#and all the grief and emotion-in-God's-direction thereof

[queenlucythevaliant]

Here's what I'll say regarding choice of worship music (and I'm not 100% sure where I'm going with this, so bear with me): I think it's very easy to get burned out on specific kinds of worship, no matter what they are. And that kind of burn-out is hard.

I grew up at a church that did 95% CCM for worship, and after a while it either (a) exhausted me emotionally or (b) bored me. By the time I hit high school, I really really struggled with corporate worship because it felt as though I wasn't responding as I was supposed to. Getting to sing mostly hymns at the church I attended at college was a huge breath of fresh air, and it helped me immensely in terms of re-orienting my heart towards Christ-centered worship (as opposed to me-centered worship.) For the first time in my life, I found myself listening to Christian music on my own time during the week.

I watched the recent Jesus Revolution movie with mom over the summer. Her family started attending Calvary Chapel (then-nascent hippy church in Orange County) midway through her childhood, and she got really excited talking about the difference between the hymns she remembered from early elementary school ("we sang the whole hymnal rather than selecting for the really good ones like they do at your church") and the much more dynamic music that came out of Maranatha and other early "contemporary" Christian groups. She actually played me a whole bunch of the songs she grew up with the next morning. They sounded horrifically cheesy to me, but she got real joy out of it and even ended up texting a few songs to my aunt.

And yet, my mom has remarked a whole bunch of times to me that she really can't stand current CCM; that she desperately misses singing the old hymns. I look at myself and my own experience and I can totally see myself coming back to some of the CCM songs I grew up with and encountering Christ through them all new again. As recently as last month, I had a really beautiful experience driving back from a concert crazy late at night with my sister and listening to some of the old Chris Tomlin and Hillsong stuff that I hadn't heard in a while. It brought me back to a sense of incredible comfort and safety nestled up against God like a baby chick. Do I want to worship with that sort of music every week right now? No, definitely not. But it has its place.

Obviously worship transcends something as incidental as music genre. It's an expression of why we were created: glorifying God and enjoying him forever --- and yet, because of the fall, it's really easy to get burned out on specific expressions of worship. I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing so much as just a symptom of the fall. I also think that people who are really burned out on a particular kind of worship can be really, really obnoxious about it. I know I was for a while, and I still definitely have my hangups with CCM.

But like- I don't think it's so much about judgement or superiority towards the kind of worship music that you're burnt out on as it is just the overwhelming sense that that kind of worship music felt exhausting and this kind of music actually feels like I'm able to worship again. I know when I started singing hymns at church, it just felt like I'd found the Rosetta Stone. I was suddenly so much less in my own head on Sunday mornings and oh my goodness singing to God was a joy again and I can't remember but I don't think it's ever been a joy like this before has it?? It was almost like my head was spinning with some great new revelation and when I was obnoxious about it it was mostly a manifestation of my being like Why didn't anyone ever tell me it could be like this? Why isn't everyone singing hymns? It's just so much better this way!

Mostly, it just feels like saying "don't be overly critical of how other Christians like to worship" kind of. Misses the trees for the forest, if that makes sense? Like, it's accurate to the big picture, it's absolutely a true and worthwhile thing to say. But at the same time it kind of rankles for me because it misses how it feels to be truly and deeply alienated by the kind of worship you're exposed to.

For better and for worse, worship is (I think) the spiritual discipline that engages the emotions most directly. The feeling of being in a group of people all worshipping together, and your heart just isn't responding right no matter how you try to re-focus and orient it? It's one of the loneliest feelings I know.

[coltwinslow]

in search of lost time / self para

DATE: March 5th

tw death, illness

who: colt, wayne

There was a strange sense of stillness. The flat beeping had stopped. The paperwork was signed. It was final. The chaos of his father passing away was over. It had been a whirlwind of the last twelve hours. Colt was called off shift by the nurse who relayed that Wayne had a heart attack. He was at the hospital, being relayed information from doctors. Colt was always the calm one in the storm - and he stood. No tears, no emotion, just listening. He knew. They stabilized him after a few hours, and a multitude of tests later, the truth was clear. His father was dead, but alive by machines.

It was clinical, the decision to take him off life support. There were no tears. Instead Colt stood by his father’s bed. He found himself waiting. Waiting for some profound sense of closure, some kindness that his father would give him that would make up for all the ugliness and hatred over the years. Instead, Wayne died disappointed in his eldest and only remaining son. So as the beeping stopped, the goodbyes were finished, and Colt still stood there - holding his breath and waiting.

There was a profound sense of relief that accompanied the lack of closure. It was over. It was all finally over. Sure, Colt would never hear his father tell him he was proud of him. Sure, Wayne was eternally disappointed, the last words that created lasting wounds and a deepened sense of insecurity - but it was over. No more walking on eggshells, no more bracing himself for the next beating. It was off putting, the sense of relief. Shouldn’t he be crying? Grieving? But relief? It unsettled him. Like an itchy sweater.

God, he was exhausted. 

He didn’t recall driving back to Wayne’s. The world moved around him, blurred faces and muffled voices that he responded to but couldn’t grasp. The profound sense of relief continued, unsettling him more. The more relieved he felt, the more the secondary feeling of agitation followed. He tried to chase it away by giving Loopy a full groom. He tried to make some sense of grief happen - prodding gently at himself to allow the sadness to come. It didn’t. Instead, he was peaceful. Content. Colt had never gotten a sense of relief after the hard things were over in life. Coming clean about the affair, the divorce, settling his brother’s affairs... none of those things breathed relief or peace. They pricked at his skin, seared his soul, emptied him of direction and purpose.

Was it peace or numbness, though? He couldn’t trace it back definitively. Both, maybe. After combing out Loopy’s tail, the very last piece of the grooming that had taken place while he idly struggled and sifted through the emotions he was not expecting and lack-thereof the ones he did expect, he turned the horse out. As he walked into the house, he glanced around. There was a mess from the heart attack. Colt began to clean it up. There would be a wake here. It was expected, as much as Colt already was tired of it. He mostly didn’t want to handle the condolences. 

He didn’t want to take stand at a podium, remember his father, say the words that the people wanted to hear - the version of Wayne that they got but he never shared with his son. Colt was picking up around the house, putting things away, staying out from underfoot of Aly, when he stopped. The second time around was easier. All of this time, the space between Wesson dying and Wayne dying, it was all leading up to this moment. When the rest of the work could be completed and Colt could finally finish what was started. 

* * *

The funeral was a week from the day he died - a Saturday. Colt methodically fixed his cufflinks. White shirt, black suit, black tie. His beard was trimmed, his hair cut. Wayne would be buried with Wesson. It was mild outside, lightly cloudy, Colt watched things with a sense of detachment. He wasn’t all there. He hadn’t felt like he was all there since he knew it was over. Colt had taken off time from work, and he slept. When he wasn’t sleeping, he was clearing out Wayne’s house. 

Colt had managed to escape having to give a eulogy. The people filtered back to Wayne’s house and there was a sense of relief once again. Defne, likely at the orders of Aly, had helped put together all the food. The wake was completely organized by Aly, he didn’t even remember talking about food or drinks. He looked at his former mother in law for a long moment. Colt had once upon a time tried to earn her approval too. Watched her be cruel to Aly as well. As he stood there, watching the woman who birthed the most important person in his life, he suddenly felt a snap of anger. Not necessarily at Defne, but the circumstances. The veil of numbness was yanked away and the rage that he had hidden for so long came flooding back. It almost knocked him off his feet. Halfway between someone telling him a story of his father, he excused himself to hide in his childhood bedroom. 

All Colt wanted to do was scream at these people and he sat on his bed. His palms were sweaty and he wanted to break something. They kept telling him how great his father was, how much he loved him, how much they loved him and felt for him. This picture that Wayne had painted to outsiders was so dramatically different than the one that Colt had been living in for months and years of his life. Without thinking, he grabbed a garbage bag and started to rip down things in his childhood room. Trophies, posters, a photo of him and some friends at prom, people he no longer talked to - all into the trash bag. He kept a framed photo of him, his coach, and his dad at the state tournament he won. A photo of him and Julian is kids. Him and Maggie prom his senior year.

When Aly came into his room, she glanced around the room that pointedly more empty than it was moments ago and at him. “I couldn’t stand to look at it anymore,” Colt said quietly, answering a question she hadn’t asked. “I couldn’t stand any more stories about my dad being this great guy...” Colt was tired of the charades, the lies. He was tired. “How much longer do we have? Before they go?” He didn’t want to go back out there. He didn’t want to hear it anymore. Colt felt a quiet sort of desperation set in. He was drowning in the weight of the chapters of fiction his father had constructed around him. This was too much. Giving himself a second, he put on a better face, yanked away his emotions, and allowed himself to return back to the blurred void.

[backdraft-bimbo]

beyond

(fix-it script for my storyboard)

SCENE 1 – DEAN’S BEDROOM – NOON

Dean dreams of Castiel. He wakes up at noon, and despite this, looks utterly exhausted. In his arms he clutches the jacket stained with Cas’ bloody handprint. 

He slowly sits up. On his bedside table, there is an uncompleted job application. He considers the paper, then looks back to his jacket. Dean seems torn between the two. He sighs deeply and looks up, searching. 

“Jack? I know you’re, uh, probably busy. But I’ve been praying for days, and I–I need your help. You know I’m not used to... y’know, all this. So I guess I’m apologizing in advance. Just… if you can stop by. Please.”

When there is no response, Dean sighs again and whispers, “Damn it.” He buries his face in his hands, the strength in his voice fading fast. “Damn it, Cas.”

A short beat passes, and Jack appears suddenly in front of Dean. He holds up a hand and greets the hunter with a characteristic “Hello.”

Dean looks up in awe, hopeful, blinking away the welling tears in his eyes. Jack smiles back. Dean almost wants to hug him. 

“Jack? Thank God–” Dean cuts himself off, huffing sardonically. “Well, you know what I mean.” 

Jack looks at him apologetically. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop by sooner. The universe is... a lot to handle, to say the least. But we are here now.” 

Dean remembers, struck out of his stupor. “Oh, right… Amara’s with you.”

Jack nods. The atmosphere changes swiftly, and said goddess emerges. 

“We know why you’ve been praying, Dean. Truth is, Jack and I have been contemplating this for quite some time.” Amara nods meaningfully at Cas’ bloody handprint. 

Dean looks slightly betrayed, but mostly tired. He can’t bring himself to be angry. “Then why not just answer me sooner?” 

Jack takes over again. “Because of Castiel.” 

Dean’s expression is broken, confused. His silence prompts Jack to continue. 

“Nothing made sense at first. My dad’s deal with the Empty… his true happiness.” Jack stares Dean in the eyes, hoping his message gets across. “But I understand now.” 

“You’ll bring him back?” Dean asks, nearing desperation. At that, Jack fades and Amara returns. She steps closer to Dean and places a hand on his shoulder. 

“No,” she says softly. Dean looks up at her, hurt, confused. “But you will.” 

Amara and Jack snap their fingers, and a portal to the Empty appears in the room. 

“Is that…?” Dean asks slowly.

“A portal to the Empty. Mortals can’t survive there for long. You won’t have much time, I’m afraid.”

Dean stares longingly at the glowing rift, like he can’t tear his eyes away. Jack continues steadily. 

“It needs to be you, Dean. You’re the only one who can do this.”

Dean is eager now, hope brightening his eyes. “How?” 

Amara looks thoughtfully to the portal, then back at Dean. She speaks the heavy truth. 

“Castiel must abandon his grace. If he wishes to return to you, then he must become human. As you know, humanity means eating, sleeping, growing old–all things good and bad that come with it. And, when he dies, he’ll go to Heaven. Just like you,” she nods at Dean. 

Dean is immediately conflicted. He doesn’t want Cas to remain in the Empty, but he’s not sure if the angel wants to be human, either. Amara approaches the portal. 

“Now, the Empty can’t keep mortals... something about ‘disrupting the order of things.’ So, if Castiel were to become human, it would be forced to let him go.”

Jack emerges, his face brimming with trust and determination. Dean’s heart lifts. 

“Right now, Cas is asleep. And it needs to be you, Dean, who wakes him up.”

Dean stares pensively at Jack before shifting his eyes to the floating rift with a growing resolve. 

SCENE 2 – BUNKER KITCHEN – EVENING

Sam and Eileen return from a dinner date and find Dean in the kitchen, looking to be in deep thought. The tea beside him on the table has gone cold. The beer fridge remains stubbornly untouched. 

“Dean?” Sam approaches, concerned. “What are you doing?” 

Eileen glances between the brothers, curiously reading them. Dean blinks the exhaustion out of his eyes and glances up at Sam, clearly holding something big back. “I, uh...” he trails off, preparing a lie. Before Dean says anything further, he looks from Eileen to Sam; considers them, their shared history. Dean decides that he doesn’t want to lie anymore. 

“I’m gonna get Cas back,” Dean replies, rising up from his chair. 

Sam visibly brightens, a smile growing on his face. “Did Jack finally return your prayers? Did you get to talk with him?” 

“Yeah, while you two were out. There’s a portal upstairs and everything.” 

Eileen signs with her hands: How? 

Dean gulps, gaze dropping to the floor. “Jack said I have to wake him up. That I’m the only one who can.” 

Sam catches on quickly. He’s known about Dean and Cas for a very long time, and silently agrees with Jack’s decision to nudge his older brother in the right direction. 

“Do you want to maybe... elaborate?”

Dean ardently avoids Sam’s gaze, struggling with himself. Eileen steps closer to Dean and says aloud (while signing), “You can do this.” 

Beside them, Sam nods in agreement. “She’s right, Dean. And so is Jack. If anyone can get Cas back, it’s you.”

Dean’s shoulders straighten out–he is slowly gaining confidence. Sam smiles fondly at Eileen, who catches his gaze and smiles back. Dean raises his eyebrows knowingly and grins, his prior nervousness fading. 

“Well ain’t you two just the cutest.”  

Sam almost pouts at the friendly jab. Dean stands up tall and moves with purpose from the kitchen, slapping his brother’s back on the way out. 

“Hey,” Sam stops him. “You want me to come with, or...?” 

Dean considers this carefully. Decides. “Thanks, Sammy. Eileen. But I’ve got this one covered.” 

Sam and Dean grin at each other. 

SCENE 3 – DEAN’S BEDROOM / THE EMPTY – NIGHT

Dean closes his bedroom door behind him. The rift glows steadily in the darkness. Castiel is asleep, and Dean must wake him up. The conversation with Sam and Eileen made him encouraged, hopeful. Dean no longer feels as terrified of failing as he was before. It’s almost exhilarating–the excitement of seeing Cas again. Dean is accustomed to managing hope, but now his emotions run wild. Free. The hunter feels young, naive, and exposed; yet opening himself up doesn’t bother Dean anymore, because this is for Cas. 

Dean sucks in a large breath and approaches the portal. 

“Okay, Cas. I’m here.” 

Dean steps through the portal to a black void, the Empty. He needs to take a stuttered few breaths before fully taking in his surroundings–or lack thereof. It’s freezing cold, he’s getting goosebumps, and his lips are turning blue. Dean can feel that he doesn’t belong in this place. 

“Cas? Where are you?” Dean asks, then shouts, “I’m ready to bust your ass out of here!” 

Dean is avoiding the obvious. He knows this. The darkness is silent, unresponsive. Images of Cas dying flash through Dean’s mind. Cas smiling sweetly at him, saying I love you, and Goodbye, Dean.

“Castiel, show yourself!” Dean yells, feeling his body grow weaker. The Empty seems to be gradually sucking the life out of him. “I’m not leaving here without you! I’m gonna stay right here until you wake up. Either you’re coming with me or we’re both stuck here forever!” 

The Empty hisses like a serpent from the darkness. You humans are so noisy. Castiel is mine, boy. My terms, his death. 

“Screw you!” Dean yells indignantly. 

Eloquent as always, Dean Winchester. 

“Bring him here now,” he grits out, frustration and grief swelling. “Cas doesn’t deserve this.” 

The Empty laughs venomously. “Cas” doesn’t want to be saved. 

“Bullshit, he doesn’t want to be saved. Now give him back.” 

It’s tragic, really. Just how far your angel has fallen, the Empty mocks. 

Dean bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean? No–actually, shut the hell up!” 

The Empty takes on a paternal, pitying tone. Anything to get Dean to stop yelling.

You don’t belong here, Winchester. You will soon be dead. As for the angel, Castiel... he wants someone he can’t have. He wants you. Just ask him yourself. When you finally understand the truth, it will be too late to save yourself. What a fitting end, don’t you think? 

Dean scowls. “Why don’t you stick it where the sun don’t–”

A black swarm of goo erupts from the floor to reveal a figure. It’s Cas, emerging from his long slumber. Dean turns to look at him, gaping in shock, and runs to catch the angel before he collapses. 

“Cas!” 

Cas blinks slowly up at Dean, who has him in his arms on the ground. 

“Dean?” 

“You wanna get out of here?” Dean smiles, tearful. 

“I don’t understand...” Cas trails off, perturbed. “Why are you here? Oh, no...”

“No, no, hey... I didn’t make a deal or anything. Jack and, uh, Amara helped me out.”

Cas squints his eyes, looking hilariously confused. “Jack... and Amara?”

“Yeah. Look, Cas, we don’t have a lot of time. If I stay here too long, I’m not getting out. But I sure as Hell ain’t leaving without you.”

Cas looks ready to hesitate, doubt blooming in his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but Dean grabs his hand and squeezes it. Cas looks up from his hand to Dean in shock. Dean smiles softly. 

“I’ll explain everything later. Just, please... come back.”

The Empty steps in. You know the price, Castiel. The price of leaving your slumber to pursue a mortal life. All that awaits you is suffering, heartbreak, and death. There is nothing for you back there. 

Cas looks up at Dean, who is growing weaker by the second. Dean, who is looking at him with love and trust in his eyes. The angel makes a decision. 

“You’re wrong. I have everything I want right here,” Cas says, gripping Dean tight. 

