One More Thing


Gentlemen of the jury, I’m curious, bear with me
Are you aware that we’re making hist'ry?
This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation
The liberty behind deliberation


I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt
With my assistant counsel

Hamilton, sit down
Our client Levi Weeks is innocent
Call your first witness
That’s all you had to say!



“Blue was perfectly aware that it was possible to have a friendship that wasn’t all-encompassing, that wasn’t blinding, deafening, maddening, quickening. It was just that now that she’d had this kind, she didn’t want the other.”
Maggie Stiefvater, Blue Lily, Lily Blue

Okay time for another Burr-and-Hamilton’s-tragic-friendship meta analysis because apparently I cannot stop seeing these things.

Someone pointed out in a post a little while ago (that unfortunately I can’t find, or else I would link to it) the genius of the musical themes of Hamilton, and specifically how it applied to Alexander and Eliza’s relationship. It focused on how Alexander was never quite singing the same tune or matching Eliza’s style until “It’s Quiet Uptown.” Another meta-post along the same vein mentioned how Angelica was instantly on Hamilton’s level in the underlying musical sense when they first met: you see it in Satisfied, when he says “Alexander Hamilton,” she replies in the exact same tune, “Where’s your family from?” and then he shoots back also in the same tune, “Unimportant, there’s a million things I haven’t done.” They’re matching each other musically for the entire conversation, just as Angelica describes, even though throughout the show they both have their own distinct styles and themes.

The one other person who has a very different singing style than Hamilton, but specifically matches Hamilton when he wants to, and the only other person that Hamilton as well makes a specific effort to match in various songs, is Burr. The first one that I noticed was one of my favorite exchanges in the whole show, the Levi Weeks case in Non-Stop:

Gentlemen of the jury, I’m curious, bear with me.
Are you aware that we’re making history?
This is the first murder trial of our brand new nation,
The liberty behind deliberation!
I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt with my assistant counsel—

Co counsel! Hamilton, sit down!
Our client Levi Weeks is innocent, call your first witness.
That’s all you had to say!

Hamilton is shooting off at the mouth, and Burr matches him word for word, the same speed, the same style, which absolutely no one else is able to do, at least not when Hamilton is on a long angry rant. This moment highlights the underlying fact that Burr isn’t just some jealous villain, he’s a true foil to Hamilton. He was a genius, he applied to Princeton at eleven, applied again and got in when he was thirteen. That “graduated in two”? Yeah. That happened when he was thirteen to sixteen, let that sink in.

Burr can match Hamilton completely when he chooses to, he just rarely chooses to. In fact, the irony of the exchange in Non-Stop is that Burr gets frustrated enough with Hamilton and Hamilton’s inability to shut up inadvertently insulting him (assistant counsel? assistant? seriously Hamilton?) that he is pushed to act more like Hamilton, and in acting more like Hamilton, succeeds in shutting Hamilton up. Which is pretty much exactly how and why the duel happens.

But no, in my opinion, the more tragic are the times when Hamilton matches Burr. Allow me to direct you to “Story of Tonight (Reprise)”:

Congrats again, Alexander.
Smile more.
I’ll see you on the other side of the war.

I will never understand you.

Hamilton emulates Burr’s tone and tune exactly to tell him, “I will never understand you.” Because that’s Hamilton trying to understand Burr, that’s Hamilton on the underlying musical level making the effort to sing as Burr sings, to speak as Burr speaks, he’s asking Burr to let him in. *Let me* understand you. Burr being Burr keeps his cards close to his chest, and walks away. The effort was there, the invitation was there, that is the first time in the show, arguably, that Hamilton actively changes his style to match someone else’s. And Burr walks away, because Burr is terrified about people caring about him. In “Wait For It,” he’s perfectly fine admitting that he has feelings about Theodosia, but he devotes an entire verse to “what in the world is the reason that I am at her side and that she cares about me when there are a whole bunch of other people who have tried too.” Burr isn’t scared about loving people, he’s scared of them loving him, he doesn’t understand why or how it happens. The line isn’t “everyone I love has died”, it’s “everyone who loves me has died.”

Burr walks away because the possibility of Hamilton caring about him is more than he wants to deal with. Goodbye I have disintegrated into a puddle of tears. 

But no, that’s not even the worst part! The worst part is how Hamilton argues with people. The precedent is set in “Farmer Refuted.” Hamilton takes a very specific tone and rhythm as a counterpoint to someone singing.

Allow me to direct you to “Your Obedient Servant.” Burr begins the song by singing his letters, and Hamilton practically speaks his letters back. He takes a different tone, he employs a different rhythm, because that’s how he confronts people. He only matches Burr back when it’s utterly dripping in sarcasm: I have the honor to be your obedient servant, A. Ham. Burr keeps singing back (“Careful how you proceed, good man—“) as he keeps just trying to ask for an apology, and Hamilton keeps his own infuriated style at least musically in replying (“Burr, your grievance is legitimate, I stand by what I said, every bit of it”) and it’s Burr that has to match Hamilton—when Burr finally challenges Hamilton to the duel, Burr is speaking, not singing:

Then stand, Alexander,
Weehawken. Dawn.
Guns drawn.

