#embrace the unknown (meme)

[of-earthandlight]

𖠷 ig @of.earthandlight 𖠷

[marshalforgotten]

tag drop, blog edition!

[berylbled]

General (1/2)

[hatfulldrecms]

₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ Tag Dump

( ic. ) a magician. inventor. chocolate maker ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( ask answer. ) embrace the unknown ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( hc. ) a hat full of dreams ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( ooc. ) the candy lady can ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( musing. ) what's that now you're talking nonsonants ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( aesthetic. ) humbugs. gumdrops. and aniseed balls ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( art. ) some people don't and some people doodle ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( music. ) singing this song will improve your moodle ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( candy. ) you've never had chocolate like this ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( meme. ) haunted by a little orange man ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( crack. ) willy wonkas wild and wonderful wishy washy wonka walker ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( open. ) we'll begin with a spin ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( closed. ) come with me and you'll be ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( drabble. ) take a look and you'll see ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( save. ) read the small print ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( dash comm. ) off your rocker wonka ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( queue. ) close your eyes and count to ten ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( psa. ) scratch that. reverse it ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( misc. ) my travel chocolate factory ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

( wonka film. ) my name is willy wonka ₊˚⊹ʚ𖦹ɞ

[standreamy]

What-if... AU where there's no ship wars and Bluey is in a poly marriage with both Jean Luc and Mackenzie!

Kiddo that for now I'll just call Berry. While it's unknown who is the biological father between the two, Mackenzie somehow definitely got his kiddo to embrace his Border Collie nature.

He is very chaotic and energetic. Like Mackenzie, he also sadly has some abandonement issues, due to the constant bullying he has to deal with. His family isn't seen as traditionally fitting, so many kids take after their own parents. However, many of his parents' friends' children instead welcome him.

The last one is just meme pff

[thewertsearch]

CURRENT carcinoGeneticist [CCG] RIGHT NOW opened memo on board TEAM ADORABLOODTHIRSTY. […] CCG: THE BARD OF RAGE IS ON THE LOOSE.

Bard of Rage, eh?

I don't see how it matches his Land, but it's becoming abundantly clear that it does match him. It probably means that the murderous frenzy he's about to unleash is aspect-enhanced, just like Eridan's Hope Wand.

This, I'm fairly sure, is the first time we've ever heard of Rage. We have no idea how Gamzee weaponizes his Title - nor what boons it might grant him, now that he's fully embraced its Aspect. His powers are a complete unknown, and a Rage attack could take many forms.

CCG: HE'S COMPLETELY SNAPPED, AND FOR THOSE OF YOU FURTHER AHEAD ON THE TIMELINE, I DON'T HAVE TO TELL YOU HOW DANGEROUS HE IS. CCG: REMEMBER WHAT HE DID TO THE BLACK KING.

We didn't know there was something off about Gamzee, but the trolls did.

His power was only hidden from us, as we laughed at the funny dancing clown, completely unaware of what was under the surface. Who would suspect the juggalo parody of being dangerous?

CCG: NOBODY COULD EXPLAIN IT, AND THEN HE JUST WENT BACK TO SPACING OUT FOR THE REST OF THE BATTLE. CCG: I MEAN SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT. CCG: I DON'T EVEN THINK THE KING COULD FUCKING BELIEVE IT, FRANKLY. CCG: DID ANYONE'S ATTACK DO AS MUCH DAMAGE? I DON'T THINK SO.

His power is definitely applicable in combat, then. This is just a guess, but maybe he can store and release his repressed emotional energy?

Perhaps there was a moment where all of Gamzee’s latent Rage was released at once - and for one awful second, it was aimed directly at the King.

CCG: I DON'T EVEN THINK VRISKA'S DID, ALTHOUGH IT'S HARD TO SAY SINCE THAT WAS THE KNOCKOUT BLOW.

Typical. That girl's a born kill-stealer.

CCG: I GUESS WE THOUGHT IT WAS LIKE A SECRET JOKE POWER OR SOMETHING?

Well, there’s no reason it couldn't be. The problem is, joke abilities are often extremely effective when used strategically. Do you really want to face someone who’s using their meme powers competently?

PTC: nOw wHaT ThE MoThEr fUcK WiLl i bE SuPpOsEd tO Do? PTC: i'M nOt FoLlOwInG. CCG: PAST GAMZEE, GOD DAMN IT. CCG: I AM TRYING TO WARN PEOPLE OF YOUR MURDEROUS FUTURE SELF. CCG: THIS PRACTICALLY DOESN'T EVEN HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU. CCG: NOW GO BACK TO GROPING YOUR HORNS AND BEING DISTRACTED BY COLORS YOU USELESS FUCK.

Karkat, god damn it, you have to respect him now! His future self will remember this when he’s sober, and he’ll be coming for you!

[nanshe-of-nina]

Women’s History Meme || Virtually Unknown Women (6/10) ↬ Vera Nikolayevna Figner (1852 – 1942)

Vera Figner was supposed to die in 1884. A tsarist court declared it; Vera herself expected and even welcomed it. Although she would have been only the second woman in more than a century to die on the scaffold by decree of the Russian state, her notoriety and prominence within the terrorist group the People’s Will was such that few people expected leniency for the condemned criminal. If the sentence decreed by an imperial military tribunal in October 1884 had stood, newspapers across Europe would have noted Vera Figner’s execution and most likely recounted the dramatic and seemingly tragic turns that the notoriously beautiful young woman’s life had taken in the previous decades. Journalists would have found it hard to resist regaling their readers with the details of this beguiling revolutionary’s life, as it poetically seemed to symbolize the fervor, promise, idealism, and desperation of a generation of Russian radicals. In childhood Figner seemed destined for a life of privilege as a member of the Imperial Russian nobility. But amid the turbulent decade in which she came of age, Vera exchanged privilege for political radicalism; abandoned legal, professional aspirations for a life in the revolutionary underground; and foreswore marital ties for a desperate plot to assassinate the Russian tsar. She certainly was not alone in her beliefs, her dedication, or her willingness to die for her cause, but she was exceptional for the seamless manner in which her life and commitment personified her age of political radicals and exemplified the ideals to which her generation aspired. In the late 1870s and early 1880s, Vera Nikolaevna Figner was at the center of a movement and a series of events that transformed the political landscape in Russia and ultimately changed the empire of the tsars irrevocably. If she had died in 1884, Vera Figner’s life would be significant for what it conveys about Russian noblewomen who came of age in the twilight of the era of serfdom and for what it indicates about those among them who pursued education as a means of intellectual and moral autonomy and a path to economic independence. Even if it had ended when she was thirty-two, Vera’s life would have historical importance for the insight it provides into the motivation that drove such a significant number of young, privileged Russians to embrace terrorism as a solution to the country’s ills. As a leader of the revolutionary organization the People’s Will, Vera Figner helped to change the course of Russian history through the 1881 assassination of the most powerful man in the country, the Tsar Liberator, Alexander II. Yet Vera Figner did not die in 1884. After Alexander III, the son and heir of the man she helped to murder, commuted her death sentence to life in prison at hard labor, her life continued, as did her revolutionary influence. Although the tsarist state resolved to bury her alive in Shlisselburg Fortress, a notorious prison known as the Russian Bastille, Vera’s two decades of incarceration became an essential element of her revolutionary identity and infused the subsequent narrative of revolution both before and after 1917. Vera survived Shlisselburg; in fact, she lived for almost six decades after her death sentence was declared and survived the regime that she had sought to topple. — The Defiant Life of Vera Figner: Surviving the Russian Revolution by Lynne Ann Hartnett

