#comfortable in poverty and misery

[jbfly46]

The worst spirit I have ever come across is basically an amalgamation of hypocrisy. I have mainly witnessed it in females as it seems to have a difficult time inhabiting male bodies. It seems to primarily pop up in females who have become comfortable accomplishing nothing significant because they gave up on their primary goals in life and have settled on secondary goals that only really mean anything on paper. They continue doing the same things they’ve been doing since they left the wings of their parents, drinking, working low-level service or office jobs, and smoking weed. They frequently complain about other people doing the same shit they do while seeming unaware that they’re being a hypocrite. They seem to have convenient excuses as to why they can’t stop drinking or smoking weed, even if it’s just for a little while, or as to why they can’t make more that what’s essentially minimum wage, even when they have high-value skills, and even why they can’t do basic things for their mental and physical health like stop scrolling Instagram to go outside and read a book or exercise. Bringing any of these things up to them seems to bring to the surface a boiling rage and wrath upon anyone in their vicinity. They seem to be highly intelligent yet reluctant or incapable of using it. Because of their high intelligence, they seem reluctant or incapable of admitting that they are stuck in poverty due to their own choices, meaning they never do anything to uplift themselves out of poverty. They seem completely accepting of living an unhealthy impoverished lifestyle, yet unwilling to use their grand capability for acceptance to accept that their own actions are why they are behind in life. They often keep other people around just to blame their problems on when things don’t go well for them because they also refuse to prepare for obvious and predictable futures, like running out of food before their next paycheck, or living in a residence unsuited for the necessary changes they need to make in life. There are usually many things they can do to improve their situation even while they wait for the “storm to pass”, yet they don’t do them, and don’t realize the storm they are weathering was brought upon them by themselves. This type of lifestyle only serves one demographic, and it’s not their demographic. It only serves the boomer-Israeli economy ran by people who look down upon the people who serve them. If this rage stems from constantly serving people who hate you, why do you continue to serve them? Why do you distract yourself with irrelevant problems while never focusing on your own problems which have easy solutions? You can Google a step by step process on how to solve any problem you can possibly imagine. This is the behavior that brings depression and despair to anyone who cares for them. They will probably be too triggered reading this to make it past the first few sentences, and may exhibit symptoms reminiscent of attention deficit disorder. This spirit should be immediately attacked whenever you come across it, because comfortability for these people meaningless death and despair for them. Act unfazed by them being triggered.

[gatheringbones]

[“Poverty is embarrassing, shame inducing. Misery (misère), the French sociologist Eugène Buret once remarked, “is poverty felt morally.”

You feel it in the degradation rituals of the welfare office, where you are made to wait half a day for a ten-minute appointment with a caseworker who seems annoyed you showed up. You feel it when you go home to an apartment with cracked windows and cupboards full of cockroaches, an infestation the landlord blames on you. You feel it in how effortlessly poor people are omitted from movies and television shows and popular music and children’s books, erasures reminding you of your own irrelevance to wider society. You may begin to believe, in the quieter moments, the lies told about you. You avoid public places—parks, beaches, shopping districts, sporting arenas—knowing they weren’t built for you.

Poverty might consume your life, but it’s rarely embraced as an identity. It’s more socially acceptable today to disclose a mental illness than to tell someone you’re broke. When politicians propose antipoverty legislation, they say it will help “the middle class.” When social movement organizers mobilize for higher wages or housing justice, they announce that they are fighting on behalf of “working people” or “families” or “tenants” or “the many.” When the poor take to the streets, it’s usually not under the banner of poverty. There is no flag for poor rights, after all.

Poverty is diminished life and personhood. It changes how you think and prevents you from realizing your full potential. It shrinks the mental energy you can dedicate to decisions, forcing you to focus on the latest stressor—an overdue gas bill, a lost job—at the expense of everything else. When someone is shot dead, the children who live on that block perform much worse on cognitive tests in the days following the murder. The violence captures their minds. Time passes, and the effect fades until someone else is dropped.

Poverty can cause anyone to make decisions that look ill-advised and even downright stupid to those of us unbothered by scarcity. Have you ever sat in a hospital waiting room, watching the clock and praying for good news? You are there, locked on the present emergency, next to which all other concerns and responsibilities feel (and are) trivial. That experience is something like living in poverty. Behavioral scientists Sendhil Mullainathan and Eldar Shafir call this “the bandwidth tax.” “Being poor,” they write, “reduces a person’s cognitive capacity more than going a full night without sleep.” When we are preoccupied by poverty, “we have less mind to give to the rest of life.” Poverty does not just deprive people of security and comfort; it siphons off their brainpower, too.”]

matthew desmond, from poverty: by america, 2023

[la-pheacienne]

I am going to be a killjoy and choose violence again but I did not like the spectacle of Marie Antoinette holding her decapitated head in her arms in the olympics, at all. I don't give a shit about Marie Antoinette the person, she was a traitor in the context of a war and she would rather betray France than give away her privileges. This is what happens to traitors in that context and she absolutely had it coming. I won't shed one tear for her, sorry if that bothers people.

However. The executions of the Terror are not something to make a spectacle of, they are not something to mock. They were an inevitability, a historical necessity yes, but they are not an esthetic, nor a pop culture reference. They were inevitable, even necessary because of the revolutionary context, because it was the people of France who demanded those executions, and when I say the people of France I mean the working class, the peasants, the sans culottes, people who lived in extreme poverty and misery. This was not just a civil war, this was a class war. Centuries of class inequality, oppression, hunger, injustice, needed a release and that release was inevitable, but the factors that led to it, the structural inequality, the privilege, the injustice, they are still relevant today. Those people, the people of France, did not ask for the king and queen's head so that, two centuries later, the political and economical elites of this world can sit comfortably in the seat they paid hundreds or even thousands of euros for, and mock and have fun watching Antoinette's decapitated head in a spectacle that cost around 300 millions, the same political and economical elites that are right now funding genocides, that are right now maximising their profit off the Olympics, that are right now destroying the welfare system and impoverishing the people of France, who are unemployed, homeless, and stuck in ghettos. But it's alright I guess, because we have democracy now so these people can still watch the spectacle in their TV (if they have a TV) from their 9 square meter apartment in Sarcelles or Seine-Saint-Denis that takes 80% of their salary. If they have an apartment. They must feel really lucky they don't have a king or queen anymore and all their problems are solved. What a fine mockery. I don't think the Jacobins would be impressed with this turn of events, I don't think that's why the french revolution happened because the french revolution is not an esthetic and the social struggles that led to it are still here, very much present.

I would advise people to leave Antoinette's head alone because she's dead and has been dead for 250 years. There are a lot of heads that are far too comfortable in their class privilege, right now, in 2024.

[faeriefully]

What does this teach us, but the sacred importance and necessity of prayer? We may be certain that whatever God has made prominent in His Word, He intended to be conspicuous in our lives. If He has said much about prayer, it is because He knows we have much need of it. So deep are our necessities, that until we are in heaven we must not cease to pray.

Dost thou want nothing? Then, I fear thou dost not know thy poverty. Hast thou no mercy to ask of God? Then, may the Lord's mercy show thee thy misery!

A prayerless soul is a Christless soul. Prayer is the lisping of the believing infant, the shout of the fighting believer, the requiem of the dying saint falling asleep in Jesus. It is the breath, the watchword, the comfort, the strength, the honour of a Christian. If thou be a child of God, thou wilt seek thy Father's face, and live in thy Father's love. Pray that this year thou mayst be holy, humble, zealous, and patient; have closer communion with Christ, and enter oftener into the banqueting-house of His love. Pray that thou mayst be an example and a blessing unto others, and that thou mayst live more to the glory of thy Master. The motto for this year must be, "Continue in prayer."

