#but then the second and third were for Virtuous Reasons

[coral-ti-horn]

if i had a nickel for every time Ephraim kidnapped Pax and Electra in the series, i would not have one nickel. i would not even have two nickels. i would have THREE nickels. THREE. which isn't a lot but god is it so inexplicably fucking funny

[bellaaldamas]

Hope you have a well deversed rest! Your edits are awesome as always! 💕💕💕

Also fun question: I remember reading one of your conversations with stupidrant that someone made a scenario where it's possible for Freya & Baldur to reconciled(?) Would like to know how this could work since he's one of the the few Aesir I sympathized the most. Baldur in Norse Mythology comes back from Hel after Ragnarök. Would be fun to see how he turns out since it possible for SMS to push this direction. :)

Thank you again for the kind words. And I'm grateful that you, through the playlist you had shared with me earlier, familiarized me with the song I used for the edit. It is not only remarkably fitting for Angrboda and Atreboda in terms of lyrics but is well constructed and competently performed in it's own right.

Regarding Baldur, it's fair to say that he is that exceptionally rare example in popular media of a tragic villain done right. Unlike certain whitewashed villains and antagonists apologized either by the narrative or by their respective fan-bases (or, typically, both; this usually applies to male villains but female ones and toxic female characters in general also tend to get away with their abusive and violent behaviors, especially when they come from privileged background) Baldur was treated exactly the way he deserved to. He was shown for someone who was, from beginning to end, a product of his upbringing, circumstances and personal choices influenced by said circumstances.

It would've been exceptionally easy to portray Baldur as a wayward and lost son of a virtuous woman - Freya - who chose the wrong path because due to Odin's genes he was "inherently evil" as well as "ungrateful" towards his mother for her misguided but genuine attempts to protect him.

That's not how Gow18 and GowR (where, notably, Baldur wasn't present at all in the current timeline) portrayed him. The narrative allowed him to vocalize and express every single valid concern he had with the way Freya went about keeping him safe. It was made clear that it were the ways in which he himself chose to express it that were wrong rather than his feelings or experiences.

What stands out the most is that Gow18 events are set in motion precisely because Baldur tracks down Kratos and confronts him on Odin's orders (even that small bit of information already reveals Baldur's characterization as that of a broken individual desperate for parental approval). As the gamer starts learning new fighting mechanics through their battle - the second boss fight in the game and the first one between Kratos and a fellow god - the audience is introduced to Baldur's emotional turmoil, albeit without context. Not through third parties or through Freya (whom Kratos, Atreus and the gamer meet and bond with later and become biased in her favor) but through Baldur's own heartfelt screams about how he doesn't feel a thing and Kratos struggling against him is "pointless" (as he baits Kratos/the gamer to give him their best punch).

That's how the narrative establishes that, on one hand, Baldur's aggressive behavior is inexcusable and unprovoked and, on the other hand, there are underlying psychological reasons for that which need to be examined. From the writing standpoint it's a perfect set up for providing an explanation rather than a justification for villain's actions.

Another noteworthy point is that we get more background on Baldur and learn of his being Freya's son after - as mentioned above - getting to know Freya personally. As Kratos, Atreus and the gamer come to sympathize with and respect her. Unlike Baldur, an obvious antagonist, Freya is, from the get go, introduced as an ally character and as a caring, kind and nurturing person (her determination to save Hildsvini, then in his boar form, after he's shot by Atreus, her love for animals and plants, her saving Atreus's life, her giving Kratos the comfort and support even after he lashed out at her for keeping the very same secret about her deity background that he did in regards to his own son). Which further ensures that Kratos and Atreus as well as the gamer end up taking Freya's side once the faithful information about Baldur being her son is revealed and he attempts to kill her to get even for taking away his feelings. Such framing could've been an opportunity for the writers to only show the situation through Freya's lens and completely rob Baldur of any agency or voice.

But that doesn't happen either. Instead, Baldur is framed as an antithesis for young Atreus. Both had parental issues and estrangement from said parents (despite the emotional closeness to Faye, Atreus eventually finds out she, much like Kratos, also lied to him about vital things and not just her own but Atreus's background as well, for the sake of protecting him - wrong thing done for the right reason, not unlike Freya regarding Baldur). Both Atreus and Baldur aspired to prove their worth to their respective, emotionally distant fathers (as we learn in GowR from Freya herself; who goes out of her way to compare Baldur and Atreus and offers Kratos to become a mentor and motherly figure for Atreus in order to make up for her failures with Baldur).

In Gow18 Atreus has his low point when he finds himself on the verge of losing his morals and compass upon finding out about Kratos's and his own deity heritage. But eventually comes back on track, both due to Kratos breaking the emotional distance between them in order to become the authority figure and positive influence in Atreus's life that he failed to be from the start; as well as due to Atreus's own realization being a ruthless killer is not who he is or wants to be. The latter is the most important part of that arc, showing that Atreus choosing to stay on the right path was, first and foremost, for his own sake. Rather than a part of him wanting to please Kratos and earn his approval, the way Baldur aspired to earn that of Odin. The theme of personal choice over imposed circumstances or mistakes of one's parents is, thus, further highlighted through parallels and contrasts between Atreus and Baldur.

Upon the "family reunion" in the end of Gow18, Baldur gets to spell out his frustrations with Freya and she fully accepts the blame and responsibility. Down to her willingness to allow Baldur to kill her as a penance for robbing him of his ability to feel. However, this is also when the narrative, through Kratos and Atreus, shows that while Freya undeniably is one of the fundamental reasons Baldur turned out the way he did and got consumed by aggression and anger (other reason being Odin and it is in GowR that the audience gets more in depth information about that - along with said audience being prompted to check themselves on placing the full responsibility for bad parenting and it's consequences on a woman), Baldur, ultimately, is his own person. And is just as responsible for his own choices as Kratos, Atreus and Freya are.

The above point continues to be emphasized more boldly in GowR and is the reason Freya escapes being reduced to a misogynistic stereotype of a broken woman consumed by bitterness. Said stereotype is often framed as "feminist" in mainstream media and juxtaposed against soft and vulnerable female character types who maintain their cheerfulness and inspiration in spite of the adversities, like Angrboda. GowR subverted that false juxtaposition as well when it paralleled not only Freya and Angrboda but their interactions with Kratos and Atreus respectively.

As I noted many times, the most subversive point of Freya's arc in GowR is that her vindictive quest against Kratos ends prematurely and permanently less than halfway into the story. Rather than perpetuating the cycle of toxic motherhood by making Baldur's tragic but logical demise (because of his own actions and the route he chose to pursue) about herself and her pain Freya chooses to redirect her anger onto the real aggressor which is Odin ("you're [Kratos] not the one who needs to die"). Essentially diverting said anger away from herself and Kratos; whom Freya initially aspired to kill even if it required irreversibly destroying herself in the process and giving up on everything and everyone she used to hold dear (another part of the toxic parenting cycle).

Her further bonding with Kratos is also remarkable: while Freya recognizes Baldur as "not perfect but hers" she, as noted above, delves more into his background, his dangerous determination to impress Odin at any cost and his similarities with Atreus; whom Freya aspires to shield from the same fate as Baldur's. Atreus, in the meantime, continues to prove himself a parallel/antithesis to the aforementioned by actively seeking interactions with Odin and trying to trick the latter by winning his trust - something Baldur failed to attain either in life or in death.

Through those conversations (particularly in Vanaheim and during Freya's Missing Peace quest) Freya and Kratos realize how numerous factors affected Baldur's worldview, ultimately resulting in the man he became and his eventual death at the hands of Kratos, in defense of Freya. In the scene with the Norns Freya actively jumps to Kratos's defense when they mention his love for god killing being the cause of Baldur's demise ("it was not out of hate!"). Even though she said nothing in defense of herself or Baldur when the Norns mentioned their own choices determining their fates.

As far as Baldur's potential return, I have conflicting feelings about that though consider the idea interesting as well as having potential for SMS to come up with new "mythology with a twist" plot points and give the characters more development. On one hand, Baldur's come back could provide Freya with a closure that, in GowR, she had not yet found with herself (even when Freya was no longer blaming Kratos for Baldur's death she continued beating herself over it, including in the optional scenes and side quests, causing Kratos to emphasize that she did what she though she must do to protect Baldur).

Additionally, regardless of whether the writers take a romantic route with Freya and Kratos' relationship (my preferred scenario) or a platonic one (your preferred scenario) getting to face Baldur again, for both of them, could strengthen their bond and result in them working through that issue completely. The narrative made it a point to never gloss over it and that's what made Kratos and Freya's partnership and alliance so productive, strong and positive.

An anti-parallel to that would be Thrud's unhealthy reaction to Atreus killing her brother, whose death she outright dismissed by saying they were "better off without him" (because at that stage Thrud was mindlessly parroting her father and grandfather's propaganda and didn't have a mind or analytical thinking of her own; her "treacherous ex wife" comment about Freya is a product of that same mindset). Followed by her inviting Atreus, said brother's killer, to enjoy his stay in Modi's room and explore Asgard with her. That is, in between showing distrust or even contempt towards Atreus not for legitimate reasons (as Freya did towards Kratos for killing Baldur and as Thrud should have done towards Atreus for killing Modi) but because of Atreus's independence and unwillingness to tow Odin's line. In Helheim Thrud either prides herself on being supposedly stronger than Atreus - though constantly needs his help and aid with "almost budging" doors - or outright tells him she should have never trusted him. And that her mother was right about him all along when Atreus makes an honest mistake out of good intentions.

There where Angrboda and Atreus's interactions serve as a parallel to that of Kratos and Freya (see above) Atreus and Thrud's dynamic is an anti-parallel to both. That said, as I mentioned before, the most fitting scenario for Thrud's development would be to have Freya as her mentor (something that was hinted at by Lunda) and, in the process of bonding with her, reconsider her misguided perceptions imposed by Odin.

Concerning favourite Aesir characters, in my case it would be Sif whose determination to better herself, overcome her addiction for the sake of her daughter and a brighter future for her family and her willingness to embark on diplomatic missions to restore peace deserves far more credit than she tends to get.

[wonder-worker]

"Alice Perrers was perceived by her contemporaries to be an uncrowned queen and through an analysis of her activities it is clear she was able to utilise the practical benefits of queenship for her own ends. However, by taking on the mantle of queenship Alice fundamentally corrupted the sovereignty and kingship of Edward III. First, by her aggressively political behaviour she became the threat at the heart of the power structure that the gendered constructions of queenship were supposed to remove from a consort. Second, by taking on the practical aspects of queenship she inherently undermined the ideological role of queenship, both by the simple fact that she was a mistress and not a queen, and even more so because of her behaviour. The problems Alice caused and how she was perceived were amplified in contrast to the [...] demeanour of Philippa, who was widely respected and much loved by the people. Just as queens in their exalted position were ‘lightning rods’ for ideas about women and female power, so was Alice because of her proximity to the king."

— Laura Tompkins, The uncrowned queen: Alice Perrers, Edward III and political crisis in fourteenth-century England, 1360-1377 (Thesis, University of St Andrews, 2013)

"Alice's expansion of her power through the office of queenship was problematic for a number of reasons. First, while the queen’s power was legitimised by her marriage to the king and her coronation, Alice’s power was not formalised in this way and consequently would have been regarded as illegitimate. Second, she was not the right type of woman to share in the king’s dignity. She was not noble, she was not chaste and she was not virtuous. Instead, she was a low-born London widow and a businesswoman. Consequently, we find Alice being discussed in the language and stereotypes of queenship, but in a rather negative light. For example, while queens are routinely described as noble, beautiful and virtuous regardless of what they actually looked like, Walsingham is quick to emphasise that Alice was of low birth, and that, almost implied as a consequence, she ‘was not attractive or beautiful’. While we do not know what Alice looked like it seems unlikely that Edward III would have taken and kept her as a mistress for so long if she had been physically repellent. Third, and most significantly, not only was Alice an inappropriate mistress exercising illegitimate power, but she also broke all of the gendered rules that queenship was constructed around, inverting the ideal form of queenship to her advantage."

[mariana-oconnor]

The Golden Pince-Nez pt 1

A new story, whose name I don't even recognise, and I can only hope that it goes a little something like this:

But probably not...

...I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here also I find an account of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the Boulevard assassin...

Ah, the traditional 'listing of fascinating sounding cases that are not the case we are about to read about'. Has there ever been an adaptation that actually created cases for some of these teasers? The ones that don't have their own story, as I know occasionally they do come up again.

I kind of want to know what the singular contents of the ancient British barrow were. I'm guessing it wasn't dead bodies or ancient artefacts, as that would be rather par for the course.

...I am of opinion that none of them unite so many singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith...

Excellent names, which lead me to wonder both if there is a Yoxley New Place and an old Willoughby Smith who lives there. Clearly the two must never meet, which is going to be a lot easier now that young Willouoghby Smith is dead. Bad for him, but possibly for the good of the universe.

Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palimpsest...

No joke, I just love the word palimpsest. Excellent word use.

It was strange there in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields.

It's another miserable day in London. Is this where everyone got the idea that it never stops raining in Britain from? ACD's atmospheric dreariness and pathetic fallacy?

Watson is having a moment contemplating his insignificance in the face of eternity, very relatable.

I actually love that feeling in relation to nature. Just that weird awe that you feel when you see nature being so vast and powerful and remember you are tiny compared to a cloud or a storm or a mountain. Good feeling. Good words and good feelings. 10/10 evening so far.

“Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night,” said Holmes...

Why do I suspect these to be famous last words?

"Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed.”

And what does that say about you two, my good men? Hmm?

It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very practical interest.

No animal description yet. Lestrade didn't have one in the last story that I noticed either, but I am inclined to believe that was because ACD could only think of tigers for that entire thing and he thought tiger was too complimentary a comparison to turn upon poor Lestrade.

Or perhaps in the interim between the first stories and the second lot, he forgot about his habit of comparing police officers to animals?

"There's no motive, Mr. Holmes. That's what bothers me—I can't put my hand on a motive. Here's a man dead—there's no denying that—but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm.”

Either they got the wrong person, or he's secretly The Worst. In Sense & Sensibility Willoughby was definitely secretly the worst. This is probably not the same Willoughby. Probably.

"The Professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary about a year ago to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes; but the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the University, seems to have been just what his employer wanted. [...] This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge."

How very goldilocks of him. Did the first one write too fast and the second one right too slow?

Hmmm, so suspicion points at first to the idea that either the professor or Mr Smith manipulated events so that Mr Smith would end up with the job. We've seen malicious employers enough times in these stories that it's an automatic thought.

We do have indications that Mr Smith is who he claims to be, though.

“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don't suppose you could find a household more self-contained or free from outside influences. Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the garden gate."

Not-A-Cult ™

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only person who can say anything positive about the matter."

I know he means positive as in definite, but I read it as positive as in happy. So for some reason Susan was feeling good about Mr Smith's untimely demise.

"She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence."

A slamming door is my best guess for something that could shake the whole house. But also, please to be adding a banshee to that list of supernatural Sherlock Holmes stories. Strange and unnatural scream followed by an immediate dead body?

"It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the Professor's own desk."

The fact that the weapon was left behind and an item from the room indicates either crime of passion or some sort of accident (he ran into my sealing wax knife, he ran into it ten times). So we're probably not looking at a premeditated crime here.

‘The Professor,’ he murmured—‘it was she.’

Coming at it from a 21st century perspective, my mind immediately jumps to this being a rival female professor who had broken into the house to steal/sabotage Professor Coram's research. I imagine that is not what we're supposed to be thinking, however, as an Edwardian audience would not expect a professor to be female, and honestly, I kind of doubt ACD would go there, so 'The Professor' is likely to refer to Professor Coram OR another professor whose surname starts with She/sounds like Itwashi (Japanese perhaps?)... OR this is a reference to it being a banshee. It does feel a bit like one of those deathbed speeches that is misunderstood by the person listening to it. Especially with the line 'The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact words.'

“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track."

Stanley Hopkins here already proving himself head and shoulders above your average Holmesian police officer in that he actually looked at the evidence. Good for him. Unless it turns out that it was one of his fellow officers who walked on the grass in order to stop himself from leaving prints on the path... in which case, thanks for trying.

"What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?”

In spite of Stan's best efforts, Holmes remains bitchy af, as per usual.

"There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the Professor assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been committed."

We do only have the Professor's word about this, but I am overly suspicious of everything. For all we know this is a long con and the professor isn't even a disabled old man at all, he's been in disguise this whole time.

“Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes. “Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet away from the body, so that seems impossible."

He was still alive when he was found, so he might have foolishly pulled the thing out and thrown it aside.

"And, finally, there was this very important piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man's right hand.”

Stanley also likes a dramatic reveal, it seems.

Is it gonna be some pince-nez? Is it?

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it.

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand and examined them with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose, endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

The only thing I can think of here is that they just have plain glass in the lenses and Sherlock is amused by the fact that they're part of a disguise. I don't see what else he'd be able to work out from them other than how bad the owner's eyesight is. Unless their eyesight is so bad that they could easily mistake Mr Smith for Prof. Coram... but then they were wearing the pince-nez before the murder, presumably, which would solve that problem. So yeah, only thing I can think is that they're costume glasses with no prescription.

“Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression, and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last few months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength and as opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficulty in tracing her.”

OK, fine... apparently it's the opposite. Her eyesight is so bad that she should be easy to trace.

I know a lot of people with very bad eyesight, I really don't think it's as uncommon as Holmes seems to be implying. The majority of people I know have glasses and many of them are practically blind without them. Increased computer usage probably has something to do with increased deterioration of eyesight in current times, but at the same time. London is very big, there must be plenty of women out there who have terrible eyesight, mustn't there?

The rest of it makes sense, though. And honestly, I'm mostly just glad that no one's saying that as her eyes are close together her criminal tendencies are clear. Wonderful to have a description with no physiognomy involved.

"As to her being a person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other respects."

"Well, it's nearly one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep. I dare say you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the fire."

Good of you not to put the man out in the middle of a storm at 1 am, Holmes. Still a bit weird for a police officer to be sleeping on your sofa. Is there no guest room? I guess, now that Watson's moved back in in his widower years, he's staying in it again. And it would be cruel to wake Mrs Hudson up at this time of morning.

It seems we must wait until next time to learn the secrets of Professor Coram's household.

[hirocimacruiser]

SUPER SILVIA

Enjoy the powerful battle of FR machines!

Manabu Orido will be fierce again this year, and we are looking forward to breaking his winning streak and record time!

N2 and N1 Silvia users come together and engage in a heated battle here at Suzuka and Fuji. Will Manabu Orido continue to be fierce this year?

The Super Silvia Champion Cup Series, which can be called the championship match for Silvia users, has already entered its third season since its inception. Full N2 regulations have now been introduced, but before that, races were held with a slightly smaller scope of modifications. At the time, it didn't even have overfenders, and other than the lowered ride height, it was hard to tell it apart from the N1 spec. However, the race, which was essentially a prototype, reignited the tuning car race, which had been on the decline for a while.

The appeal of the N2 machine is, first of all, that it allows for a wide range of modifications. This made it possible to significantly improve the vehicle's combat power, but this not only provided the driver with the joy of driving fast, but also provided the creator with an opportunity to demonstrate their skills to the fullest. This created a virtuous cycle and brought back vitality to the N2 class of the Freshman Trophy (now Clubman) here at Suzuka.

The hero that appeared there was Manabu Orido. Orido, who is a former Drifcon (drift control contest) and trained at Fuji, drove a Corolla Levin in 1993, his first year at Suzuka. Although he did not participate in the Freshman Trophy the following year, he finally took the wheel of a Silvia in the newly established Super Silvia Champion Cup. However, that year was sluggish. If I may venture to say, the reason for my defeat was self-destruction caused by impatience.

Orido used that frustration as fuel for the following year in 1995, completely dominating the four-race series. At the opening race here in Suzuka exactly one year ago, he finished with a huge difference of 1 minute 22 seconds over second place, which shows just how fast he is. Of course, he held record times at Suzuka and Fuji, where two races were held each. Even in the Freshman Trophy, where he made a comeback, he did not win the championship because he could not participate in all the races, but he still had a good performance with 3 wins in 4 races (including 2nd place behind Seijiro Sawa's GT Skyline).

I am getting results.

Orido's goal in this qualifying round is to further beat the 2:19.804 he set in the final race of last year's Freshman Trophy. Given favorable climatic conditions, Orido has become even stronger on the big stage, and its renewal is not a dream. There are also high expectations for how far they can extend their winning streak.

Of course, the appeal of the Silvia is that it is a FR drive. However, if you let the tail flow more than necessary, it is just a loss of time.

Enjoying control and delicate acceleration are the best secrets to improving your time. This becomes even more important with the N1, which has less power than the N2.

Still, what makes this car so appealing is the perfect match between body size and power. For that reason, this race will be a development worthy of the elite few. Last year's champion, Kazuhiro Yamakawa, has also decided to continue competing in the N1 class, so expectations are high for a consecutive Victory. Enjoy the powerful driving experience.

[starbabe569]

I'm working on an outline for the series to fix some of the larger problems with the writing. While doing that I was looking into titles for concubines other than Favorite, Hatun and Haseki. I found Gözde ('the favorite'), Ikbal ('the fortunate') and Kadin ('the woman/wife'). From what I could find Ikbal and Kadin where created in the early seventeenth century. Seeing as the writers through it was a good idea to use Haseki Sultan for Mahidevran when the title was created for Hurrem I think it's perfectly fine for me to use general titles created after the series has ended.

**Gözde** ('the favorite')

This would be the same as in the show if the Sultan likes a concubine enough he'll declare her a favorite.

**ikbal** ('the fortunate')

An Ikbal was a titled consort, and recognised as such by the sultan. The number of ikbals varied. They were ranked as baş ikbal ('senior ikbal, senior favourite, senior fortunate one'), ikinci ikbal ('second ikbal, second favourite, second fortunate one'), üçüncü ikbal ('third ikbal, third favourite, third fortunate one'), dördüncü ikbal ('fourth ikbal, fourth favourite, fourth fortunate one'), and so on, according to the order in which they had caught the sultan's eye, and elevated to that position. The ikbals usually held the prefix titles of iffetlü ('honest, virtuous'), and ismetlü ('the virtuous'), and the suffix title Hatun.

Ikbal ('the fortunate') Baş ikbal ('senior ikbal, senior favourite, senior fortunate one'), Ikinci ikbal ('second ikbal, second favourite, second fortunate one'), üçüncü ikbal ('third ikbal, third favourite, third fortunate one'), dördüncü ikbal ('fourth ikbal, fourth favourite, fourth fortunate one'), iffetlü ('honest, virtuous'), ismetlü ('the virtuous')

**Kadin** ('the woman/wife')

The sultan could have up to four kadıns at a time, although they might have more over a lifetime, because from time to time, one would die or be retired to the Old Palace. 

They were ranked as baş kadın (senior kadın, senior consort), ikinci kadın (second kadın, second consort), üçüncü kadın (third kadın, third consort), dördüncü kadın (fourth kadın, fourth consort), and so on, in order of their elevation to that position.

The kadıns usually held the prefix titles of devletlü ('illustrious', 'highness'), ismetlü ('the virtuous'), iffetlü ('honest', 'virtuous'),  saadetlü ('prosperous', 'felicitous'), and  inayetlü ('gracious'), and the suffix titles of kadınefendi ('her ladyship'), and hazretleri ('highness').

Kadin ('the woman/wife') baş kadın (senior kadın, senior consort),  Kokoikinci kadın (second kadın, second consort), üçüncü kadın (third kadın, third consort), Dördüncü kadın (fourth kadın, fourth consort), saadetlü ('prosperous', 'felicitous'), kadınefendi ('her ladyship') hazretleri ('highness')

So there will be regular Concubines, Gözde ('the favorite'), Ikbal ('the fortunate') will be favorites who have given birth and Kadin ('the woman/wife') will be chosen by Suleyman for what ever reason he see fit. Hatun will be an honorific title given with the titles Ikbal and Kadin.

Thoughts? Should we keep the prefixes with the titles?

@shivrcys @desmoonl @redxluna @faintingheroine @minetteskvareninova

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Wednesday, June 7 2023

mai 26_june7

Commemoration of the third discovery of the venerable head of the holy prophet, forerunner, John, baptist of the Lord 

THE MANY FINDINGS OF THE HEAD OF ST JOHN-THE-BAPTIST.

The Holy Tradition tells us that after the beheading of St John the Baptist, Herodias did not allow to bury the severed head of the prophet with his body. She defiled the honourable head and buried it near her palace. The disciples of St John secretly took the saint’s body and buried it. The wife of King Herod's steward knew where Herodias had buried the head of St John. She decided to rebury her in one of Herod's estates on the Mount of Olives.

When rumours about the preaching of Christ and the miracles that He performed reached the royal palace, Herod, together with his wife Herodias, decided to check whether the head of John the Baptist was still where they had left it. Not finding it, they began to think that Jesus Christ was the resurrected John the Baptist. The Holy Gospel bears witness to their mistake (see Matt. 14:2).

Jerusalem. The First Acquisition of the Head of John the Baptist

Many years later, during the reign of King Constantine Equal-to-the-Apostles, his mother, St Helena, began reviving the shrines of Jerusalem. Many pilgrims began to flock to the Holy Land. Among them were two monks from the East who came to venerate the True Cross and the Holy Sepulcher. It was them whom St John counted worthy of finding his honourable head. Today, we only know that he appeared to the monks in a dream and that after seeing the leader in the place indicated by the prophet, they decided to return home. They met a poor potter from the Syrian city of Emesa on the way. Poverty had forced him to go to the neighbouring country for work. Either out of negligence or laziness, the monks entrusted their new companion to carry the bag with the sacred relic. He held it until St John appeared and ordered him to escape from the negligent monks taking along the bag with the relics.

The Lord also blessed the potter's house with every good thing for the blessed head of St John the Baptist. The potter lived his whole life remembering his benefactor. He was never proud and gave alms generously. Shortly before his death, he handed the relic over to his sister, instructing her to pass it on to God-fearing and virtuous Christians.

After being passed along from one person to another for a long time, the precious head fell into the hands of Hieromonk Eustaсius, a supporter of the Arian heresy. Afflicted people turned to him for help and received healing, not knowing that the reason for this miraculous help was not the apparent piety of Eustaсius. Still, the grace came from the relic he was hiding. Soon the deception was revealed, and Eustaсius was expelled from Emesa. A monastery was shortly founded near the cave where the hieromonk lived and where the head of John the Baptist was buried.

