#tear down fortress europe

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Dragon Reborn! Prologue: Fortress of the Light

Well I took a much longer break than I expected and now winter's over (hopefully; I do live in Alaska) so it's time to get into the book with a longer break than expected between it and its prequel, but that gets going now that winter's over. Everything else is of course spoilers, and this post is going to have spoilers for the whole damn series so... don't keep reading if that's a problem.

Pedron Niall’s aged gaze wandered about his private audience chamber, but dark eyes hazed with thought saw nothing.

We start out this book with the Whitecloak icon because we're in Whitecloak town. And as is usual in Whitecloak town, every person in the place is looking around wildly and still completely blind to what's in front of them.

Still, he was suddenly aware of the tendon-ridged back of the hand holding the drawing, aware of the need for haste. Time was growing short. His time was growing short. It had to be enough. He had to make it enough.

We do see evidence here and there that despite being a Whitecloak, Niall isn't a completely contemptible person but... He is of course still completely wrong. He's not going to make it to the Last Battl and it won't be old age that takes him. He's in audience with a guy who could be warning him about the threat that will destroy his country but is focused on something else entirely.

It is a worse madness than any false Dragon I’ve ever heard of. Thousands have declared for him already. Tarabon and Arad Doman are in civil war, as well as at war with each other. There is fighting all across Almoth Plain and Toman Head, Taraboner against Domani against Darkfriends crying for the Dragon—or there was fighting until winter chilled most of it. I’ve never seen it spread so quickly, my Lord Captain Commander. Like throwing a lantern into a hay barn.

Considering how in-depth the series gets later on, it's a bit surprising we don't get much of a taste of this initial conflict. This all-consuming war, IIRC, continues to run on and off for pretty much the rest of the series, though the Seanchan do quiet it down and reframe it a great deal in the latter half.

“Lord Captain Bornhald said they called themselves Seanchan, my Lord Captain Commander,” Byar said stolidly. “He said they were Darkfriends. And his charge broke them, even if they killed him.”

Even when Byar touches on the Seanchan it's only in ways that actually misinform Niall. No wonder the LCC is so frustrated with this conversation.

“By this one Darkfriend you spoke of, Child Byar?” He could not keep an edge out of his own voice. A year’s planning lay in ruins amid the corpses of a thousand of the Children, and Byar wanted to talk only of this one man. “This young blacksmith you’ve only seen twice, this Perrin from the Two Rivers?”

Dude is so Perrin-obsessed that I feel that Perrin's ta'veren must be working against them both under these circumstances. Just like how Rand's causes both good and bad things to happen at random, so too does Perrin attract allies and enemies.

Perhaps these wars meant nothing in themselves—men fought wars—but they usually came one at a time. And aside from the false Dragon somewhere on Almoth Plain, another tore at Saldaea, and a third plagued Tear. Three at once.

Consider how different from Europe the setting of this story is, that wars come "one at a time". They don't have the population to sustain Renaissance war rates, even if they do still have the technology.

The Atha’an Miere, the Sea Folk, were said to be ignoring trade to seek signs and portents—of what, exactly, they did not say—sailing with ships half full or even empty.

I believe this is the first mention of them acting weird, so... that's an additional complication to look forward to.

But Tar Valon had apparently sent other Aes Sedai to support the other false Dragon at Falme. Nothing else fit the facts.

Props to Niall here for coming to a somewhat correct conclusion from a variety of incorrect data.

Carridin was tall, well into his middle years, with a touch of gray in his hair, yet fit and hard. His dark, deep-set eyes had a knowing look about them, as always. And he did not blink under the silent study of the Lord Captain Commander. Few men had consciences so clear or nerves so steady.

It's pretty easy to have a clear conscience when you don't have any conscience at all. Shame Niall's not a good enough judge of character to see that.

To serve the Light. Not to serve the Children of the Light. All the Children served the Light, but Pedron Niall often wondered if the Questioners really considered themselves part of the Children at all.

Maybe instead of setting up plans to conquer the continent you could have dealt with the Questioners, Niall? No? Just gonna let that shit heap fester in the sun? Great choice. Absolutely no knives in the back are coming your way... His eyes really aren't seeing anything in this chapter.

The Shadow’s plots are murky, and often seem mad to those who walk in the Light.

Sad thing is, Carridan is probably perfectly accurate in this particular sentence. The Dark spends a lot of its time acting in ways to maximize the paranoia of the common folk, to keep the Light too divided to properly purge it before the end of the Age.

Few ships have tried to cross the Aryth Ocean, and most never returned. Those that did, turned back before they ran out of food and water. Even the Sea Folk will not cross the Aryth, and they sail wherever there is trade, even to the lands beyond the Aiel Waste. My Lord Captain Commander, if there are any lands across the ocean, they are too far to reach, the ocean too wide. To carry an army across it would be as impossible as flying.

1. The Seanchan also do fly, naturally.

2. As Niall points out, this isn't a proof, it's only a (logical) guess.

3. The Sea Folk actually have made it across a few times, though they refer to the far end as the Isles of the Dead or something similar. Carridin probably isn't pointing this out either because he doesn't know or if he does because he doesn't want to make reaching the Seanchan continent seem plausible.

“Most people think Trollocs are only travelers’ tales and lies, and most of the rest think they were all killed in the Trolloc Wars. What other name would they put to a Trolloc but monster?”

This... also isn't proof. Shame the Whitecloaks don't like logic as much as the White Aes Sedai do.

“Even a false Dragon,” Niall said dryly, “is not enough to make them forget four hundred years of squabbling over possession of Almoth Plain. As if either of them ever had the strength to hold it.”

Even the real Dragon only manages to unite them through his second-order unification, as they lie across the Seanchan/West divide otherwise.

“At first they were only rumors, my Lord Captain Commander. Rumors so wild, no one could believe. By the time I learned the truth, Bornhald had joined battle. He was dead, and the Darkfriends scattered. Besides, my task was to bring the Light to Almoth Plain. I could not disobey my orders to chase after rumors.”

Bro doesn't even have a good excuse. If Niall wasn't busy scheming for his own agenda, he could have ended Carridan here and now and saved everyone a lot of trouble.

He would never put forward one of his own, but I doubt he’d quibble if I named you. A few days under the question, and you would confess to anything. Name yourself Darkfriend, even. You would go under the headsman’s axe inside a week.

Actually perhaps I'm overoptimistic here. Perhaps the High Inquisitor - or just the Darkfriends amid the Whitecloaks - would ferry Carridin away or arrange for an early demise before he could give away any information at all. Replace him with the next dude, same as the first.

Loose a lion—a rabid lion—in the streets. And when panic grips the people, once it has turned their bowels to water, calmly tell them you will deal with it. Then you kill it, and order them to hang the carcass up where everyone can see. Before they have time to think, you give another order, and it will be obeyed. And if you continue to give orders, they will continue to obey, for you will be the one who saved them, and who better to lead?

Niall of course foreshadows Perrin's rise to power, though the boy does it kicking and screaming.

Niall rubbed his hands together. He felt cold. The dice were spinning, with no way of telling what pips would show when they stopped.

In a way, Niall inadvertently views himself as a dark mirror to all three ta'veren. Perrin, by means of creating an enemy to unite people; Mat, as a Great General with a focus on gambling, and Rand...

But he, Pedron Niall, would unite humankind behind the banners of the Children of the Light. There would be new legends, to tell how Pedron Niall had fought Tarmon Gai’don, and won.

Rand like this.

A month before, in the dead of winter, the gangly little man had arrived in Amadicia, ragged and half-frozen, and somehow managed to talk his way through all the layers of guards to Pedron Niall himself. He seemed to know things about events on Toman Head that were not in Carridin’s voluminous if obscure reports, or in Byar’s tale, or in any other report or rumor that had come to Niall. His name was a lie, of course. In the Old Tongue, Ordeith meant “wormwood.”

"Wormwood" is a Book of Revelation reference: "The third angel blew his trumpet, and a great star fell from heaven, blazing like a torch, and it fell on a third of the rivers and on the springs of water. The name of the star is Wormwood. A third of the waters became wormwood, and many died from the water, because it was made bitter."

But also, poor, poor Niall. He sees himself as a man of cold logic (steel, cuendillar, etc.) but with Ordeith around whatever virtues he had are assuredly doomed.

The Two Rivers,” Niall mused. “Someone else mentioned another Darkfriend from there, another youth. Strange to think of Darkfriends coming from a place like that. But truly they are everywhere.”

Niall is almost, ALMOST clever enough to realize how stupid this claim is... But Ordeith's a fast talker.

Much of the drawing was only a smudge, and a rip ran across the young man’s breast, but miraculously the face was untouched.

Fain can tear Rand up physically, as can most of the Shadow, but despite everything, the boy remains.

“Perhaps I must make plans for the Two Rivers. When the snows clear. Perhaps.” “As the Great Lord wishes,” Ordeith said blandly.

And so we set up... next book's plot. Seems a little premature for this book's prologue but sure! Also note that Ordeith calls Niall the same thing all the Darkfriends call the Dark One. You'd think a real servant of the light would notice and object...

It was a man in form, no larger than most, but there the resemblance ended. Dead black clothes and cloak, hardly seeming to stir as it moved, made its maggot-white skin appear ever paler. And it had no eyes. That eyeless gaze filled Carridin with fear, as it had filled thousands before.

Oddly, the wiki says that this is the first appearance of Shaidar Haran and that it was only described as a "very tall Myrddraal" at this stage but as you can see, this Myrddraal is actually... a little short for a storm trooper. I'm going to make the executive decision that no, this Fade is not even an early SH variant and that if Jordan wanted me to think so he should have put it in the text where it belonged instead of interviews after the fact.

The Halfman’s bloodless lips quirked in a smile. “Where there is shadow, there may I go.”

There really must be some other limit to the Myrddraal's shadow-stepping technique because otherwise one of them should have just stepped in Rand's shadow and killed him if they wanted him dead so bad.

The Myrddraal grated, “Your Lord Captain Commander’s words are dung! You were commanded to find the human called Rand al’Thor and kill him. That before all else. Above all else! Why are you not obeying?”

And so we see the trap that Carridin is in, an interesting trap indeed considering that in later books Rand will be off the kill list. It's a good thing Ba'alsy is mad enough for the inconsistency to just seem to be his illness and nothing more. Though perhaps this Fade works for one of the other Forsaken (Sammael? Rahvin?) It certainly isn't the DO deciding this (another thing that makes it hard to believe it's SH), because his orders are even clearer: let the Lord of Chaos rule.

“Hear me, human. You will find this youth and kill him as quickly as possible. Do not think you can dissemble. There are others of your children who will tell me if you turn aside in your purpose. But I will give you this to encourage you. If this Rand al’Thor is not dead in a month, I will take one of your blood. A son, a daughter, a sister, an uncle. You will not know who until the chosen has died screaming. If he lives another month, I will take another. And then another, and another. And when there is no one of your blood living except yourself, if he still lives, I will take you to Shayol Ghul itself.”

Frankly Mr. not-Haran, I don't think that's a great threat for Carridin until you invoked his suffering. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who cares about his family at all...

With his good hand Carridin struck the basket from Sharbon’s hands, sending withered winter apples rolling across the carpets, and backhanded the man across the face.

The hierarchy of evil is so pathetic, isn't it? Ah well.

So ends the third book's prologue. The first book's prologue was an Age before the main story and sets up the conflict of the book and the series clearly. The second book's prologue was at least a little before the chapters of the second book and set up the conflict of the book and the series clearly. This prologue doesn't bother with that and instead sets the tone for the vast majority of the prologues to come: checking in on the plot threads that aren't doing anything this book. Probably one of my least favorite structural choices in these books, but it's a minor quibble.

Next time: Rampant abuse of innocent corvids.

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #pedron niall #jaret byar #jaichim carridin #padan fain #not shaidar haran i don't care what jordan said or the origins book or the wiki

[dicaculus]

Title: A Pile of Hot Metal and Dirty Dishes Artist: Crankyfossil Rating: Explicit Pairing: Magnus Bane/ Alec Lightwood Wordcount:42,462 Summary: Magnus Bane is the Head Chef at Encanto and doing just fine. Or that’s what he tells Simon the therapist, his boss Raphael, orders him to go to. Magnus is a genius in the kitchen, his food is art, but if he starts a fight with one more disrespectful customer, he’s gone. Simon is useless though, going on about Magnus using work as a means to distance himself from meaningful relationships, and emotional walls that could rival a fortress. What does he know? Magnus is fine. Then everything goes wrong. His best friend, Catarina and her daughter get into an accident. His eight-year-old niece, Madzie, is the only survivor and Magnus finds himself going from cool uncle Magnus to the only parent Madzie has left. To make matters worse, Raphael has replaced him while he’s on leave. Alexander Lightwood is a menace. He’s careless, breezy, and annoyingly good at everything he does. Magnus can’t stand him, but with Madzie refusing to eat his cooking and his hands full, Magnus needs all the help he can get. Along the way, Magnus begins to realize there’s more to life than seared cod and lemon dressing, and maybe, just maybe, it’s a life that he wants Alexander Lightwood in.

This fic was created for the Malec Discord Mini Bang 2023.

READ ON AO3

CHAPTER TWO

The world stops for Magnus as Dr. Roberts talks in his ear. Despite the chaos in the kitchen, the clanging on dishes and utensils, the familiar sound of Clary calling out orders and chefs calling back with times, Magnus only hears the doctor’s voice.

“T-boned…she didn’t make it…we did everything we could….I’m so sorry”

“A-and Madzie?” Magnus asks, barely holding back his tears, gripping onto the steel counter like a lifeline so he doesn’t crumble to the floor. 

“She’s stable, we need you to come down”

“I’ll be right there.”

Magnus hangs up the phone and leans on the pillar behind him. He closes his eyes, trying to collect himself and willing himself not to cry in his kitchen. A gentle shake of his shoulder brings Magnus back to the kitchen, his eyes landing on a concerned Clary.

“Magnus, is everything okay?”

“I- I have to go”

The drive to the hospital is a blur. Swirling in Magnus’s head is the memory of the last time he spoke to his best friend. It had been just this afternoon as he drove to the restaurant after his appointment with Simon. Catarina was checking in, telling Magnus about how their long drive was going and sharing her annoyance about other drivers.

“Traffic is insane as per usual. I swear a little snow on the ground and everyone forgets how to drive. “

But now, only a few hours later, she was gone. Just like that, his best friend dead. It was hard to wrap his head around. Magnus couldn’t think of a time when Cat wasn’t in his life. They’d grown up together, lived on the same street, went to the same schools, were in the same classes and had sleepovers most weekends. Cat was there when his mother passed away as a teenager when all of his other friends shied away, unsure what to say to their friend. At Cat’s house, there was always a place at their dinner table for Magnus and the guest room was his if he needed to get away from his father. After his wife’s death, his father became isolated and cruel‌. A dramatic change from the man Asmodeous used to be, the man Magnus at one time wanted to become. She was there when Magnus was figuring out his sexuality, his first relationship and first heartbreak. When Magnus decided to become a chef, she was there to support him by looking at culinary schools and trying his dishes without hesitation no matter how odd they might been.

