“We have been trekking hard all these last days. Heat and dust terrible… We got in a wood and were surrounded by Germans. The Germans are very fond of wood fighting and detail snipers to get up trees. We lost considerably including nine officers.” Letter from Lt. Neville Woodroffe during the Mons Retreat, 1914.

Snipers can trace their lineage to hunters who began using rifled firearms that could fire accurately at longer rangers. In the North American colonies, settlers adapted the rifle to warfare, and riflemen were used as snipers by both sides during the American Revolutionary War, and by the British in the Napoleonic Wars. During the Second Boer War, Boer marksman with accurate Mauser rifles took a heavy toll on regular British forces. In response, the British formed the first professional unit of trained snipers, the Lovat Scouts, using telescopic rifles and wearing camouflage suits. Their commander said of them that they were “half wolf and half jackrabbit.“

A British officer shoots from a camouflaged position.

The trench warfare of the First World War suited the sniper perfectly. At the beginning of the war, sniping was an amateur affair, practiced mostly by officers used to hunting from before the war. Armed with personal hunting rifles, sharpshooters spent their spare time trying to pick off enemy soldiers. Only the Imperial German Army issued out telescopic sites, and soon the trained German snipers developed a fearsome reputation in the Entente armies.

In response, the British and French set about professionalizing their own marksmen. Big-game hunters like Hesketh Hesketh-Prichard worked hard to develop sniper tactics to counter the Germans. All armies set up training schools, and following in the Germans’ wake the British and French began issuing standard-issue scoped rifles. Optics underwent significant development; a major example was the “periscope” rifle that used sloped mirrors to allow soldiers to fire without revealing themselves above the trench parapet.

A British soldier at Gallipoli tries to lure Turkish snipers into firing; his friends don’t seem amused.

As snipers improved in quality, the danger they posed increased. Working in pairs, snipers were expected to memorize the layout of the land in front of them, noticing any subtle change. They wore camouflage and shot from disguised or armored positions to remain safe themselves while they watched for any sudden enemy movement. Even a man who exposed himself for a fraction of a second might become a casualty. The most valuable targets were officers, signalers trying to lay communication lines, and soldiers bringing up rations from field kitchens.

A camouflaged British marksman next to a fake tree he used as a platform.

The sniper war became a daily feature of life on the front line.  Soldiers developed methods to cope. Robert Graves remembered being troubled by one particular German sniper, but he found a response: “Later we secured an elephant-gun that could send a bullet through enemy loopholes and if we failed to locate the loop-hole of a persistent sniper, we tried to dislodge him with a volley of rifle-grenades, or even by ringing up the artillery.”

The randomness of death scared troops. It even created one superstition - never light a cigarette three times from the same match. “The sniper sees the first light, he hones in on the second, and when he sees the third he takes the shot.”

Anzac troops use a periscope rifle on Gallipoli.

Soldiers hated snipers and a captured one could expect no mercy. Nevertheless, sniping had a mental toll of its own. Some treated it like hunting, but others were disturbed by its oddly personal nature. R. A. Chell remembered feeling so during his first try at it:

“After about fifteen minutes quiet watching - with my rifle in a ready position - I saw a capless bald head come up behind the plate. The day was bright and clear and I hadn’t the slightest difficulty in taking a most deliberate aim at the very centre of that bright and shiny plate - but somehow I couldn’t press the trigger: to shoot such a ‘sitter’ so deliberately in cold blood required more real courage than I possessed. After a good look round he went down and I argued with myself about my duty. My bald-headed opponent had been given a very sporting chance and if he were fool enough to come up again I must shoot him unflinchingly. I considered it my duty to be absolutely ready for that contingency. After about two minutes he came up again with added boldness and I did my duty. I had been a marksman before the war and so had no doubt about the instantaneousness of that man’s death. I felt funny for days and the shooting of another German at 'stand-to’ the next morning did nothing to remove those horrid feelings I had.”

EGYPT. Sinai Peninsula. 1972. Hand of a dead Egyptian soldier. 

