#Yeah sure because you are 'standing up for the oppressed' and 'speaking truth to power' right?

[arcenciel-par-une-larme]

Oh! So now, cancel culture is not a "right-wing conspiracy" anymore! Now it's happening, and it's a "GOOD THING ACKCHUALLY"!

Yeah, OP, go and spout your self-righteous balderdash to Zamii or to the Covingtongate kids if ya dare. Or any of the other cases you will find here.

Or better yet, how about I consider the fact that I found the original post reblogged, without any addition or nuance, from someone whom I consider a bible-believing sister in Christ. And this is already the second time that this sort of thing has happened within the past fortnight.

You know, by the way, fellas, that the Lord does not look favourably upon slander of the brethren? In other words, repent.

[bi-sapphics]

Ok so following up where you said that talking about and standing up for bi issues is important for lesbians to do...I have a hot take that my community isn't going to like lol. Alot of lesbians that aren't les4les instantly lose respect for bi girls when they say their bi4bi cause that means they can't date them. That isn't ok because your respect for a person shouldn't end when you can not date them. That's some objectifation bullshit. If your a wlw fucking act like it. Love should be accepting and unconditional.

sorry for taking so long to get back to you, i had to get a biweekly prescription injected into my thigh to help with my eczema and it SUCKED. >:/

yeah it doesn't make any sense, especially when they are les4les. there's this super weird hypocritical idea that les4les is perfectly acceptable (which it is if done right) because of lesbophobia from bi women in particular, but bi4bi is not acceptable because of biphobia from lesbians in particular. the reason for this is that lesbians either think that biphobia isn't real, and/or they think they're not capable of perpetuating it because they're the most oppressed and the "real" gays and also bisexuals usually deserve it.

but yeah, usually bi4bi only ever upsets them after having previously established that they would never date one of us because it means we're denying them rightful accessibility to people whom they see as lesser, which is WEIRD because they should know how that feels when men do it to them!! obviously it's not the same kind of misogyny but it's still misogyny nonetheless and they're not above upholding that harmful cycle. i mean ffs they literally stan catradora and then insist they can never be abusive on the basis of being lesbians, c'mon.

but anyway that "i have a right to you" dynamic is simply about control and nothing more. that's the only reason why they would turn a compatible response to biphobia that flows nicely into something that interrupts their narrative. if they don't want to date bi women, and they insist that no lesbian they respect ever would, why do they care what we do? it's because they believe we're not good enough to deserve our own autonomy and happy fulfilling relationships. the whole "bisexuals are incapable of ever living through or speaking on any LGB experience without the presence of a real gay person there" is pretty much the explanation for that. we don't need the LG to be bi4bi and love ourselves, although it really doesn't help that we don't 'cause it'd sure be nice. we don't need the LG to take charge of a wlw relationship for us if both women are bi. if it's not about control, why do they show time and time again that this is exactly how they feel? why do they project so hard and act like we're claiming they oppress us (even though we don't) if they don't wish that power imbalance was real like they always openly say they do? it's not a secret that apparently lesbians are supposed to be able to oppress bisexual women despite the fact that they can't and don't just because it would satisfy them to keep us silent (’cause y’know bisexuals already do oppress lesbians since we can just throw their existing but less-valid SGA out the window /s).

something i'd like to note here is that i do understand some bi women are very homophobic about les4les and i'm not gonna be a hypocrite and deny that. the truth is, it just sucks when you're not included in something and you're not given access to people you want to be around. it's really easy to take that personally, and i think those feelings are valid to some degree. but it does need to be understood for both groups in both directions that it isn't personal and it doesn't inherently assume that you as an individual are biphobic or lesbophobic, even if those preferences are decidedly solidified and strict (i for one am not that way, i'm both bi4bi and bi4les but i have a very heavy preference for and hope to end up being bi4bi. i'm really only bi4les just in case i end up being that deep in love someday because my morals and boundaries aren't worth hurting and screwing myself over for imo). people are allowed to have boundaries and if it's understood that you can, then so can they. i also understand from experiences the frustration of bi4bi being seen as less legitimate than les4les because it's been accused of being a copycat method in addition to its reasoning for existing being dismissed as fake. but hating bi4bi over prejudiced assumptions doesn't make les4les wrong and hating les4les over implied homophobic feelings from being left out doesn't make bi4bi wrong. we're both shunned for our dating preferences, not just the latter, and it's because anyone can be misogynistic and a specific type of anti-wlw homophobic that only applies to sapphics of either kind.

that's why les/bi solidarity is so important these days, now more than ever, because we really do hurt each other the most more than anyone else, and that reason is that we have more in common than anyone else. sapphophobia hurts from straight people and gay men, sure, but it cuts deep when it comes from your own. pick-me bisexuals, boot-licking lesbians, they're both understood by their individual respective communities to cause real internalizing damage. why is interactive sapphophobia not just unrecognizable, but also completely acceptable, especially on the biphobic lesbians side of it?

[deerth]

my first mistake in witchcraft

yes i’m going to be petty over religion for a second here.

i have been slowly inching out of the broom closet as i now consciously move on from the atheist mindset to the pagan one. i was looking for more resources to research my path, and i ended up on a witchy server... woe unto me as i try to fit in once more, for it seems that not even witches are unified.

forget about all that shit about garden, cosmos and whatever witches. the religion actually broadly branches into two practices - Wicca and regular witchcraft. so you are primarily the one or the other, no matter what flavour of ritual you practice.

the primary difference between Wiccans and general witchcraft is your belief of whether religion can be used for harm or not. in short, Wiccans state “an it harm none, do as ye will” (as long as you don’t hurt anyone [including yourself], go bonkers), therefore you will not find Wiccans casting curses or hexes. we know the responsibility of our faith and we know that if you radiate bad vibes, it will come right back around to bite you in the ass later. that said, most Wiccans don’t mind witches who do curse or hex. some cultures use practices like voodoo, and even old eastern European practices were not free of rituals that were made to directly interfere with someone’s will (love spells that were supposed to make someone love you). therefore, a disclaimer: I’m not anti-hex. I would not use a hex because I feel that hate will not solve hate, and as long as you’re an adult, I trust you know what you’re doing with your power. maybe you are of an oppressed culture and have good reason to exact revenge on someone who severely hurt you, especially if you have a long-standing tradition of hexes. even Nina Simone sang “I Put a Spell on You” (albeit this is also a love spell). I know curses and hexes and even spells affecting with another’s free will are an inherent part of witchcraft and I won’t deny it. I follow my doctrine, you follow yours, that is fine by me.

what is NOT fine with me, however, is propagating hex culture among minors. why? because minors are not ready to take on that responsibility!!!! just like they are not truly ready to make healthy decisions about sex, alcohol or other substances, they cannot take true responsibility over causing harm, be it spiritual or otherwise. “what’s a little hex do?” you might ask, if you’re a minor. not to sound like a boomer, but when I was 16, I was edgy as fuck. I hated everyone while claiming to love everyone. I was in NO correct mental state to make decisions about the aforementioned things. even without casting any hexes, I made many mistakes. big ones. I hurt a lot of people. yes, I regret it all deeply. I wish I had thought things over rather than stay stubborn. in fact, most people under 20 are not ready to enter discourse, drama or a vicious cycle of hatred purely because it will always turn into “all bite but no bark”. I purposefully say it that way because although youngsters are admirably spirited and ready to take on the world... they often bite off more than they can chew. I see girlies straight out of high school trying to solve huge problems like racism, and although, again, admiring these young people, they have researched their stuff. to an extent, they know what they’re talking about... but I do believe hate will not solve hate.

one of the moderators of said server retaliated with it not being a universal truth, and claimed my take to be “unverified personal gnosis” (what is a verified gnosis, anyway? how do you measure it? especially in a practice like witchcraft where every bloody individual practises it differently and there are no priests or churches?). if the moderator happens to read this and wishes to elaborate, i’d be welcome for a bit of constructive discussion over what is and isn’t personal gnosis. I acknowledge that “hate cannot be fought with hate” is not a universal truth... that is perhaps where I went to the extreme. but believe me, I did not say it to be holier-than-thou. I was actually shocked to be called out by not one, but two moderators on my behaviour, instantly. I did not read in the rules that one would be forbidden to state their opinion or softly disagree, but perhaps it is so and I did not pay enough attention.

there comes another food for thought: is it possible to socialise without being opinionated in any way? would shutting down opinions truly prevent conflict? because I’m feeling very bitter and left out now. I know everyone on that server is not Wiccan. but to get slapped in the face right after I attempted to be friendly (laconic and feeble as that was), among who I considered to be my own people... I feel conflicted. now mind, I’m not going to leave witchcraft behind. it is my religion, and thanks to this experience, I learned that Wicca is the right thing for me. I don’t want to advocate for violence and a vicious cycle of hatred. my grandfather was Romani, therefore I believe I know a thing or two about mislabeling and hate enacted upon minorities and outcast people. does that mean I want to kill and hex every white in sight? the answer is no. if anything, me being both Wiccan and Romani, it would just add fuel to the fire. especially because Romani are stereotyped as evil witches in the first place, so it would be a double suicide. by propagating violence, I would give these people more reason to hate pagans and Romani people. both cultures are already feared and hated upon as it is. I am not going to give people more opportunity to hate me.

coming back to the minor I disagreed with in the server. I was shocked that the first thing that came to a teenager’s mind was a revenge hex. it screams of naiveté and irresponsible behaviour towards your faith. and not JUST your faith. as I am a student of psychology, I am well aware how mind patterns work, and here’s the funny thing: psychology has proven that witchcraft’s law of returns is somewhat true, not on a magickal level, but on a mental one. if you ponder over violence and revenge excessively, you are reinforcing those neural pathways in your brain. there is a reason why they say “hate breeds hate”. it is the same reason why depression is so hard to deal with. anything you obsessively ruminate over reinforces it again and again until escape seems impossible. I’m not only speaking as a witch, I’m speaking as a human being. is it correct to propagate petty violence among minors when we as adults can do better and guide young people to better paths?

I’m not saying young people shouldn’t use hexes. but I am questioning their ability to take on the responsibility of potentially hurting someone, or even just thinking of hurting someone. you plant a seed of hate and it may just grow. you knock on the devil’s door enough times and he will answer (disclaimer: I’m not Christian either, I just like the saying). soon there shall be nothing left but hate. if the person in question had not been a minor, I would have left it at that. but religion is sacred. a witch’s magick is essentially making something important to you sacred. it’s not a plaything. it’s not to be used light-handedly. it’s not a trend. and hexes should be the last resort if all else fails OR the person you hate has a damn good reason for being hated.

is it wrong to vote for love and peace? yeah, I sound like a hippie, but I think they’re right. love was not born from continuing to fight each other - love was born from unity, from coexisting. how does one fight racism? psychology says see more poc, interact with them, understand their struggles. how to fight religious fear? spend time with people of different views. how to get over homophobia? spend time with the gays and try to understand their views, and like, actually understand them. spending time with someone just to berate them is still bigotry. the interaction I mean here is coexisting with minorities in a shared space and them slowly, but surely becoming more accepted and normalised because we finally see them. even a bigot can’t stay a bigot if they are brought out of isolation. if they’re forced to see people different than them.

unfortunately, not even your own faith can comfort you sometimes, mostly because the community is still divided. there are rules on what should and shouldn’t be done, and woe upon thee if you dare to even peep one of your thoughts. I merely said thank you and sorry and left, as I always do when I feel misunderstood. it was a valuable yet harsh lesson, and I regret hoping for acceptance or even offering me a moment to be understood without being shut down without a second thought. I regret hoping for a little discussion where it is seen as a violation of rules.

again, as long as you are ready to bear the responsibility of harming another, do whatever you want. as a Wicca, I prefer staying benevolent and kind, even to those who traumatised me. you might argue that this essay in itself is not benevolent... after all, Wiccans don’t slander people behind their backs, you might say. but it is not my intent to slander. it is just me expressing sheer confusion over what I expected to be a community to hear out all voices, because why have a community at all if you allow for no discussion? do we shut off discussions entirely in fear of fights? but alas, it is human nature to be opposed, but it’s also human nature to still hold hands despite the differences - one just needs to acknowledge it.

blessed be.

[hiriajuu-suffering]

Reasons I believe in Polyamory

I’ll preface this by saying I’m not attractive enough to be able to have more than a single partner at once, but there is a reason for that, and really, the thesis of this wall of text below: heteronormative relationship standards in every culture have always been, and will continue to always be, more about possession than love in a post-imperialistic world.

Personally, I’m a huge proponent of engendered sexuality variance to the tone of males have a constant slow drip of libido and a female’s sex drive hits them like a freight train once a month (in mammalian bioepigenetics, this makes sense). I’m inclined to infer, because I’m not idyllically normatively attractive, only a fraction of a percentage of women will be attracted to me 24-27 days of any given month. As a cisgendered man who is regrettably straight, having the least attractive genoethnic identity intersection (South Asian Muslim) in Western culture, I’m never actually presented with the choices to act on a poly mindset (in fact, I would be ridiculed for it because people think it aligns with some other gross tribal stereotype when it couldn’t be further from the truth). In retrospect, I have everything to gain from interpreting the main benefit of an intimate relationship as ownership like heteronormative culture generally does yet I still think disavowing poly as a legitimate personal choice is immoral.

I know saying monogamous relationships are more about possession than love will offend lots of people, so before you throw hate at me for your emotionally defensive skepticism, hear me out. An unflinching, unyielding love is seen as the highest parameter in any type of romance. So why is it cheating is so much of a bigger problem than a dry spell specifically? Is it because it’s legitimately a breach of trust, or is it more about “if I can’t have you, no one can”? More importantly, does it go a step further and say “if I don’t want you, no one should”? To me, any sort of dry spell (whether physically, emotionally, mentally) signifies a much larger breach of trust than simply having been shared because it shows said commitment in the relationship was not unflinching, not unyielding. The monogamous lens looks at others like: I want to have the best partner, not just so that I’m happy, but no one else can receive the specific happiness I get. Doesn’t that whole mindset come off as brutish? Just me? Well, maybe your pitchforks will start coming down when you realize monogamy is a function of toxic patriarchy on both feminine and masculine ends.

There are bioevolutionary reasons for toxic femininity to value the possession aspect of a relationship over its substantive “quality of life” components, the birth-giving gender in any animalistic specie always had to be beheld to a provider they reproduce with. Does it not then represent a sense of feminine fragility when a single mother immediately demands a long-term relationship and nothing else? If I’m to believe said woman is capable of genuine lust in her system, having a child shouldn’t evaporate all carnal desires completely and, therefore, should leave room for compromise. Said stance also indicates she made some sort of error in judgment of her chosen reproductive mate and feels entitled another man ought remedy her strife even though, evolutionarily speaking, he has nothing to gain from helping to rear offspring not of his kin. Harsh, to be sure, but it does show in the obnoxiousness of the connotation of becoming a stepdad being a positive one and becoming a stepmom assumes the motivation of some gain in status (wealth, fame, power, etc.) which I would argue is negative. Where does toxic masculinity come into play? Desire for possession on the part of a male promotes the viability and exclusivity of his own children with his most desirable partner. While that’s damn near nowhere as compelling, it has to be stated because there are always two benefactors to patriarchy. Patriarchy is not a zero sum game, patriarchy seeks to concentrate all familial social benefits in the monogamously-driven, heteronormative genus, away from those who deviate from the ideal picture of stereotypical gender roles. The ill effects of patriarchal standards exist in every human civilization, but the ontological root to the specific brand of patriarchy that oppresses all genders today was spread by a culture that uniquely preached monogamy.

Polygamy, in a historical sense, was a testament to the more status a person of the provider gender could achieve, the more their genetics would proliferate. Many cultures globally practiced this, the issue is, the ones that didn’t were the ones who, often violently, “conquered” the ones that did. Christian fundamentalism is in every fiber of international morality, whether the nation in question believes in Christianity or not is often irrelevant. Monogamy is enforced, anything outside of that is deemed as necessarily being deviant (whether choosing to be alone or choosing more connections than a monocule). Fetishization of the step relation is eluding to this deviance in a not-so-subtle way because it’s something where its allure is derived from its forbiddenness moreso than its convenience, every one of these scenarios has a subtext of implicit gain, not loss, in engagement. Meaning, the idea is planted because a hot person is there not because a person in general is there and can satiate an urge. Tl;dr - we believe polyamory is a morally negative act because the Holy Roman Empire did and every nation that spawned from it spread, imparted, and coerced that ideal on every culture it came into contact with. Before the Holy Roman Empire, no historical documents made distinctions to behest multiple lovers as desanctifying of life itself, not even the coalescing of nations that made up the Holy Roman Empire before its inception.

We are now in an era when women have access to full reproductive control, yet we still see men lust more than women, e.g. archetypal lesbian tendencies versus archetypal gay male tendencies. Do we not question why this is the case? All lifeforms are hardwired with a desire to survive and reproduce, so why does that drive not reach equity when risk does? There are two answers, and it could even be both: women are only socially conditioned to have sex via patriarchal pressures and don’t have as much inherent desire to reproduce OR sex is a means-to-an-end to exclusively possess a desired provider, whatever said person provides. If said person has a trait valuable enough to want to possess, is it not self-contrived to keep that quality to oneself, not share it with the world where it can provide more utility? Heteronormative relationships, in a sense, are anti-altruistic at their very core. As facetious as this sounds, either of these trains of thought are validated by men being more willing to engage in polyamory than women, not because men are somehow any less loyal than women. On its own, I feel this line of reasoning is enough to justify a vehement disgust of polyamory as immoral, but I want to conclude on the most pivotal facet to this conversation and not just heavily imply monogamy encroachment on moral turpitude is problematic at best.

As I mentioned a few times, I am likely to be a spoke on a polycule, not a member with multiple connections. Exclusive possession is something I probably stand more to gain from than any woman, logically and realistically, given the current social climate and general global beauty standards. My advocacy of polyamory stems from me accepting I may not be enough to be the full extent of happiness my romantic interest desires. That doesn’t even come from a place of insecurity, it comes from a place knowing I could never be perfect even if its pursuit is a righteous cause. I see real insecurity as a fear of loss when the rules of engagement you put into place were exclusivity: you don’t want your partner looking at anyone else because it’s disadvantageous to you, meaning you’re not fixated on their best interest and looking at relationships in said manner is deliberately selfish. To me, the best frame of reference to morality in interpersonal social connections is altruism. Yeah, self-love is important and knowing your own boundaries is beneficial but everyone else’s boundaries don’t have to match yours. I’m not anti-monogamist, really. I’m more anti-polyamorist discontent.

Not having thought this deeply isn’t an excuse, either.

[noneatnonedotcom]

Magical girl au Chapter 4

Yang: *bursts out laughing in the quiet of the room* “how long were you sitting on that one?”

jaune : *grinning ear to ear* “all my life i’ve been waiting to use that” *nods his head* “nailed it”

Yang: *laughing harder now* “you certainly did loverboy, you certainly did”

Jaune: *raises an eyebrow* “loverboy?”

Yang: *looking away* “er right what I meant was…”

Jaune: *shakes his head* “it’s fine, just don’t go spreading that around the school. I’ve got enough problems without thirsty thots trying to get in my pants”

Yang: *goes quiet* “where’d you get those scars from?”

Jaune: *looks yang dead in the eye, the quiet of the room becoming oppressive* “I fight a lot, but that makes me wonder”

Yang: *Tries to look away but can’t*

Jaune: *leans forward* “how exactly did you fight like that? I saw no skill. Just pure power and don’t get me wrong I’ve got enough sense to know when I’m in over my head. I’ve fought… things, way stronger than me”

Yang: *takes a step back*

Jaune: *eye’s almost glowing with intensity* “how exactly are you that strong yang?”

Yang: *stays quiet and sweats under the intensity, opens her mouth to answer, Not sure if it would be the truth or a lie*

Nora: *dramatically opens door downing the last of her drink* “jaune-jaune we’ve come to save you!”

The atmosphere of the room suddenly lifts

Jaune: *starts laughing* “I’m saved! Oh, how can I repay you oh valiant queen Nora?”

Nora: *wiggles her eyebrows* “Well, Rennies here too, you wanna fool around?”

Ren: *sighs, but smiles* “it is good to see you well jaune, can you leave?”

Jaune: *forces himself to stand not letting the pain show on his face* “yeah I’m fine, might try skipping school tomorrow though” *leans in and whispers conspiratorially* “there’s this crazy blonde chick who beat me up there”

Nora: *whispers back* “I think she might be in this room jaune!”

Ren: *smiles* “perhaps Nora and I might do the same then, I have been in need of a personal day”

Nora: “Even Renny's in on it! He never lets me get away with this jaune. I told you he had a crush on you!”

