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trolleybitch · 3 years

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the trolley witch backstory

okay this is long overdue but i thought it was about time that i shared the official trolley witch backstory from this thread. before we start, what we know about the hogwarts express trolley witch from canon: she was hired by ottaline gambol, had been working on the hogwarts express for around 190 years by the time she met albus potter and scorpius malfoy, she had pumpkin pasty grenades and extendable fingernail spikes, and when she failed to stop the boys from escaping the train, she was inconsolable and talked about letting down ottaline gambol.

so, without further ado, her story:

the year is 1802. trolley witch is born into a poor muggle family in rural northern england and her father leaves shortly after she's born. she grows up lonely and isolated, working from a young age to help her mum make ends meet. age 11, she gets her hogwarts letter.

her mother is a bit dubious but lets her go - it's a good opportunity to get rid of the burden of looking after her. she arrives at hogwarts and is sorted into gryffindor, although she doesn't really know what that means. she doesn't make friends easily.

other kids mock her background and upbringing, and her magic skills. she never really learned to read, and with no magical family she's behind on spells and has never been academically inclined. she doesn't ask for help and her teachers don't always notice she needs it.

mid-second year, her mother dies. she doesn't find out for several weeks because who would write to tell her? she spends all her holidays at hogwarts, often alone. the gryffindor common room is all snide comments and judgemental looks so she starts to explore the castle.

in her third year she finds the kitchens. the house-elves are wary of her at first, this strange, solitary girl coming to spy on them, but she becomes fascinated by cooking and after a while they grow to appreciate her interest. they start to teach her.

by fourth year she spends all of her free time in the kitchens, cooking and baking with the elves. homework and lessons get forgotten and she lags even further behind in her schoolwork, but she learns to follow recipes and then to invent her own.

o.w.l.s and n.e.w.t.s come and go and her grades are poor, barely passing half her classes. a few teachers try to offer specialist tutoring and she accepts half-heartedly but her mind is elsewhere - she only wants to cook, to do the thing she does best.

she leaves hogwarts with nowhere to go and no friends to rely on. who would hire the lowly muggleborn girl with no qualifications? she makes her way to london - she's never been but she's heard people say it's the best place to find work.

the city is overwhelming, but she manages to find diagon alley and the wizarding community. one day when she's lurking outside the back entrance to the leaky cauldron, hoping for scraps, an old teacher passes by and recognises her.

the teacher takes pity and asks if there's anything they can do. trolley witch tells her the only thing she can do is cook. the teacher's sister works at the ministry and she knows they are often looking to take on kitchen assistants - she'll get in touch.

after a few days, she's nervously making her way to the ministry of magic for her first day. the hogwarts kitchens were big and busy but they've got nothing on the ministry; a scene of vast, barely organised chaos. her boss is shrewd and fierce, and she's set to work on the most basic tasks to prove herself.

that afternoon, a senior ministry official comes down to check on catering preparations for an event she's hosting in a couple of days. trolley witch has just finished glazing several pans of pastries. the senior ministry official tries one.

'she's new, miss' says a nearby chef, excusing trolley witch's skills.

'impressive, for a new recruit,' says ottaline gambol, looking trolley witch straight in the eye, 'this glaze is excellent. welcome to the ministry.'

an obsession begins.

ottaline visits the kitchens only occasionally but trolley witch is always waiting for her. she works harder than ever, picking up every recipe, designing new dishes, honing flavour combinations, all to make sure she's got something impressive for the next visit.

it works. the older official is mildly impressed, if a little unsettled by trolley witch's solitary, strange nature. she rarely seems to go home or interact with anyone apart from necessary conversations in the kitchens.

one day, they meet in an elevator as trolley witch is taking food to an important ministry hearing. ottaline asks for a sample and their fingers brush as trolley witch hands her a pumpkin pasty. ottaline doesn't notice, but compliments the pasty. trolley witch tries to keep her composure.

'my department is in need of an assistant catering manager, helping to design event menus and so on. think about it.'

trolley witch doesn't need to think. she accepts and begins work in ottaline's department, seeing her almost every day, watching her closely.

ottaline gambol is a force to be reckoned with - strong-willed, assertive, a powerfully skilled witch. over the next 6 years she charts a meteoric rise in power, from senior official to head of department to - in 1827 - minister for magic.

trolley witch never leaves her side. she works hard to keep honing her culinary skills, but she does more. she waits for ottaline outside meetings to walk her back to the office. she analyses the smallest gesture, the most offhand of comments. she's desperate for approval and attention from this woman who showed her kindess on her first day. by her appointment as minister, ottaline has noticed the girl's obsession. she's got more important things to do than navigate an intense crush and figure out how to let this odd, lonely girl down gently.

in 1830, ottaline is finalising plans for the hogwarts express - a new form of transport to safely deliver students to hogwarts, managed by the ministry. it's revolutionary, it's creating a storm of attention across the wizarding world. and it needs a trolley witch.

someone to cook and sell food on the journey, but someone with a keen eye to watch over the students and make sure they don't come to harm. ottaline calls trolley witch into her ministerial office and offers her the job. it's the greatest honour of trolley witch's life.

to be chosen, so specifically, by ottaline. she feels like she's finally been recognised, she's finally achieved something. she realises she'll be apart from ottaline for a while, but probably just a year or two and then they can be together again, right? she begins work.

1st september, 1830. her first day.

'good luck,' says ottaline on platform 9 3/4. 'keep these children on the train, and keep them safe. i trust you to do an excellent job for me.'

those were the last words ottaline ever spoke to trolley witch.

the train departs. trolley witch walks the corridors, distributing pasties and sweets, watching the children. they are all delivered on time and in perfect health to hogwarts - a great success. trolley witch writes to ottaline straight away to tell her the good news.

'thank you for you letter, i'm pleased to hear the journey was a success. best wishes' is ottaline's reply.

she's probably very busy, will write a longer letter soon, thinks trolley witch. she never does.

trolley witch works back in the hogwarts kitchens during the year, with only the elves for company. years pass and trolley witch continues to write long, rambling letters to ottaline, never receiving a reply. she makes the journey back and forth to london at the beginning and end of every holiday, dutifully watching over the students.

she hopes to see ottaline at the station, but never does. in 1835, tragedy strikes - ottaline, nearing the end of her second term as minister, contracts a severe case of dragon pox and dies. trolley witch sees the news in a student's copy of the daily prophet and is inconsolable. she speaks to nobody for weeks, not even the elves, even when a few other members of staff ask her what's wrong.

one day in the kitchens an elf passes by with a full tray of pumpkin pasties, perfectly glazed. she remembers the first day she met ottaline, back in that busy kitchen, and she vows to protect her legacy. she works tirelessly, baking and cooking and watching the children. they test her patience, play cruel tricks, tease her, never ask her name. she forgets the outside world, forgets who she is, thinks only of ottaline.

every journey on the hogwarts express becomes more perilous - she cannot let the children get the better of her, cannot let ottaline's work be in vain. over the decades she picks up elfish magic, learning to weaponise her food, and later herself.

she goes unnoticed by staff and students alike, existing as a constant feature of their hogwarts life, always present but never worthy of attention. staff come and go, and nobody thinks to ask how long she's been at hogwarts. she stays alive through sheer willpower.