After high school they’d gone their separate ways, going to schools hours apart. But despite the distance, they were always in contact, phone calls, texts, video chat, even the occasional  weekend visit. When Magnus got the chance to train in Europe, he’d jumped at the chance and Cat had been so proud of him. Not wanting to go alone, Magnus begged Catarina to come with him, she been hesitant at first of course. Catarina was always the practical one of the two and setting of to Europe for an unplanned trip was anything but practical. So she said no, instead they settled on Catarina coming for a visit in a few months. Filled with pride Catarina drove Magnus to the airport and hugged him goodbye with tears in her warm brown eyes. When Catarina found out she was pregnant, Magnus was with her every step of the way. He went to all of her appointments and was even present at Madzie’s birth. They were always there for each other and Magnus was sure he’d found his soulmate in his lifelong friend, which made her death that much harder to grasp.

A woman at the hospital entrance gives Magnus directions to the ward Madzie is in. After taking the elevator up a few floors and going through a maze of white hallways that never seem to end, he finds himself in the unit Dr. Roberts told him over the phone.

“I’m looking for Dr. Roberts. My niece admitted here, she was in a car accident with her mom. “

The nurse at the desk nods and gestures to a couple of chairs for Magnus to sit and tells him Dr. Roberts will only be a moment. Magnus sits but nervously fiddles with his fingers and lets his leg bounces as he waits. Time seems to slow down and every minute that passes feels like an hour to him. Images of the worst swirl through his head. Madzie covered in bruises, broken bones, connected to machines and surrounded by various wires. Magnus shakes the thoughts from his head and tries to breathe; the doctor had said nothing about Madzie’s injuries being life threatening, infact if he remembers correctly she’d said Madzie was stable. 

“Mr. Bane?”

Magnus shoots up from his chair, his foot tangling with leg, making him stumble. Magnus clears his throat as he catches his balance, smoothing down his coat with his hands. He smiles at the doctor and approaches her, slower this time.

“Yes, hi, that’s me. I came as fast as I could”

Dr. Roberts smiles softly and squeezes his shoulder in a comforting gesture. “I’m Dr. Roberts. We spoke on the phone. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“H-How is she?” Magnus stutters. “Can I see her?”

The doctor nods and gestures for Magnus to follow her. “Madzie’s doing great.” She says. They walk down the hall, passing a few rooms until they stop at one. They stand in the doorway and Magnus sees Madzie curled up in the hospital bed, facing away from the door. He lets out a sigh of relief that she’s not hooked up to tubes and machines like he’s imagined. “Some bruises, a mild concussion and some stitches on her face and arm from where we had to pull out glass. Other than that, she’s gonna be fine.”

Physically, yes…but her mother is dead. She’ll be anything but fine.

“Has anyone told her yet?”

The doctor shakes her head. “We thought it would be best for her to hear it from someone in the family. Do you know how we can reach Madzie’s father? You’re her emergency contact, but we couldn’t find anything about her father.

“Oh um,” He sniffs, wiping a tear from his cheek. “He’s never been involved” Memories of Cat travelling to Europe to visit him while he was training flood to the surface. Specifically, a night when they’d gone dancing and had maybe a little too much to drink. She’d danced with a man that night. He was beautiful and charming, knowing how to treat a woman and knew all the right things to say. They had a holiday fling only for his friend to find out she was pregnant when she went home. “I don’t even know his name.”

Dr. Roberts to Emergency, please. Paging Dr. Roberts...

“I’m so sorry. I have to go, but I’ll be back to check on her‌.”

She turns and walks back down the hall, leaving Magnus alone in the door. Finally, he steps into the hospital room. It’s quiet other than the beeping of a monitor. He walks around the bed and smiles softly when he sees that she’s sleeping. As quietly as he can, he makes his way over to the chair in the corner and pulls it closer to the bed to sit. Madzie looks small in the hospital bed, blankets up to her chin and he can see the bruising and stitches the doctor spoke of.

“She’s changed so much since the last time you saw her”

And how right had Catarina been? Madzie always resembled her mother, but even now at only eight years old Magnus could tell she was going to look just like her mother. He reaches forward to move some hair from her face, and it’s then that her eyes flutter open.

“Magnus?”

“Hi sweetpea” He caresses Madzie’s cheek with his thumb for a moment, smiling softly.

“Where’s mom?”

Magnus’s heart clenches in his chest all over again and lets out a deep breath. 

“Is she dead?”

He squeezes one of her hands as tears well up in her dark brown eyes and, for the first time that day, Magnus lets the tears fall from his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, sweetpea, but she didn’t make it. “

Tears fall from the child’s eyes and she sobs, full body sobs that make her little body shake. Magnus pulls the chair closer, kisses his niece’s head and holds her as she cries. They fill the room with tears and whimpers as they cry together until Madzie falls asleep from exhaustion.

As promised, a few hours later, Dr. Roberts comes to check on Madzie. She explains that while she’ll recover; they want to keep her for a couple of days because of her head injury. Magnus stays with Madzie until the visit hours are over and a nurse kicks him out.

“Get some sleep,” He tells her with a kiss on her head. “I’ll come by tomorrow. How about I bring you dinner?”

Madzie agrees with a nod and waves a tired goodbye to him.

It’s not until Magnus gets to his apartment that night and crawls into his bed next to his cat and has a moment to check his phone that he realizes he has a voice mail. He goes through all his texts from various coworkers, deleting most of them except the few from Clary and Raphael. He updates both of them, getting sympathy from Clary and Raphael, telling him he understands if Magnus needs time off. When he checks his voicemail, tears fall from his eyes and sobs himself to sleep.

You have one new message.

Hi, it’s me.

And me!

We just wanted you to know we’re running late. Traffic’s insane. We’ll get there, eventually. Bye.

End of messages.

Magnus sleeps in the next morning having given the early morning market duties to another coworker, only rousing when his cat, Chairman, demands breakfast. He feeds the animal and begins a slow morning, enjoying his coffee rather than gulping it down, even taking a bubble bath before deciding to get ready. But when Magnus walks in the restaurant, he’s met with silence and stares from all of his coworkers in the middle of their meeting.

“Did you know he was coming in?” 

Magnus ignores the whispers and stares, holding his head up high, and continues to his kitchen. Magnus puts his coat in the office, puts on his chef’s whites and steps into the kitchen, grabbing an apron and tying it tightly.

“Magnus, what are you doing?” Raphael barges into the kitchen with his perfectly tailored suit.

Magnus raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Working? What does it look like?”

He grabs an onion from the basket and begins the daunting task of dicing pounds of onions for the night.

“I thought you were gonna take a few days off.”

“No.” Magnus says, pointing the sharp end of his knife at Raphael. “You thought I was going to take a few days off” Magnus goes back to dicing. Here Magnus could be busy, there was food to be cut, sauces to make, and things to do. At home, it would be him, his cat, and his thoughts, and the last thing Magnus wanted right now was to be alone with his thoughts.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Magnus lies

Lunch service is busy, the kitchen is hot, making Magnus sweat and loud with clanging of dishes, chefs calling to one another, servers asking where their table’s food is and Magnus barking orders. 

Give me one duck, two beef rare, and a rack of lamb.

I’m still waiting for those beef tenderloins.

Pick up for 10

I need a quail and a Dover sole for table nine. Okay, let’s go, guys.

It’s demanding and never ending, a perfect distraction from thinking of anything else, exactly what he needs. While Magnus pretends everything normal and perfectly okay, he’s aware the chefs around him and the servers know better. He sees the worrying glances Clary gives him from the corner of his eyes, Raphael hadn’t interrupted him or asked him to speak to a customer once tonight. He gets very little talk back from his other chefs. Not a single eye roll when he’d forced someone to refire something.

Come on, let’s move it.

Lucas, I need more pans, now!

Fire one rare steak on the fly.

Two duck breasts, two racks of lamb. Let’s go, people!

Magnus is usually demanding and expects the best from his staff. However, tonight he sounds even sharper than usual. There’s an edge to his voice that leaves no room for argument and the chefs simply shrug and look at one another, unsure of what to say.

“Why is there no food on the counter?” He barks exasperatedly, “Come on, we got tables and there are too many servers in my kitchen!”

“Where’s my souffle for 14? Eleanor, where the souffle?!”

“Chef?”

Magnus turns around and it’s Lucas, finally with the pans he asks for, which he takes, but then he’s given an envelope. Magnus takes it and looks at the young man with a question written all over his face.

“A man in a suit came in during our meeting and wanted to give this to you. He said it was important. He left a number to call him at as well. You told us never to bug you in the kitchen during prep so—”

Magnus thanks Lucas, but his voice sounds strained when he recognizes Catarina's handwriting on the envelope. He shoves the envelope in his trouser pocket and turns to Clary who somehow is already looking at him, “I’m going for a short break, you okay taking over?”

“Of course”

Magnus steps away from the kitchen and opens the metal doors to the large walk-in fridge. The walk in was his safe space, his refuge since no one really likes being in the cold too long. But with the heat of his kitchen, Magnus finds it nice, refreshing even. He sits on a wooden crate  against a wall and takes the envelope from his pocket. He smiles sadly, running a finger over his friend’s familiar script and wonders what he’s about to open. Magnus assumes the man must have been a lawyer. He assumes the family would have gone through her will by now. As a nurse, she’d always known the importance of having a will, her desire for burial and a power of attorney, just in case.

“You’re never too young, Magnus,” she’d lectured him one day, “Accidents happen, and if the worst should happen, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life attached to a machine”

Dear Magnus, the baby is gorgeous.

I’ve called her Madeleine, a French name for a baby made in France. But I think I’ll call her Madzie for short. Now she’s here, I’m beginning to get what a huge thing it is I’m doing on my own.

So I want you to know if anything should ever happen to me. You are the only person I would want to have her. I know you’ll love Madzie as if she was your own and you’ll teach her everything she needs to know and maybe a few things she doesn’t.

If something should happen to me, Magnus, don’t let her forget me and don’t push your memory of me away like you’ve done with all the other things that make you hurt inside. 

And maybe when she’s older, when she asks about me, you can tell her about France, maybe tell the PG version.

I love you, Magnus, the brother I always wanted, my best friend and soulmate

Catarina.

Magnus’s tears dribble from his cheek onto the paper, making it wet. Him, she wanted and trusted him to care for her daughter? It’s a little too much for him. Magnus lets the tears flow and cries. His sobs echo through the walk in, he cries for his friend; he cries for Madzie, losing the only parent she’d ever known, and he cries for the future. The unknown and uncertain future that lay before both him and Madzie. 

“Magnus?”

It’s Raphael. Magnus quickly wipes his tears and tries to plaster on a smile for him in an attempt to keep up his ‘I’m okay’ facade. But Raphael sighs and crouches in front of of Magnus, placing a hand on his knee, giving it a squeeze seeing right through it.

“I want you to take a week off. That’s not a suggestion, it’s an order.” He says when Magnus protests.

“But the restaurant..”

“Will be fine for a week. Clary can handle it for a week and your staff aren’t clueless. You’ve trained them well.”

Reluctantly Magnus agrees. He finishes the lunch service but leaves quickly after. He goes to his apartment, pets Chairman his large fluffy cat and hugs the cat to his chest despite him probably not enjoying it nearly as much as Magnus. Then he takes a shower, scrubbing the smell of the kitchen off of his skin and decides tonight he’ll prepare food for Madzie when he visits her. Perhaps something sweet as well. Maybe dessert will be a good way to soften the blow of telling Madzie she’s moving.

This visit to the hospital is less chaotic than the last, but seeing Madzie laying down in the small bed looking so fragile still makes Magnus’s heart clench. Magnus watches her from the door, leaning against the frame for a moment. The bruising on her face somehow looks worse than yesterday, but he supposes it’ll look worse before it gets better. There’s a table on a wheel that looks like she pushes from her bed at one point with a plate on it. From where he stands, Magnus sees some kind of food on the plate, but he doesn’t recognize what it is. He’s not even sure the lumps of green and orange things are food. Madzie doesn’t appear to notice him, absorbed in a cartoon playing the small television near her bed. He steps into her room, deciding to make himself known.

“Hi Madzie.”

She turns her head and a soft but exhausted smile appears on the young girl’s face. “You came back”

Magnus’ heart shatters in his chest, she must have thought he’d abandoned her. He holds back the tears that want to fall and walks to her bedside. He gently kisses his swollen and bruised cheek, caressing the other unharmed cheek.

“I promised I would sweetpea, I’ll always come back for you” Magnus sits himself in the same chair he sat in last time and pulls it as close to Madzie’s bedside as he can. “I made us something to eat”

 “I’m not hungry.”

Magnus nods “Okay.” He pulls her portion of the steak sandwich and chocolate chip cookies he’s made earlier and sets it on the bed. “I’ll leave here for you later, then. I can’t imagine the orange and green coloured mess on the plate over there tastes very good.”

Madzie looks towards the door, then looks back at Magnus, beckoning him closer, so he leans forward. “It’s disgusting, Magnus,” she whispers to him, as if the hospital’s chef is around the corner. “I think they’re trying to poison me”

Magnus chuckles, his heart warm with a glimpse of the silly Madzie he remembered.

“So the doctors tell me you’re being discharged on Friday”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, turning back to the TV.

“Madzie,” Magnus reaches for the remote on the hospital bed and turns off the tv, ignoring the looks Madzie sends him “You and I have to talk about what’s gonna happen on Friday.”

“I’m going home aren’t I? Can I go back home?”

 “I’m afraid not, sweetpea?

 “Why?” Madzie asks, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Madzie, you’d be all alone and you’re too young to be alone,” Magnus wipes the tears from Madzie’s cheek and squeezes her hand closest to him. “Your mom asked me to take care of you if anything ever happened to her. So on Friday, you’ll come home with me.”

The rest of the week Magnus spends the days getting his apartment ready for Madzie’s arrival and the evenings visiting with her and coaxing her to eat something. He cleans the entire apartment from top to bottom, even going as far as scrubbing the walls and the baseboards, which is something he realizes he should do more often when the paper towel come off covered in dirt mixed with fur. Magnus tidies up the rarely used guestroom and freshens up all the bed linens, then closes the door to keep it neat, much to Chairman’s dismay.

“You’re only going to cover it in your fur,” he scolds the cat, who sits outside the door glaring at Magnus.

Magnus buys more towels, extra cutlery, dishes and bath and body products with cartoon characters advertised for children.

“Don’t laugh at me, Clary!” he’d hissed at her over the phone while out shopping. “I don’t know what children like or need. It’s been quite a while since I was one, and you have two..well, almost two kids.”

With Clary’s advice, he doesn’t buy Madzie a new wardrobe, but he does pick three outfits for her to wear, one for her to leave the hospital in, a second one for Catarina’s funeral and pyjamas for that night. Friday morning arrives much too quickly for Magnus. He readies himself to pick up Madzie, then spends far too much time wandering around his place, making sure everything is ready. But the only things missing are Madzie’s and it would deliver them Saturday morning, an arrangement Magnus had made earlier that week. 

Magnus makes his way to the hospital and for the first time that week his heart doesn’t feel like it’s beating out of his chest as he drives and his heart doesn’t clench walking down the white hallways. He easily finds Madzie’s room and is greeted with her sitting up on the bed in the outfit he bought her the night before, a simple pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt, with her feet dangling over the edge.

“Hey sweetpea,” he wraps his arms around her in a warm hug and kisses the top of her head. “Ready to get out of here. “

Madzie nods against Magnus’s shoulder and mumbles, what sounds like a ‘please’ into his jacket.

Madzie is more than ready to leave not only this room but the hospital entirely. She’d barely slept the past week, despite whatever the nurses had given her to help her sleep. Between the beeping machines, the uncomfortable hospital beds, nurses coming in at odd hours of the night and no matter how many blankets she was given, she was still cold. So saying she was looking forward to a real bed would be an understatement. 

