#I like translation but that's a dead-end field if nobody cares about the languages that you know (and nobody cares about romanian)

[meezer]

spending this much time and effort and energy working towards a career path I really do not like or want or will ever go into is really taking the wind out of my sails not gonna lie. and making me hate the humanities 😍

[hopetofantasy]

Culture, parallels & meta - S3 E3

Zaterdag 08:10

Perfect parallel: An upset Robbe being little spoon to Noor this episode, him being a relaxed little spoon to Sander in the last one.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Moyo has half eaten wafers cookies on his bed. Between the cellphone time and timestamp, it took Robbe five minutes to get dressed and to the beach. The beautiful angel pendant makes its first appearance.

Bonus: This cinematography trick of using a wide shot with nobody else in the sight, makes us actually feel how lonely Robbe actually is. 

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Zaterdag 08:23

C is for culture: “Vamanos” - As you may have noticed, Flemish has a lot of words that aren’t typically Dutch. These are called ‘leenwoorden’ (= ‘borrowing words’). In some cases, the language has made the word its own, with their conjugation or sound (like barbecue - barbecuet - or e-mail - ge-e-maild), other times the expression is copied completely (like smartphone or laptop). There are various reasons as to why people don’t want to change it: globalization, wanting to be more vague/cool, general laziness, ...

Perfect parallel: 

Sander’s playful “Are you the manager?” and “That’ll be zero stars on Booking.com” to Robbe when they meet in this episode, Sander’s sheepish “Zero stars on Booking.com” and Robbe’s pointed “Where is that manager when you need him?”, when they have their fall-out in a later episode. 

Sander saying “When I booked this room, I explicitly asked for room-service” here and him actually booking a room with room-service for the both of them later on.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Jens’ keyboard is lying on top of the closet. Sander grabbing his keys (to his car?).

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Zaterdag 08:44

C is for culture: The option to use self-scanning is pretty common in Belgian supermarkets, especially in shop-and-go city stores. You pick up the scanner, scan the stuff you buy, go to a counter, pay and walk out with your groceries. A sales assistant is still present to help out with problems or do random routine checks. It’s fast, easy and cost-efficient. The downside? Shoplifting becomes a bit easier this way.

That’s character: Sander is putting up a ‘cool guy, devil may care’ facade. He jokes about not scanning everything, dismisses Amber’s list, whirls the shopping cart around and sings David Bowie to this boy. He wants to make a lasting impression on Robbe. If he’s the most charming, chaotic and adventurous version of himself, then he doesn’t have to think about other stuff like his own crumbling relationship. (Also the reason why he doesn’t answer the question about Amber: they simply met through Britt). As the boxes fall down, so does Sander’s tough exterior, as he never intended to hurt Robbe by playing around in the supermarket.

Robbe’s clumsiness meter: +3, he almost topples off the cart twice and drops the chocolate bars on the floor. (The crash with Sander isn’t his fault though)

Oopsie: 

Sander is wearing a leather jacket, but we don’t see it in the previous clip. Either he left it in his car or it’s an ‘oopsie’.

When Sander accidentally tosses Robbe into the boxes, we hear glass breaking. However, in the next shot, the boxes seem to empty (and they were supposed to be filled with chips, which don’t make that sound).

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Sander is wearing black Converse. They bought Jupiler beer. Robbe pulls out ‘Delhaize’ Biscuit chocolate bars and Florentin cookies.

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Zaterdag 13:13

C is for culture: "Croques” - The word ‘croque’ is an abbreviation for ‘croque monsieur’ (= ‘crunch mister’). These are grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches, a typical greasy snack at taverns, markets, carnivals, your home, ... Other versions include the ‘croque madame’ topped with a fried egg, ‘croque bolognese’ with bolognese sauce, ‘croque hawai’ with a pineapple slice.

That’s character: It’s clear that Robbe has no idea how to eat properly. All throughout the season he eats unhealthy breakfasts (choco spread with cookies), snacks (chips, cookies) and dinners (Aïki noodles, frozen lasagna). But here we see the reason: he doesn’t seem to know how to cook or work a stove. Exactly why he buys prepackaged or instant food options. So, it’s probably for the best that Zoë helps out his eating habits.

Perfect parallel:

Robbe making an unhealthy breakfast in the previous episode, Sander providing him with an unhealthy snack in this one. (The way to a man’s heart is through the stomach)

Britt’s condescending “Listening to David Bowie again?” in this episode, her calling Robbe his next obsession similar to David Bowie later on. 

Sander’s “Do you know where I can find the coffee?” to Robbe in an earlier scene and his “Was coffee on the list?” to Amber here.

Robbe’s clumsiness meter: +2, he stumbles backwards after Sander touches his shoulder and burns himself after turning the ‘croque’.

Nod to the OG: This kitchen scene is the equivalent of the ‘5 fine frøkner’ scene, as Sander sings his favorite song to Robbe and makes breakfast, whilst both flirt with each other (subtly).

Oopsie: They supposedly went to ‘Delhaize’ for all their groceries, but the ketchup bottle comes from ‘Carrefour’ and the butter from ‘Colruyt’. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Sander messes up the first words to ‘Under Pressure’ - it’s ‘pressure’ not ‘under pressure’. He mixes the weed with tobacco for his joint. The conflict on Sander’s face at the end.

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Zondag 16:34

C is for culture: "What kind of shit question is this?” - They’re playing ‘De Slimste Mens ter wereld’ (= ‘The smartest human on earth’), a board game by the popular Flemish television show with the same name. The quiz is very challenging. People have to solve associative, general knowledge and out-of-the-box questions with multiple answers in different rounds. Points are awarded in the form of seconds, which are used during the game. The candidate with time left at the end, wins.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The group is drinking white wine out of plastic cups. Sander studied at ‘de!Kunsthumaniora’, the same school as Noor. Sander’s wearing his combat boots again.

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Maandag 15:12

C is for culture: Aaron is wearing a bunny costume for the paintball game ‘Hunt the bunny’. This is usually played by people on a bachelor party or a corporate team building (with the groom/boss as the bunny). The goal is simple: the bunny has to cross the field from one corner to another, whilst the hunters shoot as much paintballs as possible to ‘kill’ it. Which is... rather painful, especially at close range. 

Oopsie: What they’re doing is actually illegal or even impossible. People aren’t allowed to play paintball in protected environments, like dunes. Unless they’re doing it with a specialized organization who’s trained for these games (and are present at the time of playing) or have the written permission from the ‘Agency of Nature and Forest’, the police, the city, ... There is a whole heap of permissions, administrative papers and laws to deal with. 

Lost in translation: Britt saying “Doe normaal” (= “Act normal”) has nothing to do with her dismissing Sander’s mental health. This Flemish phrase is often used to calm people down, telling them that they’re acting rather irrationally or childish. It’s an angry way of saying “Can’t you behave yourself? Calm down. What are you doing? Be rational!”. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The blue and red flags tells us that they’re going to play ‘capture the flag’. Some of the ‘pfff’ gun sounds you hear, indicate that the air pressure needs to be checked. Moyo took off his protection mask, which is dangerous and sometimes considered a foul during the game.

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Dinsdag 20:02

C is for culture: "Do you know how to make s’mores?” - Toasting marshmallows above a campfire, isn’t really a tradition in Belgium. So that’s why the girls don’t know how to make s’mores. 

Lost in translation: ’Smoor’ is a Flemish dialect word for smoke or the act of smoking. It does sound a lot like ‘s’mores’. This is why Luca thinks Aaron wants to hold the marshmallow into the fire. 

Oop, there it is, the homophobia / heteronormativity: Of course Robbe had nothing to lose with Noor, he wasn’t actually interested in her. With Sander, however, Robbe doesn’t dare to do anything.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Aaron is drinking ‘Bock’ beer. Amber looks at Aaron like she really likes him, when he’s preparing the s’mores.

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Woensdag 20:42

C is for culture: 

“An old german bunker” - The province of West-Flanders as well as its coast still has a lot of remnants left from WWI. From German bunkers to trench-networks, burial sites and museums, the 'Great war’ left its traces. Unsurprisingly, every year, people still find around 300 tons of (active) bombs underneath the fields.

“Around ‘All Souls’ Day’ they come back to life” - ‘All Souls’ Day’ is a christian holiday on the 2nd of November, on which the dead are commemorated. However, since that day isn’t an official holiday in Belgium, people visit the graves and honor of their loved ones on the 1st of November, ‘All Saint’s Day’. 

The group drinking ‘jenever’ shots - ‘Jenever’ (known in English as ‘Dutch gin’ or ‘genever’) is a traditional liquor in Belgium and the Netherlands. Young people usually drink these colored, high percentage spirits at Christmas markets, pre-drinks or parties when it’s cold outside. Different flavors include vanilla, chocolate, berries, lemon, apple, ...

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The wooden panel behind Jens says ‘Volg de pijlen’ (= ‘Follow the arrows’). Aaron and Amber are holding hands after their fall. Robbe downs a chocolate-cream ‘jenever’ shot at the end. 

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Woensdag 21:53

Perfect parallel: Robbe lashing out at his friends in this episode - he feels left out and confused about his sexuality - and blames the pranks. Him doing the same in the next - he thinks his friends are hypocrites by saying homophobic comments to him yet defending the gay teacher - and blames the vlogs. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The second living room has a spinning disco light.

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Donderdag 21:12

C is for culture:

“In dat jeugdhuis” - A ‘jeugdhuis’ (= ‘youth house’) is a meeting place, run by young volunteers. All teens and young adults are welcome to hang out, throw parties, drink at their bar, organize concerts, attend workshops - just making the space their own. 

“He sounded like a begging Romanian” - Luca is referring to Romanian Romani families, who roam around in the streets of Brussels begging for some money. These ethnic groups have a mostly negative image amongst the Europeans. Which is why she states this harsh and hurtful comparison.

Perfect parallel: Noor asking Robbe for a playlist so she can listen to his favorite songs here, Sander actually making a Bowie playlist for Robbe in the next episode.

Lost in translation: Luca is mocking the West-Flemish dialect by copying what the boy said, namely “Moe’en julder ok ‘n flyer ‘ennen?”. This dialect is known for blowing their ‘g’ and ‘h’ so that they sound similar, conjugating their 'yes’ or ‘no’, having double subjects, seemingly swallowing some letters, among other things. It’s one of the most confusing and difficult dialects for the Flemish to understand themselves.

Oopsie: When Aaron asks Amber if she needs a drink, Britt and Sander are dancing right behind him. When she answers and walks away, they’re suddenly gone, only to be seen again when Moyo walks over.

Nod to the OG/Wink to other remakes: The ‘call your girlfriend’ kiss, duh! 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Jana is wearing one white contact lens.

°

Vrijdag 08:43

Perfect parallel: 

Sander searching for coffee first thing in the morning earlier this episode and him pouring a cup before any task in this clip.

Sander’s “Maybe I’m scared that I will never find someone” here and Robbe’s multi-layered “I’m so happy that I found you” in the last episode.

Oopsie: When the boys walk to the recycling spot, the lighting changes from sunny to clouded to dark in a matter of seconds.

Funny coincidence: Sander referring to his relationship as ‘ups and downs’, probably similar to his experience with bipolarity.

Wink to other remakes: An almost kiss near trash, remind you of certain Italian boys?

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Amber delegating tasks, but doing nothing herself. Robbe smiles for a few milliseconds, because Sander touched him. The flash of panic in Robbe’s eyes afterwards.

[spectraspecs-writes]

Tatooine - Chapter 55 (HK-47)

Link to the masterpost. Chapter 54. Chapter 56.

@averruncusho thank you for reading, you get a tag

I just got a bad feeling. Something’s coming. Or we’re getting closer to something. Dark. And it’s close. “Hey, Mission?”

“Yeah?”

“You have your stealth field generator on?”

“Always.”

“Would you do me a favor - turn it on and just look around the corner.”

“Is something wrong, Rena?” Bastila asks me.

“Bad feeling,” I say, “I want to confirm.”

“Does this bad feeling involve me cracking some skulls?” Canderous asks eagerly.

“I’ll go check it out,” Mission says, and she activates her stealth field. We wait about a minute or so before she comes back. “Three Dark Jedi,” she says, “Mean looking. They got face masks on.”

“They were probably sent by Lord Malak,” Bastila says, “Is there any way we can get past without fighting them?”

“Not without tripping the poison mines I set in front of them,” Mission says proudly.

Canderous beams, laughing. “Smart kid!” he says. (And he gets away with calling her kid - I love their friendship so much.)

“Well done, Mission,” Bastila says, and I expect a “but” coming, “Although in the future I would advise against taking such risks.” Not a “but”, an “although.” How surprising.

“You’re welcome,” Mission says. God, I love her. “We should probably go say hi before someone else triggers the mines.”

“Good idea,” I say, “Ready everyone? Let’s go fight the Sith.”

We round the corner, and right on cue, three Sith. Three mines. “Lord Malak was most displeased when he learned you had escaped Taris alive!” one of them says, but I can’t tell which one because of the masks, “He has promised a great reward to whoever destroys you.”