(Although even then, it’s not ~perfectly~ matching Hamilton: the words are slow, they all have weight, they’re carefully pronounced, they’re well thought-out and well chosen. Succinct, persuasive indeed. But Burr is speaking, he’s not singing anymore, he’s taking this down to Hamilton’s level, which is the “fight me” level.)

And then, one last time, Alexander matches Burr perfectly:

You’re on.

psychic: *reads my mind*

me: After the war I went back to New York
A-After the war I went back to New York
I finished up my studies and I practiced law
I practiced law, Burr worked next door
Even though we started at the very same time
Alexander Hamilton began to climb
How to account for his rise to the top?
Man, the man is
Gentlemen of the jury, I’m curious, bear with me
Are you aware that we’re making hist'ry?
This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation
The liberty behind
Deliberation (Non-stop)
I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt
With my assistant counsel
Hamilton, sit down
Our client Levi Weeks is innocent
Call your first witness
That’s all you had to say
One more thing
Why do you assume you’re the smartest in the room?
Why do you assume you’re the smartest in the room?
Why do you assume you’re the smartest in the room?
Soon that attitude may be your doom (aww)
Why do you write like you’re running out of time?
Write day and night like you’re running out of time?
Ev'ry day you fight, like you’re running out of time
Keep on fighting
In the meantime
Corruption’s such an old song that we can sing along in harmony
And nowhere is it stronger than in Albany
This colony’s economy’s increasingly stalling and
Honestly, that’s why public service
Seems to be calling me (he’s just non-stop)
I practiced the law, I practic'ly perfected it
I’ve seen injustice in the world and I’ve corrected it
Now for a strong central democracy
If not, then I’ll be Socrates
Throwing verbal rocks
At these mediocrities (aww)
Hamilton, at the constitutional convention
I was chosen for the constitutional convention
There as a New York junior delegate
Now what I’m going to say may sound indelicate (aww)
Goes and proposes his own form of government (what?)
His own plan for a new form of government (what?)
Talks for six hours
The convention is listless
Bright young man
Yo, who the f is this?
Why do you always say what you believe?
Why do you always say what you believe?
Ev'ry proclamation guarantees free ammunition for your enemies
Why do you write like it’s
Going out of style?
Write day and night like it’s
Going out of style?
Ev'ry day you fight like it’s
Going out of style
Do what you do
Aaron Burr, sir
It’s the middle of the night
Can we confer, sir?
Is this a legal matter?
Yes, and it’s important to me
What do you need?
Burr, you’re a better lawyer than me
I know I talk too much, I’m abrasive
You’re incredible in court
You’re succinct, persuasive
My client needs a strong defense
You’re the solution
Who’s your client?
The new U.S. Constitution?
Hear me out
No way
A series of essays, anonymously published
Defending the document to the public
No one will read it
I disagree
And if it fails?
Burr, that’s why we need it
The constitution’s a mess
So it needs amendments
It’s full of contradictions
So is independence
We have to start somewhere
No way
You’re making a mistake
Good night
What are you waiting for?
What do you stall for? (what?)
We won the war
What was it all for?
Do you support this constitution?
Of course
Then defend it
And what if you’re backing the wrong horse?
Burr, we studied and we fought and we killed
For the notion of a nation we now get to build
For once in your life, take a stand with pride
I don’t understand how you stand to the side
I’ll keep all my plans
Close to my chest (wait for it, wait for it, wait)
I’ll wait here and see
Which way the wind
Will blow
I’m taking my time
Watching the
Afterbirth of a nation
Watching the tension grow
I am sailing off to London
I’m accompanied by someone
Who always pays
I have found a wealthy husband who will keep
Me in comfort for all my days
He is not a lot of fun, but there’s no one who
Can match you for turn of phrase
My Alexander
Don’t forget to write
Look at where you are
Look at where you started
The fact that you’re alive is a miracle
Just stay alive, that would be enough
And if your wife could share a fraction of your time
If I could grant you peace of mind
Would that be enough?
Alexander joins forces with James Madison and John Jay to write a series of essays
Defending the new United States constitution
Entitled The Federalist papers
The plan was to write a total of twenty-five essays
The work divided evenly among the three men
In the end, they wrote eighty-five essays, in the span of six months
John Jay got sick after writing five
James Madison wrote twenty-nine
Hamilton wrote the other fifty-one
How do you write like you’re
Running out of time?
Write day and night like you’re
Running out of time?
Ev'ry day you fight
Like you’re
Running out of time
Like you’re
Running out of time
Are you
Running out of time?
How do you write like tomorrow won’t arrive?
How do you write like you need it to survive?
How do you write ev'ry second you’re alive?
Ev'ry second you’re alive? Ev'ry second you’re alive?
They are asking me to lead
I am doing the best I can
To get the people that I need
I’m asking you to be my right hand man
Treasury or State?
I know it’s a lot to ask
Treasury or State?
To leave behind the world you know
Sir, do you want me to run the Treasury or State department?
Let’s go
I have to leave
Look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now
They are asking me to lead
Look around, isn’t this enough?
He will never be satisfied
He will never be satisfied
He will never be satisfied
History has its eyes on you
I am not throwin’ away my shot
I am not throwin’ away my shot
I am
Alexander Hamilton
I am not throwin’ away my shot

psychic: wHAT THE FUCK

anonymous asked:

sorry if this sounds rude or ignorant but wouldn't genderbends and trans hcs be different? since genderbending is reimagining the character as the opposite biological sex and trans hcs are an equally complex reimagining of the character not aligning with biological sex because of certain factors like how brains are "wired" differently between said sexes?

