgerald

     The Edmund Fitzgerald was an American Great Lakes freighter that sank in a Lake Superior storm on November 10, 1975, with the loss of the entire crew of 29. When launched on June 7, 1958, she was the largest ship on North America's Great Lakes, and she remains the largest to have sunk in Lake Superior. This occurred in Canadian Waters Off Whitefish Point. The following day there were many OPP members involved in walking the shoreline in search of debris or survivors from that wreck. No one was ever found from the wreck. Gordon lightfoot wrote his song: The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald a couple of years later which most Canadians can recall.

     During the summer of 1977 we received word at Wawa Detachment that a human leg bone had washed up on a small beach on the west end of Michipicoten Island. Michipicoten Island is located in Lake Superior about 60 km off shore from Wawa.  A request was submitted for the use of a force helicopter. Permission was given and an OPP helicopter piloted by Norm Kerr was dispatched to Wawa. Ed Zelionis District Dive Master, Bud Brennan of DHQ Identification Branch and myself, proceeded to the scene. A human leg was recovered, all of the bones were still attached with the exception of the last little toe appendage. A search was made of the beach and shallow water area for further items. Ed and Bud remained at the scene while Norm and I flew to the West End lighthouse where I arranged with the light keepers to make periodic searches of the beach should further remains wash up. The beach was quite narrow. On our return to the beach from the lighthouse, Norm made his round out over the water. He then drifted the helicopter sideways at an altitude of just a few feet. His intention was to set the helicopter down as soon as we were over the beach.

   When Ed had completed his dive he had removed his wet suit and left it lay on the beach to dry. We had not noticed it and as we edged closer to the beach, the rotor wash started to lift the wet suit. The danger being, if it was to lift either into the main rotor of the tail rotor, it could result in serious consequences. Norm attempted to back away from the wet suit. As he did there was a very loud bang. We were parallel to the beach; which meant the back up action moved us down the beach. There was a dead spruce tree that hung out over the beach. We had hit it. Norm and I both had mikes on. I remember when I heard the bang, Norm said: Do you know what that was? My reply was very quick. Ya sit her down, sit her Down.

I had to laugh afterwards as Norm is an excellent pilot and he did not need me to tell him what to do. All I could think of was, we had hit with the tail rotor. Damage to that would cause the helicopter to start to spin. Spinning and crashing you don’t stand much chance as the jolt when you stop usually breaks your neck. Needless to say Norm did a good job of recovering and did set the helicopter down on the beach. I remember examining the main rotor. It had several small wrinkles in it at one point. Norm advised it was fit to fly and we were able to return to Wawa. Before we left Bud Brennan took a photograph of the three of us sitting on the beach. If you look carefully you can see the white end of the overhanging spruce tree behind the helicopter. The photograph from L to R shows Ed Zelionis hugging his wet suit Lol, Garry Crawford and Norm Kerr the pilot.

     We did not have DNA analysis available at that time, so there was no way of making a definite determination as to where the leg had come from. It did make a lot of since that the there was a high probability that it came from the wreckage of the Edmund Fitzgerald. The extremely cold water of the lake would explain the remains surviving intact for that length of time. The counter clockwise circulation of the lake current would explain how it ended up on that small beach so far out on the lake. An examination revealed that the find was from a man estimated to be approximately 65 yrs of age.

     Lake Superior is extremely deep, however the currents are effected by weather to great depths. I remember another case where a fishing boat had sunk and Ed Zelionis had recovered the bodies. The boat had sunk in excess of fifty feet of water. I believe it was a month or so later Ed was approached by the fishing company to assist in recovering the boat. The boat had been relatively undamaged when Ed made the original recovery, however when he returned to recover the boat. There was extensive damage where the boat had rolled over several times on the bottom.

     A Typical Drowning Recovery In 1970’s

     Prior to the mid 1960’s most under water drowning recoveries were made using Dragging Irons. These were lengths of pipes with short lengths of chain attached that had large treble hooks attached that we use to refer to as Sturgeon Hooks. Where a search area was identified a series of parallel passes would be made dragging the irons behind a boat. The hooks would hopefully snag on the victim allowing his recovery. They were quite difficult to use as they snagged on everything they passed over.

     In the latter part of the 1960’s the OPP decided to form Underwater Recovery Teams. I think it was George Orser from Kenora who travelled around doing the testing and selection for the job. I remember I was a very strong swimmer and wanted to try out for the group. When they did the testing for the Sudbury District Members, I attended but was not allowed to take the test, mainly because I had no experience using scuba equipment. The main part of the original test consisted of putting on the tanks mask etc. Diving to the bottom in about fifteen feet of water removing mask and tanks. Then putting your mask back on clearing the mask and repositioning the tank on your back. I thought I could hold my breath long enough to do all those activities even if I didn’t use the scuba. George justifiably rejected my opportunity. Little did I realize at that time just how much scuba diving required you to know.

     In later years I did obtain some knowledge of that occupation. I also learned that scuba diving should not be done by the faint at heart or the fool hardy. There are numerous dangers to be aware of. As an example most people that have not taken up the sport do not realize that a lung full of air from a tank of compressed air at 30’ doubles its volume at surface. So if you are working at 30’ and your tank went empty, then you returned to surface holding your breath you would seriously damage your lungs or worse. The deeper you dive the more the expansion and the greater the danger. One must always keep breathing as you come to surface or exhale if out of air as the air you have increases as you come up. Working for extended period at depth requires you to use a careful formula to avoid air in your blood or what they call the bends which can also be fatal.

     I remember in the mid 1970’s receiving a call at Wawa Detachment that there had been an alleged drowning on Hobon Lake, south of Franz, Ontario. I proceeded via a bush road to Hobon Lake with Ed Zelionis and one other District Diver whose name I can not recall at this time. Our equipment consisted of about a fourteen foot outboard boat with a 15 hp motor. The two divers; diving equipment including extra tanks. About 150” of ½” rope. A large number of javex bottles with string attached. Two diving fins which were made out of 5/8” plywood. They were approximately 2’wide and a 1’ deep, with straight sides and back, curved from the centre area down back to the sides. There was a slot cut from the front centre almost to the centre of the board where there was a hole to attach one end of the tow rope. There were hand holds cut about centre on both sides.

     The first thing one does when attending a body recovery site is to try to make an educated guess as to just where the body may be. This is done considering where the person may have entered the water, plus taking into consideration the water temperature, wind direction, current, What they may have consumed etc. and body buoyancy. Any of these things can effect where the body may be. I have seen cases of fast water where the body is recovered right at their point of entry and others where they were recovered twenty miles away. Usually one starts at the established point of entry plus and you work your way down stream or downwind from that point. I say plus because there is always that chance that your information is a little incorrect and the person entered the water upstream or upwind from where your information led you to believe.

     In the recovery at Hobon Lake, the occurrence involved a Native man who had allegedly fallen out of a canoe about half way up the Lake. We started taking into consideration where the canoe came on shore and working upwind from that point. I ran the boat. We attached one end of the rope to the back corners of the transom, placing one rope on each side. Each of the divers took one of the fins on the end of the rope and was dragged behind, using the fins to take them up or down and side to side. The visibility of the water dictated just how wide a strip we could cover on each pass. Hobon Lake is a long narrow lake. So we started at centre of the lake and worked towards the shore on the side where the canoe had been found and upwind. I dropped off Javex bottles as I proceeded south in this case. The attached string had a weight secured to the bottom which anchored the bottles in place as I dropped one. This gave me direction and reference. As I reached a point where I would return, I would similarly mark it and make a parallel return pass. We had to be careful as there were fallen trees etc, on the bottom that I could not see. A close watch was kept on the diver’s bubbles. I remember on one pass having to stop as one of the divers had been pulled into a down tree that tangled up his line. We had completed about ¾ of the selected area when the body was recovered. I remember that with all of the diving equipment, and the three of us there was no room in the boat for the deceased. We placed him in canoe and towed him down the lake to where we had left our truck. We then carried him and the canoe up to the truck and placed him in the box of the truck, wrapping him in an emergency blanket. The body was then transported out the bush road to Dubreuville; where we were met by a local undertaker. Who then transported the deceased in his hearst to Wawa. I mention this as in so many cases during my career I was either party to or actually involved in a strange method of removing a deceased. In some cases it was in the box of a pick up truck, others holding them upright on a snowmobile, tied to a stretcher then lowered out a window. In one case before snowmobiles I remember using and old army truck that had a mounted A frame and no box. We wrapped the deceased in a mattress wrapping chain around to hold everything in place. Then laid it over the front fender like a deer. There was no disrespect meant. It was simply a matter of making do with what we had. I also remember a skier who froze to death being brought out frozen in a sitting position in a helicopter. These were things we had to do.

     A question I remember being asked by people who witnessed some of the macabre situations that we were involved with was: What do you do at the end of the day? My answer was always the same. As police officers, you do what you have to do. If you are lucky and have a clear conscience. You do what everybody else does. You go home cook your supper, go for a walk or cut the grass. You enjoy your family, the same as everyone else.

     If you wish to read my previous submissions, they are all stored at the following URL: <garryspolicememories.tumblr.com>

[tibbinswrites]

06&26 please! I will never pass an opportunity to read something from you :)

It has taken me days longer than it should and it was supposed to be short, but here it is, finally. Thank you so much for your patience, I hope it holds up.

Prompt #06&26 - Wings and Protection from this list

Inspired by this fantastic fic (seriously, it’s so much better than mine, go read it).

Love Tibbins xx

How I Met Your Brother

Cassat with Sam on the hood of the impala, watching Jack throw stonesinto the lake, twisting his wrist low to send them skipping over thewater like Sam had shown him. Dean was asleep on the picnic blanketto their right, one elbow sticking out from under his head, kneestucked up slightly. He’d probably be stiff when he awoke, and cold;the sun was beginning its slow descent towards the horizon andalthough the temperature hadn’t dropped dramatically yet, the windhad picked up from slight breeze to more constant chill. Not that Casfelt it beyond his intrinsic knowledge of what the temperature was,but Sam and Jack had already put on their jackets. Still, they alllet him sleep. He needed the rest and Cas could always heal his acheswhen he woke.

Thislunch outside had been a great idea of Dean’s, getting them all outof the bunker for some sunshine and quality time, something whichnone of them had been able to appreciate lately, particularly Sam. Hehad taken the loss of the Apocalypse World survivors hard, and theambiguity of Jack’s current state harder still, so seeing him smileand joke and gently poke Dean with a long branch until thestill-sleeping hunter batted at the offending weapon and rolled ontohis side, making Jack hold his hands over his mouth to try and stopthe laughter from waking the angry bear.

“I’mreal glad we did this, Cas,” Sam said quietly, watching thebranches of a willow tree where they trailed lazy patterns in thewater, “I don’t know how he knew that this was what I neededbut…” he gestured at the beautiful scene around them, thebeginnings of spring making itself known; flowers beginning to emergefrom the earth, greenery budding on branches, the sound of demandingchicks hassling their poor parents for food.

“Areyou surprised?” Cas asked, a smile in his voice, “He knows youbetter than anyone, as you know him.”

“Ithought I did,” Sam replied, a shadow crossing his face, “Ithought I knew what he needed, but when he- last time he neededsomething I just couldn’t figure it out. I let him be Agent Pageand I gave him beer at breakfast and I tried to take him to a stripclub. I felt like a kid, like I was trying to cheer him up in thestupid little ways that kids do. I didn’t know how to fix theproblem so I just tried masking it with stuff he liked. It didn’twork.”