They stand up and face the portal. Cas starts to glow, bright as a star. Dean cringes away, his eyes hurting, but the beauty of the sight draws him back. Cas’ eyes glow white and fade into a very human, mortal blue. He and Dean are still holding hands. The Empty is silent. 

“Whoa,” Dean mutters. 

Cas smiles softly as Dean pulls him through the rift. The two stumble back into Dean’s bedroom, and the portal closes behind them. Back in the Empty, it is silent for a moment before....

That backfired.

SCENE 4 – DEAN’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

“That–wow, that... that just happened.” Dean stutters, rambling on nervously. “You had to sleep in that black goo stuff? Talk about poor accommodations, man...” 

He doesn’t notice Cas smiling softly at him until he trails off. Dean’s face scrunches up in a mixture of heartache and hope. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says. 

Dean smiles shakily, quiet tears surfacing. The emotions of the past week are coming back full-force. “I’m the guy who should be saying that.” 

Cas catches sight of the bloody handprint on Dean’s jacket, which is still bundled up on his messy bed. “And I’m sorry. For leaving the way I did.” 

Dean gulps hard. He wants to say it, he wants to do something instead of just stand there. He wants to do everything he’s been dreaming about since Cas said goodbye for what he thought was the last time. 

“You ain’t gotta apologize, Cas. Least of all to me. You just caught me off guard, an–and I’ve lost you so many times, y’know?” Dean’s voice is lachrymose and quickly crumbling. He tries to piece himself back together, failing. Cas steps closer, eyes piercing, and Dean rambles on, nervous and desperate and needing.

“I don’t want to lose you ever again. Not in a million damn years, Cas. Before you left, I just wish you heard it clearly from me. After saying those things–all those things I don’t think anybody has ever said to me before, they’ve been replaying in my head nonstop... I don’t deserve you, Cas, but I want you so damn much. I love you. You hear me? I love you, too.” 

Cas nods, on the verge of tears; Dean is crying, and the air is clear. Finally, they can both breathe. Dean lunges forward in the heat of the moment and envelops Cas in a tight embrace. They hold each other for a long while, silent, joyful, until Dean starts laughing in relief. He doesn’t pull away. 

“We got a lot to catch up on, huh? Chuck is mortal, Jack and Amara are ‘in harmony’ apparently, and Sam and Eileen go on vegan dinner dates now. Charlie, Kevin, Bobby, Jody... everybody’s happy. Because we’re free. We’re finally free, Cas.” 

Dean’s words strike Cas in the heart. Freedom. Something he can experience in full now. It feels surreal, being here, with Dean, like this. Dean and Cas pull apart, but only so they can look at each other. They smile, joy bursting at the seams. Slowly, but surely, they lean closer. Their lips meet in a gentle kiss. Dean lifts a hand to Cas’ face. Cas grips his arm. They melt and fold into each other. 

Outside the door, Sam and Eileen eavesdrop intently. In the foreground, Jack and Amara stand close by. The conclusion is clear–they smile widely, stand up straight, and walk away together. 

THE FUTURE, AND BEYOND

Time passes gently from now on; the world is peaceful. Monsters no longer roam the planet, and everyone is free to be as they are. Dean and Cas live together alongside Sam, Eileen, and their daughter. Both couples get married soon after Jack’s promotion to God. Charlie and Stevie visit the bunker occasionally, as do Bobby, Jody, and others. They all get therapy and solve their problems in a healthy and comprehensive manner. 

Dean runs an auto mechanic shop with Cas, who has taken up interest in human rights activism. He single handedly destroys all homophobia. Everything is good. Dean, Cas, Sam, Eileen, and all the best characters reunite in Heaven after growing old and living long, where they spend in inextricable joy for all eternity. 

The end.

[monotonous-minutia]

same rules as last time, another topic.

Taking advantage of this one to ramble a little on something that’s been on my mind since I saw the ending of the 2006 Salzburg Idomeneo. Pardon my lit crit nerdiness. Also TW for discussions of mental illness and suicidal ideation (in the context of the opera).

Under the line because it got really long…if only I could find this much motivation for my philosophy papers.

At the end of this production, during the ballet music written to represent Idamante’s coronation, they used it as an opportunity to give us some adorable flirting with Idamante and Ilia after the big final chorus and everyone being happy and relieved. I loved that; this opera is so full of angst we don’t get much calm or sweetness aside from Ilia’s aria at the top of Act III (which is still kinda angsty) and the following duet with Idamante. So it was nice to see them finally relaxed and able to enjoy each other’s company without the looming crisis and heavy amounts of despair.

But then at the very very end we get this moment where they both come to an abrupt pause when Idamante sees the ax his father was going to use to kill him with for the sacrifice. Because Idomeneo is the epitome of Useless Tenor, he decided to just leave it lying around.

Idamante just stops in his tracks and stares at it. Ilia sees it too and then she immediately looks at Idamante to see his reaction, and he stares back at her for a minute. They both start to back away and Idamante looks back at the ax and puts his hands to his neck.

First time around this blindsided me and I started freaking out because I thought maybe someone was going to do something with the ax after all—both Elettra and Idomeneo were wandering around in the background at this point so there was a lot of possibility. Or maybe even Neptune. He did give Elettra a dagger, after all, presumably to encourage her to use it on herself. (Arbace in that moment proved himself to be the only tenor with half a brain cell and took it away from her.)

Thankfully nothing along those lines happened, but I was angry that the directors made my mind go there and upset that we couldn’t just give Idamante and Ilia the peaceful happy ending they so deserve by this point.

But the more I thought of it, I started to respect the decision to put that part in there. It does something that none of the other productions I’ve seen have done—it gives us a vivid look into Idamante’s mind in terms of his trauma, which would very likely occur after such a dramatic series of events. And it got me thinking.

Idamante is very clearly depressed in this piece. Pretty much every opera character ever talks frequently about their emotional pain and grief, but basically 50% of Idamante’s lines are about how sad he is about pretty much everything. Almost every time he exits the stage directions say he does so “sadly” or “in despair.” He talks about wandering aimlessly until he dies, seeing no purpose in his life.

He does have moment of happiness—when he thinks his father is coming home, when he finds out he’s alive, when he finds out Ilia loves him, and even when he realizes he’s going to have to die to save his people. But the first experience we have of Idamante is basically him telling Ilia that he wants to die. This is a sentiment he makes more than once throughout the course of the opera. 

In the beginning, he’s celebrating the end of the war and the fact that he can free the prisoners, and his father will be coming home soon. But he’s distracted by the fact that he’s in love with Ilia—whom he does not know loves him in return, because she hates his people on principle for being the enemies of her family (not that we can really blame her for that). She’s reluctant to show feelings for him. As we will learn, Idamante (following operatic convention) perceives the world in extremes; she’s cold towards him which makes him think she hates him. The war is over, his people are at peace, he’s making the executive decision to set the prisoners free so they can live in harmony with his people. Despite all this, he’s distracted by the despair he feels about his relationship (or lack thereof) with Ilia. A depressed mind can’t always find enough comfort in the good stuff to use it as motivation. And she apparently wants him dead. Being a people-pleaser, he offers to let that happen. He just wants to hear her ask it herself. Possibly because he secretly thinks she’s too nice to actually ask that. And if she’s in a place that she would, or even kill him herself, he’s in trouble anyway, so why stick around?

I’m not saying this is solid logic; it’s opera logic.

The second time he says he wants to die is right before his love duet with Ilia. By this point he’s been rejected by his father multiple times and he still thinks Ilia hates him. His people don’t need him, because the king has returned, and aside form that he’s being sent away anyway. He just found out there’s a terrible monster (which gets no other description) running around destroying things and Idomeneo isn’t doing anything about it. So he plans on going after it himself and notes that even if he does mange to kill it, he’s probably going to die in the process, and he’s okay with that because he feels no hope in his life.

Ilia finally tells him she doesn’t want him to die because she actually does love him. Don’t ask me why it took her so long to say this when she’d already asked Idomeneo to basically adopt her an entire act earlier.

Idamante finally feels like he has something to live for. His father might hate him, his kingdom may not need him, but if Ilia wants to be a part of his life, he has a purpose again. This joy does not last very long, though. Idomeneo, who seems to have a habit of coming when he’s not needed and staying away when he is, shows up and interrupts their duet so abruptly that every time the track ends on my mezzo playlist I get whiplash. Idomeneo is upset that Ilia loves Idamante, because that’s just one more person that’s going to be hurt when he sacrifices Idamante. Once again, however, he refrains from telling people what the heck is actually going on, preferring to leave them in the dark, which, if he paid any attention, makes people much more miserable than the truth would. So all Idamante hears is that not only does his father inexplicably hate him, he’s also forbidding him to be with the person he’s in love with.

By now Idamante’s basically experienced the full gamut. He’s been in and out of love with Elettra; he’s suffered the thought that Ilia hates him; he’s faced the joy of finding out that’s not the case; he’s been through the roller coaster of first thinking that his dad is finally coming home after then ten-year war, then despairing at his death, then a few hours later finding out he’s actually alive, only to have his father reject him upon their first reunion and several times after. Further, he just found out (or thinks he’s found out, because Idomeneo is terrible at describing things) that it’s his fault the gods are punishing his people and that this terrible monster is ravaging the city. Now his father is asking him to leave and never return. Idamante says that he’ll do that to please his father, but he’s probably just going to die along the way, and that truthfully that’s what he wants to happen at this point.

The only thing that finally makes Idamante happy is when he finds out that his father has to kill him. His joy is twofold. One, he finally knows why his father has been such a dick to him. Precious sunflower that he is, he thinks it’s totally okay that his father treated him that way because it was apparently out of love. Because repeatedly being rejected isn’t as bad when the person doing the rejecting is doing it because they don’t want to kill you. Even though said rejecting hurt worse than death and almost led to your death anyway. That’s the excuse Idomeneo has. Idamante is not only a victim of the gods, but of one of the most extreme cases of Disastrous Tenor Logic ever seen in opera.

The second part of his joy comes from the realization that he has the ability to save his people. He just managed to kill the terrible monster miraculously without dying, but he only saved himself because he found out his father needs to kill him. And now he’s bursting with joy because he can help his father gain peace of mind and protect his kingdom from the wrath of the gods. He spends the next several minutes forgiving Idomeneo for being an asshole and comforting him, despite the fact that he’s the one that’s going to die. The only value he sees in his life at this moment is the fact that it’s going to end.

If it weren’t for Ilia, who knows if Idamante would have survived, because Neptune sure took his time to intervene. But even after the love of his life rescues him, Idamante still wants to die. He finally has what he wants—the love of his father and the love of Ilia—but he’s still prepared to die because by this point he sees it as his destiny. Once again it falls on him to do the comforting. He tries to convince Ilia to let go, be happy, and let him die in peace. There is very little indication from Idamante that he’s sad about losing his life for its own sake. Only for the way it’s going to affect others.

People who are suicidal tend to think that the world would be a better place without them. Here that is literally the case: the chaos will only cease when Idamante is dead. So not only does Idamante spend the majority of this opera feeling hopeless and wanting to die because of that, he finds out that by dying he’s going to be more useful to the living than if he himself were to continue to live. The inaccurate assumption that the world is better off without him, brought on by his depression, has suddenly become reality. They couldn’t have chosen a better victim.

Then Neptune saves him and announces Idamante will be king (because it’s finally clicked that Idomeneo is doing a shit job) and that he’ll marry Ilia. Suddenly his life has purpose again. Suddenly, it’s not his death that would make people happy; it’s his life.

It’s opera seria so we want a happy ending, and usually we get a happy ending. Not so much with this production, though. The way these directors ended their Clemenza wasn’t my favorite—not nearly enough hugging—but it wasn’t specifically taking a step in a darker direction. It left us with some suspended angst, knowing it’s not possible, after the events of the opera, for things to go back to the way they were before, when people were happy.

This one, though, took things further. As described earlier, we get this eerie moment of Idamante stopping in his tracks and staring at the weapon that almost killed him. No one uses the ax. No one’s touching it. But the sight of it is enough to send him to a dark place.

At this point Idamante has faced, in a remarkably short amount of time, joy, despair, depression, elation, self-loathing, self-worth, suicidal ideation, and the desire to live. He’s basically felt the full spectrum of human emotion. And he’s faced death twice in the span of maybe an hour: at the hands of the terrible monster, and at the hands of his own father.

He was completely willing to lay down his life for the greater good, but an honorable death is still dying. Right now he’s dancing around with Ilia, celebrating life and love and joy, and then in an instant he’s faced with the memory of the fact that he almost died. Now that he has the ability to appreciate life, that concept is terrifying.

Before watching this moment, it had weirdly never occurred to me the lifelong impact that this series of events would have on Idamante. But looking back it seems kind of obvious that it would. In opera we’re used to people just dying, not getting rescued at the last minute. In most productions, Idomeneo is poised to make the final blow before Ilia intervenes. Idamante is certain these are his last seconds on earth, but suddenly the aren’t. He’s given a second chance to live again, but he’s still left with that feeling. That he was going to die. That his father was going to kill him.

So as much as I want them to just have a happy, carefree ending, that’s not realistic. As the Paris Clemenza pointed out, there’s no way things can go back to the way they were before. Idamante is king now (though he’s probably used to that, having basically run the place in his father’s absence anyway). He finally has Ilia’s love and permission to marry her. He finally has his father back, both physically (he’s here) and emotionally (he’s finally being nice again). His people are safe and will be protected. The war is over. The people are united. But the price of this was days (maybe weeks, depending on how the time span is portrayed) of despair, of the wish to die, and finally a near-death experience. This is a recipe for trauma. On the outside his life is now perfect; he has everything he wants. But the mental and emotional backlash is going to be brutal.

All this is to say…after thinking about it in this way, I actually really appreciate that the directors put this in. Yeah, I wish the opera could end on a happy note with some cute flirting and cuddles. But that would be minimizing the significance of the trauma for Idamante. I’ve always appreciated this opera for the way it emphasizes the intense emotions felt by Idamante (and the others, but mostly this kid) which are almost a commentary on mental illness. In some ways it shows us the same ultimatum we see in so many operas: love or death. “If I can’t have this person as my love, my only peace is in the grave.” How many times have we heard that (or some variant) coming from the mouths of operatic protagonists (and sometimes villains)? But this opera has always hit a little different for me. Maybe it’s because of how many times Idamante expresses this feeling, in various contexts. Maybe it’s because of the multiple facets of his life that impact his feelings. Or the complex web of relationships that add their own influence. Or the fact that he’s not making these comments to himself, as we see much of the time in opera, but flat-out stating them to the people in his life who have the power to make him feel better and literally save his life, but who for the longest time refuse to do so.

The ending of this production validates all of that by reminding us that Idamante’s problems are not easily swept away by the proclamations of a god. They’re still very real and very much a part of his life, and will be for some time—maybe forever.

He’s traumatized. Seeing the ax again triggered that trauma, and he’s left with the haunting truth that this trauma may never go away.

It’s honestly a really ingenious device and it just added so many layers to this concept for me.

Although…it would have been nice to see Idamante and Ilia hug before the lights go down.

[myfandomrambles]

Dhawan!Master Character Analysis

A look at Confused motivations, externalized anger, performance, self-destruction, boredom, and trauma

Confused Motivations:

Something I find interesting is that The Master’s motivations are not understood by himself. He professes it’s because he is angry that The Doctor is a key part of who he is and the “specialness” being The Timeless child gives her, but this is no way the whole story.

A more complete read of the motivations:

A biological concrete aspect has been added to the vacillations of feeling less than and better than The Doctor causing anger. 

A compulsive need to control The Doctor and make them the same by putting them on the same “level”

Anger at being even more of a tool and creation of the Time Lords and loss of autonomy & control thereof. 

Anger that they hurt The Doctor 

Boredom, apathy, impulse control deficits and general control issues informed by trauma. 

I doubt he is aware of all of these layers, and I believe The Doctor in the story and us as spectators will choose the one they believe is the “real” reason, but it was never just one. The Master flattens these motivations and explains it to The Doctor as almost all disdain for her, and blind rage, both actively in his emotions, and subconsciously to himself. 

We know The Master has been used by the Time Lords their whole life (longer if the child in the flashbacks is Baby!Master) and has their autonomy stripped to be used as a tool of the aristocracy. He is dealing with having the Time Lords who have taken his autonomy directly on a physical level via The Doctor’s DNA. Just like the drums and resurrection during The Time War, we have direct physical meddling by the high council. 

The Master has always felt that The Doctor and he are the same, that she is better than him, and that he is better than her in turn. This vacillating perception of her and their dynamic with each other is something we can see tracing through their relationship. This comes into play where they are used as foils and mirrors to each other. The Doctor Pointing this function of being the same while opposed to each other:

Twelve: “He's the only person that I've ever met who's even remotely like me.”

Bill: “So more than anything you want her to be good?

An interesting way we can see this change how they refer to each other sometimes using the present tense and past tense of the word friend. 

Ten: “A friend, At first” [Ten spends most of the time focused on them being ‘the last’ over a real relationship, but offer a hand]

Thirteen: “The Master was one of my oldest friends. We went very different ways.” [Thirteen is intensely emotional about the master, more so then we have seen her at almost any other point, but shows mostly anger and exhaustion]

Twelve: “Of course she's not dead. She's a friend of mine. I may have fiddled with your wiring a little bit.” [Both Missy and Twelve focus heavily on their friendship and fall heavily on their intimate history]

The Master also changes the description of their relationship 

Missy:“friendship older than your civilization, and infinitely more complex.”

Dhawan!Master: “I'm her best enemy.”

We see how the Fifth Doctor has an almost apathy to The Master, Seven takes the time to give him a proper burial, Ten and Twelve both seek out their respective Masters dreading the loss. The Master also does this being open about wanting attention, playing lower stakes dreams, being truly murderous, and abjectly cruel. The Master's self-perception shits as well; playing god on Gallifrey, making a personal army, putting her on a pedestal, dragging her down, and a suicidal streak. I think this helps illustrate the behaviour throughout the whole season. 