— Spurgeon, Morning and Evening, Jan 2 morning

[geenawrites]

GEEENAWRITES: 2024 IN REVIEW

[bsky link] + [wordpress] - December 30th-31st marks the end of 2024. A long time ago, I would've begged for the next year to make haste and pull me from the misery of the day-to-day. But with age sometimes comes wisdom. 2024 was not a great year, but the idea of a "great year" seems wholly juvenile, if not an illusory concept. As meaningless as ranking any given moment in your life in a Top Five or Best of List. Life is not without its miseries; every year comes with creative ups and downs. This is to say that 2024 was no more a "great year" than the last. It stands to reason that until the issues that brought despair in the here and now are ended, they will continue to persist. So, the point is less about lamenting the terrors and more about figuring out what you, as an individual, can do about it within your pocket of reality. The only way out is through, so keep going. But! In the meantime, listed below are eight articles I wrote (or republished) for GeeenaWrites (dot com) and SuperJump Magazine in 2024. This is not the totality of my work, but it's just some of the work that I'm proud of.

Resident Evil at 20: Reimagining 'Ground Zero' - Published April 2024: A retrospective on the 20th Anniversary of Capcom's Resident Evil REMake for the Nintendo GameCube and Paul W.S. Anderson's Resident Evil adaptation starring Milla Jovovich and Michelle Rodriguez.

We Gotta Talk About: Captive State (2019) - Published December 2024, written in 2019. An essay about counter-insurgency against American fascism as depicted in the political sci-fi thriller Captive State, inspired by The Battle of Algiers and Army of Shadows.

The Cat Comes Back: The Comfort of Early Edition's Supernatural Feline - Published September 2024: More review than retrospective or essay, Early Edition is a very 90s fantasy series about a dog-person who gets stuck with an immortal cat that predicts the future with a newspaper. It's corny as hell, but I love it.

I Take My Miasma Lean, My Liberals Black, and My Despair at Three - Published August 2024: This past Election period taught how quickly the working class will turn against its peers to capitulate to the interests of the elites and the political class. To see it happen in real-time is fucking demoralizing, though.

Temporarily Embarrassed by the Grift - Published July 2024: To be a socialist who pursues a future where the concept of money and capitalism is regulated to the dustbin of history is to live in a constant state of rage. Rage at the poverty we're living in and rage, watching humans beg for the right to live.

Spaces in Sharp Relief (I) - Republished Jan 2024: An autopsy of a twenty-some year experience within vitriolic fanspaces whose negatives ultimately outweigh the formative positive experiences. Because nothing has really changed.

Spaces in Sharp Relief (II) - Republished January 2024: “[…]I encourage every community to quit thinking you need to be fair to unfair voices. Get the rot out and you’ll have a healthier community.” (@AmazonChique)

To Live and Thrive in Baltimore - Republished January 2024: "At a certain age, you understand the reputation Baltimore City has as some lawless, violent city full of thugs is one by design."

[promiscuouspomegranate]

hihi!! sorry if you already have requests or if you’re busy!

could you write a story about a poor fem reader who meets a rich noble? probably not something modern but not too ancient. idc if it’s the stereotypical “omg an injured sexy prince on the side of the road!! let me bring him back to my cottage and feed him stone soup because i am so sickly and poor!!”

thank you !! 🩵🩵🩵

Aching Autumn

Fem reader • Prince Thatcher

TWs: Abduction, Mentions of starvation, Poor living conditions, Reader gets death threats, Thatcher is rude, Violence, + Reader gets her fingers dirty.

(This is my first request I’m literally foaming at the mouth cackling crying sobbing and so HAPPY!! THANK TAHK YOU!! I worked on this a bit and I think it turned out well. If you have ivory skin or locks of gold.. my bad 💔 Feel free to let me know if you wanted anything else. Sorry if it isn’t that good… this is my first time writing in a while 😭)

Although the seasons changed, it seemed the conditions I lived in were stagnant, from the cruel, cold winters that frosted my lips and gnawed at my fingers to sweet spring days that warmed my heart and soothed my soul. It seemed I was destined to live a life of poverty and hunger. After all, what could the bastard daughter of a drunkard wanton accomplish other than lamenting on the town streets of what could have been?

On this particular autumn evening, there was an ache in my heart; no words of comfort or looks of pity could soothe, for I saw the man who was supposed to be my father holding a child with golden hair and ivory skin–something I never had. I tried to elevate myself above the town gossip, but when I heard his name, I knew I had to see it with my own eyes. I needed to see my replacement. He smiled at the child, and I could feel bitter tears streaming down my ragged face.

“My father… You are supposed to be mine. Not that stupid angelic creature who you hold so dearly,” I bit my thumb and stared into the window, “You horrible man! You are my father!”

My father glanced out the window, and I felt my heart shatter when his face contorted into pure disgust. I emptily stared at him and pressed my hand against the glass. That child of his and some refined lady had stolen my leisurely life. I gently knocked on the glass and begged to be let inside. The baby began to sob, and the curtains were drawn. The front door opened, and I was violently dragged into the streets by my father.

“I told her to keep you away from me,” He furiously whispered and tightly grabbed my arm, “You are not welcome near my home. You are no child of mine.”

“But I am! I came from you and will always be a part of you, please,” I cried and pleaded with him, “If I were given an opportunity to clean myself up and become a member of society, I swear I could–”

Before I could finish my sentence, I was thrown into the road and kicked in the stomach.

“You will have to seek your opportunities elsewhere,” My father stepped back and glared, “Perhaps you could sell yourself the way your mother does. You’ll gather enough money to raise a regret of your own.”

He abandoned me, the same way he did when I was nine, slowly and cruelly. Savoring every moment of my cries for him to stay with me and ignoring my presence like I was the wind blowing on his back.

“Horrible man,” I muttered to myself when he was gone once more, “I hope the child dies in his arms and he can feel half the misery that I know.”

I brushed the excess dirt off my dress and readjusted my crimson scarf. I ambled through the town and arrived at the front of my dilapidated building. I decided I had encountered sorrow once too many today and went to the woods bordering my home.

“What I would give, if I had anything of value, to soar in the sky with the doves,” I squinted as they fluttered by, “How lovely.”

The mourning doves called out to each other and perched on pine branches. They hid themselves from me, and I strolled deeper into the woods. I ignored posted signs and warnings to the common people to stay out of the Queen’s forest. I hardly believed it was her land; she had never stepped in the forest. What right did she have to claim what she couldn’t see?

“I suppose it must be nice to claim things as you please,” I felt myself slip into my fantasy of grandeur and smiled, “I would claim the whole world if I were Queen.”

I pretended that the trees curtseyed and bowed as I strolled by. I straightened my posture and pretended the birds were my people. I politely waved and smiled like a queen would–delightfully and regally.

“Oh, I suppose these flowers are for me? Why, thank you, little girl,” I went down and picked what I assumed were wildflowers from the forest floor, “They will look lovely in my crystal vase by the stained glass window. The sunshine yellows would make a lovely spring gown.”

I hummed to myself and stooped down to pick more flowers. I carefully selected each one, though each flower seemed perfectly grown. I selected each by how strong the fragrance was; the more robust the scent, the more I could sell them for in the town.

“I wonder what kind of flower these are? I haven’t seen anything as beautiful growing in the forest before,” I murmured and put one in my hair, “I’ll gather one to replant in front of home.”

