Here be FANDOMS. Mostly Batfam, DP, AtLA. Tired Jew in an antisemic world. ✡️🧡🎗️🦇👻⬇️ My political take is "I don't want my entire family and I to die". ppl: "god, you're so fucking selfish. this is exactly why your entire family and you deserve to die" (credit: Magical-Girl-Coral)
I like that the residents are clearly thinking each month or so, “now! How shall we decorate our Holiday Skeleton? Can you pick up some themed glasses on your way home?”
At this point, it’s just funny not to tell him I know.
At first, I kept it a secret out of anger–who wouldn’t be angry to find out their boyfriend was a time traveler and not actually from Minnesota as Minnesota has/will have ceased to exist by the time he was/will be actually born?
Then, eventually, the anger faded leaving me in this weirdly sadistic phase of torturing the ever-living fuck out of him until he breaks.
“Oh, uh,” he says, pulling at his collar. “I–haha, maybe that was from a movie?”
“Didn’t sound like it,” I say, biting my straw. “If Minnesota isn’t Minnesota next year, then I’ll know you’ve been lying to me and you’re actually from the future.”
He, if possible, pales further. He glances at his phone and seems dismayed by the simple date and month he finds there.
“It’s 2018,” I say helpfully. When he looks up, I give him my best innocent eyes. “In case you forgot.”
“I’m not lying to you,” he says, but his lip trembles. “I–I remember the 90s.”
I widen my eyes. “You remember the 90s? Even after the highly invasive thought experiments in the early 2000s?”
I can see panic flash through his eyes as he desperately tries to remember if I’m bluffing or not. “I was camping during those.”
“Weren’t we all,” I say nonsensically. I don’t know what I mean but, more importantly, neither does he. “Ready to go?”
He jumps at the change of topic. “yes! yes, let’s go. I’ll grab the check.”
“Remember to adjust for inflation,” I call to his back as he heads for the register. People in the diner turn, but I don’t mind an audience. He does. “We haven’t recovered from the recession yet this decade.”
“I’m not from the future,” I hear him mumble almost desperately. He takes longer than strictly necessary signing the check, I’d bet to recover his wits.
After the week he’s had, there’s a lot to recover. Too much even for Mr. Future Man.
I grin around my straw. Saturday we’re going to the beach. I’m planning to make up a tsunami history we don’t have (yet?) and see if I can convince him that California extended another fifty miles before the edges sank in 2008.
He’d either fact check it in his future pocket book he doesn’t think I know about after and catch on, or wonder if his arrival in the past had caused parts of California to sink.
Compiled some basic information I know about drawing fat characters for beginners since I've been seeing more talk about absence of really basic traits in a lot of art lately.
Morpho Fat and Skin Folds on Archive.org (for free!)
I just found that blog and already enjoy your writing very much! Are you taking prompts? If yes, then: body swap between neurodivergent and neurotypical person. It would be so exciting, to see that story in your style 💖
It’s taken me a while to get to this prompt! I didn’t want to take it lightly since I’m neurotypical. I talked to one of my friends who’s neurodivergent, so hopefully her help allowed me to do this prompt justice!
————————————-
Ashley wakes up well-rested with the memory of falling asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow the night before.
This is her first clue.
The second is the alarm blaring next to her head, a constantly increasing BRRR BRRRR BRRRR sound. It’s annoying, but not painfully so, not like nails in her head, and she’s just…irritated. That’s all.
Her third clue comes when she sits up and sees her best friend Sera across the room.
“Sera…?” Ashley asks and then stops. That wasn’t her voice. She looks down. This isn’t her body. “Oh. I’m Sera.”
It’s not common–though it’s not uncommon either–to switch bodies. Typically kids grow out of it around 12, they stop coming home in their friend’s body, stop charging down the stairs to announce to Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so that their kid will be home soon, they switched last night, no worries, is that breakfast?
What is uncommon is the fact that Ashley switched. Switching requires a close bond, being on the same frequency as the other person, and she’s definitely not on the same frequency as Sera.
Or she didn’t think they were.
“We really are friends,” she says out loud, surprised. There’s none of the instinctive fear rising at the thought, no inner voice saying that she’s probably reading this wrong, nothing. She just feels…warm.
“Sera?” Mrs. Henderson says from outside the door. She has to raise her voice a little to be heard over the still-blaring alarm. “Honey, are you okay? Your alarm’s been going for a while.”
Ashley stares at the door, speechless. The alarm is loud, painfully so, but she’d still heard Mrs. Henderson. The alarm had almost faded when she focused on Mrs. Henderson’s voice. Normally she would have had to turn the alarm off to sort out all the input, she might have even had to sit quietly for a while just to get the sound out of her head, but this body had prioritized it instantly.
Instinctively, Ashley wraps her arms around herself, but, instead of being comforted, she’s just…wrapping her arms around herself.
[footage of the inside of an ordinary Eastern-European home, taken with a handheld phone camera, the man filming is walking from the living room to the back door of the house]
man, narrating in russian: Every fucking year, this time of the year, the pond at my backyard gets infested. What do ponds get infested with? Frogs? Poisonous weeds? Geese? No. Not my pond.
[The man opens the back door, stepping out into a garden. Three or four nude, human-like figures dash from the borders of a pond back into the water.]
man: Rusalki! I don't know where they come from or how they get here, and I can't afford to hire an exterminator every year. I can't let my cat outside anymore. Last year a rusalka managed to drown a whole deer in my pond, the stench was unbearable.
[He walks as he speaks, approaching the pond. There are several eerily beautiful female beings peering at him from under the surface, their long hair floating in the murky water. Their eyes are gleaming in an unhuman way. The man holding the camera stops to film them.]
man, calm and deadpan: What the fuck are all of you staring at. Get jobs or something.
[One of the rusalki, smaller than the others and clearly not a fully matured adult, slowly reaches out of the water with her white, thin hand, grasping his ankle. He appears unconcerned.]
man: You can't drown me, you little idiot. You're too small. Shoo!
