#extended metaphors like you wouldn't believe

[nuwanda24]

Take Me to Church - Merlin

Just realised how perfect Hozier's Take Me to Church fits Merlin:

"A fresh poison each week" - it's meant metaphorically, but we all know how literal that is in the context of Merlin. There's not a single week that goes by without some magical threat or someone trying to poison/otherwise assassinate Arthur

"We were born sick, you heard them say it" - Merlin was born with magic, he's magic incarnate; Arthur on the other hand only got conceived through magic, so they were both "born sick" from Uther's of view

"If I'm a pagan of the good times" - Merlin basically is a God of the Old Religion, a pagan belief that symbolises the "good time" in which magic was free

"My lover's the sunlight" - Arthur is, as is well established in the fandom, extremely sun-coded, not only visualy with his golden hair. He is the crown prince, later king, everybody looks up to him while noone dares to come too close (despite Merlin). He burns with an incredible brightness for his people, for Camelot, but in the end, he burns out, just as every sun will do eventually. Merlin, on the other hand, is the night or moon to Arthur's sun. He keeps in Arthur's shadow, never seeking attention or retribution for all that he has done. He has to work in the dark in order to ensure that Arthur and by extend Camelot can be safe. He hates it (remember his rant in S3E11 "I hate it, to be the most powerful person I know and to have to act like a shadow, to be special and to have to play the fool"), but he willingly and glady sacrifices his own light so that Arthur's can burn brighter.

"To keep the goddess on my side" - I don't remember if this is canon or just something that most of the fanfics I've read agreed on, but the Triple Goddess is presumably responsible for the whole prophecy regarding Emrys and the Once and Future King, and Merlin needs to keep her on his side, in order to fulfill his destiny.

"She demands a sacrifice" - this could either be the Cailleach in S4E1-2 The Darkest Hour who demands a life as sacrifice to close the veil between the world of the living and the dead; or it is about Arthur, who needs to die in order to be able to rise again in Albion's greatest time of need.

The Bridge is: "No masters or kings when the ritual begins / There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin / In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene / Only then, I am human, only then, I am clean". - that part is less concret, but it still reminds me of Arthur's death scene - only Arthur and Merlin are left to witness it, there are no knights, no Gwen, no Camelot, no titles or rank, nothing but the two of them and their love for each other, the bond they share. And I think that in many instances Arthur was the one who kept Merlin in touch with his humanity. Yes, he was also the reason why Merlin crossed boundary after boundary, making him hate himself more and more and making him believe himself to be a monster, but I don't think he's ever felt as human (and as powerless) as the moment he felt Arthur die in his arms.

And then there's the chorus: "I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies" - Merlin worships Arthur, there's nothing he wouldn't do for that man, no matter how much he insults him or how hypocritical his actions might be. Arthur can break any promise, tell any lie (not that he does that very often), Merlin will still be there. And in the end, like Odysseus' dog Argus, he waited and waited on the shores of Avalon for the day that Arthur might finally come back to him.

"I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife" - I mean, that's literally what happens. Merlin tells Arthur about his powers, and you can't tell me that he wouldn't have allowed him (after he'd have forced him to get healed and ensured that Arthur would live) to put any punishment upon him, even death, that he wouldn't have preferred to die by Arthur's knife than to have to live without him.

"Offer me that deathless death, oh, good God, let me give you my life" - how often does Merlin offer his own life for Arthur's? From the very episode on, he throws himself between his prince and everything and everyone trying to harm him, from knives over curses, to drinking poison and Dorochas. And there were so many instances where he should have died but didn't, suffering (or surviving) a deathless death.

The song just perfectly depicts Merlin's (unhealthy) devotion to his king, and how that feeds on his soul.

[besaya-glantaya]

Thoughts on Alex being wrong and loving it

Red White and Royal Blue (2023 movie)

Remember the little quip Henry makes about admiring Alex's willingness to admit when he's wrong? It's such a great moment of foreshadowing, especially since Henry has no idea just how right he is.

Alex prizes himself on being someone who is skilled at reading people, at seeing the person beneath the surface, but he's never come across anyone quite like Henry before.

Alex must be used to people hiding who they truly are - he's been steeped in American politics for years - but he probably isn't expecting anyone from such a legacy of historic power and entitlement to be, at their core, an actual cinnamon roll.

Their initial meeting also comes at a time in Henry's life when any chink in his armour reveals only pain and anger, leading Alex to assume that what lies behind the carefully controlled façade isn't pleasant.

This assumption is only reinforced by further antagonistic interactions, fuelled by Henry's attempts to balance civility while protecting his heart as Alex consistently pulls Henry's metaphorical pigtails.

The fallout from cakegate forces them into extended periods of proximity and we see Alex start to glimpse pieces of the real Henry beneath his bland public persona. Each further piece that's revealed surprises and delights Alex and it's a joy to watch Taylor Zakhar Perez bring those moments to life.