Ren: *sighs*

Jaune: *wiggles his eyebrows suggestively*

Nora: *wiggles eyebrows*

Ren: “both of you stop that”

Jaune/Nora: *wiggle aggressively*

Ren: *sighs with a smile on his face* “might I inquire as to why you took our dear friend?”

Yang: *coughs awkwardly* “I uh… kinda hurt him accidentally and felt bad”

Ren: *looks at jaune, who is still aggressively wiggling his eyebrows with Nora* “then we shall leave it at that *turns to walk away smiling ruefully* “come along children”

Jaune: “can we stop for Wc Ronalds on the way back”

Ren: “there’s food at home”

Nora: *fake cries* “I hate this family” 

Jaune: “yeah you never let us do nothing”

Ren: *opening the front door giving a brief nod to summer on the way out who was on the phone* “that’s because when I do, I find you passed out bleeding in front of a burning warehouse”

Jaune: “one time!”

Nora: “he’s got a point jaune-jaune, today it’s an extra milkshake, tomorrow you’re selling crack and taking over the criminal underground” 

Jaune: *looks at Nora incredulously* “that’s a pretty slippery slope there Nora”

Nora: *nods sagely* “that’s why we listen to daddy!”

Ren: *sighs* “please don’t call me that”

Summer tensely waited to qrow to pick up the phone, she wasn’t blind. She saw those scars on that boy like he’d been ripped apart and stitched back together several times. She knew only one man who was like that.

Qrow: *over the phone* “eightball's pool hall eightball speaking”

Summer: *shakes her head with a smile* “I know it’s you qrow, I need your help.  I think I found a kid going through the same things you did,”

Qrow: *worried* “that bad? I mean, my dad was a real piece of work. You saw what it did to raven”

Summer: “he honestly looks more beat up than you do”

Qrow: “I fight grim and criminals for a living”

Summer: “he’s more scars than skin qrow”

Qrow: *is quiet on the line*  “… alright, I'll… I’ll look into the kid, but if he’s mixed up in the criminal world like I was he’s gotta be willing to leave it, raven’s a good example of what happens when you try to force people to be good”

Summer: *smiles* “thank you qrow, thank you so much”

Qrow: “don’t get too attached summer, you can’t save everyone”

Summer: “you don’t get it qrow, this kid… he’s special. We need to save him. If his parents are like yours…”

Qrow: “I’ll try summer that’s all I can do”

Summer: “I know, thank you qrow”

Summer hung up after qrow, part of her wondered if she was trying so hard to save jaune because he reminded her of Tai.

Tai, and qrow both. 

Idly she thought of how she and Tai were but that led to thoughts of what she raven and Tai got up to.

It was only when she placed jaune in one of her fantasies that she forced herself to stop. 

She clearly needed an outlet if she was thinking about a boy half her age just because he was blonde with blue eyes. She hadn’t been with anyone since Tai, nor had she really felt the urge. Depression then several years of constant struggle against the forces of Grimm solo had really put the kibosh on her sex drive. 

She was glad ruby wouldn’t have to face the Grimm alone like she had but… she wasn’t sure those girls were ready for the responsibility that they had. Even with all their power, the idea of maiden’s was a new one and Oz gave up most of his power to make them. On top of qrow’s enhancements. The old wizard was stretching himself too thin. 

And now her baby girl had brought home a young blonde so much like she had (though her meeting with Tai had been much like ruby’s rather than yangs) was she really that pent up that any young blonde would do?

She shook her head that could all wait for later, for now, she would start on dinner, and yang would start on her baked apology. The fastest way to get a boy to forgive you was to bake him some sweets.

Jaune sat at his table head down, hood up as Nora and Ren spoke around him, their voices calmed him, let him know things were safe. And all in all, gave him a peaceful nap.

The day since Yang's beat down of him had been quiet. Even the Grimm had been quiet which really helped as he was trying to recover from his last fight. He’d made great progress though. Probably because he wasn’t having to push himself anymore

Yes all in all things would calm down now

Yang: “hey loverboy, I made you this”

A plate of cookies was slammed down in front of him as either side the other maidens of beacon sitting. Ruby took the seat just next to him as Yang sat across.

Ruby: *puppy dog eyes* “can you share?”

Yang: “rubes you had your own plate earlier, these are Jaune’s”

Jaune heard the whispers of loverboy all around him

By the end of lunch, the school would have heard of it.

By the end of the day, he was gonna have idiots thinking with the wrong head coming after him to try and claim yang for themselves

And he was going to have to fight all of them

Jaune: *takes a cookie, eating it* “fuck my life”

Yang: *looks around, then back to jaune sheepishly* “well at least they’re not talking about the thing with you molesting ruby anymore”

And now he had to deal with rumors that he was sleeping with both sisters goodwitch already had it out for him this would be just the excuse she needed to make his life harder

Jaune: *deadpan face* “thanks sunshine, ya really made my day brighter”

[slow-smiles]

The plan to tell Emma’s parents about her relationship with Killian gets derailed when she is kidnapped by the Dark One. Captain Duckling. Revelations, reunions, adventures, and smut ensues. ~8.7k

The grand finale to the My Princess, My Pirate series. This is part two of four. Also just… ya know, screw the canon timeline, use your imagination.

Read on AO3. Read on tumblr Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

The Swan of Misthaven. Part Two.

Emma awakens with a sharp gasp on the floor of a massive chamber with no windows. The stones are cool under her back, but her skin feels hot, her heart racing. She sits up slowly with a groan. She feels hungover, but multiplied by seventy. A sharp headache makes her feel like her skull is being split in two, oppressive fogginess makes focusing on anything nearly impossible, and a pressing, cloying nausea pushes insistently against her gag reflex. How did she—

The last thing she remembers is the clearing, making the deal with Rumplestiltskin to keep Killian alive, and now here she is. Wherever here is.

The empty chamber is massive, even bigger than the ballroom at the palace, with several support columns evenly dotting the floor in fifteen foot intervals. The air feels dank and heavy, and Emma wonders if this is an underground dungeon of some kind. The stone making up the walls and floor is dark, rough like limestone, and the space is dimly lit by sparse torches along the walls. She doesn’t notice any doors.

She rolls herself to her knees, and at that point the nausea wins the fight and Emma throws up. As she heaves against the floor, her mind is spinning, barely able to pick up a thread of thought aside from where am I and how did I get here.

“There’s no way to avoid the physical aftereffects of having a suppression hex removed, I’m afraid.”

She wishes she could say that when she heard Rumplestiltskin’s voice behind her, she leapt to her feet and demanded to know where she was being held. She does try, but as soon as she gets to her feet and turns, a wave of dizziness and nausea knocks her back to her knees, her hands bracing on the floor. She can’t help the miserable whine that escapes her at the feeling of illness and discomfort running through her.

“And unfortunately for you,” he continues, the click of his boots against the stone ominous in the quiet of the chamber, “the more powerful you are, the more severe the side effects.”

She wrangles enough clarity of mind to say, “What are you talking about?” before her body starts to heave again.

The ringing in her ears doesn’t drown out the sound of him saying, “I must admit, I was surprised to find one on you. The fairies have never dabbled in hexes before to my knowledge, and it was surprisingly well-crafted.”

“What?” Emma chokes out again. Gods, she feels awful. (Even worse than the last time she’d drunk whiskey and blacked out for the entire night. To this day, she doesn’t remember going to sleep or waking up; she had come to, still drunk and vomiting with her pants laying nearby, behind a blacksmith’s forge. Thankfully, Killian had awoken behind the shop next door, doing only mildly better than she, and found her in her sorry state, and they mutually assured their hungover partner got home. This had been relatively early in their courtship, and it was strangely freeing in a way, to see each other essentially at their worst and most stupid.)

“Ding-ding-ding, dearie,” he chirps, so close to her ear, she nearly falls sideways in surprise. How did she not hear him get closer? “You’re a lucky winner.”

“Of what?” she asks, hopelessly confused and desperate for someone to just explain what the hell is going on.

She turns her head to finally look at him directly. His smile is predatory. “Magic.”

Emma barely hears him, or registers his meaning exactly, because her body has quite suddenly decided it’s had enough. Her head drops, she sees white sparkling at the edges of her vision, then sparking across her hands, and before she can say anything in response, she passes out.

***

It’s just over a day’s-worth of hard riding from the palace in Misthaven to the village just across the border where the former Queen Regina lives, and given that they set out in late afternoon, the time comes to set up camp sooner rather than later.

The quiet cooperation between the three of them is not as awkward as Killian imagined it might be. The King and Queen move around each other like a well-choreographed ballet. He’s quietly amused by the two royals in travelling gear (that is far too nice to truly blend in) who are extremely well-versed in camp craft. He fills in where necessary, and by the time the darkness settles, when the light from the moon and stars are barely enough to see by, David volunteers to take first watch. Snow thanks him, collapses into her bedroll, and is asleep in minutes.

Killian finds himself staring at the orange flames next to Emma’s father in silence.

Emma is supposed to be with him for this part, he thinks. Emma is supposed to be here to guide him. And he--

He’s not supposed to be this person anymore. This person whose every waking moment is consumed with thoughts of how he wants to watch the life drain from a man’s eyes. With Emma, he likes to think he’s become someone worthwhile. Someone who is a part of something. Someone who he’s proud to say he will be for the rest of his life.

When they decided that it was finally time to tell her parents, come out of the shadows, he thought he’d be able to be that person. That honorable man worthy of care, worthy of note, worthy of their daughter’s hand in marriage, someday.

“You should get some sleep,” David says, startling Killian out of his reverie.

He looks over at the King, the details of his face made sharper in the shadows cast by the flame. He looks every inch a man of royalty--classically handsome, even in his age. A regal bearing, even when seated on a log in the woods. The crow’s feet around his eyes and the smile lines around his mouth only serve to make him look sage and wise, perhaps even kindly.

Killian answers him honestly, “I’m not certain I could if I tried.”

David looks away into the flames, and a heavy beat passes before he says, “You are the absolute last person I ever pictured Emma with.”

“Pardon?”

David chuckles lightly. “I know Snow doesn’t want to acknowledge anything is real until we have Emma back, but I don’t have the same restraint.” Another chuckle, this time deprecating. “Of all the people in the world, of all the potential romantic suitors she’s met, and it’s you.”

Killian doesn’t appreciate the direction this conversation is going. “What we became was up to her as much as me.”

“Sure,” David says, but it doesn’t sound precisely like agreement.

Despite knowing ( hoping ) that he’s a better man now than he was, he can’t change the fact that he can be a bit of a snarky asshole. “There’s clearly something you’d like to yell at me for,” he says, fully prepared to regret his words but unable to stop them from spilling out, “so why don’t you get it out of your system now.”

The King snorts softly. “Which part do I yell at you for? You’re a murdering thief who is apparently over a century old--yeah, I didn’t forget about that--and somehow you’ve managed to capture my only child’s affection.” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest.

There’s a part of him that says I don’t know how I did it either (which is only true in spirit, as he still doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve her love, but knows that Emma’s heart was only won when he consistently proved that he was in this for the long haul.) The part of him that speaks isn’t so keen on sharing that vulnerability, so he replies, “Well, give me time, I might just grow on you.”

David grunts. “Like a wart. Or an infection.”

Killian grits his teeth before giving the King his most winning smile. “I suppose it’s a good thing Emma’s feelings for me aren’t up to you then, isn’t it?”

Emma’s father grimaces, and there’s that honest voice deep down, the one beneath the arrogant, brash exterior, telling him that Emma is going to be quite cross with him for trying to get under David’s skin like this.

“Were you ever in the military?” asks David then, the segue so unexpected Killian is momentarily disarmed.

“Yes,” he answers, surprised, but quickly buckles down again. “Can you instinctively sense when someone’s had a stick thrust firmly up their arse?”

David barks out a laugh and steals a glance over at his sleeping wife to ensure he didn’t wake her. “You sometimes stand like someone who was military. And you certainly commanded attention in the Council room.”

“Be careful, Majesty, that almost sounded like a compliment. Might give the wrong impression.”

“Just an observation,” David says. A beat passes before he asks, “So what made you turn pirate?”

Killian doesn’t miss a beat and answers, “The dismal pay of a Navy man can’t hold a candle to looting a ship for treasure.” He winces at the automatic defense mechanism. This is the father of the woman he loves, his future father-in-law if he has his way.

David doesn’t miss the wince, and a thoughtful expression crosses his face. “You’re a piss poor liar for a pirate.”

“On the contrary, I’m actually quite good,” Killian answers.

“Is it really such a bane for you to tell the truth?”

Killian sighs, trying to quell the urge to deflect with a lie or a glib jibe. “It’s not a time of my life I care to revisit often, even in memory.” He looks over at Emma’s father, whose silent, probing gaze prompts him to continue. “Fighting for king and country means nothing when your king is a corrupt, underhanded, immoral man who’d sooner throw his loyal men into a meat grinder than even sniff something honorable.” Killian looks down at his hook, idly dabbing the point with a finger. “My brother trusted him. It was the last mistake he ever made.”

“I’m sorry,” David offers.

Killian smiles tightly. “My brother was the best man I knew. A good captain, honorable to a fault, as stubborn as the day is long. The king didn’t care that he’d died. Probably didn’t even remember Liam at all. I refused to serve any monarchy from that day forward. They took everything from me,” he says, voice hazy with memory, “so I was going to take everything from them. At least among thieves, there was honor.” He turns to David again, “No offense, mate.”

“None taken,” David replies, then chuckles a bit. “Kind of ironic that you went and fell in love with a princess, then.”

“No one is more aware of that than me,” Killian says. “I suppose that gives us something in common--falling in love with women far above our stations.”

David huffs a laugh, but doesn’t respond for a long while; the only sound is the crackle of wood in their fire, and the distant song of crickets. Killian almost wonders if the King had fallen asleep when he speaks again. “Emma must mean a lot to you, if you’d go through the trouble to rescue her.”

“She means everything to me,” Killian gently corrects. “I’d go to the end of the world or time for her. Anything if it means she’s safe.”

“And she for you, I take it?”

Killian smiles. “Yes.” He looks back over at David. “I know that I’m not the ideal you envisioned—”

David waves a hand and interrupts, “No, you’re not. And I’m—” he sighs and tips his face skyward. “Given the lengths that you’re going through to save her—coming to us, getting arrested, potentially almost getting executed, throwing yourself back into this feud with the Dark One—” David looks back at Killian. “Looking at it from that perspective, it’s crazy for me to not approve. Snow and I married for love in spite of the circumstances, and I always hoped for the same for Emma.”

Killian feels like his chest is about to burst. Despite everything, could it be that Emma’s father really can forgive his past mistakes?

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” David quickly says, but it’s without heat.

Killian laughs.

David continues, “If you really want to earn my approval,” he points across the fire to the empty bedroll, “you’ll go to sleep.”

Killian rolls his eyes and replies, “If me having a lie down means that much to you—” Killian mock bows from his seat and then makes his way over to his bedroll. “Then I’m much obliged, Dave.”

“Do not call me Dave.”

“Sorry, can’t hear you over the sound of all the sleep I’m getting.”

David grumbles, but doesn’t say anything further.

Killian stares up at the stars, his thoughts a barely cohesive mess. He wishes Emma were next to him so he could tell her about them, try to make sense of everything that’s happened today. Gods, and it really has all been today. He started off this morning with Emma on his ship, not a care in the world and a tremendous weight removed from their shoulders.

Now, here he is, sharing a campsite with the King and Queen of Misthaven, trying to find his footing with his love’s royal parents, and hoping dearly that he doesn’t make a mess of things.

But that itself seems so trivial in the face of Emma being in the clutches of the realm’s greatest evil, and them having no idea why he’s taken her.

Killian’s never been much for spirituality or worshipping deities. He’s been on the sea long enough to know the superstitions, to know about Poseidon and Ursula and Calypso, and all the other gods and goddesses of the sea to whom many crewmen give offerings and pray in hopes for a safe voyage.

But Killian has seen too much, lived through too many years and too many crews to believe their feeble oils and branches, foodstuffs and whispered words make any difference. A strong wind may fall upon murderers or travelers, a storm may wreck a peacekeeping mission or slavers. The sea is nothing if not fair.

But in the darkness, he prays to any deity that might listen that the world might be unfair in Emma’s favor.

***

Killian awakens with a jolt, the taste of a bitten off shout in his throat and he sits up. The sky has lightened from pitch black and lit with stars to a deep purple, lightening slightly toward the eastern horizon. Early, and not late enough to say that it is yet dawn. He hadn’t been planning on falling asleep, didn’t think it would be possible with the unrest in his mind, but after a few hours of silence, it appears his body made the choice for him.

His heart is racing in his chest, the lingering images from the nightmare scattering but leaving the fear as a gaping maw in his chest. He runs a hand across his face, trying to gather his wits, but he still feels strung out and uncomfortable. Like all of his defenses have been stripped away.

Perhaps he should take a walk. There was a small creek nearby, and perhaps splashing some water on his face will remind him that the nightmare was just that—a nightmare. A garish, twisted vision from his mind that has been stuck on a fear-anger cycle for far too long.

He wishes again for Emma, to speak to her, to have her set his mind at ease, but she’s—

A shudder goes through him as one of the nightmare’s scenes comes to the forefront of his mind again, Emma without a heart, Emma lying on the deck of his ship, Emma crying and begging for him to save her—

With a frustrated, flustered huff, he sits up to find Snow White staring at him. The former bandit princess turned conquering queen has a thoughtful expression on her face, as if he were a particularly interested puzzle.

His breath is still coming in pants, and his heart is still racing in his chest, but Killian is still able to manage a realization. “I missed my watch.”

“You didn’t miss it,” Snow says. “I didn’t wake you. I figured it was the least I could do after I had you thrown in prison and then threatened to have you executed.”

Trying vehemently to turn his manner to conversation rather than lingering on the dream, Killian shakes his head and says, “You’ve nothing to apologize for. Were I in your position, I’d’ve done the same thing.”

Snow smiles. “I appreciate that. You seemed like you needed the rest, at least—” she shifts a bit before she can meet his eye again. “For the last few minutes, it sounded like you were having a pretty bad nightmare.”

Killian stiffens. “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” he replies, and moves to stand, do something with his body that could help alleviate the intense feeling of vulnerability under scrutiny now skittering across his skin.

“You didn’t,” Snow says, a kind warmth in her voice and manner that seems like it should calm him rather than rile him.

“That hasn’t happened in a long time,” he says, as if that explanation should be some sort of comfort. To her, to him, he doesn’t know. His heart still races. He refocuses, remembers how to calm himself. Just because he hasn’t had one in a long time, doesn’t mean he’s forgotten how to get over a particularly intense nightmare.

He shifts on the bedroll so that he faces the flames of the fire. A bit burned down from what they were the night before, it’s mostly charcoal now, but it functions well enough. The slow, steady motion of the flames makes his breathing wind down, and he focuses on the beat of his heart. Draws a breath in deeply, and then lets it out slowly. He repeats this until his body doesn’t feel like it’s about to leap out of his skin.

“If I may ask,” Snow says after the long silence, “who is Milah?”

Killian immediately tenses, his jaw subconsciously clenching; this isn’t the same kind of stress he felt when he awoke. It’s the same kind that came along with David asking him questions about his past last night—and Killian’s about tapped out of defense mechanisms at the moment.

Snow says, “You said her name and Emma’s name a few times before you awoke.”

Perhaps it’s not so much that he’s exhausted his energy to defend his vulnerabilities after the nightmare, perhaps it’s just them. Snow and David, Emma’s parents. They’re the ones who made her, after all, so everything that Emma is came from them. He’s not good at refusing Emma, and her mother seems to hold the same sway over him.

“A long time ago, before Rumplestiltskin was the Dark One, he was just a man. A man with a wife named Milah.”

Gods, but centuries have passed, and it still feels like someone’s pulling his heart out every time he says her name.

Killian continues, “She and her husband had a son, who she loved very much, but couldn’t fix the deep sadness she carried with her. She used to tell me that sometimes it felt as though she were born during a long night, and that darkness lingered with her no matter how often she bathed in the sun.

“And she decided to leave her husband and her son and come away with me.” A knife of grief goes through his abdomen. “We loved each other, and she didn’t see another way out of her unhappiness. So when I left port, she came with me.”

“And her son?” Snow asks.

“We made plans to go back for him that never came to pass.” She’d often confided her insecurity about her motherhood, but had gone no further than that. Privately, he thinks that Milah had been afraid to see her son again, to admit to him that he hadn’t been enough to make her happy where she was.

But that is too intimate a memory to share.