“Why don’t you come collect that reward, you pack of hairless banthas?” They step forward - and have their faces flooded with poison gas. And in the chaos, Canderous gets off a shot at each of them. When the gas clears, they hit the ground dead.

Canderous sighs. “This is getting too easy,” he says, “Have the Jedi lowered their standards or do the Sith just let in anybody with a chip on their shoulder and an axe to grind?”

“I assure you, it’s the latter,” Bastila says. Is… is she smiling? Is she smiling at Canderous? And he’s smiling back - oh, my God, this is so cute!

“Oh?” Canderous says - oh, wow, he’s making a move, is he? “So if I ever went up against you, you’d give me a good fight?”

He’s trying to flirt, but Bastila is working more the friend angle. “If it ever came to that.”

Canderous backs off the flirting angle, but that doesn’t stop Mission from saying, “Sheesh, get a room, guys!”

Canderous - holy hell, Canderous blushes. Bastila says, “I hardly know what you’re talking about, Mission.” She brushes her hair away from her face. “We should get moving. I know Rena is especially eager to see this droid.”

“I am, yes,” I agree, sifting through what the Dark Jedi dropped, including some lightsaber crystals and a datapad from Malak with a description of me and Bastila. Seems like these guys won’t be the last Dark Jedi we face. “But the cantina is also around the corner and we should ask about your mom.”

“Rena, we really don’t have to,” Bastila says, stammering a bit, “If it takes time away from the mission…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Mission says, “I’ll ask around, you guys go see the droid.”

“No arguments here,” Canderous says, “I’ve spent more than enough time in cantinas for one lifetime.”

“I agree,” Bastila says, “I see no point in waiting there if my mother is no longer on the planet.”

“Yeah, you guys go have fun,” she says, “I’m going to hustle some nerf-herders out of their credits.”

“Don’t bet too much,” I say, and we head off to the droid shop.

Already I’m skeptical. There’s a droid out front with sand in his vents, still functioning somehow. You don’t store droids outside, dude, come on. We step inside, and there’s nobody out front to sell us anything. Wonderful service. I only see the one functional protocol droid, must be the one we’re looking for - may as well ask it to sell itself.

Wait, hang on -- “This droid has sand shields!”

“What?” Canderous says, because he wasn’t part of yesterday’s conversation.

“I thought you said you developed those?” Bastila asks.

“I thought I did.”

Then the droid activates. “Greeting: Hello to you, prospective purchaser. I am referred to as HK-47, a fully functional Systech Corporation droid skilled in both combat and protocol functions. Query: Would you be so kind as to purchase this model from Yuka Laka? It would serve my purposes to be removed from his ownership.”

“Certainly talks like a protocol droid,” Canderous scoffs.

“I’ve never heard of Systech Corporation,” Bastila says.

“No, neither have I,” I say, “but they seem to make good droids if this model is any indication.” The sand shields are still throwing me off; they look just like the ones I made for T3 yesterday. I look back at the droid. “What else does Systech make?” I ask him. 

“Answer: With the restraining bolt in place, I do not have access to my memory core. I suspect, however, by the fine quality of my manufacture that they are a prestigious company, indeed. I suspect I am of unique construction,” the droid says, “…or perhaps I was intended for a very specific customer. How I ended up here I can hardly say. It is sufficient to say that I am a fully capable translator and cultural analyst, and I am also proficient in... personal combat.”

I pull out my microspanner and make a quick inspection of the restraining bolt. “Yeah, that thing’s on there good,” I say, “And it’s restricting access to your memory?”

“Statement: Indeed,” HK tells me, “It is possible that the Ithorian Yuka Laka placed the restraining bolt on me to prevent my return to a previous owner. It is also possible that the removal of the bolt will not restore memory functions. Without my memory, I do not know if I know the answer.” Yeah, that would certainly put a damper on things. “Do not interpret this as a reduction of my worth, however. My capabilities are quite expansive.”

“I can tell,” I say, still examining him with my spanner. 

“What are you seeing, Rena?” Bastila asks.

“Well,” I say, “to be honest I’m not completely sure. I’m more familiar with utility droids. But I can tell this droid has everything a utility droid has and more. There’s a lot going on in here.” I tuck my spanner away. “Not much in the way of computer interfacing, but a droid like you, I’m not sure you need it,” I say to HK, “You said you’re a translator and a cultural analyst. I understand most languages pretty well myself, why would I need you?”

“Extrapolation: Intuitive language comprehension? That would be the result of recognition and training of Force sensitivity.”

“Smart droid,” Canderous comments. 

“Your kind have little use of translation droids,” he says, “Of course, your kind also encounters danger on a far more frequent basis than the average citizen. You would do well to have me work for you, then, before someone else makes use of my… more exotic functions.”

Sounds like a low-key assassin droid to me. But I doubt anyone else knows that. “Well, I’m sold,” I say, “Is Yuka Laka around? I’ll see about purchasing you.”

“Statement: The fool Ithorian has decided I am to be an expensive purchase. He does this out of greed and not out of knowledge of my true capabilities.

“Advisement: I have observed him. He is a coward, and will be responsive to… aggressive bargaining.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, then I call out, “Is the proprietor in?”

There is a very large metal clamor out of sight, followed by a garbled series of beeps and whistles and some swearing in Ithorese. When the Ithorian comes out of the back room, it is on a small wave of droid parts. “What is this?” he says, “A customer I don’t recognize? Perhaps you bring off-world credits to Yuka Laka?”

“Talk to me about HK-47.”

He ambles over to me. “It's a fine protocol translator. I think it's been modified. It claims to understand the Sand People dialect, and also has some armor mounts. Combat ready, perhaps?”

“I’m interested,” I say, sparing a glance back at HK, “Let’s talk price.”

“It's a very solid machine,” he says, considering a price, “in good shape. I can't let it go for less than 5000 credits.”

Yikes! “If that’s the price, you can keep it.”

“4000!” Yuka Laka quickly amends, “Not a credit less!”

HK was right, he is a coward. “That was quick. Desperate to sell?”

“Ah, no, not really,” he says unconvincingly, “but the first figure really was a little high. You never know, the occasional person bites right away.”

It’s still a bit high. “Perhaps I can convince you to go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats in disbelief, “How low are you expecting me to go? These are difficult times.”

“Listen,” I say, trying to be charming - I’ve never had much luck with Ithorians when it comes to feminine wiles, but when it comes to business sense, they’ve always been receptive to me, “I’m a Republic droid tech. This war with the Sith has been moving farther and farther out to the Outer Rim. There’s been a greater and greater need for parts and capable droids, and yours is the only place to get them in Anchorhead.” I think I see him softening. “Now, when I go back to my superiors and they ask me about the business in Anchorhead, I can tell them one of two things. I could either tell them that Yuka Laka sells substandard tech at exorbitant prices, or that he’s a sharp-minded Ithorian with a keen business sense who’s willing to make a deal that will do him better in the long run.” Almost there, almost got him. “Which do you think will convince my bosses to come to your store?”

He’s so close. “And you think your superiors will listen to you?”

Bastila catches on. “Sir,” she says, “As a member of the Jedi Order, I can assure you that the Republic has the utmost trust in this woman.”

“You--” Yuka Laka says with a bit of a laugh, “You can’t expect me to give you the droid for nothing.”

“Of course not!” I say reassuringly, “That’s bad business. But it would also be bad business to quote me a price that I can’t take back to my superiors.”

Got him. “2750.”

“2500 even, and I’ll throw in a top-notch microspanner.”

“Done.” I hand him my microspanner - not even my good one but it’s still in good shape - and transfer him the 2500 credits. (Some credits come right back to me - Mission must be doing pretty good at Pazaak.) “Well, thank you very much. Just go on over and talk to it. I'll deactivate the restraining bolt when you take possession. It's a good purchase, especially if it actually speaks a Sand People dialect like it said. Now,” he says, “you’ll be sure to tell the Republic about this business deal?”

“Most definitely,” I say, “Next time the Republic fleet is in the area, expect an increase in profits.”

“I look forward to it,” he says.

“HK!” I call to the droid, “Let’s go.”

Yuka Laka pops off the restraining bolt. “Statement: I will enter into your service now, master. I am certain you will make adequate use of my primary functions. My gears are practically quivering with anticipation.”

When we step out, Bastila - I should have expected some disappointment from her - says to me, “Why did you lie to that man?”

“It wasn’t a complete lie - and you helped.”

“I did not lie!” she protests, “The Republic obviously has trust in you if they recruited you. You were lying - you certainly have no intention of informing your ‘Republic superiors’ of this transaction, do you?”

“If someone asks, sure.”

“And to expect more business the next time the Republic fleet enters the system?”

“Of course - economies get a bump whenever the fleet rolls in.” She’s still not satisfied. “You want long-term? I’ll give you long-term. We get a droid who can speak the Sand People dialect, we make peace with the Sand People, we find the Star Map, we leave, destroy the Star Forge and end the way. Instead of making a better life for one merchant, we make a better life for the galaxy. Now, is that an acceptable trade for you, or are you going to make me give back the droid, which will hinder the peacemaking?”

She tries to argue, but only stammers. Then she just gives up: “You are becoming a horrible influence on me.”

“Yeah, I like you, too.”

Just as we’re on our way back to the cantina for Mission, she finds us. “Okay, two things. Well, three things,” she says, correcting herself. “First off, they won’t let me play Pazaak in there anymore - “

“You hustler, I love you,” I say, and she smiles.

“Second, it didn’t take much asking to learn about Bastila’s mom. She’s there most days and yells at everybody.”

“That sounds like her,” Bastila comments.

“She wasn’t there just now, but tends to come later in the day according to the bartender. And third, apparently there’s a sandstorm coming and Czerka told all their miners to either come back or stay put.”

“Guess we’re not hitting the dunes today,” I say.

“We should return to the ship,” Bastila says, “We can continue our search tomorrow.”

“I tend to agree,” I say, “I want to look over HK, anyway.”

“Objection: Look over? I assure you, master, I am in prime condition!”

“I know,” I say, “but I’d like to know what ‘prime condition’ entails.”

“Statement: As you desire, master.”

[emordnilap-fr]

Day 15/16 - revelations

lore pinglist: @voltaic-ambassador ask if you’d like to be added!

Pulls: black head bow, cliffside milkweed Action: breed/gene a dragon, 10-20 battles

After two days of living with this-- makeshift clan? was that what they were?-- Taki had to admit that these other dragons weren’t half bad.

Mitodoro had warmed up to him instantly, trying to pull him into various games and the like. Despite her limited vocabulary, she communicated with him well enough - or was helped by Taki’s own ease at reading others - and did her best to make him feel welcomed. It worked, he had to say.

Ora was an odd case. He was friendly towards Taki, but never seemed to know quite how to talk to him. It was unexpected after how Ora had suddenly insisted that Taki them, but Taki couldn’t blame him. He seemed to be the shy type, if his quietness around everyone was anything to go by. At least he was getting along with Laurel; the longneck had told Taki about Ora’s curiosity in healing, which the skydancer knew from experience how long Laurel could go on and on about. Serkalem was friendly enough, but he was usually busy talking to one of the others or walking up and down the ledges of the ravine, keeping watch. Still though, the other dragon would ask Taki how he felt about staying with them (fine) and where he’d come from (home) and generally just make sure he was doing well with himself. Altera was probably the only one he wasn’t very fond of. He respected her, of course; she’d been the main one leading this ragtag group of young dragons for a couple weeks now, teaching the what she knew and making sure nobody ended up dead. But she was also the only one not particularly fond of Laurel, which Taki took offense to. Laurel had said not to worry about it, but… well, Taki wasn’t one to ignore things like that. At least she genuinely cared about the others, himself included, underneath her snappish personality. But, even with his misgiving towards Altera, Taki still had to say these dragons were pretty damn good company, especially after having been on his own for the past several days. Their devotion to each other, however… strangely expressed it could be, was obvious. Well, at least to him it was. He could just tell these kinds of things, after all. Maybe that’s why now, everyone but him was surprised to find Serkalem sitting next to Altera, his head leaned against hers, as she curled herself around a single rocky-looking egg. Mitodoro hummed wildly in excitement, a loud, ever-changing “tune” that, really, only served to grate painfully on Taki’s eardrums. Laurel stood back, watching in amusement as Ora sat back on his haunches and gesticulated excessively with his arms, wings, and crest. He was the epitome of the word “Huh??”. “You two- what- I don’t- when?? I wasn’t expecting this! I didn’t know you liked each other!” “Really?” Taki piped up from his position, slightly nearer than Laurel. “I thought it was pretty obvious.” Everyone looked to him at that, Serkalem and Altera in embarrassment and Ora and Mitodoro in surprise. Serkalem tilted his head and asked, “Wait, we were? I thought we were doing pretty well keeping it low, really.” Ora nodded in agreement. “I didn’t know a thing. Now you two have a nest!” Taki just shrugged his wings. “Yeah, I could tell within a few hours of being here. I’m good at reading others though, so… don’t worry. If the others didn’t notice, then nobody else would’ve.” The others simply kept staring at him, confused and bewildered, until Laurel began to chuckle. “Look,” she said, trotting over to Taki and pulling his head down by his lower horn, “Taki? Dancer dragon. Feels heart with this.” She tapped a blunt claw on his forehead gem, then ran it down the length of one of his antennae. “Very advocate.” “...Accurate,” Taki whispered as quietly as he could. “Very accurate,” Laurel corrected herself without missing a beat. The others were quiet for a few moments more, before Serkalem finally broke the silence. “Damn. I think you’ve beat all of us when it comes to the weird things our species can do.” All Taki could do was nod (not that he could do it well, still being held onto by Laurel). It was a strange ability, but… it was him. And if that was the only sort of reaction he’d get from these dragons after them finding out, then, well. Things would be just fine.

