#even her own haunting doesn’t belong to her or get to exist under her terms

[juniperhillpatient]

I’ve always been fascinated by female characters that are defined specifically by what they mean to the (mostly male) characters around them in an objectifying way but I don’t mean misogynistic writing because I fully believe the narrative can be aware of the tragedy of never belonging to yourself or being allowed to have any agency in your own life. The mysterious dead girl who is the object of everyone’s curiosity or grief whose relationship with the men in her life is the focus of the investigation. Like…. The horror of having no agency within your own identity & no power to change that or take control of your own narrative.

[misterghostfrog]

So I was reading someones post about what if Jon went back in time to save everyone, and he managed it. He kept Martin away from Prentiss, he Kept Sasha alive, Tim never even know the unknowing existed and he never had Jons paranioa to ruin him. But They never knew, there was never those moments of bonding between the terror. Martin never had that moment when he realized Jon wasn’t just his shitty boss. And sure the assistants were close, but there was no room for Jon. And it gave me thoughts.

Under the cut bc I started to Ramble and it got Long, warning; its Big Sad Hours down there. No happy endings here.

Jon solves all these problems before they start, he fixes it without anyone ever knowing. The assistants are blissfully unaware, maybe he stops sending them on ‘real’ statement followup. The archives are a normal, safe job for all of them. Sometimes it gets too much, pretending he doesn’t know them. So he’ll record, mostly for himself. Sometimes for them, though he’ll never share. He sticks them all in Gertrude's old storage locker, where he knows they’ll never be found.

And then something goes wrong. He knows the unknowing can’t work, of course it can’t. But Nikola doesn’t, none of the avatars know. And Nikola still wants her skin. She still wants his skin, actually. And she’s not afraid to play dirty to get it, she’s hands-on like that. Because why stop at the archivist when he’s got so many lovely ignorant assistants?

So he fixes the problem before she can make good on her threats, she can’t be killed that easily. He knows. But she died during the unknowing, and there are some pretty simple steps to follow to replicate that result. He knows the easiest way to make sure it works is also a death sentence for him. But that’s a simple choice to make. Alright no, it’s not. He’s terrified of death, of dying. He doesn’t want to die, but he can lie to himself. He can delude and say maybe he’ll get another chance. And just in case, he makes sure the assistants know they can quit now.

Tim, Sasha, and Martin don’t know what to make of the news that their boss died mysteriously in an explosion. They know even less what to make of the notes he left them.

Clearly the ramblings of a very unstable man. They all knew Jon was a bit off but this... Well, they all know there’s something weird about the job. But the apocalypse? Really? 

Sasha believes some of it, she’s worked in artifact storage. She’s seen what this stuff can do. But, well. Jon’s never come off as the most stable person, and with no proper proof to back up any of this there’s no reason for them to follow suit. After all she’s known lots of people to quit the institute, she even knows for a fact that Eric Delano did it when she was rooting through employee records for perfectly rational legal reasons.

Then Martin gets called up to Elias’s office, and gets the news he’s the new head archivist.

He tries to turn it down, but he’s offered a pay-raise and a promise that he can step down anytime if he doesn’t feel suited to the position. Elias just sees so much potential in him.

Martin tries to feel flattered and not thoroughly terrified by the way Elias says potential. He takes the promotion, after all, he can always step down if it’s too much.

He offers as much when he finds out Sasha probably should have been given the position, but she turns him down. It’s not his fault their boss is a sexist old bastard, and at this rate he’d probably just turn around and give it to Tim.

Things are normal for a few months. Until slowly a strange noise starts to be heard around the archives, a weird sort-of squishing sound with no source. Along with a metallic scent of meat. 

An infestation, of course. They’re getting the problem worked on, or so Elias says. But aside from the occasional exterminator coming in to ‘take a look’ nothing ever seems to change. Weird statements start showing up on Martins desk, surrounding meat and twisted up things, eaten alive and wrong. Suddenly he understands how Jon went off his rocker so easily.

It’s hard to believe all this supernatural stuff as it’s suddenly getting crammed down his throat, after so long of the archives being normal in almost every sense of the word it’s like missing a step on the staircase. The more awful statements he finds- that Tim and Sasha confirm -the more he realizes how much his boss was hiding from them.

He wants to quit, he thinks about it, he tries to think about it. But he just, can’t.

It’s another or two month before it happens. Meat and bone and gristle erupt from the floor, taking on horrible mangled shapes of almost-humans reaching out with hands full of teeth and hungry.

They all survive, though Tim gets eaten up a bit more than the rest of them. And they’ll all have nightmares for the rest of their lives. They’re alive.

And they find Gertrude’s body, though none of them know how to feel about it. They’ve realized by now there’s something to Jon’s nonsensical ramblings. And they’re long past regretting not quitting before this all happened.

There’s a section of document storage that got uncovered during the cleaning,an old cot that was shoved behind some of the shelves, and a box that had a few sets of clothes, an old teacup, and a key. The cleaners say they burned the clothes, but the cup and the Key are given to Martin for him to keep to return to whoever left their things in the archive.

Neither of those items belong to Tim or Sasha, so they all assume they belonged to Jon.

They start following Jons footsteps, they find out he was a suspect in an arson case surrounding Carlos Vittery’s old apartment. Nobody was there except one unidentified body. He was arrested for trespassing on a dock, though no charges were filed. There was an incident that ended in the near arrest of one Jude Perry, though no charges were filed and she soon fell off the grid. And then he exploded using C4 he had no way of getting, Nothing concrete, no proper genuine evidence except a series of weird encounters their dead boss had.

Martin Decides to try and hunt down Jude Perry, it takes some time. He has a very nice cup of tea with one Micheal Crew. Who points him in a general direction and is just a bit weird about tall buildings.

Martin finds Jude, and asks her about Jon. She laughs at him, of course. But she tells him anyway. Jon was trying to have her arrested- no, not arrested. Killed. Officer Tonner would have seen to that, he knew one of the Hunt could do her in, well. At least of Officer Tonner’s sort anyway. Jude resisted, naturally. He escaped her clutches only barely, by running. Like a coward. And she escaped the policewoman by playing innocent. She’s still on her tail though, damn dog. It’ll be a long time before she’d rid of her, but she knows better than to run. Oh, he doesn’t know what any of that means, does he? Oh he really doesn’t, how sweet. Just a little baby archivist- she was going to kill him after this. But watching him stumble into his own ruin will be so much more fun.

She sends him on his way with a burn.

Martin is terrified, he genuinely tries to quit. Almost manages it before his computer shuts off. The others try too, and then they all have a lovely freak-out together.

They decide to try and talk to Detective Tonner, which proves easy. She’s the partner of the one who’s been interviewing them. She comes to the institute, and they ask her about Jon. She tells them they believed he was responsible for killing Gertrude, seeing as he was next in line. Martin accidentally Compels her into a statement, and then into admitting she's mostly just saying he killed her because dead men don’t put up fights.

She threatens him right then and there, though Basira comes in and intervenes before anything happens. He files a dispute with the station, and avoids the police after that.

Basira brings him some of the tapes, she says it’s an apology. He’s pretty sure she’s just trying to get him to drop the dispute in the weirdest way possible. He does learn some about Gertrude though, and through her what he’s dealing with. And something about an ‘unknowing’

A man named peter Lukas visits the institute, one of the doners. Elias says he wants to see how the archive runs, Lukas says a few choice words about it. And Martin tells him in the most polite of terms to shove off. Lukas threatens him, and very briefly makes him forget everyone he’s ever loved. And then tells him he got off lucky, and that Elias should have picked a better archivist. You can hardly trust someone so childish to run something as important as this now can you.

Daisy visits him in his home, and threatens him in much more physical terms now. She tells him if he tries to do what he did to her again he’ll get more than a scar.

After that it’s a bit unclear how he gets marked by the next two (Curruption, Stranger.) but he does.

There’s a delivery, a few weeks after the stranger mark. It’s not supernatural in any sense, just a young woman dropping off a small box in the archivists office. She says her name is Georgie, and no, she doesn’t know what’s in the box. She just had an old friend tell her to deliver it if he didn’t check in after a bit. Then she found out he died on the news, and then she hadn’t wanted to deliver them- clearly whatever was in the box was going to get someone killed. And she wasn’t scared of it, she wasn’t one for fear, but the thought of putting anyone in danger made her skin crawl. But she didn’t want it in her house, and she refused to be haunted be this box forever. And there was no reason to defy the poor guys apparent final wishes- wait, why was she saying all this again?

In the box was tapes, a dozen or so of them. All addressed to ‘the next head archivist’

It’s Jon’s voice, on the tapes. Talking to who he apparently assumes to be an entire stranger, explaining the fears. And how Smirkes 14 wasn’t wrong, but wasn’t right either. It tells the next archivist to avoid eyes, paintings, doodles, abstract representations, and to keep playing dumb. There’s a lot out there, and the more you know the worse it gets. There’s no fighting, don’t struggle the nets already around you. There’s a way out, but you’re not going to like it.

It gives an odd image of Jon, the man who awkwardly tried to make small-talk int he break room, only to shuffle away after it fell flat. Carrying this world-ending secret on his shoulders. Stiff, awkward Jon. Grim, sad Jon. not so far apart but still so far outside of what Martin had known about him.

What had Martin known about him?

Tim decides to quit, Sasha stays. Elias hires Melanie. Who turns out to be another connection to Jon.

Melanie says he was kind of a prick, he belived her about her Sarah incident, but refused to give her library access. Probably because he was sexist, or maybe just a dickhead. She’d been trying to learn more about her encounter for ages. And this was finally her chance. They try to explain the way out but she won’t listen.

Martin starts following Gertrudes tapes, things about the unknowing have been popping up on his desk lately, and it sounds like Jon was right about an apocalypse. He goes to america, gets a bit kidnapped, and meets Gerry. He offers to help, and then asks about the unknowing. Gerry points him towards the storage locker. And when he gets back He and Sasha and Melanie check it out.

It’s mostly empty, apparently somewhat recently cleared out. Though in the corner there’s a large box of Tapes. There has to be dozens of them, and when they pres play it’s Jon. Talking to them. Except it’s not them, it’s another version of them, and something this version.

And there’s another Jon to add to the mystery of a man he was. The jon on these tapes isn’t stiffly awkward or forcedly professional. He’s open, sad. He cries, he laughs at memories they don’t have. He apologizes, a lot. Too much really. He talks about time travel, about forgetting faces and losing friends.

“Sometimes I-I think- I can’t help but be a bit... upset. At how unfair it all is. You’re all happy and laughing and together and i’m- 

i’m alone. 

I suppose it must be some sort of- cosmic Karma, I doomed the world so in this new one bright an new I pay my penance in isolation.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. I doom the world- suffer its horrors, and get a little bit of time to taste what humanity would be like.

Or maybe i’m just not that likable without an apocalypse.

Probably says a lot about me either way.

Is it bad that I- I sometimes consider letting things play their course? W-without any of you dying of course I just... I suppose it is bad, to want to end the world because you’re lonely. Just because i’m a bit sad doesn’t mean the planet should suffer, no... maybe i’ll try and reconnect with Georgie, it’s been... well. No. Perhaps best not.”

Sasha says that if she knew she would have at least brought him out for drinks or something. 

But they did sort-of know didn’t they? Not about the apocalypse, but about the loneliness. After all, nobody chats so awkwardly in the break room because they have a thriving social life.

“I’m going to kill Nikola tonight- i’m not going to die. I’m not. I didn’t die last time, a-and there’s no reason for that to change. T-there isn’t. I’m going to try and be a safe distance from the blast this time, too. But... Well, it’s not like I have anyone to miss me if I do go.

I suppose... Martin, if you’re listening to this- I... I miss you. You always did say I should be more open with my feelings, and it’s weird. To miss someone who’s right there. T-to look at a face and see a friend and a stranger. To love someone you’ve known for years who doesn’t even really know who you are.

It’s all very stranger, ironic really. Considering what i’m about to do.

I love you, and I miss you. I know you’re not listening, even if I did die you’ve probably long since quit. I hope you’re happy, whatever you’re doing. Happy and safe. All of you. 

And maybe you are listening, maybe... maybe we do become friends, maybe you actually choose to talk to me someday. Maybe I tell you about all of this and... And you don’t think i’m mad. Maybe you let me take you out to dinner and we’d be together again. We’d never be like before- not that that’s a bad thing what with the eldritch horrors. There’d be bits missing, memories we don’t share- but, it would still be you... It’s always been you, I think. And maybe I've decided to give this to you as some sort of silly romantic gesture.

A-and in that case. I love you, Martin Blackwood. More than you’ll ever know.

[HE SIGHS]

When I come back, i’m recording over this.”

[CLICK]

But he didn’t come back. He died that night. He died loving Martin, who never even really knew him beyond passing awkward conversation. Martin doesn’t know how to feel about it, besides guilty that is.

The tapes point them towards Georgie Barker, the woman who delivered the other set to the archives.

Georgie doesn’t really want anything to do with them, she knows whatever they’re stewing in got Jon killed. But she tells them about her encounter with The End, though she’s tetchy afterwards. Martins finally starting to understand this whole compelling business and is feeling pretty sorry about it. He redirects, he starts to ask about Jon. Who he was, really. What she knew he was like.

They talk, Martins curiosity is part Eye and part knowing that someone loved him, really, really loved him. And feeling like he missed out, like he skipped a train he hadn’t known was there. And wanting to know what kind of person would- could love him the way Jon did. And why that kind of person could end the world.

They talk, Georgie explains why they broke up (clashing ideals, he didn’t believe in the supernatural and her trauma was so inherently tied to it. He was a sleep-clinger and she kicked when she dreamed) And why it took so long for them to break up (Jon was funny once you learned to get his jokes, the Admiral loved him, he had a weird way of caring that was really sweet) they talk about things, Georgie lets him hang out with her as long as he promises to keep the supernatural out of their conversations. And how is Melanie doing by the way?

Sasha has a hard time splitting her time in the archive and helping Tim. He can manage himself of course but it’s hard knowing he’s sitting in her flat alone, he’s getting back into publishing though. Sleeping easier now he knows that not only is he free of the eye, but Jon very much killed the thing that killed Danny. He only wishes he could have been the one to pull the trigger. Sasha is getting more involved though, the eye has it’s own grip on her.

They finally confront Elias. They know it won’t do any good, Jons tapes explained what he was, who he was. But they’re frustrated. Low on options. Jon never really explained what the apocalypse was- if Martins learned anything from the other tapes it’s probably because he forgot, thought he did somewhere and didn’t.

Elias isn’t entirely surprised that they’ve figured it out, he knew something was going on. Though he wasn’t quite sure what. He claims he knows what oncoming apocalypse Jon was talking about, and that he was likely underestimating the amount.

He sends them to Ny-Ålesund. And Martin views the black sun. Gets briefly taken hostage by Manuela. And gets “saved” by a man who pops out of a door to stab her.

He says his name is Micheal, and he’s not there to help. He does his whole distortion bit, confuses them. Stabs Martin when he tries to take his statement. Says he was going to kill him, but what happens next might be much better than death. And leaves after stating that he’s very excited to watch how the rest of this plays out.

They go back to the institute, and Elias says he must have been wrong. Oopsie. Anyway the web is planning a ritual you should go check out the spooky house from all these statements.

They meet Annabelle in person, Martin gets marked by the web.

This continues on for the end the slaughter and the buried. They finally confront Elias again about these wild goose chases, he claims innocence but he’s done it enough times they don’t believe him. They stop trusting Elias. Not that they ever really did, but they stop listening to him.

Melanie isn’t as angry as she was. Though she is still angry. She didn’t go to india so no ghost bullet, but she’s still trapped. Though she knows how to quit, it’s been a scary idea. But the longer she stays the more she realizes how low she is on options. So she quits.

Martin is angry, he’s exhausted, he’s confused. Nothing makes sense. And another one of Elias’s goddamn doners is visiting. A weird old man who, when he shakes his hand, makes him feel like he just dropped off a rollercoaster at a million miles into empty nothingness. He laughs when Martins regained himself, and says that that tricks better than a buzzer every time.

He visits Georgie again, he’s thinking about quitting. But he can’t figure out what the apocalypse he’s supposed to stop is, because according to Jon it’s pretty bad. And he’s the one who can stop, or maybe start, it. But he doesn’t know what it is.

He talks to Georgie about Jon some more, it’s funny, to grieve a man you already knew. Except four years too late. There’s a sort-of helpless frustration to it, every time he talks about Jon he wishes he could be learning this first-hand. Not from someone who hadn’t spoken to him in years before this.

He also finds himself glued to the tapes, he can relate, in a way. To Jons loneliness. To have a person so, so close but so far away. He wishes he could meet the Jon on the tapes now. Then neither of them would have to be lonely. But Jon is dead. And Martin... Martin might love Jon. Jon, who died years ago. A dead man who apparently loved him enough to consider ending the world for the chance to have a real conversation with him.

He goes back to work, frustrated and so, so lost. A million questions that genuinely can’t be answered. There’s a fresh statement on his desk. It’s a statement of Jonah Magnus, regarding stopping the apocalypse.

Certainly a goddamn roundabout way of giving Martin information, but he’ll take it.

He reads the statement.

The world ends.

Sasha, Tim, Melanie, and Georgie all get their own domains. And wander free in the hills of suffering. Martin is alone, well and truly alone. He ended the world, because he was too stupid and sad to read a few extra paragraphs before starting the tape.

But Jon went back, didn’t he? He went back in time and stopped this once. Maybe Martin can too. Maybe he can stop the flesh from attacking, maybe he can stop Melanie from joining the institute. Maybe he can meet the real Jon.

He goes back, he does it. Nobody remembers but him. 

Nobody remembers but him. 

And things keep happening he can’t have predicted.

Worms, Sasha is gone, Gertrude. It’s all wrong. And Jon isn’t the Jon he knew, he doesn’t know Martin, he doesn’t even like Martin. Nobody is the person he knew before.

He is alone. And things keep happening he can’t have predicted, worms tables and paranoia. He starts recording. Trying to follow in Jon’s footsteps and leave information behind, easier to access this time of course. In his flat, and he’ll have the key sent to the archives if something goes wrong. He’ll record until Jon trusts him enough to believe him, Maybe he’ll even stop him before it’s too late and he’ll never need to find out what happened at all. Maybe he can't get close as he was to everyone, but he can keep them safe.

He doesn’t get to finish his recordings, he wasn’t careful enough. Jonah catches wind and half the tapes are destroyed when he dies in a mysterious housefire. But what’s left does get delivered to the archives.

And the cycle continues.

[stupid-stew]

My Obsession With Character Names Pays Off Right Here Right Now

I have literally never posted here but I decided that since I spent today writing about the the name of the characters in The Owl House instead of prepping for finals, someone should see it. Included are Lilith, Eda, Luz, King, Gus, Willow, Amity, Alador, Odalia, Emira, Edric, Belos, Adegast, Kikimora, last names Blight, Noceda, Clawthorne, Park, Porter, and Bump, and briefly Hooty, Owlbert, Hieronymus, and Boscha.

FIRST NAME

LILITH

Ok so because I'm lilith’s bitch we are gonna start with her because her name is so cool and I love her and we should be besties Lilith hmu. Anyways as most people know Lilith is a pre existing mythological character which makes this very much good because that means it’s all outlined. Most people know her as a demonic figure, which I very much dig but similar to our lovely queen of curses out here, that's not all she is. There isn’t going to be a chronological explanation of similarities and conclusions, cope. The basic gist is that Lilith was this chick with fiery red hair (this is important iykyk) who refused to be beneath or below adam, more specifically to subjugate to him, funny because of the tapestry with belos what says subjugation on it, probably a coincidence but I do not believe in coincidence right now. Anyways basically she runs off and becomes this chick who like snatches children and will make them sick if they don’t have an amulet with the names Senoy, Sansenoy, or Semangelof on them, thats a different story but what I find interesting is this one passage,

“(12) Her nobles shall be no more, nor shall kings be proclaimed there; all her princes are gone. (13) Her castles shall be overgrown with thorns, her fortresses with thistles and briers. She shall become an abode for jackals and a haunt for ostriches. (14) Wildcats shall meet with desert beasts, satyrs shall call to one another; There shall the Lilith repose, and find for herself a place to rest. (15) There the hoot owl shall nest and lay eggs, hatch them out and gather them in her shadow; There shall the kites assemble, none shall be missing its mate. (16) Look in the book of the LORD and read: No one of these shall be lacking, For the mouth of the LORD has ordered it, and His spirit shall gather them there. (17) It is He who casts the lot for them, and with His hands He marks off their shares of her; They shall possess her forever, and dwell there from generation to generation.”

