#Scholarly Inquiry

[blueheartbookclub]

"Embarking on Enlightenment: A Journey through 'Initiation into Philosophy' by Émile Faguet"

Émile Faguet's "Initiation into Philosophy" serves as a captivating portal into the world of profound ideas and intellectual exploration. This literary gem not only educates but also enthralls, making the initiation into philosophy a thrilling adventure.

Faguet, with eloquence and insight, navigates the intricate landscapes of philosophical thought, presenting complex concepts in a manner accessible to both novices and seasoned philosophers. The book invites readers to ponder the fundamental questions that have shaped human understanding for centuries, sparking a delightful intellectual curiosity.

One of the book's strengths lies in its ability to demystify philosophy, transforming it from an abstract discipline into a vibrant and relevant exploration of life's most profound inquiries. Faguet's narrative style is both engaging and thought-provoking, creating a harmonious balance between scholarly depth and reader-friendly accessibility.

As readers traverse the pages, they encounter a rich tapestry of philosophical traditions, from ancient wisdom to modern theories, each contributing to the mosaic of human thought. Faguet masterfully weaves together key philosophical tenets, offering readers a panoramic view of the discipline's evolution while highlighting its enduring relevance to contemporary life.

The book's thematic organization allows for a seamless journey through the realms of metaphysics, ethics, and epistemology, providing readers with a comprehensive understanding of philosophy's multifaceted nature. Faguet's insights into the works of notable philosophers add a layer of richness, transforming the book into a guide through the intellectual lineage of great thinkers.

"Initiation into Philosophy" is not merely a book; it is an odyssey that beckons readers to embrace the joy of intellectual discovery. Faguet's prose invites reflection, prompting readers to question, contemplate, and savor the intricacies of the philosophical landscape.

In conclusion, Faguet's "Initiation into Philosophy" is an intellectual feast that transcends the boundaries of time. With a captivating blend of erudition and accessibility, the book stands as an enduring testament to the timeless allure of philosophical inquiry, making it a must-read for anyone curious about the profound mysteries of existence.

Émile Faguet's "Initiation into Philosophy" is available in Amazon in paperback 12.99$ and hardcover 20.99$ editions.

Number of pages: 191

Language: English

Rating: 8/10                                           

Link of the book!

Review By: King's Cat

[blueheartbooks]

"Embarking on Enlightenment: A Journey through 'Initiation into Philosophy' by Émile Faguet"

Émile Faguet's "Initiation into Philosophy" serves as a captivating portal into the world of profound ideas and intellectual exploration. This literary gem not only educates but also enthralls, making the initiation into philosophy a thrilling adventure.

Faguet, with eloquence and insight, navigates the intricate landscapes of philosophical thought, presenting complex concepts in a manner accessible to both novices and seasoned philosophers. The book invites readers to ponder the fundamental questions that have shaped human understanding for centuries, sparking a delightful intellectual curiosity.

One of the book's strengths lies in its ability to demystify philosophy, transforming it from an abstract discipline into a vibrant and relevant exploration of life's most profound inquiries. Faguet's narrative style is both engaging and thought-provoking, creating a harmonious balance between scholarly depth and reader-friendly accessibility.

As readers traverse the pages, they encounter a rich tapestry of philosophical traditions, from ancient wisdom to modern theories, each contributing to the mosaic of human thought. Faguet masterfully weaves together key philosophical tenets, offering readers a panoramic view of the discipline's evolution while highlighting its enduring relevance to contemporary life.

The book's thematic organization allows for a seamless journey through the realms of metaphysics, ethics, and epistemology, providing readers with a comprehensive understanding of philosophy's multifaceted nature. Faguet's insights into the works of notable philosophers add a layer of richness, transforming the book into a guide through the intellectual lineage of great thinkers.

"Initiation into Philosophy" is not merely a book; it is an odyssey that beckons readers to embrace the joy of intellectual discovery. Faguet's prose invites reflection, prompting readers to question, contemplate, and savor the intricacies of the philosophical landscape.

In conclusion, Faguet's "Initiation into Philosophy" is an intellectual feast that transcends the boundaries of time. With a captivating blend of erudition and accessibility, the book stands as an enduring testament to the timeless allure of philosophical inquiry, making it a must-read for anyone curious about the profound mysteries of existence.

Émile Faguet's "Initiation into Philosophy" is available in Amazon in paperback 12.99$ and hardcover 20.99$ editions.

Number of pages: 191

Language: English

Rating: 8/10                                           

Link of the book!

Review By: King's Cat

[tortoisesshells]

🌹

Norrington had been grimacing, when he read the London papers two months out of date – and kept his grim look affixed, a gorget on a man bound for war.

for every “🌹” received in my inbox i’ll post one random sentence of a random WIP i’m currently writing

[jstor]

I saw something about generative AI on JSTOR. Can you confirm whether you really are implementing it and explain why? I’m pretty sure most of your userbase hates AI.

A generative AI/machine learning research tool on JSTOR is currently in beta, meaning that it's not fully integrated into the platform. This is an opportunity to determine how this technology may be helpful in parsing through dense academic texts to make them more accessible and gauge their relevancy.

To JSTOR, this is primarily a learning experience. We're looking at how beta users are engaging with the tool and the results that the tool is producing to get a sense of its place in academia.

In order to understand what we're doing a bit more, it may help to take a look at what the tool actually does. From a recent blog post:

Content evaluation

Problem: Traditionally, researchers rely on metadata, abstracts, and the first few pages of an article to evaluate its relevance to their work. In humanities and social sciences scholarship, which makes up the majority of JSTOR’s content, many items lack abstracts, meaning scholars in these areas (who in turn are our core cohort of users) have one less option for efficient evaluation. 

When using a traditional keyword search in a scholarly database, a query might return thousands of articles that a user needs significant time and considerable skill to wade through, simply to ascertain which might in fact be relevant to what they’re looking for, before beginning their search in earnest.

Solution: We’ve introduced two capabilities to help make evaluation more efficient, with the aim of opening the researcher’s time for deeper reading and analysis:

Summarize, which appears in the tool interface as “What is this text about,” provides users with concise descriptions of key document points. On the back-end, we’ve optimized the Large Language Model (LLM) prompt for a concise but thorough response, taking on the task of prompt engineering for the user by providing advanced direction to:

Extract the background, purpose, and motivations of the text provided.

Capture the intent of the author without drawing conclusions.

Limit the response to a short paragraph to provide the most important ideas presented in the text.

Search term context is automatically generated as soon as a user opens a text from search results, and provides information on how that text relates to the search terms the user has used. Whereas the summary allows the user to quickly assess what the item is about, this feature takes evaluation to the next level by automatically telling the user how the item is related to their search query, streamlining the evaluation process.

Discovering new paths for exploration

Problem: Once a researcher has discovered content of value to their work, it’s not always easy to know where to go from there. While JSTOR provides some resources, including a “Cited by” list as well as related texts and images, these pathways are limited in scope and not available for all texts. Especially for novice researchers, or those just getting started on a new project or exploring a novel area of literature, it can be needlessly difficult and frustrating to gain traction. 

Solution: Two capabilities make further exploration less cumbersome, paving a smoother path for researchers to follow a line of inquiry:

Recommended topics are designed to assist users, particularly those who may be less familiar with certain concepts, by helping them identify additional search terms or refine and narrow their existing searches. This feature generates a list of up to 10 potential related search queries based on the document’s content. Researchers can simply click to run these searches.

Related content empowers users in two significant ways. First, it aids in quickly assessing the relevance of the current item by presenting a list of up to 10 conceptually similar items on JSTOR. This allows users to gauge the document’s helpfulness based on its relation to other relevant content. Second, this feature provides a pathway to more content, especially materials that may not have surfaced in the initial search. By generating a list of related items, complete with metadata and direct links, users can extend their research journey, uncovering additional sources that align with their interests and questions.

Supporting comprehension

Problem: You think you have found something that could be helpful for your work. It’s time to settle in and read the full document… working through the details, making sure they make sense, figuring out how they fit into your thesis, etc. This all takes time and can be tedious, especially when working through many items. 

Solution: To help ensure that users find high quality items, the tool incorporates a conversational element that allows users to query specific points of interest. This functionality, reminiscent of CTRL+F but for concepts, offers a quicker alternative to reading through lengthy documents. 

By asking questions that can be answered by the text, users receive responses only if the information is present. The conversational interface adds an accessibility layer as well, making the tool more user-friendly and tailored to the diverse needs of the JSTOR user community.

Credibility and source transparency

We knew that, for an AI-powered tool to truly address user problems, it would need to be held to extremely high standards of credibility and transparency. On the credibility side, JSTOR’s AI tool uses only the content of the item being viewed to generate answers to questions, effectively reducing hallucinations and misinformation. 

On the transparency front, responses include inline references that highlight the specific snippet of text used, along with a link to the source page. This makes it clear to the user where the response came from (and that it is a credible source) and also helps them find the most relevant parts of the text. 

[jiubilant]

4.E. 170

They unload the young Ervine at the Vetring docks along with twelve tuns of wine—which she counts as they bob down the wharf on the dockers’ backs, two by two—and four thin, shivering pigs. She’s not sure where to go. She’s standing dazed with sunlight on the loading-plank, flanked by squealing livestock and the rank, seasick steam of their breath, when two youths hurrying down the boardwalk smile and wave: a lanky young mage, his cloak dyed adept’s blue, and a boy her age with a skeletal face.

“For the Kynesdag feast in town,” says the mage in breathless introduction, divesting her of books and bundles both. He means the pigs, she realizes. He darts a look over his shoulder, another at the ship, then gives her a gentle shake: half-friendly, half-impatient. “We were told to meet you. What’s your name?”

She frowns at him, suspecting a joke at her expense, then recalls how far she is from Betony and her father’s rotting lands. He’s never cursed an Ervine, this mage with busy eyes.

“Mirabelle,” she says, her voice salt-hoarse. She’s eaten nothing but hardtack for two months.

He doesn’t even ask for the rest of it—just glances behind him again and marches her down the frost-chewed wharf. Wizards, of course, always have somewhere else to be.

“Falion of Conjuration,” he replies with a hasty grin, pulling her out of the way of some rickety gibbet for fish. The cod dangling from it like gallows-fruit watch her pass with baleful eyes, as does the woman stringing them up. “That’s Phinis, also of Conjuration. Phin,” he says to the boy, who’s casting nervous looks about him like wards, “you’ll have to get used to it.”

Phinis pulls a death’s-head face. “I don’t want to get used to it—”

One of the pigs blunders with a shriek into their path. The biggest of the men dragging it down the docks stumbles, swearing in some Nordic tongue—then, with a snarling glance at Mirabelle and her companions, spits at them.

“Happy Kynesdag,” croaks Phinis, cringing sideways. Falion, with an inscrutable look, lays a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll have to get used to it, too,” he says to Mirabelle, who stares at him. He clears his throat and, with a playful flourish of his cloak, raises his voice like a mummer on the stage. “Pay the ignorant masses no mind. You are now a student of Mystery”—he grips her shoulder with jovial force, steering her away—“a novitiate of the Secret Fire!”

“A witch,” says Mirabelle, her voice steady and soft.

Falion’s grin, swift as a warning, bounds again across his face. “A scholar!”

Mirabelle glances behind her. The man with the pig, staring after them, shivers and looks away.

* * *

“They hate us in the village,” Phinis confides in her over supper: a bowl of pale and wobbly fish, glistening like glue in the sheen of the wandering lights. “Falion says they’re afraid of what they don’t understand, and that we should be”—he makes a grim little face at his bowl—“understanding.”

“Oh,” says Mirabelle through a mouthful of fishpaste. It tastes like jellied steam. She’s discovered, in her ravenous journey to the bottom of the bowl, that she can swallow it without chewing. “Why?”

Phinis scowls. “That’s what I want to know—”

“No.” Mirabelle, in the spirit of scholarly inquiry, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. No one snaps at her for it. She dares a quick, gleeful lick at the back of her spoon. “Why are they afraid?”

“Falion says—” A pallid light kindles in Phinis’s eyes. “No. I’ll show you.”

They slip out of the refectory, accompanied by a bobbing light and a few incurious looks from the adepts’ table. Their footsteps echo in the corridor like cracking ice. Mirabelle, in her scratchy new College robes that smell of mothballs and musty spells, resists an unthinkable urge to dance up and down the hall until it resounds with noise. It would be unscholarly, she thinks. She hugs herself hard instead.

