#as this book points out that interpretation tips the balance too far on the other side and has a somewhat selective reading

[wonder-worker]

Margaret of Anjou’s visit to Coventry [in 1456], which was part of her dower and that of her son, Edward of Lancaster, was much more elaborate. It essentially reasserted Lancastrian power. The presence of Henry and the infant Edward was recognised in the pageantry. The ceremonial route between the Bablake gate and the commercial centre was short, skirting the area controlled by the cathedral priory, but it made up for its brevity with no fewer than fourteen pageants. Since Coventry had an established cycle of mystery plays, there were presumably enough local resources and experience to mount an impressive display; but one John Wetherby was summoned from Leicester to compose verses and stage the scenes. As at Margaret’s coronation the iconography was elaborate, though it built upon earlier developments.

Starting at Bablake gate, next to the Trinity Guild church of St. Michael, Bablake, the party was welcomed with a Tree of Jesse, set up on the gate itself, with the prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah explaining the symbolism. Outside St. Michael’s church the party was greeted by Edward the Confessor and St. John the Evangelist; and proceeding to Smithford Street, they found on the conduit the four Cardinal Virtues—Righteousness (Justice?), Prudence, Temperance, and Fortitude. In Cross Cheaping wine flowed freely, as in London, and angels stood on the cross, censing Margaret as she passed. Beyond the cross was pitched a series of pageants, each displaying one of the Nine Worthies, who offered to serve Margaret. Finally, the queen was shown a pageant of her patron saint, Margaret, slaying the dragon [which 'turned out to be strictly an intercessor on the queen's behalf', as Helen Maurer points out].

The meanings here are complex and have been variously interpreted. An initial reading of the programme found a message of messianic kingship: the Jesse tree equating royal genealogy with that of Christ had been used at the welcome for Henry VI on his return from Paris in 1432. A more recent, feminist view is that the symbolism is essentially Marian, and to be associated with Margaret both as queen and mother of the heir rather than Henry himself. The theme is shared sovereignty, with Margaret equal to her husband and son. Ideal kingship was symbolised by the presence of Edward the Confessor, but Margaret was the person to whom the speeches were specifically addressed and she, not Henry, was seen as the saviour of the house of Lancaster. This reading tips the balance too far the other way: the tableau of Edward the Confessor and St. John was a direct reference to the legend of the Ring and the Pilgrim, one of Henry III’s favourite stories, which was illustrated in Westminster Abbey, several of his houses, and in manuscript. It symbolised royal largesse, and its message at Coventry would certainly have encompassed the reigning king. Again, the presence of allegorical figures, first used for Henry, seems to acknowledge his presence. Yet, while the message of the Coventry pageants was directed at contemporary events it emphasised Margaret’s motherhood and duties as queen; and it was expressed as a traditional spiritual journey from the Old Testament, via the incarnation represented by the cross, to the final triumph over evil, with the help of the Virgin, allegory, and the Worthies. The only true thematic innovation was the commentary by the prophets.

[...] The messages of the pageants firmly reminded the royal women of their place as mothers and mediators, honoured but subordinate. Yet, if passive, these young women were not without significance. It is clear from the pageantry of 1392 and 1426 in London and 1456 in Coventry that when a crisis needed to be resolved, the queen (or regent’s wife) was accorded extra recognition. Her duty as mediator—or the good aspect of a misdirected man—suddenly became more than a pious wish. At Coventry, Margaret of Anjou was even presented as the rock upon which the monarchy rested. [However,] a crisis had to be sensed in order to provoke such emphasis [...]."

-Nicola Coldstream, "Roles of Women in Late Medieval Civic Pageantry", Reassessing the Roles of Women as 'Makers' of Medieval Art and Culture

[myopinionhi]

A Will Solace Character Analysis: the Underappreciated Soft Side

I've noticed many fanfictions have Will Solace OOC. So I’ve been thinking about aspects of Will’s personality fans seem to either gloss over or exaggerate. Here, this post is me doing an in-depth analysis explaining Will Solace’s canon personality in the books, and how it can sometimes differ from fanfictions. Sprinkled in this analysis are tips to fanfiction writers on how they write Will as more in-character.

There is one major aspect of Will that people seem to ignore or underemphasize. Nico best explains it when describing Will in this quote

Jason was a fighter. You could tell from the intensity of his stare, his constant alertness, the coiled-up energy in his frame. Will Solace was more like a lanky cat stretched out in sunshine. His movements were relaxed and nonthreatening, his gaze soft and far away. In his faded SURF BARBADOS T-shirt, his cutoff shorts and flip-flops, he looked about as aggressive as a demigod could get, but Nico knew he was brave under fire. During the Battle of Manhattan, Nico had seen him in action - the camp's best combat medic, risking his life to save wounded campers.

To sum it up, Will Solace is a very chill and calm character. A lot of writers make Will more irrational, impulsive, overbearing, and emotional than he actually is. Will is not the type of character to create drama unless he's, as Nico puts it, "under fire." In other words, the intense side of his personality doesn't come out unless the situation is urgent or dire.

Fans remember during the Second Giant War how he gets angry and argues with Nico over Nico's health and shadow-traveling, so many assume Will is going to be this fiery over a lot of other things regarding their relationship. For example, fanfic writers may make Will controlling or overly sensitive with Nico. However, keep in mind, Will gets heated with Nico during the Second Giant War because Nico's shadow-traveling is killing him. This is how Will describes Nico's dire state.

"Coach Hedge told me all about your shadow-travel. You can’t try that again."

"I just did try it again, Solace. I’m fine."

"No, you’re not. I’m a healer. I could feel the darkness in your hand as soon as I touched it. Even if you made it to that tent, you’d be in no shape to fight. But you wouldn’t make it. One more slip, and you won’t come back. You are not shadow-travelling. Doctor’s orders."

Will is a healer. When he touches Nico's hand, he can sense how little sleep and food Nico has been getting and how Nico's being taken over by darkness. Nico is on the verge of death and hasn't cared about his health for a long time. Nico is also stubborn about it, so Will has to be aggressive in order to save Nico's life. This aggressive behavior is not the norm for Will, but it can sometimes come out when he has to assert control in a life-or-death situation.

Will is a calming prescence. He's a diplomat. He stops violence on multiple occassions.

He's one of the few people who's able to calm Clarisse's violent rage, and he does so in a gentle manner.

Clarisse pointed her dagger at Rachel. "What about their allies, huh? Did you see that tribe of two-headed men that arrived yesterday? Or the glowing red dog-headed guys with the big poleaxes? They look pretty barbaric to me. It would’ve been nice if you’d foreseen any of that, if your Oracle power didn’t break down when we needed it most!"

Rachel’s face turned as red as her hair. "That’s hardly my fault. Something is wrong with Apollo’s gifts of prophecy. If I knew how to fix it –"

"She’s right." Will Solace, head counsellor for the Apollo cabin, put his hand gently on Clarisse’s wrist. Not many campers could’ve done that without getting stabbed, but Will had a way of defusing people’s anger. He got her to lower her dagger. "Everyone in our cabin has been affected. It’s not just Rachel."

One of the most underrated Will Solace moments is when he stops a bloody battle from happening between Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter.  

But he knew it wouldn’t do any good. After weeks of waiting, agonizing and steaming, the Greeks and Romans wanted blood. Trying to stop the battle now would be like trying to push back a flood after the dam broke.

Will Solace saved the day.

He put his fingers in his mouth and did a taxicab whistle even more horrible than the last. Several Greeks dropped their swords. A ripple went through the Roman line like the entire First Cohort was shuddering.

"DON’T BE STUPID!" Will yelled. "LOOK!"

People are so used to seeing demigods, especially male demigods, being aggressive fighters that they can't wrap their heads around a brave and strong demigod who actively tries to avoid unnecessary conflict and destruction as much as he can.

And that's Will Solace's strength: he has the ability to prevent as much harm as possible.

Will is a difficult character to write. There's a lot of dueling factors with his personality. He's calm and pacifying while also being brave and assertive. He's fun and lighthearted while also being intelligent, logical, and grounded. He's laidback while also being responsible and hardworking. He's insecure but not melodramatic. He's very caring and protective but not pushy.

Will's personality confuses Nico sometimes too.

He’d always thought of Will as easygoing and laid back. Apparently he could also be stubborn and aggravating.

The trick to writing Will is to keep in mind his default personality is a soft and lighthearted character. Writers tend to overemphasize the hard side of his personality when his default personality is actually the soft side.

Think of the relaxing, lanky cat metaphor Nico uses for him. He and Nico bicker often, and it works for Will because he rolls with everything and doesn't take things too seriously. He's able to alleviate Nico's moodiness with humor, wittiness, groundedness, and patience. Nico affectionately calls Will a "dork" because Will usually keeps things light. Interestingly enough, he's able to be lighthearted without coming across as insensitive or an airheaded goofball, the latter of which is something Nico dislikes about Percy's personality. On a related sidenote, another way writers make Will OOC is they make him too dumb or too immature. I know I mentioned to focus on Will's soft side, but be careful to avoid that too. He's a SENSIBLE, lanky cat.

The way Will keeps his composure during a stressful situation by using laughter while still being mature is expressed well in this exchange with Apollo. (Yes, Will has a lot to manage.)

It was difficult to think of this young man as my son. He was so poised, so unassuming, so free of acne. He also didn’t appear to be awestruck in my presence. In fact, the corner of his mouth had started twitching.

“Are—are you amused?” I demanded.

Will shrugged. “Well, it’s either find this funny or freak out. My dad, the god Apollo, is a fifteen-year-old—”

“Sixteen,” I corrected. “Let’s go with sixteen.”

“A sixteen-year-old mortal, lying in a cot in my cabin, and with all my healing arts—which I got from you—I still can’t figure out how to fix you.”

“There is no fixing this,” I said miserably. “I am cast out of Olympus. My fate is tied to a girl named Meg. It could not be worse!”

Will laughed, which I thought took a great deal of gall. “Meg seems cool. She’s already poked Connor Stoll in the eyes and kicked Sherman Yang in the crotch.”

The fiercer side of Will's personality comes out only when the situation calls for it; this happens sometimes when he has to be a caring family member, a responsible healer, or a warrior in a dire situation. Even when he gets more forceful, he doesn't get more forceful than he has to.

Since Will has such a balanced and lighthearted personality, what are his flaws? What are the dark sides of his personality? There are four main things that stick out.

1. He's insecure about his self-perceived lack of abilities.

"I agree," Will said. "I wish I was a better archer … I wouldn’t mind shooting my Roman relative off his high horse. Actually, I wish I could use any of my father’s gifts to stop this war." He looked down at his own hands with distaste. "Unfortunately, I’m just a healer."

2. He sometimes struggles to endure the heavy responsibilities he has as a healer and as a protector to his family.

“I got it reattached,” Will told me, his voice shaky with exhaustion. His scrubs were speckled with blood. “I need somebody to keep him stable.”

I pointed to the woods. “But—”

“I know!” Will snapped. “Don’t you think I want to be out there searching too? We’re shorthanded for healers. There’s some salve and nectar in that pack. Go!”

I was stunned by his tone. I realized he was just as concerned about Kayla and Austin as I was. The only difference: Will knew his duty. He had to heal the injured first. And he needed my help.

3. He forces himself to bottle his emotions to keep his composure.

Will laughed under his breath. “I’m terrified. But one thing you learn as head counselor: you have to keep it together for everyone else. Let’s get you on your feet."

Here's a second example.

I rested my hand on Will’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll be back by dawn.”

His mouth trembled ever so slightly. “How can you be sure?”

4. He constantly worries about his loved ones.

Nico rested his hand on Will’s shoulder. “Apollo, we were worried. Will was especially.”

In conclusion, Will Solace's personality is difficult to get correct. But don't worry, if you write Will as a laidback, witty cat in your fanfics, I guarantee he'll be more in-character than many other fanfics with Will Solace.

(Note: I am only human. If you believe I'm misinterpreting some aspects of Will's personality, feel free to express it. What I say isn't 100 percent the right interpretation.)

[elsanna-shenanigans]

June Contest Submission #21: Dashing

Words: ca. 5,500 Setting: 18th Century Caribbean/ Non-Canon   Lemon: lime CW: Mild Nudity/ Swearing/ Incest/ NO Lemons/ Small Limes/Violence

A/N: 

Bold/Italic indicates that a character is writing. 

Italic(with no Bold)  indicates a character’s inner thoughts. 

This story is a work of fiction and is not intended to represent a shred of historical accuracy in any way. 

Dashing

Dearest mother, 

is this truly where you envisioned my life to carry me?  Did you foresee that your dutiful daughter, Elsa, would be crated onto a ship bound for worlds unknown when you married her to Lord Hans Westergaard of the Dutch West India Trading Company? Did you not wish to keep your only daughter close, say on the same continent? I apologize, I should not start a letter so drearily. Conceal, don’t feel. It has been weeks at sea and I am fatigued. Before I forget, I must thank you for the wonderful parting gift. A book of dashing swashbucklers to distract from the otherwise ceaseless monotony of blue only occasionally broken by a thin veil between Heaven and Poseidon. We have entered a bit of unfortunate weather and the ship rolls like a devil. The thunder grows ever louder, and sometimes it sounds as if it’s right on top—

The wooden crate that was the captain’s quarters flipped on its side. Tables, chairs, and a lady found themselves tumbling across the lacquered walls of the gilded box before falling back to the polished floor now stained with spilled ink and a smattering of blood. 

Elsa held her head as she shook off the ringing in her ears. The doors to the cabin burst open where a panicked, and soaked, Hans Westergaard stood with arms outstretched between the paneled glass and his heart beating to the drone of endless rain.

“Hans..? What was—” 

“Pirates!! Hurry, hide yourself! They are already boarding!”  

Pirates? Attacking in the middle of a storm?

Elsa’s thoughts were cut short by the screams of men slicing through the roar of thunder and canons. Hans had locked the door behind him, leaving the fear to bubble within her corset. She frantically ran to the closet, but her hands had begun to shake as she fumbled with the latch. 

Another loud *THOOM* rocked the cabin, but this time it was against the locked door. 

Elsa finally got the latch open and threw herself inside amongst the forest of silk and linen. From within her sanctuary, all she could do was listen and pray. 

 *THOOM* 

Glass and wood crashed. 

Heels of heavy boots knocked.

*knock*

*knock*

The shrill of Elsa’s breath. 

She held her quivering lips and tried to force the air back into her lungs. 

The *knock* of boots grew. It trickled, slowly, until the canals of her ears were flooded. So close that she felt as if she would overflow with the anxiety and trapped air. 

Then silence. 

God, please protect me. Or send someone to protect me. Please, send anyone! Send Mr. Crusoe if you have to!

She was hit with a blinding light…

and a hand around her throat. 

NO!! Get your filthy hands off me!

She screamed in her mind for her voice was clutched in the coarse grip around her neck. She fought with all her pampered might, her arms striking in all directions until they too were held in place by a second firm shackle. 

Finally, Elsa managed to force her voice through the death grip. 

“Get…. your brutish hands… OFF ME!!” 

Blackness began to overtake her vision. The brute had her lifted against the back of the closet, her feet dangled in the air and the force around her neck tightened. 

Her ears were once again flooded, but with the sound of her own heartbeat as the blood in her veins struggled to course. Until a most unexpected sound washed everything else into non-existence. 

“Elsa…?” 

….

That voice… a woman’s voice? I am being manhandled by a woman? And how does she know my name? 

Elsa forced the darkness in her eyes to recede. The grip loosened and she fell to the closet floor. All she could see through the blur of burst veins was a wide, feathered hat, impossibly maroon hair, braided and beaded and rather filthy, and two verdant gems staring with a wide-eyed familiarity. 

I know those eyes… 

…..

“Anna…?” 

Her attacker backed away, seemingly unsure of what she was looking at. 

They stood within that broken, gilded box of a captain’s cabin. Alone with the sounds of swords and gunfire lost amongst the storm of surprise and uncertainty surrounding them. 

Elsa could not bear it any longer. 

“What happened to your hair?” 

And years of separation vanished. 

“My HAIR?! It’s been ten years and the first thing you do is judge my hair?!? Not, ‘oh hey, Anna, you look good for a dead girl’ or ‘oh my darling little sister, it’s been so long. I’ve missed you terribly?’. Either of those things would have been more normal!” 

Elsa picked herself up and gently caressed the rapidly forming bruise around her neck.

“Nothing about this is normal! You tried to strangle me!”

“Oh relax. I was just trying to stop you from screaming and then knock you out.” 

“Ah, I see. I am most relieved to hear that your plan was to simply render me unconscious.”

Anna’s head jerked back in a motion of mild disgust. 

“Why are you talking like that? You didn’t use to sound so hoity-toity.” 

Elsa looked rather indignant at the accusation as she mumbled “It’s not ‘hoity-toity’. Its grace and sophistication”. 

“Well, you’re not in a graceful or sophisticated situation so come on.”  

Anna grabbed her slender arm and she had almost forgotten that the hulking brute who was upon her moments before was the same lithe girl pulling her out into the rain as easily as a toddler dragging her teddy. The rain had washed the image of her sister away and all that was left was a pirate. 

And her fear. 

The ship rocked, lulled by the sudden absence of violence. Elsa found herself before a horde of men. Each one a more frightening image than the last and each one fit into her imaginary brute far better than the frame of her sister. 

So much for Mr. Crusoe…

An immensely rotund man stepped forward with a sneer in his mouth and a hunger in his eye. Elsa had no idea someone got so large living on a ship. “Oi Cap’n! You found a bit o’ treasure there!” 

His grubby hand reached for Elsa’s bosom in the most indelicate manner before a blade came between his dirty fingernail and the lace of her corset. 

“You know the rules, Bob,” Anna said with a voice commanding Poseidon’s wrath. “You touch her and you lose a finger.” 

Bob had the look of a scolded schoolboy as Anna dragged Elsa to the edge of the ship. “Aw cap’n… you always get the blonde ones!” 

Anna spun around in a fury, leaving Elsa to stand perilously on the thin plank that formed a makeshift bridge. She panicked as she fought for her balance in her heels and voluminous dress that was gaining pounds of water every second. 

“You shut your hole or I will shove Pete’s peg leg so far down your throat that you’ll be a three-legged barstool on Tortuga with a sign that says ‘reserved for Whale-Butt Willie’. Do I make myself CLEAR?” 

*Silence* as the men all looked at each other in submission. 

“Aye, cap’n…” 

Elsa swung her arms in vain to save herself from falling when Anna decided to skip the plank altogether, lifted her like a commoner’s bride, and leaped across the gap between ships. She was carried to a new gilded box, although this one noticeably less gilded but with significantly richer contents. 

“Let go of me, Anna! I am not a child, I am your older sis—” 

Elsa landed on her butt as Anna crossed her arms. 

“No, you’re not. Because your little sister died ten years ago. Now be quiet while I think of what to do with you.”

Elsa did her best to wring the rain out of her skirt, channeling the fear and anger building from her situation. 

“What to do with me? You mean like the other ‘blondes’? Tell me, Anna, what exactly do you plan to do with me?” 

“Elsa, don’t.”

“Not only do you slay men, but you bed women as well? Do you mean to have your way with me?” The anger was rapidly overtaking her fear as she glared at her little sister who still stood with her arms crossed, looking away.

“What? Gross, you’re my sister!” 

“I don’t claim to know the depravities you pirates get up to. And you just said that I am not your sister. How am I to interpret that other than to treat you as you appear. A pirate who’s kidnapped me.” 

Elsa’s gaze turned hard as thoughts filled her head of all the women Anna had grabbed by the neck and forced her will upon. 

“…How could you, Anna?”

Anna’s shoulders visibly stiffened. 

“I said, don’t.” 

But Elsa did anyway. 

“How could you do that to those women? You have your way with them and then what? Sell them into slavery? Is that my fate? You call yourself a woman while forcing—” 

*SLAP*

Elsa stood, speechless, as a red brand formed across her cheek. The pain was nothing compared to the shock that came from her sister’s palm now embedded into her skin.  

“Don’t you DARE judge me! You have been out here for all of five minutes. I have been on these waters since I was twelve FUCKING YEARS OLD! You don’t think I have had to put up with some shit?! You stand there in that ivory tower and judge my life when you don’t know the first thing about it!” 

Anna’s chest was heaving in rage while she stood pointing an accusatory finger. Elsa remained motionless and silent, still trying to process the sensation across her cheek and the words being said. 

Anna’s breathing started to calm. She crossed her arms again and turned so that she didn’t have to look at the bright red memento left behind by her hand. 

“I…I don’t force them. I never force them. Don’t assume you know what life has been like for me. I could never do those things. I would never. My ship has rules, and those rules include being god-damned respectful so you better be god-damned respectful of me.”

Elsa’s fingers spread across her cheek, matching tip-for-tip against the first contact she has had with her sister since they were children. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. 

“You’re right. I don’t know what your life has been like. I don’t know what drove you to run away, but I have a pretty good idea seeing as how I lived it in your stead. Perhaps… I sound so much like mother because…

… I was left behind.”

Anna felt the words land across her cheek as assuredly as Elsa felt her palm. She refused to turn and look at her sister. The shame of the truth was staring at her from across her own cabin and she would not bear it. She quietly stormed toward the door. 

“Anna…? Where are you going?” 

Still refusing to turn, Anna simply said “someone needs to pilot the ship” and walked into the rain. 

I sat alone, looking out my window for years wondering if she would ever return to me, and now that she has she slaps me and holds me captive so that she can decide my fate?

Storm be damned, Elsa launched herself through the doors and turned toward the banister that led to the helm above. Her adrenaline-fueled legs carried her halfway up the stairs before she saw Anna at the wheel, staring at her in absolute shock. 

Their eyes met and time seemed to slow to a fraction. Elsa felt the sound of Anna’s name on her breath as she began to release it into the howling wind. She didn’t feel the rain, or hear the shouting, or see the pully flying through the air as it slammed into her skull. All she knew was that she was about to yell out her sister’s name after she failed to do so ten years ago from her window as she watched Anna leave her behind. 

 \\///////////////////////////////

I’ve had the most wondrous dream. My ship was besieged by pirates! But I was not afraid for I was confronted by a most dashing figure. He was rough around the edges but with the kindest green eyes, like a crystal spring dusted with scattered sundrops through the canopy. He held me with such strength as he kissed me most tenderly. I can still taste the spicy sweetness on his lips; rum and coconut. 

There he is now! The hat is missing but there is no mistaking those piercing eyes. And that hair, such an unthinkable maroon color. Yes, my dashing pirate. 

\\///////////////////////////////

“Hey, you’re alive!” 

As her vision cleared, Elsa lay with her back in the sand and stared wide-eyed and mouth ajar at the woman leaning above her. 

“I… where…? ……..Anna?” 

Anna leaned in close to inspect for signs of a concussion or any other injury. So close that Elsa caught a familiar scent from her sister’s lips.

Rum and coconut…

“Well, you look alive at least so that’s something.”

Elsa slowly sat up, fighting back a sudden pain in her temple. She reached for the side of her head and found a swath of fabric wrapped around. 

“What happened?” 

“You got knocked overboard. It was pretty awesome actually. You flew clear over the railing.” 

“How did I get here?” 

Anna placed her index finger under her bottom lip while she began to sort through her memories. 

“Let’s see, first, mother married you to a slaver. Then I think I cut his head off but it’s hard to remember which dead dutchman was him. Then—” 

“Anna! I meant how did I end up on this beach?” 

“Oh! Be more specific, jeez. The storm carried us for a while and we washed up here.” 

“You… jumped in after me?” 

Anna’s face turned solemn but determined. She stood, clearly uncomfortable with the words she was about to say. 

“Of course. I wasn’t going to leave you behind again.” 

And despite the fact that she managed to get the words out, she still walked away in that same manner trying to keep the unsettling shame at arm’s length. 

As Elsa watched her sister stroll up the beach toward the tree line, the reality of her predicament suddenly dawned on her. 

“Wait, Anna! Are you telling me that we are stranded on a deserted island?!” 

While keeping her stride, Anna replied with a simple “yup”. 

Elsa scrambled off the sand after her, with a newfound panic quickly settling in. 

“What are we going to do? How are we going to survive?! We are going to starve to death. No, we will die of thirst first. Or perhaps cannibals will eat us—” 

“Oh for Christ’s sake, chill out! There’s no such thing as cannibals on these islands. Seriously, you read too many books. Relax, this isn’t the first deserted island I’ve been stuck on.”

As they made their way off the beach Elsa saw swaths of blue cloth tied around branches and an array of wide leaves that formed a surprisingly well constructed little bungalow complete with a floor, walls of fabric to keep the bugs out, and a watertight roof. 

“You’ve already made a house. How long was I unconscious?”

“Only since last night,” Anna said with a casual shrug. 

“You constructed all this in a single morning?” Elsa’s jaw had dropped. “Where did you get this material…” 

As she examined the blue strips of fabric and the makeshift netting her eyes grew wide and wider as she inspected herself to find that she was clad in nothing but her shift dress undergarment. 

“That’s my dress!” 

“Ya, you had enough fabric in that thing I could’ve made a whole other house! And the boning from the corset was a real help getting things sturdy.” 