(^^^regarding a post I reblogged the other day)

Aye, genderbends and trans HCs are different for pretty much that reason! And depending on your stance it’s cool to have a preference for either, but the preference for trans HCs highlighted in the post I reblogged comes from my own views as a trans person.

Tbh I’m bad with words so it’s kinda hard to describe, but it mostly comes down to a case of “If we present X male character with female body parts they’re a woman” (genderbends) vs “If we present X male character with female body parts then they’re still a man” (Trans HCs)– and vice versa. Like I say, there isn’t a real problem with genderbending as far as I’m aware??– but bearing this in mind, it is important to understand why genderbends can be kind of a major bummer to trans people depending on the presentation. (especially considering their popularity compared to trans HCs sometimes, gotta love that 10 outta 10 representation lol)

613linkshot  asked:

psst, if you're headed up north, take my dad with you. i'd rather not hear him swearing at hockey and he'd rather take photos of birds. (in all seriousness I'm new to your blog but I hope you have a great time!)

Lol does he have First Aid, polar bear awareness training and a gun license? If so he can come :P 

The Plane (Eisuke/Soryu)

This is dedicated to the anon who requested KBTBB angst (ages ago, me sorries!) ! I hope you enjoy!

I was inspired during my flight home yesterday- why on earth I started writing this ON THE PLANE is beyond me. That’s just asking for trouble!

“Must you go?” Your boyfriend glares at you from across the ritzy limo.

“For my sister’s wedding? Yeah I should probably be there.” She can’t help but mock him. He’s been so childish for weeks now over this trip. Like its her fault her sister chose a destination wedding in Hawaii. You hold back a breath before daring to speak your next sentence.

“In fact you should be coming Eisuke!” He dismisses you with a wave of his hand. Ugh! What nerve!

“It’s the hotel’s busiest season, and the upcoming auction.” You huff in disbelief, cross your arms, and instead stare outside.

“Oh don’t be like that.” You feel his large hand caress your cheek. You shrug him off and continue to glare out the tinted limo window.

“Please believe me. I’d much rather have you show me off instead of cooped up here working.” His hand gently grasps your chin, and you allow him to turn your head towards him.

“Eisuke…” You turn your eyes downward to your lap. You want to trust him, you do. But he can be such an egoist ass at times. He rarely shows his romantic sensitive side to you. Unless he can show off a little by spending a small fortune.

“I just wanted my family to finally meet you.” You whisper, but Eisuke is close enough to catch your words.

“Next time I promise.” You feel the limo come to a stop. A quick glance outside reveals you have arrived at the airport. You hurry to collect your purse and carry on while dodging Eisuke’s kiss. Within a moment you have escaped the formidable limo.

“You might not have a next turn Eisuke.” His face darkens but he has no time to react to the threat. You slam the door shut and head off by yourself. Screw him. You were so tired of his high and mighty attitude lately. How hard is it to assign another to take charge for a few days?

Your anger starts to dissipate as you make your way through the airport. His selfish attitude may piss you off at times. But you sure do appreciate the hell out of his private plane. You send a mental thank you to him for insisting you use it for the trip. If he hadn’t you would have been stuck in a crowded commercial flight. With crying babies and grouchy old people, ugh you cringe just thinking about it.

On the return trip back Eisuke snapped at the driver for every little bump and sharp turn. Upon his arrival he barks at the front desk for the marble floors not shining enough. Even the elevator received a scolding for rising so slow.

The other bidders waiting in the penthouse were completely ignored. Eisuke stomps passed them, and continues to do so all the way up to his office. He sinks down in his chair with his hands supporting his head. He peaks out and sees the mess of paperwork covering his desk. A moment later with a swift move they scatter to the floor. Eisuke wants so bad to smash something. Instead he gives himself just a moment to pout. Then he cleans up the papers and begrudgingly starts working. Not wanting to see the others. Not really wanting to be working. Yet definitely not wanting to think of you.

Yet again you’re bitter with him. You always seem bitter with him lately. How many more chances will he get? You come back this time right? Your family won’t persuade you away? It would be so easy. ‘He’s an asshole! He didn’t even show up! Leave him! Come back! Come home!’ He loves you, yes. Of course. But for you is it enough? Will a day come that it won’t be enough?

These thoughts swirl inside Eisuke’s head as he tries to work. To complete something. The distraction isn’t helping at all. He slams his laptop shut and spins around in his chair. A shower. Yes. Maybe that’ll help.

The flight was way too long. And lonely. God you missed Eisuke. Even if he could be an ass at times, at least he would have been someone to talk with. The pilot and copilot were aboard, but they were busy flying the plane and all. There was also the stewardess Eisuke hired to take care of all his whims when he flew. He truly was a helpless child.

