#How noble they are discussing things with old books and phrases

[shaguagua]

瓦罐難免井上破，將軍終究陣前亡

The pot cannot be broken except leaving the well, a general is meant to die at the battlefield.

It's from 水滸傳(shuǐ hǔ zhuán; Water Margin) by 施耐庵(Shī nài ān), in 明朝(ming dynasty). It's a story of 108 outlaws in 梁山泊(Liáng Shān pō) which is a part china now it's 濟寧(Jĭ níng), Southern part of china. The story is about how a group of 108 outlaws gather at Mount Liang(梁山) to rabel against the government. Later they are granted amnesty and enlisted by the government to resist the nomadic conquest of the Liao dynasty and other rebels. I have read this when I was young but I don't recall the phrase, as it's not that common phrase where I live. The actual line is,

瓦罐不離井上破，將軍必在陣中亡

A water pot cannot be broken around the well, a general must die in battlefront.

It means, the water pot is used to go to a well, so during it's used around the well it cannot be broken because it's in use, then when a person carries to somewhere the possibility of breaking rise. So Qin wang is saying that the water pot is 秦九霄(Qin jiuxiao), and the well is 晉州(Jin zhou). Qin jiuxiao was meant to die at battlefield.

天子之怒，流血漂櫓；布衣之怒，血濺五步，��令天下縞素。

The emperor's wrath causes rowing on the blood, The scholar's wrath, the blood flows in five steps. Therefore, the taching was, making the world carefree.

This line is from 唐雎不辱使命(táng jū bù rǔ shǐ mìng; An achievement of embassador 唐雎) by 劉向 撰(liú xiàng zhuàn) in 兩韓(liang jhan)era . It's a dialogue of 秦王(King of Qin) and 唐雎(an embassador of 魏; wei). 唐雎 went to 秦 for negotiate territorial dispute between 秦(qin) and 魏(wei). The actual sentence is, Therefore, make the world carefree.

秦王曰：天子之怒，伏尸百万，流血千里。

Qin wang said: the emperor's wrath, countless bodies cover the land, the blood runs like a river.

唐雎曰：此庸夫之怒也，非士之怒也。若士必怒，伏尸二人，流血五步，天下缟素，今日是也。

Tang ju said: The wrath of normal people and talented people may differ. If a scholar with talent is persecuted, he will surely get angry. Then there will be two bodies and the blood would be five steps long, and every commoner will be mourning. Today, let it be.

The behind story here is that Qin wang wanted to have very wide territory to stop the war, when Wei were already in ruin. So Tang ju was actually on death mission that if he loose any territory of Wei, in anyways he would die by Qin wang either Wei wang. At the end Qin and Wei agreed on a treaty.

I love the time of Qin era which is BC. of Asian history, as my favourite chinese historical great human is 宣太后(Queen Dowager Xuan), So I remember him, 唐雎 is a textbook figure for diplomats for very long time as he didn't loose any territory only with a conversation. Even though Wei didn't last long for that.

晉王(Jin wang) is keep saying his retainers are peices on the chessboard(here it must be 碁;go board). Like whatever he does, there will be death bodies as far as it's not himself, those death doesn't really matter. Then for Zhou zishu is saying if a king doesn't think about the commoners, what meaning is there to be a king? This scene has many metaphorical meanings which can be found in historical drama. Look at thoese quoted sentences, it is definitely a conversation of a king and a noble man.

Jin wang is only thinking about himself, I'm not so sure even what he wants is Zhou zishu. Why he was angry at Zhou zishu is that Zhou zishu didn't say and ask him first to leave. When Zhou zishu had left, he said he just let him go for awhile, Jin wang had never let Zhou zishu go.

It's really shame, Wen kexing never knew Jin wang, I can't even imagine what would he do to Jin wang if he knows all these fiascos.

+ Oopsi daisy, it was (晉王)Jin wang not (欽王)qin wang (˵ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°˵)

[luluwquidprocrow]

welcome home

originally posted: april 5th, 2018

word count: 2,186 words

rated: teen

jacques & kit & lemony

angst, family, VFD, mentions of vfd recruitment, a whole lot of sadness

summary: Everything changes, after Stain'd-by-the-Sea.

opening notes:

jewishsnickets posted this wonderful heartbreaking art and the second I saw it all my fanfic instincts went wild, as if I wasn’t in the middle of writing at least seven other fanfics, and I dropped EVERYTHING to write this super sad fic, and I regret NOTHING

.

The last time I saw my brother, he was smuggling me onto a ship, and we did not know it was going to be the last time we saw each other. The last time before that was at a housewarming, attended by a number of people I had not seen in quite some time, where the woman I loved held my hand with both of hers, and I could believe that everyone in the room, including myself, was fine, a word which here means “had not lived a life of moral uncertainty.” The last time before that was a series of meetings disguised as a lonely teenager sitting on a park bench, flicking the ends of cigarettes that were not actually cigarettes into the nearby bush, to give him information I still tried to believe was worth the effort. The last time before that was not long after I resurfaced from my apprenticeship, when I was having an argument with our sister in the library at headquarters, who had herself recently resurfaced from her own tumultuous apprenticeship.

I had come back to the city with an uneasy but fervent hope about what my siblings and I would discuss. I was fifteen, and I hadn’t seen either of them—to talk to, that is—in three years.

I did not like arguing with my sister. What I did not like more, however, was how much time had changed us. Three years, in the grand scheme of what we call life, is not that long a time. But for a volunteer, it was long enough. It was long enough for one of us to wonder too much. It was long enough for the other to believe she understood.

“If you don’t want to help, fine,” Kit said, keeping most but not all of the irritation out of her voice. “That’s fine, L. But don’t take it upon yourself to interfere regardless.”

“I was not interfering,” I said. “Interfering is a word which here means involving yourself in someone’s business on purpose, and all I did was—”

“All you did was ruin months of research,” Kit snapped. She gestured to the stack of files she'd left on the table in the library, the stack of files on which my teacup had fallen and ruined several pages of ink and photographs. “What's gotten into you?”

I hadn’t intended to drop it. I hadn’t even intended to read my sister’s files. But the moment I caught a glimpse of my sister’s name, as I walked by holding my cup of tea, I stopped, and the moment I caught a glimpse of the content of the files, my hands had started to shake, and before I knew it, the tea was on the papers instead of remaining in my cup like a responsible cup of tea. And then there was my sister, staring at me as if she’d never seen me before, and I remembered what it was like to watch a friend turn into a stranger.

I wanted to think that my sister had, at one point, been the sort of person who would not refer to the young children our organization watched as 'research,’ but I was no longer sure. Part of me wondered if her anger was more because I was responsible for the situation that put Kit in the hands of untrustworthy legal authorities, and a deeper part of me wondered if she would ever forgive me. I reminded myself that Kit was not nearly so petty, but that look had not left her face.

“Nothing's gotten into me,” I said, which ranks high, although certainly not at the top, on the list of unconvincing lies I’ve told in my life.

“Those are volunteers, those are your future associates, and I can’t believe you would recklessly jeopardize their chance to be noble!”

But I would. I had not forgotten what happened when I tried recruiting people I considered my friends into our organization. I was not going to forget what I had done for our organization. I was not going to forget anytime soon. But there was no chance of me admitting that, as long as my sister had that fierce look on her face, as long as we were in a library that had once been a comfort but was now narrowing around me to the point that I wondered how much longer I would be able to look like I was breathing properly.

Kit lowered her hand. “You’re not a child anymore, you know. Your apprenticeship is over. This is what we’re supposed to do.”

“Is it?” I said, struggling to keep my voice level. “Is this what we’re supposed to do?”

“L, you yourself said that we were the true human tradition—”

The words were out before I could stop them. “What if I was wrong?”

Kit stared, almost in disbelief. “A volunteer is never wrong,” she said immediately. “And a Snicket can’t afford to be wrong, either.”

I do not know how I left the room. I know I moved, and I know Kit said something else, and I know I slammed the door, and I know I passed someone in the hallway, but I also know that my vision only became clear again when I made it outside.

The east courtyard was dark and shadowy, which didn’t help the tightness in my chest. I couldn’t see much, and the undeniable darkness reminded me of long, uneasy years spent alone, wondering what would happen to me. I thought about it again, and I still didn’t have the answer. I felt my way over to a bench and sat down. I did not want to look at the stars, so I frowned at the grass instead and thought about breathing until I could think about my sister.

I loved my sister very much. Not only because she was my sister, as you are under no obligation to like your siblings if you do not want to, but because she was my best friend. Before our apprenticeships, we had done a number of things together, from recommending books to breaking into buildings to figuring out puzzles, and had trusted each other over everyone else. She always knew exactly what to say, even when she wasn’t there, and the things she told me made sense.

I could not reconcile the Kit who stood in the library with the sister who promised me she would be there for me. What was worse was that I could not remember a time where my sister and I were not working for our organization. I could not remember a time where we were not, after all was said and done, after everything I wanted to think, volunteers.

I heard a voice behind me.

“Lemony?”

In the coming years, I would learn to keep my back to any available wall, not just so that I could make a quick exit, but so that no one could sneak up behind me. It is uncomfortable for anyone to have someone unknown lingering behind them with equally unknown motives, but I do not think it is too much to say that I in particular found it distressingly horrifying. My blood went cold, and all the air left my lungs again, and I whirled around with the unrealistic but visceral expectation that they had caught up with me.

I did not know who I feared more. Ellington, her question mark eyebrows curled deep around her wild eyes. Her father, his smile unlike the one in his photograph. The Bombinating Beast, its wild, flickering tongue. Moxie, the bandage still on her arm, avoiding my gaze. I did not want to see them. I wanted to be left alone.

It wasn’t any of them.

It was my brother.

He looked very much how I remembered him. He was still taller than I was, with something of Kit in his face and probably something of me. I should have been relieved to see him standing there, to see my brother in person after so long, but I did not know what I felt. There was very little I could feel, besides how fast my heart was beating.

Jacques sat down beside me and smiled, but he couldn’t hide his concern. “Kit said something about research she'd been working on.”

I shrugged, and then I waited. I waited for all the things I expected Jacques to tell me, what I had imagined on the darkest nights of my life. It would be worse than Kit yelling at me, because Jacques wouldn’t yell. Jacques would be quiet, and would ask me, almost kindly, what I was doing, the same way he always asked me, only now the phrase would hold so much weight I wouldn’t be able to take it.

“I don’t think that was her only copy,” Jacques said instead. “I think she was just frustrated, that’s all.”

I should have known. I stared at my hands and told myself I should have known. Not only was my sister truly angry with me, but I had not stopped anything.

“I haven’t seen you in—it must be three years now,” Jacques continued. I could hear a smile in his voice, and that caused me an even deeper misery. “You look a little taller, brother.”

“I hear that’s how it works,” I said. There was something clipped and bitter about my voice, and I regretted it instantly. This was not how I expected either reunion with my siblings to go. It was less than what I had hoped, beyond what I had worried.

Jacques put his hand on my shoulder. “Would you like to talk about it?”

I did not want to talk about it. I did not want to talk about what I had thought of, what I had realized in the past three years, what I had done. I did not want to talk about our sister. I did not want to talk about the thin line between being noble and being a villain, how easy it was to become uncertain, how hard it was to be disappointed in what you trusted, how loss sat around inside you like an unwelcome house guest who ate all your favorite snacks and still kept asking for more.

And yet, I felt I could ask Jacques. I could ask him, more than I could ask Kit. I could look him in the eye and still see my brother there.

“Jacques,” I began quietly, but then I found that there was a sadness in my throat where I usually expected words. Anything I could’ve tried to say would be insufficient. I was too young to be thinking the things I was. I had a feeling that when I was old enough to think them, they still wouldn’t feel right. How could you question the only thing you had ever known? And what were you supposed to do, if you were right?

I looked at my brother, and something shifted in his expression. I suppose I should’ve been comforted in seeing my own indecision reflected back at me on his face, but I was not. I was frightened. I was frightened for my brother, and I was frightened of my brother.

“We do what we have to do,” Jacques said, a tremor in his voice. He swallowed and looked away from me. “We are what we have to be.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” I said.

“No,” he whispered.

It was not what I wanted to hear. But it was the only truth we had.

Jacques sighed. “Lemony,” he said, “what do you think of the weather this morning?”

It was not morning. It was, in fact, too late, and at night. The corners of my eyes burned. I was fifteen and I was tired, and Jacques was eighteen and trying to hold the three of us together the only way he knew how.

“Heather?” I said. “We aren’t near any open spaces.”

“Suitcases?” my brother said. “Are you planning a trip? It’s cold this time of year.”

“Limes and cheers? That sounds like a very sour celebration, Jacques.”

We continued the game for some time. A while later, Kit came out and sat beside us, and didn’t say a single word about how inane she thought Beethoven was. We could pretend we were only siblings, not volunteers, with parents who were still alive and merely waiting for us in our house, instead of the unfathomable faces we would have to face when we entered headquarters again, or the ones we would see when we looked in the mirror.

I did not know what else would happen to us. Even after what we’d been through, there was no way any of us could know. My sister had her eyes on something else, and would not look away for a long time; my brother would second-guess his silence; I would not forgive myself, even when given the opportunity.

We were not necessarily happy, in this moment. We were a family, in this moment, and what we did know was that that could not last.

ending notes:

the disconnect lemony must feel from his associates and particularly his siblings after he returns from stain’d-by-the-sea, and the trouble these siblings must have in relating to each other after what they’ve experienced and how they’ve each processed it, is something I think about often and it gets me every time, cats. it might even out, if only a little, when they get older. but right now it sucks.

[nya-minister]

[Fic] Second Declension

“Er... I don’t think the Prime Minister’s got as far as the second declension...” - Bernard, in “The National Education Service”

Jim tries to prove he's not a philistine, for the noble purpose of getting in Humphrey's pants. [1704 words]

(With apologies to anyone who actually speaks Latin, because I do not!)

It was late on a Wednesday, and Jim Hacker had just made the dreadful mistake of misusing a Latin idiom. At least, he thought it was an idiom.

Bernard's eyes lit up, as they always did when an opportunity to talk about linguistics presented itself, and indeed, often when it didn't.

"Ah, actually Prime Minister, I believe you meant to say a posteriori evidence, not a priori. You see, a priori evidence relies on axiomatic truths - it is of course a latin phrase, meaning 'from the earlier', while a posteriori, which in Latin means "from the later", describes evidence derived from empirical evidence. Now, in Latin, this..." the young man barely seemed to take a breath, and Jim decided he ought to cut in to stop him from suffocating.

"Alright! Alright. Yes, thank you Bernard, very informative. Now, moving on, the matter of the-" he stopped himself. "Actually, Bernard..."

"Yes, Prime Minister?

"You know, I've been thinking. I really ought to- Well, I would like to- ...could you teach me some Latin?"

"Ah. Why, certainly, Prime Minister!" A slightly cheeky expression crossed Bernard's face. "Never too late to begin one's educat- Er. Sorry... What did you have in mind?"

"Have in mind?"

"Well, er, what did you plan to use it for?"

"Use it for! Right, of course."

A series of concerned expressions played across Jim's face as he considered the question. In truth, he was planning to use it to seduce Bernard's boss, but he couldn't very well say that. Really, this was Humphrey's fault for being so bloody difficult.

For the last few weeks, he and the Cabinet Secretary had been involved in some sort of romantic entanglement. Probably. At least, Jim was fairly confident. They had kissed (briefly) and had sex (somewhat less briefly) and done all manner of things which would imply the presence of a romantic relationship, but apparently not confirm it. Perhaps it was really only sex, just a relief of tension, but that thought didn't sit right with Jim. There was something so delicate and vulnerable about the way Humphrey laid his head on Jim's shoulder, pressing their bodies together in that perfect moment between climax and his almost immediate pivot into a lecture about commercial zoning laws.

Since then, Jim had been trying to charm him into opening up. His usual tactics (dreadful pickup lines and a winning smile) had failed, but perhaps Humphrey needed something a little more intellectual. Thus, Jim had formulated a plan to take him out to dinner and dazzle him with wit... or at least, something smutty that also proved he could, in fact, speak Latin at a third grade level.

"Er... Prime Minister?"

"I'm sorry, what was the question? Ah- right, yes, well. I was just curious. That's all. And the leader of the country ought to know these things."

"Well then, I would be glad to indulge your curiosity! Shall we start with basic grammar?"

"Right, yes, grammar. That shouldn't be so bad."

"Now, as I'm sure you recall, Latin is a highly inflected language. This allows for a more flexible sentence structure, but also requires that words be modified according to various factors, such as their case - that is, their function in a sentence. Now, there are six cases in Latin, which are: the Nominative - the subject, the Genitive - possessive, or to express an object that is "of" something, the Dative - the indirect object, the Accusative - the direct object, the Ablative-"  "Prime Minister? Is everything alright?"

Jim narrowed his eyes.

"Bernard... do you think you could give me a sort of... executive summary of all that, perhaps?"

"Ah, well, I think it all boils down to Latin being a highly inflected language, which allows for a more flexible sentence structure, but also requires that words be modified according to various factors, such as..."

"Yes, I see." Jim said, in his most scholarly tone of voice. "Right."

"Erm, Prime Minister, if I may be so bold as to ask. This wouldn't have anything to do with Sir Humphrey, would it?"

"Humphrey?!" Jim's eyes went wide in panic. Was Bernard wise to his scheme? How could he have figured out- "Oh, because of our little tiff over Latin in schools! No, no, no. Well, Bernard, if you must know, it's my wife's anniversary - er, our anniversary - next weekend, and, well, I thought she might find it charming if I were to... In another language, that is."

"Oh... Oh! In that case, you have nothing to worry about. Your anniversary isn't for another eight months."

"It is? Wait, how do you know that?"

"Well, I marked it in your diary. You do remember a few years back, when we had you double booked - or triple booked, in fact, and, well, I thought it was better we didn't repeat that disaster."

"Yes, yes, alright. I can see what you mean."

"But if you did want to learn how to say something, erm, romantic."

"Yes?"

Jim took out a little notebook and started scratching at it in shorthand.

"And, erm, Bernard, how would you say..." Jim wasn't quite sure he could say it out loud, so he made an obscene gesture with his hands, which on mature reflection was certainly far worse.

"Oh! Oh, my. I think Sir H-Mrs. Hacker"

"Mrs. Hacker." Jim corrected sternly.

"Yes, well, she would be. Um. Well, it's rather a complicated question - you see, in Latin, and indeed Greek, when proposing sexual acts, one's choice of word often depends on the gender of the parties involved and on whether the speaker is in the, erm, active or passive role. Even this component is not entirely cut and dry, as these acts are, on a grammatical level, handled quite differently to their english-language counterparts. Irrumare, which is a passive verb in English - that is to receive fellatio, is in fact an active verb in Latin - something which one actively does. Of course, one would typically use some degree of innuendo while discussing such topics, and Latin has a wide array of interesting options, which, as in most languages, evolved over time such that ordinarily innocent words acquired sexual connotations. As a rather amusing anecdote, officium, which can be loosely translated as "duty" or "service", though it also refers to "office" - that is, a political office - gained the connotation of pathic behavior - which means that the latin term for permanent undersecretary - princeps officii - sounds rather like-"

"Yes, thank you Bernard! That will be all!" Jim said, still reeling from the apparent depth and breadth of Bernard's sexual vocabulary. "Erm... Do you have a dictionary I can borrow? I think I shall figure the rest of it out on my own."

"Oh, of course." he said, pulling out a gigantic tome that looked old enough to have been penned by a native speaker.

Jim sighed, and got to work.

***

It was easy enough to get the Cabinet Secretary to dinner. He loved a good meal at an expensive restaurant, especially when someone else was paying. Plus, they had plenty of work matters to discuss, and that was before they even began to address their impossible-to-define pseudo-romance nonsense. Humphrey's true intentions were hard to read even without bringing something as perplexing as romance into the mixture, so it was little wonder that Jim never knew whether he was coming or going. He rather hoped tonight it would be the former.

This evening, Humphrey was dressed in a very sharp three-piece ensemble with a purple tie and matching pocket square and his hair coiffed just so. He looked terribly handsome, and Jim briefly entertained the thought that perhaps Humphrey had dressed up for his sake. He smiled at the idea, even though it probably wasn't true.

Owing to the possibility of official secrets being discussed, and simply to their stature, they were seated in a closed off area of the restaurant, out of sight and earshot of the other patrons. Discretion was still of the utmost importance, but even if it weren't, Humphrey would still have gone on about the most mundane of topics for the first hour or so. It was always an heroic effort to get him onto casual conversation.

By the time they polished off the main course, Humphrey's posture had relaxed ever so slightly, and Jim - who was by this point a couple of drinkies in - seized his chance.

Humphrey's eyes went wide, and for a moment, he was speechless.

"I... Good Lord... Latin?" he stammered out, a sweet little flush colouring his cheeks. A curl of his hair seemed to jump out of place of its own volition. Mission accomplished!

"Yes it is!" he giggled. "Bet you didn't expect that!"

"No, I certainly did not... And neither would the Romans. his voice dropped almost to a whisper, "Make would go...." his voice dropped almost to a whisper "insert?" Is that supposed to be something vulgar?"

"O... oh, dear. I must have gotten my declensions mixed up. I thought I had it down. Where are my notes?"

"Notes?!"

"Well, you see, it was my first time learning a language, and the... In English, it was supposed to be- ah, I'll tell you later. Here comes dessert."

Humphrey found a sudden fascination with his pastry, while Jim was left to stew in silence.

Finally, Humphrey looked up.

"Right, well. We'll not be having any more of that nonsense, Prime Minister."

"No, no... Of course not. I apologize."

"As you should. A most dreadful butchery of the language. Besides. I think a more appropriate phrase would be..."

Humphrey said something in Latin, and Jim nodded sagely in the hopes that it would look like he understood it.

"And, of course, in English, that would be..."

Humphrey glanced furtively to his left and right, then leaned in, close enough that his lips were almost touching Jim's neck. Then, he whispered something quite unexpected.

"Oh, my, Humphrey!" Jim said, far louder than he intended, then quickly silenced himself. "With... with me?" he mouthed, "Tonight?"

Humphrey seemed to drink in the sight of Jim floundering, a predatory light gleaming in his dark brown eyes. He smiled, in an infuriatingly self-satisfied manner, which was unfortunately also very attractive.

"Ita vero, Prime Minister." 

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Notes:

Clearly I don’t speak Latin, so any jokes at Jim’s expense are also at my own. That said, I did a lot of googling for this, and so, some fun facts: it turns out there isn’t a word for “yes” (or no) in Latin, though “Ita vero” (closer to “indeed” or “certainly”) is commonly used. Humphrey’s classic “yes and no” answer would probably be translated as “Sic et non” ([it is] thus and [it is] not). At least... I think so. If anyone reads this, please do send me corrections!

Regarding Bernard’s speech about smutty Latin: ever since his fabulous “Oh, could we! [subsidize sex]” line, I’ve headcanoned him as a bit of a quiet achiever in that department. He knows exactly what his bosses are up to, and could probably save them months of romantic angst and mutual pining with a couple of off the cuff remarks. The officium/officii/officiosi thing relies on my incredibly shaky understanding of grammar, and from this passage I found in a book from the 80s about smutty latin slang:

(Pathic/patientia is an old-fashioned way of saying “bottom/bottoming”.)

[dancingkirby]

Azula Week Day 3: Friendship

Summary: Old lady Azula invites Old lady Katara over for tea, and the former speaks her mind. @azulaweek

It was strange, being old.  Azula had thought of herself as “late middle age” for as long as she possibly could, but now that she was seventy, there could be no more putting off the inevitable. The process of aging was readily apparent externally, of course.  Whenever she looked in the mirror, she saw her nearly-white hair, the wrinkles that marred her once flawless complexion, and the prominent veins and arthritic joints in her hands.  What she felt on the inside, however, was more complicated.  In many ways, she still felt fourteen, just with fifty-six years’ experience.

