#because it is not my sentiment in the slightest regarding that. this is more aimed at people in countries who have relatively good

[arf2004]

i forgot to add that we are actively being killed by our government every day through gross negligence and even murdered intentionally constantly. disabled people are not safe in this country. people of colour are not safe in this country. queer people are not safe in this country. the citizens of the country that you are placing the blame on are having pur votes suppressed. we are living in a country where a man running for president has a plan to become a full blown dictator with power of every part of our lives. and he is running for president with that AS HIS PLATFORM. and the vocal minority of people that is supporting this kind of shit is all in power in our government fueled by voter suppression and voter tampering. russia is involved in our elections to an extent i previously only considered a joke and its just becoming a reality before my eyes. we are being killed from the inside. i am not saying that you cant be annoyed by americans but i dont know what good it really does to try and treat the individuals who live here as a Monolith That Hurts You when so many of us are dying and barely surviving.

i understand why this is the case which is why ill never say anythijg about it to people because i believe they have the right to feel this way even if i dont necessarily think it needs verbalized on tumblr lol... but id be a hypocrite since im writing this right now. that being said, occasionally ill see a post talking about the ways in which americans are to blame for [blank] and i truly dont know what to say to it much of the time because americans are being shot and drowning and dying on the street at a higher rate than most of the countries i see people complaining from 😭 like obviously this shouldnt happen to ANYONE. and you are also allowed to complain about the ways in which the american populous contributes to the things that you atruggle with. but this just goes hand in hand to me with comparing ANY group of people to their governement. especially because there is so much hatred and prejudice towards the usamerican south, both in and out of the country, that is pure classism, ableism, and racism. its all it is. and there is so little in a rich or middle class persons brain that makes them want to understand the plight of the poor and impoverished that they simply dont even make the attempt. i dont find value in fighting about when people are more or less oppressed than me generally, i understand i live in a position of relative privledge when you take the rest of the world into account. but i find that often big posts on tumblr that i see mutuals reblogging in good faith will just kind of assumes that whichever american is reading their post is well off because they have a phone or access to the internet like girl i was scrolling tumblr on the library computers to stay sane some days when i was homeless JJFJFJC you find anything u can sometimes. this is more of a personal ramble and this doesnt mean anything about any moral implications of any actions described, just kind of some food for thought for anyone who happens to stumble accross this i suppose on top of just being me yelling into the void lol

[haec-est-fides]

Hi, can we discuss how -- however he was influenced by Gaea -- Octavian was likely very familiar with the Triumvirate? It’s subtle, but it shows up most clearly in the way he talks.

(Personally, I think Octavian might have been raised by one of the Imperial Households, but you could just read it as him being in contact with the Triumvirate for a significant amount of time.)

The most glaring red flag imo is that we learn from Rachel (in Hidden Oracle) that the Greek / Roman parley in House of Hades was held on property owned by Nero. This is more important than the fact that Octavian was merely funded by Triumvirate Holdings, because a) it makes an in-person meeting more likely and b) Luke was also funded by the Triumvirate and he doesn’t have the same connection that I’m seeing in Octavian.

Looking back to the parley scene, Octavian goes so far as to mock Rachel by saying, “You’re the Oracle of Delphi? Right. And I’m the Emperor Nero.” It may feel like a throwaway line, but it’s foreshadowing, plain and simple. In universe, I’m almost entirely certain that the reason Octavian says Nero and not Augustus (his namesake, as he loves reminding people) is that he’d recently talked to Nero and knows whose building they’re on. It’s like a Freudian slip -- and it’s just the tip of the iceberg, because Octavian slips up like that a lot.

Let’s start small: Octavian tends to speak in a rather dramatic, formal way. (He says “alas” in ordinary conversation, for instance.) He’s intentionally dramatic and somewhat sarcastic at times, sure, but I think it goes deeper than that. {I bring up one of my headcanons here, but it isn’t the crux of the whole argument. Bear with me.} I find it likely that Octavian learned Latin as his first language -- namely from the fact that his family has been sending kids to Camp Jupiter for over a century and his attachment to the idea of being a true / traditional Roman -- which would have an impact on how he speaks English. It would make sense, then, that his English speech patterns are similar to those of other native Latin speakers -- like the Triumvirate.

Trials of Apollo shows us that the triumvirs also tend to use more formal English, such as avoiding contractions and using what we might consider to be dated terms and phrasings (though this certainly isn’t a hard rule). Again, I don’t think it’s really conscious, but rather a byproduct of being native Latin speakers. In Hidden Oracle, for example, Nero says (to Apollo), “My own forefather does not recognize me?” I’d consider both his use of the word “forefather” and his avoidance of “doesn’t” to be a concise example of what I’m talking about.

It’s also true that few other characters use “alas” like Octavian does. In Heroes of Olympus, it’s only gods / titans / monsters who use the word “alas” (besides Octavian). In Trials of Apollo, it’s actually Apollo himself who uses that word the most (though remember, he’s also the narrator). He says “alas” 5 times in Hidden Oracle and ups it to 12 in Dark Prophecy. Do I need to keep counting? Beyond Apollo’s narration, Macro, Medea, and Caligula all say “alas” at least once in Burning Maze. All of these characters speak ancient languages, and half of them are native Latin speakers. I’ll admit that maybe it isn’t wholly a Latin thing, but there’s still a case for Octavian speaking in a way that could have been influenced by the emperors and their entourages.

Moving a step beyond nitpick, the connection between Octavian and the Triumvirate can also be seen in what Octavian says and the words he uses throughout Heroes of Olympus. We can split the analysis into 3 ideological themes, really: loyal Romans, immortality, and the future.

In Son of Neptune, Octavian calls himself a “loyal Roman” in a conversation with Percy. It’s rhetoric, a succinct yet subtle way to express Octavian’s ideology / self-conception / political striving, and that’s exactly the point. Later, in Blood of Olympus, Michael Kahale criticizes the people that Octavian is recruiting into the legion, calling them murderers, thieves, and traitors. Octavian, on the other hand, calls them “loyal demigods” -- again, fully aware of the rhetoric of that statement. Bryce Lawrence, one of said recruits, calls himself a “loyal Roman” too in order to appeal to Octavian and be permitted to rejoin the legion after his exile.

The reason this recurring “loyal Roman” motif strikes me is that it’s eerily similar ideology and phrasing to something Nero says in Hidden Oracle. Apollo asks, “The other two emperors. Who are they?” and Nero responds, “Good Romans -- men who, like me, have the willpower to do what is needed.” A line from Caligula’s speech before battle in Tyrant’s Tomb echoes the same sentiment: “It’s time to be true Romans!” In Tower of Nero, Nero also talks about bringing back “traditional Roman values”.

Apollo hits the nail on the head with his commentary: “The fact that Nero -- a man who had killed his own mother -- was talking about defending traditional Roman values...that was just about the most Roman thing I could imagine.” The whole point in all of these cases is that the men talking know that the modifiers they use are 100% oratorical, are dog whistles to those who think the same way and near gaslighting to those who don’t. These modifiers -- “loyal”, “good”, “true”, “traditional” -- mean something entirely different to the person saying them than they do to the heroes / average person! That’s a fascinating and complex parallel.

Immortality comes up in similarly echoed ways, showing that Octavian and the Triumvirate seem to be on the same page, coming from the same viewpoint, thinking alike. In Son of Neptune, what Octavian says to Mars is interesting especially in light of the Triumvirate. Mars, explaining the danger posed by the open Doors of Death, asks the gathered legion, “Can you imagine a world in which no one dies -- ever?” Octavian, despite his showy deference, interrupts the god, “But, ah, mighty all-powerful Lord Mars, if we can’t die, isn’t that a good thing? If we can stay alive indefinitely--” Octavian isn’t outright stupid, so I doubt he’s entirely thinking through what he says here. Of course it would be bad for one’s enemies to never die, but if you consider Octavian to be the type to be tempted by immortality? His interruption seems more in character and more likely if he has immortals or even aspirations to immortality in mind at the time.

In Blood of Olympus, Reyna’s vision of the Roman war-camp gives more weight to what I’ll call the immortality hypothesis. She notes Octavian’s “gilded chair that looked suspiciously like a throne”, how his new title of Pontifex Maximus elevates him “almost to the level of emperor”, and of course there’s the altar: “a marble altar....no doubt for the gods. But to Reyna it looked like an altar to Octavian himself.” In Hidden Oracle, it comes up several times -- even from Nero himself -- that the Triumvirate turned the ancient Imperial Cult into something powerful, something that could make them immortal. The Imperial Cult, at its simplest, looked a lot like what Octavian is doing in Reyna’s vision. Whether the Triumvirate told Octavian to do any of this, he got the idea from them, or he came up with it on his own, it’s another sign of similar thinking, at the very least.

Finally, the future -- which, of course, is bound to come up often where an augur is concerned, but I’m thinking of one line in particular. In Blood of Olympus, Octavian tells Michael about his plans, blatantly admitting that he’s aiming to declare himself “First Citizen” like his ancestor Augustus. (That title is princeps in Latin, and it’s an imperial title all three of the triumvirs use.) His Augustan lineage, which makes Octavian a legacy of Apollo from the same bloodline source that both Nero and Caligula get that status from, is another puzzle piece. Octavian is open about his heritage, his family is recognized as wealthy and powerful in New Rome and yet is never present there, and the Triumvirate seems unlikely to lose track of their relatives. Even so, what Octavian tells Michael next is a less speculative tie: “We will rule the future.” This is, specifically, the way Apollo frames the threat posed by the Triumvirate throughout Trials of Apollo once he becomes aware of their plan regarding Python and the oracles. A lot of that description comes after Apollo hears something Nero says to Python: “When we control all four Oracles, we will control fate itself!”

I suppose a facetious TL;DR might be that if you told me that Nero (canonically the best orator in the Greco-Roman Riordanverse) had been giving Octavian (canonically the best orator at Camp Jupiter) lessons in oratory or that Caligula had taken Octavian under his wing and every Tuesday they talked about world domination over coffee, I wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest.

Maybe this post is more of a Rorschach inkblot test for myself and how I read these books. Maybe I’m trying to read way too deeply. Whatever the case, I think that there’s something more to be said about Octavian and the Triumvirate than funding, and no one has been saying it.

[avadescent]

Rivetra-Parent AU but modern is still lodged in my brain, so here’s Eren attempting to win a Science Fair.

Crossposted on AO3 w/ references

Eren bursts in through the front door like a high-powered locomotive on a one-way rail track, and as he kicks his shoes off expertly before striding into the meticulously polished threshold, Levi feels no need to act like an accommodating parent today and decides to leave Petra in charge of all the damage control.

She catches him by the sleeve before he can slither away from the kitchen however, and promptly threatens to make him sleep on the couch should he leave her to deal with their rambunctious thirteen year-old alone. Cleaning up is his specialty, after all.

Really, Levi thinks as he seats himself once more, Wives just have too much power sometimes.

“Eren!” Petra greets warmly as he rushes into the kitchen. Levi arches a brow, because Eren on a normal day is a big, bumbling, annoying idiot whose pent-up energy needs a thorough rain check; Eren today looks like even more of a big, bumbling idiot than usual.

This is not good.

“How was school today?” Petra ruffles his hair like nothing’s amiss and Levi shoots her a nasty look because he knows she knows that Eren’s firecracker energy today spells Impending Doom. Instead of giving them a colorful, sparkly show, Levi is quite sure they’ll be given an explosion and one hell of a kitchen to clean the longer they allow this overly excited version of their adopted son to linger.

“Good evening.”

The clear and pleasant (albeit slightly monotone) voice that greets them from the kitchen doorway causes Petra’s smile to widen even further—and Levi’s patience to wear thin.

“All right, spit it out,” he orders, crossing his arms in the hopes to get this over with as soon as possible. “What did you do this time?”

“Eren didn’t do anything!” another voice pipes up, a shock of blond peeking out from behind Mikasa’s scarf. When Levi’s perpetual glare settles on this poor, unsuspecting child, Armin hastily blurts out a mandatory: “Yet.”

“They just announced that the Science Fair’s coming up!” Eren informs, still too enthusiastic for Levi’s comfort, but that’s where Petra comes in.

“Are you planning to join the fair?” she asks, and to Mikasa and Armin, “Do your parents know that you’re here?”

“Yeah, but we had to go to Mikasa’s to ask for permission, that’s why I came home a little late,” Eren answers for his friends, his voice turning sheepish at the end, eyes darting nervously between his father and the floor (not that looking at the floor is alleviating his anxiousness in any way, Levi’s obsession with cleanliness stares him back in the face as glaringly as Levi’s gaze itself).

“So what,” his father bristles disapprovingly, “Are you going to build a baking soda volcano or something?”

“Or… something,” Eren supplies meagerly, and it doesn’t help that neither Mikasa nor Armin are offering any placating clarification or better yet: an explanation.

“And what exactly is this something?” Petra asks, god bless her soul.

“We’re still working out the details!” Armin says, now looking as nervous as Eren. “So is it all right if we stay for dinner… sir, ma’am?”

Before Levi can open his mouth to deliver the big fat No he’s been itching to deal out since Eren came crashing in, Petra shoves Eren and his friends in the direction of the stairs and says with what Levi can tell is genuine sweetness, “Of course! Levi will drive you guys home too, so don’t you go walking out in the streets at night, you hear?”

“Yeah, thanks!” Eren beams at her and then he’s rushing off with his friends to conspire. “Holler when dinner’s ready!”

“You mind the time, brat!” Levi snaps, having crossed the distance between him and his wife. “Either you come down on time for dinner or you’re getting leftovers.”

Eren blanches, and then he’s mock-saluting, used to his father’s attitude. “Aye aye, Captain!”

The kids disappear behind Eren’s door with a loud bang, and then Levi is whirling on his wife, displeasure evident in the crease of his brow. “You and I both know encouraging him was a bad idea.”

“For your kitchen, maybe,” she quips easily, all versions of his glare having lost its effect on her years ago.

“I’m not just talking about that,” he grouses in a tone that indicates he is just talking about that. 

“Young adolescents need encouragement!” is her defense, and then she’s pushing past him. “Especially around his age.”

“Who told you that?” he scoffs, “The Parent-Teacher Association?”

The way she blushes slightly is telling enough. “Seriously?” He sounds genuinely shocked.

“He’s entering high school now, I’m just trying to be a little more… lenient.” She shrugs, and he absent-mindedly brushes her hair back from her face when it falls forward with the motion of her cutting the vegetables. “Let him spread his wings and all.”

“At a Science Fair?” he replies incredulously. “You want him to end up like Shitty Glasses?”

“First of all, that is not how we regard friends in this household,” Petra scolds uselessly. “Second of all, why not? He seems excited about it.”

“Wait until he steals all your bleach to conduct hair-brained experiments,” he scoffs, and Petra rolls her eyes at his argument because the only one who cares for kidnapped bleach is him.

“Listen, they’re probably planning right now,” Petra begins.

“You mean Armin’s doing all the planning,” Levi interjects, grumbling.

“Exactly!” Petra beams like he just walked into her trap and he realizes a millisecond too late that he did. 

(Wives definitely have too much power.)

“Armin’s a smart boy and he knows how to keep Eren in check—remember that incident with the rock?”

She builds a solid argument and Levi has to admit that, albeit he does so with a bit of snark, flicking her hair like they’re still teenagers and sending her a complimentary ‘tch’ sound to put a cherry on top of all his irritation.

Her muffled laugh at his reaction serves as a familiar response, and as they settle into a comfortable rhythm in their kitchen as they always do, she looks up at him with a considerate smile and aims to bargain, “We’ll just trust him with whatever it is he plans to do, okay? He came asking us for permission, after all. Teenagers I know would have run off and done whatever it is they wanted to without asking for anyone’s permission.”

The reference to his days as a rogue in the outskirts of the city is plain as day, but as always Petra manages to make it seem like something worthy of admiration—something cool, and not at all something to be ashamed about. She’s always been one to see something for what it is, and Levi doesn’t doubt for a second that her admiration for him isn’t misguided at all, because he knows—he’s learned—all the ways that Petra is genuine, and this is one of the ways.

So even though he’s usually the one calling the shots around here, for a rare occasion, he relents and listens to her.

“You can keep him in line if he goes too far,” she continues, and she sounds so sure that nothing will go wrong that Levi almost believes her, “Since you’re the only one who can do that.”

He huffs, flicking her hair again. “Are you stupid?” he asks, and the question has bite but he manages to relay it in a way that sounds so incredibly fond, “You’re forgetting all the times he’s listened to you instead of me.”

“We’re even then.” She grins, and he’s a little surprised when she leans forward to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. “Thanks. You’re doing great.”

A thousand nights of doubting himself and his abilities as a caretaker weigh behind that last sentiment—a thousand nights of hurling insults into the sky at self-righteous parents who thought he was unfit for the job, a thousand nights of Petra sitting by him and letting him take his frustration out on the grimy state of their house’s outer walls because they were wrong, because for all his crass he would never walk away from his kid—and because this is Petra, he believes her.

And because this is Petra, he tilts his head to take advantage of their solitude, and dinner is delayed by a few minutes.

— 

“So,” Eren preludes, his grin still far too exuberant for Levi’s liking, “We have a plan!”

Armin nods in tandem with the announcement, but his mouth is too full of mashed potatoes that he has yet to provide any input into this so-called plan.

“All right, we’re listening.” Petra opens the floor for discussion with a slight wave of her knife, and Levi finds the unconscious action amusing. Maybe this is why he does all the threatening in their relationship. “But first, when’s the Science Fair?”

“Two weeks from now,” Mikasa informs. “Eren wants to generate biodiesel.”

Levi and Petra blink. “He wants to what?”

“We’re going to store used cooking oil and treat it to remove impurities, then we’re going to subject it to transesterification in order to produce biodiesel that we can use to power a toy car or something,” Armin rushes to explain, though the looks of impervious ignorance gracing the adults’ faces does not fade in the slightest, “We’re still working out the kinks, but it’s a solid plan and will most likely just take a week of trials, so we’ll be in time for the fair.”

“I’m making the posters,” Mikasa adds, as an afterthought.

“Hold on.” Petra shakes her head. “What’s this about biodiesel?”

“Biodiesel is an eco-friendly fuel source made from cooking oil!” Eren tells them enthusiastically, though he just sounds like he’s citing a Wikipedia article the way Hange prattles away about her experiments. Levi side-eyes Petra with a damning look of ‘I told you this would happen.’

“Basically it’s like gas,” Armin explains, always ready to back Eren up with solid fact. “But it isn’t harmful to the environment. We’re thinking of creating biodiesel for the Science Fair, because—”

“It’s sure to win!” Eren interjects animatedly. “We’re going to beat that horse-face Jean and his potato arc reactor if it’s the last thing I do!”

‘Arc reactor?’ Petra mouths confusedly, but Levi’s just as clueless as her.

“So basically…” Petra tries, and Levi continues her sentiment with a deadpan, “You want to turn my kitchen into a fucking power plant.”

A look of sure-fire guilt and hopeful excitement crosses Eren’s face at the fact that Levi understands exactly what they’re trying to do here—which could end in a disastrously good or a disastrously bad way, depending on how he takes it. (Eren made his friends promise to cross their fingers behind their backs while trying to convince Levi into allowing them to conduct experiments at home, just for that extra boost of luck.)

“Walk us through the methodology,” is the order that comes out of Levi’s mouth, but it’s leaning more towards that hopeful excitement than the sure-fire guilt from earlier, so Eren’s still revving in full throttle when he delivers a run-down of what he and Armin had discussed earlier, with the occasional input from Mikasa.

“We’re going to let Mikasa cook three hundred grams of chicken in three-hundred grams of oil,” he starts slowly, so as not to lose his parents—or himself—in the process of explaining their project. “Because Armin said it should be a one-to-one ratio.”

Levi nods like he understands, so Eren continues, “Then we’re going to heat up the used oil at sixty degrees for about an hour to remove any moisture or impurities.”

“Hold on. How are you going to do that?” Petra asks, her brows furrowed. “What equipment are you going to use?”

“We’re going to borrow flasks from Mom’s lab,” Armin supplies, “We’ll put the used oil inside, then we’re going to heat the flasks in a pot—kind of like a water bath for the oil.”

“And that’s it? It becomes biodiesel?”

“Um.” Armin flushes embarrassedly. “Not exactly. That’s still the… first step.”

“How are you going to generate biodiesel then?” Levi crosses his arms derisively, like this is the sign of Impending Doom he’d divined earlier.

“Well—we let it react,” Armin stutters, “With methanol. And sulfuric acid.”

There’s a long stretch of silence that pervades the dining table at the mention of hazardous chemicals, and Eren is tense the whole time, Armin quivering beside him and Mikasa coiled as though ready to spring into action at any moment, and some niggling part of these kids’ brains whispers in fright that maybe they’ll find a dinner table flying at their faces at any given moment now, even though Levi hates it when he has to clean up after broken glass.

It doesn’t help at all that Petra is simply staring at him lengthily, as though waiting for him to say something. That means she’ll agree with whatever he decides and if he decides they can’t do it then that’s a promising project going right down the drain. Eren crosses his fingers harder.

“You better make sure we don’t get food poisoning,” Levi finally says, spooning vegetables into his mouth, and at the verdict both Eren and Petra look like they’re ready to bring him the entire fucking moon.

— 

A few days later, Levi shuts the door in Hange’s face.

“Hey!” comes the muffled yell of outrage from outside. She seems to have brought bothersome company with her, because after that he’s being scolded.

“Levi, this is not how you should be treating your guests,” Erwin’s voice booms, but Levi can’t really bring himself to care, so he turns around and walks away, except he’s intercepted by Petra, who with her welcoming nature disrupts all his last-minute plans for a peaceful weekend.

“Hange, Erwin, wonderful to see you!” she greets, and the taller woman falls forward to press a grateful kiss to Petra’s cheek in return.

“Wonderful to see you too, unlike some people,” Hange gripes, and if he were any younger Levi probably would have flipped her off in reply. Instead, he just passes his handkerchief to his wife with a grave aura about him, pointing to his cheek when Petra tilts her head at him in confusion.

“Is Aunt Zoë here!?” Eren yells from upstairs, but his parents find no need to give him a positive response when they can already hear him thundering down the stairs. “Aunt Zoë!”

“My little titan looks like he’s grown so big!” Hange gushes, already accepting the firecracker that is Eren Ral into her open arms and swinging him around like a stuffed toy. Eren laughs, because then he’s swung into his Uncle Erwin’s arms too, who catches him with as much ease as it had taken Hange to pick him up. “What have you been feeding him, Petra? At this rate he’ll grow taller than Levi! You haven’t been giving him an overdose of Cherifer, have you?”

