Yesterday in history: ah, the first royal drama I remember.

1986 : Prince Andrew married English commoner Sarah Ferguson at Westminster Abbey which has recently celebrated its 900 year old birthday in London.

https://www.thepeoplehistory.com/this-day-in-history.html

1829 Typewriter patented

The invention of various kinds of machines was attempted in the 19th century. Most were large and cumbersome, some resembling pianos in size and shape.

Finally, in 1867, the American inventor Christopher Latham Sholes read an article in the journal Scientific American describing a new British-invented machine and was inspired to construct what became the first practical typewriter.

His second model, patented on June 23, 1868, wrote at a speed far exceeding that of a pen.

https://www.britannica.com/technology/type

She grabbed his hand. That was not what he was expecting, though in retrospect he ought to have. 

Edthwin, not being a stupid man, followed where she led.  The fort was in flames, after all, and there was cannon fire in the distance.

She picked an old well house and paused, clearly just for a moment.  

“Okay, you need to do exactly as I say for the next-“
“I’m your bodyguard,  you know.”

“I know, and you make a very good steward.  That being said, we need to run, now.”

Edthwin gave up.  His captain, his mother, and his aunt had all warned him. She was a stiletto in politics,  not a rapier, but in her free time she was all muddy knees, scraped palms, and strange instructions to Edthwin.

He ran.  She ran – that is, Princess Geniana ran.  Cannons fired.  What was left of the fort fell.

Edthwin swallowed.  “They mean to kill me,” he whispered.  They were using an ancient tree and an older wall as something like shelter. “%No,” he corrected himself, before she could.  “They mean to kill you.  I’d be collateral damage.”

Geniana patted his cheek. “I knew you were smart.   Now, how much can you carry?”

From his princess, it wasn’t even a strange ⁰question.   “About a quarter of my weight, your highness.”

“Good.  We’re going to stock up.”

She took him at his word on his carrying load, but he noticed she didn’t short herself much either.

They carried on with a brutal pace, pausing only near sundown. Edthwin wasn’t sure if he sat down if he’d ever get up again, so he leaned his hip against a tree.

“Look,” he tried again.  They hadn’t heard cannon fire in over an hour.   “Look, I’m your bodyguard and I don’t see why you keep on flipping those roles.”

He ducked as a knife flew past his ear.  Just behind him, someone grunted. Geniana strode past him before he could react;  Edthwin had heard that snap before, but never so close. 

She pulled a folding shovel from her pack and handed it to Edthwin.  While he dug, not looking forward to this task, she gathered rocks.

It took her a  while to speak.

” You were trained for the military. ”  She seemed to be picking each word with care. “…I…wasn’t.”

I need some help

Stone buildings

Let’s be honest, the US is a little short in nice stone buildings (skipping like the Hopi Pueblo and the ccc buildings..

So, excluding Only modern media (Reign, GoT), tell me about your favorite Stone buildings from reality,  fantasy,  next door…

I note that I know nothing about non usian history,  but that just  makes me want more.

That photo

Ahem.  I’ll see what I can do about an exemplar, and considering the war…..

…..anyone got any teenagers’ opinions….

This is going to be a lighter touch on some things.

* you can really tell how understaffed a department is even before you get to the call button answer time.

* losing your call button when you can’t stand up is terrifying

* brushing your teeth becomes an act of personal autonomy and suddenly very very important

* washing hair? Amazing.  But the ‘dry shampoo- caps that really do almost nothing still feel awesome.  And your standards go from ‘I need my personalized shampoo’ to ‘just pour some water on me please. ‘

*doctors have no sense of urgency

The one below cut is more heavy

Two months unconscious eats your body in  a way I never dreamed possible.

Hi.  Sorry for my abrupt vanishing.

Eary January 2021, I was having a bad day – pain, pressure,  lightheadedness.

Off to the emergency room!

Sometime in the next couple days I sent a single word message to some friends, still expecting this to be fast: pancreatitis.

