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annerly-san · 3 years ago

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Progression - [Chapter 1: Differential]

Primary Character Pairing: Choso x Reader/Female OC Story Summary: Life is never stagnant. It progresses and changes as does the people who live through it. Like a complex differential equation, it twists and curves with its ups and downs with each person having their own unique curve. But for her, the rate at which she progressed in life was zero as she moved linearly despairingly with no end in sight. That was until she met a cursed spirit who set her life back in progression. Chapter Navigation: Next Chapter

The concept of family leaves a foul taste in the mouth.

Obligations to owe and expectations to fulfill are but a few of the countless other burdens that come in conjunction with what a family entails.

And within this world of magic and curses, family is but a burden.

She continued to uphold her well-rehearsed, demure smile despite being worn and absolutely exhausted. Her opponent in front of her casually stood there with a hand on the hip and his head tilted to the side— unfazed and unbothered by her persistent barrage of attacks earlier. The fluff of white hair pulled up and back by the blindfold stood as a testament to remind her that she wasn’t even an opponent to be considered seriously.

He didn’t need to pretend to be tired at all.

“How much longer do you think you can keep pretending to smile like that, Gojo-chan?”

The words were spoken in snide mockery as her opponent bore the same familial name.

“You jest, Gojo-sensei.” The retort was short and spoken without the intent to play along with any insinuations.

Satoru Gojo had not changed one bit since she had first met him.

“She doesn’t look like me at all, does she, Suguru?”

He towered over her at the time. She remembered seeing those strikingly clear, blue eyes— sharp and piercing as they bore into her with a scrutiny unwarranted for a child at the time.

Two hands had reached out and grabbed her at the sides as she was hoisted several feet in the air to be turned back and forth, handled and examined like she was just some doll.

“You should put her down, she’s clearly uncomfortable.” Suguru, as he was referred to, placed a hand on Satoru’s shoulder whilst giving a firm glance of disapproval. He shot her a sympathetic smile as she was put down by the pouting teenager.

“How can she be uncomfortable when she’s smiling like that?” He begrudgingly asked his companion before putting two hands up in the air as to showcase his resignation. “But still to think that this little distant cousin of mine is supposed to bring in a new line of techniques for the clan is making me feel already less special~,” Satoru whined in jest as Suguru gave him a playful whack on the back. The white-haired sorcerer had wandered off, leaving her with an upset feeling of unsettled unpleasantness broiling in the pit of her stomach.

Those feelings were temporarily put on the side when his companion crouched down to meet her at eye level.

“Don’t worry about any of that, ok? If you’re ever sick of this guy, you can always come to find me.” Suguru reached down to pet her head in a strangely reassuring way. Comfort and ease had taken over her and her smile had unknowingly slipped off as the soft timbre of his voice lulled her in a sense of warm solace that she had never felt before. “My name is Geto Suguru. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Her head felt warm from where he had placed it before, and she had watched him catch up to her cousin’s side with a lopsided smile on her face.

The rate of those thrown punches coming at her were slow; she made them as such. Her innate ability, “Differential”, functioned on the rate of change principles from calculus and mechanics. Mathematicians, engineers, and scientists have long seen and quantified the inner workings of the world through equations. “Differential” allowed her to perceive the differential equation which models the behavior or qualities of an object and apply a “derivative” to it in order to adjust its rate of change. Simple equations such as the rate at which light refracts from the cornea of the eye to see are constant; taking the derivative of it amounts it to zero and thereby allows for someone’s vision to stop working. In this case, her perception of the logarithmic speed (ln(x)) of those punches have been derived to the equation of 1/x and will increasingly become slower and slower as more time passes.

It was a mutated trait from the original Gojo family’s “Limitless” technique. While the original skill operated under the fundamental principle of a limit with techniques operating under the mathematical principles of convergence and divergence in summations and series, hers was more focused upon the rate of change at a “fixed point” existing on a specific plane. From its proofing from calculus her technique took the limit as it approaches zero between two points allowed for the rate of change to be solved for and adjusted.

And so for things that move through time and space, she can easily avoid and counter them.

She dodged the first three punches with ease before countering with a sweep kick to the knees; however, the activation of Infinity didn’t allow for the attack to land as intended.

An upwards kick was evaded as she jumped backwards several steps to place sufficient distance between herself and Satoru.

“Hmmm~. We’re at around twenty minutes now. How are you holding up? Still smiling as always, I see.” She watched intently as Satoru leaned back and stretched out an arm lazily. “Should we call it quits now? You’re lasting longer than our last spar by around five minutes. That’s impressive growth, but you haven’t reached your fullest potential yet.”

She wondered if things would have been less tense or awkward between herself and Satoru had they not hailed from the same lineage. Resigning now to rest would only prove as a setback and insult to what was expected of her in addition to her own self-worth. There would be no resignation. No matter needed to be put forth on her end.

“I-I can continue, Gojo-sensei.” Her smile did not fall from her face despite how tired she was.

She stood up straighter and calmed her breaths.

Her still outer demeanor did not match the thoughts that were racing within her mind.

His Infinity was an issue. She would not be able to do anything about that nor about his convergence and divergence techniques of red and blue simply due to the nature of it resulting in something either undefined or unusable when taking the derivative of an abstract such as infinity, sums, and series.

But perhaps this would work.

The distance between the two of them was approximately fifteen. She needed five to try out her new method.

A breath in.

A breath out.