I had only begun to uproot the flower when I heard the galloping of stallions and the blasting sound of brass horns. I paid no attention; usually, the royalty stuck to a particular path to hunt the Queen’s favorite animals–ruby red cardinals, acorn brown deer freckled with pearly dots, and soot black bears. I heard the bloodhounds howling as the galloping began to fade into the ambiance of the forest.

I finished uprooting the flower and placed it with the others. I felt something lick my hand and gasped. I saw a bloodhound lazily resting beside me, panting and stupidly staring at me. It licked my hand again, and I pulled my hand away from the dog.

“Stay back,” I demanded but looked nervous, “I’ll.. well, I don’t exactly know what I would do to you.”

I cautiously reached my hand out and placed it on the dog’s head. I began to stroke behind its ears gently and smiled.

“I suppose you’re not that scary,” I mumbled and looked for a tag, “It appears the Queen hasn’t claimed you. Perhaps I will make you my own.”

I took my scarf off and wrapped it around the dog’s neck. I felt joy when it stared at me and rested its head on my lap.

“Such a beautiful thing, aren’t you? You can be my dog since the hunters are so careless,” I squeezed it and sighed, “Yet, I fear you don’t understand a thing I am saying. You probably will run from me the second you see your owner.”

The dog began to howl, and I felt alarmed as the galloping returned. I tried my best to soothe the dog into silence, but it persisted upon howling. I turned around and saw stallions charging toward me. I scooped the dog up, grabbed a flower or two, and sprinted through the woods. I heard men shouting after me, demanding I stop in the name of the Queen. I felt terrified and ran to the frantic beat of my heart.

Yet, no matter how fast I was to run, the horses would always defeat me. I was cornered by nobility and froze in fear. The other bloodhounds were growling at me, and I set mine on the forest floor.

“What an odd combination of bird and tiger. The cowardice of a bird to take flight and the boldness of a tiger to try and outrun horses and your fate,” A man wearing a green cloak frowned upon me–he seemed repulsed by my sight, “Speak, peasant. Make your last words something interesting.”

Promptly, he aimed his rifle at me, and I began to sob in fear.

“Brother, put your rifle down. The woman is clearly lost; why else would she be in these woods? Pity the poor thing and don’t frighten her,” A man wearing a brown cloak intervened–his eyes seemed gentle and welcoming.

“Einarr, could you spare your false sympathies? Not only has she racked up enough crime to be a prisoner in hell as well as Earth, but she also trampled through mother’s flower garden,” He scoffed and put his rifle aside, “It’s either I put her out of her misery now, or mother decides to stroll through the forest and sees her garden missing flowers then makes the whole country suffer her wrath.”

“Thatcher, you seem to forget about our mother’s kind nature. How, if a flower or two went missing, she would smile and think of the beautiful creature that wandered into her garden and was able to appreciate beauty,” Einarr dismounted his horse and clutched its reigns.

“Beautiful creature? I’ve seen more beauty in war than I have her ragged face,” Thatcher dismounted his horse and approached Einarr, “I am assuming this is your attempt at humoring me, so I spare her.”

The two seem more occupied with arguing than dealing with me. I wiped my tears away and fell to the floor. I could feel their eyes burning into my skin as I weakly opened my mouth.

“Forgive my insolence, Your Majesties. I never meant to cause such trouble and ruin your hunt. It is true I wandered into the forest and got lost along the way,” I prayed nothing would ruin my lie, “It tattered my dress and face; I find myself quite weary. I never will step foot in the woods again if it means you so graciously spare my life.”

I heard chuckling from one of the princes and poked my head up. I saw Thatcher terribly trying to mask his amusement as Einarr glared at him.

“Ah! For an ill-bred lady of low rank, she manages the audacity to ask favors from us? Say, do you think you’re more nobility than we are to make such demands? I will fetch your golden crown and scepter, and Einarr will–”

“That is enough, brother. Clearly, she is more worthy of a crown than you are. Such gentleness and kindness despite the cruelty of her circumstance,” Einarr approached me and kneeled to my level, “What is your name? I must know, or I fear I will go mad.”

“Y / N,” I sputtered out and felt breathless, “I am no lady, your majesty. I am only a bastard daughter who managed to lose herself to the perplexities of the woods.

“Einarr, you should be more careful around the animal. She might be rabid and contaminate you with the unforgiving disease of poverty,” Thatcher followed behind Einarr and shoved him aside, “Besides, shouldn’t the heir of the kingdom be at a diplomatic meeting?”

“I suppose you are right about something, Thatcher,” Einarr mounted his horse again and stared at me, “Farewell, Lady Y / N.”

Einarr rode away, and the dogs followed behind him, except for the one I called my own. It was lying beside me, and Thatcher seemed unamused.

“Eris, do not lay with her. Come, girl,” He demanded and crossed his arms, “I said come!”

Eris seemed content lying beside me, to Thatcher’s dismay. He noticed the scarf wrapped around her neck and glared at me.

“You... You were going to steal my dog, weren’t you? You wretched woman,” He clenched his fists and pulled me up, “How dare you steal so much from your providers?”

“I apologize, Your Majesty! I thought the dog was unclaimed and–”

“Silence! Einarr may be foolish enough to entertain your words, but I will have none of it,” He tightly gripped my arm and frowned at me, “Not even death will be enough to punish your crimes. You deserve to be tortured among the criminals of your dastardly rank.”

I felt my lip quiver as his auburn eyes searched into the darkest corners of my heart.

“Yet, even the most painful torture is not fit for you. No, I will choose your suffering myself,” He led me to his horse and forced me to mount it, “I will decide your fate, Y / N.”

He hopped up, wrapped his arms around me, and tightly gripped the reigns. I felt my heart pound as he rode away from the forest.

“Are.. are you going to kill me? Please, just put me out of my misery now,” I begged and felt nauseated.

“I am going to give you a fate worse than death,” He whispered in my ear, “Your fate is intertwined with mine now. Enjoy the scenery of the forest, for I fear this is the last time you’ll see it up close.”

[darling-archeron]

Happy Holidays to @charliespringsleftconverse!! I had so much fun writing this fic for @acotargiftexchange and getting to know you better. You said you were having a bit of a rough year, and I hope this fic can help a tiny bit! Thank you for being so patient, I hope the wait will have been worth it. This fic will be divided into four chapters, with updates on Tuesdays!

Many months have passed since the end of the War, but not all wounds have healed. Repairs, both emotional and physical, are still underway. When Feyre finally finds a break in her schedule, she feels duty-bound to visit the one place she thought she’d never return to: her old village. With Rhys by her side, she takes a trip through old memories.

Rated T, 2.6k words | Masterlist | Fic Masterlist

-

Feyre stood before her wardrobe, blankly staring at the rows of garments before her.

Today was…more difficult than she had expected.

Her options blurred before her. So many pieces, the simplest of them finer than anything she had worn in poverty as a human. A bolt of fabric from the finest could have fed her family for months, back then.

She was only picking out clothes. It shouldn’t have been difficult.

Cauldron, what was wrong with her? She thought she had moved past this long ago. She had never mourned her human life to the extent that her sisters had. She didn’t miss that small village and all the misery that lingered there.

However, that didn’t mean her heart would let her abandon it. She still wanted to help.

The task looming before her should have been nothing to everything she had faced in her twenty-two years.

Hesitantly, she pulled out a navy tunic and brown fleece-lined jacket. On any other day, they would have been fine.

She shoved it back in the wardrobe.

It didn’t feel fine today.

In the back of her mind, she registered Rhys entering the room, returning from the kitchen with two cups of tea. She heard the soft clink as he set both teacups down on one of the nightstands.

