#but i am currently plagued by many thoughts of violent murder

[reverseexorcist]

Hi! How are you? Can you write some enemies to lovers with Lute if you feel comfortable with that? Like reader is a overlord who likes to fight every extermination day just for fun and Lute sees a worthy rival until they fall in love?

❥ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐧 𝐌𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 ❥

Oh wow I love her such a normal amount like seriously you could ask me anything about her and I would be the most normal person ever about her. But something about enemies to lover Lute with a sinner reader just hits different-

Someone here was having way more fun with the enemies to lovers aspect of this (and it's not Lute.)

(I am sorry I took so long with this request, but it was just so long and I'm juggling multiple blogs, interests and school-work rn so I'm just happy to get this one out. Thank you for being so patient <3)

➲ Lute + !F!Overlord!Reader

➲ Romantic ☒, Platonic ☐

➲ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 Count; 4,532 Words

➲ Warnings/notes; Descriptions of gore, descriptions of body shifting/horror, tsundere Lute, lots of fighting between two idiots who are actually trying to murder each other

Three hours before extermination day. Three hours before the exorcists would descend from Heaven like a plaguing swarm to rid Hell of as many demons as they possibly could. Three hours before you could go dance with death like you usually did and scare the living shit out of winners and sinners alike with your almost insane mannerisms.

Because that's what you did for fun, apparently.

However, unlike the countless times before you'd done this, you were feeling just a little tired. Staying up late to binge the new episode of 'MAMMON'S MAGNIFICENT MUSICAL MID-SEASON SPECIAL' mightn've been the best idea you'd ever had, but it was one hundred percent worth it even as you stood proudly, staring up at the pearly gates of Heaven. From where you stood, they still looked rather bare, and so you didn't think a quick nap beforehand would be all that bad, right?

At least, that was the plan. Just a quick nap before the extermination to get your head in the game - Except you'd forgotten to put a damn alarm on and slept right through the beginning ceremony. As the holy trumpets and guitar riffs echoed throughout the scorching pit of eternal suffering, you were snoozing away peacefully in your Evil Overlord Tower™.

Or, at least, you were.

Something didn't feel right, which was odd, because you had one of the most comfortable beds in all of Hell courtesy of the instinctual fear you spread throughout the ring of pride. And when something wasn't right, you sought to make it right because you didn't deal with shit that annoyed you (such, through the power you held).

A light weight rested across you, evenly spread expertly as if whoever was standing above you was trying not to rouse you from your slumber. For a moment, you thought you'd imagined it. There was no movement from above you, and there was a split second where you considered just letting your mind relax and fall asleep again, but such thoughts didn't get you into your current status. Being an overlord meant destruction and paranoia, the two things you strove to embody.

You barely gave whoever was on top of you time to react, moving swiftly enough that for a split second, your entire body shimmered and turned invisible as you slammed your would-be attacker into the floor.

Your hands fumbled, grappling with a sleek, steel pole that you promptly threw outwards, topping the attacker in front of you over. The room around you shook violently, the lights flickering as your brain caught up with your body, trying its hardest to shake the dregs of unconsciousness from your mind.

Bold stripes stared back at you, a sleek mask emblazoned with threads of angelic steel. The sight jogged your still sleep-hazy brain.

'Oh yeah, extermination day' and you gleefully took a swipe at the exterminator in front of you. You'd just fix the damages later.

But she was fast, swift on her wings and on her feet as she ducked and rolled out of the way. You could see she was stumbling, still recovering from the shock of being thrown halfway across the room. But you could still clearly see that she wielded her weapon with pure fury and raw talent, which was certainly something you weren't used to. Other exorcists relied on the fact that normal demons couldn't hurt them, their fighting sloppy and trivial because of it. The one in front of you actually knew what she was doing.

"You're kinda rude, y'know," Rolling your shoulders, a part of you was miffed for being woken up so rudely. Another part of you was grateful for the wake-up call.

She laughed, deep and sharp. The sound made your heart flutter.

"Demon scum like you don't deserve niceties," Her grin grew, sharp edges stretching upwards. You hummed thoughtfully and shrugged your shoulders.

The exorcist charged forward, striking forward with precision startlingly quickly. But you were quicker - Ducking under the point of her spear and tackling her, grappling with her wings as the two of you rolled across the floor in a writhing mass of fury. Holy steel clashing against the might of an overlord. Deep grooves were carved in your floor, yet, as the exorcist managed to tuck her head and roll with the momentum till she was on her feet in one elegant swoop, you couldn't find yourself caring. Adrenaline coursed through your veins, and you almost laughed as she stabbed at you with her spear once more. You parried it almost expertly, cackling before you managed to grab the pole between your palms.

It almost seemed evenly matched between the two of you, an unstoppable force fighting against an immovable object. The poor spear quivered, bending as you both quarrelled over it like young children until it splintered roughly between your palms, crushed beneath the sheer force you exerted. That seemed to get the exorcist's attention.

She stumbled backwards, no doubt thoroughly pissed off at her now shortened weapon - But even that didn't deter the bloodlust in her step. Half of it was thrown away, the broken half that held no pointed end, and chucked it at your face. It missed, and instead, it rattled ominously somewhere behind you in time with the flickering lights, but with your attention split for just a breath, the exorcist lunged forward and scraped a shallow wound in your forearm. It stung, numbly, and the wisk of air as she jumped warned you belatedly. Crimson trickled tantalisingly down your arm as the air between you sizzled, thick and heavy with some undeterminate feeling that made your blood thrum with electricity.

You cackled, grin growing to match the angel's, jaw splitting further than it probably should've as your bones cracked seamlessly, form growing larger as you felt the power of endless stolen souls burning your flesh. Your head brushed against the ceiling, bending to fit in the limited space - You could only relish in the confusion and fear that rolled over the exorcist's face, quickly masked with the solemn, set expression of a battle-seasoned soldier.

However stoic she seemed, you saw your opening and rocketed forward with speed that seemed unsightly for how big you were, pulling yourself against the floor like the demon you were. With the force of a semi-truck, you slammed the exorcist into the wall, fracturing the framework and no doubt rattling her entire being to her very core. You could feel the point of her spear pressed faintly against your chest, a gentle reminder that you quickly snagged and tossed the item far across the room. 

Face to face, almost nose to nose. A twisted scarl danced across her face, pearly white fangs stained with spatters of golden blood. It was almost beautiful with how it shimmered in the darkness, like liquid stardust.

"You better fucking kill me, hell-spawn," She spat in your face, fingernails carving angry crescents in your skin.

You laughed, because her words were rather cliche, after all.

"Y'know," You mused, "maybe knowing I'm down here will make you try harder next time."

That did not ease her scowl, but that didn't really bother you, because you had other places to be right now - You weren't going to waste your entire extermination day on one singular angel after all.

You threw her out of the nearest window.

She would be fine, with her wings and all, but it was still funny watching the momentary panic spread across her face before she realised the same thing you did.

Furiously, she flared out her banded wings, scattering loose a flurry of black and white feathers, specks of gold blood arcing in the crimson sky around her. Dazed as she was, her fierce eyes flickered and spun before honing in on her mobile target, namely, you. A titan of the underworld, an overlord in hell - An ear-piercing, spine-chilling cackle echoing around the eastern side of the Pentagram as you pulled yourself from your tower, monstrous figure all too elegant for how big you were, hauntingly so.

And that just made her blood boil, to see a sinner escape her clutches and laugh like nothing was wrong - Or worse, to laugh and knock down her subordinates straight from the sky like they were nothing more than bugs. As little as she cared about the fledglings on their first escapades, that was her hard work going to waste because the littles had no idea how to use their wings. 

And that just pissed her off all that much more.

The little exorcist you'd hucked from the top floor window was the furthest from your mind as your galavant around hell started again. She was a little spitfire, but nothing you hadn't ground into the dirt before and gotten away with. Even the array of cuts and slashes littering your body, courtesy of her spear, didn't mean anything beyond a harsh sting that would be gone within the next month. Yet nothing she did was permanent, which is why you didn't exactly pay attention to the screeching war cry of rage followed by a sharp twinge between your shoulder blades.

Which irked you, but not that much. You twisted your neck in an unnatural manner, bones creaking as your form bent in on itself, teeth fastening around the stab-happy angel's wing before wrenching her away from you. The machete she'd snagged from elsewhere remained buried just beneath your shoulder, you absentmindedly reminded yourself to remember it after this whole ordeal was over. Angelic steel was no good when left to fester in an open wound.

It could've been the same angel, probably was for all you knew. All their stripes looked the same, and plenty had horns curved back like hers (you had a collection of similar exorcist helmets lining your basement, and you still struggled to tell them apart when not labelled.)

But it was those eyes - They were different, or her mask was at least. You'd never seen obsidian glass carved with an 'x' like that marked over an eye, but there was something about it that was so alluring. It was shiny, unique, and belonged to an especially bloodthirsty angel, and you had what was probably the perfect spot to display it back in your den.

Greed made you strike out, grabbing at her helmet and tussling with the exorcist as the two of you fell to the ground. You may have had the size advantage, much, much larger than the lean figure writhing beneath you, but she was still incredibly strong. Her wings were annoying too, beating and kicking up dust that made your eyes water and ache, battering against your face and drawing a headache up, thrumming against the back of your skull. But you wanted that helmet more than anything, and she seemed extremely determined to keep it on.

The force of it all sent a splintering crack through the surface, shining a brilliant bright white like the threads of angelic steel melted and spilled like blood as one horn snapped clean off beneath your palm.

Those eyes.

They almost made you falter, as gold as angel blood. They were beautiful.

The exorcist, however, was not as thrilled.

She snarled, whipped her head around and sunk her teeth into whatever of your flesh she could reach.

It was more like a hell-kitten nipping at your skin, but you still flinched and let her go, watching as she slumped, cradling a crooked wing. A swelling of a certain emotion welled in your gut, something that made you feel small and achy and you absolutely hated it, but you couldn't do anything. Or, more aptly, you didn't want to do anything as you merely watched the exorcist flare her wings out, still beating strongly despite the fact one of them surely was broken.

The trumpets sounded. She made a rude gesture (many rude gestures, actually) before she grabbed the discarded weapon and the broken curve of her horn before disappearing back into the flock.

It was almost creepy, with the way your eyes watched her without blinking.

"You-"

"You!"

It was that time of year already.

The puffed-up exorcist looked angry, but no more than the last few times you'd seen her. You'd come to associate her venomous scowl, sharp wings and pointed spear as a sort've unique welcome between the two of you, in the same manner that your oversized overlord form bent out of proportion was a gratuity you reserved for your exorcist and your exorcist alone.

Because it was fun, and something you two did together.

"I want to try something," You mused out loud. The angel in front of you didn't respond to your remark, circling you like a severely ticked-off lion. You didn't expect her to, intently watching her as your neck kept twisting and twisting, bending like an owl.

Even with every muscle in her body tensed, she still wasn't prepared for how fast your strikes were. One and two, sharp against her chest as your hulking silhouette snapped and quashed itself into a far more humanoid one, the exorcist's favourite blade now held loosely between your hands. As if it would make her feel better, you kicked a machete, similar to the one she used in your first fight, toward her. Coated in crimson blood of sinners, yet still undoubtedly sharp.

"Here, now it's more of an even fight," You shrugged your shoulders, stancing up.

She scoffed.

"Is that really the best you can do?" She sneered, tapping her foot and folding her wings back high and proud. You quirked your eyebrow.

"Huh?" Your head tilted just a bit too far to be considered 'cute' or 'puppyish'. The exorcist grumbled.

"Your form. It's shit," She motioned with the tip of her blade. "Tuck your arms in, for fucks sake. No wonder your swings are so sloppy."

For once, you seem flustered and tried your hardest to follow her instructions. Heat swelled in her chest, almost like pride. But she would never be proud of someone like you.

"And speaking of, adjust your grip. Move your dominant hand up and your non-dominant hand down - For the love of anything holy, how can you be so shit with the bare basics!"

"Okay! Sorry!" You shifted your weight and tried to do as she told, almost forgetting where exactly you were. The exorcist only felt her grin grow more sadistic, watching how small you suddenly seemed in front of her, and how pathetic you were at actually using a weapon like a somewhat normal person.

It was sad.

(It reminded her of her bright-eyed, curious fledgling classes. All of them eager to learn about how to serve the lord above.)

"Like this?" You question, insane eyes almost reflecting the same eagerness of her students.

It was all wrong, but that was what she wanted.

"Ha. No."

This time she was the one covering the distance between you two with frightening speed, flinging herself forward with the momentum from her wings. The noise you made plucked at her heart, that startled screech clashing with the harsh sound of metal as you brought her own weapon up against her.

It was a brief moment of weakness, one quickly lost as you found your footing and started swinging. For how amateur your swings were, they were more than halfway decent compared to the littles fighting closer to the portal into Heaven. She could work with this, make it feel like you were actually a challenge instead of just another run-of-the-mill sinner.

She could see the way your eyes were glowing, looking all too content with yourself as you somehow matched her footwork and swordsmanship. You were a bit all over the place, but you were also incredibly smart - Picking up on her unique fighting style that not one other exorcist had, and you were doing it fast. Puffing up, almost preening.

"Aha! Now for some witty back-and-forth banter!" You declared out of nowhere, swings much more confident. She narrowed her eyes, infuriated. Just when she thought you were starting to take this whole thing seriously.

The exorcist remained eerily silent, not even puffs of exhausted breath or grunts with each collision of the blades.

"Huh, yeah, not really sure where to go with that?" You shrugged with the brief lull in fighting, darting backwards and sheathing your weapon with just a tad too much confidence for her taste.

Which, every part of this felt like a trap, but she trusted her own skills enough to not fall prey to the like of a sinner. Expertly, more than expertly, she matched those steps as you fell back, advancing, wings arced out as eyes aglow with holy fire.

Only for you to, once again, take her off-guard with your usual tactic. Darting forward, ducking under her blade and kicking her feet out from underneath her. She didn't make a sound but refused to go down with a fight and grabbed at the back of your outfit.

Her vision briefly went dark, the impact of something heavy crashing against her torso and knocking the wind right out of her. Her helmet cracked again, which was par for the course ever since she started brawling with you every extermination.

"Well, fancy meeting you here," Through the new crack in her helmet, she could almost perfectly make out your face. A bit too perfect, and way too close. Close enough to see her pale reflection in the dark of your eyes.

Your, admittedly, pretty eyes.

She felt like carving her own heart out rather than admitting she'd ever thought that in the first place.

"Get. Off. Me." She snarled. Meanwhile, stars practically glowed in your eyes.

"Oh wow! Dropping the 'Hellspawn' and 'Demon-scum'? Could this be love?" You were clearly joking, but her own heart decided to betray her thoughts, flipping in graceful arcs that she'd seen you perform one too many times.

She bit you again.

Five hours.

It had been five hours into the extermination.

With a ranking tally of two hundred and fifty or so demons, the exorcist figured she was fine to have a quick look around.

Because, through all this time, she'd seen neither hide nor hair of you. She didn't want to admit that she'd been loitering around your tower, knowing your tendency to throw yourself into the fray, dancing like you were tempting a lightning storm. She didn't want to admit that she'd been expecting to see your annoying face peering out at her from a nearby rooftop or to descend upon her like a leaping cat, or even to stroll up and start talking to her like the two of you were old friends. None of that happened.

The streets were rather empty, if you didn't take into account the blazing wrecks of cars, broken corpses and puddles of crimson blood puddling around the divets in sulphur roads. There were no moving, 'living' souls scurrying around, and that was what worried her.

Or, no. Not worried. She wasn't at all worried at the thought of you gutted somewhere, dying in a pool of your own blood, banished to the forever void that came after a second death. No, she was pissed at the thought that someone else had managed to kill you after all those years of the same cat-and-mouse dance. Or, more aptly, cat and fox dance. That honour was rightly hers, and she'd smite down any other exorcist that dared to stand in her way.

 In her way of killing you. Yes.

The exorcist pinned back her wings, sheathing her weapon and scuffing her boot against brimstone in annoyance. This was bullshit.

There was no fun in the exterminations without your jeering taunts, or odd remarks, your instance of fighting absolutely everyone you saw. Along with the annoyance of you ditching her mid-battle to rip feathers from one of her cohorts, along with a certain warmth she felt when you came bounding back towards her, bloodlust in your eyes and that same weapon you'd stolen from her all those years back pointed directly at her.

The angel only stopped once her boot stepped in liquid gold. It rippled, her thoughtful reflection mirrored and shimmering on its surface. Amber ichor, melding into the red from a nearby puddle, the mingling of sinner and winner blood alike.

What was the chance? She reasoned. But only one demon so far had managed to draw blood from an exorcist.

With a set snarl, she followed the trail. Her bootsteps were the only sound ricocheting around the dinky alley she found herself tracing.