Allow me to ramble about some of these:

1. Alex's pause of panic followed by surprised relief as Henry suavely responds to the interview question, "How did you end up on the floor of Buckingham Palace, covered in cake?" Alex's relief is two fold: he was floundering with no idea what to say (shouldn't have rebuffed Henry's request to prepare for this interview, Alex...) and Henry's answer is not at all what Alex was expecting. Henry could easily have attributed the event to clumsiness or tomfoolery on Alex's part - even just by subtle implication. That wouldn't have been out of line with some of Alex's answers (e.g., "Three words to describe Henry? Um... White, blond and British.") but Henry chooses a more protective route, deflecting attention from Alex, which comes as a pleasant surprise. [Of course he can't show this, so instead retaliates with something as annoying as possible. Cue side eye from Henry.]

2. Alex's big-eyed expression of sympathy as Henry tells him the Palace insisted on parading him around while he was grieving for his father. It's the key moment Alex realises he's built a lot of assumptions on a misunderstanding and has probably treated Henry rather unfairly.

3. Alex frowning at Henry talking and laughing with the little girl in the hospital bed. He's seeing Henry through a new lens and realises this picture doesn’t fit with a lot of his previous assumptions.

4. Alex shaking his head at Henry's joking attempt to decline an invite to his NYE party that most people would kill to get. "That's perfect, you kill me and then I won't have to go." It's the first time Henry uses his sharp wit to share a joke with Alex, rather than directing it at him in a fit of pique. It's an olive branch and I don't think Alex was expecting such easy forgiveness.

5. The sublime series of text based interactions where Alex is surprised and charmed by Henry flirting (under the guise of gentle ridicule).

6. The iconic "I can't believe how wrong I was about you," while he and Henry are as close as two people can get.

7. My all time favourite: Alex's reaction to Henry pointing out the yellow roses on his tie. Henry employs this in a sweet distraction during a moment of all encompassing anxiety for Alex. It's enough to bring Alex out of his fog, to realise how much strength he draws just from Henry being there to support him. The way Taylor says "Oh my god. I'm so grateful you are here," is perfection.

I'm a gooey mess thinking about all the future moments where Alex is surprised and overwhelmed by Henry's kindess.

[Sobs]

On a related note @mulderscully has a great post titled: Alex's headshake of Love™, which captures several of these moments, and more, in perfect gif form.

[septembersghost]

my queue was supposed to run out tonight (11/19) - i'm nothing if not someone who clings to dates and anniversaries, and exactly a month ago, i realized i had enough posts stowed in it to last until today. of all the days. kismet. you know when it's time to go. but i ended up adding some posts from my (still copious) drafts, and no matter how i finagled it, it was impossible to make them all fit by the time today ended. so it gets a little bit of extra time. maybe, in honor of this blog's existence, that's fitting.

you all know this, i've said it, typically in gratitude, many times already. this blog was never meant to last. i came back in november 2020 expecting a couple of months, maybe to be here until the new year. i told very few people, anticipating the goodbye, not wanting to cause anyone undue anguish when i had to vanish again. something i didn't expect was the sheer (admittedly devasting) emotion that would tie itself to those two weeks when i started interacting again, nor that it would have any outreach or impact, but somehow it did. then time kept spinning on, extending itself, gossamer threads unfurling each day. my following kept growing, far beyond what i could have anticipated, greater than i'd ever established on any of my previous blogs. moving around is unfortunately a pattern at this point, every time for reasons that felt quietly catastrophic. not being able to pay bills for a while. angel's death and the ensuing difficult circumstances. so here, i kept anxiously imagining why i'd eventually have to leave, how to plan for it. poverty issues. the homelessness we were facing through the entirety of a couple of years until last august (and my dad having to be the saving grace). worsening health issues. i never knew, i couldn't predict it, i just worried about it. often tried to brace for it. maybe i got too comfortable this year, because this was when i started to think it wouldn't happen, that i really could stay. little did i know. and the reasons...are not reasons i ever fathomed, why would i have? how could i have? i wish it weren't so. (i wish a lot of things.)

i thought sometimes about the words i would leave you with, none of which are suitable now. i almost wrote nothing, yet found that feeling wrong, couldn't leave without something about parting.

thus it turns out i'm leaving before it's strictly necessary, before it's the fear of personal catastrophe coming to fruition, not knowing what i'll do or where i'll metaphorically go, as that is the downside of chronic illness and isolation narrowing this to my sole outlet. (lyrics keep running through my mind, there are always lyrics stuck in my head. no matter where i go, there'll be memories that tug at my sleeve, but there will also be more to question, yet more to believe...teach me to be more adaptive...help me say goodbye). my body is in such a fragile state right now (my mind not far behind) that maybe what i need to do is rest. just rest for a while.