‘Five years after the 1967 war in Sinai, I returned with colleagues to have a look at the battlefield. The wind had blown away the sand, revealing a macabre memento of the war. The hand of an Egyptian soldier who had found his grave in the dunes. Next to it was his helmet. His forefinger was pointing to heaven as though in admonition: No More War. But Sadat had arrived 10 years too late for him’

Photograph: David Rubinger/Corbis/Getty

Completely normal conversations with a 7 year old at history camp
  • Audio tour: "I was so sad to see the bodies of the British soldiers thrown into a grave together without coffins."
  • Kid: What's a coffin?
  • Me: It's a box you put a dead person in before you bury them.
  • Kid: Why would you need a box? They're dead. Just throw them in the ground!
  • Me: I dunno, it's easier to carry that way, I guess. And people have been doing it for thousands of years, so it's just...a tradition at this point, basically.
  • Kid: That's dumb.
  • Older kid: And expensive! A good coffin costs thousands of dollars! And for what?
  • Kid: Yeah, I'd just cover the dead body with dirt. Plus, I only have like, five dollars...
It's Time To Acknowledge Shi'ite Genocide
Two days ago, buses carrying residents from the Syrian towns of Foua and Kfraya were attacked by a suicide bomber. They were part of an exchange that all...

“Shi’ite Muslims in Syria aren’t the only ones ignored. In fact, nobody is more ignored than the people of Yemen. The uprising of Houthis, a Shi’ite led movement, is opposed by Saudi Arabia who has been dropping missiles on them for almost as long as Syria has been at war. Millions are suffering from poverty, more than 10,000 people have been killed, and hundreds of thousands have reached famine conditions. There is a humanitarian crisis in Yemen, but they don’t get the same attention from the media, lawmakers, or Trump because they are being attacked by Saudi Arabia, a US ally. Political fear strikes again.

The same can be said for the situation in Nigeria, where Shi’ites make up a very small of minority of the nation’s Muslims. Last year, hundreds of Shi’ites in the town of Zaria were burnt alive by soldiers and then dumped into mass graves. The leader of the Shi’ite Islamic movement of Nigeria, Sheikh Ibrahim El-ZakZaky, was brutally tortured and kidnapped last year by the Nigerian government, his fate unknown.

In Bahrain, the government continues to divide the Sunni and Shi’ite people by taking away the basic civil rights of its Shi’ite. Despite the fact that they make up more than 70% of Muslims in the country, Shi’ites have little political power in Bahrain. Recently, the government executed three Shi’ite men despite not having any evidence to back up the charges against them. Mass street protests followed in the nation. The country followed in the footsteps of Saudi Arabia, who was met with global condemnation when it executed a top Shi’ite cleric, Sheikh Nimr al-Nimr, along with 47 others.

To condemn such action by these nations is not political suicide, but basic humanitarian effort. Even if one wanted to understand the dynamics of ISIS in the Middle East, they would need to understand who ISIS’s main targets are. Since the early days of Al-Qaeda in Pakistan, the main targets of Islamic terrorists have been Shi’ite Muslims. While Al-Qaeda was targeting Shi’ites there, Saddam Hussein was killing Shi’ites in masses. Today, both the Shi’ites of Pakistan and Iraq are targeted by ISIS at mosques and schools at least one month. Ignoring this leaves out significant pieces that help us all understand the motives of Islamic terrorists.”
Mass Grave From Thirty Years' War Reveals Brutal Cavalry Attack

On November 16, 1632, two armies faced off at the site of Lützen, Germany. On one side was Gustavus Adolphus II, King of Sweden, and on the other was General Albrecht von Wallenstein, the leader of a regiment of Holy Roman Imperial forces. The Thirty Years’ War was Europe’s deadliest religious conflict ever, ultimately claiming an estimated eight million lives – including the King of Sweden, who led the cavalry at Lützen but was killed in the brutal attack.

This week in the journal PLoS ONE, a group of archaeologists led by Nicole Nicklisch reveal their analysis of 47 soldiers who died in the Battle of Lützen and who were buried in a mass grave. They found that these men ranged in age from 15 to 50, and that many of them had suffered previous traumatic injuries in their lives. While the researchers were interested in the general state of the soldiers’ lives leading up to their deaths, their main aim “was to analyze the fatal injuries the men sustained during the battle,” in order to learn about “the fighting and the military and strategic operations on the battlefield.”

The battle injuries that the researchers found run the gamut from blunt force to sharp force to projectile trauma. Twelve of the men had had evidence of blunt force trauma directed at their heads, with the blows falling mostly on their jaws and faces. At least half a dozen more men suffered blows to their limbs or ribs, causing fractures.

Attacks with bladed weapons were also found among the skeletons in the mass grave. One late-teenage male suffered a sabre wound to the back of his head, and another appears to have been slashed in the face prior to being shot. The archaeologists also found some stabbing injuries to the back and pelvis of seven men.

Gunshot wounds were by far the most common perimortem trauma found, marking the cause of death of at least 21 men. In about half of these cases, the bullet remained lodged in the skull. A deformed lead musket ball discovered in one of the skulls suggests the bullet ricocheted, entering the left side of the soldier’s head and lodging in the back of his skull.