1st september 2020.

a normal hogwarts express journey - or so the trolley witch thinks. all is well until albus potter and scorpius malfoy climb onto the roof of the train to try and escape. it's the greatest test of trolley witch's career.

it's been a long time since she was challenged like this. she does her best - pumpkin pasty grenades, armoured fingernails, but the boys escape. her world shatters around her. ottaline would be so disappointed in her - she's failed in her sole duty.

it's been two hundred years and she has never failed before. mcgonagall tries to comfort her, but it's no use. what purpose does she serve now? trolley witch hands in her notice and leaves the castle the next day, never to be seen again. she wanders the forests near the castle, thinking only of ottaline. perhaps ottaline had known all along that she would fail, and that's why she never replied to her letters, why she never visited. she gets lost, deeper and deeper in the forest, until the cold and the dark envelop her.

when the hogwarts express departs for the christmas holidays, something is missing - someone. students start to get impatient.

'where's the trolley witch? i'm hungry.'

complaints are made. eventually the ministry hires a replacement, service resumes. trolley witch fades into history, unremembered.

so next time you are thinking about cursed child, about your cute albus and scorpius headcanons - remember the trolley witch.

remember what they did to her. remember her story.

🛒 1802-2020 🛒

the end

#ccsquad #harry potter #cursed child #hpcc #trolley witch #ottaline gambol #hogwarts express #headcanons #my hcs #trolleybitch #albus potter #scorpius malfoy #this is probs the best thing i will ever write and i'm not sorry

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therovingstar · 4 years

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Like a Spark of the Wick

Summary: “Fire is a being of the Father, the Sun. One who walks its path is one who dares to walk at His side, fearful of neither danger nor death. It is a title given to those believed to be exceptionally brave.”

Then she shrugs. “Or exceedingly stupid.” Her gaze on him narrows slightly, and she smiles again, the amusement this time clear as day on her pretty face. “Sometimes both.”

An enlightening conversation by candlelight, on the eve of revolution. Hien/f!WoL, pre-relationship, friendship, humor, hurt/comfort.

CW: Alcohol/drinking/inebriation.

Also available on AO3. Link through my blog.

She does not drink. Two half-filled ochoko out of six emptied flasks of sake, and it is no wonder that she is the only one of them still sitting with perfect poise; even Yugiri succumbed somewhat to her own thrice-refilled cup, unable as she was to resist her lord’s affable insistence. She has since escaped topside, both to clear her head and maintain her vigilance over the Fierce. Gosetsu is a long-lost cause; three out of their six bottles were his alone, and he hoarded them jealously, one downed in time with each impassioned speech until he had little else to say but half-muttered ramblings that reminded Hien distinctly of his age. “Old men should be careful in their cups,” he japed, knowing his mentor would take it as a challenge. Which he did, and met it by grabbing the mostly-filled remainder of a fourth bottle and swallowing as if it were water from a stream and not, in fact, some of their best, boldest bold, kept hidden in cellars buried right under the Empire’s nose, one of a hundred small, dogged defiances. Hien himself has only consumed spirits of similar strength on the Steppe; and he admits, the Xaela’s may have been a touch stronger.

Regardless, all of them have been feeling the effects, save one. He surreptitiously chances a glance out of the corner of his eye, curious to see if it still holds true.

Or not surreptitiously at all. Perhaps he is actually deeper in his own cups than he thought, because suddenly, the Warrior of the West – as his people have apparently taken to calling her – is meeting his gaze, one eyebrow lifted. “Yes?” she asks plainly. Hien smiles.

“Merely wondering if you are enjoying the fruits of our labor.” He grabs one of the porcelain bottles from where they rest at the center of their small table near their only immediate source of light: a single, simple candle. “Would you like more?” he offers, noting the mostly-full ochoko cradled in her palm, its pale coloring a fetching match to the scales marking the back of her deep brown hand.

Odzaya eyes the bottle, blank-faced but for a lightly-raised brow. Then, with a modest upturn of her hand and head, she half empties her cup, the wine slowly disappearing past her lips. “Sure,” she answers after a subtle out-blow of breath, and sets the saucer down near him.

Hien grins as he pours for her. “A smart move, if I may say so. This brew in particular is quite strong.” As if in agreement, Gosetsu lets out a loud, rumbling snore. Odzaya’s mouth quirks upward.

“It is good,” she compliments, as she daintily retakes the cup into her hands. And makes no motion to drink it.

“Do such spirits exist in the west?” he asks, pouring another round for himself. Odzaya shrugs.

“I am not the one to ask. I tend to avoid most of them.”

As he guessed. Hien grins. “You are one to keeps her wits about her, then?” She makes a noncommittal noise in reply, though her smile teases upward a little more.

“Preferably.”

“Well,” he begins, and lifts his ochoko as he leans forward, “on behalf of my people, let me say that I am beyond flattered that our brew is appealing to your palate,” he says. “And on behalf of myself, that my khagun feels comfortable enough in my presence to allow her keen wits a respite.”

Indeed, if they even are. They certainly do not seem to be as Odzaya huffs something that sounds like a laugh and raises her cup in tandem, only to down another half and no more. She has had how many now? Three in total, over the course of nearly as many bells. As many as Yugiri, technically, who is also not a drinker. Being of somewhat similar build, one would think she would have begun feeling the effects at least somewhat.

And yet, after another subtle sigh, the Raen woman maintains impeccable composure, resting her chin in her other hand and eyeing the top of Gosetsu’s head where it weighs down their table, almost too close to the candle’s lit wick. “Is he comatose?” she asks abruptly, and shoots him a questioning look. Hien pauses in his observations to chuckle.

“‘Twould be a relief if he were; perhaps then he could receive proper rest, and stop obsessing so much over past regrets and so-called failings.” They will kill him more surely than any enemy blade. Hien leans back on his stool, contemplative, the creak of the wood echoing throughout the cavern. “Tis why I suggested we indulge, and egged him on to continue by inviting you and Yugiri to join us. He drinks more readily when with company. And, coincidentally, the more he drinks, the better he sleeps.” He grins at her lifted brow. “An unorthodox strategy and one I rarely employ, at the least for the sake of his liver, but one that has served me well in the past.”