Emesa and Constantinople. Second and Third Uncoverings of the Honourable Head

After many years, the Second acquisition of the precious head took place. This is known from the testimony of archimandrite Markell of the Emesa monastery and from the life of the Venerable Matrona († November 9), compiled by the Venerable Symeon the Metaphrast. According to the former, the head was revealed to him on February 18, 452. A week later, Bishop Uranius of Emesa established special veneration of the relic, and on February 26 of the same year, it was transferred to the newly built church in honour of St John. This event is celebrated on February 24 (March 9, or March 8 in a leap year) on par with the celebration of the First Acquisition of the honourable head.

After some time, the head of John the Forerunner was transferred to Constantinople, where it remained until iconoclastic times. Pious Christians leaving Constantinople secretly hid the relic in Kamani (near Sokhumi), where St John Chrysostom died in exile (407). After the VII Ecumenical Council (787), restoring the Orthodox veneration of icons, the head of St John the Baptist was returned to the Byzantine capital (about 850). The Church celebrates this event on May 25 (June 7) as the Third Acquisition of the venerable head.

Fourth Crusade and Travel to the West

The story about the head of St John usually ends with an episode related to its Third Acquisition. This is because its further history is connected with the Catholic West. Let's turn to the lives of the saints, according to the Menology of St Demetrius of Rostov, after describing the acquisitions of the precious head. We will find a footnote in small print, often overlooked by readers. This citation became a real revelation for us after we had unexpectedly discovered the head of the Baptist in France a few years ago. s...Continue reading St Elizabeth Convent 

2 CORINTHIANS 4:6-15 

6 For it is the God who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. 7 But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellence of the power may be of God and not of us. 8 We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; 9 persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed- 10 always carrying about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our body. 11 For we who live are always delivered to death for Jesus' sake, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh. 12 So then death is working in us, but life in you. 13 And since we have the same spirit of faith, according to what is written, "I believed and therefore I spoke," we also believe and therefore speak, 14 knowing that He who raised up the Lord Jesus will also raise us up with Jesus, and will present us with you. 15 For all things are for your sakes, that grace, having spread through the many, may cause thanksgiving to abound to the glory of God.

LUKE 7:17-30 

17 And this report about Him went throughout all Judea and all the surrounding region.18 Then the disciples of John reported to him concerning all these things. 19 And John, calling two of his disciples to him, sent them to Jesus, saying, "Are You the Coming One, or do we look for another?" 20 When the men had come to Him, they said, "John the Baptist has sent us to You, saying, 'Are You the Coming One, or do we look for another?' " 21 And that very hour He cured many of infirmities, afflictions, and evil spirits; and to many blinds He gave sight. 22 Jesus answered and said to them, "Go and tell John the things you have seen and heard: that the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have the gospel preached to them.23 And blessed is he who is not offended because of Me. 24 When the messengers of John had departed, He began to speak to the multitudes concerning John: "What did you go out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken by the wind? 25 But what did you go out to see? A man clothed in soft garments? Indeed those who are gorgeously appareled and live in luxury are in kings' courts. 26 But what did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I say to you, and more than a prophet. 27 This is he of whom it is written: 'Behold, I send My messenger before Your face, Who will prepare Your way before You.' 28 For I say to you, among those born of women, there is not a greater prophet than John the Baptist, but he who is least in the kingdom of God is greater than he. 29 And when all the people heard Him, even the tax collectors justified God, having been baptized with the baptism of John. 30 But the Pharisees and lawyers rejected the will of God for themselves, not having been baptized by him.

[myjennieblr]

Endurance - A Phoenix Tale

“Do you know the story of Shiba Sho and his defense of his shugenja charge?” she asked.

Nami frowned, thinking, then nodded. “I believe so. There’s a Phoenix song about it.”

Kagami nodded. “I thought I remembered there being one. Could you tell it to me?” she asked.

Nami nodded agreeably, wincing as she shifted trying to get more comfortable. “Let me see. I believe this was three hundred years ago, according to the song, but who knows how old the song was and whether it was updated to adjust for the passage of time. Shiba Sho was, of course, a man of sterling quality. Large and strong and brave. Quick with his blade and merciful in his actions. Intelligent and far-sighted. A cunning and virtuous warrior.”

Kagami grinned, pulling a blanket around herself and wrapping her arms around her knees. Much like Jiromasu, Nami enjoyed telling stories and was good at it.

“He was a Shiba, born and bred a protector and sworn to the Isawa as yojimbo for their shugenja school. And he was assigned to protect one of their best and brightest students, a true jewel of the province. She was not Isawa herself, but came from the Asako family. Asako Mei was as lovely as a midsummer’s day, beautiful and thoughtful and with a deep understanding of the kami and their needs. She was so fair and so talented that she was invited to visit the court of the Emperor himself.”

Nami’s voice was sounding a little hoarse and still sleep-roughened and she gave a little cough. Kagami passed her the water-flask and she took a sip, nodding her thanks.

“The Isawa school, proud of their jewel-bright daughter, sent her to the royal court with Shiba Sho as her yojimbo and with a squad of ashigaru as her honour guard. But the plans for her travel and the route she was to take had been given to those who had no honour to their names. Two ronin bandit captains made plans to snatch this priceless prize, for she would be worth a considerable ransom. They laid their trap and, with the aid of a renegade monk, baited it.”

Nami paused to take another drink, smiling up at Kagami’s rapt face.

“The monk approached Asako Mei, asking her blessing and offering his. Mei, kind and trusting and pious, had no thought of there being any foul play. But Shiba Sho, true to his role, was not a trusting man, and he saw the lion’s jaws just before they snapped shut. Deploying his men to take advantage of the terrain, he managed to blunt the first attack of an overwhelming force. Fully half his men lost their lives on that first charge and he drew back down a small valley, finding a further narrows where they might defend against the onslaught.”

Kagami’s eyes were wide. The story sounded almost familiar, and she wondered if maybe the reason she could not fully remember it was that it had been one of the songs sung when she was dozing against her cousin’s side, contented and warm and only half hearing the words.

“The bandits attacked again, pelting them with arrows, and the rest of the ashigaru fell. Sho himself only survived because Mei had called on the kami to protect him from the deadly rain. Sho and Mei fled further down the valley until they found a small cave that housed a tiny spring and it was there that they stopped. Mei called forth the Air kami to send a message to the Isawa to tell them of the danger they faced. But the archers in the bandit force were watching for messenger birds, wise to the ways of shugenja, and the first one was shot from the air, the kami’s avian form dissolving as it was pierced through by the bandit’s arrow. The second and the third attempt also fell to the archers’ arrows and Mei felt the chill of despair on her heart.”

“Shiba Sho, however, was not dismayed and he set himself in the entrance to the cave, far enough back to avoid the same deadly fate, but far enough forward to see those who would advance on their positions. He had found a defensible place and there he set himself, determined to outlast even this army of opponents, to protect the Isawa to whom his honour was sworn.”

“He fought bravely, and he fought well, but even the greatest of samurai is not immune and while the wounds he inflicted were grievous, still his opponents managed to evade his guard and their blades occasionally found purchase in his flesh. But Shiba Sho did not fight alone, and whenever his wounds threatened to overwhelm him, there was Mei, a spell of healing on her lips. And so he fought through the day until dusk fell and his enemy withdrew to their campfires. And in the darkling dusk, Mei once more whispered a messenger bird into being, a tiny nightingale, used to the darkness and sweet of voice, and sent it off into the night. And the archers could not see it, could not target it, and Mei and Sho knew that their message would be heard. But they also knew that help was days away.”

“And Sho bid Mei to sleep, knowing that an unrested shugenja could not access the powers of the kami, and that they would have as much need of them as of his blade, and set himself to watch, for he expected that the ronin force would send assassins under the cover of night. And he was right. But the assassins had expected to find him asleep or inattentive, tired from the day’s exertions, and they did not anticipate the keenness of his eye, nor the swiftness of his sword, and he slew them all. And in the morning, he called out, his voice carrying over the enemy army, and he told them that still he lived, despite their honourless tactics. And that still he would stand there on the following morning and the following yet. And that any that braved his blade should die of it.

Kagami bit her lip as Nami paused to take another sip of water, admiring the defiance of the man who, faced with such overwhelming odds, simply refused to give up.

“And Shiba Sho withstood all they could throw at him that day, sustained by Mei’s healing and the sips of water from the stream that she fed him between attacks. And as dusk fell after that second day, he called out, telling them that still he stood and that he would still be there in the morning. And then he bid Mei to sleep, for he knew that unsupported, he would not last the following day, and he maintained his place before cave entrance, weary but unyielding. And when the expected assassins arrived in the night, more careful now given the fate of those who came before, still his eye was keen and the morning light heard his voice calling over the ronin force, informing them of their failure and their cowardice.”

“And they lasted through another day of fighting, though Sho could feel the weakness in his limbs as exhaustion and hunger weighed down his blade. But still, his honour and his will buoyed him up and at sunset he again called his defiance over the valley, his voice echoing off the peaks. And he called them cowards and weaklings and swore that if they sent assassins again, that Emma-o would consign them all to Jingoku for their sins. And then he bid Mei to sleep, for he knew that in the morning he would need her aid even more than he had the days before. And he stood at the entrance to the cave and he prepared for another night where assassins would attempt to steal his life through treachery since they could not manage it by skill.”

“And in the night, the assassins came again, and Sho’s eye was keen, but his arm was heavy with weariness, for he had fought without rest for three days and this was the third night. And though he slew the assassins, one of them managed to sink a knife into his side. When dawn came, Sho was able to call his defiance to the valley, but he had lost a great deal of blood and was much weakened. When Mei awoke, she healed him of his wound and he straightened and smiled at her and took his place once more at the mouth of the cave.”

“But what neither of them knew was that the assassin’s blade had been coated in an insidious poison and over the course of the day it worked with his weariness to drag him down. But still he persisted, and in the afternoon, there was a great cry of dismay from the valley as the Shiba army, responding to the nightingale’s song and the Isawa school’s command, descended on the bandits from the rear and slew them to a man. And when the Shiba general rode up to the cave where Sho and Mei had endured, she found Sho, sunk to his knees in the entrance of the cave, his will finally overcome since it no longer needed to resist, and Mei standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder and tears in her eyes, for there was no spell that could cleanse the poison from him, too deeply had it twined with his being. But his eyes were still clear and his katana still in his hand, and the general bowed her great respect to the man who had slain over two hundred men in the protection of his charge and who had truly shown Rokugan what it meant to be Shiba.”

[honourablejester]

I was going to say, I haven’t played either the AP or the CRPG, but just going by the lore, the Mendevian Crusades haven’t exactly been portrayed as uncomplicatedly good and virtuous.

The first crusade was launched nearly 20 years late, after all of Sarkoris, the country they’re theoretically trying to save, as well as a good chunk of neighbouring Mendev, was already overrun, owing to the continent-wide social upheaval following the same death of a god that caused the demonic invasion to happen in the first place. Said first crusade was at least partially organised as a proving ground for the two churches most badly affected by said god’s death, to prove their continuing relevance/new importance in the vacuum, and was supported by several nations who were neck deep in their own civil wars/independence movements at least partially as a way to handily dispose of their own bad apples/inconvenient mercenary forces as their internal situations devolved. While there were a lot of people who joined the crusade out of a genuine desire to save the people affected and stop the demonic incursion, on a political level, it was a significantly more cynical effort. And, you know. Also necessary, on account of the demon army that is in fact invading the world.

The second crusade resulted from the crusaders of the initial crusade being suckered by the demons, thinking them rampaging brutes attacking without reason, and failing to realise that they were a fully functional intelligent enemy deliberately acting that way to dupe them. As a result, the second crusade was basically a loss, with the end result that the crusaders just fully wrote off the nation of Sarkoris as unsalvageable and sealed the demons inside its boundaries.

The third crusade resulted from the demons trying more subtle infiltration tactics once the magical wards of the second crusade went up, meaning that this was the crusade that within three years completely devolved into witch hunts and paranoia, a lot of it pointed at the Sarkorian people themselves, who you may have noticed have been shat on at basically every single stage of this endeavour. The Mendevian government had to essentially just shut that crusade down as it was doing more harm than good.

The fourth crusade, more than 20 years later, resulted from a new demon leader managing to punch a hole in the ward wall and start invading again. This lead to a 15-year-long slugfest that basically exhausted all resources on both sides. It also saw a whole new organisation within the crusader forces called the Order of Heralds who were there to basically function as the crusade’s internal affairs agency to try and stop it fully devolving into hate crimes and witch hunts the way the previous crusade had done. Because they realised they needed that.

By the time we get to the fifth crusade, the one featured in the AP/CRPG, this slugfest has been going on for literally a hundred years, Sarkoris as a nation has been essentially obliterated, most of Mendev’s government is reliant on a foreign military hierarchy to function, and the crusader forces themselves have been such a mixed bag of zealots, opportunists and genuinely good people for five crusades now that they’ve developed an internal police force to try to curb the worst of the excesses.

And, the thing is, the crusade, or at least some form of defending force, has been necessary. As OP says, the demons are genuinely invading. They are infiltrating surrounding nations and crusader forces, they are trying to conquer, infiltrate and suborn everything around them. Crusaders and inquisitors are genuinely necessary. But excesses happen, and witch hunts happen, and zealotry gets pointed in the wrong place, at the people who have been most victimised in the whole mess. But that’s not a confused narrative. It’s entirely consistent, because the crusades have been this way from the start. They are necessary, yes, but that has, from the first, never prevented them from being taken advantage of by governments, zealots, opportunists, and general bad actors. Nothing at this scale can be. That’s a coherent narrative.