“Later, when he was the Dark One, he found us; accused me of stealing her, as though she were some bauble to be passed around.” He shakes his head, and has to blink a few times to control the wetness at the corners of his eyes. “Milah was brilliant, but she had a bit of a temper. And she just… let the Dark One have it on the deck of my ship. Her words were sharp, and she knew exactly how to hurt him. He didn’t really care for that.”

He tries to be as clinical as possible with the next bit, “So he lashed me to the mast, pulled her heart out, and crushed it. He cut my hand off that day, too, but the pain of that was nothing compared to losing her.”

Snow silently stands and comes to sit next to him, and reaches out to take his hand. Killian doesn’t remember his mother much, but he imagines that being comforted by her might have felt like this.

He blinks harder against the moisture in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. “I understand now, why you were so afraid.”

“Oh, I’m still afraid, believe me.”

“Not like that. We’re all afraid for her, but for you… You’ve already seen this story play out once, and it ended horribly for you.”

“Is this the part where you tell me to have hope that it will end well?”

Snow laughs a little at that. “Yes, because if we don’t have hope that something will work out well, then what’s our motivation to do it in the first place? But beyond the hope, you should hold onto that fear too. The most insane, amazing acts of courage happen when someone is the most afraid,” Snow looks into his eyes with a startling intensity, “and we’re probably going to need some really insane, amazing acts of courage to get Emma out of there.”

As soon as dawn breaks, the trio are on their way. They ride until early afternoon, when they slow their horses to a walk and enter the small village. It’s along a bustling trade route, located between the sea and the next nearest inland city, so it’s well on its way to becoming a full-fledged town.

Snow leads them to a small estate just at the edge of the village. A modest home sits to the left of the front gate, and beyond that is a truly impressive equine complex consisting of several pastures that are clearly well-kept, a large A-Frame barn that could likely house dozens of horses based on the size, and a few dirt and grass arenas for competitive riding purposes. It is a spread that is certainly only rivaled by the royal stables, and those might be found wanting compared to this place.

A youth of possibly fifteen or sixteen years is leading a stocky gray mare out of one of the pastures when he spots them. “Greetings!” he calls out. The mare he is leading seems to protest the quickened pace as the boy strides toward them, but he does not slow. “My name is Henry Locksley. Welcome to Riverside Farm.” The lad seems to have a practiced gaze for horses as he takes stock of their three mounts. “If you’re looking for nightly board, we are happy to accommodate.”

Snow dismounts and turns to the young man. “No, we’re actually looking for your stablemaster.”

Henry looks a little surprised. “Oh, okay. She was in the stable with Roland last I saw her. If you’ll follow me, I’m heading there now.”

“Thank you,” Snow says. Killian and David dismount as well and the trio begins following the young Henry towards the stable.

David asks, “So, Henry, does your family live in the village?”

“My family owns the farm, so we live right there,” Henry answers, pointing towards the home at the front of the property.

Snow’s small “oh” of surprise is almost unnoticeable, but Killian glances over to find her face the picture of shock. She quickly schools her features to neutrality once more. “So your family—they work the whole farm by themselves?” she asks, the epitome of polite interest.

Henry nods, an eager tour guide. “My mother is the stablemaster, my father mostly does maintenance and sales and then whatever else my mother tells him to,” he says with a laugh. “My older brother Roland is a whiz with numbers, so he does our bookkeeping. My little sister Eliza is a hand just like me, but she’s also studying to become a blacksmith, so she’s at the forge in town right now.”

“It’s nice that your family is so tightly-knit,” Snow says, her tone changing to barely-constrained curiosity.

Nodding and smiling, Henry doesn’t seem to sense any odd mood from the group before him. “My mom says that love creates happiness, so keeping those you love close to you is the best way to make yourself happy.”

Killian can’t read the expression that crosses Snow’s face then. “Wise advice,” she replies.

They reach the stable doors, and Henry swings them open. Inside, it looks as tidy and clean as the rest of the farm. The center aisle is made of brick, an exorbitant expense that gives the barn a high class sensibility. The brick is flanked by wood-planked stalls, and the low ceiling plays host to a few small swallows in the support beams. A pair of mangy barn cats roam around, but the central focal point at the moment is the woman with her back turned to them.

She stands bent over next to a mid-sized black gelding, his front left hoof propped up between her legs. She’s softly muttering to herself when Henry calls out, “Hey, Mom, there are some people who want to see you.” Killian, Snow, and David all halt by the entrance, but Henry keeps walking, placing the gray mare into an open stall on the right hand side.

She doesn’t turn yet, still bent over the hoof. “Henry, you’re going to have to ride into town and get Eliza home, because Lady Gerhardt’s horse is going to need a new set of shoes.”

Henry groans. “But I was going to take Blizzard on a training run!”

The woman drops the hoof and straightens, and begins to turn. “You can still do that later this aftern—” Her words abruptly drop off when she sees just who her visitors are. The former Evil Queen quickly composes herself and finishes, “This afternoon. Before you go, can you run and get your father? Tell him to meet me at the house.” And with a quick nod of her head, “And make sure their horses get properly hitched and watered.”

The sorceress who once terrorized thousands of people over a dozen kingdoms is dressed in riding breeches and lace-up paddock boots, with a thin, brown leather vest over a red button-up shirt. Her long hair is pulled back in a simple braid. The raven-black locks that once held crowns, and had been so famously, elaborately styled, is shot through with gray streaks. She looks like any other stablemaster across any of the dozen kingdoms where she’d left heartless bodies strewn across the lands.

Henry glances between Regina and their visitors with poorly-disguised confusion, but Regina gives him a look that quickly has him agreeing and scurrying off to do what she asked.

As the stable door closes behind Henry, Snow steps forward. “Regina.”

“Snow. You’ve aged.”

Not rising to the bait, Snow observes with a noticeable amount of strain in her voice, “You have children.”

“I do.”

Killian meets David’s gaze behind Snow’s back, trying to convey confusion. What should we do?

David just shakes his head imperceptibly.

Snow continues, “And a husband.”

“Yes. I noticed you brought yours along. Hello, David.”

“Hello, Regina,” he replies, managing a polite tone the just verges on chilly. A shepherd David may have been once, but Killian knows that’s a politician’s voice right there.

Regina’s dark eyes then flit over to Killian, taking him in with a detached air. “This would be a lovely family reunion if you hadn’t decided to bring the Handless Wonder along.”

“Good to see you again, Majesty,” Killian replies, acidic.

Both Snow and David look over at him. “How do you know her?” David asks.

“Former villains support group,” he answers without missing a beat, not wanting to delve into the thorny history he has with the old queen.

“Not important right now,” Snow mutters, and strides forward so that she’s only a few paces from Regina’s side. “We need your help.”

Regina’s mouth purses. “I could hardly be your first choice, unless we're already scraping the bottom of the barrel for help,” she says with a pointed look at Killian before she reaches for a bristled brush in a box next to her. “Why come to me?” She begins to brush the black gelding.

A heavy beat passes before Snow answers, “Rumplestiltskin took our daughter.”

The brush pauses on the horse’s flank.

“How long ago?” Regina asks quietly, then resumes brushing the horse.

“Yesterday,” Killian answers. “We won’t be able to get near him without you.”

Regina snickers, “All those years hunting the Dark One and still can’t perform under pressure?”

“Oh darling, I perform under pressure just fine.”

Regina turns an acerbic eye on him. “Not when I asked you to kill my mother.”

“What?” David exclaims, looking between the two of them, but Killian rolls his eyes.

“Still on about that, are we?”

“This isn’t helpful,” Snow snaps. “He knows what can kill Rumplestiltsken,” she points a finger in Killian’s direction. “and you can get us into the vault where he keeps all of it.”

Regina looks mildly surprised at Snow’s outburst, but ultimately settles on impressed. “Why did he take her?”

“We don’t know,” David says.

“He said that he had use for her,” Killian says. “But that was all.”

Regina looks contemplative for a moment. “Product of true love could be useful,” she murmurs. She turns fully to Snow, seeming to warm to her topic, “When did Emma start manifesting magic?”

“Manifest—Emma doesn’t have magic.”

Regina snorts. “Believe me, she does. I could literally feel her magical signature exploding across the land when she was born.” She begins brushing the horse again, but it looks more like a reflexive movement than with any real purpose. “Either she’s a very late bloomer or there’s—” Regina freezes a moment, her lips parted. A furrow appears between her brows.

“There’s what?” Killian prompts.

Regina gives up on the futility of brushing the horse and drops the brush back in the box and steps fully into their conversation with her arms crossed over her chest. “A suppression hex.” Regina laughs, acidic. “Oh, classic Blue. Didn’t want to get her hands dirty herself.”

“Regina, what are you talking about?” Snow asks.

“After I gave up on casting the Dark Curse, but before I was banished,” Regina explains, “Blue came to me while I was imprisoned. I was—” she clears her throat before she continues, “—I was under the impression that I’d used up the last of your mercy, even if you believed me about stopping Rumplestiltskin’s plans. She asked me for a favor, and if I did it, she would counsel you to grant me clemency.”

“But Regina, you—” Snow tries, but Regina holds up a hand.

“It doesn’t matter. She asked me to create a suppression hex. Easy enough, so I did it. I just had no idea who she wanted it for. I’d always thought it was for an unruly fairy she wanted out of her ranks.”

“But she used it on Emma,” David concludes.

“So it would seem,” Regina says. “Maybe to hide her potential from Rumplestiltskin, or even from me. I doubt she ever really bought my change of heart,” she finishes with a scoff.

“Is he going to ask Emma to finish what you started, then?” Snow asks quietly.

Regina purses her lips. “Hard to say. Maybe he’s found a different avenue.”

“How do we get her back?” Killian asks impatiently. His mind has been conjuring worst case scenarios since Rumplestiltskin appeared in the clearing, and as salacious and shallowly entertaining as it might be to watch Regina snipe at the King and Queen, he’d much rather get on with finding Emma.

Regina examines him a little more closely this time, head tilting in a way that, unsettlingly, reminds him of the Crocodile. “You love her, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he answers plainly.

Regina seems to take it in as information, categorizing it in some list in her head before nodding. “We should take this to the house.”

***

When Emma awakens again, the hangover-like symptoms have mostly faded and left behind a strange feeling of sensitivity. Everything is too bright, too loud, too sharp. Like scratching a sunburn, it’s raw and a bit painful. She’d been in and out of consciousness since that first time she’d awoken, but she has no concept of how much time has passed.

At least she feels a little less scattered, the fog she’d felt hanging over her completely gone.

She’s still in the same chamber, but she’s alone this time. Her ability to stand has returned, but she takes it slow. Thankfully, no strange symptoms make a reappearance.

She looks down at her hands, and turns over Rumplestiltskin’s words in her head. He said that she has magic.

There’s not—there’s no way.

There’s absolutely no way he can be right, and yet—

“Deep down, you know I’m right.”

She whirls around, hand flying to where her sword would normally rest before cursing.

“No weapons for you, dearie. Not after last time.”

Now that she can properly focus on his face, Emma can’t find any evidence that she’d put out his left eye with her knife. “What, you looking for an apology?”

Rumplestiltskin’s answering smile is chilling. “Of course not. Apologies are fool’s sentiment. No, no, I usually prefer something more concrete.”

Emma grits her teeth. “Like what?”

He tuts lightly. “Not just yet. We need to wake you up first.”

Before she can ask what he means by that, he makes a few quick gestures with his hands, and she notices the red, filmy mist that she knows is his magic rising around him. With another quick gesture outwards, the magic explodes from him, whooshing around Emma like a sharp gust of wind off the sea, but ripping through every support column in the chamber.

Several of the ones closest to them immediately collapse, the sound like a dozen cannons going off at once. The rest are evenly cracked through at the base and begin to shake perilously, the entire structure around them trembling. Emma braces her knees through the shaking, and looks furiously at Rumplestiltskin. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Fix the columns, Emma,” he says.

“Are you fucking crazy?” she exclaims, eyes darting upwards. The shaking has increased, and visible fissures are appearing on the ceiling where the columns are starting to crumble away. “You’ll kill us both!”

He giggles. “Oh, it won’t kill me. Just you.”

“I don’t have magic! I can’t do this.” Rubble is starting to fall from the ceiling, massive chunks of stone plating crashing to the floor. Emma yelps and jumps to the side when a sizeable piece crashes to the floor not three feet from her.

“Oh, but you can!” he says. “This should be child’s play for how much power you have.”

“This is insane,” Emma says, quieter this time, frantically trying to find an exit. True to her first observation, there are no doors to this chamber. She’s stuck.

Fear burns in her throat, I can’t die, not now, I can’t die, Killian is waiting for me, I can’t die now, we have plans, not now, not when everything is starting to fall into place—

It happens between one heartbeat and the next—another column collapses, this time falling straight in her direction. She dives away from it, tucking and rolling to stand again. The column hits the floor right behind her, the concussion rattling her teeth and throwing her forward.

She falls.

She rolls, tries to get up as quickly as she can, but then there’s a stone from the ceiling falling straight at her.

No time to dodge. No time to run.

Either Rumplestiltskin is right, or she dies.

She thrusts her hands out in front of her, hoping for magic but all she can think of is how badly she wants to get out of here, of how badly she wants to see her parents again, see Killian again, by any and every god, she does not want to die today—

She closes her eyes.

She takes a breath, thinking that this could quite likely be her last.

And then she takes another.

And another.

She opens her eyes.

The stone hangs above her, suspended by a white mist that flows like liquid from her hands. She spares a look around her. Everything is frozen by the white mist, the columns held up, the falling debris stuck midair.

It’s unlike anything Emma has ever seen before, and it’s all coming from her. She can feel it, a strange pull against her heart, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s more like the excitement she felt as a child on the morning of Yule, the anticipation she feels when she hasn’t seen Killian in a month, the physical reaction of joy and love made manifest.

Emma laughs, and with a snap of her fingers, everything is fixed. Like time flowing backwards, the damage is swiftly undone. The stone effortlessly knits back together, leaving no trace of the damage that was done to it. The plating from the ceiling that fell and shattered against the floor pushes back together and floats easily upwards, slotting back into the architecture.

When the last column is standing once more, Emma finally drops her hands.

“What did I tell you, dearie?” Rumplestiltskin says. “Child’s play.”

***

Snow isn’t sure what to expect when Regina says they’ll meet her husband at the house. She only has vague recollections of what Daniel looked like, and even less of an idea of what he’d been like as a person, so to say she doesn’t know what Regina’s romantic tastes are like is a severe understatement. She imagines that Regina’s partner would be a high-born person like herself, a bit prim and classist, maybe abrasively rude in that way rich, egotistical men can sometimes be.

To say that she is shocked to find that Regina’s husband is the one and only Robin Hood of Locksley would be an even more severe understatement than the first.

He is surprisingly warm and welcoming, the friendly dog to Regina’s aloof cat, and something in Snow feels settled, satisfied, happy even. She’d always hoped Regina would find happiness, would find forgiveness and redemption in her own way, and it would seem that she’s found it; more than that, she’s also found someone to share it with who seems to be her perfect complement.

Robin invites them to sit, and offers to put a kettle on so that they can have some tea. While it warms, they all take a seat in the dining room.

It’s hardly the expensive setting Regina grew up with, but it’s certainly nicer than most homes in the village. Solid construction, a fine, tile floor covered in warm rugs, and furniture that runs more along the function line than the style.

They fill Regina in on the particulars of their plan--in as much as their plan has particulars--and Snow takes it as a positive sign that she doesn’t dismiss it outright. “As long as Hook knows what we need to grab, I should be able to get us in,” she says. “But there’s the possibility he’ll see us coming.”

“His visions have never been precise,” Hook points out, but Regina shakes her head.

“When it comes to his own death, I’ve found he has uncanny accuracy.”

“So we split up,” Hook suggests. “He knows I’m coming. If we can manipulate his visions so that he doesn’t know you three are coming with me, we’ll have the element of surprise.”

“Not to barge in,” Robin says, “but as someone with experience breaking into the Dark One’s palace, I may have a solution for you.”

“Experience breaking into his palace,” David repeats.

Robin nods. “I still have the glamour.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small green clover. “When Regina told me what was going on, I figured this might come in handy.”

“Oh good, a plant. Emma is good as rescued,” Hook says.

Robin doesn’t seem annoyed by the sarcasm. “It’s a six leaf clover, mate. Not only capable of casting a powerful glamour spell, but hides one from magical sight, including--”

“From seers,” Hook realizes.

“It was how I managed to sneak in last time,” Robin explains. “Would’ve worked like a charm had I not been captured. But,” he pauses to wave a hand, “that’s neither here nor there. The magic is still good. It could hide all of us.”

“Us?” This comes from Regina, who is looking at her husband like he has two heads.

Robin just smiles at her. “For better or worse, my dear.”

“How did you escape?” asks Hook, who is leaning forward, gaze intense on Robin. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Admittedly, it was luck. I would have died painfully had it not been for Belle.”

“The heir to the Southern Reach, correct?” Hook asks.

“Yes,” Robin answers. “Both fortunately and unfortunately, she left him many years ago. I helped her get to DunBroch, and last I’d heard, she happily married the queen there.”

Hook sighs deeply. “So she is no exit strategy.”

“No, she isn’t. She’s been out of his grasp for decades now, and I’m not eager to ask her to throw herself back in.”

“Not suggesting she does,” Hook replies. “We’ll just need to be careful with how we plan to get out.”

The kettle whistles from the kitchen, and Robin excuses himself to go fetch it.

“What about Emma?” Regina asks, standing; by some wordless agreement with her husband, she goes to the cabinet near the wall and removes several teacups, saucers, and collections of tea leaves. As she places them in front of her guests, she says, “If Rumple wants her for her magic, then she’s probably strong enough to hurt him.”

“She already did,” Hook says, and that draws their attention.

“How?” David asks.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he says. Robin renters with the kettle and pours each of them a serving as Hook explains, “We were in a meadow, where you used to teach her to shoot,” he says to Snow, and she feels her breath catch.

Despite accepting Hook’s story as truth, the fact that her daughter loves him doesn’t feel real. It seems more like a story, a fiction recorded in pages for entertainment’s sake. But small things like that—that Emma showed him that field, an intensely personal and special place for their family—say that this is an undeniable reality. Something real that Emma kept perfectly secret all these years.

“Neither of us were armed. Why would we be, it was just—” Hook stares down at his tea, tipping the cup and watching the liquid move. “It was just supposed to be a nice day out. He appeared in the clearing and froze me as soon as I tried to charge at him, but Emma had a knife in her boot.”

“That’s my girl,” Snow says softly.

He looks up at her words, and his answering smile is wistful. “She’s a marvel.” It’s said with such softness, such tenderness, that Snow feels an ache rattle in her chest. It might not feel real in a lot of ways, but with each passing time she hears him speak, she starts to understand a bit more how Hook feels about Emma. She knows David doesn’t quite approve, and she wouldn’t say that she does, yet, but she can’t say in moments like this that she disapproves either.

Hook continues, “Now, this is just a regular knife, right? But Emma threw it and put out his eye. He bled. I’ve hunted the Dark One for nearly three hundred years and never have I seen him bleed. No legend or story or recounting has ever said anything about him bleeding either.”

“He’s vulnerable to her,” Regina concludes.

“He won’t tolerate having a weakness,” Killian says.

“No,” Regina agrees, “but he isn’t so short-sighted that he won’t try to make use of her before he kills her or traps her or permanently imprisons her or takes her heart or—”

“Enough, Regina,” David says. “We get it.”

“And she’s shown no signs of magic at all?”

“Not that I can remember,” Snow says.

“They might not be obvious,” Regina replies. “Maybe when she was a child, she leapt out of a tree and landed poorly, but came away unscathed. Perhaps she was exceptionally good at getting her way, past the point of reason. She likely wasn’t doing it on purpose, or with any sort of finesse.”

“She always had an affinity for injured animals,” Snow says, remembering. “There were no miraculous recoveries or regrown limbs or anything, but even the wild animals seemed calm around her and were willing to let her handle them while injured.”

Regina nods. “Could be a sign of strong light magic. Was there possibly a time when she accidentally set fire to anything? Not like that,” she says at the alarmed look that crosses Snow’s face, “but just a candle lit while she was particularly emotional? Happy or excited or perhaps angry?”

Hook shifts in his seat, a contemplative look crossing his face at that. “I think--” he starts, but he cuts himself off.

“What is it?” Regina prods.

“Nothing,” he says, and Snow can’t help but notice the tips of his ears going red.

Regina doesn’t look amused. “Save me the trouble of deducing and just tell me what you think you saw.”