“You undressed me!” 

“So? We’re sisters last I checked.” 

Elsa’s modesty couldn’t help but notice that Anna was equally in a state of undress unfit for a lady. She wore a pair of simple slacks that ended at the middle of her calves and tied around a low waist with a piece of rope. Her shirt, or lack thereof, was missing a few buttons, a few sleeves, and several inches too short. Her bare ankles mocked Elsa’s sensibilities and were only eager to point out that Elsa’s ankles were also parading around the sand in nothing more than her pale skin. 

“Last I checked, you told me that my sister had died. So who are you to take off my dress?” she said hoping that she wasn’t blushing. 

Anna sat in her makeshift hovel with a sudden onset of melancholy. 

“…You’re right. I’m sorry. The sister that you knew may have died, but perhaps I was hoping… considering that I saved you and all, that you could be… this Anna’s sister.”

Elsa came over, her heart suddenly heavy as she watched this brutish pirate transform into the girl she last saw ten years ago. She sat down next to Anna, their exposed freckled shoulders barely a hairsbreadth away. 

“Anna… why did you run away?”

Anna looked down, twiddling her thumbs. 

“I… I was betrothed to Duke Weasleton.”

Elsa tried to recall but confusion had clouded her memory. 

“Weasleton? But he was so old. And didn’t he—” 

“Die? Yes, he did die. After I left a letter opener in his eye socket.” 

“Oh my God, Anna!

“Mother was going to disown me and sell me to a brothel. No way was I going to let that happen so I ran. Pretended I was a boy and stowed away on the first ship bound for the Caribbean.” 

Without giving Elsa any time to dwell on her history, Anna changed the subject. 

“I thought you were destined for the cloister?”

Taking the cue, Elsa obliged her sister’s request. 

“I was, but after you left… I became mother’s only method for climbing the social ladder. You know I was never comfortable at social gatherings. Mother basically told me to smile, and not say anything or do anything. Conceal, don’t feel. Eventually, I caught the eye of one of the ‘princes’ of the West India Trading Company. I think you and I have spoken more words in the last few minutes than he and I spoke during our entire marriage, which admittedly was only just before we set sail.”

“You’re welcome.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“For cutting your husband’s head off. Let’s have a toast!” 

Anna reached behind her and pulled out from regions unknown a massive coconut. She reached around her other side and pulled out from different parts unknown a large knife. With the coconut in one hand and the knife in the other, she dexterously spun the coconut in her palm while slashing with the knife in precise timing to cleanly create a neat opening off the top of the husky surface. 

“How did you do that?”

“Lots of practice. You should have seen the gash on my hand the first time I tried.” 

“I’m glad I didn’t.” 

Anna gave her sister the newly opened coconut and proceeded to open her own in the same fashion. With her own drink now ready, she motioned to Elsa’s coconut. 

“To dead husbands and forgotten mothers!”

Elsa, a bit hesitant, found herself suddenly distracted. The scent of the freshly opened coconut combined with the stare of those green emeralds triggered a flutter she did not understand. She mentally shook the feeling away, concussion no doubt, and lightly knocked her coconut against the other. 

“And to new sisters!” 

\\///////////////////////////////

I have been stranded on an island with an unexpected companion. I don’t know how long it’s been. Time seems to pass differently here. 

A moment ago, I found myself watching her for what seemed like hours. She was squatting on the beach, her elbows propped on her knees with her hands between them while she stared most intently at the sand below. I noticed that she was watching a crab enter to and fro from its burrow. At one point the crab came out of the hole and started scurrying about with its claws in the air like a little dance. Then Anna raised her own hands into the air, made little clamping motions, and started to scuttle across the sand after her newfound companion. It was absolutely absurd, this grown woman scurrying like a crab on the sand. 

I can’t seem to reconcile this image of my sister who is just as boisterous, playful as ever, with this other woman. She hunted a wild boar, which she carried over her shoulders, seemingly with no effort, through the forest, barefoot, without a shred of decency. I could see the muscles of her arms tense under the weight. The freckled skin of her stomach has seen far more sun than any woman ought to. The heat and exertion caused beads of sweat to travel down her neck and across her collar bone… 

It is a sight that I have neither seen nor read in my entire life and yet it is here and churning with the image of my sister scuttling across the beach. How do I reconcile such a thing? 

And to make matters worse, she does not conduct herself as a lady should at all. As we explored the island, we hiked through rather rugged terrain. The ground was painful and I took quite a stumble. She had the gall to reach out and assist me as if she was a gentleman! I took the hand, grateful for the assistance nonetheless and she continued to aid me through our trek. As we scaled a wet rock, she lifted me as easily as the dead boar, and as I soared through the air, our arms glistening from the water and sweat, I couldn’t help but look up into those eyes. I thought I knew those eyes but… sometimes they stare at me in such a way… 

How do I navigate these torrential feelings as they spin around my thoughts like the whirlpool of Odysseus? How can a single person be your oldest, dearest friend and yet also someone who you’ve just met… and who makes your heart skip a beat when you reach out and take her hand…and look into her eyes…?

“Wat’cha doin?” 

Startled, Elsa nearly jumped out of her skin and sent the paper in her hand flying into the air where she hastily grabbed them to whisk away from her sister’s prying eyes. Anna had magically appeared behind Elsa as she sat on the beach. 

A shudder trembled across Elsa’s skin as she felt the linen fabric of Anna’s shirt press against her bare shoulder blades. Two freckled arms wrapped around her shoulders and embraced her in a close but casual fashion. Yet Elsa did not receive such affection casually. She bolted up and spun to look at her younger sister who knelt in the sand with her head cocked like a confused fox. 

“Really, Anna, why do you not act like a lady!” 

Her response to this was to lean back, causing her shirt to stretch against her chest, and bend one knee over the other as she gave a taunting eyebrow raise to Elsa. 

“I am perfectly capable of acting ‘like a lady’. In fact, It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

Elsa looked away at the sight sprawled out on the sand, basking in the sun and taunting her with wiggling eyebrows. 

“Oh really?”

“You didn’t see my closet of dresses in my cabin. I can pull off quite a figure if I want to.” 

“When does a pirate have need of dresses?” 

Anna grew a mischievous smile. She rose from the sand and slowly sauntered over to where Elsa was standing.

“It’s one of my favorite cons. I go into one of the big cities, Port Royal or Havanna, I insert myself into the circles of aristocratic socialites whose husbands are either too preoccupied or too deceased to notice. I mingle, I dance…” 

She reached out with her hand and placed a single pad of the tip of her middle finger on the edge of Elsa’s shoulder so lightly that Elsa barely felt it and yet a new shudder rocked her entire body. 

“Maybe I enter the service of a… very respectable woman…”

The fingertip slowly danced across Elsa’s shoulder. It skipped over the sleeve and made its meandering way toward the base of her neck. All the while, Anna stepped around to once again place herself against the rapidly stiffening back of her sister. That single middle finger now moved in short, deliberate strokes, up and down, gradually undulating pressure against Elsa’s neck. 

Her head couldn’t help but lean to the side, coaxing the finger to lengthen its stride, where she unwittingly leaned into the soft whisper of Anna’s voice against her ear. 

“As I…delicately pull at the laces that bind such a… woman of standing, releasing her from her monotonous life of apathy, I let my voice carry between the edge of my lips and the arch of her ear… 

‘What more will you have of me, my lady…’”  

“I would have you devour me.”

“What?”

“What?” Elsa’s entire body and mind froze. 

I didn’t… I couldn’t! Did I just…? 

“Did you just—”

“I just—  I… jest! Yes, I jest, obviously. Really, Anna, you think I don’t know how to tease you back. I may be socially inept but I can surely tease my sister!”

Elsa broke free from her sister’s thrall, clutching the papers against her thundering chest. She shuffled down the beach, her legs as rigid as wooden pillars kicking up sand in their wake. Anna watched the pitiful sight stumble over a piece of driftwood, only to pick herself back up and continue on as if nothing had happened.

\\///////////////////////////////

Conceal, don’t feel. I must conceal for I can not possibly feel what I am feeling. I can not. I do not. I love my sister because she is my sister. I have missed this connection for so long… my mind is just confused. The heat, the concussion, the sheer insanity of this place. I should find Anna. Make sure that she didn’t take what I said as anything other than sisterly teasing.

As if on cue, Anna came bounding down the beach, arm swinging wildly to get Elsa’s attention. 

“Els! Come look what I found!” 

She grabbed Elsa’s arm and started pulling her back toward the way she came. Elsa kept pace this time and her arm relaxed into the grip that led it down the moonlit beach. They made their way over rocks and turned a corner into a small cove. Anna stopped and spread her arms out with a beaming smile of excitement. 

“I don’t understand”, was all Elsa could think to say.  

To Elsa’s horror, Anna lifted her shirt over her thick, maroon locks and threw it on the rocks. She now stood half-naked in the silver rays of the night sky. 

Oh, dear God in Heaven and all that is good and decent in this world and the next…

“Just watch!”

Anna looked out on the water, as black as night with only the moonbeams cascading across the surface. Then in one swift motion, she dove in. 

And Elsa’s eyes became filled with magic. 

The water bloomed into a burst of color. Waves of blue light rippled across the surface, radiating out from the body that had penetrated it. Anna stood in the shallow water, surrounded by the light of heaven trapped within the waves of a starlight sea. 

“What magic is this…?” 

“Isn’t it awesome! They are like, tiny little animals that glow at night. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?!” 

“Never…” 

“Well, don’t be shy Els. Dive in! They don’t bite or anything.” 

Elsa hesitated. She looked at Anna, then at the black water below her, then at the mystical blue speckles dotting the surface around Anna’s waist, like a dress sewn by fairies that twinkled in the starlight. She placed one timid toe on the surface of the water and gasped in shock as spirals of blue light erupted from her touch. She looked once more to her sister who gave her the most reassuring smile in the entire world. 

And she dove in. 

Elsa soared through the azure sky, her loose hair flowing behind her as she came up from the surface near where stars in the sea met the stars that studded the pale skin of her sister’s body. 

I can’t. I don’t! I won’t…

They stood inches apart, wading in the night sky like star-crossed constellations desperate to reach out and touch only to be perpetually far apart for eternity. 

I mustn’t……..

She felt Anna peering deep into her soul. Did she wonder what was going on behind her eyes, as blue and brilliant as the luminescence surrounding their bodies? Could she sense the howling winds? Could she feel the thundering heartbeat through the water? 

Would she feel it? 

I… Oh to hell with it!!

The raging storm crashed against the surface. Hard and heavy and full of unbridled desire and longing. All at once, Elsa had released the torrent within her, letting the swells of her passion wash over her sister’s lips, her skin, her entire body, and soul. The magic had struck like lightning. 

And then it was gone. 

Anna pushed her sister away. That chasm of the cosmos restored. 

“Elsa, what the hell are you—?”

“I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer me truthfully.” Elsa stood her ground in the heavens that would deny her. 

“When you look at me, what do you see?” 

“I don’t understand Elsa…” 

“Do you see that girl, looking from her bedroom window? Her hand on the glass. Too afraid to go outside, too afraid to call out your name. Because when I look at you I see this girl. I see her laughing and playing and rolling around in the mud. But I also see this woman. Strong and kind. She makes me laugh, makes me inspired! I tremble when faced with the perils of the entire world, and yet she stands on top like it’s her domain! Tell me that I am insane. Tell me that all you see is that girl in the window and then I can be rid of these feelings that plague me for this impossible woman who can not be both sister and lover! Please—!!”

“YES, that is ALL I see!”

Anna was trembling. She still looked deep into her sister, locked by the pleading gaze no matter how much she wanted to turn away. 

“That girl… that big sister who I left behind. When I look at you that is all I see.”

Elsa’s breathing finally started to slow. The words that she pleaded to hear had broken through the clouds of her heart and the calm would soon take over. The acceptance of what she already knew to be the way of the universe would come. Once back to civilization, she could resume her life. Banish the madness and— 

“I saw her… every day. Everywhere. She was there when I joined a crew. She stood by me as I learned to man the wheel. I would not have survived a single day out here without her by my side.” 

Elsa’s breathing had slowed to the point of imperception. 

“…I saw her in the women that I knew. In…the women that I loved…It sounds so wrong but when you’re a young woman who relied on the faded memory of a long-lost sister for your support you can’t help but find that sister in any amount of affection you find! I had long accepted that it was my madness and I would take that madness wherever I go. And now that madness has taken a hold of you. When you came back into my life, I thought I could bury it, but instead, I passed it on to you.”

Each woman now turned away from the other, no longer able to meet each other’s solemn gaze. 

“When we get off this island, I will go back to my ship and I will bring you to Curaçao and we will go our separate ways.”

Elsa simply nodded. 

“I would still like to write you… if I can?” Anna’s voice had lost her usual commanding confidence. 

“I would like that…” Elsa’s voice could barely carry itself over the narrow strip of water between them. 

Anna slowly made her way across the water to the rocks where her discarded shirt lay. She buttoned the few remaining buttons over her chest when she heard the whisper of the water moving behind her. 

Her dress clung to her body, revealed in the glow. Their eyes met for the first time once more and an inexplicable force dragged Anna back into the water and in the embrace of the siren below. Elsa’s hand caressed Anna’s cheek. Her finger traced lines down Anna’s neck. The span of cosmos between them receded until the storm that had once rocked both their celestial cores had dissipated and all that was left was their lips crossing the horizon. And Elsa felt her sister’s name on her breath once more as she finally released it to the wind. 

 “Would one night of madness be too much to ask?” 

[jjkpls]

crayons ‘set’ (PG)

> genre : fluffy fluff, light angst, comedy

> pairing : kim namjoon x reader

> words : 3.8k

> warnings : none (except a rusty quill)

>Y/N, a primary school teacher, is way too soft for the quiet, timid new child in her class. Little did she know, the adult version, who engendered this cutie, is even more charming.

> prior

> next

The principle of balance. 

It’s a curious concept. Like most of the things that turn people into different versions of themselves, just from an unconscious force brought to light by the sheer inner sense of competition that inhabits every single person. It’s quieter in some people. Feel non-existent sometimes. But it’s here, dormant, just waiting on the right trigger to awaken. 

You didn't think you would see it in Jimmy. The little boy lacks completely self-confidence and affirmation. But a voice and a stance, easily remarkable, end up fitting him.

It turns out that you witness it quite quickly after the Progress has started. And it manifests in the most adorable and comical of ways. 

It’s been a few weeks since you've met his dad. There wasn’t much to talk about with him yet. Every day, longer lingerings of the gaze, less tucking away in the far back of the rest of the group, more definite wordless participations during class -nodding and clapping along. The progress you've been wholly satisfied with but nothing so drastically different that you thought necessary to call his father in for. 

Nothing absolutely astonishing. Therefore you didn’t call and what a surprise this one Thursday afternoon turns out to be when he appears at your class’s doorway.

He’s wearing very casual clothes, a simple light linen shirt and some distended jeans to pair, sneakers and his hair -you've only seen neatly tucked to the side- is floating about his forehead, freshly washed and devoid of any wax. It’s a pleasant surprise, especially with the evident appearance of calm and quiet tranquillity he’s carrying. 

This man looks rather handsome when he’s on vacation, stressless and well-rested and seemingly content, you note.

“Mr Kim?”

He looks up from his son he is holding the hand of, eyes wide and bewildered as he stares a little. You chuckle, confused but amused. He’s the one paying you a surprise visit but he’s shocked when you do talk to him?

“Is it bad timing? I can come back another day...” From the look he’s giving you, or more accurately, barely sparing you, body already aiming for the corridor, you wonder if you should return the question. It'd be cruel though, to tease, therefore you choose to simply shake your head and insist on him walking in. And then it happens, the man can’t take a step inside, for some reason. He’s just paralysed, looking like a million contradicting thoughts are fighting inside his brain and he simply cannot make out the best option, if he would or not step in; and it’s Jimmy who takes the decision for him. Puffing his cheeks out in annoyance, he pushes against his father's leg, small hands pulling the bigger one towards him. It’s like watching a tiny mouse trying to drag along a giraffe. It has little to no physical effect until there’s an aggravated tiny whine of “appa”. He moves, at last, letting himself stood in front of me before Jimmy lets go of his hand. 

He gives you a look you're not sure you interpret well. Dark eyes all serious, attention loud, he seems to be intrusting his father to you. A gentle smile, hiding your teeth biting back a hilarious grin, sends him away towards the very back of the room. Taking a seat next to the bookshelf, it takes Jimmy a few minutes only after you've diverted your attention from him to grab an image book and start going through it patiently.

He's so comfortable. Almost too comfortable. He looks strange, like that. Strange because different from usual but still, oddly, it fits him well. It's like a projection, a little vision of a future little boy, easygoing, at peace with himself and his environment, that won't take too long to be born again.

And it's now the dad who's acting weird. He's standing on his two never-ending legs, the tip of his fingers toying nervously with the button of his vest, his mouth keeps teasing, opening slightly, as if about to spill a word, only to shut itself right up, a lightly aggravated sigh following soon after. It happens quite a couple of times until you get tired of waiting. Tired of the eyes avoiding you, the tension heavy for no particular reason that you could decipher, you ring him awake with an abrupt overexaggerated clearing of your throat.

"Mr Kim?" He's confounded again, caught off guard somehow. "Did you mean to discuss something with me?" It's hard to make an adult talk, you realise. Sometimes children can be difficult. Put aside Jimmy's case, sometimes children are like that. Making them want to share, especially when they are at that age where they can't express themselves and their ideas as well as they wish they could, frustration, laziness at times can get the better of them and having a fairly constructed conversation with them is like pulling teeth out of a very adamant, unwilling person. But you manage. Adults, on the other hand, have never been too much of your cup of tea. There's a reason why you chose to spend the better part of your weeks with children instead of adults. You're not that terrible at getting along with them, you do it pretty well, honestly. But the reason is probably the fact that you're not difficult. You're convenient as a person, always willing to help, always trying to be positive, you do not get in people's way and most of the times, it's enough to make it through.

You don't deal with adults the way you deal with children. With great pleasure and passion, you insert yourself into your pupils' existence, try to leave a mark and help them have the better, feel the better, be the better. Adults, you don't get too involved. They sound complicated, complexed, too many compromises, too many facets. You know because you are one too.

And Mr Kim, looking all nervous and troubled seem the very embodiment of this bias you have. He looks some sort of troubles. Probably nothing that terrible. He appears too childish for it to be that grave. But he's serious about it, about the anxiety, the struggle, the uneasiness he's feeling, you can tell, just from the way he hasn't been able to look at you in the eyes since he appeared in your class. Still, whatever it is, will cost some of your time, and with that, might clog up some very much needed space you require in this busy head of yours.

It's happened before. A new neighbour trying to get closer to you, maybe because they've just moved in the city, didn't know anyone, and you looked friendly enough and they needed someone to listen to the exhaustive list of all the things that made them leave their hometown -even though, you don't necessarily care for any of it. Or a colleague, trying to get you involved in their office dramas, simply because people need the attention, the feeling of importance and support.

Quite frankly, you've never been interested in any of them. Adults sound like too much work, especially given the fact that, as filled with flaws as they are, they are a pain, and often impossible, to fix. And they say things they don't mean. And they want things that they don't need. Their words and their acts hardly ever match. They're for the most part unrecoverable and unfixable, and you don't want any of it.

But Mr Kim and his dimples -invisible to the eye at the moment, but that you realise marked your brain so strongly you can picture them exactly where they should be winking- are piquing your interest. You're ninety-nine per cent sure it is not about Jimmy but you'd like to know. Never mind that curiosity killed the cat.

“Yes, uh-“ Clearing of the throat, scratching of the neck and more clearing of the throat. “about last time...”

You're lost. For a second, your body freezes to give your brain its full capacity to wreck through the whole place and retrieve a memory that seems to have been lost somehow, somewhere. You have no idea what time he is referring to. 

He seems so invested, so intensely experiencing his emotions you're left shocked and deeply embarrassed to not remember something that had that effect on him yet didn’t leave a single trace on you. 

He insists then, having to face your transparent confusion. The more you stand in pure oblivion, the more awkward he gets. Stuttering more, an accent, very deep, adding rough edges to his voice, colouring his words with new shades that you've never heard before.

“Mr Kim-“

“Namjoon.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“No, it’s me, I am, I’m-“ You will, later, feel terrible for it. It’s undeniable. But right now, facing this grown-ass man, usually so collected now decomposing in the most adorable red-cheeked boyish thing, you can only start laughing. It renders him speechless which in a way is almost an improvement and when you finally can restrain the giggles from bubbling straight from your belly, you start again,

“Maybe take a deep breath, take your time.” You bite your lip down to the blood, poorly concealing your grin when he actually does it. “What did you mean by ‘last time’?” You're mortified to ask, honestly, persuaded that you should know but at this point, it’s pretty mean but you don’t think you can embarrass yourself that much in front of him, not when he’s been such a mess himself. 

“When we met. When I came to talk about my son.” Calmly, diligently he answers. Like a good boy answering his teacher’s question, a shadow of worry covering his usually sharp gaze. 

“Oh, what about it?” Curiosity melts with confusion as you refrain yourself from pressing him further into elaborating faster, eager as you are to understand. You were sure he was not going to talk about him. 

“I’d been a bit much and I wanted to apologise personally to you.”

Been a bit much? 

“In what sense? I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s just- I poured myself and our luggage on you when you’re- I know you care about my son but I shouldn’t have, I don’t know, I shouldn’t have-“

You hate cutting people off. It’s a terrible habit you are constantly trying to teach your students to drop. But here he is, struggling to express an idea that irks you strongly. Is he able to put the words he needs? Does he even know them in his own mother tongue or do they even exist? Maybe what he's trying to express are pure emotions. Unease coming from a heart shameful for having shown itself vulnerable to a stranger. You'd know about this feeling. You've experienced it plenty of times, throughout all your life. Even if it wasn’t in the form of you stripping your heart off to someone, like he did, simply showing that you cared gave you the same sense of vulnerability, of terrifying exposure you've always had a hard time dealing with. 

You hate the idea that he regrets it, especially with you. At that time, you could tell he had words to pour out. You were glad, you were even enchanted to be the one helping out no matter how small you just assumed your impact to have been. And now, he's trying to say that he regrets it?

“You said you were thankful to have someone to talk to.”

“I did say that.” He mumbles, pressing the pad of his fingers against his closed eyes. 

“Then don’t regret it. I don’t want you to be embarrassed about this, seriously. I had parents do way more, actually embarrassing, things in my career. Don’t even worry about it.” He’s thinking it over. You can tell your words have little to no impact on his bruised ego. “I’m not sure how appropriate it is for me to say that but if you need it, whenever in the future, don’t hesitate. I’m not a psychologist, but I’m just- I’m willing to listen if it can help. I mean me or anyone else, really, you should in general just share. It’s important. You don’t want Jimmy to mimic such bad habits like so, holding in and all.” You may be talking too much. The man just looks so eager to hear those words and it spurs you on. “You really shouldn’t feel embarrassed. I can understand the feeling, where it comes from, but it’s pointless with me.”

“You’re really kind.” You give a smile, only. It’s not much but you're pretty sure it’s the genuineness tinting it that renders it enough. Again, he seems surprised. As bewildered as last time but undoubtedly convinced. “I’m glad he has you as his teacher.”

Your cheeks burn intensely. You don’t know how conscious he is of his words. If he realises that he perfected the art of flattery and of slipping people in his pocket. He really did. Especially when he’s leaning slightly towards you, gaze intense and on you now that the embarrassment has vanished for the most part and he can bear looking at you, seemingly hanging out for any other words you may have in stock.

There’s nothing left for you to say though. It takes you quite a few attempts to skim over your brain, trying to formulate a sentence, any word, but you come out completely empty. You can’t even stutter a thank you from how utterly flustered you're feeling. 

Therefore you choose the easy way out. Waltzing on your heels to give him your back, your hands reaching to the barely messy top of your desk to pretend they’re busy. You believe yourself to have been sleek enough but apparently not so -maybe it’s the fact that you're just picking up stuff to put them exactly where they belong, at the exact same place. 

“Was I inappropriate? I’m really sorry, Mrs ___. Sometimes I just talk too much and I don’t realise that maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Please stop apologising. It’s fine, you’re fine. You’re just- You saying nice things that you mean,” You stumble upon the last words as if maybe you're getting over your own head to just assume and claim so loud that he must mean the sweet things he said to you but that bashful yet adorable expression he's wearing, with the eyes a bit wide and the bottom lip munched, fill you with a regain of confidence, “can’t be an issue. It’s just unexpected and- I mean you’re fine you can say whatever you want. I mean I’m not asking for more compliments, I’m just saying-“

It’s terribly unnerving. You don’t know what impression you're giving off as a teacher. Lacking so much elocution, scrambling to form sentences and turning into a messy, overwhelmed emotional mess. 

“I don’t mind giving you more compliments, Mrs ___.” Here comes that curious principle of balance again. You're half-dying of mortification and he seems to be having fun, smiling kindly, with a hint of something else -amusement, maybe even smudginess. 

Is he flirting with me? There’s no way he’s flirting. I think I’m losing my mind. 