[A loud thud startles the rusalki, making them scatter. A second thud makes it clear these are the approaching footsteps of something massive. The man turns around and points the camera at what appears to be a house, walking past above the treeline with chicken-like legs]
man, now yelling: IF YOUR HOUSE SHITS ON MY YARD AGAIN I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD-
“The best course of action is to join the two kingdoms in an alliance, bound by marriage,” the advisor said.
The queen pondered this. “Then I shall marry their queen. I’ve heard she dislikes her suitors, and I can assure you I am more charming than them.”
The advisor gaped at her. “I was going to suggest you marry the prince, the queen’s brother. As tradition dictates.”
“I don’t want to marry a prince. I am a queen, and I will have someone of my station. Besides, I’ve met the prince. He’s dull.” The queen rose, staring down at her advisor. “She and I will make history together, in more ways than one.”
it’s so funny to me that in a lot of fics after Tim’s parents die and he’s adopted and moved into Wayne manor, he still just… owns the mansion next door. like Drake manor is just right there, fully furnished and empty, fully inherited by Tim. and he just kinda leaves it there. probably forgets he owns it. how much do you wanna bet the others absolutely do NOT forget that next door is also owned by the family?
how much do you wanna bet that at least twice a month Bruce freaks the fuck out because Damian’s been missing for two days and eventually they track him down to find that he’d just walked over to Drake manor to avoid being told to help Alfred dust and then… couldn’t be bothered to walk back. figured that technically Drake manor could also be ‘home’ and made himself comfortable. is napping in Tim’s childhood bedroom when they find him and is completely unapologetic about eating the food in his kitchen.
how much do you wanna bet that Tim gets a call from the weekly cleaner that he totally forgot was being paid from his bank account to maintain Drake manor, only to be told by a slightly terrified cleaner that she tried to go in to mop the kitchen and found a fucking crime lord in nothing but sweatpants and his helmet, ranting to an ‘oracle’ about some kind of ‘drug drop off’ that he ‘needed off Batman’s radar’, because Jason was too tired to motorcycle all the way back to Crime Alley after a debrief but didn’t want to have to be around Bruce so he just kinda broke into Tim’s old house and has been casually chilling there for the past week while he worked on a case.
how much do you wanna bet that one time Bruce grounded Tim for two weeks and Tim was so annoyed about it that to be petty he snuck out and went back to Drake manor. Bruce was so fucking mad because Tim directly ignored his orders and he couldn’t even do anything about it because every time he brought it up he got loud claims of ‘yOU TOLD ME TO GO TO MY ROOM SO I WENT TO MY FUCKING ROOM, B, I DON’T WANNA HEAR SHIT FROM YOU-!’
how much do you wanna bet when eventually Tim can’t be bothered to deal with the insurance forms and he sells Drake manor, he mentions having to hand over his keys and instantly every single batkid starts digging around in their pockets and producing two or three keys to Drake manor because over the years they’ve all just kinda. been using it. whenever. Tim had no fucking clue they’d made keys. he’s so confused. it gets so much funnier when the next day Tim shows up to the estate agents to drop off his plastic tub of keys for the new owner and he fucking finds Jason Todd there ready to receive them.
“I make a lot of money in my line of work,” he says. “figured it was time for a summer house.”
“you hate being close to Bruce.”
“not as much as Bruce hates shoddy neighbours. i’m going to make his life hell.”
“you made me carry this box of keys for nothing.”
“yeah you can hand those back out actually, i really don’t care who goes in there.”
did y’all know that in victorian times it was really common after somebody died, that their family members would clean up the corpse, prop them up, and take post mortem photos with them?
Jason kills the Joker and instead of being normal about it he decides to antagonise Bruce by taking professional photos with the guys corpse in different outfits and poses while in full Red Hood gear and leaving them in the batcave for Bruce to find. he thinks it’s hysterical. Bruce thinks it’s psychologically damaging and he has no fucking clue how to get Red Hood to leave him alone OR how he can even get into the fucking batcave. eventually Tim finds Jason without a mask leaving another photo and figures everything out.
Tim: so you’ve just been doing this for months? isn’t the corpse like… decayed?
Jason: no i took like a hundred in advance before i cremated the fucker. so i can do this for like another year.
Tim, remembering the shit he had to go through on his 16th birthday so really Bruce has what’s coming to him:
Tim: that’s actually kinda funny.
Jason, delighted: right?!? i still have the suit i was buried in, too, so i’m thinking of making myself look corpse-like for a couple selfies and taking it one step further.
Tim: ok well that’s diabolically cruel.
Tim:
Tim: you know i’m somewhat of a photographer myself…
Jason: this is the start of a beautiful secret friendship, Replacement.
“The stone corrupts all those who wield it, it is fueled by their ambitions and dreams. So we need someone with no ambitions, no dreams, someone who doesn’t care about what the future holds for themselves. That’s why we found you.”
The first thought, in a moment like this, probably should not have been what came to your mind. Well, fuck you too, you thought, half incredulous and half apathetic. You leaned against the doorframe with one shoulder and eyed the group of three wizened people before you. Why was it always the elderly who came with big quests or brought important items that had to be hidden away?
Also, if you didn’t care about the future, didn’t that mean you didn’t care about the stone either? You might as well give it to someone else. Maybe someone better suited than you. There was this little girl across the street who had an acorn necklace and played in puddles and always sat very still until the every last stray cat felt safe enough to eat what she brought them. Maybe the stone should go to her, she at least gave a shit.
Based off a world where everyone gets a Destiny they must fulfill. Bakers and Demon Kings (x) and Villagers (X). You? You are a Hero.
----------------
You are a Hero.
Nobody at the orphanage knows. The mark sets during the worst winter in three decades, when the windows have to be barred to prevent snow spirits from ripping them to shreds and the Director takes half the reserves and runs in the middle of the night.
Sarah, the only caregiver left in the rickety building, holds as many of the kids as she can while the snow spirits scream outside. You’d love to be in the circle of her arms, but you’re holding the door shut with as much strength as your eight-year-old arms allow.
She doesn’t tell you to get away from the door.
“It’s alright,” she says, voice trembling. Her brown hair, matted from the months indoors, hides her eyes. She croons to the younger kids like a bird, so softly and gently that you have to strain to hear it over the howling demons and roaring winds. “We’ll be okay. Our land’s Lord will send a Hero, you’ll see. We’ll be okay then.”