The stewardess lingered just long enough to ensure that ‘Eisuke Ichinomiya’s girlfriend’ settled in. With a bottle of  overpriced wine and a bag of Terra Blue potato chips. Who knew that a variety of blue potatoes even existed? Anyway. The stewardess disappeared long ago and has been missing for the past several hours. Not that you needed her around except for maybe a person to rant to. Regardless she didn’t seem at all interested in you. If Eisuke came along that would have been a different story without a doubt. The stewardess’ face dramatically fell upon realizing that only you were flying today. With no hot wealthy young man to flirt over. To flaunt her large breasts that were almost bursting from the tight uniform. The stewardess’ day seemed far less exciting. Hmph. Eisuke and you would for certain have words. Questioning the stewardess’ credibility for one, and her uniform for another.

The flashing fasten seatbelt sign awoke you from your wandering thoughts. The missing stewardess appeared out of nowhere and hurries up to the cockpit. Most likely turbulence. There was at least another hour to go. You are just about to click your seatbelt into place when the copilot rushes up to you.

He is speaking so frantic, you can barely understand. You can’t comprehend. You need more time to think. But there is no more time. One of the engine’s has failed. Eisuke’s expensive over the top plane has a flaw. Now’s not the time for that. He’s saying something about the other engine. And the plane? You can’t keep up with the information. Your mind is in shock. Crashing. The plane is going to crash. Nowhere near land but that doesn’t matter. It’s crashing regardless. In the middle of the ocean. Alone.

“Miss! You must come!” He’s pulling on your elbow. What for? Time’s almost up.

“-the phone Miss! Please, you must call Mr Ichinomiya!” Phone? No point. There’s no service in the middle of the ocean. Besides no one is expecting you. Except for Hades in the underworld…

Ichinomiya…? Eisuke…? Eisuke! Oh my god! How could you have forgotten about Eisuke! Your love’s name drags you out of the terror and shock you were stuck in. You finally understand what the copilot has been trying to get through to you. They have a phone, it could connect you to Eisuke! Oh your poor love, you aren’t ready for this. How could any be ready for such a moment? But there’s no time. The plane is starting its wild descend by now. You allow the copilot to pull you into the somewhat crowded cockpit. There’s no time to pay attention to the others, the pilot and the stewardess. For the emergency phone is thrust into your hands in no time. You dial Eisuke’s cell straight away. Silently thanking the others for one last moment with him. With your love, with their boss. Oh bless them. Any one of them could have been selfish enough to call their own loved ones first.

Ringing. Why is it still ringing? Eisuke! There’s no time. At last it goes to voicemail. You can’t think. The ocean is right in front of you. Out of time. Eisuke! You realize you’re crying, and half hysterical. You keep rambling on the voicemail until the pilot announces every to brace themselves. The copilot forces you to disconnect from your Eisuke. Shoving you outside the cockpit and into the closest seat with a seatbelt. You think its meant for the stewardess. Not like it matters much.

Oh god. Oh god.


Keep reading

iamjustthinkin  asked:

First, I want to say I love your show. It's funny and adorable (not to mention that its three main characters seem easy to draw, so fanart's a possibility for me). Second, are the bears aware that for a really short time, northern California had a flag with a bear on it?

California still has a flag with a bear on it! It looks kinda like this.

Flood my Mornings (Boston AU): Part 2

From the prompt 

@ask-charming-david​ asked: Imagine if Jamie somehow made his way through the stones after Culloden, found out where Claire was, made his way there, and surprised her in Boston.

Catch up: Part 1

-Mod Bonnie

Flood my Mornings (Boston AU)

Part 2

Jamie staggered like a ghost over the battlefield of Culloden—and what was he, if not a ghost?—as the hellish voice continued to boom out overhead: “We honor our noble dead, those who laid down their lives for the cause, for Scotland and for our Bonnie Prince!


//corbie calls//

1950. People. So many people. Their clothing, strange; their voices harsh and grating to his ear. Crushes of them, everywhere he turned still more, and more, and more, yammering and laughing shrilly and—

//the scent of blood and powder//

1950. Drummers. Marching. Garish tartans all about; so bright, so wrong. The squeal of pipes.

//never-ending screams of pain as men are cut down and blown apart//

1950. The clan gravestones spread out across the moor. Mackenzie. Grant. Fras—

//as -friends- are cut down… as -kinsmen- are blown apart//

He sighted a gap between the perimeter of tents, and stumbled through it, gasping desperately for air.

//his godfather’s bloodied, broken face//

He fell to the ground beneath a tree and vomited. It was nothing but bile, but it burned terribly, adding to the maelstrom of assaulting sensations—both present and remembered— that had overtaken his body. He dropped to his side like a felled beast, covering his head. Everything was spinning so fast. The screams of Culloden melded with the screams of the stones, all seeming to tear apart his every thought and bone and breath, Charybdis sucking him downward into the sweet darkness of despair.

…but something else was cutting slowly through the panic, something pale and gleaming, like the surface of an egg, fresh from the hen. This was no land-dwelling thing, though; it was rising slowly, just becoming visible beneath the dark, roiling sea…

1946, she’d said…putting her back in 1948. So, for her, it would now be…

Holy Christ Almighty.

Jamie felt the white, buoyant thing break the surface of the water and rise up into the air, carrying him with it. Up and up he soared, leaving the ocean and the shore far below, laughing and weeping and rejoicing; for, somewhere far below, somewhere on this land or this sea, she was there, alive…. and reachable.


