#also appel... thank u

[smalltimidbean]

Yippee yay, royal tea party!!!!

And oh dear, it would not be the first time Queen Brie (unintentionally) frightened someone with a compliment - she is not very good at reading the room unfortunately - but I sure it will be okay jfgjkfg

Thank you for the lovely arts again! I love the expressions in this one, and Lilly's dress is very cute!!!

does this still count as soon? Swagever it is ok :3 @smalltimidbean @fisbybaconey your strange looking geese ended up on my paper lol

so basically, to go with the 'wonderland' theme I think was established, I threw Lilly in with a cute new outfit because I think she'd make a good Alice :D so here she is chasing down Tictac and then attending a tea party ◔ᴗ◔

So uhhh yeah her Majesty miiiight have made a bit of an oopsie with that one I think >ᴗ< Lilly(and all creamians for that matter) are afraid of being eaten to an irrational extent- it's basically a phobia of her's. All that to say, her Majesty's comment rubbed Lilly the wrong way, to put it lightly.

On the other hand, though, Queen Brie is a Queen! If Lilly's uncle(the fellow in her thought bubble speaking a lot, And a royal himself (literally the king(though that title holds little political power ><))) taught her anything, it's that the last thing you want to do is disrespect a royal. What all this means is that she's torn between wanting to escape with her life and also needing to be polite. If only she knew she wasn't in any real danger ><

I might make a little follow up to this, but for now here is this >ᴗ< eat up!

[sunieepo]

i got tagged by @theeverchangingname , thank u! :)

3 ships: i assume this is like, my top 3 ships? well.. actually since appel did an OC ship i'll do an OC ship too LOL, of course it's my blorbos Enoch & Lysandre. they are both so deranged <3

as for fandom ships... well my love for AB/hokmayin is forever even if im Mad at projmoon. 3rd fav probably is vkaz :) and if not vkaz then bruyu/toolshipping ^_^

First ever ship: oh god i have no idea. um i think the 1st fandom ship i ever wrote fic for was davis/ken aka daisuke/ken from digimon? idk i wasnt super into ship stuff for a rly long time in my childhood T_T i cant even remember my first OC ships very well

Last song: im about to expose myself on main here as a breakcore listener but ... not a specific song however the last thing i've been listened to is the album Rossz Csillag Alatt Született by Venetian Snares

Last movie: me and my bf watched the 3rd dark knight trilogy movie together, um The Dark Knight Rises? honestly it was kinda bad compared to the first two, it definitely doesnt hold up as well and kind of feels devoid of identity. overall felt way more "marvel movie" esque (and obviously not in a good way)

Currently reading: i was reading the Quantum Digital Saga novelizations but honestly they kinda sucked so. im gonna read The Three Body Problem by Liu Cixin next

Currently watching: been rewatching Adventure Time with my bf ^_^

Currently consuming: im sick so i got some korean soup (tteok-manduguk and galbitang my beloved)

Currently craving: freshly baked sourdough bread :(

Tagging: if ur reading this consider urself tagged + @lathiat @priceofsilence @sableleatherywingsopeninthe711 @monsterkingdom @phenixfarts-again @widric tagging u all also no obligation tho <3

[silveeee]

idia who's sarcastic like 99% of the time but as soon as the sarcasm comes from another person he's clueless(projection goes brrr)💀

the projection is so real

anyway ! thank you for the request :D sorry it took me so long to write, i got busy with school but i also got thrown into writer's block </3

i freestyled this a little cause idk how u envisioned me writing this ^^" hope u like it tho !!!!

btw i refuse to make Ortho call Idia "brother" in dialogue where he's talking to him bc no mf does that. anywhere. ever. in the English language. so i'm sticking with the JP appellations !

- - -

no content warnings needed :)

- - -

It was downright unfair. Maybe even preposterous! Idia had been pacing around his room, mumbling and talking to himself – and the sheep plushies he and Ortho owned – about what had happened only ten minutes prior to him getting back to his room.

Idia had basically been forced to go into the real world to go get some equipment from Sam's shop, where he had encountered Vil. Vil wasn't the worst person to come across, but when Vil had tried to start up a conversation with him, which eventually lead to Idia asking him what he was there for, Idia got back a reply that made sense.

But it only made sense in the moment because as soon as he started walking back to his room he realized that Vil sounded a little.. off? He didn't even remember what Vil had said back to him, which made Idia a little nervous. What if he had sounded dumb? It couldn't have been that much of a fatal reply, right?

And so there he ended up, in his room, talking to the sheep plushies on his bed.

"It just can not have been so bad. There is no way. You guys would definitely agree with me if you had come with me and witnessed the whole situation, for sure!"

The sheep plushies didn't respond, obviously, but right after Idia finished his sentences the door to his room opened, Ortho coming in through the door a second later.

"Are you getting answers out of them, Nii-san?"

"Yeah, they're spilling the world's very own secrets to me right now."

Ortho wasn't one to use sarcasm much himself, since he thought it was confusing, but Idia used it almost daily. It got more frequent when Idia was thinking about a situation where he couldn't figure out what was going on.

Ortho then quickly managed to put two and two together, moving over to pat Idia on the back. "Nii-san, even if you completely missed the sarcasm, they most likely have already forgotten about the interaction."

"...thanks, Ortho."

Maybe he should just bring Ortho with him next time.

- - -

ty for reading !!! it was short but i also didn't really. have an exact idea for the prompt ? as i said, i freestyled it and i'm not unhappy with the result !!

[michelmims]

Haiii I was just wondering what app you use to draw and what brush u use for ur line art c:

Also appel for u cuz I love ur art 💖

Heyyy! thank ya!! <3 I use procreate and my brushes are in my instagram highlights! @mimscosara

[gdcee]

bro lemme just say i am liVING for ur loki criticizm i am being fED because im thinking along the same exact wavelines but im in no way invested in marvel enough to make a post,, thank u for ur service and im sorry abt all the hate ur getting that show Deserves to be criticized

thank you, you're so kind ;w;

I went into the show with mildly positive feelings. I was hoping for Doctor Who type shenanigans, maybe some flashbacks to Loki's childhood and what he was up to between Thor 1 and Avengers. I genuinely liked most of the first episode (didn't like the bit with the Mongolians hahaha they don't speak english isn't that funny 😡).

I went in thinking this was going to be about Loki's growth from villain to sort of good guy with timey wimey stuff. And yeah, I suppose I kind of got that. Loki isn't the bad guy anymore, just a weirdo narcissist, apparently. Also he's kind of dumb and inept. I'm not even sure if I should complain about how the focus didn't seem to be on Loki from Episode 3 onwards and how he was being dragged along from plot point to plot point rather than actively moving it along. Cause would I actually have been happy to see more of the Loki that was shown to me? Idk I'm not even sure if he feels like the Loki I recall from the movies. He feels more like Daffy Duck to me.

I don't even really consider myself that big of a Loki fan. Yeah, I like the guy, he's probably one of the best parts of the Thor movies. I admit he is quite nice to look at, but possibility of me developing a perverse sexual lust for the man is dashed by my own grey-ace nature and Mr. Hiddleston's really big forehead.

It's not a lot of hate thankfully. At least for now, I have no idea what will happen if I continue to post my criticism of the show.

To the people who did like the show, I'm glad that you enjoyed it. I didn't, and it's not a OH I DON'T LIKE IT JUST BECAUSE thing but you know what

I contain multitudes. I can dislike the show just BECAUSE and also for

the inconsistencies in the logic of how variants come about (is it different instances of the same person or are people like actors playing roles so variants aren't the same person, like completely different not just different circumstances but actually different right down to their metaphysical properties)

the implication that the TVA is necessary because they're doing an important job preventing a Class X-5 Apocalypse

the presentation of emotional, physical and psychological...well torture, really - as being the catalyst for Loki's growth

the waffling about on Sylvie's identity. Is she a Loki or isn't she? I called her Schrödinger's Loki in one of my earlier posts, I find that an apt appellation.

the rather offensive way they treated gender fluidity. Omg a female presenting version of us lol that's so SCARY so weird

Really, I could go on. Plenty of people have expanded on the same issues and more. I am not bitching for nothing, there are reasons why I and quite a number of other people did not like the show, we are not complaining just to be hateful or contrary.

[periminkle]

blazes of deceit

this fic is a part of the disney collab hosted by @btswritingcafe​!! please go check out all the other talented writers and their works 💕

+ summary. When the opportunity to finally venture past the stone walls you’ve grown up in presents itself, you jump at the chance to discover the origin of those mysterious lights—even if the trip comes with a harsh truth and a suspicious, yet undoubtedly attractive, tour guide.

+ pairing. jungkook x reader

+ genre. fluff, angst. tangled!au.

+ word count. 26.052

+ rating. 18+

+ warnings. threats against a baby’s life, unwarranted death, mom problems, trespassing, pan violence, hiding a (not dead) body, tying people up with hair, curse words, drinking, thievery, deadly chase, sword/pan fight, recklessly jumping from a great height, graphic descriptions of wounds and blood, general violence, dark family matters (it’s pretty twisted!), orchestrated infidelity.

+ author’s note. happy early birthday to golden baby jungkook!! this fic took me wAY too long to write but she’s finally here! HUGE thank you to my big brain frenemy @guklvr​ for beta reading and hyping me up by boosting my confidence level +2000 even tho she’s on vacation and should be relaxing LMAO i would’ve postponed this until next year if u didn’t push me so TY ILY LOADS CARL 💘 i also wanted to shoutout #1 jk ryder supporter @dewykth​ and wofe @yeojaa​ for encouraging me every step along the way, y’all are the best n ily both to pieces 💝💕

You are positively ravenous.

Flurries of people scurry past the towering bars of your crib, yet none spare a glance in your direction despite your boisterous wailing. Like moths to a flame, they’re all huddled in one corner, surrounding a panting woman that clutches her rotund abdomen in one hand while tightly clasping onto a bejewelled crown in the other.

“What are you waiting for?” she spits out, hardened orbs narrowed in on your pathetic form.

“Your Royal Majesty, it’s only been an hour since you have given birth, please reconsider—”

Her glower is redirected onto the younger woman’s trembling form. “Are you questioning your Queen? Shall we reconsider your life as well?”

“No,” she begs, her tone quivering with anguish, “please spare my ignorant self.”

Your facial muscles begin to cramp and the walls of your throat feel like sandpaper, which only serves to exacerbate your violent sobs. The insistent suckling on your thumb is doing nothing to quell your raging stomach.

Her lips peel back to reveal two rows of pearly white, dazzling teeth framed by a nasty snarl. “Somebody slit that brat’s throat!”

Another midwife adorned in the bloody rags of childbirth darts across the cramped space with a weeping bundle of rough canvas in her arms. As she scrambles to deliver the shuddering newborn into his counterfeit mother’s arms, the clumsy woman trips over thin air, flying across her enraged Queen’s lap. Without a second thought, her backside is pierced by a shiny steel sword, sullied in a crimson liquid when it reappears.

The introduction of another babe deters your cries for attention. Instead, you distract yourself with a dull glimmer that you catch in your peripheral. Your chubby fingers hopelessly extend toward the dingy stars dangling above your head, just out of reach, reflecting the bright orange tiger lily printed onto the high ceiling of your cage.

“Not a soul shall speak of today's treachery.”

You’re well aware that your short arms could never stretch the distance required to satiate your unending curiosity; but they stay aloft, searching for the reassuring warmth of your mother’s embrace.

“Our blood will remain on the throne.”

Screams of agony overwhelm your developing eardrums as your tiny hands come to cradle your head, willing the pain to end.

Every inch of your walls is covered with abstract paintings, doodles of twisting branches snaking around the edges, dainty birds in every colour under the sun, and a joyous little girl dancing in her own brilliant freedom. No matter where you look, bespeckled tiger lilies are buried within the intricate linework like easter eggs, waiting to be found.

Your favourite by far is the uncanny depiction of the image stashed deep inside the crevices of your memory, a sight your heart desires to view most from up close. The miniature illustration captures your longing gaze pinned on the multitudinous lights ascending from a foreign location, golden hair streaming down your back and flowing over the fireplace in your determination to capture its vast length.

You attempt to steel your nerves for the umpteenth time, but you can’t help your nervous pacing across the minuscule length of your room. The entire tower is spotless as a result of your mindless cleaning—floors scrubbed twice, nonexistent dust wiped away, and trinkets set at the perfect angle to encourage your mother to comply with your outrageous request.

Today is the day, after all. The day that you’ll finally convince the stubborn woman to bring you out to watch the masses of floating lanterns disappear into the night sky.

The pitter-patter of your bare feet scuttling against the concrete floors nearly drown out the melodic appellations from outside your window.

“—down your hair!”

You dash over to the aperture, hastily gathering the ends of your mane to fling down while fixing the bulk of it onto the hook above your head. When the figure enshrouded in a black cloak snatches up your tresses, looping it around to create a foothold and carefully wedges one leg inside, you haul them up through the makeshift pulley.

By the time both of their feet are safely planted on the ground next to yours, sweat is beginning to form by your temples and the perpetual ache in your arms flares from consistently being forced to heave another grown adult up the stretch of the colossal tower.

“Welcome home, Mother.” You pull the rest of your hair inside and turn to face the stunning woman who lowers her excessively long hood, the extra length of fabric intentionally stitched on to keep her identity obscure as she travels.

Your mother sweeps you up into her comforting embrace and you allow yourself to relax in her arms, resting your cheek on her chest while your digits tightly clasp on to one another around her middle. Her chin settles onto the crown of your head.

“You would think that lifting me up all these years would give you some more upper body strength,” she says, her disappointment practically tangible. Placing both manicured hands upon each of your shoulders with a light squeeze, she pushes you back to examine your body from head to toe. “But look at you! My poor, delicate, little flower.”

Your forehead creases from your raised brows as a tense smile completes your agitated countenance.

“Oh, darling, what’s wrong? Come, come with Mother.” The adamant woman latches onto your forearm, dragging you over to the rustic fireplace and pressing down on your shoulders. Ever the obedient child, you kneel down onto the thick rug below.

Your mother delicately takes a seat on the antique chair beside you, a weary sigh slipping past her lips before she starts sweeping a brush through your golden strands. As per tradition, you sing the incantation that’s essentially engraved in the back of your mind at this point.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine,”

A gleaming shimmer races across your tresses at the verse and from the corner of your vision you watch the light creases marring your mother’s features fade in rapt attention. She hums along to the tune with a detached, distant look in her eyes.

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine,”

You allow your lids to slide closed, gathering all the courage you can muster for the following conversation.

“What once was mine.”

Once the last note fades and a deafening silence reigns, she gently urges, “Tell Mother everything.”

This is it, it’s now or never.

“Uh, well, as you know,” you mumble, clearing your throat, “my eighteenth birthday is tomorrow.”

“Mhm, and I’ve already gotten your present as well,” she hums, steadily working her way down your mass of hair.

You falter at the information she casually reveals, guilt eating away at your conscience for preparing to ruin her good mood. “Yes, I know you’re always thinking of me, but, uh, well—”

“You can tell me, darling.” You register your mother’s heavy palm stroking your head, coaxing the words to tumble out of your mouth.

So you lay it on her. “I was just wondering if you would take me to see the lanterns this year.”

“What was that?” she questions, rightfully so when the garbled words blurt out quicker than you can process.

Before you can second guess yourself, you stammer, “C-can we please go see the lanterns?”

The brush suddenly halts in its path, suspended within the waves and dips of your many strands. Although you can’t see her, you know your mother well enough to feel her stiffen up, peeved at the topic you’ve brought up many times before.

“Petal—”

You interrupt, desperate to plead your case, “Mother, please, I’ve been waiting for—”

“Zip it.” You instantly clamp up at her hissing.

Your mother takes her time to stand, stalking over to halt directly in front of your hunched form. Her daunting figure looms above you, fierce orbs evoking a filthy shame that sinks its claws into your spine, and you lower your stare to her ankles from its intense weight. “Enough. I don’t understand why you keep asking this idiotic question when you already know what my answer is going to be.”

Her spontaneous refusal dampens your spirit, but you press on. “I just, uh, thought that I could see them once for my birthday a-and then I’d never ask to leave the tower again.”  

With a scowl as cold as an executioner’s axe, her arms come to cross beneath her bust. “I’ve already told you time and time again that they’re to celebrate the healthy birth of the Prince, any special ‘connection’ you feel to these lights is simply misguided and naive.”

You scramble to gather the scraps of bravery she shredded in order to sputter out, “But it’s my b-birthday too. Even if it’s just a coincidence, I wanna see them with my own two eyes.”

“How many times do I have to explain to you how dangerous the world is outside these walls? Do you know how many people are jumping at the chance to use your magic for themselves?” She rolls her eyes, chiding at you as if you’re a petulant child who disobeyed their elders one too many times. “If your little heart wants some adventure, you can go downstairs and explore the living room, besides darling, you should be thankful that nothing has happened all these years.”

“How am I supposed to be thankful for anything when you keep coddling me like this!” you lash out, frustration bubbling over at her usual response and refusing to toe the line any longer. Any notion of gently swaying her judgement or prompting her to consider your point of view is thrown out the window.

But your mother is nothing if not resolute.

“What?” Her words turn to ice—syllables forming razor-sharp blades that figuratively line your throat, poised to strike the second you step out of place. “Do you want to repeat that?”

Your breaths quicken, deathly afraid of the repercussions that will follow if you decide to continue your rebellious act. It wouldn’t be the first time that she punished you for begging to leave the tower.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, head hanging low and voice laced with resignation, “I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Aw, my precious petal,” she coos, her mood drastically flipping one hundred and eighty degrees as the edges of her lips subtly point upwards at your obedience. “That’s why Mother is here, to guide you in the right direction. You know that I’m only looking out for you, right?”

“Of course, Mother.”

Evidently content with the outcome of the conversation, she turns back to continue brushing through your tresses.

By the time her ebony cloak rests upon her thin shoulders, hood draping over her face, your hair is already hanging by the hook above the window and she hops through the opening to lower herself to the ground below. You watch as her figure shrinks with the increasing distance, only turning back once to give a short wave before disappearing through the lush greenery.

And then you’re alone once again.

In the hours that pass after your mother’s departure, you become well acquainted with the five stages of grief. Of course, your requests to leave have been denied more times than you can count on both hands, but you foolishly believed that mentioning the eighteen years you spent cooped up in one place, fending off boredom, would hit a soft spot.

You forgot that your mother doesn’t have any of those.

Obviously, she anticipated your attempt to convince her by throwing yourself a pity party, as she deliberately mentioned purchasing a gift in advance. Out of all your celebrations, you couldn’t recall a single time where she prepared—much less remembered—your birthday.

Utterly absorbed within your final stage of acceptance, you lose yourself within your thoughts. That’s why the steady, rhythmic tapping on the cobblestone metres below makes you jump, mind wiped clean of everything except questioning the origin of the sound. Goosebumps manifest across the length of your arms, already slick with cold sweat.

Initially, you believe that your mother may have misplaced something, but your doubt accumulates when you don’t hear her usual jingle follow the rapping. You wonder if she is harbouring acrimony at your earlier outburst—even though she seemed quite pleased as she left.

Thus, like the loving daughter you are, you gather the ends of your hair, about to throw the lump over the aperture when you take notice of the stranger’s bulky frame and lack of disguise. Last time you checked, Mother certainly hadn’t chopped all her curls off either.

You can feel your heart thumping in your head, chest rising and falling expeditiously to compensate for the sudden rush of adrenaline surging through your veins. In your distress, her words come back to bite you, echoing within your mind that he must be after your magic.

Mother knows best, after all.

Discreetly glancing back down, you spot the man scaling the wall using two arrows, a feat which you’re sure he wouldn’t be capable of performing without those well-defined muscles, attractively outlined through his thin clothing. Realizing that you’re wasting time ogling at the intruder, you spin back to survey your room, scanning the area for any weapons you can use to defend yourself.

You disregard any prospect of overpowering him and decide to approach the confrontation by taking advantage of your ability to startle him. Before long, the sounds of the rigid arrowheads wedging into the spaces between the stones are no more than a couple of metres away, and you grab the nearest object in a blind panic.

All too soon, his large hands are gripping the window sill, and you scurry to press your body against the wall directly next to the opening. You grip the handle of metal tighter, struggling to keep your heavy breaths silent as you watch his fit form effortlessly raise himself up past the open window.

When he lands inside, you’re transfixed by the way his shirt hangs on his brawny body, the veins in his arms enlarged from the physical exertion of carrying his weight up the tower. Just for that moment, you let your eyes roam his lean figure in unadulterated fascination.

“Hah! Stupid guards, thinking they could catch me after—”

And then that moment ends.

A loud clang resounds throughout the cramped space as a result of the pan in your hand bashing into the back of his head. For a split second, you worry if the force behind your swing is enough to knock him out cold, but then he meets the floor headfirst. You wince for him.

With the substitute weapon in hand, you circle around his seemingly unconscious form up to his head, which is turned away from your prying stare. In order to decipher his level of cognizance, you crouch down and bow over him to get a better look at his face.

Long, dark locks that were perfectly mussed before his fall now cover nearly half his countenance, so you push them to the side to reveal his closed lids and strong brows. Following the curve of his cheekbones, you pass his cupid’s bow to gaze upon his thin lips, a tiny beauty mark laying directly underneath—an intimate detail that you feel uncomfortable knowing.

A faint blush colours your cheeks as you comprehend how utterly breathtaking the stranger is, drastically disparate to the stories your mother told you as a child, where men resembled ogres that lived under bridges, grotesque and unkempt.

He is nothing like that. Not at all.

He reminds you of the princes you read about in picture books—dashing and strong, willing to go to extreme lengths to find their Princess, their one true love. You know you’re taking it too far when you begin to fantasize about his personality purely based on his, admittedly, strikingly handsome appearance. With a vigorous shake of your head, you force yourself out of your reverie and get back to your task.

You stretch two fingers out to rest just beneath his nostrils, feeling the warm air that leaves his body at constant intervals, a good sign that he was not only alive but knocked out cold.

You prod at his shoulder, whispering, “Are you awake?”

No reaction.

With this confirmation, you take hold of one of his wrists with both hands and clench your jaw while leaning back, trying to use your body weight to help drag him. He proves to be much heavier than you initially believed, though you feel him moving inch by inch. Rather than another human being, you simply think of him as a heavy sack of potatoes for the sake of your conscience as you shuffle backwards, heading for the wardrobe on the other side of the room.

By the time you reach said armoire, you collapse on the ground next to him, gulping in as much air as you can. Now, there was simply the problem of shoving him inside. You turn your head to face the stranger, pouting at the prospect of having to lift his bulky self.

After much pushing and rearranging, the doors finally close behind him, although, as you predicted, stuffing him in there took much longer than you would like to admit. You aren’t sure how comfortable he is in the disfigured pretzel position you left him in, but his contentment is not at the top of your list of priorities right now.

Rubbing your palms together, you go to pick up the frying pan that lay discarded on the floor near the window when you take notice of the brown satchel that sat next to it. You have no use for any kind of travelling equipment, obviously, what with your whole life existing in this tall building, and your mother only carries a quaint, woven basket around. She is insistent on living as modestly as possible, and that includes whatever goodies she brings back from her adventures.

That rules out everyone but the stranger. The bag does look more masculine, anyway. Grabbing the strap, you raise the object in question up to have a closer inspection and find the leather to be heavier than expected. There are odd bumps protruding from its exterior, filling you with a tenuous curiosity.

Carefully, you lift the flap open to expose a heavily jewelled crown. Perplexity is written within the creases of your brows as you reach to grab the item within and drop the empty satchel. From your inexperienced eyes, the thing is as real as it gets, a shimmering gold decorated with the finest jewels in the kingdom. The different colours of each gem catch the light, reflecting the brilliant rays onto the walls of your room.

Your impromptu analysis concludes with an inexplicable pull towards the diadem, which you’re uncertain how to act upon until you involuntarily place the crown on your head. You turn to face the mirror leaning against the wall and it feels so right, as though two matching puzzle pieces have finally been brought together. The reflection staring back at you seems complete in ways you have never been before.

Yet, you can’t begin to fathom the reasoning behind all these strange epiphanies, unfamiliar with the tranquillity that quiets the constant buzzing in your head. Overwhelmed, you remove the crown and not a moment too soon, for a familiar, shrill shriek meets your ears.

“Petal!”

Your stomach lurches. Eyes darting to the wardrobe, you’re reminded of the man inside. You know if Mother saw him, she would definitely freak out, maybe even refuse to visit for the next week to drive you insane with solitude. But, then again, you could use him as an example to show that you could handle yourself out in that dangerous world she was always going on and on about.

“Let down your hair!”

You stuff the diadem back in the bag and stow it in an empty flower pot.

Giddy at the prospect of having a legitimate argument to reinforce your reasoning to leave the tower, you dash to the window sill and fling your hair over without a second glance outside. The rush of excitement blinds you from the sensitivity of your sore muscles as you haul her up.

“Petal,” your mother grits out, staggering inside due to your rushed actions, “what did I tell you about checking who’s calling before letting your hair down?”

“Hello, Mother!” you brush off her question, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. “I have something really important to show you!”

“Don’t change the subject.” She squints her eyes at you, lips pursed with frustration. “You're getting more and more reckless. One of these days, a crook will make their way up here and you’ll be foolish enough to invite them inside, maybe pour them a cup of tea while you’re at it?”

“I’m truly sorry.” You decide to humour her to prevent her temperament from flaring, throwing out a meaningless apology—one you’re used to blurting out left and right.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” she says, as smug and haughty as always. Your mother removes her coat, handing it off to you. “But today’s your lucky day! Just as I was about to visit, I remembered to bring your present!”

Your heart warms at your mother’s unusual thoughtfulness, although you’re much too eager to prove your strength first. “Ah, thank you, Mother. But I really want to show you—”

“Something more important than your mother’s present?”

“Of course not! I just wanted to get it out of the way so that I could enjoy your present later.” She seems unconvinced, so you add, “Y’know how they always say to leave the best for last?”

The older woman heaves an exasperated sigh, shoving you out of the way as she heads for the armchair in the corner. She slumps her tired form on the rickety seat as it creaks its refusal, then waves her hand, gesticulating that you get on with whatever it is you have up your sleeves.

Perspiration gathers within your palms and you fight to ward off the minuscule smile that plays on your lips while you gradually make your way back to the wooden armoire, “So, you’re always going on about how weak and fragile I am…”

“Yes.” She rests her chin in her hand, scrutinizing every hair on your head as though the answers to your ridiculous behaviour are buried within the multitudinous strands. “And what of it?”

“Well, I just thought that I should show you,” you start as your back hits the old furniture and your fingertips graze its rough texture. “That I’m more than capable of handling myself when we go out to—”

“When we go out?” she interrupts, irritation hardening her sharp features as she fixes you with an enraged scowl. “And where do you suppose we’re going exactly?”

You hesitate as your earlier confidence slips and you scramble to correct your word choice before she completely blows you off. “Uh, I just meant that this will show you how strong I am, and, uh…”

An eerie silence occupies the room when you find yourself at a loss for words. You know that your blabbering will get you absolutely nowhere, so you tighten your grip on the handles of the wardrobe, counting on your actions to speak louder than your words ever could.

“How old are you turning again, Y/N? It was eighteen, was it not?”

You shrink under her abrupt question, choosing to play along to pacify the shreds of annoyance flickering in her orbs. “Yes, Mother.”

“And for how long are we going to play this game?” she asks, standing with her basket in tow. Your mother rounds closer to you and your gaze automatically flies to the floor.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“What’re you hiding this time? Did you find another mouse? A rat?” she mocks, resting one hand on her hip. “Ooh, did a raccoon find its way inside?” Once her face is a mere couple of inches from your nose, you allow your eyes to meet her own, dreadfully empty ones. The sight sends a chill down your spine.

You release your hold on the furniture, dejection seeping from your tone. “Two mice this time.”

Her boisterous cackle echoes off the stone walls and she clutches her stomach in an attempt to quell the onslaught of laughter. The gesture reminds you of the countless other times you tried to ‘prove yourself’ through similar methods when you were younger, catching rodents that occasionally found their way into the nooks and crannies of the tower.

The first time you caught a mouse, you’d been ecstatic, rushing to show it off to the only person you knew. Although at that age, rather than a ticket to freedom, you were simply seeking your mother’s approval and perhaps a few praises here and there. You wanted to prove that despite your lonely upbringing—with your mother lounging around the tower for only a few hours every other day—you could handle yourself. She wouldn’t have to worry.

Evidently, you were too young to understand your mother’s rash nature, and she immediately assumed the worst—that you had somehow managed to sneak outside and wanted to prove your calibre by hunting down a nearby animal. The harsh scolding you received that day still lingers as a scar on your wrist, a painful reminder to never cross your mother.

“The outside world is not a simple matter of ‘two mice’ darling. You should know better than to think I’ll ever be impressed by these foolish displays of strength.” She swoops you up into her arms and you automatically bring your hands to circle her lithe waist. “That’s why you’ll always need Mother to protect you.”

Your chin rests on her shoulder, stare unfocused as you dismally state, “Yes, Mother.”

“Now, onto more exciting matters.” A couple of light, successive pats strike your back and you’re released from her hold. She is quick to open her wooden basket and rummage through the contents, reaching inside for what you assume to be your birthday present. The vegetables in her hand don’t excite you, but you put on a fake grin for her anyway. “I’m making your favourite soup!”

She scurries away from your static form to head past the doorway, but you stop her in her tracks with a low voice. “I’m not really feeling up for soup today.”

“You know how far the journey is to get some of these vegetables, let alone how expensive each one is!” she exclaims, waving said produce in her hand as she spins to face you.

“I’m really sorry, Mother,” you mumble, flashing her your best puppy-dog eyes. “But I ran out of paint recently and I’m feeling kind of down about it.”

She tuts. “That’s a three-day journey, Petal.”

“I know, it’s just that when I can’t distract myself with painting, I get these horrible thoughts of leaving the tower.” Doing your best to reason with her, you shift your weight to the other foot and fiddle around with your fingernails, attempting to appear as innocent as possible. “And I think those paints are a much better idea than going out to see the lights.”

A few seconds pass before a groan escapes your mother’s lips. “You’re lucky Mother loves you dearly.”

You stumble into her torso, grateful that she is unintentionally following along with your plan—a tedious scheme that you were saving as a last resort. She strokes the crown of your head, allowing you to nuzzle your cheek into the comfort of your mother’s embrace before her immediate departure.

Goodbyes are exchanged with some more reprimands sprinkled into the conversation, then she scales down the building and is no longer in your line of sight. You rub the nape of your neck, inching towards the armoire as you ponder whether a trip to indulge in your greatest desires is worth it when weighed against the lifelong bond you have with your own blood.

While navigating through your moral dilemma, you twist open the knob and watch as the scruffy man’s body slumps down to the floor without the support of the door to hold him upright. You refrain from cringing at his reddened nose.

Prioritizing your safety first, you retrieve your trusty pan and manhandle his body onto a chair, the seat still warm from your mother’s presence. This time around, you won’t be able to attain the upper hand by catching him off guard, so you settle on tying him up.

The question is: with what? You have no reason to keep ropes casually lying around the tower and one glance at his bulging biceps assures you that sewing thread will not be enough either.

As you’re thinking about stuffing him back into the wardrobe until you come up with a better idea, the blond strands at the edge of your peripheral catch your eye. For the first time in your life, your excessively long hair proves to be of use.

When he is tightly restrained to the armchair, your tresses acting like a straitjacket around his torso and snaking around his legs, you step back to appreciate your work. Your eyes drift over his corded muscles and roam over his face once again.

Before you let yourself get lost in his model-like features, your free hand reaches out, palm outstretched, to slap him across the face.

You nurse the stinging pain ebbing atop your outermost layer of skin, cradling the appendage to your chest as you hiss out a low whine, although the sound is masked by the low timbre of a groan. Your body stiffens while you gawk at the stranger, watching him gather his surroundings, whipping his head back and forth before his chestnut orbs land on you.

Your grip on the handle of the pot tightens.

“Wha—”

“No! Uh, I mean, hush!” you exclaim, deepening your voice for a rather weak, intimidating effect. “I’m doing the talking here.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat before you can utter another word. His doe eyes bore into yours and you step back, instantly feeling threatened by the intensity of his gaze. He wriggles around in his restraints, testing his extremely limited range of motion.

A prolonged, slightly awkward, silence stretches in the air as you attempt to recall the interrogation questions you practiced while tying him up. Regrettably, you come up blank.

He rolls his eyes at your lack of speech, raising a single brow.

“Well?” he questions, seemingly accepting his lack of free movement and slouching comfortably against the back of the chair. “I thought you said you were gonna do the talking?”

You grit your teeth at his impertinence, shaking off the nerves of talking to another human being that was not your mother as you adorn a superficial, bold facade. Striving to exude the same persuading tone that all those mystery books depicted, you mimic the slow strides you’ve read detectives take around their suspects.

“How did you find me?” You round the corner to escape his unimpressed glare, circling around him.

In turn, he cranes his neck to peer over at you, bewilderment written in the slack of his jaw. “Find you? Who says I was looking for you?” He whistles lowly catching sight of your mane, “That’s some hair you got there. Is that what’ve you tied me up with?”

