#It's so hard for many modern people to empathize with people from history

[swordwizard]

This is the most romantic letter of all time and never fails to bring me to tears

[tfwyouloveher2]

/r9k/Elsa Ten Years Later: A Retrospective

Ten years ago today, on July 22, 2014, r9kElsa is Suffering was completed.

If you're reading this, you probably already know the gravity of that event. Let's talk about it anyway :)

r9kElsa is Suffering was one of the earliest fan fiction works written for Frozen, its first chapter published only a few weeks after the movie's release, and was decidedly the most influential.

It was the first widely-read modern-alternate-universe take on Elsa's and Anna's characters, and the way it painted their relationship into a reluctant and tragic romance almost singlehandedly inspired the wider Elsanna ship.

Despite its legacy, it's not the most practiced prose, nor is the plot meticulously planned.

So why did it leave such a mark on its audience? And how was it conceived?

Come with me back to 2013 and we'll find out.

A History

Frozen was released on November 27, 2013, to unexpected critical acclaim and unprecedented box office success.

The internet was quickly buzzing with thoughts about it. A hundred communities in the far-flung reaches of a simpler Web gathered in their respective forums to articulate what the movie meant to them.

Within a few days, a few thoughts began to coalesce in many different places at once: these characters are important to us. They're relatable. They're inspiring.

And, in some strange new way, the scattered diaspora found that the message had spoken to their hearts: love is stronger than fear. There is hope.

The first Frozen fan fiction to gain any traction was "Songs of Ice and Snow", published on November 23 by a lucky author with the privilege of seeing a pre-screening of the movie. It would go on to reach almost 140,000 words over the next several months, and explored the characters in their canon environment, written to take place immediately after the events of the movie.

Soon though, another fic was written with a bold twist: For the First Time was published on December 3, and suggested something previously unexplored: a romantic angle to the sisters' relationship. Niche artists and shitposters had already asserted the notion, but this very early work fleshed out the idea into something surprisingly charming. If love is an open door, then For the First Time opened it just a crack, and readers everywhere were tempted by the glow from beyond.

One specific forum that was quick to latch on to the hard-to-swallow concept was /frz/, a thread on 4chan's /co/ dedicated to Frozen. The trolling effortlessly began to morph into ironic, then tongue-in-cheek, and finally occasionally genuine consideration of what this romance would mean. The trolling never stopped, of course; but in the margins, there was a growing understanding and even affection for this relationship. Why?

Like so much well-loved fiction, it was because people saw themselves in it.

In Elsa, some saw a shut-in who just didn't want to be ostracized anymore. Some saw a dutiful figure who couldn't allow herself to be happy.

In Anna, some saw a socially awkward romantic, starving for affection and acceptance. Others saw an endlessly forgiving empath.

And in both, they saw someone who might understand them.

And in that moment, they fell victim to the fantasy: that two people could be so different and yet could love each other so unreservedly. That two people could understand each other's failings and doubts and grief, that they could be so wounded by each other, and at the end of it all, still sacrifice everything for the other.

In a world of cynicism and transactional relationships, it turns out that these sisters bound by blood scratch an itch: a need to be accepted despite all our flaws. And in some corners of the internet, there grew an quiet desire to be loved like that.

It was in this context that an anonymous /co/ reader, usually only browsing the board for DC comics, began to engage with /frz/. She hadn't ever written fiction before, but at the moment unemployed, was sucked in by the concepts being set forth. She wrote a first chapter that was an exceptional attention grabber, starting with the line "She heard the crossbow bolt thud into her shoulder before she felt it." Many readers will recognize that opening line immediately from Frozen Fractals. The first chapter was initially published in a pastebin for /frz/ to read, on December 6, with promises of violence, cuteness, and sex. Despite very little initial response, the anon is fully engrossed in her work, and posts the next few chapters in the following two days.

Over the next couple weeks, Frozen Fractals becomes the foremost image of the romantic portrayal of the sisters. The writing style is unpracticed, the character choices sometimes stretch disbelief, and the story is occasionally brutal; and yet, the work is outstanding.

The critical response is enormously positive, even reaching the point of other fiction authors in /frz/ asking the author -- having at this point earned the nickname "Fractals" or "Frac" -- for writing tips and constructive criticism. Additionally though, there are some constructive criticisms offered back, which undoubtedly aided Frac's later work.

During this same period, the image of Elsa being a broken, self-doubting recluse, while Anna waits determinedly for her to open her door to the world, begins to take a more distinct shape in the /frz/ threads.

Anons start to see Elsa as one of them.

And so it began, slowly at first. But over the next couple weeks, this idea started taking center stage in threads.

And then, the first greentext from the character of /r9k/Elsa:

There grew a consensus, a common understanding of who this persona was.

It was initially tongue-in-cheek. But later, like Elsa's monster, it was often the person that we most fear to be.

And the storm raged on.

Then, the next day, a turning point is reached: a greentext that realizes the core of the character. These 12 lines precipitated years of community fixation and the story that would come of her.

And the rest is history.

Over the next few days, an onslaught of r9kElsa greentexts are posted. For a short while, threads are overwhelmed with discussion of the character. People can't stop talking about it.

Some suggest temporarily banning it from threads so as to stop derailing every discussion.

Despite the proposed ban, some discussion continues behind spoiler tags. Frac is wrapping up Frozen Fractals and becoming increasingly engrossed in the character.

Then, finally, on the Winter Solstice 2013, Elsa's first birthday, tfw She Loves You is posted on Fictionpress.

Frac posts it under an alias in an ultimately-doomed effort to fly under the radar.

Over the next few days, up to and through Christmas 2013, Frac cannot stop writing. She writes ELEVEN CHAPTERS in four days. The rest of /frz/ is caught up in the r9k storm right along with her.

And then, there's a pause. A couple days go by without update. Finally, a few days later, chapter 12 Drawfriend is posted, and Frac seems a little burned out. Anons ask her what's up.

She realizes that her story is beginning to diverge from the greentexts that /frz/ has written. What started as a collection of one-shots based on scattershot 4chan replies is beginning to feel more important than that. None of the offered greentexts are hitting the spot like they used to. Somehow, the characters need more.

From this moment onward, Frac takes a new direction. Only a couple chapters after this point (16 and 21) are based on greentexts, and even those are loosely adapted. Instead, the fic ceases to be a collection of one-shots and starts forming into a true story, the story that everyone now knows and loves.

She posts the next chapter the same night. Chapter 13 Past is in the Past is a unique installment in the series, going back in time to detail the moment Elsa believes that she fell for Anna. It briefly scales back the angst and drama, and gives a cute slice-of-life of a simpler time for the characters. Some consider it the most human chapter in the story.

From this point on, the story progresses in a remarkable way. In case you haven't read it, I'll avoid too many major spoilers here. But as you can imagine, certain chapters (like 20: Implode-Explode) prompted clamorous reactions from the /frz/ threads.

After a few more weeks, other sites start taking notice of what's happening here. Tumblr picks up on the fic and begins rallying behind it. Artists begin painting r9kElsa portraits. It's when r9k starts wrapping up that r/Elsanna is founded and starts gaining traffic.

Other well-known stories also start being published once r9k hits its stride. During a very short period between mid-January and early February 2014, you see Extra! Extra!, A Formal Arrangement, Feel, Don't Conceal, Drum Major, You Are, A Snowflake in Spring, Winter Girl, the Cake Fic, and others published for the first time. Almost every modern-AU fic can trace its characterizations at least partially back to r9k. In some cases, e.g. Tessellate, much more than partially!

A Reason

If you read any post or thread from any Elsanna community in 2014, you'll find one thing repeated over and over: r9kElsa is Suffering brought me here. The story is the most common elevator pitch for the ship, because especially at that time, it meant something more to people than just sexy cartoon girls (though it undoubtedly meant that too).

In a world of isolation, where many traditional sources of community have been whittled away, people are desperate for hope.

This is the core of why Frozen succeeded so tremendously.

It came at exactly the right cultural moment, when both adults and teenagers the world over were feeling more alone than any prior point in history; and it showed that there's a reason to open your door. Even when you're feeling like there's no way out, like no one could ever see past your faults and doubts, you can remember that there IS hope. It's not in Prince Charming or a genie in a bottle. You can have hope in knowing that there are other people, broken in their own ways, who WILL love you for you. Unreservedly.

Frozen has been criticized for its resolution being too easy. "Love," they say, "what a shallow fix for everything!"

They are wrong. Love is an anomaly of nature. It breaks every rule. It is supernatural and spiritual and it is real life magic. And realizing that you can always choose to love the fixer-upper beside you is the surest way to thaw your own frozen heart.

r9kElsa is Suffering has likewise been criticized for its ending. Readers wanted to see something sexy, thrilling, or at least certain. Instead, they got something ambiguous and thoughtful.

Personally, the last two chapters are my favorites of the whole story.

We see a broken family trying to piece itself together. We see a father reckoning with his abject failure, and seeking a new way of living with his family. Any parent would feel overwhelmed, angry, afraid in that situation. He doesn't want to be consumed by fear and frustration. He just wants to love his daughters. And he does. Even after everything, he does.

And critically, he trusts Elsa to make the right decisions, even when he himself doesn't know what they are anymore.

And then, ultimately, in the final chapter, we read a beautiful mirror of the first. Elsa is in her room, but the curtains aren't shut anymore. Sunlight streams in through the window. Anna enters freely, their tension long released by their figurative walls having been dismantled.

In an often-overlooked moment of clarity, Elsa ceases to be consumed by her preferred method of isolation, her computer. Whereas in the first chapter, she can't look Anna in the eye, and only stares at her ever-illuminated computer screen; now, she does something new. She turns off her monitor and momentarily contemplates her reflection in the black mirror. Who is the woman she sees staring back at her?

She would be unrecognizable from the girl who sat in that chair six months before.

Finally, in the last moment, Elsa is faced with making the "right decision".

Unburdened by fear or requirement, she is prompted for the first time to determine honestly what the right thing is, for herself, for Anna, for their family.

She hesitates. What is right? Is it right to push Anna away?

She decides. She loves Anna, and she's never going to erect a wall between them again.

Her father asked her to remember what's important. Anna is what's important to her. All of the rules, all of the shame, all of the worries -- they don't matter.

You love her, and she loves you. That's all that matters.

Dear reader: today, now ten years older, remember what matters to you. Love the people in your life. Love boldly and selflessly and unreservedly, and frozen hearts will begin to thaw.

- tfwyouloveher

---

A/N: many thanks to the people and resources that made this retrospective achievable

frac, also known as @kate---kane and anonelsa, who so many of us have to thank (or curse?) for our years spent in this community

desuarchive.org and archived.moe make this digital archaeology possible

/frz/ will hate me for posting their activity across the web but I don't mind :)

there is a wealth of fascinating and entertaining material in the /frz/ threads of these archives. I spent weeks reading through old threads long considered lost for this post

neiromaru and @spooths are among the top connoiseurs of frozen fanfiction, and their ancient lists made this research much easier

the various archivists on r/elsanna and elsewhere who saved so many important pieces of fic history before they were deleted

the dropbox and mega archives were instrumental

enormous thanks to my editor, who ended up rewriting most of this post, but who wished to remain anonymous. seems unexpectedly appropriate :)

[gaymersrights]

tagged by @cosmicrhetoric (thank you isha <3) to post nine book recommendations. I would literally die for some of these books

The Heartbeat of Wounded Knee, David Treuer: This is a Native American history book that tells the history of what happened after the massacre at Wounded Knee, leading up to modern native history. Because so many history books only tell about the massacres of Natives, an overwhelming amount of people don't know anything about modern day Native history, or about the time between Wounded Knee and now. I recommend this book to anyone who wants an introduction into more contemporary Native issues. The book does a great job of being clear with all of its information while still telling a compelling narrative that doesn't just end in death. I also was lucky enough to talk with the author about this book and his other work and it was a super cool experience, definitely recommend his works.

Another Country, James Baldwin: I struggled with deciding which James Baldwin book to put on here, because his work is consistently good and interesting. I ended up picking Another Country because it's just to be one of those books that manages to have a little bit of everything in it. In my mind, this is the Platonic ideal of a litfic book. It's brutal to read, in that way that only really James Baldwin books can be. There's so much about this book that I could talk about but just can't get into without starting to talk about a million other things that are equally meaningful and impactful. I honestly cannot even tell you what this book is about without just reciting the entire thing back at you so. Just trust me on this one.

Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments, Saidiya Hartman: This book quite honestly blew my mind when I read it last year. This book uses archival material to create fictionalized reconstructions of the lives of Black girls from the early 20th century that history forgot. The only evidence that some of these women even lived at all is a single photograph, or one surviving court room document. This book makes you empathize with the lives of people that history tried its hardest to make you forget, so that the reader is forced to find beauty in ways of life that run counter to our cultural narratives of the era.

Player Piano, Kurt Vonnegut: I also had a hard time picking which Vonnegut book to put on this list; real ones know that I'm a really big fan of his work. I chose his debut because its really underappreciated. This book got me back into reading after I burnt out in the middle of high school. It's a cautionary tale about automation (which feels more relevant now that AI is becoming a thing) and it really captures that classic scifi feel that i just can't get enough of. Its a silly, quick read, that fills you with the beautiful melancholy that Vonnegut books are so good for.

The Raven Tower, Ann Leckie: I couldn't post book recs without at least one fantasy pic, and I honestly love this one. It's a fantasy retelling of Hamlet focusing on gods that gain more power the more followers they have. It's a simple premise that the book manages to pull off incredibly well. Personally, I'm a really big fan of the second person pov sections of this book (second person pov is so sexy do not @ me on this). The treatment of the gods in this book is absolutely my favorite part, and I think it manages to combine with the main narrative very well. It's a very fun read.

Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer: God I love this book. It's been a few years since I've read it, but it completely changed a lot of the ways that I looked at the environment and at how our society treats science. This book is a nonfic about how Indigenous knowledge is often dismissed in scientific discussions as being invalid. This book argues that scientific knowledge and Indigenous knowledge are not mutually exclusive ways of knowing, and that combining these approaches is the way forward for environmental study. Also along the way you'll read absolutely gorgeous descriptions of American plants, and the ways in which people can build connections around them.

Nature Poem, Tommy Pico: This is the first book of poetry I ever loved, and the only book that I keep saved on my phone, just in case. Basically, the one sentence description for this one is that its a book about a queer ndn poet who can't bring himself to write poems about nature. This book is part of a tetralogy but can be read standalone with no real barriers. If you like this one I highly recommend checking out the others too. These are the kind of poems that you binge in a day and think about for a month straight.

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley: How could I not recommend Frankenstein rn. If you haven't read it, read it. You already know what its about, and that it is without exaggeration the sexiest book of all time. So read it. Not optional. This book has changed my life like five times over and I honestly can't trust anyone who can't admit that it rules.

The Monk, Matthew Lewis: THE MONK THE MONK THE MONK THE MONK THE MONK THE MONK!!!!! No one does it like her !!!! This is quite literally the most batshit insane book I've ever read, and I love it. I'm writing a thesis about this book. I told my advisor that I wanted to write about it, and then she immediately told me that if I was going to write about it, then she HAD to be the chair of my thesis committee. Every single person who reads this book is cursed to be a more weird version of themself who tells everyone they meet that they should read The Monk. This is the ultimate Gothic story, about a monk (holy shit) who is renowned for being uncorruptible, who upon meeting one (1) woman, is immediately overcome with lust and corrupted. I cannot stress enough that I have no way of determining if this book is even good, but it is the MOST book you will ever read. Please read the monk.

tagging blue @glasspigeons you don't have to do all nine but I at least want a top three

[luciusbuildzz]

Worship

By Lucius Liu

Amidst the gray that perpetuates my passing fatigue until full recovery and recommencing of hard training - the hunt for power, stamina… selection, what brings light of joy and wonder are rare glimpses to natural beauty - the chirping of songbirds atop a communications tower, and company with thoughtful monuments of the illustrious past: the First Church of West Hartford across from the computer room I am now typing in, the war histories of great generals behind me. Given that I have not chosen the path of a modern Daoist priest dedicated to the perfection of esoteric forms of Kung Fu, working only to feed my body and supply the locker and wandering above the problems of regular folks like the clouds shrouding our spiritual home, Mount Wudang, but am wholly committed to being of the people and of good service to society, it is the latter which forms the major undercurrent of my daily striving. Thus, though there may be that which is higher than the laws of Man, my worship is now bound to the duties that come with being a citizen of this Land of the Free, as well as, a son to Liu ancestry. Such love for the former is a double-edged sword for complementing it is hate for whatever gets in the way thereof. No doubt this is a blind love, for what good can art be if good order and brotherhood of man are exclusive to its being, nevertheless, it is also a fact that to do anything so well requires such purity and focus. I believe that solid, honorable men of the past have empathized with this feeling for indeed to embark on long study leads to what Jesus described as hatred even for father or mother. I have seen this old me die beginning with the search for hiding places safe from the abuse hurled at me; I built a fortress using what lyrics, highlights, ideas, philosophies, etc. I could get my hands on; I armed this bastion with the ghosts of old fighters, their hymns of chivalry and nobility still ringing true. Wave after wave of blows in the betrayals by guardians, even friends, the apathy of the community at large, leading me to the hardest places a young kid can find himself in, saw no retreat of my position: I did not start carving into myself as so many do nor become an empty shell huffing and puffing rage nor quit on hope for the future, rather, my growth was interminable - I found myself graduating from college with the approval of my program director all the way to the board. All this and it is no wonder that we have made men who treat brutal power as a loyal hound. I do hold all accountable for the crimes not only of my past, but of all history. Nevertheless, we live in a republic where turning your back on your compatriot and cutthroat has no place.

[monstercollection]

I want to talk about some of my feelings about John Seward. I tried writing a post about it before and deleted it after giving it some more thought, but I’m going to try again.

Background: I’ve worked in group homes with people with various combinations of neurodivergence, mental illness and disability for 10 years and am ND, disabled and mentally ill myself.

CW: Modern Institutions, institutionalization of Autistic people, abuse of disabled children mentioned briefly.

Seward as autistic is a really hard headcannon for me to grapple with because autistic people have been institutionalized at high rates for as long as asylums existed.

Is it possible an autistic guy with fewer needs could run an asylum that likely held at least some autistic people who are high needs/have behaviors? Sure, I guess but we never see Seward doing anything but perpetrate the problems in that system.

This is not going to be the first time we see him go out of his way to trigger and escalate Renfield. I’m not going to give any major spoilers here, but this isn’t an isolated incident.

It’s also hard for me to grapple with “compared to the practices of the time, he’s progressive,” because these were not just the standards of his time. These are standards that have stretched right through the present day. This is stuff that still goes on.

I’ve been in direct care for 10 years and I work for an agency that formed when whistleblowers started opening about about what was going on in Massachusetts’ institutions in the 80s. A lot of these whistleblowers and people who formerly worked in institutions now the company and they have shared some absolute horror stories about things that were standard practices.

I teach self-advocacy curriculum that focuses on the history of the disability rights movement and we talk about this a lot. We go into the history of institutions and the people I’m educating are always shocked to hear just how recent this stuff is. It’s all within their lifetime.

We still have the Judge Rottenberg center in MA that uses things like electric shock adversives to punish autistic kids (and the most horrific thing is that many of these kids’ own parents have gone to court to defend that practice).

This is my third time reading through Dracula. And I’m not going to expect people who haven’t read the book to take my word for why you shouldn’t like Seward or why he is bad or any of that. You’re along for the ride and you get to enjoy these characters however you want. You aren’t problematic or bad for having your own take, you’re just doing your own literary interpretation and that’s cool.

But I’m always going to empathize more with the actual disabled and mentally ill patients (esp, here Renfield) in the institution than I am the asylum guy. This includes people (again, like Renfield in this book) with challenging behaviors or the rare few who have physical aggression (this is the population I worked with in group homes for years and they are no less deserving of proper, compassionate care, dignity and autonomy than anyone else).

But I like… I can’t help but wonder what the Seward fans would think about the practices at the now shuttered Danvers State Mental Hospital (where some of my coworkers came from and where several of the individuals we serve once lived) or even the notorious Willowbrook Institutions. Those were “the standards of the 1980s”.

I don’t mean that in an accusatory way. Most people straight up do not know about this stuff. I just think it shifts the perspective to know the history of all this is a lot more recent . But I also think it’s strange that we would judge people in the 1980s a lot more harshly than they would people doing the exact same thing in the 1890s, and we might want to examine why that is.

We expect things in the Victorian Era to be bad because we have the idea that time is a steady march toward progress and that people in the past were always more ignorant than we are, so we kind of hand wave things. That breaks down when we actually look at our recent history.

The disabled and mentally ill people of the Victorian Era knew just how horrible life in asylums were. Restrictive environments where you had no personal autonomy, no consent of consent, where adversives were used on the regular (and I haven’t even touched on conversion therapy and the roles institutions played there) —these environments were hell. When you say “people didn’t understand back then,” that’s not true. Disabled and mentally ill people knew. It was just a matter of people not listening.

