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azulyrae · 8 months ago

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❛ —— 𝐈𝐕 : The Bishop.

to yearn for a mate was to dance around the thin line of blind devotion. azriel thought of himself a maculated sinner with the nerve to beg the cauldron for a sacred connection. he shouted at the skies until his throat dried and his voice lost to the clouds; until his wings were too sore to fly and his heart was too tired to hope.

to abandon the pursuit of a mate was to abandon the thought of everlasting love. yet, there she was. a fever dream above expectations, with similar scars and a soul who mirrored his.

after a rough argument, azriel travels to the core of his mate’s memories, and finds that there’s always more than meets the eye — and that, at last, his prayers were well-answered.

the fourth chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

THIS CHAPTER HAS DESCRIPTIONS OF PAST SEXUAL HARASSMENT! please be safe while reading it!

word-count: 5K.

But I don’t know what else that I would do, than to try to kiss the skin that crawls from you; than feel your weight in arms, I’d never use. It feels good, girl, it feels good. Oh, to be alone with you.

— To Be Alone, Hozier.

Azriel felt distressed due to the bothering awareness of the growing sweat running down the extension of his forearms, dripping from his hair to the bridge of his nose; from his elbows to the earth; from his palms to the wooden-hilt of the pair of swords he maneuvered. His steps were fast and precise, crushing the leaves underneath as he retreated, footwork and handiwork aligned to exploit the radius of his abilities. It was a frenetic and relentless pace born from the increase of her amelioration, which granted him the long-awaited opening to no longer repress his movements — since the better [Name] got, less was the need to inhibit his polished instincts, battle aggressiveness, and speed.

The female had a long way to go: more than once had the wooden-sword touched her arm or legs, and if it was made of silver or steel, it would’ve sliced her skin, drawing blood from the teared flesh. However, those occurrences grew infrequent after proper repetition. [Name] had been trained before by a mortal man whose identity she was yet to reveal, and by Mor herself, an experienced and talented warrior in whom Azriel would trust with his life if it was required — had done it even, countless times before. A month under a regained routine of guidance and practice, and [Name]’s muscular memory had already started to act accordingly to what it had been once taught, growing accustomed to the intensity of heated confrontations.

Neither her proficiency nor her dedication were a surprise: [Name] remained with her sais in hand whenever they were meant to rest, spinning the blades on her fingers as though it was an interesting pastime of hers. Azriel presumed that her previous knowledge of daggers and throwing knives was half-responsible for such a swift familiarization, for the sais were turning into an extension of her body. The female spun one in her fingers as they played a match of chess or ate their meals or even jogged on the beach at nighttime, and the male couldn’t help but to grin to himself at the fact that he had given her the most well-suited pair of blades, one that was perfect to her fighting style.

As the two darted around the jungle in quick steps, Azriel reminisced times when a quite drunk Mor had insisted on the importance of having a vast knowledge in the matters of dancing. She would sway left-and-right in a long, red dress, twirling in her feet and dragging Azriel to the center of the room. Mor tried to convince him to learn a few waltzes, arguing that battling was but a mere variation of dancing — only that it also happened to involve swords and life-or-death situations. At last, Azriel brushed her off after two or three songs, their closeness enough to steal his breath away, a fresh and sadistic torture that made his skin crawl. He couldn’t see it back then, and wouldn’t dare to either.

To battle was to reap one’s life, to either stare into their eyes as the Mother claimed their souls or to move forward onto the next opponent. It was a chaotic scenery of gore and severed limbs and warm blood. It wasn’t something that one ought to equate to a delicate and intimate thing such as a waltz. Yet, as his feet stepped back in a defensive manner, being followed-in-suit by [Name]’s offensive stance, he understood what Mor meant.

They were a pair of agile dancers, pooled in sweat and driven by obstinacy and an equal sense of competitiveness. One could presume that [Name] would’ve cowered at the sight of his swords — one in each hand —, but she grew bolder, more courageous, and at last understood the dynamics of that particular match of chess, applying her relentless and unpredictable strategies that drew one to an inescapable and pitiful defensive stance. It had been a long time since Azriel had guided their waltz: the charge of it was entirely hers.

[Name]’s durability remained a matter to work upon whatsoever, especially if he was to consider the intensity of her battling: a repetitive and vexing thing that could tire out even the strongest defense. However, as of then, it happened to do the same to her, and the longer Azriel refused to relent, the more she lost her preciseness and strength.Yet, in terms of technique, she wasn’t at all disappointing.

The Spymaster raised his right arm across his chest, placing the wooden-sword above his left shoulder. That granted him a further boost as he lowered down the weapon, outlining a half-arch towards her carotid; an attack that, were their battle under different circumstances, would’ve been lethal. [Name] spun both her sais. The one in her dominant hand was held horizontally, and it trapped the wooden-sword in between one of its guards; the other one remained somewhat vertical and served as leverage, its blade crossing the inside of the guard from the other pair of sai she held. The movement itself resembled a plus sign, with his wooden-sword caught in the middle due to the positioning of her blades, making it impossible for the opponent to rid his weapon from that lethal trap.

If Azriel had all but a single sword, the battle would have ended then and there. [Name] would have used her sais to snap his blade in two and the lack of protection would have been enough for her to spin one of them and drive its point straight into the side of his neck and pierce through his carotid. That was not the case whatsoever. Because [Name] raised both her arms to meet one of his wooden-swords in the middle, both her armpits were left defenseless.

He pressed the edge of the other sword held by his left arm against one of those vulnerable spots, and his voice had neither cockiness nor glee when he stated: “You’re dead.”

During the first weeks of his training, when he was yet learning about the pressure and most lethal points where it was best to strike the opponent, Azriel found it odd and entirely embarrassing that one could die due to a cut to the armpit. It was, if anything, the stupidest and less dignified manner with which to perish in battle. However, the moment Truthteller first sliced through that vulnerable part of his rival’s body, his misconceptions were muted at the horror of such a death. Blood gushed everywhere as if he had squeezed a cherry in between his fingers to drink its juice. It pulsed non-stop, meeting Azriel’s face and blade and armor, droplets invading his eyes and painting the world in a horrific tone of bright red. His opponent fell to his knees and convulsed in utter agony, his hand clinging to the maimed tissue of his armpit. The sight left him petrified to the point where he was not even able to strike the dying male with a merciful slash of Truthteller and free him from that suffering. Instead, he observed as the Mother claimed that tortured soul and was haunted by the sight of it ever since.

The mere idea of losing his mate in a similar manner brought tremendous dread, and was enough a reason to cause a turmoil in his stomach and a sudden wave of nausea. Azriel pictured it, challenging the discomfort within him, punishing himself with that awful perspective. He had waited more than five centuries for his mate; the other half of his soul; and five more centuries he would torture himself was she to perish due to the lack of training. That end would paint her image not as his love, but as his sin; his greatest failure.

The snap that came when she broke his wooden-sword in two was enough a sound to ground his mind back to the present, drifting it away from the what-ifs as though his thoughts were a lonely sailing boat under the mercy of a turmoiled sea. Azriel didn’t miss the touch of her armpit, how it drove itself straight into the point of the reminiscent wooden-sword, but neither had he missed the glint of her eyes, staring into his very soul.

“You’ve read my mind,” he accused, steadying himself as she took a few steps back, twirling her sais.

“I was invaded by them,” [Name] argued. “Your thoughts are as loud as a parade of drums and tambourines.”

“Rhysand would disagree,” Azriel countered, sensing the need to defend himself.

“I’m more sensitive than a daemati, as we are both well aware.”

He found himself itching to lose himself within the banter that his mate offered. The bewitching character of their bond was quite an odd thing to witness, but the more time he spent with her, the more Azriel believed that it was not their connection to blame for that senseless tendency, but her. Compelling and argumentative, melting the solid ground of the world in which he stood into a puddle of his well-established beliefs. To fall into her words was to abandon all logic; to stare into that puddle and envision a glimpse of the male he had once been, before centuries of war and death engulfed him in the abyss of pessimism and paranoia: convinced, challenging, eager.

It was a sight to behold, neither uncomfortable nor familiar; a reasonable prospect of a version of himself he had long decided was lost and buried under the piles of corpses — both foes and allies. But to stare into the past, to envision himself through the reflection of the lake of his melted world, would do him no good. Because the male that stood above that pile was the strongest, the necessary means for his Court’s survival.

Azriel caught himself stepping on that puddle, returning to reality, avoiding the goodness that his mate could bring to the surface. His thoughts were back to the gore of that slash; the severance of that inconvenient artery. Because a world without his mate was inconceivable, and if to keep her alive meant to remain chained to his worst version, then so be it.

He drove the wooden-sword straight into the ground. The tip shattered, and the entire extension of it came apart in a dozen pieces. [Name] merely glimpsed it with a somewhat sense of unamusement.

“You were careless,” he snapped, for once not caring to conceal his anger.

“I’m well aware,” she bit back with a scowl.

“You’re not,” the Spymaster insisted, his steps diminishing the distance between them. “You’ve never had to witness death at such a close range; never had to feel your opponent’s blood splattering into your face; you don’t know.”

Her nostrils flared and her entire body trembled with the intensity of her own anger. Azriel could smell it, escaping through her pores as though wildfire in a dry forest.

“There’s something that I’ve read,” she started out slowly, an edge to her voice that he had never heard before. “An interesting theory, really, about the limitations of the mind and its projection. Let’s try it out.”

[Name]’s teeth gritted with her last sentence, and Azriel had no time to react before his mate latched one of her hands to his face, her fingers and nails biting into his temple. He felt as though the weight of earth shifted under his feet, his breath stolen from his lungs with a violent and invisible force. The skies, once painted orange and yellow and filled with white clouds, morphed into darkness. The stars were dim — not even a speck of the sight Velaris offered during the night — and the Spymaster was no longer within the borders of a forest; could no longer hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shore far from where he stood. Instead, Azriel was in the middle of an unknown and miserable district, the houses so small and precarious he could not believe half-a-fae fitted inside. The streets were empty, the torches were long put off. He found the scenery as peaceful as it was deplorable, but the previous silence was soon replaced with a loud piece of music.

His eyes followed the source of said cacophony. Azriel could distinguish the sound of lutes and a hurdy-gurdy, flutes and drums. His thoughts wrapped around the concept of a gleeful festival, but were instead met with a single home with bright, colorful lights shining through the closed curtains of many windows; with at least three floors built of bricks and stones, whose roof was a well-planned triangular structure covered in soot and of many different tiles. Above it all, stood a lonely and small gyrfalcon of white feathers, poorly hidden.

The door to that house — so different to the ones from the street before — opened. Azriel noticed the presence of a muscular man, tall to the parameters of a mortal, and concluded that one was most likely to be the guard to that place. He felt the urge to scoff with a well-placed arrogance, aware that he could take that man down with half a blow. However, the smaller frame that walked past through the guard and ventured into the night streets caused his stomach to twist and drop. Azriel hastily read the title painted above the entrance: “The Lupanare”, and felt a sudden urge to throw up; a numbness to his fingers and nerves that refused to subside.

The female figure under the door was dressed in fine silks of translucent shades of blue. The attire had a thin and long skirt divided in four sections; the one in the middle was made to protect the sight of the female’s intimacy; the other two sections began at the side of her hips, leaving the entire front of her legs bare to the external eye; and though he could not see, Azriel figured that the fourth section was a mimic of the first one: a piece of fabric that scarcely protected the ass. The odd skirt was connected to the top through a thin belt made of silver, with adornments meant to mimic shells, that encircled her entire waist. While the bottom had one thicker layer of silk to cover the intimate parts, the top left nothing to the imagination: it was made in the format of a V, leaving her entire waist, back, and part of her abdomen bare. The silk was so thin, one could see the breasts almost as though they were uncovered, as the only barrier that stood between the eye and the body was the top’s dark shade of blue. It was held together by silver ligaments, a large shell above each clavicle and a chain that encircled the neck. Azriel stood far from the female, but he could hear her voice almost as though he was by her side.

“It’s best to change before leaving,” the guard seemed to instruct her in a deep, yet oddly worrying tone.

“I don’t have the time. There’s something wrong at home, I can feel it.”

The voice that answered broke him entirely. It was no ordinary female. For the love of the Mother, it was his mate. Azriel’s heart, all of sudden, danced around two different beats; his breathing was split into two halves; his soul, however, remained one with that of the female that hurried out of the brothel. He felt enraged and saddened; worried and aware. It took him a moment to realize that, by sharing her memories, [Name] began to share her feelings as well.

The Lupanare left his sights as his mate ran into the night, wearing nothing but a set of thin silk wrapped around silver chains. Azriel felt the urge to move; to grab that fragile figure and soar with her through the skies, away from those dull stars and into the dazzling night of Velaris. But he could not. He was stuck into place as though a tree with roots too deep in the soil. One could not change the past any much as one could alter a memory.

When that sight of [Name] came closer, Azriel noticed that she was inches smaller and less agile; she seemed younger, although not too much, perhaps a year or two, at best. He grew used to her fae-form; to how it increased her height and speed and the overall flow of her movements. Seeing her in that mortal shell was unfamiliar to him, and Azriel wondered how his mate felt about that whole ordeal.

The memory shifted accordingly to her steps. The music was long gone, as were the colors. She had left the district of the brothel and was running along the poorest streets, passing through alleyways and locked one-floor houses without a thought in the world. No longer had Azriel started to worry about the safety of those actions, someone grabbed her shoulder, and plunged her against the dirty wall of a narrow alley. His mind shouted at Azriel, all logic evaporating from his entire being upon witnessing that scene. Every nerve within him commanded his limbs, demanding him to move. It was his mate; his heart; the very reason why he had been born, why he had endured those five centuries of sorrow and loneliness. His mate needed his aid, and he wasn’t there.

The revolt that ran through his veins as though liquid fire had gone cold with terror. Not his: hers. Azriel could sense it, had his soul shivering because of it. Again, he felt the need to move; and again, he could not. This time, it was not desperation and rage that moved him, but the utter necessity to comfort her, to keep her safe.

“It was only a matter of time,” the man slurred, and Azriel felt the hot breath and smelt the stench of alcohol, regardless of the distance. “I knew one of that brothel’s little birds would eventually try to flee from the cage earlier than they should. Now, I’ll take what’s mine.”

A hand covered her mouth. Azriel tasted the soot. With a grin, however, the man decided to place his hand on her throat instead. “There’s no need to scream. No one hears the weeps of a whore.”

It was torture. Azriel desperately tried to free himself from his mate’s memories, and thought that, at last, as cowardly as that was, he could tear his eyes from the scene. The Spymaster looked up — seeking solace in the stars and founding none — and his eyes caught on the white gyrfalcon, propped on a roof. He prepared himself for the worst, but instead, heard a masculine shout of pain.

Azriel’s eyes landed on the scene. His mate had managed to hide a dagger somewhere in between the thin silks of her attire. It was on her dominant hand, the blade digging into her attacker’s stomach. She pulled it out just to plung it again. And again. And again. The man fell backwards on the ground, blood was pouring from his mouth and stomach. His mate fell with him, digging her dagger into his chest and ribs and throat. He felt the warmth of blood as it splattered on her; face and chest and legs, the shades of blue mingled with red. He felt the burning behind his eyes as the tears fell down her face.

At last, she got up, spat on the body, and pressed her back to the wall. Her soul shattered in a cacophony of feelings: satisfaction, fear, anger, horror. But no sympathy. Her hands were trembling, but she would not let go of the dagger, whose steel blade was reddened and wet. The minutes that it took for her to compose herself felt like an eternity. His mate turned on her heels, prepared to leave that scenery, and Azriel caught the glimpse of a taller figure observing at the entrance of the alleyway. The Spymaster had only managed to discern the long and bright red hair before the memory faded.

Azriel felt disoriented. His vision burned with the sudden brightness of the afternoon sky. He heard the sound of the waves and felt the warmth of the Sun against his nape. The shared reminiscence took but a small fraction of time, yet it felt as though they had been lost in the tissue of the past for non-ending hours. [Name] had taken a few steps back, her hand no longer touching his face, and despite the consequences, the pain that came with the lack of her was equal to the worst of punishments; to drink the most lethal of poisons. Inside her memories, he had a taste of what it meant to be one’s mate. There, Azriel grew roots inside her soul, and she had nestled herself at his very core.