She dashed in to close the distance.

~~~

“Wow, I can’t believe that you were actually able to do that, Gojo-chan!”

She awakened and opened her eyes to see up to the ceiling of the infirmary. Gojo-sensei was sitting at her bedside with a tilted head, quirky smile, and a book that he must have been reading in the meantime while she was asleep. “Was that a new application of your “Differential”? I can’t believe that you actually rendered my Six Eyes blind for a good minute there.”

Her head hurt as she tried to recall the events of the sparring session before she had blacked out.

Upon closing the gap between them, at the five meter mark, she had Gojo-sensei in range.

Activating Differential, she was able to see the six constants that were governing the rate of perception for Gojo-sensei’s Six Eyes. She drew a shaky breath as she applied “Derivative” six times for each ‘eye’ and watched with elation as her teacher’s face became overcome with a sense of shock and surprise.

She quickly threw a punch aimed at his face in the hopes that the deactivation of his Six Eyes would affect the automatic response of Infinity somewhat.

That hope was dashed as her fist was stuck hovering in front of his nose, unable to proceed further to tangible result.

Leaping back, she stumbled as an sickening nausea overcame her and imbalance struck at her legs. Her vision was blurring and a strange ringing sound overcame her ears as she heard what was vaguely her name.

For some reason, she was kneeling on the ground with both hands in front propping her up. She bent her head up to see a white blur of what may have been Gojo-sensei running towards her, but her head was heavy and her vision was strangely red. Letting her head drop back down, she blinked and saw what seemed to be drops of blood dripping to the ground.

It was the last thing she saw.

“-Anyways, I was SO shocked that you started crying blood or something. You almost looked like a curse, ahahaha!”

Her thoughts were drawn back to reality as she tuned back into listening to what Gojo-sensei was saying.

“Man, if I didn’t manually activate Infinity, you might actually have hit me and gave me a bloody nose!”

She smiled and let out a breathy laugh. “Is that so?”

Gojo-sensei leaned in closer to the bed railing and placed a hand on her head.

“Yes. You did good.”

There was a warm elation in her chest from being praised. It didn’t happen often, though it left a strange feeling in her from being praised by Gojo of all people. It filled the cavity in her chest, but those words didn’t seem to be the ones that she was waiting for. Whatever it was she was feeling, it disappeared as quickly as it came for her teacher said his next words.

“Ah, but it seems that taking the differential six times is your current limit. Man, I don’t know how I’m going to deal with you and your younger siblings when they enroll next. I heard a lot of stuff about them~.”

Ah.

Her younger siblings.

The mention brought a bitter taste to her mouth and the lurking of a foul emotion within her heart. But she smiled as though it wasn’t the case.

“Hm, yes, my younger siblings. My sister definitely has more talent with the technique than I do, and my brother is well on his way. They might be the ones that’ll give you the most trouble, Gojo-sensei.”

She watched her teacher laugh.

Behind that coy smile and blindfold, she wondered if he could see through her facade and see her true feelings beneath.

But even if he could, he didn’t make a comment on it.

“I told Hakari, and he’s worried about you, you know!” Gojo-sensei continued. “We both keep telling you that you’re being too hard on yourself! Shouko keeps complaining to me about caring for my students more, you know!” He pouted. “I care about my students.” He rubbed her head as to prove a point.

There was a simmering frustration that was building in her abdomen.

“I know that, sensei. I’ll be more aware about that. Is Hakari alright?”

Her fellow classmate in the college, Kinji Hakari, was a third-year student like her. Due to the incident last year, he was on suspension.

“Oh he’s alright. He keeps saying that he’s bored to death being suspended and all and that he’s worried about you killing yourself when he’s not there with you.”

Perhaps it was said with good intentions. But it seemed patronizing. Maybe it was because it was spoken by those who were born with naturally strong talents compared to her who had worked to the point of injury in order to be a contender as their equal. That emotion in her stomach grew and started to burn and corrode away at her insides.

She laughed softly. “Please tell him that I appreciate the concern. I’m waiting for him to get back as well.”

Gojo-sensei had stood up muttering something about being a messenger boy and was readying himself to leave. As though he forgot something, he suddenly exclaimed aloud.

“Aha! I almost forgot to tell you too.” He whirled back around to face her. “There’s a whole queue of missions for you. All grade 2 or lower. It shouldn’t be much trouble for you, but be careful since you know-“ he gestured to the infirmary bed that she laid in as to drive home the point. “You get the idea.”

He left the room.

And she let out a sigh before slumping back down in the bed and closing her eyes.

It felt as though there was a crushing weight against her chest.

Taking care of the assigned curses was a simple task.

Despite her teacher’s reluctance at sending her out to the initial mission when she had gotten so adversely injured during a simple sparring match, everything turned out alright.

It had been a good while since that had passed on the order of months, but with the shortage of jujitsu sorcerers and Hakari still on suspension, it was only natural for her to handle things like this.

She stared down at her hands, which have unconsciously and naturally formed firm fists sitting in her lap.

With being tasked with an onslaught of more and more missions, she quickly rose to the rank of semi-grade 1. She was grateful for the opportunity as she needed this as a chance to raise her rank and further her worth.

She wasn’t talented, after all.

From the moment she was born, she remembered the crushing weight of anxiety bearing down on her at each step and misstep she took. The looks of disappointment, the yelling and screaming, the endless lectures, and the unbearable weight of it all.

Maybe it would have been better to have been born a disappointment to begin with. So that no one would make her carry these expectations on her weary back.

Her grandmother was actually the one to first develop the “Differential” ability. But the woman was originally an outcast of the Gojo clan and took her technique personally as a means to spite the ones that had looked down on her before. It carried the unbelievably petty burden of one day being able to surpass the main line of Limitless techniques.

So when her father, uncles, and aunts failed to inherit any of the “Differential” traits, they were marked as failures and the family was laughed at for daring to think that they could surpass the main line of inherited techniques.

That was until she awakened.

Up until the age of five, she was treated as a worthless and filthy object. Her mother was someone able to see cursed spirits, but had no innate techniques to deal with them, and despite having spite for the main Gojo family, her grandmother viewed her mother-- and by extension, her-- as a taint on the family line of sorcerers. Her first-cousins, unable to see curses much less use techniques though borne to two sorcerer parents, were treated with delicate care and spoiled by her grandparents beyond belief. And she was treated and called as the vermin of the bunch. Her father did nothing to refute that claim while her mother took out the insults of inferiority and stain on her as the byproduct and embodiment of that she hated. A living burden that tied her down to a family clan that did nothing else but mock her.

But that changed.

Suddenly one day, while her mother was hysterically screaming and cursing the old hag within the confines of their home, a stray curse wandered in.

She remembered what it looked like.

At the time she was patting her sister’s back, trying to turn invisible in the midst of her mother’s rage as she did her utmost to not earn her ire. Her younger sister, a toddler barely learning how to walk, cried incessantly at the loud banging and clashing of pots and pans as they were flung about the house.

The clanging stopped briefly as the air chilled and silenced; a grotesque hand of oozing purple goop clutched at the hallway corner.

A cry broke out. Her sister.

Loud gurgling sounds rang out as her mother desperately avoided looking at the monster as to not warrant its attention as one that can perceive it.

But she didn’t know better.

The curse had several green eyes embedded in the goop of mess that constituted its body and it let out a warbling bellow as all those eyes narrowed in to meet hers in a chilling stare.

It took a step forth.

She held her breath as she continued to stare at it with an intense fear.

It began to approach her rapidly.

And she remembered begging in her mind for it to stop. She didn’t want it to approach her anymore.

It stopped.

Not much was remembered after that as adults came and well-qualified sorcerers took care of the curse that was just frozen in place.

She had passed out by then and woke up to a new world that was unbelievably scary and confusing. A new world of just so many expectations.

This sudden twisting change from being viewed as less than trash to invaluable gold crushed and suffocated her.

From cultivating this new skill, surpassing some “Gojo Satoru”, shoving it in her grandmother’s face, and so, so, much more. It was dizzying. Nauseating.

One misstep signaled Armageddon. One pause meant weakness. One tear was failure.

As she sat on the bus bench in the lonely countryside, her breaths felt labored like she had to push a stone brick weighing several tons off her chest a few millimeters so that she didn’t suffocate under its weight.

Her promotion isn’t too far away. She was a semi-grade 1 at the moment and was handling missions smoothly and effectively. It’s only a matter of time before it will all be over.

The road was dull and illuminated with the yellowed lights of the street lamp.

Her thoughts traversed back to the events of present day back at the school.

There was buzz on things happening back at the school, but she had not had the chance to listen in on the details of the news. The Sister Exchange event would have happened around now. She’s missed it now unfortunately, but she thought that she had heard something about the first years being roped in to fill in the third year’s vacancy and they did well enough. What was interesting that she had regrettably missed out on hearing more about was the first year student, Itadori Yuuji, who was apparently the vessel for Sukuna, the King of Curses.

She wondered if he was feeling as burdened as she was. He probably had heavy expectations too.

Footsteps were heard and a strange presence of cursed energy lurked nearby on the road.

Senses were heightened as she pulled away from her mind’s musing to hone in on the present at hand.

There was one curse. No. Three.

Her eyes followed the curved line of the road to where it bent behind some trees, and she saw three shadows walking along it without much caution or care.

A chill went down her spine. The combined auras was overwhelming. They were at least a grade higher than hers— at least Grade 1, but it would seem that all three could very well be Special Grade curses.

There shouldn’t be a cluster of special grade curses like this.

While there shouldn’t be, she did recall hearing about the strange events and appearances of strong, special grade curses with a sentience recently.

She hoped that this wouldn’t be the case.

The first one out of the shadows was a man. He looked extremely tired with prominent purple rings around his eyes and an odd rectangular stripe across his nose. He wore baggy pants and a loose, long sleeved shirt paired with a series of black sashes wrapping around his waist, shoulders, and neck. As he walked, his wild, messy, black hair tied into two prominent bunches on his head flounced around.

He took up physical space and appeared human if it were not for the immensely crushing amount of cursed energy that shrouded around him like a dense fog.

His other two companions slowly came into view. The other two were definitively curses. One was turquoise with a hunched back. It had a prominent mouth on its middle that dripped blood and a humanoid husk of a face where its head would have been.

The other held similar form but significantly more humanoid. In the center of the abdomen was a pair of red eyes and a smaller mouth. This curse was flesh colored with a more defined human form and a similar deformed humanoid head on the top.

“Nii-san, is she the one we were supposed to be looking for?” The turquoise one spoke seemingly to the most human of the group.

“That’s right.” His voice was low in timbre with a strange sense of calm and echo to it. “That amount of cursed energy and presence... It’s most definitely the relative of Satoru Gojo that we were supposed to find.”

Her breath was caught in her chest.

They were most definitely Special-grade curses. Beyond their appearances in taking physical form through some sort of manifestation, they were sentient and individually held a tremendous amount of cursed energy.

What was worse was that their target was her.

If it was simply one, then she may have handled alright against a special grade with some collateral damage, but against three her odds of victory were slim.

There wasn’t a chance to escape with the three of them having locked onto her like this, and even if she did manage to, she would most definitely return as a failure sorcerer who flaked when faced with what her purpose in life should be.

There wasn’t a choice.

She breathed out.

The wind blowing calmly around her as the three curses continued their approach lulled her into an odd sense of tranquility to brace her for what was to come.

The fight was here.

#choso #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso fanfic

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twoidiotwriters1 · 4 years ago

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Written In The Stars CXXXVII (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: Book 6 was beyond complicated to write due to some artistic choices I made lmao but again I do hope you guys like it even if I don’t feel it was perfect bc I enjoyed how most of it turned out -Danny

Words: 4,005

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Listen to: ‘The Black and White’ -by The Band CAMINO.

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Prophecy.

Harry walked back to his chair and sat down heavily.

"Five years ago you arrived at Hogwarts, Harry, safe and whole, as I had planned and intended. Well — not quite whole. You had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years. I considered it almost a miracle when Emily agreed to move in next door so she could keep an eye on you..."

Even though Lord Voldemort perished that night in Godric's Hollow, his followers continue to hunt down answers for months, neither Harry nor Mel would've been safe in the wizarding world.

"You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated — to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died —and your father too, Mel— to save you. They gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a protection that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust, therefore, in your mother's blood, Harry. I delivered you to her sister, her only remaining relative."

"She doesn't love me. She doesn't give a damn —"

"But she took you. She may have taken you grudgingly, furiously, unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in doing so, she sealed the charm I placed upon you. Your mother's sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I could give you. And as for you, Mel, you were just a baby, therefore Voldemort's followers couldn't tell if you were as skilled as your dad. It was only until last year when Voldemort realized you were hiding great power."

"I still don't —"

"While you can still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, Harry, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, there he cannot hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen years."

"My mother isn't a Dumbledore," Mel frowned. "If that's what kept Harry safe, living with his aunt, then why did I only meet you after I turned eleven?"

"You were a direct descendant from my brother and not me, you weren't in danger as much as Harry. Once I found out about your outbursts I talked to him, I knew you'd need his protection... I'm afraid his guilt stopped him. I've been taking his place, having you come into my office for a weekly lesson as a way to make sure you would be both, protected, while also learning to defend yourself."

Harry came into a new realization.

"You sent that Howler. You told my aunt to remember — it was your voice —"

"I thought that she might need reminding of the pact she had sealed by taking you. I suspected the dementor attack might have awoken her to the dangers of having you as a surrogate son."

"It did. Well — my uncle more than her. He wanted to chuck me out, but after the Howler came she — she said I had to stay. But what's this got to do with..."

"Five years ago, then, you arrived at Hogwarts, neither as happy nor as well-nourished as I would have liked, perhaps, yet alive and healthy. You were not a pampered little prince, but as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well."

The memory of that small boy came to her. He didn't look much different from the Harry sitting beside her, except perhaps, for the way his gaze had darkened.

He'd always known Harry and Mel would eventually be hunted, and he'd made sure they'd be ready. Dumbledore had a plan from the moment they set a foot in the castle. She wondered exactly how much of everything happened accidentally, and how much had been planned.

"I don't understand what you're saying."

"Don't you remember asking me, as you lay in the hospital wing, why Voldemort had tried to kill you when you were a baby? Ought I to have told you then? You do not see the flaw in the plan yet? No... perhaps not. Well, as you know, I decided not to answer you. Eleven, I told myself, was much too young to know. I had never intended to tell you when you were eleven. The knowledge would be too much at such a young age, just like I refused to tell Mel about the rumours surrounding our family."

'The knowledge would be too much at such a young age'. Now, after four years, Mel felt weaker than when she was eleven. Somehow thinner, and far more fragile.

"Do you see? Do you see the flaw in my brilliant plan now? I had fallen into the trap I had foreseen, that I had told myself I could avoid, that I must avoid."

"I don't —"

"I cared about you too much. I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act."

Mel visibly deflated, a new wave of hurt crashing against her heart.

"So it's true, then?" She asked. "Caring only makes us weak?"

"My dear, I defy anyone who has watched you as I have —and I have watched you more closely than you can have imagined — not to want to save you more pain than you had already suffered. What did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if in the here and now you were alive, and well, and happy? I never dreamed that I would have such a pair of young souls on my hands..."

Mel had held something similar whenever she would reach out to kiss Harry, and nothing else in the world mattered when they were alone together... but after the third task, they were always so alone.

"...You came out of the maze last year, having watched Cedric Diggory die, having escaped death so narrowly yourself... you, Mel, gave away part of your own life, selflessly risking your own well-being just for the frail chance to see Harry again, and I did not tell you, because to tell you after having almost lost each other in such a way would've been beyond cruel, though I knew, now Voldemort had returned, I must do it soon.

And now, tonight, I know you have long been ready for the knowledge I have kept from you for so long, because you have proved that I should have placed the burden upon you before this. My only defence is this: I have watched you struggling under more burdens than any student who has ever passed through this school, and I could not bring myself to add another — the greatest one of all."

"...I still don't understand," Harry responded, though now his voice was a bit more quiet and fearful.

Dumbledore admitted what they already knew: Voldemort tried to kill him because of the prophecy, and he'd tried to stop it before it could be fulfilled. Now, years after and once again in a proper body, Voldemort set his mind on hearing the whole thing, looking for a way to end it.

The sun was fully out now, and as he finished, Mel felt the first glimmer of hope peering through.

"Mel broke the prophecy," Harry said quietly. "She crushed it against the ground..."

She closed her injured hand tightly without caring about the sharp pain that shot up to her elbow.

"I knew we could get rid of it."

"How?" Harry frowned. "How could you know?"

"Because that orb was merely the record of the prophecy kept by the Department of Mysteries. But the prophecy was made to somebody, and that person has the means of recalling it perfectly," Dumbledore explained, looking at her with a strange glint in his eyes.

"Who heard it?" asked Harry, though he already knew the answer.

"I did. On a cold, wet night sixteen years ago, in a room above the bar at the Hog's Head Inn. I had gone there to see an applicant for the post of Divination teacher, though it was against my inclination to allow the subject of Divination to continue at all. The applicant, however, was the great-great-granddaughter of a very famous, very gifted Seer, and I thought it common politeness to meet her. I was disappointed. It seemed to me that she had not a trace of the gift herself. I told her, courteously I hope, that I did not think she would be suitable for the post. I turned to leave."

As Dumbledore stood up to retrieve something from a cabinet, Mel continued her story.

"That was the reason why my uncle knew what Voldemort was looking for," She swallowed harshly. "As soon as that thing broke I recognized the figure. How could I not? We've been seeing her for three years..."

Dumbledore came back holding the Pensieve, he put the tip of his wan on one temple and pulled, Mel stood up abruptly.

"Maybe I shouldn't be here to hear it."

"You've earned your place in this conversation," Dumbledore replied. "Your life is linked to Harry's, is only fair for you to hear it too... that way you'll be able to make an informed decision."

"Only if he agrees."

She was used to Harry keeping her at a proper distance from his doings, nevertheless, Harry grabbed her wrist.

"Sit down... please."

Before she could reply a figure rose from the Pensieve, there stood a small version of Sibyll Trelawney with a voice Mel had only imagined thanks to Harry's tales from two years ago:

"THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES... BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES... AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT... AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES..."

Professor Trelawney vanished slowly.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry said after a moment. "It... did that mean... What did that mean?"

"It meant... that the person who has the only chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years ago. This boy would be born to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times."

"It means — me?"

Dumbledore eyed both teenagers carefully before speaking.

"The odd thing is, Harry, that it may not have meant you at all. Sibyll's prophecy could have applied to three babies, one of them being Mel."

"What?"

"I thought it was meant to be Matthew's baby," He sighed, "an Auror and a Dumbledore... but alas, you were born at the start of the month — and you were a girl. There were still two more babies in line. Both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom."

"But then... but then, why was it my name on the prophecy and not Neville's?"

"The official record was relabeled after Voldemort's attack on you as a child. It seemed plain to the keeper of the Hall of Prophecy that Voldemort could only have tried to kill you because he knew you to be the one to whom Sibyll was referring."

"Then — it might not be me?"

"I am afraid that there is no doubt that it is you."

"But you said — Neville was born at the end of July too — and his mum and dad —"

"You are forgetting the next part of the prophecy, the final identifying feature of the boy who could vanquish Voldemort... Voldemort himself would 'mark him as his equal.' And so he did, Harry. He chose you, not Neville. He gave you the scar that has proved both blessing and curse."

"But he might have chosen wrong! He might have marked the wrong person!"

"He chose the boy he thought most likely to be a danger to him. And notice this, Harry. He chose, not the pureblood (which, according to his creed, is the only kind of wizard worth being or knowing), but the half-blood, like himself. He saw himself in you before he had ever seen you, and in marking you with that scar, he did not kill you, as he intended, but gave you powers, and a future, which have fitted you to escape him not once, but four times so far — something that neither your parents, nor Neville's parents, ever achieved."

In her mind, an alternate life started to take form: Mel as the orphan, Harry's parents alive and well, it was her the one facing death every time...

Then poor scarred Neville, while Mel and Harry lived surrounded by their families, perhaps even together. The fact that the only reason why Harry was the chosen one was a matter of gender and dates...

"Why did he do it, then? Why did he try and kill me as a baby? He should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill whoever it was then — or even Mel... She's a Dumbledore — She's the strongest!"

"That might, indeed, have been the more practical course, except that Voldemort's information about the prophecy was incomplete. The Hog's Head Inn, which Sibyll chose for its cheapness, has long attracted, shall we say, a more interesting clientele than the Three Broomsticks. As you and your friends found out to your cost, and I to mine that night, it is a place where it is never safe to assume you are not being overheard. Of course, I had not dreamed, when I set out to meet Sibyll Trelawney, that I would hear anything worth overhearing. My — our — one stroke of good fortune was that the eavesdropper was detected only a short way into the prophecy and thrown from the building."

"So he only heard..?"

"He heard only the first part, the part foretelling the birth of a boy in July to parents who had thrice defied Voldemort. Consequently, he could not warn his master that to attack you would be to risk transferring power to you — again marking you as his equal. So Voldemort never knew that there might be danger in attacking you, that it might be wise to wait or to learn more. And once Mel was born at the start of July as a girl, and you a boy, this only narrowed it down to his apparent advantage. He did not know that you would have 'power the Dark Lord knows not' —"

"But I don't! I haven't any powers he hasn't got, I couldn't fight the way he did tonight, I can't possess people or — or kill them —"

"There is a room in the Department of Mysteries," Dumbledore replied carefully, "that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, the most mysterious of the many subjects for study that reside there. It is the power held within that room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all.

That power is what has aided Mel to know if you're in danger and allowed her to help, that power took you to save Sirius tonight. That power also saved you from possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear to reside in a body so full of the force he detests. In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you. So you see, Mel," He added, "caring it's never useless."

"The end of the prophecy... it was something about... 'neither can live...' "

"'... while the other survives,' " Dumbledore concluded.

"So... so does that mean that... that one of us has got to kill the other one... in the end?"

"Yes."

They stayed silent for the longest time, Mel found her voice at the same time as her courage.

"Okay," She spoke. "We just have to make sure you're the one that lives."

Dumbledore's face hinted at a smile, but it did not form fully. Harry stared at her like the thought of surviving was next to impossible.

"I feel I owe you two other explanations," said Dumbledore carefully. "You may, perhaps, have wondered why I never chose you as prefects? I must confess that I rather thought both of you had enough responsibility to be going on with..."

Mel let out a dry chuckle, Harry just sighed.

"The second and final... is about the decision you ought to take."

"What decision?"

"Your lifeline," He started, "I've been reading about it since the third task... It's called Unio Azoth — A universal cure for any kind of injury, you heal with life itself, and it's always effective. However, not many people dare use it because it demands great sacrifice from both sides of the connection. It's created through highly complex magic, or it can happen, as it was your case, after multiple shared near-death experiences," He paused. "It can also be removed."

There was a split second in which the students didn't know how to react.

"You're saying," Mel started. "We've been hurting each other for a whole year — and you hid this from us?"

"You were on bad terms after the tournament, the removal can only happen if both sides consent, and you were holding onto it tightly, Mel."

"Is it dark magic?" Harry asked abruptly. "Our connection?"

Dumbledore took another long look at him.

"I believe that what you're trying to ask is if it's damaging for any of you," He replied. "Which is something that depends on the circumstances. There have been moments your connection has improved your lives, but it's also damaged you physically to a great extent. You're asking a question only you can answer, Harry."

"This could've fixed everything between us," Mel felt her anger increasing. "And you just let us argue instead? Why?"

"It was your impulsive actions that kept me from speaking, I couldn't risk one of you trying to cut it without the other knowing, it would've resulted in tragedy."

"We would've acted differently if only we’d known! The reason why we fought was because of how guilty Harry felt about putting me through extra pain — We could've just cut the damn thing — You thought I would've just decided to abandon him?"

"Isn't that what you were attempting this year?" Dumbledore asked pointedly.

"Harry and I couldn't stop fighting, I was tired — I had to keep my distance," Mel stood up. "He spent a whole year drowning in guilt thinking we couldn't change things —"