The drive to Magnus’s place is quiet and uneventful. Madzie spends the start staring out the window, then she nods off in the backseat, lightly snoring. When they finally arrive, she’s still sleeping, with her chin resting on her chest and his heart aches, thinking about how exhausted this child must be. Not just physically from her injuries, but mentally. A car accident, losing her mother, a hospital stay and moving to a new city where she knows no one but Magnus. She’d also be starting in a new school soon. One of those things would be a lot for anyone, but to an eight-year-old, it’s like her world was turned upside down.

Despite how peaceful she’s sleeping, Magnus gets out of his car, opens her door and caresses her shoulder to wake her up.

“Come on sweetpea, you can have a little nap in your room. “

Magnus holds the girl’s hand the whole way up, opening the heavy wooden doors for her, and smiles when Madzie’s eyes go wide at the spiral staircase in the foyer. He points out the neighbours as they pass their doors, being sure to point out his nearest neighbours who have children around her age.

“... They have three daughters. One is a teenager, but they have a daughter your age and you’ll probably see her at school. Maybe you can be friends.” Magnus says, pausing at another door, “And this is mine.. well, ours now.”

He unlocks the door and lets Madzie step in first. She takes in the room as she places her shoes on the shoe rack. She stands in place with her arms crossed. Magnus can tell she feels awkward and out of place and he wishes he knew what to say to the girl, but nothing sounds right. Instead, he smiles warmly and decides a small tour would be nice.

“So,” He says, standing beside Madzie. “The kitchen is just to the right there. It has everything really–”

“Chocolate chip waffles?”

“No, but we’ll get you some,” Magnus promises. “Now, let me show you the apartment. This is your home, too. I want you to feel welcome and maybe one day at home.”

Magnus shows her the living room, showing her where the remotes are for the tv and for the electric fireplace. He shows her the bookshelf filled with her hundred cookbooks and other books, making sure Madzie knows she’s welcome to everything.

“There are board games in the ottoman,” he says gesturing to the furniture

Next, he takes her down the hallway and points out one of the two bathrooms. It’s the smaller of the two bathrooms, only having a sink, toilet and shower, unlike Magnus’s ensuite. Magnus makes sure to point out where he put the toiletries he bought her.

They pass a closed door going for the next open door showing her his bedroom.

“My bedroom.” He says, “And the ball of fur is chairman. Don’t be surprised if he comes to sleep with you or sits on your lap. He likes to cuddle.

Madzie giggles, “I like cats” She steps into his bedroom and gently scratches between the feline’s ears. He makes a surprised chirp but quickly leans into Madzie’s touch and purrs.

After a couple minutes of petting the cat, Magnus opens the closed door they passed.

“This will be your bedroom.”

Magnus’s former guest room, now Madzie’s room, is the smaller of the two bedrooms. The room is carpeted with a plush grey carpet that’s soft under the feet and the walls painted white. On the far side of the room is a large bay window that faces the park. There’s a large bed on top of a white metal bedframe and covered with a fluffy duvet and multiple pillows.

“You also have a closet and the dresser is empty so you can fill it with your clothes when your things arrive tomorrow”

“It’s pretty,” she turns and a round face Magnus, a small smile on her face. “Thank you, uncle Magnus. I’m tired. I think I’ll lie down for a bit”

Magnus nods and tucks her into the bed, pressing a small kiss to her forehead before gently closing her door behind himself. He leans against the door and closes his eyes, letting out a deep breath.

“I don’t know what I’m doing Cat” He whispers, looking up to ceiling as if she Catarina could hear him “I wish you could tell me what to do”

Saturday morning comes far too quickly and with it comes a busy day. Together Magnus and Madzie go to Catarina’s funeral, it’s a small service filled with close family and friends. Magnus holds Madzie’s hand the entire time, holding his own tears and ignoring the pain in his chest when he looks at the large picture of her on display to be strong for his niece. After the service, they attend her burial. Again he holds her hand, pulling her close when he feels her tremble. 

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Magnus says on the drive home. “Death isn’t easy for anyone, Madzie, but you’re handling it well. Much better than I did when my mom passed.”

They spend the rest of the day directing men with boxes into his apartment. His once grown up apartment where everything had its place and everything was in order was now filled with boxes, bikes, and various children’s toys. When the moving truck finally leaves, Magnus helps her unpack boxes and put things away. Soon the once nearly empty room, mostly white room, is filled with colours, toys, books, games and more stuffed animals than Magnus thought one girl could own.

Eventually, he leaves her to finish unpacking the last few boxes. He checks his text messages for the first time that day, replying to everyone wondering how he’s doing. Once he’s replied to Clary and reassured that yes, he’s fine and its early days, but Madzie seems to be adjusting slowly. The smells coming from the kitchen pull Madzie from her bedroom nearly an hour later.

“You’re just in time sweetpea, go sit down” he says gesturing to the dinner table “Bon appetite” he says their plates on the table.

For dinner, Magnus grilled whole branzino with a lemon gremolata and a lemon, parmesan kale salad. Magnus quickly starts eating, branzino being one of his favourite fish and, in his opinion, eating fish on the bone was the best way to eat it. But Magnus notices after a couple bites of his own that Madzie isn’t eating and instead staring at her plate.

“Everything all right?” He asks.

Madzie nods and picks at the salad, but when all her greens are gone, she puts down her fork.

“What’s the matter?” He asks again, “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Can I go back to my room?” she asks instead of answering Magnus’s question

“Sure.”

He watches as his niece disappears down the hallway. Magnus sighs and eats dinner alone. He wants to be upset with her, but she’s going through a lot, so he lets it go. Magnus knows it’s going to be a change for both of them getting used to living together, but Magnus wishes she would just tell him what he could do. He gives Madzie space that night, deciding not to take it personally knowing the past few days hadn’t been easy.

“At least she ate her vegetables,” He mumbles to himself before taking a mouthful of fish.

Magnus’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He groans to himself, seeing Raphael’s name.

Will you be in Monday?

Magnus sigh, spinning the phone in his hand. He should go in Monday, he really should. Magnus had never spent this much time out of Encanto’s kitchen before, and he can only imagine what a mess was waiting for him. He should go in to discuss menus for the week, specials, supplier’s lists, but then he thinks of Madzie. Madzie, who would start at a new school on Tuesday, Madzie, who was in pain and need someone while she mourned.

No, I’m taking another week. Madzie needs me.

Magnus doesn’t get a reply from Raphael until early the next morning.

Of course. Could you come on Monday night for an hour? I want to discuss menus.

Magnus rolls his eyes. Why they couldn’t discuss menus over the phone is beyond him, but regardless, he agrees.

—-

“So you’re sure you’ll be okay here on your own for a little while?”

“Yes.” Madzie reassured Magnus. “My answer won’t change if you ask me for the hundredth time”

Magnus looks at his niece with a faux glare as he shrugs on his jacket. “I only want to be sure you are much more important than a restaurant menu. Now if you need for anything, you have my phone and the number for restaurant is in there okay?”

Madzie nods, a small smile on her face.

“Encanto isn’t far, so I can be back quickly if you need me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Magnus hugs her goodbye with a kiss to her forehead, telling her there’s food in the fridge if she’s hungry and reminding her he won’t be long. He’s so anxious about leaving Madzie alone. His heart beats in his chest as he takes the stairs down and he nearly turns around three times on the way to Encanto. But Madzie assured him she’d be okay and won’t be long…hopefully.

By the time Magnus makes it to the restaurant dinner service has started. He walks through the doors and is hit with the familiar smells of the food and sighs happily. As Magnus walks towards the kitchen, unbuttoning his coat as he goes, he realizes as nice as it was to sleep in and have some time off despite the circumstances. He really did miss this place. Everything appears the same as he left it until he passes the archway that leads to the kitchen. He hears music, and not radio top10 music. It’s opera…is that Italian? A server leaves the kitchen. She’s smiling and giggles as the door closes behind her.

Noticing Magnus, she immediately stops and clears her throat. “Hi Magnus” She carries on out to the dining room with the plates in her hands.

This isn’t how he left his kitchen. He places his hand on the door, making a fist with the other and takes a deep breath, preparing himself for what he’s about to witness. Magnus pushes through the door, his eyes wide at the spectacle in front of him, tossing his jacket to the side. Other chefs thankfully have their heads and do their jobs, but Clary stands beside a chef he doesn’t recognize. His back turned to Magnus, giggling while this man speaks in a terrible Italian accent, pretending to conduct with a pastry brush in his right hand.

“He says, “Look! Look at the stars! Gaze at the stars which tremble with love.”

Clary takes notice of Magnus’s entrance and stops the giggling, any trace of a smile leaving her face. “Hi chef”

The chef beside Clary turns around and Magnus gets a glimpse of the intruder in his kitchen for the first time. He’s tall, with broad shoulders that test the fabric of his chef whites. His hair is a dark brown like a chocolate ganache, his hands are large, making the pastry brush in his hand look like a number 2 pencil. His eyes sparkle with excitement when he turns, noticing Magnus for the first time, and a big smile covers his face.

“Oh, my God, it’s you!” The chef exclaims with a deep but smooth voice. He walks over closer to the station’s closest Magnus but still stays behind the metal tables. Magnus now notices the raw quail breast in his left hand. I am begging you, will you please tell me the secret of your saffron sauce?”

“Excuse me?” 

The chef seems to ignore him and spins around and continues to pretend to direct his kitchen.

“Listen to this, guys. Listen to this right here. Listen. He’s saying, “Fade the stars, fade all the stars.” He gestures to a few chefs who look enamoured with the man. “So you guys are my string section…”

Magnus stands there in disbelief as the dark-haired chef conducts his kitchen in song. Clary stands with at least the decency to look remorseful, but everyone else goes along with it. Magnus feels his body fill with anger and an immediate dislike for whoever this chef is, he him gone and he wants him gone now.

“He says, “In the morning I am going to wake. This is our love. Now, everybody. “Win our love!”

Then the entire kitchen is singing in Italian, except for Clary, who looks like she’s in pain knowing exactly how Magnus is feeling. He doesn’t doubt his displeasure at the spectacle, for the man is written all over his face, but Magnus doesn’t care enough to hide it.

The music ends with a crescendo and the chef holding the pastry brush and the quail above his hand spinning slowly, holding the final note of the song. The kitchen erupts in applause and the chef takes a bow.

“Alright, alright, back to work everyone,” Clary says, trying to put some kind of order back into Magnus’s kitchen.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Magnus snarls at the chef

“Alexander Lightwood,” He said with a small bow “And may I just say the world would be a dark and depressing place without your quail in truffle sauce.”

The smirk on Alec’s face fills Magnus with rage. He wants to smack it off the man’s pretty face then smash his face into steel counter tops. Instead, he turns to Raphael, who came up behind him during Alec’s little performance.

“We need to talk.”

Raphael leads Magnus to his office and closes the door behind them.

“You could’ve at least asked me!” He exclaims the second the door shuts

“I’m sorry, Magnus. I couldn’t wait.” The man shrugs, sitting at his desk. Alec was available, and I had to act quickly.”

Magnus leans against the wall, displeasure clear on his face. “The last thing I need right now is some lunatic in my kitchen.”

“He’s not a lunatic. He’s exuberant. We could use that around here.” Raphael says pointedly.

“Exuberant?” Magnus says shocked by while trying not be offended by his boss’s accusation, “Are you kidding me? Is that what you’re calling his little performance in there? The man thinks he’s Pavarotti!”

Raphael goes to speak again, but Magnus stops him. “The only demand I had when I took this position was I get to choose who I work with. Clary would have been just fine—”

“Clary is so pregnant she can barely stand up anymore!” Raphael says “What would you have me do, have her give birth behind the stove?”

“No, that would be a health violation” Magnus pouts

Raphael sighs, “Give him a chance, Magnus. Alec is an excellent chef”

“I know nothing about him,” He sniffs. “ I have no idea what–”

“Give me some credit. I know how to run my restaurant. He was the sous-chef at ll Treviso.

“Italian?” Magnus is shocked for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. “You bring a sous-chef from an Italian restaurant, and I’m the one in therapy?”

“We were lucky to get him. Peninsula offered him executive chef.”

Magnus is taken aback. Peninsula was an incredible restaurant. Magnus had nearly worked there himself before he got his position. 

‘Why didn’t he take it?”

Raphael stands up, signalling an end to their meeting. He places a hand on Magnus’s shoulder and looks at him. “Because he said he wanted to work with you.” Raphael opens the door and leaves Magnus standing alone in the office, still feeling a little angry but with a side dish of guilt.

Magnus arrives at this apartment much later than he meant to. He curses Alec and his performance in his head as he makes his way up the spiral staircase. Suddenly he’s glad he took another week off. It’ll give him time to get used to the idea of him.

“Madzie,” He calls, stepping into the living room. He looks around and it’s empty. Even Chairman is strangely missing from his favourite pillow. Magnus looks in the kitchen and it’s empty. When he looks in her bedroom and notices, the bed is empty, he panics.

“Madzie!” He calls out louder

Then he hears the faint sound of voices further down the hall. He peers into his room and there, laying on his bed asleep, is Madzie with Chairman curled around the top of her head. Magnus sighs in relief and turns off the tv in his room. He picks up the plate with crumbs on it and sets it aside. Magnus sits on the other‌ side of the bed. He could wake her, but he decides against it, noticing how peaceful she looks. He chuckles to himself, noticing a photo album on his bed. Apparently Madzie had done a bit of snooping tonight. But his heart shatters all over again when he sees which album by her side. Open are two pages filled with pictures of him and Catarina. Magnus picks up the album and smiles sadly at the pictures, pictures of them when they were children, when they graduated from high school, university, culinary school and even a picture of them with baby Madzie cradled in Catarina’s arms.

“I miss her too,” He whispers, running a finger over his friend’s picture. Magnus closes the photo album and places it on the bookshelf in Madzie’s bedroom beside the framed picture Cat, her mother, and his best friend.

Magnus doesn’t remember crawling back into his bed, and yet he’s woken up by Madzie’s high voice and her shaking his shoulder.

“Magnus, wake up! Magnus!”

Magnus looks at his niece with squinted eyes. “What is it, Madzie?

“School starts at 9, and it’s 8:20.”

Magnus curses and throws his covers off and out of bed. “Okay, get dressed, come on.” He looks at Madzie, who hasn’t moved. “Oh, you’re dressed, give me ten minutes”

Ten minutes later, he’s brushes his teeth, washed his face, run a brush through his hair and thrown some clothes on. Madzie stands by the door with her boots now on and her backpack on.

“Do you need supplies or anything?” Magnus asks, throwing his coat on. “Like pens or paper? I just realized we never bought anything.”

“They usually have those things.”

Magnus curses again and jogs to the kitchen, yanking the fridge open and pulling out a bag with Madzie’s name on it. “I made your lunch yesterday.” Magnus says, holding up the bag, “I hope you like duck.”

Magnus toes his shoes on, grabs his keys from a dish near the door and they’re out the door. Thankfully, the elementary school is only a short drive. Once there, they walk around groups of kids with friends and saying goodbye to their parents until they find the entrance. Inside, the school is overwhelming, big hallways, loud voices of children echo against the walls.

“We need to go to the office. Now where would an office be, Madzie,” He says.

Madzie points to the left and Magnus notices the small sign saying ‘Main Office’ with an arrow pointing left.

“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” He says with a wink

In the office, they’re greeted by the secretary at the front desk, who gives them a warm smile.

“This is my niece Madzie. She’s starting here today.”