One by one, the companions of her youth had met their own destinies.  Mai had been dead for nearly ten years now, felled by an assassin’s blade while walking in the garden.  Although Azula had not been there to witness it personally, the rumor was that the Fire Lady’s last words had been, “Well, that’s ironic.”  Ty Lee, on the other hand, was very much alive. After her groundbreaking work in trauma therapy, many books and papers published, and countless accolades, she had moved to Ember Island for her retirement.  

Many of her half-siblings had had distinguished careers as well.  Ruanyu had been living in Republic City for decades, and for a time had served as the Fire Nation’s representative in the United Republic Council. Chun, true to Azula’s initial insticts, was the incumbent Minister of Education.  Kiyi, however, preferred a more private life with her six children and numerous grandchildren.

Life at the palace was quite staid these days.  Zuko, in his widowerhood, liked his books and meditation and tea.  He had even mentioned that he might abdicate at some point in the future.  Azula had difficulty finding things to keep herself occupied, since her body could no longer endure the hours of grueling firebending practice that had filled her days in her youth. Sometimes, things got so boring that Talent Night was the highlight of her week.

So when Azula heard that her old nemesis Katara was going to visit the Caldera to attend a seminar on healing firebending, she invited her to tea.  That was what old ladies did, after all, even if they didn’t particularly like each other.  Currently, they were sitting in the tea room decked out in all the proper regalia, appraising each other as servants whisked the tea and laid out the sweets.  

Once everyone else had slipped out of the room, Azula leaned forward in her chair (since there was no way their old bones would tolerate kneeling on a tatami mat for extended periods of time), and said, “So.  How are things?”

“Quiet,” Katara replied.  “I moved back South to be with my daughter after Aang died.  It’s harder to find things to do now that he’s gone.  I’m still practicing as a midwife and healer, though; that helps fill my days.  And we have neighbors, cute young couple, who hire me to babysit their little girl sometimes. It’s strange, because I could swear…”

She broke off abruptly.  Azula waited for a few seconds before prompting, “Yes?”

“It’s…it’s nothing. Just a weird feeling,” Katara said before taking a sip of her own tea.  Age-related memory hiccup, perhaps?  Azula had plenty of experience with those.  Or something else..?  At any rate, it was clear that Katara would say no more on this subject.  

“My days are similarly quiet,” Azula ultimately offered.  “My husband has become quite the distinguished elder diplomat.  Kazuo looks to follow in his footsteps. His wife is Botan; she’s from a lesser noble family.  And they have three daughters: Emi is almost six, Taeko is three, and the baby is Zula.  My namesake.” She smirked.

“I don’t have any grandchildren yet myself,” Katara admitted.  “There have been…obstacles.  But I’m still hopeful.”

They managed to sustain a discussion of harmless topics such as these for much longer than Azula had thought possible.  All the while, Azula observed this woman who she hadn’t seen in decades.  The waterbender appeared happy enough with this chat; nevertheless, there did seem something...off about her.

Finally, as they were getting around to concluding their get-together, Azula decided to speak up.

“You’ve changed,” she declared as she popped the last daifuku into her mouth.

Katara seemed perplexed.  “Haven’t we all?”

Azula was quiet for a few moments, pondering how to phrase her next words while making sure to chew thoroughly so as not to choke on the sticky rice.

“You seem defeated,” she eventually stated.  “You’re not the proud, passionate girl who…who bested me in combat all those years ago.  Nor even the woman who held her own against me in a different sort of way while I was in labor.  It seems as if…you have no idea how to function now that your husband had died.”

“I loved him!” Katara protested.  So the girl she had been hadn’t been completely erased after all.

Azula waved a hand and replied, “I’m sure you did.  And I’m sure that he reciprocated.  But just because you love someone, doesn’t mean that you can’t maintain an identity of your own.  Now that I’m thinking about it, I saw warning signs of this as far back as the search for my mother.  Almost everything you said was ‘Aang this,” or ‘Sweetie that.’  And the times the Avatar came visiting, he brought only his youngest son, never the older two.  You let your husband play favorites with the children when you’ve seen first-hand what that can do?  You were powerful, you were independent, and you threw it all away.”

Katara was dumbstruck for several seconds.  Nevertheless, she was able to regather her wits and retort, “Wow, I didn’t know that you cared so much about my wellbeing, Azula.”

“Yes!  Keep that up!” Azula exclaimed, the edge of her flowing sleeve coming dangerously close to knocking her teacup off the table. “Don’t let anyone make you feel small…not even me!  You are not only Katara-the-wife, or Katara-the-mother.  You are Katara!” After this, she had to pause to catch her breath.  

“I’ve always been the mothering type,” Katara pointed out.  “Just ask Toph.”

“But that’s not all you were.”

“I suppose…I…Well, I want to just say you’re wrong, but it’s not…not entirely, at least.  There were times where I felt—” She shook her head. “I can’t quite put it into words yet. Where did you learn how to do all that anyway?”

“One of the perks of having a best friend who’s arguably the most famous psychologist on the planet,” Azula said airily.  “And she would have told you the same thing.  Probably would have been nicer about it, though.”

“At least you gave me something to think about.  So…thank you?” Katara ventured as she rose from her chair.  Azula rang for a servant to escort her out.

“Perhaps we should do this again someday,” she stated. “That was the most excitement I’ve had since that mongoose lizard got loose in the palace last year.”  Upon seeing Katara’s confused expression, she added, “I guess you had to be there.”

“Right.  Well…I think I’d like that.  Doing this again, I mean.”  At that moment, the servant arrived, and Katara left.  And now everything was boring again.

[resinatingbeauty]

Real Talk Time #RTT - On Political Correctedness, Oppression, Freedom, and Segregation

I know I'm probably going to catch a lot of flak for this post because people won't actually read it. They'll pick out some tags, words, and phrases they dislike or are 'triggered' by and start typing a 15 page rant in the comments that, HEADS UP, I'm going to actively ignore so please don't waste your time and energy (ranting, that is).

Some of you may already know a bit of my back story growing up. I moved around a lot as a kid because of my father's job as a Field Technician for fishing tournaments working on outboards for the fishermen. While I rarely saw my grandparents and extended family (if at all, some of them I didn't physically meet until we moved back down to FL and re-settled in 2000), they were really the ones influencing my mother's decisions on how to handle issues and changes in me when I was growing up.

When those changes went from reading all the Bibles that were thrown at me since I was old enough to read to wanting to read the entire New Age section at Barnes & Noble, everyone got real weird. My parents were never religious and openly allowed me to explore my spirituality. The rest of my family was hyped up by the Satanic Panic of the 1990's. As my mother and I were together most of the time my father was away, we had it out often because of that oppression that was a result of my relatives breathing down her neck. I know now that my mother always meant well.

Unfortunately, everyone else had to die before I could actually be myself.

This caused profound depression as I grew into my teens, developed addictions, attempted to make friends that I couldn't have over because they didn't fit the mold which lead to more alienation and depression. I never understood why until I hit my twenties and already practically destroyed myself in the process. My parents and I have a good, even great, relationship now. The misunderstanding and confusion took several years, even decades, to overcome. I destroyed other relationships and myself in that process, doing things I am not proud of but do not regret, as these experiences made me the person I am today. Far more strong, confident, and fearless than I was before.

At the same time, I absolutely refuse to be oppressed. I will fight to the death for your freedom to express yourself even if I don't agree with anything you say or stand for. You are allowed to be you and I accept our differences. I'm not going to silence you because I don't like your presentation or fundamentals, nor am I going to attempt to change the way you speak or behave. It's really not my problem.

This response is directed toward anyone who is offended by someone's word choice when they had meant no offense.

Let me be simple. My friend was dating an asexual biological female who would change gender pronouns daily. On a whim. Whichever they felt like at any time. I can't keep up with that. I'm not naturally inclined to call you an 'it' or a 'they' either. I'll do my best to appease you and keep the peace, but YOU cannot expect others to change the way they speak, think, and behave because, well, because you did. That was your choice. If you would like people to respect this choice, then you should be tolerant of their choices in turn. This comes down to intent. I grew up speaking this way. Perhaps another generation of children will speak differently, but until that happens, my conscious effort to accomodate you should be evidence enough that I care enough to not say the wrong thing or hurt your feelings.

If I accidentally called them a 'he' on a 'she' day, they would get mad. It was my mistake. I really wasn't too invested in a relationship with this person either, I just tolerated them because my friend was in a relationship with them. I would apologize, but it was admittedly an ongoing problem that left me feeling actual relief when they broke up. That's a shame. Rather than having empathy for my best friend who was just dumped, I was relieved I didn't have to worry about which gender pronoun this person wanted me to use at any given time.

Don't misinterpret my words about choices, either. They may not have chosen their sexuality or preference (I don't think anyone does) but they DID choose their gender pronoun confliction. I understand that you may find 'she/her' offensive if your true self is really a 'him', but unfortunately, we don't have any other words to go with in English other than 'they' and I feel like I'm referring to someone with DID (dissociative identity disorder) when I say this as in you have multiple people living inside you, which to my knowledge, they did not.

Words are words. They mean nothing without a clear intent. The same logic can be applied to the now controversial term 'baby witch' in the New Age/Neo Pagan community. Ironically, I remember people who similarly hated the word 'witch' all together. Naturally, I wouldn't use that word to refer to them at all. But when you look at identity and labels, subgroups, denominations, etc. These terms serve to identify you as part of a collective. If you're new to the concept and practice of Witchcraft, then you may find the term 'baby witch' helpful, as these articles, kits, books, blogs, etc. Are catering to those who are new to The Craft and written / designed in a way that is typically easier to execute or understand.

While, some elitist butthole could use the word to insult you, I have yet to see this. The internet has invented this culture of politically correct oppression that asks for freedom of speech but only as deemed appropriate by the proponents and THAT is censorship. *hiss* BAD.

We will never be able to move beyond segregation and overt differences until we move beyond using terms like these to identify ourselves as part of a collective. While some may be derogatory and offensive, and some may hurt and were meant to hurt and cause anger, I believe it is your right to speak freely and your words aren't as important as the motives and intentions behind them. Who isn't guilty of a poor choice of words? Nobody. Will there always be someone there to point out that poor choice? Yup. But should we all tread egg shells around each other, worrying about what random term will offend whom today? No.

Let the word fascists and PC renegades spit on me and tell me I'm wrong. You are allowed to and I have tough skin. I will defend your ability to tell me I'm wrong until the day I die, but I will never defend oppression, no matter how well meaning you believe you are. The fantasy world of rainbows and unicorns you have in your mind may as well be a world where no one speaks at all out of fear.

I know what it felt like to be told for over ten years how to dress, act, talk, and behave. I could point out other historical examples of cultural oppression like slavery, but that's an entirely different discussion that will probably go in the same direction. Oppressing one's manner of expression is just wrong. In an effort to be right, we have committed so many wrongs. So let's just all agree to disagree and accept those differences. Accept that yea, we are going to say and do dumb things. And with that acceptance, when we inevitably say and do dumb things, I beg you to ask yourself, "What was the intent? What was the actual motive here, if there is one at all?"

I think one day, we may be better than we are now. This just isn't the way about it.

EDIT- I also think that a lot of this is created by pundits who are trying to covertly censor everyone without active censorship. Me? Paranoid? Yes. I am.

[galattea]

‘Til it Gets to Me

Ingrid Brandl Galatea; a character analysis or - the things to cross her mind as the world goes dark

Primary Pairing; Ingrid/Sylvain Words: 3,029 Ao3

I suppose "character analysis" is a bit of a loose term. I had initially intended to be much more direct about the deeper intricacies to Ingrid's personality and feelings, but it ended up becoming a lot more plot driven. I haven't written much (if anything at all) for FE3H and I haven't publicly posted a work in what is almost two years now, so forgive any formatting errors along the way. 

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Broken voices compete with the sounds of metal tearing into metal. They harmonize in a way that makes Ingrid’s spine grow rigid. She’s high above it all, hot wind nipping at her knuckles as she loops her stallion’s reins over them once more. She raises her left arm and then levels it horizontally. A cacophony of battle cries and beating pegasus wings is the response as her fleet scatters to their assigned directions before she herself leans forward and feels the weight of her mount follow her. In one practiced movement, Ingrid draws Lúin from her back and shifts her grip.

They’re nearing the ground now — Ingrid can feel her hair slick itself back against the wind as she raises her lance toward the group of archers she’s taken to targeting. She catches one through the shoulder before her pegasus has even met the ground, and is directing her full momentum towards the smaller one a few feet away when she feels the air around her spark with electricity.

Fuck.

Of course she had expected defensive measures to be put in place the first time she’d lead her fleet to pick off the empire’s ranged soldiers while those on the true battlefield dealt with their familiar swords and spears. But they’d caught her off guard by waiting.

Ingrid tugs her reins sharply to the left and meets eyes with a mage twice her size. She knows better than to try and take him out alone with two bowmen still standing behind her, and before she can fling herself into more danger than necessary she presses her heel to the base of her mount’s wing and is airborne before the crack of lightning hits where she had just been. She prays to the goddess that she didn’t just kill off the rest of her air support by overusing a strategy and watches the ground beneath her grow smaller.

She scans the battlefield as quickly as she can before deciding her next move. Deciding it best to continue her attacks behind enemy lines, Ingrid targets her next dive toward a more isolated corner of the fight.

Her heart thrums in her chest, emerald eyes locked on the dark head of hair she is heading straight towards. She can feel the determination to right her errors by pulling as much weight as she possibly can bubble up in her throat as a battle cry.

But it fizzles out in the air as the wind is knocked directly from her.

The shrill cry of her pegasus brings her eyes to its neck. Three arrows are buried there, blood staining the silver coat in which they found their mark. Ingrid is acutely aware now that she is falling backwards, the beating of her mount’s wings stilled. She knows exactly what this means for her.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Ingrid had never been ashamed of her home in Galatea. It was a noble house, after all, and it had been maintained as well as possible since her county’s golden days. That didn’t change the fact that it was fairly small, or the way that its age was ever present in the now lackluster walls and furnishings.

That was, until she had begun spending time in the homes of her friends.

She knew she was a much lower name on the list of Faerghus’ nobles, but as a child what that really meant had never quite crossed her mind. It was on her first visit with her father to Fraldarius that she realized just how quaint her lifestyle truly was.

But it was in there that she felt the most comfortable - where most of her childhood leisure was spent. It was in Fraldarius that she fell face first in love for the first time.

(She would later realize that love wasn’t the word for what she had felt for Glenn, but rather a naive childhood admiration.)

The elder Fraldarius had made a brash first impression on Ingrid when she was freshly eight. She had seen him train many times from afar by then, but never had they spoken. It wasn’t until she all but slammed face first into him as she chased Felix through the long hallways that Ingrid heard his voice for the first time.

“A knight is worth nothing with his head in his arse.”

Ingrid knew not why he spoke such a phrase to her, but something about the annoyed look on his face made her recoil back in shame.

After that Ingrid found herself enraptured by Glenn. She spent the next year lingering longer than she ever had in front of the training area in which he spent his time. He was so young and so gifted -- his body flowing effortlessly with each swing of his sword and the concentration on his face never faltering. She was awestruck. She wanted to watch him forever.

Ingrid’s designation soon changed from her “Glenn’s betrothed” to “underpaid babysitter.” With her fiancé’s training becoming more and more serious, her ability to spectate became less and less frequent. Instead, she found herself chasing the bright red hair of Sylvain Gautier through the courtyard of Dimitri’s summer home in Fhirdiad, an enraged Felix at her side. Sylvain’s laughter had rang through the well manicured trees like a bell. -- And then Ingrid is thirteen and her whole world comes crashing down. The news of the tragedy reaches her bedroom in Galatea well into the night and she finds her mouth agape and heartbeat stopped. She feels a pang she had never known could exist in anything but books. It is in the same hour that she swears her life upon becoming a knight.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

The monastery fills Ingrid with dread, but her attitude changes the moment her gaze passes the stables. It is there that her passion for riding is sparked. Of course she had spent years alongside noble horses, but never before a creature so magnificent as those that were housed at Garreg Mach. Her spare time is quickly invested in offering her aid in whatever way possible. Between her studies and time caring for the pegasi, Ingrid finds herself enjoying the company of new friends in a way she had not expected. Ashe is quick to grow on her; he is soft and kind and lingers around the stables some evenings to watch her work and discuss old stories of knights. Annette and Mercedes take much more time to acquire her fondness -- she never dislikes them, only struggles to warm up to their constant begging for her to indulge them and their games of dress up. It is through them that Ingrid realizes she has a much repressed fondness for skirts, and she finds herself looking forward to their interactions more and more. Her childhood friends, however, offer a much different company. She spends many lunches conversing with Felix and Dimitri over their studies and many more evenings sparring with Felix as he aids in her swordsmanship. It is Sylvain that she finds the most troublesome. Since they were little he had always been a man after any woman’s heart, but with the introduction of freedom he had become quite the serial flirt. She knows deep down that he is doing it to rebel against the version of himself that his father projects upon him, that he harbors no true malintent towards the hearts he breaks, and it is for that reason that she continues to clean up after him despite her complaints. She does not acknowledge the strange twist she feels in her gut every time he leaves the room early to go entertain some maiden. -- Luin’s arrival to the monastery is something Ingrid does not expect. Her father was never a fan of the way his daughter had turned from a princess with her hand belonging to a fine noble into a knight with no care for romance alongside his sons, and she takes the offering of House Galatea’s relic as acknowledgment and approval of her choices. She feels honored.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

A soft knock upon her door startles Ingrid awake and she hoists herself from her bed. It’s well after midnight, she notes, lighting the oil lamp beside her bed and opening the door. On the other side she sees the back of Sylvain’s head as he turns down the hall. She clears her throat and he halts, a sheepish look on his face as he turns back to face her. There’s a cut on his upper lip, and dried blood caked in his hair. She blanches. “Where in hell-” She is already scolding as she ushers the taller boy into her room, “How? Sylvain, what in the name of Seiros are you doing here instead of an infirmary.” “If you wanted me in an infirmary so bad you wouldn’t have just brought me into your room,” he points out. It takes everything in her not to slap him. He perches on the edge of her bed as Ingrid digs furiously through the drawers of her vanity meant to store powders and makeup. Instead, she withdraws a glass bottle and a cloth. Her footsteps are silent as she pads back towards her bed and seats herself on her knees beside him. There is something about seeing Sylvain hurt that twists her stomach. She watches her hand intently as she raises the now damp piece of fabric to the side of his head, pretending not to notice the way he leans into her touch. There is no grimace or complaint as she gently rubs the alcohol over what appears to be an impact wound, presumably from another man’s armor. “You’re not seeing double, are you?” “No ma’am,” Sylvain responds, and Ingrid is once again overcome with the urge to backhand him. The cut takes a good moment to clean, with delicate fingers struggling to part bloodied hair without causing any unnecessary pain. When it is nothing more than a bright pink and angry line in his scalp, Ingrid sits back on her haunches. She folds the cloth, spending far too much time finding a clean spot before gently raising it to the bottle of alcohol again. She sets the glass back upon her bedside table before placing her hand on Sylvain’s cheek. Butterflies erupt in her stomach as their eyes meet. She can’t fight the urges -- can’t stop herself from leaning forward. He watches her, confusion written in his expression. They flicker to her lips. She closes her eyes. His lips are soft, terribly so, she notes as they meld together. Ingrid swears they stay like that for hours, lips moving softly against one another, before she realizes what she’s doing and draws back. Sylvain’s eyes are wide, but he hadn’t stopped her. He had even returned the kiss. “Ing-” “Out of my room,” she feels the harshness in her voice and the blood rushing to her cheeks but she refuses to look at him. He stalls for a moment, gaze boring holes into every inch of her skin, and then retreats. Ingrid is left in candlelit silence. Tears stream down her face as the alcohol from the cloth soaks into her clenched fist. She doesn’t meet his gaze again for a week.

--

There is some sort of silent agreement in place as Ingrid sets her books down on the table and seats herself right beside Felix. Her head falls to his shoulder and he doesn’t flinch or tense or shove her away. Instead, he rests his cheek on her forehead. A vigil is held in the cathedral, in which candles are lit and silence hangs heavy over students who never knew the fallen. To Ingrid it feels wrong and disgusting to put her grief on display in front of her peers. She assumes Felix feels much the same. There are no words for how they feel. The past four years they had spent in a wordless pact to protect one another where they couldn’t protect Glenn. Ingrid laces her fingers through his and feels warmth trickle down her face. There is no ceremony that can aid the ache she feels. So they sit in their own silence, pressed against each other as though the world depends on it.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

In all of her years spent there, Ingrid had never recalled Galatea being so suffocating. She doesn’t know how to feel. In one beat she wishes to be fighting in defense of her prince like she had always sworn herself to, but in the next she feels herself seethe at the mere idea of enabling Dimitri’s rampage. It feels like she’s fighting an uphill battle with her own ideals. But it is her father that brings her to a decision. Count Galatea had never truly enjoyed his daughter’s sudden desire to fight on the frontlines. Ingrid knew this much, and saw it evidenced in the way she found herself followed by suitors at least once a week. She tries to remind herself that it is because he cares about her. “It’s nice to have you home,” he is seated behind his desk, arms folded on the heavy oak. “It is nice to be home,” Ingrid smiles. “I’m glad to finally have my daughter off the battlefield.” Ingrid’s smile falters. She says nothing as she leaves his office. Her fingers wind through her hair and suddenly it is far too long for her taste. Without a second thought, she pulls an old pair of scissors from her desk. That night, she leaves for Garreg Mach.

--

She doesn’t miss the expression on Felix’s face as her mount trots toward the courtyard. Sylvain is poised at his side, a grin plastered upon his face. They both look so much different, although she supposes the same could be said for herself. “You’re late,” Sylvain calls. Something in Ingrid’s chest reacts to his voice. “Goddess forbid,” she laughs, swinging off her stallion as she reaches the two of them. “Nice hair,” Felix’s expression doesn’t change as he speaks, but she supposes she’ll take it as a compliment. Her old dorm is exactly as it had been left. Ingrid doesn’t let her mind linger on that for too long as she unclasps her breastplate and places the heavy armor on her old bed. Sylvain clears his throat from the doorway and she jumps. “So what made Galatea change its mind?” She shrugs at him, not meeting his eyes as she works to take off the rest of her armor. She can feel him roll his eyes. “Did you finally get sick of your father?” “Possibly.” He laughs at this, closing the door behind him and seating himself in her old desk chair. He looks a mess now that she sees him up close; the circles under his eyes are deep and his voice is hoarse. “He's still trying to send you off?” “Trying to keep me off the battlefield, more like,” Ingrid smooths out her blouse. “Not many suitors to be called upon when the majority are out here.” “I suppose,” he agrees, and she hopes she isn’t imagining the relief that flickers across his face. “And yourself?” the question leaves her mouth before she can think twice about it. “No ma’am,” he chuckles, leaning against the back of his chair. She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Ingrid’s fingers search frantically for leverage in the thin linen of Sylvain’s shirt as he kisses her. It isn’t the same as it was when she had kissed him all those years ago. It’s hot and it’s fast and there’s the weight of their own lives on their shoulders that presses them closer together. The mat on the floor of the makeshift tent isn’t the most comfortable thing Ingrid has ever been kissed on, but she doesn’t object as calloused hands lay her down. The fire outside is dim now, but its light pokes through the fabric that covers them and bounces off of Sylvain’s features like artwork. His eyes are heavy and his breathing is ragged as he strains against the bandage wrapped taut around his shoulder to lean over her. In the middle of this war, Ingrid is in heaven. They fall into each other, desperate to communicate words they don’t have time for in heated touches until they’re holding each other as though they’ll never see each other again once they’ve let go. It is there that Ingrid decides it. She is in love with Sylvain. She has been, since they were teenagers. It feels like a shot to the chest as she acknowledges this -- allowing herself to admit love for someone who was not Glenn after so many years. She doesn’t say it, but Sylvain knows. There is no way he doesn’t. He doesn’t return it, though, that much she is aware of. He holds her to his chest and breathes in her hair, and Ingrid allows herself to believe that, just for that moment, he is hers. That night she falls asleep to the sound of his breathing. —

Someone is screaming her name from a distance but she doesn’t turn to investigate. Her right is crushed under the weight of her long dead pegasus and her head is swimming.