Hook clears his throat, looking pointedly anywhere but at the current company at the table. “I might have—uh—noticed a lamp lit that I thought I’d put out. After an—” he reaches up to scratch behind his ear, the blush spreading from his ears down his neck and to his cheeks, “intimate moment.”

David makes a choked noise beside her, and Snow elbows him. “Not now, Charming,” she whispers.

Regina blessedly doesn’t press or make any quips. “Strong light magic,” she repeats.

“What does that mean for Emma?” Snow asks, happy to move on from dwelling on her daughter’s sex life.

“It’s the safest kind of magic--drawn from positive emotions, has never caused any recorded emotional spirals, with no known physical detriments. Acts of True Love are made from it. Not much is known about it because of its rarity, but from what I do know,” Regina looks directly at Snow, assurance in her posture and tone, “Emma isn’t like me.”

Snow lets out a breath. It’s a startling statement of personal clarity from Regina—something that Snow never knew her former step-mother would be able to have. To know the damage her own actions caused, to be able to tacitly admit that those actions weren’t something to aspire to, were something to be feared, even… it’s more than Snow ever expected or hoped for.

“So what can Rumplestiltskin do with her power?”

Here, Regina’s expression sours. “If she’s as strong as I think she is? Anything.”

***

“Focus, dearie. Make the mirror show you what you want it to.”

The image wobbles for a moment, and Emma feels like she might snap her jaw with how hard she’d clenching her teeth to just get the goddamn mirror to cooperate. A second later, the image solidifies, showing the Emerald City of Oz. Once she finds it, she lets out a breath and relaxes a bit, the magic holding.

“Impressive,” Rumplestiltskin says. “You are a quick study. Quicker than any I’ve ever taught.”

“Still doesn’t tell me what you brought me here for.”

His answer is acidic, “I promised I wouldn’t kill the pirate; that was the extent of our deal. I am perfectly happy to remedy that if you’re keen to continue prying.”

Emma suppresses a growl. “Fine, but you’re going to have to tell me eventually.”

“And why is that?”

“A lot of this magic is about visualizing, right?” she waves a hand at the magic mirror, still displaying the Emerald City. “I wouldn’t have been able to conjure that if I didn’t know what I was trying to conjure. So whatever it is you clearly want me to do, I’m not going to be able to do it unless you tell me.”

He stares at her silently for a beat, and Emma knows she’s right, but she really, really hopes she hasn’t offended him. She’s heard horrific stories of what the Dark One has done to his enemies, and she doesn’t care to find out if those were true.

Instead of replying to her, he turns, grabs a book off the table behind him, and slaps it down next to her.

This book looks strange--the binding foreign, the printing unlike anything she’s seen in the Enchanted Forest, the paper perfectly white and evenly toned. There’s an illustration in the book, unbelievably detailed and inked across a whole page. “This is--” she says, running her fingers across it, “This is incredible.”

“It’s from another realm,” Rumple says dismissively. He nods at the mirror across from her. “Conjure an image of it.”

The illustration is of a structure unlike anything she’s seen before. It’s like a massive spire, flared at the base and climbing impossible heights into the sky. It’s not stone or brick, but crafted of what looks like crossing iron bars.

Underneath the image is a caption. Tour Eiffel, 1890.

“What realm is this from?” she can’t help but ask.

“The Land Without Magic.”

Emma raises a brow. They built this thing without magic? Interesting. “If there’s no magic there, how can I use magic to see into it?”

“Child’s play,” he says again, like a reminder.

Emma rolls her eyes. Right, because she’s apparently so powerful. Emma was never the greatest at her studies, but at least her tutors were more specific than this.

She focuses her attention on the mirror again. Despite the lackluster instruction, it seems easier this time than it had the first few. Reaching for images from other realms is still a bit dicey, the one from Oz being the hardest so far, and she feels a similar stretch in trying to see this spire, this Tour Eiffel. In her mind, she focuses on the illustration, wonders what would be around it, imagines the people that might walk past it.

This image doesn’t even flicker. It just springs to life on the mirror after a few moments of concentration.

It looks taller than it did in the illustration, she notes, but then she catches a look of Rumple out of the corner of her eye. He looks absolutely astonished, and she realizes he wasn’t expecting her to get it.

She feels a bit of savage satisfaction at that. Serves him right for underestimating her.

His astonished look doesn’t last long, as he stands at attention like an army commander and gestures for her to follow him.

“Come now, Emma,” he says. “I have a task for you.”

[revolutionnaire-farouche]

New hopes (Enjolras x Reader)

The gif is not mine!

Summary: Canon!Era On a common day in Paris, you find a new group called Les Amis de l'ABC

Warnings: Minor violence.

Notes: Thank you to the lovely @writingsoftheloser for proof reading this ♥️

The streets of Paris are always filled with people. Merchants, students, young ladies, children, distinguished elders, and artists, all of them gather in one place only: the streets. It wasn't new for the people passing by to hear some yelling or loud noises around and usually one just can't find the source, but this time it was different. One group of young men, relatively well dressed, were standing at one corner of the street and one of them was speaking fiercely about how the lower classes should not accept, resigned, their current reality. They seemed to be getting the attention of a lot of people who were walking by. That group of young revolutionaries, that sounded like they came from past revolutions, were Les amis de l'ABC, a new group of young republicans who were determined to embrace a larger goal than the one they used to have. Almost all of them had met while studying, other than a few exceptions.

You were wandering around the streets. The same streets that had raised you and held you as a child. You didn't have a clear memory about your parents and you ignored the possibility of having brothers. But you didn't let that affect you, it only made you stronger. Since you were a child, you had wandered the streets, that took you as their daughter. But you weren't the only one: there were a lot of other kids with you, and by this time, you didn't know where most of them were. It was hard, but you had left it behind. Well, most of that, because you were still walking down the streets sometimes, between some seamstress works you did to keep a roof over your head and food on your table. You were good at surviving. Usually, you walked to the borders of the city - just for fun - and because of that you were often seen with flowers decorating your hair; in that way, almost everyone managed to recognize you immediately.

With every step a voice was getting louder and louder - a voice that didn't stop talking about you, about everyone you knew, and everyone around you at that moment. A voice that spoke about inequality. A voice that talked about how the government left the powerless to their fate. A voice of someone who cared. You let yourself walk towards that touching speech and before you’d noticed, you found its source: the young men. Quickly, you recognized them as students, but the detail that was all over your head was that they were wealthy students. 'What can they know about how we live?' you thought to yourself while watching that scene.

The speech continued for some minutes more, but another young men, that you knew as Feuilly and he was more of a worker, came running almost breathless.

"The police is on its way!" he shouted, alerting the others and everyone there. Most of them started running as the sound of galloping horses was getting closer.

"Help everyone get out of here! Don't let anyone behind!" yelled the one that was giving the speech as an order to the others, who quickly obeyed.

As for you, you already had had troubles with the police in the past. Most of the time, you hadn't even done anything, but being a low class worker was all they needed to know. You didn't want more trouble, so when you saw everyone getting away you made yourself a way to an alley, a few streets away, which you knew wasn't registered by the police usually, because it was mostly where the children of the streets of Paris and dogs went to hide themselves and the police didn't consider them important enough. The alley was empty, as you expected for an evening. It just  broken wooden boards and trash. You went there, listening to the sounds that were coming from the streets.

On the other hand, the members of Les Amis were ready to leave when the police arrived.

"Is anyone left?" the one known as Jehan asked to the others.

"I think everyone is gone" Combeferre answered, looking at the street behind him.

"Let's meet at the Musain. Don't let anyone follow you" the leader in red ordered before they all split in order to avoid the police easily.

"Rich people. What do they know about injustice?" you muttered in a bitter tone to yourself while sitting in the alley, waiting for the police to go away.

After a few minutes you could hear someone running; they were getting closer and they seemed to be followed by some strong footsteps, probably a policeman. Although you knew it wasn't the best idea, you looked at what was going on outside, trying to not get caught in the attempt. You could see the one that was giving the speech punching on the face the guard that was following him. But when he tried to escape, the policeman grabbed him by the neck of his red jacket and threw him to the floor. Once he had done that, he punched him back and then again, and again. That certainly brought up a lot of memories for you and before you could notice, one of the wooden boards laying on the alley floor was now in your hands and you knew what you had to do. You took a peak of the street to see if there was another cop but when you see that no one was there, you went behind the guards back and you hit him in the head with the board. Not your best idea.

Once the guard was on the floor, you let the board slip from your hands. Suddenly the sound of more footsteps getting closer got you on alert once again.

"Monsieur, we have to go" you said, grabbing the man's arm and pulling him up with all your strength. He let out some wailings and you knew he was hurt; you should have probably been more careful, but it was a risky situation.

You dragged him around lonely streets and no one seemed to be behind you, but you took a few more precautions before entering an old house that looked really deteriorated, but yet people lived in it. It was the house you shared with a few more tenants. Before letting the man that was with you in, you made sure nobody else was home. And once you were inside the little room you called "home", you finally let him rest. Both of you were breathing heavily and were tired. You let him sit on the chair, while you just sat on the floor in front of him. You stared at him for a while. He had blond curls, that after all the journey around the streets were dirty. The policeman had left a bruise on his cheek and a cut in his eyebrow and lip - and also, he had some blood coming out from his nose. The red of his blood matched his red jacket and it also made his blue eyes brighter. You were impressed that despite being beaten up, he looked handsome.

"Are you fine?" you finally broke the silence between the both of you.

"Yes, just some bruises..." he said while slightly touching his face, just to see blood on his fingers. After doing that, he directed his eyes at you: "Thank you. What you did was very brave, thank you for helping me"

"It was nothing" you were slowly catching your breath and you smiled at him, while brushing your hair with your fingers.

"For me, it was" his voice sounded particularly strong when he said that. He really admired how you had stood up, even if you didn't know him, and he was genuinely grateful for that. The blood continued dripping from his face, so you quickly stood up to get a cloth and water. When you had grabbed the two items, you stood in front of him again.

"May I, monsieur?" your voice sounded softer than usual. He nodded in return, so you started softly cleaning his face. "Sorry if it hurts, I'm new at this"

"It's fine, don't worry" you could have sworn you saw an smile on the corner of his mouth. "I'm Enjolras. And you are...?"

"Y/N. It's a pleasure to meet you, monsieur." You kept washing away the blood on his skin "You'll have to wait here. They'll be looking in the streets for a while but they're really lazy, especially the ones on this side of the town. So we should be fine."

"You already had trouble with them?" he asked, before hissing in pain because of a bad movement of yours.

"Sorry. And yeah, I guess you could say that. I grew up avoiding them and because of that I learned a lot of them too.” The answer sounded so simple when it came out of your mouth, followed by a smile. "Can I ask you something, monsieur?"

"Sure. It's the least I can do." You continued cleaning his bruises, but now you were cleaning the one on his brow.

"I was passing by, when I heard how you were talking about France. And I was wondering, do you really think that?" You stopped for a second to just stare at him, waiting for an answer.

"Yes, I do. Because it is the truth. Now the world is dark, filled with hate, blood, oppression, lies and wars, and it's our duty as citizens to bring light, love, rights, unity and truth.” His voice sounded just like it had sounded while he was giving his speech and when he talked about it, you could see a shine in his eyes.

"That's true, monsieur. We were left down and trampled by the ones in power. But at the end of the day, everyone resigned themselves to this reality. Even if you come with these ideas, most of the people will be too afraid of doing something." At this point you were sitting on the floor in front of him again, something about his ideas were drawing your attention.

"That's what we're trying to change. We are trying to make the people realise how unjust and unequal the government is." If he had looked hurt when you had brought him to your house, now he looked like nothing had happened and he looked as imposing as he was when you had first seen him.

You continued talking about it, about how you had lived and live now; and he opened up too and talked to you about his past. The conversation was so interesting that none of you noticed how the night fell. There was something about him that you admired and even if you had just met him, you felt like you almost adored him. The admiration was mutual since you had helped him without hesitation; he also loved the way you talked about how the city raised you and how you wanted something better for her. He felt something, but he couldn't say what exactly because he had never felt that way before.

In the middle of your talk you realized how dark it was and how the police had probably stopped searching because of that.

"I have to return with the others, they're probably wondering where am I" he said as he stood up from the chair. You quickly followed him as you stood up from the floor.

"I can help you return to your meeting place, these streets could look like a maze at night, and maybe the police is still out there. If you want to." You slightly shrugged, looking at him.

"I'd love to but I don't want to take up your time, mademoiselle Y/N. And the streets could be dangerous" he answered, while passing a hand through his hair, gaining a smile from you.

"The streets of Paris are my life. Now let's go" you said, as your straighten your dress before leaving.

You were the first to go outside the room you occupied, to make sure no one was outside. Your neighbours could be gossipers sometimes and talk about things without knowing. Once you were sure nobody was around, you returned inside, grabbing Enjolras' hand to quickly leave the house.

•

The route to the Café Musain didn't give you any trouble, the streets were empty. You were even still talking until you arrived at the place. You’ve been around this area sometimes but you never really entered the place, mostly because you didn't have money.

"Well, mademoiselle, here we are. Are you sure you want to return to your house alone?" He looked almost worried.

"Yes, I'm sure, I know my way around" you answered with a smile. He grabbed one of your hands and placed a kiss on it, only to look at you afterwards.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Y/N." He let your hand go and couldn't help but smile.

"It was a pleasure meeting you as well, Enjolras." You made a gesture with your head, keeping the smile on your lips. As he started to walk away, you realized you forgot about something. So you went after him and grabbed his arm. "Monsieur, wait!"

"What happened?" He turned around, looking at your hand grabbing his arm.

"Next time you should try at Halles, there are less cops there and more workers. That's it. Good luck!" You made another gesture to him before leaving but he stopped you, grabbing your hand.

"Would you like to stay to our meeting? I'm sure you could help us." You turned around just to see him under the moonlight, but your gaze quickly shifted to the lights inside the Café.

"I would love to." You felt like the destiny put him on your way and you were grateful for that. You felt like they were a step towards something bigger and you let him guide you inside.

[shortmania]

What religions do you think each of the HA characters would follow as adults?

Oooooh, religion. The topic everyone loves to pretend doesn’t exist and just copy-pastes onto their favs without comment. This’ll be fun. Sure hope nobody runs me over with their car after this. That’d be just… terrrrriiibbblleee, haha… 

Okay, I’m gonna come right out with it and say I think Arnold is a lazy Christian. This headcanon is brought to you by our sponsor, the original claymation short, “Arnold Goes to Church.” So, yes, I think Miles and Stella must be religious in some sense. Stella’s probably Catholic, since I HC her with a mom from Central America. I’ve always pegged the Shortmans for very lazy Christians (no clue what denomination, just… Christians), so I think when Miles and Stella met, Miles was not used to attending Church regularly or at all, but he started doing it because Love. So for the first year or two of his life, Arnold attended service every Sunday like clockwork and just completely zonked out, and then at some point after his parents peaced out of his life, he started reading the Bible because it was another way of keeping them close. I’ve always found it hilarious when people describe Arnold as “a good Christian boy,” because it’s such a perfect epithet for him. He really is such a good Christian boy. Everything about the way he conducts himself just screams it. Like, you know Arnold didn’t get that virtuous stick up his ass from his grandparents or, ha!, the boarders.

That said, yeah, I think he’s lazy about it, too. I don’t know that Arnold’s ever set foot in a Church more than a few times in his life since his parents pranced off to take a decade-long nap; I’m not sure that it’s something he believes with his whole heart; I’m not even sure it’s something he spends much time thinking about. I see it functioning as a kind of absent-minded security blanket more than anything, and if prodded about it, he’d just make a face at you. When he gets to be an adult, I can totally see him taking religious studies in college, though, since his parents got back and kinda roped him into attending Church again, on top of that whole uncomfortable San Lorenzo thing with the… the Green Eyes… worshipping him and all, like… Yeah, I can see it becoming a fascination of his. In my personal canon, he ultimately ends up pretty agnostic, but still practices from time to time just for the sake of it, and not just Christianity. He speaks with the Green Eyes often and the whole of their society is mounted on a firm bedrock of religious belief (they insist he’s divine and he’s not gonna be a dick about it), so he adopts a gentle, deferential kind of relationship with religion as a whole.

I think Helga’s chronically atheist by day, bitter believer by night. Like really just sobs obscenities into her pillow and demands things. Hasn’t she done that in show? It seems like that’s happened before in some sense. Sometimes when Helga’s “talking to herself,” it really feels like she’s speaking to some higher power, and not very kindly. I don’t really see that changing too much once she’s an adult. Like, a lot less anal and far more judicious about it all, but still kinda leaning somewhere in the middle. Not really agnostic, she’s too dramatic for that–just, like a light switch constantly flipping back and forth.

Harold’s Jewish. He always will be Jewish. I think he’s happy that way. I don’t see him ever changing. He’s gonna be your friendly neighborhood Jewish butcher, secure in himself and his beliefs without ever being disrespectful about any of it, and you’re gonna adore him.

I’ll briefly mention a few others I’ve thought about a little, but that’s kinda the end of the characters I’ve given real and genuine consideration towards. Except Sid. I’m gonna sob-laugh about Sid for a second and none of you can stop me. Brace yourselves.

I think Sid’s going to bounce from belief system to belief system until he dies. Like literally, one week he’s Baptist, the next he’s Buddhist, the next he’s Pagan. One week, he just shows up and announces he’s a Quaker because “that Marge Felt lady was right, my relationship with God is my business and my business alone and I shouldn’t have to justify it to anybody, not those stuffy weirdos at the Church or you, Arnold,” but then literally a couple weeks later he shows up smoking an incense stick and is like, “Institutional religion has always been oppressive. The heart and soul of the body is the only true indicator of reality. The stars are my truth.” Naturally he discards all that by next month and is a devoted Catholic and he’s never been anything but a Catholic, deep down he’s always Known he’s Catholic, he was Born a Catholic and how could you suggest there was ever a time he wasn’t Catholic?? Arnold??? Fuck you, Arnold?? The priest is standing right there, Arnold?? You Bitch???? One time he tries to break into Judaism but Harold punches him in the face so hard the next day he’s an atheist with an emo haircut and a spontaneous obsession with Asking Alexandria. Harold feels a little bad. But only a little.

Nadine’s casually spiritual and meditates from time to time with Sheena, who is a far more devout incense smoker. Probably where Sid got the idea from. 

Stinky’s a vampire. He’s Christian in theory, but he can’t go into Churches. T'shame.

Rhonda Is Not White 2k19, so whatever religion there is in her home country is probably what she practices very fashionably and with great pride and little reflection. Because she’s just… like that. Don’t ask me what her home country is, I’ve been trying to figure it out but it’s hard. Korean? Filipino? Lebanese? Idk. I’m open to suggestions.

That’s all I got.

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

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QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES

QUEST SUMMARY:

Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end…

CHAPTER 2: ABSTRACT OF ZAMORAK

“Care for a drink?” Zamorak held out an engraved chalice, the inscription a foreign dialect that was painful to look at. “I don’t know why assholes come into my churches and steal my wine. I’d make a mint if I just straight up sold it. Go legitimate and all.”

So yes, Jahaan did take the meeting. Right on time he used the communication device that whisked him away… somewhere. He was underground, that’s for sure. The claustrophobic feel of gravity assured him of that.

Zamorak had invited him into a chamber of sorts, akin to the dining room of a haunted mansion. The deity really did have a taste for the theatrical, what with the vampyric ornaments and arcane fixtures. Also, crimson. LOTS of crimson.

Zamorak practically blended into the walls.

He sat Jahaan down in a grand armchair of sorts, donned with decorative bones, and it made Jahaan feel like a supervillain.

Sniffing a faint laugh, Jahaan took the chalice and allowed Zamorak to fill it up to the brim with the thick red liquid, dark like blood. That last thought gave Jahaan pause before he put it to his lips, but after a quick sniff and being overwhelmed by the alcoholic, fruity scent, he assured himself it was indeed wine. “Thanks. I didn’t think Mahjarrat could drink, though.”

“We can’t,” Zamorak confirmed, taking a large gulp. “I’ll have to get it out of me later. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy some good booze for now though.”

Not wanting to press for anymore details, Jahaan asked, “Where on Gielinor are we? Are… are we still on Gielinor?”

Laughing, Zamorak said, “Of course we’re still on Gielinor. This is temporary base of operations, courtesy of an old friend of mine - Bilrach - who you’ll meet later on. Dug the place himself, crazy bastard. Crazy, loyal, dedicated bastard, that is. You humans would know of it as ‘Daemonheim’.”

