ihavenonamebutcallmenihil

[ihavenonamebutcallmenihil]

when they ask me what my gender is

[ihavenonamebutcallmenihil]

Well said

I believe people separating Anakin from Vader may partly be a result of being fed too much lazy writing. Too many IPs these days have their characters themselves state their motives aloud, while a truly clever story brings to light that its characters can be unreliable narrators and shows us the truth. This is what SW does with Anakin. 

I also believe it may be the difficulty some people have in seeing moral grayness within their favourite characters. There is not only black and white. Anakin is not pure good, neither is he pure evil. He’s both, and he can be both. Obi-Wan, as an example, is not pure good, he has many flaws and morally gray aspects defining his character. Luke is the closest we get to a pure character, and he is far from perfectly morally aligned himself.

On top of this; Obi-Wan and Yoda are unreliable narrators because they cannot accept the truth, it’s too difficult. Ahsoka is an unreliable narrator because she never knew Anakin’s darker side, and can’t fathom what he’s become. Anakin himself is the most unreliable narrator of them all, pushing the truth away because he can’t take responsibility for the horrors he’s caused. The guilt would eat him alive. Just because a person says something it does not mean that’s the entire truth, stories should always aim to be deeper than that. Stories should always aim to be taken at more than face value.

We get glimmers of people we can trust, such as Luke and Padmé, who see Anakin for what he is and refuses to buy into the self deceit. Padmé knew, after what happened with the Tusken raiders; and that was all Anakin, there was no Vader mantle to hide behind at that point. We see here, already, that Anakin is not a morally pure person by any means. Luke has seen many of the horrors Vader has done, and thus he’s disillusioned with the heroic image of his father his mind had painted for him when he learns the truth. 

That’s why Luke managed to break through, because much like his mother he didn’t buy into the lie Anakin’s been telling himself for years. He disregarded Obi-Wan and Yoda’s persistently telling him Anakin is lost, because he knew better. And he was right.

The story is deeper than just the words of a couple of characters, because it’s meant to be. If you can’t see that, I don’t see how you could ever refer to Anakin as your favourite character. You’re disregarding half of who, and what, he is. You are lessening his story, and his value as a cautionary tale. It is okay to enjoy “problematic” characters.

[ihavenonamebutcallmenihil]

I found my gender! 🖤🩶🤍💚🤍🩶🖤😸

schrodiagender

schrodiagender: an agenrine gender with two definitions. schrodiagender people may use one or both.

1. an agenrine gender/sense of genderlessness that one can both feel and not feel, separately or simultaneously

2. a single agenrine gender/sense of genderlessness that exists as if it were many genders at once

term coined by: unknown, sometime in 2014

flag designed by: me

see also: schrodigender, schrodiboy, schrodigirl, schrodifluid, schrodiflux, schrodinonbinary, schrodiandrogyne

[ihavenonamebutcallmenihil]

warmth.

a comic about not being alone.

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[ihavenonamebutcallmenihil]

Villain's New Pet (Prequel)

"No! I won't do it! I refuse to be a pet for anybody!" Hero yelled, as Villain placed a collar around his neck.

"Don't look at me like that," Villain tutted. "The Institute of Heroes promised me anything I wanted so I'd quit my life of crime, and along with a large sum of money (because of course I asked for money) I asked for you. So to a degree, this is their fault for indulging me. And what an indulgence you are." Villain smiled down at their newest pet.

"Give me back!"

"To who, precious? To the institute? The institute signed you over to me, honey, they won't do a thing. But I promise, you'll be taken care of with me." He paused to think. "But not in the way that I took care of the henchman that lost a lot of my arsenal. No concrete shoes for you, precious."

I almost wish that you would, Hero thought, as Villain put him into the car and fastened his seatbelt for him.

(PAUSE)

Villain's house was huge. It was probably a mansion, but Hero wasn't going to give it that distinction, considering who owned it. "This is your new home, sweetie," Villain declared, unfastening Hero's seatbelt and scooping them up out of the car. "I had some people kit the place out with all the equipment it'll need to house such a high-maintenance little hero such as yourself."

"Lovely," Hero snarked.

"The first thing I will need to do is get you some new clothes. Because you need the best and this . . . is far from the best." Villain looked at Hero's uniform with a grimace. "I mean, really. Whose idea was it to give you a cape with red, white and blue stripes? It looks like toothpaste."

"Superhero picked out my clothes," Hero muttered, tearing up. "She said it suited me."

"Well, you can pick out new ones with me, precious. Don't shed any tears, especially not for an outfit like that. Things that you'll actually like. If you want, you can coordinate your outfits with my other pet."

"What other pet?" Hero asked. "I don't want to be coordinating outfits with some snooty cat."

"Oh, not a cat, sweetie-pie. I'm allergic to anything with fur," Villain said. "No cats, no dogs, no bunnies, nothing of the sort." Villain's voice grew teasing as he cupped Hero's face. "Unless you'd like to put on a pair of little rabbit ears for me?"

"No!" Hero blushed as they stammered out their answer. "I am not wearing rabbit ears for you!"

"Aww, that's a shame. I'll have to ask your big sister. She's in her room." Villain took Hero to a brightly decorated room where a woman in kitten ears and a sparkly leotard lay sprawled out on a bed. Hero's jaw dropped.

"Supervillain?!" Hero gasped.

"Hero?!" Supervillain spluttered.