“If you think this is cold,” says Phinis sagely, misunderstanding her, “wait until end-of-term. Falion says we’ll have to crack the ice in our basins every morning.”

The giddiness, despite her best efforts to restrain it, wriggles up from her toes to her face. “What else does Falion say?”

Phinis gives her a wounded look. “You’re making fun.”

The rush of warmth she feels for the little cadaver—and for the supper-sludge, the itchy clothes, Falion who knows so much—threatens to knock her over. “I’m not.”

“It’s all right,” he says, his face funereal. She has to bite down on a laugh. “I’m used to it. We’ll go up those stairs to the ramparts.”

They wrestle with the door at the stairtop, which is frozen or rusted shut; it bangs open at last, and they tumble out into a blast of wind that nearly blows them over the parapet. Mirabelle, with a delighted shriek, grabs Phinis—poor bag of bones, he all but rattles—and staggers with him away from the crenellated wall.

The wind whips his scandalized yell past her ears. “Are you laughing?”

She is. Something in her has come unstuck. “Have you ever been up here before, or did Falion tell you about it?”

“You’re making fun!” He stomps ineffectually on her foot. “The wind comes and goes, you’ll see—”

“I’m not making fun!”

By the time they struggle arm-in-arm to the far parapet, the wind’s died down. They sag against the wall. Phinis, breathing hard, glowers so peevishly at Mirabelle that she bursts into laughter again—which makes his lips twitch, and his eyes gleam, and something almost like life flush in his face.

“What are you so happy about?” he demands, fighting a smile. Mirabelle can tell by the way he’s twisting his mouth. “Here we are at the frozen edge of the world—”

“I didn’t think they’d let me come,” Mirabelle gasps, rubbing her eyes. The tears in them sting like grains of salt. “What—what’d you want to show me?”

“Oh.” Phinis tugs her up, then points over the parapet. “Out there.”

What he had wanted to show her, Mirabelle realizes after a long, staring moment, is the sea. Gulls circle and cry over the gray mirror of the water. Glaciers—smaller, now, than they’ll be in midwinter—slouch in the shallows. The sun on the horizon breaks the surface like a drowned face.

It’s nothing that she hadn’t seen from the deck of the ship. She looks sidelong at Phinis.

“It wasn’t always a village,” he says.

A gull dips in the sky. The water shimmers, changeless and cold, over the roofs of the city of the dead.

[whencyclopedia]

Western Astrology

Western Astrology refers to a form of divination based on the motion of astronomical objects such as stars or planets. The belief that astronomical objects are divine or influence events on Earth is found in many cultures, but the practices grouped under the umbrella of 'Western astrology' have their origins in the Near East and ancient Mediterranean.

In antiquity and the Middle Ages, there was virtually no distinction between astronomy, which is the study of objects in outer space, and astrology, which is the superstition that these objects can influence events on Earth. The belief that celestial bodies could exert control over events on Earth was one of the driving motivations behind their study in the past. During the Renaissance, astrology was treated as both a scientific and spiritual pursuit, albeit one that attracted scholarly criticism.

By inspiring astronomical inquiry, astrology ultimately helped birth the scientific innovations that disproved its validity. Advances in natural science and our understanding of the solar system during the 18th century led to the debunking of astrology and its accompanying beliefs. This shift in scientific thought created a clear distinction between the science of astronomy and the pseudoscience of astrology. However, popular belief in astrology persists into the modern period.

Ancient Babylon & Greece

Hellenistic astrology traces its roots to Babylon, where astronomers were interpreting astronomical phenomena as omens by the 1st millennium BCE. The Babylonians would later begin practicing natal astrology to try to predict events in a person's life based on the position of the stars and planets at the time of their birth. Ancient Greek authors claimed that astrology was introduced to Greece by a Babylonian priest named Berossus, who moved to the Greek island of Kos and established a school of astronomy and astrology around 280 BCE. This story may contain a kernel of truth, as the conquest of Persia by Alexander the Great (r. 336-323 BCE) in the 4th century BCE led to the transfer of ideas between Greece and the Near East. However, Hellenistic astrology was most heavily influenced by Greek philosophy, ultimately containing only faint traces of Babylonian cosmology.

The zodiac and astrological system used in Western astrology began to take on a recognizable form during the Hellenistic period (332-30 BCE). Natural philosophers reasoned that the stars and planets could influence Earth in the same way that the Sun affected life and the Moon moved the tides. People in the Hellenistic Mediterranean commonly consulted astrologers hoping that they could predict the future, reveal hidden information, and recover lost or stolen items.

Astrology was also incorporated into ancient Greek medicine and Greek philosophy, as it was theorized that the planets had both physical and metaphysical impacts. The belief that certain planets held power over specific body parts, and that it was possible to predict the best timing for medical treatment based on planetary positions, influenced Western medical thought until the early modern period.

Continue reading...

[meret118]

On Thursday, Indiana federal judge Sarah Evans Barker, a Reagan appointee, threw out a lawsuit filed by four Indiana professors seeking to block the state from enforcing its “intellectual diversity” law. That law, which went into effect on July 1 requires public higher education institutions to grant, review, and deny tenure in part based on whether the professor fosters “a culture of free inquiry, free expression, and intellectual diversity” and whether they expose students to a “variety of political or ideological frameworks.”

If that sounds vague yet still bad, that’s because it is. The bill was pushed by conservatives who believe that conservative students and viewpoints are discriminated against in higher education.

. . .

One of the professors who sued teaches about the Holocaust and explained that divergent perspectives in Holocaust studies include outright Holocaust denial or revision. Another teaches about slavery, and divergent scholarly work on the institution of slavery includes the notion that slavery benefited Black people. Under the law, those professors would, arguably, have to teach those debunked and and dangerous ideas to show a commitment to “intellectual diversity.”

More at the link.

[itskindofidontknow]

What dreams know about love?

Chapter 15

Dream of The Endless/Morpheus x Love!OFC

Summary: The Queen of Love has grown used to the absence of her husband, the Dream King. After banning her from the Dreaming, they only saw each other when Morpheus summoned her for social or marital duties. He would go decades without calling for her, enamorated by a variety of mistresses. It broke Love's heart. Not that her husband cared. However, after being imprisioned for a century, The Dream King wants to regain his Queen's love. She doesn't believe him, not after centuries of neglect. The question is: Can dreams repair a broken heart?

Tag: Established relationship, arranged marriage, regency romance, eventual happy ending, angst, morpheus is a dick prepare to hate, love is eoster from west germanic mythology, typos are to be expected

Love, with Elijah’s discreet assistance, managed to navigate to her quarters without encountering any other cupids, a challenging feat given the palace's current bustling state. The corridors were abuzz with their presence, some exploring with curious abandon, others engaged in aimless conversations, young lovers seeking secluded corners, and tardy arrivals lugging more baggage than necessary in search of their lodgings.

Remaining silent throughout the journey, the queen conveyed her preference for solitude, a cue that Elijah intuitively respected. As they finally reached the hallway leading to her room, he maintained a respectful distance, keeping a few paces behind. His mind teemed with unspoken questions about how he might ease the frenzy of the approaching days. Not only was the Solstice Festival imminent, but a sudden change in plans dictated that following the festival, the court, led by the queen and extended to include Elijah, would depart for the Garden with no intent to return to the Dreaming.

Despite his aversion to the Dreaming's tense atmosphere and unpredictable nature, Elijah harbored hopes that after the festivities, relations would improve, perhaps even leading to a more permanent stay, albeit with occasional visits to the Garden. Yet, since their return from their unexpected night excursion, whether to Cain's or Abel's remained uncertain, the situation had deteriorated further. Previously, there had been heated arguments; now, Love actively avoided Dream, a silent treatment that felt more cutting than their verbal clashes.

Perhaps this was precisely why he preferred scholarly pursuits over fieldwork. "Oh, my love, that undoubtedly explains it," he imagined the Emissary's teasing response, eliciting a wistful smile. How he longed for those playful exchanges with his irreverent lover

"There she is! It seems they were right, m’lady, when they said that Love arrives when least expected." The Seamstress's voice broke the solemn silence as she rose from her vanity chair, her joints audibly protesting, while she directed the maids to fetch the dinner gown and her needles. Despite the noticeable change in Love's demeanor, marked by rare smiles and monosyllabic responses to inquiries about the gown's fit, the old woman refrained from commenting. Perhaps preoccupied with her task, she inadvertently pricked Love more than once, though the queen suspected it was no accident.

The Seamstress grew more cordial as she neared the completion of her work, presenting a dinner gown distinct from the queen's usual attire. The corset was unusually tight, enhancing her figure in ways that made Love feel increasingly exposed with each breath, despite the Seamstress's assurances that it was purely her imagination. The corset, she insisted, was intended for support, not scandal.

Long ago, during her early days of marriage, Love possessed dinner attire in dark shades, alongside the most exquisite ball gowns, delicate nightgowns that left little to the imagination, and lace undergarments meant to entice and be undone by her husband, adorned from head to toe, a gift to the Dream King waiting to be unwrapped.

Now dressed in black, she appeared different, changed by the passage of years—centuries even. Entities like her were not supposed to change fundamentally; they might alter in appearance, yet their essence remained steadfast.

But she did change. Love may still appear youthful in countenance, yet there was a weariness etched into her otherwise immaculate features, like a soldier returning from prolonged warfare, donning his uniform once more, fitting, yet somehow unfamiliar.

Dresses had never posed a bother; she could conjure them effortlessly. Nevertheless, she relished being attended to by her maids, finding a ritualistic pleasure in their gentle ministrations. It was during these moments that the maids, at ease with their tasks and one another, engaged in conversations that swiftly turned to gossip, a most reliable means for Love to remain abreast of palace affairs.

Eoster had always delighted in the layers, the petticoats, the snug corsets, the diverse lengths and styles of gowns, puffy, flowing sleeves, varied necklines. With each design, she could metamorphose into someone entirely new: demure, audacious, or provocative. Fabrics too held a special allure, silk, tulle, velvet, muslin, even plain cotton for days spent tending the garden, all crafted into attire befitting a queen.

Yet, for the first time, she found herself unsettled. Was it the garments or the relentless thought of her husband’s son that plagued her? Her dinner gown, as dark as a starless night, featured an elongated bodice tapering to the hips, a low bustle intricately draped with flounces and ruffles in fishtail fashion. The broad neckline showcased a splendid necklace, sparkling against her skin, an intended constellation adorning her nocturnal ensemble.

It felt stifling, burdensome. She longed to tear it asunder, if only to draw a breath unhindered. Worse still, the maids seemed to multiply, each adding layers, tightening already taut knots. When presented with white evening gloves, she shook her head against the insistent tug from a girl styling her hair. Love said nothing. "No, fetch the black ones," she commanded, a rare deviation from expectation. The maids exchanged puzzled glances at the uncharacteristic request.

The gloves had been a wedding gift from Honesty, left untouched in their box upon a closet shelf. Her sister's note, penned in gold ink with ornate flourishes, remained affixed to the black ribbon: "Proper gloves for a proper Queen of Nightmares."

Who said Honesty didn’t possess a sense of humor?

Handling the box with care, fearing its fragility, they undid the white ribbon and unfurled the silk paper enveloping the black, over-the-elbow gloves. Love studied her reflection, the black accentuating her green eyes, lightening her caramel curls. The crowning touch was a translucent veil shimmering with stardust, affixed to her crown, cascading elegantly over her shoulders to brush the floor. She appeared regal, resplendent, yet the dark attire lent an air of the sinister, a clichéd malevolence from fairy tales, the enchantress who ensnares heroes away from their beloveds, the Odile to the prince’s Odette.

But Morpheus was no knight in shining armor, no gallant prince in a white horse. No, her husband bore the likeness of a possessive villain, the jealous antagonist who ensnares the virtuous princess, akin to Count Paris whom Juliet adamantly spurns.

Both were villains in each other's tales.

Her attire in black also served as a declaration of loyalty to her husband, a reminder to the cupids that, while Love reigned as Queen of the Garden, Morpheus, although reluctantly, ruled as King of the Garden by virtue of marriage. They must accord him the same respect they willingly bestowed upon Eoster, if not willingly, then by compulsion.

They must remember to regard him as their sovereign and avoid any semblance of threat.

She could not shield them if they offended Morpheus within his own domain. They would be at his mercy, which, knowing her husband, meant none at all. She might plead, cast herself at his feet in tears, it would not make a difference. Morpheus tolerated no insolence, especially not from his subjects, and certainly not from his wife. Such defiance might only worsen the consequences.

