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@hybridlore @livingwoodchronicles
Since you both asked, I’m just gonna tag you both XD
I’ve been having a rough time with my mental health…but I’m getting better! I have a lot of good friends that I can talk to and music and writing (and praying, obviously) have been getting me through it!
I just passed my driver’s test today!!!! Well, the driving part. I can’t take the written test until I turn 15 (and get 50 hours in) but my Driver’s Ed teacher is a certified examiner and just wanted to get the test out of the way. Even though I can’t get a license yet, it’s still amazing to have that out of the way!
I am so over school! I just want it to be OVER so I can “destressify” (@highscribeofaetherium sorry for stealing your word….xD) I have a big math test this thursday and I have a lot of studying to do! There’s just a lot on my mind tbh…I feel like I keep waiting for life to get less stressful…but it never does ):
Lukas&Livia
#Lalbert
Sef&Chase
#HOTTOLINE
LEFSE FOREVER!!!!!! <333Hey guys! Young Writer’s Workshop is hosting a Crazy Editing Week, which you can find and sign up for by going on their website. It is free and flexible, and you can sign up at any time during the week. I’ve participated in these events many times and they are super fun… I actually discovered KP through them first. I recommend trying it 😊
“Everything is a mountain”
For those who have commented that the “older” keepers aren’t on much anymore….
Touche.
You have listened to fears, child. Come, let me breathe on you... Are you brave again? -Aslan
They got us alright.
(Also, @AllOtherKeepers Hi y’all! I haven’t croaked yet, praise the Lord.)
First Grand Historian of Arreth and the Lesser Realms (aka Kitty)
Fork the GorkIf someone ever makes their tag line something like @everyone-else or @anyone-who-reads-this I already pity them.
First Grand Historian of Arreth and the Lesser Realms (aka Kitty)
Fork the Gork@koshka @elishavet-pidyon @godlyfantasy12 @whalekeeper @mineralizedwritings @lightoverdarkness6 @grcr @savannah_grace2009 @rae @esther-c @highscribeofaetherium @anyone-else-idk-lol-XD
Anyone want a Leon/Riker update??👀
welp, you’re getting one anyways XD
TRIGGER WARNING: GUILT/SHAME. MENTIONS OF SIN. ALCOHOL. BAR FIGHT. BLOOD.
(but also a very sweet but very firm confrontation that I 💜 so much)
No matter the destruction, no matter the loss, somehow life shouldered on. He breathed, he ate, he worked. Some days to help, some days forcibly, used for compulsive labor, other days to scrape money together, working underneath one of his father’s longtime friends.
He worked. He helped the helpless. He visited Lina twice a week when able. He cooked. He cleaned. He took care of his father. He did his best to do what he knew to do. Yet it still didn’t seem like enough.
Riker sighed, a crisp breeze tousling his dark brown waves, his fingers clasped around the handle of a steel shovel, struggling to stay upright.
He yawned, shook his head, and quietly cursed himself. He had to stay awake; he had to work. Even if the work was forced, it was helpful.
There were people that needed help. Who was he to refuse?
How could he explain…how would others comprehend that helping people was the only time Riker felt filled? How was he to describe that aiding those who had no aid was the only time where it seemed as though his life meant something?
The shovel echoed amidst the stone. Riker pushed down on the handle, forcing the shovel into the dirt, the rubble, left in the wake of a once beautiful apartment.
Every piece of rubble surrounding his form—every flake of dust upon Riker’s fingers was a testament to the depravity of a war no one desired. Every amount of pain. Every life lost. Every soul broken. Couldn’t it have all been avoided?
Riker flicked back a loose wavy lock. So many had died; he had taken part in the murder of thousands.
It was unforgiveable—he was unforgiveable.
The lives lost…the tortures endured…the families torn apart for all of eternity. Who was he to think that he was innocent of bloody hands?
No, his hands dripped with the very blood of those who had committed no wrong. Every inch of his hands were red with what could never be forgiven by himself, others, and God.
Riker crouched amidst the destruction. He set aside a large piece of discarded rubble. His fingers brushed against smooth wood.
Riker raised an eyebrow and brushed gray dust away; underneath where a chunk of the building destroyed by a bomb had been laid an ebony violin, coated in dust, broken in half.
It had once been an instrument, a tool of joy. Perhaps once it had been someone’s prized possession. Perhaps it had belonged to a young boy who used it to escape the brokenness of the world he was surrounded by just as Riker had once been.
