#and many liberties taken with certain details

[mamamittens]

So I have two things I need to do this week. One being a comm for ceb (got the doc set up and everything, I swear!) and one being zine art (which is technically due May 1st I believe, oof!). And then I have a zine piece i need to write but the deadline for that is a ways off so I'm not concerned about it right now.

And my Oh Shit Sale is still active and will be closed down when my roomies get jobs, which should be within the next week or so.

but this isn't about that.

If you've been squatting about the sidelines for a bit, you may have noticed I've gotten back into pokemon. One character and fic that's build more for the laughs and shenanigans and the other with a Tragic Backstory (TM) that's more about the plot that I've been tooling for the past few weeks.

For Fin, the character with unfortunate history, I've actually written about 4K for. Still lowkey tooling some details but they're down the line honestly and it doesn't feel as dire when I acknowledge that this will be a slow update fic rather than my previous approach where I assume I'll be able to regularly update.

And anyway, I'm wondering if I should start posting it or wait until I have a lot more written for it and risk losing motivation to share it. I've got a few like that where I have a lot written but it's lived exclusively in my head and hard drive for so long it sort of doesn't register as interesting anymore for anyone. which is a little silly given no one but me has read it. Last I checked it was over 100 pages?!? But I think I was skipping around the plot with that too, I don't know. It really has been months since I've looked at it.

And anyway, I figured I'd see what the response was while I turned my actual attention to necessary projects in the short term.

TLDR: Should I start posting chapters of "Lay Down New Tracks", a Pokemon Black/White fanfic featuring Finley, a tragic retired champion of Kanto rediscovering her love of battle after losing her entire team almost a decade ago with the help of the Battle Subway and her support pokemon Platinum (a riolu).

I do have some details I want to iron out more, like integrating sign a bit since Finley is selectively mute.

[fideidefenswhore]

reading alison weir's new novel; she's adapted and altered the primary source material she's clearly using in a way that is...um. something?

[cosmowgyral]

"Love during Cleaning Time"

▪︎ Gilbert von Obsidian

This is a fan translation so please don't expect it to be 100% accurate. Creative liberties have been taken. All content belongs to Cybird. Reblogs are appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

~chapter 1

Despite his noble status, the man who rules over the military powerhouse, Obsidian, does not keep servants at his side.

Therefore, apart from food, I needed to take care of everything by myself---

Emma: Gil, what should we do with that shelf?

Gilbert: Oh, go ahead. I don’t think there’s any classified information up there.

Emma: You can leave it to me.

In Gilbert’s laboratory, which is off-limits to everyone, I take items off the shelves, clean them, and then put them back in their places.

(But it’s visibly getting prettier.)

(It’s tiring, but it is rewarding and fun.)

Previously, Roderich used to help me. It seems there were times when others took on the role, but ever since I came here, I have been entrusted with this duty.

Gilbert: I don’t know…

Gilbert: I’m bored.

Emma: There’s only a bit left, so let’s do our best.

Gilbert: Even that little bit is bothersome.

Gilbert: You really can keep going without getting bored, can’t you, little rabbit?

Emma: I definitely feel enthusiastic when you ask me for help, Gil.

Emma: There aren’t many times I can be of help to you, so it’s times like these that makes me want to give my all.

(….? What is this box?)

While talking, I take out a box of documents carved with roses from the shelf.

It was unexpectedly heavy, testing the strength of my arms I honed from working at the bookstore.

Gilbert: What are you talking about? You’re always helpful to me.

Gilbert: Thank you.

Emma: !?

Before I knew it, Gilbert approached me from behind.

I was so surprised by his gentle ‘thank you’ that I dropped the heavy box that I was holding.

Emma: S..sorry!

Gilbert: Ahaha, you’re quite a surprise.

The impact of hitting the floor caused the contents of the box to spill and the documents were scattered.

Although Gilbert was laughing, I felt my blood run cold.

I quickly gather the documents and try to put them back in the box.

--At that moment, the words inevitably caught my eye.

Emma: “Rhodolite’s Periodic Report”?

Gilbert: Ah

Emma: ….This is…

----17 visitors this week. 8 women and 9 men.

No suspicious behaviour. Suspect’s health condition is good.

Issue of concern, movement slower than normal. Possibility of injury.

Condition requires further observation. Detailed report will be sent at a later date after investigation.

(It’s something I shouldn’t see….)

Gilbert: Oh no, you’ve seen it.

As I sat down, Gilbert put his hand on my shoulder.

Gilbert: What should I do?

Emma: …You said there was no classified information….

Gilbert: Yeah. I forgot that existed.

Emma: ……

Gilbert: The little rabbit saw something she shouldn’t have so I need to shut her up.

Gilbert knelt in front of me and leaned in with a look of amusement, and then lightly pecked my lips.

Emma: ….It’s not so bad after all.

Gilbert: Ahaha, you’re starting to understand me better, aren’t you?

(If it’s something that’s really forbidden to see, Gilbert will be merciless.)

(And he is not the type to reveal secrets carelessly.)

Calming my wild heartbeat, I lowered my gaze to the documents in front of me.

The more I looked at it, the stranger it seemed.

As the Commander of Obsidian, he is eyeing the territory of Rhodolite with keen interest.

However, the contents of the report would appear to be of no value to the layman.

It only contains the behavioural records of a certain bookstore keeper, and while there is a possibility that it might be some kind of a code, I don’t think it has enough value for the royalty of a great nation to bother reading it.

(No, wait…)

(Rhodolite’s bookstore?)

(…..)

Emma: …..Gil

(There’s only one bookstore that Gil has his eyes on.)

Emma: Could this be a report about me?

Gilbert: Ahaha, I’ve been found out.

(Since when….)

The date of the reports suggested it went back several years, even before I was chosen as Belle.

(I guess it was around the time the owner put me in charge of the store.)

I knew Gilbert had spies all across the city, but I was shocked to find such a detailed report about me.

(No wonder he was so knowledgeable about my past.)

It seems that he would get more information from his spies rather than the owner himself.

Emma: I had no idea.

Gilbert: The spy I had assigned to you is one of the Obsidian's bests.

Gilbert: His name is Michael. Do you remember him?

Emma: What? No way, Michael was a spy?!

(I knew him well. He used to be a regular customer who had started coming right after I began working at the store.)

Since I occasionally had trivial conversations with Michael, there’s no way I could forget.

Gilbert: I’m sorry. I never intended to assign a spy to you.

Gilbert: You were just an ordinary person in Rhodolite, not someone the royal family of a military powerhouse would care about.

Gilbert: But I was left with no other choice.

--*flashback*--

Gilbert: ----Akatsuki, are you insane?

[Masterlist] [Chapter 2]

[warrioreowynofrohan]

LOTR Newsletter - September 21

Today's reading is very short, a single brief sentence, but the appendices of LOTR and "The Hunt for the Ring" in Unfinished Tales have more context on what is going on in the wider world.

The appendices tell us that Gandalf is still in Rohan attempting to tame Shadowfax.

The the same time, the Ringwraiths ride north from Isengard to the Shire. Saruman's deception of them is very short-lived, as they learn that that he did not just find out the location of the Shire from Gandalf, as he claimed, but has known it for a very long time.

But first, some context about Saruman's dealings with the Shire. Another interesting part of this section is that it shows that the Bracegirdle's (Lobelia's family; that's her maiden name) and the Sackville-Bagginses are already commercially involved with Saruman. It somewhat evokes a mercantile imperialism, where a foreign power gains local allies and clients because it purchases build of their wealth, and uses that as a foundation for intel and political power. His arrival in the Shire after the War of the Ring thus does not come out of nowhere, but builds on existing ties and existing power - the "ruffians" are available for him to use as a paramilitary force because they had already been being used that way by Lotho, but were always Saruman's people.

Saruman had long taken an interest in the Shire – because Gandalf did, and he was suspicious of him; and because (again in secret imitation of Gandalf) he had taken to the ‘Halflings’ leaf’ and needed supplies, but in pride (having once scoffed at Gandalf’s use of the weed) kept this as secret as he could. Latterly other motives were added. He liked to extend his power, especially into Gandalf’s province, and he found that the money he could provide for the purchase of ‘leaf’ was giving him power, and was corrupting some of the hobbits, especially the Bracegirdles, who owned many plantations, and so also the Sackville-Bagginses. But also he had begun to feel certain that in some way the Shire was connected with the Ring in Gandalf’s mind. Why this strong guard upon it? He therefore began to collect detailed information about the Shire, its chief persons and families, its roads, and other matters. For this he used Hobbits within the Shire, in the pay of the Bracegirdles and the Sackville-Bagginses, but his agents were Men, of Dunlendish origin. When Gandalf had refused to treat with him Saruman had redoubled his efforts. The Rangers were suspicious, but did not actually refuse entry to the servants of Saruman – for Gandalf was not at liberty to warn them, and when he had gone off to Isengard Saruman was still recognized as an ally.

So, Saruman already has agents going back and forth between Rivendell and the Shire. The Ringwraiths overtake one of those agents.

When the Black Riders were far across Enedwaith and drawing near at last to Tharbad, they had what was for then a great stroke of good fortune, but disastrous for Saruman, and deadly perilous for Frodo. Some while ago one of Saruman’s most trusted servants (yet a ruffianly fellow, an outlaw driven from Dunland, where many said that he had Orc-blood) had returned from the borders of the Shire, where he had been negotiating for the purchase of ‘leaf’ and other supplies. Saruman was beginning to store Isengard against war. This man was now on his way back to continue the business, and to arrange for the transport of many goods before autumn failed. [Footnote: The usual way was by the crossing of Tharbad to Dunland (rather than direct to Isengard), whence goods were sent more secretly to Saruman.] He had orders also to get into the Shire if possible and learn if there had been any departures of persons well-known recently. He was well supplied with maps, lists of names, and notes concerning the Shire. This Dunlending was overtaken by several of the Black Riders as they approached the Tharbad crossing. In an extremity of terror he was haled to the Witch-king and questioned. He saved his life by betraying Saruman. The Witch-king thus learned that Saruman knew well all along where the Shire was, and knew much about it, which he could and should have told to Sauron’s servants if he had been a true ally. The Witch-king also obtained much information, including some about the only name that interested him: Baggins.  It was for this reason that Hobbiton was singled out as one of the points for immediate visit and enquiry. The Witch-king had now a clearer understanding of the matter. He had known something of the country long ago, in his wars with the Dúnedain, and especially of the Tyrn Gorthad of Cardolan, now the Barrow-downs, whose evil wights had been sent there by himself. Seeing that his Master suspected some move between the Shire and Rivendell, he saw also that Bree (the position of which he knew) would be an important point, at least for information. [Note from Christopher Tolkien: Since the Black Captain knew so much, it is perhaps strange that the had so little idea of where the Shire, the land of the Halflings, lay; according to the Tale of Years there were already Hobbits settled in Bree at the beginning of the Third Age, when the Witch-king came north to Angmar.] He put therefore the Shadow of Fear on the Dunlending, and sent him to Bree as an agent. He was the squint-eyed southerner at the Inn.

This clarifies a lot of the later events in the first half of The Fellowship of the Ring. The southerner at Bree who is staying with Bill Ferny doesn't have immediately obvious significance in the book. How could he be a spy of Sauron, when Sauron has only just learned the location the Shire and has no presence in northwest Middle-earth? But if he was a spy of Saruman, why would he be helping the Ringwraiths? This passage solves the mystery - and shows how much Tolkien had plotted out even events that are completely left out of the book - by placing him as an agent of Saruman who had been captured and subverted by the Ringwraiths. Which also explains how the Ringwraiths knew to go to Hobbiton in particular, and how they knew where Hobbiton was. And they also learned that Frodo Baggins was moving out of Hobbiton.

If LOTR was a TV show and we were seeing all this happening simultaneous, this would be an intensely suspenseful part of the show, with the Ringwraiths on their way north, knowing where Frodo is, and Frodo still waiting at Bag End for Gandalf and not knowing that there any immediate urgency.

[myfandomrealitea]

I really wanted to ask you about this:

Do you have any advice of how to develop critical thinking and media literacy?

There are many, many ways you can practice critical thinking, evaluation and media literacy. At its most basic, you can access student resources for lower levels of education like earlier high school years and look at the examples and guidance given there. Rehashing this will often give you a good foundation to build off of and apply.

One of the main aspects of critical thinking involves discerning what is fact and what is opinion. A good portion of media analytics is opinion. What is 'bad' by one person's standards is 'sub-par' or even 'great' by another's. Similarly, the majority of fandom space is opinion-based. The main pitfall of fandom spaces is that everyone wants their opinion to be taken as fact, which is where critical thinking and even basic communication begin to fall away.

"I'm right and you're wrong" and "this is the way it should be, if you do it or think differently, you're wrong" are common roadblocks people run into when engaging with things like media analysis and even basic fandom activities like fanfiction.

'Mischaracterisation' is fanfiction is one popular topic, especially here on Tumblr. What people often fail to recognize is the true creative depth of fanfiction and using someone else's pre-existing characters. Characters as they are in the source material may not make the choices or behave in the ways necessary to activate or validate certain plot material or author intentions in fanfiction. Which is, inherently, one of the main points of fanfiction. Exploring the alternate.

While you might immediately recoil and say "he'd never do that!" you then have to sit back and recognise that that's exactly the point. That this iteration of that character is not meant to directly reflect the source material. Its a re-imagining, a re-interpretation. That doesn't mean its bad. Its simply different.