The remainder of her preparations proceeded smoothly. Eoster allowed herself to be maneuvered like a puppet, her uncharacteristic silence noted by all, though none dared to question its cause given the circumstances. Elijah visited intermittently, seeking approval to dispatch additional invitations, the recipients of which held little interest for her. She nodded in agreement, silently praying for his swift departure so she might return to her ruminations.

Her thoughts lingered on Orpheus, his name echoing alongside Death's voice, each repetition a reminder of his uncertain fate. She pictured him, his face, his demeanor, wondering if he bore his father's dark hair and his mother's easy countenance. Was he stoic, reserved like Morpheus, or vibrant, full of life like herself? Did he carry shame as a bastard, or did he view himself as wronged, denied his rightful place, viewing Love as the adversary? ‘Foolish’, she thought, if he believed the latter, yet perhaps understandable given his circumstances. He likely loved his parents, and seeing his father flaunt a wife who was not his mother, must have unsettled him.

Part of her felt relieved that Morpheus, in his way, had shown respect to Love. Despite his inability to marry Calliope, he could have relegated her to this palace. She heard of some gossip about husbands that did that. A terrible fate endured by some unfortunate wives. Princesses and queens forced to endure discreet glances, furtive touches beneath the dinner table, clandestine disappearances during meals.

Could she endure such a fate? Perhaps she would succumb to despair, leaving her next incarnation to untangle this mess. Love believes that she would endure even the filthy pleasure sounds coming from the other bedroom being echoed through the walls, she would simple stabbed her ears and let it bleed without any desire to fix them, but she wouldn’t be able to see her, or deal with the pity.

But the pity! Love hated the pity, how people would surround her pretending to understand wishing to hear her speak from the heart when all they wanted was to be fed gossip. Gossip that would get to Desire’s ears and would turn into a joke in the next family reunion.

Children would complicate matters further. Not her own, of course. Why schedule date nights if he had his muse readily available? Why choose to lie with a willing yet disinterested wife, that avoided his gaze like the plague, trained by him to lie still and exposed like a doll, to remain as silent as possible, pretending to be anywhere but there? But the boy, eventually, he would find Love, children are curious. How would she receive him? Would she be cruel, distant, or might she grow attached to a child who could never be hers?

Maybe she would have stabbed Calliope. No. Maybe she would’ve stabbed herself. He could easily find another lover, but not her half of his soul.

The Spring Queen dismissed such thoughts as they proved futile and distracting. Orpheus was gone. Calliope remained somewhere distant, a place Love neither knew nor cared to discover. Her liaison with Dream had concluded on acrimonious terms. Though he had sought others since, he had never fathered another illegitimate child. And Orpheus, Love pondered how his demise might affect her, whether his pain might bring solace to her heart.

An eye for an eye.

A love for another.

The mere notion brought bile to her throat. No, that boy, whoever birthed him, did not deserve suffering. He was but a child, someone's child. The loss of a child, a suffering too terrible to name. Love did not seek revenge; she was not that sort of woman. She scarcely knew what sentiments she harbored toward him, yet she harbored no ill will.

"My lady?" Love blinked, brought back from reverie. The maids and the Seamstress had completed their tasks and now anxiously awaited the queen's approval or disapproval. Their work differed from any prior occasion, prompting thoughts of acknowledgment. But it was not their efforts that drew Love back to the present.

Standing at the threshold was Lucienne, clad in a subdued white rendition of her usual attire, adorned with delicate golden accents. If Love were to hazard a guess, and she rarely wronged in such matters, Elijah had likely coerced the librarian into wearing white. A second guess would suggest he himself was attired in an equal but more elaborate patterned fabric. Elijah had always favored patterns.

Love bestowed a gentle smile upon Lucienne, offering a delicate applause with minimal fanfare, ensuring the maids and the Seamstress received due recognition for their labors. "I am certain my lord husband shall find your work most pleasing." Whether Morpheus would even notice remained uncertain. The maids exchanged cheerful glances, but the Seamstress scowled. "If he possesses any taste, he surely will." Lucienne opened her mouth to protest, but a single glance from Love quelled the librarian's impulse.

The Seamstress acknowledged no authority, and no Endless could silence her. "May your heart guide you well, Seamstress," she replied, her tone dismissive. "My lady, I merely hope you refrain from requesting a black bridal trousseau. This was my final fabric as dark as night, and the journey to acquire it…" She shook her head, implying the memory was too arduous and unpleasant to recount.

The flock of maids followed the Seamstress as she made her exit. With their duties concluded for the evening, they were at liberty to enjoy the festivities as they saw fit. Love awaited their departure before joining Lucienne at the doorway, together making their way toward the ballroom, an extension crafted for the Spring Festival but likely to remain underutilized thereafter.

"I trust Elijah did not impose the attire. It is not obligatory." More an unspoken rule, one Love lacked the energy to elaborate upon. Regardless of their garments, the cupids would scrutinize without relent. Lucienne inclined her head slightly in deference. "No, my lady, he…did not impose upon me in the least." Lucienne hesitated, her words true though not without coercion. Elijah had not troubled her, but that did not imply he had been courteous in his request. He merely shoved the clothes in her chest and commanded her to wear it, like the always patient and kind cupid he was. Love chuckled softly. "You look very proper, quite fitting for the Garden." Likely the affirmation Lucienne sought, the sole reason why she probably let Elijah choose her clothes. Speaking of whom… "And where might my dearest cupid be?"

"He is attending Lord Morpheus, I suspect clarifying certain matters of court division." Love simply nodded. The mention of her husband was enough to pull her away from the fun thoughts of Elijah and Lucienne arguing about clothes redirecting her focus to Morpheus and his son. The librarian observed how her queen's countenance shifted to solemnity, an uneasy silence settling between them. Lucienne had hoped for a reconciliation following the parade, but matters had worsened. Lady Love had not returned to the palace post-parade, while Lord Morpheus appeared distracted and… something else she could not quite decipher,an anger not directed outwards but inwards, at himself.

-----------------

"The Cupids of the court are akin to swans, my lord," Elijah began, his tone carrying a respectful cadence. "Graceful, noble, and proud, they always move in bevies, each distinguishable by their attire." Eros, along with Storge, Philia, and Agape Cupids, were always adorned in pastels or meticulously following dress codes outlined in invitations. Like their Queen, they held a fascination for fabrics and designs, each expressing a unique style that set them apart. Morpheus had no need for the intricate details of their attire, and Elijah had neither the time nor the inclination to elaborate. If only his majesty had attended the scheduled meetings, Elijah would have gladly imparted such knowledge over the weeks. Instead, Elijah found himself imparting information to Lucienne, who filtered it through to the Dream King.

At least, that had been the expectation of both the librarian and the cupid. However, Lord Morpheus disregarded Lucienne or paid scant attention to her instructions. Though he never admitted it outright, the indifference was palpable to the librarian and became evident as the cupid was intercepted by the king just minutes before he could escort Lady Love, inquiring about the court with evident curiosity.

It didn't take long for Elijah to realize that his king was unaware of the wolves in sheep's clothing awaiting him. Elijah struggled to delicately convey the court's disdain for the king. For, in truth, there was nothing to admire. He insulted his subjects among the lovefolk by never visiting, failing to acknowledge his sovereignty, and allowing his queen to suffer. Cupids were natural conversationalists, skilled in gossip; it would be naive to assume they weren't aware of every transgression by Morpheus. They were simply courteous enough never to discuss it with Lady Love.

"One thing worth noting, my lord, is that like swans, cupids can be fiercely aggressive," Elijah continued, his expression grave. "Especially when their sacred institutions or their Swan Queen are disrespected." Which Morpheus had shown towards the queen and the Garden. "Storge Cupids will stop at nothing to retaliate against any who disrespect sacred unions, while Eros Cupids will ruthlessly condemn those who exploit the union of flesh for anything other than mutual pleasure." A swan may not kill, but they could certainly make a night torturous if they wished.

Morpheus glanced towards the flocks of cupids gathering in the corners of the ballroom, their laughter and conversations now filling the once tranquil palace. Young ones ran underfoot of their nannies, while older cupids flirted under the watchful eyes of their chaperones. Mature Cupids scrutinized every detail, commenting on any deviation from their accustomed norms.

All awaited anxiously for the royal presence, or perhaps their prey. A sudden, uneasy silence fell over the room, a collective intake of breath, as Morpheus and Eoster appeared arm in arm at the top of the stairs. Not a soul had anticipated the queen’s arrival clad in all black, presenting a united front with her husband. Elijah and Lucienne followed three steps behind, both attired in pristine white. All eyes watched vigilantly as the king pulled out a chair at the main table for Love to sit, the train of her dress swirling gracefully around her feet as she accepted with a gentle nod, avoiding direct eye contact with her husband.

Once seated, Elijah gestured subtly for the music to resume and signaled for the cupids to line up for their presentations. The first few cupids approached with quiet reverence, bowing deeply and expressing gratitude for the invitation, offering compliments on the Dreaming, much like children forced to be polite to unwelcome guests. Love wasn’t sure if Morpheus could see through their superficial smiles or mechanical bows. To someone unfamiliar with cupids, it might be challenging to discern.

But Morpheus was ancient, older even than Love, and it wouldn't take long for him to detect the underlying sarcasm behind their seemingly submissive facade. She found herself clenching the armrests of her chair, her fingers digging into the wood, her gaze stern as she silently warned them against pushing their luck. Love stole a few quick glances at her husband, attempting to decipher his stoic expression. He abhorred social gatherings, despised noise and frivolity. And now, he was stuck to one.

‘This is a recipe for disaster,’ Love mused inwardly. That was why she had suggested, when he had pressed her to return to the Dreaming, making requests that were undoubtedly impossible to fulfill, a headache in itself. She had never expected Morpheus to accept, and even after their recent falling-out, it was too late to retract. Her subjects were already excited, and Lucienne was already overwhelmed with the minutiae of courtly affairs. Love had expected her husband to cancel everything; he had never cared if any of Love's endeavors consumed time or were meaningful to her. If he didn’t wish it, they simply wouldn't proceed. It was her duty to comply.

But Dream courteously welcomed the Cupids, or as courteously as one could expect. He nodded in acknowledgment as Elijah introduced each cupid by name, title, and their spring duties in the mortal realm, tasks ranging from preparing soil to awakening hibernating creatures and overseeing pollination. He didn't smile; that, of course, would be too much to ask. But at least he wasn't scowling.

Instead of calming her nerves, however, this stoic demeanor kept Love on edge, waiting for his patience to wear thin and for him to dismiss the entire affair as an exercise in futility. He had embarked on this endeavor to regain his queen’s favor, to prove himself a better husband.

All that effort now seemed in vain, since Love had decided not only to leave the Dreaming, but also to refuse to warm his bed on demand. She trusted in his gentlemanly nature not to exploit their bond to coerce her. Even if he had never given her assurance that he wouldn't resort to such measures, she remained convinced that he would not resort to such measures. They had weathered graver situations where he could have employed their bond to inflict cruel retribution, yet he refrained.

The worst that could happen was for Morpheus to. grow weary of the peculiar, rigid, unspoken rules of the lovefolk. Rules that came naturally to them that were designed to ‘ensnare outsiders into embarrassing themselves’ A confession Lucienne did, while Elijah was trying to explain the differences between proper china for luncheon and dinner. All that superficiality and nonsensical fuss Morpheus had once sworn to avoid.

If the queen were a gambler like her sister, she would wager that Lord Destiny was making his influence felt upon his younger brother. ‘Well, at least we've had no incidents yet,’ Love thought, attempting to relax as she took a sip of her wine, her glass matching her husband’s.

"My Lady Eoster!" A voice rang out, it was the Agape Cupids. Killer Swans. "My dear children, blessings from the Garden. Welcome to the Dreaming. May I introduce you to your Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams and Prince of Stories?"

The group of four cupids, all attired in coordinated yellow hues, their pointed hats a distinctive feature, approached in unison. If ever there were a bevy of swans poised to strike, these were they. They did not hide their disapproval as they scrutinized Dream from head to toe, exchanging quick, indecipherable glances, a secret language even Love couldn't discern. "Blessings, my lord," Lysander, their chosen spokesperson, began.