Eyes wide, Jahaan audibly gasped. Yes, he had heard of Daemonheim, mainly from stories. A band of Fremennik warriors decided to sail west around the globe, discovering uncharted islands and unclaimed lands as they did so. Daemonheim was their greatest find. Despite being a part of continental Gielinor, no-one had ventured that far in centuries, the unforgiving terrain putting a fatal halt to would-be adventurers. Thanks to the Freminnick, the place was now accessible, though you should pray for those who dare to enter the dungeons beneath the ancient castle atop the snow. Floor upon floor of monsters, puzzles, hazards and traps. No-one had ever made it to the bottom floor; the lucky ones retreated to the surface, the others were not so fortunate. No-one knew who had built such a place, or why. No-one, it seems now, except Jahaan.

Smirking, Zamorak remarked, “I’m glad you’re impressed. Not many have had the honour of stepping on such hallowed ground. It’s a good place to regroup, after the battle with Saradomin didn’t go as well as planned…”

“Yeah, how are the Zamorakians taking the defeat?” Jahaan inquired, taking a sip of the wine, far too bitter for his tastes.

“Better than you’d think. We lost a lot of forces, but I’m still swinging, and so are my Mahjarrat. Now I’m gonna to bypass this ridiculous little contest of Sliske’s and take back the Stone. Let’s see Saradomin stand tall then!”

Zamorak took a sip from his red wine, his eyes thoughtful and calculated, as the silence stretched on. After a while, he finally spoke up, “World Guardian, have you ever been told about Sliske’s plays?”

Jahaan furrowed his brow, stopping mid-sip, suddenly worried. “No…”

Zamorak grinned, the flesh stretching and pulling across bone. “Man, you’re going to love this. Sliske’s always been a twisted bastard, but this put it to whole new heights. See, back in the days of the Zarosian Empire, we Mahjarrat were given pretty high-class roles - our reward for taking out the Menaphites. Half of us got chosen as generals and lieutenants in the army - known as 'Legati' in Infernal - while the other half were churchleaders, or 'Pontifixes'. Sliske, due to his… unusual predilections...  was given the rank of Praefectus Praetorio - the head of Senntisten’s secret police. Investigation, spying, interrogation… you can see how the role was built for him. In his free time, he was always writing. Stories, plays, even pathetic attempts at poetry. His plays were the most fucked up, performed for the top ranks of Senntisten, like urbane demons, bureaucrats… you know, the types of assholes that could afford to watch his nonsense. To make the plays, he rounded up the low caste and homeless, dressed them up in costumes, and placed upon each a crude wooden mask, which he whittled himself. Sliske gave the word, and the masks started doing their thing; they’d speak aloud, control the actor’s movements, making ‘em jerkily act and mime his play like demented puppets. Sometimes the actors actually stabbed each other to death with their weapons at the play's climax. In one show, one of the actors died - probably of some disease - in the middle of the performance, but the mask kept animating his corpse and the show went on. Sick, right? Worst part is, the audience lapped it up! Sliske went on to perform it about a dozen or so more times before growing bored - as he is prone to do - and moving onto something else. No-one dared speak up against him. After all, who wants to be at the centre of a Praetorian investigation?”

Mouth hung open, Jahaan sat there in horror, his mind doing him the courtesy of picturing every grotesque and gruesome detail. He was starting to feel nauseous because of it, and the wine probably wasn’t helping matters. It took him a while before he could collect himself enough to exclaim, “Didn’t… didn’t Wahisietel say something?!”

Zamorak laughed sharply and so suddenly that Jahaan spilt a bit of his wine. “His brother gave up on his ways long before that. Sliske’s always been fucked in the head, even back on Freneskae, playing with corpses with childlike glee. There’s something seriously wrong with him. There was one of our kind, old Nabor - boring as dry brick but he was pretty sharp. He ran the insane asylum in Senntisten, became quite the psychologist while he did. He once remarked to me how he’d love to study Sliske, to really figure out what was up with him. Never dared invite him for a session, though. I used to see him and Wahisietel chatting - they were close. No doubt Sliske came up in their conversations.”

Jahaan made a mental note to confer with Wahisietel when the opportunity arose.

But in all this, one thing became clear to him more than ever before: Sliske knew everything about him, but he knew nothing of Sliske.

Shaking the cobwebs from his mind, Jahaan rounded back to something less… horrifying. “Senntisten doesn’t seem like such a bad place. Your kind were well taken care of, from what you tell me, so why’d you leave Zaros?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Zamorak confessed, his fingers, unblemished and marble-white, scratching absently at his face. “Ask my followers and they’ll all tell you a different story. Some think it was just a political coup, that I wanted to gain power with no endgame, or that I’d had a falling out with the ‘Empty Lord’. Truth is, we needed to break free from Zaros. He wanted to know our every move, our every thought. When we went on missions, Zaros made us take along a man named Perjour, someone he’d cursed to be his bibliographer. Everything thought that man had, every single thing he witnessed, would be transcribed in a little book, which Zaros would sift through, looking for any seeds of betrayal from his followers. It was oppressing.”

“So how did you get around that?” Jahaan inquired, drawn in by the energy Zamorak brought to his tales.

Grinning wickedly, Zamorak boasted, “I stole the book, switched it with a copy. Zaros was none the wiser. And thus, the seeds of rebellion were sewn.”

The last comment was followed by a wink as he swirled around the wine in his class, looking all-too proud of himself. It seemed all Mahjarrat were capable of that unique form of unnerving smugness.

But something still stuck in Jahaan’s craw; he hesitated, and Zamorak picked up on this. “Come on, just come out with it.”

Exhaling deeply, Jahaan begun, “Alright… your chaos theory hasn’t been painted in the best light across Gielinor. Is all of it really propaganda? What about the Culinaromancer? Count Malak? Lord Iban? And don’t get me started on those dark wizards…”

Rolling his eyes, Zamorak’s annoyance looked of one who had dealt with this before. “Okay, yes, we have a few bad eggs. It’s a damn shame cos we started out so promising. Many came to me because they were fleeing or rejecting some aspect of authority within the Empire, and a philosophy that prized individuality over structure, society or government was just what they were after. But over time this developed into a very unhealthy anarchism; some followers ‘misinterpret’ my philosophy, twisting my words and using it as an excuse to steal, torment, attack… wanting to watch the world burn is nothing I’ve ever preached. But Saradominsts take these few radicals and think we’re all like that. They spew out propaganda against us, saying we’re all evil monsters and anarchists. The few have ruined it for the many.”

“I hate that people think I’m evil,” Zamorak continued, gulping down another swig of wine and instantly refilling himself. “Yeah, I’ve done some pretty bad shit in my time, but who hasn’t? War is messy. If you want your hands clean, become a chef. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for the betterment of my followers, for the Mahjarrat, and for Gielinor. Saradominism is all about ‘join with me and you’ll never have strife again’. We all know that’s just bullshit. Zamorakianism is all about ‘strength through chaos’, about knowing that life can deal you a crappy hand, but it’s that struggle and misery that can shape who you are and make you into a stronger, better person. Take you, World Guardian - I doubt your life has been all roses and daisies, right?”

“You could say that.”

“I AM saying that. But tell me, think back… if all that hadn’t happened to you, would you be where you are now, decked out in fine armour, drinking fine wine, talking to a damn fine god?”

A thin smile spread across Jahaan’s face. He understood.

As Zamorak spoke more about his chaos philosophy, Jahaan was inclined to buy what Zamorak was selling. A lot of his ideologies matched with Jahaan’s own views, and the deity was nothing if not captivating.

It’s just a shame some of his followers are so unbearable, Jahaan internally groaned at the thought of Zemouregal.

But then again, when it came to philosophy, Jahaan’s world view overlapped a lot with that of Zarosianism. Guthixianism, too. After all, once you’re there for the final words of one of the world’s most powerful deities, you form a connection.

Saradominsm did have some decent arguments, Jahaan would admit to himself, but he could never fall on board with the ideology, and definitely not the lifestyle. As for Armadyl, he hadn’t ever really heard much from the winged deity, aside from his triumph over Bandos. It was too early to call a judgement on him yet.

There was always the Menaphite Pantheon, the ‘go-to’ religion for the desert-born.

Gahh… these labels serve more harm than good… Jahaan grumbled to himself, fighting down another gulp of the wine.

While Zamorak tended to some business, the details of which he never specified, Jahaan was offered a teleport to the central chamber of the lair. Feeling it might be considered rude to refuse, and not wanting to accidentally go through the wrong door into one of Daemonheim’s rumoured horror chambers, Jahaan accepted, and with Jahaan’s permission, Zamorak's spell whisked him away.

The centre part of the lair Jahaan was as over the top as it was terrifying. Complete with lava fountains, torches of tall flames and crackling fire, grotesque chiselled statues of beasts and nightmares, and a crimson tiled floor with the Zamorakian symbol crudely embedded into it… this place didn’t exactly scream ‘happy fun time’. In fact, if Zamorak was trying to shake the ‘evil villain’ image the Saradominist propaganda department were creating, this wasn’t helping.

The chamber wasn’t massive in size, but its grandiose excessiveness more than made up for it.

Jahaan manifested in the centre of the room; a throne comprised of black marble and blood red horns strung across it directly faced him, while short hallways to the east and west had imposing doors adorned with skulls at either end.

The heat was also comparable to that of Freneskae.

Immediately, countless sets of eyes leered at him from all around, the present company of gathered Zamorakians all stopping to size up the newest arrival.

Feeling awkward, but not wanting to let it show, Jahaan strode over to one of the large pillars and casually leaned up against it, crossing his arms over his chest with an air of defiance, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be here. However, he carefully avoided eye contact with anyone, subtly exploring the room with a low glance.

There were two Mahjarrat that Jahaan didn’t recognise from the Ritual of Rejuvenation. One, a bulky looking fellow draped in thick, tattered cloaks. There was a presence about him, a power that rattled through his very being. He looked solid; while all Mahjarrat are technically immortal, this one actually felt it. It was almost unnerving. Yet, undermining that were his eyes - they looked haunted, flicking between the ceiling, the walls, the floor, like he was hearing sounds from all directions and trying to gravitate towards the strongest voice.

But if he missed the Ritual, why doesn’t he look all... half-dead? Jahaan pondered to himself, hoping he didn’t look like he was staring.

The other Mahjarrat, on the other hand, did look worse for wear. Hazeel, he was known as. Jahaan had heard stories about his cult of followers in Ardougne, and how he’d ruled over the lands way back in the Fourth Age with brutality and fear. It was the Carnillean Family that became his end, alongside Saradominist peasants who, upon learning magic and runecrafting, wished to liberate their lands from the Zamorakian tyranny. They didn’t manage to kill Hazeel, but they trapped him in a state of torpor, neither living nor dead. His skeletal appearance did have a rather blood-curdling quality about it. Unlike the other Mahjarrat, he had very large horns protruding from his forehead, looking quite similar to the headpiece Azzanadra wore. These, however, were sharpened into deadly points.

Jahaan wasn’t quite sure how the two Mahjarrat could look so different - one full of life and vigor, the other frail and weak.

If I tread carefully, perhaps I could find out? Jahaan thought to himself, not quite looking forward to conversing with even more Zamorakian Mahjarrat than he had to, but his curiosity drove him onwards.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he strolled over to the rejuvenated looking one, greeting him with a respectful nod of his head. “I’m Jahaan. Zamorak sent for me. I don’t think we’ve met before...”

The trailed-off sentence was an indication to fill in the blanks, but the Mahjarrat seemed rather perturbed at Jahaan’s presence. Jahaan didn’t think he was going to get a response and planned on awkwardly shuffling away, pretending that never happened as he did so, but the Mahjarrat’s sudden response startled him into staying. “Bilrach. I am Bilrach. Forgive me, human contact is taking some getting used to.”

Seems nice enough, Jahaan decided with relief. Not wanting to let the conversation go dry for too long, he continued, “Pleased to meet you, Bilrach. I was at the last Ritual of Rejuvenation, but I don’t remember seeing you there. You… you look well, though. Lots of… skin.”

“I was digging,” Bilrach bluntly replied. “Always digging, digging, digging… they thought this to be my tomb, but it was my salvation. The rift did not provide answers alone, though.”

Quickly, Jahaan deduced Bilrach was not shuffling with a full deck. "Ah yes, Zamorak mentioned that you dug this place yourself."

Bilrach nodded. “Centuries I dug, trying to find the rift between realities, the place where the bond between worlds is at its weakest. Here, I was going to find Zamorak and pull him back to Gielinor. I did not succeed, but this chamber is the product of my labour.”

“But if you missed the Ritual, how come you look so powerful?” Jahaan inquired, hoping the subtle compliment would work in his favour.

From the shift in Bilrach's demeanor, it seemed to work. “Ah, yes! Instead, after tumbling through the dimensions, I arrived on my home planet of Freneskae. There are no longer any of my kind there, but other tribes once existed. The Chelon-Mah and Mahserrat, born from the same energy as we Mahjarrat. It was then that I had an epiphany. Hmm.”

Silence. After it was clear Bilrach was indeed lost inside his own head, Jahaan gently prodded, “And what was that?”

“Ah, yes. The other tribes were also bound to rituals, needing the life force of those that perish to sustain themselves. The Mahserrat decided to forgo this process, resigning themselves to a fate without rejuvenation. But the Chelon-Mah… hmm. The Chelon-Mah did the opposite. They concluded that only the strongest should live, yes. One almighty being, commanding the power of the entire tribe. I remember it. The battle blazed across the horizon – a glorious sight to behold, indeed. For weeks they fought tirelessly, until only one remained with all their power. A brutal incarnation of the Chelon-Mah tribe; the physical embodiment of war. Yes, his might on the battlefield was unparalleled.”

“What does this have to do with your epiphany?”

“Epiphany?” Bilrach blinked. “Oh, yes. I knew that after thousands of years whilst the Mahjarrat have grown stronger, the Chelon-Mah would have diminished. With the Mahserrat all likely to have perished and no kin to sacrifice, he would never have been able to rejuvenate. I returned to Gielinor with the once-great Chelon-Mah captive. I slew him upon my very own Ritual Marker.”

Jahaan gasped. “That worked?!”

“Apparently so. The rejuvenation was an unintended effect of his death. A strange power spread throughout the surface - you may have even felt it yourself. My kin would have believed me perished. But I live.”

“But if you didn’t know you’d be rejuvenated, why did you kill him?”

“On Freneskae we were at war with the Chelon-Mah; with no kin left to test his strength he turned to the Mahjarrat,” Bilrach gravely explained, his eyes flitting over to the two doorways parallel to him. “He killed many of my brethren. Taking his life was a justice long overdue. As the only Mahjarrat at the Ritual Marker when I slew him, I was able to absorb all his power, hmm. I thought I could use this new power to bring back Zamorak. Alas, I still did not find the answers I sought. It would seem it is exceptionally difficult for anyone but a god to open a portal between worlds.”

Remembering Zamorak’s words from before, Jahaan thought to inquire into why Bilrach defected from Zaros to Zamorak, but by the change in tone and demeanour he received from Bilrach, he wished he’d never rocked the boat.

“You know nothing of the Mahjarrat, impling, and neither did Zaros,” Bilrach’s gravelly voice sounded like he’d inhaled too much Daemonheim dust. Though his voice was monotonous and grounded, his eyes seemed to dart and flicker. “We were warriors, brave survivors. In the Empire we grew soft. Zaros took our culture from us, tried to tame our nature, making us priests and bureaucrats - such positions are a disgrace to the Mahjarrat name! Zamorak reminded us of our birthright.”

“Ah, I see you’re getting yourself acquainted,” a feminine voice faded in beside the pair, relieving the tension Jahaan had created. Moia walked up to stand beside Bilrach with the friendliest smile her contorted face could manage. “Jahaan, why don’t I introduce you to everyone else while we await my master’s presence?”

“Sure,” Jahaan agreed, following Moia’s lead with a quick look over his shoulder at Bilrach, who seemed to be muttering something under his breath. To Moia, he asked, “Do you know Bilrach well?”

“I do,” Moia replied, solemnly. “He and I held hands as we walked into the rift together. But we were torn apart. I thought him lost. I found Zamorak, and he arrived on Freneskae.”

Stopping their walk across the chamber, Moia leaned down towards Jahaan to speak lowly, “Bilrach has sacrificed a lot in order to provide my master sanctuary. When I first found him, he was… unrecognisable. Now, he tells me the voices have subsided at the very least. I… I still fear for him.”

Not exactly sure what he was expected to say, Jahaan went with, “I’ll look out for him.”

This was the wrong answer; Moia shot him a glare that could melt mithril. “He doesn’t need you looking out for him.”

She stormed off across the chamber, sharply motioning for Jahaan to follow with a reluctant grunt of, “Come on.”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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[xyfanficarchive]

Firelight

Pairing: DBH Simon x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: none

Summary: The reader is a human who is dedicated to helping out the people of Jericho. When they’re forced to weather a storm in the old ship, a conversation with their close friend Simon turns into a very confusing experience.

Word Count: 2014

Author’s Note: sO, funny story. I haven’t written anything, anything in literal years. and then I just went and banged this baby out in a few hours and I’m insanely proud of it. So, here’s my first fic since I was like 12. Any feedback you might have would be greatly appreciated! Enjoy!!

Link to part 2 - Four-Letter Word

            You don’t know how long you’d been staring into the fire, huddled close to that rusting oil drum just thinking by the time you’d been forced out of your trance by a particularly loud crack of thunder that seemed to rattle every single loosened part of the dilapidated ship. You glanced up to observe many of the androids in the room looking skittish for a second, a smattering of LEDs quickly flashing red before blinking yellow and returning once more to blue, glowing faintly in the low light. You observed how many of them seemed to also gravitate towards standing next to the fires in complete silence, despite the fact that you were the only one who actually needed the warmth given off in the whole structure.

           Your eyes return to the flickering of the flames. The whole air of the place seemed particularly somber today. Not that Jericho was ever, at any point, a particularly lively place to be. It was a place of freedom, but also fear; a collective of vulnerable people living in the dark, personal experiences rendering them too afraid to do much else other than sit and hide on this disintegrating ship. The rain seemed to get everyone especially down today though, and even though you loved the rain and the sheer terrifying power of a thunderstorm like this one, you soaked up the mood like a sponge.

           “You look preoccupied,” a voice says, accompanied by footsteps approaching you. You look up to see the face of your friend Simon, soft blue eyes looking into yours, and he stops just close enough to you that your arms touch, although you think nothing of the closeness of it. “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

            “Things,” you say without thinking, and immediately avert your eyes to the floor laughing a bit at the stupidity of your answer. You sigh. “No, I just kind of want to go home. I’m tired and, no offense, but Jericho isn’t exactly the best place for a fleshy exotherm like me to take a nap.” Getting in and out of Jericho as safely as you could would necessitate a fair amount of jumping and hoisting yourself up onto platforms, but all the handholds would be too slick for you to grip in the torrential rain.

           Simon wraps an arm around you and a smile creeps onto both of your faces. “I’m sure we could find you a place to sleep. This was a human ship after all, there must be a bed somewhere around.”

           “I’ve done my exploring and trust me, there is no mattress left behind on this ship that is untouched by uh, mysterious stains,” you laugh, and stretch your arm out behind him to reciprocate his little gesture of affection, soaking up his warmth in the slight chill of the air. “If worst comes to worst, I’ll just bunch up my jacket for a pillow and sleep on the floor. No big deal.”

           “No, I couldn’t let you do that,” he says. “I’m sure – yeah, I’m sure there’s a clean blanket or two somewhere around here. I’ll have to find them for you.”

           You both fall into a silence that you note is comfortable, just staring into the fire again. Even with the human friends you’d made and had for a few years since moving to Detroit, it was never quite like the dynamic you shared with Simon who you’d known for a matter of months. There was always a pressure to be speaking, to always be doing something together, and you would never even consider being so casually close to them, just standing together and enjoying the physical contact. Your mind drifts to the fact that he is warm, emitting body heat, and your brows furrow as you remember that oh yeah it confuses you, as you can’t seem to think of a reason why an android might need or have warmth.

           So you pipe up, turning your face up to look at him: “Simon, why are you like, warm?” and again, avert your eyes for a moment while you laugh quietly at how odd the question sounds. “I mean like, body heat is generally a by-product of chemical reactions. Digestion and metabolism in biological beings, and such. So like, why? You’re an android, and don’t do either of those. Unless I’m missing something,” you joke.

           “Entirely for human comfort,” he says. “I mean, humans get kind of disconcerted when they make physical contact with something that looks like a human but is cold to the touch. We’ve actually had some androids come to Jericho who don’t have that feature, although their functions before were less likely to involve human contact. But my model was made for domestic service, so,” he trails off and you hum, satisfied with his answer.

