#and Ruminate on all the ways it could've gone

[triscribe]

Thank you for your honesty! That's okay! Tell me about Finn. Now I'm intrigued! 😁

FINN my BOY

The Force Awakens introduced so much potential, with this literal no-name stormtrooper who could have come from anywhere in the galaxy, taken and molded and pushed into serving the First Order with no identity beyond being a good little cog in the machine, and the first time he gets to see up close and personal how that machine steam rolls over innocent people in its path, his reaction is to give a hard pass

I just. Words do not describe how much I love this concept. And even better, this is a main character, one part of the Big Trio we were meant to get for this trilogy, he's not a throwaway background "move the plot a step forward but otherwise don't do anything" guy, he's not a traitor who does one helpful thing and then dies for it in the name of freedom or revolution, he gets out, and even with clear reluctance, he finds something bigger and better to throw himself into

And yeah, there are the obvious parallels with the clone troopers of the old Republic, literally created to be cogs in their machine, born with numbers instead of names and given extremely little autonomy but for what they carved out for themselves in a hundred thousand unique little ways - but even beyond all of that, I look at the clones, I look at FN and his fellows, I feel like Maz Kanata seeing the same eyes in different faces

Those are children raised to be living weapons

Those are people raised strictly and sternly and told they have no choice, why would they even want a silly choice, this is the best and only option, this is the only thing they'll ever be good for-

But Star Wars is all about choice

Yes, Finn's squadmate died in front of him, left that bloody handprint on his helmet, but that's not a loss that rips apart his world. That's not a farmstead burned down, a species massacred, a planet obliterated. That's his reality, that he and all his fellow troopers are meant to live and fight and die for those above them - it should, in theory, be the easiest thing in the world to stand up, to shoot, to get back in that transport and return to the First Order and continue onward

But it isn't

Maybe Finn could have been Force sensitive, maybe that was never in the cards, but regardless, he heard those screams and saw the falling bodies, he went back up on the shuttle and saw a captured enemy pilot and he chose

The greatest tragedy of the clone troopers is that at the final moment, when Operation Knightfall kicked into full gear, they didn't get to choose. A set of pre-determined words flipped a switch inside their heads, and good soldiers follow orders, sir, if the Emperor declares these folks are traitors, well, traitors to the Empire must die, and once they're all dead we move on to the next set of orders and the next, good soldiers follow orders, so do good citizens of the Empire, those that don't get to deal with the consequences

How many of their ghosts got to cheer, when a nobody no-name kid, molded to wear white armor and shaped to hold a blaster in his hands, heard his orders and refused, and then went on to choose a course of action that helped take down the biggest superweapon the galaxy had ever seen?

The clones seized what choices they could, with their names and their paint and whatever else they managed, up until the biggest choice of all was stripped from them

FN-2187 didn't even get those tiny scraps of self-expression, of identity, of any choice at all, until he found himself on the edge of a precipice all his fellow squad members jumped into without a second thought, and pulled himself away

The rest of the sequels chickening out of doing a hell of a lot more with that is definitely in the top five travesties of the entire damn franchise, I swear.

[piplupod]

sometimes i think maybe it's a good thing i'm so traumatized and fucked up mentally and emotionally bc then i never expect ppl to be kind or even just plain old nice to me, so when they ARE kind or nice i feel overwhelming gratitude and almost a sense of awe HFDSJKL like... i dont know if i would have had this appreciation for each little piece of kindness if i wasn't the way that i am. but also i know thats kind of an absolutely wild way of thinking about this LMAO

[duelistkingdom]

after toying with ages for the team catastrophe duel with the question of "how would i approach the same prompt with the outcome of 'aki temporarily loses her powers' and write in a way that feels more satisfying to watch", i found the answer.

aki's powers could've gone haywired under stress & fear of letting yusei duel against this guy with powers like hers. it matches with previous explaination that her powers are ruled by her emotions, and stress could've been a good reason for them to suddenly fizzle out when dueling an opponent that reminds her of herself as the black rose witch.

in my ideal world, team catastrophe would've been the point where aki grapples with her past. esp since we got that for jack, yusei, and crow in later duels in the same fuckin tournament. it feels like a natural place for aki to sit with the fear her powers had caused, the stress it put her opponents under, and the new drive to protect her friends. it would even be fine if she didn't beat the whole team too. it would've also been a great point to swap jack and aki as riders, with aki going first and losing to the second rider, which gives jack a chance to finish the duel and win on his own for once

this also allows for a chance for aki to be the one to decide that she needs a moment away from the tournament and swap back with crow on her terms, rather than the choice being actively taken away from her. it opens up her ruminating on the stadiums she'd destroyed, and the fact that she doesn't quite have the control she thought she did.

this also solves neatly the "why do aki's powers suddenly work perfectly" issue that comes up since aki's struggle with her powers gets solved entirely off screen. she could decide a break from the tournament while she works on her emotional control to better control her powers could be in order, especially now that she can't access them at all.

[orinthered]

as someone who didn't mind shadowheart's ending but wasn't thrilled by it either I'm curious what your thoughts are on how it should've gone?

the problem i have with her quest isn't so much the ending as it is the establishing — or rather, in this case, the lack of establishing the game does to set her story up, not to mention some REALLY strange story decisions.

i've known about shadowheart being an unwilling follower of shar for a few months before, and i used to complain about the fact that it took away a lot of agency from her character (and selfishly, i wanted her to be someone who could see the value in shar's teachings in order to bring a bit of moral complexity to it, but the game is very adamant on beating it into your head that 'shar bad and everyone who follows her is bad too', which might be a symptom of dnd-isms but idk i wanted it to be different :/)

though in truth now, i think my main issue with her quest is the sheer... gratuitousness of it. it's kind of obvious once you have her reject shar that this is the way the writers explicitly intended for her quest to end, and they achieve this effect by having viconia be actually genuinely just the worst fucking person alive, and not even in the cool way that i enjoy for most villains. it's likely this is a holdover from how viconia might've acted in bg1-2, i wouldn't know because i haven't played, but when i say it's gratuitous, it's... Bad? shadowheart being forced to torture her own parents (to death, in the original script!) is such a cheap way of creating conflict towards her and the church, when the original conflict could've just ended at the fact that they Literally Kidnapped her and gave her false memories. that would've been enough! anything else past that is just a Bit Too Much!

otherwise, i kind of hoped they would've leaned into the religious fanaticism aspect. but i think that would've made her arc lean a bit too close to lae'zels, who i really fucking like (like seriously, i think lae'zel is unironically the best written character in the game even if she's not my favourite). shadowheart being betrayed by shar rather than Villain Kidnapped and having to do personal ruminations on why she ever followed shar to begin with would've been neat, but again: leans kind of too close to lae'zels arc, so... whatever, i guess. it is what it is.

things i liked about the quest: being able to talk to shar directly, shadowheart's internal conflict with the nightsong, jennifer english's fantastic voice directing holy fuck

things that could've improved the quest, if the story has to remain the same: remove the parent torture, but you could keep the quest to find her parents if you really wanted. i would've preferred if they weren't kept in sharran torture (because why did they do that for 10+ years give it up bro omfg), rather just living in baldur's gate coping with the loss of their daughter. if you kept shadowheart as a dark justiciar, you could have them reject her, which gives shadowheart a small regret to cling to, or perhaps she could finally decide to cut that part of her life off once and for all. WHY WAS SHADOWHEART IN SPECIFIC CHOSEN. if it was random, just say that. do more work to establish for players who are unfamiliar with forgotten realms that shar is petty enough to do something as cruel as torture random children. it's not really beaten into your head unless you choose to kill the nightsong, which most people don't do because shadowheart herself doesn't want to do it!