The Doctor and The Master compulsively try and get the other’s attention. The obsession is something pointed out by multiple other characters namely; The Brig, Jo Grant, and The Rani. We can see this in him taking the time to play at being O and in how even when he yells about wanting her dead he also always knows she will live why else would he leave a note for her that would show when she got to Gallifrey. The Master will get none of the sought after catharsis and compulsion to involve The Doctor if she actually died. In their Eiffel Tower confrontation;

Doctor: “When does all this stop for you? The games, the betrayals, the killing?”

Master: “Why would it stop? I mean, how else would I get your attention”

 His involvement this whole season is only about The Doctor, even the side operations of working with the baddie on earth, committing genocide and paling with the CyberMen are all about The Doctor and his need to exert control over both of their lives. 

The Master is angry that The Doctor was hurt. The Master has always had a kind of “Only I can hurt The Doctor” mentality. And considering he knows how it feels to be used and manipulated, I don’t think he wants The Doctor to suffer in that manner by the Time Lords. I don’t think it’s contradictory to want to hurt everyone else and also be angry The Doctor was hurt. Because of the obsessive thoughts around The Doctor, it would alter the thought patterns, The Master is not working based on logic. 

A real empathetic connection to The Doctor is present in the way someone who is in a toxic relationship will have. This goes both ways we can see this in the way they have all of these periods of differing extreme emotions, especially if you look at Simm->Missy->Dhawan. There is love there when they had a healthier relationship back when they were friends/crushes, but over time it’s been compromised through each hurting each other (whatever you pick/know of canon this still holds true) becoming toxic for most incarnations. I also don’t think this hot empathy for The Doctor would contradict not even having a cold empathy for the innocents slaughtered on Gallifrey (The at least 2.4 7 billion kids did nothing wrong) 

In general, I believe after going fishing in the matrix either on a whim or not the act of burning Gallifrey was likely an impulsive act. But after this, I think planning came into it, along with building the blocks for performance. He can formulate an elaborate game to play with The Doctor, The Matrix, live on earth, and The Cybermen to stave off boredom and attempt to integrate trauma and it will fulfil his rumination on The Doctor and the high council. I’ll talk more about trauma and boredom later. 

Externalized & Cyclical Anger:

When you are angry there are generally two ways people display these emotions: they put their pain into their own body and mind or put it on everyone else. Anger is healthy and The Master has every right to be angry at the high Gallifreyans who have treated him and his best friend like garbage from the very start. 

Dhawan!Master is a perfect example of someone taking their own pain and putting on everyone else. He is angry at so many things, some justified, some not but is dealing with this through externalization. He displays self-destructive anger but goes about the self-harm/suicidality by causing as much damage outwards as possible. A common Master trait, but very prevalent here, taking his own hurt and making others feel it, a stated goal more than once. 

He took this anger at a set number of people onto the entirety of the Gallifreyan people and stepped up the “flirting” and games he plays with The Doctor to one of the most painful versions they have. We can see The Master and The Doctor’s relationships take many different forms of the years but it has always been grounded in the need for the other's attention and anger from The Master at being left. With these added sources of anger they toss at each other it makes sense that we get different versions of tipping point moments when one of them “wins”. 

Another key here is that The Master shows a long history of serious anger rage that comes out in extreme ways. He suffers outbursts regularly and it’s something that worsens over time but even The Masters who were more in control we still see how anger is an undercurrent. And while The Doctor has a similar undercurrent The Master has this pattern of explosive outbursts that have slowly become more character-defining. 

Part of the cyclical anger is also the fear under there. The Master is afraid of so much, of not being enough, of being left behind, of not being who they thought they were, of dying (historically he has gone to crazy length to live), of continuing to live how he is, of being the worst of him, of being controlled and of the Time Lords. The Master runs from the Time Lords, using them yes, but never staying there. 

The Timeless Child revelation might have acted as a trigger for larger displays of anger, however, I think it’s key to The Master that this anger was there way before now. And it has caused mass suffering before now, this sympathetic grief and anger The Master shows in Timeless Children is compelling but it’s best understood a part of a cycle of outbursts of those emotions severely worsened by this latest re-traumatization. 

Performance:

The Master, like The Doctor, is a huge fan of performance art. This is something that has always been there with costumes, voice changes, dancing, and using this for both just plain fun and as a real tool. On a strictly meta-level, Sacha Dhawan was living for every moment and being able to meet and even surpass Whittaker for screen presence. It was his story almost anytime he was on screen. 

Narratively putting on a show was key, as O he is literally playing a part for The Doctor, and even keeping in contact as this persona. When in the past he is theatrical in his introduction in the science expo, in his character reveal in Ascension of the Cybermen his dialogue starts is:

Master: “Wow! Oh! Ah! That's a good entrance, right? Be afraid, Doctor. Because everything is about to change... forever.”

He literally asks if they liked his entrance, they liked how he presented himself. Then follows this up with this big pronouncement. Begging for the people on screen and us to pay attention to him. Which is generally one of the only moments in this episode that people really remember from the latter 1/2 of the episode. 

The entirety of the interactions with The Doctor on Gallifrey has a semi-planned performative aspect like he has a bit of script in his head and is using the environment as a stage, monologuing for the vast majority of the time. He critiques the performance as much as the substance of the Lone Cyberman’s plan. The body language and mannerisms are also very large and have a dancing aspect to it, or come across as severe and are trying to get a rise out of The Doctor or Cyberium. 

Another aspect to the performance is how he has these set pieces, of bringing her in, then trapping her, playing with the Death Particle and more than anything is the CyberMasters. He introduces them with a big speech, does the march with them and uses them to make a point more than to actually build an army. It’s also important to think he had to make the costumes and had this macabre point of putting the Time Lords into the Cyber Armour. 

The performance is more than anything just begging for attention. The Master loves to blow stuff up, watch the smoke of buildings, and fight with The Doctor, but it’s clear that they tried really hard to impact The Doctor more than anyone else. It’s clawing to be enough for The Doctor, prove himself, to win. Another way this performance is as a mask covering the fact The Master is falling apart. It's the duality of The Master always loved putting on the show but there is desperation undergirding it. We can see how The Master can start to jump in his speech mannerisms become more desperate and this facade of control drips to the anger and fear consuming him. 

By putting on a show, he is in control. He fears to be out of control, and the loss of identity both the Time War and the Timeless Children gave him. Controlling how he acts, how others view him and setting out a roadmap. Control through hurting others, hurting himself, through acting and of course just basic controlling others. 

Self-Destruction:

The Master is highly self-destructive here, something that is connected to a form of “anger in” and the aspects of control we talked about before. When the death particle fails to go off the first time he seems somewhat disappointed it didn’t just end right then:

Dhawan!Master: “Worried, were you? I thought if he was compressed, the Death Particle would activate and all this would be over. I would've been okay with that. I thought it was a nice little gamble. But no, here we are, all still alive.”

He is gambling with his life, I believe this to him would be a second-best ending to finishing the whole game and be face-to-face with The Doctor. More than anything though, it seems he wants to be able to end everything with The Doctor there as well. In this case that is the ultimate control he is seeking, to end the fear, grief, bitterness and pain. Suicidal thoughts don’t quite care if you complete your plan. 

The ultimate version of this plan puts The Doctor in the position of if she wants to save the world she must also join The Master in an act of extreme destruction. The interesting thing is it fails to put The Doctor on his level because instead of an act of anger, control and wanting harm this one is to prevent more death. If she had been able to do it it would have succeeded in making her die as a hero which is the opposite of the stated goal. The Doctor has taken cruel and pointlessly destructive steps before but this wouldn’t have been one of them. The Doctor has also been suicidal before this point, those moments would have been a lot closer to them being the same then this actions as well. 

Outside of the moral quandary, this is actually not that different from a murder-suicide in real life on a psychological level. Murder-suicide is also incidentally a highly male crime, which adds to an interesting pattern of invoking male violence. The Master wants to end his life but if this was the only goal he could have done it a million and one ways and send a note to The Doctor if he just wished her to know. But, like in real life part of it is wanting to control the other person too, he wants to control The Doctor and himself. The Master here has had his self-belief shattered, is depressed himself and feels The Doctor has become something less manageable with all this new information along with Thirteen being one of the least interested in The Master's games. This is interesting as I said before Dhawan!Master is the king of externalizing violence so even when his self-loathing drives him to suicidal urges the need to have The Doctor die with him and end anything that could possibly live on Gallifrey takes precedent. 

I think this is key because, for all the talk for pointing out that he is really suicidal, the murder-suicide aspect is really key to any honest reading of the situation. Because if the death particle plan had worked he would have just committed murder-suicide, even with The Doctor pulling the triggering. This act would have come after a psychological battering via The Matrix (which even if he has a real want for her to know it was done cruelly), threats to her friends, threats of mass violence, giving her the weapon it’s hard to say he wasn’t culpable in the death particle’s usage. Even the first plan would have killed her too. 

He is insistent that he broke her, she has nothing left, her world view is broken he finally brought her down. He needs The Doctor to be in the same headspace as he abjectly lost and searching for something worth living for. To feel understood and to be in control. Personally, I don’t think she has just accepted that none of this hurts and she is great because he gave her “gift of myself” and proved she “contain multitudes”, it feels more like her not wanting to give in to his control, to convince herself, but in the end, it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t win this time, and worse he dies without her. And interestingly she ends up taking the cowards route by making someone else fight her battle, this had nothing to do with ending the Cyber War it was ending a toxic relationship, a demolished culture and a Time War. 

Boredom:

Something I think I've not seen talked about a lot is that if The Master is displaying a show of chronic boredom this is something associated with a lot of people who are violent towards others and themselves. I think we can see this in his agitation, body language, speech patterns and just the sheer amount of what he accomplished during The Timeless Children. This is less visible in him being O as we don’t really know how much he was messing around or doing while in character, but the moment he stops the endless need to do something, anything shows up. 

If you think about it not everything he did is strictly necessary for the goals of destroying Gallifrey and then commit murder-suicide with The Doctor. But along with the need for a show, there is always something to do. And when each aspect of the plan finishes there is some joking and revealing but it also feels like “whoop that's done I'm bored again”. 

He’s compulsively doing something, anything, but as he mentions this isn't actually fully fixing anything. It’s something that really lends itself to both the outward and inward destruction. When nothing will ever calm the anger, nothing will help you regulate, no amount of stimulus can keep your attention, it leads to reckless and damaging behaviour. 

However, the game with The Doctor has to end, because this is the long game and now that we’re here she has to finish it too. The Doctor also has chronic boredom and he knows this, and that The Doctor has as little self-preservation as him. It tracks that when he makes the finale move he would assume The Doctor would be willing to act out too. 

Trauma:

I think it’s very clear this Master is dealing with trauma and we see a lot of signs, many of which I talked about but here is a list:

Agitation

Anger & rage

Chronic Boredom

Compromised empathy 

Compulsive behaviour

Depression

Destructive behaviours & suicidal actions

Dysregulated emotions

Enmeshment with The Doctor 

Identity issues 

Lashing out

Locus of control issues (Blaming everyone else while also needing to own it)

A need for control

Oscillating self-estimation

Preoccupation with those who traumatized them (with the timelords & The Doctor)

Reenacting trauma 

Ruminating thoughts

Sensory integration issues (stimming, could be linked to other conditions)

Trying to put on a show, (A trait associated with trauma linked PDS)

Thoughts of violence

Dysregulation of Emotions and Nervous System: The erratic emotions displayed by The Master overlaid with behaviours that some have identified as looking like stimming point to dysregulation. His feelings and affect jump around and are always at high levels. A point of interest, however, is that From Spyfall to Timeless Children the issue seems to worsen as the ability to put up a facade is gone. Now we know that it wasn’t really that long of a period where he was actively keeping it as we only saw him as O for a short time. But it tracks that after being exiled on earth and then into the Kassavian dimension his dysregulation would worsen. 

Preoccupation With Those who Traumatized Him: It’s so heavy in this story and even throughout the whole story The Master is locked on those who have hurt him, and the trauma thereof. The Master is used as a tool here the same way people manipulate The Doctor via their god and guilt complexes. The entire story is the Master having gone back to Gallifrey to try and enter the Matrix and then spend the whole time destroying Gallifrey and even then he can’t leave. New Who Masters specifically have their whole stories centred around the trauma Gallifrey did to them and their connection with The Doctor was changed by that event. And Dhawan!Master takes no action in this series that doesn’t involve this, even the plan with Kassavian is centred on getting the Doctor’s attention and setting up sending her to Galifrey. 

Replaying Trauma: This is a commonality between the master and The Doctor. They have been reliving the Time War, the same patterns of loss of their friends, being unable to turn off the training to be a soldier. The Doctor is often taking the same actions she did before, sometimes outside of her control, all of which were made during a trauma state or resulted in traumatic experiences. 

The Master replays the behaviours he learned during trauma as The Doctor does, but is a lot more likely to not only replay acts that they did that traumatized others, which The Doctor does too but also can replay what those who traumatized them did. 

The speeches we get from the master in Timeless Children is slightly off version of Rassilon's speech at The End of Time pt 1. 

Master: “Yes, it could! Behold your new CyberMasters, Doctor. All born from you, but led by me. How does that feel? Huh? Now, no time to lose. Don't move. Oh, that's right, you can't. Can you feel a new era dawning, Doctor? For Gallifrey.”

Cybermen: “For Gallifrey!”

Master: “For the Time Lords.”

Cybermen: “For the Time Lords!”

Master: “For the end of the universe itself!”

Cybermen: “For the end of the universe itself!”

Master: “Sweet dreams. This way, soldiers.”

Time Lords: “For Gallifrey!”

Rassilon: “For victory!”

Time Lords: “For victory!”

Rassilon: “For the end of time itself!”

Time Lords: “For the end of time itself!” 

The Master who destroyed Galifrey in the name of something Tecteun, and by extension the other founding fathers of Galifrey, is playing the same game Rassilon did and views himself as a god of Time Lords the same way Rasilon did. We also know The Master isn’t directly quoting them because he was not present when Rasilon made that speech, so this dialogue shows how he is in patterns of trauma. It also is important character and theme-wise because it plays on the ideas of autonomy and how the Master has essentially made himself the destruction and death god to Gaalifry in the way The Doctor was essential in its creation. While he is goading The Doctor to be both creator and destroyer. The Master and The Doctor are in fact these forces, even though I believe the Timeless Child is a victim of abuse and exploitation, but, it’s entirely true that The Doctor and The Master are playing at being gods. Something they have done on other planets before. 

This is also part of replaying trauma in the fact he has taken bodily autonomy and specifically regeneration from Time Lords to use as his own weapons. The CyberMasters are exactly what the worst version of Timeless Children are, complete manipulated weapons with no free will. 

Conclusion:

The story of Dhawan!Master is one that turned hard into both the idea of The Master being in pain themselves but also showing some of the worst cruelty the master has ever done in both their extreme assault of The Doctor and genocide. 

[yanara126-writing]

A Death in Your Name - Penitence (3/5)

How can one mortal soul be so important to a god?

You misunderstand. I'm not Galawain or Magran, I'm not used to people dying for me.

And yet they do. Some willingly, some not.

Iovara's sister, inquisitor and high priestess of Eothas', has made a mistake, her way of righting it impacts more things than she's expected. Perhaps Iovara has more in common with a certain god than she likes and perhaps Eothas should rethink his actions, or lack thereof, if he doesn't like the consequences.

-

The pain of loss unites and splits a god and an elf.

-

Read here or on Ao3

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

Today was a solemn day for the order of the true religion as a whole, and for the Eothas clergy in particular. Thick clouds of incense permeated the halls, accompanied by grieving songs and the sound of bells. All priests were clad in simple cloaks, wearing anything more opulent would have been bad taste.

It had only been days ago, that the end of the Apostate had been celebrated, now triumph had given way to shocked grief. Eothas’ high priestess had been found dead in the temple’s sanctuary, her hair brutally sheared off her skull and her own dagger in her heart.

For Thaos ix Arkannon it was... a welcome annoyance. It threw off his plans for the immediate future somewhat, but also took care of a liability. Still, it was a waste. He’d hoped the girl would overcome her doubts. Her dedication to Eothas had been a useful asset, he hadn’t made her high priestess for nothing, but obviously he’d expected too much of her. At least she’d had the decency to just kill herself, rather than follow in her sister’s footsteps.

Iovara had been a bitter disappointment, but her sister could have been an actual threat. Her position as a high priestess could have given her the edge Iovara never had. Thankfully, she’d lacked Iovara’s pure bullheadedness and so had simply broken at the revelation. Yet another proof that what he was doing was right. Not that he needed it.

He conducted the funeral himself. Usually that job would either fall to the new head of the Eothas clergy, or Berath’s high priest, but the girl had been a well-respected figure, and with her actions against the Apostate, a hero. Making a proper martyr out of her presented a good way to cement the people’s hatred against what was left of Iovara’s following.

And so, at dawn he stood before her prepared body, looking out over the masses of people, that had gathered to send her off. He spoke the rites and told them of a brave sacrifice. How she’d done her part to end the heretics and then gave her life to Eothas, to assure the gods of her continued loyalty, and for shame of having been related in this life to the Apostate, that had denied them.

After the rites the people flocked closer to pay their respects one last time, to a woman who would soon be known as Saint Emblyn, though never officially declared such. The body had been prepared accordingly by one Berathian and one Eothasian priest, as was customary for high ranking members of the church. Clad in her ornate ceremonial robes she stood out of the masses, shining like the splendid heroine she was supposed to be, a picture of pure serenity. The only thing not entirely traditional was the veil over her face, to hide the wreckage she’d made of her hair and the wounds to her scalp. No need to harm the perfect picture.

He left after the rites were completed, he had more important things to do than feign mourning a failure. Instead he intended to use this situation to his benefit and deal yet another blow.

Purposeful steps carried him down towards Breith Eaman, long robes swishing after him. The souls of the damned tugged at him, screaming their desperation into his very core, but he swatted them away like insects.

After a while of patient walking, he reached his goal. In the darkness down under, the only light source were the shining adra pillars, salvation and prison at once for the jailed souls. He stopped in front of one of them and waited. He had no doubt she’d come, patience was a virtue she’d never understood.