"Oh, it's you..." She almost jumped out of her boots at the sound of your voice. Although, it didn't sound like you, per se. It was croaky and weak, dull and mild-mannered to put it lightly.

You were resting against a brick wall, clutching your front, eyes dimmed in the bright light. Squinting, as if a headache was plaguing your every thought.

Beside you, one of her cohorts rested too. Not dead, but her mask was all but shattered, one of her wings horribly ripped. She wasn't sure if she'd ever fly properly again.

But, you were not dead! Which was good news, because it meant she would be the one to finally slit your throat and watch the light drain from your eyes. And you knew it too, with the way your head kept tilted in her direction, a thoughtful twinkle in your eye.

"So, how's your day been?" Still playful, still joking. It was definitely you.

She scoffed.

"How's the blood loss?" She quipped back, the first she'd ever done so. Properly, at least. You laughed wetly, gagging on your own blood. Even she couldn't help but chuckle, dragging the tip of her weapon up until it rested gently over your heart.

Your laughter died down. Her hand was shaking.

Everything around you was quiet, like the two of you were submerged in a solid bubble of silence. Your ragged breathing was the only sound above a whisper, wet and ragged.

"Can I see your face?" Your voice was as soft as she'd ever heard it. Genuine.

She hummed, quirking a single brow. Not that you could see, because of her helm.

"Why would I do that?" She'd meant for it to sound more venomous. It didn't. You tried your hardest to shrug your shoulders, wincing in pain.

"Well," You sucked in a pained breath, "if I have to die here, the last thing I'd like to see is your face." Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, smudging the whorls of gold and red blood alike as they dribbled down your cheeks.

Something within her snapped. Dead. Death. A future forever without you. If she'd thought today's extermination had been boring without you, she couldn't even imagine any more.

That's what she told herself, anyway. A future without you was not one she wanted to live, for any reason.

The clank of angelic steel broke the atmosphere, harsh against the bloody floor. Fingers fuzzy and numbed, clasping as the latches that kept her exorcist helmet together. One flick, then another, a sharp snap. Dark obsidian peeled away, horns lifted till a silver-sharp face so out of place in the depths of hell appeared.

"I was right," You croaked. "You are... Pretty woman."

You devolved into another flurry of hacking coughs. The angel felt her feathers flare up, alarmed.

"Yeah, yeah," You waved her off, "don't show weakness or whatever, thanks lieutenant." Your chest crackled painfully as you just regained some unneeded breaths. The angel in front of you stumbled, anxiously padding forward as her boots clacked against the ground.

"Look, I can die happy now. Was fun fighting against you - Really fun, actually. And look! You finally came out on top this time, eh?" You tried to wink, you really did. It just didn't have the same effect when you were bleeding out in front of her. Which made her stomach drop and her adrenaline spike.

'This goes against everything I've ever done' She squinted, furrowing her brow. Gold eyes almost glowed like hot iron, fingers clasped firmly against the hem of her outfit. 'But, y'know, I could always say I was just trying to save my flockmate.'

And she tugged.

Her shirt ripped, the sound harsh against your ears, but it left her with a hefty chunk of fabric that slid against her chainmail gloves. The Lord would smite her down if he ever found out about this, but chances are, in the belly of hell, it would be a secret between only the two of you.

Hours ticked onwards, slipping through her fingers far too quickly. She was just lucky you were as strong as you were, holding on to your consciousness with all your might as she worked her magic. Stuff the wound, stop the bleeding, heal and hope to everything that was holy that angelic magic didn't sear your flesh the same way their steel did.

Of course, you being you, airy quips were thrown around, keeping the air light as your wound slowly healed. It was nasty, there was no doubt about that, your first permanent scar. But at least this way, you'd make it out with your life.

"How did you even let her catch you off guard?" She questioned you after hours of silence.

"I'll be honest, I thought she was you based on her footsteps," You sighed, exhaling softly as she tugged at your makeshift bandages. You got no proper response outside of her light scoff. Somehow, that still made you burn hot with shame.

In perfect unison, the two of you looked out to the horizon. Golden light spilled down from heaven, the portal slowly growing more and more, ripping open a way back to their holy home. Six minutes till the trumpets would sound, if you had to guess. The angel tutted, disapproving of the way time worked. The thought was enough to make you crack a smile.

"I have to go," She seemed hesitant.

"I'll be fine," Even if hoisting yourself to your feet almost made you black out, lugging yourself back to your tower shouldn't have been a big problem when you could literally see one of the back entrances.

That didn't ease her thoughts. She was thinking, mind ticking away as she thought and thought and thought. She kept thinking, until she slowly reached up and snagged a rounded, down-fluff feather from her puffed-up shoulder. Pristine and warm to the touch, it washed away the blood as she carefully placed it into your shaking palm.

No words were shared between you as she rested you against the wall, letting you steady yourself and she hoisted her fellow exorcist onto her shoulders. After helping her shimmy back into her iconic helmet, she glanced backwards at you before stepping toward the light.

"You better not die before I can kill you." Her words were soft, unlike her sharp exterior. You could only match the assumed small, hidden smile. With a hum, you felt only a single name come to mind.

"Yeah, course I won't Lute."

Rules + Info,

Masterlist,

[jamereadsmanga]

this is going to be a long fucking post but please bare with me.

I think there has been a huge misunderstanding of my argument and that is on me bc my og post was fairly vague. i should also admit that i have not watched aot s4 in about a year so my opinions are not as up to date as I would like them to be. When i made that first post i was just kind of bitching and not really gearing up for a full defense.

regardless, i do appreciate you taking the time to write about your takeaways from the story. nothing that you said is particularly wrong to me. even if i don't fully agree it is not something i would go back and forth with you on. the story is complex, and there are many takeaways one can have. you do not possess the perspective that i take most issue with so i do not have any interest in debunking any of your points.

my original post was just me dumping my thoughts while rewatching the first season and only reflects a part of my issue with aot. my issue is not with the writing persay but rather the overarching narrative and real world implications of the story. within it's universe, it is fine. but when i consider real world experiences and the source of the material (ie coming Japan a country within the imperial core), it's narrative becomes offensive and problematic to me.

i will take a break here to diverge a little and provide context on myself personally. this is just to better contextualize my argument.

i was born and raised in the Caribbean. i still live here and i attend university here. as a result, i am intimately aware with the history of the region, particularly the trans Atlantic slave trade, the plantation system and the road towards independence. i recently did a course in uni that was about gender and yet i am still learning about how the history of slavery continues to inform my own experiences and the current state of the region to this very day.

the fight for independence in the Caribbean was a violent and a bloody one. the harm and dehumanization that was enacted by the Europeans for over 400 years is still felt to this very day. I have spent my entire life being told about all the ways my ancestors were brutalized, raped, murdered and exploited by colonizers and all the pathetic half baked excuses they came up with to justify the actions.

For this reason, i found the story of AOT compelling. the ways in which the Marleyans oppressed the Eldians was very relatable in a discomforting way. From the oppression on the main land, the terrorism on Paradis, to the continued spread of propaganda and fear mongering they shared with the rest of the world. That final episode of season 3 (i don't remember if it was the actual final one but the one about Grisha's back story) was one of the most horrifying and gut-wrenching moments.

for me, AOT was very personal and reflective of my life and continued experiences as a person from a formally marginalized community. and that makes very critical of how these oppressed groups are seen and how their resistance to oppression is treated.

AOT is a Japanese product and it's narrative is heavy influenced by Japan's history of oppression. Japan has been both oppressors and oppressed and that reflects heavily in the way the relationship between Marley and Eldia is developed. however, this causes AOT to suffer from a problem that forever plagues anime and most stories from the imperial core, this self-pitying idea that war is bad because everyone suffers and so we should all stop the wars and stop holding onto history. In efforts to compete with China for dominance of East Asia, the Japanese would have colonized and brutalized a vast number of East Asian countries. To this day,, the Japanese government refuses to acknowledge the violence and harm they enacted on the people of these countries. (i am over simplifying here). The intentional framing of Japan as victims of colonization will refusing to take any form of accountability for their history as colonizers is a prominent theme in Japanese media.

the idea that war is "cyclical" is problematic for a variety of reasons. it is rooted in the colonizer fear that if given the chance to those who were once oppressed will turn around and oppress their oppressors. this belief is heavily reflected in the narrative of AOT through Eren. This where my issue i mentioned in the first part of the post comes from.

Eren is the embodiment of the fears of colonizers. Eren's coldness and blood thirst, the way he is hellbent on getting revenge on Marley, the fact that he is willing to go back in time to cause his own suffering to ensure he gets the power needed to start the rumbling, is problematic and offensive. Eren's story is no longer him experiencing and responding to the actions of his oppressor, it is instead framed as a self-fulfilling prophecy. That he wanted to suffer, that he wanted to take the most violent and harmful route, that the yeagerists just wanted to be like their oppressors. Framing Eren's idea of freedom as the ability to oppress others is dishonest and harmful.

the narrative of AOT, as tight and well written as it, is still rooted in imperialist beliefs and ideas. it's construction of oppression and war is from the perspective of colonizers and results in a very insulting message to those who have experienced colonization.

in the end, eren wishes away the power of the titans and everyone is able to live merrily together. what that actually means, is that no one has to take any form of accountability, no one has to acknowledge the pain and suffering they caused others. the forgive and forget mentality is one that only serves to alleviate oppressors of their guilt and for the oppressed to shamed into compliance.

there is a reason why my history syllabus growing up was so focused on slavery. it was designed that way to ensure that the stories and the suffering of my ancestors are not washed away. it is done with the hope that we will always remember the torment and violence that they faced so that we never allow ourselves to be put back into that position again. continuing to teach and inform people about history does not perpetuate a cycle of war but rather it ensures that those who once engaged in the oppression of these people are forever reminded of their actions and the fight for true liberation is continued.

in conclusion, while i do not disagree with your analysis of the story, it is irrelevant to my actual argument. my issue goes beyond the writing. it is with the real world implications of the story and the narratives that often spread by countries like Japan. The role of violence as a form of resistance is not one of wanting to flip the script but rather about reclaiming the power that was taken by all means necessary. AOT is imperialist propaganda and a self-pitying story told by guilty colonizers to encourage a culture of silence and anti-intellectualism.

it's a damn good show ngl but man that shit really pisses me off sometimes.

rewatching season one of attack on titan and i am again reminded of just how truly terrible the final season was. perhaps this is another case of me not liking the whole idea of faith and destiny driving characters but i truly find the idea that Eren's actions were "out of his control" while simultaneously "his own doing".

I am at the end where he is hesitating to fight Annie and Armin says something particularly provoking, "to rise above our enemies we must abandon our humanity" effectively telling Eren he has to be as ruthless as Annie to win. That he must put aside his humanity and compassion for the greater good. We also see his regret for not ignoring Levi and turning in time to protect the Levi squad. These two moments combine to develop the philosophy that would inevitable cause the rumbling.

Overall, throughout the story we can truly see the anger festering in Eren and pushing him to a point of no return. For me, the true breaking point wasn't even unlocking the past memories but rather seeing the sea. By that point, Eren's sense of reality and understanding of freedom was completely skewed. He spent the story motivated to see the sea, under the impression that that was all that remained. Upon achieving his goal he also learns that is not the truth and there is so much more out there.

From that point onward, Eren lost sight of his goal but maintained that anger and relentless that was instilled into him over the past for seasons. He became a slave to his own rage, detached from his own humanity and unable to cope with the pain he had been grappling with.

more than anything else, we see his comrades suffer due to their own neglect of his psychological needs. continually pushing to the point of breaking over and over again. similarly driven by their own goals but underestimating the toll it had taken upon him.

in the end, death was his only saviour. freeing him from his own mental prison. given Eren the freedom he has always craved. Finally allowing him rest after a decade of fighting.

to reduce all of that development and pain down to some weird convoluted destiny plot is egregious. There was no need for all that time traveling crap, you already had a character whose anger and irrationality was well defined in the story.

but then again, i can see why a japanese manga would not want to imply that oppression and systemic violence can cause grave damage to someone's psyche. that would require a lot of accountability on their part. instead, find a way to blame Eren for his own suffering and destroy your wonder allegory for trauma.

[nev3rfound]

resonate : b.b

in a world after the blip, like many you find yourself in therapy. yet, you run into someone you never anticipated meeting. (4k - it’s long, i couldn’t stop but i hope you like it!!)

masterlist / permanent taglist / etsy shop - requests open!

requested: yes! by the lovely @interestedcas​ - thank you sm for the request angel :) (i’ve changed one or two details around, but i hope that’s okay!) warnings: mentions of depression, murder, being in therapy, angst but fluffy ending 

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website without being credited, it has not been approved to be shared by me. all rights reserved.)

It doesn’t matter how many times you visit, you still despise going to her office. The routine never changes; you walk into the lobby and sign in, scribbling an attempted signature before entering the elevator.

Four floors up, you exit and simply wait on the sunken grey sofa. The magazines are out of date- from before everything happened. No one ever talks to one another, too lost in their own thoughts whilst your head remains too empty.

And then something changes. You can hear her door opening and a heavy sigh from someone exiting. “James,” She calls after the person emerging from her office who keeps his head low.

You can’t help but watch the spectacle before you, clad in leather and dark jeans, his face shielded from your view as he passes you by.

Doctor Raynor stands in the waiting room with her hands on her hips, notepad in hand as she mutters something under her breath.

“Hey, Doc.” You wave, breaking her deep thought as she looks over to you with that set frown across her lips.

“Y/n,” Doctor Raynor walks toward you, lowering her notebook into her pocket. “sorry for the wait, come on through.”

Rising to your feet, you follow behind her as you walk through the bleak corridors lined with framed photos of brighter scenes; couples on a beach during sunset, animals on a farm and your personal favourite- fireworks in New York City.

“So,” Closing the door, Raynor takes her seat opposite you, observing you as you lean back on the large couch. “how are you doing this week, Y/n?”

“Fine, I guess.” Shrugging your shoulders is an automatic response to those words. Yet, it’s never enough to keep Raynor happy as she opens her notebook. “You really have something to write already, after one sentence?” You remark, tutting under your breath as you look around the room whilst she scribbles on her pages.

“You know the whole purpose of coming here is to talk.” She comments, now looking up at you. “Let’s try again, shall we? How are you doing this week?”

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you stare blankly back at her. “Why’d your last patient storm out like that?” Avoiding her question, you can see her jaw clenching as she leans back in the armchair. “Guess someone else was having a bad day, huh?” You chuckle dryly, and to your surprise, she nods along.

“Everyone has bad days,” She remarks. “some worse than others.”

“Tell me ‘bout it.” You respond, bringing your legs up as you sit cross-legged and hug the nearest cushion into your lap. “I, I had another nightmare,” You admit, trying to ignore the sound of her pen against paper. “it wasn’t as graphic, or, violent.”

“What happened this time?” Doctor Raynor asks, averting her attention from her notebook as you bite your lower lip, unaware of how hard you’re biting down until you feel blood against your tongue. “Y/n?” Snapping her fingers, you emerge from your thoughts and wipe your lip, ignoring the crimson on your fingertips.

“I just saw them, lying there whilst the building was burning.” You try to ignore the sound of cries, distant sirens and pleas for help in the back of your mind. “But there wasn’t any blood, they were just lying there like they were fine, just, sleeping.”

“And why do you think that is?” Raynor taps her pen repetitively.

“Is there a reason? Some sort of coping mechanism or mental response?” You ask, turning it back on her as she purses her lips, contemplating her response.

“It can be perceived as you purifying them,” She suggests. “trying to see them as innocent.”

“But they weren’t.” You quickly comment. “No one was during that time.”

“What about yourself?” Raynor questions and you scoff loudly.

“Course I wasn’t innocent during that, I mean,” You motion to the room you’re currently in. “I’m here, aren’t I?” You laugh, feeling your nails digging into the cushion on your lap.

“Listen, Y/n, you have to break through this. Have you tried writing down about these nightmares after they happen?” You nod and Doctor Raynor shuffles in her seat, now resting her arms against her legs. “How about you get some fresh air? Have you tried contacting anyone you lost touch with since the blip?”

“They don’t know who I am anymore.” You mutter.

“Get a grip, Y/n. You’re not the lead in a rom-com.” Raynor sighs.

“You’re kinda mean, you know that, right?” You snap back, and she simply holds her hands up in defence. “I’ll try again this week, maybe I’ll meet a nice guy at a coffee shop.” The sarcasm rolls off your tongue as you stand up. “This was fun, Doc,” You flash a smile, ignoring the abrupt closing of her notebook.

“Y/n,” Doctor Raynor drags your name out as you reach the door.

“Can’t wait for next week!” You wave slowly whilst your back faces the door, unaware of the strong wall you collide against. “Oof.” A noise escapes your lips as you quickly turn around.