The fight may be necessary, it may have a moral core of repelling brutal and otherworldly invaders, but that doesn’t make the fight pure. It’s a massed endeavour on a logistical, political and religious scale, involving thousands upon thousands of people, from all over a continent, and all that combines to make it a mess of personal, political, military, religious and organisational goals, with people involved ranging from shining paladins determined to do right to brutal warlords who would compare favourably to the demons themselves on their best day (and sometimes those are the same person). The demons may have been variously contained, beaten back, and eventually triumphed over, but it has come at the cost of more than a century of continuous warfare, internal purges, and pretty much the outright destruction of one nation and the complete military occupation of another.

There is a thing in fantasy … The alignment system, hard-coded morality, I do get it, I have so many issues with the alignment system myself. The demons being an inherently evil force that it is inherently morally correct to fight and kill is an issue, especially in light of the genocidal and colonial roots of the real world crusades and their religious justification. But there’s also …

If we are positing a world where the demons are real. Where the gods are real. Where a literal extraplanar army is invading. Where that is a concrete, factual threat, requiring no religious mummery to manufacture. Yes, question the motives of setting up the fictional universe that way, but once you’re there. And there are reasons to go there. There is a romance to the image of a knight, there is a reason people want to play paladins, and once the real world origins and issues with that image are acknowledged … sometimes you want to play a hero fighting something evil.

But for all that, Pathfinder still did attempt to show at least some of the moral and political complexity of that kind of endeavour. The Mendevian crusades aren’t a pure and holy endeavour, they’re a complicated moral and political mess that has embroiled half a continent in zealotry and warfare for a full century now, and for large chunks of it, the demons were only half of anyone’s problems. Cheliax is one of the supporter nations for the crusades. And while Cheliax wasn’t an openly Satan-worshipping nation for the first crusade, it certainly was by the fifth.

There’s also the little detail that the second crusade was a result of the crusaders completely failing to realise that the demons were more than just rampaging brutes and were actually intelligent beings, fully capable of strategically out-thinking them, which resulted in a lot of them just going home after the first crusade, leaving a full nation to have to be sacrificed later on. So even if they are portrayed as evil, the demons do still get a lot more out-of-universe credit for interiority and intelligence than the in-universe crusaders gave them.

I don’t like the alignment-based worldbuilding that both Pathfinder and D&D have going on (though all credit to Paizo for working on it during the remaster). The morally hard-coded planar cosmology itches at me. But there is, to be fair to them, a lot more going on in this particular instance than ‘crusades good’, you know?

kind of concerning how married the fantasy genre is to "crusades as a basically good thing"

[amicidomenicani]

Question  Good morning, Father Angelo.  For the past few years I’ve been struggling with purity: sometimes I depart from it through  images and acts, but then I turn back, I go to confession and start up again. It’s an endless and strenuous battle.  When I’m going through difficult times, I always manage to practice purity, but when I’m  untroubled I tend to relapse.  When I have a problem, I ask Heaven for help, I swear I’ll be good, but when the problem  is resolved “…once on shore, one prays no more…”.  Everything is clear up to this point.  But here’s my question.  When there’s some problem troubling me I don’t sin, but not just because I’m trying to obtain some grace; on the contrary, during those times, I don’t feel the desire to sin at all  and, without desire, it’s easy not to sin!  Once the problem is resolved, then the desire to sin comes back with a vengeance and I  don’t always come out on top.  How can I eliminate the desire to sin? If I didn’t have the desire to sin I would absolutely  stay pure.  I’m waiting for your advice.  Many thanks.  Nicola  Priest’s answer  Dear Nicola,   1. It is true that, when there’s some grace that we want to ask for, we try to walk the  straight and narrow path in order to be deserving of the Lord’s benevolence. But it’s also true that when we are untroubled it’s easy to be slothful or disengaged. And sloth, as we know, it’s the father of vices.  It is for this reason that Saint Thomas, among the various means to keep oneself pure,  cited always being occupied with something.  Staying busy was also one of the preventative means recommended by Saint John Bosco. It is known that, when young people have some goal to strive for and are always busy,  they rarely fall into personal impurity. We would say: “They have other things to think  about”.  2. In De perfectione vitae spiritualis, Saint Thomas recommends five ways to avoid falling  into impurity.  Here they are:  “The first and main remedy is to keep the mind occupied in the contemplation of  divine things and in mental prayer.  For this reason the Apostle says: “And do not get drunk on wine, in which lies debauchery,  but be filled with the Spirit, addressing one another [in] psalms and hymns and spiritual  songs'' (Eph 5:18), which seems to refer to contemplation; “singing and playing to the Lord  in your hearts”, which seems to refer to prayer. Our Lord says the same thing through the  Prophet: “For the sake of my renown I hold it back from you, lest I destroy you” (Isa 18:9).  Praising the Lord does indeed constitute a restraint, because it prevents the soul from  falling into sin.  The second remedy is the study of Sacred Scripture, according to what Jerome writes  to Rufinus the Monk: “Love the study of Scripture and you won’t love the vices of the  flesh”. This is why when the Apostle said: “Set an example for those who believe, in  speech, conduct, love, faith, and purity” (1 Tim 4:12), he immediately added “Until I arrive,  attend to the reading”.  The third remedy consists in filling the soul with some virtuous thoughts. This is the reason why Chrysostom says that the amputation of the genitals doesn’t take  away temptation and doesn’t bring about peacefulness as much as reigning in our  thoughts (Super Matth.). Therefore the Apostle says: “Finally, brothers, whatever is true,  whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is  gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about  these things'' (Phil 4:8).  The fourth remedy is for man to abandon idleness and busy himself with physical work as well. Sirach 33:29 says “for idleness teaches much mischief”. Idleness, in particular,  incentivizes vice,

as Ezekiel says: “Now look at the guilt of your sister Sodom: she and her  daughters were proud, sated with food, complacent in prosperity. They did not give any  help to the poor and needy” (16:49). And for the same reason, in writing to Rufinus the  Monk, Jerome says: “Take up some work, so that the devil may always find you busy”. The fifth remedy which is used against concupiscence of the flesh consists also in certain  disturbances of the soul.  In the same letter to Rufinus the Monk, Jerome reports that in a certain monastery there  was an adolescent who was unable to extinguish the flame of the flesh through abstinence  or through good works, however great.  Therefore, the abbey of the monastery saved him, who was in danger of falling, with this  trick: he commanded an older man to persecute him with arguments and offenses and  then, after having offended him, to come forward to complain about it. Witnesses were  called, and they testified in favor of the man who had insulted him.  The father of the monastery was the only one who defended him, so that his brother would  not be overcome with sadness. This went on for a year, at the end of which, when asked  about his previous [impure] thoughts, the adolescent answered: “Father, how can I find  pleasure in fornicating if I’m not even allowed to live?” (Saint Thomas, Opuscula  theologica, II, pp. 588-593, ed. Marietti).  3. There’s a common thread among these remedies which is to busy oneself with other  thoughts and other desires.  If we’re not busy, our adversary has free reign to do what he wants.  So try to always be busy in the Christian life and in sanctification, without wasting time.  I bless you, I will remember you in my prayers and I wish you well.  Father Angelo 

[dwellordream]

“...A lone woman could, if she spun in almost every spare minute of her day, on her own keep a small family clothed in minimum comfort (and we know they did that). Adding a second spinner – even if they were less efficient (like a young girl just learning the craft or an older woman who has lost some dexterity in her hands) could push the household further into the ‘comfort’ margin, and we have to imagine that most of that added textile production would be consumed by the family (because people like having nice clothes!).

At the same time, that rate of production is high enough that a household which found itself bereft of (male) farmers (for instance due to a draft or military mortality) might well be able to patch the temporary hole in the family finances by dropping its textile consumption down to that minimum and selling or trading away the excess, for which there seems to have always been demand. ...Consequently, the line between women spinning for their own household and women spinning for the market often must have been merely a function of the financial situation of the family and the balance of clothing requirements to spinners in the household unit (much the same way agricultural surplus functioned).

Moreover, spinning absolutely dominates production time (again, around 85% of all of the labor-time, a ratio that the spinning wheel and the horizontal loom together don’t really change). This is actually quite handy, in a way, as we’ll see, because spinning (at least with a distaff) could be a mobile activity; a spinner could carry their spindle and distaff with them and set up almost anywhere, making use of small scraps of time here or there.

On the flip side, the labor demands here are high enough prior to the advent of better spinning and weaving technology in the Late Middle Ages (read: the spinning wheel, which is the truly revolutionary labor-saving device here) that most women would be spinning functionally all of the time, a constant background activity begun and carried out whenever they weren’t required to be actively moving around in order to fulfill a very real subsistence need for clothing in climates that humans are not particularly well adapted to naturally. The work of the spinner was every bit as important for maintaining the household as the work of the farmer and frankly students of history ought to see the two jobs as necessary and equal mirrors of each other.

At the same time, just as all farmers were not free, so all spinners were not free. It is abundantly clear that among the many tasks assigned to enslaved women within ancient households. Xenophon lists training the enslaved women of the household in wool-working as one of the duties of a good wife (Xen. Oik. 7.41). ...Columella also emphasizes that the vilica ought to be continually rotating between the spinners, weavers, cooks, cowsheds, pens and sickrooms, making use of the mobility that the distaff offered while her enslaved husband was out in the fields supervising the agricultural labor (of course, as with the bit of Xenophon above, the same sort of behavior would have been expected of the free wife as mistress of her own household).

...Consequently spinning and weaving were tasks that might be shared between both relatively elite women and far poorer and even enslaved women, though we should be sure not to take this too far. Doubtless it was a rather more pleasant experience to be the wealthy woman supervising enslaved or hired hands working wool in a large household than it was to be one of those enslaved women, or the wife of a very poor farmer desperately spinning to keep the farm afloat and the family fed. The poor woman spinner – who spins because she lacks a male wage-earner to support her – is a fixture of late medieval and early modern European society and (as J.S. Lee’s wage data makes clear; spinners were not paid well) must have also had quite a rough time of things.

It is difficult to overstate the importance of household textile production in the shaping of pre-modern gender roles. It infiltrates our language even today; a matrilineal line in a family is sometimes called a ‘distaff line,’ the female half of a male-female gendered pair is sometimes the ‘distaff counterpart’ for the same reason. Women who do not marry are sometimes still called ‘spinsters’ on the assumption that an unmarried woman would have to support herself by spinning and selling yarn (I’m not endorsing these usages, merely noting they exist).

E.W. Barber (Women’s Work, 29-41) suggests that this division of labor, which holds across a wide variety of societies was a product of the demands of the one necessarily gendered task in pre-modern societies: child-rearing. Barber notes that tasks compatible with the demands of keeping track of small children are those which do not require total attention (at least when full proficiency is reached; spinning is not exactly an easy task, but a skilled spinner can very easily spin while watching someone else and talking to a third person), can easily be interrupted, is not dangerous, can be easily moved, but do not require travel far from home; as Barber is quick to note, producing textiles (and spinning in particular) fill all of these requirements perfectly and that “the only other occupation that fits the criteria even half so well is that of preparing the daily food” which of course was also a female-gendered activity in most ancient societies. Barber thus essentially argues that it was the close coincidence of the demands of textile-production and child-rearing which led to the dominant paradigm where this work was ‘women’s work’ as per her title.

(There is some irony that while the men of patriarchal societies of antiquity – which is to say effectively all of the societies of antiquity – tended to see the gendered division of labor as a consequence of male superiority, it is in fact male incapability, particularly the male inability to nurse an infant, which structured the gendered division of labor in pre-modern societies, until the steady march of technology rendered the division itself obsolete. Also, and Barber points this out, citing Judith Brown, we should see this is a question about ability rather than reliance, just as some men did spin, weave and sew (again, often in a commercial capacity), so too did some women farm, gather or hunt. It is only the very rare and quite stupid person who will starve or freeze merely to adhere to gender roles and even then gender roles were often much more plastic in practice than stereotypes make them seem.)

Spinning became a central motif in many societies for ideal womanhood. Of course one foot of the fundament of Greek literature stands on the Odyssey, where Penelope’s defining act of arete is the clever weaving and unweaving of a burial shroud to deceive the suitors, but examples do not stop there. Lucretia, one of the key figures in the Roman legends concerning the foundation of the Republic, is marked out as outstanding among women because, when a group of aristocrats sneak home to try to settle a bet over who has the best wife, she is patiently spinning late into the night (with the enslaved women of her house working around her; often they get translated as ‘maids’ in a bit of bowdlerization. Any time you see ‘maids’ in the translation of a Greek or Roman text referring to household workers, it is usually quite safe to assume they are enslaved women) while the other women are out drinking (Liv. 1.57). This display of virtue causes the prince Sextus Tarquinius to form designs on Lucretia (which, being virtuous, she refuses), setting in motion the chain of crime and vengeance which will overthrow Rome’s monarchy. The purpose of Lucretia’s wool-working in the story is to establish her supreme virtue as the perfect aristocratic wife.

...For myself, I find that students can fairly readily understand the centrality of farming in everyday life in the pre-modern world, but are slower to grasp spinning and weaving (often tacitly assuming that women were effectively idle, or generically ‘homemaking’ in ways that precluded production). And students cannot be faulted for this – they generally aren’t confronted with this reality in classes or in popular culture. ...Even more than farming or blacksmithing, this is an economic and household activity that is rendered invisible in the popular imagination of the past, even as (as you can see from the artwork in this post) it was a dominant visual motif for representing the work of women for centuries.”