She tells them to take a seat, only a moment later a tall woman in a well-fitted suit and a blunt brunette bob greets them.

“Mr. Bane?” She shakes his outstretched hand. “I’m Ellen Parker, the principal”

“Magnus,” He pleads. Mr. Bane always made him feel old and reminded him of his father. “And this is Madzie”

“Hello” Madzie says in a small, shy voice and shakes the principal’s hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you both. I’ll take Madzie to the classroom and we’ll meet your teacher.”

Madzie gives Magnus a hug, and he squeezes her back, then he watches suddenly feeling a little sad as Madzie Ms. Parker walks down the hallway together. For once, Magnus is glad he’s seeing Simon today. He needs to talk to someone about Madzie, about the entire situation, and how clueless he feels about it all.

“There has to be someone better suited for this,” Magnus exclaims with a shake of his head as he paces Simon’s office. “I don’t know what to do with a kid, especially one who’s lost her mother.” He stops behind the couch and grips the back of it with his hands. “I don’t know how their minds word. Catarina was the smartest woman I knew, but this was a stupid decision for her.”

He wipes a few tears from his cheek. “I’m so out of my depth Simon, everything I do feels wrong.” Magnus’s voice breaks as more tears fall. “I can’t get Madzie to eat anything I make. What am I supposed to do, force her?”

“She probably misses her mother’s cooking. There are tissues on the table Magnus,” he says, gesturing to the box.

Magnus walks around the couch and sits on the edge of the couch, taking a tissue to wipe his tears. “Catarina never cooked.” He lays back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “She reheated”

“Well, that’s the point. Maybe Madzie needs something more familiar, less sophisticated. For example, did you eat when you were a kid? I’m assuming it wasn’t–” Simon looks down at his notes “Seared scallops, apple and quinoa salad with a butternut squash puree”

“It’s not the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“My mother was an amazing cook.” Magnus remembers fondly, “She taught me everything I know”

“And after your mother passed away, did your father take over the cooking?”

“No.” He grumbles, “He didn’t take over anything. I was lucky if I even saw him at dinner.”

“So, who took care of the two of you?”

“Can we not get into this right now?” Magnus pleads. He hated speaking about his father. It was a sensitive subject. He supposes this would be the place, with Simon, to work through all those feels of hurt and anger he has built up inside. But not today, maybe another appointment.

“One day we’re going to talk about your father Magnus, but okay” 

Magnus hears the man scribbling on his notepad. Magnus images it’s just ‘daddy issues’ in all uppercase letters.

“What about fish sticks?” The therapist says suddenly, “Kids love them.”

“Fish sticks?” Magnus questions sitting up on the couch.

“Yeah, you know, they’re frozen and breaded–”

“I know what fish sticks are.” He assures Simon, “I just can’t believe I’m paying for these suggestions.”

Despite the shocking suggestion from his therapist, after he picks Madzie up from school, he finds himself in the frozen section of the grocery store with his niece picking out a box of fish sticks. He buys a bag of potatoes to make fries at home, picks up some chocolate chips for the waffles he’d promised Madzie, but draws the line at store bought tartar sauce when she tries to put it in the cart.

“I promise the one I make at home is much better”

She looks at Magnus doubtfully but agrees to put the bottle back.

A few hours later they’re sat at the table, Chairman curled up on the chair beside Madzie purring. Magnus feels relieved when he notices Madzie eating and immediately thinks of what else he could make with the surprisingly delicious fish sticks that she’d eat. Fish tacos? Maybe a sandwich like a po’ boy or simply wish some mashed potato and other roasted vegetables. Madzie is nearly finished with her plate, and it makes Magnus too happy to see. Maybe Simon was right? Less sophisticated, simpler food. He could do that.

“So Madzie, other than fish sticks, what other foods do you enjoy?”

#malec fanart #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec #malec fanfic #malec fic rec

[ammg-old2]

To drive into the heart of West Berlin on a dark, snowy night in December 1988 was to descend on to the cinematic frontline of the cold war. Watchtowers manned by armed East German border guards, searchlights, barbed wire, the blackened facade of the gutted Reichstag by the frozen River Spree – it was all there, just like the movies. Yet it was only too real. Holding centre stage: the sinister Berlin Wall.

US president Ronald Reagan had made a similar sojourn the previous year. Standing before the Brandenburg Gate, he decried the “vast system of barriers that divides the entire continent of Europe”. If the Soviet leader, Mikhail Gorbachev, really valued peace and freedom, he should act. Like the Hollywood actor he once was, Reagan dramatically declaimed: “Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”

Reagan had his wish. In November 1989, under fierce pressure from both sides, the wall imploded. Its end foreshadowed Germany’s reunification and the Soviet Union’s collapse. It was one of those rarest of moments – a genuine historical watershed. Generations who had known only fear and separation felt liberated. Europe was once again made whole. There could be no going back.

Or could there? Thirty-plus years later, thousands of kilometres of new walls, security barriers, fences and barbed wire have sprung up in and around Europe. The EU/Schengen area is now surrounded or crisscrossed by 19 border or separation fences totalling 2,048km in length, up from 315km in 2014. Similar trends are discernible worldwide. Everywhere, it seems, new, higher walls are rising.

What is so-called “Fortress Europe” afraid of? Historically, walls were built to defend against enemies. Think the Great Wall of China, the Roman Wall, Offa’s Dyke or the Maginot Line. Yet all were eventually circumvented, some easily, some less so. The Theodosian walls of Constantinople were considered impregnable until Ottoman cannon got to work in 1453. The walls of Jericho were blown down by trumpets.

No one sensibly suggests a wall, ditch or berm could have stopped Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Governments claim barriers serve another purpose: deterring transnational terrorism and crime. Yet the real reason walls are back in vogue is primarily political, stemming specifically from Europe’s “irregular migration” problem. Migrant numbers are rising rapidly again – and EU states are in a panic.

Latest data from Frontex, the EU’s border and coastguard agency, shows about 330,000 irregular border crossing were detected last year, an increase of 64% on 2021. Nearly 1 million asylum applications were made in EU countries that already host 4 million Ukrainian refugees. More than 71,000 border crossings or attempts were detected in the Channel in 2022. Most would-be migrants came from the Middle East, south Asia and Africa.

Such people cannot reasonably be classed as “enemies” notwithstanding the home secretary Suella Braverman’s ugly talk of invasion. Barriers, fences and notional “sea walls”, as attempted by Britain and Italy – and illegal pushbacks, as practised by Greece – are the response of those lacking imaginative, humane answers. Yet many politicians, especially on the right, are pushing the EU to directly fund their ill-considered building schemes.

Bulgaria, backed by Austria, wants Brussels to help erect a bigger, better border fence to halt illegal entries from Turkey. Austria has demanded €2bn in emergency cash. Deaf to the irony, Vienna is blocking admission of Bulgaria and Romania to the Schengen “free movement” area.

Greece also wants EU help in expanding border walls along a 192km border with Turkey. It says it prevented 260,000 illegal entries in 2022 and arrested 1,500 human traffickers. Poland has built a fence to keep out asylum seekers bussed through Belarus – and has sought EU compensation. Last summer, would-be migrants died trying to storm the barbed-wire fences around Spain’s Melilla enclave in Morocco.

Ursula von der Leyen, commission president, argues that encircling the EU with walls and fences offends European values. The European parliament, concerned about pushbacks, detention centres and human rights violations in transit zones, says external border protection must respect EU and international law.

But pressure is telling. Last week’s EU summit agreed to provide “substantial funds” to reinforce members states’ “border protection capabilities and infrastructure... including aerial surveillance and equipment”, plus tougher action on visas and returns. Although they will not be directly funded, the divisive walls Europe thought it had consigned to the past are set to proliferate further.

Wall-building raises ethical and practical as well as political issues. Far-right politicians have successfully used it to fan fear of foreigners, as in recent Italian and French elections, regardless of whether barriers work or simply force migrants to find other routes. Racist Donald Trump used the spectre of “hordes” of brown-skinned illegals assaulting the US-Mexico frontier to justify his “beautiful” wall – and his nasty prejudices. Yet the wall is ineffective; crossings have not declined.

Israeli leaders maintain that their extensive “security barrier” has reduced terrorist attacks from the occupied territories and Gaza. But attacks still occur using rockets, tunnels or infiltration. And what protects West Bank residents from out-of-control Israeli army raids going the other way? Palestinians rightly see Israel’s walls as a means of controlling them and stealing their land.

Lengthy fences are increasingly found elsewhere, notably on the India-Pakistan and Pakistan-Afghanistan borders. The Morocco-Western Sahara berm is 2,700km long. These barriers are supposed to fend off military and terrorist threats. But what they mostly do is create obstacles to peace. Often they increase frictions. At best, they freeze enmity in place.

The global wall-building boom suggests a return to divisive cold war mindsets. It marks a failure of progressive politics – and reflects the resurgence of authoritarian ideologies of fear, separation and difference. More to the point, geopolitically, ethically and practically speaking, this damaging policy is a dud. Walls won’t work.

#history #current events #politics #immigration #migration #refugees #racism #prejudice #xenophobia #cold war #east germany #berlin wall

[lady13willow]

#migration #europe #immigration and asylum #refugees #european union

[radicalgraff]

Graffiti mural painted by BLU on an ‪‎EU‬ border wall in ‪Morocco

#blu #mural #frontex #ferries not frontex #eu #tear down fortress europe #anarchism #no borders #refugees welcome #refugees are welcome #migrants are welcome #streetart #street art #mural art

[hellyeahanarchistposters]

‘No Borders, No Nations, Stop Deportations

Dismantles the Detention Centres

Freedom of Movement for All’

#anarchism #anarchy #anarchist #anarchists #anarchist communism #revolution #no borde #no borders no nations #tear down fortress europe #tear down the wa #no ban no wall #close the camps #refugees welcome #migrants welcome

[fuckyeahanarchistposters]

Info above applies to the United Kingdom.

From: https://network23.org/antiraids/immigration-checks-know-your-rights/raids-on-workplaces-homes/

#anti-radis #uk #ukba #fuck ukba #no borders #noborders #open borders #anarchism #anarchy #solidarity #refugees welcome #migrants welcome #tear down fortress europe #migrants are wlecome #antiraids #submission

[headcanon-cafe]

Headcanon for the four lords when their s/o manages to rid them of their cadou parasites and return them to their normal selves

Have fun

I got this so long ago 😭

And Heisenbergs was SOO hard 😭

Unedited

Alcina Dimitrescu

Other than her height and lack of blood list she didn't change to much.

She's still taller than you and sadistic as all hell.

You talked to her about maybe moving outside the village, but after a while of talking she explained that it's not that she's worried but she doesn't wanna move cause this is her home. And she can't imagine a life without her castle as well.

Surprisingly Alcina accepts the mortality really easily. In fact, she very much welcomed it. She thought she'd have to continue to live after you... it was scary for her. Not that she'd ever admit it.

Short story shorter, she might not show it but she's ecstatic about it. (Despite her looking very indifferent about it all.)

The only huge difference after the Codou is gone and so it (most) of the drama is that yoy can officially call yourself Mx. Dimitrescu.

Yall got married and had a tear jerking ceremony 🥰🥰

Donna Benevientto

She's at a bit of a lost.

Yes, of course she's happy that it's finally over. She's also very confused as well as devastated in a way.

She no longer can communicate with Angie...

Even if Donna was the one controlling her in a way she was still Donna's closest and real family, besides you that is.

Despite being happy that it was all over, it took hours of her sobbing for her to finally calm down.

Months later you guys moved out towards the country side in France.

Donna still carries Angie everyday with her. And even has a glass case for her JUST in case there was somewhere she couldn't take Angie. (Though you wouldn't let that happen.)

Besides the occasional breakdown both of you are moving forward and strong

Salvatore Moreau

Everything changed that day.

His looks, the hygiene, he had to move his home. Everything changed.

He was so much more happy and vibrant and he could finally get the proper sun.

He wasn't as self conscious either! Still a very timid man though. But you wouldn't have changed him for anything, yet you managed to change his world!

Sadly, his devotion to Mother Miranda was still pretty strong, it took him MONTHS to get over it, and some serious debates yall got in.

As soon as you were able to convince him of Miranda he wanted to get out of Europe, which you could easily understand.

Y'all moved to Alaska, and he continued to do what he loved. Fishing.all had a very lovely property with a large amount of land near the ocean.

You both even had your own little farm of chicken, rabbits and goats.

Karl Heisenberg

As much as he was happy he didn't have his metal power and shit anymore so it made doing any of the work he enjoys VERY slow.

Or, very slow from what he's used to.

Now, you thought that with the Cadou gone, he would change in both appearances and with power.

The only thing. ONLY THING that changed. Was he couldn't manipulate metal. And he was a lot happier

His strength was the EXACT same. His looks didn't change and other than him being in a good mood more often he was still the same Karl.

When this first happened this man sobbed, it was actually heartbreaking despite this being a good sob.

All his werewolves still loved him all to much.

You did ask him about moving but when yall chatted about with how much he loves both his metal work and his wolve babies it's EXTREMELY hard to go anywhere. So what you did was move to a place about 20 miles away and you two made your own home, with a workshop for him and about 3-5 times a week he goes to his fortress with his wolves to do work and such.

You guys continue with your lives.

With no one in your way.... besides your hundred some wolve babies.

Seriously though. You wouldn't have in any other way.

Matsterlist | Resi 8 Masterlist | Ask Rules | Fiverr | Wattpad

#resident evil x reader #resident evil headcanons #resident evil 8 #resident evil fanfic #resident evil #karl heisenburg x reader #lady dimitrescu x reader #karl heisenberg #karl headcanons #donna beneviento x reader #donna beneviento headcanons #resident evil donna #salvatore moreau #resident evil moreau #moreau x reader

[enha-woodzies]

➸ CHAPTER 5 | " ILLICIT AFFAIRS "

starring: enhypen ft. i-land daniel

pairing: jungwon x fem!reader x sunghoon

genres: royal au, romance, angst, slowburn, 18th century setting

word count: 1.8k

taglist: @serendipitysung @angeljungwon @en-sun @affectionaterainoflove @renkiv @softforjungwoo @jislix @fluffi @gyeraniee @stxrryemxlys

[ PREV. CHAPTER ] | [ M. LIST ] | [ NEXT CHAPTER ]

“The morning sun has come, and the evening moon is gone. Dearlings, I am elated to apprise you of the events at the debutantes’ ball that occurred as of late, and must I warn you, they're not for the feeble spirits!

The ton is abuzz with the most beefy tale as Northumberland’s jewel among the lovely rocks, Miss Y//n Park, has earned herself a ticket to glory! She danced with the most favored noblemen in the ton and surely, she went home with a hearty grace as she'll most likely expect an abundant roster of suitors in the following days.

Not only was she offered a dance by our dear second-born, Lord Yang, but she also had the privilege and pleasure to be twirled around the court by the most charming, Lord Lee, and the ever coveted nobleman among the ton, Lord Park, the next-in-line Duke of Northumberland!

Where's the beef you might ask? Well, it seems to me that these men are blindfoldedly playing fire with each other.

Not only does Lord Lee has women wrapped easily around his fingers, he has men too! With a sly steal of Miss Y/n’s hand from Lord Yang last night, he certainly left the chap earnestly plotting for a segue of intrusion- and Lord Yang intriguingly delivered!

With the timing in its most opportune, Lord Yang managed to finally dance with the young miss, in private! Ooh! This is new! My senses told me they spent their waltz in the Queen’s library, alone! How in the world did they let this happen to the ton’s jewel unchaperoned? That is something the Daily Tattle is unfortunately unable to unearth, but the mystery will continue to haunt us for long. Do take note: the more you hide in careful secret, the more people will know and hear about it.