“It’s Miss, actually.” You swear to yourself, silently, that you're not flirting back -assuming he is, in fact, doing just that- and you just mean to be called by an accurate name. 

“Oh.” He almost gasps. Looking shocked and you don’t understand what’s going on anymore. Was he really not flirting? Why does he look so shaken as if you misinterpreted his intentions and now he’s misinterpreting yours and think you're getting over your head -because you're not, you were not flirting!

“I’m not flirting with you, I’m just clarifying!” 

You hate this whole conversation. You hate yourself, your life and anything and everything that may or may not have led you to this tragic instant.

You're positive you screamed a little. You get confirmation of just that from the tiny mop of hair bouncing up in your peripheral vision, as Jimmy gives you two a slightly concerned, curious look. 

The tension is blatant. It's a mixture of irritation, of anxiety, of embarrassment. You couldn't have messed up any worse than you did and you positively want to simply die, right about now.

The mere thought that you'll have to live with this humiliation not only for the whole day ahead, blatantly hanging out at the back of your head, sometimes probably too close to your consciousness for any sense of comfort to ever inhabit you again, but for your entire life makes you want to throw yourself out the window. You decide not to indulge in the pressing pulsion only because you're on the ground floor, therefore, it would be pointless if not even more humiliating.

Mr Kim, somehow, helps a little. By not wearing a mask of pure revolt, revulsion or aggravation. He stares soundly, expression not giving off much to work with. Just enough to understand he is not mad, simply lost in his own thoughts he doesn't seem too keen on sharing.

A spark of sensibility blooms suddenly in your brain. You're so thankful for it, you jump right on it, grab it with your two hands and start again, as if nothing happened, as if you haven't just humiliated yourself in front of this man (and his son), "Jimmy has made a lot of progress, I've noted."

Mr Kim blinks a few times, unnaturally so. "Yeah? I mean, yes, I've noticed too, actually." He keeps staring with the same obnoxiously loud thoughts running in his mind. His brain is on full activity mode. It's obvious. And he doesn't care too much about talking about his son right this second (even though he doesn't seem to care much about sharing what's going through that private head of his either).

How disappointing. You sincerely thought the one subject that matters the most to him would successfully tear the attention away from you but you're a fool. Apparently, even the cute little bean of a son he has can't divert the attention from the humiliation you've just submitted yourself to.

"Anyway, I won't hold any more of your time, you must have work to attend to."

"Actually I'm not working today. I have the day off." Your lip now too sensitive, you attack the inner part of your cheek with your teeth -thankfully you've turned your back to him again, feigning observing with great attention something through the windows- to stop yourself from screeching. It takes him so long, so fucking long for him to decide, finally, that maybe he should leave. The longest dozens of seconds of your life. Staring outside, picturing him behind you, probably watching you wondering to himself how you can be so lame and how he could have thought you a good fit to be his precious son's teacher. "Ah, I should leave anyway. Your class is about to start?"

"Ah, yes. Well, thanks for passing by. I hope you rest well." It's the least genuine you've been with this man, and anyone for the matter, in so long. Your heart and mind are in such a shamble you don't actually remember the reason for his coming and if, really, anything positive came out of this conversation.

It's ridiculous how you feel, all bothered and nervous, aggravated with him for making you feel so flustered. You give him the most convincing fake smile you own, not taking the time to check if he buys it as you don't dare lingering your attention on him for any longer than the blink of the eye takes.

When he leaves, only after having scattered a bunch of smooches on Jimmy's face, you find yourself breathing again. It's like you've been holding in for so long, you're getting dizzy at the taste of oxygen again, heart beating furiously in your chest, sweating all over.

Fuck, that was painful.

You're such an idiot sometimes. Why do you have to be such a fucking idiot? It's not like you're asking much in this life, honestly. You're not aiming at any groundbreaking, universe shaking novelties. You're staying in your line, trying to be good and do good in your own little world. Not asking much, not taking without beforehand being offered. Is it really that much to ask to not be absolutely humiliated in front of one of your kids' parent, who happens to be a stupidly handsome man? (Yes, he is. You can admit that -to yourself. It's probably the reason why your brain stopped working properly, by the way.) You're cursed. I'm cursed, I'm cursed, I'm cur-

"Mish?" The quietest little call comes from the quietest little boy. Standing a secure meter away from you, his peculiar big black eyes staring with a silent demand in them, Jimmy waits patiently for your attention to be given to him. You offer it to him with great enthusiasm. Because between self-pitying your dumb ass and celebrating the first-ever-self-willingly-uttered word to you by this boy, the choice is not even to be pondered over.

"Yes, Jimmy?" He's holding in one hand your crayons he slowly tends your way, careful not to spill them all from his tiny fist. In the other one, there's a paper he's drawn on. Your eyes instinctively are driven to it, curious to see what he decided to draw when he felt comfortable enough to do it. He catches the line of your attention, evidently, and it takes him a second but then, finally, he decides you're allowed to see it. It's a too accurate copy of the ugly cat you made for him the other day. The colours are different, the traits a bit shakier yet, completely unbiasedly, you have to admit that he somehow made it look better. "That's a very pretty cat, Jimmy."

He looks at it, ruminates your words, trying to make sense of them, verify their accuracy. Suddenly he seems to decide that you're right and giving you another candid look, he returns to his table where he proceeds to carefully slip the drawing in his bag.

You realise your eyes are filled up with prickling tears while you sniff. You're not sure how much is due to this, how much the terrible, terrible encounter with his dad worked your emotions so intensely you're so sensitive now. In any case, it turns out for the better. It's this cute little cat that ends up making you and your day ahead feel better. You're so thankful for it.

Again, you know you're too involved but how are you supposed to do any different with them? Maybe it wasn't a punishment earlier. Maybe it was the storm before the ray of sunshine. It's probably the case. You're less aggravated, suddenly. Less vexed and probably more lenient on talking to this man again given, not the ray of sunshine, but actually rainbow that he may have helped cause to colour your day.

A/N: thanks for reading 💜

[mazurah]

Fear and Loneliness in Seyda Neen

Seyda Neen reminded Ma’zurah a little bit of home. The tall trees, the smell of water and vegetation, the guar--gods, Ma’zurah had not seen guar since she left Elsweyr--it all conspired to be both painful and comforting.

Her first few steps of freedom after completing the paperwork they made her sign for her release revealed that there was not actually all that much to the town. She could easily see from one end to the other. There were the docks, bordered by the Census and Excise office and a few small warehouses, with a handful of other houses and buildings beyond that. They looked new. Beyond the docks and warehouses on the shore, nestled into the edge of town stood a cluster of older wooden shacks that looked out of place next to the stone and thatch of the new Imperial buildings, like a fishing village that had gotten lost.

Scanning the surrounding area, Ma'zurah saw trees and swamp in one direction, and the sea in the other. She spotted a lighthouse perched at the end of a small peninsula past the last wooden shack; not exactly part of town, but not far enough away to be isolated either. Across a stretch of water, down the uneven coast, Ma'zurah thought she could see something floating like a small moon on the horizon, with buildings standing beneath, but they were much too far to make out any detail.

A cursory search for someplace resembling a shop or an inn revealed the tradehouse, located halfway between the new and old parts of town. Her attempts at conversation resulted in an informative exchange with a Redguard scout who was happy to give her an overview of the local geography.

It was approaching evening by the time Ma'zurah reluctantly turned her mind to what to do next. The tradehouse had no rooms available, and she had her orders: go to Balmora, deliver a package, and receive her next set of instructions. She had been given enough money to afford a fare on the strange, tall insect whose echoing call reverberated like something that should by all rights have been underwater. The ride was exciting, like riding a walking tree while the sun set in fabulous shades of pink and red around her. It was long past dark by the time the insect brought her to her destination.

Balmora did not remind Ma’zurah of home, and she was not sure if she should be disappointed or relieved that not all of this new strange land plucked at her emotions the same way the swamp did. Though the hour was late, there were still people about, mostly Dark Elves who gave her sidelong looks that she did not know how to interpret. She moved past them quickly, too aware of how visible her white fur was in the dark.

Finding Caius Cosades proved more difficult than she had anticipated, and sent her through parts of town she would otherwise have avoided, especially at night. She found him in what had to be the smallest house in the dirtiest alleyway in Balmora. He opened the door bleary-eyed and shirtless, and Ma’zurah immediately smelled moon sugar. It would have been a welcome scent if she had been in Elsweyr, if he had not been Imperial. Instead, it irked her. She had seen what happened to non-Khajiit who used the stuff in the Imperial City, and she did not like it. There was a good reason it was sacred to the Khajiit but denied to all else.

Tight-lipped, she proffered the package. Cosades read the label. His gaze sharpened and he waved her inside, all hint of the effects of the sugar gone from his stance as soon as the door was shut. He bolted it behind him, and Ma'zurah's heart sped up. Her fingers felt the familiar, comforting gestures of an invisibility spell, but she did not put any magicka into it. This man was supposed to be her "superior and patron" in Morrowind? The tip of her tail twitched in nervousness as Cosades read in silence.

Her waiting was rewarded with something that might have resembled an explanation if it had not been so absurd. The Emperor wanted her to become a Blade.

She dismissed the "Emperor" part immediately. She could safely assume he did not mean the literal Emperor. That was how these official types liked to talk; any action taken on behalf of the Empire was always the work of the Emperor. She knew about the Blades of course; they were supposed to be the Emperor's spies and personal guard. She was not exactly sure how she was expected to go directly from imprisonment to becoming a Blade entrusted with state secrets and the Emperor's life, but it seemed suspect at best.

"There must be some mistake," she told him.

He gave her a piercing stare, looked pointedly at the document he was holding, and asked, "You are Ma'zurah, correct? No surname, formerly of the state of Pellitine?"

Ma'zurah nodded mutely.

"No mistake. You are to become a Novice in the Blades, and that means you'll be following my orders. Are you prepared to follow my orders, Ma'zurah?"

Her fingers itched for the invisibility spell, but he was standing between her and the door, which was locked. "What happens if Ma'zurah says no?" she asked weakly.

"Then I will have to put you back on a boat for the mainland and return you to prison." His tone was dismissive, but Ma'zurah could tell he was watching her closely.

There was a long pause as Ma'zurah digested this information.

"Indefinitely," he added as the silence stretched.

The fur on the back of her neck stood up, and she felt a flash of anger for a brief moment before her anxiety subsumed it. She could not afford to lash out. She had to consider her options rationally.

She could probably get past him if she really tried, but if he really was a high ranking member of the Blades, and she could not see any way that he was not, then he would probably just put out a warrant for her arrest. In a strange province with no friends, or clan, or even allies, no real knowledge of the land, and with her distinctive appearance, it was doubtful she would be able to hide for long.

No friends or clan; she had not realized how vulnerable that made her. She was all alone. Her anxiety curdled suddenly into an icy spike of true fear. This had to be illegal, right? This was coercion. But there was no authority she could appeal to that would be willing to stand up to the Blades. Would anyone even believe her?

No running then. Maybe it would not be so bad. It was not her ideal job, and she had no loyalty to the Empire, but maybe she could get something out of it--some money and a place to sleep at the very least--even if the whole thing still rubbed her fur the wrong way.

"May Ma'zurah ask why she has been chosen for this honor?" she finally asked, her tone careful.

The man raised one brow at her. "No, Ma'zurah may not. Now will you take the oath, or am I going to have to send you back to Cyrodiil?"

Ma'zurah took the oath.

The next few days were a whirl of instructions and introductions. She did indeed get some money, and was told to get her bearings in Balmora, and get some equipment and training. To that end, Cosades sent her to three Blades agents in Balmora who would be able to provide the necessary training--for a fee, of course--and assistance in an emergency. When she had returned from introducing herself to them, three small gifts and much advice richer, Cosades gave her the names and locations of four more around Vvardenfell she should introduce herself to at some point. He suggested she start with the Redguard scout in Seyda Neen. Elone would be able to help her get the lay of the land, he said. Ma'zurah did not know how to feel when she realized she had probably met the woman already.

Finally, Cosades told her to establish a cover identity, and instructed her to check in with him next month to discuss its progress. "I don't care what it is, so long as it doesn't point back to us," he told her. "Go back to prostitution for all I care. The point is to establish a history for yourself here."

Ma'zurah scowled and went to sign up with the local Mages Guild instead. When she asked for work, she received an assignment from a distracted, but friendly Suthay alchemist to gather mushrooms from the swamp.

Happy to have such a solid excuse to return to the swamp that reminded her even a little of the jungles of her homeland, Ma'zurah procured a herbalist's bag and a book of local plants in a language she could actually read, and set off the next day, walking instead of riding, taking in the landscape at her own pace. It was beautiful, but lonely. She wished she had someone to share it with.

At least she had direction. She was not sure what she would have done with herself without direction. She had a task, and it distracted her minutely from the horrible anxiety of being so completely alone in a foreign land full of strangers who did not care about her. She wished she had a friend. Just one person who cared would be enough. Maybe then she would not feel as though she was climbing a narrow tree branch over the head of a hungry tiger. She had no one to steady her if she started to lose her balance. The utter lack of social connection was a new experience for her, and not one she liked. She felt vulnerable.

She missed her friends back in the Imperial City. She had not felt so alone since she had found out she would never be allowed to return to Elsweyr, and even then she had still had Dra'nassa. She had gone from a tribe of many to a tribe of two in a single day--a day she had previously considered to be the worst in her life. It had been hard building up connections after that, to replace the support of the tribe she had grown up in with one of her own making, but she had done it. When Dra'nassa had died, she had made enough friends to see her through her grief without despair.

This was worse. Now she had no one. Cosades had made it clear she could not go back to her old life. She would have to start over from nothing again, this time without Dra'nassa's help.

It was enough to make her want to cry. She saw a mushroom and distracted herself with the task at hand. If the fur of her cheeks was wet, the mushrooms certainly did not care.

She had already filled the bag halfway by the time she got back to Seyda Neen. She presented herself to the scout Elone--again--and tried not to feel horrible and ridiculous when she introduced herself as the Blades' newest novice.

The woman seemed friendly enough, and gave her a copy of "Guide to Vvardenfell" with accompanying maps. Ma'zurah was grateful. Maps were expensive. Ma'zurah asked if there was anything she could do to help her in return. Elone pursed her lips and sent her to check on a friend of hers who lived a short way outside of town.

"She was supposed to come see me after she got back from her scouting," Elone told her. "She's late. I'd check on her myself, but I have work I have to finish. It's probably nothing, Jasmine can take care of herself, but it's not like her to stay out for so long. Just check at her house and tell me if she's there. She might just be sick or something."

Ma'zurah agreed and went to check.

The house was locked and appeared empty. There was no answer to her knock, so Ma’zurah peeked through the window, and saw no lights lit. Frowning, she checked the muddy path for tracks, trying to determine if Elone's friend had been home recently enough to leave evidence. Ma'zurah was not the greatest tracker, but she knew enough to hunt animals in deep jungle, and enough to discover a faint set of prints leading up to the house, and another of the same size heading down the path in the direction of the town. Perhaps she had just missed the woman? But no, neither set seemed fresh enough.

She followed the path and the footprints back in the direction of Seyda Neen, resolving to tell Elone of her discovery. She was most of the way back to town when she came across several more sets of footprints--at least three, all overlapping--intercepting the first set of footprints. The trail became smudged and some of the prints scattered and came back, and the next trail Ma’zurah could find led into the underbrush at an angle, away from town. Whoever they were, they had taken Elone's friend with them for reasons inscrutable to Ma'zurah. Kidnapping was not typical behavior for bandits, and surely if the woman had come across friends on the path, they would not have trampled the ground quite so much. Each subsequent scenario Ma'zurah thought of was more worrying than the last.

She followed the tracks to a cave, thanking Azurah for the wet ground. Trampled plants stuck to the mud, making the trail easy to follow all the way to the stone of the cave mouth. It was hidden against a hillside at the edge of the swamp, behind a set of boulders that blocked line of sight from the path. Ma’zurah cautiously poked her head inside, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness, and saw the glow of a fire.

She followed the cave a few paces deeper into the hillside until she found the source of the light: a campfire, with a Dark Elf woman tending it. An overturned rowboat had been pulled into the shelter of the cave as well, and the back wall was blocked off by a fence. There was something wrong here, something obvious Ma'zurah was missing, but she could not pinpoint what.

And she would not find out what was going on by standing here like a lump.

"Hello?" Ma'zurah called.

The woman by the fire whirled, knife drawn. Ma'zurah gasped and cast invisibility on herself and dove for the shadows.

"Ku’or havag?" the woman called, stalking toward the cave entrance.

Ma'zurah could have kicked herself. Why would a woman sitting in a cave at the edge of a swamp respond positively to an unexpected stranger, no matter what reason she had for being there? She should have predicted this kind of a reaction instead of calling out and making it that much harder to sneak past an alert person. And of course a Dark Elf would be speaking the Dark Elven language in Morrowind. Somehow, Ma'zurah had not yet run into the language barrier in any significant way. She was going to have to learn the language.

"Ku’or edur diru?" The woman passed Ma'zurah's hidden form and stared out into the swamp, frowning.

There was a moment's pause, and Ma'zurah huddled against the wall of the cave, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

The woman turned abruptly on her heel and approached the wooden fence set into the back of the cave, muttering something incomprehensible under her breath.

Ma'zurah followed as closely behind her as she dared, practically holding her breath. Her heart was pounding. There was definitely something wrong here. She was sure of it now, even if she could not say why. It was a subtle thing, told in the set of the woman's jaw, or the hardness of her expression. It made the fur on the back of Ma'zurah's neck stand up.

If she could only figure out what was going on, or even just confirm that Elone's friend was here, she would not have to report back to Elone with so little news. She wished she had asked Elone for a description of her friend Jasmine.

The Dark Elf opened the gate and Ma'zurah slipped in behind her. Beyond the gate, the cave split into two paths, the leftmost branch leading up to another fence with a gate in it, and the rightmost branch leading down a slope and out of sight. Ma'zurah thought she could hear running water somewhere below.

The Dark Elf woman took the rickety wooden ramp down the uneven stone slope to the right. Ma'zurah started to follow when the woman called something ahead of herself. Two more Dark Elves appeared at the bottom of the ramp, and the woman spoke urgently to them. Their faces turned grim, and both stalked toward Ma'zurah's position.

Ma'zurah nearly panicked, trying to scramble out of their way without making any noise. She darted up the ramp to the left until she was almost backed up against the fence at the top. Oblivious to Ma'zurah's presence, the two Elves exited toward the mouth of the cave, leaving the woman at the bottom to retreat further down and out of Ma'zurah's sight.

Heart racing, Ma'zurah slumped against the fence, and the invisibility spell broke.

"Hey," a low feminine voice hissed urgently through the fence behind her, making Ma'zurah jump. "Do you have the key?"

Ma'zurah's fingers froze in the process of reapplying her invisibility spell as she registered the words. She peered between the slats of the fence and discovered a brown oval face with wide dark eyes and long black hair.

"Are you Jasmine?" Ma'zurah whispered back.

The face hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Please, you have to get us out of here." There was the faintest edge of desperation in her whispered tones. Ma'zurah's hackles rose again.

"Us?" Ma'zurah asked numbly.

Jasmine stepped back, allowing Ma'zurah to see through the narrow gaps in the fence. Huddled at the back of the small enclosure were two Argonians and a Suthay-raht, all wearing only the barest scraps of clothing. The Argonians both had a greenish tint to their scales, but one of them was shorter with a long row of spikes protruding from forehead to back of the neck, while the other had a pair of spikes on either side of the head. The Khajiit was orange-furred, with black markings around his eyes and nose, and had long mustaches which hung down on either side of his mouth. He was also topless, Ma'zurah observed, feeling faintly scandalized by the display of torso fur. And she could see his ribs beneath his fur, she realized with a different kind of shock. She did not know much about Argonian anatomy, but they did not look too good either.

The pieces slotted into place suddenly, along with the memory of half-heard rumors from Cyrodiil. This was slavery. Those Dark Elves out there meant to sell these people. She had heard the Dark Elves kept slaves, but she had not realized what that meant before. Sudden tears of horror and sympathy pricked at her eyes.

"What should Ma’zurah do?" she asked Jasmine urgently. Jasmine was, she noticed, by far the healthiest looking of the group. "She can… She can run and get help?"

"There's no time,” Jasmine whispered back. “I overheard them say they were going to move us. We have to get out of here before that happens or you'll never be able to find us again. You've got to get the key to the gate, and maybe the keys to our shackles. If I had a weapon, I could fight, but I don't think the others could."

Ma'zurah nodded firmly. "Ma'zurah will be back."

She stalked invisibly down into the depths of the cave, past a branch of tunnel filled with water, and up a wooden deck covered with crates. Fury had eclipsed her fear. Her hands shook with how angry she felt. It was not right. How could anyone hold people captive like this and disregard their suffering? How could they use people's suffering for profit? How could they live with themselves?

The Dark Elf woman was not in sight, so Ma'zurah began searching crates. She had searched two, finding nothing but alcohol and cheap imported clothing before her head caught up to her and she cast a spell, willing her magicka to show her keys.

She saw the glow of something small atop a crate when her time ran out, and the Dark Elf woman walked into view.

Ma'zurah panicked, but instead of fleeing again, she dove for the woman, claws extended, spurred on by the anger that mixed oddly with her fear. The woman only had time to shriek "N'wah!" before Ma'zurah's hands wrapped around her throat, claws tearing.

The next thing she knew, the woman was motionless on the ground, and Ma'zurah's hands were slick with blood. She felt like she could not breathe properly, like someone had punched her in the gut. She had never hurt anyone before in her life, and now…

She scooped up the key and the woman's dagger and retreated up the ramp to free the others before her thoughts could catch up with her and render her useless. Her hands shook as she fitted the key in the lock, and the key nearly slipped between her blood-slick fingers.

The door came open, and Ma'zurah thrust the dagger into Jasmine's hands. "Here. Ma'zurah did not find the shackle keys. Can we leave without them?"

"Keep looking," one of the Argonians advised in a half-cracked voice. "We will not find many willing to remove slave bracers. We will draw too much attention wearing them."

"There are at least two more people around here," Ma'zurah warned, mentally beating her emotions into submission. Her hands were still shaking. "We will have to hurry before they come back."

They filed down into the lower recesses of the cave, Ma’zurah at the front, Jasmine bringing up the rear with the knife. The Suthay-raht looked sidelong at the body of the fallen Dark Elf as they passed, eyes flicking from the claw gouges on her neck to Ma’zurah’s bloody hands. There was something like approval in his eyes.

Ma’zurah cast the spell of finding again, looking for something that might unlock the magic suppressing bracers on the wrists of her companions. The spell revealed another key on the body of the Elf, but it was too big to fit into any of the shackles.

They proceeded further into the cave, uncovering more crates, more clothing, more alcohol, a small stack of coins, and a pile of pillows with what Ma'zurah's nose told her was moon sugar smuggled inside. She dumped one out, frowning at the little purple vials that fell along with the paper envelopes of white crystals. Confused, she sniffed one of the vials and got the overpowering scent of moon sugar and alchemy for her trouble.

"Skooma," the Suthay-raht rasped behind her in explanation.

Ma'zurah dropped the thing hastily. The Clan Mothers always taught that moon sugar was a blessing from Azurah, but skooma was a perversion created by Imperials.

It was also not a key. She searched the crates again for the telltale glow of the spell, but found nothing.

"There are no keys here," she told the group. They would have to keep moving.

They twisted around a narrow gap at the back of the cavern, only to find another wooden fence, and beyond it, a flooded tunnel descending down even further.

"We could dive for it," one of the Argonians offered, and distractedly Ma’zurah realized from her voice that the Argonian was probably female, though Ma'zurah was hardly in a position to judge someone's gender based on their physical attributes.

"I doubt they hid the keys underwater though," the second Argonian concluded.

There was a sudden shout from back the way they had come and Ma’zurah’s breath caught in her throat. The overwhelming emotions she had been suppressing threatened to overtake her again. In her peripheral vision, she saw Jasmine raise her knife and start back toward the noise, and Ma'zurah realized she had also committed herself to protecting these people. She frantically tried to remember everything she had learned about Destruction magic at the Arcane University and ran past Jasmine, readying a blast of frost.

She had just enough time to register that the two Dark Elves who had left had returned with three others in tow, and that they had just stumbled on the dead body of their compatriot, before she loosed the spell in her hands with as much force as she could muster.

There was a reverberating crack and a hair-raising rumble as the telekinetic blast propelling her spell forward connected not just with her foes, but with the far wall of the cave and a low hanging portion of the ceiling. Stone cracked, the ground shook, and before anyone had time to do anything more than scream, the roof caved in, burying the group of Dark Elves and the exit.

A deafening silence followed. Nobody moved.

“Well,” Jasmine began, lowering her dagger.

The mountainous pile of rock and gravel that covered the exit shifted slightly, and a scattering of scree clattered down the heap. One of the torches illuminating the cave flickered and died.

Ma’zurah sat down on the ground and promptly burst into tears.

“Oh no…” moaned the Suthay-raht. “Oh nooo…”

“Let’s not panic,” Jasmine said, with a kind of calm Ma’zurah could not imagine she actually felt. They were stuck here, and it was all Ma’zurah’s fault. She felt herself begin to hyperventilate.