            Your eyes drift up again and meet with another android across the room who it seems was observing you two, an eyebrow quirked and LED briefly flashing yellow before she looked away. Your mouth draws into a straight line, feeling almost judged when you decide to ask Simon another question.

           “You ever notice how they all seem to, I don’t know, ignore me? Or judge me?” Your face sours, not entirely satisfied with the tone you spoke with, a little too hurt for your liking. You couldn’t decide whether it was because you didn’t really want to put the blame on them for not trusting you, or because it brought that pang of disappointment you’d been trying to ignore too close to the surface.

           “What do you mean?” he asks, seeming to notice your negative tone.

           “Well, I mean – you know the logical part of my brain is telling me that it’s not their fault or mine that they don’t trust me, so not to get too bent out of shape about it. Helping, knowing that I’m supporting the people of Jericho really is gratifying on its own. Honest!” you stop for a moment to think, “but there’s still that little part of me that wonders what I’m doing wrong, that wants to be validated for my efforts. That’s still disappointed that when I come here most people other than you do their best not to look at me or interact with me,” you look away from Simon’s eyes, suddenly a bit ashamed and afraid now of his judgment too. Were you being too needy? Asking for too much of a people with a very broken trust in humans, for very good reasons?

           He takes his arm from your shoulders and turns to face you fully. “They are grateful for everything you’ve done, all the support you give us. I can vouch for the fact that they appreciate you,” he reassures, placing his hand on your forearm. “Some are still wary of your intentions, though. And some are still very nervous around humans in general – I’m sure you understand.” You nod along with his last statement. “I’m sure they’ll warm up to you in time, you just need to give it a little while,” he smiles warmly, before taking on an inquisitive expression.

           “Out of curiosity, why do you help us?” he asks. “I don’t doubt your intentions are good, but ever since you discovered this place on your own… All we asked of you is that you leave and keep quiet about Jericho, but you kept coming back.” You looked back up to meet his earnest gaze. “You kept doing more and more. Bringing us supplies. Sneaking into Cyberlife’s warehouses and stealing biocomponents and blue blood. Speaking up for us in your daily life. Our existence as deviants is already dangerous, but you keep defying the law at every turn you can and putting yourself in more danger than we could have ever asked of you. Why?”

           There’s a pregnant pause while you think of how to respond. In truth, it’s an extremely loaded question. You’d never really thought about why you wanted to help Jericho, only that you did. “I…” you start, very tentatively. “I always think back to our history as a species, you know. For the past couple of centuries there’s always been someone fighting for their basic – basic rights somewhere in the world. Somewhere in this country. Whether its on the basis of their religion, their ethnicity, their gender, or sexuality or whatever, someone’s always been trying to break down the barriers so we can all just live as equals. And the moment, the very moment it seems that as a society we might start to get it, to understand that concept of equality, what do we do? We invent a new type of second-class citizen, perfectly obedient and perfectly identical to us so we can get that authentic oppression experience.” You bit your lip, gaze long since shifted away from Simon back down to the fire.

           “And I’d really hate to think that that’s our natural state. That we just can’t bear not having some kind of a hierarchy to feel safe in, to always feel superior to someone. I think a lot about how inaction is, in a way, worse than outright hatred. Because it’s the inaction that allows hatred to continue. I’m aware that it’s dangerous for you to, for example, go outside for supply runs. The police do hunt deviants. So if I can help, if I can keep you out of the way of the police then I will.”

           You look up at Simon and he’s got this expression on his face that you can’t read, but your jaw goes a little slack and a tingle runs the length of your spine. “To be honest it upsets me that all our human empathy and compassion goes out the window when – when faced with something that looks exactly like a human. Just because we’re aware their blood is blue and not red.” Suddenly you’re intensely aware of his hand, warm on your forearm and his closeness – it seems he’d drifted towards you even more over the course of your little monologue. You shift under the intensity of his gaze. “A-and… I’ve read enough history books about those people fighting for their basic rights, telling the world that they are people, that when I came to Jericho and had everyone telling me the exact same, of course I was inclined to believe you.”

           There was silence again. Unbreaking silence, and unbreaking eye contact. Simon seems to be breathing heavy although you can’t comprehend why, and he lifts his other hand to rest it on your shoulder. He pulls it away again and looks to the side, almost embarrassed before bringing his hand up even further to rest it on your cheek – and where you were expecting soft, warm flesh, your skin instead met the feeling of cool, smooth plastic. The air goes electric with the warmness, the intimacy of the situation. He meets your eyes again with that expression you can’t name, the soft orange glow of the fire lighting his features, and your hand seems to automatically reach up to cover his. It feels like your perceptions are wading through a thick warm haze, and you forget the intensely sober atmosphere of Jericho’s main room, completely drunk on the firelight reflecting off his cool blue eyes. His lips part slightly, and you feel almost like you can read his thoughts, predict his next movements and just as you start to feel the anticipation of leaning in to –

           He pulls away abruptly, his white hand leaves your cheek and you watch as the artificial skin on it reforms, leaving it identical to any human hand. “I… Wh-” You begin, but you’re dazed, at a loss for words, ripped from your little reverie too quick to get your bearings. He’s broken eye contact and, looking more self-conscious than you’d ever seen him, he backs away.

           “I-I’d really better find you those blankets… If you’re going to stay the night…” he murmurs, and at once turns on his heel and leaves you behind feeling suddenly very cold, very confused, and definitely disappointed.

[him-e]

hi i’m really confused why people who hate ben say the first order/ben is/are nazis? like ???? how does that even exist or work in this story? am i just dumb and don’t ~see it~? i hope you don’t think this is me baiting you into something else (regarding your last ask) that’s what made me ask this since it mentions nazis in the article. i really am just confused since i loved tlj and didn’t see any problem with it.

It’s okay, don’t worry. First off, don’t let the discourse get in the way of your enjoyment of fiction, especially when it’s comprised essentially of guilt-tripping, manipulative buzzwords. 

Now. The nazi coding in the First Order (and the Galactic Empire in the OT) is there—from the uniforms to the insignia to Hux’s speech to the troops in TFA, everything screams “evil space nazis”—but it’s mainly for the aesthetics. It’s window dressing. It’s a literary trope. 

It’s make up, essentially, a shortcut to help the audience identify easily the bad guys as, indeed, Bad Guys. It’s the equivalent of dressing up your villains as monstrous, stinky orcs in tolkienesque fantasy. That’s because Star Wars is a mash up of different literary and cinematic genres, and one of those is classic WWII movies from the ‘40s and ‘50s, the ones that established the trope of nazis as action/adventure/historical drama villain material. The original trilogy in the late ‘70s was targeted to a young audience, an audience entirely born after wwii, who grew up with the imagery of nazi as fictional villains rather than present, tangible real world threat.

So basically the nazi imagery in Star Wars is a homage to a certain movie genre and its tropes and trappings more than a political statement. And the sequel trilogy deconstructs those tropes, which adds an extra layer of distance from actual political discussion of *real life* nazism. (please note that both TFA and TLJ were written before Trump’s election and before alt-right became a pressing matter in the us political scene).

This doesn’t mean Star Wars doesn’t have a political message. It absolutely has one, and it’s powerful precisely because it’s universal, not necessarily localized to this or that specific ideology or political climate: it’s a statement against imperialism, militarism and antidemocratic oppression, which applies to WWII nazi Germany just as much as it does to other (present-day) dictatorships or to the current rise of populism across the world, BUT most of all it refers (in its original intent) to post-wwii US’ politics. In fact, despite the undeniable pseudo-nazi-fascist aesthetics, George Lucas conceived the Empire as a parody/criticism of the united states’ imperialistic politics in the 60′s–70′s and of the Vietnam war, with Palpatine as a Nixon-like figure.

The superficial nazi metaphor, decontextualized from the other influences and taken in isolation as the only possible real world parallel to the First Order, is neither a particularly deep nor an accurate political reading of it. I would also add it comes from a shallow, imprecise idea of what makes nazism different from other fascist ideologies. Consider this: the most defining aspect of the nazi party—the belief in a superior race and the systematic extermination of Jewish people through the Holocaust—has no recognizable in-universe equivalent neither in the Empire nor The First Order ** (we can guess both are sorta racist—the term would be speciesist—towards non-human species, given the fact that you can’t see a single alien among their ranks, but it’s never a Plot Point, and in any case I hope nobody is under the impression that alien, aka non human or subhuman, creatures can be an acceptable metaphor for Jewish people. Right?). 

** and by the way: no, the destruction of Alderaan or the Hosnian System is not an equivalent to the Holocaust. The intention there was to wipe out a political/military target, not an entire race because of their race. The real life equivalent to the death star and starkiller would be the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Guess who dropped those?

So what makes a nazi analogy effective, exactly? Just generic imperialism and world domination? Evilness™? War crimes? The use of weapons of mass destruction? Aren’t other real life ideologies and military superpowers guilty of those things too? How do you strip a fictional representation of nazi ideology of its most important and atrocious aspect, antisemitism, and still expect the audience to take that metaphor literally? 

Spoiler: it isn’t supposed to be taken literally.

It doesn’t have to, in order to speak to the heart of the audiences all over the world. The nazi coding might be superficial, but this doesn’t mean that the First Order as presented by the new trilogy isn’t absolutely, unequivocally bad. Why is it bad? The narrative doesn’t get too specific about it—in fact many criticized how vague the politics both in tfa and tlj are—but we know they’re bad: they have a rigid militaristic structure, they blow up planets and entire solar systems, they oppose democratic-looking entities called the Resistance and the Republic (names are important just as coding is), they summarily execute prisoners. We just KNOW that those things are bad—we aren’t sure what their political vision is (beyond obvious galactic domination. To quote GRRM, what is the First Order’s tax policy?), but if they do those things, it must be bad, period. That’s all we need to know to understand this story.

The nazi aesthetics help broadcasting this evilness to the audience loud and clear, because we’re all children of the same culture that (thanks to the aforementioned movies and tropes) taught us to instantly recognize those black-dressed, seriously-looking guys marching in lines and swearing allegiance to an ominous-looking red-and-black symbol as evil incarnate (except we fail to recognize fascist and nazi ideology when it manifests in other, less obvious forms).

BUT here’s the thing that antis constantly get wrong, like abysmally wrong. While the First Order is portrayed as bad and unsympathetic, Kylo Ren/Ben Solo isn’t. 

Kylo Ren being made of a different cloth was clear since TFA (you cannot deny the truth that is your family) and insisting to claim otherwise at this point is willfully misinterpreting canon and loudly communicated authorial intent.

Aside from the stormtroopers (who were groomed into their role and are used as cannon fodder by the Order, and who I think will be eventually liberated by Finn), Kylo is the one part of the First Order who is clearly REDEEMABLE, because his nature is essentially extraneous to it. He’s a Skywalker. He’s the last of a breed of wizard-warriors who worship the Force and whose political views, for better or worse, will be always secondary to the way they perceive this energy in the galaxy and their role in it. His enormous power might be dark, but it’s not evil, and right now he’s misplacing it in the hands of an evil organization which he erroneously considers as a chance to bring “a new order” to the galaxy.

Is Kylo a nazi, or at least is he as superficially nazi-coded as the rest of the first order is? Let’s see:

there is no indication of Kylo being racist (or speciesist). Classist? Hell yeah, you can see it mostly in his interactions with Rey (which are, however, complicated and in part contradicted by the fact that Kylo seems to respect and value force users more than “regular” people, including those on his own side). Racist? There’s zero reason to believe that. Or at least there’s no satisfying in-universe equivalent of real world racism emerging in Kylo’s character.

the only group of people Kylo wants to exterminate (like Snoke, and like Anakin before him) is the Jedi order, but the Jedi aren’t an ethnicity or a species. You aren’t born a Jedi. You become one. Destroying the Jedi order is a purge, not a genocide. It’s like killing all the members of a political party, or the supporters of a religious heresy. STILL BAD! (and definitely something nazism, as many other dictatorships, did.) But not steeped in racism or eugenetics. It’s interesting that upon meeting Rey and discovering her force powers, Kylo proposes to teach her. He doesn’t have a problem with force sensitive people per se, he has a problem with those who adhere to the Jedi order. This grudge against the Jedi exists in the context of the eternal hostility between lightsiders and darksiders in star wars canon. It’s not the first time that one side of the Force tries to completely destroy the other, and yes, the Jedi have tried to exterminate the Sith too.

Kylo’s outfit marks him as different than the rest of the First Order, and specifically different from Hux (who is, in many ways, the epitome of the “evil gay nazi” trope, which in turn is a bastardization, mostly for the lulz and/or for fictional purposes, of nazism). Kylo doesn’t wear an uniform or display any official first order insignia indicating that he is, indeed, a believer of that ideology. His TFA costume is reminiscent of a monk or a knight templar (see also how his saber is essentially a red cross shape) while also evoking the classic image of the Grim Reaper (when he’s in full cowl+mask attire), while his TLJ one, while not very different from its earlier version, gives him a dark prince vibe, with the long, willowy black cape and the elegant shorter tunic resembling a medieval/renaissance doublet. Not a lot of nazi coding here, and believe me, how a character looks is very, very important to convey this sort of messages.

So.

What makes a(n allegedly) nazi-coded character convincing, aesthetics aside? 

His politics.

Do we know what Kylo’s politics are? 

No.

If the First Order’s political vision is vague because it works essentially as a stand-in for “evil organization” and we don’t need a lot of details about it, Kylo’s political views are more than vague, they’re non-existent. That’s because Kylo isn’t a political figure, at all. He got involved with this organization because his dark side master was the Supreme Leader, but we have no way of knowing whether his political ideas really align with those of the First Order, or if he has any at all. We believe they must align, to an extent at least, because why would he stick with them for so long if they don’t. The problem is that Kylo is too fucked up to discuss him this way. We actually see in TLJ how he keeps doing things that “split his spirit to the bone” just because his master asked, and because he sees no choice. He just keeps rolling like a wrecking ball towards complete (self) destruction. He’s a mess. He’s the opposite of a political thinker.

Antis insist to see Kylo as the embodiment of the first order when he’s actually (probably) the seed of its destruction. He exists at the margins of the organization, as a scary, but essentially extraneous presence, who follows his own rules and whims (proof of this is Hux’s seething hatred and distrust for him). We now see him rise as its Supreme Leader, but he, like Snoke before him, is an outsider, a custodian and wielder of an ancient magic/religion that the First Order is very willing to use for their own profit, but seems to be inherently skeptical of. And this conflict is 100% going to come to fruition in IX, make no mistake.

Framing Kylo as a nazi is such a massive misunderstanding of how his character is constructed, his role in the story and what he’s meant to represent to us. And of course it creates a VERY unfortunate dissonance in the fact that we’re EVIDENTLY meant to sympathize with him and root for his redemption. 

This is a character who isn’t meant to represent a political allegory, but an existential one. He’s an archetypal figure—the prodigal son, now become the Usurper. His political views remain largely unexplained and unexplored because they don’t matter. What matters is the archetypal ball of negative, destructive energy he represents, as well as the psychological horror of his personal and familial drama, which is the bulk of his motivation in everything he does. Kylo lashes out because of his unresolved trauma with his family and with Snoke, not because he knows what he’s doing or because he wants to achieve a specific goal. Even at the end of TLJ, he’s using the First Order war machine as a weapon to enact his personal, and deeply masochistic, vendetta against Luke, who tried to murder him, and Leia who (in his mind) rejected and betrayed him for the Resistance. He’s also externalizing the blind terror, the hurt, the confusion of having just killed his mentor and long time abuser to save someone who (from his point of view) only used him and then dropped him like a sack of potatoes (yeah, that would be Rey).

There’s no sound military strategy or even logical thinking in his almost delirious attack on the resistance base on Crait, to the point that even Hux is appalled. This isn’t a man who is pursuing a political ideology. This is a deeply broken individual who is fumbling to deal with some major unresolved issues from his past and childhood and who for some reason believes that burning everything to ashes is the only way to achieve some sort of peace. The “order” he wants to restore is more on a personal scale than on a galactic one. The galactic scale is always a byproduct of the personal, as it’s always the case with these thrice damned Skywalkers, tbh.

so to summarize

the nazi aesthetic is superficial and is meant to convey that the first order is Evil

the political message of sw is more universal than “fight the nazis”, not because the nazis aren’t bad, but because the nazis aren’t the only form of political evil people should fight against, and depending on where and when you are in the world, there might be more immediate forms of imperialism and oppression that the local audience might want to see reflected in the First Order (note that the current nazi discourse is incredibly westerncentric and especially us-centric, because that’s where we’re unfortunately experiencing a resurgence of these ideologies, but other parts of the world might have their own oppressive powers to fight that have nothing to do with nazism)

the First Order is 100% evil but Kylo isn’t integrated within it, and even as the Supreme Leader he represents an outsider

Kylo’s relevance in the story is broader than his affiliation with the First Order

in fact, the main themes of his character aren’t political at all

Kylo matters as an archetypal and tragic figure, the continuation of the very archetypal and tragic familial saga of the Skywalkers

Kylo is neither a “literal” nazi nor nazi-coded

insisting that Kylo is a nazi makes you (not you, anon, those who propose this interpretation) look stupider and stupider as it becomes increasingly clear that he’s a HUGELY sympathetic character who is on a redemptive (and romantic) arc

seriously, disney ain’t gonna “normalize” nazis

stop saying that

stop worrying about that

this is the least of your problems

the first order will eventually be destroyed as it should be. Kylo, who is not a nazi, will not

end

[mcjour]

ok so this is a secret blog so i don’t expect anyone to be reading this (and if anyone is reading this, wtf??? leave). but just on the off chance someone stumbles across this i will include this content warning for me processing racism as a white person. and ofc my normal mental health issues and ptsd shit and bla bla bla 

so i watched the interview with oprah and meghan and harry and it resurfaced some of the stuff i have been processing. with my old job. and weaponizing white tears basically.

because i have been really struggling with what happened. obviously. it’s all i have been thinking about for literally over an entire year. love ptsd. not.

basically i had a shitty boss who was my ex friend. i am white. she is a woman of color. she treated me like shit. when i talk about what happened to me, people outside of the organization are like wow that’s really fucked up. people inside of the org cut off contact with me. i THINK it’s because the org is a literal cult and i criticize the cult and obviously if you are in a cult then you can’t really accept criticism of the cult. also some people were her friend too so obviously they would side with the friend over me. idk. 

but there’s part of me that is like??? maybe i did something racist??? and that’s why she was so rude to me??? or the thing that happened on the last day of the retreat?? was that racist???? i feel like i did something wrong and i don’t know what it is and that kills me. 

like. i feel like what happened HAS to be my fault. because i can’t make heads or tails of why else the things that happened happened. and because i don’t know WHAT i did, maybe it was something racist that i just don’t see because i am white???? which is so............. i don’t even have the words.

but when i think back on some of the events of what happened, i could see how an outsider could think that i was weaponizing white tears and being manipulative and using mental health as an excuse... 

i do not believe that is what happened.... but maybe it is..?

and i hate that, that wasn’t what was happening at all. but when abuse happens you feel like it’s your fault. it has to be your fault. news flash, marginalized people can be awful too. they aren’t a monolith and they aren’t always right about everything oppression related. granted, they are probably more likely to be right than a white person LOL, but there are plenty of problematic poc too.

it’s hard, because which of us had more power? we both held power in different ways. she was my boss, she was cis and straight. i was white.  

what happened on the last day of the retreat wasn’t good. i know stepping away was a bad choice, but so was staying. i couldn’t win either way. i still stand by my choice: that i couldn’t participate in that activity. it was an awful thing as a white person to step out of. i will freely admit that. but i was literally having a ptsd flashback (that started the day BEFORE, not related to the activity), and i would’ve distracted people with my unrelated sobbing, and i would’ve gotten exactly ZERO out of the activity because my mind was literally not in the present. but they wanted my body there. idk how that was supposed to help. it was cruddy no matter what. i was happy to have that conversation at literally any other time just not during the midst of a flashback. but it is a one time event. i get that. it wasn’t fair on either side.

but i could see, if you were someone who didn’t realize i was literally in a flashback, that it would be wacky af to see me just skip that.

and that brings up the question of like??? which trumps the other?? a mental health crisis or a conversation on racism?? IDK. I guess that’s where I get stuck. i think a lot of white people can feign a mental health crisis to evade those conversations. and that’s really fucked up. and makes me look bad. that wasn’t what i was doing at all.  but from the outside, how do you see the difference? my crisis was from something the previous day, but how would anyone know that? even i was at a loss for words. i mean, i was legitimately in a ptsd flashback, i didn’t exactly have the words for why i needed to go home at that moment.

and i thought maybe people could see that. like. i’m not advocating for a “free pass” or anything like that. but also i have the demonstrated history of having and facilitating these conversations. i speak up all the time, participate in a lot of these things. i’m not saying it’s enough. i’m not saying i’m a perfect ally. but idk there’s a difference between skating around issues all the time and walking out just one time.in fact i fully intended to ask others about what happened/ but in nicer words. i wasn’t trying to avoid the conversation, i was literally sick.

i hate that they did that to me. they didn’t really give me a good option. the best option was to let me go home. i was very very unwell. i wish i had asked the night before, but i didn’t realize how bad i was. i thought i could sleep it off. i couldn’t. what the hell. they talk about self care a whole lot yet they trigger a flashback and don’t let me take care of it?

then we did go home bla bla bla weekend happens and monday happens. and my boss is pissed about what happened. not for me, but for what i did. i can’t blame her. i knew it wasn’t a good look. and i couldn’t really articulate what was happening. so when she was yelling at me, i wasn’t really upset about the yelling and the tone. like i understood. well that’s not the right word. but what really got to me was the cruel things she said. it was personal attacks. not even about what had happened anymore. just attacks on who i was as a person. and truthfully i had not even fully come out of the flashback yet. in retrospect i should’ve stayed home that day, but i felt like i would be judged for that. so here i was, in a flashback, and this woman is kicking me when i’m already down. and that pushed me to the edge. i was inconsolable. they brought me to the hospital because i wanted to hurt myself

and this is the other place i’m stuck. like... was that me being manipulative?? was this me weaponizing my mental health? once again, what trumps what? i think she had a right to express her frustration with me. but i was still in a flashback! that’s not her fault either, and how would she have known that? but i think she still took it too far when she was saying things like everybody hates me, i’m a terrible person who has never done anything for anyone but myself, etc. and she used to be my friend, so it felt like she was targeting exactly where she knew it would hurt. so where is the line, i guess. i don’t want to tone police an upset woman of color, but it felt like this became something else entirely. like this was no longer about what happened the previous week before. 

and it’s not true??? people didn’t hate me (or, idk, i guess she must’ve), and i did things for people all the time....

and once again i wish i had the language back then to better communicate what was happening. it would’ve helped me. and maybe some people would not have been so upset. i may not have been forgiven entirely and that’s ok, but at least i would’ve stood a better chance with some things

i try to think about it in another perspective. i am not saying racism and other forms of oppression are equivalent and can be switched out. i know this is not true. but for the purposes of my own processing exercise, i had to imagine, what would i feel if this were me. if we were having some sort of conversation about homophobia perhaps, and a straight person disappeared. 