He was of course proven right and soon a shimmering in the air, only visible to his cipher senses, appeared, forming into the picture of an elven woman out of the ether.

“Come to gloat?”, Iovara ix Ensios asked, glaring at him and chin lifted in defiance, even in death.

“I have no need of gloating,” Thaos answered calmly. His voice resonated in the stone caves in a way Iovara’s never would again. With nimble fingers he pulled a dagger from the folds of his cloak. The blade was a rusty, brownish red, only the hilt still told of it’s original steel quality.

Iovara raised a condescending eyebrow. “Not even you can kill me again with a dagger,” she said, voice dripping with contempt.

“Ever jumping conclusions. I can see you have learnt nothing from your demise. But perhaps it will please you to know, the one responsible for it is dead.” He flipped the weapon in his hand, carefully avoiding the stained blade, showing it to her. Technically she had no eyes anymore to look at it, but he wanted to make sure she understood.

Iovara looked first at him, then at the dagger, confusion clear on her face. But then she paled, understanding setting in, as she recognized the weapon in his hand and the insinuation. She took a step back, a now obsolete reflex setting in.

“You... you wouldn’t have... She was loyal to you!” She shouted the last sentence at him, her phony body trembling. A mixture of emotions was displayed on her features, shock, disbelieve and anger taking the forefront.

“Obviously not enough. But no, I didn’t, she took care of that herself. Your ‘truth’ broke her so much, she couldn’t bear to live with it anymore. And so, she dedicated her death to same god she devoted her life to. In a rather impressive display, really.” Contrary to his words, Thaos personally scorned the former high priestess’ methods. Though it served his purpose well enough, it was a tasteless show of melodrama.

Thaos carelessly threw the bloodied dagger to the spectre’s feet. “You can rot down here for eternity, knowing that you drove the last person you loved to suicide, and that she will be heralded as a martyr for everything you stood against.” He didn’t wait for her reply, he’d done what he’d come for. And he should be back for the lighting of the pyre at dusk.

Iovara watched her former mentor leave into the darkness of Breith Eaman and wanted to cry, not that she really still could. Not for him, never for him, but for the sister she’d lost. Technically he could have been lying, but what would have been the point? He could have tortured her just as much with the knowledge of her sister’s continued servitude to the false gods. Although, now that she stood before the choice, she’d have much rather Emblyn be still alive and happy, even if it meant she’d go against every one of Iovara’s believes.

Even after all that had happened, Iovara couldn’t hate her sister. She couldn’t, and most likely wouldn’t ever, understand her choices, she was sad about what their relationship had become, and for a while she had even been angry, but hate eluded her.

Even long after Thaos had left, Iovara retained her corporeal form. There was no one around to see her and her senses worked just fine without it, but her death was only a few days past and habits die hard, unlike bodies.

The dagger on the floor before her adra prison felt like a gravestone, though whose she wasn’t certain. It was a well calculated, cruel mockery of Thaos to leave it there. She had no hands anymore to pick it up and throw it away, or even eyes to turn in another direction, though she still pretended to, so there was no way for her to remove it from her perception, forever forced to be aware of the weapon that had supposedly taken her sister’s life. A weapon Iovara had given her herself, on the last day they’d met in peace.

Iovara didn’t know how long she remained there, her perception of time lost to the darkness both around and in her, and only the howling of the other damned souls in the distance for company. Desperation gnawed at her, desperation to know if it was true, if her little sister had really spent her last seconds despairing and alone, because of Iovara’s choices. But no one would tell her, no one could tell her, because the only one who could possibly know, was the one claiming it. Except maybe...

For the first time since she’d left the order, Iovara felt her determination waver. Doing this would go against everything she’d lived and died for, and there was no guarantee it would even work, but she couldn’t just simply leave it, if there was even the slightest hope for certainty. She remembered what Thaos had said, before she’d been pushed down the hole. The gods hear everything... And if Emblyn had been right, there might even be one who’d answer.

“Eothas,” she spoke into the darkness. It wasn’t a question. She might be desperate enough to speak to a phony god, but she wouldn’t submit to him, not even with words.

For a while nothing happened. The adra around her shimmered in the same green, the darkness unbroken, aside from the quiet howling in the background. Iovara was ready to give up and wait for Thaos to return to try and grill him for details, no matter how futile an attempt, when the adra suddenly lit up, filling the stone tunnels with more light than had ever been down here. A presence, far heavier than Iovara had ever felt before, spread through the stony tunnels.

Do you wish to repent? The adra flickered in time with the steady words, creating an eerie atmosphere, that was somehow both enhanced and hindered by the calm softness of the voice. The voice itself didn’t resonate, much like hers, but the room was filled with an undeniable energy, that vibrated deep in her soul.

Iovara flinched and bristled, but remembered why she’d called him in the first place. Angering him wouldn’t get her any answers. So instead of snapping at him like she wanted, she pushed down her anger, until it only showed in the tightness of her voice.

“You know I don’t. I want answers.” There was a short silence and the god seemed to debate his response. Or maybe he just wanted to seem more dramatic, Iovara wouldn’t be surprised.

What makes you think I will give them? The tone was completely neutral and entirely inoffensive. Iovara didn’t believe it for a second.

“If you’re even half the god, or even person, my sister thought you to be, you will.” Iovara really tried not to be confrontational, she really did, but she also had no patience for this. “But if you’re a hypocrite like the rest of them, please prove me right, oh god of truth.”

Again, silence reigned over the room. The only sign he hadn’t just left was the strange lighting that remained. If Iovara still had them, she would be tapping her feet with impatience. As it was, she refrained from doing so, the wrong sound of her voice was unsettling her enough already.

Finally, after a time that felt like an eternity, the voice returned. My answer will depend on your question. What a convenient out for him, but Iovara supposed it was better than nothing. He could have simply ignored her (like Woedica had, when she’d still had hope).

She wanted to ask then. If her sister was really dead, if she’d done it because of her, with the weapon Iovara had given her. She couldn’t. No matter how much she tried, the words wouldn’t form into the sentences she willed them into.

In the end she settled on: “Is it true, what Thaos said?”

The adra crystals flickered stronger and the atmosphere suddenly tightened. Iovara felt her grip on her corporeal form slip, as the essence all around was pushed away by an enormous force. For the first time Iovara was scared of what she meddled with, as she felt the true magnitude of what the Engwithans had created.

The push ended as abruptly as it had started and the room was as calm as before, as if nothing had happened. Iovara was shaken to the core, the tearing hadn’t exactly been painful, but so insistent that she had no doubt, she wouldn’t be able to stop him, if he desired her gone.

She didn’t understand what had triggered it. Surely he’d already known what she was about to ask and if he’d wanted to demonstrate his power, shouldn’t he have done it already?

Very little that man says can be considered true. Iovara flinched when the god spoke again, tensing in useless defence. He was as calm as before, but the voice had taken on a cooler, harder tone. But the one you knew as Emblyn ix Ensios is dead.

Those words were enough to shatter what remained of Iovara’s world. She’d driven her little sister to suicide. If only she’d taken Emblyn with her that day. Surely she could have found a way to convince her... But she’d been too angry then, to think of anything but leaving, and later too arrogant to realize, that her little sister had grown up and wouldn’t just simply follow her anymore.

She wanted to fall to her knees, sob, and tear her hair out, and perhaps she did in a way. What was the point in keeping up appearances, like a body? She was dead, and now there was no one who’d care anymore. Everyone she’d ever loved was dead. Her surroundings faded to her own crushing sadness, giving way to the swirling greys of the aether.

It wasn’t your fault. Suddenly she was back, grounded in a reality she didn’t want. The partial darkness of Breith Eaman greeted her again, and so did the anger.

How dare this fraud think himself entitled to lay or take blame?! None of this was his to decide! Nothing was!

“And how would you know?! You obviously didn’t help her!” Neither had she, but hating him was easier than facing that. Oh, and how much she hated him. For how he’d given Emblyn and all the others false hope, for something that was never true to begin with. For how he’d let her die...

You are right. I was too late. The solemn admission startled her. Never had she heard of any god admitting a mistake, and the idea that they even could was... strange. Yet she couldn’t doubt his sincerity, though she tried. There was something in the flat way he’d said it, and the suddenly dimmer light around her that made her think, maybe he did actually care, at least a little.

But then Iovara remembered who she was talking to. This wasn’t just a simple bystander, he’d had every opportunity to do something, anything, to stop it, and he hadn’t used any of them. Rage flooded her, making the edges of her form fizzle as she lost focus. But before she could do something (as if there was anything she could do), he continued, his tone aloof, yet drenched in a sadness that Iovara felt deep in her core.

I only noticed when she called on me, and by then I could not help her anymore. But she did not want you to suffer, so it is for her sake that I assure you, it was not because of your actions, that she did what she did.

“How would you even know that? If she... if you...!” Iovara had never had trouble finding the words, but this time language failed her.

I felt it. That answer was so prompt, it jarred her out of her anger and she stared at the shining adra crystals in confusion.

“You what?” A charged silence followed, and Iovara wasn’t certain if it was just her frustration or something else that made air feel so tight. Then suddenly something uncoiled and the light turned warm and dim.

It is my duty to bring about a new turn of the Wheel for the souls whose mortal forms have passed. But sometimes those souls are... damaged. Either by multiple small moments over the course of many lives, or by one terrible, traumatic event. Most of the time those souls naturally split up or join with others, but at times they are too broken to survive the Wheel.

Are terrible sense of dread overcame Iovara. Why was he telling her that? Did that mean Emblyn could not even be reborn? She wanted him to stop, but at the same time she had a sick desire to know.

Occasionally I... shelter those souls, until they have healed enough to re-join the cycle. The voice trailed off, almost as if he didn’t dare continue. The insinuation was clear nonetheless.

Iovara stared into the air around her, not really seeing anything, as she let those words sink in. Her anger fizzled out and the reality he’d just described was impressed on her mind. Not only had her sister been desperate enough to take her own life, she’d broken so horribly, that the Wheel would have ground her soul into dust, had the god before her not intervened.

It was a lot harder to hate him now. Harder, but not impossible. Resentment for him and his kind still burned hot at her core, but now it was accompanied by a grudging, more personal gratitude. For some reason it never even occurred to her that he could be lying. Perhaps Emblyn’s unending faith in him had rubbed off on her more than she’d thought.

She tried to say something, anything, perhaps even thank him, but no words wanted to form. The conflict inside her didn’t allow for any expression of either gratitude or anger to be made, and so she settled on a non-committal hum.

Eothas seemed to understand anyway, and didn’t pressure her for an answer. The crystals lit up softly, creating almost the illusion of a nod.

Another silence reigned over the room, less tight than before, but heavy with things left unsaid.

Something still bugged her, something that had nothing to do with Emblyn’s reasoning, but rather with his.

“Why her? What made her so special, that you’d go out of your way to talk to me, the declared enemy of all religions?” Iovara loved her sister, she really did, and she could understand a certain amount of favouritism, but why a god would bother with her, even for Emblyn’s sake, she couldn’t understand.

There was a slight tug on her essence, not harsh like before, but rather like a slight breeze. For a second Iovara resisted, but then her curiosity won out and she gave in, letting the energy tug her away from the darkness of the moment.

What she found were flashes of pictures, each a moment of Emblyn’s life. Her kneeling before an altar, tears on her face and asking for forgiveness. Her before the same altar, nervously putting a candle on it. Her making another candle, tongue sticking out of her mouth in concentration. Her standing at a window, looking out at the dawn with a smile.

Iovara watched as Emblyn grew older and more comfortable with each picture, and saw just what she’d missed of her sister’s life, while she was off, living her own.

The pictures were strangely tinted, not really with colours, but coloured emotions. The first were in a grey, polite indifference, that slowly grew lighter as a slight fondness started blooming. It stayed like that for a while, but then a few things changed. Emblyn grew more confident and started actively helping people. On her mission, she didn’t stay in her little church to preach, but rather went outside to aid the people with her hands as well as tongue.

The tint grew into a curious affection, as Iovara watched Emblyn happily teach a group of children to read using Eothasian prayers. Another time she wove clothes with the women of a village, while telling stories. By the time Emblyn returned to the temple and was consecrated as high priestess, a loving respect coloured the pictures.

The stream of images came to a sudden stop, and Iovara found herself back in her prison, jarred and disappointed at the abrupt end.

She asked, and listened when I answered. That deserves a reward. Eothas’ voice lacked any of the emotions she’d just seen. It was a cool, factual statement, as if it was merely a matter of transaction, and Iovara could only stare, completely bewildered. Who was he trying to fool?

Or perhaps... did he not know, that she had seen these moments? Well, if he decided to be difficult about this, so would she, and for once she had the advantage.

“A reward? So what, you approve of her killing herself? Is that one of the things they teach in your clergy?” She knew it wasn’t, but she wouldn’t let him get away with half-truths if she could. The fact that he’d already been far more forthcoming than any other god was not going to stop her from needling the truth out of him. Emblyn deserved better. Iovara deserved better.

You misunderstand. I am not Galawain or Magran, I am not used to people dying for me. That sentence ended their almost truce immediately. If Iovara had been petty with her annoyance before, she was furious now. Eothas’ almost defensive tone only served to make her angrier.

“Oh no, you don’t get to say that! People were murdered in your name!” She practically shouted the words, her figure flickering again with unsuppressed fury. She didn’t remember throwing her arms out or stepping further into the caves, yet there she stood, hands balled into fists, glaring at the shining adra. “I was murdered for you!”

That was never my intention. There was something defeated in those words, as if he’d said them a million times already, and was tired of it, though to who, Iovara could only imagine. Not that she wanted to. Her grudging respect for him had fizzled away. Of course he was just like the rest of them, denying responsibility for the atrocities committed in their names.

For Emblyn, she reminded herself, for Emblyn. And so, she reigned her anger in, accepted his answer and stepped back. She didn’t hide her distaste, she doubted she would be able to anyway, but refrained from further provoking him. Iovara turned away from the cave system and the luminous crystals to face her own, personal prison. A purely symbolic gesture, neither of them had an actual physical form, yet the intent behind it was obvious.

Eothas seemed to accept her dismissal, the light in the adra slowly dimming and the weight of his presence lifting.

Before he was gone completely, he stopped. A sliver of light separated from the crystal and gently moved towards her, or rather towards something before her. With a start Iovara remembered the bloody dagger, just as it started to glow softly.

“Leave it,” she told him, voice hard and cool. “It’ll serve as a reminder.” A reminder of what, she wasn’t sure herself. Perhaps she just wanted to deny him this one last thing. The glow let up and vanished again.

I will not let her come to harm. She gave him no reaction, but he didn’t seem to expect one. The words just hung in the air unacknowledged, a last steadfast promise, ignoring their opposite sides.

The remaining light retreated, and soon Iovara was alone again, with only the screams of the other trapped souls for company. That, and the dagger. He’d left it, as she’d asked, and it glared up at her from it’s place in the dirt, no longer bloodied, but shining like the day she’d given it to Emblyn. A reminder indeed.

With the target of her ire gone, the fire went too, and all that was left was emptiness, and the certainty that she was going to spend eternity down here, drowned in darkness.

She finally let the illusion of her body vanish, melting into the realm between. The gravestone she’d chosen for herself remained visible for all to see, if ever someone would come, and for none to understand.

[shieldofgod]

Saying Goodbye

Castiel (scarrd-wings) and Samandriel ( @actually-my-name-is-samandriel​) sing for their almost extinct species, in After the End.  They’re two of the last angels left alive in all Creation, and God is dead.

Samandriel: Samandriel nodded. "Yes. I think that'd be the best way to do it. We should do that last then so that we don't have to carry them around." He grinned at his brother. "Ready to go?"

Castiel: Cas nodded, setting his empty mug aside, and got to his feet. "So long as you don't fly too fast, I can stay close enough to fly myself." And it would feel good to stretch his wings as an angel, as well. It had been quite a long time since he had relatively unfettered flight.

Samandriel: Samandriel nodded again. "I can definitely do that, brother." He petted him gently. He stood watching him.

Castiel: "All right. You lead, I'll follow," Cas said, stretching ethereal wings behind his back and letting himself really enjoy the lack of distortion prickling across his metaphysical senses. Mostly, he tuned it out, both the presence and lack thereof, but right now, he just let himself feel it. "It'll be pre-dawn over there."

Samandriel: The angel called down the hall for Adam to let him know that he was going out with his brother for a few hours and not to worry and then, making sure Castiel was ready, took off slowly for Greece, careful that his brother could keep up.

Castiel: Cas was quick enough to follow, stretching out his wings to hook feathers into the ethereal planes and even if it wasn't fast, it felt incredibly good to fly without the weight and static of Father's body hindering him. The last time he'd flown any real distance like this had been in the last universe, and the stretch and beat of wings, angelic flight, was like a balm.

Samandriel: Samandriel hadn't done much flying in a long time. He'd taken off for a mountain top when he'd been still struggling intensely with the loss of his species, but beyond that, he hadn't done much that didn't involve errands, flying for flying's sake. He reveled in it and relished every bit of wind that whipped through his vessel's hair.

Castiel: Being lighter than anything was good. They aimed for Greece and drew it out as long as possible; Cas basked in the sensation of being as insubstantial as he could ever be, tied to a vessel, feeling each new hook for his feathers and bending the metaphysical currents around himself in an elegant sort of way that predated man, or war. When they landed in Greece, on the top of a cliff, it was the depth of pre-twilight and with no moon, the stars above brilliant and numerous with no manmade light to dull or blot them out.

Samandriel: Samandriel was grinning ear to ear by the time they landed. It was wonderful to fly like that and he had not felt so angelic in a long time. It was very liberating. He giggled a little as they landed, letting his wings still remain unfurled and present. It was a beautiful night, very dark, but with his own eyes, he could still see quite well. Every part of him felt light and full of joy. It reminded him of the day he and Castiel had sung together on a mountain top.

Castiel: Cas looked up, taking in the stars and the drifting trails of the energies of creation, not yet spent. Father's thumbprints. Looked out over the sea and the healthy plethora of elementals, dancing along shore and water, playing freely, shifting their forms between wisps of light and the forms of animals. Took a deep breath and hummed out a few notes in his own voice, drifting harmony, and again felt the keen and aching realization that for that moment, there was only one angel's voice.