Forcing your gaze upwards, you recognise the unapologetic stoic expression from anywhere. He was listed amongst those lost in the blip, one of the fallen Avengers.

Yet, standing before you he seems softer. His eyes remain locked on you despite Doctor Raynor nearing you both.

“James, decided to try our session again?” Doctor Raynor comments, and you break your focus from the former soldier.

“I’ll see you next week, Doc.” Your tone softens as you slip past Bucky and quickly walk down the corridor, unaware of his eyes following you, wishing he at least introduced himself.

“You can try again next week, James. She'll be back.” Doctor Raynor pulls the door further open, and with his head hanging low, Bucky nods to himself before taking up your seat.

*

Screaming yourself awake, you heave a breath as you clutch your chest, trying to focus on controlling your heart rate.

Tears stream down your cheeks uncontrollably. “Y/n?” Your roommate calls out, knocking lightly on your door. “Can I come in?” She asks quietly, peering through the door to see you sat upright with one hand covering your mouth whilst the other grips the bedsheets. “Oh, babe.” She hums, walking over and sits beside you.

The two of you sit in silence for a while, allowing you time to process what just happened, the sight of their body beneath your feet, your hands coated in crimson as the flames roared through the windows, shattering in an instant. “Why is it we can never remember dreams, but we always remember our nightmares?” You think aloud into the darkness, glancing over to see it was only 1 in the morning.

“I, I don’t know.” She mutters. “Can I get you anything?”

Shaking your head, your roommate rises to her feet. “I think I’m going to get some fresh air.” You state, tearing the covers from your body as you grab your jacket, slipping it on over your pyjamas.

“Y/n, I love you but it’s 1am. It’s not exactly safe to go out.” She crosses her arms over her chest, ignoring you shrugging your shoulders in response. “At least let me come with you.”

“It’s fine, really.” You object, walking towards the front door knowing you've experienced a lot worse during the blip whilst she was absent, one of the missing. “I’ve got my phone, I’ll be back in a bit.”

Before she can say anything else, you walk out and close the door quietly behind you, craving solitude from the one place you’ll know you can get it.

Feeling the cool chill of Autumn creeping in, you tug your jacket further across your chest and bury your hands into the deep pockets. You fiddle with the remanents of tissue in the left pocket, picking it apart to suppress the memories of the nightmare that begin to plague your thoughts once more.

Your feet lead the way whilst your mind remains preoccupied, unaware of the dewy grass beneath your sneakers and the quiet conversations occurring across the park.

Sitting down, you can feel the coolness dampening your trousers, but you’re too lost to care; and seemingly too oblivious to notice the man approaching you with a deep-set frown.

“It’s not exactly wise to be out alone this late you know.” He tells you, standing a few feet away from you whilst your eyes remain locked on the trampled dandelion in front of your scuffed sneakers. “Is everything okay?”

You force yourself to nod. “Yeah, thanks.” You mutter, hearing him shuffle closer until he’s sat by your side, allowing a gap between you both as he sighs loudly. “Why’re you sitting with me? There’s an entire park for you to enjoy.” You remark, now glancing over to the stranger who notices you tense. “You’re,”

He simply nods. “Yeah.” Bucky lowers his head, knowing you’d recognise him for that reason, of course, that’s all he’s known for.

“You’re the guy from Raynor's office, right?” You finish, and Bucky lifts his head up, a genuine small smile crossing his lips as he nods.

“Yeah.” His voice is softer now, his heart rising in his chest. “I’m James.” He holds his gloved hand out, and you accept it.

“Y/n.” You shake it before hiding your hand once more into your pocket. “So, what’s wrong with you then?” You chuckle dryly. “Traumatic childhood? Oh, how about PTSD?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Something like that.” He remarks, looking up at the stars pinpricked in the sky. “So why’re you out here then?”

“I could ask you the same,” You retort, glancing over to focus on him, having only briefly noticed him the other day at the bleak office. Yet here, he seems calm, his expression is relaxed as opposed to stoic, you could even say he seems happy at a stretch. “but I won’t, ‘cause I’m not Raynor.”

“Coulda fooled me.” Bucky jokes with ease as he hears you laugh quietly. “The pyjamas really add to it I’ll admit.” He glances down, quickly noticing you rolling your eyes, but there’s only humour lining your expression, no sign of disgust.

“I, I couldn’t sleep.” You speak up, bringing your legs to your chest as you wrap your arms around them, keeping them in place. “Nightmares, you know?”

Nodding knowingly, Bucky turns his attention to the homeless man curled up on the bench, a knife catching his gaze.

“Do you wanna go for a walk? I know from experience that usually helps me clear my head.” Bucky suggests, rising to his feet as he holds his gloved hand out for you.

“And why would I do such a thing? I barely know you, James.” You remind him, looking up at his hand before lifting your eyes up to meet his.

“True,” He hums, secretly relieved that you don’t know him. “at least let me walk you home?”

Hearing the homeless man beginning to stir and muttering nonsense, you sigh before taking Bucky’s hand as he pulls you up with ease. You almost fall into his chest, but you force your hand out to rest on his shoulder to stop yourself.

“Sorry,” You mutter, focusing on how your shoes are almost touching his.

Breathing out a laugh in your hair, Bucky shrugs his shoulder. “No worries, doll.” It slips out too easily, but you don’t seem to notice as you walk alongside Bucky.

The two of you walk through the streets in comfortable silence. For once, you don’t feel obliged to talk through the short walk, that you have to somehow convince him that you’re feeling fine; because he knows how it feels.

You can mentally list over one hundred questions you could potentially ask him about his past, about the 40′s and who he once was. But you know it isn’t fair to delve into someone else’s memories, invade into something he might not fully remember. So tonight, he remains as James from Doctor Raynor's office, and you’re content with just that.

“Well, this is me.” You motion to the front door of the small apartment building, noticing your lamp is still on in your room. “Thanks again for walking me back, James.”

“Anytime.” Bucky smiles. “I guess I’ll erm,” He stumbles over his words, internally screaming at himself to just ask for your number or to take you out for coffee sometime. “I’ll see you around.” He nods, unable to form the words he wishes he could say. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” You smile before opening the front door, disappearing out of sight as Bucky turns on his heels, about to force himself to ask for your number.

“Next time, Buck.” He mutters to himself, knowing Raynor will give him shit for not trying hard enough when he next visits her.

*

“-stupid fucking elevator!” You groan loudly as the doors finally open and you stumble out, oblivious to Bucky exiting Raynor's office and standing in the waiting room, hearing you coming his way.

Looking around, Bucky shuffles the outdated magazines and takes a seat. He tugs on his trousers and his jacket, wishing he wore something different this morning if he knew you’d be coming today.

As you turn the corner, the anxieties slowly ease when Bucky smiles your way. “Morning.” Bucky waves, trying to hide how fast his heart is beating in his chest as you walk toward him apprehensively.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” You state, looking at the options before you as the waiting room remains empty beside the two of you.

Yet, before you can fully run through your options on where would be best to sit, Bucky moves along on the grey sofa, allowing you room to sit beside him.

“I just, er, finished.” He mutters, unsure where to focus.

“And you decided to hang out at the happiest place on Earth for the sake of it?” You raise a brow to him.

“I was leaving, but then I heard you.” Bucky mentally applauds himself, knowing Sam would be proud once he tells him. “Not to sound creepy or anything,” He quickly adds, but you’re laughing to yourself, shaking your head happily.

“Not creepy at all, James.” You assure him, giving him a playful nudge of his arm. “So, solve any deep routed trauma today?” You joke with ease, something Bucky is secretly thankful for.

Usually, in the waiting room, there’s a man in his fifties who shakes with nerves. He’s never met Bucky’s gaze once, refuses to.

“Gettin’ there.” Bucky tells you, now turning his body toward yours as he rests his arm over the couch. “Listen, Y/n,” He starts, only to be cut off by the sound of the door opening and Doctor Raynor presenting herself.

“James? You’re still here?” The Doctor questions, clearly surprised until her eyes pan over to see you sat beside him. “Hi Y/n, come on through.” She motions and you stand up.

“Wish me luck.” You wink to Bucky, oblivious to the near heart palpitations you cause as the door closes behind you.

Averting his attention to the dusty clock, Bucky contemplates his next move. He could leave now, and simply hope he’ll see you again next time he visits. Or, he could wait for you. You could only be an hour at the most, and it isn’t Wednesday so Yori isn’t anticipating a lunch trip either.

So, Bucky leant back on the sofa, closing his eyes to stop himself from homing in on the conversation on the other side of that door.

“Well, I’ve got to say, you seem happier today.” Raynor remarks.

“I guess I am.” You honestly answer, not forcing your self-defence shield up before your eyes for the first time in a while. “I, I’ve not had a nightmare in three days.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

You breathe out a sigh. “Relieved? But I don’t know like I’ve gotten so used to reliving it, and everything that happened and now not seeing it feels,” You pause as you grab a hold of the cushion beside you. “alien.”

“That’s perfectly normal, Y/n.” Raynor assures you. “Simple things such as distractions can often cause nightmares to diminish, or perhaps new people in your lives who cause a positive influence.” She trails off, turning her head toward the closed door; motioning to the man sat in the waiting room.

“James?” You scoff lightly, trying to brush it off. However, Doctor Raynor notices you shift as you pick up the cushion, relaxing it on your lap. “No, he’s, I barely know him.” You tell her, hearing her hum in response.

“Do you know about him, though?” Raynor questions, watching as you nod slowly.

“Of course I do,” You say sadly. “I remember the news broadcasts and when the blip happened, him being among those lost.” You explain, fiddling with the hem of the cushion as a distraction.

Outside the room, Bucky can feel his heart sink. You know who he is, and what he’s done. How could he think someone like you could trust him, get to know him after his past?

“He’s changing though,” The words leave your lips quickly, and Bucky tilts his head up toward the door once more. “I, I don’t know how to explain it, but he seems like a good guy.”

Scribbling in her notepad, Doctor Raynor nods along. “I can’t comment due to patient confidentiality, Y/n.” She shrugs, looking past you and up toward the small camera hidden in the ceiling light. “But, I will say he’s mentioned you.”

A gentle laugh leaves your lips as you raise a brow. “So much for confidentiality there, Doc.” Pausing, you think back to the other night when he found you in the park and walked you home. He didn’t say much, but then again he didn’t need to. His company alone was warm, and it was since that night your nightmares stopped.

“What’re you thinking, Y/n?” Raynor tilts her head, trying to gauge your current thought process.

Glancing up, you stare blankly back at her. “What if my nightmares come back?” You sadly ask. “What if them stopping was just a temporary fix? I, I don’t want to see it anymore, I don’t want to wake up thinking my hands are coated in their blood.” Tears build up in your eyes for the first time in days, threatening to spill over like your misconstrued thoughts.

“Have you practised any of your coping methods since I last saw you?”

You pause, looking up as tears fall from your eyes. “Yeah,” You breathe out. “I went to the park, the one down the street.” You slowly explain, your ears perking up at the familiar sound of her pen against paper. “And, and James was there.”

“So, since that night, you haven’t?” Doctor Raynor trails off at the motion of your head shaking. “Alright,” She closes her notebook over and places it on the floor beside her. “Y/n, I want you to go out there, talk to James and ask him out or something.”

“I, I can’t do that.” Tensing up, you tighten your grip on the cushion that previously remained relaxed against your lap. “That’s just dumb.” You defend yourself, ignoring your heart that’s been thinking about the man since that night.

“Dumb or not, it’s worth a try.” Raynor leans back, crossing her arms having listened to an identical conversation with Bucky just over an hour before.

“Is that it then?” You ask.

“Until you have something else to tell me,” Doctor Raynor rises to her feet as she approaches the door whilst you remain seated, apprehensive to face James whenever you’ll next see him.

“Am I just meant to find him somehow?” You quietly ask in the Doctors direction, hearing the door creep open.

Unaware of the small smile crossing her lips, she glances back at you. “I’m sure you will, Y/n.” She comments, returning to her seat whilst you head to the door, slipping out without any further discussion.

Yet, as you glance up, you freeze.

“James?” Utterly perplexed, Bucky half-heartedly waves to you. “I, why’re you still here?” You step forward, only to witness Bucky stepping backwards.

“You know who I am?” Sadness drips from his words as he struggles to meet your gaze.

“James,” You speak up, but Bucky shakes his head before he brushes past you, heading toward the elevator.

Remaining glued to the spot you’re standing in, you simply watch the elevator doors open as Bucky slips inside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Doctor Raynor sighs loudly, standing in the doorway. “Go!” Watching you walk away, a smile ghosts her lips as she reflects on the pair of you, both lost souls so close to finding a home.

Without needing to be told twice, your feet suddenly move with ease. You’re running through the bleak corridors, seeing blurs of colour crossing your peripheral vision as you reach the stairwell.

“Stupid.” Bucky mutters to himself. How could he have gotten his hopes up?

Exiting the building, Bucky takes the left turn and walks down the street, burying his gloved hands in his pockets.

“James!” You yell, puffing heavily as you slam the office doors open, looking around for any sign of him.

Upon hearing you call his name, Bucky pauses and dares to look over his shoulder to see you wiping your face. “Fuck.” You mutter, burying your face in your hands, only flinching and moving when a hand rests on your shoulder.

Looking up, those sweet blue eyes home in on yours. “Wanna go to the park?” Bucky calmly suggests, relieved when you nod and walk alongside him in silence, the only sound between you both being you sniffing and the hammering of his heart against his chest.

As the pair of you reach the large metal gate, Bucky allows you to walk ahead whilst he holds it open. Usually, you might have a joke or suave comment to make, but today you mutter a thank you before he returns to your side.

“James,”

“Y/n,”

You both pause, interrupting one another as you stop in the middle of the pathway, ignoring the laughter of children around you playing happily.

“I’m sorry,” You start the conversation whilst he remains quiet by your side. “I didn’t want to say anything or bring it up as I know what it’s like to be known by your past actions.” Furrowing your brows, you try to ignore the child screaming and crying ahead of you, watching their Mother pick them up and cradle them close in her arms.

Bucky follows your line of vision, seeing the Mother sway side to side as her child’s cries begin to subside.

“I just wanted to get to know you.” Whispering the sentence you can’t help but close your eyes as it simply hangs in front of him, unsure whether to accept or decline. “And if you don’t that’s perfectly fine, I’ll just walk back that way and, and you can go that way.” Opening your eyes, you point in two differing directions.

And to your surprise, Bucky breathes out a laugh at your crossed arms. “I, I’d like to get to know you too, Y/n.” He smiles, mentally repeating everything he’s talked about with Doctor Raynor. “I’m no longer the Winter Soldier, my name is James Barnes.” He mutters to himself, aware of your eyes on him as you kick some stones beneath your feet, scuffing the white of your sneakers.

“I’m not a killer anymore. I’m not a monster, nor an agent.” You breathe out, listening to Bucky shifting beside you. “I’m just me,” Looking up, you shyly smile at him as he mirrors your reaction. “just Y/n.”

Holding his hand out, you notice his glove is gone. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/n.”

With brief hesitancy, you accept his hand, revelling in the warmth as it weaves through your skin, causing goosebumps to ignite. “It’s lovely to meet you too, James.”

Lowering your hand, you don’t notice that it still remains in his as you both walk through the park. There’s a lot to be uncovered from you both, but maybe, just maybe doing it together won’t be so bad.

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[lewdbabies]

~My pet~

warning:/ Nsfw, 18+ MDNI, degradation, Choking, raw sex, rough sex, gore, explicit language and content

sukunax reader smut

part 2 is posted on my page enjoy 😉

The sun relentlessly beats down on your exposed flesh above the water, A thick blanket of fog covers the surrounding area making it nearly impossible to see in the distance. You close your eyes sinking deeper into the hot spring allowing it to swallow you all the way up to your neck. Day time baths weren’t a regular reoccurrence of yours, you preferred bathing under the stars under the protection of the night sky. Just The thought of someone catching you NAKED made your face red hot. You were alittle insecure about your body growing up in a village where beauty was The foundation for your future added a lot of pressure onto your self esteem. It was drilled into each and every young woman if their body was not perfection they’d live a sad life with an awful husband. You never let others see how much this bothered you, you held your head up and radiated confidence even if it isn’t how you truly felt.

“-crack-“

A branch. Your head snaps at the sound your arms impulsively reaching for your exposed chest.

“What do we have here” a monstrous voice hisses behind the fog.

Your heart is beating out of your chest, you scramble out of the water grabbing your satin robe from the ground.

“Who are you?!” You stumble backwards deeper into the lush wooded area. Your feet scream in pain with each step.