The archaeologists also found gunshots to the torso and limbs of eight individuals, including the hips, abdominal area, and lower legs. Carbine bullets from a short rifle or musket were found lodged in the back of the pelvis of two soldiers.

In assessing the trauma these soldiers suffered, Nicklisch and colleagues found that the blunt-force injuries were likely caused by being hit with rifle butts or hilts, or by falls from or kicks by horses. The sharp trauma may have been caused by sabres, rapiers, knives, daggers, or halberds. Interestingly, the Lützen skeletons have surprisingly few sharp-force injuries, especially when compared to other mass graves from the Thirty Years’ War.

What distinguishes the Lützen battle is its reliance on guns, specifically pistols, muskets, and carbines. Firearms were becoming more readily available during this part of the 17th century, but it appears that this battle was ahead of its time. The researchers looked at the distribution of projectile wounds to the skull and suggested that the battle was “a perhaps surprising and quick fronto-lateral attack, which probably left the soldiers little room for evasive action. Moreover, the soldiers concerned do not appear to have had sufficient head protection.” This lack of protection was obviously deadly, especially since historical records suggest a recommendation that “cavalrymen should aim for the enemy’s head and left side of the chest. This instruction seems to have been put into practice with frightening success,” Nicklisch and colleagues say.

External image

The Lützen mass grave itself is also somewhat different from other burials found from this time period. “The dead were not placed in the pit in a systematic way,” Nicklisch and colleagues note. Since other battlefield graves were made in a more orderly fashion under the watch of military leaders, they conclude that “the local population helped with removing the dead bodies after the armies had moved on.” This hypothesis is bolstered by the fact that there were almost no artifacts remaining with the bodies – “the dead were intensely plundered,” the researchers say. The local Lützen people likely had negative feelings about the battle in their backyard and worked in haste to remove signs of it.

Additional analysis of the skeletons is ongoing, but the researchers write that preliminary results suggest the soldiers buried in the Lützen mass grave were actually from both sides of the battle: the Swedish Protestant soldiers and the Imperial Catholic ones. They conclude, however, that “the majority of casualties were infantrymen of the Blue Brigade and thus soldiers serving with the Swedish army.”

Although the Battle of Lützen was won by the Swedish forces, it claimed the life of Gustavus II Adolphus, the King of Sweden. He was shot multiple times, and his body - largely stripped of clothing and jewelry - was found a couple hours later and secretly evacuated. After embalming, the body began its long trip back to Stockholm for a funeral held in June of 1634. The Thirty Years’ War raged until 1648, when it was finally concluded by a series of treaties in what is historically known as the Peace of Westphalia.

Kristina Killgrove is a bioarchaeologist at the University of West Florida. For more osteology news, follow her on Twitter (@DrKillgrove) or like her Facebook page Powered by Osteons.

anonymous asked:

OP has me blocked but there's a huge difference between a confederate soldier's gravestone (in a grave, where else) and a statue of a confederate leader in a prominent place. The latter glorifies traitors. The former does not.

1.  The statue is actually a monument to fallen confederate soldiers.  That was what was torn down.  

2.   Robert E. Lee was only a confederate soldier due to his home state and being enlisted in that state’s army.  He was fiercely anti-slavery and aggressively promoted reunification after the war.

3.  People who throw around the term traitor forget Proclamation 179.  In this proclamation, all confederate soldiers were granted pardon and amnesty post civil war and, by law, were not considered traitors to the United States.

So no, they’re not traitors.  Confederates were to be considered United States soldiers, like Union soldiers, and were not guilty of treason for their role in the civil war.

By law, tearing down a confederate monument is no different than tearing down a union monument.

The Sidra Coffee Shop

So I saw this post about Rhysand flirting with Feyre and I thought I might write it. Sorry if this turns out bad, another writer could do a better job than me. Hell, someone probably already has. Anyway I hope you enjoy!

It was Sunday morning and I was in my favourite coffee shop, The Sidra. It was named after the mighty river that ran through the centre of town. It was said that when we were invaded, the river rose as if in answer and wiped out the forces of the invading army and saving the city. You could see the river from my view of the window seat, it was an image I was trying to capture desperately in my sketch pad. 

I took a sip from my smoothie before grabbing my pencils and shading the jasmine flowers that bloomed along the riverbank. The whole atmosphere was pleasant, sitting in the rather rustic coffee shop, a faint moody dancing around the room, quite Sunday morning chatter in the background. I was quite content to spend the rest of the day sitting on the little wooden bench sketching. 