Stupid, salty tears burned Riker’s eyes. He briskly brushed the dampness aside. When did he deserve the right to cry? He hadn’t suffered during the war…he hadn’t been put in a camp…he hadn’t been starved or lost his wife. Who was he to cry when so many others had been forced to give up so much? Who was he to cry when his naivety, his stubbornness, his stupidity, and his failures cost the lives of so many people?
Aadelheide. Fin. Jennie. Jezyk. So many he would never know the names of. Even Hans had ended his own life in a moment when Riker could have stopped him in his tracks.
What right did he have to sob, to mourn? What right did he have to think he could be more than the monster whose fingertips were drenched with blood?
The violin laid before him, a casualty in the name of war. It was nothing compared to a human life, a soul, but it had still once been precious. It had still once been cherished. It had still once been loved by someone, a soul, a living person, that lived no longer.
And it was all his fault.
A single sob broke free from the confines of Riker’s lips; his body trembled with the heavy reality of the prices paid—the sins committed. He was too far gone to be redeemed, too much of a sinner to be forgiven. He hurt. He showed cowardice. He murdered.
Why would a holy God want anything to do with a man, a mistake, like him?
Riker sank onto the dust. He fell into the rubble. He closed his eyes to no longer witness the shadows that lurked in every corner. He pressed his palms against his ears to block out the voices, the eerie whispers that spoke into his ears. He deserved to die. He deserved to suffer. He deserved to endure torture and torment. He deserved Hell and nothing less.
An apology would do nothing. A promise to be better wouldn’t change a thing. He knew what he deserved—he knew what punishment he would be given.
God wanted nothing to do with him, and Riker didn’t blame him one bit.
Riker stumbled to his feet, his vision blurred, his head heavy, his heart thudding against his ribs. What did it matter? What good were good deeds? How much of a difference could he make helping people? Everything he’d already done…what could possibly atone for it?
“The good thing is that Jesus already paid the price of atonement.”
No…no! Fin couldn’t have been right. He couldn’t. Riker respected him, Fin had been such an important part of his life, but that…he couldn’t be right about that. It wasn’t possible. Maybe Christ had died for men like Fin. Maybe Jesus had paid the price for women like Jennie. But he wouldn’t waste such a sacrifice on men like Riker. Why would he?
“…God is a father, and no matter how bad your earthly father was, God loves you no matter what…no matter how many mistakes you make.”
Aadelheide’s gentle words, spoken only a month before her tragic death. She had been ill, limping, in a place where she was starved and beaten…Riker was the one who had doomed her to the camp…and yet…yet—“No!” Riker screamed. It wasn’t true. It was a lie; it had to be.
God wouldn’t…God wouldn’t waste his son on Riker.
God wouldn’t waste whatever love he had for good people on Riker.
God wouldn’t waste the time he could spend on important matters on Riker.
God wouldn’t waste his patience on a mistake.
God wouldn’t waste whatever mercy he possessed on a filthy murderer.
How could he? Why would he? Who would desire to do such a thing? Why would anyone waste a single precious thing on Riker Schind?
Tears stung Riker’s eyes; every breath chuffed out as a gasp.
He could never do enough. He would never be good enough. What did it matter if he pulled himself together, or if he broke? What did it matter if he laughed, or if he cried? What did it matter if he lived, or if he died?
He could never be enough for God.
“God’s grace extends to everyone.”
No. No. Fin had to be wrong. Fin had been kind; Fin had been compassionate. Fin had treated Riker as if he mattered. But it still didn’t change what Riker had done; it didn’t wipe away the blood on Riker’s hands.
He couldn’t earn whatever love God had. So if he couldn’t earn it…if there was nothing he could do to make up for the sins he’d committed…what hope did he have of ever being more than the murderer he knew he was?
“You seriously thought you, a traitor, a low life, a murderer, a mistake, could ever be forgiven? You thought by being a so-called ‘good man,’ you could bribe your God into stopping the suffering you’re destined for?”
Riker moaned. His trembling hands pressed against his ears. Hans had been right. It was stupid. It was foolish. It was childish. He couldn’t earn anything from God. He wasn’t good enough to do so.
Leon was right to hate him. Leon was right to despise him with every fiber of his own being.
Riker hated himself, even wished death upon his own head. At least then he’d finally get what he deserved.
“To answer your question, Riker, yes, there is grace for men like you…because God had grace for a man like me.”
Fin had once been a man who thought murder was justified. Fin had once used alcohol, women, and other things one would deem unseemly, even sinful, to obtain what he desired. Yet Fin had seemed to trust, believe, that God had forgiven him for all of it.
Was there hope?
