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And oh my gosh @freed_and_redeemed girl I’ve been babysitting as much as possible so I can earn enough money to pay my brother back for some money I borrowed (lol long story) so I can get Freedom’s Fire, I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten it yet, 😭 but I literally cannot wait to read it, I’m so excited🤩
#HugRikerSquad
@lightoverdarkness6 oh Girly, don’t apologize!!! I’m just honored you want to read it🥰🥰
#BeardedSteveRogersIsSuperior
Oh my gosh girl I’m dying over here😂😂 In more ways than one apparently🤣
We were so in sync, I think we must’ve posted at pretty much the exact same😂
Anyway lol how are you doing??
#HugRikerSquad
I know!! It was hilarious!!
I’m doing great! I got my second book published!!!
Man is born for the fight, to be forged and molded into a sharper, finer, stronger image of God
@ellette-giselle CONGRATS ON THE 2ND BOOK GIRLY!!!!!🤩
@lightoverdarkness6 I’ve missed you so much too🥰😭It’s going well! I’m swamped with how much stuff I have to do🫠 but life is going pretty good! I’m having my first book signing early next month!!🤩 (and my birthday next month too😛) And I’m doing well overall :3
I watched all of the LOTR and Hobbit movies👀 I love them so much😭😭
How are you? 🥰🥰
#BeardedSteveRogersIsSuperior
uhh barely
😭😭😭
Jkjk
Min I’m so sorry I haven’t been active at all lately, I went on a trip with my family a few weeks ago out to Idaho and it was soooo fun but now I’m trying to catch up with all the school I missed lol 😭😭 I’ve missed you so much!! How are you doing?
Pls don’t ever apologize! I’m just happy to chat with you again lol
Cool!
Wait, you came out here to the North West?? XDXD
Oh no… my first class just started today. I just had to make a moodboard about myself, it’s a class called digital foundations. Anyways it seems like fun. I’m uh… surviving?? I have a new docter that’s super great and she said she’s hopeful I can recover from my health issues (Which is kinda a scary thing to hear, bc usually people know they will recover…lol.) Anyways, she found out I’m intolerant to fruit (Which I eat all the time) and a combination of grain and potatoes… which I can only eat 4 hours apart. We’re really struggling to figure out food over here, but my knee pain has gotten so much better since the diet change. I was really disappointed that me going to school full time had to be canceled, but I’m figuring it out. I just got a new printer at the thrift store, the kind you can refill. It’s so crazy, I actually saw somebody using one in a video about printing comics and prayed that one day I could get one. Lol, I guess sometimes the prayers we don’t expect to get answered do get answered, and the ones we thought would come sooner don’t. So I’m planning on working on OLH this year and maybe selling come copies. I can print them myself if I keep the volumes small. I’m pretty isolated but feeling more positive than a months ago < 3
What else has been going on with you? Is school starting going well?
"And so I left this world just as I had entered it. Confused."
Welp… turns out my characters are going to Italy!!!
I had a totally different plot planned for this story, but after some brainstorming, I’ve come up with a plot that is ten times better!! The only problem is… I’ve never been to Italy…. I’ve been doing some research on customs and culture, but there’s nothing like hearing firsthand experience. Has anyone have any experience in Italy, know someone from or who has visited Italy, or have written anything that has to do with it?
Write what should not be forgotten. — Isabel Allende
@esther-c Bruhhh that’s so random
but it’s cool!
I’ve been to Italy and it’s amazing.
The north and the south regions of the country basically consider themselves two different cultures, haha. I’ve only been to the south. The people there were generally nice.
I’ll have to ask my mom about this, she remembers more than me haha
Where'd I get ya this time? The liver? The kidney? I'm runnin' outta places to put holes in ya.
@lightoverdarkness6 @keilah-h @mineralizedwritings @rae @savannah_grace2009 @ellette-giselle @koshka @elishavet-pidyon @esther-c @anyone-else-idk-lol-XD
A ‘lil progress update🥳🥳
I’m almost halfway through editing and formatting Broken Shackles! 🤩 I’ve deleted a few scenes, (even a few chapters😅😂), reworked others, and I’m really happy with how it’s turning out. Not perfect by far, but def turning out well. It’s better than Freedom’s Fire for sure👀 It’s going to be shorter, but better, I think.
I’m really just loving how Leon and Riker’s stories continue in the 2nd book.