“Ingrid -” she can make out a dark head of hair approaching her, can feel arms pulling her from beneath the horse. The aching has long stopped alongside the thudding of hooves and cries of soldiers. The battle is over.

She’s slung over someone’s back and he smells so familiar.

“We did it,” he’s saying in a voice she recognizes but with a strain she doesn’t. “We won, Ing. You did it.”

She coughs, something wet dripping from her lips.

“Glenn,” her voice is hardly a whisper. The person holding her stills. “I did it, Glenn.”

“You did,” the voice breaks.

“Don’t cry,” she’s smiling but she doesn’t register it, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Ing,” he replies, followed by a choked sob.

Her eyes are suddenly too heavy to bear. Her breathing stalls.

It is to the sound of Felix’s cries to a goddess that won’t answer that lull her to rest.

[fuckingfinwions]

Ooh gil Gilad origin

Gil-Galad is not anyone important. His mom is a Noldo who grew up near Formenos, dad is a Nando. They have a farm near Himlad.

One day, Gil-Galad comes in from doing farm chores to find they have a guest. It’s Lord Curufin.

(I’m not going into what fashions would actually be common, but here’s a modern equivalent: Fifteen year old Gil-Galad is sweaty, wearing blue jean overalls with no shirt. Basically-the-president is sitting at the dining room table in a perfectly pressed suit with a briefcase in front of him.)

Curufin says, “You had very high scores on your exams. I’m going to interview you to be my son’s private companion.”

Gil-Galad answers questions about how many languages he speaks, how strong he is, if he’s had other sexual partners, if he knows how to dance, etc. Curufin doesn’t ask Gil-Galad to strip or do anything indecent, because it would be awkward for Celebrimbor to have a lover who has been intimate with his father. Curufin does ask Gil-Galad to recite tongue twisters and do a backbend, so he can see that Gil-Galad has good muscle control.

When he’s done asking questions, Curufin leaves. He has more candidates to interview!

A couple weeks later there’s formal letter delivered to their door. Gil-Galad has been selected to be Prince Celebrimbor’s private companion, and so join the royal household. He should arrive at the castle in the Pass of Aglon no later than X date, and Curufin will send a someone to help on the farm before the harvest needs to be brought in.

This is a fantastic honor, and also a duty. Under the Noldor feudalism-ish, Curufin has just as much right to call on Gil-Galad for this as to call soldiers for a war. It really doesn’t cross anyone’s mind for Gil-Galad to refuse.

So Gil-Galad shows up. Makeover montage, fancy clothes, etc.

On Celebrimbor’s Sweet-Sixteen-equivalent, Gil-Galad is waiting (fully dressed in easy to remove clothing) in Celebrimbor’s bedroom after the party. Celebrimbor knew he would get someone as his private companion, but Gil-Galad is even prettier than he’d hoped.

Gil-Galad: “Hello, I’m Gil-Galad. Lord Curufin selected me to be your private companion.” He memorized that phrase and has been practicing it in his head for the last hour.

Celebrimbor: “You’re beautiful. Can I kiss you?”

Gil-Galad finds this reassuring that Celebrimbor thinks of him as a person who can have preferences and boundaries, and also is relieved that Celebrimbor isn’t asking him to do anything he doesn’t know how to do. He says, “Of course.”

That first night is kind of awkward, but very enjoyable. Celebrimbor is a very tactile person, and his hands explore every inch of Gil-Galad’s body. Gil-Galad jerks Celebrimbor off, and then Celebrimbor wants to see what he looks like when he comes in return.

(Celebrimbor also got a book of sexual advice/positions as a birthday gift, which will be helpful. Gil-Galad has kissed people before and exchanged handjobs, Celebrimbor has not.)

Gil-Galad and Celebrimbor become friends. Celebrimbor has lessons on politics and such, and Gil-Galad attends as well. It’s not much more work for the tutor to teach two teenagers instead of one, and Gil-Galad doesn’t have anything else he has to do.

Gil-Galad notices that he’s gradually getting less fit as he’s not working on a farm all day. Celebrimbor asks him if he’d rather work in the forge or train with a weapon, as ways of staying in shape. Gil-Glad chooses the latter, and when Lord Curufinwe’s only son wants someone trained, you can bet he gets the best weapons master available. Sometimes Lord Celegorm even spars with him, as they both favor spears

There’s a period of happy times. The have sex (Gil-Galad always submitting of course), and discuss Celebrimbor’s latest projects and news from across Beleriand, and go out to bars together. They’re basically friends with benefits. Gil-Galad would be shamed forever for breaking his word if he left, but he doesn’t want to so it’s okay.

When the Dagor Bragollach happens, a lot of people die. Gil-Galad’s family farm is destroyed by Glaurung, with his parents on it. Celebrimbor’s mom dies defending the pass. They head south to Nargothrond and safety.

Finrod treats Gil-Galad more like Celebrimbor’s friend from another noble house than like a servant Celebrimbor is friendly with. This means Gil-Galad is invited to the formal dinners and such, rather than attending the dancing later but staying away during important talks so he doesn’t distract Celebrimbor.

The Quest for the Silmaril happens.

Celebrimbor denounces his father and uncle. Celebrimbor is in a glum mood all day, but Gil-Galad doesn’t push because the cause is rather obvious.

That evening, Celebrimbor says what’s on his mind. “Since I disowned my father, I’m not a prince anymore.”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“So you don’t have to stay. It’s not desertion to leave anymore, and a random blacksmith doesn’t need a private companion.”

“I hadn’t thought of that side of it.”

“Why not? It’s the part of this mess with the biggest impact on you! You weren’t close with my - Curufin and Celegorm, or with Finrod. Orodreth will run the city much the same as Finrod did, and all your friends are still here. The only thing that’s different for you from yesterday is that there’s no consequence if you walk out the door and never come back.”

“You’d be sad, and I’d miss you. Those are consequences.”

“You don’t have to care how I feel anymore. No one does! Curufin doesn’t have to care how I feel because I’m not his son anymore. Orodreth doesn’t have to care how I feel because his biggest political headache just walked out the door.”

“I still care about you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“You don’t have to care how I feel either. In fact, you never had to! You could have just ordered me to strip whenever you wanted to have sex. Or to work in the forge to stay in shape even though I hate the heat. I would still have done it, and no one would have stopped you.”

“That would have made you pointlessly miserable.”

“And I don’t want you to be miserable either.”

“I don’t want you to stay out of pity.”

“What if I stay because we’re friends, and friends help each other?”

“Okay.”

“Besides, Celebrimbor the blacksmith is still as handsome as you were yesterday.”

So Gil-Galad and Celebrimbor stay in Nargothrond and continue their relationship. After a couple weeks for Celebrimbor asks to bottom, and they start switching things up more.

Orodreth invites the two of them to regular council meetings. Celebrimbor is, despite his claims, still the person most in touch with the Feanorians who live in Nargothrond. Gil-Galad is there mostly because Orodreth knows it pisses Curufin off to have Gil-Galad treated as an equal to Celebrimbor, and he hopes word gets out. (Curufin would see at as bringing Celebrimbor down to a commoner’s level.)

By the time Turin arrives, Gil-Galad and Celebrimbor are established members of Nargothrond’s council, and Gil-Galad has shown a talent for political advice.

Celebrimbor and Gil-Galad argue about the Turin/Finduilas/Gwindor situation.

Gil-Galad says that Finduilas is betrothed to Gwindor, and she has a duty to obey her word, now matter what happened to him. Celebrimbor believes in upholding one’s word, but it’s obvious to him that nobles are allowed to take lovers before they’re married and then break up with them - why shouldn’t Finduilas delay the marriage by a year or ten for a fling with Turin? Gil-Galad says that you can’t have one set of morals for people with fancy grandparents and one for other people. Celebrimbor says obviously you can, just because he’s renounced his position at the top doesn’t mean he thinks there’s anything wrong with the system.

The argument gets really personal, and they break up. They probably would have gotten back together after a few months to cool off.

But Nargothrond falls. They survive, and are suddenly the senior council members - everyone is looking to them for direction. Well, mostly to Gil-Galad, as Celebrimbor is still seen as too Feanorian. He remembers Orodreth talking about Doriath as exclusionist, but Sirion is nearby and Cirdan has a good reputation. Most of his folk fish, there will probably even be farmland available for the Nargothrondrim to use.

By the time they reach Sirion, everyone agrees that Gil-Galad is in charge even if they’re not sure why. Someone asks what house he’s part of, and Celebrimbor give the accurate but extremely misleading answer of “the royal house”.

[fire-emblem-heroes-supports]

Micaiah/Edelgard C-A Support

Written by @sharyrazade

C SUPPORT

[Edelgard pushes chess pieces across a map in the library.]

Edelgard: If they could have held this bank of the river here…

[Micaiah emerges from behind one of the shelves.]

Micaiah: Excuse me. So sorry to trouble you, but I was searching for someone.

Edelgard: Pay it no mind, it’s no trouble. I don’t believe we’ve met before. I am Edelgard von Hresvelg, imperial princess and heir apparent to the Ardrestian Empire.

Micaiah: My name is Micaiah.

Edelgard: Micaiah…that’s an interesting name.

Micaiah: And this is Yune.

[Micaiah extends her finger on which Yune, seeming agitated, is perched.]

Edelgard: Um, hello, Yune.

Yune: [Tweets irritably, pecks Edelgard on the forehead a couple of times, and flies away.]

Edelgard: [massages her forehead] Ow! What was that for?

Micaiah: I am so sorry. She’s never like this. She usually likes everyone.

Edelgard: Well, she’s just a bird. It’s not as though she knows any better.

Micaiah: Again, I’m so sorry- er- What are you doing with that map? This game looks rather complex.

[Edelgard’s expression lights up with understanding.]

Edelgard: Oh, this? I was just wargaming a conflict from our world’s history. A very pivotal one, at that.

Micaiah: Oh? To what end?

Edelgard: The commanders of the vanquished side made many critical errors that lead to our- the empire being dismembered- reduced considerably. I believe that I could have avoided said errors had I been in command.

[Micaiah nods as she follows along.]

Micaiah: It must have been a dreadful time. But your world’s history- and your country’s- sounds absolutely fascinating. If it’s not to much trouble…would you mind telling me more about it?

[Edelgard smiles]

Edelgard: Only if you agree to tell me more about yours.

[Micaiah and Edelgard have reached support rank C.]

B SUPPORT

[Micaiah and Edelgard are conversing in the library.]

Micaiah: …and you must understand that the “plague” had decimated the population of Daein, and the previous king and his family were powerless to stop it. In fact, it took almost all of their lives.

Edelgard: I see…so that’s was part of the motive for the integration of the sub-humans-

[Micaiah uncharacteristically shoots her a dirty look.]

Micaiah: Laguz. The laguz.

Edelgard: Of course. Of the laguz into the king’s worldview.

Micaiah: Yes, but there was another part to it, as well. I’ve already mentioned the…fraught history between the peoples of Tellius. And why Daein first seceded from Bengion. Ashnard…disapproved of such rigid distinctions, in one sense.

Edelgard: This king, Ashnard. He sounds like a very interesting figure. It is not difficult to see how he gained so many devoted followers.

Micaiah: [slightly exasperated] Yes, but you have to understand that-

[Sothe emerges from behind a shelf.]

Sothe: There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you! Hm? Who’s this? I don’t think we’ve met before.

Micaiah: Sothe, this is my new friend-

Edelgard: Edelgard von Hresvelg, imperial princess and heir apparent to the Ardrestian Empire. I have heard much about you, Sothe. This one speaks quite highly of you. You are…lovers, if I’m not mistaken?

[Sothe stays quiet, giving Edelgard a steely, defensive look.]

Edelgard: Hm. It seems I’ve overstepped my bounds. So Sothe, is it true you are from Daein as well?

Sothe: [still warily] Yes…Daein is my country… But what’s it to you?

Edelgard: I’ve just been interested in hearing accounts from other citizens of Daein.

Sothe: Why is that?

Micaiah: [knowing what a disaster this is going to be] Oh, dear.

Edelgard: A cultured visionary of unparalleled military prowess, your King Ashnard was. He was a strong, determined ruler surrounded by decadent weaklings and fanatics. So why is Micaiah so hesitant to speak about these virtues? If we had an emperor like him-

Sothe: [visibly angry] No, no, no, no, NO! Lady, I don’t care who you are. I wouldn’t care if you were the Goddess herself, if you start wishing your country had a ruler like him, you must be just as twisted as he was. They call him the “Mad King” for several VERY good reasons.

Micaiah: Sothe, please!

Edelgard: He saw a wicked, stagnant system that was holding back everyone- his own people included- and took steps to correct it. From what I’m told, he was ready to either succeed in his aim or die for it. That’s more than I can say for most nobles I’ve known.

Sothe: [hurls Peshkatz into the floor paneling to avoid doing so at Edelgard.] At what cost, you crazy witch?! Taking a course of action he knew damned well would destroy most of our continent- if not the world?! Sending a generation of men to die or be maimed for it?! Performing sick experiments to turn laguz into living weapons?! Tell me, what’s your limit?!

Edelgard: [puts chin in her hand.]: You two have my condolences. To be from a world in such an appalling state that such measures seem worthwhile to enact meaningful change. It must have been agony to even rise from bed every morning.

Sothe: [turns around, picks his knife out of the floor panel and sheaths it.] I’m through with this conversation. I can’t tell you what to do Micaiah, but I’m through with this maniac. Before I do something I’ll regret.

Micaiah: Sothe…

Sothe: And by the way, lady. I’d REALLY love to see you talk this insanity in front of Queen Elincia. Or even better, Commander Ike, King Tibarn, or any of the laguz here. It’d probably be your last mistake.

[Sothe storms from the library.]

Edelgard: I fail to understand exactly what it is you see in him. He’s not unpleasant to look at, but what a rude little urchin.

Micaiah: [sighs]

[Micaiah and Edelgard have reached support rank B.]

A SUPPORT

[Micaiah, reading a book at the bottom of a stairwell, ignoring the commotion in the dining hall where the both Summoner and Anna can be made out to be yelling at several irate, ornery heroes.]

Edelgard: Good evening, Micaiah.

Micaiah: [Looks up, horrified at the scratches and bruises Edelgard has.] My goodness! What happened?! Are you alright?!

Edelgard: Really, they look worse than they actually are.

[Light pools in Micaiah’s fingertips before she touches Edelgard’s face, healing the scrapes and bruises.]

Micaiah: I can’t do anything about your clothing for now, but your wounds are gone.

Edelgard: You have my thanks.

Micaiah: What on earth happened to you?! Did it have something to do with that commotion in the dining hall?

Edelgard: [consciously avoiding making eye contact]: It might.

Micaiah: Oh, dear.

Edelgard: The history of Tellius is just so fascinating to me. I couldn’t NOT take the opportunity to discuss it with the heroes from there, you understand.

Micaiah: What happened exactly?

Edelgard: Well, I sought out this Queen Elincia your friend Sothe spoke so highly of. I thought she would have some interesting thoughts on what makes an effective ruler.

[Micaiah stares blankly at Edelgard, wondering briefly what she could have said to make probably the gentlest hero from Tellius tackle her to the floor and try to claw her eyes out.]

Edelgard: Well, I may have unfavorably compared her father, Ramon, to King Ashnard. The phrase “doddering, impotent old weakling” might have left my lips at some point.

Micaiah: [sighs in exasperation]

Edelgard: But I was truly trying to compare their effectiveness as kings- once I got to that part, she gave me some…less-than-queenly language before jumping on me like a madwoman. This odd, cat-eared woman got involved shortly afterward, and things just degenerated from there.

Micaiah: [wearing an “are-you-completely-daft” look] Perhaps you would do well to keep those opinions to yourself while you’re here. It’s something of a sensitive issue still.

Edelgard: [huffs] If these Tellians are completely incapable of discussing these matters without it devolving into a melee, that is on them, not me. But honestly, King Ashnard is not the most fascinating individual I’ve read about from your world.

Micaiah: [genuinely surprised] Really? Would it be anyone here?

Edelgard: Actually, it is you, the Silver-Haired Maiden, that fascinated me most.

Micaiah: Wait, what? Why?

Edelgard: Because we have many, if not all of the same motives, but when reading about your actions in the order’s library, I was mystified by most of them.

Micaiah: Such as?

Edelgard: Well, first of all, the behavior of those they call Branded, yourself included. Despised and shunned by both of your parent races, yet almost all found themselves in possession of some extraordinary ability or another. So why was there never a mass movement of these Branded to rise up and destroy these oppressors? Or at least take the respect you’re due by virtue of your power?

Micaiah: Hmm…I dealt with a lot of people, “like me,” as it were and even still, I cannot speak for them all. But I always received the impression that they almost always thought such thinking was wrong. At the very least, not constructive to creating a better world for everyone. Stefan, Sir Knight…even Soren…no matter how badly they had been treated, all of them could see how dangerous using that power to take revenge against them would be. I only know of one Branded who even came close to thinking like that and she was mur- fell in battle against the Crimeans.

Edelgard: I cannot say that I am satisfied by that answer, but I respect you enough to cease in second-guessing your decisions. Will you allow me another question, Micaiah?

Micaiah: Perhaps.

Edelgard: Knowing what you know about your country, Daein, and its mother country, Bengion, and being a Branded, why on earth would you continue to be so patient with these people? Were I in your position, I would have likely burned them both to ash and slept like a babe for so doing.

Micaiah: [winces in discomfort at the implications] I can definitely understand why our neighbors- especially the Crimeans- would say otherwise, but Daein is just like Bengion and everywhere else in one sense; you have good, well-meaning people and very bad people. All of us who fought to liberate Daein knew that there were plenty of good, honorable people there- The Apostle, Commander Sigrun, Duke Persis- among them. We would have never succeeded had there not been.

Edelgard: [scoffs] Hmph, her prime minister? He struck me as a weak-willed coward who would rather throw everything into the hands of his goddess and let his world be destroyed. Where’s the honor in that?

Micaiah: [slightly sadly] Not weak by any means, nor a coward. Just very weary and very, very sad.

Edelgard: I thank you for being most accommodating to me. But would you allow me one final question about your history? Especially concerning those “very bad people.”

Micaiah: Yes, I suppose.

Edelgard: So you say that there are good, honorable people everywhere, and that may be true. However, what of when one of those “very bad” people embodying everything wrong with that system comes to power? I am of course, speaking of your Duke Gaddos- Lekain. At what point, do you just decide that your world would be better off burning him- and everything related to him- to the ground? Even with all the trouble he caused, it makes no sense to simply leave the institutions that empowered him standing. They must be obliterated root and branch if true change is to come. And those who stand against these changes should know they do so at their own peril.

Micaiah: I will grant you that every now and again, there are individuals so vile and dangerous that they can no longer be allowed to draw breath. Lekain was one of those men. But to destroy the empire completely? With all of its institutions? I cannot abide that. Not for a single moment. If for no other reason than vast amount of death and suffering that would be the result.

Edelgard: Has there ever been a birth without labor pains? I think not. Nations- and worlds- are no different in that sense. Those who lose their lives in the process of this creation should take solace in the fact that their deaths contributed to something far greater than they could have ever ever been alone.

Micaiah: I’m sorry, but you’re wrong, my friend. My aim is now and has always been the preservation and improvement of the lives of my people. And of all people. It is for that same reason I cannot share in your positive appraisal of Ashnard’s rule.

Edelgard: [crocks her head sideways, cups chin with her thumb and index finger] You truly are the most fascinating woman in Tellius, Silver-Haired Maiden.

[Edelgard proceeds up the stairwell, out of sight. As soon as she is gone, Yune swoops back down to perch on Micaiah’s finger.]

Yune: [tweets happily]

Micaiah: Oh, Yune! Where have you been all this time?

[Micaiah and Edelgard have reached support rank A.]