Samandriel: Samandriel felt a tiny jolt in his heart when he heard those notes and joined in in his own voice. The stars seems so bright and the sky so vast, like eternity was spilling out before them.

Castiel

Cas huffed a laugh at that, with his borrowed lungs, but mentally shrugged to himself and sat down on the rock towards the edge by the sea, high up. And sang. Soft, at first, just notes instead of words, shivering down his frame both physical and metaphysical for hearing his brother's voice, the melody to his harmony. And then went from notes to sing higher, two songs at once but both perfectly matched, half the layers of his voice for one, and half for the other; above, the song of the first light Father created. Below, as ever, ​Holy holy holy, the Lord God Almighty,​ who was, and is...

...and is to come.

No longer. God was gone, and the last of His power resided beside of him in the form of his brother and near-twin. Out to sea, the elementals slowed, stopped and listened; all around, all of the things only angels could see slowed, stopped and listened.

Samandriel: Samandriel felt a surge of feeling overwhelm him as his own voice swelled, answering his brother's and singing with it, both voices twining as though one voice, the music of one, unimaginable instrument that none had heard of or seen. Among the last of their kind, nearly all others and gone, and here they were, singing, continuing to exist and be what angels were. The muse couldn't help but wonder if there were any others but then who might here them. Together in the beginning, together in the end. He wove more songs with his brother, of the stars and of things that were new and green.

Castiel: It was an aching sort of feeling; poignant. Pleasure and pain, exaltation and lamentation as only music could ever be, something ethereal and beautiful. Cas didn't have to whisper, not singing with his brother, and so he didn't; sang out loud enough to reach the heavens above. Not his universe or his Heaven, but raised his voice enough to swirl with his brother's around the wreckage of Father's throne, around the silent ash of the Host, stirring sweet and joyful and sorrowful, all at once. He let his brother choose the direction of their songs, all while maintaining the reverent call to worship God, even if God couldn't hear them anymore.

Samandriel: Samandriel sang loud and fiercely, as if to let all things in creation know that the time of the angels was not over yet, not even if they were among the last remaining. It reminded him of the days of the war, how he'd sung on his own on Earth, for all to hear as the battle raged on upstairs. It had been difficult at times, to keep his strength, to still let his voice be heard, to try to drown out the din and let some part of the universe still sound as angels were meent to sound, joyful. Now he had his brother to sing with him, to be strong for and to keep him strong. Heaven's hosts may have fallen into silence, but he was less alone than he had been then, and though it was devastating, it was not time for despair. Perhaps now was time for rebirth and growth. He continued to sing, loud and true, weaving melodies that lamented and remembered and rejoiced and expressed admiration for all that had been. He thought on what he'd said to Adam about discovering what it truly meant to be an angel outside of the act of simply being of that species. This was what it meant. There was no question now.

Castiel: Samandriel was alternately making him smile and breaking his heart, all at the same time. Where his voice was the brighter, fiercer and clearer one, Cas's was always the one under it, nuanced and layered, the undertones of grief and regret, of joy and what it meant to sing before war. Of watching stars being born, of fish on shorelines, of species beginnings and endings. Wove the undernotes and sometimes matched the overnotes, soaring crescendo and softened decrescendo. He sang along, vessel's eyes sliding closed at the rush of feeling, made no less intense by having a physical form to feel it through, as well as the pure emotion of simply being what they were. This part which no one but another angel could understand, what it meant to sing and feel creation hum back on bands only the Host could ever hear, glorifying Father's creation with their voices. And singing for all of the voices silenced.

Samandriel: Note upon note in a song that made the universe and all that was in it want to stop and listen. It was eerie and mystical and almost alien all at once, and beyond measure, it was beautiful. Samandriel's heart sored with the music, though there was pain and longing too, coupled with great loneliness, far greater than most could understand. He felt all of it in his soul. He was overwhelmed by so many emotions at once, grief, joy, pain, elation, most of all he felt free. As his thoughts wandered while he sang, he found himself wondering if his daughter would be able to hear his true voice without pain, as Adam could, whether it was something one could be learn or adapt to or whether it was simply a genetic capability.

Castiel

Cas wove in more notes as Samandriel let his heart soar; that was the thing about angelic voices, he could hear every emotion in his brother's voice, and knew every single one of his were on display. There was no hiding the joy of singing again, as he was made to do long before he became a soldier. Nor any of the ambivalent ache of no longer being a soldier. Nor any of the aching sorrow, for the loss of a Father he did not ever really know the heart of. Nor the loneliness and grief, for the loss of all of those voices he sang and fought and loved alongside of. Nor any of the wistfulness, the gentle hopes, the great fears.

Nor the exquisite understanding of the beauty of all things.

He wove the undernotes and with it their names, one by one, starting with Michael's, then Lucifer's. Raphael. Gabriel, and an echoing cry of the Messenger's perfect call they once responded to with ​gloria!​, long ago. In their creation order, one by one, no thought to time at all; the names of angels, even their fallen, who were all once one Host.

Saying goodbye.

Samandriel: As they sang, the pain of the emotions he'd been going through with the loss of the Host was easing. It felt good to have so much of what he was feeling on display without having to say a word. That was the wonderful thing about his true voice. He couldn't hide how he was feeling in it. He joined in the remembering of names with his brother. It was a relief to be giving them a proper lamentation and the pain actually felt good.

Castiel: Cas did not leave any out. Not the ones who cut him in battle, not the ones who fought by his side, and not the ones who never fought at all. And even though he had not resolved all of his feelings, he didn't leave Naomi out, either. Not so much for what she became, but for who she once had been, with two siblings she had not asked to be pulled from the sides of no more than he had asked to be pulled from his brother's. Named each, one at a time; some, his tones warmed and ached harder. Some were more ethereal and distant. But all of them were once one choir singing, joyful, for love of God and all things which God made.

Samandriel: Samandriel felt his heart ache too as the names were listed, as for his brother, some more than others. He felt strange when Naomi's name came up. He still hadn't forgiven her, nor was he necessarily over wanting revenge, even with their numbers being so few now. But he was glad to still have her in the list. It helped though, to include her, to see her as just another angel like all the others, not as some kind of horrible being with so much power over him still. It was the first time he'd really felt like he was taking back the power she had over him.

Castiel: Twilight bled into the sky, and still the angels sang; thousands of names, to go through. Sang as the sky brightened and shifted, another day in Father's garden; birds awoke and the nocturnal animals moved to sleep, and still they sang and sang, each name. Castiel left out only the living; Balthazar's name, not in the list. But he left in his native-universe counterpart's name, who even if he did not agree with him on many things, deserved marking there as well. And wondered again, some, that his Samandriel had been left behind and how much that must sometimes ache.

Samandriel: It didn't seem like a lot of time had passed, yet soon the sky was growing light and morning was coming, yet still, Samandriel felt the need to continue to sing. He, too, felt some strange emotions for Castiel's name, wondering how much that must hurt for his native-verse twin. His heart felt lighter than it had when they'd begun, as if he's sung some of the pain away.

Castiel: The light had come almost full force, by the time they finished the last name, which was this universe's Castiel. From there, this Cas slipped from singing to humming, winding down to something softer and more ethereal, feeling more emotionally drained than anything physical at the moment. Not a bad feeling, though. Just a sort of settling, of the weight in his borrowed chest, acceptance of a quiet sort. Completely unaware of the tear tracks left behind. The tones of his voice softened, but brightened from their mix of lamentation and celebration, sometimes more or less, to something meandering which called to mind the dawn and the break of light and color into the sky.

Samandriel: Samandriel followed suit, gradually letting his voice wind down as well. He'd been crying too, though he hadn't been any more aware of it than Castiel had been. The brightening song, lifted the other angel's spirits some, from the heaviness of the lamentation and remembrance of names. He sang now of the coming of light to the sky, of creation, and of Father.

Castiel: Cas kept accompaniment, though not with words, letting his voice hum notes instead, a softer sort of compliment. Watching the Mediterranean sky burn gold and the seas turn slowly blue; little wonder he had felt so comfortable here, where the bandwidths of colors were close to his own, and soothing just the same. He didn't stop humming to pull off his shirt and let loose his wings, letting the new sunlight from the east hit them and warm them some.

Samandriel: Samandriel spread his wings too and went to the shores, where he undressed, still singing and danced in the waves and let the sand spread through his toes. He danced amongst the waves, starting to feel giddy and joyous. The water felt good on his wings and he was feeling very free.

Castiel: That made Cas laugh in his borrowed voice, even as he kept humming along in his own. Rubbing his salt-tracked face, and watching his brother play, still just barely in range.

[jasperlion]

The lands of Hel are as desolate as a nightmare he had a lifetime ago; dry, parched, and dead — it has nothing to give, and no one to feed. It’s shambling inhabitants, shadows of their old selves, merely meander here, aimless like driftwood in the unforgiving seas until their next order finally grants direction and purpose. And, once they again meet their demise, they return.

A never-ending cycle of servitude with no escape, for no one could truly escape death herself.

Alm refused to wander without purpose, even if he had long since given up thoughts of escape (he’s tried), and so he oft finds himself standing perfectly still. A silent, standstill vigil of a useless sentry among sentries. 

It’s not like it’s useful to try and speak with his fellows, not when many from the world of his own looked to him with disdain — a disdain he understands well enough, all things considered. He is a failure, through and through, and there’s no use denying it when he stands as irrefutable proof, his cause of death and moment thereof showing that when he was needed most, he had been unable to push through.

It made sense to shun the failed hero, forsaken by his fate and his mad Gods. An end he’s been forced to accept, as there is no defying death.

... There is no defying death.

An order is called, and like a siren call, he must answer. With a groan of his bones and a heave of his throat, he finds himself in motion, but to where he is not certain. All he knows is that he must, and thus he does, destination unknown to all but whom commands him so.

The scenery, at first, fails to change — it is death he sees, but the grounds are barren and color-less, the pressure is stale and unmoving. Yet, there is an altar... in the distance, where the air is red, and the pressure feels unbearable. From his position, even then, he could feel the intensity of their regret.

And soon, as he pushes through the rich red fog the closer he gets, it becomes unbearable.

He is commanded to stop.

The souls here are incomplete, screaming of regret, howling in pain, yet unable to take form or shape. They are lives unfulfilled like his own, yet fragments alone, pieces left to be picked up, remnants of emotions and pieces of souls. The pressure feels like claws, grasping and grappling, grabbing at him.

... It’s not the pressure. All he can do is hold in a visceral scream, it feels like burning, burning, shrieking spirits clawing into him to take hold of whatever they could, to use him as conduit, as some sort of transport, flashes of their final pains shooting through him—

                                       The lance of a maddened knight pierces into his chest as he laughs and laughs

         breaking into his soul and tearing it asunder while trying to search and find a place to fit well enough to work with this shambled form he found himself in—

          He slips on his footing and the lance of the prince in black finds its mark 

a patchwork fiend crafted of failed souls that howled and screamed for a second chance and—

      sees himself facing the giant eye of a God as his body feels like it burns, a call so familiar screaming out his name

he feels himself fade and hum between all the of them. All of their pain, all of their suffering, more and more crawls under his ‘skin’ and into his mind as he’s forced to witness his own deaths. Over and over, they slip inside, and their grief is his own as he becomes unable to tell where he ends and another begins. Where it’s ‘him’ and where it’s ‘someone else’. He feels their pains, his pains, the sorrows of work unfulfilled.

And then, there is silence.

                     The air doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

His— Their gaze turns towards a path so often treaded, a door so recently opened, and a harsh command rings within.

“Go.”

The Røkkr does not think twice before decisive steps take them away. And Askr will not be ready.

[combustiblegarbage]

so i rewatched the first 4 eps of 03 with @petalbridges last night and here are some thoughts:

i’ve seen the first 3 episodes so many times. So Many Times. So. Many. Times.

as someone who at the time of my original watch of fma was religious and was struggling with trying to fit in with friends (who were not that good of friends in retrospect lol) by really getting invested in like, bible study and religion to a degree that would later come back to bite me in the gay ass, i see why this twigged me as a kid

them leading with such a strong and explicit religious theme (tho it’s technically about a sun god it’s undeniably christian in nature, with the form of prayer/worship and other religious conventions like “Father” cornello and even the priestlike clothing he wears) and then like....proceeding to have the main character demonstrate how religion is a Sham Dogma for men who want Power is kind of a bold move man!!

placing so much emphasis on faith and the importance thereof, and the other bold move of having rose at the end say “i wish you’d never come here, we weren’t hurting anyone, why couldn’t you just let us believe what we believed in peace?!?” is both A) tied to the larger themes of equivalent exchange, cuz at the end of the series the boys’ one rock-solid foundation for their entire understanding of the world will be called into question and they’ll decide: no! it’s important to believe in something! ([ed ep 50 voice] i thought i didn’t have to believe in something, dad, but i do) which neatly brackets the series

and B) it’s also tied to the larger ongoing theme that intervention in a problem is always going to make it worse, that looking into things is always going to escalate, that there’s a spreading stain and guess what! you’re complicit in it!!! ([ed ep 48 voice] there’s never going to be a war that isn’t in some way caused by all of us)

ed is positioned as this rational and scientific stalwart who only believes in what he can see and is skeptical of everything else, but then as the flashbacks unfold we really see that there’s an Emotional basis for what he’s saying. u know why he doesn’t like father cornello pretending he can bring back the dead? because you CAN’T bring back the dead. ed knows. he tried.

and yet despite ed being a bit of an fedora wearing atheist asshole, there’s a little bit of him that says things flatly to rose like, “i hope he is a miracle-worker, rose.” which is....probably not tru cuz ed likes being right lol but it also sort of shows his intentions as being, like...he’s not out here to hurt people. he’s not doing this to prove to rose she’s a Dumb Idiot, he really believes that in a naive sense that people shouldn’t believe things that are lies - even if it brings them comfort! which is a childish view of the world influenced by equivalent exchange (the truth will set u free, it will be Worth It in the end, intellectual mastery over the world is the most important and rewarding thing) and exactly the sort of thing dante will take him to task for at the end of the series ([dante ep49 voice] a lie we tell to comfort the oppressed and make children do their lessons]

another note: 03 was EXCEPTIONAL with its creepy gross body horror and even to this day the choking throaty noises the bird-resurrected-boyfriend-chimera makes are viscerally skin-crawling, as is father cornello’s Smile as he Lets rose see the chimera before trying to dispose of her

all in all, the first liore arc is a solid setup to a story that will neatly come back there and draw on those themes at the end of its narrative. which is exceptionally cool given that the 03 creators were drawing on manga content, which obviously didn’t go the direction 03 did. so they constructed their own meaning out of it, which is really well done

also, i forgot the first filler happens literally in ep4 (with the dolls and the butchy lil girl and the blue roses), and while it’s Definitely a filler, it also sets up a lot of themes about resurrection that we’ll continue to explore in the rest of the series. majhal didn’t want the real life version of his old love who was right in front of his eyes: he wanted the version of her he’d constructed in his head, the version of her he’d become obsessed with and wanted to recreate

one of the recurring threads of the homunculi is that people create homunculi, and then refuse to take responsibility for the creature they’ve created because it’s not their mother/lover/child/etc, not what they Wanted, but instead a whole new person with wants and needs and conflicting desires of their own. it draws on the arrogance of wanting to bring someone back to life to begin with, and what if they’re not what you want? what if you’re not doing it for them, but really for yourself?

(incidentally izumi is an amazing case study in this cuz she’s the one character who DOES take responsibility for what she did and also fully is aware that what she did was for herself out of grief and pain. i’m looking forward to revisiting her story)

anyway, those are all my thoughts for now!!! i’ll probably be streaming more eps later as i make it thru the series

[faithfultosceptical]

Crisis of Faith

I opened this blog a while ago because I wanted to write about my post-Christian experience. I haven’t written anything yet and the blog has been sitting empty for a while now because I figured I should start with why I deconverted in the first place but here’s the thing: I don’t know. Not that I don’t have reasons for not believing, I do. But I think the turbulence of that time in my life means that a lot of my memories are very mixed up and I’m sure some things are simply missing. So let me try to explain as clearly as I can why I left Christianity. 

Let’s start at the beginning then. I have a fairly typical Christian story; born into a Christian family and went to church and Sunday school from the start. I was baptised when I was exactly 2 months old. You know the drill. Around the time I started secondary school I started to think about taking my faith more seriously rather than simply attending church and getting on with my life. 

I can’t say I ever really questioned the truth of the claims of my church. By the time I came across people who opposed Christianity I had already had “spiritual” experiences that “proved” to me that it was true. In these early teenage years I was a lot more focused on being the best Christian possible than questioning the truth of it. 

The first time I really wrestled with god was when a family member passed away when I was about 14. I was devastated, obviously, but as well as the bereavement was my belief that having not been a Christian he would be going to hell. I felt incredible guilt at not trying harder to convert him and incredible grief that he was suffering. I was angry but I directed that anger in on myself and decided that I had to do better. I had to be a better Christian and evangelist.

Throughout my teenage years I had a lot of guilt and shame around not being a good enough Christian. On the outside I presented a front of being a godly woman but behind closed doors I didn’t meet those standards of perfection. A lot of the shame I felt came from discovering sexuality, masturbating and watching pornography and simply having “impure thoughts” wracked me with guilt and I began to really hate myself, my body, and my sexuality. A lot more guilt came from feelings that I now recognise as anxiety and maybe depression (I was never diagnosed with depression) but at the time I put down to not trusting god enough and not having the fruit of the spirit. I felt unworthy. Unworthy of god’s love and unworthy of the respect of my fellow Christians. I tried to fight those feelings of unworthiness with acts of service in the church and by spending as much time as possible either in church activities or in personal study of the scriptures.

