#Even more inescapable guilt of being the one to survive. Because it was impossible for him not to. But HOW? WHY?

[lionblaze03-2]

fnaf au where every time you die playing the games as michael he canonically dies and respawns a few hours earlier, remembering each time he dies

[deathbxnny]

HI LOVEE!!!

ok, this is a once in a lifetime occasion because I am obsessed with WuWa.

May I request an angst to fluff fic with Husband! Jiyan?

So, fem reader as always! As we all know the busy General spends most of his time at the front lines, but he always makes sure to send his sweet wife some gifts back! But she can't help but feel a bit neglected by him, missing him too much and some people's loud mouths talking bad about their relationship did not help either, so what happens when Jiyan returns home to surprise his wife but finds her crying silently instead? I'll leave that to you!!

I just love him sm, he's my lovely main! what's your team pookie? I'll share mine! Jiyan (main DPS) Encore (sub DPS) and Verina (Healer), sometimes I switch Encore with Rover (I chose the female one, which one did you choose?)

anyways, love you, keep yourself hydrated and rest! sweet flowers for my sweet bxnny → 💐🌻🌺

I saw angst and felt the voices (angst demons) attempt to take over lmao.

But my current team is usually made out of Calcharo, Verina, and Yinlin (I sometimes change out either Calcharo or Yinlin with my boy Jiyan tho, depending on what I'm fighting-). I also chose the female Rover, btw! She's just so cute!^^

So with that all said, thank you for the request, and I hope you'll love this too, dear moot!!<33

Content: Female/afab reader, husband Jiyan, some angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of paranoia, death (not of reader or Jiyan), mentions of war, sfw

Reader is afab!

((Not proofread))

When he's gone for too long. (Husband!Jiyan x Fem!Reader)

Your excitement dies when you open the front door in the hope of seeing your husband, only to be faced with a soldier instead. He stands there calmly, face expressionless like all the others before him, as he holds out an intricate package to you. If you didn't know any better, you would've knocked it out of his hands.

"A package for you, my lady. From the general." The man hummed, waiting patiently for you to take it. He didn't shy away from the anger in your eyes, the pain and pure annoyance, that was then stilled with a deep breath. They were used to it by now.

"Thank you." You said, the package feeling heavy in your hands when you shut the door behind you again wordlessly. Not seeing the way the soldier opened his mouth once more to say something else.

Something that would've quelled the anger in your heart.

You threw the gift on a pile next to the door, dust slightly filling the air when it hit the many others that came before it. It wasn't that you weren't grateful or happy. But you also just wanted your husband to be here instead. You wanted him to hand you these gifts. Him to be the one that appears at your door after being gone for so long.

It angered you that he wasn't here, even if you knew why.

Being a general was difficult and draining. It forced him to stay out on the frontlines for weeks and even months on end with minimal communication, if any at all. His solution was, therefore, to simply send his wife lavish gifts in hopes of making her feel less lonely, but he knew better than to believe that it ultimately worked in the long run.

Your anger made you feel selfish, and the guilt made you feel worse. You were stuck in an inescapable cycle that was impossible to break out of. Leaving the home for a break was impossible as well. No matter where you went, the pity filled looks and taunting whispers seemed to haunt you. It made you barely step out of the house. You couldn't do it, not without him.

It was a miserable existence, and yet you never voiced your woes to Jiyan either. You didn't want to burden him with such troubles when he had worse things to worry about. He had been through atrocities he could never even speak of, so surely you could survive the couple weeks without him, right? He was keeping you all safe, his sacrifices were important. Even if it was at the cost of your sanity.

But now that you sat here in the darkness of your living room all alone, you realise that you perhaps never accepted the neglect as much as you wanted to. You felt horrible, the guilt eating you alive whilst you shed endless tears and hid your face in your hands, body shaking and trembling with every sob. It was unfair. It wasn't right. You had to wipe away the agony and be strong for him. You shouldn't act like this.

What would the people think if they saw the generals wife crying over him performing his duties? They'd mock you even more, shake their heads in disappointment, give you lethal looks that burned you from the inside out. The embarrassment, the shame... you internalized it all until this very moment. You had finally burst at the seams, and just as you thought that you'd have to suffer through this alone as usual, a gentle, calloused hand cupped yours softly.

"My love?" His voice startled you, a gasp leaving your lips as you attempted to pull away and turn your head in panic. You didn't hear him approach you. Heart sinking in your chest, you realised that he was sitting right next to you, his other hand resting on your back to keep you in place against him. You couldn't breathe, as you panted heavily.

"What happened to you? Did something happen in my absence? I sent a soldier to send you a message about my return, but..." His eyes swayed to the pile gifts near the doorway, his heart clenching when he began piecing together what may have caused your plight. Despite you thinking otherwise, his observant eyes caught onto more than he let on. He wasn't blind or deaf to what the general public seemed to think of you, nor was he that unaware of your pain and neglect. He himself felt pain for his actions, even if he had no true choice in them. It's a sacrifice that had to be made as long as there was a threat to the city and most importantly your life out there.

But now, as he sat there, your face pushed to his chest as you cried, and his heart cracked under the pressure of your tears, he realised that he didn't need to sacrifice your well-being this much as well. You didn't deserve it.

"Please... don't leave me like this again." Your words were quiet, so quiet that he nearly didn't catch them, but his mind and soul were only focused on you. His gaze softened as his hand ran through your hair before he pressed his head against yours in solidarity. He didn't want it to get this far. He didn't want to make you cry until even air couldn't enter your lungs.

Perhaps he had overworked himself far too hard. Perhaps he had been gone for longer than he needed to... but that will stop now.

"My apologies, my love. It won't happen again. I will try staying for longer now..." He trailed off, as he kissed your forehead and wiped away your tears. He knew he had alot to make up for, but he wasn't the type to back down from such an important mission.

And the smallest relieved smile on your tired face made it worth it.

Alrighttt... I hope this was okay! I admittedly wrote this half asleep, so I'm praying it's not terrible lmao... Anyway, thank you again for the great request, moot!!<33

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whump Prompts 100: Immortal Whumpee Aesthetic

Feel free to reblog with any additions you might have. :)

CW: death, suicide reference, torture, implied vivisection, implied gore, experimentation, begging for death

Realizing that immortality is actually a terrible, inescapable curse

The despair of knowing that everyone they care about will die, leaving them completely alone

Being passed down from generation to generation, gaining more scars and wounds as the years go by

Or, always healing...on the outside. The inside is a completely different story...