And there are separate part of this that I find relevant, especially the description of the location, i’m not all that familiar with symbolism of animals in religious texts, so i’m gonna take it at face value and say that this is more or less a description that could be given to the physical owl house itself, sort of a place for people who don’t fit in, its a little messy and I guess one could say overgrown, but it’s a place for anyone, a place to rest now hopefully for Lilith away from the coven, there shall the Lilith repose. On top of that we see the “the hoot owl…” and you’re probably thinking what that so crazy wacko because like why are they referring to Lilith as the hoot owl isn't Eda the owl lady, yes she is. That’s why the actual meanings of lilith’s name that come from her mythological depiction as a demon lady are so important. We have night monster, night owl, night spectre, vampires, night hag, night creature, nightjar (which is another kind of bird), and night bird, all of these seem to fit lilith’s dark aesthetic very nicely which is very good for her, but there are two other ones, hot owl and screech owl, which draw her closer to Edaand away from the coven and her depiction in the mid-later episodes of the show as a monster for cursing eda, but also the name night monster could come into play if while sharing the curse Lilith acquired some of its traits, similar to Edaas the owl beast. Ultimately, we have this little red head girl who eventually fights back against the men who are attempting to get her to be under them, for the character that is belos, for the other Lilith that is adam, god, and his angels, and now hopefully both of them will find solace and repose among the owls in a place they never thought they’d belong. All this talk of owls and god brings us into the other clawthorne baddie:

EDA

For this I'm going to use her full name edalyn, because you know like that’s just how it be it is her name. There isn’t a wiki page for her name like there is for Lilith which makes this a little bit harder but the general consensus seems to be that it means something along the lines of “gift of god”, which I find very interesting. If you are going to name a child gift of god i’m assuming that you are referring to the child themselves, but I don’t think that really applies to eda. I’m not religious, but its my impression that someone who lies cheats pranks and steals their way to the top and isn’t exactly the most responsible witch on the isles might not be the best gift god could give. I do really love Eda though, her character flaws are still a part of her character, but I think this refers to her powers. Eda considers herself to be the boiling isles gift to magic, which I mean like, have you seen the woman. In agony of a witch we see her at what probably 30% of her power with how much the curse was already tolling on her and how much magic she was probably using to fight it off, and like goddamn. She was almost beating lilith, definitely beating the shit out of her, but she was almost defeating Lilith who was at her full power, and that is just a fraction of what she used to be able to do. Her powers were a gift of god, and I think that the loss of them will greatly affect her. She’s already admitted that she doesn’t know how to do much without her magic, and I think going straight from the second most powerful witch on this isles to having no power at all is going to be incredibly taxing on her, physically and mentally.

Luckily for her the name edalyn also means patience, another thing about her name is that it not only means gift of god, but also similar things like gifted by the gods or even goddess, and this draws a connection to Lilith who is named after a demonic figure, casted out for having defied god, they are quite literally polar opposites on the name spectrum, and we see that a lot in the show, they are completely different people, I mean have you looked at them they don’t even look related, but the funnier thing is that their personalities do the same thing. You’d expect Edain her youth to be a gift from the devil, just ask principal bump, and Lilith seemed to be a goody two shoes who worked her ass off, their names could be switched based off their characters alone.

A random baby name site I found said that :

“Persons with the name edalyn are usually highly flexible and well equipped to making and accepting change throughout their life. They always seek excitement and are sometimes a bit of a risk taker. They are imaginative, and often, through their unconventional way of thinking, are naturally able to solve complex problems with ease. They are quick thinkers and observers who are clever, analytical and versatile”

Which I mean like very much applies to eda, she takes change like a champ, either genuinely or by pretending she’s ok with everything, and is always seeking excitement. Like literally all of the time. Always. I think she takes felonies as a compliment, and one of the biggest changes in her life that she genuinely was able to adapt to and appreciate was

LUZ

Ok I think at this point everyone knows that at this point the name Luz means light, and if you didn't, oopsies now you do. The character Luz was named and designed after a real life person the miss dana terrace knew at the time she was starting to really think about the show, Luz ’s personalty comes more from dana herself and we love that, but the character has really started to grow into her name. This is made most obvious when the first spell Luz learns is the light glyph, not only coming into her own as a witch, but also starting to live up to her name, which along with light also has to do with “Our Lady of Light”, which is the virgin mary, fitting her right in with the other biblical names we got going on here. I really want to stress that I know next to zero about religion, and all of the connections I am making come from wikipedia, so bare with me here. But most of the time mary seems to be this pure, saint like figure, which I think is what a lot of people see Luz as, especially on the isles. I’m going to flat out say that this is in no way meant to pass off Luz as simple minded, pure, or oblivious, because we have seen what that girl is willing to do, she faced death and poked him in the with an ice cicle. In terms of life on the isles, however, she is more or less pure and sheltered, she’s completely new to the world she’s in, but she does quickly adapt, and shows more of her strong side, and remains a good person throughout all of it, taking losses as they come, and not letting them remain losses at the same time.

Back to the whole light thing, we already touched on the whole literal bit of her and the light spell, but can you think of a better way to describe Luz ? She literally brings light everywhere she goes, even Eda admits that she’s changed things for the better, for everyone around her too. Willow got a new friend, probably the first friend she’s had in a long time, and even got to begin repairing her relationship with amity, and got placed in the plant track so she could do the things she loves, all because of Luz . Edagot to grow as a person and a mentor, and finally got someone willing to accept all her eda-ness, unconditionally, someone to really care about that really cares about her back, all because of Luz . Amity got a friend who cares about her, not just her family name and money, someone who supports her and will do anything for her because she is her friend, and a bit of self discovery along the way for amity, all because of Luz . Not a single person on the isles who has had more than 2 minutes of interaction with Luz hasn’t had their lives improved, even belos got his portal, and the thing is that even characters who people might not even consider changed have been, characters such as

KING

The name king itself is obvious, he is royalty, the king of demoNS HIMSELF ASMODEUS hahahaha pulled a sneaky on you now accept my ideas as your own. I am on a mythological name kick, deal with it. The most important thing here is in the bible, asmodeus poses himself as a false god, which I know is something we have all considered with king, that he might be a full on liar, not be a king of anything and is just your ordinary street demon, it’s even come up in the show with him calling himself the king of artists and Luz asking him if he was just making it up at this point. It’s a good theory, I can see it, and this could be used as proof. There is also another legend that paints him as a good natured dude, who eventually banishes the king by literally throwing him, and then he loses his powers and is banished, but this is also the same legend where he marries Lilith and that is not something I am down for. There is another text in which he tells the king (the same one he threw in the other one) that his kingdom will one day be divided and the king does not believe him, and this is the same text where he admits to hating water and birds because they remind him of god. Lets think class, who has the god name and is related to birds here? King’s name by itself holds true to his character, who (regardless of if it is truthful or not) holds himself as if he is a king, and he isn't the only one with a name like that, there is also

WILLOW

Ok I know we all thought it, willow, the plant girl, how fiendishly clever. This also happens to be the only descriptor for her name I could find, which is totally fine because I think it’s a very cute name and willow is also very cute. This means we get to go into the symbolism of the willow tree wwwooooOOOOO aren’t you so very excited I know I am. Its kind of interesting, willow trees seem to match the character, understanding, warm, a safe space really, but most of all the ability to let go of pain and suffering, sometimes outright ignore it, and move on. Willow does always say out of sight out of mind does she not? She is willing to ignore, even excuse people bullying her, be it bosha or even amity, and the moment she got the chance her inner willow decided to try and literally burn the painful memories she had, willing to cause damage just to forget. Willow as a character is very willing to move on like nothing happened most of the time, key word most because another thing about willows is the ability to grow from the pain. Before understanding willow, we never really saw willow stand up for herself until she really had to, but hy the end of the episode she is willing to tell amity that she isn’t willing to fully forgive her, but she’s willing to grow and try. Heck, we see this over the entire first season, we see this little girl who can barely pull it together long enough to stand up for herself grow into this amazing character willing to publicly oppose the emperor and break into his castle for her friend, she tried to full out attack Lilith when 19 episodes earlier she wasn’t able to stand up to amity for bullying her. And I am in no way calling willow weak, she never was, she just needed to find the ability to show everyone that she’s strong, god I love willow so much, you wanna know who else loves willow?

GUS

Gus, my main man, love you but for this we are gonna have to use the full on augustus sorry babes. The name augustus means majestic, or venerable, which while I must say that the illusion of kiki doing the worm was probably one of the most majestic things I have ever seen, I’m going to focus on venerable a bit more here. Venerable is a big word, it means “accorded a great deal of respect, especially because of age, wisdom, or character.”, which for gus the age part might play a smaller part here, but he is good as what he does, Luz and willow both respect him, Eda Respects him, he’s this little dude who is younger than everyone and has to rely on his ability to succeed, not inly with his power but with his personality.Gus seems to be confident in himself, communicating with everyone regardless of who they are or what power they hold, similarly to willow he was willing to do anything to help Luz , leading into the second description of venerable, “heroic in nature”. Now, you might be wondering, bestie where ever did you get that description, it totally wasn’t from a religious page okyesitwas but that's fine because being pronounced venerable guarantees a spot in heaven so get it bestie. Overall, the general meaning for augustus is that they are strong, respectable, and powerful, which takes us right into the

ASSORTED BLIGHTS

The blight first names bring me joy so I am putting amity last because I think its really funny, starting off with alador, the name alador evokes diplomacy, correctness, and confidence. We know zilch about alador, but if the vibes of the blight family have anything to say it’s definitely something along those lines. The name odalia means wealth, which I mean like have you seeeen blight manor? Also back at it again with the fact that it’s a variant of the name odilia, like the saint olilia which I don't have ties for you right now because again, we know nothing about her. Edric also means wealth, fortune, riches, powerful, you get the vibes, same thing with emira which means commander, or prince, princess, leader, or star. So you know like we have all these super powerful names happening, and then, oh boy and then we get to little miss perfect herself, amity blight. It means friendship, or harmony. If I was her I would be so mad at my parents like yall have these mad powerful names and I got stuck with friendship? Hand me the emancipation papers. You know what they say, friendship is the real magic (even if no longer taught in schools due to budget constraints). I hope that this leads more into season 2 with amity working on her friendships and ultimately her relationships in general, which we got a bit of already with her working on repairing her relationship with willow, and making the moves to cut off old toxic friendships and moving into more genuine ones with willow, Luz , and gus. I guess you could say that the only thing ALL the blights have in common with each other is their

LAST NAME

BLIGHT

The word blight by itself means a plant disease which boy oh boy can you believe how nicely that fits into amity bullying willow because I sure can. Outside of just the plant bit it overall just means like something that damages another thing, and this works beautifully for each member of the family. The parents are damaging their children, the twins just causing general damage, and amity and her goddamn relationships, but fortunately that whole plant thing brings us into the next couple of last names

CLAWTHORNE

The last name clawthorne means “cold or exposed thorn tree” which had me kind of like what the heck so I went off and had some fun and got you some presents that I think are funny, so there was this guy right, his name was joseph clawthorne, and he created the term whiffenpoof, which is the name for a wildly fictitious animal, things like a jackalope, or even a griffin with spider breath, though I guess that would be the work of a

NOCEDA

Back again with the trees good lord, it means field of nut trees, so again I went into prominent people an found this guy named jorge noceda sanchez, he was a painter and some of his works are kinda baller actually it seems like something that would fit in on the isles, but also not all of the names have a deeper meanings, names like

PORTER

Ok I am like pretty sure this was just meant to be a play on the fact that gus’ dad’s name is perry and is a reporter, get it, perry porter, perry porter, reporter, but nonetheless I did some digging because why the heck not, it means doorkeeper, or gate keeper, someone who guards something like an important building, which honestly I think this would be a good last name for hooty if he ever gets one, but again not all of these are important names at the moment, or maybe they won't ever be at all, names like

PARK

At first I was kinda like l m a o willow park plant girl hahahahah plants in the park parks have trees willow is a tree but then I remembered that someone pointed out that park is a traditionally korean surname and then like a week later disney posted about it for aisian pacific american heritage month which kind of confirmed it, and I don’t know if the whole intention behind it was to establish willow as representation or not, but the surname park by itself means gourd and willow I am so sorry that is so unfortunate LMAOSIFN

BUMP

To be honest I was not expecting bump to have a last name that meant anything but it means swift walker and I think thats funny so you have to know it now

MISCELLANEOUS

BELOS

BIIIITCH LISTEN UPPPP there is a butt tone of mythology surrounding his name and its mostly a different form of it, belus, that is referenced, but same thing different shape. Most of his depiction is as a great king or ruler, in babylonian mythology being the equivalent of zeus of jupiter, which liiikkkkkeeeoajolnjojnkjakjavnjfvdfkjf but its fine everything is great its all ok most importantly, he is recognized as the god or ruler of war, and in that same mythology he lived in babylon, which “... was originally water, and called a sea. But Belus put an end to this, and assigned a district to each, and surrounded Babylon with a wall; and at the appointed time he disappeared.” and idk about you but the smell of him assigning a divide and disappearing smells sour like funky to me babes

HIERONYMUS AND BOSCHA

I am only putting this here because the fact that it’s totally a play on hieronymus bosch makes me cackle and you all have to know it thank you

ADEGAST

B-but brevyn he was only there for like one episode, yeah ok and? Radegast is the slavic god of hospitality, and there is no host like a host that pretends to take you on a mythical quest and then tries to eat you and your mentor and her deranged cat demon, ok? His name translates to “dear guest” or “welcomed guest” and I mean I think if my host tried to suck me into some fantasy would delusion i’d feel pretty welcomed

HOOTY

He is an owl

OWLBERT

He is also an owl

KIKIMORA

First and foremost, she is a little night gremlin who hates children and I think that really fits her, but she is also a little house demon, who is very difficult to get to leave, have we seen her outside the castle? Will she be a spy along with the mask next season? She also has a name that means nightmare or night demon, similar to a certain other night creature we might have heard of a while ago. She tried to strangle children and I love that for her,and she is described as a little old ugly messy haired lady and I feel like her current character has the personality of one so i’ll take it, but what really gets me is her villain origin story, which is that she "grows up with a magician in the mountains. From dawn to sunset the magician’s cat regales Kikimora with fantastic tales of ancient times and faraway places, as Kikimora rocks in a cradle made of crystal. It takes her seven years to reach maturity, by which time her head is no larger than a thimble and her body no wider than a strand of straw. Kikimora spins flax from dusk and to dawn, with evil intentions for the world.”

[theparanormalperiodical]

Everything You Need To Know About Zombies, And 5 Sightings Of The Real-life Walking Dead We STILL Can’t Explain

At this point, I’m not sure anything would surprise me.

In fact, a zombie apocalypse would actually make sense at this point. But even if the grand finale of 2020 was the dead rising from their graves, it wouldn’t actually be the first time.

According to those that practice Haitian Voodoo, zombies exist. And according to scientists, zombies exist.

But the thing is, Hollywood has gotten our favourite flesh-eating, apocalypse-heralding monsters wrong. The folklore behind these monsters is actually rather different than men and women foaming at the mouth as they mummy-walk towards you.

The reanimated corpse didn’t take its first steps with the debut cinema screening of Night Of The Living Dead (1968).

It started with slaves.

Today we are going to cover everything you need to know about zombies from forgotten folklore of years gone by, to the rumours of the living dead among us in preparation from the incoming apocalypse...

What Are Zombies?

It’s pretty simple: a zombie is someone who was dead and is now not-so-dead. According to an official definition they are corpses which have been brought back from the grave to haunt the living.

Yep - they’re just like ghosts. But instead of wafting gently they have to lump around this great hulking cadaver which is in the midst of decay.

Zombies can be traced back to Haitian Voodoo which claims that a dead body can be reanimated by magical rituals. This supernatural take on the walking dead, however, is at odds with more modern fictional beliefs which centre on science.

Parasites, diseases, and viruses (*looks into camera*) feature as the main causes of zombies taking over the world in Hollywood’s take on the beast. This new zombie first pulled itself out of the ground in 1968 with Night Of The Living Dead, but the term ‘zombies’ was only applied by fans after the release of the cult classic. They were originally known as ‘ghouls’ in the film, confirming the premise that zombies exist to haunt the living.

Following this on-screen debut, the horror genre was overrun by zombie films with Dawn Of The Dead and Thriller going down in history as some of the most iconic movies of all time. The genre waned towards the 90s, however, and was due a resurgence just before the millennium thanks to predominately East Asian video games.

28 Days Later and Shaun Of The Dead resurrected the genre at the turn of the century and shaped what zombies are now known most for: the zombie apocalypse.

The terrifying claims of a civilised world being brought to its knees by walking corpses is now a pop culture staple, but more recently its been given a makeover and shopping montage as a part of its rom-com redo. Warm Bodies and iZombie are a novel take on the horror must-have and incorporate a human-zombie relationship that is an emblem for the sexual liberation of the era.

The severed relationship between supernatural zombies and the sci-fi alternative doesn’t just take place on Netflix. There is evidence that both could exist.

Zombies In Haitian Voodoo

In 1819, poet Robert Southey was the first to use the term ‘zombie’ in his history of Brazil. This heralded the emergence of zombies in Haitian Voodoo which chimed with a concept even more terrifying than the prospect of a zombie apocalypse:

Slavery.

According to Haitian Voodoo, bokors - or witches - would use necromancy to revive a dead person. This zombie would then be under their control as a personal slave and would have no personal will.

Bokors were also known to capture ‘zombie astrals’ - part of the human soul - in a bottle which would provide the owner with extra luck or healing properties, for example.

These beliefs were rooted in Voodoo traditions brought to Haiti by enslaved Africans: they believed Baron Samedi would take them to an African heaven after they died. Those that offended the Ioa (a Voodoo god) would be a slave forever - AKA a zombie. This fear of eternal slavery was reinforced by slave drivers who were often also voodoo priests; to prevent slave suicides, they would threaten zombification.

It was this widespread belief in zombies as slaves that would spread beyond Haiti’s borders during the US’ occupation of the country in the early 20th century. A number of case studies reporting zombies came to the US’ attention, such as in the William Seabrook’s The Magic Island (1929): he cited an article in Haiti’s criminal code which recognised zombies’ existence, (it essentially said even if you murder someone and you make them come back as a zombie, it is still murder).

It was shortly after US forces entered Haiti that one of the most famous cases of an alleged zombie emerged. We will get to Felicia Felix-Mentor’s story later in this article.

Zombies In Science

Zombies are deeply rooted in some of humanity’s darkest chapters in history - but they also have a place in our natural history, too.

Technically, zombies do exist. Sure, if you made the claim for human zombification via Voodoo priest scientists would counter with claims that these ‘zombies’ are schizophrenic, in a catatonic state, or are suffering from a mental illness that mirrors how we believe they would act. But if you made a similar claim for other animals - namely insects - they’d believe you.

In fact, there are numerous known cases of such instances.

Whilst there are no known insects that practice Haitian Voodoo, these cases follow the basic plotline of zombie cult classics - parasites infect them and alter their behaviour or use them to their advantage. The parasites effectively make slaves out of those they target, mirroring what we saw in Haiti.

Take zombie carpenter ants, for example:

A fungus enters their bloodstream, hijacks their mind and grows around their muscles. Within one short week the ant is compelled to leave its colony and seek higher ground which has the right temperature and humidity for the fungus to grow in. It then forces the ant to bite down into a leaf, grows a stalk through the ant's head, and cuts off the ant’s muscle control.

The ant’s corpse still moves its legs vigorously as the bulbous capsule of fungi spores grows through what’s left of its body to infect the ant colony below.

There are many more examples just like this with most parasites having their own unique - and uncomfortably brutal - method of killing off wildlife.

Scientists are unable to refute claims that a parasite might mutate and have a similar effect on humans one day, reducing us all to the zombie hordes seen in the movies.

We just have to wait and see. 

Cases Of Actual, Real-life, Not-so-living-n-breathing Zombies

Although scientists don’t support claims that Haitian voodoo can in fact raise the dead and create personal slaves, various sightings and reports suggest that human zombies do exist.

Question is - do you believe them?

#1 - Felicia Felix-Mentor

In 1936, the owner of a farm in a small village in Haiti woke up to quite a shock.

A naked woman staggered towards them with her raspy voice mumbling and slurring that this farm belonged to her farmer. But the most terrifying thing about this strange woman that stumbled her way through the village was that she looked rather familiar.

In fact, they were pretty sure that this was a woman who had died and had been buried many years before.

19 years before.

Zora Neale Hurston - an anthropologist - investigated this alleged case of zombification and met Felicia Felix-Mentor at a hospital. The doctors were convinced she was a zombie and her husband confirmed this was his wife.

Even Hurston admitted that she believed what they were telling her:

“I know that I saw the broken remnant, relic, or refuse of Felicia Felix-Mentor in a hospital yard.”

#2 - Clairvius Narcisse

30 odd years after Felix-Mentor first wandered up to her father’s old farm, a 40 year old man admitted himself into hospital in Deschapelles, Haiti. Doctors, however, were unable to work out why he had a fever, was clearly fatigued, and was spitting up blood. He died 3 days later.

20 years after he died, a man claiming to be Narcisse approached Angelina Narcisse, his sister.

He told her and other villagers private, personal information in an attempt to convince them that he was in fact Clairvius and had been turned into a zombie for use on a sugar plantation. He had been paralysed for the duration of his burial and then dug up to be put to work as a slave.

He described in detail the process of his alleged zombification, claiming she was given a paste made from hallucinogenic chemicals which scientists would later use to refute most claims of zombies as simply a drugged state. When the bokor died and he was no longer fed the concoction, he regained his sanity and thus his free will, and returned to his family.

Much like Felix-Mentor’s story, Narcisse is actually widely believed to have been a zombie. His death was documented by 2 American doctors unlikely to follow Haitian Voodoo folklore, and even the man who investigated his claims - Lamarque Douyon - believed to some extent zombies could be real despite dismissing supernatural claims.

He brought a sample of the powders or paste used by the bokor back to the US to investigate whether ‘zombies’ were actually people who were drugged and then revived.

#3 - Woman from Port-au-Prince

Only known as FI to The Lancet, the journal investigating cases in southern Haiti in the late 90s, she was discovered 3 years after her death wandering near the village she once called home by a friend.

FI was mute and unable to feed herself but she was still recognised by her family, her fellow villagers, and the local priest by a distinct facial mark and other features.

The local courts opened her tomb to investigate the fact that she had apparently risen from the dead and found it full of stones. Her husband was accused of zombifying her after he caught her having an affair.

Despite local claims of supernatural goings-on, she was later admitted to a psychiatric hospital in Port-au-Prince.

#4 - Son of a secret policeman

WD (mentioned in the same study by The Lancet) was 18 years old when he became ill. He developed a fever, his body swelled up, and his eyes went yellow. They thought he was dying or at least already dead.