And that was not just true back then. It’s true today.

So yeah, I come at Seward with a lot of biases. I’m writing a book right now with him as the secondary villain so clearly I do not love the guy.

I respect everyone’s right to head-cannon what they want and make him your eeby-deeby and all. This is a fun internet book club and we’re all just here to have a good time.

But I just kind of had to respond to some of those takes because I think a lot of them come from a place of little understanding of the role of institutions played in the struggle for disability rights, especially for autistic people and I think it’s an important part of the conversation.

Edit:

I wanted to clarify something because it is coming up in people’s responses to this. “Seward is Autistic” is absolutely a valid take and I’m not saying it isn’t possible for an autistic guy to run an asylum, or that it would automatically mean he couldn’t be ableist if he did.

My personal discomfort with that head cannon is that I don’t really like storylines where a marginalized person is blamed for their oppression of their group (ex: the homophone is secretly gay). This is purely down to personal preference.

I think a lot of autistic, anxious and general ND people are claiming him as one of their own because he is presented as one of the stories heroes and they like seeing themselves in that. And that’s kind of the point of fandom.

Everybody’s going to filter him through the lens of their own experiences. This is just mine.

[gentil-minou]

We need to stop using the term "sentimonsters"

Okay so for starters, if you're here and you want to tell me not to take this show or idea so seriously I'd ask if you respectfully ignore this post and go on with your day. This isn't for you, and that's cool. Consume your media the way you like, this is how I like to enjoy it.

The gist of this post is that words are powerful, but names are mightier than all else. So I want to explain why I think we, as a fandom, might want to consider not using the word sentimonster when we refer to them, especially as the sentiadrien, sentifelix, etc theories gain more traction and evidence.

One of the arguments I’ve seen people talk about why they dislike the theory is that it seems to make Adrien a character who isn’t human, who is considered other. I understand why this is a concern; it makes us feel uncomfortable and worried. Him not being human is worrying, because the term “sentimonster” makes us wonder, is he a monster?

To me, using the word "monster" contributes to the ostracization and sense of otherness that makes certain fans jump straight to the idea of invalidation and even some fear/anxiety. If we call something a monster, it instantly makes us less likely to root for them and actually prejudiced against them. It makes us, the third party bystander here, think there is something inherently wrong with them. As a result it makes it harder for us to sympathize with them, it makes us less likely to care. This is especially hard when we love Adrien so much.

Putting this under a read more, because the rest of the post is heavy and long. Trigger warnings for non-specific mention of homophobia and racism.

Think of Frankenstein's monster. The monster was not the villain, the doctor was (spoiler alert I guess). But people often forget that fact and go straight into depicting the monster as the villain when that is absolutely not the case. We were meant to empathize with the monster, but because of the colloquial meaning it’s harder for us to do it unless we really take the time to think about it.

In real world terms, we can compare the way people in-universe (and from what some people in the fandom seem to think) act towards sentis to discrimination that has been perpetuated in society, particularly against BIPOC or LGBTQ+. If we look at the power language holds over a group of people, we can see that it can, and has throughout history, created a derogatory narrative that makes people appear as "outsiders" or not part of the "true society".

Historically, many BIPOC members from around the world were even considered "inferior humans" or in some cases not worth considering as humans in the first place. Similar discrimination occurs in the LGBTQ+ community, often perpetrated by their own family. Both groups frequently suffer invalidation in a way that can cause them to doubt their place in the world, leading to extreme cases of depression or traumatic response. I will not name any derogatory or hateful terms but chances are if you are a member of the BIPOC or LGBTQ+ community you know exactly how devastating it can be when someone calls you this. The words have power, and while we are working to reclaim our words and language for ourselves before we can do that, we have to eliminate the hurt by respecting those who ask us to not use certain language that is derogatory.

Now, what does that have to do with sentimonsters?

Well first, we have to look at the original purpose of sentibeings. They were depicted as guardians, meant to provide protection. Or they were emotions made life, a source of positivity and goodness. We dont know too many details but we can infer that they were the good guys, no different from our heroes.

(Yes, their creation was perhaps different from what modern society views as "birth", but 100 years ago science would have scoffed at the notion of IVF. In reality, we are learning of more and more alternatives to real-world creation, so why can we not accept it as a proper form of creation in a world where literal superheroes and magic exist?)

The real issue is, as always, Gabriel Agreste. The first time Paris was exposed to miraculouses is through Gabe’s manipulation of them. His true crime as a villain was to not only wreak havoc on Paris but also to take something that was meant to do good and use them for evil. Although haven’t seen sentis or the butterfly heroes, we can infer that normally they provide hope and light and happiness and all sorts of positivity.

That was likely the idea of Adrien's birth, to do all of that and to be a force for good.

It isn’t him (or any senti for that matter) who is inhuman; he is actually incredibly human, as evidenced by his actions, emotions, and vulnerability.

The one who lost his humanity was Gabriel himself (and Nathalie, she bad news bears too).

By using sentis in this way, as a tool to create fear, he’s influenced Paris into seeing them as monsters. To the point where even the main protagonist calls them monsters. It’s not right, it’s very wrong, but it makes sense given what the characters on the show know about them and what the villains caused them to believe.

The reality is that sentis are not the monsters at all, and we should not treat them as such. They are just being treated that way through manipulation and abuse. The same way we see akumas as victims of mothman and not the villains themselves, we need to do the same for sentis.

For us as fandom, along with the characters in the show, the best way to overcome that ignorance is to learn from it and become more open-minded while seeing things from a different point of view. I don’t know if the show itself will go into this topic, as it’s not an easy one and has to be handled very sensitively, but I do know there will be a happy ending. If the sentiadrien theory turns out to be true then I have full faith the series will end with the senits being considered equal to everyone else, just like we strive for in our own society.

And before someone uses this to salt on the show’s writing or the characters for using the term, I want to say that given what stage the show is at it makes total sense that they use the term sentimonster. They are following the agenda of a madman because they do not know any better. And the wont until they have another voice to listen to, one that can speak on behalf of sentis with lived experience of what it means to be one. Who better to do than our favorite catboy hero?

We've already seen a start: in Ladybug where both our heroes show genuine pain and sadness over they loss of Sentibug. They're already changing their perspectives, and we need to too.

I only want to change the fandom’s perspectives of them so as to help us better accept the theory if it does turn out to be true, and that it may help those who still struggle with the idea that being a senti means Adrien is “other” or a “monster” when that isn’t true at all. It’s all about perceptions and misguided notions/ignorance, all of which can be unlearned.

In short: I'm proposing changing the term to "sentibeing" to end the "otherness" and demonization this fandom tends to do when discussing them, thereby enforcing the idea that "Even if he's a senti, Adrien is still the character I love."

[blackswaneuroparedux]

A man like Verdi must write like Verdi.

- Giuseppe Verdi

Verdi was the first to admit his music wasn't the most technically challenging in purely academic terms: "Of all composers, past and present, I am the least learned," he said. But did that stop him writing some of the most beloved, heart-wrenching tunes, with melodies that have inspired over the centuries. Indeed it’s hard to think of anyone apart from Wagner or Mozart who could occupy the pedestal that Verdi found himself upon as one of the best composers ever. I love listening to Verdi but none more so whenever I find myself traveling in Italy. And why not? Verdi’s music and his legacy is woven into the tapesetry of the country’s history of reunification.

Born on Oct. 9, 1813, the composer’s output far outpaced many opera creators before and after. But what is most fascinating is that his works endure to this day. While some of his greatest works have always held a spot in the operatic canon, spots that have never been threatened, lesser known operas from decades ago, such as “I Due Foscari,” “Giovanna d’Arco,” or “Atilla,” have suddenly found themselves unshakably fixed in the modern canon. Even composers of the past that are getting revivals of sorts can’t quite claim the same status.

So what makes Verdi’s opera so enduring and ever-fascinating? Throughout history, many of his works have often been criticized for their melodramatic plotting, much of which lacks narrative consistency. Exhibit A: “Il Trovatore.”

And yet, here we are. Verdi remains king of the opera world. Here are some reasons why.

While there is no doubt that some of Verdi’s characters are among the greatest created for the opera stage (see Otello, Falstaff, Filippo, Nabucco, Simon Boccanegra, the Macbeths, Rigoletto, Gustavo, etc.) there is also no doubt that there are many stock characters layered throughout his works, particularly in the early ones. And yet, can one ever claim that Verdi overlooks a single one of them. They say that there are no small characters and Verdi certainly follows this idea.

Moreover, his villains are never truly one-sided. The great antagonists of such operas as “Atilla,” “Don Carlo,” and “I Vespri Siciliani,” are more than just men on vengeful rampages and the likes. Instead, Verdi always reveals more than one might imagine and actually makes us not only empathize with these characters but actually sympathize. Even the hateful Duke of Mantua is loveable to the audience because of how Verdi infuses him with an infectious melody.

In keeping with the theme of strong characters all around, there is no doubt that much of the appeal for Verdi’s operas is his strong women. Obviously, he has his share of damsels in distress, but none of the Verdi operas feature passive women sitting around for men to save their lives. Due to the context of his plots, the women in his operas are often forced into situations where they don’t have complete control, and yet we see them constantly shifting the balance of power in their favor. Violetta is probably the greatest of Verdi’s heroines, but one cannot overlook such women as Luisa Miller, Odabella, Abigaile, Lady Macbeth, Aida, Amelia (in “Un Ballo in Maschera”), and Azucena and how wonderfully complex they are. It is no surprise that the greatest mezzos and sopranos in history have, at some point, taken on and championed Verdi’s operas.

Verdi’s melodramas remain so poignant because they tend to be so relevant. Unlike many other composers of the time and since Verdi’s own life as a political figure is showcased tremendously throughout his operas. His ability to see how a figure struggles to balance his personal and public lives remains an issue for people of all professions. And the great tyrants and even benevolent leader of his works, are often shown with their failings. Just look at the guilt-ridden Macbeth or King Filippo, both lonely men who in their aims to maintain power have lost their connection to other people. Or Simon Boccanegra, a man thrust into a position of power he never wanted and forced to take on the consequence of that choice. We see people battle for liberation on one end and see oppressive regimes try and enforce their ways of life. We see an examination of the horrors of religious institutions and yet we ultimately see a reconsideration of man’s relationship to a higher deity. Man and his position within society is almost always at the core of Verdi’s works.

Parental themes are more prevalent in Verdi’s operas than they are in any other composer before or since. In many ways, these relationships are among the most poignant in all of the composer’s oeuvre. The reunion between Simon Boccanegra and his daughter Amelia is among the most beautiful moments ever scored. Ditto for Rigoletto and Gilda’s series of duets that develop their relationship throughout the opera. The ambiguity between Manrico and Azucena is a rich portrayal of love and hate in a mother-son dynamic. And there is also a truly tragic dimension to the relationship between Don Carlo and his father Filippo, who actually prefers his friend Posa to his own son. Everywhere you look, these relationships and the themes they highlight are revealing and ever-fascinating.

Of course, probably the single greatest reason why Verdi’s art endures to this day – his music. He composed some of the greatest music ever written. Any Verdi opera, even his lesser works, is one stream of endless melody after another. Even his recitatives are hummable. This makes for dynamic emotional experiences with the composer constantly finding new ways to keep the audience engaged. “Il Trovatore,” which I mentioned in the intro, endures because of the three above reasons, but mainly because it is arguably the greatest example of the composer’s melodic wealth and imagination.

His final opera, “Falstaff,” doesn’t have as many “memorable” melodies as some of his earlier works, and yet the opera has just as much or more abundance of melody than any of his other operas. It’s just that Verdi has developed tremendous skill at this point that he has fused his gift with witty dramatic ability. Falstaff never wastes a note, which holds true for many of his other greater works.

One thing that makes Verdi’s music so wonderful is how he constantly plays with the limits of structure. More than any other composer, a look at his career progression showcases a man constantly looking to better himself. And by the time we get to “Otello” and “Falstaff” and compare them to “Oberto” and “Un Giorno di Regno,” there is no doubt that he has achieved that emphatically. The latter two operas test and surpass the limits of what Italian Opera signified, taking time-honored clichés showcased in those first two works and transforming them into dramatic gestures. Is there a drinking song that so wonderfully depicts increased inebriation the way “Otello’s” does? Or is there a more hilarious use of the A-B-A aria structure than the 30-second “Cuando era paggio” from “Falstaff?”

Verdi’s opera endures because it remains a discovery for those working in the art form today. And it will continue to do so as long as the art form is alive and well.

[warsofasoiaf]

Writing Characters With Believable Military PTSD

I typically write these writing and worldbuilding essays from a dispassionate perspective, offering advice and context to prospective writers from as neutral a point of view as I can manage, with the goal being to present specific pieces of information and broader concepts that can hopefully improve writing and build creators’ confidence to bring their projects to fruition, whether that be writing, tabletop gaming, video game programming, or anything that suits their fancy. While writing this essay though, I struggled to maintain that perspective. Certainly, the importance of the topic to me was a factor, but ultimately, I saw impersonality just as a suboptimal presentation method for something so intensely personal. I do maintain some impartiality particularly in places where historical or academic context is called for, but in other respects I’ve opted for a different approach. Ultimately, this essay is a labor of love for me, love for those who suffer from military PTSD, love for those who love those who suffer from it, and love for writers who want to, in the way that they so choose, help those two other groups out. Thus, this is a different type of essay in certain segments than my usual fare; I hope the essay isn’t an unreadable chimera because of it.

This essay focuses on military-related PTSD. While there are some concepts that translate well into PTSD in the civilian sphere, there are unique elements that do not necessarily fit the mold in both directions, so for someone hoping to write a different form of PTSD, I would recommend finding other resources that could better suit your purposes. I also recommend using more than one source just in general, trauma is personal and so multiple sources can help provide a wide range of experiences to draw upon, which should hopefully improve any creative work.

And as a final introductory note, traumatic experiences are deeply personal. If you are using someone you know as a model for your writing, you owe it to that person to communicate exactly what you are doing and to ask their permission every step of the way. I consider it a request out of politeness to implore any author who uses someone else’s experiences to inform their writing in any capacity, but when it comes to the truly negative experiences in someone’s life, this rises higher from request to demand. You will ask someone before taking a negative experience from their own life and placing it into your creative works, and you will not hide anything about it from them. Receiving it is a great sign of trust. The opposite is a travesty, robbing someone of a piece of themselves and placing it upon display as a grotesque exhibit. And if that sounds ghoulish and macabre, it’s because it is, without hyperbole. Don’t do it.

Why Write PTSD?

What is the purpose of including PTSD in a creative work? There have been plenty of art therapy actions taken by those who suffer PTSD to create something from their condition, which can be as profound for those who do not have it as it is therapeutic for those that do, but why would someone include it in their creative works, and why is some no-name guy on the internet writing an essay offering tips as to how to do it better?

Certainly, one key element is that it’s real, and it happens. If art is to reflect upon reality, PTSD suffered by soldiers is one element of that, so art can reflect it, but what specifically about PTSD, as opposed to any other facet of existence? Author preference certainly plays a factor, but why would someone try to include something that is difficult to understand and difficult to portray? While everyone comes to their own reason, I think that a significant number of people are curious about what exactly goes on in the minds of someone suffering through PTSD, and creative works allow them a way to explore it, much the way fiction can explore scenarios and emotions that are either unlikely or unsafe to explore in reality. If that’s the case, then the purpose of this essay is rather simple, to make the PTSD examination more grounded in reality and thus a better reflection of it. But experiences are unique even if discernable patterns emerge, so in that sense, no essay created by an amateur writer with no psychological experience could be an authoritative take on reality, the nature of which would is far beyond the scope of this essay.

For my own part, I think that well-done creative works involving PTSD is meant to break down the isolation that it can cause in its wake. Veterans suffering may feel that they are alone, that their loved ones cannot understand them and the burden of trying to create that would simply push them away; better instead to have the imperfect bonds that they currently have than risk losing them entirely. For those who are on the outside looking in, isolation lurks there as well, a gulf that seems impossible to breach and possibly intrusive to even try. Creative works that depict PTSD can help create a sense that victims aren’t alone, that there are people that understand and can help without demeaning the sense of self-worth. Of course, another element would be to reduce the amount of poorly-done depictions of PTSD. Some creative works use PTSD as a backstory element, relegating a defining and important element of an individual’s life as an aside, or a minor problem that can be resolved with a good hug and a cry or a few nights with the right person. If a well-done creative work can help create a bridge and break down isolation, a poorly-done one can turn victims off, reinforcing the idea that no one understands and worse, no one cares. For others, it gives a completely altered sense of what PTSD is and what they could do to help, keeping them out, confusing them, or other counter-productive actions. In that sense, all the essay is to help build up those who are doing the heavy lifting. I’m not full of so much hubris as to think this is a profound piece of writing that will help others, but if creators are willing to try and do the hard work of building a bridge, I could at least try to help out and provide a wheelbarrow.

An Abbreviated Look At The Many Faces and Names of PTSD Throughout History

PTSD has been observed repeatedly throughout human history, even when it was poorly understood. This means that explorations of PTSD can be written in settings even if they did not have a distinctly modern understanding of neurology, trauma, or related matters. These historical contexts are also useful for worldbuilding a believable response in fictional settings and scenarios that don’t necessarily have a strict analogue in our own history. By providing this historical context, hopefully I can craft a broad-based sense of believable responses to characters with PTSD at a larger level.

In the time of Rome, it was understood by legionnaires that combat was a difficult endeavor, and so troops were typically on the front lines engaged in combat for short periods of time, to be rotated back for rest while others took their place. It was considered ideal, in these situations, to rotate troops that fought together back so that they could rest together. The immediate lesson is obvious, the Romans believed that it was vital for troops to take time to process what they had done and that was best served with quiet periods of rest not just to allow the adrenaline to dissipate (the "combat high"), but a chance for the mind to wrap itself around what the legionnaire had done. The Romans also recognized that camaraderie between fellow soldiers helped soldiers to cope, and this would be a running theme throughout history (and remains as such today). Soldiers were able to empathize with each other, and help each other through times of difficulty. This was not all sanguine, however, Roman legions depended on their strong formations, and a soldier that did not perform their duty could endanger the unit, and so shame in not fulfilling their duty was another means to keep soldiers in line. The idea of not letting down your fellow soldiers is a persistent refrain in coping with the traumas of war, and throughout history this idea has been used for both pleasant and unpleasant means of keeping soldiers in the fight.

In the Middle Ages, Geoffroi de Charny wrote extensively on the difficulties that knights could experience on the campaign trail in his Book of Chivalry. The book highlights the deprivation that knights suffered, from the bad food and poor sleep to the traumatic experience of combat to being away from family and friends to the loss of valued comrades to combat and infection; each of these is understood as a significant stressor that puts great strain on the mental health of soldiers up to today. De Charny recommended focusing on the knightly oaths of service, the needs of the mission of their liege, and the duty of the knight to serve as methods to help bolster the resolve of struggling knights. The book also mentions seeking counseling and guidance from priests or other confidants to help improve their mental health to see their mission through. This wasn’t universal, however. Some severely traumatized individuals were seen as simple cowards, and punished harshly for their perceived cowardice as antithetical to good virtue and to serve as an example.

World War I saw a sharp rise in the reported incidents of military-related PTSD and new understandings and misunderstandings. The rise in the number of soldiers caused a rise in cases of military PTSD, even though the term itself was not known at the time. Especially in the early phases of the war, many soldiers suffering from PTSD were thought to be malingering, pretending to have symptoms to avoid being sent to the front lines. The term “shell shock” was derived because it was believed that the concussive force of artillery bombardment caused brain damage as it rattled the skull or carbon monoxide fumes would damage the brain as they were inhaled, as a means to explain why soldiers could have physical responses such as slurred speech, lack of response to external stimuli, even nigh-on waking catatonia, despite not being hit by rifle rounds or shrapnel. This would later be replaced by the term “battle fatigue” when it became apparent that artillery bombardment was not a predicative indicator. Particularly as manpower shortages became more prevalent, PTSD-sufferers could be sent to firing squads as a means to cow other troops to not abandon their post. Other less fatal methods of shaming could occur, such as the designation “Lack of Moral Fibre,” an official brand of cowardice, as an attempt to shame the members into remembering their duty. As the war developed, and understanding grew, better methods of treatment were made, with rest and comfort provided to slight cases, strict troop rotations observed to rotate men to and from the front lines, and patients not being told that they were being evacuated for nervous breakdown to avoid cementing that idea in their mind. These lessons would continue into World War II, where the term “combat stress reaction” was adopted. While not always strenuously followed, regular rotations were adopted as standard policy. This was still not universal, plenty of units still relied upon bullying members into maintaining their post despite mental trauma.