"When I found out it could be removed," Dumbledore's voice came out just as firm as hers. "You were already far too traumatized. Losing this would've felt like losing a limb. You weren't ready to make a choice then, but I can't keep you in the dark any longer, you have the whole picture now, so you can make an informed decision, but I must ask you to think —"

"I don't need to think it over," Mel said, but Harry spoke at the same time.

"I want to keep it."

"What?" She looked at him in disbelief.

Harry stared at her.

"It's thanks to this that I knew you were having panic attacks, you've saved my life many times now, I owe you — and it doesn't have to hurt, you can control it, I just need to learn how to do it too!"

"You've been nagging me about how much of a burden this was and suddenly you cling to it as if it were a blessing?" She narrowed her eyes.

"It's just..." His jaw tensed. "It works both ways — if I give it up and Voldemort takes you... I can't leave you to deal with it alone, you'd do the same for me. You've already done it."

Mel shook her head, speechless.

"The decision is yours to make..." Dumbledore concluded. "You have until next term to tell me, and then we'll do whatever you please."

They were walking side by side without speaking. She did not wish to fight, and she felt like it would happen if they were to bring up... well, everything.

"I'm sorry," He muttered.

"I don't want to hear it. I'm to blame as much as you are. I ignored you — Dumbledore's right, knowing would've tricked us into thinking we could deal with it on our own, it would've killed us... I've been selfish enough this year to know I would've felt tempted to try and cut it on my own. I won't admit it in front of him, though..."

"You weren't —"

"I don't want to have this conversation," She stopped walking. "Everyone thinks I'm like my father or my uncle... and I'm not. When I was with you I was just Mel... whoever that's supposed to be. When we fought I got lost — you said awful things to me, but you were the only one who wasn't treating me like some overpowered freak..."

"I can't promise we won't fight in the future, but there are worse things than disagreeing and the thought of dying without telling you that I..." He came to a halt, voice breaking.

They wanted to talk about so many things, and yet Mel felt like they would never get to say anything at all.

"You know," She said softly. "We've gone through so much already... and it's hard, looking at you and having to pretend I can continue like this."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm feeling so alone, Harry," She forced the words out of her. "I miss you."

She'd almost been murdered that night, treated like a ragdoll, and traumatized until there was no safe place in her world. Still, nothing made her feel quite as vulnerable and tiny as Harry's understanding of her, the way he knew every single corner of her mind as if it were his own.

Harry gazed at her with hurt, he clenched his jaw and shook his head lightly. She was ready to watch him leave when suddenly, he hugged her.

Mel was having trouble breathing against his shoulder but her arms kept him close, one hand made its way up to the back of his head while the other went to the middle of his back. He was a few inches taller than her, but she still felt like they were a perfect fit.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled against her hair, and Mel knew he wasn't just talking about Sirius.

"Me too," She closed her eyes tightly. "We'll find a way through this... together."

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @kylosleftbuttcheek @reverse-hxlland @bloodorangemoonlight @omiwashere @t-rexs-world @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @21bruhs @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @dielgonacoffee @thelastpyle

#twoidiots writing #hp fanfic #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter xoc #WITT fic

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chappedandfadedvds · 4 years ago

Text

Nov 1st, Sunday 09:11

Rain pounding against the window. A slow steady rythm. And a hazy greyish tint lay over the serene room of the awoken boy in bed, buried under thick covers. He blinked his heavy eyes open, not yet having caught enough sleep to feel the energy to do anything more than that.

It took him a moment to recall the date, sunday. Given it was still pretty dark inside his room, he guessed it to be fairly early. Or maybe the clouds outside his window just didnt allow for more light. And he would be lying if he didn’t appreciate hiding in a halfshadow, as he looked into the calm sleeping face of Lucas.

Jens didn’t remember them falling asleep that close to each other, after they all had basically stumbled tired and worn out into bed last night. Time and curfew forgotten and all of them deciding on a spontaneous sleep over. He barely had been able to catch a glimpse of Lucas pulling off his socks and jeans, before crawling into bed, while Jens got his sister her beloved pillow to cuddle.

There was some rustling coming from the foot of the bed, on the floor, on three matresses from Lotte and their mom, Milan, Sander and Robbe had made themselves comfortable. He listened carefully in order to pick out if someone else was awake like him, but figured that they in fact were still fast asleep, leaving Jens to appreciate that this moment was his only.

It came daringly close to how he felt waking up next to Jana, without the low guilt of cheating on Britt, that had broken them up in the end. Instead there was a different feeling of sadness settling in his heart. It wasn’t really sadness though, it was something else, but then it wasn’t and Jens couldn’t find a word to settle on to describe it.

He watched the face of Lucas. He shouldn’t find a boy’s face as attractive as he did. Not that he couldn’t appreciate a beautiful man, but it didn’t came with a desire to touch or kiss said man. Jens really tried hard to think back to an instance in his life, where he might have pushed these thoughts away in favor for falling for girls only. Some sort of internalised fear of feelings for people of his own sex. But there weren’t any and it drove him crazy. It meant it shouldn’t be any different to waking up to all his other male friends. And yet...

Jens closed his eyes and imagined all the mornings he woke up next to Robbe, they were the closest friends for years, constantly touching and hugging, did he ever felt attracted to him in that way? He thought his friend looked good, yes. And that he felt some love for him, yes. Would he want to kiss Robbe? Probably not. Would he have kissed Robbe back if his friend would have tried to? Maybe, but than no, no he didn’t think so? It was confusing to reconstruct old memories.

As Jens pulled himself out of his thoughts with a pained expression on his face, he found the worried blue eyes of Lucas watching him thoughtfully, biting his bottom lip as he so often did in contemplation.

„Nightmare?“ Came the faint whisper and than an attentive hand from under the blanket to brush away a strand of hair on his forhead.

Jens fortunetely remembered that breathing was a crucial part of living and tried to do just that, before shaking his head slightly.

„Good.“ Lucas mouthed with a vague smile on his lips not yet convinced, his hand sinking onto the pillow between their faces, next to Jens’s. So why the fuck wouldn’t he move his fingers slightly over. If Lucas would have been a girl, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. He probably would have taken him out on wendsday already. The first step is the hardest. Jens’s mind provided this stupid universally applicable line, that sounded cheesy and overused and nonethelss true.

He was a coward he knew that, but even stretching his hand out, so that their plams flat on the soft fabric below would cause their little fingers to touch, seemed like a huge accomplishment right now. They weren’t even close to hold hands. This as well may just have been a sheer accident.

Lucas’s open blue eyes darted surprised towards their touching fingers and back up at Jens searching for his gaze, with a question between them, both didn’t dare to ask. Not even in the comfort of an early quiet morning. Rather Lucas lifted his little finger to intertwine them, swallowing nervously, as he did so with caution. He was scared, Jens knew, because he was just as much afraid of crossing a line. The beating of his heart, and the blood rushing through his body swallowed up any sound of the rain, he had heard so clearly a minute ago.

There was just them, and them almost holding hands.

Jens curved his finger around Lucas’s, putting some pressure in it, just to reassure the boy that he wants this too. And it seemed to work, as the tension in their bodies diminished, leaving them to study each other faces in a comfortable silence.

There didn’t need to be words to understand each other in this second. Jens knew that it would leave him restless once they would leave this moment behind them. He knew he would have to seriously start question his sexuality, and everything that would probably happen from here on out. But for now he could push the panic in the back of his mind off to deal with later.

Good luck to future him.

„Ow. Fuck“ Jens cursed under his breath wincing, not wishing to wake anybody else, but it did catapult both of them back into the reality of this room they shared with four other people, oblivious to this promising discovery between them.

Lucas’s gleeful snort let Jens send him a pissed off look, before he turned his head as far behind him as he could without letting go of the merest gentle touch between them. He saw his sister with his phone in his hand watching him innocently. As if she hadn’t dug her tiny sharp knee into his back just now.

„You are awake. Can we have breakfast?“ Lotte quietly asked, blinking up at him, knowing she already had won this. Apparently she also was convinced she had woken him up and that was just fine with Jens. He didn’t need his sister to belabour him with questions. Especially if he didn’t really know the answers to them himself.

„How late is it?“ He whispered and was promptly presented with his bright lit up phone screen.

9:43

He guessed it was actually an approbiate time to have breakfast and nodded.

„Alright, let’s go.“ The words barely left his lips, when his sister was sitting up and out of his bed, tip toeing around his room to get out, without stepping and waking the three boys on the floor.

Jens looked back at Lucas who smiled and whispered delighted: „I’m actually getting quite hungry myself, so I think Lotte has great timing. And after the pumpkin soup from last night, I can only imagine what feast we are gonna have today.“

„You are an idiot, you know that.“

„Yes.“ Lucas affirmed happily smiling away. This was unfair. Now Jens felt the explicit need to actually dish out a great breakfast and impress this dumb dutch boy.

„Fine.“ Jens agreed, feeling weird breaking off the shared bare minimum of human contact, as he withdrew his hand in favor of getting up. As did Lucas behind him, stretching and about to collect his things from the floor. When he was hit by a pair of grey sweats, that Jens had thrown in his general direction, putting a pair on himself. He shrugged at Lucas, trying for a nonchalant look, while moving over to his room door, that stood slightly open from Lotte’s escape.

On the floor was Milan rolled up into a ball of a body and a blanket, only his head sticking out. And right beside him Robbe tangled around Sander, who didn’t seemed to mind loosing all his senses in his body apparently. Or maybe he was just different, because Jens could very well recall all the times his arms and legs had fallen asleep under the weight of a girl half on top of him.

Jens smiled at them regardless, maybe one day he could have that too again. He kinda missed it.

„You coming?“ He heard Lucas whisper at him from the doorway, looking very pretty with his untidy bed hair and in Jens’s sweats. He seemed to be just as happy watching the couple to Jens’s feet as he waited for Jens to follow him down to the kitchen.

The were almost there when Jens felt Lucas taking his hand, squeezing it before letting go again, to help Lotte, who was about to climb on the counter to get some tea cups out.

„Wait, wait! I can do that. I get the plates and stuff and you can set the table instead, okay?“

Jens stood there for the moment it took him to work through his storm of emotions again. Why did he feel just so much these days, be it good or bad? This wasn’t normal. But he seemed to feel every emotion just double as much as usual. Everything triggered a whirlwind of thoughts and it scared him. What if this would never stop?

He swallowed it down, settling for a smile instead and went over to join them.

„Say, can Mister Chef here also do some american pancakes for his dutch starving guest?“

„You bet.“ He smirked at the challenging amused look Lucas threw him over the shoulder. Playfully smacking the boy’s head, Jens shoved him away from the oven, in order to prepare the best breakfast the six had in their lives.

Well at least as great as their fridge and pantry allowed for.

#week 2 #wtfock #skam #vds #jens stoffels #lucas van der heijden #chapped and faded #blissful mornings

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ancientechos · 4 years ago

Photo

Emet-Selch/Arianna ♡ 11,755 words ♡ Butler AU

No headcanons just -- oh my god what is that word count. Some mild spice.

I ended up not splitting this, clearly, but it is available on AO3 in a chaptered format if that’s easier to read.

Playing With Fire

She’s not really looking forward to this...arrangement.

But Arianna supposes there isn’t much else she can do. Not with their current situation...

On her own, she would probably be just fine -- but she’s not on her own. So the fact of the matter is that she simply needs an extra avenue of income. Cleaning was something she could certainly do -- it had just been a matter of where.

She’d been a little shocked, truth be told, when she had received message back after contacting the email in the newspaper ad. She would have never expected the Selch estate to be interested in her application, of all things, but perhaps there were not that many coming in. She’d been called in for a trial of sorts, and presumably she would be contacted again later that evening or tomorrow morning if her conduct was acceptable. So long as she didn’t have to talk to anyone -- she thinks she can probably manage it.

She almost balks at the prospect of having to speak to someone at the gate, but Selch seems nothing if not accommodating; there’s a gentleman at the front who waves her over as she approaches.

“Are you Arianna Rowen?” he asks her, and she nods, pulling out her printed application and displaying it to him. Satisfied, the man shows her through the gate.

The walk to the large double doors is framed by a multitude of well-kept, pretty flowers and shrubs. And the door itself is ornate, impressive if not more than a little intimidating. With a mild, stiff smile, the man leads her into the bona fide mansion. Arianna finds herself on an ostentatious landing. There’s a large mirror, and a small desk with a few drawers, as well as a set of hangers for coats. Since she doesn’t have one today, she ignores them for now.

The white marble floors turn to dark carpets up the stairs. She’s lead up them, through an open area -- where the marble returns, but partially covered by a rug -- down a hall, where Arianna and her guide come to a small side-room.

“My name is Clover,” the man says after a moment. “There are a few uniforms you can choose from here. After you do so, I may show you to the rooms for your test.”

When he puts it that way, it sounds somewhat concerning --

But she gives a mild nod regardless, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. Within are numerous uniforms for her to peruse. Some of them are quite pretty, though others are somewhat of a...questionable nature. She, of course, picks the most modest one.

Clover is brisk, showing her to the rooms for her “tests”. His instructions, however, leave much to be desired. Most of the time, it’s simply something along the lines of clean the room or deal with the clothes, but little else to indicate any catches that surely must exist if this is meant to be a “test”. Regardless, she’s good at doing what she’s told, in fact she prefers it because she doesn’t need to think about it. Aside from the anxiety of it being a trial of some kind...this is fine.

In the evening after returning home, she receives a new email from her supposed employer. She’s been hired. The next morning, the ad in the newspaper is gone.

________

All in all, her job is not necessarily difficult. She doesn’t work there everyday — perhaps the other days are facilitated by other maids? or he assumes there’s no need for a daily spritzing up? — bit when she does, it is far less...ridiculous than that trial. Which she supposes is the point.

What makes it easier is her penchant for drifting off. Arianna doesn’t hum or sing or speak to herself as she works; she’s utterly silent, perhaps even more so than if she were entirely present. Her eyes glaze over, lost in thought, moving on autopilot. She doesn’t miss much like this -- and if she does, it’s simply a matter of fixing it before she moves on to something else. She knows herself well enough to avoid anything unpleasant.

It’s several days — perhaps even a week — before she ever sees Emet Selch in the flesh. She’s enjoying a small lunch outside on the patio, listening to the birds, when he strides in from the gardens. She knows him only from a picture, but recognises him immediately.

Somewhat instinctively, she ducks her gaze away from him. She does not want to talk, or bother him, perhaps she shouldn’t even be here —

She misses his plate and glass until he sinks into a chair at another one of the small tables. Ah, perhaps she’d hoped he would simply leave without a word. But he is still here, even if he hasn’t said anything. Perhaps she shouldn’t be...

Fumbling with her small boxed lunch, she leaps to her feet, entire body tense as she prepares to slink away.

“Oh, I see how it is. You want to leave me all alone.”

Before she can, a voice — his voice —

She nearly jumps out of her skin, stopping stock still. Indecision and trepidation fills her, unsure how to proceed.

Very slowly, she turns to see him looking at her calmly. She blinks at him, tilting her head uncertainly. Is he serious? Is he joking...? She can’t quite tell, and she decides she doesn’t really want to find out by vexing him. So after a moment’s hesitation, she takes her seat again and nervously pulls at the wrapping about her sandwich.

He claps at her, his grin wry.

“Very good. I assume you’re miss Rowen, yes? Ah — I have your phone number from the application, I’ll just text you now...I’m afraid I don’t know sign.”

He taps at his phone upon the table. A few moments later, her own cellphone in her pocket gives a tiny buzz. Fishing it out, she sees a new message from an unknown number.

Nice uniform :’ )

— Is all it says.

One of her eyes twitch.

“Did you get it?” he asks rather unhelpfully and sounding all too innocent. Pursing her lips, Arianna taps out a message in response.

Is this Emet Selch?

That should be enough of a reply. And theoretically his phone should vibrate...if not, it might simply be a random spam text...

But his phone really does buzz in response to her query. She exhales quietly in relief as he gives a tiny laugh.

“Yes, it is me. Happy?”

-- Is she?

Yes?

She supposes answering otherwise might be bad...

“Oh, good. I hear you’re efficient. Even managed to clean up that mess in the office...you might be astounded to hear how many fail that test.” As he finishes, he finally takes a bite of his meal, which Arianna takes as a cue to start her own.

Thank you...

Picking at her sandwich, she absently hopes that he won’t talk anymore. Her time is limited, after all, and she’d rather use it for eating. He seems to get the nonverbal hint. He finishes before her, and leaves with nothing more than a lackadaisical wave.

________

Her interactions with him are awkward at best, vaguely concerning at worst. Concerning not because she dislikes him or is especially uncomfortable in any regard, but simply because she is not sure what to think of him. To be fair, this is her default opinion of many people. But he’s a little...different.

And not simply because she finds him at least somewhat intriguing.

Emet is only slightly intimidating on the off-chance that he does see her. He makes attempts to be polite, waits for her to respond, and generally isn’t bothersome aside from his growing attempts to poke at her. For whatever reason, he seems to find her reactions amusing.

She really wishes he wouldn’t.

On one of her breaks, she sits outside on the patio again, beneath one of the umbrellas for the shade, her book in her lap.

“Oh, good afternoon, miss Rowen.” She blinks in surprise, tilting her head up to look at him as he approaches with wide strides. He doesn’t wait for her to respond. “A quick question for you. Where did you find that book?”

The query catches her off-guard, and she furrows her eyebrows slightly. Is she not allowed to read...?

I brought it with me. It’s from home.

His eyebrows lift. “You brought it with you? Where did you keep it...? Your pocket?” His gaze drifts down to her apron, where there is indeed a pocket probably large enough to keep a book of average size there.

Arianna gives a slow nod.

The architect clicks his tongue. “You can just use the book room. Clover would have shown you where it was, right?” He taps his chin mildly. “Come to think of it, that was one of the ‘trials’ I gave you. To dust the bookshelves. Well, it’s at your leisure, if you would like. You aren’t the type to ruin books, after all.”

Her mouth opens, almost as if she wants to speak. In fact, she does.

She quickly shuts it, then shakes her head.

I couldn’t possibly. It’s not right. I couldn’t monopolise your things.

His laugh is short and sardonic as he reads the text message.

“You’re not monopolising it if I gave you permission, are you? Besides, it’ll be much more convenient than lugging a book around unnecessarily. I’m sure I have something there that will amuse you. Or is that why you don’t want to? Because you think you won’t like anything? That’s such a shame...” He trails off, sounding all too dejected as he averts his gaze, shoulders hunching even further.

Arianna has the distinct impression he is merely playing with her.

But still. He has a point...it would be easier.

Okay. Thank you.

She upturns her face from her phone to give him a brief, awkward smile, before looking away just as quickly.

I appreciate it.

When she looks at him again, he seems oddly still, as if he’s been vacant the entire time she’s written her gratitude.Then he seems to recall himself, clears his throat, averts his gaze as he leans his weight on one leg.

“It’s nothing.”

________

“We’re having a guest today,” is the first thing Emet says upon seeing her. A vague part of her wonders about the usage of we, but before she can ask, he’s continued barreling on. “I hope you won’t mind. He’s so dreadfully boring, and I need the entertainment.”

She wonders, faintly, if that’s all that she is, entertainment, but says nothing. He reaches one arm across her shoulders, pressing a palm to her shoulder blade and pulling her along with him. Despite her brief tensing at the initial touch, she has no real complaint.

“Do you know how to make tea?” he asks abruptly as he shows her into the currently empty lounge. “Specifically herbal ones. Or those fancy flowery ones. Carlin is quite fond of those.”

To say she’s a little surprised at the question is an understatement. How coincidental --

She helps -- and partially owns -- a small herbal shop with her parents. It doesn’t bring in much money...the reason for her having to take on this job. But if there is one thing Arianna knows how to make, it’s tea, and how to brew it depending on the components used.

Yes.

There’s a small amount of hesitation as she stares down at her phone screen.

“Really? Then -- ”

But even Emet pauses once he sees her writing something else.

I know about all sorts of teas, and herbs, and flowers.

His mouth curves sharply. “Really,” he repeats. “How very confident. Then you’ll be perfect for impressing him. Or at least keeping him satisfied.” The architect’s shoulders sag as he sighs heavily. “Hopefully it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

He clicks his teeth, claps his hands together.

“Well, no matter. I trust you to help me -- sit a moment.” He sinks into one of the red, plush sofas that flank the low coffee table, and gestures to the seat next to him. She perches there nervously, hands clasped together, though she looks him in the eye, and he smirks again.

“As I’ve said, he enjoys his tea. And unfortunately I must keep him entertained whilst being irrevocably bored...it’s for a business deal. I don’t think you’ll have to do much of anything other than serve tea and sit there looking pretty. Certainly don’t worry about talking to him. You’d find him boring, anyway.”

Absently, she wonders how he absolutely knows she would be bored of the man’s company, but supposes it must mean that is just how dull Carlin is.

“Now,” the architect continues, brushing at a bit of imaginary lint on his knee, “I suppose I should have asked you earlier, but do you know of any teas that, mmm...promote a relaxed mind?”

Ah...perhaps Emet wishes to push this in his favour through the oh so magical assistance of herbs. She averts her gaze for a moment, considering the question. She taps the screen of her phone before she writes out a list for him.

Helichrysum, lavender, ginger, and chamomile.

Whilst it likely wouldn’t be the magic broth he was hoping for, it would help with things a bit. And at the very least it would taste nice, especially with some sweetness.

I would need a bit of time to prepare it.

The man smirks. “Then consider that your work for today. I shall arrange for the ingredients for you, and you can make that tea for me. And sit with me while I have to keep Carlin company and convince him to buy something from me.”

So, a sales call. She recalls his other request.

How am I supposed to keep you entertained?

He shrugs. “I’ll finally have something nice to look at.”

Arianna tries to pretend no heat rises to her face. His comment had been too flippant to be serious.

True to his words, he has the ingredients she’d requested brought to her, and gives her free reign of the rather sizable kitchen to do what she needs. It’s nothing too complicated, but it’s good she has a few hours until the architect’s meeting.

Once the appointed time does roll around, she’s shown back to the lounge area, carrying a tray with two small teacups and a medium-sized kettle of her brew, as well as two small containers of sugar and honey. It’s not especially heavy, and she manages to place it upon the table without making a mess. She exhales a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

“Ah, excellent,” Emet begins, glancing toward her. “This is my maid, Arianna. She has some tea for us.”

She manages a vague smile in the other man -- Carlin’s -- direction. A dark-haired man dressed in a suit, like Emet, though perhaps not as well-fitted. His shirt rides up his wrists as he moves.

“Oh, a new one?” Carlin blinks at her with dark eyes. “I didn’t expect you to ever find someone else after the last made away with your watches.”

Emet’s laugh is sharp. “Not to worry, she’s not the thieving type...unless, I suppose, she’s after my heart. She’s quite adorable.”

At Arianna’s abject stare, he waves a hand plaintively. “It’s only a joke. Now, Carlin, how about you tell her how you like your tea? She doesn’t speak.”

“I was unaware you had such fancies, Selch.”

“What...? Oh, no, she genuinely cannot speak.” He sounds vaguely annoyed, a faint tapping of his foot that seems to indicate his patience thins. “How did you say you liked your tea sweetened again? I believe she’s brought us honey, and sugar.”

“And I was only joking as well.” Carlin glances toward her finally, and she cannot help but tense. “Sugar, please, two spoonfuls.”

The two men make lighthearted discussion as she pours and sweetens their teas (”Sugar for me, too, my dear,” Emet mutters distractedly). The aroma is pleasant and herby and earthy, makes her rather want a drink for herself. She places the first cup near their guest, then gives the second to Emet’s outstretched hands. When he sees her continue to stand near the table awkwardly, he gestures to the seat next to him.

“Well? Sit. If you like.”

Arianna feels equally as awkward sitting in their company, but he had asked initially, and so...she sits, apprehensive, hands clasped together.

“My, this is wonderful tea,” Carlin says abruptly, having sampled his beverage. “Where on earth did you buy it?”

“Arianna made it,” Emet says with a wide smirk. “I’d have to ask you to thank her.” His words sent another spike of anxiousness through her as she glances toward Carlin. The smile their guest gives her is warm.

“Thank you, miss Arianna. It truly is very nice.” She gives him a sickly smile and a vague nod-bow in return, her fingers curling tighter against each other. She’d daresay she might leave marks on her own skin. How she hates being put on the spot like this. “I might even have to steal her from you, Emet.”

“Oh, I think not.”

There’s laughter in the air, but she’s too caught up in her own head to notice the derision or iciness in it. Instead, she keeps her gaze trained steadily upon the table as she tries to imagine herself somewhere far away.

Perhaps it’s that desperate attempt at self-distraction that results in her downfall -- as she’s pouring Carlin’s second cup, her shaking hands spill the hot tea over the side of the cup, onto her other hand. The hot water touches to her fingers. Her jaw clenches as she drops the kettle; it clatters against the table but to her surprise does not break.

“Ah.” Emet makes a quiet sound; by reflex she glances at him as she clutches her hand. With a hurried, vague bow, she all but flies from the room, pain throbbing up her arm.

It shouldn’t be very bad, but it’ll get worse if she doesn’t get any water on it --

Hurrying into the nearest bathroom, she turns on the water and sticks her hand beneath the facet. The coldness is an immediate relief, but it can’t help with the incessant pounding in her chest and the guilt that settles upon her. She was supposed to be helping him -- instead all she’s done is made herself a laughingstock.

When the pain finally fades after she pulls her hand away, she supposes...she should go back. But she’s taken so awfully long, she wouldn’t be surprised if they’d already finished, or if Emet’s already so displeased with her that he simply doesn’t wish to see her in there again, or if perhaps he’s fired her.

But she’ll never find out if she doesn’t go back...

So with much trepidation, she slinks back toward the lounge.

“Welcome back, Arianna.” Emet doesn’t sound cross in the slightest; he merely smiles and gestures toward a third cup that hadn’t been there before. “Sit. Your tea.” He pushes it along the table, toward her. Her blood pressure and adrenaline spike -- visualising the cup falling over and spilling all its contents -- and she quickly reaches out to grab it. Miraculously, it manages not to spill on its very short journey.

