#I never had those mythology books either. I think they’re still on the shelf in my older sibling’s room

[energon-with-a-curly-straw]

Just spent the day going through our old toys for organizing the basement. I feel like I deserve extra credit for the gender chapter of my sociology course 😭

[onwesterlywinds]

One Last Step

So still this broken melody And therewith shoulder thee One last step only leaving An empty hearth down by the sea

Content warning for suicide. | Contains spoilers through 5.0.

I.

In the weeks before the Calamity, Ahtynwyb Eynskyfwyn often dreamt of a tempest of mythological proportions. In those dreams, the storm would bring itself to bear against the mighty cliffs of Quarterstone, upon which perched her grandparents' cabin. The seas would rise in a deafening pulse with waves fit to level any lesser artifice, breaking against the wall of stone and sending their spray up into the blustering sky.

And she would stand alone at the top of those cliffs and know, even in her dreams, that naught would ever be the same again.

II.

The Cabinet of Curiosities held a trove of books. Throughout her travels, throughout her journeys through ruins long forgotten and civilizations engulfed in war, she had wondered every now and again what works she would preserve if forced to do so - if the only remaining testaments to a culture were the things that she and others like her could carry on their backs and in their minds.

She had seen Doma's answer; Ala Mhigo's, too, was becoming clearer by the day. But the Crystarium's had taken her by surprise for the sheer breadth of it: thousands upon thousands of tomes encompassing the last vestiges of mankind. Each book contained not only knowledge, but the dreams of those who had carried it to safety and given it up for the betterment of all. Each book had been entrusted to the community and its future, free for any to peruse.

And after no more than a morning of taking stock of the catalog, Ahtyn left the library to explore the Crystal Exarch's private collection.

She scanned the topmost shelf in his study, her heart pounding in her ears, until she laid eyes upon a tome she'd spotted from afar earlier in the week. Though slightly shabbier around the edges, its pages far more yellowed than she had remembered, she could not have mistaken it for the world. Her feet carried her across the room in a daze. Once she lifted the book from on high, she massaged the intact spine; as she flipped through the volume leaf by leaf, she found not a single page missing.

No book in the Cabinet of Curiosities could mean as much to her as this one, for none of the books beyond this room had come from the Source. None of them had traveled across time and worlds in the very subject they depicted - the Crystal Tower - and not a single one had been her favorite companion as a child.

Her eyes filled with tears as they rested upon the opening lines:

Once upon a time, four young Warriors of Light journeyed forth to right the wrongs of Allag.

III.

It had been bound to happen sooner or later. Looking back, she had ignored all signs from the beginning that her first-ever adventuring party had not been meant to last. One of their number had an ego; another prioritized too many commitments back home; another found fault with everything the others did. Ahtynwyb, for her part, had spent too much of her time smoothing over the fissures emerging in their group with each passing day. Regardless of how or why they had gone their separate ways, the excuses for why they would never have been a team worthy of legend brought her no comfort.

And on a more practical note, her lack of a party left her that much further from entering the Binding Coil of Bahamut.

Though if she were in the Binding Coil, she thought, she wouldn't be able to see the stars over Silvertear. She could stare at that dusk sky forever, with its gathered clouds still purple-hued over the lake and the Crystal Tower shattering the horizon.

She would be inside that tower soon enough. That had to count for something.

"Ahtyn!"

Cid made to throw her some sort of bread but then, noticing the book in her hands, jogged it over to her instead. It was a flaky pastry the size of her face, wrapped in paper and filled with spiced vegetables and cheese. "Fresh from the Toll. Figured you could do with a pick-me-up after running around the lake all day."

"Thanks, Cid."

Either Cid hadn't yet seen her teary eyes, or he had enough grace not to comment on them. "What's that you're reading? Something of the Scions'?"

She shook her head. "No, I've had this one for a while. It was my grandpa's." She closed the pages on her index finger, the better for him to see the cover emblazoned with the very tower before them without losing her page. "Just some old stories. They're a little childish, but they've always been kinda nostalgic, you know?"

Cid let out a long, low whistle, then thumped her on the back a little harder than she had been expecting. "G'raha!"

From where he sat at the center of Saint Coinach's Find, the young man's ears perked up in the middle of his swig of ale; he jumped to his feet in a single fluid motion. "Y-Yes?"

"You said the key to the tower was in legends, yes? Something that the ancients wouldn't have thought to preserve via tomestones?" Cid beckoned G'raha over with a wave of his arm. "You're going to want to see this."

IV.

"Find what you were looking for, then, hero?"

She gave so great a start that she very nearly dropped her book. Emet-Selch leaned against the closed study door, examining a nearby desk and all the clutter the Exarch had left lying atop it. Ahtyn opened her mouth to tell him he wasn't supposed to be in there, then, given the nature of her own trespass, thought better of it.

"I did," she replied, cautious of the venom with which he spoke the word "hero." "And now I'm going to stay in here and read. Alone."

Emet-Selch cast a conspicuous glance at the tome's cover and heaved another of his sighs. "Hmph. How very tedious."

She pointedly ignored him and turned a page.

V.

"And you say this book has been in your family for generations?" Rammbroes murmured. He rubbed the back of his bald head, a sure sign that he was deep in thought.

G'raha Tia turned the book over to reexamine the front cover, even holding it up to where the tower stood to their north. It was a perfect representation, down to the positioning of each crystalline turret. "Despite the fact that the Crystal Tower has not been seen in millennia," he said, echoing Ahtyn's thoughts perfectly. He returned the book to her, bequeathing it as gently as one would hand over a tool of one's trade. "Could your family be descended from survivors of the Allagan Empire, perhaps?"

She shrugged. "I guess there's that chance, but... we're farmers on one side, and pirates on the other."

"After thousands of years, one could never truly know where one's ancestors-"

"What I meant was," she interrupted, "I think if we were descended from Allagans, we'd have way more family stories to tell about how we single-handedly saved the world."

G'raha squinted at her, then at Rammbroes, who was chuckling somewhere over her shoulder. "She's described Roegadyn culture in a nutshell for you," Rammbroes specified.

VI.

"But how can you throw together two whole worlds without things getting smushed?" she had asked her grandfather once during the climax of one of his stories. "Wouldn’t that hurt a lot of people?"

"Sometimes," he replied. "But other times, it’s just what everyone needs. Ye know what the stories say happens when there’s nothin’ but light. Sooner or later, the darkness comes back, and then what’re ye left with? Ye’ve got to have some some darkness to balance out that light once in a while, aye. Because it’s not light that brings the heroes home at the end, Liveen - it’s balance."

VII.

"What is it that so captivates you about that book, then?" Emet-Selch asked some twenty-odd pages later. She had no idea if he'd ever left the study at all - but strangely, even after his constant pestering in the Rak'tika Greatwood, she found him something of a welcome presence. There was, after all, no danger of him revealing her.

"It reminds me of my grandpa. And of a lot of friends."

He let out a noise that might well have been a yawn. "How quaint."

"I thought you were supposed to be a big fan of stories like this one."

"This may surprise you, but omniscience is not among my many talents. I'm afraid I don't know the first thing about it."

"Sprawling epics, dramatic motivations, tragic flaws. I thought Solus ate that shit up." The mention of that name caused him to stop examining his gloves and start actually looking at her. "At least," she continued, with some smugness, "that was what I heard on the Prima Vista."

Emet-Selch's lips twitched into a brief smile as he let out a barely perceptible chuckle, leaning to rest against the nearest wall with folded arms. "So my grandson's suspicions were well-founded: you did meet with Jenomis after all."

"I have."

"He spoke truly. I never will say no to a well-constructed story - particularly not from a master of their medium, as Jenomis is. It's fitting that you were able to bear witness to one of his performances. I can only imagine his resultant works will be better served for your collaboration."

Her eyes were too busy tracing the next line of text-

For why would the hero have thought to look for the villain in her own shadow?

-to immediately register Emet-Selch's words. By the time she did, they took her somewhat aback. "...I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

VIII.

"Hey. Alphinaud."

The crunching footsteps to her right slowed but did not halt. The fulm-deep Coerthan snow made it difficult for them to traverse side by side, but despite lacking her long stride, weather-resistant armor from the Crystal Tower and overall affinity for the cold, Alphinaud had always preferred to keep an even pace with her on the road whenever possible.

"You okay?"

Alphinaud did not stop, even surpassing her on the wooded trail. He made some small noise to indicate he was paying attention but otherwise did not turn to look at her.

"Don't worry. It should start to warm up once we get closer to Mor Dhona, especially around the next hill."

He gave another noncommittal nod, though he shivered a bit through his tunic.

"I wanted to ask you something," she continued. She followed in his steps, mostly so as not to leave him behind - but also, if she had learned anything over the past few weeks, it was that eyes and ears truly were everywhere, and that a misplaced shout could be fatal. "While it's just the two of us." The understanding that Haurchefant would be too overbearing to take part in such a delicate conversation would have to go implied.

"G-Go on," said Alphinaud.

"What Ilberd said, back at the Observatorium, about the prisoners he'd taken into custody." She waited. "About how they would be thoroughly interrogated."

"Do you find fault with his methods? If so, allow me to raise your concerns with him. I imagine he would be amenable to finding an alternative method of..." He trailed off, presumably to search for an acceptable word.

"Gathering intelligence?"

"Precisely."

"You're well within your rights to ask him what his methods actually are, Alphinaud," she said. "And to tell him to stop, if he goes further than you'd like. But if he's one man operating alone, without your oversight-"

"Thank you, my friend," Alphinaud snapped, "but I would rather we speak of something else for the remainder of our journey."

They continued their trek back to Mor Dhona in utter silence.

IX.

The waves over Quarterstone had ebbed since the Calamity, but the ocean still reached a far greater height than she remembered from her youth. She would never get used to such a view, even less so now that her grandparents' house no longer stood: it had been drawn over the cliffs not even a year after their family had relocated to Moraby, its foundations too weathered to withstand the constant onslaught from a changed world.

Grehswys merely sipped at her wine, looking as much at the road on which they had traveled as she was at the horizon they'd memorized throughout their shared childhood. At length, she passed the bottle over to Ahtyn, and she took as long of a swig as she could get away with.