This continued into university until I was attending either church or the Christian Union at my university probably every day of the week. During my second year of university I was asked to join the Christian Union committee. I felt like a fraud when I was asked, like they must have it wrong and think I was a better Christian than I was (because I was still wanking) but I felt a “calling from god” and agreed. It was an intense year. The Christian Union became my life. Evangelism was all that really mattered and I felt a great sense of obligation to be the perfect godly woman and to win the campus for Jesus. For a year I was in a little bubble of Christian evangelism and I was so busy with all of the commitments I had made that there wasn’t much time to question or doubt. 

When my time on the committee came to an end that changed. I had carved out so much time from my schedule to make space for the things I’d taken on that when that role ended I suddenly had a lot of thinking time. All of the feelings I had been pushing down and getting on with for the past year started to surface and I felt awful and alone. This was when I realised that I might have anxiety and depression having only previously understood the colloquial use of the words. I started to really wrestle with my faith. How could god command me to not be anxious about anything and then give me and illness that made me anxious? How could he promise fruits of the spirit which were joy and peace and then give me an illness that made me feel the opposite? I prayed and I prayed but nothing changed. I had a lot of questions for god but it took me a long time to start doubting his truth. 

As well as the emotional questions I was having I was also starting to question a lot of doctrinal issues. I felt the church in general was becoming a lot more liberal and adapting to secular views. This was about the time that the Church of Scotland had accepted gay ministers, for example. I figured that the bible was either all true for all times or none of it was true. I wasn’t ready for it not to be true so I went even more conservative (head coverings and all). I did a lot of mental gymnastics trying to reconcile my conscience to the bible’s moral teachings but at the end of the day I couldn’t justify the two.

I’m not sure what was the straw that broke the camel’s back but between my emotional struggle with god and my budding feminist values Christianity simply stopped making sense and I stopped believing. 

My deconversion was an emotional one more than a logical one but I’ve since looked into evidence, or lack thereof, that has convinced me that I made the right decision. Losing my faith was hard and scary but now, I don’t think that my crisis of faith was much of a crisis at all. 

[ragarza]

The Shape of the Wind

Madame Monet, Woman with a Parasol

Today I had been reflecting on the shape of the wind.

When there’s snow outside, the passage of the wind is often embodied until it grazes over the powder. It moves indiscriminately and with no apparent direction.

This made me reflect on human emotion and how often times we struggle to direct our emotions into specific directions; into linear paths.

Then it got me thinking about this perceived notion of how we are supposed to feel. We are supposed to be happy, joyful and if we are lucky, albeit briefly, ecstatic. But what if emotions behave like the wind? What if fortunes or the lack thereof have no apparent direction and flow indiscriminately?

We would therefore find ourselves vexed in unending cycles of excitements and disappointments. I find, nowadays, this has almost become the status quo in that we accept this binary state of mind as an inescapable aspect of our human condition. We measure our lives by the amount times we meet our expectations and call that success. The more successful we are, the happier we are, the better off we are.

But what if, by extension, success behaved like the wind? What if the amount of times our expectations were met happened the same number of times the wind crossed a reference point?

I remember, having a thought where I imagined that if a drop of water would fall when I expected it to, then I was doing the right thing in my life. Has an idea like this ever crossed your mind? It goes to show for the conditioning we’ve had to measure our welfare as the amount of times we are “right”. But what if being right wasn’t associated with our concept of self-worth?

There was an essay by Albert Camus, which really influenced me in my life, titled: “The Myth of Sisyphus”. In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was a king who was punished to push a boulder atop an unending mountain until eternity. Camus argues that we can imagine Sisyphus being happy. Whereas his expectation was never to be met (getting the boulder on top of the mountain), he nevertheless pursued to push it.

Sisyphus (image from Performance Insight)

From here, a whole school of nihilists emanates arguing for the lack of meaning in life or the concept of absurdism. The idea that life is but a bad joke or an irony.

In that realization, I find relief. Its almost as if we were asking the wrong question the whole time, “what’s my purpose?” is followed by “what am I?” and “what am I?” is followed by nothingness.

Cogito, ergo sum, my twinsie René Descarte was quoted as saying “I think, therefore I am”. This quote had troubled me for a very good number of years until I realized that we are but a fabrication of our own thoughts. You following? How does this relate to the wind? I’m going for a stretch here but what if we are the wind, which we can feel but only really see when there’s snow lying around? What if we only become embodied when we draw powder from externalities? What if like the wind, even when we want to think of ourselves as something more, we are really just free flowing entities?

To try to reach a conclusion or comforting thought (as it relates to meeting expectations) would defeat the whole premise of this article, which is that we exist to exist. That maybe, just maybe, entertaining the idea that there may not be any apparent destination would allow us to flow freely, to adopt and to experience like the wind.

But what if, as a side product, we find purpose?

I often think of the artist, the architect or the musician who while working really hard, their efforts seem, well, effortless. How, while they spend their whole lives mastering their craft, they seem to be enjoying the process?

Forrest Gump, the movie, has a centering thought that stuck with me for a long time. In the movie, the main character, wonders whether we have a destiny in life or if we are just floating freely, like leaves falling from a tree. In the closing scene, when he mourns his late wife, he brings this question up again and in grief, seems to reconcile that maybe we are both. Maybe we both have a destiny and we are also floating around.

In Jewish thought, there’s a central idea about struggle. While other schools of thought like Hindusim, argue for uninterrupted flow, as one of the profound truths Forrest Gump reveals, Judaism then reveals another truth, the idea of struggle as being a part of the human condition. The idea that where there is comfort, there is also struggle.

So what if, in order to stir away from the idea of idolizing wind and maybe create a god out of it, we just contemplate on the idea of purposed flow? The idea that while flow seems random and submitted to the shape of the stream we can actually purpose it?

What if, we can flow and direct our lives at the same time? What if flow, as opposed to an ends in itself just represents the shape of our wake like an acrobatic plane passing by, or a brush of the stroke of Monet or a melody of B.B. King?

What if we can all be artists and flow indiscriminately and yet deliberately? What if we can make the effortful seem effortless and celebrate the idea that joy lies in the process, and not the outcome?

What a thought would that be...

[dculegacy]

Supergirl: Legacy

Chapter Twenty Three: You are not alone, Supergirl

Kara’s eyes slowly opened, still flooded with tears from her near brush with death. Somehow she was unscathed, still kneeling but now facing the back of an armor clad woman wielding a shield. The woman smirked at the man hovering above having stopped his final blow with relative ease. Supergirl however could barely force herself to move an inch, overwhelmed by both immense grief and pain. No matter how much she wanted to help she just couldn't find the strength within herself to be of any use and before she knew it, she collapsed. Black Adam peered down, enraged upon seeing a still breathing Supergirl and a new interloper here to mingle in affairs that did not concern them.

“Princess of the Amazons, this is not your fight. Your interference is a declaration of war against me, one that will not stop with your defeat.” The self proclaimed God set foot on the desecrated streets before the challenger. “Consider those you love before you take another step.”

Wonder Woman grinned, taking a few steps toward Adam in defiance. “I am. Your reign ends here, let's see how you fare with a real God!” “Have it your way then!” Adam threw aside his cape, conjuring electricity in his hands before lunging forward. Upon his approach however came a loud crack from the skies above, a still burning Superman swooped down to meet Adam with fist, sending him hurling back past buildings with immense speed. Wonder Woman stopped in her tracks, side stepping the high speed collision by just merely an inch. Clark stood up slowly, smoke and heat still radiating off his suit from the reentry from space.

“Diana.” Superman glanced over his shoulder, adopting a warm smile at the sight of his friend. “Clark.” The Amazon warrior blew the displaced hair out of her face, “You have impeccable timing.” “He was playing my song, hard not to dance.” The Kryptonian dusted off his hands, now standing upright. “You look.. Good. Bruce tells me you've been spending some time in Gotham with a friend of his.” Wonder Woman raised an eyebrow at the mention of their mutual friend but quickly shifted focus back on his clandestine activities. “So you have been away with Batman.” Wonder Woman shook her head. “Did I forget to mention that? It's-” Wonder Woman quickly drew her shield in anticipation an attack. “The time for talk is later!”

Soon after she shouted Adam had flown back, charging into the middle of the duo before unleashing a flurry of punches. Both Superman and Wonder Woman were well versed in hand to hand but the Kryptonian found himself outfoxed in comparison to his ally. Black Adam exploited this weakness, pressuring Clark with not only his skill but magical attributes that all Kryptonians were vulnerable to. Wonder Woman noticed his efforts however and as soon as the villain tried to strike Superman again she quickly threw her shield to the Kryptonian to give him the upper hand. With shield in hand Adam was smacked away, feeling back from the great force.

“We need a plan, Diana. One that doesn't involve an all out fight in the city.” Superman caught his breath, admiring the craftsmanship of the shield for a moment before tossing it back to its owner. “Thanks for the assist.” “We have to get him out of the city then put an end to him. The longer we try to subdue him the more people we stand to lose.” Wonder Woman was quick to the point, judgement set in stone. “I was thinking something more feasible.” Clark reasoned, uncertain if a being like Adam was even able to perish from normal feats. “I know something that can hold him, we just have to get him there.”

A large crowd gathered on the outskirts of the city, a herd of people shuffled behind blockades at the behest of police officers and firefighters who positioned them for their safety. People clamored, shocked, dismayed and traumatized by the tragedy they barely escaped. Almost all of the city was here, having left during the height of the battle between Black Adam and Supergirl. Several skyscrapers were either toppled outright or set ablaze. In the midst of the crowd stood Lena Luthor, her skin smudged from her narrow escape from a burning building. Despite her recent brush with death her mind was laser focused on trying to contact anyone and everyone who might have the faintest idea about what exactly was happening inside the city. No matter who she called she got no answer, in all her frantic scrolling and typing she accidentally answered a call not realizing who was on the other side.

“Hello?!” Lena put the phone to her ear expecting to hear some reassuring answers. The unexpected sultry voice of the red hair reporter Vicki Vale surprised Lena however. “Lena, it’s so good to hear your voice. Are you in the city? Did you make it out?” The CEO nodded her head, tripping on her own words as she realized who it was. “Vick-yes, I'm fine, I'm fine. How'd you know to call, do you have any idea what's happening?” “I've got my sources but that's why I called, did you see anything. No one knows what's happening, I can get ahead of everyone on this-” Realizing she was being probed for information in a situation where her friends and Kara were in stake, the young CEO suddenly erupted. “Is that you called me for? Information? You have the audacity to phone me in search of another headline? People are dying, Vicki. Do you have a single shred of decency left in your body?” Vale scoffed, barking back with her own self assured righteousness. “I'm reporting the news, Lena. People need to know what's happening, I'm-” The young Luthor abruptly interrupted her, losing her composure. “A snake. Your tabloid journalism is a joke. It almost lacks as much substance as you, Vicki. Lose my number.. don't call me again.”

Lena knew her outburst was in part due to what was going on in the city but she couldn't be bothered to feign the slightest of care about the reporter’s emotions or lack thereof. The last time she saw Kara she was being beaten mercilessly at the hands of Black Adam and her mind could only imagine what horrors she was enduring now. Her lip quivered as the thoughts raced in her mind, fighting back tears as water welled in each corner of her eyes.

The debris of collapsing buildings formed a cloud of smoke over the streets of National City, bits and pieces of paper floated aimlessly around every corner. A dedicated group of firefighters and police officers were still searching through the wreckage, looking for survivors and anyone in need of assistance. Maggie was amongst them, now donning proper rescue gear so she wouldn't succumb to the hazardous fumes around them.

The detective took the lead, directing them toward a building that was brimming with smoke and flame.

“This is it, last one we need to clear. Breach on my signal.” The cop analyzed the structure before them, judging the damage sustained and the risk they might be taking upon entering. She had concerns but the lives at stake outweighed the risk. “Are we good?” The young men holding their axes in anticipation of her response looked to her for confirmation, trusting her judgement. Maggie closed her fist, giving the go ahead to the men to knock their way inside. “We have to move quickly, this building is compromised and the fire is still burning where it counts.”

The group scoured every inch of the charred area, looking high and low for any sign of life. The group discovered a few civilians left behind, their skin black from the ashes. Maggie leaned down, wiping away the grit from one of their faces so she could better see her own. Her face radiated with warmth, dimples showing and all. With the civilians in tow they rushed for the door but were cut off by the collapse of the entryway. Maggie turned on her heel, looking for another solution but the imminent collapse was making it hard to focus. The ceiling suddenly gave way, falling toward the fighters who all braced for a sudden and painful death. However the impact never came and as they looked up they saw all the debris suspended in a blue field of energy. At the center of it all was a woman in red, white and blue; an S embroidered on her chest. The woman smirked uneasily before telling them to go.

“Don't just stare at me, go!” The woman’s eyes radiated of a pure heat as a concentrated beam of orange launched toward what used to be the entryway. Now with an exit the group got the survivors to safety but not before thanking the mysterious woman in white.

[emathevampire]

the first 10 of the OC asks for Kihyue and Amanthos (my two favs to read about)

OH BOY ahhhh thanks for the ask! I love these boys and talked too much, oops. Okay, so, long series of answers under the cut here. Sorry this took me so long! Kíhyué is Amanthos’ hero, he trained hard to try and be just like the best demon hunter in the world so as a result they’ve both got very similar D&D stat spreads and builds (Amanthos is 6/20/-/30/11/14,Kíhyué is 10/20/8/30/14/6)... and they’re both know-it-all nerds who are stronger than they look.

Read on to hear about their voice, smile, achievements, insecurities and shortcomings, coping mechanisms, theme songs, favourite foods, and fashion sense (or rather, lack thereof).

1: their voice Kíhyué speaks softly, in a low monotone littered with archaic phrasing, bitter sarcasm, and deadpan snark. The only emotions it ever shows are salt, grief, grumpiness, disdain, and on rare occasions, that “passionate professor” voice breaks out of its cage when something excites him. He speaks so many languages and has travelled so extensively that his accent is impossible to decipher as it is many blended together, but the absence of contractions from his vocabulary is a dead giveaway to his race, first language, and country of origin. Think about how Vulcans in Star Trek usually talk, and you’ve got a pretty good idea of how he sounds.Amanthos is also Kamatian and a master of linguistics so his mannerisms and accent are similar to Kíhyué’s, but his voice is higher pitched, louder, and has the full spectrum of inflections and emotions. Kíhyué swears frequently (with such colourful things as “cyfr t’n ejj” and “nq’ytaar-ath”), but Amanthos is more reserved by human standards when under stress and usually only slips up with contractions and slurred words, which as far as their native tongue is concerned is a worse offense than an F-bomb.

2: their smile Kíhyué’s got great teeth, they’re surprisingly straight and intact for someone who’s spent their entire life getting the shit kicked out of them, but the scars on his face twist a grin into an awkward half grimace, and no matter what his mouth looks like the emotion in his eye is almost never matching (in fact, there’s rarely any). He’s seen with a pretty much perpetual scowl, Psamion jokes that he can’t laugh more than once or twice a century or he’ll explode… but that’s not entirely true. He just only sees Psamion a few times a century. The closest he usually gets is a Spock-ish smirk or a raised eyebrow, and even that’s a rare occurrence.Amanthos, on the other hand, tends to wear his heart on his sleeve and will beam with glee for hours if someone shows him a weird bug or asks him about quantum physics. He grins like an idiot with his whole damn face getting into it, he has the opposite of the resting bitch face problem (unless he’s reading). He might be dead but his eyes have infinitely more life and spark in them thanKíhyué’s one does.

3: their greatest achievement For Kíhyué, making his sword and fleeing his homeland to become the world’s greatest demon hunter and a hero to the common people. For Amanthos, it was meeting his hero Kíhyué before getting turned into an uncommon person for science and chucked out of their universe to go explore the multiverse.

4: their insecurities oh god, where do I even start with Kíhyué? I mean it all comes down to him believing he’s cursed because his mother died giving birth to him, and that because his birth caused death no amount of good deeds done or other lives saved can make his existence worthwhile. So basically, feeling worthless and evil, which is amplified every time he fails.Amanthos’ problem mostly comes down to him being hyper-lawful, so every time he makes a mistake he feels dirty and dishonourable and beats himself up about it. He literally keeps a list of every “crime” he’s committed, even though most of them are accidents that people have already told him not to worry about.

5: their shortcomings Kíhyué is terrible at talking to people, he hates governments and laws because they get good people hurt and prevent him from helping where he’s needed. So he’s frequently breaking the rules for the greater good, and is utter garbage at getting himself out of trouble when (there’s no if, it’s just an inevitable WHEN) he gets caught. So he’s spent a lot of time in jail, escaping jail, and living on the run. It doesn’t matter how many aliases he tries, it’s impossible to disguise his features, and he has the charisma of a rock that’s too smart for its own good. He has that Sherlockian problem of being impatient with those of “lesser intellect” to his own, and frequently says a lot of rude bullshit that gets him in trouble because his tongue, unlike Amanthos’, is more often than not a tactless blunt instrument that doesn’t care who it injures so long as it gets its point across.The shortcomings of Amanthos can generally be summed up as vanity and an overwhelming need for control, even when controlling a situation is impossible. He does not do well in a party where every single member except for himself is chaotic. The half-minotaur is at least a good person who’s easy to direct. Everyone else? He wishes he could say they drive him to drink, but drinking doesn’t even help.

6: how they deal with grief Short answer? Not well. Kíhyué tends to run away from it, literally. Maybe he’ll come back to it in another 300 years or so, in the hopes that everyone else will have forgotten it or forgiven it, because if they have, maybe so can he. Amanthos really hasn’t HAD much grief. Like, he had a relatively happy childhood, all his family and friends are alive and they parted on good terms... the only time he was really confronted with that emotion was when Danae played his funeral dirge and he was finally hit with the permanency of his actions. So I think for now he’s mostly just afraid of it. He knows he’ll fail to protect someone, or he’ll outlive someone he cares about eventually, and he’s got no clue what that will do to him... so he’s scared of what that will be like.

7: how they like to dress they have both worn roughly the same things for thousands of years.Kíhyué wears long black leather trousers, black knee-high soft soled pull-on boots, a white and grey linen button up shirt with a high collar that fits snugly. Covered by a padded, embroidered gambeson and scale shirt, scale and leather gloves, black leather sword belt and sheath, sword, dagger, boot knife. Long hooded grey travelling cloak. He made all of this himself.Amanthos has worn the same monk robes since he received them about a millenium ago, along with a tattered messenger back, soft leather boots and gloves, and the holy symbol of his god of time and knowledge.