Your arms burn as intensely as your eyes. A Hero. Your stomach aches from hunger and your fingers sting from the cold. You aren’t sure how much good you’re doing keeping the door closed, but there’s something deep inside of you that tells you you must do something. The blows from the snow spirits outside vibrate up your arms, nearly throwing you back.
Heroes, you think, only matter if they show up.
Hope is traumatic. Eight-years-old and you’ve been returned from potential families twice. Three days ago, you found the beginnings of greenery in the woods behind the orphanage. When you excitedly raced back to tell the others that winter was ending, it was only to find the Director and most of the caregivers gone with a significant portion of the rations.
Then the storm clouds rolled in.
So that long, dangerous night, you don’t hope. You shut your ears to Sarah’s gentle comforts and the snow spirits’ shrieks. You focus on the burning in your arms, the blisters forming on your heels, the cold nipping at your fingers.
Hope is traumatic but trying is something you can do. You put your small body between all of the horrors outside the door and the other kids. You try to stand firm.
You don’t notice when the burning in your arms hides the arrival of a telling mark on your left bicep.
---------------------.
You are fourteen years old, one year shy of coming into your power, when a couple visits the orphanage intending to adopt.
Sarah is now the Director of the orphanage, awarded the position by the land’s Lord after that terrible winter six years ago. She’s different than she was then. You lost three kids to hunger before spring finally came and she held each one in their last moments.
You and Sarah never develop the close relationship she has with the other kids. But she always makes sure you have more meat in your meals than most and, when you hunt in the woods, you always let her decide how the food will be divided between dinner and winter stores.
“We’re Knights,” the potential adopters tell the Director. They’re a couple, a man and a woman with dark hair and muscular bodies. “Retired. We’re settling just north of here for good and are looking for a suitable child who can follow in our footsteps.”
Director Sarah looks at them coldly, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands over her stomach. If she notices you and two of the younger kids peeking through the crack in the door, she doesn’t say anything. “I apologize, Mr. and Mrs. Bahr, but it seems there’s a misunderstanding. We do not pair children with families based on their Destiny.”
“We’re not saying you do,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her gaze is cutting though her shoulders are relaxed. “Our Lord explained before we came. However, there is no rule against asking the children their Destiny, is there?”
Loophole. You pull away from the crack in the door, letting Hera and Josiah take your spot. You lean against the wall with your eyes closed. Orphanages aren’t allowed to disclose Destinies, but that’s where the protection ends. If someone sees a child’s Destiny or learns of it through some other means, that’s alright.
These people aren’t here to adopt because they want a child. They’re here to adopt for a guarantee. A guarantee of what remains to be seen. An heir like they claim? A prodigy for status? Or a weapon for them to control?
You listen for any other clues behind their motives, but the Bahrs don’t push the issue of Destiny again. They accept Director Sarah’s schedule for meeting the kids, even offering to host a picnic day at their estate as a treat. The couple wants to gain trust, you can tell, and by the end of the meeting it’s working.
Director Sarah sees them off to the door herself.
“We’ll wait for the invitation,” she says. She’s older now, her thin brown hair showing the beginning signs of going grey. But her handshake looks strong when she shakes Mrs. Bahr’s in farewell. “I’m sure the children will be thrilled.”
“I hope so,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her husband nods to the Director gravely, but Mrs. Bahr lingers. “I’m sorry if we came off a little…forward when we mentioned Destinies. Please believe me when I say that my husband and I aren’t so shallow. We are looking for a child – one we can call our own.”
“I see,” Director Sarah says. There’s a hint of warmth in her voice. “As I said, we look forward to your invitation.”
Mrs. Bahr nods and joins her husband in their carriage. They set off down the road without once having asked to meet one of the children on the first day of their introduction.
You can tell Sarah likes them.
“What do you think?” Sarah asks. She doesn’t turn from the road, even though the Bahr’s carriage is out of sight. “Isla?”
You don’t ask how she knows it’s you lurking in the shadows of the orphanage. Director Sarah is a Guardian. Her senses are elevated when it comes to those under her charge.
“I don’t think anything,” you say. You step out from around the corner with a sigh. No use hiding now. “They’re influential people if they were recommended here by the Lord himself. We’re fortunate.”
“You’re the right age for a Knight’s apprenticeship,” Sarah says.
“Hera hasn’t shown me her Destiny, but it’s probably something suitable,” you say. Hera is ten, one of the older kids at the orphanage. Last summer she lifted Josiah, only a year younger than her and already a head taller, out of the well before he could drown. “You should talk to her about what being part of a Knight family could mean.”
Sarah looks at you over her shoulder. The setting sun catches in her eyes, turning the warm brown into an unearthly amber. “I hope you can accept the possibility they might choose you.”
They won’t. “Aren’t I needed here?” you ask.
Sarah’s expression softens. “You are, Isla,” she says. She weighs her next words carefully. “But I am the one who’s responsible for all of you. I can take care of everyone. If the Bahr family is a good fit…”
“Sure,” you say flippantly. You shove your hands in your pockets and slink back into the orphanage. You don’t dare hope. “I’m going to help Josiah.” He’s on dinner duty tonight. He always cuts the onions too roughly. “See you later.”
You feel Sarah’s eyes on your back like a physical warmth.
-----------.
Being a Hero doesn’t change anything about you. You expected it to when you first noticed the mark but, even six years later, nothing’s different.
You aren’t kinder. When Josiah asks for your dessert, you steal a bit of his as punishment for even asking. When Hera asks for a bedtime story, you tell her one so scary that she has to sleep with one of the other girls. When Sarah asks you to fix the fence around the chickens, you whine and complain that you’re the only one who does anything around the orphanage.
“The curse of being the oldest,” Sarah says dryly. She hands you a hammer and a bucketful of nails. “Some posts were dropped off at the end of the lane. Make sure you’re back by sunset.”
Maybe you’re a little stronger than others. You can drag three posts at once and could probably drag more if you wanted. But another curse of being a Hero is that you’re very aware.