[myth-blossom]

How about “Challenge Me” for 47/Diana? It could be any theme you like😁

47 didn’t stir when she slipped out of bed. He slept better when he stayed with her, a habit she normally came to share when falling asleep in his presence. But while he continued to dream, she found herself fighting sleep, her mind in need of peace but settling for a glass of whisky instead. She returned with her remedy and leaned against the doorframe, watching his muscular torso gently rise and fall as her thoughts tumbled over one another about her revelation.

Don’t fall for me, she warned him that first night long ago. Meet at neutral locations. Use aliases. Never, ever grow too attached. Simply have fun.

They managed their arrangement and its terms well enough. Months passed by with the thrills of forbidden sex and their colleagues remained none the wiser, the risks ever so enticing and seemingly taken on without consequence. It was a foolish game to play, but it was fun, and Diana never planned for there to be a problem.

She never expected to be the one to break.

The chill of the emptied glass came to rest against her thigh. She thought back to how it happened, why it happened, when the terms lost their meaning and the line was long since forgotten. The night 47 called her at the safehouse, his voice strained by the pain of deep wounds, warning her of the compromised mission and for her to find new shelter. She didn’t hesitate to offer him the security of her personal flat, to meet him there and care for his wounds in the middle of the night. Her heart pounded anxiously until she captured him in her tight embrace, thankful that he was mostly whole, still alive, and finally safe.

Your place or mine?

It was so casual a question, and one Diana never considered asking of a partner before, not until 47. It became a natural part of their routine after that, planning for a night’s stay or two at one of their homes, keeping a toothbrush at his place, stocking his favorite drink at hers, and so on. She didn’t realize how much further she had fallen until earlier that evening. She called his name in the throes of passion, hugging him to her chest and lifting his chin to meet her eyes, and nearly confessed her love for him before her remaining bit of sense captured him in a kiss instead. 

Did he notice?

She hoped not. She didn’t know what that would mean, if it meant anything. What if it meant something to him? Or, perhaps worse, what if it meant nothing at all? It was too much to consider at three in the morning.

There was something different about their relationship, she knew, hidden carefully beneath the surface. It was a connection unlike anything she had ever felt with someone before. She and 47 were tied together somehow, not bound by fate or mere attraction, but by an understanding, an unyielding loyalty to each other, a willingness to burn everything—even themselves—if it meant keeping the other safe. It’s what prompted their involvement in the first place and what fed her hesitancy of admission that evening, a deep sense of caution to protect the greatest fire she had ever known.

Diana didn’t like the vastness that was the unknown. She wanted answers, she wanted certainty, a guarantee of all factors to ensure the move she would make would be the best desired outcome. But the universe wasn’t so kind, and instead she exchanged the cool touch of glass for the heat of his unconscious embrace, and tried once again to sleep.

Prompt Meme

[catbountry]

It has been 22 years since 9/11; I was 15 years old in second period art class when a kid, who'd been running down the hallway, opened the door and announced a plane had hit the World Trade Center, and then ran off down the hall, leaving everyone confused. The principal advised teachers not to turn on televisions for us when this was happening, leaving us in further confusion as he tried, feebly, to carry out the rest of the day. We were dismissed before lunch, before fourth period ended.

There are people who are able to legally drink that weren't born yet when this happened and let me tell you, the actual event was fucked up but what happened afterwards, the decisions made in the wake of this fucking event, are a big reason why everything is so fucked up now.

I remember the color-coded terror threat chart, explained by Tom DeLay, who would become a minor internet meme just because of a weird photo of his face. I remember the phrase "known unknowns" in regards to justifying the invasion of Iraq. The "yellow cake" uranium. Being assured that there were weapons of mass destruction. Shock and awe. Bush in a flight suit in front of that "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED" sign. The 2000's was the decade of neo-conservatism and 9/11 was a glorious and golden opportunity to have what America had lost with the fall of the Soviet Union; an ideological enemy that hated us because of how great we were. A perfect vessel to pump patriotic sentiment into the public. And it worked... kind of. Not so much for us younger people, those of us who were teenagers or in our 20's. You have to understand that we were at a point where Jon Stewart, the host of the Daily Show, was considered to be some sort of beacon of truth. We would rather get our news from a satirical news program than the actual news, because Stewart would at least recognize the absurdity of it all. A lot of artists did. Green Day's American Idiot is considered to be their most important album and the whole thing was a protest album. I've always had a soft spot for Radiohead's Hail to the Thief for the same reason. Counterculture was dark and bitter and cynical and brooding, and often incredibly edgy, flying directly in the face of the propaganda about how great America was. Counterculture was more queer, more atheist, dressed in black and online, making memes about 9/11. 9/11, this day that was supposed to be symbolic of the nation's greatest modern-day tragedy since the assassination of John F. Kennedy or the bombing of Pearl Harbor, was being photoshopped to make it look like Hulk Hogan was taking down the Twin Towers through sick wrestling moves. 4chan seems to have since been infected with reactionary brainworms over the course of the 2010's, but in the 2000's, counterculture wasn't conservative. It was making conservatives upset. We saw destruction and mass human death played on repeat over and over and we grew numb to it. Desensitized. We saw the obvious emotional ploy that was being used as an excuse to inflict even more violence and oppression on people on the other side of the globe. We reveled in shock sites, in edgy jokes, in transgression, in scaring the normies.

The young men who fall into the alt-right rabbit hole, who might not even be old enough to remember 9/11... I can't help but wonder what they think of it. Because they still want to be edgelords, but now to own the libs. To work in service of the very same people that we were trying to piss off 20 years ago. Trump spoke on 9/11 about how now, the Trump Tower, which had once been the tallest building in Manhattan, was now back to being the tallest building in Manhattan. He's a completely different breed from Bush, Cheney and company. Completely self-interested. Not even bothering with the pretext of things like conviction or truth. Truthiness incarnate. Embrace it. Feel it. Be it.