“Be right back,” one of the Argonians said in a matter-of-fact tone. There was the sound of retreating footsteps, then a ripple of water and a splash.

A flicker of hope cut through Ma'zurah's panic at the sound. There might be another way out! She scrubbed at her face with her hands, trying to quiet her emotions. The scent of blood assaulted her nose like a warhammer and she recoiled, trying not to begin hyperventilating again for a different reason.

“Alright,” a deep reptilian voice said from just behind Ma’zurah, and Ma’zurah felt hands under her armpits, lifting her to her feet. “Come on, get up.”

The remaining Argonian clasped his hand around her upper arm and led her through the back of the cave to the flooded tunnel. He stopped at the water’s edge. “Clean yourself up a bit. You'll feel better.”

Ma’zurah nodded gratefully and knelt to wash her hands and face.

“Sorry,” she said guiltily once she had finished scrubbing. The cold water had grounded her flying emotions into a hard but manageable lump, and her newly regained clear-headedness brought with it an awful awareness. These people had been literal slaves, and here she was the only one crying like a newborn kitten.

The Argonian looked at her with an indecipherable expression. Heat blossomed in her face despite the chilly dampness of her fur. Her emotions still felt like a tangle, and she could not find the words to adequately explain why she was apologizing. “Thanks,” she finally said instead.

The Argonian turned his head away. “Don’t mention it.”

Jasmine appeared behind her with the Suthay-raht just as the water rippled and the other Argonian surfaced.

“It’s a bit of a climb,” she told them in her odd rasping accent, “but it looks like there is a way out.

Jasmine nodded firmly. “Alright, gather what you want to take from here, and let’s go.”

Ma’zurah simply sat at the water’s edge and waited for the others. The roiling tangle of emotion in her gut made the prospect of looting the remaining crates totally unappealing, and besides, the others probably needed the things more. They could get new clothes at least.

The Argonian was right. It was a bit of a climb. Once they surfaced on the other side of the flooded tunnel, they had to climb a tall bank to get out of the water, and then up a steep tunnel that opened suddenly behind a cluster of stalactites into the cavern wall above and to the right of the fence that led to the freed slaves’ erstwhile cell. Once they made the drop down, they had only to walk over and open the gate that led to the cave entrance.

���Wait,” Ma’zurah said suddenly, remembering. “Your shackles--”

“We know,” said Jasmine quietly.

“The keys were probably buried,” one of the Argonians explained. Guilt shot through Ma'zurah. No one had cast any blame, but she still felt it.

“We’ll figure something out once we get out of here.” Jasmine gestured them through the gate. “We can go to my house. It’s not far.”

They went to Jasmine’s house. She retrieved a key from a flower pot and let them inside, and the five of them collapsed onto the plush rug in the middle of Jasmine’s floor, relieved and emotionally drained after their ordeal. There was a long moment of silence.

Jasmine got up abruptly and rummaged through her cupboards. She returned with half a loaf of bread and a knife, and served each of them slices.

Ma’zurah chewed hers in silence. As soon as Jasmine’s door had closed between her and the outside world, she had felt her grasp on her emotions slipping. She could feel the tears coming. She could not let the others see her cry again. She did not know what would be worse, having them ignore her or try to comfort her.

She stood up. “Ma’zurah needs to-- Ma’zurah has got to-- Be back.” She fled out the front door and into the little outhouse at the side of Jasmine’s house. She closed the door behind her and took one shaky breath before the tears came in full force and she was sobbing and shuddering. She sat down on the wooden outhouse seat, still in her damp clothing, and rode the wave of her emotions.

She felt bad. And once she felt bad about one thing, more reasons to feel bad flooded her. She could have died! She had not cast invisibility, and instead she had fought, and she could have died. She had never hurt anyone before, but this time she had fought and killed someone. Several someones, actually, but the rest were not nearly as personal as the first someone. They could have killed her, but instead she had their blood on her hands, figuratively and literally, though she did not think she felt nearly as bad about them being dead as she did about having to be the one to commit the act. That also made her feel bad. What was wrong with her that she was more upset about having clawed a woman’s throat out than about the woman being dead? She was no stranger to blood, but killing animals was nothing like killing people. And still, she felt less upset about having dropped a cave on top of a group of people than she did about the memory of warm blood beneath her claws. She should not feel like this!

And then there was the slavery. She had not thought about what slavery was really like before. It had always been an abstract concept that was far away and never affected her personally. To be confronted by the reality of it so suddenly was a shock, though she probably should have seen it coming. She just had not connected the Morrowind of Imperial rumor and speculation with the Morrowind she had been sent to. Was she in danger of being captured and sold? She supposed she was, especially since that seemed to be what had happened to Jasmine, and Jasmine was not even Khajiit! This province was dangerous. She did not feel safe!

Why had they sent her here? She did not want to be here! She did not know anything about this place. She did not even speak the language! She wanted to be back in the Imperial City studying magic and laughing with her friends. She was alone here. She did not have any friends in this strange land--no clan, not even the self-made clan she had gathered around herself after she had been exiled from Elsweyr, and after Dra’nassa had died. She had never been so alone in her life. It was terrifying.

The tears came harder. She felt so bad! The mental refrain felt like a wail.

And she could not leave! She could not leave after swearing an oath to the Blades, or she would be branded a traitor and hunted down and imprisoned for the rest of her life! It was a kind of slavery itself, whether she stayed or tried to leave. She had not done anything to deserve this kind of treatment! Whoever had picked her to join the Blades obviously did not know anything about her. She was the worst pick for that kind of job. They should have asked instead of forcing her to join. She did not want it! She just wanted to leave. But she could not, because they were coercing her, and she was scared. She was scared of being branded a traitor and hunted, she was scared of the Blades, and she was scared of Caius Cosades. Caius Cosades was not a nice man. She wished she never had to speak to him again. She wished she never had to speak to any of the Blades again, even Elone, who seemed nice, but could not be trusted because she was a Blade, and the Blades were not nice people.

She felt so bad. She felt so bad! She was alone in this province, no friends, no clan, no one who cared if she felt bad, and she could not leave, and she was angry and scared, and she felt so bad!

There was a knock on the outhouse door. “Ma’zurah?” Jasmine’s voice was muffled, but recognizable.

Ma’zurah sniffled and scrubbed at her face with the heel of her hand. The fur of her cheeks, already damp from the swim through the flooded tunnel, was soaked again. “Sorry, Ma’zurah will be out soon,” she managed to croak out. Her nose was stuffed up, and her eyes were sore and puffy.

“I brought you a change of clothes. I thought you might want something dry.”

Ma’zurah opened the door. Jasmine’s face fell at the sight of her. “Oh dear…”

Ma’zurah shook her head violently. “No no, Ma’zurah does not want to hear it. Jasmine has been through much worse.”

Jasmine drew her brows together. “It’s not a competition. What's wrong?"

Ma'zurah shook her head mutely. There was no way she was going to lay her troubles on someone who still wore the shackles of slavery. The Clan Mothers had not raised her to be a burden.

Jasmine clicked her tongue. "Well, it looks like a change of clothes isn't going to be enough. Come inside and I'll get you a towel. Baadargo is using my washtub right now, but you're welcome to bathe after him."

With guilt, Ma'zurah realized she had not asked for the names of any of the others. How self absorbed was she? Her emotions felt like they had been scraped raw, and tears welled in her eyes again.

Jasmine's eyes went wide. "Whoa, hey, it's alright! You're alright, okay?" Her hands fluttered around Ma'zurah's shoulders, but did not quite touch her.

Ma'zurah nodded agreement, but the tears would not go away. She contemplated retreating into the outhouse again, but she had already alarmed Jasmine enough. She needed a distraction.

"Tell Ma'zurah--" Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat and tried again. "Tell Ma'zurah how Jasmine got in that cave?"

Jasmine's shoulders slumped and she let out a long sigh. Alarmed at her suddenly morose expression, Ma'zurah made a placating gesture. "You do not have to--"

"No, it's-- You deserve to hear it after everything you did for me. Actually, I was meaning to thank you. If you hadn't come along…" Jasmine paused, eyes distant. "I was just trying not to think about it yet."

"Ma'zurah is sorry--"

Jasmine shook her head. "You have nothing to be sorry about." Her shoulders straightened again. "In any case, there's no point standing around out here when we could be sitting inside. I'll find you a towel, and then I'll tell you the whole thing if you want."

Ma'zurah followed Jasmine inside, reluctant to show her face to the others, but unwilling to be rude to the woman who was trying to be nice to her.

As soon as they got inside, the pair of Argonians approached them. Ma'zurah tried to hide behind Jasmine without looking like she was doing so.

"You have been a most generous to host us," the deeper-voiced of the Argonians told Jasmine, making a complicated hand gesture.

“And a kind rescuer,” the second interjected, pointedly looking at Ma’zurah and making the same gesture. Ma'zurah's face felt too warm.

“And we wish to show our gratitude."

The pair of them exchanged glances, and the second one took up where the first had left off. "We have nothing we could offer as thanks, so we were thinking--"

The first one made eye contact with Jasmine. "If you are willing to lend us the use of your cooking fire--"

"And you are willing to wait for us to catch the fish before we cook them…" The second Argonian shoved an admonishing hand against the first's shoulder with a look that might have contained amusement, though Ma'zurah was no expert at reading Argonian expressions.

Jasmine blinked at the pair. "By all means, feel free," she told them, sounding surprised.

"Then we will be back with a feast!" the first Argonian declared, and the pair of them exited the house.

"At least they're happy," Jasmine said with a shake of her head. She crossed the room and searched her cabinets for a towel.

Ma’zurah stood in the doorway and took in the room for the first time. The house was small, probably only two rooms large; modest by Imperial standards, but clean. The room she was in held a kitchen in the Imperial style, a table, a fireplace, a writing desk, and a large bookshelf, but no bed, and no washtub. Ma’zurah could hear the sounds of splashing from the next room. She could even hear the Suthay-raht, Baadargo singing muffled snatches of song in what must have been the Dark Elf language, because it certainly was not Ta'agra. With a pang of loneliness, Ma’zurah realized she had not heard anyone speak Ta’agra since she got to Morrowind. She hugged her arms around her chest.

Jasmine returned with a fluffy towel, which she draped gently across Ma'zurah's shoulders, and led her out of the doorway. Ma’zurah followed her with a painful hope in her chest. Jasmine was being nice, friendly even, and Ma’zurah had been so alone. She desperately needed a friend. She felt like they had the spark of connection; maybe Jasmine could be the friend she needed.

Once Ma’zurah was dry and clothed in Jasmine's loaned dress, she found herself sitting next to Jasmine at the table as the woman began the story of how she had gotten caught.

"I've been working with my friend Elone to track the activity of smugglers along this section of the Bitter Coast--"

Ma'zurah had to interrupt. "Is Jasmine a Blade too?" she blurted out, dreading the answer. Blades could not be trusted, no matter how nice they were. She cringed, realizing what she had just said.

Jasmine gave her a puzzled and vaguely alarmed look. "No, I'm technically an independent contractor. Elone commissions me to help her when she gets assignments too big for one person or she's too busy to go out herself. But now I'd like to know how you know Elone is a Blade. Not many people know that."

Ma'zurah bit her lip. She had probably given away too much already. She had been raised by the Clan Mothers; she was supposed to know the value of keeping secrets. She knew it was expected of her as a Blade, but she just was not cut out for weaving the kind of elaborate subterfuge required of a spy. They should have asked her before dragging her into this mess. She felt bitter about the whole thing, and not a little rebellious. She was tired and lonely. She wanted to tell Jasmine. Besides, if Jasmine knew the truth about Elone, Cosades probably would not punish her for telling the truth about herself as well. Especially if he never found out.

"Ma'zurah is a Blade too now," she mumbled. She felt absurdly like she was telling a dirty secret, though she was not sure she could articulate why.

Jasmine opened her mouth, stopped, and closed it again. "I see," she said finally. Something in her expression became ever so slightly more closed off, as though she was watching her words in a way she had not been before. Maybe she was worried about getting Elone in trouble, or maybe she did not trust the Blades either. Maybe she thought Ma'zurah was like Cosades. The thought made Ma'zurah feel as though she could not breathe. She was filled with the sudden, desperate need to tell Jasmine the whole story; to distance herself from the Blades and prove she was not one of them, not really. She wanted to regain that small measure of trust that she had just lost. She was already so isolated, she did not want to lose this connection. She needed a friend so badly.

"You asked why Ma'zurah was upset," she began urgently, leaning closer to Jasmine.

"Yes?" Jasmine looked surprised at the change of subject.

"It is related."

The story came torrenting out: the illegal prostitution charges, the prison sentence, the inexplicable deportation, the package for Caius Cosades, the extortion. She told her about how she did not want to be a Blade, how she did not feel safe in Morrowind, and how she could not leave. She started crying again in the middle of it, and Jasmine put a hand on her knee. Ma'zurah hid her face in her damp towel, but kept talking until she got it all out.

"I'm sorry, that sounds awful," was Jasmine's quietly horrified response. Ma'zurah's gaze flicked to the magic suppressing slave bracer still locked around Jasmine's wrist and remembered her resolution not to be a burden. She could not bring herself to regret telling Jasmine though, because there was genuine sympathy in her eyes now instead of that quiet wariness. And Ma’zurah would not be a burden if this was a mutual exchange.

"Your turn," she said, sniffling. "You just got captured by slavers. Do you want to talk about it?"

Jasmine closed her eyes. "No, but I should."

She told Ma’zurah about how she had been scouting, and been caught snooping too close to the smugglers' cave. She had made a hasty retreat, and thought she had avoided being pursued, so she had gone home. She was on her way into town to report to Elone when she had been ambushed. She could have fought them off if one of them had not snuck up on her from behind.

"I was so scared…" Jasmine's voice was so small it was nearly a whisper. “They were going to sell me. Who knows what would have happened to me after that. They said I would be… valuable. Because of my looks. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life. Not even when--not ever.” She closed her eyes, and the tears that had been slowly welling in them finally spilled over. She swiped at them with her fingertips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“It is fine." Ma'zurah put a hand on Jasmine's knee. "It seems like a reasonable reaction.”

Jasmine shook her head and covered her face with her hands.

Baadargo chose that moment to open the door to the next room. He looked much better. His orange fur had been combed, and he was dressed in more than just rags. He took in the scene and his eyes gained a quality similar to those of a frozen deer. Ma’zurah tried to offer him a tremulous smile, but he retreated, closing the door behind him quietly.

“Sorry,” Jasmine repeated once her shoulders stopped shaking. She tried to wipe her face with her hands, and Ma’zurah offered a corner of her towel. Jasmine looked at it skeptically, and went to retrieve a washcloth instead.

“In the cave,” Jasmine continued after she had wiped her face and steadied her breath, “you asked me if I was Jasmine. How did you know who I was, and where to find me?”

“Elone asked Ma’zurah to check at Jasmine’s house to see if she was there. Ma’zurah found footprints leading from Jasmine’s house, and she followed them.”

“I see. Thank you. I can’t imagine what would have happened to me if you hadn’t done that.”

Ma’zurah nodded and opened her mouth to reply, but Jasmine had closed her eyes and was sitting very still. She looked like she was waiting, Ma’zurah thought, or listening.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s over.”

“It is,” Ma’zurah assured her. “They cannot sell you, or anyone now.”

Jasmine just shook her head. "The thought of going back out, scouting the Bitter Coast like before…" Jasmine took a shuddering breath. "I don't think I can do it. Not--not yet. Not for a while, maybe, and not by myself."

Ma'zurah nodded sympathetically.

"What are you doing after this?" Jasmine asked, turning her focus back to Ma'zurah with a suddenness that startled her.

"Er, Ma'zurah is doing jobs for the Balmora Mages Guild, she thinks. Why?"

"Do you think--" She stopped and tried a new tack. "You seem like you can take care of yourself."

Ma'zurah nodded slowly. She usually took care of herself by turning invisible when things became dangerous, but she supposed today's events proved she could take care of herself in other ways too. She was not sure where Jasmine was going with this.

"Do you think I could… travel with you for a while? Help you with jobs?" Jasmine's voice sounded hopeful, and her words tumbled out in a rush. "Only if you want the company. I wouldn't be a burden. I have a strong sword arm, and I'm good with a bow. I couldn't ask Elone for something like this, she can't leave the Bitter Coast right now, and I don't know anyone else well enough to be able to ask--"

"Yes!" Ma'zurah felt like she would burst. She would not be alone anymore! She threw her arms around Jasmine's shoulders. "Yes, of course! Ma'zurah would be glad to have your company."

Jasmine stiffened in surprise, then released a breath and returned Ma'zurah's embrace, smiling ruefully. "It will be good to get back on the road again."

Ma'zurah sat back and beamed at her.

"First things first. We have to take care of these." Jasmine tapped the bracer on her wrist. "I don't think it would be safe to ask a blacksmith or a locksmith for help, but I was thinking maybe we could get some scrolls. They might be expensive, but maybe Elone knows someone who--"

"Hold on." Ma'zurah's brow furrowed. The idea of scrolls pinged something in her recollection. "Ma'zurah has a thought. In theory, Ma'zurah knows a spell. She has never used it, but before Jasmine speaks of buying expensive scrolls, perhaps she would like Ma'zurah to try."

"Is it dangerous?"

Ma'zurah pursed her lips. "Not really. Definitely not if it is cast correctly."

Jasmine gave her a searching look and hesitantly proffered her arm.

It took two tries. The first time it failed outright, and Ma'zurah wished she had access to her notes far away at the Arcane University. The second time the lock came open with a muffled click.

“Thank you,” Jasmine breathed, rubbing her wrist and sounding supremely relieved. “I should--we should let the others know.” She rose and knocked on the door to the next room. “Baadargo?”

There was no answer.

Frowning, Jasmine opened the door.

The orange Khajiit was asleep on the floor, curled into a tight ball in the corner of the room.

He peeked an eye open at their approach. “This one can come out now?”

"Why are you on the floor?" Jasmine asked, bemused.

"Where else should this one be?"

"The bed?"

Baadargo looked over at the bed and Ma'zurah followed his gaze. It was a nice bed, with soft, clean blankets smoothed over the top, and not a wrinkle in sight.

"That is the bed of muthsera Jasmine, not Baadargo." The Khajiit's voice was plaintive. "This one did not want to mess it up."

Jasmine tisked, but let it drop.

“Show Ma’zurah Baadargo’s bracer please?” Ma'zurah asked, helping the Suthay-raht to his feet.

He held out his wrist and Ma’zurah opened the lock.

“Fantastic! Can this one learn to do such things?” Baadargo’s tone was wondering, as though Ma'zurah had handed him a precious gift and he could hardly believe it.

Jasmine laughed along with the joy on the Suthay-raht's face, but Ma’zurah gave his question serious consideration. “Does Baadargo have a talent for magic?”

Baadargo’s face fell slightly, though the joy remained. “This one does not know. This one has never had the bracer off long enough to find out before.”

“Never?” Jasmine asked, horrified.

“This one was born with it.”

Ma’zurah gaped at the Suthay-raht. Her mind boggled at the thought of being born into slavery. She could not imagine a life like that.

A look of concern had affixed itself to Jasmine’s face. “If you've never been free, do you have anywhere to go? Or anywhere you want to go?”

Baadargo nodded. “This one has heard rumors. They say the scaled ones in Ebonheart will help those who want to leave. Baadargo was going there.”

“Alright.” Jasmine glanced at Ma’zurah. “I guess that will be our first stop.”

Ma’zurah nodded.

Jasmine spent the next hour packing and preparing her house for her imminent absence. Ma’zurah laid the things in her bag out to dry, lamenting the water damage to her new maps, and then proceeded to sit at the kitchen table and attempt to teach Baadargo how to access his own well of magicka.

At some point the pair of Argonians returned with three large fish and a mudcrab, which they gleefully cooked. Ma’zurah demonstrated again the spell of opening, which prompted the Argonians to speak animatedly of their plans to return to the marshes of their homeland. Jasmine suggested they travel with Baadargo to look for assistance first, and to that end, the five of them hired two fishing boats from the outskirts of Seyda Neen to take them to Ebonheart directly, avoiding the main roads. Jasmine and Ma’zurah stopped to assure Elone that Jasmine was fine before they departed.

When they arrived at the fort, Jasmine had only to ask for “the Argonians” to be directed to the Argonian Embassy. They had barely taken two steps inside before they encountered a tall Argonian in an elegant robe, who quickly divined the situation and whisked the three former slaves away to a safe place.

Then it was just Ma’zurah and Jasmine. Ma’zurah gave Jasmine the details of her job for the Balmora Mages Guild, and the pair of them set off in the direction of Balmora. There was a lightness to Ma’zurah’s step that she had not felt since before she had been imprisoned in Cyrodiil.

Ma’zurah looked over at the Redguard walking beside her. She still missed the life she had lost, the life she could not go back to, but at least now she was not completely alone. Now she had a friend.

[rissynicole]

Any suggestions for writing dialogues? I mean, when it comes to punctuations and actions the characters perform.

Okay, this ask has been in my inbox for months at this point, and I've been saving it because 1) I wanted to write something meaningful and 2) I didn't know what I could write that hasn't already been said ad nauseam by other writers. I still don't know if anything I say will be particularly groundbreaking, but I'll try to be helpful. Keep in mind, I'm a young writer, myself. I'm still learning new things every day, and I'm far from a guru in the field.

This got long, so I’m going to put it under the cut:

The first thing I did was ask my mother this question, because I was interested in hearing her answer. She doesn't write fiction, herself, but she has been in the editing game for 30 some-odd years. She edits fiction for Harper Collins Publishing and has an eye for these things. However, her answer to this was very plain and simple. 

She said, "All editing and punctuation exists to serve one key purpose: to not confuse the reader."

As far as grammar goes, that's the main goal. I was looking for something a little more hard and fast--some sort of rule in a style guide--and y'know, I'm sure there is a rule out there. But in a fairly fluid world of fiction writing and "rules are meant to be broken" mentalities, the most important thing to heed is the comprehension of your reader. As soon as you’ve confused your reader, you’ve made a mistake. Not a failure--but a mistake that needs to be fixed. I’ve made them; I’ve fixed them. Dialogue can be a particularly tricky area, because it’s like a minefield for these mistakes. 

I’ll add an example of my dialogue and break it down a little bit:

‘“Soldier?’ Red said, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. ‘…Yes?’

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line.’

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. ‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again.’”

First and foremost, it should be clear who is speaking. I help this along by making sure the characters’ actions are in the same paragraph as their speech. It keeps it more comprehensive. Otherwise, it would read like this: 

‘“Soldier?’ Red said, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. 

‘…Yes?’

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line.’

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. 

‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again.’”

Not completely indecipherable, but distracting enough to make the reader re-read it a few times. As far as formatting goes, it’s also not very pretty. Now, I’m not perfect with this. In fact, I still need to go through Parade and reformat some sections that might read like the above. However, it is a readability rule that I’m trying to follow more closely. 

Another difficulty with ensuring you’re making it clear who’s speaking can be the use of pronouns. I’ll be the first to admit, writing with multiple characters who all use the same pronouns can be incredibly difficult. You can’t always just use “he said” as a tag. It’s too easy to hit a snag where the reader gets confused and doesn’t know who “he” is. 

‘“Soldier?’ he said, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

His grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. ‘…Yes?’

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line.’

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. ‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again.’”

Sure, maybe this short passage isn’t so bad; It’s still fairly clear who’s speaking. But imagine if the entire book was that way: three, maybe four characters in the same room who all use he/his pronouns speaking without any further identification. It would get confusing and distracting. Lots of reading passages over again to try to decipher who is saying what and lots of frustration on the reader’s part. At the same time, always using the characters’ names can be tedious and unnecessary. Finding a good balance isn’t always easy, but it is worth it. 

The golden rule, for me, is exactly as my mother said: “Do not confuse the reader.”

Below, I’ll add some additional dialogue tips I have picked up:

Constantly adding a tag can get tedious. 

‘“Soldier?’ Red interrupted, cutting off the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. ‘…Yes?’ he inquired.

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line,” Red replied.

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. ‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again,’” he muttered. 

Sure, this makes sense. It’s clear who’s speaking. But it also doesn’t read as smoothly. Not to mention, the overabundance of different transitive verbs (interrupted, inquired, muttered), is stilted and almost mechanical in how the dialogue reads. Oftentimes, “said” is perfectly fine. Fun words like “muttered” and “interrupted” are great, too, but in moderation. Finding a happy medium can make all the difference. 

Sometimes, a tag isn’t necessary at all. 

This segues into my next piece of advice: it’s important to write dialogue in a way that still allows the reader to use their imagination. This is where I’ll go off on a bit of a rabbit trail, because this is something I’ve had to learn for myself recently. 

Put trust in your reader to make up their own mind on how dialogue is spoken

I recently finished reading On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King (which, regardless of your opinions on King, was a very helpful book. I enjoyed it a lot). In one passage, he tells the reader to imagine an orange sitting on a table. Just that. He doesn’t give any further details. There is a 100% chance that we are all going to see something different in our minds. We are going to imagine a different table, a different room, and maybe even a different orange.