“You alright, man?!?”

Jamie jerked back reflexively, banging hard against the tree trunk. Three men were staring down at him. Their clothes were strange, even compared with what he’d seen of how folk dressed in this time: baggier and noticeably dirtier. Their hair was long, though, like his, and they were looking down with kind concern in their eyes.

“The last we saw you, you were passed out up at the big rocks,” said the one wearing colored spectacles. “You don’t look much better, though….Did the doctors not treat you, man?”

Jamie blinked. Their accents were like nothing he’d ever heard, and it took him a second too long to conjure up a proper response.

“Are you ok?” the one with blond hair said slowly, enunciating carefully and giving him a wary, pitying look. “Do-You-Speak-English?” He turned aside to his companions, whispering, “Should we take him to the medical tent again?

“No, I-I’m fine,” Jamie stammered out, rising to his feet with great effort. He managed a bit of leg and a conciliatory, “F-forgive my rudeness, g-gentlemen, it’s just I'm…”

While quaking all over and weak from shock, hunger, and fatigue, Jamie was pleased to find that calm and focus had fallen over him like a mantle, warming and directing him, guiding his body and his mind. The passing through the stones, the terror of Culloden, the strange frantic pace and sights and sounds of this new time…all of it had fallen away like a snakeskin, discarded, of no further consequence.

He wiped away the tears from his cheek and laughed freely, the first time he could remember doing so since long before Culloden. “It’s just that I’m…verra happy to be going home.”

“Broch Morda, huh?” the mustachioed one asked as they jolted violently over a poor spot of road and–for the dozenth time–Jamie barely suppressed the violent urge to vomit. The speaker seemed barely to notice, continuing on conversationally. “We met a guy the other day who was from that area, actually. Do you know a George Lindsay?”

“I…ken several of that name, to be sure, but they…havena been in the area for some time. I doubt greatly that we should be acquainted.”

“You sure?” the bespectacled one prodded. “Blonde hair? Green eyes?”

Quite certain, I fear.”

All parties seeming to accept this, an amiable silence fell once more, and Jamie exhaled in relief. So strange was 1950—mind-boggling at every turn—that he feared each word uttered would demonstrate his ignorance and betray him as the unnatural visitor he was. He had tried, in consequence, to say as little as possible without being pointedly rude. This had proved difficult, however, for his new companions—Americans, they said, on a tour of the British Isles—were pleasant folk, and generous to boot.

“The clothes look good on you,” the blonde one at the wheel of the contraption said appreciatively,  looking back over the seat at Jamie. “Sorry they’re not all that clean. They’ve been rolling around in the backseat for the last few weeks. Probably smell a bit like weed, too,” he added apologetically.

Going along with their assumption that his “real clothes” had been stolen, Jamie had accepted a pair of long breeks made of some thick, blue material, and a thin, short shirt with sleeves that stopped after the shoulders. His own boots would have to do, though he felt rather ridiculous with the fabric flopping about overtop them, rather than respectably tucked in. Jamie trusted that he would be less conspicuous in this new attire, though to his own eye, he looked a right fool.

“Dinna fash on my account. I’m entirely grateful, and beggars canna expect much in the way of choice,” Jamie said, unscrewing his eyes long enough to meet his companion’s in sincere but admittedly weak thanks. In truth, he was more concerned about the state he would be in himself after rolling about in said back seat long enough to reach Inverness. His waim was churning madly, even empty, from the constant rattling, jolting, and swerving of the metal wagon, which hurtled at impossible speeds through the hills and glens. Van, he corrected himself queasily, gripping the door so tightly his knuckles went bloodless. This horseless wagon of certain death is called a Van. That’s what Ronnie and the others had called it anyway. It was better than traveling by boat, he thought with a grimace, but not by much.

The griping in his belly was not only due to the terrorizing conveyance, but also to his anxiousness to reach Inverness. In the town, surely he would be able to find food, and perhaps a way to earn some money before heading south. He had no idea how much a horse would cost in 1950, let alone a Van, even if he were able to learn to ride one of the blasted things. He would go on foot if nothing else, just as soon as he got his bearings.  

He was aware of the strange surroundings, to be sure, as the party rattled into Inverness. How could one ignore them? The buildings were tall—huge—and the streets visible through the windows were packed with more Vans, big and small, all moving about en masse like a swarm of insects. He’d jumped in terror at sound of a great roar from the heavens, to be told that it was only an airplane. Oh aye, he’d considered replying,staring up at the tiny thing and waiting for his heartbeat to slow again. *Only* a vessel that carries folk up into the clouds ready to plummet them to their deaths.

But the wonders and frights of 1950 seemed, ultimately, of little consequence. Like rain or cold or hunger, they were inconvenient, and took some getting used to, but were nothing to take account of in relation to a task that needed doing. He would accustom himself to this world as best he might, as much as was necessary, in order to reach her.

God, the thought made his heart squeeze with joy. Claire and wee Brian. No longer to be confined to his dreams and prayers, accompanied by despair and longing, but held tight in his very arms, pressed against his heart. Soon, he would feel and smell and hear them against his body; his blood and bone, his soul restored to him once more.

“Alex? Alex!”

Jamie blinked, coming out of his reverie. “Aye? S-sorry, what?”