Riker chuckled at the absurdity. It had to be a lie—Fin hadn’t been what Riker was; Fin hadn’t been born a mistake like Riker had been. Fin hadn’t been a nuisance to his community. Fin hadn’t been a disgrace to his father. There was grace for a man like Fin Müller.
But there was only one truth, and he knew it well: there was no hope of redemption for the likes of Riker Schind.
~*~
His shoes echoed. His breath chuffed. Leon marched down the street. He didn’t want—he didn’t need to think about it. He didn’t want to…he just didn’t have the strength—Leon shoved a simple wooden door open, marching into a room filled with the scent of something he once never desired but had come to crave.
The argument he’d shared with Louisa only half an hour before echoed in his mind, threatening to give way to insanity.
He’d forgotten a promise again. He’d broken Isabel’s heart again. He’d made Albert and Elias sad once again.
Leon pushed his way through throngs of men, finally settling down at a fine, wooden counter.
He ordered. He paid. He waited.
How could he learn to not forget his promises? How could he learn to balance work and family? How could he always remember things when the one thing he craved—needed every day—made him forget some of the most important things to Louisa, to his children?
A single bottle slid across the flat countertop.
Several more followed in the ensuing moments.
Alcohol stained the air; men’s voices rose above the clamor of glasses and drunken laughter. Leon rolled his shirtsleeves up just past his wrists, nodding his thanks to the middle-aged bartender.
He took the cold glass into his hand and tipped up the bottle, allowing a long stream to slip past his lips and down his throat, savoring the burn the alcohol left in its wake.
It wouldn’t have to take too much more, or at least he wished it wouldn’t. Numbness was easier. Once he despised numbness, once so focused on survival and not life itself. He just hadn’t felt the ache yet, not then. It was better to be numb. It was better to forget, even when he rarely could.
Leon grimaced. Just how many drinks would it take until he did forget? How much alcohol needed to be consumed for the pain to slip away into the recesses he could, for once, stay out of, even if only temporary?
A rough hand echoed against Leon’s back. He turned his head and raised an eyebrow, lowering the drink in his hand. A skinny man that reeked of alcohol glared at Leon, eyebrows down. “Why are you sitting there? I sit there every evening.”
Leon offered a single eyebrow in reply. The lanky man was familiar; Leon had seen him frequent the bar far more times than even Leon did. He seemed quiet, even reserved, and there was no doubt in Leon’s mind that the man tended to keep to himself, even when angered.
The bartender, polishing a glass, shook his head. “Don’t start something, Gus. This isn’t like you.”
The man, Gus, chuckled several times. He swayed, barely caught himself on the counter, and released a stream of curses. He rose his head, swayed, and stumbled once more, towards Leon. “Well, I don’t appreciate someone taking my seat…”
“Gus,” the man behind the counter set down a glass with an echoing thud, “you don’t even sit there. Leave the man alone.”
Leon rose to his feet; his legs stumbled beneath him, but he kept himself upright. He grabbed his own glass and shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ll just—”
Gus’ knuckles met Leon’s jaw. Leon fell back against a chair; glass shattered; alcohol spilled over his shirt. He glanced up at the tall, lanky man.
Unlike the fight against Heinz, Leon hadn’t started the fight.
But he had no problem ending it.
Leon scrambled to his feet, using every bit of power in his veins to keep himself on his feet, propelling himself forward, his own fist meeting a gut.
Gus gasped and stumbled backwards, but an unseen force kept him on his feet when only moments before it attempted to make him fall.
It was his chance. It was his opportunity.
Leon Wagner wasn’t a man that went down without a fight.
His arms wrapped around Gus’ waist; he pushed with all of the strength he possessed, shoving Gus’ frame onto the hardwood floor. Leon punched. Leon fumbled. Gus’s boot met Leon’s rib. Leon groaned; he rolled away. He winced. Gus’ fist came, hard and fast, knocking Leon’s head back. Stars danced before Leon’s eyes.
He’d been starved. He’d been beaten before. He’d been tortured before. He’d been whipped before. And yet he still endured because Leon was a man that never knew when to quit.
Leon scrambled to his feet, swaying yet still refusing to fall. He jabbed his elbow into Gus’ jaw; he brought his knee against Gus where he knew it hurt most.
He ducked. He weaved. He slipped out of Gus’ lunges whenever he could.
Blood dripped from his knuckles and trailed down his face, but he didn’t stop, he wouldn’t quit.
Leon stood, breathing heavily, his arms up, his fists clenched, swaying on his feet, a throbbing headache only beginning, waiting, watching.
Gus stood, almost bent over, barely standing, any word he spoke a slurred mess. He roared and bellowed forward, approaching faster than Leon thought possible. Leon’s back ached; his back slammed into heavy wood.