'Mischaracterisation' is only actually applicable in fandom spaces when someone is trying to insist as a blanket fact that a character would do something or behave in a way that blatantly contradicts their canon behavior, opinions, morals and perspective or deliberately interpreting an action in biased bad faith. It is not actually applicable to fanfiction where creative liberty dictates you can do whatever the fuck you want with a character because you're not trying to claim it as part of the source content.

Questions To Ask Yourself

Am I reacting to [media] emotionally instead of rationally? Is my emotional response to [media] blinding me to the rational or critical approach(es)?

Am I allowing my expectations to get in the way of me understanding [media] fully? Am I forming a biased negative opinion of [media] because it isn't meeting my expectations?

Even if I disagree with [media], do I actually understand it? Can I recognise the reasoning behind choices made or actions even if I don't agree with them?

Am I searching too hard to hidden meaning or purpose in absolutely everything? Can I recognise what is simply passive information/detail and what is active information/detail? (E.g; English tutors saying a character's curtains are blue because they're depressed when throughout the literature its passively reinforced that blue is the character's favorite color.)

Even though I disagree with the statement or opinion shown, is it necessary to argue against it? Is there any benefit to making my counter-opinion known or is it simply a no-end argument? Am I just using arguing as a means of release/fulfilment? Am I treating this person poorly because of their opinion/statement?

Resources

Critical Thinking Exercises & Explanations #1 The Critical Thinking Activity Workbook Early Stage Critical Thinking Games Five Media Literacy Activities Six Media Literacy Ideas

[chaaistained]

🦌 & 🐇 for the fantasy ask game !!

tysm for the ask !! i already answered for 🐇 ≈ here’s the link .•° but i’ll answer for 🦌 !! includes multiple drs~

🦌 : DELICATE DEER . . . what fantasy media inspired your desired reality? does your desired reality follow the same rules as it? if not what are some of the changes you've made?

my ARROWVERSE DR — clearly inspired by the arrowverse franchise of tv shows on the cw , i grew up watching the flash and fell in love with grant gustin’s interpretation of barry allen ≈ i took a lot of liberties with this dr tho, obvs bcs of the evident downfall in quality and writing on all the shows, and the fact that there were just so many plot points and details that i didn’t fuck w lmfao. i’ve essentially done a whole rewrite of the arrowverse hence why i have a fic in the works but just to give a small sample of things that i’ve changed/updated/improved (in no great detail, mind you) ;

— oliver isn’t some regurgitation of bruce wayne/batman, he actually has a bit of that ollie queen personality (taken a lot of inspo from the beautiful justin hartley and his version of ollie from smallville which is another dr i wanna script for so . stay tuned) + no olicity .. oliver x laurel/dinah all the way .. not even sorry come at me

— iris isn’t massacred as a character and i’ve scripted that she goes through proper growth and development beyond “love interest” (also obvs bcs . i’m barry’s partner ..)

— as a result of this being a dr, crossovers are more common, don’t be surprised when i drop by starling city bcs felicity borrowed my old infiltration tech and forgot to return it

— not only does the arrowverse superhero cast exist but i introduce batman and superman as well as wonder woman, green lantern, aqua man, essentially creating a proper justice league like they tried to do before covid but i also include young justice, for the younger heroes like roy and thea, wally, jesse, and eventually dick, donna, artemis, kaldur - letting them have their own place and their own missions

for my MARAUDERS DR — it’s obvs based off of the harry potter franchise and the wizarding world, a HUGE part of my childhood and regardless of the controversies behind the creator (who i do not agree w obvs) i just cannot seem to let go of this franchise emotionally, it means too much to me . again, a lot of liberties were taken when scripting this but the marauders fandom seems familiar with taking liberties in their lore

— dumbledore wasn’t a total fool and actually stopped tom riddle before he became a global threat (meaning the main “conflict” of my dr - aside from the usual hubbub of school work and stress abt exams - is a mystery that i’m currently cooking up and brewing in my mental cauldron so be ready for the upcoming bottled potion)

— there’s multiple wizarding universities and schooling/education doesn’t simply end after 7th year, there’s apprenticeships, part time work, internships, and full time unis and colleges, travelling during post-schooling is encouraged as well so that witches and wizards can get a more advanced and enhanced understanding of magic as an extension of our soul and our being rather than just this tool that we harness, we learn the nuances of magic and wizardry through the eyes of different cultures and places

— hogsmeade has been upgraded, more shops and stalls and restaurants and there are specific stores and services offered that are catered towards hogwarts students, there’s just more . like, in general, and i’ve added other locations to the areas around hogwarts like a muggle village and a forest that interweaves between the field behind the shrieking shack and the road that leads to said muggle village, certain landmarks like a lake on the outskirts of hogsmeade, an abandoned water fountain that never spouts water no matter how much magic is used to fix it (there’s a story behind this) so yeah, just more

— i fix the relationship between sirius and regulus much sooner and given the lack of riddle and death eaters, the black family’s sick and twisted obsession with blood supremacy ends with this generation, from bella all the way to regulus, it ends here

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.

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[ask game link]

cuppa queries; order in — ask responses

2025 © chaaistained

[greensagephase]

Speaking of records? I doubt 2099 would have any stores, and I'm sure Miguel could easily make some sorta music to record device...

But I kinda like the idea of them maybe chilling in y/ns universe? And going into a cozy little record shop and browsing and maybe buying too many records but they're just laughing and poking fun at each other's music tastes?

Y/n's like, we've walked around your universe, lemme show you around mine as a thank you for letting me stay with you? And Miguel kinda gets to embrace a slower (aka our time) pace then what he's used too?

Hi, nonnie!! Thank you so much for the ask!! Also, I’m sorry for taking a bit to respond to your ask!! It's been a few days but I’m certain you’re talking about the lovely fanart I reblogged on Monday regarding Miguel’s record player. Life has been a little chaotic these last few days, so forgive me for the delay! 🥺

But okay, I love this ask so much!!!! I’ve never talked about the records situation in Miguel’s universe because sometimes I feel like I go too much into detail lol, but okay, yes!

I doubt records are easily accessible to people on Earth 928, or 928B, or whatever is Miguel’s official Earth number, however, I thought about our own reality and was inspired by that. So, very quickly, I’ll explain my thought process at least within Nonviolent Communication:

I thought about how most of us have digital access to music through our devices, and I imagine it’s similar in Miguel’s universe with all the high tech available to them, however, I know there’s still many people who love CDs, records, and/or cassettes.

Some of these individuals might be on the older side, and remain loyal to these because that’s what they grew up with, among other reasons, but I also know younger generations have taken a liking to them. For example, we’ve seen record players come back in full swing (I personally bought one myself when they first started becoming a thing again) and I think CDs are also still somewhat popular (?), so when thinking about Miguel’s universe, I imagined there might be a possibility that people in this universe also experience(d) similar trends in regards to this.

It’s why in one of the latest chapters I also incorporated cassettes. I included the small detail that that specific cassette player and cassettes belonged to Gabriel, hinting that Miguel also owned/owns some and that cassettes made a return at some point before Gabriel died, even if it was a short one.

Side note: Lowkey, I imagined it was probably when they were older teens. I had this little thought (while writing that scene) of young Miguel and Gabriel riding in a car and having a cassette adapter for it because it was the current popular trend for people their age!

Then, I also mentioned Miguel buying records from his own universe after reader gifted him the record player. So, going along with my line of thinking, I thought there could be a small online market for these kinds of items that are not popular or the norm in Miguel’s advanced society, but it's supported by people who are fond of them (and who might even collect them as historical pieces), allowing for a small online market to exist. So, yeah, this is my reasoning for Miguel being able to buy some records in his universe, but there’s not the same variety nor accessibility there is in our universe within the fic.

Of course, that’s just me taking liberties with such details in my fic, but I tried making it a little realistic to our own reality, and thought it would be a fun thing to add!

But anyway, I LOVE THAT IDEA!!! I have a few moments planned out with Miguel and reader strolling around her universe in future chapters already, but this one…???

!!!

I can already see Miguel searching through tall shelves, his eyes scanning all the titles and being in awe at how many records there are available. He’s probably in a daze at the mere fact that there’s dedicated shops in dulzura’s universe for them tbh, like he knows they exist but seeing and being in one makes him feel like now he knows knows, you know? He’d find artists he recognizes from his own dimension and gets all giddy about the fact that he’s found their records. And of course, being our universe and keeping an eye on him to see his reaction, we notice him - the way his eyes sparkle with delight and the cute little smile of excitement along with the way he picks them up with such delicacy!! 🥺

Okay, I’m def getting carried away here, so I’ll stop myself but nonnie… I have added the idea to the NC folder!! 🙂‍↕️Expect the moment soon, especially with us moving out shortly!! 😊 (I wanna live with Miguel for longer tho😔)

Thank you so much for the ask, nonnie!! I hope you’re having a wonderful day/night!! 🥰🫶🏼

Alondra❤️

[ludiharambasha]

God I hate the late Naruto Shippuden/ Boruto anime style...

Why does everyone's face look like it's made of gum? Why do they all have the exact same baby face? Like Naruto looks older in the first arc of Shippuden than in the last one! It isn't even accommodating to the evolution of Kishimoto's art, which changed drastically and only improved with time.

This is not me trashing their skills, as these artists are all clearly talented people. I am criticizing the art direction from their executives and managers whose orders they have to follow. They have to be rather minimalist when it comes to coloring and shading, have to lessen the detail of facial features to make the characters easier and cheaper to animate, and have to churn out episodes weekly... like this schedule was bound to make the art deteriorate, but boy, was it sad to witness.

Let's compare

The manga version

The anime adaptation

and the animated reboot

On the surface, the newest version seems more similar to the original than the first animated adaptation. But I think it ultimately fails in capturing the original, and in improving on the adaptation as well.

I am not certain whether this is a fish-eye perspective or a close-up high angle in the manga, but it is used to draw more focus to Sasuke's eyes, as they appear larger in this perspective. Because Sasuke is shaded completely, his eyes and his expression really pop- the eyes against a dark background really stand out. Kishimoto used a very similar composition when Sasuke beats Naruto in VotE1. He uses several techniques to make sure that what is most important is emphasized properly. When Sasuke says "Crush Konoha", we are not only meant to focus on his expression of hatred (which is incredibly important and beautifully conveyed) but on his Sharingan specifically - as a testament to the Uchiha legacy's perseverance- an ideology Leaf tried to crush coming back to haunt it.

While the first adaptation didn't deliver on many of these fronts, it matches his expression of singular hatred and determination really well. His eyes are also disproportionately large and look as if they are to fall out of their sockets, and while there isn't much focus on his Sharingan, Sasuke's emotion is conveyed really well. They also take other liberties, showing Sasuke as "illuminated" by this revelation (the lighting). The color palette is absolutely stunning, with blues and purples (Sasuke) against a yellow and orange background- complementary contrasts. It is not the same perspective but it makes sense. Some liberties were taken, and while I don't think these choices are better than the original, they are far from bad choices.

Now the last adaptation does not emphasize Sasuke's eyes well, nor does it convey the same emotion as the other two. Sasuke just looks confused, and while the other two iterations also have a hint of this emotion, they are mixed with Sasuke's anger, sorrow, and determination. The colors are ALL rather dark, without proper contrast. His eyes wouldn't stand out at all had it not been for the color of his Sharingan that clashes with everything else. The perspective makes no sense, as it is an eye-level perspective, but his nose and mouth are turned downwards.

I wish more thought was put into artistic direction, along with more artistic liberty. This also stems from my being critical of my own art of Sasuke, much worse than any of these three.

[nervoustimetravelpost]

Jacklust Soulmate AU (where you have a tattoo representing your soulmate some place on your body)

Authors note: This was merely done for fun, and should not be taken too seriously. I decided to take some creative liberties regarding Cygnus, who in this AU is Jacks older brother. And lastly, if anyone has some good ideas for other types of tattoos that Wanderlust and Jack could have, then I would love to hear about them.

Viewer discretion: mention of child abuse, bodily harm, blood, loss of limbs etc. There is a short mention of characters having scars.

Soulmate tattoos explained:

the tattoos are symbolic and can be anything relating to the soulmate, whether that be interests, hobbies, dreams for the future or for some even their destinies.

They can appear anywhere on the persons body, and the placement also holds symbolic meaning for the impact their soulmate will have on their lives. (like soulmarks on the face means that your soulmate is gonna embolden you, as it is a mark you can't easily hide. While marks on the chest can imply a deep romantic connection that is gonna be immensely important to that person).

They don't usually appear in many colors, as they mostly appear in black, brown or even white. But a select few individuals may have soulmate marks that have a golden color. This is believed to be in relation to the soulmate being a deity or a person of great power who can manipulate 'flow'.

Wanderlust and Jack Roses Tattoos:

Wanderlust:

Wanderlusts soulmark is on the left side of his chest, and reaches down his hip. It depicts a single rose, blooming from his hip to his left bicep. It is surrounded by an enormous bird, with its wings framing the roses head.

For the young deity it is something he is excited about when he asks about his soulmark, especially when his parents tell the story of how they met each other and found out they were soulmates. He is therefore enamored by the idea early on, and treasures his mark with a certain sense of pride, even going as far as to try and walk around without a shirt on when he was little so he could show it off. Much to his parents dismay, despite him arguing that 'how else would my soulmate know, if they can't see it?'.

