#and what does it say of me that the consequences wrought by my demand to be seen and treated as an adult

[variantoutcast]

Do you ever feel like every interaction with a member of your family is directly leading to the "destruction" of the "family" ?

[queerofthedagger]

I'm really curious about the Uther things you mentioned?

Ahh hey! Yeah I can talk on that a bit (for context, I think I said that I do find his character intriguing and that my opinion on him has evolved quite a bit, influenced by mostly disagreeing with what a lot of people tend to say?)

So the thing about Uther is that I feel people tend to either go "He's evil, everything he does at any given time is evil, I hate him and there is nothing more to it," or they go "Oh but he loved his children!!!" in a kind of, redeeming-quality-kind of sense. I'm somewhat hyperbolizing, of course, but I do think fandom tends to a very black and white view.

Don't get me wrong, I hate Uther. I hate Uther with a burning passion, and I love to hate him. He's terrible. But I do think the show actually did go to quite an effort to make him complex beyond a simple "tyrannical son of a bitch" (that he was) or "Oh okay but he loved Ygraine and his kids 🥺" (which he did!).

Of course he is terrible. He murdered hundreds if not thousands of people over the guilt he could not bear to live with, that was, in the first place, the consequence of his own actions. I do believe he didn't know that the price would be Ygraine's life; he was still willing to sacrifice someone's life. Which is very Uther. Yes, at the root of that lies grief, and at the root of grief lies love, but the thing (and also imo the crux of Uther's character) is that being capable of loving people doesn't somehow, magically (ha. sorry) make you less of a bad person.

Terrible people can love other people. In fact, I think you'd be hard-pressed to find people no matter how atrocious their actions, who don't have people they love. And most people don't set out to "do something evil;" Uther, in all his atrocities, always had justifications to himself.

I think it says a lot that despite the brutal war he wrought, he was by and large not considered a bad king, per se, by his people and allies. We could dismiss all those instances where the show makes a point to reiterate this as fear of speaking up - and I'm not saying that didn't play a part - but I think that's making it too easy. There is a whole other essay on propaganda and how the war on magic worked, but I'll get to that another time. My main point is that, as uncomfortable as the thought may be considering just what horrors he wrought, he wasn't a frothing, mad bag full of cartoonish evil.

That doesn't mean that he "wasn't that bad, really." Which kind of brings me to the other side of things, the way people like to throw "Well, but he loved his kids," into the mix as a kind of. I don't know, counterpoint to the "tyrannical son of a bitch" side. And like, the thing is, he did. The thing is, that doesn't change a thing.

Yeah, Uther loved both Arthur and Morgana. We see enough proof of that through the seasons, whether it's in the Excalibur Episode where he fights in Arthur's stead at any cost, or in Le Morte d'Arthur where he openly weeps, or with Morgana in various instances to a degree where some people think he loved her more (and again, yet another essay on how his love for Arthur is tangled up so much in his guilt and the hatred that caused, but I digresss), not least in how her 'betrayal' broke him.

Ultimately, though, he also put Arthur in harm's way again and again. He certainly rarely ever told him he loved him, to the point where Arthur is shocked to hear it. He puts his children in chains and locks them away and drugs them and threatens them in all manners, he lies to them and hides the truth from them (Ygraine/Morgana's parentage in the first place) to the detriment of their well-being, and so on. His love is conditional. His love demands obedience and submission. We could argue until we're blue if that's really love in the first place, but at the end of the day, it doesn't really matter all that much.

People can love other people, and it can be entirely inconsequential, because frankly, most parents love/"love" their kids. That doesn't mean they're automatically good parents, or even good people. In Uther's case it really isn't a redeeming quality at all. It just makes him complex and interesting and multi-dimensional as the villain/antagonist. Because it makes us grapple with the really very unfortunate but inevitable fact that even terrible people are still people. They aren't some removed monster that no one can ever relate to. They love and they laugh and grieve, and they can still turn around and burn people in their frontyard on the daily without missing a beat. They can be willing to die for their children and threaten violence and exile in the next breath.

I think with Uther, at the end of the day, for me it's really both. His atrocities started out of love, and his love is steeped, inevitably, in the violence and twisted moral framework of his character; it's not an either/or thing at all, it depends on each other. And he is a goddamn son of a bitch, of course, even if every once in a bluemoon he still sheds honest tears for his unfortunate children.

[alexanderwesker]

it has been 639 days near exactly since I first read A Twin of Light, and it's permanently shifted the way I interpret characters, relationships, and fic (as well as normal writing) as a whole. I re-read it every four months or so and it's never any less incredible.

ATOL jump-started my own fic-writing experiences, and haunts my brain; it's the quality baseline for anything I read, the source of my standards for things I write. I've drafted fic-of-fic for it more times than I can count, I've scribbled General and Soot designs on the walls of my room; when I'm bored driving or much anything really, I tend to invent new stories for them, new scenarios taking place in that wonderful world you've made.

ATOL is my favorite fanfiction. Full stop. I can count on one hand the number of fanfics that have changed my life, and make no mistake ATOL is on that list. (The House Always Wins is similarly incredible; your dedication to what you do, what you write, keeping it up no matter how long it takes to complete, is insane.)

In about three months will be the two-year anniversary of my reading ATOL, and if I had even a fraction of the wherewithal I wish I did, I'd be making some huge animation or art piece in celebration, but I don't know how I'd ever manage to capture all that ATOL means to me in something like that, let alone how I'd ever manage the motivation- but if I could, I would in a heartbeat.

The relationship between General and Soot-- I've only read a relationship in fic even somewhat like it *twice* in the near two years since first discovering ATOL, and still nothing comes close to the way their bond was woven into every fucking aspect of that book in a way I've never seen since.

Your meticulous world-building, too; the way you craft gods and goddesses and magic and turn Minecraft into something *real*, the unique systems and ideas and consequences and costs of everything the characters do- it's so fucking good. It's so so well thought out , I can't imagine how long it must have taken to flesh out.

ATOL has gotten me through some really hard times in my life; knowing I had a fantastically made escape, knowing I could slip into the universe you've so carefully wrought, has let me get up and keep going on days I felt I'd never get back up. And it's all because of you and your passion!

You do this for fun, and because you want to, and I think that's the most stunning thing of it all! Human passion, human joy, used to make something like ATOL, something that impacts perhaps thousands of others, imprints on them for the rest of their lives-- I can't imagine anything more beautiful.

Thank you.

Thank you so, so, so fucking much.

Whatever you do, whatever you write, you will always have my Internet - stranger self's undying support.

----

I've also got some questions pertaining to your realistic!verse & the ATOL characters, if you don't mind! :)

1. What exactly happened with Quackity and the Sky Gods? What game, what demands, etc?

2. How do others perceive Jack with his Nether-type power; did Wil ever treat him differently for it (while he was, y'know, without his General, before everything went down?)

3. Are the Sky Gods two entities, one, or more?

4. Are there stories told about Soot and General post-ATOL? How is their relationship seen in those tales?

5. What does Phil do about Wil's disappearance once in the real world once , more? (You do not need to answer this if it makes you uncomfy, as always :)

6. How did Soot and General feel during the Tommy -blessing misunderstanding discovery? How would the story have changed if their relationship had been more romantic?

7. Is fic-of-fic accepted for your universe? Any ground rules, yes/no's of what one could write?

----

Thanks for your time in answering, and thanks for everything you've written & given us all. ♥️

I don't know what to say, Anon. It really means a lot to me to hear that my story means so much to someone else other than me. And know that your words made me really happy to read, I've been going through a rough patch recently and your message means the world to me. To know that Soot and the General and their relationship helped you, that the world I made could be of help. Really from the bottom of my heart, Thank you for your words and I hope you have a wonderful day ^-^ --- To answer your questions(and don't worry I'm always up to answer questions ^D^) 1. Quackity challenged the Sky Gods, specifically Scott, though he is called Dawn in the Realistic!Verse, at a game of Poker. The game was played with as prize, if Quackity won to get the power to reach his goals(the Gods gave him his magic seeing eye because of that), and if the Sky Gods won for Quackity to be their plaything forever. There is to say though that even if Quackity won the Sky Gods did not fully keep to their promise. 2. The people in L'Manberg are the most normal about Jack's Situation, and those that don't know the whole story think that he is just some kind of Nether Hybrid) about Soot he didn't treat him that much different from how he did before, but he did keep him arms distance away because he wasn't sure if he could really trust him(like all others) 4. The Sky Gods are multiple, their names are based on the phases of the Sun in the Sky and the oldest of them is the Sun itself. And of course, the youngest of them, being Night. 5. That is a good question, I think Phil would try to help people come to terms with the fact that their streamer would not be appearing anymore, but if he can he would still try to reassure them that he is okay, but other than that sadly there wouldn't be much he can do. Since he would be hiding, as best as he can, the particular traits that that world left onto him. 6. They were kind of embarrassed about the whole situation once they discovered what Tommy had been thinking was going on between them but I can't see that changing anything on how they act towards one another. As for the second question, I don't believe the story, or the way it was told, would have changed that much had the Burs had something romantic going on, if only because their relationship is already so profound and close (even being platonic) that I cannot see it change in any particular way had their love been romantic, though they would have probably had even more gestures(not to say that they don't have many already in my canon) to show each other their love and care. 7. I am completely fine with people writing fanfics of my stories, and I'm always happy to see what you guys come up with and what ideas to explore. I just ask to have the original story linked(even better to get a related story link so I can directly connect them to my work :D) I don't have any hard 'No's when it comes to fics of my fics ^^ As for ground rules the only one I have is for the characterization of the characters to be based on my own than the DSMP one because then it wouldn't really be a fic about my stories :P Other than that feel free to write whatever scenario you imagine be it following my canon or being an AU, a "missing scene" kind of thing or a slice of life. I welcome all fanworks ^D^

Thank you again for your ask ^D^feel free to ask more questions if you have any more.

[last-domain]

I didn't get to share my speech at my grandfathers funeral. Coming in, I knew it was possible; funerals under late capitalism are often farcical. I'm serious. This isn't praxis.

Under Capitalism, everything is assigned value. Everything.

Funerals, at their core, are about symbols.

The dead cannot hear us, our words cannot reach nor recreate them. The rituals and assembled elements of a funeral are all symbols. This does not reduce their value for us. However, everything has a value under Capitalism.

When you are sold a funeral, you can pay more or less. For what? For symbols. Pay less, and certain symbols are not included, the time allotted for providing your own limited. This is why the wealthy are granted those poignant and over-wrought clichés in death.

The mistakes also feel deliberate. The music played too loud from an iPad, the photographs on a mounted flatscreen cut off by an automatic windows update, the gift bag labelled 'budget funerals' callously presented before the elderly crowd as the sun burns them up on a gravel driveway, waiting for the funeral crew to pack up folding equipment, expedited deployment not applicable in reverse. (It was at the shops, in the parking lot. Someone slowly reverse parked in front of the waiting hearse. The shrill choir of an angle grinder provided a backing track as they left our sight.)

It is as if the subconscious discord, the discount rate symbols and disregard for the enormity of death is not consequence of mercenary efficiency, but a mandate of the cheap contract. Pay for respect and pay also for less disrespect.

It wasn't that bad, it really was ineptitude and bad luck for the most part. I have seen much worse.

But I didn't get to share my words. That stung, the trembling fight to not stride up and seize the microphone, to demand they hear my words for the man who raised me during one of the better parts of my life. Bite down on ambition, now is not the time for ruthlessness. Another form of ruthlessness is playing out.

Is it shameful? Not quite. My aunt's father asked to read it afterwards at the wake. He cried. I'm not boasting, I'm saying that to exert some force of will for that; it would be shameful. The process would steal its impact, or recontextualize it. Too great a price this symbol, for a poor man's funeral under late capitalism.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - February 16th

This is the day when the Fellowship leave Lothlórien and begins their journey down the River Anduin. Quite a lot fits into the day, so I’m going to track it chronologically.

First, in the morning as the Fellowship is packing up, elves of Lothlórien come and bring them lembas and elven-cloaks. Both are an example of the value and dignity of practical crafts within elven society; Galadriel personally works on making the cloaks of Lothlórien (“she and her maidens wove this stuff”), and of the nature of “elf-magic” being tied to their close relationship with the natural world (“leaf and branch, water and stone: they have the hue and beauty of all these things under the twilight of Lórien that we love”; and “grey with the hue of twilight under the trees they seemed to be; and yet if they were moved, or set in another light, they were green as shadowed leaves, or brown as fallow fields by night, dusk-silver as water under the stars”). It’s quite possible that this is the first time non-elves have been given lembas since the time of Túrin Turambar, and the second time in all Elven history.

After having breakfast, the Fellowship are preparing to leave the site where they have camped for the last month. Haldir comes to meet them as their guide (he’s come a lomg way from the borders, so it’s likely that the “guide” thing is an excuse and he’s come to say good-bye). He tells them that “The Dimrill Dale is full of vapour and clouds of smoke, and the mountains are troubled; there are noises in the deeps of the earth” - likely consequences of the battle between Gandalf and the balrog.