He fell onto the ground, Gus overtop of him, punching, kicking, each lunge hard, quick. Leon offered punches and kicks of his own, struggling, fumbling, attempting to break the lanky man’s hold, but to no avail.
Dust kicked up around them; swears were spewed by them both.
Footsteps echoed across the dirt and stones. A firm hand rested on Leon’s shoulder, keeping him down, and another pulled Gus away. “Enough. That is no way to handle a disagreement. Go home and sleep off the alcohol.”
Leon blinked. What…why was—? Gus cursed, mumbled something undiscernible, and stumbled back into the bar, swaying, slurring, muttering to himself.
Leon utilized the back of his arm, wiping blood from his cheek, forcing himself to sit up. He blinked several times and forced his lips open. “I-Isaiah?”
The older man faced Leon, his brown eyes somber and his frown straight. “Come on. Dust yourself off.” Isaiah said, his words firm, his tone one that left no room for argument.
Leon stumbled to his feet, forcing himself to stay standing. He followed behind Isaiah, struggling to stay grounded, the only sounds heard those in the distance and the echo of their shoes upon the sidewalk.
“Again, Leon? Another fight?”
Leon wiped blood from his lips. What did it matter? He hadn’t started it. Besides, was it really any of Isaiah’s business? “I didn’t even—” His words cut short, his eyes meeting Isaiah’s. There wasn’t unkindness there, nor fury. But it was, perhaps, the most disappointment Leon had ever witnessed.
Isaiah sighed, turned on his heel, and began walking again. “It doesn’t matter if you didn’t start it, Leon, you kept it going. You fought, you cursed, you let the alcohol control you and make you do something insane.”
Leon bristled. Insane? He had just fought back, defended himself. But something in Isaiah’s eyes, something in the way he walked rendered Leon unable to voice such words. He followed along a familiar path between the bar and his home he sometimes tread daily, trailing behind Isaiah in grim silence.
“I don’t want to believe it. Sometimes, I don’t think I can believe it. Not much. You’re still young, Leon. You’re intelligent, you’re loving, and you’re passionate. I saw those things when I first met you, and I want to believe that I can still see them now.”
“Isaiah, listen—”
“No, Leon,” Isaiah turned instantly, his eyes boring into Leon’s, “you listen to me. When you first came to the camp, I saw a young man full of faith, full of passion, full of strength, full of endurance, full of strength, full of hope. I know the pain you’ve been through is hard to deal with, trust me, Leon, I know, but you let hardship…loss…steal away the man that used to be.”
“I’m still Leon Wagner.” Leon argued, folding his arms across his chest.
“You are not the man you once were. Even I can see that. You have let pain, addiction, and sorrow control your life, and given yourself up to the desires of your own flesh. You haven’t even thought once about the consequences, about how much pain your alcohol could bring to your family, haven’t even thought once about the effect your drunkenness, your hatred, and your refusal to deal with your pain will have on your children. Look at them, Leon.”
Leon swallowed hard. He slowly turned his head to glance across the street where he could witness the sun setting, keenly aware that though his family couldn’t see him, he could see them. Louisa, drying clothes on the small clothesline on the porch. Isabel, smiling, chatting away, and doing her best to hand Louisa wooden clips when needed. Albert and Elias, giggling and toddling around on the small grass patches, chasing each other around.
“You survived, Leon. You endured starvation, harsh labor, beatings, torture, and whippings. You refused to let the Nazis steal your humanity. You refused to back down and vowed to survive, and you did. You survived for them, Leon. You survived for those kids. You survived for those three precious gifts. They need you, Leon. They need a father that will love them, that will provide for them, a father that they know they can trust to never abandon them. They don’t need a father that can’t care for them because he can’t deal with his own pain.”
Leon diverted his gaze, Isaiah’s words hard but, even Leon knew, well-deserved. He shifted, feeling Isaiah’s firm yet still not unkind gaze upon him, arms folded across his chest, rocking on his heels, chewing on his bottom lip.
How did he ignore the crave? How did he hush the whispers? How did he sooth the pain if he couldn’t—if he couldn’t make it numb? If he couldn’t…couldn’t…
“…I miss her, Isaiah.” He croaked.
Isaiah’s brown eyes brimmed with tears. Slowly, gently, he cupped Leon’s face in his hands, his fingers cold against Leon’s warm cheeks. “I know.”
Leon’s gaze fell. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. His eyes burned, threatening tears. “…I miss her more than anything, Isaiah. I loved her. Some nights I dream that she’s back, only to wake up and realize it was a dream all along…that she’s still gone. I loved her, Isaiah. I loved her so much.”