“I’msure he appreciated the effort nonetheless,” Cas saiddiplomatically, “as you appreciate his efforts in cleaning up thebunker and doing your laundry and suggesting this. Isn’t it thesame? It doesn’t fix the problem, but it helps.”

Samsighed, a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from his very core, hiseyes fixed on Jack’s next stone that was too heavy to make a goodskipping stone and the corner of his mouth twitched up as it hit thewater with a disappointing plop. Jack wasn’t deterred though,searching through the pebbles on the very edge of the shoreline,muddying the water by stirring up the sand. Cas saw worry in Sam’shazel eyes, even through the stress and pain of loss there was aconstant, gnawing worry. Cas knew it, he felt it too.

“Whatdoes fix the problem?” Samasked him suddenly, “We’ve still got so much going on; I need tobe there for Jack, for everyone that’s left, for Dean, but I don’tknow how. I can’t even go into the library anymore. I stood outsideit for twenty minutes this morning, but I couldn’t go in, couldn’teven look. I just kept seeing Maggie-”

Heburied his face in his hands then. Not crying, like would be expectedof someone in this position and in this much raw pain, probablyforcing the tears down because of the boy skipping stones only yardsaway. Keeping up appearances, a lifelong habit.

“Ifailed them, Cas,” he mumbled through his fingers, “I failed allof them.”

“Whatcould you have done differently?”

“Something.”

Cas’heart went out to the man. Sam had grown so much in the last fewyears; ever since Cas had returned from the Empty Sam had beendifferent, he had taken on the parental role in Jack’s life whileDean had kept his distance, trying his absolute best to make surethat Jack never felt the same loneliness that he had as a child. Caswould be forever grateful to Sam for fulfilling his promise to Kellywhen he himself couldn’t. Not that that was why Sam had done it, ofcourse, he was just kind.

“Doyou-” Sam began, then he dropped his hands from his face and shookhis head, expression closing in on itself, “never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing,it’s… it’s stupid.”

“Tellme anyway.”

Samshot him a look, cautious, like he was worried Cas wouldn’tunderstand.

“Doyou think maybe Dean was right? That we should’ve let him go whenhe asked us to? We lost over twenty hunters, Cas. Good people whodidn’t deserve to die. And Jack had to burn off who knows how muchof his soul to save us. Would it have been better to let Dean get inthat damn box?”

Caschewed on his bottom lip; his immediate reaction was no,of course they were better off for having Dean here, how could Sameven think otherwise? But he knew that would be unhelpful, it wasclear that Sam already hated himself for thinking it.

“Perhaps,”he said instead, “but could you have lived with yourself if youhad?”

“Liveswould have been saved,”

“Butnot you brother.”

“Itwas what he wanted,”

“So?”

Sam’slips quirked at that. “I know,” he said quietly, “as wrong asit is, even after everything Michael did, I would rather have Dean.”

“Metoo.”

Theyfell silent for a little while, watching asJack eventually grew bored of throwing pebbles and began inspectingthe insects that gathered around the roots of nearby plants.

“Iknow what it’s like to lose people under your command,” he saideventually, “to be the only one left and feel like you failed thembecause of that.”

Samlooked at him, pushing his hair back from his face and tucking itbehind his ear.

“Bummission?” He asked,

“Quitethe opposite. It was the most important mission of my life,” hepaused a moment, “I never did tell you the story of how I raisedDean from Hell, did I?”

Samstarted at that, twisting his torso around to face him, “No. I- youdidn’t.”

“Iwas desperate to prove myself,” Cas said with a sigh, “Anna hadfallen only a few decades before and I had taken her place asgarrison leader in all buttitle, our reputation hadtaken a hit because of Anna’s rebellion but there was littleopportunity for any significant victories to try and rectify that.Still, our garrison was the most disciplined, the most tenacious inpursuing a goal. We had never failed a mission for Heaven. At thetime, I thought that was why I was chosen, but now I’m not so sure,perhaps they thought I would be a good decoy, or maybe they werehoping to get rid of me because of my reputation as a rebel among thehigher-ups, though, of course, I wasn’t aware of that.” Histhroat tightened, as it always did when he thought of Naomi and theparts of himself that he had lost thanks to her… treatments. Hewondered if he would ever regain those memories, he wasn’t sure hewanted to. “Regardless, they placed me with fourteen other angels,the best of the best, leaders of their own garrisons, and they gaveme command. There were three other groups sent as well of a similarsize. An army. We hadn’t been needed in such numbers sinceLucifer’s fall. We seemed to be much harder to kill back then.”

Hesmiled wryly at Sam, who was watching him, rapt.

“Assoon as we got word that the Righteous Man had arrived in the Pit, wewere sent to retrieve him. And so we laid siege to the gates. Mygarrison were strong, we worked well together and they trusted me aswell as any angel trusts their superior. Implicitly, whether or notit’s wise.”

Heremembered it well. A lot of his memories of his time in Heaven hadgone fuzzy around the edges—probablythe result of his bouncing from angel to human and back again, theloss of his grace and its diminished power—butthat war… every detail was as sharp as the day it happened, likeeach moment had been painstakingly sketched onto glass, preservedforever.

Theywere the last of the groups to arrive at the gates, Castiel had hopedto use the distraction at the main point of entry to see if he couldfind another one but Hell had closed all other ways in and out, would have closed the main gates too if that action was reversible.So they threw themselves into the assault; demons and almost-demonsand hellhounds and twisted creatures that had once been human souls,tortured into madness and forgetting their human forms, all of themfell before his blade. But there were always more; perhaps some wereeven the same ones, they were still in Hell after all, torment waseternal here. He and the others pushed forwards, breaking through thegates after only a year of fighting, but that was barely the firsthurdle, on the other side, as expected, was a veritable wall ofdamned creatures, all intent of destroying them. 

The bloodshed wasunending, angels didn’t tire and neither did demons, though whilethe latter revelled in the violence and chaos of it all, after adecade the angels began to flag. Hell was oppressive to their verybeings, everything that it was made of repelled them. The power ofsuch a place attacked more than just their physical forms, once pastthe threshold of the gates, they were bombardedwith the prayers. The walls of Hell kept them in usually, but oncethey were inside the bubble popped and the screams began. Thousandsupon thousands of them, praying to God, to His angels, to anyone whowas listening to help them, save them, stop the torment that theirhad brought upon themselves, either with a deal or a lifetime ofvice. 

Some angels fled at the onslaught and Castiel couldn’t blamethem. Whether or not you believed the souls here deserved their fate,it was another thing entirely to hear it. Noneof his retreated though and Castiel redoubled his efforts to make anopening, using the screams as motivation. He couldn’t aid all ofthem, but there was one, one voice in the millions that he could helpsave. He tried to pick it out, to focus on it, but as he had no ideawhat Dean Winchester’s voice sounded like, it was impossible. Buthe did pick one voice, a young American male, and pretended that itwas the Righteous Man. He fought for that voice, even as Kevial wassurrounded and torn apart, his grace shredded and tossed aside withno hope of retrieval. It was the first loss of the battle and it washis, but he forcedhimself to press on. He had sent Kevial up to scout from above, totry and see if they were almost through; a reckless decision, theywould know they were through when they got there, and it had costKevial his life.

Hesent Lanariel back to the edge of the fighting to recuperate after ahellhound had badly rent one of her wings and there she was caught bya group of demons who dragged her, screaming, back into the Pit.

Sherejoined the battle twelveyears later, her eyes flickering with corrupted grace, and Castielcut her down himself.

Hetoo was beginning to weaken, his grace starting to compress under thepressures of this place, where everything was blood and sulphur andbile. In a way to combat this he changed his form to a more compactshape; his earthly vessel, James Novak, onlywith the dimensions skewed so he was larger than the average human.He kept his wings, of course, mostly for practicality’s sake butalso so that he would be recognisable as an angel in the way that theRighteous Man thought of them, if he was still human enough torecognise anything. It had been sixteenyears on this plane since Dean Winchester had died on Earth, no doubthe was being given special attention by Hell’s best torturer,Alastair, to break him, to break the first Seal, if he hadn’talready.

Perhapsit was that desperate thought that caused him to dash through a briefcrack in the defending forces the second it opened. Itwas pure luck that he had been right next to it, slicing through ahellhound to reveal it and his just acted. The openingclosed behind him just as quickly, and although he hadn’t gonecompletely unnoticed, the distraction at the gates proved too largefor more than a few creatures to peel off and attack, though once hehad dispatched them, he knew that he wouldn’t have long before thevery presence of his grace drew attention like a beacon.

“SoI fled into Hell. I abandoned my garrison, left them to face thehoards of demons without me. It shouldn’t matter, they were allcommanders, one of the others would have been capable of leading, butit felt like a betrayal. I knew when Hell sensed my presence, I knewit because I heard my garrison, my siblingscrying out for mercy as they were overwhelmed. Hell had been contentto keep us fighting at the gates eternally, it has enough creaturesto spare, but the moment it knew that one of us was inside it endedthe battle.”

Casfelt his face twisting as he remembered the voices in his head, greatwarriors, pleading for a quick death.

“Ithink they were hoping to draw me back out if they tortured theothers,” he continued, taking a deep breath and comfort in thedelicate scent of honeysuckle and lilac and damp earth thataccompanied it. “Dozens ofangels crying out for me specifically to help them. Someof them lasted for years.I could have followed theircries, I might have saved even some of them. Instead I turned away.”

“Oh,Cas,” Sam said, it wasn’t the beginning of a longer thought,merely the reminder that he was there and that he was listening. Cashad never told this story before. Neitherof the brothers had asked aboutit and Cas hadn’t wanted toreopen old wounds. Still, it felt right that he talk about it now, toSam.

Itwas not the Hell of Crowley’s reign that greeted him; stone halls,demons confined to meatsuits, ego and efficiency;the Hell of Azazel’s rule was a labyrinth. Or it may have been theopposite. There was so much empty space it felt like flying through ablack hole. Even the constantbackground hum of the angels backin Heaven had been cut off, only those screaming for mercy;he had never felt so alone.There was nothingto see butflashes of demonic energy,the stench of rot and pain andsulphur, prayers like acacophony in his head and nowhere to hide fromthe occasional demon patrol that would attack him on sight.He followed the gentle tug of the Righteous Man’s soul, they’dbeen given that much by their superiors at least, animprint, not enough to visualise, but enough to be certain when helaid eyes in it.

Itwas a strange descent. Not only was he getting weaker each day, hiswounds taking longer to heal, the power of Hell beating down on himrelentlessly, but it felt… empty. It was draining, more drainingthan he would have expected. Constant battle would have kept himalert, finding his way through twisting paths would have engaged hismind, but as he flew towards Dean Winchester there were no landmarks,no walls, nothing to indicate that there was anything except for theprayers and that tug and the infrequentencounter with a feral creature. He was beginning to get anxious; hehad left his siblings to die all so he could complete the mission,but would he even make it that far?Angels were not supposed to be in this place; it was everything theystood against, concentrated and acidic and it was grating on his verygrace.

Itwas almost threeyearsbefore he reached the cages and by that time he was fatigued in a wayhe had never been before; the prayers hadgrown louder and now actualvoices joined them, hands grasping through bars, some to claw, othersto beg. He ignored them. These souls were damned for a reason afterall, none of them had been deemed worthy of salvation, so there wasno point even acknowledging them.