"There's one thing I've come to appreciate about adventurers," her sister said. "You've learned how to talk about shite like this. Most of you, at least."

"What do you mean?"

"You've met folk from all over the world, right?"

"Right."

"So you've had to describe this to them, if it ever came up. What it meant to you, that is, and what it meant to lose it."

Ahtyn racked her brain and was surprised to recall several such conversations: with the Leveilleur twins, with Mupal, with Sairsel, with a full bar at the Sandsea on at least a couple occasions. For something that she had thought of as some great weight, she had brought up the topic more than she'd thought. "I... I guess so. Yeah."

Grehswys shrugged. "That's what's so horrid about staying here. We all went through it, but... we just keep it bottled up. A story everyone knows but never tells."

X.

The void was wearing on her in subtle ways. Or perhaps it was that the creatures she'd fought here had been stronger than any others she'd encountered throughout her adventures thus far.

But the Cloud of Darkness was fading with each passing second. Devoid of its summoned monsters, devoid of immediate purpose, the air in the void was beginning to grow stale - heavy. All around and above her lay a roaring expanse of abyss. It was dizzying to be so entrenched in the dark, save for a ripple of aurora to mark a semblance of light at the end of the tunnel, or a silver lining, or some other grandiose metaphor she didn't have the energy to engage with.

"Right," said Aoife Mahsa beside her, waving a hand in front of her own face. "So... what now."

Ahtyn took as deep of a breath as she could, though the burgeoning void was constricting her lungs with a sickly sweet sort of taste. "Find a way back to Hydaelyn," she said, and ran further toward the aurora. "I'll find G'raha and Nero!"

"Yes!" Aoife replied, bounding in front of her before she could protest. "WE find a way back to Hydaelyn, with G'raha and Nero! You're really on the ball, aye!"

"But Aoife-"

"Don't you 'but Aoife' me!" the bard scolded. "I'm not leaving you alone in here! Besides - if you got lost in the void, Cid and Baithin will each give me at least one lecture!"

Her eyes suddenly stung, and this time, she didn't have any light to blame it on. "Okay," she said, and stepped straight into the oblivion stretching out before them both. "So uh... dibs left void?"

XI.

Ahtyn knelt in the black sand to gather up the last of her belongings from the camp, the better to hide a sudden spike in her anxiety - the first distress she'd felt since wandering along the coast of Valnain more than a moon ago. With Ultima defeated and the Orbonne Monastery cleared of its haunts, Hrjt would have no cause to leave her home for the foreseeable future.

And Ahtyn had yet to overcome an inability to remain in touch.

Her movements stilled over her pack as she considered her impending return to the life of a solo traveler; then a slender finger tapped her twice on the shoulder. Ahtyn turned to find Hrjt's outstretched hand, and Eternal Wind clasped in it.

"You forgot this in my robes," Hrjt said.

There was such earnestness on her companion's face, without a hint of mischief or irony, that Ahtyn couldn't bite back her chuckle. "Okay, sorry. This isn't my strong suit."

"What isn't?"

"I should've just been direct. Hrjt, it's a gift."

"But-" The ends of Hrjt's ears twitched as she frowned. "Oh, no. I couldn't. You said this book was your favorite."

"It is! Which is why I think you should have it."

Hrjt gestured outward with her other hand - the one holding her staff - toward the remaining visible stretch of black coast. Through the heavy fog, Ahtyn could barely make out the dark tides forming a powerful rip current stretching far out into the Valnard Sea - and for once, the sight did not make her wistful for La Noscea.

"Ahtyn," said Hrjt, firmly. "This is how I live. I won't be able to keep it safe or dry with me."

"That's fine," she replied, even as the wind cast a fine spray across her cheek.

"You wouldn't wish to leave it to someone? A future child, or a pupil? Besides, what if I never have the chance to read it?"

"That's shite and you know it; you'll get at least four hundred more years than me."

"And what should happen if I'm instead captured by a voidsent and become lost to the lightless abyss forever?"

Recognizing her deadpan jest for what it was, Ahtyn grinned. "That's just depressing."

"There is, as you would say, a non-zero chance."

"Okay." Ahtyn held up both palms in surrender. "If you really aren't sure, I'll take it back."

She waited, unsure if she had been too pushy from the first. As Hrjt hesitated, her eyes gleamed with a sort of shyness Ahtyn had yet to see from her. "If you're sure... I'll keep it as safe as I am able. I promise."

"I'll visit you again soon," Ahtyn said, and meant it.

XII.

She could not reconcile the sight before her with the weeks of intimacy she had come to take for granted. The aether tugged at her senses; it sparked in the air like diamond dust as Ysayle Dangoulain made her descent against the sickly green sky. She fell faster than gravity, faster than flight. And yet time itself slowed as Ahtyn watched her from the airship, with Cid's hands pulling her back at the arms and the sounds of her own screams deafened in her ears.

She had never, never been able to reconcile the vibrant woman she'd come to know with the dead-eyed primal she had once fought, so long ago, when she'd still been convinced that doing so would bring about Eorzea's salvation. For all of Shiva's conjured majesty, she could convey none of her ideals except to those already devoted. They had had countless conversations during their Dravanian journeys; they had spoken in Ishgardian and Common and tongues long since lost to other mortals, sharing in the wonder of their blessing and burden, partaking together in the joys of being understood as equals. Shiva's summoner was far more wondrous bereft of her power. Ahtyn doubted, even now, that the same could be said of herself.

It was none of it fair. Ysayle was not meant to be the one to fall-

The hull of the Agrius froze, then shattered, then exploded - and soon the flames from the dreadnought's engine melted every last trace of ice. Ysayle's aether, too, was beyond her reach forever.

XIII.

"There are so many things I don't understand," said the young Minfilia, staring out across the hillside at the ribbons of Light pouring over Lyhe Ghiah. "But most of all, I've been wondering... how you manage to do it all on your own."

It was a question she'd been asked time and time again - only this time, she didn't wave away the girl's concerns. She didn't deflect with humility, insisting that the Scions had been at her side all the while or some such. Someday Minfilia would have to tread this same path, as her namesake had before her. Honesty would be the kindest possible gift.

"Well," she began, and the word hung in the air for a little while. "It helps that I've always been the type to want to save the world. Even when I was your age. Mostly I wanted someone, anyone, somewhere down the line, to know that someone tried to make things just a little bit better." She didn't say that when she was Minfilia's age, that desire had usually manifested as an abstract, foolhardy vision of self-sacrifice. "And when it's something you've grown up feeling, when it's that innate to you-" Twelve, and she thought she'd had it bad with merely a preference for books; from what Urianger had divulged, Minfilia had spent her childhood locked in a tower with only a name and a responsibility. "-it's usually less about finding the will to go on and more about... not burning yourself out, or spreading yourself too thin. I'd say that's the hardest part."

Minfilia nodded in the direction of her knees. "It must be difficult," she murmured. "Thancred's told me only a little of what you've done, but I... I can't begin to imagine it."

"It helps when you can be yourself in the day-to-day," she admitted. "Though of course, that's much easier said than done." It was why she had never come around to feeling comfortable in Ishgard: the more Edmont and Aymeric and all the rest came to revere her, the more she wondered if any of them had ever truly known her. "Aside from that, I try to vouch for others as often as I can. It relieves some of the pressure, it helps make some real allies, and... and sometimes it gives people another hero to focus on for a bit. Much as people don't want to hear it, it's not healthy to rest all your hopes and dreams on one person."

From beside her, Minfilia took in a deep, shuddering breath.

"D-Don't get me wrong," Ahtyn stammered. "I'm not saying I think everyone has to be strong enough to look after themselves. That's not a charitable way to think about things, and it doesn't account for all the people who haven't had a choice - like people from occupied territories." She was rambling now. "And there are some real advantages to having a single hero, like being able to take decisive action when it matters most. But I've seen it go wrong: once people get it in their heads that one person, one being can fix all of their problems, they'll go to all sorts of lengths to make it true."

She breathed in deeply, staring hard at the Light. "And honestly, I thought it would be different here in the First, when I heard people resented their Warriors of Light. I thought it'd mean they'd rely less on heroes and more on each other. But I still see it with the Exarch, and with you, and-"

She took one look at Minfilia's wide eyes and finally had the sense to curb her thoughts.

"I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to get so heavy, and none of this is your problem, and... and I don't know how much it makes sense. Long story short, it's just... it's something that gets me because it's..."

"...Because it's not fair," Minfilia finished.

XIV.

Ahtyn had come face to face with a siren before - the creatures that sang to sailors of their purported destinies. Once she had seen a captain walk into a siren's arms against the heeding of his crewmen, and the gory aftermath that had come of that scene had haunted her dreams for nearly a week. And as a song foretelling her own destiny rang out through the reaches of Azys Lla, she wished she could know its promises to be false.

The Goddess regarded her with heavy-lidded, dispassionate eyes.

It’s not light that brings the heroes home at the end, Liveen.

And then the scales tipped.

For a moment she was weightless. She fell through the golden air, watching Sophia grow ever further from her. When the others righted, she did not; with another lurch, with her own balance stymied, she tipped backward over the edge.

"AHTYN!"

A hand, small but strong, grabbed her at the wrist. It hoisted her, perhaps with the added strength of others, upwards and upwards until her feet regained their purchase on the platform and A'zaela Linh's worried face returned into view.

"Thanks!" she called. Sylvan Rain and Crimson Bull were holding off the primal in her momentary absence, pushing back against the Goddess' Daughter with their shoulders and no shortage of will to keep her from reaching Arae'sae and Nivelth. And still, for a moment, she merely stood. For the briefest of instants, the primal's call had granted her a vision clearer even than the Echo, though now it faded from her like water in her hands. She made to charge and then, in a terrifying second, realized she could not find her shield; only when A'zaela handed it back to her did she raise her sword to provoke the Goddess to face her again.

"How's that for judgment?!" she cried. "Now come and get me!"

XV.

No one spoke in the Ocular. Not even a plate of the Exarch's famous sandwiches could tempt them into conversation after their discoveries in the Qitana Ravel. For all their earlier bickering, Y'shtola and Thancred cast identical glowers of fatigue. Alisaie sat cleaning her rapier with single-minded dedication; Alphinaud paced from one end of the hall to the other. Urianger thumbed through a tome Ahtyn didn't recognize from the Exarch's private library. Minfilia pivoted her gaze from one Scion to the next, always folding and refolding her hands in her lap.