Wanderlust often speculated what sort of bird it was, and went as far as to read a lot of books about birds. Specifically to look at the pictures. But he never found 'his' bird.

Jack Rose:

Jacks is on his left underarm and hand. It is a black glove tattoo with golden details depicting planets and stars, on his ring finger is a small golden band in the shape of a crown.

Jack would curiously inquire about the marks meaning to his mother, when he found out that others didn’t have the same soulmate mark as him (specifically when he asked to see his brothers, Cygnus' mark, to which he would show him the tattoo placed on the left side of his face). His mother coldly responded that it is a curse and a blemish, which turns powerful coaches into soft and weak-willed fools.

Despite her distaste of the marks, she puts on a sweet front as she assures Jack that she only wants what is best for him. Inquiring that she would never want to see her sons heart broken, as it would only distract him from what truly matters; attaining perfection.

From that day on, Jack would wear gloves at every chance he got as to prove himself a worthy coach to his mother. But there would still be this nagging curiosity in the back of his mind, leading him to strip himself of his gloves when he trains his dancing. In an odd way, it comforts him.

Start of Nightswans abuse:

It is implied that Nightswan knows from the gold markings and the 'planet style' tattoo itself, that it is related to the traveler somehow. But she doesn't act on her suspicion until Wanderlust is appointed as the chosen one and getting his golden crown. Which truly starts Nightswans abuse of Jack, with her anger only intensifying from then on.

First noted by Jack, when his brother Cygnus disappeared for a couple of days after an especially hard quarrel with their mother. Cygnus would later on return, the left side of his face covered by a mechanical looking monocle, his expression solemn and cold. He would only become more distant, as work took up more and more of his brothers time. Cygnus only coming out when he had to discuss with his mother about things in Eternyx regarding architecture and new building projects.

Despite his brothers sudden change, Nightswan seemed elated and more happy than she had ever been at this change.

Jack never got to know what happened, but it instilled a deep fear in his heart that the same thing would befall him too. And his fears were more than justified.

As one day his mother had become incredibly enraged, regarding a run-in with the Traveler. To such an extent that she threatened Jack with cutting off his arm, and made it clear that she found his soulmark an eyesore. Although she doesn’t go through with it, she still takes pleasure in scarring her sons body and by extension his mark over a long period of time. Even going as far as to propose the idea to skin Jacks hand to remove the mark, so he wouldn't have to worry about falling to mediocrity and be scorned by the only people he knew.

But this was merely the beginning.

The turning point:

One day when Jack was training, Nightswan suddenly emerged flanked by two of her trusted minions, once again enraged. As she rambled about the 'bastard' son of the Traveler going about and encouraging mediocrity in the danceverses. And them willingly following his example much to Nightswans chagrin.

While her rambles intensified, Jack continued to train as he tried to keep an ear open to his mother's endless spiel about the fall of the danceverses. To such an extent that he accidentally misplaced a step, making him falter in his stance. This would not have been a problem...if he had been alone, but he wasn't. And as he turned to his mother, he saw her eyes fixed on him full of nothing but hate. But they weren't directed at his face, but at his hand. The hand bearing his soulmark, the hand of which he had forgot to put a glove on.

The next thing Jack knows, is him being apprehended by the two swan minions and his back forced up against the wall. He struggles to get free, and pleads and begs for his mother to give him another chance. Promising her that he won't make any more mistakes. To which she replies:

"I know you won't, my dear cygnet...".

Before he had any time to say anything, he felt a stinging sensation surround his hand, followed by it slowly becoming wet and sticky.

"..."

Nightswan had cut off his ring finger, the one bearing the golden band. Which now laid deserted on the vinyl floor, painting it a deep crimson.

What followed, Jack couldn't remember exactly. He was too lost in the pain and the surreality of it all. But he does remember one thing, as his mother kneeled down to her son, her face sporting a 'motherly' smile which seemed so strange on her sharp features, she stated coldly:

"Because I won't let you".

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This will have to do for now. Sorry for the majority of this being Jack related, but really wanted those parts out of my system before exploring Wanderlusts soulmark more (if that ever happens).

Thank you for reading!!!

Pictures are from pinterest.

[bakerstreetbabble]

Granada TV Series Review: "The Musgrave Ritual" (S03, E03)

Well, here we have a very unusual adaptation indeed! Readers of the original Sherlock Holmes canon will recognize "The Musgrave Ritual" as one of the few stories that actually takes place before Holmes and Watson meet. Right off the bat, this poses some difficulties for writers adapting it for the screen. The story consists largely of Holmes telling Watson about one of his earlier cases "before my biographer had come to glorify me." He tells Watson of cases that have long intrigued Sherlockians:

the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminum crutch, as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife.​

As Holmes tells Watson the story of how one of his former university colleagues, Reginald Musgrave, showed up at his rooms in Montague Street, the story-within-a-story actually becomes a story-within-a-story-within-a-story, leading to double quotation marks within single quotation marks within double quotation marks. So, obviously something different needed to be done with the adaptation.

Now I would have expected the story to be told as a flashback, Holmes telling Watson about one of his cases in the old days. However, the writers chose to get a little more creative: they insert Watson into the story, and the scene is now Holmes and Watson being invited for a little vacation time at the estate of Reginald Musgrave. As the adventure unfolds, the dynamic duo are in the middle of the action, and the tale gets rather entertaining and interesting. Most of the major plot points are imported intact from the source material, as well as large chunks of dialogue from the original. Not the least of these is the "Musgrave Ritual" from the title. (I have removed all of the many quotation marks, for ease of reading.)

Whose was it? His who is gone. Who shall have it? He who will come. Where was the sun? Over the oak. Where was the shadow? Under the elm. How was it stepped? North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under. What shall we give for it? All that is ours. Why should we give it? For the sake of the trust.

As the adaptation unfolds, the mystery is rather engaging for the viewer, but there are some misssteps along the way. The most bewildering choice, I thought, was that Holmes inexplicably spends the first half of the episode wrapping himself in an afghan blanket, as if he is freezing, while no one around him seems to be too cold at all. I found that little detail to be incredibly distracting. Also, Jeremy Brett spends an entire scene holding back laughter, and then erupting into guffaws for...no reason whatsoever.

One might also be surprised (in the original story and in its adaptation) by an adventure in which Holmes solves the case of the mysterious Musgrave Ritual, but seems completely unconcerned by the missing Rachel Howells, who most likely was directly involved in the murder of the butler Brunton. The adaptation solves this problem, to a certain extent, by having the woman's body emerge from the pond, as another servant (with whom Brunton had an affair) discovers the corpse and runs away, shrieking. Considering, though, that the pond had been searched thoroughly at an earlier point in the episode, this doesn't really make a whole lot of sense.

So, is this a faithful adaptation of the story of "The Musgrave Ritual"? Well, yes and no. As I mentioned, most of the story is fairly similar, but there are certainly many liberties taken, rearranging it for ease of storytelling, as well as to have Watson be a participant. Still, it's enjoyable enough to watch, and there are great moments throughout, including a lovely shot of Holmes, Watson and Musgrave at work on the mystery, which I've shared at the top of the post, and a humorous moment when Watson miscalculates the length of a shadow (after Holmes has exclaimed, "The answer lies in trigonometry!").  Overall, an entertaining, if a bit unusual, entry into the Granada canon.

[storyspinner91]

Willow + Lancer + The Oh Hellos = Like Constellations

Ok, a long, long time ago I said I might write up a little explanation post about what Like Constellations, A Million Years Away is. Because if there’s one thing I seem to have a talent for, it’s...getting excited about the intersections of two things that combine to make an extremely obscure niche, lol. So this post is meant to answer: what the heck is this? and why the heck is this? Read on for answers in hopefully not too (buuut probably too) much detail. 

What the Heck is your fic?

Like Constellations, A Million Years Away is a long-form fanfiction that adapts elements of the story of Willow (2022) to the setting (more or less, I’ve taken a few liberties) of the tabletop roleplaying game Lancer, created by Tom Parkinson Morgan and Miguel Lopez. This means that instead of a fantasy world, the characters of Willow are in a far-future science-fiction universe where combat sometimes takes place between pilots of huge, mechanized chassis (think of Gundam or Neon Genesis Evangelion). The fic starts out being a fairly “straightforward” adaptation but is, especially recently, rapidly departing from the narrative of the TV show. Because I’m a huge dork who love structure, it is also structured based on the music of the band The Oh Hellos - specifically, the Anemoi Cycle, 4 EPs titled Notos, Eurus, Boreas, and Zephyrus.

Basically, this means that Willow contributes the characters and certain plot beats; Lancer contributes the setting and influences the tone somewhat; and The Oh Hellos provide the emotional structure and thematic resonances for the piece. I’m being relatively strict with the structure; each chapter is based on a song from the Anemoi Cycle, in order, as indicated by the chapter titles (which are lyrics from the relevant song, or the title in the case of instrumental-only tracks). The one exception to this is chapters 7-8, which both correspond to “New River” from Notos - it just got too unwieldy, and I decided it had to be split up for space. (I suspect the same will happen to chapters 15-16, which may both be “Passerine,” but we’ll see.) And the whole work, which is gonna weigh in around 30 chapters, is divided into 4 books, one for each EP. In Like Constellations, Book 1 focuses on Jade, Book 2 on Kit, Book 3 on Graydon, and Book 4 on Elora.  

If that seems obsessive or red-string-cork-boardy, it probably is. But the plus side is that I feel like I have a really strong sense of where I’m going, at least in broad strokes and thematic terms. I know what the beginning and end of each book are, and many of the key moments in between. So I am very confident that this will be finished.

How and Why did this Nonsense Happen?

First off: I love adaptation and find it fascinating. The shift from one setting to another or (even cooler) one medium to another? A delight. My brain thinks laterally, and it likes to make connections. 

But this was really all a sort of accident. I’d seen a lot of memes when Willow was airing (or just “viewable,” RIP) that compared the group to a D&D party, and I was a little salty because they are clearly playing a game of Thirsty Sword Lesbians.

(That’s not a joke, it’s a game and a great one that would legitimately give you Willow vibes in play, you should go buy it.)

ANYWAY! I was taking a look at Lancer, which is a game where (in the mech tradition) mechs are very personal and can be customized, and I got to thinking, “I wonder whether you could make a mech for each of the Willow characters?” I was just idly scrolling through them when I suddenly saw a mech and thought, “Oh hell yes, that’s Kit’s mech.” 

Here’s where I have to give credit to Parkinson-Morgan and Lopez, because the synergy of illustration and game design in Lancer is astounding. You look at the Metalmark and you (at least I) think, “Yeah, that looks like a great fighter who prioritizes speed and really wants to look cool while doing it,” and that’s exactly what it is in terms of game mechanics. So that was fun to create, and I think Kit would be happy with the mech I built her.

But I still thought, “Well, that’s fun but there’s no way you could really pull off the story of Willow in Lancer’s setting...I mean the whole arranged-marriage aspect alone doesn’t really fit the science-ficti--”

In all [worlds controlled by SSC, the corporation that produces Kit’s mech], their populations are tightly controlled through deep cultural manipulation to generate biome-specific lines of colony seed materiel. The people of these worlds are aware of SSC’s mission; they are freely associated members of the corpro-state, most of whom are as invested in its mission – literally – and are generally unconcerned with SSC’s human experimentation projects. Save for regular, culturally-appropriate samplings of genetic material (a few hairs, a drop of blood, a swab from inside the mouth) and an expectation of arranged coupling, life on Constellar Worlds is unremarkable and quiet.

--Lancer core rulebook, p. 399-400

And at that point, the fic just sort of started to fall into my head. Kit could be the child of a major SSC investor, maybe the head of a subsidiary company. A valuable part of SSC’s horrible eugenics-”light” project (no such thing as light eugenics, kids) trapped not by monarchy but by corporate contracts that predate her birth. Jade could be a ward of the “state” (that here being a corporation). Boorman a former space pirate. Graydon a valuable new gene sample. Elora a totally normal girl but with some unusual computer capabilities. Willow a “paracausal” scientist (”paracausality” is Lancer’s in-world term for totally-not-magic). 

I was listening to the Anemoi Cycle at the time suddenly thought, “Wait, this sort of works, too.” Because the Anemoi Cycle is about having a crisis of belief and questioning the community (particularly, the problematic community) you were raised in. It’s about the need for constant growth, compassion, human connection, and an awareness of the value of material human existence. All of these are themes I think are there in Willow too. So I started outlining and writing and...wrote really fast when I started and have since slowed down, lol. Life has gotten busier in the last several weeks, and now that I’m moving beyond Willow’s plot beats I have to tread more carefully to avoid trapping myself or espousing things I want to avoid. 

But I am very excited to keep working on this story, and I can’t wait to look back on it when it’s finished. If you made it to the end of this long, rambly tumblr post - thank you, please get yourself a cookie for me as thanks for listening to my far-too-verbose thoughts.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Saving a Friend

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

When Ivan fails to return from his mission, a cold dread tightens its grip on the Little Palace. As the days stretch on, his absence becomes a suffocating weight, pressing down especially on the one man who cannot afford to break.