A scoff escapes your lips, unconvinced at his act.

“Oh yeah?” you challenge, marching back to the front of the chair to dramatically slam your hands down onto his bound wrists, effectively halting his faint wriggling. “Then why did you come all the way up here, huh?”

The dashingly handsome stranger’s tongue prods at his cheek, serving to rile you up further. Taking his sweet time, he inspects the space around him before his focus comes back to you, and he leans in, smirking devilishly. “Sure as hell wasn’t for you, Princess.”

At the odd nickname combined with the close proximity, a flush tints your cheeks and you take a few steps back. He chuckles at his small victory—a deep, melodic sound that sends your flustered state into a muddled craze of butterflies, threatening to burst from within. You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at the man, more so to collect yourself than to unnerve him.

“Got something in your eye?”

You tilt your head back and grumble, exasperated at his lack of cooperation followed by his audacity to tease you further. “For your information, my eyes are working perfectly fine.”

“Good for you. Now, if you’ll just untangle me and give me back my bag, I’ll be out of your hair. Literally.” He grins at his joke, which you don’t find quite as funny.

“Like I’ll believe that.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest. “I’ll ask you again. How exactly did you find me?”

“As I said, Princess,” he jeers, his impatience made visible by the bulging veins lining his neck, “why would anybody be after your poor ass? I mean, just looking at the place, doesn’t look like you’ve got much else other than a bunch of hidden property and a shitty old tower.”

“Shitty?” You repeat, accosted at the stranger’s portrayal of the place you grew up.

He takes another look around the place as if to confirm his accusations before curtly nodding his head.

You glower at his blunt words, taking personal offence for the many hours you spent decorating, cleaning and doting over the building. “Well, I didn’t know we were expecting a rude guest. Then again, guests are invited inside, aren’t they?”

“Listen, you seem like the ditzy type, so I’ll keep this short and sweet. I got into a bit of a scuffle with some scoundrels and before I knew it, I was outnumbered!” he recounts slowly and melodramatically as if he is presenting a bedtime story to a child. “Then I stumble through some vines and find this gigantic tower!

“And to my surprise, rather than hidden treasure, this place has some naive, pan-wielding maniac at the top,” he concludes with a sigh, soundlessly implying that you should pity the unfortunate situation he stumbled upon—the unfortunate bit caused by your interference. All you feel is a burning itch to sock him across the face again, although that wouldn’t be too helpful in discovering his real objective.

His whole story sounds like pure bologna to you, but you feed into his obvious lies with a hum of acknowledgement. “Must’ve been so hard for you.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he whines, a pout forming on his pink lips.

You flash a close-lipped smile and thrust the metal weapon centimetres from his nose with more force than intended, though it seems to do the job when you catch his eyes widen slightly before reverting to the same relaxed stare as before. His posture is evidently tenser than a few seconds ago, which builds your pliant determination.

“Either some truths are gonna come out of that smart mouth or you’re gonna take another nap,” You threaten, waving the pan back and forth.

“Okay, easy now.” The stranger bends his hands upwards by the wrists, waving his fingers down slowly, as though he were calming a raging bull. “There’s no violence needed in this okay? We can make a deal.”

The sound of his cooperation piques your interest, so you inquire, “What kind of deal?”

“First of all, can you lower that?” You comply with his request, although you keep the skillet in the air, ready to strike at a moment's notice if he tries anything funny. “Okay, Princess, how about you give me the satchel, let me go without any trouble and I won’t tell anyone about your little hideout here, hm?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m the one with the upper hand here.” If you two are to come to a compromise, you’re going to need more from the stranger than his word to keep quiet. “And I need you to take me to see the lanterns at the capital.”

A hacking cough morphs into a distorted chuckle in his throat. “Hm, you see, that would be a bit difficult considering the rocky relationship I have with the royals.”

You cock your head to the side, raising the metal menacingly.

His fists curl into balls as a strained grin stretches across his face. “But I guess we could make it work.”

Pleased with his compliance, you continue with your conditions, “You take me to see the lanterns tomorrow night, bring me back home in one piece and I’ll give your bag back. Then you can jump out of the window for all I care, just keep your mouth shut about this place.”

“Do I even have a choice in the matter?”

“Nope.” His lack of protest makes you giddy, and you allow yourself to credulously overestimate your influence over the man. It has to be that or your frightening frying pan, right?

“Then what’re we waiting for?”

A childlike wonder brightens your countenance as you speedily unravel your locks from around the stranger, whipping the bulk of it over the hook and out the window. With his newfound freedom, you catch him combing through miscellaneous trinkets and in fear of him identifying the location of his bag, you call out, “There’s no use, you could ransack the whole tower and never find your precious satchel. You’re better off fulfilling our agreement.”

Fitting your trusty skillet under your arm, you don’t spare him another glance and hope that your bluff is enough to deter his scouring. Thankfully, the clattering of objects ceases and he saunters past the vase with his dear bag inside. Your attention flits to the verdant scenery below.

You allow an exuberant screech to rip through your vocal cords while you effortlessly fly down, your body wrapped around your hair as though the strands have solidified into a firepole and land on the plush, vibrant grass with a bounce. The prickly sensation on your bare skin is not what you imagined the spindly plant to feel like, yet you revel in its oddities nonetheless.

Your companion follows along with less flair, steadily climbing down using the two arrows that were left between the stones. By the time he reaches the ground, you’re already feeling the consequences of sticking your bare feet in the mud by a river.

He rolls his eyes at your antics and darts off while you tread toward the water to wash off the muck between your toes. You swish your foot back and forth, watching the current run off with the dirt and avoiding the miniature fish that gather around you. Their bright orange bodies are stark against the rocks underneath, easy to spot due to the clear, crystalline stream that you’re splashing around in.

When one of them decides to start nipping at your ankles and the rest of his posse tag along, you wade deeper—searching for a grassy area to withdraw from their persistent suckling. As you’re scouring the landscape, enjoying the slight breeze blowing through your hair, you find yourself alone.

This doesn’t bother you at first, used to the notion of having only your own inner thoughts as company. You’re preoccupied with rinsing the brown stains that mark one section of your tresses and gather the clean, soaked mass into your arms before you realize that the tour guide you recruited has gone missing.

At first, you can’t believe he abandoned the precious crown that he appeared to cherish so greatly, but before you can think too deeply about it, a light smack meets the nape of your neck.

“Looking for me, Princess?”

“Stop calling me that,” you whip around, a glare directed at his triumphant smirk. “And where were you anyway? Not trying to run off already, are we?”

He raises his hands up as though he has been caught red-handed, although his digits are curled around what looks to be strips of tree bark and long strands of weeds. Just as you’re about to question him further, he crouches down and grabs one of your ankles, lifting your leg out of the water and closer to him. You yelp and shift your weight to rest on your other foot.

“What?” He secures a few layers of the rough wood to the sole of your foot, wrapping the flexible plants around the bark and expertly tying it at the top. “This is what I get for being considerate isn’t it?”

“Is considerate even part of your vocabulary?” you tease, the relief at his presence causing you to lower your guard.

He freezes halfway through fastening the second makeshift shoe onto your other foot when the orbs staring up at you light up with mischief. Changing position, he folds forwards then rocks back to stand up to his full height. “Ah, I see how it is. Then I would never do something so thoughtful, right?”

“I take it back! I take it back, just finish it up,” you beseech.

“That’s what I thought, Princess.” He bends over to complete the second knot then scampers off to the forest as soon as the job is complete.

As you test out the peculiar slippers—inwardly marvelling at the barrier they provide against the elements of nature—you vocalize your displeasure with the nickname he has taken to calling you, “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

His strides ease up from his hurried pace, shortening to compensate for your smaller steps. “Aw, does Princess dislike being reminded of who she is?”

“I’ve never heard of a Princess living outside of a castle before.”

He hums, tilting his head in wonder. “Is your tower not considered a castle?”

“Not when I’m the only one living there,” you mutter under your breath, although you’re not sure if he catches it or not based on his silence. Regardless, you change the subject before he has a chance to respond. “So are you gonna tell me your name or what?”

Sneaking a peek at his side profile, you catch the endearing crinkle that appears by his eyes when he grins. “What’s with the sudden interest? I mean, I understand the enthusiasm but—”

You strike his elbow with the bottom of the skillet and he whines like a kicked puppy.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I just thought we should be on a first-name basis if we’re going to be travelling all this way together.” You amuse yourself by twirling the skillet around in your grip, acting as though there’s a gigantic pancake that you professionally flip onto its other side. “I would prefer my name over ‘Princess.’”

“I kinda like the ring of it though.” He winks at you, but you’re too invested in your cooking charades to notice. “You can call me Geum.”

“Geum? Like ‘gold’? What kind of name is that?”

“Ooh, someone’s judgemental.” Snatching the pan, he brandishes it around like a deadly cutlass in a seasoned pirate’s hand, bounding around you. He ends his show with the tip aimed straight at your heart.

“Just saying. You’ve got to admit it’s a bit… unique.” You halfheartedly brush him off, fighting to keep your grin from showing. As a side note, you announce your name.

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

Before he can prance off, you pluck the skillet out of his grasp and tear through the dense bushes with your treasure. His war cry echoes throughout the expansive woodlands as he rushes after you, untangling your hair from lone branches as he goes.

To claim that your feet are about to fall off is a gross understatement.

You have been travelling alongside Geum for hours now without a single break. Despite the high spirits that you two kicked your trip off with, the elation from brushing against the silky plants, cooing at the wildlife that crossed your path, and inhaling the fresh scent of damp moss and wet tree trunks from yesterday’s showers wore off quickly.

You’re inclined to believe that your enthusiasm began to subside when Geum yanked you away from running your finger along one set of rich emerald leaves—narrowly avoiding what he explained to be poison ivy. Your curious hands have been cemented to your sides ever since that close encounter.

After your lively bickering dies down, rather than a peaceful, quiet walk, listening to the whispers of the wind and the pleasant chirping of the birds, the antsy man beside you puts you on edge. He can’t stop looking from side to side, trying to peer past the endless birches and elms that obscure your view.

Is Geum expecting someone?

Perhaps some parts of his story are true. Perhaps having a ruffian with other delinquents hunting him is not the best partner to accompany you on this journey—not that you have much of a choice in the matter, it’s either him or no one. You’re unsure which option is worse.

Any conversation you strike is met with teasing remarks, so you give up on prodding him for any substantial information. But with the sky darkening and the breeze turning brisk, you’re about to mention camping out somewhere when Geum says, “We should settle down for the night.”

“I never thought I would agree with something that came out of your mouth.”

“That’s why you’re wrong most of the time.” And there it was, another snotty retort that practically begs you to deck him with the pan you keep tucked in your underarm.

The quibble ignites a fire under your skin, the flames licking at your sides and providing some warmth amidst the chill in the air. “Most of the time? So you’re saying that you’re wrong sometimes?”

“Yeah, nobody can always be right.” He flashes a lazy smirk your way, adjusting the bundle of your locks in his arms. “Like when I said that your hair isn’t an inconvenience.”

You take a second to process his snarky words. With your mind occupied, stuck in a whirlwind of potential reprisals, you unintentionally head towards the distant outline of the castle when you approach a crossroad branching in two opposite directions.

Just as you’re about to let loose a nasty quip, his warm hand wraps itself around your wrist, dragging you away from the faraway mansion. You overheat at the source of the touch, thoughts going haywire.

“Hey, hey!” In hopes of snapping him out of his reverie, you raise your voice. “You can’t blow off our deal now, don’t you want your precious satchel back?”

When he offers no explanation for his cryptic actions, you attempt to pry off his fingers with your other hand—making sure not to trip over your own two feet while you’re at it. Your wriggling is all for nought because Geum’s iron grip is too durable to be outmatched by your fumbling digits.

“Geum, please just,” you plead, ceasing your struggle when the delicate skin in his grasp begins to sting from his strength, “let’s talk about this, okay?”

You’re so preoccupied with regaining your freedom that you don’t notice the dingy sign you two pass; a rubber duck with the words The Snuggly Duckling etched onto the wood. “Shut up and hurry.”

Your jaw drops at his insolent tone, astounded at his change in demeanour. There’s no playful spirit behind his words this time, only a sharp annoyance accompanied by his sudden haste that you feel all too strongly in your wrist. You stumble after him and duck your head through a small doorway, your mind caught up in formulating a coherent response that consists of sounds other than your outraged sputtering.

“Don’t tell me to—”

You’re cut off by the ruckus inside the establishment. Burly men surround the two of you, drinking, howling in laughter, practicing their aim with throwing knives—there’s even a large group of people fighting in one corner. The amount of blood streaked across the walls, their clothes, and pouring out of their open wounds is concerning. You can smell the metallic tang from the entrance.

When the hand around your wrist disappears, you find yourself yearning for the physical connection, serving as some kind of reassurance that he is not leaving you to the metaphorical, and sort of literal, wolves before you. In order not to lose Geum as he wades through the crowds, you latch on to the thin hem of his shirt. He pays you no mind and continues onward.

Skillfully slipping through the giants while you bumble behind him, you two arrive at a row of vacant barstools. You loosen your grip at the unexpectedly tranquil space, such a drastic contrast to the commotion in the background that it’s like you’ve been transported to another place altogether.

You’re brought back to reality from the loud grunt that booms throughout the joint, although you tune out again when you hear a punch being thrown, then a crack that you can only hope isn’t a bone. Or two.

“Uh, Geum?” you ask, although he pays your appellation no mind. His attention is focused on the intimidating, tattooed man behind the counter.

“Joon.” Your unofficial tour guide takes a seat. “A mead?”

Determined to stick close to the only familiar face in the building, you slide onto the seat next to Geum. The overwhelming scent of liquor hits you hard, causing you to crinkle your nose the exact moment that your narrowed eyes spot the bartender, Joon, awkwardly cough into his fist, trying to stifle his snickers for your sake.

“Just a water for her.”

While Joon confirms Geum’s order with a slight nod, you cast your head down to stare at your twiddling fingers. Your mind is still reeling from the abrupt change in scenery, unsure how to carry yourself in this new setting. It was no problem in the dense forest, with only Geum to judge you—but it isn’t like you’re trying to impress him anyway.

In here where hordes of broad men are gathered, drunk out of their minds with crimson staining their attire, you’re scared. Everything is too raucous, too rancid, too overwhelming. You’re uncertain whether the trip to the capital will play out as you’ve imagined and you turn towards Geum to tell him as much when—

“Was this from me?” You instinctively flinch at his tug on your elbow, although regret rushes down your back, clawing against your spine like ice-cold water when hurt flashes across his shadowed orbs. Before you can blink, it’s gone.

As a feeble apology, you offer a tightlipped smile. Referring back to his words, you examine your arm and grimace when you spot the blooming scarlet streaks encircling your wrist, taking the shape of Geum’s slender digits. “Oh, uh, don’t worry. It’ll fade.”

It’s not a lie since the marks will eventually fade. You hope it doesn’t turn black and blue before that though.

A clear glass is thrust your way, which you’re overjoyed to snatch from Joon’s hand, noting Geum’s copper liquor from the corner of your eye. Hours of travelling without any form of hydration definitely took its toll on you, evident by your severely chapped lips that you can’t help but swipe your tongue over every minute—not that the dried saliva is doing you any favours.

Before you have a chance to sip from heaven in liquid form, you’re halted by a gentle finger tracing the length of your forearm. Thankfully, you’re not as skittish this time around, remaining frozen until Geums pulls back; the pale, discoloured scar he was following having tapered off into your natural skin. “Where’s that one from?”

His strange inquiry confuses you with its unusually intrusive nature considering his inability to chat seriously five minutes ago. You pause for a second to debate on revealing the truth or constructing a comical narrative for the sake of avoiding a sombre turn to the light conversation. Despite your decision, your lips rebel, taking on a mind of their own. “A punishment.”

Bronze orbs snap up to yours, boring into the deepest parts of your soul and uncovering each of your secrets one by one as if they’re gems, buried within the layers of your lonely childhood. You’re transfixed. “Mother said it would remind me to never leave the tower.”

The condensation running down the side of the chilled cup meets the edge of your palm, sliding down your index finger and becoming a stark reminder of your parched mouth. You lift the glass to take a sip, but a taste renders your control inoperative as you guzzle down the rest, leaving not a single drop inside.

Your famished stomach makes itself known with a growl when your thirst is quenched. Attracting the attention of the bartender with a small wave, you ask, “Is there any chance you’ve got some food here?”

“We’ve got anything as long as you’ve got the coin for it, blondie.”

You shudder in alarm at the introduction of another patron in the bar. Leaning away from the repulsive drawl to your left, you shift over to position yourself as far away as possible. Seeing your discomfort, the stranger takes a few steps forward to invade your personal space once more and you recoil back with a jerk of your torso.

The abrupt motion messes with your centre of gravity, tipping you over the edge of the barstool. Just as you’re about to have an unpleasant meeting with the floor, a palm darts out to the small of your waist and steadies you. You follow the arm up to Geum’s clenched jaw.

“She’s not looking for anything that you guys can offer.”

Your throat tightens at your companion’s harsh answer, wary of how the other men will react. The burly man to your other side bursts out in obnoxious laughter and a glint of light reflecting off of his silver teeth catches your eye, which you recognize from earlier. He’s one of the goons that was involved in the fistfight near the entrance.

“As if you’re packing anything better.” He nudges his lackeys behind them and they chuckle along like they’re all in on one big joke.

“It’s not hard to top a baby carrot.”

Panicked at his provocation, you glimpse at the challenging smirk plastered across Geum’s lips. You aren’t sure why he’s trying to pick a fight or if there’s any logical reasoning behind his actions at all, but you tap on the arm still attached to your torso, conveying your opinion on his moronic pride with your widened eyes.

Of course, men will be men, and the little posse arranged behind the silver toothed boss riles their leader up, encouraging him with disgruntled yells and unintelligible speech to prove their dominance. With you in between the two blockheads, you’re sure that you’re not going to like how this plays out.

Dismissing your distress, Geum takes a sip of his drink. He seems unbothered by the commotion surrounding him and you envy his nonchalant demeanour.

“You got any bite behind your bark, pretty boy?” His lackeys change tactics, switching over to goading Geum on. You assume their greater numbers spark their courage, reassured that they could overpower one man. “Or are we just trying to impress this little miss right here?”

“I’m not sure if it’ll be very fair for you guys,” Geum says cockily, scrutinizing each member from head to toe then returning to his sweet mead. “I mean, just looking at you boys, doesn’t look too impressive if you ask me.”

If the atmosphere didn’t thicken with a fatal tension, you would have giggled at his smart mouth. But the other man’s nostrils flare in resentment, beginning to surge forward before he’s interrupted by a spindly boy who thrusts a paper below his nose. “Boss, you were right, it’s him.”

His unsightly features twist upwards in joy, displaying his horrendous set of chompers once more as he chuckles. That’s when you realize that a sinister smile can be much more frightening than any bellow of rage. “Looks like you’ve got quite the bounty on your head there, Geum.”

At the snarl of his name, your eyes dart to the wrinkled sheet in his hand which he graciously flips to face your direction. An uncanny depiction of Geum’s face is drawn, a sum containing many zeroes painted underneath his name. What appalls you the most is the red, bolded letters at the very top, distinctly spelling out wanted.

Geum is a wanted criminal.

While your mind is reeling, sight blurring and breath quickening from the influx of information, the man in question unabashedly finishes off the last of his alcoholic beverage and proceeds to slam the glass onto the counter. Through all of the clamour, you pick up Joon’s exasperated sigh in the background.

The door to the establishment flings open, hinges creaking as the wood bounces back from the sheer force of the blow. While everyone is distracted by the bustle, Geum stealthily hops off his seat, slipping an arm around your waist to soundlessly lead you to the other side of the counter. Although you’re reluctant to follow, you refrain from squabbling with him in order not to attract any unwanted attention.

“We’ve received a report that a well-known thief has been spotted in the premises—”

Geum kneels in front of the shelves lined with drinks of all shapes and colours, fiddling with something you can’t see from your position behind him. Following his lead, you crouch behind him, softly muttering in disbelief, “You really think they won’t find us hiding here?”

A click is heard as a few of the racks cave in on themselves, revealing a concealed passageway. Geum shakes his head towards the opening, silently directing you to enter first. You’re hesitant to accompany him any farther but you’re pushed forwards by Joon’s calf on your back and you understand that you don’t have much of a choice in the matter anymore.

If you’re caught now, you’ll be accused of being an accomplice to whatever crimes Geum committed.

You spare a thankful nod to Joon, stealing a glance at the guards blocking the entrance while you’re at it. Their white uniforms are decorated with accents of bright oranges and reds, a familiar flower fastened to the right side of their chest. One of them holds another copy of Geum’s wanted poster which you tear your gaze from, willing yourself to escape from this mess before thinking about anything else.

Geum shoves you through the opening, and you crawl through the underground passage as fast as you can in order to keep his pinching fingers away from your ankles. You two are far enough to safely whisper short phrases to one another, but he insists on being a nuisance as he urges you to pick up the pace.

It’s pitch black when the trapdoor shuts behind Geum, and you’re unable to make out your own hands in front of your face; with no other path in sight, you blindly head forward. As you continue, you pass torches burning with a bright fire that provide light, illuminating the stones around you and the shadows following you. You wonder how often this underground system is used to have fire running at all times.

Eventually, the tunnel’s height expands enough for the two of you to comfortably tread through on your feet. If you weren’t tired enough from walking for hours on end, the brutal jog which Geum sets is more than enough to tire you out within mere minutes.

“Geum,” you heave, unable to catch your breath with your chest fruitlessly rising and falling, never passing enough air for you to gather your senses. He’s too far to catch, effortlessly sprinting ahead, yet you still uselessly reach out to capture his attention. “Geum.”

You push yourself to the limit, another few minutes passing by before your powerless body can no longer handle the stress of the strenuous activity, and you slow down, coming to a full stop. One hand on the rocky wall steadies your dizzying sight as you hunch over, throat burning and stomach aching. Even though you try to remain standing, your legs involuntarily give out and you end up on the floor.

As you try to regain your breath, hands grasp your shoulders and gently shake you back to reality. Geum’s intense gaze is only centimetres away, torso bent to level with you. “You can do this, come on. We have to lose them.”

“I,” you huff, “I can’t… It’s… too much.”

Geum’s arms return to his sides, his brows furrowing as you watch the gears whirring in his head through your blurry vision. When he spins around to face the exit, you cry out in a hoarse voice, believing that he’s leaving your pathetic, crumpled form to fend for yourself—but instead of running off, he crouches to the ground with his backside to you. “Get on.”

In spite of your resolute will to arise from your folded position, your legs can’t seem to extend outwards in order to climb onto his back, which you convey by tapping his shoulder and pitifully shaking your head. Geum’s lips pry apart to respond, but his words are drowned out by the pounding footsteps that echo throughout the tunnel walls. He curses under his breath as he turns and scoops your fetal form into his arms.

All you can register is his natural woody scent enveloped in the sweaty musk that drenches his frame, your body clutched tightly to his torso as he races to the end of the tunnel. You grip his thin shirt in one fist, unfamiliar with the warmth fluttering in your chest, so you brush it off as another side effect from the arduous sprinting.

A bright light can be seen at the very end, but your eyes are locked on the well-defined jaw of the man carrying you as if you were as light as a feather, running as if your lives depended on it—which they kind of do.

You couldn’t differentiate the pounding of Geum’s shoes from the mob of guards pursuing you two. As you slowly recover from your exhausted state, the guilt of becoming a burden settles into the creases of your face, worrying lines etching onto your features from thinking about your impending fate.

Your thoughts wander to the reasoning behind this violent chase. By the fancier uniforms they sport, you suspect their position to be rather high, perhaps palace guards or ones belonging to the royal family. Reminded of the wanted poster clutched within one of their hands, the image stirs unease within the depths of your stomach that’s already stinging from the massive amounts of cardio you’ve done today.

Before you can connect any dots, you’re out in the wilderness again, although instead of the sun’s blazing rays on your face, the moon’s tender beams spill over your surroundings. The sort of serenity that accompanies the stillness of the later hours are interrupted by your rapidly beating heart, which is amplified by the pulse felt on your left side.

After a few more strides, Geum comes to a sudden halt.

“What’s wrong?” You tilt your neck to look at his face in curiosity. Although he doesn’t appear fatigued, his cheeks only slightly flushed from exertion and a few sweat droplets racing down his temples, you ask anyway, “Are you tired?”

The grip under your legs lower you to the ground and you stand in front of Geum, beginning to worry about losing your advantage over your pursuers. He doesn’t provide a verbal response to your questions, simply shaking his head and causing the tips of his hair to sway back and forth with the motion. The strands cover his eyes when he stops, but he doesn’t bother to brush them aside.

Geum’s shoulders slouch, heavy from the weight of defeat. You’re unnerved at his strange actions, turning to look ahead at the obstacle that’s forcing him to give up all hope.

You two are standing at the edge of a cliff.

Your knees buckle at the length of the drop, which seems never ending from your viewpoint. The tenebrous shadows of the night obscure the bottom, painting the jagged walls with uncertainty at any chance for survival. Your heart constricts as the despondency emanating off of Geum slithers its way into your rapidly diminishing resolution.

“When they get here,” he announces, bravery shining through his firm tone, “I need you to run as fast as you can. I’ll distract them, just focus on getting back to the bar. Tell Joon to take you somewhere safe and trust no one but him.”

You’re baffled at his complete change in attitude as well as his idiotic plan. There’s no trace of humour in his piercing orbs though, simply an obstinate determination that implores you to obey his orders. But you aren’t about to abandon the first friend you’ve ever made. “Are you insane? What do you think you can do against trained soldiers?”

“There’s no other choice.” He nudges your torso to position yourself behind him, both your backs to the cliff, watching the guards get closer and closer. Dread weighs ponderously on your limbs, the adrenaline pumping in your veins with every footstep marching to surround you two. You’re cornered.

The soldier closest to Geum unsheathes his sword and steadily approaches. You slip the rusty pan into his hand and he inconspicuously reaches back to pat your thigh, reminding you of his reckless scheme.

Seeing your defensive stance, the guard rushes forward, thrusting his sword forward to slice through layers of skin. Instead, the clang of metal against metal resounds throughout the empty cliff and your apprehension increases tenfold with your front row seat to Geum’s doomed duel, fending off a glinting sword with your rickety skillet.

Although he’s fighting well considering his enormous handicap, you spot more soldiers creeping their way into the skirmish, unable to stand and watch one of their own be bested in battle. Overall, the odds weren’t looking too great for your pan-wielding knight.

You have to do something. With Geum’s plan off the table, you can’t think of anything other than taking your chances with the cliff. You gather all your faith in the landscape, Geum, and yourself while taking a deep breath. Waiting for an opening within the clash, you cautiously inch towards Geum and when one particularly hard blow jolts both men back a few steps, you snatch up the opportunity.

Before another guard can take his ally’s place, you rush over to snake an arm around Geum’s lithe waist, tugging his back to meet your chest. During this process, he nearly elbows you in the face, writhing around in your tight hold until he recognizes your delicate hands on his stomach.

With the enemy frozen in confusion at your ostensibly desultory actions, you take advantage of their shock to stumble backwards, proving harder than necessary due to Geum’s long legs tangling with your own as you head towards the edge. You’re nearly there when one of the guards pick up on your plan to escape, jumping into action with his razor-sharp sword and waving it in a deadly arc that nearly slices both of your heads off clean.

Thankfully, you lose your footing on a slippery rock and tip over.

While airborne, any air is momentarily robbed from the heavy drop in your gut and a terrified shriek rips past your mouth as you lose your tight grip on Geum, utterly absorbed in your fear. The distance between you two grows, but because of his quick reflexes, Geum is able to fist a clump of your clothes in his hands and pull you into his chest with one hand resting on the nape of your neck.

You don’t have enough time to react to the new position before both your bodies are enveloped in gelid water. All of your nerves fire off, enraged at the sudden change in temperature. A violent shiver overtakes your limbs in a weak attempt to warm yourself up.

Although Geum’s palm on your neck withdraws to wade your bodies back up to surface, the grip around your middle only tightens.

The stream parts as you two float back up to meet the chilly air, greedily filling your lungs as you unravel from one another in order to paddle your way to shore. The current sweeps you along, aiding your furious efforts to reach the ground again.

Geum arrives at the muddy grass before you, swiftly lifting himself out and turning to fish for your soaked form. White puffs of your breath escape your mouths because of the low temperature, yet they dissipate as quickly as they’re formed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” You close your eyes and nod. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

The fire crackles alongside the chirping crickets, forming a peculiar orchestra with the breeze blowing through the rustling leaves. You extend your frigid digits as close to the flames as you dare, desperate for its warmth, yet recoiling from the sting of its heat all the same.

“Might as well stick your whole hand in there while you’re at it.” Geum emerges from the tenebrous thickets of the forest, making his way into the dull glow of the bonfire with a bundle of skinny twigs in his arms.

You’re drained from the day’s events, but you flash him a smile brimming with gratitude, appreciative that he’s intent on keeping the fire alive despite his inevitably numb appendages. You insisted on swapping turns, allowing his body to warm up a bit while you scavenged for wood, although he dismissed your offer multiple times, claiming that moving around was much more effective for him than any flames.

You’d have to disagree with him there. The burning fire feels incredible heating up your skin from the outside in.  

“If you take a second to come and enjoy the warmth, then maybe you wouldn’t be so moody,” You jest, rotating the fish skewers that Geum expertly caught in the river with a sharpened branch. By the slightly burnt edges, you suppose it’s ready. “C’mon, let’s eat before you head off again.”

He grunts his affirmation, depositing his findings on top of the ever-growing pile of wood and taking a seat on a fallen log located a couple of feet away from you. You allow the meat to cool down before separating the fish from the stick it’s impaled on and passing it to him.

“Is your hair dry yet?” He’s too preoccupied with forcibly ripping the fish in half to avoid scaling it, so he doesn’t catch your affectionate, lingering gaze.

You hum, grabbing a lock of your wet strands. “Not quite.”

He places his meal next to him on the log and leans over to take the bulk of your tresses in his grasp. You watch as he lays the blonde strands near the fire, quietly giggling at his strange logic.

“You think the heat is going to make it dry faster?” The appearance of his wide grin elicits the return of the bizarre tightening in your chest, a crushing pain that makes it difficult to breathe. You haven’t had a bite of the fish but nausea swirls in your stomach as your hands turn clammy and you rip your eyes away from Geum in hopes of collecting yourself.

Seeing your doubt towards his surely infallible rationale, his brows scrunch together and he pauses his movements in his perplexity, a distant look swirling in his eyes. He should be completely unaware of the turmoil raging within you, yet all your previous worries dissipate with the smoke of the fire as his face becomes increasingly wrinkled, flashing an expression more ludicrous than the last.

After you beg and plead with him to stop, cheeks aching from smiles and belly throbbing from laughter, he breaks out into his own set of snickers. More than satisfied, Geum grabs his fish again and begins to nibble on the meat inside. “You never considered getting a trim?” he asks between bites.

A few seconds pass as you calm yourself down from your hysterical state. “Never allowed to,” you answer, short and vague to keep the pleasant atmosphere.

“Allowed to?” His voice is laced with his astonishment. “Who’s telling you what to do at your age?”

Fidgeting with your own skewer, you ponder over an answer that’s precise enough to satisfy his curiosity, yet obscure enough to conceal your identity at the same time. Your eyes dart from side to side, following the light of the fire as it illuminates a wet, crimson stain on the sleeve of Geum’s jacket.

“What’s that?” you question, scuttling over to his log and sitting down next to him. To get a better look, you grab his elbow and pull it towards you.

“Nothing. Don’t change the subject.” He tries to shrug off both your concern and your hand that’s clutching onto his arm, which only makes you tighten your grip. At the increase in pressure, a low groan slips past his lips and you instantly release your hold at the sound.

“Does it hurt?” The memory of the guard wildly slashing his sword in the air comes to mind and you realize that although the blow didn’t cost either of your lives, his upper arm must have borne the brunt of the force instead.

“It’s fine.” He attempts to brush you off again, but you’re as clingy as a leech and refuse to budge from his side.

You latch on to the lapel of his jacket and tug. “Take it off.”

Despite your solemnity, his low chuckle sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Already asking me to strip? I’m not that easy, Princess. How about you take me on a date first and I’ll think about your offer?”

“You know what I mean,” you grumble, exasperated that he persists on maintaining his incessant teasing while injured.

When he finishes cleaning off one half of his meal, about to reach for the other, you move to stand in front of him. You dismiss the wild pounding of your heart to focus on slipping his jacket off of his opposite arm.

He puts forth no effort to stop you, although he’s definitely not helping much with his limp, bulky appendages that are a lot heavier than expected. Slowly but surely, you tenderly thread his injured arm out of his sleeve with careful hands.

The white, short-sleeved shirt he’s sporting underneath makes it easy to spot the splotches of crimson dyeing the hem of his sleeve through the dim, orange light. You approach his laceration delicately, treating him like a frightened animal. He snorts at your earnest actions.