It’s not until you’re nailing a third rail to the fence that Mr. Bahr makes his presence known. You don’t turn even when he makes his steps purposefully heavy to avoid scaring you.
“You’re very strong,” Mr. Bahr says.
His shadow is long and thin, just like him. You observe it from your peripherals, unable to speak with the two nails you’re holding between your lips. You take your time pounding them into the wood. He’s arms, a sword at his hip, but his hands are loose at his sides.
“Good thing I am,” you say at last. You stand and turn in the same motion. He waited for you to finish without chastising you for not speaking right away. You perch the hammer on your shoulder. “Otherwise, the chickens would take over.”
Mr. Bahr laughs. Unlike when he was meeting Director Sarah, his face is relaxed and open. His blue eyes sparkle. “We couldn’t have that now, could we? I suppose we all owe you our thanks for preventing the coop’s coup.”
You want to laugh. You don’t. “Director Sarah won’t like you being here uninvited.”
“I just came to drop off an invitation,” Mr. Bahr says. He studies you for a moment and then smiles. “I hope you’ll accept, Isla.”
A chill races down your spine. How does he know your name? You wipe the sweat from your brow with a scowl. “Maybe I don’t want to be adopted.”
To your surprise, Mr. Bahr nods. “I can understand that,” he says. He looks up at the sky. The light is sliding from the sky, catching on the clouds and turning them a brilliant orange. When he looks back at you, he almost looks…sad. “Think of our invitation as a party, hm? No strings attached.”
For some reason your tongue feels heavy. It takes two tries before you can say, “I need to fix this part of the fence before dark.”
“Want some help?” Mr. Bahr asks.
“I couldn’t ask—”
“You didn’t ask, I offered,” Mr. Bahr says. He rolls up his sleeves and nimbly plucks the hammer from your grip. “I may be a Knight, but I’ve done my fair share of carpentry. Let me show you a few tricks.”
You listen quietly as Mr. Bahr shows you how to twist the nails to avoid splitting the wood. What would have taken you an hour to finish, he accomplishes in a quarter of one, talking to you the entire time.
It’s…odd to have an adult’s attention on you for such a long time. He’s careful not to get too close, always offering you the hammer to practice by setting it on the grass between you rather than handing it to you directly. When you manage to replicate his technique on your second try, Mr. Bahr is more excited than you are.
“Wonderful,” he compliments. He glances up at the sky. The first stars are twinkling. “I’ll be going now and you should too. Have a good night, Isla.”
Unlike the first time he said your name, it feels pleasant now. You mutter a goodbye and leave before he does, scurrying towards the orphanage with your bucket of nails clutched to your chest.
He’s gone when you think to check the road for his carriage. Did he walk here? Ride a horse?
You close and lock the orphanage’s doors behind you.
----------------.
The picnic isn’t scheduled until the middle of summer and it’s spring now. Still, it’s all anyone can talk about.
“We have plenty of time to get ready,” Director Sarah tells them. “The Bahrs will be dropping in from time to time until then. I expect everyone to be on their best behavior when they’re here.”
Josiah raises his hand. “I hear they live in a castle!”
“A manor,” Sarah corrects. “Given to them by our Lord for their years of service.”
“The Guard in town says they worked for the King once!” Hera says, wiggling in her seat. “Is that true?”
“You can ask them yourself,” Sarah says. She claps her hands together and starts urging the kids up. “It’s time for chores. Your assignment is posted by the kitchen…”
You stay seated at the breakfast table. You haven’t eaten your third egg or your last slice of toast. Your stomach feels queasy. You keep thinking about Mr. Bahr saying wonderful when you worked on the fence together.
You aren’t supposed to want to be adopted. You’ve had your chance and you ruined it both times. It’s not fair of you to imagine what it would be like learning swordsmanship from Mr. Bahr and what it’d be like to hear him praise you when you got the next move right. One of the other kids deserve that chance.
You can only do what you can do.
---------------.
Mrs. Bahr is alone the next visit.
No one recognizes her at first. She’s wearing a gown like a noble and her hair is gently flowing down her back rather than tightly pinned behind her head.
“I’ve received the Director’s permission to hold a lesson on writing,” she tells the children. She gestures to the bag she’s set on the table. “Come get a slate and a piece of chalk. We will work all together.”
The kids have never had slate and chalk before, not the real ones anyway. Sometimes you find a nice, flat rock they can draw on with charcoal, but it’s not as entertaining as what Mrs. Bahr brings. She watches everyone in amusement as they immediately start drawing instead of starting the lesson, flower and trees and swords.
“Look, Isla,” Hera says, tugging at your sleeve. You’re seated on the spare chair by the wall, away from the table. She twists from her spot to show you she’s drawn a shaky stick figure. “It’s you!”
Your eyes flick up to Mrs. Bahr. She’s not irritated by the distractions yet. You point with your bit of chalk at the drawing. “Which part of it is me?”
Hera points at a blob in the stick figure’s hand. “That’s the horned rabbit you brought home yesterday!”
You snort. The horned rabbit you’d killed yesterday wasn’t half the size of your body. “Are you sure that’s a horned rabbit? Looks like a turtle to me.”
Hera points to the stick figure’s face. “You can also tell it’s you ‘cause you’re frowning.”
“Hey!”
Mrs. Bahr claps her hands together. Instantly, she has the room’s attention. “I’m glad you all like my present. However, it’s time to get started.”
“Present?” Josiah asks.
“If you work hard today, you will be allowed to keep the slate and chalk as a present,” Mrs. Bahr says. She takes care to make eye contact with every kid. “Only those who work hard.”
It’s generous. You watch Mrs. Bahr from under your lashes as she talks everyone through writing the alphabet. It’s too generous not to be genuine. Try as you might, you can’t figure out any ulterior motive to spending so much on the kids. To look good? For who? For Director Sarah?
Director Sarah won’t be swayed by gifts like this even if the kids could be.
Mrs. Bahr stops well away from you, observing your slate from afar. “Very good, Isla. Do you know how to write?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Read?”
“Only a little.”
Mrs. Bahr hums. She doesn’t look disgusted by your stupidity or put off by your clipped tone. Your first family returned you when you told them. Mrs. Bahr’s lips curve. “Your letters are wonderfully steady. I can tell you will be a very good student.”