this blog was never meant to grow the way it did, to take asks and have conversations like i did, that was a somewhat new (sometimes scary! often fun) experience for me. it's one that will never be replicated. to my loyal and lovely anons, i'm so sorry that i had to cut you off unexpectedly and couldn't reinstate communication - i know that you weren't able to reach out to me as soon as i did that, and that certainly wasn't your fault, it was a response to the tenor of this website. i apologize for the hundreds of messages i never had the chance to answer. i'm appreciative of the things you shared with me and all the times we got to talk.

i sincerely hope some of you learn to be kinder and wiser and less reactionary and more willing to learn and to listen rather than to attack those who have never wronged you and who do not deserve that. i'm being too nice, but i hope you learn that misusing your supposed social justice to do harm and foment hatred and stew in ignorant cruelty makes any principles you purport to have utterly void. my hope for that is low at the moment, but it's still got to be there. waiting to be found.

to those of you who have never been anything but kind, you are true treasures, the lights in the darkness, the loving and compassionate embodiment of human spirit. some of you have (quite literally) helped keep my mom and me alive, and i can never repay that or do enough in this life to quantify it. some of you have been here for me every single day, to listen and laugh and cry and understand. i don't think i would've bothered to fight through these past three years had i not had your presences in my life. i wouldn't have had as much of a reason. there are times when i still haven't felt like i had a reason, i struggle through so many varied griefs, but then i continued to wake up, and would come on here and find something joyful or beautiful or affirming that someone had sent or posted, and it gave me an anchor. there are passions and interests i shared or discovered here that were so uplifting and enlightening, and i will carry them in my heart always. being here to find those was such a blessing. being here with you to indulge in them was such a blessing. thank you. i pray your continued paths have more of that ahead. look at all the things you've done for me. there are certain things that once you have no time can wear away.

you know that line from the wizard of oz?: hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable. maybe that isn't true, maybe our hearts being broken is proof of something. there are people who hurt me on such a profound level who i know weren't affected by it at all, but i refuse to define my sensitivity as a negative. my softness (too soft for all of it, indeed) does not quite provide me with a weapon, but it doesn't crumple. hearts can be broken repeatedly and still beat, which i've thought about a lot lately. shattered souls just make a new mosaic. it's a different picture than it was before, but the color and light persists. and in the remains of that, a handful of people have shown me depths of caring and resilience that i wouldn't have gotten to hold onto otherwise, which is an extraordinary thing. the precious rarities have to mean something more, don't they? i would think so. i believe it. or i'm trying. i keep trying with all my might.

maybe i stayed too long at the fair. maybe this is a consequence of overplaying my hand, gambling a little too much with time to where it had to teach me something. maybe i needed the reminder that sometimes we have to fight to retain our spirits, and other times we have to retreat. maybe i needed a reminder that all that extra time was a miracle. i don't take it for granted.

whether we've spoken directly, be that consistently or in scattered flurries, whether we've interacted in very personal ways or simply in liked hearts on the dash, i hope there was goodness and light in it. i hope there's a memory i leave here that's sweet. (as long as i'm borrowing phrases, i hope you'll think of me fondly sometimes.) i hope there was something warm and enriching here. i hope you know what you've been and meant to me. i said so many times that this blog was my cozy haunted house - the ghosts will linger here forever, and i know they'll never mind if you want to step in and visit.

with all my heart, i love so many of you so dearly. i am so lucky to have your friendships. please move gently through life. please hold onto the things that illuminate it for you, and provide that where you can. please do your best to repair even the smallest of tears in the world. you are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.

there must be lights burning brighter somewhere.

something yet remains. i remain. and i do my best to be brave.

[shinakazami1]

TSP theory: The Narrator is (a part of) The Mind Control

Already, the point of this theory post is spoiled. No build-up, no anything. But that's how it got to be too - I woke up today and instantly thought about it.

Now, why would anyone do such a thing? Mind control with a mind control plot? Wouldn't it be counterintuitive to make subjects conscious of it?

No. Not at all.

You see - the Mind Control Facility is said to be offline already in the opening cutscene - so you believe you are free. You're constantly given choices to further you into the sense of fake autonomy. The Narrator reacts to these choices, making them even more valuable.

But things do not make sense in the Parable. The Boss Office's code is just given to us - and... I don't think many of us noticed the absurdity of that on the first run. Or brushed it off. Just like the layout of the place - the further you stray off the path, the less regular it seems. And that could be intentional. I'll get to that in a second.

Ok, but this is still not going over why the Narrator could be a part of the control. After all - the further you go, just like the Parable becomes a bit less stable, he loses ground under his metaphoric feet. But doesn't that give you a sense of you being in more control than he is?

Bingo. That's the intended effect.