[grilledkatniss]

Okay so I'm just now catching up on whatever this "why is she shading Joe if she's happy in her new relationship omg" and the comparisons with Lover's I Forgot That You Existed's reactions of "why would she feel the need to come after Calvin if she's in a happy relationship omg" and...

Alright, listen. Here's my super fresh out the over hot take: have we forgotten who we're talking about? Melancolia, and digging up the grave another time, and never leaving well enough alone, and remembering it all too well, and looking back, and recalling now, and seeing it all now that it's gone, and wishing she'd realized what she had, and the whole ass concept of midnights is her dealing with the past and coming to terms with the series of events (happy or unfortunate) that led up to where she is now. It's her coping and doing that hindsight is 20/20, introspective psychoanalytic revisiting of the past, a terribly underappreciated skill characteristic to someone who's very emotionally intelligent. She's like an Olympic Gymnast in emotional maturity and intelligence at this point, and as such she never stops training and practicing -as in, she never stops reminiscing and taking apart what was and isn't anymore, like someone who's trying to figure out what didn't work out, what was the last straw, where were the signs she missed, what should've gone differently, how they could have fixed things, etc etc- It's her niche, her field of expertise and trade mark. Why is it becoming an issue now? Like, our capacity for empathy is super selective, honestly.

Also, now knowing how long it'd been shelved, there's a new bigger book of itemized speculations from the public, many of which will hardly ever get any sign of official recognition, much less one of direct confirmation.

It was probably one of those songs that was meant to be just for her and never released, or that didn't fit any album yet. Hell, it was probably what nudged her into starting a whole new album after an entire year of putting out rerecordings. Maybe she was already well underway designing the concept for the album, maybe the concept was already set, maybe this one at the moment fit said concept and was a call back to another sleepless night that could've taken place at any point in her life, be that recent past or decades ago past, current relationship's past struggles, ancient relationship ponderings.. you know what I mean? She's not doing anything out of what we've learn to expect from her throughout her career but more specifically when it comes to her latest studio album, which literally, as the well established and expressively stated core concept foretells, is an exploration of a lifetime of insomnia inducing ruminations.

[That being said, at the beginning of the year she did spend quite a lot of time flying back and from NYC's Electric Lady Studios (but I actually think she was most likely working on the rerecording of Speak Now and 1989) so there's that on the table.]

But at the end of the day these are people we don't know personally, and unless Joe decides to write a memoir (highly improbable), write another few songs but on his own and make them public, or write/direct a piece in the audiovisual department that specifically addresses the end of a long and very scrutinized relationship, idk something of the like, we might never know his side of the story. Taylor has this very public outlet and a huge platform whereas Joe doesn't beyond his sporadic Instagram photo dumps every once in a while.

Anyway, I don't think her puting an already published song now out on Spotify is a dig. She probably knew this assumption was inevitable and by now super predictive, cause this type of speculation has happened with literally every single one of her songs. She simply decided not to shield away from the scrutiny that was to come regardless and not let the public frenzy censor her anymore. People were gonna think the worst either way, make up theories and demonize her and the intentions they imagine she had for putting out a song about her own life.

I also think she learned from the experience of the re-releases that now she doesn't have to limit her self expression to appease absolutely anyone other than herself. She doesn't have to keep the men in suits with the big pockets happy to get where she wants to go. The rerecordings are a passion project of hers, where the fans' impressions and opinions haven't weighed too much in the making of. Yet, the relentless encouragement she's received from said fans, along with the praise from the media as an after the fact result (which could have never been taken for granted since none of them were counting on it getting any sustancial pay off, keeping in mind an enterprise like that hadn't had that much commercial success in previous attempts by several other artists... which is exactly why she was doing it more for herself and her own personal moral and legal gain) have helped in getting her out of her head about releasing discarded projects. You know, stuff that for some reason or another had to be cut from the final more polished official version of the end product. And it reassured her in the fact that, in the position she's in, at least today, whatever she releases will most likely not bomb commercially. Also, as an added bonus, not only does she get to get things off her chest and speak her truth, but revel in the knowledge that it feeds both the media and her own fanbase with content she knows it's desperately being sought after and craved for, not out of necessity but out of greed for anything resembling an inside look into her up till very recently pretty much kept under wraps and extremely undisclosed private life. Yes, even if it's calculated, cause it's a taste of the type of flaunting and overexposing she was known for during the 1989 era, where everyone and everything clung to her for clout.

What was my point? Something along the lines of be thankful for the dashboard food she's providing us with, but also be nice??? Be more aware of the bigger picture and the inner workings behind the decision of putting out a previously shelved song??? And be empathetic??? It's not that hard??

And, sidenote: in case it was so -that she's still harboring some type of feelings towards Joe (anger, resentment, sadness, longing, etc)-, she's completely entitled to feel any which way she might deem appropriate in regards to her own life, her own relationships and situations, and act and react upon them accordingly. We, however, are NOT entitled to any answer whatsoever. All tidbits, drops of tea and crumbs of scones are hers to disclose if so she chooses and at will, not ours to demand.

[onyxmustdie]

It's midnight, I'm listening to 'Routines in the Night' by Twenty Øne Piløts and thought of this

"Don't think about it." The jackdaw writer muttered to himself, but he didn't put his phone down, continuing to scroll through his messages. "Just don't."

He kept going farther and farther back, reading through every conversation he'd had with Leon.

Why did he always do this? Seriously, what was the point? It wasn't as if there was anything of extreme importance in those messages. There were great memories in there, sure, but there were also bad ones.

For obvious reasons, he didn't like thinking about those.

Not about how he'd landed himself in the hospital and Aashvi Rose had been the only one of his emergency contacts to actually show up because his parents never answered the fucking phone—Leon had practically blown up his phone with text messages and calls, panicked, knowing there was nothing he could do because he was all the way in Spain—or how a few months before that, Leon had been the one in the hospital and Jack had been sick with worry, wracked with such severe anxiety that he nearly left work early, consequences be damned, his hands shaking too badly for him to even write, whether by hand, on a laptop or his typewriter, how he'd also blown up Leon's phone with texts pleading, 'Don't do this, please be alive, I'll do anything, please just answer me', or–

"Why do you do this to yourself?" He asked himself. Moonlight streamed through the half-closed curtains, pooling on his floor, illuminating the-

No.

"I hate thinking about this. About all of this." For God's sake, he had to stop this shit. He tangled his fingers in his hair, shutting his eyes. It wasn't doing him any good to sit here at his writing desk, ruminating, but he couldn't muster the energy to stand. Where were the jackdaws when he needed them?

They'd been radio silent after what happened. After he ended up in the hospital. Always watching, those damn birds, but unusually silent.

What the fuck had he done wrong?

"Christ, I'm sorry I nearly died. Is that it?" He recoiled at the bitterness of his own voice, shoving his chair back and storming out—if it could even be called that, he was wearing socks and those didn't make much noise—of the living room with a frustrated shout. "Fuck, I can't fucking do this anymore!"

Why did he put his writing desk in the living room, of all places?

No matter. Thank God his neighbors were on vacation. The flat didn't have thin walls, but the jackdaw writer discovered that the couple living next door had sharp ears. He probably would've gotten a knock on the door and a harsh scolding, despite the late hour, if they were around, but no, they were off somewhere in Mexico.

"Why the fuck am I in the kitchen?" It wasn't as if getting up would've helped. His whole flat was stained with memories of what happened, after all. If he didn't want to remember both his own and Leon's brushes with death, then he shouldn't have opened Pandora's Box and purposefully looked at those stupid fucking text messages! All of this could've been avoided had the jackdaw writer gone to sleep at a normal time, and it was such a ridiculous thing to get worked up over!