Still,striding through the rows of cages was… uncomfortable, it was hardto ignore the prayers when the ones praying were so close, it washard to turn his head from a sobbing child—what had theydone to deserve eternity here?—from a woman half-deranged withpain, from a man convulsing on the ground. The not-air around themall was thick and cloying, those in the cages might not need oxygen,but most of them probably weren’t aware of that yet. Indeed, manyof those he passed had scars on their throats, some still drippingopen. His hands balled into fists as they longed to reach out andtake away that pain; thatis what angels were made for, to heal, to help, to aide humans. Ofcourse they were warriors, but if he stood aside and did nothing, howwas he better than the demons who had trapped them here? What was hefighting for if not for them? He had to shake himself at thattraitorous thought, focus, you have a mission.Heaven needs you.

Sohe spread his wings once more and flew past the remaining cages,towards the source of the tug. Attacks from Hell’s swarms werebecoming more frequent now as he delved deeper, more twistedcreatures lunged at him from the dark, those that had forgotten whatlight was. He reminded them with a flash of grace; eyes burned,demons howled and alerted others, they were all searching for him, heknew it. They knew that he was inside and they knew what he was therefor, it was only luck that the very nature of Hell made it difficultto find anything at all, including an angel actively trying to avoiddetection.

Hewondered if Heaven had sent more angels after him, or if they hadsimply given up the mission as a lost cause. Dean Winchester hadbroken the first Seal after all, he had felt the snap inside hisgrace as the Seal splintered, a warning of something new, somethingonly spoken of with an air of reverence and skepticism in Heaven.There was no turning back, the Apocalypse had begun. Dean Winchesterwould be needed to house Michael, but that need was much lesspressing than protecting the other seals. He should be with them.Instead he was here, in this festering space of pain and despair. Andhere he would stay unless he could find the Righteous Man. He knewthat as surely as he knew the names of all the prophets. He would notleave Hell without Dean Winchester. He had abandoned his own for thismission, he would see it through. The tug had grown clearer over thepast few days, a more solid directional pull than just vaguelydownwards and the singular demonic entities became groups, leavinghim weaker with every pulse of grace he had to expend.

Fortyyears since Dean Winchesterhad arrived in Hell, Castiel found him. Or at least, he found a heavyfortification of demons and hellhounds and other monstrosities. Theywere clearly guarding something, and Castiel knew what. He kept hisdistance, scouted out the defences, staying out of sight. But he knewthat there would be no easy gap to slip through thistime, he was going to have toforce his way in. He dropped back for a moment, feeling the strain inhis wings, even his limbs were beginning to shake with the tremendouspower that Hell exuded. He could turn back. As soon as he left Hellthe security measures would become laxer, making it easier foranother group of angels to retrieve the soul later. He had not beenmade for a battleground such as this, there had never been shame inretreat.But thesoul had been in Hell for a long time already, Dean Winchester mightbe pure demon by the time Michael was ready to claim his vessel, andthat just wouldn’t do. It called to him, now he was close enough tohear it, though his view was blocked by the demons. It sounded…angry. Anger, guilt, pain and… was that relief? Was the soul awareof his presence?

Gatheringhis grace he shottowards the wall of demons, hoping that the element of surprise wouldgive him an edge. Well… they were definitely surprised at thearguablestupidity of his move but they rallied quickly and the battle beganin earnest. Castiel fought with everything he had. His wings wererazors and shields, his blade sangin his hand and his grace whipped around him, boiling eyes in theirsockets and leaving only husks behind; the soul became agitated,probably distressed that his saviour was outnumbered and alone.Castiel sent a surge of grace towards it, burning demons in the way,aiming to soothe, to show the soul all the might of his Heavenlypurpose.

Theprotective ring around Dean Winchester broke and the would-be guardsscattered; some fled, most died. When the last of them had been cutdown, before more could come, Castiel got a look at Dean Winchester’ssoul for the first time. It was… horrible. It wasn’t bound byrack or chains, thought there wasa rack, and a screaming soul was trapped on it. The Righteous Man wascarving strips of the soul’s imagined flesh but his head snapped upwhen his guard vanished and he whirled around to face his salvation.

Castielapproached slowly and the soul mirrored him in retreat, ananimalistic snarl rippling from its throat. It looked human, thissoul had not yet forgotten its earthly form, though it had apermanent bloody stain streaked across its naked skin and its facewas twisted in feral distrust and malice – probably a result of thebarely-healed scars and open wounds criss-crossing its entire form:bite marks and the lashes from whips, knife wounds and ragged slashespossibly from some kind of saw. In some places the skin hung inflaps, in others it was tight and shiny with burns. Castiel would becapable of healing that once they got out of here, but it was adisturbing sight all the same. He extended his hand and the soulflinched back.

“Comewith me, Dean Winchester.”

Thesoul bared its teeth, tinged orange with blood diluted with saliva.Castiel tried not to show his disgust. This is the creature thatHeaven deems worth saving?

Still,there was something about it. It didn’t shrink away from him or runto him, it just glared at him defiantly, there was somethinginteresting in that.

“Iam an angel of the Lord, I will not harm you.”

“Alastair!”The soul screeched, suddenly frightened, “Alastair!”

Itcalls for aid from a demon? Curious.

Heknew he did not have the time to talk this wretched soul into comingquietly, not with a thrum of power appearing in his periphery;Alastair probably, even among angels he was known, and feared.

“Iapologise for any discomfort,” he said instead before using hiswings to propel him forwards quicker than the soul could retreat. Hegrasped it by the shoulder and the Righteous Man screamed as hisflesh sizzled from the contact with his grace.

Almosta full demon, he thought, butnot quite. Not yet.

Heshot upwards, Dean Winchester thrashing in his grasp. Castiel pulledhim in tight, after all this he would not risk failing Heaven becausehe simply dropped his prize.It was a few days before a demon found them, despite the flurry ofactivity he could feel pulsing from the place, and all that time thesoul fought him. Growling disjointed words like ‘No’ and‘Alastair’ and ‘back’, also a few choice curse words thatCastiel would not repeat.

Castielcurled one wing around his writhingcharge as he fought thedemon. He didn’t need both to fly. He actually didn’t need to flyat all. Anywhere in Hell was floor if you demanded it be, though notall of Hell’s residents had figured that out yet, but fortravelling directly upwards flying was necessary, it was alsoquicker.

Thesoul had crowedwith delight when the demon appeared, but hissed when Castiel blastedit with grace and it disintegrated.

“Whydid you want it to win?” Castiel asked. It didn’t really matter,it wasn’t relevant to the mission, the wants of the creature in hisarms had no bearing on its fate but still… Castiel was curious.

“Back,”wasall the Righteous Man said.

“Youwill go back.” Castiel said. Deeming now as safe a place as any torest. He shouldn’t need it, but he did. So he dropped onto asuddenly solid surface and for the most part let Dean Winchester go,holding on only by the soul’s wrist. “You will be returned tolife on Earth. You have important work to do for Heaven.”

“Screwyou.” It said, trying its best to wrench itself from Castiel’sgrip, but even in his weakened state, Castiel held on easily.Ignoring the soul for the moment, Castiel gingerly spread his wings,wincing as the lacerations and would on them were stretched. Heseemed to have stopped healing almost entirely now. The pain waseasier to ignore when they were moving, but it would benefit him inthe long run to keep track of the damage, knowing his limitations ina fight was vital, and he knew that there would be a lot morefighting before the mission was done. The human watched him,suspiciously, eyeing his wings.

“Angelsaren’t real.”

Thiswas perhaps the most perplexing thing the human had said. Castielturned his attention from his wings and back to the soul in front ofhim.

“Yousold your soul to a demon.”

“Demonsare real.”

“I’man angel.”

Deansaid nothing to that. Castiel gestured around them, to the sicklyred-grey dimness and the screams of the damned.

“Weare literally in Hell. You didn’t think there might be anopposite?”

Deanjust shrugged. “Take me back.”

“Ialready told you-”

“Alastair.”

Castielsquinted at the soul, “I don’t understand.”

Deanscoffed and turned away from him as much as Castiel’s grip allowed.Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood to explain himself and Castiel wastoo tired to push. Tired… that was a new feeling. One that didn’tsit well with him given his current location. He might not need tosleep but he did need to rest, he needed a few hours to not expendany grace or use his wings. That was… not ideal. But if he wasgoing to recover enough strength to get the Righteous Man out of herethen it was necessary.

Hegot forty minutes before a patrol of three demons found him. Heburned one of them with grace but that left him feeling drained andweak. His fighting the others was sloppy and resulted in a few newinjuries, one of them almost grabbed the soul in his arms but Castielused one of his wings to slice through the creature’s flesh,removing its reaching arm and causing it to stumble backwards. Headvanced, suddenly furious that this thing had dared try to harm hischarge.

Castielwas not fool enough to think that they could linger after that, nomatter the protestation of his wings. He flew, more slowly than hewould have liked. For once, Dean Winchester didn’t fight him, andfor that he was grateful.

Itwas only a few days before he had to stop again. The demons werestarting to pinpoint his location and trajectory out of Hell so henow had to fly horizontally as well as vertically just to keep themfrom swarming him. It was taking more time and energy than he had tospare and he was starting to think that he would be unable tocomplete his mission. He also had to keep hold of Dean at all times,he had lunged for Castiel’s angel blade more than once, though hadyet to be successful.

“IfI let you go, will you try to run or attack me?” Castiel asked himas they alighted on the non-floor once more. Castiel’s legsactually gave out from underneath him as they hit a solid surface andhe crumpled ungracefully. That was embarrassing. Hiswings trembled with strain and he let them relax behind him, notfolded tightly into his back or stretched out. Dean eyed them, theneyed him, and shook his head.

Dean’seyes were strange things. They were green, which was not unusual,though they had flickered black a few times since Castiel had takenhim. Again, considering the position Castiel had found him in, thatshould be unsurprising. But while a lot of the souls here had hadeyes glazed over with pain or apathy or fear or even acceptance oftheir fate, Dean’s were sharp and alert. They calculated everythingand projected nothing and he seemed suspicious, guarded and careful.It was intriguing to say the least. Perhaps there was indeed more tothis human soul than he had first thought.

Castiellet Dean’s wrist fall from his grip and Dean jumped backwards,snatching his arm up to his chest and scratching at where Castiel hadheld him until he began to bleed. But he didn’t run or attack, soCastiel left him to it. His self-inflicted wounds would only re-healwhen he stopped scratching, only the damage intended for the soulitself would remain.

Timepassed and still Castiel did not rise. They were as safe as theycould be at the moment and he felt the sluggish pull of his gracetrying to knit together his many wounds. He sent it towards hiswings; those were what he needed most, and what the demons tried totarget when they attacked, but it was an increasingly slow process.In the meantime, Castiel watched Dean. The soul kept a distance fromhim but didn’t stray too far. After a while he began to pace in acircle with Castiel at its centre, his posture tense and aggressive.It almost felt like Dean had set up a perimeter around him and wasscouting for danger. This amused Castiel, a human guarding an angel.The whole thing was so absurd he actually laughed. Dean flinched atthe sound and whirled to face him, staring at him in outright shock,asthough he hadn’t heard a laugh not tainted with evil in decades. Heprobably hadn’t. Come tothink of it, neither had Castiel and he hadn’t realised how badlyhe’d missed the sound. Not that it was a regular occurrence inHeaven but Uriel got a few laughs on occasion.