8: what they like to eat Amanthos eats whatever is most aesthetically pleasing and within reach. He doesn’t really have much of a preference since he considers food a “distracting but unfortunately necessary evil.” But he does like teas, mushrooms, and fish soups, they’re comforting and remind him of home.Kíhyué, by contrast, loathes seafood, fish especially (it’s actually a pretty severe trigger for him), and gets grumpy when Arekos tries to serve him things of little to no Real Nutritional Value™. He likes mince pies and rabbit stews, and hearty grain breads with lots of seeds and nuts, smothered in clotted cream if he can get his hands on it.

9: their theme still a WIP, I haven’t found the perfect ones for them yet...Kíhyué: In My Sword I Trust, Ensiferum. The Cave, Mumford and Sons. Save Yourself, I’ll Hold Them Back, My Chemical Romance.Amanthos: Lullaby of the Crucified, Alesana. Dead!, My Chemical Romance. Heroes Of Our Time, Dragonforce.

10: their fashion sense these fucking idiots don’t have any. Kíhyué thinks fashion is overrated, and Amanthos is a useless gay who belongs to an order of librarian monks who believe that dust is sacred. Arekos is the one with the extensive couture wardrobe, which he periodically lends to Amanthos, but will NEVER share withKíhyué because he knows anything he borrows will get tracked through mud, dragged through hell, ripped, torn, possibly incinerated, definitely smothered in demon entrails and gryphon shit, and likely never returned. Also,Kíhyué is a whole foot taller than he is and a completely different build, so why would he waste time and money on alterations when he knows it’s just going to be ruined?

[fandom-imagines-stories]

And Now She’s Gone

Part one

Pairing: Archie Andrews x Reader

Words: 2694      

Summary: After the reader’s death, a grieving Archie is determined to put the man responsible behind bars. Unfortunately, without physical proof, there isn’t much he can do. While Veronica plots against her father, Archie may never forgive the secret Jughead and Betty have kept from him.

Note: This is part two of I couldn’t let them hurt you. Hope you enjoy. Don’t worry, there will be flashback stuff that's actually Archie and reader.

Archie didn’t say a word as his dad drove him home from the hospital. He didn’t say a word when they got home, or when his dad opened the passenger side door, waiting for him to get out. He didn’t move. He just stared straight ahead, not actually seeing anything. All he could see was her cold, blue, dead lips and the way her hair spread around her under the ice. He saw her hand pressing up against his hand through the frozen barrier. Her content smile as she closed her eyes.

“Arch.” His dad finally said. He still didn’t respond. “Come on inside Archie. Please.” Archie slowly shifted so that his feet landed on the ground and he walked to his porch, running his hand up the railing. Guitars played through his memory, sitting on the porch with Y/N, teaching her how to play. Fred unlocked the door and let Archie go in first. His eyes fell upon everything around him, his mind reeling with images. Late night study sessions on the couch. Making breakfast for Y/N in the kitchen. Watching her come down the stairs wearing his shirts.

It was too much. Every memory cut into him, stabbing at his heart. He couldn’t bear it.

“I can’t be here.” He pushed past his dad back out the door.

“Archie!’ Fred followed his son down the sidewalk. “Come on Arch, come back inside.”

“I can’t dad!” He yelled, not caring at this point if he woke up the entire neighborhood. “I can’t. Everything in that house reminds me of her. Everywhere I look, I see her face. I feel her frozen skin. I hear her last words over and over and over in my head.”

“You will see her no matter where you go.” His dad sighed. “There will always be some memory of her connected to every part of this town. Believe me, I know.” He ran a hand down his face. “After your mom left, I thought I couldn’t go anywhere. Every place I went, I figured out some way it reminded me of her and refused to go there again. Eventually, I could manage to start going back. It took some time, but I kept going until I didn’t feel it anymore, or at least not as much.”

“That’s different.” Archie spat. “Mom lives in Chicago. She isn’t…” He stopped himself from saying it. Once he said it, he’d have to believe it. It would be real.

“I understand why you’re upset Arch, I do.” Fred stepped towards him. “But why are you beating yourself up?”

“Because I couldn’t save her!” The words rang out through the houses, followed only by silence. Archie inhaled a sharp, pain filled breath. “I couldn’t save her. I tried, dad. I tried talking to her, but she kept moving away- like she was scared of me. When she fell through the ice, I couldn’t breathe until we found her. But I wasn’t fast enough. If I had gotten through the ice sooner, she might be… she might be alive.” Fred sighed, opening up his arms. Archie stepped into his father’s embrace, feeling like a little kid again. His body shook with sobs.

“Shhh,” his dad held onto him, wishing that there was something he could do to stop his son’s pain.

“I loved her dad.” Archie cried. “I loved her so much and now she’s just gone.”

“I know.” Fred comforted. “I know.” They stood there for nearly ten more minutes, neither saying a word. Archie cried until it felt like he had nothing left. No emotion, no senses, just one word eating at his insides. Dead. Y/N was dead. Fred pulled away slightly. “Let’s get you inside now. You must be freezing.” Archie looked down at his snow coated clothes. He hadn’t even noticed the cold until then. Forcing his feet forward, he went inside.

Jughead and Betty sat in their booth at Pop’s, both too grief stricken to speak. They had a solid piece of evidence against Hiram Lodge and they couldn’t use it. Jug didn’t even want to think about what would happen to Archie if they did. They’re had to be some kind of justice for Y/N. He couldn’t wait around until someone found something else they could use against Hiram. He just hoped it wouldn’t involve his friends. Betty picked at the fries they ordered, guilt building up inside.

“If Archie finds out we didn’t tell him about the note-”

“He won’t find out.” Jughead assured her for the eleventh time since they left the river. “After I do a little research, I’ll get rid of it.” Betty looked down at the counter. Jughead took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. “i hate doing this too. I want Hiram to pay for what he did, but we can’t use the note.”

“I know.” Betty sighed. “I just feel so awful. Y/N was our friend and we can’t do anything to avenge her.”

“It just all…” He blew out a long breath, “sucks.”

“Understatement of the year.” She said, laying her head on his shoulder. His phone rang. It was Mr. Andrews. Betty pulled away so he could answer.

“Hey Mr. Andrews.” Jug greeted grimly.

“Hey Jug, um, would you mind coming over here?” Fred watched his son standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring blankly off into some memory. Archie slowly started going up to his room. “Archie’s really torn up about all of this. I really think he could use a friend right now.”

“Of course, I’ll be right over.” Jughead stood up. “I have to go. Archie…”

“Yeah, of course, go. Archie needs you more than I do right now.” Betty followed him out of Pop’s and they went their separate ways.

Jughead thought about every time Arch had been them for him through everything as he walked to his house. Was he betraying his best friend. No. He was protecting him. Right?

Fred opened the door with a sigh of relief. He didn’t have to say anything, he just pulled Jug into his arms as if he was his own son. It took every ounce of energy Jughead had to keep from breaking down right there. He was here for Archie.

“He’s upstairs.” Fred said, pulling away and letting Jug pass. But when he reached Archie’s room and found him sitting on his bed, completely still, eyes unfocused, Jughead knew Archie was gone.

The sunlight hit your so skin perfectly, Archie couldn’t help but grin. The only sound was the steady mix of your breathing and his. He sat up from his spot on the floor, admiring your sleepy smile and the way strands of your hair stuck in every direction as you slept. He pushed a piece that had fallen in front of your face behind your ear, his fingers sending electricity over your skin. Your nose twitched and he kissed it lightly. You hummed in content.

“I should probably go home. My aunt will be-” He cut you off with a deeper kiss, moving his lips along yours. You pulled away. “I’m serious Archie-” But you were silenced once again by his lips. Every time you tried to talk, he just kissed you until you almost couldn’t breath. “Archie!”

“I’m not gonna stop until you agree to stay.” Mischief gleamed in his brown eyes and played at his smile.

“I can’t. I have to-” Once again, he pressed his lips against yours, keeping them too busy to speak. You pushed away. “Okay, I’ll stay! But only for breakfast.”

“I’ll go make some.” He smirked in victory, kissing you one last time before putting on a pair of shorts. “Waffles?”

“You know me so well Andrews.” You laughed. “Don’t forget the chocolate chips.” Archie thought for a moment.

“I don’t know… we might be out.” He said sarcastically. You threw a pillow at him on his way out. Memories of the night before played through your mind and you giggled, running your fingers through your hair. Throwing off the blankets, you grabbed one of Archie’s shirt and started down the stairs. You stopped halfway, eyes wide, embarrassment flooding your cheeks with red.

“Morning.” Jughead greeted, eyebrow raised, looking over your clothing- or lack thereof. “I see someone had an eventful evening.” You narrowed your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face.

“Shut up.” You passed him, ignoring the whistle that followed. Archie stood over the stove, the smell of bacon wafting towards you. The waffle maker beeped so he flipped it and placed the tower of golden butter goodness onto a plate.

“Sorry about Jug,” he said, handing you the plate, adding some of the crisp bacon to the side. “I forgot he’d be here. Which was stupid, cause he lives here.” You ruffled your fingers through his ginger locks, pressing your lips just below his ear, at the top of his jaw.

“You had a lot on your mind.” You smirked, kissing the same spot on the other side. A happy sigh escaped his mouth.

“If you two are having sex in the kitchen, I swear to God, I’m gonna throw up!” Jughead yelled from the living room and the two of you pulled apart.

“Don’t you have places to be?” You shouted back. He popped his head through the doorway, a sarcastic grin on his face.

“Nope.” He walked across the kitchen. “Oh, waffles.” Tearing off a piece of yours, he popped it in his mouth. He waved his hands dramatically as he left. “Carry on.”

 The memory burned into Archie’s mind. He didn’t even notice Jughead until he sat down next to him. Even then, he just acknowledged Jug with a weak side glance. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to get lost again, but when he opened them, he was still sitting in his room, Jughead beside him. Y/N wasn’t coming in with a pair of mugs of coffee for research on Jason’s murder with him and Jug. She wasn’t dancing around the room with her headphones in, not caring that Archie was watching. She would never do any of those things ever again. She was gone.

“Do you remember,” Jug started and Archie finally turned to look at him, “when we were in the fourth grade, Reggie and his gang of goons were teasing you because you wanted to play football with them at recess. You were scrawny back then, and they pushed you around until Y/N shoved Reggie into the dirt, put her foot down on their football and she said ‘Just because Archie’s the only one here who doesn’t throw like a girl, doesn’t mean you should be intimidated Reggie. Not everyone can play real football.’.

“Or after mom and Jellybean left, she built a fort in her aunt’s basement and made me watch sappy movies all weekend long.” Jug voice cracked and he wiped away flowing tears in vain. “All she ever did was to protect us, it didn’t matter from what.”

“Then where is she?” Archie growled. “If she was so hell bent on protecting us, then why did she leave? Now that Hiram’s coming back, we needed her more than ever and she left.”

“Arch-” Jughead shook his head. He didn’t understand. He would never understand. “Y/N loved all of us. She loved you.”

“If she loved me so much then why is she dead!?” He yelled. Jug opened his mouth to speak but Archie cut him off. “I need to try and get some sleep, okay? Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

“Yeah, sure.” Jughead sighed. “I’m gonna be leaving early, to work on the paper with Betty. She wants to write an article about…” His thoughts trailed off.

“Do whatever you want Jug.” Archie huffed before throwing the blankets over himself, burying his face in his pillow to muffle an angered scream. Jughead turned off the lights, but turned on his laptop, it’s bluish light illuminating his face. Archie ignored his troubled stares and tried to fall asleep

Veronica was searching through the files in her mother’s room, desperately trying to find something- anything about her father’s connection to Y/N. But the more she searched, the less hope she had of being able to prevent her father from coming home. All she could do, was prepare a trap for the monster when he did get back. But what?

“Looking for something?” Her mother stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. Veronica held up a group of papers that read Y/N’s mother’s name.

“What is this?” She snapped. Hermione tilted narrowed her eyes.

“A woman your father used to work with.” She answered. “Why?” Veronica’s chin quivered, her glare becoming more accusing by the second.

“Y/N is dead.” She threw the papers back on the desk. “And daddy had something to do with it.”

“Oh my god…” Hermione gasped. “What happened?”

“She killed herself mom.” Veronica cried. “Dad was threatening her, I know it. We can’t let him come back.”

“Veronica, you know I can’t-”

“No mom. I don’t know!” Veronicas shrieked. “I don’t know anything anymore. I thought I knew who my father was, and now I find out he pressured one of my best friends to drown herself  in Sweetwater River. But I do know this mother; I will stop at nothing to make sure that that bastard stays behind bars.” With those final words, she pushed past her mother and locked the door to her own room. Hermione slowly picked up the file, staring down at the woman’s picture and collapsed with sobs.

  “Come on Archie!” Y/N ran ahead of him, dancing through the trees

“Jesus, Y/N, slow down!” He laughed.

“I’m getting you in shape for football, now hurry up!” She turned around to face him, a big, beautifully goofy grin on her face. But her grin was replaced by a look of horror and suddenly they were at the river, the ground beneath her shattering like a sheet of glass.

“No!” Archie screamed and the ground beneath him started to crack. The ice collapsed and he was sent into the freezing water below. Although the tide was carrying her father away, Y/N was almost in his reach. But the faster he swam towards her, the number his body felt and the less his limbs could move.

“Hurry Archie! Why couldn’t you be faster?” Y/N hissed, her hair floating around her. Her eyes were empty, her face holding only anger and blame. “Why couldn’t you be stronger? Why couldn’t you save me?” A cold hand latched onto his ankle. He looked down in panic, finding Jason’s dead green eyes staring back up at him.

 Archie’s forehead was covered in sweat and his shirt was drenched. Y/N’s words repeated over in his mind. Why couldn’t you save me? He pushed the dream out of his head and stood, getting dressed for school, noticing the empty mattress on the floor. Then he remembered what Jughead had told him, about going in early to help Betty. He looked down at Jughead’s laptop curiously. He must have forgotten it.

Archie picked it up and a piece of paper slipped out from it. The writing was blurry, but he could still make out the words, his blood boiling the more he read, ending at the initials  HL.

  Jughead stood next to Betty’s locker as she put her things away. He had discovered something major last night that he hoped they could use.

“Y/N’s mom was working for Hiram Lodge before she quit due to ‘family troubles’.” He said, excitement of progress welling inside him. Betty raised her eyebrows.

“So?”

“So… after she quit, Y/N’s mom was killed in a jewelry store robbery two weeks later.” Jug was about to continue before Betty pointed out Archie walking towards them at an alarming speed, pure rage and betrayal radiating off him. They glanced at each other nervously. “Hey Arch-” Before he could say another word, Jughead was cut off by a right hook straight to his mouth.

Part Three

[artificialqueens]

The T (Shalaska) -Dandee

AN– I was doing my research on Pittsburgh and found out that their subway station is actually called “The T”, so that’s what pretty much inspired the entire theme of this fic. This is also my first time writing Shalaska, so feedback is more than welcome! Thank you to my lovely beta Jiggly for being amazingly detailed and encouraging, and a special thanks to Spoky for helping me out when I wanted to bang my head into my iPad and being so adorably supportive.

Songs that inspired me- Let No Grief by the Wild Reeds / The End of All Things by Panic! At the Disco

Justin stared out of the window as Pittsburgh flew by him, the old familiar dinging of the T filling his ears.

It rolled to a stop. Not his stop, though.

He watched as a few passengers stepped off the platform and hurried into their seats, no one taking a second look in his direction. They wouldn’t anyway, people rarely spoke his name these days. He’d had his heyday. Things were simpler now.

These days, Justin’s hair was peppered with gray, as well as his neatly-kept beard. These days his crown sat on the mantle, and instead a straw hat topped his head while he worked in his vineyard. These days he rarely went out after the sun went down, only every so often to the cellar, just to make sure his staff was running everything in tip-top shape. He now brought Alaska out of the cupboard only a few times a year, when he got a call from someone important. He viewed drag more as charity, more as a hobby these days.

It was a different world now, and he had a different life. So to be on the T once again, the subway that looked and operated exactly the way it did twenty years ago, holding a potted plant on his way to Allegheny felt… well, eerie.

The T dinged as it came to another stop. Still not his.

He’d been putting it off for a long time; Chad had messaged and called many times. The reality that Aaron was sick had never really sunk in. Justin was an out of sight, out of mind type of person, so if he never went to visit it was almost as if Aaron was never really sick.

If only that was how the world worked.

Justin glanced down at the cactus in his lap, then around at the inside of the train-car, his eyes eventually falling on a young couple sitting in the corner. Two young men, one pale with spiky blonde hair, leaning into the embrace of a boy with darker hair and bony elbows. They giggled together with laced fingers and closed eyes, an earbud of their shared headphones in one ear each. Justin watched them for a moment, feeling a sense of nostalgia wash over him, and when he blinked they were gone.

This subway– hell, this entire city– left him with visions of the past everywhere he looked. Aaron was all over this city, his name still covering brick walls and bathroom stalls. Being in Pittsburgh brought Justin back, brought him to the days when Sharon and Alaska were no-name slobs, the jokes of the town, convinced they were gods. Perhaps those were the simpler days. It was hard to tell.

It was on the T that they’d met.

It had played out as the stereotypical scene of online love-interests meeting for the first time in a subway station. Justin could see them now, stepping through the sliding doors, Aaron’s dazzling smile overwhelming him when they sat together awkwardly. Justin had been a nervous, knobby-kneed little thing but Aaron had been determined, and he’d asked him question after question, slowly pulling answers and personality out of the lanky queen. They’d sat in those subway seats and talked for hours, just running the line until a clerk eventually came by to check their tickets– or rather, lack thereof. They’d laughed when she’d kicked them off the train, and they had walked hand in hand back to Aaron’s apartment.

Another ding shook Justin from his thoughts. North Side, Allegheny General Hospital. This was his stop.