Then he came up behind her, snaking a gentle arm around her waist. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the cuff tattoo on his forearm that lovingly matched hers. She stood still as he brushed a loose hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. Even without the mental connection, he always seemed to have a sixth sense for when she was distressed.

“What are you thinking about, love?” He asked through the bond.

Feyre smiled a bit at that. He could have sifted through her thoughts straightaway if he wanted, but she appreciated how he asked instead.

“Just…nervous, I suppose. When we were in my village during the war, I felt like I didn’t really have the option not to go, with so many lives hanging in the balance. But now I do have a choice, and…it’s just overwhelming.”

Now that things were stable, and Velaris was back on its feet, Feyre had chiseled out a bit of time to visit the mortal lands. To help rebuild her old village and any surrounding ones that still needed help – for, despite all of Lucien’s work with Vassa and Jurian, and despite the many months that had passed since the war’s end, aid was still often slow to come to the slip of human territory south of the Spring Court.

Rhys pressed his thumb softly into her side, rubbing comforting circles over the sliver of bare skin while he thought for a moment. 

“Nobody would blame you if you never wanted to go back there again. You know that. But you do, because you care, and that’s the important part. And when we’re out there today, I want you to remember something.”

“What’s that?”

“No one can make you small, darling. You are more than the insults the worst of them can throw at you.”

“After I’ve faced so many real monsters and gone to war, this shouldn’t feel so scary. The worst things awaiting us there are a bunch of prejudiced assholes.”

“Well, this is why you’re going, isn’t it? To prove them wrong?”

“I’m going because it’s the right thing to do. Proving them wrong…that’ll be a bonus.”

“And Rhys?” she said, out loud this time.

“Yes?”

“No matter how much you might want to, you have to promise not to incinerate the first person who’s rude to me.”

Rhys’s easy smile receded into a thin line. “Who said anything about incinerating?”

“Sometimes I don’t have to be in your mind to know what you’re thinking. I know you have self control, when you’re willing to exercise it. In the name of diplomacy.”

Rhys leaned in a bit closer, breath brushing against the shell of her ear. “Then you should also know that you’re the thing that unravels my self control most quickly.”

“Oh?”

She felt her toes curl as Rhys pressed his lips to her neck.

“Maybe you should demonstrate exactly how that happens,” she murmured.

Amongst other things, Rhys’s little…interruption to her dressing had certainly made the early morning go by quicker, at least.

By the time they were done, the tea was cold, and it was a good thing she had never dressed, because she would have had to do it all over again.

In the end, she picked a sturdy pair of boots and her favorite set of fleece-lined leathers to guard her against early spring’s slight chill in the mortal land. Why had she felt the need to wear human attire when she wasn’t one? She was part of the Night Court, and proud of it. And the villagers could be as proud and pigheaded as they wanted, but she wouldn’t let it hinder her.

Faerie-human relations had gotten far enough that they wouldn’t be chased out of the village with pitchforks, but there was still work to be done. Enough that Feyre had decided not to openly advertise who she and Rhys were, though it would be obvious to anyone who thought about it for a few moments. So Rhys would hide his wings, and they both would keep a damper on the full might of their magic.

They had a quiet breakfast, only interrupted by the occasional comment.

“Mor will be winnowing back in tonight, so she’ll be able to join us,” Rhys mentioned in between bites of toast.

“I can’t wait to see her again, there’s so much to catch up on,” she mused with a smile. It seemed like ages since she had seen Mor, and even longer than that since the whole family had gotten together.

“What time is everyone coming over?”

“I told them around 9. Nothing too extravagant, just good food with our family.”

The long day ahead of them was certainly daunting, but tonight, their whole family would be together again, after months of someone always travelling. The thought of it fortified her for the day ahead. Every year, their little circle seemed to grow bigger and bigger, and her heart only fuller along with it.

After finishing breakfast, they were ready to depart just after sunrise. Part of Feyre yearned to enjoy the morning by flying, but she knew that would take them far too long, and with her lack of experience, she wouldn’t be able to keep up with Rhys over the distance.

So, winnowing it was. Standing in the foyer of the house, she linked her arm with his, and they were off, soaring through the dark fabric of the world. Rhys was only a vague shape next to her, and though she had winnowed with him countless times before, she held on tight.

All too quickly, they arrived. Rhys landed them just outside the driveway to the old Archeron estate on the edge of town. Last week, she had written to the village heads, letting them know the Night Court would be sending aid. Not because she expected some kind of special greeting, but more to give the villagers – many of whom were still wary of faeries – a heads up.

Walking into town would help with that, too. It would be much less startling than the pair of them materializing out of thin air.

Feyre paused for a long moment, taking in her once-familiar surroundings. There was a warmth to the air that hadn’t been present in the farther north Velaris. Behind them stood the ruins of their old manor. Nobody had bothered to salvage or attempt repairs on it; who would, when there was no one left to care about it?

She hadn’t been back to it since those initial meetings after the war had ended. It had been cleaned up just enough to make sure there were usable chairs and no rusty nails poking out of any exposed boards.

All the same, she felt a pulse of regret as she made out the trampled remains of the garden Elain had once loved so dearly.

“Shall we?” Rhys asked, gently breaking her chain of thought.

She nodded, giving him a tight smile.

It was strange to be back in her village, to say the least.

As they approached the town center, memories of the times she had been here before felt like flipping through the pages of a dusty, ancient book.

A young child in the largest mansion in the town, on a hill that overlooked the whole city.

A starving girl, traumatized from the memory of her mother’s deathbed and her father’s leg, broken before her.

A love-struck human woman, returning to the village to see her family’s return to favor.

A newly-made faerie, desperately trying to change the tide of a war.

In some ways, the village itself had changed as much as she had. So little remained of what she remembered. Like the Archeron manor, many of the wealthiest estates had their lands pillaged, ornamental walls razed to the ground..  

It had taken her far too long to come here. They could have done more good earlier on, but she couldn’t leave Velaris. Rhys, of course, never intended on stopping her as Tamlin once had, but he had tried to gently remind her that this wasn’t her responsibility.

But wasn’t it? She, along with the rest of the Inner Circle, had bargained with the Mortal Queens for their half of the book, and dragged anyone in range of her family’s home into this.

She had brought about the downfall of the Spring Court, she had left holes in the wall, she hadn’t nullified the Cauldron in time and allowed monsters from Prythian and Hybern alike to find their way in.

Hybern may have pillaged and burned, but she had helped open the door.

She hadn’t come sooner for two reasons:

The first was that repairs in the Night Court had to come first. The second was her own guilt. Helping here…it felt like a cheap way to make up for all the damage she had done, but she couldn’t think of another meaningful way to help.   

She was more grateful than she could express that she wasn’t alone in this endeavor. Rhys had a mountain of things to be working on, and yet he had taken the day to come with her.

On the main road, they passed a gaggle of teenagers who stared at them both like they had two heads, their whispers plenty loud to her fae ears.

“…from the Night Court…”

“They say they want to help…”

“I’ve heard they’ll rip the skin from your bones.”

“You think Penalope found a faerie like that when she crossed the wall?”

Was that…admiration she heard in that last remark? Her mate certainly was handsome.

She briefly considered doing something possessive like snaking an arm around him or letting the damper off her magic to twine shadows around him…but that probably wouldn’t help her case.

She had no problem with strangers ogling her mate. Not when he was so clearly hers.

Besides, they weren’t trying to chase her with pitchforks. That was something.

Still, as they walked on, she felt more self-conscious than she cared to admit. It shouldn’t have mattered. She had defied the odds, broken curses and worlds and then stitched them back together again, but part of her was still that lost child, ignoring the sneers of her fellow villagers as she trudged out into the barren forest.