[markiafc]

so, a thought about how the star wars fandom tackles sw & buddhism.

people love making meta on this with zero focalization, which results in meta that’s shallow, insubstantial, and unproductive.

buddhism is an ancient giant of a religion, it’s massive and old and incredibly diverse. there are two (or three, or four, depending who you ask) main branches of buddhism, hundreds of sects under each, numbers of subsects under said sects. then throw in the many buddhist movements throughout history, and we get an extraordinary amount of buddhist schools. naturally, their beliefs and practices would be distinct to one another, fusing with the region’s pre-existing ideologies, developing to accommodate their own societal and cultural matters, changing across long histories as the locals undergo their own struggles. 

if meta is to be made, isn’t it natural that awareness should be given to what the term ‘buddhism’ even means in your meta?

like, star wars canon itself is pretty ambiguous on this too. it’s true. there’s no official mention detailing where and what was borrowed over. but we do know star wars was inspired off japanese films featuring samurai, so there’s reason to believe sw canon works off bushido / 武士道, which also indicates zen buddhism. which also also indicates mahayana buddhism / 大乘. (it also also also indicates daoism, confucianism and more but we’re only talking about buddhism here.) and there. that’s a designated playing field with infinite potential. 

you don’t need to be hyper-specific. you can, of course, generalize things. but if your sources are cursory, then meaningful insight is a pipe dream.

eg. let’s talk about 法印 / dharmamudra / dharma seals

from this sole concept of dharma seals, we have:

三法印 / the three dharma seals

derived from the text:《大智度论》/  the treatise on the great perfection of wisdom

the three seals being:

诸行无常

“all 行 / sankhara / formations are impermanent”

诸法无我

“all 法 / dharma / buddhist ways have no self”

涅槃寂静

“nirvana is calm / quiet / peace”

三法印 / the three marks of existence

tmk this is the non-mahayana version

derived from a different text + is grounded in a different buddhist school of thought (possibly theravada...?)

lies outside of my area of expertise orz

so taken from the wiki, it states

sabbe saṅkhārā aniccā

"all saṅkhāras (conditioned things) are impermanent”

sabbe saṅkhārā dukkhā

"all saṅkhāras are unsatisfactory”

sabbe dhammā anattā

"all dharmas (conditioned or unconditioned things) are not self"

四法印 / the four dharma seals

is basically a re-interpretation slash alternative of 三法印 / the three dharma seals where a fourth seal is added

derived from the text:《增一阿含经》卷18 / ekottaragama sutra, section 18

the quote: “ 一切诸行无常，是谓初法本末，如来之所说；一切诸行苦，是谓第二法本末，如来之所说；一切诸行无我，是谓第三法本末，如来之所说；涅槃为永寂，是谓第四法本末，如来之所说。是谓，诸贤，四法本末，如来之所说“

and for short:

一切行无常

“every 行 / sankhara / formations is impermanent”

一切行苦

“every 行 / sankhara / formations is suffering”

一切法无我

“every 法 / dharma / buddhist way has no self”

涅槃寂静

“nirvana is to surpass / go beyond everything”

五法印 / the five dharma seals

this is also outside of my expertise, there’s only a handful things i know about it but nothing in depth

is another re-interpretation slash alternative of 四法印 / the four dharma seals where a fifth seal is added

it tacks on the idea of emptiness, that gets expounded in the《维摩诘所说经》/  vimalakirtinirdesa sutra

the five seals being:

诸行无常

“all 行 / sankhara / formations are impermanent”

诸法无我

“all 法 / dharma / buddhist ways have no self”

色即是空

“the 色 / rupa / physical / external / tangible is empty”

寂静涅盘

“nirvana is calm / quiet / peace”

真空妙有

it’s something along the lines of  “true emptiness is...” (?)

another thing i’m not familiar with so i’m unable to translate

this is not an exhaustive or educational list on 法印 / dharmamudra / dharma seals, of course. but from this alone, it’s evident there are a number of versions for just this (1) concept. the same seal with the exact same phrasing of “涅槃寂静” can be understood as “nirvana is calm / quiet / peace” or “nirvana is to surpass / go beyond everything”. all versions of the dharma seals share similar and repeated ideas, such as “诸行无常; all 行 / sankhara / formations are impermanent”, but that does not make all these versions the same. even the two different forms of 三法印 / the three dharma seals mentioned share very similar ideas and the exact same title, but they still differ greatly depending on the branches of buddhism it exists under. 

none of them listed can be mistaken for the other. they each came about and continue to exist for their own intents and purposes, and are used in practice in various ways too. this is in spite of how similar the lines stated may seem, repeated or no.

if you want to comment or dig into anything, you have to be aware of what a dharma seal is and which interpretation of the seals you’re thinking of and why this? there are so many different and nuanced understandings of the dharma seals, why would you look into three dharma seals instead of the five dharma seals? because the five dharma seals re-contextualizes it all with a greater focus on emptiness? now how would that change the lines repeated in both variants? simply picking out what in star wars resembles a dharma seal will bring you nowhere.

a lot of buddhism works this way, where it’s essentially the same thing echoed all over the place. but so much of it is at the same time distinct, and different. because what matters is the interpretations and the applications. the why of why this variant exists, how is it used, what makes it different will be what brings forth insight and meaningful conclusions.

the tens of thousands of meta love throwing around 八正道 / the eightfold path and 四圣谛 / the four noble truths in their observations, while providing a blanket definition, a surface explanation to the vague one-liners. but without a focus and the full context of the concept at hand, it’ll never be anything more than saying x = y. you’ll never be able to go beyond one for one comparisons and parallels. and for an american franchise made by and for americans, a one for one parallel between star wars and actual buddhism simply does. not. exist. the entire resulting meta would be worthless because it is wrong. 

examples of a lack of focalisation leading to meta that says nothing includes this tumblr post and this twitter thread (what’s the point of telling me dooku’s name equates to duhkha that means suffering, it’s an observation that goes nowhere and is unproductive. what is the point.)

examples also include the dharma of star wars by matthew bortolin, where he makes simple comparisons, takes a general buddhist concept and slaps it with a selected aspect of star wars. and then explains how it is the same while giving zero insight to anything star wars or irl buddhism. 

like at one point, he brings up the concept of 蕴 / skandha / aggregates?

Buddhists further subdivide mental elements, bringing the total number of aggregates that comprise a sentient being to five: (1) physical form or body, (2) feeling, (3) perception, (4) mental formations, and (5) consciousness.

and goes down the list to explain each, while using a star wars analogy (which is already demeaning and weird to do, because why would you use an american and appropriating franchise as a case study for anything buddhist, especially so when your purpose is to be a primer for buddhist philosophies first). 

but alongside the concept of 五蕴 / five aggregates, he never makes a peep about 十二处 / twelve ayatana or 十八界 / eighteen dhatavah, which are concepts that come hand in hand with the five aggregates. 

why. just why? when these concepts, in practice and when discussed by actual buddhists, are so tightly woven together, they are a package deal! they literally belong in one big web, as you can see below. 

the five aggregates, inclusive of twelve ayatana, inclusive of eighteen dhatavah. there's so much overlap and interweaving connections. the combination is the full idea, is the full picture, is the complete purpose of 五蕴 / five aggregates concept.

matthew bortolin also has a major issue with terminology.

at many occasions, he straight up uses the phrases & words star wars made up for their fictional universe to explain buddhism. it’s terms lifted right out of the movie lines like yoda’s “fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.” and he proceeds to adopt the structure and progression described in that line to teach buddhism as well. or he uses the term “dark side” to explain buddhist concepts of suffering when the “dark side” does not exist in buddhism, it is not a buddhist concept at all. he uses terms a white man made up for his white man movie to directly explain buddhism, a religion that exists in real life. which is very, very, very strange at best. deeply problematic and disgusting ignorance at worst. 

and sometimes he just says things like this:

Buddhist philosophers describe three types of desire that, when grasped or rejected, cause suffering. The three types are desire for things that are pleasant to experience, desire for something to not be the way it is, and the desire to have more or to be more.

which includes no terminology, as far as i can tell. i have no idea what he’s talking about. is he referring to the three types of 贪爱 / tanha / desire? is he talking about the 三毒 / the three poisons? i will never know. what he references is too vague, too general, too meaningless.

but tying this back to the original point: he introduces a buddhism that has no focalisation, and no awareness for the thousands of different interpretations.

matthew himself is a part of 十四項正念修習 / thich nhat hanh’s order of interbeing, a buddhist school under 禅宗 / zen buddhism. and they have their own main beliefs and concepts called the fourteen mindfulness trainings. but funnily enough, these fourteen ideals never make an appearance in his book. 

what does make it into the book are generic buddhist terms like nirvana, dharma, karma, samsara. the sanskrit terms suggesting he’s either referring to buddhism in its most broad and non-specific form, or theravada canon (whereas using the chinese terms would have signaled to me straight away that he’s tackling mahayana buddhism). 

he describes mindfulness and meditation, but that is yet again an all-inclusive buddhist trait. it indicates nothing. he also goes on to mention 八正道 / the eightfold path and 四圣谛 / the four noble truths, as well as 四正勤 / four right exertions, and gives a general textbook explanation with no nuance or meaningful wisdom. he does mention 二谛 / the two truths which was the only thing that was recognizably mahayana focused, but even then it went nowhere.

the use of sanskrit terms, plus the mess of vague buddhist concepts and explanations and the sudden (1) mention of a mahayana concept is... confusing. the buddhism he presents is scattered all over the place. it jumps from one big umbrella to another. i have no idea if he’s aware that clear distinctions exist within buddhism. it’s as if anything goes as long as it’s under the universal label of buddhism. which is, of course, exactly the case. the answer to ‘why this?’ is simply because it is buddhist.

he presents an incredibly blurred image where nothing substantial can be made out. though nothing he says in his book is wrong (other than the afterword where he proceeds to rationalise how a strictly non-violent religion like buddhism can sometimes allow murder and violence, yes, buddhists can have a little murder if they think it’s right, as a treat), nothing about it is right either. there’s simply no substance to it, so it falls in the grey area where no judgement can be placed upon it. nothing can be said about it, it sparks no discussion. it is very simply, utterly nothing.

thanks for nothing, matthew.

and everyone else who has proudly made buddhist & sw meta that serve no other purpose but to stroke your own ego.

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, REY! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE HERMIT with the faceclaim of LUCY BOYNTON. History loves a revolutionary, and there’s no doubt in my mind that this sentiment will extend to Marceline. I could feel her desperation to be part of something bigger than herself -- maybe even larger than her father’s ambitions -- they practically leapt right off the page. I felt for her in her loss, ached for her in her need for revenge, empathized with the pain and appreciated her determination to change things for the better. The Hermit has the potential to be small-scale, but you’ve taken her far beyond that, and I cannot wait to see what Marceline does on the dashboard! 

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OOC

NAME: Rey PRONOUNS: She/Her AGE: 25+ TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST. Because I am currently working from home, I would say on a scale of 1 to 10, I am a 7. I try to log on at least once a day. ANYTHING ELSE?: Just how much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood!

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: The Hermit NAME: Marceline Ash Pelagius FACECLAIM: 1. Lucy Boyton 2. Lindsey Morgan AGE: 22

DETAILS: I’ve chosen the Hermit because she reminds me so much of the French republican youths that got involved after the French Revolution (as most famously depicted in Les Misérables) and I’d love to dig into the historical parallels. Like Enjorlas, Marceline is born into wealth, but she sheds herself of this reputation and becomes a bleeding heart for the revolution.  (Also like Enjorlas, she’s a “charming young (wo)man who is also capable of being terrible.”)

Revolutions rarely begin with noble aims, even if the outcome might not suggest so. For Marceline, revolution begins with vengeance. Her attempts to get closer to the Fool and the guards of the city in order to avenge her father’s death opens her eyes to the social and political inequalities of the kingdom. What was once simply about revenge is now about so much more. She’s a woman who knows she wants to kill a king, but her reasons for deciding to do so only keep growing with time. Before long, she begins to assume her father’s radical political beliefs: tear down the monarchy and replace it with a republic. I find myself drawn to dedicated characters with unyielding drives - especially ones whose moral compass seems so set but will in actuality change at the shift of a tide in order justify their end goals.

Marceline is very much  a person to be reckoned with. Her fight becomes a fight against her own grief, her unknown magic and the monolith of monarchy. Each of these seem to be an immovable object, but she is the unstoppable force that beats against them. The Hermit tarot card can signify someone who is taking too much time for self reflection or too little. In the case of Marceline, she is someone who thinks she knows herself well enough to simply act; she is so set on her path that true self-reflection is something she doesn’t spend enough time on.

BACKGROUND:

You know this is not a rebellion, you know it’s a revolution.

You are born of a noble house, the only child, last of your name. Your mother is revered in court as the Keeper of Coins. She has a mind for finances and business, though you inherit the steel of her spine and the cut of her jib more than anything else. If you trace her lineage far back enough you’ll see that before nobility came piracy and maybe that’s why she’s always been so good with gold. She’s a smart woman with a sharp eye that upholds her family’s reputation by being someone that can sniff out a poor deal or a tampered book with ease. She’s never really sailed the seas, but you can see that she misses it. And thus, so do you. Most of your lullabies are sea shanties and you take your first steps along the banks of Tyr’s Tear. You cannot remember a time when you didn’t know how to swim. Your mother, for some hidden reason, knows how to fight and she is the one to teach you how to use a sword. ‘A cutlass’ she clarifies the first time you call it something else. ‘There’s language used correctly and then there’s language used beautifully.’

Meanwhile, your father is hopelessly bound to the land. More specifically, he is hopelessly bound to his books. He is an academic that is fortunate enough to be born into nobility. His father lived a long life as a trusted advisor to Octavius Valmont. A former educator at the Bard’s College, the birth of you brings about a new chapter to your father's life causing him to leave the college and spend most of his days in Tyrholm writing, reading, and discussing matters of political science. How he wooed your mother you’ll never know, but because of them you’ll never doubt what love is. If you had to guess though, your father enchanted your mother because no one used language more beautifully than him.

Your father has a secret though. When you are four years old, you learn that you’ve inherited it. The two of you are Inferi magi.

The fastest way to someone’s heart is through conspiracy and you and your father are bound by this secret you share. He’s spent his whole life hiding this, and he teaches you to do the same. You hate being anything other than outspoken, anything other than untruthful about what you think and who you are, and the only anchor is you know how much he hates it too. The two of you hold tight to something the world hates and work to make it a gift more than a curse. This is what connects you to your father. Inferi magic is destructive, but your father shows you that sometimes that is the way of life. He tells you about the pine-trees that depend on heat to crack open their seeds. He talks about entire forests that are born from the ash of forest fires. Sometimes, in order to make something stronger, you must burn it down; sometimes, in order to make something last forever, you must destroy it. You know the story of the wolves and the snakes, he’s told you it over and over again to lull you to sleep, but he tells you it again now. Political structures -  you are five so you say ‘what’ and he replaces the phrase ‘political structures’ with the words ‘Kingdoms, like Tyrholm’ and you say ‘oh, okay’ - Kingdoms, like Tyrholm, get better, continue surviving, by being torn down and rebuilt. Just like the wolves and the snakes.

‘Let me teach you little one, how revolutions begin.’ He tells you instead of bedtime stories.

Your father believes in revolution, in a way that is before his time. He wants to dismantle the monarchy and in its stead assemble a republic government. His political ideology stands stark amongst the beliefs of this world and you are young enough to be enraptured by the optimism of it. Your mother, far better at playing society’s game than your father is, tells him not to speak so loudly about such things when you are not in your home.

And it is a nice home. For all of your father’s gripes against King, it seems the current system has given you and your family everything you need. You have all the flourishes that come with wealth: a respectable reputation, a lavish upbringing, a thorough education. You’re a lady and the dresses and the etiquette and the social gatherings don’t let you forget it. In many ways you are like your father, you debate and you discuss and think deeply on things with little regard to how that reflects on your station in life. Your mother is the opposite. She teaches you how to lie and survive within the status quo.

You are ten when your father begins writing pamphlets - ‘purely educational,’ he defends - about what a republic is. At least once a month he meets with a handful of like-minded people who are interested in discussing such things and their conversations often go late into the night. They sit tucked away and hidden in the back of a low-lit tavern - and you know these things because you are wily enough to try and follow him one night. Your father catches you and drags you back to the manor by the scruff of your neck like some stray kitten. Your mother is furious - at the both of you.

You are sent to bed without any supper and your father sleeps in the library that evening.

So goes your life. You become your mother’s apprentice as the Keeper of Coins and she makes it worth your while by teaching you to spar in the evenings. Your footwork improves more quickly than your mathematics, but you’re not too bad at either. Your life as a lady blooms. More lessons, more competitions. You find love, a first love, so you don’t understand that there can be different kinds, and even sour kinds. All you’ve ever witnessed is the warmth between your parents, even in their bickering, and so the most naive parts of you believe this to be true of all love.

This routine is almost enough to make you forget about the plights of the kingdom and that you live in a gilded cage.

Your father gets bolder in his commitment to a radical political movement. You’re 15 when you start staying up late to help him proofread the pamphlet he writes. The two of you start taking camping trips to the Volkun Forest, so that you may discuss such things freely amongst the trees. Out here, if the wrong word slips out or if a little bit of magic pushes through your fingertips, there is no one to pass judgment. Out here is freedom.

You take these trips and your father returns, only to lock himself in his study for the next three days. Sometimes you’ll press your ear to the door when the house is quiet and hear nothing more than the quick and furious scratching of a quill across parchment. Not too long after there will be fresh sheets of radical ideas floating through the city.

When you are 17, the fabric of your world is ripped apart at the seams. Your father’s ideas are labeled as treason and the King’s Guard ambushes you in the middle of the Volkun forest. They run your father through with a broadsword more times than necessary to kill him and he is left in a bloody, bloody heap. You manage to survive by playing dead. It’s a decision you replay over and over and over again. The anger over it lingers for years. You should have leaped to your feet and fought, and instead - you chose a coward’s route.

You dig a grave for your father using only your hands and still, somehow, you manage the return home.

The rage in your mother’s eyes when you tell her complements your deep sorrow. She dries your tears and you dry hers, but both of you agree that no one else will see you cry. Your magic burns in you that night, so hot and unknown that you throw yourself into the river to temper the flames that lick your blood. Your lack of training has never been more apparent than now. At such times you’d ask your father what was happening to you and even if he told you that he didn’t know, the shared loneliness made it bearable. He is not here now, and you must weather this alone.

Your mother doesn’t speak for 13 days. At first you think she will never speak again, you have heard of those that die of heartbreak, but you soon realize that she is scheming.

“I know what we will do.” She says on the thirteenth day and you nearly drop the sword you are polishing.

A plan forms. Together, the two of you plot. How do you kill the men that struck down your father? How do you kill a king? It’s decided that you will join the guard. You abandon your engagement. Like that, you abandon your life. Your reputation is ruined and your mother barely scrapes by.

You move out of the familial manor, out of safety for your mother. She’ll still write you letters and you will still visit to sleep in your childhood bedroom, but the two of you agree to keep these instances to once in a blue moon. You move to Lowtown. You know that one of the men you want six-feet under is the Captain of the Guard.

When you first ask to enlist, they think you are pranking them, trying to pull the wool over their eyes because some noble has dared you. When you don’t leave though, that’s when they grow from disbelief to skepticism. ‘Why?’ You are asked. ‘Because I dream of a better world.’ Of course you’re met with laughter. You, however, refuse to lie. You stay steadfast in your plot. You wait for their amusement to die down before challenging the man nearest to you to a spar - if he wins you’ll leave and never bother them again.

That evening, you bring your cutlass and you win your way into the Guard.

After all is said and done you hear a stray spectating guard say to another, ‘She fights like a pirate.’

No one can stop you once you are a woman decided. You spend the next few years putting your head down and doing the work. You become the youngest lieutenant the Guard has ever seen. You are not intimidated by this, you swallow it easily with the knowledge that you are here with a higher calling. The truth has a tendency to make things harsh and unwelcoming, and yet it is the very thing that makes the men here listen to you. They look at you and see someone unwavering in their honesty, merciless with their virtue. It earns you a level of respect that most lieutenants spend their whole lives scrounging for. The world may not be fair, but you intend to make it so. That is seen and that is respected. They listen to you, but more importantly, they trust you. You make it clear that you’ll take an arrow for any of them, parry whatever blow comes their way. When a man is struck down in the field, you’re one of the first to volunteer to tell their family. They start letting you do this by default, your stoic demeanor and steady nature prove to be the exact temperament needed to weather a storm of their family’s sadness. Every time you do this - every time you confront a freshly widowed bride, a newly motherless son - you promise to take care of them. You won’t let their death be in vain, you say. You find yourself caring for all these families as much as you care for your mother. In this way your family grows, and it no longer feels like you are last of your name.

All of this goes without mention of the elephant in the room. Your job puts you in painful proximity to the Fool, one of the men that killed your father. However, these days it seems you’re on the same team in more ways than one. Together you lead the Guard, together you declare you’ll fight in the same revolution. You seek forgiveness within yourself, but your heart finds it hard to go back on a judgment once it has passed. You know that striking him down would be a poor move on your part tactically, that it would scatter the men, that it would lead to a different kind of revolt. You don’t want to tear your new household in two just. So you take his name to that list of names you intend to make your way through and shift it to the bottom. That night you begin a new list, one of additional grievances to call upon that specifically the Fool is responsible for and you decide that you will savor and remember these grievances when the day of his death finally comes.

You’re intense, you ache for revenge, you age for revolution. Those that would think less of you for the latter are nowhere nearby; they’re far off in some ivory tower. Those that surround you are bolstered by it. Each breath is spent on the growing rebellion, each action is dedicated to felling an empire and an unjust king. You are a flame that keeps your friends warm, you are a fire that chases your foes into action.

Living amongst the Guard has taken you out of luxury, out of a life of nobility, and placed you in the thick of a growing revolt. Each citizen of Lowtown comes with their own history, of a life earned through hard work and skill, and you realize that a monarchy is bullshit. Power to the people, you think.

It’s difficult to remember the girl who existed before your father died. But try and you remember. You’ve still got your family crest, it reminds you of the sea. A mutt wanders onto your path one patrol of the Volkun forest and you swear it looks part wolf. You take him in. Two weeks from now he’ll chase after a snake on your hunting trail and even you will say “Oh come on” at the heavy handed metaphor life has thrown your way. In these ways, the world continues to remind you of who you are.

And then, only on quiet lonely nights do you let your mind wander, galloping through the memories back to the day your father was butchered before you. You clawed your way back to the city, clawed your way back to your mother. You’ve defied death once and so hell nor heaven scares you anymore. Buried deep within all your noble intentions is an undeniable truth: you have your revolution, you have your decided aims for a republic, but you would put it all on the line, just to get back at the men who killed your father. You pray to the wolves and snakes you will become a better person.

You are not a revolter, you tell yourself, you are a revolutionary.  

PLOT IDEAS:

Marceline doesn’t believe in kings. As the revolution grows, there are plenty that want to replace this king with a new one. Who will take Septimus’ place? The Emperor, the Chariot, the World? None. Marceline thinks that’s just trading out one cage for another. As mentioned: down with the monarchy, up with a republic! Marceline believes in the ideals of a republic, the same ideals her father believed in, and she wants to work to stoke that fire in the same way he did. It might be a moment before she returns to distributing pamphlets or standing on soapboxes, but natural rights and equality for all citizens of Tyrholm is something that she is determined to fight for. She will try to convince every revolter she comes by of her radical ideas and even when they turn her away, she’ll find a way to stay. She’s always been a woman bad at understanding the word no. I’d like her to try and convince as many people as she can and I think this has the potential to be an interesting plot. Not everyone is going to agree with her and I’m sure it’ll cook up a new batch of allies and enemies. Her father wrote and distributed pamphlets against the king and in favor of a whole new political structure, and Marceline would like to get this radical political movement going again through these handouts. However, Marceline is not the same wordsmith her father was. She’ll do it, if she has to, but I would love for her to find that person to help her write a new round of Enlightenment principles with. In general though, Marceline will be at the forefront for a push for a republic. It’s an ideology that she’s willing to die for. In the long run maybe this even causes a schism in the revolution between those that want another king and those who want something else entirely. TEMPERANCE: Marceline breaks off the engagement, returns the ring that is given to her, leaves without a word. Marceline knows she loves the revolution more, but still her love for Temperance lingers. From where she’s standing, it seems as if her former fiancee has had no trouble moving on and so Marceline is doing her best to drown herself in work and other people. If she could pick one person to convert in favor of her ideal vision for the future, it would be her. But the more Marceline stays with the Guard, the more she sees that Temperance is blind to her own privilege. She wishes Temperance could see things her way. If Marceline ever had to pick between the revolution or Temperance, she would do her best to try and save both. Marceline has left the life of nobility behind, but I would love to see the life of nobility try and drag her back in through her undeniable love for this for this woman. THE FOOL: Until a new republic is built, Marceline still has to live in this monarchy, and there is plenty to do here. There’s her own vendetta, for Marceline will do anything that’s necessary to track down and kill the men that killed her father. Fool kills Dad. Hermit kills Fool. That easy, right? Wrong! Things are already messy as is because both she and the Fool are revolters and thus technically on the same side in more ways than one. Because of this, Marceline needs to find cleverer ways to retaliate against him. Their relationship is a complex one as she is always quick to undermine him, but still sees him as her co-partner in leading the Guard. For a girl who believes in keeping a judgement once it is passed, I want to push the boundaries of her decided vendetta. As she lies in wait, I imagine Marceline trying to be close to anyone that the Fool knows. I’d also love her feelings for him to grow and for her to have to wake up every morning and have to conscientiously decide that she wants to kill this man. I want the Fool to make her change as a person so that by the end of this she’s either consumed by hate for this man or consumed by love - no in between.   THE MOON: The Moon is possibly the only friend Marceline has outside of the Guard.  Every time Marceline ventures Volkun forest, she brings back something new for her botanist friend. There’s a comfort she feels with this one - one she hasn’t felt since her father was around. Something tells her it’s magic, but Marceline knows the dangers of asking about such things. Still, she will do everything to maintain a friendship with the Moon, as she is one of the few people around whom she is utterly at peace. I see them growing close because of the revolution, and I can see them growing even closer if they ever choose to tell each other about their magic. Ever since the death of her father, Marceline has completely turned away from the magical side of herself, but that does not mean the magical side of her does not exist. I see her magic being a grab bag of abilities that she has absolutely no control over. (And per admin discussion, I have some ideas on this.) She feels utterly lost, but Marceline does everything she can to avoid letting anyone know about this side of her. (She always tells the truth, except in this instance.) There’s probably less than a handful of people that know and while I would like this number to slowly grow, I imagine the Moon would be the first. Ultimately, I would like Marceline to come to terms with her magic and see how it influences her thoughts on the war and the revolution. Eventually she’s going to come to understand that her magic might be able to help her take down the king. She might even like to try and travel to Hypatos sometime to seek out mentors. Maybe this is somewhere she and the Moon journey together. Marceline is willing to train up anyone who wants to learn how to fight, be they part of the Guard or not. If you’re part of the revolution, or even if you take no particular side, she thinks you have a right to be able to defend yourself. Just expect to eventually get an earful about some radical political ideologies. Marceline hates pirates and bandits. She cannot stand either of them, especially when they terrorize her Guard. She wants to make a statement to show that the Guard won’t turn a blind eye to being messed with. She’s willing to offer both groups a shot at joining them against the king, but if they refuse, she won’t hesitate to go against them for the men they’ve harmed. In the meantime, any pirates or bandits should steer clear of her as she won’t go easy on them. Marceline sees every single guard as a member of her family and when a guard dies she makes a commitment to look out for that guard’s family. I don’t want this to be easy for her. I’d love to try and throw her up against her own moral compass while trying to stay true to a promise she’s made.