Confused, but not ungrateful, she slowly sinks back onto the couch, sipping at her drink.

Arrangements had gone well, even in her absence, and even at her return. Even halfway through her daydreams, she hears as Emet clinches his business deal with Carlin, apparently self-satisfied.

________

“Texting the boyfriend?”

His voice startles her, and she looks up from her phone, blinking owlishly at the architect as he, once again, sees fit to approach her on her break.

Harass? Annoy? Those don’t quite fit, she supposes.

She’s sitting on the sofa in the book room, the novel she’d been reading earlier abandoned on her lap. She’d gotten a sudden fit of inspiration and simply had to write, a continuation for one of the stories on her laptop.

No...I don’t have one.

She’s not sure what prompts her to say this, but it feels important. She doesn’t have a boyfriend.

“No?” He sounds incredulous. “I find it hard to believe with how you were near-giggling at your screen.

-- He seems quite pushy today. Vaguely, she wonders why. And why it should even matter.

I don’t.

She hesitates, before tapping another message to him.

I was just writing.

She’d hoped this would throw him off, but it seems to only pique his interest further.

“Writing?” He’s not invited, but he sits down next to her, anyway. Reflexively, she shifts so as to make her phone less easy to see. “Are you a writer, Arianna?” He leans into her personal space, one arm laxly upon the back of the couch behind her, though for some reason she does not find that she minds overmuch.

I’m not a writer. I just like writing.

“Doesn’t that precisely make you one?”

I’m not even published. I don’t think I ever will be.

He sighs loudly. “Why? Do you think your stories are bad?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “I’m certain they aren’t. Besides, if you so enjoy writing them, then that certainly translates into your work. And others will be able to see it too, when they read. If you ever decide to publish.” His head tilts to the side as he regards her. “You should have more confidence in yourself.”

To say she would have expected him to ever give her some sort of heart to heart...would be a lie. She stares at him for a few long moments after his short speech, silent even as he stands and brushes imaginary lint from his knee.

“Well, I won’t bother you anymore.” He pauses, opens his mouth as if he wants to say more, then shuts it. He snaps his fingers, points at her -- and then makes some sort of motion with his hand.

It takes a moment for her to realise that he’s just signed at her.

A simple sign, the sign for good luck, but it takes her off guard simply because she would have never expected it from him, either. He doesn’t know sign language, after all. Which had to mean he had learnt...something, at least? Why...?

Why had he learnt it -- and such an oddly specific phrase such as that?

“What? Was my signing so good it leaves you completely speechless?” It seems her radio silence strikes a nerve -- his demanding voice catches at her. Is it just her, or can she detect the barest hint of concern in his voice?

Swallowing, she shakes her head, bringing her phone back to life as she hurries to reply to him.

No Yes, your signing was good. You are good. Thank you.

He smirks at the message, and gives her nothing more than a casual wave as he walks off.

________

Her employer continues to sign at her more and more often, little words here and there that catch her off-guard. She can’t tell whether she’s touched or simply astounded each and every time. She’s -- never met someone else who would just make the effort to learn sign for her. Not that she meets many people on a familiar basis, but...

She genuinely cannot speak.

She’d been too caught up in the moment to think it then, but she feels somewhat...guilty for what he had said. It’s true that Arianna does not speak, but cannot...is not entirely true.

And more and more, lately, she finds herself wishing to speak to him. Wishing that she had the courage to open her mouth and simply talk, as he does. And yet every time she considers it, she recalls what he had said, or he does one of his signs at her again, and she’s too overcome with emotion to try saying anything at all.

It’s probably somewhat sad that she’s closer to her employer than almost anyone else, to the point of desiring to let him hear her voice. But she would like him to. Hear her.

But wouldn’t he be cross once he found out she’d lied? He might even ask her to leave. Who knows, perhaps he prefers her not speaking, perhaps it makes things easier for him to fiddle with his phone whenever he’s around her...

At least even she can tell that thought is absurd.

But still. Knowing it doesn’t kill the thought.

Arianna can nevertheless not help the nervousness that rises up within her as she considers the idea. How would she even breach the subject? Just walk up to him and start talking? Should she text him first? Is this really something she should be thinking about so much? It probably is. But it should be so much simpler...

He’s not a friend of hers. So her thoughts are pointless. Perhaps it’s pointless to even...

“Arianna?”

She’s startled from her tumultuous thoughts by the voice of the very person she’d been thinking of. He peers at her over her shoulder, one hand raised in front of her as if he’d been waving it in her face. One eyebrow quirks. His champagne-coloured eyes seem amused.

“There you are. I was beginning to think you’d gone deaf, too.”

Oh. She must have spaced out as she was crossing the hallway. She...

Shaking her head, she quickly fishes out her phone. Pauses. She upturns her gaze to look at him again, blinking questioningly. Her fingers tighten their grip upon her cellphone, and she can’t help but avert her gaze before she tries.

“D-d-did you need some...thing...?” Her voice is so painfully quiet and soft that she cannot help but think he hadn’t heard her. Or maybe hope he hadn’t. This was an idiotic idea anyway, she should have never --

“Hmm? No, I just -- what?” But his voice rings out loud and clear as it always does -- at least initially. He sounds absolutely shocked. “Did you just speak?”

She taps her fingers on the phone and shuts her eyes as she tries to control the veritable maelstrom of emotions threatening to keel her over. “Y-yes...?” Oh, this was a mistake, a mistake, she should have never --

“Then why didn’t you ever before?”

“Um....” Finally, she manages to look at him -- but his bemused, astonished face is too much for her. She finds the words she’d wanted to say are lost.

I am sorry. I just am nervous about speaking around strangers.

He doesn’t reply, and it even seems to take him a while to look at his phone. She’s not sure because she’s not looking at him.

“So we’re not strangers, are we? Does that make us friends?”

That question had been ringing around in her own head, too, but -- did that mean he entertained similar thoughts? Shyly, she manages to glance at him again. He’s still looking at her, and his gaze holds hers.

“I-if you...want...?” she manages after a moment. She can’t just say yes -- she’s not sure if he’s simply being flippant or if this is something he’s genuinely serious about. She can’t read his expression.

His mouth curves. “Then perhaps we are.”

________

Emet isn’t often in the lounge when she goes in to clean it, but she at least isn’t surprised seeing him. There is, however, another man within the room...and she had not been informed prior they would have any visitors. He has light brown hair, tied into a short ponytail, and an easy, carefree smile. And he looks far too at home as he stretches out on Emet’s couch, seemingly without a care in the world.

Arianna turns slowly toward her employer, making a simple gesture in the man’s direction and blinking up at Emet. It’s a simple word, the word for who, but she’s not certain he’ll get it. Thankfully, however, her non-verbal question seems to be completely understood.

“An annoyance,” is all Emet grumbles out. The man gives a loud guffaw, and Arianna’s pulse skyrockets as he swings himself over the back of the couch. Blessedly, he just barely manages to avoid smacking into one of the more expensive-looking vases on the table behind it.

“Is that really any way to treat your best friend?” the strange man asks, swinging an arm about Emet’s shoulders laxly. “I’m Hyth.” He directs a smile toward Arianna. “You are...?”

The question is somewhat surprising, though she fishes her phone out of her pocket regardless to type something up. Hyth must have made an inquiring gesture, since she hears Emet speak a moment later.

“She’s mute. She won’t talk to you, at any rate. Just wait.”

Hyth doesn’t seem to have a response -- at least not a verbal one. After a moment, Arianna finally holds her phone out for him to read, and he leans in.

My name is Arianna. It’s nice to meet you, Hyth.

“Arianna,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Right, he told me about you. It’s nice to meet you, too. Though I don’t want to exactly keep you from your duties, if I’m disturbing -- ”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Emet interrupts, waving a hand carelessly. “She doesn’t have much else to do today. I don’t mind. My friend should probably meet my other friend, anyway.”

A silence settles upon the room.

“A friend?” Hyth repeats in amazement. “You have a friend?” He smacks a hand to his chest. “You’re growing up, Emet. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Oh, do shut up.”

Arianna has to lift a hand to touch her mouth, as if to stop the beginnings of a laugh from breaking through. She doesn’t notice the architect tilting his head at her.

“Hyth and I were about to get some lunch,” he addresses her, then pauses. “Would you like to come with us? You can change, of course. Perhaps you even should. If you’re going.”

He keeps shocking her. Perhaps she should just expect to be caught off-guard and not pay it any heed.

“You don’t have to.” Her silence is answered by a further assurance.

Would you really like me to come?

The architect shrugs his shoulders. “I won’t answer that, if you’re trying to get me to tell you to come. You have to decide that on your own.”

“Oh? Do you often tell her what to do, Emet?”

“You’re not helping.”

The exchange has Arianna fiddling with her phone uncertainly. Her green gaze flicks from her employer to his supposed best friend, and bites her lower lip hard before she looks back to her phone.

Then, I would like to go with you.

________

Their relationship (? is it one?) has felt more and more lax lately. She’s come to send him small snippets of her stories -- typically after he sends her a text complaining he’s bored. There are many of these.

He sends her many more texts in general lately, too. When he’s not at the house, he’ll find a way to talk to her regardless. Occasionally he chides her for responding when she theoretically shouldn’t even be on her phone -- but he’s never complained, past her initial fright that, maybe, he was serious and it was actually a test of some kind --

He just wants to talk. Which is fine. They are, Arianna supposes, friends, despite...everything.

Even in the evening, when she’s home, she’s taken to sending him a quick good night.

And he frequently complains of -- in his opinion -- nosy or irritating clients of his. She feels bad for occasionally laughing at what are most certainly not jokes, but she can’t help but find his typing amusing.

It’s rare for him to be around when she leaves for the night, but tonight she just so happens to bump into him as she exits the front door. Emet stops stock still.

“Oh? Going home?” Emet asks conversationally, not appearing to be in any sort of hurry. The air smells of cut grass and vaguely of his cologne.

“Yes. I -- I hope you had a good day,:” she says with a mild smile, brushing at a few strands of her dark hair on reflex.

“I suppose I did.” He seems to consider something. “I suppose I should praise you for all the work you’re doing for me.” There’s something vaguely awkward in his posture as he adjusts one of his cufflinks -- an ungainliness that swiftly disappears, replaced by an air of smugness. “Well, you’ve done a good job. You were a good girl today.”

She blinks rapidly in shock. It takes several seconds for what should be simply a flippant joke to sink in. It is nothing more than a simple joke, at least to him. There’s nothing to the words.

Then why on earth do they set her whole body abuzz, her face burning up as if aflame?

Slapping her palms to her face, she reels away from him, trying very hard to rationalise the travesty that just occurred. Even Emet looks shocked, and she’s not sure whether she’s relieved or feels even more mortified by this fact. It was just -- he just...

Ah, there must be something wrong with her.

Thus, she does the only sensible thing in this situation.

That is to say, she all but flies across the pavement to put the estate and him far behind her.

________

She is convinced.

He’s trying to drive her insane.

Or maybe it’s simply her overactive imagination. That could be it, too.

But that is a rather hard assumption to make when he makes a comment that his lunch had been good and says it in a very particular way as he waits for her reaction. What she hates most, however, is that a part of her is very expectant for him to say...something else.

She absolutely hates it.

He’s never going to say that again, nor should she ever want him to. She doesn’t even understand why she reacted so ridiculously, nor why it should ever matter to her. It doesn’t and it won’t. It’s not...it doesn’t mean anything.

But she’d like for him to say it again. And she hates that part of her.

She’s lost in thought again today as she dusts at the books and shelves in the book room, occasionally fluffing out her duster when necessary. Her mind weaves a story she’ll want to write down as quickly as possible before she forgets, a tale about a girl stuck in a tower and the trials she goes through to escape.

“Good girl.”

That silky voice is most definitely not a part of her daydream.

Reeling back into the world of the living, she sucks in a sharp inhalation of breath, dropping the duster in her hand as she whirls to stare up at the man who had snuck up behind her.

He smirks as if he’d just won something, touches her rapidly flushing cheek with his fingers, then his entire palm. “How adorable. I knew you liked it.” His smugness only makes her more and more flustered as she attempts to regain her bearings. Though the moment she thinks she does, she loses them immediately when he cups her other cheek, too, and leans in to kiss her.

Her hands jump to his chest, though she doesn’t push him away. Instead, her fingers curve into his shirt; he pulls away momentarily, only to chase her with another, deeper kiss that has her mind spinning.

________

Later, when they’re tangled together in his silk sheets, Arianna stares at the ceiling as arguably rational thought returns to her.

Ah...she really is an easy lay, isn’t she. Just say the magic words and she’d hop right off into bed...

What should probably be an at least somewhat pleasant moment is summarily ruined by her twisting anxiety and self-disgust. She’s beginning to feel ill, like she wants to vomit.

Inhaling a shaky gasp, she moves to slide herself off of the bed. Emet snatches at her, pulling her back to blink up at her with a vaguely annoyed gaze.

“Where are you going?” he asks, narrowing golden eyes.

“I — ah...t-that is...” She has no idea how to answer him. Where is she going? Fumbling blankly, she trips over an explanation. “B-back to work...?”

It’s, at least, a somewhat better answer than simply leaving.

He gives her a slow, exceptionally expressive blink. He’s clearly unimpressed by her response.

“Why...? Hmm — that reminds me...your job is to clean, yes...?”

Now it’s her turn to give him a blank blink. “Y-yes?”

The bemused expression turns sharp, his mouth curving. His gaze rakes down her body, and she suddenly remembers she’s very much unclothed. “Then clean me instead.”

The disgust and unease dissipate all at once to be replaced by pure bewilderment, and for one confusing moment she’s left wondering if this was possibly at all on purpose. Shaking her head, she averts her gaze as a deep flush crosses her features.

“Th-that is — I — I-I’ll get a b-bath running, then...”

“Oh, really?” he purrs from his languid pose upon the bed. “That sounds wonderful.” He finally lets go of her, calmly folding his arms beneath his head. As he all but leers at her, she’s abruptly reminded of the fact that not only is she naked but she’s also offered to walk across to the restroom —

“S-stop looking at me,” she stammers, instinctively drawing her arms over her chest. “Please.” Added, after a moment’s thought.

“But there’s so much to look at.” Despite his statement, Emet doesn’t protest; instead, he rolls onto his side to face his back toward her.

She’s left to strew in thoughts of bewilderment and confusion as she stumbles into the bathroom, a bathrobe he’d told her she could borrow for the moment tossed over her shoulders. She’s been in here before — having cleaned it up — so it’s easy enough to find what she needs to get the bathtub in a state suitable for...bathing.

The architect is dosing when she goes to inform him the restroom is ready.

“Oh, good.” His voice is vaguely husky from sleep. “We can take a bath.”

The word gives her pause. “‘We’...?” she repeats uncertainly, sure she’d misheard or that he had misspoke.

“Yes,” he says pleasantly, flashing her a smile as he pushes himself off the bed. Arianna looks away discreetly, brushing her fingers through a few strands of her dark hair. Apparently he sees no need for a robe for himself. “There’s room enough for two, I should think.”

She almost gives in to the urge to look at him again, if only because for some reason she can’t quite tell if he’s playing with her or not.

“Oh, and,” he continues, snapping his fingers, “you don’t work here anymore.”

All at once, the feelings from earlier come crashing down on her. “Ah...” She feels sick. Of course she’d been right. Nothing more than —

“I can’t have my sweetheart working as a servant girl, can I?” One of his hands comes up to hook beneath her chin, pulling her to look up at him. She momentarily finds herself unable to breathe, mind similarly blank. The smirk he gives her feels vaguely fond. “Oh, but don’t worry. If you still want to be my maid that badly, we can always play in bed~.”

More than the burning sensation to her cheeks, she feels like she’s about to get whiplash. Pulling away from him, she slaps her hands to her face.

“Wh-wh-what are you...?” She stumbles uselessly over her words, not even sure what she wants to ask him. And she absolutely hates the tiny glimmer of hope that dares to peek its way out even as he laughs at her. “A-are you playing with me?” she finally manages to ask, simultaneously dreading and wanting the answer.

“Why on earth would I be playing with you right now?” Emet scoffs lightly. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was annoyed. “You may be adorable like this, but I think I’m not that cruel. I’m completely, utterly serious.” There’s a moment of silence, wherein she dares to look up at him again. It’s only then that he continues. “Well, if you want me to be serious, that is. If I was mistaken in my assumption you were interested in me in that way, I’d be ha — mm, that would be a lie, actually. Either way, if that turns out to be the case, we can put this behind us. Figuratively, and literally.” The man exhales a heavy sigh, as if the speech had exhausted him more so than any other activities they’d done together. “So? What is your answer, my dear?”

“I — ”

Just a few minutes ago, she’d thought he had seen her as nothing more than a quick bit of amusement. Perhaps, at the back of her mind, Arianna still thought that, but for the moment such assumptions were thrown to the wayside by the veritable roller coaster she’d just been on. — Though really, perhaps that was part of why she, unfortunately, liked him. Even as simply an employer...

But he wants her answer — as to whether they’re something more than that. Properly, not simply some sort of tryst.

Of course they’re not. She never wanted them to be something like that in the first place. And, maybe, neither did he?

Oh, but the thought of having to actually put that all into words...perhaps it makes her feel even more ill than just a few short minutes ago when she’d been convinced he merely saw her as a toy...

Biting her lower lip hard, the hyuran woman slowly lowers her hands from her face, tilting her head up to look at him once more. He’s simply...looking back at her, calmly. For once, there’s no smirk upon his face, nor any sort of trace of irony. He’s just...waiting.

Which only makes her remember that he expects her to speak...

“Ah...w-well...” Averting her gaze yet another time, she fidgets with the folds of the robe, trying to concentrate on the texture. Perhaps thinking of anything else will help her ground herself. Just. Anything.

Anything aside from what he’s asking her to say.

Swallowing nervously, she summons the courage to look up at him again. He’s calm, completely unobtrusive — he doesn’t even try to lean into her personal space. He’s just...waiting.

“Um, I...” She starts, trails off nervously, and finds herself looking away again. “You’re not — you’re not...wrong...” It’s somehow easier to speak when she’s not looking at him. “I am...i-inter...ested...” And her voice grows quieter and quieter with each syllable, until it dissipates entirely. She touches anxiously at her hair as she waits with bated breath for him to do...anything.

He gives a soft exhalation that seems a little like relief, his shoulders sagging. Perhaps he’d been holding his breath, too --

“Wonderful.” He sounds just a little tired. “In that case...” He clears his throat, putting a hand lightly upon her shoulder to coax her to look at him. Is it just her imagination or -- “Would you like to bathe with me...? I know I said ‘we’ would, but if you’d rather not, you can, of course, stay...here, if you like.”

Another question that has her reeling at the implications of answering it, and another moment he is, for once, not trying to get her to blush -- she’s doing that all on her own just fine.

This doesn’t take nearly that much long to think about, either.

“I-I...wouldn’t...mind...”

“Oh...” She can’t tell if he’s surprised or simply pleased. “Well then.” This time Emet does smirk, though there’s less of a bite to it than usual. He slides his arm about her shoulders and herds her along with him toward the bathroom, though he stops right outside the door. “That reminds me. There’s a gala in about...a week. Hyth’s thing -- he likes art. I wanted to ask if you’d come with me? As my date.”

The question gives her pause, looking up at him in bemusement. “I don’t think -- I’d really have anything to wear...? To something like...that, anyway...”

“It’s no matter.” He waves his other hand carelessly. “I can arrange for something. So. Will you come with me? There will...be a lot of people, unfortunately, but it’s not as if you have to talk to any of them. I’d simply enjoy your company, is all.” He looks as if he’s about to say more, though for some reason he seems to think better of it and bites his tongue.

“Then I -- then I don’t mind. I-I’d like to go with you.”

To her surprise, he leans down to press a chaste kiss to her temple that has scarlet creeping up her face.

“Thank you, my dear.”

________

There’s many...changes leading up to the gala. For starters, Emet weasels his way into meeting her parents...an appointment she isn’t sure she’s looking forward to or dreading. She at least hopes her parents approve...she still isn’t quite sure how to explain her current situation to them --

He doesn’t want her to clean or do any chores like she used to, other than, perhaps, cook, “if she’d like”. And, of course, he still requests she come around just as much, except this time to make herself at home.

“How refreshing to see you out of that uniform,” he muses aloud upon first seeing her in something else. “Though I think you’d look even better with that on my floor~.”

She’s not sure whether it’s good or not that she’s learning not to be taken so off-guard by such flippant comments.

He’s even hired a new maid, someone other than her, to wander around the place and clean up, just as she had. She doesn’t know much about the other hyuran woman; only that she seems about the same age, has brown hair reminiscent of Hyth’s, and doesn’t seem nearly as bothered by showing skin as Arianna is.

The woman, Alice, drags a vacuum down the hallway, visible and audible from Arianna’s perch in the book room. Her green eyes slide up from her novel to watch the woman absentmindedly.

And it makes her wonder -- was Emet only interested in her because she was a maid? There were some men like that, weren’t there? Interested in maids because of the thrill of some easily accessible fun. Something she’d given him so very easily.

Was it because she’d wandered into bed with him like some cheap --

“Darling.” Emet’s voice cuts through her thoughts like a knife. On autopilot, she reflexively smacks her book shut, somehow managing to not jump in her seat. He circles around the sofa to peer down at her curiously. One eyebrow quirks. “Something wrong?”

“I-I -- um -- ” Her green eyes flick from him, to Alice, moving her vacuuming to another room. “Nothing...”

“Hmm.” All he gives her for the moment is a quiet hum. She’s not sure he’s convinced. But he doesn’t ask. Instead, he pulls a nondescript white box out from one of his coat pockets. “Here. I got you something, for tonight.”

“Wha -- ” She stares at him for a moment in shock, her gaze flicking from the box, to his face, and back again. He looks entirely too pleased with himself. “For me...?”

“Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” His lips quirk. “Are you going to take it, or shall I open it for you?”

She’s still shell-shocked, but before she can think better of it, she’s pushed the book off her lap and taken the box from him. Opening it reveals -- a delicate hair ornament. It’s a composition of small blue flowers and blue butterflies, some connected by fragile-looking chains of silver and gold, some links hanging down to lie within one’s hair while it’s worn. It’s one of -- perhaps the most pretty piece of jewelry she’s ever seen. Her brows furrow in vague concern, and she opens her mouth, about to speak; however, he shakes a finger in front of her face before she can do so.

“Please don’t ask me if it’s for you again,” he says, looking somewhat amused. “It is, entirely, for you, my dear. I do hope you like it. I saw it the other day, and -- it reminded me of you.”

Swallowing, Arianna clicks her mouth shut, turning the hairpiece over gently in her hands. She’s almost afraid to touch it too much lest she break it.

“Th-thank you -- it’s beautiful, but I -- can’t wear something l-like this...”

How much had it cost him? It looks expensive, and if he puts his mind to something, he isn’t the sort to do things in halves.

“Nonsense. You have hair, don’t you?” Emet reaches to lightly brush fingers through a curled strand. “Of course you can wear it.”

She bites her lower lip. “Y-you know what I mean...”

“I’m afraid not.”

Ah. He’s being stubborn, then.

Well, she supposes, so is she.

Swallowing, she gently places it back into its box. “I-it’s truly -- very beautiful -- thank you, Emet...” Putting the box onto the book beside her, she slowly stands up, brushing her hands nervously through her hair.

“You’re very welcome. I’m gla -- ”

For once, she surprises him when she musters the courage to lean up and give him a kiss on the cheek. Just before she glances away out of embarrassment, she’s able to see a pale hint of redness to his cheeks. Instead of responding, the man looks away, clearing his throat.

She’s at least glad he can lose his words, too --

“Now, ah, how about you go pick out a dress? I brought a few back for you.” But he’s far quicker at regaining his composure...so it seems. “I have a few other things I need to take care of before we go. Like the car, for instance.” He clears his throat, touching lightly at her hair again, before turning away. “Oh” -- he pauses just through the doorway -- “and I asked Alice to help you with your makeup. Do you mind?”

Ah --

If she’d used much makeup at all, she would have said “yes”...after all, simply because he had never seen her wearing it to work didn’t mean she didn’t wear it at all...

But he hadn’t been wrong in assuming (had he? or -- ) that she doesn’t wear it typically. So she simply shakes her head mutely.

“Excellent. Then you can talk to her after you’ve finished choosing something -- or tell me, and I’ll send her to you.”

________

In -- his bedroom? their bedroom...? Either way, that is where she finds several dresses arranged on a rack. Whatever likes to make its way out of his mouth when he talks, he’s certainly aware of her preferences. All the dresses are modestly cut and not overly flashy -- apart from one, though even this one she looks through. It’s pretty, even if not something she would choose to wear. In the end she picks out a blue somewhat shimmery dress, held up by straps, to match the hairpiece he’d given her.

She’s not really sure how she feels -- about the idea of Alice being in this room...there’s simply something about it that just rubs her the wrong way. As if anyone could simply go to his room and do what they had done...

Is that really how it is...?

No, he’d -- gotten these pretty things for her, surely that has to mean something.

Alice knocks on the door before entering, smiling at her as she brings in a small box of what is doubtless makeup supplies. Oh, no, this is going to be awkward...

She’s already finding herself wishing Emet were here to gab on and on about something, at least that would make her feel like she’s not being boring or intrusive.

“I’m here to do your makeup!” the other hyuran woman announces. “Take a seat.” There’s only one chair at the desk, so Arianna feels strange sitting there while the other woman stands, but she supposes there’s nothing else she can do about it --

Giving a quiet nod and a smile, she sits down as asked, and Alice stares at her face for a minute before rummaging through her tools. Then, seemingly satisfied with the arsenal she’s picked out, she starts to paint Arianna’s face with them.

A tiny part of her wonders if she’ll make her look like a clown. Or if the colours she’s picked are truly suitable to her and her dress -- covered by a small rectangle of dark fabric the woman had brought with her. But Emet had trusted this woman’s judgement, of all things, so...she supposes she must know what she’s doing.

Unless this is all some elaborate plan to make her look like a clown...

That ornament had been so very pretty, though.

“You and Mr. Selch make a very nice couple,” Alice says a few minutes into applying the colours to her face. The sudden comment -- combined with the amiability with which she says it -- takes the dark-haired woman completely by surprise. Her eyes widen as she stares at the woman calmly brushing rouge onto her cheekbones. She has -- no idea what to do -- and it’s not as if she can talk, she --

Does she really think so...?