“The only person in overdose here is you, Shitty Glasses,” Levi grouses, and Hange flicks his forehead in return.

“Where’s Armin?” Erwin asks, setting Eren down. “We’ve brought all the materials he asked for from Hange’s lab, so you should be ready to start your experiment.”

Armin and Mikasa hurry from the stairs just as Erwin asks, and the former is beaming up at the man with unreserved gratitude. “Thanks Dad!”

“No problem,” Erwin replies, patting his head. “Eren, you help me carry the stuff from the car.”

“Yessir!” Eren rushes outside with Erwin in tow, and as they do so Mikasa tugs on Petra’s sleeve.

“What is it, dear?” Petra smiles, and Mikasa looks up at her, that overcast gaze clouded with a steely determination.

“Ms. Ral,” she starts, “Can you show me how to cook fried chicken?”

— 

The weekend is—and this is the understatement of the year—a Fucking Disaster.

Eren has managed to turn their kitchen into a laboratory this time, with a digital weighing scale plugged in next to the microwave and a big pot filled with three Erlenmeyer flasks settled upon Levi’s most prized possession: the induction stove.

He stands like a cactus in the corner of the kitchen—prickly and dry and harmful to anyone who comes within reach except maybe Petra—surveying the people who have invaded his home and who are now boiling three flasks of used cooking oil, methanol, and sulfuric acid inside his cooking pot.

He’ll have to buy a new cooking pot after this weekend if the way Hange’s leering over it is any indication.

Petra and Mikasa are situated by the stove, cooking batches of chicken thigh that Petra had him drive to the store to buy (he has to crack that Wife-Power thing before it does him in someday). Mikasa’s adept at learning and that applies here, as she whips out batch after batch of fried chicken and pours golden oil into a beaker for Hange to separate into a For Analysis test tube and a For Experiment flask.

Eren had tried to cook a chicken, but it had blackened as a consequence of his sporadic attention span.

So now he’s just the designated stirrer, since a water bath is these kids’ alternative for a three-neck batch reactor (as if Levi and Petra even know what the hell that is) and the reaction needs to be stirred constantly, according to Hange and Armin, who parrot each other frequently regarding the methodology that now everyone’s got it memorized. 

Even Levi, who stipulated earlier that he would not be helping them turn his kitchen into a disaster zone whilst raising a spray bottle of self-concocted cleaning solvent in their faces like he was going to shoot them with it any second.

The first time Armin tries to pour a batch of oil into a flask for pre-treatment he’s shaking so badly under Levi’s dead-eyed stare that he accidentally spills everything. Levi’s muttering a string of profanities as he proceeds to do self-designated clean-up duty. 

Erwin pats the boy on the back and when he tries for the second time, Eren notices his uncanny ability to pour just enough oil into a flask to make 250 mL.

That sort of diverges into a little side-experiment where Hange encourages Armin to pour oil at a variety of different volumes—20 mL, 50 mL, 150 mL, and so on—and it vaguely reminds Levi of a drinking party when they cheer every single time Armin gets the exact measurement after one try.

It takes Petra asking them in learned Levi-fashion “what they’re trying to do” that everyone remembers they’re here for a biodiesel experiment and not an experiment to test Armin’s Hidden Talent (even though Levi’s 110% sure Hange has an entire encyclopedia dedicated to her son’s growth alone, and that’s not including the record she’s probably kept of Eren over the years, from all his baby teeth down to every single nail clipping).

They go back to watching over the cooking-pot slash water-bath, and Hange yells bloody murder when she realizes they’ve let the temperature get to one-hundred—Levi moves in anticipation of a coming explosion but thankfully that doesn’t happen.

At some point Petra’s hand ghosts over his butt and he turns his head to snap at her for stealing his phone, but everyone’s suddenly back in Drinking Party mode as Petra records Mikasa flipping chicken thighs like they’re pancakes and aiming them at the plate Eren has raised a few feet away. Hange’s yelling in admiration and scribbling onto a notepad—Levi’s brows crease because since when did she have a notepad—and then Hange asks like it’s the end of the world: “How do you manage to make every chicken land on the plate?”

Mikasa turns in that aloof manner of hers that Levi can respect, and then she’s saying: “I’m good at calculating angles.”

That gets Hange’s undivided attention for the rest of the hour, with Eren trying to get her back on track with reasons along the lines of, “We’re not here to study Mikasa’s eyeballs, Aunt Zoë!”

Levi thinks that maybe they all would have been arrested right there and then if anyone else had heard it—for fuck’s sake Erwin is the goddamn Chief of Police, but all this so-called Chief-of-Police does is turn to look at Armin with a jovial smile and a politely asked, “So what’re we doing next?”

It’s midnight by the time Eren gets four rows of biodiesel samples to test on a toy car the next day—if he can wake up to greet the next day, that is—and it’s nearly one in the morning by the time Levi’s got the entire kitchen spotless and all the trash (including Hange and company) out the door.

He crashes into bed after a quick three-minute shower, and he can barely question why the heck Eren is in their bed too before Petra rolls to curl into his side, sound asleep. 

He sighs in reluctant compliance, but it’s easy to sink between the warmth of Petra and Eren at his sides, and when he drifts off to sleep he thinks the comfort is well-rewarded after a rather tiring day.

— 

The day of the Science Fair comes, and Levi looks bored as he scrutinizes all the other booths around them. He spots the mandatory baking soda volcano off to the side and decides Eren’s got this competition in the bag until he notices a horse-faced classmate flaunting some Potato Arc Reactor with much vigor. 

“That’s the horse-face you were talking about?” Levi asks incredulously, because he hadn’t expected Eren to be accurate in his observation of the other boy. Eren nods in a manner that can’t be described as anything else but “repulsed”, his eyebrows scrunching in the middle like he’s itching to just punch the boy in the face. Which Levi wouldn’t really mind—he thinks this fair could use a little more flair.

“Well I think you’re definitely going to win!” Petra cheers, and her positive energy is the only boost Eren needs because when the panel of judges comes strolling by he leads the presentation and the demonstration of his project with what Levi deems is adequate decency.

“You three really made that?” one of them jeers. “I don’t believe you for a second—you seem to have used chemicals unavailable to high schoolers. Did you solicit outside help for this experiment?”

Eren, dumb and determined as always, doesn’t disappoint when he snaps back, “The only people we asked were our parents, and the guidelines say we can ask our parents!”

Another judge narrows his eyes—Levi recognizes him as Nile Dok, that annoying prat who usually leads the Parent-Teacher Association meetings, and he feels inclined to punch this man in the face and break a few teeth when he whirls on Petra to ask, like he’s ready to persecute the lot of them for breaking the rules, “And what exactly were your contributions to this project, Ms. Ral?”

The man stumbles back in surprise when Petra levels him with a stern glare and a just as sternly said, “I simply showed them how to cook the chicken to get their used oil, Mr. Dok. Nothing more than that.”

“Hm.” He studies her for a long moment before turning to face Levi instead, which would have been a huge mistake if they hadn’t been within school premises and Levi had all the room to demonstrate just how many ways he could break this man’s teeth. “And you, Mr. Ral? Did you contribute in any way to your son’s project?”

“Hah? Of course I contributed.” He shifts his weight onto one foot, and with an air of nonchalance that manages to qualify Eren for first place in this stupid competition, he says with all seriousness: 

“I ate the chicken.”

[lunasilvermorny]

Luna finds Jacob - The Portrait Vault

So... I wrote the scene where Luna finally found Jacob in the vault.

I never really posted anything serious that I wrote, so constructive criticism is always welcome, but try not to be too hard on me, I haven’t got any experience in these kind of things.

One last meme to take the edge off:

Luna: You promise not to run away again?

Jacob: Yep!

Luna: We’re a team and we’ll find the final vault together?

Jacob: Yep!

Luna: You SWEAR you won’t leave?

Jacob: Yep!

Luna: *frees him*

Jacob: *disappears immediately*

Luna:

Anyway, I hope you’ll like it and... yeah. Here it is:

Luna ran through the door into a room similar to the other vaults, only the walls were covered in portraits. She looked around, her heart still pounding while she’s catching her breath from the fight with Rakepick.

“Luno!” she heard a cry and raised her head immediately and turn to look at the huge portrait to her right.

It’s him.

“Jakube?” what came out of her mouth wasn’t more than a faint whisper, because she felt her throat closing up. He looked so different and yet she had no doubt in her heart that it’s him. Other than the obvious physical changes, there was something different about his expression too. He never looked at her like that.

“You made it!” his voice was the same, but she never heard him so happy before. His hands were pressed against the edge of the portrait, he was beaming. “The column! Open the column!” he urged her.

She was barely able to breathe. All doubts cleared from her mind, while only one thought remained – she has to get him out. Without a second guess, she raised her hand and touched the column, so focused on the mission at hand, she barely heard him say- “You can trust me!”

Something felt off when he said it, but she had no time to think about it, because at that very moment he floated out of the frame borders and landed right in front of her.

He gave her a sincere smile that she never saw on his face before, at least not aimed at her. She was barely aware of her legs moving in his direction as she threw her arms around him. He embraced her tightly in return. Have they ever hugged before? Probably, but they never really meant it, because it felt like the first time.

“What took you so long?” she heard him say over her shoulder with a familiar sarcastic tone, but it wasn’t as malicious as she remembered.

She let him loose, took a step back and crossed her arms while raising an eyebrow. “Really?” she said, imitating his tone.

“No, Pip!” he laughed and shook his head. “Not really. I know it wasn’t easy to find me.”

“Pip.” She repeated while narrowing her uninjured eye. Just hearing that nickname again made unpleasant memories surface, the kind that were buried deep in her subconscious for a reason. “All those years and that’s the best you can manage?”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for the classics. Look at you, you haven’t changed a bit.” He paused for a second and then added- “Well, aside for some minor details.”

“So you like the blood?” she gestured her upper lip area, that she just noticed at that very moment was still bleeding. Jacob offered her a handkerchief, so she could press it against the open wound.

“It left quite a cut; it’s going to become a nasty scar if you don’t tend to it.” If he was trying to sound caring, he failed miserably.

“No shit.” She pressed the wound a bit too hard out of anger, but refused to show any sign of pain on her face. “Any other brilliant advice?”

“No, I won’t meddle with your edgy style. I do I like the shiner, though.” He pointed on her black eye “Gives you a tough look.”

“I have fought a dragon just now, you know.” She puffed her chest with pride.

“Well, even with a bruised face, you still look like good ol’ Pip.”

“Really? Because you’re a lot shorted than I remember.” She couldn’t help herself.

A flash of disdain appeared in his eyes, it was so quick she barely noticed it.

“I guess you’re right. You are freakishly tall just like father.” He smirked. “You really are taking after him, aren’t you?”

Luna’s jaw clenched. That sounded more like the Jacob she knew.

“Well, I’ve been trapped in this portrait for years.” He sighed. “If it weren’t for you, I might have never gotten out of this hell hole.” He sounded so tired. “You must have gone through a lot to get here.”

“Not more than you have, I’m sure.”

“Well, obviously.” His tone slowly reverted to the one he used when he was talking down at her. She clenched her jaw even tighter. These small stings started to taint the mood.

Was she glad to free him a moment ago? Because she’s starting to forget why.

“Thank you for not giving up on me.” His voice trembled a bit, when he gave her another unfamiliar yet soft smile.

Right. That’s why. Is she being too hard on him? He was stuck in a portrait for years and years, can she really fault him for being a bit rusty when it comes to human interactions?

“Well, you are my big brother.” She said. “Also, maminka kept nagging me about it.”

He lowered his gaze at the mention of their mother and after a few seconds, return to look at her, while a painful smile spread on his face.

“She must have been so worried.” He shook his head. “How is she?”

“Who knows?” Luna didn’t share his sentiment and couldn’t hide the resentment in her voice. “She shops a lot.”

“Well, that’s a start.” He said and a whiff of their old sibling rivalry was starting to surface. “I hope you weren’t causing her any trouble while I was gone.” Luna rolled her eyes and he said- “You know what I mean.”

“Not my fault she has the mental capacity of a child” Luna spewed without thinking and then added - “I forgot how much of a mama’s boy you really are.”

“I am what I am.” He shrugged. “I’m guessing she’s still with father.” He added before she was able to say anything.

“Why wouldn’t she? Their marriage is clearly perfect in every regard.” Luna roller her eyes again. To her surprise, Jacob laughed.

“Yes, they are the embodiment of true love.”

Luna laughed as well. “You missed so many great moments. I’ll give you some highlights – an awkward silence when we ate supper together and an awkward silence when we sat together in the living room, waiting for father to go to work already.”

“Ah, if only we had a time turner, we could have relived those precious times. Oh well.” Both their smiles were fake, but it’s better than getting upset over something that is out of their control.

“Is that my sweater?” He said all of a sudden and caught Luna off guard.

“Oh, yeah.” Luna said casually. “I forgot it was yours. Maminka attempted to do the laundry one day and shrank it. Lucky me.”

“But it’s all torn up and bloody.” He gestured her wounds.

“Well, as I mentioned earlier, I fought a dragon.” She said defensively.

“Why not in your own damn clothes?” he frowned.

“This sweater is way too small for you anyway.”

“Couldn’t you have tended this nasty cut instead of bleeding all over my valuable sweater?”

“You didn’t even-! Forget it.” She said impatiently. “By the way, speaking of nasty cuts, what’s with the shaved head?”

“Believe it or not, I was aiming for an undercut similar to yours, but Duncan and his shaky hands-“ for a brief moment he was completely immersed in nostalgia as he laughed to himself. “-he ruined it completely, so I had no choice but to shave it all off.”

“I’ve met him.” She said. “He told me some interesting stories, but somehow failed to mention this one.”

“Of course, the cocky bastard would never tell about his own mistakes.” but right after he said it, his expression changed and he stared at her, surprised- “Wait, what do you mean you’ve met him.”

“He’s a ghost hunting the Prefects’ bathroom. Kind of hard to miss.”

Jacob cleared his throat. “Yes, I-“ he stopped for a second. “I just didn’t think you’d meet him.”

“Yeah, and he’s not a fan.”

She definitely hit a nerve.

“I imagine you heard a lot of things about me.” He said with the slightest hint of blush appearing on his cheeks. She could tell that wasn’t what he originally intended to say. “Mostly bad-“

“Almost exclusively bad.” She said without thinking, but before she had the time to regret her tactless words, he started laughing.

“I’m glad my reputation stands.” He shook his head. “I had to stab a lot of people in the back to achieve this status of resentment, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” She felt uncomfortable the longer he laughed, since it became clearer he was doing it to mask his true feelings. The pain was barely noticeable, but she was able to pick up on it easily, since it’s exactly how she’s dealing with these kind of situations. They really are more similar than she thought.

There was the sound of footsteps followed by Bill and Charlie entering the room. They both stared at Jacob with big smiles on their faces.

Jacob raised an eyebrow - “Who are those chaps?”

“My friends, they helped me find you.” she was mildly irritated by his tone of voice.

The brothers looked confused and Luna realized that she and Jacob were still speaking in Czech.

“Bill, Charlie, this is Jacu- I mean, Jacob.” She turned to her brother. “Jacob, these are Bill and Charlie Weasley. They are my secret family.”

Jacob put on a smile, but still said in Czech- “Couldn’t you have found one without gingers?” then said in English- “Pleasure.” and shook their hands.

Luna suppressed the urge to kick him.

“We heard a lot about you.” Said Charlie in a kind voice.

“Yes, my little sis and I were just talking about it.” His rude tone was too familiar. “All good, I hope.”

“Yes, Luna was very determined to find you.” Bill said with pride and Jacob gave him a lazy smile.

“Of course.” He patted her gently on the back and Luna noticed that he’s already bored of their conversation. “Who else would be talented enough to find this vault if not her?”

Bill hasn’t noticed the Jacob’s sarcasm.

“They helped rescue you, you prick.” Said Luna in Czech, but kept her smile so Bill and Charlie won’t suspect anything.

“Are you sure? They don’t look so bright from where I stand.”

But before she had the opportunity say anything about his snarky remark, Merula and Ben entered the room. Merula still limping and Ben shooting her worried glances ever few seconds.

“Merula, you should be resting.” Luna said, ignoring Jacob’s yawn.

“She insisted.” Ben said. He was clearly not on board with it.

“I’m fine.” Merula said stubbornly. “So this is the famous Jacob Silver.”

It was very subtle, but Luna saw a flicker of disgust in Jacob’s eyes when he looked at Merula.

“Blimy, Pip.” He put more effort in the fake smile and turned to her, then said the rest in Czech. “How many damn wizards does it take to get into a single vault?”

“The right amount to not get stuck in a portrait for years to come.” She said bitterly, and again to her surprise, he was amused by her disdain.

“And here I took all this time to pick you a nice spot on the wall next to mine. Such a waste.”

Luna felt confused again. His attitude was so unpredictable it was tiring.

“What the hell are they saying?” Merula looked at the other that shrugged in return.

“Any other unexpected guests?” He said, ignoring the confused looks her friends gave them.

“No, we had a last minute cancellation.” She said, but wasn’t able to carry the lighthearted banter when she thought of Rakepick’s betrayal.

Jacob picked on the change in her tone and ask- “What happened?”

“Rakepick brought us here-“

“Rakepick!” Everyone jumped when he shouted her name. There were no remains of the fake smile, his expression conveyed pure fury. “You know her? She’s here?!”

It took Luna a few seconds to recover.

“No, not anymore. She apparated-“

“When?”

“Just before I found you.”

“I have to go. I have to stop her from finding the final vault.” It was almost like he’s looking right through her, as if she doesn’t matter anymore. “R can’t get their hands on the treasure.”

“I know, so what’s our plan?” she asked seriously.

“Our?” he repeated, barely paying attention to her words. “There’s no ���our’ anything, I’m going alone.”

“What?” she protested. “But I-!”

“There’s no time.” He cut her off. “Don’t tell maminka I’m back yet.”

“You don’t get to bloody decide! Do you have any idea-“

“Pip, there are more important things at stake here!” he gave her the same look he always gave her when she was in his way.

“We can stop Rakepick together.” She insisted, but he shook his head. He can’t go without her, he said they’re in this together!

“I know I got you into this, but it’s my fight, not yours.”

“Yes, you dragged me into it and now this is my fight too!” she refused to let him diminish her role in this. “I found three vault by now, I can help!”

“We’ll find each other again, Luno.” He put his hands on her shoulders.

“No, don’t say it like-! Dammit, Jakube! I want to find Rakepick too! You’re not the only one she betrayed-!”

“Be safe.” He lowered his arms and turned his back at her.

“Don’t you fucking dare-!”

But before she was able to finish the sentence, he apparated.

“Jakube?” She started trembling. That's the Jacob she remembered. The Jacob that treated her like she's a nuisance, the Jacob that always acted like he’s better than her, the Jacob that left his family behind for his selfish goals.

"Jakube!" She shouted, even though she knew it’s too late. She stared at the air where he stood a second ago, with a dropped jaw and eyes wide open. Her breaths got heavier, as the shock prevented her lungs from functioning properly.

Then she closed her mouth, grinding her teeth so hard it hurt. She clenched her fists, her blood was boiling.

She was furious.

He used her. All this time he guided her, made her feel like they are a team, but it was all a show so she could free him and then get left behind. Again. Like an old tool, like an annoying child. Now that he’s free, she’s worthless to him.

“What happened, where did he go?” Merula broke the silence, but Luna ignored her.

She wanted to scream, she wanted to shout every profanity possible at him.

Still shaking, she felt a soft touch on her shoulder. She jumped back just to see Bill’s worried face. He put his hand on her shoulder again and lower himself a bit so their eyes are at the same level.

“What happened?” he asked, his tone very serious, but still empathetic.

She glanced at the others. They all stared at her with the same look as Bill, even Merula.

That awakened a hidden part of her that was responsible for shielding her true emotions from the world. Her furious expression turned neutral in a matter of seconds, her body stiffened and her eyes turned blank. Then her expression return to normal – conveying annoyance rather than anger.

“He left to find Rakepick on his own.” She said in a stable and casual tone, but the sharp shift in her attitude made everyone feel unease. Bill lowered his hand, but remained unconvinced.

“Did he say-?”

“No.” she said immediately, before he was able to finish the sentence.

“That was rather rude of him.” Luna was surprise to hear those words coming out of Merula’s mouth, but she was too busy with keeping a façade, than to give an honest response.

“I’m sorry, Luna.” Bill said sincerely.

Luna let out a venomous chuckle and felt her blood boiling again, although it wasn’t shown on the outside.

“Why? It makes perfect sense.” She said as her tone grew colder. “He was always a selfish bastard, why would he behave any differently now?” Bill and Charlie looked genuinely surprised by that. “What, have I never mentioned that Jacob is a garbage person, forged in hell by Satan himself? My bad.” She let out a frustrated chuckle and clenched her fists so hard, her nails started to pierce through her skin. “I should have known he’s just using me, god knows what I bloody expected-“ but she stopped when she felt her emotions getting the better of her again.

Charlie and Bill exchanged looks.

“At least now you know he’s all right.” Charlie tried to comfort her, but it just made her feel worst.

“Until Rakepick will inevitably kill him, because the moron went after her all by himself.” Her words were still loaded with resentment, but she sounded calmer than expected.

“I’m sure she-“ but Bill never got to finish the sentence, because Merula collapsed again and Ben barely caught her before she hit her head on the floor. Merula struggled a bit, but managed to bring herself back to her feet.

“I’m fine, leave me be!” she pushed Ben away.

“We’ll handle him later, we should get her back to Hogwarts first.” Said Luna and hurried to support Merula’s body weight when she started dozing off again.

----

Luna afterward:

[ebaeschnbliah]

DISTRACTIONS  &  CONSEQUENCES

Exploring the deeper meaning of ASIB has always been a joy and an exiting experience. No matter if it’s about the Strange Similarities this episode shares with HLV, or the intriguing question why Sherlock plays Irene’s theme in TFP when prompted by Eurus to ‘play himself’ (Explosive, it’s more me   Oh, have you had sex?). Also the recuring Christmas theme in every series and Mycroft’s Bond Air plan, that doesn’t appear very ‘Neat’ at all after taking just a slightly closer look. When I wrote The Importance of Little Things  Boomerang and the other posts mentioned above, I didn’t dwell on a detailed metaphorical reading of the somewhat strange boomerang case, which initiates the appearance of ‘the woman’. @sarahthecoat added a short and very good summary of the already existing theory on this post. It was this comment which reminded me that I still hadn’t written down my own version of he boomerang case in ASIB.