LMAO first of all that cult did not give a fuck about lgbt people anyway so it’s not even a realistic exercise.

ok well. truthfully.... i might be confused. maybe a little annoyed. i think i would give someone the benefit of the doubt. like idk... most people wouldn’t just leave to go fuck around for an hour (and those people who would are not relevant to this conversation). or i wouldn’t even notice they were gone.

there is one person i would notice actually. because i would probably keep looking over at her. because she was homophobic and was not exactly secretive about it. so of course i would want her there. and would probably be pissed if she wasn’t. but also i know she has a disability. and so if she had said “oh my disability is acting up” maybe i would be suspicious, but why not believe her? and yeah it would suck that she missed that conversation and all those testimonials. i would also probably check in with a few people to make sure she was caught up on the things that were said. not personal stories, but whatever else was said. i could see being truly very annoyed about it. i could see snapping at this girl maybe, not knowing what to believe (and i think that’s kind of ableist of me, honestly). but i can not imagine the conversation ever turning the way it turned on me. telling her that everyone hates her and she’s never done anything for anyone, etc. ???? what???????

and i wish i came up with another excuse. i mean i didn’t come up with any excuse, i just told the truth. but i wish i lied and said i was shitting my brains out or something. i feel like that would’ve been more acceptable, a physical illness isntead of a mental illness. like if i said i had stepped out because my  bowels were exploding, could people be mad at me??? idk.. like would they want me to poop my pants to say my body was there? probably not. so what is the difference between diarrhea and ptsd?

and i hate that i dwell on that shit. working at that place was toxic as fuck, and i needed to quit. honestly, i had considered it a bit before that, and by the time my boss was calling me names, i was leaning further and further towards it. but i loved those kids. and so it was difficult for me to plant both feet firmly in that truth. maybe i would’ve gotten there sooner rather than later. but they fired me for having mental health problems. how truly fucked up, fired for having a ptsd flashback that THEY TRIGGERED WITH THEIR STUPID ACTIVITY THAT THEY KNEW WAS TRIGGERING! AHHHH! anyway back to the point. i hate that instead of being like “wow i wish i quit before it got to that point/ got that bad” all of my thoughts and my nightmares have been like “well if i did this instead of this, and if i had done xyz, then maybe they wouldn’t have fired me” i know leaving the org was so important, regardless of how it did happen. but my brain is still stuck on “how can i not get fired. what could i have done differently”

and the truth is probably nothing. like ok even if i had been the most angelic person ever that whole retreat (therefore no need for the follow up), i’m sure something else would’ve come up down the line. this wasn’t truly ~out of nowhere~, i had been gaslighted etc for the months prior. 

(which reminds me how she said i was disengaged and disrespectful the whole retreat. what? if you just remove the mental health drama for a moment.... i led an activity, actively participated in another activity (about, gasp, racism), shared during a writing activity (where people complimented me, and one girl even came up to me crying telling me about how i impacted her) so yeah... so disengaged... (did you mean.... dissociated)... such a bad role model

also......... that cult is racist. not explicitly i guess. i mean they parade themselves as a social justice org. but.... the whole org reeks of white saviorism, and they def exploit labor of all of their “volunteers” but esp the marginalized ones. so idk why i care if these random white people think i’m racist when they clearly don’t have a grasp on their own. i don’t mean that in any “holier than thou” way, just.... i hate the way my brain works. in that i just crave acceptance so badly that i can’t even step back and be like “why even want these people”

[femmedplume]

With all the news about Harvey Weinstein, I keep hearing about "the whisper network." Do you imagine a time coming when we can shout instead of whisper?

*cracks knuckles* Hang on, ladies…this is gonna be a rough one.

The optimist in me wants to say YES, OF COURSE! One day, none of this will even be an issue – and the few pervs who try to pull a Weinstein will be quickly outed and kicked out of our little Hollyweird clubhouse but quick.

The realist in me says, don’t hold your breath.  We’re not going to see a big change until 

a)) women (and children, btw! Let’s not forget the Hollywood pedophile rings, kiddos!) are not at such a workplace disadvantage for speaking up, and 

b) more men start backing the victims instead of the perpetrators. 

I mean, Weinstein has been assaulting/harassing women who work with him for YEARS, but it seems like he confined his criminal activity to those whose careers he could safely ruin if they spoke up? Like, Meryl Streep never had to worry about him, according to her – but then again, she’s MERYL STREEP. If he’d tried that shit with her, she’d have punched him, called him out in public repeatedly, and then sailed off into her fantastic career whilst an angry mob of movie fans beat him to death with tiny Oscars.

Unfortunately, the rest of us are not Meryl Streep.

And even when us normal gals are brave enough to speak up, the chances of us being believed and supported, even by our closest male friends and allies, are heart-breakingly slim. Too many men use the argument that some woman, somewhere, some time, has falsely accused a man of harassment or assault as an excuse to NEVER believe ANY woman. Which is a pretty flimsy excuse, as excuses go. I mean some person, somewhere, some time, has been falsely accused of murder, but these same men aren’t ready to automatically excuse every accused murderer, are they? 

…Except yeah, they totally are if said murderer is a dude that they like/respect/reminds them of themselves. 

So here comes the dark truth that I don’t even want to think about, but we as a society can’t escape: The men who refuse to stand up for female victims of rape/murder/harassment/abuse often do so because what if someday THEY wanted to commit one of these crimes??? God forbid they’d have to face consequences, which is what would happen if a precedent of clear and consistent punishment for sexual crimes was set. Much easier to continue to perpetuate rape culture than to hold other men to a moral standard they aren’t sure they believe in themselves.

Even worse? In this industry, too many men think of harassment/assault of beautiful women as one of the sought-after PERKS of being successful. (See: Joss Whedon’s decades of casting-couching, or Michael Bay’s disgusting harassment and degradation of Megan Fox.) They DREAM of the day they’ll be able to use their pull in Hollywood to get away with raping some desperate, frightened woman.

To guys like that, Weinstein’s only real crime was getting caught.

And the ones who don’t specifically think like that? Still aren’t ready to step into the ring and hold their buddies accountable. As much as it soothed all of us to hear that story about how Jensen Ackles was going to stand up for that one writer after she was harassed, well – he hasn’t outed the guy, either. He knows who this person is and that they’re using their power to sexually abuse women – and while he’s, ya know, not thrilled, he’s not worried enough to do anything about it. 

Now, before anyone jumps on the “Defend Perfect Man™ Jensen Ackles at all costs, including the truth,” bandwagon, I’m not badmouthing him in particular.  Just pointing out that even white-knighting only goes so far in the industry. And it’s not like he’d have to do it in the press, either. He’s got enough friends to get the blacklist ball rolling without it ever making the trades.

But it’s not going to happen, and even worse? We don’t expect him to do anything. He’s got power, influence, privilege, and a good heart. He’s well-known as one of the “good ones” in Hollywood – but we as a society don’t expect anything from our good ones. Not the Jensens, or the Chrises (Evans, Hemsworth, Pine..pick a Chris,) not the Toms or Benedicts or [Insert Famous White Guy Here.]

What we expect is for the oppressed to rise up and conquer the oppressor without any resources or assurance of support, even from their fellow oppressed. 

Quietly. 

Without disturbing the comfort of the privileged.

It’s no wonder we’re still whispering. 

[thisisarealtagwhy]

Day Five: Epic Moments

Okay, so this is longer than the last one - it’s about 2500 words - and i was going to just post it and give y’all the link cos i wanted to do it over 3 chapters but screw it,

“Look at that symbol pirates!” Spandam cries condescendingly, pointing above the building to the flag flying in the wind.

“That mark represents the unity of over 170 nations in the four seas and the Grand Line! Do you understand how insignificant you are to stand against us?” Spandam sneers, “Do you understand how big of an organisation was after her!?”

Robin is trembling, Luffy can tell despite the gap between them.

He understands now.

He gets why she wants them to leave.

After hearing about a Buster Call…

He has no doubt that he would be in a similar state if his entire island burned down.

Having the trash pile burned down when he was younger had really stuck in his head and he used to be terrified of the fire. The feeling of helplessness being trapped by sky high orange flames, the heat too hot to breathe.

And then the pirates had come out of the fire, changed. They lost their sanity, so, he knew a little about what it was like to deal with a fear of something like that.

Then Ace had become fire and he wasn’t scared of the flames anymore, the oppressive feeling whenever he saw fire vanished.

But to have your island burned down to ground with no survivors…

It was a magnitude of grief and horror he hadn’t felt. Period.

It was the World Government that did this…

“I get it now, Robin’s enemy.” He murmurs gently, Robin and Ace aren’t all that different in that regard, he thinks. “Sogeking.”

“Hm?”

Luffy thinks that Sogeking might actually be Usopp but that’s okay, if his friend wants to help without ‘being there’ then who is he to deny Usopp the right? A captain? No, Robin was his friend so he has the right to help.

“Shoot that flag.”

His voice is steady, calm, despite the absolute rage he feels as Robin trembles, caught up in her own memories.

“Roger that.” Sogeking says. “New weapon: the great pachinko, called kabuto! Carefully observe its’ power!”

Spandam looks confused, Luffy smirks, why on earth would they care that the World Government was after Robin!? That would just increase their resolve to protect her.

They’re already wanted after all.

“Ultimate Fire Bird Star!”

The bird is more like a phoenix, Luffy thinks, and if he were in any other circumstance he would be starry eyed. But he has to be firm right now so he watches in satisfaction as the World Government flag burns freely.

Spandam’s eyes are literally popping out of his head and Robin looks like she’s about to start crying again. “No way…”

Luffy hears the din of the marines behind them crying if the pirates know the meaning of what they just did.

He snorts, of course they do, they just declared war against the World Government of course.

“Are you bastards insane!?” Spandam shrieks, looking red in the face. “Don’t you dare to even dream that you’d survive having the world as your enemy!”

“I’d be happy to live with that!” Luffy screams back, letting his rage pour into his voice.

Robin starts to cry again but Luffy knows she has made her decision.

But, she might need a gentle push in the right direction… “Robin!! I haven’t heard it from you yet!”

She looks confused. “Say you wanna live!” He cries it as loud as he can, because Robin deserves to live.

She still looks confused for a few moments and his heart breaks a little. Then she begins to cry harder and yells back “I wanna live!”

It comes out garbled from her tears but Luffy smiles because she understands.

Luffy doesn’t understand.

He was hurting so godamn much when he finally defeated Moria but now he’s right as rain.

And what’s weirder is that Zoro is down, Zoro is down and Chopper doesn’t have high hopes for the swordsman.

Luffy does, because the swordsman made a promise and he won’t break it. Zoro wouldn’t.

But it’s still weird so he asks Sanji.

“Oi~! Sanji!” He cried, flinging himself at the still healing cook.

Sanji, to his credit, only hisses a little and resumes his cooking. “What?”

“Why is Zoro so broken up?” He asks, wondering why Sanji’s body tenses up at the question.

“Nothing, nothing happened at all.” Sanji murmurs, eyes glazing over at some unseen memory, but Luffy frowns at that because Sanji is lying and Sanji almost never lies.

He might be an idiot and falls for dumb pranks but he knows when his nakama are lying to him.

Sanji knows what happened to Zoro, but for some reason he doesn’t want to tell him.

So Luffy unwraps his limbs from Sanji and races over to where Nami is drinking some liquor and making rough estimations of her money. “Ne Nami!”

“What do you want?” She asks, seemingly less-violent than other times, it must be all the treasure…

“Do you know why Zoro’s so beaten up?” His eyes seem to plead with her but she shrugs.

“Sorry Luffy, I don’t know… It would be nice to know why you’re fine but Zoro is in this state…” She murmurs and Luffy pouts.

Nami is telling the truth, he can tell.

“Okay.” He muttered dejectedly, deciding to choose Robin next, she’s smart so she’ll probably know.

“Robin!” Thankfully she isn’t far, she’s sitting closer to Zoro’s bed and quietly sipping a drink.

“Yes Luffy?” She smiles.

“Can you tell me what happened to Zoro?” He asks, noticing immediately when she seems to shut down behind her eyes.

“Fufufu, I would if I knew, sencho-san.” She laughs daintily and he frowns because,

Robin only ever calls him sencho-san if something is bothering her.

But, it seems like she won’t tell him so he sighs and flings himself to Chopper next who is still beside the man himself.

“Chopper! What’s he like?” Luffy asks seriously.

Chopper sighs. “He’s stable now but… I wasn’t sure whether he was going to make it.”

Luffy’s smile turns down and he sighs with the reindeer. “Do you know what could have caused this?”

Chopper frowns. “His wounds are really unusual for Zoro, his hands are all messed up but Zoro’s almost never screws up his knuckles. His insides look like they were stretched thin-”

Chopper breaks off and looks shocked for a moment before he starts to mouth to himself. At the end of his little mantra he pretty much shouts. “No! I don’t know what happened to Zoro! Sorry Luffy, I’ll tell you if anything changes!”

Luffy ponders over Chopper’s odd behaviour, why would the reindeer just shove him off mid-explanation?

He slouches over to where Usopp and Franky are dancing and sits near them dejectedly. “Oi! Luffy! Why you looking so down?” Usopp asks, even as he still shakes around to the music Brook is generating.

“Yeah bro, it’s so not super!” Franky cries, slamming both of his forearms together.

“Everybody that knows what happened to Zoro won’t tell me what happened to Zoro…”

Usopp jumps off the table and sits beside his pouting captain. “Have you considered that maybe Zoro wouldn’t want you to know the truth?”

“Nah, Zoro shouldn’t care.” Luffy said. “Do you know why he’s so messed up? Chopper explained everything to me but then he just stopped. Ugh, it’s so frustrating.”

Franky sits next to him as well, looking quite troubled. “Well, I speak for both of us when I say that I have no clue why Zoro is so injured. But whatever it is, I guess you could ask him when he wakes up?”

“Sure! I’ll do that, thanks Franky!” He grins and runs off, stopping beside Zoro to deposit his straw hat on his head.

“There ya go.” He says. “Take good care of this for me!!”

This is how it really goes:

“Why… must you take Luffy’s head?” He questions because, there has to be another way.

“This is already my best offer.” Kuma says and Zoro detests the way the bastard’s gaze (at least he thinks it’s his gaze) falls on Luffy.

“I see, go ahead and take his head, however, let mine substitute his!” Zoro manages between pants. “Let my life exchange for his!! I beg of you!!

“I know my head is not worth much at the moment… but eventually I will become the world’s greatest swordsman, I’d say exchanging my life for his is an equally good deal!!

Kuma looks blankly at him. “If you have such a great ambition, then by dying for him, how will you ever be satisfied?”

“Aside from that… there is no other way to save the crew!!” Zoro breathes in deeply. “If I can’t even protect my captain’s dream, then whatever ambition I have is nothing but talk! Luffy… is the man who will be King of the Pirates!”

And then from the wreckage. “Hold on a minute you idiot, what are you going to do if you die? What happened to your dream idiot?!” Sanji cries in frustration.

“Oi!”

“Oi, you big… blob. Just ignore this marimo swordsman… if you must kill somebody, then just take my life! I know the marines don’t give a damn about me… but soon enough, the man who will be feared by most marines will be me. Kuroashi no Sanji!”

Sanji is panting hard. “Come at once! Kill me! I’ve already realised that this day will come, let the flower of death bloom in me!!”

Zoro thinks that the shitty cook can’t even speaking normally without spouting poetry. “Oi… tell everyone to take care… and that you’ll have to find yourselves another chef..!”

Zoro finally slams the hilt of his sword into Sanji’s side, stupid cook. He thinks, of course it will have to be Zoro. He won’t let anyone else sacrifice themselves.

“Bas-tard.” Sanji gasps out and falls unconscious.

“I hope you will keep my promise after I die…” He addresses Kuma.

Kuma sighs. “In that case, if I still lay a hand on straw hat Luffy my honour would be at stake…”

“I would be eternally grateful.” Zoro says, he will be, if Luffy and the crew survives, then that is all that matters.

“Rest assured of what I will do now, as I will leave him unharmed, however, what you are about to experience now is, hell.”

Zoro shivers a little but stands tall.

The red ball that pools out of Luffy’s body… All of his pain and fatigue? Just how much has the idiot been storing up? Zoro ponders.

“Since you already don’t have much life left in you, taking this pain will only lead to your death.” Kuma says, Zoro stands unflinchingly, he doesn’t care, he’s made his peace with death.

Although, he does regret that he couldn’t keep his promise to Kuina, she will be disappointed in him, but that’s okay. He can live with that because, somewhere along the line, Luffy became the number one priority and he will do anything to ensure that he becomes King of the Pirates.

If that means that he won’t be around to see that happen, well, that’s okay, he knows it will happen.

“Have a try.” Kuma says, flicking a small, fist sized ball of the red ball to Zoro.

It feels like PAIN, YOU CAN’T ESCAPE IT, THE FEELING OF YOUR BODY INFLATING BUT UNABLE TO STRETCH, PAIN, LIKE YOU’RE ON FIRE BUT YOU CAN’T ESCAPE. CAN’T ESCAPE. ESCAPE!

He gasps, eyes wide and unseeing, all of that had been in Luffy..?

“Well?” Kuma asks like Zoro has decided to back out of his deal like a coward, he wants to snort derisively but instead he says.

“Let me decide on the location.” He can’t let him be the one that everyone sees when they wake up.

Zoro jumps into the bubble and feels pain.

It remakes him in the worst kinds of ways, there is nothing for what could be minutes days hours, years. But eventually it ends and he is left with not much but an everlasting pain resonating through him.

He hears the shit-cook approach and internally thanks every star that it’s not Luffy that finds him first. “You really freaked me out… Oi! Where did that shichibukai go?”

Stupid cook, can’t he tell what happened? The ground is covered in his own blood, Zoro can feel it dripping out of places he didn’t even know blood could come out of.

“Why the hell is there so much blood?” Sanji cries. “Oi… are you still alive? Where did that bastard go? What on earth happened here?”

Stupid blondey, asking so many questions, Zoro whispers out. “Nothing… nothing at all.”