Notes:

This story is an AU, based on the first episodes of “Shadow and Bone”, when Alina is still relatively new to the palace. As in each of my stories, Kirigan is a leader, not the villain from the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

**Genya's POV**

Ivan’s absence was a glaring void that no one in the Little Palace could ignore. A few days had passed since he failed to return from a crucial mission, and the impact was palpable. Ivan wasn’t just any Grisha; he was Kirigan’s second-in-command, a figure of immense importance and an invaluable asset. His disappearance wasn’t just a logistical nightmare—it was a blow to their morale.

Rumours swirled like autumn leaves in the corridors, whispering of Ivan being held captive, of him being used for vital intelligence. Everyone hoped he was still alive, believing that whoever had taken him needed him for information. But beyond the strategic importance, there was an unspoken truth, that many maybe didn’t even realize, but Genya all the more: Ivan was what passed for Kirigan’s closest friend. Their bond was unique, marked by a rare sense of trust and camaraderie. And because of that, Genya watched Kirigan unravel in ways only a few could truly see. He held the Little Palace together with the effortless skill of a master tactician, balancing meetings with the Tsar and strategy briefings with senior officers, monitoring troop movements across Ravka, overseeing military logistics, and somehow—through all of it—organizing Ivan’s search. Most saw nothing more than the composed General of the Second Army, his jaw set in that fierce, determined line, his voice steady and calm. But Genya, with her eyes trained to notice the smallest details, discerned what lay beneath that polished surface.

It started as little things. Shadows darkening beneath his eyes, a paleness that even the dim candlelight of the palace couldn’t hide. She observed his hands trembling slightly when he thought no one was looking, noticed, how his cloak hung looser over his shoulders, as if he’d shed weight he couldn’t afford to lose. Every day, he was there to give the Grisha their orders, his presence commanding as ever, his voice unwavering—but each night, Genya heard his steps echoing in the halls long after everyone else had retired. But she wasn’t alone in sensing the toll it was taking on him. Alina seemed more and more haunted with passing time; she, too, perceived it all just as clearly. She noticed every strained step, every sleepless night; how tirelessly Kirigan worked behind closed doors. The difference was only that Alina wasn’t as close to the palace staff, didn’t know the guards as well as Genya, hadn’t caught as many of the gossips, especially those from the Grand Palace and the First Army. She didn’t know about the risks he took. Most troubling were the nights when he left the Little Palace entirely to hunt down information himself—venturing into dark corners and dangerous places where few sane men would dare tread, as if no threat or danger could possibly outweigh his purpose. Those he needed to reach, to intimidate, to bribe, would certainly not come willingly to him, and so he went out to find them instead. Sometimes, he returned just before dawn, his hair dishevelled, the gleam of his eyes sharper, fiercer, as though he had struck another bargain, made another promise, wielded another menace—all for Ivan. Most people remained oblivious to these things, never catching the subtle strain in his voice, never glimpsing the exhaustion he worked so hard to conceal. Genya did. She overheard stories whispered in the palace corridors, bits of intelligence passed between messengers. She knew what others did not, how he was leveraging allies both inside and outside the palace walls, paying the price in ways only a few understood. Each time Genya caught sight of him, a pang of admiration—and dread—tugged at her heart. How much longer could he keep this up?

It wasn’t simply his dedication, his intelligence, or the way he manoeuvred the Tsar’s obstacles with a precision that was as ruthless as it was necessary. It was his willingness to do anything for Ivan, to pull every string, to use every connection. Kirigan hadn’t only ordered a search for his second in command; he’d orchestrated it to perfection, as if each lead, each strategy, each piece of intelligence came with its own invisible blueprint, a map to Ivan drawn by Kirigan’s mind alone. One evening, Genya arrived at his office, a tray in her hands. She hesitated, balancing a warm tea and a bowl of soup. Through the door’s narrow crack, she saw him hunched over his desk, barely moving, as if the weight of his thoughts kept him trapped there. Dark, weary eyes scanned endless reports, and each time he found a detail, he would seize it with ruthless intensity, his quill a blur across the parchment. She knocked softly, entering without waiting for an answer.

“I brought you something to eat.” She kept her tone gentle but purposeful.

He glanced up, the look of surprise so brief she might have imagined it. “I’ll get to it later,” he murmured then, barely glancing at the tray, already turning to his papers again.

But she set it down firmly on his desk, close enough to catch his attention each time he reached for a new report. “Please, General,” she urged softly, her tone carrying a hint of insistence he couldn’t ignore. “Just a few bites.”

Reluctantly, he picked up the spoon, if only to stop her from lingering. She pretended not to notice his small compliance, though it encouraged her. From then on, she found herself bringing him something each night—a hearty meal, a mug of tea. Sometimes, he ignored them completely, but every so often, she would find the cup empty, the bowl scraped clean. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and she clung to these small victories.

She occasionally thought of Fedyor, who received Kirigan’s reports and updates in the field, who clearly recognized the brilliance in the man’s strategies. But he couldn’t guess the lengths Kirigan had gone to reach those insights; couldn’t know of the strings pulled, the threats murmured behind closed doors, the promises and the concessions Kirigan had made—all things he’d never let anyone see.

One night, unable to sleep, she found herself wandering the halls of the Little Palace. It was quiet, except for the distant sound of Kirigan’s voice as he instructed yet another group of messengers. Alina found her there, her eyes filled with the same raw worry that Genya felt. Together, they stood in the shadows, listening, realizing just how much of himself he still was pouring into this.

“He won’t stop,” Alina whispered, her words catching. “He… he won’t rest.”

Genya shook her head. “I know. He’ll drive himself to the edge if that’s what it takes.” She looked at Alina, her own voice thick with a mixture of fear and admiration. “And he won’t let anyone see it. He’ll show them the face of their General, confident and composed, but…” She hesitated, glancing back toward his office door. “If Ivan isn’t found… I don’t know what it will do to him. He’s holding on now, but without answers?” She trailed off, unable to voice the thought fully.

They both fell silent, standing witness to the man who bore his grief and fear in solitude, unwilling to let it crack the image of the invincible General. Genya understood why—Ravka was teetering on the edge of chaos, and Kirigan knew too well what a single moment of visible weakness could cost. The Tsar would pounce on it, the warlords would exploit it, and even the Grisha, desperate for reassurance, would falter. He couldn’t afford to let them see the toll it took, couldn’t risk that his unshakable resolve might ever be questioned. And yet, in these quiet moments, away from prying eyes, Genya saw the truth. He was burning himself out, clinging to that carefully constructed façade with the last reserves of his strength—all for them. Genya could do nothing to ease the heavy weight he carried. All she could do was keep bringing those small offerings of food and warmth, forcing him, if only for a moment, to care for himself. Whatever the outcome of this search—whether Ivan returned or not—Genya knew that only a handful would ever truly understand what Kirigan had done, the lengths he had gone to for his friend. If Ivan came back, he might learn the full measure of the sacrifices made for him. But if not, the burden of that knowledge would remain with those few who had witnessed it. And they would remember it, even if Kirigan himself allowed himself no thanks, no respite.

**Alina’s POV** Alina sat curled up in the corner of her room, her knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. The faint glow of the single lamp cast long, shifting shadows on the walls, amplifying the eerie stillness of the Little Palace at this hour. She hadn’t meant to stay up so late, but true rest had eluded her ever since Ivan had gone missing. The dread seeped into her dreams whenever she closed her eyes, twisting them into fragmented nightmares. Even now, she felt the lingering chill of unease.

She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could endure. The uncertainty, the mounting tension, and the silent despair that seemed to infect everyone she held dear—it was suffocating. She had barely been here long enough to find her footing, and already, the ground beneath her felt as if it were crumbling.

The shock of Ivan’s disappearance had rippled through the palace like a silent scream, leaving everyone on edge. Genya, who was usually confined to tend to the Tsar and Tsaritsa, had been spending more and more time in the Little Palace. It was as if her concern had overridden her usual obligations. She seemed to steal moments away from the demands of the Sovereigns - or perhaps she no longer cared about their displeasure. The way she seemed to have an urgent need to be in the Little Palace spoke volumes about her growing anxiety. Fedyor’s absence was another hole in the fragile stability Alina had tried to build around herself. He had always been a heartwarming presence, his easy laughter and gentle strength making her feel like things might actually be okay. But now he was out there, braving every danger imaginable to bring his husband home, searching for Ivan with nothing but hope and Kirigan’s relentless determination to guide him.

And then there was Kirigan himself. He was everywhere and nowhere, a dark blur of command whose presence seemed to anchor those around him even as he disappeared into his work. But beyond the calm authority he projected, she could sense the strain beneath the surface—the faint edges of weariness that nearly no one else seemed to notice. It was there in the way his presence brushed against hers, steady but taut, like a thread stretched too thin.

As the days dragged on, she couldn’t shake the subtle ache that settled in her chest whenever he was near. Outwardly, he was composed, always in control, but to her, the signs were unmistakable. His posture was just a little more rigid, the hollows beneath his eyes darker. He seemed to move through the palace like a shadow—present, but somehow diminished.

And she felt it. She couldn’t explain how, but it was as though a faint pulse of his exhaustion had settled within her, echoing through their strange, shared connection. Every day, it grew a little stronger, a little heavier, as though he was pouring everything he had into keeping himself upright. And it weighed on her in ways she didn’t quite understand.

She told herself it was just concern for someone carrying so much. But the tightness in her heart whispered otherwise.

And yet, Alina couldn’t help but be drawn to his strength, the quiet determination that seemed to set him apart from anyone she had ever known. For Kirigan, this was more than duty; it was personal. Ivan was a high-ranking officer, an extremely important Grisha as his Second in Command, yes, but also something closer—a true friend in a world where trust came rarely and betrayal more often. She had observed them together, was sure that behind closed doors, Ivan was perhaps the only one Kirigan trusted with his silence, or his rare moments of honesty. So Kirigan pushed, harder than anyone else would, and he did it in a way no one else could. A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She hesitated, smoothing her hands over her rumpled shirt, then opened. Genya stood there, her face tired but kind, her fiery red hair falling loosely over her shoulders. “You’re not sleeping.” It wasn’t a question.

“Neither are you,” Alina replied resignedly.

Genya slipped past her into the room and dropped onto the sofa with a weary sigh. “How could I? The whole palace feels like a powder keg. And I don’t know if it’s about to explode or just burn out slowly.”

Alina shut the door and sat beside her. “It’s like everything’s falling apart. Ivan is gone, Fedyor’s out there somewhere… and Kirigan—” She faltered, unable to finish the thought. “—looks like he won’t make another day without collapsing,” Genya finished, the sharp edge of her honesty cutting through the air despite her gentle tone. Alina nodded, her throat constricting as tears burned at the edges of her eyes. “He seems completely drained. But he hides it so well, it’s easy to forget how much he’s carrying—until you really look at him.” A helplessness she couldn’t mask bled through.

“He doesn’t sleep.” Genya rubbed her face then, exhausted, a completely uncharacteristic gesture from this normally so graceful woman. “He spends every moment he’s not attending to the Tsar or the war room out there, searching. I’ve heard some of the guards saying they’ve seen him slipping out of the palace, every night.” Alina’s chest tightened. The day before, Genya had been telling her about how Kirigan had orchestrated an intricate campaign of moves in the past days, exploited every ounce of leverage he held. But it hadn't occurred to her that he would leave the Little Palace to do so. It was as if he were waging a one-man war against time itself, orchestrating everything with an intensity that seemed almost staggering; and now, after hearing he was out there on his own, a cold knot of fear formed in her stomach. The thought that he might get injured – alone, unable to get help—wrapped itself around her like a vice.

That night, she couldn’t sleep at all. Everything had fallen into place after Genya’s explanations. Waking each night, tossing and turning, unable to shake the sense that something was off—those weren’t just fears for Ivan or Fedyor. It was something deeper. Kirigan’s absence, unnoticed until now, was what had made the nights so heavy, so stifling. Lying awake in her bed, she found herself listening for any sound that might betray his return—the faint creak of the entrance doors, the sound of his boots in the empty halls. Hours passed, the moonlight shifting across her ceiling. And then, just before dawn, she felt it. It wasn’t something she could name—just a shift in the air, a pull she couldn’t quite resist, as though her very senses attuned themselves to his presence.

She rose and padded to her window, pulling the curtain aside to catch a glimpse of him in the courtyard below. His figure was barely a shadow against the predawn light, his cloak billowing as he moved toward the palace doors. She couldn’t see his face, but his gait was slow, deliberate, as though each step cost him. When he vanished from view, she returned to her bed, her heart heavy.

The next afternoon Alina found Genya outside Kirigan’s war room, balancing a tray of tea and carefully prepared food. The scent of herbs and spices wafted from the steaming pot, faint but soothing.

“Any news?” Alina asked, glancing at the closed door.

Genya shook her head. “He’s been on it for hours again. I don’t think he even knows how long it’s been. He’s… I’ve never seen him like this.” Genya’s exhaustion was almost palpable.

Alina’s gaze shifted to the tray. The details struck her—tiny sprigs of restorative herbs tucked into the tea, the meticulous arrangement of small dishes designed to tempt someone with no appetite. It was all so meticulous, so revealing of Genya’s own care, that Alina’s heart swelled and sank at the same time. "How often do you bring him these?” She nodded toward the tray.

“Every day,” Genya replied, a gentle sadness woven into her answer. “I know he won’t eat much of it. But if he takes even a sip of tea or a bite, it’s something.” She paused, glancing toward the faint glow behind Kirigan’s door. “I can’t stand seeing him like this, running himself into the ground.”