Experiencing firsthand how torture methods have changed through the ages

Experiencing something (drowning, hanging, etc.) that should kill them over and over again, because, you know, they can't die

Tremendous guilt over always surviving no matter what happens to everyone around them

Intentionally working the most dangerous jobs because, you know, they can't die

Being afraid that their secret will scare people away

Cutting themselves off from everyone so they don't have to experience the pain of losing someone

Being captured, then abandoned somewhere where no one will ever find them, and having to endure eons of isolation and darkness

REMEMBERING THEIR OWN PREVIOUS DEATHS

Being able to endure extremes: temperature, air, water, etc. Imagine an immortal whumpee as a scuba diver or an astronaut...

Used as a test subject for all kinds of experiments, because, you know, they can't die

Or, being used for med students to practice on. How better to learn how a heart works than by watching it in action?

Suffering the same level of pain as an ordinary mortal, but without the escape of eventual death

How does it feel to be drained of blood and still be alive?

Feeling less like themselves, less sane, every time they come back from the dead

Suicide for convenience, because they'll just come back to life no matter what

How does it feel to regrew an organ, or a severed limb?

BEGGING FOR DEATH, EVEN THOUGH DEATH IS IMPOSSIBLE

[raja-myna]

yesterday is long since lost

FINALLY got this thing done!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25070434

Anakin – and he is Anakin, even if that name feels a little bit like putting on a shirt he had thought he had outgrown – knows that he’s messing up. When he first realized what had happened, that he really had come back, he had been grateful that his body had collapsed under the weight of his future memories, leaving his subconscious mind to slowly make the connections and let him wake up again. He had thought he was prepared for it, when he shook off the last of the sleepy haze. The phrase ‘rude awakening’ turned out to fit almost too well.

The two weeks that it had taken for his body and mind to acclimatize to each other proves itself to be so far from enough. He’s jittery, uncomfortable in his own body (and it’s his body again, more flesh than metal, inescapable marks of betrayal (but whose was it really? Not Obi-Wan’s, he knows now, and that thought cuts impossibly deeper than ever) erased) with its lack of aches and pains, and reflexes that no longer match flesh limbs.

Rex knows something is up, but military discipline keeps him from asking, at least for now. Ahsoka knows something’s up, but she’s still too relieved that he’s okay (and hah, if only she knew) to push.

He thanks the Force that Obi-Wan isn’t here, because even though they’d made some sort of peace at Anakin’s funeral pyre and after that, he doesn’t know how he would react to seeing his former Master with them both alive again. Obi-Wan also likely wouldn’t hesitate to call him out on his poodoo. Oh, he’d be diplomatic, and he likely wouldn’t push if Anakin reacted badly, but Anakin still isn’t sure he could take that.

When they had been dead there hadn’t been much to do but make peace. Now, alive and with the Clone Wars barely halfway through, Anakin is realizing that a lot of their peace had come from the fact that nothing they could have done would have affected anything in the end. That calm understanding that had come with being one with the Force is gone as well, and Anakin’s love for and rage at his old Master are dueling for prominence. His guilt wants to land on the side of his love, but his anger has always run hot. He fears seeing Obi-Wan, for he truly cannot tell whether he’ll be angry, snappish and rude, or if he’ll want to fall to his knees and cry.

There’s enough of Anakin wanting to cry as it is.

It had been hard, seeing Ahsoka, seeing Rex when he first woke up and truly getting hit with how he had failed them. But they had been the lucky ones, in that awful future. They had gotten away.

Seeing Coric in the medbay, seeing Kix… that had been worse. Kix had been gone before Anakin Fell and Order 66 was executed, they hadn’t even found a body. Coric had died two years later, two years of living not unlike a battle droid covered in flesh, with only the barest glimpses of the man he really was underneath the weight of orders and grief he wasn’t allowed to understand.

Grief that none of the clones were allowed to understand.

(Vader had seen Bly. He had seen Shocker. He had seen Cody.)

(He had seen all those who had eaten their blasters as the chips died, never actually intended to survive past usage – just like the clones themselves.)

Vader hadn’t cared, or at least tried to tell himself that he didn’t. Anakin does care. And Force, but it hurts.

The first day Anakin just avoids everyone, using Kix’s orders of rest as an excuse. Facing everyone is… something no amount of preparation could help him with, a punch to the gut and a knock to the head that leaves him reeling. The effort it takes to not simply flee for his quarters actually leaves him winded when he finally reaches the corridor, enters the room, closes the door behind himself and locks himself in.

There’s something wrong with him. Anakin is not reacting the way he should – the way he ought to, having seen so many ghosts in so short a time. His mind is a mess.

Meditation does not come easy.

He forces himself into it, in an attempt to reconcile the different parts of himself. He is Anakin, jedi general, student, teacher, husband, lover, twenty years old and so arrogant. He is Vader, sith apprentice, failure, world-weary, beaten down, a monster shackled to a madman… a father, in the end.

He is Ani, slave boy, who cares so much and loves so deeply but doesn’t know how to handle it, never learned how to grow it, only hoard.

(If you love something, let it go.)

(He let Luke go, in the end. Let his son choose his own path and…)

I am a jedi, like my father before me.

Sleep doesn’t come at all.

Vader has spent literal decades hating his past, weak self, disgusted with the man who couldn’t even save the single most important person left in his life, who had lost everyone else along the line. Past-(present-?)Anakin is horrified by what he became, by what his future self allowed himself to be twisted into. Ani doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to understand how it could have even happened.

It’s a good thing self-hatred is nothing new to him, he thinks, because that is the common point that finally allows him to reconcile the different facets of himself.

That’s kind of sad.

It’s also awfully appropriate, in a twisted sense.

 The second day he tries to play at normalcy and heads to the bridge. Ahsoka tracks him down when he’s alone during a quiet moment and hugs him until he stops trying to make her let go. Her relief broadcasts in the Force and their bond alike. Anakin… lets himself hold her, and heal, just a bit. Then Kix finds them and sends him back to bed. It’s enough to make Ahsoka laugh and think everything’s back to normal. Anakin lets her believe it.

He heads back to his bunk, and since Kix is a suspicious one, wise to the ways of his jedi, Anakin has company the entire way.

“Forty-eight hours of rest,” says Kix dryly, “and a visit to medical. Neither of these has been completed, and you’re still obviously tired. Get some more sleep, sir, or I can’t clear you.”

“How about just the visit to medical?” Anakin tries to bargain.

“Sir, I know disasters tend to strike like clockwork around here, but please. Nothing will happen if you just get some more rest.”

And despite Kix all but punching fate in the face and yelling ‘come get me’, nothing does happen. Anakin meditates some more and actually manages to grab a nap as well.

When he wakes up it’s shipboard afternoon. He heads down to the hangar, and instead of attempting to work on the Twilight like he planned to, he finds himself drawn into a discussion with three of the troopers (Lyn died on Umbara, Bell was lost on Mandalore, while Flipper had marched on the temple and not died until after more than five years of atrocities in the name of the Empire).