His father asked his brother to get advice from a bokor but WD died 3 days later. 19 months after he was buried, he reappeared at a cock fight and recognised his father before accusing his uncle of zombifying him.

#5 - Unknown young woman

MM (also mentioned in the same study by The Lancet) was joining her friends in prayer for a local who had been zombified when she fell under a similar affliction. The 18 year old became ill with diarrhoea and fever, her body swelled, and she died.

Her family immediately suspected a sorcerer had had their way with their daughter.

13 years later and MM reappeared at the town markets, claiming not only had she been a zombie in a village 100 miles away, she had had a child with another zombie.

When her bokor died, his son released MM from their control and she travelled home.

What do you think?

Are zombies real? Or are they merely a fictional beast haunted by the forgotten history of slavery?

If you liked this post I’m pretty sure you’ll love the other articles I post every Saturday! Make sure you hit follow if you want to see ‘em.

Can’t wait ‘til next weekend for a new hit of horror? Check out this online archive of paranormal experiences…

[tirednotflirting]

does it ever drive you crazy, just how fast the night changes?

baby’s first au whaaaaaat? 

special thank you to @clumsyclifford​ for linking the prompt list i got this idea from! this was the prompt (it was a whole slew of celebrity AUs: “wait, you’re supposed to be DEAD and i just recognized you at the grocery store, turns out you just didn’t want to be a celebrity anymore” au. bella is also writing one from this list and it’s one of my most favorite lashton things i have ever read, highly recommend, 10/10, i could yell about hello, hello for ages omg

also here is the ao3 link if that’s your preferred way to read :)  

There are few things that bring Luke as much joy as his Friday night (well, Saturday morning, really) grocery trips.

He had started working the night shift at the nurses’ desk at the children’s hospital about a year prior after graduating. He had found the job through the friend of a friend of a friend who was a nurse herself and mentioned the job needed filling fast. Luke had never really considered the idea of a night job but ultimately the work wasn’t all too bad. He made coffee every couple of hours (he made an effort to never let the pot empty which got him lots of smiles from the nurses) and every once in awhile Lina, the 6 year old cancer patient whose room was just around the corner from the brightly colored desk, would wander out to ask him to check for monsters under her bed and to be tucked back in. It was pretty simple (and heartwarming) work.

However, staying up through the night for 5 nights a week made it damn near impossible to be awake during the day on his weekends off. Luckily enough for Luke, he had friends like Michael who tended to play video games all night despite working through the day (he stopped questioning how he managed it a long time ago) and his favorite grocery store was a 24 hour location.

The first time Luke had come to do his shop at around 2am, he had felt a little spooked by the parking lot and eerie silence in between Top 40 songs that played over the intercom in the store. But he soon grew to find the general atmosphere pretty calming and he made friends with the nighttime stocker (a guy named Calum who also never saw himself doing nighttime work but here they were) and it became something he really looked forward to on his Saturday (very early) mornings.

He arrives at the store just a bit after 1am. He just finished ‘a late breakfast’ (he still always finds himself giggling at the concept of eating meals at opposite points in the day as everyone else despite the obvious logic to the schedule) and has a list tucked into the pocket of his sweats. It’s a little chilly out so he grabs the first sweater he sees on the backseat - a blue cardigan - since he knows they also keep the store pretty cool in the night to make sure everybody stays awake through their shift.

As he grabs one of the smaller carts as he heads into the store, he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He pulls out his list first and drops it into the baby seat of the cart and then grabs his phone. Luke’s faced with the wild selfie Michael set for his profile picture and he rolls his eyes as clicks the icon to answer the call.

“What’s up, Mikey?” he answers as he starts pushing the cart in the direction of the produce section. 

“You at the store yet?” Luke can hear the clicking of the buttons on the controller in Michael’s hands.

“Yeah, just got in. You need anything?”

Michael then rambles off a short list that Luke jots down into his notes app since he doesn’t have a pen or anything with him. He assures his friend he’ll come drop off the odd collection of snacks and things (“They have to be the dinosaur shaped ones. I swear Luke they do taste better.”) once he finished up his shop of real groceries.

Luke wanders around the produce, picking out what fruits and veggies he wants to have around for the week. He takes his time finding the apples without the bruises, bananas that will be the perfect amount of ripe by midweek, some leafy bunches for the salad he’s been assigned to bring for the breakroom potluck on Tuesday. He’s checking out some strawberries that he thinks might be nice to toss into the mix too when a human sized figure appears in the corner of his vision.

It’s a man around his size (in similar cozy clothes) facing away from him. He’s got hair the opposite color to Luke’s bleached blonde. His messy black curls are pulled back into a tiny bun that mirrors Luke’s own. The other man is broad and has a tattoo of a bird across the back of his neck, just barely visible above the collar of a faded blue sweatshirt. The tattoo is one that seems oddly familiar to Luke, as though it belongs to someone he knows. The man begins to wander off toward the bakery section of the store though and Luke shrugs off the recognition, figuring it might be someone he’s seen around a waiting room in the hospital at some point. He settles on some strawberries and starts pushing his cart in the direction of the deli and meats.

As he stares at the different packages of chicken and breakfast sausages, he can’t help but think back on the man he saw though. There was something achingly familiar about him, and more than just the tattoo. He can’t shake the thought for some reason and finds himself jumping in surprise when he feels his phone buzz once again in his pocket. 

He doesn’t even have to look to the screen to know that it’s Michael calling again to add something to his list. In fact, he happens to even know the items that his friend failed to mention the first time he called. Luke presses the accept button and lifts the phone to his ear.

“Froot Loops and the character shaped fruit snacks?”

“The superhero ones, if they have them please!”

*

Luke continues around the store, grabbing all the bits from his list (and Michael’s 12 year old boy list) and eventually lands in the dairy section. He grabs the yogurt he’s been mixing granola into for breakfast lately and some butter for the cookies his mom sent him a recipe for. Only thing left in terms of food is cereal milk and coffee milk (2% and oat, respectively, of course). When he looks up from the list to make his way over to the fridges containing the plethora of milks, he is faced once again with the familiar stranger. 

Except this time, as he catches just the briefest glimpse of the man’s face, of his hazel eyes and strong jawline, he realizes this isn’t a stranger. Very much not a stranger. It’s Ashton Irwin, the host of at least three of those reality dating shows he forces Michael to watch with him on the weekends since he can’t watch them when they air live on Monday and Tuesdays. 

Or, well, he was the host of all of those shows until about two months ago.

Because Ashton Irwin has been dead for two months due to a freak heart attack while on vacation on some remote island.

Luke glances away from him for a moment in a panic. Has he completely lost it? Have the late nights finally gotten to him and he’s starting to actually see things that don’t exist? Was Calum right all along and the store really is haunted? (Though it's a little lost on him why a star TV host would want to haunt a grocery store. And not even a good one like that Whole Foods in Downtown.)

Then he realizes that perhaps he was just wrong. (Though now that he thinks about it, he very much remembers liking an Instagram picture of that tattoo on Ashton Irwin’s account a couple years back.) He’s far enough down the aisle from him that he can chance a look at the man without being caught. So, slowly, Luke turns again just slightly to look toward him.

It’s the hair that left him not immediately making the recognition. His hair has been dyed black, a stark contrast to his signature dark red but definitely a change that likely doesn’t draw as much attention. The sweatshirt he’s paired with black skinny jeans is pretty baggy and it’s a damn shame because Luke knows he has the arms of a god.

(Something Luke knows from the tabloid covers he glances at from time to time at the pharmacy and the summer version of the show that Ashton hosted, of course. He most definitely has never searched up his name + ‘biceps’ before. Never.)

But despite the obvious attempt to match the look and aesthetic of ‘2am grocery shopper’ he's still very unmistakably Ashton Irwin.

As Luke grapples with this new knowledge that apparently this person he thought was dead is not dead and also apparently goes to the same grocery as him, he fails to notice that Ashton has turned to face him and that he is still staring at him in shock. 

Very quickly, Ashton’s face comes to mirror Luke’s expression and he’s rushing toward the blonde in a state of terror. 

“Please don’t say anything,” he gasped in a hushed voice. The accent similar to his own that Luke has grown used to hearing on his TV sticks out some in his panicked words.

“How? I - uh? Are you,” Luke trips over every syllable that comes out of his mouth as he attempts to let his brain wrap around the situation. “Are you a ghost?”

The feared look of the black haired man actually fades some as he lets a quiet giggle escape (a very cute giggle, if Luke is being honest). “I’m, uh, not a ghost. No. Though I guess that does kind of accurately explain what I’m trying to be.”

Now Luke is even more confused. Based on the statement, he obviously wasn’t making up all of the tabloid stories he had seen about Ashton dying but something isn’t adding up to the present moment. “I don't-”

“Listen, if you’re going to go tell the press, can you at least give me like,” he glances down at his phone screen displaying the time. “2 hours to get back out to my friend’s place where I’ve been hiding?”

It’s now Luke’s turn to laugh. “You do realize if I go to some paparazzi or something and tell them I saw deceased Ashton Irwin wandering around my grocery store trying to decide between hazelnut and cashew milk they would just laugh in my face, right?”

The statement causes Ashton to look down at his hands to the milks in his hands. He sighs down at the cartons before tossing both of them in the cart. “Guess you’re not really wrong.”

“Is someone pulling some kind of long-winded, over the top prank on me right now? Am I being punk’d?” Luke asks, his head tilting some in a way that would normally have Michael making fun of him for the child-like behavior. “Because I know for a fact that I am not worth that much effort.”

The questions have Ashton smiling a bit again and Luke suddenly finds himself wanting to say increasingly dumb things so long as it’ll keep the hazel-eyed man smiling. “No, no. Not at all. I just,” his smile falters some, leaving his lips still turned up but his eyes drop some. “I started to get a little sick of the world and the world started getting a bit sick of me, I think.” Luke wonders if Ashton knew just how heavy his words feel.

He scoffs then, as if hearing Luke’s silent question. “Wow, sorry that was really dramatic,” Ashton shakes his head a bit before continuing. “Hi, I’m Ashton.”

Luke looks down to the tanned arm being stretched out toward him. He lifts a hand from his shopping cart and wraps it around Ashton’s. “I’m Luke.”

Ashton brightens again as he shakes his hand. “Well, Luke, you’re the first person other than my current landlord of sorts that I’ve come across since literally dying in the eyes of the media. So I guess I owe you an explanation? Since it seems like you’re familiar with that media viewpoint?”

Ashton moves to start pushing his cart in the direction of another area of the store but peers over his shoulder and gestures with his head to follow him. Luke quickly reaches into the fridge on his left to grab the rest of his dairy before catching up to him. “Well, you really don’t owe me anything. I don’t know you beyond what I see of you on my TV screen,” Luke wonders then if maybe he should have played it a bit cooler and not told the cute, presumed dead TV star that he watches his shows. “But I am a bit confused by whatever is going on and would like to hear anything you’re willing to share.”

“Cute and polite,” Ashton muses, avoiding Luke’s eye as he continues forward toward the packaged food aisles. “You’re already checking boxes, Luke.”

Some kind of intelligible noise falls from Luke’s lips as he feels a blush rush up to his cheeks because he’s flirting with him. Ashton only laughs and starts his story.

“Well Luke, you seem to be aware of what I did for a living up until about 2 months ago. I’ve been doing this job for like, about 5 years and before every new season of anything, there’s all these big network and programming meetings about production and filming and such. And every single time, I get hounded by our ratings people because I apparently don’t do enough to instigate and promote drama. Like my contract was getting threatened like three times a year because rather than trying to make peoples’ lives miserable, I just want to help them fall in love.

“And so at this particular meeting, about two and half months ago, just before the ‘accident’,” he punctuates the word with air quotations. “I got the boot. Ratings from the previous season were down by 3% and all of the uppers decided it was because of my congeniality and not the fact that the guy they chose for the season was a complete dick.

“So that night I have to host the red carpet stuff for an awards show. And I’m talking with all these glittery people who also do TV work and it suddenly hits me, harder than it ever has before, that every single person I’m speaking to would never even bother to smile in my direction if they didn’t know who I was. If I was just a plain old guy, the kind of guy I was back in school before I signed on to the shows, they probably wouldn’t pay me a single bit of kindness. So I decided, right then, as I was talking to some Grey’s Anatomy actor, that I wanted to get out.”

He turns into the chip aisle then, and Luke follows close behind. “You decided you wanted to step away from television and your first idea was to fake your own death?”

Ashton laughs as he reaches for a couple tubes of Pringles. “It was more than that,” he starts as he tosses the tubes into the cart. “I wanted to escape celebrity all together, not just the world of television. A friend from back home that I would trust with my life had this cabin kinda out in the middle of nowhere in this forest and he only ever uses it for like, two weeks in the summer and said I could camp out there until I find a way to get back to Australia undetected to live at the house I bought over there a few years ago. My manager helped with all the media stories and such. And two months later, here we are.”

“That’s insane,” Luke shakes his head as he speaks, reaching for his own tube of Pringles as he realizes it's been quite awhile since he got his hand stuck in a Pringle tube so why not?

“The journey is a bit wild, I will agree, Luke, but the life I’m living right now is much more enjoyable than faking it every damn day.”

Luke shakes his head (and ignores the fluttery feeling he keeps getting when Ashton says his name). “No, I mean it’s insane that I am somehow the first person that’s caught you.”

Ashton’s brows perk up at the statement. “Oh yeah no, I’m also pretty surprised by that. Figured I would have had to pay off a lot of people by now to keep them quiet.”

They’ve both pushed their carts up toward the self check out how and start scanning away at their items. Luke looks up halfway through his cart and catches Calum giving him a look from a little ways away. He’s got a suggestive look on his face. But thankfully it's one that reads much more as “ohhh Luke is talking to a boy” rather than “ohhh there’s a celebrity in my store”. Plus Luke knows Calum wouldn’t be the type to go rushing to media people to out the presence of dead celebrities in his grocery store at 2am so he chooses to subtly flip him off before reaching for the next item in his basket.

They’re both about done scanning and bagging up their groceries when Luke starts to realize he really...doesn’t want this little bit of time he’s spent with Ashton to end yet. And given his lack of normal human interaction during daylight hours as of recently, he’s a bit out of practice on the whole asking someone to extend a conversation beyond the grocery store aisles. He drops his bags back into his cart to roll back out to his car and as he watches Ashton perform the same action the words just sort of leap from his mouth. “Hey do you, uh, have anywhere to be right now?”

Ashton gently places a bag containing some produce into his cart before turning to Luke, a teasing smirk resting on his lips. “Luke, it’s 2am and I’m presumed dead to everyone but about 4 people,” he catches that Luke still looks somewhat nervous (something he would later reflect on to tell him just how damn cute it was) and continues. “So I’ve got just about all the time in the world.”

“Want to come to mine for lunch? We could make something and watch a show or keep chatting or something?” he asks, tentatively. 

He watches as Ashton’s face shifts a bit, obviously confused by some part of what Luke’s just said. “Why would you ask if I’m free now if you were wanting to make lunch plans?”

Luke realizes his request requires some explanation for people that live during normal human hours. “Oh, because I have lunch at about 3am. Because I work nights. So right now feels like,” he pauses a moment, trying to decide and calculate what time this would have been for him before taking his job. “It feels like about 11am-ish for me right now. So close to lunch time.”

They’re out in the parking lot now and Ashton just stops for a moment beside Luke in the middle of the lot and looks up at him for a moment, a smile spreading across his face, his dimples, ones that Luke had grown used to seeing on his TV screens over the last few years, increasingly deepen. “Lunch sounds nice.”

* 

Ashton follows Luke back to his apartment (and to the brief stop he makes at Michael’s where he ignores the comments about the man parked in the car behind his) and they park in the garage, carrying their groceries in their arms up to his unit. They each deposit their cold and frozen items into Luke’s fridge and he pours them each a glass of water as Ashton takes a seat at his kitchen counter. Luke sips from his glass as he watches Ashton glance around his kitchen and living room.

“I try to keep it cozy,” Luke explains as he reaches into a cabinet for a couple pots and pans. He migrates over to his sink to fill a pot with water to boil. “Needed it when I first started the working at night thing and I needed to find a way to force myself to sleep when the sun was up. Gonna make some pasta and chicken thing, that cool?”

Ashton smiles warmly from his place at the counter. “Sounds lovely. You mind if I use that?” he points to the opposite corner of the space where a black Keurig machine sits. “I don’t often do this whole living like normal in the night thing.”

Luke laughs at the comment on being nocturnal. “Go for it.” 

He turns back to the pan of chicken, chopping it up and moving it around some before turning to a different burner and tossing in a few things to make a garlic sauce. He can make maybe two things that qualify as meals rather than just large portioned snacks so he’s opted for one of those since he so rarely has company. 

“What do you do then that’s got you up all through the night?” Ashton asks as he opens the cabinet above the coffee machine pulling down a bright yellow mug. The color suits him, Luke thinks. “You work in tech support or something?”

“Thankfully very far off from that,” Luke starts with a giggle. “I’m absolute garbage with computers. I work the nurses’ desk for the recovery wing at one of the children’s hospitals. It’s a lot of checking and distributing charts, ordering things for the nurses, talking to parents when they want more logistical updates on their child’s care there. Sometimes I get to help entertain the kids who get to go out and about. Yesterday I let them request songs to play for awhile and then we had show and tell.”

“God, you’re like something out of some cheesy movie, huh?”

Luke turns to see Ashton smiling up at him, his arms crossed at his chest as he leans against the counter to face him, the coffee machine whirring to life behind him. Luke bites at his cheek to avoid an entirely too large smile to spread across his face though he knows he can’t help the blush painting it’s way across his nose and cheeks. “It’s a good job. Even worth the whole graveyard shift situation.”

Ashton grimaces at the end of Luke’s reply. “Night shoots used to kick my ass. There is nothing in the world more terrifying than slightly drunk women in hot pink crying over some complete asshole rejecting them after a cocktail party at 2am.”

“Was there anything about it that you liked, though?” Luke asks after he turns down the heat to let the sauce simmer for a bit. He watches Ashton stir some milk into his mug that he retrieved from the fridge.

“Of course,” Ashton answers quickly, in a tone that projects honesty rather than just being used to answering the question. “I got to travel to places I would have never made it to otherwise, meet people that I considered heroes growing up, provide for myself and my family. And for a while that’s why I just dealt with the bull shit. But I started to realize I was working my ass off for all of that good stuff I was getting. That I didn’t have to deal with things in exchange for those things that were mine because of my work.”

Luke isn’t quite sure what to respond to that. Because he’s right, the logic is obvious and sound on all of it. As he’s trying to formulate a response though, Ashton cuts in again. “Though I guess maybe that’s a pretty privileged logic I-”

“No, don’t,” Luke cuts him off. “You shouldn’t justify the unfair parts of your job like that. You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your own values about the way people should be interacting with one another for the sake of drama for good TV ratings. You don’t owe anything to anyone who doesn’t actually give a shit about you as a person. I’ve known you for like two hours and it already just baffles me why someone wouldn’t want to know who you are behind the stage makeup and scripted lines.”

He watches as Ashton lifts the mug to his lips, pink cheeks peeking out from each side (he wonders if the change in color comes from the heat of the mug or the words he’s just said). He lowers the mug and his lips lift into a lazy smile. “See now I’m starting to wonder if I’m actually dead. Your kindness is angelic.”

Luke hasn’t a single clue how to respond to that so he gives the hazel-eyed man a small smile before returning to his saucepan. Ashton shifts the conversation then, asking Luke more about his job before telling him about the gardening he’s taken up since being stuck out in the middle of nowhere on his own. He shows Luke pictures of his herb garden and points out each one as he names it. As he starts putting food into bowls, Luke offhandedly mentions how he’s always wanted to grow lavender but tending to plants when you sleep through the sunshine makes gardening difficult. He drops a fork into a bowl and when he turns to hand it to Ashton, Luke watches as he hits the “Add to Cart” option on an Amazon page for lavender seeds. His heart does some kind of funny rhythm as butterflies burst in his chest. Their eyes meet as Ashton locks his phone and looks up to him. 

“Pretend you didn’t see that, I want it to be a surprise,” Ashton whispers between the two of them, his right eye winking up at Luke as he accepts the bowl.

“So this is going to be happening again then?” Luke muses as he grabs his own bowl and walks toward the living room. Ashton follows behind him. “I should plan for future early morning lunches with a dead celebrity?”

“I know it comes with some amount of risk for both of us but,” Ashton looks down toward his feet, scratching at the back of his neck as he tries to come up with the right way to phrase things. Luke turns to face him as he hears the hesitation in his voice. “I really want to see you again. This has been nice. And not just because you’re the first person I’ve spoken to other than my mother in two months. I...want to know you, Luke.”

Luke smiles tiredly, feelings the earliness of the hour in a way that he hasn’t in quite some time. He watches as Ashton’s fingers fidget with a string hanging from the end of his sweatshirt, obviously nervous about what he’s just admitted to the man he’s only just really met, still. Luke reaches forward for his hand, tangling their fingers together as he squeezes his palm against Ashton’s. It feels nice to be close to someone like this. It’s something he didn’t realize he was missing out on while only really living in the night.

“I think you’re worth the risk, Ashton.”

He watches as Ashton looks down to their intertwined hands, Luke’s eyes following to the same place. His hands are pale from the lack of much sunlight other than what he gets at sunset when he goes out to take his walk after waking. Ashton’s is warm and tanned, likely from the sun he gets from days in his secret garden hideout. He barely knows this man, apart from the apparently highly curated version he’s seen on screen. He wants to know the Ashton that speaks like sunshine and loves love enough to lose his job over. He wants to know the steps he knows he’s skipping in his story right now that led to him faking his own death. So it’s no surprise that the next words have him smiling bright enough to light up the early morning they found each other in. 

“I think we’re worth the risk, too.”