As they walked through Caras Galadhon the green ways were empty; but in the trees above them many voices were murmuring and singing. They temselves went silently. At last Haldir led them down the southward slopes of the hill, and they came again to the great gate hung with lamps, and to the white bridge; and so they passed out and left the city of the Elves. Then they turned away from the paved road and took a path that went off into a deep thicket of mallorn-trees, and passed on, winding through rolling woodlands of silver shadow, leading them ever down, southwards and eastwards, towards the shores of the River.

They had gone some ten miles and noon was at hand when they came on a high green wall. Passing through an opening they came suddenly out of the trees. Before them lay a long lawn of shining grass, studded with golden elanor that glinted in the sun. The lawn ran out into a narrow tongue between bright margins: on the right and west the Silverlode flowed glittering; on the left and east the Great River rolled its broad waters, deep and dark...One the bank of the Silverlode, at some distance up from the meeting of the streams, there was a hythe of white stones and white wood. By it were moored many boats and barges. Some were brightly painted, and shone wuth silver and gold and green, but most were either white or grey.

New word for me: hythe. Even my 1950s OED doesn’t know it! Fortunately, Google knows everything, and tells me it is an “archaic” word meaning “a small harbour or landing-place,” which is what I expected from the context.

There are thee boats for the Fellowship, and elves provide them with rope, to Sam’s satisfaction. The Fellowship practice with the boats by rowing a ways up the Silverlode. They meet Galadriel and Celeborn in a great swan-ship:

The water rippled on either side of the white breast beneath its curving neck. Its beak shone like burnished gold, and its eyes glinted like jet set in yellow stones; its huge white wings were half-lifted.

This matches the description of the swan-ships of the Teleri that Fëanor stole and destroyed, described in the Silmarillion: “Their ships...were made in the likeness of swans, with beaks of gold and eyes of gold and jet.” Galadriel’s mother is Telerin, and so the ship, as much as her song of lament (“What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?”), is a sign of her homesickness.

The Fwllowship, Celeborn, and Galadriel return to the green lawn at the angle of the two rivers for their parting meal. It is a fitting place: still within Lothlórien, but looking across the rivers to the mallorn-less shores beyond its southern and eastern borders. Galadriel seems changed to Frodo, and it may be not only his perception, but the result of her choice, refusing the Ring, to “diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel”:

She seemed no longer perilous or terrible, nor filled with hidden power. Already she seemed to him, as by men of later days Elves still at times are seen: present and yet remote, a living vision of that which has already been left far behind by the flowing streams of Time.

Celeborn gives the Fellowship advice on their onward journey, speaking of the Brown Lands and the Emyn Muil, of the rapids of Sarn Gebir and the falls of Rauros, of the Dead Marshes and the plains of Gorgoroth, of Rohan and the Forest of Fangorn. Since all this territory is likely familiar to Aragorn, this is likely as much for the reader’s benefit as the Fellowship’s. He warns them not to become entangled in Fangorn, “a strange land, and now little known”; with the spread of Men across the plains of Rohan, it is likely now many years since the Elves and the Ents have spoken.

Boromir, showing more warning signs, though subtler than the previous night, dismisses the stories of Fangorn as “old wives’ tales, such as we tell to our children”, and then digresses to brag/complain about his difficulties in reaching Rivendell: “A long and wearisome journey...and it took me many months, for I lost my horse at Tharbad, at the fording of the Greyflood. After that journey, and the road I have trodden with this Company, I do not much doubt that I shall find a way through Rohan, and Fongorn too, if need be.” He is clearly feeling both proud and aggrieved. Notably, Aragorn, with far broader experience and travel of Middle-earth that Boromir, says no such things.

Galadriel then gives gifts to the Fellowship. To Aragorn, a scabbard overlaid with tracery of leaves and flowers of silver and gold, with words in gemstones spelling out that it in Andúril, reforged from Narsíl, the blade of Elendil. And along with this, the Elessar, the elfstone, which Arwen gave her to give to him: “a great stone of a clear green, set in a silver brooch that was wrought in the likeness of an eagle with outspread wings.” The Elessar is, from some versions of Unfinished Tales, an enhancement to healing abilities; the fact that Galadriel gave it to Celebrian and Celebrian to Arwen suggests that Celebrian and Arwen may both have used healing abilities as well. (Arwen, as Elrond’s daughter, would be particularly likely to be trained in it. Wouldn’t it be neat if the gemstone she gives to Frodo at the end, to help him in times of sickness and ill memory, was one she made herself, a combination of jewel-craft and healing?)

And, for all the fandom focus on how many people Elrond has lost, it’s worth remembering here that Galadriel is parted from her father and mother, her brothers are long dead, and her daughter departed for Valinor terribly ill and broken-spirited after having been captured by orcs; and unlike Elrond, at this moment she does not know if she will ever be able to see them again. Elrond at least knows he will see his parents and his wife again, in time. Galadriel also knows she is going to lose her granddaughter; indeed, she had a hand it it, practically matchmaking Aragorn and Arwen on the occasion when they became engaged.

Galadriel’s gift to Sam, of the earth and the mallorn-nut, is particularly touching: she knows from his vision in the mirror that the Shire will likely not be untouched by the war, and that the loss of the trees in particular distresses Sam; and she gives him a gift that can amend it.

And Gimli, of course, asks for a strand of Galadriel’s hair, and recieves three. I could say more on the interactions between these two, but I’ll try to keep it to this: in all the language concerning Gimli and Galadriel, Galadriel’s beauty is not used simply or even mainly to mean physical appearance, but to stand in for goodness, kindness and understanding. Gimli’s answer for what he would do with the hair is “treasure it...in memory of your words to me at our first meeting,” when she understood and defended the dwarves’ love of their home and spoke their place-names in the dwarf-tongue. Similarly, when he demands Eómer “acknowledge Galadriel as the fairest of ladies” if ever he sees her, he is responding to Eómer insulting Galadriel’s character, not her looks. Beauty here means something more than beauty.

And to Frodo she gives the Phial of Galadriel, holding the light of Eärendil’s star that is the Silmaril; a parallel and inverse of the Silmaril, a gift to be given rather than a possession to be clung to; and fitting for the end of the Noldor’s presence in Middle-earth, as the Silmarils drove their arrival there.

The Fellowship at last departs from Lothlórien, and Galadriel’s song in Quenya flows down to them on the wind.

So the Company went on their long way, down the wide hurrying waters, borne ever southwards. Bare woods stalked along either bank, and they could not see any glimpse of the lands behind. The breeze died away as the River flowed without a sound. No voice of bird broke the silence. The sun grew misty as the day grew old, until it gleamed in a pale sky like a high white pearl. Then it faded into the West, and dusk came early, followed by a grey and starless night.

[drwcn]

Discordance!verse part 2: there are consequence to loving someone you shouldn’t. 

in which wwx is lxc’s husband through political alliance, and there is an affair. 

[8] | [7] | [6] | [5] | [4] | [3] | [2] | [1] [synopsis]

Objectively, massacre was not the correct term to describe the sight before him, but it was the only word that came to mind as Lan Wangji stepped dazedly across the threshold into the courtyard of Songfeng Shuiyue Pavilion.

At some point during the hour before Nie Huaisang arrived and broke him out of jingshi, it had begun to rain. 

The swoosh of the discipline whip being wrought through the air howled louder than the easterly wind, and like lightning it came shooting down, delivered with a thunderous crack as it made contact with a young man’s back. 

Two ninety nine. 

Technically I’m your brother too now... Let’s be friends!

But there was no light, no brief moment of wonder in the aftermath, just the echo of a sickening splatter. The cotton under-robe between whip and skin, once pristine white, had been reduced to strips and tatters. Drenched red, it was nearly indistinguishable from the raw overturned flesh.

“Er-gongzi!”

We can’t - I can’t... I’m your, we’re - Lan Zhan, mm, Lan Zhan please - 

In the periphery of his awareness, Lan Wangji heard disciples yelling his name, ghostly hands pulling at him from all directions, but it was beyond his capacity to heed those warnings now. Transfixed, he gravitated towards the man under the whip, who made not a sound even as his body convulsed with every merciless stroke. 

Three hundred.

I’m not afraid. The future doesn’t frighten me. I have you. Nothing else matters.  

Wei Wuxian laid face down along the surface of a flat long bench, stripped of his outer robes and deprived of his guan. His hair, swept over one shoulder, dipped into a puddle of rain water, cloudy and pink from the blood that dripped down his chin. 

Inside the dry refuge of the pavilion hall, Uncle and the Elders sat in witness. No one showed any inclination to stop this insanity.

Three hundred and one. 

Don’t panic, let’s not panic. We will explain ourselves. Everything is going to be fine. Lan Zhan, look at me, do you trust me? 

As he drew close enough, Lan Wangji saw the thick strip of leather clenched between Wei Wuxian’s teeth and bound back at the base of his skull. But it was hardly the gag that kept him silent - Wei Ying was barely conscious. 

There was water running down Lan Wangji’s face. Whether it was rain or tears, only the gods knew.  

The whip sailed through air again, cutting off raindrops in their paths, but -

Clang! 

Nie Huaisang’s saber swung into the disciplinary weapon, knocking it out of the hands of the disciple.   

“LAN WANGJI!” 

I’m not afraid. 

I have you. 

I have you.

You do have me.

That single thought thrust him back into the present, freed from that far away place suffocating him inside a thick fog of utter hopelessness. 

“You cannot wield my saber. Your meridians are locked. Your core is muted. But take it anyway. At the least, it’ll intimidate. But remember, if you really try to use it without spiritual energy, it will damage you.” 

So be it. 

The rain pelted down around them, and Lan Wangji found himself surrounded by eight senior disciples pointing their swords at him and at the saber in his hand. Without his cultivation, the early spring downpour felt like ice against his skin, and Qinghe’s first class spiritual weapon weighed more than gold. 

"Lan Wangji! Remember yourself!" 

His uncle had stepped out under the eave, along with five other Elders. 

“Stop this.” Lan Zhan demanded, as if he had any rights to make demands. As if he hadn’t been defiling the sanctity of his brother’s marriage behind his brother’s back, as if he hadn’t broken the trust of the one person who had always, always been there for him. 

His uncle was so angry he couldn’t speak, but Elder Zonghui beside him, the most senior and respected of the thirty-three did not have such a reactive temper. 

“Put down the saber, Wangji. Your sense of righteousness is misplaced. Nothing is happening here that isn’t deserved and agreed upon.” 

“Agreed upon by whom?” Lan Wangji gritted his teeth, seething. 

“By all parties involved, of course. Requested even,” said Lan Zonghui, his unaffectedness towards the violence being committed before his very eyes chilled Lan Wangji to the core.  

“Wei Ying requested to be whipped three hundred times?!”

“Four hundred times,” corrected Lan Qiren, cutting into the conversation. “Your actions have violated a dozen precepts of our clan, but for the four most salient transgressions we issued fifty lashes each, totaling two hundred. As you are both participants, you were both to receive them, but Wei Wuxian offered to bear the entirety of the punishment.”

At his uncle’s words, the pain that tore through Lan Wangji was akin to being gutted by his own Bichen. 

“Take Lan-er-gongzi back to his room. He is not in his right mind."

“Do not move!” Lan Wangji commanded, as loud as his nature allowed. “I am not leaving without Wei Ying.” 

A beat of silence. 

“Nhn....” 

Wei Wuxian clung perilously to the edge of consciousness and pleaded at him through hooded feverish eyes. From where he clutched at the front edge of the bench, a trembling hand reached out and tugged on Lan Wangji’s robes. 

Just like that, like a taut string on his guqin plucked with a force too great, the tension inside him snapped, and all the fight that kept him going melted from his bones. Lan Wangji lowered his arm. Qinghe’s saber slipped from his grip and landed on the ground with a splash. 

“Wei Ying...” He fell to knee, uncaring of the eyes judging them as he smoothed back Wei Wuxian’s wet, matted hair and caressed his face, undoing the gag in the process. 

The rain had stopped, but Lan Wangji continued to cry. “Why...”  

Wei Wuxian reached for his cheek, brushing the teardrop collecting at the groove of his nose with his thumb. He smiled, a chasm of crimson red. 

"Lan Zhan...”

“I’m here, I’m here. You have me.” 

“No, no...shouldn’t be here.” Wei Wuxian shoved at him weakly. “My penance... I deserve it." 

But Lan Wangji could not stand another second listening to such words, such lies. He removed his outer robe and laid it across Wei Wuxian’s ruined back. Then, as carefully as he could, he rolled the other man over and into his gentle embrace. 

Strengthened by resolve, he turned to the mixture of faces that watched him with anger, mortification, and disgust, and said, “It takes two for a sin like this. If Wei Ying is culpable then so am I.”

"No.” gasped Wei Wuxian, struggling in protest. “Go, go -” 

“Three hundred and one. There are still ninety nine lashes left, aren’t there? I am here, and I submit before the ruling of the Elders and the Lan family precepts.” 

His Uncle shook his head, sweeping back his sleeve and sighed long and loud, as though all his anger had been defeated by a sense of profound disappointment and resignation. 

Lan Zonghui stepped forth, down the steps towards them. His eyes cut like frozen glass as he examined the spectacle. 