“What’s funny?” Dean snarled at him.

“That you seem to be protecting me. It’s humorous.”

Dean looked unsure at that, downright unsettled even.

“Fine, die then.”  he spat, dropping to sit cross-legged on the‘floor’, arms tightly folded. “See if I care.”

Castiel tilted his head at the strange soul. He does care,he realised suddenly. Even though he hates me, he recognises thatI’m trying to help.

“Apologies,” Castiel said, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Take me back.” Dean said after a pause.

“Back to Alastair?”

Dean jerked his head.

Castiel tilted his head.

“Why?”

“Why does it matter? Take me back and go home.”

“It matters,” Castiel said calmly, “because my reason for beinghere is to retrieve you. God commanded that you be saved. If I wereto return you to your torment, I would be going against God’s will,against Heaven and my purpose. I would also be forfeiting my life, asI do not have the physical strength to return you and then escapeHell. If I am to die, I would like to know if it would be worth it.”

Dean stared at him for a long time, those eyes seeming to search hisvery grace as they mulled over his answer.

“Not worth it,” he said eventually, turning away, “not foryou.”

Castiel frowned at the soul in front of him. This was nothing like hehad expected. He had had images of a pitiful creature that would sobits gratefulness for rescue, glad for an end to the tortures ofHell’s most depraved. Instead, this one wanted to go back.

“You don’t deserve to be here, Dean Winchester.” Castiel saidgently.

Dean flinched.

“Shut up.”

Castiel didn’t argue the point, he didn’t have the energy andthey had lingered too long as it was. He stood and stretched hiswings; some of the deeper claw marks had begun to close and thedeeper tissue damage had mostly healed, it was the best he could hopefor.

Surprisingly, when he saw Castiel stand, he didn’t try to bolt.Instead he walked towards him and extended his arm.

Castieltook it and flew once more.

***

“Behindyou!” Dean yelled mid-flight. He had been pressed against Castiel,his head hooked over Castiel’s shoulder. The more Hell’sinfluence faded from his soul, the more of what Castiel liked tothink of as the real Deancame into view and themore of Dean Winchester that he saw, the more intrigued he was. Deanwas surly and irritable but he had anintelligence and a razor witthat Castiel liked. Apparently,Dean did not like flight, andso had begun to cling as though afraid that Castiel would drop him,despite his attempts at reassurance. Truthfully, Castiel did notmind. And seeing as Castiel’sown senses had dimmed to a dangerous level, he was grateful for theextra pair of eyes, especially seeing as Dean seemed to have changedhis mind regarding demons and whether or not he wanted Castiel towin.

Castielspun, bringing one wing around to shield Dean as he swung with theopposite arm, his blade sinking into the neck of the attackinghalf-soul. It shrieked and hissed unpleasantly and scrabbled itsclaws along the wing that was covering Dean’s form. Castiel criedout but did not pull it away, to do so would expose Dean, and hewould not see the Righteous Man harmed. He kicked the almost-demonaway, ripping the blade out as he did so, yanking it across. The bodyfell into the depths of the Pit,its head flapping unnaturally on the remaining sinew keeping itstrung to the torso. Anotherdemon lungedat him from behind, landing on his back and sending him spinningoff-kilter, grace now pouring from the joints where his wings met hishuman-shaped back. Castielcurled himself around Dean, wings in tight as thedemon tore at his back andbit at his neck, it was a sign of how weak Castiel was that thoseteeth could even break his skin. He endured the onslaught until therewas a slight pause in the attack, then he acted, swinging one of hiswings out with force to dislodge the demon and following the momentumaround, blade aimed for the creature’s heart. The blade hit trueand the demon screeched as it died, following its brethren in a fall.

Onlytwothis time, he thought as hedropped Dean on the now-floor and collapsed ina heap where he landed, thatwas unusual these days. Hewas more likely to come across groups of three or four lately.They were closing in on the gates, he knew, buthe didn’t know what awaited them there. An army of Hell-spawncertainly, but would there be any angels to help him, tofinish the task of saving Dean Winchester? Castiel was fully awarethat he might not make it out the other side of this mission. Infact, he had almost hoped for it. The guilt of sacrificing hisgarrison weighed heavy and the idea of returning to accolades andpraise disgusted him. He had to finish the mission, and then he coulddie of his wounds. There was honour in that.

Butnow… he wasn’t even surehe could make it that far. The stench of Hell was all around him,seeming to feed on his very grace. Hecouldn’t endure it anymore, he wasn’t strong enough, he-

“Hey,open your eyes, you wingeddick,” came a ragged voicefrom in front of him. Automatically Castiel obeyed and the hard edgesof Dean Winchester’s face swam into view.

“Dean,”he said, as though he were pleasantly surprised by the soul’spresence, “are you hurt?”

Deanscoffed and ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit that hadreplaced the scratching, for which Castiel was grateful.

“AmI hurt? Your wingslook like a freaking beadcurtain right now.”

“Idon’t know what that means.”

“Itmeans they’reshredded, idiot. And I left my emergency surgery kit in my othersoul so unless you can mojoyourself better we’re grounded.”

“Theywill heal,” Castiel said, strugglingto push himself to sitting, “itmay take some time before I can fly again. I apologise for thedelay.”

Hiswords came out more biting than he meant them but astonishingly, Deansmirked until he walked out of Castiel’s view and around topresumably inspect the damage.

“Sohe’s got some sass in him after all, good to know,” he said,“hey, why do you bleed blue mist?”

“It’smy grace, it’s what I use to heal myself, what makes me an angel,”Castiel explained between heavy breaths that he shouldn’t need.

“Soit’s probably bad that it’s floating away then.”

“Itwill replenish.”

“Andhow long will that take?”

Castielgrimaced as Dean poked at a deep scratch on his back, “I’m notsure.”

“Great.”

Theylapsed into a long silence, hours passed and Castiel was still losinggrace faster than it could restore itself. That was worrying. If hedied here, what would Dean do? He could not escape Hell on his own,he couldn’t even hide. Castiel had toget him out, or at least keep him safe until his siblings launchedanother mission. He would not allow Dean’ssoul to be returned toAlastair, no matter what. Hehad only just begun to heal, purely from the lack of constant tortureand an angelic companion, freckles previously hidden by gore nowdotted Dean’s form, his eyes now sparked with emotion whensomething amused or frustrated him, he spoke in confusing slang andno longer jumped away from Castiel as soon as they paused to rest.Castiel could not let that light be dimmed again.

Thatwas all that mattered. It was more than his mission now, it wassomething he wanted desperately, to keep Dean Winchester safe.

“Dean,”Castiel said, his voice measured, Dean,who had taken up his pacing again, stopped and backed up so he was inview.

“Ithink we are going to have to delay your return. I’m sorry.”

Deanrolled his eyes, “Whatever, man, take the time you need, it’s notlike I’m going anywhere without those flappers anyway.”

“I’mnot going to make it out of Hell,” Castiel continued, ignoring thechange in Dean’s expression, aslight tightening around the mouth,“but I can protectyou. I can change my form, concentrate my grace into a shield aroundyou. It won’t be using energy on flight or movement so it will notweaken and my grace will replenish more quickly. No demon will beable to get through. You willbe safe until my siblings come for you.”

“Okay…”Dean said, “And if you get back to full power before that happens,you’ll just pop back out, right?”

Castielsmiled, suddenly sad that he would never see Dean Winchester restoredto life. “No, Dean. Mywings are too deeply damaged, it would take more grace than I possessto heal them enough to fly again, andchanging my form into something non-sentient would be permanent.”

Deanwas shaking his head violently, “No, hellno.”

“Dean-”

“I’mnot gonna just sit in some angel-bubble for who knows how long justso that you can get out of babysitting duty. You are notleaving me here alone, you understand?!”

“Mysiblings-”

“Theyain’t here!” Dean yelled, “I’mnot pinning my hopes on somefeathered assholes who don’t evencare where you’ve been for the last decade.”

“You’drather pin your hopes on a dying angel who can’t fly?”

“I’mpinning my hopes on you.”Dean snapped, “You’re the most stubborn son of a bitch that Iever met. You just took out two demons and you’ve been flying onfumes for weeks straight and you wanna give up now?”

“I’mnot givingup,”Castielinsisted, trying not to give sound to the frustration that only Deanhad been able to bring out in him, “I’m being practical. Thereare other angels, Dean, and I can protect you long enough for them toget here. Thisis the only way I can think of that will make sure you never end upin Alastair’s hands again. This is the only way to saveyou.”

Castielsensed rather than heard Dean’s flinch,

“Inever asked you to save me,” he said, his voice shaking with rage,“I never asked anybodyto save me. I’m not some freaking damsel in distress princesslocked in a tower, I got myselfhere. I made a deal and I knew where it was going, so don’t actlike I didn’t sign up for this, likeIdon’t deserve everything that I get.There are people here who were tricked into their deals, or were tooyoung to know what they were selling, that ain’t me. Youwanna go out in a blaze of glory? Go die for one of them instead.”

Hestepped forward and prodded at Castiel’s back again. “NowI’mnot anangel surgeon but I know a little something about first aid, so Iguess the first step is to stop you from bleeding, leaking, whatever,right?”

“Dean,wait-”

ButDean had already pressed his hands directly onto what was probablythe wound losing the most grace, right at the joint of his wings.Castiel cried out. Painlanced through him, then horror ashis grace began to pull at the soul so valiantly trying to help himas though attempting to steal its energy. Castiel jerked forward,away from Dean’s touch, and rolled to face Dean, holding a hand outin front of him, “Stop!”

“Don’tbe such a baby,” Dean scoffed, “I know awaddedshirt would be better but-”

“Thatwas incrediblydangerous.” Castiel said, a growl leaking into his voice. “You’relucky you didn’t explode.”

Ithad been like a shot of adrenaline in a human brain, a sudden rush ofenergy, intenseand overwhelming.

“Dramaticmuch?”

“Fora human soul to come in direct contact with grace is notsomething to take lightly.” Castiel admonished, “I don’t evenknow what would happen, it hasn’t been done in eons.”

Deancrossed his arms, sceptical, “I’lltell you what happened,you’ve stopped leaking.”

“What?”

Deanjust raised an eyebrow so Castiel craned his neck and tested hiswings. Dean was right, the superficial damage on his wings had closedover, even if he could feel the deeper tissue trauma. It would takeless time for his grace to replenish now. Thatdidn’t mean he wasn’t angry.

“You’rewelcome.”

“Icould have destroyedyou.”

“I’malready dead.”

Castielclenched his jaw, “AndI would be unable to reverse that if my grace had absorbed you.”

“Thatsounds like a you problem. Myproblem is making sure that no one else dies for me, you got it?”

“You’re…infuriating.”

“Hey,I never claimed to be an angel, pal. AndI just saved your feathered butt, so maybe stop with the name-callingand make with the healing so we can get out of here. Look, whateversoul damage I got from that weeny little shot you’re gonna fixlater anyway, right? So we might as well use it. And no more stupidtalk about becoming a shield or whatever. We get out of this togetheror not at all, because I’m telling you right now, if your‘siblings’ show up, I ain’t going with them.”