- Taki is Not used to others being surprisingly chill with him being able to read them like a book. he is glad these guys are cool with it - Serkalem and Altera otp is a go yessss - explanation for Laurel’s mixup: i’ve been thinking of Ursegal as the Draconic they’ve all been speaking, the dictionary for which can be found here. ‘accurate’ is translated as ‘toget’, while ‘advocate’ is translated as ‘Getat’. it’d be an easy mistake to make for a longneck still slowly getting used to the language - coli team was Altera, Mitodoro, and Taki in the training fields. 15 battles, Mito and Taki are both lv 3

[trolloled]

Big List of Fantroll Facts from Hiveswap

This is all pulled straight from the game with 0 (or attempted 0) bias from me or @peckonthecheek​

We have both played the game so I can verify several things on the list. Most of the information comes from @peckonthecheek​ who exhaustively did everything in the game and recorded useful information.

If you want to add to this post, feel free to screenshot what you want to add and send it to me!

Land - Alternia consists of 4 - 5 continents and is mostly covered by said land.

Language - Alternian is distinct from English, trolls at least write in Alternian. It is read from LEFT to RIGHT and every symbol in its alphabet can be directly translated back to an English letter.

Drones - Weak point is in its torso. Drones can burn down hives and just take away random trolls for whatever reason.

- They can also fly and fire missiles.

Lususes (Yes that’s correct) - One species of lusus is the Cuspidated Grimalkin, (A deercat) which prefers to bond with brownbloods with leadership aptitudes. If a Grimalkin loses its charge (Fairly common) it will try to find a new troll to adopt. This is highly illegal.

- Another species of lusus is the Supplikatydid, which resembles praying mantises

- There exist several books on the various species of lususes.

- Lususes have blood colors and tend to bond with trolls of certain bloods

- Sloth lususes (GLACIAL TREETRUDGER) are pretty uncommon

- Lusus can be referred to as a pet/dad

- Multiple of the same types of lususes exist

Powers - Redbloods share telekinesis and speak-with-dead powers as a caste, brownbloods share animal communion powers

- Telekinesis - no matter how weak - can erase data off of discs easily

- Overexerting powers can cause exhaustion, nosebleeds, headaches

Stickball - This is gonna be huge so just. Bear with it.

- There are several leagues depending on area - There’s some sort of piece known as a CLOVER - Positions include PUSHER, BRAWLER, PROWLER, ZAPPER - Played on Velvet - Two pieces called a DOZER (Ball) and a SNOWGLOBE (Ball) - Burgundies often play PUSHER due to their telekinesis and ability to talk to the dead players - PUSHER is the most dangerous position - No one cares if a rustblood dies due to the danger of the position - Some HAZARDS - MATCHTIP - burns you - ZAPPER - blasts you - LUSUS - controlled by opposing (brownblood) Wranglers - Only unbonded lususes are allowed (Can be friendly, neutral, or opposing) - Each ball (DOZER, STITCHER, TRACER, FINISHER, SNOWGLOBE) has its own effect (There are 15 total) - Cuebats (the tool that the PUSHERS use) are made to be hard to bend with their telekinesis - It's okay to use someones torn off leg or other weapons found on the playing field as improvised weapons - but illegal to bring in your own!  - DOZER puts you to sleep if you touch it with your bare hands - STITCHER is a ball of yarn that has to be rolled up before it can be used to score - TRACER will try to follow the path it was taken the match before - FINISHER will only move in a predetermined path to the goal. - If your tryout is bad enough, you CAN get culled  - Rustbloods caught cheating in Arena Stickball will "get culled before they can blink"  - SNOWGLOBE - 8-BALL, rigged with a nuclear bomb that explodes after a set amount of time. - Controllers are often bluebloods (Cerulean?)  - Lususes are used in this sport - they can be friendly, neutral, or opposing - Aren't allowed to be fed, though - Sloths are not commonly used in AS due to their slowness - PUSHERs are the only players allowed to score (And are thus prime targets) - PUSHER helmets are designed to leave the forehead exposed for their    Psychic Powers, however this is a weak point and why they die a lot. - There is a team called the SNOWGLOBES - Xultan Matzos was a PUSHER - very famous - If the heiress attends a match, you are “encouraged” to kneel the entire time - Not following the rules proper will get you culled - Couches are MADE of FABRIC  - PUSHERS are advised to rely heavily on telekinesis - THE MAN ON THE MOON (White, non-scoring ball) cannot be interacted with by PUSHERS. It radiates a feeling of pernicious intent (to Xefros, at least)

Lowblood life:

- Having leadership aspirations is illegal and grounds for execution.

- Suburbs (Subgrubs) are segregated by caste.

- It is mandatory to buy what the heiress is selling.

- The bus system is infrequent and unreliable ("engineered to prevent caste mobility")

- Sometimes (Most times for lowbloods?) jobs are involuntary and assigned

- There is a LOT of class struggle and oppression

- There is, quote “Forced participation in keeping that oppression running smoothly.”

- Have to practice your profession before the TRIALS or you'll get culled

- Demanding a refund as a lowblood can get you culled

- Even uttering rebellious sentiment and promoting it could lead to your execution

- It's Imperial mandate that rustbloods are kept poor - they're not allowed to have more than the bare minimum to scrape by

- "Almost all" rustbloods end up as butlers 

- If a lowblood (read: redblood) makes a name for themselves and succeeds too well, they are liable to be humiliated and culled.

- Heiress will and can make a spectacle of your death in public

- Dreaming of destroying things associated with the heiress can get you killed

- Circular discs are a luxury, if you can't afford them, you get hexagonal ones

- There are sections of magazines that are illegal for lowbloods to read (???)

- Good pizza toppings are reserved for highbloods

- Lowbloods either get instaculled in raids or snatched up for later

- Mostly to be killed as a highblood spectacle

- Lowbloods can get culled for anything and everything or no reason at all - Anyone who disobeys the heiress gets rounded up and enslaved or slaughtered - Slavery is a thing (especially for rustbloods)

- The heiress hates aliens and lowbloods

- Your money is monitored by the government to keep you poor. (Probably).

- Scythian (Troll version of Amazon) always takes forever to deliver to lowbloods

Highblood Life:

- SLAM OR GET CULLED prevents voting from lususes, unless you're a highblood, and then you can have your lusus go on stage and eat everyone, if you want

- Highbloods generally can get away with a lot.

- Indigos (Blue?) care where the silverware goes (tend to "crush anything they pick up anyways")

- High society dinners often involve bluebloods (Pranking during this time often gets you culled)

- Chucklevoodoos are a subjug thing - not a purpleblood/Gamzee thing (Typically these involve dreams and the subconscious) - Heiress has a lot of servants, literally eats off of gold plates

- Violetbloods are considered royals: They can get published anywhere and tend to write lots of reviews about everything (Their hatred for lowbloods, what they just ate), most reviews are by them and they are especially disgusted by rustbloods.

- Heiress has a court of highbloods and a drone army

FLARP:

- They have FLARP editions based on spies, espionage, and rebellion - FLARP editions have fatigue rules in them involving SOPOR SLIME - There is a FLARP class called ESPIACROONER - It is permitted to use your telekinesis and other psychic powers in FLARP  - Need a game grub in order to play FLARP! 

Miscellaneous (Everything else):

- There is a city named THRASHTHRUST which contains the subgrub called OUTGLUT

- Swinging a weapon at an image of the heiress will bring a drone down upon you near instantly.

- Trolls sleep in recuperacoons due to the "violent and troubling impusles" they have - Sopor is very physically and mentally draining - Can injure trolls further if they sleep in the sopor while injured. - Gotta shake off some of the slime to completely wake up (?) - There are chairs with sopor slime in them, made to relax in (See below) - Sopor slime in close proximity to a troll helps them to relax - Eating sopor slime makes you dumb though 

- Sopor Slime keeps powers in check while they are asleep.

- SLAM OR GET CULLED can end in “relatively certain death” for the losers

- There is an interplanetary warsong titled  "If You Aliens Were Not Meant To Die At Our Hands, Why Are You All So Pitifully Incapable Of Defending Yourselves?!"

- There are Illegal parts of History! Censorship is REAL!

- Protest art exists (Videogames are considered art?)

- Video game controllers dies from starvation. Once they die, the mother console lays a new one.

- Crack open a controller for game grub - pus gets everywhere

- There have been multiple heiresses, but only one is alive at a time

- Interfaces can be designed with psionics/telekinesis in mind

- Jostling sopor is good housekeeping (?)

- Magazine titles: Arena Stickball Illustrated, Grubs Diurnally, Talentless Nobodies

- RITES OF MATURATION: Occur around 7 sweeps, involve Trials, decides your future. Nothing is known about them beyond this, not even whether it means you instantly leave the planet. Trolls are expected to TRAIN FOR THESE.

- Putting inorganic material in a grubslurry activator is begging for death

- Eating raw eggs is bad for trolls and gives them parasites - Trolls have benevolent and benign parasites

- Troll pupils are kind of reflective like a dog - they reflect white, though!

- They create their hives when they are freshly pupated, CARPENTER DRONES ENFORCE THIS.

- Typing Quirks are very personal for trolls! - Close friends and quadrants can imitate them sometimes - Only two fuschiabloods - Heiress and the Queen. Both are seadwellers - Queen is far away  leading conquests in other galaxies, she is known to be incredibly powerful

- THERE ARE NO (0) (ZERO) ADULTS ALLOWED ON ALTERNIA. NO EXCEPTIONS EVER.

- Adults are sent off-planet for their ORDEALS when they come of age

- Quadrants are Fated? (???)

- All text communications and conversations are subject to monitoring by the government.

- Trolls do not meet aliens until they’re off-planet, where they conquer them.

- The caste system is highly important.

- Trolls clean their floors with mucus (?)

- Calendars exist with celebrities on them!

- There is a month named CULLUBRE

TROLLIAN TERMS HIVE - House POWER HEXAGRID - Power grid? LUSUS - Caretaker beast SUBGRUB - suburb STEMCLUSTER - City OMNISCUTTLECOACH - Bus SCYTHIAN - Amazon but not FLARP - LARP but deadly RESPITEBLOCK - bedroom GANDER PRECIPICE - balcony ARENA STICKBALL - a sport! WAREGRID STUDYSCROLL - Looks like a placemat that you study for tablesetting MEGAFORK , MICROFORK , KNIFE FORK, "FOOLS FORK" - Several types of forks SMASHSUIT - stunt gear "SLAM OR GET CULLED" - American Idol but deadly RECUPERACOON - bed SOPOR SLIME - sedative slime that trolls sleep in RAKE PRONG, BILESCOOPER - Utensils 12TH PERIGREES EVE - assumedly christmas SCOURDRAY - Maid. Cleany. Thingy. RESIFLUID - Floor Cleaner SMEARSPINNER - Floor waxer CUEBAT - PUSHERS tool in ARENA STICKBALL FLAVOR DISC - pizza WET CHITIN SACK - ??? XULTAN MATZOS - Famous STICKBALL player BOBBLENUG FIGURINE - Bobblehead RECESSED TABLETOP ARENA STICKBALL - foozeball but not THRASHTHRUST SNOWGLOBES - ARENA STICKBALL League team SPORT OF LORDS  - ??? SPLAYSAC - beanbag filled with SOPOR SLIME CHAIRBAG - beanbag GAME GRUB - videogame CASTE SYSTEM - a system of oppression by blood - rust is lowest, fuschia is highest. ROYGBIV NUGBONES - Skull GRUBFLECKS - a type of cereal SCOURBRISTLE / SCOURBRISTLING - Mop/Mopping? Alternatively Broom/Sweeping CHITIN-RIDGER - goes to the right of the cuebat STICK-JAMMER - thumbtack DROMED BAKTAR - famous stickball player LOUNGEPLANKS - sofa CRISPRANGE - stovetop GRUBSLURRY AGITATOR - used to aggrivate some grubslurry GRUBSLURRY - made to be aggrivated HUSKLOAF - meatloaf BILESLAW - probably coleslaw : / GRUB-SAUCE - its a sauce UNRANGED CLUCKBEAST OVA - uncooked eggs? ACID TUBES - probably intestines given the context GRUB JUICE HYDRATION CYLINDERS - cans of grub juice GRUB JUICE - drink to restore psychic powers WRIGGLING DAY - birthday WIPES - a measurement of time. RITES OF MATURATION - a series of TRIALS and potentially ORDEALS that happen around 7 sweeps SMEARGUNK - cleans floors - is used with smearspinner GLACIAL TREETRUDGER - Xefros' Sloth lusus! ZIGZAG INCLINE - stairs GASTRIC EVACUATION GLAND - The uvula TUBEFLORA SHAVINGS - Banana Slices (Maybe, unconfirmed) LAWNRING - Yard SUPPLIKATYDIDS - Praying Mantis Lususes ORDEALS - gone through by adults. May be a part of the RITES OF MATURATION? CRUEL-AID - Kool-aid CUSPIDATED GRIMALKIN - deercat lusus of Dammeks GUTTERBLOOD - a term for lowbloods THROTTLEMOTH - Just a moth BELLOWSACS - Lungs SCENTBULB - Nose

[perahn]

Codex Entry #4

The following pages are among the more difficult to decrypt in the journal, as the writer was clearly disturbed by these events recorded. The handwriting is hurried and near-illegible in places. There are genuine mistakes in the text that alter the meaning (see: use of Draconic ‘grk-hssp’ or ‘spell-energy’ in place of ‘grakh-yssth’ or ‘existence’) and several errors in the encryption that misdirected translators.