He failed them. The thought hovers in his mind even as he gets more involved in the debate. He failed them like he failed all his men, Ahsoka, Obi-Wan. Like he failed his mother. Like he failed Padmé. Like he almost failed Luke, like he did fail him several times.

The storm of emotions is like a vibroblade to the gut and Anakin claws desperately at it, keeping it from showing either on his face or in the Force. He almost pulls away again, until Bell’s words cut through him like shards of glass.

“-but not this time!”

Bell punctuates his words by punching the air. They’re talking about marksmanship contests now, but Anakin cannot fully restrain how deeply it hits him. His expression must twitch, because Bell turns to him, eyes wide with feigned upset.

“You think I can’t, General?”

Flipper nudges him. “The General simply knows better than to put his credits up on the word of such an… unreliable source.” The grin is contagious, and Anakin finds himself smiling as well, grounding himself in their gentle teasing and free-flowing affection.

His failures feel further away and, desperate to keep that feeling, he does what he always did best – jump without looking. “Well, maybe I can help make it less unreliable.”

“Sir?”

Anakin’s mouth really ran away with him this time, but something tells him that this is good. A comfortable warmth that sits in his gut, the Force whispering in his ear, Bell’s disbelieving – but growing – excitement. “You’re off duty. I have some spare time. There are several training halls available.”

Not this time. He failed them all then, but not this time.

It is with a strange sort of budding contentment that he puts Bell and several other clones through their paces in a training hall. He’s doing something, changing something, and it’s such a tiny difference but it’s a difference. Anakin can’t do a lot from here, not yet, but this – being with the men, helping them – is something he can do.

For the first time since he woke up, Anakin feels like he’s doing something right.

Nearly an hour after they began, Anakin catches sight of Rex by the door. The expression on his face is one part amusement, one part ‘I know what you’re doing’ and about five parts exasperation. It’s familiar despite the years, comforting, and Anakin laughs before he can even register the urge to.

The next moment he freezes because – how long has it been? He catches himself almost immediately and excuses himself from the practice session. They can continue without him anyway.

By the door, Rex’s amusement sharpens into instant hyper-awareness. Anakin starts running through the excuses he’d hoped wouldn’t be necessary.

Rex’s care for his jedi is something Anakin has been in turns awed, perplexed and humbled by. Now, his worry is just as humbling, but it is also troublesome. In the end, Anakin finds himself released to medbay only because Rex too is still shaky after his coma. None of them are fully back to normal, so Anakin’s issues are easier to hide.

They won’t always be, but Anakin will get better at hiding, too.

He runs into Ahsoka again in the hallway and she immediately attaches herself to his side. The last time he had seen her in that other time flashes in his mind – tall, strong, grieving – and he rests his hand on her montrals, his tiny, beloved padawan who the galaxy has barely even started to break yet.

She’s here.

She is here and he hasn’t lost her, not to his own madness nor her iron-clad conviction that he’s gone forever.

The poisonous thinking that came with the Dark Side is still haunting him, and for a moment he wants to drag her even closer, make sure she could never leave – and then the thought leaves him sick, his hand drops down to squeeze her shoulder and then he lets go.

She follows him to the medbay, where Kix clears Anakin. The clone is clearly reluctant, going by the grumbling, but Anakin is free to return to duty. As such, he is free to check out exactly when it is he has returned to.

The answer… staggers him. It’s the early days of the war, that much had already been obvious in the many presences that had been long gone, but… so many of the bad things haven’t happened yet, so many things he can change, disasters he can undo, lives he can save –

Sidious.

And even though he knows he can’t just rush in, the scene plays out in Anakin’s mind. Since he’d learned about Luke, Vader had ever entertained the thought of killing his Master. And even before that, before Padmé and Obi-Wan and Mustafar, Sidious’ survival had never counted in Anakin’s plans. More than once he had tortured himself with what-ifs… and now he has the chance to make them come true.

Still, striding up to the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic and attempting to cut him down, for all that it would be satisfying, would more likely end with Anakin fleeing from the Coruscant Security Forces with his task still not accomplished more than anything else.

It’s nothing but wishful thinking and Anakin waves it away.

A quick talk with Yularen confirms that they’re heading back to Coruscant. They’re still six days out, at current velocity, something Yularen relays with an apologetic look, since Anakin tends to be eager to get planetside. In this case though, it means there’s only six days to prepare for seeing the temple again, seeing Padmé, seeing – Force, seeing the younglings.

“Master?”

Ahsoka’s voice pulls him out of those dark musings.

“Yeah, Snips?” The nickname rolls off his tongue with reflexive ease, and it is not until it already lingers in the air that he realizes how much it grounds him.

“Is everything all right?”

He could lie. She would see through it, and either let it be or keep digging until she thought she had found out every little detail.

“No.” Ahsoka stops dead and he turns to look back at her, her big eyes even wider than usual at his uncharacteristic honesty concerning his own state. “But it’s getting better.” How can it not?

“…If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

The ringing silence that follows is belied by Ahsoka’s slow reach for him through their bond, and Anakin’s hesitant reach back, to meet her halfway. Ahsoka smiles at the contact and runs ahead. They’ve ended up by the mess hall and, though it’s still relatively early, there’s more than enough people moving around, grabbing an early meal.

“Glad to see you’re doing well, General!”

Anakin looks up to see Echo. The young ARC trooper has raised a hand to wave a greeting, precariously balancing his rations tray with only one hand. Smile tugging at his lips, Anakin raises his own hand in response. Another fate he would hopefully be able to change. Echo didn’t deserve what had happened to him.

Realization comes a second too late.

Echo slides down on the bench by Anakin and Ahsoka, and Fives sneaks up only half a step behind him. Ahsoka immediately vaults over the table and seats herself opposite Echo.

“Going to join us, General?” asks Fives. Anakin almost chokes. For an instant, Fives has all Anakin’s attention, but just as quick, Anakin turns away.

“Sorry.” he says choppily. “Sorry, I- I have something- I need to- I’m sorry. Later?”

He whirls around and practically flees the hall.

Fives. Oh, Force, Fives.

Anakin hears a hesitant “Is… something wrong?” from Echo, but escapes before he can hear Ahsoka’s response. Yes, something’s wrong. Something he’d managed to avoid thinking of entirely, but that he now can’t escape.

You died for the knowledge that might have saved everything and I didn’t believe you.

Fives had been – is – one of his men and that alone would be enough guilt to drown in but… that isn’t all.

Anakin firmly blocks the thoughts from his mind, refusing to wander down that old path of what-if. He had entertained enough of them, after Fives’… death. Even more after Echo had been found. So much more, in stolen moments with Padmé and occasionally Sabé or Rabé as well, staying up late nights with more alcohol than was probably advisable.

Force.