Her eyebrow drops only minimally; the healer in her, perhaps, taking concern despite his attempt at assurance. Then she smiles again, as if amused. “You are rather unorthodox,” she muses aloud, her quiet tone suggesting it is almost to herself.

“Am I?” he asks, tilting his head in genuine inquiry, only to quickly right it as his equilibrium begins to falter. Odzaya looks at him, seeming as if to ponder, before she continues.

“The name you were given on the Steppe. ‘Fire Walker’. It is an acknowledgment, a marker delineating your penchant for the unexpected.”

“Is that what it means?” Honestly, he never took the time to truly consider, beyond simply assuming it to be at least mildly insulting in some way. So that was its meaning, then.

Odzaya nods once in confirmation. “Fire is a being of the Father, the Sun. One who walks its path is one who dares to walk at His side, fearful of neither danger nor death. It is a title given to those believed to be exceptionally brave.”

Then she shrugs. “Or exceedingly stupid.” Her gaze on him narrows slightly, and she smiles again, the amusement this time clear as day on her pretty face. “Sometimes both.”

Hien gives thanks to the Kami for the sake that is currently running through his veins; it means there is none left in his mouth, and therefore none being spewed across the table as he blinks, and then nearly loses himself to laughter. He also gives thanks for his stool; it allows for purchase, however precarious, as his balance tilts again, dizzyingly, and he threatens to tumble to the floor in his fit. He still seems likely to fall, truthfully, at least until Odzaya saves him and his dignity by way of her own (amazingly non-drunken) reflexes. Hien startles quiet at the heat of her hand, like a brand, suddenly clutched to his bare shoulder, angling him back into his seat, the other hovering over his mouth, poised, no doubt, to shut his trap and prevent him from disturbing their comrades (always thinking of the small things, he observes, recalling the sight of her expertly rearranging the Leveilleur twins’ slumbering forms so as to avoid discomfort come the morn). When he follows the path of her arm, he finds her standing, both eyebrows lifted above a wide, intensely red-eyed gaze.

And then, suddenly, she is the one succumbing to laughter, a bright, rasping thing that he can only describe in his state as mildly enchanting, even subdued as it is. Those eyes crinkle at their corners, teeth gleaming oh-so-briefly from between wide, full lips. Her palm solidifies even more on his shoulder as she presses down slightly, ensuring he won’t topple again, before she finally steps back. “See?” she says, still clearly amused. “Fire Walker.”

Hien grins. “Mayhaps there is some truth to it.”

Odzaya huffs another near-silent laugh. “Mayhaps,” she echoes, and goes to return to her chair, swaying ever-so-slightly. Her tail periodically shifts as she goes, like the rudder on a rocking boat.

Aha. Hien’s smile widens at the sight, though he tries to school his expression as she sinks back onto her own stool, another of those mellow sighs coming out as she does. When their eyes meet once more, she blinks slowly.

“I am not drunk,” she says, as if she has read his thoughts.

“Of course not,” he agrees, grinning again, tickled in a way he blames on the wine. “Merely weary, I would guess. Mayhaps it is time you retired?” Lack of windows notwithstanding, he suspects morning is not terribly far off. They should all be turning in, and yet...he looks down at his ochoko.

Odzaya once more leans on the table, her chin coming to rest upon her upturned palm. She eyes him, and he gets the distinct impression she is reading his mind once more. “You plan to continue?” She drops her gaze briefly to indicate the remaining flasks near Gosetsu’s head. “Alone?”

She caught the phrasing of his suggestion, then. Hien casually shrugs one shoulder. “For a time.”

Her brow furrows slightly. “Really?”

Hien chuckles. “Worried about my liver now, are you, friend?”

“Wondering if you are planning to become so inebriated that you will not remember issuing the order to destroy your own home on the morrow.”

The Warrior of Light could be a blunt one; he noted it some time ago, watching her dealings with her Scions, as well as the Xaela. The way she carried herself – modestly, almost conservatively – belied a tongue that could, at a moment’s notice, move with surprising impunity.

He likes it, and responds by smiling easily. “Would you judge me?” he asks, finding himself curious.

Odzaya lifts her own shoulder, looking down at the table. “I cannot. The Steppe tribes are largely nomadic, as you know; most of us have no concept of a permanent home beyond the land itself. Even in Eorzea, I tend not to settle in one place too long.” She pauses, her mouth pursed, as if weighing her tongue and the words upon it. “I do, however,” she continues, quietly, “understand ties, the connections one can make to a place, and the difficulty in seeing those ties undone, by whatever means.” She pauses, then looks at him. “I imagine it would be worse, having to undo them yourself.”

Aye, could speak with impunity. But never seemed to forgo care.

Hien remains silent for a time, thinking on her words, before he meets her gaze. “May I confide in you for an indulgent moment, my friend?” he asks softly.

Those red eyes widen slightly, but eventually, Odzaya nods. Almost imperceptibly shifts, as well, as if to show he has her attention. His smile deepens.

“I do not mourn Doma Castle,” he admits. “It was my home, yes, for all of my six and twenty years, and because of that, it has indisputable sentimental value. It is the home of my ancestors; every square inch has a story, every room an entire history, and I spent my growing years being told them all by my parents and tutors.” He chuckles. “I never cared for them much, truth be told. They were fascinating and inspiring tales, to be sure, but only that: tales. Read back far enough, and your great-grandsire becomes more a figure of ancient legend, rather than someone whose lap you once sat in, though apparently I did. No, I much preferred seeing the history being made by my father and mother, who I could see and touch. That, and daydreaming about the lines I would add to our storied annals.”

Odzaya smiles slightly. “A high-flier, then.” Hien laughs.

“Quite so! And rather doggedly, if the frustrations of my teachers were anything to go by. However much I truly enjoyed the literary pursuit of knowledge, I still preferred a bokken in my hand over a book.” By now, the wine is well enough into his system to feel less like a hindrance burning through his veins and more like a soother warming him from the inside out, eliminating the cavern’s cool draft. He sighs and sinks further into his chair, his gaze finding the high stone ceiling. “I would dream of chasing the Empire back across our borders, of returning home victorious at my father and fellow samurai’s sides. I would dream of inheriting the throne and continuing my parents’ legacy, and implementing policies to make our people’s lives easier; of marrying and raising children – more than one, mind you, as I always wanted siblings to play with, but never received any – and giving them a history to take pride in, stories to inspire them.”