Lifting the fabric covering the entirety of the gash, you gasp softly at the depth of the wound, grimacing as though it’s your own limb that’s been hurt. “You shouldn’t be moving around with this, you’re not letting it heal.”

“I’ll endure any pain to keep you close,” he whispers, sweet honey dripping from his words as he loops his other arm around your waist, effectively pulling you in between his open legs.

His chin is a mere few centimetres from your belly button, gazing up at you with a flirtatious wink as he perches his hand onto your lower back. You hold your breath, worried that he can hear the utter chaos erupting within your chest due to the close proximity.

Flustered, you push at his broad shoulders, desperate for some room to breathe. Geum flinches at your touch and you instantly regret your thoughtless behaviour. Your concern at the severity of his wound multiplies tenfold, feeding into a disquiet that nestles into every cell in your body. “I’m serious, it doesn’t look good.”

One hand falls into his lap while the other comes up to ruffle his damp locks. “Don’t get shy now, Princess.”

Taking in the defeated slouch to his back, the distant glaze that darkens his bronze orbs, you think about your hair. You think about how much younger your mother appears after she detangles each strand. You think about all the scars you’ve avoided throughout the years by singing a simple tune.

This man saved your life, and it’s time for you to repay the favour. You consider waiting until he’s asleep to heal his arm, plagued by the distress of being mistaken as a witch. Mother warned you about those kinds of people, who are ready to ruin your life in order to improve their own—anything ranging from taking advantage of your unworldly qualities to selling you for a pretty penny.

Mother always knows best. Right?

You peer into his expressionless eyes that stare holes into the dancing flames, the other uneaten half of the fish still laying untouched. From the limited time you’ve spent together, you shouldn’t feel this distraught at his pain, as though a chunk of your heart is bleeding out with him and leaving you in a puddle of your own misery.

But one look at Geum’s laceration and even a child could tell that the relentless stream would end his life before long. No matter how well he can conceal his shallow, rapid breathing, you begin to make sense of his sweaty, pallid countenance that shreds any remaining skepticism you hold against him—dismissing the wariness brought about by those wanted posters.

“Geum.”

His eyelids shut close at your grave tone. “I know. It’s fine.”

At your hesitant tone, he sluggishly spares you a placid, tame smile. You hate it.

The Geum you’ve come to know is exuberant, taking all his hardships in stride with a sly smirk to boot. He’s brilliant, craftier than any artist, and resourceful even in the face of despondency. He’s compassionate, extending his own neck to save yours, always sympathetic to your plight.

This Geum is hollow, a shell of the person you knew.

The crushed downturn of his doe eyes doesn’t belong to his captivating features. You yearn to watch that classic, mischievous glint sparkle in his irises as he taunts you endlessly, testing how high your pulse can spark when he invades your personal space yet again.

You take a seat next to him. “No, uh,” you stammer, “I got a solution. You just can’t scream or freak out or anything, okay? Most importantly, you can’t tell anyone. Not a single soul.”

Before he can react to your cryptic warnings, you separate a lock of your hair, wrapping it around his wounded bicep. He raises a single brow at your strange antics but provides no further opposition. You’re pleased with the amount of trust he’s placed in you.

You close your eyes, and then you sing.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine,”

Starting from your roots, a golden glimmer races across the tresses of your hair. Bewildered, Geum recoils in his state of shock but remains rooted in his spot nonetheless.

“Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine,”

He follows the scintillating shimmer in your strands until he reaches the portion wrapped around his bicep. You absentmindedly wonder if he can feel his flesh reconstructing, cells dividing at a rapid rate to close the smooth gash.

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine,”

Your lids slide open to stare at his wide eyes, his jaw hanging ever so slightly. You’re glad to see that his previously pale complexion has given way to his natural, lively undertone.

“What once was mine.”

When the last notes fade out, eventually overpowered by the lone hoot of an owl, you gingerly untangle your hair from the shell-shocked man. Geum slaps his other hand over the healed skin, his head rapidly darting between examining his arm and making absurd facial expressions that convey his amazement. From his naturally cool composure, you treasure this rare moment of awe.

“Wha—”

Your stressed squeak halts him in his speech. “Please don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.” He looks like he’s trying to convince himself more so than you when he continues, “Not freaking out. What’s there to freak out about? I mean, magical healing hair? Completely normal.”

Your grin is filled with mirth at his nervous tone, and you lift his prodding digits from the site of the wound. Or at least where it used to be. “You feel okay?”

With all of your attention directed towards analyzing his healthy appendage, ensuring that your magic had not screwed up somewhere along the process, you miss Geum’s tender gaze roaming over every inch of your countenance. “Yeah, I guess I’m more than okay now.”

“I promise I’m not some kind of witch or anything like that. Just, uh, was just born with it,” you try to explain despite being in the dark about many of the nitty-gritty details yourself.

“Born with magical hair?”

You giggle at the absurdity of his question, although the validity remains true, it’s rather peculiar to hear it out loud. “Some of us are born with more talent than others. But that’s also why I can’t cut it,” you smile sheepishly, deciding to answer his earlier question now that your secret is out in the open.

“It turns brown and loses its magic.” You gather all your strands into one fist, pulling the mass to the side to expose the short, chestnut coloured strands underneath. You feel vulnerable and exposed with your neck out on display, sharing the fragility of your powers with a man you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours.

But it’s Geum, and he doesn’t feel like a stranger to you. “An overbearing mother is also part of the reason, but that’s a story for another time. Carrying it around can be heavy and the tangles can be brutal, but I guess it has its perks.”

He hums, stretching his torso to throw some twigs into the fire in hopes of enlarging the dwindling flames. “Yeah, I, uh…”

You stay silent, neither dismissing nor pressuring him into voicing his thoughts.

“My name isn’t actually Geum.”

A teasing smirk lifts the corner of your lips as you lean closer and nudge his arm. “You don’t say?”

He scoffs at your playful demeanour and pushes you back with one finger on your forehead. When your upper body is tilted away from him and your head is facing the starry night sky, he retracts his digit and speaks so softly that the noise is almost carried away by the wind. “It’s Jungkook.”

“Jungkook,” you test it out, matching the syllables to the face. It’s a bit strange after getting accustomed to associating him with the name ‘Geum,’ but in a way, it complements him better.

“Yeah.” He pauses and you shift your body to study him, memorizing the slopes and angles of his side profile. His orbs reflect the flickering fire, engulfing the newly added branches in its blaze. “I just thought somebody should know.”

“Is Geum your alias... for when you’re being a criminal?” Although you’re hesitant to delve into the subject, especially right after he’s begun to unveil his true identity, your curiosity outweighs reason and you can’t contain yourself. You can’t say that you’ve never questioned the diadem hidden in his satchel.

Crowns don’t belong to convicts who run from justice.

You wait for his answer with bated breath, unintentionally trapping your lower lip between your teeth in anticipation. Please, Jungkook.

“If you’re trying to ask what I did,” he hisses, knuckles turning white from his clenched fists, “Yeah, I stole it. Those assholes don’t deserve their riches.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches, his anger radiating off him in waves. You wish you could eat your previous words because of how furious he’s become, but you’re committed to finishing the job. “Are you talking about the King and Queen?” Your brows pinch together in your discomfort. “Was that their crown?”

“This is your first time out of that tower, right?” You confirm his inquiry with a quick nod of your head. “How much do you know about the kingdom?”

“Jungkook—”

He tuts, fixing you with a strict glare. “Answer the question.”

“Well…” While recalling all the knowledge you picked up from your mother and the few historical books within your collection, you fiddle with a strand of your hair and organize your thoughts. “The castle is located in the middle of the capital, said to loom over the entire kingdom with its height. After it was rebuilt to accommodate more space for the Prince, everyone, from poets to milliners, cried over the beauty carved within those walls.”

He expels a deep sigh, causing you to question the legitimacy written in those pages you recited. “I asked about the kingdom, not the castle.”

His question leaves you dumbfounded. The information you collected over the years is limited to everything inside that grandiose, opulent building. There was nothing about the land, animals or even the common folk.

A gust blows the smoke of your little bonfire towards you, and you blink rapidly to avoid any soot from lodging itself into your eyes. Jungkook plucks a large leaf from one of the plants nearby, lazily fanning the fumes away. “That cozy castle and the royal family sitting on top of it all couldn’t care less about their people. They rake their luxuries from our hard work when even one jewel off that crown could feed hundreds.”

You process the cold truth in silence, a shiver overtaking your limbs in spite of the heat in front of you. “Is that why you stole it?”

“I don’t care if they want to plaster my face all over the kingdom and put a bounty on my head, I’m not going to stand around and watch people die from their greedy hands,” he states, proud and resolute.

You’re torn between the anguish nipping at your heels and the relief washing over your head. Living sheltered in that tower, you had no clue about the perils outside your own stone walls, is this what Mother was trying to protect you from?

However, discovering the true nature behind Jungkook’s crimes restores your faith in him, and your shoulders relax as you crane your neck to peer at the stars again. With your curiosity quenched, you move on to another question. “So, how many people get to call you Jungkook?”

He follows your example, leaning back and revelling in the breathtaking sight. “Nobody knows my real name, everyone calls me Geum.”

Your jaw drops a fraction from the admittance, feeling rather privileged that he chose to share it with you. “Your family calls you that too?”

“Don’t have any,” he brushes off your sympathetic gaze with a shrug.

“Why the name Geum?”

You catch his tiny, forlorn smile in your peripheral. “I grew up hearing all about the royal family’s massive parties, overflowing with family, friends—people. They were never lonely. And since they were parading their money around, I thought that was it, that was the secret.”

The dejected tone in his voice clogs your airways and makes it difficult to breathe, stunning your motionless form into remaining as still as a statue, the magnitude of his sorrow sweeping over you in fatal waves.

“And I hoped that maybe naming myself ‘gold’ might give me some luck with that.” With his shoulders downcast, his eyes flicker over to you, gauging your reaction.

You desperately wish you could turn back time to console the young boy whose heart was too big to fit inside his tiny body. Although he’s grown into it now, you strive to ease his suffering by even the slightest fraction. “I think ‘Jungkook’ is even better for making friends.”

The edges of his lips flip upwards as he navigates his face to halt directly right in front of your own, pressing one hand to the other side of your farthest thigh and caging you in. “Would you be my friend, Princess?”

All your blood rushes to your head, warming your cheeks. In a futile attempt to preserve any of your remaining dignity, you shrink back to maintain some distance. But his smirk grows at the sight of your shy response to his advances, his orbs flitting down to your pink lips before returning to your eyes. He looks absolutely ecstatic over your flustered state.

His hot breath fans over your lips and you gather any rational sense you have left inside your muddled brain to push him back, missing the split second his confident facade cracks and a sliver of insecurity shines through. It’s instantly replaced by a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No matter what you decide to call yourself, I’ll always be your friend.”

Seconds seem like hours as the two of you stare at each other, seeking to uncover the words left unsaid. Jungkook’s palms press against his knees, pushing off of them to come to a standing position and effectively ending your little moment. “I’m gonna go get some more wood.”

You nod, staring at his retreating backside that ventures into the adumbral forest once more. Even though the perpetrator of all these complex emotions is no longer within sight, you feel unsettled from the mere thought of him, yet your heart yearns for him all the same.

“Oh, Petal, I thought he would never leave!” A distinctly high-pitched cry rings out in the empty space, a voice which you didn’t expect to hear until at least tomorrow night.

Your head whips to the side to confirm your suspicions. “Mother?” Her dark figure emerges from the shadows and your heart drops to your stomach. You fumble for the right words, at a loss from her unexpected appearance. “How did you—”

“The better question is how could you, Petal?” she corrects, continuing to step into the light provided by the fire. The once comforting flames turn harsh, sharp pops bursting forth from the aggressive combustion. She lowers her hood to reveal the disappointment etched into her youthful features—and without fail, the sting of upsetting her burns through your conscience. “Really, how could you betray your own mother like this?”

You stand, determined to explain yourself, “Mother, he’s different from the monsters you told me about. If you get to know him, he’s sweet and caring and kind an-and he isn’t after my magic!”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, my naive, little Petal.” She tilts her chin up slightly, peering down at you. “Everyone is the same out here, all looking after themselves.”

You approach her within a few strides. “Mother, please listen to me, he’s different! Even though he puts on a tough front at times, he’s really considerate on the inside.” You fiddle with the tips of your fingers as you whisper the next part, “And I, uh, I think he might like me.”

The reaction you least expect is her startling outburst of laughter, powerful enough to fold her in half, and you wait for her giggles to quiet down before warily stepping forward. Your mother is acting awfully strange. “You think he likes you? And what makes you think that?”

You blanch at her ruthless words, wincing as though they assumed a physical form and punched you repeatedly in the gut.

Her maniacal snickers abruptly cease and a frown mars her lovely face once again, her expression one you recognized from previous reprimands, whether it was shattering a vase or begging to go outside. Your chin falls down to meet your chest, unable to muster up your faux bravery for any longer.

“I’m asking what gave you the idea that he would like some insolent, unsightly brat like you?”

You can’t open your mouth to respond, frozen in fear.

“Hm, what’s with the silence? You seemed so certain earlier, Petal. This is why you never should have left, look at this pitiful romance you’ve created,” she mocks, rounding your nervous form like a predator playing with their prey. “Let’s put him to the test then, shall we?”

Your head snaps up at her odd suggestion, eyes widening at the satchel she uncovers from behind her slim form. “You found it?”

She tosses the bag to you and you outstretch your arms—only to catch it a second too late. The bag drops to the floor and the flap flips open. You race to collect the sparkling crown that tumbles out, hastily shoving the diadem back inside before Jungkook wanders back, even turning towards the fire to ensure his continued absence.

“Why so scared?” your mother questions smugly, “I thought you said that he’s different from the rest of them?”

“He is!” you exclaim, rushing to defend him.

“Then give it to him, let’s see if he stays once he has the crown back in his hands. But don’t come crying back to Mother when he runs for the hills,” she snarls, lifting her hood over her short curls and withdrawing into the woods.

Your mind reels from your mother’s visit, but your concern lies with where to stash the leather satchel in your grasp. Dead leaves crunch under approaching footsteps and you examine your body, contemplating the best area for your idea.

Hiking the hem of your dress up to your stomach, you loop the strap of the bag through your left foot, twisting and repeating until it’s coiled around your ankle and the pouch snugly rests against your skin. You shimmy the satchel until the middle of your thigh where it refuses to go any higher.

Satisfied, you release your dress, smoothing the fabric down and confirming that nothing is suspiciously sticking out. You violently shake your leg back and forth to ensure there would be no future problems and sure enough, the straps tenaciously cling onto your thigh throughout all your testing.

“Hey, look what I found! He’ll definitely save us some travelling time tomorrow, but I don’t think he likes me much.”

Jungkook appears from the area your mother disappeared with an overwhelming pile of lumber in his arms. You stroll over to lessen the load, but he brushes you off and bypasses you to drop it beside the fire.

A white horse tromps along after him, trying to nip at the crown of his head while he shoos it away with a waving hand. The comical sight distracts you from the dreary thoughts of your mother, although the stiff strap wrapped around your leg forbids you from forgetting about it.

When you snap out of your reverie, Jungkook is cocking his head to the side at your unusually spacey behaviour.

You spare him a weak smile and shake your head.

Rather than sore feet, the next day your entire crotch is painfully numb from riding Maximus, the quirky horse who holds an obnoxious grudge against Jungkook for reasons unknown to you. While Max allows you to rub his cheeks, scratch his neck and run your fingers through his mane, he huffs if Jungkook so much as breathes too loudly.

Oddly enough, the stallion follows Jungkook around like a lost puppy despite his cold attitude. What is with males and their inability to show their appreciation for one another?

Jungkook insisted on being in front and taking hold of the reins even though Max refused to let him mount his back at first. After some caresses and loving words with the sweet animal, Max permitted you to hop on—which Jungkook was not pleased with. It was a nice change of pace to watch the ordinarily suave man lose his cool over a horse’s favouritism.

In the end, the only way Jungkook was allowed on was by sitting behind you, latching onto you for stability. The animosity growing between the two males adds to your amusement, so you remain unbothered by the hostile glares you can feel Jungkook throwing over your shoulder and the aggressive puffs of air that blow through Max’s nostrils every once in a while.

“Tell me how you found Max again?” Skepticism leaks into your tone, courtesy of Jungkook’s thieving habits.

You could practically feel his eyes roll back into his head as his arms tighten around your waist. His built torso is glued to your back, which repeatedly distracts you from the path ahead. “I told you that I was collecting some twigs off of the ground when this guy appeared out of nowhere! I was scared shitless.”

“You mean to say that someone accidentally lost their horse in the middle of the woods?” You glance sideways to peek at his chin, lodged into the crook of your neck. His face is merely a couple of millimetres from your own.

When he insisted on resting his head there, you had thoroughly embarrassed yourself with a flaming face, resembling a ripe tomato ready for the picking, coupled with your inability to enunciate any word properly. But after hours of his head smooshed against the side of your face or leaning against your upper back, you finally relax into his hold, finding comfort and safety in the appendages coiled tightly around you.

“Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?”

You scoff at the impish grin stretching across his cheeks at his own horrible excuse.

The castle comes into view in the ensuing half-hour, the imposing building no longer obstructed by the towering trees of the forest. Your spirits are dampened slightly by the cruel secrets Jungkook revealed yesterday night, although your giddiness at the prospect of living out your dreams makes you vibrate in excitement. You remind yourself that you’re here for the magical lights, not the castle.

The faint pounding against your back picks up speed for a reason drastically different to your own. He is essentially walking right into his own imprisonment—his wanted posters more than likely plastered across every flat surface inside the marketplace with soldiers littered around the premises. You gather the sturdy reins into one hand, freeing the other to hold Jungkook’s conjoined digits over your stomach.

Completely engrossed in Jungkook’s dilemma, neither of you notice Max racing into town until a screech pierces your ears. You apologize profusely for the spilled legumes that begin rolling away from the young woman, and you whip Max into trodding off before she curses you out.

Once you’re satisfied with the amount of space between yourselves and the unlucky woman, you tie Max’s reins to a nearby fence and race to join the festivities carrying on all around you. Spotting Jungkook’s unsure form lagging behind, you dart back to tug on his wrist, flashing him an encouraging smile before lugging him from one stall to another.

You don’t get far before you experience a sharp pain on your scalp. With the large amounts of people bustling around the tiny square, your hair is a tripping hazard that you try to quickly bunch up into your arms. Your hair is way too long to carry by yourself, so you turn to ask Jungkook for help, though he’s nowhere to be found.

Your mind races to the worst-case scenario. The guards must have caught sight of him, capturing him off guard while you were none the wiser and now he’s going to be hanged for his crimes all because you were too stupid to—

A couple of little girls with flowers decorating their braids physically yank you out of your trance, their tiny hands gathering your multitudinous strands and dragging you off to the side. You’re about to protest against their actions, more concerned over Jungkook’s whereabouts than anything, but after catching a glance of said man playfully waving at you from a few feet away, you allow yourself to be whisked away.

The three girls deftly move from left to right, taking locks of your hair with them as they knot it all into one humongous five strand braid. When you stand up to your full height, you’re amazed to see that none of your hair touches the ground. Considering the hefty weight that pulls at the back of your head, you know this solution can’t last too long.

They scatter various fresh flowers all over, the scent of the blossoms wafting around your figure. As you’re appreciating their handiwork, an arm wraps itself around the curve of your lower back, drawing you into a herculean chest while you blow air kisses filled with your gratitude to the snickering girls.

Jungkook maneuvers you into a narrow alleyway, and you get a chance to admire his glittering irises from up close.

“Guards?”

He only grins.

You’re certain to keep an eye out for any wandering soldiers from that point on, with you pulling Jungkook behind crowds or him dragging you into the gaps between small buildings. Despite the situation being rather stressful with your lives at stake, your escapade is thrilling nonetheless and you enjoy being pressed up against his lean frame, carelessly giggling to yourselves.

Although neither of you carries any silver, window shopping proves to be equally as amusing—browsing through homemade accessories, toys and masks that you play around with, flashing ridiculous faces at one another.

The delicious smell of baked goods drifts through the streets and prompts your mouths to fill with saliva. You appreciate the artistry behind their beautifully decorated exteriors, adorned with colourful frosting and sprinkles. One booth catches your attention and you latch onto Jungkook’s hand to drag him along.

Rows and rows of shiny green bottles are positioned in perfect rows on a table inside the booth and plushies hang from the sides, acting as bait to any passerby. You tug on the hem of Jungkook’s dark vest, gesticulating towards the game with awe.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few silver coins that glint in the sunlight. Your eyes widen into saucers at his mischievous grin and you smack his arm, chiding him for his wandering hands as he assures you that he found them on the ground. When he goes as far as to insist that he saved them from being trampled on, you can’t help your tinkling laughter from escaping.

Perhaps it’s karma that prevents your rings from landing on top of any bottle, but the exhilaration of watching the rings soar in midair with a flick of your wrist as Jungkook’s chants fill your ears is priceless. Certainly more precious than any stuffed animal.

You two amble about the streets again, side by side. Long fingers intertwine with your own and your heart flips in your chest, suppressing the raging flush that threatens to colour your cheeks whenever Jungkook is involved. You look around your surroundings, trying to conceal the cheeky grin on your face, resembling that of a toddler with their favourite candy.

Before long, your travelling gaze takes notice of the people hunched over on the ground, concentrated on the stones below them. With a closer look, you discover the sketches littered across the stone pathways—some spanning the entire street and some smaller than your palm.

You bolt over to join them with Jungkook in tow. This whole hand-holding business is proving to be more useful than you thought.

There are pieces of different coloured chalk dispersed throughout the streets, and you pick up an orange one, urging Jungkook to do the same. He searches around for a bit until he decides on a white coloured chalk.

By the time you’re finalizing the tiny drawing you sketched onto the uneven stones, the stub in your hand is half the size of your pinky. Your joints ache from kneeling for so long, but you’re more than satisfied with the bright tiger lily staring back at you.

You stand up, brushing off of any stray rocks that have embedded themselves onto the bare skin of your legs and nudge Jungkook’s arm with your foot. He grumbles under his breath that you ruined the white blob he claims to be a bunny, but you jest that it was doomed the moment he picked up the chalk.

The retort silences him and you stretch your hand out to help him stand, grinning sheepishly at the pout on his pink lips. He accepts your peace offering, although rather than using your aid to get up, he yanks you downwards and your unstable body lands right into his lap. You squeak at his retaliation and wriggle violently in his hold as he curls himself around you, his chin resting onto your shoulder and arms wrapping around your torso to quell your futile efforts of escape.

“You like the nation’s flower?” He questions, nuzzling his face into your upper back.

“Nation’s flower?”

He hums his confirmation and you feel the pleasant vibrations on your neck before he’s nodding towards the purple pennants that dangle off of thin strings, stretching between buildings. Now that you’re actively inspecting the marketplace for the flower, you notice the continuous motif of the orange lily sprouting everywhere from decorations to paintings.

Jungkook seems to have abandoned all hope on his own masterpiece, for he lifts you up by your underarms and leads you away.

As you venture through the rest of the market, grazing through the various stalls, you examine all the knick-knacks depicting the famous tiger lily. It soothes you slightly, recognizing the flower decorating your walls back at the tower.

Lost in your trance, you don’t catch Jungkook slinking away, disappearing into the crowds.

As you turn the corner to browse the next stall’s wares, a massive stained glass window depicting a family of three catches your eye. The man appears stern with his furrowed brows and deep-set frown, and the woman’s forced smile fits awkwardly onto her face. She’s holding a tight bundle of canvas, a tiny face peeking through the layers of fabric in her arms.

Rays of the setting sun pierce through the coloured, translucent material and surround the art piece with an ethereal glow. You’re transfixed by the woman, reminded of your own mother’s delicate features.

You shake off the unpleasant feeling of your last encounter with her and analyze the three squares dedicated to the child’s crumpled face. The only noticeable detail you can make out is his chubby cheeks.

“Interested in the Prince?” A warm breath whispers into your ear, “Am I not good enough for you anymore, Princess?”

You spin around to face Jungkook, barely able to contain your delight as you examine the playful glint in his eyes. “Bold of you to assume there was ever a point where you were good enough for me.”

He scoffs, hands automatically coming to loop around your middle. “I know you’re not suggesting that I’m anything less than stellar company.”

You hum aloud, feigning contemplation by rubbing at your chin and a wide grin breaks his irked performance. He tries to hide his little slip by burrowing his face into the crook of your neck.

His soft cheeks on your bare skin along with his large hands squeezing at your sides elicit all your muffled giggles to burst past your lips. Pure, unadulterated glee bounces around your stomach.

Some of the lilies lodged within your golden strands fall loose and flutter onto the ground with the movement. You intercept one that drops from near your temple, plucking it out of the air and slotting the stem just above Jungkook’s ear.

He pulls away from subjecting your clavicle with his tiny nips in order to rest his forehead against yours. Your head is cradled by one of his palms and you watch as his heated gaze roams down to your lips. Entranced by his overwhelming presence, your eyelids slide shut as he leans forward slightly, tilting his head to the side before a meaty hand encloses around the circumference of your upper arm, yanking you away from him.

Panic seizes your muscles. Your heart threatens to shatter your rib cage with its fierce pounding. The soldiers. You extend your other arm to reach out for Jungkook—the same alarm piercing your flesh is reflected in his blazing orbs. Before he has the chance to rush after you, a dainty woman clothed in a primrose dress sweeps him away as well.

Barely a whole day has passed since you began running away from the soldiers, yet you’re more than certain that the soldier’s attire solely consisted of their royal uniforms, which did not include any flowy, pink garments. You whip back to your own abductor; a stout, jolly man with a cheshire grin stretching from one ear to the other.

He releases you in the middle of a swarming mass of people, moving their bodies left and right to the beat being pounded out on tabors and the sweet melody spilling from a nearby flute.

The man spins you around, encouraging you to let loose and sway your hips to the upbeat song as you’re handed off from one partner to the next. Somewhere within the chaos, you spot Jungkook’s longing stare and you subconsciously inch closer to his side.

The second that you two are within reach of one another, you dart into his arms. Just as you’re about to slip into his comforting embrace, a scrawny boy takes your place while an older woman wraps her arms around your shoulders. She wastes no time before guiding you into a dip, her palms supporting your back.

Upside down, Jungkook’s annoyed countenance is an amusing sight that you gleefully chortle at. Knowing that he is similarly distraught at the prospect of being unable to dance together soothes your aching desire and you savour the thrilling experience of moving as one part of a greater whole.

You prance and twirl your heart out as if it’s your last time. And you’re sure that it will be.

Eventually, both of you are able to slither your way out of the dancing crowds, and the cheers die down the farther you get from the main square. The sun is rapidly falling past the horizon and the capital is shrouded in the deepening twilight. You assumed that he would lead you to see the lanterns about now, but you’re clueless as to why you two are heading away from the castle.

“Jungkook?”

He turns back to you with a breathtaking smile resting on his lips, the dwindling light casting an otherworldly radiance around him. Reaching for your hand, he intertwines your fingers with his own as he leans down to softly bump his forehead against yours. “You’ll see.”

Jungkook directs you towards the moat that surrounds the marketplace, ushering you into one of the many gondolas lined up against the dock. You narrow your eyes at him and he attempts to reassure you with a simple, “We’ll bring it back.”

This man will truly corrupt all your morals.

But you’re so entranced in his spell that you follow along without more than a tiny squeeze at your interlaced digits. You release his hands before he jumps into the boat, the wood swaying back and forth under his weight, worrying you instead of the unbothered man a few feet away. As you take a sharp inhale, about to follow in his footsteps, Jungkook grips the sides of your hips and lifts you into the gondola with him.

You fix him with a reproachful glare at his unexpected actions yet the silent scolding doesn’t last long, for you’re hopeless to the sight of his elation, sticking to him like a second skin. Powerless against his charms, you sit on the thin wooden seat on the other side of the boat and watch him grab an oar, dipping it into the water and propelling you two forward.

You want to admire the unobstructed view of the sparkling night sky, but nothing can beat the galaxies hidden within Jungkook’s eyes, thus you try to seem as inconspicuous as possible in ogling him from your peripheral. However, your futile efforts are rather pointless considering your position, facing the handsome thief rowing the boat at the other end.

You think the title is fitting since he’s stolen your heart without a problem as well.

Once he deems your spot satisfactory, Jungkook strolls over to your side, taking a seat on the bench across from you. His legs slot in between the spaces of your own.

“Now that I think about it, it’s the Prince’s eighteenth birthday too,” he states. “He must be pretty excited, taking over the throne and everything.”

You perk up at the news. “He’s succeeding the King?”

“Mm,” he affirms, wetting his lips with a swipe of his tongue. “King announced an early retirement or something because they’d already found the Prince’s betrothed. His coronation is today.”

You nod your understanding, thinking about the responsibilities bearing down on the poor boy. “It’s kind of weird to think about, y’know, being the same age and even sharing the same birthday but leading completely different lives. He’s about to get married, lead a country and me...” you falter, pausing to string your thoughts into a coherent sentence. “Well, this is my entire dream. Seeing these lights is everything to me.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asks, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re living your own life, on your own journey. Comparing yourself to others does nothing but rob yourself of your own happiness.”

You hum with a teasing lilt to your tone. “Suddenly the boy who named himself ‘gold’ in the hopes of attracting some friends is giving me advice?”

He breaks out into a chuckle, doubling over and laying his forehead on your shoulder. His hands reach out for the locks of hair resting on your lap, plucking one of the flowers swimming in your strands. Like Hansel and his bread crumbs, many of the blossoms that fell off throughout your time in the marketplace left tracks of your whereabouts. Only a few flowers remain with you.

With the delicate daisy between his thumb and index finger, he rolls the pads of his fingers against each other, spinning the white petals so fast that they blur together into a splotchy circle surrounding the yellow centre. Once he becomes bored with the flower, he lifts his head and stretches his arm out with a classic smirk that heightens his flirtatious nature. “For you, my lady.”

You huff at the offering. “You act as if it wasn’t already mine in the first place.” Despite your sharp words, you gingerly pluck the stem out of his grasp, fingers brushing against his own. When you raise the daisy up to your nose, the invigorating floral scent startles your senses once more.

With not much else to occupy your time, you decide that now is a better time than ever to dislodge the wilting buds from your tresses. You face the side of the gondola overlooking the water, grabbing onto the ledge and leaning forward.

You muster all the grace you have within your bones to place the ivory daisy onto the water’s surface. The flower drifts along the calm current, painting the atmosphere with a tranquil serenity.

Despite your best efforts to suppress them, your clumsy tendencies shine through when you tip your torso over a smidge too far, losing your balance and diving headfirst for the water. Jungkook is quick to latch on to your wrist, steadying you before you accidentally throw yourself overboard.

You’re sheepish in both your apology and thanks. To avoid any further mishaps, one of his hands remain on your lower back and the other collects the remaining blossoms in your tresses, handing them off to you.

A slow rhythm develops between you two and your raging thoughts come to a standstill, a red light halting the traffic within your mind. In front of you, a garden of assorted blossoms assembles, floating gently towards the ornate castle. One sprout catches your eye.

A tiger lily.

Directly below its long petals, a flash of bright red catches your eye in the reflection of the water. Jungkook’s deep voice cleaves through the soft sloshing of the water. “The lanterns.”

“It’s…” You struggle to piece together proper words to describe the sight before you. One lantern lightens the dark sky, drifting alone in the expansive space before a bunch of others race to join the first. Their warm, yellow glow overpowers that of the moon, painting the landscape in an orange tint that seems to welcome you into its embrace.

“Beautiful.”

You’re too distracted by the enchanting sight before you to notice his eyes trained on your profile, and so you soundlessly agree with a nod of your head. It’s as if time has ceased in its endless ticking, halting in its tracks for another world to open where only you and Jungkook exist.

You don’t mind the idea as much as you think you would.

“I have a surprise.”

You turn over to face him, head tilting in curiosity. He carries a paper lantern in his open palms and your brows furrow at his attentive, considerate behaviour. “Jungkook?”

“We should join in on all the fun, right?” A genuine smile illuminates his soft features instead of the usual smirks he casually throws your way. Oddly enough, despite your inability to operate in front of his flirty personality, you adore both sides equally.

“Kook, wait.”

He perks up at the nickname, reminding you of a dog with its tail violently wagging back and forth—you can’t help but be enamoured by him. You raise the hem of your dress up to the middle of your left thigh and he sputters, looking away. “Hey, hey! I know I’m pretty irresistible but this boat is not the place to—”

“No, you idiot.” You snicker at his unexpected timidity, shimmying the coiled strap down your leg and covering your decency once again with the fabric. “I have something for you too.”

He peeks at you, ensuring that you’re sufficiently clothed before turning to face you. A cold sweat settles over the outer layer of your skin as you watch his brows raise at his satchel in your hands. Keeping the lantern in one hand, and his steady gaze focused on your eyes, he gently pushes the bag down to the floor of the boat, the metal of the crown banging against the wood.