I think back to a few years ago, I posted a doge meme with the child doge in front of the Twin Towers, with a joke about how great the future was going to be in the coming decade. I had a teenager try and educate me on how insensitive this was. They hadn't even been born yet and I snapped at them that the meme was a real sentiment, that all of us who were old enough to remember essentially watched our futures explode on television, over and over, in a fireball of jet fuel.

This went stream of consciousness again. It always does. It's hard to summarize 9/11 and its aftermath in a cohesive way because we're still living in the shadow of it. COVID-19 is now the big historical event that traumatized us all that we will have to reckon with for decades to come, and how it affected young people growing up at the time. The new scar on our collective psyche. But 9/11 will continue to be that formative scar. Before that for me, it was Columbine, but only because the aftermath did directly affect me. Before that? Princess Diana's death, the Oklahoma City bombing, and the O.J. Simpson trial, and of all of those, the bombing was perhaps the most actually impactful on us. Before 9/11, it was the largest terrorist attack on the United States, carried out by a far-right racist retaliating against the FBI firebombing a compound because a pedophile cult leader with a bunch of guns refused to give up and used his child brides as human shields. That'd be Waco, by the way.

There was another bombing of the World Trade Center that happened in 1993. It was much smaller, using a bomb inside a van in a parking lot underneath; it's the reason Biggie rapped about "blowing up like the World Trade." Osama bin Laden was also behind that one but that wouldn't be fully realized by us until 1996. It only killed six people. It was considered a failed attempt; it was supposed to take down the entire North Tower. It didn't come out of nowhere. The CIA knew that this was in motion since Clinton was in office, and this ball got rolling because of training the United States offered to resistance fighters in Afghanistan against the Soviets in the 80's. I remember the shock I felt first seeing that photo of Donald Rumsfeld shaking Saddam Hussein's hand, knowing about the Gulf War and living through the War in Iraq. All these puzzle pieces are scattered on the floor and my brain is making connections between all of them as I try and fit them together. I'm looping red string around push pins and asking who Pepe Silvia is, except it's not a conspiracy, it's just me trying to fully grasp this event that happened in my lifetime, before I was an adult but after I'd started paying attention to the news regularly and had developed an interest in politics. Just as I was forming my own political beliefs. 9/11 and its aftermath has informed so much of who I am politically, and what my values are. George W. Bush is my Nixon, and yet, somehow, things got so much more cartoonishly worse as I entered my 30's that I was in denial about it until COVID. Trump's presidency felt like a clown show. How on earth was I supposed to take this man seriously? This motherfucker made the neoconservatives appear restrained and reasonable by comparison, and those motherfuckers are actual war criminals.

I can only really tell people who are too young to remember what this era was like what it was like. It's hard to explain if you weren't there in that moment. We're seeing Y2K nostalgia become a thing, which fits, because of the 20 year minimum big nostalgia cycle, as those whose childhood was 20 years ago are now young adults. And some of those adults were born after 9/11. They never knew the world before it. I knew, but I was a child and couldn't really fully grasp it. The 90's felt very distinct from the 2000's, with it's very open cynicism and even nihilism in the very first years of a society with no Soviet Union.

If only we knew how bad things really would become.

[auricfog]

S U N for the oc meme? 🥰

litcherally the cutest combo but i fear i have no u names so... u get two that start with s!

samantha 'sam' bailey - dbd - choreographer for the la scala theatre ballet in milan. she ended up bonding with her co-worker, camille, during her time there but that was... probably a mistake considering she's taken by the entity after being made to look like she pushed camille off the catwalk. in the realm, she's haunted by the loss of her friend and HUNTED by an old theatre legend camille had told her about when she'd started working with her. very altruistic in trials bc she's Highkey Guilty about it all and wants to do whatever she can to at least save SOMEONE even if the effort doesn't matter in the end bc there's always another trial. she's also deaf and uses hearing aids (small lil bit of projection but i just think its neat!)

zhuldyz aka star - vtm - my banu haqim for vtmb2. embrace date and sire unknown. the most she'll tell you about herself is she was born in kazakhstan and everything ELSE she says is entirely up to you to decide if it's true or not bc you Can't Be Knowing Her. obvi don't have much to go off of yet game-wise!

nazira akhmet - mk - the most overstimulated lil freak you'll ever meet like she is no clipping into the floor as we speak. she has heightened senses (and lightning fast reflexes to match) inherited from her father and his father before him and HIS father before him, but... something went Wrong with her bc she literally cannot be chill about it and she tends to go for the keep the mask on at all times route just to avoid a meltdown. she is an apothecary in her mountain village, working alongside her sister ayaru and her brother-in-law sekir, and also does emissary work for the edenian royal family since the akhmets have been loyal to them for centuries. mk11 timeline, she is a... bit more feral but at least can better tolerate her abilities. shipped with both syzoth (mk1) and jade (mk11) bc haha green

[6-maranatha-scours-the-universe]

Loving the Angels of Kill Six Billion Demons

I'm just going to use examples from the earlier volumes of KSBD (from a limited area because I haven't read much). I can't help but love the angels in KSBD not just from the fact of the intense creativity of the artist (Tom Parkinson-Morgan) working on the webcomic but from the fact that it kind of embraces the duality of angel depictions that internet culture has been meming about for a little bit. You know what I'm talking about. The biblically accurate angels memes. (Also I'm largely unaware of the pronoun conventions of the angels in KSBD but I'll just use nonbinary pronouns for them all.)

As much as I enjoy these memes because they are funny, they actually create a pretty inaccurate image of what angels look like in the Bible because they just choose to over-represent angels like the Ophanim and Cherubim from the Book of Ezekiel.

Depiction of Ezekiel's Vision from the first chapter of the Book of Ezekiel (there are four angelic figures in the chapters but this one only shows two) by an unknown artist. But in the Bible, the majority of angelic figures other than these ones are just... dudes, I mean that in that they are non-cosmic horror-looking figures. While the majority of angels aren't particularly well described we can tell who are, and who aren't angels because of the Hebrew word Malakh which means "messenger." And it sort of makes sense that the majority of the time these messengers sent by God would generally be amiable-looking humanoids when interacting with humans as opposed to always looking like cosmic horrors inspiring nigh madness-like awe. I think a good example of an angel is the(or an) angel of the Lord who appears multiple times in the Bible at key points to relay messages from God to humans at multiple key points. For bringing Manoah's barren wife, then Manoah, (Judges 13:12-18, 13:21) that she's going to give birth to Samson and instructions as to what to do with Samson. This dude probably looked normal to them, or normalish in their context. Look this isn't trying to be professional because I just want to give some proper appreciation for KSBD for towing that line between cosmic horror and normalish looking human (or humanoid) in the context they live. The specific points in KSBD that I want to bring attention to are 82 White Chain (full name "82 White Chain Born in Emptiness Returns to Subdue Evil") and their form in the Void. With the more recognizably "biblically accurate" angels appearing as their true forms in the Void while they await reincarnation or release from their banishment.