Alina felt a pang of sympathy, mixed with something deeper that she didn’t quite want to name. “But doesn’t he have more people who could help him with this? Surely, he doesn’t have to do it all himself.” “Of course he has. But they’re all out there, combing through everything he’s mapped out,” Genya explained. “So he’s going out himself.” She sighed. “He’s always taken on more than anyone else, but this—this is different.” She paused, glancing back at the closed door. “I think he feels responsible. Like if he doesn’t find Ivan, no one else will.” There was something in Genya’s tone, a hint of fear that unsettled Alina. She could see that Genya’s concern ran deeper than duty. It was personal, bound up in the complex loyalty and unspoken affection she seemed to hold for Kirigan. Somehow, it was not unlike the General’s own worries regarding Ivan. The way he pushed himself tirelessly, driven by an almost desperate determination to bring Ivan back, mirrored the quiet, steadfast anxiety Genya felt for her General. It was about saving a friend.

For a moment, they stood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. “I just… I wish there was a way to help him,” Alina whispered finally. “He always does so much for all of us, and now…”

Genya’s hand tightened around the tray. “I know. Believe me, I know.” Her voice was barely audible, grief woven into every syllable. “The problem is, no one else can do what he’s doing. The moves he’s making? Those are unique to him. He’s spent years building alliances, gaining leverage, and now he knows exactly which strings to pull. He’s the only one who can make it work.” Alina exhaled slowly, the weight of Genya’s words sinking in. “But still, I wish he’d listen to us more—take breaks, eat, look after himself.”

Genya’s gaze hardened, filled with a mixture of determination and worry. “We just have to be there for him, support him however we can.” Alina nodded, her heart heavy. She understood now, more than she had before, why Kirigan had become a figure of such fierce loyalty to those around him. He carried their burdens as if they were his own, weaving them into the fabric of his quiet, relentless strength. And yet, right now, she couldn’t shake the sense that he was slowly, silently unravelling beneath that weight. As they stood together, Genya reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against Alina’s hand. “He’ll find Ivan,” she whispered, almost as if she were convincing herself. “I know he will. He’s done the impossible before.”

**Fedyor’s POV**

Every day had been another test of patience, of belief. Fedyor read every update, every note from Kirigan with a fierce, no, desperate focus. Each message held a sliver of hope—a new trail, a hint, a whisper of where Ivan might be. Fedyor clung to them as if they were lifelines, his heart pounding with each report brought by weary messengers who, like him, hardly slept.   Kirigan was relentless, sending word from the Little Palace at least two or three times a day. It was as if the general could feel Fedyor’s growing despair across the distance and was determined to pull him back from the edge, to keep him going. His notes carried more than information; they carried weight. Each word was a command, a plea, and a quiet reassurance—that this mission mattered, that Ivan mattered. Kirigan was fighting alongside them from afar, his fierce determination echoing through every detail. And Fedyor matched it step for step. He had to. He owed Kirigan that much. He owed Ivan that much.

Days blurred together, hope and dread clashing with each new update. Kirigan’s work was tireless, the string of reports unbroken, marking every detail he had uncovered or guessed. How the general managed to find these leads from so far away, Fedyor couldn’t fathom. All he knew was that he was grateful. Grateful beyond words, beyond even the feverish thoughts that ran through his mind late at night when he was alone. Fedyor had always trusted Kirigan’s leadership—but this was something more. It was personal, a loyalty that transcended duty. The general was pushing, reaching, stretching his resources to an extraordinary degree for a single man. For his Ivan. Out here in the wilderness, the physical toll was relentless. Endless tracking, bitter weather, and the constant threat of danger had worn him and his team raw. Their faces were hollow, their limbs shaking from exertion and lack of sleep, but none of them faltered. They endured because they believed—not just in Fedyor, but in Kirigan’s faith that Ivan could be found. The general’s unwavering trust in their abilities was a fire that refused to die, even as exhaustion clouded their vision and hope wavered. His guidance was more than orders—it was a promise that no one would be left behind. Every update from him was a reminder that they weren’t alone, that he was with them in every step, every struggle. It made the impossible feel achievable.

Then came the message. The one that sent Fedyor’s heart into a frenzy, breath shallow with fear and hope so sharp it hurt. Kirigan had found something. No more vague trails, no rumours, but something solid, something real. Fedyor’s hands shook as he read the message over and over again, his eyes skimming every word like a prayer, urging Ivan to be alive. He could barely focus, barely keep himself steady, as they moved toward the site Kirigan had pinpointed. They travelled in silence, the urgency in every step matched by the unspoken determination to succeed. The barren landscape blurred past them, but Fedyor’s focus was razor-sharp. He had been running on sheer willpower for days now, his Kefta heavy on his shoulders, damp and tattered from the journey. His body ached, his hands were numb with cold and exhaustion, but none of it mattered. They were close—so close—and the thought of his husband being just out of reach spurred him forward.

When they arrived, Fedyor’s calm, gentle demeanor was gone. His team moved with cold precision, with an intensity that matched his own fury and desperation. They encountered resistance—those who held Ivan and thought they could keep him. And for once, Fedyor showed no mercy. He fought with a single-minded, unwavering ferocity, striking down every last one who stood in their way. The quiet, peaceful Fedyor was nowhere to be seen; here, in this desolate corner of the world, he was a man driven to the edge, prepared to face any darkness for the sake of the one he loved. By the time the last opponent fell, Fedyor was shaking, his breathing ragged. He barely registered the blood on his hands, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. His team flanked him, their expressions grim but resolute. They were just as drained, but their resolve unbroken. The group spread out, moving through the camp carefully, the Heartrender stretching their senses as far es they could. Every corner was checked, every shadow inspected, their breaths tight with anticipation. And suddenly, Fedyor felt it—a whisper that surged through him, a pulse of recognition. He barely had the strength to move, but the feeling was so achingly familiar, yet so weak, that his body sprang into motion before his mind could catch up. The sharp, astonished shouts of his comrades faded as his limbs carried him forward with desperate speed. And then, Fedyor found him.

Ivan lay sprawled on the uneven floor, his body broken and battered beyond anything Fedyor could have braced himself for. The dim light of the torches flickered over his face, casting jagged shadows across pale, sweat-slicked skin. His breathing was shallow, each rise and fall of his chest a fragile, agonizing reminder of just how close Fedyor might be to losing him. Blood—some of it fresh, some crusted—streaked his arms, his jaw, his torn uniform. Heavy iron cuffs encased his wrists, cruelly biting into swollen flesh, robbing him of access to his power. Fedyor’s panic surged as he realized how fragile Ivan’s pulse was. He dropped to his knees beside him, his legs giving way beneath the weight of his fear. The sound of him hitting the ground barely registered; all he could hear was the labored rasp of Ivan’s breaths. His trembling hands immediately formed sharp, controlled gestures in the air as he reached out with his power. He focused everything he had on steadying the erratic rhythm, willing Ivan’s heart to beat stronger, his breath to come easier. It was all he could do—to buy time, to keep his husband tethered to life until the Healers could save him. Desperation surged within him like a tidal wave. He threw his head back and bellowed, thunderous: “I NEED HELP! NOW!”

Then, he turned back to the man on the ground. "Ivan." The name caught in his throat, raw and broken, as if dragged out against the weight of his despair. His trembling fingers reached for Ivan’s face, barely daring to touch the bruised cheek, and recoiled slightly at the unnatural heat of his skin. A tear slipped free, tracing a burning path down his face as he leaned closer. “We’re here. We’ve got you.” His own exhaustion was only a distant ache by now; all that mattered was Ivan. “Stay with me.” His words were a shivery exhale, trembling with desperation. “I’ve got you, my love. Just hold on.” Ivan’s eyes fluttered, the faintest motion, as if the sound of Fedyor’s voice was pulling him back from a great distance. His gaze, unfocused and cloudy, struggled to land on Fedyor. There was the barest flicker of recognition—like a match struck in darkness—but then it faded, and his gaze drifted sideways before his eyes closed again. Fedyor’s heart twisted painfully. He gripped Ivan’s hand, wrapping it tightly in his own, shaking as he pressed his forehead to their joined fingers. “Stay with me.” The words tumbled out, rough and uneven, a plea more instinct than thought. “You hear me? Just a little longer. Don’t let go, Ivan. Please.” The sharp voices of the healers sliced through the air, shattering the fragile bubble around them. “We need space,” one of them commanded, their tone gentle but resolute. Fedyor flinched, his instincts screaming to stay where he was, but he forced himself to move, shifting just enough to allow them to work. Yet his grip on Ivan’s hand didn’t falter. He refused to let go, his fingers still laced with his husband’s, as if the connection alone could keep Ivan tethered to this world. One Healer extended her hands, her fingers moving in intricate patterns above Ivan’s chest, steady, smooth gestures that spoke of years of mastery and precision. Her partner mirrored her movements, working in tandem as they silently assessed Ivan’s injuries. They murmured between each other, exchanging the most concerning details on his condition: “Several fractured ribs. Internal bleeding, likely the lung. Fever’s high. Pulse weak.”

Fedyor felt like the words were daggers, stabbing deep with every revelation. His trembling fingers traced lightly over Ivan’s cheek, his lips brushing against his husband’s temple. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice cracking but fierce. “Listen carefully, Ivan. You’re not allowed to go. Not now. Not ever.”

The healer’s expressions were grim as they worked to mend what they could. Ivan’s chest began to rise slightly more evenly under their care, his breathing less shallow. Fedyor didn’t move from his place at Ivan’s side, his senses still attuned to his pulse, monitoring the erratic rhythm, steadying it when he could. The air in the room was tense, heavy with the acrid scent of blood and the quiet murmur of commands. Outside, Fedyor’s team stood guard, their shadows long and blurry in the fading moonlight. They formed a protective ring around the cabin, their powers ready, their expressions grim. Though they kept their distance, they were a wall of steadfast loyalty—prepared to protect Ivan with their lives if need be.

After what felt like an eternity, the lead healer looked up and nodded once. “He’s stable enough to move.”

Relief slammed into Fedyor so hard it left him dizzy. He swayed slightly, swallowing the lump in his throat as they carefully lifted Ivan onto a stretcher. The motion was slow, deliberate, but nevertheless, Ivan’s head lolled slightly to the side and his face twisted in unconscious pain. Fedyor winced, his heart breaking anew at the sight.

As they carried the unconscious man out of the cabin, the first rays of dawn pierced the treetops, casting the clearing in a soft, golden light. The brightness felt jarring, almost cruel, against the lingering darkness of what had just transpired. Fedyor walked alongside the stretcher, his thumb absently brushing across his husband’s fingers as if to reassure them both. The weight of newfound hope pressed down on him so fiercely, it nearly brought him to his knees, but he forced himself to remain upright. Ivan was alive, even if just barely. And in that moment, Fedyor silently thanked Kirigan—not for the first time and not for the last. However he’d managed it, whatever methods he’d used, Kirigan had kept his promise. He’d found Ivan.

Fedyor’s team flanked them, their movements tired, their faces tight with shared tension. The sight of Ivan’s battered body seemed to have shaken even the most hardened among them.

When they reached the waiting cart, the healers climbed in first, already preparing to continue their work. Fedyor followed, settling beside Ivan and leaning close. His hand still clasped Ivan’s, their fingers interlaced.

“We bring you home now,” he whispered, his voice low but steady. His free hand brushed damp hair back from his husband’s forehead. “Do you hear me, Ivan? You’re safe. We’re going home.”

Ivan didn’t respond, his head rolling slightly with the motion of the cart. But Fedyor saw the faintest flutter of his lashes, a small, almost imperceptible shift in his breathing. It was enough.

Fedyor pressed his lips to Ivan’s temple, his tears soaking into the pale skin as they began their journey back. The relief was so vast it felt like a physical weight lifting, but the fear lingered too—a gnawing ache that wouldn’t leave until Ivan would open his eyes again, until he would speak, until he would smile.

For now, though, he held onto hope. And he held onto Ivan.

**Ivan's POV** Ivan's world was dark shadows and tides of pain, a haze that had consumed him for what felt like an eternity. His chest ached, hollowed out by exhaustion, his limbs like lead, and every breath brought a sharp throb that radiated through his battered body. He hovered at the edge of consciousness, barely tethered to reality, disjointed flashes of memory surfacing against his will. Darkened rooms, the snap of chains, voices that were both cruel and mocking.

But he drifted into awareness slowly. This time it wasn’t like the fleeting moments of lucidity he’d had before, leaving him more disoriented than awake, though his head still swam with remnants of what he had endured. The biting chill of fear, the acrid taste of failure. It was a blur of agony, but more and more, it was broken by the faintest glimmers of comfort: familiar voices, a hand around his, the warmth of someone refusing to let go. For the first time, his thoughts were not drowning under the weight of disorientation. They surfaced, hesitant and slow, like a creature testing the safety of light after a long time spent in darkness. Gradually, the fractured pieces began to fall into place. His eyelids fluttered before he forced them open.

Ivan exhaled shakily, the tight band of tension in his chest loosening as a room came into focus. A well-known room. Pale walls, illuminated by sunlight filtering through the high windows. The antiseptic tang of healing herbs mixed with the faint smell of clean linen—comforting and familiar. His body ached in ways he couldn’t fully catalogue, but the feeling was muted now, dulled by the soft bed beneath him and the realisation that he was safe. The infirmary.