“All I need is you,” he whispers the words into the empty space of the night, the syllables getting lost somewhere within the mellow breeze blowing by. Your heart constricts at the reassurance that this time, Mother is wrong. You fight back the tears gathering at your waterline and grab the other edge of the lantern after he lights the candle inside.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod and the two of you slowly lift your arms to release the lantern with the masses drifting above you. After a bit, you lose sight of your paper lantern and you glance back at Jungkook to ask whether he was able to keep track of its location, but your voice gets stuck in your throat when you become captivated with the childlike wonder buried within his orbs, roaming over the sky and examining every single lantern at once.

His scouring eventually leads him back to you. He catches you staring, but neither of you care enough to break the moment. His eyes soften and you two shuffle forward on your seats, being pulled toward one another like magnets. Your legs entangle with his in the cramped area and you lean forward until your lips are millimetres from one another.

From this close, you have a perfect view of your reflection within his brilliant irises, the shallow scar that runs along his cheek, the cute birthmark right under his mouth. His eyes are locked on your mouth and you take that as the go-ahead signal to close the gap and slot your lips against his soft ones.

With your evident lack of experience, Jungkook takes control immediately, a hand flying to the back of your head, threading through your hair to keep you in place as he sucks at your lower lip. His tongue swipes at the closed seam that blocks him from your mouth, and you instantly open up to clash tongues, although you shrink back soon after, letting him explore your hot cavern.

You sneak a peek at him every time you two separate for air, confirming that this is indeed reality and not some product of your wild imagination. He invades all your senses and keeps you locked to him like an addict desperate for their fix, his other palm searing through your clothing with its heat and burning a hole through the thin fabric of your dress.

When you finally pull away, you feel feverish and dizzy as a raging blush colours your cheeks. You can’t find it in yourself to look directly into his eyes, but he reaches for your chin and forces you to study the haze of passion in his gaze.

Every part of your body is lit aflame from his touch. Hooked on the feeling of his plush lips pressing against yours with your tongues swirling in tandem with one another, you’re about to lean in for more when his eyes dart off to the side and he abruptly jerks away as if you burned him with your embrace.

His startling jolt snaps you out of your dazed state. With your head out of the clouds, you notice that the lanterns have already moved onto the next town over, taking their warmth with them. The fire within you, kindled by Jungkook, dwindles with the uncertainty of your future together.

Without so much as another word, Jungkook snatches the oar from the bottom of the boat and jumps back to his position at the front of the gondola. He urgently paddles the two of you back to land and you fumble for words. “Jungkook, I—”

“It’s not you.” His statement is reassuring in writing, although his tone is detached, distant in a way that crushes the passages to your lungs. Lost in your dejection, you’re powerless to prod him for any more information than that.

Before the boat can hit the edge of the dock, Jungkook springs out with his leather satchel tucked under his arm, pausing to mutter, “I just—I have to take care of something. Please believe me when I say I’ll be back.” His anguish leaks into his voice and you will yourself to nod, a forced smile on your lips. “Wait for me.”

He dashes off with your heart in his hands. You steady your shaky breath and place your faith in him, the man you have come to trust with your life.

You spend the next half hour struggling to get out of the gondola, craving the flat land to ground yourself. By the time you manage to clamber out, there are a couple of discoloured blotches on the length of your dress that put your many failed attempts on full display. You fan one of the bigger spots to help it dry faster, but the fabric becomes chilly with the extra wind and a shiver slips down your spine from its icy temperature.

Languid footsteps approach your frigid frame and you brighten up, forgetting about the cold. “Took you long enough. Y’know, for a second there I was worried you’d actually lef—”

You pick up more than one pair of feet advancing on you and your eyes widen at the lanky, redheaded twins that stop in front of your path. Cursing your quivering limbs, you cringe at the tremor in your voice when you ask, “What did you do to him?”

They simultaneously snort at your question and the one on the left replies, “Sorry about this, lass, but you’re gonna have to come with us.”

The blood drains from your face and you repeat, louder, “What did you do to him?”

“Aw, don’t get all riled up now. But don’t worry your pretty little head, we’re going to take you right to him.” They corner you back to the dock and you scramble to locate a weapon to defend yourself with. At your wit’s end, you prepare to jump into the murky waters.

However, before you get the chance to move another muscle, an intense pain blooms at the back of your skull, wrapping around to your temples accompanied by a flash of light exploding behind your eyes. Then everything goes black.

Your head pounds as a dull ache nestles itself deep within your bones. Your vision is nothing but a blurry, indecipherable mess of colours, so you opt to keep your eyes closed instead. You’re kneeling on cold tiles that rub your knees raw when you subtly shift into a more comfortable position, discovering the existence of the shackles around your wrists and ankles.

“—nd the girl. We expect you to keep your end of the deal.” The rugged tone that speaks is one that you recognize from before your blackout—one of the redheads.

“Yes, yes, all the charges laid against you have been cleared,” a high-pitched voice meets your ears and you subconsciously grimace, physically recoiling from the sound. Thankfully, your sharp motions go unnoticed. “You’re free to go.”

“What?” You hear shuffling nearby, the rustling of clothes getting farther away from you. The distinct, metallic sheen of a couple of swords being unsheathed follow and the footsteps come to a sudden stop. “You promised us gold.”

The woman scoffs, “Now why would I give you crooked-nosed knaves anything more than a death sentence?”

Many polished boots clamber against the ground with such force that the vibrations can be felt through the flesh of your folded calves. The grunts and garbled screams that ensue are silenced within seconds and two hefty weights hit the floor with a limp, lifeless thud.

“A pleasure working with you boys.”

There’s more shuffling, then something is dragged past your crumpled form. The throbbing across your cranium worsens and you’re incapable of fending off the blissful oblivion of desolation any longer, thus you surrender to the darkness once more.

The next time you open your eyes a harsh light coats your surroundings and the blocks of colour are clearer, sharp enough to decipher the intricate detailing painted on the tiles beneath your knees. Someone chokes on a wet cough, and your eyelids snap shut once more. Your nose crinkles in disgust as well.

“Her tiny skull should have been rolling through these halls eighteen years ago.” The woman’s wretched tone fills your ears, words full of deadly poison.

You remain chained, kneeling against the ground with your head lowered. A numbing sensation lingers no matter how much you fidget in place, bearing down your limbs with the weight of your useless nerves that refuse to fire off.

Another, deeper, voice responds, “Tone it down. Her magic is powerful, the advantage we hold over the other kingdoms is colossal with this kind of sorcery on our side. If she falls, the whole empire will fall with her.”

Sorcery? Although you can count the number of people you met on one hand, you’ve studied heaps of books and drilled your mother with enough questions to know that your magic is unique and rare—a product of alchemy that occurs merely once every millennium.

“I see no point in keeping her around when we cannot access her magic at our will, she is as good as worthless to us. That halfwit of a sister was incapable of locking this churl in a tower for long enough, and look at her now, running around, wreaking havoc with a criminal.”

Your mind swirls with the sudden barrage of information, unsure as to why these two strangers hold deep insights into your life, as well as the knowledge about your unusual hair.

“There is nothing to worry about, Jimin is on the throne. We will simply send her away once again,” the gruff voice states, exasperation clear in his tone.

A deafening thud reverberates throughout the spacious room. Helpless to the dreadful fear swimming in your veins, your body shudders in response to the noise.

The woman shrieks, clearly at her wits’ end, “I want her dead! Guillotine, hang, drown, burn, I could care less. She poses a threat to Jimin’s throne with her existence, and we have gone through too much to have our plans foiled by this knave. We were merciful enough in having my imbecilic sister continue to meet with Jimin throughout the years.”

There’s a long, drawn-out sigh before the man answers, “Have some heart, darling, that is her son you speak of.”

“In the eyes of the people, he is my son and the King,” she seethes. Her enmity is strangely familiar, yet you fail to identify the woman through her voice. “Quit acting as if I am the only sinner here and remember how much we both sacrificed for our blood to inherit the King’s throne.”

“It is not your blood though, is it, dear wife?”

The tension within the room is thick, palpable in the dense air in the way that makes breathing difficult. “You must have enjoyed sleeping with my sister more than I believed. Do you want to call her back here? Play a good husband and wife for the counterfeit King?”

You couldn’t keep the tremours from breaking out over your body as your breaths quicken and an abundance of liquid races to your eyes. It was all beginning to come together, but you wait for the two to confirm your suspicions.

The man chuckles with hollow intent. “Do you fail to recall your own words, pleading with me to follow this foolish scheme of yours? I would have much rather preferred a foreigner rule the kingdom alongside our daughter.”

“Funny, that’s not what you said eighteen years ago.”

You let out a choked sob, unable to repress the sounds of anguish that tears at your skin to brutal shreds. Enraged rivulets stream down your cheeks, and you lift your torso to stare at your legitimate parents. They turn to you, the man distraught and the woman with pure disgust.

“How—” you stammer through your heavy wails, “how could you?”

“So the Princess found out.” Your biological mother raises from her royal seat, storming over the short distance to your trembling form. “Fine, we can strike an agreement.”

She reaches behind your head to grab a handful of your hair, yanking your head up to peer up at the exquisitely decorated ceiling. When you yelp in pain, she crouches down to your level, baring her pearly white teeth as she threatens, “Leave. Be a good little girl and go hole yourself back up in that tower. Don’t worry, Mommy will come get you if we ever need that magic of yours, hm?”

You desperately wriggle around to loosen her hold, but she only grips your strands tighter, pulling downwards to introduce more pain to your scalp. “That thief will stay right here to ensure you keep up your end of the deal, alright?”

At the mention of Jungkook, your heart stutters and your expression morphs to that of despair, momentarily forgetting about the strain to the sensitive skin of your head. “Where is he?”

She smirks and snaps her fingers. The door to the throne room is pulled open with a loud clack, and Jungkook’s weak, bloody form stumbles through the grand entrance, hanging upright with the help of two sturdy guards.

“Kook,” you achingly howl.

“Mopping all his blood off the floor would be terribly tiresome for the maids.” She jerks your head down to bear witness to the sneer stretching across her lips. “It’s all up to you, really.”

“Let me heal him!” you agonize, sobs ripping through your chest, burning through every tissue to the outermost layer of your skin. “Pl-please, please let me heal him. I’ll leave, I won’t say a word, I’ll do anything you want—I’m b-begging you, please.”

The wicked smirk playing on her lips grows wider at your pleading. She shoves your head away, the momentum of the push throwing your whole torso over to the side, bringing about a harsh meeting with the floor. With Jungkook occupying every crevice of your mind, there’s no space to register the pain pulsing through your groggy body.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

You scramble to your hands and knees, disregarding the scrapes and bruises littering your limbs. Despite your tunnel vision directed towards reaching Jungkook, your movements are sluggish from the extended period of time spent kneeling in one position.

The guards supporting him release their hold on his arms, and you scramble to catch his limp frame in your arms, but your depleted muscles can only manage to soften his fall with your body. You detangle yourself from him and hurriedly begin wrapping your hair around his torso.

Your jaw trembles at his damp locks, sodden with sweat and stuck to the side of his head dripping in crimson. The vicious colour oozes out of the deep gashes you locate across his back, peeking through the tears in his shirt and stains the bloody spit drooling from the corners of his cracked lips. Great purple welts fill the rest of his exposed skin, completing the heart-wrenching picture before you.

You pick up the weak croak of your name, and you hiccup from your fierce laments at his red-rimmed eyes. “Guess I was right all along, Princess.”

Your mother’s cruel words follow the nasty glower she shoots his way. “Shut up or we’ll end your pitiful life now, you filthy criminal.”

“Jungkook, I’m here,” you reassure him, beginning to wrap your excess strands around his arms before he stops you with a stained hand. “Jungkook let me—”

“Stop,” he mutters, gripping his side in pain.  

“No! I can’t—I can’t let you die.” You grit your teeth, disobeying his words and going to wrap your tresses around his broken body once more.

“If you go back there,” he coughs, an alarming amount of blood spurting out, “then you’ll—”

“It’s fine, everything will be alright, okay?” You press your palm over his hand and the icy bite that greets you hardens your resolve. “We’ll figure it out.”

You take a deep breath, readying yourself to sing the incantation engraved into the back of your mind when Jungkook’s fingers graze your cheek. You unconsciously lean into his touch, examining every crimson stain marring his delicate features.

His doe eyes soften at your orbs roaming his face and when your gaze settles on his thin lips, he snatches the chance to land a peck against your mouth. The fleeting kiss fills you with greed, and your eyes flutter shut despite your rationale as you dip towards him for another.

You halt, gasping at the gut-wrenching sound of your tresses being severed from the base of your neck, the noise snapping you back to reality. Your eyes widen at Jungkook’s relieved countenance as his torso reclines to the ground, the sharp dagger in his hand rattling onto the tiles beside him. When you reach back to assess the damage, your hand grips onto the short strands that reach no further than your shoulder.

You glance back at the heaps of dead, brown hair sprawled across the palace floor and your mind wipes clean of any coherent thought. Instead, your chest caves in on itself, breathing made impossible because of your collapsed airways and you choke out, “Jungkook, what did you—”

“What an absolute halfwit, does he think he did anyone a favour with that little stunt of his? Without your hair, we have no need for either of you.” Your biological mother laughs, the notes turning ominously maniacal towards the end. “Kill them.”

Guards immediately surround you two, and in a weak attempt to protect him from their pointed swords, you cradle Jungkook’s powerless form to your chest. You prepare yourself to bear the end of their piercing blades.

“What do you roaches think you’re doing?” she seethes, blazing orbs flashing with white-hot fury. “I said, kill them!”

The gigantic doors burst open again, but this time, a lean man strides forward. His blond strands are neatly styled away from his forehead and the regal red robe hanging upon his shoulders elegantly sway after him. The soldiers part ways to make room for the intimidating man and one of his retainers at the door announces, “The King is here!”

You struggle to even out your frantic breaths, thankful for the distraction that grants you a break to rack your brain for a method to escape the dreadful situation you two have found yourselves in. Debating whether you should fight back, sneak away or plead for forgiveness, your eyes dart wildly around the room. A woman donned in a black cloak lingers slightly behind the King, gazing at you with a murderous glare that sends pin needles into the thin lining of your stomach.

“That’s enough,” the King states.

“Jimin.” The former Queen races up to him but is stopped by the retainers that encircle the King.  “What business do you have here? There are more important matters for you to attend to.” Her eyes narrow at the sight of the woman behind him.

“No, I think this has gone on long enough.” He sweeps his gaze over to the two of you, Jungkook barely clinging onto life, nestled within your protective embrace. The woman latches onto his bicep, her head vigorously shaking back and forth, yet you’re uncertain whether her disagreement will relieve your anguish or worsen it.

Despite her insistence, his head nods in your direction and the woman that raised you begrudgingly marches up to you, barely acknowledging your presence in favour of pressing her palms against Jungkook’s open lacerations. He winces at the pressure and just as you’re about to tell her off, you discern the thick gauze that rests between her hand and Jungkook’s side, the sterile white shade expeditiously being replaced by a bloody crimson.

“What are you talking about, dear?” the former Queen asks, a hard edge to her tone. “These two are hedge-born lowlives, simply not worth your time.”

He crinkles his nose in disgust, flicking his hand towards the former King and Queen. “Lock them up in the dungeons.”

Both their eyes widen comically, jaws dropping to the floor. However, you can’t find joy within their despair when Jungkook’s survival is still up in the air.

The woman sputters, recklessly thrashing her body to escape the soldiers’ grip. The man simply lowers his head, seemingly having accepted his fate as he follows the guards without another word.

“Did you forget who put you in that throne, Park Jimin?” the woman screeches, the blood vessels lining her neck about to implode. “How dare you disrespect your pare—”

“How could I ever forget your treacherous actions?” he spits out, disgust lacing his voice, “How could I ever forget how many lives you’ve ruined, dear aunt.”

“We did it all for you!”

“You did it for yourselves,” he hisses. Relief trickles through the tips of your fingers, spreading across your body like wildfire from the King’s aid. “Get them out of my sight.”

“You worthless—” Her shrieks echo throughout the halls, though you’ve long lost focus in their conversation after watching the two wretched souls being punished and put in their rightful place.

Your aunt passes some thick bandages from inside the bell sleeve of her cloak. You gratefully accept the offering, pressing it against his lower back—wishing that it’s not too late, that Jungkook has not lost too much blood yet. The passive stare that your aunt fixes you with crams your head with doubt and you begin to panic, bringing one of your hands up to cradle his face.

Although you’re convinced that you wailed through an entire year’s worth of sobs, the tears sliding down your face refuse to stop, dripping down and landing onto the dirtied skin of Jungkook’s cheek. You press your forehead against his, hoping against hope that some magic remains within your body, that the tiniest bit will reveal itself like a bag trick and heal his wounds.

But your magical hair was extraordinary enough, and this is no fairytale.

“Get those two to the physician’s,” the King orders.

Guards scramble to action, ripping you apart from Jungkook as you unsuccessfully attempt to resist being separated again. You’re absolutely spent from the tiring events of the past couple of days and your weary legs give out as the soldiers lift your drained form into a standing position.

Jungkook is moved onto a sturdy sheet, then carried away past the double doors and out of sight. Your flimsy arms wrap around the shoulders of two guards as they assist you in following Jungkook to the physician, passing the King on your way.

His plush lips stretch into a sympathetic, tight-lipped smile, but the adrenaline from earlier wears off and the sting of your own wounds drains you of your manners, uncaring that you’re facing the King. Thankfully, he dismisses your discourtesy instead of beheading you, and you’re hauled away from the gracious man.

On the way, you’re close enough to overhear what he mutters under his breath. A garbled scream rips through your throat in protest, and you shoot the King the deadliest glare you can muster. He releases a deep sigh at your childish antics, waving as you turn the corner.

“Poor guy doesn’t look like he’s going to make it.”

You spend the next few, rather tedious, days in a luxurious bed, being fretted over by everyone from the maids to the chefs. It was difficult to indulge in the extravagance that the castle had to offer when you were anxiously awaiting news regarding Jungkook, which they refused to disclose until your own condition improved.

After all the pampering, you were permitted access past the confines of the expansive room you were forced to recover in. Your injuries were minor in comparison to Jungkook, thus you were granted freedom much earlier than him.

Not like he was capable of stepping outside of his room anyway.

Although his body is repairing his torn flesh incrementally, he shows no signs of consciousness—not the twitch of a finger, the flutter of an eyelash, nothing. Doubt claws a bit higher up your torso each day, waiting for the moment that the disquiet slithers up your esophagus and suffocates you.

Despite the crushing news of his coma-like state, you work diligently to ensure that neither you nor Jungkook becomes a burden to the castle by picking up various duties. Jimin continuously waves off your attempts to help, but you’re restless and desperate for a distraction from wondering about Jungkook’s condition all the time.

Jimin banned you from performing some of the maid’s tasks once, then sorely regretted it when he had to tend to your nervous breakdown in the afternoon. Since then he has kept his comments on your excessive working habits to himself.

Today you’re in Jungkook’s room, dusting off the spotless shelves that house the many herbs being grounded into powders and rubbed as a salve onto his injuries daily. You organize the rolled bandages for the second time in the past hour and mop every inch of the floor.

You can’t devote yourself to lingering by the unconscious man’s side for too long, otherwise your mind gradually begins to spiral into every possible worst-case scenario and you simply can’t handle the reality of a future without him. It sounds overly dramatic—many of the maids you have grown close to over the months claimed as much when you brought up your journey together.

But they didn’t hear his melodic laughter that followed his teasing smirks when he said something flirtatious, effectively making your heart skip a beat. They didn’t feel his hand always reaching out to make contact with you in some way, craving your touch to ground him to reality. They didn’t see his eyes softening when he gazed at you as though you were holding his entire world in your eyes.

They didn’t know Jungkook the way you did.

You strain the mop of its excess dirtied water before stowing the tool away in the storage room. When you return, a draft filters in through the open window and you race over to close it, worried that Jungkook may catch a bothersome cold that will delay his healing process.

You take a seat on the lavish mattress adjacent from his thighs as you stare out the window in front of you. The air remains stale in spite of the fresh breeze that blew into the room seconds prior, and the dull atmosphere persists due to the lifeless man inhabiting its space.

You’re uncertain how many more times you can handle walking into this room with his weak body lying motionless on these pristine sheets, but you will endure it all without complaint for him. A knock at the door catches your attention, and you twist around to meet Jimin’s friendly beam. “How is he?”

“Same as he always is,” you state, allowing yourself to take in Jungkook’s sunken cheeks and pale face. “Unresponsive.”

“You wanna join me in the gardens for some fresh air?” At your unsure raise of a brow, he convinces you with, “You’ve been cooped up in the castle the whole day.”

The both of you head out to view the lush scenery outside, seated amongst the blooming tulips, although your eyes are drawn to the lilies that border the lilac cosmos. You trace the familiar shape of the orange flower with your pupils, reminiscing on the doodles decorating your room’s walls back at the tower. That seems like forever ago now.

Other than his lack of consciousness, Jungkook’s condition remains relatively stable and yet you still find it burdensome to stray too far from his side. The staff is under orders to instantly notify you should he arise while you’re away, but that doesn’t ease the disquiet that rouses whenever you leave the castle walls.

You’re convinced that the second you wander off, he will wake up without you there; a thought too unbearable to consider. You crave to lose yourself within his molten ember orbs once more, exploring the undiscovered galaxies in his gaze.

“These past few months must seem unfathomable,” he starts, pressing his lips together to ponder over his next words before continuing. “I don’t know how my mom treated you in the tower but, knowing her, I’m guessing it wasn’t too great.”

His casual mention of the affectionate term you pleaded to call your mother for ages—the topic she despised almost as much as you begging to venture outside the tower—stung the slightest bit. From her actions, it was evident that she never cared for you as much as her own, biological son, but it was difficult to dismiss the joyful memories you shared with her, no matter how few and far between they were.

“She started visiting me a few years back, explaining all their horrendous crimes and insisting that she was the only one I could trust. She told me about you, too. Your mother ordered her to lock you away in that tower and ensure that nobody ever found out the truth in exchange for my seat on the throne. ”

Your head lowers at the information, brows furrowing as you contemplate your true relationship with the woman that raised you from birth.

“When my mom caught word of you travelling with the thief, she returned the crown in hopes that Jungkook would run for the hills, and you would be left to come back with her. Her goal was to overtake the kingdom from your mother.” His eyes gloss over with a distant sheen and you sympathize with him; the boy was used as a tool, just like you.

“It’s reassuring in a way.” His strange admittance prompts you to glance up at him, confusion swirling within your orbs. “At least we’re both suffering from our family’s despicable actions.”

Our family.

His optimistic viewpoint hits you like a wave crashing against the shore, sharing his vast fortitude and washing away a fraction of the sombre agony tormenting your heart. Although Jimin’s life was no doubt disparate from your own, you two are connected through the blood running through your veins. Even if those same bonds brought you to a tragic meeting with your own wicked parents, at least you could rely on one person within your family.

The edges of your lips curl into a tiny smile aimed at the blond man across from you, your own short, chestnut coloured hair providing a stark contrast. “I’m glad I can rely on you, Jimin.”

He readjusts his weight on the green, iron chair and leans forward to rest his elbows on the metal table between the two of you. “I think this is the first time you’ve called me by my name without me having to remind you.”

You quietly giggle at the memories flooding your mind, from the hostile attitude you first approached him with, then the days he comforted you over Jungkook’s motionless form, to Jimin demanding that you call him by his first name. You consider yourself extremely lucky to have someone as gracious and compassionate as Jimin to be your half-brother.

“I know we’ve already gone over this,” he starts with a serious edge to his tone, “but this is your last chance.”

You rip your gaze away from the plants to lay a couple of light pats to his hand. Despite the lack of context, the topic is familiar to you, as he has gone over this with you many times. “No, I don’t want the throne. You trained for this position your whole life, so I’m entrusting the kingdom to your capable hands. All I ask is for you to fulfill my request.”

Jimin releases a heavy sigh. “If you really want him free of all his crimes, there’s no way you two can live within the capital.”

“That’s fine with me.” You shrug your shoulders, unconcerned about the prospect of having to leave the busy city. “I don’t think I could live somewhere like this anyway.”

You don’t expand on your reasoning, and he doesn’t question you further, simply sparing you a solemn, understanding gaze. Supposedly, you aren’t supposed to pick favourites within your family, but Jimin is definitely golden in your eyes.

“Deeply sorry to intrude, Your Royal Majesty, but your betrothed is at the door and wishes to meet with you.” A guard inches his way towards your table with his head bowed, hands respectfully gathered behind his back.

Jimin looks to you with an apology on his tongue, but you wave him off before any explanations can spill from his plump lips. “Go get your girl.”

A bright smile enlightens his features as he springs up from his seat, dusting off his uniform before bounding after the guard. When he quirks his head back, you demonstrate your encouragement through a thumbs-up that you wave from side to side until he is satisfied, facing forward with a gleeful snicker.

You inhale the outdoor air, about to head inside yourself to rearrange Jungkook’s bandages again when your eyes wander back to the tiger lilies that caught your eye earlier. Within a few strides, you reach the vibrant buds, stretching your hand out to pluck a few stems. The sweet smell invades your senses.

With a tiny bouquet in hand, you make your way back inside, the metaphorical load on your shoulders a bit lighter than it was before. You expertly maneuver your way through the halls towards Jungkook’s room with the dwindling hope that today will be the day that his honey orbs reflect the sun’s light filtering in the window, filled with the mischief and tenderness that you remember.

When you’re met with his unmoving form instead, another sliver of that faith shatters into tiny shards.

You shake it off and head back to the windowsill, where an empty flower vase rests. The lilies within your grasp are carefully inserted inside and you place the bouquet back onto the tiny platform. Their floral scent wafts throughout the space as you take your place beside his legs.

As part of your usual routine, you use this time to relax. Just for a moment, you give yourself the room to breathe, giving your brain free rein to feel the emotions raging within you and fantasize about your future with Jungkook. You imagine yourself in a tiny cottage, craving a quaint place to live after the immense tower you were raised in.

The two of you would settle down there, adopting a pet to keep you company before you inevitably brought a few children into the world. Their genders didn’t matter, as long as you could raise them with Jungkook, forming a tight-knit family that shared all the love the both of you lacked growing up.

A warm hand wraps around your wrist. Your head snaps to follow the direction of his arm, curving into his broad shoulders, and past his sharp jaw with your heart in your throat. Tears gather at your waterline, spilling over onto your cheeks as you hiccup from the sudden sobs that overtake your body.

The doe eyes that stare back at you carry your whole world in their weight.

+ epilogue.

Tiny footsteps scuttle around the wooden floors, screaming in delight from being chased by a much larger, yet still very childlike, man. “Betchya can’t catch me, daddy!”

Your husband playfully roars at the taunt, speeding up his strides to snatch the little girl up into his arms. She shrieks at the hand that comes up to tickle her little torso.

“Okay, okay, enough playing you two,” you command, calming the baby boy in your arms that becomes far too excited from the chaotic energy erupting within your cottage. “It’s dinnertime!”

“Dinnertime!” your oldest repeats, violently wriggling around in her father’s grip to force him in lowering her back to the ground so that she can run to her spot at the table. She looks from side to side, doe eyes flitting back to you with a pout on her lips. “But where’s Pascal, Mommy?”

You pass the baby to Jungkook, freeing your hands in order to bring the steaming hot food from the stove to the table. The beige chameleon fades back into his natural emerald colour once you grab him by his scaly torso, dropping him into your daughter’s awaiting hands.

Her squeaky voice chides, “You can’t hide from Mommy.”

A boisterous, yet melodic neigh notifies you of Max’s presence in your backyard, and you shamble past the wooden door to hand the carrots you prepared for him. He snorts in delight as he lowers his head to the floor and begins chomping away. At the sight of his dirtied mane, you take a mental note to give him a thorough wash and brush later on.

Before you head inside, you catch sight of a blond man making his way towards you. “Jimin!”

His eyes reduce to two crescents from the wide grin that occupies his face. He swapped out his imposing robe for a commoner’s shirt and slacks, and they strangely suit his lithe form better than his bulky uniform.

“And where’s our lovely Queen?” You tease, elbowing him when he reaches out to ruffle the top of your head.

“Taking care of things that I don’t want to do.” You two snicker, ecstatic to see one another, and you step aside to let him coddle your children. The slight breeze in the air gingerly kisses your face, rustling the leaves on the trees surrounding your tiny house, and you close your lids to relish in the tranquillity of nature.

A pair of familiar arms curl around the shape of your waist and a smile creeps onto your lips as you open your eyes to examine Jungkook’s face, inches away from your own. He brushes your brown strands over your shoulder, leaning in for a quick peck as a loud chorus of disgust is vocalized behind you.

Both of you break out into giggles at your daughter’s behaviour and turn to face your family waiting for you inside. With your hand tangled with his, you walk to a brighter future together.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How the Sacklers rigged the game

Two quotes to ponder as you read “Purdue’s Poison Pill,” Adam Levitin’s forthcoming Texas Law Review paper:

“Some will rob you with a six-gun, And some with a fountain pen.” (W. Guthrie)

“Behind every great fortune there is a great crime.” (H. Balzac) (paraphrase)

Some background. Purdue was/is the pharmaceutical company that deliberately kickstarted the opioid crisis by deceptive, aggressive marketing of its drug Oxycontin, amassing a fortune so vast that it made its owners, the Sackler family, richer than the Rockefellers.

Many companies are implicated in the opioid crisis, but Purdue played a larger and more singular role in an epidemic that has killed more Americans than the Vietnam war: Purdue, alone among the pharma companies, is almost exclusively devoted to selling opioids.

And Purdue is also uniquely associated with a single family, the Sacklers, whose family dynasty betrays a multigenerational genius for innovating in crime and sleaze.

The founder of the family fortune, Arthur Sackler, invented modern drug marketing with his campaigns for benzos like Valium, kickstarting an addiction crisis that burned for decades and is still with us today.

His kids, while not inventing the art of reputation laundering through elite philanthropy, did more to advance this practice than anyone since the robber barons whose names grace institutions like Carnegie-Mellon University.

The Sackler name became synonymous not with the cynical creation of a mass death drug epidemic and a media strategy that blamed the victims as “criminal addicts” — rather, “Sackler” was associated with museums from the Met to the Louvre.

Handing out crumbs from their vast trove of blood-money was just one half of the Sacklers’ reputation-laundering. The other half used a phalanx of vicious attack-lawyers who’d threaten anyone who criticized them in public (I personally got one of these).

The Sacklers could not have attained their high body count nor their vast bank-balances without the help of elite legal enablers, both the specialists from discreet boutique firms and the rank-and-file of the great white-shoe firms.

I’m not one to take cheap shots at lawyers. Lawyers are often superheroes, defending the powerless against the powerful. But the law has a bullying problem, a sadistic cadre of brilliant people who live to crush their opponents.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/10/duke-sucks/#devils

To see the sadism at work, look no further than the K-shaped world of bankruptcy: for the wealthy, bankruptcy is the sport of kings, a way to skip out on consequences. For the poor, bankruptcy is an anchor — or a noose.

When working people are saddled with debts — even debts they did not themselves amass — they are hounded by petty, vindictive monsters who deluge them with calls and emails and threats.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/19/zombie-debt/#damnation

But it’s very different for the wealthy. Community Hospital Systems is one of the largest hospital chains in America, thanks to the $7.6b worth of debt it acquired along with 80+ hospitals, which it is running into the ground.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/18/unhealthy-balance-sheet/#health-usury

CHS raked in hundreds of millions in interest-free forgivable loans, stimulus and other public subsidies and paid out millions from that to its execs for “performance bonuses.”

It also leads the industry in suing its indigent patients, some for as little as $201.

Debt and bankruptcy are key to private equity’s playbook, especially the most destructive forms of financial engineering, like “club deal” leveraged buyouts that turn productive businesses into bankrupt husks while the PE firms pocket billions:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/14/billionaire-class-solidarity/#club-deals

For mere mortals — those of us who can’t afford to hire legal enablers to work the system — bankruptcy is a mystery. If you know someone who went bankrupt, chances are they had their lives destroyed. How can bankruptcy be a gift, rather than a curse?

Purdue Pharma presents a maddening case-study in the corrupt benefits of bankruptcy. When it was announced in March, many were outraged to learn that the Sacklers were going to walk away with billions, while their victims got stiffed.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/03/31/vaccine-for-the-global-south/#claims-extinguished

Levitin’s paper uses the Purdue bankruptcy as a jumping-off point to explain how this can be — how corporate bankruptcy “megacases” have become a sham that subverts the very purpose of bankruptcy: to allow orderly payments to creditors while preserving good businesses.

Levitin identifies three pathologies corrupting the US bankruptcy system.

First is “coercive restructuring techniques” that allow debtors and senior creditors to tie bankruptcy judges’ hands and those of other creditors, overriding bankruptcy law itself.

These techniques — “DIP financing agreements,” “Stalking Horse bidder protections,” “Hurry-up agreements,” etc — are esoteric, though Levitin does a good job of explaining each.

More significant than their underlying rules is their effect.