The American military promotes a culture of competence and ability, particularly for the enlisted ranks, and that lends itself to the soldier viewing themselves in a starkly different fashion than a civilian. Often, a soldier sees the inability to cope with a traumatic experience as a personal failure stemming from the lack of mental fortitude. Owning up to such a lack of capability is tantamount to accepting that they are an inferior soldier, less capable than their fellows. This idea is commonly discussed, and should not be ignored, but it is far from the only reason. The military also possesses a strong culture of fraternity that obligates “Don’t be a fuckup,” is a powerful motivating force, and it leads plenty of members of the military to ignore traumatic experiences out of the perceived need not to put the burden on their squadmates. While most professional militaries stress that seeking mental health for trauma is not considered a sign of weakness, enlisted know that if they receive mental health counseling, it is entirely likely that someone will have to take their place in the meantime. That could potentially mean that another person, particularly in front-line units, are exposed to danger that they would otherwise not be exposed to, potentially exacerbating guilt if said person gets hurt or killed. This is even true in stateside units, plenty of soldiers don’t report for treatment because it would mean dumping work on their fellows, a negative aspect of unit fraternity. Plenty of veterans also simply never are screened for mental health treatment, and usually this lends to a mentality of “well, no one is asking, so I should be fine.” These taken together combine to a heartbreaking reality, oftentimes a modern veteran that seeks help for mental trauma has often coped silently for years, perhaps self-medicating with alcohol or off-label drug usage, and is typically very far along their own path comparatively. Others simply fall through the cracks, not being screened for mental disorders and so do not believe that anything is wrong; after all, if something was wrong, surely the doctors would notice it, right? The current schedule of deployments, which are duration-based and not mission-based, also make it hard for servicemembers to rationalize their experiences and equate them to the mission; there’s no sense of pairing suffering to objectives the way that de Charnay mentioned could help contextualize the deprivation and loss. These sorts of experiences make the soldier feel adrift, and their suffering pointless, which is discouraging on another level. It is one thing to suffer for a cause, it’s another not to know why, amplifying the feelings of powerlessness and furthering the isolation that they feel.

Pen to Page - The Characters and Their Responses

The presentation of PTSD within a character will depend largely on the point-of-view that the author creates. A character that suffers from PTSD depending on the presence of an internal or external point-of-view, will be vastly different experiences on page. Knowing this is essential, as this will determine how the story itself is presenting the disorder. Neither is necessarily more preferable than the other, and is largely a matter of the type of story being told and the personal preference of the author.

Internal perspectives will follow the character’s response from triggering event to immediate response. This allows the author to present a glimpse into what the character is experiencing. In these circumstances, remember that traumatic flashbacks are merely one of many experiences that an average sufferer of PTSD can endure. In a visual medium, flashbacks are time-effective methods to portray a character reliving portions of a traumatic experience, but other forms of media can have other tools. Traumatic flashbacks are not necessarily a direct reliving of an event from start to finish, individuals may instead feel sudden sharp pains of old injuries, be overwhelmed by still images of traumatic scenes or loud traumatic sounds. These can be linked to triggers that bring up the traumatic incident, such as a similar sight, sound, or smell. These moments of linkage are not necessarily experienced linearly or provide a clear sequence of events from start to finish (memory rarely is unless specifically prompted), and it may be to the author’s advantage to not portray them as such in order to communicate the difficulty in mental parsing that the character may be experiencing. Others might be more intrusive, such as violently deranged nightmares that prevent sleep. The author must try to strike a balance between portraying the experience realistically and portraying it logically that audience members can understand. The important thing about these memories is that they are intrusive, unwelcome, and quite stressful, so using techniques that jar the reader, such as the sudden intrusive image of a torn body, a burning vehicle, or another piece of the traumatic incident helps communicate the disorientation. Don't rely simply on shock therapy, it's not enough just to put viscera on the page. Once it is there, the next steps, how the character reacts, is crucial to a believable response.

When the character experiences something that triggers their PTSD, start to describe the stress response, begin rapidly shortening the sentences to simulate the synaptic activity, express the fight-flight-freeze response as the character reacts, using the tools of dramatic action to heighten tension and portraying the experience as something frightful and distinctly undesirable. The triggering incident brings back the fear, such as a pile of rubble on the side of the road being a potential IED location, or a loud firework recalling the initial moments of an enemy ambush. The trauma intrudes, and the character falls deep into the stress response, and now they react. How does this character react? By taking cover? By attacking the aggressor who so reminds them of the face of their enemy? Once the initial event starts, then the character continues to respond. Do they try to get to safety? Secure the area and eliminate the enemy? Eventually, the character likely recognizes their response is inappropriate. It wasn’t a gunshot, it was a car backfiring, the smell of copper isn’t the sight of a blown-apart comrade and the rank odor of blood, it’s just a jug of musty pennies. This fear will lead to control mechanisms where the victim realizes that their response is irrational. Frequently, the fear is still there, and it still struggles with control. This could heighten a feeling a powerlessness in the character as they try and fail to put the fear under control: "Yes, I know this isn’t real and there’s nothing to be afraid of, but I’m still shaking and I am still afraid!" It’s a horrifying logical track, a fear that the victim isn’t even in control of their thoughts - the one place that they should have control - and that they might always be this way. There’s no safety since even their thoughts aren’t safe. Despair might also follow, as the victim frantically asserts to regain control. Usually with time, the fear starts to lessen as the logical centers of the brain regain control, and the fear diminishes. Some times, the victim can't even really recall the exact crippling sense of fear when attempting to recall it, only that they were afraid and that it was deeply scary and awful, but the notion that it happened remains in their mind.

Control mechanisms are also important to developing a believable PTSD victim. Most sufferers dread the PTSD response and so actively avoid objects or situations that could potentially trigger. Someone who may have had to escape from a helicopter falling into the ocean may not like to be immersed in water. Someone who was hit by a hidden IED may swerve to avoid suspicious piles in the road. Someone buried under a collapsing ceiling may become claustrophobic. Thus, many characters with PTSD will be hypervigilant almost to the point of exhaustion, avoiding setting off the undesired response. This hypervigilance is mentally taxing; the character begins to become sluggish mentally as all their energy is squeezed out, leaving them struggling for even the simplest of rational thoughts. This mental fog can be translated onto the page in dramatic effect by adding paragraph length to even simple actions, bringing the reader along into the fog, laboriously seeing the character move to perform simple actions. Then, mix in a loss of a sense of purpose. They’re adrift, not exactly sure what they’re doing and barely aware of what’s happening, although they are thinking and functioning. In the character’s daily life, they are living their life using maximum effort to avoid triggering responses; this is another aspect of control that the character can use as an attempt to claw back some semblance of power in their own lives. Even control methods that aren’t necessarily healthy such as drinking themselves to pass out every night or abusing sleeping pills in an attempt to sleep due to their nightmares, are ways to attempt to regain a sense of normalcy and function. Don’t condescend to these characters and make them pathetic, that’s just another layer of cruelty, but showing the unhealthy coping mechanisms can demonstrate the difficulty that PTSD victims are feeling. Combined with an external perspective, the author can show the damage that these unhealthy actions are doing without casting the character as weak for not taking a different path.

External perspectives focus on the other characters and how they observe and react to the individual in question. Since the internal thought process of the character is not known, sudden reactions to an unknown trigger can be quite jarring for characters unaware, which can mirror real-life experiences that individuals can have with PTSD-sufferers. In these types of stories, the character’s reaction to the victim is paramount. PTSD in real life often evokes feelings of helplessness in loved ones when they simply cannot act to help, can evoke confusion, or anger and resentment. These reactions are powerful emotions with the ability to drive character work, and so external perspectives can be useful for telling a story about what it is like for loved ones who suffer in their own fashion. External perspectives can be used not just in describing triggering episodes, but in exploring how the character established coping mechanisms and how their loved ones react to them. Some mechanisms are distinctly unhealthy, such as alcohol or prescription drug abuse, complete withdrawal, or a refusal to drive vehicles, and these create stress and a feeling of helplessness in characters or can impel them to try and take action. Others can be healthy, and a moment of inspiration and joy for an external perspective could be sharing in that mechanism, demonstrating empathy and understanding which evokes strong pathos, and hopefully to friends of those who suffer from PTSD, a feeling that they too, are not alone.

As the character progresses, successes and failures can often be one of the most realistic and most important things to include within the work, since those consumers who have PTSD will see parts of themselves in the characters, which can build empathy and cut down on the feelings of isolation that many victims of PTSD feel. A character could, over the course of the story, begin weaning themselves off of their control mechanisms, have the feelings of panic subside as their logical sides more quickly assert control, replace unhealthy coping mechanisms with healthier ones, or other elements of character progression and growth. Contrarily, a character making progress could, after experiencing significant but unrelated stressors, backslide either into unhealthy coping mechanisms or be blindsided by another attack. This is a powerful fear for the victim, since it can cause them to think ‘all my progress, all my effort, and I am not free!’ This is often a great fear for PTSD users (people with depression often have the same feeling) that find methods of coping are no longer as effective, and the struggle is perceived as one that they’re ultimately doomed to failure. This feeling of inevitable failure can lead to self-harm and suicide as their avenue of success seems to burn to ash right as it was in their hands. More than one soldier suffering from PTSD has ended up concluding: “Fuck it, I can’t live like this,” as horrible as that is. Don’t be afraid to include setbacks and backsliding, those happen in reality, and can be one of the most isolating fears in their lives; if the goal of portraying PTSD accurately is to help remove that feeling of isolation, then content creators must not avoid these experiences. Success as well as failure are essential to PTSD in characters in stories, these elements moreso than any other, I believe, will transcend the medium and form a connection, fulfilling the objective we set out to include in the beginning paragraphs.

Coming Back to the Beginning

It might be counterintuitive at first glance to say “including military PTSD will probably mean it will be a long journey full of discouraging story beats that might make readers depressed,” because that’s definitely going to discourage some readers to do that. I don’t see it that way, though. The people that want to do it should go in knowing it’s going to be hard, and let that strengthen their resolve, and put the best creation they can forward. The opposite is also true. Not every prospective author has to want to include any number of difficult subjects in their works, and that’s perfectly fine. Content creators must be free to shape the craft that they so desire without the need to be obligated to tackle every difficult issue, and so no content creator should be thought of as lesser or inferior because they opt not to include it in their works. I think that’s honestly stronger than handling an important topic poorly, or even worse, frivolously. Neither should anyone think that a content creator not including PTSD in their works means that they don’t care about those who suffer from it or for those who care about them or who simply don’t care about the subject in general. That’s just a terrible way to treat someone, and in the end, this entire excursion was about the opposite

Ultimately, this essay is a chance not only to help improve creative works involving PTSD, but to reflect on the creative process. Those who still want to proceed, by all means, do so. Hopefully this essay will help you create something that can reach someone. If every piece of work that helps portray PTSD can reach someone somewhere and make things easier, even if ever so little, well then, that’s what it’s really all about.

Hoping everyone has a peaceful Memorial Day. Be good to each to other.

SLAL

[stereostevie]

When you think of grunge, do you picture a bunch of long-haired White guys in plaid shirts, singing about teenage angst and self-loathing? Time to expand that viewpoint. Standing above them all should be Tina Bell, a tiny Black woman with an outsized stage presence, and her band, Bam Bam. It’s only recently that the 1980s phenom has begun to be recognized as a godmother of grunge.

This modern genre’s sound was, in many ways, molded by a Black woman. The reason she is mostly unknown has everything to do with racism and misogyny. Looking back at the beginnings of grunge, with the preconception that “everybody involved” was White and/or male, means ignoring the Black woman who was standing at the front of the line.

Bam Bam was formed as a punk band in 1983 in Seattle. Bell, a petite brown-skinned spitfire with more hairstyle changes than David Bowie, sang lead vocals and wrote most of the lyrics. Her then-husband Tommy Martin was on guitars (the band’s name is an acronym of their last names: Bell And Martin), Scotty “Buttocks” Ledgerwood played bass, and Matt Cameron was on drums. Cameron would leave the band in its first year and go on to fame as the drummer for Soundgarden and Pearl Jam. But he paid homage to his beginnings by wearing a Tina Bell T-shirt in a photoshoot for Pearl Jam’s 2017 Anthology: the Complete Scores book.

“For some reason a couple of skinheads are up front, calling her [the N-word] And all of the sudden, Bell grabs a microphone stand and she starts swirling it around her head like a lasso… She swung that fuckin’ thing around her head and about the fourth time, she smashed that son of a bitch.”

Bam Bam’s sound straddled the line between punk and something so new that it didn’t have a name yet. Their music combined a driving, thrumming bass line; downtuned, sludgy guitars; thrashy, pulsing drums; melodic vocals that range from sultry to haunting to screamy; and lyrics about the existential tension of trying to exist in a world not designed for you. The band’s 1984 music video for their single “Ground Zero” is low-budget, but Bell’s charisma seeps through.

“She was fucking badass. That’s all there is to it. She was amazing as a performer. I’ve only seen one White male lead singer command the stage in a similar way that Tina Bell did, and that was Bon Scott of AC/DC,” says Om Johari, who attended Bam Bam shows as a Black teenager in the ’80s and who would go on to lead all-female AC/DC cover band Hell’s Belles.

Christina King, a Seattle scenester who was close friends with Bell from 1984 until the early ’90s, says the singer’s talent was obvious. But she believes a lot of people dismissed Bell as a gimmick.

Among those attending their shows: Future members of grunge bands like Nirvana (Kurt Cobain did a stint as a Bam Bam roadie), Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and Pearl Jam.

“I remember one person saying to me that they didn’t get ‘the whole Black girl singer thing,’ it just didn’t fit whatever they were into,” says King. “They were too ahead of their time.”

Bam Bam came into being in an era when hundreds of underground clubs, taverns, bars, and social halls — anywhere that you could cram in a band — were within the Seattle city limits. Bam Bam played almost all of them, and often to big crowds: The Colourbox, Crocodile Lounge, Gorilla Gardens, Squid Row — just to name a few.

Among those attending their shows: Future members of history-making grunge bands like Nirvana (Kurt Cobain did a stint as a Bam Bam roadie), Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and Pearl Jam. Not to mention all the other people, mostly White and male, who would become prime targets for music labels trying to market this new sound.

Bell “already possessed everything they were trying to attain. She had a truer rock and roll spirit than almost any of those guys in that town. Everything they tried to do, she naturally was,” says Ledgerwood, still a loyal bandmate.

One Seattle club, The Metropolis, became “like our fucking living room,” says Ledgerwood. It was also the site of an overtly racist verbal assault against Tina Bell.

“For some reason a couple of skinheads are up front, calling her [the N-word],” Ledgerwood recalls. “And all of the sudden, Bell grabs a microphone stand and she starts swirling it around her head like a lasso… She swung that fuckin’ thing around her head and about the fourth time, she smashed that son of a bitch… She nailed that fucker right in the temple of his head. Split like a melon. And the other guy next to him caught it too, they go down, and we’re like, ‘What the fuck?’”

Ledgerwood says that after going backstage for a while to regroup, Bell came back “and put out the most blistering set of our fucking career.”

This could easily be an anecdote about Bell’s power, her resilience, and willingness to fight back against oppressive forces. But it’s also a story about the cost of being a Black woman who does something that some people don’t expect or approve of.

“She’s being pulled out of her zone because somebody is acknowledging how the rest of the world can see her,” says Johari, empathizing with the star rocker. “And even to react to it by picking up a microphone and smashing someone in the face, that means that that incident cost her not only that moment it takes to get back into the song, but the whole [effects of her] action will last for weeks.

“She’ll replay that over and over and over and over again. And then the people she sees that were there when it happened, they’re gonna come up to her and they’re gonna forget everything that she’s saying, all the stuff that she had did, and they’re only going to focus on, ‘I was at that show where you knocked a dude in the head for calling you an N-word,’” Johari says. “It has nothing to do with her artistry. But it reminds her of the way in which she has to be prepared, just in case it happens again.”

King remembers Bell also felt that some of the other men in the band’s changing lineup failed to treat her as an equal partner: “She’s getting that from her own band members — what do you think audience people are like?”

A European tour in the late ’80s gained Bam Bam international fans, but ended after Bell and Martin split up, and Bell was caught in an immigration enforcement dragnet in the Netherlands.

When they returned to the Pacific Northwest, Bam Bam continued playing shows until 1990, when Bell abruptly quit as they were packing up to head to the studio in Portland, Ore.

“She had just had enough,” Ledgerwood says. “For almost eight years she had almost literally eviscerated herself for the audience.”

But that work never resulted in the national recognition they deserved.

“Grunge, whatever that means, is being identified as from your community, your colleagues, your sound that you were a participant in help shaping, and you’re not even mentioned in any of it.”

“Sometimes you need to be a little bit of an asshole to protect yourself. And Bell wasn’t much of an asshole,” Ledgerwood adds. “She was a pure-hearted person and had a really hard time believing that people couldn’t accept her over something as stupid as race.”

Bell didn’t just quit the band, she withdrew from music completely, says her son, Oscar-winning documentary filmmaker TJ Martin. Not out of resentment, he adds, but perhaps to escape the painful reminders that the music she helped pioneer was now earning other bands multimillion-dollar record contracts.

“Grunge, whatever that means, is being identified as from your community, your colleagues, your sound that you were a participant in help shaping, and you’re not even mentioned in any of it,” Martin says. “I can’t even fathom what that would feel like for it to be sort of spit back in your face with such frequency.”

Ledgerwood believes Bell died of a broken heart. But when Bell died alone in her Las Vegas apartment in 2012, the official cause of death listed was cirrhosis of the liver. She had struggled with alcohol and depression. Her son says the coroner estimated her time of death as a couple weeks before her body was discovered. She was 55 years old.

The things that could have told Tina Bell’s story in her own voice are lost. Martin arrived in Las Vegas to find that the contents of his mother’s apartment — except for a DVD player, a poster, and a chair — had been thrown away. All of her writings — lyrics, poems, diaries — along with Bam Bam music, videos, and other memorabilia — went in the trash without her family even being notified.

If you think you were in Seattle in the ’80s, in the grunge scene, and you don’t remember Tina Bell and Bam Bam, you probably weren’t really fucking there.

“I couldn’t help draw a parallel between her not being respected and seen in the first chapter of her life, as the front person of a punk band, and then even in death being disrespected and not being seen for the merits of the life she lived,” says Martin.

Bell’s death is also an indictment of the way she was written out of her own story. The way grunge’s almighty gatekeepers chose to look through her instead of at her. Grunge became the domain of alienated young White men in flannel shirts, and Tina Bell didn’t fit the narrative they were trying to sell.

“Black herstory can suffer immense amounts of erasure if somebody is not brave enough to ensure that women get counted,” Johari says.

To many of those who were part of the scene at the time, the amnesia seems intentional. Ledgerwood brings up the seminal history of Seattle’s grunge era, Everybody Loves Our Town. In it, the author refers to Bam Bam as a three-piece instrumental band mainly notable because Matt Cameron was the drummer. Tina Bell isn’t even mentioned.

“How in the hell would he have a recollection of how great Bam Bam and its drummer was, and not this unbelievably beautiful woman, this firecracker, this explosive rock and roll goddess?” Ledgerwood asks. “Even if he thought she sucked, to not remember the only Black woman on the whole fuckin’ scene is — well, it’s like that old joke about the ’60s: If you think you were in Seattle in the ’80s, in the grunge scene, and you don’t remember Tina Bell and Bam Bam, you probably weren’t really fucking there.”

You can listen to more of Bam Bam’s music on this Spotify playlist. A vinyl album with the band’s songs is coming out this year on Bric-a-Brac Records.

[serpentstole]

Luciferian Challenge: Day 9

How do you feel about God?

This might be an unexpected take from a Lutheran-raised Luciferian, but I don’t really have strong opinions about God. I have strong opinions about harmful actions taken in God’s name, the misrepresentation of history, and an abuse of social and political power enacted by any religious group, but not really on God Himself. 

I’m a big fan of some of His people, both living and dead. I have many Christian friends who are just the nicest people, and magically speaking, I work with one Christian saint so far in the form of St Expedite, and I’ve sometimes considered trying to add St Cyprian to the mix. I am comfortable approaching Saints and other Christian entities in the way that’s appropriate to them, and this hasn’t negatively impacted me in any way so far, though I don’t know if that’ll change after I undergo a more spiritually impactful apostasy. 

This feels brief and anticlimactic, so I’m grabbing another prompt from the bonus list! Another thematically appropriate one, this time in the form of…

How do you feel about the religious texts of the Abrahamic faiths? Do you use it as part of your path?

This answer is going to be longer and thus under the cut, but if people read anything I write during this entire challenge, I genuinely hope it’s this one. I will say now for any Christian, Jewish, or Muslim readers or followers I have, it will not be an answer that is hostile towards you, as I don’t want anyone to worry that they might have to either skip this answer completely or else brace themselves against an incredibly shitty take.

To get the “do you use it” part of the question out of the way, I own the Charmer’s Psalter and have used Biblical verse in magic before, but I don’t know how long that’ll continue as my magic develops and changes. I might end up just using the parts that reference the spirits and deities I work with when writing rituals, the ever popular Lord’s Prayer In Reverse, etc.