Lysander, among the oldestc cupids in the Garden, had guided more mortals to find love through faith than any other. His mortals often became fanatics and cult leaders, which had led to his earlier retirement from fieldwork in favor of a more theoretical role in Agape court. "My lord, if I may," he continued, "earlier we were exploring your gracious somber realm and encountered some paradoxical sights that seemed devoid of common mortal sense. Is this by your design?"

Love detected no thorn or trap in the question, though her frown deepened as she regarded the seemingly innocent cupid. Even Morpheus appeared to struggle to maintain his customary detachment as he responded politely, "The work of dreamers who visit my realm each night in sleep. I am but the custodian of their subconscious." The cupid folded his hands behind his back, nodding knowingly. "A hoarder of the subconscious. Collecting, collecting, and collecting," he remarked with a smile, the first subtle blow. Love shifted in her seat, taking a long sip of her wine, which tasted too watery for her liking. She cast a sidelong glance at her husband, noticing his clenched jaw, her own throat tightening with the mounting tension between her subjects and their king.

His expression remained unchanged, but with Morpheus, one couldn't read much from a face that could condemn one to the darkness without so much as a raised eyebrow.

"A starving man with an insatiable appetite, never sated, indeed," Lady Rosalind of the Storge Cupids interjected, snapping her lace fan open with a long, almost ironic courtesy toward both her sovereigns. "Lady Rosalind, blessings. What a pleasant surprise," Love interjected quickly, attempting to steer the conversation back to pleasantries, though not with enough effort to sway Rosalind. She was a woman of conviction, deeply traditional, caring, with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. Respected among the Storge Cupids for her work in establishing enduring bloodlines in the mortal realm, prioritizing family union above all else, even at the cost of individual desires. The happiness of some clearly overlooked by her steadfast commitment to familial cohesion. Pleasantries from her queen would not sway such a killer swan.

“My lady, it is indeed a pleasure to finally visit our sister-realm,” Rosalind remarked with a click of her tongue, a fleeting thought crossing her mind. She barely glanced at Eoster, just enough to observe the required etiquette, her focus unwavering on her objective. “Indeed, Lord Lysander, our sister-realm, is but a pantry with shelves positively overflowed with food.” Lysander added smoothly, “Indeed, the act of hoarding can pack abundant provisions, but can it have any nourishing warmth of affection, when all it do is hoard?” They exchanged a knowing glance, their satisfaction evident.

Before Rosalind could deliver a more pointed remark aimed at Morpheus, Elijah swiftly intervened, appearing almost as promptly as the Cupids had arrived. “Rosalind, Lysander, how delightful to see you once more. I trust I am not interrupting.” If cupids could scorch someone with their mere gaze, Elijah would have surely felt the burn. He harbored a profound dislike for the duo, foreseeing a most unpleasant situation if they persisted in meddling further, particularly in front of Lady Love. Love interjected swiftly before the Cupids could respond in unison, “Oh Elijah, not at all. I believe our cupids were merely gracing us with their presence, but we mustn’t detain them from the reception.” She exchanged a meaningful look with her cupid, signaling her desire to steer the conversation away from potential discord.

“Of course, my lady. It has been far too long since our paths crossed. You simply must meet my esteemed librarian acquaintance…” Elijah interposed smoothly, gently guiding the cupids away with the remaining agape following suit. Dream maintained his silence, his gaze avoiding Love’s, yet the simmering intensity in his eyes did not go unnoticed.

Love couldn’t recall a time when her husband exhibited such restraint.

—------------- Love admired Morpheus for his composure. He did not complain, did not lose his temper; most of the time, he responded with short, polite answers and remained silent when faced with veiled insults. The last cupids hadn’t wasted any time in challenging the king, and word likely spread that the king was unflappable. Knowing her children well, Love expected them to say he was an unrepentant rake, incapable of shame or regret. Love was on her fifth glass of wine, yet felt none of the expected lightness. She tasted the alcohol on her lips but found no solace in her mind. She knew she should avoid drinking, but the situation left her anxious and nervous, and she needed something to calm her.

Perhaps it was thanks to the wine that she managed to say, “It is much appreciated that you did not banish them all to the darkness.” The couple were the only ones still seated as the guests danced to the music, a quadrille that, in another life, Eoster would have loved to join. The privacy felt overwhelming. Thoughts of their last encounter and her argument with Death earlier dominated her mind, a whirl of voices and images. Should they start anew? Should they speak? They couldn’t communicate. They didn’t know how. Maybe the alcohol was affecting her thoughts.

“They are loyal. And none of their remarks were untrue.” Morpheus turned his face, allowing himself to gaze directly at her for the first time that night. His self-restraint surprised even him, as if something anchored him, helping him to do what he must to keep his promises. He had promised to receive her cupids. He would keep that promise. His eyes lowered to her lips as she finished her glass, catching him staring. They had played this game many times before, the warning glances that he would escort her back to her quarters if her drunken state became an issue, a warning to cease.

But this glance was different. She searched his eyes for any trace of silent fury but found none. They stood side by side, inches apart yet not touching. He looked at her differently than he had a thousand times before, with tenderness, as if unconcerned by her cupids’ attempts to flay him alive. It didn’t matter. He understood their protective instincts. The way he spoke suggested he couldn’t condemn them because he might have done the same. Yet he never had. He had never uttered a word against the rumors or the pitiful, repulsive looks, Love endured for centuries. Her face flushed hot with the memories, but his eyes seemed to acknowledge that and silently asked for forgiveness for all the times he hadn’t spoken.

“I am not drunk, if that is what you wish to be assured.” She broke their exchanged glances, emptying her glass, eyes lost in the dance. Pretending his gaze meant nothing but a warning was the safest course. He frowned. Of course she would think that. Most times, he scowled at her, condemning her improper behavior and loose tongue after too much drink. But not tonight.

“I know.” She turned to him as he moved closer, almost whispering, close enough for her to feel his warm breath against her skin. It sent shivers through her, more sensitive to him than she remembered. After their shared night, things felt different, like their bond allowed her to be vulnerable, craving more than she denied in the House of Mysteries. Like an appetite awakened, fighting for life against the pain in her heart and the decisions in her mind.

Perhaps she was the starved one, as Rosalind and Lysander suggested, not Morpheus.

“I know you are not drunk.” She furrowed her brows. His response wasn’t enough, and she needed to focus on something other than his soothing voice or the tingling in her fingers to trace the line of his neck. She needed to push those thoughts aside.

“Do you really? Pardon me if I don’t believe you.” All Morpheus’s expressions were subtle. To anyone who didn’t know him well, he seemed stoic most of the time. And it was true, he was. But every now and then, there were these subtle changes, like now, his lips curving in a shy smirk, his breath near her ear, the music loud enough to justify it, yet he was cautious, seeking permission to be close. “You are quiet. When you are drunk, even Delirium struggles to follow your thoughts, which race straight to your lips.” His eyes settled on her lips, pointing to them, and for a moment, Eoster imagined how his fingers might feel against them. “And nothing can silence you.” She turned to face him, inches apart. “You silenced me.” She was breathless, expending all her energy to recall her past, as if she were pressing a wound to remember the pain and avoid being hurt again.

He felt it. After that night, his bond with her also became more permissive. There was no hurt in her tone, no accusation, just a statement as true as the sunrise. But he sensed the pain behind it, how those memories cut like a knife.

“No, I didn’t. I would try to silence you, to reason with you, to lead you away, anything to prevent my siblings from having more ammunition. Someday, the anthropomorphic personifications will tire of hearing the same joke about “how she embarrassed him.” Now she wore a wry smile, slightly scrunching her face in disbelief. “And I didn’t?”

Why had they never spoken of it? Those dreadful dinners, those torturous gatherings, Desire’s comments, Despair’s false sympathy, fueled by her own sister-in-law’s misery, and Delirium’s honest but out-of-place observations. Dreadful.

“Embarrass me? For centuries, I thought you did. Your erratic behavior didn’t make it easy.” Eoster was about to question this, how she wasn’t the one making it difficult, but if he noticed, it didn’t deter him. “My time imprisoned made it clear: I wasn’t angry with you. I know what I said before, I know I blamed you, and it doesn’t matter anymore. But Love, I am truly sorry.” She closed her mouth.

Her husband was not seeking forgiveness, nor was he pleading for her belief. He wasn't relying on his regrets to evoke pity from her. Instead, he was confessing a truth he had never before been able to articulate, for they had never spoken thus until now. “The truth is,” he began, “I have shamed myself by failing to care for you properly, by driving you to seek solace in wine and night-blooming jasmine. I should never have put you in the position of bearing the shame of my infidelity. I should have been the one ashamed, for betraying your trust. Even if, at the time, I suspected you of colluding with Desire, it should have made no difference. We were bound in the covenant of True Marriage; it was my duty to safeguard you. You were not just my wife, but my queen.'"

In the midst of the regal splendor of the ballroom, Love found herself ensnared in a tumult of conflicting emotions. The revelation from Dream, delivered with a sincerity they had never shared before, stirred dormant romantic feelings within her. Despite his past transgressions, betrayals and neglect. She wanted to believe in his transformation, to open herself to loving him again, yet the scars of his past actions still haunted her as ghosts that followed her around. “You never claimed me as yours” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread amidst the elegant music and swirling dancers. Dream met her gaze with a mixture of longing and regret. “Maybe I should have,” he admitted softly, his eyes pleading for her understanding. Amidst the grandeur of the ballroom, amidst their intricate dance of emotions, the setting faded momentarily as Love, once again, stood at the precipice of a decision: whether to let her heart bloom anew, or to shield it from the shadows of past pain

"Eoster..." The soft utterance of Dream's voice broke through the enchanting tumult of the ballroom, his warm breath a gentle caress against her ear. The sound of her name on his lips sent a delicate shiver through her, and a solitary tear escaped, tracing a melancholy path down her cheek. In that fleeting moment, he could not fully fathom the depth of her inner turmoil, yet he sensed with poignant clarity that his role was simply to be present.

His hand rose gently, his touch tender as he brushed away the tear that glistened upon her cheek. Their fingers met, an electric current passing between them, a connection that resonated with unspoken emotions. As he leaned in closer, intending to convey his feelings, the weight of the scars of past wounds surged within her, overwhelming the burgeoning hope in her heart.

Eoster recoiled, her heart a tumult of longing and apprehension, her green eyes reflecting uncertainty. "Excuse me," she whispered softly, her voice barely audible above the music's melody. With graceful composure, she rose from her seat, her eyes lingering on his for a moment filled with unspoken sorrow, before she turned and wove her way through the crowd of cupids.

The revelry continued unabated, a stark contrast to the storm within her, as she ascended the stairs, seeking solace from the tempest of her heart. "My Lord?" Lucienne called softly, her voice tinged with deference as she attempted to capture Lord Morpheus's attention. His gaze, however, remained steadfastly fixed upon Lady Love's retreating form. In that moment, an urgency born from the brink of losing something that had seemed unattainable, yet had been within their grasp, led him to follow his queen.

Elijah, who had just managed to usher out the last of the cupids from their feet, joined Lucienne with a touch of impatience, anxiety and urgency exacerbated by such events. He observed with disapproval as Lord Morpheus nearly rushed through the ballroom, reaching the staircase where Lady Love had disappeared. "Where are they going? Dinner is about to be served," he queried with a touch of impatience, speaking as if Lucienne had any inkling of their king or queen's intentions. She was aware of the impending dinner, especially since Elijah had been preoccupied for weeks with china and cutlery. His brow furrowed in disapproval, silently remarking on the disruption of their carefully orchestrated evening.

Lucienne sighed inwardly, understanding Elijah's exasperation with the mercurial and unpredictable nature of their sovereigns.

"You will not be happy," she murmured softly, holding back another sigh. In over a millennium, she had never felt the need for a vacation. Now, if she could dream, she would dream of a long holiday away from Lord Morpheus, Lady Love, cupids, dreams, and nightmares. Just her and her library. She glanced sideways, meeting Elijah's gaze. For the first time, they shared the same thoughts.

-------------------

Morpheus ran up the stairs with urgency, his heart racing from the desperate need to rekindle the fleeting moment they had shared mere moments ago, his chance once again slipping through his fingers. Love's sudden withdrawal had startled him, her fear palpable in the way she had retreated. As he neared her, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, he slowed his pace, trying to approach with a calm demeanor.

Love didn't pause since leaving Morpheus at the reception. Her breath was rapid and erratic, as though any moment of stillness might plunge her into an ocean of tears she desperately wished to avoid. Ahead, she glimpsed the double doors to her quarters, a sight that brought relief at the prospect of solitude and perhaps a cup of night jasmine tea to calm her restless mind and grant respite from haunting dreams. She halted only when she heard familiar steps behind her, forcing herself to sound composed and unaffected.