What happened next will have you either boggled, or enchanted! The young lord abruptly rushed out the room before the music even ended! Should that be counted as a waltz at all? Before you ask about the enchanting part, Miss Y/n was seen dashing out the room moments later in tears and evident heartache. What do you think happened in the mere minutes of alone time in that large 4-cornered room?

But come now, enchanting stories aren't as they are without a knight in shining armor. In fact, in our young miss’ case, her knight wasn't clad in shining, silver sheath, but in magnificent and elegant, vintage red tailcoat draped over a loose white jabot shirt that’s cleanly tucked into the black, satin knee breeches, finished off with a pair of shiny Hessian boots. With skin as white almost akin to snow, it complemented perfectly with his ravishing fit. The beautiful marquess certainly dressed himself valiantly for the seasonal occasion. With that stunning presence, anyone would surely presume he went to the ball looking like a duke in careful search of a duchess.

Lord Park and Miss Y/n surprisingly became one of the ball’s highlights as they graced the Royal Court with the most heart-stopping, corset-itching, tantalizing waltz. All the while their faces are almost an inch apart from each other, a brooding identity was found hiding in the crowded corner of the hall! Under the bright gleam of the grand chandeliers, our dearest second-born, Lord Yang, was seen eyeing the two with such stare that even the buffy slice of vanilla cake on Lord Sunoo’s plate could almost melt in a blink of an eye!

Among the splendid tales told by yours truly, which tea do you think tastes like sweet ecstasy of oddity and fervor? It is the ton's tradition to portend the lady’s endgame by the person whom she had her last waltz with. From one man to another, should these prophecies dictate Miss Y/n Park’s fate?

Well, don't turn your heads away now! The story's just begun.”

The mid-morning sunrays peek through the large leaves and busty trunks of the hibernating redwood trees lining in disarray. Y/n is just about to plummet into her habitual readings in the Kielder forest and the autumnal breeze is keeping up with her bubbly morning approach, fortunately.

The sounds of the birds chirping and the dead leaves crunching under her shoes creep up through her puff sleeves making her tingle in giddiness and enthusiasm. She deeply inhales the aromatic forest and lets out a giggle in the process. With jumpy leaps and crispy leaves echoing in her every move, the young lady surely knows where she's going in this partly mysterious forest that is most often open only to men and men alone.

Somewhere deep in the evergreen woods, Y/n has built a fortress of her own for whenever she needs to run away from the seldom, mundane life in the manor. At the heart of Northumberland's famous Kielder Forest, lies a small, whimsical looking fort made up of translucent voile casually hanging on a tree branch. One of her lady maids helped her out with the fabric one time and it still stood prettily among the chaotic scenes that go around in the forest today.

She enters her slightly sheer fort and sits down on a pillow that she stole away from the comforts of her bedroom. Flipping the olden pages of the aged Jane Austen book she borrowed from a boy several years back, she heaves a sigh at the sight of a dead Catalpa flower resting on a particular page accompanied by a little, worn out parchment dating back to when she was a tiny ten-year-old lassie. She reads,

Her eyes drifted over the page to where the note and the old flower were situated. The pads of her fingers graze over the certain phrases that were underlined by the book's owner that says, “I cannot make speeches. If l loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.一 You hear nothing but truth from me.一”

She suddenly feels a gush of nostalgia and loneliness upon muttering the words she had ultimately carved in her tongue way back; reciting each word with fervor while she bask herself under the brightly-lit moonlight in their garden. How can children of ten gobble up such emotions at once? So much for a pair of hopeless romantic hearts from the distant years of ten, screaming disagreements and would later huddle on a sprawled out table cloth on the flowery fields, exchanging sentimental poesies and stolen stares.

She relives the brief moments they both shared last night in the Queen’s library, and ponders on how one could be so adjacent to the changing of tides in the sea; promptly, and mostly without warning.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't the feelings I've been trying to avoid.” She whispers to the autumn air. Unfortunately, her pondering truncates as snaps of twigs and crisps off dried leaves echoes in her corner. She hastily crawls out her hand-made canopy and brushes away any pieces of tiny crumpled leaves off her dress.

“What are you doi-”

“Who are you?” She cuts off the startled chap cladded in ragged clothing, apparently embodying that of a mainland farm boy.

“Greetings, your ladyship. I come in peace and I am just here to fetch the chopped woods I’ve laboured a day prior for the farm.” The chap with a very odd accent replies with both hands hanging mid-air. “You are fully aware that you shouldn't be in this place, especially unchaperoned, right?” He continues.

“I am fully aware. But such matters shouldn't concern you.”

“Indeed, my apologies. Furthermore, I will respect your unspoken wishes if it is truly your desire to keep your whereabouts hidden from your townspeople. My lady.”

Y/n relaxes from her bold stance as she found a hint of kindness from the odd stranger. Surprisingly, she extends her hand out to the stranger for a greeting.

“Please. Call me Y/n instead.” The boy looks at her open palm for half a minute before shaking it, looking as equally surprised as the young miss with the sudden gesture.

“You live pretty far from the town, huh?”

“I do. Life's utterly chaotic over on your end?”

“Oh, you don't have the slightest idea.” They both share laughters and inside jokes of their own livelihood that made the young miss settle her shoulders down comfortably.

“I'm Jake Sim. Just Jake Sim. Apparently, my name was originally Jaeyun, but the farm folks got used with Jake and so did I. They said it sounds more Australian.”

“Why would they associate your name with something Australian?” Y/n grew more curious as it was, after all, the first time she's ever been with a person that's not of Northumberland's proper.

“I grew up in Australia.”

“That's curious. How did an Australian boy land among the ragged farms of Europe?”

“It's complicated. The story involves a lot of conspiracies so it's definitely not for your ears. Some other time, maybe?” Y/n smirks at the sudden brazenness from her newly found acquaintance.

“Is this an Australian thing where we shift from acquaintanceship to something more?” She teases.

“Certainly, if you're down to it on your next Kielder visit?”

“For sure. But as for now, I must take my leave. My presence is very much needed for the promenade scheduled for me today.” Y/n half-covers her mouth as if reaching out for a whisper, hissing the last sentence.

“Ah! Rich people things that I could never.” The chap could only roll his eyes at the fancy thought.

“See you soon, Just Jake Sim!”

“Where have you been, princess?” The young miss scoffs at the marquess upon arriving at the town’s park, with a hand immediately sliding through Lord Park’s arm.

“Down with the flirtatious remarks now, aren't we? I went to promenade with myself, Your ever handsome Grace.” Sunghoon smirks at her tiny, playful whispers against his shoulders. They go around and about, traipsing along the cemented pavements as they give away acknowledging nods and polite smiles to whomever wants their brief attention.

The ton is still in amazed shock at the possibility of these two ending up with a ring on a finger. Everyone was subtly betting for Jungwon but as a result of his loss, a much better gent carried his girl off the floor. Something he let himself do, out of cowardice perhaps, or out of pride.

“Remind me the point of all this?” Y/n carefully whispers to Sunghoon.

“To make your man jealous and spit out his genuine sentiments in the process, as well as an advantage for me as we get to keep the marriage-minded mothers of the ton at bay. Now, all we have to do is smile, nod, and appear madly in love with each other if this is to work. Is it clear enough for you?” He jerks a brow at her paired with the most charming smirk he could ever expose.

“Crystal.”

*send me an ask or a message if you wish to be added on this series' taglist!

ㅡ © ENHA-WOODZIES, 2021

#enhypenwriters #enhypennetwork #of lords and mischiefs #enhypen angst #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen fics #enhypen series #enhypen jungwon #enhypen heeseung #enhypen jay #enhypen jake #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen sunoo #enhypen niki #iland daniel

[gra-sonas]

Would You Come Home - Tyler Blackburn

My father taught me home is where the hurt is So I built a fortress Where I lived alone

He said ships where never meant to have a harbor So I’ve worn his armor I’ve fought and flown

I was raised a soldier Put my weapons down to hold you Is a kiss an act of war I just tried to keep you warm Even though I couldn’t stay

No you never looked away Now I can’t look away

Would you meet me in the middle Could we both stop keeping score There’s a battle I must fight alone But it’s you I’m fighting for

If I call off the battalion Break my walls down stone by stone Tear down my defenses I could build your heart a home And if I did Would you come home?

Together we could quiet all the noises Drown out the voices Play our own song Boys becoming men under the desert sky But something dark inside said it was wrong

I was raised a soldier Put my weapons down to hold you Is a kiss an act of war I just tried to keep you warm Even though I couldn’t stay

No you never looked away Now I won’t look away

Would you meet me in the middle Could we both stop keeping score There’s a battle I must fight alone But it’s you I’m fighting for

If I call off the battalion Break my walls down stone by stone Tear down my defenses I could build your heart a home And if I did Would you come home?

I’ve defied my father Shrapnel buried beneath my skin But I'd begun to heal in all the places Your hands have been

Would you meet me in the middle Could we both stop keeping score There’s a battle I must fight alone But it’s you I’m fighting for

If I call off the battalion Break my walls down stone by stone Tear down my defenses I could build your heart a home And if I did Would you come home?

Wish I’d found the words to say when we were 17 You were the best of me You are the best of me

The song will be released in your time zone at midnight, meaning it’s out in Central Europe, UK/Ireland and Portugal as of now.

#malex #alex manes #tyler blackburn #roswell new mexico #rnm 2x13 #tyler's music #rnm spoilers #this song is everything #i've been listening to it nonstop for an hour now #it's so good #like how is tyler even real? #i'm legit crying

[qqueenofhades]

If anyone is an enabling mood..HI, I AM ALWAYS IN AN ENABLING MOOD, YOU WANT ENABLING? HERE IT IS. I have soft loving enabling tho cos I don't like being mean it makes me sad.

As we all expected, I am very, very easy to enable. Credit to @voidxces for the beautiful and inspiring edit. Mildly smutty bits, hence the full story is below the cut.

Valletta, Malta

December 15, 1999

The customs line at Malta International Airport is long, maddeningly slow-moving, and the one guard stamping passports looks to be about ninety, as Joe shifts from foot to foot and tries to remind himself that they have nothing but time. (Unless, of course, the Y2K nuts are all correct and they’re two short weeks from the end of life as we know it, but if nothing else, living for almost a thousand years means that he has seen countless doomsday prophecies come and go without so much as a whimper.) It was a crappy flight from Paris – overbooked, understaffed, the inevitable screaming child two rows behind them and now determined to keep up the racket in the passport queue – and Joe’s trying not to look as stressed as he feels. This is their getaway for the holidays and the new year, the turn of the millennium, a huge and significant milestone for any number of reasons, and he’ll feel better once they’re out of here. Nobody’s at their best in the cattle corrals and the fluorescent lights of border control, another reminder of how much things have changed over all the years they’ve been coming to Malta. The first time they were here in 1501, all they had to do was sail up, get off the boat, and pay a bribe to the port official. Joe votes they try that now.

The line shuffles forward another inch, the child behind them screams even louder, and as Joe is silently reciting the Bismillah and reminding himself that the Almighty values patience, Nicky turns around. He sizes up the mother – tired-looking, hungry-eyed, apologetically trying to corral the fussy baby and a toddler of about three or four – and smiles gently. “Hello,” he says in English, then glances at her passport and sees that she’s Italian. “Buona sera, signora,” he goes on, not missing a beat. “Hai bisogna di aiuto con qualcosa?”

The tired mother starts, her eyes welling with tears. Joe’s willing to bet that nobody has offered to help her for this entire trip, and has to smile softly to himself that of course Nicky has swooped out of the Maltese night like, well, a knight, her countryman in a time of crisis, to do exactly that. Joe is already feeling better just to watch Nicky be Nicky, as his lover takes hold of the baby, joggles him on his hip and tells him that he’s a handsome fellow and to stop screaming and to give his mama a break, as the mother tends to her toddler, gets herself sorted out, and thanks Nicky profusely in what sounds like Calabrian. Joe’s mostly able to pick out the specific regional accents, and he guesses that this woman is a migrant, one of the workers who travel around Europe in the growing season to pick fruit and vegetables in hot fields under hard bosses who only pay in cash and owe a cut to the Mafia. He takes out his wallet and quietly offers her all the Maltese lira they changed for back in France, and she shakes her head and tries to refuse. He insists – she looks somewhat surprised that he speaks Italian too, but not unduly – and while she won’t take it all, they manage to give her back her baby, some money, and reach the front of the line without actually noticing the rest of the wait. Joe hands over a French passport that reads Joseph Jones. Nicky hands over Nicholas Smith. The guard looks at them, asks a few questions in his quavering old-man voice, stamps the visa pages, and once more, they’re in.

Outside, Joe and Nicky collect their bags, help the woman to the taxi rank and make sure she’s on her way to wherever she’s staying, then go out to catch the bus. Valletta sparkles in the distance as they draw closer, this magnificent collection of fortresses and gardens and churches, domes and spires, palaces and piazzas, museums and terraces, city walls and citadels, Benjamin Disraeli’s city of palaces for gentlemen. The place was largely built by the Knights Hospitaller after their exile from Rhodes and the Great Siege of Malta in 1565, and Joe and Nicky have watched it transform over the centuries, but it has still managed to retain that unique spark of what they love about it. It is familiar, comforting, lovely. If the world is going to end, no better place to be than here.

The bus stops in downtown, they thank the driver in fluent Maltese, and get off, hauling their bags and suitcases. The December evening is cool and misty, fog floating over the cobblestones like elegant wraiths, the streetlamps casting pools of golden glow that look like doorways to another world. They walk casually hand in hand to a corner store that is about to shut up shop for the evening, buy a quick dinner, and then continue up the street. Somewhat appropriately, they are staying in a rented house near St Sebastian’s Bastion, Is-Sur ta' San Bastjan, on the northeastern tip of the Valletta peninsula near Fort Saint Elmo. They know the elderly owner well, who has left the key in the postbox for them, and they unlock the door, ascend the narrow, creaky stairs to the top-floor garret, and find that a small Christmas tree and a plate of imqaret have been left to welcome them. The windows open out over the city wall and the dark, glittering ocean. It is quiet, at last. Just the two of them.

“Finally,” Joe says. He picks up Nicky’s bags when he puts them down, and carries them into the dark bedroom, switching on the lights. They set down their convenience-store repast and eat, affectionately nudging each other’s knees under the too-small table. They’ll do more shopping tomorrow; they will be here at least until January (assuming, of course, no apocalypse). Joe smiles at Nicky, happy to be here, happy to be with him, happy to be sharing this small and unremarkable meal with a soft rain pattering on the steep slanted roof. When they’ve finished and tidied up, Joe murmurs, “Not too tired, are you?”

Nicky answers with a devilish quirk of his eyebrow, as if to say that of course neither of them were actually planning to go to sleep without celebrating their return appropriately. He wraps his arms around Joe’s waist, and they waltz into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them and drawing the curtains, sinking down on the amply-sized bed and undressing each other with slow and leisurely care. Even after a thousand, a hundred thousand times, it never fails to thrill. Their mouths meet in the dimness, their hands trace the well-loved lines of the other’s body, the faint scars and lines that never go away even through all the regenerations, the secret places, the curve of lips, the plane of shoulders and spines, the tensed tightness low on stomachs, the bend of a knee or the bone of an ankle. Joe pushes Nicky down beneath him, and Nicky arches his back, wrapping his legs around Joe’s waist. In quiet and tender and timeless communion, they find their way back home again, in each other and with each other, in touches and kisses and slow thrusts turning faster, and finally, sated, they sleep.