About then, said disease, the painkillers, and various complications took over.

I have no clear memory of the last 3 months, so please keep that in mind.

But that is where I have been.

And now I am in rehab.

My apologies for previous lack of update.

This is written as part of my NanoWrimo 2020 Compendium of Completion. 

It is part five of five and comes after The Second Restriction, Eralon Explains, Eralon Discovers, Eralon Shouts  Eralon Commands and Eralon Questions.

After the – he’d been counting – seventh she, Sparrow decided that he needed to be brave before one of the more junior members of the temple got themselves in trouble. “And then – pardon, your brilliance.  Many of the books of the temple list, for instance, Jonnarrin the Night as he.  And yet you have referred to the Night One as she on all but one occasion – when you referred to Holy Dark Jonnarrin as they.  Could you please explain?”

“The books are wrong.”  The smile on this particular oracle’s face was amazingly smug.  Sparrow had to wonder if that was the oracle or the god inside. “That is – ah, your language is a little bit limited in this case.  He, she, they – these refer to positions of your bodies, yes?  That is, you are a he, the body this one is is a she.  These two and those who choose to eschew those two make up both your genders and your biological sexes, correct? Baby-seeder and Baby-carrier, and those who do neither.”

Sparrow blinked.  That was – “That is.  Ah,  your most illuminating one-”

“I can tell when you’re worried, Friend Sparrow.  You might call me Friend Eralon, if you wish.”

“Friend Eralon-” he was going to be struck down where he stood. “Yes.  That is what he and she mean in the language we are speaking, the primary tongue of Foros, usually referred to Farou, although some of the oldest literature calls it Afararan.  And that is how, ah, how we as beings work.”

“Yes.”  This smile was a little bit condescending.  Sparrow could accept that from a god. “We are using the same terms, that is good, and understanding them the same.  So.  In the places where the Gods of Foros live, there are several more genders, and there are no words for those in the minds of these vessels, which is how We tend to use language when We are speaking to you. Thus: the closest approximation in Farou for the gender of Jonnarrin the Night is She.  Many of the Gods of Foros are also most closely referred to as She, and I myself – well.  The gender I am is not particularly associated with any of the human genders, but I would suggest they as being the closest.  Does that answer you question, Friend Sparrow?”

“Your Most Brilliant Light, it does indeed, although I will note it opens up nearly as many more questions as it answers.”  He was already writing them all down. “Perhaps – perhaps when we have completed the task of the Books of Callorme, I may ask a couple more?”

“Friend Sparrow, the better you and the others of this temple understand the word of the gods of Foros, the better.  And thus yes.  I will answer your questions.  .  All of your questions.  However, from the looks of this, this project is going to take us a great deal of time.  Are their things to which the personnel of this temple need to attend in the meantime?”

Sparrow looked back at the Higher High Priest of Evening; Eostrix, in turn, frowned thoughtfully and stepped forward with a very cautious and polite bow.

“Your most brilliant light, I believe that if we continue as we were here, with two to three priests, two to three duty scribes, and a rotation of the oracles, we can with with the Lesser High Priest of Morning and Noon to arrange for all other duties of the temple to be handled.  There is time that many of us spend in learning or contemplation; this will fill that time.  However.”  He looked thoughtfully at the duty scribes. “I believe the scribes will be the most taxed by this.  And I believe it would be better if we had more scribes on for shorter periods at a time.  When I was young, I worked as a scribe, you see-” He seemed to remember his audience and bowed again to the god-in-the-oracle. “-that is, your most brilliant light.  I know that after a couple hours, one’s attention wanders.”

“There are always youth who wish to be scribes,” Sparrow put in. “The towns around the temples – ours as well as the smaller temples – are the most literate in Foros, and, from our small knowledge, in the known world.  We could simply send out runners – and I know, as well, that the temple in Antorre and the temple at Joecled have more staff than they, ah, need, despite their elder priest’s protestations.”