Yeah, he just needed to go to bed and pray he didn't dream about this, too.

[thevirgodoll]

Hi dear, I hope that you are having a beautiful day.

I really want to get your side on this; so I'm depressed and I'm also an overachiver. I've had depression for about 2 years but it has only crossed the boundaries of my head about three months ago when I got rejected from my dream uni and since then my grades have gone downhill and so have both my mental and physical health. I'm lost (because I missed a goal I had been preparing for for almost a decade lmao) but at the same time the I'm getting so close to hitting rock bottom that I'm relived to have a new and healthier beginning.

For the last few years I've dedicated all my time, efforts and headspace to school. It's my senior year yet I barely have friends, non school related job experience, I even lost the ability to sleep at some point. It's been ages since I've bought clothes, I look extra sloppy all the time and I never go out.

I've learnt a lot through this experience but since it's not going my way, I need to keep moving.

Any advice?

Love you and your blog <333

Navigating Depression while in College

This won't be a Doll Diaries for now but I will create one later.

I appreciate you sharing this with me and want to commend you on still trying and even recognizing that something needs to change. I also want to say that something like this isn't your fault and is a completely normal experience. I think a lot of people overlook the mishaps that can happen in college if depression isn't handled...because we are all so goal oriented, the ugly side of it gets pushed down and creates a loop of inadequacy.

Rejection is a typical part of your 20s...I'm still learning how to deal with it myself. I don't know everything, I'm still in my 20s as well.

I do believe, though, that everything happens for a reason and that something I wanted that I didn't get isn't a rejection but a redirection to something greater.

I completely relate to being in a rut and having health issues impact your college career. I have multiple chronic illnesses. I also have severe depressive episodes and ADHD. I've also had times where I wasn't able to make the best grades in the world.

What got me together was:

going to see a therapist (my school offers it for free)

learning that meds was a good option for me (it isn't for everyone, but it was for me)

getting diagnosed with mental disorders (helped me understand myself better and give validation to what was going on)

developing a consistent routine in all areas (easier said than done)

learning how to love myself as I am while also knowing things must change and taking accountability

having days where I let myself go and relax instead of being productive 24/7

I'm also in my senior year after losing years my experience due to my health. I had to medically withdraw twice so trust me I get it.

While I've lost time due to my health, I realized I can only control right now. My health problems were a sign to slow down.

Why worry on what could've happened? Thinking anything of that nature is a disservice. Introspection is good, but introspection can become rumination after a while. Learn to have a limit.

I do recommend treating yourself and getting out and doing things. Figure out what style of clothes you want to wear, what hair, etc since that's important to you.

Relearn yourself...ask yourself who you are outside of academia because a lot of people lose themselves in it and then have nowhere to turn once it's beginning to end. Find some professor that you can reach out to and confide in to help you, and if not, there's plenty of resources at your school for your program.

Congratulations on reaching your senior year. Focus on yourself, graduation, and becoming the person you want to be. Everything will happen in its due time, and months from now, you will realize that staying in the moment was all you ever needed to enjoy yourself.

Hope this helps ❤️

[kittyrob0t]

I used to think that I didn't wanna get anymore cats because I couldn't bare the thought of seeing them pass. And yet, Lucky's passing has only made me love him even more, more so that I want to love even more felines in my lifetime.

I remember looking for someone to come with me to Binangonan, somewhere I've never been, via commute and was so shy to tag anyone along with my personal shenanigans and possibly undiagnosed savior complex. But alas, when I saw him in person, all of my thoughts felt small. He was eagerly eating the treats I was giving him, but probably because he must've just been hungry as hell and I was just a stranger giving him treats outside his cage.

So I'm here, typing this - seemingly cheesy essay, Like a Star by Corinne Bailey Rae, as I do when one loses a pet. If you haven't jumped on the wagon, you really should save this song for future purposes. I once rode an MRT when I found out, another adopted kitten of ours died and I was crying, mask wet - playing this song in my phone, adding only to the existing agony that was already there. I have so much to do, that even when I was recommended to take a leave, am still doing things I shouldn't even do considering I just lost a child. And I can't help but feel like I'm disrespecting Lucky a little bit because I'm not even dedicating all my hours to crying and sitting still.

And I have, earlier today; as I sat in a room with his body. Imagining that his stomach is slowly moving up and down, even when I know damn well he's gone. I really thought he was gonna be with us forever. Even in looking for places to move to, I always wonder about getting one extra room just for my cats, even if they'll choose to sleep there more than in mine.

He's such a nice soul, I wished people got a chance to get to know him. And even when it got old before pretty fast about people saying that even when he looks a little unlucky, he brings luck to people and to be honest, I'm only really ruminating in that thought now. He truly made me feel Lucky to have been his home before he passed. I wish I could've given him more. And I feel so sad because I know there's so much more I could've given him.

Lucky was so nice, and funny, and sweet. And even with the months prior of him living the way he's lived with his previous owner, he still was very sweet when we got him.

I remember the first time he was making biscuits; it was in my room, on a pillow that I wished was my leg. I wanted him to trust me so badly. I also remember not wanting to get attached to him the first few weeks, because I was so worried that with the strain of illnesses he had, I won't even be able to get him out the vet. But alas, he persevered, and we did too, all because he was showing so much promise. I really thought that all of his struggles were done, and that even when he did, we were stronger enough to handle it. It was so fast, like a quick rain on a summer day, a few stations in train transit on a weekend. I even saw them as my mom carried him in the carrier on the way to the vet, what I thought would be another day of worry but with the promise of him home by dinner. It feels incredibly heartbreaking bring home an empty pet crate. I will never look at it the same again.

I love him so much, so much. So much that I understand rich people when they make a foundation over their losses, because I just know that if I was part of the 1% it's another gig I'd pull. I want him to live forever. The house feels empty without him, Ponkan and Melon have been looking for him when we came back, and they were just starting to become friends. It sucks that he's gone without me. I know people often caption their posts that they're running free or whatever, but I can't help but feel depressed knowing I won't even get to see it.

Dear Lucky,

I know you'll never know how to read, let alone even see this (I don't know how optimists do it), but by some miracle you ever get to, I want you to know how much I love you, despite me staying long hours in the office and only ever being to hang out fully on weekends, when even then I feel like I'm busy still. You're one of the best things that has happened to us. I only wish that you feel the same, and that we've been a joy to be around in your final days, that we've made you feel alot better being with us, that you feel alright sleeping and waking up in a home with us. I wish that you felt loved by us, that you felt accepted. I will always cry at the sight of your pink tent. Now I'm crying like a whale because of writing that. I want to hug it and smother myself with it. I'm happy for all the times you let me pet you, feed you and even hug you even when I feel like you're out to bite me. I never cared. I love you so much I don't know what to do with it. You were so young. I only wished you were were happy during your stay with us that it felt like a lifetime you'd never forget.