She was observing him then, and he drowned in her eyes, addicted to the sight of her; to her entire being. “The owner of the Lupanare, Moira, prided herself in the fact that her… workers… were free of diseases.”

Her voice. Azriel regained the control of his nerves and will, commanding his legs to dash towards her. Yet, the Spymaster felt the tug of a bold shadow on his collar. They had developed the tendency of remaining hidden during those times of the day, weak due to the light. Yet, one of them darted forward to ground him, to make Azriel see not with his heart, but with his eyes. [Name] stood far from him, hugging herself; her scent was one of unsuruness and hesitation; she craved the space between them, clung to it as one living in the desert would to water. Azriel stopped in his tracks, not daring to give another step.

“Moira stated that, for the expenses to offer an environment secure from diseases to be worth it, the price to spend an hour with the women should be befitting to the efforts placed in their health,” [Name] gulped, as if the mere act of remembering that treacherous woman brought a sense of great pain. “Safe to say, the men that came to the brothel had coins to pay for their stay. Those who could not afford the time, had to resort to the women on the streets.”

Azriel took in her expressions and the sight alone clawed at his heart. “I get it. You don’t need to tear up old wounds for my sake.”

She moved her head in denial, closing her eyes. “It makes no difference when said wounds never healed enough to make for scars.”

Azriel went quiet. He wished he had a word of comfort to offer, but the typical, easier ones, were of no use. The Spymaster could appeal to the passage of time: [Name] was now immortal. A longer life meant opportunities to rewrite the script of one’s trajectory; to bury the awful instances of time with centuries of greatness. But how could he gather the courage to voice said things, when five centuries later, he remained haunted by what had happened when he was a boy of ten? Reminded of said horrors whenever he caught a glimpse of his hands?

[Name] seemed, however, grateful for his silence. “The women of the Lupanare were forbidden fruits to those who couldn’t afford them. Most of them had been either trafficked or expelled from their homes, but some rare exceptions, like me, had a place to return to in the morning. By the end of it, there was only me. The men who couldn’t be regulars at the Lupanare would pry at the edges, waiting for an opportunity to grab the ones who dared to walk home. I was lucky to have a dagger, to know how to wield it. The others were not.”

She took an instance to catch her breath. Azriel was startled to watch his mate take a few steps closer to the trees. He feared he might have upsetted her in some form, but his worries were gone as soon as he caught a glimpse of his shadows whirling around her in mute comfort.

“That memory I showed you… it was from the night Tamlin took Feyre. I wasn’t home then, but I felt a disruption within me, every aggravating instinct shouting at me that I was needed somewhere else. It took me three hours, but at last I was able to flee without being seen. I was careless. I was grabbed. I got rid of the problem. That was my first kill.”

Azriel felt the urge to apologize. He tried doing as much, but his mate brushed that away with a wave of her hand. “You didn’t know.”

“Did I shout my thoughts again?”

A smirk crept over her lips. He felt slightly relieved. “A little bit.”

“Regardless, I lost my temper. I apologize.”

“You weren’t entirely wrong,” she insisted. “I’ve never had to dispose of the men I killed. That first one—”

“Lucian did it for you,” he concluded, and she blinked in shock.

“You glimpsed it so far beyond? Well, yes, he did. Somehow. I never got the courage to ask,” [Name] sighed. “Feyre must’ve let it slip that one of her sisters wasn’t home; either that, or Tamlin saw it through her. Whatever happened, he sent Lucian to fetch for me, and so he did.”

“He enchanted you?”

She nodded. “I returned with instructions to wait outside for him. He gave me a new set of clothes. I changed. When I entered that small home, the fact that Feyre left to help a rich aunt sounded natural. My memories were filled with burlesques, I was the result of a well-placed spell.”

[Name] left the shelter offered by the trees, and Azriel could hear the whispers of protests coming from his shadows. The sudden proximity sent a shiver down his spine, for his mate was but a few inches away, and the feeling of the bond they shared remained fresh in his mind.

She pulled the long sleeve up, and there, inside her forearm, Azriel glimpsed a burnt scar. Fire had maimed his mate as much as it had maimed her. It was a long trail; the flames spreaded from below the shoulder to above the wrist.

“Moira had us tattooed. She said it was a sign of our employment contract, but we all knew better. It was a mark, one meant for the commoners to identify us as whores and to mistreat us in the streets. Moira wanted to make sure that we’d never be able to find a job again, that we’ll always be her property. Tamlin’s spell clouded my family’s memories well enough but not the memories of the town. When we were given another Manor, Elain wanted to celebrate. We threw this enormous party, but the glares I’ve received from the guests that night were enough to undo the spell. Suddenly, my youngest sister was nowhere to be found and I had a past that couldn’t be erased and a tattoo I wanted gone.”

“You’ve… burned yourself?” Azriel inquired, though the thought alone sounded horrendous. He could remember the pain vividly; had frequent nightmares of flames taking over the skin of his hands as though starved beasts. To have a self-inflicted burn scar…

“I’ve tried to, but was too much of a coward to get it through,” she answered, tugging the sleeve down. “I still had three friends — soldiers —, stationed at the village. So, one night, I went to the tavern they were regulars at, and paid them to burn that thing.”

Azriel was appalled. “They accepted it?”

“We all have mouths to feed or broken dreams to drown out with cheap wine,” she came to their defense. “The three were stationed at the end of the Mortal Realm for a reason. I knew they’d never agree to burn me for free, and Tamlin was kind enough to give us some coins, so I used it.”

The last sentence came with a scowl, and her tone was filled with scorn at the mention of the High-Lord of the Spring Court.

“When Nesta went after Feyre, I was still enchanted. And when she told me the news that there was nothing to be done… I guess I also felt the need to punish myself. As if I had to pay.”

Azriel moved his head in denial, holding back the urge to touch her chin. “You’ve paid more than enough for errors that weren’t yours.”

“I know that now,” she whispered. “But not then. So I drank half a bottle of cheap whisky; they soaked my arm with alcohol, and burnt it with a cloth. The pain made me pass out. The healing was one of the worst things I’ve gone through.”

He knew. Mother above, Azriel knew that all too well. The female in front of him was his mate, with aches and scars that had, too, been carved deep into his core, leaving nothing but bitterness and shame on its wake. Azriel should’ve known which words to say; which advice to give; but he doesn’t. He can’t help his mate heal a wound that he hadn’t learned how to heal himself.

The Spymaster watched with certain helplessness as [Name] picked up her sais, twirling the blades between her fingers. Her eyes were glued to his hands — uncovered ever since he learned that gloves were too much of a hassle to keep. Again, his throat dried up with the amount of words unsaid, the sentences that sounded too shallow. Azriel opened his mouth — if only to try —, and watched it in awe as [Name] used her strength to tear the cloth of her shirt. The long sleeves fell on the grass and she kicked it aside, allowing the afternoon light to press kisses to her now bare shoulders.

“Someone told me my training attire wasn’t adequate,” she voiced. A short laughter echoed from his parted lips, sounding odd to his own ears. It had been a long time since he last laughed. [Name] opened a smile at the sound. It had also been a long time since she had smiled.

“You should listen to that someone more often,” he teased, grabbing the fallen branch of a tree to mimic a wooden-sword.

“That wouldn’t be smart. He brings branches to sai fights.”

“And somehow, he manages to win.”

“Beginner’s luck. He’s a bit younger so I cut him some slack.”

“You called me an old male yesterday after managing to outrace me at our beach’s jog.”

“Have I?”

Azriel grinned, using his knee to split the branch in two. “If I win this one, I’ll have you shift into a kitchen mouse to follow Cassian around the House of Wind for a whole day.”

“Well, when I win this one, I’ll have you clean up my bathtub of experiments.”

Azriel remembered the stench left by the chemicals, and the glimpse of the once white marble covered in a dozen different shades of violet. He shuddered at the mere thought of it, knowing that she was making sure that he wouldn’t go easy on her during the rest of their sparring. He dashed forward. The branches were larger than the previous wood-swords, so her range of stances were drastically diminished.

But that was his mate. His [Name]. The world was her chessboard, and she didn’t mind sacrificing pawns for the sake of victory. His offense met hers, and their next match was but a metaphorical waltz on tiles of black and white.

general notes: last chapter I said I wished I had those wild AO3 explanations for delayed updates and, well, talk about manifesting. since I love oversharing!! I had a small surgery!! and my laptop broke, it’s the first time I’m uploading on my cellphone and I feel like a millennial. also, what do we think of what we read of Az in House of Flame and Shadow? let me know, let’s chat!

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @arilindemann @bsenpai @rachelnicolee @piceous21 @forsiriussake @sassybluebird @esposadomd @brujitafantomatico @witchymomfrien

#acomaf #acotar #acowar #azriel #azriel imagine #azriel imagines #azriel x reader #acosf #acotar x reader #azriel / reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #sjm

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doctorspaceman · 8 months ago

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Thinking about this exchange in "Chapter 58: Old Friend" of Pluto... rant/spoilers below the cut.

I think it's apt for Tenma to consider himself “the only one who can save [Abullah],” as Abullah’s absolute contempt of humanity follows the loss of his children. For their parallel experiences of loss, Tenma may rightly be considered the only one who can “save” Abullah. Yet Tenma’s insistently passive, misanthropic behaviour throughout Pluto raises the question of what he thinks it would mean and take to "save" Abullah, and what the result would look like.

At this point (Chapter 58) in the narrative, Tenma has allowed Abullah to live for years as the world’s most complicated (and therefore dangerous) robot, never attempting to monitor, track, or control him. Instead, he permits Abullah to roam the Earth, guided by a rage that is also Tenma's rage: the rage of someone who has lost everything to the carelessness and violence of other human beings. Abullah's post-death freedom to navigate and 'live' unimpeded on Earth thereby embodies the continuance of Tenma's unchecked grief and rage over his loss of Tobio. This is bolstered by the fact that Abullah (or technically Goji, but I'm not untangling my take on that distinction here) is a material creation of Tenma's in the aftermath of Tobio's death. On a slight tangent - it brings to mind Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, where the Creature, reanimated by Victor, roams the wilderness, driven by an unchecked thirst for vengeance. I've encountered a lot of criticism identifying the Creature and Victor as doppelgängers, and I think a similar identification can be made for Tenma and Abullah: each pair with one driven by a treacherous ambition to create, the other violently subjugated (also racialized) and driven to vengeful destruction.

That said, Abullah's experience of loss does not simply parallel Tenma's loss of Tobio, nor does his character merely embody Tenma's emotional response to losing Tobio. Abullah’s death and revival also re-enact the death and reanimation of Tobio and re-double Tenma’s experience of these events.

The re-enactment occurs on the basic narrative valence: both Abullah and Tobio die avoidable deaths resulting from the carelessness of others (for Abullah it’s world leaders, big picture, for Tobio the driver of the vehicle, small picture) and experience a sort of re-animation through Tenma's science.

The re-doubling occurs on both an emotional and symbolic valence. Tenma worked in the Persian government lab, developing the Goji AI for Lord-knows-how-long. It's safe to assume he had little to no human contact in the interim, given that if he was identified or reported to be in Persia at that time, the consequences would have been extreme. Further, Chapter 48 suggests Abullah is one of Tenma’s only points of contact with humanity — if not Tenma's sole point of contact with humanity, the only flesh-and-blood person in his life — for those months to possibly years. That said, when Abullah dies in the Central Asian war, Tenma's primary touchpoint with humanity dies for the second time — the first time being the death of Tobio, who was his only family, son, and entire world.

The factors of paralleling, re-enactment and re-redoubling prime Tenma to consider Abullah in the above scene as both dead and alive, a victim and avenger. Yet even with the above context laid out, the reader can only guess whether Tenma here perceives Abullah as reflective of Tobio or himself, an amalgamation of them both, or something else entirely. So who exactly does Tenma think he can save?

On one hand, Abullah’s existence embodies and reiterates the “Atom-is-not-Tobio” dilemma. For Tenma, attempting to save Abullah could mean lodging another effort to improve his AI, such that it better resembles the living-Abullah personality and thereby 'rescues' the deceased person. This effort, repeating (with the hope of ameliorating) the unresolved Atom-is-not-Tobio problem, could be read as an exhibition of stubbornness, ego, or repetition compulsion. So saving Abullah could mean the possibility of saving Tobio, or the inevitability of losing Tobio again and again.

At the same time, Abullah raises a mirror to Tenma’s unexpurgated devastation and misanthropy. So it's possible that, for Tenma, saving Abullah means saving Tobio — thus saving Tenma himself from his own grief.

There is one other option I've considered — the simplest and (in my opinion) the unlikeliest: that Tenma envisions saving Abullah as the carte blanche act of alleviating someone else's suffering, that he considers the effort to alleviate anyone's suffering worthwhile. I honestly don't think this is what Urasawa intends or expects the reader to take away. It would be characteristic of Ochanomizu, sure, but not Tenma. That said, the ambiguous possibility of Tenma recognizing Abullah as a redeemable person seems purposeful. It opens up the text and enables the reader to consider the narrative and characters with compassion and grace. It also opens up what could be the only path which, if taken, would lead to the effective moral “saving” of either man, to the possibility of this redemption, perhaps not in the action but in the aftermath of Pluto.

#woe! abullah mini-essay be on ye!#i genuinely dont know if this makes sense but whatever!!#finally posting some words on this blog which was the whole point of it to start!#would love to hear others thoughts on this scene bc i find it so compelling and rich #so much revealed in so few pages #pluto manga #spaceman posts #umataro tenma #abra abullah #also while im tagging this... why tf dont they use abullahs first name in the anime #i want to call my man abra but i genuinely dont know if pple would know who im talking about #all 5 people in the pluto fanbase #anyway #i have another mini essay that i keep telling myself to post but its literally incoherent #so please take this jargon i put together during my lunchbreak today #naoki urasawa's pluto #spaceman thoughts #spaceman words

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tanoraqui · 1 year ago

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I love your world building! Your name ideas are awesome. Love the idea of Indis being a true prophetic mother name

-@outofangband

Belated thank you! Also, sharing my thought process on that one because it's a very classic Silmarillion headcanon origin: it bothers me that Indis's name means "bride." I hate how it reduces her to a feminine trope - at "best", only here to have a troubled marriage; if you're a staunch Fëanorian, a femme fatale homewrecker. I immensely dislike how this is, in fact, an fairly accurate description of her role in the story...

Which is deliberate on Tolkien's part! The "canonically correct" way to ameliorate this misogyny (though neither erase nor excuse it) is to remember that this whole text is a mixture of history, legend and myth passed through multiple storytellers over thousands of years, translated and re-translated and interpreted through the eyes of elves and men and hobbits and men again, until even if this person ever actually existed in the history of Middle Earth - IF! - "Indis" probably wasn't even her epessë, much less her commonly used name. Probably her name got ink blotted on it at some point, or mixed up with someone else's name, and the next Númenorean scholar to rewrite the text followed the Archetypal School of historical interpretation and decided to name her "Indis" because of her role in the story...

But this, too, bothers me. Because I love the framing device of these various books, I love the historian-given dubious canonicity of literally every detail of The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, and especially of The Silmarillion. But! We need some solid canon upon which to hang all our headcanons, so it's imperative to retain a delicate mental balance of knowing everything could be made up (more than it already is by being fiction!) while also adhering to as much as possible as something that Really Did Happen - and names are pretty solidly in the latter category. I mean, everyone has multiple and for those who don't, we tend to make more up, but a belief in the basic premise of the text is necessary in order to function in any fandom, and "names of characters" is pretty "basic premise."

So it's impossible to ignore that her name is Indis; and it's impossible to ignore that the name "Indis" is closely connected to her place in the narrative, more than most characters, and that said place is uncomfortably non-feminist - you can round out her character all you like, but you have to admit that her role in the story is to be the Second Wife and Mother whose acts of being a wife and mother cause trouble! That's a fact! And it's not great! And the name "Indis" isn't helping because if she was named anything but her literal narrative role, that would be characterization! She could be noble like Artanis, she could be of the sea like Eärwen, but she's not! She's just "bride"!