… very little left, after panicking and Polymorphing Shay just to get her free of the gelatinous cube. Then one thing after another – the first cloudkill, the drow with the greatsword… Evard’s Black Tentacles. It is pathetic how little it took to reduce me to a mewling, quivering child, helpless, hearing that laughter and feeling (there is an angry scribble obliterating several words, easily mistaken for part of the encryption). Then, of course, Katy’s magic went rogue – she can’t ordinarily cast fireball - just before the drow got off another cloudkill. I can taste it now, and I remember knowing that I had one chance to get through it before I would lose consciousness. And I failed. It should have been death.

Instead, Harper ran into the field, got me out and stabilised me.

He has said that he means me no harm, that he would help, that he would see this done. It can’t be that simple. He is an intelligent and dangerous man, exceedingly skilled in [the Mulhorandi word used here could be translated into Common as ‘politics’, ‘interpersonal dynamics’, or ‘manipulation’]. If you save a life, you must have some further use for it in mind – it’s not an unusual manoeuvre – but in that case, it would be as counterproductive as it was insulting to decline the debt I acknowledged. What in all the Infinite Abyss is his objective?

What does he want from me?

Katy is being irritatingly melodramatic about the whole affair. Anyone with a brain in their head and any familiarity with the Weave can feel the difference between a spell she’s purposefully cast and when her magic goes wild. It’s a wonder any sorcerer survives their own magic – instinct is no substitute for conscious, reasoned control. In the interests of avoiding a repeat incident, I’ve offered to try and teach her. I entertain doubts about the efficacy of the whole business. She’s a child still, but one very set in her undisciplined ways – also, I’ve little knowledge of wild magic, the messy, chaotic, inelegant blight on the Weave that it is - and I very much doubt that the exercises that novice wizards are taught will be much help to her. We approach magic from completely opposite directions. Still. I’ll find a way. I refuse to be defeated by anything so minor as an uncontrolled sorceress and her unshaped magic.

Shay continues to be her contained, sensible self. It is a relief to be able to have a sane conversation in a civilised language with someone whose motives are largely known and whose background is similar enough that I do not have to struggle to make myself understood. I must be more careful; I would not like her to have to return home and confess failure to her elders, and not only because I would be dead at that point.

I suspect I’ll never forget the first time I visited the monastery. I am not squeamish, but I do not comprehend unnecessary cruelty. There is a point beyond which punishment or torture becomes ineffective, even as a deterrent for its witnesses. The monks passed it long ago. There was one specimen; most of his internal organs had been externalised for the education of twenty years’ worth of novice monks. The scarring, the burns, grafts, stitching on the living surface of his lungs… not something I would willingly bring on Shay.

…absolute darkness. Not the mere absence of light, but a void that actively obliterates it. Seventeen. The touch of darkness is a fluid netting, like veins or cobwebs, a warm almost-pressure against my face, enmeshing my hands. Thirty-five. Two serpentine figures, dividing and becoming men, then coming together again. Exchanges of matter.

That part of the dream is easy enough to record. After that… well. I was watching and I was the medium in which they moved, and if the images were unspecific, the sensations were not. I haven’t been troubled by desire that intense in years. There was fear, too, and a sense of familiarity about the men. I thought at one point it might be any pairing of Faraghor, Halvren or Vannos, if it were some trick of my subconscious, but it had the depth and cadence of a genuine dream. I hope it wasn’t, given that such dreams have a tendency to recur – in whole or in element - and once was unsettling enough.

It keeps teasing at the back of my mind - perhaps because of that unplaced sense of familiarity, perhaps because of the lingering and unwelcome disquiet. Inevitable, when control cracks, but nothing I haven’t dealt with before.

(the following line wanders upward and overlaps with previous lines, as though the writer was no longer looking at the page)

Stop watching me write, Harper. I can feel you smirking.

… it’s beautiful. One spell, several days of intense study, and all its secrets would be mine. My fingertips itch, and only touching the spine really soothes them. But I have to think.

My position is not strong enough. As an outsider to the Skullport Enclave, I was always going to attract attention – rather more of it than is compatible with my favoured approaches – and my display in the Tournament was not sufficiently intimidating to make any potential rivals among the Enclave Red Wizards think twice. Any good that might have come from it, I probably undid by my idiotic visit the day before we left. I expect, and have warned the others, that someone will try to claim my prize soon.

There are several options open to me, and myriad ways to achieve them.

Katy’s suggestion to simply walk away with the tome is ludicrous. I see little reason for it… unless she believes that I would unable to adapt or survive outside the order, and would thereby become more dependent, easily exploitable to her ends. She’s shown little sign of that order of thought, but it never pays to underestimate someone. Certainly Harper is capable of that sort of planning, and he could easily steer her in the correct direction... My early training has not left me well-suited me for life out here, true, but I am stronger than they think, and I certainly have no intention of abandoning my life’s purpose for an ill-defined whim.

If I handed it back intact… I would want some leverage to ensure that I was adequately rewarded. Difficult, but not impossible. The main fault with this is, of course, the sacrifice it entails. I want this tome, but there are things I may want more. The possible favour of Metoth Zurn. My advancement in the order. Not to antagonise Zurn further, or to make an enemy of the complete unknown to whom he intended to give the book – assuming the original letter can be trusted in that regard. Skullport is Zurn’s territory, Waterdeep is Daraam’s, and I have their attention now; this is a poor time for risks. My own allies are clearly marked as such and vulnerable.

What Red Wizard worth her robes would walk into the same trap twice?

And yet, I keep tempting myself with the tome. How to use it, then give it to Zurn; how to cover my tracks, assuming he expects it to be active. On one hand, a century is not much time for someone sustained by necromancy; on the other, nobody likes to wait for their advantages. If I had thirty days, Nystul’s Magic Aura could make it appear active – but at the end of the study period, it would be obvious that something was wrong. Moot point; forty-eight hours would not be enough time to put myself entirely out of reach of Zurn or Daraam. I could use a scapegoat.

I have finally mastered Teleportation Circle and Nondetection (absurd, that the latter should have eluded me for so long, however little I like the concept), both of which may prove useful in the near future. It’s pleasing to finally have a use for the two sigil sequences I have memorised.

Interesting developments with Harper. It would appear that, after all these weeks of… I would write ‘innuendo’, but I believe that word suggests a degree of subtlety… they have found a moment of privacy for sex. Or, at least, Harper is willing to have us believe that’s the case, and I estimate the probability is high. Curious, and potentially troubling. I gave him the piece of advice that saved me in similar situations. I know Harper’s value; the drow remains an unknown and extremely dangerous factor.

He thanked me for helping Katy, despite the fact I’ve taught her nothing as yet. He didn’t deny he was kvaleth (a Mulhorandi word, not widely used outside Thay. ‘Superior’, ‘ascendant’, ‘dominant’, or ‘senior’ are possible Common translations, as are ‘responsible’, ‘with power’, ‘with authority’, ‘owed obedience’ and ‘owing protection’) to Katy in their alliance, but appeared genuinely grateful that I’d offered to teach her what he could not. It’s understandable that he would wish her magic under better control, I suppose – it could just as easily have been him within range of her fireball – but perhaps he is not fostering her dependence on him as carefully as I’d thought. He also winced, quite visibly, when I used the word ‘responsible’. Interesting. I suspect it might have something to do with his past, but I still lack sufficient information.

He said he would like Shay and myself to stay with them – giving further weight to the possibility that he was the one behind Katy’s suggestion that I simply walk away from my order. He also raised the subject several weeks before she did. I wish I knew what he was planning.

Shay seems to be drinking less. Possibly she’s come to the end of her alcohol supply after two weeks out in the Underdark, but I suspect there is something else afoot. I deem it inadvisable to press too hard. It appears that Shay may wish to leave the Long Death, but doesn’t believe it’s possible. As I told her, I think it unlikely they could do anything to track her that could not be dealt with, if that was her choice. Here I am, disdaining Harper for not keeping close control of his wastet-le (another Thayan term, the counterpart of the last difficult-to-translate one, indicating the ‘junior’, ‘inferior’, ‘obedient’, ‘protected’ or ‘lesser’ partner in an alliance), while I stand ready to sever the foundation of my alliance with Shay at her word. But I t- (a large ink blot follows the broken word, suggesting that the writer left her pen sitting on the page for some time).

Szass Tam’s pickled balls.

That would be problematic. It appears to be true.

I will have to think about this, and whether I shall inform her of it.

The rest of the page is left blank. When the text resumes, the handwriting is unusually slanted and untidy, and the encryption is almost cursory; the writer appears to have been in a hurry.

Well, how intriguing. Harper has escorted the drow just outside the Tiny Hut spell and is asking him questions. Which the drow is answering. Harper has (present tense, presumably the survivor in control of the family business) a cleric brother, possible fit with some of the things he’s said about the gods. Point of killing the Tyrran? Gave the truth before, impeding activities of his organisation. Difficulties of being on the wrong side of so many gods? The drow implies feeling responsible for an entire people, which requires him to provoke divine wrath, and there is nobody else who would do it properly, ‘we can’t choose whether the gods favour us or not’. Deity he serves? Harper wouldn’t recognise the name, but has nothing to fear on that account. Teach Khem the trick of navigating to Skullport? Shrewd request, will do so on our return.

The usual intricate encryption resumes at this point.

I am exceedingly impressed. That was a great deal of very useful information Harper extracted – and where I could hear it for myself, too, not merely reported to me. Of course, the drow might have been lying – one assumes he is familiar with the properties of the Tiny Hut spell - but it didn’t sound that way. For what that’s worth. I am more interested in Harper’s choice of action, although I will not read too much into it. He is far too good at what he does.

I suppose I should try to sleep… but time is too valuable at this point. What will I do with this lovely book in my lap?

[mrlnsfrt]

Love is... (part 2)

Recap

Before we continue our journey through the book of Ruth in search for a deeper understanding of love, let us briefly review.

The very last verse of chapter one sets the stage for the second act by summarizing the critical information.

So Naomi returned, and Ruth the Moabitess her daughter-in-law with her, who returned from the country of Moab. Now they came to Bethlehem at the beginning of barley harvest. Ruth 1:22 NKJV

At this point the story seems to be all about Naomi, Ruth is merely a tagalong. Naomi has returned, and by the way, Ruth is also with her. 

And by the way, Ruth, she is a Moabitess.

She is not an Israelite, she is an alien and her alien status will cause much tension the story. As a Moabite in an Israelite world she can hardly expect any acceptance with the locals.

Ruth is Naomi’s daughter-in-law so she is related by marriage, but her husband is dead, and she had no children. Meaning she needs help and has no way of getting it and no claim to it.

Also her mother-in-law, Naomi, is someone who fled to Moab during the famine, so she might not be the best Israelite to be associated with if you expect to find grace in the eyes of the locals. Also, her mother in law is also a widow, and has no sons. It would not be a far stretch of the imagination to imagine how the locals might consider her cursed by God.

Naomi has returned empty, except for her daughter-in-law, Ruth, who is both a widow and a foreigner. Things are not looking good, but at least these two women have each other.

Nevertheless, when we consider the season, the time of the year, we catch a glimmer of hope. Naomi and Ruth arrive in Bethlehem in the beginning of the barley harvest. Naomi and Ruth arrived at the house of bread (Bethlehem) just as the grain is ready to be cut. The time period was likely April or early March (by our western calendar).

Since barley was the first crop to be harvested each year their arrival time could not have been more perfect, for they will be settling in during a time when there is plenty of food available for them to store for the dry season. (Block, Daniel Isaac. Judges, Ruth. Broadman & Holman, 1999. p650)

Introducing Boaz

With the new chapter, Ruth chapter 2, we also get a new character.

Boaz.

There are four very importants details about Boaz that we learn from this brief introduction.