So many dreams, locked away in that palace, and hardly just his own. He counts them among the stalactites piercing down from that cavernous ceiling, substitutes for the stars he cannot see.

“Losing the past will hurt, aye. The books, the scrolls, the paintings, the tales. But it is the future of that place, my future, the future I imagined, for which I truly mourn.” He sighs again, and knows it is bittersweet. “Twas a foundation for much I wished to build, that castle; it will be hard to be without it, however worth its loss, a hundred times over, my people’s futures are.”

Silence reigns for what feels like an age, exposed as his heart and mind now are, alcohol still thrumming through his blood like a pulse. Somehow, though, with the Warrior of the West, of all people, on the receiving end, it feels freeing to speak his innermost thoughts. Mayhaps because not too long ago, their roles were reversed, and she, in the midst of dealing with what seemed an impossible choice, shared her sentiments with him under an endless, star-studded sky.

The closest thing to the stars here is the single candle lighting the edges of his vision, the stalactites with their tips gleaming with hints of dew and precious minerals. The prince in him wishes he could have at least provided a better venue for his selfishness, something more stimulating – and, dare he say, a touch more intimate – than an underground cavern filled with beleaguered, fitfully-sleeping soldiers.

“Rebuild it, then,” he hears suddenly, and Hien looks down to see Odzaya’s craned neck as she stares up at those same stalactites. Her gaze is half-lidded, her lashes fluttering when she blinks, as if she fights to keep her eyes open. Still, her voice rings quiet but clear in his ears. “The land will still be there, will it not?” she asks. “And so will the potential. And even if not, there is nothing stopping you from building something entirely new, perhaps even better, than what was there before.”

Would it be so simple a thing to do? he wonders. Of course not, and yet she makes it sound so, as if she speaks from the very knowledge she declared she did not have. He recalls her previous words, about undone ties; remembers the blanket she lovingly placed around the twins’ shoulders, and how the look in her eye was the same she had when Cirina first recognized and ran for her in Reunion’s square. “Is that what you’ve done in Eorzea, then?” he asks, just as quiet. “Settled a new land, with a new tribe to call your own?”

Odzaya huffs, just a lazy breath gusting past her lips. “In a way, I suppose. But…” She pauses, then shifts slightly, the creak of the stool almost startling in the silence. “It is what I am trying to do here, too. Rebuild that which I undid, hopefully into something better.”

Then she snorts, her tone turned half-cynical, such a contrast to the soft look in her eye when she angles the candlelit line of her neck to look at him. “Or mayhaps I am merely like you,” she says, smirking. “Another Fire Walker.”

No, she does not make it sound simple, Hien thinks, rendered momentarily speechless in the wake of her admittance. She merely makes it sound possible. A subtle power entirely separate from her ability to move the earth and control the stars; the kind of power that, in the right hands, can move minds, strengthen hearts. And build nations.

Quite the woman, this Warrior of the West.

“If you are,” he says, grinning and feeling just a little awed, as if he is seeing the stars, after all, in a place wholly unexpected, “I will consider it the highest of compliments to be called thus.”

Odzaya’s eyes narrow in amusement, two glowing shards of an ember ignited by the wick. “I would not,” she says bluntly, and Hien cannot resist another hearty guffaw.

The little sake left remains untouched, after that. He is drunk already, after all, and keenly feeling the effects as the world gently spins around him, threatening at any moment to turn upside down. Every noise is a distant, muffled thing: the creak of a chair, the murmur of idle conversation, Gosetsu’s snores, as well as the quiet breath expelling from Odzaya as he watches her ever-so-slowly succumb to slumber. It surprises him, at first; on their journey across the Steppe, her eyes were always the last to slip shut, and the first to open in the pre-dawn. A habit born of a turbulent past, or simply a quirk? Regardless, now she is utterly still, draped over the table as she is, a comical mirror image of Gosetsu’s still-slumbering form. The single candle gilds her horns and the scales adorning her face gold, heats the soft ropes of her hair purple to pink. Strangely enough, her eyes are also slit the barest bit open – as if she fought slumber only for it to sneak past her defenses – the thinnest sliver of limbal red showing past her dark lids, like the sun just beginning to peek out from the horizon.

Mayhaps it is too presumptuous, given what awaits us on the morrow, he thinks, fighting his own daze as he watches the gentle in and out of her breath, but if the spirits of fortune dare to smile upon us, I would invite you to return here one day, when I can give you my due best of a proper royal’s welcome. That, and show you what I and mine have built with the courage you have given us.

He briefly contemplates leaving once more, to ensure that she – and Gosetsu – are not disturbed, before ultimately settling into place. She has kept steady vigilance near from the moment they met; he can do so for one remainder of a night. In the ensuing silence, his gaze once more on the stars he cannot see, it comes to him again: the deliberate loss of his past, as well as the future it will bring.

“Fire Walker,” he murmurs to himself, and smiles.

A fitting title, after all. And one he will wear proudly.

#hien rijin #odzaya malaguld #hien x wol #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #otp: starry-eyed #storytime #legit forgot i wrote this #pleasant surprise that it was mostly finished and i like it lol #this is probably when hien's crush started #and odzaya decided 'ok maybe this dude's cool'#'at the very least he makes me laugh'#anyway i ficced!#and now off to work

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manjehaal · 4 years

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Ignite the Stars: Chapter 3

Read on AO3.

Admittedly, it could have been anything.

The passing starship that had his mind clouded since the morning’s rising suns.

Nino’s unbashful elation at the prospect of leaving for something greater.

Uncle Etienne and Aunt Valerie’s insistence that Adrien’s assist on the farm for yet another season.

All of it.

Any of it.

It was all good at making Adrien Agreste desperate.

He was crouched on the ground, letting the hologram continue to play, considerably stunned. It was like he was watching a ghost, or something from a film, lighting up the darkened workshop and begging him to excuse his duties. And he wanted to. Wanted to put everything down and help her. If not for his own liberation, then for the liberation of the girl.

“Who is that?” he asked softly, hugging his knees as he looked at the two droids expectantly.

See-Threepio seemed just as stunned and confused as himself. He turned to his counterpart. “What is that?” When the droid responded with dismissive bleep bloop, Threepio pushed further. “He asked a question. Who is that?”

The droid remained silent, letting the message loop again. Help me, Caline Bustier, you’re my only hope…

Beep, beep, blip.

“He says it’s nothing, sir, merely a malfunction. Old data. Pay it no mind.”

But Adrien was unsuccessfully paying it no mind, as he neared the image, eyes wide and curious. The girl, distorting from view as he let his hand fall through the image. Then pulling back, his eyes trained on nothing but the girl.