...so, I redeem this by making this definition of her life deliberate within the text - and not just by a future Númenorean scholar, but by Indis's mother. (Female! O! Cs!) Furthermore, names of prophecy are implicitly grand (even if they're not necessarily either good or bad). It makes being a bride itself feel more active - and why not! Do Indis's acts of love and marriage not change the fate of the world just as much as Lúthien's? Consider that Indis's act of marriage is so important that it echoes back through the Great Music to be known by her mother as she held the future bride as a babe in arms. Consider a mother holding her child under stars beside a lake and going, "damn, this kid is gonna have ripple effects. I should add a bragging warning label."

Also, if you accept the headcanons that

a) most Elvish languages treat "sex" (physical) and "marriage" (soul-bonding) as basically synonymous; and

b) Indis spends thousands of years in the Second/Third ages patiently and stubbornly figuring out how to Make It Work between herself, Finwë and Miriel, such that all three of them can marry with genuine all-around mutual love unto the end of days, for peace among the still-troubled Noldor but mostly for happiness for herself and those she loves most (also an act of bride-ship worthy of prophecy, note) -

then you can with a straight face imagine Indis saying, "I fucked my way into this mess and I'm going to fuck my way out of it."

Feminist critique + consideration of canonical historicity + elaborate headcanon web = sex joke! Now that's good fandom!

#indis #outofangband #the silmarillion #analysis #vanyar #feanor and feanor's kin #(WHETHER HE LIKES IT OR NOT)

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txtaetertots · 3 months ago

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HOPELESSLY DEVOTED 68: prom

[ synopsis ] you’re trying to get into your dream school. beomgyu’s just trying to pass a class. the only way to ensure you both get what you want is to work together. very closely.

[ note ] i think this is the longest chapter i've written for this series omg its over 3k words aHH i hope you guys enjoy it <3

taglist (CLOSED): @heyanonymous123 @flrtsbin @anonella22 @chocorenchin @gyuszie @flowerbe0m @kaikamalover @n034sy @iactaid @suzirumas @pupkashi @choi-beomgyulvr @hearts4hanni @naveries @wccycc @wonioml @burminq @a55hie @wildesreblogs @kaewonie @online--princess @alixox @minkyungseokie @moa4lifeee @yeehawnana @peakaboostuff @txtistheloml @sieuneo @weyrrii @cookiehaos @vianna99 @akari-saka13 @crystal-jellies @veryjeongintxtkid @reiloml @mystiicturtle @sirpoopsalot @certifiedmoa @l0ve-joy @woncheecks @hellohuening @rainbowszi @yeonie137 @neoculturewhat @solstramaii @tocupid @cha0thicpisces @koeuh @iwaplant @lemons4u

When the prom venue was chosen and booked, Yunjin had a vision she couldn’t be talked out of. It was cliché, already been done. But, to Yunjin, there was nothing she couldn’t outdo and ameliorate—and a prom theme wasn’t any different. Kazuha would tell everyone it was a pain in the ass trying to meet Yunjin’s demands; but, now that it was all over and the fruit of their labor was finally able to be appreciated, she couldn’t deny it was all worth it.

From the dark blue shaded ceiling drapes adorned with twinkling lights to the glossy black dance floor sparkling with silver specs and reflecting the lights above, it was like stepping into a celestial wonderland. Starry night seemed to be a staple theme for youth events, commemorating these moments as magical and full of whimsy. And Yunjin couldn’t stop herself from doing just that and more. The round tables were intricately positioned around the room, hugging the dance floor and creating a path. The tables were dressed in velvet covers, trimmed with silver beads, and in the center of every table were the handmade centerpieces Yunjin forced Kazuha to make with her. Cylindrical vases of varying heights, filled with water, small white flowers, and iridescent streamers, sat inside a square tray filled with crystal pebbles. On top of the water floats lit candles, adding to the calming ambiance. The room was filled with decor exemplifying the theme from white, black, and navy blue balloon displays, twinkling stars, white drapes along the walls, and a sparkling golden crescent moon. Lights everywhere, flickering and flashing. The star of the display, however, Yunjin would argue, was the four-tiered golden fountain in the center of the dance floor. Her favorite touch was the fountain that took her three months of convincing and revamping.

“Wow, it’s beautiful, Yunjin,” Soobin gapped, doing his best to talk over the music while admiring every inch of the room.

Yunjin grinned, watching as their classmates admired and relished in the venue, “I know right.”

“Any word from Chaewon yet?” Beomgyu interjected, hands fiddling with the sleeves of his white suit jacket.

“Not yet,” Yunjin sighed, tapping her phone just to see an empty notification screen.

She looked up at Beomgyu, watching how his eyes wandered the room and the way he chewed on his bottom lip. He wasn’t even this nervous during their performance week.

“Beomgyu,” Yunjin said, placing her hand on his shoulder, gaining his attention. “Everything is gonna work out just fine. We’ve got this.”

Beomgyu nodded hesitantly, taking a deep breath. Despite being so last-minute, his friends were more than willing to move heaven and earth to make this gesture possible. Especially Yunjin and Kazuha, who used their privileges as prom committee members to create as romantic of a scene as they possibly could.

Just then, Yunjin’s phone flashed, alerting the three to a message from Chaewon.

‘Pulling up now. Get ready!’

Beomgyu felt his entire body turn cold. He looked between Yunjin and Soobin, heart threatening to jump out of his chest.

Soobin grabbed his arm, “It’s go-time!”

Leading Beomgyu through the crowd of students, Soobin made a beeline toward the DJ booth where Kazuha and Taehyun were waiting. As soon as the two noticed them rushing toward them, they began preparing the equipment.

YN grabbed a fistful of the skirt of her dress, nervously following Chaewon into the building. She could hear the faint thumping of the music down the corridor from the entrance, making her palms feel clammy and her breath uneasy. She didn’t want to be here originally. The embarrassment of Beomgyu rejecting her promposal was bad enough; but then, subsequently rejecting his relationship proposal after the gritty events following, it felt wrong being here.

Even when Chaewon was helping her do her hair and makeup, all she could think about was everything Yunjin said about prom. About it being the perfect ending to her and Beomgyu’s year. Instead, she’s going without Beomgyu, having already ended their story the night of their final performance. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it had been on her mind since the moment Beomgyu opened up to her. She would never do something as horrible as Jieun, but she knew that being thousands of miles away while building her career would make it nearly impossible to be a present part of his life. She just needed confirmation from NYU, and when she got it, it was the only option she felt was right.

Still, walking up to the beautifully decorated venue entrance, being met with the music growing louder and louder, all she could feel was regret and sadness, not an ounce of excitement. Chaewon locked their arms together as they walked through the string light entrance toward the sheer blue curtain, pushing through and falling in awe with the dance hall.

YN couldn’t stop looking around, taking in every bit of what felt like walking through the night sky, unaware that the music was going dim. She didn’t even notice Chaewon taking her down to the dance floor, too busy admiring the lit-up path edged with cloud-like bushels. It wasn’t until Chaewon let go of her did she realized where she was led. She looked around her, noticing the dance floor was cleared with everyone surrounding the floor while staring at her. YN looked back for Chaewon, who held up her hands and assured her all was okay. Confused, YN looked back at the floor, looking around for any hint of what was going on. She felt a wave of emotion and goosebumps over her arms and neck as a song suddenly began playing through the hall. A painfully familiar tune.

A spotlight shines over the fountain, gaining everyone’s attention, beaming over to a figure standing at the DJ booth. YN recognized him immediately and couldn’t help the smile forming on her lips.

Beomgyu stretched out his hand over his eyes, trying to block out the light so he could see her more clearly. In his other hand, he held a microphone. As soon as he saw her, he felt his nerves melt away and all he could focus on was her. He brought the microphone up to his lips, gaze never leaving her, and slowly made his way down the booth to the floor.

Guess mine is not the first heart broken

My eyes are not the first to cry

YN stood frozen, hands clenching to the fabric of her dress, watching as Beomgyu made his way toward her. The spotlight followed every step he took, making it impossible to look away from him. The light contrast made it hard for Beomgyu to read the expression on YN’s face, but he only hoped she was still smiling as he stepped closer and closer.

I’m not the first to know

There’s just no getting over you

It was such a spur-of-the-moment idea to sing to YN at prom. His friends still don’t know what happened after he met with Mr. Kim, but whatever it was, had to be a big deal. Beomgyu described it as “the sign of all signs” and his second chance. It was the last push he needed to consider Yeonjun’s plan of making the most of the time they had left. And, he knew he had to do something big to show YN how deeply he felt. What better way was that than through music?

You know I’m just a fool who’s willing

To sit around and wait for you

Beomgyu stopped a few steps in front of YN, reaching his hand out for her to take. YN could see his hand trembling, making her chest heave. She reached out slowly, letting him take her hand and gently pull her toward the center of the floor.

But, baby, can’t you see

There’s nothing else for me to do?

I’m hopelessly devoted to you

A smile crept its way to Beomgyu’s face, his confidence gaining as he noticed the faint blush painted across YN’s cheeks, as he was finally able to see her face clearly. He couldn’t help but focus on her eyes, the way they stared up at him in adoration. He swore his knees would buckle any moment if he didn’t look away, but he just couldn’t. He took a chance to twirl her around once before bringing her in and swaying together as the spotlight dimmed and they were bathed under the soft twinkling of the string lights around them.

But now there’s nowhere to hide

Since you pushed my love aside

He took YN’s hand and held it up to his chest, squeezing gently. YN could feel how hard his heart was pounding through the palm of her hand. She looked back up at him, watching the way his eyes fluttered closed as he continued to sing. For a moment, she forgot people were watching them. It felt like it was just her and Beomgyu at this moment in time.

I’m out of my head

Hopelessly devoted to you

YN carefully released her hand from Beomgyu’s grip and reached up to cup his face. He followed her movements, gaze falling back to hers as soon as he felt the warmth of her palm on his cheek. He turned into putty whenever he felt her soft fingers trace along the base of his ear, along his jaw. Her touch was so tender and comforting. He wished they could stay this way forever.

Hopelessly devoted to you

“I’m hopelessly devoted… to you,” Beomgyu sighed the last note, hands reaching up to cup YN’s cheeks to carefully wipe away her tears.

The music faded, leaving them in silence. People hesitated to cheer Beomgyu’s performance, not wanting to spoil the moment unfolding before them. When Taehyun made an announcement about this ordeal before YN’s arrival, they were reluctant to oblige, but as they watched the way Beomgyu poured his heart out into every lyric, they wanted nothing more than bare witness. It wasn’t like Beomgyu to have this much passion for anything or anyone, but ever since taking part in the musical, it was like he became a different person. Happier. Full of life. Desire for the future.

“What was all this for? When did you plan this? What?” YN began to blabber, looking around at everyone and spotting her friends gathered by the DJ booth with smiles on their faces.

Beomgyu pulled her attention back to him, smiling. “I know you said you said you wanted to just be friends. But, YN, I don’t think I can do that.”

“You can’t?”

Beomgyu shook his head. “It took me too long to realize the feelings I have for you aren’t just infatuation. YN, I’m in love with you.”

YN’s eyes widened. She never expected to hear that word from him. It was a scary word to hear at their age, but for some reason, it felt more liberating than scary. It felt right.

“Kiss her!” Someone yelled, pushing the rest of the crowd to begin chanting.

Beomgyu looked at YN, raising his eyebrows as if asking if it was okay. But, before he could even open his mouth to ask, she grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him down, catching him off guard. Their lips crashed together, leaving Beomgyu bewildered for a moment before melting into her touch as their classmates cheered on. His hands found their place at her hips, where the hem of her bodice met the skirt of her floor-length dress. This was a feeling he could never get used to.

The DJ restarted his set, encouraging everyone to get back on the floor. Beomgyu pulled away, grinning from ear to ear, grabbing YN’s hand and pulling her away from the floor and toward the entrance to the corridors. There was barely anyone there, allowing them to catch a breath and enjoy each other’s company for a bit longer.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” YN said, gripping Beomgyu’s hands as she attempted to relax the adrenaline she felt.

“I had to do something big to tell you how I feel,” Beomgyu confessed. “Besides, I had to do something special, too, for that thoughtful promposal you gave me.”

YN slapped her hands over her face, embarrassment overtaking the rush. “I can’t believe you reminded me of that!”

Beomgyu laughed, attempting to pull her hands away, but she wouldn’t budge.

“I wanted to experience this night with you,” he sighed, giving up and pulling her against his chest instead. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. “I never saw myself going to prom, but when you asked me, all I could think about was how pretty you were gonna look.”

“Until you rejected me,” YN muttered.

Beomgyu squeezed her tight, a grimace falling over his face. “I deserve to be shamed for that. I know. I thought it was the right thing to do at the time, like a dumbass.”

YN picked her head up from her hands, looking up at Beomgyu as he looked down at her. She could see the regret he felt about that moment written all over his face.

“Just like me when I said we should just be friends, huh?” She asked softly.

“Depends,” Beomgyu sighed. “Would it make a difference if I told you that I might be joining you in New York come spring?”

YN’s eyes widened, her mouth falling agape. She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t get her voice out. All she could do was stare at him in bewilderment and squeeze his arms from shock. Beomgyu found it amusing. It was similar to the way he reacted when Mr. Kim told him. He could recall that moment like it just happened. Sitting in the chair facing Mr. Kim’s desk like he always was throughout the year, only instead of being scolded for his missing assignments or poor attendance record, he was waiting to hear the reflection on his performance in the spring musical. Mr. Kim praised him for his outstanding performance and display of great showmanship, a drastic change from the usual threats of detention for being a smartass in class.

“When did this happen?! What are you talking about?!” YN finally said, managing to break through her initial shock.

Beomgyu laughed, “Mr. Kim called me into his office to discuss my final grade and sprung it on me out of nowhere!”

“What did he say? What happened? I need to know it all!”

“He just made me read an email from NYU. They invited me to apply for the music program for the spring semester! I guess they liked me?” Beomgyu shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.

Beomgyu was satisfied knowing he passed his final assignment ensuring his seat at graduation, but when he got up to leave, Mr. Kim urged him to sit back down. They had gone over everything they needed to, what more could there be to discuss? The grin on Mr. Kim’s face was borderline unsettling as he turned his computer screen for Beomgyu to see. With his eyebrows furrowed, Beomgyu steadily leaned forward to get a clearer view and began reading the open email tab adorned with a familiar purple emblem at the top.

Dear Mr. Kim, We wanted to thank you again for hosting us as we conducted a final review for fall semester applicants. Your drama department is brimming with talent and it was a delightful treat to be able to see the passion among your students. Everyone at NYU is more than enthusiastic about the prospects you are producing. One of your students in particular grabbed our attention especially. After discussing with the rest of the board, we are honored to extend an invitation to Choi Beomgyu to apply for the upcoming spring semester at NYU Tisch for our music program. Beomgyu demonstrated an elite level of music and vocal performance that moved our recruiters. Let us know if you or Beomgyu have any questions. We look forward to hearing from him.

“What did your parents say?” YN asked.

“They don’t know yet,” Beomgyu sighed. “No one knows actually. You’re the first person I told.”

“When are you going to tell them? Are you even applying?”

“Oh, I’m applying,” Beomgyu assured. “I never thought I could get an offer to pursue music. I don’t want to pass this up!”

No matter what Beomgyu did or said, his parents were adamant about having him take over the family market when he was old enough. All those summers spent working alongside his father in the market instead of practicing the chords his grandfather taught him on guitar. Those times they told him to keep his music down and stop “screaming” all the time. He knew it would be hard to tell them about the NYU offer. And, it would be nearly impossible to get their blessing to apply. But, this felt like a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make something of his old dream. Even without their support, he knew he had friends who would have his back and give him that push.

“I’m so happy for you,” YN said softly, tears brimming in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly. She was overcome with joy and excitement at the thought of Beomgyu not only pursuing his dream but pursuing it alongside her in New York.

Beomgyu felt his own tears finally fall as he wrapped his arms around YN, finding peace in knowing it wouldn’t be the last time. He wouldn’t have to say goodbye this summer. He wouldn’t have to “make the most” out of every moment until she left for New York. For weeks, all he could dwell on was the idea of never being able to see her once she left. But now, the tension and worries were gone. He could enjoy their time together while they had it because their time apart could be numbered. They would be able to meet again one day in the new year when spring returns to gift them more precious memories like the spring they met.

[ note ] cheers cheers happy happy we scream and cry together aHHhHhh

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prefer-to-be-vilified · 2 years ago

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Wednesday: There’s no problem on earth that can’t be ameliorated by a few well chosen murders.