- Bret Devereaux, “Clothing, How Did They Make It? Part III: Spin Me Right Round…”

[byunbaekby]

title: haven’t been caught pairing: badboy!haechan x goodgirl!reader word count: 1.7k genres: fluff, established relationship au, high school au, secret relationship warnings: mentions of weed, suggestiveness, one cuss word, not proofread additional: based on the song “good girls” by 5 seconds of summer. also, big thanks to @florence-cvrt​ for all their help <3

-

She's good at school, she's never truant She can speak French, I think she's fluent.

“Lee Donghyuck, if you don’t get your hand off my thigh right this instant, I will tell Mr. Qian to fail you.”

You bring a light slap down on his hand, which is threatening to slide up your skirt. Your boyfriend’s hand immediately leaves your leg, innocently tucking it back into his lap. When you turn to him, his pretty lips are spread into a fake virtuous smile and his long hair barely covers his entertained sparkling eyes. Still, he complains, “Wait until I tell the student body that their vice president is actually violent and manipulative.” 

He tsk’s as you show no reaction, instead flipping through the pages of the French textbook. “What would you tell them?” 

Donghyuck leans back in his desk chair where the two of you reside in an empty classroom, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket before running a hand through his hair. “That even though you walk around school smiling at everyone and kissing teachers’ asses, you love hitting your boyfriend and threatening him.”

“You, my boyfriend?” You laugh at him, eyes never leaving the book. “They’d never believe you.”

You’re right, because the school has no idea that you, the It Girl and vice president of the student body council, are dating Lee Donghyuck, the guy who smokes weed behind the school and always skips class for no important reason other than to entertain himself. How you even started dating is another story, but now your relationship is on the infinite downlow.

“You’re right,” he relents, but he’s obviously not given up yet as he leans closer to you. You try not to get swayed by the sudden infiltration of his scent, and continue scanning the pages of the French book. “They won’t. But it wouldn’t be a surprise. I mean, we’d be the hottest couple ever. So, maybe I should put a nice big hickey, right there on your pretty neck. Maybe then they’ll believe you’re not as innocent as you pretend to be,” teases your boyfriend, his voice dipping lower into dangerous territory. 

You roll your eyes. “Sure,” you respond sarcastically.

“If you say so.”

Before you know it, your boyfriend has leaned in to kiss you, lips inches away from yours. When you realize what he’s up to you put a hand up, so his lips meet your palm instead of their intended destination. “No.”

A whine leaves him, a stark juxtaposition from his dark appearance. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not appropriate.”

“Not appropriate?” he questions, crossing his leather covered arms across his chest. “You’re my girlfriend.”

A shake of your head tells him no, along with a teasing smirk upon your lips. “Not right now. Right now, I’m your French tutor. Now pay attention,” you tell him, gaze skimming the textbook page. 

“Fine,” he scoffs, leaning back in his chair. 

“Je suis allé au café et j'ai pris une tasse de café. Translate that for me.”

“That means,” he starts, rolling his neck back to stretch it out, looking less than interested in the lesson. “My boyfriend is so sexy and I wish he would kiss me right now.”

Your eyes narrow, and you shake your head. He speaks up again. “I was kidding, actually it means, Donghyuck, I love when you wear your leather jacket, it makes you look so sexy.” 

You lean forward, capturing your head in your hands in frustration. He just laughs. “Tu es une telle honte, pourquoi je sors avec toi,” you sigh out, exasperated. 

“Oh,” he hums, leaning forward to hold your hands instead. “Maybe that one means, My girlfriend is so beautiful and smart?” You look up at him, raising an eyebrow at his sudden attempt to appeal to you. “Because you are.”

You roll your eyes, a smile spreading over your lips. “Actually I was calling you a disgrace and wondering why I’m even dating you.”

“Not surprised,” he chuckles softly, but immediately closes the French textbook on the desk before the two of you. “Come on, you know I’m not good at this school thing. Mr. Qian already knew that when he asked you to tutor me. How about,” he tilts his head at you, about to put up an offer. “We ditch this tutoring session and go get some ice cream? On me.”

A purse of your lips tells him you’re considering it, and he adds, “If anything, I’m just studying more by being with a beautiful lady who speaks fluent French.” 

You chuckle, leaning forward with pursed lips. “Je t'aime.”

“That one I know,” he smiles as he presses a sweet kiss to your lips. “Love you too. Now let’s go,” he says, standing and pulling you along by the hand. 

'Cause every night she studies hard in her room At least that's what her parents assume But she sneaks out the window to meet with her boyfriend.

Carefully you climb down the side of the house, trying your best not to make any noise against the wall but also trying not to fall to your death. A sigh of relief leaves your lips as both your feet touch the solid ground.

“Going somewhere?”

Immediately you jump, eyes widened as you turn to meet the owner of the voice. “Donghyuck!” You hiss, voice still low. “I thought you were my dad!”

“Well, you can call me daddy too,” your boyfriend says as he approaches you to press a kiss on your cheek. The tip of his light chin stubble brushes on your skin as he does so. 

“Don’t even joke about that,” you roll your eyes, allowing him to slide an arm over your shoulder and walk you down the street to where he parked his car out of view from your house. “So, where are we going?” “A friend’s party. His name is Mark.”

A cautious eyebrow is raised by you. “Will anyone from school be there?”

He shakes his head in response, knowing you can’t be spotted together especially with you under his arm at a college party of course. You’ve got to protect your precious reputation. “Nah, he’s in college. There’s no way he’d let high schoolers in.”

“We’re high schoolers, silly.”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs before turning and grinning sinfully at you. “But we’re cool.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” you tease as he releases you and unlocks his car.

She may be clever but she just acts too square 'Cause in the back of the room where nobody looks She'll be with her boyfriend, she's not reading books.

As you slide up onto your tiptoes, the feeling of your boyfriend pressing against you is much too present and you scoff. “Can you stop being a horndog and get this book for me?”

“Darling,” he chastises, reaching up to grab it easily above you. “That’s what I was doing.”

As he hands the book to you, you roll your eyes. “Sure, like you weren’t trying to rub up on me.” 

“Not at all,” responds Donghyuck, dark eyes glinting with mischief. You leave him behind as you turn into the next aisle, searching carefully for the next book you were looking for. As you get deeper into the library shelves, the light gets further away and the tall shelves begin to cast a shadow upon your hidden figures. “Why do you even wear your uniform, anyways? You know it’s not required by the school.” 

“Yeah,” you respond matter-of-factly. “But as the vice president I should adhere to the suggestions set by the administration. Clearly you don’t care,” you say, glancing over his usual outfit of ripped jeans (which definitely didn’t fit normal dress code anyways) and his trademark leather jacket over a white Adidas shirt. 

“Okay, but your president Huang Renjun is a lame virgin with a stick up his ass and even he doesn’t wear his uniform everyday,” retorts your boyfriend.

“More reason why I should have been president instead,” you respond, scanning over the back of a book sounding not at all petty.

“That’s because at the time, you were more focused on becoming my girlfriend than campaigning, you minx,” Donghyuck teases as you slide the book back into its place, unsatisfied with its synopsis. When you don’t respond, instead turning into yet another aisle, he follows you, fingers tugging slightly at your skirt. “That’s okay, I like the skirt anyways,” he says, his famous smirk over his lips as your mouth gapes and a flustered warmth slides up to your cheeks. “S’cute.”

She said to me, forget what you thought 'Cause good girls are bad girls that haven't been caught

“Oh my god, Y/N,” Donghyuck already starts as he approaches you in the front of the school, already losing his bad boy personality in the fear that you’d be upset at him. “I’m so sorry.”

The two of you had been caught making out in the bleachers by a few members of the football team after school yesterday. Okay, perhaps it wasn’t the most discreet of places but you swore they’d announced over the intercom that football practice was cancelled for the day! Unluckily, it seemed a few players still wanted to get some practice in. 

Surely, rumors flew in less than twenty-four hours. Y/N, with Donghyuck? No way. Impossible.

Yeah, that was what you thought too, until it happened. You fell for him, for all his rough edges and playful teasing. He doesn’t deserve to be hidden. 

The smile you give him must throw him off, because he blinks. He’s probably forgotten his pre-made apology; he knows how important your reputation is to him. In his silence, you speak up.

“I don’t want to hide anymore. Let’s,” you propose as you interlace your hands, surely feeling eyes on you already. “Show them what a hot couple looks like.” 

He blinks, eyes flying to your hands and it’s probably the first time you’ve seen the snarky Donghyuck speechless. He recovers smoothly, smirking and nodding. “Okay. Let’s blow them away.” 

“But if you fail your French test in third period, I will break up with you.”

A boisterous laugh leaves his lips as he kicks open the doors to the school hallway. “Noted.”

Before the two of you enter the hallway to expose your unlikely clandestine romance to everyone, you lean up and whisper in his ear. “Je t'aime.”

“I know what that means,” he smirks as he presses a proud kiss onto your temple, and takes a step inside. 

[contemplatingoutlander]

I am going to block anyone who comments on this post in an insulting manner, expressing simplistic, all-or-nothing thinking. The stakes are too high in the 2024 election to let people who clearly have no historical perspective throw a tantrum and make ridiculous remarks.

If Trump is elected in 2024, we will become a neofascist nation. Period.

And if you are concerned about Gaza, remember that if Trump is reelected in 2024, he is opposed to the two-state solution. Trump and the evangelical and Islamophobic sycophants in his administration will side with Israel and will NOT take Biden's "two-track approach" of publicly supporting Israel, while behind the scenes trying to rein in Israel's worst impulses towards the Palestinian population.**

Go read up on the Weimar Republic in the years before the Nazis took over Germany. You will see that part of why Hitler and the Nazis rose to power was because the opposition was fragmented. If the Democrats fragment and if enough people vote for third parties, they will be paving the way for a Trump neofascist dictatorship.

No, I'm NOT saying that Trump will be as bad as Hitler, but he could well be as bad as Mussolini or Franco.

If Trump is elected he will usher in a neofascist state, pure and simple. You will not have freedom of expression in the near future if this happens. Furthermore, Trump has indicated that he will invoke the Insurrection Act to use the military to prohibit protest. The LGBTQ+ community will be persecuted, and a federal ban on abortion will happen possibly by executive order. Trump will reverse all efforts to combat climate change and instead will "drill, drill, drill" and ensure that humanity and countless species will face extreme weather conditions indefinitely, resulting in countless deaths. Undocumented immigrants will be rounded up and put in detention camps, as will most likely homeless people. Your vote will mean nothing. Black and Brown Americans will be second class citizens, as will anyone who is not a right-wing "Christian." The social safety net will be slowly dismantled as will the regulatory agencies that protect our food, water, and the health of workers. Citizens will lose the right to form unions. Any media that criticizes Trump will be dismantled. Children will be taught a whitewashed American history.

But by all means @rjalker, call those of us "evil" who will support whomever the Democratic nominee is (including Biden) rather than vote for a more "virtuous" third party candidate, thereby letting Trump and the GOP usher in a neofascist "Christian" nationalist dystopia.

BTW @rjalker, no one is "lying" that people on the left who refused to vote for Hillary in 2016 (voting instead for a third party candidate or not voting) were partly responsible for electing Trump.

Yes, @victorlincolnpine one big reason that Trump won in 2016 was voter suppression. But that was not the only reason. Because of our very undemocratic Electoral College, Trump won several swing states by extremely small margins--and this tipped the electoral college vote to favor Trump (and the third party vote did make a difference in those states). According to the WaPo's Philip Bump:

The most important states, though, were Michigan, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin. Trump won those states by 0.2, 0.7 and 0.8 percentage points, respectively — and by 10,704, 46,765 and 22,177 votes. Those three wins gave him 46 electoral votes; if Clinton had done one point better in each state, she'd have won the electoral vote, too.

If some of the people in those states had chosen NOT to vote for third parties, and instead supported "the lesser evil" of Hilary, Trump would not have won the electoral college.

In terms of Michigan, according to data reported by the NY Times, Trump won by 10,704 votes in 2016. Given that 275,878 votes were cast for third party candidates in Michigan that year, it could be reasonably argued that the third party vote helped swing the election to Trump in Michigan.

In terms of Pennsylvania, Trump won by 44,292 votes in 2016. Given that 269,534 votes were cast for third party candidates in Pennsylvania that year, clearly, third party voting helped Trump win Pennsylvania in 2016.

Similarly, in terms of Wisconsin, Trump won by 22,748 votes in 2016. Given that in 2016, 188,330 votes were cast for third party candidates in Wisconsin, it would seem that third party voting helped Trump win Wisconsin in 2016.

I'd also refer you to an excellent analysis by Stuart Rothenberg regarding the role that third party voting played in electing Trump in 2016.

[edited]

_______________ **What is happening in Gaza is tragic and wrong, but I also think the situation there is incredibly complex. Although I don't agree with everything Jennifer Rubin says in this article, she does a good job of summarizing some of the complexity and the fine line Biden is walking in having taken a "two-track approach" to the conflict, where he has publicly supported Israel but behind the scenes his administration has worked "to minimize civilian casualties, to get humanitarian aid to Gaza and to achieve Palestinians’ aspirations for self-determination. And [Biden] flat-out warned against Israel’s permanent reoccupation of Gaza."