Castielgrumbled but refrained from mentioning the fact that Dean would havelittle to no say in the matter if it came to that, but his angerdimmed into a warm glow that he didn’t quite understand,unexpectedly touched at Dean’s obvious wish for him to stay alive.

***

Thingsbecame marginally easier after that, Castiel regained his ability tofly within a few hours and they set off once more, energy restored.Dean was generous with his soul energy, though never more than oneshort burst at a time, Castiel had been explicitly firm on thatpoint, and he had to admit that Dean had been right, it gave him anextra edge in battle and he was going to need that it they were everto make it to the gates. Even if it made him tainted in the eyes ofHeaven, even if it meant thathisgrace was so weak he needed to tangle it with a human soul; it wasfilthy, it was unheard of, it wasthe most beautiful thing Castiel had ever experienced. For onreceiving Dean’s gift, he saw,he truly saw what was under the layers of trauma and guilt anddespair and rage that Dean gathered around himself. He felt his soulas pure and glorious as it had been before Hell, not unmarked truly,but bright and delicate and good. Castiel kept those thoughts tohimself. They were not right, they were not related to the mission.But Castiel took to staring at Dean when they paused to rest, tryingso hard to see what he could feel when Dean touched his wings.Sometimes he did, when Dean smiled at him one time without sarcasm ormalice, he saw it then and it caught his breath.

Deanslowlybegan to open up about things that he missed onEarth. He talked about food, and women, and his car, andalcohol. But it took him almosttenyears of travelling together to ask about his brother.

“Hey,so you know a bit about me, right?” Dean said, shuffling his feeton the not-floor.

Castielcocked his head, “I have learned much since meeting you.” Theywere waiting for his grace to rally once more, he had taken a set ofclaw marks to one of his wings, perfectly placed to sever one of hismain tendons. It was excruciatingly painful, but Castiel did not letit show. Pain was just a thing he could ignore and it was worthignoring it so long as Dean didn’t think he needed some ‘souljuice’. Castiel was worried about how much soul was now blendedwith his grace. He would return it, of course, when the oppressivepressure of Hell was gone, allowing his grace to replenish as quicklyas it could, but it was weakening Dean day by day and he didn’tknow how much more he could give without doing something irreparable.

“Imean, from before. You know about my life, right? That I was a hunterand we killed a lot of bad things?”

“Iwas given a summation.”

“Right.So… you know about my brother.”

“Ofcourse.” Castiel didn’t elaborate. He didn’t like thinkingabout the boy with the demon blood. Theyhad gotten word on the battlefield of what Sam Winchester wasbecoming without his brother there to guide him, and it had beenprophesied as to how it would all end. Hedid not like to think of Dean becoming a vessel for Michael anymore, it felt less like the natural order of things and more like apreventable loss.

“He’sdead, right? I mean it’s been, what, nearly fifty years? Huntersdon’t live that long.”

“Actuallyit’s only been a few months on Earth.” Castiel said, “yourbrother is alive.”

Thatput a light in Dean’s eyes like Castiel had never seen before,“Really? You better not be screwing with me, man.”

“I’mtelling the truth. Or at least, he was alive when I entered Hell, Idon’t know what’s happened since.”

“He’sokay,” Dean told him, “Sammy’stough, tougher than me. He’s fine.”

Castielsaid nothing. It was clear that this was important to Dean and hedidn’t want to ruin it by informing him about the demon that wascurrently his brother’s only companion.

“We’regonna get out of here,” Dean said, a small, hopeful smile on hisface that buried itself deep into Castiel’s chest, “I’m gonnasee him again.”

“Yes.”

***

“Andhe was right.” Cas concluded, smiling atthe sun now restingon the horizon, glancing at Sam to see tears in his eyes. Jackwas back to skipping stones in the lake, concentrating fiercely, “Wegot through. We got close enough to the gate that I began to hearsnatches of angel radio again, I sent out a signal, told them that Ihad the Righteous Man but I needed help to get him out. Heavenrallied, sent all the angels it could spare, including my originalgarrison. Hell’s army was as numerous as it had ever been and welost even more angels in the fight. But Dean leant me his strengthand we managed it. Together.”

Hefelt pride welling up in him, as much as he had felt when he hadflownthrough the hoard of demons like a bullet, ignoringthe demons that harried at him,and come out the other side, unfurling his singed and battered wingsto reveal Dean’s grinning face,

“Didwe make it?”

“Yes,Dean,” Castiel had said, his arms holding the human soul just astightly as his wings had, “we made it.”

Ithad taken several days for Castiel to recover enough to be able totake on the task of healing Dean. The other angels had tittered aboutthe presence of human soul intermingled with his grace and Naomi hadrequested a meeting for once Dean had been returned to Earth, ameeting he would not be able to attend because of Pamela Barnes’and then Dean’s own interference. But he was praised by hissuperiors and promoted to official commander of his garrison, despitethe fourteen angels in his charge that he had allowed to die. Thoughthe garrisons of those fourteen did not forget as quickly.

Deanhad not allowed any other angel near him while Castiel was healing.Zachariah tried and even Michael paid a rare visit but Dean sent themboth away without a conversation and certainly without a healing.When Castiel was deemed well enough, he was instructed by an annoyedZachariah to begin the process himself.

“You’rethe only one he can seem to stand,” he huffed, practically shovinghim into the room where Dean was being kept and closing the doorbehind him.

Deanwas crouched in a corner defensively, but he stood when he recognisedCastiel.

“Yoursiblings are all dicks.” He said by way of a greeting, “All theywanna talk about is the Apocalypse and using me as a meat suit, it’sgross.”

“Wedon’t interact with humans much.” Castiel said, “I’m afraidwe are very practical creatures.”

“LikeI said, dicks.”

“Iam one of them, you know.”

“Nah,”Dean said, “you’re different.”

“Thankyou?”

Deanlaughed, it was small and shaky but it was real. “So it’s timenow, right? E.T. goes home?”

“Thoseare not your initials.”

Deanlaughed again, Castieldecided that he liked the sound very much.“Heal me up, doc,” Deansaid, spreading his arms out.

Castielstepped forward. “My name isn’t ‘Doc’,” he said, raisinghis hand to begin sending healing grace pouring into the soul infront of him, but before he could, Dean grabbed his wrist andmet his eyes.

“Whatis it? Your name? You never said.”

“Castiel.”

Deannodded and released his wrist. “Cool. I’mma call you Cas.”

Baffled,Castiel blinked at him, “Why?”

“’Causeit’s shorter,” Dean said sardonically, “and it suits you.Sounds less stuffy.”

“Myname is not ‘stuffy’,” Castiel huffed, flickinghis fingers in quotation,though he wasn’t opposed tothe nickname.

“Nah,it’s not so bad. But I mean, you’ve got a better nickname from methan Junklessout there,” he jerked his chin towards the door and grinnedconspiratorially at him. Cas couldn’t help but smile, even thoughZachariah was a well-respected and high ranking member of Heaven andhe had no authority to poke fun.

“Alright,stand still,” Castiel instructed, raising his hand once more. Deanshuffled a little but did as he was told.

Castielbegan on Dean’s face, healing away the scratches and the red tintto his skin, remnants of the blood he had shed. Under the healing,Dean’s hair lightened to sandy brown and the freckles, which Cashad only caught glimpses of before now, came into glorious view. Evenhis eyes grew more vibrant incolour.

“Theylook like peas.” Castiel mused aloud.

“What?”

“Youreyes, they look like spring peas.”

Deansnorted, and a new red tinge appeared on his cheeks, though it wasfar more endearing than the one he had just healed, “That’s gottabe one of the worst pick-up lines I’ve ever heard.”

“Idon’t know what that is. I have picked you up many times.”

Deanmade another amused sound but said nothing.

Theritual continued. Molecule by molecule, Dean’s soul was re-shapedinto what it had once been, although Castiel knew that he could noterase all of what Alastair had done.

“Areyou getting rid of all my scars?” Dean asked suddenly.

Castielblinked at him.

“Ihad a long white one here,” he pointed to his right elbow, “froma werewolf hunt when I was fourteen, and I had somehere,” he gestured to his abdomen, though he didn’t meetCastiel’s eyes, “from the night Sammy left.”

Castieldid not enquire, but he recognised the point about scars. They wereimperfections on Dean’s soul, true, but Castiel had found that theyonly added to Dean’s beauty. They were a testament to what he hadbeen through, a story told through puckered skin and raised tissue.Perhaps they were important to him.

“Doyou want to keep them?”

Deanconsidered, then shook his head, “I don’t need to be remindedanymore.”

SoCastiel erased them and, oneby one, Dean recounted thestories of how he had gotten them; most of them anyway, there weresome that he wouldn’t talk about. He was passing over Dean’s leftshoulder when Dean stopped him,

“Leavethat one.”

Castielactually took a half-step back, “what?”

“Youcan leave ’em, right? Leave that one.”

Castielplaced his hand over the raised mark on Dean’s arm, his fingers fitperfectly, “You’re sure?”

Deannodded, “Junkless told me that I’m not gonna remember you. Hesaid that I ‘needed to be introduced to angels properly’. Bastarddidn’t say anything about making me forget the rest though.”

“Ican make you forget it all if you want.” Castiel offered. That wasdangerous, he had been given strict instructions to only erase thememories of himself and their escape from Hell, but Castiel had seemhim down there, revelling in doling out the torture that he himselfhad endured. The person that Castiel had come to know would not beable to abide what he had done, perhaps it was best that he forget.

“No,”Dean said softly, “I need to remember. I need to know what I canbecome.” After a moment, heshook himself, “so leave that scar, okay? If there’s one thing Ididn’t hate about thatplace, it’s you.”

“Verywell.”

***

Oncethe healing was done, Castiel raised his palm to Dean’s head. Hefelt an intense sorrow that Dean was not going to recall anythingabout him, but Heaven had a plan, and Castiel was made to follow thatplan.

“Bye,Cas.” Dean said with a wobbly smile that Castiel tried to return,“Drop by some time, okay? I’d like to meet you again.”

Castielnodded, though he had no idea if he could keep such a promise.

“Goodbye,Dean.”

***

“Ittook me moments to restore Dean’s body and place his soul inside.Heaven told me that it was important he be returned exactly where hisbody lay, but now I think they were just being petty. I should haveleft him somewhere beautiful.”

“AndDean doesn’t remember any of it?” Sam asked, glancing at thestill-sleeping figure, though he would probably wake soon, he was alight sleeper.

“No,but sometimes he’ll say things, turns of phrase that soundfamiliar, that kind of thing. Perhaps part of him remembers. Memoryis complicated, it’s impossible to erase everything.”

Theylapsed into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, just taking inthe scene, the shadows were getting longer, the temperature wasdropping incrementally butdespite all that it was serene.This place was truly calming.

“Iunderstand your feelings of failure, Sam,” Cas said eventually,“you weren’t there for people you felt responsible for and theysuffered because of it. But if I had turned back to try and save mybrethren, I would not have saved Dean. And the only way to haveprevented Maggie and the others from dying would have been to lockDean in the Mal’ak box and drop him in the ocean. Butyour choice wasn’t so clean-cut as choosingwho to save. Andit’s hard, because you cared about them, but you have to forgiveyourself. Dean is here, and Michael is dead and those are good thingsand we will deal with therest. You proved yourself awise and capable leader, Sam. Don’t let this discourage you fromtrying to help those that survived. Don’tshut yourself off to the possibility that this time, things mightjust work out.”