*

[setsuna-maru]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale, 半妖の夜叉姫 | Hanyou no Yashahime | Yashahime: Princess Half-Demon (Anime) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Rin/Sesshoumaru (InuYasha) Characters: Rin (InuYasha), Sesshoumaru (InuYasha), Zero (Hanyou no Yashahime), Riku (Hanyou no Yashahime), Jaken (InuYasha) Additional Tags: Pre-Hanyou no Yashahime, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, Angst, Pregnancy, Horror Elements Summary:

Rin and Sesshoumaru have embarked on the life of expectant parents to hanyo twins but not everyone is happy for the devoted couple. In the shadows awaits a spider whose venomous bite will both rekindle old nightmares and create entirely new ones.

Zero, still resentful from the Inu no Taisho's rejection and death hundreds of years earlier, schemes to bring down his son Sesshoumaru and his human bride.

All the while, the ill-fated pair will make the most of their fleeting time together, forging a unique path and dancing to their own rhythm.

Chapter 1: the night bandits/venus; the star love, who waits for the moon

nocturne one: the night bandits

(in the darkest point of night, I want you to be here like before...)

 It’s as though Rin has been sent back in time, for she finds herself walking around her old village; a small child once again. She's having trouble coming to terms with the sudden reversal. Looking down at her body she sees tiny, bare feet and a distinct lack of womanly curves. Her kimono is one she remembers well but hasn't worn in many years. A pinkish-red garment that wraps around her lithe, diminutive frame as she brushes her now child-sized hands across it in confusion and disbelief. Her view of her surroundings is that of a child’s too; once more knee-high to the rest of the world, she must gaze upwards at seemingly everyone and everything she comes across. 

  This isn't right  , she thinks. We're all those years just a dream? Had she never really grown up? Had  Sesshoumaru-sama  been merely a dream? All of her adventures? The time spent living with Kaede-sama in the miko's village? It's heartbreaking to think that the entire life that she lived since leaving this place might never have actually happened at all. She wonders, sadly,  what about her babies? An expectant mother—the last she remembered—at the age she's regressed to, motherhood could be enacted only with dolls and her own imagination.

 She idly wanders the village, re-visiting all the old landmarks of her childhood. She passes the paddy fields, the fish preserve, the drunken old hermit who always sat beside the same rock with a bottle of sake clutched in his hand. When he drank he liked to sing songs about the good old days and he sings the same one each time she passes. “ That’s the sound of a million ships/ just sailin’ away/it can feel like before/comin’ through, either way.”  At one point, Rin even comes upon the dilapidated shack that she'd lived in after becoming an orphan. She enters it and there’s a wolf, curled up asleep on her bed of straw and she swiftly but silently backs away until she’s on the main pathway again.

 She remembers how to get to her childhood home; knows the path like the back of her hand. She chooses to avoid it; backtracking or taking a sudden swing in the opposite direction when she realizes she’s getting too close. It’s as if returning there would mean accepting that her life since the death of her family had been nothing more than an illusion. She’s not ready for that. She’s still in denial, thinking that if she turns the right corner she’ll end up back under a tree; her head in Sesshoumaru’s lap, their hanyo twins growing in her womb. It’s as if the village itself is waiting on her to accept her retrogradation; the villagers do not speak to her or seem to even acknowledge that she’s there. It’s like she’s caught in some strange limbo; unable to rejoin this world but prevented from moving on. She floats through the village like a spirit who does not belong there anymore. A stranger in a body she can't accept as her own; merely the puppeteer of it's bird-like, underdeveloped limbs.

 Eventually, the world gets tired of waiting for her while she wanders around in circles and Rin is deposited into her childhood home. She had taken a left at the singing hermit (“ That’s the sound of a million ships/just sailin’ away/it can feel like before/comin’ through, either way.”) and walked directly into the cozy wooden house of her youth. Her mother is sitting in the middle of the room,  tending to the fire pit. Her brothers play a game in the corner. Her father has dozed off on the straw mat, exhausted after a long day.

 Her mother adds another log to the burning flames and addresses her daughter. “Rin, don’t be lazy. You’ve been mucking around for years now. Enough is enough. Come help your  Oka .”

 Rin’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Her mother  knew; knew Rin had been gone for  years. How could she have let her mother think she’d abandoned the family like that? What kind of daughter was she? Why would she ever—

  None of this makes any sense. She’d had every reason to believe that her family were dead and gone forever. She’d  watched  them die. It had seemed so real; her most painful memory. The one that had continued to haunt her for long after. She'd watched these people  die  but here they were, nonetheless.

 She looks at her now-living family and wants to feel happy. That horrible night; the screaming, the stabbing, the blood—It had all been just some terrible dream. And now, they’ve been given a second chance. She could look forward to the future where her family was alive and they could all be together again.

 But, despite telling herself this, Rin can’t muster up a single feeling of happiness at the sight in front of her. It was like looking at ghosts. Ghosts that don’t even realize they’re ghosts.

  Dead dead dead.  All of you are  dead, she thinks.

 A bright, orange light starts to emit from outside. Rin turns around. There’s light emitting from the lone window at the front wall and from a bright square that has formed around the doorway.  She goes over and pushes the doorway curtain aside to see what’s going on but the light is so bright it nearly blinds her. She reaches an arm up to cover her eyes as she lets the curtain fall.

 When she opens her eyes again, everything is dark. She's still in her family's old house but it’s almost pitch-black and she struggles to make out the forms of her parents and brothers, asleep under their covers. The orange glow begins to peek through the window again and the room is gradually illuminated with the color—the color of flames, she realizes.

 Against the far wall, the orange light begins to morph into distinctive shapes. Hulking men in armor with weapons in their grasps. Behind her she can hear the stomping of horse hoofs and the cries of the neighbors. The orange glow illuminates the entire room now, in a mockery of daylight. The light is oppressive and overly luminescent and makes it seem as though the house could explode into flames at any second.

 The stomping noise is now dangerously close and Rin dives out of the path of the doorway moments before men on horseback crash through the front wall of the house. It's instant chaos as the horses neigh loudly, the men shout and her family screams as they scramble out of bed.

 Rin’s only instinct is to escape. It makes her feel like a terrible coward but she knows she'll surely be killed if she stays. The bandits have already started on her parents. One of them roughly grabs her mother, yanking off the kimono she'd been sleeping under and stabbing her with a long spear. The painful howls emitting from her mother’s mouth are even more awful to hear than the sight is to witness.

 She needs to get away. Praying the chaos will be enough to allow her to get out of the house unnoticed, she props herself up on her hands and knees and crawls as quickly and quietly as she can to the doorway. As soon as she makes it outside, she climbs to her feet and breaks into a run.

 Her escape doesn't bring safety though. It did, once. In a memory she no longer trusts was ever real.

 The bandits are everywhere. 

 There's no direction she can run to avoid them. While she stands immobile in the middle of the village, desperately considering her dwindling options, the bandits begin to notice her. They point and yell. "The little girl, let's take her too!"

 "Grab her before she gets away!"

 "Kill her if she tries to resist!"

 "Kill her anyway!"

 They begin to advance on her and Rin can think of only way she could possibly be saved.

 "Sesshoumaru-sama!" She screams. But it's too early. He doesn't know her yet. If he ever really existed at all. If he wasn't just a dream she'd made up in her mind.

 "Sesshoumaru-sama!" She screams again. She screams his name over and over again until she feels the bandits blade in her side and the moist flow of blood as it drips down her skin.

 tarantella one: venus; the star love, who waits for the moon

(when you go, do you miss me?)

 Rin's eyes snap open and in her first few manic moments of consciousness, Rin bolts to a sitting position and pulls her kimono up to examine her leg. The sensation of something wet on her thigh is still there. A quick exploration with her fingers confirms this and her heart drops. She pushes more of the fabric out of the way to get a better view and her eyes land on the trail of blood running down her leg.

  Real, real, it was real, she thinks as she frantically searches for a wound. Something had really hurt her,  stabbed her,  and now she was going to bleed out on the forest floor. In her distressed state, she ignores what should be the curious lack of pain if she had indeed suffered a flesh wound. Instead, she continues to look for evidence of the deep cut she’s convinced is somewhere on her body.

 "Rin," a low, deep voice breaks into her panicked thoughts.

 "Calm yourself.” Sesshoumaru leans down on one knee beside her, his clawed hand coming to cradle her chin.

 “The bleeding just started. I smelled it and was about to wake you." The voice is measured but laced with concern. She was one of the few people who have recognized the nuance.

 It’s such a relief for Rin to hear that voice. Just hearing his voice and being in his presence grounds her and she allows herself to accept that the experience had only been a nightmare and she's now safely back in the real world.

 She  was  bleeding, though. Rin examines her leg closer. She's calmer now but still disorientated from the nightmare. Not completely back to reality just yet.

 "Rin was having a nightmare," she says. "Someone stabbed me in my leg. There was so much blood," she explains.

 "There's no wound," Sesshoumaru reassures her. "It was just a dream. The bleeding; it’s from your cycle.” His keen sense of smell meant he could accurately judge the difference.

 She gulped nervously. “Do you think the babies are alright?”

 “It’s probably nothing to worry about,” he reassures her again, although they’re both well aware that he’s hardly an expert in the subject.

 This isn’t the first time this has happened to her. Rin had been a midwife-in-training and knew that women were supposed to cease bleeding during pregnancy, so when she’d bled the first time after knowing she was with child she’d panicked, believing she was having a miscarriage. Sesshomaru had had to rush her to the nearest human village so she could be told by a jaded local midwife with an obvious distaste for human-yokai relations that she hadn’t suffered a miscarriage. Apparently, continuing to bleed even while pregnant was normal and didn’t necessarily indicate a problem. Though, even with this information, Rin still found herself becoming anxious each time it happened subsequently.

 “Rin is going to the pond to clean up,” she says, rising to her feet. “Will you wait here until I come back?” Her nightmare had greatly disturbed her and she really doesn’t want to return to find herself alone.

 Sesshoumaru nodded and Rin began to walk toward the pond. Another stream of blood rolls down the length of her thigh and she holds her kimono and her underlayer up and away from her body. They were already slightly bloodied and she doesn’t want to risk staining them further.

 It’s still very early in the morning. The sun has yet to come up and Rin has to strain her eyes to tell where she's going and walk slowly so she won’t trip over anything. Treading barefoot across the lush field at such an ethereal hour, she’s able to relax slightly. The stark, cool sensation of dewy blades of grass catching between her toes is refreshing compared to the warm, sticky blood that drips down her legs.

 Rin wonders if the nightmares about her family’s death will ever go away completely. They had become significantly less frequent over the years and she’d gotten to the point where she could go months without having one at all. But they always returned. There seemed to be no comfort in the entire world, not even the devotion of Sesshoumaru-sama himself, that could keep them at bay.

 She reached the pond and stripped off her kimono, leaving herself clad only in her hadajuban. She carefully rinses the blood out of the cloth and then sets it aside. Splashing some of the pond water onto her legs, Rin cleans the sticky liquid from her skin. Once she finishes, she picks up her kimono and begins to walk back before pausing to admire the sky. Dawn would be breaking soon; the first hints of sunlight were peeking out over the horizon, leaving only the brightest stars still visible.

 “Beautiful, isn’t it,” a man’s voice, unfamiliar to her ears, breaks into her reverie.

 Rin jumps a little, startled. She’d had no idea anyone else was even out there. Even though it’s still quite dark, she pulls her dampened kimono back on. It would be improper for a married woman like herself to be seen in her hadajuban by someone who wasn’t her husband. Once she’s convinced she’s decent enough, she darts her head around in search of the voice's origin. Blinking into the fading darkness, she spots a figure perched atop a rock at the edge of the pond.  Had that person been there the entire time?

 Rin could just make out the man’s appearance. He was fairly tall, with chin-length hair and wearing a dark kosode under a lighter colored haori and a pair of striped hakama. Despite addressing her, the man wasn’t looking towards her. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the lightening sky.

 “That bright planet that hangs up there on early mornings like this; do you know the name of it?” he asks her.

 Rin looks back to the sky, where one star burned bigger and brighter than any of the others.

 “Oh,” she says, “‘that’s ‘the metal star’ isn’t it?” That was the name that Rin had known it by, although Miroku-sama had told them other names for it he had been aware of, like Jīn-xīng and Shukra Graha.

 “Venus; the morning star,” the man says, eyes transfixed on the celestial object in question.  “The star of love.”

 Rin was intrigued by the man’s description. She could understand why it would be called ‘the morning star’ but...

 “Why, ‘the star of love?’”

 “There exists a far-off land called Rome,” he tells her, “where they ‘do as the Romans do’ as they say!” He says this with a laugh but Rin doesn’t get the reference and isn’t sure what about it is supposed to be funny.

 “The ancient Romans worshipped Venus as their goddess of love and named the brightest star in the sky in her honor.”

 “Ah!” he continues, “but the Romans aren’t the only ones who associate this star with love. Travel west towards the continent and you’ll find those who refer to it by two names; sao Mai, the morning star and sao Hôm, the evening star. Because they’re considered distinct entities, existing at different times, they’re likened to separated lovers. They also have another word for the same star, sao Vượt—The climbing star.”

 The sky was becoming lighter and lighter as the man talked and Rin could make out his physical appearance more clearly now. He looked young and not really like any human Rin had encountered, with his auburn-colored hair. But he didn’t look like a yokai either. Perhaps he was a traveling foreigner; it would explain how he knew so much about far-away lands and cultures.

 “The climbing star?” she inquires.

 The man nods. “They have a poem about it; ‘When you go, do you miss me? I am the climbing star waiting for the moon in the sky .’”

 “That’s beautiful,” Rin says. It reminds her of a song she used to sing.  ‘I will wait, all alone/For Sesshoumaru-sama’s return.’

 That was what she was, Rin thinks. A climbing star. A morning star. Venus, with all her love, who waits for her evening moon.

 “It is?” the man asks. “Beautiful?”

 “Yes,” Rin nods. “It reminds me of a song I used to sing.”

 “Oh?” he says, finally turning to look at her. There’s a peculiar expression on his face. “What did it sound like—Your song?”

 Rin feels a sudden sense of unease at the tone in his voice.

 “Was it…” he hums a brief melody, “the sound of a million ships, just sailing away… ”

 Rin can feel her heart sink. She  knows  she’s heard that before. But  where had she heard that before? It sounded so familiar to her but try as she might, she just couldn’t place it. She racks her brain, trying to come up with the memory.

 The man continues to stare at her, vacantly. All the friendliness from before has been drained away.

 “Rin,” Sesshoumaru’s voice says from behind her. “Is this man bothering you?”

 Rin turns around to see him standing there, eyes slightly narrowed.

 “No, Sesshoumaru-sama, everything is fine. This man was just telling Rin about—”

 She turns back to the mysterious stranger but there’s no one perched atop the rock and the man is nowhere to be seen.

[tatticstudio55]

Dany, ghosts and mythical figures

Pasting it under the cut because it’s a bit long. I wrote this for a colloquy that’s currently scheduled for the end of May, and I try to be optimist but it’s in France, I live in Canada, all our borders are currently closed and it doesn’t look like things are about to get better anytime soon, so... I though I’d try translating it into english (warning: it might not come off as too polished) and share it here, at the very least 😔. Que sera sera. Aaaaand tagging you @tomakeitbeautifultolive

The term "ghost" used here therefore refers to this role of intermediary, or passer, between the worlds concerned – Cécile Sakai

 The loss, the mourning and the reality of the in-between, or intermediate states, occupy a fundamental place in Daenerys’s story. She was born in mourning, exiled from birth and leads a wandering existence from an early childhood. No matter where she goes, she’s seen as a stranger. She exists, but does not really belong anywhere. Her story is shaped by the reality and experience of the intermediary.

The first thing we notice about her, and from her first appearance in the novels, is the way in which the author uses the character's physical appearance to indicate a symbolic proximity to the ghostly, or the surreal: her pallor, her small size, her typical Valyrian features. Even the dress, chosen for her by Illyrio Myopatis, seems to enhances Daenerys’s “immateriality”:

Dany touched it. The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember ever wearing anything so soft. It frightened her. She pulled her hand away. "Is it really mine?" – AGOT, Dany I

The dress is meant as a reflection of the wearer. Daenerys’s eyes are the same color as the dress, (or a close match – amethyst and plum), her hair the same liquidity (“The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver”), her body the same ethereal characteristics ("She is a vision, Your Grace, a vision," he told her brother. "Drogo will be enraptured." "She's too skinny," Viserys said.). Beyond the matter of the body itself, Daenerys shows some parallels with vampirism, ritually “absorbing” elements which quite clearly symbolize life forces. Pregnant, she eats a stallion's heart "raw and bloody", in accordance with the Dothrake custom that believes it will give the child strength, swiftness and fearlessness. The scene takes place in a nocturnal environment and the text very much emphasize the "bloodiness" of the ceremony. Daenerys later receives, and in more dire circumstances, her first “initiation” to blood magic with Mirri Maz Duur (blood magic resting on the vampirical tenet that only death can pay for life). And when Drogo's funeral pyre burns –

The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. – AGOT, Dany X

Here she appears not quite “human”, glowing and feeding from the fire, whereas the flames are depicted in a very anthropomorphic way. The "dancers" spin, twirl and whirl in a vision that celebrates sensuality and physical vigor. Daenerys merges with the flames and is reborn from them, but her own body is no longer able to give life.

Subsequently, the books bring forefront the foils between the ever-growing physical presence of the dragons and the frail-like body of their mother. Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion fall into every physical extreme: extreme size and strength (getting there), the extreme amount of food they eat and the heat they give off. They "steam" in the cold, at night, while around them the khalasar disintegrate, Daenerys' flesh "falls away" and she becomes "lean and hard as a stick" (ACOK, Dany I). Drogon’s fire saves Daenerys from actual vampirical beings (the Undyings). The foils between mother and dragon(s) reaches a climax in Dany IX, ADWD, when Daenerys confronts an unleashed (and much larger) Drogon in the arena of Daznak:

In the smoldering red pits of Drogon's eyes, Dany saw her own reflection. How small she looked, how weak and frail and scared. – ADWD, Dany IX

Where Drogon is the “body” and Dany the “ghost”, the overwhelming physical presence of the former emphasizes and amplifies the stark opposite of the latter. Dany, like the first dress she was given, is akin to water and keep slipping through people’s fingers: those who hunt her, those who want her dead, those who want to marry her and those who want to use her.

Laughter erupted all around them. Even the old man joined in. "You saw her, then," said the redheaded boy behind them. "You saw the queen. Is she as beautiful as they say?"

I saw a slender girl with silvery hair wrapped in a tokar, he might have told them. Her face was veiled, and I never got close enough for a good look. – ADWD, Tyrion XI

Here, for instance, those who speak are on the hunt for stories, tales and rumors about the queen. Evasive, Tyrion withholds what he knows. At the same time, he is himself in the position of the frustrated chaser (she was veiled, she was too far away). The losses and bereavements already experienced by characters like Jorah Mormont and himself add an additional angle to the matter: Jorah sees Daenerys as a second Lynesse Hightower (the wife he lost) and Tyrion, while on his “grand travel” to Meereen, asks left right and center "Where do whores go?” (in reference to Tysha, the wife he also lost.) They are both haunted by the ghost of beloved women, which Daenerys gradually comes to replaces, as "perfect" and "ideal" as the first ones, but no less out of reach. Her geographical location in ADWD - Meereen is under siege by sea and land, boats no longer pass through Slaver’s Bay - reveals and hides a more metaphysical gap between Daenerys and her "pursuers": Jorah, Tyrion, Aegon, Euron, Victarion. Quentyn Martell is the exception, not that it ends well for him.

Orpheus and Persephone

-Orpheus

Dany is established very early on as a type of “psychopomp” (for lack of a better word) character: a character who passes from one metaphysical space to another (typically the "world of the dead" and the "world of the living"). Despite her belonging to the "living" world, Dany is pushed into spaces that are heavily associated with death, as well as in roles bearing resemblances with at least two psychopomp figures from Greek mythology: Orpheus and Persephone. Her overall narrative has an orphic tone ("If I look back, I am lost"), but the myth first really appears when Dany plea with Mirri Maz Duur to save Drogo's life:

Mirri Maz Duur tossed a red powder onto the coals. It gave the smoke a spicy scent, a pleasant enough smell, yet Eroeh fled sobbing, and Dany was filled with fear. But she had gone too far to turn back now. – AGOT, Dany VIII

The one rule that Orpheus must follow (to not look back at Eurydice) is meant to keep humans from witnessing directly god(s)’s doings. Mirri Maz Duur imposes the same rule on Dany:

"I will stay," Dany said. "The man took me under the stars and gave life to the child inside me. I will not leave him."

"You must. Once I begin to sing, no one must enter this tent. My song will wake powers old and dark. The dead will dance here this night. No living man must look on them." – AGOT, Dany VIII

Like Dany, Mirri is a psychopomp figure with an ambiguous characterization (the author hints more directly of her ties to the supernatural than he does with Dany). The Lhazarean occupies two realms simultaneously, both intertwining and merging in her presence: a mythical realm from an immemorial time/space, and the realm of the ordinary:

Mirri Maz Duur chanted words in a tongue that Dany did not know, and a knife appeared in her hand. Dany never saw where it came from. It looked old; hammered red bronze, leaf-shaped, its blade covered with ancient glyphs. - AGOT, Dany VIII

The knife’s unknown origins can be interpreted in two ways. Dany does not know where and when it was made - the only conclusion she can draw is that it must be "very old" – nor does she know how (or where) Mirri managed to conceal the weapon. As a result, Mirri comes off as a symbolic embodiment of the mythical realm that’s intertwining with the “normal” space (the tent):

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.

Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone. – AGOT, Dany VIII

The mythical space, however, ends up overflowing its confines - the walls of the tent - onto the ordinary realm, and effectively swallows it. The scenes inside and outside the tent, “bruised-red sky”, Qotho "dancing”, “arakh dancing with arakh”, the Dothraki shouting; Mirri���s “inhuman wails”, the dancing shadows, the brazier, the "bloody bath" inside, are all in perfect symmetry with each other. Then,

No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur's voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! she screamed. The dancers!

Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent. – AGOT, Dany VIII

Here, for instance, the text really insists on the ever-growing presence of the mythical space. The last sentence of the chapter ("Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent") deliberately draws a foil between the reduced space of the tent and the immensity of the sky, somehow making the tent appears much bigger than it really is. And the more it grows, the more it pushes the boundaries of the ordinary space. When Dany open her eyes, the sky itself is remindful of the Asphodels. This is an initiation, i.e., Dany passing from one realm to another for the first time. The "behavior" of the mythical space (the tent) also bring up the question: is Dany the one moving towards said space, or is it the expanding space that’s moving towards her? The tension between the mythical and the ordinary is projected onto its two main actors, Daenerys and Mirri. There’s an underlying, thematic reciprocity established between them, one projecting a distorted reflection of the other, the first even going so far as to assume the role of the second after thanking her for her “lessons". Roles, identities, functions, times and spaces interpenetrate and repel each other, and Dany passes fairly fluidly from one state to another. We talked about how Mirri seemed to have a foot in an ancient, mythical time, but in her next chapter, it is Dany who finds herself trapped in a feverish dream filled with ghosts (her deceased brothers) and mythical figures. The dream is essentially a retelling of Orpheus in the underworld: chased by a cold shadow, Dany runs across a stone hall lined with specters, towards a tiny, faraway red door that’s presumably the only way out. She must reach the door at all costs without looking back, even as the ghosts of loved ones, dead or alive (Drogo, Jorah, Rhaego), appear and vanish before her eyes.

After the tent comes the Red Waste in ACOK, another hardly disguised “underworld” landscape:

“That way lies the red lands, Khaleesi. A grim place and terrible, the riders say."

The rivers they crossed were dry as dead men's bones. Their mounts subsisted on the tough brown devilgrass that grew in clumps at the base of rocks and dead trees.

The Dothraki began to mutter fearfully that the comet had led them to some hell.

The next pool they found was scalding hot and stinking of brimstone. – ACOK, Dany I

Not faring too well, the Khalasar soon turns into a procession of deads (the sick, the starving, the dying and those who died for real). In proper ghost fashion, travel is generally done at night. When they finally reach "Vae Tolorro", Irri ironically worries that the place might be haunted, while in fact they are most likely the “ghosts” there. The place is nicknamed "gardens of the dead", but no one dies there, except for a woman bitten by a scorpion. Coincidentally, Eurydice also died of a poisoned bite.

Seemingly, there’s a pattern with the underworld-coded spaces visited by Dany: each one is larger than the previous one. First a tent, followed by the Red Waste (and a brief “halt” in the HotU), then by Slaver’s Bay. Meereen is a grotesque look-alike of the greek underworld: located in desertic lands, rich in precious stones, with its own brand of Styx ("the slow brown Skahazadhan”), walls topped with “rows of harpy heads with open mouths”, peoples inside worshiping the gods of Ghis with blood sacrifices in the fighting pits. In ADWD, thousands of fleeing astaporian, crippled by hunger and illness, many of them on the brink of death, are crowding under the walls of Meereen. And Dany happens to be this underworld’s queen.

-Persephone

In ACOK, on the day the Khalasar reaches Vae Tolorro, Jorah Mormont visits Dany in her tent and gives her a peach. Then, at her request, he ends up telling her the sad story of his marriage to Lady Lynesse Hightower:

My home was a great disappointment to Lynesse. It was too cold, too damp, too far away, my castle no more than a wooden longhall. We had no masques, no mummer shows, no balls or fairs. Seasons might pass without a singer ever coming to play for us, and there's not a goldsmith on the island. Even meals became a trial. – ACOK, Dany I

The Hightowers are established in the Reach, the most fertile and greenest region of the Seven Kingdoms, and Jorah meets Lynesse in Lannisport smack in the middle of grand festivities. Lynesse is taken from her “flowery kingdom” to be the lady of a gloomy, dead-looking island. Jorah tries to coax her with various luxuries, including the food (“I lived for her smiles, so I sent all the way to Oldtown for a new cook”), but three seeds of pomegranate won’t do. Every now and then Lynesse must be brought back “up”:

I built a fine ship for her and we sailed to Lannisport and Oldtown for festivals and fairs, and once even to Braavos, where I borrowed heavily from the moneylenders. – ACOK, Dany I

Of course, the money runs out and they’re forced to set sail for Bear Islands. Not that it prevents them from leaving again later:

When I heard that Eddard Stark was coming to Bear Island, I was so lost to honor that rather than stay and face his judgment, I took her with me into exile. Nothing mattered but our love, I told myself. We fled to Lys, where I sold my ship for gold to keep us. – ACOK, Dany I

Their marriage eventually dissolves, but the story starts again with Dany in Lynesse’s position. We get an inkling of it with a simple scene (he brings her a fruit plucked from "in the gardens of the dead"), but which also harbors a predatory tone ("The lion pelt slid off one shoulder and she tugged it back into place. "Was she beautiful?" "Very beautiful." Ser Jorah lifted his eyes from her shoulder to her face. " / “Dany shivered, and pulled the lionskin tight about her. She looked like me. It explained much that she had not truly understood. He wants me, she realized. He loves me as he loved her, not as a knight loves his queen but as a man loves a woman.” – ACOK, Dany I). We spoke above of metaphorical “underworlds” visited, occupied or conquered by Dany: Mirri’s tent, the Red Waste, Slaver’s Bay. Not trivially, it is Jorah who carries her inside the tent, Jorah who advises her to go through the Red Waste, Jorah who persuades her to sail to Slaver’s Bay. Persephone’s myth being anchored in the duality of the fertile seasons (the summer months, when Persephone is reunited with Demeter) and the dead seasons (the winter months, which she must spend with her husband), its underlying presence in Dany’s narrative also evolves accordingly, here in relation to Dany’s fertility, here in her role as “Demeter” in Meereen (when she plants bean crops, olive trees), at a key time where Jorah (Hades) isn’t by her side. Hints pointing to Persephone and Demeter are all the more revealing because there seems to be a direct link between plant fertility, mother / child union and human fertility:

"I am the blood of the dragon," she told the grass, aloud.

Once, the grass whispered back, until you chained your dragons in the dark.

"Drogon killed a little girl. Her name was … her name …" Dany could not recall the child's name. That made her so sad that she would have cried if all her tears had not been burned away. "I will never have a little girl. I was the Mother of Dragons." – ADWD, Dany X

This "exchange" takes place in the Dothrake Sea, "paler than she remembered, a wan and sickly green on the verge of going yellow”. Dany, distraught by the death of a little girl, by the conviction that she herself will never conceive, and guilt-ridden for chaining her own "children" in a dark pit (another metaphor of Persephone chained to the underworld during winter), expresses her sorrow at the dying grass. Then, Jorah’s “ghost” returns to her:

Never, said the grass, in the gruff tones of Jorah Mormont. You were warned, Your Grace. Let this city be, I said. Your war is in Westeros, I told you. – ADWD, Dany X

The dying of the grass, crops and vegetation is always presented as the prima facie of the end of summer and the return of Persephone to the underworld. This is why the grass speaks with Jorah’s voice, and why Daenerys mourns her lost, forgotten or dead children in a dying grass sea.

Appearance and resorption of myths

We’ll try to tackle the character's role in a more general context here, because her narrative impact is currently limited to Essos. It’s through Tyrion that Dany and Westeros really intersect for the first time. From the fighting pits, Tyrion sees a veiled, “slender girl with silvery hair wrapped in a tokar” in the tribunes. This is not Jorah or Barristan, or even Quentyn Martell who, although tied to both sides of Planetos, do not play a significant role in what’s currently happening on the West side. Tyrion is another matter. He is the in-narrative eye of Westeros.

They’re about to unleash lions on Tyrion and Penny. As soon as she hears of it, Dany puts the breaks. Tyrion's memories of her make her akin to an apparition, or a mirage: veiled, indistinct, distant, soaring in a whirlwind of smoke on her dragon. It also happens in a place sharing glaring resemblances with the Red Waste:

“She had seen the fighting pits many times from her terrace. The small ones dotted the face of Meereen like pockmarks; the larger were weeping sores, red and raw.”

“The red sands drank his blood”

“Running, she could feel the sand between her toes, hot and rough.”

“He beat his wings again, sending up a choking storm of scarlet sand. Dany stumbled into the hot red cloud, coughing.”

“Black blood was flowing from the wound where the spear had pierced him, smoking where it dripped onto the scorched sands.”

“The black wings cracked like thunder, and suddenly the scarlet sands were falling away beneath her.” – ADWD, Dany IX

In ACOK, Dany and her Khalasar also encounter a mirage-like city in the desert:

"A city, Khaleesi," they cried. "A city pale as the moon and lovely as a maid. An hour's ride, no more."

When the city appeared before her, its walls and towers shimmering white behind a veil of heat, it looked so beautiful that Dany was certain it must be a mirage. – ACOK, Dany I

Vae Tolorro and Dany are not mirages, however. Vae Tolorro really saved Dany’s Khalasar from a certain death in the desert. Dany really saved Tyrion from the lions. The repercussions of her actions are too real, her physical impact on the story is too great for one to put her among the true "ghost" characters, such as Lynesse or Tysha.

Only, here’s the deal: Daenerys Targaryen is a character of exceptional circumstances, of one-time deals, and exceptional circumstances, 1) do not last, 2) do not happen again, and 3) are not recoverable. Circumstances such as these create myths, and myths are reproduced, or imitated, or preserved as legends, but they will never happen a second time like they happened on the first time. Vae Tolorro did exist once, but withdrew from the story once his function was filled, and Dany will likely never return there. Drogon did appear in the Daznak arena, causing an “unusual” disaster, but the incident is unlikely to happen again. What remains afterward of Vae Tolorro, of Daenerys and Drogon in the arena, are mirages, imitations and imitators. Dany is not at this stage. She is at the archaic stage of the first time (Mircea Eliade, The myth of the eternal return), where the gap between the mythical and the ordinary is the deepest, and where the resorption of the myth is the most brutally felt. Dany, a very human character in and of itself, suffers from these effects more than anyone. Immediately after the birth of her dragons (the mythical event), she must undertake a difficult journey in the desert, that leaves her physically worn out and, in a way, physically diminished (the resorption):

Dany hungered and thirsted with the rest of them. The milk in her breasts dried up, her nipples cracked and bled, and the flesh fell away from her day by day until she was lean and hard as a stick - ACOK, Dany I

And following immediately her first flight on Drogon (the mythical event) she gets lost in the Dothrake sea, which once again takes a physical toll on her –

It was afternoon by the time Dany found the stream she had glimpsed atop the hill. It was a rill, a rivulet, a trickle, no wider than her arm … and her arm had grown thinner every day she spent on Dragonstone. – ADWD, Dany X

- almost to the point of literally being resorbed into the earth:

My flesh will feed the wolves and carrion crows, she thought sadly, and worms will burrow through my womb. – ADWD, Dany X

There are therefore two fundamental elements one should consider with regards to Dany: the authentic myth, and the nostalgia of the lost myth. It’s part of what makes Dany’s narrative so compelling. The authentic myth belongs to an immemorial past. The memory of the myth belongs to the present. And Daenerys belongs to both. Should she reconcile these two parts? If so, is this reconciliation supposed to play a role in the outcome, not only of her own story, but of the entire series? We raise the issue because the myth / memory dichotomy is not exclusive to Dany; see, for example, the "Others" (the myth) and the three-eyed raven (the memory). It all remains to be seen. In any case, I’m intrigued by this tendency to bestow ghost-like characteristic to a character who’s frequently moving from one realm to another, whatever these realms are supposed to be: the world of the dead and the world of the living, the past and the present, the mythical and the real…

[border-spam]

Leech Lord prompts : What she wants

Late Cov - 

She wants it back far more often than she would ever admit.

The urge comes and goes, but it's common, way too common for someone telling themself they are happy in their current situation at least. It mostly hits when she's stressed, when it's been a rough day, or she's shouldered problems that aren't even hers to deal with. She's never been in a position before where that was expected alongside her job. Sei took work on the fly, she was either running her own deals or doing short-term contractor positions that she could technically leave any time she wanted.

The day she agrees to have the Saint sigil tattooed at Troy's insistence is the day it really hits hard that she is genuinely locked into the COV now. 

There is no leaving, there is no going back. She absolutely understands why it needed to be done, and that before agreeing to it was her last real chance to pack up and say being part of this growing religion wasn't going to be for her, but she didn’t.. she decided to stay. This life was going to be permanent, but the fear of that as a reality didn't come even close to how it felt to finally have a chance to have a home where she belonged. A place to live with people who'd remember her, to build a place for herself and exist somewhere she could actually matter.

That was short lived though, it only took 5 years for that dream to crumble and how huge a mistake this had all been to really cut into her confidence. As always, she should have trusted her gut, not her heart.

She thinks about it a lot, it goes from being a creeping worry that would rear its ugly head every few months in the first couple of years, to a constant level of disgust with herself -  especially while in exile.

She wishes she'd never met them, she has no idea where she would be now if she hadn't, but it wouldn't be here, feeling like this. 

There is a good chance she'd be dead by now she figures, wrong place at the wrong time, or a misjudged barter. Maybe a dodgy risk she'd made the mistake of taking, but there's also the chance she'd have found something else. Maybe found **someone** else. Maybe not be alone with the ghosts of the only close proximity friends she'd ever made haunting her waking hours.

E-Comms, calls, updates and warnings from them don't help with the loneliness, and she'd never have to deal with feeling this pathetic emotion in the first place if she'd just kept walking when she heard the girl. Fucking soft, weak joke that she is.

Still though, every time that feeling hammers into her heart and leaves her reaching for whiskey on long nights, the reminder is there. If she hadn't gone through everything she had, they'd not have made it. He'd be dead, at least. Without doubt... he would be dead.

When she thinks of him not surviving that fever, of never being capable of the good she knows he could do if he would just drag himself out from under the barbed claws of the monster he birthed, it eases the choice that was made somehow. She couldn't really explain why though..

.. because Troy is doing horrific things. If he was dead then these things wouldn't be happening, would they.

Then again, neither would the Holy City exist, neither would the billion across Pandora surviving on COV care packages, or the towns now able to let their children play without constant fear of raids, all thanks to his banners flying above their dusty rooftops..

She doesn't know really, doesn't know which the right choice actually was, and for someone like Seifa who survives on hard logic? That makes things worse.

When they’d split paths the first time, 6 months after dragging Troy’s gasping corpse across the desert flats with Tyreen, she gave them the full profits from junking their ship. She pulled favors to get them a safe apt on the edge of a docker town. She waved goodbye and told them to keep in contact, that it could be a year before she'd be back on Pandoran dirt and to reach out to her for anything they needed. 

She's.. completely responsible for what they used her misguided help to create.

 She funded their first tech purchases without knowing, she wasn't there to see the formation of the COV, but it was her money they handed over to Solomon to gnaw into their first stocks. It was her business acumen Troy absorbed and warped into something cruel and hungry, it was her confidence in bullshitting Ty mimicked to manipulate and control, and all of it came together into a fucking cult while she was too busy chasing small profits on the borderplanets. She should never have been stupid enough to think they would be fine on their own.

She may not ever talk about it directly, but the level of guilt and failure she carries regarding these two people is crippling.

Asks ( and Ask the characters ) are Open!

[myinnerscarlett]

Just call me Madam, Maestro, Majesty, Master, Mistress...or Mensa member

Do any of these conjure up a particularly positive connotation?  Not in the latter case (at least among some who have tested into the group just to infiltrate our camps). Yes, I’m referring to a certain comedienne (no, not “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel”) who reported it was a bastion of right-wing politics. “Camps” not just Steiner summer camp in the Catskills. So much for the “alt right” am I right? Mrs. Maisel did that bit, too. The Nichols and May reference. I only steal from the best. Back to politics... Especially in our current climate, when we would find it difficult to travel to Tuscany even if we could find a house for rent, well that’s what he said. That is, looking back fondly on that episode of Seinfeld, the guy who insisted because he conducted on-the-side gigs his friends must refer to him as “The Maestro” is of particular poignance. Master is, of course, taboo, and reminiscent of our history of slavery. Madam has mistress written all over it. A madam runs a brothel. Majesty is right out of the question in a democracy. Characters worthy of a play, most of them unworthy of honorable mention, I’d say...save for alliteration’s sake “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.” And that's the point, princess. Even “Mr.” and “Mrs.” or “Ms.” is considered an “honorific.” But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, missy. The world is full of examples like “The Maestro” nothing more or less than a light-hearted and humorous attack on the use of “honorifics” that sprinkle the writer’s pad. Dr. Seuss is an example of one who has neither a PhD nor an MD. In honor of this season of The Grinch, let’s remember a talented man, who gave himself a pseudonym. Or, as The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel puts it a “nom de plume.” A stage/pen name. Jackie says it sounds like a sex toy. I won’t elaborate. Jokes are almost always better than taking yourself too seriously.  A fault I find with all who insist on using an honorific. Just like the Maestro. Earned or given, the quality of the degree matters. As does the dissertation. The word honorific does not apply only to an honorary, but usually to a two letter abbreviation that seems to invite way too much controversy. The best among the academics and the medical field alike are not wrapped up in themselves. Public servants, remember, not slaves, as no one should be on either side of the desk - and I should know having frequently worked both sides of that desk simultaneously. It’s up to you what you call someone, not that individual. Or else, this is not a free country. No one can dictate the words that come from you. You are the boss. If students refuse to refer to professors that way, which is their right, so can customers of health care, sometimes known as mere patients. I know it seems like an either or proposition and I think there are many people who agree, but it seems the majority want to defend the honorific not of Mr. or Mrs. X at The Gaslight but that good ole doc. They defend it like it’s their reputation or their own skin. Or even their religion. In this way, I might be more like tRump than I care to admit. Is it a zero sum game if you want it so much it seems like a win for you to be called Madam X. If I don’t follow suit, do you lose and I win! I’ve voted once and I’ll vote again. It’s the run-off. I live in Georgia. Sorry if the Scarlett reference is under attack. It still fits especially where I landed. It’s tongue-in-cheek, a pseudonym I gave myself years ago, myinnerscarlett, knowing all too well I have no mean bone in my body and could never imagine beating a horse, as she is shown to do in the film, now a film rightfully explained in context of the time frame. The actors in the film defended their various roles, regardless. In retrospect, I hope we don’t lose every shred of our sense of humor in our pursuit for the betterment of society. On this point, however, I am taking no one’s side. No one hears me pronounce the honorific because it doesn’t mean a thing, save perhaps pretense. The letters belong behind the name. That goes for everybody. Period. It’s a habit worth breaking. What’s amazing is the backlash on this topic in times of so much real turbulence. Is this just another distraction? Scary thought. Even scarier than Halloween. And, as for true honorary degrees, just think of how many of those are revoked after the honoree falls from grace. Master aside, Mister, the old use of mistress, which Mrs. or Miss or Ms. is meant to abbreviate, as in lady or mistress of the house, is old-fashioned; and, as with slavery, there’s always a backstory. Now we can add to the list John’s Hopkins, which officially acknowledged a long held belief or mistake made in reference to its founder not having held slaves. Or is that too white-washed a term; owned is more to the point. The backstory is told, as the statues are removed. Ours is a haunting history and I’m not just talking Halloween. Sadly, all of these characters could be made into costumes. Some have been worn, unfortunately, in blackface. Thanksgiving is not much better in terms of the hidden backstory of abuse and even slavery of indigenous peoples. We prefer pretty pictures or cute, funny stories. They make us happy. We could all use a good laugh, but not at others’ expense. We don’t like stories of human or of animal abuse. We want heroes/heroines and we foster that sort of worship. We ignore the crux of the matter when (as one member of Mensa put in a recent letter to the editor about Aristotle) there’s a greater lesson to be learned. In reference as to whether or not nonhuman animals had rights, the gist was that politics was the highest form of ethics, and if ethics were the basis of animal rights, the world would be a better place. It’s more than academic. So, after the backlash, Edison fans focused on the Topsy scandal and diminished his role in the cruel electrocution of the former circus elephant; however, it’s also been reported that he performed the same cruelty on stray dogs and cats as well as cattle and horses. If he or his company affiliates filmed any act, I’d say complicit is as complicit does and this is just a matter of mincing words. He used to describe the gory details of electrocution, or so I’ve read, in its defense. Again, I get those were other times but there’s nothing pretty about it. It happened. Even if it was deemed less cruel than other forms of “execution” and even if it was practiced on humans at the time, have we learned nothing? Topsy, the elephant, was innocent. The cruelty on the part of a drunken handler (much like a slave owner) caused behavioral concerns that justified in the twisted minds of the circus owners and their cronies using her one last time. It was a cruel demonstration. Edison is also purported to have cheated his most famous assistant, Nikola Tesla. Geeks and nerds love this guy. I say that in jest. Hopefully, Mensans still have a sense of humor. It’s a sliding scale, right? If Edison was alive today, what would he say? Well, apart from the usual rhetoric, how’s this for an anecdote. True or not, believe it or not, he had a reputation of being a slob. That’s slob, not snob, as he wore his shoes two sizes too big in order to slip into them more easily. No bending over to tie shoe laces. Sounds like he should have invented the slip-on loafer. Self-promotion we know exists among showmen or editors and reviewers alike from within the least admired or lesser known organizations to most highly publicized and political platforms - sometimes to the point of being unethical. What else can you expect from a self-educated guy. As some have also pointed out, Mensa (overall) has a certain sartorial reputation. Subtlety, not discretion, is the better part of valor. Mincing words doesn’t make it right.