"Even your mother knew decorum,” he said, glancing from Lan Wangji kneeling the on wet ground to Wei Wuxian cradled against him. His gaze lingered there. “Or, perhaps not. The fruit does not often fall far.”  

Lan Wangji wasn’t sure if Zonghui had meant his mother the murderess, or Cangse Sanren the sectless wanderer, but in his arms, Wei Ying seemed to hear the connotation behind those callous words. He took shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and turned his face into Lan Zhan’s chest.

The fist that grasped at the front of his lapel trembled, tight knuckles blanched as white as his robes. 

Lan Wangji felt ill. What could Elder Zonghui have possibly insinuated for Wei Ying to hide himself away like this? As if what was said was too cruel for him to brave, as if the three hundred or so lashes he endured were nothing compared to this carefully chosen insult. 

“Words are unnecessary. You know what you know. We have nothing further to say.” Lan Wangji curled around Wei Wuxian, covering him as much as he could. 

“I’ll take the whip.”

“Your meridians are locked,” countered his uncle, a trace of worry lacing his tone. 

But Lan Wangji could not be dissuaded. “The whip, if you please.” 

Too weak to protest further, Wei Wuxian stared up at him despairingly, dark doe eyes brimming with tears. He was frightened, despite having shown no signs of fear just moments ago. Releasing Lan Zhan’s robes, his cold hand curled around Lan Zhan’s neck, bringing him closer. 

Lan Wangji went willingly, eyes falling shut, and let the press of their foreheads together anchor him to what was real, what was true. 

He heard the whip before he felt it, and when he did -

He always knew the discipline whips were painful. They were created for such purposes, charmed by the most clever and fickle of their spells. It did not kill, but it tortured. And now he understood. 

Excruciating. 

The pain was excruciating. 

The second hit followed soon after the first, and when the impact exploded along the column of his back, he felt Wei Ying quiver against him and heard the sob strangled in his throat. 

Lan Zhan did not envy his position, for he understood completely now that although the discipline whip hurt, it would hurt him more to know that it landed not on himself, but on the man he loved. 

The third hit never came. 

“That’s enough!” 

All eyes turned to the source of that outraged bellow, a seldom phenomenon within Cloud Recesses. 

Lan Xichen stood under the courtyard doorway, the wind at his heels, long hair flying about him, seemingly descended from the sky. Behind him, Nie Huaisang peeked out nervously, pointing to the saber on the ground.  

“Uhm - if I could just -” 

“Xichen -” Elder Zonghui started. 

But Lan Xichen did not allow him to finish. “When has it become acceptable at Cloud Recesses to abuse the Sect Master’s heir and husband without the Sect Master’s knowledge or consent?”

He stepped up to Wangji and Wuxian and physically put himself between them and the congregation of clan elders who had all come out to greet him upon his arrival. 

Uncle sighed, for what seemed like the umpteenth time that afternoon. “This is not abuse, this is punishment.” 

“Oh?” Lan Xichen tilted his head, eyebrows rising innocuously. “For their sexual relations, I assume?”  

This was perhaps the first time ever in Gusu Lan history that a Sect Master had rendered the Elders so utterly speechless. 

Lan Xichen turned to the senior disciple still holding the whip in mid swing. “Put that away before you hurt yourself.” 

"We have not told them to stop,” objected one of the Elders in the crowd, as though he was unable to fully process what was happening.

The glare that Lan Xichen cast over his shoulder was cold and pointed. Without raising his voice, he said, "But I have. And the last time I checked, Wei Wuxian is still my husband and I am still the Sect Master of Gusu Lan and the head of this family."

“Xichen-” Uncle interjected then. “You don’t understand -” 

“On the contrary I understand perfectly. Each year, I, as Sect Master, am granted one allowance to veto the council’s decision. I have never in my life used that privilege before, because I have trusted in the wisdom and guidance of my Elders. However today, forgive me Uncle, Elders, for saying that you are all mistaken.” 

Not waiting for a response, Lan Xichen knelt down beside the two young men.

Lan Wangji stared at his brother with wide, anxious eyes and held Wei Ying closer. He could face his uncle, he could face the Elders and all the world, but for his brother Xichen, the subject of his betrayal, he did not know how to begin to atone or what he would do next.  

“Xiong-zhang, I -”

“How is he?” His brother’s brows were furrowed tightly as he scanned Wei Ying up and down. 

Of course, thought Lan Wangji. Of course his focus would be on Wei Ying. Xichen was not like Uncle, not like the Elders; he knew better. He knew Wangji. And because he knew Wangji, he would know that the one to blame in this wretched situation was not Wei Wuxian. 

Lan Wangji hung his head. His whole face felt hot with shame, and he could not bear to look at his brother anymore. 

“Not good.”

Nestled against him, Wei Ying swayed in and out of consciousness. With the adrenaline of Lan Zhan’s punishment fading, the effects of the freezing rain and his earlier punishment were quickly catching up to him.

“How many?” 

“Three hundred and one.” 

Lan Xichen cursed under his breath. 

A stream of pale blue light flooded into Wei Ying’s left temple. Lan Wangji let out a breath of relief. His brother was strong, of cultivation and of heart. He was kind and forgiving, and undeserving of all that Lan Wangji had done to him, but at least...at least he could forgive Wei Ying, if not his little brother. That was mercy enough. 

The infusion of spiritual energy jolted Wei Ying awake. Sucking in a sharp breath, he grabbed onto Lan Xichen’s wrist. 

Lan Wangji watched with twisted pain and guilt as Wei Ying turned those doe eyes on his husband, “Zewu-jun -” 

“Wuxian, conserve your energy. All can be said later.”  

"No, no, Zewu-jun.” Wei Wuxian shook his head, “Don’t save me. If you do... Please...don't send me back to Yunmeng. I can't go back like this. Madam Yu and Uncle Jiang - I can’t. I know what I have done. I know I deserve everything - anything - but please I beg you, I am willing to die, but let me die here at Gusu. Please the disgrace on my family, on Yunmeng -"

Lan Xichen dabbed his clammy forehead with the edge of his sleeve. "Shh, enough of that. You're delirious, A-Xian. You know not what you speak. No one is going to die, and I will not send you back to Yunmeng." He laid the back of his hand against Wei Wuxian’s temple. “Heavens, he’s burning up - Wangji!” 

Lan Wangji did not realize he had faded off to that hazy place again until his brother shook him by the shoulder. A cool hand pressed against his forehead. “Dear gods, you too. What - what happened to your -”

“It’s been locked,” piped up Nie Huaisang, clutching his saber. Amidst the chaos, no one seemed to be questioning his presence and what he was still doing there. “I tried but I couldn’t -” 

“No, you wouldn’t be able to. The spiritual seal of Gusu Lan can only be undone by the natural momentum of the cultivator’s core. It’ll take time. Come help him, Huaisang.” 

Nie Huaisang threw an arm around Lan Wangji’s shoulder as Lan Xichen lifted Wei Wuxian into his arms. 

Together, they rushed towards Hanshi. 

Update:

[part 3]

[lemurious]

Like starlight turned to flame

for @alkarinqque for @officialtolkiensecretsanta 

Happy holidays and thank you so much for a wonderful prompt! Hope you enjoy what it turned to! <3

cw: death

They stand before Eönwë, huddled in cloaks that offer little protection against the rain pelting their bodies, and their hands seek each other.

Elrond can barely focus on the question and does not understand why Eönwë even considers their kindred to be a choice, when to him it has only ever been family. How could he think of himself as anyone other than an Elf, Noldor and Sindar mixed, as his grey eyes and black hair can attest, and secretly, while berating himself for excessive pride, he likes to tell himself that he got the better parts of both. The boundless curiosity and the compassion. The courage and the protectiveness. Everything he and his brother have managed to scrounge up from their two sets of parents lost to the iron law of the Valar, whose emissary is now looking down at them, waiting for their response.

Elrond tears his gaze from the figure in shining mail, seemingly immune to the downpour, back towards the disorienting sight of a sunken shore, their homes now lying under the wave. He wonders if their grief will ever fade. This year, it has kept returning like a tide, swallowing him in the heavy silence of their childhood being gone, forcing him to pace the hallway of their ramshackle house until he would give in and knock on Elros’s door, curl up in a chair next to his brother to watch the flames dance in their fireplace through the long winter night. Together.

At least they have each other, he thinks, for the last fleeting moment before Elros squeezes his fingers hard enough to hurt. Before Elros looks at the Herald of the Valar and says in a voice loud and firm: “I choose to belong to the kindred of Men, my lord.”

---

Idril has dragged her husband through the crumbling tunnels and foaming waves, from the only home they have ever known turned to ash and ruin, through the doom that has been hanging over her head since she was too young to remember, through the wrath of all the Seas encircling Valinor, and she will be damned if she has to lose him to something as simple as death.

She stands tall and straight, a circlet of diamonds on her head, the steel of her feet shining like silver, Curufin’s best work, her eyes ablaze with the light of the Trees that could never be quenched, not even by the darkness of Helcaraxë.

Idril Silverfoot, who has walked through ice and looked death in the face and then dared to be happily married anyway, stares right into the face of Mandos and demands that Tuor be allowed to join her as one of the Eldar.

After all, even the Valar have admitted that Tuor has brought hope to Arda, ignoring her part as usual, though now she is glad about it, because it helps her make her case to keep Tuor with her, immortal as he secretly believes himself to be anyway, having been raised among the Elves.

“Your plea has been accepted,” says Mandos, “but the balance shall be retained. One born from you will have to leave the Elvenkind and become a mortal Man instead.”

She attempts to argue some more, but Mandos is implacable, and in any case she cannot think far beyond the joy of having rescued her husband from what they both consider to be the Doom of Men – what cruel foolishness would it be to call it a Gift?

She already knows that they will not take her son, who has been cursed to ride the skies with a Silmaril in the front of his ship, a mortal body could never survive the slow, quiet destruction wrought by the fire imprisoned within the jewel.

Idril’s grandsons are all but lost to her, she has never met them, even their own mother barely knew them and could tell her little about them when questioned.

Idril has always been a survivor and she knows that it inevitably means making the kind of choices that could pull her apart if she is not careful enough. She only hopes that whoever will be born of her blood and destined for mortality will be strong enough to make their life a happy one in spite of all their losses.

---

Before the bleakness of the aftermath, there was the terror of the War, and just before that, a moment of respite, a time to set aside the fears, and learn to fight, and sing, and gather mussels on the shore.

A moment to hold the hands of the two Elves who have turned from captors into fathers in record time, to call their names to ward against the nightmares. A moment to feel like children again, like the sons of someone still within their reach.

Elros swears to treasure every one of these moments after the evening when, during one of his solitary strolls along the beach, a figure rises from the waves and introduces himself as Ulmo, the Lord of Waters.

Elros shivers in fear, frozen on the spot and unable to move even if the alternative is drowning. But Ulmo does not threaten to drown him, instead, he looks on as if with a great sorrow, and tells of yet another doom that the Valar have now hung above their heads.

“You will be asked to choose,” he says. “And if neither of you accepts the Doom of Men, Lord Mandos will choose for you.”

Elros has never considered himself of any kindred but Elven, but he knows that neither has Elrond, and more, that Elrond, if given a choice, would spend his entire life learning the Elven lore by night, healing the wounds left by the long sequence of wars by day.

Meanwhile Elros has to admit to himself that he does not have any passion save the vague but persistent wish to one day become a great lord and rule a kingdom, a prospect so dim, given his circumstances, that he keeps scolding himself for naivety.

He could become a Man, he thinks, but he feels so young when confronted by the enormity of the decision. So childlike. He just does not want to, which reminds him of his tears when he clutched his mother and watched her kiss him and his brother and walk away. The only clear memory he has of her.

He is too scared to accept this doom for himself. Could he do it for his brother?

---

“You have been deep in thought all day, and they do not seem to be pleasant thoughts,” says Maglor to Elros, who keeps lingering in the kitchen after dinner, long after Elrond ran off back to the library as always, and Maedhros went outside to try to repair the roof that has just started leaking again. “Would you care to share them with me?”

Elros shakes his head. He tells himself that he should not add to his father’s worries, though deep inside he is terrified that Maglor would make him choose. Or that Elrond would find out, and would then insist of taking the curse upon himself instead, and he would never, ever be able to forgive himself for dragging his brother into it. Yet he feels that if he had to face all of it alone he would crumble, and then the truth would come out anyway, with all its terrible consequences.

“Atya, have you ever regretted something you have not done? Especially, something that – that could have helped one of your brothers, though he would have never found out?”

Maglor looks shocked. He turns away and visibly struggles to compose his face before answering. “Too many times, kid. I should have… told my brothers not to follow our father. Should have stopped them at the gates of Doriath… Should have… should have stood in the place of the one my brother loved the most, on that muddy battlefield, for maybe then he would have lived and my brother would still be happy and carefree. Should have kept all my brothers from pursuing the Silmarils at any cost.”

“But you could have been killed!”

“I would not seek death, but it is not always a wrong choice to risk your own life to protect those you love.”

Elros suddenly lunges at Maglor, wrapping his arms around his waist, and hugs him tight.

“Thank you, Atya,” he sniffles. “Could you sing me a lullaby tonight, as I fall asleep?”

“Tonight and any other night, for as long as you wish,” Maglor replies, a little confused and worried about what has just happened. Well, it is a miracle those kids have managed to be as cheerful as they are, most of the time, given what they already had to live through.

---

Elrond lets go of Elros’s arm in disbelief. That is what Elros chooses to do? Has he ever really known his brother? And does it mean - does it mean that after such a brief lifespan of Men they will never again  -- he turns to look at Elros, to yell at him, call him a traitor.

He sees that Elros has gone deadly quiet, teeth clenched, staring straight ahead, but Elrond knows his brother and can tell that he is shaking in fear.

Elrond’s anger evaporates in an instant, as he pulls Elros into a massive hug and whispers in his ear: “It will be alright. I understand. It may not be my choice, but you will always be my brother.” He feels Elros relax with every word.

---

Mandos is kind. He gives Elros many times the lifespan of Men and lets him build a home halfway between his mother and his brother, though he misses his fathers the most, all of them, and all of them are lost �� in the fire, in the sky, on the shores. Like the Silmarils.

Elros raises children of his own, and tells them that their siblings will be the strongest bond they will ever have, so they would better cherish it. They listen, these kids with dark grey eyes, too large in their faces, too solemn for their age. They had to grow up quickly, as befits the children of Men and the heirs of the High King.

Uncle Elrond visits every year and tells them stories, and teaches them the arts of healing, and stands with Elros on the tallest tower watching the stars fade into the West, awaiting one of them, forbidden for the other.

They whisper their memories to be kept for as long as one of them lives, and swear an oath to find each other, and all their parents, again, however long it took them and even if it meant going beyond the circles of Arda.

---

When time comes for him to leave, Elros does not even feel cheated, just ready. His children have long grown up, he has become a grandfather and a great-grandfather so many times he finds it difficult to remember all the names.

He calls for Elrond, who has been at his side for days, and suddenly there is a shadow on the other side of his bed, and a familiar voice begins a lullaby Elros remembers from his childhood. “Thank you, Atya,” he murmurs as the colors begin to fade.

In the end, he did not even have to lie, Elros thinks. It was his choice, perhaps for a different reason than Elrond might have guessed, but it was, truly, his, and it brought him the kingdom he did not dare to dream of, and the family he could have never imagined, loved even fiercer because of their mortality, like a flame that has its own beauty compared to the starlight.

He would make his choice a thousand times over, Elros admits to himself as the walls fade into the mist, and he feels more than hears the voice of Mandos rumbling in his ears, assuring him with the sadness of one who is forced to deal in law, and not in love, that he will grant the brothers their own oath in recompense for the ones he has bestowed upon them, that it will not be their final farewell.

[awintersrose]

ObiKabu for kinktober #15 would be interesting.

Kinktober Prompt 15 - Impact Play (From this list of prompts)

This one is more rated M...

*

*

*

His skin is the first thing to draw the eye, genetically unique and begging for adornment. Adornment is something Kabuto can easily give. 

The true challenge is the pride in the older man's eyes, his stance, the line of his spine. It would require building up, breaking down. Exploration, study, and a trained hand. 

Working over a submissive is quite like a complex dissection at times - taking a specimen apart using the very building blocks of systemic response and release. Only these specimens, both precious and conscious, have the benefit of learning who they are, who they could be, who they would be under his control.

Kabuto is well accustomed to bestowing such gifts on deserving targets. 

From the moment he sets eyes on Obito, the decision is made, the plan formed, right down to the implements, namely a sweetly crafted leather martinet gifted to him by his first master.

Learning from the best has had its benefits. Namely exposure to Leather culture steeped in tradition and protocol, most of which he’s adopted as part of his chosen play style. The rest is all his own, and that’s what leads him here, with an especially wondrous specimen all too willing to be tied and plied with pain and the prospect of pleasure.

“I bet no one’s ever used that on you before.”

Kabuto pauses. There’s no need to allow anyone to see him ruffled by such a statement, and really, it’s a silly one.

“I was mentored by a leatherman, and thus spent a lot of time in that community. I’ve bottomed before.”

“Yeah, but did you enjoy it?” Obito’s lips quirk in a slightly cocky smile.

It’s annoying. It’s entrancing. It feels a hell of a lot like a challenge.

“I don’t see where that’s of consequence. It was educational, as it was meant to be. I take it you think you can do better?” Kabuto loops jute rope around Obito’s chest, threading the ends through the bight.

The taller man stoops slightly so that his mouth is close to Kabuto’s ear. “I know I can.”

Definitely a challenge. One that Kabuto would be apt to ignore were it not for the hairs standing on end along the back of his neck and the curiosity that runs rampant at a single thought.

“Then I suggest you put your money where your mouth is. Prove it.” He smirks, letting the rope fall. “I presume you know what you’re doing, yes?”

Somehow their positions are reversed against the wall and Kabuto’s not quite sure how it’s happened. All he knows is that Obito is very warm and very close, with fingers poised at his chin - staring him squarely in the eye.

“I know what I’m doing, cutie. Take your clothes off and I won’t ask you to call me Master.”

“I would have undressed anyway,” Kabuto grumbles, unbuttoning his shirt and laying it aside, followed by his pants. “And you’ve not earned the title so that’s a moot point.”

“Well now you get to undress for me. Same limits as we discussed, or do you have anything more I should avoid?” Obito’s right hand spans Kabuto’s throat, tracing the fluttering pulse there and noting its urgent beat.

“No, my list was comprehensive. I’ll safeword if I need to.” Kabuto peers up at him, rendering a dare of his own. “Shall we begin? Show me what you were so confident about.”

“Oho, aren’t you demanding? I will. One thing first,” Obito traces his jaw then deftly removes Kabuto’s glasses, setting them aside. “Now turn around and put your hands up on the cross.” He gestures to the St. Andrews cross nearby.

Effectively blinded, Kabuto reaches up to hold onto the rich mahogany with a slight sigh. The relief, however, is short lived as leather falls run the length of his spine, then pure warmth presses flush against his back. 

“If you safeword or take your hands down, I’m going to stop. Understood?”

“I understand,” Kabuto replies.

It takes active effort on his part to suppress the shiver that lingers somewhere around his spine, but when a hot exhale rushes across the nape of his neck, his ear, his reactions are rendered involuntary. He can practically hear Obito smile.

“I’m not going to expect you to count, but I am going to expect you to feel every. Last. Bit.” That teasing voice turns darker, almost purring, as if the man has become another person entirely. “And maybe, just maybe you won’t keep those sharp teeth gritted the whole time.”

At once, there is cool air at Kabuto’s back and the first strokes fall, criss crossed lashes laid one at a time across his shoulder blades, their warm points of impact radiating outward. The sensation steals his breath for all that the strokes are light. 

He’d nearly forgotten what a good flogging feels like. The martinet’s falls are shorter than is usually optimal, but they are lavish and well tooled - and they bring Obito closer in proximity. Besides that, Obito wields it well. 

Kabuto does own twin bullhide floggers that would be even more appropriate for the task, but as additional strikes are laid with almost mathematical precision several times over, he forgets all detail of the implements - too focused on the here, and the now. Obito seems to read his reactions in an instant, switching the pace, increasing it, laying incendiary stripes down the muscles of his back and his hips with near flawless technique.

Each fall leaves a mark, even if invisible, stealing away a piece of his sanity, his resolve. It’s as if the dark stranger is weaving a spell wrought in pain and slow-burning pleasure, turning Kabuto’s very nature against him. He had no intention of truly surrendering to his chosen submissive, merely enduring this little challenge, and yet he hears Obito laugh softly in response to something. 

It takes him a moment to realize it’s because he’s uttered a sound. 

“Kabuto - it’s alright if you like it. Let me hear you.” Obito’s broad hand runs the length of Kabuto’s spine and hot lips brush the skin of his neck just below his ear. “I want to.”

The unexpected softness leaves him reeling just before Obito draws away and lays another series of deft strokes across his buttocks and thighs, the martinet whipping through the air so swiftly that Kabuto can hear the tell-tale sound in anticipation. 

Like it? Is that what’s happening? He could yank his hands away from the polished wood, call red and stop the scene in its tracks. Could, but doesn’t. The way that his mental capacity is drifting slowly from his grasp is alarming to say the least.

As leather makes contact with skin, another sound, a gasping sort of cry, gets bitten off in his hearing. The husky voice behind him still urging him on confirms that he is in fact the one guilty of the utterance, and the slight humiliation makes him feel as if he’s teetering on the edge of something.

He just might fall.

It’s strange. Nearly discomfiting. A soft haze lingers short of his inner sight, blurring the edges of sensation and emotion - a bit too far to reach. This is just as well when he’s not so sure he wants to relinquish a logical headspace. Yet as the scene meets its pinnacle, it seems it’s no longer his choice; everything becomes gently fuzzed over, less sharp… better than he imagined. 

So, this must be subspace.

Obito’s hands, now free of the implement, trace the fiery heat glowing upon Kabuto’s skin, as if to soothe, never losing contact as they glide up his shoulders and slowly toward his wrists. His chest meets Kabuto’s back as he guides both hands away from the posts and secures Kabuto in a solid embrace. And just like that, the scene is over.

“Such a good boy.” Obito’s whisper is nearly tender, an unexpected anchor. “Thank you, Kabuto.”

Being called anyone’s boy should rankle and twinge, but somehow it doesn’t. Perhaps in combination with the play session, this is something to be documented in full, perhaps tested once more for the sake of confirmation. Being thanked, on the other hand, feels just right, and as he leans back against Obito, he turns to give him an imperious look. 

“You’re welcome. I admit your technique was satisfactory - you didn’t lie. But next time - I get to do as I like with you.”

A smug grin crosses Obito’s lips as he leans in closer, brushing lips against Kabuto’s cheek. He can feel his new play partner’s breath stutter in his lungs. “Something tells me we'll see about that.”

AO3 Collection

[hisakata-resutomoshibi]

Not to bother you, but I've been wondering what would happen next in that Inner Demon! Kuro au. It randomly popped into my head and now im curious lol. I'm not asking for another chapter if you dont want to write it, I just wanna know what u think would happen next! Your ideas are amazing and I love hearing from you! 🧡

Ah, you’re so sweet! Don’t take this too seriously as I haven’t planned any of it and barely edited it LOL but here you go my dear~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alright, and what am I supposed to make of that?"

It was hours later, or perhaps just minutes, and Mahiru found himself staring up at the slightly damp, bug riddled ceiling of the cave. He seemed to have fallen to the ground after Kuro had released his grip; maybe he had taken too much blood? The thought froze his muscles in visceral terror and his mind in a bid to remain sane immediately rejected the idea. Either way, he did distinctly remember hearing Kuro say that he belonged to Mahiru now, or something to that effect, and really, who wanted to have a psycho like this?

"What does what means?"

 Kuro's eyes popped in to view over Mahiru's face and he flinched back, bashing his head further on the cold stone. Frowning in irritation, at the pain in his skull, the situation in general, he sighed. "What do you mean you're mine?"

 The bright red that had flooded through Kuro's irises hadn't faded, in fact it seemed to have almost solidified against the former blue, looking like a small pool of swirling metallic paint splashed across the sky. As he watched, entranced, Kuro grinned.

 "Pretty, right?" He blinked slowly, demonstratively. "The red is a nice touch, a very easy way to identify contracts."

 "Contracts?" Mahiru repeated curiously. "What- no, I mean, how did your eyes change color?"

 "This is your blood, Mahiru." Kuro said matter-of-factly. "I didn't expect it to be so beautiful, to be honest. Most blood mixes in like mud. Such a disappointing shade of brown. But this!" Kuro paused, fluttering a hand in front of his face.

"This is gorgeous. We must be compatible."

 "Compatible..." Mahiru echoed, laughing weakly. "Great."

 "You wanted to go home. I'll take you there."

 "Hold on just a second." He pushed out a hand into the scant air between them and Kuro obligingly sat back, his head cocked in innocent puzzlement. "How do you know where I live?"

 "I know everything that is YOU, now."

 "Again, what exactly does that mean?"

 Kuro smiled wickedly, leaning forward suddenly, a blur of vitality in the dank air of the cave. "Take it literally. Anything that means something to you, makes up a part of your identity, it's mine now. And in exchange-" He gestured down at himself, "you get this, anything you could possibly want."

 Startled into silence, Mahiru felt his tongue form the sardonic comment before he could think better of it. "You're quite confident." As soon as the words were out he regretted them, praying that the offense they caused wouldn't be enough to get him ripped into little pieces, but Kuro only laughed, lighter and softer than anything Mahiru had heard before.

 "Of course I'm confident. Do you still not know who I am, Mahiru?" His lips curled up mischievously and he ran a graceful, delicate finger, along Mahiru's jaw. "You're a bit thick, aren't you? Ah well, no matter! You're mine as well now, no turning back." Before Mahiru had the chance to feel offended, he continued. "I knew you were special the second I saw you."

 The conversation was running in circles and it was only a matter of time before Mahiru got motion sickness trying to follow it, so, trying to decide the simplest course of action, he chose, simply, to ignore it. Obviously Kuro was not who he had originally thought, the eyes, the horns, the preternatural speed, no, there was no way to fake that, he was something else entirely, but the question was, what? Mahiru glanced over to find Kuro staring at him raptly and he couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped. "Where am I supposed to hide you?"

"Is this just something that people like you can do?" Mahiru asked flatly, staring down at the tiny kitten at his feet. It turned it's wide, luminescent eyes (red like his blood, he thought) up to him and blinked. "I don't know what that means."

 "You really are a demanding little one." Kuro muttered as he phased back into existence, occupying the space the cat had previously. "Of course not all of us can, it is something unique to I and a few others." He paused, seeming to think carefully before speaking. "Eight total."

 There are seven others that can turn into animals?"

 Kuro nodded slowly, almost regretfully. "Yes. Seven. But you don't need to worry about them."

 "I'm not particularly worried." Mahiru sighed. "More like amazed." He watched for a moment as Kuro crept around his room, so cat like in his movements Mahiru almost laughed, and began to poke at several of the books piled haphazardly on his desk. "I do have a question."

 As though he had been in anticipation, Kuro spun on his heel, books and exploration forgotten and a lopsided smile in place. "Yes?"

 "Well, er-" Mahiru hesitated, biting his lip. "Not to be offensive or anything but, you're acting very... different now."

 "Oh?"

 "Uh, yeah..."

 "How so?"

 "Well." Mahiru glanced over, quickly looking away again when he met Kuro's amused gaze. "Well, to be blunt, you're not acting like a total nut job anymore."

 "A nut job." Kuro paused, digesting the phrase for a moment. "I do not know that one either." Four rapid steps had him directly in front of Mahiru again and he grinned. "There's so much you must tell me! But before that, what is the question?"

 "Why?" Mahiu blurted. "Why are you suddenly..." He trailed off and, at a loss for definition, gestured vaguely at Kuro. "Like this?"

 Shrugging casually, Kuro raised a brow. "One would act differently after becoming someone else, no?"

 Putting a finger to his brow in fatigued annoyance, Mahiru groaned. "No w I just know you're fucking with me."

 "Not yet, I assure you." Kuro said brightly, his grin widening impossibly when Mahiru blanched. "What can I say to make you understand?" He crossed his arms, gaze traveling lazily around the room. When his eyes lit upon the chair near the door and he paused. "I took from you and so you must take from me." He glanced over, his eyes shining through the shifting blacks and whites of his hair. "Give and take, tit for tat, you are a part of me and so I must honor that change. Act according to the new blood."

 Mahiru frowned, attempting to construct something realistic or even vaguely understandable from what Kuro had just said. "So, you're different because of me?"

 "Precisely. Perhaps if you were less stubborn I would not be quite so composed?" Kuro laughed, just a shadow of the maniacal, wild abandon from previously and shrugged. "It's an interesting change." He raised his eyes to the ceiling, as though looking up into the sky. "Not unwelcome. Certainly different from what I am used to."

 "What you're used to?" Mahiru prompted him after a moment.

 "Things at the court can be unbalanced." Kuro said slowly. "And so for the most part we are... unpredictable."

 Forgoing asking who exactly "we" was because he was fairly certain he didn't want to know anyway, Mahiru frowned darkly, remembering the shattered stalls and engulfing flames he had so barely escaped earlier."You seemed like a psycho."

 Kuro laughed happily. "That sounds like a compliment!"

 "It's not." Mahiru said flatly. "Psycho is bad." He too glanced around the small room quickly, taking in the limited space and lack of guest furniture. "So now what? I accept that you are some kind of- of- mythical creature. But I do not accept that I am stuck with you."

 "Whether you accept or not is of no consequence." Kuro sang, reaching out and plucking a sweater from where it lay draped over the foot of the bed. "We have a contract." He began to twist it back and forth, inspecting it from every angle, eyes wide in puzzlement.

 "About that. I didn't agree to any contract. So I don't really think it's legally binding." Mahiru crossed his arms, attempting his best impersonation of authority.

 Kuro shrugged, pulling the sweater over his head, horns turning to a bright translucent fog for a moment to allow for the collar to pass over them, and smiled, something quick and genuine, and Mahiru felt his heart skip a beat. "Unfortunate for you then that the fae do not care for legality."

It was an hour later, Mahiru standing in front of the cupboard contemplating it's bare shelving, that he finally admitted to himself that he was not the best at entertaining visitors. Not even a spare loaf of bread. He slammed the door shut in frustration and glanced into the living room, finding Kuri still curled up on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. Mahiru had turned it on in desperation about forty minutes ago and Kuro had not moved since. It was currently airing some strange episodic gum commercial but judging by Kuro's expression you would have thought it was a documentary of the end of the world.

 "How do they do this?" Kuro asked suddenly and Mahiru turned fully, watching as he pointed to the screen upon which was a helicopter view of the city.

 "Do what?"

 "Record this? Is that what you called it? It's so detailed!"

 Mahiru wandered closer, unable to ignore the impulse and peered over Kuro's shoulder. "You said you were some magical being but you've never seen a TV? Where have you been all this time?"

 "In the woods, mostly." Kuro answered casually. "It seems I should have ventured farther into town sooner!"

 Briefly imagining the utter devastation Kuro would have wrought unchecked had he indeed entered the heart of the town Mahiru held back a shiver and shook his head. "No. No way. You are way too much trouble."

 "It is not I that wishes for such destruction." Kuro said, flicking his sharp gaze up to Mahiru. "I only embody what you desire."

 "You keep saying that." Mahiru muttered, looking away in discomfort. "Listen. Do you need food? Or..." He trailed off in embarrassment, completely gobsmacked that the next words were about to leave his mouth. "Or are you actually a vampire?"

 "Vampire." Kuro rolled the word around for a moment and shrugged. "Call me what you will. You humans have always had such curious need to name everything. Regardless, it will not change that I simply am."

 Mahiru sighed. He really was getting so tired of all this mystical bullshit. "So then, did you want to get dinner?"

 Kuro froze, his shoulders going taut beneath the blanket he had huddled up in. "Dinner?" His eyes were darting from side to side as though in worry, though there was nothing but an innocuous soap opera preview on.

 "Yeah? You know, we go somewhere and get food? I honestly hate the idea of bringing you in public, but I don't have anything here." Mahiru admitted, frowning. "You have to behave."

 "Ah, I see." Kuro turned, fixing Mahiru with a strange look. "You need to eat then?"

 "I take it, based on this conversation that you don't actually require food." Mahiru muttered sarcastically. "But yes, I'm hungry."

 "Very well. Let's go." Kuro stood in one quick move, the blanket falling from his shoulders and to the couch and Mahiru flinched back a step, having completely forgotten just how tall Kuro really was. At his jerking retreat, Kuro raised a brow and a mocking smile flew across his face. "Do you truly find me so frightening?"

 An immediate affirmation withered on Mahiru's tongue as he studied Kuro's expression. It was neutral and empty but somewhere, deep beneath the veneer of indifference, he thought he could see a wiggling of disappointment. He didn't know what possessed him to do what he did, or even why he would care to do so in the first place but he found himself snorting and reaching out to wrap his hand around Kuro's wrist, tugging him roughly around the back of the couch and towards the kitchen. "Of course not, idiot. What's scary about you?"

[steve0discusses]

Yugioh S4 Ep 13: Yugi Dies in California, Makes Everything Awkward

Hey guys. Yugi’s DEAD. (again, but way earlier in a season than I thought he’d be)

So lets get into it.

Last we left off, Pharaoh got imbued with the powers of Lime Green. A green that I swear used to be more Aqua, but seems to sort of shift and change depending on if it’s day or night.

As a consequence, Yugi now can’t have any communication with Pharaoh. I guess this makes it so now Pharaoh is split with his “light” side but like...both Yugi and Pharaoh have both light and darkness so...I see the metaphor going on, but I don’t think the metaphor actually...worked when you think about all the screwy stuff Yugi has done even without Pharaoh around. So just don’t think about it.

The big consequence of the Yugi Banishment was more that Yugi wasn’t there to tell Pharaoh how the Oricalchos card works because--and I say this a lot--but Pharaoh doesn’t know how to read.

Pharaoh’s biggest downfall isn’t so much his greed or pride this episode, it’s his goddamn illiteracy. If he took just five seconds to study the fine print then...he wouldn’t have even cast the Oricalchos in the first place. He did it because he wanted to protect his dragon Timaeus on the field, but the Oricalchos made Timaeus immediately disappear so...Pharaoh cast this for no reason other than the plot really wanted him to do it.

Just kinda shocking that Pharaoh, of all people, made such a huge card mistake when he’s supposed to be from where all cards came from. Then again, he’s separated from Yugi who I guess had more card input than I realized, because the rest of this episode is just Pharaoh playing kind of like a dumbass.

And on the voice acting side, the guy who plays Pharaoh had to try and talk even deeper--which was kind of funny when he’s already as deep as he can go. So...it just seems like Season 1 Pharaoh to me, except he laughs more.

TBH Pharaoh was WAY more rude to PaniK than he ever was to Rafael.

(read more under the cut)

Meanwhile, Rex and Weevil have joined the pack.

Only to be hassled by the pack.

And so, since this is a show about cards, how do you make Pharaoh look like a bad person when he...always plays cards, and is usually a good person for doing this same card playing thing?

And as the person in charge of the Death Count, sorry Yugi, that doesn’t even make sense to me. If you’re telling me that JUST NOW cards are suddenly real and not 10+ episodes ago, and if you’re telling me that all of the other times Dark Magician Girl died didn’t count?

If I had to count every time that a card died when I’m pretty sure they were real then we would also have to count most Bakura duels, probably that Pegasus duel, any Shadow game, really, and like...I don’t want to do the math so I am not counting Dark Magician Girl, y’all.

She was alive at the end of this episode, and as far as I’m concerned, her prime function--the reason she exists--is to die a lot. She’s a card, that’s what they do, and I doubt she even felt bad about it. Like...I don’t think the cards are mortal. Does that make sense? I just...maybe it hurt her but like...does she care? She’s a god in this universe.

You can’t kill Zeus. And like maybe people can hassle Zeus but like it would be maybe the sensation of an itch to Zeus if you stab him directly through the throat--that’s how I feel about Dark Magician Girl. She can take a beating and won’t even know it’s happening. Girl is freakin Zeus.

A lot of this Rafael arc is about making a false reality to justify your actions. Rafeal’s was a pretty extreme case involving cards that are angels and that are still cards...or something. Pharaoh’s was “I’ll be fine, I’ve always been fine, I’m very good at this, I’m the exception to every rule.” which is a much more approachable and relatable fake reality than Rafael.

Thing is, Pharaoh’s not entirely wrong. That’s usually true for him. He usually is the exception to every rule bending RNG to his every whim. Like there’s a reason why he took the chance on the Oricalchos, it really should’ve worked out.

And TBH, would have liked to see Pharaoh do this for longer than one episode, especially since him going his brand of cray only lasted during a card game, which I don’t really watch anyway. But eventually all good things must end, and it catches up to him when he realizes the horror he has wrought.

Spoiler, it’s not that horrifying.

Like for reals, I have seen Pharaoh do some THINGS and maybe this is a sign I’ve seen too much Yugioh when I’m like “lol Pharaoh went nuts and that was it???”

I cannot believe he did not pull out even so much as a single knife this entire episode. The hatchets are right there. Then again, his puzzle powers don’t really work in the Oricalchos realm so he has to play normie style. But knives are pretty normie. I feel like Pharaoh should have pulled out some sort of makeshift brain teaser involving knives, but youknow, this season is very much more for kids than previous seasons of Yugioh.

Again, what he did to Panik is about 1000x worse than making a Halloween Kuriboh.

But, now that all the cards he sacrificed to the Shadow Realm are being resurrected and used against him, he looks into the blank face of Dark Magician Girl and accepts his defeat.

Which is very similar to what happened to Kaiba in the earlier seasons of this show. Pharaoh got Pharaoh’d.

But...while it is a throwback, heaven forbid that this show used a real ass human as a stand in for Dark Magician Girl in this scene. Could’ve had just any actual person standing around here to make Pharaoh realize a change of heart--maybe even the kid he banished in his head? But nah.

It was Dark Magician Girl for this emotional beat.

I mean we are watching Yugioh but lol, that was a decision the writing team made. Joey Wheeler’s right over there. Maybe remove Tea from that RV? No? Want to use Dark Magician Girl instead? OK then.

Anyway, now that Pharaoh was shamed enough by a paper card to remember how to be slightly more human, Yugi holds his Puzzle high over his head and screams “BY THE POWER OF THE MILLENNIUM PUZZLE!” or something and does his own brand of magic. Surprise, it’s punching stuff.

Punching stuff is always the answer.

So apparently the puzzle is more powerful than Oricalchos. Which we basically knew the whole time, I mean...Pharaoh got possessed by Oricalchos and all it did was make him play cards.

I can’t believe no one got set on fire that entire sequence.

So, since the Oricalchos demanded a soul, Yugi figured out a loophole.

And again, another Yugioh game was ended by someone threatening to kill himself, and this time it was Yugi. Who died so that Pharaoh’s yummy soul would not resurrect the Great Leviathan.

Because, while Yugi may be a soul-copy and somewhat reincarnation of the Pharaoh? Or something? He’s still not yummy enough. Not yummy enough for that Leviathan tummy.

Which lead to this great scene that I’m sure you’d remember vividly if you ever saw it even once. This is so unexpected and wild and everyone should see it.

This is moments following a very heavy death in the show--Pharaoh’s lowest point--and it is just SO JARRING AND FUNNY in context. I don’t think they meant it to be that way but I had to rewind like 8 times.

First off, enjoy this wtf helicopter, and then...

Wow.

A+ animation, I would never have been so bold as to do drop Pharaoh like a sack of potatoes from 50 feet in the air right after killing Yugi Muto on screen. 10/10. Amazing.

And after it happens, Duke kinda looks over and has the gall to ask... “Are you guys all right?” It’s just...

Wow.

I’m applauding at my computer, I am so glad that whole sequence exists. I’ll probably lift it eventually just to have.

And then the rest of this episode is Pharaoh trying to tell everyone what happened but Everyone still doesn’t quite get it, despite how wildly blunt Pharaoh is.

Cue the endless crying, because if this show loves anything, it’s men in eyeliner openly weeping into the dirt at their feet. Thankfully, Yugi had the foresight to get waterproof mascara, because if he’s gonna die, he doesn’t want Yami to blow up that perfectly cut stiletto heel line.

MAN I am so jealous of this teenage boy’s makeup.

And since I asked the void nicely for Yugioh to be in PAD, and now that PAD put Yugioh in there as if it heard me, I will now turn my attention to Sephora.

Please, Sephora, make me a Yugioh makeup line that is waterproof as hell so I can ugly cry in the hottest desert in America and still not smudge, thx.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand Yugi Muto is officially dead!

Didn’t expect that, being real.

Wow.

Really I thought that they would die if ever they ever got separated, but apparently Pharaoh is fine he just...lacks his Yugi half that knows how to read stuff and had a slightly longer attention span.

I can’t believe they cured Yugi of his curse! Congrats, Yugi! You are no longer possessed! 

Y’all. Lets just appreciate the Yugioh Episode 13 curse for a bit.

First episode 13, Bakura killed everyone with like no warning

Second Episode 13 was Ankle-slicing Bandsaw Clown

Third Episode 13 Noah revealed he was Seto’s Secret Already Dead Brother trying to take over Seto’s body

Fourth Episode 13 Yami finally managed murdering Yugi.

Like I dunno if they planned for all 13s to be all the WTF ones, but I’m glad it’s managed so far. I should’ve known when I started this episode that it was a 13, but I just...I just forgot.

Really thought Yami was going to survive this one and we’d have to bury Rafael on this mesa. Lucky for them and the local police, it’s just paranormal murder today.

Anyway...there’s like a lot more episodes of this season left and I don’t know where it’s going anymore. Should be fun. At the rate we’re going, we’re gonna take a bike ride over to New York City to do more card games on the desert Mesas of NYC. Lets see how long Yugi will remain dead.

Maybe next episode Pharaoh will just throw on a bedsheet and Rebecca’s shower sandals so he can go full Egyptian Era? Maybe the eyeliner will be drawn all the way to his freakin ears? Y’all what if he gets really into beads and gold now?

(and if you just got here, this is a handy link to read all of these recaps in chrono order. There’s a lot of them.)

[kewltie]

“Kacchan,” Izuku starts off, trying for casual which in itself is suspicious enough, “are you free on the 7th?”

Katsuki grunts, feeling a large headache incoming. “What do you want?” he demands with narrowed eyes.

“Well,” Izuku smiles brightly, enough to ring the alarm bells in Katsuki’s head, “Papa wants you to come over for dinner.”

Immediately, “No,” he answers.

Izuku’s eyes widen like’s he honestly dumbfounded at Katsuki’s sudden rejection. His lips stretch out in sulky pout. “Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know maybe because he’s the head of the largest yakuza organization in Japan and I’m a damn cop, tasked to throw people like him in prison,” Katsuki says dryly and then, looking down pointedly at his left arm that still gives him phantom pain into the night. “And he nearly killed me last time we’d met.”

Izuku winces. “He promised me he’d only roughen you up a little.”

“Tell that to my broken arm and two fracture ribs,” Katsuki says wryly. “I was out of commission for two whole weeks while your old man didn’t even get charged with pointing a gun at my head.”

“Papa had just mistakenly assumed you were the one who kidnapped me!” Izuku insists, bristling with defense. “He didn’t know that you were actually the one who’d rescued me the first place.” He looks chagrin now. “That was his fault for jumping to the conclusion so quickly, but he realizes he was in the wrong and he’s very sorry about that. That’s why he only wants to meet up with you to properly apologize over dinner with my family.”

Katsuki thinks of the last time he’d faced Midoriya Hisashi in a head-to-head confrontation: Katsuki’s eyes were hazy with blood dripping from his head and his arms bound tight behind him as Midoriya had all but threaten to chop him into pieces and throw him into the river for getting within ten feet of Izuku, his precious and only son. “I don’t think that’s all what he wants to do to me,” Katsuki drawls, with the full knowledge it isn’t Midoriya Hisashi who will be the death of him but his son instead. It will be Izuku, calling to him from the bottom of the Sumida River and Katsuki will walk right into it with eyes wide open.

Izuku’s entire being deflates and expression is wrought with concern and hurt. “Sorry, if I asked too much of you. I know you don’t like Papa and what he does,” he looks forlornly down at his lap, “but he’s my Papa and you can’t choose your family.”

Katsuki sighs like its pains him. It most definitely does.  “Fine,” he grits out, “but if your father pull a gun on me again don’t be surprise if I actually shoot him back.”

Izuku’s jerks his head up, face lighting up and he launches himself at Katsuki. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise you will have a great time there!” he says, squeezing the life out of Katsuki.

“Fuck, get off,” Katsuki protests, but doesn’t even bother to fight Izuku’s forceful hug.

Love is such a fucking bullshit.

Also, a bullet to the head, but whatever Katsuki was already mad from the start to think he can fall in love with the crown prince of the underworld without consequence while Izuku’s father, the most notorious criminal in history, is watching Katsuki with sharp bloody teeth ready to devour him at any time.

[elinor-sutton]

Fuck MAGA: Then & Now

I started this blog right after the 2016 election.

I was angry, and it was an outlet that I needed, but after a few posts, I did not consider my rage a priority worth my time.

I was told that it might be unhealthy to indulge an anger so deep that it began to form, for me, an existential foundation of being—almost always in hair-trigger battle mode, rhetoric and righteous anger at the ever-fucking READY.

BUT I have a life that needs attention and only occasionally merits ferocity, so I gave up blogging.

And now? All this time later, I am still in a near-constant state of slow burn, and it’s been way too long without an eruption.

In the year-and-a-half since I let the blog slide, the Perpetrator-in-Chief has lived down to the worst of my expectations, and he shows no signs of improvement. It’s a narcissist thing. He CANNOT improve because he cannot recognize ANY of his infinite faults. Here’s one: GROWN-UPS don’t play Keep Away or Made You Look or the fucking Dozens with psychotic nuclear-arsenal-wielding tyrants. [It should go without saying that, if at all possible, nuclear arsenals should not be handed to psychotic tyrants in the first place, but MAGA, or whatever, right? If you live, maybe you learn. FINGERS CROSSED!]

But really, are we STILL living in a world where the safety of [at least] half the planet comes down to a man-child measuring contest?

Dear President Prick-for-Brains,

If you have to start a motherfucking WAR over it, it’s NEVER going to measure UP!

Sincerely,

Elinor S. and—oh yes, the ENTIRE FUCKING WORLD SO JUST STFU ALREADY!

Yep—still SUPER-PISSED!

If you’re looking at the world—and the supposed leader of those parts of it which are purportedly “free”—and you’re not losing your damn mind, you must have some sort of pre-established lunacy. [I’m not speaking of mental health problems. Mental health and mental healthcare are legitimate issues ignored by the thoughts-and-prayers crowd unless they need a scapegoat/catchphrase for the walking, shooting consequences of MAGA-indoctrination.] I’m thinking of the WHITE-NATIONALIST-NAZI-RACIST-MISOGYNISTIC-PATRIOTISM-BEFORE-PEOPLE-BUT-REALLY-ME-FIRST-AND-FUCK-EVERYONE-ELSE psychosis that passes for conservative politics since 45 first got his ridiculous feelings hurt by a black man and a “nasty woman” who were—and ARE—undeniably his betters. Or maybe since Mitch McConnell crawled out of his deep, dark shell and STOLE A SUPREME COURT SEAT while we sat on our hands and muttered, “Can he do that?”

Evidently, he can! AND with ZERO consequences—not for him or any other limp-dick Sentry of the Status Quo tip-toeing his way across the Glass Ceiling, stroking his Keys to the Kingdom, or hiding under his Protector of the Patriarchy parasol because HE KNOWS—they ALL know—that “Zero Consequences” comes with a big, fat, fucking YET, and she is a BOSS BITCH—woke and coming ready with a to-do list several centuries in the making. Her list says, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” It says Black Lives Matter, Me Too, My Body/My Choice, LOVEisLOVE, NoH8, and NO MORE. She’s got Science-based, Evidence-based, Fact-based TRUTH with ZERO Alternatives because TIME is fucking UP!

And that means White Male Privilege [WMP—pronounced “wimp,” right?] is coming to an end. I can’t pinpoint the starting line, but scared-shitless white men with money and/or guns have been running THE REST OF US down since well before this “great” nation was founded, and there are far too many of “the rest of us” who buy into their bullshit—53% of white women [pronounced “silly twits”]?! If you don’t fall into any category that benefits from WMP, and you voted/plan to vote for more of this nonsense, your patriotic duty, as of this moment, is to wake up every morning and punch yourself in the fucking face until something like SENSE prevails. Side effects MAY include REASON and a newfound appreciation for ACTUAL FACTS as opposed to the alternative variety, but if that fails, it is my heartfelt hope that when you make your way to the voting booth—to do what is, of course, your civic duty—you may just do us all a favor, and GET LOST!

[On a friendlier note, if you benefit from WMP and DID NOT vote in favor of our present national tragedy, congratulations on your conscience! Please take your place in the crowd, and resist the urge to act like you know everything. Instead, memorize this mantra and repeat to yourself as often as necessary to convert words to action: I’VE HAD MY TURN TO TALK. NOW IS MY TIME TO LISTEN.]

I am still angry, and I will remain so as long as “Making America Great” looks like:

1. Children murdered at school with unregulated guns or ripped away from immigrant parents who thought they could find safety in this “great” country,

2. Law enforcement abusing and KILLING men and women of color without consequence,

3. Tax cuts designed to further line the pockets of the few at the expense of the many and promote the “trickle-down” bullshit we’ve been forced to swallow, off and on, since the fucking 80s—when it didn’t work the first time.

4. Ordinary Americans struggling, or going without, while working full time for LESS THAN A LIVING WAGE,

5. Ignoring veterans who are homeless, wait months for promised healthcare, and/or commit suicide at more than twice the rate of civilians,

6. Women facing unconstitutional restrictions on access to reproductive healthcare and a choice that is STILL A LEGAL RIGHT,

7. LGBTQ+ people living with discrimination from bathrooms to bakeries and everywhere in-between—including public schools and the workplace,

8. People with disabilities at risk of losing the protection of the ADA, and disabled children at risk of losing their right to a “free and appropriate public education” under IDEA,

9. Underserved children, or those who suffer illegal discrimination in schools, losing protection from the Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights,

10. Environmental protections rolled back to protect corporate profits,

11. The sex offender/demagogue/imbecilic slab of semi-sentient slime—AND the soulless mob of Republican/MAGA-minions fighting to stroke his [gross] ego—that we have given ourselves in place of legitimate leadership,

12. And the untold number of HUMAN BEINGS suffering from the tragic FOLLY of a deluded minority of voters.

For as long as this country is attacked by toxic overgrown toddlers who play at governing, and in their incompetence, damage its environment, menace its people, abuse the fundamentals of democracy and the republic, and terrorize those who protest, I will NURSE this rage and STOKE its fire.

This is MY COUNTRY. I love it, and I recognize that TRUE LOVE does not ignore fault. This country has NEVER achieved “greatness” for all of its people. It is fortunate for “the rest of us” that patriotism does not demand blind loyalty. It does not hinge love of country on absolutes, and it does not forever marry us to White Male Privilege and what has been done in its name. We pledge allegiance to an IDEAL, and then we work the phones, yell ourselves hoarse, march until our feet bleed, and fucking VOTE to mold OUR COUNTRY into what it should be.

We DO NOT forget the progress we have made. We remember every step forward even as we recognize that the ignorant, forgotten [whatever], and privileged—with their long-overdue last gasp—forced us to take two steps back. We didn’t NEED to go backward. Nobody needs this bullshit—EVER. But we can use this. We can take a look, MARK what we missed and LEARN where and HOW we can do better. We can do what needs to be done to make sure this doesn’t happen again.

Step One: EMBRACE the anger. We can be appalled at all the FUCKING BULLSHIT the MAGA-goons have wrought and amazed that WE STILL HAVE FUCKS TO GIVE. We can revel in the madness that living in this time brings us—because progressives know how to USE rage. We know how to mine it. We have a long history of crafting change from righteous anger, and [always] moving on—an inch or a mile at a time—pushing a reluctant nation to keep its promise of “LIBERTY and JUSTICE for ALL.”

Numbers, time, and momentum are on OUR SIDE. We need to get MAD, and we need to do it TOGETHER—FOR FUCK’S OBVIOUS SAKE—and then we need to run these backward motherfuckers down with an ever-loving TIDAL WAVE OF PROGRESS that will put two steps back so far beyond the last red mile marker that even Donald Trump and Mitch McConnell will regain consciousness in the gender-neutral bathroom of an inclusive, well-funded public school with no fear of shooters, fully aware that Black Lives Matter, wearing a pussyhat, shouting TIME’S UP, and feeling grateful for the motherfucking PRIVILEGE!

So yeah, I’ve been paying attention, and I’m still angry, and it’s long past time to start talking about it again.

Stay tuned.

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Fallen Valkyrie, pt24

Word Count: 2220 Tags: @outside-the-government @distinguishedqueenofbooks, @anyakinamidala @dirajunara @anotherotter @youdonebeengarthed @auduna-druitt @samaxraph99 @rayleyanns @sistasarah-sallysaidso @feelmyroarrrr @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian @little-study-bug @graysonmalfoy @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife @ha-tep @fantiomaticsupertolkienlover 

A forceful banging on the door of the cottage brought Eira out of the woolgathering she’d been indulging in from her place curled up in the chair beside the fire. Halla was busy with a sick child, and would not be able to greet whoever was at the door. Eira pulled herself to her feet with great effort, and lumbered toward the door. She opened it, and stepped back, shocked. It was the Allfather, and he looked furious.

“I have never desired my ravens to be wrong more than I have in this, Eira,” he boomed, pushing past her into the house. Eira was too terrified to say anything. She followed him meekly back to the hearth fire. He turned and faced her, the full power of his displeasure greeting her. He was broad, but seemed broader, and stiff with rage. His good eye was narrow with anger. Eira wished she could run, leave, hide somewhere, but she knew there was nowhere in the nine realms that she could escape Huginn and Muninn.

“I have nothing to offer, Allfather.” Eira dipped her head and waited for the storm she knew was coming.

“What were you thinking? That you would be able to defy me and not have a consequence? That you would be able to hide the babe?”

“No, Allfather. I had not thought that one encounter would result in a babe,” Eira admitted.

“Any encounter can result in a babe, you stupid, silly girl!” He roared. Eira shrank away from him, arms protectively covering her belly.

“It was the very first time I’d ever made love with a man! It happened once! It was never my intention to get with child, but you are not going to make me apologize for something that was wrought out of love! This is your fault!” Eira lost her temper, and stood as straight as she could. She stared at Odin defiantly.

“My fault? I sought to protect you from this!” He slammed the butt of Gungnir into the floor in emphasis.

“And had you not sought to meddle in the path the Norns had woven for me, you would not have driven me into your son’s arms!” Eira threw her sewing on the floor in response. “You did this. Your refusal to allow whatever you saw in my future to happen caused this. Would I have still fallen in love with him? I imagine so. Would this babe be such a tragedy? No, he would have come to parents who were already wed, not to a mother who has no idea what to do with him, and a father who has yet to be told he is one. But you held the cards in this, Allfather. You have kept us apart, and you bear the responsibility for the manner in which this child was got!”

Eira slumped back into her chair, spent, and felt tears dripping down her cheeks.

“I will not release you.” His tone was cold.

“I suspected you would not see to reason,” Eira snapped, dashing away her tears with the back of her hand.

“You brought this upon yourself, child! You went out and healed, and made yourself a goddess,” Odin spoke slowly as though he were dealing with a simpleton, which just angered Eira more.

“I am not dull, Allfather, please do not address me as though I am. If there is no changing what the Norns have determined, then I would have never escaped that fate either.” Eira felt defeated, and yet still boiled with rage. The babe kicked in protest, causing her to double over with surprise. The Allfather did not notice her discomfort.

“I cannot release you, and I remain undecided about the desired betrothal to Thor. I doubt my son would be happy to have his wife slipping away at all hours to see to the dead,” Odin let out a great sigh.

“Have you considered that your son may defy you when he discovers he is to be a father?” Eira countered.

“I have no doubt that would be the case with my other son, Eira, but Thor is bound by his honour, and is sworn to serve me, and he takes those oaths seriously. How have you been fulfilling your duty these past months?” Odin demanded.

“Brynhildr has kept me to serving in Valhalla, and tending to some of the needs at Valkyrjahús. In the past weeks, however, she has excused me from all duties. There are but weeks before the babe will come,” Eira answered. “I did as I was ordered by you, Allfather. I resumed my duties and have never shirked them since.”

“Yes. I had hoped to spare you what I’d foreseen, but now I fear that will not be so.” Odin appeared older and exhausted with the statement, and for one moment, Eira feared he would fall into the Odinsleep on her floor.

“Will you not tell me now what you saw all those years ago, Allfather?” Eira asked, her voice soft.

“No. You should not know your destiny, lest you try to alter it as I have,” he shook his head, an unfamiliar look of guilt crossing his face.

“I will not apologize for loving your son, Allfather.” Eira stood, and spoke firmly. Odin nodded.

“I expect no less from his child’s mother,” he agreed.

“And now that your fury is spent, I expect a doting grandfather. There will be no punishment heaped on my child because of his parents,” Eira met his eye unwaveringly.

“The child is innocent. I am no monster,” he barked. “What I still do not understand, Eira, is how this could have happened. Thor is not a complex man. When he has desired to take leave of the negotiations, he has sought my permission. But none of those requests have come that could align with your breeding. Why would he deceive me thus? For a woman?” The questions were obviously not intended to Eira to answer, but she could not help herself.

“Perhaps you left him no choice,” she proposed.

“But my obedient son? Perhaps you are correct.” Odin turned toward the door. “My ravens will be watching for the babe’s safe arrival. Send them should you need for anything.”

“Allfather, before you go,” Eira started. “Thor does not know. I would tell him myself, and had hoped he would visit long before now. Please. He should hear he is a father from his babe’s mother.”

“I have much to think on, Eira, and will not make you promises.” Odin departed into the inky darkness of the night, leaving naught but the shrieks of his ravens behind.

Confinement to the house had left her restless, and because Halla was treating an illness that she was uncertain of the virulence, Eira decided to make her way to the city market for some much needed exercise. She’d sent a message to Brynhildr to see if her friend was free to join her, and Bryn had arrived with Kara and Hrist in tow before she had even managed to ready herself.

“Now, how are we to get you to market. Surely you don’t mean to ride Fleygur?” Kara teased her. “He would collapse from the size of you.”

“Fleygur can carry me and an Asgardian warrior in full armour. Help me to mount him,” Eira laughed. Her friends helped her to heave herself onto the horse’s back, sitting with both legs on the one side on the horse’s bare back. Fleygur grunted under her weight.

“You traitorous beast!” Eira exclaimed.

The women set off for the market that set up outside the gates of the palace, making slow time as they gossiped and laughed. They stabled their horses for the afternoon at the public groom, and made their way into the marketplace, splitting apart to see to their needs with a promise to meet back in time to share a meal on the grass of the common. Eira stopped every few stalls to rest and admire the wares. She could feel the questioning eyes of the people browsing the stalls on her immense belly and was glad that so few of them knew her.

At the cheese merchant, she purchased a small chunk of cheese and then proceeded to find a small loaf of bread. She spoke to the meat vendor about Halla’s usual order, and then found a sunny spot on the grass. She settled herself in a way also designed to minimize how large she looked, and once she was settled and saw how little of her belly was out for public viewing, she felt more comfortable. There’d been too many eyes on her already.

She was too hungry to wait on her friends, and dug into her makeshift meal alone. She looked across the market and saw her friends making short work of their market lists and smiled, savouring the rich flavour of the creamy cheese she’d purchased.

“An apple would bring out the flavour magnificently. That’s Hrogn’s cheese, is it not?” Fandral’s voice startled her. He sat down beside her and held out an apple. She smiled and took it, immediately setting to slicing it off the core.

“I thought you were in Svartalfheim?” Eira asked.

“No, Sif, Volstagg, Hogun and myself were sent home some time ago. I’ve been meaning to ride out to see you, but have been preoccupied with romantic pursuits,” Fandral blushed at his excuse. “And how is my favourite Valkyrie? You look quite robust.”

Eira couldn’t help but laugh.

“Are you saying I’ve gone to fat, Fandral?” She chuckled. He looked embarrassed and stared at a spot she was sure was far above her head, rather than meet her gaze.

“Not at all, Eira. You’re just looking hale,” He stammered.

“I look like a woman about to burst with child, you fool,” she laughed, and shoved his shoulder in mock rage. Fandral’s gaze snapped down from wherever it had been to look at her. He took in her rounded face, fuller bust and when she leaned back a little to allow him, the immense spread of the babe within her, with shock.

“But how –“

“Surely you know how babies are made, Fandral,” she laughed.

“Thor has not said a word.”

“Thor does not yet know. He has been gone since the night I conceived,” Eira admitted.

“And you’ve not sent word?”

“I had rather hoped he would be home before I had gone this far. Now it seems too late,” she confessed.

“But he would be thrilled!” Fandral exclaimed. “I would be, were I him!”

“And so he shall be, when he comes come from Svartalfheim,” Eira smiled. “The Allfather is aware, Fandral, and will do as he sees fit.” Her words were a gentle warning to her friend. He nodded.

“Your time must be soon?” He asked.

“So now that you have seen the grandness of my belly, you truly see how immense I am?” She teased. He shook his head and flushed. “Tis not long now. Some six weeks. A first babe can sometimes come late.”

Brynhildr approached and sat on the opposite side of Eira, nodding politely to Fandral. Fandral smiled flirtatiously back and Bryn rolled her eyes and began to eat without a word to either of them. Kara and Hrist joined them and sat facing the others. Kara smiled at Fandral after looking him over appreciatively.

“Fandral, you’re quite a nice picture when you are clean and do not stink of the wars,” she winked at him. Fandral grinned at the pretty blonde and moved a little closer to her. Hrist snorted in amusement and rolled her eyes.

“I could say the same of you, Kara, but it would be a lie. You are beautiful regardless of your state.” He took her hand and kissed it, which set off a wave of laughter amongst the women.

“You fight a losing battle, warrior. Kara will devour you and spit out your bones,” Hrist warned him. Bryn laughed even harder.

“Tis true. The men in Valhalla quake with both lust and fear. Be careful with whom you flirt, Fandral,” she cautioned. Fandral looked to Eira.

“Tell me, Eira, for you I trust above all these ladies. Will she truly be the end of me?” Fandral’s eyes danced with merriment. Eira nodded somberly.

“She is known to be insatiable, Fandral. You may well have met your match, should you pursue her.” She bit her lip to try to stop herself from smiling but it was no help. Fandral looked back to Kara, smitten.

“Indeed? I may have to test my luck.” He met her gaze appraisingly. Kara looked to the other Valkyries and looked back at him, as though accepting the challenge.

“Well, you can test your luck another time, loverboy. We have troops to train,” Sif appeared, seemingly from nowhere. She looked around the circle of women, her eyes stopping at Eira.

“Sif, you look well,” Eira offered. Sif’s eyebrows rose.

“Goodness, Eira, you look about to burst. Who put that babe in your womb?” She gaped. Fandral’s brows furrowed as he rose to his feet.

“Sif!” His voice was sharp. “Be mindful of your mouth. She carries an heir of Asgard.” He grabbed Sif’s arm and dragged her toward the training grounds squabbling with one another the whole way.

[mazmisc]

The Poetry of Michael Dolce

Links to Michael’s books can be found at the bottom of the page.

Michael Dolce

A Universe to Come   8/19/08

I imagine the smell of earth in the mist of the sweet jungle’s humidity, Caressing my dry face, Bringing sweet and powerful tears to my cheeks, Half of my own making and half not. I can taste the water of this sacred savannah on my tongue With the gracious passion of a man too long denied its sustenance, Lost in a wilderness of wind and unfertile sand. I cool my overheated fingers in the damp mud of Mother Earth’s wet soil, And when I return them to my face, I smell a perfume that brings peace to my restless spirit And inspiration to all parts of my being. Then with the posture of a god atop Gaea’s highest peak, Bedecked in naught but the flesh that carried me from the ocean to this land And bathed in the light of Helios on high, She comes to me, A muse and a dark prophecy of sublime promise; An angel and a harlot, A song of terrible ardor and a whisper of confident purpose. She descends upon my skin as hot rain, Falling in surprising softness upon me, Flowing from my head to my toes in sanguine rivers of joy That speak to me like tongues of fire In a forgotten language no mortal mind ever had a name for. Upon my right and pure propitiation to her, Infusing her with consecrated heat, She rewards me by taking the world off of my back and smiling at me; A girl and a whore, A wife and a courtesan, A daughter and a mother. Her hands draw from my being every last ounce of poison Corrupting the sanctity of my immortal temple, Wrought from the wars of the civilized world. She finds the seat of my power, Where this deity’s machinations are seeded, The indomitable, indefatigable throne of my kingdom. She takes her seat as my queen, Radiant and magnificent, A goddess in these moments, Even unto other goddesses, Who can scarce contain their own adoration of her. As I worship. She holds a place of mystic guardianship atop the watch tower of my domain, And for all of its stolid solemnity, She makes it a beacon that lights the way for the Divine light to bless my great reign. As the sea meets the shore, we collide. She makes the earth from magma at my core, Pushing it to the surface in delightful chaos that replenishes the fertile realm. In the following calm, In the grace of profound silence. The ancient ritual is accomplished. The universe is reborn.