Deanstirred and groaned, loudly stretching out on the blanket. Samflashed Cas a quick smile and wiped at his face.

“Thanks,Cas,” he said, nudging him gently with his shoulder, “I think Ireally needed to hear that.”

#prompt #prompt list #prompt me #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #wings #protection #spn fanfic #fanfiction #writing #TibbinsWrites #TibbinsAnswers #supernatural

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Sunday, Aug. 9, 2020

July 27, Julian calendar

Glorification of venerable Herman of Alaska (1970)

A spiritual mission was organized in 1793, made up of monks of the Valaam Monastery. They were sent to preach the Word of God to the native inhabitants of northwestern America, who only ten years before had come under the sovereignty of Russia. Saint Herman was among the members of this Mission.

Saint Herman came from a family of merchants of Serpukhov, a city of the Moscow Diocese. His name before he was tonsured, and his family name are not known. (The monastic name is given when a monk takes his vows). He had a great zeal for piety from youth, and at sixteen he entered monastic life. (This was in 1772, if we assume that Herman was born in 1756, although sometimes 1760 is given as the date of his birth.) First he entered the Trinity-Sergius Hermitage which was located near the Gulf of Finland on the Peterhof Road, about 15 versts (about 10 miles) from Saint Petersburg.

Miraculous Healing

At the Saint Sergius Hermitage there occurred the following incident to Father Herman. On the right side of his throat under his chin there appeared an abscess. The swelling grew rapidly, disfiguring his face. It became difficult for him to swallow, and the odor was unbearable. In this critical condition Father Herman awaited death. He did not appeal to a physician of this world, but locking his cell he fell before an icon of the Mother of God. With fervent tears he prayed, asking of Her that he might be healed. He prayed the whole night. Then he took a wet towel and with it wiped the face of the Most Holy Mother, and with this towel he covered the swelling. He continued to pray with tears until he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion on the floor. In a dream he saw the Virgin Mary healing him.

When Herman awoke in the morning, he found to his great surprise that he was fully healed. The swelling had disappeared, even though the abscess had not broken through, leaving behind but a small mark as though a reminder of the miracle. Physicians to whom this healing was described did not believe it, arguing that it was necessary for the abscess to have either broken through of its own accord or to have been cut open. But the words of the physicians were the words of human experience, for where the grace of God operates there the order of nature is overcome. Such occurrences humble human reason under the strong hand of God’s Mercy.

Life at Valaam

For five or six years Father Herman continued to live in the Saint Sergius Hermitage, and then he transferred to the Valaam Monastery, which was widely scattered on the large islands in the waters of the great Lake Ladoga. He came to love the Valaam haven with all his soul, as he came to love its unforgettable Superior, the pious Elder Nazarius, and all the brethren. He wrote to Father Nazarius later from America, “Your fatherly goodness to me, humble one, will be erased out of my heart neither by the terrible, unpassable Siberian lands, nor by the dark forests. Nor will it be wiped out by the swift flow of the great rivers; nor will the awful ocean quench these feelings. In my mind I imagine my beloved Valaam, looking to it beyond the great ocean.” He praised the Elder Nazarius in his letters as, “the most reverend, and my beloved father,” and the brethren of Valaam he called, “my beloved and dearest.” The place where he lived in America, deserted Spruce Island, he called “New Valaam.” And as we can see, he always remained in spiritual contact with his spiritual homeland, for as late as 1823, that is after thirty years of his life within the borders of America, he wrote letters to the successor of Father Nazarius, the lgumen Innocent.

Father Barlaam, later lgumen of Valaam, and a contemporary of Father Herman, who accepted his tonsure from Father Nazarius, wrote thus of the life of Father Herman.

“Father Herman went through the various obediences here, and being ‘well disposed toward every thing’ was in the course of events sent to Serdobol to oversee there the work of quarrying marble. The Brothers loved Father Herman, and awaited impatiently his return to the cloisters from Serdobol. Recognizing the zeal of the young hermit the wise elder, Father Nazarius, released him to take abode in the wilderness. This wilderness was in the deep forest about a mile from the cloister: to this day this place has retained the name ‘Herman’s.’ On holy days, Father Herman returned to the monastery from the wilderness. Then it was that at Little Vespers he would stand in the choir and sing in his pleasant tenor the responses with the brethren from the Canon, ‘O Sweetest Jesus, save us sinners. Most Holy Theotokos, Save us,’ and tears would fall like hail from his eyes...” keep reading Orthodox Church of America

Holy and great Healer Panteleimo (305)

The GreatMartyr and Healer Panteleimon was born in the city of Nikomedia into the family of the illustrious pagan Eustorgias, and he was named Pantoleon. His mother Ebbula was a christian. She wanted to raise her son in the Christian faith, but she died when the future greatmartyr was still a young lad. His father sent Pantoleon to a fine pagan school, at the completion of which the youth began to study the medical art at Nikomedia under the reknown physician Euphrosynos, and he came to the attention of the emperor Maximian (284-305), who wished to see him at court.      During this time there dwelt secretly at Nikomedia the Priest-Martyr presbyters Hermolaos, Hermippos and Hermocrates – survivors in the Nikomedia Church after the burning of 20,000 Christians in the year 303. Saint Hermolaos saw Pantoleon time and again, when he came to their hideout. One time the presbyter summoned the youth to the hideout and spoke about the Christian faith. After this Pantoleon visited every day with the priestmartyr Hermolaos.      One time the youth saw upon a street a dead child, bitten by a viper, which was still alongside. Pantoleon began to pray to the Lord Jesus Christ for the resuscitation of the dead child and for the death of the venomous reptile. He firmly resolved, that if his prayer were fulfilled, he would become a follower of Christ and accept Baptism. The child revived, and the viper shattered into pieces before the eyes of Pantoleon.      After this miracle Pantoleon was baptised by Saint Hermolaos with the name Panteleimon (meaning "all-merciful"). Conversing with Eustorgias, Saint Panteleimon prepared him for the acceptance of Christianity, and when the father beheld, how his son healed a blind man by invoking the Name of Jesus Christ, he then believed in Christ and was baptised together with the blind man restored to sight.      After the death of his father, Saint Panteleimon dedicated his life to the suffering, the sick, the misfortunate and the needy. He treated without charge all those who turned to him, healing them in the Name of Jesus Christ. He visited those held captive in prison – being usually christians, who filled all the prisons, and he healed them of their wounds. In a short while accounts about the charitable physician spread throughout all the city. And forsaking the other doctors, the inhabitants began to turn only to Saint Panteleimon.      The envious doctors made a denunciation to the emperor, that Saint Panteleimon was healing Christian prisoners. Maximian urged the saint to disprove the denunciation and offer sacrifice to idols, but Saint Panteleimon confessed himself a Christian and right in front of the eyes of the emperor he healed a paralytic in the Name of Jesus Christ. The ferocious Maximian executed the healed man who was glorifying Jesus Christ, and gave Saint Panteleimon over to fierce torture.      The Lord appeared to the saint and strengthened him before his sufferings. They suspended the GreatMartyr Panteleimon from a tree and tore at him with iron hooks, burned him with fire and then stretched him on the rack, threw him in boiling oil, and cast him into the sea with a stone about his neck. Throughout all these tortures the greatmartyr remained unhurt and with conviction he denounced the emperor.      During this time there was brought before the court of the pagans the Presbyters Hermolaos, Hermippos and Hermocrates. All three firmly confessed their faith in the Saviour and were beheaded (the account about them is located under 26 July).      By order of the emperor they threw the GreatMartyr Panteleimon to wild beasts for devouring at the circus. But the beasts lay at his feet and shoved at each other in trying to be touched by his hand. The spectators gathered together and began to shout: "Great God of the Christians!" The enraged Maximian ordered the soldiers to stab with the sword anyone who glorified the Name of Christ, and to cut off the head of the GreatMartyr Panteleimon.      They led the saint to the place of execution and tied him to an olive tree. When the greatmartyr prayed, one of the soldiers struck him with a sword, but the sword became soft like wax, and inflicted no wound. The saint ended the prayer, and a Voice was heard, calling the passion-bearer by name and summoning him to the Heavenly Kingdom. Hearing the Voice from Heaven, the soldiers fell down on their knees before the holy martyr and begged forgiveness. The executioners refused to continue with the execution, but the GreatMartyr Panteleimon bid them to fulfill the command of the emperor, saying that otherwise they would have no share with him in the future life. The soldiers tearfully took their leave of the saint with a kiss.      When the saint was beheaded, the olive tree – to which the saint was tied, at the moment of his death was covered with fruit. Many that were present at the execution believed in Christ. The body of the saint – thrown into a bonfire – remained in the fire unharmed and was buried by christians (+ 305). The GreatMartyr Panteleimon's servants Lawrence, Bassos and Probios saw his execution and heard the Voice from Heaven. They recorded the account about the life, the sufferings and death of the holy greatmartyr.      The holy relics of the GreatMartyr Panteleimon were distributed in parts throughout all the Christian world: his venerable head is now located at the Russian Athonite monastery of the GreatMartyr Panteleimon.      The veneration of the holy martyr in the Russian Orthodox Church was already known in the XII Century. Prince Izyaslav – in Baptism Panteleimon – son of Saint Mstislav the Great, had an image of Saint Panteleimon on his helmet. Through the intercession of the saint he remained alive during a battle in the year 1151. On the day of memory of the GreatMartyr Panteleimon, Russian forces won two naval victories over the Swedes (in 1714 near Hanhauze and in 1720 near Grenham).      The GreatMartyr Panteleimon is venerated in the Orthodox Church as a mighty saint, the protector of soldiers. This aspect of his veneration is derived from his first name Pantoleon, which means "a lion in everything". His second name, Panteleimon – given him at Baptism, which means "all-merciful", reveals it self in the veneration of the greatmartyr as healer. The connection between these two patronages of the saint is readily apparent in that soldiers, receiving wounds more frequently than others, are more in need of a physician-healer. Wherefore Christians in waging spiritual warfare also have recourse to this saint with a petition to heal the wounds of the soul.      The name of the holy GreatMartyr and Healer Panteleimon is invoked in the Sacrament of Anointing the Sick, at the Blessing of Water and in the Prayer for the Sick.      The day of commemoration of the holy GreatMartyr and Healer Panteleimon at the Russian monastery on Athos is its temple-feast. The forefeast starts 8 days before the feast, on which days after vespers are sung moliebens with kanons in 8 tones, whereby each day has its own particular canon. The second day of the feast is the monastery feastday. On this day of the feast after vespers is made a collective panikhida in memory of the founders and benefactours of the monastery, and there is blessed and distributed koliva (kutia – wheat or rice boiled with honey). The verses of the 9th Ode of the Kanon of the GreatMartyr and Healer Panteleimon from the manuscript of the Athonite service are reprinted in the "Journal of the Moscow Patriarchate" (1975, No.3, pp. 45-47).

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

Source Holy Trinity Orthodox Church

John 20:19-31 

19 Then, the same day at evening, being the first day of the week, when the doors were shut where the disciples were assembled, for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood in the midst, and said to them, "Peace be with you."

20 When He had said this, He showed them His hands and His side. Then the disciples were glad when they saw the Lord.

21 So Jesus said to them again, "Peace to you! As the Father has sent Me, I also send you."

22 And when He had said this, He breathed on them, and said to them, "Receive he Holy Spirit.

23 If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.

24 Now Thomas, called the Twin, one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.

25 The other disciples therefore said to him, "We have seen the Lord." So he said to them, "Unless I see in His hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and put my hand into His side, I will not believe."

