#and whose 'simple' ways would eventually change the country

[beggars-opera]

On the road leading into the center of Concord, Massachusetts, there sits a house.

It is a plain, colonial-style house, of which there are many along this road. It has sea green and buff paint, a historical plaque, and one of the most multi-layered stories I have ever encountered to showcase that history is continuous, complicated, and most importantly, fragmentary, unless you know where to look.

So, where to start? The plaque.

There's some usual information here: Benjamin Barron built the house in 1716, and years later it was a "witness house" to the start of the American Revolution. And then, something unusual: a note about an enslaved man named John Jack whose epitaph is "world famous."

Where is this epitaph? Right around the corner in the town center.

It reads:

God wills us free; man wills us slaves. I will as God wills; God’s will be done. Here lies the body of JOHN JACK a native of Africa who died March 1773 aged about 60 years Tho’ born in a land of slavery, He was born free. Tho’ he lived in a land of liberty, He lived a slave. Till by his honest, tho’ stolen labors, He acquired the source of slavery, Which gave him his freedom; Tho’ not long before Death, the grand tyrant Gave him his final emancipation, And set him on a footing with kings. Tho’ a slave to vice, He practised those virtues Without which kings are but slaves.

We don't know precisely when the man first known only as Jack was purchased by Benjamin Barron. We do know that he, along with an enslaved woman named Violet, were listed in Barron's estate upon his death in 1754. Assuming his gravestone is accurate, at that time Jack would have been about 40 and had apparently learned the shoemaking trade from his enslaver. With his "honest, though stolen labors" he was then able to earn enough money to eventually purchase his freedom from the remaining Barron family and change his name to John, keeping Jack as a last name rather than using his enslaver's.

John Jack died, poor but free, in 1773, just two years before the Revolutionary War started. Presumably as part of setting up his own estate, he became a client of local lawyer Daniel Bliss, brother-in-law to the minister, William Emerson. Bliss and Emerson were in a massive family feud that spilled into the rest of the town, as Bliss was notoriously loyal to the crown, eventually letting British soldiers stay in his home and giving them information about Patriot activities.

Daniel Bliss also had abolitionist leanings. And after hearing John's story, he was angry.

Here was a man who had been kidnapped from his home country, dragged across the ocean, and treated as an animal for decades. Countless others were being brutalized in the same way, in the same town that claimed to love liberty and freedom. Reverend Emerson railed against the British government from the pulpit, and he himself was an enslaver.

It wouldn't do. John Jack deserved so much more. So, when he died, Bliss personally paid for a large gravestone and wrote its epitaph to blast the town's hypocrisy from the top of Burial Hill. When the British soldiers trudged through the cemetery on April 19th, 1775, they were so struck that they wrote the words down and published them in the British newspapers, and that hypocrisy passed around Europe as well. And the stone is still there today.

You know whose stone doesn't survive in the burial ground?

Benjamin Barron's.

Or any of his family that I know of. Which is absolutely astonishing, because this story is about to get even more complicated.

Benjamin Barron was a middle-class shoemaker in a suburb that wouldn't become famous until decades after his death. He lived a simple life only made possible by chattel slavery, and he will never show up in a U.S. history textbook.

But he had a wife, and a family. His widow, Betty Barron, from whom John purchased his freedom, whose name does not appear on her home's plaque or anywhere else in town, does appear either by name or in passing in every single one of those textbooks.

Terrible colonial spelling of all names in their marriage record aside, you may have heard her maiden name before:

Betty Parris was born into a slaveholding family in 1683, in a time when it was fairly common for not only Black, but also Indigenous people to be enslaved. It was also a time of war, religious extremism, and severe paranoia in a pre-scientific frontier. And so it was that at the age of nine, Betty pointed a finger at the Arawak woman enslaved in her Salem home, named Titibe, and accused her of witchcraft.

Yes, that Betty Parris.

Her accusations may have started the Salem Witch trials, but unlike her peers, she did not stay in the action for long. As a minor, she was not allowed to testify at court, and as the minister's daughter, she was too high-profile to be allowed near the courtroom circus. Betty's parents sent her to live with relatives during the proceedings, at which point her "bewitchment" was cured, though we're still unsure if she had psychosomatic problems solved by being away from stress, if she stopped because the public stopped listening, or if she stopped because she no longer had adults prompting her.

Following the witch hysteria, the Parrises moved several times as her infamous father struggled to hold down a job and deal with his family's reputation. Eventually they landed in Concord, where Betty met Benjamin and married him at the age of 26, presumably having had no more encounters with Satan in the preceding seventeen years. She lived an undocumented life and died, obscure and forgotten, in 1760, just five years before the Stamp Act crisis plunged America into a revolution, a living bridge between the old world and the new.

I often wonder how much Betty's story followed her throughout her life. People must have talked. Did they whisper in the town square, "Do you know what she did when she was a girl?" Did John Jack hear the stories of how she had previously treated the enslaved people in her life? Did that hasten his desperation to get out? And what of Daniel Bliss; did he know this history as well, seeing the double indignity of it all? Did he stop and think about how much in the world had changed in less than a century since his neighbor was born?

We'll never know.

All that's left is a gravestone, and a house with an insufficient plaque.

[moonlightsapphic]

Releasing Nimona on the last day of pride month 2023 was such a great move because it’s a really needed piece of media right now. Lots of countries that legalised gay marriage years ago have been grappling with this rising TERF narrative of “if you’re gay it’s whatever but if you’re trans, non-binary or gender non-conforming in some way you’re a PERVERT! A MONSTER trying to GROOM CHILDREN!” The outrage against simple things like pronouns and drag events, and the movement against gender affirming healthcare have reached a terrifying peaks for contemporary times.

So a kid’s movie set in a fictional country with controlling government officials with personal agendas, with an openly gay couple but also a shape-shifting kid who cannot even be afford to be out is our reality in the US today. Nimona’s feelings about her vibe, body and form, her insistence that she is only “Nimona” no matter what she looks like and her aversion to “small-minded questions” together forms such a beautiful allegory about trans, genderfluid individuals.

Ballister asks her to be a girl, but for whose sake? It’s only for the comfort of people who refuse to understand her, and would rather see her die than let her be herself. And it’s this widespread rejection and loneliness that has eventually made Nimona indifferent to pain, that makes her feel suicidal.

In the end, it is another member of the LGBTQ+ community that truly sees and accepts Nimona for who she is. And that should be a reminder that we cannot let them divide us. Trans people stood up for the rest of us and made historical change happen, and we need to do the same for them. Besides, cis queer people are only the “good ones” until they’re done with trans people and then will turn on us.

[mariacallous]

Republicans are thrashing around trying to get themselves out of the abortion ban they have tried to win for so many decades. Senator Lindsey Graham (R-SC) was the first. In the fall of 2022, just months after the Supreme Court struck down Roe v. Wade, he proposed legislation calling for a national abortion ban after 15 weeks. So far, this bill has gone nowhere. Then, in 2023, gubernatorial candidate Glenn Youngkin of Virginia put the 15-week abortion ban at the center of his campaign to help the GOP take full control of the Virginia legislature. Rather than holding one house and picking up the other, he lost both. Recently, former President Donald Trump—who often brags about appointing the three Supreme Court justices who made possible the repeal of Roe v. Wade—offered his own way out of the thicket by applauding the fact that states now can decide the issue for themselves. And in Arizona, the Republican Senate candidate, Kari Lake, is trying to rally the party around the notion of a 15-week ban instead of the 1864 near total ban their court just affirmed, even though she’s facing criticism for this on the far right. Meanwhile, the Wall Street Journal came out with a poll showing that abortion was the number one issue—by far—for suburban women voters in swing states.

In each instance (and there will be more) we find Republicans desperately trying to find a position on the issue that makes their base and the other parts of their coalition happy.

It doesn’t exist, and here’s why—abortion is an integral part of health care for women.

Since 2022, when the Supreme Court eviscerated Roe in the Dobbs case, we have been undergoing a reluctant national seminar in obstetrics and gynecology. All over the country, legislators—mostly male—are discovering that pregnancy is not simple. Pregnancies go wrong for many reasons, and when they do, the fetus needs to be removed. One of the first to discover this reality was Republican State Representative Neal Collins of South Carolina. He was brought to tears by the story of a South Carolina woman whose water broke just after 15 weeks of pregnancy. Obstetrics lesson #1—a fetus can’t live after the water breaks. But “lawyers advised doctors that they could not remove the fetus, despite that being the recommended medical course of action.” And so, the woman was sent home to miscarry on her own, putting her at risk of losing her uterus and/or getting blood poisoning.

A woman from Austin, Texas had a similar story—one that eventually made its way into a heart-wrenching ad by the Biden campaign. Amanda Zurawski was 18 weeks pregnant when her water broke. Rather than remove the fetus, doctors in Texas sent her home where she miscarried—and developed blood poisoning (sepsis) so severe that she may never get pregnant again. Note that in both cases the medical emergency happened after 15 weeks—late miscarriages are more likely to have serious medical effects than early ones. The 15-week idea, popular among Republicans seeking a way out of their quagmire, doesn’t conform to medical reality.

Over in Arkansas, a Republican state representative learned that his niece was carrying a fetus who lacked a vital organ, meaning that it would never develop normally and either die in utero or right after birth. Obstetrics lesson #2—severe fetal abnormalities happen. He changed his position on the Arkansas law saying, “Who are we to sit in judgment of these women making a decision between them and their physician and their God above?”

In a case that gained national attention, Kate Cox, a Texas mother of two, was pregnant with her third child when the fetus was diagnosed with a rare condition called Trisomy 18, which usually ends in miscarriage or in the immediate death of the baby. Continuing this doomed pregnancy put Cox at risk of uterine rupture and would make it difficult to carry another child. Obstetrics lesson #3—continuing to carry a doomed pregnancy can jeopardize future pregnancies. And yet the Texas Attorney General blocked an abortion for Cox and threatened to prosecute anyone who took care of her, and the Texas Supreme Court ruled that her condition did not meet the statutory exception for “life-threatening physical condition.”

So, she and her husband eventually went to New Mexico for the abortion.

Obstetrics lesson #4—miscarriages are very common, affecting approximately 30% of pregnancies. While many pass without much drama and women heal on their own—others cause complications that require what’s known as a D&C for dilation and curettage. This involves scraping bits of pregnancy tissue out of the uterus to avoid infection. When Christina Zielke of Maryland was told that her fetus had no heartbeat, she opted to wait to miscarry naturally.

While waiting, she and her husband traveled to Ohio for a wedding where she began to bleed so heavily that they had to go to an emergency room. A D&C would have stopped the bleeding, but in Ohio, doctors worried that they would be criminally charged under the new abortion laws and sent her home in spite of the fact that she was still bleeding heavily and in spite of the fact that doctors in Maryland had confirmed that her fetus had no heartbeat. Eventually her blood pressure dropped, and she passed out from loss of blood and returned to the hospital where a D&C finally stopped the bleeding.

These are but a few of the horror stories that will continue to mount in states with partial or total bans on abortion. As these stories accumulate, the issue will continue to have political punch. We have already seen the victory of pro-choice referenda in deep red conservative states like Kansas, Kentucky, Montana, and Ohio; and in swing states like Michigan and in deep blue states like California and Vermont. In an era where almost everything is viewed through a partisan lens, abortion rights transcend partisanship.

And more referenda are coming in November. The expectation is that at least some, if not most, of the pro-choice voters likely to be mobilized by the abortion issue will help Democrats up and down the ballot. As a result, Democratic campaigns are working hard to make sure the public knows that Republicans are responsible.

[senditcolton]

Meet Me at Midnight

summary: navigating your job of being the official portrait artist for the Svechnikov royal family was hard enough. trying to keep your forbidden romance with the crown prince added another layer of difficulty. but whenever you were with Andrei... the impossible seemed within reach (inspired by this moodboard from @suitandtys​​)

songs: x x word count: 3.2k warnings: royalty!au (the prince and the painter) and mentions of anxiety. 

Life was simple before this. You had scratched out a living as a painter in the village underneath the looming shadow of the royal castle, walking into houses that you could never dream of owning yourself for brief moments, just to memorialize the exorbitant wealth of the families whose only desire was to flaunt it even more. It true that it wasn’t much of a life but it was yours. You lived independently, made your own money, spent your time doing something you truly loved. And it was simple.

Or, more accurately, it used to be simple.

That all changed the day you were hired by the royal family themselves. Hired to paint a royal portrait that would be sent across the country to attract a royal match.

A portrait of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Karolyna, Andrei Svechnikov.

You were honored that knowledge of your talent had made its way up to the ears of the monarchy. But if you were being honest with yourself, you were also terrified. You were young and had no family left. If the prince didn’t like his portrait or if you accidentally insulted the him or anything of the kind, you would be ruined, forced into poverty and left to die.

So, when the day came and you were escorted into a private room filled with guards and some of the most powerful people in the nation, it was safe to say that you were petrified.

But then Andrei walked into the room. And when your eyes met, you were struck with the profound knowledge that although you had been painting the world for as long as you could remember, you had only seen it muted hues. When you met Andrei, the universe exploded into screaming color.

The first day had been tense, however, it was made easier every time you looked up to see Andrei staring at you with those dark brown eyes. And when you returned to continue your work the next day, the prince noticed your anxiety and ordered everyone to leave the room apart from his personal guard Pyotr.

He explained his actions and you had thanked him before resuming your work. And that was the way it continued every session afterwards: you and him sitting for hours in quiet candlelight, your eyes dancing across his frame as you pay attention to every detail and his eyes studying you just as intently. Your paint-stained fingers, your furrowed brow, your pulled back hair.

Eventually, the prince would have Pyotr stand outside of the room leaving you two alone. The first time it happened, you had assumed the worst. You knew the stink of privilege and how men wielded it like a sword. You thought a prince wouldn’t be any different but you soon learned his intentions were never anything but pure. He just wanted to talk to you, freely, as he confessed. Wanted you to feel free to talk to him. And eventually, the conversation between the two of you flowed as easy as water in a stream.

There was a spark between the two of you. You couldn’t deny or explain it but it was the truth. However, you knew nothing would come of it. As soon as you were done with the portrait, you would be paid then sent away to resume your life as normal. This would just be a fleeting, albeit magical, moment. Nothing more.