Incarnate

In the Void

Some other angels in KSBD also at the very least have the appearance of "maybe they're just going to say hi and not kill me" in their incarnate forms (in the context of the multiversal world) of KSBD. Like 2 Michael.

Incarnate

Form in the Void 1 Metatron and 6 Juggernaut Star Scours the Universe are imo the angels that are universally the most alien (even in the context of the multiversal reality they inhabit). Juggernaut for being metal as fuck looking in all forms and Metatron for their size to be representative of their closeness to divinity

In the Void (Juggernaut)

Incarnate (Juggernaut)

Void (Metatron)

Idk. This isn't meant to be a professional examination of these characters in relation to biblical angels. Hell, the angels in KSBD aren't even directly relatable to biblical angels in a metaphysical sense because of the mix of Gnosticism and Dharmic religious theology influencing worldbuilding. Fuck it lol. It's good art..... also I stole some of Juggernaut's name for this Tumblr account name lol. Sources for the Art: https://knowyourmeme.com/editorials/guides/what-are-biblically-accurate-angels-and-why-are-they-a-meme https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/biblically-accurate-angels-be-not-afraid https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Ezekiel%27s_vision.jpg https://killsixbilliondemons.com/comic/wielder-of-names-1-8/ https://killsixbilliondemons.com/comic/ksbd-1-14/ https://killsixbilliondemons.com/comic/wielder-of-names-1-5/ https://killsixbilliondemons.com/comic/wielder-of-names-3-56/ https://killsixbilliondemons.com/comic/wielder-of-names-1-10/ https://orbitaldropkick.tumblr.com/post/82091686323/the-angel-called-6-juggernaut-star-scours-the https://killsixbilliondemons.com/comic/wielder-of-names-2-24-incarnate/

[queenofthieves]

Nadezhda / Nadya

I saw @lavampira leave an open invite, and similarly couldn't pass up a gothic lit meme. So I had to do it for my DnD necromancer. Anyone who wants to do it, have at it and tag me so I can see <3

BOLD what applies to your character!

Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

cobblestone streets / lamps shining out of the fog / the warmth of a fireplace / unopened bottle of wine / the tension between what things seem to be and what they truly are / the heady thrill of freedom / the panic of losing control / blood on the pavement / guilty vices / top hats and walking sticks / self-destruction / old documents tucked away in safes

Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus

rain hitting a windowpane / candles burning low / mountain ranges of white, snowy tops / frenzied obsession / a cemetery at dusk / slaughterhouses / all-consuming thirst for revenge / compassion turned to bitterness and hatred / a sense of duty weighing on your shoulders / inescapable guilt / the frozen wastes of the arctic circle / the feeling of someone breathing down your neck / lighting sparking through the sky

The Picture of Dorian Gray

erotic longing / paint on a palette / golden curls and rosy cheeks / the desperation to cling to youth / bees lazily drifting through the grass / hedonism / the blackness of a soul / a dusty attic / hiding secrets / blood pooling on the floorboards / gut-wrenching jealousy / a dimly-lit stage / temptation into corruption

The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner

cliffs rising up into the clouds / someone ambiguously supernatural always lurking / edinburgh's winding streets / religious zealotry / careful manipulation / family rivalry / a bible written in an indistinguishable language / a face that's always changing and shifting / scottish lairds / something demonic masquerading as something pure

Dracula

letters and diaries / suitors courting a lady / castles nestled deep within forests and mountains / terror of the unknown / the howling of wolves / aristocrats from olden times / a consuming hunger / the dead rising / horses' hooves thundering along a path / blood staining the snow / crucifixes warding off evil

Wuthering Heights

fog over the moors / embracing one who is already dead / a cycle of abuse / vicious, snarling dogs / a house left to ruin / a thorn among the roses / toxic love / ghosts / the howling wind / flowers that have died and begun to rot / wasting away / a voice you can't identify

[marshalforgotten]

How Attractive Are You?

"While I have been told this look was arousing, surely it cannot be that much."

[imakemywings]

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Relationship: Maglor/Thranduil, Maedhros/Maglor

Summary: All is not as it seems when Thranduil enters the ancestral Feanorian estate, but he fails to fully comprehend the scale and nature of the risk. If he’s very lucky, one day he might even get to leave.

Response to this kink meme prompt.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

Photo credit to Zach Lezniewicz on Unsplash.

<< Previous chapter | Next chapter >>

_______________________________________________________

II. Chapter I

Maedhros had gone back ahead of them. He had not stayed for Oropher’s funeral nor for Maglor’s wedding, but he had kissed Maglor goodbye in their hotel room and promised to have everything ready when Maglor got home. Maglor had disposed of Maedhros’ bloody clothes and held Thranduil’s hand through the funeral service, watching tears slide unendingly down that stoic face.

            Now Maedhros emerged into the ghostly light of the foyer as Maglor explained to Thranduil about the decay of the house and why it had gone so long unfixed. He wore his auburn hair in a braid, wound into a tight bun on the back of his head, and a high-collared shirt with the wrist tightly buttoned around his metal prosthetic hand. As he had no taste anymore for shopping, he had gone on with the same outdated clothes that had been in the house when they returned to it, many of which had belonged to Father or Grandfather. At his forehead glinted a phenomenal jewel, bound on a golden chain and surrounded by several smaller, less impressive companions.

Bits of insulation and flakes of unknown origin drifted down through the hole in the roof, which had expanded over the years, and allowed for considerable weather damage to everything in its path. The wooden lions which had once so pridefully guarded the base of the stairs were mossy in some places, and the former red of the painted wood columns surrounding the foyer was more a muddy orange.

            “Unfortunately the damage from the intruders was never fully repaired,” Maglor was saying. “We lacked the time, Father being keen to be off to war, and when Maedhros and I returned here at last, we lacked the resources…But I have great hopes for my latest musical project,” said Maglor with some true brightness. “It shall be a grand spectacle, as soon as I can secure some financial backing for it.”

            “The rot has spread quite far,” Maedhros remarked as he approached them. A great ring of keys jangled at his waist, and just above it, an ornately decorated dagger hilt in its own belt. “Some rooms we have had to seal off entirely. Too unstable.” Thranduil was a tall Elf among his people, but even he had to look up to meet Maedhros’ cold gray gaze, which lingered on him only a moment before Maedhros turned to Maglor and pulled him into a one-armed hug, his good hand firmly on the back of Maglor’s neck. This position they held for an extended moment before Maglor wriggled free, slightly flushed, and smoothed the front of his shirt. He did not see how Maedhros held Thranduil’s gaze throughout their embrace.

            Thranduil looked from the ring of keys over to Maglor.

            “It occurs to me I have not a housekey,” he said.