Nervously, she tries to smile, and nod her head faintly in response -- this only has the other hyur clicking her tongue.

“Don’t move when I’m putting your makeup on, okay? Not even to smile.”

She has to resist the urge to nod her head again. Instead, she curls her fingers together in her lap as her face heats up in embarrassment. The minutes tick by as the woman continues her work, Arianna’s attempts to occupy herself with daydreams proving fruitless because all she can think about is what Alice had said.

“There! We’re all done,” the woman announces as she clicks a pen shut. “Take a look. Do you like it?”

She feels somewhat apprehensive to look in the mirror, but she steels her nerves and does so anyway. What she sees there leaves her momentarily blank.

She looks -- pretty. And not outrageous or overstated at all...

She likes it.

Blinking -- and trying very hard to stop the ridiculous urge to cry -- she looks toward Alice again, smiling fervently in a way that she hopes conveys her appreciation. Right -- her phone -- quickly getting it, she writes a note, holding it out for the woman to look at. Alice beams at her.

“I’m glad you like it! I was a little worried since you don’t talk, but you’re actually really nice!” The compliment is somewhat backhanded, but she bulldozes on. “I’m sure Mr. Selch will love it! He asked me to take you down to the entrance when you’re ready.”

________

He is, indeed, waiting for them, in a freshly ironed and crisp pinstriped suit. The sight sends mild heat to her cheeks, and Arianna brushes nervously at her loose hair as she approaches.

For a moment, it feels like Alice might as well not be there. He seems to drink her in, admiring her in the dress she’d picked and the makeup she wore for this event.

“You look lovely,” he says after a moment, as if just remembering his voice. “But there’s one more thing...”

“Th -- ” Arianna starts, then stops, remembering Alice -- but when she looks around, the maid is nowhere to be found. When had she left? “Th...the...the hairpin?” she continues uncertainly, turning slowly in a circle before coming to face the man again.

He seems somewhat amused by the display. “I brought it.” He shows her the box on the small desk near the door.

After a moment’s hesitation, she trots over to pick it up, gently pulling the ornament out, before peering into the mirror to begin trying to put it on. However, he steps beside her, stopping her.

“Let me put it on for you.” Carefully taking it from her hands, Emet brushes her dark wavy hair away from her face as he fastens the pin to her hair. This accomplished, he takes her chin in his hand to tip her head up and to the side, narrowing his eyes as he gazes down at her. She can feel a flush rising to her cheeks -- can he see it with the makeup on? -- at this inspection, a strange fluttery sensation that has her unable to breathe as her mouth twists indecisively.

“Beautiful,” Emet says with a smirk in a way that makes her wonder if he’s referring to her or the hairpiece. But she’s momentarily lost her words and simply self-consciously touches at her cheek once he finally lets her go, though not without a chaste kiss. “Are you ready to go?” he asks calmly, holding out a hand toward her. With a shy nod, she takes it gently.

________

The limo ride to the party is airy and light. Emet talks, as he likes to, explaining the history or some such behind the gala, reminiscing about previous events -- and it’s genuinely interesting, hearing about the other interesting people he’s met.

She doesn’t even stop to think about how, perhaps, she is certainly not one of them. That’s how relaxed she is.

Ah, but, the moment he pulls her out of the car, his fingers closed firmly about her hand, and the tinted windows are no longer enough to dull the scene outside...

The house -- or mansion? -- all but nearly bursts with light. She might nearly mistake the evening for day with how brightly lit its decorations pulse. And the other people...

Even in her pretty blue dress and heels and the butterflies in her hair and the necklace of blue gems at her neck, Arianna starts to wonder if she’s underdressed. Surely she doesn’t look like any of them. Not even slightly comparable. And there’s so many people, and they’re just outside...

“You look beautiful,” Emet assures her, squeezing her hand lightly to call her attention to him. “They’ll be so jealous when they see you with me.” He sounds more than slightly pleased at the thought -- perhaps even smug -- as he tugs her along after him, past the small tables and dining guests. She tries very hard not to think about them, of about how they might be looking at her --

But, she thinks blankly, as Emet stops to talk to yet another person Arianna can almost not quite bring herself to look at, she realises...these people don’t know anything about her. Just like she doesn’t know anything about them...

Perhaps that’s a good thing. There’s no reason for them to assume anything about her...just like she can’t really assume -- or shouldn’t -- anything about them...

The thought is enough to calm her, somewhat.

The inside of the house is, paradoxically, darker than the outside; most of the lights seem to be reserved for the pieces of art on display.

Hyth has always liked art. Especially statues. He loves those -- so much that he demands artists display their works at his house. It’s a win-win, he says; advertisement, and he gets to oogle them.

There’s certainly a lot of statues. And paintings. Emet walks with her along most of them, murmuring facts about the artists in her ear, or critiquing those pieces he seems to have a distaste for or amusement in. No one attempts to talk to them, thankfully, and pressed to the architect’s side like this, she can almost imagine they’re all by themselves together.

Before long, they’ve wandered off to take a break at the tables -- a drink and a respite. There’s others here, too, and the fact they’re all merely standing around makes Arianna more anxious -- or dreadful of -- potential small talk. Emet engages one blonde woman before she can speak to him, and absentmindedly she tunes out their conversation in an attempt to gain a bearing on herself.

Carlin...

Wait, where had she heard that name before...?

Almost as if some completely hilarious twist of fate, a man catches Arianna’s eye. She notes a glimmer of recognition in his eyes that sends a sickly feeling into her stomach. Carlin -- Carlin, this is the man that had visited Emet’s estate before. The woman...his wife...?

“You’re the servant girl at Selch’s estate,” Carlin says, just as she turns her face away. He speaks before she can attempt to remove herself from the situation.

“Was a servant girl,” Emet chimes in helpfully, snatching two champagne glasses from a passing waiter; he hands one to Arianna, who takes it mutely. “As you can see, I’ve brought her here as my date.” He sips at his drink. Arianna tries to, but for some reason the ill feeling grows too strong to be able to concentrate, much less think about sampling the flavour.

“I didn’t take you as one to fall for a gold digger, Emet.”

Ah — there it is. Whatever else Carlin says is drowned out by the roar crashing through her ears. She wants to vomit. She knew it was wrong to come here — to have ever entertained such thoughts at all. Carlin is right — she would have never been here, would never have even looked upon this dress or her hair ornament were it not for Emet. The butterflies feel heavy and bulky fastened in her hair now — her head feels so heavy. She would have ripped the accessory off were it not for the drink flute still clutched in her trembling hands.

Her eyes fill with tears, and she quickly looks away, staring firmly at the floor as she attempts to walk off. There’s no point in being here anymore. She doesn’t care where she goes so long as it’s somewhere far, far away —

But she can’t. Leave. Because for some reason, Emet takes it upon himself to keep her there. His grip upon her upper arm is firm as she’s pulled back next to him. She stumbles in her stupid heels and stares blankly at the crisp lines of his stupid suit. The drink sloshes up the glass walls and drips against her fingers. Shame and embarrassment collide with anger — just what is he doing? Does he want to humiliate her, too? Her throat closes up — even if she’d wanted to, she wouldn’t have been able to tell him off. At least not here. There’s nothing she can do. She’s just a useless gold digger, she wouldn’t have a thing right now if it weren’t for his help —

All at once, the sound of snapping fingers cuts through the noise in her head. All thoughts — stop.

“Oh, I remember now. It was, mm, a week ago I saw you last? Walking out of an exceptionally saucy club, if I must say so myself, a pretty little thing hanging off of your arm. Did you tell your wife about the lovely time you had at the hotel? Crystarium Nights, I believe it was...room 203. That hotel is mine, were you aware? — Oh, my apologies, she does know about this, doesn’t she? It would be quite awkward if she didn’t.”

It’s like he’s speaking in alien tongues. Arianna can’t quite understand or comprehend what he’s saying — none of it makes any sense to her. But Carlin’s face is ashen white, his wife’s slowly turning a furious shade of red bordering on purple.

“I also distinctly recall seeing you at the firm the other day,” Emet continues without missing a beat, his thumb rubbing smooth lines up and down the inside of Arianna’s arm. “If my ears don’t deceive me — and they don’t, I assure you — I remember you bringing up bankruptcy. Do you really have the money to be throwing around at places like this? Just one of these drinks must be a fortune to you. Your wife knows about that too, right? Don’t you, Rosa?”

Despite the devastating things he’s saying, Emet appears utterly nonchalant, taking another sip of his champagne. There’s a malicious, sharp curve to his lips as he stares at the two of them. Rosa Carlin glowers at her husband, her hold upon her own glass of wine white-knuckled.

“Is what he said true?” she demands, her blue eyes narrowing. All the man can do is sputter wordlessly for a moment -- she spills the rest of her drink down his front and walks off angrily.

Carlin stares off in the direction his wife left, then looks toward Emet and Arianna. His mouth opens, shuts, as if he wants to speak, though no words come out. There’s probably nothing he can say. Arianna’s own mind is still blank.

“Perhaps think before you speak next time, Carlin. You should know better than to yap when you have nothing to prove. Now...your very presence irritates me. Go stand slack-jawed elsewhere, would you?” With this final, utter dismissal, the architect finally turns all attention away from the gawping, soaked man. Sighing loudly, Emet uses his grip upon her to tug her toward the mostly empty table where he finally takes a seat.

“How exhausting...” He tilts his head to look at her oddly, in a way that makes her heart do weird flips in her chest. He puts his glass away, then lifts his free hand to touch upon her face; he lightly wipes away the tears she hadn’t even realised were there. Then he lets go of her entirely.

For some reason, that merely makes the lump in her throat grow.

He had -- very soundly told that man off...for her...? She can’t really think of any other reason for the tirade, except perhaps that he simply hadn’t been fond of Carlin...

Swallowing, the black-haired woman places her glass upon the table next to his. Gently, she takes one of his hands in both of hers. He looks up at her in what seems like surprise, peering at her through his fringe of white hair. With a faint, indecisive smile, Arianna shuffles closer to him and leans in; he leans toward her in return as she hovers her lips close to his ear.

“Thank you,” she manages to whisper in the quietest of tones.

For the moment, he does nothing but give a mild hum in response. Tugging gently, he tests her responsiveness before pulling her about him to sit on his lap. She perches somewhat warily on his knee, smoothing her skirt as he shifts positions to draw both his arms about her and rest his cheek on her shoulder. Normally something she wouldn’t -- even consider doing in public, strangely it makes her feel quite...content.

“Well, you are my good girl, aren’t you?” The abrupt murmur has her heart flipping yet again, though somehow the way he says it has her feeling weirdly warm and full of clouds. She lets him pull her even closer, leaning against him as she tries to pretend no one else is there.

Another sharp exhalation leaves the man as his arms tighten about her. “You don’t mind me taking a power nap, do you? Of course you don’t.”

“Going to sleep again?” Hyth’s laughing voice assails them as he strides past in an apparent hurry. “An insult that bruises straight to my very soul.” There’s no malice behind the words; in fact he seems to find this downright hilarious.

“Your party is boring,” Emet growls without even opening his eyes.

Arianna feels her lips curving in fondness; she runs her fingers through his hair gently as he settles again. Then she ducks her head to whisper to him once more.

“Don’t you want to leave, then...?”

This time, he does open his eyes — though only, it seems, to be able to grab a hold of one of her hands and play absentmindedly with her fingers.

“Hmm. I’d hoped to dance with you later, if you didn’t mind.” For some reason, he averts his gaze. She isn’t entirely sure in this lighting, but she thinks she can see the barest tinge of redness rising to his face. “Do you?”

For one who simply assumes or does what he wants either way, the question has her feeling oddly light. Smiling gently, she gives him a soft shake of her head.

“Truly?”

She nods, this time.

He’s silent for a moment, then smiles fondly at her.

“Then I suppose I shall have to make the most of my energy.” The smile turns into a wicked smirk. “Hyth’s favourite dance is salsa.”

When the comprehension dawns to her face, quickly followed by concern, he huffs a laugh.

“I’m only joking. You wouldn’t like a fast dance, I’m sure.”

With another final sigh, he presses his face back to her shoulder and holds her ever closer.

Next (nsfvv and literally plotless, proceed at own risk)

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #emet selch #emet selch x wol #emet selch x arianna #arianna rowen #arianna #hythlodaeus #fanfic #my writing #other verses #butler au #w: the dreamer and the architect #mine #stares blankly at the word count #im so sorry #no one is going to read this

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wehavethoughts · 4 years ago

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Comfortable Country Review!

Comfortable Country: Peaceful Homes Inspired by the Country Author: Enrica Stabile Photographer: Christopher Drake Publisher: Ryland Peters & Small, Inc., 2001 ISBN: 978 1 84597 361 2

*All quotes are from the book.

“Country is not simply an area you can find on a map, it is a place of the spirit.”

Comfortable Country strongly establishes the mood of country-inspired interior decoration. Aspirational homes are showcased on nearly every page, depicting pretty examples of design elements in a country home. The book’s text and images together create a thorough list of what you need to furnish your dream home, more idealistic than practical. Though lyrical and dreamy, Comfortable Country receives a rating of three darling geese out of a possible six, ultimately unable to rise to the standard of being a book about actual design in an accessible way.

“...home should be a haven of renewal...”

Stabile is verbosely lyrical, describing tangible elements in great detail and providing abstract words to key readers into the decor style’s gentle tone. Repeated again and again, almost ad nauseum, are: comfortable and comforting, simple, inviting, relaxed, peaceful, cozy, casual, informal, tranquil, natural, soothing, unassuming, unpretentious, generous, soft, and restful. The painted picture is very clear; a real #mood #vibe is conjured in Stabile’s detailed imagery. But it’s the same thing on every other page: faded linens, white paint, terracotta pots. All of those elements are fabulous, but we got it the first time!

“Elements like these remind us of the pleasure we derive from the integrity of natural materials and living with things shaped by human hands from nature’s bounty.”

The book got redundant very quickly. The first section focuses on influences to consider: changing seasons, peacefulness, nostalgia, utility, and natural materials. Each is integral to country decor and living, in which you can “indulge your senses and promote your wellbeing.” The second half distributes these characteristics in various rooms of the home, applications of the notes from the first section. This call and response format works to really show readers how the fantasy works... and again... and again… The photography is so beautiful and rich; so many words weren’t needed. Or, if Stabile wanted her specific voice to come through, detail away but limit the book to carefully selected images that flatter the writing-- more of a style diary.

Comfortable Country is a thorough lookbook, a selection of excellent examples curated to present a fresh take (in 2001) on country style. I wonder which elements contributed to that fresh take: wildflowers in chipped vintage enamelware? Embroidered cloth napkins? Homemade ceramic mugs? Delft tiles or Victorian plates? Undoubtedly very pretty, I have a meticulous guide book of items to buy or find and visual examples of ways to place them in my own personal home. However, Stabile’s narrative on lifestyle has a shallow relationship to the material decor of the style, shying away from being a true design book. This brings me to how Stabile grounded, or didn’t ground, the book in any context whatsoever.

“All you need is time to enjoy it.”

Stabile is repeatedly very encouraging of a slower, quieter lifestyle. Chosen items should center rest, enjoyment, and ease. This is all very clear and, I think, very good! I personally would absolutely love to just start over in a sweet cottage, having enough money and time to gather precious pieces and make all my food from scratch. So many of us follow #cottagecore, but there is something inherently imaginary about the vibe, it’s attractive because it’s unattainable. I am still curious as to where her vision resides in a more practical reality, one likely inhabited by her readers. She gets so close!: encouraging me to decorate to my own personal interpretation, to have an “individual reaction to individual things.” However, simply buying these items cannot suddenly allow me to lead a more peaceful, country-inspired life.

“...recapture the unassuming style of a contented era not so long ago.”

This vision is certainly not unimportant, especially in our capitalist society in which we are overworked and undernourished. But Stabile only skirts around this issue, I wish she dove in more! Instead, she longs for a lost era, a time when… The recurring nostalgia is vague, reductionist, and admittedly, kinda sexist. We are asked to “recall a time when all appeared safe and ordered” and I ask: safe for whom? Stabile encourages us to “copy country housewives of times gone by…” to which I would reply, “No thanks.”

“The practical essentials of life need not be unattractive simply because they are useful.”

Perhaps I am mixing country and cottage, but this book indirectly claims a white, patriarchal understanding of being ‘one with nature’ as the ideal. The rhetoric of having a country house is not only bourgeoisie, but actively ignores indigenous ways of life that existed long before ‘having a country house’ was a thing. So many native cultures to this day live in a way where items are indeed made with natural materials, food is picked fresh, and the home is interconnected with the surrounding environment. Stabile jabs at post-war economic boom mass-production of (mostly plastic) goods. This context is important and yet not so simple. Without acknowledging who created the problem, she criticizes and rejects it.

“...make artful use of simple effects to create an unpretentious, relaxing look.”

Basically, what Stabile is presenting is actually luxury more than peaceful living. It’s not about understanding why goods were created en masse, how local artisans were replaced with national department stores. The result is a surface-level relationship with the object around us, which fetishizes ‘simple’ ways of life. An ode to what wealth can do, Comfortable Country acknowledges the need to escape from ‘chaotic city life’, but fails to see how a sweet, gentle hermitage is not an adequate reply to the root causes of why we need that escape in the first place.

Look at this next passage. The voice tries to be relatable, starting by blaming technology and then commenting on minimalism out of nowhere (there’s so much to say on minimalism, coming up in my next post!), but ultimately doesn’t seriously tackle the beautiful goals of the last sentence.

“When technology became a fact of life we had to assimilate, many of us turned to minimalism and a pared-down style to reflect the proficiency of our new world. But real people are not suited to behaving as though daily life were a laboratory experiment-- cool, clean, and clinical. Efficiency has its place, but in the things that we choose to live with we need an intimacy and a softness to keep us gentle, and to keep us human.”

I can only assume the intended audience of Comfortable Country is one who wants a fantasy getaway. This is totally fine! I can only award three geese because, while it sounds lovely, the book is removed from truly accessible design. A reader might crave white linen curtains and a stone bench to sit and admire her garden. But I wish this book were so much more than just a privileged dictation of what country-chic means to her and how you can do it too! It comes across as condescending to a reader like me who thinks (too) critically and has the knowledge to design on her own. The book was what it said it was, and I would only recommend it to those starting out in figuring out their style.

With loving curiosity, DesignMod

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aeris-blue · 5 years ago

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The Doctor’s Charges 1 Year Anniversary

I was really wanting to write a bunch of unused scenes and post them in varying times today but it looks like it might just be this one!

Gaster’s skull smacked his head a bit harder against his desk than he had intended to in a display of his frustration. This wasn’t working. Nothing was working. Numbers weren’t coming out their proper shapes, equations weren’t following their own formulas, and his obnoxious chair kept waging complaints every time he moved. He let out a hefty sigh as he tapped the desk absentmindedly with a pencil.

What was the matter with him? Work was all that mattered to him: it’s what made him Gaster after all! Nothing was more important or crucial then his work so why was he thinking about sloppily written WingDings? Why was he wishing he’d have delved deeper in that notebook? Why was he so fixated on the children’s fascination with him?

It was just because they were skeletons. He hadn’t seen any in so long it had to be some sort of innate habitual survival instinct. The pencil fell from his grip to the floor clattering about in a pathetic demand for attention but he neglected it. Not like he was getting anything done today anyways.

Maybe he should just go home regardless of whatever heckling rhymes he’d get from his assistant. He pulled the documents he’d taken from the desk out of his drawer and set them on top. They had all been filled out quickly, and efficiently, thinking the questions would deter him or that there would be some huge disqualification so he could say at least he tried.

There was nothing of the sort.

His fingers fidgeted with a paperclip, he was unsure of where it came from but twisting it between his fingers was grounding and thus soothing. Maybe it wasn’t something instinctual? Pity. It had to be pity. Being torn apart from your only remaining family wasn’t a pleasant idea. The loneliness. Knowing there was someone out there in the world concerned for your well being but knowing you couldn’t see them. He rubbed his soul as familiarity settled in it.

Sans wouldn’t get adopted. No one would take a child prone to sickness when they had such a thin line between life and death. The child was walking along the edge of a knife trying very desperately not to step too heavily. Of course it would take an outside presence to push him atop it and Papyrus certainly wasn’t going to allow that. The pair needed each other and the idea of a family being separated didn’t settle well with him.

He’d claimed a family, in title alone, but had never… well, they weren’t anything like him. Now his ‘family’ was just a collection of loose threads with the vague memory of once being attached to one another. Stars, he missed the days when it was whole but those were far behind him.

There was work to be done.

Just as he was about to slip the application back into the drawer the door slid open. When he recognized the sheer mass of the shadow that cut across his dimly lit room he shoved the folder in as quickly as he could manage.

“I saw that,” came a voice as strong as thunder rolling across a dampened valley.

‘I wasn’t expecting you Your Majesty,’ Gaster signed precisely as he rose to his feet.

“None of that pomp and procedure Gaster, you know full well why I am here.” His expression was stern, focused, fitting of a boss monster but try as he might Gaster couldn’t figure out what had brought him here. As the King crossed to his desk Gaster squared his shoulders preparing to improvise whatever it was he’d apparently forgotten.

A twinkle danced across Asgore’s eye as a repressed smile bloomed like a golden flower across his face, “What decision have you met with the children?”

His soul twitched in frustration, Asgore knew full well he’d managed to work him up for nothing. ‘It’s a terrible idea, even separated they’d be better off with someone else.’

Asgore nibbled on the inside of his lip, “Are you sure?”

‘I’m certain Asgore,’ he sulked back into his chair, ‘I’m not warm, or soft, nothing about me is anything a child desires, and I can barely take care of myself.’

“When is the last time you ate?”

Gaster’s sockets narrowed as his thoughts grew distant trying desperately to recall what he had eaten last. With a knowing sigh Asgore produced a packet of crackers from his inventory, “It isn’t much but it’s something.”

‘Thank you,’ he signed before he placed the wrapper on the desk, maybe he’d remember them there.

“So you are not going to adopt them?”

‘It would be detrimental to their development if I did.’

The king’s shoulders dropped in mild disappointment. He had unquestioningly been hoping for the sound of children’s feet about the throne room praying desperately his moody desolate friend could experience the joy that he had lost. Perhaps he merely wished to live vicariously feeling it was something he no longer deserved to have.

Of course that was untrue. Asgore had been an excellent father and he would be again if the need ever arose. It was Gaster’s own foolish pursuit of knowledge that-- He sighed suddenly feeling as if the room were pressurized.

‘I can’t stop thinking about them,’ the phrase was extruded from his hands. He swallowed as best as he could, ‘I wish them well. I hope everything works out but you know as well as I do how terrible of a monster I am.’

“WingDings,” Asgore said firmly, “you’re not terrible.”

‘I can’t be a parent Asgore, what life could I give them without kindness?’ His fingers scratched across his misshapen ribs, ‘even if we can pretend that a few good deeds here and there mean I’m capable I can’t help them. Skinned knees, scraped shins, I can’t fill their heads with delusions of magic kisses that make the pain go away.’

He’d never experienced it first hand. The caring touch of a parent trying to soothe the pain away from their child. Watching Toriel though, he’d seen it, he’d see what wonderful things a parent could do with green magic. Utilizing that healing touch all of monsterdom were supposed to possess they could spark imagination and wonderment in their offspring.

‘If they came to me with night terrors I’d send them to their beds telling them exactly how preposterous it is to worry about such things!’

“You never said that to Grillby.”

‘If another child was antagonizing them I’d tell them to fight back!’

“Inadvisable,” Asgore combed his beard with his claws, “but not altogether terrible.”

‘What about my LV poisoning?’

“What of mine?”

‘I just can’t Asgore!’ He slammed his hand down on the counter startling both himself and the boss monster. Softly his hands curled in on themselves from the lingering pulse of his overly dramatic action. ‘What of my fate?’

Asgore put his paws on Gaster’s shoulders, “I’ve told you all along that was a lie from a monster who wanted nothing more than to hurt you.”

“Gaster. What do you think of the boys?”

The weight of the boss monster’s paws on his shoulders grounded him more than any drink could, ‘Sans is a clever child. Smart, cunning, well aware of his condition but unaccepting of it. The world has attempted to wear him down, make him weary, but he stands in direct defiance. He aims to find life.’

‘Papyrus… is life. He is spontaneous and loud and in constant motion. I find him harder to get a reading on but I know that he loves his brother. And I know there is that same desire for knowledge that his brother has just maybe in a different direction.’

His eye lights pointed up to Asgore’s, ‘that’s why they need each other.’ His fingers twitched, ‘I’d thought about… adopting just Sans?’ Even just repeating the thought made his soul still, ‘Papyrus has a better chance at being adopted,’ he rationalized, ‘but I know they’d be devastated without the other.’ And most importantly he knew most monsters just wouldn’t understand.

Skeletons were just different monsters. They were quirky by nature, inquisitive to a fault, not to mention, in his experience, a little difficult to interpret. His fingers drummed against the desk as he forced himself to still a rattle. ‘I. I just want them to be happy Asgore. I want them to be able to be kids like I didn’t get to.’

“That’s really all it takes Gaster,” he smiled plainly his magic hung in the air as close to sunlight as one could hope down here, “and I think having someone else to care for than yourself might just do you some good.”

‘But--’

“No, I think we’re done with that, let me see the documents,” he extended his paws and within moments they were holding the manilla envelope. Asgore thumbed through them his muzzle tilted a bit to one side. “Were you nervous?”

Gaster clicked his teeth, ‘That bad?’

“Well,” he hummed, “I’m not certain how well the manager will be able to read WingDings.”

Gaster peered over the writing. Whoops.

“Do you have white out? I’ll help you fix this up in no time!”

#The Doctor’s Charges #One year #undertale fanfic #Asgore #Gaster #This was originally at the top of chapter 3 #it was removed because Gaster was wishy washying enough in that chapter #it was the first thing I didn't want to cut #I liked the idea of Asgore being more involved in the decision #but as it stands it's sort of just implied