Morpheus approached, coming to a halt a few steps away from Love. She stopped before the doors to her chambers. She could no longer bear the agony of loving him, only to be hurt by him time and again. These feelings weighed heavily on her heart. With a mixture of anguish and a desire to hurt him or provoke his anger, anything to shield herself from further pain, she uttered a shocking question, something they had never spoken of directly, but which, according to Lady Death, was a consensus among entities. "Did you ever consider that I might have had something to do with Orpheus's death?" Her voice trembled slightly, her eyes searching his face for a reaction, her heart both terrified of his answer and desperate for the truth.

Morpheus froze, the weight of Love's question hanging heavily between them. The mention of his son's name, uttered by her lips in such a context, struck him unexpectedly. He had grown accustomed to her using indirect references during their disputes, often labeling Orpheus as "bastard," a reminder of his own infidelity. "No," he replied coldly, his voice betraying the discomfort of the subject. Why was she bringing this up now?

"You have blamed me for so much else, why not for the loss of your child?" Love challenged, half expecting him to turn away. She anticipated his dismissal, his refusal to engage further in a conversation that dredged up painful accusations. Yet, was he in any position to silence her inquiries?

He had never suspected Love's involvement, not for a moment. Why? Even if it was because of his son’s misguided affections for the mortal girl that contributed to Orpheus's death, one thing Dream never doubted "You would never harm an innocent child," he affirmed, his response sincere. Love persisted, dissatisfied with his answer. "He died for love," she stated matter-of-factly, voicing the rumors that circulated. "Surely that raised suspicions in your mind? A son sacrificed for love, the same love you denied me."

"You would not punish a child for its parents' mistakes," Morpheus asserted firmly. Love shook her head in disbelief. Why wasn't he retaliating, condemning her accusations as baseless? Why wasn't he painting her as the monster he often perceived her to be, Desire's puppet disguised as a virtuous maiden? Why was he defending her against herself?

She shrugged, using his own logic against him. "No one wouldn't condemn me for it. Some might even consider it to be fair. My sisters have happier marriages with legitimate heirs, yet they discard their husbands' bastards without a second thought. Why would I act differently?"

"Why are you pressing this issue?" Morpheus sounded weary, but Love was relentless. She wanted him to confront her, to stoke her resentment once more.

" No, I want to know your theories. Why would I trick you into a True Marriage, endure your disrespect over every single principle that was sacred to me, disrespecting the carnal union of lovers, breeding me endlessly, disregarding my pleasure," Love's voice crescendoed in exasperation as she closed the distance between them. "And if it were solely to witness the birth of a child! Yet, it was all for your self-indulgence, your diversion! And worse, I had to endure witnessing your muse's pregnancy! Why wouldn't I wish ill upon your child?" Each word was a lament, a reminder of the trials Morpheus had subjected her to throughout their marriage. Speaking these truths felt like extinguishing the flames of her own affections, as if making him despise her anew would somehow ease her burden. Her voice carried a sharp and cutting like the edge of a blade forged from years of silent suffering. She wove her words with the delicate threads of her heart, torn between longing for his understanding and fearing the consequences of revealing her raw emotions once more.

"Stop!" Morpheus's voice rose sharply, halting her venomous tirade. It was the first time he had ever pleaded with her. "You may inflict any pain upon me, twist the knife as you will. But not this, I implore you."

Love observed his stoic facade crack slightly, a solitary tear escaping his eye. She concealed her surprise. She had expected him to retreat, wounded and defeated, to nurse his wounds elsewhere, perhaps to create nightmares or seek solace in another's arms. Instead, he whispered almost inaudibly, "You could have saved him. My distrust condemned him. He didn't believe the girl was behind him. I killed my own son." His gaze lifted from the floor, the pain she had glimpsed earlier now etched deeply into his features. "You could have saved him, Love. The trust that you long, that trust that you teach, could have. But even before my imprisonment, I dared not ask. You would have sacrificed even if it pained you, for it was a child's life, and you could not let a child suffer. You are my wife, dutiful and kind. What have I done to deserve your mercy, your forgiveness?"

Nothing.

He turned away, unaware of Love's stunned silence. She had always accused Morpheus of not truly knowing her, but did she truly know him? She had never imagined he would acknowledge his mistakes, let alone express remorse before his imprisonment. Despite her doubts, guilt lingered in his admission. "You could have asked for forgiveness," she offered tentatively, though she knew he could read her thoughts.

"I am trying, am I not?" Morpheus countered softly. "But what good has it done, other than add more pain to your heart, to our marriage?"

Our marriage.

This was new.

"Morpheus..." Love started, wanting to explain that her hesitation stemmed from fear, not pain. Fear of surrendering her heart only to have it shattered once more, fear of rejection or of him deciding she was no longer worthy of his love, fear of losing herself in her overwhelming love for him.

But the words caught in her throat.

@secretdreamlandmentality @littlemoistcarrot @lokigirlszendaya @notyourwildestdream @roxytheimmortal

[my-deer-friend]

Hii I have a bit of personal question, if that is alright. I am very interested in the American Revolution but I do not live in America. I would like to become a historian or researcher of that time period one day. As a student do you think it is difficult to be a historian of the American Revolution when you are not American? I get a lot of books and information online, but I do not think it is the same as being in a place? Do you think your school program a good stepping stone to get into an American graduate school? Is that something you want to do one day?

Sorry for all the inquiries, you are just the only person on here who is in a similar situation as myself! Best wishes to you!

Hi Anon! This is a really good question, and I'll do my best to answer it as both a history student and a university professional.

(First, I'll note that my interest personally is not primarily in the American revolution, but rather in the 18th century more broadly. That includes lots of angles that I can pursue in Europe, not least looking at relations in the Atlantic world, the "republic of letters" and the enlightenment, and thematically I'm interested in queer history, which can be studied everywhere. I also have no desire to live in the US. But, yes, let's assume AmRev is the focus.)

There are different considerations for undergrad vs postgrad.

Undergraduate

At undergraduate level, it doesn't matter too much where you study. At this point in your journey, broadly speaking, the focus is on developing your academic skills, learning established content about your topic, and exploring a range of scholarly interests (not just the topic itself, but how to research that topic – i.e. methodologies). As long as your university has a department for American history, or even better a major, you're fine.

While you're busy with your degree, you can supplement your learning about the period in a lot of ways, including:

Using your own library to access books, journal articles and databases (and getting materials through inter-library loans if need be)

Using the vast and ever-growing online resources on American history provided by institutions like the Library of Congress, American universities and libraries (e.g. NYPL)

Where something isn't already available online, contacting the archive that has it and seeing if you can get a copy (I wrote a post about that)

Talk to your history prof about your interest, and they will probably be able to suggest some avenues to pursue. One very useful tool is to look up the AmRev curriculum or syllabus from other univerisities and see what readings and topics they cover (just google: "american revolution" syllabus). Here's one that came up.

And then – and I'll put this point in bold because it's the most important thing I'll say here:

👉✨Attend conferences✨👈

Conferences are where you make invaluable connections with like-minded scholars, hear about new research, find out about opportunities (scholarships, programs, funding, etc.), discover what a career in academia actually looks like, get advice from people already doing the job you want to do, and so on. There are even conferences specifically for undergrad students, or there might be a track at a generalist conference that allows emerging researchers to present on a topic. Lots of these take place online (hence, cheaper), or you might be able to apply for funding from your university to attend (or idk you have a fabulously wealthy great-aunt).

Postgraduate

While undergrad is more about learning, postgrad is more about finding out. The higher up the ladder you go, the narrower your focus becomes, and you start to need more specialised guidance. To get the most out of your learning, you need to go where the experts are, and naturally, many of the most cutting-edge scholars on American history are, well, in America. You'll want to be surrounded by a community of like-minded scholars. And yeah, "being there" can be important not just for better access to primary materials, but also for insights that come from physical, social and cultural proximity.

That said, I don't think it's impossible (or inadvisable) to study the American revolution outside of America; it's just trickier. Doing that successfully comes down to 1) finding the right advisor and 2) choosing the right topic.

By this point, you should know who the leading scholars are in your particular niche of interest. Nobody really studies "the American revolution" writ large; rather, they (and you) will focus on the political or racial or sociocultural or regional or culinary or-- whatever aspect of it. It might just happen that the people in your field are located near you.

You can also approach the topic from a different angle – start from a local point of interest that you can to relate to the AmRev. (Maybe you're Italian, and you know about Italian History Blorbo who went to fight in the war, and there's a story to tell there. Maybe you're Dutch and you have things to say about the intricacies of the financial and political support the Netherlands gave to America. And so on.) This might, in fact, lead to novel insights and perspectives that haven't been explored yet.

Good luck to you!

If anyone wants to share their own experiences, please feel free!

[alaska-mii]

ᴅᴇᴄᴋ ᴏғ ᴄᴀʀᴅs | ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛs x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

〖 . . . 〗ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ dottore creates a carbon copy of himself in every stage of his growth that he undertakes. to address the elephant in the room — your reputation amongst the segments is, to be blunt, quite the lunchtime dispute.

〖 ᴀ/ɴ 〗more of a character study per say, than an interaction between reader and segment squad.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: heavy descriptions of gore, obssesive behavior, pet names

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴋᴀᴘᴘᴀ

bearing quite the zealous streak, the verdant scholarly robes you often spot cascading behind him as he scrambles to and fro between endeavors betrays the years he had spent in the field during his legal reign of research.

absurd as it seems, kappa's prone to donning his heart on his sleeve, evidenced by the fawning, nigh tenderhearted nature he moulds over the blasphemy of his character rooted in each segment for your sake. and whether it be tainting the nonchalance of his genius or, in the scholar's case, festering beneath his bygone clean record, you reap the benefits of the devotion you've sowed.

despite the reputation he had garnered as the resident goody two shoes, a notion that even the others seem to gloss over as a half-baked jest, you've barely dug into the details of the open book you once pegged kappa to be. peering into the carmine eyes above the flush that dusted his cheeks if he happened to so much as glance at you — a cast to his palor you had once upon a time pinned the blame of to a candid crush, during the youth you had spent as a student yourself — they beheld such raw infatuation and frenzy in the razored grin below. both served as a wretched reminder of the doctor's sheer lunacy, buried beneath the cloak of a young, foolhardy scholar.

the scholar — though he sports the crammed role of the errand boy, bossed around and treated like another meager masked fatui agent — always seems to knit together occasions to gift you near heart attacks whenever he stumbles upon you as he flocks haphazardly throughout the palace, moments that he, of course, takes guilty delight in. the shock that bolts through you when he pinches you into an embrace from behind never ceases to send your composure into haywire, a secret the cheeky bastard devours.

you beam at the pitter-patter of steps echoing throughout the brittle corridors. it is always a delicacy to see a crumb of energy against such drabness within these halls, but kappa's stifling zest is a flavor you'd prefer not to taste.

as the rhythm of tapping trails away, you mark the coast as clear. alas, when you bite back a shriek as arms slink around your waist — much to his jovial laughter — you had ventured far into the den of the vulture's playground.

he chuckles breezily, nuzzling further into the racing thrum at your neck without shame. giddiness seeps from him in waves, "you'll have to forgive me, love,"

he squeezes you against him once more, lapping up the morsel of your choked rasps, before untangling the grasp he snaked around you. he stows those hands behind a cape of silk as if to conceal their breaching acts moments before.

the scholar flashes a serrated smile, ear to ear, "the feast you made yourself to be was an invitation far too appetizing to ignore."