"Maybe this is hypocritical," Ahtyn said at length. "But I don't think this really changes anything."

They all turned to her.

It was wishful thinking, but if she had to continue to ponder in silence the possibility that she could be tempered, she would likely lose her mind.

"I agree," drawled Emet-Selch from out of nowhere behind her. "Listen to the hero. Continue your course." He took a bite of a sandwich and, presumably unsatisfied, set it back down onto the tray. Only Minfilia had the energy to glare at him.

"What I mean is," she continued aggressively, "if it's true that Hydaelyn is a primal, then anything we do to try to change or mitigate that fact could have serious consequences for the Source, if not other worlds."

Urianger nodded his agreement. "This matter requireth deliberations with our esteemed colleagues in the Source."

She opened her mouth to promise that she would raise the topic as soon as she could, but the Light suddenly heaved in her chest. The wave of nausea cut off any of the promises she might have made, any reassurances that the foundations of their worldview would remain intact.

XVI.

Even with the power surging around and through him, she held out a hand. She held out a hand as though doing so could undo all that he had schemed and dealt throughout the past half year, as though she could pull him from that precipice through her own sheer will.

Instead Ilberd Feare stared directly into her eyes, his eerie grin widening, as he stretched out the hands that held the eyes of Nidhogg and leaned further and further backward-

"COWARD!" Alphinaud screamed.

The Griffin gave one last tip of his head - a nod in her direction, it seemed - and she was seized with a horrific calm as he fell from Baelsar's Wall.

XVII.

The knock, quick and quiet, came upon her inn room door at nearly three in the morning. She staggered out of bed in a flash, halfway to grabbing her pauldrons. It could only be another Eulmoran attack, or some other initiative that required her urgent participation, and Captain Lyna would just have to get over her dishevelment. Then she threw open the door and found Alisaie in a robe and nightgown, carrying a pillow.

"May I borrow your floor?" Alisaie asked, conveying somewhat more consciousness than Ahtyn had expected, given the hour.

"Uh, yeah," she grumbled, albeit before she'd fully processed the question. "Of course."

Alisaie slipped inside, kicking off her slippers with enough force for them to land yalms apart. "It seems neither Alphinaud nor I can sleep. Only he insisted on making cocoa, and conversation-" Ahtyn could not determine from Alisaie's tone which of these she held in greater disdain. "-and I simply didn't have the heart to tell him I wasn't remotely interested."

Despite the proposal she'd agreed to, Ahtyn shepherded Alisaie toward her bed and took the floor for herself. There was more than enough room for them to share the mattress; then again, she had experienced all too often Alisaie's sleep-kicking during their expeditions in Gyr Abania and the Far East, when she or Lyse would have to share accommodations with her. The sight of the smallest among them enjoying her own sleeping mat was one that had never failed to bring Gosetsu to fits of his boisterous laughter. One by one, the memories of their adventures flickered through her head, bringing with them the crushing realization of how much of Alisaie's life she had missed while they had been worlds apart.

With the both of them settled and the lights long extinguished, Ahtyn whispered, "How are you holding up, really?"

She had expected a groan of frustration, or a muttered curse. Instead, Alisaie rolled over and stared in the general direction of her voice. "As always, I'm worried for you. ...I suppose that's why I can't sleep."

XVIII.

Her first thought, exhausted as she was from the interdimensional battle with Shinryu and the mere sight of Zenos lying dead in a pool of his own blood, was that Lyse looked beautiful with her arm stretched aloft. Her second thought was that Lyse had an incredible singing voice, and so did Ashelia Riot, though the latter was leaning the entirety of her weight against her husband and trying to look inconspicuous while doing so.

And as she stared out from atop the ramparts of Cotter Tor, she had never been prouder to stand among a crowd. For once, for once, all was put to rights. She did not quite know how she had come to stand here, beside Arenvald and the pennant, with a throng of Ala Mhigans far below. Between her and those people - the people whom she had played her own part in protecting - there lay a drop of half a thousand fulms.

"Ahtyn!" Lyse clasped her from behind at the shoulders, giving her a little shake to pull her from her reverie. The others behind her had begun to disperse back into the royal palace. "We're regrouping back at Porta Praetoria. Unless you need a minute?"

She shook her head. Better to look into Lyse's eyes than to peer into that empty, dawn-hued sky; better to have Lyse's hands on her than to trust in her own feet not to take her over the edge.

XIX.

It was easiest to take hold of his hand, crystalline though it was. They both needed the fresh air, but there was little to be found, even on the tall cliffs of Kholusia: she could scarcely smell the sea over the tinny smog from the dwarven forges.

But the Exarch did not appear to mind. He recovered slowly but steadily from his moment of collapse, his breathing growing more and more regular the longer they shared their simple contact.

"Construction on the Talos is proceeding apace?" he asked.

She nodded. They lapsed then into an easy, comfortable silence, presiding together over the Light-strewn sky. Soon, if all went as planned, that Light would be gone - contained amongst the vast sea already rising within her.

"It still doesn't feel right to me," she said at last. "None of this does, without the wind."

The Exarch's face gave no movement that she could see, but she could sense the smile in his words. "Then if you have a moment yet to spare, I would ask you to indulge me with a tale from your people - Eternal Wind, wasn't it?" As he turned to her then, she could see his grin in full. "Perhaps it would put both our hearts at ease, given the impending juncture."

It did not matter that he could easily have known of her connection to that book through any of the Scions, or learned it from gazing through the rift to the Source.

She knew then who he was for certain.

Her grip on his hand had grown so tight that it had begun to ache against the crystal. "Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

And then she burst into tears.

"Oh, no no no," G'raha Tia murmured. His hood visibly shifted as his ears went flat. He reached out with his free hand, his hand of flesh, as if to touch her shoulder; instead, his hand lingered somewhere above her pauldron. "I'm so sorry, my friend; I-I never meant to-"

"I just-" She was sobbing now, as hard as she had cried alone at the banks of Silvertear Lake after she and the rest of NOAH had said their farewells to him. "Whatever happens next - no matter how it all ends - I want you to know h-how much it means to me. All hundred years of it! Everything you've done, everything you've been through... gods!"

He did not confirm her praise. As she rested her head upon his shoulder, still weeping for him alone to see, he laid his own head against her - his lips brushing mutely against her temple.

XX.

Tucked three-quarters of the way into Eternal Wind lay a strip of dyed Dalmascan paper, with words written lengthwise upon it in a hasty scrawl:

For the Ironworks.

May her light guide our journey home.

Hrjt Brotin

XXI.

"My dear, beloved sapling," Feo Ul crooned.

But she was beyond such praises now. All the different parts of her lay fractured. Here, atop the watchtower and brimming with sacrifice, she was neither savior nor warrior nor woman. She could not be anything, let alone the one thing she needed to be. She could scarcely maintain her consciousness without focus, let alone a process of thought, let alone the weight of her disparate memories. She was fit for nothing save destruction, save an Ascian's machinations.

"You are lost - confused - and have precious little time to gather your wits."

Time was not what she needed. Oh, to rule from Lyhe Ghiah forever would be a wondrous dream, a blissful reprieve - and yet it would be an ending, and one she was unworthy of at that.

"Stand very, very still," said the king. "Think not of where you need to go, but where you are right now at this moment. At this time, in this place..."

Ahtyn breathed in deeply. She let Feo Ul's words flow over her, like a steady breeze to greet the waves of Light breaking over the ramparts of her body. A single tear slipped down her cheek; Feo Ul swiped it away with the point of a single finger. The gesture, surprising in its intimacy, provoked an unexpected chuckle.

"I'm still here," she whispered. "And I still have you." And the twins, and Ryne, and all the other Scions. Her family, Hrjt, every friend whom she had ever known and loved. G'raha. "I know what comes next. But I'm... I'm so afraid, right now. And it feels silly to be so afraid." What would happen to the Light if she burst from all the fear and sadness and guilt?

Feo Ul shook their head. "It isn't silly at all at all, my sapling. But as you set off for who knows where, making even more of a mess of that aether of yours - remember that you have withstood this before, and you will surely do so again." They laid their hands upon her cheeks, flitting close enough to touch their tiny forehead against hers. "And know too that for all the miseries you have endured, you give back joy in equal measure."

XXII.

[Let us debate today the topic of our colleague's newest collection.]

The tide of Light had carried her to the deepest reaches of the Tempest, to a place where shades treated her as one might treat a misbehaving child. She sat staring at her own feet in the Hall of Rhetoric, a means of grounding herself against the aether's pull.

The masked, robed figure sitting opposite her gave a grandiose gesture with his arms. [It is an outrage, and a danger to young ones such as our guest.]

[The work is certainly unconventional,] his identical partner agreed. [Yet a danger? It inflicts no pain, and it neither incites nor promotes harmful behaviors.]

[It serves as a call to action and is therefore inflammatory by its very nature and purpose. Its themes are like to instill ideals of nonconformity within the most impressionable.]

[My friend,] the masked figure beside Ahtyn said, [it sounds to me as though you oppose the mere idea of this work. Have you yet read it?]

[Er... no. I have not. But I have heard enough from those I trust to know that it challenges the very fabric of the society we all labor so hard to uphold.]

[And yet these trusted friends and many other noble souls have read it, and are presumably no less patriotic for having done so. It seems to me, therefore, that this work is but a touchstone for a broader debate: that of censorship, and if some individual ideas deserve to be curbed in order to better provide for the needs of all.]

[What's this work about?] Ahtyn asked. She could not follow the conversation, even as she recognized each and every one of the arguments they made.

The figure across from her held a finger to his lips but otherwise ignored her. [You know I am all in favor of creation as self-expression,] he insisted. [But creation necessitates responsibility. We employ the Bureau of Architects to ensure that a patent is not accessible to those of insufficient skill and understanding. There is no such way to determine whether ideas could or should be similarly judged to ensure that those of weaker wills do not take it upon themselves to... to act upon ideas which they do not fully understand.]

[You raise a valuable point, my friend,] the specter beside her acquiesced. [Perhaps we shall discuss this matter with Emet-Selch. He is ever impartial with moral quandaries such as this.]