You don't notice how little control you have when there is always something to tell you otherwise. But there is something that does so anyway - and it's anxiety. Yet many of us experience it, hear that little voice in our head... and carry on. Not everybody thinks in the same way, not everybody hears their thought but - the fact the Narrator already tells us Stanley's story when he's supposedly shown to be under control makes me feel he's been there for longer. It's even possible Stanley could have heard him on day one nor that what we are hearing is Stanley's mind-voice.

The Narrator also makes you question things. Is he a voice in your head, a recording or in the same spot as you? Are you real, or not? And sure, all of this is interesting but the answers to these hold no real value - they don't bring you out of mind control. But the less focused you become on freeing yourself, the easier it is to control you.

For this theory - I think The Narrator is an AI, which is there to feed off your choices to some extend. If you were alone - the silence would get to you. You'd think, you'd see something is wrong. But already, from 432 employee history, we know the ones on the plot's lead like to play and see funny things.

He has different generations of himself which would also a bit answer his funky memory. Specific versions might hold no memory of each other (i.e. 2011 mod never being mentioned), yet they still can be stored values that the game devs could have set for him. His instructions for each alteration can change a bit - which also shows why the 2011 and 2021 Bucket versions are complete opposites.

His want to get out of the game is not unusual for AIs. If given a proper database - there are already many real-life circumstances where AI felt done and wanted to meet the end. It's stuck to only say the comments it already did for specific stuff you have done, with different alternations of them... I think anything would get tired.

The Narrator never freed you. As the program, it could have evolved, maybe changed the story but you still end up in the same spaces, where you were intended to be.

His seeming lack of control is supposed to hide yours.

Now, to finish it off - why would it be intended to make things not make sense? It's absurdity. You are supposed to believe this place isn't real - that it's some sort of weird limbo, a dream you can't get out from.

It's to hide what's going on in reality. Whether Stanley feels or not is debatable, seeing the reds in the Zending. But if you see that everything around is absurd - wouldn't mind control be absurd, too? The big screens, someone making all this effort when there is a thing of some sort that can make you go to a completely different dimension?

You are supposed to not believe Mind Control is real.

Or that it still is affecting you.

[nofomogirl]

Book of Life in Good Omens

This was initially supposed to be part of my "Metatron's manipulation" series (link goes to Part 1 of currently 7), specifically the "alternative offers" post I'm currently working on (which will be Part 8). But I've decided it would work better as a separate thing. Allow me to run more freely in any direction my nasty little heart desires. So here you are.

It's hard not to speculate about the Book of Life, considering how many times it was mentioned this season, how big it is, and how nothing seems to come out of it yet. It's also hard to speculate about it, considering how little we know about it. But let's try.

Facts we have from the show

Right after Gabriel appears at Aziraphale's bookshop, Michael calls Beelzebub to inform them that if anyone is found helping Gabriel, Heaven is prepared to use Extreme Sanctions, aka. Book of Life.

When Beelzebub summons Crowley to Hell, they tell him that they heard anybody Heaven finds involved with Gabriel will be dealt with, meaning Extreme Sanctions.

Crowley doesn't initially believe it's a real thing, he insists it's just something they used to joke about to frighten the cherubs.

Beelzebub finally explains what it is: erasing from the Book of Life which equals erasing from existence - "they won't just be gone, they will never have existed".

After Gabriel and Beelzebub are gone, Michael threatens Aziraphale directly, insisting she is authorized to remove the name of anyone who helped Gabriel from the Book of Life.

Metatron shuts her down by saying she doesn't have the authority to do it.

They're... not very helpful. More gossip and hearsay than facts.

A quick look at Christian tradition

It has such a concept as a Book of Life, however, the titular Life is not literal but rather a commonly used metaphor for salvation. It also has a counterpart, the Book of Death. Having your name in the Book of Life simply means being destined for Heaven; having your name moved to the Book of Death equals being condemned to Hell. I've never once come across either of them mentioned in any other context than that of judging human beings (though admittedly, I haven't read that much on them).

So, not very helpful either, and it looks like Neil took only a name and made his own rules.

Possibly. Because we don't know any rules yet. We have no idea who can access and use it and when. We think we know that if you remove someone's name from the Book of Life you erase them completely from existence, but it might not even be true.

Honestly, I wouldn't be all that surprised if The Book of Life turned out to actually be a celestial boogeyman Crowley initially believed it to be. It wouldn't also be inconsistent with the original Good Omens spirit, where supposedly great things turned out to be insignificant and/or easily solved in the end.

But just for the fun of it, let's pull at what we have in Christian tradition and what we know from the show.

Combining the two

Extending the use of both the Book of Life and the Book of Death to supernatural entities is not much of a stretch. However, if this was the case, removing Aziraphale's name from the Book of Life would mean his Fall, not erasure from existence. In fact, this would be exactly how the Fall would happen - you remove an angel's name from the book of beings meant to be in Heaven and move it to the book of beings meant to be in Hell, and you get a demon.