“No need for introductions, I am here merely for a day time snack” the voice is closer now. You can make out a towering silhouette it’s frame oozing with demonic cursed energy. You spin on your heels ignoring the stabbing pains shooting through you. You run aimlessly desperate for any chance of escape, The curse chases after you with murderous intent destroying all life that stands in its path.

Growing weaker you take refuge behind the nearest tree pulling your knees to your chest and desperately covering your mouth.

“It isn’t polite to play with your food come on out ,my sweet” you here a strained gagging before a foreign red liquid burst from behind striking the tree opposite of you. The tree began to melt and decay instantly turning into a bubbling rotten liquid spilling into the surrounding plant life.

‘If that touches me...I’m dead’ You think to yourself thinking of the best possible plan for survival.

You could stay hidden in hopes he will give up and leave or you could make a run for the temple. As far back as you can remember the elders have always reminded you to never enter the temple. The temple is a forbidden place but no one ever talked about why that is. You’d always wondered what resided in that temple ,you guessed it had to be some sort of demonic entity. Logically speaking big fish eats little fish and if you could lure the curse there you might be able to escape while it is distracted by they mystery monster. It was settled, the plan was reckless stupid even but it was your only option.

You dash forward zigzagging through the trees, you could see the temple right ahead of you so close yet so far.

You begin to yell so loud it feels like your throat is being ripped apart.

“HELP IS ANYONE HERE PLEASE HELP ME PLEAS-“ Burning. Deep excruciating Heat seeps into the entire left side of your body. You’ve been hit. The red liquid bubbles up chewing away at the fabric covering your skin and burrowing itself into your now exposed flesh. You let out a blood curdling screech clawing at the bloody exposed wound.

“I am trying to rest!” A voice booms through the air. You fall to your knees locking eyes with the male figure you can barely make out.

You reach towards the figure whispering “Run” before falling unconscious.

~

Tap. Tap. Tap. ‘Is someone... pacing?’ You question internally. You’ve been Aware for a while now listening carefully and analyzing each and every sound. So far You’ve been able to make out voices, Female voices Talking amongst themselves gossiping about the ‘mystery woman’ as they changed the water near your bed side. This presence was different it was cold and silent, observing your every movement. Tap. They are coming closer. Tap. Your body tenses. Tap. A shiver runs down your spine. You clench the sheets beneath you praying.

“I can smell your fear...” a rough calloused finger trails your cheek sending a current through your core.

Your eyes dart underneath your closed eyelids tears brimming, you attempt to swallow the lump lodged in your throat.

“Speak.” He growls low and deep.

You’re conflicted, You’d have to face him sooner or later playing dead can only last for so long. If he wanted you dead you’d be dead by now.

You peek through your eyelashes, and become face to face with...A man?

With further inspection you notice the strange markings lining his porcelain skin.

His Ivory robe hangs slightly open giving a clear view of the Dark lines decorticating his entire torso. His eyes are locked on you staring menacingly through his strawberry locs. You gaze into his pools of honey drowning in them. Despite the fear deep in your chest blood rushes to your cheeks in an instant.

“Who are you” his breath tickles your face.

“I-uh my name is Y/N”

He inches closer exploring every inch of your face, you scrunch your nose in protest.

“Who are you” his voice grows darker sending chills through your body.

“I already told you who I am” you bite back.

“ Well let me rephrase my question...What...are you”

You take a moment and think to yourself ‘what am I? What kind of question is that’ you raise your brow a look of frustration washes over your face.

“I don’t understand what you mean” he squints at your response.

Your attention suddenly averts to your arm , the last thing you remember was clawing at your own melting flesh yet there was no pain at all. Your arm is completely bandaged but you were certain they weren’t necessary. Your arm felt...healed, how long had you been here? You begin to panic wondering how much time had gone by.

“No human could sustain such an injury and survive now I’m going to ask you once more what...are you” his voice is dripping with viciousness it flows through you sending heat between your thighs.

“I am y/n a poor village girl who sells art in the city, my father is a farmer, my mother is dead, I live in a small run down home surrounded by land that is near impossible to harvest, I am regretful to say but I am human.” He sighs raising his hand to your throat claws grazing your neck. A warm droplet of blood trickles down your throat you swallow back the lump forming.

“Do you know who I am?” You stare at him watching the chaotic energy grow around him consuming his entire form. It swirled violently in a tsunami of Darkness stronger than any cursed energy you’d seen before.

Curses plagued your village all the time it was apart of your everyday existence but this was on another level. Each year official’s would come and host a challenge for the villages most “gifted”. A test to figure out who was gifted with spiritual abilities that could help the disposal of curses. You always knew you were gifted you could see past the blanket of reality, but you were weak physically unable to protect yourself and others on the battlefield. You decided to stay home and live out your days in the village with your father after a few failed attempts at the test. During these exams you’d seen many terrifying creatures but him...He was the embodiment of destruction nothing you’d ever witnessed before.

“You’re a curse...” His laugh rumbles deep within his chest,You grow irritated.

“My pet...” he brushes your cheek with the rough pad of his thumb.

He leans down lips brushing your ear,his breath fanning your skin.

“Ryomen Sukuna” he whispers.

Your eyes widen as your body paralyzes with fear. The strongest Demon to ever walk the earth is standing inches from your face. He smirks at your reaction his tongue tracing his bottom lip in approval.

You always seemed to stumble into misfortune situations but this... this is otherworldly.

[unpeumacabre]

my kingdom for a horse: chapter 6

the year is 1601, a messenger has been sent to dongnae, and he has not returned. lord cho-hak-ju advises the joseon king to send crown prince lee chang to dongnae to investigate, but the plot he unravels there threatens the safety of the entire kingdom, and the stability of the dynasty.

a rewriting of kingdom, and lee chang finds love.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Lee Chang/Yeong-shin

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr might mess up the formatting + more extensive author’s notes on the story)

Count: 8k

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“What do you mean,” Lee Chang says stonily, “when you say that my father is sick?”

“It is exactly as I have said, Your Highness,” Cho Hak-ju says quietly, and his voice is obsequious to the extreme. “His Majesty fell sick with smallpox two days ago, and he has been bedridden ever since. It is extremely contagious, and the Empress has asked that Your Highness refrain from visiting your father, for fear of catching the pox.”

“And yet she visits him without fear,” Lee Chang says, unable to stop the bitterness from slipping through to his voice. “If I may express my concern for my mother’s health… Surely it is too treacherous for her and my unborn brother to be exposed to such danger.”

“The Empress takes all necessary measures to keep herself safe,” Cho Hak-ju says, still in that odious tone of his. “Furthermore, she is young and healthy. Your Highness has just returned from a difficult trip, and you must take care of your body. It would not be advisable for you to expose yourself to the king as of now. Please be assured that we have employed the best of physicians to care for His Majesty, and they have assured us that he will recover soon.”

“I am his son!” Lee Chang shouts, finally unable to contain his fury. “I must see him. Is it not permissible for a son to visit his bedridden father, especially when this son is the Crown Prince of this nation?”

He whirls around and storms in the direction of the palace, but it is not long before the clear peal of an unsheathed sword rings through the air, and he stops as he feels the edge of a blade at his neck.

“Your Highness,” Beom-il says, “The Empress has issued her command. No one is to enter the king’s palace but the Chief Councillor and the Empress.”

Lee Chang turns around, very slowly. He looks at Beom-il, whose eyes are alight with some kind of unholy glee, despite Mu-yeong’s sword also levelled at his neck.

“You dare?” he says, softly. “You, a mere general of the army, dare draw your weapon on a member of the royal family?”

“Your Highness,” Beom-il murmurs again, “The Empress has given her orders. You are to obey, or I will have no choice but to defend the Empress’ command. It is for your own good, you know,” and he adds this with a small smile which shows far too many teeth.

“I am not afraid of you,” Lee Chang whispers. “I, who have been through hell and back. Draw my blood if you dare.”

There is a moment of silence, and Beom-il draws back marginally, as if in surprise at his sudden bravery. Lee Chang seizes the chance to continue striding briskly in the direction of the king’s palace.

He throws open the doors with little further resistance, with Beom-il, Cho Hak-ju, Mu-yeong and an entourage of Beom-il’s subordinates following closely behind. Lee Chang makes his way through the corridors of the palace, through the paths he knows all too well from his childhood.

When he thrusts the doors to his fathers’ chambers open, somehow it is anticlimactic to see the king seated there on his bed, reading a scroll and sipping tea. He does not look severely ill at all.

Cho Hak-ju and Mu-yeong follow quietly behind him, and shut the door – thankfully, Beom-il stays outside. Thankfully, because if Lee Chang has to look one more moment upon his smug smirking face, he does not know what he will do to him. Throttle him, perhaps, or punch him in his smiling face – both options sound terribly appealing to him at the moment, in his current state.

The king looks up in surprise at their entry, but when he sees it is Lee Chang, a weary smile crosses his face, and he puts down the scroll.

“My son,” he sighs. “You have returned. What news do you bring me from Dongnae?”

“Did my messages not reach you, father?” Lee Chang says, with some surprise. A frown creases the king’s brows.

“What messages?” he asks. “I have not heard from you since you left, almost two weeks ago. I did wonder why it was taking you so long simply to visit Dongnae and bring back news, but I assumed nothing could harm you with the palace guards by your side. … My son, you look rather pale. Whatever is the matter?”

“Your Majesty,” Lee Chang manages, the story of his entire past weeks on the tip of his tongue, but he pauses, and remembers that Cho Hak-ju is still by his side. He turns to him coldly. “Lord Cho,” he says, “Leave us. I must have my audience with my father alone.”

Cho Hak-ju bows, so low that the shadows cover his face, and walks backward out of the room. Mu-yeong shuts the door again behind him, and stands in front of the gap between the sliding panels, his face grim.

“My father,” Lee Chang presses on, “there have been grave events in the South. There is a plague ravaging the towns, and it is a man-made one. And now I find that you have not received any of my messages - and my way here was barred by members of the Haewon Cho clan! I have heard that the Empress has even barred entry to all but herself and her father. I was worried for your health, but I had to fight tooth and nail for entry here. What on earth is happening in Hanyang?!”

The king’s face tightens momentarily, then he exhales a deep, fatigued breath. “I began vomiting and experiencing body aches and pains two days ago,” he murmurs. “At first I thought it merely a result of stress, or a lack of sleep, but the Empress brought the physicians to see me immediately. They told me it was a mild case of smallpox, and that I was to stay in bed for the next week or so. Yet I do not know how I could possibly have caught this disease. Is this the plague you speak of, that now ravages the South?”

Lee Chang shakes his head furiously. “The contagion in the south is something far darker,” he says, and his voice has hardened. “It is a disease that allows for the persistence of the body after death, without persistence of the mind. Plainly-speaking, the disease turns all those it touches into mindless monsters who crave human flesh, and who cannot be turned aside by anything less than beheading and fire. Even a dozen arrows in their body will not kill them.”

The king’s eyes widen, bloodshot. “The resurrection plant,” he breathes. “No – it is not possible – I thought, three years ago - ”

“Father, you know of this disease?” Lee Chang asks, his voice suddenly high and reedy with disbelief.

“It was – our mistake – we had no choice - ”

The king begins to choke, and Lee Chang realises that there is something very wrong.

He starts to cough; loud, hacking coughs that tear at his throat and bring tears to his eyes, and he convulses on the bed in front of Lee Chang. Lee Chang surges forward, but almost immediately the doors are flung open and there are hands at his chest, his arms, pulling him away from his father – who is dying in front of his eyes.

One of the men who has entered goes straight to the king. From his robes, he is a court physician, and he checks the king’s temperature.

“He has a high fever,” the man announces, and carefully lays the king down onto his bed, one hand at his back and supporting his movement. “The pox has gotten worse. He must rest.”

No! Lee Chang rages internally. Not when they were so close to an answer! Not when his father… when his father had known…

And then Lee Chang looks at his father, frail and pallid and still coughing feebly into the air – for he had not the strength to lift his arm and cover his mouth – and Lee Chang realises that there is a very real possibility that his father will die.

“Father,” he whispers, at first, and then the word comes again as a roar. “FATHER!” he yells, but it is no use; he is dragged out of the room by the guards. The thud of the slamming doors jars his ears, and echoes with finality through the hallway.

Chest heaving with breaths he feels he is ill-equipped to take, he turns to Beom-il, who is still standing there in the middle of the hallway, hooded eyes watching him.

There is a very faint trace of a smile around his handsome lips. Lee Chang has never before felt so strongly the urge to commit violent murder.

“How dare you,” he rages. “How dare you lay your hands on me! How dare you separate me from my father! I am the Crown Prince of this nation!”

Beom-il does not react to the vitriol flung in his face, but stands there patiently as Lee Chang lambasts him with everything he can think of. It is only Mu-yeong’s hand gripped tight around his wrist that brings him back to his senses.

“Your Highness!” Mu-yeong shouts, and Lee Chang spins around to look at him. The face that fills his vision is an honest one, a face dear and familiar to him, and its eyes are filled with fear and worry. Lee Chang’s breaths echo like thunder in the hallway, and he becomes sharply aware of the silence that has descended upon the few people in the vicinity.

“Do not give him a reason to put you away!” Mu-yeong hisses, under his breath so the others do not hear. “Remember, they are looking for any excuse to take you out of their way. Do not give them that reason.”

Mu-yeong’s words are like a calming breeze, and slowly, Lee Chang feels his breaths return to normal, and he places a hand on his chest to steady himself. He glares at Beom-il.

“We are not finished,” he says coldly, drawing himself up to his full height and infusing all the imperiousness he can possibly muster into his voice. “I will return to see my father again, and you will not be able to stop me.”

“I welcome Your Highness to try again,” Beom-il murmurs, his voice soft and poisonous. “Indeed, your… care for your father is admirable, but then again, it is this care which has worsened your father’s condition and unnecessarily burdened his already fragile mind.”

“Your Highness, ignore him,” Mu-yeong says in an undertone. “There is nothing more we can do here.”

Lee Chang nods shortly, and storms out of the king’s palace, with Mu-yeong at his heels. He turns his head for a final glance at the compound, and Beom-il is standing, still, on the steps to the palace, flanked by his entourage of guards; his face a wooden mask, and his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Only when they are out of reach is Lee Chang able to fully relax. He slows his stride, and cannot stop himself from thrusting his fist into the nearby wall. It leaves a sizeable dent, and his knuckles broken and bleeding, but it manages to dissipate some of his fury.

“Your Highness!” Mu-yeong says in alarm, moving to stop him, but Lee Chang holds up his hand, a hand that trembles before he is able to get it to still.

“I am fine,” he manages, after a beat, forcing himself to breathe slower. It helps unclench the vice around his chest. “Thank you for your worry, Mu-yeong, and your guidance earlier. I am alright now.” He turns to Mu-yeong, and manages a weak smile.

Mu-yeong hesitates, then retracts his arm. “It was nothing,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I only wish to apologise for touching you earlier. Please do not annihilate my entire family for my sins.”

That gets an unwilling laugh out of Lee Chang, and he shakes his head. “I would never,” he says. “It was always a joke! Just a joke.”

“Jokes are meant to be funny,” Mu-yeong grumbles. His petulant words force another quick, startled laugh out of Lee Chang, and he cannot stop a fond sigh from escaping his mouth.

“Mu-yeong,” he says musingly, “Indeed, what would I do without you?”

“You’d be dead a few times over, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong answers primly, and with that, they begin to make their slow way back to the Crown Prince’s quarters.

Yeong-shin and Seo-bi have been given rooms there, and so they meet them at the door. Seo-bi is wringing her hands, although her face has an expression of forced calm. Yeong-shin is seated on the steps, picking at his nails with a knife, to the horrified glances of the palace maids.

Lee Chang has to restrain another laugh. It was not long ago that such actions would have repulsed him with their crudity, but now, he finds that such prudish notions matter little to him anymore. Instead, he finds it endearing.

Yeong-shin tilts his head up slightly to look at them as they pass the gates to Lee Chang’s palace compounds, and his eyes are dark with loss of sleep. Lee Chang feels his laugh die an early death in the back of his throat.

“Did you report the news to the king?” Seo-bi asks, her throat working as she swallows.

Lee Chang sighs, feeling the tedium of the morning come upon him again. “I conveyed some of the matter to him,” he replies, “but a violent fever came upon him in the midst of our discussion, and I was unable to speak to him further.” He glances around him, and it is only when he is certain that they are alone, that he continues.

“Seo-bi,” he murmurs, moving closer to her so that his voice does not carry, “my father did not appear to have signs of the pox when I saw him then. I have seen bodies of patients dead from smallpox, and my father lacked the boils and swellings that were typical of such patients. His only symptoms were vomiting and bodily aches and pains.”

The edges of her mouth turn downwards as she thinks. “When did he fall ill?”

“Two days ago.”

She sighs. “It is not unusual,” she answers. “During the initial onset of the disease, a high fever and vomiting are common symptoms, and the swellings will usually develop two to four days after.”