Sometime, description helps. Sometimes, a carefully placed lack of description lets the reader make up their own mind and encourages imagination. This advice has served me well in writing dialogue. I know it’s a tired old saying in any writer’s workshop: “never use adverbs in dialogue!” And to be honest, I still believe there can be a time and a place. But relying heavily on adverbs doesn’t do anything for the reader, except maybe shoehorn them into a state where they have to re-read dialogue with the new inflection. 

‘“Soldier?’ Red said solemnly, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. ‘…Yes?’ he asked weakly. 

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line,” he replied sternly, in a flat monotone. 

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. ‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again,’ he said lowly, almost inaudibly. 

Again, this feels stilted, and doesn’t really leave anything to the imagination. 

To better emphasize what I mean by this, I want to use a real example of it in action. (I hope you don’t mind, @sunnymelonpan!) Shortly after I read this advice and starting cutting down on over-describing dialogue and using adverbs, I wrote some IZ sickfic prompts. A friend of mine decided to draw up a comic based on one of them. This was not only incredibly flattering, but unexpectedly enlightening. I was able to see firsthand how other readers interpreted my dialogue. And lemme tell you, it wasn’t always exactly how I had envisioned it. 

Here’s some dialogue I wrote for the prompt in question:

“Dib swiped the thermometer from him and pushed his glasses up his nose while he read it. ‘That’s because it isn’t going down. Huh.’

‘S-some help y-y-you are,’ Zim sneered.

‘Hey, give me a break. I’m doing my best. This isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my weekend.’

Dib’s outline rose to its full height in Zim’s dimmed living room. He disappeared into the kitchen with the thermometer, then returned with something else in his hands. Without any warning, he placed it onto Zim’s forehead, scowling at the death glare he received in return.”

When I wrote this, I personally imagined Dib acting and speaking in a sort of annoyed, deflated way. Like he wasn’t really taking Zim’s harsh words seriously. Just a sort of eye-roll “yeah, whatever, Zim,” demeanor.  That’s how I saw it. 

This is how Sunny saw it: 

In Sunny’s comic, Dib is genuinely angry. He gets annoyed, stands up, and actually berates Zim with these words. 

I never made it clear how Dib spoke this line. Some people might look at this and say I failed as a writer because I didn’t explicitly say that Dib’s line was more casual than angry. I disagree. I left it up to the reader to interpret it as they chose. And Sunny surprised me by interpreting it in a way that was different. Not wrong! Just different. I positively loved seeing Sunny’s interpretation of my prompt. It let me see my writing in the eyes of others; it showed me that I was able to describe scenes while still allowing my readers to use their imaginations. 

As a fiction writer, it is not my job to be a stagehand and tell the reader every minute detail of the scene I’m writing. Instead, it is my job to guide them through the story and allow them to envision parts of the story as they see fit. This is especially true with dialogue. 

So let’s go back to the original excerpt from Parade that I was using as an example: 

‘“Soldier?’ Red said, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up. ‘…Yes?’

‘Just remember: you're walking a very thin line.’

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. ‘Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again.’”

In this passage, I tried to apply all these rules: 

Make it clear who’s speaking.

Use tags sparingly. Sometimes, “said” works just fine.

Use adverbs sparingly and don’t fall over yourself trying to describe everything. 

The dialogue flows smoothly, it is clear who is speaking, and the reader can decide how it’s being spoken. Is Red angry? Impatient? Completely void of emotion in his words? Is Larb scared out of his wits? Trying to keep up a facade of bravery? Who knows! I sure don’t! I’m just the writer! It’s up to YOU to decide.

So... yeah! I know my advice wasn’t particularly groundbreaking, but I hope it was an interesting read, nonetheless. 

[miiit-chan]

“ᴍʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜱ ᴏɴ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴀᴛᴛɪᴛᴜᴅᴇ ɪɴ ʟɪꜰᴇ”-ᴇQᴜɪᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛɪᴘꜱ/ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ;>

             Having a positive attitude is not something someone can give you, not your parents, not your siblings, and not your friends nor could it be bought by wealth, no matter how rich you are. It is something you develop and applies to yourself, and having this would come in handy in the long run. Human nature is fundamentally complex, one differs from another thus, giving advice, tips, or recommendations to my fellow teens is not that easy especially if I were to target some certain points, and in this case, positivity. One would always get me wrong, trust me I’ve been there. It will depend on their standings in life, I mean, I can’t just shove my beliefs to them so that they would change their mind, it’s their life and of course, I don’t have the privilege to dictate them because it would be up to them on how they would interpret what I am trying to say but nonetheless, whenever I get asked for advice or reasons on the way I handle life, I would confidently tell them that it is by understanding and acceptance, that’s it, a basic thing yet people have a hard time grasping the idea of it. I know it’s confusing, so let me explain, you see, people have different attitudes towards life, and when I say different, I say it is diverse and that it is something they acquire from their perspectives, beliefs, and even influences from the people they listened to and mind you, not all get to have the same basis to start, and not all would go down the right path. We need assistance, inspirations, understanding, and the will to accept what is different from what you know and believe to be able to see life differently from what we previously thought of that kept us from seeing life positively, and the lack of understanding and restraints from acceptance would be a step towards your downfall having only to acknowledge hatred, spite, vengeance, and negativity. In this world, there is a balance that keeps everything in place where one consistently contradicts the other, there are always differences among every aspect in life, and understanding this balance would create harmony with one another. For accomplishing understanding, one would not only see from their own perspective but from others as well. When faced in a situation where your standpoint is being challenged by another that is contrary to what you see and think, try fitting yourself in their shoes, leave the comfort of your thoughts, and have a wider image and different perspective of the situation at hand, not only will you learn something new, you get to have a clearer image of what is going on and be able to comprehend why people would come to a conclusion that is different from yours, keep in mind that in every story there is always a backstory to tell. Hold up, this does not end here, whenever life gives you a lemon, it’s not like you can’t make lemonade out of it, right? Don’t take obstacles as reasons as to why you can’t move forward, take it as a challenge, a test for you to learn and grow even if these things are new to you, drop the idea of ‘I can’t do it’ instead conquer it with an ‘I can and will do it’ mentality, but when things get out of hand and too much to take in, remember to take a step back and observe, oversee what is the problem and find the solution because one cannot function well with a clouded mind. I often hear from a lot of people and even from the books I read that in order to protect themselves, they build walls around them or worse cut people out from their life and shut their doors lock, I can’t blame them though, they were either hurt or was traumatized by the passing that one would turn a blind eye to every possibility of getting hurt not realizing that they too are still affected by this. Guarding your thoughts, feelings, and behavior doesn’t mean locking yourself away, it is by coping and handling what comes your way. Hiding as a defense mechanism would someday get back at you, learn to be in control of managing yourself. Start by evaluating your thoughts, know how your mind works, sort out your feelings and learn to take charge of them, don’t let others manipulate them as this would develop a dependent and fragile mind. Both your thoughts and feelings influence your behavioral patterns thus, having a matured mindset and be able to level your feelings will guard yourself against unavoidable things like stress, resulting from a positive outcome of both your mental and physical well-being. Maturity plays a vital role in your life, this measures how you can cope and handle things and make decisions in life. Be a person with morals and don’t let your emotions get the best of you, learn how to adapt and accept changes, and do surround yourself with people with a positive view in life. Accomplishing these things and be able to maintain them is not just some schoolwork tasks, we are talking about life here, sure it will not go smoothly and it takes time but if you continue to see things as something difficult to do and let this affect you, you’ll never improve and the positive attitude that you’re trying to develop and obtain would be far-fetched. Be mature enough to accept those challenges and barriers as material for you to learn and grow, and experience for you to look back and reflect on yourself because with this, you’ll be able to achieve your goals and live life positively. Lastly, before I end this blog, just a friendly reminder, never be afraid of tripping or falling, you can always get yourself up. Don’t be afraid of pain, and negativity, just trust in yourself, and you’ll be alright. :>>  Truly yours,

𝑀𝒾𝒾𝒾𝓉𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃~

[thecomicsnexus]

THE WILD STORM #19-24 MARCH - SEPTEMBER 2019 BY WARREN ELLIS, JON DAVIS-HUNT AND STEVE BUCCELLATO

SYNOPSIS (FROM DC DATABASE AND COMIC VINE)

In her London flat, Jenny Mei Sparks is telling her three new friends the story of her life over a few bottles of beer. It is a tale of adventure, righteousness, improbable encounters with famous people, and quite a lot of sex. She has been talking for thirteen hours and has still only gotten to 1955. By that year, she had joined Skywatch, a secret organization founded in the 1930s to guard against potential alien invasion. To that end, they needed a forward base on Mars. Their technology was formidable, their mission noble in theory... but Mars was a boring wasteland, and its lack of a magnetosphere meant that most of Jenny's crewmates developed cancer from stellar radiation exposure.

The mission had swiftly built its bases underground, shielded by the red dirt of Mars, but the base was also boring, and when Jenny came home, she left Skywatch, judging it to be "full of maniacs"... and to have only gotten worse since then. Skywatch has a set of agreements with IO, the shadowy intelligence masters, which mean it has to remain hidden, but as time goes on, the current leader of Skywatch, Henry Bendix, becomes more eager to use his technology to reshape Mars and Venus... and Earth. Jenny was sure a tipping-point would come, and it did - when Angie Spica used a jetpack suit made of IO and Skywatch tech to stop an IO assassin, in full view of a crowd, from killing Jacob Marlowe, a billionaire alien. Jack Hawksmoor interrupts, saying she didn't mention that. Jenny grins cryptically, and reaches for another bottle...

Elsewhere, the television news has gotten peculiar. Speculation about the New York Jetpack Incident. A report on a freak meteor strike which seems to be affecting the weather. A segment on the urban legend of the "billboard ghost girl". A segment on a serial killer dubbed the "Highway Ripper". A man speculating about a secret space program. An interview with Voodoo, where she describes her artistic side as a separate entity, her "daemon". And a news report about a township of fifty people, vanished in what the only eyewitness describes as an alien abduction...

In a large bed in a nice house, two men are watching that last segment on a phone screen. They conclude that it might be the work of Skywatch, who they escaped from together, but that if it is, something has made them brazen. One, dour as midnight, insists they must remain hidden, but the other, smiling like a Greek god, lists the actions of the dour one which have forced them to fight in the past. They will fight again this time, armed by preparation and buttressed by their love.

In the IO headquarters in New York, Jackie King is going over the estimates of Angie Spica's implants, wondering how she got it through IO's normal scanners. Ignoring a request that she attend a meeting, she orders an underling to prepare a report on their earlier DDOS on the Skywatch headquarters and whether they could replicate it.

Shen Li-Men is in the Hospital, the bardo realm where her predecessors as the Doctor reside. She says she has spoken to Jenny Mei Sparks and now she needs to know about the aliens. When they answer cagily, she insists that she cannot do her job unless they comply. So they tell her the tale.

Once upon a time, there was an alien planet called Khera. On it, the dominant species formed a society which bound together five sub-species in a caste system. The Kherans search the galaxy for life-bearing worlds with tool-using natives, with the goal of conscripting those natives as "clients", or slaves. Due to the chaotic nature of the universe, tool-using natives are hard to catch before they are wiped out by chance or foolishness. The goal of the Kheran rulers is something called "forward escape" - to take their whole society from this plane of existence to one where life is easier to sustain. A Doctor has never learned how this would work, but it requires living beings, serving in free will. Once, a Doctor seduced John Colt, a Kheran soldier, and while he was sleeping read his mind to view what, mechanically, this would entail - a vision of Earth marked by three massive fire pits.

However, when the Kherans arrived, they discovered that they were not unopposed. They called these rivals "The Other", once. Now they are known as "The Daemon". The goal of the Daemon is gently inspire, shepherding humanity forward with a modicum of balance so they can escape extinction. Aiding them in this vocation is a device of theirs - the Shaper Engine, a machine that Li-Men saw in a metaphor in a vision. One of the things the Shaper Engine does is empower specific humans to serve as a defense mechanism - like Jenny Mei Sparks.

The interference of the Daemon stymied the Kherans' efforts enough that they fell to internal bickering. A faction of the Kherans tried to influence the culture of the Middle East by appearing as wise but fearsomely-visaged powers, recorded in legend as cherubim. Emp chose a different tactic - he gathered a cabal of underlings, scuttled the alien ship, and vanished in the ensuing explosion. The Kheran homeworld assumed the mission to be a failure, and wrote Earth off. Emp has hidden inside society ever since, pursuing his "Main Project" - to raise human technology to the level where it can petition to join the Kherans as equals.

Today Emp pursues this mission using his resources under the alias 'Jacob Marlowe'. He sees far, but not far enough. He never grasped the reasoning of the Daemon. He did not anticipate that the marooned Kherans would spread competing philosophies and religions across the world, primed to oppose him. He did not anticipate how strong, or how strange, the humans could become. And he knows nothing of the Shaper Engine.

To conclude, the Doctors tell Shen Li-Men that a portentious storm is coming, a storm that may end the world. The Doctor that will have to oppose it will face a burden that no previous Doctor has ever had to bear, and that Doctor is her. And yet, they have an unbiased assessment of her skills and her compassion, which, with fortitude and spite and maybe a few friends, may be enough to see her through.

Skywatch intensifies its preparation for war, increasing its attacks on the planet. For some of these conflict zones, Skywatch’s greatest threat is not IO or conventional forces, but the people who escaped from its own experimentation camps. And the four people in London whom it knows little about, but who are preparing to take steps to alter the balance of the world.

The experimental subjects code-named Apollo and Midnighter have broken cover. Combat-optimized superhumans are now loose on the Earth.

Jenny Mei Sparks has assembled a group of misfits and exiles, to stand against a corruption that covers the world and orbits above it.

The storm of accidents, deaths, mistakes, confusion and anger has led to this. Miles Craven has lost his grip and Henry Bendix has lost his mind.

IO has betrayed the world, and Skywatch wants to burn it. The only people in the middle are Jenny Mei Sparks’ ragtag team of wounded orphans of the secret world.

REVIEW

These last six issues are more action packed (it is a third act after all), and in general it feels like a pilot for The Authority (curiously enough, the next book announced was WildCATS but it was cancelled. May be re-solicited eventually. WildStorm has a very complicated history with runs that get cancelled, with the most obvious one being The Authority by Grant Morrison.

Anyway, the visuals and the story are very tight, and this is an amazing story to read. It just, takes you two years to get the whole thing. I feel like in the last 12 issues, I got more about the properties I knew more, and that may be the reason why I liked the last 12 issues more.

As I said in a previous post, this is a very long prologue, but a high quality one. Think of it as the “Man of Steel” for a new universe (the John Byrne one, not the one that made you stop reading Superman).

I had problems in the past with the way Apollo and Midnighter’s relationship was portrayed. At least, during the New 52/Rebirth era. I felt it pretty real in this run, or at least is more similar to what I experienced in real relationships. Their differences are big, but at the core, they shouldn’t get in the way of their love.

Voodoo was a gratuitous character throughout these 24 issues. She barely did a thing. Same with the way Michael Cray ended up dying in the last issue. He did have his own mini-series that I didn’t follow, but considering that Deathblow had a “healing factor”, I suppose he is probably not dead.

This story felt very sober sometimes, replacing super-heroes with regular people with powers, it’s a nice interpretation when every book around you has spandex and shiny armor.

There is spandex and shiny armor here too... but you know what I mean.

I give these issues a score of 9.

[thebifrostgiant]

If You Know Where to Look - Part 14

Summary: in which you don’t have to fear for your life, you have a pleasant supper, and are briefly flirted with

Part 1 / Previous

Read on Ao3

Word Count: 3,049

Rating: T (for now)

Pairing: Loki/Reader

*

Chapter 14: Shadows Fall Behind

Loki lets his gaze rest on In-Hvassa, as it’s been doing so often as of late. His earlier confusion has mellowed into a temperate sort of curiosity, the uncertainty, the worry trickling away like a purulent sore that has been lanced and allowed to drain. Granted, there is still much he does not understand, so many facets to her, fickle and shifting like a reflection caught in a ripple of water. She is scared, he knows she is, but she is upright in the wake of it, trying to be brave as much as Loki himself is trying. But she is not scared of him.

He watches, unknown to her, as she sits in the chair she has established her claim on, hair tied back and up out of her face save for a few messy and loose stands, bare feet pulled up under her as she squints at the text of a book in the lamp light. He watches her hand creep up, almost unconsciously, frowning as her fingertips gently slide against her face, against the prominent scar there, feeling along the length of it. He looks away, his own hands clenching against the book he himself holds.

It isn’t the first time he’s seen her do that. Often, when she was deep in thought, distracted, or upset, her fingers would find the mar and rub at it like it was a smudge of dirt she could wipe away, or like it hurt and she was trying to soothe it, always with that frown, until she seemed to realize what she was doing and pull her hand back down like she’d been burnt. This time is no different.

Loki can’t quite swallow down the sharp taste of guilt each time she does it. And it is guilt he hasn’t earned. He realizes as much, rationally. But he cannot stop the feeling that he is to blame for it, that though he did not force her hand, he is at fault for the pain and the necessity of it. It is easier to rue the one tangible reminder than it is to reconcile an entire list of misdeeds. Cruelty is a trait as intrinsic in his very self as the blood in his veins, and while it has its place, is beneficial for some things, for his dealing with those who would harm him, would harm others, those like Einvald and Bǫlverkr, it is not something she had ever truly deserved from him. He had given it regardless.

And yet she has laid her life neither at his feet, for him to take sole responsibility for, nor firmly out of his hands, untrusting and reclusive, but at his side, steadfastly working with him to figure this out, to navigate the world they are in and balance on the line they walk. An ally. A voice to break through his thoughts and offer ideas, suggestions, things he would not have thought of on his own. A bolstering presence as dedicated to getting the fuck out of here as Loki is, relieving in the very fact that she shares this with him — not that he wants her to, not that he wants anyone to, but, he thinks privately, selfishly, it is better than being alone. More and more lately, a friend even.

She throws the book onto the windowsill with a clatter that pulls Loki from his musings, and lets out a miffed sigh, glaring at it like she could make it give her the answers she is looking by the heat of her gaze alone.

“Any luck?” he asks, just because he knows she’s had none.

She turns that glare at him, aware that he’s being a nuisance on purpose. He grins back, a bit toothily, and she relents with another huff of breath.

“No,” she says accusingly toward the useless book, and then glances at the rest of the stack she’s set aside to search through, looking weary. There are still so many, but there are fewer books in that stack than in the ‘hopelessly uninformative’ pile she’d already been through. “Please tell me you’ve found something?”

“Sorry.” Loki shrugs, because he hasn’t, in part because he’s not been paying full attention to his reading. “There just doesn’t seem much to find.”

“No. Midgard is not a very good repository for magical knowledge, is it? All I’m finding is card tricks and guides to dream interpretation, and a few of what seem to be children’s books.” She picks up another book with clear reluctance, and turns it so she can see the spine. “A Thrifty Wiccan’s Guide to Frugal and Benevolent Witchcraft,” she reads aloud, the color of distaste in her tone. “By Lyrica Nightshade. Do I even have to look at this one? I’m not even sure this is a real book.”

She rubs at her temples, looking about as miserable with the task as Loki feels.

“There’s only a few minutes until dinner time. It’s not worth it to get started on another book just yet. Let’s just get ready to go downstairs.”

Loki swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands and stretches out his back, carefully, mindful of his ribs. It still hurts when Loki moves the wrong way, when he stretches too far or makes any sudden shifts in his body, but now he can breathe in nearly all the way without choking on the pain, and he’s stopped needing to wear the bandage. It’s a relief to be rid of it, to be able to move his chest freely, without it chaffing and constricting and collecting sweat and dirt.

Oddly, though, he finds himself missing having In-Hvassa help him with it. He hadn’t thought he actually liked her fussing over him until she’d stopped needing to, and realized he’d sort of gotten used to the quiet care and concern for him. It was nice. She didn’t have to do it, but she did, and Loki is grateful, because he must have done something right to be rewarded by her genuine compassion. Somehow, somewhere along the way, she’d decided that he was worth being kind to, and much as he couldn’t wrap his head around it, couldn’t seem to fathom why, when she’d at first been so determined to lash out with icy words that stung as much as she’d meant them to, it gives him a new light to look at her in, and, he thinks, it’s a rather warm light.

He rolls the tension out of his shoulders, tips his neck side to side. Several popping noises ensue, and In-Hvassa looks up at him, brows furrowed.

“Maybe you should take the chair next time,” she offers. Then she adds, “you sound like an old man.”

Loki snorts.

“And you sound like my mother,” he returns good-naturedly. Funny, how he had demanded her respect when her flippancy is much more entertaining.

She purses her lips in a way that Loki knows means she can’t find a response to say to that, and he relishes the victory.

He makes his way to the door, where he’d set aside his boots upon entering and slides his feet into the familiar and comfortable black leather, stooping gingerly to do up his laces.

“Come get your shoes,” he calls, catching her eye over his shoulder. She still hasn’t gotten up from the chair.

“‘You sound like my mother,’” she mocks under her breath, loud enough for Loki to hear, not quite able to keep her mouth from twitching with a dawning smile. She heaves herself to her feet anyway, though.

Loki begins picking up the discarded books and placing them carefully into his shoulder bag, a sturdy thing of some stiff grey-green fabric with leather accents that Loki is actually quite fond of. The plasticky coatings on the books crackle as they shift and settle when he hefts the bag over his arm, and by the time he’s finished, In-Hvassa has done up the buckles on her own pair of boots, still new and crisp and obviously much preferable to the slippers she’d had before, if her lack of limping is any sign.

“Ready?”

She nods, and he follows her out the door and down the winding stairs, to the colorful and chaotic dinning room filled with mismatched bric-a-brac and an eclectic, changing assortment of people ever in transit.

***

You feel kind of bad for making Loki carry the whole mass of books when he is, still, injured, but he had insisted on it. The one time you’d offered to carry them for him, he’d told you no in no uncertain terms, with a stare so hard you hadn’t been particularly inclined to try again. You weren’t sure if it was pride or some misguided attempt at courtesy, the vestiges of his princeliness still in full force. But he seems to be handling it well, so you doubt the bandage will be making its return any time soon.

You sit next to Loki at the table, even though you’re among the first to arrive and there are many empty chairs. Loki has been, well, nice to you in the last few days, and being able to relax a bit in his company is something you’re glad of. You’re not adverse to all the strangers, all the people staying for various points of time and communing at the table, but you’re starting to know Loki in a way that all the changing faces don’t match up to. It’s become sort of a habit to have him around, and, well, that’s nice too.

All the food at this inn is typically served in big pots and platters filled up with an assortment of dishes, with each guest able to serve themselves what they desired from the feast. While the foods would vary from day to day, some things were staples of the evening meal, like baskets of fresh baked bread rolls, bowls of tossed greens, a mixture of vegetables cooked in butter, and some pale purple iced drink in a pitcher that seems to be a famous Primitive Raven special. You like it. It’s fruity and floral, and it has a bubbly sweetness that you can’t quite place. Loki refuses to touch it though, which you really think is his loss.

Today there are plates of some type of poultry that has been glazed and roasted, potatoes that have been mashed smooth with lots of cream and garlic, and long skinny green pods of beans in a tangy sauce. You fill your plate as the other guests start trickling in, solitary, or in groups of twos, or in one case, a family of five.

As you eat, you try to recollect anything helpful you might have read in the past few days, any trace of something that could be of aid, of transportation charms or cursed objects. There had been pitifully few even remotely helpful bits, and most of what seemed like it could have turned up something useful inevitably fell flat. You and Loki had checked his clothes for any talismans or inscribed runes that might have been drawn or stuck on there by Bǫlverkr, checked your own too, just in case, but every inch had been examined and re-examined with nothing to show for it. Which meant that it was probably a spell of some sort, and that may have been where Lyngvir came into the picture. Loki had mentioned before that Álfar magic was a tricky sort, one not understood well even by Aesir mages. Which meant that Midgard didn’t stand much chance at all, in hindsight, since there seems to be almost nothing even approaching true magic on this planet. Of all the realms you could have ended up on, it had to be the one that would be hardest to get back from. Well, at least it’s not Svartálfheim.

You push a bite of potatoes around the plate with your fork, distractedly wondering how long it would take to comb through the entire library’s worth of books, because, tempting as it is to give up and just let the assumption that the endeavor is doomed dictate your actions, to start afresh and come up with some new avenue to venture down and hope to come up with something, you can’t rule out even the slightest chance of there being some lead amongst the shelves of Midgardian literature. Even if you’d rather walk a mile in your old, terrible shoes than read another word.

Beside you, Loki sets his fork down and shifts his chair ever so slightly closer to yours, and you look up at him in question. He tips his head down so his mouth is level with your ear. It’s hardly the best approximation of privacy, but he whispers softly enough that you’re confident no one else has heard.

“The man three seats down on the other side of the table has been staring at you this entire time.” It’s a warning tone, concern and mistrust therein.