[ineedtostopthinkingaboutyou]

oct 17th.

last night i dreamt of you.

in a way that i hated to. i dreamt of us happy. of our what ifs. of our maybes. our reconciliation. us watching the sunset and kissing and laughing. i remember you pulling away from me, not too far, and saying, "this is what i've always wanted from you, from us."

you're married now. with a kid, even. i'd like to think that you only haunt me at my worst. i work at a grocery store after i spent my whole life being told i was going to change the world. that i was going to be the best out of them. even you. and i never believed it. and im here, alone, and i still don't. i've met no one's expectations but my own.

and then i think of you. i think about how you loved me. how you loved the worst parts of me. how you thought i was going to be everything i never thought i was. and it helps. just a little bit.

i went through our old messages again. i'm sorry. it feels like i'm invading the space of someone i don't know anymore. to be fair, when reading through them, it felt like reading someone else's story. it didn't feel like me. would you love me this way too? even after loving me at my worst from those ages of rebirth? i don't think so. i never even knew if you loved me. maybe you configured me in one of your nights of haze and you only ever saw my potential and never for what i was.

i tell myself that for comfort. i don't know if that's true. i just thought that maybe if the love that you did have for me was as true as you made it seem, it wouldn't have run out the way it did. that you loved me so much, you wouldn't have enough space to love another. but alas, your love comes in the form of a man and your child. but even then, i think you were obsessed with me the same way i was obsessed with you. i guess, i was kind enough to warrant your obsession, yet too erratic to never attain such love. i don't know. i read those messages where i told you that you were a puzzle. you refuted this, saying you're a simple gal. and now i'm sitting here, still trying to figure you out. god, did you ever love me?

that conversation led to you telling me that you still loved me. and yet, i still don't know if you did. or do. did. i mean, did.

i asked you, in such teenage fashion, to tell me how this ends. to depict our futures together. the ones you said you've already thought about when you had the time to ruminate about it all since the first time we broke up. do you still think about me that way?

you said, "there was one where we don't know how to deal. and you didn't want to deal with being in a relationship with me even though we've been married. so we just, never talk again." you thought about marrying me? you thought that i was less of a fool to just walk away? fuck you. fuck you because you stopped talking to me and started parading him around and then you had the audacity to marry him and invite me-

you continued, "eventually i go to see your cottage." i interrupt her, "and i'm alone and you come in and suddenly we're fine and we elope." wrong. you continue, "and then i find out you have a wife and 3 dogs."

i'm alone. a member of a boyband that we both loved died. i thought of you and wanted to ask if you were okay. you probably are. you posted an instagram story about it. i cried all night then dreamt of you.

do i still haunt you? do you wake up in sweats after our memories have infiltrated your sleep? would you feel a content hum seeing the face of the one you've chosen after your subconscious chose another? or would a deflated sigh take over as you regret the road not taken? after understanding the life you've previously lived, could i really blame you for choosing safety over impassioned recklessness? a part of me thinks i could've easily changed your mind. a different part thinks i'm selfish. but it couldn't be. you're never gonna see this. i don't want you to. i don't expect the future you wished for us. i just need you gone. i can't spend another night thinking of you.

i'd like to think that you only haunt me at my worst. maybe if i find a good job, something fulfilling, i wouldn't have to think about you anymore. and to yearn for what it was like to be loved (i think). maybe if i were happy. maybe. maybe. mayb-

[venusofrapture]

hc + a word: hc +parents 👀?

⊹ ˚ . ♡ ┆・Send me hc + a word & I’ll write a headcanon relating to that word!

Jasmine Jolene thinks about her parents a lot during her time in Rapture, particularly her mother. Despite the strain her childhood left on her (growing up in poverty, her father's anger, her mother's neglect in certain areas), she does ultimately love the people who raised her. Missing them didn't happen immediately after she left home, as for a long time she was thriving on her own freedom and agency over her life. NYC was a burst of joy she had long been waiting for. In moments, when things slowed down, the longing would come like a pervading grief, and this feeling would only grow as she got older. She would wonder how they were doing, if they missed her, how her siblings were, what was going to become of them, if she were disowned, if they cried over her at night like she would sometimes. Her mother had been the only one to defend her against her father as she was growing up, and Jasmine realized this as she got older, feeling an certain pain for leaving her mother behind without a word.

To be asked about her parents or family will always earn a lie. Jasmine Jolene does not openly talk about her past before New York, deeply ashamed and carrying an unhealed wound around her childhood and adolescence. There was and never would be closure for her. She once tried to write a letter to her mother, knowing it could never reach its destination from the bottom of the sea, but, through many tears, she wrote out what she wished she could say, what she wished she could've done. It had been hard leaving as she had, all on her own, hardly any money, relying on the merciful kindness of strangers, getting lucky nothing worse had happened to her. But it's something she would never regret, leaving like that. She knew she had to do it, no matter who it hurt. She simply wished things hadn't gone that way, despite how necessary she felt it had been.

Her mother was someone she did look up to for most of her early years, though the strain of living under her control, her direction of abandoning "silly pursuits" for something more traditional and acceptable of the time, drove a wedge between them in later years. Jasmine had many moments where she resented her mother for not doing more, not understanding how she felt, that she wasn't bad for not wanting what they wanted for her. And yet, her mother had her good moments, sticking up for her at times, defending her to have more choices like marrying for love or pursuing an education. It didn't cover all the deviations she carried from her family, however, for Jasmine wanted what was out-of-the-question for people like them.

Her father was also a figure she found comfort in despite his times of cruelty and anger. Easily heated, Shamus was quick to assert his view, make his will known and that it was he who headed the family. He did not like to be questioned, adhering to Catholic values that were strictly enforced on the family. Deviations from this were not tolerated by Shamus Winslow, especially from his daughters. Jasmine learned quickly to keep her mouth shut when her father was around concerning certain topics, but whenever he pushed her on things that were important to her, she couldn't help but stand up to him. Each time she did, it usually ended in bitter, cutting arguments. The children would often take sides, usually against Jasmine, as they tried to live up to their father's expectations. In spite of these times, Jasmine can still recall instances of warmth and affection between them, mostly early on. A shift occurred as she got older, a notable difference as if her transition from childhood to adolesence solidified something her father was afraid of, something he felt he needed to put in line.

Ruminating on her past often led Jasmine to sorrow, a deep, heavy sorrow that usually pushed her to pick up a bottle. It would be difficult for her to put things out of her mind, laying awake in the dark, thinking on memories of that bright, broke down farmhouse, the desolate dirt roads, the lush, rich green of the surrounding farmlands. They loved her, she would try to remind herself. Even though everything happened like it did. Even if, deep down, she felt undeserving of love or forgiveness. Despite everything.

[melancholicsh4wty]

i love realizing that everything i incessantly worried about and all the ways i doubted myself last year and the years before were just the enemy feeding lies into my head to prevent me from major breakthroughs and growth. i love realizing that i was blessed more than i could've ever known back then and i am blessed now. i was not and am not too far gone. note to self: he lied to you before and every time you ruminate on the same old recycled bs, he's lying to you again. you got this shit in the bag, keep it moving and stop falling for it babygirl. it's not true. it never was. the devil is a lie!!! 🤍

[phantasiiae]

@sephaeroth from x

It could've gone worse, but it could've also gone a lot better.

While Zack loves to think of himself as some kind of heartthrob, the fact of the matter is that he almost feels clueless when it comes to these kinds of things. He hasn't been on very many dates in his life, and the fact that this is Sephiroth has him ruminating on every little thing more than he typically would. Every time they would fall into this awkward silence, Zack would try to break it with a joke or a comment that would just fall flat.

Considering everything, he's surprised that Sephiroth even agreed to entertain this. Part of Zack wonders if he said yes out of pity or maybe to just get him out of his hair. He knows he ought to not think that, but it's hard to believe otherwise sometimes. Zack knows he can be a lot, but the last thing he wants to do is inadvertently push Sephiroth away.

Never could he have imagined what happened next. He finds himself admiring Sephiroth in the bright lights that illuminate the cabin. I've had a wonderful time, Zack. He opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a nervous laugh. God! Just do something! he thinks as he intertwines their fingers together.

And that's when he decides to kiss him.

It's bold, but what does he have to lose? Their lips connect, and it's like all of Zack's thoughts leap out the window. All he can focus on now is Sephiroth in front of him, all around him, kissing him back...and when they part (far too soon for his liking) he clears his throat, a grin appearing on his face.