I had just finished capturing the image of the cafe chairs that adorned the edge of the Sidra, imagining how it would have rose. It was something I wanted to paint, I could almost imagine wolves jumping out of the very river itself and taking soldiers to their watery graves as they fought to protect their city. When a shadow fell across my page causing me to jump.

Startled, I turned to face the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He had silky black hair and a muscled chest, from what I could see of how his shirt hugged his body, but it was the bright violet hue of his eyes that enticed me the most. 

“Hey,” I started. “Can I help you?” I was a little confused at why this man was here beside me, I really did want to finish this drawing but he seemed to have other plans.

“Well, darling, as it is you certainly can. I was just admiring your drawing skills from that table over there,” he gestured behind him, “and felt that you should know that it’s  almost as gorgeous as you.” 

“Um… Thank you, I guess,” I was unsure of what to say so I took a sip out of my strawberry and dragon fruit smoothie. 

“Also, darling-,”

“Feyre,” I interjected.

“Well then, Feyre darling I was wondering if you have wifi?”

Who the hell was this guy, asking if she had wifi. All I wanted was to finish my sketch in piece.

“No,” I said and I turned back to my drawing.

“Well,” he drawled from beside me. “That is disappointing because I thought I felt a connection. I’m Rhysand by the way.”

“No sorry, no wifi here. Though I’m positive your friends must be missing you,” I said as what I hoped was a subtle dismissal. Apparently I had no such luck.

“Your jumper is perfectly stunning, did you know that?” He comments. 

“Thank you,” I simply stated before turning back to my drawing. After about five minutes he walks away. Muttering a short goodbye as he left. I turned back to my drawing an odd feeling surrounding me. I sort of did a double take, today was turning out rather odd. 

It wasn’t ten minutes before I was disrupted again. What the hell was with everyone this morning? Why couldn’t I just be left in peace I thought. 

“Well hello, gorgeous,” he whistles.

I made a point to ignore him, carrying on with my attempt to capture the rest of the perfect image before the rest of the public rose from their beds. He just sits down next to me. He’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans.

“Nice outfit by the way, you look absolutely delicious.” 

“Thanks,” I reply. This was the oddest Sunday morning I had ever had. I took another sip out of my smoothie letting it wash around my mouth before trickling down my throat.

“Like you just walked off the runway,” he goes on. 

“Thanks,” I reply curtly. “Again.”

He throws some more odd compliments my way before heading off in the same direction that that Rhysand bloke had gone in. I turned around catching the tail end of their conversation. There were five of them in total.

“…way, she didn’t even blush. I’ve never met anyone who has resisted my manly charm that easily before.” The hoody guy states.

“Well Cassian, it seems you own Amren ten bucks. I told you she wouldn’t give you her number,” Rhysand drawls.

“Cough up boys,” the small one says. Her quick silver eyes flash over and meet mine and she smirks. 

“Nah ah ah,” Rhysand smirks like the cheshire cat. “I made no bargain or bet.” 

“No but you did say you would get her number and it seems you failed,” the blonde one perks up.

“Look,” he growls. “I’m just interested in her okay, lets not make a big deal out of it.” He picks up his coffee and takes a gulp. It’s black, the worst kind of coffee in my opinion. When I drank it I felt like I was choking down tar. So those men were trying to flirt with me? God, I feel so stupid.

I finish with my drawing, the crowds now to thick to properly capture the original image and pack my stuff away. I walk over and pay the bill, I’m about to leave when a thought strikes me. I may as well have a little fun with this situation they have given me. I stalk over to Rhysand, grab a napkin scribble my number down as he stares at me, fold it up and shove it into his chest before pecking him on the cheek and sauntering towards the door. 

Right before I set foot out of the cafe I turn around to see the whole bunch bent over double laughing all except Rhysand who is grinning from ear to ear and the small one, Amren, who catches my gaze and smirks at me knowingly. With that I walk out of the cafe and down the street, a small part of me hoping for a call from the gorgeous, violet eyed man I had just encountered.

I take no credit for the idea behind this piece, that should go to @greenfire2908art. I hope you enjoyed reading it. I’m sorry for the poor quality of writing I wrote this at midnight and now can’t be bothered to reread it and edit my mistakes. Yep, I’m lazy like that. I hope it’s somewhere near what you hoped for @greenfire2908art sorry if it’s not up to the right standard. I thought I’d give it a go though anyway. 

anonymous asked:

Could you please talk about Sally Townsend and John Graves Simcoe? (Btw I LOVE your writing. Your halemadge is slowly killing me)

Thank you so much! 