The narcissists are running our country now. You need to understand what this means. Read and share this book today! 

[kpopisamood]

Queen’s Clan { 7 }

Summary: y/n is plagued by nightmares. She realizes that the more she runs away, the less frequently they haunt her. However, in running away, she’s also running straight into her ultimate demise. Will she be saved in time by those who would lay down their lives for her, even if they don’t know of each other’s existence?

Monsta X/Reader, Human/Vampire(s), Reverse Harem

Warnings: future smut?, violence, language

Word count: 1.69k

Tag list: @noonaduck @lovinggalaxies @elenaramos1 @girlwith-thecinder-blockgarden

***

The image was almost comical. You were in the dining hall, front and center at the end with four pairs of eyes all locked on you in some sort of fashion. Minhyuk sported a newly acquired bruise by his eye and he was looking at you with great concern. The others, whose names were Jooheon, Hyunwoo, and Changkyun all stared at you curiously. Wonho was nowhere to be seen but you had heard he went searching for you and his former “clan mates” weren’t allowing anyone to leave to go tell him they found you.

“It builds character.” Changkyun stated sarcastically to your questions on why you would do such a thing.

Jooheon coughed awkwardly, trying to wrack his mind for any sort of conversation starters.

“So, you’re the new Queen.” Changkyun sighed out. Jooheon did a double take at the blatant disrespect he gave to you but shook it off when you shrugged and mumbled a ‘guess so.’ back at him.

“Okay this is too much, who are you guys?” You blurted out, the silence was deafening and someone had to say something other than small conversations.

Hyunwoo cleared his throat before starting the introductions...again.

“I’m Hyunwoo, but those closest to me call me Shownu. These two are Changkyun,” he pointed to undercut boy “And Jooheon.” He pointed to the one with a cap.

“I meant, why are you here?” You pushed on.

“Could have asked that from the start.” Changkyun mumbled out, earning a slap on his shoulder from Jooheon.

“We were all part of the same Clan at one point. We were here to catch up on some new info and we sensed a new Queen in the area. We’ve had a system of Queens and Kings for centuries and usually when one awakens, it’s announced globally. It’s strange because we’ve never heard of you and your birth wasn’t announced to our society whatsoever so you could say we were curious about a hidden Queen.” He explained, leaving no detail out.

“Well, you’ve seen the freak show so is your business finished here?” You really weren’t trying to sound bitchy, but it’s been a long couple of days with too much information about things that normal people dreamt about or ended up in a state institution from.

“My liege, we’d like to stay under your command. If that’s alright with you.” Jooheon stammered out, trying very hard not to sound pushy.

“Speak for yourself.” Changkyun rolled his eyes and stood, just as Hoseok marched in, hair tousled and shirt in shreds, revealing a very healthy abdomen. But you weren’t staring, no.

Just as he’s about to blow up at everyone, he sees you at the head of the table and marches his way to you. He carefully lifts up each of your arms, checks under your hair and around your neck as well as anything that wasn’t covered.

“I’m fine.” You huffed, trying to pull away from him. He held on for a split second longer before allowing everything to set in place. “Can someone explain why you were all fighting?”

“It’s training.” Changkyun said simply. “We’ve gotta keep in shape somehow and the element of surprise helps sometimes. Are we through here? Because I’d like to go to bed.”

Hyunwoo nodded at him, allowing him to escape through the hall and you heard his footsteps lightly tap along the floor, disappearing slowly as he got further away.

“My apologies for our clan mate, Queen. He’s a bit troubled lately.” Hyunwoo explained, trying to cover for his underlings. He’d take on a full beating for the two he came with and it showed. He was a very silent but kind giant in your eyes and his loyalty to the two were intense. “We saw a little bit of your interaction earlier, is it safe to assume that Minhyuk and Wonho are your Blood?” He asked softly.

“My Blood?” You questioned.

“He means to ask if we serve you officially, my Queen. That you’ve chosen us.” Minhyuk said, his unwavering gaze on you.

“I—“ you cut yourself off. This was still all so new and sudden. Surely you couldn’t have actual servants to do your every bidding without question, right? “I don’t feel comfortable owning people. Slave days are over.” You stated.

A couple seconds lasted before laughs bellowed around you. Jooheon was clutching onto his stomach, Hyunwoo was trying to cover up his mouth, Hoseok was leaning against the wall for support as he faced away to laugh, and Minhyuk was chuckling unabashedly.

“We’re not slaves, Y/N.” Minhyuk laughed out. “We’re our own people who are wanting to do your bidding.”

“Min, that doesn’t make her understanding it any better.” Hoseok chastised. He strode over and took a seat next to you, face up close. “Have you ever heard of mutualism, Y/N?”

The term sounded familiar, scientific. You faintly recalled your fifth grade science teacher talking about it while he popped in a “Bill Nye The Science Guy” dvd on the lesson. But you signalled him to keep explaining anyways.

“It’s a symbiotic relationship where all parties involved will benefit. Neither side will have anything taken from them or be hurt.” His gaze intensified, almost like he was seeing straight into your soul. “What a Clan, or Blood, as Shownu mentioned, would do is have a complex relationship where all parties could rely on each other. There could be a simple tie with just friendship and comfort that you’d be seeking, or there’d be the mating side of things. We’re not pushing you straight into the latter. What we all want is to have that symbiotic relationship where we protect you and you provide us the idea of belonging.”

Belonging?

Changkyun suddenly reappeared and shamelessly stated,“Oh, so y’all haven’t fucked yet?”

Your eyes widened before you turned a deadly glare onto the man who was getting on your last nerve.

“Jesus Christ, what nun in what orphanage beat you as a child?!” You yelled, ready to tackle the shit out of this cocky kid.

Changkyun’s eyes widened slightly before a smirk fell into place before he rebutled back, “Probably the same one who kept a chastity belt on you through adulthood.”

Precisely four seconds ticked by before you lunged for the arrogant prick, tackling him down and utterly losing it. He gripped onto your wrists, not allowing you to physically assault him as you wanted and he laughed. The idiot laughed.

Before things could get any worse, you felt two pairs of arms gently prying you away from the boy who would die in a few seconds. Each one whispering sweet nothings to calm you down but it did nothing except make you rage.

What was going on? You weren’t typically a person who was easily angered. Sure, you’d get annoyed every now and then. But so did everyone. You had to keep a low profile and fighting with people didn’t exactly keep you off the radar. So why the sudden hostility?

An image of Changkyun being held down by you while you slowly licked up the column of his throat, slightly nipping at it while he groaned against you slipping into your mind, making your throat dry up and you stumbled back.

“I need to go.” You told the two holding you. Minhyuk and Jooheon eye each other before they nodded and helped walk you out of the dining hall and back to your room.

Another feeding session would likely ensue and the three that were left in the room felt a pang of envy strike them.

***

“She’s fed from him already.” Shownu stated the obvious, giving Wonho a glare.

“Yes.” He replies back, not denying anything.

“You realize Minhyuk is considered part of her Blood now, right?” Changkyun teased. He was already off the floor, brushing off the invisible dust he imagined was there, as if he wasn’t just attacked. “Also, she was able to get me to the floor, Wonho.”

Wonho was about to threaten him with the sexual insinuation before he turned to the hallway where you disappeared in awe.

“She’s getting stronger. She’ll need more Blood mates.” Shownu stood up and walked to his former Clan mate.

“She doesn’t want this.” Wonho bit back. They all had a deeper history with one another and he wasn’t so willing to go back to what once was. It could finish off what she started.

“She doesn’t have to have what we did. This time could be different.” Shownu was desperate. He had needed a place to belong ever since her. If he had to play along and just be the big brother or best friend for you, he would. But he couldn’t go on living like the lost being he was turning into. “You know what will happen if we don’t align ourselves to her. What we’ll get is death and what she’ll get is possibly worse.” Shownu practically begged. He would not go back to the life he had before. He had too much pride and he wanted what was best for his former clan mates.

Wonho’s jaw tensed and loosened for a few seconds more. “You can stay as long as you want. But I’m not forcing her into any sort of bond. This time, we’re doing things her way. If she wants us as her mates, fine. If she wants us as friends and simple companions, we stick with it. Understood?”

Shownu smiled before he nodded his acknowledgement. “You have my word.” He promised, and he always kept those promises. Wonho shook his head and walked out, likely going to see how you were doing with your newfound thirst.

“Did you really mean that, hyung?” Changkyun asked, approaching him.

“We won’t let it be like last time. We can’t.” He shook slightly, feeling past emotions threatening to boil over before Changkyun clapped his shoulder gently.

If they were doing this, then they’ll do it together. After all, this was their Clan.

Please do NOT repost! All rights reserved!

[astronanda]

Bridges to Pax: Chapter One

Eugene Foster had Always thought he was a regular teenager, spite his schizophrenia. When he almost dies in an alleyway, attacked by a monster who definitely shouldn't exist, his life is put into perspective, and he finds out that he belongs to a family with a history of Pontum - people who connect the magical and the human worlds, the so-called "Bridges" - and now he must continue this family tradition. With the mysterious death of his uncle and the threat of a traitor looming over him, he doesn't know if he will be able to hold on. 

(ALSO ON TAPAS)

Eugene walked from one side to the other, diverting from plants here and there. The sunlight entered through the yellow stained glass, painting the greenhouse even more as if the colour of the plants and lowers still wasn't enough.

Lazuli still hadn't arrived, but lateness wasn't something rare for the Dracae. Eugene's nervousness wasn't linked to the training that would start as soon as Lazuli arrived. No, he was desperately anxious because of the piece of paper under the daisies near the door. The letter of a dead man.

The circumstances weren't great for Eugene, who had discovered his place in the universe two months ago when he as attacked by a monster in an alleyway, something that definitely shouldn't have happened. When he found out his schizophrenia wasn't real and that the world was more than it seemed. When his best friend had confessed to being a mere bodyguard and that he did not want to be in the place he occupied for seven years. When Eugene saw himself, for the first time, alone.

"Alone". There were people around him. Well, not actually people, but he wasn't in a position to complain. He asked himself if he could call them all friends, especially after receiving a desperate letter from his deceased uncle, the man who occupied his place before he passed away. Words written hastily in a notebook page asked him to not trust anyone.

The door opened, causing Eugene to stop his walk. He breathed in deeply, furrowing his brows and trying not to demonstrate his mistrust when he turned around and faced Lazuli's milky white eyes.

"Laz!" He smiled, putting his hands in his sweatshirt's pocket.

"Why are you nervous?" The Dracae asked, frowning.

"I'm not nervous." He said, staring at the ground. He let out a sigh. "It's just... a bad day, that's all."

It wasn't a lie. That had been an awful day, mainly because of the letter hidden in the greenhouse. He bit his lips, gazing at the daisies that now seemed strangely suspicious. Lazuli did not seem to notice the guilty yellow flowers, because when their eyes deviated from where Eugene looked, their face remained without expression.

(Probably not that positive, since Lazuli rarely had a facial expression)

Lazuli was the person responsible for supervising Eugene's training, physically, mentally and spiritually. Apparently, all of that was necessary for the magical people that inhabited that world to consider him a Pontum. Couldn't they be happy with a teenager risking his life? No, they wanted him to go through a boring hell known as school. Of course, it was a special school, but was it really that different? If Eugene had to be inside of a room while having classes, he decided that no, it wasn't.

Back to what we were talking about, Eugene did not know that much about Lazuli. They were the rarest kind of Dracae, they seemed to not feel any kind of emotion and had the bad habit of drip sarcasm whenever they met the Raziel brothers, which led them to a passive-aggressive that was as interesting as it was stressing. There was also that annoying habit of overestimating Eugene's abilities whenever they were in front of others as if it was a competition over who had the most powerful Pontum.

Eugene felt like a woman, being objectified like that.

"Today I'll take you to the armoury." They said, awaking Eugene from his thoughts.

"Bless you." He said, frowning. "Is that some kind of lost city, food or...?"

"Arsenal." They said, turning to the door. During the to months of training, Lazuli had got used to translate their exotic terms for Eugene, who had no kind of linguistic knowledge. He was just a painter, Dallon was the poet.

His heart ached as he remembered that name, that insisted in coming to his mind together with blue eyes and dark hair, with the rare smile that seemed to be able to end all of the world's wars. Eugene ran a hand through his blond hair, letting out a sigh, not even noticing the daises as he left the greenhouse, closing the door behind him.

He knew Dallon Jean Miguel Souto when he was nine, on the school's playground. It wasn't a very gracious moment for Eugene, who was bawling his eyes out because of a bruised knee. The other calmed him down and took him to the nurse's office. Eugene had always been an anxious child, and if Dallon hadn't taken him there, he would never have had the courage to do so.

The two became friends quickly. Dallon was a year older than Eugene, and they didn't share classes, but they always met each other during recess and played together. Dallon seemed to like pretending that he was an astronaut, and Eugene soon got used to playing the role of the alien. Well, aliens were cool, anyway.

Dallon was Eugene's first and best friend, and finding out their friendship grew because of an obligation of Dallon was absurd, and broke his heart. So many moments shared together now seemed implanted memories by a cruel magical society.

He followed Lazuli through the Pontum Sanctum's hallways without really paying attention to where he was. That place was huge, and if the two ended up in a door Eugene didn't recognize - Eugene, who kind of lived there now, considering how much time he spent there - he wouldn't be surprised.

He wasn't that excited to explore the place, not ever since he learned to do portals. He used to spend his time in the greenhouse, taking care of the plants or reading books Lazuli gave him, occupying moments that would be haunted by obscure thoughts if his imagination had too much freedom. As they say, an empty mind is devil's workshop.

Eugene sighed once again, something he did a lot, lately. He stared at the Dracae's back, covered by indigo fabric, adorned by golden details. The fashion there was certainly different from the human's, but it was interesting in its own way. Eugene noticed each one of the main five people that lived there had their own style. He didn't really know much about, you know, normal Dracae, civilians, but their style seemed... uh, ninja style.

The Dracae he knew weren't normal, by any means. They were killing machines that would give him nightmares if they weren't in the same team., Godric, his history and politics teacher was a skilled militarian trained to kill silently. Narcissa, the one responsible for his medical training, was the type of person to heal you and take care of your wounds just so that she could beat you up again. Dante was a mysterious guy, with biceps the size of Eugene's head, and if that wasn't' scary... Eugene did not know what "scary" was.

"Why are we going to the Arm... The arsenal?" He asked. "Are you going to give me a weapon?"

"People don't get weapons, Eugene, they deserve them."

"Ok... Do I deserve one?" He inquired. The Dracae stopped abruptly, causing Eugene to hit their back. He wondered if it hadn't been something he said, but Laz's hoarse voice calmed him.

"We'll find out later." They said, putting their hands in a steel door that seemed to not have a keyhole or a handle. Quite annoying, if you ask Eugene.

A blue light shone from Lazuli's fingertips, spreading through the metal just like heat. Magic was a weird sensation, to Eugene. Maybe it was for the fact that he literally learned some tricks a couple of weeks before, after a conversation in another plane of existence with his deceased grandpa. She knew her stuff.

It was a hot sensation, for Eugene. Heat running through his veins. When he used magic, he seemed to feel every and each cell of his body, which was quite uncomfortable. He was getting used to it, little by little.

"The armoury is a shared space. Other Representants or Pontum may be here." Lazuli said. Whenever there was a chance he could end up meeting Dallon, the Dracae made sure he would know it. He was grateful, but he also worried every time the Dracae said so, and wouldn't be able to concentrate on whatever they were doing.

The arsenal was huge. Different types of weapons hanged from the walls, from the ground to the ceiling, that seemed exaggeratedly far away. How did they take the weapons from the top? Maybe there were faeries there, that flew high up to bring them axes and lances? Weren't dwarves who made weapons? Maybe they kept them in the arsenal, too?

The place seemed to organize its weapons by type. There were different kinds of axes, with various sizes and weights grouped together; there were lances, bows and arrows, scythes, swords, rapiers, hammers, whips and etc.

So many questions popped up in Eugene's mind, he didn't notice that Lazuli had already abandoned him and was flipping through the yellowed pages of a gigantic book.

"You shouldn't stand in the middle of the way, noob." A feminine voice said. 

Surprised, he turned quickly to see who was behind him, but he lost his balance easily.

His body didn't hit the ground, though. A firm hand held him from his green shirt.

Two people stared at him, one of them still holding him. Eugene knew them from a reunion a couple of weeks before. Leilani, the Mage Pontum and Aeris, the Kitsune Pontum.

Leilani let him go, smiling at him. She was the youngest of all the Pontum, being just fifteen, but she had more muscles than Eugene, who was seventeen. He scratched the back of his head, smiling shyly to her, who laughed.

"Are you always like that, noob?" She asked. "You don't need to get all shy, we don't bite!"

Aeris laughed too. "How are you, Eugene?" She asked.

"I'm fine!" He said, a little too loud, trying to look anywhere but them. "Uh... Why are you here? Not that you shouldn't be, you are Pontum, after all. It's normal for you to be in places like this, uh..."

Aeris put her hands on his shoulders, smiling gently. "Breathe, Eugene." She said, trying to calm him down. He did as he was told, as Leilani answered his question:

"We came here to train." She said. "It is hard for us to go against each other, because of time zones and shit."

"Yes," Aeris said "honestly, I was getting tired of training against Dallon. You know how it is, right, Leilani?"

"Oh, yeah!" The younger one laughed, and Eugene just couldn't face them. "Always the same tricks and attacks."

"I think he just lets us win. Have you seen him fighting for real?" Aeris laughed.

Leilani nodded. "It sucks." She said, turning to Eugene. "Do you fight with him for real or he also things you are too fragile to face his manly strength?"

"We don't fight." He said, shrinking. "Actually, the last time I saw him was in that reunion, a couple of weeks ago."

Leilani and Aeris frowned. "Well, but... didn't you go to the same school?" Leilani asked.

Eugene shook his head. "He went back to Colombia." He said, avoiding Leilani's questioning dark eyes. "We don't talk anymore. He doesn't want to have anything to do with me."

Aeris opened her mouth, but Lazuli's distant voice interrupted their conversation.

"Eugene, come here." They said, and Eugene complied.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Trying to find some kind of weapon you can train with." They said, crossing their arms. The two girls approached them, curiously.

"Eugene looks like a swordsman" Leilani said. "What about a rapier?"

"Eugene is not confident enough to be a swordsman." Lazuli said. "Besides, he doesn't have the strength."

"I'm not even here." He mumbled.

"An arrow, then?" Aeris suggested. "It's good for building strength."

Lazuli flipped through the pages.

"It is possible. He needs to be useful, somehow."

Eugene frowned, trying to ignore that last part. It seemed that Lazuli had no sense of how to talk to people. He sighed.

"What kind of arms do you have?" He turned to the two girls.

Leilani grinned, her eyes glimmering. "I have an axe." She said. "Do ya wanna see it?"

Eugene nodded with enthusiasm. Leilani got up on some kind of arena in the middle of the arsenal, raising her hands up.

Her eyes were filled by a white light, the same that flickered around her fingers as if they were electricity waves. It didn't take long for a huge battle axe to occupy one of her hands, at the same time a loud bang filled the room, just like thunder.

Leilani smiled wide, and Eugene felt the urge to ask: "Does that happen every time you, like.... summon your weapon?"

"Let's just say Leilani likes drama." Aeris laughed. 

"Can I see yours too?" Eugene turned to her, and the woman nodded. She went to where Leilani stood and closed her eyes in concentration. With a quick flick of her wrists, two whips appeared in her hands. 

"They turn into swords." She mentioned. True to her word, with another flick the whips got hard and stood in a straight form, turning into two blades. 

"Can I get a cool weapon like that?" Eugene turned to Lazuli, who merely sighed:

"Those are short-range weapons. Maybe one day."

The smile vanished from Eugene's face, who felt like a kid who just asked something absurd to their parents. 

"Even when you get the weapon you want, Eugene, don't give up on the bow and arrow. Archers are super cool and it can save many lives. Ok?"

"Ok." He nodded, a bit disappointed but definitely hopeful with the promise.

Eugene felt pain in muscles he barely knew that existed. The boy practically dragged himself back to the greenhouse, his legs numb and screaming from the agony simultaneously, a distasteful paradox Eugene wanted to ignore, but couldn't.

He threw himself in the only chair available, resting his head on the table full of books in front of him, his sweaty back pressed against the wood of the seat.

Leilani and Aeris did not stay for long. They said it was better to leave Laz and Eugene alone, so they could work out and train shooting with the bow and arrow.

The Dracae was not, in any way, gentle with him. Laz first taught him how to stand up - something he never knew he did wrong -, the correct posture and how to shoot an arrow - all of that without a proper bow.

In the end, they gave him a green and metallic bow so he could practice and build up strength before actually getting his weapon.

The bow was indeed pretty, with blue runes colouring the green metal. Still, Eugene thought that was the last exciting weapon ever.

"Really? I don't really like rapiers, I think they're the worst." Lazuli had said.

He raised his head, taking a look at the daisies near the door. He thought that being part of a magical society was stressing enough, but apparently, he still had to deal with his uncle's mystery on top of it all.

He massaged his temples, feeling the anxiety looming in his mind. He had no psychological strength to deal with it all.

His cellphone vibrated on the table, calling for his attention. The notification that lit up the screen told him he had been added to a new group.

Pontum Chat, that was the name. He was greeted by numerous messages of Leilani and Aeris as he opened the app.

He smiled to himself. Those two were good people. He was worried the other Pontum would be cold, perhaps hostile, but he had been lucky.