She turns before she can see you flush.
---------.
Over the next few months, there isn’t a week that goes by without at least one of the Bahrs visiting. They become a regularity around the orphanage to the point that even Director Sarah stops worrying about the state of their rooms with every visit.
“Kids will be kids,” Mrs. Bahr says when you ask her to wait while you tidy the toys in the parlor. “It’s alright, Isla.”
Your head spins. Sometimes, when one of them says something particularly bizarre, you feel like you’re outside your body. There was a time when they didn’t have toys to leave out in the visiting area. Thanks to the Bahrs, every child has a doll, a slate, a new set of shoes, and an abacus. You are still waiting for the strings that come with these presents.
There haven’t been any yet.
The kids love the Bahrs. Hera insists on baking fresh strawberry tarts for them after a day of gathering. Josiah carefully sounds out passages from their new books to show them that he’s still practicing his letters. Annie and a group of the younger kids spend all day weaving a flower crown for Mrs. Bahr that you have to confiscate before they can put it on her head.
“Go wash your hands,” you scold. Despite your tone, your hands are gentle as you push Annie to the schoolhouse. “Don’t touch your eyes.”
Annie blinks rapidly, trying to hold back tears. “I didn’t know it was poison, lady, I swear.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Bahr says, hand fluttering over her heart. She steps towards Annie. “Dear one—”
You give full body flinch when Mrs. Bahr stoops to hug Annie, but you don’t get between them. The Bahrs have won your trust in this. They won’t hurt the kids.
You sigh to hide your flinch when Mrs. Bahr stands. “Now Mrs. Bahr needs to wash. Poison ivy is no joke.”
“It is not,” Mrs. Bahr agrees. She ruffles Annie’s hair. “Go on, do as Isla says. Wash up.”
“We can go together,” Annie says with her big, blue eyes. She reaches for Mrs. Bahr’s hand and then thinks better of it. She tucks her hands behind her back and kicks at the ground. “If you want.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Mrs. Bahr says, smiling.
Annie nods and races to follow her friends.
“I’m sorry,” you say as soon as Annie is out of ear shot. You busy yourself picking up the fallen flower crown and the various trimmings of poison ivy they’d used for foliage throughout it. You feel flustered. “They really didn’t know any better—”
“I know,” Mrs. Bahr says so gently that you have to look up at her. She’s frowning at your hands. “I’m more concerned about you. Should you be holding onto it like that?’
“I’m immune,” you say. You’re not worried that she’ll guess your Destiny from that. Lots of Villagers are immune to poison ivy, particularly the ones in this region who rely on gathering and hunting. “Since I’m in the woods so much.”
“Knights are immune too,” Mrs. Bahr says. She follows you away from the orphanage and to the tree line. “You’re quite the hunter, aren’t you? I remember Hera saying you slayed a horned rabbit.”
Heat comes to your face. You stomp ahead of her to deposit the flower crown in some denser foliage where the kids won’t be able to get it. “I get lucky.”
“I’d consider it unlucky to run across a horned rabbit,” Mrs. Bahr says. She examines the forest with interest. “A demon is a demon. Even adults have difficulty with horned rabbits.”
It hadn’t been difficult. You’d been armed with a sharpened branch and, when the rabbit leapt for you, you knew right when to stab. You clear your throat. “It was difficult.” Then when Mrs. Bahr doesn’t say anything, you add, “It was frightening.”
She believes you. She lays a gentle hand on your shoulder to get you to look her in the face. “The orphanage budget is enough that you don’t need to hunt, Isla,” Mrs. Bahr says. “I know I don’t like the idea of a fourteen-year-old out here alone and unarmed.”
“Almost fifteen,” you say, “and I had a sharp stick.”
“A sharp sti—” Mrs. Bahr cuts herself off with a deep breath. “Regardless of your…aptitude, Isla, it’s dangerous. I’ve spoken to the Director and she agrees with me. You aren’t to go hunting anymore.”
The forest suddenly feels too hot. The leaves overhead rustle, but you can barely hear it over the roaring of your blood. “Excuse me?”
Mrs. Bahr steps closer. “You’re a very strong girl, Isla, but it’s dangerous. If you want to go out with me or Mr. Bahr—”
You shake off her hand. “The Director agreed with you? She said I’m not allowed to go hunting anymore?”
“Out of concern for your safety.” Mrs. Bahr looks like she regrets saying anything. “Once Mr. Bahr and I explained to her what a risk a horned rabbit poses—”
You run away. Mrs. Bahr calls out after you, but you don’t stop. Beyond the sting of Mr. and Mrs. Bahr not thinking you strong enough to hunt, there’s a deeper hurt. The Director agrees. Really? Really?
“Isla? What’s wrong? I thought you were with Mrs. Bahr,” Director Sarah says when you burst into her office. She sets the papers she’d been reading down and frowns. “You look—”
“I’m not supposed to go hunting anymore?” you ask.
Sarah’s face blooms in understanding. “After what Mr. and Mrs. Bahr said about the increase in demons in the area, I agreed—”
“It’s summer,” you interrupt. You stalk up to her desk, your fists balled at your side.
“It’s time to hunt.”
“The Bahrs have agreed to accompany you—”
“They only come once a week,” you say. You’re being so incredibly rude to the Director, but you don’t care. “I need to hunt three times that at least. The game has been moving deeper into the forest—”
“Where you are not allowed to go,” Director Sarah says, this time interrupting you. She steeples her hands in front of her. “I should have curtailed this activity long before this point, but I thought you needed it.”
“We need it,” you say. You can’t believe what you are hearing. “We need to store up rations, you know that.”
“Our budget allows us to purchase rations in town.”
“But what if that’s not enough? It’s better to have our own supply—”
“It will be enough.”
“It still doesn’t hurt to have some extra jerky—”
“The store we have will be enough.”
“But what if it’s not?!” You’ve raised your voice without realizing it, fists shaking at your sides. “The other kids are too young to remember o-or too new, but you and I do. That winter, we didn’t have enough. Why are you trying to stop me?” To your horror, your voice cracks. “I thought you understood.”