“Who is she?” he asked again, moving slowly as if he was in a state of shock. “She’s beautiful.”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite sure, sir,” the droid droned on, ignoring the way Adrien neared the hologram, pointing his green eyes at it with unparalleled determination.

“I think she was a passenger on our last voyage. A person of some importance, I believe. Our captain was attacked-”

“Is there more to this recording?”

Whistle, beep, bloop.

“Behave yourself, R2,” 3PO chided. “You’re going to get us into trouble. It’s alright, you can trust him. He’s our new master.”

There was a pause as if the blue droid had to think on it, observing the boy huddled beside him. Small and boyish for the age of nineteen. Under a mess of uncut blond bangs and soft green eyes. He didn’t look as if he could harm a soul.

Finally, in resolve, he turned to his companion, deciding to bet on the boy having tight lips.

C3PO translated. “He says he’s the property of Caline Bustier, a resident of these parts, and it’s a private message for her. Quite frankly, sir, I don’t know what he’s talking about. Our last master was Captain Césaire. But with all we’ve been through, this little R2 unit has become a bit eccentric.”

Adrien straightened a bit, thoughtfully glancing at the window, his mind traveling back to a memory from his youth.

. ' * . . '

. * * -+-

. * . ' *

* . ' . .

* * . .

' *

He was nine years old when he first heard his uncle raise his voice in such a way. Sure, he was loud and gruff at times, but this was a volume that left Adrien startled to the bone. He had never feared his uncle. Not so much that he feared for his life. But he knew when to take a step back and stay out of his way.

One day, however, at the eruption of his uncle’s emotions, protectively shielding his family from the person at their doorstep, Adrien felt afraid. Not afraid of the woman at his door exactly, but at what his uncle may do to her. He could feel it like a warning circling like a siren in his head, telling him that his uncle had anger deeper than anything he had ever shown before. His clenched fists startled Adrien into turning for his room, not wanting to watch what he may do to the woman.

And it was just Laure, the woman with the auburn hair. Nothing but kind as far as Adrien could see, kindly complimenting Adrien’s handiwork, with brief exchanges as she walked the sandy path to her home a bit off. She was different in a way Adrien could never piece together, but he surely never thought she was dangerous.

Hidden, behind a shadow Adrien couldn’t lift, but not with malicious intent. She was laced with fear, or fierce protectiveness, but not malous. Adrien was in knots trying to understand, as Etienne was still just a few paces away, threatening to use his rifle if the woman wouldn’t leave the premises.

Adrien was like a heavy rock beneath his bed, listened, breathing, feeling his face sting with confused tears. A loss permeated inside his chest for a woman he barely knew. But he felt it, as Laure quietly walked away from the house, leaving a cold shadow over Adrien.

“Laure makes me feel safe, Uncle,” he said at dinner, the coldness still covering him as he ate.

Ettiene didn’t look at his nephew, pushing around at his food with an unreadable expression.

“Were you going to hurt her?” Adrien asked, his voice coming out weak and quiet.

His uncle dropped his fork onto the plate, looking at Adrien with an unmasked coldness. “Do you know me, boy?”

Adrien nodded, swallowing hard.

“Then you know I wouldn’t. But I had to make her understand. She is dangerous, Adrien. Don’t ever talk to her.”

* .

* '

* *

“Caline Bustier,” Adrien repeated, allowing the droid to turn off the hologram. “Maybe he means Laure Bustier.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but do you know what he’s talking about?”

Adrien moved from his spot on the ground, brushing the dirt from his pants. “Well, I don’t know a Caline, but Laure lives out past the Dune Sea. She’s a strange woman.” He turned to the droid again, letting his mind drift back to the woman in the hologram instead. “I wonder who that girl is. She sounded as if she was in danger. Can you playback the whole message?”

Contrary to Adrien’s legitimate concern, the R2 unit fired back, pulling away and beeping threateningly.

“He says the restraining bolt has short-circuited his recording system,” 3PO claimed, trying to ease the tension that was now drawn by the eccentric blue droid. “He suggests that if you remove the bolt, he might be able to playback the entire recording.”

Adrien nodded, fingering for a set of pliers on his workbench, approaching the blue droid. After a few minutes of pulling at the bolt, it finally popped off.

To his dismay, the girl in the hologram just disappeared, fading away as quickly as Adrien’s hope began to rise.

* '*

* *

Aunt Valerie’s voice poured into all of Adrien’s frustration, pulling him away from the droids, and the girl, and the secrets. He would be foolish to forget his role. He wasn’t in the Alliance. He wasn’t a savior. He couldn’t do anything to save the girl in the hologram.

R2D2 must have known that.

It’s why he pulled it away from Adrien’s ambitious eyes with the conclusion that he would find a stronger hero.

“I’ll be right there, Aunt Valerie,” he said softly, taking a step back from the blue droid.

“I’m sorry, sir, but he appears to have picked up a slight flutter.”

Adrien shook his head, not at all surprised that he was being lied to. It surely wouldn’t be the first time, and hardly the last. But still, it stung. Because he knew it. He knew it was true. He was nothing of use to them either. They wouldn’t trust him.

So he turned away, knowing that Aunt Valerie at least needed him for something.

C3PO turned to his counterpart, displaying some kind of annoyance. “Just you reconsider playing that message for him.”

. . . *

. * . . . . . . + .

. . + . . .. . . . . . .

. . . +. + .

. . . .

. . . * . .

. . +

“I think that R2 unit we bought might have been stolen,” he told his uncle, slipping to the seat beside Aunt Valerie.

Etienne raised his eyebrows, letting his spoonful of food rest in his bowl. “What makes you think that?”

Adrien let his eyes rest on his own dinner, swallowing back the fear of bringing it up. Of revisiting a case that was closed almost ten years ago. But how could he not say something, what, with a girl being in trouble?

“I came across a recording when I was cleaning. The droid says he belongs to a Caline Bustier.”

There was a long pause at the table, with a vague look of recognition passing over Valerie’s face and a raw distaste falling over Etienne. His chest thudded at the memory of the rage in his Uncle’s eyes, now passing through in a more tame loathing. Adrien still couldn’t understand it.

“I thought he might have meant Laure,” he said, swallowing hard, afraid his Uncle might demand he never says the name again, just as he had for several months after Laure’s banishment, demanding Adrien never so much as think about the strange woman. But he went on, discarding his apprehension and reminding himself that he wasn’t a child anymore. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

All he received with a dismissive grunt.

“I wonder if she’s related to Laure,” Adrien said, deciding to go on.

“That witch is just a crazy old woman,” his uncle finally stated, still looking down at his food, quickly changing the subject. “Tomorrow, I want you to take the Artoo unit to Anchorhead and have its memory erased. That’ll be the end of it. It belongs to us now.”