He was back at the Little Palace. He was home. When he turned his head slightly, his gaze settled on the figure sprawled in the chair beside him. Fedyor.

The sight of his husband nearly undid him.

Fedyor was slumped awkwardly, his head resting on his folded arms atop the edge of Ivan's bed. His dark hair was dishevelled, his Kefta hanging off his too thin shoulders. He looked as though he'd fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion rather than intent. His face was pale, his cheeks sunken, and his breathing was deep but uneven, the kind that came from a body running on fumes. In the soft light, Ivan could see the faint tremble in Fedyor’s fingers, where they clutched the edge of the blanket.

Emotion struck him so hard his throat tightened. Fedyor, always so gentle and light-hearted, looked like he’d been broken and stitched back together in his absence. Guilt stabbed at Ivan’s heart, sharper than any physical pain he’d endured. Fedyor should never have had to carry this burden, should never have been put through this. And yet here he was, in this state, still refusing to leave Ivan alone, to really rest.

He wanted to reach out, to brush his hand over Fedyor's hair, to whisper apologies and comforts; wanted to feel him, to reassure himself that this wasn’t a dream. But his body betrayed him, too weak to obey.

He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again, anchoring himself in the present; took a shallow breath, then another. The air tasted clean, not metallic with blood or damp with despair. It was real. He was alive. He was going to be all right. And so was Fedyor.

It wasn’t long before the door creaked open, drawing Ivan’s attention. The sound was soft, but it felt loud in the stillness of the room. His gaze shifted sluggishly toward the source of the noise as two figures stepped inside.

Alina and Genya. Their faces lit up in unison when they saw him, the weariness they wore momentarily lifting like mist burned away by the sun.

“Ivan,” Alina breathed, her voice trembling with relief. She stepped forward quickly, her eyes bright with concern as she took in the sight of him. “You’re awake.” Genya followed, her sharp gaze flicking to Fedyor as she set a delicate hand on Ivan’s arm. Her smile was warm and tender, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You had us worried, you stubborn man,” she whispered, teasing but shaky at the edges. “How do you feel?”

Before Ivan could summon the strength to reply, a soft sound came from beside him—a quiet groan. Fedyor stirred. He shifted, his brow furrowing before his dark eyes blinked open, and with some effort, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, his tired gaze instinctively drawn toward Genya and Alina, toward the source of the noise that had pulled him from sleep.

“Fedyor.” It was a croak, raspy and barely audible, but Fedyor’s head whipped around sharply, his eyes widening as they locked onto Ivan’s. The instant their gazes met, something inside Fedyor seemed to snap awake. His exhaustion evaporated, replaced by a flood of emotion so fierce that Ivan could feel it like a physical force.

“Ivan.” Fedyor surged forward, scrambling to sit on the edge of the bed. His hands trembled as they reached out, hovering uncertainly, as though afraid any contact might hurt him. “You’re awake,” he murmured, shaking. “You’re really awake.” His hands moved to Ivan’s face now, tentative and gentle, cradling it ever so carefully.

The tenderness in his touch was overwhelming; it was the touch of someone who had almost lost everything—but what undid the walls Ivan had tried to hold up was the single tear slipping free from Fedyor’s lashes. It fell onto Ivan’s hand, carving a hot, silent path against his skin. Fedyor leaned down, pressing his forehead to Ivan’s, his breath hitching against Ivan’s skin. “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered. “I thought—” His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish.

The sight of Fedyor breaking hit Ivan in a way that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with helplessness. Ivan wanted to speak, to soothe him, to tell him he was sorry for putting him through this hell. But no words came, only the weight of Fedyor’s presence wrapping him in a love so profound that it left him breathless.

“I’m okay,” he rasped at last, raw but firm. He mustered the strength to lift his hand, weak and trembling, to cover Fedyor’s. Their fingers twined together, and Fedyor’s grip tightened as if to convince himself that Ivan wasn’t slipping away again. Genya cleared her throat softly, the sound small but thick with emotion, as she looked away to give them a moment of privacy. Alina stayed quiet, her dark eyes shining with a mix of sorrow and relief.

For a long moment, the infirmary was filled with nothing but the sound of Ivan and Fedyor’s uneven breathing, their foreheads still pressed together. It was raw, imperfect, and achingly human. But it was enough. It was everything.   Finally, slowly, Fedyor pulled back, just enough to meet Ivan’s gaze. He exhaled shakily, then let their hands slide down onto his lap, fingers still entwined. Genya pulled a chair closer and sat beside the bed. Alina, without a word, perched at the foot of the mattress, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. Now, in the soft afternoon light, Ivan could see it—could see how much the last days had taken from them all. Genya’s usual effortless grace was tinged with fatigue, her clever eyes duller than before, her movements slower. Alina, normally so bright and fierce, looked drawn, her skin paler than usual, the shadows beneath her eyes stark against her delicate features. The relief in the room was palpable, but beneath it, he sensed a tension that hadn’t entirely eased. They were glad to see him alive, but the weight of everything that had happened still lingered in the air. It was clear, they had all been through their own version of hell these past few days.

Ivan swallowed, his throat raw. “…How?” The word scraped out of him, barely more than a breath. He coughed weakly. Genya was moving at once. A cup of water appeared in her hands, and she passed it smoothly to Fedyor who had risen, too. Ivan’s upper body was lifted with careful ease and the cup pressed to his lips. He took a few small sips, the cool liquid soothing his throat. Finally, after Fedyor had settled him back onto the pillows, he gathered the strength to try again. And this time, it worked better. “How did you find me?” The question had been gnawing at him, even in his weakened state. He knew he’d been lost for days, deep in enemy territory. The odds had not been in his favour.

Fedyor’s fingers tightened around his. “Kirigan.” His answer was quiet but carried a weight that made Ivan’s chest tighten. The tone, fierce, but too strained, sent a ripple of unease through Ivan’s weary body, cutting through the lingering fog in his mind. He searched Fedyor’s face for more. His husband exhaled, shifting closer, his free hand absently smoothing Ivan’s blanket.

“He led us to you.” Fedyor paused, as if searching for the right words. “He guided us. Every step. Every choice we made, every lead we followed—it was him. He had eyes everywhere. Whenever he’d get new information, he’d immediately send messengers out to our group. It was like he was always two steps ahead, even when we were at the edge of giving up.”

Ivan frowned, trying to piece together what Fedyor was saying. “So… he hasn’t been out there, with you?” His gaze flickered briefly over the woman before returning to Fedyor for confirmation.

“No.” A trace of bitterness crossed Fedyor’s face, his gentle expression darkening. “He couldn’t be. The Tsar wouldn’t allow it.”

Alina shifted on the foot of the bed, drawing his attention. “But that didn’t stop him.” She sighed quietly, her fingers tracing the hem of her Kefta; a small, restless movement. “He was simultaneously holding the palace together, orchestrating the war and dealing with the Tsar’s impossible demands—all the while trying to find you.” Genya nodded, her bright eyes troubled. “Every night, he left the palace, meeting with people who would slit a man’s throat for looking at them wrong. He activated connections we couldn’t have dreamed of, always knowing where to push, where to threaten, where to listen. He spread misinformation to ensure our teams could search unhindered, fed false leads to rival factions to keep them safe. Every possible angle was covered; every potential lead followed.” Her fingers curled against her arms. “And every time he returned, he looked worse.” Alina shrugged, helplessly. “He’d barely eat, barely sleep. He didn’t want anyone to notice, and he hid it masterfully. But Genya and I…” She trailed off, her brows drawing together as if the weight of those memories pressed down on her even now. “We tried to make him rest.” Her voice was quiet, tired. “But he wouldn’t hear. Wouldn’t slow down.”

There was a pause, and Fedyor shifted a bit before he spoke. “I felt it, too. With each new message we got.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t lay eyes on him once after you went missing. But I knew. It was there in the way his commands came through, in the tone with which he pressed us forward. And yet, he refused to accept anything less than finding you.” His fingers twitched against Ivan’s palm. “It may sound ridiculous, but it showed even in his handwriting.”

Ivan’s brow furrowed.

“Every day it got rougher,” Fedyor explained, his eyes distant, as if recalling the slow, inevitable toll the ordeal had taken on Kirigan. “Sharper, more urgent. It was clear he had less and less strength left to give.”

Ivan listened, silent, the weight in his chest growing heavier with each word.

He had always known he would do anything for Kirigan. Always. There had always been a clear, unwavering loyalty, a devotion that Kirigan had earned through every action, every decision. But he had never considered—never realized—that it might be the same the other way around.

The thought left him unsteady.

“Why…?” The word slipped out, shaky, almost involuntary. “Why did he push so hard?” He hadn’t quite meant to ask, but now that it was out there, he couldn’t take it back. It hung in the air, and his friends shared a glance as if they had been wondering the same thing themselves. But, contrary to Ivan, they had answers. Fedyor’s thumb traced a slow, absentminded path along Ivan’s wrist. When he spoke, his voice was thick with quiet emotion. “Because he wasn’t going to lose you, Ivan.” His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Not if there was any way to bring you back.”

Genya’s lips pressed together; her expression soft. “He would never admit it... but he cares.” Her eyes flickered toward Alina, a silent confirmation passing between them. “We could see it, even if he tried to hide it.”

“He cares, Ivan,” Alina agreed simply. “More than any of us ever realized.”

Ivan swallowed; his throat tight. His mind swam with too many thoughts, too many emotions. He had spent years at Kirigan’s side, believing himself to be one of the few who understood him. And yet—this?

He exhaled, slow and unsteady. “Has he—has he been by?” The question was small, uncertain. He wanted to see him. To thank him. To—

Fedyor’s expression darkened again, and his fingers stilled against Ivan’s hand. “No,” he murmured. “I haven’t seen him either.”

Genya sighed, rubbing at her temples, frustration sharp in the motion. “He’s not here.”

Ivan’s stomach twisted. “What? Why?”

Alina’s gaze hardened. “The Tsar forced him to accompany him.”

Genya nodded, frustration plain on her face. “Dragged him to some ridiculous meeting at the border. A conference with senators—nothing that required him, nothing that needed his time.” She exhaled sharply, anger threading through her tone. “He left before dawn. He won’t be back until late in the evening at the earliest.”

Resentment settled over the room like an unspoken weight. Ivan could feel it in the silence that followed, in the set of their shoulders, in the way no one spoke what they were all thinking. Kirigan should have been here. After everything—after all he had done, all he had sacrificed— this was where he belonged. Resting. Recovering. Not wasting his strength on something so meaningless.

Ivan let out a slow breath. His body was still drained, his mind sluggish, but beneath the fatigue, something else stirred. Gratitude.

He blinked slowly, and for a moment, everything around him faded. He needed a moment to gather himself, to find the strength to speak. When his voice finally broke through the silence, it was weak, but there was a quiet intensity to it. “Thank you.” The words were barely more than a whisper. “All of you.”

Fedyor’s response was immediate, his hand tightening around Ivan's with quiet force. His eyes held Ivan's gaze, something soft, something fierce, beneath the surface. He didn't speak. He didn’t need to. His hand, his touch, said everything. Genya reached out, her fingers brushing his shoulder, a quiet reassurance in her touch. “Rest now,” she murmured. “We’ll stay with you.”

Alina simply nodded, a gentle smile crossing her face.

As Ivan let himself sink back into the pillows, his body succumbing to exhaustion, one thought remained.

He was back. But he had come at a cost.

And for that—he would find a way to repay them all.

**Ivan POV**

When Ivan woke, the infirmary was steeped in darkness, the only light a faint glow from the moon spilling through the tall window. He blinked, disoriented, the room swimming back into focus slowly. His body still ached, a heavy lethargy weighing down his limbs, but it wasn’t pain that had woken him. There was a presence in the room, a familiar aura that he would recognize anywhere.

He turned his head, and there, slumped in a chair beside his bed, was the General. The sight startled him—Kirigan’s head was tipped back at an awkward angle, his face pale as a sheet. There was an unnatural stillness to him, a deep, unconscious repose that Ivan had never seen in him before. Shadows ringed his eyes, and it was clear even in the dim light that he had lost weight; the angles of his handsome features were a little sharper than before. It wasn’t something most would notice, but to Ivan, who had stood at his side for years, the difference was undeniable. For a moment, Ivan was struck by how young he looked, stripped of the usual intense authority he wore like armour when awake.

Ivan’s heart sank at the sight. He had heard from his friends what Kirigan had done these last days. How he had reached into every dark corner to find a trace, a rumour, a sign; to bring him back. Alina and Genya had spoken of his weariness, of the toll this search had taken on him, but seeing it for himself was different.

To anyone else, the General might have seemed merely tired, but to Ivan, the strain was unmistakable. The man before him, right now, looked nothing like the unshakable General who commanded legions of Grisha with effortless grace. He looked… worn thin. Fragile.

And yet, here he was, in the dead of night, keeping vigil by Ivan’s bed as if this was more important than his own rest.

For a moment, Ivan felt something unmoored in him, an unexpected surge of gratitude he had no words for. Kirigan had fought, as no one else could, to bring him home. To see him here now, broken down to exhaustion, felt like a wound and a blessing all at once.

But this was no place to let the man sleep—not in that twisted, uncomfortable position that seemed to emphasize every line of strain in his face.

Ivan shifted, wincing at the pull in his side, and tried to sit up a little more. “General,” he whispered, voice rough. There was no response; Kirigan didn’t so much as stir. It was as if he was miles away, locked in a sleep so deep it swallowed everything. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but even that seemed laboured, as though each breath was an effort.

“Sir,” Ivan tried again, more insistently this time, but the man still didn’t wake. Kirigan only shifted slightly, a small sound escaping him, the faintest echo of a pained sigh. Ivan’s breath hitched, unsettled. he could barely remember the last time he'd seen his General even remotely vulnerable. But never like this. Never.

Swallowing his own fatigue, Ivan reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he extended it toward the General. The distance seemed longer than it was, every movement demanding more strength than he had to give. Yet his fingers finally brushed Kirigan’s shoulder, and he pressed down gently. “General,” he whispered once more, hoarse but insistent.

The reaction was slow at first—a faint twitch of his muscles, a drawn-out inhale. Then Kirigan shifted, his head lolling forward as he blinked groggily, his eyes struggling to focus. He winced as he straightened up; it was clear that every muscle in his body ached from the way he had been slouched over.

There was a fleeting look of disorientation; it took a second for recognition to settle in his dark eyes. But when it did, Ivan saw the relief there, real and unguarded.

“Ivan.” For a heartbeat, the usual composure in his voice gave way to something unexpectedly vulnerable.

“General.” Ivan nodded slowly, unable to tear his gaze away from Kirigan’s eyes, dull with the strain of the past days' turmoil. “You look worse than I do,” he whispered finally, a helpless attempt at levity that came out thin.

Kirigan let out a short, dry snort, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “You do realize,” his voice was edged with something wry, “that you are the one lying half-dead in the infirmary?”

Ivan huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “Yes. Hard to miss that fact. But—” he sobered, the concern returning. “I’m serious.” He hesitated, then, quieter, “You look terrible, sir.”

The General didn’t respond immediately, didn’t deflect or dismiss. He only studied Ivan with a kind of quiet warmth that Ivan had never before seen directed at him, then he nodded slightly in comfort. “I’m fine.”

Ivan’s expression immediately flattened into something unimpressed, his gaze sharpening with a deadpan weight that practically screamed, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

Kirigan sighed, raising his hands slightly in mock surrender. “Let me rephrase,” he amended. “I will be. Now that you’re back.” That, at least, was more believable.

Something in Ivan eased at the words, though the feeling of worry still lingered. Kirigan looked so depleted. Too pale, too thin.

And with every passing second, the truth of it settled heavier in his chest.

He was the reason for this.

That realization crashed over him like a tide, cold and relentless.

“I... I’m sorry.” The words were barely more than a whisper. His head felt heavy, his thoughts sluggish and unfocused, but guilt carved through it all like a knife. He should have been better. Should have fought harder. Should have found a way not to get caught. His eyes dropped, the shame of his failure pressing down on him.

But the words had barely left his mouth before Kirigan interrupted—firm yet quiet—cutting him off before he could spiral deeper into self-recrimination. “Stop it, Ivan.” It was not a suggestion. It was a command.

Ivan’s head shot up, startled by the sharpness in Kirigan’s voice. The General’s dark eyes locked onto his, unwavering, and then he leaned in slightly, his exhaustion unable to dull the sheer force of his presence.

“If I know one thing for certain, it’s that you are never careless.” The words were low, steady—but not untouched. There was a roughness to them, something unguarded, something raw. “You are never unprepared. It wasn’t your fault they got to you.” His expression darkened. “Anyone in my circle—anyone close to me—has a target on his back. You most of all, Ivan.”

He sank back into his chair. Tired. Slow. And when he spoke again, the words carried something heavier than mere fatigue. “If I could shield you all from it, I would.” His voice barely rose above a breath now, stripped of its usual authority. “But I can’t. And that’s something I have to live with.” Ivan had to close his eyes for a second. The world spoke of Kirigan as if he was something unbreakable, something untouched by threats or grief or fear. A force of nature, too cold and calculating to be wounded by something as human as loss. Saints, even the Grisha believed that, Ivan included.

But that had never been the truth.

Ivan had begun to realize it when he had heard the way Alina, Genya, and Fedyor had spoken of the General’s actions these last days. He had seen it in the way Kirigan had looked at him the moment he had woken up.

And now, sitting here, listening to the quiet strain in his voice, watching the way he held himself— shoulders stiff but drooping with exhaustion, his posture still regal yet somehow fractured—it became undeniable. They had all been wrong.

He wasn’t indestructible. He wasn’t detached.

His friends were right. He cared. More than any of them had ever understood. He cared, he felt, he hurt like all of them. But unlike them, he had carried everything alone. Always.

The realization struck Ivan with a sharpness that left him breathless. And with it came something else—something that burned in his throat.

Gratitude.

For being the strong one, always, because everyone relied on him to be. For all the things he had endured that no one had noticed. For the burdens he had borne in silence. For this moment, as he sat there, exhausted and raw, and still spent what little strength he had left to lift the weight of Ivan’s guilt from his shoulders. For how he had moved heaven and earth to bring him home, despite what it cost him. Ivan swallowed, the depth of it nearly choking him. “You didn’t… you didn’t have to do all this.”

Kirigan’s gaze was steady, his voice almost a whisper. “Yes, I did.” He looked at Ivan with a quiet intensity. “Loyalty doesn’t go just one way.”

The words landed heavily in the quiet. Ivan didn’t respond at first, he simply didn’t know what to say. He looked away, taking a moment to gather his thoughts, the weight of Kirigan's sacrifice pressing down on him. Finally, he found his voice.

“Thank you.” The words felt brittle, too small for what he meant. But for Kirigan, they seemed to be enough. He simply nodded and sank back heavily in his chair.

They sat there in a silence thick with understanding.

Kirigan made no move to leave, and Ivan found an unexpected comfort in his presence; in his protective aura that eased the horrors still fresh in his mind.

He felt himself drifting again, the lingering effects of his ordeal pulling him into a haze of half-sleep.

An indefinable period of time later he was disturbed by footsteps. Soft, measured. The infirmary doors whispered open, and two Healers entered, their hushed voices like a ripple in still water. Ivan forced his eyes to focus as they approached, their presence a firm reminder that he was not alone. The woman, older, with sharp eyes and an air of authority that commanded respect even without a word, froze when her gaze landed on the General. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she masked it, but Ivan saw it. It was obvious: Kirigan had been avoiding their attention for the past few days, a fact that was now abundantly clear. But she didn’t address it right now; her gaze landed on Ivan first. “You should be sleeping,” she murmured. “But I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised you’re awake.”

The younger Healer, a man barely past his twenties, meanwhile slowly approached Kirigan. His expression shifted from respectful caution to concern as he took in their leader’s state. “General,” he ventured carefully, “you look like you should be lying down.”

Kirigan, who had been absently rubbing his temple, went utterly still. His jaw tightened, his shoulders squared, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as though he might argue. But the Healer didn’t back down. “Sir?” He stepped closer, voice still respectful, but firm. “When was the last time you let someone examine you?”

Ivan, watching the interaction, saw the flicker of resistance in Kirigan’s expression. Just a flicker, but it was there.

“I don’t need you fussing over me,” Kirigan muttered, the words half-hearted at best. “I’m fine.”

Ivan tried to hide his disbelief. The Healers certainly didn’t.

The woman, without missing a beat, lifted an eyebrow. “That lie is ridiculous.” Kirigan gave her a look that might have silenced any lesser person. She remained unmoved.

The young Healer shifted, hesitant but still determined. “Sir, you need proper rest. You cannot just—”

“I understood you the first time,” Kirigan interrupted. His voice was still composed, but Ivan could hear the fine crack of defeat beneath it. “I’ll go to my chambers. There’s no need for dramatics.”

The female nodded, satisfied. “We will accompany you. And then we’ll check on you every hour.”

Kirigan huffed a quiet, almost amused breath. “I assume that’s not a request.”

“Absolutely not.”

Ivan would have smirked at this exchange if he hadn’t been so damn exhausted. With a reluctant nod, Kirigan finally stood, though his movements were slow, deliberate, and clearly strained. Ivan watched with concern as he pushed himself upright, reaching out slightly, his fingers brushing the edge of Ivan’s bed as if to steady himself.

He barely made it two steps. Then his knees buckled.

It happened in a heartbeat. Kirigan’s body simply gave out, like a thread pulled too taut and then snapped. Ivan jerked forward instinctively, but his condition didn’t allow much movement. A harsh "General!" ripped from his throat as he watched Kirigan fall.

The younger Healer lunged forward and caught Kirigan under one arm, just barely breaking the full weight of the collapse. His colleague was there in an instant, steadying Kirigan’s other side.

“Ivan, lay down!” she snapped over her shoulder, her tone sharp but not unkind. “We’ve got him.”

Ivan barely heard her. His pulse was roaring in his ears, his Heartrender senses flaring as he latched onto the weak, erratic rhythm of Kirigan’s heartbeat. Too fast, too shallow.

The room, once quiet, was now alive with urgent motion.

“Let’s get him onto the bed,” the woman commanded, and together the Healers lifted Kirigan, their movements careful but efficient.  

Ivan watched them settle him onto the bed next to his, his heart hammering against his ribs with a fear he hadn’t felt since those endless nights in the enemy camp. Kirigan looked so… wrong. So unnaturally still. The normally imposing man seemed fragile against the infirmary bedding, shockingly limp, his dark, tangled hair damp against his too-pale skin. The Healers moved quickly. The female extended her hands over Kirigan’s chest, her concentration a quiet, intense force as she assessed the reasons for his sudden collapse, while the other placed his palms gently against Kirigan’s temple, his fingers tracing a delicate path over his forehead. Kirigan’s face, taut until moments before, softened under the Healer's touch. There was a flicker of something like relief in the tension of his features, a fleeting moment of peace.

“No acute illness or fresh injuries,” the woman murmured after a moment. “His body is simply… depleted.”

Relief warred with guilt in Ivan’s chest.

The Healers worked in tandem, sending wave after wave of warmth and energy into Kirigan’s battered body, easing the strain in his muscles, stabilizing his erratic pulse.

The male Healer began to adjust his position gently, easing him into a more restful pose and began pulling his boots off. Meanwhile, the woman’s hands still hovered over his sternum, her focus sharpening as she helped his breathing settle into a deep, restful cadence.

His face was still pale, but his respirations became steadier now, guided by the Healers’ focused power. Even unconscious, Kirigan visibly responded to the healing—his eyelids twitching slightly, his fingers relaxing against the sheets as his body accepted the relief it had been so violently deprived of.

The younger Healer then moved away briefly, retrieving soft, warm trousers, while his colleague reached for Kirigan’s outer garments. They worked efficiently, undressing and re-dressing him in the comfortable pants with the kind of practiced care that only came from years of treating soldiers in no shape to tend to themselves. And Ivan saw it all. Saw the toll these last days had taken. Saw how the relentless strain had hollowed Kirigan out, leaving stark evidence of his self-neglect. The lines of his collarbones were too sharp, his ribs visible beneath his skin. Kirigan had always been lean, his body a thing of discipline and control, but now? Now, he looked like he had been burning himself down to nothing. All for Ivan.

The weight of it sat heavy in his chest.

When they were done, the female Healer laid a hand against his chest one last time, as if checking for a final confirmation of his state. Then, the Healers tucked thick, soft blankets around Kirigan, ensuring he was as comfortable as possible, before the woman turned to Ivan. “At least a day of uninterrupted sleep, a few more days of rest and proper meals. That’s all he needs,” she assured gently, then added, “But he won’t bounce back in a matter of hours. He’s pushed himself too far for that.”

Ivan nodded tightly, his throat thick with emotion.

The Healers gave him one last reassuring glance before stepping away, promising to check on them both again soon.

Ivan sank back into his pillows tiredly, his Heartrender senses fixating on the rhythm of Kirigan’s pulse—a beat that felt fragile, precious, and terrifyingly delicate all at once.  But at least Kirigan’s breathing was steady now, deep and even. And finally—finally—Ivan let his own body relax.

But sleep didn’t come as easily as it should have.

Because now, in the silence, it struck him again how they had all fallen for it. The illusion Kirigan had built, piece by piece, over years. To create a persona that demanded respect, fear, and ensured distance. A figure of power who could never be touched. Unshakable. Unassailable. They had followed him, obeyed him, even admired him—never questioning, never doubting the strength he projected. Because that was what he needed, wasn’t it? To make the world believe, truly believe, that nothing could break him. That nothing ever had.

Ivan swallowed, his throat tight. Because he saw it now. The cost of it. The sheer weight of what Kirigan had chosen to carry alone. The things he had endured, suffered, survived—never once allowing anyone to see; to share.

Because, in that role the Grisha needed him in, he couldn't.

Ivan’s fingers curled into the blanket, the slow, steady rhythm of Kirigan’s breath the only sound in the quiet room.

Finally, as exhaustion won over, Ivan let himself close his eyes.

For tonight, at least, neither of them had to carry anything alone.