There’s silence in the room except for your panting breath.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah finally says. The sudden apology is enough to close your mouth against what you might have said. She meets your eyes. “You’ve always been so strong that I…Isla, you were a child. I will always be grateful for what you did that winter and for every winter since. I relied on you, a child, because I didn’t have any other option. We didn’t have another option. But now we do. We’re okay now, Isla. You don’t have to work so hard to protect us.”
“Yes, I do, I’m—” the Hero “—I can do it.” There is something inside of you telling you that that is what you must do. You think that it’s part of being a Hero.
((You’re worried that it’s because you’re scared.))
“My decision is final,” Sarah says. She picks up her documents and straightens them. “You are only to go hunting with an adult from now on. If I find out you went to the woods without one, there will be consequences.”
She’s using the same tone she uses on the other kids when they’re misbehaving. I mean business. You stare at her for a long, breathless moment. You jerkily turn to go.
Mrs. Bahr is hovering in the doorway. She looks guiltily between you and Director Sarah. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop…”
You shove past her and run to your room.
-------------.
Somewhat counterintuitively, as an orphan you’re never alone. You throw yourself face down on your bed.
A shocked silence swallows the occupants on the other bed.
“Is she okay?” Josiah asks Hera.
“It’s Isla,” Hera answers. There’s the rustling of bedsheets as Hera climbs out of bed and then the soft sound of socks on hardwood as she comes over. “You okay?”
You are not okay. There’s an intense war of emotions in your chest. Anger that none of the adults seem to think you’re capable. Betrayal that Sarah isn’t on your side. A sick fear at the thought of being unprepared for winter. And, now that you’ve run away so spectacularly, shame. They probably think you’re overreacting, but they’re wrong. They’re the ones who are being naïve. They’re the ones who—
A gentle hand on the back of your head freezes the thought. Hera pets your short, black hairs in an attempt at comfort. “It’s okay, Isla. You can just sleep. Sleep makes everything better.”
That’s what you tell the younger kids. The difference between you and Hera saying it? When Hera falls asleep, you work to fix the problem. If you fall asleep, no one is going to fix the problem for you.
You flip over, dislodging Hera’s hand. You look up at her as if seeing her for the first time. She’s ten, two years older than you were when the winter happened. She was four then. You want to ask her if she remembers, but instead you ask, “Do you think Sarah hates me?”
“What?” Hera’s eyes are wide. “No! What makes you think that?”
“Nothing,” you say. “It’s stupid. Forget I asked.” You turn on your side, your back to them.
“I know she’s worried about you,” Josiah says. He offers the information tentatively. “I overheard her and the Bahrs talking. Did they ban you from the woods?”
You don’t move. “What else did they say?” You’re afraid that he’s going to say they called you weak. Or, worse, a nuisance. “Did they say anything else about me?”
“Not really.”
Nobody hears anything useful around here. You close your eyes. “I just want to be alone for a little while. I—”
There’s a knock on the door. “Isla? It’s me, Marie. Can I come in?”
Marie? Too late you remember that that’s Mrs. Bahr’s name. She’s been trying to get the kids to call her be her first name. So far no one’s taken her up on it and she hasn’t pushed.
Hera opens the door. “Hi, Mrs. Bahr. Isla is being moody.”
You sit up with a squawk. “I am not!”
“If it’s alright, I’d like to talk to Isla for a moment,” Mrs. Bahr says to Josiah and Hera. “Alone.”
“Don’t let her yell at you,” Hera says as she passes Mrs. Bahr. “She never means it.”
You are going to strangle her. “I don’t yell!”
“That’s not an inside voice,” Josiah says. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, pulling the door closed behind him and Hera.
You are suddenly alone in the room with Mrs. Bahr.
You sit up further, pressing your back against the headboard. Mrs. Bahr doesn’t look mad. Her hands are clasped in front of her and she’s looking down at the floor. It almost looks like she’s the nervous one. You hug your pillow to your chest. “You can sit down if you’d like.”
Mrs. Bahr looks up at you. Her lips twitch. “Thank you, Isla.” She sits down on Hera’s bed gingerly as if afraid it wouldn’t be able to take her wait. When she’s settled, she says, “I wanted to apologize to you.”
Your arms tighten around your pillow. “Why?”
“Not for saying you shouldn’t hunt alone,” Mrs. Bahr says. She’s not a mind reader but sometimes it seems like she is. “For not understanding what hunting means to you. I would have approached things differently if I’d known.”
“Known what?”
“About what you’ve been through.”
The winter. That’s the only thing Mrs. Bahr could be talking about. She must have heard more of your conversation (argument) with the Director than you thought. “It was a long time ago,” you say. You really don’t want to talk about this with Mrs. Bahr. Not when you can still feel that winter’s desperation in your molars like a memory. “I’m fine.”
Mrs. Bahr is quiet for a moment. She studies you much like Mr. Bahr did all those weeks ago mending the fence. “I was a knight for 30 years, you know. I supposed it’s not weird that a Knight worked as a knight for so long. As soon as I came into my power at 15, I was compelled to hold a sword. To seek out evils and defeat them. To follow my Lord into battle no matter the cause.” She looks up at the ceiling. “I’ve had a lot of adventures and helped many, many people. But there was a time when I wanted to quit.”
You start. “You did?”
“I wanted to work in a flower shop,” Mrs. Bahr says. She leans back on her hands. “What a life it could have been! Waking up before the sun and hiking to the flower fields…I had my new house all picked out. It’d have a koi pond and a row of red rocks from the Harrow River. That’s where I met Ivan.”
Mr. Bahr. He’s been trying to get you to call him by his first name too. Unlike Mrs. Bahr, he’s much pushier about it. “What made you want to quit?”
“Exhaustion,” Mrs. Bahr says. She closes her eyes. “It seemed that there was a new threat to my Lord every day. An assassination attempt from a branch family. A territorial dispute. A new influx of demon beasts. It got to the point that I hardly left my Lord’s side for fear of returning to find him dead. He was the first Lord I swore my loyalty to. I always felt like I was failing those days. So I wanted to quit.”