He allows himself to finally fall into the darkness that has been creeping at the edge of his vision.

“One Piece…”

“Don’t you dare!” Sengoku growls futilely.

“Is real!!!” Whitebeard cries with the rest of his will power.

“Nice final words!” Blackbeard comments and Whitebeard regrets that he hadn’t killed that back-stabbing bastard.

Whitebeard finds himself looking at the sea, he sighs because this is how he dies, not from old age, or from any internal wounds.

But from his own decision.

He stands tall even in death and his cloak falls away revealing his white beard mark, untouched by the wounds from his front.

He knows that people will grieve for him, he understands that he has hurt his family by dying.

He knows that the islands he protected will fall to ruin and despair.

There are so many regrets he has but Whitebeard found his treasure.

A family.

So he wishes the straw hat brat the best of luck in his final moments and dies on his feet.

“That crazy old bastard died on his feet!”

“Pops!”

A sea of anguish rises from the allies and Whitebeard Pirates remaining. Marco cries and cries but now is really not the time to be letting out their sorrows so he screams for the remainder of the crew and allies to run.

And then they make it, Marco knows that it is only because of Akagami-yoi’s interference that they made it out alive, lest with Ace and Pop’s bodies.

Shanks says that it is because he respected Whitebeard, Marco knows that, but he also knows that Ace was partially retrieved because of some connection to Mugiwara-yoi.

He really hopes that mugiwara no Luffy made it out alive…

Luffy’s life was Ace’s final wish, they cannot tarnish that will, Luffy is technically their brother as well.

So, Marco hopes and prays and his wish is sustained a couple of weeks later when he reads the newspaper and sees mugiwara with Jinbe and Rayleigh, mourning the loss of Ace and Whitebeard.

Marco isn’t a fool, he guesses that the tattoo is a message to the brats crew. He just hopes that it means they’ll be back.

[misayuhki]

my fanfic

I wrote this last summer in Japanese first and recently translated into English.  But it never got proofread by anybody, so there must be some mistakes and unclear parts.  sorry in advance.  if there is someone who is willing to proofread it, please let me know!!

This is a story about when Billy was rescued by Flint and others.  

no sexual contents, no blinty moment, no nothing.

if you got interested, hit the [Keep reading] :)

William Manderly and his Darkness

For captain Flint, attacking a Royal Navy ship was almost like a duty he needed to do, and at the same time he believed that it was a right he deserved.  His name Flint had been known across the Caribbean for long.  And he had been feared as cold-hearted blood-thirsty fierce captain and his black flag, a skeleton holding a cutlass and a sandglass, had been known by not only merchant ships but also Royal Navy.  His men worked efficiently for getting plunders against merchant ships and became more ruthless fighters who showed no mercy against Royal Navy to satisfy the grudges each of them were having.

Most of his crew members were consisted of outcasts of England and escaped slaves.  Most of them had experienced some oppression by their mother country.  Actually attacking a ship of Royal Navy would give them only little plunders.  But it was equivalent to the greatest prizes for them to make the Royal Navy suffer.

“There are some press-gang kids...” one of his crew spited, looking disturbed.

“Captain!”  His quartermaster Hal Gates shouted.  “Come here!”

Hal Gates.  Without this man’s support and trust, Flint might have not been where he was now.  Actually Flint wasn’t quite sure why Gates had been believing in him.  There were always some doubts.  But what Flint could do was only believe in him.  Flint followed Gates who headed tramping to where press-gang kids were.

There were a several boys in late teens where Gates took him.  Each of them were chained their wrists and ankles.  Flint noticed they looked terrified to see a pirate captain.  Some of them were holding each other’s shoulders, they seemed to become close friends after they had been kidnapped.  All of them were all skin and bone, covered with dirt all over, and their clothes were all tattered.

“Now you are free,” Flint told them.  “We’ve occupied this ship.  I’ll arrange all of you to go back to England after getting you off at nearby port.”

Some kids leaked hissing like sounds in relieve.  That made Flint having a small smile without him knowing it.  The eyes of those boys twinkled.  Flint felt some warmness in his heart.  Then he heard a boy shouting. 

“Where’s him!?”  The thinnest boy screamed at the top of his lungs.  “The fucking first mate!  What happened to that fucking bastard!”

Then the boy stood up, his body was so thin there was only skin and bones.  As he moved, the chain dangled around his wrists and ankles with jangling sound.  His wrists and ankles oozed blood because of the chain.  The boy’s eyes were opened so wide and the end of the eye was slanted up with rage.  The eyes stared straight at Flint.

Flint assumed that the first mate this boy mentioned was the one who kidnapped him, or abused him on this ship, or both.  Whatever the truth was he felt sorry for this boy.  He looked at the boy back.  This boy was glaring at him as if to attack at him.  Flint thought this kid was somebody and then put a sneer in his face.  Surprisingly this thin boy seemed to be as tall as he was.

“The captain, the first mate, and petty officers are captured on the deck. ”  Flint said calmly.  The boy came one step closer to him.  As he moved, the chain made a big noise.  The rest of the boys were just looking up at this boy.

“Unless we haven’t killed them,” Flint told it, with a smirk on his face.  The boy glared at him again.  There were not many people who glared straight at Flint.  Flint could see the fire of anger jetted out from the whole thin body of this boy who dauntlessly continued to glare at him.

This boy had the darkness as well, Flint noticed.

Flint’s heart was haunted by the darkness.  He’d been living to dispel it; to fight against it; to avoid this darkness to devour and destroy him.  No, he might have been able to live his life because of this darkness.  Yes, without this darkness, there was no purpose or meaning for him to live his life.  His life as a feared pirate captain in the Caribbean.  If he could call his life a life.

Flint wished to dispel this boy’s darkness.

And he thought out to give this boy the only one way he knew.

“Do you want to see the man you said?”  Flint said to the thin boy.  The boy opened his eyes even wider to Flint’s question.  Those eyes were so blue, like a calm ocean.  This boy was looking straight at him and  seemed trying to nod in an agreement to Flint’s offer.  But his rage was so enormous that his body was shaking.  This boy was not even able to nod.

Flint’s heart ached.

Flint knew this rage.  He knew this shudder.  And he knew the powerlessness this boy must have been feeling now. 

Flint waited for his crew to unchain the boy.  The boy, still shaking from the anger, kept looking at his eyes.  The boy’s blue eyes were staring at him.  Flint found out that it was hard to know from the dirt but this boy was blond. 

Blue eyed, thin, and blond.  And who has boyish look in him.  Flint’s heart trembled. It was impossible for him to keep staring at this boy. 

“I am captain Flint,” he needed to look away from the boy.  But it was unthinkable for him to avoid a boy’s stare.  What he could do was to speak.  “The captain of Walrus.  You might have heard of me before.” 

“Captain Flint!?”  The thin boy shouted, jumping a little by surprised to know him Flint.  The boy opened his eyes wider than before.  “That blood-thirsty, heartless, merciless, and cruel?!  That fucking British Navy back away scared and all?!!”  There was a different sparkle in the boy’s eyes.  His cheeks flushed from the excitement, and his mouth broke into a small smile.  Then he looked straight at Flint. 

The change of the boy was amusing to Flint.  But he couldn’t look straight at the boy who stared him directly without any hesitation, with honesty.  The color of the eyes was so..., no the color wasn’t the problem.  The way the boy looked at Flint and what the boy reminded of him made himself dig up something form his darkness. 

“Yeah,” Now confused, the darkness covered Flint’s body and soul through and through.  “You’re right.  I am the captain Flint.” 

“I wanna go!”  The boy shouted.  Flint was absorbed into his thought so that he couldn’t react to it at once.  “If it’s possible, I would like to go where the first mate is.  If you allow me to, please take me there.  I beg of you!”  The boy corrected himself. 

The way he talked and his accent.  Flint gathered that this boy had proper education.  This boy might be from a family of the middle class or higher.  And yet he went through the impressment.  He felt bad for this boy.  

The boy straightened his back after he was unchained.  As Flint thought this boy was already as tall as him.  Flint wasn’t short; he was taller than average height.  But this boy was taller and thinner than Flint, like ‘him’. 

“Good,” Flint shook off the memory and continued, “follow me.” 

The thin boney boy followed him. 

“Is there the first mate who abducted you here?”  Flint asked to the boy when they got to the main deck.  He wasn’t unaware of the boy was already standing in front of a man.

“Yes,” the boy growled.  He was glaring at a middle-aged man who was tied in ropes.  The fire of anger Flint saw earlier was again jetting out from this boy’s body again.  The thin body of his looked got expanded to Flint.  Flint wondered how this anger would affect the boy and what the boy would do with this anger. 

When they were about to decide the punishment of the middle-aged man, the thin boy shouted out loud, “wait!”  So loud every one on the deck took a look at the boy.  Flint saw the boy was filled with the dark power of revenge.  That sweet and alluring thing at the same time destructive of everybody indiscriminately that Flint knew so well. 

“If I had the right,” the boy took a deep breath and continued, “we, who press ganged by this man, taken away from our families by this man, and because of it, we were chained and weren’t given wages let alone proper food.  We have the right, captain Flint!”  And then the boy continued, glaring at Flint with those blue eyes burning in rage.  “Please let me, let us, who were deprived the freedom by this man to decide his punishment!”

This boy’s words made Flint, Mr. Gates and others nod in agreement.  His determination was so strong, it reached to them directly and moved the hearts of pirates. 

It also reached to Flint who had been devoured by the darkness.  And it moved Flint as well.  Flint who had not been able to appreciate and even felt the kind warmness for so long.  Or because of the darkness, he was able to understand it faster and deeper than anybody that the boy’s heart was burning in revenge. 

“I’ll allow it,” Flint felt that all of his men were supporting the boy in silent.  And he told to the boy whose eyes were burning in rage.  “Make a decision by consensus.” 

The boy’s eyes sparkled as he watched Flint (he looked, to Flint, as if smiling faintly).  The boy went to other boys and started discussing.  It was obvious to Flint that the discussion was nothing but a show and the boy was leading other boys and deciding the punishment to be what the boy wanted to be.  Flint waited this sham to finish.  He was so curious to know what this boy wanted to do; this youth who had the darkness in his heart; this young man who had the strong will that made the notorious captain Flint wait. 

“We have reached the consensus of,” the boy said, thrusting his boney chest.  The discussion seemed to be, as Flint assumed, concluded with what the boy wanted.  “I, William Manderly, will be the representative for the execution of the first mate concerned.” 

Flint watched the thin boy, William, that those muscles remained in his body, expanded with decision and confidence and definite rage.  He felt almost sad to find out this youth, only a boy, was devoured by the darkness.  

Then what Flint needed to do was the boy to dispel the darkness.

And in order to dispel the boy’s darkness, James Flint let William Manderly to choose a weapon for the execution of the man.

[dailyaudiobible]

04/25/2017 DAB Transcript

Judges 4:1-5:31 ~ Luke 22:35-54 ~ Psalm 94:1-23 ~ Proverbs 14:3-4

Today is April 25th.  Welcome to the Daily Audio Bible.  I'm Brian. It's great to be here with you for the next step forward in this beautiful week we have and the next step forward in the scriptures and we have been learning about Israel's judges, those who came after Joshua and kind of rose up to lead Israel; hence, the name of the book that we’re reading in the Old Testament, the book of Judges, and we’re reading from The Voice translation this week.  Judges chapter 4, verse 1 through 5:31.  

Commentary

Like we said at the beginning, we’re getting to know the judges of Israel which is a period of time of leadership in Israel where most everybody, the tribes, have kind of settled in some land and there is no real central leader other than in Shiloh at the Tabernacle.  The tribes are kind of independent, but over time they just kind of mix in with all the other people and things happen.  Different tribes are oppressed.  Different tribes are conquered or under other leaders and then a judge seems to emerge and God uses that judge to reunite his people and kind of reset things.  

We came to the story of the judge Deborah today which I love because this is a valiant woman now leading Israel and in the Deborah story is another valiant woman named Jael and she has some courage, courage enough to defeat a general of an ally in her case, which is not going to make the king very happy, which is aligning herself with God's people.  Pretty big stuff.   So if you’re one of the women who was at the More Gathering or if you’re just a woman within the sound of my voice, don’t think that you’re not a valiant person, which is not to say you should drive a tent peg through somebody's head.  I'm saying you have courage.  You have what it takes.  You are seen.  

Sometimes loving in the face of every bit of drama that comes into our lives, sometimes that is a very valiant thing to do.  Sometimes just telling the truth is a very valiant thing to do. Sometimes being patient in another's story and walking with them and staying with them when they keep tripping up and keep messing up is a valiant thing to do.  We all have it in us.  We all have that stuff rise up in us, that courage, but a lot of times we’re just aiming it at the wrong place.  Sometimes we’re aiming it in the wrong direction at the wrong person at the wrong time when we have incredible amounts of authority, power, valiant hearts and courage.  If we would understand that we are fighting the forces of evil and darkness first, if we would understand that first before we go in all these weird directions, finding the darkness and coming against that with a valiant heart, with a tent peg as it were, we would do so much more good and bring so much more goodness, if we aimed all of that courage at darkness instead at whoever is closest nearby.

May we take the story of Deborah and her song that she sang and her words that she has become the mother of Israel to heart as we move through the remainder of this week.  May we take that courage and use it against the forces of darkness in this world and in our communities and in our homes and in our families and in our relationships.

Prayer

Father, we invite you into that because sometimes it just feels like we’re the ones getting beaten down, beaten down, beaten down, just like the children of Israel, but you always brought rescue and that rescue brought a unity. So come Holy Spirit and let us each understand that what we’re really fighting against is darkness in any form, in any place, not a person.  Come Holy Spirit and help us.  We ask in the mighty name of Jesus, amen.    

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And that's it for today.  I'm Brian. I love you and I’ll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer Requests and Praise Reports

Yeah, hi.  I'm a 7-year listener, first-time caller.  For this call you can call me the sex addict from Central Washington. All of the consequences of my sin are falling on my wife – hurt, betrayal.  She is all alone.  And now, after a fight, I followed the advice of legal counsel and reported domestic violence, not knowing if these charges go through, that my wife could lose her job. So please, Biola, Blind Tony, Delta Alpha Foxtrot, Asia, James, Drew, Sam, Pastor Gene, Slave of Jesus, and all the rest of you listeners, please pray.  Pray that these domestic violence charges will be reduced or stopped and that God would heal our marriage.  And I will call back with a praise.  Thank you.  

Hello my DAB family.  This is Mark S. from Sydney, Australia.  Today is the 22nd of April.  I'm calling today just to say how much I just love all of you, my community.  The response that I’ve had, the loving response from God through all of you, especially Pastor John who posted on Facebook Friends and all the people there, just too many to mention, you certainly are the hand and extension of God's love to me.  Steve from New Hampshire I heard today.  And Lisa the Encourager, you certainly encouraged me.  Lee from New Jersey, I wish I had so much more time. There is so much that I would love to say, but two minutes is not enough.  Family, I just want to let you know that I have dusted myself off.  I'm back on the narrow path and, through the mercy of God, I will keep moving forward.  There are so many miraculous things that have happened in my life true to God, and Brian and Jill, I just cannot express my gratitude that you have listened to the Lord and created this amazing body of Christ, this community that extends love to anybody who wants love from God.  How I wish…  There is nothing I can say to show my appreciation.  Thank you, my family.  I love to hear from all of you.  I love listening to everybody.  I love praying along.  I wish I had more time to do more like a lot of you do, but I’ll do what I can at the moment and keep loving all of you as well.  Thank you.  Bye-bye.

Good morning Daily Audio Bible family.  This is Nidia from New Jersey.  It is April 22nd and I'm calling for you, Annette.  I love you so much, Annette.  I love your voice.  I love your joy and I love your love and steadfast faith in our Father God. I just want to lift up right now, if we all could pray for Alex.  Father God, we just lift up, Father, Alex.  You created him and you love him so much, Father God.  We just thank you that his only injury was a broken ankle physically, Father God, but we know that his soul, Father God, is sick because he is not having a relationship with you, Father God.  You just love him and you created him for such big plans that you have for him, so Father, now that he's in prison, Father, please, please Holy Spirit, open his heart, open his eyes.  Give him faith.  Give him the faith so that he can feel the love, Father God, that you have for him, the joy and the sadness that you have because you don’t have that relationship with him.  Annette, can you send him the Reframe audio, DVD, the CD?  I just listened to it three times and I'm just so filled with God's love. Maybe Alex is in prison so that he is stayed put in one place to receive our Father.  So Father God, I just lift up Alex and Annette and we just stand in your promise because we know that you are going to heal Alex's heart and soul. In Jesus’ mighty, mighty and precious name we pray and we just thank you for Brian, for Reframe, for the message that he sends to the world and the seed that he is sowing.  In Jesus’ mighty and precious name we pray.  Amen.  

Dear Lord Jesus, this week we commit our marriages into your able hands. Thank you for our marriages. Thank you because when the enemy comes as a flood, you will raise up a sword against him.  Thank you because you are now starting to work in our marriages, O Lord. Thank you because the hearts of husbands are turning back to their wives and the wives’ hearts are turning back to their husbands too.  Thank you because you’re pulling down the stronghold of the enemy of our marriages. Thank you because you’re setting captives free.  Thank you because wives are now going to submit to their husbands as husbands submit to you, O Lord.  Thank you because husbands will love their wives and be very considerate and treat them with tenderness.  Thank you because you will rebuke Satan to get his dirty hands off our marriages. Thank you because your blood is setting captives free right now.  Lord, please ignite the fire of love, deep love between husbands and wives.  Lord, let your Holy Spirit move in our marriages. __ has been the cause of strife in our marriages, Lord, please hold __, Lord.  Please let husbands desire their wives only and wives not __ their husbands. Same thing, let husbands be very, very gracious to their wives.  Lord, help us to use our finances wisely.  Help us to always encourage each other and not pull each other down.  We speak life over our marriages.  We ask, Lord, that you remove unnatural behavior that may be destroying our marriages.  We ask, Lord, for a mighty hedge of protection over marriages. Please bring back those spouses that may have left marriages, O God, if it be your will for them to come back. Lord, we ask for total renewal in DAB marriages and yes, we thank you in advance because we know you hear our cries. Thank you, Lord.  In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.  This is Sheila from Texas.  

Hey, good morning.  This is Stephen from Cullman, AL.  It's Sunday, April 23rd and I just wanted to call.  I’ve been listening for I guess about six years.  Haven’t called too many times, but I was reminded today about why this has been such a life-changing habit.  I used to try to figure out what I was going to read.  I was challenged to spend time in the morning with God and I would go back and forth and didn’t have a good plan. Following this rhythm of the scriptures every day, going through the One Year Bible has just been amazing.  There are so many times where God has given me the answer right when I needed it and today I was reminded in Psalm 91 a couple years ago my youngest daughter, she was having nightmares and she was very afraid and she was convinced somebody was going to come in our house at night and shoot her.  Her room is closest to our front door and despite everything I could do to try to convince her that I would protect her and tell her I have guns and I’ll do whatever I could to protect her, it wasn’t really enough.  Until one morning about this same time a couple years ago this chapter came up and I immediately went, printed it out, I read it to her, prayed about it.  We started praying about it at night.  Taped it on her mirror in her bathroom and ever since we’ve had it taped on our garage door and it is a constant prayer I pray for my family and children.  So God used that to help me be a better father when I didn’t have the answers.  So fathers out there, I hope this encourages you.  I listen to the prayers.  

Hello everyone.  Good morning. It's Jay calling from New Jersey. I'm calling for Steve whose been listening to the Daily Audio Bible with his wife for the past 8 years and he said he is in Franklin County.  Steve, I'm going to pray for you and I'm going to pray for your daughter-in-law and your son and new baby.  Heavenly Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, we come to you now adoring who you are, standing and praying in awe, uniting our hearts around the love that you have given us.  God, your word tells us that we love you because you first loved us.  Father, we confess of any sins that we have committed now that we can think of, that come to our minds, into our hearts.  We ask for forgiveness, Father.  Receiving that forgiveness, we thank you.  We thank you.  We thank you for life, for health, and for strength.  We thank you for the ability to come to you as your children with these prayers.  Father, we lift up Steve and his family.  We lift up Anna.  We lift up Baby Josanna, Father.  God, this baby that is so beautiful and so precious that was born on April 1st, we thank you for her.  Father, we thank you for the union that you put between her parents.  And God, we bring forth Anna as she is going through the healing process, Father, and we prat that you will invigorate her cells to begin to heal like never before, that it could only be described as something that God has his hand on.  So we thank you, Father, for what you're doing, what you’ve already done, and what you’re going to do.  In the name of Jesus Christ we pray, amen.