With their final debate settled, with their purpose served, the two figures faded into peaceful obscurity.

XXIII.

"You truly don't remember."

The more the Light surged within her, the more she wanted to, even as she feared what else that remembrance might bring. Her ramparts already threatened to crumble amidst the Ascian's private hell; were they to fall now, were the Light to overtake her, she would be lost.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, girl."

The words filled her with rage, as they always had, but neither could she tie them to any particular memory - and so she stared up, trying to summon anything more than a growl of pain in her throat.

"Well, retorts never were your forte." Emet-Selch knelt, the better to grasp her chin and tilt her face up toward his, forcing eye contact. Beads of sweat borne from pain obscured her eyes, nearly blotting out her vision. "And neither was irony, apparently. That you of all people should forget."

A new crop of Light rose in her gut, burning like bile as she spat it out onto Emet-Selch's Garlean boots. "Tell me." For words meant as an order, they rang pathetic from her lips. "Tell me who I was." Who I am.

He rolled his eyes and stood, dragging her up only part of the way before releasing her to crumple once again onto the crystal floor. "You were full of potential, most of it wasted. Just as you are now." He swept an arm wide, across where she lay half-broken upon the cold aetheric surface. "You could have been something, had you applied yourself - had you cared one whit beyond your own stupid dreams! You could have saved all of us. But no!"

"What did I do?" For whatever great sin she had committed, she had no doubt that it contributed in no small way to these people's destruction.

Emet-Selch's arms fell; his shoulders slumped. "What did you do?" he repeated, incredulous.

When he turned, he turned to face her without a hint of mischief in his eyes - only a mad grief.

"You created stories. Long, long ago, you wove a tale about a hero's journey - and from that tale sprang every other legend of heroes and journeys these sundered worlds have ever known."

The next breath she drew in was painless, steadying. Filling.

Emet-Selch drew himself up to his full height, coughing into his fist before adopting an orator's pose. "'A hero leaves her home, with the knowledge that naught will ever be the same again. She is tested, time and again - by monsters, by enemies, by allies, by the great and irrevocable struggles taking place in the world and in herself. She endures an ordeal graver than any other, something she has worked towards perhaps without ever knowing it, and in so doing sacrifices a part of herself. And when she returns home, if she returns home, she is changed - not in the way she hoped but in the way she needed.'" He sneered down at her, at the Light pouring out from her. "Is this the glorious homecoming you always imagined, my dear? Is this the necessary change you so envisioned for yourself, at long last... Sappho?"

Over the Light, over even the humiliation and fear and regret, that name triggered within her an ancient knowing. She staggered to her feet. Cold, unfeeling aether burst from her spine like wings, like a Passage of Arms given form.

The others could not save her now, for there could be no saving her. For all her insistences, she was the only one. There could only be this end - her end.

"You could have saved them!" Emet-Selch screamed, even as she transformed further into the broken creature he had sought for his own ends. "It was not enough for us to beg to you, oh, no. You decided you alone wanted no part in creating our savior, our god. And so we were left to summon Zodiark without your guidance."

He laughed so loudly and for so long that the sound doubled him over, even as she found the will to stand tall. By the time he composed himself once more, his voice was as soft as death.

"But you were correct on one point," he seethed. "My world will have no need for heroes."

XXIV.

At the end of days, the world needed a hero. Amaurot had chosen Zodiark.

Against her fears, against her protestations, the ritual would be performed on the morrow.

She stared down at the burning city, at the end of days. She wished she could evoke pity or grief for her people. She wished she could summon anything but her own worthless guilt.

A stillness emanated from the horizon, the first vestiges of Zodiark's lightless dawn. She tore off her mask to greet it.

They had used her own words to justify it. At the end of days, a savior comes. Would that she had never written at all.

With that thought etched into her mind, Sappho stepped from Amaurot's tallest cliff.

XXV.

"This world is not yours to end." Ahtynwyb Eynskyfwyn, the Queen Light, drew her sword against the Dark. "This is our future. Our story."

"Very well," said Hades. "Let us proceed to your final judgment. The victor shall write the tale, and the vanquished become its villain!"

???

And when she sat down upon her bed, aching and purposeful and devoid of every last obligation but one, she opened up a spare notebook to its first page and wrote:

Once upon a time, a young Warrior of Light journeyed forth into a realm reborn.

I tell you someone will remember us in the future.

-Sappho, Sapphic Fragment 2

[leilas-digital-scrapbook-blog]

Giving Love a Bad Name – Confessions of a Fanfiction Writer

I know we’re supposed to blog about our major projects this week and I promise I will get to that soon, but I’d like to go off book for a moment to address something that’s been bugging me since last Thursday’s class. As someone who’s always tried to engage with fandom in as creative a way as possible, I hoped a class on user generated content would offer a fresher perspective than the usual amount of prejudice and self-righteous superiority that sadly seem to accompany the subject of fanfiction even amongst people that make stories and their passion for it their bread and butter.

Guess I should have known better.

In the world of professional writers, fanfiction is still a filthy word. It sums up everything that’s wrong with the people you’re sharing your stories with: the obsessiveness, the entitlement, the disregard for boundaries, the penchant for making everything about sex. Worse, gay sex, as unspeakably dirty as it’s hilarious. Be warned, writers: if you make it big, your stories will inevitably become a free-for-all at the mercy of those people. A worse fate than even George R. R. Martin could wish on his own characters.

I’m used to seeing the world of fanfiction belittled and disparaged, of course, and I’m the first to admit that the community is often its own worst enemy. But for some reason it still hurt a little to sit in class and listen to people I’ve come to like and respect during these past few months buy into every bad stereotype associated with the form. Not because I felt called out (though yes, I do write fanfiction from time to time, and I happen to quite enjoy reading it too), but because of the underlying assumptions that 1. something that’s not 100% original cannot be art, it’s a violence in fact, especially if it twists someone else’s creation into something it was never meant to be (in this case, queer representation); and 2. there’s something wrong with creating exclusively out of love, without ever expecting to be paid for it. And I have Strong Opinions on that.

So let’s talk about fanfiction.

Actually, scratch that, let’s talk about my favorite subject – yours truly. As you may have gathered by now, I love fanfiction. A whole fangirly lot. My gateway drug into it was my obsession with Lost about 10 years ago and its pesky habit of offing every character I was foolish enough to get attached to. But lo! Someone was keeping them alive through their stories! I felt blessed. I got to spend more time in a world I loved, and I stopped flirting with the idea of giving up on the show every time another character I liked bit the dust. Everybody won.

Even more than as a fan, though, I appreciated the world of possibilities that fanfiction opened up to me as a non-native speaker. I come from a small town in the north of Italy; the access I had to foreign books in their original language was limited, and if I wanted to read something in English I’d have to spend quite a lot of money on one of the very few novels (usually chunky airport bookshop thrillers or housewife romances – not exactly my preferred genres) that shared a single shelf in the bookstore with German, French, Spanish titles. But fanfiction was free, accessible, and there was so much of it. If I didn’t like a story, all I needed to do was move on to the next. Suddenly there was an infinite library of engaging stories to help me make my English better. True, they didn’t all read like a published novel would – there’s a lot of unpolished, error-plagued, stream-of-consciousness-y material out there. But there are also so, so many beautifully written works, and believe me, even for a non-native speaker it’s very easy to spot the difference.

Fanfiction also gave me the chance and motivation to practice my English writing in a way school never could have done. I’ve been writing my own stories since I could hold a pen, but I didn’t dare write in English until I was a fanfiction-loving teenager. It was a marketing decision, really – my first foray into writing fanfiction was for a fandom so small that I wouldn’t be surprised to find out I’m the only Italian representative, so if I wanted any kind of feedback on my work I’d have to suck it up and try my hand at writing in a language that didn’t come natural to me. I would never argue that the feedback I got on my works made me a better writer – contrary to popular opinion, the fanfiction community is made up of the nicest, most supportive people, and alas, you’ll never get a comment on everything you did wrong with your structure or even just pointing out common grammar mistakes from them (though I was lucky enough to have someone explain to me how dialogue punctuation works differently in English than in Italian, so I guess something can be learned even from the Internet). It did motivate me to keep writing, though, and that made me a better writer. If you think I’m being too dramatic, dishing out this monster of a post nobody asked for just to declare my eternal devotion to fanfiction, it’s because it’s personal to me. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been told that I write in English as well as native speakers, and fanfiction is a big part of why that’s true. I doubt I would even be in this course if it wasn’t for it.

And then, of course, there’s the gay thing. I’m not going to argue about how heteronormativity sucks and representation matters because I’m sure everyone’s as sick of talking about it as I am, but please try to understand how it felt for a gay person like me, used to be depicted in media as a plot device or token secondary-character representation if at all, to be able to step into a world where queerness was the default for once. Where queer protagonists had meaningful queer love stories and queer friends and got to save the world from the Apocalypse too. Or to fight the Empire or go to Hogwarts or everything else fictional straight people have had a right to do since the dawn of storytelling in addition to romancing the hottie of their choice. I’m not asking you to feel as passionately about it, of course, but (especially if you’re straight) you might try and empathize the next time you think a fanart of two boys kissing is something deserving of your amused contempt.

I hope I’m not coming across as the person that screams “homophobe” at everyone who disagrees with her because I guarantee that’s not what I’m trying to do here, but I think the general distaste for slash says a lot about the way our society sees heterosexual relationships as love and homosexual relationships as sex. Yes, there’s a lot of gay porn in the world of fanfiction. But you know what you’re most likely to find? Romance. Not in the saucy literary sense of the word, but in its simpler, most literal acceptation. Fanfiction is just one more way for humans to express themselves, after all, and love has always been front and center in our art. Love, not sex – even if it’s gay. In fact, explicit material doesn’t even make up the majority of what you’ll find on a fanfiction website. Don’t worry, I don’t want anyone to taint their souls by visiting one of those dens of iniquity so I pulled some stats myself. Here’s the number of works for each rating in three of the most popular fandoms on Archive Of Our Own, the current go-to website for the fanfiction community (sorry Fanfiction.net) – Harry Potter, Supernatural and the Marvel Cinematic Universe as of 9/3/2019:

Even counting both Mature and Explicit works as straight-up porn (which I don’t think is quite fair, but that’s a discussion for another day), they only make up less than 1/3 of the material. Kinda disappointing, for a medium that’s supposed to be all about filthy graphic gay sex. Imagine if only one in three musicals actually featured singing and dancing, or superheroes weren’t in the majority of superhero movies. They’re lucky fanfiction is shared for free, or I’d be screaming for my money back.