You’ve felt like that before. Sometimes it seems like you never catch enough while hunting, that you’re never kind enough, that you’re never strong enough. You’ve never thought about working in a flower shop though. “Why didn’t you?”
“I did.” Mrs. Bahr laughs at your shocked expression. “I was in my twenties. They tell you things calm down after your teen years, but that’s not true. I handed in my resignation and fled for the nearest town.” Her smile softens. “Ivan followed me.”
“He was there?”
Mrs. Bahr nods. “We were sworn to the same Lord. He came galloping up with my resignation clutched in his hand. His face was so red!” She laughs. “’What does this mean, Marie? He was crying! You can’t quit! I haven’t beaten you yet!’”
“And that’s what convinced you to stay a knight?” you ask. That doesn’t help you. You don’t have a significant other to come racing after you.
“No,” Mrs. Bahr said. “Ivan didn’t know why I wanted to quit. I can’t do it, I said. I can’t keep the Lord safe. I’m not enough. You know what he said?”
You shake your head.
“He said, Of course, you’re not enough,” Mrs. Bahr says. She’s lowering her voice in imitation of Ivan’s. “You were never going to be enough.” You’re gaping at his harsh words, but Mrs. Bahr looks amused. “That’s why we have a squadron. The job is too big for one person. All you need to do is your part.”
You stare at her, not understanding.
“The world isn’t carried by one person,” Mrs. Bahr says. “I was so convinced that everything was up to me – the Lord’s safety, the next campaign’s success, or defense from monsters – that I buckled under the pressure. What I didn’t see that it wasn’t all my responsibility. I was part of a team. All I had to do was one part.”
You think of the winter night and holding the door shut. There hadn’t been anyone to help you then. Someone needed to comfort the younger kids. Someone needed to try and protect them. “What if there isn’t anyone else?”
“Then we do our best,” Mrs. Bahr says immediately. She meets your eyes. “But are you by yourself now, Isla?”
Yes. You open your mouth to tell her that, but the word won’t come out. Are you? Director Sarah looked so defeated when you accused her of not understanding. But didn’t she understand better than anyone else. You swallow. “No. There’s Director Sarah.”
“What does she do?”
“She takes care of us,” you say. “She makes sure the money we get goes to the right things.”
Mrs. Bahr smiles warmly. “That’s right. Who else?”
“…Hera,” you say. You remember she pulled Josiah from the well before Annie even had the chance to tell you what had happened. “She watches the younger kids.”
“She’s very good with them,” Mrs. Bahr says. “Who else?”
Your mind blanks. Who else? “Josiah. He helps us study.”
“And?”
And? “T-the Lord. He makes sure we have the funds for what we need.”
“Including winter provisions,” Mrs. Bahr agrees.
You frown. You suddenly see where this is going. “The amount of winter provisions he thinks we need.”
Mrs. Bahr hums. “What happens if he’s wrong?”
“That’s why I hunt,” you say. Maybe now she’ll understand. “So that we’ll be okay if he’s wrong.”
“What if you don’t hunt enough?” Mrs. Bahr asks.
Your chest is tight. You rub at your sternum and try to breathe deeply. “We starve,” you say. You wheeze and then clear your throat. “We’d starve, but that’s not going to happen. Because I always hunt enough.” I have to.
“This year,” Mrs. Bahr says, voice gentle and soothing, “say you don’t hunt anymore. The winter is harsher than expected and the orphanage’s stores are depleted. What do you think will happen?”
You laugh and gasp at the same time. “They’d all starve,” you say again. What doesn’t she get about that? “First the little ones then—”
Mrs. Bahr is shaking her head. “No, Isla, that’s not what would happen.”
Your temper flares. “That’s what always—”
“What would happen,” Mrs. Bahr says in her even tone, “is that Mr. Bahr and I would come deliver extra provisions to you.”
All the air is chased from your lungs. You feel eight again, small and vulnerable and cold. You’re shivering as you stare at her. “You would?”
“We would.” Gently, as if afraid she might scare you, Mrs. Bahr moves from Hera’s bed to yours. She puts a warm hand on your knee. “We’re a fortress. The Lord gives us part of the emergency fund in order to keep our stores and grounds ready for refugees. Mr. Bahr keeps fifteen percent more than the most generous estimate out of an abundance of caution. We would come and make sure nobody starved.”
For some reason, that makes you want to cry. You blink against the sudden heat behind your eyes. “Oh.”
“That’s why we don’t want you to go hunting,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her thumb rubs over your knee. “It was worth the risk before. You worked hard to keep everyone here alive. You are incredible, for that, Isla. I can’t tell you how much I admire your strength and your bravery. But things are different now. You don’t need to do as much as you did before. There are other people on your squad.”
But I’m the Hero, you want to say. Heroes are supposed to save the day, aren’t they?
Knights help save the day too.
You let Mrs. Bahr pat your knee for a long time. She seems content to let you think, her energy a pleasant hum next to you. A knot is untying in your chest. If you don’t hunt, it’s not the end of everyone. There will still be the funds from the Lord. Sarah’s always been excellent at stretching those as far as they need to go. And, if they aren’t enough, there’s something different this year. The Bahrs are here.
“You’d help us even if you’re only going to adopt one of us?” you ask.
Mrs. Bahr’s lips thin. She looks sad, but hides it quickly. “We’re Knights,” she says. “Even if we are retired. We’ll be here the moment you need us.”
You don’t hope. Hope is traumatic. But…
You believe her.
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(Part 2) (part 3)
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Thanks for reading! There will be a new part of Hope and the Hero every Friday!
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There's also a new story up there, a sequel to my Dandelion villain story (X)
Summary: You are free of mind control for the first time in a year. The only things standing between you and your revenge are the heroes.
Battinson really does make certain Old People things about Batman lore make sense about a Batman Of The 20s. For example, Dick's origin. I fully believe that this particular Batman, instructed to go out and have some fun, like a human person might have, with no instructions more specific than that, would answer the question "what is fun, to a person?" by googling "circus near me"
"Alfred told me to go have some fun so I went to see great clown pagliacci and, as you can imagine, there was a murder and, understandably, I now have a child"
On the idea of Jason and Damian knowing each other in the league and Jason teaching Damian and adding the whole idea of all the robins responding to “robin, report”:
Jason absolutely used those little call backs they use in elementary schools, like “1 2 3 all eyes on me!”