And that was exactly what it was until shortly after your employment ended, you were summoned again for an audience with the king and queen. There in the dazzling throne room, you were offered a permanent residency in the palace as the royal family’s official portrait artist.

You accepted the offer graciously, the entire time being hyperaware of Prince Andrei’s eyes on you from his spot behind his father’s throne. And it wasn’t a surprise when he found his way into your new palace studio shortly after your investiture.

At first, it was always under the guise of business: he was relaying a message or checking your progress or requesting a commission. He even asked you to paint another portrait of him, one that would remain in the castle. A task you were more than happy to take on if it meant the two of you could continue as you used to.

It was in the quiet of your studio did things start to change for you – and the prince.

It began as gentle trepidation, his questions veering from business to more personal inquiries about your life, your family, yourself. You returned the favor by asking him about his own life and willingly listened to him talk about tax levies, foreign affairs, the new stallion he bought, his elder brothers adventures at sea.

This turned into hours spent talking instead of painting, private dinners in the studio, Andrei joining you to silently work on his own duties while you created. Soon, Andrei was requesting your company in the garden, seeking you out at parties where you painted silently in the corner, and spent more time in your studio than in his personal quarters. It even led to him requesting a painting lesson from you, which led to even closer contact, whispers of praise and encouragement, lingering glances, and delicate touches.

It was a night in your studio, alone with him, where the trajectory of your life truly and irrevocably changed. It was the night he kissed you for the first time.

When you first laid your eyes on him, the world changed color. When his lips connected with yours, he revealed colors that you hadn’t known existed.

What used to be just a job turned into a forbidden romance, filled with stolen moments and long nights tangled together, staring at the ceiling. You were in love. You loved Andrei and he loved you. That much you were certain of. But you were also certain of your reality: you were a commoner and he was a prince. He was destined to marry a princess and inherit his father’s throne whereas you…

It didn’t stop you from wanting.

Even now, as you watch the flurry of gowns spinning around the crowded ballroom, watch as every fair maiden flaunts herself to try and catch the prince’s attention and secure a position as his betrothed, you can’t take your eyes off of Andrei weaving his way through the crowd. And even though the party was meant to secure a match for the eligible young prince, Andrei couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering over to you, hidden behind your easel in the corner.

With a brief shake of your head, you focus back onto your canvas and lift your paintbrush to continue your work, capturing the extravagance of the party around you. You attempt to lose yourself in the process; it was the one place where you had always found comfort and peace. And for a moment, it works until you lift your head and see Andrei weaving through the crowd, making his way over to you. Hastily, you wipe the paint off your hands and rise from your stool just as he arrives in front of you.

“My lady,” he says politely, giving you a deep bow.

“Your Highness,” you reply, curtsying before raising your body and connect your eyes to Andrei. The two of you falter momentarily, your shared desires fighting against the status quo that you were both trapped in. Andrei clears his throat before continuing.

“How are you getting on?”

“I’m doing quite well, thank you for asking, Your Highness.”

“Is there anything you need?” he questions. “More paint? New brushes? Better light?”

“Thank you for your concern but I am set for now,” you say, observing him as intently as you always had. Noticing the tension in his shoulders, watching how his eyes flit around the room nervously but softened whenever he looked at you.

“Understandable. I will leave you to your work then,” Andrei says, as he holds out a hand to you. You accept his silent request, slipping your hand in his and watching as he brings it up to his lips, kissing it gently with a bow. “If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. I will.”

Andrei shoots you a gentle smile, his thumb delicately swiping against your knuckles once before he pulls his hand away. And as he does, you can feel him press a small folded piece of paper into your palm. You try not to react, concealing the note in the folds of your apron, your eyes following Andrei as he disappears into the crowd, only being able to steal one more glance back towards you.

You return to your seat and start to paint again, glancing around the room in what would have appeared to be taking in your surroundings. In reality, you were checking to make sure no one was paying attention to you. Even though you were often seen as the equivalent to another servant, you were still cautious as occasionally, your skills caught the eye of the nobles flitting about the room. When you determine that you were safe, you remove the folded parchment from your pocket and read the words hastily scrawled there.

Meet me at midnight. My room. The balcony.

A quick glance at the clock shows the hours between then and now. Adjusting your posture, you focus back onto your canvas, praying that time may pass by swiftly. It seems as if your wishes were answered because before you knew it, you had lost track of Andrei in the crowd and another glance at the clock showed you it was almost midnight.

You remove yourself from your spot in the corner, skirting around the perimeter of the room, keeping your head down. You manage to make it to the main exit leading to the rest of the palace but as you press on the door, a guard stops you.

“Where are you headed?”

“To my studio, sir. To pick up more paint,” you answer, head low.

“Be quick about it,” comes his reply and you curtsy lightly before disappearing from the room.

Your feet move fast across the padded floor, climbing the grand staircase with as much haste as you could muster. But instead of taking a right to head to your apartments, you turn left and begin to wander down the winding hallways, a path that you had taken many times under the cover of darkness, the path that led to Andrei.

Rounding the final corner, your eyes land on the doors to Andrei’s chambers, his personal guard Pyotr standing just outside them. You walk towards him silently and as soon as his eyes land on you, he scans the hallway for anyone else before opening the door and ushering you inside.

This was not the first time Andrei asked to see you in his room and it was not the first time Pyotr was complicit in your and Andrei’s tryst. But Andrei had explained to you that he saw Pyotr as more than a guard but as a true friend; someone who would die for him and keep his secrets to the grave. Andrei’s assurance made you trust Pyotr as well and you wouldn’t deny that having an armored guarantee that the two of you wouldn’t get caught helped to calm your nerves.

In the moonlight, you creep around Andrei’s bed and desk scattered with documents towards the open balcony doors. There you spy the prince, his hands resting on the stone railing and his back to you. You clear your throat gently, causing Andrei to turn and face you.

“Your Highness,” you say with a brief curtsy.

“I told you not to call me that when we’re alone,” he smiles, to which you gladly return his grin. You walk towards him, Andrei moving as well and it isn’t long before the two of you meet each other in the center of the balcony. The feeling of one of Andrei’s hands pressing into the small of your back relaxes you, as does his other hand cupping your jaw. You look up into his soft eyes before he pulls you in and kisses you passionately. You return the kiss with as much desperation and desire. The two of you continue like that for a few moments before finally pulling away from each other. But you don’t move far. You stay close, your foreheads touching, your arms thrown around his shoulders, your hands tangled into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’ve been wanting to do that as soon as I laid eyes on you tonight,” Andrei whispers to you.

“I’ll admit, I had the same feeling,” you giggle, sending a chuckle through Andrei as well. “Is that why you called me here?” you continue. “Just to kiss me?”

“It wasn’t the only reason but I won’t deny it was a part of it,” he quips back, drawing another bought of laughter from you. “But what I really wanted to do was dance with you.”

“Dance? With me?”

“Yes. I would’ve much preferred it if we were able to dance together in the ballroom. But…”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence; you both know how it ends. In every clandestine meeting you two shared, neither of you spoke the truth that weighed heavily, preferring instead to remain in this dizzying daydream of ignorance.

You wouldn’t break that fantasy tonight.

You nod your head gently, a silent acceptance of his request to which you see Andrei’s eyes alight. You feel his elegant fingers move on the small of your back, untying the knot that held your apron in place before tracing up your spine and hooking his fingers underneath the strap around your neck. He lifts the strap over your head, removing the paint splattered fabric from your frame before resting it on the railing.

He turns back to you, that beautiful smile on his lips and takes you up in his arms. You throw your arms around him in return before the two of you begin to sway, the only accompaniment to your movements being the swishing of your skirt against the stone and the chirping of insects in the darkness.

You let yourself get lost in the feeling of being wrapped up in him, the warmth of the summer air, and joy of being alone with him, just the two of you dancing in the lavender night. It is clear to you that Andrei feels the same way; you notice it in the way he holds you closer, how his lips press into your hair.

“I love you.”

Those whispered words reach your ear and there is small pause before you truly register their meaning. You pull away, a hand resting on his chest, the surprise painted on your face. It wasn’t that his words were a shocking revelation; it was more so his brazen confession that startled you.

“What?”

“I love you,” Andrei restates, just as self-assured as before. “I thought that it would be obvious.”

“But – you’re the prince,” you stutter out. “This – us… it isn’t right.”

“I am,” he says, his hand coming to cup your jaw once more, drawing your eyes to his, his thumb gently brushing your bottom lip. “And it isn’t. But that doesn’t prevent me from falling for you.” Your eyes lock with his as you stand there in the moonlight, his words hanging over you both.

“Where is all this coming from Andrei?” you ask and you watch how your words sink into him. The initial reply you get from him is a short humorless chuckle.

“How do you do that?” he questions.

“Do what?”

“See me so clearly.”

“I’m a painter,” you lightly laugh, “It’s my job to notice the little things.” You feel Andrei’s chest rise beneath your palm as he breathes a heavy sigh, gathering his thoughts before speaking again.

“Tonight, when I was dancing with all the eligible ladies that my parents arranged for me to meet, I realized that every one of them only wanted me for my titles. For my crown. They didn’t see me as a person. They just saw a prince. But you… you see me. And I don’t mean in the way that you see other people, through a painter’s eye. No, you see me for who I am, who I truly am. My flaws, my history, my melancholy. And still, you accept me, completely.”

You listen to his words, allowing them to invade your heart and fill you with his love.

“And I know how this next part is going to sound,” Andrei continues, “but tonight, I am supposed to find my future wife. My betrothed. And I realized I already found her.”

With that statement, he pulls away from you and it takes a moment for you to register what he is about to do. It hits you mere seconds before Andrei drops to one knee in front of you, looking everything like the prince from all the fairy tales.

“If you feel the same way as I do, which I believe you do, I wanted to ask you if you would marry me.”

You watch as he reaches into a pocket within the lining of his jacket and you aren’t sure what you expected him to reveal to you but your mind flashes with images of massive sapphires, sparkling diamonds, beautiful emeralds, or even the Svechnikov ruby. Instead, Andrei pulls out a small braided loop of what looked to be multi-colored string.

“I wish I could give you a proper ring but this will have to do for now.  It's braided twine from the edge of your canvases. It’s not much but, still. So now, my lady, I formally ask you: will you marry me?”

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you speak, the words faltering.

“Just say yes.”

The overwhelming emotions cascade in your head: shock, confusion, fear. But even though the buzz invading your brain was deafening, it couldn’t drown out the beating of your heart and its loud steadfast truth. The truth that you knew from the moment you laid eyes on him that first fateful day.

“I love you, Andrei. And yes. Yes. I will happily marry you.”

A smile breaks out on his face and it is mere moments before Andrei surges up to meet you, scooping you into his arms and lifting you, spinning you around on the balcony. You cannot stop the laughter that escapes you, your heart feeling lighter than it ever had before. Andrei gently sets you down and takes your hand in his, sliding the makeshift ring onto your finger. You let yourself adjust to the feeling of it against your skin before smiling up at Andrei once more. He shares your smile before leaning forward and capturing your lips in a kiss so full of love that it paled in comparison to every other kiss you two had shared thus far.

Both of you remain that way for a moment, happy and contented, until you finally pull away and voice the one concern that had always lingered in your mind since this romance begin.

“You do realize there are rules against us getting married.”

“Yes. But when I ascend the throne, I will simply overturn them,” Andrei replied, that cocky arrogance that you had grown to love appearing. Your only response is a light laugh.

“That’s going to take a lot of work.”

“I know,” Andrei says, lifting your chin and leaning into you until his lips barely brush against yours. “But, the promise of being able to call you mine forever, will be worth it.”

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[ridenwithbiden]

 The U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration will move to reclassify marijuana as a less dangerous drug, The Associated Press has learned, a historic shift to generations of American drug policy that could have wide ripple effects across the country.

The proposal, which still must be reviewed by the White House Office of Management and Budget, would recognize the medical uses of cannabis and acknowledge it has less potential for abuse than some of the nation’s most dangerous drugs. However, it would not legalize marijuana outright for recreational use.

The agency's move, confirmed to the AP on Tuesday by five people familiar with the matter who spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss the sensitive regulatory review, clears the last significant regulatory hurdle before the agency’s biggest policy change in more than 50 years can take effect.

Once OMB signs off, the DEA will take public comment on the plan to move marijuana from its current classification as a Schedule I drug, alongside heroin and LSD. It moves pot to Schedule III, alongside ketamine and some anabolic steroids, following a recommendation from the federal Health and Human Services Department. After the public comment period and a review by an administrative judge, the agency would eventually publish the final rule.

The proposal will be formally signed by Attorney General Merrick Garland, whose agency has ultimate oversight of the DEA, according to another person familiar with the process who spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss internal deliberations. Garland's signature throws the full weight of the Justice Department behind the move and appears to signal its importance to the Biden administration.

It comes after President Joe Biden called for a review of federal marijuana law in October 2022 and moved to pardon thousands of Americans convicted federally of simple possession of the drug. He has also called on governors and local leaders to take similar steps to erase marijuana convictions.

“Criminal records for marijuana use and possession have imposed needless barriers to employment, housing, and educational opportunities,” Biden said in December. “Too many lives have been upended because of our failed approach to marijuana. It’s time that we right these wrongs.”

The election year announcement could help Biden, a Democrat, boost flagging support, particularly among younger voters.

Biden and a growing number of lawmakers from both major political parties have been pushing for the DEA decision as marijuana has become increasingly decriminalized and accepted, particularly by younger people. A Gallup poll last fall found 70% of adults support legalization, the highest level yet recorded by the polling firm and more than double the roughly 30% who backed it in 2000.

The DEA didn’t respond to repeated requests for comment.

Schedule III drugs are still controlled substances and subject to rules and regulations, and people who traffic in them without permission could still face federal criminal prosecution.

Some critics argue the DEA shouldn’t change course on marijuana, saying rescheduling isn’t necessary and could lead to harmful side effects.

Jack Riley, a former deputy administrator of the DEA, said he had concerns about the proposed change because he thinks marijuana remains a possible “gateway drug," one that may lead to the use of other drugs.

“But in terms of us getting clear to use our resources to combat other major drugs, that’s a positive,” Riley said, noting that fentanyl alone accounts for more than 100,000 deaths in the U.S. a year.

On the other end of the spectrum, others argue marijuana should be treated the way alcohol is.

Last week, 21 Democrats led by Senate Majority Leader Sen. Chuck Schumer of New York sent a letter to DEA Administrator Anne Milgram and Attorney General Merrick Garland arguing marijuana should be dropped from the controlled-substances list and instead regulated like alcohol.

“It is time for the DEA to act,” the lawmakers wrote. “Right now, the Administration has the opportunity to resolve more than 50 years of failed, racially discriminatory marijuana policy.”

Federal drug policy has lagged behind many states in recent years, with 38 having already legalized medical marijuana and 24 legalizing its recreational use.

That’s helped fuel fast growth in the marijuana industry, with an estimated worth of nearly $30 billion. Easing federal regulations could reduce the tax burden that can be 70% or more for businesses, according to industry groups. It could also make it easier to research marijuana, since it’s very difficult to conduct authorized clinical studies on Schedule I substances.

The immediate effect of rescheduling on the nation’s criminal justice system would likely be more muted, since federal prosecutions for simple possession have been fairly rare in recent years.

But loosening restrictions could carry a host of unintended consequences in the drug war and beyond.

Critics point out that as a Schedule III drug, marijuana would remain regulated by the DEA. That means the roughly 15,000 cannabis dispensaries in the U.S. would have to register with the DEA like regular pharmacies and fulfill strict reporting requirements, something that they are loath to do and that the DEA is ill equipped to handle.

Then there’s the United States' international treaty obligations, chief among them the 1961 Single Convention on Narcotic Drugs, which requires the criminalization of cannabis. In 2016, during the Obama administration, the DEA cited the U.S.’ international obligations and the findings of a federal court of appeals in Washington in denying a similar request to reschedule marijuana.

[igot-the-juice]

Serenity - Chapter 5

Masterlist

Summary - Vulgaria was a remote country, held its own beauty quite unlike others. Everything about it was peculiar. The village, the castle, the people. In the village sat a rather famed tailor shop, and the recluse that was its head seamstress unknowingly caught the eye of a notorious henchman of the barbaric Baron Bomburst. Accepting a tempting offer, what was supposed to be a simple project began to meddle with her already disorganized family, and little did she know her sanity would soon follow.

They didn't know how long they had been sitting on the carriage, and thankfully no one else had used the road or passed them for Mary's sake. The majority of it was spent in a pleasant silence, but there were moments of simple conversation Reuben offered that helped to ease her nerves. Mary would be lying if she said she wasn't stalling her return, it applied to both of them really.

Reuben would never admit it, but he found it relieving talking to someone outside the castle in such a civil conversation. He couldn't care less what the other villagers thought or had to say, but Mary? She had a fascinating mind. He wanted to understand the complexity of it, to discover more about her. How could someone seem so simple yet so complicated at the same time?

He looked over at her as she gazed at the sky whose bright sun prepared to set, taking in the moment of peace. Birds chirped and flew around above them, the wind gently blowing through her braided hair as the sound of a nearby creek settled in to create its own natural sense of calmness. It was moments like these she wished lasted forever. But no matter how much she wanted to stay, she knew she had to return home at some point.

"I should get going." Mary muttered with a sigh.

"Why do you insist on staying with him?" The question caught her off guard and she furrowed her brow.

"He's not the reason I insist on staying." She answered as she stepped down with the help of Reuben. "Believe me, if it wasn't for my mother, I'd be out of there quicker than a dog with a bone." Mary chuckled distastefully. "I suppose we'll run into each other again eventually."

"Under different circumstances, I hope?" He questioned with raised brows.

"Yes. Very much hopefully." She watched him for a moment, biting her lip and turning to leave before she stopped herself. "Thank you." She came to face him once more, granting him a genuine smile. "It means a lot to me." Mary then began her journey back to the shop, leaving him to stare after her disappearing figure.

It threw him off. He couldn't remember the last time someone smiled at him, or thanked him. Not the old greeting or just for manner's sake, but a real smile. Let alone directed at him. Shortly after leaving he thought about it again. And again. And many times over until he finally fell asleep.

The plaza was quiet by the time she returned. The chickens clucking and wandering aimlessly was the only noise to be heard besides the usual ambiance. What surprised her was that the doors of the shop were still wide open. She crept up to them. As she inched closer she heard the faint noise of someone sobbing, growing louder and louder until she finally peered inside.

On the floor of the shop sat her father leaning against one of the legs of the table, an empty cup tipped over beside him. The room was dark save for what was left of the sunset. It was a depressing sight, really. It's not that it was uncommon for him to behave in such a way, rather it was just never in front of Mary or her mother.

She didn't know what to do. She didn't want to alarm him, didn't want him to notice her at all. He could change on a dime at any second. But alas, fate wasn't on her side. A floorboard creaked beneath her foot and she grimaced as her father picked his head up to look at her. His sobbing suddenly grew more intense and Mary almost sympathized with him.

Almost.

"Mary," he wailed. "I'm so sorry, Mary," She began making her way upstairs as he continued, desperate to get away from him. "I'm sorry!" Was the last thing she heard before she made her way into her parents' bedroom with careful footing. As she creeped the door open her mother came into view, sitting up in their bed with her eyes closed. Mary's eyes softened as she gazed upon her a second longer.

"Liebling?" The frail woman called softly just as Mary turned to leave. She looked back at her mother who now had her eyes open, never looking weaker than in that moment. It was a sight. One that frightened Mary greatly.

She made her way over to their bed and sat on the edge next to her mother, placing a hand over her own. As they looked at each other the day's events rushed through Mary's mind. The image of her father, the yelling. Her mother lying almost lifeless. As tears began to spill they enveloped each other in a warm embrace as if it was their last time able to do so.

"I'm sorry, ma. I'm so sorry," Mary cried into her shoulder. "I left you with him, I'm sorry -" She was cut off by her mother shushing her, running her fingers over her scalp in a comforting motion.

"You did what you had to, liebling." Her mother slowly pulled away and cupped her daughter's cheeks, giving her a stern look. "If that ever happens again," the older woman swallowed. "And if I'm not so lucky -"

"Don't say that -" Mary shook her head.

"You run." Her mother gave a firm nod. "You run far away from here and do not come back, do you understand?"

"I can't just leave you here -"

"Do you understand?" Mary shut her mouth and her lip began to quiver.

She couldn't ever leave her mother to rot with such a man. Nothing would quell the amount of guilt that would follow. But most of all, she could never deny her mother. A few seconds passed before she nodded in agreement and was pulled in once more.

"I want to protect you, mein liebling. I can't do that if I'm not around." She whispered solemnly as more tears fell.

"Where would I go?" Her mother was silent as she thought for a moment.

"I don't know. But you're no good dead, now are you?" Mary heard her smile, a simple jest to lighten their spirits. "I'm sure someone out there is in need of your talent." Mary averted her eyes bashfully with a smile. 

"I think someone already is." Her mother tucked a piece of hair behind her daughter's ear.

"Is that where you were all this time?" Mary nodded. "You have been visiting with him quite often recently."

"He's a customer."

"Well, you're never around your other customers this much with such a request."

"He's a picky customer?" The two of them giggled as if they were just two teenage girls.

It made her mother feel young again, made her giddy knowing her daughter possibly found someone. Even if it would be just an acquaintance, it was still someone. Would she have wanted it to be the Child Catcher? Absolutely not, but as long as her daughter was happy and he didn't hurt her, she didn't see the harm in it.

"But he seemed to love one of the designs I drew up for him. Hopefully it'll turn out."

"Knowing your work, liebling, it'll be much better than he's expecting."

"I hope so..."

The two of them stayed up later in the night talking to each other about whatever came to mind. Her mother continued asking questions about the catcher while Mary tried steering away from the topic. It was a much needed moment for the two of them after the day they had. Eventually, Mary made her way to her own bed to at least get a few hours of sleep, and it was surprisingly easier for her that night.

She repeated the same morning routine, working the shop with the usual grouchy customers when a familiar face grew closer. An old man with a slight hunch meandered his way through the plaza towards her shop, riding on a cart filled with goods he'd collected and traded along the way. "Good morning, Miss Mary!" He chirped with a friendly smile as he turned to face the pile behind him to grab a larger box.

"Good morning, Mr. Weber!" The woman returned, taking the box from him. He leaned down closer to her to keep his next words between the two of them.

"Some fancy material you got there, milady. I'd keep it in a safe spot away from prying eyes if I were you." He sat up straight with a wink. "I was finally able to find more silk, if you need it? Or some chiffon?" He continued rummaging through his cart. "Ah!" He pulled out a large bundle of sheer fabric, accented with silver. "This was a rather special find of mine. I had it in safe keeping on the way here. I knew for sure you'd have a use for it, my dear." He passed it off to her as she gawked at the beauty of it, ideas flooding.

"How much?"

"Free of charge! And there's no room for bargaining." He offered another wink and rattled the reins to take off once more. "Take care, Miss Mary!" The woman watched him disappear down the street with a smile, then moved to put away the new fabric before setting the box on the center table.

It was a rather simple brown box. No one would ever suspect it held something of importance. She supposed it was for the best. She thought about waiting to open it when she was alone, but her curiosity ended up getting the best of her and she carefully opened it. What first caught her eye was the carefully folded fabric, both yellow and orange.

She ran her fingers over the smooth texture in awe. Never had she owned a piece so elegant and made sure to handle it with great care as she took it out and set it on a nearby rack. The rest of the items consisted of the material for the more detailed designs of the coat and the typical basic necessities. 

Unable to contain her excitement she giggled cheerfully, immediately putting herself to work on the design. She cleared off the center table and laid everything she needed on top of it, including her sketchbook. She switched between helping customers and her new project relentlessly, continuing to work after hours even if her hands were cramping and sore. It took her mother hollering for her to eat for her to stop herself.

She cleaned up her mess and tucked everything away out of sight, making her way upstairs to take a seat at the dining table. As they ate she noticed her mother and father casting her looks, though her mother's was more knowing and playful.

"What's got you so happy, huh?" Charles grumbled in discontent, scratching at his stubble.

"Mr. Weber stopped by today with more supplies." After a moment he hummed and went back to eating, missing the exchange of looks between the two women.

[whyfightforwomensrights]

Blog #2

Rowan Bean, Leading Social Change

The History of Women’s Movements in the U.S. 

The origin of gender inequality starts with the formation of our country and the U.S Constitution. 

Look at who wrote our constitution, for example. It was rich white men who owned land,

therefore they were the only ones who were considered citizens and were the only ones who

could vote. “...by today’s standards, it is impossible to deny that the original Constitution was a

racist and sexist document or that the Framers wrote it in a way that benefited them” (Women, 

Power, and Politics, n.d.). There isn’t much information on women’s history in this era 

because most of the information was written by white men, whose center of interest were other 

white men. However, I have learned much from another class, Women and Politics, about this 

subject. In this era of American Revolution, many women accepted their role of unequal status

without question, but there were others who took an active interest in political life and who 

became increasingly dissatisfied with their continued exclusion. The new “enlightened” ideas of 

liberty, equality, and democracy that were being discussed by men, were echoed among 

educated women. Abigail Adams was an advocate of married women’s property rights and a 

right to education. She believed women should not submit to laws not made in their interest, not

should they be content with the simple role of being companions to their husbands. She is most 

famously known for her letter to her husband, John Adams, and the Continental Congress: 

“—and by the way in the new Code of Laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to 

make I desire you would Remember the Ladies, and be more generous and favourable to them 

than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the Husbands. 

Remember all Men would be tyrants if they could. If perticuliar care and attention is not paid to 

the Laidies we are determined to foment a Rebelion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any 

Laws in which we have no”. (Founders Online, n.d.)

Throughout the American Revolutionary War, women would produce goods for soldiers, spy on the British, follow armies as they marched, wash and cook for soldiers, deliver secret messages, and fight disguised as men. Women who followed the army were referred to as “necessary nuisances” and “baggage” by commanding officers. Deborah Samson (aka Robert Shirtliffe) disguised herself as a man for years. She served on the front lines during the entire Revolutionary War and was wounded twice where she was then discovered as a female. 

The “formal” women's rights movement began in 1848 at the Seneca Falls Convention in which they were  convened by Lucretia Mott and Elizabeth Cody Stanton. The Declaration of Sentiments and Resolution was written by Stanton which included a demand for economic and property rights, denouncement of slavery, discrimination in education, exploitation of women in the workforce, the patriarchal family, divorce and child custody laws, and organized religion as “perpetuating women’s oppression. Around then, many feminist ideologies were formed and a cohesive structure for the suffrage movement had been formed. The American Equal Rights Association was formed in 1869 to fight for universal suffrage, but was disbanded due to internal conflicts regarding the political priorities of the group. The National Woman's Suffrage Association was formed by Stanton and Susan B Anthony which eventually became the League of Women Voters in 1920 and continues to this day.  Lastly, the American Woman Suffrage Association formed in 1989 by Lucy Stone and Henry Blackwell to fight for suffrage state-by-state. 

In the 1960s, the second wave of feminism arose. The publication of Betty Friedaris’ book, The Feminine Mystique was revolutionary for gender roles because it highlighted the roles of housewives in a more modern setting. Another revolutionary act from this era was the 1973 case of Roe v Wade allowing abortions within the first three months of pregnancy. However there was more backlash in the 1970s and 1980s after this ruling. The more pro-choice movements came to be, the more pro-life came into effect as well. Divisions arose between moderate feminists who intended to represent the view of middle and upper class white women, and radical feminists who wanted to broaden the movement to all aspects of society. 

Third wave feminism was more pro-woman and less anti-male. Writers Susan Fauldi and Naomi Wolf represented a new generation of popular feminist writing. Women were also dominating media influence, such as Thelma and Louise, a popular movie revolving around the idea of women not following societal expectations. “Stealth Feminists” was a term used with the third wave due to the media’s backlash. The word “feminist” had a bad energy attached to it, leading people to be hesitant when using it. 

Founders Online: Abigail Adams to John Adams, 31 March 1776. (n.d.). University of Virginia Press. Retrieved October 21, 2023, from http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Adams/04-01-02-0241https://reader.yuzu.com/reader/books/9780190857424/pageid/0

Seneca Falls and Building a Movement, 1776–1890 | Explore | Shall Not Be Denied: Women Fight for the Vote | Exhibitions at the Library of Congress | Library of Congress. (n.d.). [Web page]. Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. 20540 USA. Retrieved October 22, 2023, from https://www.loc.gov/exhibitions/women-fight-for-the-vote/about-this-exhibition/seneca-falls-and-building-a-movement-1776-1890/

Woman Suffrage and the 19th Amendment. (2016, August 15). National Archives. https://www.archives.gov/education/lessons/woman-suffrage

Yuzu: Women, Power, and Politics. (n.d.). Retrieved October 21, 2023, from https://reader.yuzu.com/reader/books/9780190857424/pageid/0

[tunglo]

What I would do with all the monk research if I wrote fiction...

I’d keep the choir master / choir boy dynamic. That is lit. I would shift it out of the old rag and bone warehouse on Elm Hill to Llanthony though because, well. Look at it. It’s walking distance to the picturesque ruins of the actual medieval priory. We could have some Hardy-esque bollocks about good clean country air and old stones and stuff. Contrasting the memory of grass and open spaces (pretend monk life) with the smog and crowding of the city (real life).

The monk would be that same kind of clueless upper middle class boy whose only previous experience of hard work has been fagging for a swell who loved nothing more than taking the piss out of their obvious infatuation with him. The kind of sad lonely type who only got affection from the staff, and that dried up when he got too old for that kind of familiarity to be acceptable. 

Maybe some kind of earlier near death experience to help drive home their extreme religiosity and terror of damnation? Marking them out as different somehow within the family and social circle? Consumptive disease is the ideal, but I’ve always quite liked drowning in Victorian fiction. You get to play with that idea of the difference between the world below and above, and then repeat in the worlds of want and expectation.

So, yeah, a pasty introverted youth with ~delicate~ health and an obsession with serving God. (In a patriotically Anglican way, obviously.) Then the boy gets to be some slightly wild rustic. Like, they’ve never even experienced a properly starched Eton collar. Even if I pushed it into my beloved early Edwardian period, they probably still only had schooling up to the state mandated age of 12. Maybe their Welsh literacy is better than their English? Mamgu taught him everything he knows?

But they’d have learned stuff you can’t get from any amount of Latin grammar. There would be some faux fairytale / pagan revival style bullshit going on, about the old ways, and the love of God, and much fearful angsting that this angelic looking lad is temptation delivered by Satan himself. Because God can’t just love everyone? Without demanding constant penance and suffering? What even is this madness. Surely life can’t be that simple???

They need to double down on the self denial, and the fasting, and the helpless fainting during prayers or something.

And there would be a raging storm one day, for no particular reason. It would just look cool and somebody could be out catching their death of cold in it. Imagine: monk robes all sodden with mud and cold water, like drowning in the ornamental boating lake of their cousin’s estate one long ago morning.

And there would be some equally pointless scene at the ruins, playing hide and seek with local kids for some festivity or other. And they’d have to hunker out of sight in a darkened corner, chill enough that it raises goosebumps on the skin even though it’s the height of summer. Which would inevitably lead to the boy pressing a silencing finger to the monk’s lips in a symbolic not actual kiss that they’re gonna do all kinds of sinful things thinking about... 

Eventually the monk would have to back to real life(tm) because no upstanding English family is going to let their kid prance about in this foreign regalia forever. They can get a curacy in a nice English village and marry a nice English girl and produce nice English children. It would seem so dull and grey and awful in comparison, like they’d been caught in a fairy trap and changed beyond belief while life at home went on as always, and they’d think about throwing reputation and respectability away to go be happy and live the kind of life they want.

But they wouldn’t, because that’s not how these things work. Instead WWI would steamroll along and they’d have to go do their patriotic duty. Be a good son, and a good brother, and then a good uncle, etc, etc, etc. Until they’re old, and need help to get around, and have pity visits from dutiful grand-nieces who take them on a drive out to the country to go see some pretty ruins from the ancient old days when there was no TV or miniskirts or portable transistor radios.

And there they’d meet some other young descendant who would conveniently have their own ties to the area and, I dunno, some memento from their dearly departed Tadgu that’s actually a pressed flower in glass commemorating a long ago summer day when two dumb idiots in love almost shared a not quite kiss...

Just, yeah. Self-denial and misery. But hope for the future that other people won’t have to.

[thebirdandhersong]

Project 4 and Anne of the Island (miniseries) please?

!!!!! Thank you :) My Anne of the Island has a lot of laughter in it. Anne and her friends have a lot of fun together, going on walks, baking cakes, studying together, eating together. I have so many moments I think would be lovely to include: Stella spreading her notes on the ground when she’s studying for exams, the Overdramatic music whenever Roy appears, the vase on the table (the flowers change according to the season, and there are a lot of shots when someone replaces the flowers: like when a suitor sends new flowers), Anne praying as she walks under the trees, Mrs. Lynde is in the middle of writing a letter to Anne when the pig incident happens (I can just see her telling Marilla that she absolutely Must tell Anne about it after they close the door).... Anne reads a lot of poetry, there is a parallel shot/contrast drawn between Phil greeting her suitors at the beginning of the school year vs. Phil greeting Jonas when he comes to visit her. Anne tears off Gilbert’s necklace, but we lead up to that with shots throughout the episodes before of her opening the little box and just gazing at it.

Project 4 has my Whole Heart (well.... I think all of them do, but Project 4 surprised me). I just had these vivid images in my head one night and HAD to hammer them out (I went to bed at three I think? But it was well worth it) When I first started writing little snippets of scenes, I was in the mood for Blood and Vengeance (this was when I was very into Asian historical dramas and the idea of a warrior queen rising from the ashes). Juyi (my main character) was going to start as this simple country girl. She was going to be battered and pushed back on all fronts after entering the palace: she was going to experience cruelty and manipulation from nearly everyone she met (the king and queen, the royal advisors, the tailors, the foreign ambassadors, the lords and ladies of the court, the king’s concubines, her own ladies-in-waiting). Everyone views her as either a cunning, scheming swindler after the throne or a simple-minded idiot drawn in by the promise of wealth and luxury. She’s criticised for her honesty, for the colour of her skin, for her lack of knowledge concerning court manners etc. etc., for.... everything. And she was going to establish herself as a force of nature by playing their game better than they could. I’m not sure why I wanted her to be a warrior queen, but I found the idea of an uprooted girl winning these battles and reforming the court AND the country rather cathartic. My plan was to show how meaningless and shallow all the values of the royal court--luxury, wealth, material possessions, the pursuit of beauty and attention, etc.--through her eyes.

But somewhere along the way I thought that I didn’t want to write a story about revenge and war (this was after I’d read a couple of fantasy books with similar premises, and I didn’t feel that it was cathartic, or very helpful for anyone involved). It’s easy enough to become just as cruel and manipulative as the world around you when you’re plunged into such a dangerous position. It’s easy to play the game by the rules when you know you need to do it to survive. But I wanted Juyi to do better than that, to be better than that. And to change the way things were, since she was in this position. (Some inspiration taken from the book of Esther!)

So Juyi IS forced into a marriage with a handsome and charming crown prince who is equal parts clueless, self-absorbed, and shallow. She IS forced to live in a palace where nearly everyone is self-serving and ambitious. She IS forced to deal with men and women who look down on her and make multiple attempts on her life. And she DOES have to change and adapt to this new and dangerous environment for her own survival. But in this story, the choice she makes is even more dangerous and radical than choosing to be cruel. She chooses to be kind.

The story takes place in the palace (for most of the book, at least), and Juyi makes it her responsibility to get to know the lowest of the low in the palace ranks. She makes friends with the servants, gains the trust of her ladies-in-waiting, and proves her resilience to the people who have been trying to get rid of her. She eventually earns the love and respect of the people because she takes the time to study and understand the state of trade, the economy, the parts of the country that need housing and food, the systems that hold the country together--or bind them in chains. She sees what goes on in the palace and she sneaks off to the countryside and the red light district, and she says No. Things cannot continue in this way. So she decides to use this power that she has as future queen to make a difference in her country. And the story goes on from there :)

[afeelgoodblog]

Best News of Last Week

Edition #017 - Hope you had a great weekend. Let's read some positive news:

1. Albuquerque has new response to 911 calls involving mentally ill people The New Mexico city created a third branch of public safety, in addition to the police and fire departments, staffed by behavioral health responders.

Now, Albuquerque is changing the way it responds to 911 calls like the one Maestas placed for her sister. In addition to police and paramedics, residents have access to a third branch of public safety: behavioral health responders.

“We’re not law enforcement, so we’re not here to cite you,” said Mariela Ruiz-Angel, director of Albuquerque Community Safety, or ACS, an independent agency alongside the police and fire departments that can be sent out by 911 dispatchers. “We’re just here to check on you. How can we help?”

2. In Extremely Rare Case, a Woman With HIV Has 'Cleared' The Virus Without Treatment

An anonymous woman from Argentina has become only the second person known to ever show no detectable traces of an HIV infection without receiving a stem cell transplantation treatment to cure it.

The so-called 'Esperanza patient', named after her hometown in Argentina, was first diagnosed with HIV-1 in 2013 – but after eight years of follow-up checks and a total of 10 commercial viral load tests, there appears to be no sign of active viral infection in her body, nor any evidence of HIV-1-associated disease.

3. My favourite Thanksgiving tradition... 6 years and counting!

Valley grandma and man she mistakenly texted reuniting for sixth Thanksgiving

4. Monarch butterflies return to California after a year of record low numbers

There is a ray of hope for the vanishing orange-and-black Western monarch butterflies.

The number wintering along California’s central coast is bouncing back after the population, whose presence is often a good indicator of ecosystem health, reached an all-time low last year. Experts pin their decline on climate change, habitat destruction and lack of food due to drought.

5. There's a link between being kind to others and happiness, UBC researcher says

Today marks World Kindness Day, and it turns out that being kind toward others may be key to our own happiness, a psychology expert says.

Studies have shown a "causal link where, when people behave in this generous, kind way, they actually end up happier themselves," said Elizabeth Dunn, a psychology professor and happiness researcher from the University of British Columbia (UBC).

6. Toronto company is making shoes that grow into apple trees to eliminate plastic waste

A Toronto designer created a pair of shoes that eventually turn into an apple tree after he spent seven years in the fashion industry and looked for more sustainable choices.

Toronto resident Luc Houle, 33, created Johnny: The Shoe That Grows Into A Tree and launched a Kickstarter to get his product made.

7. Swiss government: Same-sex couples can marry starting July 1

Switzerland’s executive body announced Wednesday that same-sex couples can get married starting on July 1 next year, making good on the resounding support Swiss voters expressed in a referendum.

The Federal Council officially said that starting Jan. 1, Switzerland would recognize the marriages of same-sex couples who wed in in other countries instead of continuing to treat the unions as simple civil partnerships.

____

That's it for this week. Until next week,

You can follow me on twitter . Also, I have a newsletter :)

Subscribe here to receive a collection of wholesome news every week in your inbox :D

[dancingaliensfics]

♡My Prison Pen Pal♡

Helmut Zemo x reader

Word count: 1,802

Warnings: swearing, mentions of prison and crimes and slight angst to do with his family

A/N: its finally here! I havent writen a fic in a long time so hopefully you guys like this! I tried to avoid using idioms and things like that but message me if you need anything explained or reworded as I know most people aren't native English speakers

@sorcerersofnyc

♡♡♡

His first letter came during the series finale of your favourite show. A rather inconvenient moment, you thought, so it stayed on the welcome mat until you passed through the hall on your way to bed. Picking it up, you figured you'd skim the first few lines then finish it and write a reply before work. Instead, you found yourself writing and rewriting a reply through the night. Somehow this man had managed to enthrall you with only a letter. Maybe it was the way he wrote as if he was some elegant poet whose sonnets would one day be hailed as classics. How he managed to be open and expressive, exuding a welcoming aura, and yet still seeming mysterious. Or perhaps it was simply fated by the stars that Helmut Zemo would capture your heart.

You waited anxiously for his second letter to arrive. After sending the first, you hadn't cared whether you got a response, the whole thing seemed like a bad idea to you. But your mother was insistent that you needed to meet new people and this way you wouldn't need to worry about awkward face to face conversations. Sending the first letter felt like any other chore you do in the day, done with much effort and resignment but forgotten within minutes. But the second? It felt like the most important thing you'd done in a long time. You'd even bought a first class stamp (not that it makes a difference).

You wanted to know more about this intriguing man. No, supervillain. Charged with international terrorism. Jesus christ what the fuck was wrong with you? Were you really falling in love with a supervillain after one letter? But he didn't seem evil to you. He wrote eloquently, somehow his simple and brief description of his day (he'd started reading a new psychology book, you'd have to send him some recommendations) sounded fascinating in his words.

Over time, you started to notice small things about Helmut. The way he crossed his t's, how he signed his name, but mainly that there was a romanticism to his writing. From the way he described his home, his wife, his son to his recipes for Sokovian dishes with small notes and doodles (your favourite was his shepherd's pie recipe where he helpfully noted his mother's assertion that you should always add more than you think you need). It was becoming clear to you that he wasn't the stoic and vengeful baron you expected but rather a soft, lonely and endearingly weird man who you couldn't imagine plotting to destroy the Avengers. Whilst it was his mystery that first captivated you, it was his sweet and sometimes awkward personality that convinced you to keep writing.

It took a while for Helmut to tell you about his family. You had heard on the news back when he first arrested about his motive, so you were interested to hear his perspective on his crimes. But that wasn't what you got. Instead, he told you about when he and his father used to play football when he was young and how they would play a match every time he visited, with Helmut playing against his father and son, who always wanted to play with grandfather. He told you of the songs his wife used to sing, how her voice was always loud and shaky and after years of singing somewhere over the rainbow she would still forget the lyrics and invent her own. He told you how his son was the best pianist he had ever heard. How he could play the greatest rendition of amazing grace and that he had just learnt the theme from swan lake. That he had been excited to practice it on his grandfathers grand piano the day Ultron attacked.

There was something so human about this man. His love for his family, his loss and grief, his plan to avenge his family, it was all so tragic and yet here he was sending you drawings of the flowers from his garden growing up. You wanted to hug him and yet sometimes you felt he wouldn't need it, wouldn't want it. You were wrong.

Helmut Zemo missed his family. He told you so in one of his most recent letters. He missed holding his son, brushing his wife's hair, going for long drives, waking up at 2am to comfort his son, early morning trips to the shops, cleaning up after dinner, helping with homework. Everything he listed seemed so trivial, so meaningless in the grand scheme of life and yet the memories meant so much to him.

You realised then you had never pitied him before. Not that he wasn't deserving of it, just that he didn't seem to need it. But overtime you realised that what Helmut had really needed wasn't revenge or to make a world free from superhumans, it was someone to talk to. Someone to trust. Someone who would understand his pain and not judge it. Perhaps, you thought to yourself, you could be that person.

Fuck.

You couldn't think of how to cope with this. No one you knew had ever mentioned falling in love with a criminal through letters. And as hard as you tried you hadn't been able to find a single romcom with this plot line. You couldn't tell him. You imagined with his seemingly fragile state of mind receiving from basically a stranger professing their love would at best cause him to ghost you. Especially after he confided in you, shared his thoughts and memories.

So instead you continued as normal. You sent him pressed flowers and pictures of your favourite places. Eventually, he asked what looked like, and you spent an hour trying to decide whether you should send a picture of yourself or to just vaguely describe your features. After deciding to send a picture of yourself on holiday a few months before the blip, you found yourself wondering what he'd do with it. Would he throw it away as soon as he got the letter or would he keep it, tuck it away in some book to look at whilst thinking of you?

You also found yourself wondering what he looked like in the real world. You had found pictures of him online, but they didn't feel real. He was never rarely happy. The pictures pre Ultron were clearly taken by paparazzi, so you weren't surprised he rarely looked anything other than annoyed. There were a few though, ones with his wife and son, where he clearly hadn't noticed, and some from when he was much younger and seemed to enjoy the attention. Then were those taken after his arrest.

And so you continued to wonder he looked like. How he looked in the morning, with flowers in his hair or in summer with the sun lighting his face. You wondered what his hair looked like wet, if he ever scrunched his nose in disgust. You wondered what his smile was like.

Over time, you told him more about yourself. The stress of returning home after the blip to no job, no house and your friends 5 years older. Your ex was married with kids and your sister had moved abroad. It was as if you blinked and your whole life had changed. You mentioned how it was your mum who had suggested getting a pen pal, so you could talk to someone new, who was living a different life to you, although she had meant someone in a different country not jail. Since coming back you'd been isolated and stressed with starting a new job, recovering lost information and personal belongings and moving house, so you had thought it might be good to speak to someone who didn't know you, who couldn't judge you. You told Helmut how it had been good, how writing to him had helped you, how he had helped you more than he could ever know.

No, that sounded creepy. How you appreciated his letters.

Too formal. How you hadn't expected to become his friend, but you were glad to be able to say you were.

Helmut was comforting. You knew in your head that your meeting on Friday was nothing to worry about but seeing him say it felt so reassuring. Each one of his letters made you feel relaxed, feel safe. You wanted to make him feel the same. So, as a way to repay his kindness you had told him that no matter what happened, he could always trust you. And it was true. You couldn't imagine a world where you wouldn't do anything for Helmut and although you knew he would never need it, you still wanted him to know you would always care about him, even if no one else did.

Writing to him had become as easy as talking to someone you'd known all your life. You had fallen into an easy routine, you knew when to expect his letters and you knew when you'd send a reply. The routine felt so natural that you even knew what the envelope would look like, always the same off-white with a square edged flap. The address was always the same too. Except on his last letter. Which was strange.

At first, you thought Helmut had been moved to a different prison but after frantically typing the address into Google Maps you realised it was not a prison. Fuck you had no idea what it was, but it wasn't a prison. It also wasn't in Germany.

You sat still, staring at the unopened letter for a few minutes.

You looked up at the door. You thought you heard someone knock. The post had already come and you weren't expecting people. Hell, there wasn't anyone other than your parents who would visit anyway and they would have called first. Now you were sat still, staring at the front door.

"I know you're in there, the lights are on."

It was as if you were a marionette, being moved by some strange force that was slowly pulling you out of your seat and towards the door. You didn't even register that you moved until you felt the door handle on your fingertips. The cold metal caused you to stop, as if broken out of a trance. There was a sudden realisation that if you opened the door your life would never be the same. It was sickening, a mixture of dread and excitement; it reminded you of the moment before a roller coaster drops. You repeated that thought in your head. "Your life would never be the same". Your life hadn't been the same in almost a year. What would be the harm in one more big change. So you did it. You opened the door.

His smile was beautiful.

[tomorrow-and-tomorrows]

SNK 139.5: Towards the Final Pages with no Final Answers

The final pages of the updated ending are bold, but I think ultimately more evocative than the original preliminary ending.

Even after the intensely polarized reader reception that took issue with the lack of storytelling precision and clarity when it was most needed, SNK chose to end with a decisively ambiguous symbol. In literature, a symbol is something that clearly means something -- but with the most "literary" symbols, their meaning cannot be absolutely defined; any attempted answer as to what a symbol represents has no finality or certainty, and interpretation will remain ever open to debate. A symbol both invites and resists interpretation.

Naturally, the immediate response to the symbolic tree on the final page is to try answering the invitation to the question, "What does it mean?"

One prominent answer I've seen is that it symbolizes the continuation of the cycle of war and violence either because a) of the symbolic parallel to Ymir or b) on a more literal level, that it implies the actual potential revival of new era of Titans. A reasonable interpretation either way, but also, I think, an incomplete one.

The first reason for this is that "the endless cycle of war" was already clearly and powerful represented in the preceding panels:

The cycle of war was already continuing in the decades or centuries before the child arrived at the tree. A culminating image symbolizing the persistence or resurgence of an era of war as the final panel would thus arguably be redundant and unnecessary.

Furthermore, the chapter is entitled "Toward the Tree on That Hill." If the tree were simply a symbol of war, by implication the chapter could equally be called 'toward the endless cycle of war'. But such a relentlessly bleak and tonally flat ending sentiment would be firmly incongruous with the story's recurrent conviction in the equal cruelty and beauty of the world -- a conviction that I believe it has been faithful to all the way to its end.

The Long Defeat

But while on this topic of war, let's linger a moment on the "cruelty" side and the consequence of this wordless construction and subsequent destruction of a city -- the most bold and possibly controversial additional panels that are also my personal favourite additions.

One objection that has emerged against this brief sequence of Paradis' apparent destruction is that it renders the entire story to be "pointless". Eren's 80% Rumbling, Armin's diplomatic peace talks between the remnants of the Allied Nations and Paradis, and before that, the proposal of the 50-year plan and Zeke's euthanasia plan... everything, to the very beginning to the Survey Corps' dreams of some kind of freedom; was it all for nothing? All that striving, that hope, that final promise bestowed upon Armin: was it all a pointless story? Even more radically, is the story suggesting that Eren might as well have continued the Rumbling to 100% of the earth? Was Zeke's euthanasia plan the cruel but correct choice all along? What was the point of rejecting the 50-year plan if that had a greater chance of success at preventing this outcome?

I think Isayama suddenly pulling back to such a long-term view of history to the scale of decades or even centuries into the future calls for a reorientation in attitude towards exactly what kind of story we have been reading. Yes, if the metric is Paradis' survival, maybe it was indeed all "pointless". But that's also to say that, on the broadest scale, SNK is a story about futility, that it is a deliberate representation of the struggle to make one's actions historically meaningful.

In the long view of history, all the events, from Grisha running beyond the wall to see the airships and the first breaking of Wall Maria to Erwin's sacrifices, Paradis' discovery of the outside world, and finally to the Battle of Heaven and Earth, it would all merely be a handful of chapters in the history textbooks of the future. A future in which war and geopolitical conflict will continue even without Titans. That does not mean that all paths to the future are equal -- the 50-year plan would not have put an end to Titans, and Zeke's euthanasia plan distorts utilitarian ethics into just another form of oppression; there are better and worse decisions that lead to more and less degrees of suffering, but no decision can ever be the final one.

The additional panels remind us that in history, there never exists a singular "Final Solution". The reason there are readers who vehemently support Eren to have flattened 100% of the world, and the reason the Paradisians supported the oppressive, authoritarian, proto-fascist Jaegar Faction under Floch and even after the Rumbling, is that because they want to believe that a Final Solution to end conflict exists and will work. They resist the fundamental uncertainty and complexity of the situation, instead preferring a singular, unified, and coherent Answer to Paradis' struggle to survive. I'm reminded of the scholar Erich Auerbach's theorization of why fascism appealed to many people during periods of political and social crisis, change, and uncertainty. Writing in exile after fleeing Nazi Germany, he observed that:

"The temptation to entrust oneself to a sect which solved all problems with a single formula, whose power of suggestion imposed solidarity, and which ostracized everything which would not fit in and submit - this temptation was so great that, with many people, fascism hardly had to employ force when the time came for it to spread through the countries of old European culture." (from Mimesis p. 550)

This acutely describes the Jaegar Faction's rise to power and continued dominance in Paradis. But their promise of unity, of a single formula to wipe out the rest of the world either literally through the Rumbling, or to dominate them with military force, is a false one. Even if Eren had Rumbled 100% of the world instead of 80%, history would still go on. The external threat of the world may have been eliminated, but internal conflict and violence would still continue onward throughout the generations born on top of the blood of the rest of the world. Needless to say, out of all the options, Eren's 80% Rumbling is the very epitome of perpetuating the cycle of violence as it creates tens of thousands of war orphans like Eren once was, and it would justify employing violence for one's own self-interest to an extreme degree. For the generations to come that would valourize Eren as a hero, it would set a dangerous precedent for what degree of destruction is acceptable for self-defence -- nothing short of the attempt to flatten the entire world. It is no surprise that Paradis would meet a violent end when its founding one-party rule of the Jaegar Faction has their roots in such unapologetically bloody foundations.

Neither the 80% Rumbling nor the militaristic, ultra-nationalistic Jaegar faction that come to govern Paradis are glamourized as the "correct" solution to ensuring Paradis' future. (This can also put to rest any accusations of SNK's ending as "fascist" or "imperialist" propaganda, since the island's modern nation that they founded ends in war. All nations must fall eventually, but not all do in such blatant destruction). Importantly, neither is Armin's diplomatic mission naively idealized as that which permanently achieves world peace. No singular or unifying formula can work because reality is complicated. Entrusting oneself to seemingly simple Answers is simply insufficient, even if they are ideals of peaceful negotiation; that method may work given the right conditions, but the world will always eventually complicate its feasibility.

After all in the real world, there's the absurd irony that some in the West had called the First World War "The War to End all Wars". These days, WWI is merely one long chapter in our textbooks just a few pages away from the even longer chapter of the Second World War that is followed by all the rest of the conflicts that have followed since then even with the establishment of diplomatic organizations like the United Nations. In this sense, showing Paradis' eventual downfall is perhaps the only way to end such a series that is so concerned with history, from King Fritz's tribal expansion into empire, the rise and fall of Marleyan ascendency, and finally of the survival and apparent shattering of Paradis.

From its beginning to its end, SNK has poignantly evoked J.R.R. Tolkien's conception of history as The Long Defeat. In one character's words, "together through ages of the world we have fought the long defeat". That is to say, "no victory is complete, that evil rises again, and that even victory brings loss".

No heroes, only humans

Eren's desperate, fatalistic resignation to committing the Rumbling, along with the characters' rejection of all the rest of the earlier plans to ensure Paradis a future, are merely the actions of human beings to that began with the need to find not even necessarily a Final Answer, but at least an acceptable and feasible one for the time being. But the characterization of Eren's confusion, childishness, and regret in the final chapter is startlingly real in how it demonstrates how, all along, we have been dealing not with grand heroes, but simply people who have no answers at all. SNK has always been about failures - and often ironic failures; it has always been a story about painful and frequently futile struggle.

People make mistakes, they can be short-sighted, selfish, biased, immature, petty, and irrational, and I think the ending follows through with depicting the consequences of that.

Erwin's self-sacrifice before being able to reach the basement (and his regression to a childhood state in the moments before his death), Kenny's futile chasing after that universal compassion he had seen in Uri, Shadis never being acknowledged by history despite his final heroic action, and so on -- these stories of ironic, futile failures are still meaningful in their mere striving. Eren's ending and Paradis' demise despite Armin's endeavour to ensure them a peaceful future are entirely consistent with this.

SNK certainly follows the shounen trope in which young individuals are bestowed great power and correspondingly great responsibility, and must then reconcile the burden of possessing that greatness on which the fate of the world depends. Yet it is equally defined by its representation of the state that us normal human beings confront everyday: the struggle against the apparent powerlessness to enact any meaningful or lasting change at all. Simultaneously, this helpless state does not exempt us from the responsibility to act in whatever small capacity we are able to resist oppression, ideological extremism, and the perpetuation of violence.

Towards That Symbol

That was a rather long but vital digression about the additional "construction and destruction" pages. To return to the issue of the symbolism in the final panel, here I will turn from seemingly affirming the tree as symbolizing the cycle of violence, towards what I think is the greater complexity of what the tree might "actually" symbolize.

As I've said above, I don't believe that the final chapter title is synonymous with 'toward the endless cycle of war'. In tone, theme, and characterization, SNK has always been defined by the tension between cruelty and beauty, the will to violence and the underlying desire for peace, and the rest of the contradictory impulses that all simultaneously coexist. The end of SNK as a whole commits to a similar lack of closure, ambiguity, and interpretive openness.

So far I have rambled on about only a view of the perpetual "cruelty" of history. Where, then, is the "beauty"?

In short, the "tree = cycle of violence" interpretation is obviously based on how that this tree recalls the original tree in which the spine creature, as the source of the power of the Titans, resided. But it's worth first considering, what exactly is this creature? We seem to get our answer in the chapter that most precisely crystallizes the dual "cruelty and beauty" of the world:

The spine creature might be said to be life itself. Or more specifically, the will of life to perpetuate itself, for no reason at all but for the fleeting moments in which we feel distinctly glad to have existed in the world.

The creature at the source of the Titans, and in extension the Titans themselves, is neither inherently a positive or negative, "good" or "evil", creative or destructive force. It's both and all of those at once. As with any power, the Titans were merely a tool that was put to use to oppressive ends.

So as I now suggest that the tree at the end is symbolically a "Tree of Life", I don't at all mean "life" in the typically celebratory or optimistic sense: rather, I mean it in the ambiguous, ambivalent, uncertain, and complex sense that has been evoked throughout the above discussion of the inevitable continuation of war.

The title "Toward The Tree on That Hill" is derived from its associations with Eren and Mikasa, but more specifically of course, from Armin's affirmation of existence. However, the tree as a symbol of existential affirmation is undercut with the revelation that, despite Armin's diplomatic mediation between the Allied Nations and Paradis, the island nation never escapes war just as no nation in the history of the earth has ever fully escaped war.

The image of Armin running toward that life-affirming tree by the end becomes twisted and complicated, as the image of the anonymous child approaching the Tree of Life evokes both awe at its beauty and grandeur, and a deep dread at the foreboding of its cyclical return to Ymir's tree that signalled the beginning of a bloody era.

And I think that is precisely it: Life is not some idealized, beautiful vision that we always want to run toward; it is also ironic, complicated, and dreadful. It is ambivalent. Like a literary symbol, the meaning of life cannot be pinned down absolutely. The tree therefore becomes itself a symbol of uncertainty, of an open future that is cyclical both in its beauty and war.

As a final observation, it is surely no coincidence that, the small, black, birdlike silhouettes of the war planes destroying the city from the sky is replaced by the similarly small black silhouettes of birds in the final panel.

If the birds represent freedom from war, the irony is that the immediately surrounding land appears to be one completely empty of people save for the exploring child; it is a freedom attained only without people's presence. Yet at the same time, a child from some existing civilization has reached it; perhaps it is freedom that they have reached, perhaps it is something else that they see in the tree. What is it that they were looking for? What does the tree and its history represent for the child, and what does it mean for their future? Alternatively, does the child-in-the-forest imagery negatively recall the warning that the world is one huge forest of predator and prey that we need to protect children from entering?

Rather than providing answers, this tree embodies all of the potential questions, and all of the potential answers. These possibilities will unfold themselves into an uncertain future beyond the chapters of history that Eren, Armin, Mikasa, Zeke, Erwin, and all the rest of the characters were part of and left their mark on; and whatever future this child will witness or create, it will similarly be one of the struggle against futility, as the journey begins anew with each generation in every new era. Neither - or both - hopeful or despairing, the final image of this tree, just like life itself, contains those innumerable irresolvable tensions as it gestures towards all possibilities, both oppressive and free.

[sun-summoning]

part ii | part iii | part iv

after speaking to kido, sakura rushes home. when she calms down from the rage that nearly had her crush his throat, sakura can admit that she doesn’t really think this is him. he knew a lot about her for someone that was supposed to have been locked up all this time, but he seemed genuinely surprised to hear that sarada had been taken, if not disappointed. he fit the profile of what shikamaru and kakashi thought -- that someone wanted sarada for her eyes -- but sakura can’t stop the nagging feeling that somehow this runs deeper.

back in her apartment, megumi’s body is right where she left it, and sakura feels awful for having moved so mechanically. megumi was an orphan, but she was still someone’s little girl. ashamed, sakura lays a sheet over her and swears she’ll do more later.

she heads to her bedroom and begins her work. alone, she summons one of the cats she’d made a contract with shortly after her marriage. the black cat is sleek and holds himself confidently. he’s always been an efficient one, quick to do as she needs and be competent about it. he regards sakura with a cock of his head.

“sarada’s been taken.”

“your daughter.”

“yes.” 

the cat nods. “i shall inform the clowder. if anyone spots her, i will let you know.”

“thank you.” sakura pauses, self-conscious for needing to rely on everybody else for this part. “if you...if any of you are able to come into contact with sasuke-kun, can you pease let him know too?”

“of course.”

“thank you.” sakura promises to provide the usual exchange at a later time and the cat disappears with a puff of smoke. she heads to her bedroom and she begins to pack in silence. 

her movements are as meticulous as they are automatic, done just so she’s ready to leave the moment she knows where she needs to go. her medkit is stocked. her bag has scrolls, weapons, supplies, and sarada’s favourite toy. she changes out of her days clothes and into the leggings and turtleneck of a uniform she hasn’t worn in years. her cloak is in the front closet. she needs to change her boots. she’ll put on the boots now. she leaves the armour on her bed to don later. right now, they only hinder her movements. she goes to the drawer where her mask hides in plain sight among other trinkets and knick knacks, and on the dresser she notices a flower.

sakura stills as she takes in the detail she must have missed in her earlier haste. she considers the simple glass vase and the single red flower sitting in it. its petals curl at the ends and some are even missing. 

this flower has travelled and as sakura considers what it is, she knows it’s travelled far. 

-

konoha became unbearable by the time she tuned twenty. it's so petty and selfish and she'd never say it aloud, but she hated seeing everyone else so happy. she's happy too -- has so many reasons to be -- but she couldn’t help the nagging jealousy she feels when ino declined her invitations because she was going to see sai or when naruto prioritized her almost always only to head home to hinata.

she wanted to be someone's too. she wanted to be their focus and heart and home, but sakura already knew who her someone was and knew that on some level she was his too, so all she needs to do right now is wait.

most of the time, sakura wasn’t bitter. being apart from him wasn't unfamiliar, nor the steadfastness, nor the hope that one day this will pay off one day, nor the self reminders that what she felt was irrelevant as long as sasuke knew and was comforted by the fact that she would always love him.

to suppress her frustrations rather than confront them, sakura worked. she worked tirelessly and relentlessly and by nineteen, they'd named her the greatest medical ninja konoha has ever seen for her accomplishments, ideas, and innovations.

this took her to suna at twenty and to ame at twenty-one to help establish their own clinics.

“i have a gift for you,” ino told her before she left. 

sakura expected a ribbon or a piece of jewellery or that new book on poisons she mentioned she was interested in. instead, ino handed her a bag. its contents shift, imbalanced, and inside sakura finds a potted plant. 

“a flower?”

“not just any flower, you ungrateful bitch.” ino pointed at her accusingly and then at the plant. its petals are a bright red with darker flecks at their base. “i made it.”

“you made it?”

“yes. you know me, interrogating and mind-reading by day, splicing plants together and making my own by night.”

“that’s sad.”

“fuck you. you’re sad.”

sakura laughed and ino laughed too but it got a bit sad because ino probably definitely knew that sakura was sad. “anyway,” ino continued, “we’ll call it the sakuino flower--”

“how creative.”

“--and i expect you to keep it alive through all of your travels.”

sakura frowned at ino, wondering if ino understood that a potted plant had no place in her travels, but ino didn’t seem to care. moreover, this particular thing didn’t seem to have the ability to survive in the desert climate she was going to be living in for the next six months. 

when sakura expressed as much, ino waved the matter off. “deal with it,” she said, giving sakura one last hug. “you’re one of the brightest minds to come out of this village. you’ll figure something out.”

-

its common name is the fire poppy, having originated from the fire country but somehow managing to survive in the deserts of wind country as well. the flower is know for its vibrant red petals, eye-catching and jarring across the barren brown it’s normally found in. sakura had to play with the original plant’s physiology when she first moved to ensure it could survive the alternate climate. in her spare time, when she wasn’t working with the kids, she deigned to work with her plant, eventually working on cloning the original. at some point she’d given one to a nurse she worked with who much admired the first, and gaara asked if he could try planting them in his garden. from there, the spores began to spread.

“why the fire poppy?”

was this someone from suna?

sakura considers the obvious motivation of revenge, but who would even want that? there were people who didn’t appreciate her friendship with kankuro or any of his siblings. perhaps an apprentice of chiyo’s who blamed sakura for not saving her when she gave her life for gaara’s. worse, perhaps someone that once worked sasori who resented her for his demise. or maybe someone she, sadly, can’t even remember. a patient she lost during the war whose family hated her.

sakura truly cannot pinpoint a motivation for this, much less a person. 

especially a person that would understand the meaning of this flower for her. 

ino would never give her this flower. ino would have scoffed at it and created her own. sarada couldn’t have picked it today. and sasuke certainly couldn’t have left it for her.

someone was in her apartment. someone brought it here. 

was it here before?

sakura considers the poppy and forces herself to keep calm. stay logical, she demands. stay smart. was the poppy there before? no, she thinks at first. she would have seen it. she’s certain she would have seen it.

but, she can accept, it’s possible she might have missed it. sarada was taken. her babysitter was murdered. it wouldn’t be surprising if sakura missed it. but sakura doesn’t miss things. right?

“don’t gaslight yourself,” she orders. 

no, she knows. the flower was not there before, meaning in between her going to kakashi, going to the prison, and then running back home, whoever took her daughter came back.

or worse, there was a team involved and one was with her child and another came back for her. 

sakura curses, wishing she’d put on her black ops armour earlier, because whoever brought the flower here is now making their presence known. she senses two people before she sees them and is unsurprised to find sudden flares of strength.

the bedroom is small and they’re in a building. she needs to take this outside, but where? there’s too much risk for others getting hurt in the crossfire. that’s why this was supposed to stay quiet. that’s why this will stay quiet.

they step out of the shadows and sakura assesses them quickly. one male, one female, both fairly young based on stature and development, maybe early twenties at the oldest. they’ll have agility on her, but they won’t have her experience. 

the man holds a chokuto. good. an advantage. sakura is excellent at fighting against such a weapon. if they’re foolish enough to use her husband’s favourite sort of blade, perhaps they didn’t do enough research on her. perhaps they were hired? but if they were unprepared, then were they really here to kill her? 

are they here to distract her?

that thought fills sakura with dread. is someone trying to keep her busy so she can’t get to sarada on time?

the woman shifts, one leg sliding to the side as she raises her hands. she holds no weapons, therefore she is the weapon. sakura knows all about that. she’ll need to be careful with this one. but she still has a holster on her thigh. it’s thinner that the usual styles. maybe a couple kunai, but more likely a set of sebon. this one is smart then. she’ll know precisely where she needs to hit sakura to stop her.

“haruno sakura,” the man greets with a short nod.

so it is her fault.

if this was about sasuke, about the uchiha, they would know her married name. this is about her, and for that sakura feels worse. her baby was taken and why? just to hurt sakura before killing her? sarada was who knows where with surely no one that could be good and all just to hurt sakura?

sakura snarls, furious in a way only a mother could be, and she feels the chakra pulsing around her fists.

“where is my daughter?”

their masks hide any expressions. they remain at ease in the face of her rage, shockingly unafraid of this woman that can level mountains. 

good, sakura thinks. let them be brave. let them come at her like fools. 

she runs through the bedroom door to get to the living room where there’s at least more space to maneuver. the man leaps and brings his blade down upon her, but sakura manages to shift to the side. careful to not be forced into a corner, she spins out of his range and into the open middle until the woman runs past her partner and takes sakura on hand-to-hand.

she matches sakura’s punches and kicks blow for blow. she’s good, sakura thinks nervously. and she’s fast. she’s small, maybe half a head shorter than sakura, so she puts her weight behind every quick jab. sakura gives most of her attention to the woman, but keeps a wary on eye on the man who sheathes his chokuto.

what as he planning?

it takes that one moment for the woman to catch her unaware. 

sakura chokes on her breath as the woman thrusts a senbon into her shoulder. the shock from that slows her down enough so she can lodge in a second.

“shit,” sakura curses as she stumbles back. she rips the senbon out, but she feels her left arm begin to go numb from the struck pressure point. “what did you do--”

sakura’s eyes widen she she feels something foreign begin to course through her. she considers the senbon, dark with her blood and likely something else. there’s a metallic smell that isn’t from the weapon, and sakura knows she’s been poisoned.

however, her body doesn’t bother to fight it. 

sakura watches her opponents, trying to understand how she’s been poisoned with something she’s immune to and just what poison this might be. she’s immune to everything in konoha’s own collection, as well as the ones she shares with shizune.

which poison is this?

does that matter?

sakura scowls at the two people involved in her daughter’s kidnapping and reminds herself that she can take them on one-handed just fine. she pulls her right hand into a fist and charges. the man is closest, so she lunges at him with a chakra-laden punch that sends him barreling into the wall. 

she grabs the front of his shirt and as she pulls him forward, his mask falls away to reveal green eyes, cold and lifeless, and a black diamond under his left eye that makes her uneasy.

sakura stares at the man, confused, because she knows this face.

she knows him.

her fear and pain and worry makes it hard to focus, but knows him. 

focus.

finally, it clicks. 

“isao?”

she thinks she might have seen something like recognition in his eyes. that doesn’t long though. she left herself open, and his partner stabs her shoulder. sakura releases isao with a cry before the woman punches her in the back of the head and everything goes dark.

-

the sun is up when sakura begins to stir. she hears the birds chirping and people outside going about their days. but the buzz of the television is missing, as are the small thuds of sarada’s steps. where is sarada? sakura wonders hazily, lazily, not quite understanding yet.

where is sarada?

her eyes widen and she sits up so quickly her stomach rolls.

“careful.” tsunade comes into view, steadying sakura and checking her for any problems. “you’re still healing.”

she’s in her own bed. she’s not at the hospital. she got knocked out and the assassins got away. she should’ve done something to track them. dammit. was she so arrogant she didn’t have a failsafe in place for if she didn’t simply beat them? sakura punches the bed, earning a disapproving frown from shizune on her other side.

“there was poison in your system.” 

“it was one of ours,” sakura admits warily. 

“yes. there are very few people with access to those, much less this particular one.”

the one that the assassin used was meant to render a victim paralyzed but still able to feel. it was a dreadful thing, meant only for the worst of interrogations. or, more accurately, for torture. sakura concocted it in her darkest moments at fourteen under shizune’s watchful eye. since then, while they’ve both had small handfuls of keen students, they’ve probably shared poisons from their personal roster with only five people at most.

for this particular poison, sakura knows only two people they showed it to, and only one of those was a student of sakura’s.

“how did you find me?”

tsunade rolls her eyes. “shizune sent you off to a prison from kakashi’s office. i figured i’d have to check on you shortly after. and it’s a good thing i did, stupid girl.”

“thank you.”

“don’t thank me. i’m scolding on you.”

“did they find anything useful?”

“no one’s been able to contact your husband.”

“right.”

“and they’re still under the impression that this has to do with the uchiha blood.” 

“they would be,” sakura mutters, too tired and in too good company to be anything but blunt.

shizune sighs. “do you know who came after you last night?” the flower is still where she left it on the dresser. shizune follows her gaze to the fire poppy, and all knowing with plants as well, shizune determines its origins. “how did that get here?”

“i think it was to taunt me.” sakura grimaces. “you were right.”

“about?”

“i think this is my fault.”

shizune’s eyes widen and quickly soften with sympathy. “none of this your fault,” she reminds sakura. 

tsunade crosses her arms. “enemies of yours then?”

“no.” sakura looks sad. “people i once loved.”

-

tbc

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

In your ask about how the nameless guy could be the nameless woman, you said that you thought the statute of secrecy is much younger than what is said in the series. Please elaborate how you know (not that I disagree with you. the wizards are s*** at keeping themselves a secret)

So, as I’ve discussed before, one has to take anything about history in the wizarding world with a large grain of salt. Specifically, I doubt the wizarding world approaches the discipline of history the way we do, history doesn’t seem to be much of an academic field (the wizarding world seems to only have two historians, one of which is dead), and there seems to be a strong incentive and tradition of propaganda.

So, that alone makes me suspicious of anything we learn relating to The Founders, Merlin, and even the Statute of Secrecy.

And now, JKR’s wiki.

JKR places the statute in the midst of the witch burnings (late 17th century) as basically an emergency action on the part of the wizarding community. Who had been steadily ostracized for about a century. 

The children were particularly vulnerable and eventually they put their feet down, across the entire world (Tibet is somehow included in this), and agreed to make all the muggles forget about them.

I actually had thought JKR had made the statute earlier than that, which is my bad, so I would probably date it nearish the same time (and they do probably have records of when they put it into law) but I think the why and the how are a little different than wizards remember.

The Modern Wizarding World

To me, the Wizarding World we see in Harry Potter doesn’t reflect this story.

We see extreme anti-muggleborn sentiment in Salazar Slytheirn (who is supposed to be dated 500 years earlier). Granted, this is likely propaganda/popular legend dated to near when the statute went into effect, showing that “SEE THIS HAS ALWAYS PLAGUED OUR PEOPLE”, except he’s portrayed in a very negative light.

Salazar is a known dark wizard and when he doesn’t get what he wants, he puts a monster in the basement of the school. Even before Voldemort warped society’s perception of Slytherin, this is...

Well, it’s not the kind of legend you have about the other three founders.

That’s... not what your Cassandra should be doing.

Wizards treat the witch burnings as a joke. Oh, they don’t like the sentiment, but within the books Hermione notably reads historical accounts of witches and wizards who enjoyed getting caught by muggles because they liked being lit on fire and laughing in their faces.

Now, this is one account we get to see, but that this is something taught to the children just emphasizes that muggles aren’t viewed as a threat. They’re a nuisance or else a people to be pitied for their lack of magic.

While it has been 400 years, I think that the reasons for the founding of modern wizarding society would run deep. If it was truly because of the witch hunts alone, and fear of persecution, their narrative and attitudes would look very different.

This is not a society that went into hiding because of big bad muggles.

It’s a society that went into hiding because they were sick of this bullshit

The Bullshit Turmoil of 17th Century Europe

17th century Europe was a mess. Large parts of countries changed hands all the time, the continent was nearly always at war, and England might have been one of the biggest messes of all. Civil war, deposed kings, reform of the state religion multiple times, the witch burnings, etc.

I think the wizards just got tired of it and didn’t want to deal with it anymore. They already likely had Hogwarts, their own private, secret, educational institution, and already feel quite cut off from muggle society. Why should they pay taxes to muggle kings who change every week and whose religions constantly persecute them?

So, in the midst of all this chaos, they enact the statute. And I imagine it’s surprisingly simple. Most pack up and move, creating all wizarding neighborhoods, they have a council of their most important families meeting every so often which becomes the Wizengamot, and they become essentially a sovereign nation that just happens to leach off muggle infrastructure.

And as the years go on, and they like this not paying taxes or going to church thing, they slowly become more and more alienated from muggle society until they fail to understand it at all.

And so you have the modern wizard who literally has no clue why they separated off except that the witch burnings had something to do with it. The idea that muggles even have problems like these (politics, civil war, changing of state religion multiple times) is likely an anathema to them.

They’ve completely forgotten that they once had to deal with this too.

What About the Other Countries?

JKR doesn’t really cite when it became an international law but it’s presumably around the same time.

And you’re telling me that they were able to get people from every country, not just Western Europe, with starkly different cultures and attitudes towards magic, to agree to this? All at the same time?

To me, I think it was rapidly adopted in stages in Western Europe. Britain may have done it first then the French wizards went, “Hey, that looks like a great idea!” and went along for the ride.

I think it was imperialism/colonialism/westernization that spread the statue elsewhere. The British wizards get to China and India, sorry locals, you get to use wands, build magical academies, and have to go live separate from the muggles now. Doesn’t matter what you were doing before, our way is the right way!

With westernization, I imagine that the wizarding communities in those nations saw the changing times, and most decided to switch over to the more western model of disappearing as muggles seemed to appreciate them less and less. And even then we still have things like Rasputin happening.

The Statute Today

With increased technology, communication, and travel the Statute is untenable. It will fail. Eventually there will be something wizards can’t cover up with a gas leak. As it is, that’s very nearly Harry and Ron in 1992 when they fly a car over a populated city.

More, the alienation of the wizarding world doesn’t help. They now have no understanding of muggle culture. The only real understanding they have is through muggleborns and they’re disconnected from muggles as well as they’re essentially taken out of that society at the age of eleven.

The way wizards talk, the statute will always hold. Doesn’t matter that the obliviation department seems busier than ever, the idea that this didn’t always exist, that it can crumble, doesn’t even occur to them. 

But yes, those are my general thoughts on the statute.

[rwby-necro-au-archive]

Ozpin Week

Day Six: Day Off/In Battle

@ozpinweek

Description: It’s no surprise that running a Necromancer academy can come with issues. Necromancy is outlawed in many parts of the world after all.

One such issue is the equally unsurprising amount of Pursuers that try to sneak into beacon. Good thing that beacon is made for this, by having what is essentially a maze surrounding it’s buildings. The pursuers most times end up getting lost due to this.

Perhaps it’s also good that a certain headmaster watches his academy and students like a hawk in case of such incidents.

“How upsetting, and on such a lovely day like today.” Ozpin sighed. It would seem that he had been swamped with sorrowful reports and countless uninteresting meetings all day. What he had truly wanted was to be outside or at least to be interacting with his students. But it would all have to wait until these reports and paperwork were finished.

Even though today had started off as it normally would, Him getting up, getting ready for the day, and then heading off to the academy, it still felt like it was particularly monotonous and dull. Nothing interesting had happened, hell even the students hadn’t done any of their usual antics today.

He shook his head, it’s not like any of them could anyways, they had term ending exams to study for. Although he couldn’t help but wish someone would’ve done something.

Knock Knock Knock

A gentle but firm knock was heard at the door. He could tell it was Glynda, it was the small, seemingly insignificant details that he focused on when it came to people. Even the way someone knocked on a door could tell you who they were.

“Come in, Glynda.” Ozpin called out cheerily.

The door opened, “I will never understand how it is that you know whose outside your door even before they walk in.” She quipped.

“I always did pay attention to detail did I not?”

“That is true. Anyways, you look like you’ve had the life sucked out of you. How much paperwork?”

Ozpin leaned back in his office chair “What on remnant makes you think that I know? Absolutely nothing interesting has happened today. Such a shame, it’s such a lovely day too, and here I am stuck doing paperwork.”

Glynda gave a sympathetic sigh, “You aren’t the only one. Despite that, that’s not what I’m here for.”

“Right, To the point. Is it something I should be concerned about?”

“Yes actually.”

His face became stern in response, “What is it?”

“A pursuer has decided to go looking for students to harass on premises.” She explained

“Why haven’t you or the other staff gone to handle the situation.”

She gave an eyebrow raise “Why?”

“My apologies but if they haven’t done anything yet then what would be the point in coming to me?”

“Fair. This one has been…..persistent. He refuses to “take the hint” and stay away from the school. He essentially mocks any staff that tries to get rid of him. Figured you’d be in more luck getting him to leave the students alone.”

Ozpin pinched the bridge of his nose. How annoying. Not just a pursuer but a pursuer with the gall to mock his staff and harass innocent students, his students. It’s no wonder she came to him with the issue, she’s most likely more frustrated than he is.

“Also, I figured since you’ve been stuck in here all day that it would be good to give you something interesting to do. Not to mention get some fresh air” Glynda smiled

He smiled back “I appreciate it. Now then, where is he right now?”

“Seemingly lost in the northern wing’s maze.” She said, she handed him a photo taken from security footage.

He thanked her before leaving his office. Sure, pursuers weren’t an uncommon problem at Beacon but that didn’t make their presence any less annoying.

What was more surprising was that none of them whom he himself had dealt with, have had the audacity to actually go to their boss to tell him about his so called “friend” being a necromancer. Although, what pursuer would ever want to admit to their boss that they ran away from a necromancer?

In fact they, to Ozpin’s amusement, started heavily embellishing their stories to the other pursuers about what he was like. Some tales painted him as a terrifying monster, some painted him as a roughed up intimidating man with unspeakable power, and some painted him as a different being entirely.

It had turned into a game for the headmaster, to see what stories the pursuer he was dealing with had heard. At least it made the job of getting rid of those pests more enjoyable.

Without fail though, every pursuer who had heard about him was surprised to see him in person. The man they had heard was a terrifying monster, a roughed up untouchable man, or a different being entirely, was in reality a dapper, polite, and well kept 6’8 man with a northern Atlesian accent and a love and protectiveness for children.

He quickly walked out the main buildings doors and searched around for the northern entrance into the maze. Once found, he set off towards it. As he walked through the crowd he was greeted by students, all of whom were most likely on their way out of the school, he gave a quick hello and wished them well on their way home.

“Of course a pursuer would choose a time like this. Easy targets.” He mentally noted.

Once he entered the maze, the rest was muscle memory. He knew every corner, every corridor, every alley, every brick, stone, and piece of concrete of beacon like the back of his hand. Knowing where everything was at Beacon was as easy as walking itself for the headmaster.

As he walked he also listened. Listening was important in a situation such as this one. Eventually, what he had been listening for was heard. A yell. He picked up his pace and followed what he presumed was a female students yell.

As he listened further, it wasn’t just the one student, it was a group of them, most likely friends, who this pursuer had decided to go after.

This pursuer seemed to be a real colorful one too, throwing slurs and disgusting innuendos at the girls. There were 3 things Ozpin specifically hated, Pursuers, Those who aim to hurt children, and Creeps. Unfortunately for this pursuer, he was checking all the boxes.

He reached a corner and peered behind it. There stood 5 female students, backed into a wall by this disgusting excuse for a man.

“I bet the guards will have some real fun with you bunch once you get to atlas.” The pursuer sneered.

Ozpin appeared out from behind the corner, standing behind and over the pursuer, “Well that’s not very nice, now is it?” He spoke cooly.

The pursuer jumped and turned around. Eyes widening in realization as he looked up at who was standing in front of him.

“Y-you’re the monster all of the pursuers were talkin’ about.”

“Why yes! That is me!” He said cheerily

“I-I ain’t scared of you! You aren’t anything like they make you out to be. You’re just some guy, I can take you!” The man yelled.

“Tch tch tch, none of you ever learn from one another, do you?”

“The fuck you talkin’ about?!”

Ozpin smiled and looked towards the students, “Now students, here are 2 lessons for you all. Looks can be quite deceiving, take this man here for example. He may look threatening, but in reality, he is weak. He is weak because he is letting his anger get the best of him, which is not a wise decision if you are going to engage in combat.

When you are angry during combat, you stop thinking about how to hit your enemy, and instead just think about hitting your enemy anywhere in general. This leaves you vulnerable.”

“Fuck you!”

“Oh dear, and it seems we have quite a vulgar man as well.”

“Why are you bein’ so polite? I thought you were supposed to scary.” The pursuer snickered

Ozpin laughed, a cold, merciless, and wheezy sound, no doubt from his smoking habit. “Well, my friend, What kind of an example would I be setting if I wasn’t polite? I’m the head councilman of a country, a headmaster, and a professor! It’s my job to make sure I’m setting a good example on how to deal with pests such as yourself.”

He looked over at the pursuer, “show time.” He thought. In a simple blink his eye colored changed from a warm, caring hazelnut brown to a cold and soul destroying green.

“Besides, I am a merciful man. I wouldn’t want to make more of a fool of you when you’ve already done most of the work yourself.”

The pursuer visibly froze, he mentally laughed “Everytime, without fail. I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of it.”

Ozpin turned back to the students and told them to go home. He had business with this pursuer that he needed to attend to. Who was backed against the wall and helpless now?

The pursuer continued to yell slurs and insults at the headmaster. Eventually, he took out a blade an managed to slice Ozpin across the cheek, causing the headmaster to stumbled back some.

Okay, maybe not helpless. But he surely was backed against a wall in a maze with him.

Once he regained his footing, Ozpin ungloved one of his hands as he gently touched two fingers to the wound, “Well, I’m impressed, consider yourself lucky. You’re the first pursuer to ever actually land a hit on me. Even if it was a cheap shot.”

The pursuer laughed victoriously, while distracted by his small victory, Ozpin grabbed long memory. Quickly shifting it into its shotgun form.

“Although,” He spoke.

He harshly shoved the pursuer against the brick wall, leaving the man slightly dazed and confused. Ozpin aimed long memory at the wall besides the pursuers head and stared down at the man.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to bring a knife to a gun fight?”

[evarcana]

Taking it out on you

Ev attends the court meeting only to learn that sometimes the second impressions are just as bad as the first ones.

characters: Ev Panopolis, consul Valerius and brief appearance of Volta

words: ~3k

warnings: alcohol (as expected)

notes: On some point I gave up on the idea of Ev being the apprentice, as she just does not have this "MC energy". So this is an introduction to her story, because there is no better way to celebrate the 1 year anniversary of this blog than to remember that a very long time ago I used to write fanfiction.

It has been almost a month already. Almost a month since she came to Vesuvia, almost a month since she was told that her services were not required here. The thought makes Ev frown, but she keeps a quick pace, the sound of her impatient steps on the marble floor echoing through the palace corridor.

It is just before eleven o’clock, and the last of crisp morning sun pours over the rich mauve of lustrous silk drapes and the gold leaf of intricately carved murals, drawing out the warm scent of orange blossom and beeswax from the polished panels of precious wood. Vesuvian palace is exactly what she was promised - a great wonder, and yet Ev doubts it could give any lesser impression while the backdrop to its striking opulence is the city torn apart by disease and grief.

There are no servants or visitors in sight, and Ev’s only company in this seemingly endless corridor are paintings on the walls, depicting what she can only guess are some of the proud moments of Vesuvian history - people and places so foreign to her.

She does simple math in her head: two months and two days ago she was marching down the corridor of a very different palace, eager to be on time for the meeting with Crown Princess Nafizah despite the quite literal last minute notice, and not knowing yet that she was about to hear details of this so-called diplomatic mission.

Back then it sounded straightforward enough. Prakra couldn’t ignore the news of Count Lucio's tragic death, not least because that meant Princess Nadia, the youngest daughter of the Prakran royal family, was left widowed and with the daunting task of handling the red plague epidemic in Vesuvia all on her own. Any ruler could do with an extra pair of hands and any country could benefit from the alliance with Prakra, especially in times of crisis like this. And it would have stayed straightforward if only the discovery of Countess Nadia’s mysterious illness and the unexpected, unreasonable, outrageous hostility of Vesuvian court did not bring this crisis to the whole new, now personal, level.

In theory, Ev did not have to deal with any of that. She could use the excuse that it was only appropriate to deliver such unsettling news about Nadia in person, go back and forget everything that happened in this palace like one of those unpleasantly bizarre dreams you get after a night of drinking. But Vesuvia was still the city Prakra cared about, Nadia’s city, and as far as Ev knew none of the people who came to be in charge of it were appointed by her. Prakran diplomatic presence was perhaps the only way to look after Nadia’s interests until she woke up. Even if Ev had no actual power over the court, returning to Prakra without accomplishing at least something felt like a failure, and failure has never been an option for Ev. With that in mind, she pressed the seal with enough force to imprint Prakran royal crest on the desk and not just on the drop of red wax marking the envelope, and stayed.

Now, after a month of living in the city, she has learned to see that there is more to her new role than just misfortunes. Her relocation allowance is generous, her new place is nicer than what she had in Prakra and she is getting rather used to the convenience of the wine shop next door. Even if parts of it are foreign and unwelcoming, Ev feels at ease in Vesuvia. The tension in her body relaxes, and she thinks maybe this palace can eventually get used to her too, but the thought faints away as soon as she sees the salon door. Ev presses a pile of papers closer to her chest and tells herself that she can think about everything else another time - the court meeting is about to start.

She pushes the door open but immediately freezes on the spot stricken by the gagging wave of nausea - nails dirty with soil and blood, sickly sweet buttercream pastries and rustle of feathers covered in mud. It is no more than a faint impression but even through the fogged mind Ev recognises the feeling - it is vestige, the afterimage of magic. She has felt it before, many times and in many different forms but never has it made her feel physically sick. What is even more unusual is that such a revolting sensation is coming from the palace quarters. One would expect tingles of bubbles from the charmed fountains of never ending sparkling wine or at least the impression of whispers, premium tea, treacle and bitter ambition from the walls which have been magically given ears, and not... whatever this is. Ev draws a deep breath, pushing down into her diaphragm and looks around the room. The salon is not set up for the court meeting, instead there is a tray of food and stacks of empty plates towering on almost every flat surface. Her eyes stop on greasy remains looking terribly out of place on the delicate porcelain plate and she unconsciously covers her mouth. Maybe she is mistaken after all - it is the strange smell of food and not some kind of creepy magic, and, more importantly, maybe this is not the salon she was looking for.

Before Ev gets a chance to mentally blame the chamberlain for giving her the wrong directions, a tiny figure appears from behind the chair. The white cornette is instantly recognisable and Ev is about to ask procurator Volta whether she is here for the court meeting too when she sees that behind the commotion of dark robes Volta is frantically trying to push the whole roast rack of lamb down her mouth. Dear gods. Somewhat unsurprisingly, one of the bones appears to be stuck. Clearly having not expected to have an audience, the procurator widens her eyes at Ev in a mixture of terror and shame. Unable to speak, after a few incoherent squeaks, she throws her tiny hands in the air helplessly, spattering herself with gravy and gestures to the open French doors leading to the balcony. Without giving it too much thought, Ev gives Volta a quick nod and takes an opportunity to escape the awkwardness of the scene.

Wrapped in the soft shade of the balcony, consul Valerius is casually leaning back in the chair, with the usual glass of wine in his hand. Even before she reaches the doors, Ev sets her eyes on his face. The consul is looking away, his face carved and unmovable, the tight knot of dark eyebrows making him look ireful and disgruntled, like one of those statues of stern gods she saw growing up in Zadith. Her next step lands much quieter and then, there steps in, Ev stops and stands very still wondering what thoughts could possibly bring this storm to Valerius’s face. Sun would suit him much more, she thinks, her eyes curiously trailing down the golden glints of his hair.

A loud snort catches Ev off guard and she realises that Valerius is now facing her, looking considerably more displeased than before, no doubt because of her. That’s more like it. How could she forget that this man is the very cause of her problems.

“Could I please have some of your time, consul?” she asks, heading straight towards him. Greetings seem excessive, they didn’t necessarily part on friendly terms last time.

“I didn't expect to see you here again.”

Ev allows herself a smirk. “I know.” I am not here to do what you expect from me. She stops inches away from his chair looking down at him, apparently enjoying the close proximity which, considering their formal relationship and the consul’s well known bad temper, could be regarded as both highly inappropriate and potentially reckless. But Valerius only turns away, more interested in his drink than in her.

“I have been studying the treasury records,” she continues, searching his face for any kind of reaction. His lips curl up in a sneer as he takes a sip of wine, but his eyes are still firmly fixed on the horizon. Ev follows his gaze expecting to see some radical change to the surrounding landscape, but there is only faint outline of the city roofs behind the lush green of the palace's vast grounds, - no columns of smoke, no ominous looking storm clouds gathering in the distance, nothing that could possibly be more interesting than her. Whatever. “Your tax system - ,” she hands Valerius neatly arranged papers, which he completely ignores,“- it is not working.”

“Vesuvian tax system remained largely unchanged for the last two generations, this is how these matters are handled traditionally,” says Valerius, once again denying Ev courtesy of eye contact.

Ev’s mouth twists at the sound of the last words. Too worried the conservative mindset might be contagious, she quickly withdraws her hand and takes a step back.

“I trust you understand that sometimes one should focus on what works, and not what is traditional,” she says, doing her best to disguise the growing irritation. “You don’t attract nearly as much foreign trade as you used to.”

What comes next is a very profound, uncomfortable silence. Ev sighs.

“Consul, you had plague in the city, people died,” her voice is louder now, “lots of people died”, and the irritation is obvious. “And Vesuvia cannot exist without its people. Somebody needs to bring food from the farmlands, make clothes, teach children, attend to the sick. Yes, in the past you could always import whatever you did not have but now people are scared to come because of the plague. You -”, she pauses in anticipation noticing Valerius shifting in his seat, but he only reaches for the bottle to top up his glass, “- you need to do something to make it attractive for them again. Lower the customs, lift the taxes for people whose skills you need, sell empty real estate cheap. There is plenty all around the city!”

Deep down Ev knows that none of these is going to work long term, but she doesn't care - she wants to do something and she wants to do it now.

Yet, nothing changes. She is still standing there, and he is still looking away. Ev would prefer him to disagree, start arguing with her - anything really, as long as it breaks this silence.

“Fine! If you don’t feel like changing this traditional system of yours, even temporarily, at least fix your mistakes.” Ev starts chaotically flipping through the papers searching for the one she needs, which would be a much easier task, if she was less flurried and if Valerius offered her a seat. She wonders whether he is now watching her, sneering at her struggle. “Your approved accounts, here,” this time she brusquely puts the paper in front of Valerius’s face blocking his view, “your numbers do not even add up! ”

For a split second she sees something on his face - a twitch, a flick of rage, and thinks that she has gone too far. But his question comes out in a calm, almost disinterested tone: “What makes you think that somebody like you is even qualified to check the city’s budget approved by the esteemed procurator Volta?”

A moment passes before Ev is able to break from staring at Valerius in disbelief. She glances to the salon where, judging by the sound, Volta has freed her mouth only to move to the next dish. Seriously? Perhaps she should be impressed that he managed to say it with the straight face.

And then there is a chilling sensation at the pit of Ev’s stomach. She asks herself what is going on here? What is this city under the reign of a person who questions everything and everyone except the obvious mistake in the accounts? And what is she - ? Angry, she reminds herself, is what she is, and throws a look at Valerius, who is taking another sip from his glass as in triumph. You don’t need to be qualified, you just need to have common sense. And you, Valerius, either don’t have it or you were not even bothered to look at what your court approves.

She pictures him lazily drinking wine, legs on the desk, his shirt unbuttoned, while completely ignoring his state duties. The image is irritating and yet not entirely unpleasant.

“We both know that I come from a family of alchemists and merchants. Trust me, I know how to count,” she says with a smile. It sounded right in her head, a ridiculous answer to the ridiculous question.

“I thought that during our last meeting you said that you had nothing to do with your witchcraft family.” A perfectly raised eyebrow, and that infuriating smirk.

Ev opens her mouth in protest but gives up quickly. Those were her exact words after all, save for the witchcraft part.

She begins to pace around the balcony avoiding looking at Valerius as much as possible. The consul clearly has a way of getting on her nerves, and she needs all her concentration if she wants to explain what exactly will happen to this goddamn city if they carry on with this approved budget.

“Think about the consequences for the people if this mistake is not corrected!” she shouts, her voice much louder than she would like it to be, and quickly turns to Valerius expecting a blowback. But the pale eyes are looking down, studying something on the floor, or on the edge of the fabric of her long sleeve, she really can’t tell. Oh gods, he is not even paying attention.

***

Valerius has firmly decided that he is not going to pay any attention.

The time of plague was exhausting: the palace suddenly full of people of all kinds and intentions promising to find a cure, pleas for help on the streets which he could not escape even behind the doors of the most expensive carriages, the count who was growing more desperate everyday and the white smoke of the Lazaret carried by the sea breeze towards the city, the memory of which still haunts him. And now there is the Satrinavas’ new pet here having an audacity to talk about his city’s problems - the problems which, out of all people, he should know the most about, he is the consul after all, and a Vesuvian.

Vesuvia he inherited is haggard and sad, and on top of that an enormous responsibility. The last thing he needs is a stranger questioning his authority, as if the incompetent court and the city demanding their beloved countess back have not been tiresome enough. Valerius lets out a short, barely audible sigh. He just wants this farce to be over so he can go back to thinking.

But the witch is not planning to stop, if anything she seems to be enjoying it. Look at her. Absorbed by herself and her ludicrous ideas, she is loud and talks too much with her hands. Her dress keeps slipping down the shoulder draping around the soft curve of a half barred breast every time she does one of these unnecessary, overconfident gestures. Valerius has absolutely no idea whether this is deliberate or she is simply unaware of the indecency which keeps drawing his eyes.

He tries to distract himself by taking a drink of wine only to discover that his glass, just like the air around him, is full of this loud perfume of hers. Harsh cinnamon, incense and patchouli, very much alike their owner, have no concept of the personal space ruining the perfect balance of his red. The wine is not helping. He catches himself looking at the shoulder again. In fact, absolutely useless. He sets his unfinished glass aside on the small table. Valerius has had enough.

***

“Enough!” Valerius shouts. His voice is suddenly deep and rather forceful and Ev hates that it has the desired effect on her. She stops and looks at him. “You were not invited to the court meeting.” The consul’s face looks awfully angry now.

Ev narrows her eyes. “And what exactly are you doing at your court meeting?”

“That should not be a concern of the Prakran subject”, Valerius says, his words dripping with poison, “or whoever you are.”

“I am a diplomatic emissary -,” she does not get a chance to finish.

“Leave!”

Ev wants to scream and protest, but even she knows better than to yell at somebody who outranked her. She draws a breath. One, two, three. All right.

“I only came to give you the papers”, she says coldly, her eyes still locked on his, and leans forward to place the documents on the table. “But I am taking this away, one should work without the distraction of wine.”

With these words Ev snatches the glass from the table, turns away and heads toward the exit as fast as she can without breaking into running. She does not want to look like she is scared that Valerius will grab her by the arm. If anything she is slightly disappointed that he doesn’t.

“My regards to the court,” she raises her hand and waves the glass in the air without looking back. Behind her there is a sound of paper being torn apart.

***

Ev only slows down when she reaches the main staircase.

Suddenly feeling very tired, she leans against the handrail. Again, what is she doing here? Why did she need to turn up in person when she could send a letter? Ev closes her eyes and rubs her fingers together as if feeling for answers in the whorls of her own skin, and remembers about the glass in her hand. Another bad decision. It would have been wiser to take the bottle.

She raises the glass to her lips and breathes in the wine. It’s pleasant. Perhaps she would prefer its company to the boring palace affairs too. Ev twists the glass in her hand, eying the smooth rim before drawing one long sip. It leaves a blush mark of her lips firmly planted on the surface which she studies for a few seconds. “You better be as angry as I am now”, she says to the dark liquid at the bottom of the glass.