That effect? Thousands of Oxy survivors and families of Oxycontin victims lost their right to sue the Sacklers and Purdue pharma because of these techniques. In return, the Sacklers surrendered about a third of the billions they reaped.

https://www.reuters.com/article/us-purduepharma-bankruptcy/sacklers-reaped-up-to-13-billion-from-oxycontin-maker-u-s-states-say-idUSKBN1WJ19V

Depriving the victims of the Sacklers’ drug empire of the right to sue doesn’t just leave the Sacklers with billions; it also means that no official record will be produced detailing the Sacklers’ complicity in hundreds of thousands of deaths.

Levitin: “The single most important question in the most socially important chapter 11 case in history will be determined through a process that does not comport with basic notions of due process.”

The Sacklers are not unique beneficiaries of “coercive restructuring techniques.” The rise of “prepack” and 24-hour “drive through” bankruptcies have turned judges into rubberstampers of private agreements between debtors and their cronies, with no look-in for victims.

It in these proceedings that the law descends into self-parody, more Marx Brothers than casebook. Levitin highlights the Feb ’21 “drive-through” bankruptcy of Belk Department Stores, where the judge was told that failing to accede to the private deal would risk 17,000 jobs.

The trustees representing Belk’s non-crony creditors were railroaded through this “agreement,” upon notice consisting of an “unintelligible” one-page, one-paragraph release opening with “a 630-word sentence with 92commas and five parentheticals.”

Sackler lawyers were geniuses at this game, securing judicial approval of a deal where the Sacklers’ personal liability to the Feds went from $4.5b to $225m. The judge heard no evidence about whether the Sacklers’ voluntary payout was even close to their liabilities.

The corruption of bankruptcy is bad enough, as the creditors for finance criminals are often small firms and workers’ pension.

The Sacklers’ case is far worse: they don’t owe billions in unpaid loans — they owe criminal and civil liability for the lives they destroyed.

The next area of corruption that Levitin takes up is the inadequacy of the appeals process for bankruptcy settlements. This, too, is complex, but it has a simple outcome: once a judge agrees to a settlement, it’s virtually impossible to appeal it.

In those rare instances where people do win appeals, they are still denied justice, because the appellate courts typically find that it’s too late to remedy the lower courts’ decisions.

That makes the business of “coercive restructuring techniques” (in which judges rubber-stamp corrupt arrangements between debtors and their cronies) even more important, since any ruling from a bankruptcy judge is apt to be final.

The third and most important corrupt element of elite bankruptcy that Levitin describes is the ability for debtors’ lawyers to pick which judge will rule on their case, a phenomena that means that only three judges hear nearly every major bankruptcy case in America.

“[In 2020] 39% of large public company bankruptcy filings ended up before Judge David Jones in Houston. 57% of the large company cases ended up before either Jones or two other judges, Marvin Isgur in Houston and Robert Drain in White Plains.”

https://www.creditslips.org/creditslips/2021/05/judge-shopping-in-bankruptcy.html

In other words, elite law firms have figured out how to “hack” the bankruptcy process so they can choose from among three judges. And these three judges weren’t picked at random — rather, they competed to bring these “megacases” to their courts.

This competition is visible in how these judges rule — in ways that are favorable to cronyistic arrangements between debtors and their favored, deep-pocketed creditors — and in the public statements the judges themselves have made, going on the record admitting it.

Levitin cites the groundbreaking work of Harvard/UCLA law prof Lynn LoPucki on why judges want to dominate bankruptcy megacases. LoPucki points out hearing these cases definitely increases “post-judicial employment opportunities” — but says the true motives are more complex.

Levitin, summarizing LoPucki: “[it’s more] in the nature of personal aggrandizement and celebrity and ability to indirectly channel to the local bankruptcy bar.. The judge is the star and the ringmaster of a megacase — very appealing to certain personalities”

Obviously, not every judge wants these things, but the ones that do are of a type — “willing and eager to cater to debtors to attract business…[an] assurance to debtors that…these judges will not transfer out cases with improper venue or rule against the debtor…”

Forum-shopping in bankruptcy is not new, but it has accelerated and mutated.

Once, the game was to transfer cases to Delaware and the Southern District of New York.

It’s why the LA Dodgers went bankrupt in Delaware, why Detroit’s iconic General Motors and Texas’s own Enron got their cases heard in the SDNY.

The bankruptcy courts have long been in on this game, allowing the flimsiest of pretences to locate a case in a favorable venue.

For example, GM argued that it was a New York company on the basis that it owned a single Chevy dealership in Harlem.

Other companies simple open an office in a preferred jurisdiction for a few months before filing for bankruptcy there.

Lately, the venue of choice for dirty bankruptcies is in Texas (if only Enron could have held on for a couple more decades!). Only two Houston judges hear bankruptcy cases, and any bankruptcy lawyer who gets on their bad side risks ending their career.

Once a court becomes a national center for complex bankruptcies, the bankruptcy bar works to ensure that only favorable judges hear cases there, punishing a district by seeking other venues when a judge goes “rogue.” The fix is in from the start.

Purdue did not want to have its case heard in Texas. Instead, it manipulated the system so that it could argue in front of SDNY Judge Robert D Drain.

It was a good call, as Drain is notoriously generous with granting “third-party releases,” which would allow the Sacklers to escape their debts to the victims and survivors of their Oxy-pushing.

Once Drain agreed to the restructuring, he ensured that the victims would never get their day in court, and no evidence — from medical examiners, auditors, and medical professionals who received kickbacks for every patient they addicted — would be entered into the record.

Drain is also notoriously hostile to independent examiners, “an independent third-party appointed by the court to investigate ‘fraud, dishonesty, incompetence, misconduct, mismanagement, or irregularity…by current or former management of the debtor.”

But getting the case in front of Drain took some heroic maneuvering by the Sacklers’ lawyers. Levitin tracks each step of a Byzantine plan that somehow allowed a company that gave its address in Connecticut to have its case heard in New York.

The key to getting in front of Judge Drain appears to involve literally hacking the system, by putting a Westchester County location in the machine-readable metadata for its filing in the federal Case Management/Electronic Case Files (CM/ECF) system.

CM/ECF does not parse the text of the PDF that it receives from lawyers; only the metadata is parsed. The company listed a White Plains, NY address in this metadata, even though it had never conducted business there.

Purdue seems to have opened this office 192 days earlier for the sole purpose of getting its bankruptcy in front of Judge Drain (they were eligible for Westchester County jurisdiction 180 days after opening the office).

Their lawyers even went so far as to pre-caption the case filing with “RDD” — for “Robert D Drain” — knowing that all complex bankruptcies in Westchester County were Drain’s to hear.

The fact that the Sacklers were able to choose their judge — a judge who was notorious for his policies that abetted elite impunity in bankruptcy — is nakedly corrupt.

This move is how the Sacklers are walking away from corporate mass murder with a giant fortune. The art galleries have started to remove their names from their buildings, but they’ll have a lot of money to keep themselves warm even if they’re shunned in polite society.

A couple weeks ago, a Texas judge ruled against the NRA, denying its bankruptcy, on the grounds that it was a flimsy pretence designed to escape liability in New York, where it was incorporated.

https://apnews.com/article/nra-bankruptcy-dismissed-a281b888b64d391374f24539a820d60f

For many of us, the NRA bankruptcy was a kind of puzzle. We went from glad that the NRA was bankrupt to glad that they WEREN’T, because for dark money orgs like the NRA, bankruptcy isn’t a punishment, it’s a way to escape justice.

The NRA case is evidence that the corruption of the bankruptcy system isn’t yet complete. That’s no reason to assume everything is fine. The Sacklers are developing a playbook that will be used to escape other elite crimes with vast fortunes intact.

Image: Geographer (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Serpentine_Sackler_Gallery.jpg

CC BY-SA https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG197!

- I like how Basira and Jon immediately installed the setting (“Watch your step…! Long way down.” “It’s fine. The stickiness helps.”): big hole and strands of webs everywhere, funnel full of tapes going far down below, tapes probably unrolled a bit themselves, many tape recorders squeaking voices now and then and occasionally rewinding.

(I’m especially fond of the selected fragments of voice heard at the end of last episode and the tapes rewinds in this one, because it felt like a call-back to the beginning of the season, when Jon was obsessively relistening to the tapes that had been sent to him: stopping and rewinding and listening, again and again, to the fragment of Gertrude’s voice when she was telling Gerry she didn’t think it was possible to reverse an apocalypse.)

- I love that Jon&Basira are on good enough terms to share their shitty sense of humour with each other!! ;w;

(MAG197) BASIRA: Feeling better now, are we? Without those horrible sunny skies and fresh winds? ARCHIVIST: Yes, the colossal web stretching down into an endless pit is a significant improvement. BASIRA: [CHUCKLING] Don’t pretend like you’re joking.

Compared to season 4, it doesn’t sound mean-spirited anymore coming from Basira…

I also like that, same as them helping each other out on the lake in MAG195, we could hear that it was a mutual exchange – Basira ensuring that Jon wouldn’t fall into the hole by grounding him when he was getting too fascinated by it, Jon warning her about the threads. Jon was even counting on Basira to be an element of surprise, so it really felt like he indeed valued her as an ally ;_;

- I wonder if Jon looked into Martin’s head for that one, or if it’s how Martin looked like from the outside?

(MAG197) BASIRA: I’m guessing she’s waiting at the centre? ARCHIVIST: Naturally. [STATIC RISES] They both are. Martin is… he’s okay. He’s… scared, but also… frustrated.

Jon had promised to not look as long as he wasn’t in physical danger (which was precisely the case here) so…

I like how Jon pointed out that Martin was “scared”: from his exchange with Annabelle, he sounded mostly pissed, annoyed, frustrated indeed rather than afraid; he knows how to hide it!

- Jon’s fascination with the pit…

(MAG195) ARCHIVIST: No, it’s… I could look at it, but it… it was… it was like a… a hole. You know that feeling you get when you look down from a, a great height, like you’re being… pulled into the abyss? BASIRA: Kind of? ARCHIVIST: [GETTING LOST IN THOUGHT] Well, it was… was like that. Normally… I can see it, see the… webs, and feel the power of The Spider emanating from it, but… as I would look, i–i… it’s like… my mind…. follows the paths of The Web… [STATIC RISES] the strands going down and… out… [CATCHING SELF] I–it’s… [STATIC FADES] quite disorientating…!

(MAG197) ARCHIVIST: I know she has something to tell me and it… it’s about… the hole below us, her thoughts are… all down there, and… [TAPE SQUEAL] [STATIC INCREASES] And the threads are so closely woven, I–I follow them out and… in, and down, and through the strands of web and twisting tape, and down, and down, and down into the chasm into the emptiness that stretches– BASIRA: Woah! ARCHIVIST: –out– BASIRA: Woah! ARCHIVIST: –below– BASIRA: Careful! ARCHIVIST: Oh! [ARCHIVIST LOSES BALANCE BUT BASIRA STEADIES HIM] [STATIC FADES] BASIRA: Careful. ARCHIVIST: [DEEP BREATHS] … Thanks. There’s a–, sorry, there’s a s–sort of… pull to it. BASIRA: [SIGH] ARCHIVIST: Every time I get a glimpse, it, it draws me in…

… might be caused by Beholding? What is below is a complete mystery and, as Annabelle pointed out later, it probably led to many worlds (so far) untouched by the Fears: Jon’s appel du vide might as well be Beholding attracted to what is not (yet) under its dominion.

- I’m curious about the fact that Jon wasn’t able to categorically say what was the tapes’ deal:

(MAG197) BASIRA: … So. The tapes. They’re from The Web, then? ARCHIVIST: Looks like it. BASIRA: Were they always? Right from the start? ARCHIVIST: As far as I can tell. I–it’s hard to s–… If I look too closely at them, my own voice, things get… recursive. Hard to follow. BASIRA: I always assumed they were with The Eye. The whole “watching, listening, waiting” thing, you know? ARCHIVIST: No… They were always using them to spin their own web. Out of my words. BASIRA: Mine too. ARCHIVIST: True.

* On the one hand, his difficulty to tell what they are does explain why he couldn’t say they were Web until now. On the other hand… there is still that nagging doubt that there could also be something else, due to Jon’s inability to confirm even now. What would happen if Jon looked at a tape not holding his voice at all, like one with Martin’s?

* Basira’s assumption had been shot down starting with MAG114 (when Jon had pointed out to Tim that he didn’t think the tapes were from Beholding) and once again reminded by Martin in MAG170 (when Martin had a moment of clarity in the Lonely house, having him point out that Beholding had “won” and so didn’t need tapes to see what was happening to them)… but I like that Basira had her own ideas about them until now, linking them to the Institute’s motto.

* I like Basira’s reminder that the tapes didn’t only record Jon’s voice, but that she was also “used” in the same way…

- I love the contrast with Jon&Basira now compared to, say, their expedition in Svalbard in season 4:

(MAG197) BASIRA: Different question, then. How do we play this one? ARCHIVIST: You get Martin to safety, then I deal with Annabelle Cane. BASIRA: Right. … I think we should hear her out first. ARCHIVIST: Excuse me? BASIRA: Before you “deal with her”, we should try to get some answers. All of this, taking Martin… she wants to talk.

Back then, Basira was the one with the gun; now, Jon is quite clearly the powerhouse… but also grounded by Basira, who remained level-headed and tried to think about why Annabelle had done things in that way, what she wanted. And at the same time: Jon had reasons to be pissed, wary and distrustful – in his own perspective, Annabelle could have talked when they were at Upton House, and welcoming him in front of Hill Top Road with Mr. Spider’s tape was clearly a low blow, already colouring this encounter with a certain dynamic (the underlying idea that The Web had touched him as a kid, was inviting him in the house to devour him, and could violate Jon’s privacy whenever it wanted).

- Jon’s fear of The Web showed once again…

(MAG150) ARCHIVIST: Melanie, could you… could you describe your therapist for me? MELANIE: [CHUCKLING] What? You think I wouldn’t notice if she had cobwebs down her face? ARCHIVIST: … No? MELANIE: [DEEP INHALE] That’s it, isn’t it? [EXHALE] You… you really think I’m so stupid I wouldn’t have noticed if my therapist was some kind of monster! ARCHIVIST: I just… It was a worry. […] It’s just… The Web can be subtle, you understand? MELANIE: And? For all you know, its plan is to paralyse you with indecision…! ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] MELANIE: Leaving you… sitting here, terrified that… everything you do is somehow all part of its Grand Plan… And who do you think that fear is gonna feed? ARCHIVIST: Yes, well. [INHALE] You are… not the first, to make that point.

(MAG167) MARTIN: You said you could control it now. ARCHIVIST: I can, I–I just… It… [INHALE] You’re absolutely right. I will refrain from knowing anything about you. […] Did you… feel like she was… influencing your mind at all? MARTIN: I don’t think so, but I mean… who knows? ARCHIVIST: I could. MARTIN: But look. She didn’t control me into asking you not to look into my head, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s all me. ARCHIVIST: Martin, I’m not… looking for a l–loophole. MARTIN: Well, good! ‘cause this isn’t one. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: … Methinks the Spider doth protest too much…!

(MAG172) ARCHIVIST: I was going to suggest that… I could… maybe… “know”. I could look. Just a quick peek, to, to see if it was just curiosity, or… something else. … Well? MARTIN: I don’t… If you look, and I was… “influenced”, then how can I trust anything else? How can I believe any of my thoughts and feelings are really mine? ARCHIVIST: U–uh, well… I–I–I’ll still be here to check, I–I’m not leaving you. MARTIN: Sure, but you’d be looking through the details of everything that ever crosses my mind? I don’t want that! Y–you know I don’t want that. ARCHIVIST: … I know. [SILENCE] … Don’t do this to yourself, Martin. This is what it wants, the, the paranoia. [SIGH] Trust me, I, I know. MARTIN: … Fair.

(MAG197) ARCHIVIST: She’s had plenty of chances. She didn’t need to kidnap him. BASIRA: Sure, but maybe she… What? What’s with the look? ARCHIVIST: How are you feeling, Basira? BASIRA: [SHARPLY] Do you want to look inside my head? See if it’s full of spiders? ARCHIVIST: I… No. I’m… sorry, I–I trust you. BASIRA: How are you feeling? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Yes, all right, you don’t need to make a point. BASIRA: Yes I do. You’re too close to this, and I need to make sure you aren’t going to do anything dumb. Situation like this, we can’t make rash assumptions. Right? ARCHIVIST: … Right.

I like (in a heart-breaking way) how Jon’s tendency to suspect that people might be affected by The Web has been so prevalent, and shows how deeply his childhood encounter affected him. When people behave in a way he didn’t expect or for reasons he cannot immediately understand, he’s very quick to blame The Web – it’s not coming out of nowhere, since there were statements about The Web pulling strings and getting people to do things they didn’t want to do… but it also goes in the way of Jon’s decision to trust people. I like that Basira immediately understood what Jon suspected and set things straight in that regard; Martin might be Jon’s “reason”, but other people have been really good at grounding him lately, too.

- BASIRA SEES MARTIN AS A FRIEND ;w; It used to be Martin clinging to the idea…

(MAG175) MARTIN: I–I know what you meant! I can still be keen to see our friends! ARCHIVIST: … True. MARTIN: Besides, we can help them now.

(MAG176) MARTIN: And the fact that we’re hunting our friend, in a domain of The Hunt isn’t getting to you at all? Not even a little bit? [TRILL OF A BIRD] Hm? […] BASIRA: What’s something only Martin would know? MARTIN: … What?! I don’t know! BASIRA: Fine! Then… [COCKED GUN] MARTIN: No–no–no–no–no–no, wait–wait, uh, I, God, I don’t know, we’ve never hung out much! I’ve no idea what you know about me!

… and having to admit that no, they didn’t know each other much. But now, look at Basira being concerned and protective of him ;w;

(MAG197) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] But if she hurts Martin, all bets are off. BASIRA: If she hurts Martin, I’ll be right there with you. […] Martin, are you okay? MARTIN: [MUFFLED MMHMM] BASIRA: You know, we’d probably be more willing to listen if you hadn’t kidnapped our friend?

Martin got friends………

- I wasn’t able to parse which segments there were, but I could clearly hear Jon’s and Martin’s voices playing in the background tapes when we switched to Annabelle!

I did need the transcript’s indication that Martin was tied to the chair to realise that… indeed, we hadn’t heard him get up last episode. It had creaked plenty when he had sat last episode, it would have creaked if he had had the time to get up. Congrats Martin, you spent an episode and a half sitting, this time around!

- Martin likes Jon’s voice!!

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: I thought you liked his voice? MARTIN: I do when it’s his voice. I’ve never liked the statements. It always felt… Yeah. ANNABELLE: Well… you can trust me when I say you’ll be hearing his real voice very soon.

That’s an adorable little detail <3

- I love how Martin was such a bitch with Annabelle, at the same time very honest (pointing out that his situation didn’t make it easy to get relaxed, that he was afraid about the trap set for Jon, that he had already been told about dream-logic elements, that he was second-guessing what Annabelle wanted out of this) and blowing up in annoyance.

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: [CHUCKLE] On edge, are we? MARTIN: Of course, I am! You’ve stuck me in a weird interdimensional web, and threatened to fill me with spiders! ANNABELLE: No…! I said I had “considered” filling you with spiders. MARTIN: Yeah, whatever, the point is, there was a time when it was very much your go-to option! And this one time I chose to almost trust you, you’ve immediately turned around and used me as bait!

I loved how his voice SQUEAKED with that “spiders”. Resent and remember.

Also, games, in that apocalypse?

(MGA180) MARTIN: … I–I’ll start. I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with… T– ARCHIVIST: Tombs. MARTIN: … Cheater. ARCHIVIST: [INDIGNANT] I did not! MARTIN: … Your turn. [BAG JOSTLING] ARCHIVIST: Fine. I spy, with my little eye… Literally everything. [MARTIN LAUGHS] [THE ARCHIVIST LAUGHS] [A NEARBY TOMB LAUGHS] [LAUGHTER STOPS WITH TENSE SIGHS]

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: We could play a game? MARTIN: Uhhh… [SIGH] ANNABELLE: Twenty questions? Animal, vegetable or mineral? MARTIN: [SIGH] Animal. Does it have eight legs? Yes. Is it a spider? Yes. Oh, look, I win.

Never quite working.

- I loved Annabelle’s back-and-forth regarding Martin’s potential for The Web: at first saying that he could have been a good fit for it, then that no, he’s too impatient, then that ah, maybe his talent for interpreting the vibrations meant that he had something in him. It’s everything and its contrary, and it allows her to… always be right.

(But it cracks me up so much that the argument for anti-Web Martin basically came down to Martin being too ranty and impatient. I love Martin.)

- Sob about the set-up because:

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: … You don’t need to worry about Jon. MARTIN: You’re literally luring him into a trap. This trap. This one right here! [MARTIN MOTIONS AND TWANGS THE WEB, SETTING OFF STRONG REVERBERATIONS] ANNABELLE: Please don’t do that. Technically… yes. This is a trap. But the only one in actual danger is going to be me. If he chooses to kill me, I can’t stop him. Not even here. And you’re not bait, you’re just… an invitation.

Yeah, sure, an “invitation” when you’ve put the Mr. Spider tape right near the house to welcome Jon is an absolutely neutral and mundane “invitation”. It’s not flexing or trying to traumatise your guest even before he entered the house.

- Annabelle, PLEASE.

(MAG197) MARTIN: Oh. Wonderful. I can’t wait to attend the Annabelle Cane Show. ANNABELLE: Huh! You know, I did consider it once. MARTIN: Excuse me? ANNABELLE: A TV show. Reaching out into the homes of millions, giving the more vulnerable ones a subtle nudge towards terror. [TAPE SQUEALS] Probably something for children. … It never went anywhere, of course. These things rarely do. MARTIN: I’m, I’m sorry, what are you talking about? ANNABELLE: You’re the one that didn’t want to wait in silence.

* Things that are absolutely horrifying regarding The Web: the way it often targeted children. Mr. Spider was a picture book and got into Jon’s hands when he was eight (and given how Jon initially thought that the book was “insulting” his intelligence… it might have preyed upon even younger children if left unchecked). Annabelle had described her own Web encounter as a kid. Ray was taking care of children and preparing them for his god.

* It also tied nicely with another leitmotiv with The Web: the fact that it is invested in performances and artistic displays (a movie in MAG110, Neil Lagorio’s own original cuts and his last wish of dancing in MAG136, Francis’s theatre play in MAG172) – Annabelle was all about this, making various references to the fact that she was staging the whole scene.

* That “These things rarely do” reminds me of what she had mentioned last episode, that “You can’t be precious about a single strand”: how many discarded plans and ideas have there been to ensure that she would be right and/or that she would get her pieces where and when she needed? It’s not that The Web feels infallible – it’s that it seems to multiply its efforts to make sure that at least one would work out.

- I got the impression that Martin feeling that Jon and Basira were coming happened at the same time as Basira brushing the strands early on, hence Jon’s comment over it:

(MAG197) [BASIRA BRUSHES AGAINST A STRAND WHICH THRUMS AND ECHOES, AND THE CADENCE OF BUZZING SOUNDS CHANGE AS TAPE SQUEALS WITH THE REVERBERATIONS] BASIRA: Sorry…! ARCHIVIST: … It’s okay. She already knew I was here, I just… I hoped we might be able to sneak you in. […] MARTIN: W–, yeah, well– [CHITTERING, BUZZING AND TAPE SQUEALS CHANGE CADENCE] Wait… Wait, hang on… is that him? ANNABELLE: Yes! I guess you’re better with The Web than we thought. MARTIN: And… Wait, ha–, no, uh… Is that… Basira? He–he’s got Basira with him! ANNABELLE: Yes. I did wonder if that would be the case. Interesting. And unfortunate for me. That’s two heads we’ll need to keep cool. My odds aren’t looking good.

So it gave us a nice perspective on who was talking about what when!

I’m surprised that Annabelle indeed only discovered it at that moment – meaning that if Basira hadn’t touched the threads, she wouldn’t have known she was there… although she had been recorded more than once since Jon had left London. Web is not omniscient, uh.

- Annabelle’s taste for theatrics was hilarious, and Martin sarcastically following her request by trying out postures of the Main Love Interest In Distress And Held Hostage was incredible. Martin, PLEASE.

(I wonder if she spat in his mouth, to gag him? Where did that thread come from.)

- It still amuses me how dry Jon can sound in front of avatars, while he’s way more emotional (soft, annoyed, amused, desperate sometimes) in front of Martin! He really adapts his presence to the people in front of him, in this new world.

- Love how Basira pointed out that Jon shouldn’t do anything rash… and then he immediately went for a smiting attempt when he saw that Martin was positioned in a dangerous and precarious situation.

- Jon’s new “Fuck” means that he’s now The Biggest Sayer Of Fuck in the series!

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] [SOFTLY BUT WITH FEELING] … Fuck.

(MAG158) DAISY: Oh, shit! ARCHIVIST: You gotta be fucking kidding m–

(MAG166) ARCHIVIST: Yes! Ashamed of the fact that I… destroyed the world and have been rewarded for it; the fact that… I can walk safe through all this horror I’ve created like a fucking tourist, destroying whoever I please; the fact that I… enjoyed it, and… the fact that there are… so many others, that I still want to revenge myself on! [EXHALE]

(MAG197) ARCHIVIST: “Free will,” she says, as we stand in the middle of her fucking web!

Martin (MAG154), Melanie (MAG131) and the Inspector (MAG185) are at 1; Trevor was at 2 (MAG176); Tim was at 3 (MAG065, MAG080, MAG104); Basira is at 3 (MAG148, MAG177, MAG178)… and now Jon takes the lead with four ;w; Who would have thought, when listening to episode 1!

(If taking “shit” into account: Martin explodes the counter because of his litanies in MAG163 and MAG179.)

- Oh Martin…

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: He came of his own free will. MARTIN: [MUFFLED POINT OF CONTENTION] ARCHIVIST: “Free will,” she says, as we stand in the middle of her fucking web! ANNABELLE: [LAUGH] A fair point! But that’s a debate for another time. I simply mean I did not bring him here through force, threat or false pretence. I made an offer, and he agreed. ARCHIVIST: Martin, is this true? [TAPE SQUEALS] MARTIN: [MUFFLED ATTEMPTED EXPLANATION, FOLLOWED BY MUFFLED SIGH AND MUFFLED AGREEMENT] BASIRA: Told you. ARCHIVIST: We’ll talk about it later. Once you’re safe.

I love how we could indeed tell his emotions at the moment, at first objecting, then slowly having to concede.

There is still a tiny possibility that Annabelle still pulled a string and made Martin keener to follow her, but I don’t feel like that would be necessary – the point was that he was out of options, that Annabelle had dangled the fact that she had one, and offered to give it while simultaneously threatening to not ever share it if Martin didn’t immediately come with her (as it was explained last episode). Of course, in retrospect, it sounds like Annabelle/The Web needs them more than they need it… but the point was that Martin was lacking options, that Jon was seriously thinking about replacing Jonah as Beholding’s pupil the last time they had talked (which would have meant: for Martin, still being stuck as a Watcher, so still planning to die rather than feeding on people’s suffering), and that Martin is “as bad” as Jon when it comes to self-sacrifice, as Also!Martin had pointed out. I like that Basira had been able to guess that Martin had probably made the choice to follow Annabelle, while Jon… apparently stayed stuck to his perception of The Web as a big manipulator which compels and forces people to do things all the time, without taking detours or subtler approaches.

- Regarding Annabelle’s “lesson” on the Fears, I like how it began on familiar territories, since it roughly followed Gertrude’s own perception of the Fears:

(MAG197) ARCHIVIST: … Fine. Speak your piece. Tell us about your… “way out”. ANNABELLE: As you wish. … The Great Fears, do you believe they think the way we do? ARCHIVIST: They don’t “think” at all. They just are. ANNABELLE: Almost true. In truth, it depends on the Fear. [TAPE SQUEALS] Some exist in an eternal moment, some make use of memory to reflect and corrupt, but for most, time is simply another thing for them to play with. To consider the future, to plan, is not something they’re capable of. ARCHIVIST: But not The Web? ANNABELLE: No. Not the Mother-of-Puppets, the Spinner-of-Schemes. BASIRA: Hang on. What about the rituals? Those were plans. ARCHIVIST: No. [INHALE] They were… desires, filtered and interpreted by people and the thinking creatures that they spawned. ANNABELLE: You are well informed, aren’t you? Exactly this.

(MAG145) ARTHUR: You never had to second-guess a god. ‘Cause that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? We feel Its joy and Its… anger; It warps us, and changes us, and feeds on us, though not in the ways we expect. The one thing It never does is just… tell us what to do. It seeds us with this… aching, impossible desire to change the world, to bring It to us. Then, It leaves us to guess and bicker and fight over how the hell you can actually do it. … If it’s possible. Sometimes, I think They understand us as… little as we understand Them. We don’t think like They do. GERTRUDE: I’m not actually convinced they “think” at all. ARTHUR: You might be right. But Agnes did.

The idea that avatars had no clear idea about what they were doing had been confirmed by Simon in MAG151, so that wasn’t new. It did colour all of Annabelle’s speech, however, since she argued that The Web was different due to its own way of functioning and she was judge and party in that regard – isn’t she precisely projecting what she thinks The Web is to give it intention, when it’s perfectly possible that “The Web’s plan” might have been mostly inherited through its agents throughout history?

- Confirmation that Oliver might have said the truth in MAG168 about the fact that The End’s domains ultimately had to deliver a genuine death (or, well: confirmation that Jon was convinced that it was saying the truth). And Basira hadn’t been there back then, hence why she needed a bit more information:

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “When Danika Gelsthorpe reaches the end of her Corpse Root, she will die. This new world of Fear reviles death as a release, but the Coming End cannot exist without its reality. It is not a being of dangled promises and shifting torments; the certainty of death waits for all who travel the Corpse Roots, and that certainty… will be delivered on, without hesitation or consideration of any other factors. […] The others may take what actions they wish; they may plot and plan and tear themselves apart in an attempt to separate from the fate that they know they cannot escape; but they will fail. The currents of perception and reality may twist in whatever shapes they want; but none of them can ever render things truly eternal. […] I am too much of my patron now and my feelings cannot help but reflect the shadows of… anticipation that lurk within the grave. The End does not fear its own cessation, for it is the certainty and promise of all life, however strange, that it will one day finish, and that includes its own stark existence. […] All – things – end, and every step you take, whatever direction you may choose… only brings you closer to it.”

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: But only two of them could truly conceive of such. Terminus, The End, knows that in such a world they will ultimately consume themselves. And it desires that finality. ARCHIVIST: [REALISING] And The Web understands it as well. That eventually a successful ritual would doom them all. Leave them trapped and starving in a used-up world with no-one to feed on. BASIRA: Hang on, what? This is news to me. ARCHIVIST: We passed a death domain, of The End. The victims there do actually die, meaning even though it would take… I don’t know how long, eventually The End will claim everyone and everything. It’s inevitable.

Damnit, it means that Peter had kiiiiind of been right in season 4 when he had explained to Martin that The Web and The End didn’t appear interested in trying to achieve their rituals:

(MAG134) PETER: There are two Powers that, to my knowledge, have never attempted to fully manifest, never had followers set them up for a ritual: Mother-of-Puppets, and Terminus. The Web, and The End. The Web, I’ve never really been sure about: if I were to guess, I would say it actually prefers the world as is, playing everyone against each other, and so on. The End, on the other hand… The End doesn’t really need one: it knows that it gets everything eventually, so why bother. The End manifesting would not be a new world of terror; it would be a lifeless world. Devoid of everything. MARTIN: … Including fear.

The End was indeed fine with anything, while The Web indeed preferred the world as is – because it had an inkling that rituals would lead to the Fears’ own annihilation. Given how Annabelle pointed out how the escape route had been worked on for so long, I wonder if it had really understood that a successful ritual needed to bring all the Fears into the world a long time ago… or if not at all, and it was, until then, planning an escape in case any of the Fears were to succeed on its own.

- Web!Jonah, Web!Jonah, Web!Jonah.

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: And knowing this, knowing for centuries you would eventually be trapped, doomed to starvation, what would you do? [LONG CONSIDERED PAUSE] ARCHIVIST: … Plan an escape. ANNABELLE: Just so. […] ARCHIVIST: So The Web, it wants to spread? To escape into new realities? ANNABELLE: Yes. But not alone. Any attempt to separate the Fears is ultimately doomed, as you well know.

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “Why does a man seek to destroy the world? It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality, and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my God! The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness; to place yourself beyond pain, and death, and fear. […] I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die. […] Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?”

The way Annabelle presented it, The Web shared the same logic as Jonah and took the same horrible decision about it: desiring self-preservation, fearing their own end, fearing that others would doom them… and instead of taking active measures to ensure that no doom would happen, they chose to cause it themselves to be in control of it. Jonah could have gone on spending many more centuries body-hopping once he understood that other rituals would never work anyway, but he chose to work on this ritual thinking it would grant him domination and control over the result; and likewise, The Web could have worked to ensure no Jonah-like person would cause the big ritual… but chose instead to actively help him, to cause the apocalypse, thus dooming itself if Jon doesn’t help to make them hop into another world to contaminate it. Same fear of death, same thirst for control, same selfish thought process.