Raynham Hall located in Oyster Bay, New York was the home of the Townsend family during the American Revolutionary War [x]. After American defeat at the Battle of Long Island in 1776, Samuel Townsend, the head of the household was forced to quarter in his home British soldiers including Lieutenant Colonel John Graves Simcoe and Major Andre. 

Samuel’s daughters Sally Townsend who was sixteen in 1776 was enjoying the company of the two British soldiers and despite her father’s “protests” she associated with them to the point where she fell in love with John Graves Simcoe and he returned her affection. Simcoe was twenty-four when they first met in 1776.  Someone carved initials in the glass of Sally’s bedroom window–her initials and those of Simcoe [x]. Simcoe gave a valentine, dated February 14, 1779, to Sally [x]:

Fairest Maid, where all is fair
Beauty’s pride and Nature’s care;
To you my heart I must resign
O choose me for your Valentine!

Love, Mighty God! Thou know'st full well
Where all thy Mother’s graces dwell,
Where they inhabit and combine
To fix thy power with spells divine;

Thou know'st what powerful magick lies
Within the round of Sarah’s eyes,
Or darted thence like lightning fires
And Heaven’s own joys around inspires;

Thou know'st my heart will always prove
The shrine of pure unchanging love!
Say; awful God! Since to thy throne
Two ways that lead are only known-

Here gay Variety presides,
And many a youthful circle guides
Through paths where lilies, roses sweet,
Bloom and decay beneath their feet;

Here constancy with sober mein
Regardless of the flowery Scene
With Myrtle crowned that never fades,
In silence seeks the Cypress Shades,

Or fixed near Contemplation’s cell,
Chief with the Muses loves to dwell,
Leads those who inward feel and burn
And often clasp the abandon’d urn,–

Say, awful God! Did'st thou not prove
My heart was formed for Constant love?
Thou saw'st me once on every plain
To Delia pour the artless strain -

Thou wept'sd her death and bad'st me change
My happier days no more to range
O'er hill, o’re dale, in sweet Employ,
Of singing Delia, Nature’s joy;

Thou bad'st me change the pastoral scene
Forget my Crook; with haughty mien
To raise the iron Spear of War,
Victim of Grief and deep Despair:

Say, must I all my joys forego
And still maintain this outward show?
Say, shall this breast that’s pained to fell
Be ever clad in horrid steel?

Now swell with other joys than those
Of conquest o'er unworthy foes?
Shall no fair maid with equal fire
Awake the flames of soft desire:

My bosom born, for transport, burn
And raise my thoughts from Delia’s urn?
“Fond Youth,” the God of Love replies,
“Your answer take from Sarah’s eyes.”

During this time the Culper Spy Ring was in operation, the Sally’s older brother Robert was a spy in New York for the Continental Army. Raynham Hall as used by Simcoe and other officers to keep and “drop-off” British intelligence [x]. Sally was reading one evening in the living room, and was hidden when one of these confidential notes was placed in a container in the room. She read the note [x] and it confirmed that Major Andre had been working secretly with Benedict Arnold who was accepting a bribe to betray the Patriots by offering to surrender the fort and his troops to the British.

She informed her father of the plot and it tore her between her country and her feelings for Simcoe. The information was passed on to Benjamin Tallmadge and later Major Andre was found and hanged. Apparently, Robert very much regretted Andre’s death [x]. Simcoe left the home and never returned. Sally never married and it is said she thought of Simcoe every single day [x]. It is even said that Sally haunts the home [x]. 

i. Sam Vimes dies at nineteen, and not in his bed. The People’s Republic dies with him, blood on the streets and blood in the river and blood in Sam’s hair, matted to the cobblestones his feet will never learn to read through his boots, and that’s life. He dies, and the Republic dies with him, and that’s life, because life, as Sam knew even at that age, isn’t fair. When they find his body, no one recognises him, and he is buried not in the grave of the unknown soldier but merely in the grave of the unknown, the tombstone which marks his final resting place left blank, eerie. When the springtime comes the lilac blooms and they remember. When he died, he died for nothing, as all men do. He died crying and afraid and for nothing, and when he died, the Republic died with him.

Without him, Vetinari dies at the end of an assassin’s blade and the city they both died for doesn’t see a real democracy for a thousand years.

But that’s life, and life’s not fair. 

ii. Sam Vimes dies at twenty-nine, and not in his bed. He dies in a gutter, and is truly forgotten, Nobby and Fred the only mourners at his graveside, a true watchman’s funeral. He dies, as all men must die, and certainly all men who drink twice as much as anybody’s liver could reasonably handle. Nobby cries and Fred pretends he doesn’t, and they flip a coin to decide who becomes Captain now. Both outcomes, be assured, are equally disastrous. 