Enid: *has no idea what ‘ameliorated’ means*

Also Enid: So true bestie. Do you wanna make out?

#wednesday #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #wenclair #wednesday netflix #wednesday 2022 #enid x wednesday #incorrect wednesday quotes #incorrect wednesday addams #tbh I’m only 60% sure I used that word correctly #lmao #ptbv

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haggishlyhagging · 1 month ago

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Upon man was pronounced the curse of the world's work. The Bible declares it was because of his sinfulness that the earth was to be cursed; for his punishment that he was to eat of it in sorrow all the days of his life; because of his wickedness that it was to bear thorns and thistles; and in consequence of his disobedience that he was to eat the herb of the field in the sweat of his face until he returned unto the ground from whence he came. No curse of work was pronounced upon woman; her "curse" was of an entirely different character. It was a positive command of the Lord God Almighty that upon man alone the work of the world should fall and this work he was to perform in sorrow and the sweat of his brow.

Thus far this book has been devoted to a consideration of the doctrines taught by Christian men in regard to woman's curse. And so earnestly has this doctrine been proclaimed that man seems to have entirely forgotten the curse also pronounced upon himself (or if he has not forgotten, he has neglected to see its full import) and in his anxiety to keep woman in subordination, he has placed his curse also upon her—thus thwarting the express command of God. It is therefore but just to devote a few pages to the consideration of man's curse and an investigation of the spirit in which he has accepted the penalty imposed upon him for his share in the transgression which cost him Paradise.

At the commencement of this investigation it will be well to remember that Eve was not banished from the Garden of Eden. Adam alone was cast out and to prohibit his reentrance, not hers, the angel with the flaming sword was set as guardian at its gates.

We must also recall the opposition of the church, through the ages, to all attempts made towards the amelioration of woman's suffering at time of her bringing forth children, upon the plea that such mitigation was a direct interference with the mandate of the Almighty and an inexcusable sin. It will be recalled that in the chapter upon witchcraft, the bitter hostility of the church to the use of anesthetics by the women physicians of that period was shown and its opposing sermons, its charges of heresy, its burnings at the stake as methods of enforcing that opposition.

Man, ever unjust to woman, has been no less so in the field of work. He has not taken upon himself the entire work of the world as commanded, but has ever imposed a large portion of it upon woman. Neither do all men labor, but thousands in idleness evade the "curse" of work pronounced upon all men alike.

The church—in its teachings and through its non-preaching [of] the duty of man in this respect—is guilty of that defiance of the Lord God it has ever been so ready to attribute to woman. The pulpit does not proclaim that this curse of work rests upon any man, does not preach this command to the idle, the profligate, the rich or the honored, but, on the contrary, shows less sympathy and less respect for the laborer than for the idle man. The influence of this neglect of its duty by the church has permeated the Christian world. We everywhere find contempt for the man who, amid thorns and thistles, tills the ground, obeying his primal curse of earning his bread by the sweat of his brow, and everywhere see respect accorded to the man who, by whatever means of honest or of dishonest capacity evades his curse, taking no share in the labors of the field nor earning his bread [by] the sweat of his brow.

-Matilda Joslyn Gage, Woman, Church and State

#Matilda Joslyn gage #adam and eve #male hypocrisy #anti christianity #female oppression #biblical mythology

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funnywormz · 1 year ago

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OK. some quick cardassian speculative biology headcanon thoughts before i go to bed. i might incorporate this stuff into a more formal well formated thing later but rn i'm just spewing some thoughts

cardassians are not poikilotherms (as in earth reptiles) - they're endotherms (more specifically fitting into the baseoendotherm category imo, see this paper for more info on that term). their average healthy body temperature is ~34-35°C, so a little cooler than humans, but still warm.

cardassians are able to enter a state of torpor under high stress or in very cold or hot conditions, in which their body temperature can drop as low as 20°C and their bmr (basal metabolic rate) is significantly reduced. however, entering this state is often a last resort, as it's quite dangerous and can become a precursor to death if the stressful environmental conditions aren't ameliorated.

cardassians do not like the cold, and will enter a state of cold induced torpor in temperatures which are relatively survivable for a human being. even when it isn't cold enough to threaten their health, a cardassian can become drowsy and uncomfortable in cooler temperatures. they tend to find temperatures of 25°C and above the most comfortable.

they have dichromatic vision, which corresponds to red-green colour blindness in humans. however, despite having less cone cells, their eyes have far more rod cells than a human being, giving them excellent night vision. this is aided by the presence of a tapetum lucidum (which has the added bonus of looking super creepy in a dark room).

the forehead ridge or "chufa" (i've heard this term was coined in a particular cardassian speculative biology fic but i have yet to find it, please lmk if you have a link!) is actually a pineal eye. like most (extant earth animal) pineal eyes, it is covered with skin and has little purpose other than differentiating between light and shadow. most cardassians are not consciously aware of perception from this eye, but may subconsciously change their behaviour based on its input (i.e., a cardassian with their chufa covered may end up feeling fatigued, as light detection from the chufa helps them to maintain their circadian rhythm and if light isn't falling on it, their body will produce more sleep hormones). a sleeping cardassian can quickly be woken by a change in ambient light, as their chufa never "closes", and so can detect light changes even when they're asleep.

cardassians are more light sensitive than humans. their natural circadian rhythm is more crepuscular than diurnal, and so they are most alert and active at dawn/dusk or in lower light levels.

cardassians have both "scales" and hair, much like an armadillo. the scales function as armor plating, with the most armor on the sides and back of the neck, and over the spine, although it is present to some degree over the whole body.

they have to shed in order to grow, and adults continue to shed their scales, albeit at a lower frequency. shedding happens once every few months in children and juveniles, and once ever 1-3 years in adults. shedding lasts about 2 weeks. it is seen as a time of vulnerability, as it generally leads to a decrease in energy, among other symptoms, and a freshly shed cardassian's armor is soft and easy to pierce. for that reason, adult cardassians will often disguise the signs of shedding (i.e., paling of the scales is compensated for through applying makeup etc), and usually become reclusive and defensive once it can no longer be disguised.

cardassians naturally have a range of pigmentation in the chufa and neck ridges, ranging from grey to bright blue. these areas contain simple chromatophores, and in all cardassians they tend to "flush" blue when they're excited or experiencing intense emotions. however, their "neutral" colour can differ greatly from individual to individual. some cardassians use makeup to enhance the colours (think blush or lipstick in humans), as a more vivid blue is sometimes seen as attractive. the coloration is not sexually dimorphic.

cardassians do not have a corpus callosum between their brain hemispheres, instead they have multiple commissures. i might think more abt this one and the potential effects on cognition later but rn i just think it's cool and wanted to include a mention of it at least

ok that is all i have for now lol i'm getting sleepy........ as i said earlier, i may add to this post if i get more ideas, and maybe one day present this stuff in a better format

#star trek #ds9 #cardassian #cardassians

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fillipquesender · 5 months ago

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UPDATED EARTH DESIGN JUST DROPPED

LETS GO

#dca #fnaf #sun and moon show #tsams #sams #the sun and moon show #tsams earth #sams earth #laes #lunar and earth show #laes earth #tsams au #laes au #ameliorate au #ameliorate earth #I've caved and started putting the tsams tags back again

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max1461 · 2 years ago

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So, many people take for granted that there has been a huge increase in the prevalence of egalitarian and pacifistic ideals over the last few centuries. I don't actually know if this is true. It certainly looks true on shorter timescales, e.g. the world seems to me more egalitarian today than it was 1000 years ago, but I'm really not sure how we'd evaluate it on longer timescales. Are we more egalitarian on average than 20,000 years ago? I have no idea. I think it's clear from the archeological evidence, though, that society is much less violent than it was 20,000 ago, so at least that gain can be sort of confidently claimed.

And the question, then, is... why? My first pass at an answer would be technology; because of technology we live lives less governed by fear an want, and thus can afford to be kinder to one another. We have material security that we once lacked, and in light of this security, fiercely guarding what little we have is less necessary. Or something in that vicinity. But I think there's also possibly another effect, that of mass trauma. I believe @tanadrin suggested this in a post somewhere. If you're living in a world where 4/5 of your siblings died in childhood, where people around you are constantly at risk of death by a simply infection or the common cold, where the majority of your own children will likely die... I think that's likely to really mess you up, by modern standards. Make you far less sensitive to death and suffering—because, you know, you have to be.

Anyway, I think this is reflected in the way many historical texts talk so cavalierly about death and killing. To me, and to I think a lot of people today, losing someone we care about is unimaginably painful. But if you listen to the way death is talked about in e.g. the Norse sagas, it's discussed as a practical inconvenience, a financial burden, an affront to the ego. But a tragedy? Almost never. Because, I suspect, you can't consider something a tragedy if it's happened to you time and time again, and also to everyone you know and everyone you've every heard about forever. At that points, it's just life.

I have two points here. One is that this is a parable against falling into the naturalistic fallacy. There are many struggles that we today consider "just a part of life", that people are reflexively dismissive of trying to alleviate with technology. But for most of human history, this same thing could be said of massive child mortality. Now that we have the benefit, at least in the developed world, or not having to deal with that, we can recognize it for the horrific tragedy that it was. We can recognize it for the horribly traumatic thing that it was, this thing that filled everyone's life with needless suffering for centuries upon centuries. When medical technology allows us to e.g. prevent natural aging, I am nearly certain we will look back on it the same way. We will wonder "how did they all get by, knowing they had so little time on Earth, knowing the approximate age of their own death?" And the answer will be twofold: "they just did" and "they really didn't".

The other point is that this all suggests against the narrative that suffering makes one virtuous. I think the reality, as hard a pill as it may be to swallow, is nearly the opposite: comfort and luxury make people more virtuous. The greatest source of hate and anger in the world, I strongly suspect, is fear, and being free from fear allows one to be free from hate and anger in a way that the fearful are going to have a far harder time doing. As far as it goes, through the various ups and downs in my own life, this has been my experience to a tee. I think @balioc suggested something like this somewhere, and while I think they went a bit too far (I have definitely received some benefits to virtue from the harder times in my life, namely a strongly increased desire to ameliorate similar conditions for others), I think the gist of their idea ("struggle often makes you a worse person") is pretty accurate. It's not always true, but it certainly seems to be true a fair amount of the time.

I suspect that the idea that luxury corrupts is mostly a selection effect: that is, in a harshly competitive society, the people most able to win luxury for themselves are likely to be the most ruthless. So it appears that the luxury is causing the evil, when in reality the causality is exactly opposite. At least, that would be my guess.

Overall this paints a rather grim picture of the human experience. Suffering makes us less kind, most of us are condemned to suffering, and those most likely to escape it are those who were least kind to begin with. And I'd really like to hear from anyone who's had a different experience, who feels they're a better person for the hardships in their life, because that has really not been mine.

I don't know where I'm going with this. A dose of pessimism to cut the usual utopian-optimism of this blog. I suppose I think these features of the human condition are fundamentally escapable, and that's cause to feel good. But in order to escape our problems we first have to understand them, so, here's been one attempt to do that.

#society #navel gazing

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thetreasuregoblin · 4 months ago

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Manifestations of Magic: Pact Magic

In some ways, Pact Magic is the simplest form of magic to practice. Many magical beings, from the humble brownie to the powerful elemental lord, are willing to strike bargains will mortals in exchange for favors. However, it is also potentially the most dangerous for its practitioners.

Much like mortals, spirits and other beings will desire an agreement that is their best interests, or at least one that is worth the trouble. Even if you aren't dealing with a particularly malicious or avaricious being, the majority of them do not think of value in the same way you and I might. Seldom will one engage in a simple transaction involving currency, gems or precious metals (there are some exceptions to this rule, pixies love collecting shiny baubles and spirits of Earth may wish for gems or metals to be "returned" to them), so it behooves the hopeful Pact-binder to be educated on the being they hope to bargain with, and to be wise to any deception in the process.

Most minor pacts are short and involve a simple trade. A service or object in exchange for a particular task. Needless to say that the language used in these agreements ought to be as clear and simple as possible (devils and particularly intelligent fey are more complex, and a pact with one of these beings is not recommended for the inexperienced) to avoid any confusion, intentional or no. More long-term agreements may require a steady stream of compensation or complex favors in return. An important note: When forming a pact one should NEVER agree to an unspecified future favor; this is a favored tactic of the fey and such ill-advised bargains are the subject of many a cautionary tale. Permanent or even multi-generational pacts are rather unusual, but I shall briefly touch upon two well-known traditions of pact magic here: the elemental Warlocks of Jabal and the Theurgists of Veid.

The Warlocks of Jabal are comprised of a number of small "schools," usually remotely located and often rather fortified. The internal structures of each school, and their activities at large, vary greatly. According to some of the histories in the area, the Warlocks originate from six founding members, who each struck a powerful bargain with an Elemental Lord. In addition to unknown prices paid by those founders, supposedly one stipulation of the pact was that the Warlocks pass on responsibility (and power) of said pact to a chosen heir. The veracity of this claim is disputed, but it certainly would explain the esoteric nature of these Warlock schools. Also worth mentioning is that, likely in part due to the Warlocks' reputation, "warlock" is a term often used by the layman to describe Diabolists and even other, more benign Pact-Binders.

Theurgists are singular in several ways compared to other Pact-Binders or even other magical practitioners, and I am currently conducting a study regarding their practices and origins in more detail, but for the purposes of this work I will explain the most pertinent details.

A Theurgist is created by way of a ritual that binds a spirit to the body and essence of a subject. The most common targets of this ritual are sorcerers who are unable to control their power (either due to lack of discipline or physical limitation), but there are also records of the ritual being used to reverse a possession or even ameliorate the symptoms of a curse. What sets this process apart, when compared to other Pact Magic, is that its purpose is not to reach greater heights of power, but rather to keep in check another power present in the subject. It still requires consent of both parties, like other Pacts, and the Theurgist does gain access to unique magical talents as a result. Though it has been life-saving in many cases, and has resulted in some of the greatest magical minds of this world, it is a double-edged sword. The spirit and the Theurgist are in constant communication, and as any student of this fine university can attest, sharing a space (much less your mind and body) with another for too long can be a weight upon the soul. However, as few other ways have been found to solve the problems that Theurgy solves, I feel quite assured in saying that most Theurgists would find the benefit outweighs the costs.

If there is one lesson that can be absorbed regarding Pact Magic, it would be this: never agree to a Pact without knowing exactly what you are involving yourself in. Perhaps this is also good advice for other, less binding, agreements in life as well, but my specialty is in anthropology rather than law, so I can hardly profess authority on that front.

#worldbuilding #long post #magic

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hyunbunlix · 1 year ago

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Ameliorate [white king!Jeongin]

Characters: Jeongin, fem!OC Rating: A/O for Adults Only Content Warnings/Tags: killing/death, blood, blood magic, unprotected sex, switch (sub-leaning) Jeongin, riding, missionary, praise kink (m. receiving), dirty talk, raw male orgasm Word Count: 9,989 Summary: Jeongin has spent years as the king of White Seoul trying to keep the neighboring dimension, Black Seoul, from devouring his home. When his cousin, the queen, is killed, he's forced to take her killer as his new queen and borrow her magic to reinforce the boundary between White Seoul and Black Seoul. Very quickly, though, Jeongin realizes he wants more than a begrudging partnership between them. Note: This story was inspired by the world of A Darker Shade of Magic by V. E. Schwab.

When she killed the queen of White Seoul, she hadn’t been thinking about consequences. She hadn’t been thinking about what role this woman played in the ecosystem, or what seams she was holding together.

No, when she killed the queen of White Seoul, she had only one goal in mind, and it was not becoming a human sacrifice.

All things ran on magic in one way or another, but White Seoul was exceptionally ruthless, exceptionally greedy. More often than not, the tithe required to keep the world together was blood, and magical blood, at that. Without it, the rains would dry, the sun would burn, the plants would wither. If the world could not drink blood, then those who dared try to live at its expense would pay.

But she hadn’t been thinking about that. None of it had crossed her mind for even a moment. Under the threat of kill or be killed, she had chosen to kill White Seoul’s queen.

And why should she not? Why could the queen’s blood not be what watered the ground, what fed the greedy earth and appeased it for a time? Why should the queen get to live while choosing who among her subjects would suffer?