He squeezed himself through the people in the subway and stepped onto the platform, his eyes adjusting to the brightness of the sun as he realized the streets were no less crowded. Clutching his grocery bag and cactus to his chest, he headed down the sidewalk and began to make his way toward the giant, monumental building.

It felt even stranger to walk the streets of Pittsburgh again. This part of town had been entirely too wealthy for Justin and Aaron to ever dwell in, except of course when stirring up the occasional mischief. The smell of the air was the same, and the feel of the cool air whipping around the buildings brushed his cheeks like an old friend. The sound of cars buzzing by and the clinking of plates on patios caused his mind to wander once more, and he could suddenly see them again up ahead, hand-in-hand, a young Sharon running out of the old Italian restaurant and bounding down the stairs, dragging young Alaska behind her, who laughed wildly as she held her oversized sun hat firmly in place. He could see the owner of the restaurant running after them, shaking his first into the air and shouting Portuguese obscenities and Sharon looking back and tugging her girlfriend harder, snorting with giggles as they disappeared around the corner.

He grimaced when the building came into clear view. Justin had only been to Allegheny a handful of times, but he’d been here enough to know it wasn’t exactly one of the nicer hospitals in the country. The foundation was cracked and the paint was yellowing. The doors had creaked as they slid open for him, and the elevator had groaned as it staggered to the fifth floor.

He wondered how it had gotten to this point, that this was the hospital Aaron was subjected to.

He had never been great with money; perhaps that was why Chad had left him. Though Sharon Needles would always be immortalized in the drag world, time was a cruel master and stood still for no one. The party always eventually ended, and money would leave just as easily as it came if you didn’t take care of it, something Aaron had never understood. Or if he did, he’d rather flat out ignore it.

And as he neared the room, Justin’s mind drifted to the last time he was here. He could remember coming to see Aaron when he’d gotten into a bar fight that landed him here overnight. He remembered gigging as Alaska at a club and leaving early when he got the call. He had raced through the corridors in high-whore drag, panic in his heart as he dramatically demanded to know where Aaron was and what had happened, declaring himself to be his wife. He could remember the nurse rolling her eyes and showing him into the ER, pulling back a bright yellow curtain to reveal a blonde fool wearing a proud smile, waving his cast in delight.

This time things were a bit different when he opened the door.

Justin thought he had prepared himself for the worst, but froze when his eyes fell on the ghost of a man that lay in the bed. There was no spiky blonde hair, no dazzling smile to welcome him. His twig-like arms were folded gently over his body, covered in tubes that hooked to the machines surrounding him. The crest of his clavicles poked above the neck of his sweatshirt, his face gaunt and hollowed. His eyelids were dark and his chapped lips were parted as he snored lightly. Justin blinked for a moment as his eyes roamed over Aaron’s body in disbelief, and he felt his bottom lip begin to tremble.

No. Get it together.

He sighed heavily and stepped into the room, leaning on the door as he gently shut it behind him.

The room was quiet except for the humming of medical equipment and the low drone of the television. Wheel of Fortune, no doubt… Justin shook his head. How could that show still be running, after all these years? He looked around the gloomy room and wondered if anyone who actually knew Aaron had been here to visit recently. Shaking his head, he set his bag on the table and moved to the window, taking the blinds and hastily pulling them upward, allowing the sunlight to run into the room. He took the cactus he’d wedged into the crook of his arm and set it on the windowsill, tilting his head as he arranged its long vines. He smiled and took a step back to admire the plant. There, he thought, that was at least a little better.

“Hey, you.”

Justin jumped and whirled around to meet Aaron’s heavy-lidded gaze, that sly old smile gracing his lips.

They stayed that way for a while, eyes locked, Justin’s own smile creeping onto his face. There they were, after all these years, and he still felt the surge of electricity that passed through them when their eyes met. Aaron slowly shifted his weight and propped himself up on his elbows, his smile growing wider as Justin crossed his arms and moved toward the bed.

“Hey, Noodles.”

Aaron gave a short breath of a laugh and watched him with misty eyes. Justin grabbed one of his hands and took it into his own as he sat in the chair beside the bed.

Emotional couldn’t even begin to describe it, the way Justin felt as he held Aaron’s bony hand and looked into his sunken eyes. His chest rose and fell heavily as he searched for the words, the words to say to his oldest friend who he hadn’t seen in years. The friend who had needed him long before today. Justin could feel nothing but guilt as he stared back into Aaron’s calm, steady eyes, and Aaron seemed to be searching his face too, eventually looking over his hair and his shoulders, glancing to his arms and his hands, his eyes darting back to meet Justin’s. Flashing that dark, familiar smile, he was finally the one to break the silence.

“Fuck you got old.”

Justin guffawed with laughter, totally caught off guard at his old friend’s crass humor. Aaron laughed with him, bringing his other hand around and gripping their locked hands affectionately.

“Yeah, well,” Justin nodded in between chuckles, “It happens to the best of us.”

“And it’s a festivus for the rest of us,” Aaron quipped with a smirk.

Justin shook his head and pulled a hand free to run through his hair, sifting through the gray patches. “God, it really is getting bad, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Aaron nodded. “I thought Don Knotts had come to take me away.”

Justin cackled again, lightly patting Aaron’s hand and rising from the chair. “Alright, well, I’ll see you later-”

“-wait, no, please don’t go!” Aaron laughed in protest, reaching after him as he slipped away, “Please, I’ve waited so long for you to come. I lost the remote weeks ago, and I really need you to change the channel.”

He stopped just shy of the door with a playful smile and placed a hand on his hip. “What, your nurse couldn’t do that for you?”

“Cristina Yang?” Aaron scoffed, “That tiny Asian bitch couldn’t reach if she wanted to.”

Justin pursed his lips and strolled over to the television, standing on his toes to reach around the side. “That’s incredibly racist, you know. She probably wouldn’t even get the reference, that show hasn’t been on the air for twenty years.”

“And yet this show still survives,” Aaron sighed and motioned toward Wheel of Fortune with an open palm, letting his hand slap back down on his thigh as he watched Justin search for the right button. “I thought they would’ve let it die with Vanna White.”

“When Vanna White actually died,” Justin muttered, still struggling for the button, “I was beginning to think that woman was immortal.”

“You can just turn it off, actually,” Aaron offered as his eyes drifted to the window and fell to the cactus that sat on the sill. “Oh. You brought me a plant. How domestic.”

“Yes, I thought you’d like it,” he replied with a grin after shutting the TV off, then sauntered toward the window to rearrange the long, dread-like stems. “I had one on my porch, so I thought I’d just pull some from it and pot it for you.”

Aaron raised a brow. “Did you bring me a cactus to inspire me not to die?”

Justin winced inwardly at the words but kept face, choosing to focus more intently on the cactus. “No, I gave up on telling you what to do a long time ago,” he sighed and chuckled lightly. “I just remembered how much you liked this one.”

“Only you would remember my cactus preference,” Aaron smiled fondly, “Medusa, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Justin beamed as he turned to meet his eye, “Medusa’s Head Euphorbia. Very good.”

“Some things you just can’t block out,” Aaron grinned. “How’s the vineyard, anyway?”

“It’s great,” he shrugged and leaned against the window, “Really great. We’ve, um, we’ve actually started distributing outside of the cellar and lounge, just to like, local liquor stores.”

“Really?” Aaron asked with raised brows, “That’s huge.”

Justin smiled shyly. “I mean it’s not a big deal… It’s a step in the right direction, but we’re not–”

“It is a big deal,” Aaron cut him off, his grin spreading, “Justin, that’s great. Look at you, you’ve wanted this for so long and now you’re finally– you’re-”

A hacking cough erupted from Aaron’s chest without warning, causing Justin to jump a bit. It was a sort of barking cough; the kind that went from a continuous hacking to a high-pitched wheezing, followed by sharp gasps for air. Aaron clawed at his chest and furrowed his brow as he tried to brush it off, shaking his head and waving Justin away when he took a few steps toward the bed.

“I’m– I’m fine,” Aaron managed as he reached for his cup of water, his voice breaking at the end of his words.

“Clearly,” Justin said as he made his way to the bedside table, deciding to ignore Aaron’s now haphazard protests. “Here, sit up,” he spoke gently as he grabbed the cup just out of Aaron’s reach and placed it in his hands. Shooting him a look, Aaron took a few gulps and breathed heavily, his eyes closing briefly in exhaustion. It was only after a moment that Justin realized he’d begun to run a hand in small circles along his shoulders and upper back, and he could feel Aaron’s body start to relax.

“I was gonna say,” Aaron cleared his throat, eyes glued to his cup but still leaning into Justin’s touch. “I was gonna say you’re finally putting that green thumb of yours to good use.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Justin watched him take another sip and gave a light smile when their eyes met again, continuing to run his palm over his back.

Aaron shook his head and chuckled bitterly, rolling his eyes as he pulled away. “God, don’t look at me like that.”

Justin stilled and quickly brought his arm back. “Like what?”

“Like I’m dying,” he replied in a low voice and gave a heavy sigh, his eyes falling to his hands. “Like I’m this sad thing to see. Everyone does it, but please don’t. Not you.”

Justin felt a pang of guilt and inwardly kicked himself for having such a readable face. He blinked uncertainly and opened his mouth a few times to speak but shut it abruptly, his eyes narrowed in apprehension as he tried to think of what to say, how to respond, how to make Aaron actually feel better.

But there was no way. There was nothing to say, there was no way to fix this.

“I’m sorry,” Justin said quietly, taking Aaron’s hand once more and frowning in thought. “I just… I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to handle this.”

“No one does,” Aaron grinned sheepishly, squeezing his hand gently.

Again silence fell between them, and Justin concentrated on their intertwined hands, brushing his thumb over Aaron’s knuckles. He could feel Aaron watching his face, watching his every expression. He wondered if he was trying to memorize it.

“I uh, I got you something else,” Justin broke the silence and glanced to meet his gaze.

“Oh?” Aaron arched a brow. “More presents? Is it a fern this time?”

Justin smirked and rose from the chair. “No, not exactly,” he answered, making his way to the table and sifting through his grocery bag, “And I don’t know how conventional it is, so don’t go telling Cristina Yang…”

Aaron poked his head up, attempting to see over Justin’s shoulder. “An inappropriate hospital gift? You have my attention.”

Justin only grinned and spun around, holding a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon in each hand.

“Ohh!” Aaron exclaimed in delight, his face lighting up as he clapped his hands together, rolling to his side with laughter. “No you fucking didn’t!”

“I did,” Justin drawled, sauntering toward him with a smile and a devilish gleam in his eye.

“But how did you– where did you find them? I didn’t even know they made those anymore.”

“A vintner has his ways.” Justin winked and offered one of the cans to him. “I’ll bring you another one tomorrow.”

“Woman after my own heart,” Aaron murmured and shook his head, taking the beer and cracking it open. He moaned at the first sip, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. “Oh God that’s good.”

Justin smiled and opened his own, then held it out toward him. “Cheers.”

“You’re joining me? Breaking your ‘wine only’ policy?” Aaron asked. At Justin’s nod, he raised his brows in surprise but toasted him all the same, and the two of them grinned at one another behind their cans.

It was easy, Justin thought, how they just seemed to pick up where they left off.

It was easy to make Aaron laugh, his old wheezy cackle filling the room, that dazzling smile returning when they recounted old stories and fell into fits of laughter.

It was easy to feel like young Alaska again. Like there had been this part of Justin hiding away, a part that he’d somehow reserved for Aaron alone, a part of himself he’d left behind so long ago. It was easy to feel like there wasn’t anything outside of this room. Perhaps for Aaron, there wasn’t anymore.

It was easy to talk about what was happening. Aaron explained how Hospice worked and what the next steps were. He talked about signing the paperwork that would deem him ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ and how easy that decision had been. It was easy to take his hand while he spoke of the end, and it was surprisingly easy to hold back the tears as Justin stared into his darkened eyes.

It was easy for Justin to climb into the bed and slide under the sheets beside him when Aaron finally broke down and cried.

He held him close, wrapping his arms tightly around his frail body and rested his chin atop his head while he cried into his shirt. Aaron clung to him, pulled him as close as he could until he seemed to disappear in his arms, and Justin ran his fingers along the back of his neck, whispering words of love and reassurance over and over until his breathing evened and his tears came slower. They stayed quiet for a long time after.

It was easy to lay there with him. It was easy to look into Aaron’s eyes and see him simply looking back. There were so many things left unsaid, and they both knew there would never be enough time to even begin to try. They only laid there, inches from one another, and Justin linked his pinky loosely with Aaron’s, something they used to do when they were young. Justin watched Aaron’s smile form at the familiarity of it.

“Promise me something.”

Justin blinked back at him steadily. “Okay.”

“When I’m gone,” Aaron swallowed hard and narrowed his eyes in thought, then brought their fingers to his lips, placing a whisper of a kiss to the side of Justin’s palm. “Promise me you won’t cry.”

Justin worried his lip and closed his eyes as he began to shake his head. “Aaron…”

“Promise me,” he whispered, scooting forward to press his forehead against Justin’s. He brushed Justin’s cheek with his thumb. “Please. I hate it when you cry. I always have.”

Justin felt the tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes despite best his efforts to fight them off, and he felt the corners of his mouth turn downward as he choked back a sob.

“Please,” Aaron chuckled softly, his thumb brushing the tears that slipped from his eyes, “please just smile instead.”

Justin nodded against his forehead, his eyes still closed, unable to speak.

“God,” Aaron mused, his thumbs now brushing both of his cheeks. “Stupidest thing I ever did, letting you go.”

Justin’s eyes flew open to meet his, and they stayed that way, forehead to forehead, looking into each other’s eyes. Justin ran his hand up and down Aaron’s arm until his eyes began to close, his body giving way to tiredness, and he eventually drifted into a sound sleep. Justin watched him for a few moments before carefully slipping out of the bed and quietly stepping out of the room.

In the morning, Justin recognized the poetic cruelty of things often ending as they began.

It was on the T that he got the call.

The morning light stung his eyes as his phone slipped from his hand, the beers falling out of his grocery bag and rolling onto the floor.

It had been peaceful, Chad said. He had passed in his sleep. He’d never woken up.

Justin stared at the empty seats in front of him hollowly.

The T dinged. North Side, Allegheny General Hospital. This was his stop.

Except that it wasn’t.

It wasn’t his stop. It would never again be his stop, because Aaron wasn’t there. Aaron wasn’t anywhere. Aaron would never be anywhere ever again and oh God the pain in Justin’s stomach was too much as his hand flew to cover his mouth and his silent scream. It was too much, it was all so unfinished. There was so much more to say, so much more that he never could.

He sobbed into his palm and doubled over in his seat.

People stepped off the platform and hurried into their seats, no one taking a second look in Justin’s direction. Not that they would, anyway. No one cared if you cried on the T.

As Justin pulled his face up from his palms, utterly wrecked, he glanced around the inside of the train-car, and his eyes fell to a pale, spiky-haired blonde in the corner.

The young man looked at him with misty eyes and flashed him a dazzling smile, and when Justin blinked, he was gone.

**********

Weeks Later

Justin lifted the hat from his head and pressed the back of his glove to his forehead, wiping the sweat from his brow. He placed the hat back on and stepped down from the ladder, his eyes roaming over the netting that hung above him. He took a few steps back and placed a hand on his hip, the sun cutting his vision as he searched for more holes.

“Hey, Dad.”

He turned to watch the boy walking up the hill toward him, his smattering of blonde hair shining in the light.

“Hey, you,” he called, holding an arm out and turning his attention back to the net. The boy fell into his half hug and thrust a cold water bottle into his hand.

“Thanks.” Justin rubbed his shoulder and kissed him quickly on the temple, then cracked the bottle open. “Where’s your father?”

“Out back with Abby.” He crossed his arms, now looking over the netting with him. “Told me to ask you what we’re doing for dinner.”

“Well, nothing, if I can’t keep these birds out,” Justin sighed and took a swig of water, then shook his head as he screwed the cap back on. “We’ll have no money for food and we’ll starve.”

The blonde chuckled, the same toothy grin that Justin had fallen in love with decades ago spreading across his young features. “Alright. Do you– is that what you want me to tell him?”

“Sure,” he replied quickly, making his way back up the ladder.

“Okay,” the boy smiled and shook his head, but before he could make it halfway down the hill, he stopped abruptly and turned on his heel. “Oh! I almost forgot, I, uh.. I hope you don’t mind, but I, uh… I repotted one of your plants.”

“Did you?” Justin raised a brow as he fiddled with the net.

“Well, yeah… I mean I didn’t take the whole thing, I just took some of it and put into another pot.”

“Really?” Justin asked, inwardly entertained at his son’s green thumb. “Which one?”

“That one cactus you have, the crazy one, with all the vines.” The boy squinted in thought as he racked his brain. “Uh, Medusa, I think?”

Justin dropped the net momentarily, but caught it before it hit the ground. Clearing his throat, he turned to face his son. “Medusa’s Head Euphorbia,” he annunciated.

“Yeah, that one!” the boy exclaimed and snapped his finger. “Yeah, sorry, I hope you don’t mind, I just saw it was overgrown and it looked like you had extra… I just really love that one, you know? I think it’s my new favorite.”

Justin stared down at him and blinked for a moment, and at the boy’s look of question, he smiled fondly.

“Well if it’s your favorite, I don’t mind at all.”

The blonde beamed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Cool.”

Justin turned back to the netting and pulled a small pair of shears from his pocket, aiming for a dried-out leaf.

“Hey Dad?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, the pair of shears now in his mouth as he worked through the vines to find the leaf.

“You okay?”

Justin stopped for a moment and pulled his arms out, grabbing the shears and turning to look at his boy. He looked at him for a long time, a smile gracing his lips as he tried to keep his mind from drifting to another place.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Tell your father to get Abby cleaned up. We’re going out tonight.”

The boy’s blue eyes sparkled, and he flashed one more toothy grin before bounding down the hill toward the house. Justin shook his head and turned his attention back to his work, reaching with his shears and snipping the dead leaf from the vine.

He couldn’t help but smile.