“I will send word to those temples.”  The god-in-the-oracle nodded.  For a moment, the girl slumped, regained control, and looked around, shaking her head, getting her bearings.  Then she chuckled ruefully and her posture once again changed. “There.  Although one elder priest is not very happy with me.  Yes, hire more scribes.  They are the most important backbone of this temple – well, no, they are one of the very important backbones.  It is important that the word is known and is relayed.  It is important that it is understood.  And it is important that the Deeds are done and the Restrictions heeded.  All these things together make your world stronger, better, healthier, and brighter.”

Sparrow bowed; Eostrix bowed.  They shared a look, then the Higher High Priest of Evening stepped out of the room to hire more scribes.

The entire temple had been turned upside down.  And yet Sparrow had yet another question. “Please forgive me, most brilliant light, friend Eralon, but ‘Deeds’?  The Restrictions?”

“The restrictions, yes, but also those Deeds which will make your community turn in the proper manner, much like turning over your garden with the waste from the previous year makes it grow properly. Goodness, what did Callorme relay to you? You.”  He pointed a finger at a lower priest. “You write down and remember that when we are done with the books of Callorme and Friend Sparrow’s questions, we are going to discuss the Deeds.  And you,” the finger was delicate, tiny, the nails painted with little cherry blossoms.  The gesture was imperious.  The second lesser priest took a step backwards. “Go consult with any available priest or scholar who is not in this room, or who is here but has no job at the moment, and bring me – oh, say, in a week – every available references to the Deeds, the Restrictions, and the Requirements you can find in that time.  Do remember to sleep, eat, bathe and such,” the god-in-the-oracle added kindly. “If you need more time in a week, that can be arranged.”

The second lesser priest bowed and darted out of the room.  Eralon watched the priest go before turning the full force of their gaze back onto Sparrow.

“There is much we have to do, friend Sparrow. And there is much We have to learn.”  The second we involved the god-in-the-oracle gesturing at their own body and sort of upwards, as it to take in all of the gods.  “I believe that you and I are going to write two Books of Evening… one for your priesthoods here and one for the Gods themselves.  But in order for that to happen – in order for that to happen, we have much work to do indeed.  I do hope you intended to spend a lifetime in the Priesthood.”

Sparrow cleared his throat.  “It is generally a lifetime commitment, yes.  But I am not young, Friend Eralon.  I have had much time already in the priesthood.  Perhaps Dawon; he is a young scribe and has much life in front of him.

The oracle jumped down from her dais and thumped Sparrow on the shoulder.  “Ah, friend Sparrow.  I am a god.  You will have the life you need for yourself, and the life you need for me.  And so will Dawon, and so will the oracles I have Called here.  We will do this, Friend Sparrow.”

The god in the oracle smiled so broadly that it lit up the room.

“I have not been this excited since the world was first formed, Friend Sparrow.  This will be amazing, just you see!  This will be amazing!”

In a way that he had not truly Believed in decades, Sparrow Teleme Believed.

Want more?

This is written as part of my NanoWrimo 2020 Compendium of Completion. 

It is part four of five (depending on how I divide it up) and comes after The Second Restriction, Eralon Explains, Eralon Discovers, Eralon Shouts and Eralon Commands.

When Sparrow woke, there was another oracle on the chair.  The oracle Aisha, who had been sitting in the chair, was sleeping next to Sparrow, cuddled against him in a way that would probably be considered most unseemly – and perhaps would have, if Transom Achares, the Lead Lesser High Priest, wasn’t sleeping on the other side of Sparrow, cuddled just as closely.

There were three duty scribes – different ones – writing, and three more listening and waiting.  There were two other lower priests looking over the whole thing, and more people milling about than this room ever held, except possibly on the Grand Festival days.

Sparrow brought himself to his feet as the Higher High Priest of Evening stepped into the room. “I heard-” he began, and fell silent.  He hurried over to Sparrow, this time very mindful of the red line.