Adrien sank into his seat, finding himself cornered by his uncle’s stern eyes. He had to grasp at something. “But what if this Caline is looking for him?”

“She won’t. I don’t think she exists anymore.”

Adrien folded his hands in his lap, feeling that familiar shadow of his youth like he was losing something important somehow. The same way he had felt when his Uncle had forbidden Laure from seeing him. And the same uneasiness he felt every time his Uncle forbade him from entering the Academy.

“She died around the same time as your father,” he said finally, causing the shadow over Adrien to double in size, a shiver etching its way down his spine. Everything sank. Everything was lost. He almost saw a light, and his Uncle was set on blowing it out.

But he was desperate for answers, and if the shadow encompassed him, at least he would know why. “She knew my father?”

“I told you to forget it.”

Adrien clenched his teeth, nodding carefully as something strong boiled beneath his skin.

“Your only concern is to prepare those droids for tomorrow. In the morning, I want them up there on the south ridge, working on those condensers.”

“Yes, sir,” Adrien whispered almost mutely, keeping his eyes fixed on his food in a stretched long silence. He hardly even reacted when his uncle continued, dictating that he stay for another harvest, that he take another year yet before going off to the Academy.

But he could hardly listen, feeling the same shadow, the same built-up power inside burning alive in his chest. It would do him no good to lose control of his words, or worse, his actions. He couldn’t look at his Uncle. Not without saying something he may regret. It wasn’t as if he’d change his mind anyway.

So Adrien slipped from his seat without a word, wandering back to the workshop.

Aunt Valerie turned to her husband, letting her hand rest in his. “Etienne, he can’t stay here forever. All of his friends are gone.”

“I’ll make it up to him next year. I promise.”

She looks down at her plate, laughing quietly at his stubbornness. “Adrien’s just not a farmer, Etienne. He has too much of his father in him.”

Etienne met his wife’s eyes, a spark of terror passing through just as quickly as his face softened. But still, he held his ground.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

* .

* '

* *

The twin suns mocked him, like critical eyes blazing in the dark purple sky, with a reminder that they would never leave him, and they would be the only suns that he would ever see. And the moons to meet them would be the only night his young eyes would witness until they grow old. This was the farthest he could venture. This was the cage around his pounding chest.

But he calmed himself, drawing from the warmth and releasing a breath.

He couldn’t remain angry. He learned a long time ago what kind of cataclysmic fury lived within his calloused fingers, untamed and chaotic, like the burning inside his chest to venture past the suns. But with that, a deep fear. A fear that let Adrien give in to his Uncle’s boundaries, allowing the cage to lock him in.

It was fear.

Fear of the monsters circling his memory, just a child gripping the edge of his mattress as he trembled, frozen to the point of speechlessness. His Aunt and Uncle’s corpses, all a dream. A tall, dark stranger, cloaked in purple, burning the flesh from their bones. The dreams were heavy and unexplainable.

Fear of intuition, serving him as a whisper, to go or to not, to run or to hide. Always honest. Always right. Defying all explanations, the whisper saved his life more times than he could count. But yet, he feared to listen for it. His uncle always made him wary of things he couldn’t explain.

Fear of waking up to a room on fire, lit around him, with no unblown candle to catch the fabric. Just him, and a ghostly memory, hidden behind the fearful eyes that watched his Uncle put out the flames. He had told him to be more careful with his lantern. Adrien knew he had to be more careful with his rage.

Fear, still inside, but calmed with time. He had to swallow it back and ignore it. If he were to let the fire thrive, he wasn’t sure what he might do. What he might destroy. And it was for the best, he supposed, to keep his destructive nature away from a growing Alliance and an innocent princess.

He lifted his head, staring into the suns, his body immersed. He was so afraid, but yet he could feel it. The longing… Longing Longing Longing.

It pulled.

But he could pull back too. Despite his growing aspirations, he knew he would go yet another night staring only at the same twin suns.

The only suns he would ever see.

#miraculous ladybug #Adrien Agreste #Chat Noir #marinette dupain cheng #Ladybug #ladynoir #Marichat #adrinette #ladrien #Caline Bustier #star wars

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cherry-o-piggy · 4 years

Text

And old slew

posted 3/7/2021

I think my number one requirement is that you keep up, which only the mentally ill do.

What does it say about me that all my friends are ADHD?

The black boys, they pass and bob and chat to rap like it’s beat poetry in the 1960s. Here with them I am in a modern historical moment of art discovering my aesthetic and true calling. I see this after a bias worry on repeat, looking back it was not a real fear, just a humorous societal conception, and who have I ever been to subscribe to society. Me and my white girl friend out smoked them in their own home and my friend, I hugged him in front of his friends, and he walked us out of his house like a true gentleman. It was truly the part of my soul that I wanted to share in a social setting.

“You’re not in charge of me, T[redacted] is.”

It’s 10 degrees in the dark and it’s just me and my skin wrapped in tight black fabric flying up the powdered hill like I was never meant to touch the ground in the first place. It is still 10 degrees and I’m replaying everything that has ever happened like maybe I’ll get a second chance that I don’t need, but want still. The 10 degrees rummage around in my bones and all the pain this new year brought, the pain of becoming women, intertwines itself with my heart so there is no difference. The 10 degrees keep me warm, from the pit of my stomach to my chest and red cheeks. It’s enough right now.

The concept of solidarity flowed from Budimir’s lips along with sweeties and engagement, and I truly think it is the first concept I ever truly understood. I do not know respect or love or good. But I know solidarity, I know solidarity deep down in my bones and my blood and my soul. And it just goes to show, it was never me, I just never met a good teacher.

My lust still rides with you, for safe keeping.

I don’t remember what your voice sounds like anymore, I used to be able to hear it in my head.

Every man both looks like you and the man who wanted me dead.

Sometimes I am hollowed out enough that the only feeling I have is my hands and they don’t seem to bare my heart’s intentions. But it is a much deeper part of my being they represent, one I wish someone worse would fulfill for me. Pity I am the only beautiful thing.

Part of my soul is an iris in the wind.

A wealthy woman in the glass, a thesis sustaining the validity of age regression in design and mini-practice, and collections combatting change in order to hold on to something.

There was a few moments of my life where I was obsessed with the devil in the woods by the ocean and the magic I would be allowed if I could just exist somewhere beautiful to be a little odd in peace with equally passionate companionship. While the other burn outs dream of fantasy I dream of psudeo-realistic peace because I could never get there by myself, let alone with the chaos of another sentiment being.