Noam Chomsky on "Lesser Evilism"

“There’s another word for lesser evilism. It’s called rationality. Lesser evilism is not an illusion, it’s a rational position. But you don’t stop with lesser evilism. You begin with it, to prevent the worst, and then you go on to deal with the fundamental roots of what’s wrong, even with the lesser evils.” [color emphasis added] —Noam Chomsky | Scheer Intelligence podcast | Jan. 17, 2020

Chomsky further explains why it is a rational decision to vote for the lesser to two evils:

"Even if there’s core, deep problems with the institutions, there still are choices between alternatives, which matter a lot. Small differences in a system with enormous power translate into huge effects. Meanwhile, you don’t stop with a lesser evilism; you continue to try to organize and develop the mass popular movements, which will block the worst and change the institutions. All of these things can go on at once. But the simple question of what button do you push on a particular day? That is a decision, and that matters. It’s not the whole story, by any means. It’s a small part of the story, but it matters.” [color emphasis added] ——Noam Chomsky | Scheer Intelligence podcast | Jan. 17, 2020

We witnessed how "small differences in a system with enormous power translate into huge effects" in the first Trump administration, as evidenced by how Trump's decision to stack the Supreme Court with far-right justices has resulted in Roe v. Wade being overturned, the Voting Rights Act being weakened, and the Bruen decision further weakening the nation's ability to control guns.

And Trump did all that damage just in his first term, when he still had "adults" in his administration willing to rein him in.

Imagine what changes to our nation Trump could make with only sycophants in his administration who want to implement Project 2025, just for starters.

Noam Chomsky's message is important to remember as we approach the 2024 election. If you are on the left and choose to sit out the election or vote for a third party because you view Biden as a "lesser evil," you are wittingly or unwittingly supporting the "greater evil" that is Trump. We learned that the hard way in 2016. Please don't let history repeat itself. Our nation could not survive a Trump dictatorship.

___________ Norm Chomsky image source (before edits & quote); quote source

[infernal-fire]

five types of love.

what to expect: smut, swearing, friends w/ benefits arrangement, mention of Imposter syndrome, fluff, angst, heartbreak, overstimulation, implied creampie, rough sex

a/n: a little warning; you will be choosing your ending - there is a happy one and a sad one. a huge shoutout to @mollygetssherlockcoffee​ and @angrybirdcr​ for talking to me about the fic and offering such amazing advice! and @tuiccim​ was so damn lovely, even offered to beta this (though all mistakes are my own).

summary: you once heard that there were eight types of love. you only knew of five; the five that caused you to fall for one, blue-eyed menace.

Ludus: uncommitted, casual love that can attribute to a flirtatious and fun conquest. Not to be mistaken for Eros.

“I think we’re forgetting the reason why the mission failed in the first place. If the older fellow took a suggestion once in a-”

“-Tony, you know damn well that there were civilians in there.”

Steve and Tony glared at each other from across the briefing room. The tension in the room was exorbitant, but then again, it had been that way since Bucky joined the team. 

“This is exactly why we need the new girl. You super-soldiers and billionaires are getting tangled up in each others’ asses and forgetting about what it’s like for the normal people,” Rhodey sighed.

“The last thing we need is another trainee fucking up orders,” Tony snorted and began messing with his tech. The projector flipped through random screens, FRIDAY most likely filtering out the irrelevant news. 

“If you have a problem, maybe you should say it to his face,” Steve seethed, now standing up to match Tony’s stance. Usually, this type of jab at Bucky wouldn’t rile him up, but the super-soldier was at his wit’s end following the events of the latest mission.

Beside him, Bucky lightly tugged on his friend’s hand, signalling him to disengage.

“You’re with them?” Tony incredulously questioned Rhodey. 

“I’m with the idea of calming this room down.”

“Besides, she’s already been prepped for her first mission,” Natasha piped up. “We’re supposed to have a sit-down in 5 minutes... that is, if you boys can get your shit together.”

The room broke out into a chorus of muttering and everyone settled in their seats again. Captain strode to the front of the room and pulled up his game plan, fiddling with the map FRIDAY was projecting. 

You, on the other hand, could not decide how to act in front of the Avengers: Laidback? They wouldn’t take you seriously. Know-it-all? No, that was Stark’s play. Timid Tiffany? If you wanted to seem secretly conceited? Sure. That would work for now.

When Vision floated out to bring you in, you didn’t even flinch at the unforeseen phasing. Impressed at your lack of a reaction, Vision faltered before ever-so-courteously introducing himself. 

Could this sentient being laugh of his own volition? You gave him your name and dramatically curtsied to test your theory; he could laugh, and you were pleasantly surprised to find that it was not at all robotic. 

You felt the room intently eye you as you ambled to your seat beside one, blue-eyed menace. You half-expected the team to introduce themselves, but who were you kidding - anyone could hear the argument from three corridors away. There was no point in pretending like they wanted you here, but that wouldn’t deter you.

You glanced at your neighbour, met with the pleasant face of the one and only. James Buchanan Barnes was known to be a handsome devil, but the reputation of the Winter Soldier often precedes him; that, unfortunately, does not stop you from eyeing him. 

When he caught your stare, you scolded yourself. You’re such a creep. 

When he smirked at your ogling, you praised yourself. Oh, hello there. 

This is gonna be fun.

Eros: sexual, passionate love that is fueled by lust.

It didn’t happen after the first mission; he had the decency to wait until the fourth mission to knock on your door. 

You had been putting away the last of your belongings, finally adjusting to the grandiose living conditions the Avengers Tower provided.

As soon as you unlocked your knob, the door flung open; Bucky's stare was partially inhibited by his hooded eyes. He hadn’t always looked at you like that. 

Like what?

With unadulterated craving. 

That day, he strode in like he owned the place. You didn’t expect the shove that caused you to land on your bed with an oomph. Bucky wasted no time, climbing onto your form, straddling you. By the time you understood what was happening, a single finger was pressed into your lips.

“Either tell me you don’t want this right fucking now,” he leaned in, close to your face, “or shut the fuck up and let me use you.”

You whimpered in response.

“Not good enough.”

“Use me.”

That’s all the affirmation he needed. 

You pushed off the bed to try and meet his lips but he firmly pinned you down by your shoulders. Bucky reached into your panties and circled your clit without hesitation. It only took some swivelling, his intense gaze and the unexpected plunge of his fingers in your channel to make you see stars. Bucky had made you come before kissing you.

When he finally slotted his lips against yours, it was nothing short of all-consuming; you hadn’t even realized the absence of clothes on your body. Had it been ten minutes? Or thirty? It was hard to tell when you were being ravaged by another.

He made you come twice more: once with his fingers’ repeated dipping and pressing into the soft, spongy part of your cunt. The second time was with the talented sucking and flicking of his tongue. Technically, it was the third time.

None of your past partners had been this steadfast in their duty to pleasure you. You were already putty in his hands, ready to be moulded according to his needs. Part of you was ready to tap out, unable to fathom the likelihood of coming over his cock again, but the better half of you needed it.

In your orgasmic haze, you failed to notice that his clothes were being discarded - if you did, it would have given you the opportunity to gawk at the body that you so desperately wanted to see shirtless. When you finally registered his naked person, your hand involuntarily traced the connection between the metal arm and flesh. He threw his head back and groaned before kissing you again. 

He pulled off, just enough to get a good look. 

“Look at you, all fucked out. I didn’t even put my cock in.”

He pumped his shaft with fervour before pushing the blunt head against your slit. You winced at his attempt to put it in.

“Made you cum three times and you’re still too fucking tight,” he muttered and ran his length up and down your folds. Once he had accumulated enough slick he tried again, this time, successful.

You moaned as he slowly sunk in and buried his cock to its absolute limit. If the walls of your pussy had a voice, it would be absolutely hoarse. You also realized that he only bestowed the three orgasms in hopes of reprieving the pain of the stretch. Without the preparation, he might have torn you in half.

When he began moving, the only thing that was slow or soft about him was his lips against your skin. The thrusts were punishing; if it wasn’t obvious that he was angry before, this made it clear as day.

You screamed and moaned, alternating between keening and arching your back; the pleas did nothing to falter his furious pace. The smacking of your skin was only heightened by the slick that your cunt produced in attempts to accommodate his length. Every time he pulled out, his balls were connected to your sex with a string of come.

If someone told you that you could come five times within forty minutes, you would have face painted and dressed them up like a clown.

Now you laid in bed, being used like a rag doll, begging Bucky to stop you from coming a sixth time that session. It was usually the dirty talk that got you off, but he hadn’t said anything aside from the occasional ‘shut up’ or ‘shhh’. His movements alone had you convulsing around his length.

His thrusts didn’t get sloppy. Rather, they increased in force, as his cock sought space beyond your cervix. You tried to scream, but all that came out was more broken tears and cries. At last, he let out a pornographic moan as his load flooded your insides. Sure, you had let past boyfriends come in you, but you never actually felt the liquid shoot up inside you, until today.

Following the pop sound that his cock made as it pulled out, you whined again. You could feel your heartbeat throb down there. 

He flipped you onto your stomach and smacked your ass, laughing at the way you sobbed in pain before disappearing from your room altogether. 

He was gone as fast as he showed up. 

And he ruined everyone else for you.

In all fairness... you asked for it.

Philia: the deep, virtuous love that is formed in a good friendship. Lovers share a strong bond when Eros and Philia feed into each other.

What started as a release from the frustrations that accrue on the battlefield turned into a deep connection that neither of you had anticipated. Sex had only been used as a tool in the act of psychological detachment until that day. 

It was a failed date of some sort: either you had been stood up or the guy was a total moron. You could wrack your brain for the memory, but in any matter, it was all irrelevant now. 

You were upset, not just at your lack of a love life, but at the imposter syndrome that had weaselled its way into your liveliness. Feeling like you weren’t enough was catching up to your daily life and even Bucky had noticed the hesitation during your post-mission escapades. 

Before you knew it, your hand was knocking on Bucky’s door at the ripe hour of 1 AM. 

You heard the muffled thumps of his footsteps and considered booking it out of there, but before you made up your mind, the door opened.  As you had predicted, Bucky was wide-awake. 

“What?” 

You had wanted to sass him for his tone but decided against it since you were the one who interrupted his 1 AM activities. You shook your head from the clouds and mumbled incoherently, starting to walk away. The coldness of his metal arm abruptly gripped your wrist.

“Are you okay?”

You hated that question. You could be doing so good, holding in the burden of a horrible week, but the moment someone asks you that question, the dam would disintegrate into dust, only to be washed away by the inevitable waterworks. 

The sob you let out didn’t loosen his hold. He let you cry and watched as you tried to wipe away the unrelenting tears, still refusing to close the gap between your bodies. Finally, you shuffled into his arms where he bear-hugged you, cupping the back of your neck and holding it to the junction of his neck. 

"You smell nice,” you sniffled. 

He lightly chuckled before dragging you into his room and seating you on the bed. He ordered you to stay there and rummaged around his cupboard before pulling out a bottle with red liquid sloshing around. 

“You keep that in your room?” you snickered, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, before blanching at your state. Hell, he had seen you naked, how you look right now is the least of your concerns. 

“In case of emergencies,” he winked. “This seems like a real emergency.”

A fresh wave of tears pooled in your waterline as you peered at your hands that were picking at each other. 

“I don’t have wine glasses, so we can just chug.”

Bucky stuck out the bottle and you grasped it firmly before gulping one-fourth of it. That’s all the coaxing it took to get you to spill. 

You don’t even remember what you talked about, but before either of you realized, 3 AM blinked on the digital clock that hung above the bed frame. You were almost asleep, now resting on Bucky’s lap while he occasionally hummed or offered his two cents. Right before you drifted off, the super-soldier lifted you, placing you under a cover. He climbed in from the other side, one hand cupping your face, the other snaking around your waist.

“Thanks, Buck.”

“It’s gonna be okay. You’re okay,” he whispered.

Your eyes drooped but swiftly opened as Bucky leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. His lips barely touched yours, grazing their presence, but you moved, tenderly catching them. He returned the movement, the delicacy of his actions reflected in the softness of his eyes. 

You pulled away and the two of you wordlessly bore into each other’s eyes. At last, you succumbed to the fatigue, as did he; both of you resting in the others’ possession. 

Mania: an unhealthy, obsessive love that plagues the mind.

It was the third time Bucky didn’t show up at your door after a mission. Three missions, each of them ending in something that would have indubitably pissed him off - after all, they were HYDRA bases. That’s when you first suspected it.

The second was when you noted his intentional avoidance of your presence. Whether it be the kitchen, the gym or the hallways, the stealthy ex-assassin didn’t have trouble actively dodging you. Initially, you chalked it up to wanting space or simply taking a break.

Then you heard it.

Why was it that your gut told you to go right then? All this time you had been biding, yet it was at this precise moment that your hunch asked you to speak to him. It could’ve been the duration of the month that it took you to prepare yourself, but it had to be now. You raised your hand, prepping to knock on the door, but stopped.

Your hand froze mid-air. The elegant laugh of another girl sounded behind the door. It was faint, the noise slightly suppressed by the wall between you. 

It could be anyone. 

But it wasn’t. Your intuition, the one that told you to come here right now, was wise enough to know that this wasn’t just anyone. It was her. 

You cupped your mouth to stop the sob that threatened to liberate itself from the confines of your constricted airway. You fell forward, onto your knees, as if to pray to the gods to not let it happen. But it already did.  You let go of your mouth, gasping for air from holding your breath all this time. 