26 And after eight days His disciples were again inside, and Thomas with them. Jesus came, the doors being shut, and stood in the midst, and said, "Peace to you!"

27 Then He said to Thomas, "Reach your finger here, and look at My hands; and reach your hand here, and put it into My side. Do not be unbelieving, but believing."

28 And Thomas answered and said to Him, "My Lord and my God!"

29 Jesus said to him, "Thomas, because you have seen Me, you have believed. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed."

30 And truly Jesus did many other signs in the presence of His disciples, which are not written in this book;

31 but these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in His name.

Matthew 14:22-34

22 Immediately Jesus made His disciples get into the boat and go before Him to the other side, while He sent the multitudes away.

23 And when He had sent the multitudes away, He went up on the mountain by Himself to pray. Now when evening came, He was alone there.

24 But the boat was now in the middle of the sea, tossed by the waves, for the wind was contrary.

25 Now in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went to them, walking on the sea.

26 And when the disciples saw Him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, "It is a ghost!" And they cried out for fear.

27 But immediately Jesus spoke to them, saying, "Be of good cheer! It is I; do not be afraid."

28 And Peter answered Him and said, "Lord, if it is You, command me to come to You on the water."

29 So He said, "Come." And when Peter had come down out of the boat, he walked on the water to go to Jesus.

30 But when he saw that the wind was boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink he cried out, saying, "Lord, save me!"

31 And immediately Jesus stretched out His hand and caught him, and said to him, "O you of little faith, why did you doubt?"

32 And when they got into the boat, the wind ceased.

33 Then those who were in the boat came and worshiped Him, saying, "Truly You are the Son of God."

34 When they had crossed over, they came to the land of Gennesaret.

#orthodoxy #orthodoxchristianity #firstchristian #spirituality #ancientfaith #wisdom #holyscripture

[23meraki]

Horizon (A “GOYO: Ang Batang Heneral” one-shot)

There were countless of reports about the true events of the Last Stand at Tirad Pass, and most of them don't agree with one another except for the fact that a hero had died there. And history was written by the survivors."What happened in Tirad, stayed in Tirad." That would be the case if he wasn't the Boy General, or the Gregorio del Pilar who've died there. But he was, and Death was just waiting. For far too long. 

He knew that he was the great eagle of the revolution. But he always asked himself if he had been that great all along. He was only known as “Aguila” for it was his chosen nom de guerre. He was only known because his uncle was a propagandist, and he had stood up to liberate his home province. There were so little he had done, and he was so young.

So young to be a general. And yet… he was one.

He felt inferior in the presence of American generals. Felt so small in a room filled with officials way much older than him.

But in the presence of his men… when Señor Presidente was there, he felt superior. He was serving the president of the Republic, and he was the latter’s closest confidant. He was above compared to many others.

He was the hero of Bulacan living right above the clouds.

When angels fell from the earth

Does the drop from such height hurt?

“Kuya!”

The scream and the echo of the gunshot made him stop for a second. His hands around his cap and the hilt of his sword tightened that his knuckles turned white. And then, he shuddered.

A whisper followed him. A haunting one that seemed to remain so closely next to him. Like a shadow that came along everywhere he went; with a voice that had been awfully scary to taunt him whenever he was usually alone and had been in doubt of his own actions.

Takbo. Takbo. Takbo. Sadyang duwag ka.

He shook his head, telling himself, Hindi ako duwag. Ginawa ko kung ano ang tama.

Someone chuckled at him, echoing inside his mind.

Alam mo ba kung ano ang bulong ng konsensiya?

He shivered at the idea that someone was meant to put all the guilt on him. He knew deep down that he was just following orders, but a part of him was so sure as well that what he had done was wrong.

Snip. Walang sisihan, Goyo.

It was evident with that deep frown he has, and that shaking hands of his. The wind blowing wasn’t just cold, but the voices it had been whispering were enough to make him wish to hide in fear.

Like the call of Death.

Informing him of an appointment.

Or was the ripping of wings

Left the scar that always stings?

It could’ve just been pure luck. Or perhaps death had been glaring at him, shaking his head, and saying, “Hindi pa ngayon.”

Or maybe, upon seeing Death, he had been too shocked to think that it had been the end of his time. And Death was also equally surprised to see him there. Perhaps, if he had asked Death back then, he would explain his plea as “Laking gulat ko rin na makita ka sa ilog doon sa Dagupan. Sapagkat alam ko na magkikita tayo sa susunod pang mga linggo. Sa Tirad.”

But no one had seen Death or even confronted him. It was his own delusional mind that had been conjuring those images.

It was his own guilt and fear. It was his own shame. His own failure and assumption. That made those images.

“Kuya, mamamatay ako!” He screamed as the tears fell from his gentle eyes. He was as white as sheet; just as how he had seen Death from the other side of the looking glass.

He knew, despite all the assurances and contradictions of his mind and of other people, that Death was waiting for him.

Makinig ka, Goyo, Death haunted him. Magkita tayo sa Tirad, Goyo. Sa Tirad.

That Death would be coming soon.

When swords slashed through tender skins

Does the vicious villain grins?

“Tandaan mo kung sino ka,” Julian would always remind him. “Lahat ng tao tinitingala ka. Ikaw ang aguila. Bayaning Bulakenyo. Dugong magiting.”

Once, he would say, he felt exactly that. He was proud of all those accomplishment of his. He was superior among any other that with how young he was, he managed to do something unordinary. Something so far from being possible.

For him, it was Julian who’ve always guided him when he was lost. Whenever his Kuya was there next to him, he knew that he was safe and right. He knew that there was no reason for him to doubt himself. And when they were together, the whispers were silent.

Vicente, however, he was there as his best friend and his aidé-de-camp. He could depend his life and the rest of the brigade to him. He knew that Vicente looked up at him as an older brother, believing that he was guided by Anacleto. And when they were together, he knew that he could be that general brother whom Vicente had lost.

Somehow, the mumblings were just a frequency audible.

But… there were moments that even though they were nearby, they won’t stop from winning against him.

“Goyong!” Shouted his brother, pulling him away.

The depression within himself made him understand how close he was to losing his precious sanity.

“Sino ka?” Julian inquired as loud as he could to make him snap back.

Words must not travel about how he was acting now. He replied sharply, as if he was also telling himself that he must believe on his words, “Aguila!”

And they were making him turn away—run away—from his own obligations and commitments.

“Goyong, nagbago ka na…” Felicidad told him once. “Dun pa lang sa Dagupan, hindi kita halos makilala… Natatandaan ko kung sino ka… yung Goyong nakilala ko. Isa siyang sundalo.”

The whispers were louder back at that time. Perhaps it was because his brother was too far away to quench those haunting words, or it was meant to be for him to simply brush away his best friend’s concern of their safety.

But… maybe, it was because the wind was muttering the truth.

That he had changed, and he no longer knew who he really was.

Or was the blood that trickled

Call forth danger as signaled?

“Gusto kong sumandal sa bisig ng isang lalaking alam ang kanyang hangganan, ‘pagkat natupad niya na ang tungkulin niya sa bayan.”

Remedios’s letter was one that could be considered as one of his soul opener. That upon reading, the whispers that had been haunting him for far too long, stopped with their tricks.

He would mockingly laugh if he were to say that the beauty of Tirad was the cause of it, but he knew better that at first glance of its mountainous height… the whispers in the wind became louder. It was just that, he was deafened by it with the removing of his blindfold by the words of his last love.

The calling of Death grew. Or rather, it was Death whose voice remained. The voice that he couldn’t escape from despite all the assurances and so on.

Sa Tirad, Goyo, Death continued haunting him. Makinig ka. Sa Tirad.

He would like to fight back and remark, “Naghihintay si Remedios sa Dagupan. Naghihintay si Kuya sa Bulacan. Naghihintay sila sa akin.”

Then, Death would have the final say. Mabuhay ka. Paparating na ako.

But… was there someone who’ve succeeded to escape Death out of all things?

When both life and death battled

Does the sail of years travelled?

He wouldn’t allow anyone to just be there. He would be with the carefully chosen sixty men to defend the lines there at Pasong Tirad. He already knew what he must do, and that was that.

The flag that had been his own since it was first unfurled upon his promotion remained as a symbol that with that on sight, the Brigada del Pilar was there. And wherever the Brigada del Pilar was, their general was also with them.

If there was that history of relations within the brigade, anyone would say that he was in love with his success. That he would wish to be with his men. That such respect and devotion to his soldiers were proven since that day he had shown them victory and raised his own banner as his distinction.

He watched the campfire for a minute before taking out his journal from his satchel. With his pencil on the other, he knew what was necessary to be written.

Vicente looked at him but didn’t say anything. He bid his goodnight before retiring for the night, and all he had done was to nod in return, eyes still focus on his writing.

A few more tense minutes, he shook his head, ending his entry with the last words that the world would remember out of him. He closed his eyes, at peace with having his words written on paper.

Since the past three years since he joined the revolution, on that night of the first of December 1899, his sleep had been undisturbed.

No nightmares. No whispers. No struggles.

There is no greater sacrifice.

Or was victory still asked

Waiting for light to be basked?

An eagle screeched right above him, causing him to look up at the sky. The clearness of the blue sky with faint hint of cirrus white clouds way above, the soaring eagle was a sight to behold.

Ever since he was a child, he would always look up and admire the view of the freedom right there.

“K-Kuya…” he remembered calling for his brother’s attention when he was a child. “Ang ganda nung ibon na iyon!”

His brother would always laugh, drop a hand on the crown of his head and remark, “Hindi lang iyon basta isang ibon, Goyong.” Julian would pick him up and carry him, continuing with great admiration in parallel to that of his, “Iyon ay isang agila.”

That’s why he didn’t doubt choosing to be called as “Aguila” when he entered the revolution. His great feats and deeds attributed him as such.

Pero bakit parang mali ang lahat? He wondered to himself with great longing. Saan ako nagkulang?

No one answered. Not even the whispers that were carried by the wind. Not even a voice from Death whom he knew was looking at him right now as he felt the stabbing pain of being all alone in these great mountains and be careless above the clouds.

When the bullet ends my life

Does it mock what is deprive?

There was something that he had realized all at once.

He wasn’t an eagle. He wasn’t a hero who’ve been with the clouds. He wasn’t the saviour who’ve descended. He wasn’t the heralded one who’ve followed that right must be above might.

For if he was, he would not feel the longing in learning that Death lingered on.

He turned to his soldiers, who were telling him to stay low, for the American snipers had their eyes and aims on him.

If there was something that must be done, he already knew what that was. And he would not run away from the truth this time.

He would fight for what was just and right. For too many people lost sight with the very fine line of distinction that separated the two with might and power. Too many had fought in this war, trying to avenge the past… for what?

Everybody wants to fight. And those who lived by the sword were forced to die by it. Still, it had always been that way.

Was it because of their principles, or just to be a part of a team? Was it the wicked leaders who’ve led innocent populations to slaugter, or was it wicked populations who chose leaders out of context?

Nandiyan ka ba? Nakasubaybay? He asked. Nakahanda nang sumalubong?

For another casualty of this unending cycle of sorrow was to come sooner rather than later.