Three hallways down, Anakin finally stops, leans against the wall, and covers his face with his hands. He slowly sinks down, ending up sitting and pulling his knees close so he can hide in them instead of in his palms.

Smooth, Anakin. The internal reprimand takes on Obi-Wan’s voice, which is almost a step too far. Anakin’s eyes sting.

Eventually Anakin manages to gather himself enough that he can paste the mask back on. He can’t quite push the thoughts back into the box where he hadn’t even known that he’d stored them, however, and from that point on he can’t decide whether to run from Fives out of shame or never let him out of sight again. Over the coming days the result of the impulses leaves Anakin looking like a shy adolescent from a holo-drama, constantly keeping track of Fives, but ducking around corners, hiding behind bulkheads, and on one occasion, making a Force-assisted leap up a staircase (accidentally sparking a game of tag with Ahsoka, but he managed to make it look deliberate, so he counts it as a win) to avoid the clone.

Whatever explanation Ahsoka had given the two ARC troopers must have been unsatisfying however, because suddenly it seems like Fives is everywhere. Anakin tries to distract himself, mingling with the troops, burying himself in the Twilight, catching upon the present, but whenever he senses Fives just a little too close, he’s running again.

Anakin fears he will keep running for a long time.

[theaquarianphoenix]

THE DRIVING LESSON

It’s Saturday afternoon and we’re driving back home from Show Low in our powder blue Ford, Taurus. We went to Show Low to get groceries and things my dad needed for projects around the house. We stopped at a hardware shop so my dad could look at chainsaws. He talked to someone for 45 minutes while we stood around outside. My younger brother and I made dirt configurations with our scuffed tennis shoes and kicked some pebbles back and forth. It was mostly boring, and my dad didn’t buy a new chainsaw. I guess he’s going to try to fix the one has, even though it’s hard to start and he gets mad at it almost every time he uses it.

On the 50-minute drive home, my brother, 13, is in the front passenger seat. My dad is driving. My mom is sitting in the back with my sister and me. I’m not sure why she’s not in front with my dad. There is conversation between my dad and brother, but I am not paying attention. I stare out the window and watch the landscape turn from piney evergreens to high desert laden with shaggy bark cedars, sage bushes, and pinyon trees. I watch the clouds make formations across the sky above the scenery. I am enthralled by their unending ability to shape shift, one minute a fiery dragon, the next a wild horse tossing her mane.

Ricky Van Shelton is playing in the tape player. He’s singing “From a Jack to a King.” My dad likes Ricky Van Shelton, so that’s who we are listening to.

I feel the car slow down and am shaken from the daze of my window-gazing world. I watch my dad pull over to the side of the road. We’re just outside the small town of Concho.  I ask my mom why we are stopping but she’s not looking at me or answering my question. My dad and brother get out of the car and swap seats. My mind makes a hurried, dreadful click. A realization. My dad has told my brother to drive. NO! I plead to myself inside of my head, “Please, No!”

The second my little brother slides in the driver’s seat my whole body tightens and clenches and bears down. My heart ricochets in my chest like a rogue bullet, painfully piercing the sides. I put my hand there to quiet its noise.

I already know what is going to happen.

Because it’s what always happens whenever you do anything alongside my dad. There is never teaching. There is no space for patience or learning. You must know. You must possess the knowledge of the exact contents of how things should be done according to my father’s rules and expectations. You are not allowed to make mistakes. You must be an expert, even if you’ve never done the thing you’re being asked to do before. You must do is RIGHT.

And failing to do things right means consequences. Ugly, ugly consequences.

I watch my brother put the shifter in drive. He looks so small in the big seat behind the steering wheel. His white, blonde hair barely levels over the top of the dashboard. Aside from a few streets in our quiet, small town, I’m sure he’s never driven a car. Instinctively, I feel the need to get low. To make myself unseen and sink into the Earth. I wish I could dig a hole and crawl down inside. Like a snake, I slide away from the window and press my head in my mother’s lap. I feel her body as stiff and tense as mine. She knows. And she’s bracing herself, too.

We aren’t more than a mile under way and my dad is already raising his voice, yelling at my brother not to drive too close to the center line. Angrily, he grabs the steering wheel and jerks the car toward the side of the road. I feel the jerk like a stab to my neck. A kind of invisible blood flows out. It starts pooling on the floor. My skin becomes pricked with stress and fear. Each hair raised at attention. A thousand tiny antennae. They absorb the vibration from my brother. The antennae on his own body reaching out along the current, communicating his terror, his pain, and the whirlwind of emotion he must navigate to survive what is happening.

I lift my head slightly from my mother’s lap and look out the window. I see a cloud shaped like an elephant. I imagine a circus.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Do you see that boy up there?? Look up! Way up! He will now perform a high-wire, tightrope act! To keep from falling to his death on the paved highway racing by below, he must do the impossible! He must balance his inexperience and the unimaginable pressure of trying to do things perfectly right, with a thousand tons of the unrelenting and brute dominion of his father!”

It continues this way the entire 15 miles to our house. My father yelling and jerking the wheel. I want it to stop. My mind falls in on itself over and over, pleading for it to end. But I can’t stop it. No one can. Not even my mother. Because we understand that, to protest, to intervene, to plead for mercy, is to poke the teeming, angry nest of a thousand swarming bees.

So, I try to stay still. Because stillness is the only way through. To keep the bees from stinging en masse. I peek up at my mother, her face so tight. I know this look. A mix of agony and helplessness. So filled with torture.

The invisible blood is still flowing.

In my stillness, I tune in to everything around me. My antennae at high vigilance and hyper aware. Each car that goes by whirs past like a buzz. I feel them almost cartoonish in their passing. Like the pages in a comic book. BUZZZZZZ!!! ZOOM!!! MEEEEEEEP! Our car almost spinning.

Then a flash!

I’m instantly brought back to reality by my father’s voice. The pounding hammer of his yelling. “Stay in the goddamned lines!” “Get the hell away from the center line!” “I thought you were more advanced than this!” “You’re not goddamned listening!” Jerks to the steering wheel. Again, and again. At one point, the jerk is so hard the car wheels screech. Each mile makes his shouting more intense. More sinister. More filled with rage.

And then I hear it.

SLAP.

A hard smack to the back of my brother’s head.

Have you ever seen my father? He’s big and strong and built like an ox. Sometimes I think he’s so strong he could lift our car over his head.

His slap rattles your bones.

For my brother, that slap meant, “Do it right, goddamn it! Do it right or I’ll hit you harder next time!”

When we pull up to our front yard, I feel a release from the anguish of being in the car. From the inescapable enclosure of that horror.  But the brutality and the trauma remain. It covers us. A baptism. In invisible blood. My dad has already stormed off somewhere, outwardly vindicated by his actions. We stagger, wounded in the upheaval of his wake, trying to swim to shore, to find our breath. To pick through the mountain of his wreckage.