Shoulders sagged and spine bent, you stalked back to your room like a zombie. Face devoid of all emotion, you fell onto the corner of your bed and crumpled into a ball.  For twelve hours, you laid there. Sometimes sleeping, other times letting the tears leak out of the corners of your eyes. Memories of his fingers weaving through your own, the pleasures that chilled you to the bone. Most of all, the way you held his head to your chest as he whimpered about the nightmares that invaded his nights. It felt like those things happened to someone else. Nothing more than a distant memory.

Your heart clenched, tugging on the heartstring that you once thought was connected to him.

-

It was as if he knew you stood outside his door that day. There was an unspoken agreement to never speak of it. Yes, yes, don’t ever speak of it. The dam that you built so carefully will come crashing down.  He stopped avoiding you, but you wished he didn’t; it was crueller to be reminded, easier to pretend he didn’t exist. 

Be honest with yourself.

You didn’t pretend like he didn’t exist. 

In fact, the first thought after waking up? Bucky. Last thought before going to sleep? My Buck. Every time he wasn’t around? James Buchanan Barnes.

Please, don’t act like every waking moment isn’t spent loving him. Because deep down, you know what’s true.

He never did introduce the mystery girl to anyone at the Tower, but you knew his disappearance after missions could be credited to her. Did he take out his anger on her as he did to you? Or were you nothing more than a toy?

Guilt was one of the few emotions you could make out from the rare occasions you caught his stare. Longing was there too, but you couldn’t be sure that you weren’t projecting.  Months went by, waiting for thoughts of him to abandon your disturbed mind. The time never came.

As promised, he ruined anyone else for you. 

Pragma: the type of love that endures all shortcomings. Committed relationships that stay in love have an element of significant Pragma to them.

a happy ending.

That relationship may have ended but it didn’t mean he would come back to you.

He did come back. But he wasn’t yours.  Bucky made that clear when two more relationships ensued the last. Each time, the buffer period between them was filled by you. 

His back-up plan. That’s what you had been reduced to. 

After the third time he brought a new girl, you’d think you would be used to it, maybe even uncaring. Unfortunately, the opposite would always prevail.

Steve caught your fist and tutted, commenting on the bad form. You stopped, shook your shoulders and began hopping on the balls of your feet again.  Jab, jab. Swing.  At first, you’d imagine the faces of those girls. Nowadays, it was easier to envision the pads Steve held as his best friend’s face. 

“Bucky’s girl broke up with him.”

“Oh,” you made out, focus slightly wavering. 

“You know what happened?”

“Are you asking me ‘cause you wanna know or because you already know?”

“I already know,” he sighed, lowering the hand pads. 

He exhaled your name, shaking his and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “When are you two gonna stop playing around?”

“I really don’t understand, Steve.”

“You know why she broke up with him?” You blinked, tongue poking the inside of your cheek in anticipation of an answer. 

“He moaned your name during sex.” 

“God, that’s so corny,” you huffed, now beginning to make your way out of the boxing ring. 

“So what, you’re gonna do nothing? Keep letting him use you?” Steve jogged to catch up to you.

“No,” you faced him, “I’m not letting him use me as a fallback anymore. I’m putting an end to it.” 

Steve pursed his lips and shot you and exasperated look before shaking his head.  “Don’t let something good go to waste.”

It used to be something good.

You wondered if you could hold up the promise you had just declared to Steve; in the past, you failed every time he showed up at your door. Bucky knew exactly how to play into your emotions, how to say the right things every time. And just like that, the next morning you’d end up in his arms. That stops today.

Determined, you practically punched the button to go up on the elevator and impatiently tapped your foot. As the doors slid closed, you took one look at yourself and turned away, fighting the urge to fix your appearance for him. The doors opened again and you check the floor number, ready to step out, but stopped at the sound of your name.  His ex. You almost ran off, unwilling to put up with an angry ex, but she called on you again. You sheepishly stood there, as if you were the one who did something wrong, until she stepped in and pressed the button to go to the lobby.

The silence stretched on, much like your patience. Does she even know who you are?

“We were both fooling ourselves.”

You turn to check if she was speaking to you. Her stare was unwavering and she maintained eye contact that almost made you squirm.

“We both love different people.” She smiled, an obvious melancholy tainting her face. You stood there, absolutely clueless as to how you should respond.

“It’s too late for me, but it’s not for the two of you. Just... don’t let him go. He’s one of the good ones.”

You turned again, now looking down at the ground. Even if she expected you to say something back, it was impossible, at this point. Your mind was in shambles, everything she said contradicting the choice you made five minutes ago. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the doors opened and she stepped out. She turned one last time and nodded as if you knew what to do now. 

Bucky’s door was unlocked. You called out his name, barely above a whisper and sauntered with hesitation lining your every step.  Nothing. Empty. He wasn’t there. 

It was a sign. You almost ignored the advice his ex gave, ready to walk into his room and end things. Your shoulder slumped as if your bore the weight of the world on them as you slunk back to your room. Now it would take another outburst or another month to prepare yourself to talk to him again.

As the days went by, you barely saw him around. It reminded you of the times he intentionally ignored you, except this time, you weren’t sure it was intentional. When you did see him, it was clear that he wasn’t doing good; his beard was unkept and scraggly, the bags under his eyes heavier than any trauma he carried. You pretended as though you didn’t notice and went about your routine. 

1 AM

A knock sounded at your door. You knew who it was, how could you not, but hoped it wasn’t him anyway. The encounter would most likely end with tears or sex and you didn’t favour either outcome. 

You waited a minute. Maybe he would leave if he assumed you were asleep. The knock sounded again.

You cracked the door open.  Whatever you were expecting, surely, it wasn’t this. Eyes red and puffy, it was clear he had been crying and most definitely not sleeping. 

He held up a wine bottle, and chuckled pathetically at himself. 

“Maybe this is bad idea,” he sniffled and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his left arm. 

It didn’t feel right to say anything. Rather, you opened the door wider and beckoned for him to step in.

“Emergency?” you asked with a little smile. God, you were so close to crying and he hasn’t even said anything.

“Oh yeah. Big emergency.”

He sat on your bed and felt the sheets, trying to remember the feeling of it on his knees. The days he would buck into you while you clutched them like a vice. The soldier pursed his lips and watched as you settled beside him.

“You don’t have to talk... if you don’t want to,” you said. Your voice cracked and you almost smacked yourself for being so weak around him. 

“But I do. I should talk. I have so much to say... Can I explain?” He turned to face you, reaching out for your hands, holding them in his own. You didn’t say anything, opting to return his request with a pleading look in your eyes. He knew what the look meant: just don’t break my heart. Again. He took a deep breath in acknowledgement, trying to form the words that would help you understand. 

“I can’t believe I hurt you. I swear, I didn’t know I was doing it, at first.” You mustered your best unbelieving look, almost scoffing for good measure. “No, really,” he hastily added. 

A few tears streamed down your face and you frantically tried to wipe them. Bucky took one look at you before he began breaking down, tears slipping down his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to cry... I just- I don’t understand? I thought things were good?” you questioned. You had given up on trying to wipe your tears, as did he.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall for you. And by the time I realized, we were so far in. Then I found a distraction... and I really thought I was over you,” he paused, wondering if he should continue or not. You showed no sign of speaking up, so he went on.

“I didn’t think you cared. I didn’t think you felt the same way. I was so convinced that you wouldn’t blink twice but then... but, I-... I heard you at the door that day. I wanted to kick her out and hold you, but I-...”

“But you what? You what, Bucky?”

“I thought it was too late for us. I thought I ruined everything.”

“Then why are you here now?”

“Don’t be mad,” he murmured, retracting his hands and fiddling with his fingers.

“I don’t think anyone can ever replace what we had. Maybe... still have? Because you’re it for me. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize that. I was on the brink of losing myself.” He looked up at you, eyes brimming with a new wave of tears. He mumbled your name weakly, croaking out a please at the end.

You curled in on yourself and fell into his arms, hoping that was enough of a answer.

“I can’t promise you that everything will be back to normal by tomorrow morning... but with some time, I can learn to trust you again.”

Above you, Bucky hurriedly nodded. At the state he’s in right now, you suspected that you could ask him to sell his soul and he would agree.

“And if you ever break my heart again-,” 

“-I would die before that happens,” he finished for you, kissing the top of your head for good measure.

“I love you,” you whimpered, “so fucking much.” 

“I love you too. I really love you too,” he affirmed and encased you with his arms again.

Though there had been some rough patches on the road to happiness, with Bucky by your side, you felt as though you could make it through anything; for that, is the power of pragmatic love.

an unfortunate ending.

The tears that would’ve been shed during the ceremony have dried on your pillowcase about five hours ago. Now, you sat beside the team, waiting for her to walk down the aisle. 

Bucky looked nervous, as if he were reconsidering his life decisions. The little devil on your shoulder was holding onto every little thing he did: the wrinkle of his forehead, his repeated tugging on the suit and his flustered glancing around. Oh lord, and when he accidentally locked eyes with you? You may have bitten your lip and looked away in contempt but the shoulder-devil was as persistent as ever.

He secretly still wants you.

Shut up.

He wants to call it off.

Get a life.

At last, the lucky girl stood at the end of the winding path and you couldn’t help but sneak a look at the groom. His tension and nervousness crumbled at the sight of her; it was difficult not to feel happy that he had found the one that made him feel this way. 

It may have been him for you, but that notion was long forgotten, a nuisance of memory at most. Your love for him, regardless of the storms it has endured, is no longer respected or wanted by either party.

If he loves her, why does he come to you when things get bad?

You shook your head at that, having no answer for the nature of his secret infidelity. It was nothing more than taking out his frustrations on you - much like the old days.

Your reminiscing was cut short when a voice asked everyone to rise for the bride. You stood and straightened out your outfit, flicking off the little white petal that clung to your maroon dress. A hand grasped your own, and you turned to see Steve smile reassuringly. You squeeze his hand in appreciation and turned your attention to the white-clad figure walking down the aisle.

And that’s all you remember. You wish you could recall the rest of the wedding. You really do. Too preoccupied with what was going to happen after the event, you disassociated from the ordeal altogether. No matter how hard you grilled yourself, nothing would come to mind - dissociative amnesia only occurs as a protective coping mechanism during traumatic events; was that what Bucky’s wedding was to you?

What type of question is that?

For once, you agreed with the little red beast that sat on your shoulder. Long ago, the first time you saw someone else Bucky’s arms, the devil pierced the pitchfork right through the angel’s heart. These days, it was all you could think of. 

After the bride and groom exchanged ‘I do’s’, you willed yourself to stay a while longer. Your only companion, Steve, slow danced with you in silence, knowing that whatever he says would be of no consolation. Bucky did have half a mind to ask you for a dance, but he saw you leave. You didn’t think anyone did. He waited for you to turn and look at him one last time, but you never did. It’s okay, he thought. I didn’t deserve her anyway.

No one saw you after that.

On your bed, Steve found a single note that didn’t explain anything more than what he already knew. If anything, it simply affirmed that you were gone for good. Your things packed up, no trace of a person ever having lived there. Even if he pulled some strings, it would take years to find you again. 

After all, you had already been lost for quite some time.

hey folks. i know this seems a little desperate-sounding but i would really appreciate reblogs and would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on the story. what was you favourite part? which part made you feel some way? i really love knowing these things. love each and every single one of you.

Masterlist

Shoot me a message or fill out the form in my bio to be added to my tag list!

[sweetsmalldog]

finally someone who sees that both dogwarts and the desert people were bad. I'm tired of everyone acting like dogwarts was so virtuous and the desert was so evil. Like Martyn and Ren didn't threaten everyone and make them swear allegiance to them, and also killed Pizza, our beloved, which is unforgivable (/j). And also making Scar seem like the sole bad guy and erasing his close friendship with Grian? And erasing how on board Grian was with their villainy. Sorry for these hot takes in your inbox

No no anon my beloved you are correct. Ren and Martyn are just as responsible for what happened as Scar and Grian. Also Grian was the bloodthirsty one! Scar got what 4 kills (Etho’s second life then Ren, Martyn, and Bdubs) while Grian got Jimmy, Skiz, and Bdubs’ second lives as well as Scar and Ren’s first before also getting Scar and Skiz’s final lives.

Scar also took less lives then Ren who took Grian’s first life, Cleo and Tango’s second lives, and Scott’s second and third lives (I’m missing if Ren or Martyn was the one to take Joel’s third life in my notes) meaning Ren took a total of 5 (possibly 6) lives.

Dogwarts had no right to demand loyalty or death from the rest of the server. You wanted to fight the desert that’s fine but to turn around and tell in some cases close allies to become vassals of Dogwarts or die, yeah that’s not something a good guy does. And I hear the “oh but they were paranoid” so? What had Cleo or Bdubs done to make Dogwarts think they’d side with the Red Desert, Grian’s lava trap killed Bdubs! Or the Flower Husbands who’d been some of Martyn’s closest allies why would they do anything to harm them? Jimmy had also fallen for the trap that killed Skiz and Ren.

Dogwarts weren’t good guys and neither were the Desert. They’re both the villains of thirdlife because they both brought war and they both brought death. Neither are good. The desert were cartoon villains running around scamming people and making traps that never worked first try. Sure the Crastle, the Hobbits, and Joel were morally grey but they didn’t bring mass death to the server. They banded together with the desert because Dogwarts threatened them with get in line or die for no reason!