Goyo. Death’s voice softened like a lullaby. Paparating na ako.

Dalian mo, he urged just as he said out loud, voice sure and convictions renewed, “Tapusin na natin ito.”

Or was its kiss my saviour

Leading me somewhere freer?

First, there was the silence.

Second, a step forward.

Then, the gunshot.

He froze. His knees buckled underneath him as his entire body felt the quake and shudder and the fear. His hands grasped for the ground underneath him. His throat felt rusty; having the urge to cough the bile taste. Blood dropped to the dusty soil.

His strength slowly leaving him as he tried to break free from that foul taste.

When death told me it is time

Is it alright to decline?

His senses were at lost. His thoughts were scattered. His feelings were jumbled.

Ano ba ang dapat maramdaman?

Tears pricked the back of his eyes and agony pushed his mind to send the message for him to scream. But his body won’t respond, or rather, he wasn’t able to do whatever his brain had sent.

His visions blurred as he saw darkness trailing closer and closer to him. He struggled to fight it back, wishing once again to see the horizon that separated humans to the divinity of clouds; to hear that screech from an eagle.

Yet, the last thing he saw was the great disappointment. And the last thing he heard were the words: “Sabi ko sa ‘yo. Makinig ka. Walang sisihan. Sa Tirad.”

But there is peace in silence

The last of these horizons.

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[inanxterra]

End of Plowed Road: Winter camping for the New Year!

Perhaps one of the most frustrating things about winter, outside of those dreadful family get-togethers with the side of the family you’ve spent the last 12 months avoiding, is cabin fever. There’s nothing on Netflix funny enough and no channel on YouTube catchy enough to feed that desire of exploration that often just sits and grows when the daytimes shorten and the temperatures fall. If you’re like me, you take a bunch of awful tasting Vitamin D gummies in the morning, but still find that even One-A-Day vitamins have a serving size of two if you look at the back of the bottle. Although it’s only been a few months since our last expedition, our tolerance for the rude people of Ann Arbor has reached it’s breaking point. It’s wonderful that many dress their leased Ford Escape up like Rudolph, but at least reindeer have the fucking decency to park on the roof, rather than in the middle of an entrance to a parking lot like these assholes. Wait, maybe I’m the rude one? Regardless, it was time to escape mindless-consumer-copia, to a part of the world that haven’t been told cars are driving themselves nowadays. Michigan’s beautiful upper-peninsula.

The ride up, all 4300 pounds of truck, drove against some intense winds on US-23 that began in Brighton, and lasted even after we crossed the Mackinac Bridge in St. Ignace. The fuel mileage on this truck is already bad. Like less than 15mpg bad, but taking 15mpg and pointing it against 30mph winds for 4 hours, well, I had friends in college that wouldn’t even drink that much.

On the way up, we saw an amazing rig at a gas station fueling up. Picture a lifted Ford E-Van, with some minor exo-skeleton welded around it, an empty roof-rack, a rear spare-tire carrier, ARB-like bumper armor, and a huge tool box in the back. The license plates said Washington, but the rig looked like it was ready to go across the world. We didn’t have a chance to stop the owners for a chat, or take photos, but with a rig like that you could easily live out of it and call the whole world your backyard (ignoring vast portions of ocean of course)!

Another good sign of things to come were the number of trucks hauling snowmobile trailers. Although there are plenty of trails in the lower mitten, the real fun happens in the UP, where portions of the state become accessible to snowmobiles only.

Our plan from the start left us with 3 options for a place to stay once we reached St. Ignace (4.25 hours north of Ann Arbor): Mackinac Straits State Park St. Ignace (just over the Mackinac Bridge) DNR said this was open all year. Bathrooms/Showers?

Little Brevort Lake State Campground Charming town of Brevort DNR said maybe you could get in, even though it’s closed We hate campgrounds

Garnet Lake State Forest Naubinway (an hour west of St. Ignace) Nobody answered when we called for information What happened to the survivors at the summit?

Alternatively, because we are sleeping inside the truck after-all, we just find a spot and claim it as ours.

When we arrived in St. Ignace, we found that the Straits State Park was closed. Little Brevort, for as thrilling as it sounded, might be closed as well, and Garnet Lake was too far away. So we drove around, using our HemaMaps app to look for trails and roads that led to the coast. Sure enough, we found a spot near the Kewadin Casino, that was right on the coast of Lake Huron! It was down a dirt trail that nobody had been on in the last few snows so it appeared, and eventually turned into some deep frozen tracks that we’d need to safely maneuver to get to the point.

Finding the spot isn’t even half the battle though. When the temperatures are at 20 degrees, and the windchill is strong enough to cut even that in half, there’s still a lot of work to do. This was the first time, Maia and I, had ever camped during the winter. Sure, as kids we can each remember staying out in our snowforts well after the sun had set, but this time nobody would have a hot bowl of soup ready for us when we were done playing. 

The most important and initial step in this one-night escape would be beer and dinner, in that order. Usually we’d cook, but we had an unshakable taste for pizza. On our way out of B.C’s Pizza in downtown St. Ignace, we asked the delivery driver with the lifted Jeep Grand Cherokee, where we could find firewood. Due to the danger of emerald ash borers, an invasive ash-tree murdering beetle, it’s illegal to transport wood from the lower peninsula, into the upper peninsula, but luckily there was a “guy.”

Jim, who’s retired, but sells firewood on the road just before you reach the Quality 8 Hotel, has a red and white spaniel with a nub for a tail. It’s a delightful dog, and will even open the door of Jim’s mobile home to say hello to you if you’re in need of lumber, before Jim is even aware you’re at his home. I had interrupted his night of women’s basketball, a sport he repeatedly told me he enjoys watching. That’s great Jim, but why? Why does this sport fascinate you to the point you’re explaining to me who’s playing who while standing in freezing cold temperatures in your pajama pants as your spaniel also has it’s own fascination with sniffing crotches and poking butts? Jim finally admitted that he likes women’s basketball because it’s slower and easier to watch; part of me feels like he may have come to this conclusion because he doesn’t pause men’s basketball when it’s on television.

Nevertheless Jim was a huge help in finding cedar, that would light quick, and burn hot for us while we setup the truck. Maia was set on bringing a thousand blankets and sleeping bags. I argued before we left, it would be a waste of space to carry that much, and the camp-detector-test determined, I was wrong.

When you winter camp, everything you attempt takes a few extra steps. Unlike previous camps, we couldn’t just throw things on top of the truck overnight, or else they would freeze or blow away. Running around barefoot, was also an obvious, but big, no-no. Peeing; the second night I had to pee so bad, but the temperatures were so cold, I just said fuck this I can wait. I later regretted waiting when I had to bend my body to put pants and shoes on, with a painfully-full bladder.

As Maia built the fire with wood potentially sponsored by the WNBA, I began building the bed. We would end up sleeping in the truck for two nights this weekend, experimenting with bed setups both times. This night though, we had our usually foam padding across the platform, a comforter above those, each of us sleeping in one sleeping-bag inside another sleeping bag, with a comforter on top of that. The rear passenger windows, would have a blanket hanging against them on each side to help knock some of the cool air down. The seats up front, a thick comforter laying across it hung from the ceiling to create a small fort/room in the back to keep us warmer. 

It would drop to 10 degrees with the windchill where we were parked, and although all the blankets and bags keep body warms, if you don’t fall asleep before the temp in the truck drops, the cold air creeps into the cabin in a suspicious way, like a warm fart works its way around a dining room table when the in-laws are over. It takes its time, its in no rush to escape. Everything exposed, your face, your hands, and each breath of cold air you take burns your lungs a little. It’s pretty awesome. I don’t know how people do this in tents (no I’m not going to use a pun here, but I’m aware I could).

Having a fire while you setup is an amazing mood-booster, even if it’s too cold to enjoy like you normally would in the summer. The heat coming from that flame, is so important, and you’re using it for more than just entertainment or a place to melt marshmallows. We had enough wood to burn a fire before bed, and again in the morning as we got ready to head out. For breakfast, we had a dehydrated bag of Biscuits and Gravy with a hot chocolate. With 2,000mg of sodium, it would leave us thirsty for the rest of the day. But it was delicious!

On our way out, as soon as we started to head west of St. Ignace, the snow flurries began. The lower parts of the UP didn’t have too much snow on the ground, but as we navigated further north on country roads, the the snow on started to pile up!

Many of the country roads up there, like many of the ORV routes, become snowmobile only. Not because of laws, but because of conditions. Narrow unplowed roads that still curve and dash between tall pines and cedars can become pretty tough to navigate through without getting stuck. And some of the trails, we learned, would become too narrow to even turn around in once you do go too far down the unbeaten path. But how will you ever really know how far your rig can make it if you don’t try it? Try it!

We attempted to reach the coast of Lake Superior, at the mouth of the Two Hearted River where we planned to crack open a few ice-cold Bell’s Two-Hearted Ales, and call it a night. The further north we went, the worse it became. In fact the only other traffic we ran into were folks on snowmobiles. Without even a lifed Jeep in sight, we kept going, but only made it a few hundred feet passed an enormous sign that read END OF PLOWED ROAD. They weren’t kidding. With the last little bit of light left in the day hitting the snow in a way that made it seem as though you were driving through a friendly cloud, when the trail went from road, to all snowmobile trail, I could feel the traction from the gas pedal lose grip on the land below, as we the Xterra began to dig its own grave.

Once we became slightly stuck, I took upon myself to set the truck into 4LO, and dig us even further down, in a sort of fighting fire with fire sort of way. The snow had gone above the lower control arms, and at that point there’s not much you can do but dig yourself out. We did, thanks to our handy full-size shovel, it wasn’t too much work, but once freed from that tragedy, I somehow managed to back us further off the trail, and down into the ditch, where the truck would sit for roughly an hour, with all four wheels spinning.

Luckily for us, some snowmobilers we had passed earlier returned to help push us out of the ditch! We turned around, and went back to the Lower Tahquamenon Falls for the night! This is a campground that’s open all-year round, and even has electricity hookups. We were one of three people staying there for the night, and the only ones without an RV or snowmobile. For food, we just heated canned soup. It’s easy to pack, cheap, and doesn’t require much clean up. For drinks, the Two-hearted Ale we wanted to enjoy at the Two-hearted River went quick.

Sleeping in the truck that net wasn’t as cold as the previous night. For this sleep, we unzipped both sleeping bags, and spread them flat across both our bodies. With this technique, we’d have shared body heat, and even if the tips of the blanket did become cold, the extra pair of legs was helpful in keeping those spots far and few between.

In the morning the truck was covered in a thick blanket of snow, and we used our last few logs of firewood for breakfast, and heat, while we packed the truck. Soon we’d be ready to backtrack a few miles to the Lower Tahquamenon Falls, that still had a surprising number of people visiting it, especially since most weren’t traveling via snowmobile.

Once in Marquette we checked into a hotel because we needed a shower big-time. Can you smell that smell? It was us. You know you’ve gone far too long without touching the ivory cellphone when you can smell your armpits without lifting your arms, and they smell a lot like wet feet. More beer was also inorder.

It’s here we would celebrate the new year! Marquette, MI has a cute ball-drop downtown, where they play music from what I assume is a Now Thats What I Call Music 13 compact disc. It’s all in fun, especially when you’ve been drinking. 

InAnXterra is a blog about two people in Michigan with a Nissan Xterra from Craigslist as they journey to the Dakotas!

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