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thelanguageoflovers · 6 years ago

Text

That Damned Universe - Chapter 4

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

AO3

Cyrus was exhausted. Madame Aguillard had kept them 15 minutes after class ended to discuss in alarming detail all of the accents in the French language. She spent thirteen minutes talking about their various effects on a word and, later on, their origins and applications. As he dropped into his seat in third period science, panting slightly, he suddenly understood the practicality of the preposterous amount of time between his classes. He pulled his science textbook from his bag just as Mr. Stilen stood up from his desk at the back of the room. He strolled across the classroom towards the front, greeting his students brightly. "How was everybody's first day?" he asked, and was answered with a chorus of groans as the students recalled the level of work they'd been assigned the day before. "Oh, don't be so glum. Wait until at least 11th grade to lose hope. Or better yet- wait until you're a sophomore in college," he advised jokingly. The class shared a forced bout of laughter, most students grimacing at the prospect of spending the next five years working as hard as they had the night before. Cyrus merely sighed, resting his chin in the palm of his hand as Mr. Stile introduced the lesson. Cyrus sat through the whole of the lesson, only for history to repeat itself- the class extended to 10:56, leaving Cyrus with four minutes to sprint across campus to his room for his English Lit book before rushing to his class. Cyrus nearly fell up the stairs trying to get to his room, quickly grabbing his book and rushing back downstairs and across campus. He basically sprinted into Mrs. Elliot's room just in time, falling into his seat as the lesson began. By some force of nature- miracle, wishful thinking, or sheer willpower, no one could be sure- class ended at exactly 11:40, and all 31 students in the class rushed out the door for lunch. Cyrus followed the crowd without thinking, and before he knew it he was absentmindedly swiping his meal card and stepping into the cafeteria. Damn. He'd deliberately skipped breakfast that morning to avoid his friends, and now he was going to have to face them. He briefly considered turning around and leaving, but he'd already swiped his card, and leaving would be humiliating. Though, so was standing in the middle of the cafeteria, hands empty and feeling the gazes of Andi and Buffy burning into his skull. He quickly found a plate, dumping the first thing he saw (a ham sandwich on rye, sealed in plastic wrap) onto it before turning back towards the tables. He briefly caught eyes with Andi, whose eyes narrowed before flitting away, before his gaze settled on an empty table in the other corner of the room. His head down, he hurried to the empty table, setting his sandwich down and pulling To Kill a Mockingbird from his bookbag. He rested his chin in his hand and opened the front cover. Just as he flipped the page, someone appeared in front of him. "Ah! God, announce yourself every once in a while," Cyrus said, gesturing to TJ, standing in front of him. "Sorry, Underdog," TJ apologized. Cyrus scoffed at the nickname, shaking his head. "Is that nickname going to stick?" "I think it just might," TJ nodded. "Mind if I sit? My friends have disowned me." he gestured vaguely across the cafeteria, to where an entire table of jocks was staring at TJ, anger in their eyes. "Yeah, of course," Cyrus said, scooping his things off the table, save for the ham sandwich, still lying forgotten at the end of the table. "So you're the one who took the last ham sandwich," TJ said, taking the seat across from Cyrus. "Oh, I- I guess I did," Cyrus said with a shrug. "Have an affinity for ham on rye?" "I guess I do," TJ repeated teasingly. "What do I have to do to get that sandwich from you?" "Oh, you can hav... is that a chocolate chocolate chip muffin?" TJ grinned, sliding Cyrus his muffin and taking the sandwich triumphantly. "I seem to have found your weakness," TJ said excitedly, unwrapping the sandwich and taking a joyous bite from the corner. His eyes sparkled with smug triumph as he swallowed, before biting back into the sandwich. "You have no idea," Cyrus mumbled, taking a bite from his muffin. "So what happened with your friends- if you don't mind me asking?" TJ froze, staring down at his plate and slowly swallowing the bite he'd been chewing before making eye contact with Cyrus once again. "Nothing- stupid friend stuff," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "What about you, Curly and Moe?" "Oh, so we're the Three Stooges now?" "Yep." "What do you mean 'what about you'?" Cyrus asked, stealing a carrot from TJ's tray. "What happened with you three?" "I told you, Buffy and I fought, and Andi's mad at me now. I kind of overreacted yesterday." "Overreacted to what?" "Oh, nothing much- stupid friend stuff," Cyrus said vaguely, looking over TJ's shoulder to where Buffy and Andii were staring at him, talking in hushed voices. "I know it well," TJ nodded, albeit with a raised eyebrow. "What are you looking at? Ah." He turned around to look at Buffy and Andi, then nodded in understanding. "Ostracized?" "Pretty much, yeah. Hence the sitting at this table. I skipped breakfast this morning to avoid them." "I'm sorry, Underdog. That sucks." "Well, you're in the same boat," Cyrus shrugged. "I'm first oarsman," TJ confirmed. "Does that make me... Second oarsman?" "Is that how boats work?" "You think I'd know that?" "I've known you for three days!" TJ defended, sliding his salad across the table. "Here, you need to eat." "Thanks," Cyrus said with a grin, stealing TJ's fork and stabbing at the lettuce. "But I feel like I am not the kind of person who exudes boating energy." "Did you just use the phrase 'exudes boating energy'?" "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did." "Is this a common choice of words for you?" "Not really," Cyrus admitted. "Alright, if this conversation is anything to go by, we need to play 20 questions." "...The guessing game?" "Not that 20 questions," TJ chuckled. "There's more than one version of 20 questions?" "Apparently so. Anyway, the rules." "Rules?" "Rules," TJ confirmed. "One. We each ask 10 questions about each other- any 10." "So it's really 10 questions, not 20?" "Don't question it. Two. We're allowed to pass on...two questions. Three- no lying, whatsoever. Four. No questions that are too personal-anything an adult would say to avoid at a dinner party, you avoid here." "Interesting measurement of how appropriate a question is," Cyrus noted. "It paints the picture, though." Cyrus nodded begrudgingly, taking a bite of salad. "Continue," he said, waving his fork at TJ. "Alright. The most important rule of them all; tell no one anything we say here. It doesn't matter if it's my favorite color or my deepest secret- we say nothing." "What happens at lunch stays at lunch," Cyrus said, nodding in understanding. "You start." "Okay... Any siblings?" "One half-sister, Emily. She's eight. What do your parents do?" "My mom's a kindergarten teacher, dad's a business guy- Amber and I don't really know what he does." TJ shrugged. "Any idea what you want to be when you grow up?" "Not a clue, but I'll probably end up following in my parents' footsteps." Cyrus took a deep breath, looking up at TJ. "Have a crush on anyone?" he asked, trying his best to even his voice. "...Pass." Cyrus nodded, sighing in defeat. "How about you?" "I...I don't know," Cyrus stammered. "Okay..." TJ said incredulously, seeming to take that as valid answer nonetheless. "Um, what's your favorite book?" "...The Great Gatsby?" TJ replied. "What about you?" "The Grapes of Wrath. What does TJ stand for?" TJ stared at him for a long moment, taking a bite of his sandwich before opening his mouth to speak "...Pass." "Really?" "Yep. Are you religious?" TJ asked. "That is a blatant violation of the dinner party rule, but yes. I'm Jewish. Are you?" "No, I'm not," TJ shrugged. "My parents are though." "Fair enough." "Alright, question 6. What really happened between you and Buffy?" "Pass. What really happened between you and your friends?" "...I can't pass, can I?" Cyrus shook his head apologetically. "Can I lie?" "Do you really want to make that kind of an impression on me?" TJ sighed, shaking his head. "One of them...accidentally outed me. And the others didn't take it so well," he admitted. "Oh, I'm sorry, that's terrible." "What's done is done. Listen, I'm sorry to cut our game short, but I have to get to class." With that, he was gone, rushing out of the cafeteria without a second look at Cyrus. "God, he really has a habit of doing that."

Cyrus and TJ were both sitting cross-legged on their respective beds, each surrounded by a mild flood of books. A sharp knock on the door caused both of their heads to spring up before TJ parted the sea of studying to stand up. The second he opened the door, someone rushed inside, a flurry of limbs and apology. Cyrus jumped slightly, displacing the homework in his lap just enough for three books to tumble to the ground. "TJ, I've been trying to talk to you all day! I am so sorry, man. I didn't mean to-" "Marty, it's fine!" TJ exclaimed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know you didn't mean to out me, please just sit down." "I'm really really sorry, TJ," Marty mumbled, sitting in TJ's desk chair. As he did so, TJ's twin sister rushed into the room, only to step forward and slap the boy-Marty, TJ had said. "Oh- Oh my God," Cyrus mumbled, watching TJ pull Amber away from Marty. "Amber! Sit down!" TJ ordered, pointing to Cyrus's chair. Amber reluctantly did so, holding her hands up in a surrender. "He outed you, Teej," she grumbled frostily as she sat down, crossing her arms over her chest. "By accident!" TJ protested. "Well, when someone accidentally knocks over a candle, they still burned the house down!" "So not the same thing," Marty cut in, holding his jaw gingerly. "Shut up!" Amber and TJ exclaimed in unison. Just as Cyrus stood up to leave and let them sort this out, Buffy and Andi marched into the room, effectively pushing Cyrus back inside. "Cyrus, can we talk?" Buffy asked. "Good God, I do not want to deal with this right now," Cyrus huffed, sitting back on his bed. "Why are you here, Andi?" "...Moral support?" "Alright," Cyrus said, addressing everyone in the room. "Andi, Amber- get out of our room." "And do what?" Amber asked. "I don't care! Go introduce yourselves, play 20 questions, do homework, find some conveniently placed cups to press to the door-It doesn't matter! Just leave!" Cyrus exclaimed. "Okay, okay," Amber said, holding her the door open for Andi as they left. "Do you think we should go?" she asked Andi. "I want to see how this ends!" "Me too, honestly," Amber agreed, sitting down against the wall next to the door. Andi grinned, sitting next to her. After a moment's silence, Andi turned to Amber, extending a hand. "I don't think we've met." "I don't think we have," Amber agreed, smiling slightly as she took Andi's hand. "Amber Kippen." "Andi Mack." "You're very pretty, Andi Mack," Amber flirted boldly. "As are you, Amber Kippen."

Cyrus and TJ pushed Marty and Buffy out of their room at the same time, letting the door swing shut behind them and flopping onto their beds in exhaustion. "Having friends is exhausting," TJ grumbled. "I'm with you there."

Amber and Andi stood up when Buffy and Marty stepped out of the room. All four exchanged simple introductions, before naturally separating as they walked downstairs; Amber and Andi walking alongside one another, Buffy and Marty mirroring them a few yards behind. "We have 8th/9th PE together, don't we?" Marty asked Buffy, turning to her as they jogged downstairs. "Yeah, seventh period B days. You're really fast," Buffy noted. "Oh, thanks," Marty grinned at the praise, nodding happily. "I'm faster, though, of course," Buffy said. "Why, I'm offended," Marty joked, turning onto the second floor after Buffy. "You and me both know I'm way faster!" "I guess we'll just have to test it out sometime," Buffy flirted, following Andi into their room and letting the door swing shut behind them, leaving Marty and Amber staring at it in defeat. "I guess we will."

#tyrus #andi mack #that damned universe fic #tj kippen #cyrus goodman

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diveronarpg · 5 years ago

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Congratulations, GREY! You’ve been accepted for the role of BENVOLIO with an FC change to FRANCISCO LACHOWSKI. Admin Rosey: Benvolio is a multi-faceted character who, in my opinion, is one of the most difficult to capture in a single application. There are so many different ways to pull him and he will cry out against all of them. Whether you wish to bloody his hands, have him save a Capulet, or send him away from the city again; all of them end in tragedy, all of them are never quite right. But Grey, in your application you managed to get to the very quick of his character. You gave him a distinct voice and an even more distinct heart. I can’t wait to have you ruin us all with him. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Grey

Age | 31

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her

Activity Level | Currently I’m off work on extended medical leave (unknown end date), so mostly don’t have any major claims on my time and should be able to be around most days. With that said, medical issues and meds will crop up from time to time. Once I return to work, I work 3-4 days a week, so will still have multiple days a week free.

Timezone | Australian Eastern Standard Time (AEST/GMT +10)

How did you find the rp? | Rogue seduced me over, so blame her for everything please

Current/Past RP Accounts | Bellavie (from a very short-lived rp) - I’ve also played with Rogue in several places over the years.

In Character

Character | Benvolio / Bellamy Santa-Domingo. Preferred FC of Francisco Lachowski.

✧ Bellamy ⟶ What’s in a name? For Bellamy, a wealth of self-discovery, definitions laid out ahead of him at birth, a path his feet have never wavered from. Fine Friend his mother called him, and perhaps bought upon them all their disappointment in his gentility with a name bereft of the thorns they so coveted. Fine Friend he was named, and so he lives, a shoulder for everyone’s burden while he struggles solitary with his own.

✧ Santa-Domingo ⟶ Saint of the Lord, he is labelled; baptised in the blood of his family, the holy mandate by which his father demands respect. What is a saint, after all but someone to venerate, to esteem, graced by God? But Bellamy knows that that is but the least of what a saint is, for saints are pained and fragile things burned in holy fire, martyrs all; sacrificial lambs to the glory of God — and the truest god his family bends knee to is that known as Montague.

✧ Benvolio ⟶ Thrice he is named and the third feels like a lie, ashes on his brow. Well-wisher they call him, Benevolence — yet they would ask him to be anything but. He feels the hollowness of the name as Damiano settles it on his shoulders, the calculated sop to his reluctance and he wonders how long he will be allowed to keep the illusion of truth before he must sacrifice it on Damiano’s altar, how long before the name is nothing but mocking contempt of the perceived weakness of his dream ( he knows too well how often in war softness becomes synonymous with weakness ).

What drew you to this character? | Benvolio was the first of the open characters I read, and I think that reading is probably what tipped me from considering the rp for the future to immediately applying. Even as I read through the rest of the open characters, I kept returning to the tab with his bio in it. While I did briefly consider Halcyon instead, I think my choice was pre-determined from the start.

Bellamy touches a lot tropes that I love to play with; Rogue once summed up one of my main types as ‘Damaged boys with daddy issues’ and on that Bellamy is almost a solid bullseye, the tragic figure of Atlas carrying everyone else’s burdens. There are conflicts within him, conflicts and contradictions that pull him in different directions, forcing him to play a delicate, and exhausting, balancing act in order to keep himself whole. Criminal yet cop, loyal yet selfish, duty yet refusal, peaceful yet fighter, ideals yet realistic — the inability to reconcile the disparate portions of himself leaves him feeling hollow with self-loathing as he counts his sins ten times over and values his virtues at half their rate. Bellamy has ever been thus, a duality at war with himself; as play-Mercutio says: “Nay, an there were two [of you], we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other!”

APatroclus saddled with two Achilles to save from their own divinity, Bellamy is irredeemably entangled with his closest friends, unfailingly loyal and dependable. Roman and Marcello are his heart and soul, his very being — and yet he left. Oh, he came back, and the texts and emails flew thick and fast in his absence, yet still, he left, leaving them bereft in the middle of war. An abandonment — necessary, yes, but ultimately selfish, running to save himself without those who he would gladly lay down his life for.

Yet Benvolio’s biggest contradictions, deepest complexities lie in the very area that most would dismiss as his simplest aspect: his kindness, his softness, his gentility. So often, these traits are those that people write off, dismiss as naïveté or innocence, chalk up to an ignorance or blindness of the darkness of the world. Bellamy is none of those things, was never given the luxury of being unaware. Even as a child, the war shaped his life; even as a youth he knew too much of blood and cruelness and the rotted heart of Verona.

No, Bellamy is not kind out of some innate inability to see otherwise, some childlike artlessness that means he could never be aught else — he chooses to be kind, he chooses to trust; and he does it in the full and grim understanding that doing so is the emotional equivalent of sticking your hand in the fire and asking it not to burn you. He chooses it because it allows him to live with himself, wears it as an armour that keeps him from breaking, because whatever cost he pays in scars for that gentility, however much he kicks himself for an idiot when it blows up in his face… if he chose otherwise would he ever be able to find his way back?

Likewise many dismiss his voice when he raises it for peace — idealist they call him, young they scoff at him, yet sometimes Benvolio feels like he’s the only one at all who sees. They celebrate victory while he counts bodies, count winnings while he watches the city crumble. He wonders when they all stopped seeing people and started seeing gold instead, when costs stopped being about finance and were first paid in blood. Could they not see that this tragedy was leading nowhere, that this tit-for-tat, blood-for-blood would only end with all of them blind? Could they not see that they were past the point where a victory could be anything more than Pyrrhic?

A warrior for peace; an absurd idea really, almost hypocritical, almost oxymoronic in nature, and yet, and yet — Benvolio learned, as the war poets learned ( battered paperbacks of Owen and Sassoon accompany him around the world, the margins slowly filled with all manner of scrawled notes in different colours of ink ) that people will dismiss the words of a non-combatant as cowardly, that only by engaging in the very thing they wished to end could they earn the right to speak out against it, that only by speaking from alongside them would the war-torn hear his voice. And so he takes his place in the trenches, stands shoulder to shoulder with his comrades and tries not to think too much about what they do, so that, one day, he will be able to end it for all. If the cost for the whole of Verona is his own blood spilled, his own soul crushed, how can he refuse to pay it? And yet how can he survive its paying?

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

✘ dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori⟶ ( price of duty )

Sitting in that airport, staring down at his phone as it rang, Mama picked out on the screen, his thumb hovered over the red end call button as he fought with despair. He could go, he knew, could let the message go to voice mail and answer the boarding call for his flight instead, jump another flight at the other end and head to the Andes, the Sahara, the Australian Outback. Say he hadn’t gotten the message, had been out of signal range. It would be easy, simple.

He’d plead conscientious objector to get out four years ago, but now the piper has come due. He answers the phone ( had it always been this heavy? ) halfway through the final ring and allows himself to be conscripted.

Bellamy has always been dutiful, responsible, loyal. Innately, intrinsically, he puts his duties and friends ahead of himself time and again, often at the cost of his own self, his own soul. A soldier in a war he despises, fighting a battle he despairs of no matter the outcome, Bellamy is quickly approaching the point where duty and ideals will clash more and more heavily, where he will no longer be able to wiggle through loopholes or forge a middle path. One day, war and duty and loyalty will push him, without mercy or respite, to the moment he dreads most, will require him to do something he doesn’t know if he’s capable of living with.

His hands are going to get dirty, and he fears he’s too brittle to survive it ( he fears he may not have as much issue with it as he should ).

✘ i would know him in death, at the end of the world ⟶ ( friends )

They are many and yet one, together and undivided since a time of vague memories and impressions. Bellamy doesn’t remember meeting Roman or Marcello, can’t recall a time when they weren’t sashaying into trouble together. Their bond is inviolate, one of the surest things in Bellamy’s life and by far the most precious.

They have always been inseparable — and yet they separated.

Bellamy parted them, and when he came back there was a harshness to the light inside his friends, as though the warm light of the sun had turned to nuclear glow; the fires of war. ( He wonders if that will be him in a couple of years. ) There are cracks in all of them now, cracks in their souls and their bond, even as they pass the whiskey bottle between themselves and try to pretend that nothing has changed.

Bellamy blames himself. He left, he thinks, and that laid the first crack between them. Now, he struggles to deal with that betrayal as he sees it, trying to amend for it by taking more and more for his friends, his brothers, while squashing all his own needs ( pretends he is naught but the balm and bandage as he bleeds out himself ) — how could he ask them for aught, now?

Cracks can be fixed, but Bellamy needs to learn again to take as well as offer, before he subsumes himself under everyone else’s needs and is killed by his own gone unmet.

✘ forgive me father, for i am only fucking human ⟶ ( loyalty challenged )

Mark Twain once said “But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner who needed it most?” and those words have always resonated for Bellamy, printed large on his heart. Odin has done appalling things, he knows, things that should maybe be unforgivable, but if he is trying to make amends then can Bellamy do aught but help him? Sinners need forgiveness far more than good men ( sinners are who forgiveness was made for ) and so he listens, and absolves him in his heart as they sit in a patrol car on a dark street sucking spilled take-out sauce off their fingers.

And yet in this day, when the merest of mercies to the other side raises cries of fraternisation and both sides lay pressure upon pressure on their soldiers to prove their loyalty he wonders if perhaps this will be the thing that causes them both to burn. They have no choice in who they share a car with but he wonders if that will matter before paranoia has run its course and they have done more than that, haven’t they? Drowned their sorrows together, doused themselves in the whiskey that may yet fuel their funeral pyre — and yet if Odin asks for help, can Bellamy do aught but hold a hand out to him? A lifeline, a hangman’s noose, rolled into one.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes - but not until I’m so attached that it will break my heart. GRRM says that you should mourn when a character dies, that you should care and that sort of attachment I feel is one that takes time to develop. But oh yes, I’m definitely okay with charactercide - just with an initial cooldown period please!

In Depth

What is your favourite place —

His favourite place? His mind swirls, an agitated snowstorm of images: the hot sun on his back as he sits on the ancient stairs in front of the Parthenon; the bright, airy, treasure-filled rooms of the British Museum; the serene weightlessness of floating in the Dead Sea; the sky shaded a brilliant sunset on a beach in Brazil, cocktail in hand…

— in Verona?

The rider on the question brings his thoughts to a sudden halt, leaves an echoing quiet in his brain. His favourite place in Verona? The city he’d run from as soon as he was able and had never wished to revisit?

As a child, Bellamy had fallen in love with Verona’s Library: the arching ceilings, the ornate decoration, the heavy books bound in rich and sometimes flaking leather, the dry and musty smell of ancient pages holding the words of worlds and centuries. It felt… reverent, almost Holy.

And then he’d learned of what lay upstairs, that above the rooms devoted to knowledge, to history, to making sure humans never forgot the mistakes of the past, Damiano and his court engaged in the deliberate repetition of humanity’s greatest fuck up. And then all it felt was tainted, sacrilegious.

As a teen, he’d come to love Castelveccio Bridge for the fragile peace that surrounded it. He’d perch on the edge with a book, back up against one of the buttresses, and let the river wind rustle his hair as he read or skimmed stones, or, later, passed around a bottle of jack with his friends.

But that too was marred now, stained in so much blood and death, and he wonders if there is anywhere in the city that has not been spoiled by this abominable feud.

“ To Tame A Soup, ” he says, eventually “ I guess. At least some good comes of it. But really, this whole city, it’s…” he shakes his head with a sigh, gesturing at the woman to continue.

What does your typical day look like?

He’s sprawled across the couch in the police therapist’s office; one leg dangles half-off, just enough for the toe of his boot to brush the floor, the other ankle resting on the armrest, one arm over the back of the couch. His sister always wondered why he was so neat and tidy in his living, books alphabetised, everything in its place, yet just threw himself in a pile where ever he landed ( he doesn’t tell her its because his books are actually worth taking care with ).

( He wonders what would happen if he deliberately failed this review, what Damiano would do if he got himself sent home on mental health leave — but then, he’s probably already bought out the shrink. )

“ Much the same as anyone else’s, probably. ” He tips his head back over the armrest to look at her, upside down. “ Work, food, sleep, a book here and there… I adopted a cat last week, so there’s that. ”

What has been your biggest mistake?

“ Coming back. ” The worlds fall out before he can stop them, almost tripping over the end of the question in their hurry to break free. For a moment he wonders if he should take it back, prevaricate, maybe say that leaving had been worse ( though nothing in his life had ever felt so right as that moment the plane had lifted from the ground ). But — no, there is no need. If she was in the Montague pocket then well… Damiano, the rest… they already knew how he felt about being back. And if she wasn’t reporting, what did it matter?

She watches him for a moment, as though expecting him to elaborate, but when he doesn’t she moves onto the next question with a faint sigh.

What has been the most difficult task asked of you thus far?

“ The same, ” he says, mussing up his hair with one hand. Uneasiness pricks him; it’s far too difficult to ignore the foreboding in the words thus far. He’s well aware that so far, he hasn’t been asked for anything completely outside his comfort zone, that, for whatever reason, the hardest of his boundaries have been respected. He thinks he might have Roman’s influence to thank for that, but he doubts it will last. No, more than that, he knows it won’t. And, as much as he wants to reassure himself that when it comes to it he will do what is right… some part of him, buried deep, knows that he’ll answer the call.

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

There is a freedom in this answer, for as neither Bellamy nor Benvolio has he ever hidden his opinion on this front. “ It’s bloody fucking stupid, isn’t it. ” He snorts, then sighs and waves a hand. “ No one even remembers what started the whole thing off, and it’s well past the point where anyone can actually win anything… even if one side cleared up tomorrow, more has been lost than they’d ever get back so what’s the bloody point? At this point it’s just mutually assured destruction.” He sighs, and wilts a bit. “ Not that either side will ever admit that. ”

Extras: Pinterest board

#accepted #accepted: benvolio

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suzanneshannon · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 1: Birth

Tim Berners-Lee is fascinated with information. It has been his life’s work. For over four decades, he has sought to understand how it is mapped and stored and transmitted. How it passes from person to person. How the seeds of information become the roots of dramatic change. It is so fundamental to the work that he has done that when he wrote the proposal for what would eventually become the World Wide Web, he called it “Information Management, a Proposal.”

Information is the web’s core function. A series of bytes stream across the world and at the end of it is knowledge. The mechanism for this transfer — what we know as the web — was created by the intersection of two things. The first is the Internet, the technology that makes it all possible. The second is hypertext, the concept that grounds its use. They were brought together by Tim Berners-Lee. And when he was done he did something truly spectacular. He gave it away to everyone to use for free.

When Berners-Lee submitted “Information Management, a Proposal” to his superiors, they returned it with a comment on the top that read simply:

Vague, but exciting…

The web wasn’t a sure thing. Without the hindsight of today it looked far too simple to be effective. In other words, it was a hard sell. Berners-Lee was proficient at many things, but he was never a great salesman. He loved his idea for the web. But he had to convince everybody else to love it too.

Tim Berners-Lee has a mind that races. He has been known — based on interviews and public appearances — to jump from one idea to the next. He is almost always several steps ahead of what he is saying, which is often quite profound. Until recently, he only gave a rare interview here and there, and masked his greatest achievements with humility and a wry British wit.