His ancestor, the Kingkiller, becomes a footnote in history, and he too is forgotten in time. There are no more republics in Ankh-Morpork, and no more kingkillers either, and the city feels the weight of a lacuna no-one knows how to name. The city greys and dies, and there is no justice in its streets, no bravery in its hidden little cloisters. The city herself becomes forgotten, and even her gods die.

Deep beneath the earth, in what was once a little cemetery by the Ankh, there is a stirring. But that, for once, is another tale.

iii. Sam Vimes dies at thirty seven, and not in his bed. He stands up to a dragon, to the Patrician, and above all, to himself, but is caught by a piece of falling masonry as the battle rages forth. His city burns, and burns, and dragonfire spreads across the world, leaving nothing in its wake but suffering and death.

In the never-dark, they whisper: a man held his sword to the dragon, once, long ago. If he did it– if he did it. Can we?

They don’t even know his name, but it doesn’t matter. Sam Vimes was born to inspire revolutions. They don’t need him to be living to bear his name. They don’t even need his name at all.

The world burns, but fire fights fire, and, when all is said and done, what else was Sam Vimes but that? 

iv. Sam Vimes dies at forty eight, and not in his bed. He dies with a demon under his skin, after he changed the world, or most of it, perhaps even saved it, run ragged by the Summoning Dark, because the human body has limits and he’s tested them once too often to make it through this time. He dies in agony, the second most powerful man in Ankh-Morpork, the veins of his eyes shot black as night and the scar on his wrist pools blood into the dust of Koom Valley, and what use is money and power when you’re a vessel for a demi-god, or at least something like it, and he’s too human, much too human, in the end, to make it through. 

When his blood touches the ground, it sizzles. Vetinari kneels beside his corpse, and does not say that he died a hero, because he would never insult him that way. From a mountaintop, he looks down and sees the mark scored into the earth, his friend’s body the epicentre.

“This place belongs to Him now, and is protected forever,” says a grag, and Vetinari feels the initial more than hears it.

“A copper, even in death,” Vetinari does not say, for his breath catches in his throat, and some things are beyond words, even for him.

v. Sam Vimes dies at sixty nine, and not in his bed. He dies with a crossbow bolt in his heart, stepping clean between the Patrician and certain death, an automatic reflex that he would have done consciously, if that sort of time constraint had left him with the illusion of choice– and perhaps it did, time slowed down so palpably he could count every white eyelash, every thread on Vetinari’s collar. He always knew he would die for this man. He always knew he would die for this city. Same difference.

“Don’t you dare, Sam,” says Vetinari, and Sam opens his mouth to say, oh, piss off

VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE, says a voice, and two eyes that are not eyes shine like the implosion of galaxies in the dark.

“What?” says Sam, which is odd, without a mouth.


“And now I’m sodding dead!” says Sam, “Don’t tell me Heaven’s bloody real. Another king, all I fucking need.”


“Finally,” says Sam, that great weight slipping away for the very first time, “Well then. I might get a bloody rest.”

never-trusted  asked:

Hey, if you're still doing those minifics could you possibly do Gramander with 'U - Coming Home'. Also, I love, love, love your writing. It's honestly so beautiful. I hope you have a wonderful day xx

@mamin-the-troll and @thegaypumpingthroughyourveins - THIS IS YOUR FAULT, LADIES. Inspired by this and this.

I’m coming home,
I’m coming home.
Tell the world I’m coming home.

Let the rain wash away
All the pain of yesterday.

I know my Kingdom awaits,
And they’ve forgiven my mistakes.

I’m coming home,
I’m coming home.
Tell the world I’m coming…

Newt holds the picture in the place where Percival used to bury his head, but it is not enough. He sits in the window sill they used to share, his body small and fragile amongst all the cushions and space that once seemed too small for two - now so barren for one. He remembers the sun through the window and the scratch of the overgrown garden against the window panes. The smell of Percival’s soap, fresh from a shower. The way their legs used to tangle. The weight of his lover’s head against his belly and the tickle of his breath against his hand. The feel of carding his hands through Percival’s hair and the rumble of his grateful noises in his sleep. The way holding his books one handed would make his arm ache, but too reluctant to remove his hand from his love to do anything about it.

He sits there now, in the spot they once loved to share together, and watches storm clouds blow the leaves from their garden. Dead and wilting, like everything in his life lately.

He’s cold, but he can’t find it in himself to grab a blanket. Instead, he holds his crinkled picture against his belly and tries to find it in himself to do anything other than sit there and stare at nothing. 