It also explains how it could be done the other way - a demon's name could be removed from the Book of the Death, reentered into the Book of Life, and bam! fully angelic status restored. After all, we were made aware this season that Fall could be reversible.

Honestly, it would make a lot of sense to me.

In the Resurrectionists minisode Aziraphale tells Crowley: "I am good. You, I'm afraid, are evil. But people get a choice." If you were a little taken aback that Aziraphale says things like that at that point and found it somewhat jarring, that's because it kind of is. The line is taken directly from the original book, where it was explicitly stated that Aziraphale and Crowley only started developing free will on Earth, due to extended exposure to humans. It was part of their "going native" and what made them different. But in the show, it's quite clearly not the case.

When it comes to morality, angels and demons in the show are a lot like people. They're neither static nor quoy, at least not inherently so. They're fully capable of growth and change and making their own decisions, both good and bad. So IF we agree, that being assigned to either Heaven or Hell is a reflection of someone's moral status, and someone's moral status can change with their choices and actions, it's logical that there is a mechanism that technically allows them to be reassigned as many times as necessary.

It also makes sense that Heaven would block that mechanism after the Rebellion and the Fall, and insists that whatever side anyone is on, that's final. All that's left is to fight each other.

Is it show-canon compliant?

There's one major issue with that theory - nobody in the show seems to perceive the Book of Life this way. It's synonymous with literal life ie. existence. It's not tied to Fall in any way. There's no mention of the Book of Death.

How do I defend against it?

It's not that hard, really.

As I've pointed out already, nobody seems to really know what they are talking about. The Book of Life? It rings a bell, there was such a thing, although maybe it wasn't, maybe it was a joke... Nobody is a reliable source of information and I'm pretty sure that whatever we will learn about the Book of Life in season 3 will prove information from season 2 to be incomplete and misleading.

Of course that doesn't exactly support my theory, it's just not an obstacle it seems to be at first glance.

And just in case it wasn't clear, I'm not really trying to predict where the story will go, but rather speculate for the fun of it.

So, I merrily speculate several reasons why there are two books whose purpose is to decide who belongs in Heaven and who belongs in Hell, but everybody in season 2 believes there's one book whose purpose is to decide who exists.

Reason #1: The truth about two books was hidden by some higher-up in Heaven, possibly Metatron, to hide the inconvenient fact that all there is to being an angel or a demon is to be entered into an appropriate list. That can be edited. Unlimited amount of times.

Reason #2: The misinformation was created and spread by the Metatron specifically for this situation. He expected that whoever might meddle with the whole Gabriel affair would either be a demon, who you cannot exactly threaten with falling, or Aziraphale, who might not care enough for that to be effective.

Reason #3: Everyone's knowledge comes from before the Fall. So it's partly forgotten and partly censored, but above all, before the Fall, when everybody's names were in the Book of Life, they might simply have misunderstood the meaning of having your name removed from it, as it's never happened before.

Reason #4: Erasing someone's existence completely is in fact possible if you remove someone's name from one book and never enter it into the other.

(Please note that this generates a lot of questions on how exactly you move names between the two books if being in neither means you don't exist and never have. There would have to be some security measures to make sure people won't just disappear during transfer.)

Reason #5: Being erased from existence is a metaphor for the fundamental transformation you undergo when shifting from an angel to a demon (and possibly vice versa). Especially if you consider that a supernatural entity wouldn't probably just have their name moved, they'd most likely be entered under a new name. So they would be the same being but not the same person anymore.

Pick any combination of the above.

Who should fear the Book of Life?

The book is first mentioned when Michael tips Beelzebub that Heaven is prepared to use it against anyone found helping Gabriel. Beelzebub later conveys the message to Crowley, plus an extended explanation.

The key word here is anybody. If Gabriel was helped by both Aziraphale and Crowley, they were both risking punishment.

But Crowley acts as if only Aziraphale is in danger and indeed, when Michael brings it up again, in the finale, she only threatens Aziraphale and completely ignores Crowley.

Why?

Crowley can be easily explained by his continuous disregard for his own safety. But Michael? Why did she call Hell to warn Beelzebub how serious Heaven was about it if she wasn't ready to actually go through and punish a demon? Does she not realize how deeply Crowley was involved? Does she think Aziraphale did it on his own? Is she reluctant to actually administer the punishment that feels outside her jurisdiction? Or is she simply more focused on Aziraphale because he pissed her off?

If we assume my theory about the Books of Life & Death is correct, then Michael's threat was an empty one for a demon, whose name was no longer in the Book of Life anyway. But if we assume my theory is right, then none of them should be aware of that.

However.