            “Ah, well…”

            “You don’t need one,” Maedhros interrupted. “As I’ve just said, some rooms of the house are dangerous, and you won’t yet know which ones. If you need to be let in somewhere, I can let you in.”

            The subsequent silence was not wholly copacetic, and Maglor cleared his throat. Maedhros managed a rictus smile at his new brother-in-law.

            “Welcome to your new home,” he said perfunctorily. “How pleasant it will be to have someone else with us here. Maglor, may I see you in the kitchen? There is something which wants your attention.”

            “Yes, of course. Nodien will show you up to our room,” he said, flashing a smile at Thranduil as their one remaining staff member, an overworked caretaker, hauled Thranduil’s trunk over the worn front steps. “I’ll be just a moment.”

***

            Maedhros was drumming his fingers on the counter as the kettle warmed over the fire. Maglor’s hands danced over the back of a chair, but he did not draw it and sit. His nose twitched slightly; the house always smelled a bit mustier after returning from abroad.

            “Is something wrong?” he asked at last.

            “You went ahead with it,” said Maedhros.

            “…as I thought we had agreed upon.”

            “I maintain my earlier assessment. But it doesn’t matter now.” He took down a tin of tea from one of the cupboards.

            “He is young,” Maglor admitted. “But still an adult. And the situation was…workable.”

            “Only one person in all the world looking out for him,” Maedhros agreed. “And one with a sizeable checkbook, too. Have you gotten the paperwork?”

            “Thranduil is still talking with the bank. He should have them send it soon,” said Maglor. “It ought to arrive in a in a month or two after that, post depending. Oropher did quite well for himself.”

            “The man was practically a self-made king,” said Maedhros. “Not that you’d know it from looking at him.” Maedhros measured tea into the pot on the tray, and added a small spoon of powder to the cup with the dove-trees on it. “Well. Nowadays you wouldn’t know anything from looking at him.” Maglor winced slightly, but Maedhros’ back was to him and he didn’t see.

            “Now, if you keep being so gloomy,” said Maglor with forced and weary playfulness, “I will think you aren’t at all glad to see me.” Maedhros looked over at him.

            “Welcome back,” he said. “If you want a red bean cake, they’re in the basket there.” Delighted, Maglor opened it, only to find them stale and one on the edge molding. He replaced the basket lid without touching them.

            “Did you really have to kill him as you did, by the way?” he asked with a sigh. “Thranduil’s been in a state about the whole thing. Surely you could’ve just cut his throat.”

            Maedhros shrugged. “I did the job. Why does it matter how?”

            “It was just rather…messy.”

            “And I do know how you detest a mess, brother dear. I’ve cleaned it up, haven’t I?”

            “You didn’t have to go to the funeral,” Maglor muttered. “Or take the boat back with him.” Maglor could not say being so exposed to another’s grief in such tight quarters was a comfortable experience, especially when the person in question reasonably expected his new and allegedly besotted husband to comfort him about it. And Thranduil possessed such a lovely visage, it was terribly dreary to see him look so depressed. Maglor had hoped he’d at least have a nice face to look at for the next few weeks.

He was on the verge of suggesting Maedhros had purposefully given Oropher such a violent and ugly death out of spite for Maglor insisting on Thranduil instead of giving way to Maedhros’ suggestion they look for someone else, but he knew no good would come of that, so he swallowed it down. Maedhros always threw a tantrum when he didn’t get his way, and he never responded well to having it called out.

            When Maedhros had fixed the tea, they went upstairs to find Thranduil examining his new bedroom. He seemed paler than usual, even, or perhaps Maglor’s eyes were still adjusting to the light of the house.

            “Tea,” Maedhros announced, setting it on the dresser. He took the cup with the dove-tree design and thrust it out at Thranduil, who seemed to hesitate before taking it.

            “Thank you.”

            “Isn’t this lovely!” Maglor chirped, never able to let an awkward silence go without making it worse. “Feel free to make whatever use you wish of the space…” It wasn’t as if Maglor spent time in this room. “It’s your room too, now!”

            “You never mentioned that you have a cat,” Thranduil said in his usual low, soft tone. Truthfully, it was one of the things Maglor had liked about him from the start. He was not a singer—not like Maglor—but he had a very pleasant speaking voice. It seemed calming, somehow.

            “We don’t,” said Maedhros, casting a pointed and displeased look at Maglor, who glanced away.

            “Did you see one?” Maglor asked while looking studiously at the wallpaper and not at Maedhros.

            “Out the window just now,” said Thranduil. “It’s not yours?”

            “Must be a stray,” said Maedhros.

            “Can we keep it?”

            Maedhros and Thranduil were both looking at Maglor, who took a too-large sip of tea which hurt his throat on the way down.

            “Ah, why not?” he said, smiling first at Thranduil and then slightly more placatingly at Maedhros. “One little cat wouldn’t be amiss.”

            “Drink your tea,” said Maedhros sharply to Thranduil, who stiffened. Maedhros softened his tone to add: “It will help with the ills of travel, and with the chill.”

            As Thranduil obediently raised the delicate white cup to drink, Maglor recalled walking through Thranduil’s solarium as he pointed out this and that to him, quietly extoling in his reserved way each and every specimen under his care. Maglor could not say he’d ever considered plants besides passingly finding this or that flower (usually embroidered on a coat or painted on a bit of porcelain) nice to look at, but Thranduil knew things about mosses and root systems and he seemed to find each as beautiful as a blooming rose.

            He’s too young, Maedhros had said back in Beleriand. But Maglor had insisted this was the right target. The notion of his age was absurd anyway—Maedhros had never cared about such things before, and Maglor tended to doubt he did now. Thranduil was an adult capable of receiving and controlling his father’s fortune, and that was what really mattered.

            Maedhros waited until Thranduil had drained the cup before he would take the tray and leave the room.

***

            Predictably, the travel and the grief and the tea made Thranduil weary, and he went to bed early, leaving Maglor free to scarper off to the room which had once belonged to Grandfather. He woke alone as he often did—Maedhros almost always rose before him—but the bed was still warm, which meant it couldn’t be too late. Sure enough, when Maglor threw himself restlessly out of bed to check the clock, it wasn’t yet 9 AM. But he couldn’t imagine trying to lay down again; he felt he must have eaten something the day before which disagreed with him, for there was an unpleasant twinging in his belly.

            He went down to the kitchen for a morning cup of tea and to reheat something for breakfast, and while he was eating he was joined by his new husband.

            “I must have slept very deeply,” Thranduil remarked as he drew up a chair. “I did not hear you come in last night, nor leave this morning.”

            Maglor smiled sweetly.

            “You were tired. I’m glad you got some rest. Do you want some fried rice? I’ll heat up some more for you.” He got up and went first for the tea kettle before hesitating and dumping some more of the rice into a pan to heat. Maedhros would make the tea later; it wouldn’t do for them to both dose him by accident.