It had been rare for anyone to stop her, to express concern that a child was taking on that dangerous work. She had been younger than these teenagers, who looked like children to her, were. And when she had become fae…

She chased the memories out of her head as they walked into the village proper. Today wasn’t a market day, and the streets were mostly quiet. Here, most things had been rebuilt or were in the process. Nearly everything had been made of wood and hadn’t stood a chance when Hybern lit their matches.  

“There aren’t any Children of the Blessed around,” Feyre murmured, noting the lack of their robes and jangling bracelets.

“Does that surprise you?”

“I suppose not. Hard to idolize us when you see up-close what faeries are capable of.”

Most of the noise came from the center of the town square, where four men were in the process of rebuilding the town pavilion.

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised that this was one of the last things being rebuilt. Obviously, people’s homes were much more vital, but the structure had rarely been used in her lifetime. For the common folk, it often seemed like there wasn’t much to celebrate.

Only one of the men, sawing a beam of wood, was facing their direction as they approached. He looked up suddenly, freezing as he took them in.

Fortifying herself, Feyre quickly bridged the last few paces between them, doing her best to look as nonthreatening as possible. The man still had a tight grip on his saw.

“We’ve come to help with repairs. Where can we be of the most use?” she asked, more confident than she felt.

The man’s ruddy face was vaguely familiar, likely someone she had crossed paths with during her years in the village. If he made out anything familiar in her features, he didn’t say.

He eyed the pair of them cautiously, taking in their inhuman features and the unfamiliar make of their clothes. She knew, because it was what she would have done, back in her village days.

“You’re the ones from the Night Court.”

Behind him, the other men had stopped their work, watching the exchange with tension coming off of them in waves . She didn’t need her daemati powers to know what they were thinking.

“Yes. My name is Feyre Archeron. This is my mate, Rhysand.”

Recognition clicked in his eyes at the mention of her last name.

“Yes…Remus said that there were faeries that wanted to help. With all due, I have to tell you that we have it handled.”

Feyre had been expecting this pushback – experienced it plenty of times in Velaris and the Spring Court.

“It seems like you could use any help you can get. You’ve made a lot of progress in town, but we passed by plenty of homes in our way in that are in disrepair. I know the continent hasn’t been sending the help you need.”

“Plenty of people in this village have had their lives and livelihood town apart by the fae. You expect them to welcome you in? My lady?” He tacked on at the last moment.

“I was once human. I understand their fear better than most,” she insisted.

The man paled slightly, and at first she thought it was because of her words. Then she realized that, at her side, Rhys had lifted the damper on his magic ever-so-slightly, a slightly threatening wave of shadows emanating off of him.

“Rhys!” she admonished down the bond. “You said you weren’t going to do that!”

“I said I wasn’t going to incinerate anyone, darling. Besides, I needed to let some magic out. You know how strenuous it is.”

“You won’t let me forget it. Poor, baby High Lord,” she scoffed.

Oblivious to their conversation, the man cleared his throat. “If you insist, there are some homes to the west that were hit hard. They could use help with repairs.”

“Thank you,” Rhys said, all politeness in his voice. “We’ll head there now.”

The man didn’t respond, instead simply turning back to bend over his sawhorse. It was a better reception than she had expected, honestly.

She turned to the winding, familiar path ahead of them, leading to the oldest part of the village.

“Ready?” she asked Rhys.

“Lead the way, darling.”

-

See you next week for chapter two!

taglist: @thron3ofbooks @the-lonelybarricade @swankii-art-teacher  @ghostlyrose2  @brieq @cretaceous-therapod @live-the-fangirl-life @achernarlight @reverie-tales @starfall-spirit @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @highladysith @areyoudreamingof

[thatswhatsushesaid]

i’m too tired to get into it with this person about taking the worst of the cultivation world’s speculative rumours about jgy at their word, but that first point keeps cropping up in different iterations of the bad takes, and it will never not make me laugh

because yes? of course jgy worked himself to the bone and did whatever it took to claw his way into the gentry? leaving aside his filial obligations to meng shi (which should be motivation enough, but whatever), if you are the poor newly orphaned son of a sex worker, and you can see a path for yourself not only out of a life of abject poverty and misery, but into a place of comfort and security where all of your basic needs are met, AND you now have the power and influence to use your intelligence to shape the world, why shouldn’t you seize that opportunity with both hands?

“he willingly did whatever he could to get into that system” because he wanted to not be poor anymore! and he succeeded! good for him.

[heretherebedork]

Hello agony.

Oh, Tanthai. This is the first real glimpse we've gotten of him that shows the past, that shows us the real pain and what he's trying to escape. Because he is scared and he is lashing out but he's doing all of it trying to escape himself but you can't escape yourself, you can't.

That is just the most painful smile ever. This is a young man who's been abused and been forced to take the blame and forced into a horrible spot and he's not kind but there's something there, there's so much there and he has nothing he can do, no power but his father's power sits on him like a weight.

Thee is trying so hard to help Tanthai but the truth is that Tinn is right. The only thing that can help him now is the truth. That's all there is. The truth has to come out and that is all that can help him. He needs to get away from his father and the truth needs to come out and that, that will help him.

(Honestly, if Thee went with him, sending Tanthai to America wouldn't be the worst thing. He'd be farther from his father and in a place where he could at least by physically safe and that's a first step in protecting himself.)

Thee is the only safe person that Tanthai can lash out at all, the only person who can't (and won't) throw anything back in his face. Thee's love has made this place for Tanthai, the one place he can express himself truly, but because of their class difference and because Thee is basically a whipping boy it means that he's safe but he's also paid and so Tanthai cannot trust that safety as much he wants to.

The hollow eyes. The blank smile. The struggles to realize that he is part of this monstrous machine that hurts people and keeps people in poverty and kills children and he can't do a thing about it because his father's power is not his own. Who would Tanthai be if he wasn't trapped in this gilded cage of abuse and meaningless wealth?

Thee knows who he would be. Thee sees that in him. And he will not give up.

Tanthai and Charn are competing to figure out which smile can hurt the most, dear lord.

The absolute misery and sarcasm are strong with him and I love him so much. All he needs is one crying breakdown in Thee's arms... I mean, honestly, he doesn't even need that. He's just absolutely glorious. Damaged and angry and hurt and struggling and hating that this takes him out of the spotlight and that he's hurting more and more people for something he didn't even do.

No one talks about dying more than Tanthai. No one. This man is ready to die and be released from everything he's trapped in but Thee just won't let him go but also won't give him what he needs. Which is more. Which is a chance to escape. Which is the truth.

Tanthai is begging to be set free but the only freedom he can imagine at this point is death. He begged Thee to run away with him and got nothing and now there's no other way to escape this. There's nothing else. There's no other escape from his father.

Every time. Every single time, Tanthai is waiting for something from Thee. But Thee never gives it to him. Thee doesn't give him the comfort or the freedom he wants. Not death, not running away, not even reassurance. Thee simply is... there.

Thee may love Tanthai but he isn't able to give him that love. By virtue of his job, by virtue of his position, by virtue of his own chains, he always leaves Tanthai unable to escape and unable to be helped.

Thee is the only chance Tanthai has at escape and love and safety but they're both trapped here and Thee is more afraid of what escape might mean than the freedom it might grant.