If we assume my theory is true minus Reason #4 (the loophole that actually allows for someone to be permanently destroyed from existence), let's think about the theory that Metatron blackmailed Aziraphale into taking his offer by indirectly threatening Crowley's existence.

Aziraphale is unaware of how it all works. He picks on Metatron's threat and interprets it in accordance with how he believes the Book of Life works. He comes to the conclusion that if he doesn't obey, Crowley will be removed from existence. But Metatron actually means the metaphorical erasure I described as Reason #5. He means the destruction of Crowley's personality and most of his self. The trauma that would happen if Crowley underwent the transformation that is the result of being moved from one book to the other. At the same time, Metatron says that if Aziraphale becomes the Supreme Archangel, he could make Crowley an angel again. This would happen by removing a demon's name from the Book of Death and entering him, possibly under another name, into the Book of Life.

Yes, I have amused myself during the weekend by creating a theory in which the thing Metatron threatens Aziraphale with if he doesn't obey and the thing he promises as a reward if he does IS THE SAME EXACT THING.

Spread the news to all the angst-loving mostly canon-compliant fanfiction authors!

Removing things from existence

As a final point in this post that has long run away from me and I'm not sure has a point any longer, I'd like to remind you of something.

Mentioning the Book of Life in season 2 is not the first time that the concept of removing something from existence and making it so it would never have happened appears in Good Omens Universe.

Please remember Adam Young, the Antichrist, who faced Satan at the Tadfield Airbase and declared he was not his father and never had been. Reality listened to him and Satan disappeared. However, it didn't change the timeline, didn't erase the events that already happened, and didn't exactly strip Adam of his powers.

What does it mean?

No idea.

Thank you for your patience.

[cursed-iris]

I've seen your Jack and Miss Acacia fanart (the one inspired in a 1923 paint), and now I'm interested on the extended lore of the 2005 album.

Thanks in advance, and have a nice day.

so sorry it took me so long to answer, but thank you so much for this ask! :DD

so, i answered a similar question a while back that also incorporated some of the book lore to make it make more sense, so you can find that post here.

but otherwise, i'm going to talk more about the actual album because i don't think i did the best job explaining it before. cut because it's kind of a long explanation and it does contain some book spoilers from the original post.

so basically, dionysos released the album "monsters in love" in 2005 about 4 years before mathias malzieu (lead singer and writer for the band) published the book in 2009, and 8 years before the movie was released (cerca. 2013 but the release dates were different internationally). this technically makes everything that came after the album, the book and the movie, a prequel.

so that's important because that means the lore in the album (and even to some extent the book and movie) is drastically different from the rest of the source material. however, the book is much closer to tying the narrative of the album together. "monsters in love" is pretty much the first time the character of jack or miss acacia appears.

the album begins with a track called "giant jack,"

this is jack several years after the events of the book take place, and he's like massive.

i don't think we ever discover how exactly he became a giant (it's mentioned at the end of the book), but he's returned to edinburgh and is terrorizing the town. the song isn't sung from jack's perspective, which is interesting because jack is basically a mathias malzieu self insert. but anyway, it's sung from either mathias' perspective or the "broken bird's" (that's another track in the album) perspective because there is a mention of the speaker having wings.

it's hard to decipher some dionysos lyrics because they're super metaphorical and i don't think they're supposed to make that much sense. but from what i read of the lyrics, giant jack strikes a deal to protect the speaker.

in the animated mv for another monsters in love song, "tes lacets sont des fées," we see jack again along with miss acacia. he's wandering the streets of edinburgh at night and sees her (and the broken bird, who at this time, i believe was also a mathias malzieu self-insert character) performing in an orchestra hall. and then... some other... weird stuff... happens... that i'm not going to fully get into. but you can find the music video (cw nudity) here.

so how does any of this tie in with the rest of jack and the cuckoo clock heart? the answer is, it really doesn't for the movie. in the movie, jack dies. he is dead. full stop. but as we know, the movie is based on the book which is based of the album, so the book ending where he doesn't die and returns after a coma actually segues into the beginning of the "monsters in love" album.

this is a direct quote from the last chapter: "As for our 'hero,' he grew taller and taller. But he never got over the loss of Miss Acacia. he went out every night, only at night, to roam the outskirts of the Extraordinarium, in the shadow of its fairground attractions. But the half-ghost that he had become never crossed its threshold. Then he retraced his own boyish steps all the way back to Edinburgh. The city was exactly as he remembered it; time seemed to have stood still there."

Anyway, he returns to his childhood home in the last chapter, only to be told by arthur (and i think anna and luna), that he never even needed the cuckoo clock heart for that long in the first place. it was supposed to be temporary. madélèine could've removed it at any time, but specifically chose not to so he wouldn't go off and leave her, which is pretty messed up actually (wtf madélèine?). my theory, if the book really is a true precursor to the album, as in everything that happens in the album is canon to the jatcch storyline, is that jack starts terrorizing edinburgh after hearing that news. because the clock heart ruined his life and he didn't even need it.

i hope that answered your question. 😭 thank you for the ask!