"..Uh, my first time here, too, by the way, so don't worry." Zack laughs shakily, rubbing at his face like he could possibly make himself stop blushing. "...Was that okay?" Can I do it again?

[howthesleeplesswander]

Despite requesting they talk, Percy became a bundle of nerves the moment they sat down. Again, Kazuma didn't prod further than an initial encouragement. He waited patiently—and watched attentively. To someone who knew him well, even the small gesture of Percy's fidgeting spoke volumes. Kazuma imagined that the twist and pull of that thread was rather accurate to how he worried at his own thoughts. "Only to those who are paying attention," he assured on a huff of amusement. But he sobered as his young pupil began venting in earnest.

Immediately, mention of last year's new arrivals drew a blanket of somberness over his expression. "Yes, Chiron told me what happened when I arrived." Losing someone so young...it was a tragic, heart-wrenching loss. Kazuma wished he could offer his friend some comfort, but he knew that no words could make it easier to bear. More than anything, he wished that he could've been there, could've done something—but his feelings on the matter weren't important right now.

Kazuma didn't interrupt further—although his brows did raise up to his headband at the revelation of Nico's parentage—merely letting Percy talk as much as he needed. "Well," he finally breathed once the other trailed off, "it's no wonder you were bursting to let all of that out. That's a remarkable burden you've been carrying on your own."

And a remarkably troubling one. Abandoning an innocent child gone missing hadn't sat right from the start, but with war looming closer by the day, Chiron had convinced him that continuing the campers' combat training was the best way he could help. Now that he knew that a child of Hades was out there somewhere, alone and unprotected...

Briefly, Kazuma fell quiet, taking the time to ruminate on everything he'd just learned. Unfortunately, the dilemma Percy faced had no easy answer. But he'd entrusted him with this knowledge above anyone else. Kazuma didn't intend to squander such a display of trust.

"You know, it isn't only strategy and tactics that determine the outcome of a battle. There are times when instinct and intuition are equally powerful tools. Going a step further to full-blown war, oftentimes it's choices relating to morality or integrity that separate not only victor from loser; but good from bad."

Each word was carefully considered. His tone was firm but gentle, and the stitch in his brow proved just how seriously he was taking the situation. "From the sound of it, you've spent these last six months thinking yourself in circles. But you did make a decision when it came down to it. If I'm the only one you've told about Nico's lineage in all this time, your instincts must be telling you that keeping the secret is the right thing to do."

Although he could guess the answer, he still had to ask, "I take it that you and your friends have been doing what you can to search for him?" And while the other instructors at Camp Half-Blood certainly wouldn't approve, Kazuma merely looked at Percy with a quiet sort of pride. "Keeping such knowledge among those you know you can trust will help Nico avoid attention from Kronos' army. The instinct you've been following stems from your compassion for others; that isn't something to brush aside."

Percy was tempted to request they find somewhere more private… If he wasn’t immediately and entirely unsure of what that would entail. Hey, come hang out with me in my cabin for a bit; no one’s gonna find that strange. Or maybe Let’s go chill by the lake so the naiads can gawk and swoon (over Kazuma, in case that wasn’t clear). For a terribly brief and anxiety-inducing moment, the thought of going for a little walk in the woods crossed his mind, but he couldn’t. Not after the last time he went out into the woods with a sparring partner.

But that wasn’t fair.

Kazuma wasn’t like that. Percy knew Kazuma wasn’t like that. Which honestly just made him angrier at Luke for putting any of those seeds of doubt in his head to begin with. (That wasn’t who he was. Percy didn’t doubt his friends.)

Whether from navigating the unforgiving rapids of his thoughts or in hearing Kazuma’s patient probing, he expelled another loud exhale, and his fingers began to futz with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. He always hated this feeling. When he so desperately wanted to talk about something, like that something was a barely-contained hurricane in his chest that was choking him, and if he only let it out, he’d feel relief… He’d feel okay, for the time being. But that was the problem: it was releasing that storm, pulling other people into it, that he despised so much.

And in this case, it wasn’t even about him. Was it wrong to expose Nico like this? (Yeah, probably.)

“That obvious, huh?” Percy said, rolling his eyes in spite of himself and letting out a dry scoff. “Great.” He went silent again, attention tracking a couple of Hephaestus kids returning from the forge. Percy waited for them to be out of earshot. “Okay, so… here’s the thing.” Split-second decision. He was running with it before he changed his mind. “You, um… You weren’t around last winter, so you didn’t get to meet the new demigods Grover found—Chiron might’ve mentioned them to you, though—Nico and Bianca…? They’re”—he almost said “were,” but it was as difficult as swallowing a cotton ball (not that Percy had ever tried that)—“siblings. Unclaimed.”

—according to everyone else.

“Since they’re not here now, I guess you could, uh… make assumptions.” He refused to give proper details on Bianca’s situation: some part of him severely hoped Kazuma had already heard about her fate so he didn’t have to be the one to tell him. (He couldn’t do that again.) “Nico’s been missing for the past six months. But before he went missing, I discovered something about him that’s… dangerous. And I haven’t told anyone but Annabeth and Grover even if, well, maybe I should? Maybe I’m making things worse by not at least talking to Chiron— I dunno.”

He successfully yanked that loose thread free, watched the tendril of orange drift down to his feet. “H-he’s… He’s the son of Hades, which basically means he might as well be wearing strobe lights for all monsters and gods who happen to find out. And then there’s this Great Prophecy business—” Which Percy was determined to take for himself, to keep Nico away from it so he wouldn’t have to worry about what might happen to him, or what devastation he might be destined to cause. Fate be damned; he wasn’t letting any more tragedy happen to that poor kid. It infuriated him. Well, it infuriated him when he couldn’t do something about it (and he’d officially refused to count this case in that).

“Sorry, I have no idea what I’m asking.” Or saying, for that matter. “It sucks. Because maybe what I’m doing is just making everything worse...? I guess I just… I want to do what’s right but, like... I don't even know what that is at this point.”

[ratsalad]

love reading your house md thoughts. is there anything about the show you would change if you could?

the first thought that came to me: i'd change things so that wilson and cuddy weren't constantly trying to change house or tell him what to do re: his addiction when he so clearly wasn't ready to change.

this was a big issue for me throughout the show, because while i understand their frustration as people who love him and who don't want to see him suffer, they failed to see that the constant lecturing pushed house deeper into denial - as it often does to addicts when they're in the precontemplative stage.

what he really needed instead was support (not to be confused with enabling), acceptance and understanding of his choices - real understanding; the awareness that he is where he is right now and they can't change him. this doesn't mean they shouldn't speak up when he makes bad choices. frankly, they were fantastic friends - the only problem was that they didn't realize people don't come out of denial unless they realize it themselves.

but i can also see why wilson (if not cuddy - and only because i don't have as good a read on her as wilson) couldn't be this person for house - wilson's a fixer. he has to feel needed, so he gives people solutions to their problems - even problems they're not willing to admit to having.

house eventually did get out of precontemplative and into contemplative at the end of season 5 when he realized things were too far gone and he needed help - and good for him - but notice how he had to come to that realization himself. it really, really cannot work any other way. i speak from first hand experience.