[somerandomg33k]

I just got paid today. About $2100 in net pay. Typical for about 110 to 120 hours of work over two weeks. So $375 into the joint account I share with my brothers that I live with to cover for my portion of rent and bills. And I will put another $375 next paycheck. $700 towards the Chase Amazon credit card. $200 to the bank credit card. $150 to my friend Lynnaquinn, good enough for groceries this week for her and her spouse, hopefully. And $250 for Johanna to get her out of the red and have enough for her phone bill, hopefully. Accounting for the $106 payment for my PC, and all other future charges covered on my two credit cards, I pretty much have $383 left in the checking account today. Or will once all of other the charges go through. So yea, just got paid $2100 and it is almost gone.

And still want to spend a little money on myself. Spending $100 for vbucks just to get more Fortnite skins, even after owning 573 of them. And after already spending $6000 on Fortnite in the two years I have been playing it. Getting myself a frozen pizza just because as well.

But yet, part of me just wants to instantly give Phoenix the $380. Because they are also really struggling. They expressed they can't keep going on like this. Been like this for years for Phoenix.

Another Paycheck that once I instantly get it, I need another one. I don't have enough to make sure my friends have a comfortable life. I don't have enough to get my teeth fixed. Haven't been to the dentist in years. And I emotionally broke down at the suggestion I should focus on myself and take care of my credit card debt. But that also feels impossible.

I hate budgeting. So I am really really bad at doing it. I just feels like not spending money at all. When Fortnite players, like my friends, talk about "saving vbucks" there is no such thing as saving vbucks. All saving vbucks is is simply not spending vbucks. Not getting the skins you want in the item shop.

The only way I see making any dent into my credit card debt is not giving money to my friends in need. Not spending as much money as I do. Or working as much overtime as I can. 12 hours days 6 days a week. Or any combination of the three, or all three. And when I do work 12-hour days, I have like 15 fifteen minutes in the morning, all used to get dressed and leave for work, and then whatever time I give myself when I come home for the evening, which is maybe two hours at most. And no more because I shouldn't stay up beyond 2 am.

I don't know how much more I need to earn at my job to feel whole. Or to feel well. Maybe double what I make now. But how fucking likely will that happen for someone without a college degree in this economy.

But I fucking hate thinking like this. I hate being concern with money. I hate getting pay over $2000 and it is still not enough. I hate that my friends are in poverty and will probably just never get out of it. I hate there is no end in sight for this cycle. I hate the fucking system that we live in. And hate how there are many people that will defend Capitalism. Or believe, "You just have to vote for the right people to be our benevolent dictator. And they will improve the system. #VoteBlueNoMatterWho." I hate feeling powerless to end of this misery. And I have other friends and family members that are suffering too..... I just feel..... bleph.... meh .... urg.....

[jeramyolmack]

"The bourgeoisie is charitable out of self-interest; it gives nothing outright, but makes a bargain with the poor, saying: 'If I spend this much upon benevolent institutions, I thereby purchase the right to not be troubled any further, and you are bound thereby to stay in your dusky holes and not to irritate my tender nerves by exposing your misery'" - Friedrich Engles, from "The Attitude of the Bourgeoisie Towards the Proletariat

All people have been conditioned through largely successful misinformation movements. The wealthy and historically influential designed society around protecting them, not us. I firmly believe that we are all humans but to an extent, we must make it us VS them because THE NOXIOUSLY WEALTHY HAVE MADE IT THAT WAY.

They have designed a society that subjugates every aspect of it into predefined and unjustifiable roles. They will ignore all those outside their gilded prisons under the false belief that they can make better decisions about us than we can make for ourselves. They will ensure their families survive while walking over the bones of our children.

We can not afford to continue to live under the assumption that those in power have our best interests in mind. We can not afford to continue to live under the assumption that business as usual will solve poverty. We can not continue to afford to live under the assumption that business as usual will save our communities.

The status quo must be dismantled and civilization must evolve.

The question is no longer when but if we will survive. Those in power are more than comfortable killing our world for short-term profits and political gains instead of building up a world for our grandchildren to live in. Ask yourself are you willing to give up your short-term comfort so that future generations may thrive?

Our world is at a tipping point and unless we take action today we won't have a tomorrow to live for.

Are you ready to build tomorrow?

[dailyanarchistposts]

Section I: Preface to this Chapter

In a Capitalist system, there is — in fact — a constant and perpetual economic depression. In every period of history of the Capitalist nations of the world, there has always been the omnipresence of the ghetto, the masses on the fringes of starvation, the widespread effects of poverty, misery, want, and criminality. Unemployment of the millions is a marked trait of any stage of economic development in the Capitalist nations. A year never passes in these nations that thousands do not die from hunger, millions are pushed on to the streets as paupers and beggars, and hundreds of thousands of children become homeless. Economists may assert, one way or another, that the nation is going through a recession or a depression or a boom or a bust, whatever terminology that they can supply to others to get them to invest or sell out. But the boom and the busts are only relative. In one case, only forty million are unemployed, in the other, only thirty five million. The evidence again and again confirms one recurring fact when examining the an economy: the Capitalist system is in a constant and perpetual depression. Poverty is an intrinsic element of the “free” economy.

Why, one may inquire, is it that the system of Capitalism, and not the present situation, is blamed for the poverty and want of a nation? I can only answer in strict confidence that Capitalism may be blamed because it is an economical system, and in this respect, it is the method by which wealth is distributed throughout a society. There are and always have been vast, countless tracts of land, uncultivated and unused, while there are thousands and millions starving on the streets, without a home to live, without food to eat. But to a Capitalist, who serves only his desire of self-interest, these individuals — whom have no money or anything of value to offer — do not concern him. To argue that Capitalism is a system inherently stuck in a depression, one must not even bring up the uncultivated lands. There is enough food in this world presently to feed all that are starving, there is enough land to house all the homeless, there is enough wealth existing to give everyone luxury. There is enough work to be done, that if it were done productively, for the good of the whole instead of the good of a single individual, everyone would have a decent, respectable job, considerably shorter than our current eight hour day. It is the system of Capitalism, that funnels wealth to the rich and brings poverty to the masses; in its boom one out of ten million stops starving and its bust an additional ten million are brought to the fringes of misery and want.

Waste, too, is an inherent component of the Capitalist system. Under the desire to profit, those who own the means of production will do what they must in order to gain a revenue; it is in their own self interest. So long as there are empty mouths on the brink of starvation, there will be a Capitalist willing to poison enough of his food so that all cannot be fed — so long as there are people without homes and subject to the wretched abuse of nature, there will be a Capitalist willing to burn buildings so that all cannot be housed — and so long as there are people suffering from the pain of cold, there will be a Capitalist willing to destroy clothing so that all cannot be comforted. A decrease in supply will mean that demand will rise. While a Capitalist could sell 1,000 loaves of bread for $1 per loaf, making a total of $1,000 revenue and feeding everyone, he could sell 500 loaves of bread for $5 per loaf, making a total of $2,500 — but leaving half the population to die. All this will be done under the guise of “free trade” of “free enterprise,” and our economists have failed miserably to do anything worthwhile by blatantly using the word “free,” as it has not helped the majority of people escape from oppression.

[wildgeese98]

Mag 166, The Worms and episode 36 of The Silt Verses, All Lovers Part As Dust, both play on this idea of hope as a harmful force.

In mag 166 the people trapped in the buried can see light above them. They crawl painfully upwards, urged on by the hope that they will someday make it to the surface. Their hope keeps them going but makes it so much more painful every time they are washed back down and have to start again.

In The Silt Verses hope is something that can quite literally trap you. Devereaux, and the other people passing through the Amicus Hotel are so caught up in their hopes for the future that they forsake the present.

In both stories the characters' hope is harming them, causing them pain or limiting their lives. But for both, letting of that hope is still unthinkable. For the worms to let go of their hope of surfacing would mean acknowledging how truely trapped they are. For Devereaux to would mean accepting that his sister is gone.