What is immediately apparent is that Tim Berners-Lee is curious. Curious about everything. It has led him to explore some truly revolutionary ideas before they became truly revolutionary. But it also means that his focus is typically split. It makes it hard for him to hold on to things in his memory. “I’m certainly terrible at names and faces,” he once said in an interview. His original fascination with the elements for the web came from a very personal need to organize his own thoughts and connect them together, disparate and unconnected as they are. It is not at all unusual that when he reached for a metaphor for that organization, he came up with a web.

As a young boy, his curiosity was encouraged. His parents, Conway Berners-Lee and Mary Lee Woods, were mathematicians. They worked on the Ferranti Mark I, the world’s first commercially available computer, in the 1950s. They fondly speak of Berners-Lee as a child, taking things apart, experimenting with amateur engineering projects. There was nothing that he didn’t seek to understand further. Electronics — and computers specifically — were particularly enchanting.

Berners-Lee sometimes tells the story of a conversation he had with his with father as a young boy about the limitations of computers making associations between information that was not intrinsically linked. “The idea stayed with me that computers could be much more powerful,” Berners-Lee recalls, “if they could be programmed to link otherwise unconnected information. In an extreme view, the world can been seen as only connections.” He didn’t know it yet, but Berners-Lee had stumbled upon the idea of hypertext at a very early age. It would be several years before he would come back to it.

History is filled with attempts to organize knowledge. An oft-cited example is the Library of Alexandria, a fabled library of Ancient Greece that was thought to have had tens of thousands of meticulously organized texts.

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At the turn of the century, Paul Otlet tried something similar in Belgium. His project was called the Répertoire Bibliographique Universel (Universal Bibliography). Otlet and a team of researchers created a library of over 15 million index cards, each with a discrete and small piece of information in topics ranging from science to geography. Otlet devised a sophisticated numbering system that allowed him to link one index card to another. He fielded requests from researchers around the world via mail or telegram, and Otlet’s researchers could follow a trail of linked index cards to find an answer. Once properly linked, information becomes infinitely more useful.

A sudden surge of scientific research in the wake of World War II prompted Vanneaver Bush to propose another idea. In his groundbreaking essay in The Atlantic in 1945 entitled “As We May Think,” Bush imagined a mechanical library called a Memex. Like Otlet’s Universal Bibliography, the Memex stored bits of information. But instead of index cards, everything was stored on compact microfilm. Through the process of what he called “associative indexing,” users of the Memex could follow trails of related information through an intricate web of links.

The list of attempts goes on. But it was Ted Neslon who finally gave the concept a name in 1968, two decades after Bush’s article in The Atlantic. He called it hypertext.

Hypertext is, essentially, linked text. Nelson observed that in the real world, we often give meaning to the connections between concepts; it helps us grasp their importance and remember them for later. The proximity of a Post-It to your computer, the orientation of ingredients in your refrigerator, the order of books on your bookshelf. Invisible though they may seem, each of these signifiers hold meaning, whether consciously or subconsciously, and they are only fully realized when taking a step back. Hypertext was a way to bring those same kinds of meaningful connections to the digital world.

Nelson’s primary contribution to hypertext is a number of influential theories and a decades-long project still in progress known as Xanadu. Much like the web, Xanadau uses the power of a network to create a global system of links and pages. However, Xanadu puts a far greater emphasis on the ability to trace text to its original author for monetization and attribution purposes. This distinction, known as transculsion, has been a near impossible technological problem to solve.

Nelson’s interest in hypertext stems from the same issue with memory and recall as Berners-Lee. He refers to it is as his hummingbird mind. Nelson finds it hard to hold on to associations he creates in the real world. Hypertext offers a way for him to map associations digitally, so that he can call on them later. Berners-Lee and Nelson met for the first time a couple of years after the web was invented. They exchanged ideas and philosophies, and Berners-Lee was able to thank Nelson for his influential thinking. At the end of the meeting, Berners-Lee asked if he could take a picture. Nelson, in turn, asked for a short video recording. Each was commemorating the moment they knew they would eventually forget. And each turned to technology for a solution.

By the mid-80s, on the wave of innovation in personal computing, there were several hypertext applications out in the wild. The hypertext community — a dedicated group of software engineers that believed in the promise of hypertext – created programs for researchers, academics, and even off-the-shelf personal computers. Every research lab worth their weight in salt had a hypertext project. Together they built entirely new paradigms into their software, processes and concepts that feel wonderfully familiar today but were completely outside the realm of possibilities just a few years earlier.

At Brown University, the very place where Ted Nelson was studying when he coined the term hypertext, Norman Meyrowitz, Nancy Garrett, and Karen Catlin were the first to breathe life into the hyperlink, which was introduced in their program Intermedia. At Symbolics, Janet Walker was toying with the idea of saving links for later, a kind of speed dial for the digital world – something she was calling a bookmark. At the University of Maryland, Ben Schneiderman sought to compile and link the world’s largest source of information with his Interactive Encyclopedia System.

Dame Wendy Hall, at the University of Southhampton, sought to extend the life of the link further in her own program, Microcosm. Each link made by the user was stored in a linkbase, a database apart from the main text specifically designed to store metadata about connections. In Microcosm, links could never die, never rot away. If their connection was severed they could point elsewhere since links weren’t directly tied to text. You could even write a bit of text alongside links, expanding a bit on why the link was important, or add to a document separate layers of links, one, for instance, a tailored set of carefully curated references for experts on a given topic, the other a more laid back set of links for the casual audience.

There were mailing lists and conferences and an entire community that was small, friendly, fiercely competitive and locked in an arms race to find the next big thing. It was impossible not to get swept up in the fervor. Hypertext enabled a new way to store actual, tangible knowledge; with every innovation the digital world became more intricate and expansive and all-encompassing.

Then came the heavy hitters. Under a shroud of mystery, researchers and programmers at the legendary Xerox PARC were building NoteCards. Apple caught wind of the idea and found it so compelling that they shipped their own hypertext application called Hypercard, bundled right into the Mac operating system. If you were a late Apple II user, you likely have fond memories of Hypercard, an interface that allowed you to create a card, and quickly link it to another. Cards could be anything, a recipe maybe, or the prototype of a latest project. And, one by one, you could link those cards up, visually and with no friction, until you had a digital reflection of your ideas.

Towards the end of the 80s, it was clear that hypertext had a bright future. In just a few short years, the software had advanced in leaps and bounds.

After a brief stint studying physics at The Queen’s College, Oxford, Tim Berners-Lee returned to his first love: computers. He eventually found a short-term, six-month contract at the particle physics lab Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire (European Council for Nuclear Research), or simply, CERN.

CERN is responsible for a long line of particle physics breakthroughs. Most recently, they built the Large Hadron Collider, which led to the confirmation of the Higgs Boson particle, a.k.a. the “God particle.”

CERN doesn’t operate like most research labs. Its internal staff makes up only a small percentage of the people that use the lab. Any research team from around the world can come and use the CERN facilities, provided that they are able to prove their research fits within the stated goals of the institution. A majority of CERN occupants are from these research teams. CERN is a dynamic, sprawling campus of researchers, ferrying from location to location on bicycles or mine-carts, working on the secrets of the universe. Each team is expected to bring their own equipment and expertise. That includes computers.

Berners-Lee was hired to assist with software on an earlier version of the particle accelerator called the Proton Synchrotron. When he arrived, he was blown away by the amount of pure, unfiltered information that flowed through CERN. It was nearly impossible to keep track of it all and equally impossible to find what you were looking for. Berners-Lee wanted to capture that information and organize it.

His mind flashed back to that conversation with his father all those years ago. What if it were possible to create a computer program that allowed you to make random associations between bits of information? What if you could, in other words, link one thing to another? He began working on a software project on the side for himself. Years later, that would be the same way he built the web. He called this project ENQUIRE, named for a Victorian handbook he had read as a child.

Using a simple prompt, ENQUIRE users could create a block of info, something like Otlet’s index cards all those years ago. And just like the Universal Bibliography, ENQUIRE allowed you to link one block to another. Tools were bundled in to make it easier to zoom back and see the connections between the links. For Berners-Lee this filled a simple need: it replaced the part of his memory that made it impossible for him to remember names and faces with a digital tool.

Compared to the software being actively developed at the University of Southampton or at Xerox or Apple, ENQUIRE was unsophisticated. It lacked a visual interface, and its format was rudimentary. A program like Hypercard supported rich-media and advanced two-way connections. But ENQUIRE was only Berners-Lee’s first experiment with hypertext. He would drop the project when his contract was up at CERN.

Berners-Lee would go and work for himself for several years before returning to CERN. By the time he came back, there would be something much more interesting for him to experiment with. Just around the corner was the Internet.

Packet switching is the single most important invention in the history of the Internet. It is how messages are transmitted over a globally decentralized network. It was discovered almost simultaneously in the late-60s by two different computer scientists, Donald Davies and Paul Baran. Both were interested in the way in which it made networks resilient.

Traditional telecommunications at the time were managed by what is known as circuit switching. With circuit switching, a direct connection is open between the sender and receiver, and the message is sent in its entirety between the two. That connection needs to be persistent and each channel can only carry a single message at a time. That line stays open for the duration of a message and everything is run through a centralized switch.

If you’re searching for an example of circuit switching, you don’t have to look far. That’s how telephones work (or used to, at least). If you’ve ever seen an old film (or even a TV show like Mad Men) where an operator pulls a plug out of a wall and plugs it back in to connect a telephone call, that’s circuit switching (though that was all eventually automated). Circuit switching works because everything is sent over the wire all at once and through a centralized switch. That’s what the operators are connecting.

Packet switching works differently. Messages are divided into smaller bits, or packets, and sent over the wire a little at a time. They can be sent in any order because each packet has just enough information to know where in the order it belongs. Packets are sent through until the message is complete, and then re-assembled on the other side. There are a few advantages to a packet-switched network. Multiple messages can be sent at the same time over the same connection, split up into little packets. And crucially, the network doesn’t need centralization. Each node in the network can pass around packets to any other node without a central routing system. This made it ideal in a situation that requires extreme adaptability, like in the fallout of an atomic war, Paul Baran’s original reason for devising the concept.

When Davies began shopping around his idea for packet switching to the telecommunications industry, he was shown the door. “I went along to Siemens once and talked to them, and they actually used the words, they accused me of technical — they were really saying that I was being impertinent by suggesting anything like packet switching. I can’t remember the exact words, but it amounted to that, that I was challenging the whole of their authority.” Traditional telephone companies were not at all interested in packet switching. But ARPA was.

ARPA, later known as DARPA, was a research agency embedded in the United States Department of Defense. It was created in the throes of the Cold War — a reaction to the launch of the Sputnik satellite by Russia — but without a core focus. (It was created at the same time as NASA, so launching things into space was already taken.) To adapt to their situation, ARPA recruited research teams from colleges around the country. They acted as a coordinator and mediator between several active university research projects with a military focus.

ARPA’s organization had one surprising and crucial side effect. It was comprised mostly of professors and graduate students who were working at its partner universities. The general attitude was that as long as you could prove some sort of modest relation to a military application, you could pitch your project for funding. As a result, ARPA was filled with lots of ambitious and free-thinking individuals working inside of a buttoned-up government agency, with little oversight, coming up with the craziest and most world-changing ideas they could. “We expected that a professional crew would show up eventually to take over the problems we were dealing with,” recalls Bob Kahn, an ARPA programmer critical to the invention of the Internet. The “professionals” never showed up.

One of those professors was Leonard Kleinrock at UCLA. He was involved in the first stages of ARPANET, the network that would eventually become the Internet. His job was to help implement the most controversial part of the project, the still theoretical concept known as packet switching, which enabled a decentralized and efficient design for the ARPANET network. It is likely that the Internet would not have taken shape without it. Once packet switching was implemented, everything came together quickly. By the early 1980s, it was simply called the Internet. By the end of the 1980s, the Internet went commercial and global, including a node at CERN.

Once packet switching was implemented, everything came together quickly. By the early 1980s, it was simply called the Internet.

The first applications of the Internet are still in use today. FTP, used for transferring files over the network, was one of the first things built. Email is another one. It had been around for a couple of decades on a closed system already. When the Internet began to spread, email became networked and infinitely more useful.

Other projects were aimed at making the Internet more accessible. They had names like Archie, Gopher, and WAIS, and have largely been forgotten. They were united by a common goal of bringing some order to the chaos of a decentralized system. WAIS and Archie did so by indexing the documents put on the Internet to make them searchable and findable by users. Gopher did so with a structured, hierarchical system.

Kleinrock was there when the first message was ever sent over the Internet. He was supervising that part of the project, and even then, he knew what a revolutionary moment it was. However, he is quick to note that not everybody shared that feeling in the beginning. He recalls the sentiment held by the titans of the telecommunications industry like the Bell Telephone Company. “They said, ‘Little boy, go away,’ so we went away.” Most felt that the project would go nowhere, nothing more than a technological fad.

In other words, no one was paying much attention to what was going on and no one saw the Internet as much of a threat. So when that group of professors and graduate students tried to convince their higher-ups to let the whole thing be free — to let anyone implement the protocols of the Internet without a need for licenses or license fees — they didn’t get much pushback. The Internet slipped into public use and only the true technocratic dreamers of the late 20th century could have predicted what would happen next.

Berners-Lee returned to CERN in a fellowship position in 1984. It was four years after he had left. A lot had changed. CERN had developed their own network, known as CERNET, but by 1989, they arrived and hooked up to the new, internationally standard Internet. “In 1989, I thought,” he recalls, “look, it would be so much easier if everybody asking me questions all the time could just read my database, and it would be so much nicer if I could find out what these guys are doing by just jumping into a similar database of information for them.” Put another way, he wanted to share his own homepage, and get a link to everyone else’s.

What he needed was a way for researchers to share these “databases” without having to think much about how it all works. His way in with management was operating systems. CERN’s research teams all bring their own equipment, including computers, and there’s no way to guarantee they’re all running the same OS. Interoperability between operating systems is a difficult problem by design — generally speaking — the goal of an OS is to lock you in. Among its many other uses, a globally networked hypertext system like the web was a wonderful way for researchers to share notes between computers using different operating systems.

However, Berners-Lee had a bit of trouble explaining his idea. He’s never exactly been concise. By 1989, when he wrote “Information Management, a Proposal,” Berners-Lee already had worldwide ambitions. The document is thousands of words, filled with diagrams and charts. It jumps energetically from one idea to the next without fully explaining what’s just been said. Much of what would eventually become the web was included in the document, but it was just too big of an idea. It was met with a lukewarm response — that “Vague, but exciting” comment scrawled across the top.

A year later, in May of 1990, at the encouragement of his boss Mike Sendall (the author of that comment), Beners-Lee circulated the proposal again. This time it was enough to buy him a bit of time internally to work on it. He got lucky. Sendall understood his ambition and aptitude. He wouldn’t always get that kind of chance. The web needed to be marketed internally as an invaluable tool. CERN needed to need it. Taking complex ideas and boiling them down to their most salient, marketable points, however, was not Berners-Lee’s strength. For that, he was going to need a partner. He found one in Robert Cailliau.

Cailliau was a CERN veteran. By 1989, he’d worked there as a programmer for over 15 years. He’d embedded himself in the company culture, proving a useful resource helping teams organize their informational toolset and knowledge-sharing systems. He had helped several teams at CERN do exactly the kind of thing Berners-Lee was proposing, though at a smaller scale.

Temperamentally, Cailliau was about as different from Berners-Lee as you could get. He was hyper-organized and fastidious. He knew how to sell things internally, and he had made plenty of political inroads at CERN. What he shared with Berners-Lee was an almost insatiable curiosity. During his time as a nurse in the Belgian military, he got fidgety. “When there was slack at work, rather than sit in the infirmary twiddling my thumbs, I went and got myself some time on the computer there.” He ended up as a programmer in the military, working on war games and computerized models. He couldn’t help but look for the next big thing.

In the late 80s, Cailliau had a strong interest in hypertext. He was taking a look at Apple’s Hypercard as a potential internal documentation system at CERN when he caught wind of Berners-Lee’s proposal. He immediately recognized its potential.

Working alongside Berners-Lee, Cailliau pieced together a new proposal. Something more concise, more understandable, and more marketable. While Berners-Lee began putting together the technologies that would ultimately become the web, Cailliau began trying to sell the idea to interested parties inside of CERN.

The web, in all of its modern uses and ubiquity can be difficult to define as just one thing — we have the web on our refrigerators now. In the beginning, however, the web was made up of only a few essential features.

There was the web server, a computer wired to the Internet that can transmit documents and media (webpages) to other computers. Webpages are served via HTTP, a protocol designed by Berners-Lee in the earliest iterations of the web. HTTP is a layer on top of the Internet, and was designed to make things as simple, and resilient, as possible. HTTP is so simple that it forgets a request as soon as it has made it. It has no memory of the webpages its served in the past. The only thing HTTP is concerned with is the request it’s currently making. That makes it magnificently easy to use.

These webpages are sent to browsers, the software that you’re using to read this article. Browsers can read documents handed to them by server because they understand HTML, another early invention of Tim Berners-Lee. HTML is a markup language, it allows programmers to give meaning to their documents so that they can be understood. The “H” in HTML stands for Hypertext. Like HTTP, HTML — all of the building blocks programmers can use to structure a document — wasn’t all that complex, especially when compared to other hypertext applications at the time. HTML comes from a long line of other, similar markup languages, but Berners-Lee expanded it to include the link, in the form of an anchor tag. The <a> tag is the most important piece of HTML because it serves the web’s greatest function: to link together information.

The hyperlink was made possible by the Universal Resource Identifier (URI) later renamed to the Uniform Resource Indicator after the IETF found the word “universal” a bit too substantial. But for Berners-Lee, that was exactly the point. “Its universality is essential: the fact that a hypertext link can point to anything, be it personal, local or global, be it draft or highly polished,” he wrote in his personal history of the web. Of all the original technologies that made up the web, Berners-Lee — and several others — have noted that the URL was the most important.

By Christmas of 1990, Tim Berners-Lee had all of that built. A full prototype of the web was ready to go.

Cailliau, meanwhile, had had a bit of success trying to sell the idea to his bosses. He had hoped that his revised proposal would give him a team and some time. Instead he got six months and a single staff member, intern Nicola Pellow. Pellow was new to CERN, on placement for her mathematics degree. But her work on the Line Mode Browser, which enabled people from around the world using any operating system to browse the web, proved a crucial element in the web’s early success. Berners-Lee’s work, combined with the Line Mode Browser, became the web’s first set of tools. It was ready to show to the world.

When the team at CERN submitted a paper on the World Wide Web to the San Antonio Hypertext Conference in 1991, it was soundly rejected. They went anyway, and set up a table with a computer to demo it to conference attendees. One attendee remarked:

They have chutzpah calling that the World Wide Web!

The highlight of the web is that it was not at all sophisticated. Its use of hypertext was elementary, allowing for only simplistic text based links. And without two-way links, pretty much a given in hypertext applications, links could go dead at any minute. There was no linkbase, or sophisticated metadata assigned to links. There was just the anchor tag. The protocols that ran on top of the Internet were similarly basic. HTTP only allowed for a handful of actions, and alternatives like Gopher or WAIS offered far more options for advanced connections through the Internet network.

It was hard to explain, difficult to demo, and had overly lofty ambition. It was created by a man who didn’t have much interest in marketing his ideas. Even the name was somewhat absurd. “WWW” is one of only a handful of acronyms that actually takes longer to say than the full “World Wide Web.”

We know how this story ends. The web won. It’s used by billions of people and runs through everything we do. It is among the most remarkable technological achievements of the 20th century.

It had a few advantages, of course. It was instantly global and widely accessible thanks to the Internet. And the URL — and its uniqueness — is one of the more clever concepts to come from networked computing.

But if you want to truly understand why the web succeeded we have to come back to information. One of Berners-Lee’s deepest held beliefs is that information is incredibly powerful, and that it deserves to be free. He believed that the Web could deliver on that promise. For it to do that, the web would need to spread.

Berners-Lee looked to his successors for inspiration: the Internet. The Internet succeeded, in part, because they gave it away to everyone. After considering several licensing options, he lobbied CERN to release the web unlicensed to the general public. CERN, an organization far more interested in particle physics breakthroughs than hypertext, agreed. In 1993, the web officially entered the public domain.

And that was the turning point. They didn’t know it then, but that was the moment the web succeeded. When Berners-Lee was able to make globally available information truly free.

In an interview some years ago, Berners-Lee recalled how it was that the web came to be.

I had the idea for it. I defined how it would work. But it was actually created by people.

That may sound like humility from one of the world’s great thinkers — and it is that a little — but it is also the truth. The web was Berners-Lee’s gift to the world. He gave it to us, and we made it what it was. He and his team fought hard at CERN to make that happen.

Berners-Lee knew that with the resources available to him he would never be able to spread the web sufficiently outside of the hallways of CERN. Instead, he packaged up all the code that was needed to build a browser into a library called libwww and posted it to a Usenet group. That was enough for some people to get interested in browsers. But before browsers would be useful, you needed something to browse.

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dominushq · 6 years ago

Photo

Hello everyone! Below the cut will be a sample application to act as a sort-of guide for all of you. Please take note that this is only a guide and that we, in no way, shape, or form, expect everyone’s application to look like this. This is only provided as an example!

Congratulations, AUBREY! You have been accepted for the role of CONSTANTINE with the character KANISHK HINDUJA. Please head over to the checklist page for any final reminders and send in your blog within twenty-four hours. Congratulations on your acceptance and we can’t wait to have you with us!

OOC.

Name/Alias: Aubrey Pronouns: she/her Age: 20 Timezone: GMT + 8 Activity Level: I’m one of the admins, but also I have a tendency to live on dashes and chats, so, uh, let’s say 9/10! Triggers: removed for privacy. Anything else?: Nope, I’m good ✨

IC.

Skeleton: Constantine Name: Kanishk Wellesley-Mittal Age: 21 Faceclaim: Avan Jogia Gender ID: Cisgender Male Pronouns: he/him Field of Study: Materials Science College: Trinity College

Biography.

One shoulder bore the weight of his mother’s legacy—the illustrious Lady Elizabeth Wellesley, a daughter of the notable Duke of Wellington and a Princess of Prussia, descended from Kaiser Wilhelm II, and, in turn, Queen Victoria. The other shoulder bore the weight of his father’s—not any more lacking in grandeur, Ashok Mittal, the heir of one of the wealthiest families in the United Kingdom, the son of the King of Steel, now a magnate in his own right, driving the chariot in his hands, president of the world’s largest steel manufacturing company. The weight pinned him down to the Earth and duty drew lashes on his skin as he fell to his knees. The paths that lay in front of him have always been illusions of freedom; interweaving paths that crawled to the same destination, and really, what use was resistance? What use was struggle?

And so he followed this path passively: he allowed his mother to shape him, to enter him into Eton and mold him as young men of his birth ought to be molded. She had no titles and neither would he inherit any, and so he would never stand among the House of Lords, but he could stand still with the House of Commons, could rise even to Prime Minister, she posited day through to night. His father, meanwhile, cajoled him towards a different direction. He honed and sharpened what he deemed to be acumen for business, a ruthlessness, an instinct for blood and power, the necessary skills to one day succeed him.

Kanishk took to business as he did politics—that is, he performed pallidly, limply, and disappointed his parents in every turn. He barely bothered to mingle with his peers in Eton, instead burying his nose in books of history and myth, fascinated by the rituals of old, twisted his tongue in Latin and Greek in order to invoke a muse before a daunting task, in order to submerge himself in Homer’s wine dark sea and kiln-fired earth. He cared little for spending time with the social circles of his mother, caring more for the time of the night when the Bengali woman tasked to care for him would recount him the epics of the old, the tales of the avatars as they appeared on Earth, and with her he contemplated the boundless universe as it existed all at once. In his trips with his father, he cared little for the sleek skyscrapers and the men in lush suits, instead begging for more time at the steel mills, to gaze upon the glowing orange of the forge, his shy exterior exploding into wondrous enthusiasm when it came time to ask the scientists questions.