You smile, laugh a little bit, like Loki has said something delightful to you. Discreetly, you tilt your eyes to where, sure enough, a man who must be the one Loki means is in fact watching you with something that goes beyond curiosity. You’re not sure what it is, but you don’t like it one bit.

“What? I don’t have something on my face, do I?” you whisper back, trying to impart a little bit of humor to keep from letting that unsettled feeling take hold. But then the amusement falters and dies, because you remember that, yes, you do have something on your face. You very much do.

Your hand instinctively rises, intent on touching the scar, to hide it, even as useless as that would be at this point. Loki catches it in his own, fast as a blink, before you can lift it beyond chest height, stopping you from doing what would be something quite stupid indeed. Then he freezes, seems to realize that grabbing you like that, just on this side of violently, though you know that he had not meant it as such, could not possibly look good, would look, actually, quite appalling. Instead, he shifts his fingers around your own until he is simply holding your hand, a resemblance of tenderness.

You turn toward him, without letting your smile fall, because you don’t want anyone to think that he is actually hurting you when, you recognize, he is trying to do the opposite, trying, in his way, to protect you. And since you are facing him, you clearly see the impish idea light up his eyes as it fills his head, and you have but a moment to anticipate his next move, whether with dread or with eagerness, you don’t know.

Before you can decide if you should pull your hand back or not, he lifts it to his quirking mouth, the traces of a smile of his own, at his own mischief, lingering as he kisses your knuckles just like Brian had, just like you’d seen Loki do to Kathy, and Thor to Ülle. It’s almost sweet, somehow, the light brush of his lips on your skin, the little puff of air as Loki tries not to laugh, and you don’t even have to pretend to blush, just a little, and you’re sure that, to any outside perspective, you must truly look like a smitten couple quite taken with each other. And Loki must be having a bad influence on you, because you sort of enjoy the little performance, the illusion you’re creating, a bit of a lie, a bit of convivial wickedness.

Another secret glance reveals that the man is still watching you, still raptly studying the game you and Loki play, with an intensity that burns and a glare that’s even hotter.

Loki maintains his hold of your hand even as he lets it lower, lets it fall beneath the table. You don’t pull it away as you go back to eating, even though no one can see it, even though it’s not necessary for the act. His hand is cool, and surprisingly soft, in your own, and it’s... reassuring. It makes you feel less alone. You’ve got someone literally looking out for you, and you’ve seen just how formidable Loki can be. You still can recall in vivid detail — a marvel, considering your state at the time — Einvald’s face as the prince laid into him, the vicious, satiated feeling of watching the vile man stutter and cower, drained of blood and gall something that will likely stay with you all your life. You’d also been target of Loki’s rancor, though you’ve still not been able to figure out what had put you in that place to begin with, what had made you the object of his venom. But now... now he is not spitting at you or laying some web to entangle you.

Something warm presses against your palm, something smooth in parts and edgy in others, and after a moment, you recognize the feel of the little dagger, Loki’s little dagger, as he slides it into your grasp. You take it, wondering, hardly sure what to say.

Loki leans close to you again, close enough for his hair to tickle your face, for his urgency to be felt like a physical presence.

“Keep it with you, at least until that man isn’t staying here any longer.”

You nod, strangely earnest. You clutch the handle tightly as you swallow around the sudden gratitude warming your chest.

“I will,” you say out loud, because no one would know of what you spoke anyway.

“If he, or anyone, tries to hurt you,” Loki says, merciless, and you can almost feel the sharpness of his grim smile, “stick them with it.” He pauses, then, with a ghost of a laugh, adds, “In-Hvassa.”

You frown at that. You don’t like the name, don’t like not knowing what he means by it. It feels like an insult, like a reminder, and it makes shame squirm in your insides.

But he had sounded almost fond, and you finish your dinner knowing that, whatever else Loki had been in the past, you sit side by side with a friend.

Part 15 __________________________________________

*feel free to ask to tag/untag*

@steve-rogcrs @ps-ghost

[akitokihojo]

Fault

Y’ALL WANT SOME PAIN?

I hope so because this is the end of my fic spam and I’ve got nothing else for you for a while...

Note: This fic takes place between episodes 177 (Flowers Drenched in Sadness) and 178 ep 10 and 11 of Final Act. There’s some trauma discussed in that episode and my girl, Kagome, has her own feelings sort of left up to interpretation at the end, and since I’m over emotional and may have cried, this is my rendition of what should have happened.

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

Inuyasha sat with his back against the wall of Kaede’s hut, legs crossed in front of him and ears giving little twitches as the quiet of the night set in, the only noises around being the deep breaths of air leaving the lungs of the sleeping members around him and the flickering flames of the dying fire in the center of the room. It was no surprise that he couldn’t sleep. His mind was riddled with questions that had been burning at his tongue just begging to be asked, and even with Kagome on her side of the well, he felt close to bursting.

Over the past week, he’d watched Kagome sit up in her sleeping bag, look around to check that everyone was sleeping, tuck Shippo into the padding of the bag so he was warm enough not to notice her absence, and saunter off into the darkness of the forest. Out of respect, he never followed, thinking she’d only ever venture off like that if she was using the restroom. But when she’d return, her cheeks would hold a hint of pink illuminated by the fire in the middle of their camp. Her eyes would be puffy, the embers creating harsh shadows beneath the swelling of her lower lids. And she would smell of salt.

The scent wasn’t overwhelming. In fact, if Inuyasha wasn’t paying attention he would have missed the bitter whiff of salt altogether. This happened every night. Kagome would get out of her sleeping bag, never once noticing Inuyasha watching from his place not too far from her, and come back with a dull, sad gaze. She’d crawl back into her bag, clutch the young fox kit who wouldn’t wake but would snuggle closer to her chest, and would shut her eyes until sleep eventually took her.

On night number three of this routine, he planned on asking her what was going on. His instincts were, at this point, screaming that something was wrong. How long had this been going on for? He had just barely become aware of the fact that Kagome was tremendously affected by something, and while he had the general idea, his gut told him there was more to it. Since he was coping with his own heartbreak for a while, he hardly noticed what the others did around him, only tuning in during bits and pieces of conversations and when asked a question. The realization that this could have been happening while he was always only a few feet away from Kagome, but never actually present, bruised him.

When she returned from her walk, Inuyasha sat up straighter, not missing the small sniffle from her nose or the way she tucked her head when she noticed him looking at her. He opened his mouth to ask, only able to get out her name before Kagome cut him off by mentioning how awful her allergies had been lately before sending a barely-believable grin his way.

She didn’t want to talk about it, that much was clear. As much as he wanted to hound her and ask what was going on over and over until she gave in and told him, he could tell this was a situation that needed to be handled delicately.

Inuyasha’s specialty.

He’d never seen Kagome like this before. Pissed, yeah. Jealous, sure. Sad, not often but it’s still happened. So distraught that she had to swallow it around her companions and sneak off alone in the middle of the night to let it out, not once.

This all started, or at least was brought to his attention, when they encountered the flower prince, Kao. The bastard got off on peoples’ sadness, making Inuyasha a prime target while he mourned Kikyo’s passing. Little did he know, Kagome was even worse off than he was. He never got clarification for it, though. Kao was elated to announce how Kagome’s sadness triumphed Inuyasha’s, making her all the more appealing to the demon, but stopped abruptly before preaching the cause behind it. Inuyasha didn’t realize it in the moment, but he didn’t want Kao to stop talking. He wanted -no, needed- to know what was tearing her apart inside. She’d mentioned that Kikyo’s death was hard on everyone, but that didn’t tell him anything. The others didn’t sneak off in the dead of night to cry. Kagome did.

The worry was spreading through him at an agonizing pace, causing his knee to bob up and down. It aggravated him that there was seemingly nothing he could do. She’d firmly stated to the invasive bastard that her emotions weren’t for anyone other than herself, so who was he to ask about them? Inuyasha felt that if she were going to open up about what she felt, she would have done so immediately following the incident while the door was open. But she didn’t. Instead, she took care of him and made sure he was okay. Something he should have been doing for her.

Now here he was a week and a half later, sitting up in the middle of the night while the group recouped at Kaede’s place. Kagome had decided to head home to gather more supplies and study for a test she’d fabricated on the spot. Inuyasha had become so attuned to her lately, paying attention to her every quirk and move, how she put in so much effort to appear fine in front of Miroku, Sango, and Shippo, noticing how her cheeks were paling more and more every day, and how her dark brown eyes looked exhausted and puffy. He could tell which smiles were fake now, when she wasn’t asleep, when she would lie about being “just tired” to explain her swollen lower eyelids and lack luster features, and he could tell when she lied to his face about her reason for going back to her time.

He told himself at first that it was best to give her space. Let her have a day, maybe two, at home and she’d come back refreshed and better than ever. She’d take a bath and return smelling of that wonderful, warm, sugary scent Inuyasha had grown to favor about her, and everything would be okay again. He wouldn’t have to worry about her. She’d sleep at night and wouldn’t cry anymore, and Inuyasha would be comforted just knowing that Kagome was happy once again.

That would be too easy, though, wouldn’t it? Something pushed and pulled painfully at him, screaming that Kagome needed him and, yet again, he wasn’t there for her.

Inuyasha curled his fingers into tight fists, his sharp claws biting into the flesh of his palms, the entirety of what was left of his resolve dissipating. As quietly as possible, he stood from his spot, stepped around the curled up, sleeping fox demon, and pushed his way through the hanging door mat and out into the cool night air. Quickly, he hastened his pace, sprinting towards the ancient bone eaters well and jumping straight through.

 The cool air greeted Inuyasha as he slowly slid the shrine door open, looking around to assess his surroundings. Kagome’s time was much safer than his own, but he still preferred awareness over surprises. Even though it was the middle of the night, the quarter moon high in the night sky, the distant roads still sounded busy. Kagome had told him that sort of thing was common in her village -or city, he remembered her calling it. Her family’s shrine on the other hand, further away from most of the commotion, was quiet and peaceful. He soundlessly slid the door to the well shut behind him, looking at each window of Kagome’s home and noticing none of the lights on. As he approached the building, he took in the quiet of the house. He could usually hear her grandpa snoring or her younger brother watching shows on the television in the living room, but it was stone-still inside. Aside from Kagome’s room.

Small, weak whimpers emitted from the open, glass window caused his pointed ears to lay flat along his head as a heavy feeling settled into the cavity of Inuyasha’s chest. The half demon launched himself from the hard earth beneath his feet to the base of her window, balancing on the edge of the wood and analyzing the dark room.

The door across the way was open, the halls pitch black and hard for even him to see into. The floor around was a mess; books were scattered around and opened with their pages folded damagingly against the ground, the small lamp that usually sat on Kagome’s desk was broken on the opposite side of the room, clothes were strewn about, and even the chair was tipped over in the middle of the walking space. Inuyasha silently stepped in, peering at the girl sitting hunched over on her bed staring blankly at the comforter beneath her folded legs and holding her towel against her bare chest. Her black hair was wet, still dripping along the skin of her back, small goosebumps evident from the moonlight shining in through the window pane.

The half demon stood frozen in place from the scene in front of him. His initial thought was Kagome had to have been attacked, baring his claws before he realized he couldn’t smell anything or anyone foreign in her home. Only the usual scents lingered, along with the fresh and sweet aroma of the shampoo Kagome must have just used, still strong from her sodden locks. He didn’t sense any sort of immediate danger, so what the hell could have happened? The girl in front of him hardly moved, only trembling slightly as she continued to stare at the blanket along the length of her bed and brought the towel she held loosely in her fingers up to her mouth to cover the bottom lip she chewed on. The only bit of clothing she donned was black underwear, and while this wasn’t his first time seeing her undressed, it still created a tender feeling to swell and tighten in his abdomen at seeing her in such a raw and vulnerable state. He thought to cover her up somehow to protect her from feeling any further and unnecessary defenselessness, but he couldn’t find the will to move.

She took in a shaky breath, sniffling as a salty tear ran down the length of her nose and dripped onto her knee. Slowly, Kagome blinked and turned her head to face Inuyasha, a look of realization emerging on her pale cheeks, her shoulders broadening as she finally processed his presence. She whipped her torso away to face the back wall, clutching the white cloth to her chest with one hand and wiping her tear-stained face with the other.

“Kagome-“

“What are you doing here?” Kagome asked, her hoarse voice appearing harsh and direct. She continued to hide her face, and he could tell she was trying to compose herself by taking deep breaths and shaking her head as if to push the problem to the back of her mind.

“I came to check on you. What the hell happened, Kagome?!” Inuyasha fired, taking a step forward but stopping as her brown eyes darted back in his direction and pierced through him.

“Nothing.” Kagome answered resolutely.

“Don’t give me that! This doesn’t look like nothing to me!”

“Leave it alone, Inuyasha.” She demanded through gritted teeth, a red blemishing her face as she pushed herself further onto her bed and back against the white wall. He paused for a moment, taking in the shaking sight of her. She wasn’t afraid, he knew her better than that. She didn’t fear him, so he knew full and well that that wasn’t why she was backing away. This had everything to do with the pain Kao boasted about a week and a half ago. The pain she’d been dealing with for too long now. She’d had to swallow and contain it for over a week, maybe even longer considering Inuyasha wasn’t aware until recently, only letting bits and pieces of it out while she thought everyone slept. This was her inevitable mental breakdown from holding it back for as long as she did. The scattered and broken items on the floor were Kagome releasing the dark depths of it all.

Inuyasha took another small step forward, untying the knot at the front of his fire rat as he watched Kagome quickly wipe the tears that relentlessly continued to flow.

“Here, let me-“

“Go home!” Kagome snapped, forcing herself to appear as small against the wall as she could.

“No, I-“

“Leave me alone, Inuyasha!” She screamed, crumbling forward as she brought the dampened towel up to hide her face and squeezed her legs into her chest, her muffled sobs causing a lump to form in the half demon’s throat. Inuyasha stood there, mouth slightly agape as he tried to figure out what to do. He’d never seen her like this before. He’d never seen anyone like this before. Was he supposed to leave her to handle this alone? He figured that was a trash idea considering she was already left alone for a small fragment of time and this was what he showed up to, but then what? He wasn’t necessarily any good at handling crying people, let alone Kagome crying. It was no secret that Inuyasha wasn’t good with emotions, period. And this… This was a whole new level. Kagome’s front was disintegrating as she bawled and quivered in the ball she’d rolled herself into, begging him to leave between each heart-shattering cry.

The thought of leaving her alone like this, trembling and broken, made Inuyasha feel physically sick. He couldn’t leave her. He wouldn’t leave her. As much as he didn’t know what to do, he was fully aware that being away from Kagome right now was the worst possible solution.

He swallowed the hardened lump, feeling the thick, heavy ball travel down his esophagus and land in the pit of his already-aching stomach. He removed the suikan from his shoulders and made his way through the mess on the floor, avoiding the school books and the writing utensils littering the place, and stopped just before the edge of her mattress. He leaned over, wrapping the thick robe over her naked shoulders, respecting the space she needed at the moment and finding it might be more comfortable for the both of them if he averted his eyes for the time being.

“I won’t leave.” Inuyasha started, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and staring at the broken glass from the lamp at the edge of the room. He heard Kagome still slightly, small gasps continuing to escape her mouth, but the shaking muscles ceasing under the warmth of his fire rat. “I can wait with you.”

“N-no.” Kagome’s voice was weak and muffled, his sensitive ears hardly picking it up.

“I won’t leave.” He repeated firmly, briefly glancing back at her with his amber eyes but looking away again towards the closet doors.

“I n-never wa-wanted you t-to s-see me like th-this.” She sobbed, clutching her legs even tighter, burying her face further into her knees.

“Why, Kagome?!” He pushed, finding it impossible to look away from her any longer. “It’s just me!”

“Because it’s you!” Kagome finally looked up at him, the salt from her fresh, hot tears so pungent that he could taste it. Her hair was just beginning to dry, messy waves forming around her face and casting harsh shadows with the moonlight under her swollen eyes. The apples of her cheeks were stained pink and irritated from the constant wiping she did in an attempt to stop the scorching liquid that relentlessly leaked down.

Inuyasha took a small step back, the heel of his foot connecting with some of the spilled contents from her yellow backpack, his knuckles white from the fists he tightly clenched. His golden eyes were wide with shock at her statement, the anxiety already building within him causing his lungs to clench and ache. He didn’t understand what was going on. Over the time they’d spent with each other, through the battles and arguments, all the shit they’d been through at each other’s sides she still felt the need to hide her pain and it fucking killed him.

“You… don’t trust me.” He said more than asked, their gazes locking as she shook her head fervently.

“No! No, Inuyasha, it’s not that!” Kagome defended, dropping the towel to the side and crawling closer to the edge of her mattress, clutching the inside of the suikan closed with one hand while bracing herself with the other. “You’ve had to deal with so much already. I-I never wanted my own troubles to burden you.”

“Burden?” Inuyasha asked, trying to swallow the anger that suddenly built up. “Kagome, did you think I didn’t notice this shit earlier? Did you think I never noticed you leaving in the middle of the night to cry?!”

“There was only that one-“

“No, I saw you leave every-fucking-night!” He barked, throwing his arms out in front of him in emphasis. “You lying to me, sneaking off, pretending you’re fine, and hiding whatever you’re feeling is what’s burdening me! So why don’t you just spit it out?! I don’t care what I’ve had to “deal with!” I don’t care if the world is crumbling around me and I’m holding the weight of it up with my shoulders! I can handle anything you throw at me, Kagome, so stop bottling it up like an idiot and tell me what the hell is going through your head!”

Kagome’s bottom lip quivered, pouting outward as she shut her eyes and folded into herself, causing a horrible chill to painfully course through every vein in Inuyasha’s body, sending shocks to each nerve ending that nearly had him crumbling on the spot. He bent to his knees, crawling the short distance to reach the side of the bed and peered at her face through her untidy bangs, wondering if it was safe to touch her yet because it was getting harder and harder to keep his hands at his sides. Her sobs racked her whole body, the whimpers escaping her throat seeming small yet so raw it made him wish this were his human night so that his hearing wasn’t so keen.

“I didn’t know you saw me,” She whispered, shaking her head yet again. “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Inuyasha hushed, gently pressing his forehead to hers, his nails threading into her damp hair and holding her to him by the crook if her jaw. “Just tell me, Kagome. Please.”

She continued her quiet apologies, each one filling Inuyasha’s chest with a hollow ache. Seeing her like this, feeling her body’s small quakes and hiccups from the unceasing crying made him feel so helpless. So useless. He wanted to take everything she was feeling and make it his own. He wanted to absorb her sorrow and take every ounce of it away from her. Inuyasha didn’t care how much pain he’d be in afterwards. He’d do whatever it took to see the woman whose smile provided him with hope and comfort okay again.

“It’s my fault.” Kagome finally admitted, leaning back from him, a cold breeze brushing against the spot her hot forehead once leaned against. “It’s all my fault, Inuyasha. You trusted me, and I let you down.”

“What do you mean?“

“Kikyo.” She choked, clutching the robe around her shoulders even tighter, bringing it up towards her face to hide behind. “Only I could save her, and I messed up!”

Inuyasha took a moment, his hands falling to the bed spread, processing all the information she’d given him in just that one, short declaration. He could hear it in the hook her voice gave, expressing just how guilty and responsible she felt for the priestess’s death. There was no way in hell he imagined she had this hanging over her shoulders.

“This isn’t your fault.” The half demon acknowledged incredulously, shaking his head slowly as he tried to make sense of her guilt. “This isn’t even close to your fault!”

“Don’t you get it, Inuyasha?”

“Don’t you get it? I was the one that should have protected her!”

“You can’t be in two places at once!” Kagome argued. “I was there! I had to purify her with the bow from Mount Azusa; that was the one thing I was told to do!”

“You did that, Kagome!”

“No, you don’t understand! I hesitated when I faced the spirit of the mountain! I was unsure and if I didn’t have to take that moment to sort everything out, we could have gotten back to Kikyo sooner!”

“Stop!”

“If I were stronger, maybe I could have purified her soul with that arrow like I was supposed to!”

“She redirected it with the sacred jewel! That wasn’t-“

“If I were stronger, she would have lived!” Kagome cried, letting go of the fire rat altogether and slamming her hands against the firm mattress. “If I were stronger, you wouldn’t have lost Kikyo!”

The hanyou’s heart was pounding erratically against his ribcage, his fingers trembling from the sheer amount of unbridled emotion in their argument. As much as he felt to blame for Kikyo’s passing… As much as he felt it was his fault because he didn’t get to her side fast enough, deep in his gut he knew there was no stopping it. It was always easier to blame himself than to accept the fact that Kikyo had planned to sacrifice herself in order to defeat Naraku.

Kikyo was never meant to be at that battle in the first place. She was a specter, unwillingly walking this Earth once again, living off only a fragment of her own soul along with the continuously delivered souls of dead women, with the pure intention to defeat Naraku. What was her goal after the fight was over? What was she intending to do once Naraku was killed? Live a happy life alongside Inuyasha? No, that was never the plan for either of them.

Inuyasha swallowed thickly, climbing onto the bed next to Kagome, his legs curving around the sides of her body. He adjusted the loosely splayed, red garment around her bare shoulders, gently grabbing her arms to weave them through the sleeves and pulling her to look at him with the front of the open robes. Her brown eyes, clouded with sorrow and remorse, met his own gaze and caused every muscle in his abdomen to clench.

“Kagome, I want you to listen to me.” He insisted, his grip on the hem of his robe tightening.

“Inu-“

“Listen to me.” Kagome shut her mouth, the pink skin of her lips sealing as her eyebrows twitched together in response to his tone, then relaxed. “In no way do I blame you, do you understand? You fought with everything you had, and you did everything you could. Kikyo came up with a plan of her own, and I don’t know if it was something she’d come up with long beforehand or on the spot, but she sacrificed herself in an attempt to purify Naraku and no one can be held responsible for her decisions. I’d lost her years ago, Kagome, so this wasn’t entirely about me losing her. It was more about feeling like I’d let her down again. I didn’t save her and that’s why I blamed myself, but with all that you did and all that you overcame just to fight for Kikyo’s soul, I could never find fault in you. Ever.”

“You didn’t let her down, though!” Kagome whimpered, scooting her knees inward to fully face the half demon, her bottom lip pouting out again.

“I know that. And I also know how hard it is to convince yourself otherwise when you feel responsible for something. So, I want you to take your time with this. If I have to remind you every day of how strong I think you are, I’ll do it. If you need a reminder that you aren’t to blame for Kikyo’s death, I’ll give that to you. I’m here, Kagome. You don’t have to deal with this alone anymore.” Inuyasha threaded his fingers of one hand through her raven hair once more, being mindful of his claws while gently gripping the thick strands at the nape of her neck.

Kagome took a moment and Inuyasha could feel the tremors from her body just inches from his finally calm. Her thick, wet lashes blinked away a couple more tears that had lined the rim of her eyelids, the thumb of Inuyasha’s other hand leaving the hem of the fire rat and softly wiping the searing liquid away, cupping her cheek within his palm. She exhaled, and he could feel her muscles tense as she tried to quickly put up another façade, but it crumbled immediately, and she launched herself into the heat of his chest, wrapping her arms around him and sobbing into his kosode.

“I’m so sorry, Inuyasha! I’m so sorry!” Kagome repeated over and over, the apologies muffled by his thick shirt. His arms instinctively wrapped firmly around her while he supported her weight, feeling her hot breath on his skin, burning through his clothing and seeping through to his heart.

Inuyasha continued to hold her, her small frame nestled tightly against his torso, snug in between his legs while his fingers combed through her hair as it continued to dry completely, and he rested his chin on top of her head. He shushed her when necessary, but otherwise allowed her to cry until she couldn’t cry anymore. Her choppy breathing eventually calmed and then eventually deepened, the grip her fingers held along the back of his shirt loosening, and Inuyasha slowly leaned back against the comforter of the bed until his head sunk into Kagome’s pillow. She adjusted herself slightly but stayed pressed to his chest, her thin fingers playing with the extra cloth along the hanyou’s waist.

“You should get some rest, Kagome.” Inuyasha whispered, his palm stilling at the crown of her head as their lungs synchronized. “There’s nothing to worry about anymore. Not while I’m with you.”

He felt her nod, her eyelashes tickling the flesh at the base of his throat as they closed, her spent body growing heavier on top of him. His own eyes began drifting shut, and after weeks of fighting the exhaustion, he finally felt like he didn’t have to anymore. His own mind began to calm considerably, and with Kagome pressed up against him, her pure heart beating alongside his rib cage, it brought a deepening comfort he could hardly describe. A warmth began spreading throughout his veins, starting at where their skin touched and expanding to fill him with a sensation he’d grown familiar to feeling only with her. He hoped he could provide in return even a fraction of what Kagome unknowingly provided for him; the safety and serenity just her presence offered, let alone what the physical pressure of her body did. It was the feeling he bathed in whenever he was with Kagome that helped him get through the trials he’d faced since waking from his fifty-year sleep, and he could only hope to bring her the same sort of peace. If he was able to do that, he’d consider himself more than content. Kagome muttered a soft thank you to him, and he flexed his arms around her chest, refusing to let go of her even while he gave into sleep.

[haberdashing]

The Spider and The Bee

Gwen Stacy gets a car that turns out to be more than meets the eye.