Playing around with the idea of a much further extended mind palace scenario than that from the shooting in CAM Tower onwards (EMP Master Post 2016), those ideas inevitably led to slightly different interpretations of events than some of the already existing ones. (EEMP=Extraordinary Extendend Mind Palace, I called it back then, jokingly. Links are included in this post),

Characters created by Sherlock’s imagination, to play a role on his mind stage, aren’t autonomous individuals who can act of their own free will. Instead, they would represent different aspects of Sherlock’s personality, his views, fears, desires, expectations and experiences, his memory, etc. The way they look, speak and act would be designed by Sherlock, precisely to play their role in the experiments/scenarios appointed to them. Approaching Sherlock BBC from this angle, the story appears in a different light …. like a holographic postcard, where the motive displayed on it, changes with the slightest movement. Most importantly, it changes the central question from HOW to WHY something happens. And it also raises the question of ... WHAT could be the actual meaning behind choices regarding character behaviour, names, places, dialogues and so on, inside those scenarios. What’s the real meaning of all those little stories told in the coded language of Shelrock’s mind? 

Based on this idea, the boomerang case, the story of Phil with his backfiring car and the Hiker with the bashed-in head, in context with the main storyline of the associated episode, changes as well. 

For anyone who is interested in a different reading, this theory is …. alternatively below the cut …. :)

The boomerang case of A Scandal in Belgravia is presented in four sequences:

The first part is placed near the beginning of the episode. Phil’s POV of the event is shown almost exclusively by visuals without dialogue. This sequence merges seamlessly into ...

... the second part, which is about John, his investigation on the crime scene and his report to Sherlock via WiFi before he and Sherlock, separately, get whisked away to Buckingham Palace, ordered by Mycroft Holmes.

In the third part Sherlock explains the event to Irene at her place. Before Sherlock can finish his explanation he gets interuppted, first by the fire alarm, initiated by John, then by the American agents who want to confiscate Irene’s camera phone.

Directly afterwards Sherlock gets injected with drugs from Irene’s syringe. He imagines how Irene gives the final explanation and reveals the solution of the boomerang case.

This fourth sequence contains, what Sherlock would call ‘a special feature of interest’. The Hiker, distracted by the sound of an ‘explosion’, is hit by his  returning boomerang. While the man is shown falling backwards and out of the picture, the scene, just for a second, jumps also backwards in time to the very moment where Sherlock falls to the floor in Irene’s bedroom, due to the influence of her 'chemistry’. Then the scene continues with the Hiker still falling backwards out of the picture.

In the third sequence, while Sherlock describes the event, the camera circles round himself and the Hiker in a very explicit way. One man vanishes behind the other alternately.

Additionally there are also a certain similarities when it comes to 

men lying on the ground with bashed-in heads (red and blue)

characters wearing red jackets (x) 

characters wearing specific headgears

All of this strongly suggests that the Hiker, like Mary, is a mirror for Sherlock. Phil, the driver of the unmoving car, on the other hand, appears to be more connected to John, at least on a first glance. He wears similar clothing. ‘Ghost’ John can be seen sitting behind him on the sofa, while the man tells his story, placed in the clients chair in the middle of the living room. This leaves the question why John isn’t shown sitting in his own chair if he is present at the time and not in Dublin. Later, during the Wi-Fi conversation from the crime scene, Phil sits in John’s chair while Sherlock seems to have just woken up.

“Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy “  … this is how Sherlock describes Phil. As I mentioned in ‘Importance of Little Things’ those characteristics can also be attributed either directly to Sherlock himself or indirectly to some of his ‘mirrors’.

morbidly obese - Mycroft, who represents Sherlock’s brain department for logic and reason, appears exactly like that in TAB

halitosis - foul things coming out of ones mouth, could easily be a metaphor for ‘you alway say such horrible things’. Furthermore, halitosis is also mentioned associated with Mr. Howard Shilcott, the train guy from TEH, the one with the silly (ear) hat who is sentimental, maybe isolated but doesn’t mind being different. 

internet porn addict - computer language metaphors aren’t uncommon in this story. Sherlock compares his brain to a hard drive. Jim calls himself ‘virus in the data’ and Mycroft shares that opinion. Brains consist of billions of neurons, interconnected with each other, communicating with each other, carrying trains of signal pulses and informations … very much like the internet. Metaphorically, an internet porn adict could be someone who deals with sexual desires ‘virtually’ inside his head and not with the body. 

untreated heart condition - this description mustn’t necessariy be aimed at a real pathological condition of said organ. Heart metaphors are very often used to paint vivid pictures of the emotional state of a person. Hearts can suffer, can be neglected, they can break, turn to stone, freeze, burn, melt, do a somersault, sing with joy … and so on

low self-esteem -  in TSOT Sherlock describs himself … ‘I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet’ … ‘I never expected to be anybody’s best friend’  No further words needed, I guess.

tiny IQ - only some statements which compare Sherlock to an idiot (there exist a lot more) … ‘I used to think I was an idiot’ (Sherlock, TEH),  ‘I’ve been an idiot – a blind idiot!’ (Sherlock, TEH), ‘I’m an idiot. I know nothing’ (Sherlock, TST), ‘You always were the slow one …. the idiot’ (Mycroft, TFP) and finally Sherlock about Phil, the man this description is aimed at:  ‘He’s an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?’

limited life expectancy - Mycroft again, the brain department for logic and reason. In TAB Sherlock and Mycroft are betting on big brother’s life expectancy, which both brothers assume to be not very long: ‘Three years flat if you eat that plum pudding’ … ‘Done’ 

If Phil with his unmoving car is indeed a mirror for Sherlock, like the Hiker, why is he visually connected so closely to John? Maybe because Phil represents the object of Sherlock’s investigations and deductions. 

Phil, the driver of the transport that lies dormant

A little later in this episode Sherlock observes how John meets Irene at Battersea, the disused Power Station. An unmoving car and a disused power station ... are this two different metaphors for the same thing?

A disused power station, a car that doesn’t move = a body whose sexual urges lie dormant. Repressed desires, emotions behind elephant glass ...  ‘ignored, patronised, disregarded, not allowed so much as a vote’. And the brain demands ‘you will stay out of this’ and warns ‘don’t get involved’. But the same brain also forces Sherlock to investigate ‘the woman’ and later releases ‘the criminal mastermind’. And in TAB this brain proclaims very clearly ‘We must lose this war because they are right and we are wrong’. Janus-faced indeed. Or maybe just a massively conflicted mind, torn in two, like the family pictures at the walls of the grey chamber in TFP.

Who’s John Watson on Sherlock’s mind stage?

John Watson - acting as a character on Sherlock’s mind stage - is hard to pin down. He seems to represent several aspects at the same time and he is definitely the main focus of Sherlock’s investigations.

In ASIP Sherlock confirms John’s question that he’s filling in for his skull - the one Sherlock calls ‘friend’. The skull is an imortant part of the body. Made of strong bone, it encloses the brain and protects it. Interestingly, broken up skulls - bashed-in or penetrated by bullets - are a rather important theme of this story. Maybe something imprisoned by inflexible bone wants to break free … an idea, a dream, a desire ….

John, ‘good old doctor Watson, the one fixed (inflerxible) point in a changing age’ is strongly connected to mirrors for love and emotions. As his counterpart, he is also connected to Jim Moriarty, Mr. Sex …. ‘John or James, James or John … the more is less’. John seems to be Jim’s main target in the game the criminal mastermind plays with Sherlock. And the painting of the Reichenbach Falls is declared as ‘William Turner’s masterpiece’ (Reichenbach=Rich Brook, William=William Sherlock Scott Holmes, turn(er)=turn round/change direction)

John - the eternal friend -  is the incarnation of PHILIA (love between friends). But in this adaptation of the great detective, PHILIA is mingled with EROS (intimate love, sexual passion) right from the start. In PILOT & ASIP, when Anteros, the god of requited love, rises behind the episode title and a dog starts barking in the middle of the night. (More detailed explanations and musings on this topic - the evolution from friend to lover - can be found in ‘The Big Question’, ‘Solutions or Choices’, ‘Shoes for the Hound’ and ‘Sekhmet’ 

Skull, body, heart, protector, emotions, desire, friendship, love ... but also the fear to lose friendship and love, in case the ‘fixed point’ changes …. all those terms can be assigned to the John-character on Sherlock’s mind stage and his mirrors.

Out in the middle of nowhere ...

When the curtain rises for the boomerang case, the stage is set somewhere in the countryside. There’s a shallow valley and soft hills, thickly covered by woodland. A lush green meadow leads gently sloping down to a river or maybe a lake. There’s also a small brook which meanders through the wetland and flows forth into the greater water. Not far away a street runs along the margin ot the forest.

The main characters of the play are: 

the Hiker in a bright red jacket, who busies himself with his boomerang beside the small brook

Phil, who tries to restart his unmoving car on the street nearby

It’s not explained how long Phil is working on his problem at the time the scene starts, but when the audience first sees him leaving the car to take a look at the engine, the bonnet is already open. So, most propably this is not his first attempt to restart the car.

The surrounding area is still and quiet. No significant background noises can be heard. Though both men stand in shouting distance to each other, there is no contact between them. The Hiker has turned his back to the street. He either really hasn’t noticed Phil and his unmoving car or he has, but simply doesn’t care. Phil on the other hand is aware of the Hiker on the meadow. For a moment it looks like he considers calling the man for assistence but then Phil apparently dismisses that idea again. 

Instead Phil makes another attemt to restart his car.This time it backfires and the sound of the explosion splits the silence. The Hiker, distracted by the sudden noise, turns round and looks back to the street. At this moment the boomerang comes flying back, hits his head and kills him instantly. When Phil gets out of the car and looks down the meadow, he sees the Hiker in the red jacket lying motionless on the ground next to the small brook.

The Hiker and Phil ... Sherlock’s MIND and BODY

The Hiker - the MIND who plays with an idea

Viewing the Hiker as a mirror for Sherlock, his bright red jacket connects the character also to Mary, the facade. This makes him the man with his facade still intact but already curious about ... something. The Hiker wears a checkered shirt, which otherwise is closely attributed to John, while he palys with the boomerang. 

If someone returns from foreign travel with a boomerang, one can assume that this person is meant to have been in Australia. Compared to Great Britain, Australia lies very far in the East. The East is strongly connected to Eurus, the East Wind, who represents Sherlock’s emotional side and is also strongly linked to buried/deleted memories and the Holmes family history.

The Hiker who traveled far to the East and brought back a small, fascinating but dangerous item, would then represent Sherlock, who went deep down into his mind palace. He retrieved something from the past, something he had ‘deleted’ a long time ago. Maybe something related to emotions and love. Sherlock/the Hiker takes that memory back into the present and starts playing with it …. he lets a seemingly harmless idea fly ….

Phil - the desire of a BODY whose sexuell transport lies dormant

Viewing Phil also as a mirror for Sherlock, that man and his unmoving car would represent an aspect of Sherlock, which is consciously or unconsciously dealing with investigations and deductions about the ‘John-Problem’. Phil too, wears a checkered shirt which links him even further to John. Obeseness stems from too much eating. Some time ago I read and reblogged a very intersting meta about eating as a metaphor for desire. Sadly I can’t find it again and credit the autor. If someone has a link, please add it, that would be great. In my opinion the food=desire methaphor is brilliant and fits perfectly. Phil, the carnal desire of Sherlock’s BODY, eats too much/stuffs himself with desire and is therefore obese ... he is filled with desire to bursting … just like the BRAIN in TAB.

The Hiker has turned his back on Phil. He doesn’t even see the desperate man beside his car. Sherlock’s MIND, dismisses the desires of the BODY as unimportant and at best sencondary. Who needs that annoying ‘transport’, when one can ‘hike’ with the MIND wherever one wants and let the ideas fly? The brain is what counts, logic and reason … cases and mysteries are solved by the MIND … the desires of the BODY, who repeatedly tries to restart the transport, are just distractions which can/should be ignored and neglected. Especially when one has just unearthed a fascinting little memory from a long time ago …

Different aspects of Sherlock are dealing with related cases at the same time. One case lies in the past, the other one in the present. They overlap ... and this leads to consequences:

a car backfires and the sound of an explosion splits the silence =  a BODY reacts and explodes/has an orgasm

a head gets bashed-in = ‘la petite mort’ of the BRAIN

The best thing about this interpretation is, that an almost similar scene, in a different setting, is played out a second time simultaneously during the Irene Adler case. 

The repetition of a hit

Fascinated and very pleased with himself, Sherlock plays with a little item he has just retrieved from a secured and guarded place. He lets the thing fly through the air and catches it again, a bit like someone would do with a boomerang. This time though, it’s a camera phone packed full with ‘scandalous’ informations. Sherlock underestimates the danger he is in and most of all, he underestimates the opponent he is faced with. 

Carelessly and maybe even provokingly he turns his back at Irene. The next second Sherlock is hit by a syringe full of chemistry … the chemistry of sex. Sherlock falls to the floor of Irene’s bedroom ... beaten by Mrs. Sex.

As mentioned above, in the final explanation of the boomerang case, the fall of the Hiker beside the small brook on the meadow, closely frames the fall of Sherlock in Irene’s bedroom … they actually become one fall. What lies closer at hand than to assume that both cases are actually about the same topic? 

Sherlock’s experience of a sudden, unexpected orgasm … triggered by awakening emotions, while playing with a memory from the past. 

A full list of the ‘cast’ involved in the boomerang case

The Hiker and his boomerang - Sherlock’s mind plays with an idea, with a once deleted but now revived memory

Phil and his unmoving car - Sherlock’s carnal desire, affected by the ‘John-Problem’, awakens and tries to start his sex drive

the colour green - it’s the colour of HOPE, rebirth and harmony (X) it’s also the colour assigned to John in the PILOT and ASIP. (X)

the river/lake - a lot of water means a lot of emotions, ‘deep waters, all your life’. Eurus represents emotions, the past and deleted memories

the small brook next to which the Hiker dies - Rich Brook, the storyteller who is also Jim Moriarty, Mr. Sex. RichBrook translates into Reichenbach, an event that is linked to the music of J.S. Bach

the ‘object’ on the meadow - (more on this in The Cabin on the Meadow)

Viewing Series One as prelude for the whole story, where the three episodes serve as introduction (ASIP), user manual (TBB) and chapter list (TGG), the actual story told in Sherlock BBC would then start with A Scandal in Belgravia. 

“Don’t be alarmed ….. it’s to do with sex“

Mycroft’s statement, when he introduces Sherlock to the Irene Adler case, describes the whole episode in a nutshell. Sherlock’s RATIO tells himself (and the audience) what this case, this episode actually is about:

The emotional and sexual awakening of the character Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock’s appearance, when he starts his investigation of the boomerang case, is the most fitting outfit to present a metaphorical scenario for an awakening of this kind. Clothed in a pristine, white sheet (virginity), completely naked (newborn) beneath it and heartily yawning. Sherlock enters the ‘stage’ of 221b Baker Street, as if he had just woken up from a very long sleep. Just like Snow White slept in her coffin of glass before she woke to a new and exciting life (Sherlock in ASIP). 

“Noises are important ... noises can tell you everything"

A car backfires, innitiated by Phil. There’s the loud noise of an explosion.  Distracted, the Hiker turns and as a consequence, his head is hit and bashed-in. 

A fire alarm goes off, innitiated by John. Mr. Archer (the ‘bowman’, Cupid) gets the order to shoot John in the head.

The most significant noises of this episode are the orgasmic sighs Sherlock’s phone makes every time the text alert gets activated by Mrs. Sex … 59 in total. 

The noises are the most important factor on all three occasions … the explosion, the alarm, the orgasmic sigh ….

At the end of the episode Sherlock lets Irene’s phone fly again. He catches it, takes a thoughtfull look at the little thing and tucks it away in the drawer. Then Sherlock looks out of the window, while rain pours down the glass pane in front of his face. 

Fiftynine orgasmic sighs have been ignored (59 calls will be ignored in TST before little Rosy is born). The phone and with it the sexual desires get tucked away in a drawer. Sherlock, detached and secure behind a wall of glass, contemplates the pouring rain/emotions. His RATIO always carries an umbrella to avoid getting wet/affected by emotions. But his RATIO also seems to be in need of a cigarette after that case. A substitute drug/chemistry instead of the ‘real thing’, the ‘natural high’ which he denies himself stubbornly? Meanwhile the ‘eternal friend’ is already soaked wet with rain. The matter of the ‘fixed point in a changing age’ has already become a highly emotional one for Sherlock, it seems. Looks very much like the first stage of drowning.

In the next episode the HOUND will be unleashed, immediately followed by Mr. Sex ….. ‘Honey, you should see me in a crown’ …. who smashes the impenetrable glass case and reaches for the Crown Jewels.  (When the man with the key becomes king)

May, 2019

I leave you to your own deductions. Thanks @callie-ariane for the scripts. 

[gaasaku-fanfests]

Desert Heart [Part II]

Title: Desert Heart Author: keltoi-oak Rating: T Word Count: 17886 Summary: Returning to his homeland in order to face the hardest trials of his life, Gaara encounters a water nymph who proves to be much more than she seems. Warnings: None Author's Note(s): AU/Fantasy. This threatened to turn into a multi-chapter monster, so I was forced to compress it into a three part fic. Managed to incorporate all the prompts. All in all, had a blast writing it. Hope you enjoy!

Prompt chosen:  chosen, survival, bells . (all three) Partner: thefreckledone

PART II

There was a change in the desert, Sakura could feel it. Through the water she was aware of the fluctuations. The Sand Roam had triggered a shift in the energies all around. It was a strange kind of echo she perceived, as if the desert was intensifying its own essence and escalating its already impartial nature. Yet it also emanated an elated stillness, as if it was eagerly waiting for something that was on the verge of happening.

She readily assumed it was related to the choosing of the Wind Clan’s chieftain and in truth, she shared the sentiment: she had become unreservedly involved in the Sand Roam herself.

It truly was all about survival. She learned that the first time Gaara showed up at the pool bleeding and battered, one of his eyes closed purple and his torso bleeding from a nasty gash. Aghast, Sakura had reacted immediately, summoning the essence of the water all around her and pouring it through her hands unto his injuries. Healing was her natural response and the impulse kicked in without her even realizing it.

It was only after long moments, when she had finally halted the bleeding on Gaara’s side, that she realized her actions might be seen as something out of the ordinary. She looked up to find his jade eyes staring at her with open wonder, the expression on his face a combination of astonishment and gratitude.

He must have perceived her bemusement because he made a quip about her finally giving in to her true nature as a water nymph and getting her hands on him.

With an arched brow, she cut off the flow of her chakra that provided pain relief and felt him wince instantly.

Gaara smiled in discomfort and endured her retaliation. Wisely, he kept his words to himself after that. But Sakura knew his jibe had been aimed to distract her. It was a pattern she had become aware of not too long after his arrival. Whenever her muddled emotions rose to the surface, Gaara did his best to divert her attention. Since his comments were incredibly provoking, his methods worked. Sakura was simply unable to keep from retorting and a lively exchange would inevitably follow. Her mind would focus on other things and in no time, her disarrayed emotions would dissolve.

Even though Sakura was aware of what he was doing, she welcomed his distractions. Which was why, when Gaara thanked her for healing him, she told him it was the least she could do.

Soon, another pattern emerged as the Roam continued: Sakura would heal his injuries whenever he returned to the pool, actively helping in his recovery. After having become aware of her impulses, Gaara had tried to stop her from expending her energies so much on him. His wounds were part and parcel of the challenges he was facing and would be practically constant. She would be continually draining herself. But Sakura would have none of it. When he tried to resist her assistance, she simply imbued the water he drank with soporific chakra. He woke up patched up and healed.

Gaara sensibly accepted her help with no reservations after that.

He would leave at random moments, whenever he felt the call of the desert. Sometimes he would be in the middle of eating and have to answer its summons. Sakura did not know how it was for the other participants, but Gaara would always head out without the slightest complaint. He had no ill words to offer whenever he was wounded either, no matter how much pain he was in. The stoicism with which he faced the challenges was remarkable.

The latter could be anything the desert manifested. From encounters with giant onyx scorpions, erratic basilisks, and hungry sand mantas to facing spontaneous sand storms and desert cyclones. But there were other kinds of tests as well, such as harvesting the water-filled shoots of barnacle cacti without causing any damage to the plant. On one occasion, Gaara was bitten by a horned viper – one the desert hid from his perception until it was too late – and forced to fight off the venom solely by using his chakra. Sakura waited two full days for him to come back and could only admire his chakra focus skills when he recounted what had transpired. Eliminating such poisonous substances from the body could prove tricky. But although it wasn’t his specialty, Gaara had simply done what had to be done.

No time for drama, no time for getting caught up in doubt. He would concentrate his energies on the challenge before him, adapting to whatever the desert threw at him.

Sakura’s regard for Gaara increased with each test he surpassed.

Hence, her involvement in the Roam was a given: whenever he left the small oasis, she would wait patiently for him to return. Through his actions, the certainty Gaara had regarding the path he had chosen rubbed off on her. Sakura had complete faith in his abilities. She knew he wasn’t invincible yet this did not diminish her confidence in him.

It was refreshing and provided a welcome contrast to the fluctuation of emotions that would sneak up on her unannounced. Sakura would be overwhelmed by a sense of not being able to remember something but feeling she ought to. This would trigger reactions within her she had no control over. From one moment to the next, an intense sorrow would creep up on her, bringing with it tears she could not hold back. Or an intense anger would overcome her and a foul mood would descend for a while. If not that, it was the confusion creeping up, leaving her unsure of who she really was. But the emotion she disliked the most was the fear; it would pool at the pit of her stomach and sink its claws into her. She would feel herself shrinking and wanting to shun the world around her.

The fear was the true reason she had slumbered for such a long time and had craved sleep so much.

Luckily, this was changing and she held no qualms in attributing this shift to Gaara. He contrasted so much with her mutable inner reality with his steadfast and stoic ways that Sakura allowed herself to openly absorb his influence. She no longer craved to fall into oblivion as often and rested only when she had exhausted her chakra after healing him. He was proving to be an anchor, a solid presence juxtaposed to her watery shifting.

As a result, Sakura threw herself wholeheartedly into helping him. She held no reservations because she had also realized early on there was no pretence about Gaara. He was what he was. This meant she could do the same, be herself and make no attempt to pretend to be otherwise.