There were other Pontum besides Leilani and Aeris. There was Tristan, a mysterious and quiet guy, who prefered to avoid attention to himself. Eugene understood the feeling. Tristan was the Werewolves' Pontum, and every time Eugene saw him, he was accompanied by the race's Representant, Nikolai Volkov.

Eugene had never talked to the man, but he felt like he knew him a little. Lazuli did not hold anything back when talking about their coworkers. The Dracae had said that everyone was a close, good friend of theirs. But not Arkiel. Arkiel could choke.

Arkiel was the unsympathetic Representant of the Ghouls, creatures that fed themselves with dead magical meat. That being said, they're not the most beloved guys around, but they have a stable government and a good source of food, so no one bothers with them.

A new message arrived. Tristan welcomed him, which brought a smile to Eugene's lips. At least he wouldn't have any trouble with his colleagues. Honestly, he wasn't mature enough to deal with intrapersonal problems on top of the new job and the death of his uncle Henry. The enigma of the letter was eating at him.

He sighed, rubbing his face. It was getting late and he needed to go back home.

He quickly got up and walked to the door with large steps, getting the letter from below the daisies rapidly and hiding it into his pants.

Even far from him, Dallon could still cause him headaches. If he could, Eugene would go back in time and refuse the fucking message, would tell his friend to go fuck off and ignore him for the rest of his life.

Goddamn it.

[lordshaxxion]

All that apply for Edix!!

oh boy this is gonna be a LOT under a cut bc tbh I’m just gonna do all of them >.>

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents?

“It’s better now with my dad. We hit a rough patch during the Red War after he ran away to Titan and left me practically in charge of everyone, since they recognised me as the Commander’s son and all. It wasn’t a good time for a while between us, but we got better and now we have a better understanding of one another too. My Pa? He’s long since dead, before I was resurrected too, so I don’t have a relationship with him.”

02: Who did you last say “I love you” to?

“..... I’m not sure. I feel awkward saying it sometimes, like it’s reserved for romantic relationships only. Though I say it to dad sometimes, and to Artie too.”

03: Do you regret anything?

“A lot. Not being able to save my Fireteam in the Hellmouth being one, not being able to save Cayde being another. Lots of things.”

04: Are you insecure?

“.... Yes. Though it’s not so bad anymore, not like it used to be at least.”

05: What is your relationship status?

“Complicated. I like Asher, but sometimes I think he just sees right through me. Though I’ve taken to actually going out into the City more at night with some friends. That’s led to a loooot of kissing various Guardians.”

06: How do you want to die?

“I’d prefer not to, to be honest. Though I’d like to avoid death by Hive at least. I’m not sure, I’ve never particularly thought about a final death kind of scenario.”

07: What did you last eat?

“I don’t remember.”

“You had cookies Zavala made you, because you forget to eat.”

“Oh yeah. Dad makes great cookies.”

08: Played any sports?

“Does running around Io for Asher, collecting samples and fighting Vex count?”

09: Do you bite your nails?

“Only when I’m nervous, but even then I’m more likely to just fiddle with loose threads or bounce my leg.”

10: When was your last physical fight?

“Two days ago when I needed to gather samples of Radiolaria and Phaseglass for Asher. I’m still finding bruises from that.”

11: Do you like someone?

“Asher. But he doesn’t see me, not really. At least, not outside of being his assistant, I don’t think.”

12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours?

“Yes, and I don’t remember any of it. I try not to do it too much, Spiro is forever telling me off and so is Dad.”

13: Do you hate anyone at the moment?

“Since I don’t count, no I suppose not.”

14: Do you miss someone?

“Yes. I worry for Artemis when she’s out on Hive murder-sprees and I... often miss her greatly. Cayde too.”

15: Have any pets?

“Too many! I have three cockatiels, two cats and an Ahamkara!”

16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment?

“Weary and very tired.”

“Well that all-nighter you pulled in your greenhouse didn’t exactly help.”

17: Ever made out in the bathroom?

“Probably? I know that I made out with a Titan on my first night out when I was very much wasted, but whether it was in a bathroom or not I couldn’t tell you.”

18: Are you scared of spiders?

“.......”

“He stands there like he’s rooted and cries if it’s a big one. He’s that scared of them.”

19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance?

“Yes. I know it’s never a good idea, but... I know I could save Cayde, if I could go back in time. I know I could get to him on time.”

20: Where was the last place you snogged someone?

“In the corner of some club in the City, I think.”

21: What are your plans for this weekend?

“Studying my plants and tending to my garden.”

22: Do you want to have kids? How many?

“God no, never. It’s hard enough just taking care of Kilgharrah and myself, let alone anyone else.”

23: Do you have piercings? How many?

“I’m tempted to get some, at least some in my ear.”

24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)?

“I don’t really know. I’m good at botany and horticulture, and I’m learning more about the Light in-depth but other than that I don’t know.”

25: Do you miss anyone from your past?

“My Pa. I didn’t know him, I was killed as a toddler and at the same time as him, so I don’t have any memories. Dad showed me pictures of him, though, and he looks nice. I wish I did know him better.”

26: What are you craving right now?

“Peace and quiet. A partner. I dunno.”

27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart?

“I don’t know. I’m more likely to break my own half the time with how attached to things or people I get.”

28: Have you ever been cheated on?

“Hah, no.”

29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry?

“At time of answering, I don’t have one, so no.”

30: What’s irritating you right now?

“Being so god damn cold. I have a sweater on and the heating on and my own Solar Light and I’m STILL COLD!”

31: Does somebody love you?

“My dad does. I don’t like speaking for anyone else I know, though.”

32: What is your favourite color?

“Largely any of the Io shaders. Blue’s good too, and green.”

33: Do you have trust issues?

“Depends who’s asking me to trust them. I trust my dad, Artemis and Dad with my life. Plus Othion and his husband Izel. Oh, and Vigil, since he guards the Speaker. Ikora, too. But the likes of the Drifter? It’s getting harder to say.”

“Long story short, sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t.”

34: Who/what was your last dream about?

“I dreamt of a throne world that belonged to Crota, and it was filled with warped versions of the plants in my garden. Everything was a sickly Hive green and there was a broken throne with vines snaking all around it. I was sat in it, and there were hordes of Hive knelt around me like I was royalty.... I think it’s just a scrambled memory, after getting that shard of Crota’s soul crystal in my eye.”

“Yeah, that’s all it was. Don’t think on it too much, Edix.”

35: Who was the last person you cried in front of?

“My Ghost. It feels weird to be crying around anyone else sometimes.”

36: Do you give out second chances too easily?

“Yes. Sometimes I’m too kind for my own good.”

37: Is it easier to forgive or forget?

“I think it’s easier to forgive. That way you can move past it and carry on, rather than forgetting about it and then it coming back to haunt you at inopportune times.”

38: Is this year the best year of your life?

“I doubt it. Cayde died, Dad and Ikora have been arguing, the Drifter moved into the Tower Annex, the Black Armory opened its shady doors, the Spider is very interested in even more shady things, the Nine have rocked up with their Emissary and even with Mara gone, she’s up to no good as usual and I don’t like it.”

39: How old were you when you had your first kiss?

“In mortal terms, around 24 or 25? As a Guardian, no idea. I don’t count the years so much.”

40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked?

“Oh my god no. I’d rather die than do that.”

51: Favourite food?

“Not sure I have one, to be honest with you.”

52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason?

“Sometimes. Not everything can be attributed to that logic, given the nature of this bastard existence some things are just at random and have no or little reason to them.”

53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night?

“Worked on some more jellyfish to give to families in the City. They lost more than we did during the Red War, so I try to give something nice back to them when I can.”

54: Is cheating ever okay?

“No. If you can’t do it on your own merit, then you don’t deserve to reap the rewards through cheating.”

55: Are you mean?

“I can be, but I don’t like to.”

56: How many people have you fist fought?

“Not that many. I’m not all that strong, physically.”

57: Do you believe in true love?

“I’d like to, but sometimes it just doesn’t seem possible.”

58: Favourite weather?

“When it’s raining on an autumn day, because at least I’m not too cold. But also I can just sit by the window, wrapped up in blankets and listen to the rain while I crochet or read.”

59: Do you like the snow?

“Yes! It’s so much fun to roll around in it and throw snowballs at other Guardians!”

60: Do you wanna get married?

“I don’t think so. It’s bold to assume a relationship would last that long.”

61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby?

“Depends who’s calling me that and the circumstance of the name. If they’re taking the piss, and I don’t know them, then I’m not happy about it.”

62: What makes you happy?

“Little things. Looking after my plants, helping Asher, my crochet projects, being able to spend time with my friends.”

63: Would you change your name?

“No. I like it how it is.”

64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed?

“Probably, since I don’t know who they were, their name or what they looked like. I was... very drunk.”

65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?

“Well that’s literally never gonna happen, so I’m not even engaging in this hypothetical.”

66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around?

“Yes. Artemis is very dear to me and we have an understanding of one another. Even with our differences, I still feel comfortable around her.”

67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to?

“Artemis, duh. Well, maybe Ikora.”

68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?

“Probably Artie again. We talk about the Hive a lot, given our dispositions.”

69: Do you believe in soulmates?

“I’d like to, just not in my own case.”

70: Is there anyone you would die for?

“My dad, Artemis. I’d die for Asher and, in fact, have. Many times. Curse you, Pyramidion.”

[filmaficionerdo]

Mandy Discussed

Mandy is a rock opera midnight movie that will, of course, become a cult classic. It’s satisfyingly unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The premise is a simple enough revenge tale but Mandy’s execution plays like the fever dream of an artist designing the cover of the next Iron Maiden album. It’s an endearing love letter to the early days of heavy metal.

Nicolas Cage plays a lumberman named Red who's deeply in love with the scarred but undeniably loving Mandy, until their peaceful wilderness lifestyle becomes crushed by the unexpected arrival of a cultist leader who becomes immediately obsessed by her presence.

Mandy is split into two halves. There’s a Side A and a Side B to this metal symposium. Side A is an ethereal dark beauty that becomes a haunted dreamscape, while Side B is the hard rock insanity that has all the greatest hits, and is probably the half of the vinyl that gets played the most. But one side can’t exist without the other because the established set up only enhances the well earned payoff. While Mandy’s first half is deliberately slow, it’s also poetic and beautiful. Director Panos Cosmatos intentionally keeps the first half of the film slowly paced to set the perfect tone before the second half kicks off the rousing Hellraiser-on-an-acid trip, splatter-fest that is forthcoming.

Nicolas Cage hasn’t been used this appropriately since Werner Herzog’s Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans. We all know he’s an erratic actor capable of pretty much anything, and that includes brilliance. Cosmatos lets the Cage out of the cage, but he still manages to keep him well within the context of the film. He utilizes Cage’s broader sensibilities to enhance the carnage, fire, and brimstone that propels the film’s second half. The first half belongs to Andrea Riseborough and Linus Roache. Riseborough’s an amazing actress that disappears in her roles and she gives the film the tremendous heart and the poetic beauty that drives the entire story. Linus Roache also give a literal balls-out performance as a bad-acid induced cult leader who thinks he’s Satan’s Jesus, and maybe he was. I’m still reeling from all of their performances. Roache has finally found a breakthrough performance. Riseborough has never been so hauntingly profound. And Cage hasn’t been this flagrantly engaging in years.

Cosmatos has only one other film under his belt, Beyond the Black Rainbow, which worked better as a trailer than it did a feature length film, but definitely not without vision. Mandy easily establishes his voice and ingenuity as a true auteur who has obvious influences but a style all his own. He invokes color and thoughtfulness that’s never been seen amongst films of this nature. Mandy is a film meant to be viewed multiple times, especially in theaters with an audience. I had no idea where the film was going, and I don’t mean narratively, but thematically and tonally. Mandy is completely perpetuated by the music of rock legends, King Crimson, and the late GREAT Jóhann Jóhannsson. The movie is the music and the music is the movie. Just watch it. That sentence will make sense. I swear I’m not trying to be pretentious. Mandy is just that artistically brilliant.

Honestly, I wasn't blown away the way I'd expected to be when I first saw Mandy, but it's stayed with me hard and I've loved dissecting it's eccentricities as if it were A Nightmare On Elm Street meets American Beauty. There are an innumerable amount of quotes, props, scenes, and moments to surmount a decade's worth of adoration to this film. I hope what I've said helps you discover Mandy if it seems up your alley, but even if it doesn't, you should give this brilliant little mongoloid step-child a chance. Because, well, first of all, mongoloid is a very derogatory term, but Mandy is a very derogatory film... in the intentionally best way.

*Side Note: Panos Cosmatos is the son of the director George P. Cosmatos; the director of Tombstone (arguably, Kurt Russell actually directed Tombstone, but Georgie P. was the man listed amongst men amongst one of the greatest films of all time)

[elzariel]

I think I accidentally, by the power of anime, came by an idea on how to help my struggles with the Brownie Problem.

If I can’t figure something out on my own, its time to ask help from someone else. (might even be the reason why I’m not getting anywhere, is because I’m being lightly cursed by a certain someone to not get anywhere out of spite)

If you don’t wanna read anything oogie-boogie or paranormal/supernatural, you’re allowed to skip this! For anyone else interested in it (and dolls tbh), read on!

So, I was finishing Konohanatei, since I didn’t feel like doing much and one of the episodes talks about how a doll’s whole purpose is to be played with, and how their life ends when their owner finds something more interesting to do.

And this got me thinking. I might be being cursed with the whole Brownie Problem.

The whole problem is that I don’t wanna buy dolls anymore until I have a specific OC in mind who fits the whole deal, someone who I won’t regret later if I lose interest in the OC or if it doesn’t work as a doll. I’v gone through several now where it just didn’t work out. Either the mold didn’t fit at all, I couldn’t make the mods I wanted, the doll was too big to play with or too small (trust me its been a long journey) Only one doll has been around this whole time, more because I hit the jackpot with her. Her mold is perfect, the body-type is super cute, she’s just all in all the perfect BJD for my liking. Yes, she’s tiny. Yes, I absolutely loathe making yo-sd sized clothing, but alas, I can deal, when I have everything else going. But I’v been in  one of my moods were I wasn’t really into BJD for a while again, or more, I didn’t have much cash to spend AND didn’t feel like dolls for a while. The Brownie Problem exists because I want a smart doll. Not only because I’v wanted a silicon doll for a while, but also because the whole concept intrigues me greatly. To a point where I cannot wait for the company to go forward with their fully robotized 1/2 sized version! Chobits might not have been the best written series ever, but it had the right idea! The creator of Smart Doll even talks about giving the doll a tazer to protect your home. He has some ideas and I support them all! But I just didn’t feel like an existing OC would fit a mold I’d want from a doll. Like, yeah, I have SO MANY, but none of them works as a “doll”, in a sense where none of my OCs are the kind that works with “playability”, dressing up etc. They have so varying styles and color schemes and fashion that none really would keep be interested for long. I’v tried. Even Shiro in her cute fashion style just doesn’t really work. She’s too mature. The current reigning champion only works because she’s specifically a chibified version of the actual OC. She’s literally a back-up copy of the OC, who is an Android. This doll is modeled to be that back-up copy used when the actual body is repaired or out of service, to let the person still not need to be comatosed. Therefore the cuteness WORKS.

Which brings in the suspicion I have, that I’m being put under a bit of an artistic-slump curse from a certain 27cm individual in my apartment, being angry she’s being ignored while I do research and planning for a new doll. Again. Like, this is literally the third time or so of me doing this, so I’m suspecting this might be very vexing. “How the fuck is a doll cursing you what are you nuts?” No, but I work on a principle from Japan, that says, that if an item “lives” for 100 years or is felt towards strongly, it can attain a soul. Well more like 100 years is a 100% soul attained status, but a doll is an empty husk that people give souls to. Therefore the fact I have an OC and a doll, makes me think this is the perfect situation to give an item power.

I have some proof, but its mostly me talking to myself and I don’t even really need others to agree with me, just saying that this is how I feel and this is why I feel so. A few years back I broke off one of her ears. She’s got the long ass elven whompers at the side of her head, so breaking one off was not a surprise. I found the piece too, clean cut, easy to glue. And after that I’d keep an eye on it. It’d come off every now and then and I’d reglue it. Until one time I couldn’t find the piece. I was so bummed. What to do? I contacted someone on the finnish bjd forum to ask if they could mold a copy from the other side of her head and they said yes! I paid about uhhh 40 bucks?? And got a new ear piece, albeit in white that fit perfectly. Except I found the missing piece about a week before I got the new one in. Sounds like bad luck right? Except I’d looked everywhere. Even in the spot I found it in. Back then I didn’t have cats either. Its like the piece just materialized out of nowhere. And its not like its small. Its a good sunflower seed sized pink piece. It is NOT hard to miss, even tho you’d think so. Also this isn’t anything new. Shit disappears and reappears in my apartments constantly. Usually, I look for it for a bit and then go “I’d like to ask the person who hid it return it, thank you.” and I find it a few days later. To anyone outside slavic countries or Finland, this sounds spooky and like there’s a poltergeist haunting me, but that’s not it. Its acting like a “home spirit” or a type of “elf”, tonttu. For Slavs, the term is domovoi. They’re spirits of the home, harmless but trickster like.

I’v had Marvina sitting in a box somewhere in the apartment for a while now, as I’v moved furniture and cleaned my desk several times, moving things. I have this nagging feeling at the back of my neck that she’s quite upset with me for this, because I also think she might be with her head detached, as I was doing something with her eyes the last time I had her around. I’m writing this mostly to myself, but also to sort of aknowledge my wrong-doing in treating something so important in a sort of wishy-washy way. I probably won’t feel like doing BJD stuff for a while still, its most always about a year of quiet and then back again, but I at least need to find my girl, dress her up (give her her fucking head back jesus) and let her sit by my desk again where she belongs, instead of a dusty bin somewhere.

now the question is WHICH BIN.

୧(    ☉ Д ☉)୨ 

[bennettmarko]

Fiction and Identity Politics

I hate to disappoint you folks, but unless we stretch the topic to breaking point this address will not be about “community and belonging.” In fact, you have to hand it to this festival’s organisers: inviting a renowned iconoclast to speak about “community and belonging” is like expecting a great white shark to balance a beach ball on its nose. The topic I had submitted instead was “fiction and identity politics,” which may sound on its face equally dreary.

But I’m afraid the bramble of thorny issues that cluster around “identity politics” has got all too interesting, particularly for people pursuing the occupation I share with many gathered in this hall: fiction writing. Taken to their logical conclusion, ideologies recently come into vogue challenge our right to write fiction at all. Meanwhile, the kind of fiction we are “allowed” to write is in danger of becoming so hedged, so circumscribed, so tippy-toe, that we’d indeed be better off not writing the anodyne drivel to begin with.

Let’s start with a tempest-in-a-teacup at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. Earlier this year, two students, both members of student government, threw a tequila-themed birthday party for a friend. The hosts provided attendees with miniature sombreros, which—the horror— numerous partygoers wore. When photos of the party circulated on social media, campus-wide outrage ensued. Administrators sent multiple emails to the “culprits” threatening an investigation into an “act of ethnic stereotyping.” Partygoers were placed on “social probation,” while the two hosts were ejected from their dorm and later impeached. Bowdoin’s student newspaper decried the attendees’ lack of “basic empathy.”

The student government issued a “statement of solidarity” with “all the students who were injured and affected by the incident,” and demanded that administrators “create a safe space for those students who have been or feel specifically targeted.” The tequila party, the statement specified, was just the sort of occasion that “creates an environment where students of colour, particularly Latino, and especially Mexican, feel unsafe.” In sum, the party-favour hats constituted – wait for it – “cultural appropriation.”

Curiously, across my country Mexican restaurants, often owned and run by Mexicans, are festooned with sombreros – if perhaps not for long. At the UK’s University of East Anglia, the student union has banned a Mexican restaurant from giving out sombreros, deemed once more an act of “cultural appropriation” that was also racist.

Now, I am a little at a loss to explain what’s so insulting about a sombrero – a practical piece of headgear for a hot climate that keeps out the sun with a wide brim. My parents went to Mexico when I was small, and brought a sombrero back from their travels, the better for my brothers and I to unashamedly appropriate the souvenir to play dress-up. For my part, as a German-American on both sides, I’m more than happy for anyone who doesn’t share my genetic pedigree to don a Tyrolean hat, pull on some leiderhosen, pour themselves a weisbier, and belt out the Hoffbrauhaus Song.

But what does this have to do with writing fiction? The moral of the sombrero scandals is clear: you’re not supposed to try on other people’s hats. Yet that’s what we’re paid to do, isn’t it? Step into other people’s shoes, and try on their hats.

In the latest ethos, which has spun well beyond college campuses in short order, any tradition, any experience, any costume, any way of doing and saying things, that is associated with a minority or disadvantaged group is ring-fenced: look-but-don’t-touch. Those who embrace a vast range of “identities” – ethnicities, nationalities, races, sexual and gender categories, classes of economic under-privilege and disability – are now encouraged to be possessive of their experience and to regard other peoples’ attempts to participate in their lives and traditions, either actively or imaginatively, as a form of theft.

Yet were their authors honouring the new rules against helping yourself to what doesn’t belong to you, we would not have Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano. We wouldn’t have most of Graham Greene’s novels, many of which are set in what for the author were foreign countries, and which therefore have Real Foreigners in them, who speak and act like foreigners, too.

In his masterwork English Passengers, Matthew Kneale would have restrained himself from including chapters written in an Aboriginal’s voice – though these are some of the richest, most compelling passages in that novel. If Dalton Trumbo had been scared off of describing being trapped in a body with no arms, legs, or face because he was not personally disabled – because he had not been through a World War I maiming himself and therefore had no right to “appropriate” the isolation of a paraplegic – we wouldn’t have the haunting 1938 classic, Johnny Got His Gun.