(Yes, this is a Spider-Verse/Bumblebee crossover fic. Yes, this is solely because Hailee Steinfeld plays both roles. So sue me.)

on AO3

Gwen Stacy gets a car for her sixteenth birthday, and she knows that she really should be grateful.

Her parents meant well, she’s sure. And a lot of kids her age would kill to have a car of their own. But to Gwen, the car seems like more trouble than it’s worth. Finding parking for it is generally more of a hassle than just dealing with the idiosyncrasies of the New York City subway system.

(Plus half the time she’s navigating the city, she’s doing it via web-slinging, but her parents don’t know about that part, and if she has any say in it, they never will.)

The car in question isn’t exactly endearing itself to her, either. It’s an old-fashioned Volkswagen Beetle, the kind that she thought had died off decades ago. It looks well-maintained enough, but even Gwen, who is far from an expert on cars, notices that the radio never works and that it sometimes takes multiple tries to start. Her father lets slip at one point that it was obtained in a bust on a chop shop upstate, and honestly, it doesn’t surprise her. An ignoble origin for an ignoble vehicle.

Oh, and the Volkswagen Beetle is yellow. Not a nice, subtle, pastel yellow, either. It’s a bright yellow, a nauseatingly in-your-face yellow, a shade of yellow that reminds her of bumblebees and kindergarten crayons.

Gwen Stacy likes stealth, when she can get it, and this car is anything but stealth.

But she still uses the car from time to time, when where she wants to go is either hard to get to via public transit or off the map entirely. She lies through her teeth about how much she loves the car and appreciates having it.

She even gives it a name, as is their family tradition. She dubs it Bee.

Gwen tells her parents that the name Bee is because the car is the same shade of yellow as some species of bees, and that it’s also short for Beetle, and she’s not lying when she says it, not exactly.

But Bee (or B) can be short for a lot of other things, too. Like Beware. Or Beneath me. Or Below average.

And there’s also how the car always smells like honey, to the point where Gwen honestly wouldn’t be surprised to find out that there was a beehive hidden away somewhere inside the car.

There’s also that, while spiders can kill bees, sometimes the reverse is possible as well. It fits how Gwen always feels herself tensing up when she enters the car, how she’s not entirely sure if she’s joking when she tells friends that that car will be the death of her.

But much as Gwen dislikes the car, she has to admit that it’s handy to have around sometimes.

There’s one night in particular where she just wants to get away from it all, and she drives and drives until asphalt turns to dirt, until New York City is just a twinkle in the distance. Once she’s sure that she’s well and truly in the middle of nowhere, Gwen gets out of the car, sits on the ground, and gazes up at the stars.

(She feels a pang of loss when she remembers how Peter always had the constellations memorized, how he would have pointed out stars in the sky and named them all until the sun had risen over them. But Peter wasn’t here now, never would be again because of her, and without his help she couldn’t so much as find the Big Dipper.)

It’s nice to have a moment to just sit there and relax. She doesn’t have to think about her life back in New York, about all the pressures placed upon her both as Gwen Stacy and as Spider-Woman. She can just take in the beauty of the stars and the soft, cool breeze that makes the trees gently sway in the wind and forget the rest of the world entirely.

That is, until she glances over at her car and finds that it’s not there, and that some sort of robot had taken its place.

...or rather, as she looks closer and notices the robot’s bright yellow color under the pale light of the moon and stars, that her car had somehow turned itself into some sort of robot.

Gwen stands up immediately and blurts out the first words that come to mind.

“Are you my car?”

She sees the transformation this time, sees the metal twist and turn and shift into place as what had been a robot turned itself back into the Volkswagen Beetle that she had grown to know, if not love.

“You- you can change back, it’s alright.”

It-

No, that doesn’t feel right. Gwen had already half thought of Bee as a “he” even before her personification of the car became so, well, literal.

He changes back into his robotic shape. His form is generally humanoid, with what looked like a face holding big blue eyes that were shining right at her.

Gwen hopes that she was right in thinking that this spot was in the middle of nowhere, hopes that it’s obscure enough that nobody else would see what her car had become.

“Can you understand me?”

Bee makes a strange noise, one that she could swear sounded a bit like a bumblebee’s buzz, and one that she definitely didn’t know how to interpret.

“Nod your head if you can understand me.” Gwen demonstrates, and Bee replies in kind.

Okay, so they have a language in common. That’s good. Just thinking about trying to invent a language that humans and robots could share is enough to give Gwen a bit of a headache.

“Can you talk?”

Bee buzzes at her again. She thinks she knows what that means, but she wants to be sure.

“Shake your head like this if you can’t talk.” Gwen shakes her head, and so does Bee.

That was... less good. It would be a lot easier if they could talk to one another about what was going on rather than just Gwen asking questions and Bee having to gesture out his responses. But then, nothing in Gwen’s life ever seemed to come easy.

“Are there others like you?” she asks.

Bee stays silent and still for a long moment.

“Or do you not know?”

Bee shakes his head without prompting and lets out a soft whirring noise that sounds a bit like a sigh.

Okay. So not only does she not know the big picture here, he doesn’t either. They are both utterly clueless.

They’re so screwed.

“That’s fine, that’s fine!” Gwen’s voice turns oddly high-pitched as she tries to reassure Bee, the palms of her hands raised and facing towards him. “We can work this out. I’ll help you. We can do this.”

Bee stands up, and Gwen realizes for the first time just how tall he is. He definitely couldn’t fit in her family’s tiny garage like that. And she feels small in comparison, tiny compared to this massive robot facing her, and she has a suspicion that Bee feels the same way.

Gwen’s heart races as she gets an idea of how she can prove to him that she’s not as incapable as she appears. It’s a risk, sure. But he had just revealed what had to be his biggest secret to her, and it felt right to reciprocate the gesture.

She doesn’t have her full Spider-Woman suit with her, hadn’t thought it necessary to bring it all the way out to the middle of nowhere.

(That was probably for the best, really; she probably would have left it in the car, and she suspects that anything in the car has been crushed and mutilated beyond recognition by now, though if all she lost because of her giant robot car was the handful of emergency supplies she left in the trunk and the spare outfit and papers she kept in the glove compartment, that would count as a win in her book.)

But she does have her web-shooters, tucked under her sleeves, just in case.

Gwen shoots one web out onto Bee’s left arm, then another onto his right arm. The webs send her soaring upwards, and she leaps with all her power until she and Bee are face-to-face. She does a flip in the air as she descends, balancing on the tips of her toes for a moment before letting her entire feet hit the ground.

She takes a bow at the end of her little performance, though she highly doubts that Bee would understand the meaning of it.

“Bee, meet spider.”

Gwen isn’t sure of the exact meaning behind Bee’s excited whirring and buzzing, but she assumes it was some kind of positive feedback directed her way.

“We should probably head back in a bit, before my dad starts asking too many questions.” Gwen says. “But first, can I take a picture of you? I have some-”

Gwen laughs quietly to herself, partly because this whole situation is completely and utterly absurd, but partly because she knows just a few short months ago she never would have envisioned herself saying what she was about to say next.

“-some friends who might be able to help us. And I think the first step is letting them get a look at you.”

Bee nods, and Gwen dutifully pulls out her cell phone and snaps a photo of her robot car.

Gwen has a thousand more questions that she feels like asking, but she has a feeling that Bee doesn’t know the answers to most of them either. So instead of trying to get more information out of Bee, she just sighs and says, “Bee, let’s head home.”

Bee turns back into a Volkswagen Beetle, and Gwen steps inside, and she doesn’t feel quite as tense upon entering Bee as she usually did, probably because she knows now why the car had always left her feeling vaguely on edge, and it had nothing to do with it being old-fashioned or bright yellow.

They pass the time on the drive back to New York City in silence, because Gwen doesn’t want to risk people seeing her talk to her car and the radio still isn’t working. And Gwen begins to get a pit in her stomach as it dawns on her that she now has two huge secrets to keep instead of just one.

Because her life wasn’t complicated enough before, apparently.

[drlaurynlax]

8 Things to Know About the Meat And Cancer Debate

Have you heard about the meat and cancer debate? Does eating meat increase your risk of cancer? Read this article to get the best answers.

Pop question: Does Meat Cause Cancer?

The jury is out: Meat—good or bad?  The vegan and vegetarian camps say “Nay!,” the meat lovers say, “Yay!” Who is right? Moreover…does meat really cause cancer? Read on to find out what the research says. 

The Great Meat And Cancer Debate

The great meat debate has been an ongoing source of conflict between varying groups for the past 20 years—particularly since the release of the famous “China Study” book, published in 2005, often cited as the leading authority on the reasons to NOT eat meat. 

In it, the authors explain the 1980’s “China Project” research study in layman’s terms, concluding that that people should eat a predominantly plant-based diet—excluding animal products (including beef, pork, poultry, fish, eggs, cheese, and milk), processed foods and refined carbs—in order to avoid, reduce, and reverse the development of numerous diseases. 

The truth? There really are lots of studies out there linking meat consumption (especially red meat) to cancer. 

Regardless of the type of meat consumed (organic, grass-fed, etc.), researchers have uncovered several components linking cancer with meat that have nothing to do with what an animal eats, hormone or antibiotic exposure. 

However, does this link actually mean that meat causes cancer, or is there something else that sets the stage for meat to cause cancer?

10 Things You Need to Know About the Meat & Cancer Debate

(These are the things that most news headlines won’t tell you). 

1. Cancer is an Autoimmune Disease (Anti-Inflammatory Foods are Best)

Call it cancer, Lupus, Hashimoto’s, Celiac disease, or any one of the other 100+ autoimmune diseases now classified by the CDC, all autoimmune diseases share a common link—your body is attacking itself (autoimmune response).What causes this autoimmune response in the first place? Inflammation, or “stress.”

 Inflammation and stress are interchangeable terms in the autoimmune disease presentation. Anything that causes inflammation is a “stress” to your body—setting you up for the perfect storm of autoimmune disease (i.e. body attacking itself). Stress goes far beyond mental stress. It includes things like:

Toxins in the cleaning & hygiene products

Tap water consumption

Lack of sleep

High screen & light exposure

Lack of exercise or too much exercise

Longterm medication use or antibiotic use

Pesticides on fruits & veggies

Gut irritating foods (high intake of grains, sugar, processed, hydrogenated oilsor refined foods)

Hormones & antibiotics in meats and dairy

Lack of balance in the diet

Gut dysfunction (low stomach acid, low digestive enzymes)

Given these facts, high meat consumption can certainly be a source of inflammation for some people—particularly depending on the type of meat consumed (organic vs. conventional); a lack of veggies in the diet; or low stomach acid (that helps digest the meat in the first place). However, as noted above, meat is NOT the only source of inflammation in the body connected to stress and disease.

Essentially, any time we lack balance (such as lacking nutrient-dense foods in our diet) stress and inflammation happens.Other examples of dietary stressors that trigger inflammation for some people may include: 

High amounts of raw and cruciferous vegetables

FODMAPS are difficult for some people to digest and break down—especially those with SIBO, IBS or gut issues.

Whole Grains

Unfortunately, most of the grains sold in the U.S. today are highly processed, pseudo-versions of grains, filled with enriched flours, fillers, sugar and oils; or not properly soaked or sprouted, containing heavy amounts of phytates and lectins (1) that our digestive tract cannot break down.

Sugar & Artificial Sweeteners

Sugar feeds cancer cells (2). Artificial sugar is not much better, correlated with tumors and various forms of cancer in multiple studies cited by the National Cancer Institute (3). 

High Fat without enough greens—

For those with a sluggish, under-functioning, liver-gallbladder, fatty foods can be more difficult to digest—particularly in the face of low green and veggie intake (4, 5). (No, fat is not bad for you, but if you, once again, lack balance then inflammation risk is higher)

In short: Cancer is an inflammatory autoimmune disease that is triggered when your body encounters various inflammation and stressors. Certain dietary triggers (like poor quality meat consumption, or lack of veggies with your proteins) may be more “inflammatory” to some people, whereas other stressors, (such as lack of sleep and smoking) are more present and inflammatory for others. 

The Bottom Line: 

Focus on an anti-inflammatory, nutrient-dense diet to fight off cancer. (And yes, protein can be included).

2. Leaky Gut is a Root of Cancer

Hippocrates said it best: “All disease begins in the gut.”“Leaky Gut” and an unhealthy gut microbiome is another common link that all autoimmune diseases—including cancer—share (6, 7, 8, 9).Unfortunately, for a long time, debates over “what causes cancer” have been heavily weighted at particular foods and lifestyle stressors, such as meat, smoking and lack of fruits and veggies (10). However, valid or not ,the root cause is often missed in all these studies, claims and debates—leaky gut. This cancer debate needs answer.

Your gut is the gateway to your health! If your digestive tract and gut microbiome are unhealthy, then you are LESS likely to digest and absorb your nutrients properly to feed the rest of your organs and cells.

Additionally, in the case of “leaky gut,” food particles and foreign proteins from the foods you eat seep into your bloodstream, undigested, where your body’s immune defense system then attacks itself to get those proteins out of there (i.e. “autoimmune response” or “autoimmune disease”). If this happens continually, over time, this autoimmune attack wreaks havoc on your health, resulting in various autoimmune disease presentations or symptoms. In functional medicine we say, “Genetics load the gun, BUT environmental factors (diet, gut health and lifestyle) pull the trigger.”

The Bottom Line:

You may have the genetics for cancer or other health conditions, but only when other environmental factors are “stressed” (like your gut health) is when that cancer presents itself. We still have a lot to learn about the influence of the microbiome on health and disease, but we know enough already to conclude that the gut-disease link is significant. Many people are talking about this during cancer debate.

Do you have a “leaky gut?” Find out here, plus insider tips on how to fix it here.

3. Stomach Acid is Crucial

Stomach acid is essential for the digestion of food—especially protein (10, 11). Your stomach acid has a pH of 1.5-3.5 on a total 14 point scale (translation: It’s HIGHLY acidic). Unfortunately, stomach acid deficiency is common in people due to high amounts of stress humans have adapted to today. Examples of stressors that wreak havoc on your stomach acid levels include:

Long term medication use

NSAID/steroid use

Antibiotic use

Lack of prebiotic fiber and probiotic rich foods

Not chewing your food well

Eating on the go or distracted

Overtraining

Lack of sleep

And, yes, even high amounts of mental stress

Stomach acid, also known as “hydrochloric acid,” is essential for the break down of all foods, but particularly proteins.

Without enough stomach acid, proteins in foods can pass into the rest of the GI tract only partially broken down and digested from the stomach—making effective digestion even more challenging throughout your small and large intestine.

The result? Increased likelihood of leaky gut, and other gut-related issues correlated with an unhealthy gut microbiome and disease (including cancer) (13). Interestingly, several studies show that people with long-term PPI medications use (drugs that “boost” stomach acid) experience up to a six-fold risk for getting cancer (14, 15). Why? These drugs essential decrease your natural stomach acid production.

The Bottom Line:

Meat itself may not be the culprit of cancer, but instead an unhealthy gut microbiome and low stomach acid that was unable to break down your meat in the first place.

4. Meat Studies Don’t Necessarily Use “Healthy” Controls

Given that 1 in 2 Americans already have a chronic disease in our country, are studies with “average” controls of the population really all that healthy?While syndromes and diseases like IBS, acne, allergies, anxiety, constipation, pre-diabetes and more may be considered “healthy,” “normal,” or “average” in our society, these issues typically signify something else (health related) is going on under the hood—especially gut health and hormone related.

The Bottom Line:

When interpreting a study that claims “meat causes cancer,” or “carbs cause weight gain,” or even “broccoli causes cancer,” ALWAYS question: Who were the test subjects? What was their current lifestyle, diet and gut health like? There’s often more to the story than meets the eye.

5. Meat Contains Carcinogens (& So Do Plants)

Compounds in meats (salts, nitrates, nitrites, heme iron, saturated fat with toxins in the fat cells, estradiol) have been theorized to increase DNA synthesis and cell proliferation, increase insulin-like growth factors, affect hormone metabolism, promote free radical damage, and produce carcinogenic heterocyclic amines—all of which may promote the development of cancer (16). However, these components, prevalent in many processed and conventional meats are not prevalent in sustainably-raised, grass-fed, pastured and local meats.

The Bottom Line:

Bad quality meat (17) is linked to cancer (think: processed and conventional)—and so are carcinogens in fruits and veggies (i.e. Roundup, pesticides, etc.) (18).

6. You Need Greens with Your Meat

The “problem” with high meat diets—or even cancer and meat studies—is that often times, these studies LEAVE OUT the OTHER important components to the human diet, digestion and absorption—particularly fiber!Fiber (19), found in veggies and fruits, is essential for “pushing food” through your digestive tract and also helping probiotics (good gut bacteria) stick in your gut (20, 21).

No wonder inflammation happens in meat studies! And many are taking about in in any cancer debate. The same thing goes for high-fat diet studies, where participants tend to leave out the whole-food carbs (i.e. greens), and opt for the standard American diet—full of hydrogenated oils, proteins, and refined processed foods and carbs. Duh, inflammation will happen.

The Bottom Line:

Get your veggies on! Bonus: Incorporate fermented foods into your diet daily.

7. Meat Variety is Essential (Just Like Fruit & Veggie Variety is Essential)

Red meat has long been touted as the “bad meat”—highest connected to cancer. However, in consideration of ALL the other facts we’ve addressed, red meat is simply the most often studied in meat studies (perhaps due to the bad rep it also has gotten over the years for “causing heart disease” and high cholesterol—however, these claims have also been debunked) (22).

The bigger “culprits” than red meat vs. chicken vs. fish? Ask yourself these questions: Question 1: How is my gut health and stomach acid for breaking my meat down in the first place?Question 2: How is my meat and food variety in general?Question 3: Where is my meat source from? (Grass-fed, organic and sustainable raised or full of hormones and antibiotics?). This are the common questions when it comes to meat and cancer debate.

Just like it would be “unhealthy” to eat grapes and iceberg lettuce for your only sources of fruits and veggies every day; and just like it would be “unhealthy” to fuel up on a heavy dose of Roundup (a pesticide) in your fruits and veggies, the same thing goes for red meat.

The Bottom Line:

Red meat itself is not “bad”—it’s all about the context. Boost stomach acid with apple cider vinegar or HCL tablets at meals; opt for a grass-fed cut of meat; and vary up your proteins often (beef, chicken, fish, turkey, etc.)

8. Whole Grains, Iceberg Lettuce & Vegan Ice Cream Can ALSO “Cause Cancer”

It’s no secret: Processed, man-made, refined foods are not real foods. And what do we know about real foods?…They cause inflammation in the body. True, high meat consumption without enough stomach acid, variety and/or poor quality meats is inflammatory; but so is a diet rich in gut-irritating whole grains (i.e. cereals, quinoa bowls, oats), nutrient-deficient iceberg lettuce, and vegan ice cream, laced with synthetic ingredients like: guar gum, erythritol, vegetable glycerin, pea protein and other inflammatory fillers.

The Bottom Line:

Eat real, nutrient-dense foods to fight cancer. 

The BIG Bottom Line:

A colorful, plant-based, nutrient-dense diet IS the optimal human diet. 

In addition, if we really want to “study” the facts on what the optimal human diet is for disease and cancer prevention, who better to look to than our ancestors who were practically free of all modern day diseases we experience today (autoimmune disease, high cholesterol, heart disease, and cancer)? This is a part of the cancer debate.

Also, studies of indigenous, hunter-gatherer populations who live lifestyles like those our own ancestors lived thousands of year ago, reveal similar findings: low disease rates and generally healthy people (23, 24, 25).

The optimal hunter-gatherer diet greatly depended on the terrain, season and geographic location in which one lived, however a few key universal themes true for most human are these:

High intake of colorful plants (vegetables, berries and plant “oils”—like olives, avocados and coconut)

Meat and fish, when hunted and available (i.e. not an 8 oz steak for every meal)

Minimal starches, beans and grains, if at all

Minimal raw dairy

Some nuts and seeds

In short:

If we model a similar diet to the optimal human diet that humans remained cancer-free on for thousands of years, support our gut health (25), and minimize stress in our own lifestyles, the whole “meat causes cancer debate” becomes a thing of the past. 

Cancer-Fighting Diet

An anti-inflammatory does a body good—particularly in the face of cancer or other autoimmune diseases. Furthermore, here are some anti-inflammatory super foods to add to your grocery list and regular part of your diet. (Note: This is not an exhaustive list, but several of the top players in fighting inflammation).

Antioxidant-Rich Veggies & Fruits 

Veggies

Dark Leafy Greens

Fresh Herbs (cilantro, basil, parsley, etc)

Beets

Brussels sprouts

Broccoli

Cauliflower

Cucumber

Celery

Carrots

Fresh Tomatoes

Squashes

Minimal Starches (cooked & cooled potatoes/yams, cassava, plantains)

Fruits

Apples

Berries

Cherries

Grapefruit

Grapes

Green Tipped Bananas

Orange

Jicama

Healthy Fats

Avocado (avocado oil, avocado)

Coconut (oil, butter, milk)

Olives (olives, extra virgin olive oil)

Traditional Fats (lard, ghee, tallow, duck fat)

Pastured egg yolks

Fatty cuts of wild caught meats

Sustainable Meats

Wild-Caught Fatty Fish (salmon, tuna, halibut, cod)

Pastured Chicken (all cuts)

Grass-fed Beef & Bison

Organic Lamb

Organic Ground Turkey

Wild Game (Venison)

Organic Organ Meats

Pastured eggs

Extra Anti-Inflammatory Boosters

Lemon

Apple Cider Vinegar

Turmeric

Sauerkraut & Fermented Veggies

Ginger

Celery Juice

Aloe

Oregano

Cancer-Fighting Diet & Gut Healing Plan

Want a custom protocol or support for healing your gut and fending off cancer? Connect with Dr. Lauryn today to find out how she can help you.  

Resources

Vasconcelos, Ilka & Oliveira, Jose. (2004). Antinutritional properties of plant lectins. Toxicon : official journal of the International Society on Toxinology. 44. 385-403. 10.1016/j.toxicon.2004.05.005.

Peeters, K., Van Leemputte, F., Fischer, B., Bonini, B. M., Quezada, H., Tsytlonok, M., … Thevelein, J. M. (2017). Fructose-1,6-bisphosphate couples glycolytic flux to activation of Ras. Nature Communications, 8, 922.

National Cancer Institute. 2016. Artificial Sweeteners and Cancer. 

Schugar, R. C., & Crawford, P. A. (2012). Low-carbohydrate ketogenic diets, glucose homeostasis, and nonalcoholic fatty liver disease. Current Opinion in Clinical Nutrition and Metabolic Care, 15(4), 374–380.

Chiu, C.-C., Ching, Y.-H., Li, Y.-P., Liu, J.-Y., Huang, Y.-T., Huang, Y.-W., … Chuang, H.-L. (2017). Nonalcoholic Fatty Liver Disease Is Exacerbated in High-Fat Diet-Fed Gnotobiotic Mice by Colonization with the Gut Microbiota from Patients with Nonalcoholic Steatohepatitis. Nutrients, 9(11), 1220.

Zitvogel, L., Galluzzi, L., Viaud, S., Vétizou, M., Daillère, R., Merad, M., & Kroemer, G. (2015). Cancer and the gut microbiota: An unexpected link. Science Translational Medicine, 7(271), 271ps1.

Hibberd AA, Lyra A, Ouwehand AC, et al Intestinal microbiota is altered in patients with colon cancer and modified by probiotic intervention BMJ Open Gastroenterology 2017;4:e000145. doi: 10.1136/bmjgast-2017-000145

Mu, Q., Kirby, J., Reilly, C. M., & Luo, X. M. (2017). Leaky Gut As a Danger Signal for Autoimmune Diseases. Frontiers in Immunology, 8, 598.

Megan Ciara Smyth; Intestinal permeability and autoimmune diseases, Bioscience Horizons: The International Journal of Student Research, Volume 10, 1 January 2017, hzx015, https://doi.org/10.1093/biohorizons/hzx015

Cynthia A. Thomson, Patricia A. Thompson; Fruit and Vegetable Intake and Breast Cancer Risk: A Case for Subtype-Specific Risk?, JNCI: Journal of the National Cancer Institute, Volume 105, Issue 3, 6 February 2013, Pages 164–165, https://doi.org/10.1093/jnci/djs640

Beasley, D. E., Koltz, A. M., Lambert, J. E., Fierer, N., & Dunn, R. R. (2015). The Evolution of Stomach Acidity and Its Relevance to the Human Microbiome. PLoS ONE, 10(7), e0134116.

Van Hecke, Thomas & Van Camp, John & De Smet, Stefaan. (2017). Oxidation During Digestion of Meat: Interactions with the Diet and Helicobacter pylori Gastritis, and Implications on Human Health. Comprehensive Reviews in Food Science and Food Safety. 16. 10.1111/1541-4337.12248.

Gopalakrishnan et al. 2018. The Influence of the Gut Microbiome on Cancer, Immunity, and Cancer Immunotherapy.  Cell: Cancer. 33: 4; 570-580.