“What is happening?” he hissed.

“I just woke up – when the god commands it, you sleep,” he added ruefully.

“Well, then, why did the god command you to sleep? And how – how could you – ah.  Well, when the god commands it, I suppose one cannot say no.”  The Higher High Priest of Evening cleared his throat.  Eostrix Duremes Oster was a good man, if a rather hidebound one, and was known to actually think on occasion. “So, what was happening when you slept?”

“Eralon had – ah.  He had an altercation with the Lead Lesser High Priest here – do not be too harsh on him, he was doing his job – and it came to be known that there were, ah.” Sparrow didn’t like this part. “There were those books of faith which Eralon did not know about. So he demanded they be read to him.  This, ah.  I reminded the god of the frailties of those who act as vessels – something he also had not heard of – and that is about when I slept.  There is much that he wishes to learn, our god of the light.  It seems that, perhaps, we have not so much strayed from the teachings of the gods of Foros as we have, mmm, embellished upon them somewhat, and that has left him – and me – concerned.”

“And I.”  The Higher High Priest of Evening frowned. “It seems there is quite a gathering here, but there ought to be.  I, ah, just awoke.  I found myself not defrocked, for which I imagine I have you to thank-”

“Well, had I been intending on spreading the information, I’d not have had a moment to do so,” Sparrow admitted, “but Eralon says such that a smiting like that is not meant to remove one from the priesthood, as well.”

“But the books of Callorme say-”

“Ah, and there is the rub.” He brought himself to his feet and looked over the gathered group.  At the moment, it sounded as if Eralon was explaining something in depth – ah, he was going through the Restrictions.  That was what had started this whole mess, so it was good that he was clarifying those. But hadn’t he wanted the books of Callorme read to him…?

“Ah, friend Sparrow!” the oracle called.  This one had a voice like the sunshine.  The Lesser High Priest of Evening bowed deeply.

“Your most Brilliant Light, greetings.  I thank you for the time of rest, and-”

“And for the cheese and wine you are about to partake in, yes.”  The god-in-the-oracle gestured one of the handmaidens over to him; she was bearing a tray carrying those things and more. “I see you are calmer now?”

“I’ve reached a state that could be called calm, yes, your brightness.”  Sparrow bowed again. “And you?”

“I am doing quite well.  I decided that it would be the most fair to wait for the books of Callorme until you woke on your own, so we have been discussing the questions of those here in the temple, and they have been answering my questions.  Ah.  I have sent one of your handmaidens to send word to the border that there will be several people – women – coming to the border to come here.  They have been Called.”

“You have Called new prophets, your brilliance?”

“New oracles, new vessels.  They were always meant to be of the line of the oracle, of Our line of conduits, but because of a border change that We were not aware of – well.  I’ve hopefully sorted that out.  There are those who can be the conduit to the gods without such pain – although the vessels here I have spoken to tell me that they like this post and do not wish to be sent away from it.”

“It comes with status, your Brilliance, and a good place to live and good food.”

“Ah.  Well, all of those of Foros should have those, at least the last two.  How long has it been since We have been involved thoroughly enough? It seems there are things that We will need to address.”

All of those of Foros should have… Sparrow considered some of the recent famines, some of the issues with hoarding, some of the problems the temple had attempted to deal with – with variable results at best. He wondered if he was going to be smote next.

“Yes, your Brilliance.  I look forward to your enlightenment.”

“Then, friend Sparrow, why do you look as if you are about to be dragged through muddy rocks while being pelted with excrement?  Come now, this will be interesting!  There are likely things that have changed in the world which We have missed and I look forward to knowing all of them.”

Sparrow gulped. “Your Brilliance, I remind you of your reaction when you found our interpretation of the Third Restriction.”