CHARACTER DEATH: Totally cool with you killing my character. My character’s dog however, needs to live forever.

WRITING SAMPLE

There are those that shared his beliefs that come knocking at their door to share their condolences. Marceline and her mother had vowed not to show their tears to the public so Marceline’s mother greets the guests with solemn eyes and a quiet nod of thanks. Marceline doesn’t even make it out of her room. Her father’s death is still too fresh, too heavy on her heart and it’s difficult to be confronted with the fact that someone the world keeps turning.

Marceline is coming up on three days without sleep. Her throat is sore, her eyes are raw, and they are both nothing compared to the dead thing in her chest. She tries to sleep, but etched onto the underside of her eyelids are the faces of four men that she will never forget. She knows grief is nonlinear, but she wishes it would leave for a while and return later when she feels a little stronger. Finally, utterly exhausted, her body gives up on her and she falls into a restless sleep.

There’s a full tangerine moon in the sky and Marceline wakes up in delirious pain. She finds herself on the floor, covers still tangled around her legs. She’s rolled off her own bed. She is still herself though - and that’s what matters. She can see through the haze of pain her hands, her fingernails, the bits of dirt underneath them.

What is this pain? It’s her magic, she thinks, or maybe it’s her grief. She’s buried this part of herself so often, that she forgets about it until it makes itself known. It pulses in her blood with such unpleasantness that she cries out for her father before remembering he is too far to hear her.

She doesn’t want to do any of this without him.

The pain licks up and down her spine. She can feel this Inferi magic coursing through her blood, taking her immense sadness and twisting it. This is in no ways normal, but each time she’s had to face it she’s always had her father.

Marceline kicks with trembling legs at the covers still wrapped like mummy bandages around her body. She crawls to the chair at her desk and grips at the chair leg with her sweaty hand. The wood begins to glow red - at least she thinks it does -  and she knows she is going to set it on fire if she doesn’t move it. She grabs higher, pulls herself up, grabs the curved back of the chair until her feet are flat against the wood floor.

Marceline takes a shaky step, then another, and then she stumbles with the inertia of pain out the door of her bedroom. She nearly collapses as soon as she reaches the bannister of the stair. Her torso hits the wood and the impact blows another wave of fire all through her, knees crippling - she catches herself before she hits the ground but the world spins around her.

She is going to die. She is going to die. She is going to die.

And whatever it is inside her is going to kill and destroy everything in this house. How did she ever think she was going to survive in this word three days without her father?

She must though, she must.

Another wave of pain throws her to the floor. She curls into herself; her sadness magnifies and triples tenfold. Like a wave it washes over her, and then recedes. Here, she will die here -

And then Marceline gets up.

Only this time, it is her magic rising from inside her. It surges through her, hardening the muscles in her legs. She slaps a bloody hand on the counter and straightens up. She breathes hard: in and out, in and out, in and out. As her eyes close, she hears - she swears - the steady beating of wings, as it reminds her swelling heart to keep beating.

She crunches her way out of the hallway, down the stairs, and then out into the garden where the moon hangs low. It is watching her, she feels it. Its light pours over her bloody form with every step she takes. At first she steps slowly, she eases her toes into the cool grass. But then faster, steps more steady, and then even faster, until she is running away from her family’s manor, towards the river, as though she could flee from her sadness.

But she is fleeing towards the moon.

Her magic gives her strength and gives her pain. It roars in her chest now, harmonizing with her grief. She hates it, she hates it so much, hates how it makes her hide, hates how it’s always been a mirror of her emotions.

She remembers her father and how he could look at a burning thing and see the growth that will come after. She’s never going to see him again and there are precisely four men to blame. She can’t stop her tears as she splashes to the banks of the river and falls to her knees inside the reflection of the full moon, which dances on the surface of the water. Her hands press into the sand. She fists the rocks and shells. She is probably going to die. And she should fight it still, but her magic is the only part of her father that is still left.

She doesn’t want him to be gone, and it’s the last thought she has before it feels like she goes up in flames.

Marceline falls forward into the river.

The next morning, she wakes to the sound of the water, as it kisses at her toes and her ankles. Slowly, Marceline blinks her eyes open to the sunlight appearing over the river. The pain is over. Her body felt peaceful and brand new. Three days of mourning and now - rebirth. She feels like she’s just shed her own exoskeleton. She’s done it all on her own too.

A raven picks at the hem of her blouse and forces her to sit up to shoo it away. Tyrholm is still here. She is still here. She breathes in like she needs to remember what it is like to have her lungs expand. Both her magic and her grief, she thinks, are strange, strange things.

EXTRA

A few extra headcanons: While growing up Marcline’s mother would temporarily stay in Noble quarters at Castle Tyrholm. Marceline and her father lived in the Pelagius manor in Hightown. After her husband’s death, Marceline’s mother moved out of the Noble quarters and returned to the manor. Her mother is still Keeper of Coin for the king. Marceline lives in Lowtown but makes sure to visit her mother in Hightown at least once a month. She writes letters often. One does not simply become the youngest lieutenant of the Guard without being a skilled swordsman. Thanks to her noble upbringing, she’s had access to top tier mentors and tutors. What Marceline lacks in size and sheer strength, she makes up in swiftness and cunning. In fact, Marceline’s noble upbringing has left her with a handful of random skills that she is never sure she will use again. She’ll spend most of her evenings these days in the Barracks playing cards or drinking with the Guard. They are her pack. Marceline is slowly starting to pick up where her father left off with his pamphlets. Marceline has a mutt that is probably part wolf... no one really knows. But his name is Little Wolf. He’s her hunting dog (and possibly her best friend.) He follows her around plenty while she is on patrol. He loves members of the Guard and hates the aristocracy.

A few stray musings: Look, I’m not saying she wants to inspire the French Revolution of this world. But... yes okay that’s exactly what she wants. Big Enjorlas from ‘Les Mis’ vibes. Mixed in with some Hamilton. There’s a touch of Isabella from Shakespeare’s ‘Measure for Measure’ thrown in there as well. “So men say that I’m intense or I’m insane.” Most likely to yell “Wake Up Sheeple!!” in the middle of a crowded ball. Bisexual AF.  

[cherryrogers]

Princess.

— Part II

Pairing: Loki x Princess!Reader

Contains: Fluff, a tiny bit of angst.

A/N: hello! i’m sorry that it took me forever to write this part, but it’s here now! after this part, the story is going to start progressing more, which i’m excited for :) anyway, i’ll shut up now, but please enjoy :))

Part I

Series Masterlist

__________________________________________

Adjusting to life in Asgard was gradually becoming easier.

Because you weren’t an Asgardian royal, many inhabitants of the realm didn’t take a liking to you initially, and you could see that by the odd looks they shot you, and the smiles you offered always going unreturned. Fortunately, after almost a week of you living there, people finally started to become more accustomed to your presence in the kingdom. While you didn’t at all expect to be treated the same as the royals around you, you were warmed by the respect and kindness that had come your way from your maids and servants. You didn’t feel as if you deserved to be treated as such, since you weren’t a princess of Asgard, yet you were incredibly grateful.

“(Y/N)?”

Your eyes darted up from your lap, a smile forming on your lips at the sight of Frigga looking down at you. She returned the smile, sitting down next to you on the stone bench you’d stumbled across in one of the palace gardens. The place was like a maze, and it was pretty hard to navigate around it. One of the many long corridors led you out to a grass-covered area outside, and you were immediately drawn to the array of brightly coloured flowers and plants that you weren’t sure even existed on Midgard. Someone was bound to find you out there eventually.

You didn’t even get the chance to say hello before she started to speak again. “There has been news about the war on Midgard.”

Eyes widening, you nodded, urging her to continue.

“Apparently, it was started by a large group of people who were not too fond of the way things are running in the realm. They call themselves, Hydra.”

The group was unfamiliar to you; you didn’t think for a second that people thought so negatively of the way your parents ruled. “But there are more knights, are there not? Surely, it won’t be hard for us to be victorious in the war.”

Frigga sighed. “I unfortunately don’t think that is the case, (Y/N). This group have supposedly stayed quiet for years, building their army until they had enough strength to attempt to conquer Midgard themselves.”

Noticing the way your body had stiffened, she placed a delicate hand over your shaky one reassuringly. “This isn’t at all your fault, dear. I can tell you’re trying to pin this atrocity on yourself.”

“I just wish there was something I could do - some way that I could help my people.”

“As of now, it is out of your hands.” Frigga squeezed your hand before standing, causing you to look up at her. “Your time will come, (Y/N). I assure you.”

While you didn’t quite understand what Frigga meant by her words, you trusted them - you trusted her. Perhaps, your time was coming.

* * *

“Oh, sh-ugar. I am so sorry...” You apologised, restraining yourself from muttering profanities, as you knew your mother would scold you all the way from Midgard if she knew you were swearing in front of a prince.

You’d been aimlessly wondering the halls of the palace, hoping to find somewhere to spend your afternoon before dinner started. It was safe to say you hadn’t exactly became friends with anyone yet. Sif seemed to still be warming up to you. You were lucky if you even caught a glimpse of Loki, as he hadn’t really made an appearance since the day you arrived. And as for Thor, he was usually out with his friends, doing things that you, a noble princess, wouldn’t be allowed to do.

However, at this exact moment, the god seemed to be rounding the corner of the hall at the same time as you, causing you bump straight into his hard chest. Feeling hands resting on your upper arms, you glanced up and locked eyes with the man in front of you.

“Do not apologise, Princess (Y/N).” Thor smiled. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, heat rising in your cheeks. “Yes, thank you, Prince Thor.”

His large hands trailed down to your elbows before he pulled them away, causing you to miss the warmth they briefly provided you with. “Are you heading somewhere?”

“Not anywhere in particular.” You shook your head. “Is there any chance you have something in mind to rid me of my boredom?”

A hearty laugh escaped his lips, unexpectedly causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach. “I must be leaving soon; there are matters involving the war on Midgard that my father wants me to deal with.”

The mention of Midgard sparked your curiosity. Why weren’t you informed of the update on the war? It was your realm, after all. “Matters? What sort of matters?”

“I’m not sure yet, but you shouldn’t worry about them, Princess (Y/N).”

“Why shouldn’t I worry?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest. “This is my realm we are discussing, is it not only fair I am just as informed as everyone else on the situation?”

Thor sighed. “You’re right, it isn’t fair that knowledge of the war is being kept from you. However, I am practically none the wiser. It’s my father you should ask, if you’re eager to know what’s going on.”

“Is it Hydra?” You mumbled. “Are they winning? Are they on their way over here?”

The god furrowed his brows. “How do you know their name?”

“Your mother, she told me that they were the ones starting the war. She seems to be the only one who doesn’t want to keep me in the dark.”

While your lips curved into a frown, you could feel Thor’s sympathetic gaze on you as yours dropped to the floor. “Please, do not pity me, Thor.”

At the realisation that you didn’t refer to him by his title, you sighed, playing with your fingers frustratedly. “Sorry, I meant to say Prince-”

“That’s okay,” He interrupted. “Prince Thor is rather formal, don’t you think? I’d prefer it if you just called me Thor.”

With a sad smile, you nodded. “Okay, Thor. I’m... I think I’m going to-”

“I’m sorry.” He cut you off again. “It’s not that my father wants to keep secrets from you. He just... there’s nothing you can do to help the matter, Princess (Y/N).”

You knew what that meant. Thor was going off to fight, and there was nothing you as an innocent princess could do to help. You couldn’t assist anyone in fighting, because that wasn’t your role. The same message in a thousand different phrases had been said to you enough for you to know what it meant.

Once again, you nodded, not feeling like you wanted to unleash your frustration on Thor at the moment. Uttering a goodbye, you started pacing down the hall again, hoping to find somewhere to calm down. This is why you preferred to be alone, why you rather liked being an only child - because whenever anyone was around you, they just loved to tell you what you can and mostly can’t do. In simple terms, you were useless.

Even though you didn’t think of yourself as useless, the word slowly started to dig its way into your mind every time you were told you couldn’t do anything. You knew that if anyone actually gave you the time of day, they would see that you weren’t just someone that had to be protected, but someone who could help protect others. However, you were sure that nobody was ever going to give you the chance you so desperately wanted - not anytime soon, at least.

You had no idea where your feet were carrying you, all you knew is that you needed to find somewhere quiet. Somewhere that you could be alone.

After around thirty seconds of walking, you found yourself stopping outside of what looked to be a library. Perfect. What place screams solitude and calmness more than a library?

Breathing a sigh of relief, you slowly made your way into the large room - emphasis on the word large. It was practically the same size as the dining room, maybe even bigger. Rows upon rows of bookshelves filled the room, apart from the smaller space in the centre of it, which contained two long sofas on either side of a dark wooden table. The smell of old books entered your nose, and it only added to the sense of comfort you felt when walking into the room. Perhaps this was a place you’d be spending a lot more of your time in.

In the midst of you taking in the beauty of the library, something caught your eye. Well, someone.

You hadn’t even noticed the figure to your far right, running a hand down the spine of a certain book on one of the shelves against the wall. His dark hair was tucked gently behind his ear on one side, and falling around his face on the other. It baffled you how different Thor and Loki were - they both looked like princes despite them completely contrasting each other appearance-wise.

It was then that it clicked in your mind. The green and gold aesthetic of the room, the numerous books that read ‘magic’ on the spine of them... this was Loki’s library.

“Can I be if any assistance to you, Princess? You’ve been staring for an awfully long time.” The prince spoke, pulling his hand away from the bookshelf and turning towards you.

His footsteps echoed as he slowly approached you, smirking at the blush arising on your cheeks. “I apologise, I wasn’t aware that this was your personal library.”

“How do you know it’s mine?” Loki questioned.

“Well, the wallpaper seems to match your... colour scheme.” Your eyes glanced back and forth between the room and his attire.

Loki let out a breathy chuckle. “May I ask what you’re doing in my library then, Princess?”

Usually, you wouldn’t roll your eyes at somebody you barely knew out of manners. However, everything that came out of this guy’s mouth virtually invited you to react in that way. “I just wanted to find a place where I could spend some time alone. Perhaps you could direct me to the public library, then?”

“And why would I do that?” He challenged, making you knit your brows together in a puzzled manner.

“Because I don’t know how to find it myself...?”

“I meant, why would I make you leave my library?”

You continued to speak confusedly. “You barely know me; I just assumed you wouldn’t want anyone else in here, especially some random princess from another realm.”

Loki’s eyes met yours briefly before he started walking towards the sofas in the middle of the room. “You shouldn’t make assumptions, Princess.”

“You don’t have to call me that, Loki.” You sighed, following after him. It registered to you that you made the same mistake as you did before with Thor - not addressing him with his title. But, you didn’t feel like you had to correct yourself. There wasn’t a nervous pit in your stomach with Loki like there was when you encountered Thor, and you liked that. You felt quite comfortable, despite only having one previous encounter with Loki.

“I know.” He replied nonchalantly, motioning for you to sit on one of the sofas while he sat on the opposite one to you. “Care for a drink?”

Before you could answer, a flash of green emerged from his palm, and a glass of something red formed in his hand. He placed the drink in front of you on the table. This was only the second time you’d seen him work his magic in front of you, so you tried to hide your surprised expression when you lifted the glass to your lips.

“I haven’t seen you at all since I first arrived. Is this where you’ve been hiding?” You challenged, causing the corner of his mouth to upturn.

“So you’re here because you missed me?”

“I offered to leave you alone, Loki, yet you told me to stay - perhaps you’re the one who missed me.”

Now it was Loki’s turn to roll his eyes before replying to your question. “I haven’t been hiding. I didn’t think you would notice my lack of presence, in all honesty.”

You sighed. “Well, you’re the only person I’ve had a decent conversation with this week. One that didn’t involve war and secrets.”

There was a pause before Loki spoke up again. “What about my brother? Has he not... charmed you yet?”

You scoffed, taking another sip of your drink. “No, he hasn’t charmed me. Why would you think that?”

Loki shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “I just thought he’d taken quite a liking to you, Princess, and perhaps you reciprocated the feeling.”

“Are you trying to set me up with your brother, Loki?” The god just responded with a glare, shaking his head. The idea never crossed your mind that Thor might be interested in you. Like you said, you hadn’t seen much of Thor since he was out of the kingdom a lot, but the warm smile he offered you every time you passed him in the halls and his friendliness towards you didn’t go unnoticed. You assumed he was just being, well, friendly.

“Whether he is interested or not, that isn’t something I’m looking for at the moment. It’s not even really up to me, it would be my parents deciding that matter. Besides, I think he’s still hiding things from me about the war, even if he’s claiming to know no more than I do.”

“Whatever he isn’t telling you, I’m sure he’s only keeping it from you to protect you.” Loki said quietly, provoking you to sigh at his words.

“That’s just it, Loki. I’m tired of being seen as a little girl who needs protecting from the world.” You spoke even quieter than he did, surprised at yourself for confiding so easily in him. “Do you think that’s unreasonable?”

The god moved his gaze from his glass on the table to lock eyes with you, noticing the glint of sadness and frustration in them immediately. He knew you weren’t what his father thought you were - a helpless princess in need of saving. Loki knew that wasn’t you. And he wanted to know you beyond that stereotype, who you actually were under the expensive royal clothing and perfect princess persona you faked.

“No,” His blue eyes bored into yours. “I don’t think that’s unreasonable at all.”

series taglist:

@darkprincessloki92 @hellethil @caretheunicorn @poetic-pixie

[alj4890]

Crack Fic Request

(Psych! X Choices: The Royal Romance) as requested by @krsnlove 😂

A/N WARNING This is pure crack. I am combing two of my all time favorites: Psych and The Royal Romance cast of characters. If you haven't ever watched Psych about a fake psychic detective, please...do so. You have no idea the laughter that is missing from your life. If you are a fan of delicious flavor, then read on.

I have no idea who to tag other than my other fellow Psych lover, @hopelessromantic1352

Masterlist

History? What About Her Story?

"My love, have you seen the book you gave me on our wedding day?" Liam walked along the shelves of the palace library, searching each brown leather spine.

"No. I don't believe I have seen it since the reception." Riley set her book down and began to help him search. "Did you allow someone to borrow it?"

"No." He frowned and called for Bastien. A search was conducted with no results.

"It has to be somewhere in here." She muttered.

Maxwell and Drake joined them, bringing Hana and Olivia. After much discussion, Maxwell offered to call in a favor.

"I know a guy who is able to solve these type of mysteries." He pulled his phone out and scrolled through his contacts.

____________________

Santa Barbara, California

"Chief, the psychic realm is buzzing with gossip and a little ethereal bird told me to stop by." Shawn announced, bursting in on a meeting between Chief Vick, Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, and Detective Juliet O'Hara.

"Mr. Spencer, I don't know what birds are whispering in your ear but they need to remind you not to interrupt a meeting." She said in a frustrated tone.

"Sorry Chief, but when they tweet, I must answer. Usually with hashtags. Right, Gus?" Shawn turned to his best friend and partner.

"It's true Chief. He uses an unusual amount of hashtags." Gus added.

"Dude! You know my Twitter followers need to be in the know. I can't just offer a thought without a dozen or so carefully phrased hashtags to explain it's significance." Shawn reached over for Juliet's doughnut and was immediately batted away.

"Jules! Sharing is caring." He reminded her.

"If there are doughnuts, we need to be made aware of their location." Gus searched the room and looked out toward the main room of the police station.

"Enough!" Carlton yelled. "Spencer, you and Gusster go find a doughnut and leave."

"Come on, Lassie. Don't you want to break bread with us. Or a doughnut as the case might be while we discuss the next step in our investigation?" Shawn tried to secretly slide Juliette's doughnut his way, earning another slap.

"I would rather go to a hot yoga class with McNabb." Carlton uttered in a deadpan voice.

"Well, I for one am ready to find this Corduroy antique." Shawn said sitting down and propping his feet up on the table.

"Cordonian." Gus corrected.

"I've heard it both ways." Shawn quickly repsonded.

"Shawn you didn't even know it was a country." Gus added.

"Gus, I can't help that the psychic tweets didn't give a geography lesson with the message. There's only a limited number of characters allowed." Shawn argued.

"Gentlemen!" Chief Vick interrupted. She stared pointedly at Shawn until he took his feet off the conference table. "Due to the international attention you and Lassister and O'Hara have gained with past investigations, the King and Queen of Cordonia have asked the four of you to come help find out what happened to one of the king’s prized possessions. The mayor insists you go to show how Santa Barbara is keeping up international relations."

"The tweets never lie." Shawn said, a smile lighting up his face. "What type of clothing should we pack?"

"It's in the Mediterranean." Juliet told him.

"So, snowsuit?" Shawn asked.

"Be ready to leave first thing tomorrow morning. King Liam is sending his private plane for you." Vick flicked her hands for them to leave.

__________________

"Gus, I was meant for this lifestyle. Private planes. Servants. Ruling over a small country. Adored by my people." Shawn reclined in the Corinthian leather chair as the plane flew over the Atlantic.

"Dude, your people would overthrow you within a week." Gus muttered.

"And what a glorious week it would be." Shawn replied.

Gus glanced behind him to where Juliet and Carlton were sleeping. "What did Maxwell tell you?"

"Some brown book filled with the country’s history is missing. The queen presented it as a wedding gift. Who gives their spouse an ancient book as a gift on their wedding night? Do you think there was underwear in it? I bet--"

"Shawn." Gus attempted to reign Shawn's ramblings in.

"Anyway, they can't find it. So it is up to us to find out who took it, why they did, and where it is now."

"Great. Did Maxwell offer any leads?"

Shawn frowned. "No...but how many people actually were in a small palace of a tiny country?"

_________________

Liam and Riley walked with Maxwell down the corridor. "A psychic?" Liam asked again. "I can't believe we invited a psychic detective to assist in this."

Maxwell nodded. "Shawn isn't some run of the mill psychic. He has solved numerous thefts, murders, even stopped a notorious serial killer. I think he will have this book back in your hands by this evening."

They walked into the study and warmly greeted their guests.

"Maxwell!" Shawn walked up and fist bumped him. "How long has it been?"

"Um...I want to say a two months since I was in Canada. The whole book tour being interrupted by Pierre Despereaux's thefts was when we last met." Maxwell explained.

"Thefts?" Riley asked.

"An international art thief, your majesty." Juliet explained, dropping into an awkward curtsy.

"Please, there is no need for any of that." Riley said with a smile. "I'm still not used to it. Every time someone needs a refill on drinks, I hop up to get it."