Now, onto the important stuff.

By Abrahamic faiths I assume they mean Christinity, Judaism, and Islam, since those are the three people tend to lump together during these sorts of discussions. To get two of those out of the way, I don’t think I should really feel any particular way about the religious texts used in Judaism and Islam, as I’m not Jewish nor Muslim. 

I know it’s a sadly common thing for Luciferians or Satanists (or many neo-pagans and wiccans, for that matter)  to be “anti-Abrahamic” and claim that while they don’t have an issue with the people that belong to those religious, they don’t like the religions themselves or the dogmatic rules those religions might encourage. But that’s sort of… missing the point, isn’t it? 

The idea that anyone is a victim of their own religious belief is only half formed if you don’t look at the people or groups that will use the twisting of religious texts, ideas, or communities to victimize others. Lawmakers will often use Christian ideas to try and control women’s bodies, for example, which is something groups like TST vocally push back against. But the expectations they are willing to make on those laws reveal the hypocrisy of their stance, and that belief is being used as a smokescreen to obscure the true intentions of control over women’s bodies for the sake of it. Someone cherry picking or outright misrepresenting the words and ideals of their holy texts or religion to suit their selfish or political needs is not the fact of that holy text or religion.

We claim to reject dogma, but the assumption and blanket statement that these three religions are inherently harmful and oppressive is (in my opinion) dogmatic, and often we Luciferians or Satanists or even Pagans sometimes fall into the trap of regurgitating right wing talking points when it comes to how Judaism or Islam in particular are perceived. The issue is the people who would encourage dogmatic thinking or worse, lawmaking, while using faith as an excuse and to add legitimacy to their bigotry. To demonize the religion is to abandon great swaths of its victims, such as the women and LGBT people of that faith who are being abused by bad actors in the name of a religion they share. 

If the idea of why someone would remain a member of their religion when there are so many bad actors, religious texts, or even just passages they might disagree with is a hard thing to wrap one’s head around, I ask this: would you expect rejection of their faith by a Norse pagan for the historic sexism and homophobia of old Norse societies? For the modern associations it has with neo-nazis and bigotry towards women and queer people? 

If you say yes, if you would stubbornly and genuinely say yes… then what does it say about you, when we share a label with Anton LaVey’s books that were so influenced by Social Darwinism and Might Makes Right? With groups like the Order of Nine Angels, the Joy of Satan, and others who would claim to be Luciferians or Satanists while advocating for hate speech, bigotry, or literal actual murder? If a few bad actors or communities or specific books can ruin religions as old and as complex and as culturally varied as Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, how the hell are there any Satanists and Luciferians left that aren’t transparently proud bigots?

If we can accept for ourselves that not all Satanists and Luciferians will use the religious label with good intentions, and that not all Pagans hold ideals that are befitting the gods they claim to serve or the communities they want to be a part of, why can so few of us extend that basic courtesy to other religions?

And all this is to say nothing of how separated from its original historic and linguistic context the bible has become, and how our view of sin is very different to how those that penned Leviticus likely saw it. 

While I can understand and empathize with those who have a negative view of a religion that’s done them personal harm and caused lasting trauma, that’s the shape that their abuse took. It was the fault of the people that enacted that abuse and any churches or organizations that stood by it, not the religion they used as an excuse.* I will genuinely never blame any who shy away from a religious upbringing or culture that tried to condemn their sexuality, or gender identity, or one which tried to control their bodies. That kind of negative association lingers, and there’s no doubt that people have done terrible things in the name of their faith, like I’ve said. But to treat those religions like the root of all societal ills when there are so many who would or are be cruel regardless of their beliefs, or to be hostile towards those that follow such religions without trying to impose any restrictions or beliefs on others, is missing the broader issue and (in my opinion) far more likely to do harm than good.

Also like. Dual faith practices exist and are also fair and valid and doubtless rewarding for those people.

*Please note that I am not including small, cult-like sects in my statements about these religions as a whole. There are plenty of Christian communities who are outright hate groups or otherwise dangerous to their members. Hopefully no one tries to point to some pack of weirdos as their justification to me on why all Christians are either bad or misled, or worse, tries to apply that to other religions as well because they have some historic point of connection.

[doberbutts]

@sheprd

its hard to have a well rounded convo about this just cus of the reply character limit but no worries, no aggression taken and hopefully its clear from me as well. i dont feel strongly about this because i dont intend to alter any potential dog outside of the standard like that but;

basically, yes i do feel the same so long as its not hurting the dog (i dont know if the collie folds are detrimental or not, if they arent then same to that) personally i greatly value agency over all aspects of life and that includes my pets. for things that are exclusively aesthetic in nature i do think its a little ridiculous to get judgmental and upset at buyers for that

if it were something like a breeder wanted a dog to be shown and was open about that, but the owner made an alteration like that to the animal, then the issue isnt so much the alteration as it is the conflict of interest and breech of trust. im not trying to advocate for peoples right to go behind their breeders backs or anything. im specifically wishing breeders didnt mind it at all

i already do think that there are many things about breed standards i dont agree with, in particular over-emphasis on arbitrary aesthetics. i think its odd to believe that dogs can and should have their ears altered one way, but not the other, when neither shape serves any purpose to begin with (and there is already lots of variety to crop styles)

so yeah i still do just wish this wasnt something people would judge over, but we dont have to agree on that either! im not trying to advocate people breeding super out of standard, or even for animals with these alterations to be allowed in shows. just for owners to be able to do what they want with their animals. its the same as a breeder being upset at someone dying their dogs fur in my eyes

As you said we don’t have to agree on this point, but I do disagree with some of what you’ve said.

Dying a dog’s fur is a ridiculous thing to be upset about because that is temporary. Same with cutting the hair- for the most part, unless it damages the coat beyond repair. Hair grows back. Deliberately changing a dog’s ears (or any other form of their presentation) is permanent. That means there is no way to fix it if shit hits the fan.

I do think it is a breeder’s right (responsibility even) to care about how their dogs turn out, and someone who deliberately changes what that dog is supposed to look like because they thought it looked nice without telling the breeder would definitely be considered a breach of trust in my book (if I bred, which I don’t, so grain of salt time). There are plenty of dogs out there that look that completely out of standard and the response really is that if you wanted that look why not go with that dog (general you) instead of buying a dog that was going to look a certain way before you changed it.

Additionally while you may not put a lot of value into cropping styles, there is less variance in correct crops for a doberman than you might think. This is why doberman breeders who are decent crop their puppies prior to going home- to prevent people from getting a shitty crop from a vet that doesn’t know the correct style. They teach new owners how to train the ears to stand and provide help in person whenever possible. You may see dobes with a lot of variance but that is not what is intended. And we have found that dobes without perfectly standing cropped ears have a seriously reduced chance of being adopted if their first home doesn’t work out, whether in rescue or from a breeder. I’ve spoken on this blog before about how if the ears aren’t nice cropped or natural, then the dog is that much less likely to generate interest. A friend of mine ended up with a dog that was missing half his natural ear due to an injury specifically because no one wanted him due to the cosmetic defect. So yes, arbitrarily deciding that (general) you like the natural-but-standing look is great until you have to rehome your dog for whatever reason and suddenly no one is interested and your dog languishes in a rescue environment for years because of (general) your choice to permanently change (general) your dog’s ears.

Cropping also used to have a purpose, back when it was more commonplace and the style was drastically different, and while today’s modern crops are much longer and no longer functional you cannot say there is absolutely no reason for them to be done. Just because I specifically would not crop my dog if I had a choice in the matter doesn’t mean I don’t recognize the history and function behind the procedure, even if I think it’s silly to continue to rationalize today’s looooooooooooooong crops with the same thinking.

I understand what you’re saying as well- many people are not comfortable with a breeder of a dog having a say in what they can or cannot do with their dogs, and for the most part I totally empathize. This is one thing, however, that I would not blame a breeder for being upset over. Even if Sushi and Fae were not show dogs, their breeders would not be happy with me if I just decided to post Sushi’s ears or glue Fae’s down just because I thought they’d look cuter that way. Their immediate responses would likely be why not get a panda shepherd or a chi mix from a shelter if I wanted that type of look, I’m sure. Keep in mind that Fae I own outright so technically whatever I do with her IS my decision and legally speaking there’s really nothing her breeders can do about whatever I decide except if I don’t want her anymore I have to give her back to them. But we formed that relationship and trust in order for them to trust me with her, and doing something that drastic would be going back on that trust.

Something I find a bit... missing... on tumblr and no this is not just @ you here I promise, is that people really do not understand what it’s like to have that type of connection with the person who produced your dog. They trusted you with a dog they did not have to sell to you, a dog they loved before it was born, a dog they have high hopes for... and I think a lot of people on here are a little too caught up in wanting the freedom to do whatever they want whenever they want however they want without realizing that there is someone who loved that dog before you were in the equation that would like some form of say over big decisions like that.

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/8/2020: PELICAN BLOOD (2019)

If you are reading this and the present date is between October 8 and 11 of 2020, please consider buying a virtual ticket to see Katrin Gebbe’s PELICAN BLOOD, available on demand through the Nightstream festival:

https://watch.eventive.org/nightstream/play/5f6e7e78d6a9bf0036613fa3

I am about to discuss this movie and its conclusion in great detail, but it would be much better for a person to come to it in innocence--not because it’s so reliant on anything as gauche as surprise, but because it is so thoroughly excellent that wading through a movie review first would be like letting your dinner grow cold. And, it simply deserves our support.

When I saw PELICAN BLOOD last year at Fantastic Fest, it became one of my favorite movies before it was even over. I might admit that this was sort of a match made in heaven, as this movie checks almost every one of my personal boxes, but I don’t think my assessment of its value is a simple matter of personal prejudice. I’ve been haunted by it all these months, and deeply worried that somehow I might never see it again. When I discovered that it had landed on Nightstream, I was over the moon.

This is writer-director Katrin Gebbe's second feature, a fact that will astonish you when you see it. Last Blogtober, I wrote about her first feature TORE TANZT, which has the troubling english title NOTHING BAD CAN HAPPEN. That intense indie drama concerns a born-again christian punk who wishes for an opportunity to prove his devotion to god, and finds it in the form of a family that invites him in off the streets, and then proceeds to torture him. That's an oversimplification of what actually occurs, but it is a film that's hard to be brief about. It's cheap and a little rough around the edges, but it is deliberate, intense, and difficult to forget. (In fact it's supposed to be based on a true story, although I haven't managed to pick up that trail) When I first saw it, it certainly made me wonder what else that director might be up to, and I was astounded when I found out. 2019's PELICAN BLOOD emerged six years after TORE TANZT, with little in between besides a television episode and a segment in the anthology THE FIELD GUIDE TO EVIL, and yet Gebbe's artistic evolution is dumbfounding. Her themes are all unmistakably present--faith versus doubt, mystical versus metaphorical experience, and physical martyrdom--but exploded into a grand, elegant psychodrama that holds the viewer captive every minute of its two hours.

Celebrated german actress Nina Hoss plays Wiebke, a stable owner who trains police horses to tolerate the frightening conditions of a riot. She lives at the edge of her pasture, raising her tween daughter Nicolina (Adelia-Constance Giovanni Ocleppo) on her own. Wiebke has a talent for healing the wounded, or perhaps it's more of a calling; she raised Nicolina, a bulgarian orphan, into a bright, balanced, emotionally available tomboy, and the two of them joyfully anticipate the arrival of Nicolina's new adoptive sister. When little Raya arrives (Katerina Lipovska), she first presents as sweet, even solicitous, needing only a mother's love to fully bloom. However, as soon as she determines that she is welcome and wanted, she undergoes a disturbing transformation into a violent and unpredictable creature, possessed by an abject hatred. Wiebke recognizes that her new child is seriously traumatized, which activates her sense of purpose, and she pledges herself fully to the child's recovery--despite the admonishments of Raya's daycare, her doctors, and virtually everyone around them, that the little girl is beyond all but clinical help, and even that promises no guarantee of salvation. Refusing to give up, Wiebke makes a series of increasingly dangerous personal sacrifices in Raya's name, until finally she finds herself at the doorway to what some consider another world, but what is to others only madness.

Gebbe won Best Director in the main competition at Fantastic Fest, and it would have been a crime if this were otherwise. Her control over what are essentially forces of nature is humbling. Extracting a profoundly moving drama from a cast of adult actors is challenging enough on its own, but to get these terrifyingly convincing performances from children, evoking deep trauma and physical violence to self and others, is another level. As if this weren't enough, Gebbe adds animals into the mix, giving the story of Raya a parallel in the troubled career of a police horse who is considered a lost cause by all but Wiebke. The training scenes in which Wiebke guides the volatile animal through fire and smoke, while her own lifeforce is being progressively depleted by her new child, are as harrowing as anything having to do with parenthood, and Wiebke seems to take the horse just as seriously as her child. Friendly single dad Benedikt (Murathan Muslu) tries to flirt with the trainer by remarking on her unusual career, but she spits bitterly, "The horses are not the problem," giving us a glimpse of the philosophy that drives her.

Another of my favorite german films is Werner Herzog's 1976 short NO ONE WILL PLAY WITH ME. This funny and poignant story involves a bullied and neglected little boy, and it is preceded by a card displaying the adage "There are no bad children, only bad parents." This is the principle that drives Wiebke in work and life: Those who are seen as failures, have been failed by others. One has the sense that Wiebke sees herself in these wretches. She has no partner, and balks at questions about her relationship history, shying from physical affection even with people she knows and likes. A tell-tale scar graces one cheekbone; when she finally begins to welcome the benign Benedikt's advances, he strokes it instead of kissing her, acknowledging that he can see who she really is.

Wiebke tries to extend this same empathy toward Raya, refusing to let the child bait her into wrath and rejection. However, this show of pure faith and tolerance does not work, and the right approach becomes less clear as Raya begins to blame her mounting acts of vandalism, arson and assault on an evil entity that controls her will. A psychiatrist aprises Wiebke that this is the "magic period", in which the child uses magical thinking to divert feelings of guilt and responsibility. But, after a fashion, Wiebke begins to sense this malevolent presence as well. Is this etheric intrusion real? Or is she beginning to empathize with the child--with the experience of grappling with a damaged part of yourself--to the point of dissolving boundaries?

The title of the movie refers to a fable about a pelican whose chicks die, and she resurrects them by feeding them her own blood. This is a clear metaphor for Wiebke's trial with Raya, that becomes shockingly literal when, after endangering her home and relationships by prioritizing the new child, Wiebke places her own health on the line by taking an unregulated drug to give herself a bizarre advantage. When Wiebke discovers the shocking nature of Raya's original trauma, she experiments with the radical idea of treating the girl like a little baby, hoping to start from square one with her capacity to be mothered, and in the service of this dreadful proposition, Wiebke starts taking a lactation-inducing pill that proves to be an immediate risk to her health, and puts her in an even more perilous position with Raya.

Although it focuses on a preternaturally devoted mother, PELICAN BLOOD recalls what makes movies like HEREDITARY and WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN so potent. We have the idea that in becoming parents, we are perpetuating our own essence, extending our history and celebrating the precious connection of blood, which is supposed to impart an automatic same-ness. Unfortunately, this only shakes out to arrogance for many, denying the quirks of psychology, chemistry, and the unique impact of trauma--even if minor, or explainable as something benign--on a mind too young to fully comprehend the nature of the experience. Even without abuse in the home, anyone can have a child less like themselves than they could have ever imagined, for reasons beyond their own control. In all this, the child is innocent, and it is the duty of the parent to prioritize the child's feelings, over the vanity of wanting an heir to your own best qualities. Wiebke sacrifices not only her vanity, but potentially her very life, to show Raya love. When this blood sacrifice does not work, Wiebke finds herself facing the realm of alternative belief as a last resort.

The introduction of PELICAN BLOOD's folk horror element can seem a little left field, if you haven't noted the clues scattered throughout the film. Before the revelation of Raya's boogeyman, Wiebke begins to discover evidence of an old pagan tradition still being practiced around her proverbial neck of the woods. Soon, she tentatively entrusts herself and her child to a local witch, who puts them through a harrowing exorcism. Though the process is uncertain at first, its impact forces Wiebke into a direct acknowledgment of the entity harassing her daughter. And ultimately, it awakens in Raya a capacity for love.

While the reality of the supernatural in PELICAN BLOOD remains in question, I think the effect of this ambiguity is specifically meaningful. I usually scoff at any type of "was it all a dream?" nonsense, as this is a tactic employed by directors who think their greatest accomplishment should be getting one over on the audience. I don't see any inherent value in simply reversing the apparent meaning of things, just to make people feel stupid--and worse, this has trained modern audiences to try to defensively predict the least likely ending to any story, instead of just engaging with it emotionally as it plays out. For this reality-bending trick to be worth anything, one must be able to answer questions like, IF this was all a dream, THEN what meaning is added to the story?

In PELICAN BLOOD, the unresolved question of whether magic is real is of great relevance to the whole concept of belief. Human beings crave extranormal experience; we're deeply attracted to tales of ghosts, UFOs, mythical creatures, and parapsychological abilities. Even the skeptics among us enjoy arguing about these things, and many regular folks without eccentric interests read their horoscope "just for fun". Most telling of all is the enduring popularity of stories about the strange and unusual, which require no particular belief system from the audience; the fantasy of this extra dimension to our mundane lives is just so satisfying. Despite all the pleasure we get from these ideas, though, we tend to cling first and foremost to objective truth; we tell ourselves that if there is no "proof", then an outrageous thing cannot exist. But, this is actually contrary to many of our lived experiences. On the basest level, we delight at videos of insane parkour stunts, at the same time that we say these guys are "like" superheroes, but are actually just guys. My question is, what's the difference? If a person can achieve physical feats that most of us can never imagine attempting, then what difference does it make that this person was not bitten by a radioactive spider? If a fortune teller in a carnival is so good at "cold reading" strangers that she gives the effect of being able to read minds, then what is the appreciable difference between a carny and a "real psychic"? If a faith healer "just convinces" someone to become free from a chronic ailment, and the patient goes on to live a happier life, who cares if no "real magic" was in evidence? What is the difference between exorcism and hypnosis, if the end result is the same for a seriously disturbed child and her mother? The only difference appears to be some material confirmation of specific mystical forces and substances--which, admittedly, would be exciting on its own--but this would still only be an alternative version of the events that led up to the same "miraculous" result. We only worry about the existence of God and magic because our definitions of these things tend to be limited to what we think of as literal and scientific. But, if the correct effects manifest themselves, then all that is purely cosmetic. Belief is real. Faith works.

[regeek]

Essay of the North: Dragons, Masks, Ghosts, and Despair

Welcome to the next part of my essay about the Four Sister guardians. This one actually focuses on the sister guardians as individual characters. The thing that first drew me to these four characters as a subject matter is how thematically relevant they are to each book. In my opinion, each of the four books in the third Deltora Quest series has a central theme: in Dragon’s Nest it is dragons, in Shadowgate it is masks, in Isle of the Dead it is ghosts, and in Sister of the South it’s despair. Each of the guardians does a lot to tie these themes together, and each can be seen as sort of an embodiment of that theme, at least of the darker aspects of it. Another interesting thing that ties each of the sister guardians together is that each is a reference to another character in mythology or fiction, so I’ll talk about that here. The guardians are all beings of decay and subversion, so each is a subversion of some classical cultural archetype. Each of these characters, by being so thematically significant, help set apart the third series of Deltora books as a more powerful, resonant story than most youth fantasy stories. 

First let’s start with Rolf the Capricorn. He is the antagonist of Dragon’s Nest, the start of the series. The main theme of Dragon’s Nest is the dragons themselves, and the crux of the story is Lief struggling with understanding these ferocious and powerful creatures. At the start of the story few in Deltora understood the dragons and their role in the ecosystem, so Lief has to learn if he can trust them as he embarks on a quest where they play an integral role. The dragons represent the harsh but important aspects of the natural world. From a distance they seem like dangerous monsters, but are actually vital parts of the environment in Deltora and must be respected. Although people fear them, they are actually keeping Deltora safe and balanced. The first test Lief faces in this series is reconnecting with the dragons and earning their trust.

Rolf is the embodiment of distrust and fear of dragons. Like the dragons, he is the remnant of a long-gone part of Deltora’s history, but not a part that should be brought back. His people are the biggest victims of the dragon’s rage, an entire society laid to waste by their fury. However, the fate of Capra is not what it seemed. In actuality the Capricorns were driving the dragons to extinction, and their obsession with beauty and artifice led to their destruction. They are a warning to the people of Deltora, an example of what will happen if they do not coexist with nature. But Rolf has nothing but resentment for dragon’s and all they represent. He has no interest in the modern state of Deltora, obsessed with a past that will never come back. He is deeply xenophobic, not just towards dragons but to all non-Capricorns. He would rather see the nation destroyed than integrate with it, helping the Shadow Lord doom Deltora to the same fate as Capra.