1 Boaz is a relative of Naomi’s husband. It is important for us to note that this does not mean that Boaz is an acquaintance of Naomi, but a relative of her husband. If you happen to be familiar with Israelite family law and custom this details will give you hope. But we will not talk about it in more detail just yet.

2 Boaz is described by an ambiguous Hebrew expression. The same expression used to describe Gideon in Judges 6:12. In reference to Gideon the expression is translated as “mighty man of valor, noble warrior, military hero.” (Block, 651) But will Boaz be like Gideon in this sense, a warrior?

Another way of interpreting this phrase would be “man of substance, wealth” (Block, 651) a man of standing in the community. This would mean that Boaz is not just an average Israelite. This will need to be confirmed later on in the story.

Finally this ambiguous phrase could also be interpreted “noble with respect to character” (Block, 651). You would expect this man to be heroic, to save…

The narrator is hinting at something positive about Boaz, but we will have to wait and see which definition will better fit him once we witness him in action.

3 As we already mentioned earlier, Boaz is from the clan of Elimelech. A clan is a subdivision of a tribe. This confirms how Boaz is a relative of Naomi’s husband.

4 The name Boaz could mean “strength is in him” (Andrews Study Bible note) or “In the strength of YHWH [I will rejoice/trust].” (Block, 651)

Ruth takes action

For the first time Ruth is portrayed as the primary actor and Naomi now becomes the reactor. Ruth seizes the initiative. Even though Ruth is an alien in a  foreign land she is determined to make something of her life and she goes to find work in order to provide both for herself and for her mother-in-law.

Ruth politely requests that she may go an glean or “gather scraps.” This is not to be confused with harvesting. Ruth would be picking up ears of grain that were inadvertently dropped or left standing.

Mosaic law displayed particular compassion for the alien, the orphan, and the widow by prescribing that the harvesters deliberately leave the grain in the corners of their fields for these economically vulnerable classes and not go back to gather the ears of grain they might have dropped. (Leviticus 19:9,10; 23:22; Deut. 24:19) 

As a Moabite and as a widow Ruth more than qualified to glean. But she could not count on the goodwill of the locals. Moses had given the people of Israel the law, but the people did not always follow the law. That is why Ruth mentions that she will glean behind someone who will look upon her with favor.

The expression to “find favor in the eyes of” means one person acknowledges her/his dependence upon and need for mercy at the hand of a superior. Usually this would take place in the court of a king. The favor of the superior cannot be taken for granted. (Block, 652)

Ruth is dependent upon the mercy of the men in the field. Keep this in mind for this is one of the key points in this story.

The next part of the story is really interesting. 

"Lucky" Ruth

Ruth 2:3 is best appreciated in the original language. A literal translation would go something like,

"...and her chance chanced upon the allotted portion of Boaz..." 

The narrator intentionally draws attention to Ruth’s luck. What are the chances of her arriving exactly int he field of Boaz?

What an incredible stroke of luck right? 

Or is it?

Either Ruth is extremely lucky, or God cares and guides and blesses her.

This awkward and redundant phrase is one of the key statements in the book. The book of Ruth can be seen as just a love story. But that would make Ruth one extremely lucky woman. Or, perhaps, the book of Ruth is teaching us about God. 

To the devout Israelite, there is no such thing as luck, or chance.

When the writer of the book of Ruth excessively attributes these events in Ruth’s life to chance he is intentionally forcing the reader to disagree with him. The attentive reader is forced to sit up and disagree, especially in light of everything that follows this “chance” encounter. The writer is using irony to drive home a theological truth.

This statement does the opposite of what it says. Instead of interpreting these events in Ruth’s life as mere chance it undermines such an interpretation and undermines the search for purely rational explanations for human experiences. This statement and the entire story in the book of Ruth refine the reader’s understanding of providence.

The writer is actually screaming “See the hand of God at work here!” (Block, 653)

God provided and guided, but Ruth had to decide to go out and glean. Ruth did not stay home feeling sorry for herself and fearing how she might be treated if she tried to glean. She did not wait at home for God to drop food on her lap. She went out there and "lucky" her, she went straight to Boaz’s field.

God’s hand allowed the famine and the death of Naomi’s husbands and sons. The hand of the same God also guided Naomi and Ruth back to Bethlehem at the exact time of the wheat harvest, and it is the same hand that guided Ruth to the field of Boaz. But the "coincidences" don't end here.

Behold Boaz

The attention now shifts from Ruth to Boaz who arrived at the field where Ruth is, while she is still there. The writer seems surprised that Boaz "happened" to show up at the right place at the right time.

Look who’s here! Its Boaz! The guy briefly mentioned at the introduction! Nobody saw that coming right!?

In the providence of God, Ruth went to the right field, on the right day, and at the right time.

Boaz arrives with a blessing on his lips.

Now Boaz was seen coming from Bethlehem. He said to the people gathering the grain, “May the Lord be with you.” And they said to him, “May the Lord bring good to you.”  Ruth 2:4 New Life Version

We see right from the get-go that Boaz provides  a positive work environment for his people. Boaz is a model of true covenant “hesed.” 

Boaz’s speech is characterized from beginning to end by grace. (Block, 655)

When Boaz asks, "whose young woman is this?" (Ruth 2:5) it may sound harsh to our modern western ears, but this question is the equivalent of “Whose daughter or wife is she?” or “To which clan or tribe does she belong?” I know it can still sound chauvinistic to the modern reader, but in its cultural context that information was important. 

The focus of the story returns to Ruth, and the reader begins to wonder about her status as an alien and as a widow.

But Ruth is not only described by her status as a foreigner, but also by her actions, she accompanied her mother-in-law, she had been working hard all morning, except for a short break (verse 7). Ruth is not a passive victim of her lot in life, she is a fighter, she gets things done, she makes things happen, she does not sit idly by the sidelines.

Boaz is also an incredible man, but in a different way. From the moment he first opens his mouth until the last words he speaks his tone exudes compassion, grace and generosity.

“In the man who speaks to this Moabite field worker biblical hesed becomes flesh and dwells among humankind.” -Block, Daniel Isaac. Judges, Ruth. Broadman & Holman, 1999. p659 (emphasis mine)

Boaz refers to Ruth as “my daughter” intentionally breaking down barriers that separate her from him. Like a loving father Boaz offers this foreigner his protection and his resources. Boaz knows she is from Moab, but he treats her with respect, with dignity, with love. There is no hint of physical attraction or anything romantic. This is a love that we are not used to encountering. This is hesed in action. 

Boaz also commands his men not to bother Ruth, the verb used here includes not to strike, harass, take advantage of, or mistreat. (Block, 659-660) Boaz just instituted the first anti-sexual-harassment policy in the workplace recorded in the Bible!

Because Boaz is so in tune with the biblical notion of hesed he is way ahead of his times, and those who work for him are privileged to have such a great leader.

Boaz even allows Ruth to drink from the water his men had drawn. This is extraordinary! The water would usually be drawn in the cool morning, a large container would be filled than brought to the field where the workers would drink from throughout the day. Not only that, the cultural context would expect foreigners to draw water for Israelites and women to draw water for men. (Block, 660)

Ruth cannot believe how gracious Boaz has been to her, a foreigner.

Then she fell with her face to the ground and said to him, “Why have I found favor in your eyes? Why do you care about me? I am a stranger from another land.” Ruth 2:10 New Life Translation

Even though we are not sure if Boaz even knew Ruth’s name at this point, she was just the Moabitess who came with Naomi, he acknowledged her. Boaz has dignified this destitute widow from a foreign land and treated her as a significant person. Ruth is aware of her social status, as not only a widow, but also an alien, from Moab to make matters worse.

Boaz is aware of Ruth’s actions, his extraordinary kindness towards her mother-in-law and her courage in accompanying her in her travels to a foreign land. Later her actions will be characterized as hesed but not yet. (Block, 661) Ruth’s faith in leaving her home and family behind could be compared to Abraham’s faith. Ruth left her gods for Israel’s God.

Boaz is a great example of a good man, a man of noble character as described in Ruth 2:1. Boaz is a genuine member of the community of faith, he is a true believer who embodies the standards of covenant faithfulness (hesed). He spontaneously utters words of encouragement and naturally performs deed of kindness (hesed).

In the beginning of the chapter, Ruth had expressed to Naomi her desire to to glean behind someone in whose eyes she might find favor, although she was not praying at the time, God heard her wish.

Boaz is kind to Ruth because Yahweh has prepared his heart for her!” - Block, Daniel Isaac. Judges, Ruth. Broadman & Holman, 1999. p662

God had been working preparing Boaz, developing him into the man that he is. God was preparing Boaz to bless Ruth. Do you realize that God could is preparing you to bless someone? If you don't fight and rebell against God's will and His plan for your life, He will use you like He used Boaz, to bring great blessings to someone. 

Or perhaps you identify as Ruth, doing your best to help and follow God. God has someone who will bless you.

After all this, Boaz does not believe he has done enough for Ruth, so he blesses her as well. He calls upon the LORD to repay Ruth for her actions.

May the Lord reward you for your work. May full pay be given to you from the Lord, the God of Israel. It is under His wings that you have come to be safe.” - Boaz (Ruth 2:12 New Life Version)

Boaz’s blessing illustrates the principle stated in Proverbs 19:17; 14:31; 17:5.

"Giving help to the poor is like loaning money to the Lord. He will pay you back for your kindness." (Proverbs 19:17 Easy-to-Read Version)

"Whoever takes advantage of the poor insults their Maker, but whoever is kind to them honors him." (Proverbs 14:31 Easy-to-Read Version)

"Whoever makes fun of beggars insults their Maker. Whoever laughs at someone else’s trouble will be punished." (Proverbs 17:5 Easy-to-Read Version)

Ruth, by her acts of kindness to Naomi has not only indebted her mother-in-law but also The LORD. So Boaz prays that the LORD will repay her for her work. In coming to Israel Ruth had turned to the God of Israel for protection. So Boaz introduces one of the most beautiful pictures of divine care in all of Scripture. He describes God as a mother bird who offers he wings to protect her defenseless young. (Block, 663)

Ruth has found relief under the protection of Boaz.

“Like a young chick frightened by the pouring rain, she has come out of her fears and found comfort and security under the wings of God. Those wings are embodied in the person of Boaz.” (Block, 665)

 Ruth is amazed that differences of race and class do not stifle Boaz’ compassion towards her. 

But he was not done.

Meal Time

Social realities were expressed at meal time.

But this meal time was not what one would expect in its cultural context.

For one thing, Boaz, the landowner, is eating with his harvesters. That was already unusual for the time, but Boaz goes beyond that and invites Ruth, an outsider, a Moabitess, to join him and his workers. 

The fact that Boaz has to call her to come closer shows that she had deliberately, and appropriately (according to the customs of her time) kept her distance.

Not only does Boaz invite her to join him and his workers for the meal, he invites her to share the food prepared for his workers.

Boaz does not even allow her to eat dry bread while he enjoyed more pleasant food, but invites her to dip her bread in a sauce or condiment used to moisten and spice up dry bread.

Not only that Boaz served her roasted grain himself. He gave her with his hand, a word used only here in the entire Old Testament.

Boaz is so generous, Ruth eats and has food left over. The writer makes sure to mention this detail to help us grasp Boaz’ generosity. Boaz did not just feed the hungry, but he took an ordinary occasion and transformed it into a glorious demonstration of compassion, generosity, and acceptance — that is exactly the biblical understanding of hesed. (Block, 667)

This chapter, this story, these dialogues, teach and develop a theology of love. In this story we learn that

“The wings of God are not only comforting to Israelites; they offer protection even for despised Boabites.” - Block, 667.

Back to gleaning

 After the meal, Boaz tells his workers to pull out some of the stalks and leave them lying on the stubble for Ruth. His workers are not to humiliate or insult her. Boaz's workers will not threaten Ruth physically or shame her psychologically because of her alien status or the low class she represents just because of her current situation, having to go begging to be allowed to glean in the fields.

Boaz made provisions for Ruth to work in peace and to have enough to support her and her mother-in-law. (Block, 669)

After a long day’s work Ruth gleaned and threshed one ephah of grain. This is the equivalent of roughly 6 gallons which could have weighed from thirty to fifty pounds. The harvesters must have listened to Boaz and allowed Ruth to glean liberally.

Naomi is surprised by Ruth’s productivity and utters a blessing upon the man who took notice of her daughter-in-law.

Her mother-in-law said to her, “Where did you gather grain today? Where did you work? May good come to the man who showed you favor.” So Ruth told her mother-in-law, “The name of the man I worked with today is Boaz.” - Ruth 2:19 New Life Version (emphasis mine)

Once Naomi finds out its Boaz and she realizes Ruth's “luck” Naomi spontaneously erupts with a second blessing for him.

Naomi said to her daughter-in-law, “May he receive good from the Lord, Who has not kept His kindness from the living and the dead.” Then Naomi said to her, “The man is near to us. He is of our family.” - Ruth 2:20 NLV

Ruth stays in Boaz’s field not only until the end of the barley harvest but the end of the wheat harvest as well (Ruth 2:23). Ruth must have been out in the fields 6-7 weeks from late April until early June (by our western calendar).