It was just over a couple of weeks after his arrival that she confessed her lack of memory to him. He had just woken up from a full day’s rest and was preparing to break his fast when he mentioned something about his childhood. His cooking had reminded him of the smell of the food coming in through the window of his family home from the eatery next door.

“Is it a good memory or a bad memory?” Sakura asked. Due to his personal history, she thought it best to clarify.

“A good memory,” he replied as he stirred the pot over the fire. “The owner, Chiyo-san, used to give me free dumplings as a treat, no matter what other people said about me. After my father died she kept abreast with the goings-on of my siblings and I, made sure we were eating properly.”

“That’s a heartening memory. Were there other people like her?”

“Too few to mention, I’m afraid.”

“I thought so,” she remarked. “Nonetheless, memories like that are worth having. They make the good things stand out, allowing you to carry what you felt back then with you. I wish I had some of those.”

Gaara poured some more water into the stew. “What do you mean?”

“I have no memories. I don’t remember anything before the events of the day you arrived.”

He turned to regard her fully, stunned. “You mean you’ve only existed for a fortnight?”

“No, silly,” she scoffed. “I was asleep, down under the ground. Earlier on the day you arrived I woke up and rose with the water into this pool. I know I was asleep for a very long time but for the life of me, I can’t remember anything before that. All I recall are short moments when I woke up before falling asleep again.”

“Do water nymphs do that? Sleep for long periods of time, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Sakura replied with a shrug. “Sometimes I’m uncertain if I am a nymph, to be quite honest.”

“Hence your confusion every so often,” Gaara remarked, “I’ve perceived that. Well, I can honestly tell you that you are a water nymph. Your chakra is the same as that of others I have come across before. You can rest assured on that, at least.”

“Thank you,” she replied solemnly. “I really appreciate being sure of what I am.”

A thoughtful silence descended upon her as Gaara finished preparing his meal. He served his stew into a bowl before standing and moving towards the edge of the pool. Coming closer to where she was sitting on a rock, he sat down on the stone beside her and began to eat.

After watching him enjoy a few mouthfuls, Sakura spoke once more. “The strangest thing is I get this feeling from time to time that I should remember. Like you, just now. Something within me reacted to watching you eat with such relish but I can’t recollect why.”

“I’d offer to give you some but we both know your kind doesn’t eat.”

“Precisely.” she replied. “I get sustenance from the water around me. Just being in the pool is enough for me. I’m not supposed to know what it is to be hungry. Yet watching you devour that stew made me feel as if I should remember what that’s like.”

He nodded in understanding. After a few more mouthfuls, he turned thoughtful. Dropping the spoon in the bowl, he turned to look at her with narrowed eyes. “Is that why you reacted so prudishly when it finally dawned on you that my being able to see you when you make yourself transparent meant I could see you naked?”

“I am not a prude,” she snapped, swatting him on the knee for good measure. Trust him to latch on to that particular incident. “It’s just basic decency.” Sakura intensified the glamour around her body on purpose, making the dress she had conjured up as cover appear even more perceptible.

“Exactly,” he remarked. “For water nymphs, having others see them naked is the whole point. It’s natural for them.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Well, not for me.”

“Evidently not,” Gaara said. “But you are one. You can use glamour and can assume liquid form or become tangible at will. You can commune with the water and receive nourishment from it, which means you cannot stray too far from it. You have natural powers of healing, courtesy of your watery essence. Yet the instincts that lead to your actions are decidedly not those of a water nymph.”

She blinked. “So you’re saying I’m a fake?”

“Not at all. I told you already that your chakra gives you away. There’s no doubt about that. What I’m implying is that you may not be solely a water nymph… you may be something more.”

With wide eyes, Sakura stared at him in silence.

She was about to ask him to explain himself further but the desert intervened. It summoned the participants of the Sand Roam and Gaara had to leave the pool in a rush. She made a point to remember to ask him about it when he next returned.

But she was foiled once again later that night when he stumbled back to the pool with a broken wrist and cuts all over his body, his chakra practically depleted. All her attention focused on healing him and she did not get the chance to continue their conversation.

Yet when she finally got him to lie down to rest next to the edge of the water, she could not help wondering about the implications of what he had said. What did ‘more’ mean?

Sakura could not come up with  an answer to that question. So, for the time being, she settled for floating next to Gaara as he slept in recovery, hoping he would eventually shed some light on what he had meant.

– XXXXXXXX –

Gaara knew the key was to have no expectations. Whatever came his way, whatever it was the desert threw at him, he had to accept it for what it was. There was no point in thinking about the challenges ahead: he would never be able to predict the haphazard tendencies of the Roam. He could only take things on step at the time and keep moving, trusting that he would have the skills to overcome when the time came.

In this aspect he was succeeding. Shutting off his mind when out on the dunes and crags, he would focus solely on the task he was engaged in. It was when he finished a trial, when the pull of the desert finally calmed and let him know he had succeeded, that he was finding it difficult to keep his expectations in check.

When journeying back to the pool – as he was doing now – he would feel his heart lift and the struggles of the latest challenge fall away. He looked forward to going back to Sakura with anticipation, felt the eagerness of sharing her company once more.

Gaara was honest enough with himself to admit he genuinely liked the routine they had fallen into. Completely unplanned, their day to day had taken on a distinctive pattern: after finishing a task, he would return to her pool, where she would heal him if needed but most importantly, she would listen intently to him as he told her all about the latest trial. The expressions on her face were always sincere and Gaara could easily tell what she was thinking. He truly enjoyed watching her reactions but best of all, he welcomed her remarks. Sakura could always be trusted to make a smart comment or observation concerning whatever topic they were discussing. He found the conversation incredibly enlivening. It was something Gaara had only experienced with Naruto. The easiness with which he related with Sakura would usually bring his fox friend to mind. The natural way they came together reminded him of how effortlessly he had fallen into tandem with Naruto.

Of course, as much as there were similarities, the differences were also rather poignant. Gaara’s interest in Sakura was of a completely different nature and, truth be told, completely new to him. Never before had he anticipated coming back to a woman and finding ease in her company. Never had had he experienced a yearning to be with someone else nor had he expended so much effort in trying to fathom another person’s situation.

That Sakura’s circumstances were special he had no doubt. Her actions and mind frame were not typical of water nymphs. The latter were characterized for their frivolity, for playing pranks – usually deadly ones – on unsuspected visitors; they never wasted any time worrying about anyone other than themselves and usually did things only if they got something out of it. Sakura was completely the opposite: she was earnest, heartfelt, and cared deeply about the well-being of others. Gaara had experienced the latter first hand with her healing and was openly grateful for the care she provided. He was very well aware the Sand Roam would have been a completely different experience for him without Sakura’s presence.

Therefore, whenever he found himself on the way back, he would wrack his brains in an attempt to figure out the mystery that was Sakura the nymph. All the stories of old lore and myths he had studied under the monks’ tutelage did not seem to help, though. He did not remember ever coming across a nature spirit that did not act according to its essence. Something else had to be at play. Maybe a djinn had been involved? They were masters of transformation, capable of the most astonishing alterations. It was possible Sakura had been changed by powerful magic and given an opposing personality while her memories were removed in the process. But why?

This was where Gaara always hit a wall whenever he came up with a plausible scenario.

The possibilities of what had truly happened to Sakura were endless. So many things could have transpired that it was impossible to pinpoint a single one. Without any clues he could follow, Gaara would inevitably think himself into a corner. Nonetheless, he found his mind returning to her circumstances over and over again.

Getting Sakura to remember her past was the best way forward. This was the sole conclusion he had managed to reach. The problem was Gaara had no idea of how to go about helping someone to recover their memories, particularly when that someone was a nature spirit. It was something he had to be very careful about. He did not know the reason why she had lost them in the first place and this could prove to be crucial. Memories held power and had to be treated carefully.

Thus, Gaara vowed he would dedicate time to helping her when the Sand Roam was over. He would do his best to help Sakura recover what she had lost and, since she was tied to her pool, investigate on her behalf. If he had his way, she would never have reason to feel confused or uncertain ever again.

With this conviction in mind, Gaara made his way briskly across the sand, heading back to where he knew Sakura waited. Finally, the familiar crescent shape of the oasis’ rocks came into view when he cleared the crest of a dune. His lips lifted and despite the tiredness of his body, his tension eased. Some minutes later, he was stepping within the sanctuary of the pool.

It was his favourite moment.

The succulents and cacti growing on the rocks started to vibrate, his chakra-enhanced senses perceiving it like a cascade of bells beginning to ring one after the other until they created a symphony. The sound would echo back and forth within the stones, a melody that lightened his heart and gladdened his soul.

At the centre of the song was Sakura. Sometimes perched on the rocks, sometimes floating within the pool. She could sense his chakra whenever he came within a certain distance from the spring, therefore, she would always be waiting for him. Whenever he walked into the crescent, she was there, eyes sparkling like stars and her smile vanishing his strain.

The ringing bells would begin the moment she laid eyes on him, the plants reacting to her delight at having him return. Such was their connection to the essence of the water and therefore, to her.

It had taken him a while to realize what the sounds coming from the plants meant. But the instant he did, something within Gaara changed irrevocably. He vowed to do everything in his power to keep those bells ringing; if all he ever achieved in life was to be the reason of their constant song, then he could die a satisfied man.

“Your neck is bleeding,” Sakura remarked, unamused.

The sound of the plants faded away and Gaara felt its loss deeply.

With a sigh, he approached the pool and watched her as she lifted herself out. She had conjured up a loose blouse and skirt today. Although he teased her about being prim, he actually welcomed the glamour. Her nakedness would have been a constant distraction. He would not have been able to hide his appreciation for her loveliness and the last thing he wanted was to embarrass himself in front of her. Thus, he was grateful for her adherence to ‘basic decency’, as she called it.

Standing in front of him, she removed the blood-soaked scarf he had tied around his neck. Her eyes turned serious as she lifted her hands and hovered her palms above the gashes all around his neck. Gaara felt the sparks of her chakra on his skin as she assessed the damage. He found himself closing his eyes and relishing the feel of her sweet, warm energy.

“It’s not too deep, thankfully,” she said some moments later.

Gaara opened his eyes to find her staring at him in relief.

“Glad to hear that,” he replied. “It stings dreadfully, though.”

“What was it? A whipping thorn?”

He shook his head. “A spiked vine.”

Sakura grimaced at the mention of the vicious plant.

“I had to harvest some of its seeds without damaging it. Unfortunately, it was unaware of my good intentions and it attempted to wrap itself around my neck.”

Leading him towards one of the rocks, she had him sit so she could work on his wounds. As she did so, Gaara told her all about his encounter with the nasty creeper. Of  how he had been forced to soothe it using his chakra even though it was doing its best to inflict lethal punctures on his neck while trying choke him to death. Somehow he had persevered and calmed the rancorous vine.

“What did you do with the seeds?” Sakura asked.

“The desert had me plant them close to a water source so they would have the best chance of thriving.”

“I hope it was not near this pool,” she countered.

Gaara chuckled. “It was another oasis very far from here. You don’t have to worry about being invaded.”

She nodded, continuing with her ministrations. He soon felt the effect of her healing and the sting of his abrasions lessened considerably. The last remnants of tension in his body left him and he relaxed, allowing himself to let go.

As much as his motivation and drive propelled him forward, the Roam was beginning to take its toll. Gaara knew several of the other participants had dropped out already, unable to take the constant strain. Being in this continual state of alertness and activity was starting to grate at his body. It had been over three weeks of incessant events, one following on the heels of the other with precious little time in between to rest properly. Part of being able to survive was to admit one’s limits and Gaara realized, despite Sakura’s help, he was approaching his.

Yet he knew there was no option but to keep moving forward. Give his best for as long as he could without any protest. Despite his growing exhaustion, his confidence had not diminished. He felt his synergy with the desert increase more and more with each day. In his perspective, its choice was a given. Nonetheless, it seemed he had not been tested enough and there were still more skills he had to prove. He wasn’t done yet.

Consequently, these quiet moments with Sakura had been an unexpected yet welcome gift. He could allow himself to wind down completely, to release the stress unreservedly. It did wonders for his recovery. Gaara had never slept so soundly in his life. Although he was sure it was partly because she infused her chakra with a soothing effect whenever she healed him, he did not hold it against her. As a matter of fact, he was grateful for it.

“You look particularly tired today,” Sakura commented.

Gaara nodded in reply.

“Did you eat lunch?”

He nodded again.

She gave him a quick once-over with her eyes, appraising his chakra levels, no doubt. “Alright, I’m almost done. You can have a quick wash and lie down.”

Even though it was only mid-afternoon, he welcomed the chance to get some sleep. The heat might have been a problem but he had Sakura to thank for the coolness of the camp he had set up. Whenever he was forced to rest during the day, she would manipulate the water so that a cooling mist would cover his sleeping form.

Once she finished patching up his neck, Gaara did as he was told. He stripped down and using a bowl, gave himself a hasty bath. As much as he would have preferred to have a dip in the water, he always refrained from doing so. It was Sakura’s abode and he would not cross its threshold unless invited. She had not suggested he do so, therefore he respected her space and did not go further than the edge of the water.

As she was wont to do whenever he bathed, Sakura gave him some privacy. This did not mean, however, that he did not catch her stealing glances at his body from time to time. Yet another unlike-a-nymph trait. Others of her kind would have been ogling him openly. Gaara would only smile to himself whenever he caught her, letting it slide. If what she saw pleased her, let her have her fill.

He was done with his wash and after donning a pair of loose trousers, he allowed himself to fall into his bedroll under the lee of the stones. The shadows were pleasantly cool. Folding one arm to cradle his head, Gaara allowed the muscles of his entire body to loosen.

“How much longer?” Sakura asked. She was back in the pool. Because his bedroll was positioned right at the edge, this meant she could float right next to him. She was stretched out on her stomach on the surface of the water, her face inches from his.

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I know there have been Sand Roams that have lasted close to two months. I can only hope that is not the case this time around.”

“Your body is starting to suffer for it.”

“I know.”

She sighed, knowing very well there was nothing either of them could do about it. “How do you know when the desert has made its decision?”

He lifted the arm he had stretched out beside his body. “I will be Sand Marked. It’s a kind of energetic branding. The desert will mark the skin of my arms, undisputable proof of its choice.”

“Like a tattoo?”

“Similar, only that they are not always visible. The marks are only activated with chakra,” he replied. “The colour also varies, depending on the person. The marks of the late Chieftain were copper while I know the Chieftain before that had white marks on her arms.”

“Any idea of what colour your marks will be?”

“And such is the confidence she has in me,” he said with a smile. “It almost makes me feel pressured.”

“Don’t be silly,” she chided. “We both know you and the desert are practically one.”

He nodded, grateful for her support. “I feel the bond increase with each day. It grows more powerful with each task I complete,” he told her. “Now as to what colour my marks might be, I have no clue.”

“Crimson?” she suggested, glancing at his hair.

He smiled once more. “Maybe. Although that might be a little too obvious.”

“True,” she admitted. She looked at him intently for a long moment before coming closer.

Gaara held his breath, unsure of what she was going to do.

“Get some sleep,” she murmured, stretching out her hand to caress his cheek.

The contact ignited sparks on his skin. He felt her touch all the way down to his toes. Bliss washed over him and he turned his face towards her hand.

But true water nymph or not, she was a crafty one. Soon, Gaara felt the soporific chakra emanating from her hand. There was no room in him for complaint, though. He surrendered to her touch willingly and allowed sleep to carry him away.

– XXXXXXXX –

He came awake with a jolt, his senses in full alert, and his chakra ignited instantly, ready to take on any threat. Thinking it was another challenge from the desert, Gaara was already summoning the sand around the oasis, prepared to protect it with his life.

But as his head cleared, he realized the landscape all around was calm. It was not summoning him.

What had woken him up? He had felt something. A heavy emanation of chakra that hit him like a lead weight and pulled him forcibly out of slumber

He dismissed the sand and breathed deeply, attempting to calm his heart beat. He was about to close his eyes and commune with his surroundings when he felt it again.

A dense energy that robbed him of breath and made him feel hollow inside.

It was coming from the water.

The pool was churning, lapping in waves against the rocks. Its energy was in disarray, an erratic flow that seemed to curl into itself, unable to find an outlet. The succulents and cacti, so alive during the afternoon, appeared completely dim to his chakra-enhanced senses. The brittle bushes growing between the rocks were wilting.

Sakura. The dense chakra was coming from Sakura.

He looked down into the water and spotted her, curled up in a foetal position at the very bottom of the pool. She was asleep but it was clear her slumber was seriously disagreeable.

She was weeping, great big sobs wracking her frame.

Gaara’s first impulse was to jump into the pool and bring her to the surface.

But then his instincts prevented him from acting rashly. With the state of the water, it was clear Sakura was not in control of her powers. If he swam down, she might drown him accidentally. It was best he stay where he was; using his chakra was the way to go.

He ignited it and summoned it to his hand, placing his palm on the surface of the water. The instant his energy came into contact with the pool, he felt it yank. Gaara had to use all the strength in his body to push back and prevent it from pulling him under. He closed his eyes and expanded his bond with the desert, asking it to help him calm the water somewhat. It responded keenly, funnelling some of its essence into him. Gaara channelled the energy into his other hand, bringing it under the surface and using it to pacify the pool. He managed to calm it enough so he could get his chakra to the bottom.

It took some doing but he finally managed to reach her. Gaara sent waves of his chakra to her, attempting to nudge her awake. It seemed to be working because she stopped sobbing. He kept up his efforts, adding his voice to the mix and shouting her name from the surface.

It did the trick. She woke up and shifted into a sitting position. She looked at the agitated water all around her and seemed to shrink into herself.

“Gaara?”

As muffled as the sound was, he recognized his name and the confusion with which it was spoken.

“It’s alright, I’m here.”

She turned her face towards the sound of his voice

“Sakura, come to me,” he said, his words laced with emotion. “Please.”

In a blink of an eye she was at the surface, lifting herself out of the water. Gaara opened his arms where he was kneeling and she lunged herself at him. He landed on his rear with the force of the impact, the splash she made drenching him, but he had her safe in his arms.

He breathed out deeply in relief.

Sakura buried her face in his shoulder, weeping quietly. Gaara murmured reassurances as he caressed her back soothingly, giving her time to pull herself together. They stayed like that for a long while, until her crying subsided. He watched as the water of the pool calmed and regained its usual energetic flow. The plants perked up and began to radiate vitality once more.

Eventually, Sakura lifted her head to speak but remained within the shelter of his arms.

“Something happened,” she began, “when you fell asleep this afternoon. It was like something within me shifted, jolted into a new position. I just could not curve the impulse of caressing your face and hair, even after you were completely asleep. It felt so right. But then I got the sense that it reminded me of something, although, once again, I had no idea of what it could be. I did not think too much about it since it’s been like this for days.”

He nodded, resting his cheek against her hair.

“So I sank into the pool to rest after healing you and I think… I think I remembered.”

Gaara felt himself go completely still. It was evident that whatever memory had surfaced, it had not been a good one.

“I think I had a husband, a man with dark hair and dark eyes. But he left, chasing after a member of his family… an older brother, I think. I followed after him, travelled for the longest time trying to find him and bring him back.”

She grew silent for a moment.

“And did you succeed?” Gaara asked.

“Yes, he came back home,” Sakura continued. “But then he left a second time… and never came back.”

Her face crumpled before his eyes and she began to weep again.

Gaara tightened his embrace and allowed her to cry freely. It was best for her to let it out.

After another while, she calmed down. “I’m not sure of the details since it’s all rather blurry. But I think that’s the gist of it. All I can feel are the emotions. The facts evade me.”

“That’s fine,” he told her. “Sometimes it’s best to allow yourself to feel without knowing why. If you keep the events of the past playing incessantly in your head, you will never find peace. It’s best to release the emotion until it finally dissipates and then the past will have no hold over you anymore.”

She nodded against his neck. “I guess this solves part of the mystery,” she said. “I wasn’t always a nymph.”

“No, it seems not. But it’s still not clear how you became one or what your abilities were before that. Or is it?”

Sakura shook her head. “It’s all incredibly hazy.”

“Don’t force it,” Gaara told her. “It will come to you when you’re ready.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. If your experiences were so painful, it’s best you remember little by little instead of all in one go.”

“You’re right,” she conceded.

He continued to hold her in his embrace for long silent moments. Gaara lost himself in the feel of her back as he continued to stroke it with his hand. It seemed there was a substantial reason as to why Sakura’s memories had been lost. Water had always been linked to feelings and her nymph powers were evidently tied to her emotions. If they went out of control, like it had happened a while ago, then she would become a threat without meaning to.

It was best to leave well enough alone and allow her memories to return to her on their own accord. There was no point in rushing it.

Belatedly, Gaara realized Sakura had fallen asleep in his arms. This time around, her slumber was peaceful and it was now his turn to caress her in her sleep.

But as much as he could have held her close throughout the entire night, he was well aware she would not rest properly if she was not in the water. So he stood up with her in his arms and approached the edge. He lowered her down into the pool and let her go. She floated momentarily on the surface before sinking down slowly.

As he watched her descend, he was aware of a strong desire rising from within him.

Instead of helping her remember her past husband, Gaara wanted to be the one to banish him into oblivion for all time.

[sukunakayo]

Iffy About Morality

> martial law sentiments and the modern anarchistic "activists"

IT HAS BEEN A WHILE, AND I AM BACK WITH A VENGEANCE. good day, folks. have a seat as i talk to you about how you are repeating the past, rather than changing it, and this time, you are the ineffable destroyer of humankind, from inside and out.

i often said that there isn't really any argument that is right or wrong, as everything has its own underlying factors as to why it came to a certain point, however, i was lurking around this one post at a group, and saw some rather distasteful comments aimed to "criticize" the owner of the said post which denotes the "good doings" of the former dictator president ferdinand marcos.

indeed, it's truly disheartening that there is a multitude of people humanizing a murderer, a dictator who stole lives from those who wanted to be the voice of the masses who are silenced by their own fear imposed by the government which was supposed to protect its constituents. but let me ask you this—tell me, what is a monster to you? why is that monster, a monster?

to me, monstrous is a being which silences a brilliant mind with a light so twisted that it burns rather than illuminates. monstrous is a being who feigns compassion, and argue with underlying slander. monstrous is a being who hides in a sheep's wool to rule in such a dysfunctional way, manipulating the minds of the easily controlled.

yes, in my eyes, marcos is also a monster, in the sense that he is a mass murderer, a silencer, a ruthless dictator whose rules only favored the rich and the wealthy, someone who is utterly off-kilter with his morals. however, god kills everyday, and aren't we all created in his image? but that's that. such monstrosity is already a detritus, nothing but a worm-feed.