He doesn’t manage it. He falls asleep instead.

And sleep is always worse, he thinks, because Percival is there. In dreams, he’s as alive as they day he left for war. The train comes into the station and people unboard. For a moment, Newt fears he won’t be there. That as in life, he will be dead in dreams, too.

But he isn’t. He never is.

He’s the last person off the train, and it hurts worse for it. Newt runs across the station. He pushes people aside. His voice is a bird’s call, swallowed by the joy of the people around him - welcoming loved ones home. 

Percival is looking for him. His smile slowly fading, until finally, Newt is close enough for him to see. 

And then his face lights up like the dawn they used to get up early for, if only to share it together, and Newt feels another petal fall from his wilting heart. He runs to him anyways. Clutches at the soft wool of his military jacket, ignoring the sharp jab of the medals that took Percival away from him.

His back is whole beneath his palm, his jacket dry and soft and perfect.

It collects his tears until Percival draws him to arm’s length and wipes them away with the calloused pad of his thumb. Newt is hiccuping, he’s crying so hard, because he knows the dream is almost over.

He knows that he is dead.

“Why the tears, sweetheart?” Graves asks, and Newt only sobs louder when he says, “I’m home.”

“Please don’t go,” Newt whimpers and clutches him tighter. Buries his face in the jacket the man died in and wishes he wouldn’t wake.

But he does, he always does.

He wakes alone in the window sill they used to share, and the only weight on his stomach is a picture and grief for the man it features.

Later, when he’s taking the folded flag from the soldiers at Graves’ funeral, he wonders what is heavier - the symbol in his hands or the picture in his pocket. 

Ghost 2

(Part 1)

Request: Yes by @gracesnowstorm

Pairing: Older!Damian Wayne X Reader

Warning: Angst

Tags: @rebecca-x4 , @solis200213 , @ti0261 , @bat-lakota , @overunderjustwhelmed , @epickimmie , @gokusanfan , @yj-tt-batfam-forlife , @gracesnowstorm , @blxkestnight , @batarangtotheheart , @angstytodd , @abiitheawkward , @batfamily-imagines , @dc-imagine-central , @pinkwitch21, @mintymacaronrain , @starshipofgotham , @tim-help , @avengerdragoness, @senpai-gabby , @just-a-girl-maybe , @schninner-writes-some-stuff , @books-netflix-and-pizza , @memento-scribet , @speedypan, @yomynameis-nothingimportant, @lonewhitewolf488

A/N: I hope you like it like the first one!! Love you all ❤️❤️❤️❤️!!!!

No, the answer is B. You hear that same old voice telling you the answer to a test. It had a rude tone as he told you the answer making you roll your eyes. You had gotten used to its company since it kind of took your mind out of Damian. Still, you were really depressed and tired but a little better than before since that ghost was a lot like Damian. Because of its tone of voice and its attitude, anyone could mistake it for Damian, especially you.

“Ok mister rude pants.” You complain erasing the answer you got and circling B. Science was your weakness at school since all the other classes you had A+ but with science, you had a B. The teacher and all the other classmates looked at you with weird expressions. Yeah, you got that a lot since they couldn’t feel or hear the ghost that was with you so they thought you were weird or something.

“Excuse me?” The teacher asks with a worried tone raising her eyebrow. You had gotten many notes sent home that suggested for you to go have mental therapy however, you declined the offer.

“Oh sorry, Mrs. Cumbersnatch.” You apologize continuing to take your test talking to the ghost but in whispers.

“Ok stop being so rude………. I wouldn’t have gotten called by the teacher if it wasn’t for you……….Oh yeah, I would like to see you try…….You are such a butt you know that?……You know what? Forget it.” You ignore the ghost taking your test by yourself. You turned in the test hoping you would get at least a grade higher than last time. You crossed your fingers the whole class time as the teacher corrected it handing it back to you with a smile.

“Good job, [F/N] .” She gives you the paper as you smirked. You finally got an A+! Yay! Better than last time, congratulations. When the ghost said that your smirk grew larger.

“No thanks to you.” You say leaving the class proud but only for a short time.

It was time for you to leave school and like always you were the last to leave. You walked to your house using a shortcut, the shortcut you took was next to a crime alley which you always prevented from crossing. But today you weren’t focusing causing you to walk by it as you saw gangs and other bad people stare at you with evil looks. One had the courage to walk over to you.