She also had not stopped to consider the more immediate consequences. She was seized upon by soldiers and dragged to the palace, directly to the throne room. She had not paused to consider what the king would say, what he would do.

White Seoul was a strange place, and so its rules about royalty were strange, too. The king and queen had not been married; in fact, they’d been related. Cousins. The pair of them happened to be the present strongest in their family line, and so they were chosen to rule together and keep everyone else under control. It was that simple.

Until, it seemed, one of them was no longer strong enough.

The queen-killer was flung onto the hard floor, losing her purchase immediately and putting both hands down to catch herself. Both hands, which were still stained in the queen’s blood, and so, too, stained the marble floor.

She jerked her gaze up as the captain of the guard announced her name, defiant and angry, to meet the eyes of the king, who looked every bit as furious as she. He was nearly statuesque with his pronounced cheekbones and strong jaw, his hair a white blond that contrasted beautifully with his golden brown skin. Dressed all in white, her blood would have been stark, should he decide to draw it.

Or, his blood would be stark, should she manage to open his veins first.

She flung out with her power, emboldened by her first kill, and drove the soldiers back. As quickly as she’d moved, so did the king, coming down off the dais and striking out at her with a short, flat sword. She jumped back; a guard gripped her ankle and tried to pull her down, tried to force her prostrate to make her easier for the king to execute. She sent a current of lightning down her leg to throw him off. Just in time, too, narrowly dodging another blow from the king.

“She killed the queen!” cried one of the guards near the back wall. The king’s eyes flashed darker, but he hesitated, halting his next strike.

“Is this true?” he asked, and she was stunned by his voice, soft and sweet and not at all fitting for the ruler of a world as jagged as this one.

She spread her sticky hands, as though that was all the answer he needed. Still, she answered aloud, “Yes.”

His jaw clenched, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he said. She glowered at him.

“I defended myself.”

“You didn’t have to kill her.”

“You have no idea what I had to do. You weren’t there.”

The king regarded her coldly, but didn’t refute the point. To her shock, he sheathed his blade with a metallic snap.

“Come. There’s something I need to show you.”

He turned and started for one of the halls perpendicular to the throne. She should have taken the opportunity to strike his unguarded back, but something stayed her hands. She followed.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he repeated, though his voice was less combative than the first time.

“Enlighten me, then,” she said. He glanced at her. His expression was stormy, but he didn’t read as threatening any longer.

“Do you know why the palace was built here?” he asked. Her expression creased with confusion.

“No. What does that have to do with anything?”

“The palace was built here because this is where the veil between White Seoul and Black Seoul exists in its thinnest state. This is the way between worlds. And Black Seoul has been trying for centuries to get in.”

She remained silent. She knew of the existence of other worlds, stacked atop one another like the pages of a book, but had never been to one.

“Do you know why there are always two rulers of White Seoul?” he asked next, looking her hard in the face. They had reached a circular atrium of a room with sigils all over the walls, floor, and ceiling. Things felt . . . wrong within its bounds.

She worked to steady her breathing, the room itself exerting a pressure upon her that made her want to descend into panic. Through the noise in her head, she tried to think. With everything she knew, surely she could divine this answer.

A shiver went down her spine as she realized the sigils were all drawn in blood.

“It takes two to hold it back,” she whispered. The king regarded her evenly. She thought he looked pleased she’d figured it out, but she’d likely imagined it. Compared to the threatening aura of the room, the king seemed docile.

“With my cousin dead, I need a new queen to help me keep it at bay. You killed the queen, which means you’re at least equal in strength to her. Therefore, this is the punishment for your crime. I’ll have you coronated tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Just like that?” she asked in disbelief.

“I don’t have any other choice,” he answered, his voice gaining an edge that reminded her of his blade. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

It seemed there was a second part to her punishment, and that was being made to live in the chambers of a dead former queen.

The first night she hardly slept, both out of disquiet at inhabiting the rooms of a ghost and out of nerves for the day ahead. Would the people of White Seoul accept her as the new queen? Did it even matter if they did?

The questions, unanswered, swarmed her thoughts like gnats until dawn arrived and a pair of attendants came to ready her. Apparently, the king had not been joking when he’d said morning.

It occurred to her that she didn’t even know his name. The titles had always mattered more than the names. She was fairly certain he was a Yang, but that was all. The rulers all seemed to die relatively quickly. Even when power managed to stay in the same family for more than a generation or two, the names and faces changed far too often to remember them all. At least, she personally had never seen the point in devoting time to the practice.

The attendants made her presentable, styling her hair simply but elegantly, putting the barest hint of cosmetics on her face. Finally, they dressed her all in white, as the rulers always appeared to their people.

They led her to the end of the queen’s wing, where the king was waiting to walk with her. He looked every bit as regal as the day before, his blond hair styled back off his forehead, causing one’s full attention to go directly to his sharp fox eyes. He, too, had had cosmetics applied with a subtle hand, which only made his eyes appear fiercer. He looked at her with an unreadable expression, then offered his arm.

“This shouldn’t take long,” he said as they walked. “I’ll do the talking, since I’m the one with the rapport. There will be time later for the people to know you.”

“Understood,” she said, relieved. She had no idea how a ruler was supposed to behave, except that she felt the former queen had done a sorry job of it. Probably not the best sentiment to bring forth to a public that would shortly begin grieving.

As they proceeded out of the palace, she quickly noted the gonfalons that had been unfurled overnight, each one bearing the crest of the house that had ruled for the last few decades, since White Seoul's last toppling and subsequent conquering. She realized she’d been right; the Yangs still held power. The gonfalons had not been there the day before when she’d been detained, so she presumed they only went up as a signal to the public that something was about to happen. As such, she was unsurprised to find the courtyard full of denizens murmuring to one another. When they spied the king, a respectful hush rippled through them.

“I appreciate your presence this morning,” the king said, his voice projecting well despite his naturally gentle tone. “I bear news both distressing and hopeful. I hope you will keep open hearts and minds as I relay them each to you.”

The crowd was rapt, watching their king with undivided attention. Naturally, only a fraction of the city’s population could fit within the bordering wall, but it was clear that news of what was said would spread through the rest of the city like wildfire.

“It is with a heavy heart that I must share with you the death of my cousin, the queen. As many of you know, the throne demands much from us, and her constitution could no longer bear the strain.”

She fought to keep any expression off her face at his words. How could he lie so boldly, so smoothly, to his own people? So her crime was to be brushed aside, then? What of the people who had seen her do it, the guards who had apprehended her? Could they be expected to keep a secret? Would they be imprisoned? Killed? Would their blood be used to quench the earth?

“As we grieve,” the king went on, “I ask only that you remember everything in this world meets its end. All things must end so that others may begin. In this way, I have glad tidings to share with you, as well.”

The king reached for her hand, and she felt innately that something was about to go askew.

“I feel a bit strange about announcing this now,” the king went on, a bashful hint to his voice, “but we will not be without a queen. I present to you a woman of grace and power equal to my own, a woman I am happy to call our queen not by blood, but by choice. Her decisiveness and tenacity will be a boon to our kingdom, and to our world.”

And then, without any further explanation, he tugged her hand, causing both of them to turn and face each other. She was hardly able to meet eyes with him before his hands went to her waist and his mouth covered hers. Despite every instinct telling her to stiffen or even push him away, she knew what he was doing, the picture he was trying to paint. So she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him back.

Behind closed doors, her cooperation was not so docile. He escorted her back to her wing, and she insisted he walk her all the way back to the sitting room adjacent to the bedroom. Being an apparent gentleman, he couldn’t refuse.

She yanked him inside by the arm and shut the door quickly, pressing her back to it and blocking the exit. She looked at him with wild, incredulous eyes. He looked at her like he’d expected nothing else.

“What the hell was any of that?” she demanded.

“It was the path of least resistance.”

“You couldn’t have warned me in advance?”

“I only thought of it this morning, there wasn’t time.”

“Did you really have to kiss me?”

“It was the fastest and easiest way to convince them. It removes suspicion from you. Why would I kiss my cousin’s murderer?”

“I don’t know, why would you?”

“Because it would mean the most peaceful transference of power,” he said, frustration mounting. “If they knew what you did and didn't believe that it was either justified or sanctioned, mobs would be trying to execute you left and right. My cousin was polarizing at best. If I show myself to be unequivocally on your side, then recourse will be minimal. If they tear you to pieces, then where will I be? How would I be able to do what needs to be done if you’re dead and dismembered? You’re the best option I have right now, and I don’t have time to waste looking for another. I’d bleed myself dry trying to hold it back alone.”

Effectively cowed, she murmured her only remaining objection. “You didn’t even tell me your name first.”

His eyes widened in surprise, and he looked so boyish then that her heart nearly snapped in two. Ruler of a kingdom, holding back the tide of an encroaching dimension with his own blood, and he couldn’t have been any older than his early twenties. She wanted to take back all the anger that had been in her voice before, though she would never take back the action that had gotten them here.

“Jeong In,” he said softly, a new side to his voice she hadn’t yet heard and felt she surely hadn’t earned. “I’m Yang Jeong In.”

“Jeong In,” she said just as quietly, testing it out. She liked the shape of it in her mouth. “I’m not sorry for killing your cousin, but I am sorry for causing you, personally, so much trouble.”

He looked entirely taken aback, his eyes blinking in conflicted confusion. She laughed quietly. “Don’t worry; I wouldn’t know how to respond to that, either.”

His gaze darted away from her, as though his composure might be found on the far wall somewhere. When he met her eyes again, he seemed closer to the aloof monarch she expected to see.

“We’ll eat together in a few hours. After that, I’ll start teaching you about the wards,” he said, a creeping tiredness at the edge of his voice. She nodded and moved away from the door so he could leave.

“I . . . look forward to seeing you,” she said, feeling it imperative that they part on good terms. He glanced at her with surprise and wariness and something else she couldn’t identify.

He nodded, holding his silence, and then was gone.

Kissing her had been a mistake. A rash, stupid mistake. He’d been telling it true when he’d given the official reason. He wanted their subjects to think they were in love, and therefore more easily accept her. A transference of the authority he already commanded onto her, his new queen.

Strategically, the logic was sound. That hadn’t been the mistake. The mistake had been his assumption that he could remain personally unbiased. In other words, he’d liked it, and he couldn’t stop berating himself for it.

While he could genuinely say that he would mourn his cousin’s death in his own way, she had without question been a cruel queen. He blamed her death as much on her as he did on the actual killer. They’d disagreed on how to deal with the wards. Jeong In had always chosen to use primarily his own blood, while his cousin had used a combination of her own and other people’s. Sometimes she wouldn’t even kill them outright, instead keeping them imprisoned as blood factories until they either figured out a way to off themselves or she grew bored of them. He wasn’t actually surprised that one of her potential hostages had finally fought back with enough force to end her.

Beyond that, though, was Jeong In’s lack of time to invest in any meaningful companionship. He had a realm to run in all the normal ways, as well as defending it from an encroaching threat the average citizen didn’t even know about. All the public knew was that sometimes the water and magic dried up and made life inhospitable for everyone, and that blood was the only thing that could make it a little better. Jeong In knew the wards were a stopgap, but right now it was the best he could do, the best any of them had ever been able to do. It consumed his waking hours and oftentimes his sleeping ones, too, when night terrors came to plague him.

He was tired, and he was lonely. A partnership of convenience wasn't his ideal situation, but it was a gamble he would eventually have to take, anyway. His parents' marriage had been one of convenience, and they'd at least grown to like each other. His cousin's parents, on the other hand, had hated each other until the day they died.

Jeong In wouldn’t delude himself into thinking that he and his new queen would grow to love each other, but if they could grow familiar enough to tolerate each other’s presence, to let their guards down and at least be friendly . . .

When Jeong In got back to his rooms he immediately put a pillow over his face, as though he could so easily put himself out of his own misery. Who was he kidding? He wanted so desperately to be held, to be loved, and now that he’d kissed her, he would be tormented indefinitely by the thought of it.

The longer she looked at the wards, the more she started to see the patterns. She began to understand why certain sigils went where they did, which parts of the equation had been applied most recently and which needed a new coat of blood.

“The key, as I’m sure you’ve figured out, is the blood of the caster,” Jeong In was explaining. “We’re able to augment the material cost with the blood of others, as long as it’s both magical and human, but the caster’s own blood has to provide the base. It won’t bind otherwise. At least, not as effectively, which makes the total cost far worse in the end. Past generations attempted it.”

“The base . . . Then, is that what the blood tithes are for?” she asked, looking away from the wall of sigils in front of her and to her left instead, toward him. He seemed oddly taken aback that she would choose to look at him, though he quickly recovered his composure.

“Yes. We encourage the citizens to tithe whenever they feel they’re able. We try to compensate them where we can, though it doesn’t always guarantee participation. My cousin used to employ . . . less voluntary means, as some of our ancestors once did,” he said. She snorted. So that would have been her fate if she hadn't taken the late queen's life instead—her blood used like magical paint on a wall.

“How often do we have to bleed for it?” she asked, letting her indignation pass without verbal acknowledgment.

“Every couple of days now,” Jeong In said, a grim set to the line of his mouth. “It’s been worse recently.”

“That explains why the world has felt so . . . brittle,” she said. Everything from the ground to the trees felt like it might crack in two any day. They’d been desperate for rain for some time.

“Let me show you where we keep it,” Jeong In said, leading her back down the hall to an adjacent room. Within its walls, blood was stored like wine, an unsettling sight. The metallic smell made her stomach curdle.

“Decades ago, the methods were more barbaric,” Jeong In sighed, nodding towards several storage chests. “Thankfully, we have syringes now. Makes things less gruesome, and the scarring less egregious.”

“So you’ll have to draw my blood every couple of days?” she asked.

“For the time being,” he answered. “For as long as the stores hold. When the supply starts to dwindle, the demand on you and me goes up.”

He looked so incredibly tired as he said that. If she recalled the last upheaval correctly, he’d been king for four or five years now. He’d been offering his blood to their dying world since he’d been a teenager.

“You’ve given a lot, haven’t you?” she asked softly. He looked at her warily, as though there might be a trap in her words, but his shoulders sagged a little as he gave in and answered.

“Yes,” he said, his voice as quiet as hers had been. “I’ve never been able to bring myself to use the less savory methods. I’m only comfortable spilling my own blood.”

She couldn’t resist the call to gamble then, stepping a little closer to him and taking his hand in hers. He looked stunned by the contact but didn’t pull away.

“You’re a good man,” she said, and knew it in her heart to be true. He lowered his gaze, though whether it was out of shyness or sadness she couldn’t tell.

“I’m trying,” he said, his voice barely there. She held his hand tighter.

The assassin came during the time when Jeong In and his queen were supposed to be hearing petitioners.

They sat in their audience room, enthroned side by side, listening to tidings of the rest of the city and offering their help and guidance where they could. This had the double effect of allowing them a glimpse of how bad things were at large. The new queen, having lived outside most of her life, had a knack that Jeong In couldn’t quite replicate. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t leave the palace often, but it still stung him.

Their next petitioner was a young woman probably around Jeong In’s age. She had a sweet face but wore a severe expression; Jeong In expected her to report another crop failure or perhaps an illness of livestock. His arm itched, knowing he’d have to bleed again later that night.

Instead, the petitioner opened her mouth and said “Long live the queen.” Ice shot through Jeong In’s blood, and he made to get to his feet, but his queen was already moving. The next few seconds were a blur, and when Jeong In’s brain caught up, he realized what had happened.

The assassin’s words had been a decoy. She spoke of the queen but flung a dagger end-over-end at Jeong In instead. His queen was faster, moving into the way to intercept. Rather than some act of sacrifice, though, a crackling ball of static electricity leapt to life between her palms, a field of polarity that pulled on the metal of the dagger and trapped it, holding it suspended between her hands.

“Indeed,” the queen said, and returned the dagger to whence it had come, piercing the assassin’s chest. She crumpled to the floor, gasping. The queen separated her hands, the electricity following her left. She held her charged hand in front of her and the dagger came back, snapping into her grip.

Their guards, who had all acted much slower, rushed forward now to detain the would-be assassin. “Staunch her bleeding,” the queen ordered. “I have both questions and consequences that I wish to bestow upon her.”

As the guards moved to do as she commanded, clearing the perpetrator from the room, Jeong In finally finished processing what had happened. The whole event had taken less than twenty seconds, yet he was thoroughly shaken.