 Fittingly, he takes the form of a false dragon. His appearance is described as hideous, like something our of a fever dream. He represents everything people feared about dragons, with none of their natural beauty. He seeks to exploit people’s reservations about working with dragons, making Lief question whether he can count these mysterious beasts as allies in his quest. His ultimate goal was to make it appear that the Ruby Dragon had joined the Shadow Lord as the guardian of the Sister of the East. Every step of the Shadow Lord’s plan with the Sisters was to convince the King of Deltora to abandon his quest. In this case to stop the quest before it even started, he cast doubt on the ability to work with the dragons at all. Rolf’s role in the plan was to drive Lief to abandon Deltora to the same fate that befell Capra. 

Rolf is obviously based on a satyr form Greek mythology. He can be seen as a dark mirror to Pan, the greek god of nature. Pan was a being of music and sexuality, an amusing contrast to Rolf’s cowardly, pathetic persona. Over time Pan came to be associated with Pagan and Satanic beliefs, fitting given that Rolf is not what he appears to be. Rolf can also be seen as a parody of Mr. Tumnus from the Chronicles of Narnia. Mr. Tumnus was a faun encountered very early by the protagonists, and was a helpful guide for them. Lief and his companions also encounter Rolf pretty early in their adventure, but he is far from helpful. Although Rolf bears a physical resemblance to various goat-men throughout history, his personality and goals are the opposite of almost all of them.

The next guardian is Kirsten of Shadowgate, also known as the Masked One. Masks are the central motif of Shadowgate, with various types of masks being used by different characters for different reasons. Masks are used to hide your real identity with a new one of your own creation. The Masked Ones use their masks to turn on their old identities and create a new one for their new society. Laughing Jack can be thought of as wearing a mask in the form of his fake persona. Lief struggles with having masks placed on him against his will, overriding his own identity. Lief is shown for the first time a possible other life, one without the responsibilities and hardship of being the king, but with nor personal freedom. 

It starts off with his physical resemblance to Bede, which drives Bess to force him to take the place of her son. At first Bess’s projection of Lief begins simple enough, making him learn to sing like her son did. Lief is too kind to turn her down, and finds himself being drawn deeper and deeper into the Masked Ones. This culminates in him having a mask literally forced onto his face, and he has to tear it off to regain his own identity. The result is a horrifying experience for him in which he briefly loses his mind, and ends with him scarring his face. These scars are a reminder of his experience, and also serve as a permanent physical distinction between him and Bede. 

The book is structured to make you think Bede is going to be the antagonist, serving as a dark reflection of Lief. However, Bede is revealed to be a victim of the real villain, Kirsten. A character barely mentioned earlier, who nobody in the story thinks very much about, is the one behind everything. Kirsten is interesting among Deltora antagonists in that she begins affecting the plot very early on. Long before the heroes find her or even know of her existence she is pulling strings to drive the plot. The obstacle Lief must destroy in this story is not a reflection of his own identity, but someone who has removed their own identity completely. There are many masks in Shadowgate, but none as elaborate as Kirsten’s. 

From what we know of Kirsten’s past, it sounds like she spent a lot of life being overlooked by others. Despite being beautiful, her face was paid attention to, so she created a new one. However, Kirsten is different from the rest of the characters in that both of her identities are “masks” and in her double life both of her personas are artificial. Her phantom is the embodiment of her allegiance to the Shadow Lord, a mask that moves on its own. The Masked One is a projection of her power and rage without having to reveal her true self to anyone. Her victims get no insight into the person killing them. She twists the culture of the man who rejected her, taking the form of a mask with nothing beneath it. But the version of Kirsten Lief and the others meet in the castle is also a “mask.” Its how she sees herself and wishes to be seen by others, but is just as fake as her phantom. Her external beauty disguises her horrific nature, and she forces Bede to live in her pretend reality with her. Her castle is an extension of this illusive reality, a world under her control that disappears upon her death. Appropriately she has reduced the other object of her rage, he sister, to nothing but a face by trapping her in a locket. Mariette no longer has a physical presence in the world, but still has all the things Kirsten will never have. 

It is hard to look at Shadowgate and not see the influence of the Phantom of the Opera. The Masked One bears a physical resemblance to the Phantom, and murders performers to keep imprisoned a beautiful singer. Kirsten is a twist on character of Erik, wearing the physical appearance of Christine but performing the horrific action of the Phantom. Piecing together her identity is a key part of the plot, though the protagonists do not realize there even is a mystery until the end. The Masked One does not hide the image of a face burned by acid, but that of a beautiful women. Amusingly, Lief’s journey in this novel can be compared to Christine’s. Like her he is tutored in signing by a charismatic but untrustworthy figure in a mask, and he ends up with facial scarring like Erik. Also, while singing is used in Phantom of the Opera to communicate and empathize with the Phantom, in Shadowgate it is used to transmit coded warnings about the villain.

Isle of the Dead is about ghosts, the various ways in which the dead and action of the past still haunt us in the present. The most literal example of the ghosts of the past is Verity, and actual ghost keeping record of dark deeds past. Laughing Jack is on the run from the ghosts of his past, literally and figuratively. He can even be thought of as the “ghost” of James Gant, an identity left behind by a man who still wanders the world in search of something. Bone Point and the Lady Luck are places forever haunted by the dark memories of what happened there, showing Lief and the others a recording of it they cannot interact with. Lief and Barda free themselves from the Lady Luck by “correcting” the events of the past, and their battle with the Sister of the West requires they put together various other ghosts, like Verity’s memories, Doran the Dragonlover, and the Diamond Dragon. 

In Isle of the Dead time is portrayed as all-consuming and unforgiving, and the effect of entropy on this story makes the protagonists feel like they are becoming ghosts too. The Sleeping Dunes show how a moment of passivity can lead to you being erased from history and forgotten, like the Amethyst Dragon was for years. Blood Lily Island shows how the passage of time can slowly destroy you. The island looks harmless but it slowly kills you without you even noticing (Rodda thought she could slip a little metaphor for despair past me here too- not on my watch!) Even the mighty dragons are shown to be vulnerable to the power of eternity, with Veritas being trapped by the Sleeping Dunes and the Diamond Dragon being stripped to bones by fleshbanes, which grew to great numbers during her sleep. The Lady Luck shows how you can’t escape the past or the passage of time. Its’ victims were doomed to eventually lose more than they can afford, and its pursuit of Lief and Jack makes them literally unable to run from the past forever. Isle of the Dead is a book concerned with eternity, how the passage of time destroys but also preserves people and ideas.

Doran is not quite a ghost as he is more undying than undead. He has guided Lief and the others through most of their adventures, and the memory of his actions is a great tool for them. However, each time they encounter someone who remembers Doran, they explain that he is long dead and the world he live din has changed. But Doran has been here the whole time, a final taunt from the Shadow Lord. In order to complete his life’s work, he must be destroyed by those he inspired. Doran’s actions are great allies to the king of Deltora, but the man himself is turned into an obstacle. The purpose of this design was to discourage anyone trying to destroy the Sisters, making them feel like they had to destroy their own history and what they hold dear. 

But there is another “ghost” which provides Lief the opportunity to triumph over this challenge: the baby Diamond Dragon. Named after her mother, she shows how the legacy of the past is transferred down to new generations. Discovered on her mother’s bones, she is a glimmer of hope in a quest that seemed doomed. She shows that even as the heroes and icons of the past fades away, their legacy lives on in new generations. Just as Forta carries on the legacy of the Diamond Dragons, Lief carries on the work of Doran. The discovery of Forta allows Lief to beat the Shadow Lord’s trap. Doran’s last moments are of hope, not despair. He was meant to create depression about the past, but his death is a moment of hope for the future. 

The revelation of Doran as the guardian of the Sister of the West is a shocking one, a twist on the usual pattern of these books having a battle with a big creature at the end. But those familiar with Arthurian lore perhaps should have seen it coming. Doran is an example of the Fisher King archetype. Many versions of the Fisher King appear in the tales of King Arthur, and many modern fantasy tales that follow the structure of those stories use a similar character. The Knight of the Grail in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is an example, and Azor performs a similar role in the Ixalan story for Magic: The Gathering. The Fisher King is the final guardian of the Holy Grail, a spiritual and mental challenge after a gauntlet of physical one. The Fisher King is a king who possesses the Holy Grail, but has been cursed by the eternal life it provides. The Fisher King is kept in an immortal but crippled state, forced to watch the land around him with as he lacks the strength to protect it. To retrieve the Grail Percival must let the Fisher King pass away and rest by proving he can protect his kingdom for future generations. Lief does a similar thing by revealing Forta to Doran and letting him finally rest knowing their is hope for the future of Deltora. 

Sister of the South is a story about despair, a theme that has been running through the previous novels but takes center stage at the end. Lief’s journey in series three has slowly been eroding his faith that he can protect Deltora and be a good king. The final Sister is the ultimate challenge to his confidence, and the final phase of the Shadow Lord’s plan is to make his believe there is no way he can win. The endgame is to create a scenario where the land is condemned to die one way or the other. But to build up to that dilemma is a series of challenges to Lief’s optimism, both in his belief that Deltora can be saved and whether it even should. The Shadow Lord does this by guarding the last Sister with an embodiment of Deltora itself, manifesting the cultural flaws of the land into a plot to destroy the kingdom from within. 

How fitting it is that after battling all sorts of hideous monsters, the last battle for the fate of Deltora is against a common citizen. The story of Deltora began when the Shadow Lord exploited the societal weaknesses of the city of Del to seize power, and the climax involves history repeating itself, raising the question if Deltora will ever be strong enough to oppose the Shadow Lord. Paff is the ultimate test of Lief’s abilities as king, challenging him not as an adventurer but as a politician. She turns the citizens of Del into her own weapon, presenting them with a threat their king cannot protect him from and drives them to seek shelter in paranoia and ethnic tension. Lief is forced to question his abilities as king when that question is being posed by his own citizens. And of course Paff herself is a citizen of Deltora too, representing all of Lief’s failures in a single person.

Paff is such a tragic figure because, even though her crimes were horrific, it’s easy to understand what drove her to the Shadow Lord. Nobody, absolutely nobody, treats her with kindness or respect. She was alone and unloved. Lief rescued her from the Shadowlands, but never gave her a feeling of freedom. Yet he never suspected anything was amiss with her, unaware that a deadly enemy was hiding in plain sight. Lief was unable to help Paff but also unable to understand her, never imagining that she was capable of such horrors. Of course, Lief never imagined ANY of his citizens were capable of creating the fake plague, and realizing that it must have been done by one of his subjects but not realizing who it could be was agonizing for him. Paff created a wave of despair within him by forcing him to wonder which of his subjects was a traitor, and that any of his allies could be his enemy. Her plan involved destroying the trust of the people of Deltora in each other, in their king, and of the king and his people. 

The end result of Paff’s machinations is Lief’s lowest point. As he encounters the Sister of the South he realizes he is no different from his enemies. He could have gone down the same path they did, and is tempted to do so at the end. He is as imperfect as the rest of Deltora, and in order to save the country he must destroy one of its citizens. Let Lief’s empathy gives him strength. Even after all Paff has done, Lief still has pity for her. Realizing how similar they were let him understand her pain, and he gave her an opportunity to atone, even after all she did. Yet the Shadow Lord revealed himself unwilling to provide such mercy, taking Paff’s powers and throwing her aside like a used tool. Paff had given too far into despair by this point, and rather than be redeemed she destroyed herself with the greatest symbol of the country she betrayed. 

Before we talk about the cultural references baked into Paff’s character, I’d like to talk for a moment about the creature she controlled, as it is pretty unique among Deltora monsters. Like the Masked One, it is an extension of Paff’s power, its horrific appearance and strength contrasting the unassuming, harmless appearance of its controller. It is a creature of black oil, its lack of shape representing the hidden, insidious threat to the kingdom. It can attack several people at once in all directions, representing how Paff’s plot endangered every level of Deltoran society. The two heads are an unusual feature, unlike anything else in Deltora’s bestiary. The heads being a dog and a bird lack any biological purpose, suggesting that its appearance is more about symbolism than biology. As strange and varied as Deltora’s monsters are, all of their appearances served some sort of purpose. The creature Paff summons feels more like something from ancient myth or religion, not something that belongs in the natural world. It brings to mind the two-faced Roman god Janus, or the cherubim, and angel with the heads of a man, an ox, and eagle, and a lion. 

The more mythical appearance of Paff’s creature got me thinking, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the cultural icon Paff references is the last book of the Christian Bible. The Book of Revelations, also known as the Book of Apocalypse, is a complex and confusing part of the Bible, so I’m going to tread lightly here. The book presents a vision of the end of the world, with human society being destroyed and the people of earth being judged by God. Appropriately, the Sister of the South features an apocalyptic scenario with the grey tide, a final judgment for Lief and the people of Deltora. More specifically the Book of Revelation describes two beasts that bring down human civilization, which I think are inspirations for Paff and her creature. The first beast is a huge monster made up of different animal parts, like Paff’s creation. It caused people to follow it, like how the people followed Paff’s propaganda about the plague. The second beast is a false prophet, which “breathed life” into the image of the first beast, and brought death to those who would not worship it. Paff herself is clearly a parallel to the second beast. Yet like all the other guardians, the story that Paff references is subverted by her. The Shadow Lord’s plan is based on an apocalyptic story he participated in, and he seeks to put the people of Deltora in the same position with the Grey Tide. The first beast was described as a seven headed dragon, yet it is seven dragons that save Deltora, rather than destroy it. Fittingly, unlike in Revelations the land of Deltora is not destroyed, and Paff fails to overthrow society. The “prophecy” the Shadow Lord created does not come to pass, and the despair his plan weaponized is defeated by hope. The story ends on an optimistic note detailing a long era of peace and tranquility. 

These four characters are twisted and sad people, sympathetic yet dangerous. They are representatives of the failures of Deltora, tools for the Shadow Lord to destroy the kingdom from within. Lief’s journey to destroy the Four Sisters is about him coming to terms with the weaknesses in himself and his kingdom. Every step of the way he is shown that he cannot save the kingdom without destroying parts of it. Each of these characters are examples of what Lief could become, and he has prove himself different from them in order to succeed. As Lief battles them externally he is forced into an internal battle, one that has been building up over the course of the series. That will lead us to the next essay, about Lief’s psychology and why the Four Sisters quest is such a difficult and personal one for him. 

[xsekhah-balmung]

X’sekhah Tia - LFC

The Basics ––– –

NAME:  X'sekhah Tia. AGE:  Twenty-seven. BIRTHDAY:  Twenty-fifth son of the first Astral Moon. RACE:  Seeker of the Sun. GENDER: Male. SEXUALITY: Heterosexual, polyamorous. MARITAL STATUS: Single.

Physical Appearance ––– –

HAIR:

Unkempt and as turbulent as Sekhah's temperament. It's a wildly uneven array of onyx strands that look as if he trims it without a mirror, and with a blade that lost its bite long ago. Some few patches of burgundy exist amidst the waves of pitch frayed ends of the mane, and decorating the head of hair is several shards of bone braided into the mess. He keeps it relatively "clean" otherwise, and washed to be free and clear of any dirt or grime.

EYE:

They stand out most assuredly, and are likely the first thing that one might notice upon meeting Sekhah. There's a ghoulish and eerily pale yellow shine to the pair of them, and they flit around erratically. It's not so much borne from anxiousness or a lack of focus, but instead a desire to keep the goings-on of his environment tracked and well in the forefront of his mind—even during moments of casual conversation in relaxed situations. In short, Sekh is always on.

HEIGHT:

His people grow them tall, stout, and sturdy. Sekhah reaches somewhere in the neighborhood of five fulms, and ten or eleven ilms.

BUILD:

Having been born into the caste of warriors and hunters that scour the many grains of sand that make up the Sagolii in search of the horrors that dwell there, exceptional physical prowess is a source of pride, not to mention a necessity for survival. Sekhah is no different than his peers in this regard and his physique is a testament to this dedication. Countless bells spent training and embroiled in conflict spread across endless suns result in a frame trim and toned, with an abundance of musculature housed tightly packed beneath the swarthy hue of his flesh. Broad of shoulders and thick of limbs, Sekhah's build satisfies the conditions for the ideal warrior's frame—for his size—and is replete with scars that he's earned along the way.

DISTINGUISHING MARKS:

A mask of stygian paint smeared across his eyes, and he's not often—if ever—seen without it. This is one of the few things that he's meticulous about insofar as his appearance goes.

As mentioned previously, scars. Sekhah’s people tell their personal stories with them. Wounds are left to heal on their own without the use of magic, and the scars that they leave behind are a sense of pride, not dissimilar to many other warrior cultures. They serve as a roadmap detailing every last bit of conflict that they’ve been engaged in, and the gnarled, and jagged evidence of past encounters with both man and beast stretch over his arms, belly, and back. Claw, tooth and blade make up the bulk of the unsightly marks that bite into his flesh.

Tattoos are present as well and compete for territory with the above mentioned scar tissue, though these are far less prominent insofar as quantity. A great black serpent that stretched over his ribs and ends upon his back, with a depiction of Azeyma swallowing the beast’s head up whole. Outside of that, there’s a plethora of fanciful stygian linework emblazoned over his wrists and his below his collarbone—seven in total upon the former area, and four upon his chest.

Missing teeth are replaced by some creature’s fang—after it’s been hunted down and slain by whomever’s mouth it’s going to sit in, obviously. Sekhah has one, a canine on the left side. There’s a drake’s tooth that completes his smile, gilded and gleaming when it catches the sun.

COMMON ACCESSORIES:

Though not as fervent—or overzealous—of a worshiper as he might've been in days past, Sekhah still pays enough reverence and respect to Azeyma to never be without some kind of charm or trinket embossed with her symbol. He usually keeps it out of sight these days, either looped 'round wrist underneath a glove or buried deep below the neck of his armor.

A wealth of pouches festoon his belt and only Azeyma knows what he keeps inside of them. Amidst the many present satchels are two innocuous blades. They don't bear much in the way of exquisite detail or markings. They're simple and efficient. A quiver of arrows rests tidily at the small of his back and a bow—equally unremarkable in its design—is usually slung over his back with its string digging into his chest.

Personal ––– –

PROFESSION: Hunter, warrior. That's about it. HOBBIES:  Gambling (this might be an addiction over a hobby), cartography, scavenging, making terrible decisions based on his temper, drinking, feasting, occasional theft, smithing. LANGUAGES:  Eorzean common, tuftspeak (don’t even ask). RESIDENCE: Ul'dah presently. BIRTHPLACE: Sagolii Desert. RELIGION: Azeyma the Warden. FEARS: Becoming complacent, falling into a mundane routine, too much quiet in his life, carbuncles (this is more of a hatred really, but close enough)

Relationships ––– –

SPOUSE: None. CHILDREN:  None. PARENTS: He certainly has some, though isn't very eager to speak of them. SIBLINGS:  He certainly has some, though isn't very eager to speak of them. OTHER RELATIVES: None still living. ACQUAINTANCES: Having severed ties with much of those in his past, Sekhah—again—isn't overly chatty on this subject. He's starting fresh now, so to speak. That being said, there is one thing that followed him out of the dunes.

An aged, and ornery beast, Sekhah's sundrake is his sole companion. The creature has seen many, many better days, with missing toes and bereft of an eye, and scales that look as though they've been forcibly torn and rent from its hide. It's loyal however despite the many grievances that it's clearly been made to endure in the Miqo'te's company—the many attempts it makes to gnaw at his flesh when he slips atop the thing to ride is clearly signs of affection, and play. Clearly.

Traits ––– –

extroverted / introverted / in between disorganized / organized / in between close minded / open-minded / in between calm / anxious / in between disagreeable / agreeable / in between cautious / reckless / in between patient / impatient / in between outspoken / reserved / in between leader / follower / in between empathic / unempathic / in between optimistic / pessimistic / in between traditional / modern / in between hard-working / lazy / in between cultured / uncultured / in between loyal / disloyal / unknown / in between faithful / unfaithful / unknown / in between

Additional Information ––– –

SMOKING HABIT: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess DRUGS: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess ALCOHOL: never / sometimes / frequently / to excess

Flaws

moody | short-tempered | emotionally unstable | whiny controlling | conceited | possessive | paranoid | liar impatient | cowardly | bitter | selfish | power-hungry greedy | lazy | judgmental | forgetful | impulsive spiteful | stubborn | sadistic | petty | unlucky

Strengths

honest | trustworthy | thoughtful | caring | brave patient | selfless | ambitious | tolerant | lucky intelligent | confident | focused | humble | generous merciful | observant | wise | clever | charming cheerful | optimistic | decisive | adaptive | calm | loyal

RP Hooks ––– –

Freelance Adventurer/Hunter:

Just looking the part since he departed his tribe doesn't fill his belly, and so thusly Sekhah has had to resort to what means he can to provide for himself. Hunting beasts and men, providing security for travel shipments or chasing down misbegotten treasure at the behest of employers, he does (almost) everything. I'm open to having him work with other adventurer types in this type of RP or seeking out employees that want him to go and retrieve something for them.