You wouldn’t like me anymore. I’m an existentialist bc I am completely and totally unsure of myself as a concept. And it makes it immensely easier to flow along with the process of getting what I want.

In the dark the voice pokes at suicide in the highest of highest and I drown out the noise with the hope that in that grainy moment 5 guys ago you flicked away my perfect tears with your tongue and I was too intimate and vulnerable to fully feel it.

With a face this expressively cute and a brain this overwhelmingly neat I deserve a man to compliment my abundance completely.

I bet no one thinks about me at all. But that would be naive and hopeful.

If he is only supplying money as his position in your life, as soon as the money stops he no longer needs to be taken into consideration when making decisions because he is no longer a part of your life. If the only value you have is the provision of the bare necessities and no emotional connection you have no purpose after you no longer supply the means of survival because you made the decision and only did a quarter of the work needed to take responsibility for that decision.

Time isn’t who she used to be. Time used to drag and suffocate and strangle. Now Time is broad watercolor strokes to blurry, cotton eyes. I live the same day over and over with the same amount of nothing but I still do not feel the suffocation of monotonous repetition, not like I used to when I was young. I feel unfulfilled still, empty still. But it is not overwhelming. And this nothing that happens, the absolute repetition of activity happens so quickly now. Not like it used to. I feel like I’m always playing catch up. There’s never enough time, or maybe I am newly blind to her movement? Whatever the case, Time and I are strangers now, which is such a shame because I used to know her intricately, anxiously so.

Sometimes I dissolve into words, I think that’s why everything moves so fast.

I’m going to force my oddity on man and disregard everyone that has anything at all to say. I always said I was crazy, which drew extensive attention, but I no longer think that is fitting for me and who I aspire to become. I think I desire much more to be odd than to be mad. Eccentric.

A man bought me six and a half hours (after tax) worth of stuffed animals. And I haven’t even had sex with him. Fuck, that kind of feels like debt. Can I like hang out w him and like “drop” $50 somewhere he’ll eventually notice. I’ve never had to do that before, but I am willing to go that far. Actually, I did that to my GM last break (and I shouldn’t have, I deserve better compensation for my labor, but I refuse to be rude ever).

Why would I want a man that smells like wood?

Hanging out w me is like just me saying “no babies” over and over in different voices.

The feeling drips like sunflower blue syrup down my back. It feels too sharp to be harmless, but too quick to enjoy. And it leaves my chest hollow after it’s appearance. My limbs are heavy and my head is worried about the fluttering around that happened inside my chest last night, I wasn’t sure if it was death or symptoms of suffocation. My lungs just filled and I grasped my body from within my soul and when it was sufficient and neat, I dove back into the harmful thoughts of lust and the gripping behavior caused by being lonesome. This feeling doesn’t flow, it’s too stuck, it remains mine. So instead it drips.

I want to scream that I am good at what I do because a piece of me always felt that you doubted me. I am good enough that I read a love poem out loud to my high school class with the girl in the class and I didn’t get bullied for it, it didn’t scare her away, and my teacher complimented me about it. I was known by the whole high school as a writer and it wasn’t in a bad way. I used to write and edit peoples papers and I was an English tutor for middle school. My English 101 professor told me I should Publish my paper based on the three paragraphs that I wrote in twenty minutes right in front of him. I have not read a full book since sophomore year of high school and I am able to break down structures and themes of books by picking through about 30 pages, and from that I can developed a thesis, a five paragraph outline, research questions, and eventually a 6 page paper from 30 pages of a novel. I hung out with someone, read then my poetry and they were surprised that it was not cringe. Every English teacher I’ve ever had has loved me. I was already so familiar with the English language and the concept of grammar rules and their functions that I could speak in limited vocabulary sentences in Spanish when I was taking Spanish 2 (did I cry every single day, yes, but did I get an A, also yes). When I tell you I am a writer, I mean that it is my soul. It is the only reason I am alive. When I tell you I am good at what I do I mean I’m already published. Twice. I am good at what I do. So yeah, I know what a fucking genre is, bitch.

Even my abusers will tell you I’m good at what I do.

I need someone to press their soul into mine so that I am sure I have one.

Good morning honey bun 💛 I hope you have a wonderful day today and I’ll be sending good thoughts your way all day :) love you ❤️❤️

8 year old me would think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. I remember how critical I was of other women, I remember the way I used to pick them apart in my head about all their imperfects. It’s bc I only heard those things about myself. And I’m not proud, but I was a child and I am completely different now. I remember my favorite parts about women too. I remember how I used to melt for long hair and belly button piercings and being unashamed. I am tall and wealthy and have a million expressions. 8 year old me would stare at me in the store and hope to be her, 8 year old me would love to be 17 year old me. It’s all she ever wanted. I am everything I ever wanted. I am gorgeous.

Sometimes it’s claymation filter and my body is yellow and I am ugly and when I laugh my teeth are bucked. I get so clear that I am ugly. I get so outside of my own perspective that I have never uttered my own name.

I am so self aware and violently gone and ridiculous. And I’ve been wanting this. That I thank god for planning and hard work.

I’m a slut. :) beep

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feedurmind · 4 years

Text

Regaining self-confidence: 3 simple keys to apply

Wondering how to regain your self-confidence?

Either because you've suffered from shyness or lack of confidence for a long time. Or because an event has caused you to lose confidence (emotional separation, dismissal, etc.).

In both cases, this handicaps you in all your relationships and deeply influences the image you have of yourself. Don't worry: you are not alone, many people wonder how to have self-confidence? And that's something you can acquire or regain if you do the right thing.

As a coach specializing in emotional intelligence, I've done work on self-confidence, one of my specialties. Why did you do it? Because the people I coach, the (hyper) sensitive ones, generally suffer from a lack of self-confidence. I have therefore built tailor-made support for them, based on online training and a very innovative energetic treatment in the practice: the LINE QUARTZ.

Let's see how it helped Astrid, a shopkeeper, to recover her self-confidence after a difficult love break-up.

What does it mean to regain self-confidence?

First of all, we must know that lack of self-confidence is characterized by an excessive analysis of our reactions. The person with low self-confidence is constantly preoccupied with himself, is constantly self-critical, judges himself regularly, is subject to external pressure, etc..

As a consequence, this inhibits and slows down his faculties, especially in a group. She doesn't dare to be herself, which prevents her from living the way she wants to live and asserting her personality! She thus misses out on many pleasures in life. I would even say, without exaggerating, that she denies herself, living well below her real potential. It is a phenomenon that many hypersensitive people who feel "different" tend to hide what they feel...

What is shyness?