I watch my brother slink out of the car. Hunched over. Like a tortured, terrified alley cat. When he looks up, we lock eyes and hold each other that way for a few seconds. We don’t speak. We don’t have to. I understand what his eyes are saying so completely I have to steady myself to keep from falling forward on my knees.

It’s always the same. That horrible mix of feelings. The blame. The shame. The guilt. The self-loathing. The self-doubt. The hatred. The anger. The demoralization.

The dismemberment.

The murder.

The death.

Of your spirit. Of your soul. Your heart.

Of You.

And the invisible blood keeps flowing.

[rivkalashnik]

dishonorabletask01: a deep deep dive 

Describe your character in a few words.

Sociable, impulsive Ukrainian tries her best 2 survive. 

What do you know about your character that they don’t know yet?

Rivkele thinks she can kill someone else to save her life with no problem-- a Flores, in this case, according to the deal. If the terms are upheld. However, while she puts her own self-interest above others every day just by nature of her passive participation in the mob’s workings, she’s never willingly taken a life with her own hands in order to better hers. The distinction is a thin line but a real one, and she’s going to find herself a lot more morally conflicted than she anticipates, I think. 

What are your character’s major flaws?

Her lack of self-control and her fear. 

What would your character give their life for?

Almost nothing-- she’s a fighter, tooth-and-nail, to the point where self-sacrifice isn’t a viable option. The only situation I could think that would even come close would be if someone was holding a random innocent child at gunpoint and made her choose between her or the kid. And even then, in the back of her mind she’d be certain that the kid was in on it and it was all a setup. 

What is your character’s greatest asset?

Her mind-- she’s sharp as a tack. And an associated asset would be her open-mindedness. Everybody’s got flaws, and she knows that, so she’s willing to get to know people from varied walks of life. 

What would completely break your character?

Good question, good question. I think-- if she finally does manage to kill a Flores and it turns out that the whole thing was pointless and she can’t get out of the mob even then. 

How does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?

Usually, what you see is what you get with Riv-- although in situations with new people, she tends to try to appear more apathetic than she actually is. 

What is your character afraid of?

The main two would be being tortured & being trafficked. 

Where would your character fall on a politeness/rudeness scale?

She doesn’t purposefully try to be rude but it sometimes does happen if she can’t control her brain-to-mouth filter, so I’d put her at a 6/10 leaning towards rude, but usually non-intentionally. 

If your character could choose a different identity, who would they pick?

I don’t think she would-- though maybe herself, but with a few adjustments. 

In what or whom is your character’s greatest faith in?

I think her greatest faith is in her own resilience. 

What was the best thing in your character’s life?

When she was still on top of her game, she owned her own apartment-- owned, not rented-- that actually had a bedroom instead of just being a studio. It had a giant window, and wasn’t on the first floor, and hardwood floors. And for a span of about eight months she also had a dog, a huge black Newfoundland named Andrei. She loved that dog. She had to sell the him, and the apartment, but they were the best things in her life at one point. 

What was the worst thing in your character’s life?

Essentially, everything that has happened since she had to sell her dog. 

What is your character’s biggest nightmare?

Anybody finding out what she’s been tempted to do re: the Flores family. 

What seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?

She remembers exactly which floorboards creaked in her house when she was growing up; she remembers the first song that was playing in the background when she won her first big pot (Fergalicious, from the tinny overhead speakers); she remembers the exact feeling of air on her face when biking down the big hill outside her house when she was a kid. 

What is your character’s secret wish?

Her secret wish would be to go back and re-do the last half of her life again so she wouldn’t be one foot in the grave before she finally has some measure of freedom again. 

What is your character’s greatest achievement?

Winning when the odds are against her. In general. 

What is your character’s deepest regret?

That she never kept in contact with her older sister. 

What is your character’s deepest disappointment?

That she’s 38 years old and her life still continues to suck, on the whole. 

What is your character reluctant to tell people?

She doesn’t ever want to admit why she works for the mob, especially to other people in the mob, because she’s worried they’ll think she’ll turn out to be a traitor (especially because they’re not technically wrong??). Her allegiance is out of necessity and not loyalty, which she always avoids mentioning.

What is your character hiding from themselves?

I think deep down she wants to find people she can genuinely trust, but because that seems impossible, she buries it deep enough to pretend like she doesn’t care. On a separate note, she also struggles with guilt because she’s complicit in such shady dealings on a daily basis-- but also, she doesn’t want to take responsibility for her actions, even though technically it’s her choice to continue participating in the mob’s nonsense. So I’d say she’s hiding from dealing with all of those paradoxical feelings just by... ignoring & burying them, again. 

What makes this character angry? What calms them?

Direct personal insults. If you try to belittle her, or try to pull one over on her like she’s an idiot, she will get pissed. Yelling usually calms her down, in that situation. She’ll eventually wear herself out. On a daily basis, though “calm” doesn’t really cross her mind except for maybe popping in some earbuds. 

List situations in which your character would not have control over themselves.

Too many to list.

How strong is your character’s emotions? Controllable? Uncontrollable?

They’re pretty strong; 8/10.

What wakes your character up in the middle of the night?

The guy in the apartment on top of hers doing jumping jacks at all hours of the night, or maybe sirens of police cars rushing down the street. Otherwise, she sleeps like a rock. 

Describe a recurring dream and/or nightmare.

She’s drowning and there’s absolutely nothing and no one nearby-- just dark black water as she sinks. 

Describe your character’s family.

She hasn’t talked to her mother or her sister in years, so it’d be difficult to describe them now. In her memories, her mother is perpetually frowning, which nicely balances out her sister Rina’s laugh. 

Name your character’s favourite person and why.

Father Patrick. He’s not at all what she would expect from a priest, which she finds terribly amusing. 

How many friends does your character have?

I don’t know that she would consider herself to have any friends. “Friends” is a loaded word that implies some loyalty and level of mutual truthfulness, and I don’t think she ever feels like she’s in a place where she can reach that level of real connection. But she’s friendly with many, many people. 

How many friends does your character want?

Again-- the general concept is asking a little too much of her, honestly. 

How would a friend or close relative describe your character?

Loud. Scrappy. Clever, yet also incredibly stupid. 

Who depends on your character? Why?

No one really depends on her? She’s pretty replaceable, in most regards. Which makes it even more annoying that they won’t just let her leave. 

Who does your character most want to please? Why? 

As obnoxious as it is to be worried about his opinion, she wants to make sure she doesn’t disappoint the Englishman. Among others. Just for her own safety’s sake. 

How does your character feel about sex? 

Sex is fun, but only with people she doesn’t know. 

How does your character feel about romantic relationships?