i'm not sure if i can think of any Big Plot Things to change - the show's writing is far from perfect, but overall i'm satisfied with where they decided to go mostly. there are some things i'd change:

i wish cuddy respected house's disability more in earlier seasons;

i wish he wasn't referred to as an addict in earlier seasons when he was really just a guy in so much pain he developed a dependence (you can see how he might get defensive - and unwilling to recognize later on that he does have an addiction - when people were calling him an addict before he was even an addict);

the majority of season 8 felt like the equivalent of naruto filler episodes

while i do think house never got over the events of the season 7 finale i wish we'd seen him struggling with them at least a little while he was in prison. and i wish we'd seen cuddy at least once in season 8. at his funeral perhaps. feels wrong that she wasn't there

huddy in general. i don't know WHAT i'd change - maybe i wouldn't have teased the ship from, oh i don't know, SEASON 1 - i just know that it could've gone better. i'd have still broke them up, absolutely; but the way it ended (and even began, to an extent) in the show left me dissatisfied

lbr house escaping to some other country after running his car into huddy’s house was sort of ridiculous

house in actual band t-shirts

i'm not a fan of the whole selecting-my-employees-with-a-game-show format of season 4

more house wearing cozy-looking hoodies

my god they really ran out of plots for each episode around seasons 5/6/7. the medical stuff really dipped, too - i rewatched a few episodes from season 1 and the medicine was SO solid, leagues above the later seasons, not to mention other medical dramas: the nun with the copper T, the schizophrenic mom who wasn't schizophrenic at all, those were some of my favorite episodes, and they managed to simultaneously weave in those themes of human nature that's REALLY what this show's trying to get at. towards 5/6/7 i felt like these aspects got really messy.

more house chilling at home

that's kind of all i can think of right now! thanks for sending this in, it was very fun to answer. it's also very kind of you to say that about my house posts, especially because they (especially towards the end of the show) were more cyclic ruminations stemming from Real Actual worry/anxiety for house and some level of projection than true analysis. but thanks nevertheless, it's always gratifying to know that people have been reading them!

[yansurnummu]

A Variation of the Truth (2/?)

(1/2)

Auredil wasn’t always like this. He was a hero once, a good mer; but things don’t always go the way they should.

(View on AO3 for tags)

Lindir lets Auredil sleep. He’d never seen him so at peace; he can't bring himself to wake him. Over the next few hours, he begrudgingly takes advantage of the heavy rain, gathering a bucket of water to bring inside and does some much-needed cleaning while he’s stuck indoors.

He picks up Auredil’s disconnected prosthetic beside the bed while he’s tidying, with the intention of finding a better place for it than the flooded floor, but he inspects it while it’s in his hands. It’s a simple piece, a straight wooden peg connected to a brace that Lindir saw buckles in two places along what remains of his leg. The wood is beginning to splinter, and upon further inspection, he notices that it lacks any sort of cap at the foot to keep the wood in one piece.

Lindir sighs to himself, looking around the room. He’s no smith, nor does he have the tools, but he wonders if he has any way to fix or reinforce it, even a little. 

After some rummaging, he finds a spool of cotton line. He wraps it and ties it off in a way that he’s sure will at least prevent any further splitting for a time, but comes to the conclusion that honestly, the prosthetic should really just be replaced entirely.

He looks across the room at Auredil’s sleeping form and frowns. The mer doesn’t have the gold for something like that, he knows. Neither does he, himself, though the fact that the thought even crosses his mind is a little alarming to him. Why does he care so much?

Auredil stirs, and Lindir realizes he’d been staring. But he doesn’t wake; his eyes remain screwed shut, his brow furrowed. Lindir figures it must be a dream, setting the prosthetic down on his cluttered table.

He mumbles something, his tone distressed. It’s intermittent at first, a twitch here and there, a muttered word or two. But as the minutes go on, he tosses, the words becoming clearer, louder, anguished.

Naemon is the name that breaks through before Lindir decides he should wake him.

“Auredil!” he raises his voice, grabbing at the mer’s shoulders. He startles awake, his shaking hands grasping at Lindir’s arms, eyes wide and breathing rapid like a cornered animal. “Hey, hey, you’re fine, you’re safe,” he says, uncertain, as tears well in Auredil’s eyes. His hands retreat from Lindir after a moment, and he looks away shamefully.

“I’m– I’m sorry,” he says, his voice strained and fighting back tears. “I didn’t– I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Lindir gives him a bit more space as he rolls over, moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside Lindir.

The way he says it has implications that leave Lindir staring at him, his heart breaking. Like the nightmare was an inevitability and he shouldn’t have succumbed to sleep, like it’s something he’s used to suffering, but always alone.

He doesn’t really know what to do with that, and he doesn’t quite know how to stop Auredil when he hastily fastens his prosthetic leg and stands, unsteady. He’s shakily muttering apologies and excuses the whole time, ducking under the low ceiling and door frame, and then he’s gone.

Lindir remains seated on the bed, eyes fixed on the space Auredil once was. He curses to himself, standing, regretting all the things he could've done, could’ve said, but didn’t.

==================

Auredil didn’t notice anything different, at first. He briefly wondered if he’d imagined it – the statue, Meridia’s voice – maybe it was all a grief-induced hallucination. But his company set sail for Valenwood in the coming days, and there was little time to ruminate on what had transpired.

Maormer pirates were always a danger on the Abecean Sea, but after the attack on Mistral the previous year, they had become bolder than ever. As soon as the fog rolled in during the night, he knew to sound the alarm. From the helm, he could barely see the foremast in the fog. The Maormer were upon them from the sea before he could even spot their ship.

His company were few, but they were skilled, and knew each other and their ship well. The pirates fought fiercely, but in the end, they stood no chance against trained marines.

“Starboard!” was the only warning they received before the ship lurched violently and the dreadful splintering of wood was heard. Auredil rushed over, leaning off the starboard bow, his stomach dropping as he caught a glimpse of massive silvery scales beneath the surface of the water.

“Serpent!” he shouted, and the crew hurried to take on defensive positions.

A sea serpent was not something they were prepared to face, and the implications of its very presence were troubling to say the least. Such a powerful creature was only ever under the control of a larger Maormer fleet. His crew had faced one before – with a flotilla. They were entirely on their own this time.

They manned the ballistae, but it was foggy and dark. Auredil called it out moments before the creature tore into the ship again, only a fraction of the bolts seeming to impact anything.

As it began to circle back around, he found himself fearful. With the ship already beginning to list to one side, he knew it wouldn’t last another hit. He glanced at his lieutenant to find her expression just as pale and uneasy. He wouldn’t let them die.

“Take the helm,” he told her before raising his voice, “Drop the sails!” She looked at him, confusion turning to alarm as he ran, spear in hand, and dove over the side.

He grit his teeth as the shock of the cold water came over him. His heart pounded in his ears as he was faced with the fanged maw of the serpent, sinking the blade of his spear into the roof of its mouth. It screamed out into the water, trying to snap down on him but to no avail with the spear wedged between its jaws.

If he could just hold it there long enough for the rest of his company to escape, he would be content with that. He thought of Naemon, of all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t. He thought of Lilanwe, and how he regretted never being there for her.

“You think this is the end? Fool.”

Meridia’s voice snapped him back to reality, and it was like a switch was flipped in his mind. He felt a surge of energy, and he held out one hand to the mouth of the writhing serpent. Light flashed, blinding, but he couldn’t look away or shut his eyes as the serpent screamed again, recoiling, the light becoming hot enough to burn and boil.

It was only his need to come up for air that drew him back from the now-still serpent, prying his spear from between its teeth. He grabbed at a piece of wood from the breached hull of the ship, grinning despite his predicament when he spotted them vanishing into the dissipating fog.

They tossed him a rope when he eventually caught up, having kept a lookout for him despite the odds. He could sense their burning questions, but they knew there wasn’t time for that now. There was no way they could make it to Haven with the hull in the state it was, but in conversing with the navigator, they determined they may be able to run aground north of Woodhearth in order to make repairs.

-----

“Are we going to talk about that?” Auredil paused, briefly looking back over his shoulder at Lieutenant Cennewen.

“What?” he replied, swallowing nervously, continuing their long walk to Woodhearth. He heard her sigh behind him.

“You know what.”