Voidsent/Ashkin hunting:

This is something that he does less of now these days, but is the caste that he was born into and dedicated much of his life to. His people have a history of entanglements battling against the aforementioned horrors, defending tombs out in the dunes and so forth. Again as before, I'm interested in pursuing this type of RP with folks, if there's an interest!

OOC Section ––– –

Hi, hello. Thank you for getting this far if you have. This is as with almost all of the things I write up of this nature, a heavy work in progress. I'll be updating it and adding to it over time so, check back occasionally!

I'm looking to branch out and make some contacts out in ye' olde world of Final Fantasy XIV RP. If people are interested, great, I'm always happy to interact with folks and make new friends.  I prefer to RP with 18 + folks though, given the nature of some of the themes that can get involved in my RP.

Feel free to add me on discord if you'd like to plot something or to just say hello. Mediocrity In Motion#0862

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Remnants, Part IV

This chapter is another build--there’s going to be a little more action in the next.

    Summary: You are in the midst of formulating your dissertation, but you’ve hit a wall. Your doting aunt, Rebecca, has a solution that brings you face to face with Ahkmenrah, Fourth King of the Fourth King. As the connection between you and Ahkmenrah grows, and as the secrets of his ancient tablet unlock, the once-king will find himself faced with a difficult choice.

    Thanks so much to @kitkatcronch @kpopperotp12 @seafrost-fangirl  @sassystrawberryk and @perfect-rami for reading : ) If anyone else wants added to the taglist, let me know. I’ve greatly appreciated all of the feedback!

    Warnings: Another wee, mild reference to sex. Ahk is a solid 20 years of age to be certain to avoid any squick factor.

* * * * *

  You couldn’t stop thinking about Ahkmenrah’s long-returned-to-dust bedtime garment. Of course, you couldn’t stop picturing him in it and chastised yourself for that, but as his friend, you also longed to help him combat some of that nostalgia. You were really beginning to create a vortex of chaos when it came to your thoughts about the once-pharaoh. You saw him as a person now, a complex, oddity of a person who loved the thing you loved the most, too. The distance you told yourself to keep was now more of a suggestion than a rule.

   You sighed, frowning and mentally swearing to recement your own rule. It was for Ahkmenrah’s safety as much as it was for yours. You two couldn’t have a life together without you sacrificing everything, and you couldn’t bear the thought of having to break his heart if the two of you got in too deep. The true problem was that it was very easy to reestablish a solid boundary when you weren’t looking into his beautiful, intense eyes.

   Oh! Senet! Yes! You thought to yourself, remembering the board game that the ancient Egyptians played. While the rules had never really been discovered, you were sure Ahk would know exactly what it was. There was an antiquities store in Greenwich Village that specialized in recreating ancient artifacts. There was a niggling remnant of a memory in the back of your mind of you gliding your hand across the smooth top of the board, wondering what it would have been like to sit on a rooftop with a fire and the night sky providing just enough light as you played, the burbling of the Nile in the background, its din a sweet music to your ears.

   Yes. Senet would make the perfect gift for Ahkmenrah.

As you packed up your bookbag after a long day at school, you mentally mapped out your late afternoon. You had just enough time to journey into the Village to try to find the game for Ahk before you needed to begin the first chapter of your dissertation. Today had been a great day as you met with the three professors who would be serving as the chairs for your dissertation. Out of the three, there was only one who intimidated you. She was known for being tough, but you weren’t about to let something as little as criticism get in the way of your dream.

  You were just about to step out when your phone buzzed.

  “Done. Give it a look?”

  Your thumbs hovered over the letters as you decided when to meet Ryan.

  “Busy tonight. Tomorrow?”

  “Brunch. North Square on Waverly?”

  “Perfect :)”

  A small part of you longed to tell Ryan about the museum; he would love it, and you knew he would keep it a secret. However, you also knew it just wasn’t worth the risk. You considered Ryan your closest friend, but Rebecca was family, and she had risked everything by telling you about the museum’s secret. You also remembered Larry’s torturous induction; Ryan’s dissertation would be finished by the time Larry actually let him meet an important display.

  You shoved your phone into your bag and headed for the Village, picturing the delight on Ahk’s face when you surprised him tonight.

  * * * * *

Even though you had to explain some of the newer pieces, like dice, Ahk was impressed with how close the reconstruction was. He immediately went over the rules and you then spent the better part of the night losing to him again and again. He was so happy that you didn’t mind at all. And when you finally won a single game, you were highly suspect that he had let you win.

  “May I ask you something?” you questioned as you moved your piece to yet another square of bad fortune, falling further behind Ahk’s own seemingly blessed by the gods gamepiece. 

  Ahkmenrah rested his chin on his hand, a look of concentration on his face as he stared at the Senet board.

  “You may ask me anything.”

  “What was it like for you at Cambridge?”

  Ahk furrowed his brows and looked up, disregarding the dice as he explained, “Well, when I arrived at Cambridge, it was the first time that I had awoken since my entombment. According to Jack, he was the scholar assigned to examine the findings from my tomb and he later became my close friend, the tablet was stolen right before my tomb was sealed. During the excavation of the pyramids, it was actually discovered sealed up beneath a statue of Anubis. For years, people thought it was cursed. Jack, he was such a clever man, pieced together that it was the Tablet of Ahkmenrah, although he got quite a shock when he reunited me with it.”

  The game lay forgotten between the two of you as you listened to Ahkmenrah’s story. He had a strange look in his eyes, as if remembering something bittersweet that he had tried very hard to forget.

  “You don’t have to tell me anymore if you don’t want to.”

  “No, Y/N. I swore to always tell you the truth. It is painful to remember, but I suppose it’s a good kind of pain. It means I’m still human, still alive.”

  Yes, you thought, it most certainly did.

  Your mouth formed a small o of horror as you realized, “So you came to life, literally thousands of years later. That had to have been a shock!”

  Ahkmenrah barked out a sharp laugh.

  “To put it mildly, yes. If it weren’t for Jack, I think I would have lost my mind. He was so patient, obviously eager to learn, like you, but he really took time to explain everything to me. He would sneak me out to take me to all of Cambridge’s museums, and he even took me to the Museum of Natural History. He helped me understand where I was, what life was like now—well, then. He taught me the history of my empire, and more importantly, empathized with me as I grieved for the loss of everything my people had worked to build.”

  “Oh, Ahk, do you still feel that way? Like your Egypt has been lost?”

  “In some ways, yes, because it certainly has. That way of life, my way of life, is gone. But Jack showed me many of the things that my people have given to this world and that brought comfort.”

  “And that was in the 1940s? 50s? We now know even more about the advancements that are credited to the Egyptians, probably because of the work of people like Jack.”

  And then it dawned on you: “Wait a minute. Jack. As in Jack Cecil Evans?”

  “Yes. Do you know of him?”

  You reached into your backpack and pulled out your laptop. Ahkmenrah moved to stand behind you, watching your fingers dash over the keys. Google retrieved several images of Jack, along with the many articles he published on the subject of the Tomb of Ahkmenrah. Ahk was Jack’s life work.

  Ahkmenrah reached out a shaky finger and traced it over the image of Jack on your screen.

  You quietly asked, “What happened to Jack?”

  Ahkmenrah took a deep breath and returned to his seat across from you, his eyes glistening in the light.

  “He died a few years before my exhibit was moved to the United States. I suppose that is when I really began to understand loneliness. Jack knew he didn’t have much time left, so he ensured that I would be safe, able to get out and to move. It wasn’t long, though, before the allure of my tablet attracted those awful men who moved me here and locked me up.”

  Silence settled between the two of you, Ahkmenrah lost in his memories, you lost in making sense of the layers of pain that Ahkmenrah hid beneath his cheerful demeanor.

  “Ahkmenrah, if there’s one thing I could do for you, what would it be?”

  “You have given more already than I could have ever hoped. You are proving to be as good of a friend as Jack, except, you’re a bit younger and much prettier.”

  Your soft laughter pulled a smile from Ahkmenrah.

  “I’m being serious, though. What do you want or wish you could do?”

  Ahkmenrah’s face transformed as it filled with a childish excitement, making him look much younger than his 20 years. 

  He spoke softly, as if afraid someone might overhear: “I want to see the city, really see it. I want to know life as a normal, modern man.”

  Once again, you found yourself forsaking your rule, and you broke out into a grin because Ahkmenrah’s excitement was contagious.

  “Ahk, that’s a pretty simple request.”

  “Is it? You go and ask Larry. I’ll wait here and listen for his bellow.”

  “Larry doesn’t own you. You were a king, Ahk.”

  “Perhaps Larry needn’t know?”

  “No, he needn’t,” you said slowly, returning Ahkmenrah’s sly grin.

  You began to chew on your bottom lip, thinking deeply about what you would need to do to take Ahk out for a night. Clothes and shoes, maybe practice with those, figure out places to go, you didn’t want to wander around in the city and overwhelm him, and—

  “Care to share?”

  “I think we need a night to plan. I can pick up some clothes tomorrow morning and tomorrow night we will make sure they fit. Then we need to plan out where you want to go.”

  Ahkmenrah, his voice filled with anticipation, asked, “May I offer some suggestions of places I have been most curious to explore?”

  “Of course! It’s your night!”

  “There was a photography exhibit a few months ago that showed the view from the Empire State Building. I am curious to see just how high this building is.”

  “Done. I’ve got a friend who can get us tickets. What else?”

  “Music—some of my favorite nights during my youth were sneaking into my parents’ parties and listening to the music, watching the dancing and revelry. I miss. . .people.”

  You smiled, sadness tugging at your heart, but knew this wish was an easy one to fulfill, too.

  “Also as good as done. I know the perfect place in the Village, and it’s near my apartment.”

  Ahkmenrah’s face threatened to split into two as his grin widened even further.

  “Jack told me about life and he explained it well, but he never let me live it. When I was locked in my sarcophagus, I spent most nights worrying that I would never get the chance to live. And you know how Egyptians felt about the gift of life.”

  Indeed, you did. Well, so much for your rule—you’d have to once again reconcile that what you were doing for Ahk was more meaningful than maintaining a boundary. Besides, just because you were giving Ahkmenrah a taste of life didn’t mean that you were in love with him; you were being a good friend.

  “I’m going to duck out a little early tonight to get some sleep. I’m meeting a friend for brunch tomorrow, before work, so I’ll need to run the errands first.”

  “Thank you, Y/N. I am forever indebted to you for your kindness.”

  “Uh, remember those 4,000-year-old papyruses you gifted me with to allow me to finish my dissertation proposal? I’d say we are barely scratching even.”

  Ahkmenrah couldn’t stop smiling and you elbowed him in the ribs as he walked you to the front desk to say goodbye to Larry.

  “Stop smiling,” you hissed. “You’re terrible at being discreet.”

  Ahk composed himself for all of 10 seconds.

  “Fun night?” Larry asked, raising his brow and taking in Ahkmenrah’s unabashed happiness.

  “Y/N brought me a game that we used to play in my time. It was a real. . . blast from the past.”

  Larry laughed and you chuckled, too.

  “You’re really catching onto the slang, Ahk,” Larry said.

  “I’ve always been a quick study.”

  “Goodnight, boys. I’ll see you tomorrow!” you called, waving as you dashed out.

  * * * * *

Shopping had been a success, although you were now ten minutes late for your brunch with Ry, which was highly uncharacteristic for you.

  “I was about to call the coppers.”

  “Sorry—had to run some errands. I’m starving, though!”

  You picked up your menu and scanned for what you wanted. Ryan knew you well enough to know that you couldn’t focus on anything he said until you determined what you were ordering. Once the waiter returned and the two of you placed your orders, you turned your full attention to him.

  You asked him how he thought his proposal turned out, and he explained what he wanted you to look for during your proof. He knew your time was limited, but you assured him that you didn’t mind.

  Conversation flowed without effort and you found yourself smiling, falling into the charm that was Ryan. Things were so easy with him, so easy in the bright light of the sun that streamed through the window of the café.

  “Our mates are all headed out tomorrow night. Any chance I can convince you to meet up?”

  “Tomorrow, huh? I’ve—”

  “You’ve got plans,” Ryan said, his smile faltering a bit. “Any chance you wanna tell me what’s got you so busy all of a sudden?”

  “The same thing that’s going to have you so busy soon enough. I thought you and I didn’t do the whole jealousy bit?”

  “I’m not jealous—just curious.”

  “Mmm. You forget that I know you better than that.”

  “I don’t want you working too hard. You know how you get, Y/N. Your passion for your research is enviable. Is it wrong to wish that maybe you were that passion about something else? To keep a little hope that maybe it could be me?”

  “If you recall, I showed up at the airport and begged you to take me to Australia with you for the summer after the first year of our ‘friendship.’ God, I’m still not over that embarrassment.”

  Ryan laughed, the sparkle returning to his eyes.

  “What happened to that girl?”

  “She’s still here, just a little preoccupied.”

  “Well, I’ll text you, just in case you change your mind about Saturday.”

  Ryan held the door open for you as you exited the café. He pulled you into a tight hug, and asked, “Going my way?”

  “You know I am,” you replied and linked your fingers with his proffered hand.

  You and Ryan walked to NYU, hand in hand, the sun warming your skin and wrapping you up in his radiant energy.

  * * * * *

You had bought two sizes of everything, planning on returning what didn’t fit to the store tomorrow. It had been a long time since you had a boyfriend to dress up, so you were really loving the idea of seeing what Ahk looked like in your purchases. You also brought along some product to attempt to tame his curls.

  You crammed all of your purchases into your backpack, while simultaneously cramming down any thoughts about what you were doing. Brunch with Ryan had reminded you of exactly why you shouldn’t be getting so close to Ahkmenrah. The two of you would never stroll hand in hand through the New York streets in the sunlight. You could never wake up in Ahk’s arms, and the thought of exactly what would happened if you did should have been enough to scare you straight.

  Should have been.

  Except, once again, there he was, and he was barely able to keep from bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet the instant he saw you.

  Ahkmenrah swept forward, his cape billowing behind him, as he grabbed your hand.

  “Come on—I know where we can go to avoid detection.”

  You followed Ahk through the museum and into an old, clearly forgotten storage area. Stacks of boxes lined the walls, overflowing from the shelves that also had boxes and items of antiquity stacked to the ceiling. The room was about the size of a modest living room and was cast in a greenish hue from the single, fluorescent overhead light.

  Ahkmenrah locked the door, stating that as far as he knew, no one at night had a key.

  He started shedding his garments, faster than you could register and when he pulled his belt off, you said, “Whoa. I know nakedness isn’t, like, a thing for Egyptians, but it is for me, well, us, you know what I mean. . .”

  “My apologies. I am just so eager!”

  You laughed shaking your head and pulling the clothes from your bag.

  Ahkmenrah stood patiently now, and it occurred to you that he seemed to be more presence than actual personhood. He was fit, gorgeously proportioned, but he wasn’t a big guy. You sifted through your purchases and selected the smaller sizes.

  You pulled out a package of boxer-briefs and explained to Ahkmenrah that he should put these on before his pants.

  He examined the underwear closely, his nose scrunching up at the idea of being constrained, then proceeded to ask no less than ten questions. You considered yourself a patient person, but finally just exclaimed, “Ahk! Try them on!”

  He hooked his thumb into the tie of his shendyt and pulled, and you whirled around to give him the privacy that he clearly wasn’t concerned about.

  You listened to his shuffling and when he stilled, you asked, “Are they on?”

  “Yes.”

  You turned around and drank in the sight of the once-king in nothing but a snug pair of white boxer-briefs. The white complemented the darkness of his skin, even under the subpar lighting, and for the first time, you noticed the faint trail of dark hair that led beneath the waistband of his newly donned garment. His legs, just as perfectly proportioned as the rest of him, were muscular, strong, and you found yourself wondering if you could make the muscles of those thighs twitch if you were on your knees—

  “Does this look suitable?”

  You swallowed as you attempted to appear perfectly in control of your body’s reaction and nodded.

  “What’s next?” Ahkmenrah asked, still barely containing his excitement.

  You grinned, “Pants.”

  “Damn.”

  “Come on. Don’t discount them before you’ve even tried them.”

  You had chosen a pair of tight-fitting tan pants made of a soft, stretchy fabric. You were a little worried about his reaction to them, so you had also bought a pair of looser fitting jeans as a backup.

  You handed the pants to Ahkmenrah and he put them on slowly; you couldn’t hold in your giggles at the faces he made as he pulled them up his legs and over his hips. It was like you’d made him try on pants made of fire and barbed wire instead of cotton.

  Then, he puzzled over the hook-snap and the zipper for a moment before declaring he was afraid of getting something important caught if he were to zip up the pants. You laughed and told him to tuck himself in while you grabbed the two sides of his open pants. You assured him that everything would stay safe as you zipped up the zipper. Ahkmenrah sucked in a breath, clearly terrified. You showed him how the snap worked, and once he released the breath he was holding, you stepped back to look at him.

  The pants were certainly snug, but they fit him well. He was standing with his legs comically spread a part, clearly unsure about being this confined.

  “And this was why I wanted to practice,” you said as you pulled a shirt out of your backpack.

  “Alright, last piece before shoes. I think you’ll like this one.”

  You pulled out a thin, black, long-sleeve shirt. You figured it would be the perfect balance for a New York summer night that was muggy, but sure to cool as the night wore on. 

  “This is nice,” Ahkmenrah said as he ran his hands over his arms and smoothed out the material.

  “I thought so—it’s primarily a linen blend, something not too far removed from your clothing. And now for shoes.”

  You pulled out a pair of black, high-top tennis shoes that looked like a more expensive version of Converses. Ahkmenrah’s feet ended up being a little bigger than you thought, so you’d have to exchange for a size up, even though he didn’t want to admit that his toes were flush against the shoe.

  “I promise it’s not a big deal. I’ll bring the right size tomorrow. Our night won’t be delayed. You wouldn’t even believe how easy it is to just get another pair of shoes.”

  “I believe it if you say it is true, but it is still difficult to imagine.”

  “If we have time, we’ll walk by a shoe store so you can see just how many pairs are readily available.”

  “Do I look acceptable?” Ahk asked, biting his lower lip, his eyes shining with worry.

  You smiled as you took in Ahk’s appearance before nodding your affirmation.

  “But let’s get to work on that hair.”

[byunreads]

my rosentine ii.

Failure of judgment leads you to the wrong side of the town; on the opposite side of your mate.

↝ vampire!taeyong x f!reader

↝ 10k words

↝ graphic smut.

↝ warning: brief mention of rape, mention of blood, fire, and character death.

“He can’t turn you, he won’t ever subject to this type of life. It’s not even life. He wants to, but he won’t be able to.” He placed his hands on your face, thumbs caressing the worn skin of your irritated cheeks. “That’s why I thought I’d do it for him. Do you want it? Do you want eternal life with Taeyong? To venture on with him, just you and him, forever?”

A courage and a desire spiked your mind. Yes, you want it.

“A nod isn’t enough, my love.” He chuckled. “Say it.”

Your breath hitched. “Yes, I want it.”

The inevitable screech of knife and fork against a porcelain plate ripped you out of your daze, your eyes falling out of their locked position out the window, at the lake, which you couldn’t exactly see, and falling to your empty plate. You couldn’t even remember eating up all your food. How long had you been taking bites of nothing? Spread before you were books, some probably the age of the Rosentine itself, all of them about the same subject.

Vampires.

Freewanderers and members of elite clans alike, origins, history, manners, traditions, and diet. You had so many questions and only a handful of them was being answered. Rather, the more questions that received an answer, the more questions popped up. There was so much to it and so little of it was recorded. You felt so hopeless with knowing so little. But perhaps this was all a big distraction to keep your mind off Johnny. Inside you was still a sense of numbness; a sense of feeling smaller, lesser than before.

You checked the time onto the wall, 4 in the morning and the light above you had a stinging yellow hue and tired your eyes. You should have been asleep, but an empty stomach had woken you up at 2, and here you were, seated at the modern island in the midst of the kitchen and studying. Not what you were supposed to study, of course not; school was really the least of your worries. You, instead, wondered how Taeyong and the others were doing, and what was happening four hours away where the seniors of the Lee family sat.

With the plates dumped in the sink, and your bottom returned to the tall chair by the island, you returned to the book that was opened and forgotten. The History of the Elites, which didn’t tell you more than you knew, but you kept skimming the pages either way. You were looking for the name Seo, to see if Johnny had someone behind him that you could contact for answers. To see if there was a story behind him. But there was no such luck. Taeyong’s words then resounded in your mind;

“Seo might not be his real name, but we don’t know that.”

And there it was again; the unknowing. It was itching over your whole being.

You could feel yourself falling into a daze when the sound of the front door being opened and closed echoed in the hallway and reached you in the dark kitchen. You wanted to be alert, but you knew nothing of any dangers yet. Fairly so, as Doyoung was the one who turned the corner into the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?”