Juliet laughed and clapped her hands. "Your story is the stuff of dreams. I love how you and King Liam met."

"O'Hara." Carlton muttered.

"Right. Sorry." Juliet straightened up beside him.

"Can you tell us if you have any new staff, possibly seen anyone suspicious around the book?" Carlton asked.

"No, most have been here for years. The ones visiting the palace are nobles and friends that have never caused a problem of this sort." Liam explained.

"Of this sort?" Gus repeated. "So there have been problems?"

Liam shared a loaded glance with Riley. "I recently created a council of both nobles and commoners to help my queen and I rule to the best of our abilities. After the terrorist attacks from the Sons of the Earth, I wanted to try and not allow a situation like that to develop again."

Shawn raised his hand to his head. "I'm sensing that there were a few who did not agree with this."

Riley nodded, eyes wide. "There were some, one in particular, Lord Neville."

"The singer of Tell It Like It Is?" Shawn asked.

"That's Aaron Neville." Gus corrected.

"Right, the quarterback for Green Bay." Shawn asked.

"That's Aaron Rogers!" Gus exclaimed

"Right. Love his neighborhood." Shawn put his hand back to his head. "I'm sensing that Lord Rogers--"

"Neville." Gus whispered.

"That Lord Neville might wish to get back at you. Mayhap even--" he turned to Gus. "Did I use mayhap right?"

"Yes." Gus answered

"Too pretentious?" Shawn furrowed his brow.

"A little bit." Gus shrugged.

"It's this setting. I mean look at this place. Velvet sitting chairs. Who has this? Really, even velvet drapes? Does Elton John visit?" Shawn walked over and lifted the red drape.

"He has..." Liam replied, trying to keep up with Shawn's thought process.

"Is he planning on visiting soon?"

"I--" Liam shrugged. "I don't think so."

"Hmm. To solve this mystery, I am going to need to become one with this palace. I am going to need to eat what you eat. Sit where you sit. Touch what you touch." Shawn winked at Riley, earning a smack to the back of the head from Carlton.

He glared at Shawn before turning to Liam. "Rest assured that O'Hara and I will do all we can to solve this for you."

"If you wouldn't mind, we need to speak to your head of security." Juliet added.

"Of course, right this way." Liam and Riley walked out with the two detectives.

Maxwell grinned. "Alright guys, show me that magic you did in Canada."

"Oh you will see the magic." Shawn promised.

"We got magic for days." Gus added.

"At least for a couple of hours." Shawn corrected. "Maybe an encore card trick or two."

Maxwell chuckled and finger gunned them on his way out. "Great. Let me know if you need anything."

"Magic for days? Really Gus?" Shawn shook his head and left the study.

"What? The man asked for it. What was I supposed to say? Shawn!" Gus ran after him.

__________________

"We start with the list Maxwell gave us of those that are normally in the palace." Shawn explained. "From there, we can easily say Neville did it and we receive some kind of royal award, like a spare chest of jewels or a quick swim in the gold vault."

"Liam is not Scrooge McDuck." Gus reminded him.

"Are you saying he doesn't have a gigantic money vault that he secretly swims in while wearing a bathing suit from the turn of the century?"

"Yes. That's what I'm saying."

"Well, that's disappointing." Shawn muttered.

The pair stopped by an office and knocked. When they opened the door they saw a petite, strikingly beautiful blonde filing some papers. "Who are you?" She asked, eyes narrowing.

"My name is Shawn Spencer and this is my partner, Sir Spinsalot. We have been asked to assist in locating the King's missing book."

Madeleine sat down behind her desk. "And?"

"We were wondering who you suspected." Gus leaned closer. "A lady of your talents of changing the minds of the people should have a few suspects in mind."

A proud smile formed. "When King Liam chose an American waitress as his Queen, there were some that were less enthused with his choice."

Shawn zeroed in on her fingers tensing, the old issues of magazines behind her desk, and the faint tan line on her ring finger. There was also a flyer partially hidden with the word rebound on it. A sticky note had a m and a f with groups of numbers listed. 1728 and 1817 were written down. "I'm sensing that these nobles preferred someone else. They wanted you to be queen."

She momentarily stilled. "Yes they did. After my upbringing as the Countess of Fydella, I was the natural choice as queen."

"I bet they were disappointed when Liam ended your engagement." Gus added.

A hard glint came into her eyes. "I suppose so. Who wouldn't wish for one trained since birth how to run a country and interact with nobles and dignitaries around the world without an entourage to constantly tell her what to do?"

"Good to see you're not bitter." Shawn stood up. "Thank you for your time."

"Do you think she did it?" Gus whispered as they walked down the hall.

"Nah. She has moved on with this new position. Plus it looks like she is getting some type of rebound counseling after being dumped. She's the kind that has to be needed." He explained.

"I think I could need her." Gus grinned, brushing his thumb across his nose.

"I say this with all the love in my heart. Something is wrong with you." Shawn stepped outside.

__________________

"He did it." Shawn nodded toward a man dressed in a demin shirt talking to Juliet.

"What? That's the King's best friend!" Gus exclaimed.

"Doesn't matter. He did it." Shawn persisted. "Only a thief would flirt to distract the investigation."

"He's not flirting. Juliet is." Gus pointed out.

"Man." Shawn shook his head and walked over.

Juliet was smiling. "....I named him Sprinkles because of his dappled coat."

Drake's smirk appeared and he looked up as Shawn and Gus approached. Juliet turned and introduced them.

"Drake, this is Shawn Spencer and Burton Gusster."

He nodded to them. "How's the investigation going? Any leads?"

"It's going." Shawn answered. "I'm not at liberty to reveal any parts."

Drake cocked an eyebrow. "You're not at liberty?"

"That's right, Jack! The psychic's relationship with the visions he is given is precious. Has to be nurtured. It's a circle of trust and it gets upset when I share its secrets with suspiciously handsome dudes that flex their muscles in a barn. Or stable. Is this a stable?" Shawn pulled the door open.

"It's a stable." Gus decided.

Juliet looked up in silent frustration. "Thank you Drake for your time. Guys, I will see you back at the palace." She walked away.

Shawn noticed Drake checking Juliet out and spoke harshly.

"So what do you do here?"

"Er...I do...things." Drake muttered.

"What type of things?" Gus asked.

"I...you couldn't really put a name on it. I do a variety of...stuff." Drake stuttered.

"Is theft of antique cornucopia history--" Shawn began.

"Cordonian." Gus corrected.

"Cordonian history rank as one of your things?" Shawn asked.

Drakes eyes narrowed. "What? Are you actually accusing me of stealing from my best friend?"

"No!" Gus said while Shawn said, "YES!" At the same time.

Drake glared at them and stormed off.

"What's his problem?" Shawn asked.

"Shawn, you just accused the man of stealing. What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Maybe point me toward the most likely suspect. Didn't he seem a little more secretive than one would normally be?" Shawn asked.

"Maybe. Why?" Gus watched Drake walk into a hidden side door.

"I think he's hiding something." Shawn motioned his head in the direction Drake disappeared. "We need to keep an eye on him."

___________________

"There has to be food somewhere in this joint." Shawn muttered.

Gus threw his arm out, stopping Shawn. He took a sniff and turned down a hallway.

"Super sniffer activated. What!" Shawn exclaimed following his friend.

"Do you smell that?" Gus asked, stopping again.

Shawn took a deep breath and let out an exaggerated moan. "It smells like heaven's bakery: one filled with cinnamon, sugar, chocolate, and our third grade teacher Ms. Ferguson wearing that sundress on field day."

Gus closed his eyes in memory. "You know that's right. Every teacher should look like her."

They stepped into the kitchen and watched a lady in a pink dress remove a tray of snickerdoodles from the oven. She brushed her long dark hair back and began to place the cookies on a cooling rack.

"I'm in love." Gus whispered.

Shawn nodded at the vision before them. He walked up to her with a look of wonder on his face. "Excuse me, but are you an angel?"

Hana looked up and giggled sweetly. "I know you! You're the private detectives Maxwell called in." She wiped her hands before holding one out. "I'm Lady Hana Lee."

"My name is Shawn Spencer and the suave gentleman stealing cookies is my partner, The Duke of Earl."

Gus quickly swallowed and gave a slow wave. "Hello."

Hana's grow furrowed. "The Duke of what?"

"Earl. But you can call me Slade." Gus replied with a seductive look.

Hana nodded and motioned toward the counter covered in sweet treats. "Please, help yourself. I tend to overdo it when I bake."

"That is impossible." Gus muttered. He took a bite of a still warm brownie and rolled his eyes in pleasure. "I'm proposing to her tonight." He whispered to Shawn.

"Tonight? I'm proposing marriage this afternoon. She can't be real." Shawn filled a plate with a variety of sweets and sat down. With a mouthful of food and a few moans of pleasure he began to question her. "Lady Hana, have you noticed anyone acting suspicious lately?"

She poured them each a glass of milk and chewed on her bottom lip. "No."

Gus slapped Shawn's hand away from his plate. "Stop playing Shawn!"

"Come on son. You grabbed the last of the macarons! The least you can do is offer one or two."

"Not my fault you took your time with the magic bars." Gus countered.

"They literally have magic in the name. They taste like what I imagine Siegfried and Roy playing with baby tigers feels like." Shawn reached over again and shook his head when slapped. "I can't believe how greedy you're being."

"I don't care." Gus replied in a high pitched voice.

Hana laughed and went over to one of the containers filled with more macarons. She offered it to Shawn and blushed when he exclaimed over her. "I don't care what you say, I can see your wings and halo."

"This is what nice people do Gus, they give." Shawn held up the cookies Hana handed him.

"Suck it Shawn."

"You suck it."

They began to talk quickly over each other and suddenly stopped. Shawn took a drink of milk and focused on Hana. "I'm sensing that you have seen someone you are close to acting odd recently."

Her lips parted in surprise. "Yes, I have. But he couldn't have taken the book! He is much too loyal to ever do something against Liam."

Shawn placed his hand to his head, closed his eyes and slapped Gus for trying to take another brownie. "I'm sensing that the one you are worried about is Drake."

Hana gasped. "Yes! Maxwell told me you were the real thing, but I couldn't believe it."

"I am merely the vessel," he slapped the back of Gus's head for trying again, "that the visions use. Now, would it be too much trouble to find something we can use to carry all of this with us?"

______________

“I don’t like this.” Gus whispered as he crept behind Shawn through the dark palace halls.

“Drake wasn’t in his room. It’s two in the morning. Where is he?” Shawn responded. “I’m telling you, he is up to no good.”

“You’re just jealous that Juliet was flirting with him instead of you.” Gus muttered.

“Please. Me? Jealous? Just because Jules basically giggled like an eighth grade girl over that ridiculously good looking man means--” He held his hand up and stopped Gus. He pointed down another hallway where he could see Drake standing in front of a door.

“What’s he doing?” Gus asked.

Shawn moved in an exaggerated manner to hide behind a suit of armor. He motioned for Gus to follow. He shook his head no. Shawn began to motion faster while Gus silently argued back. They did rock, paper, scissors three times with Gus losing. He snuck over.

Drake looked behind him before knocking in a strange pattern. After a few moments he tried the pattern again, his brow furrowing with the continued silence that followed.

Shawn went to move to another suit of armor, only to end up frozen with a sword to his throat.

“One more move and you and your little friend will be a shish kabob.” 

A sultry red head moved out of the shadows and narrowed her green eyes at the pair. “What are you doing here?”

Drake turned around and glared. “It’s those psychic detectives Maxwell called in.”

Olivia kept her sword against Shawn’s throat.

“You would need at least three more.” Shawn suddenly said.

“What are you blabbering about?” Olivia demanded.

“For kabobs.” Shawn continued. “Everyone knows that you can’t just have two things. You need something to make the kebobs pop, like onions, tomatoes, something green. Most add some zucchini yet I think bell peppers add more zing--”

“SILENCE!” Olivia said over his ramblings. “Why are you following Drake?”

“Could you lower the sword?” Gus asked.

She dropped it down. “Now talk before I change my mind.”

“We are searching for the cornstarch--”

“Cordonian!” Gus corrected yet again.

“Cordonian history book.” Shawn finished.

“They think I took it.” Drake folded his muscular arms across his chest.

“Why would Drake steal the book? It is only about nobles and ancient scandals. I think one of the last entries was from 1817.” Olivia noted. 

Shawn thought back as his brain flashed to that post it note with that particular year listed. He raised his hand to his temple. “I KNOW WHO STOLE THE BOOK!”

________________

Everyone gathered half asleep in Liam’s study. Shawn stood in the middle of the room. “I’m sure you all wonder why I asked you here.”

“Cut the crap Spencer.” Carlton replied. “We know you have some half cocked theory that will somehow be correct.”

Gus shrugged when Shawn turned to him.

“Really you too?” Shawn asked. 

“It’s late Shawn.” Gus countered. “We flew across the country and the Atlantic ocean to get here. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours. You know how I get without sleep.”

“Gus, don’t be that can of Coke Zero. Bring back the sweetness.” Shawn pleaded.

He turned back to the group. “This missing piece of history isn’t filled with only boring facts. No! I sense that it is filled with the dirty secrets about what goes on in the unknown, deep, dark recesses of this palace.”

“It’s actually pretty bright everywhere.” Maxwell spoke up with a yawn.

Shawn ignored that. “Even though the scandals go back thousands--”

“Hundreds.” Gus whispered.

“Hundreds of years.” Shawn repeated. “They are still ones that some will want to remain in secret.”

“Who wouldn’t want that?” Drake muttered.

“Someone wanted to erase these recorded memories. Someone who has already gone through humiliation. Someone who doesn’t want their name added to their ancestors’ naughty times. Isn’t that right...LADY MADELEINE!”

Madeleine paused yawning. Her eyes widened for a moment. “I beg your pardon!”

“I can see it all now.” Shawn stood over her. “You were already sick of seeing your name in the magazines as the jilted fiancée of the King. When Riley asked you to be her publicist, it was a slap in the face for a Countess and former Queen in training. But you took it, because your family name was on the line. You had to correct your image somehow. What better way than to appear not only fine being pushed aside, but also being magnanimous to the foreign interloper.” 

Madeleine stared silently at him as he continued.

“It was going well until Riley decided to present Liam with a rare and very odd wedding gift. Seriously. Naught underwear is what all men want for gifts.” Shawn turned to Riley and Liam. “Back me up on this guys.”

“It’s true.” Drake muttered.

“Drake!” Riley exclaimed.

“No, he’s right, blossom. It is all we want.” Maxwell added.

Riley blushed and turned to Liam. “Were you disappointed?”

Liam shook his head. “Of course not. I love everything you have given me.” He frowned at Shawn, Drake, and Maxwell. “Proceed Mr. Spencer.”

“If only Riley had not found it.” Shawn continued. “You didn’t realize what it had until you flipped through it. Then you saw what your ancestors did. It wasn’t just on your mother’s side in 1728 that your people got into trouble, but also on your father’s side in 1817. After a little bit of research and the help of Olivia’s memory of your father being from England, it seems the former Duke of Karlington was involved in trying to overthrow Queen Charlotte. Couldn’t have that be discovered, could you?”

Madeleine glared at Olivia. “I should have known that a descendant from traitors would make certain to point out other decent noble’s despicable relatives.”

“You took the book and decided to have those pages removed. But how to do it in a way that Liam wouldn’t notice?” Shawn interrupted before Olivia could retaliate. “You needed to have the book taken apart by a specialist and then rebounded. Simple glue apparently wouldn’t do with the old leather. That’s why if we go to your desk we will find a brochure for a book binding place called Rebound.”

Madeleine paled. She stood up and lifted her chin. “Yes, I took it. If I refuse to recognize my ancestors that betrayed their monarchs then no one else should.”

Gus and Shawn shared a fist bump as Liam had Bastien lead Madeleine away.

Once she was gone, Shawn turned his sharp eyes on Drake and Olivia. “I see what the big secret is. I wasn’t sure which John Hughes movie you were. I thought maybe a gender switched Pretty In Pink. But now that you are all together, I see you guys are The Breakfast Club.”

“What?!” Everyone exclaimed.

“Olivia is Molly Ringwald. She’s rich and fallen for the less economically sound tough guy, Judd Nelson or Drake in this instance. Liam is Emilo Estevez. Nice. Popular. Everyone likes him. I guess that means Riley is Ally Sheedy. Hmm. Hana doesn’t really have a character. We could make you the principal but that just seems mean. Maybe the little sister to Anthony Michael Hall...but you’re too sweet for that too.  Maxwell...you’re Anthony Michael Hall but way cooler.” Shawn pointed at each one. “And just like in the movie, Molly and Judd are meeting in secret to be together.”

Everyone stared at the duchess and the commoner that were both speechless at their secret being discovered.

“And my work here is done.” Shawn exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. He walked over to the door. “If you will excuse me, I’m going to catch up on that sleep everyone was mentioning earlier.”

_____________

“I am going to miss this country. After Hana refused my offer of marriage, I guess this will only be a fond memory.” Shawn said as he boarded the plane with the others.

“I’m just glad she made us going away bags.” Gus opened his and frowned. “Shawn! Where are my cookies?”

“Hmm? Seems like another mystery.” He held tight to his bag as Gus demanded he either share what he had or return what was stolen. “Man, I didn’t take your cookies.”

“You must be out of your damned mind if you think I believe that.” Gus argued. The best friends began to talk over one another, bringing up the great cupcake incident of fifth grade.

Juliet sighed as she sat down with Carlton. “It’s going to be a long flight.”

Carlton nodded. “Good thing I stole Guster’s bag of baked goods.” He offered a cookie to Juliet. She glanced at Shawn and Gus before biting into a chocolate chip cookie.

[revoluticn]

( full application / skeleton )

“Have you seen Marceline Ash Pelagius? Her mother is Keeper of Coins - so why is she running around as the Lieutenant of the Guard? It’s certainly one way to throw away your noble status. I heard she completely called off the engagement too. Tragic what happened to her father - but if you ask me he had it coming. Apparently the King finally got his hands on one of his pamphlets preaching about a “new Republic” and had Marius Pelagius run through with a sword. I wonder how far the apple’s fallen from the tree. What a ridiculous idea: replacing the monarchy with a new form of government. Can you imagine?”

about

marceline ash pelagius 

twenty - two 

cisfemale, she/her

bisexual

currently: lieutenant of the guard

formerly: noble & apprentice to the keeper of coins (her mother)

revolter

untrained inferi  

overview (tl;dr)

Born into nobility. Only child. Her mother, Cassandra, is the Keeper of Coins for Tyrholm. Cassandra is of noble birth, but it’s rumored she has pirate blood in her. Marceline’s father, Marius, is a former educator the Bard’s College. His father was an advisor to Octavius Valmont. Marius is now a scholar who focuses on political science. 

Like her father, Marceline is an Inferi. The two of them hide this from all but Cassandra. It’s a secret that brings father and daughter closer than ever. Marceline’s magic is wild and unpredictable.

Marius begins writing political pamphlets in the same vein as Thomas Paine’s ‘Common Sense’ where he outlines the case for a republic form of government instead of a monarchy. He amasses a small group of like-minded individuals.  Meanwhile, Marceline is being raised to be a lady. She is engaged to TEMPERANCE and it looks like she will lead a life in the court of the king like her mother.

One small problem - her father’s radical ideologies are rubbing off on her and she’s beginning to believe in the concept of a republic for Tyrholm.  

When Marceline is 17, Marius’ identity as the pamphlet writer is revealed and he is charged with treason. Marius is ambushed and killed by the King’s men during one of his and Marceline’s camping trip. Marceline manages to survive by playing dead. 

The young woman returns home to a mother. The two woman are enraged. Together they hatch a plot to kill the four men that butchered her father. The Captain of the Guard THE FOOL is one of them. 

Marceline strips herself of her social standing, breaks off her engagement, and joins the Guard. She tells no one why. 

She rises through the ranks fast and soon becomes Lieutenant of the Guard. “The truth has a tendency to make things harsh and unwelcoming, and yet it is the very thing that makes the men here listen to you. They look at you and see someone unwavering in their honesty, merciless with their virtue. It earns you a level of respect that most lieutenants spend their whole lives scrounging for.” The Guard becomes Marceline’s new family. 

Living amongst the citizens of Lowtown makes Marceline realize that the monarchy is bullshit. She finally understands the merit of her father’s work and decides to completely dedicate herself to this revolution. She becomes an outspoken advocate for a republic and is ready to die for such ideals. 