Maybe I’ve just been brainwashed by SJWs, though, and this has nothing to do with my being an immigrant or a lesbian. Maybe my inability to see what’s so bad about appropriating someone else’s intellectual property for your own amusement is a cultural thing. I apologize – as mentioned, I’m Italian, and we all know Ancient Roman culture was basically just a ripoff of everything those inventive Greeks came up with. It’s in our blood. Hell, our 2€ coin, the biggest, has the face of Dante Alighieri on it, a writer most famous for having written 14.000+ verses of self-insert real-person-fic in which the girl he fancied as a teenager, his favorite author, and God himself all fall over themselves to tell him how awesome he is and he gets to prophesy an eternity in Hell for his political enemies. Talk about wish-fulfilling entitlement. Not to mention all those creatively arid Renaissance “artists” celebrated for stealing characters from the Bible and Greek mythology (seriously, the fact that Greece hasn’t unleashed an army of lawyers on us yet is nothing short of a miracle) and putting them in their cheesy paintings. Other countries can rely on a much stronger moral backbone and endless imagination – I’m sure Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe, those creative geniuses at Disney and countless others never had to resort to something as cheap and despicable as borrowing other people’s characters to tell the stories they wanted to tell.

Either way, I can’t help it – I see the prospect of creating something that will resonate with people so strongly that they’ll make it a part of themselves, that it’ll compel them to make more art, to reach out and connect with other fans, as something incredibly beautiful rather than scary. Maybe this is my usual naiveté speaking, and I will come to eat my words. It’s certainly disturbing that a bunch of entitled fans bullied the Mass Effect developers into changing the series’ ending, and sending actors explicit fanart of themselves is straight-up harassment, but is fanfiction really the problem here? Or is it social network culture, with its power to destroy all barriers and foster hive mind? To give resentment a platform to spread and be heard? I promise that the average fanfiction writer wouldn’t campaign to get an ending changed. They’d just roll up their sleeves and write a better one themselves.

[professional-anti]

Chapter Eight: Weapon of Choice

Heyyyyy!! Sorry, life has been cray, and it’s never gonna change, unfortunately. But guys, dw, I am dedicated. Also, weirdly, doing this has made me appreciate books even more? It’s so much fun to talk abt books, and I learn so much, even if it’s a book I hate. Okay, getting started (pray for me):

We last left off with Clary jumping thru the surprise door, like one does. Jace lands on top of her, yay, OTP moment, gag me. There’s a nice little detail where “Clary coughed hair (not her own) out of her mouth” which kind of captures the chaos and would be cute if it were an actual good ship. I hate when that happens. Jace criticizes Clary, FINALLY for a valid reason.

It turns out they’re at Luke’s house. Oh, classic, he lives in Williamsburg, the gentrified hipster paradise. Where else would a man who wears flannel live? Even more classic, he lives behind a bookstore. Clare is obviously one of those heavy-handed authors who has exactly two professions for her Intellectual Men™: bookseller and evil Giles.

I’m going to shake Clary. She doesn’t know why they’re here, despite having thought “I want to go where my mom would have gone” right before jumping. Like, bitch??? Do you have a brain? I’m cryingfff

Clary decides she wants to leave, even though there’s cleary something super sketch abt Luke. He’s so obviously protecting her, so he must know something, right? Well, Clary rubs her two brain cells together and decides, nope, nothing to see here! Time to go home!

Jace, being reasonable for once, is like, yo, maybe we should stay. They run into Simon, so you know there’s gonna be Dramaz. Jace and Simon apparently devolve into primordial wild dogs driven by the intense urge to fight for the girl dog so they can screw and produce puppies that are as annoying as they are. Here is what everyone is doing:

Clary is fixing Simon’s hair bc she’s a Woman Simon is pushing Clary’s hand away bc he’s Annoyed Jace is using his stele to file his nail bc he’s Not Paying Attention

There’s some horrible forced tension between Simon and Clary, where he’s all, “Clary, you ran away from me, I thought I and my dick upset you,” and Clary’s all, “Never, Simon, I love you,” and Simon cums. Not actually, instead he slut shames Clary:

“Yeah, well, you clearly also couldn’t be bothered to call me and tell me you were shacking up with some dyed-blond wanna-be goth you probably met at Pandemomonium”

On the one hand, draaaaag him, Simon!! Jace IS a peroxide blond who listens Evanescence (I almost wrote MCR before googling it and learning that if I wrote that, about a million punks would stream into my inbox in tears).

Simon’s eyes are “dark with suspicion”. which is just annoying. Yes, I would be so fucking annoyed if my friend ran out on me and then disappeared and then reappeared with a blond guy. But I’d also do some more questioning of the situation. Is she okay? Why is she with such a rude guy? Is he hurting her? Was she kidnapped? Is she being held against her will? Is this a drug thing? Does she need my help? Why did Luke cover for her? Is something deeper going on? Instead Simon is all possessive Nice Guy.

Apparently Simon spied on Luke packing a duffel bag of weapons. So he couldn’t give Clary any benefit of the doubt? It sounds like her family is caught in a bad situation! Maybe she had to hide for her life! Simon, use your brain!!

kajlkfaklsdjfalksdflk Clary tells Simon everything, and Simon asks if they kill all these different magical creatures, and Jace says ONLY WHEN THEY’VE BEEN NAUGHTY a;dlfjals;kdjfl;asdjfl;aksdjf hahahahahahahah This image that Clare is going for is just sooooo overdrawn. This dialogue, omfg.

Simon loses his mind and excitedly compares everything that’s been going on to D&D. Let’s totally forget abt the fact that Clary’s mom is missing, or that Luke just filled a duffel bags with murder sticks, shall we?

Jace and Simon have a bizarre conversation, and then they walk. In. The. Back. Door. Bc Luke doesn’t lock his back door. Bc that’s totally not something that someone who fills a duffel bag with weapons would do. At least the door to the bookstore is locked, though Jace opens it pretty easily with his stele. Why didn’t Luke have Jocelyn fix up some wards or something?

Simon asks Clary how she stands Jace, and she’s like “he saved me life” and he’s like “huh?” even though she told him everything that happened. Why is Simon so dumb. I guess all his blood is in his dick? Wouldn’t surprise me.

They find manacles in the wall, so either Luke and Jocelyn have (even more) hidden depths, or Luke practices

Luke’s apartment is filled with books. Of course. Look, I love books. I have about 500 in my room at this moment. I buy them constantly, I get from the libarary, I read and read and read. I think most of us on booklr do. But when every single Good Character in your book has books, it’s boring. And no one has unique book taste. What if all of Luke’s books were nature books? Jack London? Travel guides? That would paint a picture. Instead he has a bunch of fantasy and other fiction. That’s boring. I learn nothing, bc every goddamn person in this goddamn book reads fantasy. It’s so fucking generic. I totally approve of “good” characters admiring and liking reading bc that’s how you get ideas, and that’s how Lemony Snicket rolls, but there are more books than fantasy and mystery (the other main type that Lucas has) in the world. Justice Strauss has an inexhaustive library. Uncle Monty has all those books about snakes. Lucky Smells just has that one history of Lucky Smells. Already, you know so much abt each person (and place) by what books they have. We learn nothing about Luke.

Clary finds the overnight bag she leaves at Luke’s and changes clothes. I mention this only bc she puts on ��a blue tank top with a design of Chinese characters across the front” bc of COURSE she is That Bitch. I hope it translates to something like “Radishes” or “Bridge”.

Luke’s bedroom has a shelf of “Indian statues and Russian icons” which, idk, makes me a little uncomfortable. These sound like things that are holy to someone. But I think the worst part is that Clary says, “Luke collects stuff. Art objects. You know … Pretty things.” I just googled it, and Hindu statues, like the one Luke has of Kali, are seen as actual avatars of gods. Clary is diminishing someone’s god to a “pretty thing”. It’s not a nick-nack or a trinket. (If you know more abt this, like if I’m wildly off-base, feel free to send me an ask!)

Jace finds the Metaphor known as a smashed picture of Luke, Jocie, and Clary, which Clary threw at the Ravener in her apartment, so realize that Luke went back through the apartment. Jace says that Luke must have gone through the Portal-potty last, so it brought them here. I’m still team Clary Asked to Go Where Her Mother Would Have Gone and Therefore the Portal did What it Was Supposed to Do and Brought Her Where She Wanted.

Luke and some warlocks show up, so Clary and co. hide behind the super convenient silk screen. Jace uses his sonic stele to make the screen transparent and we get this gem:

Jace shook his head at them both, mouthing words: They can’t see us through it, but we can see them.

Bc mouthing works that well. You don’t mouth compound sentences!! You mouth something simple like they can’t see us. Simon and Clary already know they can see Luke and the warlocks bc they’re looking at them right now! And this spell or whatever that Jace did takes the tension in the scene waaaaaay down. If they can’t see Luke, then everything becomes more tense. Are the voices getting closer to the screen? Is somebody about to reveal them? Instead, all the tension is drained in a dumb quick-fix.

Bc Clare thinks we’re stupid, she adds “It was frightening even though [Clary] knew [Luke] couldn’t see her, that the window Jace had made was like the glass in a police station interrogation room: strictly one-way.”

GD ARE YOU THERE??????? STOP THIS.

Jace realizes that the warlocks are actually Shadowhunters dressed as warlocks. Idk how he can tell, but whatever. He conveys this by whispering, so I don’t know what the mouthing nonsense was earlier.