Conclusion

Boaz has been introduced as an extremely kind and gracious man and as one who qualifies to rescue the line of Elimelech. Though Boaz has helped Ruth and Naomi economically, there are no hints that he is doing anything about the real crisis created by the death of all the male member of the family.

Will this situation be resolved?

How will it be resolved?

For that, you have to come back next week.

Application

For now I hope that we can be like Boaz.

I hope we can live as a personification of God’s love.

Boaz does not shame Ruth, but respects her. He does not judge her by her origin or her current condition or social status, but praises her for her kindness admiring her determination and courage. 

Boaz allows her to provide for herself and her mother-in-law without fear of abuse in any form. He respects her and grants her dignity.

He goes above and beyond the social norms of the time, he breaks the prejudice and crosses lines that the society and culture of his time had erected. 

Boaz was a true Israelite and did what was right. He embodied the love of God. He was blessed by God and blessed those around him.

It is my prayer, that you will also be a blessing wherever you go, breaking down barriers and walls that prejudice builds up. Let us live by God’s standards. Let us teach the world the true meaning of love by how we work and how we treat those around us. Because that is more powerful than any theological truth that might come out of your lips. 

[browniefox]

I Was Abducted By Aliens And All I Got Was This Crappy T-Shirt

Okay, so once upon a time i was writing a fic about Matt... but now he’s back in canon again.

So

I’m just posting what i have of it here. It’s unfinished, but i made up some lore on voltron that i think was pretty neat :3

oOo

You would think that after years in space, doing a thankless, thoughtless work day in a and day out, having to limp wherever you went, one would come to hate space. Logically, somebody would look up at the stars and feel homesickness, would scream at the constellations for not looking correct. Any sane person would come to loath space with their entire being, if not more.

But Matt couldn’t bring himself to hate it.

As he limped in from working in the fields, he’d look up at the sky and see the dark blue-black splattered with shining pinpricks in the distance, and he saw what he’d always seen. He saw freedom. He saw a wide open place just waiting to be explored through human eyes.

Matt found that the small things made all the difference, and Matt was thankful for what he had to thank. He was immensely relieved that he hadn’t been separated from his father. During the day, when they were able to be close to each other, they’d talk. These days, the deep-throated growls of Galran came almost naturally, which was technically good since it seemed to be the most well-known language. But with his father, Matt could speak in English. They’d talk about Katie and Colleen, any scientific discoveries they’d been able to come to during the brutal work hours. Tales that they’d heard from other prisoners would be translated as closely into English as they could get, if only so that they were able remember what their native tongue sounded like and remind themselves that they were able to speak it.

At first, Matt had been afraid to speak English, afraid to speak at all.

“The Galra don’t care.” A furry alien with a scaly tail had told him one night as Matt and the five other prisoners in his cell ate their bland food. Krimr, Matt would later learn. “As long

as we don’t seem suspicious and are working hard, it’s fine. Elgrish, Galran, Repprn, they don’t care. The only language they won’t allow is Altean, and very few speak that particular tongue these days.”

Matt spoke to his father, but it still took him a while to warm up to his cellmates. They had obviously been prisoners for a long time, been in the same cell for most of that time. The five treated each other like family, close knit and comfortable around each other. Krimr was the one who first made an effort to make Matt feel included, and Matt was distantly reminded of back when he was on the same ship as Shiro, of Ymir excitedly and slowly teaching the humans how to speak Galran.

Eventually, he warmed up enough to them to ask the volatile question.

“What is Altean?”

Xtriy nearly choked on his mush. Krimr slapped her hand over her mouth in shock. Prynn gave a small scream. Toei slammed their hand against the wall. It was only Qrie, the eldest of the group, who remained composed.

What flowed from his mouth were sounds not produced from deep down, not hisses and growls and howling. It was hums and whistles and more movement of the tongue than Galran required. The four aliens in the cell’s anxiety seemed to grow at that and Toei kept glancing at the door as if expecting an officer to burst in at any moment.

“That, Matt, is Altean.” Qrie looked rather proud of himself, smiling almost smugly.

“Altea is a legend.” Prynn stated. Immediately Qrie and Krimr looked ready to speak up, but Prynn pressed on before they could. “Altea is a legend because nobody known the myth from the fact. At the beginning of the Galra empire, the beings of Altea rose up against them. They got the closest to defeating the Galra… so the Galra wiped them from existence.”

The cell was quiet the rest of the night.

oOo

The following day, Matt approached his father about the subject.

“I’ve heard of it.” Sam had answered as he cut down a piece of fruit from the stalk. “The prisoners in my cell told me the tales only a little while after I arrived.”

“Tales?” Matt hefted the fruit into the wheelbarrow thing. “I just got the gist of it. They fought the Galra and then died. Which doesn’t seem too different from just about every other extinct alien species.”

“Then I’ll tell you the best one I’ve been told.” Sam offered. “This one is from the very end of the empire. Emperor Zarkon confronted the last ruler of Altea. The King had something of Zarkon’s and he wanted it back. The King informed Zarkon that there was nothing he could do that would make him reveal the location of the lost prize. So the King was sent to the druids. There he was tortured. His mind was picked apart and he was cut up and stitched back up so many times. At the end he was no longer the regal being he had once been. Yet, despite the druids best work, the King never broke. They say, as the druids demanded the location of Zarkon’s possession, he breathed his last breath. And the last breath came out in the form of a word: Allura.”

“Allura?” Matt furrowed his brow. He’d never heard the word before, which meant it must’ve been more volatile than Altea.

“According to the myths, Allura was the name of his only daughter and the next rightful ruler of Altea.”

“So he saw her before he died?” Matt asked. Perhaps over the years Allura had become some type of goddess of death or peace to the prisoners.

“Some believe that. But one of the prisoners in my cell, Olto, says that in history there was never any proof she even died, much less died before the king did. Olto believes the King was calling out to her in hope in his final moment. If Allura never died, then it would not only mean that the Alteans weren’t completely wiped out, and that somewhere out there there are still Royal Altean descendents that may be seeking revenge. And I think that may honestly scare Zarkon. I really do.” Sam shrugged as he said the last part, as if to pretend that he hadn’t obviously put weeks of thought into it.

oOo

“Tell me a myth.”

Matt was lying on the ground of the cell, seeing as the two beds were already taken up by Qrie and Prynn.

“I have one.” Krimr sat up from her position against a wall. “It’s a wonder none of us have told you it yet.”

“The one about Voltron?” Xtriy perked up at the mention. “Oh, can I tell it? I haven’t heard from hope in so long.”

“If you insist.” Krimr gestured at Xtriy to speak.

“Okay, well, according to myth, there was once a great being that watched over the universe known as Voltron. However, despite its strength and speed and size, it was unable to protect every part of the universe. So, in an effort to cover more ground, it tore off its limbs and spread itself across. Each piece of Voltron was a part of the whole and became beasts that watched over their corner. For thousands of years, they have been dormant. But one day, they shall awaken and rise again, uniting into Voltron once more to beat back the Galra and free us all.”

“And you believe it’s real?” Matt asked, and all in the cell nodded vigorously.

“If it wasn’t real, why would the Galra themselves be so afraid of it?” Krimr pointed out. “They talk about it in frightened whispers when their superiors aren't watching. It must be real enough to cause such a reaction.”

“They’re most definitely real.” Toei was staring at the wall, mind clearly focused on some event that happened awhile ago. “My species, we didn’t fall easily. Those of us who weren’t slaughtered were paraded through Emperor Zarkon’s personal ship. I did not speak Galran very well, but Voltron is the same in every language. I could hear him yelling at his men Voltron. Why would an all-powerful being such as he utter the word that could cause rebellion if it wasn’t real?”

oOo

“Dad, have you heard about Voltron?”

The elder Colt shook his head.

“No, it’s never come up before. What is it?” Matt leaned on the wheelbarrow-like object that held the fruit they’d gathered.

“I only know what my cellmates told me, so it’s not like I’m an expert on the subject.”

“I wasn’t asking you to be an expert.” Sam chuckled. How often had Matt held back information simply because it was incomplete? Too many times for Sam to count. It almost reminded him of back at home.

“It was supposed to be a defender of the entire universe that split up into pieces to help it protect it all. Do you think there’s  such a species that could do that? Like, some giant, asexual creature that went dormant hundreds of years ago.” Matt mused.

“I don’t see why not. There’s plenty of things out there that we don’t understand or know about. This one alien I met used to live on a planet that was actually a giant creature. Another’s planet was eaten by an even bigger being. So it doesn’t seem so impossible to me.”

oOo

“There is a new prisoner.”

Matt looked up at the alien, arms ladened with fruit. He didn’t recognize the thing, but the alien seemed to recognize him. It was covered in scars and one of its eyes was missing. It was sizing Matt up.

“There are always new prisoners.”

Sam stepped slightly in front of Matt protectively. The alien’s eyes roved over Sam, before it let out a snort through its nose and let its eyes stare just below Matt’s. The human took this as a good sign.

“But it looks royal. Otherworldly. Unnatural. It looks like you two.” The alien stepped closer. Sam tensed a bit, but allowed the alien’s snout get close to their ears as it whispered. “It looks Altean.”

“We look Altean?” Sam questioned loudly, and the alien slapped one of its hands over Sam’s mouth, head darting towards the overseer not too far from them. When it didn’t move the alien relaxed before looking back at the father and son and nodding.

“The old art of my home depicted those beings of hope. You look like them to the point I almost mistook you as one.”

“Do you know where the other human is now?” How long it had been since they’d seen another human. The last had been Shiro. Shiro, who was surely dead by now. Shiro, who they had mourned together when the father and son had been reunited. The alien opened his mouth, but he never had the chance to speak.

“HEY!”

The English pierced through the air and every head whipped around to the figure standing on one of the overseer platforms. He was wearing a helmet that didn’t match his prison garb. The galra who had stood on the platform lay unmoving at the foot of it.

“GALRA TRASH!” The human, human, continued to yell. “SURRENDER NOW AND YOU WON’T BE DEAD!” The Galra didn’t put their weapons down, though a few looked between them, obviously questioning whether to give in or not. “ALRIGHT THEN, HAVE IT YOUR WAY!”

A giant, green, mechanical lion materialized behind him.

It roared.

A few Galra shot at it, a few guns clattered to the ground, a few ran away.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. There was rebellion in the air. Chaos was everywhere as the prisoners gained the courage to rise up against the Galra. Sam and Matt took the chance to explore their prison. Along the way Qrie and Krimr joined them, whooping in joy as Qrie went crazy with a stolen gun and Krimr beat up just about anything vaguely purple that moved.

“I’ve wanted to do this for many spicolion movements!”

[b4kuch1n]

Blossom Hills

it was going well this afternoon, but then I tripped on something and toppled over. so I guess this doesnt really work but oh well

@crescentmoonrider Im very sorry

Trigger Warning for body horror and death in general. No major character death tho.

Read on AO3 | FF.net | LJ

The first case in Spice City was a quiet one. It was a housewife - they remembered the name Kojiro but weren’t quite sure it was hers anymore - the police found in an apartment on the west side of the city. The newspapers hadn’t been able to put a single image of the body in their report, neither had the six o’clock news show, but there was of course some photos on the internet that were claimed to be from the Incident, as they had been calling it even until now.

Master Reigen could conclude after a glance at the photos in question that they were all photoshopped. Some of them poorly, some of them better, but there was always a mistake somewhere. Visual logic was a complicated thing not many humans could cover fully. Master Reigen was a man of many things, keen observation included; it took time for him to fully debunk every single one of them, but time he did have, and sooner or later all of those photos were discredited. They were still out there, of course, freaking out people surfing the internet at night alone in their room, but they hadn’t blown up the way they could have had everybody trusted the story they told.

Shigeo too could tell that they were manipulated, by the amount and types of flowers. He could see a bit of it on the portrait photo they broadcasted of her, the deceased wife and mother: it was a deep pink. Her breaths, her kind eyes, her grip on the counter she was posing next to. It was Judas flower. Just by the overwhelming scent of flowers he caught every time he came past the building, the floor was probably already covered with Judas flowers when the police got it.

A far enough time into the future, when one of them came across the morning report of that Incident (they always called it that, Incident with a capital I), they would sit down to remind themselves of it again, despite never really wanting to. It was like staring at a rabid animal as you backed away from it: they didn’t want it to sneak up on them ever again. They didn’t want to be vulnerable to it, to forget and wake up the next day to a similar report sounding from the radio on the night counter.

The woman’s name was Kojiro Shimizu.

The first case in Spice City wasn’t the first worldwide, obviously - Kojiro died two days after four people on another continent, but of the same death. Shigeo found Ritsu in his room reading an article about them months after the Incident, when the disease was most rampant. “Two highschoolers, a doctor, and a retired mechanic,” he said quietly when asked. “Except the doctor, all of them were reported missing, then were found overnight.” Printed out online articles and hand-drawn charts were scattered across his table, and he had a death grip on the red pencil they used to correct their own math homework. One of his classmates was confirmed to have caught the disease the day before.