His queen turned to him, and the battlemonger he expected to see didn’t materialize. For one traumatized instant he expected to see his cousin’s murderous intent on his queen’s face, but he found no such thing. Instead, she looked worried, her eyes darting all over him as though there might have been a second attack that she’d missed.

“Jeong In, are you all right?” she asked, reaching for him with her free right hand. She touched his shoulder, his arm, and he nodded, coming back to himself, her touch grounding him.

“I’m fine,” he said, feeling oddly short of breath. “You saved my life.” He wasn’t sure why he sounded so surprised.

“Of course,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You saved mine first.”

He stared at her, stunned. It was an innocuous enough statement, especially in front of an audience that believed them to be a loving couple, but to him, the meaning felt double-edged. He couldn’t make himself answer.

His queen, interpreting his hesitation as shock due to the attempt on his life, turned her attention back to the audience chamber. “We will retire early today, in light of what's happened. We will reconvene in two days’ time. You have our sincerest apologies,” she said. Her authoritative voice had gotten a lot better in the last few weeks. She no longer needed Jeong In to speak for her.

She then turned and took Jeong In’s hand, and they retreated from the room together. She escorted him back to the king's wing in silence, her attention seemingly monopolized by getting him out of the open halls.

The second they were behind closed doors she put the bloodied dagger down and turned to look at him, concern creasing her features.

“You’re sure you’re all right? I didn’t detect any magic in the strike but if I missed something—”

“Why did you do that?” Jeong In interrupted. She looked confused.

“I don’t understand the question,” she said honestly. “Why wouldn’t I do that?”

“Why did you act on my behalf? Why didn’t you trust me to handle it myself?”

Jeong In knew what he was trying to ask, but the second the words left his mouth he knew he’d gone about it all wrong. His queen’s eyes narrowed at him, getting close to hateful in a way he hadn't witnessed since the day they’d first met.

“Is this about your pride?” she snapped. “Are you upset because you think I made you look weak in front of your people? Because that wasn’t my intention, Your Majesty, and if it really means that much to you, I can assure you, it will never happen again.”

Jeong In felt like he was going to be sick. It wasn’t often that he misspoke when it counted, but something about her made him think less with his brain and more with his heart, and his heart wasn’t nearly so experienced as his brain.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, instantly pleading. Her angry expression shifted slightly, letting confusion back in, but still, she looked so guarded, so closed to him, and it hurt. “I’m terrified,” he blurted. “I’m so incredibly scared that you’re going to think of me as burdensome. I’m so scared you’re going to resent me at best or get rid of me at worst.”

Her expression changed again, this time wholly to shock. “Jeong In, what are you talking about?”

“I’ve always been the weaker ruler,” he said quietly. “Everyone can see it. Even the assassin knew that. She knew to target me because I’m the weaker link. I can’t stop the encroachment. I can’t even defend myself from a run-of-the-mill assassination attempt. You can do better. You all can do so much better.”

She moved closer to him, taking both of his hands in hers. “Jeong In, I’ve never thought that even once,” she said. “Not before today, and not just now in the audience room. I wasn’t thinking anything when I did what I did. Something deep inside me just . . . acted. I had to protect you because you matter to me, and I don’t want to have to do this alone. You said there has to be two, remember? We need each other. I need you at my side, Jeong In.”

“Black Seoul’s encroachment has only gotten worse,” he murmured. “What if I’m the problem? What if I’m not strong enough? What if this would be easier for you with someone else?”

“I don’t want someone else,” she said sternly, her hands moving to touch his jaw, ensuring he kept looking at her. “You think I need a stronger king? Then become him. We’ll work together. You told me that for the last couple of generations, the queen has been more militant than the king. So let’s change it. We’ll train your magic. We’ll work on your combat skills. I don’t want anyone else at my side. So let’s make you the best possible Yang Jeong In instead.”

The words left him breathless. They were everything he wanted to hear, save for one very specific sentiment.

It was enough. He told himself it was enough.

He leaned down the slightest bit, resting his forehead to hers.

“Let’s,” he agreed.

They discovered very quickly that Jeong In’s blood ran in raw power and all it lacked was refinement. His bloodline had always put their focus on the wards first and practical application second. Whether the individual specialized in barriers and wards was inconsequential; it was what they needed to do, so it was the only thing they were officially taught. Nobody had ever bothered to show Jeong In how to hone his magic for combat because that was not the rulers’ first priority. They had guards for that.

They also discovered his magic had an affinity for ice, similar to the way his queen’s had an affinity for lightning. She taught him how to focus, how to never be without a weapon so long as there was blood in his veins. Finally, she taught him how to apply himself in combat.

Every spar was friendly, of course, never meant to hurt either of them. The only intention was to sharpen Jeong In, to make him act more on instinct and less on thought and prediction. His queen had been doing this, surviving outside and defending her blood, much longer than he, and she made it look easy. As a result, Jeong In lost often in the beginning. He found he didn’t mind so much, though, because every spar improved him, and loss did not mean failure.

That, and every spar brought them closer together in more ways than one.

The only area he consistently outclassed her in was physical strength, but she could usually work out a way to outmaneuver him, either by evading his range or otherwise using her magic to get out of his grip. As he grew more accustomed to her fighting style and the bounds of his own magic, he found himself increasingly able to use his ice to absorb or divert her shocks, giving him more room to maneuver in close quarters with her. Time passed, and the odds evened, making each spar a toss-up that anyone could win.

Today, she very nearly had the upper hand on him. He’d gotten her into close combat, which was usually his domain, but she'd been learning him, too, and answered his strength with flexibility and speed. She managed to put him off-balance, knocking him down, at which point she dove for him, wrestling one of his arms down and pinning it to the floor, counting on her weight to keep his legs down. That left him one arm, and that was all he needed.

He twisted his fist into the back of her shirt and yanked. In a real fight, he probably would have gone for the hair, but he had no desire to hurt her. The end result was her pressure letting up on his other arm, giving him both hands back. He grabbed her forearms and pushed her down and to the side, gaining back the advantage as he rolled on top of her, pinning both her wrists down with one of his hands, his free forearm applying pressure to her collarbones. If this had been a real fight, he could have captured her by manacling her hands with ice, or, in a direr situation, slit her throat with a frozen blade.

She panted beneath him, otherwise motionless, fully aware she was beaten. They had an agreement not to fight dirty with one another; they both understood what qualified as defeat and abided by it.

“Well done,” she said, and Jeong In wondered if he imagined the way she looked over his body, stretched out above hers. He couldn’t bring himself to let go of her wrists just yet.

“Thanks,” he said, also trying to get his breath. As instinct retreated and conscious thought returned, getting air to stay in his lungs was a lot harder. His hips were digging into hers; she was so warm, her face flushed from exertion.

“Do you want to let me up?” she asked softly, the barest teasing lilt to her voice.

He swallowed hard and released her wrists. He stood, offering a hand to help her up. She took it, thanking him. They looked at each other for a little too long as they caught their breath, neither of them saying anything. Jeong In couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Most of his cognizance was wholly devoted to not reaching down to adjust the way his half-hard cock was uncomfortably situated in his pants for fear of calling attention to it.

“Jeong In?” she said, a note of hesitation in her voice. It was incredibly unlike her.

“Yes?" he answered.

“We’re in this for life, right?” she asked. His heart skipped.

“Yes,” he said again.

“Which means we’re going to be together until one of us dies, right?” she asked next.

“That’s generally how it works,” he said, his voice low and quiet, terrified of derailing whatever this was.

“So it wouldn’t be strange if I asked you to fuck me, right? I mean, since we’re both here, and we’re going to be here for a long time, and it’s a little late to be bringing in new people,” she said, trying very hard to downplay what she was saying.

It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t need to mean anything. She hadn’t said anything about feelings for him, but they were friends at least and cared about each other, and for Jeong In, right then, it was enough.

It was a start, and it was enough.

“It seems like something normal queens ask normal kings to do,” Jeong In said a little bashfully. He was practically drowning in his hope that something, anything about their relationship could be normal.

“Then I’m asking,” she breathed, staring him in the face with undisguised avarice. “I’m begging. Jeong In, I need to be full so badly.”

As embarrassing as it was, her words alone made him moan, his cock twitching in his pants. Her attention darted downward, and the motion repeated, his length straining visibly.

“For how long?” she murmured.

“What?” he asked, his head empty of everything other than trying to decide the proper order of operations to undress her.

“How long have you wanted it?” she asked.

“Months,” he answered honestly.

“With me?” she asked, looking him in the eyes again.

“Of course with you,” he answered in a tone of voice that made it known any other answer would have been absolutely ridiculous. “You’re the only one I want. Whenever I think about it, it’s with you.”

“Me too,” she said.

It still wasn’t a confession. This could still be nothing more than two bodies and the energy they needed to expel looking for the nearest available outlet.

It would have to be enough. For right now, it was.

“Take me back to my room,” she said, the only one of them thinking rationally. Jeong In would have taken her right there on the floor if she’d given him permission. He nodded, pausing to adjust his erection to make it less obvious. Hopefully no one would scrutinize them during the walk back to the queen’s wing.

It wasn’t a long walk, but it felt like it took an hour. It was a fight to keep his gait normal, to not snatch up her hand and drag her to her bedroom. When they got to the queen’s wing, though, he did exactly that. His brain only started working again when they actually got to the bedroom.

“Wait a minute—”

“Don’t worry, that’s not the same bed,” she said. Jeong In blinked owlishly at her. “You were going to say it would be strange to fuck on your dead cousin’s old bed, and you would be correct. That’s not the same bed. I replaced everything that was in here. It felt haunted. Honestly, I hated you for a little while for making me stay in here at all.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. She smiled gently.

“It’s all right, that was months ago. And like I said, I got rid of everything. I didn’t want to be wasteful, so most of the furnishings were switched with ones from the guest wing.”

“You really thought of everything,” he said, gazing at her with such blatant affection that she had to see it. She smiled, the expression turning coy at the end.

“Now, do you want to clean up first, or just . . . ?”

“I can’t even think straight right now, and you’re actually considering putting another hurdle in my way?” he asked. She laughed, a bright, pure sound he wanted to hear every day for the rest of his life.

“And here I thought I was being considerate by not asking you to interact with my sweat,” she said, leaving his side to approach her bed. He scoffed.

“What’s the point when we’re just going to get sweaty again?” he asked. She grinned.

“Ah, I like where this is going,” she said, sitting on the edge of her bed. “I would have been disappointed if you were a lazy lover.”

He bit his lip. That last bit wasn’t necessarily an endearment, but it sure struck his heart as one.

“Of course I’m not,” he said. “I want you to feel good. I want to make you happy.”

Her eyes shone as she scooted up on the bed, making room for him. She opened her arms, and he went instantly to her, his mouth finding hers right away. He laid her back, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other balancing his weight on the bed so he wouldn’t crush her. Her hands, contrarily, were exploring his hard-won musculature through his clothes, honed throughout their training. He hadn’t exactly been a slouch before, but he was inarguably in the best shape of his life right now.

“You have no idea how badly I wanted this to happen,” she murmured against his lips. “Every time your body pinned mine down I hoped it would lead to this.”

“Of course I know how badly you wanted this,” Jeong In panted back. “I’ve wanted it just as much. I had to take care of myself so many times, wishing I could just do it with you instead.”

“Now you can,” she purred, moving her mouth to his neck, trailing the sensitive skin with her lips. Jeong In shuddered. “And if you’re good, we can do it again, and again, and again . . .”

“Fuck,” he hissed, his cock straining anew against his pants. “I want that so badly. I want you so badly. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go without you again after this.”

She pulled her face away from his neck to look up at him, her expression so tender, like his words had truly moved her. Jeong In leaned down to kiss her again, his mouth eager and earnest on hers. She moaned sweetly, teasing him with her tongue, which he gratefully accepted. Their kisses turned sloppy, their lips damp when he finally pulled away to let her breathe.

“I want to see you,” he said, trailing the line of her shirt with his hand, a flowing style halfway between a shirt and a dress. It was a wonder that she could fight as well as she did in it, and as good as she looked, he was desperate to get it off of her.

She dropped her arms from his body, her posture fully open to him. “Go right ahead,” she said, her voice both teasing and eager. “Take off anything you’d like.”

He started on her buttons immediately, opting to work from the bottom up. She wore a thin undershirt underneath, and she sat up, letting the outer shirt slide off her shoulders, and lifting her arms for Jeong In to relieve her of the undershirt. He obliged, leaving only her bandeau.

He switched his attention to her pants, unbuttoning them and dragging them down her legs, leaving her in her undergarments. He took a moment to simply sit back on his heels and look, sighing deeply as he drank her in.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said before he could stop himself. She smiled softly, moving close to him and kissing him again. It started out more chastely than the others but quickly devolved as she pushed him down, straddling his hips and grinding herself onto his still incredibly covered cock. His hands gripped her bare sides, pulling her closer, groaning into her mouth as the friction became unbearable.

“If you don’t want me to come in my pants and ruin this entire thing, you might want to undress me, too,” he said. She sucked lightly on his lower lip as she pulled away, and he made a soft sound of pure need.

From the moment she’d first laid eyes on Jeong In, she’d thought he was handsome. The effect had only amplified as she got to know him, and now, after weeks upon weeks of watching him hone his body, her attraction to him had finally grown out of control.

She had not thought he would respond in kind.

As she undid his shirt, baring his chest and abdomen, she made a pathetic sound halfway between a moan and a whine. Jeong In watched her with rapt attention; the thought of making light of her desperation didn’t even seem to cross his mind. She urged him to sit up with her still in his lap so she could push the shirt all the way off. Her hands moved instantly to his strong arms. Trailing his skin with her fingers, she was unable to close her hands entirely around his upper arms even while they were relaxed.

“It’s almost shameful,” she mused, a crooked smile on her face, “how much I’ve enjoyed losing to you while grappling.” He flushed.

Her touch ascended, testing his sturdy shoulders next, and Jeong In, seemingly unable to passively be admired, moved forward to put his lips to her neck. She shivered.

“I loved knowing that when we fought, you were holding back from your full strength so as not to hurt me,” she sighed.

“I would never hurt you,” he said, his voice soft and sweet against her skin.

“I know,” she said, “and I love that most of all.”

She pushed him back down on the bed, horribly impatient, and he put up no resistance. She dragged her hands down the front of his body, memorizing every ridge of his torso, until she got to his waistband, at which point she promptly undid his pants. She moved out of the way just enough for him to remove them and was stunned as he pulled his pants and underwear down in one motion, his leaking cock springing free, making him sigh in relief.

She whined, her core giving an insistent throb at the sight.

“Fuck,” she said shakily. She moved closer to run her fingertips along the smooth skin, and his length instantly twitched to her touch. Despite the lust darkening his eyes, his face was still entirely docile, like he was in awe of her, eager to savor every moment. That gentility was in his fingers, too, when he slipped a hand inside her underwear.

“You’re soaked,” he observed.

“Why do you sound surprised?” she teased. He smiled, breathing a soft laugh.

“I guess I just wanted you so badly, and I couldn’t fathom that you were being driven just as insane as I was,” he said. He slid two fingers inside her easily, her cunt already so warm and wet and greedy that he met no resistance.

“Can you fathom it now?” she asked in a low voice, wrapping her hand around his shaft and pumping slowly. His eyes rolled up in his head for a moment while he groaned, a throb going through his cock.

“Yes,” he answered as he pinned her with his gaze again. “Take me. Please.”

She couldn’t refuse him. She slid her sticky panties off and tugged her bandeau over her head, straddling his hips properly this time. He left it entirely to her, his hands motionless on her hips, watching with single-minded attention as she fit his cockhead to her entrance and gradually sat down onto him. Jeong In’s groans accompanied the whole process. She closed her eyes once he was all the way inside, savoring the feeling of being so deeply full. When his cock throbbed once more, she felt it acutely inside her and squirmed. He groaned again, and she opened her eyes to look at him, only to find him already staring at her.

She bit her lip, planting her hands on the bed on either side of his head, starting the delicious process of working her cunt over his cock. Her opening rhythm was slow, pulling all the way up to his tip before pushing slowly back down, stimulating all of him with every stroke. Even though it was only the beginning, Jeong In looked positively love-drunk beneath her. He didn’t interfere with her pace at all; from the look of him, he only kept his hands on her hips to ground himself to her body in every way he could.