The Shadowhunters are named Blackwell (redhead) and Pangborn (gray mustache). What sorts of names. It’s like Clare used a fantasy-name-generator. Who are we kidding, that’s totally what she did. Pangborn picks up the Kali statue and this conversation happens:

“Ah,” said Pangborn, taking the statue from his companion. “She who was created to battle a demon who could not be killed by any god or man. ‘Oh, Kali, my mother full of bliss! Enchantress of the almighty Shiva, in they delirious joy thou dancest, clapping thy hands together. Thou art the Mover of all that moves, and we are but thy helpless toys.’” “Very nice,” said Luke. “I didn’t know you were a student of the Indian myths.” “All the stories are true,” said Pangborn, and Clary felt a small shiver go up her spine. “Or have you forgotten even that?” “I forget nothing,” said Luke.

So the Shadowhunter mythology is that all religions are true? Inch resting. I vaguely remember this. Idk how I feel about this. The Shadowhunters are still gonna be super Christian no matter what lip-service Clare pays to other religions. She has angels! And demons! She’s trying to be inclusive, but it’s never really gonna work, bc she’s doing it in name only. But at the same time, I wouldn’t want her to mess with any religion but Christianity or, sigh, Judaism. Christianity bc it’s the dominant religion and can’t be marginalized (different denominations can be, but not Christianity as a whole) and Judaism bc she’s Jewish. There’s not very much Jewish in these books, though. Yeah, there are angels in Judaism, but it’s not really the Jewish Vibe. A book influenced by Judaism would have a lot of magic based on specific wording, and arguments, and Hebrew and Hebrew-derived languages. This book uses Latin and is into angels. It’s Christian-influenced, which is fine, I guess, but the lip-service to other religions doesn’t ring true. But also, saying “Christianity is the one religion!” is super upsetting and she shouldn’t do that. I don’t really know where I’m going with this, I’m literally thinking on the page. Do you guys have any thoughts on this? Please hit up my ask box or talk about this in the notes! This discussion really interests me, and I want to get diverse opinions.

Luke asks if Valentine sent them (he did) and if their clothes “are official Accord robes” “from the Uprising?” (they are). Wow. The Uprising. What a descriptive name! We don’t call things “the Uprising” in real life. It’s more like, “The French Revolution.” “The Cultural Revolution.” “The Revolutionary War.” “The Civil War.” Am I being unfair?” I guess someone right after one of the French Revolutions might just say “the Revolution.” But something about The Uprising is so boring. And aren’t there more than one Uprising? There should be. The Warlock Uprising. The Vampire Uprising. It doesn’t have to be all internal. Any organized group would rise against the Clave. The Clave is legit the worst.

It turns out Luke’s real name is Lucian AND. I. AM. DYING. Luke is Lucius Malfoy, confirmed!! Let’s do a list of what we know so far:

Clary: Ginny Jace: Draco Jocelyn: I’m getting Bellatrix vibes? Bc of the whole in-love-with Voldemort thing? Valentine: I don’t know?? I can’t think of who he could be??? We’ll have to leave this blank for now I guess :/ Hodge: Giles. Not a HP character, but this is a crossover event with Buffy. Isabelle: Pansy Parkinson Alec: I actually don’t know here. He’s the GBF. Simon: Does Harry make sense? They’re both boring nice guys (don’t @ me!)

This game is getting boring, let’s move on. Luke apparently used to fight with B and P, so we know he’s a Shadowhunter (or, if you’ve read this book before, you know he used to be one). Then he tells them he doesn’t know where the Mortal Cup is (they think Jocelyn hid it).

CLARY IS SO FUCKING DUMB OMFG. P and B talk about how Jocelyn hasn’t regained consciousness and Valentine wants to see her again (using her name) and Clary goes:

Jocelyn? Can they be talking about my mother?

NO THE OTHER FUCKING JOCELYN. CLARY HOW RU STILL ALIVE.

CC must think her readers are really dumb and can’t figure anything out on their own:

“I’ve never felt any way about [Jocelyn], particularly,” said Luke. “Two Shadowhunters, exiled from their own kind, you can see why we might have banded together. But I’m not going to try to interfere with Valentine’s plans for her, if that’s what he’s worried about.”

He might as well have said, “Jocelyn and I were both exiled. EXILED. We were exiled. We were exiled as fuck. Do you get it? Reading context clues is hard, so I’m saying WE WERE EXILED.” The quasi-warlocks should have responded like, “Yeah? We know you both were exiled? We were there?”

Blackwell refers to Jocelyn as “that bitch” bc institutionalized mysoginy is the absolute best! I love when vicious sexism is included for no reason! Bc also these guys aren’t any worse than Luke! Bc may I remind you that Luke was basically a supremacist! Just like them!

For some reason, these idiots believe Lucius when he tells them that he’s not close with Jocie. Then please explain why you both live in Brooklyn.

P and B threaten to make Luke stay in the city, and Luke threatens them, and somehow they let this happen? In other news, Clary is still dumb as rocks. She’s super hurt that Luke said that he doesn’t care about Jocie bc she has about 0 critical thinking skills. We’re talking none. She could have someone whispering the answers in her ear and still bomb the SAT.

Jace thinks that P and B think Luke “knows more than he’s telling” so why would they let him go???? Then Jace reveals that P and B murdered his dad, and this chapter is OVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Someone bring me a Bloody Mary. It’s how I feel inside.

[beckytailweaver]

look out, I been thinking things

Got to thinking about some Coco things that can be rustled up in the various wikis, compiled from creator quotes, or picked up from the books. Trufacks, headcanons, inferences. Some of the concepts may be used in fic, some may be handwaved for reasons, some are just there to think about.

So, um. Wall of text.

At the end of the film, Miguel's cousins Abel and Rosa are playing an accordion and a violin respectively.  In the novelization, they're playing tambourine and harmonica.  Now, the book's instruments are pretty simple to learn to play and use.  But the film's chosen instruments are both fairly complex and in most cases would require actual formal lessons, especially for pretty ordinary kids who (unlike Miguel) probably had little to no real music exposure prior. I'm not sure how I feel about these two being able to play party music with Miguel in less than a year's time (it took Miguel longer than that to be proficient with his guitar, and with no lessons he's amazing!).  Maybe they've all downloaded Papá Héctor levels of talent, but my gut tells me that unless the Riveras were already so okay with music that they sprung for lessons, the tambourine and harmonica are kind of more realistic at that point. Depends how you view the One Year Later timeline I guess?

Currency in the Land of the Dead: It runs on memories. Basically everything there is a memory (the "spirit copies"), not the real thing. Nothing living exists or grows there except for the cempasúchil marigolds. These flowers grow all over the Land of the Dead and I suspect anything else you might see is either temporary (Día de Muertos gifts) or artificial. There isn't much space for crops in that crazily stacked-up cityscape anyway. With this being the case, it's likely that the dead there don't have much resources such as renewable food (details not really touched on in the film). My mind is proposing that the primary way the Land of the Dead acquires such resources is through Día de Muertos. Not that eating is necessary to the deceased, but it's likely nice, and as they are sustained by memories, then the memories of food and goods lovingly crafted and given to them likely has a strengthening effect. In such a world there's probably little use for money, though it might exist as a kind of IOU currency. My mind proposes that most of the dead would trade in goods from their ofrendas and funerary offerings. Though they don't have nearly as many needs as the living, "wealth" would be measured in how much you got from your ofrenda(s).  Likely the very wealthiest skeletons are those who (like Ernesto) receive such a bounty from so many ofrendas that they can well afford to "hire" other skeletons to work for them and have plenty to pay in memory-goods.

The Forgotten live in shacks with nothing to their names. Firstly because they have no one to remember them and no offerings. Secondly, the skeletons nearer to them on the social ladder would have little to spare in terms of extra offerings (though some likely do, given the stuff found rolling around the shantytown and Chicharron's bungalow). Thirdly, the skeletons "wealthy" enough to hire them are those who would least want to, because they wouldn't want to be reminded of the Final Death that looms for everyone no matter how long—and because who wants to hire somebody they don't know if they'll just disappear and not show up for work? (Once the joints start sliding apart, you know that guy's no good for anything, you can't rely on them to show up and they haven't the strength to make it through a day's work...)

If everything in the Land of the Dead is memory, it's probably a good thing that Miguel didn't stay there for too long. They seem to have water there, at least (no guarantees for sanitation), in the depths surrounding the city and in the cenote seen on screen. However, if the foods available are nothing but memory, I suspect that eating them wouldn't do a living kid much good. They might taste good (or provoke the memory of taste), but likely would not fill him. Same reason Héctor could straight up drink a shot glass of tequila without playing a PotC skeleton joke—it's not "real" liquor. If Miguel doesn't go home, not only will he turn into a skeleton himself, he'd starve to death anyway in a matter of days. (Obviously one can take or leave this quasi-headcanon for purposes of fic, but it is an interesting underworld concept to consider.)

Factoid: The marigold bridges (or at least the magic that runs them) are aware in their own way and work with the ofrenda photo scanner system to prevent unauthorized skeletons crossing. I suppose the borders of the Land of the Dead are so jealously guarded to prevent the dead from escaping to create a profusion of ghosts and "evil spirits" rushing about the land of the living. Obviously not every skeleton is a nice person; Ernesto was there, and it seems everybody—or at least everybody Mexican—ends up there, as it's not a Heaven-or-Hell-Judgment sort of place. The rules would at least keep unsavory sorts from pestering the Land of the Living for selfish or evil reasons; but since rules have to be for everyone to be fair, nobody gets through without a pass, no matter how nice or desperate they are. Me, I'm wondering how things went before the scanner was implemented (it's "technology" and fairly modern). Heck, how did they run the place before photos were invented? That long ago, did you only get to cross over if you were wealthy enough someone painted your portrait? It's all based on ancient Aztec/Mayan magic (if that's what we should call it) going by the temples/pyramids that anchor the bridges. What did they used to do centuries ago in lieu of pictures? Obviously the old magic has adapted to the changes in culture and technology, but I'm curious how this place ran when it was first "built." (Anybody knowledgeable want to weigh in on this? Otherwise I'm gonna have to go drag my mythologies texts off the shelf.)