Now, Marceline starting to pick up where her father left off with his pamphlets and hopes they will be of some good to the revolution. She most certainly will rise above and beyond her father’s own ambitions. She’s training up any revolter who wants to learn how to use a sword and doesn’t let anyone second guess her because of her youth. She - once a lady - made Lieutenant of the Guard fair and square after all. Marceline still wants to kill the four men that murdered her father. She loves her mother, who is still Keeper of Coins, and worries for her terribly. Her magic is still wild and unpredictable. But Marceline has never been more certain of her goals in life. Down with the monarchy. Power to the people. 

background

You know this is not a rebellion, you know it’s a revolution. You are born of a noble house, the only child, last of your name. Your mother is revered in court as the Keeper of Coins. She has a mind for finances and business, though you inherit the steel of her spine and the cut of her jib more than anything else. If you trace her lineage far back enough you’ll see that before nobility came piracy and maybe that’s why she’s always been so good with gold. She’s a smart woman with a sharp eye that upholds her family’s reputation by being someone that can sniff out a poor deal or a tampered book with ease. She’s never really sailed the seas, but you can see that she misses it. And thus, so do you. Most of your lullabies are sea shanties and you take your first steps along the banks of Tyr’s Tear. You cannot remember a time when you didn’t know how to swim. Your mother, for some hidden reason, knows how to fight and she is the one to teach you how to use a sword. ‘A cutlass’ she clarifies the first time you call it something else. ‘There’s language used correctly and then there’s language used beautifully.’ Meanwhile, your father is hopelessly bound to the land. More specifically, he is hopelessly bound to his books. He is an academic that is fortunate enough to be born into nobility. His father lived a long life as a trusted advisor to Octavius Valmont. A former educator at the Bard’s College, the birth of you brings about a new chapter to your father’s life causing him to leave the college and spend most of his days in Tyrholm writing, reading, and discussing matters of political science. How he wooed your mother you’ll never know, but because of them you’ll never doubt what love is. If you had to guess though, your father enchanted your mother because no one used language more beautifully than him. Your father has a secret though. When you are four years old, you learn that you’ve inherited it. The two of you are Inferi magi. The fastest way to someone’s heart is through conspiracy and you and your father are bound by this secret you share. He’s spent his whole life hiding this, and he teaches you to do the same. You hate being anything other than outspoken, anything other than untruthful about what you think and who you are, and the only anchor is you know how much he hates it too. The two of you hold tight to something the world hates and work to make it a gift more than a curse. This is what connects you to your father. Inferi magic is destructive, but your father shows you that sometimes that is the way of life. He tells you about the pine-trees that depend on heat to crack open their seeds. He talks about entire forests that are born from the ash of forest fires. Sometimes, in order to make something stronger, you must burn it down; sometimes, in order to make something last forever, you must destroy it. You know the story of the wolves and the snakes, he’s told you it over and over again to lull you to sleep, but he tells you it again now. Political structures -  you are five so you say ‘what’ and he replaces the phrase ‘political structures’ with the words ‘Kingdoms, like Tyrholm’ and you say ‘oh, okay’ - Kingdoms, like Tyrholm, get better, continue surviving, by being torn down and rebuilt. Just like the wolves and the snakes. ‘Let me teach you little one, how revolutions begin.’ He tells you instead of bedtime stories. Your father believes in revolution, in a way that is before his time. He wants to dismantle the monarchy and in its stead assemble a republic government. His political ideology stands stark amongst the beliefs of this world and you are young enough to be enraptured by the optimism of it. Your mother, far better at playing society’s game than your father is, tells him not to speak so loudly about such things when you are not in your home. And it is a nice home. For all of your father’s gripes against King, it seems the current system has given you and your family everything you need. You have all the flourishes that come with wealth: a respectable reputation, a lavish upbringing, a thorough education. You’re a lady and the dresses and the etiquette and the social gatherings don’t let you forget it. In many ways you are like your father, you debate and you discuss and think deeply on things with little regard to how that reflects on your station in life. Your mother is the opposite. She teaches you how to lie and survive within the status quo. You are ten when your father begins writing pamphlets - ‘purely educational,’ he defends - about what a republic is. At least once a month he meets with a handful of like-minded people who are interested in discussing such things and their conversations often go late into the night. They sit tucked away and hidden in the back of a low-lit tavern - and you know these things because you are wily enough to try and follow him one night. Your father catches you and drags you back to the manor by the scruff of your neck like some stray kitten. Your mother is furious - at the both of you. You are sent to bed without any supper and your father sleeps in the library that evening. So goes your life. You become your mother’s apprentice as the Keeper of Coins and she makes it worth your while by teaching you to spar in the evenings. Your footwork improves more quickly than your mathematics, but you’re not too bad at either. Your life as a lady blooms. More lessons, more competitions. You find love, a first love, so you don’t understand that there can be different kinds, and even sour kinds. All you’ve ever witnessed is the warmth between your parents, even in their bickering, and so the most naive parts of you believe this to be true of all love. This routine is almost enough to make you forget about the plights of the kingdom and that you live in a gilded cage. Your father gets bolder in his commitment to a radical political movement. You’re 15 when you start staying up late to help him proofread the pamphlet he writes. The two of you start taking camping trips to the Volkun Forest, so that you may discuss such things freely amongst the trees. Out here, if the wrong word slips out or if a little bit of magic pushes through your fingertips, there is no one to pass judgment. Out here is freedom. You take these trips and your father returns, only to lock himself in his study for the next three days. Sometimes you’ll press your ear to the door when the house is quiet and hear nothing more than the quick and furious scratching of a quill across parchment. Not too long after there will be fresh sheets of radical ideas floating through the city. When you are 17, the fabric of your world is ripped apart at the seams. Your father’s ideas are labeled as treason and the King’s Guard ambushes you in the middle of the Volkun Forest. They run your father through with a broadsword more times than necessary to kill him and he is left in a bloody, bloody heap. You manage to survive by playing dead. It’s a decision you replay over and over and over again. The anger over it lingers for years. You should have lept to your feet and fought, and instead - you chose a coward’s route. You dig a grave for your father using only your hands and still, somehow, you manage the return home. The rage in your mother’s eyes when you tell her complements your deep sorrow. She dries your tears and you dry hers, but both of you agree that no one else will see you cry. Your magic burns in you that night, so hot and unknown that you throw yourself into the river to temper the flames that lick your blood. Your lack of training has never been more apparent than now. At such times you’d ask your father what was happening to you and even if he told you that he didn’t know, the shared loneliness made it bearable. He is not here now, and you must weather this alone. Your mother doesn’t speak for 13 days. At first you think she will never speak again, you have heard of those that die of heartbreak, but you soon realize that she is scheming. “I know what we will do.” She says on the thirteenth day and you nearly drop the sword you are polishing. A plan forms. Together, the two of you plot. How do you kill the men that struck down your father? How do you kill a king? It’s decided that you will join the guard. You abandon your engagement. Like that, you abandon your life. Your reputation is ruined and your mother barely scrapes by. You move out of the familial manor, out of safety for your mother. She’ll still write you letters and you will still visit to sleep in your childhood bedroom, but the two of you agree to keep these instances to once in a blue moon. You move to Lowtown. You know that one of the men you want six-feet under is the Captain of the Guard. When you first ask to enlist, they think you are pranking them, trying to pull the wool over their eyes because some noble has dared you. When you don’t leave though, that’s when they grow from disbelief to skepticism. ‘Why?’ You are asked. ‘Because I dream of a better world.’ Of course you’re met with laughter. You, however, refuse to lie. You stay steadfast in your plot. You wait for their amusement to die down before challenging the man nearest to you to a spar - if he wins you’ll leave and never bother them again. That evening, you bring your cutlass and you win your way into the Guard. After all is said and done you hear a stray spectating guard say to another, ‘She fights like a pirate.’ No one can stop you once you are a woman decided. You spend the next few years putting your head down and doing the work. You become the youngest lieutenant the Guard has ever seen. You are not intimidated by this, you swallow it easily with the knowledge that you are here with a higher calling. The truth has a tendency to make things harsh and unwelcoming, and yet it is the very thing that makes the men here listen to you. They look at you and see someone unwavering in their honesty, merciless with their virtue. It earns you a level of respect that most lieutenants spend their whole lives scrounging for. The world may not be fair, but you intend to make it so. That is seen and that is respected. They listen to you, but more importantly, they trust you. You make it clear that you’ll take an arrow for any of them, parry whatever blow comes their way. When a man is struck down in the field, you’re one of the first to volunteer to tell their family. They start letting you do this by default, your stoic demeanor and steady nature prove to be the exact temperament needed to weather a storm of their family’s sadness. Every time you do this - every time you confront a freshly widowed bride, a newly motherless son - you promise to take care of them. You won’t let their death be in vain, you say. You find yourself caring for all these families as much as you care for your mother. In this way your family grows, and it no longer feels like you are last of your name. All of this goes without mention of the elephant in the room. Your job puts you in painful proximity to the Fool, one of the men that killed your father. However, these days it seems you’re on the same team in more ways than one. Together you lead the Guard, together you declare you’ll fight in the same revolution. You seek forgiveness within yourself, but your heart finds it hard to go back on a judgment once it has passed. You know that striking him down would be a poor move on your part tactically, that it would scatter the men, that it would lead to a different kind of revolt. You don’t want to tear your new household in two just. So you take his name to that list of names you intend to make your way through and shift it to the bottom. That night you begin a new list, one of additional grievances to call upon that specifically the Fool is responsible for and you decide that you will savor and remember these grievances when the day of his death finally comes. You’re intense, you ache for revenge, you age for revolution. Those that would think less of you for the latter are nowhere nearby; they’re far off in some ivory tower. Those that surround you are bolstered by it. Each breath is spent on the growing rebellion, each action is dedicated to felling an empire and an unjust king. You are a flame that keeps your friends warm, you are a fire that chases your foes into action. Living amongst the Guard has taken you out of luxury, out of a life of nobility, and placed you in the thick of a growing revolt. Each citizen of Lowtown comes with their own history, of a life earned through hard work and skill, and you realize that a monarchy is bullshit. ‘Power to the people,’ you think. It’s difficult to remember the girl who existed before your father died. But try and you remember. You’ve still got your family crest, it reminds you of the sea. A mutt wanders onto your path one patrol of the Volkun forest and you swear it looks part wolf. You take him in. Two weeks from now he’ll chase after a snake on your hunting trail and even you will say “Oh come on” at the heavy handed metaphor life has thrown your way. In these ways, the world continues to remind you of who you are. And then, only on quiet lonely nights do you let your mind wander, galloping through the memories back to the day your father was butchered before you. You clawed your way back to the city, clawed your way back to your mother. You’ve defied death once and so hell nor heaven scares you anymore. Buried deep within all your noble intentions is an undeniable truth: you have your revolution, you have your decided aims for a republic, but you would put it all on the line, just to get back at the men who killed your father. You pray to the wolves and snakes you will become a better person. You are not a revolter, you tell yourself, you are a revolutionary.  

[vfdbaudelairefile13]

Chapter Forty-Six:

The One Where Violet Loses Her Cool

 

 

Lemony entered his house to a very unpleasant surprise. His daughter was sitting at the table with her hands laid in front of her on top of a book. A book that Lemony had to take a double-take to see if he was seeing what he thought he was seeing and unfortunately, for him, his vision was perfect. Violet’s hands laid across The Incomplete History of Organizations and Lemony could tell by the intense glare that she giving him that she knew too much. Lemony looked at his daughter’s expression realizing that he didn’t recognize the young girl that sat across from him.

“Lemony, we need to talk,” Violet said chillingly serious. Lemony looked at his daughter in utter disbelief.

“What did you just call me?” he asked in a slightly stern tone. He was more confused than angry. Never had Violet ever called him by his first name. ‘Lemon man’ and ‘Mr. Lemons’ was the closest she had ever gotten to calling him by his first name.

“Lemony,” she said simply, before cocking her head to the side, “That is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I am your father and--,” he began as she interrupted him.

“What’s VFD?” she asked staring at him with unblinking eyes. Lemony took a step closer to the table and looked at his daughter. He had never seen her so angry or serious before. It slightly scared him. What did she know? Who did she come in contact with? He asked himself.

“What?” he replied.

“What. Is. VFD?” Violet asked again, this time in a louder, angrier tone. Enunciating every syllable in her sentence slowly that way her father can’t pretend that he didn’t hear her correctly. 

Lemony sighed. “Something that you don’t need to know about,” he said after a minute.

“Fine,” Violet said opening the book that was in front of her. “I knew you were going to say that. I mean I’ve already found my answer, I just wanted to know what you would say...”

“Violet...what’s up with you?” He asked calmly.

She took a deep breath and stood up, slamming her hands on to the book with all her might. Lemony was surprised that the table didn’t collapse from under her. “ You’re lying to me! You’ve been lying to me my entire life! ” she screamed in his direction. Her veins were full of boiling blood. Her mind was on fire from holding this back for so long. It’s time. No backtracking now. Get your answers, Vi. Don’t let him manipulate you. She told herself as she glared at her father.

“What are you talking about?” Lemony asked trying to figure out what to say to his daughter’s very sudden and unexpected outburst.

“About VFD! About your ‘job’! About my fucking mother!” Violet yelled. “You’ve been in contact with her, haven’t you?!” 

Lemony looks at Violet with a face that was a clear mix of guilt and confusion. He knew that this was not the time to explain to her that her birth mother was dead. So he took a deep breath. “First off, don’t speak to me like that Violet. Let’s have a rational discussion.”

Violet shook her head. “No! No! You’re not going to manipulate me into listening to any more of your bullshit lies! You threw any chance at a rational discussion out the door, the moment you started lying to me!” She yelled hitting her hand on the table angrily. “Now, have you been in contact with my mother at all!?”

“No,” he said simply rubbing his face, trying to stay calm for the both of them.

Violet glared at her father. “Then what are these!” she yells throwing several documents on the table. Lemony glanced at them and he saw correspondence letters from Beatrice, a copy of a telegram, and the letter that Beatrice sent to him asking him to temporarily take their daughter.

“You went through my stuff?” He asked feeling his annoyance and anger rise. He took a deep breath. “Violet Malina Snicket…” he began prepared to lecture her on respecting people’s personal property.

“Answer the question!” 

“Violet! Do not speak to me like that!” He yelled back. Violet glared at him.

“Answer me!” she cried angrily. “What are these!?” 

“Vi, those are old,” 

“How can I be so sure? You’re a known liar and there aren't any dates on any of these letters!”

Lemony tried to disguise his hurt from Violet’s words, but he was unsuccessful. His guilt was taking over, suppressing his anger. “Violet, you have to take my word…”

“Your word means shit!” She screamed, slamming her hand down on the table.

“Violet Malina!” he yelled back. “I am not going to sit here any longer and let you speak to me this way!” he took a deep breath. “I have been quite patient with you, young lady. First, you’ve gone through my personal belongings, snooped through my work documents, and now you’re accusing me of lying…”

Violet rubbed her face angrily as her hands formed tight fists. She laughed a cruel laugh before yelling, “Accusing…. accusing!? No, I am proving. ‘Accusing’ is a word which here means…” she began mocking her father.

“ I know what ‘accusing’ means! Do not get smart with me, young lady!” 

“Apparently, you don’t. Cause it’s not accusing if I can drown you with evidence.”

Lemony sighed angrily and tried to think of something to say.

“So...what’s VFD?” 

“Nothing important. Definitely not something you need to worry about,”

“Really? Because I have evidence of the contrary,” she replied annoyed.

“Violet…” 

She took the spyglass out of her pocket and slammed it on the table. “You wanna show me how this thing works,” 

“You...you had my spyglass…” he said confused.

“Yep. Sure did. I’m not completely sure what it does, but I assume you can receive codes from special movies with it.”

His face went pale as his eyes got wide. “How do you know that?”

“I followed you to the movies,” she admitted.

Lemony shook his head fiercely in utter denial. “No...no you didn’t. I would’ve noticed my own daughter.”

“Not if I was in disguise,” Violet said simply.

“How do you know how to use disguises?”

“I’ve learned from the best...honestly, I’m surprised I’m not a politician. With the amount of lying you’ve done over the years, I’d surely be an expert at lying.”

“Violet! That’s enough! ” Lemony yells but Violet doesn’t back down. She continues glaring at her father. Fire still within her inner core, boiling her blood.

“Why won’t you let me meet her?” Violet asked quietly.

“I haven’t found her yet,” Lemony lied.

“You’re lying!” Violet yelled. “Why don’t you ask someone from your cult! Cults don’t usually let people defect, which can explain why you’re both pronounced dead and on the run.”

“Violet…”

“ Let me meet her!” 

“I don’t know where she is!”

“Then ask VFD!” Violet yelled. “Ask your cult with their disguises and their codes. Surely, they can locate her! Or does she have enemies, too?”

Lemony’s eyes went wide. “How do you know that? Who have you come in contact with?” he asked desperately.

“Doesn’t matter,” 

“Violet, it does matter! There are people from my past who would give anything to hurt you...and I will not let them, but I need you to cooperate with me!”

Violet shook her head. “I will never be apart of your cult! VFD has ruined your life! It’s ruined my life before it even began! VFD…” she began choking on her words. “VFD forced you to kill someone!”

Lemony frowned realizing that Violet knew too much. 

“VFD...I mean...you’re not...you’re right.” Lemony stammered.

“Why would you stay in an ‘organization’ that would coerce you to commit murder!?” she yelled. “Like do they have dirt on you? Are they blackmailing you? Did they threaten me ?”

“It’s…” Lemony started trying to find the right words, but he was completely speechless. His daughter knew too much. She knew too much and this knowledge could make her a target to both sides of the schism. “Violet...you have to let this go. You have to forget everything you know about VFD...or…”

“Or what they’ll find me and kidnap me?” She asked watching her father’s expression change. “I know...they kidnap children…and force them to be volunteers.” She began quoting the ‘Snicket Lad’. “When we drive away in secret, you'll be a volunteer. So don’t scream when we take you...the world is quiet here.” 

Lemony’s eyes went wide. “Don’t ever say that phrase to anyone!”

“Why...is that how they know who their members are? Is that how they assume a child is ready for their apprenticeship?”

“How...how do you know all this…?” he asked desperately. Looking at the evidence she laid on the table. He knew not a single piece of evidence spoke about apprenticeship. Someone had to have told her that. But who?

Instead of answering, Violet proposed a question of her own. “When we went to the fair when I was younger, did VFD try to kidnap me twice?” 

He nodded his head with a defeated sigh. 

“Which side? The ones who start the fires or the ones who put them out?” 

“Both. The man with the two children...he’s an old associate of mine and your mother’s. He’s too far gone...completely brainwashed. The other two are monsters...people that I’ve spent your entire life keeping you away from!” 

“So you willingly ‘volunteer’ for a cult that kidnaps children!?”

“I’ve never kidnapped a child…”

“But you have murdered,” 

Lemony just frowned. Unfortunately, he had murdered more than once. There was the night at the opera and that one time during his apprenticeship in Staind-by-the-Sea. But Violet didn’t need to know about both of these incidents.

“Who’s the Snicket Lad?” she asked impatiently throwing the song down on the table.

Lemony rubbed his face again. “That’s not important,”

“They kidnapped you and made you do their bidding. Telling you that it was a wicked thing to do for a noble reason...they brainwashed you. They have you investigating fires that defects of their cult are starting.” Violet cried as she began to ramble, pointing at his investigation board. “But they can’t give you the location of my mother?”

“Violet…it’s complicated,” he replied.

“Who are those kids?” she asked pointing at a picture of a young boy with glasses and an infant with sharp teeth.

“They’re not important…” Lemony lied.

“Really? You have a whole investigation board dedicated to them!” she yelled. “But yet...no investigation board dedicated to finding my mother.”

Lemony opened his mouth to speak, but he decided against it. Anything he would say about the connection between that investigation board and her birth mother would tell her about her mother’s tragic death. Lemony knew she had every right to know...he just did not feel that right now, during her break down and interrogation, was the best time to tell her.

Violet growled and smacked the table again. “ Why won’t you let me meet her? Tell me again...tell me again how I got conveniently separated from her and into your custody?” she asked, her anger fully taking over. Her words were spat out like venom. The look on her face was one that her father didn’t recognize. He knew it was his daughter speaking, but it did not sound or look like her.

“What are you implying?” Lemony asked sternly.

“I saw her marriage proposal retraction, too,” Violet explains, lifting the briefcase onto the table. “You know, my initials aren’t the best combination...pretty obvious,” she remarked.

“Violet! This is enough!” 

“Did you kidnap me!? Because this letter clearly states that she was going to work out a plan where I can be raised by you, her and B!” 

Lemony was speechless. He didn’t know what to say. Violet was coming at him with so much information, he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t just tell her that her mother was dead and he was trying to protect her younger half-siblings. Violet began to read the letter aloud to her father. “ After that, you and I can discuss possible arrangements for Violet, so she can grow up with all three of her parents. I am truly sorry, my dear, for the events that have transpired and for the retracted marriage proposal but The Force of Destiny has taken over and has made it impossible for us to be together any longer. But no matter what, I don’t believe that Violet should be punished for things not going the way that we had planned. I hope you agree on this matter. ” She read aloud angrily. “She was willing to share! She was willing to let you raise me as well. It was never going to be just her and it never should have been just you!”

Lemony looked at Violet, speechless. He frowned. He felt defeated. He didn’t know what to say at all. She completely surprised him with this. Violet continued to glare at her father as she opened her mouth to say something, but then she closed her mouth. She sighed.

“What?” Lemony asked.

“Why didn’t you give me back to her? Why didn’t you share me with her? She was willing…” 

“Violet...life got in the way. The on the run life was new to me…I had to relocate to protect you! You will never understand the dangers that I have faced...you will never understand what I have sacrificed to keep you safe!”

“You know my whole life...I thought it was me she didn’t want,” Violet stated in a quieter voice than the one she had been using, not even caring. 

“Huh?”

“She wanted me,” Violet said to herself then her anger took hold of her again and before she could stop herself, she glared at her father looking him in the eye. “ It was you that she didn’t want! ” She screamed at the top of her lungs.

Lemony was taken aback by what Violet had just said. The truth hit him like a train. Lemony could feel tears forming from his eyes. He quickly wiped them, staying silent. Staring at the heated mess that his daughter was. He was angry. He was disappointed. He was hurt. He was guilt-ridden. But deep down inside, he knew that Violet was right. Beatrice did not want him...she had explained this in a two hundred page letter that his daughter apparently has read. He felt humiliated, he felt destroyed. He ruined all hope of living his happily ever after with Beatrice the moment that he convinced her to steal from their former friend and to commit that double homicide. Now, nearly fifteen years later he has his daughter throwing it into his face. She was placing all the blame for the wrongs in her life on Lemony and he didn’t fault her for that. He understood why she was doing that. He felt that she was correct, he was in the wrong for everything. He has ruined more lives than Count Olaf has, and he hated himself for it. It seemed to him that his daughter would have been better off if he never met up with Beatrice that Thursday so many years ago.

Violet stood there trying to do her best to not show that she was sorry. Trying to show that she didn’t care that her venomous words had hit her father harder than she thought they would. She wasn’t used to making her father cry. She has seen him cry, yes, but the only times that she had made him cry...they were happy cries, proud cries, relieved cries. They were never sorrowful cries. He had never cried due to what she said to him, so it slightly hit her that maybe she had been too harsh.

Lemony stood there for several more moments trying to process what his daughter had just said. He glanced around the room, his eyes focusing on his investigation board. Fuck! He thought. He remembered Jacquelyn’s phone call to him earlier that day, he knew he had to go help the Baudelaires but he couldn’t leave his daughter. Not like this.

He sat down. Violet continued to glare at him. 

“What do you want me to say?” he asks still wiping tears from his eyes.

“First, I want you to give up VFD...nothing good will come of it,” she said in a meek voice still trying to hide the fact that she was beginning to feel bad for what she had said.

He rubbed his face while he sighed. “Right now, I can’t do that,” he said finally.

“Why?” 

“It’s hard to explain.”

Violet’s anger boiled through her veins again. “Is this why she left you...because you wouldn’t give it up...you convinced her...to murder,” she said in a chilling tone. “ She didn’t want you so you took me to punish her!” 

Lemony stood up. “No! That’s not how any of this went, Violet!”  as the phone began to ring. Both Violet and Lemony glanced at it. Neither one stood to pick it up.

Violet rolled her eyes. “Oh, look. Your cult is calling...right on time. Let me guess, those kids on that investigation board they want you to kidnap them, don’t they?”

“No…” Lemony said defensively. “It’s not like that! I’m not kidnapping children! I didn’t purposely take you from your mother!”

“I don’t believe you…” she said simply shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. She watched as her father’s face went pale as he frowned. “Do you blame me? All you’ve done is lie to me,”

Lemony sighed as he began to cry a bit harder now. Still looking at the phone as it rang again. He knew it was Jacquelyn. If she was calling twice, he knew it was bad. Something was happening to the Baudelaires. He would call her back using his taxi phone.

“Give VFD up...whatever they’re calling for, they can handle,” Violet said again. “Just give up your cult…”

“I already told you, I can’t,” Lemony said as he began walking towards the door.

“Where are you going!?” she yelled standing up quickly.

“Back to work,” he said simply.

“You didn’t answer any of my questions! You don’t get to walk away! What’s VFD?!” She screamed.

Lemony turned around to face his daughter, his face was red and tear-stained. He looks her dead in the eye and says, “It’s better if you don’t know,”  and with that, he turns to the door again.

This infuriated Violet. “ I hate you!” She screamed in his direction, allowing every ounce of venomous anger to pour from her mouth. “ I hate you!” she screamed again as he didn’t turn around to confront her, he simply kept walking. She rushed to the doorway and peered out of it as she watched him walk away. “ I fucking hate you! Do you hear me? I hate you!” She screamed wiping angry tears from her cheeks.  He kept walking down the hallway, wiping the tears from his eyes. He heard the harsh sound of their door slam but he still didn’t turn back. He couldn’t face his daughter right now, she had never said that to him. And because of that, Lemony believed that she meant every word. Lemony’s tears continued to fall even when he reached his taxi, even as he called back Jacquelyn and explained to her that he was on his way to Paltryville. 

As Violet slammed the door to her home, she screamed one final time as she slid to the ground in a fit of rage. She couldn’t breathe from how hard she was crying. This interrogation did not go as she planned, although she had a feeling her father would continue to deny and try to cover up his involvement in VFD. She laid on the ground and curled up into a big ball of guilt, anger, and sadness. 

I don’t have to tell you that there are times in our lives, where we are either so mad or so sad because we feel betrayed and lied to, and we just say things that we simply do not mean. We say the first irrational things that pop into our minds without thinking of the consequences or impact that our words have on the person that we are saying them to. It is a very common thing, to say these rather mean and impactful words and immediately feel guilty because deep down you know you didn’t mean them. But you said them anyway simply to intentionally hurt the other person.