Ritsu was smart and dedicated, but he was (almost all of them were) still a kid. They could stay up night after night trying to draw a conclusion from what seemed to be a conspiracy theory, and in the end it would go nowhere. It did go nowhere. There was no place for them among the saviors of the world.

They all felt that in their bones. Maybe that came with the power they had; the more they could do, the worse they felt about not doing. It was a faulty design they were helpless to change.

An article called the disease Kadan, and the name caught, even though it wasn’t entirely accurate.

Nobody told him to, and nobody asked it of him, but Shigeo kept count of the flowers. They stayed in a corner of his mind, came out as he wrote down was the teacher was saying on his notebook, scribbled in the margin. He remembered the victims he knew that way: name of human associated with name of flower.

By the second year in, most reports had devolved into a brief paragraph giving the deceased’s name in the same sentence as the disease’s, but the first ones during the weeks right after the Incident were much more thorough. What Shigeo thought was that the disease wasn’t much more than a foreign threat then, and its novelty could still get the newspapers some sale.

Those reports were how they knew about the way the victims died, but they couldn’t really bring the image of it into their readers’ mind. People modified photos to try to capture it: bodies on the ground, head covered in flowers like a firework spark in a glass cube, light shone weakly into their final resting place trying to make their death more intimidating. Some junkies were bolder, taking a close-up shot of someone’s head, painting thousands of cracks on their skull from which flowers bloomed. None of those photos could scare Shigeo: the visual was never what bothered him in a situation.

Someone interviewed a witness at a case’s site once, somewhere in the second year of it. “The newspapers say the truth,” the woman said in a plain, almost hollow voice. “We can never find the head. The flowers where the head should be always grow taller than the rest, as if to fill in for the lack of it.”

Coming into the later half of the second year, more and more of the city’s population could confirm that. The novelty was lost, and only then did people start wanting it back.

The TV said once, “Most infected victims were near the scene of another fatality at one point after it happened,” and immediately a silent quarantine was established by the inhabitants of the city. Parents scared their kids into submission. The streets were deserted.

Shigeo and Ritsu’s school closed for inspection after an incident nearby.

Hanazawa came by the Office in the afternoon. “Hope I’m not intruding,” he said as he walked in, “I don’t have school today and nothing in my quarter’s open anymore.”

Master Reigen just flicked his hand at him, disinterested. “‘ea. Find a seat somewhere for yourself.”

Hanazawa found his place next to Shigeo around the glass table they were sitting at. Shigeo was tapping out a rhythm he remembered from a long time ago while Ritsu was copying something from his phone to a blank page in his notebook. Hanazawa seemed to recognise the words being written down.

“Kujiwara,” he said. “I remember that name from the newspaper a week or so ago. Kadan, wasn’t it?”

Ritsu didn’t answer. Hanazawa didn’t ask more, but there was a hard look in his eyes.

They talked about school, clubs, their day, anything but the crisis going on. Shigeo told Hanazawa about the field out next to the train station. They exchanged stories about pets and weird people they’d met.

The street was quiet when they went home - Hanazawa left with them and took a different turn a little bit farther down the road. Even as they checked their itinerary carefully to avoid incident sites, their voice was blanketed in a barren calm.

They made it home. They made it to the next morning. So did Hanazawa.

It took time for Shigeo to realise that he wasn’t scared. It only came to him after he had figured out that other people were scared, and had gotten over the unfamiliarity of that idea.

Despite being called rampant, the disease never killed too many people in a night. It was an awful thought to think, but it was the truth: no more than three cases were ever discovered every week. It was a steady and silent pace; they watched as the disease grew like moss, eating up the city inches at a time, putting its mark in their life one report, one article, one piece of banter at a time. Thanks to the TV and the internet, they knew that somewhere there was a battle, but more than anything that knowledge gave them a juxtaposition.

Shigeo realised Ritsu was scared when he fell asleep at his desk one night, red pencil in hand, frantic lines crisscrossed between keywords trying to get anything at all out of the sea they were all submerged in, a few paragraphs about rumors circled with the note it can’t end like this scribbled below. He realised his parents were scared when he saw them standing at the end of the stairs after he answered their wake up call a moment later than usual. He realised Master Reigen was scared when he glanced at his screen while walking past it to see articles in all kinds of language pulled up next to a translation engine. He realised how scared the city was by the silence outside. People smiled and talked and walked, but a lot of them were trying to keep it up. Some of them failed, and the waves washed over them until they stood up again.

Shigeo wasn’t scared. He worried some, of course, taking care to avoid incident sites and did what was recommended to them by the authorities, but he wasn’t afraid by any mean. Maybe it was the quiet that subdued his fears, or maybe it was the others’ fears that masked his in their midst. Maybe he was already familiar to the waves. He had seen a lot, maybe something from that list had taken that reaction away from him.

Hanazawa called them during lunch some days after Salt middle school was out of quarantine. There were only Shigeo, Ritsu, and some other kids from the media club in the classroom, the media kids helping one of them - Amano, Shigeo remembers from an encounter in the school’s lab before midterm - planning a love confession. Ritsu plugged his borrowed earbuds in.

“I think it’s love,” Hanazawa said, silently. Ritsu’s brows furrowed at that.

“What do you mean?”

“Kadan. You asked me about that a while ago, Younger Brother, didn’t you?”

“Not really,” Ritsu said. Hanazawa shrugged it off.

“Yeah. I knew two girls from my school who contracted Kadan last week. They both confessed to someone and was rejected right before they died. I think that’s the trigger, since if it’s airborn and doesn’t need anything to develop then we would all be dead by now.”

The thought of it was absurd - a disease triggered by love, of all thing - but Shigeo, like Ritsu and Hanazawa and Master Reigen, was already the embodiment of absurdity itself, so he listened on. “That doesn’t cover Hoshino’s case,” Ritsu argued. “He didn’t have a wife or a lover.” Hoshino died in his apartment near their neighbourhood. The man had mostly been a forgotten face because of his quiet personality, until after his death. He was buried by a relative who lived in the south.

The line went quiet for a moment while Hanazawa looked up Hoshino’s death. “But he has a dog. It died about two weeks before him, right?”

They processed that information.

“Someone in my quarter was like that too,” Hanazawa said. “I think her name was Yuuko. She posted something about her friend since childhood bringing her into a fraud deal days before her death.”

“Strong affection overthrown,” Ritsu mumbled. “Of any kind.”

“Terrible,” Hanazawa said. “But at least we have an idea of how to not die now, right?”

They doubted the idea, and even until Amano was found in the media club’s room, laying among yellow carnations with his head nowhere to be found, the doubt lingered. Shigeo guess it was because the claim couldn’t be proven fully, but maybe it was just that they couldn’t wrap their head around it. It was a faulty design, for them to be unable to take on an idea to examine it.

Some people came to the same conclusion as Hanazawa; the internet was full of discussions and heated arguments around it. None of it changed the fact that it was a variable no one could control, but the idea stayed in people’s mind.

A death by heartbreak. Plenty could be sung about that.

Hanazawa came by their house sometimes. He stayed in Shigeo’s room the whole duration of his visits, bringing some snack he had at home or bought on the way. Shigeo’s parents knew his name and face. Unnecessary pleasantries lessened.

For all of his boisterous exterior, Hanazawa’s visits were quiet. They talked, Ritsu and him about incidents and theories, Shigeo and him about everything else. Hanazawa seemed to seek their presence more than conversations, and they gave him that without too much inquisition.

Shigeo talked to him about the fear he didn’t have one day. “I can feel it too, actually,” Hanazawa said. “The fear in the air. Everyone’s afraid. You aren’t at all wrong, Kageyama-kun.”

“Are you?” Shigeo asked him. “Afraid, I mean. Are you scared?”

Hanazawa didn’t say anything for a bit, and they sat there in silence. His eventual answer was, “I’m not. Same as you, Kageyama-kun.”

Shigeo didn’t ask more. He just thought Hanazawa deemed himself out of the disease’s reach. It didn’t mean they lived happier by any mean, but it was what it was.

Kojiro Shimizu’s husband died of Kadan sometimes around then. A salt cedar tree bloomed flowers where his head should be.

Sooner or later, they found out more about the disease. Morning news shows became a whirlwind of myths and informations and proofs - they heard Hanahaki and new strain and airborne and pollen thrown around frequently - and soon all of it became white noise.

A list of possible symptoms was broadcasted on the six o’clock news one evening well into the later half of the second year, and then printed out and stuck on every surface possible in schools and bureaus. Master Reigen had it taped on his desk, probably to keep the panic to himself and not scare off clients. Shigeo had learned it by heart. Headache, breathing difficulties, sensitive and watering eyes. Headache, breathing difficulties, sensitive and watering eyes. People chanted the mantra.

According to the informations given by the news, the headache became more and more extreme the closer the victim got to the disease’s last stage. “How extreme are we even talking here?” Mom had asked. “Headaches are pretty common.”

“Probably, like, out of our imagination,” Dad said as he poured the soup into his bowl. “I mean it’s flower blooming in your head. Can’t imagine something that hurts worse than that.” They glanced at Shigeo, as if to see if he was still there, then looked away, and the conversation carried forth.

Shigeo was silent during dinner. He had some idea of out-of-imagination pain, but it wasn’t much more than an impression.

Ritsu never stopped his research, even after Hanazawa’s idea that he shared with them. He started reading up about Hanahaki - something the news mentioned - and covered his desk with notes about it. Shigeo and Hanazawa played the role of his sounding board, trading a sentence or two every once in a while as Ritsu mumbled on about diseases, Hanazawa sometimes chiming in with a question. Informations about Hanahaki was hard to come by on the internet, but they scourged up enough to deduce that it was an extremely rare and usually fatal illness. Kadan seemed to be a new strain of it, if what the news said was true.

Hanazawa stayed for the night; they sat in Shigeo’s room, Ritsu on his phone trying to find out more, Hanazawa and Shigeo taking in the silence. They had been up to too much out of place silence, to feel it again without the weight was comforting.

At two in the morning, Ritsu spoke up. “There’s a tab on a health society’s website. They list the known cases of Hanahaki in Japan. There was one in Spice City a dozen of years ago.”

“What are you gonna do with that anyway?” Hanazawa asked, quietly.

Ritsu looked down at his phone. It took him a while to answer. “I’m going to ask around for a bit. Look through the hospitals’ documents. That society only has two member hospitals in Spice City.”

Hanazawa waited equally as long to continued. “This won’t help anyone.”

Shigeo expected Ritsu to snark at that, but in the end the reply was “I know.”

Ritsu went through with his plan a month later, to find out about a Megumi Furuya who died at the age of twenty. And about what Shigeo had always known.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said to Shigeo, and it sounded like an accusation.

There wasn’t really anything to tell, mostly because he didn’t remember much: he was eight when the occasional tests stopped. He was declared healthy. The hospital hadn’t questioned it much, because he was one of the youngest one to be diagnosed with Hanahaki, and the symptoms didn’t show too clearly at that age. They had chalked it up to a misdiagnosis and let him go.

Ritsu had a better idea of that, Shigeo thought. He, like Shigeo, had a different viewing angle at the world than the common people. Human error meant a lot more to them.

Ritsu didn’t ask him more about it. The only thing he asked was whether it had hurted, and Shigeo’s honest answer was that he didn’t remember. That was how he cured himself of it.

Hanazawa invited Shigeo out for a walk on a weekday when Black Vinegar middle school was under quarantine. He seemed a bit tired, but got his energy back after a strawberry parfait.

Shigeo showed him the field next to the train station. “It’s even more beautiful than what I imagined,” Hanazawa had said, and Shigeo was glad of it.

They sat on the grass in silence. When the sky shifted to a violet-tinted orange, Hanazawa told Shigeo, “ There’s this art cafe I think you’d like, but an incident happened there last week. It’s been closed since then.”

“What was the name?” Shigeo asked.

“Higashi. It was on the news that morning.”

The name was white to his senses. Shigeo remembered it. Tulip.

Hanazawa waited a bit before continuing. “He fell asleep at a booth in the corner. He brought his wife’s framed picture with him. The flowers covered the whole booth.”

“It sounds like you were there when it happened.”

Hanazawa nodded.

There was a beat of silence between them, and then Shigeo asked, “Did it scare you?”

“No, actually,” Hanazawa laughed. “His head didn’t even explode. It just got engulfed in tulips, and then it was gone. I think the flowers absorbed all of it or something. Took only a minute.”

For the first time, Shigeo imagined the scene fully.

“It was a quiet way to go,” Hanazawa said from next to him. “But I think it’s better than some deaths I’ve known.”

The death rates slowed down for a bit when the third year came, but the silence never really left.

Ritsu’s researches trailed off slowly since he got the knowledge of Shigeo’s old condition. Shigeo was neither glad nor worried of it, but he did take notice. He had an idea of what Ritsu might be thinking of - events that happened near each others raise the idea of them being linked to each others in one way or another.