Héctor the Forgotten: he's barely hours behind Chicharron on the Final Death schedule and he still manages to bounce across half the city with this kid like it's nothing! It's worse once you've seen the film all the way through: you know Héctor's a (more) dead man walking, he's got literally hours left to live, he knows he's terminal, and yet he's still so full of energy and smiles and kindness. It's heartbreaking and it makes him one of the strongest people I've ever seen in fiction. I firmly headcanon (in multiple fandoms) that there is an ancient Power that sustains the wronged dead so they have a chance to see justice done. I suspect that above and beyond his sheer heart, that power was what helped keep Héctor upright and at full speed despite the condition of his bones and the memory-magic holding him together fraying at the seams. Chicharron seemed ill and infirm that close to his end, apparently rather bedridden. Héctor was up and dancing on a stage. Héctor also didn't start getting flashes until after his murder was revealed—to someone who could carry that knowledge to the living world to right those wrongs. The power sustaining him immediately started to ebb. There was probably some loophole for getting to the living world for wronged dead too; maybe to go haunt your murderer or such, to try to get justice.  Héctor might have availed himself of these bylaws, if he'd known he was murdered. But he didn't until it was too late, so he was stuck behind the photowall at the bridge gates for decades. I figured on a source for his marionette-movements as well, beyond the creators' stylistic decisions: If Héctor is pretty much running on heart, emergency power, and duct tape, it's sheer willpower keeping him animated. It's almost less that his body moves, and more that he moves his body. If he's falling apart that badly, just lifting his arm without the will to keep together might have his hand drop off! (Just look at how he sags and stretches whenever subjected to sudden or stressful movements! He almost lost his head the first time Miguel grabbed him—did lose an arm after that.) It's like he partially has to will his limbs to move, like a paralyzed telekinetic—so yes, Héctor's body is a marionette; his mind is the puppeteer tugging on the fraying strings of memory-magic keeping him together. And then he dances.

Héctor was, according to the wiki, creators, and books, 21 years old when he died in 1921. As it is canon his birthday is November 30, he would have had to have died in December of 1921, after having just barely turned 21. Inferring this date for his death gives me a headcanon that after months on the road with Ernesto,  Héctor was tired and homesick and it was almost Christmas and he didn't want to miss Christmas with his girls and that's why he was even more determined to go home. Ernesto probably had some holiday gig planned to play and was even more pissed off. It just makes the murder that much more horrible. (I mean, Christmas, Ernesto. It was Christmas season. And you had to kill the guy who just wanted to be home for the holidays.)  I will probably go cry and write fic now, because that's just the saddest thing ever. (I could be completely barking up a tree with this too—anyone know about Christmas celebration in early 1900's Mexico?  ...it's still a horribly sad thought.)

Anyone has something to say on these thoughts, please tell me if I’m wandering too far afield or if something needs further consideration! I never know if I’m letting my mind run too wild.

[fabolous-villian]

chapter 1 [book “Feared”]

Nyctophobia is an extreme fear of night or darkness that can cause intense symptoms of anxiety and depression. A fear becomes a phobia when it's excessive, irrational, or impacts your day-to-day life. Being afraid of the dark often starts in childhood and is viewed as a normal part of development.

It was 3 AM and honestly, Gray wasn't in the best mood.

I mean if you were woken up in the middle of the night and told to go investigate random murder while you spent  last 12 hours doing paperwork you'd be irritated too, no?

Gray noticed yellow police lines and they realized that they've reached the crime scene.

It was a dark alley of the street where barely anyone passes by, most of the murders occurre in places like this after all so Gray wasn't very surprised about it.

same can't be told about the body though, it was nothing like a typical dead body.

A body of a young woman leaned in the corner of a building and at first glance, it was almost impossible to tell that girl was dead since the body looked like the woman was standing.

There were no cuts or shots on her body, no blood or anything so the cause of death was harder to identify.

Though when Gray looked closer they froze on spot.

The girl's whole body was covered with black cracks, it started from her completely black eyes.

Gray instinctively took a step back, they couldn't think of what would cause a poor girl to look like that.

maybe it was poison? but they have never heard of poison with similar effects.

Gray sighed, poor girl most likely had suffered a lot, they could tell from the horror imprinted on her face.

Gray then took a deep breath and got ahold of their emotions.

They leaned closer toward the body and began to closely observe it.

The girl was wearing a neon green tracksuit so she was either jogging or relaxing at home, considering the time they found her and the fact that she wasn't wearing running shoes it was most likely the latter version.

Let's say she was relaxing at home, judging from the earrings she was wearing, she was most likely from a wealthy family, yet instead of relaxing at home in a richer part of the city which was here, most likely something scared her, causing her to run several kilometres in the middle of the night.

what in the world scared her so much?

As the detective looked closely they noticed that there was a weird symbol on the girl's hand, a triangle with two lines coming from corners, those lines were splitting in four then.

it somehow reminded Gray of a deer's skull. Gray made a quick sketch of it to look it up later, maybe it was somehow connected to killer.

Gray then walked up to the nearby police officer_ do we have to know who she was?_ they asked.

the police officer turned back, visibly startled by the detective's voice -ah, y-yes, her name was kai wood, she was one of the major sale's manager's George wood's wife...they have a 3 years old boy - police officer said as he gave Gray a paper with an address written on it.

Gray took the paper as they smiled at the police officer -good job, you can go and rest now...well at least try to rest_they said awkwardly.

The police officer nodded as he immediately left the crime scene, visibly relieved with the fact that he wouldn't have to see the body again.

Gray sighed as he looked at the address: summer avenue N1035. they made sure to remember it.

since 3 AM isn't a suitable time for visiting someone Gray decided to look up the information about the symbol first thus they sat in the car and drove off, going towards the nearby library.

Their friend was a worker there so they hoped that their friend would allow them to do some research even if it was 3 AM.

Gray's hope turned out to be true and they managed to convenience their friend to open the library "little" earlier.

Gray spent few hours digging in different books, they managed to find books explaining similar symbols in the mythology section so they couldn't help but already feel sceptical about it.

As they reached to grab a book from a top shelf another book fell down, hitting their shoulder as the detective couldn't help but a yelp from pain.

they looked at the book that fell down and their eyes widened as they saw the symbol they were looking for.

As they opened the book few articles that were most likely cut out from old newspapers fell from the book, there were cases two other murders described in them, bodies of both victims were unnaturally damaged, one was covered in holes and another one looked like it felt down from at least 50th floor even tho there weren't any building taller than two floors in that town or anywhere nearby and both victims had same weird symbol imprinted on their arms.

Gray's eyes widened, if all this information was right then they were most likely dealing with serial murders.

they decided that they'd visit the first two murder places later tomorrow after they'd pay kai wood's family a visit.

Gray took the book and went back home. knowing that they wouldn't be able to fall asleep they opened the book and began to read it.

The book spoke about a creature without a name that represented fears. it was told to be the origin of all fears.

it had no stabile look, it took shapes of things that the person in front of it feared the most, thus it got a nickname Feared.

it was said that Feared was testing a person who summoned it and if they passed its test, feared would take away their fears forever and grant them a wish.

the book didn't say what happened to those who failed. Gray laughed, everything felt like they were in some sort of a horror book. monsters? demons? Gray didn't believe in shit like that.

they thought that the killer was a mentally ill person who thought that they were a creature called Feared or that they were following that creature's will.

by the time the sun had risen detective had already finished the whole book. Gray decided to cook themself breakfast till they'd leave.

One thing that can't be said about Gray is that they're a good cook. they caused a fire while frying an egg few months ago.

Yeah, instant noodles aren't the most healthy breakfast but that was the maximum of the detective's cooking abilities.

After finishing their breakfast Gray grabbed their keys and went out to first grab some coffee and then go pay Wood's family a visit.

He followed the navigator's instructions and ended up in front of a beautiful white house that looked like a house straight out of '80s sitcoms.

Gray sighed as they got out of the car, walking towards the door slowly. they hated informing people about the death of their loved ones. I mean who wouldn't hate it?

Gray took a deep breath as they knocked at the door and a middle-aged man with glasses opened it, adorable blonde boy was hiding behind him while looking at Gray curiously.

_hello, mister Wood my name is Gray Blackheart, I've come here regarding your wife_they said.

George's eyes widened in shock as he stepped back_come in please_he said as he gave his child to a servant standing next to him.

_take him upstairs please_he said as he walked towards the living room_this way please- he told Gray.

George sat down on a couch as he looked at Gray nervously, deep in his heart he knew that Kai was dead but there was still some hope living in his heart.

_so...tell me detective...what happened to my wife?-he asked.

Gray sighed _ we found her body today, around by 3AM in suburbs of the city, we think that she was murdered_they said.

Georgie looked at Gray with a gaze full of pain as he teared up_ my wife...my beautiful wife_he muttered.

_what was she doing in suburbs and in the middle of the night too..._he asked.

Gray sighed_ I was hoping that you'd answer me on that question_they said.

George shook his head _ no...I don't know anything about it, I was on a business trip for the last two days and our son...Jeremy...he was staying with grandparents_ he said.

_so she was alone..._detective muttered as they wrote it all down in a notebook.

George nodded _yes, I believe she was planning to watch new series of some..Amine or whatever_he muttered.

Gray sighed_ I'll do my best to find the killer mister wood, I know it won't bring your wife back but still...it's a relief when you know that person, causing all of this pain is being punished for their actions, that they won't be able to harm anyone else_they said.

Georgia looked at them for a few seconds_are you perhaps telling me this from your experience?_he asked.

Gray looked at him surprised before they smiled, thought this smile looked rather sad.

_yes... it was a long time ago but nevertheless...the pain only gets weaker, it doesn't disappear completely_they said as they got up with a sigh.

_well then it's time for me to go now, please feel free to call me if you'll ever need help with anything-they said and gave them their business card.

After that conversation, Gray searched up kai's room and didn't found anything interesting except the same book they found in the library.

There were the same newspaper articles inside, thus Gray concluded that the best option would be going in that town and look up to those murders since they were visibly connected.

The detective said goodbye to Mr. woods, sat in the car and drove off, going towards a small town called springhills.