“So he might actually have contracted smallpox,” Lee Chang says, somehow feeling relieved.

Contrary to his expectations, Seo-bi shakes her head. “These are also shared symptoms for various poisons,” she continues. “Smallpox is common in these parts, and therefore physicians often diagnose smallpox pre-emptively, for the patients are then sent into forced isolation and bedrest, and therefore easily monitored from then on to see if it truly is the pox. However, it will be difficult to tell if this is indeed the case until the swellings and other characteristic signs of the disease emerge.”

“Poison?” Lee Chang says, in disbelief. “I had thought the timing all too convenient, but for them to use poison… How dare they!”

“We must find a way to check on him in two days time, when the symptoms become clear,” Mu-yeong says. “Your Highness may continue his report to the king then.”

Lee Chang grimaces. “At the moment, we have Physician Lee with us, and the plague in the South is more or less contained. While waiting for the chance to confirm my father’s symptoms, we must speak to the physicians and servants taking care of him. Perhaps they will know something. You have kept Physician Lee somewhere safe?” He directs this question to Mu-yeong, and the guard nods soberly.

“I have placed him secretly under the care of one of my friends, who is also a trained palace guard,” Mu-yeong replies. “The Haewon Cho clan – or whoever is behind this terrible plot, although I cannot begin to fathom who else would be capable of such evil – will be unable to touch him.”

“Good,” Lee Chang says approvingly. “Then we must initiate our investigations, although they must be kept absolutely secret. We will begin tomorrow – it is too late now. And perhaps,” he says quietly, almost shyly – although he would never have thought of using this word on himself – “we can break fast tomorrow, together.”

The others nod. “I will visit my dear wife now,” Mu-yeong says, his voice brightening, and his face visibly lifting at the prospect. “It has been long since I have seen her, and she is near term – I hope that I will be gifted with a precious son very soon.”

“Take the desserts from my table, and give her my regards,” Lee Chang answers. Mu-yeong’s smile is somehow infectious, and it is a slight balm of comfort in these trying times. It reminds him that there are things they are fighting for, each of them.

“Tomorrow, then,” Yeong-shin says, his voice quiet. “We will see you tomorrow.”

***

The morning brings jeongol, kimchi and kalguksu – dishes Lee Chang has missed the past few days they were on the road. The rich broth and taste of the meat is a welcome luxury he’d only appreciated when it had been lacking. Seo-bi and Yeong-shin dig into the food with relish and a distinct lack of manners, but as it is only the four of them in the room – and the occasional servant bringing new dishes – Lee Chang makes no object. It is probably the first time they have tasted food so savoury in a while, and it is only right that they enjoy it to the fullest.

They are silent at first, as they eat, but then Mu-yeong gets started on the topic of his wife, and it has always been difficult to stem the flow of words that follows such a beloved subject of his.

“The midwives say that she is close to labour,” Mu-yeong shares effusively. “Ah, I only regret that I will not be able to be there while she gives birth… but I do not think I will be able to stand the sight of her in so much pain. She is left in good hands. The many cousins she has in Naesonjae are good midwives, and they have promised to notify me the moment she goes into labour, so that I may head there with haste to greet my newborn child!”

“Do you think it will be a son or a daughter?” Lee Chang asks.

“It does not matter to me,” Mu-yeong answers, his smile almost splitting his face, “whether the child be male or female. I only pray that it will be a beautiful one – although with my dear wife’s looks, that is a given!”

“Ah, but Mu-yeong, you must remember, the child is your own as well,” teases Lee Chang, feeling himself settle and relax into the familiar rhythm of their conversation. “I would be more concerned about its looks if I were you.”

“Your Highness - !” The utterance is full of shock and betrayal, and it does not fail to elicit an amused huff from Lee Chang at the return of Mu-yeong’s theatrics. The conversation moves on smoothly from there, with even Seo-bi contributing a word here or there when it comes to her areas of expertise.

Yeong-shin, however, stays markedly silent.

“Did you sleep well?” Lee Chang finally ventures, attempting to draw him out of his shell. “Was the room to your liking?”

Yeong-shin utters a non-committal sound of assent, digging with renewed fervour into his rice, his eyes trained pointedly down.

“Oi,” Mu-yeong snaps, jabbing at him with his chopstick. “When His Highness asks you a question, you’d better answer properly. You listening?”

“It was good,” Yeong-shin says, the word guttural in his throat, and he says nothing else. After a beat of silence, during which all three of them watch him with varying degrees of annoyance and confusion, he chances a glance up at them, and sighs, an extremely put-upon sigh.

“I am tired,” he mutters. “Please excuse my silence.”

“You - ” Mu-yeong starts again, furiously, but Lee Chang places his hand on the table next to Mu-yeong, and he shuts up abruptly.

“It is understandable that you are tired,” Lee Chang says quietly. “You should get more rest then. You’ll need it if you wish to help with our investigations.”

“Rest assured I will be more than up to the task,” Yeong-shin answers, his voice brittle. “A few nights’ poor sleep will not hinder me from performing up to your expectations. You needn’t worry.”

“There’s no need to be so ornery, even if you’re tired,” Seo-bi speaks up sharply, and the disapproving glare in her eyes is enough to shut all three of them up. They continue to eat in silence, and this time, the air between them is fragile and thin.

When they are finished with his meal, Lee Chang lays down his chopsticks and waits for the servants to clear the plates. When they are finally alone, Mu-yeong checks outside the door and shuts it behind him after ensuring that there is no one in the vicinity.

“What would you have us do today?” Yeong-shin asks, in a more neutral tone. He seems to have recovered somewhat from his earlier, dourer mood.

“I will speak to some of the ministers and scholars who I know are loyal to me. I will need assistance,” Lee Chang says gravely, “if we are to take on the Haewon Cho clan. Seo-bi, you should speak to the palace physicians and see if you can find anything amiss. Yeong-shin and Mu-yeong,” he pauses for a moment, considering that it might not be the most ideal combination; but then again, he has little choice. “Speak to the palace guards and servants, especially the ones serving the king.”

The other three nod and raise no objection, apart from an unwilling glance Mu-yeong casts towards Yeong-shin.

“Stay safe, and keep this absolutely secret,” Lee Chang says. “We will see each other tonight.”

***

When they meet again later that day, they have little new information, and few new alliances. The same goes for the next day. While Lee Chang has many sympathisers among the ministers, they are unwilling to pit themselves against the power of the Haewon Cho clan. The only bright light remains that the scholars he had previously been plotting with are amenable to aiding him. With their bookish ways and tendency towards politicking, he does not think they would be useful if any open conflict were to break out, but they are useful political allies nonetheless. The situation is too precarious to allow a revolt of the sort he had been planning prior to his departure, what with his father’s sickness and the ever-present threat of Cho Hak-ju spreading the plague further, but any ally they can gather on their side is beneficial.

As for investigations around the palace, Seo-bi has made little inroads with the palace physicians. There are only two or three of them senior enough to treat the king, and they are constantly busy with his treatment. The other physicians know nothing – or, if they do, they will say nothing. The guards and servants Mu-yeong and Yeong-shin had spoken to are similarly tight-lipped, and they had not wished to risk raising excessive suspicion by prying too deep.

Yeong-shin’s awful mood has continued. He has not said anything rude or untoward, but Mu-yeong had never taken well to ornery tempers, and it is only the mediation of Seo-bi and Lee Chang that has prevented their shared meals breaking into a fight. Tensions run high at their lack of headway, and Lee Chang is glad when the sun rises on the morning of their fourth day in the capital, for today, he is sure they will finally uncover the truth of his father’s disease.

“I must see my father today,” he says determinedly, as the four of them break fast together again for the third time. “It is the fifth day of his disease.”

“However,” Yeong-shin says quietly, “What proof can you present to him?”  He looks up from where he has been poking half-heartedly at his noodles, and his eyes meet Lee Chang’s. There is something in those eyes that makes Lee Chang shiver. He pauses, and considers his words carefully.

“I truly believe that there is no other plausible suspect,” he says at last. “Only Cho Hak-ju would have the knowledge, the power and the courage to carry out such a plan. Why else would his messenger to Dongnae disappear? Who else would have the motive to keep me away from Hanyang by sending me to Dongnae – most likely with the knowledge that a plague would be unleashed in the south, with little chance of survival for myself and my guard? It was only pure luck that we avoided dying during that first attack, before we found Jiyulheon.” Mu-yeong’s face tightens, and his shoulders shake at the memory of the guards – his friends – who had died for Lee Chang.

“Physician Lee said something, when he was drunk,” Seo-bi pipes up quietly, catching everyone’s attention. She recounts the story of her master’s uncharacteristic drunkenness a few days before the plague had hit Jiyulheon. “‘It was my mistake three years ago’ – that was what he said. I thought nothing of it at the time, but now it strikes me as odd. Why three years ago? What was his mistake?”

Something comes to Lee Chang’s mind then, something he too had missed. “My father mentioned something of the sort as well,” he exclaims sharply. “When first I told him of the plague, and before he was overcome by his fever, he spoke of the resurrection plant, and of ‘three years ago’ as well. Three years ago…” His fingers tighten around his chopsticks. “The end of the war. That is what they mean. Something happened three years ago at the end of the war, something that is related to the plague, and I must find out what.”

“Do you think Lord Ahn Hyeon might know?” Mu-yeong suggests. “He was in charge of the armies, and he won the war, after all. He must have been privy to everything that happened.”

Lee Chang nods. “He probably knows,” he says grimly. “It makes sense – his men knew immediately what to do with the monsters when they attacked Sangju. I thought little of it at the time, but now it seems out of place to me. But we do not have the time to write to him and wait for his reply. We must find out today, by speaking to my father.”

“Then we must leave right away,” Yeong-shin says, standing from the table in a swift, explosive motion. “There is no time to waste.”

They hurry to the king’s palace. Seo-bi stays behind, but Mu-yeong and Yeong-shin follow closely behind him.

“Your Highness,” Beom-il says coolly, barring the way to the gates of the king’s palace, his sword unsheathed and pointing directly at Lee Chang’s throat. “I thought you learned your lesson two days ago, but apparently not. Here you are again to torment your father who – may I remind you – is fighting for his life on the sickbed, and hardly in any state to tend to your childish tantrums.

“And who, dare I ask,” he murmurs, casting a cold glance over Lee Chang’s shoulder, “are your companions? Mu-yeong I know, your faithful dog, but this man… this man is new. Do you make it a habit of yours to surround yourself with paltry rabble from the south, now? My, how far the Crown Prince has fallen, such that he takes even a mere peasant into his entourage. Are there insufficient guards in the palace to keep you company? Or insufficient whores?”

“How dare you speak to me and my companions in such a manner,” Lee Chang says, his voice infused with quiet fury. “You are merely a hunting dog of the Haewon Cho clan. You serve little purpose other than the lick the feet of your master and pray for scraps to fall from the heavens. What gives you the right to speak to the Crown Prince of this nation with so insolent a tone?”

He unsheathes his sword, and the glint of sunlight off its blade out of the corner of his eye comforts him, although it will do him little good if Beom-il actually decides to strike.

Beom-il’s face tightens. The words have found their mark.

But then something strange happens. Instead of stepping aside to allow Lee Chang entry, a smile spreads over his face, and his teeth flash.

“Has Your Highness not heard the joyous news?” he says, a hint of manic glee in his voice.

“What news?” Lee Chang snaps, already at the end of his patience. The blade at his neck does not tremble or falter, so steady and arrogant is the hand of its owner.

Beom-il pauses, as if to savour the words, then:

“Her Majesty has gone into labour,” he purrs. “Soon she will grace us all with a son, a Crown Prince of true and pure royal blood. And soon,” he steps closer to Lee Chang, so close that Lee Chang can feel his breath on his cheeks, “soon will come the hour that a mere general of the army may draw his blade against your neck, and cause you to bleed.”

With that, he lifts his blade and slices swiftly at Lee Chang. There is a cut-off cry of anger behind him, a beat, and then the blade stays its movement in Lee Chang’s shoulder.

First he feels nothing. Then, as the blood trickles down his arm and pools in a puddle on the ground, a sharp streak of lightning rips through his nerves, followed by a dull thunderous ache that spreads through every fibre in his body. He feels his body begin to shudder.

But this pain is nothing compared to the agony, the fatigue, the hopelessness, the feeling of being so close to dying that he could practically taste his last breath on his lips – emotions which had been an everyday part of his life for the past few weeks.

This? This is nothing.

Calmly, so Beom-il cannot see his composure broken, he lifts his other arm and wraps his fingers around Beom-il’s wrist. It is probably the surprise, he thinks dully, that renders Beom-il’s sword arm temporarily robbed of strength, allowing him to lift the arm and drag the blade out of his shoulder. It hurts like a fucking bitch, but his pride keeps the hurt out of his face, and his hands unwavering.

There is a clang as Beom-il’s sword falls to the ground, and a rush of feet that only dimly permeates Lee Chang’s hearing. Instead, keeping his eyes locked on Beom-il’s, he rips a piece of silk off the bottom of his coat, and binds it tightly round his arm. The blood dyes it red in an instant, but the tightness of the cloth blunts the pain.

“I will see my father,” he says, through clenched teeth, “and it will be in spite of you. A mere general of the army may now lift his blade against my neck, it is true, but it does not mean that I will not return the blow. Nor will I bleed. You will not find me so easy to kill.”

Beom-il’s eyes are white-hot with fury, and the handsomeness of his face is curiously diminished by the anger distorting his face.

Lee Chang is fully intent on storming the palace now - now that he has the upper hand - but hands on both his arms stop him.

“Your Highness!” Mu-yeong cries out, the anguish in his voice plain. He is the one restraining Lee Chang on the left. “There are too many guards. We cannot possibly fight our way through them.”

Only then does Lee Chang look up and realise that their spat has amassed a larger audience. Beom-il’s compatriots, skilled soldiers and guards in their own right, have assembled round their group. Their faces are as stone, and their blades are sharp.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong says again, this time in a quick, hushed whisper, “Let us make a tactical retreat. You are injured, and we are outnumbered. This will not end well.”

Lee Chang maintains his stare with Beom-il for a moment more, and the man must see something different in his eyes, for he takes an involuntary step back, his own eyes shuttering with bitter hate. Lee Chang savours the moment.

Then he turns and strides off without a backwards glance. Mu-yeong and Yeong-shin follow quickly.

But the moment they are out of sight and hearing of Beom-il and his pack of stooges, Mu-yeong does an unexpected thing. He spins around, seizes Yeong-shin’s collar, and throws him up against the nearest wall. There is an audible crack as Yeong-shin’s head slams against the wood; he bites off a gasp of pain.

“YOU!” Mu-yeong roars, shaking Yeong-shin by his collar.

“What are you doing, Mu-yeong!” Lee Chang shouts. “Have you gone mad?” Dizzy from the blood loss and infuriated by having to back down from Beom-il, his temper is frayed enough already as it is without Mu-yeong adding fuel to the fire. He does not grab Mu-yeong like he wants to, but storms to his side instead, and levels a glare at him.

“Why did you hesitate?!” Mu-yeong yells, continuing to shake Yeong-shin. The man’s teeth rattle as his head lolls back and forth. Surprisingly, he makes no move to retaliate, and it is this strangeness of his actions which gives Lee Chang pause.

“I saw you lift your hand to defend His Highness – you were closer, you could have defended him – and yet you hesitated,” continues Mu-yeong, in a tone that is quieter, yet no less fearsome. “Your hesitation could have cost him his life, if Beom-il’s cowardice had not raised its head at the last moment. How can we trust you when you have committed such a great breach of our faith?! Your Highness!” and Mu-yeong turns his imploring eyes back to Lee Chang.

“Do you not see?” he pleads. “We have trusted this man too much and too long, in my opinion, and finally he has now shown his true colours - as nothing more than a dog which bites the hand that feeds it. We cannot put our faith in this man any longer. He must be an agent of the Haewon Cho clan, set upon us to kill you.”

Lee Chang turns to Yeong-shin.

“Is this true?” he says quietly, and his shoulder burns like fire.

Yeong-shin meets his eyes. His mouth is a thin line, and underneath his hooded eyes, his gaze is as fierce as ever.

“If I had wanted to kill you,” he rasps, “you would be dead by now.”

Lee Chang holds his gaze, and he reads no lie in those clear eyes.

“Your Highness, he has not answered the question,” Mu-yeong says furiously. “Remember, he is a mercenary for hire. They do not care for allegiances, only for who has the largest purse. I saw it clear as day – he raised his hand to stop Beom-il’s blade, but at the last moment something held him back.”

“Let him down, Mu-yeong,” Lee Chang says calmly, and Mu-yeong’s eyes fill with betrayal.

“Do you not trust me, Your Highness?” he whispers. “After all my years of service?”

Lee Chang lays a hand on his shoulder. Mu-yeong’s body jerks at the sudden touch, and he looks down at Lee Chang’s hand with an expression bordering on complete bewilderment.

“It is not that I do not trust you,” Lee Chang says quietly, “but this man – Yeong-shin – I cannot count the number of times he has saved my life. In Jiyulheon, in Dongnae, in Sangju, in Jecheon – each time, he has been willing to lay down his life for me. As have you,” he adds, as Mu-yeong opens his mouth to interrupt. “How could I doubt you, my dearest and most faithful of my servants? But Mu-yeong, we need all the allies we can find, and Yeong-shin has proven himself true so far.”

“But - ”

“Have some faith in my judgement,” Lee Chang continues swiftly on, with a tired laugh. “I am no longer a child. I can make judgements on my own, and this is my verdict. Let Yeong-shin down, Mu-yeong.”

Slowly, unwillingly, Mu-yeong’s hand lowers, and Yeong-shin’s feet touch the ground. As Mu-yeong’s hand loosens from Yeong-shin’s collar, he glares daggers at the other man.

“Hurt a hair on His Highness’ body,” he hisses, “and even the crows will find nothing of your body.”

Yeong-shin dips his head in acknowledgement, his fists clenched at his side. Then his gaze turns to Lee Chang.

“I apologise,” he says stiffly, but Lee Chang can read the true meaning of his words in the tightness around his mouth, and the weary set of his shoulders. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry I hesitated. I’m sorry you were hurt because of me.

He wonders when it became so easy for him to read Yeong-shin.

“Your shoulder - ” Yeong-shin makes an abortive gesture towards the wound in question, and Lee Chang becomes dimly aware of the throbbing pain and the gradually-spreading stain across the silk wrapping his injury.

“Yes,” he says vaguely. “My shoulder. It does not hurt as much anymore.”

But it hurts, hurts even worse than before, when Seo-bi is pressing a cold compress against the raw edges of his wound, and he is muffling his screams with a dirty cloth stuffed in his mouth. Has there ever been such ignominy, he thinks with regret, in his short short life? Even the alcohol he had consumed beforehand – pressed into his hands by a very insistent Seo-bi – fails to dull the pain.

“Keep still,” Seo-bi says calmly, holding him down with just one arm and her stern words. Lee Chang stops squirming, even though the fire in his shoulder is now gradually spreading up his neck and down his sides.

When she is done with the stitches, she lets him up so she can fetch the bandages. Lee Chang stares at the wound, now an ugly gash across the meat of his shoulder. The stitches are neat and efficient, but they do little to hide the scar.

Lee Chang thinks perhaps he should be more concerned. He has always been good-looking, after all, with unblemished skin and a good body, and even the bouts of sparring he had had with Lord Ahn Hyeon or other trainers in his youth had left no permanent scars. He had prided himself on his handsomeness, taking it as his due as the prince of the nation.

And now he has allowed Beom-il to mark him.

He waits for the shame at his ugliness to sink in, but strangely, he feels nothing.

It will remind me of what I have to do, he finds himself thinking. Of what it will cost me to protect myself, and my companions, and this nation. It is a mark, not of shame, not of courage, but of duty.

Seo-bi returns, and the gaping wound disappears gradually under the pure white fabric of the bandage. Lee Chang watches the movement of Seo-bi’s hands, small and graceful, yet decisive and firm in their actions. She removes her hand only when the gash has been tightly bandaged up, and it can no longer be seen.

Yeong-shin and Mu-yeong enter the room then, as if in response to some unspoken signal. Mu-yeong’s face is a grim mask.

“We must sneak in tonight,” he says. “Physician Lee has disappeared from the home of the man I assigned to guard him. The guard says he never let Physician Lee out of his sight, but he was taken from the room in which he was confined early this morning.”

Lee Chang does not blame him, but he feels the anxiety raise goosebumps on his skin. It baffles and angers him how far-reaching the Haewon Cho clan’s network of spies extends, so much so that they are always one step ahead of his plans.

“Then you are right. We must enter the palace tonight,” Lee Chang answers sombrely. “We have lost a crucial witness. I cannot deny that it is a setback, but there is still time to upend the Haewon Cho clan’s plans, if we can get the approval of the king to take the villains into custody.”

“Your Highness!” Mu-yeong protests. “Surely you are not planning to sneak into the palace with us? You are still injured!”

“He is my father,” Lee Chang says decisively. He suddenly realises that this is the first time he has fully meant the word. In his mind, the king of Joseon had always been just that – a king. A distant, vaguely-commanding figure who had been larger than life, and yet barely present in his childhood. Lee Chang cannot say that he does not resent the man for it, but now that it is clear that his father’s days alive might well be numbered, something burns in his chest.

“He is my father,” Lee Chang repeats, softer this time, but no less certain. “This matter is a grave one, and he must hear of it from my mouth – especially when it concerns treason on the part of such a respected clan as the Haewon Cho clan.”

Mu-yeong looks as if he wants to argue further, but after a moment’s pause, he subsides reluctantly. All of them know the truth in Lee Chang’s words – with news such as that they bear, only the Crown Prince can deliver it to the king, for it would not be believable from any other person’s lips.

“Then we will come with you, and protect you,” Mu-yeong says finally. “The guards change their shift at yushi, and it will be easy to sneak in then, just when the sun is beginning to set. I know the guards on rotation tonight, and they are a relatively more lax bunch than the rest, even when charged with protection of the king’s palace.”

“That is hardly good,” Lee Chang says reprovingly, but he feels his mouth twitch into an unwilling smile. “That is a good plan. We must rest and recover our strength for tonight’s foray, then.”

“Especially you,” Seo-bi speaks up suddenly, arresting Lee Chang with her glare. Lee Chang winces under her stern eye. He’d been planning to do some extra reading to consolidate his thoughts… and send some letters to potential allies… but that can wait, he thinks, as Seo-bi’s gaze pins him to the ground.

Later that night, they follow Mu-yeong’s lead, and find their way into the king’s palace. The guards are incautious, and spend minutes exchanging bawdy words and banter before the changing of the guard is complete, allowing the three of them to make their way unseen into the palace. The doors shut silently behind them, and Lee Chang lets out a soundless exhale of relief. He makes eye contact with Mu-yeong, who nods with approval.

There is a faint whoosh of air next to him as Yeong-shin unsheathes his blade. He had opted not to bring his musket, for it would not be useful in these close quarters, and is far from subtle in its action.

Lee Chang takes quiet comfort in knowing they are both by his side.

The floorboards do not creak as they pad their way stealthily through the corridors, for they are well-kept and clean. Lee Chang knows the way through the palace like the back of his hand, even from the side entrance from which they had entered, and soon, it is no time at all before they reach the king’s rooms.

Surprisingly, there is no one guarding the way, and Lee Chang feels his suspicions rise. A shared glance with Mu-yeong confirms for him that he is not alone in his feeling that it has been far too easy a process of gaining entry. He feels his fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword, and the rough edges cut into his palm.

Lee Chang places his hand on the handle of the door. He hesitates, just a moment, before he draws the door back and takes his first steps through.

The scene that greets his eyes tears a horrified gasp from his throat. There is a figure crouched down, its clothes matted with blood and his fingers buried in the intestines of a woman lying on the ground, with gore splattering the floor around him. The contents of her guts spill obscenely from her open stomach; her mouth is open in a silent scream of agony. Blood trails from her lips.

Her tongue has been cut out, and her body is still convulsing. She is still alive.

As Mu-yeong and Yeong-shin follow Lee Chang through the door, Mu-yeong exhales sharply in shock and disgust. There is a metallic ring as he brandishes his sword and steps forward, as if to bar Lee Chang from further entry, but Lee Chang lays a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back. He unsheathes his own blade, and his hand trembles – not from fear, but from a deep, raw anger, for the monster turns its head at that moment to stare right into his eyes, and its face is the face of his father.

“Your Majesty,” Lee Chang rasps. “Father. Oh god – father - ”

He had been alive but two days ago. Two days ago, he had been seated on the bed, his eyes bright and alert despite his fragile, bedridden state. Two days ago, he had spoken to Lee Chang in his rich, cold voice, and two days ago, Lee Chang had called him father.

Now, he is no longer alive.

“Your father he is,” says a smooth, sinuous voice, as Cho Beom-il steps out from the shadows, his blade pointed towards Lee Chang’s neck. “But the king, he is not. At least, not for much longer.” A vile smirk splits his face from ear to ear, and he steps closer.

Lee Chang’s shoulder aches. He forcibly suppresses the pain.

There is suddenly a discordant shriek as the monster-that-was-once-king throws itself at the new victims which have entered its territory, and chains wrapped around his ankles stop him before he gets very far. He falls to the ground with a painful thump, and his arm jerks to the side with a crack. Bones have broken, Lee Chang thinks dimly, and yet his father – this monster – does not react. It prostrates itself on the ground, clawing desperately at thin air, its arm dangling loosely and swinging from side to side, and Beom-il spits on its hair.

“This is the rightful position of your clan, Your Highness,” Beom-il says, returning his attention to them. “At the feet of the Haewon Cho clan, grovelling for mercy. You have always been arrogant, Your Highness, and you’ve always thought yourself above me. That all changes tonight. Go,” and he gestures towards the corpse with his other hand.

Lee Chang looks at him in disbelief and confusion. Beom-il sighs, an extremely put-upon sigh, and gestures again towards the monster, carelessly.

“’Tis a monster, is it not?” he says. “You know how to kill it.”

Lee Chang’s mind races. There is something wrong here, but he does not know what. Why would Beom-il be allowing him to slaughter the king? What purpose does he have for turning the king into a monster? Why is Beom-il alone?

“Go!” shouts Beom-il, more forcefully this time. The tip of his blade grazes Lee Chang’s neck. But he does not flinch, even as he feels the warm trickle of blood begin to drip down his skin. His jaw hurts, with how tightly it is clenched.

“Fine,” Beom-il says, with a shrug. “It does not matter, anyway. All that has to happen tonight is the discovery of your body and the king’s, in the same room, with your sword buried in his chest. It does not matter who actually beheads the monster. I suppose I will have to do all the dirty work, as usual.” And with that, he lifts the sword, and brings it down.

There is no doubt about it. This time, the blade is aimed at Lee Chang’s neck. The movement is so swift, and so practised, that while Lee Chang lift his own sword to defend himself, he knows he will be too late.

Survive, he hears his father’s voice ring in his ears. Even if it all seems hopeless, remember that you were born as the heir to the throne, and that it is your birth-right.

So he does not falter, does not close his eyes in acceptance of his death, for to do so would be giving in – would be surrendering to the dominance of the Haewon Cho clan. Even in death, he refuses to give them that satisfaction. And so he watches while Beom-il’s blade descends, in slow motion, even as his own arms lift futilely to defend the blow.

But the death he is waiting for, never comes.

He staggers backwards as a body collides with his, and it is Yeong-shin who places himself between Lee Chang and Beom-il – Yeong-shin who catches the blow on his blade. There is an awful screech as the blades collide at an angle, and Beom-il’s sword slides off. Lee Chang feels a hand close around his forearm and thrust him bodily away from the line of attack, and Mu-yeong places himself grimly by Yeong-shin’s side.

Dazedly, Lee Chang wonders how Yeong-shin had managed to avert the blow. Even Mu-yeong had moved a second too late to defend him – even Lee Chang himself, who had been the closest, had not been in time. Yeong-shin would have had to foresee the blow coming, to have defended against it.

He is a warrior indeed, Lee Chang thinks to himself, dimly. Worthy of the title of chakho.

And now it is Beom-il who is pinioned by Yeong-shin’s blade at his neck. He is caught off guard for a just a moment, his handsome dark eyes widening in surprise at the turn of events. Then, surprisingly, he laughs.

“Why do you laugh?” Mu-yeong demands, roughly. “As if there is anything to laugh about at this moment in time!”

“There are many secrets in this palace, Your Highness,” Beom-il says, completely ignoring Mu-yeong. “Surely that was one of the lessons Lord Ahn Hyeon taught you. And if there are secrets, that means there are people who guard those secrets jealously.”

Lee Chang feels an itch begin under his skin. He knows he must not listen to Beom-il’s poison, but still, something keeps him silent, and keeps him listening. He feels a sense of foreboding begin to trickle into his mind.

“Be quiet!” Mu-yeong roars. But Beom-il does not obey.

“I shall tell you one of those secrets for free,” Beom-il whispers, his smile turning sly and smug. “This secret concerns one of your friends. Would you like to guess – which one?”

“Either of these men,” Lee Chang says, and his voice is rough, “I would trust with my life.”

“You might change your answer,” Beom-il says viciously, “when you hear what I have to say.”

“Do not listen to his venom, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong hisses. “If you say the word, we will cut off his head like the foul beast that he is. Just say the word.” Yeong-shin emphasises his words by pressing the blade deeper into Beom-il’s neck, and it makes the man shudder involuntarily.

“One of your friends,” Beom-il repeats. “One of your warriors in arms. Who will it be, Your Highness? Who can you trust?”

[celtics534]

Natural Chapter 13

As promised, chapter 13! We’re at the tail end of this tale. Only a few chapters left! But don’t think about that now, because I have a great chapter for you to read today 😊

Also read on: FF.net or AO3

“Come on, Ginny!” Vance Froye chanted, his hands resting on Ginny’s forearms. “Just a little longer.” Ginny held the quaffle sized ball between her wrists, her left side shaking violently.

Harry watched from one of the corners of the room, his hands locked together over his mouth as if praying. Hell, maybe he was praying. After three months, Ginny’s body had healed all visible wounds of her accident, but the hidden scars still plagued her.

She had become mobile quickly enough, her leg and arm mended in a jiffy. It was her hand that seemed unable to heal. The entirety of it had been broken. Her thumb and wrist, in particular, had been smashed into bone fragments. Now, after many months of grueling physical therapy, Ginny had recovered most of her functions.

However, it wasn’t only her motor abilities that had been affected. Ginny’s memory had taken a hit. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, Rhodes had reminded Harry over and over again. This was true; she still knew all the important people in her life...but she struggled to remember select events.

“Ah!” Ginny screamed, enraged, as the ball fell to the floor for the fifth time that session.

“That was good, Ginny!” Froye encouraged, releasing her arms. “You held it for a minute longer this time!”

Ginny closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling slowly. Harry knew this was a technique she used to calm herself. He had seen it a lot in the last few months.

“Why don’t you go get us some water, Vance?” Harry pushed himself off the wall as he made his way over to the still-silent Ginny.

Vance gave Harry a grateful look. He had been the victim of more than one of Ginny’s curses over the past two months.

Harry stopped right in front of Ginny, giving her a moment to register his presence. She had two moods when she struggled with something: Murder any human near her, or accept a little (very little) comfort from him. The tell-tale sign of the former was if her eyes remained closed. Ginny had some of the most intense looks, and after spending so much time observing her, Harry had become an expert on reading her emotions through a simple glance. When her eyes stayed shut, there was no way to understand her thoughts.

This time, however, she opened her eyes and Harry could read the devastation plain as day. It had been a hard few months. Between being unable to remember things she knew she should and her left hand being uncooperative, Ginny was in a state of permanent disarray.

Harry moved in close, his hand cupping the back of her neck as he pressed their foreheads together. “It’s just you and me, love.”      

Instantly, Ginny’s body started to shake with sobs. She wrapped her arms around his body, her hands coming up to his shoulders, as her head moved to press into the cotton of his shirt. Harry could feel the wetness from her tears.

“I just… Why?” Ginny’s voice cracked.

There were many ways to take that question. Why had this happened to her? Why was she still struggling to recover? Why wasn’t magic helping her to heal? Harry didn't have the answer to any of them. Instead of trying to come up with any sort of pitiful rationale, he held her closer to his chest, praying it would be enough for now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Have you thought about the wedding, dear?” Ginny’s mother asked casually as she took a sip from her drink.

Ginny wanted to sigh. Here she goes again. It had been three and a half months since her… accident...and her mother had been asking about her future nuptials for the past two and a half. “Mum, I’ve told you. I want to wait until I have full use of my hand again.”

“But why? Your hand isn’t really required to get married.”

“Uh… I’m literally giving my hand to Harry. That’s what a wedding is about.”

Molly huffed out an annoyed breath. “You know what I meant, Ginny. Why are you waiting?” Her stare became intense. “Do you not want to marry Harry anymore?”

“What?!” Ginny was honestly shocked her mother had even jumped to that conclusion. “Of course I want to marry him.”

“Then why do you keep postponing it?”

“I… I just.” She didn’t know how to explain it to her mother. Really, it was hard to explain to herself. “I want to be me when I walk down the aisle.”

“Who else would you be?” Molly was confused, just like Ginny knew she would be.

“With my… injury.” Ginny looked down at her left hand that was currently in a black brace. “I just don’t feel like me.”

Molly was silent for a moment, an eternity to Ginny, before she spoke again. “Ginny, what are you afraid of?”

It was a question her mother had asked her numerous times as a child. At first, the answer had been about the dark. Back then, Molly had soothed her daughter's worries by shining her lit wand into every corner of her bedroom, saying she scared the monsters away. Next, Ginny had been frightened of her brothers leaving for Hogwarts and forgetting who their sister was. Fortunately, the very next night, Ginny had received letters from Bill, Charlie, and Percy; each detailing how much they missed their “favorite sister” and how they couldn’t wait to take her swimming in the pond during the summer holidays.

It had been a long time since Molly had asked her that question, but even after all this time, the mere thought still made Ginny want to seek comfort by crawling into her mother’s arms.

“What if I never recover?” Her voice was a whisper. Ginny hadn’t said it out loud before that moment, no matter how many times it popped into her head. No, it was too much to think about, let alone say.

Molly placed her drink on the stand beside her large armchair and moved to sit next to Ginny on the sofa. Her arms wrapped around Ginny’s shoulders, and just like that Ginny was engulfed in a tight embrace. It was just like all those times as a child, when the world had become too much. Molly’s arms became a form of safety, one of a kind.

“You will, my love.” Molly rubbed her back in slow even circles. “You will, and I know because I know you.” She hesitated before asking, ”Have you talked to Harry about this?”

Ginny shook her head, unwanted tears springing in her eyes.

“And why not?” Molly’s tone wasn’t accusing. It was a simple question that allowed Ginny to answer without fear of prosecution.

“He would feel guilty.”

“Why do you think that?”

Ginny took a painful breath. “He seems guilty about everything lately. He feels guilty every time he has to go to practice. I can see it in his eyes. He looks so…” She didn’t quite know the correct word, if she was being honest with herself.

Remembering the way Harry had looked at her that morning before he went off for weight training fuelled her frustration, changing her tone. “And he’s been tip-toeing around anything that has to do with Quidditch! He’ll come home with a bruise on his shoulder and when I ask about it and he’ll just say it happened at practice. That’s not how that works! He's supposed to go into detail about the wanker who hit him!”

Molly had leaned back halfway through Ginny’s rant to better to see the annoyance in her daughter’s expression. She waited until Ginny finished, the latter’s breath coming in sharp intakes.

“It sounds to me like Harry doesn’t want to make you sad about not being able to play yourself.”

Logically, in the back of Ginny’s mind, she knew that. She knew Harry was just trying to be considerate. But for fuck's sake! She was mad! If she wanted to complain about Harry, then she fucking would!

Ginny pushed to her feet and started pacing on the worn rug. “I don’t need him to dodge talking about things! We’ve never been cautious about what we’ve said to one another, so why does he think now should be any different? Full disclosure and all that!”

“Aren’t you holding back from him?”

That stopped Ginny midstep. She turned to look at her mother. Molly was watching at her with a too innocent look.

“What?”

Molly tilted her head slightly to the left. “Well, you did say you haven't told Harry about your fear of being unable to fully recover, right?”

“No one likes a know-it-all, Mum,” Ginny growled, but it did have the intended effect. Her boiling rage lessened to a simmer. Her mother remained silent but that small, smug smile stayed settled on her lips as Ginny came back to rest on the sofa.

“Now, what are you going to do?” Molly asked, her hand coming to rub Ginny’s knee.

“I should go talk to Harry,” Ginny begrudgingly admitted.

“You should.” Her mother nodded. “You two have a great relationship and I would hate for it to falter because you don't share how you feel.”

“You’re right.”

“I know I am, and I’m also right about setting a date for the wedding.”

Ginny rolled her eyes but smiled.    

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry rested his head on the kitchen table, hoping his pounding headache would just go away. Practice had been one of the least successful he’d ever had. He’d struggled to keep up with drills Devlin called. It wasn’t because he was unfit to perform the task, no he was just too tired.

Over the past three months, Harry’s sleep schedule had taken a dramatic hit. It didn’t make logical sense, but every night since Ginny had come home from hospital Harry would lay awake just to hear her breathe.  

He hadn’t admitted it to anyone, but Ginny getting hurt had scared him more than anything else. It had been like his heart had been ripped from his chest and thrown far away. The said organ had returned (once Ginny was out of the woods), but it had been bruised and beaten.

Because of that, he had become cautious with Ginny. He wasn’t exactly dodging her, but he had a ridiculous urge to keep her wrapped in Muggle bubble wrap. He knew that wasn’t practical, for multiple reasons, but his logical side raged war with his heart.

Harry lifted his head at the sound of the Floo igniting. Ginny smoothly exited the grate, brushing soot off her shoulders. As if they were polar sides of a magnet, their eyes locked.

“Hey.” Harry sounded no better than a frog. He cleared his throat. “How was your day?”

“We need to talk.” Ginny’s focus stayed on him as she positioned herself in the chair across him.

Cold dread washed over him. That was not a sentence Harry wanted to hear come from Ginny’s mouth. If the words ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ mixed into this talk, he would actually scream.

He kept his voice calm. “Okay. What about?”

Ginny’s hand came across the table to take his. “Everything.” She moved his palm to her lips. “Harry, we’re walking on eggshells.”

As much as he hated it admit it, she was right. They had both been cautious. On more than one occasion, Harry had to stop himself from hovering over her (something he knew she despised). Not to mention how little he talked about practice. He just didn’t want her to think about how much she missed the Harpies and then, in turn, push herself too hard to get back. And Ginny, well...she’d cut herself off mid-sentence numerous times, leading him to believe that she had been dodging certain topics too.

Harry lowered his eyes, his chin dropping to his chest. “I know.”

Ginny used their joined hands to tilt his chin back up so their eyes met. “So, let's fix it. You tell me what's been bothering you, and I’ll tell you what's been perturbing me.”

“So the emotional version of ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours’?”

That did it. That broke the through the thickness between them. Ginny laughed, a real laugh, which Harry hadn’t heard in far too long.

“I love you.” He took his turn to kiss her hand.

Ginny smiled at him. “Don’t get sappy yet, Potter. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“So, how have you two been?” Lily asked, her green eyes flickering between Harry and Ginny.

Ginny glanced at her future mother-in-law before turning back to Harry. His eyes were waiting for hers, and the glint behind his glasses made her stomach flutter. “We’re good.”

Lily’s body sagged in relief. “Oh, I’m glad. And what about your hand, Ginny?”

Again, Ginny looked at the subject of Lily’s question before answering. “I’m able to hold small items for extended periods of time.”

James nodded. “That’s great! When I was injured it took me almost a year to get full function back.”

Ginny felt her brow furrow. “You were hurt?” She looked at Harry, who seemed just as confused as she felt.

“Yeah, back in my first year with the Finches. They were worried I’d never get back on a broom, but I showed them.” James’ smile was soft, but his eyes shone with pride. “Just like you will.”

No words came to Ginny’s mind. She could never express how much these two people had come to mean to her; Lily and James had really become a second pair of parents for her.

Harry’s arm came to rest over the back of her chair. His thumb rubbing slow comforting circles on her shoulder. Ginny swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you, James.”

He waved off her thanks. “I only speak the truth, but I am curious.” He leaned slightly forward. “Have you gained those last few memories?”

Ginny sighed. As far as she could tell, she had gained ninety-nine percent of her memory back, along with her motor skills, but she constantly felt like she was missing something. Ever since the accident, she and numerous people had discussed important moments between them. With a little prompting, memories would come flooding back… but no matter how many times she and Harry discussed it, Ginny couldn’t remember their first kiss.  

It really shouldn’t be such a big deal. Ginny still knew who Harry was and the millions of reasons why she loved him. And yet… their first kiss was something she wanted to remember.  

No, fucking damn it! She would not let any of those dark thoughts ruin her current good mood.

“No, I’m still struggling,” Ginny admitted. Harry’s body shifted closer, allowing her to take comfort in his warmth if she needed it.

James nodded, and the look of understanding on his face slowly morphed sly smirk. “Well, I’m sure Harry here will be more than happy to refresh your memory of some of your more-- intimate -- moments.”

There was stunned silence. Lily shook her head. Harry turned beet red while Ginny felt her face heat up as well, except that she was holding in her laughter. It took ten seconds for Ginny to break, her chuckles joined by James. And eventually by Harry.  

Lily rolled her eyes, but her smile said everything. “Who wants some cake?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ginny rested her back against the headboard, her hand moving slowly through Harry’s hair as he lay across her legs. His eyes were closed, making her uncertain if he was sleeping or not. They had spent the day in bed, which after so long of feeling disconnected seemed heavenly to Ginny. They hadn’t done anything. Well, not nothing, but they’d been rather content just being with one another.

She flexed her left hand that held her book loosely to the side. Her ability to hold onto items had recovered to ninety-nine percent range, according to her physical therapist. And really, after four months of hard work and emotional tribulation, Ginny was more than happy at ninety-nine percent. Especially because she was returning for a real practice for the first time since her accident on Monday. She had to assume that this contributed to her tranquil mindset. “Ginny?” Harry’s voice was quiet, yet strong. As if he had been on the brink of sleep.  

“Hmm?” She kept lightly brushing his hair, loving the way it felt between her fingers.

“Marry me?”

That was not what she had been expecting. Her left hand dropped the book while her right hand stilled in the center of his head. “I already planned on doing that. Remember, the proposal on the beach, going back to the hotel room?” She moved her left hand in his face and wriggled her fingers showing off her ring. “And I thought I was the one that had the memory issues.”

Harry sat up, pulling her fingers from his hair, and twisted to look at her. “I mean today, like right now.”

If this were one of the cartoons Harry had shown her, Ginny’s jaw would have been on the floor. “Wh- right now?”

He nodded. “Right now.”

“Harry, what’s gotten into you?” The way he was looking at her…

How could he make her feel like the rest of the world didn’t exist with just one look?

“Nothing. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“All day?” Ginny quirked a brow. “I didn’t take your mind off this notion even for a second?”

Harry’s smile became dirty. “Oh, I did get distracted, but it always came back to the main point.” He kissed her. “I want to be your husband, and I don’t want to wait any longer.”

It wasn’t often Harry took charge in this capacity. He never really demanded anything of anyone. No, he was the kind of man to apologize when you walked into him. But Ginny’d be damned if she didn’t admit in charge Harry was fucking sexy.

Their eyes stayed locked in a silent battle. Ginny knew her mother would murder her if they got married without the family there. Hell, Lily would help dispose of the bodies. And yet…

“Yes.”

[eccia-dawnstalker]

I Am the Storm

((Theme music as you read if you so please))

Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing…. The sounds of bristle against wood washing away the trail of dark blood that stained the floor of the shop she’d come to temporarily call home. The only home she had left now officially after tonight.

"You aren't the type to pine," The Kaldorei’s voice echoed in her mind. Words spoke just hours ago. Or was it minutes? How long had she been scrubbing this floor. Was the blood stain even still on the floor or had she just been scrubbing it all on her hands and knees lost within the recesses of her mind. "Oh? Then what type am I, do tell." "The type to compartmentalize your feelings, I get the impression you'd agonize over your feelings before letting them be known. I imagine you deliberate about it all for a while."

Again the conversation echoed in her mind her ears pressing firmly against her head as she continued fervently scrubbing. She could still see it, the pandaren home with Sin’dorei motifs engulfed in flames. Flames she’d set in motion as she watched it burned down within her mind. The fire like a wildfire as it grew and grew consuming all within its heat. All the memories she’d built, all the life she’d known prior and till this night had been unable to let go of. Of her life among the Quel’dorei, among the Sin’dorei as a ranger. A life, that no longer had room for a void being to dwell within and the consequences of her choices since then.

"As you know, I've been gravely mistaken before. And easily mislead later. So I think it wiser to keep them to myself till and if an opportunity clearly presents itself. If even then."

"Patience is a good trait to have," he replied as his eyelids fluttered slightly. His voice grew more tired as he continued. "But sometimes it can be a weakness instead of a strength in situations to do with feelings. Or so, I've tended to notice.." She blinked, she hadn’t noticed the passage of time again well into the heart of the night going on into the morning. A glass within her hand, the smell of his familiar preferred drink on her breath. She raised the glass to look to it, how many had she drank now? For that matter when did she think to start and break into his stash? Knowing him he wouldn’t care but even as she had consumed the contents it failed to numb her mind… failed to comfort her any as it merely trapped her further within the recesses of her thoughts. The floor was fully scrubbed as was the counter, no more blood remained in fact it looked like she’d scrubbed every square inch of the floor as it practically sparkled now. The only dark spot on it left was that of her own figure drunkenly brooding now lost within her thoughts. She brought the contents of the glass up to her lips as she threw her head back to consume, feeling the burn down her throat as she went for the stairs and climbed slowly to the top. One hand out helping guide her along the wall while her eyes closed. She could still feel the rage coursing through her veins, still hear his cries echoing through her every being and worse yet… she could feel his final harsh caress as he seeped through her body following the shattering of his home. The sound of shattering crystals, of a foundation that was once her home within Quel’thelas… his home. The home that cast its shade over her all these years and still now lie in rubble as the magic that animated it had been forever destroyed and with it, her freedom of the entity that haunted her every waking thought. But instead of comfort now at last she felt… empty.

Her shoulder found the doorway leading into her room. The spare room he’d lent her within his home during her troubled times. The dark tresses of the Kaldorei sprawled elegantly along her pillow even as he slept. Her eyes not focused on his face however, but on the wound that lay wrapped around his bare chest. Her empty glass at her side still held in hand as her glassy eyes caught sight in the corners of them the armor she’d tediously cleaned free of his blood however many hours before and now drying on the table. The sounds of her work that put him to sleep mid conversation, so tired was he that he didn’t even register her final words before the exhaustion of the last few days they’d survived through took him.

"If, it was ever meant to be... then perhaps I'm naive enough to believe they'll see through my hesitation instead of choosing another. Either way, I won't be the one to make it known first... ever again."

If ever again… a very, very big if. She slowly and quietly walked over to the end of the bed, before lowering herself to the floor and resting her back against the bed as she rolled her head back. Her hands limply settled at her sides as she stared into that dimming darkness of her dying candle that lit the room. The sounds of his breathing the only thing to be heard past the flicker of flame. She stared into the darkness waiting, waiting for that familiar voice to come and attack her. To prod at her heart and very soul as he knew her every thought. Her every desire, her every secret. But there was nothing but silence…

She could still see the Gilnean’s face, see how he glanced through the door and stopped in his tracks only to advert his eyes from her. How he turned without a word and walked away without a look back nor a reply to her despite her attempt to genuinely thank him for being there for her. For being her rock as he held her tight despite how she deliberately attempted to violently break free of his hold. Stopping her from murdering the elf behind her now in her bed and that highborn mage in cold blood as she remained consumed by the last bouts of madness in Run’ahl’s wake. His words still echoing in her ears as he pleaded with her to fight the madness and return to him, to them. The solid feel of his arms around her as he held her up when she had nothing left in her to fight with as the darkness faded at last broken with that shattering sound. The smell of his lotus cologne that was almost a perfect mirror to the same that she smelled now of the elf slumbering behind her. A slumbering figure that she didn’t dare watch sleep in his current state as she knew how she felt for him, for them. Or did she? Did she even truly know anymore? For that matter, after what they’d just endured and the humiliation each of them bore on her behalf would they even look at her the same? Or would she be surrounded by fake faces, masks they hid behind protecting themselves from her as both had their faces covered even now. Her thoughts finally her own no longer misguided nor tainted. So much fuel to torment her with, but all she had now was her own thoughts and… silence.

Her eyes snapped to her hand then as she just realized it was shaking. Shaking as if cold, that kind of cold that no blanket could warm. She raised her hand up before her face as she watched it shake, felt it traverse down her arm along her shoulders before she pressed her hand firmly to her face and it stopped. Eyes shut tight in her momentary lapse of reason.

Stripped bare, Silence, Darkness. A single decision. A decision that ended the tremors and gave her but a moment to breath in deeply, then back out. She hadn’t lost everything tonight. She still had one blanket left. That one area left in her mind that had always been there to protect her. And with that complete numbness that filled her she became that metaphorical stone she had be to protect herself from everything. Even from herself. Only then did sleep finally take her as she slowly slumped over to the floor to bare witness to the storm within her mind that’d plague her nightmares. Within that storm the hunter rose from the ashes of all she’d buried this night… yet to be seen. ((Mentions go out to @illdraes and @ivanvukoja - thank you both for being a part of a huge arc in her character development. I have been blessed to share some wonderful rp stories with you both and I hope you enjoy the fruits of your labors ))

[xottzot]

2018-02(FEB)-Saturday--internet stuffed AGAIN--HIGH HEAT & FEELING VERY UNWELL BECAUSE OF IT--FALSE CALM.

2018-02(FEB)-Saturday--internet stuffed AGAIN--HIGH HEAT & FEELING VERY UNWELL BECAUSE OF IT--FALSE CALM.

internet stuffed AGAIN -- Yep, absolutely stops absolutely DEAD for no reason whatsoever. EVERYTHING STOPS. And when it restarts up again, everything is as usual dead bloody SLOW. - Welcome to thie hellhole of this shitty area, where crime is high but any internet speeds and connectivity is not. It's been like that since late 2015.......

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

It's a bloody HOT day again...........currently as I write this, it's about 36 C, or around 98F depending if I can focus my eyes in the sweat running down over all my face and into my eyes outside.

So much AGAIN for the bullshit forecasted 'mild' day. - Weather forecasts that mean absolutely NOTHING of reality to this hellhole area and are never applicable. As always......

Was cloudy/overcast earlier and the humidity was sky high too. Bt that soon all burned off and now there's just the damned heat....as always...the damned merciless heat.....

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Had to do some physical work outside, nothing extravagently physical, not that I'm able at all to that, and today what I struggled to do it exhausted and nearly killed me....all whilst the sole remaining chicken was going crazy......for no reason......

The sole remaining chicken the insane one Fliss literally found wandering the streets and at the Koongamia shops area, and then dear Fliss brought it to this place to be with our other happy chickens), that chicken the last one alive kept as a pet and as a reminder of time long gone and now dead of when things were happier and not destined for me to die and be dead, it was LOUDLY carrying on and squawking and running/fluttering about in assumed terror. Then AS ALWAYS, after I was done in its fenced-in chicken plot area making the ground nicely cool and damp, then overlaying it with fresh clean straw, the chicken suddenly shut up and thought nirvana was there again.......the entire place there needed that or else the dark dirt gets so VERY HOT in the terrible heat....and what thanks did I get? What thanks or recognition do I EVER get for anything good I ever do in my life for anyone or anything...about ANYTHING? - NOTHING. - ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOTHING.

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

Returned inside this hovel and nearly collapsed. Utterly drenched in sweat. Had a very cool shower and also washed my clothes and hung them outside to dry in the damned heat under shade. I've since brought them in now because they were dry as if having been being in an oven drier....even in the shade it's so damn hot.

Just took poor Sam and poor Max outside for them to desperately water the ground, and being black-furred animals, they have to come back in quick out of the sun or suffer/die from the damned effects. Not that Fliss cares for them or me it seems. Did she ever, or was it all a pretend act she's STILL putting on that everyone buys into?

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

Outside is currently false calm.

Let's see what new shit will eventuate as always shall we?

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Grabbed a local free paper today, one deigned for a DIFFERENT AREA even though it covers the same areas as the one that gets delivered here but they DON'T include relevant local information in it either unless they've been allowed to. - Shit.

CRIME NEWS:-----Some abo woman in Midland Gate Shopping Centre in Midland made off (stealing) some merchandise that was chained up inside a store (she cut the chain), and despite being yelled at to stop, she ran off with it. --- Just a criminal. NOT someone in need or one of the the 'valiant' ones so championed so hard by idiot groups and idiots and fools. But just another one who shouts loudly to DEMAND to get everything for free or else they'll steal it or violentally assault & bash you for it. - How NOT civilised and expected.......

She should go into abo activism & politics......especially since ALL politicians are liars and thieves.....

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Just had to take more painkillers and another painkiller for this damned very bad headache that's returned from earlier becaue the painkiller has worn off. That's what's happens because just short time ago I dared to go outside to take dried clothes off the line under cover in the shade before they go cripsy. - And so I got another dose of damn heat upon how I already very poorly feel.

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Criminals will come out when it gets darker, as they alwasy do, fuck the lot of THEM.

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Here below is a couple of NEWS bits...once again posted here LATE because the fucking utterly useless internet now seems to REFUSE to send to me my own emails I post to myself until MUCH LATER....sometimes not even until late in the day, sometimes not until the NEXT DAY.

As if the so VERY SLOW & STAGGERING internet now has become just a huge single forever-behind-in-being-updated fucking 'internet cache', and that has been plaguing me since late 2015....which for Fliss caused her to actually BLAME ME for the damned problems in my trying to keep in contact with her and reconciliation during it all....... -- Am I bitter about that? - FUCK THE WORLD AND PASS ME THE BUTTON TO BLOW IT ALL UP WITH. - PRESS. PRESS. PRESS.

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a VICTORIA AUSTRALIA NEWS BIT:------(CALLOUS CRIME ATTACK ON 77yo)----Elderly woman fighting for life after being assaulted while walking dogs in St Albans

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-02-02/woman-fighting-for-her-life-after-st-albansl-assault/9387354

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BTW, dear Fliss loves murder stories and gets great 'enjoyment' out of them, and the uncovering of the facts. But she is SO IGNORANT of real life things and personal values including love whilst at the same time trying to fit real life to her medically manic and delusional imaginings of crime and criminals that she revels in........which she passes off as 'entertainment'....and which is accepted by so many idiot women too....

Has dear Cath in QLD Australia yet figured for herself that I have ALWASY been telling the truth about everything? - Or has she too fallen into the delusions and bullshit and lies and other shit...?

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NT AUSTRALIA NEWS:----(ABO WOMAN MURDERS ABO MAN IN A PLACE & SITUATION LIKE FATGUTS DRIVEWAY ABO HANGOUT)-----Stabbing victim's wound was 10cm deep after fight over alcohol, court hears

Stabbing victim's wound was 10cm deep after fight over alcohol, court hears

By:--- Georgia Hitch -- Updated about 2 hours ago

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-02-02/stabbing-victim-wound-more-10-cm-deep-court-hears/9387300

PHOTO: (SCENE) --------- http://www.abc.net.au/news/image/9390278-3x2-940x627.jpg

PHOTO: (outside court, accused murderer Anisa Cadell is currently on trial charged with the 25-year-old man's murder) --------- http://www.abc.net.au/news/image/9390478-3x2-940x627.jpg

PHOTO: (SCENE) --------- http://www.abc.net.au/news/image/9390434-3x2-940x627.jpg

PHOTO: (SCENE with bloody murder weapon in situ) --------- http://www.abc.net.au/news/image/9387468-3x2-940x627.jpg

A Darwin court has heard a man who was stabbed and killed last year had a knife wound more than 10 centimetres deep after a fight with a woman over a cup of alcohol.

Warning: This story contains graphic details and images.

The 25-year-old man died in the community of Kalano, near Katherine, in February 2017, after an alleged fight with 22-year-old Anisa Cadell.

Ms Cadell pleaded not guilty to the man's murder and is on trial in the Northern Territory Supreme Court.

Today, forensic pathologist Dr John Rutherford told the court the man had a wound between 10 and 13 centimetres deep that had split one of his ribs and partially split another.

Dr Rutherford said the blade had continued to pierce the man's left lung and ultimately penetrated, and stopped, in his heart. A woman exits the front doors of the Supreme Court.

The court heard more than a litre of blood was found in the man's chest cavity as a result of the wound.

Earlier in the trial, the court heard Ms Cadell and the 25-year-old were engaged in a "vicious" fight over a cup of alcohol, moments before he was stabbed.

Witnesses said at one point they saw the man sitting on top of the woman and punching her.

The man's uncle, George Maroney, testified he did not see him get stabbed, but did see him fall back onto a long table beside a fridge with a knife in his chest. Wound self-inflicted 'unlikely': forensics

When asked by defence counsel John Lawrence SC whether he could exclude the possibility the injury was self-inflicted, Dr Rutherford said he could not, but it was unlikely.

"You can never entirely exclude a self-inflicted injury on basis of pathological findings alone," Dr Rutherford said.

He said there were "lots of little pointers … to suggest that it wasn't" self-inflicted.

They included:

Self-inflicted wounds with sharp objects are relatively uncommon statistically

Among those wounds, stab wounds are also uncommon

People who do stab themselves usually have a history of past self-harm or psychiatric care

There are usually other smaller wounds near the site from previous attempts where people have underestimated the toughness of the skin

Dr Rutherford said there were no other tentative stab wounds found on the body, and instead it was a "perfectly clean wound".

The expert told the court someone would need to use moderate to severe force to inflict a wound of this nature, and it was more likely the result of a strike than from a push-pull struggle beforehand.

The trial continues.

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

I love you dear Fliss and want to be with you. I forgive you. You've known that too since last 2015.

[officialnaturalnatures-blog]

The Futility of Violence

In a world where the average human is either plagued by being within a world of constant violence and war or is constantly being bombarded with the imminence of being forcibly dragged into such a state, I think it is time we discuss why all this fighting is entirely pointless.

I have a feeling that I am not alone in this realization. Most of the humans I have had the opportunity to speak with see that conflict rarely produces any positive outcome, and even if there is some positive outcome to be noted, the greater result is negative. So why then do we seem to live in a society that craves war, fighting, and conflict? For you warmongers and proponents of violent resistance, the following discussion is going to appear to be insulting, but it is not meant to be. In fact, I am grateful to your mindset, because it was essential to our early evolution, but now I’d like to reason that it might be time for a change. Through a tracing of logical conclusions, perhaps you will be able to see and understand the need for a new kind of evolution. Of course, when feeling battered, you will want to point out the holes and real-world cases where my logic would fail. Feel free to leave these observations and complications as comments below, and I would be happy to engage in civilized logical debate with you.

Now, back to the question, why does our society seem to crave war, fighting, and conflict? The answer is quite simple, the need to protect and uplift oneself through violence is an early evolutionary trait of the human psyche. It comes down to the reasoning of “fight or flight” present in every species that my mind can currently think of. This will lead some to think that violence is legitimized, but read that again, it is an early form of evolutionary thought. It is derived from a simple way of thinking that predisposes one to the belief that the life currently being lived is the beginning and ending of all existence. Further and higher thought begins to reject this possibility.

The world and universe exists on a timescale that makes the mortal human existence nearly insignificant. To think that existence can therefore be measured through the frail reality of a mortal life is a faulty conclusion and is based in faulty anthropocentric thought. Higher thought begins to recognize greater patterns: “my lifespan is insignificant compared to the span of human existence; human existence is insignificant compared to the existence of mammalian creatures; the mammalian existence is insignificant in comparison to the existence of reptilian creatures; on and on goes life until the existence of organic life pales in consideration to the existence of the physical universe.” This line of higher thought continues, eventually leading to the assertion that consciousness is beyond physical and exists in a place “out of time.” Life is simply an embodiment of consciousness in a physical and time structured existence. Death can only be the release of consciousness from these bounds. Therefore, death is not an issue to be concerned about.

As one can see, higher thought brings one to realize that there is no need to emphasize the prolonging of the physical existence. If there is no reason to prolong the physical existence, there is never a need to fight or kill in order to prolong this existence. Those unevolved thoughts that say there is a need to kill come from the acceptance of the idea that physical existence is the be all and end all of one’s universe. (It is strange that those who put the highest value on their own life are those quickest to discard other lives.) Remove that obstacle of thought, and there is no longer any way to legitimize violence as a form of protection.

Religion in its higher form is an effort to teach people this principle of the futility of preservation of the physical self, so that peace may be realized. Unfortunately, there is a lower form of religion that introduces an argument of higher thought to legitimize violence to a more conscious being. You see, this lower form of religion brings in the idea that there is only a single truth, and that this truth must be defended even unto death, or through murder and violence. This form of violence sees that the length of a human life is rather insignificant, but that ideas can long outlive a single mortal life. If someone feels as if the truth he/she holds is universal and immutable, then that truth must outlive the individual so all others can have access to it, even if it means enforcing it through violence and murder.

This strategy for creating violence is used with political and financial ideologies as well. We see this with the immense number of “holy wars” the U.S. has been involved in since the end of World War II—wars to end any government that did not fit the “ideal democracy” that the U.S. created (which is faulty in even calling the U.S. a democracy since we live in a republic, not a democracy). This desire to instill ideology will probably be what leads to World War III unless the current world leaders can learn to evolve their own intellectual understandings. For the higher truth--the one that can realize peace and live kindly with a whole world of different organisms--will not and cannot fight. This is a direct interference with the higher philosophy. For this reason, the evolution of man moves very slowly, for those who are evolved will speak, but they will not fight, leading to their own deaths and the progression of a lower mindset.

Many may stand up and say, “Well, if you reach such a level of intellectual evolution, shouldn’t it be your duty to fight to live and spread that evolution?” No, because evolution must happen naturally, and to commit the act against which one is preaching is to be a hypocrite and to have one’s entire message fold in upon itself. This is a truth that has led me to craft an aphorism: “There is truth worth dying for, but never truth worth killing for.”

All of what has preceded is theoretical discussion, but now let us see how this philosophy could change things in the world we see today. First and foremost is the issue of terrorism. There are many (especially in the U.S.) that feel terrorism is something that must be met with violence. This is clearly a false conclusion, as can be seen by the growth of terrorist groups rather than the diminishing of them since the beginning of the “War on Terror” in 2001. This is because violence engenders violence. If a cause feels that it must be violent in order to get attention, it will be violent to get attention. If that violence is solely bemoaned and pitied and in all other ways ignored, then there is very little feeling of justice among the members of that group to continue with violence, for clearly the violence did not produce results. However, if a violent act is met with greater violence and militarism, then people outside of the cause will begin to pity and associate with the struggles of the cause, swelling the ranks of people supporting it.

We also face issues with gang and drug violence. The drug violence is caused by a government being unwilling to control and distribute certain substances based on perceived ideas of truth, and making laws that run in this same order. (Government can then exacerbate the problem by providing drug rings with the drugs for street markets, thereby increasing the size of the industry and violence associated with it as was the case with the CIA and cocaine in the 80’s.) When trapping any living thing and pushing it into a corner one can expect to receive violence in return, this is because of those basic “fight or flight” instincts. Take away the choice of flight and the only remaining choice is to fight. Many street drugs addle the brain and reduce it to basic instincts as well, so it would make sense to try and ban them, but if they are existent within a person’s system addiction kicks in, which pushes one to violent measures to obtain the drug. The answer becomes finding a way to provide and regulate it, take the customers from illegal street gangs that use violence to compete and put the source in hands that know how to operate in a more evolved manner.

Another issue within the violent gang lifestyle is that when subjected to violence an individual is likely to revert back to early evolutionary thinking. The way the world currently deals with these communities caught in a loop of violence is to send in armed cops that are themselves fallible and capable of returning to violence when met with violence. Give them armaments and send them into a violent situation and they are—more likely than not—just going to become part of the problem rather than a solution to it. Send in a bunch of friendly, unarmed people talking about peace and love and there may be some violent reaction, some people may die, but with an elevated form of consciousness life is already impermanent, but the change provoked by seeing violence met by nothing but peace and tears is transformative to most living creatures. The point being that violence cannot and will not diminish violence, and so a violent solution cannot even be placed on the table.

From the most macro to now the smallest microcosm, psychotic breaks in individuals (often induced by unmonitored and unregulated drug use) can lead to sudden bursts of violence. An event like this can lead people to react in anger, demanding the revoking of guns or the purchasing of more guns. Does this anger do anything aside from spread the psychosis of violence into a greater expanse of people? It makes sense to mourn and to wonder. In fact, if the wondering is followed by an investigation into the background of the individual to see what may have caused the psychotic break, then the wondering could lead to finding ways to prevent such psychotic breaks in the future. But for psychosis to be met with thoughts of anger and lashing out with violent words or acts at those who believe differently than the self will make it impossible for evolution or progression to be achieved.

We are at an age where, per capita, there is less violence than there has ever been, despite the pervasiveness of violent language between unevolved leaders. It was only a couple hundred years ago when most people had some experience in a gun or sword duel, now there exist those who may have never even been punched before. At this incredible juncture, are we going to support the growth of violence by supporting unevolved thinkers who currently have power and their desires to start war, or are we instead going to demand greater levels of peace than we are currently experiencing?

It is still a personal choice. There can only be information given from those that promote peace, there can be no militaristic, fascistic, or unkind way of promoting peace, only the proposal of the idea and the hope for its acceptance. You now should have all the tools necessary to realize that the promotion of war is to be unevolved in thought. The choice should be easy: evolution and peace, or devolution and violence.

 P.S. There are many jumps in reasoning in this blog post, mainly because a few of the interim assumptions would take a book long discourse to prove in a conclusive manner. Also, I am going to start the troubling of my own proposition: one of the most difficult instances to choose peace and Love over violence would be the perpetration of violence against a person that you loved, especially when that person is still left alive to deal with the consequences wrought on the physical form. In these moments I think I would snap. It goes back to that creation and allowance of a culture of violence that would allow the act to happen in the first place.