Even as a worthier contender arose—his darling sister, Visakha, who untrained and unshaped had desired so deeply that which he cared so little for, displaying with great potency a proficiency and an affinity for the skills required to navigate both business and politics, the very same skills that Kanishk so weakly attempted to emulate out of obligation—it was he who they hailed their prince, he who they still expect to one day take the reins. It strains on their relations, but there is no other who understands Kanishk as well as Visakha, no other who he trusts or admires as ardently, and if there comes to be power in his hands, then the only good use for it would be to pave the path to allow Visakha to claim the empire that she deserves. What was once disinterest curled sourly into disdain. He grew to despise this same system which privileged him but denied his sister. Shyness and deference blossomed into anger, into passion in every pursuit.

Oxford was an easy choice for him. His study of Materials Science was acceptable to his parents, still under the spell that it might be to understand their industry better, still priming to take the position from his father one day—and they could believe what they wished to believe, but Kanishk studied materials science because the scientists at the mills had filled him with an insatiable curiosity, and together with his interest in an ancient world long gone he had found his niche in Trinity College, where there were tutors present who expressly dealt in this intersection of ancient materials. To the world outside it still seemed as though he was traveling these paths that led to one destination, but Kanishk knew now that he wanted nothing more than a life in pursuit of answers, of knowledge, a life submerged in the academic where since childhood he had exceeded, even stood out—affirmed when, one day, he was approached with an offer. His mother had told him of Sodalitas, even if in vague whispers. She was a member herself. He had received an offer, and this he met with disinterest. It was the invitation from Pandidakterion that filled him with glee, and with Pandidakterion he discovered a home unlike any other. Others to share this passion with, a society so deeply embedded into history itself.

Interview.

What is your name and what was your relationship like with the deceased?

Kanishk felt irritation upon being interrupted. His mind was spinning with theories upon theories, excitement he had built up in anticipation of today’s examination of the formation of carbon nanotubes in Damascus Steel forgery, when a voice had so harshly halted the flow of his thoughts. There were a few original ideas, he lamented, that would forever be lost to the world because of this untimely interruption. It was only one moment that he allowed this irritation to slip into his expression, however. "Kanishk Mittal,” he said, a sufficiently diplomatic smile gracing his lips. A smile that had been trained upon him, a smile that he had disavowed long ago, but had retrieved from the cobwebbed depths of his mind out of necessity. Pandidakterion needed to allay any attention or suspicion from them, and hostility towards the authorities certainly wouldn’t help. “Hardwicke was an old acquaintance, nothing more. We went to Eton together, my family knows his family, as it goes, so on and so forth. He and I were never particularly good friends.”

Do you possess a reason we should know about for having murdered the deceased?

“Why, I just told you that I barely know the man.” Which wasn’t a denial, he supposed, and so added: “No, not at all.” It needn’t come to what it did, but that it had was purely Hardwicke’s fault. Was it a reason, his ungodly insistence on reunification? Kanishk hadn’t pushed the knife into his chest because of this alone. He remembered it clearly, the way the haze that obscured his vision and his hearing was pierced through by the reality of the situation; or it seemed that it had, at least, but in retrospect it only sharpened the haze into something else, paranoia, fear, anger, taking an ugly, inhuman shape that drove the dagger into Edward Hardwicke. There had been no reason in that moment, had there?

Did the victim have any enemies? Was anybody threatening the victim?

“Hardwicke was a man at the forefront. One doesn’t get to that position without making a few enemies. I’m sure he’s pissed off a chap or two at the Union, at the very least. Again, though, I didn’t know him very well beyond his reputation. He seemed rather amiable enough whenever we did have encounters,” he offered. The second question he didn’t bother to answer directly. He did recall, perhaps, words that might have been construed as a threat slipping from his lips, offered as a vitriolic response to Hardwicke’s insistent cajoling. A few more words slipped to others, but they were not threats. They were something closer to a god’s auguries slipped into his ear, delivered through his mouth as though he were the Pythia. He had wondered then if he hadn’t been the Pythia but Cassandra, but soon enough he had been proven correct—and that, perhaps, was much worse. “I can’t imagine anyone would ever have reason to do this to him, especially in the manner that they did.”

Where were you on Sunday morning?

removed to keep the mystery alive.

Extras.

PLAYLIST

#lsrp #lsrpg #skeleton rp #rpg #new rp #sample #accepted

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jeremyau · 8 years ago

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The empathy layer

Can an app that lets strangers — and bots — become amateur therapists create a safer internet?

by Mar 2, 2017, 10:30am EST

Illustrations by Peter Steineck

In January 2016, police in Blacksburg, Virginia, began looking into the disappearance of a 13-year-old girl named Nicole Lovell. Her parents had discovered her bedroom door barricaded with a dresser, her window open. Lovell was the victim of frequent bullying, both at school and online, and her parents thought she might have run away.

On social media, Lovell posted openly about her anguish. On Kik, a messaging app, Lovell told one contact, “Yes, I’m getting ready to kill myself.” In another exchange, she grabbed a screenshot from a boy she liked who had changed his screen name to “Nicole is ugly as fuck.” She broadcasted these private interactions to the wider world by posting them on her Instagram, where she also snapped a photo of herself looking sad, adding the caption “Nobody cares about me.”

Starved for affection among her peers, Lovell sought it out online. Police found a trail of texts on Kik between Lovell and a user named Dr. Tombstone. Kik allows users to remain anonymous, and over the course of a few months, the conversation turned romantic. Tombstone’s real identity was David Eisenhauer, a freshman at Virginia Tech, five years older than Lovell. In a horrific turn of events, authorities say Eisenhauer lured Lovell to meet him, then murdered her.

According to Kik employees of the time, the tragedy was a moment of reckoning for the platform. In the beginning of 2016, the app laid claim to 200 million users, and 40 percent of teenagers in the US. Kik’s terms of service stated that anyone under the age of 18 needed a parent’s permission to use the app, but these rules were easily ignored. Because it allowed users to remain anonymous, a wave of negative press around Lovell’s murder painted Kik as a playground for predators. “It was, for the entire company, a shock,” says Yuriy Blokhin, an early Kik employee who left the company recently. “Everyone felt we had to do more, an increased sense of responsibility.”

Executives at Kik wanted a system to identify, protect, and offer resources to its most vulnerable users. But it had no way of knowing how to find them, and no system in place for administering care even if it did. Through their investors, Kik was put in touch with a small New York City startup named Koko. The company had created an iPhone app that let users post entries about their stresses, fears, and sorrows. Other users would weigh in with suggestions of how to rethink the problem — a very basic form of cognitive behavioral therapy. It was a peer-to-peer network for a limited form of mental health care, and, according to a clinical trial and beta users, it had shown very positive results. The two teams partnered with a simple goal: find a way to bring the support and care found on Koko to Kik users in need.

But as the two companies talked, a more ambitious idea emerged. What if you could combine the emotional intelligence of Koko’s crowdsourced network with the scale of a massive social network? Was there a way to distribute the mental health resources of Koko more broadly, not just in a single app, but to anywhere people gathered online to socialize and share their feelings? Over the last year the team at Koko has been building a system that would do just that, and in the process, create an empathy layer for the internet.

In 1999 Robert Morris, future co-founder of Koko, was a Princeton psychology major who got good grades but struggled to find direction — or a thesis advisor. “They didn't know what to do with me,” Morris told me recently. “I had a bunch of vague and strange research ideas and I would show up to their office with a bunch of bizarre gadgets I had hacked together: microphones, sensors, lots of wires.”

Morris finally found a home at the MIT Media Lab. A budding coder, Morris spent much of his time on a site called Stack Overflow, a critical resource for programmers looking for help on thorny problems. Morris was blown away by the community’s ability to help him on demand and free of charge and wondered if that crowdsourced model could be applied to other personal challenges. “I struggled with depression on and off for much of my life, but my early time at MIT was especially difficult,” he recalls. “I liked StackOverflow, but I needed something to help me 'debug' my brain, not just my code.” For his thesis project, he set out to build just that.

Based on the peer-to-peer model of StackOverflow, Morris’ MIT thesis, named Panoply, offered two basic options: submit a post about a negative feeling or respond to one. To quickly build and test the platform, Morris needed users. So he turned to Mechanical Turk, an online marketplace where anyone can crowdsource simple tasks for a small payment.

Morris taught MTurk workers a few basic cognitive behavioral techniques to respond to posts: how to empathize with a tough situation, how to recognize cognitive distortions that amplify life’s troubles, and how to reframe a user’s thinking to provide a more optimistic alternative. The only quality control Morris put in place was basic reading and writing comprehension. For each completed task the MTurk workers were paid a few cents.

Using an online ad for a stress-reduction study, Morris recruited a few hundred volunteers in order to fully test the system. Like the MTurk workers, the subjects were given some brief training and set loose to post their issues and reframe the issues of others. This random assemblage of people was about as far as you could get from trained and expensive therapists. But in a clinical trial conducted along with his dissertation, Morris found that users who spent two months with the Panoply system reported feeling less stressed, less depressed, and more resilient than the control group. And the most effective help was given not by the paid MTurk workers, but by the unpaid volunteers who were themselves part of the experiment.

It was a single study and has not yet been replicated, but it gave Morris confidence that he was onto something big. And then a stranger came calling. “A week after I defended my dissertation, I got several manic emails out of the blue from some guy named Fraser,” Morris said. “It was immediately apparent that he had an incredibly deep understanding of the problem.”

At the same moment that Morris was building Panoply at MIT, Fraser Kelton and Kareem Kouddous, a pair of tech entrepreneurs, had been pursuing the same idea. The pair had hacked together their own version of a peer-to-peer system for therapy. They recruited participants off Twitter and put them into WhatsApp groups, then had one group teach the other group the basics of cognitive behavioral therapy. “At the end of testing, 100 percent of helpers thanked us for the opportunity to participate and asked if they could keep doing it,” said Kelton. “When we asked why, they all said something along the lines of "for the first time since I finished therapy I found a way to put 5 or 10 minutes a day toward practicing these techniques."

A month later Kelton came across Morris’ work and emailed him immediately. “This is embarrassing, but I think I emailed him two or three times that night,” says Kelton. “We thought we had a clever idea, but he had taken it and jumped miles ahead of where our thinking was, run a clinical trial, gotten results, and defended a dissertation.” Within a few weeks Kelton, Kouddous, and Morris had mocked up a wire frame of an app that became the blueprint for Koko. They called the company Koko because the service is meant to help users by showing them different perspectives. Koko backwards is “ok ok.”

Fraser, who knew the startup scene, approached investors. “It seemed to us that there was a possibility that a peer to peer network in this space was kind of a perfect application,” says Brad Burnham, a managing partner from Union Square Ventures. The firm had previously invested in a number of startups that relied on networks of highly engaged users: Twitter, Tumblr, Foursquare. But Burnham had never seen something quite like Koko before. When Koko users added value to the network by rethinking problems, they actually provided value to themselves, by practicing the core techniques of cognitive behavioral therapy. “By helping others, they were helping themselves, and that seemed like a great synergy," said Burnham. In January of 2015 Union Square Ventures, along with MIT’s Joi Ito, invested $1 million into Koko. Less than a month later, the company launched its iOS in beta.

The first time Zelig used Koko, she was sitting in a parking lot waiting to pick up one of her kids from a summer program. She had downloaded the app in search of emotional relief. Her son, an intelligent and outgoing boy with Asperger’s syndrome, seemed to have no place of acceptance outside of home, and was facing the increasing isolation often prevalent in the lives of teens on the autism spectrum. Her younger daughter had just been diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

“I have a special needs kid and high needs kid. My life is not typical,” Zelig explained in a phone call. “It’s pretty stressful and it’s always on. You make attempts to do your best and things don’t work, which is really scary.” She asked that we only use her Koko screen name in this story to preserve her family’s privacy. “My kids were struggling mightily, and there just wasn’t a way for me to see anything that could possibly make it better.”

The Koko app offered Zelig two choices. She could write a post laying out her troubles and share it with everyone who opened the app. They would give her advice on how to rethink her problems — not offer a solution, but rather suggest a more optimistic spin on the way she saw the world. But Zelig didn’t feel ready to open up about her own struggles. “It was hard for me to take the big things going on in my life and make them the size of a tweet, to get to the core. It was hard to turn loose those emotions.”

Instead, Zelig started reading through posts from other users. The Koko app starts users off with a short tutorial on “rethinking.” The app explains that rethinking isn’t about solving problems, but offering a more optimistic take. It uses memes and cartoons to illustrate the idea: if you choose the right reframe, a cute puppy offers his paw for a high-five. The app walks new users through posts and potential reframes, indicating which rethinks are good and which aren’t. The tutorial can be completed in as little as five minutes.

Once users finish the tutorial, they can scroll through live posts on the site. Despite the minimal training, the issues they are confronted with can be quite serious: an individual who is afraid to tell her family that she’s taking anti-depressants because they might think she’s crazy; a user stressed from school who believes “no one actually likes the real me, and if they see it, they will hate me”; a user with an abusive boyfriend who has come to feel “I am a failure and worth being yelled at.” I walked a friend through the tutorial recently, and they were shocked by how quickly Koko throws you into the deep end of human despair.

Koko lets you write anything you want for a rethink, but also offers simple prompts: “This could turn out better than you think because…,” “A more balanced take on this could be…,” etc. The company screens both the posts and rethinks before they become public, attempting to direct certain users to critical care and weed trolls out of the system. Originally, this was accomplished with human moderators, but increasingly, the company is turning to AI.

Accepting and offering rethinks is meant to help users get away from bad mental habits, cycles of negative thought that can perpetuate their anxiety and depression. Over the next few months, Zelig found herself offering rethinks of other Koko users almost every day. “Having it in your pocket is really good. All of sudden it would hit me what I needed say in the reframe, so I would pull my car over, or stand in the produce aisle.”

In the process of giving advice Zelig felt, almost immediately, a sense of relief and control. She began to recognize her own dark moods as variations on the problems she was helping others with. Zelig says the peculiar power of Koko is that by helping others, users are able to help themselves. She eventually got around to sharing her issues, but always felt that “I was more helped by the reframing action than I was by the posting. It trained me to be able to see my world that way.”

The last few years have seen an explosion of startup and mobile apps offering users mental health care on demand. Some, like MoodKit and Anxiety Coach, offer self-guided cognitive behavioral therapy. Others, like Pacifica, mix self-guided lessons with online support groups where users can chat with one another. Apps like Talkspace use the smartphone as a platform for connecting patients with professional therapists who treat them through calls and text messages.

For the moment, Koko is one of just a few company built primarily around a peer-to-peer model. Its best analog might be companies like Airbnb or Lyft. Why pay for a hotel room or black car when the spare apartment or neighbor’s car is just as good? Why pay for therapy when the advice of strangers has proven to be helpful and free?

Studies have found that cognitive behavioral therapy can be as effective at treating depression and anxiety as prescription drugs. Since the 1980s, people have been practicing self-guided cognitive behavioral therapy through workbooks, CD-ROMs, and web portals. But left to their own devices, most people don’t finish courses or stop practicing fairly quickly.

Koko is still a tiny company, staffed by the three co-founders and one full-time employee, all based out of New York City. To date, over 230,000 people have used Koko, and more than 26 million messages have been sent through the app over the last six months. Many, like Zelig, have used it on a daily basis for more than a year. But like so many mobile apps these days, Koko has struggled to attract a large following.

The Koko team always knew it would be difficult to charge users for the app, or to make money advertising to a relatively small number of anonymous users. It was at this critical juncture that the team from Kik came calling. After the murder of Nicole Lovell, Kik reached out to its investors at Union Square Ventures for advice. Burnham connected Kik with Koko, setting in motion an entirely new direction for the young company.

When users sign up for Kik, the first contact added to their address book is a chatbot. It answers questions about the service, tells jokes, and posts updates about new features. “A few months before meeting with Koko, we noticed something interesting happening with the Kik bot,” said Yuriy Blokhin, the former Kik engineer who helped forge the partnership with Koko. “People were not only talking to it the way it was meant to be, as a brand ambassador, but also sometimes people were mentioning they were depressed, concerned about their parents getting a divorce, or being unpopular at school.”

Kik didn’t know how to respond to these kinds of emotional confessions, but Koko did. It had millions of posts, carefully labeled by workers from Mechanical Turk to describe the type of problem they represented. It used that database to train artificial intelligence that could respond to posts sent to a chatbot. If the content of a message was critical — defined by Kokobot as being a danger to themselves or others — it would connect users with a service like Crisis Textline; if the issue was manageable, the bot would pass the person on to Koko users; if it was a troll, the bot would hide the post. This is the same AI approach Koko now uses to classify posts on its peer-to-peer network.

Once that approach proved successful, Koko went one step further. If a user posted about a stress Koko had a highly rated response for — a sick family member, a difficult test at school, a spat with a significant other — the chatbot would automatically offer up that rethink. The AI was now acting as a node in the peer-to-peer network.

Beginning in August 2016, any user on Kik could share their stress with the Kokobot. Most received a reply in just a few minutes. Working with Kik made Koko realize how big the business opportunity was. “Do a search on Twitter, Reddit, Tumblr, any social network, and you will find a cohort of users reaching out into the ether with their problems,” said Kelton. The team realized that if they could train an AI to identify and respond to users sharing emotional stress, they might also be able to train algorithms to automatically detect users who were at risk, even if they hadn’t reached out. Koko was transforming itself into an intervention tool, scanning platforms and stepping in on its own volition. Koko hopes to provide these tools to online communities for free, using the feedback to train an AI with services it can one day sell to digital assistants like Siri and Alexa.

The move into detection and intervention, however, has been complicated. This past January, the team set up the Koko bot on two Reddit forums r/depression and r/SuicideWatch. It scanned incoming posts, and messaged several users offering help.

The response wasn’t what Koko engineers had expected: the community was outraged.

“I feel deeply disturbed that they would use a bot to do this,” wrote one user. “Disgusting that assholes would try and take advantage of people,” wrote another. The moderator of the two forums set up a warning advising users to ignore Koko’s chatbot. “I have to say that the technology itself looks like an interesting idea,” the moderator wrote. “But if it's in the hands of people who behave in this way, that is incredibly disturbing.” The Verge reached out to both moderators and users who left angry comments about Koko, but did not hear back.

The Koko team acknowledged it made a mistake by allowing its chatbot to send messages on Reddit without warning, and not educating users and moderators about who they were and what their goal was. But Kelton believes that the feedback from users who did interact with the bot on Reddit shows the system can do real good there. “One mod bent out of shape on how we handled the launch vs. many at-risk people helped in a way that they appreciated,” was a trade-off Kelton could live with. “Helping mods understand and embrace the service is a containable problem, one that we're already having good success with.”

In January 2017, top officials from the US military met with executives from Facebook, Google, and Apple at the Pentagon. The topic was suicide prevention in the age of social media. The federal government considers the subject a top priority, as suicide has become the leading cause of death among veterans. For the tech companies, the problem is wide ranging. Among teenagers in the United States, most of whom spend six and a half hours each with their smartphones and tablets daily, suicide is the second leading cause of death.

In attendance was Matthew Nock, a professor of psychology at Harvard and an expert in suicide prediction and prevention. When it comes to using technology for detection and intervention, “the consensus in the academic community is there is great potential promise here, but the jury is still out,” says Nock. “Personally I have seen a lot of interest in people using social media and the latest technologies to understand, predict, and prevent suicidal behavior. But so far many of the claims have outstripped the actual data.”

Despite those concerns, Nock is interested in what companies like Koko might offer. “We know that cognitive behavioral therapy is effective for treating people with clinical depression. There is not enough cognitive therapy to reach everyone who needs it.” Koko provides people with the simple tools they can use to help themselves and others. “These people aren’t clinicians, they have been trained in the basics, but for scaling purposes, I think it’s what we can do right now.”

The scalability of tech makes it an alluring tool for mental health — but the business comes with unique risks. “Everyone wants to be the Uber of mental health,” says Stephen Schueller, an assistant professor at Northwestern University who specializes in behavioral intervention technologies. “The thing I worry about is, unless you have a way to make sure the drivers are behaving appropriately, it’s hard to make sure people are getting quality care. Psychotherapy is a lot more complicated than driving a car.”

Koko’s experience with Reddit wasn’t the first mishap to befall company trying to scale mental health, an industry traditionally made up of heavily regulated, sensitive, one-on-one clinical relationships across an online community. Those challenges were made apparent in the case of Talkspace, where therapists didn’t feel they were able to warn authorities about patients who may have been a danger to themselves or others. That led some therapists to abandon the platform. Samaritans, a 65-year-old organization aimed at helping those in emotional distress, released an app in 2014 called Samaritan Radar. It attempted to identify Twitter users in need of help and offer assistance. But due to the public nature of the interaction, the warnings ended up encouraging bullies and angering users who felt their privacy had been invaded.

The ethics of using of artificial intelligence for this work has become a central question for the industry at large. “The potential demand for mental health is likely to always outstrip the professional resources,” says John Draper, project director at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. “There is increasingly a push to see what can technology do.” If AI can detect users at risk and engage them in emotionally intelligent conversations, should that be the first line of defense? “These are important ethical questions that we haven’t answered yet.”

In a recent manifesto on the state of Facebook, CEO Mark Zuckerberg noted that as people move online, society has seen a tremendous weakening of the traditional community ties that once provided mental and emotional support. To date, creating software that restores or reinforces those safeguards has been a reactionary afterthought, not an overarching goal. Systems designed to foster clicks, likes, retweets, and shares have become global communities of unprecedented scale. But Zuckerberg was left to ask, “Are we building the world we all want?”

“There have been terribly tragic events -- like suicides, some live streamed -- that perhaps could have been prevented if someone had realized what was happening and reported them sooner. There are cases of bullying and harassment every day, that our team must be alerted to before we can help out. These stories show we must find a way to do more,” Zuckerberg wrote. “Artificial intelligence can help provide a better approach. We are researching systems that can look at photos and videos to flag content our team should review.” In early March it was reported that Facebook had begun testing an AI system which scanned for vulnerable users and reached out to offer help.

The goal for Koko is the same, but distributed across any online community or social network. Its AI hopes to reach vulnerable users, people like Nicole Lovell, who are posting cries for help online, searching for an empathic community. On a recent afternoon I opened the Koko app, and spent an hour scrolling through a litany of angst: not having the money to complete school, feeling obsessed with an older married man, overwhelmed at the prospect of caring for sick relatives who can no longer remember your name. Beneath each post, three or four users had suggested rethinks, blueprints for coping that users could learn from.

For people who are suffering, knowing that others are in pain, and that they can do something about it, is one way of healing themselves. “Something that caught me right away and kept me coming back to the app again and again was the amazing feeling of hope,” said Zelig, when I emailed her recently to ask a few questions about Koko. “That regardless of all the crap that seemed to be happening in my life, that I could still be of help to someone and could take a positive action.”

Zelig’s kids, like most teenagers, have become keenly interested in what keeps their mother occupied on her smartphone. “They see me typing away and want to know what I’m doing,” Zelig explained. “I’ll ask them, do you think this is a reframe? How would you do it? It was cool, because it’s a puzzle we solve together. What is the critical thing this person was dealing with? [It’s] an emotional, social puzzle.”

A year and a half after she downloaded the app, Zelig still uses it almost every day, but she doesn’t consider herself to be in a state of crisis anymore. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Koko using chatbots and AI to reach out to people who had never heard of the service. At first she told me that if a chatbot had approached her out of the blue, she would have ignored it. But she wrote back later to say that, if these technologies mean more people find their way into the Koko community, she’s in favor. “Life really had me and our family by the throat there for a while,” she told me. “Koko was part of what gave me the ability to see a way through to the other side.”

Illustrations by Peter Steineck

#mental health #depression #anxiety #digital health

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