[easterwings]

i was tagged by @1000-directions thank youuuuuuu (you can tag me in all the things ever)

RULES : ANSWER all questions, ADD one question of your own and then TAG as many people as there are questions

live session or studio session? i guess it depends on the song.  like with “numb” by TATE, i love the studio version, the live version, and the bombastic (acoustic one-take) version equally.

coke or pepsi? coke (zero)

disney or dreamworks? disney/pixar.  i adore a bug’s life to pieces, especially since it’s got madeline kahn and david hyde-pierce in it.

coffee or tea? tea.  i usually drink up to five different types of tea a day and i’ve become that person that carries those five different types of tea in my bag.

books or movies? books.  my crappy attention span rarely lets me sit through a tv show, let alone a movie.

windows or mac? windows

dc or marvel? marvel.  mostly because i have a giant soft spot for tony stark and also because i love the sandman comics.

xbox or playstation? playstation.  the last game i played on a playstation was katamari damacy but i think that counts.

night owl or early riser? i have two small children and i enjoy my free time, so let’s say both.

cards or chess? chess

chocolate or vanilla? (mint) chocolate

vans or converse? converse. except when the little lady gets to walking on her own i’m going to buy her this pair of vans i saw that had little yellow flowers all over them.  :)  (she already has a pair of hand-me-down converse from her big brother but they’re not shoes to walk in.)

star wars or star trek? star trek forever and ever.  doesn’t even matter which series.  i was randomly thinking about the first star trek movie on the drive home from work on friday.  v’ger :(

one episode per week or marathoning? lol you’re lucky to get an episode per month out of me

gandalf or obi-wan? gandalf.  i will never be over his description of aman for as long as i live.

heroes or villains? i guess it depends on the story.  like in the rifter series it’d be so easy to hate laurie but i can’t.  she’s such a fantastic character and wonderfully written and i love her.

john williams or hans zimmer? john williams

disneyland/disney world or six flags? six flags.  i have good memories from going there with my cousin when i was little.

forest or sea? the sea.  there’s so much mythology around it.

flying or reading minds? i have a raging anxiety disorder and a fear of heights.  let’s go with reading minds.

twin peaks or northern exposure? i’ve never seen either one.

harry potter or lord of the rings? lord of the rings, forever.  i have an entire bookshelf of nothing but tolkien and it wasn’t until i got my smartphone that i had a camera that could take a decent picture of it.  i’m so proud of that shelf.  if you would like to see a picture of my tolkien shelf (you know you do), just let me know.  :)

cake or pie? pie

you are banished to a desert island, which benedict cumberbatch character would you choose to take with you? smaug

train or cruise ship? a train

brian cox or neil degrasse-tyson?  neil, although i really like both of them.

wizard of oz or alice in wonderland? alice in wonderland always.

fanfiction or fanart? fanfiction

the hunger games - books or movies? the books.  i still haven’t seen the last two movies and i don’t remember the first.

be able to see the future or travel into the past? be able to see the future.  because anxiety.

han solo or luke skywalker? luke skywalker.

lilacs or sunflowers? lilacs.

spring or autumn? spring.  all that green.

campfire or fireplace? campfire!  before my father-in-law passed away we used to go camping in the mountains and we’d have a fire and it was great.

french fries or onion rings? fries, particularly with gravy.

truth or dare? dare.  i will do anything to avoid telling the complete truth about myself.

winter or summer? winter.  let me be sad in a sweater.

vampires or werewolves? vampires.  except surprise vampires.  i read a historical m/m novel once and the plot twist was vampires and i was not amused. 

red or blue? red, specifically tor red

eyes or lips? eyes

burgers or sandwiches? i think you could argue that a burger is a type of sandwich so let’s go with sandwiches.

friends-to-lovers or enemies-to-lovers trope? friends-to-lovers. i am all about that moment when someone realises that the person they’d been looking for all their life was there all along.

pizza or pasta? pizza.

ancient rome or ancient greece? ancient rome.  i just really enjoyed my high school latin class, okay?

foxes or wolves? wolves

mermaids or dragons? dragons

sci-fi or fantasy? fantasy, although sci-fi is an extremely close second

watch a film in theaters or at home? at home.  i can pause it and go give in to my crappy attention span at home.

fireproof or no more sad songs? i’ve only ever heard fireproof but it’s got lots of louis so it’d win anyway.

bands or individual singers?  bands 

sweet or salty? salty.  the marmite crisp is the work of the gods and bless the person who came up with it.

monotype corsiva or comic sans? comic sans.  i’m not sorry.  that other font is ugly.

turtles or frogs? turtles!  little baby turtles!  also not all frogs are to be trusted.

and for my question, blur or oasis?

i am going to tag @dearmrsawyer @louie-for-life @lirryonce @robotcorsair @iwanttodateizzy @outrunningthezombies @bunnystreet58 @mywitfailsme @whentherewerebicycles @givemeahomeamongstthegumtrees @theveryfloralbee @stuff-and-no-nonsense @tintedglasses @thelinesofthecars @hendroda  and anyone else who’d like to do it.

[macylajain]

New Year, New Me

This blog post title refers to the fact that I haven’t done anything I planned to over the Christmas break, apart from reading which I’ll talk about later. I’ve been back in London for a few weeks, enough time to refresh and visit a few exhibitions, the first one being a load of rubbish paintings at the Saatchi. I don’t know what I expected when visiting as I had looked online what was on and it looked like I wouldn’t enjoy it and I was right. Except from one simple room by Richard Aldrich, in particular the piece titled “Past, Present and Future (#1)”, everything else was too much and I couldn’t stand to be in the rooms for too long. It basically reminded me why I hate painting, or at least the majority of contemporary paintings. Moving on, I visited a vastly different exhibition at the White Cube in Bermondsey, “Walhalla” by Anselm Kiefer. I wanted to visit this exhibition before Christmas but heard from reviews it was incredibly busy and hard to actually focus on the work itself, instead you’re focusing on trying to navigate around the cramped space. We went at a late time in the day, about 4:30pm on a weekday so it was relatively quiet, which made it even better in my opinion. The exhibition is about a mythical place in Norse mythology, a “paradise” for those slain in battle, to me it looked more like a morbid heaven-dormitory. Kiefer focuses on contrasting and conflicting themes of construction, destruction, life and death. In particular I liked how every room was an immersive experience, with all the files and documentation in one room being my favourite. I loved the organised mess, and a sense of morbid claustrophobia. Also I think this is the only exhibition where I’ve actually enjoyed the paintings, as they seemed so much more than just that. The layers of thick paint and the time spent on separate images all collated together onto large scale panels where if you focus on one point, could be several paintings in one. The buildings/towers themselves are derived from Kiefer’s previous sculpture work of shipping crates, which gives a sense of transportation and movement to the paintings also. The crates/towers being the only kind of solid/figurative/geometric shapes to go from. It doesn’t directly link with my work at all, just a good exhibition to go and see. A complete transformation of a “white cube” space.

During the first week back at Chelsea we had sign up workshops, which were a bit of a dud for me personally. We spent the day with Ania Bas looking at types of provocations, or instructions. It was fun to some extent but then it got a bit samey, and within the first task I was shut down before I got to fully speak my ideas by a classmate so that kind of put a downer on things. We then moved into the Tate Britain, which was interesting but I already feel like I’ve been there too many times this year. We were put in to small groups and given a task, to order our bag contents in terms of shape, size, or in our case “Texture”. So we set ahead emptying our bags and putting all of the contents in a line, which we were told was quite boring so then we made a person out of them as my partner had pyjamas with them. We then realised what we made was quite funny but had nothing to do with texture, so quite a failure. The next and final task was to make provocations for a group, which we were given instructions to follow people until either us or them was made to feel uncomfortable, and document our findings. The whole thing felt like a foundation task, and whilst quite fun I didn’t really get anything out of it. We presented our findings CSI/Criminal Minds style, like a stalkers bedroom, which nobody understood or got those ideas from it at all.

In terms of actual work, I haven’t done anything besides read. I’ve been reading Playing & Reality by D.W Winnicott, which is sort of a recollection of stories by a psychotherapist/therapist. In particular one story has stuck with me about a young boy’s fascination with string. Winnicott starts the anecdote talking about the young boys high IQ of 108, and his separation problems from his mother whom has suffered from a few depressive episodes, which the boy has noticeably suffered from. “He was liable to change suddenly and to frighten people by saying, for instance, that he would cut his mother’s sister into little pieces. He developed many curious symptoms, such as a compulsion to lick things and people” Winnicott is showing us that his separation from his mother is directly affecting his childhood, and that our past directly changes or warps our present. He then begins talking about the boys obsession with string, “...whenever they went into a room they were liable to find that he had joined together chairs and tables; and they might find a cushion, for instance, with a string joining it to the fireplace.” The imagery of this (coming from a past English Literature student) is so powerful, the boy actively being so affected by his mothers physical separation from himself, that nothing or no one else is good enough, he’s lashing out in a symbolic way in an almost cry for help. The string symbolises his fear of separation, attempting to deny separation from using it to tie objects together. Winnicott also says he “recently tied a string round his sister’s neck” as though she’s to blame for being born herself, taking away the attention from him. It’s obvious the boy has a serious mental defect and that should also be considered as well as his mother being absent, but it’s undeniably clear that that has had a direct impact on his actions too. In particular with this anecdote I’m interested in the boys obsession with materiality; with string. It then becomes a “game” and a cry for attention, like the boy who cried wolf. The boy begins to “hang” himself by his ankle from a tree outside, to which the mother is horrified. But it’s fake, he’s not going to hang himself, he knows his mother will react in a way that grants him the attention he craves. The boy grows up to be obsessed with teddy bears, “which to him are children”. This could show his need to be a parent/carer himself, wanting to give a sense of security that he feels he never had. He makes trousers from them which involves careful sewing, a maternal act. Winnicott finishes the anecdote by telling us the boy developed new addictions, in particular to drugs, wasting his time and his intellectual potential. He ends it on a question, “...would an investigator making a study of this case of drug addiction pay proper respect to the psychopathology manifested in the area of transitional phenomena?” Which questions if the boys past would be brought into question, he has clearly suffered but would it be ignored by an outsider and just seen as a youth who got into drugs and down a wrong path through a fault of his own?

I don’t directly know where I’m going with this research, but this book is incredibly interesting to me, in particular obsessions with materials which I think I can work from. I’m beginning to think about my transitional objects as a child and asking other peers about theirs. It’s interesting to see if these objects are still held dear to them, or if they’re thrown out or put on a shelf by their mother. I think I want people to make their transitional objects for me, so I have something physical to work from whether they get destroyed or not. It’s interesting if I could even get people to bring their objects in to the studios and whether they feel comfortable doing that.