Ew. Then they have to deal with your problems, and you have to deal with their problems when you already have your own... she’ll pass on that. She’s not the romantic type anyway. 

If your character had to live in utter seclusion, what six items would they bring?

A warm blanket, a pack of playing cards, a pack of cigarettes, a fully-charged ipod mini, earbuds, and a bottle of vodka. 

What is your character’s most noticeable trait and most noticeable physical feature?

Her incredibly tight red curls. Just a massive amount of hair. 

How does your character feel about work?

Inescapable. Shrug emoji

Write one headcanon.

She was raised in a Jewish household, but as an adult, she isn’t super engaged in religion & she doesn’t keep kosher. 

Write one additional thing about your character.

Riv’s first languages were Ukrainian and Yiddish-- and Ukrainian is pretty close to German, enough that she can get by in a German conversation. She learned Russian in school so she’s pretty fluent in that. Her English skills are so-so; she won’t be able have a deep, philosophical conversation in it, though. 

[astrolocherry]

The condition of Saturn in the birth chart is like the business, enterprise, or cosmic job description we inherited at birth in order to pay and build our karmic debt and carry out the material end of the cosmic blueprint. 

We have an ‘inner supervisor’ or disciplinary in this realm, and the conditions that accompany this involve serious responsibility, unspoken duty, and an inescapable contract. This is where we invest much of our resources and focus in life, and other people struggle to understand why we ‘obsess’ or become fixated on something meaningless to them, and it may puzzle you as to why they are not doing the same. For example a person with Saturn in the 9th may divulge into deep spiritual, religious, and gnostic teachings in the search for a philosophy and answers, while somebody else may consider these pursuits meaningless and irrelevant.

in the 1st house this is growing and evolving beyond what defines the ‘self’ and the dimensions that have tightly structured and limited expressing the natural forces that flow through this aperture. the self-expectation is to develop and become the person that they can be proud of investing in and holding onto life for. The Critical Parent can appear in the form of their own inner monologue

in the 2nd house its like they are depended on for their labour and the job would never get done if they weren’t present. they may have a lot of guilt regarding what they can support their dependants with and long to provide the ultimate opulance with intense pressure. the compounding tendency is to deny assistance offered or refusal to ask for financial help, instead they ask their boss for more hours or sacrifice their essentials and luxuries The Critical Parent can appear in the form of their family members, boss, and anxieties regarding potential loss, instability, lack of security

in the 3rd house the mind wants to be gratified, developed, and operating at peak potential. the mind is antagonistic, paralytic, and seems to work against the person until this point. learning is an endless process and they can be ashamed with answering “I don’t know”. they may have guilt associated with their early schooling years for failing to reach their potential and contemplate how their lives may have turned out different  The Critical Parent can appear in the form of teachers or an oppressive sibling, and the inner monologue scrutinising the intellect

in the 4th house the individual feels the intense pressure to conserve the past. this is not for the purpose of nostalgia or reminiscence, but to ensure that lessons have been learned and history will never repeat itself, and that their own history will not be automatically repeated. this is difficult, because they have not been exposed to alternate methods of operation  The Critical Parent can appear in the form of either parent and condition into the identity

in the 5th house the pressure is to transmute their creative resources and inspiration into material form that will stand the test of time and provide evidence that they existed at all. but they are rarely afforded internal praise or satisfaction for these productions, and they are not permitted to use the escape of the wounded inner child to hide behind, the audience is waiting in the shadows The Critical Parent can appear in the form of the ego, romantic partners, teachers, or coaches 

in the 6th house the working product is measured by an impossibly high standard. there is a job to be done, and they ensure this is executed with proficiency and effort - even if there is no supervisor, deadline, or credit. they also regularly fret about their job security and dispensability. in this mind, if the working life is stable, secure, and satisfying the rest of life follows The Critical Parent can appear in the form of colleagues, health practitioners 

in the 7th house the state of their relationships and loved ones consumes much of the focus. they copiously self-reflect about the behaviours acted and imposed on within relationships and the role they play in these dynamics. it’s common to feel completely responsible for the emotions, security, and wellbeing of the partnerThe Critical Parent can appear in the form of romantic partners, open enemies, and law enforcement 

in the 8th house the self-expectation is to make the internal changes and necessary growth to be a different or ‘completely new’ person. they are discontent when they remain at hostage to forces out of their control and habits that bind them, they must destroy that part of themselves first or be destroyed. The Critical Parent can appear in the form of intimate partners, demons or dark forces, and the ego 

in the 9th house the pressure is to make the necessary inner growth to finally be ‘good enough’ for god, or in other words to exist on earth and have a reason for birth. the simultaneous demand is to gratify and establish the mind, often in academic pursuits that are challenging and beyond their comfort zone. The Critical Parent can appear in the form of the inner monologue scrutinising the intellect, conditioned teachings of supreme and theologian beings, teachers, and medical professionals

in the 10th house the demands are all encompassing and hard, resilient, silent work seems like the condition of survival. but they are not afforded to merely exist, they must grow, ascend, and be noticed, they must leave a mark in the world and sever the conditions, cycles, and family secrets that plagued the heritage. The Critical Parent can appear in the form of either parent and condition into the identity 

in the 11th house the pressure is to connect with the community and social networks enough so that they can be relatable with others, while also retaining the authentic identity that can persuade their course of change by inspiring with their different vision. the individual is a public servant who never receives the pay. The Critical Parent can appear in the form of the society or the establishment they are forced to subsist in 

in the 12th house the pressure is to survive in a world they were not made for, and not make a single sound. there is immense guilt associated with focusing on themselves and the duty is to serve others. they may also feel like they will be resistant any help they receive, or they are too far gone. The Critical Parent can appear in the form of subconscious voices and emotional attachments, in the frequent case of the absent or negligent father the empty space left behind is filled by self-blame and responsibility they wrongly take for these actions and this eventually becomes the inner critic

C

[cupidmarwani-archive]

Leaving Our Home (8/10)

WC: 1400

The second Mike is no longer stuck behind the bars, he’s stumbling forward to grab onto Peter and mentally beg to leave, to escape what has been nothing but a veritable hell for him. This should be easy to understand, given that Peter has been here too, but all he feels is the faint nagging anxiety about remaining where they are at the moment.

“We’re going to be okay,” he says, frightening even himself at the lack of intonation in his voice. He’s become robotic. He is nothing. “Stand up. We’re leaving.”

As Mike struggles to his feet, Peter focuses back in on the guard and demands to be taken to an exit, glad that all his time learning to break people has taught him to bypass their mental blocks they’ve had since day one in an effort to protect themselves from him. Joke’s on all of them, because all they’ve done is made sure he can destroy anything they put in his path. They’re the ones who chose to turn him into a weapon. They will deal with the consequences.