It was only the two of them. He knew he could speak freely with her, his second-in-command who had become a dear friend. Even so, it was something he, himself, had not yet quite come to terms with. He wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I mean,” she bolted to catch up a few steps, falling in line beside him. “You’ve done some reckless things, if I may.” He sighed, stopping and reluctantly meeting her gaze.

“You may, as always,” he said softly. She stared him down for a moment, nothing but concern in her young, half-Altmeri features.

“No one should have come back from that,” her voice was mournful, just above a whisper, and Auredil understood the underlying meaning; they had been prepared to lose him. 

“I…” he considered his words, frowning. “I don’t quite know how to explain it yet, I just…” he trailed off, instead holding out a hand and producing for her a small globule of radiant light. “It sounds ridiculous, but something spoke to me. It gave me this.” 

She regarded the light with wide green eyes, then shifted her gaze back up at him in awe. Auredil was no mage, his company knew, and the art was always lost on him. It was always his sister’s domain, while he was always more inclined to the martial. 

He wasn’t even sure if it was magic. It looked like magic, but it didn't feel like it. As the light pulsed, it felt warm, like a miniature sun in the palm of his hand. And it came to him like second nature, an energy that, if he didn’t know better, he might say had always been a part of him.

“Then Auri-El has blessed us,” Cennewen muttered, awestruck.

“Perhaps so,” Auredil smiled back at her, but it was a little more uncertain. He wasn’t sure he wanted to tell her the whole truth.

As they walked, the scent of ozone put him on edge. There was a shout, and a flash of lightning further down the coast despite the clear skies, and he exchanged a look with Cennewen before they took off towards it.

They peered over their vantage point when they caught up, assessing the situation. It was a small Maormer camp on the beach, littered with the bodies of a half dozen pirates, a black-robed figure standing over them. They knelt down, searching for something among the carnage, and the recognition hit Auredil.

“Lieutenant,” he turned to Cennewen, “Hold here. Trust me.” 

Cennewen gave him a nod, and he stood, moving around the rocks while she remained hidden. “Coralantar!” he called, and the figure froze.

For a moment, he worried he may have read them wrong, but their head turned to him and he could see the tension drain from their shoulders.

“Auredil,” Coralantar stood, giving him a curt bow. “It’s been some time. Apologies, you’ve caught me in a bit of a… hurry,” their gaze focused past Auredil, nervously keeping an eye out. Auredil turned around, sheepishly gesturing for Cennewen to approach. Coralantar eyed her cautiously but made no move to flee. “Woodhearth. Walk with me?”

Auredil could tell by the look on Cennewen’s face that she was apprehensive, but she followed his lead. Coralantar was a little quicker than them, a little more experienced traversing rocky shorelines and jungles, and would pause and slow their gait intermittently as if not used to travelling with others.

“Coralantar is an ally,” Auredil explained to Cennewen as they walked, “they saved my life in Mistral during the attack."

“Since then I’ve been bringing what information I can find to the Dominion,” Coralantar interjected from further ahead. “It’s easy to move amongst the Vipers when, well… I look like this.”

“Why attack your own people?” Cennewen asked, curious. Coralantar chuckled bitterly.

“That is a conversation we don’t have time for.”

-----

They made it to Woodhearth by nightfall with Coralantar’s guidance. The Sea Elf stayed outside the city limits, but gave them a heavy envelope to pass along to the Queen’s agents in the embassy. Auredil arranged for a repair crew to follow them back to the ship in the morning, as well as a courier to send word to Haven to notify them of their predicament.

Lieutenant Cennewen stayed at the embassy that night.

“They seem nice enough, for a Maormer. But I can tell you like them,” she had said, encouraging Auredil to go find Coralantar outside. Auredil fumbled, his face turning a shade similar to his hair.

His mind was brought back to the beaches outside Eagle’s Strand as he walked beyond the city, the last breath of the sun disappearing over the ocean. He found Coralantar a ways out, perched on the rocks, bare feet dipping into the water. They turned their head, giving a warm smile as Auredil approached, climbing over the rocks to sit beside them.

“Do you want to know why I’m working against them?” Coralantar asked gently.

“I’m curious, I admit, but… you have my trust regardless,” Auredil leaned forward to catch their eyes, but Coralantar’s gaze was fixed over the water, vaguely southwest.

“Pyandonea is a beautiful place. But the reality of it is so horrible and ugly,” they admitted, and the frustration was plain in their voice. “Do you know what it’s like to grow up being fed nothing but lies and propaganda? And worse, to believe them your entire life, even to the point of hating yourself?” 

Coralantar looked at him then, and Auredil could see the pain behind silvery-white eyes before they sighed, turning away once more. “That’s the thing about propaganda, though, isn’t it? It’s often a small piece of the truth, distorted and wrapped in layers of fear and hate. You lot have your fair share about us, and the scary thing is, there’s a grain of truth to it. Our leaders want us to fight, and to hate, but… we have cities, like here. We have families, shops, farms, musicians, people who want change, but are suppressed and killed for it…”

“You still care about them,” Auredil realized, sympathetic. Coralantar gave a hesitant nod.

“I do. I love my people, misguided as they are. And I don’t know if I can make a difference, but I have to try.”

Auredil reached out then, carefully placing a hand at Coralantar’s back. They exhaled, melting and leaning into the contact, as if all it took was a touch to bleed out all their frustrations and anger. It surprised him how easily they curled against him, their head resting on his shoulder and a hand on the armour over his chest. 

He wrapped them in his arms, his surprise turning to understanding in the knowledge that they had been alone for so long. Coralantar pressed closer, cupping his face in their hands, and his chest ached at the tenderness of it. 

The soft lips on his felt like a natural progression, for he realized that they weren’t so different. He had been so alone, so isolated. In that moment he craved the physicality more than anything else — and as Coralantar kissed him hard, shifting to straddle his lap, he suspected they might feel the same.

==================

The Cistern that the Thieves Guild calls home isn’t the nicest place in the Landing, but it’s certainly the best place to find less-than-legal imports and good information. The constant din of running water is louder than usual, as yesterday’s rains flood down to this central point before draining out into the harbour.

“Hey, Lindir,” the bartender waves him down as he descends the stairs. “Got a fresh shipment of jagga from Vulkwasten today.” he matches her grin as he approaches.

“Oh, Fatima, no one loves me like you do.” he slides into a barstool, setting his head in his hands dreamily. Fatima laughs, turning around and taking a dark bottle off the shelf.

“Yeah, well, they’d be out of business without you. No one else buys this shit,” she sets the bottle in front of him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Sure,” he says sarcastically, popping the cork off the bottle. In truth, it’s not the best tasting liquor, but it’s a small reminder of the place he once called home. He sets down double what the drink costs and slides it towards her.

“What can I do for you?” she pockets the gold without missing a beat.

“I was wondering if you knew anyone by the name of Naemon around town,” he asks, putting the bottle to his lips. Fatima shifts her weight to lean on the bar, pursing her lips in thought.

“Naemon. Elf?” she scratches her head, and Lindir shrugs. “Can’t say I do, but I’ll put out some feelers. Give you some trivia for free, though,” she gestures excitedly and Lindir groans. “In the 570s, Prince Naemon was heir to the Alinor throne,” she starts, and Lindir looks back at her, his interest unexpectedly piqued. “But then, when the King died in 580, his sister, Ayrenn, came back and took his place. Now, officially, when the Prince died in 582 during the ceremonies in Valenwood, they say he was protecting Queen Ayrenn from a monster that attacked them. But, you know, people talk, and the rumours are that he probably betrayed her and was killed for it.”

Lindir’s eyes fall to the bar before him. “High Elves! They are so obsessed with image.”