"the sins of the father are not the sins of the son" is such a misused argument about bbm. that concept does not solely apply to politics, and it somehow makes those who try to create a better world and follows a path different from their parents irrelevant and just wayward by being linked to a person such as bbm. it's going to do nothing but create a domino effect, which would later on lead to being an argument regarding mental health and give the people who actually suffer from it a bad reputation, and create a new stigma. do not ever make it about that.

sure, it's somehow right, some arguments are, because it's not really bbm who did the laundering, he isn't the one who devised such plans. the thing is, he has his own sins he should be held accountable for, and it's not being macoy's son, making him take the blame for those things his father did. indeed, he was no longer a child when all of that happened, but it still does not justify the fact that you are making him pay for it. it will not change anything, it's just you reviving the past wherein macoy tortured the ancestors of today's activists. how true it is that history repeats itself, in the worst way possible, by unknowingly turning into the very monster you abhor in the name of vengeance and twisted justification of morality.

going back to the subject of today's commentary, yes, it's you, the commentors of that post—you are all repeating history, and in the darkest, most hypocritical way. i know a handful of people in that post, and most are "advocates" for mental health. what a shame to know you all, being the hidden villains within the society. your concept of vengeance and justice are so twisted and mislead, having never fully understood these things you claim you know of so well. there's so much that you had to see before you could claim that you are "putting it out there" again, exactly how it has been, in attempts of avenging the fallen freedom fighters. shouldn't you create something else than going back into a full circle?

bbm's sin is that he is an enabler. his mother was supposed to be in jail, but we all know where the old wench is. during his father's reign, there was a mapuan who told aimee marcos that she isn't fit to be a youth leader; that young mapuan never saw the light again. bbm knew things, but he did not do anything. that is what he should be crucified for. that is what you should hold him accountable for.

there is a shit ton of enablers in this country, yet i don't see you being just as pressed. i don't see you all doing so to your friends who do so in various ways and aspects. if you were to kill all enablers, you'd all die. after all, you cannot fully grasp the concepts of democracy, vengeance, and peace. you are all enablers in a sense. and yes, i am as well. we all die. isn't it in your best interest that we stand in equal grounds?

i saw a comment that said one does not need to prepare their mental health if you are open to criticisms and learning, especially that there are historical evidences presented. i kid you not when i say i cackled at that, because the person who commented it claimed to be an advocate of mental health. funny how you enable such distasteful arguments where your people diss the poster in the most humiliating way, calling them "tanga", "bobo", and the likes. is that how a student leader should act? you should be fighting for a proper argumentative debate. you should propose that.

what was that? oh, right. you lost. good riddance, because if i were to be someone forced to follow you for your advocacies, i'd be damned, being an enabler regarding the factors of deterioration of mental health. do you even know how the human mind works? i think not, because for you to say it, you seem to think that the slightest snide comments will not affect the mental stability of a person. enabling such a diss-filled argument is such a hypocritical move for a "mental health advocate".

anywho, you know what you all should focus on? your concept of "change". because the change you wanted to bring is a roundabout of what marcos did—silencing without a proper fight. if you wanted absolute change, you have to stray from the path that has made it that way. what you have to do is pay your ancestors forward, focus on helping those who were brutalized than yapping at those who does not give two cents at what you are fighting for. there was a tweet that said "sa lahat ng ibinabato nyo sa mga marcos, ni isa wala kayong narinig pabalik sa inyo." exactly. they do not care. focus your energy on something else. something more worthwhile.

your ancestors' sacrifices are meant to open the eyes of your generation to the fact that the cycle will never stop if you retrace the things exactly the way it was, as if turning tables. you are to see that there is so much more to be done, because those killers have a linear path. those who haven't tasted blood have a myriad of choices on what steps to take. blood is powerful, blood is binding. it is dark and addicting. no, i am not saying that their deaths are to be taken as a lesson, but rather clues to the path that should be taken and steps to be done.

you aren't meant to "turn tables". you are supposed to create new tables, because if you just turn it, it will just keep on turning. it is a round table in the world of politics and morality—it does not have any relation with each other at all, thus it is a circle, and has no corners to cut whatever's out there. you're the ones supposed to do the cutting, not turning it—it's never gonna cut anyone.

do not just turn the tables and trap yourselves in a history loop. cut it. destroy it. create a new table where you hold all the aces. that is where the change you want is at. that is where the revenge you seek is. do not touch the table where your ancestors' dreams were butchered on.

one does not heal in the place they were hurt and defeated.

[amyamili]

Art Historical Image - Week Ten 

Dada Manifesto by Tristan Tzara 23rd March 1918

The magic of a word – Dada – which has brought journalists to the gates of a world unforeseen, is of no importance to us.

To put out a manifesto you must want: ABC to fulminate against 1, 2, 3 to fly into a rage and sharpen your wings to conquer and disseminate little abcs and big ABCs, to sign, shout, swear, to organize prose into a form of absolute and irrefutable evidence, to prove your non plus ultra and maintain that novelty resembles life just as the latest-appearance of some whore proves the essence of God. His existence was previously proved by the accordion, the landscape, the wheedling word. To impose your ABC is a natural thing - hence deplorable. Everybody does it in the form of crystalbluff-madonna, monetary system, pharmaceutical product, or a bare leg advertising the ardent sterile spring. The love of novelty is the cross of sympathy, demonstrates a naive je m'enfoutisme, it is a transitory, positive sign without a cause.

But this need itself is obsolete. In documenting art on the basis of the supreme simplicity: novelty, we are human and true for the sake of amusement, impulsive, vibrant to crucify boredom. At the crossroads of the lights, alert, attentively awaiting the years, in the forest. I write a manifesto and I want nothing, yet I say certain things, and in principle I am against manifestos, as I am also against principles (half-pints to measure the moral value of every phrase too too convenient; approximation was invented by the impressionists). I write this manifesto to show that people can perform contrary actions together while taking one fresh gulp of air; I am against action; for continuous contradiction, for affirmation too, I am neither for nor against and I do not explain because I hate common sense.

DADA - this is a word that throws up ideas so that they can be shot down; every bourgeois is a little playwright, who invents different subjects and who, instead of situating suitable characters on the level of his own intelligence, like chrysalises on chairs, tries to find causes or objects (according to whichever psychoanalytic method he practices) to give weight to his plot, a talking and self-defining story.

Every spectator is a plotter, if he tries to explain a word (to know!) From his padded refuge of serpentine complications, he allows his instincts to be manipulated. Whence the sorrows of conjugal life.

To be plain: The amusement of redbellies in the mills of empty skulls.

DADA DOES NOT MEAN ANYTHING

If you find it futile and don't want to waste your time on a word that means nothing ... The first thought that comes to these people is bacteriological in character: to find its etymological, or at least its historical or psychological origin. We see by the papers that the Kru Negroes call the tail of a holy cow Dada. The cube and the mother in a certain district of Italy are called: Dada. A hobby horse, a nurse both in Russian and Rumanian: Dada. Some learned journalists regard it as an art for babies, other holy-Jesus-calling-the-little-children-unto-hims of our day, as a relapse into a dry and noisy, noisy and monotonous primitivism. Sensibility is not constructed on the basis of a word; all constructions converge on perfection which is boring, the stagnant idea of a gilded swamp, a relative human product. A work of art should not be beauty in itself, for beauty is dead; it should be neither gay nor sad, neither light nor dark to rejoice or torture the individual by serving him the cakes of sacred aureoles or the sweets of a vaulted race through the atmospheres. A work of art is never beautiful by decree, objectively and for all. Hence criticism is useless, it exists only subjectively, for each man separately, without the slightest character of universality. Does anyone think he has found a psychic base common to all mankind? The attempt of Jesus and the Bible covers with their broad benevolent wings: shit, animals, days. How can one expect to put order into the chaos that constitutes that infinite and shapeless variation: man? The principle: "love thy neighbor" is a hypocrisy. "Know thyself" is utopian but more acceptable, for it embraces wickedness. No pity. After the carnage we still retain the hope of a purified mankind. I speak only of myself since I do not wish to convince, I have no right to drag others into my river, I oblige no one to follow me and everybody practices his art in his own way, if be knows the joy that rises like arrows to the astral layers, or that other joy that goes down into the mines of corpse-flowers and fertile spasms. Stalactites: seek them everywhere, in managers magnified by pain, eyes white as the hares of the angels.

And so Dada was born* of a need for independence, of a distrust toward unity. Those who are with us preserve their freedom. We recognize no theory. We have enough cubist and futurist academies: laboratories of formal ideas. Is the aim of art to make money and cajole the nice nice bourgeois? Rhymes ring with the assonance of the currencies and the inflexion slips along the line of the belly in profile. All groups of artists have arrived at this trust company utter riding their steeds on various comets. While the door remains open to the possibility of wallowing in cushions and good things to eat.

Here we are dropping our anchor in fertile ground.

Here we really know what we are talking about, because we have experienced the trembling and the awakening. Drunk with energy, we are revenants thrusting the trident into heedless flesh. We are streams of curses in the tropical abundance of vertiginous vegetation, resin and rain is our sweat, we bleed and burn with thirst, our blood is strength.

Cubism was born out of the simple way of looking at an object: Cezanne painted a cup 20 centimetres below his eyes, the cubists look at it from above, others complicate appearance by making a perpendicular section and arranging it conscientiously on the side. (I do not forget the creative artists and the profound laws of matter which they established once and for all.) The futurist sees the same cup in movement, a succession of objects one beside the others and maliciously adds a few force lines. This does not prevent the canvas from being a good or bad painting suitable for the investment of intellectual capital.

The new painter creates a world, the elements of which are also its implements, a sober, definite work without argument. The new artist protests: he no longer paints (symbolic and illusionist reproduction) but creates directly in stone, wood, iron, tin, boulders—locomotive organisms capable of being turned in all directions by the limpid wind of momentary sensation. All pictorial or plastic work is useless: let it then be a monstrosity that frightens servile minds, and not sweetening to decorate the refectories of animals in human costume, illustrating the sad fable of mankind.

A painting is the art of making two lines, which have been geometrically observed to be parallel, meet on a canvas, before our eyes, in the reality of a world that has been transposed according to new conditions and possibilities. This world is neither specified nor defined in the work, it belongs, in its innumerable variations, to the spectator. For its creator it has neither case nor theory. Order = disorder; ego = non-ego; affirmation - negation: the supreme radiations of an absolute art. Absolute in the purity of its cosmic and regulated chaos, eternal in that globule that is a second which has no duration, no breath, no light and no control. I appreciate an old work for its novelty. It is only contrast that links us to the past. Writers who like to moralise and discuss or ameliorate psychological bases have, apart from a secret wish to win, a ridiculous knowledge of life, which they may have classified, parcelled out, canalised; they are determined to see its categories dance when they beat time. Their readers laugh derisively, but carry on: what's the use?

There is one kind of literature which never reaches the voracious masses. The work of creative writers, written out of the author's real necessity, and for his own benefit. The awareness of a supreme egoism, wherein laws become significant. Every page should explode, either because of its profound gravity, or its vortex, vertigo, newness, eternity, or because of its staggering absurdity, the enthusiasm of its principles, or its typography. On the one hand there is a world tottering in its flight, linked to the resounding tinkle of the infernal gamut; on the other hand, there are: the new men. Uncouth, galloping, riding astride on hiccups. And there is a mutilated world and literary medicasters in desperate need of amelioration.

I assure you: there is no beginning, and we are not afraid; we aren't sentimental. We are like a raging wind that rips up the clothes of clouds and prayers, we are preparing the great spectacle of disaster, conflagration and decomposition. Preparing to put an end to mourning, and to replace tears by sirens spreading from one continent to another. Clarions of intense joy, bereft of that poisonous sadness. DADA is the mark of abstraction; publicity and business are also poetic elements.

I destroy the drawers of the brain, and those of social organisation: to sow demoralisation everywhere, and throw heaven's hand into hell, hell's eyes into heaven, to reinstate the fertile wheel of a universal circus in the Powers of reality, and the fantasy of every individual.

Philosophy is the question: from which side shall we look at life, God, the idea or other phenomena. Everything one looks at is false. I do not consider the relative result more important than the choice between cake and cherries after dinner. The system of quickly looking at the other side of a thing in order to impose your opinion indirectly is called dialectics, in other words, haggling over the spirit of fried potatoes while dancing method around it.

If I shout:

Ideal, Ideal, Ideal

Knowledge, Knowledge, Knowledge

Boomboom, Boomboom, Boomboom

I have given a pretty faithful version of progress, law, morality and all other fine qualities that various highly intelligent men have discussed in so many books, only to conclude that after all everyone dances to his own personal boomboom, and that the writer is entitled to his boomboom: the satisfaction of pathological curiosity a private bell for inexplicable needs; a bath; pecuniary difficulties; a stomach with repercussions in tile; the authority of the mystic wand formulated as the bouquet of a phantom orchestra made up of silent fiddle bows greased with filters made of chicken manure. With the blue eye-glasses of an angel they have excavated the inner life for a dime's worth of unanimous gratitude. If all of them are right and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us try for once not to be right. Some people think they can explain rationally, by thought, what they think. But that is extremely relative. Psychoanalysis is a dangerous disease, it puts to sleep the anti-objective impulses of man and systematizes the bourgeoisie. There is no ultimate Truth. The dialectic is an amusing mechanism which guides us / in a banal kind of way / to the opinions we had in the first place. Does anyone think that, by a minute refinement of logic, he had demonstrated the truth and established the correctness of these opinions? Logic imprisoned by the senses is an organic disease. To this element philosophers always like to add: the power of observation. But actually this magnificent quality of the mind is the proof of its impotence. We observe, we regard from one or more points of view, we choose them among the millions that exist. Experience is also a product of chance and individual faculties. Science disgusts me as soon as it becomes a speculative system, loses its character of utility that is so useless but is at least individual. I detest greasy objectivity, and harmony, the science that finds everything in order. Carry on, my children, humanity... Science says we are the servants of nature: everything is in order, make love and bash your brains in. Carry on, my children, humanity, kind bourgeois and journalist virgins... I am against systems, the most acceptable system is on principle to have none. To complete oneself, to perfect oneself in one's own littleness, to fill the vessel with one's individuality, to have the courage to fight for and against thought, the mystery of bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lilies.

DADAIST SPONTANEITY

What I call the I-don't-give-a-damn attitude of life is when everyone minds his own business, at the same time as he knows how to respect other individualities, and even how to stand up for himself, the two-step becoming a national anthem, a junk shop, the wireless (the wire-less telephone) transmitting Bach fugues, illuminated advertisements for placards for brothels, the organ broadcasting carnations for God, all this at the same time, and in real terms, replacing photography and unilateral catechism.

Active simplicity.

Inability to distinguish between degrees of clarity: to lick the penumbra and float in the big mouth filled with honey and excrement. Measured by the scale of eternity, all activity is vain - (if we allow thought to engage in an adventure the result of which would be infinitely grotesque and add significantly to our knowledge of human impotence). But supposing life to be a poor farce, without aim or initial parturition, and because we think it our duty to extricate ourselves as fresh and clean as washed chrysanthemums, we have proclaimed as the sole basis for agreement: art. It is not as important as we, mercenaries of the spirit, have been proclaiming for centuries. Art afflicts no one and those who manage to take an interest in it will harvest caresses and a fine opportunity to populate the country with their conversation. Art is a private affair, the artist produces it for himself, an intelligible work is the product of a journalist, and because at this moment it strikes my fancy to combine this monstrosity with oil paints: a paper tube simulating the metal that is automatically pressed and poured hatred cowardice villainy. The artist, the poet rejoice at the venom of the masses condensed into a section chief of this industry, he is happy to be insulted: it is a proof of his immutability. When a writer or artist is praised by the newspapers, it is a proof of the intelligibility of his work: wretched lining of a coat for public use; tatters covering brutality, piss contributing to the warmth of an animal brooding vile instincts. Flabby, insipid flesh reproducing with the help of typographical microbes.

We have thrown out the cry-baby in us. Any infiltration of this kind is candied diarrhoea. To encourage this act is to digest it. What we need is works that are strong straight precise and forever beyond understanding. Logic is a complication. Logic is always wrong. It draws the threads of notions, words, in their formal exterior, toward illusory ends and centres. Its chains kill, it is an enormous centipede stifling independence. Married to logic, art would live in incest, swallowing, engulfing its own tail, still part of its own body, fornicating within itself, and passion would become a nightmare tarred with protestantism, a monument, a heap of ponderous grey entrails. But the suppleness, enthusiasm, even the joy of injustice, this little truth which we practice innocently and which makes its beautiful: we are subtle and our fingers are malleable and slippery as the branches of that sinuous, almost liquid plant; it defines our soul, say the cynics. That too is a point of view; but all flowers are not sacred, fortunately, and the divine thing in us is to call to anti-human action. I am speaking of a paper flower for the buttonholes of the gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the kitchen of grace, white cousins lithe or fat. They traffic with whatever we have selected. The contradiction and unity of poles in a single toss can be the truth. If one absolutely insists on uttering this platitude, the appendix of a libidinous, malodorous morality. Morality creates atrophy like every plague produced by intelligence. The control of morality and logic has inflicted us with impassivity in the presence of policemen who are the cause of slavery, putrid rats infecting the bowels of the bourgeoisie which have infected the only luminous clean corridors of glass that remained open to artists..

But suppleness, enthusiasm and even the joy of injustice, that little truth that we practise as innocents and that makes us beautiful: we are cunning, and our fingers are malleable and glide like the branches of that insidious and almost liquid plant; this injustice is the indication of our soul, say the cynics. This is also a point of view; but all flowers aren't saints, luckily, and what is divine in us is the awakening of anti-human action. What we are talking about here is a paper flower for the buttonhole of gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the kitchen of grace, our white, lithe or fleshy girl cousins. They make a profit out of what we have selected. The contradiction and unity of opposing poles at the same time may be true. IF we are absolutely determined to utter this platitude, the appendix of alibidinous, evil-smelling morality. Morals have an atrophying effect, like every other pestilential product of the intelligence. Being governed by morals and logic has made it impossible for us to be anything other than impassive towards policemen - the cause of slavery - putrid rats with whom the bourgeois are fed up to the teeth, and who have infected the only corridors of clear and clean glass that remained open to artists.

Let each man proclaim: there is a great negative work of destruction to be accomplished. We must sweep and clean. Affirm the cleanliness of the individual after the state of madness, aggressive complete madness of a world abandoned to the hands of bandits, who rend one another and destroy the centuries. Without aim or design, without organization: indomitable madness, decomposition. Those who are strong in words or force will survive, for they are quick in defence, the agility of limbs and sentiments flames on their faceted flanks.

Morality has determined charity and pity, two balls of fat that have grown like elephants, like planets, and are called good. There is nothing good about them. Goodness is lucid, clear and decided, pitiless toward compromise and politics. Morality is an injection of chocolate into the veins of all men. This task is not ordered by a supernatural force but by the trust of idea brokers and grasping academicians. Sentimentality: at the sight of a group of men quarrelling and bored, they invented the calendar and the medicament wisdom. With a sticking of labels the battle of the philosophers was set off (mercantilism, scales, meticulous and petty measures) and for the second time it was understood that pity is a sentiment like diarrhoea in relation to the disgust that destroys health, a foul attempt by carrion corpses to compromise the sun. I proclaim the opposition of all cosmic faculties to this gonorrhoea of a putrid sun issued from the factories of philosophical thought, I proclaim bitter struggle with all the weapons of –

DADAIST DISGUST

Every product of disgust capable of becoming a negation of the family is Dada; a protest with the fists of its whole being engaged in destructive action: Dada; knowledge of all the means rejected up until now by the shamefaced sex of comfortable compromise and good manners: DADA; abolition of logic, which is the dance of those impotent to create: DADA; of every social hierarchy and equation set up for the sake of values by our valets: DADA: every object, all objects, sentiments, obscurities, apparitions and the precise clash of parallel lines are weapons for the fight: DADA; abolition of memory: Dada; abolition of archaeology: DADA; abolition of prophets: DADA; abolition of the future: DADA; absolute and unquestionable faith in every god that is the immediate product of spontaneity: DADA; elegant and unprejudiced leap from a harmony to the other sphere; trajectory of a word tossed like a screeching phonograph record; to respect all individuals in their folly of the moment: whether it be serious, fearful, timid, ardent, vigorous, determined, enthusiastic; to divest one's church of eve ry useless cumbersome accessory; to spit out disagreeable or amorous ideas like a luminous waterfall, or coddle them—with the extreme satisfaction that it doesn't matter in the least - with the same intensity in the thicket of core's soul pure of insects for blood well-born, and gilded with bodies of archangels. Freedom: DADA DADA DADA, a roaring of tense colors, and interlacing of opposites and of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies:

LIFE.

* in 1916 at the CABARET VOLTAIRE in Zurich

[ressarioth]

@rdghatesme requested:

one sided Iris/Noctis in which Iris confesses to Noct (heartbreakingly) knowing he doesn't feel the same, but just finally has to get it off her chest.

I realise now that I asked you if it should be before or after Noctis departs from Altissia, but I actually meant from Insomnia. So this is set before Noctis leaves Insomnia and I hope that’s okay for you. About 4.7k words, if anyone cares -- I don’t know why these seem to get longer with every request I finish.

I broke my heart writing this and you’re all allowed to yell at me.

[ Writing Requests ]

"Quite the unusual meeting spot."

Hearing Noctis's voice has Iris's heart race in her chest, a restless rhythm which resonates in her throat. She turns, her hands still entwined and fidgeting, and spots Noctis approaching her, his thumbs stuck in the pockets of his dark jeans. The black t-shirt he's wearing is enough for the current season even as the sun is hanging low in the sky and the air is cooling off. Iris herself still brought a jacket which she wrapped around her hips, a knot of the long sleeves keeping it in place on top of her skirt.

Under the cover of the green leaved trees the yellow glow of the evening sun doesn't reach, but the ground is dry and doesn't stick to her boots. That's all Iris needed to decide to meet Noctis here, even though heading out to the park lining the back side of the palace is a bit of a detour for either of them. The days Iris came visiting her father and brother at the palace while also hoping to run into Noctis are over. But this place holds a sentimental value to her, so she wanted to revisit it again — together with Noctis.