I'm really into the idea of hope as something tortuous, something that can trap you in a cycle of pain. Both stories have people hoping desperately for something they can never have. They tear themselves up trying to reach it. I enjoy the subversion of something we usually view as only positive. The acknowledgement that even the things that seem wholely good have the potential to hurt.

The two episodes are in the end about different things. Mag 166 is about the crushing burden of poverty and systemic oppression. Being trapped in a miserable life with no way out. Clinging to the vain hope that with enough work you could improve your circumstances and escape that misery. All Lovers Part As Dust is about living too much in the past and the future. Hoping for something so intensely that it consumes your life. Not only will you most likely not get what you hope for you will also miss chances for other good things.

As such the mag 166 ends hopelessly, there will be no end to the suffering. All Lovers Part As Dust, however ends more ambiguously. We are left to interpret whether Sebastian and Devereaux escape. We are left with some hope, though fittingly the ambiguity means that hope brings no comfort.

Something that is so great about horror is its ability to flip our perception. It allows us to see how something usually wonderful can be horrifying. It validates those who have found only pain in the things we are told should comfort us. Hope can be good. Clinging to hope can be the thing that pulls you through a hard time. But it can also trap you and when your pain has no end it can be cruel.

[aladaylessecondblog]

Discovery (fallen star AU)

Author's Note: Alright here it is. Messy but w/e. If you are reading Fallen Star and DON'T want spoilers for future events, consider this your LAST WARNING.

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

There were good days and bad days, and today was a bad day for Sadara.

The injuries the Ordinators had given her were healing on their own--slowly, but they were healing. The wounds were beginning to close at last, and yet they still ached.

Inside, outside....everything hurts.

Her joints, her wounds, the arm that they'd finally taken out of the splint just last week. Everything was still tender, everything still hurt, and she was so fatigued that most days were spent sleeping. It might have been bearable, though...if not for the rounded belly her hands now rested on.

It had been a surprise, as she was desperately trying to hide from the ordinators. Roasted food she cooked with a fire spell had suddenly grown disgusting, pains in her belly, and other such things had cropped up. When she'd managed to talk to a healer they'd given her a smile.

"You're with child."

The look of horror had been hard to mask, and yet she'd managed it. The healer took it to be more nausea, and offered her a potion to settle her stomach. It hadn't done her much good...and between that and the wounds she'd found sleep hard to get. And that was when she DID get it. The ordinators were always sniffing around for her, and she moved often, barely avoiding being sighted by them when she went close to anything resembling civilization.

After another hard fight where she'd taken a particularly bad wound to her leg, and barely managed to kill the ordinator involved, she didn't sleep at all for the two days it took her to get to the Argonian Mission and explain everything.

Well. Not EVERYTHING. She didn't tell them she'd gone to bed with the enemy of all Morrowind, that it was HIS child--in the end she decided to blame the Dark Brotherhood, and said they'd given her a poisoned wound that had somehow stopped her being able to heal herself up. When they questioned her about the pregnancy she blamed some handsome rogue, a moment of weakness and an indulgence in comfort when she'd needed it.

As she'd helped hide and rescue several slaves they took her in gladly, and were further sweetened when she turned over her weapon bag. Arrows, daggers, a regular old steel sword, they'd all sell well enough to pay for her room and board and the effort it would take to keep her hidden. She kept the smattering of jewels she'd kept for potion making, a set of armor, and a few other weapons. And her gold, too. She would not be deprived of so much as she had been growing up. She would NOT let her child grow in the poverty she'd been forced through.

Cyrodiil...or maybe Skyrim. I could be an alchemist, it wouldn't be too suspicious. Not like I can use them otherwise. People always need healing potions...

She'd left her lute in Red Mountain...quite by accident, of course, in her rush to leave before she could talk herself out of doing it. She blamed the grief of the situation--of having to lose Voryn, being attacked at every turn, of knowing she would have to go through this pregnancy alone. It all hurt so badly she finally understood a lover in a song she'd sung many times claiming he would never sing again for the grief of losing his lover.

At last she understood the songs. Love so grand it took everything when it was gone...a great light that when it was snuffed out left only a darkness that felt inescapable. Loneliness, isolation...

At least I have you, she thought, stroking the swell of her stomach. Five months, she guessed. Four more and she would no longer feel so alone. Four more and she would have the only spot of joy remaining to her in all this misery. Even if the child resembled their father...the only people to remember the face would be in Morrowind. All she had to do was simply...never return, once she'd left.

They would figure out their own destinies, she'd determined. They'd make their OWN way, free of the prophecy, free of Azura and her demands, free of the --

A fuss, somewhere in the upstairs. Sadara cringed on hearing a shout--it wasn't too often that it happened, but it did happen, she assumed because of the Twin Lamps. It didn't take a Dwemer scientist to know there would be some connection between them and the Argonians. It wasn't until the footsteps upstairs began to move downstairs that she began to worry.

I was just staying here because it was quiet, she started to invent the excuse, That's all. I'm not feeling well and they are quite hospitable to paying guests.

Yes. A good excuse. A wonderful excuse. All the same...

Sadara jolted upright into a sitting position and felt a wave of nausea and dizziness nearly overtake her in the process. Then the sound of yelling outside the door, which was swiftly opened.

"You've been trafficking my escaped slaves, and I won't have it."

The angry Orvas Dren stepped through. Sadara couldn't move quickly enough to get into the closet, so all she could do was sit on the bed and wait.

He was stunned, to say the least.

"You," he said, his voice a quiet accusation, "I expected slaves, but YOU--"

She couldn't figure out what to say. Had he been anyone else she would have been able to snow them over about staying here as it was quiet, but HE knew her, and more importantly she KNEW he was a loyal follower of Voryn's.

"Lord Dagoth's been looking for you."

"I--" she stumbled over her words. No, this couldn't be it. She couldn't--but Orvas was LOYAL to him.

Gods.

"Of course these wretched beasts would be keeping you from our lord. After I've taken care of them I'll take you to a healer, and then back to Red Mountain."

You've been caught, she thought to herself, Best to minimize the damage. The ordinators. The wounds. You meant to go for Wraithguard but had to hide for your own safety.

"My injuries--I can't heal with potions or spells." Sadara swallowed, looking up and then away as she tripped over her words. "Azura is--angry with me. V...HE can, but I can't exactly go to him when I'm in this kind of shape, not with everything that lies between here and--and there. And the Argonians didn't do this to me. The...the ordinators did--Lord Vivec wants me dead. If you try to take me out there now they'll kill me and I can't--our..."

It was over. It was over. In the state she was in she could barely move without pain. Something in the back of her mind whispered that it was best to give in now, and another corner screamed in opposition that she must resist.

Azura, how am I meant to do that in THIS STATE? You wouldn't protect me from the Ordinators and you won't protect me now.

Sometimes one gambled and lost...and it was best, she thought, fear seeping into her mind, to attempt to make the loss hurt as little as possible. Azura meant to destroy her, but Voryn--

"Calm yourself, my lady," Orvas walked forward and lowered his spear as he moved. "With my connections I can find a way to get you there without the ordinators or even the buoyant armigers being aware of it."

"Moon sugar and ash statues are one thing," Sadara replied, "But a whole woman?"

"You underestimate my connections." He smirked. "And when it comes to that which my lord desires, I am always ready to deliver. How fortunate that I've managed to save you."

You haven't saved me, she thought fearfully, You've damned me.

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

True to his word - Orvas managed it. Sadara had to spend an uncomfortable few days mostly confined to a large crate in the back of a silt strider, but he got her as far as Ald'ruhn unseen. Getting to the Ghostgate was more difficult, but they managed it thanks to Orvas's scouts. Once there, he had his men stand guard while another cast an illusion spell over her.