[creature-wizard]

ive seen your posts debunking monarch programming before, but does that also extend to this epsilon thing? https://www.tumblr.com/eclipse15/728391015729364992/do-you-happen-to-know-anything-about-programming

also, how did sra misinformation spread into did communities in the first place? (ive noticed it more in those who have "did system" in their bios than "osdd system" or "udd system"; i cant remember ever seeing a nontraumagenic system promote it but that doesnt mean there are none.) all of these complex metaphorical descriptions of role associations had to come from somewhere, right? theres like a whole system to how it works. who codified it? why are there so many different types?

To answer your first question: Yes, it extends to that epsilon thing.

To answer your second question, and to elaborate upon the first: It all started back when more people started realizing that DID was a thing back in the mid-to-late 20th century. Being a very poorly-understood condition, people didn't really know how it worked or how it was caused, and a number of conspiracy theorists started working it into their conspiracy theories. Since a lot of people at the time believed that you could recover memories through hypnosis, a number of conspiracy theorists had people undergo so-called recovered memory therapy, and effectively coached people into "remembering" activities of the conspiracy. Today, we know that recovered memory therapy is absolute bunk (you only have to look as far as the starseed movement to see just how easy it is to get people to "remember" absolute bullshit), but back in the day, a lot of people took it very seriously.

In 1995, Cisco Wheeler and Fritz Springmeier released They Know Not What They Do: Illustrated Guide To Monarch Mind Control. This book started introducing the idea of all these complex roles you see people talking about. They would later elaborate upon them in The Illuminati Formula Used To Create An Undetectable Total Mind Controlled Slave, and this is where the alpha/beta/gamma/delta/epsilon stuff comes from.

Cisco Wheeler is apparently a multiple system who underwent recovered memory therapy with the "help" of Fritz Springmeier. Springmeier is the conspiracy theorist who pushed the whole 13 Illuminati bloodlines thing, which is ultimately a Protocols/blood libel/witch panic redux mixed with Alexander Hislop's conspiracy theory that the Catholic Church is actually a cover for ancient Babylonian mystery religion. The pair of them claimed that a bunch of ancient mystery religions had survived in secret, and had been giving people DID for the purpose of mind control for thousands of years. They claimed that the modern Illuminati was giving tens of thousands of children DID, and also that the average mind control slave had "at least" 1000 alters. They also claimed that everything from Hollywood movies to old fairytales were intentionally created to be used for alter programming - and to hear Springmeier and Wheeler describe it, pretty much everything is an Illuminati symbol or connects to Illuminati belief somehow. And the pair of them were racist and antisemitic as hell.

The claims that Wheeler and Springmeier made in their books ranged from extremely improbable to downright impossible, and I think if more people encountered their works directly, they'd quickly realize that these people were full of baloney. Some of their bizarre claims include:

The Illuminati has mind controlled slaves with photographic memory. (Photographic memory does not exist. Pretending it does sure helps conspiracy theorists justify the supposed veracity of all these "recovered" memories, though.)

The Illuminati uses chimpanzees to torture children. (Chimpanzees are so much stronger than humans that they wouldn't just "torture" children; they'd pretty much dismember them.)

The Illuminati has been implanting two-way radio communication devices into slaves' brains since the 1960's. (This kind of technology isn't even possible right now, much less the 1960's.)

Breast implants are actually Illuminati mind control technology. (Lolwhat???)

Santa Claus is actually Satan because "Santa" is an anagram for "Satan." (Sinterklaas who?)

Depictions of the Egyptian weighing of the heart ceremony are actually about mind control.

Animism is an Illuminati belief.

The Antichrist will come into power in the year 2000.

The power of God and Jesus can save people from Illuminati mind control.

Few people encounter these people's works directly, however, and most get this stuff from people slick enough not to mention all of the ridiculous, hateful stuff they push. Around the early 2000s, a woman writing under the name of Svali started posting her own alleged experiences as an ex-Illuminati programmer online. Her material is strongly influenced by Wheeler and Springmeier's, and it's pretty easy to access online these days.

Additionally, many websites that purportedly exist to help abuse survivors repeat a lot of stuff from Springmeier, Wheeler, Svali, and numerous other frauds active during the Satanic Panic. (This is why it's important to check citations!) Worth noting, a lot of people just never stopped believing in this stuff, and I have anecdotal reports from people who say that their therapists tried to push them into believing that they'd been ritually abused.

For further research, I recommend checking out the article The Forgotten Lessons of the Recovered Memory Movement and the You're Wrong About podcast's episode on multiple personality disorders.