Sequel here.

[ihavenonamebutcallmenihil]

[ihavenonamebutcallmenihil]

As mating doves that love calls to their nest

Glide through the air with motionless raised wings,

Borne by the sweet desire that fills each breast

Inferno, Canto V, vv. 82-84 (Translation by John Curdi)

[...] "Not a drachm

   Of blood remains in me, that does not tremble;

   I know the traces of the ancient flame."

Purgatorio, Canto XXX, vv. 45-48 (Translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

  But now was turning my desire and will,

   Even as a wheel that equally is moved,

The Love which moves the sun and the other stars.

Paradiso Canto XXXIII, vv. 143-145 (Translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

I've seen the post on how Dante's inferno inspired new Hozier album relates to Good Omens and... well, here is Good Omens X Divine Comedy's quotes.

[ihavenonamebutcallmenihil]

Dunkirk, 1940

France's hair was a mess and, to England, this alone was enough at showing how serious the situation was. He had it tied in a loose ponytail, rebellious curls falling on his face, smeared with mud and blood. His beard had grown scraggly on his cheeks, dirty and untrimmed. 

A plane whooshed over them, bombs were dropped on the lines of soldiers below. England ducked, dragging France down with him. He pressed his face into the coarse sand, covering his ears and cursing Germany's damn pride. 

Twenty years, Marshal Foch had warned. This is an Armistice for twenty years. 

And yet, England had dared to hope this time would’ve been the one. Hindsight made him almost laugh. The war to end all wars was now called the first World War. He glanced at the sky, grimacing at the German pilot’s confident aerobatics. And they might not win the second. 

France had gotten back on his feet. He offered his hand to England. It was rough, not soft and smooth as he had expected, calloused by his rifle's handle, shaped by a month of warfare. He had fought for every stone, every speck of dirt he had had to cede to the German invader. 

"You have to hurry." France stated. His blue eyes looked haunted and he seemed to have no intention of letting go of England’s hand. Neither had he.  "Your time is running out and I have to return to the perimeter" 

England glanced behind his shoulders. Calm waves broke on the shoreline, spraying them with salty water and white foam. Behind, the Channel stretched as far as the eye could see. But, in the distance, in the orangish glow of the sunset, he could make out his cliff. Home. 

A ship waited on the water, smaller boats crowding around it. His last soldiers swarmed from them like ants, hastily climbing on the last ship of the day. 

He brought his gaze back on France’s dirty, worn out face, and beyond, on the gray ruins of Dunkirk. France was still fighting, on a line shrinking every minute more. Not to win, he had already lost. And yet, he was fighting with everything he had left, holding the Germans back till his last man’s last breath. He was fighting so that England could return home. 

England freed his hand from France’s grip and raised it to his chest, gripping his blood-stained shirt. Bitter tears burnt in his eyes. "You stupid frog, I came all the way here for you! To help you!"

He was almost whining, as a little, capricious child. He wanted to cry, to yell, to break something. He was supposed to save France and France had ended up saving him. He didn’t know if he was more mad at himself, at Germany or at fate. 

France, and it was weird, didn’t mock him for the tears, nor for his pitiful tone. He smiled instead, sympathetic and kind, yet serious as England had never seen him. "You did your best. We did. We failed. And you have to go" 

He laid his hand under England’s chin, gently tilting his head so that their foreheads touched. 

Under the bloodied cloth, England’s fingers found his beating heart. With his free hand he gripped France’s arm, as if he could this way retain him, keep him safe from the Germans and from the horrors about to be unleashed on him, on his home. 

“You have to go.”  France repeated. “There is no hope for me, but there might be for you.” 

Hope, what a flickish thing it seemed, with the sound of German guns roaring closer and closer, with England’s last retreating ship wailing its last call. Hope. France was giving him hope. 

Without a conscious thought, England slid forward and pressed his lips on France’s. He tasted like sand and blood, like smoke and war, but underneath he could still savor caramel and wine and freshly baked bread. Underneath the pain and loss, France’s heart was still beating. 

The ship’s siren shrieked again and their world shattered. It was time. They parted and England knew he would’ve dragged around like a starving man till he could taste those lips again. 

"I'll come back for you.” He promised. His eyes were locked in France’s, emerald green and lavender blue fused together. 

A playful hint shone in France’s gaze and a smirk came upon his face. “You better, Angleterre. Or either you can add my ghost to the list of those already haunting your houses” 

He laughed heartily and knew, in that exact moment, that he loved France. He would’ve fought, as France had done, to his last man, to his last breath. He would’ve fought wherever a German foot dared to lay, he would’ve fought on earth, water, air. He would’ve fought and won and he would’ve come back for him. 

He got on the boat waiting for him with a heart heavier than all the tanks and equipment he had had to leave behind. The fisherman at the helm hailed him and, even though England felt a surge of pride towards his citizens' bravery, he couldn’t bring himself to answer. He sat down astern, dull-eyed and empty, and stared at France waving from the shore, smaller and smaller as the boat sailed towards the main ship. And then, France  turned around and marched on, rifle on his shoulder, towards the French rearguard lines, towards the sacrifice that had saved 300,000 young men. 

The next day, Dunkirk had fallen. 40,000 French soldiers were captured by the Germans. Ten days later, Hitler walked on the streets of Paris. France, broken in body and spirit, gritted his teeth and waited for a lover’s promise to be kept.