But of course, because of the type of place they’ve been sent, people are alerted Mike has been let out beyond the limits of his schedule. Everything is a schedule here, Peter has noticed, so of course someone would notice that something has changed. Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid for not realizing this until they get to the exit and there’s a cluster of armed guards waiting for them, ready to force them back into their prisons and continue to turn them into soldiers for a cause they don’t support.

“Let us leave,” he orders, hoping they are frightened enough of him not to put up a fight.

No such luck.

He looks to Mike, and realizes that he’s in no shape to get them out of this either, unsteady on his feet and faraway in his eyes and looking like he wants more than anything to sink into the Earth and never breathe fresh air again on the outside of this stale hell.

“Stone, just go back to your room. You’ve been making such good progress, it would be a shame to throw it away.”

It’s impossible not to notice that they appeal to him, not to Mike. They don’t even seem to acknowledge that he would care about what becomes of Mike if they stay here much longer. He gets the sickening feeling that he wouldn’t survive much longer.

So Peter does all he knows how to do, and reaches out to their minds. Protected, of course, but that’s not going to stop him because he’s tired of being ordered around and told what to do and like always, he’s going to take care of Mike. Someone has to, after all. He has to close his eyes in concentration to get through to all of them and try his best to skirt around Mike’s loosely drifting, easily manipulated thoughts. It’s more difficult to avoid him than break into the others, he thinks, but that doesn’t stop him from doing everything in his power to spare Mike from what he’s about to do.

He focuses hard on every single pain he’s been through. When his powers made him sick at school, when he was trapped with those awful pictures at Mike’s house, when he was stabbed, when he was beaten into submission with that baton. All of it at once, stacked together and inescapable, and he projects all of it to every mind he’s sunk his claws into. The reaction is immediate. Screaming, pleading, the clatter of weapons being dropped in the guards’ desperation to do something, anything to make this go away. But it doesn’t go away because nothing is ever that easy. All that they can do is collapse on the ground, making way for an escape.

Peter turns to Mike and sees him just as incapacitated, tears streaming down his cheeks. He tries to pull away from the soft expanse of Mike’s thoughts but it’s too late. The damage has been done. Later, the guilt will consume him- should he remember how to feel- but right now he just loops an arm around Mike’s waist to pull him toward the exit.

Would Mike’s father, or the stranger with him, be proud to know how easily Peter managed to take down so many people? Anything they would see as a success is not something he wants to come anywhere close to doing because that means it’s wrong, he’s wrong, and he needs to rethink his approach to this whole thing. He files the information away to deal with later as he drags Mike out into the sunlight he hasn’t felt in what seems like years. It’s blinding at first, but in the best kind of way. They are liberated, and he can breathe deeply for the very first time since Mike came to him with the idea of running away from all of this.

They can’t get far on foot, so he leaves Mike just long enough to run back into the building and steal the car keys from a still crippled guard. By the time he comes back, Mike is seconds from fainting and Peter hurries to steady him. He presses the lock button on the keys and follows the loud sound and flash of lights. While he hadn’t gotten his license before they ran away, he had his permit, and that will have to do.

“We’re going to be okay,” he tells Mike as he lays him across the back seat. He’s really hurt, and doesn’t seem to have been healing himself. “I promise.”

Then Peter vaults into the front seat and starts the engine because they don’t have much time before they’re followed. He doesn’t know where they are, or where they’re going, but they’re escaping. The road stretches before him, empty, and for miles he watches it in silence before thinking to turn on the radio because he’s missed music, really. While he was being trained, he wasn’t allowed to have music.

He doesn’t recognize the song that comes in static bursts, but it doesn’t matter because it’s music and no one is here to take it away from him. He lets them go fast, faster, until there’s a sign for a fuel stop along the highway and he hurries to the exit. When they get there, they need to ditch this car, get first aid supplies, and find a way to get to a new city where no one can find them. It’s made more difficult by not knowing exactly where he is, but Peter can handle this.

When he pulls into the gas station, the first thing he does it check on Mike in the back seat. He seems conscious, but he’s still out of it and frightened and in pain, a great deal of which is Peter’s fault. That should make him feel guilty, but instead, Peter feels mildly annoyed at the complication. He shouldn’t feel that. Not that it matters, because he doesn’t feel anything for long before his head snaps to the dire situation in front of them.

Peter feels out the gas station and finds a mailman in the convenience store, on his way to a nearby small town with a package for a woman who’s a bit odd but very caring. Perfect. He shoves the order to get first aid supplies into the mailman’s head, and when he returns, makes him feel compelled to offer a ride to two scraggly teenagers sitting in the backseat of a shitty car from the early two thousands.

After that, everything is so fast. Peter sits in the passenger seat of the truck, and Mike is in his lap curled up in a way that can’t be comfortable. No one speaks a word the whole three hour ride, not even Mike, although there are a million questions moving too quickly for Peter discern in his thoughts. In a couple hours, or a couple seconds, they’re pulling up in front of an old looking mint green house with dirt splattered up the walls and a beat up truck in the driveway. He checks the house and finds the thoughts of a gentle woman, and impresses upon her that she’s expecting visitors who will need her help.

Later, much later, he imagines he’ll feel guilty. But for now, it’s just about survival.

[chasmfriend]

What do you do with accumulated pain? How do you handle being in the world, making mistakes, hurting, and being hurt?

Every character in Oathbringer is trying to find ways of dealing with pain. Some are avoidant, some crushed under shame and guilt, some functioning through dark depression, and some figuring out how to take the next step and move on. Seeing their journeys, their missteps and their triumphs, was my favorite part of reading this book.

I promised a post to balance against my negative reactions to Oathbringer. Here are the things I truly loved about that storming book (very long) after the break.

As I’ve dealt with my own issues of denial and avoidance, and slowly learned to face things rather than run from them and pretend they don’t exist, I have eased off of Shallan. I used to resent her for not taking more positive steps, for feeding her unwillingness to come to terms with her past. But she made some strides forward.

Her fracturing of her self was concerning, but I loved it. I was so glad her deep issues weren’t all wrapped up nicely after WoR. She thinks she is all of her personas, and even though they might be based on aspects of her, they are still all covers. They help her hide and deflect. She has not yet embraced the scared little girl she actually is. She may not for some time yet. Shallan has a rough road ahead of her.

I’ve criticized her interactions with Wit, though I think what he did and said were generally perfect. He spoke many cutting and necessary truths. Shallan won’t be able to absorb all of it, though it will set her in the right direction.

“It’s not really her fault, but she’s still worthless.”

Shallan’s self-loathing, even while in the same breath saying that she didn’t cause her brokenness, hit me hard. She doesn’t let many people see how deeply she rejects herself. That quote above is said with “sneering.” She thinks she should have been better, somehow.