It can come from childhood or trauma in adulthood (e.g. you are fired at work, based on reproaches that are very difficult for you to accept). At the age of 42, after 16 years of marriage and 19 years of living together with the same man, Astrid felt humiliated by his betrayal. She became aware that she was deceived and that this infidelity had lasted for at least 2 years. She was at the same time downhearted and very angry. But most of all... she felt guilty about herself. If her boyfriend had gone elsewhere, it's because she had to have had something to do with it, she kept repeating to herself...

The result: a very big loss of self-confidence and self-esteem. Why were you rejected like that? Was she still valuable as a woman? Would she be able to seduce a man again? Etc, etc. All these questions were on her mind for many months after the separation. Astrid was sinking deeper and deeper. She who, at the base, was already hypersensitive, was living there real emotional chaos.

No matter what caused the lack of trust. Without her, it is very difficult to move forward in life. Here, Astrid had no taste for anything. She didn't believe in anything anymore (and especially no longer in herself!). Moped on her fate. And the worst: her loss of confidence in the field of love had impacted all the other spheres of her life: she now doubted herself for everything! How could she bounce back and regain her self-confidence in such a situation?

1st key to regain self-confidence: reconsider your beliefs

One of the first things you can do to regain your self-confidence (or simply gain self-confidence) is to change your beliefs about yourself. To do this (regardless of the origin of your loss of confidence), you can use different techniques:

- follow one of the many therapies that exist

- follow coaching geared towards confidence and self-esteem

- personal development books

- do exercises on your own, to gradually build up your confidence level

- use techniques such as hypnosis, self-hypnosis, self-suggestion, Coué method, kinesiology, etc.

- etc.

Why are the beliefs we hold about ourselves essential in terms of trust?

Quite simply, because we do not have an immutable personality, predetermined since our childhood. Of course, we have a deep nature, a genetic background, but we can change the way we look at ourselves.

At any age, we can refine our personality and adopt another mask (since the word "personality" comes from "persona", mask, we can change it at will). And therefore, do not allow yourself to be enclosed by beliefs, such as "chase the natural, it comes back at a gallop", "you've been like this since you were a child, you won't change", etc.

Concretely, whatever the lack of trust that strikes you today, I invite you to list on paper all the beliefs (what you tell yourself about yourself!) that limit you: I'm too much this, not enough that, I lack..., I'm always afraid of..., etc. Then, go through them one by one and ask yourself about their relevance. Then, you replace each negative belief by another one, more promising, and you train yourself to embody it. Over and over again!

In the case of Astrid, following her husband's adultery, she carried ultra-limiting beliefs with her:

- I am not capable of keeping a man

- I'm not up to it as a couple.

- my companion was not satisfied with what I gave her, because I was growing old badly (I remind you that she was only 42 years old!).

- I didn't live up to her expectations in terms of sexuality.

- I can no longer bring any satisfaction to a man...

- my life as a woman is over.

and the like

For her, gradually replacing her beliefs with more promising ones was a real challenge. It was achieved through energetic care. I will come back to this later.

2nd key: change your image

Secondly, you want to gradually change the image you have of yourself. Stop criticizing yourself all the time. Don't ask yourself how you can have more charisma? How can I overcome my shyness? Etc. This puts you under great and counter-productive pressure because it is linked to the obligation to be more this or more that...

On the contrary, enhance yourself. Focus on all the "good" in yourself. Honestly acknowledge your qualities, your positive sides - we all have them, so you have them too - and highlight them whenever possible. To do this, a useful little trick: write down in a notebook every day what you appreciate about yourself, everything you do well, all your successes, everything that goes well in your life. In the long run, this will strengthen your self-esteem and therefore your self-confidence.

To do this, you can call on an outside professional, such as a psychotherapist or a life coach like me. The advantage? This external expert, not being emotionally involved in the situation, will help you to bring a neutral and objective look at you and your assets. But in any case, it will be up to you and you alone to (re)appropriate them and, through them, to regain your self-confidence.

In order to help my clients to be autonomous in this crucial process, I have created an HYPERSENSIBLE AND MAGNETIC online training. You will find all the tools to reveal and become aware of all your resources, even the most hidden ones. This is what Astrid has done, at her own pace by following this training step by step. Of course, she had to get out of her comfort zone (several exercises particularly moved her, she confessed to me and... it's normal!) to succeed, but real confidence clicks were created in her.

Using your assets to regain self-confidence

In a methodical way, as this training is intended to review the whole person and her life, Astrid has reappropriated essential assets such as :

(I share with you here some real examples among the dozens of realizations she had)

IN RELATION TO HIS LIFE:

- she was very independent at a very young age after the death of her mother...

- she took care of her siblings when she was not yet an adult.

- it quickly became financially independent thanks to its business (today it is still not financially dependent on anyone)

- she owns her own house

- she faced and overcame several major challenges in her life (a court case, her daughter's disability, etc.).

- she has raised and educated almost alone (her partner worked a lot) 3 children she can be proud of

….

IN RELATION TO ITS QUALITIES:

- Perseverance...

- courage

- audacity

- resilience

- the up to the end

- faith in his lucky star despite the obstacles

- aggression

- the intuition to be guided towards solutions

…

COMPARED TO HER FEMININITY:

by "objectively" looking at herself in the mirror, Astrid realized that..:

- she still had a beautiful body for a woman over 40.

- she loved the color and shape of his piercing eyes...

- she'd barely gained any weight in ten years.

- she had beautiful long hair

- his companion had always complimented him on his very round and delicate forms.

- she had experienced great moments of pleasure in sexuality (until he turned away from her...)

- it had always attracted the attention of men (and women too, for that matter).

- she never had any trouble seducing a man...

…

3rd key to greater self-confidence: taking action

There's a saying that to eat an elephant, you have to cut it into small slices. That's exactly what self-confidence is all about. You're not at 0 in self-confidence in all areas. So I invite you to point out the areas where you lack it and those where you feel more at ease. Then to face your fears, one by one, by challenging yourself in everyday life. Give yourself small challenges every day to gradually exceed your limits. All of this, in a totally benevolent manner towards yourself, is essential!

This will allow you to feel yourself progressing, day after day, and by doing so, to take advantage of the law of attraction: by gradually regaining self-confidence, your attitude will change. And your change of attitude will make you attract favorable people and circumstances to help you continue on the same path. To put it another way, you will benefit from the virtuous circle of self-confidence: the positive always attracts the positive! (and it's the same with the negative).

In Astrid's case, she was able to take small steps towards more confidence. She was even very happy with her evolution since the beginning of the MAGNETIC HYPERSENSIBLE training. But she felt completely blocked when it came to trusting a man again. That was the limit for her. That's when she contacted me to come and test Linequartz's care

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