"It will not last long," he said, "But it will last long enough to get us to the Shrine of Pride, and once we're inside..."

"Does...does he know we're coming?" Sadara asked. She was trembling, having gone over what she'd say once Orvas had delivered her back. Voryn, I'm so sorry, I was injured, and the Argonians hid me. I wanted to get Wraithguard but my wounds were so terrible, and I was so afraid. "What about the corprus creatures?"

"He has assured me that they will be no problem today." Three others came forward now, and Sadara recognized them as Sleepers, ones she'd met before. "We shall all go in as a group."

"I hope you've got your cure disease potions ready," she replied, "The blight winds never stop inside the Ghostfence."

But Orvas was always prepared.

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

Getting past the Ghost Fence was easy enough, but walking further was more painful with every step. After the Shrine of Pride they made straight for the building Dagoth Ur.

The closer they got the more nervous Sadara felt. Would Voryn believe her? Suppose he was angry? And what of the child...what if he slew them both?

No. No, she reassured herself, he'd never do such a thing. Perhaps he might want you to forget a time you were not his, but he would not outright harm you, he wants you too much.

Her vision grew a bit blurry, the half-healed wound in her leg sprouted into agony. But on she walked.

Voryn might consider this penance enough, if he is angry.

Not until they were inside did she feel the first inklings of relief. She was tired enough she barely registered the voices about her, only thinking of being able to lay down and rest again. Within her the child kicked, moving almost eagerly.

Hands reaching for her own, then one that moved over her belly. She stumbled and then was lifted from her feet, and all she could think was, thank goodness, I can rest.

Because it was finally over.

It was all over.

She was asleep before she could think anything more.

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

Sadara's dreams were jumbled, cloudy, even now. She could swear she saw Voryn, but then there was Azura, reaching out, and the fog rose to blot her out. The dreams continued like this, things from the outside--Vivec, Azura, Almalexia, Caius even--appearing just within arm's reach before vanishing again.

She opened her eyes, rubbing the sleep from them, and recognize the room that she'd slept in so often before. Her wounds, when she looked at them--were all closed, all healed over.

Groggily she sat up, feeling more rested than she had in months. There was a dryness in her mouth, and thankfully when she looked there was a flask of water on the bedtable. As she was drinking it the door opened, and in rushed--

"Oh, by my name, you're awake," Voryn's hands were on her the instant he was close enough to touch her, "You've no idea how worried I was. How afraid I was that they had managed to poison you against me, or..."

"They--they didn't," Sadara lied, "Orvas...Orvas told you, I'm sure, but the ordinators attacked me, and...I've been running from place to place, hiding, and please--however angry you might be at me, don't harm the Argonians. If it weren't for them I would already be dead."

"Angry?" he started, "Angry? I could never be so at you for trying to preserve your life. But Nerevar--how much you have suffered during your flight. If I had only thought of it before you left, I would have..."

So he was willing to believe her, that was good. Or maybe so long as she played along with the narrative he was creating, he would overlook any possibility of anything outside what he wanted.

"Your wounds were so terrible, Nerevar, and to think you have had to let them heal on their own...that you suffered without me there to save you..."

"Voryn," she said quietly, "You need not worry, everything...everything is alright now. I'm here. Safe."

Damned, she thought. But if she must be damned...at least his variety was softer and kinder than the other sort. But before she could think for more she had to be sure he believed her, or as sure as possible in this case.

"You didn't visit my dreams so I was worried you'd...that you'd decided if I wasn't strong enough that you didn't...want my service."

"Nothing could be farther from the truth," Voryn went on, "Do you hear me? You are so full of anxiety from all this running and hiding, you really should be resting. Simply lay back, sleep, and let me care for you."

Sadara took a deep breath. He didn't yet seem aware, or perhaps he was waiting to be told...so she took both his hands and laid them on her belly.

"Voryn," she said quietly, "I'm not sure you've noticed, but...when I left to retrieve Wraithguard, I...I didn't leave alone."

She could not see through the mask, but she could certainly feel the joy as it radiated off him.

One hand stayed at her belly, and the other moved up to cup her cheek.

"Such a gift you give me, moon-and-star," he said gently, "You must stay here. I won't risk the safety of either of you, do you hear me?"

She soon went back to sleep, held against Voryn's chest, with one arm around her, and the other stroking at her belly.

If she was damned to Oblivion by this...at least her captor was tender, and her sentence light.

It was all over now.

Voryn was going to win. It was only a matter of time.

[wingedshadowfan]

only upon my reread of ninth house was i reminded how strongly poverty, misery and need were thematized

“You mistake me, Alexandra. There is no crime in wanting these things. Only people who have never lived without comfort deride it as bourgeois.” She winked. “The purest Marxists are always men. Calamity comes too easily to women. Our lives can come apart in a single gesture, a rogue wave. And money? Money is the rock we cling to when the current would seize us.”

i had also forgotten that marguerite belbalm was a women's studies professor (clever foreshadowing considering daisy's story)

[dolphin1812]

Everything about this chapter is so painful.

I think there’s a bit of an implied judgment of Fantine in Hugo’s use of the term “coquetry” to describe her pride in her beauty, but it’s still devastating to watch her lose that when it’s the one thing she still had that brought her joy (not including the memory of Cosette, which is necessarily bittersweet because of their separation). In a previous chapter, it was stated that Fantine loved to brush her hair. Watching her lose that, then, isn’t sad because she’s no longer beautiful; it’s sad because she can’t do one of the few things that made her happy in a life of misery.

Of course, cutting off her hair wasn’t the first appearance-related sacrifice Fantine made for Cosette. When she left her daughter with the Thénardiers, it was mentioned that while Cosette was dressed in fine clothes, Fantine herself was dressed very simply. She had enjoyed beautiful clothing as well when she was with Tholomyès, but when she realized she couldn’t clothe both herself and her daughter, she prioritized Cosette. However, as Fantine said with her hair in this chapter, there’s a way back from that. Hair grows back; clothes can be bought again. And even though she can’t afford to put in the same attention to her appearance, she still cares. For instance, after cutting off her hair, Fantine covers her head with small caps that still make her look nice. It’s not the same as having her hair, which makes her happy through its beauty and through the relaxing ritual of brushing it, but it is a small thing that brings her comfort.

Her teeth, as she points out, are a permanent loss. She lost her hope with them. I think it’s very telling that what causes Fantine the most pain isn’t the direct suffering of poverty; it’s the loss of hope and joy. The long hours of work and her constantly shrinking salary are awful. But they’re not as bad as knowing that her lack of money is keeping her from seeing Cosette. Or that she’ll never be considered beautiful again because she’s missing her front teeth. When she was poor and could still hope to have these things again, she was able to manage to some extent; she wore her caps, she’d think about seeing Cosette someday, and she’d push herself to get through the day. Now, Fantine continues to work for Cosette’s sake, but she doesn’t do any of the small things that made her happy. Her caps are now dirty, and her linens aren’t mended either “from lack of time or from indifference.” The physical suffering of poverty (hunger, cold, etc) and its emotional consequences have blended together to push her into absolute despair.

It’s interesting how Hugo links her suffering to the prison system as well:

“She sewed seventeen hours a day; but a contractor for the work of prisons, who made the prisoners work at a discount, suddenly made prices fall, which reduced the daily earnings of working-women to nine sous.”

Fantine’s salary has always been low,  but the abuse of prisoners is an excuse to drive it even lower, illustrating the interconnectedness of these systems.