            “Was the bed comfortable enough?” Maglor asked, because he couldn’t think of a less asinine conversation topic.

            “It was well,” said Thranduil. “Warmer with the cat.”

            “Oh, did she join you?”

            “You saw her not?”

            “No,” Maglor said. “She must have gone by the time I came in, and returned after I went to sleep.” This made no sense even to Maglor when he thought about it for just a second, but he hoped Thranduil didn’t bother with thinking about the things Maglor said.

            He set a plate of warmed rice in front of Thranduil.

            “Here you go.” Thranduil caught his hand as he drew it back, and rubbed Maglor’s fingers between his, and looked up at him with something almost...as if he were asking for something. Maglor trembled lightly, and gave Thranduil’s fingers a squeeze before drawing his own back. “I’m afraid there’s not much variance in food here…it’s troublesome to get anything shipped to the house, you see.” He took his seat again.

            “We shall manage it,” Thranduil said with a shrug. “I thought I might look at some of the house today.”

            “You want a tour?” Maglor smiled.

            “I have not professional training, but I have practiced carpentry as a hobby,” Thranduil said. “I might be able to fix some of the problems around the house.” Maglor’s face went blank. He was realizing how poorly he handled his spouse going off-script by this point in his life.

            “Fix the house?” he said.

            “Yes. Nothing structural, of course, it would only be superficial…but it might make you more comfortable.” Maglor still sat dumb. “It is as you said before,” said Thranduil, his voice dropping to a still softer, gentler register. “We are to help each other now, as a wedded couple. This I can do for you.”

            “Yes…yes, of course,” said Maglor stumblingly. “Of course, take a look if it pleases you. I’m sure you will find no shortage of projects!” He let out a little laugh.

            There they sat until Maedhros came in and saw them at the table. His fingers brushed lightly against the back of Maglor’s shoulders, just enough pressure to remind Maglor he was there, as he passed by to put the kettle on for tea.

***

            Over the following days, Thranduil continued to bed early under the influence of his circumstances. Maglor could not say what he occupied his days with, besides playing with the cat and poking around what rooms of the house Maedhros hadn’t locked. Maglor spent his own days primarily concerned with his compositions, with which he had grown increasingly dissatisfied of late, and with Maedhros. However, he felt some responsibility for keeping an eye on Thranduil (and Maedhros continually reminded him that his spouses tended to get into trouble only when they were left alone too long), so he tried to check in a few times a day.

            However, he tried not to be caught in “their” bedroom in the evenings, lest Thranduil impose on him to stay. But he had gone in to make sure they had cleared the tea tray out from Thranduil’s last cup, and his no doubt confused husband was sitting up in bed with a notebook when Maglor came in, clearly dressed for bed.

            “Ah, I wondered if I had left my book in here.” Maglor couldn’t even really pretend he put effort into that lie, but as Thranduil was not expecting to be lied to, he didn’t quibble with it.

            “I have seen it not,” said Thranduil.

            “I suppose I shall have to look elsewhere,” said Maglor cheerily, heading for the door.

            “You might borrow one of mine, if it pleases you,” Thranduil offered. “Though I did not bring many with me.” They were heavy, which made for expensive travel costs, and they had departed Beleriand with very little time for preparations.

            “Oh, how kind. I think I’ll look for mine, though.”

            “You may read in here, if you wish,” Thranduil added. “It shan’t bother me to keep the light on a while longer.”

            “Oh, how generous. I wouldn’t want to keep you up. I know you must still be adjusting to the time change, and I still have to brush my hair and teeth and…” Maglor was reaching around for some other task that might be disruptive and believably part of a nighttime routine.

            “I could do that for you,” Thranduil offered. “Your hair.”

            “Oh.” Maglor blinked at him, and it was suddenly very hard to escape noticing that Thranduil was all but begging for his company. Maglor had seen so many people come into this house turned around and alone and bewildered and leave it not long after that it had grown disturbingly easy to simply disengage from their distress the same way one might tune out the irritating buzz of an insistent fly. “Well. Why not? What a lovely offer.”

            Thranduil set aside the notebook and sat up as Maglor brough the brush and comb over. Maglor took a seat with his back facing Thranduil, taking in a quiet breath as he felt Thranduil’s hands let down his hair. Such gestures had long carried a particular intimacy among the Noldor. Maglor wondered if Thranduil knew that.

            Thranduil’s hands were steady but gentle, carefully picking apart Maglor’s braids of the day before taking the brush to his long dark locks.

            “Do you use oil on this?” Thranduil murmured. “It smells quite nice.”

            “Do you like it?” Maglor smiled. “It’s one of my little indulgences.” This one Maedhros permitted, for he also liked the smell of Maglor’s freshly-oiled hair. Thranduil worked the brush and comb through Maglor’s hair, patiently teasing out any knots.

            “It has been some time since you sang,” he commented.

            “Has it? I suppose we’ve been busy, with the marriage and the move!”

            Thranduil brushed on in silence and then, in his ponderous way, said: “I should like to hear it again, when you have the time. If it pleases you.”

            “Of course!” Maglor could not help but preen at such a request. “I should be happy to. Always pleased with an audience!”

            When Thranduil had finished brushing Maglor’s hair into a fall of glossy waves, he bound it up in a loose braid for bed.

            “How sweet you are,” Maglor said with a smile, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I knew I had found a good choice for my husband. Now, I must find my book!”

            And he made to Thranduil alone in the dark room once more, but paused at the door.

            “It’s rather cold in here, isn’t it?” he said. Thranduil shrugged.

“It is rather.”

“Do you want a larger fire? Let me.” Maglor went over to the hearth to add another log to the fire, but the cache was empty. “Hm. You need more wood. I’ll mention it to Nodien. And where’s your cat? Oughtn’t she be with you?” Thranduil shrugged again.

            “She comes as it pleases her,” he said. “Usually later in the night.”

            “I’ll leave a candle out for her then,” Maglor joked with a wink. “Sleep tight!”

            Satisfied he had done his duty, he took his leave, but found himself still thinking about the temperature of the room.

***

            Predictably, and yet somehow catching Maglor by surprise, Maedhros noticed the length of time it had taken him to go and check on their guest.

            “Here I had begun to think you had tripped on the stairs and broken your neck,” Maedhros remarked from the bed, where he was reading, wire-rim spectacles poised on the end of his nose. He wore them more and more often for reading these days.

            “Thranduil was in the mood to talk,” said Maglor, which was…possibly accurate. It was just that Thranduil’s “mood to talk” looked somewhat like Maglor’s “catatonia.” He had once in Greenwood tried to convince Maedhros that Thranduil’s disinclination for chatter also made him a good choice. Perhaps that was still true.