Cheung et al. (2017) Long-term Proton Pump Inhibitors and Risk of Gastric Cancer Development After Treatment for Helicobacter pylori: A Population-based Study. Read more from Asian Scientist Magazine at:

Sansom, C. 2005. Role of stomach acid in gastric cancer. 6:5; 262.

Genkinger, J. M., & Koushik, A. (2007). Meat Consumption and Cancer Risk. PLoS Medicine, 4(12), e345.

Bouvard, V. & et al. 2015. Carcinogenicity of consumption of red and processed meat. The Lancet. 16: 16; 1599-1600.

Bassil, K. L., Vakil, C., Sanborn, M., Cole, D. C., Kaur, J. S., & Kerr, K. J. (2007). Cancer health effects of pesticides: Systematic review. Canadian Family Physician, 53(10), 1704–1711.

Holscher, H. D. (2017). Dietary fiber and prebiotics and the gastrointestinal microbiota. Gut Microbes, 8(2), 172–184.

Marco et al. 2017. Health benefits of fermented foods: microbiota and beyond. Current Opinion in Biotechnology. 44: 94-102. http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.copbio.2016.11.010;  

Plaza-Díaz, J., Ruiz-Ojeda, F. J., Vilchez-Padial, L. M., & Gil, A. (2017). Evidence of the Anti-Inflammatory Effects of Probiotics and Synbiotics in Intestinal Chronic Diseases. Nutrients, 9(6), 555.

Bronzato, S., & Durante, A. (2017). A Contemporary Review of the Relationship between Red Meat Consumption and Cardiovascular Risk. International Journal of Preventive Medicine, 8, 40.

McKenzie, F., Ellison-Loschmann, L., Jeffreys, M., Firestone, R., Pearce, N., & Romieu, I. (2014). Healthy lifestyle and risk of breast cancer for indigenous and non-indigenous women in New Zealand: a case control study. BMC Cancer, 14, 12.

Willet, W. 2000. Diet and Cancer. The Oncologist. 

Cummings, J. H., & Bingham, S. A. (1998). Diet and the prevention of cancer. BMJ : British Medical Journal, 317(7173), 1636–1640.

Thomas Jefferson University. (2012, February 21). Stronger intestinal barrier may prevent cancer in the rest of the body, new study suggests. ScienceDaily. Retrieved October 16, 2018 from

The post 8 Things to Know About the Meat And Cancer Debate appeared first on Meet Dr. Lauryn.

Source/Repost=> https://drlauryn.com/wellness-knowledge/the-meat-and-cancer-debate/ ** Dr. Lauryn Lax __Nutrition. Therapy. Functional Medicine ** https://drlauryn.com/

[fredrichards91]

I Dont Know How To Save My Relationship Wonderful Tips

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[monster-closet]

Ch.3 - The Things We Carry

Chapter 3 is up!   (Read Chapter 1, Chapter 2)

Pairing: Younger Mando x badass female OC

Summary: A little “how you doin’” warrior style. 

What Mando might have been like as a young man, maybe looking for fulfillment outside of The Way - while fielding Xi'an's advances and trying to crack the cold exterior of a female OC who urges him not to abandon his vow.

Ratings/Warnings: General, for now.

Notes: This is a super-slow burn with plenty of angst. Hope you enjoy!

Pronunciation of OC's name, Solveig Riis: [soul-vay reese]

Read this and more chapters on AO3

A few days after arriving, the Mandalorian had already formed clear opinions of his teammates’ character, except for one. Riis was still a mystery to him. And it became obvious that she purposefully gave him a wide berth and avoided interacting with the group, preferring to spend her time alone.

Once, when he had cornered her in the docking bay, she gave him one-word answers to his questions and ended their “conversation” abruptly by slipping away. Even Mandalorian women he knew weren’t this cold or evasive. Yet still, something about her reminded him of home, of codes and creeds and rules to be followed. Something about the way she carried herself made him think that she, too, followed a code – not a personal set of values driven by self – but one made for a collective. An army or military, perhaps.

It made sense, the way Riis carried her rifle, like it was an extension of herself. It made sense, the way she gave firm, clipped answers. It made sense that she spoke of nothing personal. It added up that she was a soldier, quite possibly one since childhood, the way she was uncompromising in all these things.

And it made him want to know her even more.

He decided that between the two of them, both being closed books, he would have to be the first to offer her a sliver of himself.

* * *

Ran strode in from the command centre with a wide grin on his blockish face.

“We got another one!” he bellowed.

“What is it?” Qin asked, sauntering over with a fanged grin.

“Oh, you know,” Ran sang. “just a little heist . . .”

Qin gave Ran a playful shove. “Come on, man. Let’s have it.”

The Mandalorian watched as Xi’an and Gorgo moved into the scene. He nearly missed noticing Riis again when his thermal sensor highlighted her form leaning against Ran’s ship.

“We’re gonna get some more of this!” Ran pulled a clear pouch from his pocket and dangled it in front of the crew.

The grins on the Twi’leks grew wide and sharp. Xi’an turned to her brother and squealed, “Spice!” Gorgo licked his lips.

“Hold on, hold on,” interrupted Ran. “I’m just razzin’ with ya. We’ve been hired to smuggle it. So no taste testing!”

Xi’an hissed. “That wasn’t very nice, Ranzar. At least give us a dab.”

Ran laughed. “Not on the job. If you’re a good girl, maybe after.”

Xi’an scowled, flipping her knife into the air and catching it by the handle. Out of the corner of his visor, the Mandalorian saw Riis roll her eyes.

Ranzar had given them the details of the job, to steal a large shipment of spice from Nar Shadaa and smuggle it to Mordagon.

Riis’ voice interrupted him. “Who hired us, and who are we stealing this spice from?”

“Ah, Riis. Always with the questions. You know our policy. Steal first, ask questions later.” Then, turning to the Mandalorian, Ran jabbed a thumb toward her, “Killjoy, am I right?”

The Mandalorian frowned beneath his helmet regarding Ran’s dismissive attitude toward Riis. “No,” he said flatly. “She’s right. Those details are important.”

Ran’s demeanor changed immediately. “Mando, my man,” he said, his eyebrows lifting in interest. “Then let’s talk.I could use your expertise on this one!” The two of them walked away from the crew as Ran plied him with more compliments.

* * *

An hour later, the Mandalorian returned to the docking bay to find the crew prepping for take-off. Well, sort of.

Qin and Xi’an were engaged in a dagger-throwing contest and Gorgo was taking a nap propped up against some crates. After disappearing into the Razor Crest, the Mandalorian soon reappeared with several hover-crates following him down the ramp. He stopped when he reached Riis, who was stationed at a long metal table with a sniper rifle, blaster, and three daggers laid out neatly in rows.

He said nothing when he took the place next to her, opening the crates one by one and unloaded each of his weapons, laying them on the same table with care. From the corner of his visor, he saw Riis’ head turn a tiny fraction. He watched as her eyes assessed his arsenal. He did it on purpose, a warrior’s way of introduction. In Mandalorian terms, allowing another to see the things he carried was an offer of trust. Whether or not she interpreted this the same way, he didn’t know. But it was all he knew, allowing weapons to speak for him.

She was silent for a long while, to the point that the Mandalorian wasn’t sure she would say anything at all. Then:

“Those are good choices,” she said quietly.

“As are yours,” he replied.

Without asking for permission, she reached over, fingertips grazing his blaster pistol. “This one is old but reliable. A gift?”

The Mandalorian was surprised at her insight. It took him a moment before he nodded. “From my Buir –  guardian.”

Riis said nothing, but gave him a nearly indiscernible smile that softened her face and drew a tenderness into her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was leaps and bounds from the tempered steel of her expression during the last few days. She seemed far away as she caressed the handle.

“What’s it like being a Mandalorian?” she asked absent-mindedly.

Another question from her. It seemed he was on the right track, but how to answer a question like that? There were so many things to say, yet so many things he could not say. Instead, he chose to deflect.

“Lots of training,” he replied.

She looked at him then, eyes much warmer than he had seen since meeting her. “How old are you?”

A personal question. He disliked those. “Guess,” he parried.

“Fifty.”

The Mandalorian laughed. It must have seemed funny to Riis, because her face nearly broke its usual hardness.

“Do I seem old to you?”

“How should I know?” Riis was almost smiling as she looked at him, but it seemed she caught her reflection in his visor and it faded quickly. She filled the silence with another question.

“How long since you swore the creed, then?”

So she knew about The Creed. The reason he couldn’t remove his helmet to anyone. All of the outsiders he had met so far knew nothing about it.

“Ten years.”

She nodded. “So, you’re twenty-three.”

The Mandalorian was surprised. She knew the age it was sworn. “How did you know? The age – about The Creed?”

She shrugged. “I was taught a lot of things. One was about other warrior cultures. Mostly, it was about weapons and fighting.”

Other warrior cultures? She just implied that she belonged to one, but which?

Before the Mandalorian could ask, Riis’ hand wandered to his vibroblade and picked it up. He noted that she never looked more content than when holding a weapon. She examined it in her hands. “This is very fine,” she said, more to herself. “The balance is good.”

Yes, she had certainly been taught about weapons. He wondered at her own training, if she was as skilled in their use as she was in their knowledge of them.  All the more interesting was that he had been right about her background: If there is one thing he knew about all warriors, weaponry was a universal language. Now, he felt he was getting somewhere.

Riis had just set down his vibroblade and touched the long staff-like weapon laying beside it. “I’ve never seen a weapon like this. What is it?”

“Amban rifle,” he replied.

Immediately, Riis drew her hand back as if burned.

“What?” he asked, concerned. Her face had hardened again into an expressionless mask.

“A most unjust weapon.”

“Unjust?”

“For the destruction it yields, no skill is required to wield it. Disintegration is the mark of thugs.” She sounded stiff, as though reciting something she had committed to memory.

“It is a Mandalorian weapon. You imply my kind are thugs?”

“No,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I know there are many uses for an amban rifle. The function of disintegration itself is unjust.”

The Mandalorian shrugged. “It’s quick and effective. We do what it takes to survive.” Then, he gestured to her blaster on the table. “What about your rifle? Yours may not disintegrate, but aimed right, it could kill an opponent. What’s the difference?”

“Margin for error.”

The Mandalorian cocked his head. “You mean you wish to miss?”

“No, my point is that I can choose where I aim. I can bring down an enemy while keeping them alive. My one shot doesn’t vaporize them.”

Riis was standing menacingly close, her eyes holding his own behind the visor.

“In my experience, no margin for error is the best kind.” His words came out harsher than he wished through the helmet mic.

The Mandalorian watched as her mouth opened and closed, searching for words. Before she could respond, a large grey hand reached across and snatched her gun from the table. They both turned to see Gorgo looming over her, said rifle in hand.

“Wanna trade?” he asked with a smirk on his face.

“No,” she answered flatly, and she held out her hand like a child demanding a sweet. Gorgo looked at it, and back at her face with a sneer. The Mandalorian hovered a hand over his blaster pistol.

“I’ll give it back,” he began, “For a smile.”

Riis’ impassive face never changed, but her body tensed, ready to act. It was Ran’s voice that interrupted them.

“Gorgo, don’t be an ass. Just give the girl her gun.”

The big Nikto grunted. “I was just having some fun – ”

“Just give it back,” Ran repeated.

After a few heavy seconds, Gorgo handed her the rifle reluctantly. Ran patted him on the back. Speaking to the both of them, he said, “There now, be nice –"

Ran had barely finished his sentence when a shot rang out and Gorgo stopped in his tracks. There was smoke coming off the tip of one of his horns. The hulking Nikto spun around, veins bulging.

Ran stabbed his finger in the air, pointing at Riis, “I told you to be nice!”

She lowered her weapon and shrugged. “I was being nice.”

Ran grabbed Gorgo by the shoulder and held him back. He whispered something to the large sentient and they both turned and walked away. Riis twisted around to face the Mandalorian with the slightest grin on her face.

“See? Margin for error.”

Beneath the helmet, the Mandalorian smirked. They might differ on weapon methodology, but they were both not to be underestimated - and similar in more ways than the masks they wore.

Taglist: @oloreaa

[afflatusafrica]

Book Summary_ The 48 laws of Power by Robert Greene

Power is an integral part of our societies and lives. In “The 48 Laws of Power”, Robert Greene distills 3,000 years of history into 48 laws to help us understand how we can masterfully acquire power and avoid being manipulated or crushed by others. In this summary, we’ll briefly outline the 48 laws of power. For the full details, examples and tips, do get a copy of the book, or get a detailed overview at a glance with our complete book summary bundle.

No one likes being powerless, yet we don’t take well to power-hungry people due to our modern ideologies of fairness, equity etc. It’s important to realize that power is amoral—it’s neither good nor evil. You can choose how to use power once you have it, but it’d be foolish to dismiss power as bad or unimportant. In fact, there’s much that we can learn from the masterful scheming of the aristocratic courts of the past—those who can subtly charm, deceive and manipulate without others’ awareness can rise to power without others’ resentment or resistance.

Greene encourages us to think of power-play as a game. You can use this book to learn about power in general, or study and reflect deeply upon the ideas to truly understand people and the world you live in.

• Don’t judge people by their declared intentions, but the actual outcomes of their actions. People who claim to reject power due to moral values are often the true manipulators (or are simply naïve).

• To master the game of power, you must fundamentally shift your perspective, learn and practice new skills including the ability to master your emotions (so they won’t cloud your judgement), objectively examine the past and future (to learn and identify problems) and accept deception and masquerade as a part of human interaction (not something immoral or ugly).

The 48 Laws of Power Book Summary_overview

LAW 1: NEVER OUTSHINE THE MASTER.

• In your quest to impress the people above you, don’t flaunt your talents too much. If your superiors feel insecure, they’ll find ways to replace you. Even if you’re currently in favor, don’t take it for granted as you can easily fall out of favor with the wrong moves.

• Instead, make those above you seem superior and smarter than you, e.g. ask for their help and attribute your ideas to their great advice. Give them the limelight rather than outshine them.

LAW 2: DON’T OVERTRUST YOUR FRIENDS. USE YOUR ENEMIES.

• Don’t hire your friends for familiarity or as a favor. Friends are more likely to envy and betray you, and also limit your power since it’s harder to keep a professional distance. It’s better to hire people with the skills and competencies to advance your interests.

• In fact, your enemies can be more useful; use them to create a sense of danger or rally people to your cause. If you can win over a former enemy, he’ll also have more to prove and is likely to be more loyal than a friend.

LAW 3: MASK YOUR INTENTIONS.

• Many people are open books: they can’t control what they say or they mistakenly believe that honesty can win hearts. It’s better to retain the upper hand by hiding your goal till you’re ready to strike.

• Here are 2 effective tactics to conceal your true purpose:

(i) Throw people off the scent by pretending to support an idea or position that’s opposed to your true interest. Or, share a heartfelt thought on something unimportant—people will mistake your sincerity for honesty and believe you when you lie later on.

(ii) Distract and misdirect people with a smoke screen. Show them something they’re familiar with so they’ll let down their guard and be led in the direction you want them to go, without realizing your true intent. Combine this with other smoke screens e.g. a poker-face, noble gesture, or setting a pattern (then breaking it later).

LAW 4: ALWAYS SAY LESS THAN NECESSARY.

• The more you say, the less impressive and in-control you seem to be and the higher the chance that you’d say something foolish.

• Powerful people tend to say little. This makes them impressive and intimidating; people can’t guess what they’re thinking and hang on to their every word and reaction. Short answers and silences also put people on the defensive; when they try to fill the silence by talking, they give away useful information.

REMAINING LAWS : THE 48 LAWS OF POWER

Here’s a quick overview of the remaining 44 laws. For more details, do get the book or our complete book summary.

Law 5: Protect your reputation at all costs, since your reputation shapes others’ expectations.

Law 6: Be conspicuous & stand out. Bad publicity is still publicity.

Law 7: Get others to do the work and take the credit. Save your time/energy while building your base.

Law 8: Make people come to you, so you hold all the cards.

Law 9: Win through actions, not argument. Prove your point without offending people.

Law 10: Don’t get infected by misery and misfortune. Associate with positive, successful people.

Law 11: Make yourself indispensable, so it’s harder to cut you off.

Law 12: Disarm people with strategic honesty & generosity–use these as tools to win people over.

Law 13: Get help by appealing to self-interest, not goodness.

Law 14: Be a spy. Gather intelligence to know your opponents.

Law 15: Crush your enemy totally. Don’t give them a chance to recover.

Law 16: Raise your value through absence and scarcity. Don’t let people take you for granted.

Law 17: Keep others in suspense by being unpredictable. Keep them second-guessing.

Law 18: Don’t isolate yourself behind a fortress. Have eyes and ears everywhere.

Law 19: Know your opponents and who you’re dealing with.

Law 20: Stay neutral as long as possible to maintain your independence (vs committing to 1 side).

Law 21: Make your victims feel smarter than you, so they drop their guard.

Law 22: Use surrender as a tool. Bide your time for retaliation.

Law 23: Concentrate your forces. Don’t spread them too thin.

Law 24: Be a masterful courtier to balance the various players and power brokers.

Law 25: Create your own identity and use it like a costume.

Law 26: Don’t dirty your hands. Get others to do your dirty work.

Law 27: Create a cult-like following. Play on what people want to see/hear.

Law 28: Act boldly, so you seem confident.

Law 29: Plan till the end, so you won’t be caught by surprise.

Law 30: Make your achievements seem effortless. Don’t show your real success secrets.

Law 31: Control the options but let people think they’re in control.

Law 32: Play to people’s fantasies so they keep following you.

Law 33: Find your opponent’s fatal weakness to break their defences.

Law 34: Act in the way you want to be treated. Be regal and authoritative.

Law 35: Master the art of timing. Strike only at the right hour.

Law 36: Feign disinterest and ignore what you can’t have.

Law 37: Dazzle people with spectacles so they don’t see what you’re really doing.

Law 38: Hide your unorthodox thinking. Pretend to blend in.

Law 39: Stir up waters to catch the fish. Make your opponents reckless while you stay calm.

Law 40: Beware the free lunch. There’re always strings attached.

Law 41: Chart a new course rather than try a big man’s shoes.

Law 42: Strike the shepherd to scatter the sheep. Isolate the leader.

Law 43: Win both hearts and minds. Appeal to both feelings and logic.

Law 44: Unbalance and confuse with the mirror effect (mask reality with illusion).

Law 45: Introduce change gradually. Drastic reforms bring resistance.

Law 46: Don’t seem too perfect or you’ll invite jealousy.

Law 47: Don’t push too far in victory. Know when to stop.

Law 48: Be formless and unpredictable.

For each of the laws, Greene presents a range of stories and examples involving kings, emperors, nobility and famous people from various countries and cultures over 3000 years of history. These examples range from court politics and power struggles to courtship and warfare. Greene systematically lays out the laws, interpretation of the laws, stories to illustrate these laws and the exceptions to the laws if any.

[kqduane]

 Here is an article that exposes the truth about the ridiculousness of following a feminist lifestyle. Nobody wins and everybody loses. Especially the innocent little children of working mothers, who have no voice.

Ironically this young reporter unearthed the truth about the difficulties inherent in young mother’s attempts to adopt a feminist lifestyle but she failed to find the only permanent solution to this crisis because, despite her feckless advice, these women’s lives are never going to improve by “writing in a journal”, “taking a walk” or “connecting with friends.” Those are just pointless band aids, recklessly applied to a major surgical wound. Tentative at best and pointless at worst.

Only a complete rejection of radical second-wave feminism’s push to prioritize “career” over family, will absolutely solve this ludicrous, frustrating, and exhausting problem. For mothers of minor children, there is no possible way on earth, to find a “balance” between family life and “career.” This irrational search is an unattainable delusion and unfortunately, neither their “careers” nor their children fare well. They both take the brunt of this irrational fraud called feminism, as neither is given the attention they need to thrive.

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So, the only answer is to stop brainwashing young women with radical, second-wave feminism’s ideology and get them back to the roots of their Christian faith instead! Motherhood is for women dedicated to their faith, not feminism’s fraudulent fantasies.

Women must stop believing in the “superwoman” PC BS invented by feminism and get their priorities straight. Their children should be the most important people in their lives, NOT their bosses! I mean, seriously, “Do you love your children or not?”

You either want to be married and have kids OR you want to have a full-time “career”, sans children. Don’t drive yourself crazy, because despite what lesbian-led, radical, second-wave feminists tell you, YOU CANNOT HAVE BOTH, SUCCESSFULLY!

In case you are interested in some of the experiences suffered by young feminists fruitlessly trying to balance family and career, Jennifer O’Neill’s article follows.

State of Working Moms Today

Jennifer O’NeillWriterOctober 22, 2014

Photo by Offset

Every working mother remembers the moment — the first time she slips off the tightrope she’s been sprinting on between the two pillars of her life, career and kids. My fall to rock bottom was at 2am on a Tuesday. After toiling in the office well past midnight, I’d trudged home to prepare the lunch and snacks my children would need to bring to daycare first thing in the morning. Standing in the dim light of the kitchen while the rest of my family slept, I wearily steamed fresh apples and pureed them for the baby, boiled pasta and frozen veggies for the toddler, and reached into the fridge for milk to pour into their bottles. But the quart was empty. The kids would wake up crying for milk in a few short hours and we didn’t have a drop. I wanted to scream in frustration and smash the carton against the wall. What I actually did was shuffle into the living room, crumple into an exhausted heap on the floor next to a pile of toys no one had cleaned up, call for takeout of two bottles of milk, and weep.

According to new research, a great many women can relate.Care.com has given Yahoo Parenting an exclusive first look at its “Working Moms Tipping Point” survey, which reveals that one in four cry by themselves at least once a week due to household-related stress. “We wanted to understand what the point was where somebody raised their hand and said, ‘I can’t take it! I need help,’” Care.com cofounder Donna Levin tells Yahoo Parenting about the poll of nearly 1,000 employed women with at least one child under 18 living at home. “But just how far people push things surprised us.”

Working an average of 37 hours per week, respondents owned up to spending more than double that amount of time (80 hours per week!) slaving away at home on chores, childcare, and cleaning. No wonder a staggering 80 percent admit trying to keep up with it all is severely stressing them out.

STORY: The ‘Working Mom Penalty’ Hurts Us All

The worst part? Some of this pain is actually self-inflicted. Even though 11 percent of the women confess they’re afraid that their hectic schedules are preventing them from making lasting connections with their children, 29 percent refuse to hire any outside help because they feel guilty about not being able to do it all themselves.

What’s happening to their family life as a result isn’t pretty. Fourty-four percent of these women’s families sit down together for dinner less than five nights a week. And when they do, a third say meals last less than 20 minutes. Couple time isn’t any better. The women reported spending just six hours alone with their partners each week.

“We want to share the data so people can realize that they’re not alone,” Levin says. “The survey found that 62 percent of women think everyone else has an easier time getting everything done and somehow they’re the only ones having trouble. This grass-is-greener mentality has to stop.”

STORY: My Biggest Parenting Regret

Instead of comparing yourself to friends, health psychologist Dr. Alice Domar recommends commiserating. “People experience stress relief just talking about their problems,” Domar, the executive director of theDomar Center for Mind/Body Health in Waltham, Mass., and associate professor at Harvard Medical School, tells Yahoo Parenting. “There’s an Asian expression that ‘a burden shared is halved.’ If something is bothering you, tell a friend.”

It’s really not something you can ignore, anyway, considering the enormous toll stress takes on your body: Insomnia, headaches, neck and back pain, gastrointestinal issues, joint aches, and heart palpitations are just a few of the physical symptoms of stress that can eventually develop into hypertension, hastened aging, coronary artery disease, and suppressed immune function down the line.

Working moms may not be able to change the stressors in their lives, but they can change their body’s response to the stress by using relaxation techniques. Domar, whose book “Healing Mind, Healthy Woman” addresses just that, prescribes a few easy fixes that can make a big difference. “It’s hard to do,” she admits. “But you have to take care of yourself.”

Connect with friends. “It’s especially tough these days for working moms, because they’re so busy they don’t have the time for relationships with women that they used to have,” Domar acknowledges. “But lack of social support is actually more likely to kill you than things like cigarette smoke or increased blood pressure.” And it doesn’t have to be a two-hour heart-to-heart, she adds. “Little bits of conversation and connection throughout the day is fine too.”

Start writing in a journal. When you’re upset, writing about thoughts and feelings allows your body to interpret stress in a different way, says Domar. “Research has found that when we talk about things, they’re frozen in time,” she explains. “When we write about them, on the other hand, it helps us get over them.” So if you’re upset and only have five minutes to yourself to deal, write about it. “If you vent to someone,” she notes, “you’ll just get more agitated as you repeat the story.”

Lace up and walk. The women surveyed said three hours is all they have to themselves each day, but Domar says that’s still plenty of time to reduce stress with a short stroll. “Walk to the farther bathroom,” she advises. “Take a lap around the office. Do two-for-one specials and walk with a friend. You’ll get a bit of exercise and time to talk. Every little thing you do helps.”

Short Essay – Why Are Working Mothers, with Minor Children, Burning the Candle at Both Ends? Here is an article that exposes the truth about the ridiculousness of following a feminist lifestyle.