"I know," Iris agrees with Noctis as he leans against the trunk of the tree closest to where she's standing. "I guess I was feeling a little nostalgic."

Noctis lets his gaze wander upwards to the treetops. It seemed strange to him when Iris called him and asked him to see her here of all places. Even if he didn't want her to see the mess in his apartment which is currently littered with half-filled moving boxes, there should've been an easier arrangement than this. She could've invited him over to her home or they could've gone for ice cream — he really isn't picky about these things.

It takes a closer inspection of the grove in combination with her words for him to make the connection. "Ah, this is where you got lost back then."

"And you not only found me here and brought me back to the palace, but also took the blame for me wandering out, yes." The fact that Noctis remembers makes Iris's heart leap with joy.

"How long has it been?" Noctis muses as he's looking around for the staircase to the sewers which led them here all those years ago. He liked to use it as his way out of the palace as a kid and made Iris promise not to tell anyone about it. "Ten years?"

"Yeah, I think so," Iris confirms, downplaying the fact that she knows for certain how much time has passed since.

Her hands are sweaty from nervousness and she tries to discreetly rub them dry on her skirt while Noctis isn't looking. Her mouth feels dry but her lips are even drier, she wets them with her tongue. The heart in her chest beats at an accelerated rhythm as if she was running for her life, adrenaline pushing her tired body past its limits. She had somehow hoped she was over her pulse racing when being around Noctis after all the time she got to spend with him over the past couple of years. But this is a special case.

This isn't a situation of life and death, Iris has nothing to fear from Noctis — technically. (Can you fear an outcome that you're certain is going to happen no matter how much you wish for it to go differently?) Yet this isn't like any other encounter she had with Noctis before. For once she doesn't want to keep pretending that she isn't stealing secret glances at him or overflowing with happiness every time he pays her just the slightest bit of attention. For once she doesn't want to feel foolish about her feelings in secret, but stand openly to what he means to her.

Iris expects her heart to be broken. The odds are stacked against her in so many ways. Noctis doesn't see her the way she sees him — she thinks she would notice if he did. Aside from the fact that she's five years younger than him as well as the little sister of his friend, Noctis is about to get married. Political in nature as the arrangement may be, Iris is aware that he and Lady Lunafreya are no strangers to each other and have been close friends for longer than Iris has been in the picture. That makes what she came here to do a pointless effort and she knows it. She knows it and yet she's determined to go through with it.

Nostalgia aside, Noctis still isn't sure what they're doing here. He senses something odd about Iris, but he can't put his finger on what it is. Since she asked him to come here, he expected her to tell him outright why she wanted to see him. But so far she doesn't make the impression like she's going to explain herself soon. It's a little bewildering, maybe frustrating even. Someone beating about the bush plays too much into his anxiety for him to bear it for long.

"So, are you going to tell me what this is about?" Noctis asks before he can actually lose his patience or overthink too much.

Iris bites her lips, unsure how to go about this. "I wanted to properly say goodbye before you leave."

"You're acting like this is the last time we're seeing each other." Noctis is amused by the thought. It's kind of adorable how much of a big deal this seems to be for Iris, even though it's sad to see her letting her head hang as if it's wearing her down. "I won't be out of the world, you know? I'll be back before you know it."

The attempt to cheer Iris up works at least to an extent, because she manages a brief smile. Yet something about it feels forced like she's trying to put on a brave face and it disappears as quickly as it showed. Noctis can't shake the impression that he's missing the bigger picture here. (Was Iris always such a mystery? Or did she just enter a stage where she's getting harder for him to read without him realising it until now?)

"Yeah, I know," Iris agrees, her soft voice touched by a pinch of sadness. "But it feels like something is ending…"

Noctis can't tell what Iris is playing at. The most obvious thing he can think of would be the war with Niflheim ending, but that is hardly a reason to be sad — on the contrary, despite the peace treaty containing some controversial points peace by itself is good news. There's also the matter of his bachelor years ending and the increase of royal duties for him which he can expect after getting married. But he can't see how any of this has something to do with Iris.

"I'm not sure I'm following," Noctis declares while watching Iris carefully. "What is ending that would make you so sad?"

Iris lifts her head and meets his gaze in surprise. It's strange for her to realise that she isn't in full control over what she means to reveal to Noctis. She was going to build up to it at her own pace, but it seems like he caught a loose end of the mess she's trying to entangle and is urging her to start with that one even though it's more knotted than the thread she meant to follow. She can't imagine him doing it on purpose, but it puts more pressure on her.

Instead of giving an answer, Iris is biting her lower lip and Noctis is still left wondering. He can only guess, trying to read whatever cues she may be giving him. Right now that's the same as aiming a shot in the dark and hoping that it hits.

"I know that I'm about to leave Insomnia to get married, because it's a condition in the peace treaty, but what does that have to do with you?" Noctis tries one of the options he can think of in hopes that if he's wrong Iris will finally tell him what's actually the matter with her. "You don't have to be displeased on my behalf, you know?"

Iris presses her lips together and steels herself. Whether it's a lucky guess or not, Noctis is heading in the right direction. It would be a waste if she didn't use this as an assist to get to the point. Her hesitation in this seems to be affecting them both and for her part she wishes she could get this over and be done with it.

It's not easy to confess your feelings, whether you expect rejection or not. Iris knew that and she thought she had prepared herself for this moment. But all the things she had planned out in her head — the words she was going to use, the points she was going to make — are completely gone from her mind. She should've written them down, at least some key points she could look at to freshen up her memory in case she blanks out. But it's too late for that regret, so all she can do now is improvise.

"I know the upcoming wedding doesn't have anything to do with me — technically." Iris does her best to keep eye contact and not to falter. "And I know what I'm about to say is selfish and I'm sorry, but I need to get this off my chest."

Noctis regards her quietly, not wanting to interrupt the momentum Iris is building up for herself. But he can feel the tension rising inside him. He has no idea what to expect, how to connect the dots which would form the bigger picture. The mention of the wedding, the apology for being selfish — he doesn't know how it all fits together. He tells himself to be patient, to give her whatever time she needs to get to the point. Even though it's hard, interjecting now would only cause more distractions.

Leaning back her head, Iris takes a deep breath. The green of the leaves is looking darker now and soon will start to fade into black as night approaches. If she keeps looking up there it's almost as if she's talking to herself. Maybe that makes it a little easier. "I forgot all the fancy things I was going to say, but the thing is…"

Iris tears away her gaze from the tree branches above, not wanting her words to lose meaning from whispering them aimlessly into the air. She forces herself to look straight at Noctis, because if she doesn't now, when can she ever again. "I love you, Noct."

The words hit Noctis like a shot from from someone he trusted to never pull the trigger on him. He doesn't know what he expected, but it wasn't this. His lips open with the impulse to speak, but there are no words coming from his baffled mind, so his mouth falls shut again. Surprise is just the first wave though, accompanied by confusion and a slight discomfort, because he doesn't know how to react. The really overwhelming thing is the panic which comes next, rising up inside of him and throwing his thoughts into chaos.

Noctis doesn't know what to do with this information. Throughout his entire life he never really grasped the concept of romance and until now he didn't think he'd have to worry about it. He's been having thoughts about whether romance would play any role in his upcoming marriage with Luna, simply because it's a possibility. A few lines on a journal page don't reveal much about feelings, especially if Luna is still as formal about everything as he remembers. Likewise he wouldn't think they'd be enough to form any romantic feelings, but considering how people in media seem to fall in love with no basis he might be alone with such views.

It's the uncertainty that makes his betrothal to Luna scary. But things with Iris are different now. Here it's the certainty that has Noctis cornered, trapped. It feels like a mountain of expectations was dumped onto him and his desire to please is kicking into gear. Because why else would Iris talk to him about love if she didn't want for him to feel the same? It's like a compulsion is growing inside him, a voice telling him that he ought to fulfill that wish, because else Iris will be crushed and it would all be his fault. But he can't. He has nothing to offer, nothing at all to rise to that expectation. It makes him feel guilty and cruel and cold.

Meanwhile Iris remains unaware of Noctis's worries. She's too caught up in her own thoughts to notice how his eyes dart around in distress as if he was looking for a way out. Her gaze he aimed at the ground, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of her jacket. His silence is her free pass to talk more and now that the hardest part is over, the words are coming more easily.

"I feel so foolish," Iris admits, an embarrassed smile on her lips. "Maybe I am — I know that with fifteen I haven't seen all that much." Finally she dares to look at Noctis again. "But the way I feel for you, the way I care about you is something I have never felt for anyone before. And my gut tells me that it matters, to me it matters so much."

The words are still jumbled up in Noctis's mind. He's trying to think straight, trying to process all the things Iris is saying, but he's struggling. So much confusion, so much uncertainty clouding up his head. His gaze still wanders in erratic patterns as he tries to find some guidance in his surroundings, but there's none to be head. There's only one question becoming clearer and clearer in his mind. He forces himself to look directly at Iris.

"What—" Noctis swallows, his voice hoarse and nearly failing him. " What do you want from me?"

It's a fair question and so far Noctis's reaction isn't the downright rejection Iris expected. That makes it hurt less than she thought. But it hurts nonetheless, the entirety of loving someone who will never feel the same about her no matter how much she may desire it. It has always hurt her, that knowledge, right now she just can't distract herself from it. That was the sacrifice she was willing to make for the chance to not hide her feelings for once.

"Nothing," Iris answers softly. "Nothing you can give." Her smile is pained no matter how much she tries to be positive about this. She cannot bury her desires just because she knows they can never be fulfilled. "Maybe in another life where you aren't getting married and I'm not just a little kid to you… But that's just a silly fantasy, so it doesn't matter."

Noctis doesn't hide the distress from his face — or rather he cannot hide it. He doesn't want Iris to be sad, he doesn't want her to hurt. Yet she does and it's because of him, whether he means for it or not. He feels the need to explain himself, though he doubts it will make anything better.

"Even then…" Noctis pauses to organise his thoughts. "Even if it wasn't for me getting married, even if you were older — I could never be that for you. I can't see myself caring for anyone in such a way."

Iris isn't exactly surprised at that. Somehow she knew deep down inside that it wasn't just about her not being "the right one" for Noctis — even though a voice of insecurity insisted that it was. He never really struck as someone with an interest in these things, though she was never quite certain if it wasn't just a matter of him hiding his feelings like Gladio does. Yet hearing directly from Noctis that he isn't interested in romance at all is a bit of a relief at first.

"Yeah, I figured," Iris is able to say with composure and if she could have her way she'd leave it at that. But she got on this rollercoaster ride, the doors are shut, the seatbelts are in place and the carts are picking up in speed. The steepest descent is just about to start and she misjudged how much force it has.

The problem with feelings is that once you start to open up and discuss some of them, more will follow in their footsteps and suddenly you find yourself in over your head. It's like that for Iris now, her love confession making way for emotions she'd been in denial about which are overwhelming her now. She can feel tears welling up and it's not because Noctis says he could never be with her. It just hurts to love someone you cannot have. It hurt before she told Noctis and it will continue to hurt now that he knows.

"I just wanted you to know, to finally get it off my chest," Iris explains, her voice strained from the effort of trying to control her emotion. "I told you it was selfish."

Iris tries to fight it, that feeling which sits like a lump in her throat. She swallows hard, trying to shove it all down and put the lid back on it. She doesn't want to cry — not like this, not in front of Noctis. She doesn't want to be a burden who not only selfishly confesses her feelings a few days before his wedding to someone else but then also has him comfort her over a heartbreak she set herself up for.

But her emotions are overwhelming Iris and no matter how many times she blinks she cannot free her blurring eyesight from the tears. She wants to hide her face, turn away so that Noctis doesn't see her like this. It feels like she's making her vulnerability the responsibility of others and she doesn't want that. She needs to be able to look out for herself, not depend on others' goodwill, that's what she keeps telling herself.

Before Iris can do any of that though, Noctis pulls her into a hug. He can't bear any longer to watch her stand there by herself and fight with the tears. It makes his heart hurt in his chest to see her upset and inconsolable. After all it's her feelings for him which are hurting her and he can't help feel responsible. He knows he can't change anything about it, he can't take away her pain or will himself to be able to give her what she desires. That doesn't make it any easier on either of them.

It's the last straw, Noctis holding her close is robbing Iris of the remaining composure she was clinging to. She breaks out crying, pressing her face against his chest, her tears wetting his t-shirt. Her throat still hurts from how she tried to swallow down her emotions earlier, but the lump is smaller now that she's letting them out. She feels self-conscious and silly about showing her feelings like this, but there's also relief. It feels good to be held, there's comfort in the way Noctis silently rubs her back, and as sobs are rocking through her body it's like she's becoming free from some of the pain.

"Just...let me be your friend, okay?" Iris requests once the strongest wave is over and she's able to form words in between gasping for air. That's the one thing she can ask, the one thing she doesn't want to give up on.

Iris can live with Noctis not loving her back, she really thinks she can. It may hurt for quite some time, but eventually she'll be able to handle it better. Maybe after some time she won't even be jealous of her friends anymore who go out on dates and hold hands and kiss — maybe after some time she won't even wish anymore that she could do all these things with Noctis. But she doesn't want to miss being part of his life — she doesn't think she could bear it.

"We are friends, Iris," Noctis assures her and strokes the back of her head. "And that won't change even if I'm getting married or crowned as the next king, okay?"

Iris nods, the side of her face rubbing against Noctis's chest in the process. It's a promise — she takes it as such — and it's more soothing than anything else so far. "Okay."

The air is cooling off as they remain standing there, but Iris doesn't mind. Her body is warm pressed against Noctis and she doesn't notice the goosebumps forming on her arms. She has lost track of time — has it been five minutes or fifty? All she knows is that eventually her tears dry up and she only continues to hold on to Noctis because it's comfortable.

It's Noctis who carefully makes Iris break away once he's certain she's no longer crying and has calmed down. Night is falling and he doesn't want to be the cause for her staying out too long and making her family worry. After all he isn't sure whether she let anyone know where she's going and for how long she'll be gone and either way Gladio is prone to worry.

To make sure Iris has worked through the worst of it, Noctis puts his hands on her shoulder and takes a good look on her face. "Are you feeling better?"

Iris nods in confirmation and wipes the remaining traces of tears from her face. In the aftermath, she still feels a little embarrassed for having such an emotional outbreak in front of Noctis. Do adults cry over heartbreak like this or is it a teenager thing? She wouldn't know, because her only examples are her brother and father and she has never seen either of them cry in her lifetime. But at least Noctis is doing his best to be considerate and that helps her feel a little less self-conscious.

Noctis flashes a small smile at Iris and releases her shoulders. It's a relief for him that she's come away from this relatively unscathed — or at least she seems like she did. If she still has to work through some stuff before getting over her heartache, then he's probably not the best person to help her with it anyway. That's what she has other friends for.

"Let's get you home before Gladio worries about you," Noctis declares and starts walking towards the edge of the grove. He starts out slowly so that Iris has time to react and only picks up his pace a bit once she's matching his steps.

"When does Gladio not worry about me?" Iris laughs and tugs a few strands of her hair behind her ear. She's always felt close to her brother but over the last two years she's been trying to make a few steps on her own without deferring to him for everything. There are things she wants to experience without Gladio looking out for her. Like Noctis breaking her heart in the most gentle way he can.

"All the more reason to get you home as soon as possible," Noctis points out and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

Iris leans into him and puts her hand on his back. She can't remember ever being this close to Noctis — aside from that time she hugged him all muddy and crying when she got lost ten years ago. Apart from that she never dared to come this close and Noctis didn't initiate anything either. She figures that's one good thing to come out of her confession.

They fall silent, heading towards the moving headlights of cars passing on the nearest street. It's not uncomfortable and neither of them feels the need to fill it with idle chatter. Iris only speaks once a thought occurs to her.

"This isn't going to stand between us, is it?" she asks before she can start worrying about it. "You're not going to act weird around me, just because, you know…"

"I'll try not to," Noctis promises without questioning where that remark came from.

It's going to be on his mind for some time to come and he'll probably wonder how much of a brave face she's putting on whenever they meet. But she asked to be his friend and it seems important to her, so he doesn't want to avoid her or make her feel like her feelings for him are standing between them. They'll have to see how it works out.

For now it seems like a too heavy topic for him to think about, though, so he tries to lighten the mood. "But if Gladio attempts to kill me on the way to Altissia, I'll know what it's about."

Iris smiles at the joke. "Better not tell him then."

When they reach the sidewalk, Noctis lets go of her and Iris immediately feels cold in the evening breeze. She unties her jacket around her waist and puts it on, glad that she thought this far ahead. Noctis is less fortunate in his t-shirt, but so far he shows no signs of shivering.

Noctis hesitates. "Do you want me to take you home."

"No, I'll be fine. It's just a ten minute walk from here," Iris assures him, crossing her arms in front of her chest to keep the unzipped jacket close to her body. "What about you, how are you getting home?"

"I'll probably call Ignis to pick me up." Noctis scratches his head as he considers his options.

The thought amuses Iris. "Don't you have a driver's license and a car you could use?"

"It's no fun driving on these streets, too much traffic." To emphasise his point, Noctis scrunches his nose.

Iris doesn't comment that Ignis will have to put up with that if Noctis asks him for a ride home. In some ways, she figures, being royalty has set him up for getting a little spoilt, even if he went to school with regular kids and is working random jobs and helping with charities since his graduation. She'll let him have this one thing, tonight anyway.

As Noctis looks as uncertain about what to say as Iris feels, she remembers he'll be leaving Insomnia soon. Though it's not for long and she might run into him once more before he heads out, she doesn't want to miss the opportunity to say goodbye properly. That was also part of the reason why she asked to meet him, even if it got a bit lost in all the emotional turmoil earlier.

"Take care on the road to Altissia," Iris begins while she's still unsure what the right things to say are in a situation like this.

"I will."

"And have a nice wedding."

"Mhh…" Though the upcoming wedding is still a tricky topic for him, Noctis lets it slide. Iris means well so he won't go into his worries about it.

"And be good to Lady Lunfreya — at least as good as you've been to me today, but like, every day." Now Iris is just rambling, but she doesn't know what other good wishes to offer for an arranged wedding.

"What am I, a jerk?" Noctis complains, but he takes it in good humour.

Iris smiles warmly. "No, definitely not."

"Right." Noctis grins as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. "Go home now before Gladio starts gathering a search party."

Amused, Iris shakes her head at the suggestion, but she doesn't argue. She figures she said all there is to be said for now and there's no point in drawing out her departure any longer. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Noctis looks up from scrolling through his contacts on the phone. "And take care."

Iris starts walking backwards and gives one last wave before she turns around and heads home. It didn't go the way she imagined and she doesn't know where things will go from here. Yet she's glad she got it off her chest, even with the awkward crying session it ended in. After all that she feels relieved — and somehow at peace.

[lothiriel84]

And My Heart Is A Hollow Plain (For The Devil To Dance Again)

And the fever began to spread From my heart down to my legs But the room was so quiet oh

A post-TFP Sherlock ficlet. Sherlock/Molly, sort of.

He doesn’t have the slightest idea where he’s going until he’s staring down the walkway to a group of tourists gathered before the entrance to London Aquarium, and his feet lead him to an all too familiar bench as if of their own accord.

What was he thinking? he wonders, and not for the first time. That was his one chance at fixing things between him and Molly, a last ditch attempt at salvaging what was left of their friendship; but obviously he had to go along and blow it – that appeared to be just his thing these days.

If only he could stop spouting off deductions at just the wrong moment, he muses somewhat grimly. (And it doesn’t matter what John said, he will never stop feeling at least partially responsible for Mary’s fate.) This is the life he has chosen for himself, that much is true; but there are still times when he finds himself considering how would it feel to settle for something ordinary for a change.

He would die of boredom within a month, quite possibly. But then again, he wouldn’t get anyone killed either, so on balance he’s not sure which of those options would be more advisable.

Sentiment, he scoffs, though it lacks his usual scorn. He may have spent the better part of his life denying it, but if there is one thing his dearest sister demonstrated quite clearly it’s that however hard you try to lock away your feelings, they will still lie in wait until your defences are low and you’re finally unable to hold back the flood.

Take his brother, for all the world a cold and unfeeling bastard; until you really look at him, and realise how he would literally take a bullet to his chest in order to spare his ungrateful sibling some pain. Mycroft wasn’t lying when he told him that caring was not an advantage; what he failed to observe was that it was something his brother had learnt by means of his personal experience, and such a statement was simply one more instance of him exercising his own peculiar version of kindness.

(Trust Mummy to lash out at her least favourite son for that very reason. As for himself, he had to reluctantly acknowledge that he was just like her in so many ways, especially when it came to dealing with confusing and all-too-intense emotions that were invariably too much for him.)

It would be so much easier if he just could stop caring – about everything, really. Not only his infuriating big brother, whom he spent so much time foolishly trying to push away – the brother who had been the one constant in his life, the safe harbour he could always turn to in times of trouble; there were so many people his life had got entangled with, in one way or the other, and one of them was currently standing in the middle of his recently renewed flat – quite possibly bewildered by his incongruous behaviour, or absolutely furious at him, or maybe both of those things at the same time. What was worse was that he had no excuse this time around, nor some sort of explanation that would make any sense at all.

All he had planned to do was to give her an abridged version of the circumstances which had led to that excruciating phone call, offer her some closure; only, he had somehow forgotten to take her utter unselfishness into account, and his brain had chosen that exact moment to go offline.

She was so kind, always, and she was standing in front of him, alive and breathing and nothing short of a miracle. (And he’d done it before, once, though he had aimed for the cheek that time – and he hadn’t been that desperate to get as close to her as humanly possible, just to remind himself that he hadn’t lost her after all.) That was how it had always been for him – he would either feel too much, or nothing at all, and in the end his only feasible option was to disengage from the situation entirely.

(The Mary in his head is now rolling her eyes in mock annoyance, and yet of all people she’s the one who would understand how his reasons cannot be ruled out as entirely selfish; it’s not dissimilar to walking around with a bomb strapped to your chest, you should know better than to attempt to defuse it in the middle of a crowd.)

A wave of nausea rolls over him as the memories flood back all at once – Semtex and snipers and blood on the pavement, sharks and water and a singsong that haunts his dreams, always. They had chips, he and Eurus, that night; or at least, Faith did, for his sister showed little to no sign of remembering that much. And now he is sitting on the same bench, and he feels like he is falling, again.

“Sherlock?”