As mentioned above: given how Annabelle might have selected her information, I wonder if The Web had known for a long while that individual rituals wouldn’t work, or if it had discovered that fairly recently, alongside Jonah. It’s possible that the escape route had initially been planned for The Web itself and solely itself in case one of the other Fears succeeded, then The Web discovered that the Dread Powers couldn’t be separated and slightly changed its plan by accepting that all the Fears would need to be yeeted into the passage together?

- I can’t believe we now can answer “What does the Spider want?!”.

It does explain why The Web seemed to ensure Jon’s survival and support Jonah’s plan (Jonah even acknowledged the latter in his letter), and why Annabelle still wanted something out of Jon&Martin although the apocalypse had already happened. It also answered Jon’s own question from the trailer about the tape recorder:

(Season 5 trailer) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … What? What do you want? … The world is…! It’s over. You’ve won. What can you possibly still need to hear?

His question had even been followed by a “knock-knock” joke. It really felt like a Mr. Spider reference.

Regarding the tapes: it was indeed right to link them to The Web! I remember that pre-season 4, upon listening to the series for the first time, I was convinced that they were Web, but I had begun to doubt in season 4 because of a potential slight nuance: The Web was using the tapes, it didn’t necessarily mean that it was the thing listening behind the tape recorder. What I did not expect, and am delighted about, is that The Web required the tapes to exist as a hook for its plans:

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: We found the one we believed most likely to bring about their manifestation. We marked him young, guided his path as best we could. And then, we took his voice. ARCHIVIST: No… ANNABELLE: His, and those he walked with. We inscribed them on shining strands of word and meaning, and used them to weave a web which cast itself out through the gate and beyond our universe. So that when the Fears heard that voice, and came in their terrible glory, they might then travel out along it. [TAPE SQUEALS] Or be dragged. BASIRA: Is she talking about the tapes? ARCHIVIST: Yes. […] Do both at the same time, and… for just a moment, all that power rushes through their only remaining connection with reality: the tapes. ANNABELLE: And they would be swept along by it, dragged out of our realities, and into new ones…

And now I wonder about the reasons why the statements didn’t work on Jon’s computer in (and before) season 1, leading him to use the tape recorders. It had been pointed out in MAG065 that tapes were technically digital too, that the difference between a computer and a tape recorder wasn’t a matter of analogue vs. digital, so why did the statements resist computer recording? With the new information: it might have been simply that The Web was making Jon’s computer crash to push him to find another solution for his recordings – Jon indeed ended up relying on the tape recorder (found covered in cobwebs; spotted by Tim first according to the TMA liveshow, and then found back by Sasha according to MAG162’s tape).

Did The Web mostly require a story for their plan? The statements contain bits of Fears, some of Jon&co’s encounters were supernatural, but not everything that was caught on tapes was dealing with fear – we’ve had very mundane exchanges and conversations that did not contain anything supernatural. It, of course, asks the question of whether an audience in-universe is listening to the tapes that have been reordered chronologically: have the tapes already been sent into another world, with or without the Fears coming with them? The current labels on episodes are presented as “Case ########–xx”, a sign that time is not as reliable but that there is still a chronological and logical progression to follow. I wonder if the last episode will go back to having a date-based file number like episodes used to have (MAG160’s, “Case #0181810”, being the last one).

- The problem with Archivists really is their voices, uh? Gertrude and Jon both needed to read the statements aloud to feed Beholding, and the Black Forest tomb had the “For The Silence” coin. I’m a bit curious about whether the Fears would truly follow the tapes because they contain Jon’s voice… if Jon, with that original voice, is staying behind? Wouldn’t he need to go with the tapes, or to be deprived of his voice, for that plan to work?

- Annabelle’s offer was a bit more complex than redirecting their full apocalypse to another world, which I feared, instead presenting it as another world being subjected to this one’s previous and less intense fate… but I’m extremely glad that Jon immediately pointed out that it would likely mean a complete repeat of what their own world had experienced, apocalypse included eventually:

(MAG197) BASIRA: What are you saying? ARCHIVIST: … We can pass them our apocalypse. MARTIN: [MUFFLED DISCOMFITED REALISATION] ANNABELLE: Nothing so extreme. In these new worlds, they would exist as they used to in ours, lurking just beyond the threshold. ARCHIVIST: Until someone is stupid enough to release them there as well. ANNABELLE: Perhaps. Even the Mother cannot see the future. Only try to shape it. ARCHIVIST: And so they spread through realities like a disease. ANNABELLE: Perhaps. ARCHIVIST: … I won’t do it.

Jon even kept using the verb “spread” (“So The Web, it wants to spread?”, “for the Fears to spread into these new worlds”, “And so they spread through realities like a disease”) which really highlighted what it was: not a trade-off, not an equivalent exchange, but really allowing the Fears to possibly impact many other worlds to save theirs, causing way more victims in the process.

I like how it also put another perspective on the Mr. Spider tape welcoming Jon at the end of MAG195, ending with the “MR. SPIDER WANTS MORE”: in the same way, The Web is precisely trying to get more than what it used to have (from affecting one world to potentially hurting many more).

- I am curious about what would individually happen to avatars with that plan:

(MAG197) BASIRA: What happens to you if they escape? What happens to us? We’ve all been touched by them. ANNABELLE: I would either travel with them, or I would die. I do not know which. My life is only sustained by The Web. Most would simply lose whatever power they have been gifted. Jon would lose much of himself, the parts of him that are The Eye. But he would survive. And perhaps, more importantly, he would remain who he believes himself to be.

Would Simon turn to dust due to his old age? Would Arthur become inanimate wax? Would Oliver die (since he already died once)? Or would they be simply left in their current body? Annabelle is indeed a special case since it was pointed out many times that her head never healed from the injury during the experiments (MAG069) and is stitched with cobwebs – it’s possible that her “life is only sustained by The Web” in a strictly literal life-support manner, unrelated to her avatar status.

… I’m concerned about many caveats regarding Jon: Annabelle, what is your definition of “survive”? And what does Jon “believe himself to be” at this point? Jon had pointed out that he was intrinsically tied to Beholding by now, and that he doubted that Beholding leaving this world would mean good things for him:

(MAG191) MARTIN: Jon. If… When we defeat The Eye, the Fears… What happens to you? [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: Nothing good. I think it depends on what actually happens. If we figure out a way to defeat them, banish them somehow, kick them out of our reality and back to where they came from, I might… survive? I think I’d stay more or less like this; w–weaker, but fundamentally… still an avatar in a world where the Fears are… once again lurking on the edges. MARTIN: … But I assume that’s the best case scenario? ARCHIVIST: Depends on your point of view, I guess. In the long term all we’d have done is… bought some more time. … If, however, we… find a way to destroy or, uh… eliminate the Powers… I’m not going to be okay. There’s… too much of me that’s part of The Eye now. I don’t… know what would be left of me without it. Maybe I just… die. Maybe I survive, but I–I lose… something. My identity? My mind? My… memories? I don’t know.

Which is making me suspicious of what Annabelle is saying, since she seems to go in the exact same direction as what Jon thought might happen to him in the “best” case scenario of the Fears disappearing but him not dying right away.

- Alright, it does clear up what I didn’t understand in Annabelle’s previous plan regarding Jon&Martin’s relationship, and the reason why she discarded it!

(MAG196) MARTIN: Okay, let’s try a different question. What was your plan? ANNABELLE: I was going to snatch you away. Lure you both into this web, and then take you. Drive him to despair, so that when you returned to him, bulging and talking in a thousand tiny voices, it would drive him to a final push. MARTIN: … And now? ANNABELLE: [SIGH] Your bond is too complicated. I couldn’t drive that kind of rift between you now. I’ve considered every angle, examined every cause and effect, and have finally come to the conclusion that I… [SIGH] I need to tell you the truth. To explain things.

(MAG197) BASIRA: What happens to you if they escape? What happens to us? We’ve all been touched by them. ANNABELLE: I would either travel with them, or I would die. I do not know which. My life is only sustained by The Web. Most would simply lose whatever power they have been gifted.

She might have initially planned to pressure Jon to go along with her plan by spider-ing Martin, since it would have meant saving him once the Powers would have left (instead of it being a permanent process). However, their “bond is too complicated” for that plan now because they talked and made a promise about not dooming the world in exchange for the other’s safety:

(MAG191) ARCHIVIST: Martin, when the time comes, I need you to promise me that you won’t try to stop me. MARTIN: … I promise. I love you, Jon. ARCHIVIST: [FOND HUFF] I love you too. MARTIN: But I’m not going to doom the world over it. ARCHIVIST: … Thank you. MARTIN: [INHALE] And you have to promise me that you’re going to do everything in your power to live. That you’re not going to… sacrifice yourself at the first opportunity, just because you feel guilty about what happened. ARCHIVIST: [BREATH] … I promise.

(… Well. Martin had promised to not doom the world over Jon. Jon himself had not done the same.)

It might be what caused Annabelle to change plans: before, she might have thought that Jon would have done anything to save Martin, including throwing the Fears into other worlds without any hesitation; but since that conversation, she might have been fearing that Jon would have refused to doom other worlds for the sake of Martin’s well-being.

- Although Jon apparently immediately interpreted it as Basira being likely to go Annabelle’s way…

(MAG197) BASIRA: … How would we do it? ARCHIVIST: Basira! BASIRA: We need to know, Jon.

… she really felt, to me, like she was trying to get all the information they needed to be able to manoeuvre with it all afterwards. Same as at the beginning of the episode, she gave me the impression that she was trying to stay in control while ensuring Martin wouldn’t get hurt (not being too antagonistic towards Annabelle, and getting her to talk), but it didn’t sound like she was approving.

- OKAY for Annabelle’s plan:

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: It’s very simple. Destroy the Archives, and cut out The Eye’s pupil. BASIRA: [SARCASTIC] Oh, is that all? ANNABELLE: Simultaneously. MARTIN: [MUFFLED DESPONDENCY] ARCHIVIST: I see. Destroy the Panopticon, and you release its power. Kill Jonah, and you cut the connection between the Fears and the world. Do both at the same time, and… for just a moment, all that power rushes through their only remaining connection with reality: the tapes. ANNABELLE: And they would be swept along by it, dragged out of our realities, and into new ones… BASIRA: And how exactly are we supposed to destroy the Archives?

* It kind of explains why she waited for them to reach London first before making them come to Hill Top Road: they needed to see for themselves that the tunnels had been mostly insulated from the apocalypse, and what state Jonah was in. (Plus, making it sink in that no, “killing Jonah” wouldn’t solve anything, so waiting for them to be a bit more desperate for another option).

* I’m… worried about the fact that Annabelle specifically stated that they needed to destroy “the Archives” but that Jon translated it into “the Panopticon”. Is it the same thing by now? We haven’t seen the Archives when we were in London – what did the statements and documents turn into?

* … And relatedly: Jonah had introduced the idea that Jon was “the Archive”. Is it really about destroying the Panopticon, or is it about destroying Jon…

(* It also explained why Annabelle had found “reassuring” that Martin was worried about victims on their way to Hill Top Road, since her plan relied on them agreeing to throw other worlds under the bus to save these people from this world. If they didn’t care much about random victims all around here… then they would be even less likely to accept her solution.)

- It reminds me that we still haven’t been told what is Jon’s domain and what is Annabelle’s domain. Annabelle’s could be Hill Top Road, but it was never stated! As for Jon, his only indication was that Martin&him had been walking “towards it” during their first journey towards London, so it could be the Panopticon itself… but we don’t know for sure either. What happens, when you destroy someone’s domain? (We have the case of Helen-the-Distortion, who was her own domain in a way… and it seems to have destroyed it entirely in her case.)

- HECK YEAH for the gas main not being done with /o/

(MAG161) GERTRUDE: [SHARPLY] We’re wasting time. Do you still have the Ruskin book? LEITNER: I do. Though I don’t relish the thought of using it. Makes it rather hard to breathe, like your chest– GERTRUDE: You know– LEITNER: –is being… GERTRUDE: –the gas main, little way out in the tunnel? LEITNER: I do. GERTRUDE: I need you to move it. LEITNER: I, hum… That’s… I mean, that’s not just earth, there’s pipework and all sorts of– GERTRUDE: Find a way. I need it to be directly under the Institute, or… at least, closer. LEITNER: I’m more likely to rupture it and fill the place with gas. GERTRUDE: Hm! That would also be acceptable. LEITNER: Hm… I’ll do what I can. When do you need it? [RUSTLING OF CLOTHES] GERTRUDE: If my guess is right, the Church’s ritual should be collapsing at any time now, so… immediately. LEITNER: And if you’re wrong? GERTRUDE: Then a bit of gas will be the least of our worries. LEITNER: Right… What are you going to do? GERTRUDE: Paper burns well. [GURGLING LIQUID] Petrol burns… better. LEITNER: Aha! I always forget about your pyromaniac streak.

(MAG068) ARCHIVIST: Supplemental. I’m in the tunnels. I was exploring and I got lost. I haven’t gone down any of the stairs and I– I think I’m still under the Institute. There were a couple of spiders, so I changed routes and found, I think it’s a gas main. Must be for the whole building.

(MAG197) BASIRA: And how exactly are we supposed to destroy the Archives? ANNABELLE: Many years ago, a draughtsman made an unfortunate and egregious error on certain city planning documents. As a result, an unusually large and dangerous gas main just happened to be constructed directly below the building you knew as the Magnus Institute, in a place where it would be protected by the tunnels of Robert Smirke, unchanged by the world’s reformation. [TAPE SQUEALS] You need only ignite it. ARCHIVIST: “Ignite it”? ANNABELLE: Indeed! And it just so happens that the perfect tool was once delivered to you as a token of appreciation. Though you really do need to learn to keep better care of it. Somehow, it always seems to slip your mind, doesn’t it? ARCHIVIST: What…? BASIRA: Jon, it’s that stupid lighter of yours.

I had been surprised that it had been narratively brought back at the beginning of the season clarifying why it was there – Gertrude had asked Leitner to bring it closer to the Institute, which is why Jon had seen it in season 2 (… while fleeing because of spiders… in the episode right before the one he heard of Annabelle Cane for the first time…), and it was still hanging out there.

Annabelle never confirmed whether or not she had been the one who had sent tapes alongside the package containing Jonah’s statement, but it really feels like she was trying to prepare Jon to the idea of burning the Archive down, since all the tapes (and the beginning of the statement Jonah used to cover his) had mentioned fire in some way.

(MAG160) MARTIN: Still, she did manage to talk them out of burning the whole place to the ground? Oh, ah! Actually, that reminds me. Hum… [PAPER RUSTLES] ARCHIVIST: Ah! These, these are the… statements. MARTIN: Uh, yes. Basira said last week she’d send some up as soon as the Archives weren’t a crime scene. ARCHIVIST: Yes… MARTIN: And she wasn’t sure which ones you’d read already, so she–she just said she’d send a bunch. [CLATTERING SOUNDS] ARCHIVIST: There’s… tapes in here, as well. D… did she say anything about tapes? MARTIN: She… didn’t mention it? But… I–I didn’t check it until after the call. ARCHIVIST: Mm. MARTIN: I assume it’s her attempt at a… a–a “varied diet”? Eating your greens, you know? ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] Probably! I’m sure it will work fine.

(MAG161) ARCHIVIST: –yes, thank you, I do hope you’re not planning to light those candles…! TIM: … Oh, goodness! [SHAKES A BOX OF MATCHES] A source of ignition? In the Archives? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] SASHA: [CHUCKLES] TIM: Uh oh! ARCHIVIST: Tim. TIM: Oh? Woops! [A MATCH IS LIT] Sorry; my hand slipped. And again. [CRACKLE OF A BIRTHDAY CANDLE WICK] And again. And… a couple more times, here – I’m so clumsy today; that is a lot of fire! ARCHIVIST: I’m really not comfortable with– SASHA: So blow them out, then. ARCHIVIST: Oh. [FIRE CRACKLING] … Right, yeah– ELIAS: And make a wish.

(MAG161) GERTRUDE: Paper burns well. [GURGLING LIQUID] Petrol burns… better. LEITNER: Aha! I always forget about your pyromaniac streak. GERTRUDE: Mm. Remind me to tell you about Agnes, sometime…!

(MAG162) GERTRUDE: Eh! [INHALE] You can probably burn it in the back courtyard, if you’re careful. GERRY: Yeah, will do! GERTRUDE: And for goodness’s sake, make sure no one sees you. The last thing we need is a letter to Elias about book-burnings. GERRY: Look, if you have somewhere better to burn these books, then– GERTRUDE: Of course, Gerard…! I just happened not to mention the network of sinister tunnels that snake beneath the Archive, where I keep all my darkest secrets…!

(MAG162) TIM: Well… Tell you what. If you get eaten alive [STAPLING] by improperly filed statements? Me and Martin will avenge you. SASHA: Myeah, aren’t you sweet. TIM: I mean it! We’ll burn this place to the ground, it’ll be all like, “Sashaaa! Saaashaaaa!”

(Adding to Rosa Meyer’s attempt to burn the building in MAG060, Gertrude likely destroying the Archives under Alexandria by blowing up a gas main in MAG053…)

So: whatever Annabelle said, Jon could lend it some credence since he had seen the gas main and knows where it is; he knows why it’s so close to the Institute; he knows it used to be part of Gertrude’s plan to take down Elias/Jonah in March 2015. Whether Jon will pursue that plan or not, we know what it meant narratively, same with the lighter.

It’s also really interesting that what Annabelle offered used to be exactly Gertrude’s plan:

(MAG080) LEITNER: I believe it was Elias. ARCHIVIST: What? Why? LEITNER: I assume he discovered we were planning to destroy the Archives. ARCHIVIST: Gertrude was going to destroy the Archives?

… and it’s exactly when Elias had strike and killed her. Did a spider whisper to his ear that it was way too soon to blow up the building?

(WHICH WOULD HAVE PREVENTED THIS APOCALYPSE, BY GETTING RID OF JONAH, WHO HAD JUST UNDERSTOOD WHAT HE NEEDED TO DO TO MAKE IT HAPPEN.)

- The lighter reveal was just comedy gold, and I’m so glad that the reccurring thing with “Jon isn’t able to pay attention to the lighter and tends (/is compelled) to change the subject when it’s brought up” led to this.

(MAG037) TIM: Um, apparently Martin, uh, took delivery of a couple of items last week addressed to you. Did he not mention it? ARCHIVIST: No, he… Oh, yes, actually. I completely forgot. He said he put it in my desk draw, hold on. [SOUND OF PACKAGE BEING RETRIEVED AND OPENED] TIM: Er, what is it? ARCHIVIST: A lighter. An old Zippo. TIM: You smoke? ARCHIVIST: No. And I don’t allow ignition sources in my archive! TIM: Okay. Is there anything unusual about it? ARCHIVIST: Not really. Just a sort of spider web design on the front. Doesn’t mean anything to me. You? TIM: Ah no. No. ARCHIVIST: Well… show it to the others, see what they think.

(MAG039) SASHA: So why hasn’t it gone off? ELIAS: Because there isn’t an actual fire. SASHA: Right, right. Can we set it off manually? I think Jon’s got a lighter somewhere. ELIAS: He’s not smoking again, is he? Anyway, it shouldn’t be necessary.

(MAG079) TIM: But he’s going to do something, and it’s going to be bad. And I don’t mean like “sneaking a cigarette” bad. Like properly bad.

(MAG111) GERARD: Nice lighter. You a spider freak, then? ARCHIVIST: What? Oh! Er, n–no. I–I, I never really, uh… I never really thought of it. I–I’m Jon. I’m with the Magnus Institute. … I–I’m the Archivist.

(MAG136) DAISY: [SCOFF] She’s… Web. Spider’s sneaky like that. [PAUSE] Like that lighter you’re always using. Where’d you get that? ARCHIVIST: Mm. [STATIC RISES] Good point. We should keep our eyes open. [STATIC FADES] Anyway, how’s Basira doing?

(MAG162) MARTIN: You said this place, the–the cabin was… [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] It, it’s feeding on us, right? ARCHIVIST: Yes… MARTIN: … So should we… destroy it, before we go? […] We’re not even gonna try? We, we’ve got your lighter, maybe we could just– ARCHIVIST: We can’t fight the world, Martin.

(MAG197) ARCHIVIST: “Ignite it”? ANNABELLE: Indeed! And it just so happens that the perfect tool was once delivered to you as a token of appreciation. Though you really do need to learn to keep better care of it. Somehow, it always seems to slip your mind, doesn’t it? ARCHIVIST: What…? BASIRA: Jon, it’s that stupid lighter of yours. ARCHIVIST: [INDIGNANT] My what? I… [STATIC RISES] [PULLS THE GOLD LIGHTER WITH EMBOSSED SPIDERWEB FROM POCKET AND FLICKS IT OPEN] Oh? … Oh. [STATIC FADES]

Sasha remembered it, Tim had commented on Jon trying to discreetly smoke (though that might have been a figure of speech?), Gerry had first assumed that Jon was with the Spider because of it, Daisy had directly asked about the lighter and Jon had redirected the conversation elsewhere, Martin had pointed out at the beginning of this season that Jon still had that lighter with him… and now, Basira revealed that she had noticed it too. The static in MAG136 had made it clear that it wasn’t Jon’s fault, that he was likely supernaturally compelled to not think too long about the lighter, but I love that silly moment, that “My WHAT?! =<= … oh” was one of Jon’s best moments. ever.

- I really wonder whether Annabelle’s reaction was sincere when Jon threatened to let the lighter fall into the hole:

(MAG197) ARCHIVIST: I see. So… [FLICKS LIGHTER SHUT] If I were to throw it away– ANNABELLE: [GASP] ARCHIVIST: –into your little pit… MARTIN: [MUFFLED WORRY] ANNABELLE: [CAREFULLY] I would advise against that. ARCHIVIST: Oh, would you? BASIRA: Jon, she still has Martin. MARTIN: [MUFFLED REMINDER] [TENSE STAND-OFF] ARCHIVIST: Fine! … Fine.

* Jon going for the throat, taunting and threatening and relishing the power he thinks he has is terrifying but also incredibly hot. That condescension…! (And it kind of made a twisted parallel with Annabelle’s discussion with Martin earlier, when she defended that she had once thought about filling him with spiders but discarded that plan. It’s not the same power dynamic, but it still shows that… now, Jon knows how to handle the avatar-game better, and to revel in the power he can have over other terrible beings.)

* … What would have happened exactly? It can’t be just that it would have meant that Jon would have lost his way of igniting the gas main – that could be easily replaced by anything, getting a spark wouldn’t be hard and they have some supplies. What would have happened, if the Web artefact had been thrown into the pit…? Would it have deprived The Web of some of its power, would it have contaminated another world…? Why was Annabelle suddenly that tense over it…?

- Another JonMartin hug ;w;

(MAG159) MARTIN: [DISTANT, VOICE ECHOING] I see… [INHALE] I see you, Jon. [BREATHLESS CHUCKLE] [PRESENT, ECHO FADES] I see you…! ARCHIVIST: Oh, Martin… [FABRIC RUSTLES] MARTIN: [FRANTIC BREATHING] I w–I was on my own…! I was all on my own… ARCHIVIST: Not anymore. Come on – let’s go home…

(Season 5 trailer) MARTIN: You know I’m here for you. ARCHIVIST: [LONG SIGH] … Yes. Yes I do. [RUSTLING OF CLOTHES] MARTIN: All right. All right.

(MAG170) ARCHIVIST: Oh, Martin! Thank god, I, I was… I–I thought you were behind me. [FABRIC RUSTLES] MARTIN: I thought you’d left me behind…! Gone on without me.

(MAG177) ARCHIVIST: … I’m sorry. [SILENCE] MARTIN: [SIGH] It’s okay. I understand. [BAG JOSTLING] [FABRIC RUSTLES] BASIRA: Urgh… [SILENCE] You done?

(MAG183) ARCHIVIST: If you’re sure. MARTIN: … I’m sure I love you. [FOOTSTEPS] ARCHIVIST: I love you too. [FABRIC RUSTLES] Let’s go.

(MAG187) ARCHIVIST: [GROGGY] Oh. Martin, good! [BAG JOSTLING] [FABRIC RUSTLES] MARTIN: Wh–, wh–wh–what happened? Th–th–there was the hotel and then…

(MAG191) ARCHIVIST: Sorry. Not something I can help, I’m afraid…! MARTIN: No, I, I know, I know. I’m sorry, it’s okay. [SIGH] [FABRIC RUSTLES] ARCHIVIST: … Bad dream? […] Maybe I survive, but I–I lose… something. My identity? My mind? My… memories? I don’t know. [FABRIC RUSTLES AS THEY EMBRACE] MARTIN: [LONG EXHALE]

(MAG197) MARTIN: [COUGHING AND SPLUTTERING] Jon…! ARCHIVIST: Martin! [FABRIC RUSTLES] MARTIN: … Oh god, I’m sorry, I– ARCHIVIST: It’s fine. MARTIN: I didn’t realise that– ARCHIVIST: We’ll talk later.

(MAG159 was confirmed by Alex, and MAG187 wasn’t marked in the transcript but I definitely hear it!)

;_; Every time, I wonder if it will be the last one… but I’m kind of expecting a big, biiig dramatic hug for the last one so… not there yet.

- I come out of this episode still not knowing exactly what to think about Annabelle – it sounded like her last appearance (“Very well. We shall not see each other again, Archivist. But I eagerly await your decision.”), though it doesn’t mean we wouldn’t hear about her.

My feeling from this episode is that she’s mostly… a sort of vessel of The Web, a puppet herself (her use of “we” sounded like she was the spokeswoman of a greater conscience), and I don’t know what is left of who-she-used-to-be – contrarily to other avatars, she didn’t seem to cast much value in her own self-preservation, since she did point out multiple times that it wouldn’t matter if she got killed in the process of The Web’s plan as long as she delivered its message to Jon first. I’m crossing fingers for something more about Annabelle herself because… it was already the case with The Distortion using Helen as a face and the tragedy of Jon not having been able to know her (plus, when it comes to monsters taking women’s faces: The Hive had invaded Jane Prentiss, the Not!Them postured as Sasha, even Nikola was technically a being older than this particular mannequin), while we got male antagonists who were their own despicable selves like Peter or Elias. On the other hand, Annabelle’s theme seems to be a play with the fears and thoughts people project onto her, the things they expect from her, the role she is forced to play because of these expectations:

(MAG147, Annabelle Cane) “Now, I believe the tradition is to tell you the story of my life; the sinister path that led me inevitably to the sorry state in which I now find myself. Well, let it never be said I do not dance the steps I am assigned.”

(MAG196) MARTIN: I don’t know, like… something a bit more dramatic, I guess. ANNABELLE: We’ll see what we can do. [FOOTSTEPS, THEN CREAKING AS ANNABELLE OPENS THE DOOR] [DRAMATICALLY] Step into my parlour…! […] Let’s make the setting a little more… appropriate, shall we? MARTIN: Hey, just… ah, hah, p–put the camera down, okay? ANNABELLE: You said you wanted something more… “dramatic”. Right?

(MAG197) MARTIN: Oh. Wonderful. I can’t wait to attend the Annabelle Cane Show. ANNABELLE: Huh! You know, I did consider it once. MARTIN: Excuse me? ANNABELLE: A TV show. Reaching out into the homes of millions, giving the more vulnerable ones a subtle nudge towards terror. [TAPE SQUEALS] Probably something for children. … It never went anywhere, of course. These things rarely do. […] Now settle back. Try to look… intentional. MARTIN: What does that mean? ANNABELLE: They’re going to expect a suitably elaborate scene when they arrive, a monstrous tableau. I’d hate to disappoint them…! MARTIN: Rrright… [MARTIN GINGERLY TRIES TO ADJUST HIS POSITION] So, w–were you thinking something like this, or–? ANNABELLE: [SIGH] [ANNABELLE RELEASES A BURST OF WEBBING, GAGGING MARTIN, AND STICKING HIM FIRMLY TO THE CHAIR] MARTIN: [MUFFLED INDIGNANCY] ANNABELLE: My apologies for the inconvenience but appearances are everything, Martin. Now, if you’ll excuse me? I need to change into something more suitable. [BONE CRACKS AND FLESH TEARS AS ANNABELLE REVEALS THIS WASN’T EVEN HER FINAL FORM] [ANNABELLE’S VOICE IS DEEPER FROM HERE ON OUT AND TAPE RECORDERS CAN NO LONGER BE HEARD] [TWISTED STATIC CRACKLE] ANNABELLE: It is so very important to prime your audience. […] I’ve played my part to its completion. You get to decide how I exit the stage.

The entirety of her interaction with Jon was framed as a performance – the performance he expected out of her. Jon was expecting the worse out of Annabelle? He was welcomed with a tape reminding him of his childhood trauma, putting him in the position of the next “guest” who would be devoured by the Spider when he would enter its home. Jon was wary of Annabelle as being dangerous and harming Martin? Annabelle turned into a monster and threatened to harm Martin. Martin might have had some doubts and fears about turning Web, to the point of refusing Jon would look into his head to know what was happening with him in MAG172? Annabelle kept going back and forth about whether Martin was suitable for it or not, with any detail going in a direction and then the other (Martin calculating his behaviour with others making him a likely candidate, but his impatience showing that he wasn’t fitted for it, but his perception of The Web proving that he had what it took…). Annabelle even pointed out to Martin that he was prompt to make a judgement and distrust her before she had done anything to him (“Why? Because of what I say, or because of the assumptions you make about my motives?”): she kept feeding them the lines they were expecting from her. It can simply fit with The Web’s whole thing about making you second-guess and playing on your indecisions, on your uncertainties and doubts; it could also be that there is something more underneath…?

(Especially since… well, technically, Annabelle gave them a lot of information and left them free to think about it. If she were trying to sabotage The Web from the inside, that would probably be the best way to go about it: following the plan like a puppet, and ensuring it goes badly at the same time.)

- That’s FUN, we got the same annihilation as MAG160 for Jon by putting him as responsible of the situation, while at the same time taking the reverse approach regarding being “chosen”:

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “It does tickle me, that in this world of… would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the “Chosen One” is… simply that: someone I chose! It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your… destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck. […] You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of The Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here. Don’t worry, Jon. You’ll get used to it here – in the world that we have made.”

(MAG197) ARCHIVIST: So The Web, it wants to spread? To escape into new realities? ANNABELLE: Yes. But not alone. Any attempt to separate the Fears is ultimately doomed, as you well know. ARCHIVIST: But how? ANNABELLE: We found the one we believed most likely to bring about their manifestation. We marked him young, guided his path as best we could. And then, we took his voice. […] ARCHIVIST: … I won’t do it. ANNABELLE: Possibly. You’ve seen your other options. […] BASIRA: … What about her? ARCHIVIST: [HARSH] Good question. As far as I can tell, there’s now nothing to stop me killing you. And throwing this lighter away forever. ANNABELLE: Nothing, except your own indecision. […] We shall not see each other again, Archivist. But I eagerly await your decision.

There are so many little differences between the ways they pictured Jon’s role! Both presented him at the centre of their plans, as a necessary piece: Jonah gloated about the way he had picked and shaped Jon’s fate, and his whole letter was about retroactively depriving Jon of his own agency (shaping the fantasies that Jonah had always been in control and had led Jon where he wanted to ultimately be); and surprisingly, The Web took another approach, no less hurtful – framing the apocalypse as the result of a sort of uniqueness which meant that, since Jon was a child, he was likely to cause the apocalypse, and presenting the outcome and destiny of their world… as his, leaving him the possibility to “decide”.

And as much as Jonah blew the idea that he had always been in control out of proportions (the idea to send Jared after Jon and then going pikachuface when Jared attacked the Archives without waiting…), he still felt more honest than what Annabelle said about Jon! I’m especially interested in this bit:

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: We found the one we believed most likely to bring about their manifestation. We marked him young, guided his path as best we could. And then, we took his voice.

Because… what bullshit, what with giving the impression that there would have been anything special about an eight-year-old boy making him the “most likely” to cause the apocalypse! Implying that it was even Jon’s choice by failing to remind that Jonah had been responsible for it! It’s easy to describe Jon as the person who was meant to Open The Door now that it indeed happened, and I’m absolutely ready to picture that there were actually thousands of potential people who could have done it in the world and it “simply” happened with Jon. After all, Annabelle had pointed out last episode that “People get so caught up on how intricate they are, how perfectly constructed. They never consider how flexible they can be. The sort of storm they need to weather. You can’t be precious about a single strand.”: how many discarded plans had there been in the last century or so? I also love and hate how it paralleled The Web’s use of tapes: individually, each segment might have been true… but not necessarily in the order Annabelle suggested:

“We found the one we believed most likely to bring about their manifestation.” => Web indeed did support Jonah’s plans, but when did it decide that Jon would be the perfect candidate?

“We marked him young” => Jonah pointed out that Jon already had The Web mark and that it contributed in making him pick Jon as the next Archivist for his project.

“guided his path as best we could” => The Web tipped Jon off here and there during the series (a spider led to the season 1 climax, strengthening Jon’s chances of survival since the worms weren’t fully ready yet; there were cobwebs on Jon’s first tape recorder; The Web sent Oliver to help Jon to “make his choice” and wake up at the start of season 4; a tape covered in cobwebs sent Jon on a quest for an anchor, it was specifically a Flesh statement so likely trying to direct him towards Jared…)

“And then, we took his voice.” => Pushing Jon in the direction of the tape recorder to record the “difficult” statements that didn’t work on computers.

