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oozey mess
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hello vonnie

Janaina Medeiros
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JVL

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@ayonox
Harrow and Gideon
I was trapped on a terrible stretch of highway for hours and listening to Old Gods of Appalachia and thinking about Justified, as one does, and thought Boyd would have enjoyed making a fantastical Appalachia podcast.
He writes Raylan letters from Tramble, and that's nothing new, Boyd's been writing letters to Raylan since he could make them, sending them in paper airplanes across the classroom, mailing them at the Harlan post office like Raylan was some foreign penpal and not the boy he saw every day, the one he was headed toward at the ballfield that afternoon. Raylan suspects that there are bushels of letters from Boyd tucked away in a neo-Nazi bunker somewhere, but Raylan won't ask and Boyd wouldn't tell.
So. Boyd writes letters. He mails them, soon as he knows where to mail them to. (It takes Raylan four years to make his way back to Kentucky and the penitentiary. It takes about six weeks past the sentencing for him to send a card, a picture of palm trees and nothing but Raylan's new address on the other side. Boyd takes the invitation for what it is, and Raylan gets six letters in the next ten days.)
Some of them are short. Some are longer, Boyd's diatribes on prison food and his thoughts on prison guards and the stranglehold of violence on American life. Sometimes he gets bored and writes in code, and Dan finds Raylan sitting at his desk creating ciphers one day and asks if Raylan's gone and joined the spooks. Sometimes Boyd prevaricates about the past, because Harlan was never that kind to the boys they were, and sometimes he pontificates about the future and two old men's place in the world.
Sometimes, he tells tales. That's what Raylan's mama always called it, leaned out the screen door and took a long drag off her cigarette and asked if Boyd was telling his tales again. Yes ma'am, Boyd replied, always polite to Mrs. Givens, told Raylan only a fool would cut ties with the woman who made the best fried chicken God and county had ever seen. Raylan's mama would snort, exhale a long stream of smoke at them, and let the screen door slam as she went back inside. Sometimes she'd open the kitchen window, busy with grown chores, and listen in.
All that's gone, of course, but Boyd's tales remain. Boyd meanders off into the too-still meadows of the woods, the coal-black dark under the hills, and turns up spirits whose names should never be told.
Raylan reads them to Willa. Willa is far more interested in slamming her toys into the ground, and Winona snorts and rolls her eyes and doesn't leave the room.
It's Richard who pays attention. Winona's new boyfriend, then fiance, then husband number three, who listens enraptured to every word. Richard—Richard, who ain't from Kentucky, who maybe married Winona for her accent and maybe married Winona to listen to Raylan read tall tales to a headstrong little girl—who suggests putting Boyd's letters out for other people to read.
Or, well, to hear. Raylan's a little unclear on the whole thing, but Richard insists that Raylan call Boyd, and they start talking about nonsense like introductions and music and then somehow Raylan's agreed to read Boyd's letters into a microphone when he's fairly sure he never said a word.
Richard suggests calling the show "Down a Dark Hole," and Raylan, who grew up hearing the mines turned into every euphemism anyone ever heard, snorts. "Maybe not," he replies, and hangs up the phone before Boyd can reminisce about the good old days and digging coal.
So they make a show. "I'm an auteur," Boyd declares, and Raylan snorts and lets the phone slam on the counter and considers taking up smoking just to blow smoke in Boyd's eyes. But Boyd's been a lot of things in almost fifty years, Raylan supposes, and an author ain't the worst.
Boyd tells tales, and Raylan repeats them loud enough for anyone with a window open to hear, two men getting older without a place in the world, and that's all right. Raylan's missed a lot of things, but he's always reached up and caught Boyd's letters with both hands.
the collection makes me insane. the way robert picardo's character (rightly) despised everything his father stood for and believed in and devoted his entire life to destroying symbols of that ideology. the way that perfectly mirrors raylan (instead of becoming an art collector and destroying hitler paintings he became a marshal and puts away/kills men who live/behave/have the same beliefs as his father). the way raylan recognizes they are similar on some level, recognizes that that man's life is "crippled" (direct quote) by his need to destroy his father and doesn't want that to be him (anymore). the way this revelation doesn't change anything.
other ppl: i hate it when someone comments on my fic using only emojis
me: oh fuck yeah, emojis!! finally something i know how to respond to <3
i love raylan as a character but it’s so funny how quickly everyone realizes that there’s so much wrong with him. and props to all the women knowing they can do better and therefore break up with him, they’re right
I think it’s always very funny when Harrow says something along the lines of “how dare you not to admit to the murder you did!! think of the victim’s families!!!!” like.... my dude. /you/ also killed someone and did your damned best so that no one noticed. and as a result your own daughter continued to fear for the lives of her mom and herself for like a year bc no one knew Quinn was dead. you do not have the high ground you seem to think you have here.
headcanon that Henry actually ages like a normal person. the thing is just that he dies so often and he’s always set back to the exact age he first died at. therefore he never notices
eternally grateful that who you follow can be hidden on tumblr, so people on here dont send weirdo "you're following [insert person I don't like] btw" DMs to other users
(from @whoreslut-supreme) oh NO
Listen. Henry Morgan was not killed by a flintlock pistol; he was killed by a 0.6 calibre lead ball. It is entirely possible the pugio would have worked for Adam.
After all, the words of Ryan Styles: “Guns don’t kill people; bullets kill people.”
Of course, this then begs the question: where is the lead shot now? (I don’t think you can call it a musketball if it didn’t come from a musket). It wouldn’t have lodged in a plank of wood somewhere (no exit wound), so it could not have been recovered with the ship’s salvage.
Scenario 1: It fell out sometime after he hits the water, and is at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean somewhere in the vicinity of where his pocketwatch was. The likelihood of it being found is exceedingly slim - frankly I have no idea how his watch was ever recovered, the thing must be something like the One Ring, slipping off its owner and wanting to be found.
Scenario 2: It stayed lodged in him, and disappeared to wherever his clothes go when he dies, lost forever. But maybe an exception can be made for that which killed him the first time, which takes us to…
Scenario 3: The lead shot stayed in him, and when he reawakened, it was still buried inside him though he’d healed around it. No longer fatal (apart from long-term lead poisoning), it nevertheless caused him chronic chest pain until 1842, when he had ‘every ounce of blood drawn, organs dissected in the name of science, hanged for heresy.’ They would have found it and removed it - silver lining, no more chest pain! This would mean, though, that a lead ball with Henry’s name on it is still rattling around in a specimen jar somewhere. Wonder what would happen if it were to resurface
Ioan Gruffudd as Dr. Daniel Harrow in Harrow season 3
forever and harrow are both shows with far too similar of a premise for me to not try and figure out a way for henry morgan and daniel harrow to be the same person. only problem is to do it without destroying either of their characters and the timeline too much.