So please picture some situation, maybe Damian is arguing with someone and it’s getting way too heated, Jason just tells “hocus pocus” and Damian immediately “everybody focus” and he’s so mortified he just stops and blue screens
ok no i need to talk about this because it’s fucking genius and has opened my eyes to something that i need discussed more.
because if Jason was Damian’s tutor when they were in the league together, then he was Damian’s protector/teacher/authority figure when Damian was what. seven? six? eight? however you fuck with the timeline to make your au, it would be between 5-10 at least. that means that teaching wise, Jason wouldn’t have just been his combat tutor, he would have been Damian’s equivalent of a fucking elementary school teacher (primary school for brits) which has got to be one of the fucking MOST GOD TIER THINGS- i’m now just remembering back to my primary school days and thinking about how that could have gone for Damian and Jason.
-you are right, Jason 100% would use those callbacks constantly. growing up on the streets he was probably well used to having to corral groups of other little street kids anyway; he knows the drill when it comes to keeping little ones attention on him when it’s needed, and Damian is no different.
-my teacher used to whistle really loud and then go ‘back to the centre!’ when she wanted our class to come and sit on the floor in front of her while she spoke, so i’m now thinking that Jason probably has a specific whistle that he’s conditioned Damian to respond to. doesn’t matter where they are or what Damian’s doing, if he hears that whistle he instantly wanders over and plops down criss-cross apple sauce at Jason’s feet. one time Jason instinctively did it when he needed to point something out in the cave while they were both working on the same case and neither of them realised how odd it looked until after Jason said ‘ok you can go now,’ and Damian stood up to go back to whatever he was doing only to turn around and see Tim and Dick staring at them with the most baffled faces possible.
-after they were finished with training Jason used to get Damian to help him clean up the training grounds by setting a timer for a minute and challenging him to see how much he could get done before it went off. if the area was completely cleared when the time was up Damian got a treat. now whenever Damian’s being difficult and won’t help Bruce clean up the cave Jason just has to start counting down from 60 and Damian instantly starts rushing to clean as fast as he can.
-Jason totally has gold star stickers. Damian thinks they’re the most precious thing in the world. both Bruce and Dick have tried to buy their own stickers to reward Damian for good behaviour but Damian does not care. they’re only precious if they came directly from Jason’s LOA inscribed wooden box that he keeps in his desk. Bruce wouldn’t mind if it weren’t for the fact that Jason keeps giving Damian stickers every time the kid comes up with an insult towards either Bruce or Tim that Jason decides is ‘particularly well placed’.
-Damian is mortified that all of these things have stuck within their relationship even though they’re now in Gotham. despite his hatred for it, however, he still instinctively views Jason as the teacher in his life. Bruce is absolutely devastated every time he painstakingly takes the time to teach Damian a new fighting move only watch Damian instantly cross across the cave to Jason’s side and ask that Jason ‘show me how to actually do it’ because he truly does have that childlike belief that as the teacher, Jason will know it better.
Bruce, watching Damian tug on Jason’s sleeve: …i used to be important.
Tim, biting into an apple: d’ya think we could get him to put Damian in time out?
Dick: i actually have seen him do that. Dami refused to stop training while Jason was talking to him so he made Dami sit in a corner for twenty minutes.
Hi my name is Mordechai ben Yair ben Shimei ben Kish, ish Yimini and I am from the tribe of Binyamin (that’s how I got my name) with a long white beard that reaches my mid-abs and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like King Saul (AN: if u don’t know who he is get da hell out of here!). I AM related to Queen Esther which is great because she’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a prophet but I'm humble and scholarly. I’m also a Jew, and I was a member of a respected group called the Sanhedrin in the Hall of Hewn Stones where I learned seventy languages (I’m one hundred). I’m a vizier (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly royal blue. I am second to the king and I get all my clothes from him. For example today I was wearing royal robes of blue and white, and a mantle of fine linen and purple wool. I was wearing a magnificent gold crown and riding a royal horse. I was sitting by the castle gates. A counter-decree had been issued so the Jews were not in mortal peril, which I was very happy about. A lot of antisemites stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.
The last 24h just reminded me how privileged I am.
I have a bomb shelter where I live.
I have 60s to get to shelter. Which doesn't sound like much, but compares to my friends in Kiryat Shmona is HUGE.
We had 4 sirens today, 3 last night, 3 tonight (it's half past midnight.
I have friends who spend every other hour in shelter.
Who visits shelter more the the toilet. Or kitchen. Or friends.
Just recently I told someone how much better this war is than previous one.
And it is - don't get me wrong.
During my first war, I was 7. We didn't have shelter. We didn't have pre-alarms, (missiles from Lebanon are close).
We didn't have Kipat Barzel (Iron Dome).
~
This is actually pretty amazing.
I can appreciate both the defense and offense mechanisms. And how things changed.
(I was a kid before Iron Dome. And this made a HUGE difference, speaking of Civil safety. Like. I can’t explain to you how amazing this is. There are villages that had less then 7 seconds from launch to hit.
Tw war and death and trauma related (in italics)
I grew up with stories about ||the girl who covered her brother with her body and died, saving him. I grew up, and still, jumping when motorcycle starts bc it sounds like explosions. I grew up alert to 'where is the safest place if there's now missiles'
And now, there's missile.... and over 90% of the time, it would get countered and no one would be harmed.
And this is amazing.
The fact the "missiles are scary" and "missiles can't hurt you" but I can hear the distant explosion without the immediate horror of knowing someone just died.
~
But it's still stressing. Both bc of noise, and that it CAN hurt you.
My heart hurts. I have in-laws in Iran. I’ve been so stressed that I am nauseous. Every side of the political spectrum is awful on this subject. Right wingers are bloodthirsty warmongers. My fellow leftists deny the trauma of Iranians and call those who celebrated the death of the ayatollah monarchists and Zionists. And liberals and centrists don’t care about anyone other than themselves.