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴅᴇʟᴛᴀ

the rogue has a penchant for brandishing the cold shoulder towards you, evidently due to the fresh memory of the rejection sustained from his homeland that seared into the soles of each gloomy traipse he treaded. no matter the hours you spend interrogating delta between the mounds of research — really piles of clutter atop his equipment — he entombs himself in, your pyring inquiries always seem to be greeted by blunt hums and the dreary rustle of a shrug. the vague responses you manage to wring from him are victories you savour.

in moments of weakness, after an onslaught of questions — fueled only by the desire to fathom such detatchment encapsulated within each twitch of his person — are thwarted by matching stubbornness, the urge to cleave his head from the column of his neck and chop at his candy blue curls if only to peak at the dense fog that clouded him so often entices you. the utter gloom he stokes is painted boldly on your poise, yet unbeknownst to you, the rogue's macabre thoughts mirror yours precisely, merely concealing it behind his bleak demeanor.

delta mulls it over when the muse strikes him. one time, he had halted when his gloves were soaked in gore to the elbows, gaze gliding over to your fidgeting. today, the droning sentence that had caught his attention, a murmur you sandwiched in yet another ramble: to prompt you into abandoning him would be yearning to peel a parasite from its host. a ludicrous — yet somehow touching — sentiment.

the rogue truly does ponder about it, balancing the options upon a scale chained by the hours you spun yarns of storybook tales and mundane chores throughout your days. you color him puzzled, weaving such a labyrinth between him and the coherent course of choice. the fleeting deranged idea plagues him though, tugs at him to wonder if you really are a species of nonhuman that initiates conversation to harvest some form of energy from him.

a mellow snore drags him from his sulking — ah, it seemed you've cruised into a drowse yourself. gingerly draped across a surface swept from rather noteworthy gadgets and documents, you nestled your chin into tucked sleeves. that particular tangled thread of thoughts is for another day.

the chair scratches along the ground as he unfurls from his seat. he ambles towards your slumber, focus latched onto you.

delta looms above you, reaching a languid hand to the crown of your head. how he yearns, yet he reigns his own talons in, collecting himself. then, as he observes you stir from your doze, it happens upon him like a whip.

your glossy, sleep ridden eyes meet his.

he wouldn't be bothered — he thinks as a tender, questioning, sleepy keen escaped those lips—were you a leech feasting upon his blood. so long as you needed a part of him to breathe.

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴏᴍᴇɢᴀ

omega's been favouring a curious hobby, as you've gauged as of late, which was his habit of dangling bait before you, humoring in your battle against the hook, and after he tugs you out of your element, judging if you'll squirm or yield as the gambler gobbles you up.

not a sole segment of ghastly skin tattered with scarred ingravings of past experiments, adorned with pale blue locks draping across sharp pristine wardrobe, coupled with those eyes granting only a shred of the endowment packed into his mind scratched beneath your skin more than that damned gambler.

an odd monicker, yet not without background — since it had always been a routine matter of chance with him. whether you had unlucky dealings with the others and if he was feeling rather malicious when he encounters you, or whether he'd notice the bounce in your step as his mood was bizarrely indulgent for once. each jest he sends is designed to coax an answer, not to dictate any of the perturbed backlash you let slip through the crevices of the etiquette you sculpted into your behavior.

and in exchange for obediently playing along with this game of his, you craft a mock of your own — the high and mighty gambler.

the morbid satisfaction that racks through you whenever you bear witness to the smugness draining from him is a trophy like no other. you know he loaths it as the harbinger bestowed with the second seat is infamous for his schemes founded upon logic harvested from centuries worth of shrewdness beneath his belt. only then does he clench his mouth shut, refusing to hand his pride to you on a silver platter without a fight.

how you both entertain yourselves by spewing barbed quips to one another is beyond even you. omega does seem to find amusement in your ruffled feathers, however. such a stark unlikeness to the spineless skirmishers who quiver at the offer of his honeyed venom.

you hear the rhythm of his clacking footfall only due to his current indulgence, you know he'd leave no hint of his incoming presence otherwise. the gaze boring onto your back bothers you too much to ignore. even through that beaked mask of his.

he notices the brake in your hastened stride. to tempt his dormant pestering tendancies would not be wise.

"going somewhere?" he drawls, moseying into place beside you. before you could respond, he drones on, "perhaps a stroll outside the palace would do you well. you cage yourself inside these walls so often that i've been meaning to ask the last time you've seen the sun."

the lure beckons you to throw another jab back. although, one-sided banter is one of the more pleasant things you'll encounter in his company. you hum instead, "but i've heard the weather tonight is the least bit inviting. besides," — an olive branch — "won't you join me either way?"

the question hangs heavy in the static air between the pair of you. you wonder if you should've held your tongue.

then, omega haughtily scoffs, "break away from the delusion you've fooled yourself into believing. you are not entitled to my presence."

he nears you, then. arms clad in moonlit silver tucked behind his back, a soft glow emitting from the liquid encapsulated in his glass earring, the sharpness of antiseptic and iron and the faintest, fleeting whisper of a floral aroma, all just swallowing you whole.

"however," he tilts his head, breath fanning at your cheek, the sharpened tip of his crow's mask a hairsbreadth away, "make no mistake, darling. the time i spend with you this evening is of my own free will."

he resumes his amiable snail's pace stroll, leading the trek to nowhere in particular, leaving you to scramble behind him.

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴇᴘsɪʟᴏɴ

if the bandwagon of torture was a worshipped diety, epsilon had taken it upon himself to employ his torment upon you as a sacred custom.

despite the frequent visits he suffocates you with, abiding by the disheveled schedule he had demanded you to heed, panic creeps into you whenever his mood sours at the farthest thing from you. few and far in between, the poor outcome of an experiment — a glass chamber had broked beneath the rampage of his hand, you had quivered quietly as you watched — other times yet often enough, the errors of his assigned researchers — there had been a bloodbath when he finished, you faintly smell the tang of copper clinging to you still — or, heaven forbid, a fault of your own.

the trecherous memory haunts you, a ghost forever paralyzed in sweltering agony and numbing horror clutching at your heels, never to forgotten and submerged from your mind. he remembers, too. yet it is an unspoken rule amongst you that both butcher and carcass would play pretend, unless you choose to relive the nightmare of a cleaver's blade.

ah, but that vexes him too. he doesn't wish for a corpse to be his everyday companion, rather, he urges you to sew together a semblance of an ordinary bond shared between a pair of animated lovers: to be a taxidermied toy, stitches and staples and a ploy at being alive. his scholarly days had been the target of his unadulterated disgust for ages, and he was not about to alter such inner resolve within him over a silly fantasy, but perhaps.

perhaps, a lifetime ago, he could have graduated from that wretched hellhole with his hand intertwined in yours, looping through one another in matrimony. perhaps you could have travled the lands together, never quite quenching your hunger for the unknown, never settling as wanderlust tainted the both of you. how charming — you would be the only home that daren't chase him away with pitchforks and torches. he hates that such enchanting dreams will always be a distant fairytale.

yet in a cruel twist of heart, epsilon does find solace in having you within arm's reach, ready to be beckoned at a moment's notice. he had been stripped of his prestige, now forced to operate within inky shadows — should there be a single aspect of his former life that would never escape his grasp, it would be his lover. the only one who could hold him wholly within the palms of your hands.

it's that truth that drives each word lashed towards you, every vice grip he latches onto you. he wouldn't part from you if death came to seize his soul, yet how effortlessly you could just let go unnerves him to his bones. surely you of all crowds would understand this overbearing character he acts behind — no doubt, you would read between the lines of the scripts he spouts.

no matter if epsilon gets lost within the scenes, melds with the butcher who lusts after the wounds he tears and stitches back together upon your flesh. nevermind if he feels a twinge of glee whenever tears are shed from eyes squinted with pain. you would be the needle of his haystack audience, always meant to throw yourself into a standing ovation at the end of his preformance. always meant to tell the butcher from the knife he wields.

splatter paints him another coat of skin.

he stares, the smothered trembles on your figure are earthouakes to him. eyes flickering to the puddle oozing from the crack of the door, to the mangled bodies that lay mauled behind it, anywhere but his own that fixes on the grimace crinkling your face.

shattering the moment frozen in the dead of the evening, he dares a step forward.

he stops before you — a bundle of nerves packaged by the stun of his scrutiny — and peels his soiled gloves from his hands. sprinkling dots of blood on your cheek.

he tosses the pair at your feet, you startle with a hitch of your breath. he catches your jaw, and at last, you timidly peak at his towering form above. you thought you would perhaps glimpse a note of the mayhem that plagues him, yet you only find a sickeningly soft glint glossing his twin crimsons.

epsilon kneels like a knight in a pool of dribbling blood. he presses his forehead to yours, chanting your name a prayer, "be not afraid, my dearest. so long as you stay by my side," he signs, hysteria bleeding into his voice, "i won't lay a hand on you."

a lie, stemming from the desperate need for stability, an offer to a fake haven that wouldn't crumble into the depths of the evening. you know the invitation is merely another slight of hand biding time for the other to lash out, for the other shoe to drop.

yet you can't help but take the bold-faced lie with greedy hands.

〖 ᴀ/ɴ 〗disclaimer, delta and kappa are my own. had a blast writing this, so please leave a note below!

[lesb0]

anti-trans feminism?

bullshit because they don't publish anything academically substantiated or credible, most of them are feminist in neither scholarly inquiry nor in everyday life, they dont follow contemporaneous feminisms or sociology and resort to following biology science studies as if thats a suitable replacement for what real feminists do, but they do love cozying up to conservatives. they have no basic regard or respect for the prestigious standard of the academic peer review process so theyre literally not even publishing feminist theory anymore, they just want to harass transgenders. unless were counting badly written social media screed as academic "theory" now. and of course misogynistic leftists have used them to scapegoat their seething hatred of women onto witchhunting real feminists too now, so great job with that I guess.

[chibi-celesti]

EXEC_ZENVA=RYUSSE >> FLEUR_CITY, Part 2: Departure

~Twisted Tonelico~

~Night Raven: Mirror Chamber~

It was early dawn at Night Raven College. All students that were chosen to go were all accounted for, their bags packed and ready to go. While many were caught off by Malleus’s sudden announcement of being given an extended Invitation by Noble Bell’s very own Student Council President, they were all still excited for this trip. Some of them for educational purposes, others were more curious about what made this Arcane Trip so special.

As soon as Meryu and Grim had arrived, everyone minus Deuce, Epel, the prince himself, and his retinue were surprised about them traveling as well. That was, until Meryu explained their situation to them. “Ah, so it was your doing,” Riddle said, glaring at Grim and disappointed by his actions.

“Please be easy on him, Mr. Riddle. He was already chewed out by the Doctor.” Meryu reasoned. “Besides, I don’t mind going. I just wish it was done without him being a troublemaker again.”

The Red Rose Tyrant relented on correcting the dire beast, and instead chose to congratulate them on tagging along. “It is a pleasure to accompany you, Melenas-san.”

“Likewise, Mr. Riddle.” She then gave the Fae a quick glance, and smiled. Happy to see him invited to something by another. And the same city nonetheless.

“The old coot is really letting you go?” Idia questioned her. “You know what’ll happen if you do, right?”

“I do, Mr. Shroud.” She said firmly.

“And all the more reason for some careful planning in advance!” Crowey suddenly appeared behind the Ignihyde Housewarden, making him shriek and rush to hide behind Azul and Jamil.

“Oi! What’s with the Jumpscare, Headmage?!”

Both second years were annoyed by the otaku’s behavior. “Please refrain from using me as a shield, Idia!”

“What are you talking about, sir?” Ruggie asked, tuning them out.

“As some of you are no doubt aware, Ms. Melenas is a…delicate case.”

“The term you’re looking for is Glass cannon.”

Rook agreed. “Oui. Sa beauté et sa magie sont aussi puissantes que fugaces. Yet, you are allowing her to go?”

Crowley began his explanation. “After some discussions and planning, we managed to make an exception that allows her to travel safely on this trip. She has been christened with a song that will allow her to temporarily allow a special host to be her Source of Life.”

“Her [Ar Tonelico], right?” Silver said, to which the Headmage agreed.

“Ms. Melenas, if you may please,” The girl bowed quickly and began to sing to the Dark Mirror. Her tuning with the Artifact summoned the being within and they began to perform as one. Their performance caused the mirror to begin glowing brightly.

Once the song had ended, the Mirror remained glowing. It's light ready for the party to go across. “We're all set!” She announced.

“Splendid!! Take care everyone! And don’t forget that I do not mind any inquiries you’ve gathered from this trip.” (In other words, he was bribing them to buy a souvenir from the City.)

It was Prof. Trein’s turn to give the students a warning. “Remember, students. You all represent Night Raven College. and all its glory. Any trouble you cause will reflect poorly on the school. Understand?”

“Yes, Prof. Trein./ Yes, Sensei.”

And with that, everyone proceeded into the Dark Mirror, traversing beyond the borders of Sage’s Island, and opening up a part of the world yet to be seen.