And sometimes...we may not know it (until it’s too late) but these harsh words could be the last thing we ever say to someone…

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

That afternoon in Ald Sotha was lazy. No breeze blew, so the air was too humid and heavy for anyone to be much bothered to do anything, outside of lie on the beach. It was precisely this vital task that the noble-children had sent themselves. Sotha Sil lay on the sand a short distance from the tide, sprawled on his back with a book resting open on his face; Sotha Serlyn and his sister Kaisa sat on a rock that stood just out from the shore and played in the water that lapped it. Only Almalexia, ever the odd one out in that sunny paradise, didn't seem content with lazing about in the sun. She sat beside Sotha Sil, legs crossed, a book on her lap that she pretended to read-- but she refused to sit still, shifting her position constantly: first lying down on her back, then on her stomach, then sitting up again, then lying again but using Sil as a foot-rest.

Finally she sat up straight and gave Sotha Sil a hard poke in the side. "Seht, let's go do something."

"It's too hot." Sil replied, his voice muffled by the pages of his book.

"It's not hot. This is nothing compared to Mournhold."

"Yeah, but that's Mournhold."

"Yeah, but you're boring."

Sotha Sil didn't reply to that, so Almalexia lay down on the sand again, draping her legs over Sotha Sil's chest so that her knee 'accidentally' nudged the book askew off his face. "What's a fundamacy?"

Sotha Sil was putting the book back on his face. "Huh?"

"It's in this book your father gave to me. He said it might help me figure out why I can't cast any spells."

"Can you use it in a sentence? Also, get your legs off me, it's too hot."

"The sentence is, 'it may be the apprentice's fundamacy that hinders magical ability."

"Oh. Fundamacy." Sotha Sil gave Almalexia's legs a hard shove off of him, causing her to roll to her side. "It's the abilities you gain from your birthsign."

"You got sand in my book!"

"Well, your legs are too heavy."

Almalexia rolled back over, sitting up, resting her arm on his chest this time. "According to this book, you can't cast spells if you have the wrong fundamacy."

"Ow! Ayem, your elbow!"

"But they said that the Nords have a way, with standing stones, to give you a different fundamacy. That's interesting. Maybe I should ask them about that when I go home."

Sotha Sil shoved her off and sat up, shaking the sand from his long hair. "Your elbow is really pointy!"

"You're such a baby, Sil."

"I don't understand why you're reading that old thing. It's too hot to be studying. And we're at the beach."

Almalexia looked around them. This beach was separated from the settlement at Ald Sotha by a jut of dark rock that stretched some ways into the sea, the remnants of an old foyada. Out from the shore Kaisa had somehow procured a large crab and was using it to terrorise her brother. Before them the water was opal-blue and glittering in the slanted light of early afternoon, while behind them and stretching out to either sides the dark-green forest was still and shaded.

"I'm going to learn magic," she replied.

Sotha Sil lay back down. "Maybe you can't, though."

"Why shouldn't I?"

You can't cast any spells, can you? And you've been trying, well, all summer. Perhaps you're just incapable of it."

"I'll figure it out, Seht. I know I will." She lay down next to him. "It's just so frustrating, I never know what you're trying to say, or what your father's trying to say-- how am I meant to learn when you can't even explain things?"

"To be fair, magic is a highly complex topic. And you're not..."

Sotha Sil trailed off, then, and turned his head away.

Almalexia poked him in the ribs. "I'm not what?"

"Ah, I don't mean it as an insult."

"I'm not what."

"You're not very smart."

Almalexia's stunned silence must have alerted him to his blunder, for he sat up and quickly added: "I mean, perhaps I phrased that wrong, you're very good at many things, you just have different talents to--"

"I'm not dumb!"

"No, of course not! But, well, you're more of a warrior, you see? You like to swing swords and stuff. You don't need a ton of intelligence to swing a sword--"

Almalexia's shock had well and truly given way to righteous fury. "You think I'm a moron, don't you?"

"I didn't say that!"

"As if you're so intelligent yourself, Sil! You're not 'intelligent', you just spend all your time studying because you have no friends and no life!"

Sotha Sil's face flushed. "That's not true! I am a highly talented mage, and exceptionally gifted, father says I'm the best Ald Sotha's ever seen!"

"You are so arrogant!"

"I'm not arrogant. I'm logically assessing my own ability."

"Logically assessing, huh?" Almalexia rose to her feet and stalked off towards the forest.

"You're being irrational," Sotha Sil shouted at her back, also standing. "It's objectively true that I'm smarter!"

By now the twins had caught notice of the argument, and Kaisa appeared by his side. "Oooh, Sil, you're in trouble."

"She's gonna beat you up," Serlyn, appearing at his other side, agreed.

"She wouldn't," Sotha Sil said dismissively. "She's just having a tantrum because she's mad that she's a dumb warrior and not..."

He trailed off, because Almalexia was returning with a very large stick in hand.

She marched right up to them and stopped a few metres away. "Sotha Sil!" she yelled, pointing the stick at him, which she held by its base like a sword. "Fight me."

The twins gasped.

Sotha Sil blinked. "What?"

"If you think you're so much better than me, fight me!" Almalexia shook her stick at him.

"You're being ridiculous!"

"What, are you afraid that swords are more useful than your stupid magic after all?"

"Sil's going to get beat up by a girl," Serlyn said, prompting Kaisa to reach around Sil and hit him.

"I am not!" Sotha Sil said. He stepped forwards and looked Almalexia dead in the eye. "You're being ridiculous, because I am going to defeat you.”

Almalexia broke into a grin, a wild grin that at that moment made her look less like a princess and more like a feral kagouti preparing to devour its prey. “I’d like to see you try.”

The two teenagers stalked up the beach and found a flat patch, where they stood a short distance away from each other and facing each other, with the ocean to one side of them and the forest to the other. Almalexia dropped into fighting stance the moment they moved into position, holding her stick before her with one hand; Sotha Sil, likewise, outstretched his hand and readied a simple spell.

“You can still just admit that you’re wrong,” Sotha Sil called out to her.

“If you’re scared, Seht, I’ll graciously accept your apology now.”

“I’m not scared!”

Almalexia’s raised her ‘sword’. “Then attack, s’wit!”

She lunged forwards as she said this, raising the sword above her as she did. Sotha Sil drew his hand back, and quickly loosed the magika from it, which took the form of a vivid fireball that shot from his hand at blinding speed. It hit Almalexia square in the chest, detonating in a burst of flame.

Sotha Sil clapped both hands to his mouth. “Oh, my gods, Ayem!”

Almalexia had come to a halt immediately. “I’m fine, Seht!” she said, reassuringly, and it was true-- most of the fire had disappeared against her skin in little golden flashes, or rolled harmlessly off of her in a plume.

“Are you sure?”

“Why, are you scared? Weakling!”

And Almalexia lunged at him again, raising her ‘sword’ high over her head, preparing to bring it down over his. Sotha Sil barely managed to dodge in time-- on instinct he readied another fireball, and cast it. This time she was closer and it hit harder, actually sending her staggering back, and again the flames mostly slid off of her.

But she regained her footing and once more charged, holding her free hand in front of her chest to guard it. When Sil cast the next fireball she tried to swipe it away with that arm, and her hand cut a glowing streak through the spell, and it looked, for a moment, that the whole limb was alight, her palm wreathed in fire--

And then Sotha Sil was hit in the face by the fireball.

He found himself lying face-up on the sand-- he’d been knocked flat-- he was blinking, dazed, up at a clear blue sky unmarred by clouds. “Oh my gods,” he heard Almalexia say, and then “Seht! Are you alright?”, and then he heard footfalls, and a head of fluffy red hair appeared above his face, wide green eyes staring into his own. “Seht?”

Sotha Sil sat up. “Did you just--”

“I think-- I think so?”

“How? How did you do that? Ayem!”

“I don’t know! I just suddenly had power in my arm and I remembered what your father told me to do and I wasn’t really thinking about it, I just--” she trailed off, grabbing onto his arm. “Sehti! I cast a spell!”

“Do it again,” Sotha Sil said immediately. “Try it again.”

“What, at you?”

“Yes! Hit me.”

They rose to their feet together, and then Almalexia stepped back, screwing up her face, raising her hand…

“Come on,” Sotha SIl said impatiently. “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt me, we’re Chimer. Just hit me!”

Almalexia’s arms fell. “I can’t!” she exclaimed, furious, and she rammed her foot against the sand. “I’m trying, I am, but I can’t do it anymore! I don’t know--”

Sotha Sil raised his own hand and slung a fireball at her. It exploded against her, and immediately she cast one right back at him, sending him flying back once more.

He was scrambling to his feet before he even realized he’d been knocked back, and he heard Almalexia laughing, and he found that he was laughing, too. “Ayem!”

“I did it! Seht, Seht, I did it!”

They ran to each other and embraced, both grinning and talking quickly and excitedly once more, discussing their discovery in fast voices and putting forth absurd theories. The day was still hot, far too hot for fireballs, and their clothing was singed, and even the twins had lost interest in the revelation, favouring their game in the cool waves.

***

Sotha Sohleh was enjoying the coolness and stillness of the shrine basement, dutifully plodding through a stack of overdue correspondences with various Telvanni wizards, when he was disturbed by two very distinct sets of footsteps coming down the thin staircase. He pretended not to hear them, even when his eldest son and his ward drew to a diplomatic halt next to his desk, and he could practically hear the excited energy buzzing off of them. Almalexia only stayed at Ald Sotha for about four months of every year, ostensibly for the purpose of ‘learning magic’, and while Sohleh readily welcomed Mournhold’s young princess into his own family, the fact that she managed to bring out in the timid Sil an otherwise dormant mischievousness could occasionally be… trying.

Finally Sotha Sil cleared his throat. “Father, may we speak?”

“Why, Sil! Of course we can.” Sohleh looked up from his letters, with the warmest fatherly smile he could muster. He noted, immediately, that both the children seemed… charred. That was never a good sign. And the fact that they both wore broad grins was even less so.

“Father Sotha,” said Almalexia this time, trying to look serious. “We have something to show you.”

“Well. I would love to see it, Almalexia.”

Sotha Sohleh clasped his hands on the table, and watched as the two children exchanged a long glance.

Then he watched as his son cast a fireball at the daughter of the Queen of Mournhold.

He made to jump up and intervene, but to his astonishment he saw that most of the fire disappeared against Almalexia’s skin in muted golden flashes. And she was faster than him-- the moment the fireball hit her and disappeared, she raised her hands and cast one right back at Sotha Sil, causing him to stagger back and hit the wall.

“Look!” Sotha Sil shouted giddily. “She can cast spells now!”

Almalexia, beaming, looked to him for approval. “How did I do?”

“Her form’s still really sloppy,” Sotha Sil said, “But she did it, we figured out--”

“I can only do it when he hits me, though, that’s how we figured it out, I was going to defeat him in a battle--”

“You weren’t going to defeat me, I think I defeated you, actually--”

“I sent you flying! I won that battle, Sil, your fireballs couldn’t even hurt me--”

“Astonishing,” Sohleh said wondrously. “Sign of the Atronach. How did I never think of it? This is simply astonishing!”

The children stopped their bickering. “Huh?” Almalexia asked.

“You must be the sign of the Atronach,” said Sohleh. “Those born under the Sign of the Atronach are incapable of producing their own magika, but may absorb it spells cast at them. Why, Almalexia, you must have been born in Sun’s Dusk!”

Almalexia touched her own face. “I was born in Sun’s Dusk...”

“I would suppose so. I know your mother has kept the details of your birth a secret, but this would make the most sense-- I should have thought of it! You aren’t incapable of wielding magic, you’ve simply never had any to draw on!”

Almalexia broke into a smile and turned to Sotha Sil. “See? I can wield magic.”

“Only if you get hit with a spell first,” Sotha Sil replied. “Plus we don’t know that you can do anything other than fireballs. Fireballs are a baby’s spell. An infant could cast a fireb--”

A fireball detonated in his face, and before the smoke cleared, Almalexia was already running up the staircase, laughing. With a cry of ‘Ayem!’ Sotha Sil set off after her immediately, and Sotha Sohleh found himself once more in a still, if no longer quite as cool, basement.

With a patient sigh, Sohleh picked up a clean sheet of paper and began a new letter:

“Dearest Amun-Shae,

I am pleased to let you know that your daughter’s studies are progressing well. You’ll have to excuse the burn-marks on this parchment…”

[theculturedmarxist]

The left is in crisis across the West. It is out of power in most countries and out of touch with its historical working-class base. Class politics has given way to identity politics. And noble causes like anti-racism, anti-sexism and anti-discrimination have congealed into a stifling morass of political correctness and competitive victimhood.

Thankfully, there are some pockets on the left who recognise this predicament. I’m in New York to try to understand the thinking behind the ‘dirtbag left’. The phrase was coined by Amber A’Lee Frost, a writer, commentator and activist, to describe a loose constellation of American leftists who reject the civility, piety and PC that has come to characterise much of the left.

Frost is a co-host of the hugely successful Chapo Trap House, which offers a funny, irony-laden and often downright vulgar take on contemporary politics from the left. She also writes a column for the Baffler and is a trade unionist.

Newer on the scene is the acerbic and wickedly funny Anna Khachiyan, art critic turned cultural commentator, who co-hosts the podcast Red Scare. Red Scare saves its most biting criticism for ‘neoliberal’ feminism.

Among the most refreshing things about Frost and Khachiyan is that their politics are resolutely not woke. ‘You can tell people that I’m trans’, says Khachiyan, with characteristic irreverence, as Frost, Khachiyan and myself sit down to talk at Eastwood in the Lower East Side. ‘I’m not trans, but you can say that just for fun.’ Their reasons for rejecting wokeness are both pragmatic and political. ‘The majority of people are not woke’, explains Frost: ‘Why would we dismiss the majority of people as hopelessly reactionary?’

Not only that, for Frost, identitarian divisions based on gender, race and sexuality are ‘a distraction at best, an active detriment at worst’. ‘The biggest divide in American society is class and that’s it. I’m a class-first person’, she tells me. ‘You’re hearing in the election how much we need to elect a woman or we need to elect a woman of colour. But the most left-wing candidate is an old, white, heterosexual man [Bernie Sanders] and I want him to win… I’m a Bernie bro. I was a Bernie bro in 2016 and I am now.’

But would the first woman president not be a breakthrough for women? ‘They’re always talking about the “little girls” – how would little girls know that they can be president? It’s just so stupid. I was a little girl once, I’ve never felt limited by this stuff’, says Frost. She raises Margaret Thatcher: ‘You [Brits] had a girl boss – she showed those bro miners!’

Frost describes herself as a socialist. She says she came to socialism through feminist organising. But the current wave of media feminism turns her off. It is about ‘middle-class women trying to get spots in the boardroom’. ‘A lot of this stuff is “fight the power, put me on the throne”.’ Or it’s, ‘Men are rude to me and they explain things to me’, she jokes.

Of course, I suggest, there are many real struggles that women face, particularly working-class women – from low pay to childcare – so why do these issues barely get a look in? ‘They don’t care about working-class women’, Frost says of contemporary feminists. ‘Half the time they’re smearing them as reactionaries because they voted for Trump.’

‘I fundamentally think they are disgusted and horrified by working-class people’, says Khachiyan. ‘Real women don’t live up to the liberal-feminist pieties’, adds Frost. ‘And I think that’s very threatening for the uptight, white, overeducated, liberal women to be confronted with’, replies Khachiyan.

So why did so many people vote for Trump? ‘There are two categories of Trump voters worth discussing separately’, says Frost. ‘There was the wealthy, petit-bourgeois reactionary. But there were also working-class people who heard only one of the candidates talking about jobs.’

Trump has many faults, of course. ‘Fundamentally, he is a cruel, stupid man’, says Frost. But he has ‘a very good observational talent’. Liberals, suffering from Trump Derangement Syndrome, have been far too moralistic about the Trump vote, she argues: ‘Most people don’t believe that presidential candidates are telling the truth the entire time.’

Worse, the left’s response to Trump has been totally counterproductive: ‘Do you want to tell people how bad they are? Do you want them to repent because they’re bad racists? Or do you want them to pursue a left-wing project?’

‘Those people are ours to win’, says Frost. The populist moment is an opportunity, she says, but one which ‘I can totally see us pissing away’. ‘The self-identified left are very sceptical of the populist stuff. Look at their takes on the yellow vests: “They’re all fascists!” They’re probably just fucking French people – and who can tell the difference?’

Just as significant as Trump’s victory was Hillary Clinton’s loss, they tell me, in that it represented a rejection of an era of neoliberalism. ‘I’m from Indiana’, Frost tells me. ‘Bill signs NAFTA. That obliterated the towns where I’m from. People are extremely bitter about Bill Clinton for very good reasons. And she is married to that, literally and figuratively – she defends that legacy. How did we not see Trump coming?’

What’s more, Trump represented a repudiation of the entire establishment – Democrats and Republicans. ‘There is a severe crisis of legitimacy in our institutions’, says Frost: ‘The Republicans did not want Trump to win either… He was nobody’s first choice, except the American people’s, apparently.’

For Khachiyan, ‘You can say a lot of bad things about Donald Trump, but you can’t say the man is boring’.

‘Trump should be an artist, not a politician’, she adds. ‘He says, “I’ve never seen a thin person drinking Diet Coke”, and he loves Diet Coke, that’s his drink of choice. I don’t know if he’s self-aware or not.’

The problem with liberals, she says, is that ‘they can’t differentiate between their political critiques of Trump and their aesthetic critiques of him… He really brings to the fore all these inarticulable taboos. But as a politician, he’s not very exceptional.’ It is not so much Trump’s policies that anger the liberals, but his brashness, his demeanour. Frost adds, by way of example, that Obama also ‘threw tear gas at the border’.

Three years on from the 2016 presidential election, Democrats are still largely in denial or in despair about Trump’s victory. The now-discredited Russia-collusion narrative provided an excuse to avoid any soul-searching. ‘The whole Rachel Maddow and the NBC crowd have infected the minds of boomers with this dystopian narrative’, Khachiyan tells me. ‘Even my mom, who’s from Russia, buys the collusion narrative.’

‘The narrative isn’t itself so interesting’, she argues, but it shows ‘the willful failure of the Democratic Party. Again and again, they fall on their face. There’s some kind of Freudian, masochistic thing they have where they get off on publicly humiliating themselves.’

But while liberals may be electorally challenged, they still dominate mainstream culture. ‘“Liberal’ is the political denomination, but “nerd” is the cultural denomination’, says Khachiyan. ‘We’re living under the triumph of the nerds… If you had an American Psycho-esque novel today, there wouldn’t be this broad-shouldered besuited guy who looked like he walked out of the pages of an advertisement. It would be about a fin-tech soy boy. He’d be hunched over, clutching his tote-bag’, she says.

‘Bret Easton Ellis said there could never be the great Millennial novel – we’ll see. I haven’t read that Sally Rooney book that everybody’s writing about’, Khachiyan says, referring to the Irish author’s breakthrough novel, Normal People, which focuses on a millennial relationship. Frost adds that she read the book ‘with the intent of savaging it’, because ‘all the Guardian feminists like her’, but found ‘there was a lot of good shit in there’. ‘I think the women who like it don’t understand why they do… women today aren’t allowed to want a traditional relationship’, she says. Khachiyan adds: ‘Which is what most people since the dawn of time have wanted… There’s nothing reactionary about wanting a boyfriend!’

The conversation turns back to Bret Easton Ellis, a critic of what he calls snowflake culture, who is frequently accused of being a reactionary. ‘A lot of artists either don’t have any politics or their politics are retarded’, says Khachiyan. ‘His whole virtue as a writer is being a great stylist and a great narrator who retains plausible deniability. American Psycho has references to killing homeless black people, calling Asians “slant eyes”. And a lot of these woke SJW people sincerely think he’s a racist because he describes the condition… Artists are sometimes unassailable… The whole impulse to peg someone for what they are now is bizarre.’

Another recent favourite author among Guardian feminists is Kristen Roupenian, whose short story, ‘Cat Person’, went viral. The story is about a young woman who realises – slightly too late in the day – that the sexual encounter she is about to embark on is not what she wants. When the man finally realises he has been rejected, he lashes out. ‘Guardian feminists liked it because it “proved” men are trash because the man called her a whore at the end’, says Khachiyan. ‘Actually what it showed is that men can be sad and pathetic’, adds Frost.

Khachiyan tells me about an event she was at with Roupenian recently. (‘Hands down one of the most inarticulate, scatter-brained speakers – but the woman can write!’) Lena Dunham was meant to speak, she says, but didn’t show up because ‘she cooked up a fake illness’. ‘It was around the time she had her uterus removed’, she says. Frost adds that lots of American women are ‘voluntary removing their reproductive organs’. ‘Nobody is talking about this. It’s a middle-class, very elite phenomenon, where they’re like, “I have menstrual problems, I’m going to remove my womb”. Lena Dunham wrote a whole fucking essay about it.’

I asked how the seeming frigidity of the #MeToo moment, let alone the alleged epidemic of uterus removals, sits alongside modern feminism’s ‘sex positive’ celebration of polyamory, pansexuality and sex workers. ‘It’s because these people would rather negotiate sex than actually have it… They don’t want to take responsibility’, says Khachiyan. ‘That’s why nerds love this stuff’, says Frost. ‘It’s huge in Silicon Valley. They like games and rules. These are people who consider themselves leftists but probably don’t like anything about socialism except the gulags.’

Khachiyan says ‘a lot of these people are tyrannical narcissists’. ‘They are noncommittal, incapable of tolerating conflict or taking consequences. So they would rather have a system like polyamory where you kick that can down the road.’ Frost adds that many millennials ‘think they can eliminate jealousy… But sometimes you’re going to have bad sex, sometimes you’re going to be jealous. It’s not the end of the world.’

We move from jealousy to hate, and to the alleged epidemic of racism or even fascism often talked up by the left. Hate speech, we’re told, must be contained. Khachiyan takes a refreshingly liberal line: ‘You should be able to hate and hatred should be protected, as long as it doesn’t spill over into physical violence.’ ‘There’s this idea that we live in a white supremacist country when we fundamentally don’t’, says Khachiyan. She mentions antifa, the self-styled anti-fascist group that, since our conversation, has hit the headlines for beating up a right-leaning journalist in Portland. ‘Antifa have manufactured a threat to have some semblance of an identity’, she says. ‘All these people who say they are anti-fascist don’t know what it means to be persecuted.’

Frost and Khachiyan have a Marxist understanding of race. ‘We invented race to justify exploitation’, says Frost. ‘Splitting people on the basis of race was used to morally justify slavery… Racial discourse was created after hyper-exploitation.’ But ever since, argues Frost, ‘When we tried to not be racist, we ended up using the same framework’, which today also lives on in identitarian form. ‘All “race” is, is that some people don’t sunburn. That’s the entirety of racial difference.’

But how much can Marxism really illuminate today’s mad world? ‘Twitter call-out culture’, Frost concedes, ‘has no Marxist explanation. It makes no sense economically or even logically.’ Marx cannot account for a ‘social phenomenon where you rat out your closest friends’ and ‘describe them as reactionary’: ‘Why would you do that? Of course it will be bad for you.’

While there are plenty of woke types queuing up to ‘call out’ Frost, Khachiyan and their collaborators – even accusing them of being Nazis – let’s hope the dirtbag left can resist being ‘cancelled’ altogether. Voices like these, challenging woke orthodoxy and standing up for traditional left values, are needed now more than ever. Here’s to the dirtbags.

Fraser Myers is a staff writer at spiked and host of the spiked podcast. Follow him on Twitter: @FraserMyers.