“You feel so good, Jeong In,” she praised, and was surprised to see him redden.

“I’m glad,” he said, a bashful undertone to his voice that made her smile. She put her elbows down on the bed, finding his mouth with hers, speeding her pace a bit while they messily kissed, a desperate exchange of tongues as much as lips. Jeong In did start affecting her rhythm then, his hands gripping her hips more tightly, pushing her down harder and faster with every stroke.

“Somebody’s excited,” she teased, pushing back up onto her hands to give herself a better angle. All he could manage was a moan in response as she picked up the pace he’d started to set, keeping every glide along his cock quick and sound.

“You already knew I was excited,” he said breathlessly, one hand reaching for her chest now. She was delighted to find his hand was big enough to squeeze both breasts at the same time, drawing a sigh from her lips.

“I did,” she crooned, “but it’s a wide gamut, you see. You seem downright desperate for it.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, looking all the way down now, watching his cock disappear inside her over and over. “Is that really my fault? It’s not often that you get to experience something you’ve only dreamed about, only to have reality be better than the dream.”

“It feels that good?” she asked. He nodded eagerly, his eyes finding hers again.

“So good,” he answered, the subtle edge of a whine in his voice.

“So good that you’ll come for me tonight?” she nudged.

“Want to,” he gasped out. “Want to so bad.”

“Me too,” she agreed, her thorough glides along his cock gradually turning into short bucks, doing everything she could to shove him inside her as hard and deep as possible. “I want to come all over that cock. I want to make such a mess of you.”

The sound he made then was pure desperation, a moan and a whine in one, both hands on her hips again, his own hips twitching up into her, seeing her goal and aiding it any way he could.

“I want that too,” he gasped. “Please come on me. Please use me to make yourself come.”

“I will,” she huffed, her body wound so tight she could barely think straight. “I will, my sweet boy. I’ll give us both what we want. I’m so close.”

It didn’t take long after that; even when she faltered, Jeong In’s frantic bucking from under her wouldn’t let up. It didn’t take any more than another fifteen seconds for her to fall apart, gasping and moaning as she came over his cock, the feeling euphoric while being so completely full.

“Jeong In,” she whimpered, feeling it absolutely necessary that she say his name, that he know this orgasm was for him, “Jeong In, fuck.”

“Yes, love,” he moaned, and the endearment made her heart skip. “That’s it. You feel so good.”

She nodded deliriously. “I want more. I need more, Jeong In.”

“How do you want it?” he asked, meeting her eyes, their bodies still for the moment, his hard cock still fully embedded in her.

“Switch with me,” she said, and he nodded immediately. She pulled off his cock, whimpering as his length drew against her hypersensitive walls, then lay down, letting him climb over her. He still looked a little bewildered from feeling her climax on him.

“This isn’t your first time, is it?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“It isn’t,” he confirmed. She grinned, her innocent question giving way to the insurmountable urge to tease.

“Good,” she said. “Then I won’t have to worry about you being unable to give me what I want.”

He paused from where he had just lined his cockhead up with her entrance. “And what’s that, exactly?” he asked, his voice low, giving the impression of fraying self-control.

“I want it as hard and as deep as you can give me,” she said. “I want you to leave nothing back. I want all of you.”

For the second time that day, her words alone were enough to make him moan. This time, however, he also had a method of recourse, and that was to enter her all at once with a single sound thrust. She whined.

“That’s a good start,” she hummed. It was he who put his elbows down on the bed now, his mouth seeking hers greedily while he thrust in and out of her, each one deep and hard, but not fast. She had no doubt he would get there, but right now, she understood his desire to savor, to commit this to memory forever. Her hands traveled all over him, exploring his back, his chest and abdomen, his thighs. She squeezed his ass, and when he broke the kiss, he was blushing again.

“Jeong In,” she called softly, and he made himself look at her again. “Do you know that you’re gorgeous?”

It didn’t do anything to make his blush go away. “I know that you think so,” he answered. She smiled gently and drew him down to kiss her again.

For right now, that was enough.

When he broke the kiss to concentrate on fucking her, though, she couldn’t make herself be quiet.

“I think you’re beautiful, Jeong In. From the moment I first saw you, I thought you had been carved from stone, because a person so perfect surely couldn’t be real.”

“Stop it,” he whined, though the quickening of his hips said he enjoyed the praise.

“It’s like every single thing about you was crafted to make me crave you,” she went on, teasing his back with her nails. He made another sound that he tried desperately to trap behind his teeth. “Your voice is lovely. Your soul is so very gentle. And your cock fits my cunt perfectly.”

He couldn’t trap the sound he made then, a strangled groan as he straightened up, grabbing her hips with his strong hands and pulling her down to meet every thrust of his hips. His every stroke was rough with desperation, and, from the tightness in his muscles, she knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

“I only hope you feel it, too,” she added.

“I do,” he gasped. “Fuck, you’re perfect for me.”

“Perfect enough to wring your cock dry?”

His eyes went wide, no longer deliriously chasing his high, his gaze locked with hers as she felt the first pump of his cum inside her.

“Shit, I—”

“Come here,” she all but demanded, and he laid his body out over hers, little bucks of his hips accompanying each pump of him as he emptied inside her, moaning through his high. She wrapped her arms around his torso, trailed kisses over his shoulder, and he shuddered, his panted breaths hot on her neck.

When he finished, he pushed up onto his elbows, searching her face. He looked like he was experiencing a dozen emotions simultaneously.

“I didn’t mean to come inside you,” he blurted out. “We didn’t talk about it beforehand and I have no idea if that was what you wanted. I’m so sorry.”

“Did it feel good?” she asked him. He hesitated, then nodded, looking embarrassed. She trailed her fingertips along his cheek.

“Then it’s all right,” she said. He was still for a moment, then nodded again. He buried his face back in her neck and stayed there for at least a whole minute.

He truly hadn’t meant to fill her up like that, yet he was so relieved he didn’t have to take it back. Truthfully, his orgasm had hit him so suddenly that he hadn’t even had enough time to pull out and come on her stomach like he’d originally intended.

It was her fault, really, though he would never say those words out loud. Receiving only endearments or only dirty talk from her would have been enough to rattle his brains, but having to deal with both commingled like that? He’d never stood a chance. How could she offer him nearly every reassurance he’d ever craved, and then punctuate the sentiments with absolute filth?

He wanted her to do it again. He wanted to do it all again.

When he’d finally regained a reasonable amount of composure, he pushed himself off of her, removing his softening cock from her messy cunt. Gods, she looked so gorgeous, sticky with their aftermath.

He must have stared for too long, because she asked, “See something you like?”

He tore his eyes away from her heat to look her in the face, giving her a couple of tiny nods. “We look good together,” he said. She smiled, and he couldn’t help mirroring the expression.

“Can we clean up together . . . ?” she asked softly, as though there was any world in which he would deny her that request, any world in which he would just leave her here alone after all that.

“Of course,” he said. “We may as well take a bath together, since, as you pointed out earlier, we’re still sweaty from sparring.”

Her smile turned to a full grin. “You kept your promise, too. We did get sweatier.”

He laughed, helping her up from the bed. They went to the adjacent bathing room so he could draw them a bath. He’d always felt that the tubs in the royal suites were excessively sized, far too big for one person, but now he was glad of it.

They soaked for a while, keeping close to one another, never more than a hand’s distance away, and most often less than that. They kept bumping shoulders and legs, and Jeong In wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

After they’d washed and dressed, Jeong In told one of the attendants to bring their dinner to the queen’s rooms, and another to go to the king’s wing and bring back several sets of his clothes. He wasn’t ready to return to the world as it had been, nor did she seem in any hurry to see him go.

He dressed in fresh clothes once they’d arrived, and they ate together in yet another of the adjoining rooms. She asked if he would stay the night with her, and he agreed instantly.

As they wound down their evening and got ready for bed, Jeong In couldn’t keep her eyes off her. It was a struggle to keep his hands off her, which was monumental for him. He’d never before felt such a strong urge to be in constant casual contact with someone. When she asked if she had to wear clothes to bed, he laughed.

“It’s your bed. Wear whatever you want, or don’t wear whatever you want. I don’t mind.”

In the end, she climbed into bed almost completely naked, and Jeong In abandoned his shirt in kind. They lay facing one another, her head pillowed on his arm, when her expression turned thoughtful.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Who was king before you? Your father?”

Jeong In shook his head. “No, my father has been gone for a while. It was my older brother.”

“What happened to him . . . ?”

“I’m sure by now you’ve felt just how oppressive Black Seoul is as we’ve worked to maintain the wards,” he began. She nodded. “That’s because Black Seoul isn’t just some mindless force trying to eat away at our world. It has a will of its own, and it hates being thwarted. For that, anytime it finds an opening, it seeks to punish us.”

“What do you mean?”

“My older brother started to lose his mind. The longer he worked on the wards, the more his sanity was eaten away. Eventually, he was no longer able to maintain the wards, so I took over. I’ve been lucky. So far the only things Black Seoul has done to me are suck the color out of my hair and give me nightmares.”

She looked a little surprised and unsettled to hear that. He wondered, with equal stabs of worry and grief, what form Black Seoul’s vengeance would have on her.

“That probably has more to do with the magic in your blood, I’d wager,” she said thoughtfully. “There have been ice savants who applied their talents as barrier masters. In the absence of formal training, your affinity probably manifested in the wards.”

He frowned a little. Had his family been going about all this incorrectly for generations? Had they been stunting their own efficacy the entire time, measuring purely for power rather than affinity?

She gently touched his face, as though she could smooth his expression. It worked.

“Where is your brother now?”

“I sent him away,” Jeong In said. “I thought the further he was from the veil and the wards, the more his mental state would improve. I sent my younger brother with him, partially to protect him, and partially to motivate myself. I didn’t want to let myself think for a second that I could fall back on him. I don’t want him to suffer.”

“You’re a good man, Jeong In,” she murmured, moving closer and wrapping an arm around him.

“You say that a lot,” he muttered, as though he could brush it away.

“I mean it,” she said. “White Seoul couldn’t ask for a better king, and neither could I.”

Jeong In held her tightly to him until he fell asleep. No terrors came for him that night.

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Introduction. The hypothesis of a God

III.

It remains for me to tell why, in a work on political economy, I have felt it necessary to start with the fundamental hypothesis of all philosophy.

And first, I need the hypothesis of God to establish the authority of social science. — When the astronomer, to explain the system of the world, judging solely from appearance, supposes, with the vulgar, the sky arched, the earth flat, the sun much like a football, describing a curve in the air from east to west, he supposes the infallibility of the senses, reserving the right to rectify subsequently, after further observation, the data with which he is obliged to start. Astronomic philosophy, in fact, could not admit a priori that the senses deceive us, and that we do not see what we do see: admitting such a principle, what would become of the certainty of astronomy? But the evidence of the senses being able, in certain cases, to rectify and complete itself, the authority of the senses remains unshaken, and astronomy is possible.

So social philosophy does not admit a priori that humanity can err or be deceived in its actions: if it should, what would become of the authority of the human race, that is, the authority of reason, synonymous at bottom with the sovereignty of the people? But it thinks that human judgments, always true at the time they are pronounced, can successively complete and throw light on each other, in proportion to the acquisition of ideas, in such a way as to maintain continual harmony between universal reason and individual speculation, and indefinitely extend the sphere of certainty: which is always an affirmation of the authority of human judgments.

Now, the first judgment of the reason, the preamble of every political constitution seeking a sanction and a principle, is necessarily this: There is a God; which means that society is governed with design, premeditation, intelligence. This judgment, which excludes chance, is, then, the foundation of the possibility of a social science; and every historical and positive study of social facts, undertaken with a view to amelioration and progress, must suppose, with the people, the existence of God, reserving the right to account for this judgment at a later period.

Thus the history of society is to us but a long determination of the idea of God, a progressive revelation of the destiny of man. And while ancient wisdom made all depend on the arbitrary and fanciful notion of Divinity, oppressing reason and conscience, and arresting progress through fear of an invisible master, the new philosophy, reversing the method, trampling on the authority of God as well as that of man, and accepting no other yoke than that of fact and evidence, makes all converge toward the theological hypothesis, as toward the last of its problems.

Humanitarian atheism is, therefore, the last step in the moral and intellectual enfranchisement of man, consequently the last phase of philosophy, serving as a pathway to the scientific reconstruction and verification of all the demolished dogmas.

I need the hypothesis of God, not only, as I have just said, to give a meaning to history, but also to legitimate the reforms to be effected, in the name of science, in the State.

Whether we consider Divinity as outside of society, whose movements it governs from on high (a wholly gratuitous and probably illusory opinion); or whether we deem it immanent in society and identical with that impersonal and unconscious reason which, acting instinctively, makes civilization advance (although impersonality and ignorance of self are contrary to the idea of intelligence); or whether, finally, all that is accomplished in society results from the relation of its elements (a system whose whole merit consists in changing an active into a passive, in making intelligence necessity, or, which amounts to the same thing, in taking law for cause), — it always follows that the manifestations of social activity, necessarily appearing to us either as indications of the will of the Supreme Being, or as a sort of language typical of general and impersonal reason, or, finally, as landmarks of necessity, are absolute authority for us. Being connected in time as well as in spirit, the facts accomplished determine and legitimate the facts to be accomplished; science and destiny are in accord; everything which happens resulting from reason, and, reciprocally, reason judging only from experience of that which happens, science has a right to participate in government, and that which establishes its competency as a counsellor justifies its intervention as a sovereign.

Science, expressed, recognized, and accepted by the voice of all as divine, is queen of the world. Thus, thanks to the hypothesis of God, all conservative or retrogressive opposition, every dilatory plea offered by theology, tradition, or selfishness, finds itself peremptorily and irrevocably set aside.

I need the hypothesis of God to show the tie which unites civilization with Nature.

In fact, this astonishing hypothesis, by which man is assimilated to the absolute, implying identity of the laws of Nature and the laws of reason, enables us to see in human industry the complement of creative action, unites man with the globe which he inhabits, and, in the cultivation of the domain in which Providence has placed us, which thus becomes in part our work, gives us a conception of the principle and end of all things. If, then, humanity is not God, it is a continuation of God; or, if a different phraseology be preferred, that which humanity does today by design is the same thing that it began by instinct, and which Nature seems to accomplish by necessity. In all these cases, and whichever opinion we may choose, one thing remains certain: the unity of action and law. Intelligent beings, actors in an intelligently-devised fable, we may fearlessly reason from ourselves to the universe and the eternal; and, when we shall have completed the organization of labor, may say with pride, The creation is explained.

Thus philosophy’s field of exploration is fixed; tradition is the starting-point of all speculation as to the future; utopia is forever exploded; the study of the me, transferred from the individual conscience to the manifestations of the social will, acquires the character of objectivity of which it has been hitherto deprived; and, history becoming psychology, theology anthropology, the natural sciences metaphysics, the theory of the reason is deduced no longer from the vacuum of the intellect, but from the innumerable forms of a Nature abundantly and directly observable.

I need the hypothesis of God to prove my good-will towards a multitude of sects, whose opinions I do not share, but whose malice I fear: — theists; I know one who, in the cause of God, would be ready to draw sword, and, like Robespierre, use the guillotine until the last atheist should be destroyed, not dreaming that that atheist would be himself; — mystics, whose party, largely made up of students and women marching under the banner of MM. Lamennais, Quinet, Leroux, and others, has taken for a motto, “Like master, like man;” like God, like people; and, to regulate the wages of the workingman, begins by restoring religion; — spiritualists, who, should I overlook the rights of spirit, would accuse me of establishing the worship of matter, against which I protest with all the strength of my soul; — sensualists and materialists, to whom the divine dogma is the symbol of constraint and the principle of enslavement of the passions, outside of which, they say, there is for man neither pleasure, nor virtue, nor genius; — eclectics and sceptics, sellers and publishers of all the old philosophies, but not philosophers themselves, united in one vast brotherhood, with approbation and privilege, against whoever thinks, believes, or affirms without their permission; -conservatives finally, retrogressives, egotists, and hypocrites, preaching the love of God by hatred of their neighbor, attributing to liberty the world’s misfortunes since the deluge, and scandalizing reason by their foolishness.