They wake in the morning with slants of winter sunlight filling the room, the high white ceilings, the gauzy curtains fluttering in the constant draft that they’ve never found, the way they’ve woken up in this room since they first met the owner in 1973, and which makes Joe think poignantly, as he always does for just an instant, of their lost home in Constantinople. They get up and dress, then leave the house in search of breakfast. The stone of the streets is pink and amber and gold and fawn, and the light has that particular early-morning quality where it seems to shine through sheets of bleached linen. The city is already awake and bustling, and Joe and Nicky make their way to their favorite café. They can sit overlooking the water and eat as much pastry and drink as much coffee as they like, and they make a good several hours of it. The sun comes up over the street, the palm trees rustle in the breeze, and a few tourists wander by with fancy Nikons around their necks, looking lost. One asks in English if they know where the Grandmaster’s Palace is, and Nicky is happy to point them in the right direction.

“You know,” he says, when they have finally finished breakfast and are wandering happily through the baroque streets, hands and shoulders brushing, “it’s 1999. This is our nine-hundredth anniversary, strictly speaking.”

Joe raises an eyebrow at him. “More like our eight hundredth,” he says playfully. “If we’re going from when we actually figured anything out.”

Nicky shrugs, grinning sheepishly, even as both of them fall contemplatively silent. 1099 is a long, long time ago by anybody’s measure. Joe thinks of himself, kneeling in prayer in the Tower of David, the dread whispers that the Franks were coming, the way he can remember parts and pieces and that first death bright as flame, but the rest of it has faded into the soft greyness of endlessly passing time. They did go to Jerusalem earlier this year, in July, since it seemed like the thing to do; there were a lot of First Crusade remembrances going on, some of which they wanted to be associated with and some of which they didn’t. There was a tweed-jacketed history professor who was deeply appreciative of the detailed account that Nicky was able to give on the breach of Jerusalem’s walls (he asked if he had published any articles on the subject, Nicky said hastily that he was just an enthusiastic amateur), and then there were some whackjobs who were trying to inflame religious tensions, as usual, and basically acting like it was a good thing that the heretics got what was coming to them. Lots of Americans with placards. Lots of Israeli secret service and bearded guys who were probably covert Hezbollah. Lots of people who all think they know exactly what the crusade’s legacy means, and which Joe and Nicky couldn’t help but regard warily. Everything seems twisted up these days, poised on the brink. That guy named bin Laden whose pals tried to bomb the World Trade Center in 1993, he’s been talking as usual. Death to the Western crusaders. So on and so forth. Thus far, nobody’s really listening outside the Middle East, but when you’ve seen this so many times, it’s harder to ignore.

Joe shakes himself, not wanting to think about this on their long-awaited getaway. They’ve been in Kosovo on and off this year, even if the last thing any of them really wanted was to go back into the Yugoslavian wars, and Andy and Booker are off to enjoy the last few weeks of the twentieth century elsewhere. Someone like Andy, the turn of a millennium is old hat, but even for as long as they’ve lived, this is Joe and Nicky’s first new set of a thousand years. The Year Two Thousand. Sounds appropriately science-fictiony. How, Joe thinks. How on earth did Yusuf al-Kaysani from Cairo end up here.

That, however, is only incidental to his enjoyment of the rest of the day. They walk on the city walls, they go up to the Grand Harbor and take in the sea view, then to the Barrakka Gardens. Nicky gazes pensively on the monument of remembrance and out over the glittering blue water, as Joe sits down on a bench and watches him. He has always simply enjoyed looking at Nicky, watching him breathe, watching him be, watching the way he leans on the railing and shields his eyes against the sun with the casual, unconsciousness elegance that permeates everything he does. Whether the name is Yusuf al-Kaysani or Joseph Jones or anything else, it doesn’t matter. Even among all the change and clutter of the modern world, this adoration, this soul-deep delight, is the one thing that remains constant.

That is how the next several days pass. Joe and Nicky visit their usual old haunts in Valletta, eat well, make love, and catch up with the apartment’s owner, Ġużepp, who is now in his eighties, has known them for over twenty-five years, and never seen them age a day. He has never asked why. His wife died a long time ago and they never had children, and perhaps he sees them as sons, as a strange but poignant blessing for a lonely old man, two people who clearly love this place as much as he does. He asked them once when they first came here, and Joe wondered if they should just tell him that it was the sixteenth century. Somehow it seems as if Ġużepp might not be surprised.

A few days before Christmas, a storm blows in from the Atlantic just as dust blows in from North Africa, and the world turns silver and ocher and rust and wet, the windows sparkling as if stained in silver nitrate and the streets and domes and splendid churches of Valletta painted in watercolor impressionism on the blurry glass, anything or anyone outside the bedroom barely seeming to exist. Joe and Nicky spend the time productively, which is to say they have so much sex that they can barely walk. They twist into each other, explore and challenge and unstring and repair each other, touch and caress, kiss and lick and suck and mark their territory all over again, leaving no inch of flesh unexplored and no sinful act undone. “You know,” Nicky murmurs, eyes closed, smiling, sweat beading on his brow, hand stroking up the line of Joe’s spine as Joe nips at his neck. “We really are a pair of heretics, aren’t we.”

“Speak for yourself, Nicolò.” Joe leans down to steal another kiss from his lover’s bruised, teeth-marked lips. “Heretics according to who?”

Nicky hums, as if to say he is happy to get into a theological argument at a later date, but can’t be arsed to do so right now. Joe slides down next to him, sliding his hand across Nicky’s chest and stomach, curling lower, as Nicky whines and reflexively tries to pull back. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Joe laughs, as he always does, pressing a kiss into Nicky’s shoulder and thinking – as he also always does – Allah and all His angels forbid. He has always secretly, shamefully prayed that if that terrible moment came, if one of them lost their immortality first, that it be him. He knows this condemns Nicky to live on without him, but he cannot face the prospect of doing it himself. Dying for good, even after this long, somehow seems easier. At least he’s done that before, often. Living without the other half of his soul, not so much.

The rain clears on Christmas Day, the light is fragile and golden and perfect as heaven, and they call Andy and Booker (Andy’s somewhere in Argentina, Booker is on a beach in Thailand) and wish each other happy holidays. Nicky mixes up a feast, Joe helps (if by that you mean stirring the occasional pot and taking full advantage of Nicky’s “Kiss the Cook” apron) and they open their door and visit with the neighbors who drop in to bring more pastries and Christmas wishes. Ġużepp turns up, they invite him to stay for supper so he won’t be alone, and after the token protests, he agrees. As he is insisting on doing the washing-up, he asks, “How long have you two known each other?”

Joe and Nicky glance at each other. They’re fairly sure that Ġużepp knows they’re a couple, even if they haven’t said so openly, just in case an old Maltese Roman Catholic would prefer to know it implicitly but not have it confirmed. Finally Nicky says, “A very long time.”

“I thought so, somehow.” The old man reaches for a dish towel. “You seem that way. Have you been happy here? All the times you’ve been to Malta, to my house?”

“We’ve been very happy,” Joe assures him. “This place has been special for – for many years. I am Arabic, Nicky is Italian, it is like it was made just for us.”

Ġużepp smiles. “Your families?” he asks. “They are happy with it?”

Joe thinks of his mother, far off and so very long ago, and how Maryam al-Katibi always wanted him to be a better man. How he forgot about time and its passing, and never saw her again after he left. It remains one of the greatest regrets of his life that she never met Nicolò, as he thinks that they would have liked each other very much. But as far as their family goes now –

“Yes,” he says, thinking of Andy and Booker. “Yes, they are.”

“I am glad,” Ġużepp says stoutly. “It is good for a man not to be alone.”

(It is, and both Joe and Nicky have clung to that, and they don’t know now that this is the last time they will see Ġużepp, as he will die before they return here in 2004 when Malta becomes a member of the EU, but on this sweet, poignant night, as time speeds on its passing, as they both reflect on all those many years, and God said that it was good.)

The last week of 1999 and the twentieth century and the second millennium count down to its inevitable end. There aren’t exactly prophets in sandwich boards shrieking on the streets about the end times, though it’s undeniable that there’s a sharp-edged anxiety as Y2K draws closer. On December 31, Joe and Nicky sit on the beach at the famous Blue Lagoon, watching the sun go down over the island of Comino, holding hands. At last Nicky says – half joking, but only half – “If the world does end tonight, I want you to know that you are still the best thing that ever happened to me. Except for that pastry the other day. That was really very divine.”

Joe laughs, takes his hand to his lips and kisses it. “Always, my heart,” he says. “Always.”

The world gets softer and darker, and lights come on over the bay and the archipelago and the boats bobbing at anchor, and Joe thinks that it must be the year 2000 somewhere else, and everything still seems to be fine. He wasn’t really worried, but he knows that fear that the next year might bring with it something too terrible to be gotten around, and that if you could just cling to this moment now when things are all right, they might stay that way forever. Finally he and Nicky get the water taxi back to Valletta, and it’s getting closer and closer to midnight, and they sit down on a bench and count down with the rest of this sliver of the world, all the way into the next stage of forever.

When it becomes plain that the world has not ended, nor indeed does it seem likely to do so, everywhere seems to let out its breath at once. Huge and glorious fireworks thunder in the dark sky over the city, in riots of color and noise and sound, and Joe and Nicky can hear cheering and toasting from what seems like every house in the city. They kiss and then kiss again for good measure, swept along on a tide of jolly and relieved and mildly (or well, considerably) inebriated strangers, an impromptu street party that both of them feel down to their nine-hundred-and-fifty-year-old sinews, the sort of magic that still catches them dead to rights even after so long in this beautiful, stupid, dangerous, exasperating, maddening, heartbreaking, filthy, glorious, transcendent, irreplaceable world. They throw their arms around each other’s necks and gaze deeply into the other’s eyes, as even all the gaiety and festivity and bacchanal falls into nothing, passing over them like waves. “I love you,” Joe says, as he has said it so many times in all the languages he knows. “Ti amo.”

Nicky smiles that smile that makes the world shine, and spins Joe lightly on the spot, and the next thousand years seem, just then, like the greatest blessing that any man has ever had. “I know.”

#the old guard #the old guard fanfiction #joe x nicky #kaysanova #that time in malta #coffeemakesmeahappybean #ask

[castielchitaqua]

kaddish, allen ginsberg

I Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer— And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn— Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed— like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion— No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark— toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life? Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you -Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me— Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands— No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter— Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing

room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later— You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them. Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms! II Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images run thru the mind—like the saxophone chorus of houses and years—remembrance of electrical shocks. By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness—you were fat—your next move— By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— By my

later burden—vow to illuminate mankind—this is release of particulars—(mad as you)—(sanity a trick of agreement)— But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, So phoned the Doctor—‘OK go way for a rest’—so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet—On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably—‘Where you goin Lady to Death’? I shuddered— and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma— And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on—to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound— where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness—breeze poisoned by Roosevelt— out to get you—and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake. Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambeddown there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone—and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway— perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch— All the time arguing—afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless—what busride they snore on now? ‘Allen, you don’t understand—it’s—ever since those 3 big sticks up my back—they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead—3 big sticks, 3 big sticks— ‘The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment ‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— ‘I’m your mother, take me to Lakewood’ (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) ‘where I can hide.’ We got there—Dr. Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion. We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— I shut her up by now—big house REST HOME ROOMS—gave the landlady her money for the week—carried up the iron valise—sat on bed waiting to escape— Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover—lace curtains—spinning wheel rug—Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home. I left on the next bus to New York—laid my head back in the last seat, depressed—the worst yet to come?—abandoning her, rode in torpor—I was only 12. Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair—or mock me, by—in front of a mirror, alone? 12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood’s haunted house—left to my own fate bus—sunk in a seat—all violins broken—my heart sore in my ribs—mind was empty—Would she were safe in her coffin— Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt—winter on the street without lunch—a penny a pickle—home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom— First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street— Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees— or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes—her Russian specialty—morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic— great heads pendulous

over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T. Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book—Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator—Forgiveness of Warlocks—Armies Kissing— Deathsheads Around the Green Table—The King & the Workers—Paterson Press printed them up in the ’30s till she went mad, or they folded, both. O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so—didn’t I think? I shouldn’t have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late. Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R         my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later—then silent neat kid— I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan—followed him to college—Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted—vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam— by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer—would train for that—inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sand-burg, Poe—Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator. ignorant woe—later dreams of kneeling by R’s shocked knees declaring my love of 1941—What sweetness he’d have shown me, tho, that I’d wished him & despaired—first love—a crush— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond—what’s outside?—coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies—) The telephone rang at 2 A.M.—Emergency—she’d gone mad—Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini—Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!—the landlady frightened—old fag attendant screaming back at her— Terror, that woke the neighbors—old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause—all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies—husbands ashen—children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY—or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene— Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed—she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases. Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened—do now?—Who could know?—my fault, delivering her to solitude?—sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out— He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi’s ecstasy? Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours’ wait. I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis’ desk—shaking—he came home that nite, late, told me what happened. Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy—racks of children’s books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood—‘Don’t come near me—murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!’ Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Smelling the air—Louis pointing to emptiness?—Customers vomiting their Cokes—or staring—Louis humiliated—Naomi triumphant—The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won’t have them on trip to New York. Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, ‘She needs a rest,’ The mental hospital—State Greystone Doctors—‘Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.’ Naomi, Naomi—sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side—hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs—screaming for a blood transfusion—one righteous hand upraised—a shoe in it—barefoot in the Pharmacy— The enemies approach—what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly

perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician’s bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War? till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— And back to Greystone where she lay three years—that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again— On what wards—I walked there later, oft—old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls—sit crooning over floorspace—Chairs—and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing—begging my 13-year-old mercy— ‘Take me home’—I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock—and I’d say, ‘No, you’re crazy Mama,—Trust the Drs.’— And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark— came Paterson-ward next day—and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room—‘We had to send her back to Greystone’— —his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears—then crept weeping all over his face—‘What for?’ wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice—Eugene’s face of pain. Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks— He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk—thru Law School years—stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses. Unlaid, poor virgin—writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News—(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists—and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall— I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville— wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne—dark Debs in the Board of Tax—Rembrandt smoking in the gloom— Silent polished desks in the great committee room—Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot—Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john—The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics—we’re all dead—outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood— where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible—chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave— or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—) But Gene, young,—been Montclair Teachers College 4 years—taught half year & quit to go ahead in life—afraid of Discipline Problems—dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded—and he did not know much—just that he lost— so broke his life in two and paid for Law—read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely—home—him sitting there— Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty— No love since Naomi screamed—since 1923?—now lost in Greystone ward—new shock for her—Electricity, following the 40 Insulin. And Metrazol had made her fat. So that a few years later she came home again—we’d much advanced and planned—I waited for that day—my Mother again to cook & —play the piano—sing at mandolin—Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland—and Louis in debt—,uspected to he poisoned money—mysterious capitalisms —& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— She went to the backroom to lie down in

bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper— ‘Don’t be afraid of me because I’m just coming back home from the mental hospital—I’m your mother—’ Poor love, lost—a fear—I lay there—Said, ‘I love you Naomi,’—stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?—Nervous, and she got up soon. Was she ever satisfied? And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital—caused pain between her shoulders— Into her head—Roosevelt should know her case, she told me—Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names—traced back to Hitler—wanted to leave Louis’ house forever. One night, sudden attack—her noise in the bathroom—like croaking up her soul—convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth—diarrhea water exploding from her behind—on all fours in front of the toilet—urine running between her legs—left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces—unfainted— At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help— Once locked herself in with razor or iodine—could hear her cough in tears at sink—Lou broke through glass green-painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom. Then quiet for months that winter—walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker—Broke her arm, fell on icy street— Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there’s another saga of late Naomi in New York. Or thru Elanor or the Workmen’s Circle, where she worked, ad-dressing envelopes, she made out—went shopping for Campbell’s tomato soup—saved money Louis mailed her— Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor—Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union—now Italian bald and pudgy old doll—who was himself an orphan—but they kicked him out—Old cruelties— Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself—‘I’m hot—I’m getting fat—I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital—You should have seen me in Woodbine—’ This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943. Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine—baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots—‘I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.’ Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— ‘I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.’— Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. He’s a rat.’ Naomi: ‘And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.’ I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day. ‘Yesterday I saw God. What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder—he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N.Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. ‘I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad. ‘I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What’s the matter? Why don’t you put a stop to it? ‘I try, he said—That’s all he could do, he looked tired. He’s a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil

soup.’ Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish—chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater—smelly tomatoes—week-old health food—grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm—more and more disconsolate food—I can’t eat it for nausea sometimes—the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish—pale red near the bones. Her smells—and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her—flirting to herself at sink—lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers—ragged long lips between her legs—What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold—later revolted a little, not much—seemed perhaps a good idea to try—know the Monster of the Beginning Womb—Perhaps—that way. Would she care? She needs a lover. Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu. And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district—living in dark rooms—but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again—tho sere & shy—hurt with 20 years Naomi’s mad idealism. Once I came home, after longtime in N.Y., he’s lonely—sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me—weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses— That we’d left him—Gene gone strangely into army—she out on her own in N.Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool—stayed at poetry desk, forlorn—ate grief at Bickford’s all these years—are gone. Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone—cut off his nose in jewish operation—for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid—Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.— And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier—He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed. bit his nails and studied—was the weird nurse-son—Next year he moved to a room near Columbia—though she wanted to live with her children— ‘Listen to your mother’s plea, I beg you’—Louis still sending her checks—I was in bughouse that year 8 months—my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament— But then went half mad—Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink—afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot—went up to Bronx to live near Elanor’s Rheumatic Heart— And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. Max’s sister Edie works—17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels—lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced—so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave— Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once—Last stop on Bronx subway—lots of communists in that area. Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School—walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class—paints Naomiisms— Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore—saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital— Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms—lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx— Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message? But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble—came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,—Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night. ‘I am a great woman—am truly a beautiful soul—and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the ’20s, Mussolini, the living

dead) want to shut me up—Buba’s the head of a spider network—’ Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did. I pushed her against the door and shouted ‘DON’T KICK ELANOR!’—she stared at me—Contempt—die—disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb—‘Elanor is the worst spy! She’s taking orders!’ ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ We’re all alive at once then—even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room—screaming at each other in the Forever—I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed. I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same—to the last doom—Thunder, Spirits, lightning! I’ve seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own—cracked grave! Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx—I phonecalled—thru hospital to secret police that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear—who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin— Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,—Law advancing, on my honor—Eternity entering the room—you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate— staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor, your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio—and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon—Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls— Protests from the bathroom—Said you were sane—dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippingsno—your honesty— as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a earful of police. or Grandma spying at 78—Your vision—Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper’s bag—or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot— Ah Rochambeau Ave.—Playground of Phantoms—last apartment in the Bronx for spies—last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution— ‘All right—put on your coat Mrs.—let’s go—We have the wagon downstairs—you want to come with her to the station?’ The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— To me—‘Why did you do this?’—‘Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour’—The Ambulance came in a few hours—drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown—gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. Two years, after a trip to Mexico—bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse— new brick 20 story central building—lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island—huge cities of the moon. Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole—the door—entrance thru crotch— I went in—smelt funny—the halls again—up elevator—to a glass door on a Women’s Ward—to Naomi—Two nurses buxom white—They led her out, Naomi

stared—and I gaspt—She’d had a stroke— Too thin, shrunk on her bones—age come to Naomi—now broken into white hair—loose dress on her skeleton—face sunk, old! withered—cheek of crone— One hand stiff—heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now—wrinkles—a scar on her head, the lobotomy—ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death— O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees— Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions, they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel— blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother’s music, in the Song of the Natural Front— O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision— Tortured and beaten in the skull—What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry—and for all humankind call on the Origin Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood— O beautiful Garbo of my Karma—all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged—with all the teachers from Vewark—Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter—nor Louis retire from this High School— Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come—small broken woman—the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin— ‘Are you a spy?’ I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears—‘Who are you? Did Louis send you?—The wires—’ in her hair, as she beat on her head—‘I’m not a bad girl—don’t murder me!—I hear the ceiling—I raised two children—’ Two years since I’d been there—I started to cry—She stared—nurse broke up the meeting a moment—I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls ‘The Horror’ I weeping—to see her again—‘The Horror’—as if she were dead thru funeral rot in—‘The Horror!’ I came back she yelled more—they led her away—‘You’re not Allen—’ I watched her face—but she passed by me, not looking— Opened the door to the ward,—she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly—I stared out—she looked old—the verge of the grave—‘All the Horror!’ Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy— near its death—with eyes—was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still—sent her long letter—& wrote hymns to the mad—Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room—Whalen in his peaceful chair—a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead— Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage—knew she was better— at last—not left to look on Earth alone—2 years of solitude—no one, at age nearing 60—old woman of skulls—once long-tressed Naomi of Bible— or Ruth who wept in America—Rebecca aged in Newark—David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale or Srul Avrum—Israel Abraham—myself—to sing in the wilderness toward God—O Elohim!—so to the end—2 days after her death I got her letter— Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote—‘The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window—I have the key—Get married Allen don’t take drugs—the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi— Hymmnn In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised Magnified Lauded

Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He! In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He! Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book! Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years’ loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All! III Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years, only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock, only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter—and her image in the sunlight at the window ‘The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,’ only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own to come back out of the Nightmare—divided creation—with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die —in one last glimpse—all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar black-out—no tears for this vision— But that the key should be left behind—at the window—the key in the sunlight—to the living—that can take that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door— IV O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten O mother farewell with a long black shoe farewell with Communist Party and a broken stocking farewell with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast farewell with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina farewell with your sagging belly with your fear of Hitler with your mouth of bad short stories with your fingers of rotten mandolins with your arms of fat Paterson porches with your belly of strikes and smokestacks with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark with your eyes with your eyes of Russia with your eyes of no money with your eyes of false China with your eyes of Aunt Elanor with your eyes of starving India with your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall with your eyes of your failure at the piano with your eyes of your relatives in California with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance with your eyes strapped down on the operating table with your eyes with the pancreas removed with your eyes of appendix operation with your eyes of abortion with your eyes of ovaries removed with your eyes of shock with your

eyes of lobotomy with your eyes of divorce with your eyes of stroke with your eyes alone with your eyes with your eyes with your Death full of Flowers V Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Paris, December 1957—New York, 1959

#im a collector im a maniac #poetry #not mine

[101flavoursofweird]

For the ten line drabbles, would you do 20 for any combination of Kat, Ernest, and Sherl (either two of them or all three of them together)? Thank you!

[[Apologies, this ended up being more than ten lines and didn’t even include the quote, though it definitely inspired it! Thank you for giving me the chance to finally write a fic about my Sherl theory!]]

20. “If you feel safer with me being there, you know I will always be there.”

“Aurora, our messenger, do you wish for this human to be reborn as a beast?”

“Yes, please. He has brought a great deal of suffering upon the world and to the fabric of time. And he hurt the professor… Also, can you take away his memories, like you did for me?”

“We were able to accomplish that as you were an Azran golem—“

“I was a sentient being with a beating heart. Surely you can do this same for this man?”

“…Very well. We will grant your wish.”

—

Kat had gone out for dinner with her inspector brother and her chef sister, leaving Ernest and Sherl to ‘manage’ the agency by themselves. (Or rather, stall any clients until Kat got back.)

Sherl thought this would be the perfect time for a dognap, but then Pipstripes decided to switch on the television while he was dusting.

Uuugh, that stupid black box! Why did Kat have to bring it in here, and place it on the drawers right above Sherl’s bed? Why couldn’t she find another way entertain herself when it was raining cats and dogs outside?

Sherl covered his ears as the droning voice of a news reader came on.

“—on this day, seven years ago, that the St. Herald Hotel collapsed during one of the worst storms in British history—“

“Who cares what happened seven years ago?” Sherl groaned. “That’s... forty years ago for a dog...”

“Shush, Sherl,” Ernest said, his gaze glued to the television.

“—While the establishment had received five star ratings in the past, it was undergoing maintenance work at the time, making some rooms unstable—“

“That thing will rot your brain,” Sherl warned. You would never catch Sherl gawking at a screen.

He couldn’t see in full colour anyway...

For him, it was mainly grey with some shades of blue and yellow. Pinstripes stood out like a sore thumb with his waistcoat and his trousers. Sherl could distinguish Kat’s yellow coat and her hat, but her dress just looked... dull. (Kat had nearly thrown a fit when Sherl told her this.)

As far as Sherl could tell, the news reader was a lady with long blonde hair, a grey suit and a solemn expression.

“All of the hotel staff and guests were able to escape, expect for one—“

“Poor sod,” Sherl snorted.

“—Former Prime Minister, Bill Hawks.”

Sherl’s ears perked up. “Who?”

“Shhhhh!”

“Did she say Prime Minister?” Sherl persisted. He stumbled out of his bed to get a closer look at the T.V.— at the photo of the man the news people had put up.

He was probably in his late fifties or early sixties, judging by his balding head, deep frown lines, droopy eyes and glasses... Sherl squinted, wondering if dogs could get glasses.

“Yes— from about twenty years ago,” Pinstripes informed him, frowning slightly. “If you listen, they’re going to talk about his life soon...”

Talk about him they did. Bill Hawks: Born in London, squeaked his way in to university, became a scientist at the Institute of Poly-something or other... until there was an explosion at the lab he worked in. An explosion, it turned out, that Hawks had caused with an experiment gone awry.

Sherl hummed. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

“The... explosion?” Pinstripes fiddled with the end of his feather duster. “It sounds like something out of a sci-fi film, doesn’t it?” He closed his eyes for a moment. “But it really did happen, over thirty years ago... and there were terrible repercussions ten years after. You might have heard Miss Layton discussing it...”

Sherl shook his head. He would have remembered if Kat had mentioned something like that. His short term memories were clear as crystal. It was his long term memories that were murky— at least, those prior to joining the Layton Detective Agency.

All he could remember from his past life was a tower falling down, and lightning flashing across the sky... but with each passing day, the details felt less precise and less important. Kat seemed to have given up on solving his case of amnesia altogether!

“Oh...” Pinstripes glanced out the window and back at Sherl. “Do you— surely you know about the Mobile Fortress attack? From a man called Clive Dove?”

For some reason, that name made Sherl shudder. Still, he answered, “No...”

“He tried to destroy London? There were crushed buildings and a gaping tear left in the ground?” Pinstripes said, his eyes wide with disbelief. “It took them years to repair—“

“I might seem older than you kids,” Sherl interrupted, “but I can’t have been alive for more than six or seven years.” He was a ‘mature dog’ (according to the vet), but that couldn’t compare to a human lifespan. Kat’s grandmother, Rosa, was in her seventies!

Pinstripes waved his hand. “Right, sorry... Anyway, Clive Dove was put in prison— thanks to Miss Layton’s father— and he remains there to this day.”

“Good,” Sherl huffed. “Sounds like this Dove was barking!”

“That’s really not funny...”

“What made him go round the bend?”

Ernest winced. “He, um... he wanted to get revenge... because his parents died in that lab explosion.”

Sherl stuck out his teeth. “But if Bill Hawks was behind the explosion... then why didn’t Dove just go after him? Why take it out on everyone—?”

“I don’t know!” Ernest dropped the feather duster. He sighed heavily and crouched to pick it up. Turning his back on Sherl, he resumed his dusting around the television.

The news reader was exposing more about Bill Hawks; by sweeping his crimes under the rug and making shady deals, Hawks had climbed the political ladder to the very top.

Then he was kidnapped by one of his former scientist colleagues and taken to an underground fake ‘Future London’...

“So that’s what she meant...” Sherl breathed. When he’d first arrived at the agency, Kat had asked if he had a ‘letter from the future’. Had her father been sent such a letter?

Sherl’s heart pounded at the next part of the news report. Clive Dove had imprisoned Bill Hawks in the Mobile Fortress, using Bill’s heartbeat to power the machine... That was intense!

Fortunately for Hawks, Professor Layton had saved him and shut down the fortress.

After they all escaped, Hawks had ensured Dove was arrested, put on trial immediately, and locked up for life.

During Dove’s trial, however, Hawks’ disreputable past had been brought to light. Hawks wasn’t put behind bars, but he had to pay a lot of compensation money for the victims of the institute explosion and for the Mobile Fortress attack.

A clip from an interview was shown— a man from Barkleys Bank described Hawks’ loss of financial backers as his approval ratings dropped. (Poor Barkleys, having to represent Bill Hawks...)

Disgraced, Bill had resigned from his post as prime minister and disappeared from the public eye. His wife had divorced him and he had started mooching off his parents’ inheritance.

“Good-for-nothing fat-cat...” Sherl grumbled. You wouldn’t catch his pups leeching off their families like that. When Kat’s father went missing, she had set up a detective agency. When Ernest’s mother died, he had worked his way up to university— and taken an unpaid job on top of that!

Sherl hoped there were assassination attempts made on Hawks’ life after everything he had done.

But no... It seemed that the world had forgotten about Bill Hawks as soon as he left office.

By all accounts, his death at the St. Herald Hotel had been deemed an accident. He had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, asleep when the roof above him collapsed.

“...Did he wake up in unbearable pain or did he die peacefully in his sleep?” the news reader lady pondered.

“Oh, come on, woman!” At this point, Sherl was standing on his hind legs with his paws pressed up against the television screen. “I need to know! That skid mark deserved to suffer—!”

“We may never know for certain,” the news reader went on, smiling impassively. “But some might say that justice was served on that day... Thank you for listening! And now, over to Puzzlette for the pollen report...”

“Waste of time...” Sherl flounced away from the television and looked around. He spotted the T.V. remote on the settee. “Turn it off, will you, Pinstripes?”

With a huff, Pinstripes turned off the television. He tossed the remote back on to the settee.

Sherl flicked his tail. “What’s got you so hot under the collar?”

“N-nothing...” Pinstripes crossed his arms as if he was trying to contain something in his chest. Whatever it was— anger, grief or uneasiness— Sherl reckoned Pinstripes wouldn’t be able to hide it for long. (He had broken down the minute Kat accused him of being Lord Adamas.)

“You might as well tell me,” Sherl prompted. “Kat’s out, and it’s not like anyone else can hear...”

Sherl prided himself on being a good secret-keeper. He hadn’t told Kat about Pinstripes’ crush, besides a few snide remarks. He hadn’t turned that street dog, Yapper, over to the pound. And he hadn’t ratted out that mouse who would occasionally nip in to steal Kat’s food...

Pinstripes whispered, “You... you can’t tell Miss Layton. She and her family would hate me...”