Did The Web send Jon to the Institute, or did Jon’s curiosity push him to wanting to understand what had happened with the book when he was a child? Who knows! But it’s all about framing these various elements in a certain order to make it feel like there is a coherent, merciless narrative that had used Jon like a puppet all along, while potentially keeping the most important part under silence: that The Web needed someone to bring the apocalypse… but that it mostly needed someone who would hate said apocalypse and would try to reverse it. That was the part The Web needed above all, given what Annabelle had just explained.

- Maybe it’s a useless wish at this point (only three episodes left) but Annabelle pushing the idea that Jon was “most likely” to bring the apocalypse screams “destiny as a concept” screams “Agnes” to me ;; Someone involved with The Web, whose voice was hidden and who was only described through the eyes of men and/or people romantically interested in her, who was aware of the expectations and the “destiny” announced for her and who might have decided to go another way…

- Jon said they would talk:

(MAG197) ARCHIVIST: We’ll talk about it later. Once you’re safe. MARTIN: [MUFFLED DOWNBEAT ACKNOWLEDGEMENT] […] Oh god, I’m sorry, I– ARCHIVIST: It’s fine. MARTIN: I didn’t realise that– ARCHIVIST: We’ll talk later. […] MARTIN: So… what do we do now? ARCHIVIST: Let’s get out of here. After that… we’ll see.

And indeed, they ought to. Two things that have been established and that I could see coming back:

* Martin had forbidden Jon to look into his head, to be able to respect some privacy (MAG167) and because he thought he would second-guess everything if it turned out The Web had been manipulating him (MAG172). Basira just reminded Jon that he needed to trust them to have their own opinions, that having an opposite stance to his didn’t mean they were manipulated… but I could also see Martin asking Jon to look inside him again to have the absolute certainty that no, Martin wasn’t manipulated. (Or maybe was, even partially, being nudged in a direction he partially wanted anyway.)

* Martin still hasn’t shared that he planned to ask Jon to smite him if they couldn’t find any way to turn the world back. As things are, sadly, it would feel extremely pressuring (since the only way to not go in that direction… would then be to follow Annabelle’s plan to get rid of the Fears).

- Given everything that was thrown in his face with this episode? I want Jon to have a breakdown and cry :w

- There are two gigantic lines of small print coming with Annabelle’s plan:

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: It’s very simple. Destroy the Archives, and cut out The Eye’s pupil. BASIRA: [SARCASTIC] Oh, is that all? […] And how exactly are we supposed to destroy the Archives? ANNABELLE: Many years ago, a draughtsman made an unfortunate and egregious error on certain city planning documents. As a result, an unusually large and dangerous gas main just happened to be constructed directly below the building you knew as the Magnus Institute, in a place where it would be protected by the tunnels of Robert Smirke, unchanged by the world’s reformation. [TAPE SQUEALS] You need only ignite it.

* Destroying the Panopticon through the tunnels means that the survivors would lose their only mean of protection. Melanie had pointed out that her and Georgie’s own protection was neither total nor long-lasting for others:

(MAG190) MELANIE: I wasn’t exactly going to leave her there so… we grabbed her and legged it. And… that’s when we discovered that we can keep others hidden as well. MARTIN: Hm. MELANIE: Not completely, and, and, not for long, but… it’s enough to get them here to the tunnels.

So they wouldn’t be able to protect the other survivors on the outside, and Annabelle just destroyed the camera (which could have been an alternative way to protect them for a while). Going with that plan would mean evacuating them and them consenting to it, and… would they agree? On the one hand, they could firmly oppose that plan (nobody would want to be put back in the domains’ hells); on the other hand, they might agree if it seems like Melanie&Georgie believe that this option has a chance to succeed (and out of belief that this is the way to achieve Melanie’s “premonition” of the apocalypse stopping)… and at the same time, Melanie&Georgie would probably refuse because of that, since it would be abusing the survivors’ trust and security over such a big lie, when they have no way to know if it would work.

* … Igniting a gas main through a lighter of all things means that the person taking care of the ignition is absolutely sure to be engulfed into the explosion, since it requires the flame to get into contact with the gas – unless they still have some materials from the Gertrude era or from the Exploding The Unknowing plans back from season 3 down in the tunnel, like a fuse?

Jon had pointed out that he should be able to harm Jonah:

(MAG193) ARCHIVIST: You were right. MARTIN: About what? ARCHIVIST: His body is vulnerable. A–at least to me. MARTIN: … What’s the catch? ARCHIVIST: I could kill his body, sever the link, break The Eye’s power, and… Jonah Magnus would die. MARTIN: Okay, that sounds good but…? ARCHIVIST: But… that wouldn’t actually harm The Eye itself. And with him gone it would… it would choose a suitable replacement. MARTIN: Oh. ARCHIVIST: If we kill Jonah Magnus… I take his place.

Which means it would probably be his role to severe the link between Jonah and Beholding, which means someone else would have to take care of the ignition… aaaaaaaand we have a certain someone who already proved himself regarding fire, and who recently stated that he actually had a fear of it.

(MAG117) MARTIN: This way I finally get to do something. It’s gonna hurt but… I’m ready. And I want to. Also, I get to burn some stuff, so that’s cool!

(MAG118) [CLICK–] MARTIN: [EXHALE] Are you listening? [DEEP INHALE] … Good. [PAPER RUSTLE] Case, uh… 0071304. Statement of… Ivo Lensik. [EXHALE] [LIGHTER FLICKED OPEN] All right…! [LIGHTER BEING TURNED ON] [SMALL GASP] [SOUND OF PAPER BURNING] [DEEP EXHALE] [PAPER RUSTLE] “Statement ends”, I guess…! Hum… [PAPER RUSTLE] “Harold Silvana”! Number 0020406. Will probably do! [PAPER RUSTLE] [LIGHTER BEING TURNED ON] [SOUND OF PAPER BURNING] All right, then! 0140207, Dylan Anderson. [PAPER RUSTLE] Yeah? … Okay~ [LIGHTER BEING TURNED ON] [EXHALE] There’s plenty more on the pile~ [SOUND OF PAPER BURNING]

(MAG169) MARTIN: Will the fire feel hot to me? ARCHIVIST: Yes. MARTIN: Will it cause me lots of pain, if I touch it? ARCHIVIST: Yes, though not as much as– MARTIN: [SHAKILY BUT STRONG] Will it burn me alive, and kill me dead? ARCHIVIST: … No. It can’t do us any permanent harm; once we’re out, we’ll be fine. MARTIN: You are aware that intense pain can do you loads of harm, even if there’s no any physical injury! […] I know! I know, okay, I just… [SOMETHING SHATTERS] Look, I j–, I just don’t want to get burned, all right? It’s, it’s like my least favourite pain ever. ARCHIVIST: Is that… a joke? MARTIN: No, no! Okay? I… I legitimately hate burns, all right, they’re–they’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just, it– It–it just makes me sick, I–I hate it. Hate it!

… It screams “Martin igniting the gas main” a bit ;; (I wonder if he will confirm whether or not Jon had lent the lighter to him in MAG118, or if that one was another, more mundane lighter?)

* Additionally: being at the top of the tower cutting the link between Jonah and Beholding precisely when the (under)ground level of that same building is being exploded with the goal of destroying the Panopticon/the Archives (since both words were used)… doesn’t bode well for whoever is at the top of that tower when it happens.

- Overall, I’m curious about what Jon and the others will do, concretely right now and after taking a decision, but I’m also not expecting them to follow Annabelle’s plan and presented binary at all.

Regarding what will happen immediately after the end of this episode: as much as Georgie’s last words (when she sent Jon&Martin on their way in MAG192) might have worked as a last appearance, Melanie’s (when she invited Jon to think about where Martin could have gone in MAG194) would be more surprising. Although there are only three episodes left, holy heck, I’m expecting Basira&Jon&Martin to regroup with Melanie&Georgie&the survivors in the tunnels to discuss what they’ve learned and their options? It will feel a bit weird to go back immediately to the tunnels but, at the same time, the framing device granted by the tapes has just been pointed out again – if the tape recorders don’t feel like the journey back to the tower (even with Jon pouring out a domain statement) is worth their while, if Jon&Basira&Martin don’t talk at all during that journey or don’t say anything that they find relevant, then they won’t get recorded at all until they’re back and ready to talk about things. (There is still a tiny possibility that they do talk on the way back and that Jon gives a statement… but since there are only three episodes left, I think we would all collectively lose it if one of them was used up for a domain statement.)

I’m curious about their individual stance on the whole thing. Jon was quick to point out that it would likely mean a rinse and repeat in another world of what they experienced – the Fears lurking at the border until they would be invoked in their fullest, dooming that world (these other worlds?) in turn. But on a personal level… they all know the amount of misery the Fears were able to cause even before the apocalypse: Jon was traumatised as a kid; Sasha’s whole life and existence were stolen; Tim had lost his brother because of the Fears; Georgie had lost her precious friend Alex because of them; Melanie had to gouge her eyes out to escape Beholding; Martin almost got swallowed entirely by The Lonely; and even the survivors: they were trapped in the domains, they know how bad it was, they know what inflicting the Fears on others would mean… but it would also be understandable for all of them to want to survive and save their own world. But what about the weight of responsibility? All of them in this world were subjected to the apocalypse by the decision of one person, Jonah (and the support he received from The Web), who manipulated Jon into opening the door: now redirecting the Fears on other people would mean making an active choice, being responsible for their misery. But what about the intrinsic bias in the fact that the people who would be able to make that choice and to act on it are precisely people who are not currently subjected to the domains? Choosing to sacrifice their world and the billions of people suffering for the sake of other worlds would be awful considering they’re not getting tortured alongside them at the moment. It’s all one big complicated trolley problem.

Thematically, I have trouble picturing them following Annabelle’s plan: Jon immediately refused, they have no guarantee that it would work exactly as she announced (and that there aren’t a few more caveats), and it would mean validating The Web’s plan, what it had worked on for so long, and which was based on the same reasoning as Jonah – the idea that someone would irremediably cause the apocalypse, and that it was better to stay in control of when and how it would happen to prepare its own escape rather than to try to prevent it. But at the same time, it might be a bit too hopeful to think that the group and the survivors would find and manoeuvre around a third way that would indeed nerf the Fears? ;; Technically, Annabelle’s instructions contained new information that could still be useful:

* The Fears are currently anchored through (at least) three elements: Beholding’s pupil (currently Jonah); the Panostitute/the Archives, vulnerable through Smirke’s tunnels; and the tapes, containing records of Fears. Annabelle didn’t mention Jon at all as a lynchpin, which is quite surprising given how the whole world had been able to identify him as someone special (as Simon had put it, “You might be the closest thing the universe has ever had to an important person”).

* The blob of Fears contains its own contradictions: some part of it wants to survive and is able to scheme for that survival (The Web), some part of it craves its own annihilation (The End) – technically, it inherently contains its own potential death.

(- I’m not sure what to expect about the survivors, whether they’ll be down with any plan or vehemently oppose or sabotage some of it. I know that personally, I would prefer them to just be… people who’ve been hurt, who are not nefarious, and who might even be able to provide out-of-the-box ideas? I fear that if they were the ones to “ruin” any plan, it would be an easy way to absolve our main characters of having made the final mistakes dooming everything, by redirecting the blame on random people, and give the idea that Humanity Sucks Actually, so it’s really not something that appeals to me.

I wonder if Rosie might join them in the tunnels? She would be another of the collaterals if the Panopticon were to get destroyed, since she’s trapped in that one…)

- I am really curious about how characters will now behave with the tape recorders, and whether we have learned everything there is to know about them. I’m onboard with the idea that The Web needed fragments of Fears woven onto the tapes, and had worked for the tapes to get created in the first place, but I’m still having some interrogations regarding what Annabelle said and how she acted around them.

* Characters had mentioned multiple times that something was “listening” through the tape recorders, or that they felt “watched” when it was on. However, Annabelle demonstrated that she doesn’t have an immediate knowledge of things as they were getting recorded:

(MAG197) MARTIN: And… Wait, ha–, no, uh… Is that… Basira? He–he’s got Basira with him! ANNABELLE: Yes. I did wonder if that would be the case. Interesting. And unfortunate for me. That’s two heads we’ll need to keep cool. My odds aren’t looking good.

If that knowledge had been instantaneous, Annabelle would have known for a while now that Basira was with Jon, since he picked her up in the lake in MAG195, on tape. Annabelle had taunted Martin about what was listening at the end of MAG196 but never clearly answered about that – her plan relies on the Fears hearing the voices and following… but are they the thing that had been listening through the tape recorders since the beginning? Could be that The Web itself is listening though the tape recorders? If so, that would also mean that Annabelle is not directly connected to it.

* The thing about the lighter having allowed The Web and the tapes to follow Jon… only partially works, technically.

(MAG197) ANNABELLE: A little anchor of our power, so that we, and our tapes, may follow wherever you go.

Season 2’s trailer had announced the tape recorder turning on by themselves, which is something we first witnessed in MAG080: the official transcript had two [CLICK] at the beginning of the episode (Jon taking Leitner’s statement); at some point, Jon, shaken, left the office to have a smoke (possibly compelled by the lighter), leaving Leitner alone; there was another [CLICK] when Elias entered the room and the “texture” of the tape spooling changed; Elias murdered Leitner, left the office; Jon came back and discovered the body and the recording stopped. What might have happened is that Jon was recording the event, but that another recorder had been sneakily double-recording everything by itself; when Elias entered the office, he turned off one of the recorders, unaware that there was another still running and catching everything on tape. Said tape was still in the Institute afterwards – Melanie retrieved it from Elias’s desk in MAG118, and it was the piece of evidence that forced Section 31 to arrest Elias in MAG120 (since the Inspector pointed out that it contains the recording of a murder – if it had been Gertrude’s, the secret of Elias-being-Jonah would have been known at that point).

It is true that the tapes had turned on and off around Jon after that point during season 3… but they did the same at the Institute when Jon was away, including when he was in America. In fact, the first times the tapes had begun acting up were around the Assistants (Tim didn’t want to get recorded in MAG082, and he&Daisy commented that it had turned back on; and it turned back on again at the end of the episode when Martin&Tim were discussing); by MAG114, Jon even thought that Tim was navigating through the tunnels because he wanted to avoid the tape recorders in the Archives. Chronologically, there are even a few cases where tape recorders might have been acting up pre-Jon: it’s unclear whether Gerry had accidentally turned it on in MAG162, and the recording of Gertrude’s murder in MAG158 had started when she was already busy pouring gasoline around.

I could accept that at that point, The Web had basically made its nest in the Archives (since Gertrude had her own connections with The Web through Hill Top Road and Emma had been working there for a while), but the point remains that the lighter had not been the (only?) thing allowing the tape recorders to act up. Actually, it’s even surprising that Annabelle kept talking about the “tapes” but not the “tape recorders”, and that neither she nor Jon ever clearly stated that it was The Web controlling or listening through the tape recorders themselves:

(MAG196) MARTIN: Wait… Wait. The tapes… ANNABELLE: A fine material to spin a web with, don’t you think? MARTIN: What? All this time, through all of this… it, it was just you spying on us? ANNABELLE: Oh, Martin! You have no idea who’s listening, do you?

(MAG197) BASIRA: … So. The tapes. They’re from The Web, then? ARCHIVIST: Looks like it. BASIRA: Were they always? Right from the start? ARCHIVIST: As far as I can tell. I–it’s hard to s–… If I look too closely at them, my own voice, things get… recursive. Hard to follow. BASIRA: I always assumed they were with The Eye. The whole “watching, listening, waiting” thing, you know? ARCHIVIST: No… They were always using them to spin their own web. Out of my words. […] MARTIN: I’d hardly call this silence. ANNABELLE: I’d stop them if I could…! […] We found the one we believed most likely to bring about their manifestation. We marked him young, guided his path as best we could. And then, we took his voice. ARCHIVIST: No… ANNABELLE: His, and those he walked with. We inscribed them on shining strands of word and meaning, and used them to weave a web which cast itself out through the gate and beyond our universe. So that when the Fears heard that voice, and came in their terrible glory, they might then travel out along it. [TAPE SQUEALS] Or be dragged. BASIRA: Is she talking about the tapes? ARCHIVIST: Yes.

So: was it always The Web controlling the recorders, is it still The Web? Or did something else happen, either from the start, either growing over the power that was being stored, and which led to the tape recorders also catching mundane conversations in the Archives…?

Regardless: characters might now associate tapes with The Web spying on them, which means that we could get a few more games of whack-a-tape-recorder or characters deliberately refraining from pouring their hearts out when they’re in the vicinity, or being unreliable on tape on purpose.

Only 3 episodes to go ;_; In previous seasons, at this point: Jon had just interrogated Martin about the lighter delivery (ha.), Jon had listened to Gertrude’s tape about the Not!Them, the Archive team had recorded their testaments and Jon had burned Gerry’s page with a lighter (ha.), Jon had read Adelard’s last statement to Gertrude explaining his incoming death and was panicking over Peter&Martin’s plan being set into motion, leading to Georgie&Melanie refusing to help and Helen gloating about it.

MAG198’s title is the WORST and doesn’t inspire me anything else than: shit going down soon TTwwTT

[pwapuri]

Tagged by: @gakupoid2m​! Thank u!!! 

Last time you watched / read Gintama? lol rewatched episode 27 last night and that was so sad! I get shocked how I forgot about it. It was like a summary of gintoki’s backstory.

Favorite male character? If I say Gintoki will be easy. Beside him, I think that Katsura just captured my heart since the first time I saw him.

Favorite female character? Tsukuyo just because I got interest in the show by seeing her on a short video. But I don’t think its fair because all gintama girls are amazing.

Favorite male character design? I don’t think I can choose one. They’re amazing. But I very much like of Takasugi. So simple and yet so remarkable.

Favorite female character design? I can’t choose neither. Love all. But Tsukki its so remarkable. Also love Sachan design too, hard to choose.

Most underrated character? hm, maybe Sakamoto. But sometimes I think that Katsura could have more involvement with the shouka sonjuku. Sometimes looks like only takasugi and gintoki were there. dunno. But I think that would just transform gintama on a mexican drama.  

Best squad? Yorozuya. I would be lying if answer other. But shinsengumi its amazing too. 

Favorite episode or arc? For fun: Goninja always make me laught, but the goukon episode its just fun AF. For emotion: I think that courtesan of nation have this appel for me, when I started gintama this arc was running, and for me its beautiful in so many ways.

OTP(s)? Gintoki x Tsukuyo, Katsura x Ikumatsu, Kondou x Tae, Zenzou x Sachan, Hijikata x Mitsuba, and of course Gintoki and hapiness.

BROTP(s)? Kagura and shinpachi, Tsukuyo and Sachan, Otae and Kyuubei, Zura and Gintoki, Zura and Elizabeth, Hijikata and Kondou, Kagura and Gintoki, Kagura and Sougo. Gintoki x MADAO

An unpopular opinion?  When I was reading the manga years ago and the Utsuro id comes out I was disappointed. I thought: oh that’s so clichê, but after reading the rest of it I thought: ok, that’s the only way that they can end this. 

Favorite running joke? so many. the renho arc and the stand “ame no hi mo, kaze no hi mo, RENHO no hi mo”. i just can’t LOOL

Favorite OST? Last address makes me cry everytime. But my fav will be forever: take care buddy.

Feelings about the upcoming movie? can’t wait till january. Reaally hope that we can see more shouka sonjuku content, just a little more one last time. That’s my only wish.

I wanna hear your guy’s opinions sooooo: @amatsuchan @lunar-beauty @temporarilyunstable @seigibathala

[panlyv]

Hi hi!!! I saw faiza’s ask and I agree I hope your exam goes well!! Stay hydrated, eat and I hope after your exam you can relax!! 🌸 for the ask game pomegranate and tangelo 🌸💛

zeeeey!! oh my thank u so much! the exam went better than i was expecting it to! five long hours of only math and physics exercises but i live!

i already answered tangelo here!! but i also would LOVE to be a vampire man.... they are just So Cool and ~ mysterious ~ but super powerful too (pls dont think twilight vamps. i want to be like bram stoker's dracula. sexy. appeling. living in a castle with pretty women and living my best five hundred year old life.)

pomegranate : when do you feel the most confident?

oh definitely when im talking about stuff i like because i get //really// invested in it, so i know i did my homework and know what im talking about. especially because im a Sucker for making things be Too Deep even when they aren't supposed to. so i can rant about my fave shows or languages or just anything else that i really treasure with no fear of saying something wrong (but always open to learn more!!!). besides that im v v v insecure and second-guess myself All the time so i have 0 confidence and always stay shut during any conversation unless im requested lol

send me a fruit!

[dragontag420]

ok ok ok now I really gotta sleep tho.... its 3am aand I have class tomorrow

[palmtreepalmtree]

if that actually is a text meant for Kavanaugh, it's about as neutral a text as we could've hoped for. wild that you wanna read some fault into it.

I think this is referring to the complete freak-out comment I made on someone else’s post quoting Senator Grassley’s text/tweet that seemed to address Judge Kavanaugh directly to inform him that the vote would be delayed.  

You’re right that the text-tweet is relatively neutrally worded. But there are multiple reasons why I reacted as strongly as I did to the tweet.  

First, the text/tweet implies that Senator Grassley is in direct contact with Judge Kavanaugh via the very personal mode of cell phone text.  This seems inappropriate to me.  Senator Grassley is supposed to be a neutral evaluator.  Direct texting implies a personal relationship unbecoming of a neutral evaluator.  Further, correct me if I’m wrong but text messages between the two of them would not be public record.  Do we get to see any of their other texts?  It would be much more appropriate for such information to be communicated through their offices.

Second, while I agree, as I said, that the wording is relatively neutral, it’s also apologetic.  “I hope u understand.”  Judge Kavanaugh is being considered for a lifetime appointment to our nation’s highest court.  We have no other opportunity to get this right.  Judge Kavanaugh surely understands the gravity of this as an appellate judge.  No apology necessary.  

And finally, if I assume this was always intended as a public tweet then I’m pretty much done with our government being run by tweet.  If I were Judge Kavanaugh being informed via twitter, well then I would be offended.  This text/tweet, or whatever you want to call it, is unprofessional.  It does not befit the grave duty of the alleged professionals representing the American people in considering and selecting our next Supreme Court justice.  

Anyhow, that’s a more complete response than the omfg wtf bbq reaction that I posted.  Thanks for tracking me down and sending me an ask.  Wild.

[nigeiadigitalmarketingcompany]

2:00PM Water Cooler 8/1/2019

Digital Elixir 2:00PM Water Cooler 8/1/2019

By Lambert Strether of Corrente

Patient readers, I’ll have more on politics after I throw in a laundry! –lambert

“Trump’s Bid to Dismantle Global Trading System Poised for a Win” [Industry Week]. “Thanks to a U.S. veto on new appeals judges, the WTO’s dispute arm is expected to start slipping into the institutional equivalent of a coma at the end of this year. That has set off a scramble by the European Union, Canada and other countries to set up a temporary alternative allowing the use of arbitrators rather than three-judge panels to hear appeals. But by creating that system, WTO members may be giving Trump and aidesーwho, like him, have deep-rooted skepticism of multilateral institutionsーthe very thing they want. Arbitration would above all provide the flexibility the U.S. is after, Vaughn said. It would see disputes treated as individual cases, avoiding the precedent-dependent system the WTO appellate body has become.”

“Inside the lose-lose trade fight between Japan and South Korea” [Nikkei Asian Review]. “[There is a] growing ‘Boycott Japan’ movement spreading across South Korea. South Koreans have also stopped buying cars, beer, cosmetics and just about anything else bearing the label ‘Made in Japan.’ Some are even canceling their summer holidays…. Well-organized protests are not uncommon in South Korea, and they tend to pass relatively quickly. But these boycotts — which in South Koreans’ minds are tied with the emotionally-charged issue of wartime labor and a sense that their most successful companies are under attack — may be different. The movement kicked off shortly after the decision by Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe’s administration on July 4 to tighten controls on exports of three chemicals essential for making semiconductors and flat panel screens used in smartphones and TVs. By choking off supplies of the chemicals — Japan’s market share for two of them stands at more than 90% — the Abe administration was essentially taking aim at the engine that powers South Korea’s high-tech economy.”

“USDA gave almost 100 percent of Trump’s trade war bailout to white farmers” [New Food Economy]. • Deceptive headline erases class: “The Environmental Working Group (EWG) has documented that the program has disproportionately helped wealthy landowners and a recent analysis by Donald Carr, a senior advisor for EWG, argues that the MFP has deepened the disadvantages of black and minority farmers.”

Politics

“But what is government itself, but the greatest of all reflections on human nature?” –James Madison, Federalist 51

“They had one weapon left and both knew it: treachery.” –Frank Herbert, Dune

“2020 Democratic Presidential Nomination” [RealClearPolitics] (average of five polls). As of July 30: Biden continues rise at 32.2% (32.0), Sanders flat at 16.2% (16.2%), Warren up at 14.3% (14.0%), Buttigieg flat at 5.6% (5.5%), Harris up at 10.8% (10.5%), others Brownian motion. Sanders opens a little daylight between him and Warren, for the first time in two weeks.

* * *

2020

Sanders (D)(1): “Sanders Calls Out CNN for Airing Pharma Commercials During 2020 Debate” [Truthout]. “Pointing to the PAHCF commercial — which is part of a six-figure ad campaign against Medicare for All — Warren Gunnels, Sanders’s staff director, tweeted, ‘If Medicare for All was on trial, the entire corporate media would have to recuse itself for a y-u-g-e conflict of interest.’”

Williamson (D)(1): “Marianne Williamson isn’t funny. She’s scary.” [Vox]. “In her book A Return to Love, Williamson wrote that “sickness is an illusion and does not exist,” and that “cancer and AIDS and other physical illnesses are physical manifestations of a psychic scream.’”

The Debates

“Only 7 Candidates Have Qualified for the Next Democratic Debate” [New York Times]. “The Democratic National Committee has set stricter criteria for the third set of debates, which will be held on Sept. 12 and Sept. 13 in Houston. If 10 or fewer candidates qualify, the debate will take place on only one night. Candidates will need to have 130,000 unique donors and register at least 2 percent support in four polls. They have until Aug. 28 to reach those benchmarks. These criteria could easily halve the field.” • The seven are: Biden, Booker, Buttigieg, Harris, O’Rourke, Sanders, and Warren. Castro, Klobuchar, and Yang are close.

“Can Someone Please Vote CNN Off the Stage?” [Bloomberg]. “Ten of the Democrats debated on Tuesday night. But the debate was dominated by Jake Tapper, Dana Bash and Don Lemon – CNN’s moderators…. ˛After Tuesday night’s event, I have to believe that there are plenty of people at the Democratic National Committee – and plenty of candidates and their staff – who are fed up with debates that put the TV stars first. I wouldn’t be surprised, especially if things go badly over the rest of the cycle, if both parties start thinking seriously about running their own shows in 2024.” • Yes, it’s always possible to make things worse. Why not go back to the League of Women Voters? The very last thing I want is the DNC exerting even more control over the process, and I would bet there are plenty of voters who think just the same about the RNC.

Obama Legacy

“Obama Presidential Center would have ‘adverse impact’ on historic Jackson Park, federal review concludes” [Chicago Sun-Times (DG)]. “The project would diminish the ‘the historic property’s overall integrity by altering historic, internal spatial divisions that were designed as a single entity’ by renowned landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted, the [Federal Highway Administration] concluded. It also concludes the ‘size and scale of new buildings’ would ‘diminish the intended prominence of the Museum of Science and Industry building and alter the overall composition and design intent of balancing park scenery with specific built areas.’ … The finding puts pressure on the Obama Foundation to find a way to ‘resolve adverse effects’ and turns up the heat on Mayor Lori Lightfoot to order the foundation to make those changes. ‘The Obama Foundation has yet to show any interest in compromising on any of this. It may take [Lightfoot] to bring them to the table,’ said Margaret Schmid, co-president of Jackson Park Watch. ‘It means there are lots of new obstacles facing this proposal. A big question is, does Chicago want to go on record as having allowed a project that has major adverse impacts on this important historic park or can the project be redesigned to be compatible with this historic landscape?’” • A classic permitting battle. Go forth and do likewise with your local fossil fuel infrastruture project!

Stats Watch

Jobless Claims, week of July 27, 2019: “New claims are steady and low and consistent with strong demand for labor” [Econoday]. “This report together with this morning’s Challenger report point to decreasing layoffs and increasing strength for jobs.”

Challenger Job-Cut Report, July 2019: “Increasing strength in the labor market is the indication from Challenger’s job-cut count” [Econoday]. “Yet weakness in manufacturing and related equipment investment, not questions in the labor market, is what the Federal Reserve cited as central to yesterday’s rate cut and here the news is not upbeat.”

Institute For Supply Management Manufacturing Index, July 2019: “Extending a straight slope down, ISM’s index fell” [Econoday]. “This report, together with very similar results from the manufacturing PMI sample released earlier this morning, do support the Federal Reserve’s concerns over manufacturing and specifically confirm Jerome Powell’s remarks at yesterday’s press conference that business contacts in the manufacturing sector, citing global slowing and tariff effects, are reporting trouble.”

Purchasing Managers Manufacturing Index, July 2019: “Markit’s US manufacturing sample has been moving steadily from slowing conditions to nearly stagnant conditions” [Econoday]. “The lack of confidence is affecting staffing levels which for this sample posted their first reduction in six years. Production moved forward last month but at the expense of backlogs which edged lower.”

Construction Spending, June 2018: “The construction sector has been a stubborn disappointment all year, failing to show much life despite strong conditions in the domestic economy and favorable financing rates” [Econoday]. “This report brings up questions of possible contraction in foreign investment in US real estate and whether construction, like manufacturing, is being pulled down by global slowing and related tariff effects.”

Banking: “AI is a road to customer success—but banks need to create guardrails too” [American Banker]. “Customers today yearn for a personalized human experience tailored to their needs, wants, and expectations – whether they are in your branch, dialing into your call center, or contacting you over social media. Advanced technologies can help banks create such experiences.” • Yeah, I’m yearning for a personalized human experience delivered by a human.

Banking: “Digital banks are racking up users, but will they ever make money?” [Quartz]. “The UK has become something of a laboratory for newfangled digital banks, which are attracting thousands of new customers each day. But there are some big questions: Will bigger legacy banks eventually learn the fintech firms’ tricks? And will the so-called neobanks ever become profitable?… ‘I’ve heard of situations where core banking platforms are written in COBOL and the coders are starting to die out,’ said Michael Kent, CEO of money transfer startup Azimo and a founder of Tandem, a neobank. ‘They’re spending billions and billion and billions to try to fix that huge technical debt.’” • I’m sure writing everything from the ground up in Node.js will solve everything.

Credit: “Sorry, you’re not getting $125 from the Equifax settlement, FTC says” [MarketWatch]. “The Federal Trade Commission announced Wednesday that, due to an overwhelming response, cash payments aren’t going to be anywhere near $125 each, and urged consumers to sign up for the free credit monitoring offered as an alternative.” • So, if I have this right, I now have to give Equifax even more of my data, as compensation for the data they lost? More: “‘A large number of claims for cash instead of credit monitoring means only one thing: each person who takes the money option will wind up only getting a small amount of money,’ the FTC said in a blog post Wednesday.” • What kind of settlement is that? What was the FTC thinking when it drafted it? Wikipedia notes: “Most people get little benefit from paying for regular credit reporting.” Who on earth wouldn’t want the [family blogging] cash?

Housing: “LGBTQ-centric neighborhoods offer home price premiums, studies suggest” [Los Angeles Times]. “[G]ayborhood residents can cash in big — up to 294% more value for their homes compared with those in surrounding metro areas, as shown in the [Zillow] analysis of 36 housing markets, released in May.”

Shipping: “The world’s biggest shipyards are forging a new landscape for buying and building ocean vessels. The impending mergers of the shipbuilders in South Korea and in China will create two behemoths that will control around 46% of the global market among the world’s top 10 yards” [Wall Street Journal]. “That will give the combined Hyundai Heavy Industries Co. and Daewoo Shipbuilding & Marine Engineering Co. and the merged China Shipbuilding Industry Corp. and China State Shipbuilding Corp. weightier control of the global market for ships over smaller competitors.”

Manufacturing: “Airbus SE is trying to speed up its supply chain while rival Boeing Co. is just hoping to get part of its production line moving at all. Airbus increased its quarterly profit more than fivefold despite bottlenecks that have hobbled the company’s ability to step up the delivery pace… Airbus has been struggling to produce more of the largest version of its A321 single-aisle aircraft, and delays in deliveries have aggravated airlines’ capacity issues caused by the grounding of Boeing’s 737 MAX” [Wall Street Journal]. “Airbus increased its deliveries by 28% in the first half of the year to 389 planes but still must deliver about 500 jets the rest of the year to meet its financial targets. Airbus may face pushback from parts suppliers. Slower traffic growth has suppliers to both Airbus and Boeing getting cautious about supporting higher aircraft production.”