[sportyconnect]

The serene beauty of Vermont may seem worlds away from the hustle and bustle of insurance shopping. Yet, acquiring the best and cheapest car insurance in Vermont requires a bit of effort, especially when seeking a balance between cost and comprehensive coverage. Evaluating the Cheapest Car Insurance Providers in Vermont A variety of insurance providers cater to Vermont drivers, each with its unique cost structures. Some of the cheapest car insurance companies in Vermont, according to WalletHub, Bankrate, and NerdWallet are: State Farm: Around $49 per month Geico: Approximately $50 per month Auto-Owners: About $51 per month Liberty Mutual: Roughly $52 per month USAA: Close to $43 per month (specifically for military members and their families) However, the cost can vary depending on the source of information. Thus, comparing quotes from multiple insurers is essential, as previously discussed in our articles on the cheapest car insurance in California and cheapest car insurance in Florida. Location's Impact on Insurance Rates The place you call home in Vermont can impact your insurance premiums significantly. Cities like Burlington might have higher rates compared to more rural locations. This pattern isn't unique to Vermont, as our article on the cheapest car insurance in Georgia further elaborates. Balancing Cost and Coverage While hunting for the cheapest policy, one might risk being underinsured. Striking the right balance between cost and coverage is crucial, a concept we detailed in our article on the cheapest car insurance in New York. Like New York, Vermont mandates minimum coverages for drivers. Other Factors Affecting Your Car Insurance Rates Several other factors can influence the cost of your car insurance in Vermont, such as: Your age: Typically, drivers under 25 pay more for car insurance than their older counterparts. Your driving record: A clean record generally means lower premiums compared to drivers with a history of accidents or tickets. The type of car you drive: Your car's make and model can significantly impact insurance costs. Your coverage limits: Higher coverage limits usually translate to higher insurance premiums. Delving Deeper: How Vehicle Type Influences Insurance Rates The car you drive is more than just a mode of transport. It's also a significant factor in determining your insurance premiums. If you have a sports car, you'll likely pay higher rates than if you own a minivan, as discussed in our coverage on the cheapest car insurance in Texas. In Vermont, having a vehicle with advanced safety features could potentially decrease your premiums. Additionally, insurance companies look at the car's age, the cost to repair it, the likelihood of theft, and even the vehicle's color while deciding the premium. Exploring Available Discounts Many insurance providers offer discounts to attract and retain customers. Such rebates might be available for good drivers, students with excellent grades, or people who've taken defensive driving courses. Some providers in Vermont even offer discounts to members of certain organizations or professions. For more on this, you might find our feature on the cheapest car insurance in Michigan insightful. Age and Driving Experience As we've seen, age plays a significant role in determining car insurance costs. As a rule, the more driving experience you have, the lower your insurance premiums tend to be. However, after a certain age, the rates start to climb again. Young drivers, typically under 25, have higher rates because they're considered high-risk. Older drivers, particularly those above 65, might also see their rates increase, as our cheapest car insurance in Pennsylvania article discusses. Does Your Driving Record Affect Insurance Rates? The short answer is yes. If you've maintained a clean driving record, you're likely to pay less for car insurance. The opposite is also true.

Drivers with a history of accidents, traffic violations, or DUI charges tend to pay more. If you're wondering how speeding tickets affect your insurance rates, our coverage of the cheapest car insurance in New Jersey offers a detailed perspective. Mandatory Car Insurance Requirements in Vermont It's crucial to understand the car insurance requirements in your state. Like other states, Vermont mandates certain minimum coverage for all drivers. As per Vermont law, drivers must carry: Bodily Injury Liability: $25,000 per person and $50,000 per accident Property Damage Liability: $10,000 per accident Uninsured/Underinsured Motorist Coverage: $50,000 per person and $100,000 per accident To know more about how these limits work, check out our deep dive into the cheapest car insurance in Colorado. What To Do After a Car Accident in Vermont If you're involved in an accident in Vermont, it's crucial to remain calm and take certain steps: Make sure everyone is safe and call the authorities if necessary. Exchange information with the other driver(s), including names, contact information, insurance information, and vehicle details. Document the scene and take photographs if possible. Report the incident to your insurance provider as soon as possible. These steps are similar to the ones we discussed in our feature on the cheapest car insurance in New York. Tips to Get the Cheapest Car Insurance in Vermont Finding affordable car insurance in Vermont requires some homework. Here are some tips to help you get started: Shop Around: Different insurers offer different rates. Our studies on the cheapest car insurance in Illinois and the cheapest car insurance in South Carolina emphasize this point. Maintain a Clean Driving Record: Safe driving not only protects you and others on the road but also helps keep your insurance premiums low. Bundle Your Policies: If you have multiple insurance policies (home, auto, life), bundling them with the same provider could save you money. Take Advantage of Discounts: Don't leave any money on the table. Ask your provider about available discounts. By taking into account all the factors that we've discussed in this article, you'll be better prepared to find the best, cheapest car insurance that Vermont has to offer. Remember, cheap doesn't necessarily mean good. Prioritize coverage that meets your needs and offers you the best value for your money. In conclusion, finding the cheapest car insurance in Vermont, or anywhere else, involves a blend of research, understanding your specific needs, and shopping around for the best deal. #SportyConnect

[somewhatstacey]

Hey just letting you know maybe you should do some research before you talk shit about people because Anne Rice was a huge supporter of the queer community her whole life and literally said she was agender/genderfluid herself. Her son is openly gay and a trans fan came out and said last year how she and Anne used to send each other letters and how she supported her through her transition in the 90s (which is just 1 of many examples of her being supportive to us).

Not to mention she was heavily involved in the making of the new AMC show before she died so all the big changes and explicit queerness you're so excited about were either her idea or approved by her at the very least. Even before this she had written Loustat as canonically bi characters and wrote a piece detailing what their wedding would be like.

I don't care what your opinion on her is, she was flawed and what she did with fanfiction was fucked up but she changed her mind about it 2 decades ago before she died (hence why there's plenty of fics about IWTV on ao3 that were never taken down).

To say that she wasn't supportive of Loustat or queer fans is simply not true.

I’m well aware of Anne Rice’s track record and her latter more visible/active support for the queer community. Kudos to her.

But I’m an old fan. I was there for the late 90s/early 2000s shitfight between certain creators and fan creators. I was there for the cease and desist letters sent to fanfiction authors that DIRECTLY threatened their IRL jobs and businesses. I was there for the hand wringing over what these amateurs would do to her poor characters.

I was also very aware that, when all this was going down, Rice was busy cozying back up to the Catholic Church.

To her credit, she would later leave it over its stance on queer rights (among other things) but like….my pal. My friend. My mate. You would have had to be a special kind of below-rock dwelling species to not know their proven goddamn history and violent consistent persecution of queer folks. To have her leave the church because she SUDDENLY realised how bigoted it was and have her praised for that bravery? Give me a goddamn break.

But I digress.

I’m not laughing at Anne Rice spinning in her grave over Lestat and Louis finally going on-screen canon because I think she’s a life-long homophobe. I know she’s not. I’m laughing at it because here is a show, written by OTHER PEOPLE, that are taking very obvious liberties with her story and her characters INCLUDING (potentially - hopefully) making them textually/unambiguously queer.

All the same fucking things she viciously disapproved of fan authors doing back in the day to the point that she threatened their IRL assets/reputations/what have you.

Look, I can’t prove that Rice’s vendetta against fan authors was rooted in (short-lived or internal or confused or whatever) homophobia. But a LOT of the works she targeted were unambiguously queer in nature, all while she was chumming it up with the church.

I’m glad she figured her shit out in the end. I’m glad she became a staunch supporter of queer rights. But I have a long memory and she did a lot of fucking damage to queer fans back in the day. Damage that was never properly addressed or repaired in any way.

So, yeah, I’m gonna laugh at the abject irony of her works being told as what basically amounts to corporatised fanfiction and I’m going to gleefully consume the masses of actual fan content that will likely result from its release.

Fandom has come a long way, but we also have long memories.

[astrolovecosmos]

Mars Sign: Causes

What sign and the placement of your Mars Sign can indicate what causes you may fight for or feel passionate about.

Mars in Aries will likely fight in the most direct of ways - verbally arguing or standing up for someone, by leading a strike, protest, or revolution, joining the military, or with their fists. Aries tends to fight for themselves or for their values. Likely to value things like freedom, self-expression, and ability to fight for one’s self or go after success. May also be a sucker for the underdog or anyone who shares the same spirit as them. 

Mars in Taurus will fight by resisting and standing their ground. Taurus might also fight with their wallet or property, supporting businesses or content they believe in. They tend to fight for wants, comfort, or survival. What stirs up their defenses or passion to fight back is when what they own or what they believed they are owed is threatened. While this may sound entitled this can come from a place of fighting for your worth or fighting for what really is YOURS. They can sympathize or help others fight who find what they own, what they hold onto metaphorically or literally is being threatened. 

Mars in Gemini will fight with words! 🗣 A debater, arguer, yeller, persuader, lawyer. What gets them in the mood to fight? A lot. Mars in Gemini is not a sensitive position but they are coming from an intellectual place and with a mind ready to learn but also decide and act. With every new piece of information can their temper rage or subside. It is the meaning behind something that angers them. A lack of freedom to learn, express, have your own thoughts and make your own conclusions will truly be their heated fuel. 

Mars in Cancer fights in the emotional realm or subtly in the background. This can mean manipulation, passive aggression, or the cold shoulder but it can also mean empowering and nurturing the right people, using intuition to avoid or take action, and making connections with others to change their hearts. They may be one who fights with their wallet via donations or supporting a certain business. They tend to fight for those they see as vulnerable. Sympathizes with strong feminine traits or qualities especially around motherhood and children. 

Mars in Leo fights with courage. This can mean standing up or speaking up when no one else will or when they are afraid. Going against the norm, facing fears, risking it all. They tend to sympathize or fight for those who’s power is taken away or who’s voice is oppressed. It is power imbalances or corruption that catches their attention and makes them ready to fight or work. 

Mars in Virgo fights with organization, not missing any important details, through investigative work, concrete plans and structure, and spreading the word. They are a campaigner, the spy, the reporter. What will get them to join the fight? Something that hurts people’s ability to provide or care for themselves and others may get them passionate. Anything that causes disorder or chaos can get under their skin. They may fight for those who are sick, who cannot be independent or work, and any person or group that may seem helpless. *I should note Virgo is associated with the military as in “serving their country” and may fight in this way. 

Mars in Libra fights by trying to make peace or serving justice. This can be quite broad and subjective for a sign famous for objectivity. The unfairness and injustices in the world are what they fight for. You may find them protesting or being part of activist movements for social change. They can be passionate about criminal justice and laws. Their blood boils for those who are unfairly imprisoned or the opposite when those they believe are criminals get off free. This placement which is famous for being the mediator or pacifist on the sidelines can actually be found at the center of many movements and opinions about government and law. 

Mars in Scorpio fights behind the scenes but with the passion and smarts of a super villain or vigilante. In fact becoming a vigilante might be one of the ways they fight for a cause. Mars in Scorpio pulls strings, influences other’s feelings, recruits strategically and charismatically, and takes action in their daily life to make a change. Who do they fight for? Typically those they view as losing their empowerment or who’s very souls are threatened. When personal liberty and human rights are at risk. When your own autonomy, personal power, and being is threatened. 

Mars in Sagittarius fights with knowledge, teaching/enlightening, and storytelling. They are many times on the frontlines of clearing up misinformation or educating others whether it be through journalism, blogging, or by being an expert in a field. Sometimes however they could also promote misinformation depending on what they are fighting for and who they are as a person. Some can have a fiery temper and loud voice to help them in their purpose. They have a lot of energy and spark to put towards a fight or cause. They tend to root for the underdog, for the ignored, and the misunderstood. They have a rebellious side to them and sometimes may join a fight because it is part of the minority. 

Mars in Capricorn fights with laws, business, money, voting, and owning. They fight in the most practical or physical of ways. They put their money where their mouth is. They are highly strategic and realistic in how they join or be part of a cause. Mars in Capricorn can be hesitant to join a fight/cause. Capricorn the sign itself is highly selective, cautious, and associated with strong self-preservation. They won’t join a fight/cause unless they know they can win or make a change. But what are they willing to fight for? Anything that is greatly impactful on society itself. Justice, order, higher standards of living, and economics tend to be causes that might interest them. Causes that help a society function more harmoniously and to prosper is what they likely believe in.

Mars in Aquarius fights with protest, activism, and volunteering! They sympathize with disenfranchised groups and anyone who’s freedom of speech or freedom to be themselves is threatened. Mars in Aquarius tends to fight for groups of people, the collective. The larger the scale the more they may pay attention. Global issues may capture their passion. Their rebellious side can have them joining fringe groups, take on radical beliefs, or be part of a movement because it is against the mainstream. 

Mars in Pisces fights with guilt, manipulation, and illusions. All of this has a negative connotation but it can be a powerful tool even when fighting for something “good”. This is the filmmaker, artist, poet who inspires others through their art. They can be the dark horse when all else fails to capture hearts and minds. Mars in Pisces also fights by being the healer, the safe space, the listener. They sympathize with anyone or any group that appears to be hurting. They can feel sympathetic or passionate about many causes and different groups of people or animals. Any cause or story of a cause that pulls at the heart they will join or feel for.   

[warm-starlight]

Sometimes books are just books. Not to mention that the scene with those books is not in the manga. Considering how many liberties WIT has taken in adapting the uprising I wouldn't say the anime is 100% canon

True, unless a certain detail was added by Isayama's request i think it's just part of an adaptation.