If she says anything else before she wanders off to tend to another patron, it all just fades behind the noise in his head. Auredil mentioned a ‘prince’ in the past, but Lindir thought he was just taking the piss. Could he have been serious? 

Lindir frowns. There’s no way, right? Auredil is a downtrodden mess of an Elf who spends all the coin he gets his hands on on liquor and moonsugar, who’d fight a hungry haj mota for a piece of stale bread. The thought of him brushing elbows with royalty is a ridiculous one, but one he lends more credit to than before. What if he’s telling the truth?

==================

“Captain!” Cennewen called across the tavern, and Auredil grimaced, downing the last of his drink. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” The room spun as he turned his head to look at her, and the half-sober part of him was grateful he didn’t see any more of his crew with her.

“Lieutenant,” he slurred, his hands shaking as he gestured to the chair on the opposite side of the table, “come, sit with me.”

“Are you drunk?” she hissed, incredulous. “What in Oblivion–” she cut herself off, snapping her mouth shut in an effort to avoid causing a scene, and pulled the chair around to sit next to him. “What in Oblivion happened in there?”

“I couldn’t–” he choked on the words. Everything was hazy, and he wasn’t sure what was real anymore. “He– oh, gods.”

Naemon.

They had all entered the Orrery beneath the Elden Tree. The Queen, the Prince, himself– who else? He couldn’t remember anymore. 

Naemon turned on them, and it was all his fault. He should have been there for him, shouldn’t have left him alone in his grief.

Cennewen was looking at him with pity. Like he was a shell of what he once was, and all he was now was some great disappointment. She looked up to him, and all he ever did was let her down. He let everyone down.

Naemon turned on them, and the Orrery turned him into a monster. Auredil wailed and pleaded with him to no avail, blocking and dodging relentless claws and teeth.

He hid his face in his hands as he sobbed, like he had sobbed into Naemon’s lifeless chest only hours before.

-----

The next few days, he felt like a ghost. He hadn’t slept, he could barely eat. He drifted through Naemon’s memorial. They covered up the truth, of course — they had to. Prince Naemon died a hero, an honourable death protecting the Queen. Slain in battle against a monster.

Auredil couldn’t help feeling like he was that monster. 

“I know you were… close, with my brother,” Queen Ayrenn found him after the ceremony, away from prying eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re…” Auredil blinked in disbelief, fumbling his words. “How can you say that? After what I’ve done?” He looked away, desperately fighting back tears. Ayrenn entered his field of view again despite his efforts.

“Because I know it haunts you, as it haunts me,” she says softly, her facade cracked by the dampness in her eyes. “And what you did, you did out of love.”

Her hand found his shoulder before she left him in the halls. 

Love. She was right, wasn’t she? Auredil loved, and he loved deeply. He loved Naemon, and he couldn't see anything else.

-----

He was half drunk, again, when he stumbled onto the upper rungs of the Elden Tree. He stared down at the jungle a hundred metres below, his vision tunnelling, his body frozen. He could put an end to his misery, and all he had to do was take another step; but he was a coward. He had always been a coward, hadn’t he?

“Why do you cry, my warrior?” he hadn’t even noticed, the tears disappearing into the jungle below as they fell from his face.

“I killed him,” he choked out.

“In the end, yes, you did what you had to do,” Meridia cooed, “but the betrayer Prince’s fate was decided long ago.”

“Then what is the point of you?” he spat.

“I gave you power, mortal. So, too, can I take it away.”

“Then take it!” he spun around unsteadily, cursing when he remembered she was not corporeal. “I have– I have nothing!” 

He fell to his knees, feeling almost childlike in his outburst as all he could do was sob. It wasn’t something he really meant, and he suspected, hoped, that she, too, knew that. 

But Meridia was silent for a moment before he felt some unseen warmth envelope him, like an afternoon sun on his shoulders. And then it was gone, and he felt colder than ever. He whispered her name, and she did not answer.

He kept drinking into the night. He met a woman at some point; human, which he thought odd in these parts. She led him outside, but he couldn’t remember why. He must have blacked out at some point.

He remembered the rattling of chains. There were others, he thought, captured in the same way. Somewhere next to him, a young woman was crying, but he couldn’t focus his eyes.

They dragged him to his feet, but he still didn’t know who they were. He felt sick, weak, unable to fight as he was pushed down against cold, damp stone. He could make out a dark room, crates of something purple and glittering in low candlelight. His body locked up, held by some spell, panic beginning to bubble up in his chest through the haze.

There was a voice, speaking in what he recognized as old Aldmeris, but couldn’t understand. He was Altmer when he came into view, pale and gaunt, with dark clothing. He held a crystal in one hand, and a blade in the other. 

The mer finished speaking, and plunged the blade into Auredil’s chest.

[itsvinzenzdarling]

Only the truest of classy individuals didn't need to showcase how classy they truly were. Some men were boisterous, shouting to the heavens about how daintily they can hold their teacups. It was an embarrassment, to say the least. As the wise old saying goes; actions speak louder than words. Taking his cup, he took a whiff to savor the aroma of it before lifting it to his lips and giving it a taste. A small nod left him, swishing it around a bit in its glass to let it ruminate. It passed his bar of taste. Good, another man who had decent taste in the finer wines. "If I had to pick just one... Raphael. I rather admire his skill to convey such strong emotions within his paintings. He does not have to tell you much to show you what all is happening within his paintings. His style is also quite unique and consistently displayed within each and every one of his pieces. It is almost like he does not even have to sign them. They speak of their creator with such reverence, it is almost impossible to not recognize them as his work. Merde, it makes me miss the museum of my home. If I am to go back someday, I will surely make sure to visit. It is one of the very reasons I am proud of my origin, being founded in such a place that respects the finer arts." The spy hummed, a small smile playing on his lips. Golden eyes glanced up at the other man, tilting his head towards him. "And you? Surely, if you are asking me such questions, you also must have a favorite. I am eager to hear." Laurent mused, taking another sip from his glass.

The way he shifted his energy to something softer as he spoke, he caught on. This was something he was passionate about. Vinzenz idly twisted the stem of his glass between his index and thumb, spinning it carefully on the surface of the table. Raphael was one of the legends that happened to be alive when his parents were young. He recalled their stories of visiting art galleries and palaces where his work was hung, and it never compared to the descriptions they were told. To see it in person was a whole different experience.

Context clues like "oui," "merde," and "museum of my home" had him furthering his suspicions that the Spy wasn't American or Canadian, but French. This museum he spoke of could've been the world famous Louvre. One thing was for certain, only an American businessman would dress as sharp as he was. But the average European surpassed the average American in day-to-day attire, in terms of class and style.

Wells of honey looked up to meet his striking rubies, intently watching him and his mannerisms. "You have good taste," he complimented. "You are passionate about this, I like that. It is nice to converse with someone so cultured such as yourself.

"Well, for myself, I...I'm not sure if I can choose a favorite. I like more than one genre, but if I had to narrow it down to just one, I'm inclined to say the Rococo. Fragonard, Boucher, and Watteau, I don't think I can choose just one. Something about the pursuit of pleasure and beauty wrapped up in lace and silk, stolen in glances and kisses, reminds me of a time long gone." Unbeknownst to Le Blanc, he was speaking from experience and life. It was then that he discovered who he was, and rejected society's standards and expectations. He didn't care if people ridiculed him for wearing make up or sleeping with either sex, he enjoyed himself and making the naysayers uncomfortable.

"Would someone mind telling me why it's 'tradition' for the groom to smash the expensive cake in the bride's face? Why would I do that to someone I just married? Where is the enjoyment in that?" He sneered, looking down the slope of his nose to the unusually thick wine in his glass, swirling it pensively.