~Fleur City, Noble Bell College: Lecture Hall~

The moment their feet had touched the ground and the light dimmed, the NRC group had arrived to the infamous Noble Bell College: The hosts of this Arcane School Trip. The Hall was huge, almost as if it were a Cathedral’s prayer Hall rather then one dedicated for scholarly purposes like at NRC. Massive stained-glass windows shined down the early mid-morning sun’s rays, coloring the room. Everyone was awestruck by the beauty of it all.

Meryu was the first to voice her feelings. “Wow! I’ve never seen something so, so…”

“Beautiful?” Malleus finished her sentence.

“Yes.” She blushed.

“This place is ginormous!” Grim exclaimed. “I can barely see the ceiling!”

From far away, a young man no more than 18 years of age and his two trusted aides were making their way to greet them. The uniforms for Noble Bell differed vastly from NRC and its rival school. While the aides wore simplified versions of the uniform donned in maroon, black and purples, his stood out to showcase his status as the Student Council President of Noble Bell: He wears a tricone robe that stops by his calves, with heeled shoes with his coat also sporting some curtain like fabrics on the back. Unlike his peers who wear berets, his cap was more akin to an old 15th design, and it appeared that some type of soft, purple scarf draped from the back of it. Underneath his hat was white hair cropped very short.

His emerald eyes, judging them every single Mage of Night Raven, hardened in disgust at the sight of the High Prince of Briar Valley himself. ‘Such vile creatures. All of them.’ He thought to himself. But the moment his eyes laid onto the magicless Prefect, he felt his heart freeze at the sight of her. No words would do any justice for this boy to describe her beautiful and other worldly form in his mind(makes sense since she was said to be from a world without magic). Shaking away those musings, he stepped forward to introduce himself to their ‘guests’.

“Greetings, everyone. It is a pleasure to meet Night Raven College’s finest students,” He said. “I am Rollo Flamme, the student Council President of Noble Bell College. It is wonderful to meet you all.” He extends his arms in a welcoming gesture.

Prof. Trein comes forward to introduce himself. “It is our pleasure as well. We look forward to seeing what your school and the rest of Fleur City has to offer. I know I’m happy to visit this place once again.”

Again? Mr. Trein came here before? Meryu wondered as the professor proceeded to introduce each student by name. Some shook hands with Rollo, others exchanged verbal pleasantries with him instead. As he came to both her and Grim, the latter had boasted his name and place as the ‘Greatest Mage in the making’. Rollo had humored the dire beast before finally facing her. “Hello. I am-”

“Meryu Ptrapica Melenas.”

“Oh,” She didn’t expect him to say her name before she did. “Y-yes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Flamme.” She finished with a bow.

“Please. There is no need for that, Melenas-san,” He said to her as she slowly rose herself upright. Her doe eyes staring at him with a naïveté-like charm stirred a spark of heat in his soul. “It is my pleasure to meet you.”

“Psst! You see this, Deuce?” Epel asked, leaning close to his friend.

“Yeah. His tone changed very quick when speaking with Meryu-san. When he spoke with us, he sounded almost like he was tired and disinterested,” he whispered back.

“Why d’ya think it is?” The spade shrugged his shoulders.

“Whispering is very rude, boys.” Rook said behind them. They both shouted in surprise, scaring Idia in the process and causing him to duck behind Silver and Sebek. Their actions didn't go unnoticed by everyone else in the room. Many sharing looks of confusion, disappointment, or curiosity at the outburst. Embarrassed, the two first years apologized for their rudeness.

Rollo cleared his throat. “Now, then. These two are my most trusted assistants. Our Vice President, Anthony,” He waves his hand to the brunette. “And our aide, Lothaire.” He does so again but to the one with brown hair. “When they heard they would be meeting with students of an esteemed academy such as yours, they stopped everything and came as quickly as they could to greet you.”

Both boys spoke about their excitement and joy of meeting everyone. Compared to the older boy, these two were much nicer and welcoming to their guests. It was a bit odd, not going unnoticed by a few in the group.

Their newest acquaintances offered to escort them to their temporary rooms during their stay and they accepted. Deuce leaned back over to Epel again. “Whatever the reason is, we should try to warn her about Flamme-san. Just in case.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t wanna get on Doc’s bad side again,” They left their discussion at that and followed behind the others. They exited the Lecture hall part of the College, Rollo explaining their school’s history, with Anthony and Lothaire adding additional information as well.

“Mr. Flamme. Your campus has a calming aura, and is thriving with such beautiful flowers and plants,” Meryu admitted. “Are they the school’s doing?”

“Yes and no, Melenas-san,” Anthony answered. “Our city takes pride in its flowers, so both the staff and the people all took part in cultivating them! However, our students also help in taking care of them as well.”

Her eyes shined in amazement. Balancing her familiar in her arms, she went into her school bag(careful not to drop any of her supplements) and pulled out her Ghost Camera. “May I…”

The Vice president laughed. “Go right ahead! We love for visitors to capture the beauty of our school!” He watched as she took photos close of some flowers within the passing courtyard. She even caught some Noble Bell students milling about the place near them, too.

The White haired boy covered his face again with his handkerchief, staring at the girl lovingly before putting it away again. “Our school may be small and not as well known as Night Raven, but we do hope you all are willing to indulge nonetheless.”

“Thank you. Your hospitality is quite delightful,” Malleus complimented him. The prince himself was pleased so far with the trip so far, he didn’t even seem to mind some of the bizarre, harsh looks sent his way from Flamme too much.

“Again, it tis our pleasure, Draconia-san.” Odd. He said that through gritted teeth…Why is that?

They continued their walk closer to the school and then were introduced to the historic figure that Noble Bell pays tribute. A single statue was smack dabbed in front of the building depicts a old, wise man on his horse. His appearance gave off an aura of authority; that he is determined to cast judgement on the guilty to ensure order like the Queen of Hearts, but much, much more impartial.

Looking at him, Ruggie spoke about how the man would scrutinize him if he were to just sneeze, almost mistaking him for a king.

Grim, from his place in his tamer's arms, curiously pointed at the statue. “Who's this guy?”

“This is the Righteous Judge,” Rollo said, his heart filling with pride.

“Righteous…Judge?” Some members of the class were confused by the name.

Riddle helped explain some pieces of his importance to the familiar. “He's an important historical figure. It says so in the history textbooks.”

“That's correct, Rosehearts,” Prof. Trein added. “The Righteous Judge is a prominent figure of Fleur City. You could say, he is just as vidal of an admirable figure like the Great Seven themselves.”

“Precisely. Thank you, Prof. Trein,” Rollo was beaming with pride, eyes focused on the statue before facing everyone again. “It was said to have brought order at a time where criminals and thieves run amok as well. It's thanks to his actions that everyone in Fleur City holds him in high esteem. The students of Noble Bell likewise seek to emulate his honorable conduct.” Most of the group now educated on the Judge’s heroic exploits were in awe of him. Having new found respect for the pious man of legend.

*DING, DONG*

The sound of a bell’s toll sung in the area. It came as a surprise to everyone, and the third year Iginhyde wallflower once again hid within his peers at the sound. “What was that?!”

“Is there anything your not scared of, Senpai?” Jamil looked at him, chuckling at his cowardice.

“Ah, that. What you all hear is the [Bell of Salvation],” Rollo explained.

There’s that name again. “Bell of Salvation?”

“With a name like that, it sounds super grandiose.”

“A name that is well deserved. This bell is an incredibly unique and valuable magical artifact. It has been a part of our school for generations.”

Hearing the importance of such a historical artifact tickled Malleus’ fancy. “I can tell you seem to cherish it, Flamme. Is it comparable to Night Raven College’ Dark Mirror?”

“Most definitely,” The professor told him. “Many arcane academies possess magical aritifacts. Those artifacts become emblematic of their school.” He closed his eyes, thinking of blissful nostalgic days. “It has been many years since I’ve last heard the Bell of Salvation myself.”

Azul looked at him astonished. “You’ve been to this place before, Professor?”

“I have. My wife and I came here for our honeymoon. I remember it at if it were yesterday.”

…

“Grim? Mr. Deuce? Mr. Epel?”

“Hmm?/ Yeah?” They turned to their friend who poked at their shoulders.

“Doesn’t that name sound familiar?” She said quietly.

“What name?”

“[Bell of Salvation].”

“Whatcha mean by that, Mi-” It took them a few minutes to understand her meaning. “Wait! Headmage Crowley said something about that before we came here!”

“Is it possible this Bell he told us is the same one you’re connected to?!” Their friend nodded at their hypothesis. “Think we’ll get to see it?”

“We can take you to go see it for yourselves, if you all wish to,” Lothaire offered.

They all then left toward the towering pagoda connected to the school. The way to reach such a precious treasure was ascending countless flights of stairs. The first few were fine for everyone to climb up just fine. But as they continue their ascend...there were some…exhausted casualties of the stairs. *Cough* Azul and Idia *Cough*

The Octavinelle Housewarden was breathing heavily, his legs feeling like jello. “How..many..stair…cases…are in…this tower?!”

His club member, close to passing out himself, agreed.“Why…is there..no Working ele…vator?! This place…sure could…use one!”

“There should be some broomsticks at this school. We could go back and grab them for you guys,” Epel mentioned.

Meanwhile, two people-Ruggie and Jamil- just looked down and laughed at their classmates' despair. “Aw, Epel. That’s just cruel,” The Viper said.

“Knowing how they struggle in flight class, it definitely won’t end well for them,” Ruggie snickered, continuing to walk ahead of them.

Idia silently wept, knowing he won;t be getting much help from anyone. He looks up where the rest of the group walked up the steps without any issues. Then, his eyes focused on one person in particular. “Oh, if only someone could help us up. Maybe someone who could lift me up when I am down.” He whined hoping they would hear him.

Sadly, his prayers were not answered. “Nope.”

“Huh?” He squeeked when he felt his arm being pulled by a very annoyed Deuce.

“She’s not falling for that again, Senpai,” He said, carrying half of the otaku on his body up the rest of the way.

“Come, Roi des poissons! We must make haste!” Rook added, lifting Azul with help from Epel.

“W-wouldn’t be nicer if Meryu just helped us out?!”

“She can’t. The headmage told her not to.”

“Eh?!” Azul and Idia(mostly the latter)were hoping they were hearing things. “What do you mean Crowley to her not to!”

“This is the first time we’re hearing of this,” Riddle said in shock. “Why is that?”

“He doesn’t want anyone else to know of her powers, remember?”

“Other than STYX and the whole school, no one knows what Meryu really is, and he doesn't want anyone else in the Fleur City to know.”

“... Makes sense. Not many people remember, let alone know what the heck she’s singing half the time.”

“It may be less of the language and more of her powers,” Silver pointed out. Given what all the oddities her powers bring, it’s still too soon for the world to know the presence of Song Mages/ Reyvateil again.

They dropped the subject and continued onward, finally making it to the summit of the edifice where everyone else waited for them. With a dramatic flourish of his hands, Rollo showed them his school’s pride and joy. “Behold before, the Bell of Salvation.”

~EXEC_ZENVA=RYUSSE >> FLEUR_CITY-Tes Biron~

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Lisa Needham for Daily Kos:

Let’s check in on how the Republican war on free speech and academic freedom is going, shall we? While conservative attacks on universities are nothing new, the recent success they’ve had in using the levers of state power is of a relatively recent vintage. The latest skirmish is in Indiana, but they’re in no way alone in their attempts to turn their public universities into conservative mouthpieces.  On Thursday, Indiana federal judge Sarah Evans Barker, a Reagan appointee, threw out a lawsuit filed by four Indiana professors seeking to block the state from enforcing its “intellectual diversity” law. That law, which went into effect on July 1 requires public higher education institutions to grant, review, and deny tenure in part based on whether the professor fosters “a culture of free inquiry, free expression, and intellectual diversity” and whether they expose students to a “variety of political or ideological frameworks.”  If that sounds vague yet still bad, that’s because it is. The bill was pushed by conservatives who believe that conservative students and viewpoints are discriminated against in higher education. 

Using the term “intellectual diversity” is the giveaway. It’s a favorite term of the right when they want to complain about how conservative viewpoints aren’t insufficiently coddled by higher education. It’s also the only kind of diversity conservatives really like.