For a long moment he doesn’t look up, thinking she’s another figment of his imagination. Then her hand is on his shoulder, and he reaches for it, blindingly, as if in a pathetic attempt to anchor himself. Of course she was going to go after him, that was her nature; she may be no detective, but she’s still no fool, and a part of his brain is genuinely admiring her for successfully deducing his final destination.

She doesn’t ask him if he’s all right; it’s probably written all over his face, quite embarrassingly so, but for the time being he can’t bring himself to care.

“I’m not in love with you,” he blurts out at length. Bit not good, Sherlock, the John in his head chides him, but he is genuinely trying to be kind here, spare her further humiliation and pain.

“I know,” she nods, calmly, and takes a seat beside him. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. We’re still friends – you said so yourself, remember?”

He regards her for a moment, then waves his hand in frustration. “You’re missing the point, Molly. I didn’t know it until I you forced me to say it out loud, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Sherlock,” she cuts in, sounding considerably more defeated than only a few moments ago. “Could we just – not go through this again? Please?”

There is a gull perched on the parapet that separates them from the river, and he decides he might as well direct his irritation that way. The bird doesn’t return his glare though, merely stares back at him without any real interest, and he thinks this may very well be a sign he’s finally turning mad.

Why does it have to be so difficult, he grumbles to himself. He can deduce nearly everything about any chosen subject; but unfortunately sentiment is not, and never will be, within that number.

“My point is, I’m not attracted to you. I would know if I was, I should think. But I still do – love you, I mean. And not simply as a friend.”

Molly frowns, gazes back at him, confused. “I – don’t understand. What are you trying to tell me?”

He shakes his head, his mind momentarily, unhelpfully blank. “I don’t know. I just – do.”

The gull can’t possibly be judgmental of his unusually subpar eloquence, but for a brief moment it feels as if he deserves nothing less. He glances at her lips, and it’s only for a fraction of a second, but he knows she notices because her breath catches, ever so slightly.

(She doesn’t pull back, even though he gives her plenty of time to do so, for a change. And he’s falling again, burning, but she’s there to catch him – and maybe, just maybe, it will all work out in the end, somehow.)

[dontbeallupinmyfriesdawg]

Drabble request: The year is 1915 and front-line soldier Enzo st John is wounded. With no chance of saving him, a special blonde angel of a nurse called Rebekah talks to him all night about everything they can think of. The fall in love in a single night. Refusing to let him die, the nurse turns him into a vampire. Before Klaus can find and kill him, she leaves Enzo, never to be seen again. Until of course, Enzo and Caroline show up in NOLA.

A/N: Written due to having this prompt knocking around my head for a while; as a response to this ^ prompt and also based off of this gifset by @fiercerebekah . 

I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank @austennerdita2533  who basically spent ages beta’ing this and made it 100x better than it was.

Includes Klaroline + Carenzo brotp.

1915

9:30 pm

Rebekah smoothed down her apron, nodding at a group of nurses standing together by the stairs. As she considered the last few weeks of her life, she allowed herself to be proud of the control she’d managed to exercise. Everywhere she turned, she was surrounded by copious amounts of blood. Blood in bags. Blood on sheets. Blood flecked against white walls. Blood spurting from limbs. Blood coating the muddied uniforms of wounded soldiers, the smell of it overpowering and pungent.

Still, despite this, Rebekah had managed to control her urges; rationing herself to three blood bags a day (breakfast, lunch, and dinner respectively) and requesting to be transferred out of the emergency ward, thus decreasing the amount of gushing wounds she’d have to see on a regular basis.

Never had she dreamed that tending to the injured and sick in the midst of such a gruesome war would give her such fulfilment. It felt good, knowing that after centuries of taking lives, she could restore some balance by saving a few.

Of course, Niklaus had disapproved strongly, just as he had disapproved of Marcel’s decision to join the soldiers in the trenches. But since - for once - he wasn’t physically stopping her (i.e: twisting a dagger into her chest cavity) Rebekah resolved to ignore Klaus’ taunts about her foolhardy, sentimental heart and follow it anyway.

It had been a particularly gruelling day. A fleet of fifteen men was rushed into her ward after an explosion went off in one of the battlegrounds. This meant it was all hands on deck to try and undo some of the carnage. Rebekah stifled a yawn as she headed back to her regular ward, the squeaking of her nurse’s shoes echoing through the corridor as she went. When she arrived, she paused momentarily to scan the row of beds, looking for one that didn’t have a nurse stationed by it.

Her eyes landed on a dark-haired man in the far corner of the room. He was what one might describe as roguishly handsome and as Rebekah came closer, she noticed a slight shadow of stubble on his cheeks. A bandage was wound tight around his left arm.

As a woman who’d always been able to appreciate beauty when she saw it, she couldn’t help but stare at the man as he slept - unprofessional though it was. She jumped in surprise as he began to stir, his eyes–rich, brown, and unfocused–meeting hers through hooded lids.

“Are you an angel?” he rasped, his accent distinctly British.

Rebekah smiled sweetly and shook her head, blonde curls bouncing underneath her nurse’s cap.

“Far from it.”

“You certainly look like one,” he murmured with a smirk, his eyes having yet to settle completely on her.

“I’m sure you say that to all the nurses,” Rebekah replied with an unimpressed scoff.

“Only if they’re as delightful as you.”

Despite his disoriented state, the soldier managed to shoot Rebekah a wink which earned him nothing but an eye roll.

“You can’t blame a man for trying,” he grinned. “A beautiful nurse standing over my bedside is quite the breath of fresh air after some of the things I’ve seen.”

Seeing the momentary flicker of distress in his eyes, Rebekah’s heart softened.

“That’s over now,” she said comfortingly,  allowing her hand to rest gently over his. “You’re safe here.”

“Careful, love,” the man hummed, lifting Rebekah’s hand and placing a kiss against her knuckles “One touch and I could skyrocket into fever delirium.”

Ignoring his laughter, she wrenched her arm free of his grip before he could finish his sentence.

“Name?” she demanded, picking up her clipboard.

“Whatever you’d like it to be a sweetheart.”

Rebekah huffed and searched until she located the brown folder that held all the patient documents.

“Lorenzo St John,” she read out loud.

He stuck out his hand.

“Enzo. Pleased and honoured to meet your acquaintance, George-”

Due to Rebekah unceremoniously shoving a thermometer into his mouth, glaring as if she dared him to remove it, his eyes widened and he fell silent. He lay still, obedient until she took it out herself to examine it.

“Well it appears you have a temperature,” she mused, scribbling something on her clipboard.

���Told you. Just one touch was all it took.”

“I’ll be back,” she said, ignoring him. “Try to get some rest.”

“I didn’t catch yours, gorgeous,” he called after her.

Rebekah turned and frowned. “My what?”

“Your name.”

“Nurse,” she replied curtly before turning on her heel and exiting the room. Enzo’s hearty laugh echoed down the corridor after her.

9:45 pm

“Hello, gorgeous.”

Rebekah skirted around the neighbouring bed and scowled, “Are you going to stop calling me that?”

“Depends,” he shrugged. “Are you going to tell me your name? Nurse.”

“No.”

“Might I enquire as to why?”

“Because it’s none of your business,” Rebekah answered, flashing him a saccharine smile.

While Enzo pouted rather comically, she pretended to check the time on her pocket watch.

“Hot date, sweetheart?” He smirked. “In that case, don’t let me hold you up.”

“Very funny,” Rebekah tutted.

“I do my best.” He shrugged, flashing her a lazy smile. “So, I have a proposition for you…”

“I’ll save you some time. No.”

“I’ll guess your name and if I guess correctly, you have to tell me.”

“No.”

“Excellent!” he continued unfazed. “Now, let me see, your name is… Claire?”

Rebekah scoffed.

“Really? I was sure I was right, you do strike me as a Claire.”

He frowned pensively and started at the stubble on his cheeks.

“Alright… er, let’s see Louise? Emily? Cassandra? Julie? Joanne? Amanda?”

Rebekah’s face remained impassive.

“Tatiana? Elizabeth?… Elena?”

“Hmph, hardly,” she said. For some reason or another, Rebekah had always detested that name. Elena. Yuck.

“Will you at least give me a clue?”

“No.”

“You’re a tough cookie to break,” Enzo said smiling wryly. “Luckily, I enjoy a challenge.”

Rebekah glared and almost retorted with some choice words of her own, but stopped herself when her Matron, Genevieve, appeared at the end of the corridor.

“Sister Rebekah!” she called.

“Yes, Matron?” she answered stiffly, allowing her eyes to flutter shut.

“When you’ve finished treating your patient, please come and find me in my office. I want to have a briefing session before the shift is over.”

“Yes, Matron.”

Genevieve gave her a tight smile before tottering back down the hall.

“Ah, Rebekah,” she heard Enzo hum, the syllables of her name gliding across his tongue. “How did I not guess that? A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

Rebekah shot him an irritated glance as she picked up her clipboard, but for the briefest of moments, her lip quirked upward.

“At some point, or at some time,” she said, “you’re going to run out of pretty words to say.”

Enzo smiled. As he did, Rebekah noticed for the first time the way his dimples cut into his cheeks. Rather unfair, she thought, for such a handsome man to be such a pain in the arse.

“Don’t tell me it’s not working?”

“Not in the slightest,” she answered with her nose lifted in the air, although her voice had lost the sharp edge to it.

10:05 pm

“Hello again.”

“Lorenzo,” Rebekah replied casually. “How many nurses have you flirted with since I left?”

“Not a single one. I’m a very loyal man, you see,” he winked.

Rebekah pressed her palm to his forehead. “You appear to be stable… physically anyhow,” she added, causing Enzo to chuckle.

A short silence followed as she made up the empty bed beside him. Once she finished, she turned to arrange the pillows more comfortably behind his head.

There was a short silence as Rebekah began making the now empty bed beside him. When she’d finished that, she turned and began arranging the pillows behind his head. Enzo propped himself up on his elbows and regarded her seriously.

Rebekah frowned, feeling self-conscious under his penetrating gaze. “What?”

“I’m curious about something….” Rebekah arched an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. “What is someone as heavenly as you doing cleaning up sick and changing bedpans? I mean,” Enzo continued, swallowing a laugh, “it’s hardly the most glamorous job, sweetheart. Doesn’t all the blood turn your stomach?”

“Being a nurse is a lot more glamorous than it looks.”

“Oh, really? Perhaps I’ve missed something in my assessment?”

“Mhmm, the blood isn’t so bad. I’ve…learnt to cope with it,” Rebekah said. “Bedpan duty is for the new recruits and as the for the sick, if I’m lucky, most of the time the patient manages to aim the vomit in the other direction. And if not, I always keep an umbrella handy,” she shrugged.

Enzo’s eyes lit up as a stream of raucous laughter escaped him, gleeful that Rebekah had chosen to engage with him. His laughter was so infectious, Rebekah couldn’t help but join him. However, the mirth soon died down as a cough racked through his chest, sending him panting and heaving for breath as his fingers gripped the side of his bed for support.

“Okay, okay, easy now,” Rebekah offered soothingly. “It’s going to be alright I promise.” Placing a hand behind his head, she eased him back down onto the pillows.

The violent sputtering continued for several more minutes and attracted the attention of several other nurses, one of which took initiative and fetched Enzo a glass of water. Disgruntled, his face twisted as Rebekah brought the glass to his lips and encouraged him to take a sip.

“I don’t sup-suppose you have any gin, do you?” Enzo wheezed, a half-hearted grin sliding across his lips.

“Hush,” Rebekah said. “I need to take your temperature again.”

“S’what usually works for me…”

While he sipped from the glass, Rebekah shook her head and sighed, displeased. “You’re temperature’s gone up again.”

“I told you,” he coughed, “you have that effect on me.”

Cocking her head to the side, she examined the marked paleness of his features and the shallowness of his breathing and noted how different, how ill, he looked now compared to their first encounter. Despite the physical toll the coughing had taken on him, the exhaustion, Enzo still wore that familiar roguish grin.

“By the way,” his eyes roamed her form appreciatively, “that uniform you’re wearing? It’s the stuff dreams are made of.”

“Dirty bastard,” Rebekah chided. “You’ve been spending too much time in the trenches with the rest of those potty-mouthed troops and have forgotten how to speak to a lady.”

“You could be right.” He sunk down onto the mattress. “Or perhaps I’m just inept at expressing myself properly?”

“For example, what I wanted to say,” he said, “is that you’re lovely….and the prospect of seeing you every half hour or so is the only thing that makes me want to keep going.” He curled himself beneath his blanket. “The only thing.”

Breath hitched in her throat at the sincerity of his words, but before Rebekah could respond, he released a low sigh and allowed his eyes to flutter shut. Before long, the gentle rumble resounded from his chest and a melodic snore filled the room.

10:26 pm

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.” Enzo prodded as Rebekah changed the bandage on his wrist.

Rebekah considered him with a coy smile as she changed the bandage on his wrist. “I’m a vampire.”

“Now who’s the comedian, gorgeous?” Enzo said with a chuckle.

Rebekah continued with her work dutifully until she felt Enzo’s eyes burning holes into her forehead in anticipation of her answer.

“Why don’t you go first?” she sighed.

“Mmm, well… let’s see. When I was young, I once stole an entire bag of toffees from the shelf in a store. Right out from under the shopkeeper’s nose.”

“Is that it?”

“What do you mean is that it? That’s a secret I’d intended to carry to my grave!” Enzo protested, a hint of humour evident on his face.

Rebekah rolled her eyes.

“You’re not in a confessional with a priest! I don’t want to hear about your childhood mischief, so either volunteer something real or forget it. I’m not taking this game seriously if you won’t.”

Enzo fell silent for a moment. His expression pensive.

“Alright,” he said at last, “here’s something real for you.”

Rebekah lifted her head and met his eyes, showing him he had her full attention.

“It terrifies me.”

“What does?”

“Death, dying. The finality of being gone I can deal with (I mean, it’s not like many people would notice if I went missing, anyway), but it’s the pain that gets me. It’s knowing, beyond a doubt, that this is about to be it,” he explained. “That everything you’ve done up until that moment–that final, ticking moment of your life–is set in stone.”

“It’s the realisation that you’re out of time. That you have no more chances left to undo any of the mistakes you’ve made along the way, no threads left to start over. Or to begin anew. What I truly fear,” he said, his tongue passing over his bottom lip, “is at the end of it all, at the end of my life…all I’ll have is nothing. I’ll have nothing and be nothing but useless and insignificant–a prime nobody. I’m afraid I’ll be a nobody who died in a pointless war.”

Enzo rubbed a hand across his chin. He avoided eye contact.

“But, uh, you aren’t supposed to admit any of that, right? That isn’t brave. That isn’t…” He laughed, but it came out hollow and weak. “That isn’t what men do, is it?”

Rebekah leant toward him slowly, then cupped his face in both hands. “What if you had the chance to start over? What if you were given an opportunity to live a life that wasn’t being wasted?” she asked.

Enzo studied her, his gaze steady and sharp. “I’d snatch it,” he answered huskily, “I’d grab it with both hands and never let it go.”

A short nurse, flustered and covered in blood, appeared at the end of the hall at that moment and halted their conversation.

“Sister!” she gasped at Rebekah. “You’re needed.”

11:50 pm

Taking the familiar route back down the hall, Rebekah checked her pocket watch again, only then realising how long she’d been gone.  When with Enzo it was as if she didn’t feel time, it was so easy for Rebekah to forget the war going on around her.

With another emergency, all the nurses in the division were on-call to treat the hordes of wounded soldiers trickling in from the newest battle. Rebekah let out a sigh of exhaustion (which was more emotional than physical). She spotted Edith, a tall, willowy nurse who had been stationed on her ward for the past few weeks down the way. Edith was attractive and blonde like Rebekah, except her hair was more of a white-ish/silvery colour and she wore it in looser curls.

Edith was also a bit of a gossip and everyone knew it. Which, ironically, was part of the reason Rebekah liked her so much.

“Hey there! I’ve been meaning to catch up with you lately, It’s such a shame that we run into each other for the first time in days during all this chaos,” she said as she gestured behind her.

“It is a pity, isn’t it?” Rebekah answered, allowing herself to be pulled into the small talk. “War is such an unfortunate thing,”

“Speaking of unfortunate, I am so sorry about your patient, Becks,” she drawled in her New York twang. “Ain’t it a shame? It’s always the handsome one’s.”

“What?” Rooted to the spot, her voice cracked. “What do you mean?”,

“Oh, you haven’t heard yet? He took a nasty turn while you were gone, pretty awful chest infection he’s got there. Matron doesn’t think he’ll live through the night.”

By the Edith finished speaking, Rebekah was already zipping down the corridor towards her ward, cursing the fact that she hadn’t had time to compel the chatty girl and vamp-speed to Enzo’s bedside.

When she finally reached him, her heart sank in her stomach. His face was drawn, his eyes were rimmed in blueish black dark circles, his cheeks were gaunt, and large beads of sweat ran down his forehead as he shivered beneath the bed linen. He was worse than she’d expected. How long had she been gone? An hour? Maybe two? No more than that, surely.

He forced his quivering limbs to still as she approached, attempting to look composed. Rebekah drew up the blanket and tucked it under his chin, then swiped cold compresses across his forehead in an effort to lower his fever. But she knew it was fruitless. Although she hadn’t been a nurse for long, she knew a dying man when she saw one.

“This is it, isn’t it?” he asked, blinking back moisture from the corner of his eyes.

“Hush. You’re going to be fine. I’ll have this temperature down by the morning,” she promised, the lie in her voice discernible.

“I can tell you don’t like games. Neither do I,” he sighed, his eyes hardening, “so give it to me straight, alright? You’re honest. You always have been with me, that’s what I like about you.”

“There’s a chance–”

He held up his hand, interrupting her. “Come on, gorgeous, I’m a big boy. I can handle it. Now tell me the truth,” he said, “I’m dying, aren’t I?”

Rebekah bowed her head in an effort to avoid his gaze, surprising herself when a large tear dropped from her eyelashes and slid down her cheek.

“Now, now, none of that,” Enzo said, reaching up to catch it on his pinky finger and swiping it away. “Those of us who are still young, gorgeous, and living, have no reason to cry.”

Rebekah let out a laugh despite herself, choking on the hot tears that’d suddenly lodged in her throat.

He grabbed her hand. The action was tender and comforting, similar to how she had calmed him only hours- though it felt longer- ago. “Tell me your thing,” he insisted.

“What–what thing?” she half-hiccuped.

“Tell me the one thing you’ve never told anyone else, not a single soul…what is it? I want to know.”

Before Rebekah could reply, Enzo launched into another coughing fit. Loud hacks and wheezes jerked his upper body and tiny spurts of blood flew out of his throat, causing him to gurgle and choke. Unable to catch his breath.

“Easy! Easy!” Rebekah implored.

“Tell. Me.”

“Okay, okay. I- uh…”

“There has to be s-something,” he gritted out.

Before she knew what she was doing or what she was saying, she blurted, “I’m afraid.

His forehead crinkled in concern, in confusion? It was difficult to tell.

“I’m terrified of ending up alone. I’m constantly surrounded by people and voices and bodies, so many tasks and responsibilities that I’m rarely granted two seconds for myself….and yet…and yet, I’m so desperately, hopelessly lonely. And I’ve felt this way for such a long, long time…but maybe this is what I deserve?”

“Stop.”

“God, you can’t begin to imagine all of the horrible things I’ve done,” Rebekah continued, not hearing him, “so maybe this is my penance. Maybe…maybe my punishment is to be alone forever?”

“Stop it. No pity parties, remember?” Enzo said, his voice resolved yet imploring. “You deserve the world, gorgeous, and if I had the strength to lift myself out of this bed without help right now, I’d sure as hell find a way to give it to you.”

At the end of his speech, Enzo lurched forward again. His entire chest constricted as harsh coughs split through him like a saw and robbed him of speech. And of breath. Rebekah’s mind whirled with thoughts as she eased him back down onto the bed.

She shouldn’t.

No, it was crazy. Risky. Impulsive.

Niklaus would be sure to find him–kill him–as soon as he discovered the truth of what she’d done. But what was the alternative? What other choice did she have?

“Gorgeous?”

“Listen to me,” Rebekah said in a low voice. She leant over his bedside and peered into his face, “You have a choice, alright? It doesn’t have to end this way, you…you don’t have to die.”

“What do you–” As spidery, ink-coloured veins crawled beneath her eyes and her sharp fangs punctured the delicate skin on her wrist, Enzo gasped and recoiled in horror. “What’s going on? Who…what are you?” he stuttered.

“Shhh! We don’t have much time,” Rebekah hissed. “Or rather, you don’t.”

She extended her bleeding wrist to him, but he gaped. Staring at it with a mixture of confusion and alarm.

“You have a choice: either die of a chest infection in this tiny hospital bed as another number, as just another soldier fighting for Queen and Country or Uncle Sam or whoever; or, you can live,” she said. “If you choose it, if you accept, I can heal you right here, right now with my blood…and you can leave this place. You can go anywhere, do anything you want…”

“For the sake of argument,” Enzo interrupted, rubbing a hand across his eyes as if trying to wipe away a feverish hallucination, “let’s say I believe you. Let’s say I think you are capable of healing me with your magic, cure-all blood…but then what?”

“Where would I go, what would I do? Forgive the cynicism, sweetheart, but I’m poor as dirt and the military have my paycheck in reserve, so dying seems like the most viable option for me under the circumstances, wouldn’t you agree?” he said.

“There is a third option.”

“Tell me.”

Rebekah winced as she forced the words from her mouth, “You can live forever. Like me, you can be strong and ageless and–”

“A vampire. I could be a vampire,” Enzo murmured, realisation and understanding now dawning over him.

“You can feel and experience all that the world has to offer, drowning your senses in everything you never thought you’d see. Hear. Taste.”

Enzo’s head spun and spun with possibilities, the room tilting and blurring his vision in cloudy pink as Rebekah hovered above him like a kaleidoscope and tore into her wrist again with teeth.

“There isn’t any time!” she exclaimed. “Take it. Take the blood or die.”

“I want it to be over,” he replied.

Rebekah’s hurt sunk. She wasn’t sure what response she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that one.

“I–I can’t live this way anymore.” He sounded tired. His voice grew weaker and weaker, and pretty soon it would fade out altogether. “I don’t want this life.”

She withdrew her hand and nodded, “I understand.”

“Let me rephrase that,” he breathed, “I don’t want to just survive anymore. I want, I want to live.”

Rebekah’s eyes widened. “Are you saying–?”

“How bad does blood taste exactly?” Enzo asked as his eyes fluttered shut.