Whatever walls Leon erected crumbled in a flood of tears he couldn’t seem to hold back. A sob hitched in his throat; more bubbled to the surface, fueled by the pain…the grief…the anger, the anger at God for allowing Aadelheide to die, the anger at Riker for killing his wife, the anger at himself for not protecting his wife when he still had the chance.
Everything inside…everything that threatened to drown him every moment all gushed out through every drop of water, every tear that fell against his own futile will.
Isaiah’s arms pulled him close, held him gently. He slowly rocked Leon’s form back and forth, whispering, “Shh, shh…we’ll make it through this, Leon…I promise. We’ll all be okay. We’ll make it through.”
And for the first time in so very long, Leon believed it.
#BeardedSteveRogersIsSuperior
Even Hans had ended his own life in a moment when Riker could have stopped him in his tracks.
And then I cried.
"You need French Toast."
Thank you so much for the update, the poor dears. They need some help. And maybe some tea and cookies.
So…I have some feedback for Riker’s scene. I am supposing this is nearing the crisis point of the second book, as Riker is getting a broken record sensation with his guilt. Otherwise…ooof. That was a hard scene.
Also, I love the imagery of the broken violin, btw. Though I’m not a musician, my violin feels like a second voice to me, so that…I understand Riker coming to bits. (Also, I’m seeing it as a Strad. That may be extravagant, but whatever. XD)
Leon, dear thing. Your wrapup confrontation was beautiful. I am now hoping he gets some real help to start healing. (Which may not be in your plot, but I can hope)
First Grand Historian of Arreth and the Lesser Realms (aka Kitty)
Fork the Gork(Sorry it took me forever to get to this!! 😭)
Ooh, I love it!! I really like how you changed it!
Write what should not be forgotten. — Isabel Allende
Hurry up and get to the end when they’re all redeemed alreadyyy!! 😩
Jk jk 😂😂
Great job though, girlie! I loved reading some of your writing again!
Write what should not be forgotten. — Isabel Allende
@esther-c @koshka @rae Thank y’all so much for reading and being so kind! 🥰🥰 Oh, and *offers tissues to all*…there we go XD
Honestly, rn the only one who is a struggle is Riker.
I know where Leon’s story is going…I know how Leon will finally come back to God…I know how he will come to the end of himself…
but Riker is another story.
Turns out he’s just as stubborn as Leon is😂
I’m afraid he’ll also have to come to the end of himself before he’ll even try to believe that someone is right about God’s love. (and it will still be Leon that he finally believes, just because of how everything is going to go)
but how does Riker get to that point?
When does he finally get to the end of himself? When can he finally not live with his shame? When does he get to the point where he can’t live with himself?
And how do I get him there???
I was thinking of the possibility of him having more shame, but where would it start? Where would it come from?
Sorry. I’m just brainstorming out loud😆
#BeardedSteveRogersIsSuperior
Hmm… stubborn characters can be troublesome.
Here are me thoughts. Use such as are helpful, discard such as aren’t.
- He already can’t live with his guilt/shame/hopelessness. That is quite obvious. He just needs to realize what is already clear to everyone else including the reader.
- Due to the very fact that he hasn’t actually “met God” he really doesn’t understand God’s love. He has seen it through other people, but has apparently seen that love as being to that person’s credit, and possibly why they deserve forgiveness (not the other way around). This partially is why Leon’s forgiveness would be so impactful. He needs to see forgiveness, redemption, and yes, God’s love, on someone else he would view to be like himself. You can and are using Leon this way, but what about a second character? Could there be another camp guard that Riker meets and witnesses his redemption in progress?
- Riker’s not saved. He isn’t covered by the blood. God’s conviction is going to feel like condemnation if someone doesn’t help him, love him, show him the difference (Wich is exactly what the adversary would want him to think). I don’t know what you personally believe on salvation, but Leon isn’t exactly close to God either at this point (God will never leave us, but we can sure leave him) so he’ll probably be in similar straights.
I hope that helps!
First Grand Historian of Arreth and the Lesser Realms (aka Kitty)
Fork the GorkOh my goodness the poor darlings 😭😭😭 I need to see them happy and healed soon 😭
I loved Leon’s confrontation scene. *hugs him* And Isaiah is so sweet 💖
And Riker 😭😭😭😭😭 *hugs him too*
#HugRikerSquad
You’re fine girl!
I love it! I stalked your instagram…XD
Lukas&Livia
#Lalbert
Sef&Chase
#HOTTOLINE
LEFSE FOREVER!!!!!! <333
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