Is it possible, however, that they will attack an hypothesis which, far from blaspheming the revered phantoms of faith, aspires only to exhibit them in broad daylight; which, instead of rejecting traditional dogmas and the prejudices of conscience, asks only to verify them; which, while defending itself against exclusive opinions, takes for an axiom the infallibility of reason, and, thanks to this fruitful principle, will doubtless never decide against any of the antagonistic sects? Is it possible that the religious and political conservatives will charge me with disturbing the order of society, when I start with the hypothesis of a sovereign intelligence, the source of every thought of order; that the semi-Christian democrats will curse me as an enemy of God, and consequently a traitor to the republic, when I am seeking for the meaning and content of the idea of God; and that the tradesmen of the university will impute to me the impiety of demonstrating the non-value of their philosophical products, when I am especially maintaining that philosophy should be studied in its object, — that is, in the manifestations of society and Nature?....

I need the hypothesis of God to justify my style.

In my ignorance of everything regarding God, the world, the soul, and destiny; forced to proceed like the materialist, — that is, by observation and experience, — and to conclude in the language of the believer, because there is no other; not knowing whether my formulas, theological in spite of me, would be taken literally or figuratively; in this perpetual contemplation of God, man, and things, obliged to submit to the synonymy of all the terms included in the three categories of thought, speech, and action, but wishing to affirm nothing on either one side or the other, — rigorous logic demanded that I should suppose, no more, no less, this unknown that is called God. We are full of Divinity, Jovis omnia plena; our monuments, our traditions, our laws, our ideas, our languages, and our sciences, all are infected by this indelible superstition outside of which we can neither speak nor act, and without which we do not even think.

Finally, I need the hypothesis of God to explain the publication of these new memoirs.

Our society feels itself big with events, and is anxious about the future: how account for these vague presentiments by the sole aid of a universal reason, immanent if you will, and permanent, but impersonal, and therefore dumb, or by the idea of necessity, if it implies that necessity is self-conscious, and consequently has presentiments? There remains then, once more, an agent or nightmare which weighs upon society, and gives it visions.

Now, when society prophesies, it puts questions in the mouths of some, and answers in the mouths of others. And wise, then, he who can listen and understand; for God himself has spoken, quia locutus est Deus.

The Academy of Moral and Political Sciences has proposed the following question: —

“To determine the general facts which govern the relations of profits to wages, and to explain their respective oscillations.”

A few years ago the same Academy asked, “What are the causes of misery?” The nineteenth century has, in fact, but one idea, — equality and reform. But the wind bloweth where it listeth: many began to reflect upon the question, no one answered it. The college of aruspices has, therefore, renewed its question, but in more significant terms. It wishes to know whether order prevails in the workshop; whether wages are equitable; whether liberty and privilege compensate each other justly; whether the idea of value, which controls all the facts of exchange, is, in the forms in which the economists have represented it, sufficiently exact; whether credit protects labor; whether circulation is regular; whether the burdens of society weigh equally on all, etc.

And, indeed, insufficiency of income being the immediate cause of misery, it is fitting that we should know why, misfortune and malevolence aside, the workingman’s income is insufficient. It is still the same question of inequality of fortunes, which has made such a stir for a century past, and which, by a strange fatality, continually reappears in academic programmes, as if there lay the real difficulty of modern times.

Equality, then, — its principle, its means, its obstacles, its theory, the motives of its postponement, the cause of social and providential iniquities, — these the world has got to learn, in spite of the sneers of incredulity.

I know well that the views of the Academy are not thus profound, and that it equals a council of the Church in its horror of novelties; but the more it turns towards the past, the more it reflects the future, and the more, consequently, must we believe in its inspiration: for the true prophets are those who do not understand their utterances. Listen further.

“What,” the Academy has asked, “are the most useful applications of the principle of voluntary and private association that we can make for the alleviation of misery?”

And again: —

“To expound the theory and principles of the contract of insurance, to give its history, and to deduce from its rationale and the facts the developments of which this contract is capable, and the various useful applications possible in the present state of commercial and industrial progress.”

Publicists admit that insurance, a rudimentary form of commercial solidarity, is an association in things, societas in re; that is, a society whose conditions, founded on purely economical relations, escape man’s arbitrary dictation. So that a philosophy of insurance or mutual guarantee of security, which shall be deduced from the general theory of real (in re ) societies, will contain the formula of universal association, in which no member of the Academy believes. And when, uniting subject and object in the same point of view, the Academy demands, by the side of a theory of association of interests, a theory of voluntary association, it reveals to us the most perfect form of society, and thereby affirms all that is most at variance with its convictions. Liberty, equality, solidarity, association! By what inconceivable blunder has so eminently conservative a body offered to the citizens this new programme of the rights of man? It was in this way that Caiaphas prophesied redemption by disowning Jesus Christ.

Upon the first of these questions, forty-five memoirs were addressed to the Academy within two years, — a proof that the subject was marvellously well suited to the state of the public mind. But among so many competitors no one having been deemed worthy of the prize, the Academy has withdrawn the question; alleging as a reason the incapacity of the competitors, but in reality because, the failure of the contest being the sole object that the Academy had in view, it behooved it to declare, without further delay, that the hopes of the friends of association were groundless.

Thus, then, the gentlemen of the Academy disavow, in their session-chamber, their announcements from the tripod! There is nothing in such a contradiction astonishing to me; and may God preserve me from calling it a crime! The ancients believed that revolutions announced their advent by dreadful signs, and that among other prodigies animals spoke. This was a figure, descriptive of those unexpected ideas and strange words which circulate suddenly among the masses at critical moments, and which seem to be entirely without human antecedent, so far removed are they from the sphere of ordinary judgment. At the time in which we live, such a thing could not fail to occur. After having, by a prophetic instinct and a mechanical spontaneity, pecudesque locutae, proclaimed association, the gentlemen of the Academy of Moral and Political Sciences have returned to their ordinary prudence; and with them custom has conquered inspiration. Let us learn, then, how to distinguish heavenly counsel from the interested judgments of men, and hold it for certain that, in the discourse of sages, that is the most trustworthy to which they have given the least reflection.

Nevertheless the Academy, in breaking so rudely with its intuitions, seems to have felt some remorse. In place of a theory of association in which, after reflection, it no longer believes, it asks for a “Critical examination of Pestalozzi’s system of instruction and education, considered mainly in its relation to the well-being and morality of the poor classes.” Who knows? perchance the relation between profits and wages, association, the organization of labor indeed, are to be found at the bottom of a system of instruction. Is not man’s life a perpetual apprenticeship? Are not philosophy and religion humanity’s education? To organize instruction, then, would be to organize industry and fix the theory of society: the Academy, in its lucid moments, always returns to that.

“What influence,” the Academy again asks, “do progress and a desire for material comfort have upon a nation’s morality?”

Taken in its most obvious sense, this new question of the Academy is commonplace, and fit at best to exercise a rhetorisian’s skill. But the Academy, which must continue till the end in its ignorance of the revolutionary significance of its oracles, has drawn aside the curtain in its commentary. What, then, so profound has it discovered in this Epicurean thesis?

“The desire for luxury and its enjoyments,” it tells us; “the singular love of it felt by the majority; the tendency of hearts and minds to occupy themselves with it exclusively; the agreement of individuals AND THE STATE in making it the motive and the end of all their projects, all their efforts, and all their sacrifices, — engender general or individual feelings which, beneficent or injurious, become principles of action more potent, perhaps, than any which have heretofore governed men.”

Never had moralists a more favorable opportunity to assail the sensualism of the century, the venality of consciences, and the corruption instituted by the government: instead of that, what does the Academy of Moral Sciences do? With the most automatic calmness, it establishes a series in which luxury, so long proscribed by the stoics and ascetics, — those masters of holiness, — must appear in its turn as a principle of conduct as legitimate, as pure, and as grand as all those formerly invoked by religion and philosophy. Determine, it tells us, the motives of action (undoubtedly now old and worn-out) of which LUXURY is historically the providential successor, and, from the results of the former, calculate the effects of the latter. Prove, in short, that Aristippus was only in advance of his century, and that his system of morality must have its day, as well as that of Zeno and A Kempis.

We are dealing, then, with a society which no longer wishes to be poor; which mocks at everything that was once dear and sacred to it, — liberty, religion, and glory, — so long as it has not wealth; which, to obtain it, submits to all outrages, and becomes an accomplice in all sorts of cowardly actions: and this burning thirst for pleasure, this irresistible desire to arrive at luxury, — a symptom of a new period in civilization, — is the supreme commandment by virtue of which we are to labor for the abolition of poverty: thus saith the Academy. What becomes, then, of the doctrine of expiation and abstinence, the morality of sacrifice, resignation, and happy moderation? What distrust of the compensation promised in the other life, and what a contradiction of the Gospel! But, above all, what a justification of a government which has adopted as its system the golden key! Why have religious men, Christians, Senecas, given utterance in concert to so many immoral maxims?

The Academy, completing its thought, will reply to us: —

“Show how the progress of criminal justice, in the prosecution and punishment of attacks upon persons and property, follows and marks the ages of civilization from the savage condition up to that of the best-governed nations.”

Is it possible that the criminal lawyers in the Academy of Moral Sciences foresaw the conclusion of their premises? The fact whose history is now to be studied, and which the Academy describes by the words “progress of criminal justice,” is simply the gradual mitigation which manifests itself, both in the forms of criminal examinations and in the penalties inflicted, in proportion as civilization increases in liberty, light, and wealth. So that, the principle of repressive institutions being the direct opposite of all those on which the welfare of society depends, there is a constant elimination of all parts of the penal system as well as all judicial paraphernalia, and the final inference from this movement is that the guarantee of order lies neither in fear nor punishment; consequently, neither in hell nor religion.

What a subversion of received ideas! What a denial of all that it is the business of the Academy of Moral Sciences to defend! But, if the guarantee of order no longer lies in the fear of a punishment to be suffered, either in this life or in another, where then are to be found the guarantees protective of persons and property? Or rather, without repressive institutions, what becomes of property? And without property, what becomes of the family?

The Academy, which knows nothing of all these things, replies without agitation: —

“Review the various phases of the organization of the family upon the soil of France from ancient times down to our day.”

Which means: Determine, by the previous progress of family organization, the conditions of the existence of the family in a state of equality of fortunes, voluntary and free association, universal solidarity, material comfort and luxury, and public order without prisons, courts, police, or hangmen.

There will be astonishment, perhaps, at finding that the Academy of Moral and Political Sciences, after having, like the boldest innovators, called in question all the principles of social order, — religion, family, property, justice, — has not also proposed this problem: What is the best form of government? In fact, government is for society the source of all initiative, every guarantee, every reform. It would be, then, interesting to know whether the government, as constituted by the Charter, is adequate to the practical solution of the Academy’s questions.

But it would be a misconception of the oracles to imagine that they proceed by induction and analysis; and precisely because the political problem was a condition or corollary of the demonstrations asked for, the Academy could not offer it for competition. Such a conclusion would have opened its eyes, and, without waiting for the memoirs of the competitors, it would have hastened to suppress its entire programme. The Academy has approached the question from above. It has said: —

The works of God are beautiful in their own essence, justificata in semet ipsa; they are true, in a word, because they are his. The thoughts of man resemble dense vapors pierced by long and narrow flashes. What, then, is the truth in relation to us, and what is the character of certainty?

As if the Academy had said to us: You shall verify the hypothesis of your existence, the hypothesis of the Academy which interrogates you, the hypotheses of time, space, motion, thought, and the laws of thought. Then you may verify the hypothesis of pauperism, the hypothesis of inequality of conditions, the hypothesis of universal association, the hypothesis of happiness, the hypotheses of monarchy and republicanism, the hypothesis of Providence!....

A complete criticism of God and humanity.

I point to the programme of the honorable society: it is not I who have fixed the conditions of my task, it is the Academy of Moral and Political Sciences. Now, how can I satisfy these conditions, if I am not myself endowed with infallibility; in a word, if I am not God or divine? The Academy admits, then, that divinity and humanity are identical, or at least correlative; but the question now is in what consists this correlation: such is the meaning of the problem of certainty, such is the object of social philosophy.

Thus, then, in the name of the society that God inspires, an Academy questions.

In the name of the same society, I am one of the prophets who attempt to answer. The task is an immense one, and I do not promise to accomplish it: I will go as far as God shall give me strength. But, whatever I may say, it does not come from me: the thought which inspires my pen is not personal, and nothing that I write can be attributed to me. I shall give the facts as I have seen them; I shall judge them by what I shall have said; I shall call everything by its strongest name, and no one will take offence. I shall inquire freely, and by the rules of divination which I have learned, into the meaning of the divine purpose which is now expressing itself through the eloquent lips of sages and the inarticulate wailings of the people: and, though I should deny all the prerogatives guaranteed by our Constitution, I shall not be factious. I shall point my finger whither an invisible influence is pushing us; and neither my action nor my words shall be irritating. I shall stir up the cloud, and, though I should cause it to launch the thunderbolt, I should be innocent. In this solemn investigation to which the Academy invites me, I have more than the right to tell the truth, — I have the right to say what I think: may my thought, my words, and the truth be but one and the same thing!

And you, reader, — for without a reader there is no writer, — you are half of my work. Without you, I am only sounding brass; with the aid of your attention, I will speak marvels. Do you see this passing whirlwind called SOCIETY, from which burst forth, with startling brilliancy, lightnings, thunders, and voices? I wish to cause you to place your finger on the hidden springs which move it; but to that end you must reduce yourself at my command to a state of pure intelligence. The eyes of love and pleasure are powerless to recognize beauty in a skeleton, harmony in naked viscera, life in dark and coagulated blood: consequently the secrets of the social organism are a sealed letter to the man whose brain is beclouded by passion and prejudice. Such sublimities are unattainable except by cold and silent contemplation. Suffer me, then, before revealing to your eyes the leaves of the book of life, to prepare your soul by this sceptical purification which the great teachers of the people — Socrates, Jesus Christ, St. Paul, St. Remi, Bacon, Descartes, Galileo, Kant, etc. — have always claimed of their disciples.

Whoever you may be, clad in the rags of misery or decked in the sumptuous vestments of luxury, I restore you to that state of luminous nudity which neither the fumes of wealth nor the poisons of envious poverty dim. How persuade the rich that the difference of conditions arises from an error in the accounts; and how can the poor, in their beggary, conceive that the proprietor possesses in good faith? To investigate the sufferings of the laborer is to the idler the most intolerable of amusements; just as to do justice to the fortunate is to the miserable the bitterest of draughts.

You occupy a high position: I strip you of it; there you are, free. There is too much optimism beneath this official costume, too much subordination, too much idleness. Science demands an insurrection of thought: now, the thought of an official is his salary.

Your mistress, beautiful, passionate, artistic, is, I like to believe, possessed only by you. That is, your soul, your spirit, your conscience, have passed into the most charming object of luxury that nature and art have produced for the eternal torment of fascinated mortals. I separate you from this divine half of yourself: at the present day it is too much to wish for justice and at the same time to love a woman. To think with grandeur and clearness, man must remove the lining of his nature and hold to his masculine hypostasis. Besides, in the state in which I have put you, your lover would no longer know you: remember the wife of Job.

What is your religion?.... Forget your faith, and, through wisdom, become an atheist. — What! you say; an atheist in spite of our hypothesis! — No, but because of our hypothesis. One’s thought must have been raised above divine things for a long time to be entitled to suppose a personality beyond man, a life beyond this life. For the rest, have no fears for your salvation. God is not angry with those who are led by reason to deny him, any more than he is anxious for those who are led by faith to worship him; and, in the state of your conscience, the surest course for you is to think nothing about him. Do you not see that it is with religion as with governments, the most perfect of which would be the denial of all? Then let no political or religious fancy hold your soul captive; in this way only can you now keep from being either a dupe or a renegade. Ah! said I in the days of my enthusiastic youth, shall I not hear the tolling for the second vespers of the republic, and our priests, dressed in white tunics, singing after the Doric fashion the returning hymn: Change, ô Dieu, notre servitude, comme le vent du desert en un souffle rafraîchissan!..... But I have despaired of republicans, and no longer know either religion or priests.

I should like also, in order to thoroughly secure your judgment, dear reader, to render your soul insensible to pity, superior to virtue, indifferent to happiness. But that would be too much to expect of a neophyte. Remember only, and never forget, that pity, happiness, and virtue, like country, religion, and love, are masks....

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