“Oh, God! Oh, God! Lorenzo…drink!” Rebekah pleaded desperately, shoving her wrist into his mouth and propping him up in her arms. “Come on, you handsome bloody idiot! Drink.”

Just as she considered all to be lost, she felt Enzo’s head stir ever so slightly against her chest.

He drank. And drank. Slowly at first, and then with urgency. As he did, colour restored to his face and his lungs cleared. It felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. That being said, a little nagging voice inside Enzo’s head craved more–and despite his better judgment–he latched hard and clung tightly onto Rebekah’s promise of forever.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“Now, you start the rest of your life; now, you get your freedom. Try not to waste it,” Rebekah whispered. Her voice was the last thing he heard before the world went black.

Present Day. New Orleans, Louisiana.

“That has to be the most bizarre story I have ever heard!” Caroline exclaimed.

She removed her hands from the steering wheel for the billionth time to gesture dramatically and Enzo winced. He adamantly regretted his decision to let her drive the rest of the way to New Orleans.

“No backseat driving.”

“I wouldn’t have to backseat drive if you were capable of actual driving,” he shot back, jetting backwards when Caroline’s balled fist landed hard against his chest.

“Seriously!? How is it that every vampire I manage to befriend has a mysterious past with an evil blonde Original who hates me? Ugh!”

“That’s a little harsh, love.”

“To hell it is!” Caroline bristled. “You have your version of Rebekah: the floating angel who saved you; and I have mine: the evil blood slut who tried to ruin my life.”

“And yet, here you are,” Enzo hummed, “going off in the same direction as I am in search for her equally (if not more) diabolical older brother.”

She stiffened.

“I have my… reasons for going to New Orleans to find Klaus. I told you it’s-”

“Complicated,” he nodded, “right. It’s fine, Caroline, you don’t need to explain the intricate, complexities of love to me. All I’m saying is let’s dial down the judgement a tad shall we?” he suggested.

Caroline flashed him a sheepish look before proceeding to run a stop sign. The fifth one so far. Enzo sighed softly, deciding not to mention it in the hopes that they wouldn’t be stopped again. He’d already compelled four officers away on this road trip, but he was growing peckish and a fifth one wouldn’t be so lucky to get away untasted.

A long, peaceful silence fell between them for a while and Enzo took the opportunity to gaze out the window and marvel at the scenery (fleeting, though, for Caroline was going at least 60 mph) while he reflected on the words he’d been rehearsing to say to Rebekah for decades now.

You saved my life. For that, I can never repay you.

“Aren’t you scared?” Caroline asked, abruptly breaking the silence and pulling Enzo from his thoughts.

“I know what you told me about your big, bad hybrid friend, and a lesser man than me might be intimidated.” He flexed his muscles playfully, which earned him an eye roll. “But something tells me I can take him,” he said.

Caroline gave him an unimpressed huff and shook her head.

“The issue of whether or not Klaus will allow you to keep your head did cross my mind, but that’s not what I was talking about. It’s only that–” She paused. Bit her bottom lip. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.

“I mean, after everything you told me, what if we get there and…”

She trailed off, either unable or unwilling to finish her sentence.

“What if I get there and she wants nothing to do with me?” he said for her. “What if she doesn’t remember that I exist or if I’ve concocted some crazy, unrealistic fantasy of her in my head? What if she’s in love with someone else? Or, what if the moment our eyes meet again she regrets turning me and rips my heart from my chest? What if after all this time I learn that the whole vampire thing was nothing but a big, fat lie and she’s actually aged horribly and–”

“Enzo,” Caroline scolded, wanting him to be serious.

He sighed.

“These are all questions I’ve gone over in my head about a million times, Caroline.”

She flashed him a quizzical look as they continued to speed down the highway, “If you know all of this, then why risk it?”

“That’s the thing about hope,” he said with a laugh. “It can trick you into all sorts of hilarious, unrealistic scenarios.”

Caroline still looks unconvinced, so he continued.

“When I was a child, my parents kicked me out and sent me to the workhouse as soon as I could walk. I was poor and didn’t have many friends. I joined the army to become something, to be a part of something bigger than myself, to feel as if I was doing something worthwhile with my life…but all I got for my efforts was a broken hand, a bullet to my ribcage, and a deadly cold from being drenched to the bone. I was alone and insignificant and dying.”

“You know me as I am now, Caroline,” he continued, shaking his head. “But when I was lying in that hospital bed all those years ago, I had nothing. Nothing at all. Rebekah showed me that there was something out there beyond poverty, beyond the slow descent into alcoholism that other soldiers like me would slide into after the war. She gave me a life.”

“And I’m better now because of it,” he said. “Stronger. Smarter.”

“Yeah, but now you’re also a blood-sucking monster who feeds off innocent human flesh,” Caroline pointed out.

He shrugged. “Pot and Kettle, love.”

“The difference with me is that I didn’t ask to be turned; it was out of my control entirely! You, on the other hand–” Caroline chanced him a sideways glance, not quite disapproving but perhaps a little questioning; judgmental, “–you practically sold your soul to the devil gift-wrapped!” she said.

“My, you really do have a flair for the dramatics, don’t you?” Enzo chuckled.

“I’m only looking out for you.” Her voice was soft, her expression concerned. “I don’t to see you get hurt, that’s all.

“And I appreciate that, but here’s the thing,” Enzo explained, “it’s been nearly 140 years. That’s 113 I wouldn’t have had if Rebekah had never intervened.”

“I don’t want to date her, Caroline–” he paused, hope and resolve flickering in his eyes “–I want to thank her.”

New Orleans, The French Quarter.

The place was everything and nothing like Caroline had expected. They’d picked a good time to come to the city, for Mardi Gras was fast approaching and the French Quarter boomed with music and bright colours as tourists roamed the streets in search of excitement.

If their source was to be believed, they drew close to the Mikaelson mansion. Caroline felt the bile rise in her stomach as she and Enzo continued to progress through the streets, knowing all the things he’d said in the car rang true for her, too. 

What if this was a mistake and Klaus didn’t want to see her? Or what if he’d long forgotten the promise he’d made to her those years ago?

She shot her friend a look, curious to see if he shared any of her apprehension, but his expression was tranquil. Annoyingly so. Then again, looks could be deceiving.

A few twists and turns later and they stood outside a grandiose residence tucked away at the end of a long stretch of road.

Typical Klaus, Caroline thought. Of course he wouldn’t live in a house of normal proportions. Figures.

“Are you ready for this?” Enzo asked.

“About as ready as I’ll ever be,” she said.

The Mikaelson Mansion, The French Quarter

Unsurprisingly, Klaus apprehended them as soon as their feet crossed the threshold. He pounced on Enzo, who crossed into his line of vision first, and pressed him against the wall in a choke hold demanding to know why he was trespassing on his property. Caroline fought an eye roll. She cleared her throat, making her presence known.

“Caroline?”

“Hello Klaus,” she replied nonchalantly despite the tightness in her chest. “I should’ve known the next time I saw you you’d attempt to murder yet another one of my friends.”

Snapping out of his blind rage, he released his grip on Enzo’s neck, allowing him to collapse onto the ground with a loud thud. He stalked towards Caroline as if in a disbelieving trance.

“To be fair, sweetheart,” he smirked, “you always did have the most unfortunate taste in friends.”

The sight of him before her stirred feelings in the pit of her stomach. Feelings that, on previous occasions, she would have shoved down or away in stubborn denial–but she was done with all that now. She’d had a long time to think about what she wanted.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, she realised that both Klaus and Enzo stared at her…waiting. Waiting for her to say something. Anything.

The courage Caroline had mustered during the drive slowly began to evaporate. Smiling nervously, she gestured at Enzo, “I did tell him that he should probably wait in the car,” she said.

Enzo glared, still rubbing his bruised neck, as Klaus flashed before her with an intensity in his expression that made her shiver. “Why have you come?” he asked in a whisper.

“Is there….is there somewhere we can talk?”

This trip had seemed so much better in theory. But in practice, it was terrifying. For, standing before her was Klaus: the living representation of everything she’d never allowed herself to have. Expectant yet curious, he looked conflicted as he considered the accompanying male by her side. (Most likely pondering the reason for his trespassing)

“Enzo’s with me.” He stiffened at this. She shook her head, reading his mind, and continued, “No, not with me, with me. He’s here because…well…it’s actually a pretty long and complicated story but–”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find Rebekah, would you?” Enzo cut in, having found the strength - or the courage - to rise to his feet.

Klaus’ expression darkened. “What could you possibly want with my sister?”

“Like the lady said,” he answered, “it’s complicated.”

Klaus growled at his insolence. Caroline fretted as he advanced, racking her brains in an effort to find a solution to diffuse the situation before it escalated into more murderous directions.

“Niklaus,” a voice drifted from the staircase, “I heard voices, what is–”

Rebekah, clad in eight-inch heels, khaki shorts, and a white chiffon blouse, halted in the middle of the stairs. Gaping. “Lorenzo?”

Silence lingered for what felt like hours and the air thickened with tension, with things that had been left unsaid for far too long.

“Hello Gorgeous,” he said at last.

Caroline felt the interjection ready to burst from Klaus’ lips as he glared venomously between the couple, so she tugged the sleeve of his Henley and fixed him with wide, puppy dog eyes (a distractionary tactic she’d always found to be useful). “Klaus,” she purred as she dragged him from the room, “how about that talk now, hm?”

Once alone, an eerie muteness stretched out between Rebekah and Enzo as they faced one another. It was Rebekah who first cut into the soundlessness, she face the colour of a sheet.

“What are you doing here?” she asked sounding breathless like the wind had been knocked out of her.

“Now isn’t that the question.” He expelled a shaky, humourless laugh and took a cautious step forward, afraid that moving too fast would spook her.

“It’s funny,” he said, “I’ve spent over a century attempting to figure out what I wanted to say to you, but seeing you here, in front of me now I…”

“How did you find me?”

“The wonders of technology. Word of mouth.” He gestured vaguely. “Does it matter?”

Rebekah circled him, all the all the while maintaining a safe distance between them. “It’s been over a century. Why now? Why track me down now, out of the blue like this?” she asked.

“Funny thing about vampirism,” he quipped, “it comes with certain complications. Most of which you failed to warn me about.”

“So this is revenge? You’re holding a grudge against me for saving your life?” Her gaze narrowed. “I think you’ve conveniently forgotten about the choice I gave you, Lorenzo.”

Enzo took another calculated step towards Rebekah, this time causing her to quail in response.

“You mistake me, sweetheart. I am not here for revenge,” he said, “I am here to thank you.”

She smiled ever so slightly. “I appreciate that.”

“If you hadn’t found me, I would have died. You gave me back purpose and I came here to let you know how much that meant to me, how much you mean to me. After all this time.”

“Well, I certainly hope you took my advice and haven’t wasted what was given to you?” she countered, her breathing normalising.

He grinned. “Not a single second have I wasted.”

Tenuously, Rebekah edged toward him until her palm ghosted over his cheek. Although she smiled, her eyes were tinged with sadness.

“You haven’t changed,” she whispered.

She lingered for a moment and then took a step back as if realising her mistake. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I beg your pardon?” Enzo blinked.

“I said, you shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake! You–you finding me was a mistake.”

“I don’t understand–”

“You should leave,” she interjected. “You should go, Lorenzo. You should leave now”

Without any further explanation, Rebekah flashed away, leaving Enzo alone in the foyer.

Klaus sighed impatiently. Caroline had her ear pressed up against the door and one eye squinted shut in concentration.

“Sweetheart, I thought the entire object of you and I coming up here was to discuss your sudden appearance in my city?”

“Oh, grow up Klaus,” Caroline said with a scoff. “I only came here to give those two some privacy while I eavesdropped.”

Klaus muttered something about shenanigans going on under his roof until she shushed him with a frantic wave of the hand.

“What is going on down there!?”

“If the the sound of my sister’s expensive Louboutins shuffling up the stairs is anything to go by, I’d say the conversation is over,” he mused with disinterest.

Caroline’s eyes widened. She wrenched open the door just as Rebekah moved down the hall and said, “What the hell happened?”

“That’s hardly any of your business.”

Rebekah attempted to sidestep her, but found her path blocked.

“Where’s Enzo?”

She shrugged. “Gone I assume.”

“Gone?” Caroline gaped.

“My goodness, don’t tell me you really are as stupid as you look! Yes, gone.”

“Why!? What did you say to him?”

Rebekah sighed as she manoeuvred past her, “Lorenzo came here looking for someone who doesn’t exist anymore. I did him a favour.”

“You’re a coward.” Caroline hurled the word like an arrow at her back, stopping Rebekah in her tracks.

“What did you just bloody say to me?!” she accused, her voice growing shrill.

“Don’t you remember all the time and energy you spent trying to rip Stefan and Elena apart in Mystic Falls so you could have him all to yourself? Or how you spent an entire year stealing my life in order to live out some contrived high school experience you never had? Or what about when you put all of our lives in danger because you wanted the cure-all for yourself?”

“All of this you did in the name of happiness, right? And where did it get you?” Caroline asked, her gaze sharp and her words biting. “Where?”

“Enzo’s a good guy,” she continued. “He’s a good guy who’s been pining for you for over a century. You’d be lucky to have a guy like him in your life, okay? Damn lucky.”

“You want to know why you’re a coward, Rebekah?” Caroline took a step forward and peered straight and hard into her face. “You’re a coward because a chance at real happiness stood right in front of you and you let him waltz right out of your life. You let him walk away.”

“You know nothing about me, Caroline Forbes! Nothing about us!” Rebekah seethed.

Caroline squared her shoulders and raised her chin defiantly. “Maybe I know more than you think,”

5:15 pm, Somewhere in the French Quarter.

He’d been wandering the streets of New Orleans for about an hour now. Of course, it was only after travelling four blocks that he’d remembered that he left the car keys with Caroline. He was stuck.

Typical.

Taking a kick at a bottle lying near his feet, Enzo cursed himself for being so stupid. Of course, Rebekah wanted nothing to do with him! What’d he expect? He was nothing but a poor soldier lying on his deathbed who she’d taken pity on in a moment of weakness. He was nothing to her. She was a vampire, vampires did not feel; they did not love.

No matter, Mardi Gras would drown his sorrows with its booze and tourists–both to be drunk.

“Lorenzo?”

His name sounded faint on those lips. The voice calling him was painfully familiar (a sound that had haunted his thoughts for over a hundred years now) and yet, he ignored it. He pretended he didn’t hear it. He was deaf.

“Lorenzo!” the voice called again. “Please, I know it’s you. I know you can hear me.”

Rebekah sighed with relief as Enzo finally stopped and turned, but her gut wrenched when she saw the expression on his face.

“Come to make sure you’d gotten rid of me, I see?” Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he said, his tone hard, “I’m leaving. I just need to make sure Caroline’s okay first.”

Rebekah shoved down the burning questions that sprang to mind about Caroline and her relation to Enzo to explain herself instead.

“I came to apologise,” she blurted with an exhale of breath. “How I behaved…I–I shouldn’t have treated you like that. It was rude, and I’m sorry.”

“Was there anything else?” he replied cooly.

“Yes, actually.” Rebekah paused, looking away. “I’m sorry, Lorenzo, but I’m afraid I don’t understand?”

“What do you mean?”

“You came all this way to find me…why?”

“I told you why ” Enzo answered.

“Just to thank me?”

He inhaled deeply.

“Do you remember what you told me all those decades ago? Your deepest confession?” he asked. “You told me what you feared most was that you’d end up on your own, all alone. Is that still true?”

Rebekah shifted uncomfortably, “Eternity is a long time,” she sighed.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Tell me something–” he slid his hands into his jean pockets “–why did you come after me?”

“I–I didn’t want things to end this way, I suppose. I didn’t want you to walk away and hate me,” Rebekah answered bashfully.

Without either of them realising it, they had drifted nearer. Close enough to touch.

“I could never hate you, gorgeous.”

Rebekah felt a familiar surge of affection brewing in her chest.

“Look,” she started, “I’m not the angel you think I am I–”

“I’m certain of it,” Enzo cut in with a smirk.

Rebekah smiled demurely. “You really haven’t changed at all, have you?”

He gazed at her fondly for a moment.

“Look, I’m not saying we should find a chapel and get hitched. I’m saying…” He paused and gazed at her fondly for a moment. “I’m saying, maybe get to know me? Take some time to see the man that I’ve become?” he suggested.

“And then, after that, if you still can’t stand me you’re perfectly within your rights to run for the hills.”

“That’s a reasonable request I suppose,” she nodded, reining in her amusement. “But you need to stop looking at me like that if we decide to go steady.”

“Looking at you like what?” Enzo asked pretending to be aghast.

“Like. That.” Rebekah insisted, removing what little space there was between them to wrap her arms around his neck.

“Can’t help it,” he murmured. “You’re still the most beautiful thing my eyes have ever seen.”

Without wasting any more time, Rebekah closed the gap between them entirely by brushing her lips against his in a slow, tender kiss that left him lightheaded. Enzo planned to savour this moment, the one that he’d dreamt of for a large portion of his life, but his ardour got the better of him as he pulled Rebekah harder against him and wrapped his strong arms around her.

“You should consider yourself lucky. I don’t wear down a perfectly good pair of heels on these streets searching for just anyone,” she said when they drew back.

“Oh trust me,” Enzo beamed, “I consider myself the luckiest man in the world.”

Fin.

[gravitascivics]

“A BUBBLING BREW?”

The nation is large with a multitude of different culturally based populations.  J. D. Vance wrote a best-selling book concerning one them. That would be the low-income population that resides in what is commonly called the Appalachian region.  Using Vance’s term, they are referred to as “hillbillies.” This region is solidly “red,” that is, they vote Republican in election after election.  They were part of the coalition that got Trump elected to the White House.  To understand the nation’s current political landscape, understanding this population seems important.

         This blog, from time to time, will describe Vance’s take on this population and make comment on what civics students should focus on regarding these Americans.  That effort, in turn, will be guided by federation theory.  Central to such guidance is the emphasis that theory places on how and to what degree Americans feel federated among themselves – hence the name of the theory.

         Reading Vance’s account of these people reminds one of how Americans of an earlier time are remembered.  “Reminds” is a good term; it is not mirroring these earlier accounts, but describing a people that resemble an earlier America, perhaps to an exaggerated degree.  But this is vague, one can be more precise.

         Starting with Vance’s overall description, he states:

As one observer noted, “In traveling across America, the Scots-Irish have consistently blown my mind as far and away the most persistent and unchanging regional subculture in the country.  Their family structures, religion and politics, and social lives all remain unchanged compared to the wholesale abandonment of tradition that’s occurred nearly everywhere else.”  [This tradition] comes along with many good traits – an intense sense of loyalty, a fierce dedication to family and country – but also many bad ones.  We do not like outsiders or people who are different from us, whether the difference lies in how they look, how they act, or, most important, how they talk.  To understand me [Vance], you must understand that I am a Scots-Irish hillbilly at heart.[1]

This puts the term parochial, as in what this blogger has called the dominant perspective regarding governance and politics of pre-World War II America – parochial/traditional federalism – to a more intense level.  Perhaps, instead of thinking of this cultural strain as federated, a tribal orientation is more accurate.  This provides the context for such family feuds as the Hatfields and the McCoys – which it turns out was only one of many such feuds that characterized the social life of nineteenth century Appalachia.

Another writer who describes this region is Malcolm Gladwell.  He provides more of an explanatory, versus descriptive, account.

[T]hat region was plagued by a particularly virulent strain of what sociologists call a “culture of honor.”

         Cultures of honor tend to take root in the highlands and other marginally fertile areas, such as Sicily or the mountainous Basque regions of Spain … You probably raise goats or sheep, and the kind of culture that grows up around being a herdsman is very different from the culture that grows up around growing crops.  The survival of a farmer depends on the cooperation of others in the community. But a herdsman is off by himself. Farmers also don’t have to worry that their livelihood will be stolen in the night, because crops can’t easily be stolen unless, of course, a thief wants to go to the trouble of harvesting an entire field on his own.  But a herdsman does have to worry … So he has to be aggressive; he has to make it clear, through his words and deeds, he is not weak.  He has to be willing to fight in response to even the slightest challenge to his reputation – and that’s what a “culture of honor” means.  It’s a world where a man’s reputation is at the center of his livelihood and self-worth.

… So why was Appalachia the way it was.  It was because of where the original inhabitants of the region came from.[2]

And where was that?  They mostly came from the herding regions of Scotland and Ireland and they brought with them the social-cultural attributes like those of the people from Sicily and from the Basque regions.  And that basic disposition leads to a number of cultural traits one can classify as antagonistic toward the “them.”  

Within that social context, one can be quarrelsome with family members, but something else with non-family related people.  Gladwell uses the following terms to describe general behavior patterns in those encounters:  clannish loyalty, criminality, and violence.  And the bulk of such behavior – particularly the violence – was not often for economic reasons, but over or a perceived affront to one’s honor.  That is, the violence tended to be personal.

Actually, other crimes – those aimed at acquiring property, such as mugging a stranger – are lower in this region than in other parts of the country.  Mind one’s “p’s” and “q’s” and one is probably safer in the Appalachian region than in other areas of the US.  But if one even hints at disrespecting a “hillbilly” or his/her family, be forewarned; troubles are likely to befall one.  One needs to take care when visiting an area that is under the sway of a “culture of honor.”  That is, where honor is or nearly is radicalized.

This clannishness helps one make an important distinction.  This writer reacts negatively when he hears such terms as the “American family.”  He understands that whoever says such a thing is only trying to emphasis a notion of inclusion or promoting emotional ties between and among Americans – not a bad sentiment.  But one should use such a term with reluctance.

Obviously, the people of the US – and this cannot be said as thoroughly among the various national populations of the world than that of the US – are not a family. They are the conscious members of a partnership.  The familial analogy tends to make one forget or diminish that constitutional arrangement. It might even encourage the view attributed to the Appalachian culture described and explained above – it sort-of legitimizes such a view.

One can care for a partner because partners share common goals and aims, and it is useful to care for those who one needs to work with to accomplish those goals and aims.  Yes, one can also feel certain friends are close enough to be considered family. But one does not have that feeling for people one does not know.  Is this getting too “picky?”  This writer thinks the point being made should be made.

[1] J. D. Vance, Hillbilly Elegy:  A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis (New York, NY:  Harper Collins Publisher, 2016), 3 (Kindle edition).

[2] Malcolm Gladwell, Outliers, (New York, NY:  Little, Brown and Company, 2008), 166-167.