The god-in-the-oracle laughed. “I confess, you have Me there.  That is a very good point.  I will not yell at you, friend Sparrow, and I will spite no-one who is simply telling me how things are and why. I understand – I do now, at least – how it can be to be told something and have no context in which to understand it.  And I believe We were guilty of a failure of context many times during the Early Days.  But that – that is for another time.  This vessel has -” The god-in-the-oracle gestured at an hourglass. “Some thirty-seven minutes left before I need to change vessels.  It is time to begin the books of Callorme in between your wine and cheese.  Come, friend Sparrow!  We have much to read!”

Thirty-seven minutes.  Sparrow could read for thirty-seven minutes.

He took the chair that one of the Lesser Low Priests offered him – this one was barely able to grow a beard, a child who had been honored to join the temple just a few months before, and he looked terrified, as, perhaps, he well ought to.  He took the wine and the cheese and the first book of Callorme; he gestured a spare duty scribe to his side for his own notes, and he began to read.

It quickly became clear that he was in less danger of his throat drying out than the scribes were of their pens running dry of ink.  He would read a verse, perhaps half a verse, and then the god would interrupt, either to agree, or, far more often, to disagree.  Sometimes it was something in between – he would agree that the tone was correct, or that the message was more or less right, but would point out that large portions of the wording was ridiculous, or say that I have never heard the God Jonnarrin speak in that manner, not in prophecy or in oracle or while taking a walk.  It is not a thing that she would say. 

She was a word that came up far too often for Sparrow’s comfort – it seemed to amuse and please the handmaidens-slash-oracles who were waiting for their turn, those who were not sleeping, as he could see them looking at the priests, looking at the god, and doing the best to hide their giggles and titters behind their hands.

A goodly two-thirds of the gods that the books of the temple had listed as male, Eralon referred to as she.  Several more, Eralon used the pronoun they for.  The duty scribes were checking each other’s work, checking each other’s hearing.  They would poke one another, point to the page, and then start writing again.

Sparrow, however, had nobody to check with but himself – and the god.

Want more?

This is written as part of my NanoWrimo 2020 Compendium of Completion. 

It is part three of four or five (depending on how I divide it up) and comes after The Second Restriction, Eralon Explains, Eralon Discovers, and Eralon Shouts.

The Lesser High Priest of Evening bowed down as deeply as he could. “I beg your pardon, your holiness.  I cannot-”

“Perhaps I can make it clear.”  The menace was clear despite the sweet tone. “Transom Achares, I am speaking with these people here, with this – this Lesser High Priest of Evening–?”

“Sparrow Teleme, your holiness.”

“With Sparrow Teleme.  And with these two duty scribes, this handmaiden, and these acolytes.  The information I choose to impart to them – or to ask from them – is my business, and is beyond protocol.  Do you understand this, Transome Achares?  I am the god Eralon and I will speak when and where I want to.  DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

While the oracle had been speaking in a voice which suggested divinity before, this voice was, without question, divine.  It shook Sparrow Teleme – it shook the Lesser High Priest of Evening down to his boots.

One of the duty scribes passed out. The handmaiden squeaked.

The Lead Lesser High Priest whimpered as his nose leaked blood. “I do – I do not understand, your most bright light.  I cannot understand.  The protocols are handed down from you yourself.  From the gods themselves.  The protocols are how we maintain order in this place.  The protocols are of the gods!” Blood dripped down his face, ignored.

“The protocols are – explain.”

“It says so in the book of Callorme, most bright one.  It says that the gods handed down the order of the ways and the hierarchy of the priesthood so that things might  continue in a sensible manner.  It says that this is the way!”

“Callorme?”

The god’s voice had taken on a dangerous tone, a tone which the Lead Lesser High Priest seemed to be oblivious to.

The Lesser High Priest of Evening answered carefully. “There are three books of Callorme, most brilliant light.  These ones were dictated to three scribes by the prophet Callorme, who himself was an early priest in the Order.  It is from his books that we get most of the structure of the priesthood and many of the titles and names of our priests and the others here in the service to you and the other gods.”

“Callorme.”

There was a rumble that changed the tone of the oracle’s voice from light and quiet to dark and deep.  This time, even the Lead Lesser High Priest noticed and took a step back.  Sparrow Teleme took a move braver than he thought he was and stepped forward.

“That is as we have been told, your brightness, your most holy. Callorme conveyed the words of Kokaru, from Fazemis, from Afekosiil… and from you, your brightness.”

“Callorme.”

“Callorme, also called – before his ascension to the priesthood – Gherick Dorunson, of the town of Smallriver, on the edge of the Fazemia Mountains, who came here to the Grand Temple in the seventeenth year of his life because he was seeing the words of the gods in his sleep, which would have been the seventeenth year of the second Kokarun cycle, the year before the flood which destroyed three cities on our western coast and washed away much of Smallriver and its neighboring towns.”  He might be babbling, but the Lesser High Priest of Evening thought if he could perhaps – what, jog the god’s memory? Gods, they were told – although not by Callorme – did not forget.

“The flood.  That was the flood which washed away Ton-Foren, yes?”

“Yes, your most brilliant.”

“Callorme – Gherick.  I remember Gherick.”

The tone was no less dangerous and no more pleased.

The scribe who had fainted had sat up again.

“I beg your pardon, your most brilliant light-”  Sparrow turned to the handmaiden.  “Please go and find the best copy of the books of Callorme you can, and please have them send in another scribe and, if you could, food and water for all of us.  And perhaps a chair for yourself and one for the Lead Lesser High Priest.”  He had a feeling it was going to be a long night. “Your most brilliant light, I propose that we read to you the books of Callorme.  But I also propose that we have weak and mortal bodies, and that we must care for them.”

“The books of Callorme are sacred,” the Lead Lesser High Priest mumbled. “They are given to us by the gods.”

“They were given to you by someone.”

The oracle’s voice no longer sounded anything like her own.  Somewhere in the back of the Lesser High Priest of Evening’s mind, something he had read early in his training was trying to make itself seen.

He couldn’t quite get to it, not with the god breathing down his neck, as it were.

“The books were given to us by someone.”  He grabbed onto the words that he could follow, even if they were nothing compared to the echoes in his mind. “But, you are saying, not by you.”

“Not by me, no. There is a possibility that another god gave them to you.  I will accept this might have happened.  But I find it unlikely.  You will read these books to me, and you will tell me everything of your structure here, everything you believe was gods-given.  Everything.”

“That, ah.  That will take quite a while, your most brilliant light.  It is going to take days, at the very least.”

He hesitated as the thought he’d been reaching for finally came to him. “And, your most brilliant light, one oracle cannot take the might of a god for that long.  You will destroy her mind.  You will render her less than an animal.  It has happened before, in the times before we had the books of Callorme, whoever they came from.  And I would honestly rather that it not happen again.”

“We can?”  Eralon paused. “Why is that?  What is it about this vessel that makes her unable to contain Me for any length of time?”  He didn’t seem to be interested in an answer, instead falling silent for several minutes. “Ah,” he finally said. “That is very unfortunate indeed.  When did this happen?”

“As far as I know, it has always been thus, your most brilliant self.  The Oracles are as strong as we can find, but they cannot take the presence of the god for too long.”

“Well, then.  You have other oracles, yes?  Bring forth several, and I will move between then on the hours, if hours you do indeed still have.”

The god sounded so dry and irate at that point that the Less High Priest of Evening was more than a little afraid to find out what might happen if he had to tell the god no.  Luckily for him, in this case, he did not; he sent the handmaiden, as soon as she returned from her other errands, to call on all of the oracles who were then awake, and to then have the others called for when their shift for wakefulness began.

He hoped it would be enough.  They had twelve oracles.  That had been considered an exorbitant number not that long before, and the reason why the oracle here now was also serving as a handmaiden.

They waited, the oracle saying nothing, nobody saying anything.  The Lesser High Priest of Evening had in front of him all of the books of Callorme, but he was loathe to start reading, because he did not want Eralon to become distracted and forget that he could harm his vessel.

The silence had gone on long enough to be truly uncomfortable when the god cleared the oracle’s throat.

“How long did it take to discover that a lengthy visitation by a god could destroy the being the god inhabited?”

“It was long before my time, most holy, but from what I recall – three decades.  The gods do not, as you may have noticed, often visit for all that long.  There is also – ah.  Well.”

He had not meant to take the conversation in that direction, certainly not with the Lead Lesser High Priest still sitting there glaring at him and at everyone else.

“Yes?” the god murmured.

“There is the question of when the oracles are actually possessed by a god.  We do take down everything they say when they are in the chair.”  He gestured to the duty scribes. “But very rarely do the gods make themselves as clearly known as you have in past days, and thus, we may have missed the signs because the oracles, when on the chair, often sound unclear, and the oracles sound similarly unclear whether possessed by a god or not.”

“You’re saying that Our Vessels are treated as the word of the gods whether or not the god identifies themselves?”

“Well, most brilliant light, the gods very rarely do identify themselves.”

The ground was slipping out from under the Lesser High Priest of Evening. He thought he might need to faint. What if everything he had been told came from the gods did not? What if their entire faith was based on the mad ramblings of drug-addled women?
How could he think that anything else would be the gods’ voice when what the gods sounded like was so clear in front of him?
“Easy, easy friend Sparrow. Someone, do get him a chair! Friend Sparrow, I believe you are beginning to think in directions that are – well, sensible but not correct.”

Someone put a chair behind him and pushed it until he sat down; he fell limply into the chair and looked up at the god.

“Your – your most brilliant one?”

“I am, yes.  And you are thinking, I believe, that if many things that you have read and believed to be true are not, then what things are true?”

“Something – something like that, yes, your most brilliant.”

“Then I believe we will have to do a more complete review.  It is time – past time – for such a thing.  Words can be misinterpreted, after all, and using prophets is more tricky than using oracles,  but as you mentioned, there are issues with oracles.  We will tell you the truth of things, my friend, and I believe that you will not find it to be nearly as troublesome as you are worried.  but for now-”

The oracle stepped down off of her chair and walked to the Lesser High Priest of Evening.  She put a thumb on his forehead.

“Sleep, friend.”

Sparrow slept.

Want more?

Chapter 1 – A cross-universal AU of Bilge Rats & Puppets, which was inspired by Puppets and Bilge Rats

Charming

This section involves more violence about Hook’s (Small Fry’s) hand.

“Easy, easy.  Ma’am, I think it’s possible he doesn’t speak English.”

Charming was trying his best to reason with the woman – with his mistress – but she had just knocked out this damaged-looking fae – a fae wearing strange clothes and with a Mask that didn’t quite hide all his strangeness – for the second time. 

The woman – who still hadn’t bothered to tell him her name or ask him, which was making him more nervous than he already was – looked his way.  “Not speak English?” She raised her eyebrows.  “You’re saying he’s not from around here.”

“That is – that is exactly what I’m saying.  When he comes to, let me – would you please let me try talking to him, translating for you? I might have a language in common with him.”

“That hand is going to have to go.”

Charming did not jump, but he wanted to. He hadn’t heard the man coming up on them, but he was looking down at the fae – probably an Ellehem “returned god” – and his mangled, destroyed hand. 

“Hands can be healed.  I’m lousy at the words but I heard him using them just before – ah!”

Because the man with the axe had just cut off the remainder of the Ellehema’s hand with one swoop and was applying a brand to it, cauterizing the wound. 

“Shit, shit.” Charming took a step back. “It can be healed!  He can heal it!  Why would you – why -” He dove for the man with the axe in a rage. 

“Stop!”

He managed not to fall over, but it was difficult. He did stop. 

The woman-his-mistress glared at him. “Bad dog.”

The pain of her disapproval ripped through him. 

“You will not attack any member of my team. Understood?”

But who was her team? He ought to ask.  He wasn’t going to. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And if this thing can heal, he will use all that energy to heal my people, understood?”

He was, by the very definition of the word, her people. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You may translate when he wakes up again.  Get him out of the rocks and tied down somewhere.  In there.”  She gestured at a mostly-intact building. “That’s going to be my headquarters.”  

Her smile was terrifying.  “We’re going to come out ahead on this – humanity is.  You’ll see.”

Charming had a horrible feeling that he would. 

 Small Fry

Note: This Text is Greek, generally ungrammatical when spoken by Charming. 

He woke in pain and a splash of cold water.  He threw up his hands to protect his face – tried to.  His hands, the left one still a world of pain, were bound to something down by his side. 

He blinked his eyes open.  There was a man standing to one side of him, handsome, unsmiling, his hair cropped short, his blue eyes boring into Small Fry. 

He kept looking around.  To the other side of him – his unwounded side – was the woman with the stick.  She had taken a moment to clean up, it looked like, and was wearing some sort of jacket that fit her nicely. 

She was also not smiling.  Small Fry’s instincts screamed at him to keep looking at her, not to take his eyes off of her, but the pain in his hand made him look. 

He swallowed half of a whine when he saw what remained of his left hand.  Healing that would take hours, weeks.  Who would just cut off something like that-

Unless it was all about punishing him, reminding him of his place.  He looked back at the woman. 

She spoke to him in her incomprehensible language again.  He opened his mouth, willing to try the Working again, and she jabbed the stick warningly. 

This time, she didn’t actually break the skin.  He wondered if she’d already grown tired of him passing out. 

The man spoke slowly to Small Fry.  

“Careful.”  

Small Fry perked up.  He understood that!  It was in the Spell Language!  Not the Old Tongue, the older form of the language that Small Fry and everyone he knew usually spoke, but in the language they used to shape spells. 

“You Understand?”

Small Fry nodded eagerly.  The man’s pronunciation was accurate, crisp, but he seemed to be aiming each word on its own. 

“Woman, Charge. Err…  Leader, General.  Working – no. Or – Pain.”

“I understood that part already,” Small Fry put in dryly.  “My hand?”

The woman shook the stick near him and said something warning that was clear without translation. 

The man translated anyway. 

“She want you say you’re her, you –“ he filled in the Old Tongue words, as if there could be any lack of understanding with that.  “I am hers.  She want you say you belong her.”  He paused .  “Those words are, I, then belong, then to, then you,” he said carefully, pronouncing the words of his language crisply.  “Or… pain.”

He looked pointedly at where his hand had been. 

“More pain,” the man clarified. 

Small Fry swallowed.  He could imagine more pain.  He could also imagine ways that things could go worse if he agreed.  He’d managed to avoid Belonging to anyone, despite his miserable status, for this long.  But now-

The woman stabbed him with the stick, right into a previous wound. 

Small Fry screamed. 

The man put his hand over Small Fry’s mouth.  “She continue that will,” he murmured.  “It – easier, the words.”

“I have a translation Working-” Small Fry murmured. 

The man spoke in his own language to the woman.  She shook her head no and pushed the stick towards Small Fry again.

If she kept that up, he was going to have bleeding sores for months. He whimpered and looked at the man.  “You belong to her?“ he confirmed. 

The man nodded grimly.  It didn’t look as though he thought this was a good idea, either. 

But Small Fry knew what his pain tolerance was – wasn’t.  He knew he would give in eventually, and the woman already seemed to know what Workings were. 

He gulped.  “I-“  Very carefully, he looked at the woman and repeated the words that the man had said to him. 

The woman said something back to him in her language.  Small Fry felt the bond settle over him. 

Then the woman continued to talk, a string of words that made no sense, words he was clearly supposed to do something about.  But what? He had no idea what she was saying.  He whined, deep in his throat.