“I missed you” He admitted with a tired smile. You hadn’t talked as much as you should have after Johnny’s funeral. There was no bad blood or distance between you, but you supposed you both were exhausted enough to not make the effort.

You chuckled. “I missed you too. Come, sit down.”

Doyoung was already making his way over on the barstool opposite to yours, but not before finding himself some old whiskey in one of the cupboards. You grimaced at the bottle, it looked like it was older than 100 years, and watched as he poured into a glass and sat down. “I have vodka, you know, and juice.”

“This ghoulish situation calls for something more mature.” He joked in return, but there was something grim behind his eyes. Flipping a page in the book, you didn’t let your eyes fall of the raven head before you; his black orbs in line with yours and not breaking contact either.

“Johnny died in an accident. I’m sorry but what is so ghoulish by that?” You wondered, watching his face. What an odd word to describe Johnny’s death; you couldn’t help but search for double meaning in his phrasing. There was, after all, one thing that was left unexplained that very night of the crash: how did Doyoung know they had crashed?

“That night, the taxi drove you home first. We saw you go into the house. Did you leave again after we went home?”

He shook his head. “No‒”

“Then how did you know that they crashed? You called us. You knew.”

He didn’t answer.

“What are you? How much do you know?”

“Is this an interrogation now?” A chuckle. But you didn’t find it funny. “More than you know.” Was his reply, and you knew. Just like you knew with Johnny. You supposed it wasn’t fashion to be honest with you, or at the very least straightforward. It did create this uncertainty around your friendships. How could it not?

“I’m getting really tired of your lies.” You spoke and bent forward over the ivory surface to grab hold of the ugly bottle, taking a swig of the liquor inside. You wished you could have kept a straight face at the disgusting taste.

“I never lied to you.”

“Not telling me the truth is lying.”

You had him cornered. He was clearly conflicted with you and his actions in the past; judging by the way he kept sipping his drink and staring longingly into the white marble. Not feeling he could look you in the eyes, he felt ashamed for being one of your dearest friends and not even letting you on his real self. He never uttered a lie, but it was true; he had kept you in the shadows and that accounted as being untruthful.

You, too, kept sipping the disgusting drink and your grip on the glass bottle was harsh. “So, you were a vampire your entire life and I only get to know when Johnny dies?”

“We were only turned when we turned 15.”

“We? Both of you? … Why 15 years?”

His glass was empty now. “Because at 15 years you’re ready to join the side of the undead.”

“And who turned you?”

“Our parents, the clan…”

Doyoung and Johnny was turned by their parents and the clan. Were their parents’ vampires too? “The clan?”

It seemed that Doyoung had come to terms with revealing to you everything now. And, you, you were feeling the high of finally getting answers. Adrenaline pumped through your veins.

“Me and Johnny, we’re apart of the Viscardi clan. A clan of 60-or-so people and a leader. It’s nothing like the elite families of the world.” Why did you sense malice in his words?

“Our parents too; they were all turned when we were about 2 years old and they joined the clan. The leader took us in, despite it not being the right time to turn us yet, and we grew up in it. When we turned 15; in a ceremony, they turned us.

Johnny was right away taken in under the wing of our leader, he taught him the special abilities that came with being a Viscardi vampire. Only half of the Viscardi vampires get to learn manipulation, I am one of them, but Johnny, what a figure; our leader saw something extra in him, so he was on his way to becoming a shapeshifter too.”  

Shapeshifters and manipulation? Glancing back down at one of the books you had been scrolling through the past two hours now, trying to fish out one of the ones you had skimmed through previously. Not the blue one, not that one… There. Quick open to the list of content and you found the page you had been on. Special abilities within the vampire race; among the many points, you did find shapeshifting, manipulation and others. It was true.

“…So, you won’t say that the clan is a family?”

He frowned. “Absolutely not.”

“Is this why you never liked Taeyong?”

“Families are arrogant, and they patrol around like they own the world.” He pours himself some more whiskey before pausing, regretting that he served himself more. “There are many stories you should have known, Y/N. Perhaps you’ll know them all one day.” He then rose with the glass in his hand and poured it down the sink.

“How did you know that they had crashed that night?”

“I could smell their blood from a mile’s distance. Yuta and Jaehyun always smelled so sweet.”

A hot tear ran down your cheeks and landed on the paper pages underneath you.

“They don’t anymore.”

You were surprised to sense the very first tears pressing when you got to school the first day since Johnny’s funeral; you had been able to keep strong even after Taeyong left, taking with him Yuta and Jaehyun, even after Johnny’s body was buried in the ground, even after talking with Johnny’s mother, seeing the absolute grief within her immortal eyes. You held your façade through it all. But a huge chunk of the wall you had put up fell with the sight of Yuta’s favorite, your favorite table, littered with flowers, candles and a framed portrait of your friend lost.

Stopping the very second you recognized his face within the golden frame all the over on the other side of the room, you stood right in the entry, the crowd of students parting around you in sympathy. Pitiful and empathic eyes all the same as they watched you, studying your reaction. It was humiliating. Especially when you could feel the sobs threatening to burst through the last bits of your risen wall. Pouting, your chest exploded with grief; new and old. You bit your lip so hard, you drew blood, all to stop crying in the epicenter of the school. Despite all your efforts, your resistance fell when you felt two arms wrap around your shoulders from behind; and you turned in the person’s arms, not even caring of who it was, and cried into their neck.

The wall had fallen. You felt some satisfaction in watching it crumble to the ground.

“Let’s get you somewhere more private,” The voice of someone familiar spoke, and still keeping you in their embrace, they started walking back out of the cafeteria, further down the hallway in search of a less disclosed area. Keeping your head deep into the junction between their neck and their shoulder, and your arms tight around their torso. You felt them hesitate, before pushing open a door and leading you back first into wherever. With the door closing behind your savior, you finally lifted your head to meet his eyes. Soft, umber eyes stared down at you, lacking pity and all the other emotions unwanted by bystanders. Underneath the eyes, you found a round yet defined nose and pudgy lips formed into an even softer smile.

“Sicheng.” You smiled sadly, bursting back into sobs, this time over the boy you hadn’t spoken to in months. Another one left behind, you supposed. Sicheng hushed you, gently, and placed his palms over your wet cheeks. When he lifted your head, you noticed quickly that he had taken you into the boys’ bathroom, hence the hesitation. With another smile, he moved forward, placing his plump lips by the shell of your ear.

“Stop crying, now, my love,” He whispered, and as if there was something else to his words; something of a force that ventured down your spine and entered your skin, you stopped crying. My love, too. He spoke like Taeyong.

He spoke like Taeyong.

Suddenly, all the previous conversations you had had with Sicheng came flooding back over you like a tsunami; the use of the word love, the outdated humor, and the way he could never seem to relate to his peers and the modern media. You looked him up into his eyes. His face had now turned with wonder; his eyes following every confused wrinkle in your expression. You waited for a swirl of ruby, but it didn’t come. Still, you were so sure. There had to be at least a hundred years of history within Sicheng’s eyes.

“You’re one too.” You gasped and waited for a response, waiting for him to read your mind. “Am I wrong?” You wondered after a few second, to which Sicheng bit his lip.

“You’re not.” He replied.

“You’re one of…” You were interrupted by Sicheng already nodding in response. Still so sore by grief, you were already exhausted from this newfound truth. In reality, you shouldn’t have been so surprised, because by already talking to Doyoung and understanding that a big chunk of your so-called idyllic hometown was a race of the supernatural, you had started bracing yourself for the further revelations of the other side of the world, existing outside your very window. Sicheng, another good friend of you, that lived alone since he moved here and had always looked like this, despite arriving at school a couple of years back, telling everyone he was 15. How foolish you had been.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” He spoke so softly, so prettily, it was like he was hypnotizing you. “I know it must come as a shock.”

You could feel yourself getting higher, and suddenly your head rested against the wall. You felt around you, finding yourself seated at the tiled floors of the boys’ bathroom. With every second that passed, your eyesight got blurry. “Sicheng?” Calling out into the air in front of you, you heard your voice, frail and scared. Suddenly a click sounded out into the room and Sicheng made his way back over to you. His face was clear amongst the blurriness of colors and shadows, and he had that same soft smile on his lips.

“I’ll not beat around the bush. I’m here to let you join us.” He spoke. “You want that, don’t you?”

You hummed, feeling drowsy. “Join you?”

“As a vampire,” He supplied kindly. “I know Taeyong from way back. He won’t ever turn you.” His opinion caused something to stir within you, and quickly you tried to fight the high. You needed clarity. “What do you mean?”

“He can’t turn you, he won’t ever subject to this type of life. It’s not even life. He wants to, but he won’t be able to.” Sicheng placed his hands on your face, thumbs caressing the worn skin of your irritated cheeks. “That’s why I thought I’d do it for him. Do you want it? Do you want eternal life with Taeyong? To venture on with him, just you and him, forever?”

A courage and a desire spiked your mind. Yes, you want it.

“A nod isn’t enough, my love.” He chuckled. “Say it.”

Your breath hitched. “Yes, I want it.”

“Perfect, now, there are two ways to do this,” As he spoke, your sight grew blurrier and blurrier but at the same time, your mind grew clearer and clearer; as if the high was wearing off. Within clarity, your ability to be critic returned and you questioned: what exactly was Sicheng doing to you? What was this high feeling? “the pleasurable way or the painful way.”

“Pleasurable?”

“It means exactly what you think it does.”

Your heart fell, and you sensed your throat clogging up with sobs. “But Taeyong? I can’t do that too him.”

Sicheng took a while to come up with an answer, you sensed his hesitation. By now, you couldn’t make out anything in front of you, it was only a mixture of blue, beige and white; in the midst of it you could make out a mop of black which must have been Sicheng’s hair. You saw it move, back and forth, then it rose higher up, and the tan of his skin came closer; filling your whole vision. His thighs spread on either side of your hips and his presence filled the air before you.

No, I can’t.

Just as you expected Sicheng to kiss you, or to touch you; something else did. An object penetrated the muscles of your left thigh and your vision became clear. A knife perched within you. A shock of electricity shot throughout the length of your body with the number of severed nerves. You could almost see them still on the metal of the blade as Sicheng pulled it out of you, or perhaps that was just the blood. However, there was no adrenaline in your veins, no screams; you were involuntary calm. If you focused hard enough, it was almost as if you could sense this foreign force inside your body, holding your adrenaline at bay so you would feel the pain of your wound throbbing through your muscles and your nerves. Throbbing throughout the very tips of your fingers all the way to your beating heart. Without thinking, without actually having the energy to move, your hand reached out and touched the pool of blood collecting in the rip of your jean and you whispered in complete shock:

“Sicheng?”

A quick look up to him and you recognized his bloodred eyes before your whole vision blurred by his tan skin yet again as he flew forward so quickly you barely acknowledged it. He sat his teeth in your neck and held you into his chest as everything around you faded into a deep starless night sky and your heart ceased to beat.

You woke with a jolt. On your back with your arms lying flat against the mattress of some bedroom, your eyes shot around to become familiar with wherever you were. There was little you could recall; your mind was in a frenzy and every memory for the first five minutes of consciousness was blurry. The room you were within, however, was familiar. It was the master bedroom of the Rosentine; Taeyong’s bedroom.

Expecting the usual flutter of your heart with the thought of your lover, you were surprised to instead only feel this rushing feeling inside your body. It was exciting, that much was true, but the sensation was underwhelming in comparison to having a thumping heart. A sigh escaped your lips and you helped yourself up in a sitting position. The window opposite the bed showed a partly blue sky with grey clouds covering the sun every now and then. As you climbed over the sheets and the soft fur blankets of the bed, the cold air of the room hit your skin in a different way; and you noticed you had been stripped bare except your underwear. Wondering what for, you couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy. “Whatever, I’m sure I’m fine.” You assured yourself, sitting both feet down against the floor and standing up.

Your whole body felt different; you felt lighter as if you had lost several pounds, yet you didn’t look different. Within you, your heart had stopped beating, and blood didn’t flow through your veins anymore. Instead, it only filled them. Given that, you should have felt heavy and bloated, but if you recalled correctly, the blood of a turned vampire became lighter and darker so that it wasn’t a nuisance. There were different forces that kept you standing now than your heart and your blood.

You never were the best to deal with changes, but this change; this massive difference, you were excited about. You couldn’t help but tell Taeyong and live out the rest of your immortal lives together. Of course, if you’re not killed by wood, silver or fire. Memories of Johnny flooded back into your mind; his sad eyes that ceased with energy with every second that passed while he confessed how much he had loved you. Please don’t cry now, you told yourself, as you wandered out into the bathroom. The sight that met you in the mirror above the vanity was nothing too out of the ordinary. You were paler and your eyes were ruby. But the rest of you remained the same. Staring yourself into your blood eyes, you tensed your body and focused on your eyes. The tensing of your muscles caused you to close your eyes, and when you opened them again, your irises were your usual color.

Fascinated, you kept changing your irises back and forth. You giggled, excited over this small sense of power. Finally, after you were done studying yourself in the mirrors, testing new capabilities and skills; you got dressed in one of the jumpers and jeans you had left in Taeyong’s wardrobe. You had barely gotten yourself into the blue jeans when the door downstairs was opened and slammed shut. It was another moment where the loss of your heart hit you again; you expected it to thump quickly with your fear as the newcomer ran up the stairs to the bedroom. You didn’t know who you expected it to be, but your last guess would have been the one who actually showed up in front of you.

Taeyong.

“My love,” He croaked out with pain, his eyes were mournful as he fell to his knees by the open door of the bedroom. His red hair was darker now, black it was, and his skin didn’t glow much. He was clad in a simple pair of black trousers, and his chest was covered by a beige silken shirt with blue flower petals all over. He looked weak, and you couldn’t help but feel a rush of regret and remorse bolt through your stomach. Despite that you had, in fact, lost your heartbeat, you could feel the burning sensations of said emotions within your chest.

“My love, my love, who did this to you?”

Your eyes stung, so suddenly, and you walked slowly over to him on the floor. “Why are you sad? We can be together now, can’t we? Forever.”

You sat down on your knees like him, taking his hands as he fell further down on the cold floor chilled by the autumn air of the wintry house. “Is that not what you wanted, Taeyong?” You couldn’t help but ask. Never before had you doubted his love for you. He didn’t answer you, instead, he threw his arms around you and drew you into his chest. With you in his arms, he scooted you both of the floor so he could rest his back against the wall. Being pushed closer and closer to him, as he sobbed underneath you, you couldn’t help but press your palm against the navy wallpaper. You didn’t know why maybe it was your instinct. With your palm against the wall, you felt vibrations throughout the skeleton of the house, the door had been closed — someone was coming in.

“Is that not what you wanted?” You repeated your question, biting back your own tears as Taeyong became wreck underneath your breasts. Why was he so sad? You couldn’t fathom it.

Instead of answering you, he repeated his own question. “Who turned you?”

“I did.”

Sicheng stood in the door, his face bore no sign of satisfaction which you expected with the way he had said that. He was clad in black from head to toe, and on his finger was a ring of silver, ironically, adorning a symbol. A detail you were sure you hadn’t noticed hadn’t it been for the absurdity of the situation. Here you were, almost naked in your sobbing boyfriend’s lap on the floor and your friend that transformed you into a vampire comes strolling in.

Suddenly, you were thrown on the floor and Taeyong had rushed to his feet. In a blink, he had Sicheng lifted and pushed against the wall, holding him by the collar of his shirt. You couldn’t do much than reach for one of the blankets to cover your body in a moment of feeling so exposed and scream for your lover to stop.

“How could you?” Taeyong spat in Sicheng’s face, enraged over the indifference in his eyes.

“It is revenge.” He replied calmly, holding his own hands over Taeyong’s fists. “You took Ten from me, so I’m taking Y/N from you.”

“What are you talking about?” You gasped and stared frightened up at your friend. Back, stared a pair of ruby eyes, as soft as ever.

“I won’t ever kill you, love,” He smiled. “I’m just taking you into my clan, before Taeyong could.”

Taeyong’s growling grew darker, deeper, and you could see his hold tightening. But you didn’t understand, so you kept digging. There was only one clan you knew about.

“… A–are you in the Viscardi clan?”

“Yes. So are you now, Y/N,” Sicheng smiled your way, before turning back to Taeyong who kept pushing him further and further into the wall. “… so are you.”

“I never meant to get Ten killed and you know that. How could you do this to us?”

“But you did, and now you have to give up your love too. She’ll come with me and become a Viscardi, the way her friend Johnny was, and the way her friend Doyoung is. She’ll probably be happier.” Taeyong was about to strike Sicheng’s jaw at his remark when your weak voice punctured the atmosphere;

“But what does this mean for us, Taeyong? It doesn’t have to be the end.”

Both men froze in their hostile position, Sicheng with his cocky, ruby eyes set on Taeyong who was still holding him by his collar against a newly formed dent in the wall. A sigh, probably from the lips of your lover. “I don’t know, my love.”

Suddenly, Sicheng landed slowly back on his feet, with Taeyong falling off his. He sunk to the floor on the other side of the room, his eyes didn’t meet yours. You could feel something deep within your stomach drop, and suddenly your whole body felt heavy with hopelessness. Sicheng smoothed out his collar and looked at you, moving over to help you to your feet. As if you were light as a feather, he pulled you to your feet. “Let’s go, love. There’s no reason for you to stay here.”

Your mind was screaming with refusal, but you physically could only whisper a soft ‘no’. “Why? I’m a free person, I want to be here. You can’t force me to go anywhere.”

“No, I can’t.” He agreed, but the intent in his eyes said otherwise. You felt chills over your back and the defiance wearing off, as if you were losing control of your own body. “But you’ll go freely.”

Just like that, you followed Sicheng out of the bedroom, down the stairs and peacefully out of the Rosentine. You weren’t strong enough to break the spell.

It truly wasn’t you who took your things and walked out of the Rosentine that day, who walked out on Taeyong. You learned that soon enough when Sicheng took you to his home. An old house, younger and less than half the size of the Rosentine; white exterior and a sharp black roof with a pale decorative trim. It laid by the cliff by the sea, on the complete other side of town from Rosentine by the lake. Even though it was a small house, in fact, you’d describe it as an old summer house if someone asked, it packed much downstairs. An entire base of hallways, grand halls and a library with an office was found underneath the house. The symbol on Sicheng’s ring was found above the walls, carved in the wood and on silver pieces all around those halls. The Viscardi symbol of an iris hugged by a thin snake. It was within those hallways and grand rooms you discovered that not only was Sicheng a member of the clan, a high-ranked member, but he was the leader; newly appointed just after Johnny’s death when his mentor stepped down.

And that was another thing you discovered about Johnny; he was about to be leader one day. Under the mentorship of the head, he would learn the two abilities that followed with being a Viscardi as well as how to lead them all one day. You hadn’t expected that. Once, you earned the truth about Johnny’s story, all in hopes of you becoming more comfortable with him being gone forever. But the more you unraveled, the more your grief grew. Not only was Johnny dead, but you were losing who he was to you, and only remembering the part of him that he had never shown you, all the truths he had held back from you. Not even in your thoughts and dreams would the Johnny you had known stay alive.

And it all was another burden to bear on your worn-out shoulders. Ever since you came to the house, you had not been allowed back to the Rosentine or to see Taeyong at all. Your insides would burn with anger and devotion, but every time you’d protest; your words would die on your tongue and the anger would not transfer to your muscles. As if you were being physically held back. And you were.

Sicheng was a master manipulator, in all ways, but he had mastered one of the abilities tied to the clan; manipulating the acts and bodies of others. He was also an appearance-changer, which meant that he could alter his looks to mimic someone else. Something that you too would learn, being just underneath Sicheng. Indeed, you were high ranked and respected among the clan, even though you were a newborn and was, in all honesty, struggling with your new identity and everything that followed. You were the only vampire that Sicheng had ever turned, so you had his full attention at all times. With school done, you devoted your time to studying in your captivity, and mastering the two arts taught to you by your leader — and not to mention: figuring out how to cut all ties with the clan and return to Taeyong.

Taeyong.

You spoke his name every night before you fell asleep and every morning when you woke up, tears in your eyes and the bond shared between you tearing at your skin; you chanted his name as if he could hear you. Hear you and come rescue you. He hadn’t shown up yet. But you weren’t too angry about it. You were wrong for expecting so much from him. With your time with Sicheng and away from him, in the midst of all the abilities of being a vampire, you had learned a more significant skill: giving yourself to your partner. The way Taeyong gave all of him to you, you had learned how to give all of yourself to him.

All you wanted now was to be able to do that.

When Sicheng trained you, you’d speak to him about old times, of all the parties you’d been to together and all the times you had gotten in trouble. You tried to appeal to his younger self, when you hadn’t been mixed into the supernatural world and he had no reason to hurt you and your boyfriend. Your boyfriend at the time being Jaehyun. That very thought would always set your skin ablaze with jealousy and hopelessness; he was a Lee now. He was where you were supposed to be.