We wouldn’t have Maria McCann’s erotic masterpiece, As Meat Loves Salt – in which a straight woman writes about gay men in the English Civil War. Though the book is nonfiction, it’s worth noting that we also wouldn’t have 1961’s Black Like Me, for which John Howard Griffin committed the now unpardonable sin of “blackface.” Having his skin darkened – Michael Jackson in reverse – Griffin found out what it was like to live as a black man in the segregated American South. He’d be excoriated today, yet that book made a powerful social impact at the time.

The author of Who Owns Culture? Appropriation and Authenticity in American Law, Susan Scafidi, a law professor at Fordham University who for the record is white, defines cultural appropriation as “taking intellectual property, traditional knowledge, cultural expressions, or artifacts from someone else’s culture without permission. This can include unauthorised use of another culture’s dance, dress, music, language, folklore, cuisine, traditional medicine, religious symbols, etc.”

What strikes me about that definition is that “without permission” bit. However are we fiction writers to seek “permission” to use a character from another race or culture, or to employ the vernacular of a group to which we don’t belong? Do we set up a stand on the corner and approach passers-by with a clipboard, getting signatures that grant limited rights to employ an Indonesian character in Chapter Twelve, the way political volunteers get a candidate on the ballot? I am hopeful that the concept of “cultural appropriation” is a passing fad: people with different backgrounds rubbing up against each other and exchanging ideas and practices is self-evidently one of the most productive, fascinating aspects of modern urban life.

But this latest and little absurd no-no is part of a larger climate of super-sensitivity, giving rise to proliferating prohibitions supposedly in the interest of social justice that constrain fiction writers and prospectively makes our work impossible.

So far, the majority of these farcical cases of “appropriation” have concentrated on fashion, dance, and music: At the American Music Awards 2013, Katy Perry got it in the neck for dressing like a geisha. According to the Arab-American writer Randa Jarrar, for someone like me to practice belly dancing is “white appropriation of Eastern dance,” while according to the Daily Beast Iggy Azalea committed “cultural crimes” by imitating African rap and speaking in a “blaccent.”

The felony of cultural sticky fingers even extends to exercise: at the University of Ottawa in Canada, a yoga teacher was shamed into suspending her class, “because yoga originally comes from India.” She offered to re-title the course, “Mindful Stretching.” And get this: the purism has also reached the world of food. Supported by no less than Lena Dunham, students at Oberlin College in Ohio have protested “culturally appropriated food” like sushi in their dining hall (lucky cusses— in my day, we never had sushi in our dining hall), whose inauthenticity is “insensitive” to the Japanese.

Seriously, we have people questioning whether it’s appropriate for white people to eat pad Thai. Turnabout, then: I guess that means that as a native of North Carolina, I can ban the Thais from eating barbecue. (I bet they’d swap.) This same sensibility is coming to a bookstore near you. Because who is the appropriator par excellence, really? Who assumes other people’s voices, accents, patois, and distinctive idioms? Who literally puts words into the mouths of people different from themselves? Who dares to get inside the very heads of strangers, who has the chutzpah to project thoughts and feelings into the minds of others, who steals their very souls? Who is a professional kidnapper? Who swipes every sight, smell, sensation, or overheard conversation like a kid in a candy store, and sometimes take notes the better to purloin whole worlds? Who is the premier pickpocket of the arts? The fiction writer, that’s who.

This is a disrespectful vocation by its nature – prying, voyeuristic, kleptomaniacal, and presumptuous. And that is fiction writing at its best. When Truman Capote wrote from the perspective of condemned murderers from a lower economic class than his own, he had some gall. But writing fiction takes gall.

As for the culture police’s obsession with “authenticity,” fiction is inherently inauthentic. It’s fake. It’s self-confessedly fake; that is the nature of the form, which is about people who don’t exist and events that didn’t happen. The name of the game is not whether your novel honours reality; it’s all about what you can get away with.

In his 2009 novel Little Bee, Chris Cleave, who as it happens is participating in this festival, dared to write from the point of view of a 14-year-old Nigerian girl, though he is male, white, and British. I’ll remain neutral on whether he “got away with it” in literary terms, because I haven’t read the book yet.

But in principle, I admire his courage – if only because he invited this kind of ethical forensics in a review out of San Francisco: “When a white male author writes as a young Nigerian girl, is it an act of empathy, or identity theft?” the reviewer asked. “When an author pretends to be someone he is not, he does it to tell a story outside of his own experiential range. But he has to in turn be careful that he is representing his characters, not using them for his plot.” Hold it. OK, he’s necessarily “representing” his characters, by portraying them on the page. But of course he’s using them for his plot! How could he not? They are his characters, to be manipulated at his whim, to fulfill whatever purpose he cares to put them to.

This same reviewer recapitulated Cleave’s obligation “to show that he’s representing [the girl], rather than exploiting her.” Again, a false dichotomy. Of course he’s exploiting her. It’s his book, and he made her up. The character is his creature, to be exploited up a storm. Yet the reviewer chides that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell” and worries that “Cleave pushes his own boundaries maybe further than they were meant to go.”

What stories are “implicitly ours to tell,” and what boundaries around our own lives are we mandated to remain within? I would argue that any story you can make yours is yours to tell, and trying to push the boundaries of the author’s personal experience is part of a fiction writer’s job.

I’m hoping that crime writers, for example, don’t all have personal experience of committing murder. Me, I’ve depicted a high school killing spree, and I hate to break it to you: I’ve never shot fatal arrows through seven kids, a teacher, and a cafeteria worker, either. We make things up, we chance our arms, sometimes we do a little research, but in the end it’s still about what we can get away with – what we can put over on our readers.

Because the ultimate endpoint of keeping out mitts off experience that doesn’t belong to us is that there is no fiction. Someone like me only permits herself to write from the perspective of a straight white female born in North Carolina, closing on sixty, able-bodied but with bad knees, skint for years but finally able to buy the odd new shirt. All that’s left is memoir.

And here’s the bugbear, here’s where we really can’t win. At the same time that we’re to write about only the few toys that landed in our playpen, we’re also upbraided for failing to portray in our fiction a population that is sufficiently various.

My most recent novel The Mandibles was taken to task by one reviewer for addressing an America that is “straight and white”. It happens that this is a multigenerational family saga – about a white family. I wasn’t instinctively inclined to insert a transvestite or bisexual, with issues that might distract from my central subject matter of apocalyptic economics. Yet the implication of this criticism is that we novelists need to plug in representatives of a variety of groups in our cast of characters, as if filling out the entering class of freshmen at a university with strict diversity requirements.

You do indeed see just this brand of tokenism in television. There was a point in the latter 1990s at which suddenly every sitcom and drama in sight had to have a gay or lesbian character or couple. That was good news as a voucher of the success of the gay rights movement, but it still grew a bit tiresome: look at us, our show is so hip, one of the characters is homosexual!

We’re now going through the same fashionable exercise in relation to the transgender characters in series like Transparent and Orange is the New Black. Fine. But I still would like to reserve the right as a novelist to use only the characters that pertain to my story.

Besides: which is it to be? We have to tend our own gardens, and only write about ourselves or people just like us because we mustn’t pilfer others’ experience, or we have to people our cast like an I’d like to teach the world to sing Coca-Cola advert?

For it can be dangerous these days to go the diversity route. Especially since there seems to be a consensus on the notion that San Francisco reviewer put forward that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell.”

In The Mandibles, I have one secondary character, Luella, who’s black. She’s married to a more central character, Douglas, the Mandible family’s 97-year-old patriarch. I reasoned that Douglas, a liberal New Yorker, would credibly have left his wife for a beautiful, stately African American because arm candy of color would reflect well on him in his circle, and keep his progressive kids’ objections to a minimum. But in the end the joke is on Douglas, because Luella suffers from early onset dementia, while his ex-wife, staunchly of sound mind, ends up running a charity for dementia research. As the novel reaches its climax and the family is reduced to the street, they’re obliged to put the addled, disoriented Luella on a leash, to keep her from wandering off.

Behold, the reviewer in the Washington Post, who groundlessly accused this book of being “racist” because it doesn’t toe a strict Democratic Party line in its political outlook, described the scene thus: “The Mandibles are white. Luella, the single African American in the family, arrives in Brooklyn incontinent and demented. She needs to be physically restrained. As their fortunes become ever more dire and the family assembles for a perilous trek through the streets of lawless New York, she’s held at the end of a leash. If The Mandibles is ever made into a film, my suggestion is that this image not be employed for the movie poster.”

Your author, by implication, yearns to bring back slavery.

Thus in the world of identity politics, fiction writers better be careful. If we do choose to import representatives of protected groups, special rules apply. If a character happens to be black, they have to be treated with kid gloves, and never be placed in scenes that, taken out of context, might seem disrespectful. But that’s no way to write. The burden is too great, the self-examination paralysing. The natural result of that kind of criticism in the Post is that next time I don’t use any black characters, lest they do or say anything that is short of perfectly admirable and lovely.

In fact, I’m reminded of a letter I received in relation to my seventh novel from an Armenian-American who objected – why did I have to make the narrator of We Need to Talk About Kevin Armenian? He didn’t like my narrator, and felt that her ethnicity disparaged his community. I took pains to explain that I knew something about Armenian heritage, because my best friend in the States was Armenian, and I also thought there was something dark and aggrieved in the culture of the Armenian diaspora that was atmospherically germane to that book. Besides, I despaired, everyone in the US has an ethnic background of some sort, and she had to be something!

Especially for writers from traditionally privileged demographics, the message seems to be that it’s a whole lot safer just to make all your characters from that same demographic, so you can be as hard on them as you care to be, and do with them what you like. Availing yourself of a diverse cast, you are not free; you have inadvertently invited a host of regulations upon your head, as if just having joined the EU. Use different races, ethnicities, and minority gender identities, and you are being watched.

I confess that this climate of scrutiny has got under my skin. When I was first starting out as a novelist, I didn’t hesitate to write black characters, for example, or to avail myself of black dialects, for which, having grown up in the American South, I had a pretty good ear. I am now much more anxious about depicting characters of different races, and accents make me nervous.

In describing a second-generation Mexican American who’s married to one of my main characters in The Mandibles, I took care to write his dialogue in standard American English, to specify that he spoke without an accent, and to explain that he only dropped Spanish expressions tongue-in-cheek. I would certainly think twice – more than twice – about ever writing a whole novel, or even a goodly chunk of one, from the perspective of a character whose race is different from my own – because I may sell myself as an iconoclast, but I’m as anxious as the next person about attracting vitriol. But I think that’s a loss. I think that indicates a contraction of my fictional universe that is not good for the books, and not good for my soul.

Writing under the pseudonym Edward Schlosser on Vox, the author of the essay “I’m a Liberal Professor, and My Liberal Students Scare Me” describes higher education’s “current climate of fear” and its “heavily policed discourse of semantic sensitivity” – and I am concerned that this touchy ethos, in which offendedness is used as a weapon, has spread far beyond academia, in part thanks to social media.

Why, it’s largely in order to keep from losing my fictional mojo that I stay off Facebook and Twitter, which could surely install an instinctive self-censorship out of fear of attack. Ten years ago, I gave the opening address of this same festival, in which I maintained that fiction writers have a vested interest in protecting everyone’s right to offend others – because if hurting someone else’s feelings even inadvertently is sufficient justification for muzzling, there will always be someone out there who is miffed by what you say, and freedom of speech is dead. With the rise of identity politics, which privileges a subjective sense of injury as actionable basis for prosecution, that is a battle that in the decade since I last spoke in Brisbane we’ve been losing.

Worse: the left’s embrace of gotcha hypersensitivity inevitably invites backlash. Donald Trump appeals to people who have had it up to their eyeballs with being told what they can and cannot say. Pushing back against a mainstream culture of speak-no-evil suppression, they lash out in defiance, and then what they say is pretty appalling.

Regarding identity politics, what’s especially saddened me in my recent career is a trend toward rejecting the advocacy of anyone who does not belong to the group. In 2013, I published Big Brother, a novel that grew out of my loss of my own older brother, who in 2009 died from the complications of morbid obesity. I was moved to write the book not only from grief, but also sympathy: in the years before his death, as my brother grew heavier, I saw how dreadfully other people treated him – how he would be seated off in a corner of a restaurant, how the staff would roll their eyes at each other after he’d ordered, though he hadn’t requested more food than anyone else.

I was wildly impatient with the way we assess people’s characters these days in accordance with their weight, and tried to get on the page my dismay at how much energy people waste on this matter, sometimes anguishing for years over a few excess pounds. Both author and book were on the side of the angels, or so you would think.

But in my events to promote Big Brother, I started to notice a pattern. Most of the people buying the book in the signing queue were thin. Especially in the US, fat is now one of those issues where you either have to be one of us, or you’re the enemy. I verified this when I had a long email correspondence with a “Healthy at Any Size” activist, who was incensed by the novel, which she hadn’t even read. Which she refused to read. No amount of explaining that the novel was on her side, that it was a book that was terribly pained by the way heavy people are treated and how unfairly they are judged, could overcome the scrawny author’s photo on the flap.

She and her colleagues in the fat rights movement did not want my advocacy. I could not weigh in on this material because I did not belong to the club. I found this an artistic, political, and even commercial disappointment – because in the US and the UK, if only skinny-minnies will buy your book, you’ve evaporated the pool of prospective consumers to a puddle.

I worry that the clamorous world of identity politics is also undermining the very causes its activists claim to back. As a fiction writer, yeah, I do sometimes deem my narrator an Armenian. But that’s only by way of a start. Merely being Armenian is not to have a character as I understand the word.

Membership of a larger group is not an identity. Being Asian is not an identity. Being gay is not an identity. Being deaf, blind, or wheelchair-bound is not an identity, nor is being economically deprived. I reviewed a novel recently that I had regretfully to give a thumbs-down, though it was terribly well intended; its heart was in the right place. But in relating the Chinese immigrant experience in America, the author put forward characters that were mostly Chinese. That is, that’s sort of all they were: Chinese. Which isn’t enough.

I made this same point in relation to gender in Melbourne last week: both as writers and as people, we should be seeking to push beyond the constraining categories into which we have been arbitrarily dropped by birth. If we embrace narrow group-based identities too fiercely, we cling to the very cages in which others would seek to trap us. We pigeonhole ourselves. We limit our own notion of who we are, and in presenting ourselves as one of a membership, a representative of our type, an ambassador of an amalgam, we ask not to be seen.

The reading and writing of fiction is obviously driven in part by a desire to look inward, to be self-examining, reflective. But the form is also born of a desperation to break free of the claustrophobia of our own experience. The spirit of good fiction is one of exploration, generosity, curiosity, audacity, and compassion. Writing during the day and reading when I go to bed at night, I find it an enormous relief to escape the confines of my own head. Even if novels and short stories only do so by creating an illusion, fiction helps to fell the exasperating barriers between us, and for a short while allows us to behold the astonishing reality of other people.

The last thing we fiction writers need is restrictions on what belongs to us. In a recent interview, our colleague Chris Cleave conceded, “Do I as an Englishman have any right to write a story of a Nigerian woman? … I completely sympathise with the people who say I have no right to do this. My only excuse is that I do it well.”

Which brings us to my final point. We do not all do it well. So it’s more than possible that we write from the perspective of a one-legged lesbian from Afghanistan and fall flat on our arses. We don’t get the dialogue right, and for insertions of expressions in Pashto we depend on Google Translate. Halfway through the novel, suddenly the protagonist has lost the right leg instead of the left one. Our idea of lesbian sex is drawn from wooden internet porn. Efforts to persuasively enter the lives of others very different from us may fail: that’s a given. But maybe rather than having our heads taken off, we should get a few points for trying. After all, most fiction sucks. Most writing sucks. Most things that people make of any sort suck. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make anything.

The answer is that modern cliché: to keep trying to fail better. Anything but be obliged to designate my every character an ageing five-foot-two smartass, and having to set every novel in North Carolina.

We fiction writers have to preserve the right to wear many hats – including sombreros.

This is the full transcript of the keynote speech, Fiction and Identity Politics, Lionel Shriver gave at the Brisbane Writers Festival on 8 September.

[pcssessing]

Bellamy meets Jay Kulina when she’s in Venice, CA for a particular shoot involving hauntings around popular attractions in the beach town. It’s partially an indulgence for herself, really, so she can spend some time in L.A. and partially work for her vlogs/channel. Ideally she’s gotten the chance to meet a few actual folks in the industry for studios interested in doing something more with her youtube series. While she’s ideal for youtube red, she is also interested in taking her work elsewhere depending on what opportunities arise. Apparently nothing is set in stone though because nearly five months later she’s still going about doing things her own way through youtube. Anyway, she meets Jay when she ends up at a local bar for the night and the bouncer ends up talking her up... or rather, talks himself up because that’s just how he does. She’s not wholly unfamiliar with his name, actually, as she’s vaguely interested in the UFC as a whole and has caught wind of the few fights that have involved his family. Not that she’s an expert by any means or a huge fan of the sport, but she knows enough to call him on his bullshit and reputation when she realizes who he is.

Her intention is to see if he’s as macho as he keeps trying to come off and she invites him to one of the hot spots of way creepy activity at a nearby beach across from a church. Mostly she’s hoping to scare the fuck outta him and leave him hangin’... but things get weirdly serious the more she dives into the story of the church “haunting” and demonic activity. Not only does she see he really can get scared, even if he’s pretty good at hiding it, but she picks up on something about him that seems the complete opposite of the hotheaded macho shit he was pulling at the bar. She’s attracted to him physically, sure, and she knows he’s into her but that night she doesn’t let him put moves on her. In fact she very blatantly states that she’d have to teach him how to do it right anyway and she’s not going to do that.

She does, however, offer to exchange numbers. When she leaves, heads off to another city for another episode of for her channel.. she has a couple of weird dreams about him. Things that are bizarre in the way dreams often are when they have no real meaning. She texts him, bored at her hotel one night, and tells him this. The result is a relationship via texts and phone calls that grows and grows and grows. Yeah, he still acts like a jack ass but there are often a lot of long phone conversations where it feels much more authentic and they find they have a lot in common personality and interest wise. Bellamy knows, within a month, that she’s getting attached. And of course, when he sends her pictures.. things like his god damn six-pack, she’s a little flustered by the attention. She’s never had an actual boyfriend and he’s not her boyfriend but he’s a boy that she has spent more time talking to than any other at this point. Every other boy or girl she’s been with have been nothing more than flings at best, and that’s it. Things veer into the more sexual side here and there, with some exchanges of pictures and Bellamy starting to affectionately call him baby. Four months in he stops calling. He stops texting. She would normally take it as a sign to fuck off and focus on something or someone else but she gets worried because she knows some of his history and that things were getting heavy with his mother recently.

It’s enough that she ends up driving from detroit and leaving a job behind there to see him again and finds him exactly in the worst situation he could be in, just what she hoped he wouldn’t be doing..

Bellamy is not here to be his mother. She is not here to be someone who suddenly fixes him because that’s not her job or her place and she has no interest in being with someone where she has to do that. But he is sick as a dog from taking too much heroin from his own mom’s stash in some really stupid way to show his mother how much her own addiction fuels his and hurts him. It infuriates Bellamy but she still helps him detox for several days. This includes helping his brother, Nate, clean up around the house that’s been a little trashed out recently, and getting rid of every bit of found drug in that house. She even confronts the dealer he has for his H and takes a bat upside the man’s head and a heel to his balls. He has to be dragged away by Nate so she doesn’t assault him further and the threat looms that if she sees him at this house or anywhere near her or Jay or Nate she will do worse. While Jay detoxes she goes through some gnarly episodes where he’s sick enough to end up throwing up... all over her at one point. Yes, it’s disgusting, the whole thing is awful, but she stays and she helps clean him up. She even stays when he pops off at her when he gets upset over not having any of his stash to be found and Bellamy comes at him just as strong, which results in a pretty explosive fight that poor Nate has to physically get in the middle of. The exchange of words results in the confession that while she is here to help and it is her choice to do what she is doing she is fully aware that everything else he does has to be his choice and every angry outburst is on him and not her and she will leave if she feels she must because despite any affection she has for him she isn’t about to be That Person that stays despite that. After the fight and much later, Jay ends up confessing to a lot of his issues... some she already knew about but a lot still new to her. It boils down his explaining how much of his behavior seems to come from this fear of not existing, of not being seen, among other things, and Bellamy reassures him that he has to exist even when fucking up or not because she can’t love someone who doesn’t exist, it just doesn’t make sense. And it’s true, she does love him, but she’s not going to love him and not herself so much that she would attach herself to someone like her presence will fix everything. It won’t and while he starts to get better and seems much happier there is still a lot that she has to come to terms with about herself to feel okay in this kind of relationship. The biggest issue being that Bellamy is the type of person to want to control everything. She thinks she is smarter than everyone and more capable of doing things than most which makes her bossy and intolerable at times, but she is also incredibly self aware of this tendency and it freaks her out when she can see herself falling into that pattern. A lot of the conversation she and Jay are having at the beginning of this, when he is in a more sound place mentally, are about how they have to balance these parts of themselves out and how unwilling either person is to be the crutch or savior for the other. Ofc... that’s just part of self-reflection and betterment as a whole anyway, and then there’s issues outside of themselves like things with Alvey, jay’s dad, who can be a pretty big asshole and who gets into it with Bellamy almost instantly when she puts her nose where it doesn’t really belong regarding Jay and Nate sparring. All of that to say this is Bellamy’s most serious relationship to date, and her ONLY one really (for this verse, anyway) and it’s definitely hinting toward her being someone who finds herself at home with people that seem somehow monstrous and wild but maybe really aren’t under all that bravo.

The current story is whether or not she’s going to make a big move to be closer to Jay after this visit is said and done.