Wit stepped over to Shallan, then quietly folded his arms around her. She trembled, then twisted, burying her face in his shirt.

“You’re not a monster, Shallan,” Wit whispered.

Wit understands. He knows what she fears and what she needs to hear.

“Your other minds take over,” he whispered, “because they look so much more appealing. You’ll never control them until you’re confident in returning to the one who birthed them. Until you accept being you.”

How can she be “confident in returning to the one who birthed them”? Only if she likes that person. Only if she is comfortable with who that person is.

“For in you, I see a woman more wonderful than any of the lies.”

The flawed but genuine person is always better than the ‘perfect’ cover. The painful truth is better than a beautiful lie. You can love and connect to a real person. You cannot love a cover. Shallan has not learned this yet; she thinks her covers are actually more valuable than her true self.

“The longer you live, the more you fail.”

Let’s talk about failure. Let’s talk about Kaladin, and Teft, and Elhokar, and Renarin.

Kaladin, for all his limitations, really shines in Oathbringer. He hasn’t escaped his depression, but he hasn’t let that stop him from becoming a capable Radiant. He went to Hearthstone a changed man, assertive and confident, but still Kaladin. He gets set in his own thinking. He misunderstands. For example, he believes that Laral needs to be saved from Roshone, and is sure she is mistaken when she doesn’t agree with him. He has grown, but retains his stubborn overprotectiveness and idealism.

After Elhokar, Kaladin is reeling. This loss is the failure he feared. He had been so determined to protect Elhokar, to save Dalinar’s Tien.

“Kaladin’s not well,” she said.

“I have to be well,” Kaladin said, his voice hoarse as he climbed back to his feet.

And then:

“I survived Bridge Four,” Kaladin growled. “I’m strong enough to survive this.”

This reaction is so different from how he’s responded before. He’s trying to be better. We see more of his familiar struggle with his demons in his POV:

You’re just looking for something to latch on to. Something to feel.

Because the darkness was coming.

It fed off the pain of defeat, the agony of losing men he’d tried to protect. [...]

Get out, Kaladin thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Get out, get out, get out!

It would continue until numbness seemed preferable. Then that numbness would claim him and make it hard to do anything at all. It would become a sinking, inescapable void from within which everything looked washed out. Dead. [...]

Were these his only two options? Pain or oblivion?

Fight it.

From Adolin’s perspective, those first two quotes, Kaladin is plenty strong and capable. Inside his own head, Kaladin is fighting something incredibly tough, and barely keeping himself from losing. He is precariously balanced against a darkness that will overwhelm him if he doesn’t work every moment to keep it at bay, and it’s only a matter of time before it consumes him. That is the hopelessness of trying to battle against depression.

You would think that I would want every success for Kaladin, You’d think I’d be cheering him on to victory at every step. Yet I am so, so glad he didn’t say the Fourth Ideal. Let me see if I can explain.

In Kaladin’s perspective, failure is inevitable. He might not say that he’s cursed, though part of him still believes it. In spite of that, he has an idealist streak: he pushes himself to be perfect. To protect people. To save everyone. (That type of all-or-nothing goal is part of why failure is inevitable for him, but I won’t go into that too deeply here. One initial “failure” made him want to prevent anything like that from ever happening again, but that wasn’t in his control (stupid free agency) and that failure spurred him into guilt and more idealism, and so on...)

Everyone says I will swear the Fourth Ideal soon, and in so doing, earn my armor. I simply don’t think that I can. Am I not supposed to want to help people?

--From drawer 10-12, sapphire

The Third Ideal meant standing up for anyone, if needed, But who decided what was “right”? Which side was he supposed to protect?

The Fourth Ideal was unknown to him, but the closer he drew to it, the more frightened he became.

The Fourth Ideal is something particularly difficult for those who want to protect others. I don’t have a guess about specifics, but it seems to be something related to...self-preservation?

You know what you need to do.

“I...can’t,” Kaladin finally whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I can’t lose him, but...oh, Almighty...I can’t save him.”

He couldn’t say those Words.

He wasn’t strong enough.

And later:

Storms, he could be down on himself sometimes. Was that the flaw that had prevented him from speaking the Words of the Fourth Ideal?

He knew the Words. He also knew he couldn’t say them and mean them.

Kaladin is sincere about his commitments. Combined with how deeply he feels his failures, how familiar the sense of not meeting some standard is to him, makes these moments of him not yet able to swear the next Ideal feel more like a triumph than a failure. When you’re not ready for the next step, it’s fine. Not being ready is not exactly a failure anyway. Kaladin accepts where he is. He’ll keep moving forward, and when he can meet the challenge of the Fourth Ideal, he will say the Words. That time is not yet.

I thought I’d be ready to talk about Elhokar, but I guess that’s a challenge I’m not ready to take on yet. Another time.

Shallan fears her value and makes up for it by creating aspects she believes are better than her true self. Kaladin fears he won’t be good enough but consistently tries to prove his worth, at great risk and often against impossible odds. I’d argue that no one feels more worthless than Teft does.

Teft doesn’t believe in his worth. He doesn’t deflect the pain through denial or repeatedly try to prove himself. He has completely despaired.

You’re already a shame to the crew, Teft, and you know it, he thought. You’re a godless waste of spit.

Oh, Teft. So focused on his weaknesses that he doesn’t see anything else. He sees his pain and his addiction, and nothing else.

He doesn’t admit his capable command, his support of the crew, or his determination to face the truth, even when it hurts. He doesn’t give himself any credit for what he does right.

I want to mention how wonderful Bridge Four is. When they find Teft in the firemoss den, they express anger not at Teft but at the den keeper. Rock wants to beat the guy with his own torn-off limbs, Kaladin insults him as he pays Teft’s debts. They show only care for Teft.

Storms, they were good men. Better friends than he deserved. They were all growing into something grand, while Teft…Teft just stayed on the ground, looking up.

And all he can think of is that he doesn’t deserve it. He keeps shooing away the spren who lingers by him, waiting for him to take the next step.

“Can you see it, Teft?” the spren whispered. “Can you feel the Words?”

“I’m broken.”

“Who isn’t? Life breaks us, Teft. Then we fill the cracks with something stronger.”

“I make myself sick.”

“Teft,” she said, a glowing apparition in the darkness, “that’s what the Words are about.”

And then he says the Third Ideal, swearing in his self-loathing to protect himself. Of all the journeys in this book, Teft’s is maybe the most human. He hasn’t conquered his demons, hasn’t yet discovered his worth. He’s taken a small and very difficult step towards something better. He isn’t healed. He doesn’t see his own value or love himself. But he’s started the journey.

And this is already really long and I still need to talk about Renarin. I’ve been saving him because I have so much to say about that boy...I’ll give him his own post soon.