By talking to Sicheng, you also came to know another person. Ten. A young boy who was turned at the same time as Sicheng was, by the same man. Ten and Sicheng was in the same class, a hundred years back, but had no relations whatsoever. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; Sicheng found the boy so incredibly beautiful. And Ten’s best friend, Taeyong, told Sicheng that the boy felt the same. According to your maker, the two was walking home from school one late night, finally talking, when an unknown man stepped out of the bushes, grabbed Ten and sheathed a dagger through his torso. It was the first of two times, Sicheng watched the life slip from Ten’s warm eyes. The man placed his teeth at his neck and transformed. Sicheng couldn’t remember why he didn’t run, but he was easily overpowered after Ten was drained and left on the ground. But he told you, he had never felt so happy when he and Ten woke together on a bed within the house of the Viscardi, both undead. He wouldn’t tell you how Ten was killed.

In those moments of reminiscing, you yourself felt this joy of returning to when everything was fine and so simple. It created uncertainty within you. Sicheng was so nice with you despite him holding you in the house like this. You weren’t yet allowed to travel away or go wherever you wanted. He would never lay a hand on you, but you weren’t sure he knew just how much he was hurting you anyway. Your very creation was based on a grudge and it supposedly made you unable to be with your mate. But it wasn’t only Sicheng. When you brought up Taeyong, he’d sometimes tell you to leave, that he wouldn’t stop you. But in his place, there would be something within yourself that held you back. Sometimes you felt that you didn’t yet have enough control over your capabilities and your thirst. Sometimes it would be guilt from leaving Taeyong in the first place; “he deserves better.” Other times it would be the crippling thought that Taeyong simply didn’t care anymore, that he had found someone else by now. Yet, still, all you wanted was to give yourself back to Taeyong.

You were chained.

Throughout your time with the clan and Sicheng, you had managed to befriend a couple of them which made your stay and your training not too bad. You also had Doyoung. Together, you both trained in manipulation, something that you had shown to have a natural talent for. A senior had watched you once and told you that you were rivaling Sicheng; he continued on telling you how your force would enter bodies more fluently than the leader’s and that your control was stronger. Doyoung kept telling you that, as well; unbelievably much, it was almost as if he was trying to tell you something.

“You might as well be stronger than Sicheng already, amazing.” Doyoung voiced. Despite the intensity in his voice, his eyes would not leave the book in his hand. He was propped against the wall, sitting on the bed in which you slept in, in one of the guest room on the uppermost floor of the old house. The house was tall yet narrow, and the floor your room was in only had space for three bedrooms: yours, Sicheng’s and another young vampire who you hadn’t talked much with. Usually, the house would be empty except Sicheng, but with the turning of two new vampires; you and the other girl, important clan members would gather. That’s why the house was a little crammed about now, and that Doyoung basically slept over beneath your bed. Despite that you were friendly with most members about now, the many people gathered at the house only worsened your panic and your melancholy. There was no privacy.

“Really.” Doyoung emphasized. You sighed in response, putting down your own book on the desk before you, turning the chair to face your raven headed friend atop your bed. Your friend and perhaps the only reason you hadn’t gone insane.

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head quickly, his eyes finally on you. “I’m just marveling.”

“Yeah, right.” You frowned, watching him and his dismissive eyes for an extra second. What was he saying you use your abilities for, exactly?

“You could probably look like me.”

“Yes…?”

“And do some errands for me.”

Excitement filled your chest, and you gleefully smiled up at the dark eyes of your friend. “Sure!”

Tears had already filled your eyes once you had stopped in front of the violet door of the home you still loved so dearly. The sun was out now, and the summer air was a delight against your skin. You wished you looked like yourself now, that you were wearing the very dress you had worn the first time you had come to the Rosentine, when Taeyong burnt those cookies for you. Adorning Doyoung’s face, you bit your lip to stifle your sobs when the door was finally opened for you. Behind it stood not your mate, but Yuta. He was paler, of course, and it looked as if he had just fed. His plump lips were maroon and dewy, and his eyes wide as they took in the sight of Doyoung crying on Taeyong’s porch.

“Doyoung?” He stepped aside and placed his arms around your shoulders, leading inside and down the familiar hallway until you stood in the arch into the living room. Yuta hurried to close the door behind you and back to call for Taeyong. With his back to you, you turned back to yourself. Black locks returned to your usual color, and Doyoung’s usual irises of chocolate became your ruby ones. It was your devastated eyes and wet lips that met Yuta as he turned back to you, and that met the two other men inside. Taeyong stopped by the foot of the stairs, and Jaehyun looked up from the book he was reading on the loveseat.

Time froze with their eyes upon you, before it sped back up when Taeyong appeared before you; enveloping you within his cold, yet loving embrace. Despite you both being cold now, void of any life, you had never felt so warm and happy in your entire life.

There in his arms.

“My love,” He whispered, relief within his words as he stared down into your eyes. “I’m so sorry that I haven’t come for you, I‒”

You shushed him. “It’s okay, my love, I’m here now.”

“But you can’t stay, can you?” His breath hitched, and you cuddled closer into his neck, your eyes falling onto Jaehyun who sat behind you. Wide crimson eyes stared right back at you, unreadable eyes; but you had no room for Jaehyun and his confusing acts. All you cared about was Taeyong. Oh, how the tables had turned.

“No, I can’t,” You whispered. “not yet, at least.”

Taeyong looked beaten down, but the second he saw you mirror his look, he smiled down at you and started kissing every piece of skin he could reach.

“Then let’s make this count.”

The way back to the house, you had never felt such terror. With every turn you took, you expected one of the others to jump you and grab you. With every road you ventured down, you expected Sicheng himself to come forth. Your winter and spring had been spent pent up in that house, dreaming of Taeyong and freedom. Now as summer was coming to its peak, you were finally starting to see the light of the end of the tunnel. But you still felt like the remainder of the road was tricky and not to mention dangerous. You sensed dark faces between the lush leaves of the bushes and trees you passed as you walked towards the harbor. You were getting wet from the light drizzle that came from ominous, black clouds. Only another five minutes of walking and you’d reach the house and the lithe neighborhood surrounding it. You’d already been walking an hour; it was a long way to the lake, but you didn’t want to grab any attention by asking someone to drive you, neither to nor from the Rosentine.

With a last turn, around a small summer cabin, you breathed out in relief as you noticed the front door of the house closed and all the lights out. Perhaps you’d get away with all of this; and if this first escapade had been successful, perhaps you could leave the house too. All of these thoughts came crashing down before your very feet when you were met with Sicheng in one of the chairs in the living room, the very first room you met when you stepped inside the green front door. There was no way.

“You went to see him?” Sicheng spoke, malice lacing every softly spoken word. He sat back in his chair, eyes never leaving your form. “Why would disobey me, Y/N?”

“You’re insane, Sicheng.” You spat, eyes blurred with tears and your chest filled with malice and hatred for him, for the clan. “How can you refuse me to see my soulmate? I’m broken‒”

“Because he refused me to see mine.” He screeched back, flying to his very feet before turning around to one of the cabinets behind him. He messed around in the many cupboards, appearing to search for something specific. Your mind raced to the tale of Sicheng and Ten. Sicheng’s voice was ruined, broken from almost a century of grief, it almost made you forgive him for all he’s done. Almost, being the key word here, as the clan leader had finally turned back around with what he’d been looking for. A box of matches.

Fire.

“He took Ten from me.”

“Sicheng?” You whispered, watching as he took a match out of the box and scraped against the side of the paper box. The match lit and the petite flame lit in both of your eyes, warm yet deadly. You were about to scream again when your back fell against the wall furthest away from Sicheng with the lit match. He came closer, eyes crazed and devastated; just like yours.

“Are you going to take me from Taeyong?” You asked, trying to accept the fact you were going to go tonight. You had no doubts what he could do with that mere match. Sicheng seemed caught-off-guard with your questions, with his eyes softening barely, and a soft smile to return to his wet, maroon-clad lips.

“I never want to hurt you, my love. You were my good friend long before Taeyong returned to town and marked you, ruined you. But you need this, so you never disobey me again.”

“Sicheng, listen to yourself, please.” You begged, voice breaking down with the tears that continued on running down the skin of your flushed cheeks. He was coming closer now, and just before you, he kneeled down to be on eye-level with you, who’s legs had failed underneath you, letting your weight come crashing down on the worn wooden floor. You could feel your stomach churn with the way Sicheng moved the match left, then right. It was almost burnt up by now, but that didn’t stop him. He only took the box back up, fished out another one and lit it, right before you. Ruby irises met the coral hue of the flame.

Just as Sicheng moved the match down to burn the skin of your arm, you yelped. “Sicheng, no, stop that.”

He did, but his eyes showed that it wasn’t him stopping. His eyes were vivid and black eyebrows were furrowed, as if he was trying to fight back, but to no avail. You showed greater strength than him. You won’t. With a sigh, you projected all your power into keeping the match far away from your skin till it burnt up. The very second it had diminished, you sprung to your feet and escaped to the other side of the room. Sicheng chuckled humorlessly and once again fished out the box of matches from his pockets. “So, you can control me now?” He growled, he drew out five or more matches this time, and lit one after one; only to drop them to the dry, old floor. They laid there, against the wood and burned, ominously.

“What are you d‒doing?” You hiccupped, fisting the velvet of the sofa you had sprung behind. Eyes wide and wet, the flickers of the flames growing against the floor burnt your very insides. You expected Sicheng to smirk, to be satisfied over what he had done, but when you looked back up into his blood eyes; you found them wide and terrified. His bottom lip was trembling and suddenly he was enveloped in a ring of fire.

“I‒I don’t know,” He cried. “I don’t what I have done. I’ve been going crazy ever since Taeyong came to town.” His words almost drowned in the sound of the flames spreading and engulfing the curtains and the carpets and the feet of every furniture within the living room. Smoke started rising to the roof, and your body froze, watching Sicheng in the midst of it all. It was nowhere far from you either, or you watched the room for any way out. It was quickly becoming a hopeless situation; you coughed.

Sicheng started coughing too, and the flames started biting on your feet; a sensation like a couple of bees kissing your toes ‒ not at all what you had imagined. The flames were inching further and further up and within two or three minutes from when Sicheng had dropped the matches, the entire room was blanketed in a fire that continued on eating down the house. You finally sprung into action and walked through the flames over the floor, marveling at the rather soft feeling of the fire. Why didn’t it hurt? Sicheng was another story, he had fallen to his knees, and the flames were kissing the clothes on his body, blackening and wounding his pale skin. You fell to your feet and moved your arms around Sicheng, pushing his face closer to you as you screamed;

“We’ll get out of here, hang on.”

With tears in your eyes, and a lack of energy thereof, you lifted Sicheng up into your arms and tried to walk out of the house. With the furniture, roof, and walls collapsing around you; you didn’t get far before you were knocked off your feet. Right by the stairs, you had fallen on your back, cradling Sicheng close. After all that had happened, your priority was to save him. “Is everyone else out?”

Sicheng was able to nod quickly before you tried getting back to your feet. The fire had spread throughout the entire house about now, in the midst of panicking and blanking out, logic told you it must be because the wood was so dry and old after weeks of no rain. But that really wasn’t important now, getting out was. Just as you had gotten back to your feet, a pillar of the wall between the hallway and the living room fell down before you and Sicheng. “I kept seeing Ten everywhere I went. I was going crazy.” Sicheng admitted between coughs, and you fell back to your butt in defeat, sobbing your heart out.

“It’s not,” You wheezed out, watching Sicheng’s eyes with the last bit of energy left in your body. “important.”

And with that, everything faded around you.

“It’s Y/N, right?”

Bright light pushed and pressed at your eyelids; poked until you opened them up, only to blind you when your eyes were exposed. After what seemed forever, which must have only been a couple of seconds, you were able to take in the space in which you existed. Space, as there weren’t much to it. It wasn’t a room, nor a building, or even nature. You were sitting in the middle of the void, and the very light that had woken up was gone. Every you looked ‒ void. Void of any color, void of anything material at all. “This must be a dream.” You sighed, tears of frustration and fear pressing at your very eyes. The bright light was gone, but you could see right where you were, but every other direction was gone.

“Who said my name?” You called out, hearing your own voice shiver throughout the empty space. Your answer came from behind you, and you flew around to meet the owner of it. What you met was a pale, petite man with black hair that fell down in front of his face and tickled his neck. His eyes were almond and red, his lips were pink. His lean body was clad in a pair of black trousers and a white blouse, barely buttoned. Underneath the pale cloth of the blouse was a pale, muscular chest. “Who are you?”

“I’m Ten.”

“That’s not possible.” You weakly spoke, eyes never falling of the figure in front of you. “Ten” giggled, and slowly moved over to sit down beside you.

“Remember, you’re not human anymore. As a vampire, you’re given the abilities to do a lot more than what was possible as a human.” He explained softly, just like Sicheng used to speak. Just like Taeyong spoke. “Not to say we are some type of god, but at least more superior than humans.”

Your laughter was weak, as your body felt weary and your eyes dry. Ten seemingly noticed.

“You’re in a very dangerous situation right now,” He acknowledged. “you’ll walk out the door of the house without a wound. You have the abilities of a Lee.”

You whipped your head around to catch his eyes, your voice caught in your throat. “W‒what?”

“You’re hard to damage, another trait from the first of our line, Roma.” He explained, witnessing the fright and confusion in your eyes. Roma? All the words you couldn’t get out still hung in the air and Ten picked them down and answered them all for you. “You don’t know? The first Viscardi was a Lee vampire. There isn’t anything called a Viscardi, in reality; we’re all the same.”

He continued;

“Roma Lee was a rich widow who lived in the Rosentine. With her husband dead, she roamed the hallways of the Rosentine all alone. Her family refused her to come out of the house or to meet any of her friends, so she was incredibly depressed. One night, she had a knife against her heart when a man broke into her house. He found her like that and just as she plunged the knife through her heart, the man leaped forward and bit her neck. Thus, as you might know by now, she was turned.

Roma was a loving figure; she went around and turned her friends and family to join her as the undead. After several decades Roma was the matriarch of a big and influential family within the supernatural world. But because she was so powerful, she had many enemies. Some were even her own; one man betrayed and went on to create the Viscardi clan. Which is where we come in.”

You couldn’t help but smile, gleefully, placing your hands on Ten’s face to burn his face into your memories. But then, your smile faded, and your stomach churned. “How do I know this is true, and not me dreaming? How do I know this is not just my wildest imagination and my hopeless wishes?”

“Because of this.” Ten placed his palm over your wrist, and just as he pulled it back away; a rose was imprinted in the very skin where he had touched. The following words uttered by Ten drowned as you started falling.

Smoke.

Smoke and fire was all you could register when you opened your eyes yet again. You were propped up against the stairs, around you were a patch of untouched wood, but the smoke was thick and heavy. So thick and heavy, you could barely see the green hue of the front door. But luckily, you did, and you picked up Sicheng who laid beside you, unconscious, and fell forward towards it. The whole house had weakened from the fire, so the door didn’t resist much against the weight of you falling with Sicheng in your arms. The next thing you registered was you falling against the wet, cold ground and your face being tickled by the drenched strands of grass. Through a blurry vision, you recognized Sicheng on the ground next to you. “Because of this.” With a sudden surge of energy, you pushed yourself up from the ground to come face to face with a crowd of at least a hundred people or more, and at least five people running for you and Sicheng.

You couldn’t register who they were with your eyes so dry and smoked out; but the first one looked a bit like Doyoung. Hearing your name being screeched, you looked down at your wrist where Ten had touched you, only to find a rose scratched into your skin seemingly with a sharp nail. It was good enough for you, and you fell forward towards Sicheng, collecting him in your arms as you tried to wake him up; completely failing to recognize the ones that had ran to you.

Sicheng was weak, but a hue of ruby did show up between his lashes. A sigh gave you the sign you needed; you closed your eyes, tensed your muscles and focused on Ten’s facial features. You felt the change of hair and the gaps from the people right by you confirmed it. “Ten?” Sicheng gasped, weak and delirious from all the pain. “My love, is that you?”

The flaw with shapeshifting was that your voice remained unchanged so you could not speak, that’s why you only nodded, sitting down at the ground and placing Sicheng’s head in your lap. The people remained unrecognized in front of you and the house burned down to the ground behind you. The town’s firemen had finally arrived at the scene, but the house was not the save; much like Sicheng, as he continued on letting go of it all right in your arms. You’d be free once again, but at such a great cost you couldn’t feel positive about it.

“Ten, ten,” He chanted the name, his hand fisting the cloth of your t-shirt. You knew if he had had the energy, he would have been touching your skin, kissing you. But he didn’t have the energy, which was why you moved down to place your lips, or Ten’s lips, against Sicheng’s. In that very moment, you felt him go completely limp in your arms, taken by the burn wounds on his skin. As you backed away, slowly prying Sicheng out of your arms, you couldn’t help but marvel at the actual fragility of a vampire’s life. “I guess we’re all destined to die.” You whispered, feeling the normal sensation your hair once again before finally looking up, coming face to face with a familiar pair of chocolate eyes.

“Taeyong,” You cried, sobs shaking your body as you let yourself be ripped off the ground and into his arms. Taeyong cried, too, into the skin of your neck. He didn’t have the power to hold himself up for long, the relief and the grief all too much for him as he sat you both down on the grass. You had never held anyone so tight, and you were sure Taeyong had never cried so much for anyone else. Finally, you let yourself think in the midst of it all, you could give yourself to him as he gave himself to you.

“You look so beautiful, my love.”

You groaned out into the heated air, arms around Taeyong’s pillow and hugging it, inhaling the sweet scent of it, while Taeyong continued to kiss your wet folds. It was teasing kisses, touches that barely could be called touches that only worked to further your frustrations. “Not as beautiful as you, though.” You teased, daringly moving your hand down to tug at his hair. His arms slithered around your his and pulled you further down over the lilac, satin sheets.

Taeyong replied to that by biting the sensitive skin of your inner thigh along with a low growl. “Shut your mouth.”  

He continued teasing your heat, licking and prodding at your wet sensitivity, eliciting all these soft groans and moans from out of your lips; teasing you enough so you could feel your high coming in the faraway, only for Taeyong to rip it from you by pulling back and observing your wrecked state. It took a very particular desperate whine to escape your lips before Taeyong stopped his ministrations and gave you what you really wanted. You could feel your abdomen hot with desire and pleasure and chills that ran up your whole body when his angry and soaking tip came to rest against your clit.

“Come on, Tae,” You pouted, clawing at his muscular abdomen and his hips; doing anything to get him closer than this. “stop teasing.”

“I can’t help it,” He admitted breathlessly as he finally started thrusting the tip down, and inside your swollen lips. “you’re too precious when you look so wrecked.”

“Precious, huh?” You chuckled darkly, and in the spur of the moment, you fished out some extra strength within you to flip the two of you over. Taeyong yelped loudly as his back fell against the satin, and you quickly got to work, moving your hips up and down on his erect manhood, letting your hands wander up and down his chest. “Am I too precious now?” You teased, erratically moving your hips, fucking yourself on him, all the while your hands had landed and found leverage teasing him on his nipples which stood hard against the air of the room. You found a sweet spot over his nipples, exposed by the sound Taeyong made, the whines he let out when you toyed with them.

“Yes,” He groaned out, enjoying the view of you working him. “you do.”

He helped himself up, supported by his shoulders against the mattress, and watched where you were both connected. The juices spilling from both you and him that glistened in the golden light of the bedside lamp, working as a lubricant so you could move your hips faster and faster. “I don’t like you calling me precious.” You breathed out between moans, your hands quickly moving to claw at the muscles just underneath his neck.

“You don’t mean that.” He breathed back, which caught your attention. You stopped moving your hips up and down and settled to grinding against his abdomen, your clit gracing his wet skin. “W‒what do you mean?”

“I can sense your sincerity. You love being called precious.” He spoke softly, hands flying to claw at your bottom, trying to make you start riding him again. He was about to moan when you stopped completely; stomach churning with dread.

“Then,” You gulped. “you knew… when I came back to you the day after you told me we were mates… you knew I lied? You knew I lied about loving you? Did you know all the time?”

Despite Taeyong being the most forgiving, giving and purest creature on the planet, you did expect him to be angry, sad, or even just frustrated. Instead, he scooted back against the headboard and hugged you close to his chest. His lips reached everywhere over your face. As he spoke, he planted his feet against the mattress and lifted his hips. “I did, but that didn’t hurt me. I knew you needed time. I was willing to give you that time.”

You wanted to cry, filled with so much love and understanding, but all you could do was moan when he started thrusting up into you with all the determination he found within himself. The hand that was perched on your hips, holding you up, was perched on your clit, flicking it so you could reach one of many orgasms of the night. Finally, as you found the light in the tunnel with a seismic orgasm and a scream to the heavens, you could feel his sharp teeth prodding at your neck.

“Now, let’s really make you a Lee. Just as you were destined to be.”