“Is it worse than what you did at Richmond Court?” Sherl asked. He made a furtive glance at the door.

“N-no!” Ernest exclaimed, his voice rising a pitch. “It doesn’t even involve me directly... but it does involve... one of my family members.”

Sometimes, Sherl was glad that he couldn’t remember his relatives. He didn’t have to deal with any of that family drama— unless Kat and Ernests’ issues counted as drama.

“Just spit it out,” Sherl growled.

“I... I’m related to Bill Hawks,” Ernest burst out. “Distantly!”

After all the cases Sherl had solved with Kat, that wasn’t too surprising to hear. Sherl cocked his head to the side. “How ‘distant’ are we talking?” He had heard that a lot of Europe’s royal families were related. Did it work the same way with lords and politicians?

“Quite distant... He was my grandfather’s second cousin!” With the cat finally out of the bag, Ernest sighed shakily. He sank on to the settee and tucked his knees under his chin, pulling himself into a tight ball. He looked more like a child than a lanky young man, but then again, he was only nineteen. That was still young by human standards.

“Pinstripes...” Sherl murmured when he heard sniffling. Sherl padded over to the settee and jumped up beside him.

“P-please don’t tell Miss Layton,” Ernest repeated with a whimper. “I nearly— she let me stay... even after what I did. I don’t want to— to hurt her again...”

Knowing Kat, she had probably already discovered the connection between Ernest and Bill Hawks.

It was possible that she had figured out Sherl’s identity as well, but she was keeping quiet. Honestly... Sherl didn’t really mind at that moment.

What would he do if he knew about his past? Track down his family? Would they even be able to understand him? And what if he had left his loved ones on bad terms? He would struggle to make amends with them, and they might be even more upset.

It wasn’t like he could return to his old job, either... unless it involved police work, assisting people with disabilities, or herding sheep. There was always performing— who didn’t love a good dog act?  

But even then, it would be lonely if he couldn’t communicate with anyone.

At least if he stayed here, at the Layton Detective Agency, he could make a difference. He would do his best to help their clients... as well as Ernest and Kat.

Sherl curled up next to Ernest on the settee. After a while, Ernest’s sniffs stopped and he started stroking Sherl’s head.

Maybe one day they would find a way to transform animals into humans... but until then, Sherl didn’t mind being a detective’s dog. There were fates far worse than this.

#Answers #Sherl O.C. kholmes #Ernest Greeves #answers #Bill Hawks #My writing #my fics #layton’s mystery journey

[saelwen]

Finrod x Child!Reader Part Two

Finrod x Child!Reader

Crossover with Silmarillion and A quiet place

«« Part One Part Three»»

Warnings: none

Words: 1,297

Masterlist

Finrod's blue eyes were focused on your small body in his arms as he and his siblings enter Nargothrond. Loki still wrapped around your neck protectively, alert to any threat that could come to your way. Galadriel had tried to take him from you but he hissed at her and coiled around you.

Finrod's thoughts were wild in his head. How could a small child be wandering in those dangerous forests?! You could have been capture by orcs and been torture or worse.

He noticed how weird were your clothes and pack. The fabric of your green dress was oddly soft, something that he had never touched, very different from silk or other luxurious fabrics that he wears it. And the creature-like pack is something that he has sure he has never seen it in all his long life.

He was also confused by your behavior. You look so scared when he starts talking to you, shushing him while you look around in panic. Searching for something that he didn't understand it.

"She has suffered so much." his sister, Galadriel, broke his trail of thoughts. "She had been face to face with monsters worse than ours... I'm surprised how such small child could survive that kind of life." her voice was soft and full of sorrow, ocean blue eyes focus on your limp form in Finrod's arms.

Finrod frowns and looks to his sister. "What did you saw, Galadriel?" he asked while they walk through the massive open gates of Nargothrond.

Galadriel took a deep breath and look to her brothers, seeing the three of them looking back to her. "I just saw glimpse of her memories... The lost of her parents... The dark creature that lurk in the shadows... The death that she had see."

They arrive to the castle and Finrod orders the servants to prepare a room for you. He looks back to his sister and sighs. "So she's an orphan... from another world?" he asked while clean a soft tear from your cheek.

Angrod shook his head in amazement and look down to you. "How's that possible?... This must be reported back to The Valar!" As Angrod said that, Finrod's hold on you tighten and throws a glare to his younger brother.

"No! We will keep this between us... and despite, The Valar wouldn't listen to us after the events in Alqualondë..." he said with firm voice. "...even if we weren't part of that disgusting act..." he starts walking towards where your room should be and looked over his shoulder to his siblings. "I will take care of her." His siblings nod and watch him disappeared through the door with you, still sleeping soundly in his arms.

~~~~

The soft sound humming woke you up from your heavy slumber. Opening slowly your e/c eyes, a soundless hiss fell from your lips as the bright sunlight hit your eyes. The gentle hum stops and you hear soft footsteps walking towards the massive bed that you were lying down.

Blinking a few times, you see the beautiful man from before in front of you. A gentle smile on his thin lips and bright blue eyes looking down to you.

"Good morning, little one!" his voice was warm and joyful.

You frown and look around, still a little disoriented. The room that you were massive! Much bigger than your older one. It was filled with beautiful furniture which looked very expensive along vintage.

Strange.

You look back to Finrod shyly, studying him carefully. His long golden hair shined with the sunlight, making his angelic feature accentuate. He was wearing a soft blue robe with a simple silver circlet on his head.

Where those this man get his clothes?!  And why is he wearing a tiara? He's a Prince?

His chuckle interrupted your thoughts. You sit up and groan as you feel your sore feet which were wrapped with bandages.

"I had the healer take a look at your feet." Finrod sat beside you carefully, afraid to scare you off. "They were in a very bad shape but you will heal perfectly in a week."

You nod slowly, rubbing the sleep away from your eyes with your small hand. But suddenly it hit you, the creatures!

"Are you hun-" You jump up and cover Finrod's mouth with your two small hands, looking to his confused eyes with your pleading ones. You feel Loki crawling around your shoulder to your arm, hissing softly.

You notice your teddy bear pack on the end of the bed and crawl to it, opening it quickly. Finrod watch you with curiosity, seeing you taking out a small notebook along with a pencil.

You open it and start writing on it. When you finished, you gave him the notebook which he grab it eagerly.

Don't make a sound or else the monsters will get you!

Finrod frown as he read your words, remembering of what his sister told him. He needs to make you feel safe, to make you understand that you are safe now. This need of make you happy, to hear you laugh, is freaking him out. Why does he need to fill you with happiness? Because you have suffered enough. He thought.

He put down the note and look to you, pushing a h/c curl behind your ear. "You're not there anymore, little one...Those monsters... They can't reach you anymore."

Fat tears begin pouring down your eyes, running down on your chubby cheeks. You are confused by all that's happening. How could not the monsters reach you? They are everywhere!

You can't believe his words but you wanted so bad. You wanted to return to your old life, to wake up with the sweet smell of pancakes that your dad used to make, or go hiking with your parents on the weekends.

Finrod cup gently your cheek and clean come of your tears with hi thumb. "I know that you have been through a lot and that you are suffering... but you need to thrust me, Dilthen lóth."

You sniff and wipe your tears off. For the first time in two years, you talked.

"W-What does that mean?" your voice was hoarse and small. "A-And where am i?"

A bright smile appears on Finrod's face at the sound of your voice. "It means Little Flower in Sindarin and you are in my fortress, Nargothrond."

You start rubbing gently Loki's head, seeing his little black eyes close in happiness.

Sindarin? Nargothrond? Where was this? Am i in Europe?

You have so many questions to ask him but you still feel tired. A yawn fell from your lips and your body begins feeling heavy along with your eyes. Finrod pull the soft blanket over your small body, pulling you down to the massive pillows.

"Rest a little more, Dilthen lóth." he leans down and kisses your forehead gently.

As Finrod turns back to leave, you stop him by grabbing his sleeve. He looks back and sees the pleading look on your face.

"P-Please.... Stay..." you whisper.

He smiles gently and nods, sitting on the chair beside the bed, holding your small hand in his large one.

"Don't worry, Dilthen lóth....You are safe now."

Hey Guys!!! Here's a new chapter of Finrod x Child!reader! I hope you are liking this fanfic so far. Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think!

XOXO

#finrod fanfic #finrod imagine #finrod x reader #Finrod x Human!reader #finrod x child!reader #child!reader #a quiet place #fluff #CrossOver #finrod felagund #The Silmarillion #Silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion fanfic #silmarillion x reader #middle earth #middle earth imagine #middle earth x reader #fantasy #fanfic #lotr fanfic #hobbit fanfiction #lord of the rings #the hobbit #tolkien #JRR Tolkien #My writing

[sneezefiction]

different things

nishinoya x reader

a/n: honestly, i struggle with miscommunication. things really can go wrong if you dont voice your assumptions, world views, and plans for life. this fic kind of addresses that. sorry to both you and baby noya :,,(

warnings: angst, break ups

wc: 1230

inspired by: the song Different Things by Gracey and @lol-dafuq for angsty nishinoya ideas :,) thanks b

---

There was a time when summer brought giggles and sugary sweets. Where you and Nishinoya found yourself spending warm, sleepless nights counting stars and bantering about whatever stupid thing Tanaka did earlier that day. 

You would fondly reminisce over these high school summers. Noya never failing to bring a whole box of popsicles, eating most of them himself, and a large, quilted blanket to lay out on a flatter part of the roof. How his big, brown eyes light up when they meet yours and how quickly he would run up to hug you, spinning your body around in a dizzying circle. 

There was a time when you thought that summer was made for this boy. And when you thought that this boy might even be made for you.

Yes, somehow you believed you would always be apart of his adventures. That he would factor you into his future as you had done for him. That Nishinoya might see marriage… kids even with you. Sharing summer hazed, late-night conversations and firefly catching endeavors together until you were both old and gray. 

Instead, you’re sitting hunched over on your bathroom floor again. It’s a place of solitude for you. A fortress from the outside world that, even if just for a few minutes, you’ll find yourself hiding in daily. The cold tiles underfoot keep your mind from going numb, back pressed up against the side of the tub. Your leg keeps falling asleep, so you lean the pressure of your body weight onto the other knee every once in a while, but that’s about the extent of your movements.

This “hiding in the bathroom” habit probably stemmed from some silly fear you had as a child, but for now, it’s doing the trick. It’s like a bitterly cold hug, without the physical touch that seems to mock you. Nothing seems to measure up to Noya’s hugs, so you subconsciously have seemed to deprive yourself altogether.

You periodically catch yourself holding in a deep, heavy breath. It’s an attempt to lessen the emptiness that sits in the pit of your stomach. Something you’ve been battling against since the bubbly, blonde-tufted boy left you.

---

Nishinoya wasn’t one to sit still. Never one to fear the unknown. Unwilling to say no to an opportunity.

It was what you’d always admired about him. He is individualistic. Driven. Always staying unapologetically himself.

You hadn’t realized that this might also apply to your relationship.

After high school, you both chose programs at the same university. Life seemed to replicate that of your high school years. You walked the cozy campus, hand-in-hand. Coffee’s on the weekend, dancing at parties together, big squishy hugs, and late nights.

But Nishinoya wanted more. And unfortunately, he assumed you knew that he would need more than just you in his life.

Noya wasn’t prepared to settle down. Not for you. Not for anyone, really. To say that you were both on wildly different pages, would be a terrible understatement. 

So when he told you he was ready to travel the world, you accepted it with a big smile on your face, not realizing the extent of his decision.

Both you and Noya were in the final months of your senior year at university. You didn’t question his plans, since a few weeks of travel before summer seemed entirely reasonable to you, especially when it came to Nishinoya. He would want to clear his head and get his energy out before searching for a job. 

But when he showed you his travel plans, everything became all but fine.

The world as you knew it had suddenly crashed down on your head, leaving you a bleeding, empty mess.

—-

Tears and shouts of betrayal ensued. No, it wasn’t your shining moment, but Nishinoya wasn’t exactly an angel here either.

He had never seen you so hurt. Noya knew you had loved him. He knew the relationship you both shared was precious and one-of-a-kind. But he also knew he needed to go and he always believed you understood that this portion of his life was subject to change at all times. Miscommunication at its finest.

He’d lived spontaneously and openly since he was little and had no intention of changing.

The flight ticket he was holding onto explained his trip to Europe and his schedule ranged all the way into the next year. His plane would leave early May and he would not get back till June of next year. 

All without you.

His thoughtlessness had your head spinning. That he could make plans without telling you what it meant for your relationship. How he didn’t bother to ask you to join him.

You would’ve come with if he’d wanted you to go. You even asked him if he had planned on taking you.

He hadn’t.

The way he mentioned going away so casually as if you wouldn’t break down in tears at the thought of him leaving you. 

—-

The problem is, you thought you knew him. You thought he would stay for you. Really you never had any idea what he’d wanted in the first place. Clearly, he didn’t know you well either.

You did what made sense to do, defending your last shreds of dignity: You kicked him out, punched your wall, resulting in you needing someone to stitch up your drywall, and texted him hours later as bluntly as possible that the relationship needed to be over. His response was even more painful. “Okay, y/n. I’m sorry. Thanks for everything.”

Not a, “Please don’t break up with me!” Not a, “Come with me, I love you!” Nothing. He didn’t want you enough to stay. Enough to take you with him. You became dead weight. A piece of his life that he planned to retire from the beginning.

---

As time went by, you forced yourself to mull over his choice.

The one that beckoned him to leave you.

To chase after something that required you to let him go.

The choice that shattered your heart.

It was just one conversation, ending as quickly as it began, but somehow it managed to knock you off your feet for months. It ended a lifetime of inside jokes, patterns you weren’t prepared to let go of, and the most gratifying relationship you’d ever experienced.

Gravity decided to drag you to the floor whenever it could, pushing you to experience the physical agony of losing someone you thought would be permanent. The boy you had sharpied into your life. The one where you had intricately woven his and your path together in your mind.

But he just couldn’t see it. He never would.

Now it’s August. It’s been about 4 months since he’d left you. 4 months since he’d last messaged you. It’s been the loneliest, most confusing, most depressing months of your life. 

To think that years ago, you could’ve shared this perfect, cloudless day with the boy you loved. Still love somewhere deep down.

It’s getting later in the day, the small bathroom window allowing the sun to show off its golden rays and the swirling clouds, boasting hues of pink and blue. All colors you associate with Noya. 

But instead of letting the heaviness in your heart suffocate you like you usually do, you decide to pull yourself up, off of the freezing bathroom floor tile. 

You blink away the tears in your eyes.

It’s time to find someone else who reminds you of summer. Someone who will stay with you. Someone that will take you with them no matter where they go. 

And with that, you decide: It’s time to move on.

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu angst #haikyu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fandom #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu fic #nishinoya #nishinoya x reader #nishinoya x you #nishinoya haikyuu #nishinoya hcs #nishinoya yuu #nishinoya yu x reader #angst #nishinoya angst #hq #hq headcanons #hq imagines #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #sneezefiction

[radicalgraff]

Offices of various political parties were vandalised in Bremen, Germany to protest the condition of refugees in Moria, a migrant concentration camp in Lesbos, Greece, which was heavily damaged by fire in recent days.

Residents of the sprawling camp already had to contend with squalid conditions, but now with most of the shelters reduced to ashes, the situation has become completely unbearable

#anarchismus #anarchism #evacuate moria #evacuatemoria #moria #free the refugees #close the camps #bremen #bremen graffiti #tear down fortress europe