            “Hm, a few days at home married and you not in the bed once? I’m sure he wanted to talk.” There was a certain derisive note in Maedhros’ voice which made Maglor feel suddenly quite tired.

            “It was nothing,” he sighed, turning to the vanity to apply cream to his face and neck. “He is still processing his change in circumstances. This is not what he expected.” But that was always true.

            “So let him process it,” Maedhros said, looking back down at his book. “He doesn’t need you for that.”

            “I was gone not thirty minutes,” Maglor said, unable to keep the cranky note from his voice.

            “I know what you’re doing,” Maedhros replied, lowering the book to look directly at Maglor.

            “And what’s that?”

            “Do you really believe he would like you if he knew who you really were?”

            Maglor gripped the edge of the vanity. This conversation was not unfamiliar, but he hated it each time they had it.

            “Fortunately, I am not worried if he—”

            “If you weren’t concerned that he likes you, why spend money we most certainly do not have on that ridiculous plant encyclopedia you gave him?”

            “I was wooing him, if you recall,” Maglor said defensively, spinning around to face Maedhros. “Not that you would know anything about it. I always have to do the work with them. Do you know how hard it is? You have no respect for…I have to prostitute myself just to get our hands on some funding.”

            “Don’t make it sound like you’re performing more than you are. Besides, you enjoy the chase and the attention,” Maedhros snorted. “And it’s you or no one. You know that.” Sending Maedhros out to woo could only result in catastrophe. And possibly felony charges.

            “And it was a fungal encyclopedia,” Maglor muttered under his breath as he turned his attention to applying a different cream to his hands.

            “I’m sure the fungal encyclopedia will keep his affection after he finds out what you did to Elwing.”

            Maglor went rigid, and grasped that he had underestimated how off-put Maedhros was. This was a jab he only dredged up when he wanted to cripple Maglor’s ability to argue.

            “I…did…nothing,” he said haltingly, the rubbing of his hands becoming a compulsion.

            “Mm. Of course. I’m sure he would see it that way.”

            “Stop it.” Maglor was digging his nails into his hands, clawing at the slippery flesh.

Maedhros relented.

“This is what I mean when I say he cannot understand you,” said Maedhros. “He won’t. Not as I do.” He put the book on the bedside table and reached out to Maglor, who crawled over his own side of the bed to sit astride his brother’s lap. “It will be over soon,” Maedhros soothed him, smoothing Maglor’s hair behind his ears, though there was nothing left loose after Thranduil’s careful braiding. “Oropher’s should be the last of the money we need to finance your project. And when that’s done, there will be no more marriages.”

“No more marriage,” Maglor echoed in a whisper.

“No more people in the house.”

“No more people.”

“It will be just us.” Maedhros’ arms went around Maglor, pulling him into an embrace so that Maglor’s chin was pushed up awkwardly against Maedhros’ shoulder.

“Forever,” Maglor murmured.

“Forever,” Maedhros agreed, and the word seemed to echo into the emptiness of the house.

[ccaptain]

@predvestnik: "What about us?" Who is this us — a future of theirs with Kaeya of now or a past with Kaeya of then? If the azure of a summer afternoon darkens into the navy of a hollow sea at the first hours of nighttime, it's because Ajax does not know. Thus the answer from the one whom he questions becomes all the more essential. What about them? ( meme source. )

   he should have known. he should have known from the start that no deed goes unpunished- no matter the good intentions behind it. 

   the vengeance justly finds him from the pits of hell to come and reclaim his lover's body from him. he has ginger hair, deep pool of empty oceans watching him in the agony of a dying animal, a plethora of scars that he knows as his own... 

   Ajax had come face to face with his lover once again.

   but his lover was no longer. now, deep oceans met a pale diamond full of recognization and terror and shame- a blade was drawn against the tender neck that Ajax once graced with his lips, and the same voice who once dripped with affection shakily told him motivations and explanations that didn't stood on earth nor in the sky. 

   and when it left their meeting, it felt like it could never be satisfied again.

   Ajax kept finding it, self-aware and hungry.

   over and over, the impostor kept careening into the lover of his avatar, and knew why the muscle in his chest started beating faster- why its hands grew clammy with sweat, why the hollow of its back did the same. not fear- pain and longing. the agony of solitude, the pain of wanting known and unknown company all the same.

   it stopped running away, only to stop seeing the dull pain in deep ocean hues search for him without finding anyone. it kept inching closer to the man who knew its body and considered it his lover- it kept staying out of selfishness, two sullen silouetthes side by side, lost in the memories of long-dead things.

   there's the feeling of being dirty behind the want to sit beside him. Ajax would allow him to- Ajax would allow anything that looked like Kaeya the intimacy, the tenderness. when humans grow desperate, they grow delusional- they grow hungry. 

   beings grow hungry, too.

   what about us?, he asks to the being donning his lover's looks, and all the air gets knocked out of its chest like Ajax hit the impostor full force. it would have preferred him to.

   the shimmering of the night sea glitters in the emptiness of dead hues. empty and hollow just like their future. pale diamond shrinks, looks at him like he has grown insane, and like he has set Kaeya's chest ablaze.

   ' ajax, ' it has no right to use the name- but it does, the agony of the word bubbling in its throat the one of a dying animal.

   ( the scar splitting the corner of his lip, a tender detail noticed- he has kissed it many times. it comes back to him in a slap to the face, in his body freezing as memories keep assaulting his mind. 

   Kaeya drags it back by the same hair they share, and tells it to stay here and help solve the mess its made. he can picture him- a frown on his face, hands on his hips, his eye mercilessly telling it to help Ajax, fix it, fix it- even if it kills you. you owe this to him. come on, now. )

   and this is where it refuses to become Kaeya again.

   that much he owes to the man looking at him like he's the world- melancholic, corroded by sadness, the question desperately calm on his lips. there's nothing else he has to live for- everyone he has ever loved is long gone, and the ghosts are merciless. 

   he would know. he's one of them.

   long-cold fingertips dare to touch him- the impostor's fingers slide over the broken man's chest, join his arms to embrace a broken man that he knows, and holds him.

   ' i can't be him, ' he whispers, the bile of disgust bubbling in his throat, ' i can never be. but... '

   the sound of the sea is calm as the impostor wishes he could be. unfeeling, freezing fingers close around the clothes he's wearing. 

   ' we can be. we will be- this journey needs to come to an end. '

   ' i have known you for so long, through him- and now that i can see you, i recognize that i have missed you- Aeons, i have missed you terribly... '

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

August 21, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Aug 22, 2024

In 1974, music writer Jon Landau saw a relatively unknown musician in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and wrote for an alternative paper: "Last Thursday, at the Harvard Square theater, I saw rock'n'roll past flash before my eyes. And I saw something else: I saw rock and roll future and its name is Bruce Springsteen. And on a night when I needed to feel young, he made me feel like I was hearing music for the very first time." The review helped to catapult Springsteen to stardom. 