He himself didn’t know the concrete answer, if he was to be honest to himself. Maybe his power did burn the illness out. Maybe the pain did come before his control was torn away from him and not after. Maybe his lungs did burn and the flowers did come up, but just never made it out. What he knew was that the flowers were attached to a piece of the affection he had and what came with it, and some of it was burned off along with them. Like a table losing a leg, he was on the brink of toppling over for a while; but in the end it grew back.

Maybe it could work that way for Kadan too, he thought. Maybe they could burn out the pain, and if they were lucky the emptiness would fix itself.

He didn’t know how many people would take that chance.

Hanazawa started hanging out frequently at the Office. He behaved, so Master Reigen didn’t complain. He was always there when Shigeo came by, strained smile and hands balled up on his thigh.

They didn’t really have conversations anymore; it felt more and more like Hanazawa was content with just Shigeo’s presence. He sometimes tagged along when they went out for a case, but left them to their work mostly. “My power’s not worth much when I can’t concentrate,” he said with a wink when Shigeo asked him. Shigeo let it go.

On a day when Hanazawa wasn’t there, Shigeo told Master Reigen about his old condition. “I’ve heard talk of Hanahaki,” Master Reigen said thoughtfully, “but never much. This is a big deal, Mob. Maybe we can help someone out with it.”

Master Reigen’s optimism carried them on to their next cases, and sooner rather than later, someone came by because of unbearable headache. Her name was Saeki. “I got spikes at night when I sleep next to my wife,” she told them. “It’s bad enough to wake me up. I’m tired of this.”

Master Reigen looked at her carefully before asking questions. “Have you been having trouble breathing lately?”

Miss Saeki shook her head. “No, I don’t think so… You think I caught Kadan?”

“I’m not ruling it out, but even in that case I might be able to help you. The troubles with breathing come later than the headache, so we can’t confirm anything yet. Have you been doubting you wife’s fidelity?”

Miss Saeki was stunned into silence for a moment. “What? I— no— why are you asking this?”

“I don’t ask unnecessary question, Saeki-san,” Master Reigen said, tapping his finger on the desk. “So please answer truthfully.”

It took Miss Saeki a while to be able to say the words out loud. “Ye— Yes. I have.” She grimaced as the sentence left her mouth. She was sweating.

She and her wife were scheduled for another consultation the day after. With both of their agreement, Shigeo and Master Reigen did what they could. While Master Reigen performed, Shigeo put his hand on Miss Saeki’s. He gripped firmly on the flowers - geranium - and tore them out. They withered into dust.

Miss Saeki was crying when he signaled Master Reigen to stop. Her tear smelled of flower. “It’s gone,” she said when they asked if she could still feel the headache, and a smile tentatively bloomed on her lips.

They watched it wither when she looked from them to her wife.

Hanazawa was there with them that afternoon. He was quiet through the whole process.

Ritsu heard of that event from Hanazawa, in a morning when they were coincidentally at the same place and without Shigeo.

Shigeo found him in his room reading through records of Hanahaki he copied from his in-and-out visit at the hospitals. There were pollens and contagion and development scribbled in his notebook, and red lines running between them in confusion. Shigeo didn’t know what to do more than to leave Ritsu to his thoughts.

All Ritsu could figure out after that night was that the later into development the illness was, the deeper the flowers took root, but it seemed to always be around a concrete feeling. It wasn’t a satisfying deduction by any mean, but he traded it with Hanazawa anyway. They talked in silent voices through the morning.

The six o’clock news that evening bought them some informations on the process of finding a cure for Kadan. “At least they’re onto something,” Mom said, but they were wary of hope yet.

“The scientists at Kanto Health Council HQ hope to fully engineer a cure based on their already ongoing research of Hanahaki,” the news lady on the TV said. “Until there is more update on the situation, please follow the established health code strictly to avoid contracting this disease.”

They were silent after that.

Hanazawa kept his calm facade, but only barely. Shigeo could tell that the pain was tearing at it. They went to a park near the Office - that was as far as Hanazawa could make it before he needed to take a break - and sat on the grassy hill near the lake, basked in the silence.

“It can’t possibly be worth more than your life,” Shigeo said to Hanazawa. He was quiet in response.

Only when they stood up to go back did he say something. “I can’t imagine a life without it.”

“You did live that life once,” Shigeo pointed out. “And there’s a chance that whatever affection you’re feeling will come back. You’re closer to me when it comes to power, maybe it’ll work for you as it did for me.”

Hanazawa smiled. “You know I wasn’t afraid before, Kageyama-kun,” he said in an even voice. “Now I am. The me before you could never have admitted this in any circumstances, and I’m afraid of that as much as of this damn disease right now.”

Hanazawa didn’t wake up from his nap two days later at the Office. Shigeo and Ritsu came by after a call from Master Reigen.

The scent of lilac was overwhelming when they walked in. Shigeo was tense with guilt. He recounted every moment he could have just gotten it done that he could remember since they tested the cure, went through them silently in his head as they sat down on the floor next to the couch where Hanazawa lay. Suddenly all of them seemed more plausible.

“He was in love with you,” Ritsu mumbled to himself, turned the clue over and over to find a solution. “Maybe just a confession… maybe that’d be enough. Maybe just affection towards him can override…”

“It’s not gonna work, Ritsu,” Master Reigen said, closing the door. “It depends on him. He knows Mob’s answer already.”

Ritsu heard it, but he kept muttering to himself. His hands came up to cover his eyes tiredly.

If only there were a bit more time, Shigeo thought. Suddenly he was so sure of that. If only I had a bit more time.

“Affection,” Ritsu mumbled. “Lilacs. Acceptance. It’s acceptance - it’s an established balance— of— overthrown affection. Maybe if we upset the balance…”

Master Reigen put one hand on his shoulder. “Do it, Mob.”

If only, Shigeo chanted.

The sky was pink when he dove in. It took him a moment to realise that was just the lilacs.

He joined Hanazawa in an overgrown patch.

It was silent under the pink sky.

“If you burn the flowers,” Hanazawa said, “there will be nothing left.”

Shigeo didn’t want to believe him, but his voice was honest. There was no facade here.

I took him longer than it should have to say the words, but he did in the end. “It could have happened, Hanazawa-kun.”

Hanazawa laughed, tiredly, humourlessly, bitterly.

“You’re scared,” Shigeo got the words out. “I’m scared too. Finally I’m scared of this. I think it's guilt and regret I’m feeling. I don’t want this to happen.”

“Why?” Hanazawa asked, hiccupping. “I’ve already figured it’s not that bad a way to go. As long as I get to— I get to keep the affection. I would have been fine with it.”

“We wouldn’t have,” Shigeo said. “Master Reigen and Ritsu and me. If only I could have a bit more time.”

“If only,” Hanazawa echoed. “If only.”

They stayed there for a long time before he said anything more. “I’m scared to take the chance.”

The lilacs started to simmer. The sun was up, slowly.

Shigeo nodded.

“I am too. But you’ve made the choice already.”

Hanazawa was crying when Shigeo finished. It took him another three hours of sleep to wake up fully.

“You said something about the balance,” Shigeo said when Ritsu looked at him at one time in that afternoon. “Maybe that’s what it was.”

They went out for dinner after that. Master Reigen brought them to a ramen shop he discovered a while ago while on a case. It was thankfully still open amidst the rampant health crisis. They were silent through most of it, Hanazawa focusing more on his food than any ongoing conversation. It gave Shigeo an odd, barren peace.

Hanazawa still smelled of lilac months later, whenever they met. Shigeo grew used to it as they sat in silence, the morning report sounding from the radio in the living room. The streets were always a bit more deserted than it used to be when they walked it, each following their own thoughts. They didn’t avoid the incident sites anymore.

A cure was found by the end of the third year, and Hanazawa got it. Sometimes later a vaccine was developed too, and soon Kadan withered.

Kojiro Shimizu and her husband was buried next to each other. People remembered the location, as if it was a warning about the faulty design that allowed a person to die of heartbreak. They covered her tombstone with roses.

Shigeo and Hanazawa stopped there one afternoon when they went out for a walk. Hanazawa brought roses with him. “I can’t remember the pain,” Hanazawa said after having put the flowers on Kojiro’s tomb. They chased away the lingering scent of Judas flowers. “Sometimes I think it should be there, but it’s not, and I feel like it’s not right like this.”

“That was how I was cured,” Shigeo told him, and it seemed to be good enough of an answer.

They sat there for a while, under the golden twilight.

“Thank you,” Shigeo said to him when they stood up. “For being not afraid with me. And then for being afraid with me.”

Hanazawa smiled.

Together, they walked down the hill.

[hellofastestnewsfan]

The former U.S. Poet Laureate W. S. Merwin died last week at the age of 91. His writing career was exceptionally long and decorated: It spanned nearly seven decades, generated hundreds of poems and translations, and garnered rare honors, including two Pulitzer Prizes and a National Book Award. But even in the early years of his career, with dozens of poetry collections and awards still ahead, Merwin’s writing for The Atlantic was weighted with melancholy expectations of a premature ending.

“Send me out into another life / lord because this one is growing faint / I do not think it goes all the way,” he wrote in “Words From a Totem Animal,” first published in the January 1969 issue. This feeling—that life, and with it the chance to reach some undefined goal, is slipping away—permeates his poetry. “A Door,” published in 1971, anticipates that “long after I have gone … / there in front of me a life / would open.” In 1967’s “Fly,” a pigeon is found “in the dovecote dead” before it can learn to fly or to protect itself. A sun sets; an era ends; a dark figure passes by. Meanwhile, Merwin’s speakers wait, often fruitlessly, for something essential to arrive.

Sometimes, the sense of loss Merwin writes of doesn’t come from death, but simply from standing still in a moving world. In “Chord,” published in The Atlantic’s July 1987 issue, he envisions progress outpacing another poet, John Keats, who “lay with the odes behind him” as “an age arrived when everything was explained in another language.” In his reflective 1967 poem “In the Winter of My Thirty-Eighth Year,” Merwin describes his own hollow sensation of being left behind by the march of time:

There is nothing wrong with my age now probably It is how I have come to it Like a thing I kept putting off as I did my youth … Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars It is my emptiness among them While they drift farther away in the invisible morning.

Yet Merwin’s work finds meaning in the apparent emptiness of lost time and fruitless striving. Writing about Merwin’s 1970 poetry collection, The Carrier of Ladders, in The Atlantic, the magazine’s poetry editor, Peter Davison, observed: “As [the] title reveals, a man who carries a ladder holds not only the rungs and sidepieces but the spaces between them, and the ladder enables us to use those very spaces to rise.” Merwin built rhythm and structure not only with words, but also with white spaces by omitting punctuation. He marshaled frustrated moments of stillness toward action and clarity of feeling.

[Read: W. S. Merwin’s poems of ethical care]

Even as the goals in his poems go unrealized—the sound isn’t heard; the door doesn’t open; the pigeon doesn’t take flight—some understanding or hope often grows out of the attempt to achieve them. In the middle of his search for a unified self in “Words From a Totem Animal,” he considers: “Maybe I will come / to where I am one / and find / I have been waiting there.” It’s a pattern of circularity that recurs throughout his poetry. In his 1995 poem “Green Fields,” Merwin describes a farmer who holds on to his belief in heaven as the world around him deteriorates, and ultimately finds in the afterlife an echo of his earliest years:

the wall by his bed opened almost every day and he saw what was really there and it was eternal life as he recognized at once when he saw the gardens he had made and the green fields where he had been a child and his mother was standing there

In 1999’s “Term,” Merwin writes a similar ending to the search for just the right word: “who would ever have thought it was the one / saying itself from the beginning through / all its uses and circumstances to / utter at last that meaning of its own.” Again and again, his speakers seek an elusive revelation, only to find that what they sought was present all along.

In a sense, the familiarity of these endings renders futile all the searching and waiting that Merwin describes; to return to Davison’s metaphor, the poet climbs a ladder only to come back to the same place. But the ending also redeems the empty steps that came before it. If Merwin, at 38, regrets putting off his life and letting the stars drift away from him, then discovering a heaven that reflects his childhood or a perfect word that he’s always known gives new significance to those apparently hollow or unremarkable experiences. Instead of climbing over his past toward a higher point, he sees his whole past elevated to the height he aspired to reach.

He also finds a kind of melancholy hope in the promise of continuation—of the climb going on, in a sense, after he’s left the ladder. A door opens in the space he no longer occupies, or Keats’s poems are still read in an age with a new language. In “Direction,” first published in 1979, Merwin wrote about a lecturer imparting wisdom to his students, “giving them his every breath        to take with them like water / as they vanished / nobody was coming back that way.” And in 2001’s “In the Open,” he imagined looking up at the night sky and seeing long-dead stars that “by then / were nothing but the light that had left them”—a light “that had traveled so long ... / to become visible / to us.”

Merwin’s body of work remains, after his death, as its own hopeful continuation. The poet is no longer writing, but he’s survived by his poems: his own kind of light, traveling beyond him into the dark.

from The Atlantic https://ift.tt/2TWgnSp