Indiana’s law defines “intellectual diversity” but doesn’t explain what “free inquiry” and “free expression” mean. The extremely legitimate concerns of the professors who filed to block the law are two-fold. First, “intellectual diversity” is defined as whether the professor presents “multiple, divergent, and varied scholarly perspectives on an extensive range of public policy issues.”  One of the professors who sued teaches about the Holocaust and explained that divergent perspectives in Holocaust studies include outright Holocaust denial or revision. Another teaches about slavery, and divergent scholarly work on the institution of slavery includes the notion that slavery benefited Black people. Under the law, those professors would, arguably, have to teach those debunked and dangerous ideas to show a commitment to “intellectual diversity.” The lack of definitions for the other term creates a different problem. If no one knows what “free inquiry” or “free expression” means under this law, no one knows how to avoid running afoul of it. Laws like this are unconstitutionally vague and chill speech because people begin to self-censor. 

[...]

Over the last ten years, complete tenure bans have been proposed in Oklahoma, Iowa, Mississippi, Missouri, South Carolina, and West Virginia. A recent study found that when Republicans controlled the state legislature and governor’s office, the chance of a tenure ban bill being introduced was almost five times greater than in other states.  Conservatives will keep doing this because their war against higher education is part of their overall war on modernization and multiculturalism. They’re furious that they’re losing in the marketplace of ideas, and they will keep attacking their own universities until they break under the strain. 

Lisa Needham writes for Daily Kos on the right-wing war on freedom of speech and academic freedom on college campuses.

[genshin-scenarios]

Hi hello how are u? I love your writing and still waiting for adopt a Wanderer scenario! Could i maybe request a flower arranger reader and wanderer works as doll maker both works together sometimes (looks like the one he made in the game) Hmm maybe worried wanderer since he hasn't seen the reader for long (miss them) or maybe they injure themselves and he take care of the reader (preferebaly fem reader but it's up to u ofc) have a nice day 🥰

Tysm for sending this in!! It was such a cute prompt to work with 💕 hope you liked the rest of the Wanderer series as well! 👉👈

Notes: In the end I didn't really use any referral to pronouns in the fic, so it can be read as gender neutral too!

Also mentions of blood (reader cut their finger by accident) but it's nothing serious.

Of course, being a doll maker was only a civilian cover for Wanderer, who would often disappear during random periods to complete missions for the Dendro Archon. What he didn't appreciate however is how you're the one that's been occupied as of late - dragged into helping with some Amurta scholars' research project.

At least he's fairly quick with his work; what could possibly be so urgent that you'd have to be in the rainforest for two weeks?! And you had the nerve to ask him to help cover for you while you were gone… You're lucky he likes your company enough to go through with all this, and that he was competent enough to not mess up your business.

It's nothing much, just completing orders that you've designed beforehand to give to the clients that booked your arrangements. You'd even prepared the vase for each of them in advance to make things easier.

He can understand why you preferred this instead of scholarly work though (which you too had the potential for). Being able to interact with clients of different backgrounds and stories, then to translate their intentions into your craft; it's complicated at first glance, but simple in action because of the experience you have under your belt.

He still remembers the first time he entered your store, simply drawn in by the Inazuman specialities you imported recently, only to be met with the sight of you meticulously arranging them into a vase. Your actions were featherlight and evidently professional, but it's the soft smile you wore as you took delight in your work that gave him pause.

They looked like fireworks.

"Ah, sorry about that." You'd apologised, asking him if there's anything you could help with. Instead of faking an order, Wanderer instead asked if the arrangement on the table was for anything in particular.

"I'm… a traveler from Inazuma." He settled on explaining. "The sight of those flowers caught my attention, is all."

Your eyes immediately brightened then, glimmering with curiosity. "May I ask if this design is to your liking, then? I was told to base it off the fireworks from Naganohara… though I've only witnessed their work once before during Liyue's Lantern Rite."

From the bright focal blooms to the filler flowers that make a sea of darker hues, it was hard not to feel nostalgic when he looked at the arrangement. From then on the both of you hit it off pretty well, considering his track record - exchanging stories about travels (you went to Liyue every year or so to deliver large shipments) to questions about his hobbies, Wanderer always found it odd that he never found your inquiries too annoying. Maybe it's the way you hold yourself and your straightforward curiosities that charmed him.

Eventually you touched on the topic of new business opportunities now that regulations on the arts have lightened a little. "Perhaps you might even make a living out of your own craft, " You thought aloud to him one day.

"You mean sewing dolls?" Wanderer gave you an odd look. Sure, he's mentioned that he used to be a doll maker when you asked if he had any creative skills, but he hadn't expected you to actually remember that detail. Who would be interested in a toy as useless as that?

It seemed to be a spiteful twist of fate that decided who would enter your shop next; a toyseller you're acquainted with because he liked to keep his shop fresh with new blooms every week. From there, Wanderer was swept along in your rhythm as you managed to arrange a trial session for him to test out his product. Something about a wooden Aranara carving not being very play-friendly, and that cuter designs would probably be more favourable amongst children.

Fast forward to now, where you've been friends for a while and you've finally returned from that research trip - you'd apologised to Wanderer for the trouble before offering to make dinner to make up for it.

Your home doubles as a second office of sorts, less occupied with personal items and moreso with notes of larger projects that you'll have due next month.

Wanderer chooses to ignore the sewing thread that's sticking out from one of your drawers, definitely not related to the doll he once gifted you when you asked to make a trade of crafts - out of curiosity for what this sharp-tongued man could make with his hands, and you were not disappointed. His craftsmanship was delicate but precise, and if he was to be bold enough to make a guess… were you trying to make another doll to give back to him? He'll just leave you to it and pretend to be surprised later.

"Should I help?" He asks as he watches you fish out ingredients in the kitchen. Then a cutting board and knife, and the chopping begins. "I can do that while you worry about cooking over the stove."

"It's fine, I– Ow?!" You curse, dropping the knife as you turn to the sink and run your hand under the water. It takes a moment for him to realise you've cut yourself. "Ugh… I'll be fine, it's just a small cut."

Wanderer is already searching for your first aid kit though, recalling where you placed it the last time you found him with a bruise on his shoulder (it really didn't hurt, but he couldn't exactly explain his puppet background to you without scaring you away).

With a sigh, he tells you to face him and hold still while he applies an ointment to soothe the sting, and quickly wraps up your finger with the gauze. "You shouldn't use a blade if your mind is distracted with something else." He secures it, then starts putting everything away with an efficiency that has you dazed. "I mean, what would happen if you took your entire finger off?"

"I doubt I would manage to do that!" You exclaim, before letting a laugh escape your lips. "Thanks for worrying, though. It's kind of cute to see you fret, but of course I'll be more careful." You reach towards the knife again to pick it up and wash before resuming the dinner prep. "Now let me just–"

"Let's not." Wanderer smoothly steals the item from you, doing it in your stead. "I'd rather not taste blood in my meal, thanks."

In truth, he was just really against the idea of you cutting yourself again, but that doesn't matter when he's hiding this behind his usual quippiness. You make an offended noise, crossing your arms. "My hand slipped one time!"

You forget you're talking to someone who'd drag you to the hospital if you so much as got a cold. "I said I'll do it. Aren't you tired from running around the rainforest all week?"

Your eyes widen. You completely forgot that you wanted to tell him about the trip! Was that why he's been looking at you as if you've forgotten something? "Right, so last week when we first arrived, we…"

…By the time you're done talking, dinner is ready and waiting to be served. Maybe this is what they mean when they say to look out for pretty faces - sharp cunning and even sharper tongues. If Wanderer wasn't so subtly thoughtful at times like these, you might've thought that he hated your guts for real.

[eternal-echoes]

“Not mentioned by Knight and Lomas is that it was in "Dark Age" Europe that the university system, a gift of Western civilization to the world, was developed by the Catholic Church. Historians have marveled at the extent to which intellectual debate in those universities was free and unfettered. The exaltation of human reason and its capabilities, a commitment to rigorous and rational debate, a promotion of intellectual inquiry and scholarly exchange-all sponsored by the Church-provided the framework for the Scientific Revolution, which was unique to Western civilization.”

- Thomas E. Woods Jr., Ph.D., “The Indispensable Church,” How the Catholic Church Built the Western Civilization

[haggishlyhagging]

One of the first twentieth-century works to try to redress this pathological omission of women from what has conventionally been written as history is Mary Beard's Woman as a Force in History. Showing how, despite male dominance, women have in fact been important shapers of Western society, this pioneering woman historian led the way back into prehistory as a source of the lost human heritage. Of particular relevance here is Beard's documentation of something that to conventional historians would seem even more outrageous than the correlations shown by Winter and McClelland between "feminine" and "masculine" values and critical historical alternatives. This is that periods of the rising status of women are characteristically periods of cultural resurgence.

From the perspective of the Cultural Transformation theory we have been developing, it is hardly surprising to find a correlation between the status of women and whether a society is peaceful or warlike, concerned with people's welfare or indifferent to social equity, and generally hierarchical or equalitarian. For, as we have seen throughout this book, the way a society structures the relations between the two halves of humanity has profound, and highly predictable, systems implications. What is surprising is that, without any such theoretical framework, writing at the beginning of this century, Beard could see these patterns and remark on them in what is still one of few attempts to chart the activities of women in Western history.

In Women as a Force in History, Beard remarks on "the wide-reaching, and influential activities of Italian women in the promotion of humanistic learning" during the Renaissance. She notes that this was a time when women—along with "effeminate" values like artistic expression and inquiry—were beginning to free themselves from medieval church control. She documents that in the French Enlightenment of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries women played similarly critical roles. Indeed, as we will see, during this period—which launched the secular revolt against what Beard calls "the barbarisms and abuses" of the old regime—it was in the "salons" of women like Madame Rambouillet, Ninon de Lenclos, and Madame Geoffrin that the ideas for what later became the more humanist, or in our terms more gylanic, modern ideologies first germinated.

This is not to say that women have not also helped to keep men and "masculine" values in power. Despite the emergence of great figures here and there, women's part in our recorded past was by necessity largely played in the androcratically prescribed role of the male's "helper." But as Beard repeatedly shows, although women have helped men fight wars, and sometimes even fought in them, theirs has generally been a very different role. For not being socialized to be tough, aggressive, and conquest-oriented, women in their lives, actions, and ideas have characteristically been "softer," that is, less violent and more compassionate and caring. For example, as Beard remarks, "one of the earliest—and perhaps the first—rivals of the hymnology of war, hatred, and revenge made immortal by Homer was the poetry of an Aeolian woman called Sappha by her people but uniformly known in later times as Sappho."

This insight is also found in another pioneering work focusing on the role of women in history: Elizabeth Gould Davis's The First Sex. Like books by other women trying to reclaim their past with no institutions or learned colleagues for support, Davis's book has been criticized for veering into strange, if not downright esoteric, flights of fancy. But despite their flaws and perhaps precisely because they did not conform to accepted scholarly traditions books like this intuitively foreshadow a study of history in which the status of women and so-called feminine values would become central.

Like Beard's, Davis's book puts women back into the places from which they were erased by androcratic historians. It also provides data that make it possible to see the connection at critical historical junctures between the suppression of women and the suppression of feminine values. For instance, Davis contrasts the Elizabethan age with the Puritan regression that followed, marked by virulent measures to repress women, including "witch" burnings.

But it is primarily in the works of today's more exacting feminist historians and social scientists that we can find the data needed to flesh out and develop a new holistic theory of gylanic-androcratic transformation and alternation. These are the works of women such as Renate Bridenthal, Gerda Lerner, Dorothy Dinnerstein, Eleanor Leacock, JoAnn McNamara, Donna Haraway, Nancy Cott, Elizabeth Pleck, Carroll Smith-Rosenberg, Susanne Wemple, Joan Kelly, Claudia Koonz, Carolyn Merchant, Marilyn French, Francoise d'Eaubonne, Susan Stownmiller, Annette Ehrlich, Jane Jaguette, Lourdes Arizpe, Itsue Takamure, Rayna Rapp, Kathleen Newland, Gloria Orenstein, Bettina Aptheker, Carol Jacklin, and La Frances Rodgers-Rose and men such as Carl Degler, P. Steven Sangren, Lester Kitkendal, and Randolph Trumbach, who, painstakingly, often using obscure, hard-to-find sources like women's diaries and other hitherto ignored records, are gradually reclaiming an incredibly neglected half of history. And in the process, they are producing the missing building blocks required to construct the kind of historical paradigm needed to understand, and move beyond, the one-step-forward-and-one-step-back alternations of recorded history. For it is in the new feminist scholarship that we begin to see the reason behind something the French philosopher Charles Fourier observed over a century ago: the degree of emancipation of women is an index of the degree of a society's emancipation.

-Riane Eisler, The Chalice and the Blade: Our History, Our Future