“What a pretty face.” The man says, he had more golden teeth than real, his head almost bald, and wrinkles that made him look ugly and hideous. You could smell his fetid breath because he was so close to your face taking your hand. Everyone else joined in until they all fell back on their backs but that wasn’t possible. You didn’t do that but something did pushing them back and it looked like they were fighting someone that was invisible as you stood frozen in fear. You tried to fight it and run but you were so scared. You finally moved and ran away not knowing what happened and how it happened.

It’s Saturday one of the days where the ghost talks to you 24/7 but today you didn’t hear it.

“Hello?” You say waiting for it to respond complaining like how you never say goodbye before you go to bed and other things. You put your hand against your temple rubbing it. “Ok this is different but a good different.”

You went downstairs to eat breakfast which was Lucky Charms. You got dressed wearing a sporty outfit and left your house saying goodbye closing the door behind you. You jogged through the neighborhood feeling your hair hitting your shoulders and sweat dripping from your forehead. You finished the exercise and took the car to drive for a while. You decided to drive to the Wayne Manor to talk to Bruce and Alfred to see how they were doing. It has been one month since Damian passed away and everyone wasn’t the same, Bruce’s blood son died. You knocked the door as Alfred opened the door.

“Greetings Mistress [F/N].” He welcomes as you enter the mansion, Alfred took you to Bruce who was sitting next to the fireplace.

“How are you, Bruce?”’

“Better. How are you?”

“Better also.” You reply sitting next to him staring at how the fire looked beautiful yet how dangerous it was. You all had a conversation about how it was with Damian and you tried to ask how he died but they always changed the subject and whenever you asked what ‘A brave soldier’ meant on his grave. You continued to talk about the amazing days with him wishing it never had to end.

You drove out of the Wayne Manor to your house until you spotted something on the way. A man who looked so much like Damian however, you thought it was just your imagination. As you continued to drive home and went to your room to remember how it was like with Damian and cry some more. Your parents left you since they planned a date tonight as you wiped your tears to say goodbye giving them kisses on their cheeks until they left you continued to cry.

“Why did it have to be Damian?” You cry as you heard the doorbell rang. You washed your face and put on a fake smile as you opened the door to find the same man you spotted. He had tan skin, green eyes, and a muscular body shape. He looked so much like Damian.

“Hello.” He spoke with a recognized voice, it sounded soft yet casual as his arms were on his sides. He was wearing a black long sleeve shirt, jeans, and sporty shoes.

“Hi..I’m sorry but why are you here?” You ask curiously opening the door a little only for him to see your face.

“I came to greet you [F/N].” He replies sadly looking at the ground then at you. “It is going to be hard to believe, however it’s me, Damian.” He moves his hand as he claims this. You placed your hand covering your mouth as you felt tears come from your eyes.

“No, it can’t be…” You say shaking your head.

“Remember that embarrassing story about the clown and stairs you explained to me? It is me [F/N] I am sorry” You shake your head as you started to sob.

“Dami…..” That’s all you could say.

“I am sorry.” He says as he walked into your house and embracing you as you both sat down backs on the door.

“How Damian how did you die and how did you come back?” You ask as your voice breaking. He pushed your hair back since it was on your face.

“I am Robin, Batman’s partner. Father is Batman and I was murdered by Heretic my older clone. I came back when they took my dead body to the Lazarus Pit.” You looked at him stunned.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to see you get hurt because of my foolishness, I am sorry but I would never be able to bear the fact that it was my fault.” He said as you cried more.

“I missed you so much I couldn’t live without you.” You confess as he closed his eyes then looking at you sadly as he wiped your tears. “Was it you who was looking after me? Were you the ghost?”

“Yes, but my memory is a little bit faded about it.”

“You were the one who told me the answers and attacked those people.” You said between sobs.

“I will always protect you even in death, I love you.” He took your face and placed a soft kiss on your lips.

“I love you, too.”

All Things; Peace - pt. 1

Rivulets of dawnlight’s drove through the trees, drowning the everspring forest in deep shadows and pale shades of gold. Mist wove through the underbrush, blurring the wood to nothing more than dark lines and flashes of light, and from the great windows of Hallowhearth, even the houses along the row that led to the village center were hard to see in all their splendor.

Not that her eyes were on them; Dame Caeliri Dawnsworn’s eyes were locked on the toes of her boots as they, once more, circled the Great Hearth from window to door to corner to corner, her path as sure as it was mindless. Her feet were unwavering, but her lips were warbling, enrapted in whispered words, their syllables little more than a breath of sound as they slid haltingly off her tongue. They were borrowed words, from a book of history on Summerglen, and though she fumbled the phrases still, the heart behind them was sound.

“Unto the Light they go, not soft, not somber, but with revelry – to join those who have gone before them, and left the path lit.”

Keep reading