Fodder for the Bulls: “The Next Bailout May Come From Consumers” [Conor Sen, Bloomberg (FluffytheObeseCat)]. “Now that we know the saving rate is at 8.1%, rather than 6.1% as believed a month ago, we can see how different this environment is for households versus the past two cycles. In December 2000, on the brink of the 2001 recession, the saving rate was 4.2%. In December 2007, as the great recession was beginning, the saving rate was 3.7%. The saving rate would have to fall by around 4% — equivalent to around $750 billion i.. n annual consumption — before households would find themselves as tapped out as they were then…. With the saving rate high relative to the last 25 years, households aren’t in the position where they need to save more. So if an economic shock originated elsewhere — if corporations or the government found themselves needing to save more — households could spend more.” • The comments are interesing: “Too bad all that saving is only in the top 10% of incomes,” “The problem with the suggestion that savings rate is up… up for who? We have auto loan defaults higher than ever. There is a disconnect between who is saving and who is not… my guess is the savers are not spenders and will not spend us out of an economic slowdown.” What do readers think?

The Biosphere

“Life is tough” [Aeon]. “Extremophiles tell us that everything we think we know about the fragility of life is wrong. Life is indeed extraordinary, not to mention precious and deserving of reverence – but not in any sense miraculous. The word extremophile didn’t exist until the 1970s. It entered wide circulation only after 1979 when the US Navy’s submersible Alvin revealed ecosystems prospering in deep-ocean hydrothermal vents. The Alvin scientists discovered organisms living in superheated water and largely metabolising hydrogen sulphide, which until then had been thought toxic and incompatible with life…. Extremophiles are in a sense antitheological and a cure for life-worshipping mysticism, another nail in the coffin that proclaims living things to be divinely created because they couldn’t possibly derive from natural processes. They also expand the possible playing field within which life initially evolved.”

* * *

First Philly, now these. Summer heats up the pipes, or something?

“Kentucky gas explosion: One person killed, 5 injured” [CNN]. “A gas explosion rocked a Kentucky community Thursday morning, leaving one person dead and lighting at least six homes on fire, according to local authorities…. Gilliam said authorities believe the explosion was the result of a rupture of a 30-inch gas transmission pipeline, but it will take time to definitively determine the cause.”

“Explosion, fire at Exxon Mobil Baytown plant injures 37” [Houston Chronicle]. “A fire at an Exxon Mobil plant in Baytown Wednesday morning injured 37 people and sent a plume of smoke over a Houston-area chemical facility for the fourth time since April. It was the second fire this year at an Exxon Mobil facility in Baytown. The company’s operations in the east Harris County city have a history of environmental violations stretching back to 2013. The cause of Wednesday’s fire was not immediately known, although the company said the blaze began with an explosion.”

“Boom Goes the Plastics Industry” [Sierra Club]. “Facing intensifying global efforts to curtail the use of oil and gas for transportation and energy—and at the same time seeking markets for the torrent of oil and gas from the US fracking boom—the fossil fuel industry is looking to plastics as a lifeline. Today, 14 percent of oil and 8 percent of gas is used for the manufacture of petrochemicals, the essential feedstock of plastic production. The International Energy Agency predicts that by 2050, 50 percent of the growth in oil demand will be related to petrochemicals… ExxonMobil and Saudi Aramco, among the world’s largest fossil fuel companies, are betting big on plastics. … The American Chemistry Council reports that since 2010, plans for 333 new chemical-manufacturing projects have been announced in the United States, representing more than $200 billion in capital investments; the industry association notes that “much of the investment is geared toward export markets for chemistry and plastics products.’”

Guillotine Watch

“Backlash at barefoot Prince Harry and ‘hypocrite Greenerati’: Eco-warrior elite who turned up at secret climate change Google camp in 114 private jets, helicopters and mega yachts are mocked for leaving their own carbon footprint” [Daily Mail]. • As usual, the Daily Mail headline tells the entire story, but for more detail: “A host of A-list celebrities faced an angry backlash today after they travelled to a climate change conference in Italy in a fleet of supercars, expensive yachts and more than 100 private jets…. h The event, created by Google co-founders Larry Page and Sergey Brin, sees some of the world’s wealthiest business leaders and tech gurus discussing various issues in morning sessions before relaxing in the Italian sunshine in the afternoon.” • Poor optics! The guest list is amusing, too.

“Where the Wealthy Go in Private Jets, From Bahamas to Barbados” [Bloomberg]. “Private jet flights climbed almost 10% last year, according to an analysis of 30 island destinations by real estate broker Knight Frank and aviation adviser WingX. Private jets flew to islands in the Americas almost 30,000 times, making them the world’s top hub for non-commercial aviation, led by the Bahamas, Puerto Rico and the Cayman Islands… The Philippines, Maldives and Bali were the top destinations in the Asia-Pacific region, which saw private-jet arrivals increase more than 80%, reflecting a wealth boom in which China minted a new billionaire roughly every other day.”

“Harvard has the highest number of ultra-rich alumni — by an insane margin” [MarketWatch]. “Harvard is in an Ivy League of its own, with more than 13,650 estimated [Ultra-High Net Worth (UHNW)] alumni worth $4.769 trillion — more than double the figure for Stanford…. Wealth-X reports that almost 80% of this group made their own fortunes, rather than inheriting it. In fact, most of the UHNW alumni (84%) were self-made…. [J]ust 244 of the 2,153 billionaires in the world are women, and women account for just 6.6% of Fortune 500 CEOs.”

“Jeffrey Epstein Hoped to Seed Human Race With His DNA” [New York Times]. “On multiple occasions starting in the early 2000s, Mr. Epstein told scientists and businessmen about his ambitions to use his New Mexico ranch as a base where women would be inseminated with his sperm and would give birth to his babies, according to two award-winning scientists and an adviser to large companies and wealthy individuals, all of whom Mr. Epstein told about it. It was not a secret. The adviser, for example, said he was told about the plans not only by Mr. Epstein, at a gathering at his Manhattan townhouse, but also by at least one prominent member of the business community.” • Lifting the lid on elite networking and money-grubbing. Epstein’s Harvard sweatshirt is prominently displayed in the photographs that accompany the article…

Class Warfare

“As Alaska’s budget uproar rolls on, a top Dunleavy adviser has seen it before” [Anchorage Daily News]. “But say the name “Donna Arduin” to an Alaskan these days and they’re likely to know exactly who you’re talking about. Arduin has been in the spotlight since Gov. Mike Dunleavy hired her as his top state budget executive shortly after his election in November, at a salary of $195,000. Her reputation preceded her: Arduin, 56, has an almost 30-year career as an itinerant ‘budget fixer’ of sorts, working for a series of Republican governors to balance state budgets, often by instituting drastic spending cuts…. “I joined government to shrink it,” Arduin said in a profile published in her Duke University alumni magazine in 2006. (The profile ends with Arduin whispering under her breath “get a job” to a panhandling man.)” • She sounds nice. The same alert reader who submitted this link also sent this note about the Alaska ferries:

I am one of the ferry passengers who has been stranded due to the shutdown of the ferries. I am currently on an island which is only accessible by boat and plane, and since the government-operated ferry is out of service, and there is no private ferry which can get me closer to my destination, plane is the only option. I have booked a flight ticket out, which will be my first time on an airplane since 2014. I am in a better position than many of my fellow passengers. Many other passengers have vehicles, which cannot be moved by airplane. Some of them were also riding the ferries to get medical care not available in their home communities, and are concerned about being able to make their doctor’s appointments. Some of them are also going to take a much bigger financial hit than I will. Of course, those of us who are not Alaska residents (or who are leaving Alaska) will not need to deal with this situation anymore once we manage to leave Alaska. The coastal communities of Alaska will continue to feel the repercussions as long as there is a loss of ferry service, especially if the severe budget cuts make the loss of ferry service permanent.

“Labor of Love”‘ [The Baffler]. “”Full Surrogacy Now,” the rallying cry, is a radical demand for the dissolution of notions like ‘biological parents’ and their opposites, (underpaid) (hired) (invisible) gestational surrogates. ‘We are the makers of one another,’ [Sophie] Lewis writes. ‘And we could learn collectively to act like it. It is those truths that I wish to call real surrogacy, full surrogacy.’ …. The problem, in Lewis’s view, isn’t that women are risking their lives and paid shockingly low wages to bear the offspring of others, efforts which are considered ‘generous’ instead of ‘a job,’ before being erased from family histories entirely. The problem is that we haven’t spent any time considering what the fact and endurance of surrogacy from at least the transatlantic slave-trade days to the present might say about unwaged pregnancy. After all, pregnancy is—well, labor.” • Hmm.

No aristocracy here:

Blue Ivy Carter, daughter of Beyoncé, just scored her first Billboard Hot 100 hit with "Brown Skin Girl."

She's 7. pic.twitter.com/nAnZLeXi2r

— AJ+ (@ajplus) August 1, 2019

News of the Wired

The historical record:

O thank goodness, someone has finally made a documentary about ANSI arthttps://t.co/CSBJGEZP5j

— Jason Scott (@textfiles) July 31, 2019

* * *

Readers, feel free to contact me at lambert [UNDERSCORE] strether [DOT] corrente [AT] yahoo [DOT] com, with (a) links, and even better (b) sources I should curate regularly, (c) how to send me a check if you are allergic to PayPal, and (d) to find out how to send me images of plants. Vegetables are fine! Fungi are deemed to be honorary plants! If you want your handle to appear as a credit, please place it at the start of your mail in parentheses: (thus). Otherwise, I will anonymize by using your initials. See the previous Water Cooler (with plant) here. Today’s plant (Eric W):

Eric W writes: “The pitcher plant is from early April in Maine. Wow.” Indeed!

* * *

Readers: Water Cooler is a standalone entity not covered by the annual NC fundraiser. So do feel free to make a contribution today or any day. Here is why: Regular positive feedback both makes me feel good and lets me know I’m on the right track with coverage. When I get no donations for five or ten days I get worried. More tangibly, a constant trickle of small donations helps me with expenses, and I factor in that trickle when setting fundraising goals. So if you see something you especially appreciate, do feel free to click this donate button:

Here is the screen that will appear, which I have helpfully annotated.

Readers, I have redesigned the image above because the composition of your Water Cooler donations has changed. For the last few months, donations have shifted to monthly donations in smaller amounts, with very few one-time donations in larger amounts. While I’m very happy to have enabled small contributions (Luke 21:1-4), the lack of larger contributions has cut into the trickle of funding from Water Cooler that I really do depend on. In other words, your contributions are way down. (Readership and comment counts have not fallen, so I don’t think Water Cooler editorial content as such is the issue, though do feel free to drop me a line if you have thoughts.)

So, I redesigned the image to emphasize one-time donations, while still enabling smaller monthly donations. And if you’ve been waiting for a good excuse to contribute, perhaps last night’s debate coverage will provide an excuse!

If you hate PayPal, you can email me at lambert [UNDERSCORE] strether [DOT] corrente [AT] yahoo [DOT] com, and I will give you directions on how to send a check. Thank you!

2:00PM Water Cooler 8/1/2019

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[vox]

Donald Trump took $19,000 of my money. And I want him to pay.

Donald Trump took $19,000 of my hard-earned money. I was a student at the now-infamous Trump University, and Trump swindled me and thousands of other people like me. I believe he needs to acknowledge that his business practices were illegal and face a financial penalty that will deter future fraud. So I’m insisting on taking Trump to trial. And soon, a federal appellate court will decide whether I can do just that.

Prior to Trump U, I spent a great deal of time fighting for homeowners against unscrupulous real estate investors who were stealing people’s homes in Broward County, Florida, where I live. I was not making a lot of money, but the work was important. As the housing market crashed around us, people needed advocates to deter predatory conduct and guide them through financial crisis.

Still, I was a single mom raising an ambitious 10-year-old daughter who already dreamed of attending an Ivy League college and medical school. I was proud of her drive, but also worried about looming college expenses. I needed to boost my earning potential.

And so in 2010, I decided to train for a second career as a professional real estate investor. Trump University’s pitch seemed perfect for me. I already had a basic understanding of real estate. I wasn’t looking for a “get rich quick” program. I was willing to roll up my sleeves and learn the finer points of the business. I certainly was familiar with the wrong ways of doing real estate investing and wanted to learn the right way. I wanted mentoring and access to critical resources. And Donald Trump promised exactly that.

It didn’t take long to realize that Trump University was a classic con, preying on the hunger in people like me

Trump looked into the cameras and promised year-long mentorships with his “hand-picked” investing experts, trained in his real estate organization. These trained experts and mentors would impart his secrets in a “university” setting, through “Ivy League quality” instruction, along with access to valuable resources like financing, legal support, and a proprietary real estate listings database.

As a resident of South Florida, surrounded by his opulent properties, the Trump name represented an elite, professional real estate operation. I believed it when Donald Trump — the most famous real estate investor in the world — said I would get all this and more through his “Gold Elite” mentorship program.

The program started with a free seminar, where they upsold us on a $1,495 weekend seminar. And then the weekend seminar was all about selling us on the mentorship program. The tuition was steep: $17,500 apiece for two people to share a mentor. But the Trump U folks assured me I’d make it back in my very first transaction, with my dedicated mentor holding my hand. I decided to make the investment in my family’s future.

You may know how the story goes next: It was all a hoax. The “mentors” had not been “hand-picked” by Trump. They weren’t “trained” in his “system” — in fact, many had no real estate experience at all. There was no “university,” and it delivered none of the promised resources — no information that you couldn’t have just grabbed off the internet.

My assigned mentor, it turned out, had never even met Donald Trump. He’d never had any relation to the Trump real estate organization and had no familiarity with any Trump “system” or resources. And after some introductory chatting with me and another student, the mentor just disappeared. He didn’t answer calls or emails, and neither did Trump U.

It didn’t take long to realize that the whole program was a classic con, preying on the hunger in people like me to be more successful and maybe even turn our lives around. I felt humiliated. And at first, I blamed myself — like I should have known better. But I soon learned I wasn’t alone. Trump had defrauded thousands of other unwitting Trump University students as well, hauling in roughly $50 million and earning a D-rating with the Better Business Bureau.

And I learned that a class-action lawsuit had been filed in federal court in San Diego, before US District Judge Gonzalo Curiel. In 2011, I got in touch with the class-action lawyers and stayed in close contact over the succeeding years as the Trump U lawsuit barreled toward trial.

You may have heard that the class action settled and is over. Not quite.

In 2016, as Trump campaigned for president on his track record of success in business, I warned Americans of his deceptive and destructive business practices. I felt true concern for the well-being of Americans when he was elected, based on my own experience. And then, just days after the election, I was furious when I learned he had entered a settlement that allowed him to avoid a trial, and to avoid taking responsibility for his actions.

You may have heard that the class action settled and is over. Not quite. I’m fighting in the US Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit for my right to opt out of the settlement and take Donald Trump to trial. And I expect to win that appeal.

My mission is to take Trump to trial under the federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations law and Florida laws against fraud and deceptive practices — claims that the district court has already greenlighted for trial. I want to go ahead with that trial to hold Trump accountable. This means full compensation for our losses, including triple damages, punitive damages, and seven years of interest — all of which would total roughly $170 million, for all the victims.

As Trump himself boasted in a November 2016 tweet, the settlement represents only “a small fraction of the potential award.”

To be exact, the settlement provides for $23 million — roughly one-seventh of what Trump would have to pay after a trial. And worse yet, the settlement allows him to deny culpability. A boastful November tweet proves the point: “The ONLY bad thing about winning the Presidency is that I did not have the time to go through a long but winning trial on Trump U. Too bad!”

The settlement, reached just days after the election, was also designed to ban “opt outs” and ensure there would never be a public trial exposing the evidence of Trump’s fraud. But the law gives each class member the right to opt out of a class action and seek our day in court. And in this case, we class members were promised, in a binding 2015 court notice, that we would have the right to opt out “from any settlement.” In other words: Each class member was entitled to say, “No, thanks,” to any settlement deal and to proceed to trial with his or her claim against Mr. Trump.

I understand why some folks simply want to settle, take a little money, and forget this ever happened. I need the money. I can only imagine where I would be if I had invested in a reputable training program seven years ago that actually paid off. My daughter is now 17 years old. I’m proud to say that she’s worked hard in school and gotten top grades. She’s getting ready to take the SAT and is looking at expensive colleges, expecting it to pay off down the road. I sure hope it does.

But we can’t just hope. That’s why I can’t go along with this settlement. Scams like Trump U victimize the vulnerable, and they need to be stopped. Whether it’s “for-profit college” scams, foreclosure frauds, or other schemes, ordinary people are vulnerable to predators like Donald Trump. This shouldn’t be swept under the rug with a settlement that doesn’t even require him to pay back what he took or admit guilt.

I want to exercise my right to “opt out” of the class-action settlement because the whole story, in all its gaudy detail, is something the public deserves to see in the light of day — the kind of light that a federal jury trial can provide. I want to see a federal jury verdict holding Trump liable. Or, if there is to be any settlement talk, I believe it’s appropriate to insist on a detailed admission of liability.

To make this happen, I’ve brought in a team of top-notch lawyers and am hoping that with some grassroots support, we’ll actually be able to go toe to toe with Trump’s army of lawyers.

I am not pursuing Donald Trump because he is president, but neither am I backing off just because he got elected president. No one is above the law, and in this case, the law is on my side. I intend to take Trump to trial.

Sherri B. Simpson is a mom, bankruptcy lawyer, daughter, citizen, and dog lover living in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and she is the appellant in Simpson v. Trump University LLC and Donald J. Trump, Case No. 17-55635, in the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit.

[maxwellyjordan]

Relist Watch

John Elwood reviews Monday’s relists.

Since our last update, the Supreme Court has been doing a great job thinning the ranks of the relists, by:

granting review in a Religious Freedom Restoration Act case;

summarily vacating a campaign-finance decision from the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 9th Circuit and “remand[ing] for that court to revisit whether Alaska’s campaign contribution limits are consistent with our First Amendment precedents,” including one 2006 precedent, Randall v. Sorrell, that the 9th Circuit opinion already explicitly addressed;

finally denying review on the much-relisted Gundy v. United States nondelegation-doctrine rehearing petition, and in the process shaking loose a statement respecting denial in a companion case in which the only member of the court not to sit on Gundy opined that Justice Neil Gorsuch’s delegation-skeptical separate opinion in that case “may warrant further consideration”;

denying review in a capital case in which the trial judge had a significant history prosecuting the defendant in previous matters and opposing clemency efforts, with a separate opinion by Justice Sonia Sotomayor; and

denying review in two cases involving allegations of defamation based on commentary critical of a climate scientist, drawing Justice Samuel Alito’s dissent from denial of cert.

Phew! I don’t know about you, but just letting all those thoughts wander through my head is more activity than I usually get in a month. So let me just pause here for a moment to catch my breath.

[Two days later.] The court also added two new relists. Both are pretty fact-intensive, so both seem more like separate-opinion fodder than plenary-review material.

First up is Reed v. Texas, 19-411, a capital case filed by a member of O.J. Simpson’s dream team that raises three questions. I’ll begin with the last question, which has been kicking around since before I graduated from law school 25 years ago: whether the conviction of (or, more to the point, the execution of) a person who is actually innocent of the crime violates the Constitution.  The case also raises questions about the interaction of Brady v. Maryland and the state’s obligation to turn over material exculpatory evidence when the witness in question is asserting the privilege against self-incrimination. Lastly, the cert petition asks whether it violates constitutional due process when expert testimony the state relies on is later shown to be scientifically invalid. We’ll see, but I suspect we have an opinion coming.

That brings us to a relist with the impossibly New Englandy caption Smyth v. Conservation Commission of Falmouth, 19-223, involving a small (.37 of an acre) property that petitioner Janice Smyth’s parents bought in the 1970s at the southwestern end of Cape Cod. The state appellate court concluded that various building restrictions “reduced the value of the property from $700,000 (if buildable) to $60,000 (if unbuildable),” which the petitioner contends constitutes a regulatory taking under Penn Central Transportation Co. v. City of New York. Penn Central has been heavily criticized over the years. In the coming weeks, we’ll find out how much those criticisms are resonating.

Until next time, thanks for tuning in!

New Relists

Reed v. Texas, 19-411

Issues: (1) How a court should consider under the Brady materiality standard the impact of a key trial witness’s assertion of the privilege against self-incrimination and refusal to testify when confronted with the suppressed exculpatory evidence; (2) when expert testimony relied on by the state in a criminal trial is later shown to be scientifically invalid, what is the appropriate standard to assess whether the state’s use of the testimony violated due process; and (3) whether the conviction or execution of a person who is actually innocent of a crime violates the U. S. Constitution.

(relisted after the November 22 conference)

Smyth v. Conservation Commission of Falmouth, 19-223

Issues: (1) Whether the loss of all developmental use of property and a 91.5 percent decline in its value is a sufficient “economic impact” to support a regulatory takings claim under Penn Central Transportation Co. v. New York City; (2) whether a person who acquires land in a developed area, prior to regulation, has a legitimate “expectation” of building and, if so, whether that interest can be defeated by a lack of investment in construction; and (3) whether the Supreme Court should excise the “character” factor from Penn Central regulatory takings analysis.

(relisted after the November 22 conference)

Returning Relists

Terry v. Oklahoma, 18-8801

Issue: Whether the boundaries established in the Treaty of February 23, 1867, for the eight tribes within the former Indian Territory of northeastern Oklahoma constitute an “Indian reservation” today under 18 U.S.C § 1151(a).

(relisted after the October 1, October 11, October 18, November 1, November 8, November 15 and November 22 conferences)

McGirt v. Oklahoma, 18-9526

Issue: Whether the prosecution of an enrolled member of the Creek Tribe for crimes committed within the historical Creek boundaries is subject to exclusive federal jurisdiction.

(relisted after the October 1, October 11, October 18, November 1, November 8, November 15 and November 22 conferences)

Carney v. Adams, 19-309

Issues: (1) Whether the First Amendment invalidates a longstanding state constitutional provision that limits judges affiliated with any one political party to no more than a “bare majority” on the state’s three highest courts, with the other seats reserved for judges affiliated with the “other major political party”; and (2) whether the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 3rd Circuit erred in holding that a provision of the Delaware Constitution requiring that no more than a “bare majority” of three of the state courts may be made up of judges affiliated with any one political party is not severable from a provision that judges who are not members of the majority party on those courts must be members of the other “major political party,” when the former requirement existed for more than 50 years without the latter, and the former requirement, without the latter, continues to govern appointments to two other courts.

(relisted after the November 8, November 15 and November 22 conferences)

Andrus v. Texas, 18-9674

 Issue: Whether the standard for assessing ineffective assistance of counsel claims, announced in Strickland v. Washington, fails to protect the Sixth Amendment right to a fair trial and the 14th Amendment right to due process when, in death-penalty cases involving flagrantly deficient performance, courts can deny relief following a truncated “no prejudice” analysis that does not account for the evidence amassed in a habeas proceeding and relies on a trial record shaped by trial counsel’s ineffective representation.

(rescheduled before the November 1 and November 8 conferences; relisted after the November 15 and November 22 conferences)

Schexnayder v. Vannoy, 18-8341

Issue: Whether jurists of reason could debate whether to apply deference under the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act to a state court decision arising out of a secret, 13-year-long policy to deny all pro se prisoner writ applications without judicial review.

(rescheduled before the October 1, October 11, October 18, November 1, and November 8 conferences; relisted after the November 15 and November 22 conferences)

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from Law https://www.scotusblog.com/2019/12/relist-watch-155/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[golicit]

Guest Post: No Choice of Law in Delaware Coverage Disputes?

In the following guest post, Jeremy Salzman and Kylie Tomas of Sompo International and Ommid Farashahi and Jonathan Cipriani of BatesCarey LLP discuss a recent series of Delaware court decisions in which the courts applied Delaware law in addressing insurance coverage disputes. In their article, the authors question Delaware law appropriately should have been the law applied in those cases. I would like to thank the authors for allowing me to publish their article as a guest post on this site. I welcome guest post submissions from responsible authors on topics of interest to this blog’s readers. Please contact me directly if you would like to submit a guest post. Here is the authors’ article.

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  It is no secret that Delaware courts exert significant influence on the American corporate law landscape.  With more large companies incorporated in Delaware than any other state, Delaware boasts a bench that is extremely well-versed in corporate law issues.

  A disturbing trend has developed recently, however, with Delaware courts expanding their influence even further, into the area of insurance law.  In a spate of recent decisions, Delaware courts have applied Delaware law to insurance coverage disputes, essentially by default in the absence of a choice of law provision, where the policyholder is incorporated in Delaware.  Delaware courts have given little to no regard to, for example, the state where the policy was issued, the state where the policyholder is headquartered, or state amendatory endorsements, attached to the policy, reflecting the intent of the parties to be subject to the law of certain state (other than Delaware).

  This unfortunate trend has significant consequences for insurance carriers issuing policies to Delaware-incorporated insureds.  These include the increase in the number of coverage actions filed by policyholders against insurers in Delaware, as well as the application of Delaware insurance law, which is often less favorable to insurers than the law of other jurisdictions.

  This article discusses how this trend has developed, why this matters to insurers, and what steps insurers can take in response.

  The Mills Case

                Back in 2010, a Delaware trial court applied Delaware law to an insurance coverage dispute, despite the fact that the insured was headquartered in Virginia and the policy was issued in Virginia.  Mills Ltd. P’ship v. Liberty Mut. Ins. Co., 2010 WL 8250837 (Del. Super. Ct. Nov. 5, 2010).  Mills involved a coverage dispute, under a D&O policy, regarding exhaustion of underlying insurance.  The insured was incorporated in Delaware, but headquartered in Virginia, where the policy was issued.  The Mills court opined that, in cases where “the insured risk” is the business conduct of directors and officers located in states across the country or even throughout the world, Delaware will look to factors including the place of contracting, the place of negotiation of the contract, the place of performance, the location of the subject matter of the contract, and the domicile, residence, nationality, place of incorporation, and place of business of the parties.  Id. at *5.

  While purporting to look at all of these factors, the court stated that, where the underlying litigation involves the directors’ and officers’ “honesty and fidelity to the corporation,” the state of incorporation has a more significant relationship to the policy than the place where the insured has its physical headquarters.  In the court’s words: “[The insured’s] directors and officers caused a Delaware corporation to defraud its investors, which made the corporation liable and triggered the corporation’s D&O policy.  In a case like this, what difference does [the] headquarters’ location make to the company or the people involved?” Id. at *6.  Accordingly, the court applied Delaware law, holding that Delaware employs the “functional exhaustion” rule, which was fatal to the insurer’s exhaustion-based coverage defense.

  The Recent Trend

For almost a decade, the Mills decision was considered by many to be an aberration, with no other court following its choice of law analysis – until recently.  In March of 2018, another Delaware trial court applied Mills, holding that Delaware law applied, even though the insured was headquartered in California, the policy was issued there, and the policy included California state amendatory endorsements.  Arch Ins. Co. v. Murdock, 2018 WL 1129110 (Del. Super. Ct. Mar. 1, 2018).  Nevertheless, relying upon Mills, the court applied Delaware law, reasoning that the conduct of the insured’s directors and officers was centrally implicated; that the insured risk involved their “honesty and fidelity” to the corporation; that the individual defendants held management positions pursuant to Delaware law; that the situs of the company’s shares was Delaware; and that prior court rulings had involved Delaware law.  The court held that Delaware law, unlike California, did not preclude an insurance indemnity payment for an insured’s fraud, and required the insurers to demonstrate prejudice from the insureds’ violation of the consent provision.

  Thereafter, in IDT Corp. v. U.S. Specialty Ins. Co., 2019 WL 413692 (Del. Super. Ct. Jan. 31, 2019), the insured was a Delaware corporation with its principal place of business in New Jersey.  The court concluded that Delaware law applied because the insured was incorporated in Delaware, the policies covered D&O liabilities involving the insureds’ “honesty and fidelity” to the corporation, and the merits of the underlying litigation were governed by Delaware law.

  In Verizon Commc’ns, Inc. v. Nat’l Union Fire Ins. Co. of Pittsburgh, Pa., 2019 WL 2517418 (Del. Super. Ct. Apr. 26, 2019), the same judge who decided the Murdock case held that Delaware law applied to a D&O policy and, thus (for that reason among others), the coverage action should proceed in Delaware, not New York, even though the insurers filed a dueling action in New York.

  More recently, in Pfizer, Inc. v Arch Ins. Co., 2019 WL 3306043 (Del. Super. Ct. July 23, 2019), even though the insured’s principal place of business was in New York, the policy was issued in New York, the policy contained New York amendatory endorsements, and the underlying lawsuit was filed and pending in New York, the Delaware court applied Delaware law, relying on Mills and Murdock.

  If this trend continues, the insurance industry can expect Delaware trial courts to apply Delaware law to insurance coverage disputes, essentially by default in the absence of a choice of law provision, where the policyholder is incorporated in Delaware, regardless of where the policy was issued or where the policyholder is headquartered.

  Why This Matters to Insurers

While anecdotal, we have seen a significant increase in the number of coverage actions filed by policyholders in Delaware in an effort to avoid litigating in a jurisdiction more likely to apply the law of state where the policy was issued.  Not only has the number of such actions increased, but the timing of the filing of these actions has changed as well.  In order to “plant the flag” in Delaware, policyholders have been filing coverage litigation more quickly than before, resulting in less pre-litigation dialogue or negotiation between the parties.

  This trend is also important to insurers because Delaware insurance law can be particularly unfriendly to insurers.  For example, in the Pfizer case discussed above, the Delaware court was asked to decide a “related claims” issue.  Finding that Delaware law, not New York law, applied, the court imposed Delaware’s very narrow “relatedness” test and held that two claims were not related because they were not “fundamentally identical.”  See Pfizer, 2019 WL 3306043, at *10.  Importantly, if the dispute had been decided under New York law, the insurers could have relied on New York’s broader “sufficient factual nexus” test.

  Another example is that, unlike courts in other jurisdictions, Delaware courts will not sustain a coverage defense based on an insurer’s lack of consent to settle an underlying case, unless the insurer can show prejudice.  See Murdock, 2018 WL 1129110, at *13.

  Delaware is also less favorable to insurers with respect to coverage for disgorgement.  Compare Gallup, Inc. v. Greenwich Ins. Co., 2015 WL 1201518, (Del. Super. Ct. Feb. 25, 2015) (where a claim for disgorgement is settled without a final adjudication, there is coverage for the settlement, even if disgorgement is uninsurable), with Phila. Indem. Ins. Co. v. Sabal Ins. Grp., Inc., — F. App’x —, 2019 WL 4014100 (11th Cir. Aug. 26, 2019) (rejecting case law holding similarly to Gallup and finding no coverage for settlement of disgorgement claim based on traditional “no Loss” analysis).

  How Insurers Can Respond

  How can insurers respond to this trend?  As to policies already in the marketplace, of course, the industry can continue to seek a good ruling from a different Delaware trial court judge on this issue, presumably based upon a particularly good set of facts.  In addition, insurers can seek appellate relief from the Delaware Supreme Court (there is no immediate appellate court in Delaware).  However, a challenge to a court’s early decision on choice of law may not be possible until the underlying case is tried or otherwise disposed of by motion, and cases rarely go that far down stream.  In addition, it is critical that, if the industry does seek relief from the Delaware Supreme Court, it must evaluate carefully the best “test case” to send up, as a “close call” case could yield a decision from Delaware’s highest court unfriendly to the industry.  In the meantime, absent a decision from the Delaware Supreme court, while a “race to the courthouse” is never the preferred option, insurers should consider filing first in the “right” jurisdiction when faced with a coverage dispute, anticipating that the policyholder will likely file in Delaware.

  As to policies yet to be issued, there is one clear option – to include a choice of law provision in the policy identifying the law of a state other than Delaware.  Insurers may choose to apply the law of the state where the insured is headquartered.  Many insurers and insureds probably assume that is the law that will govern the policy anyway, so this may simply reinforce pre-existing expectations of the parties.  Of course, it will behoove insurers to be aware of any unique risks or concerns presented by a given jurisdiction and to consider the choice of law provision in light of all relevant factors.  Another option is to include a New York choice of law provision, which has been traditionally included by certain markets, and therefore should not be particularly controversial with policyholders or their brokers.  Even this option, however, may be subject to challenge, as illustrated by a recent decision by the California Supreme Court.  In Pitzer College v. Indian Harbor Insurance Company, 2019 WL 4065521 (Cal. Aug. 29, 2019), the Court held that, even though a policy contained a New York choice of law provision, the court applied California law to certain notice issues, because the issues concerned a “fundamental public policy” of California.  Yet another potential option could involve policy language outlining binding arbitration in connection with disputes arising from the application of a policy’s choice of law provision.

  While it is unfortunate that insurers must now expect Delaware courts to apply Delaware law where the policyholder is incorporated in Delaware, absent a choice of law provision or other policy built-in procedure, this appears to be the “new normal,” at least for now.  But, as discussed above, there are steps that insurers can take, both with respect to those policies already in the marketplace and future policies. 

  This article is intended for informational purposes, only. It does not constitute legal advice. Nor is it a substitute for legal advice.

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