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 18 - ao3 -

“I thought he liked you,” Cangse Sanren said, her hands warm on Lan Qiren’s back as he buried his face into his hands. He didn’t even scold her for it, ignoring all the strictures against too-close interactions between men and women in his misery. “I really did, or else I wouldn’t have encouraged him. I’m sorry.”

Words of apology like that came easily to her lips, unbound as she was by the usual complicated human emotions behind them. It was one of the many traits of hers that Lan Qiren envied.

Having finished her tenure at the Cloud Recesses, Cangse Sanren had been living at the Lotus Pier as a guest of the Jiang sect the past few months, and seemed to be quite happy there. Rumors had already gone around about how she’d been night-hunting with Jiang Fengmian and his retinue, much to the frustration of the third daughter of Meishan Yu, who’d had her heart set on him for ages.

Despite this, Cangse Sanren had still written cheerful letters to Lan Qiren, and he’d written back faithfully, although he’d tried not to bother her too much. He hadn’t actually asked her to return to the Cloud Recesses for his sake – after what had happened in the Nightless City, he’d written up some letters trying to explain that he would be very happy to have her company should it not be an imposition, his hand shaky and his calligraphy ugly in a way it hadn’t been since he was a small child, but he’d thrown them all away. He suspected someone had recovered a discarded draft and sent the message for him, probably Lan Yueheng or something like that, but he wasn’t sure; he hadn’t accepted any visitors since his frenzied flight from the Nightless City, locking himself away in his rooms and refusing to see anyone, even his brother.

Especially his brother.

“He does,” Lan Qiren said, his voice hoarse even though he hadn’t really been using it for much in the past few weeks, brooding over what had happened. “I think – he does.”

That was the worst of it, too. Lan Qiren could no longer deceive himself into thinking that Wen Ruohan saw him as a pawn to manipulate, a piece to play as part of a larger game. Their brotherhood might have started out that way, but at some point Wen Ruohan had actually taken an interest in him – a half-immortal like him, powerful beyond reckoning, thinking that Lan Qiren of all people was as precious as the pearls he’d draped him in.

He’d probably had those supposedly spare Wen sect robes made especially for him, too, just as an excuse to see him wearing them; Lan Qiren hadn’t put it together at the time, blinded as he was by the new and exciting feeling of closeness and affection, but in retrospect it had been obvious. Wen Ruohan himself admitted that he longed to possess things that he liked, that his instincts tended towards domination, and even based on their limited acquaintance, Lan Qiren knew that it would be just like Wen Ruohan to manufacture a situation just to see what Lan Qiren looked like wearing his colors.

No: Wen Ruohan sincerely liked Lan Qiren. He liked him a lot.

And he was, without a doubt, a terrible person.

Lan Qiren lived his life by the Lan sect rules. He might only be nineteen years old, two generations junior to Wen Ruohan, but he had at his disposal the wisdom of generations.

There were dozens of rules about what you were supposed to do, how you were supposed to conduct yourself – you were supposed to love the world and strive to fill it with good deeds, to uphold justice and shoulder morality, to be chivalrous and filial and virtuous, to live a life with integrity.

Do not associate with evil.

Wen Ruohan had told him, all that time ago, hadn’t he? It had been one of the first things he’d said to Lan Qiren, stay away from bad men. He’d meant himself then, and he’d been right, too.

It had been Lan Qiren who hadn’t listened.

“I liked him, too,” he said nonsensically, and put his head back down.

“I know,” she said. Cangse Sanren’s voice was not given to gentleness – he’d once scathingly compared it to a horn’s blast, loud and blaring, and she had laughed in delight – but for all her loudness she was also capable of great kindness. “I know, Qiren-gege, I know. You wouldn’t care so much if you didn’t.”

“…I don’t have many friends.”

“I know.”

“I don’t – I don’t need– he’s supposed to be my brother –”

“You have bad luck with brothers, I think,” she said, trying to be a little tactful and largely failing, and Lan Qiren felt himself awash with misery once more. She wasn’t wrong. Lan Qiren clearly had the ability to make friends – Cangse Sanren, for one, or Lan Yueheng and some others like him, even Lao Nie – but clearly he’d no luck when it came to anything more than that.

His blood brother despised him, and his sworn brother, who cared for him, was an evil man who by all rights he ought to avoid. What else could that be but the worst of luck?

“At least you found out early on,” Cangse Sanren said, moving straight back into the practical. She’d long ago admitted that she wasn’t very good with feelings of sadness, preferring to spend her life in joy no matter how difficult. “It would have been worse if it was later.”

“Would it?” Lan Qiren asked. He wasn’t so sure. “I’d have had more grounds to argue with him if I’d known him better.”

“Of course you’d think first of reforming him,” she sighed.

Lan Qiren shrugged. “Liberate, then suppress, and only as a last resort eliminate.”

“That’s for ghosts, Qiren-gege.”

“Most types of resentful energy, actually.” He tried to scrub at his eyes, which were tearing up again. “Most types of evil. And he – he is, isn’t he?”

“I mean, I’d have to do some digging before reaching a firm conclusion, I try not to judge these things second-hand, but based on what you described as seeing in the Fire Palace…probably.” She shook her head. “Even if they were wrongdoers, they ought to be punished according to their crime, or even executed. There’s no call for something on the order of what you described.”

“Maybe it’s different in the Wen sect,” Lan Qiren said, not really meaning it. “They might have different standards – there are punishments we enact that other sects might consider torturous, I suppose. The Jiang sect, for instance, punishes minor offenses only with kneeling, and disapproves of using the discipline rod… Anyway, it’s not - it’s not like it was hidden or anything, like it would be if they thought it shameful. The rumors all said that he was bloodthirsty and fond of torture; everyone knows, and for some reason I’m the only one who seems to mind.”

“Most people didn’t have to see Sect Leader Wen watching it like a particularly good dance routine at a brothel,” Cangse Sanren retorted, and Lan Qiren gagged at the thought. “Anyway, I still think it’s good that you figured out that he was trash before you got in too deep.”

“He’s not trash,” Lan Qiren objected, and she gave him an incredulous look. “He’s not! He’s not – he doesn’t have to stop. He’s a sect leader; he has complete dominion within his territory. His territory is the most expansive of all the Great Sects, he’s the most personally powerful of all the sect leaders…he can do as he likes, and I can’t do anything about it. If anything, I was in the wrong for profaning his hospitality by – by –”

“By putting those people out of their misery?”

“…that,” Lan Qiren said, and felt sick again.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You were entirely in the right! You should always stand up for morality, no matter the circumstance…” Cangse Sanren scowled. “Hold up, are you saying you’d considering making up with him?”

Lan Qiren sighed and scrubbed at his face.

“Qiren-gege!”

“He’s my sworn brother,” Lan Qiren said. “I swore an oath.”

Loyalty and fidelity - all those clauses about not being betrayed. He’d promised.

“That’s ridiculous,” Cangse Sanren argued. “So what if you swore an oath? So did he!”

“He swore to guide me, I swore to follow; it’s not the same.”

“He still has to be a good role model –”

“Maybe in his view he is.”

“Absurd. What utter trash!”

“It’s still an oath, Cangse Sanren!”

“Marriage is an oath, too, and they still invented divorce,” she said, scowling. Cangse Sanren had never met the word ‘no’ and liked it; it wasn’t in her character. “You can’t just let him go on like that, breaking your heart!”

“I wouldn’t call it –”

Cangse Sanren gave him a look, and Lan Qiren closed his mouth.

He supposed it was a bit like that.

“I thought it would work out, that’s all,” he said finally, somehow managing to talk around the lump of misery in his chest. “As something more than – what I have already.”

He’d spent years in denial and privately blaming himself, his awkwardness and his failures and his poor potential, for the poor state of his relationship with his brother, but then it turned out that who he was was enough to make someone like Sect Leader Wen, who had no pity and no sympathy and no natural fondness of other people, like him, so maybe in the end it wasn’t him.

Maybe it was only as Cangse Sanren had said: that he had poor luck in brothers.

“Just that?” she asked, and sounded curious. He looked at her in question, not understanding what she meant. “I mean, I don’t know. You were in the Nightless City for a whole week, unsupervised and clearly getting your feet swept out from under you by the charming and dashing Sect Leader Wen – did he really not try anything?”

“Try anything – Cangse Sanren! I already told you, it’s Lao Nie he likes like that.” He frowned. “At least, I think he does? No, I’m sure of it. Lao Nie calls him Hanhan, and Sect Leader Wen lets him; they must be – close. And Lao Nie’s proud of how undiscriminating he is.”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure Lao Nie lost half his interest in me when he realized I didn’t have a spare set of teeth somewhere awkward,” Cangse Sanren agreed, rolling her eyes. She’d spent a short time at the Unclean Realm, too. “Are you sure? I would’ve sworn…well, anyway, who cares about him? What about you? Did youlike Wen Ruohan like that?”

Lan Qiren grimaced. “I’ve never been good at that,” he demurred, and it was true.

At nineteen, by the standards of the Great Sects, he was generally considered a little too young to marry, and wouldn’t have been expected to – but plenty of young men his age and much younger were mooning over women left and right, and he’d never done that. He wanted a wife, of course, the way that he wanted to be an adult and to go traveling and to be a teacher, a sort of distant far-off future plan; he’d always been attracted by the idea of having a companion to share joys and sorrows with, but he’d never seen the appeal of soft curves or a pretty face the way all his peers seemed to instinctively understand. He hadn’t worried, thinking that desire was something that would come with time, although as he got older he started to worry that he’d perhaps missed the optimal period for it to happen. Even Cangse Sanren, who he liked a great deal – he didn’t think of her that way, not even when she’d admitted that she liked him.

“I know that,” she said, nudging him playfully. “I just thought you might be a cutsleeve, that’s all.”

“I don’t think so? I mean, I don’t know,” he said, and sighed. “I thought about it for a while, you know, after our last discussion on the subject. It’s not that it’s not accepted – I mean, it’s not popular, but it’s not forbidden, either, and there’s plenty of precedent for people in the Lan sect with those sorts of interests. But when I went to look at the spring books in the library –”

“You snuck a peek? Qiren-gege! How daring!”

“Be quiet. It’s a time-honored Lan sect tradition; if peeking weren’t encouraged, the books would be locked away in the forbidden section rather than just placed on an awkwardly high shelf.”

She giggled, and her endless good humor cheered him up a little.

“Anyway,” he said. “I looked it over, but it still just seemed like – I don’t know. Too much trouble.”

Cangse Sanren found that hilarious for some reason.

“Maybe it’s just the bedding you think is stupid?” she finally asked after getting the laughter out of her system and making a completely unnecessary hand gesture in case he didn’t understand that she meant sex instead of actual bedding. “It’s pretty stupid, I’m not going to lie.”

Lan Qiren gave her a sharp look. “You’re not married.”

“Don’t change the subject! Would you like a wife – or a husband, I suppose – if you didn’t have to sleep with them?”

“I wouldn’t ask that of someone,” Lan Qiren objected. “It’s a fundamental aspect of it, isn’t it? Anyway, I don’t – it’s not that – there’s nothing wrong with it in principle, I don’t mean to judge others – only – listen, it’s just troublesome, that’s all, and I don’t especially want to – Why are we even talking about this, anyway?”

Cangse Sanren laughed at him again.

“Regarding Sect Leader Wen, I have no grounds to object to his actions, so I won’t,” Lan Qiren decided, returning to their original subject, which although miserable was far less humiliating. “But I don’t have to pretend like I like it, either. Don’t associate with evil.”

“He’s your sworn brother,” Cangse Sanren reminded him, as if he’d somehow managed to forget. “If you’re not willing to be forsworn, how can you avoid him?”

“I’ll figure it out,” he said with a sigh. “It’s just a disappointment, that’s all. I’ll accept it, the way I’ve accepted all the others.”

She pressed her lips together, clearly unhappy. “One day that’s not going to be enough,” she finally said. “One day, you’ll run into a disappointment that’s so great that it’ll swallow you up.”

Lan Qiren opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. It was said that those who left Baoshan Sanren’s mountain were doomed, their longing to join humanity bringing down a sad fate onto their heads, though it was unclear if they would all go mad and evil the way her first disciple had all those years ago or if they would just die unhappily. What could he say against that?

“I’ll deal with that when it comes, I suppose,” he said, and felt uncomfortably like he had seen some trace of the heavens’ design that he shouldn’t have. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. Tell me about you.”

“About me?”

“How are you enjoying the Lotus Pier? And how do you – uh – that is –”

“Know enough to have an opinion about what people do in bed?” she said, her eyes curving into crescents as she grinned. “Well. Let me tell you all about that, since the two answers are the same. There’s this absolutely darling man in the Lotus Pier, very funny, by the name of Wei Changze –”

“Wei Changze? Not Jiang Fengmian?”

Cangse Sanren winked at him. “Rules against gossip, Qiren-gege!”

“It’s not gossip if it’s news!” he defended himself, though in all honesty it was probably mostly just gossip. “I wanted to know how you were doing!”

“And I’m glad of it! Let me tell you all about the ridiculous love triangle I’ve found myself in –”

It’s not gossip if it’s news, Lan Qiren reminded himself even as he settled in to listen. He put away all thoughts of Wen Ruohan for the moment, and thought that it was all for the best. There was nothing he could do about it, after all.

The facts were what they were: Wen Ruohan was his sworn brother; Wen Ruohan liked Lan Qiren, and Lan Qiren liked him in return; Wen Ruohan was an evil man who enjoyed causing pain.

Lan Qiren would just have to find a way to live with that.