“We’re here, man.”

Sure enough, thank the Lord, the infernal rattling had ceased. Jamie stumbled out onto the smooth stone road in front of a row of shops. He stretched and inhaled deeply, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face and smiling widely.

Catching the child up and spinning him round. Hearing him giggle. Hearing wee Brian call him “Da.”

“Will you come in for a bite before you head off, Alex?” Ronnie asked, clapping him jovially on the back. “Our treat!”

Jamie opened his mouth to say that he certainly would and thank you very kindly. He was starving, after all.  But before he could speak, something coming up the road toward them caught his eye…and froze him to the bone.

A man and a woman, pushing a small wheeled carriage. A tiny bairn lay in it, Jamie could see. The wee thing began to wail, and the mother stopped, but the father uttered a gentle word to stop her, and reached in to pick up the wee one himself. The man was wearing a dark hat and coat with matching trousers. A strange costume to Jamie’s eyes but striking, nonetheless. The father raised the child to his shoulder and kissed it tenderly on its capped head, rocking it slowly as the mother looked on in tenderness. He leaned his head against the bairn’s and returned it, taking her hand in his.

Jamie barely even heard the shouts of his companions as he ran. Ran until his feet ached. Ran down streets. 1950 was now a terrifying and never-ending labyrinth, violent and pernicious, and he jumped in panic at every new danger. The Vans shrieked and squealed as he ran across more streets than he could count.  The whole place seemed to pulse and roar as he tried to outrun the voice in his ear.

You canna, it said, over and over.

I can, damn it, and I will, he snarled back each time.

You can, it always conceded...but you mustn’t.

The face of Black Jack Randall loomed under a dark hat. He was there, in a dark coat and trousers, his arms around a tiny red-haired lad, smiling down with genuine tenderness, kissing him, spinning him around….Then the scene shifted, and wee Brian was crying, wailing in the fiend’s arms, struggling to get free of the vice-like grip, looking up in terror as his captor leered down and—

Jamie awoke with a cry of anguished fury, reaching for a dirk that wasn’t there. He was on the ground in a small passage between two looming buildings. Rubbish of all kinds was piled everywhere. It was freezing, just after dawn, but he was heaving with boiling sweat. 

“I must,” he gasped, shaking with rage. “God as my witness, I must!

No, said the voice. You mustn’t.

His cry was silenced by a sudden tolling cutting through the hazy early-morning light. Church bells. He uttered earnest thanks to heaven. A sound that was known to him. A promise of a place of peace and sanctuary. Scarcely taking note of his surroundings, he followed to the sound, drawn to it, clinging to it as he ran.

He reached the small stone church just as the sun was nosing up in the east, illuminating the broad wooden doors. Without even stopping to knock, he pushed one open and entered. It was a small place: two columns of pews pointing toward a simple altar; but quiet and still. He threw himself into one of the pews. There were no kneeling benches, but he went to his knees nonetheless. He pulled the rosary from his pocket (saved from that of his breeks before they were discarded) and prayed with all his soul.

“Tell me what I must do….Show me.”

You mustn’t.

Jamie flung the rosary behind him, pulled a book from the slot and hurled it, too. He let forth a strangled sob and slammed both hands down on the pew back, cursing aloud, “HOW can that be the answer?”

“Are ye in need of help, sir?”

Jamie started and whirled around to locate the speaker, nearly falling backwards in the space between the pews in the process. A small man was standing at the rear of the church, pulling the door shut with a gentle click. Jamie saw with a pang of guilt that he wore a clerical collar.

He lowered his head, utterly ashamed. “F-forgive me, Father…” He gestured toward the direction of the flung book—Christ, has it been a Holy Bible?—“That was inexcusable, and I shouldna have shouted as I did. Nor was it right of me to—to barge in wi’out leave and— ”

“I’m not a Father, just a simple Presbyterian reverend,” the man interrupted kindly. “And it was right for you to come here. It’s the home of every soul in need, after all; even if what the soul in question needs is a bit of a shout and a rage.”

Jamie couldn’t help but smile at the affable minister. “That’s…verra gracious of ye to say, fa—reverend.

The man returned the smile. “May I know your name, sir?”

“I'm…” Jamie hesitated for a moment before saying, “I’m kent here as Alexander Malcolm.”

The reverend gestured to the parcel in his hands. “I like to take my breakfast here in the sanctuary of a Sunday. Will you join me in a meal, Mr. Malcolm? Mrs. Graham has prepared quite the spread, and you look as if you could use a bite.”

Jamie—starving—was touched by this kindness, and humbled by being offered food by someone to whom he had just been so rude, however inadvertently. He dipped his head. “Aye. Aye, and I thank ye for it…most sincerely.”

They sat together in the velvet-cushioned pew, the food spread out between them on a towel. Jamie noticed that the reverend portioned out less than a quarter of the food for himself. He opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced with a kind, but firm look. Jamie hoped his own look conveyed his deep thanks just as clearly. It was good, the food. Boiled eggs, sliced sausages, toasted bread, and a kind of sweet cake dotted with currants and swirled with cinnamon. Jamie tried to eat slowly, but with little success. How long had it been since he’d tasted food, let alone food as rich, sweet, and delightful as this? After two years of little more than bannocks, game, and whatever he could forage off the mountain, the tastes made him nearly come to tears.

Jamie washed it down with long swallows from the metal flask, enjoying the intense sweetness of the liquid. The juice of oranges, and cold as a mountain burn? Lord, what a time, he thought, wonderingly, when even a priest can afford such luxurious fare to his breakfast.

“The sexton thinks it a terrible sacrilege,” the reverend was saying, looking around the sanctuary as he finished his own portion, “but I always eat here, instead of in the wee kitchen. It’s peaceful. And I dinna think the Lord would oppose the companionable breaking of bread in his home.”

Jamie passed back the flask, utterly sated. “Aye, it is peaceful. I hoped…” he hesitated. “I hoped it would be…when I heard the bells.”

The reverend looked over sharply for a moment, then back down as he packed the breakfast impedimenta back into the bundle. When he had done, he sat back in the pew, crossing his hands over his chest and looking forward toward the darkened altar.

“I gather that ye find yourself in trouble of some kind, Mr. Malcolm?”

Jamie tensed, feeling the anxious dread settle once more to curdle in his waim, “No. No’ in trouble…I find myself in a strange place and without means, to be sure…but that’s nothing I canna handle.”

Troubled, then?” the man said, softly, after a moment.

You mustn’t.

Jamie winced, then nodded slowly, his voice sounding strained as he answered. “Aye…I am that, and no mistake.”

“‘…Casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you,’” the reverend quoted. “I’m surely not the Lord, nor the disciple Peter, but if you desire a friend to listen…to share in your burdens for a time….”

The peaceable offer hung over them. A gift, not a demand. Jamie stared up at the altar. A tapestry of purple and white hung above it. A cross of purple, headed with a burst of sun at the top.

“It’s…my wife,” he began, at last, feeling choked. “She…she believes me dead, and will have for a number of years now.”

“Ah,” said his companion, nodding. “The war?”

Jamie nodded, for that was no lie. “War and…other complications, preventing any communication to her that I had survived. I am only now finding myself at liberty, myself.” Jamie lowered his eyes. “She—that is…She was wi’ child—my child—the last we saw one another, and she has….remarried.”

The reverend made an mmmm of deep understanding, but didn’t speak or look at Jamie, just waited, allowing him the privacy of not looking him directly in the face.  

“I…want to go to her at once,” he said, the longing evident in his voice. “God knows, I want nothing more than to run to her and the child, take them to my heart and never let go.” Jamie swallowed, feeling the pain of every word as a knife in his throat. “For, the honest truth is, reverend, that I’ve no place left in any world, now, save wi’ my wife and child.”

He sighed, the air rushing out in a frantic rush of despair. “But would it no’ be wrong of me to simply show up on her doorstep? I would no’ have wanted her to live as a ghost after I was gone. If she’s found happiness with F-…with this man as I’d have wanted her to, what right have I to snatch it out from under her again? If she’s already mourned and buried me in her mind…if our child kens him for father….if she’s happy….”

He trailed off, and the reverend sighed, saying, “You’re right. It would perhaps be wrong, then. Particularly for sake of the child.”

Hearing this answer, when he had been secretly longing for reassurance of his own right and prerogative as father and husband, Jamie wanted to fall to the ground in despair.

“But if she isn’t happy…” the reverend continued, “…If she hasn’t moved on, and you choose to stay away from fear…that would be wrong, too, would it not?”

Another long silence. This time it was Jamie that broke it.

“I thought I should die yesterday eve from the battle of it all in my heart….It—frightens me.”

“Frightens you how, Mr. Malcolm?”

The words came tumbling out of him. “Just that…almost always, there’s right and wrong in my head that guides my choices. While one may be easier or more costly, rare is the time that it isna clear what ought to be my path, whether from honor, duty, righteousness, or for the good of one that I love. It’s no’ easy, but it’s simple. This time, though…these paths…“ He put his face in his hands, “I truly dinna ken what I’m to do.”

The sun must have been truly up by this time. A beam of light suddenly illuminated the altar. The bronze candlesticks gleamed like gold.

“I believe your decision revolves around a pivotal question.” The reverend leaned forward to rest his forearms on the pew. “Is her happiness truly of more importance than your own?”

“It is,” Jamie said at once. “Hers and the child’s.”

“Even if…it is without you?”

Aye,” he gasped out, tears gathering in his eyes, but with no hesitation. He had meant it when he sent her through the stones, and he meant it now. Though it should tear him apart with despair, that was his bond and the truth of his soul.

“Well, then, while you have not asked my advice outright, I will give it to you nonetheless.” The reverend turned in the pew to face Jamie directly, now. “I think you must contrive a way to determine her happiness from a distance. Learn how she fares without approaching her. If carefully done, you will learn what you need to without her even knowing. And based on what you learn…then decide what is to be your path.”

Jamie swallowed. “Ye speak wisely. It’s a good plan. Something between all…and nothing.” He rocked forward in his seat, trying vainly to resist the shameful words  trying to fight free of his mouth. “But I’m afraid, reverend; afraid of what I shall do if I see them. Afraid that I’ll forget all honor and promises and…”

Jamie broke off with a sob, laying his head on his folded arms like a child. The thought of seeing Claire and not going to her. Not touching her. Not holding her close and weeping into her hair, swearing never to leave her side. Of seeing wee Brian from afar and allowing him to pass by. Of never holding his son. Of seeing the man who the boy calls ‘father.’