I’ve never cried this much writing a book, and this is probably some of my (albeit far from perfect) writing I’ve ever done and I honestly can’t wait until y’all get to see how Leon and Riker’s stories continue in the 2nd book🥰😭
and for those of y’all who read my whole little progress rant, have some 🍿 and these 2 scenes👀
(and I haven’t fully edited this yet: just bear with the bad grammar and messy stuff🫣)
TW: Y’KNOW WHAT, Y’ALL SHOULD KNOW ME WELL ENOUGH BY NOW. ANGST, BAR FIGHT, ETC. Y’ALL KNOW THE DRILL😂😂
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 for 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 and provided for 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, and 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 could others comprehend the fact 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 when it seemed as though his life meant something?
The shovel echoed amidst 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 and 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 was red with what could never be forgiven by himself, others, and God.
He crouched amidst the destruction and 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 and once did.
Stupid, salty tears burned Riker’s eyes.
He briskly brushed the dampness aside.
When did he earn 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 at a moment in time 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.
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. How could a holy God ever want anything to do with a filthy man like him?
Riker sank into the dust and collapsed 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, and Fin had been compassionate.
Fin had treated Riker as if he mattered.
But Riker 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.
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 and 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 and 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 pounded 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. 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.
He glanced up at the tall, lanky man.
Unlike the fight against Heinz, Leon hadn’t started the conflict.
But he had no problem against ending it.
Leon scrambled to his feet, using every bit of power in his veins to keep himself steady, 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 and rolled away and 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 rose to his feet, swaying yet still refusing to fall.
He jabbed his elbow into Gus’ jaw and 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 and he didn’t quit.
Leon sidestepped a lunge, 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. His back slammed into heavy wood, spreading stinging pain, and Leon gasped.
He fell onto the ground, Gus over top 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 and 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, swiping blood from his cheek, forcing himself to sit up. He blinked several times. “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 and 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 swiped more 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—”
He trailed off, 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 and 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 occasionally 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, and full of hope. I know the pain you’ve been through is hard to live with, trust me, Leon, I know, but you let hardship and 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 in a healthy way.”
Leon diverted his gaze. Isaiah’s words cut deep, but even Leon knew they were 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.”
Every wall Leon erected crumbled in a flood of tears he couldn’t seem to hold back. A sob hitched in his throat and 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 and 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, including you.”
And for the first time in so very long, Leon believed it.
#BeardedSteveRogersIsSuperior
*sees Freedom posted a scene* * gets so excited makes characters think I might be finally completely cracking*
Awwwwww Leon!
I really want to give Riker a hug rn.
"You need French Toast."
I used to live there! What time period are you going for? Because I’ve also done a lot of research.
if it’s modern, what do you want to know?
Man is born for the fight, to be forged and molded into a sharper, finer, stronger image of God
I love it!!! I’m so excited for the next book!! I’m literally going to get my hands on one of the VERY first copies!!!
Man is born for the fight, to be forged and molded into a sharper, finer, stronger image of God
It’s scenes!!! And Riker and Leon!! ❤️
Aw, it’s beautiful! You definitely break these two before building them up, but I’m so excited for it!
I love the symbolic impact the violin has for Riker. And I love that last sentence in Leon’s story.
I would note for when you edit, that only making a statement once may not give the same emphasis, but will make the prose flow better. Describing what he sees and then moving on to his reaction to it may also show more rather than telling.
Anyway, it’s still lovely, even in this draft stage. 🙂 Thank you for sharing! I love your characters.
I do have some questions, if you’re up to it. I haven’t done a lot of research on Europe after WWII, so they might not make much sense, but I’ve wondered these for a while. XD
I don’t remember if I’ve asked, but does Leon have a Jewish name? I mean, because Leon sounds like a secular name, he might have a second Hebrew/Yiddish name like Lieb or Ayreh that he would have been called for special events. I know his family were Messianic, but I don’t remember their level of observance. So… Does he have a name that few people outside his (destroyed) Jewish community would know? A link back to his “first love” of God?
Oh, and did he have a Bar Mitzvah? I’m assuming his kids won’t, since they’re more Christian than Messianic. But did he? Just thinking about some of the memories he would have.
Not that any of these questions are helpful at this stage, but I’ve wondered. XD
You have listened to fears, child. Come, let me breathe on you... Are you brave again? -Aslan
Oh girl…that broken violin scene makes me want to go get out my baby and hug it. Like, ugh.
*Strokes violin case*
First Grand Historian of Arreth and the Lesser Realms (aka Kitty)
Fork the Gork
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