After three days at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, Illinois, I feel like I have seen the political future and its name is the Democratic Party. But rather than feeling like I’m hearing politics for the first time, I am hearing the echo of political themes embraced in the best moments of America’s past.

The theme of the third day of the Democratic National Convention, held in the United Center in Chicago, Illinois, was “A Fight for Our Freedoms.” But the speeches were less about fighting than they were about recovering the roots of American democracy.

The Democrats have not lost their conviction that the reelection of Donald Trump and the enactment of Project 2025 are an existential threat both to democracy and to Americans themselves. Speakers throughout the convention have condemned Trump and highlighted Project 2025, a blueprint written by the Heritage Foundation and other right-wing organizations for a second Trump term. Although Trump has tried to distance himself from Project 2025, Democratic vice presidential nominee Minnesota governor Tim Walz, who was a high school football coach, notes that no one bothers to write a playbook if they’re not going to use it.

Tonight, comedian and actor Kenan Thompson illustrated the dangers of Project 2025 with humor, bringing home the horror of it as only humor can do. With a giant copy of the plan as a prop, he gave a woman married for eight years to her wife the bad news that Project 2025 would end protections for LGBTQ+ Americans, informed a woman who pays $35 a month for her insulin that the plan would overturn the law that makes drugs more affordable, notified an OBGYN that the plan would ban abortion nationwide and throw abortion providers into jail, and put a woman who called herself a proud civil servant on notice that Project 2025 would guarantee she would be fired unless she is a MAGA loyalist. 

But the dark dangers of the assault of Trump and the MAGA Republicans on the country have finally pushed the party to move away from its customary caution and focus on policy to embrace the possibilities of a new future. The convention is electric, packed with young people who push jokey memes and poke fun at themselves, much as Walz and presidential nominee Vice President Kamala Harris are doing to deflect criticism, and who are sharing homemade politically-themed friendship bracelets that echo the homemade paraphernalia of singer Taylor Swift’s Eras tour. 

And, after decades in which Republicans claimed the mantle of patriotism, now that the fate of democracy itself is on the line, Democrats are joyfully claiming the symbols and the principles of American democracy for their own. 

During the Vietnam War in the 1960s and early 1970s, many Democrats shied away from symbols of patriotism because they seemed to support imperialism. Then, in the 1980s, Reagan and his supporters wrapped themselves in the flag and claimed it for their own. That impulse to define “Americans” as those who vote for Republicans has led us to a place where a small minority claims the right to rule over the rest of us. 

The Democratic National Convention has powerfully illustrated that the rest of us are finally reclaiming the country and its symbols. The convention has been full of references to the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the American Revolution, the national anthem, and the pledge of allegiance. Tonight, attendees chanting “USA” waved signs emblazoned with the letters. Speakers, many of whom are military veterans, have testified that they are proud to be Americans. The theme of patriotism was even in one of tonight’s afterparties: Haitian-born rapper Wyclef Jean played The Star Spangled Banner with an interpretation that recalled Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock. “America is the best place to be,” he said. “I’m the best of the American dream. Welcome to America…. You know what makes America great? We’re a bunch of immigrants.” 

As Jean indicated, that embrace of our history does not come with the exceptionalism of MAGA Republicans, who maintain that the U.S. has a perfect past that it must reclaim to become great again. Indeed, speakers have emphasized that honoring our history means remembering the nation’s failures as well as its triumphs. The Democrats’ patriotism means recognizing that despite the fact that the U.S. has never fully realized the principles laid out in the Declaration of Independence, it has never abandoned them either—a statement paraphrased from President Joe Biden, who has said it repeatedly. 

Speakers have highlighted that the imperfect version of those principles has enabled their personal success stories. Speaker after speaker, from Harris and Walz, of course, to tonight’s speakers Maryland governor Wes Moore, Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg, and journalist and television personality Oprah Winfrey, have recounted their own process of rising from humble beginnings to their current prominence, 

Winfrey is an Independent who generally stays out of politics, but tonight she spoke passionately during prime time about electing Vice President Kamala Harris and Governor Walz. When a reporter asked her why she was willing to make a political statement, she said: "Because I really care about this country. And there couldn't have been a life like mine, a career like mine, a success like mine, without a country like America. Only in America could there be a me."

The many stories in which ordinary Americans rise from adversity through hard work, decency, and service to others implicitly conflates those individual struggles with the struggles of the United States itself. Running through the stories told at the convention is the theme of working hard through a time of darkness to come out into the light. “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning,” speakers have quoted the Biblical psalm, and they have referred to the vision of the American flag still flying after a night of bombardment during the War of 1812, captured by Francis Scott Key in the national anthem, promising that after our time of national darkness, there will be light.

The DNC has called not just for reasserting patriotism, but for reclaiming America with joy. It has showcased a deep bench of politicians, some of whom are great orators, repeatedly calling for joy in the work of saving democracy, and it has shown poets like Amanda Gorman and a wide range of musicians, from Stevie Wonder to Lil Jon to D.J. Cassidy to John Legend. The convention is designed to appeal to different generations—tonight actress Mindy Kaling helpfully explained to older attendees who she is—and younger attendees have handed out friendship bracelets saying things like “Madam Prez” to older people in an echo of the exchange of bracelets among Taylor Swift’s fans.

After an era in which politicians have seemed to lie to the American people, the convention has emphasized authenticity. It has featured testimonials about the candidates with speakers ranging from the candidates’ children to extended family and, tonight, to members of the football team Walz coached. There have been stories of Harris’s cooking and how Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff awkwardly called her for a date, and fond memories of Walz pulling a student out of a snowbank, hunting, and caring for his children. The convention has emphasized that the American government is made up of individuals and that the character of the people we put into leadership will determine what that government does. 

Further, the Democrats have made their points with the stories of individual Americans who have overcome dark hours in order to move forward. In that storytelling, individuals represent the nation itself.  

The message of joy as we protect democracy, backed as that message is with four years of extraordinary accomplishments that have bolstered the middle class and spread opportunity among poorer Americans, has taken off. The convention has heard from three Democratic presidents and a range of other speakers, including a number of Republicans who have turned against Trump and are backing Harris and Walz. In July, Harris raised four times the money Trump did: $204 million to $48 million, much of it from small donors. 

The palpable energy and enthusiasm in Chicago, based as it is in a celebration of American values—especially in the idea of American freedom—reminds me of the enthusiasm of 1860 or 1932. It is about ending the darkness, not indulging in it, and it requires the hard work of everyone who believes that we deserve the freedom to determine our own lives.

Tonight, after his acceptance speech, Walz walked off stage to a favorite song of his: Neil Young’s “Rockin‘ in the Free World.” Neil Young personally allowed the campaign to use the song. When the Trump campaign used it, Young sued to make them stop.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON