TO BE HONEST THOUGH??? I got over Malcolm being Idol’d out REAAAALL fast after remembering he was plotting to get rid of Sandra. THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR PLOTTING AGAINST HER. THAT’S WHAT YOU GET AND THE QUEEN STAYS QUEEN!
Um… so CBS fucked up bad. In the first 7 minute video, Michaela is seen wearing a blue buff when she starts in the red tribe. Confirming that she’ll make it to the tribe swap. Michaela did THAT. Around the 2:20 minute mark btw
10x02 “Reichenbach” / 10x03 “Soul Survivor” / 10x10 “The Hunter Games” 10x11 “There’s No Place Like Home” / 10x14 “The Executioner’s Song” 10x17 “Inside Man” / 10x23 “Brother’s Keeper”
Dean + Season 10 + Red Shirts Season 10connected Dean’s red shirts unmistakably with the MoC-arc and moments when he was especially vulnerable to its influence and power over him. One could say that red has sort of become indicative of the Darkness. This gets particularly clear when looking at the current season in which Amara is constantly wrapped in clothing of this very colour combined with dark blues/black, which not only serves to connect Dean and her, but also alludes to a lot in terms of how the colours black, blue and red are used in religious settings. Because in connection among a couple of things they stand for the divine.
Mark the Chicken should win tonight based on the sole fact that he manipulated an entire cast of starving contestants into not eating him. What kind of strategic mastermind? What kind of manipulation QUEEN???
Filipino Bataan Death March survivors mark 75th anniversary
Filipino Bataan Death March survivors mark 75th anniversary
Ramon Regalado was starving and sick with malaria when he slipped away from his Japanese captors during the infamous 1942 Bataan Death March in the Philippines, escaping a brutal trudge through steamy jungle that killed hundreds of Americans and thousands of Filipinos who fought for the U.S. during World War II.On Saturday, the former wartime machine-gun operator will join a dwindling band of veterans of the war in San Francisco’s Presidio to honor the soldiers who died on the march and those who made it to a prisoner of war camp only to die there.They’ll also commemorate the mostly Filipino soldiers who held off Japanese forces in the Philippines for three months without supplies of food or ammunition before a U.S. army major surrendered 75,000 troops to Japan on April 9, 1942.
And he said he was starting to write his farewell letter, because a lot of men did that, and I asked him, ‘Well, were you going to take your own life?
U.S.Tens of thousands of Filipino and U.S. troops
She successfully lobbied California last year to mandate teaching details of the battle and march in high schools.She also collects march veterans’ stories before they die, including the memories of 99-year-old Regalado, who lives in the San Francisco suburb of El Cerrito.When the war broke out, Regalado was a member of the Philippine Scouts, a military branch of the U.S. Army for Filipino soldiers.He and two other soldiers were assigned to feed horses during the march and slipped away when guards were not watching them, Regalado said.A farmer took in the three, even though the penalty for doing so was death. All were sick with malaria.
Despite fighting without any air support and without any reinforcement, they disrupted the timetable of the Imperial Japanese army.
World War II.On Saturday, the former wartime machine-gun operator
I am a Shadowhunter. I am a Shadowhunter. I am a Shadowhunter. He repeated it like a mantra, muttering it under his breath while the wind whistled in his ear. He mumbled it at night, a lullaby to put his mind at ease. He let it occupy his thoughts, a last defiance to claim the identity he had always known. They could rip him away from his family and the world he knew, but they couldn’t take the angel out of his blood. At least not literally.
They walked across barren land with Gwyn at the front. A few of the faeries laughed and sniggered boisterously while others kept quiet, keeping their exchanges to meaningful looks and nods. Mark kept his gaze focused on the sky in front of them. These were not his people. They had no kind words or warm expressions for him. But he felt their gazes searing holes into his skin, hot like hellfire.
“I am a Shadowhunter,” he murmured to himself. He noticed the faeries several yards ahead of him had stopped walking and were beginning to make themselves comfortable. A fire pit was under construction a few feet away from Gwyn. Mark was certain he would not enjoy the comfort of a freshly kindled fire.
“What was that?” A gravely voice from behind Mark sneered. A hand had reached out to grab Mark by the back of the neck. The grip was steel around his feeble skin. New bruises were sure to replace old ones.
“I am a Shadowhunter,” Mark repeated, louder this time with conviction in his voice.
The faerie behind him tightened his grip and pulled down hard causing Mark’s knees to buckle and his back to arch. Other faeries had begun to surround them, putting Mark at the center of the spectacle.
One faerie approached the two, looking at them with a keen interest. He glided over to Mark, taking his wrists into his calloused palms and outstretching his pale arms for inspection.
“No runes,” he announced before pulling Mark’s arms to reach towards the sky while the first faerie kept him in place.
A third faerie had entered the picture and yanked Mark’s shirt up to just below his chin before he called out, “No runes here either!” He then lowered his voice and leaned in closer to Mark. “But we can give you some if you so desire.”
He was hauled to his feet and dragged to the fire before being shoved to his knees to kneel before it. His instincts told him to fight, but logic told him to hold still. It would only be worse if he resisted, and after all, it’s not like he had anywhere to run. There is no safe place in The Hunt.
They lifted his shirt up to expose his back. Now everyone was watching. The tip of a sword was thrust into the flames, the steel becoming orange with heat. Mark could see what they were doing. It was right in front of his face. They wanted him to know what was coming, let the anticipation make it that much worse.
The sword was removed from the fire and shoved into Mark’s back in one swift movement. Only the pointed edge pierced the skin, but that was enough. Mark ground his teeth to keep himself from screaming out as the angelic rune was burned into his skin. He bit through his lip when they carved in the fearless rune, and finally he screamed his throat ragged when they marked him with the rune for courage.
“Where are your angels now, Blackthorn?”
Lesson #2: Lonely is safe.
After the incident with the fire and the “runes”, Mark kept to himself. He kept his head down and stayed at the back of The Hunt. He did everything he could to not stand out in any way. The “runes” on his back served as a painful reminder of what would happen if he dared to challenge the status quo. There were only faeries here, and the dead, but it was the faeries he had to worry about.
They hadn’t paid much mind to him in awhile, but they were always watching. They were always waiting for an excuse to jump down his throat. He didn’t give them one. He did not match their leering gazes or respond to their biting remarks. It was lonely, but it was safe. He rode with The Hunt on his silver mare in silence, naming the stars after his brothers and sisters.
Lesson #3: It means nothing to be a prince.
Most days in The Hunt blended together, becoming indistinguishable as a different day, week, month, or year. It was all the same, except for the one day that stood out from all the others. There was no way for Mark to know at what period in time during his stay with The Hunt that this event had occurred. But it did become a pivotal moment for him as a hunter.
He had no real concept of time, all there was were the days before Kieran joined The Hunt, and then the days after.
Kieran was a dangerous looking thing- all sharp lines and jagged edges. But he was also beautiful. Even when they found him chained up in the cavern, left to become a part of The Hunt. It was no surprise when Gwyn addressed him as “Prince Kieran”. Even contorted oddly on the floor of a cavern, Kieran looked like a prince. He exuded an air of arrogance that only gentry royalty could be capable of.
From the very first glimpse, Mark was fascinated by the creature that was Prince Kieran. His ever-changing ocean hair dictated by mood and black and silver eyes made him quite the object of enthrallment. Like Mark, Kieran preferred solitude, and also like Mark, he was the object of vicious taunting.
There was no security in being an ex prince. The others denounced him because of it, calling him “princeling” amongst other things. There was no respect for the title he once held, no respect for being the son of a king. Just a boy who was different, and for that he would suffer.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown, Mark had thought.
Lesson #4: An ally is essential.
The two outsiders did not care for niceties with the other hunters, nor did they find any worth at merely looking at their companions, but Mark watched Kieran, and Kieran watched Mark. It was the classic game of shifting eyes when one wasn’t looking. It was subtle and curious, undetectable and full of wonder.
They were a brilliant contrast of day and night, the sun and the moon. A hunter with white-gold hair sat atop a silver mare that never strayed too fair yet never came too close to another hunter with dark blue hair that often resembled the ocean under moonlight who sat upon a black, skeletal steed. It was like the sun chasing the moon, or the moon chasing the sun without ever bumping into one another.
The game of watching without being seen, chasing but never colliding, finally came to an end at the hands of cruelty administered through a whip. Kieran watched the others take out their rage against the Nephilim who had hung their friends on Mark. They whipped him till the skin on his back was in shreds and the snow on the ground ran red.
It seemed nothing short of a crime to do something so ugly to a boy so beautiful. The sound of Mark’s screams made Kieran want to shove the edge of a dagger into his own ears to make it stop, but instead he stood there expressionless as his insides turned ill and his heart screamed in agony.
He couldn’t stop them. He wanted to. Oh God he wanted to, but his attempts would have been futile. Better to let them release their anger and clean up the aftermath than provoke them further and suffer who knows what, making the situation worse for the both of them.
Instead Kieran tended to the injured Nephillim with a gentleness he himself had never been shown. It was amazing how one could learn to be gentle through the absence of it.
Mark had been equal parts delighted and surprised to find an ally in Kieran. Although the soft touches made it feel like something more than just an alliance formed out of necessity.
Kieran looked like sharp angles and jagged edges, but there was a tenderness in him that turned Mark’s curious ogling into genuine adoration. Kieran found a strength and loyalty in Mark also worthy of adoration. He wondered what is was like to love your kin enough to withstand such vile abuse. Kieran’s family would never do that for him, and vice versa.
All within the same night Mark had experienced the most hatred and the most amity thus far in The Wild Hunt. He would never say it out loud, but being held in Kieran’s arms made the whipping worthwhile. He would endure a thousand whippings for just a moment of affection.
“The wounds that blemish your skin, do they still ache?” Kieran asked, touching Mark’s hair softly. His long fingers slipped through the tresses with ease. It was impossible to tell if the action was more calming to Mark or Kieran.
“There are far worse pains to bear than those that will scab over and heal,” Mark replied, leaning into Kieran’s touch.
Kieran nodded soundlessly in understanding.
It hurt far worse to be alone.
Lesson #5: All you need is one.
The sun still hadafew hours before it would relieve the moon of its duties, which meant Kieran and Mark still had time to remain hidden in the safe place underneath Kieran’s woven blanket.
Kieran took advantage of Mark’s positioning that had his naked back pressed into Kieran’s torso to trace the various scars that decorated Mark’s back. Some were “runes” from before Kieran joined The Hunt and some were lashings from the incident that served to bring them together. In Kieran’s opinion, all of them were beautiful. They proved that Mark was strong. They proved that he was a survivor.
“Kier,” Mark groaned sleepily, “Must you do that? The sun has not yet risen, it is time for slumber.”
“I have found better ways to occupy my time, Shadowhunter. Sleep cannot offer me this kind of pleasure,” Kieran kissed Mark’s shoulder softly, his hot breath cascading up Mark’s neck.
“What pleasure you derive from touching such imperfections is beyond me. It causes me great grief to even think about their presence,” Mark huffed, but shifted closer to the faerie prince.
“They are a part of you and I find every part of you beautiful. Consequently, the scars must then, too, be beautiful,” Kieran grinned, pushing his face into Mark’s neck.
“I do very much appreciate you indulging in my vanity,” Mark smiled brightly, turning to face Kieran whose hair had turned a pale blue that reminded him of the clear waves of the ocean that he and Helen had played in as children. “Your hair has lightened.”
“Indeed it has. As it always does in the fleeting moments we have alone,” Kieran whispered as he let his hand rest against Mark’s cheek.
Mark nudged his nose against Kieran’s, encouraging him to keep going. Kieran took the hint and closed the minuscule space between them. Kisses like this made Mark forget about it all. During the time that Kieran’s lips were on his he forgot about the home he used to yearn for. All he could think about was the wind that whistled in his ear as he held onto Kieran’s waist whilst atop his stallion. In this way he loved The Hunt because he loved Kieran.
Perhaps he would always be a Shadowhunter amongst faeries. Perhaps he would always be an outsider, but he had found one to confide in, and in Kieran he had found more than just enough to survive. He had found enough to thrive.