  Join Me           05-26-04

Anyone could blame it on the mushrooms, Especially the people who’ve never taken them And see merely the incomprehensible chaos it brings to people, Causing them to laugh uncontrollably And express leaps of child-like logic that their aging minds have long forgotten.

But it was beyond psilocybin, Beyond the mind, And beyond the flesh and bone that serve as my conveyance.

My soul spoke. My Great soul.

I sat on a dirt hill beside my best friend. We’d joked all night And had howled with hilarity; Two intelligent innocences struggling to cope with the illusory trappings of the Age of Pisces, The iron age of tyranny, political correctness, violence and abject humorlessness.

I remembered having a religion imposed upon me. I remembered the indoctrinational practices of my schooling. I imagined Jews and Palestinians killing each other over who had the best invisible friend, Busily fighting the great unknowns of human mortality. I imagined a world in which the followers of Elwood P. Dowd Committed acts of rape and murder out of an outrageously enflamed belief in an intangible six-foot tall rabbit named Harvey, And this made as much sense to me as the Crusades, the witch burnings & the jihads.

It struck me then.

It was like looking all around the house for a misplaced wallet And finding it finally in your back pocket.

Love is the thing.

Love is everything.

I could send it from my heart through my hands and heal this planet if I really meant it.

I gazed in immaculate awe up at the stars And gratefully into the eyes of my friend, And I spoke words that had come from a source beyond me; A memory of lessons learned, A prophecy of learning yet to come.

“I just want to love.”

My mind was a cool breeze. My heart was a gentle blaze. My spirit was a calm, healing stream. My body lay serenely prostrate upon the soil.

“I just want to love.”

I knew it was the truth of my existence, My destiny, My road less traveled.

I was absolutely myself, In all worlds, When I said it.

An eternity thrived in the scant seconds of my uttering, And I knew myself for the first time.

Decades have since passed.

Fear, greed & anger have come to fight a last battle for supremacy on earth. Confusion, apathy and disillusionment hold humanity from its inherent greatness, And, Imperfect vessel that I am, I understand it now.

I had spoken words that had come to me from a source beyond me; A memory of lessons learned, A prophecy of learning yet to come.

“I just want to love.”

Join me.

Death and resurrection.

Join me.

  I Met Your Girl           

I met your daughter at a Motel 6. She was calling herself Candy. I didn’t ask her for her real name. She never asked for mine.

A box of Huggies was visible Behind the closet door, Left inadvertently ajar. What was she, 18? 19? Already a mouth to feed.

She had a scar under her right eye. Did you give her that When you came home drunk And angry because You couldn’t be accountable For why you earned minimum wage?

What was she, 18? 19? She looked 30. The shadows under her eyes Were as deep as those cast by trees and buildings At sundown.

Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe it was drugs.

Did she roll her first joint for you? Did she have her first swallow of rotgut from your bottle? Did monkey see and monkey do?

She took it like a champ, And to the untrained heart, She feigned sincerity with practiced efficiency.

Did she learn that from you too?

The tattoo on her lower back Featured a skull and cross bones And read “here to go”. What was she, 18? 19? And here to go?

Well, I’m no saint obviously, Or I’d never have been in that hotel room With your daughter, Whose name I’ll never know, But by absent god, I’d never have enjoyed her company For that indecent half hour If you’d been a real man to your girl, Instead of …

…Well… Instead of whatever it was you were to her.

The River

The river swallows what it wishes. Water is potent beyond words. Walking beside the river is the purview of the bold, Because if the river wishes, it commands, And the hero, Regardless of imagined quests, Is drawn into unknown, unknowable currents Into which compassionate resolve sinks or swims. Every call to adventure is a call to love, And the manner of the challenge is a bizarre surprise Born of strange occurrence.

It must be so. For if the hero could choose the battles, They would all be encounters the hero was certain to win.

Heroism is the ability to be instructed by such as a river, Flowing with it as it dictates So that one’s formulas may be disproven, False faiths may be rent asunder And one’s own agnostic kindness may be given the breath of true life.

The river calls you. Fall willingly into it, To be bathed and purified, To have this ego drowned in sacred remembrance of universal unity, To rise a perpetually transformed spirit.

God is the river, The lake, The sea, The ocean.

You are a drop in the water, And you surrender So that you may move as the water moves, And in this submission, Your temporal being with a temporary name Is given the grace and force To perform feats of magic in a sterile atmosphere And to wield a candle’s flame Dispelling darkness.

The river calls. Answer.   Allow. Act.

  Boundless Love Sometimes I curse this flesh and bone because The limitations brought are hard to face, And what this damned trapped ego does Can never seem to stretch beyond its place. The truth of love is not the same as fact, Because this ego’s litany of fears Demands at least the semblance of contract, Imposing boundaries so we fend off tears. Would that this were not so, and we were free From form, from terror and from consequence, To say that you are yours, but you’re with me. Both come with some collateral expense.           I wish we had the minds of gods above,           For then we might enjoy a boundless love.

Michael’s books can be purchased here:

Zero the Clown: and a Lovely Garden of Flowering Weeds Desire and Dust Slap & Tickle Magic & Malarkey 69 Sonnets

from WordPress http://bizarredatanoise.com/?p=3981

[annastrxng]

Insatiablevalor: YOU COULD HAVE DIED!!! ~ Annlett~

@insatiablevalor

“Edmund, I could have lost you! Why? Why didn’t you leave for Scotland?!!! So many people wish to kill you!” She relinquishes a heart-heavy sob. “Why? Why did you stay?” Anna sharply demands. Her entire body quivered violently with all the power of the adrenaline rush.

insatiablevalor  answered:

Edmund looked down at his black boots as she pleaded with him, not knowing exactly how to go about answering her— not just yet at least. She had been the woman that he once loved, and he had even thought about giving up everything for just a chance to be with her and to make her happy. Deep down, those feelings for her had never truly went away and yet being in her presence made the white hot sting of betrayal burn even hotter than it had before. “That is precisely why I had to stay.” he said, finally looking back up at her. “I realized that I was running away from all of my problems, but… I then I also realized that problems have a tendency of catching up to you… eventually.” Then something else stuck out to him. “You could have lost me?”

Concern radiates in the concentric confines of honey-dipped maple-syrup hues as she studies the Major. A nagging pain grips its icy weed-like tendrils into her heart, till it threatens to suffocate every beat. Lungs burn with the flames of shame’s caress. Guilt settles between the breath of her diaphragm like a heavy cannonball. The Rebel spy knows she has no right to demand answers- not after all she had done. Yet, that does not keep her from such persistent pursuit.

Anna’s trembling hands want to reach out to Edmund. Hell, she contemplates acting on the desire to seize hold of his uniform lapels and give him a good shake, until he returns to his senses. Or at least until he understood how deeply she loves him. Was Edmund being so reckless because she had refused to answer his question about loving him? Was this all her fault? By trying to solve a problem, had she unintentionally gone and made it worse? Perhaps, Ben was right to have offered her back up to Selah so quickly. Maybe… all she did was create messes, break hearts, and destroy the things she meant to protect and preserve. Just look at the disasters that her love had wrought with Abraham, Selah, Cicero, Abigail, her home, the tavern, and even the Cause.

The brunette had partly contrived the notion to walk away and accept that she was no longer something he cared for- nor someone he wished to answer to. But the sudden sound of his pleasant gravel-filled voice brings her to pause.

Anna considers letting his words stand, met only with her stunned silence; even though she holds a few cards that he could not have foreseen. Edmund wouldn’t want to hear about her intrigues, the things that drew her into skulking about in the dead of the night with the expectation of results. Would he?

No, damn it! He deserves to know. The brunette internally argues with herself. Keeping secrets is what had done damage to the beautiful thing they had growing between them in the first place. She could not keep the concealed information in any longer for fear that Edmund may yet again, find cause to believe she was being insincere- instead of biding her time by being evasive and reflective. “We only needed a little more time…” Anna whispers. The rebel-spy despises the sound of her own voice in the same way she is repulsed by Simcoe. “Time to make another plan and execute it without any more loss…” She continued, albeit hesitantly.

“B…but you “had” to come back. You “had” to put yourself in harms way again. This time, in a place where I could not defend you from him!” She spits in complaint, her tone bordering on the soft but still accusatory side. Anna isn’t entirely angry. No. Edmund’s return pleases her. It is the situations that he has put himself into that cause her the greatest distress. 

Her gaze bashfully drops downwards until she is practically inspecting every grain, scuff-mark, and notch in the wooden floor below.”Aye.” A one word confirmation is followed by a labored sigh. One hand frees itself from the comforts of her skirts before landing delicately upon his arm. Her stance shifts as she considers the right words to use. Words, that would bring mending to all of the wounds she had caused and inflicted. But such powerful vocabulary seemed to lay just outside of Anna’s extensive and highly developed lexicon. For what compilation of letters smashed together could ever restore a severely shattered heart? Anna can think of nary a one.

Would Edmund even believe her? Dubious. Hell, does she even trust herself anymore? No. The thundering traitor taps out notes on her rib-cage that can be felt reverberating through every muscle, tendon, and fiber of her being. It declares it’s own war against the spinning-wheel called logic that resides in her mind. Silver sweeps of agony fall across dark hues and threaten to cling to long, delicate lashes. Pale-raspberry lips quiver with the need to explain but feel burdened, nearly mute.  

Hadn’t she already lost him the very day she could not bring forth a confession of love from a dangerously divided heart? ‘Have you found some…some hidden love for the ENEMY? ANNA, have you forgotten who your ENEMY is…?’ Abe’s poison and spite filled lecture clogs her ears. The speech brings with it the first drops of rain which, slickly slide down the gentle curves of her cheeks; although they are indoors. A shaky inhale is sucked in with the hopes of quieting the tide of sobs moving through her seemingly hollow chest.

She loved him. A stubborn more unrelenting part of her knew it was genuine; more tangible and pursuit-worthy than anything else she had ever found. Anna doubts she could ever feel the same way for another person even if she lived to be 300 years old. Still, Anna feels she must beg his forgiveness. “For…forgive me. I have spoken out of turn. I ha….have no right to presume that you were ever mine. Nor that you were ever mine to lose….” Her apology bores like acid through the final enduring piece of her soul. There was nothing more she yearned for than Edmund and still, he could not see it. Her infinite affection was not transparent enough through her actions and deeds. The Major was not fluent in her love language and he needed a translator. “I meant no offense..” The suffering brunette chokes out, the tangle of emotions making the words difficult to pry free of a twisted tongue. Her eyes squeeze shut in an effort to stop the maddening torrent but one drop of silver seems to latch on to another, till wave after wave crashes over her lids and spills pathetically down her face.

Keep yourself together she internally chastises. Pushing away the tears with her trembling fingers Anna further elaborates. “I meant only that I was .. worried over your safety and feared…I… I would find you dead….somewhere in a s…shallow grave…” A visible shudder over takes the brunette’s slender figure as her gaze refocuses on him through the smoggy blur that had befallen them. She wonders if he will catch on to the more subtle confession - that she had been searching for him with every visit into the city.

Having seen at least twelve shallow graves in Washington’s camp, the mutineers seeking what they were due for their services, the images of death were forever branded upon her mind. How many nights had passed since, that she awoken with the same terrifying nightmare plaguing even the deepest of rests? Hewlett’s face was cold and ashen. His uniform soaked in his own scarlet tide. Her fingers clutch his un-moving figure to her own curvier one, only to discover that he was beyond revival. Edmund was taken and she was left behind to suffer the miserable consequences of having loved something that could be so easily snatched from her- again. How many nights had she forced herself to ignore the burden of an invisible weight crushing down upon her, battling for air as she contemplates the places that Edmund could wind up? Hadn’t Simcoe left countless dead in his wake? Even Magistrate Richard Woodhull, the law of Setauket, had not been immune to the Ranger’s trap.

Presently, Edmund stands before her flesh and blood, more than the ghost or the corpse, she had imagined she’d find when Abe told her that he had reappeared on the shores of York City. All she wanted to do was embrace him, to finally confess the three words she had been unable to share before.

But what if Major Hewlett had moved on from her? What if he was happy with his life and her admission would only drag him further into an abyss of misery and darkness?

“You could have died…” Anna amends, in a hushed entreating tone. That was the same as a confession of caring if not, love- without having to say those exact words. Was it not? Her heavily quaking hand moves to tuck a few strands of his straying dark hair away from Edmund’s face. Her callous fingertips accidentally brushing against the contour his cheek. She knows not what else to say other than. “I’m so glad that you’re alive. Please, don’t make a habit of scaring me like that.” It was lame, all things considered but at least it was the Gospel truth. The second phrase was more of a desperate plea on the behalf of her poor aching heart.