The reverend laid a gentle hand on Jamie’s hunched shoulder. “The Lord prayed in Gethsemane for the cup to be taken from him…but he knew what had to be done for the sake of those he called beloved, even unto death on a cross.”

That’s the verra thing, reverend,” Jamie said, so low the man had to lean in closer to hear. “I would die for them, today. I already tried to; and I’d die a thousand times more, to see them safe and well. But to live,” his voice shook violently on the word, “live wi’out them…to go on forever alone, knowing they are within my reach…”

The reverend reached into his pocket and pulled out Jamie’s discarded rosary, laying it in his hand.

Pray. Always. If this is to be your cross…He will help you bear it. No matter the outcome.”

Jamie sat tensed in the seat of the Train, trying not to compare the movement to that of a ship, rocking slowly back and forth. It would be a damnably long ride, the passenger next to him had said. Had he been in less of a state of agitation, Jamie would have laughed aloud. Less than a day to travel nigh on the full length of Scotland and England? That was a damnably great miracle, to his mind.

The kind reverend had rained gifts on Jamie that morning. A hot bath at a nearby hotel (Claire was right, it washeavenly); a featherlight razor with which to shave; a fresh set of clean clothes; a letter of reference and introduction should he seek employment in future; a basket of food; and money enough for rail passage anywhere in England or Scotland, and some besides. At this last, Jamie had tried to refuse, offering to stay on for as long as need be to earn the lavish sum.

However, the reverend had closed Jamie’s fingers firmly around the envelope. “We all are granted grace at pivotal times in our lives, Mr. Malcolm,” he had said. “Let this be a day of grace for you; for sake of your family.”

Jamie sat now, still as a stone, listening as each station was called. Jamie knew next to nothing of how to navigate the cadences and flows of 1950: how business was done; how honor was determined; how information was passed and learned; Christ, he scarcely could manage crossing the streets, crowded as they always were with the screeching machines. But navigate them he would, whatever the cost, to learn of Claire and the child. There was only one place in the world Jamie knew to begin.

The department of history at Oxford University.

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anonymous asked:

what would bts say if they saw self harm scars on you?

i’m sure that all of them would be completely heartbroken. i think Suga and Namjoon would be more overcome with anger than the others, although deep down they’d be more angry that they couldn’t protect you. Namjoon would definitely be able to hid his temper, focusing intently on you and only you. he’d want to know why, when, who triggered it, if it still goes on now - everything and anything that will help him understand better. he seems like someone that already knows a lot more about mental health than a lot of people in South Korea, so he would definitely be able to deal with this the best. Yoongi would probably accidentally yell, and then realize that he is in no way helping. he’d back down once he sees how small you’ve become, and take you in his arms, repeating a slow chant that he’s always here for you, and if you ever think about that again, you better promise that you’ll at least try talking to him before you do anything else. 

Jin and V would probably deal with this pretty well. i can see Seokjin instantly caressing your scars slowly, looking up at you with painfully sad eyes and without another word, he’d just gather you against his broad, warm chest and hold you. i think Taehyungie would do the same, and after however long it takes them to get their shit together and make sure they don’t cry, they would lean back and look at you seriously, making you promise that you no longer do this kind of thing to yourself or that you never will again - at least not before you go to them for help first. they definitely seem like the types to do LOTS of research on the topic to become more aware and bear the proper abilities to support you. 

Jimin and J-Hope would be a hot mess. i can see lots of tears and embracing and whining coming from these two if they ever found out that you were purposely harming yourself. if they were old scars i don’t think they’d press you to tell them what was going on in your life - but they would definitely be curious and wouldn’t stop you if you volunteered to explain. if it was still a present occurrence, i think they’d insist on looking up some professional help, and if you refused that, i can see Hoseok giving up for a while but making you promise that you’ll always come to him first whenever you’re feeling down. while Jimin would be much more persistent and bring it up once in a while, showing you pamphlets and websites. it’s not that Hoseok would care any less, i just think he’d believe you know what’s best for you. especially because you’re the one enduring it - he wouldn’t believe that it’s his place to force you to do anything. 

oh and the golden maknae, Jungkook, would be… not so golden in a situation like this. i honestly think it’d make him really uncomfortable and he wouldn’t know how to react. but assuming that you’re his b/gf, or even just a close friend, he’d try his best to express how hurt and shocked he is that you would do something like that to yourself. i think he might even sound a little bit (or a lot) ignorant, kind of lecturing you about how stupid, unsterile and crazy something like that seems. Kookie would definitely realize how insensitive he’s being sooner rather than later - as he seems to be someone whom is pretty good at picking up on things. i think after a brief rant he’d stfu and just hug you, mumbling apologies and that he’ll always be there for you, no matter what happens. i don’t think he’d ask too many questions, but would surely listen if you were willing to share. he’d probably mention that you should look into seeing someone if you were his friend, but i think that if you were his s/o he’d demand that you talk to him whenever you’re feeling down. 

and hey you! yeah you!!!!! remember that we’re here for you. i’m someone whom is willing to listen, i can always lend an ear. 

~ admin ariel