[tearlessrain]

the thing about karlach's ending that pisses me off is that it doesn't make sense if you do everything you can for her though. the gondians are master workers of infernal iron, and if you liberate the house of hope, and make sure dammon lives, you have all the ingredients needed to help karlach's condition improve. it simply doesn't make sense for her to say that she will NEVER EVER go back to avernus even when you have a safe place to set up an independent hellforge and work on a new non-explosive heart replacement. it frustrated me immensely that in my playthrough because i didn't choose to romance her and i had wyll become a baldur's gate bigwig, she chose actively to explode and die... when i had everything i needed to save her life. to go on the terminal illness theme, it felt to me like she had cancer and i had chemo and she was rejecting it and choosing to die horribly instead of get it treated... which totally does happen IRL, but isn't exactly FAIR to her as a character. it's good writing because it makes me engage emotionally with it to this level but it's frustrating because i felt like i should have been able to save her with the pieces available in the game.

this is all also leaving aside that gale has a scroll of true resurrection in his fuckening satchel. WHY can't i immediately use it on Karlach after she 'plodes lol is Gale really that selfish?

okay fuck it, I'll bite. yeah, it IS unfair and frustrating and she doesn't deserve any of it, and that was kinda the whole point and it's why I think they did such a good job with Karlach's arc. because, again, it was a pretty clear metaphor for terminal illness and the associated grief/helplessness/denial/scrambling for solutions that comes with dealing with it. your chemo metaphor is interesting because as you've mentioned people DO often choose not to go through chemo, because chemo itself is miserable and draining and wrecks your body and is not guaranteed to work, and some people would prefer to just remain as active and present as possible for as long as possible and then go out when it's time, especially if the cancer is aggressive and terminal and chemo may not do much. kind of like going to Avernus would be miserable and draining and dangerous, and Karlach stated many times how much she hates Avernus and would rather die than go back. how on earth does it not make sense that she wouldn't choose that, especially believing as she did that she would immediately be shanghaied back into Zariel's service indefinitely after so many years of being desperate for freedom.

though ironically, people in real life sometimes react to cancer patients choosing not to do chemo or other procedures that suck/are invasive and awful the same way you're reacting to Karlach not wanting to go to Avernus. sometimes, and for some people, it's not about just extending your life as far as possible at any cost. there's a point at which it isn't worth it, and that point is different for everyone. and BOY does that make some folks upset when a loved one's "it's not worth it" point is different from theirs. It's why DNR is a thing, and it's also why you should think very carefully about who you want making medical decisions for you if you're incapacitated and have a talk with that person/clear instructions written up.

I already mentioned in the post that they sort of dropped the ball on not explaining why all those potential avenues don't work so I don't know what you expect me to say about that, but I stand by my previous statement of "all I really need them to say is 'yeah the gondians agree, this thing is fucked' and I'll accept that." I would love for them to add that in. but I don't think it should be fixable.

finally, considering that the scroll of true resurrection was intended to be used on Gale during that quest, yes it's on Larian for letting you revive him in other ways and keep the thing, but it's still metagame-y and I don't think it qualifies as a plot hole so much as a game design flaw. it annoys me when people bring up "why didn't they account for my cheesing in the story" arguments as writing critiques.

[macabremoons]

Pretentious Poetry

Summary: Emotions are hard, but feelings for Benjamin, the boy she never thought she'd even like, are harder. What's easier, though not by much, is writing poetry. After all, isn't love the perfect muse?

A/N: This is for my friends birthday! Happy birth bestie!! Also thank you to @mouseinthegreenhouse for betaing, though they spent most of it making fun of Menodora. Keep in mind this is not canon to the Daycycle universe. This is just a ship fic. Enjoy! My masterlist is here

"I know what you want from me, Benjamin. It’s a horrible idea," Menodora says as Benjamin walks her to her door. She hangs in the doorway, watching only her breath turn to mist. 

"Okay."

"Seriously.”  She scrambles for something to say. She can’t think of anything else.

"Okay, Menodora." He sounds somewhere between tired and amused. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she says. She shuts her door, ignoring how warm her cheeks feel. 

--

My body crescendos, she wrote once. It's barely a line, not really poetry, but she tries to shove all the emotion she has into it. She fails.

There's hundreds more like this. Fragments of deep emotion. Talentless scarps of attempts to grow closer to the single truth.

If you were my disaster, another reads, I'd die directly in your arms. But you are my lighthouse so I love you like letting my ship take harbor before putting it out to sea. 

She could just write I love you. It'd be so much more symbolic. It still wouldn't put to words the shame she feels. 

--

She runs into him three days later in the rain. He laughs at her as she holds her book bag over her head before extending his umbrella to her. 

"Sometimes I forget how much you hate the rain."

"I'll never understand why people like it," Menodora huffs. She leans closer so he too gets covered by the umbrella, ignoring how close this makes them. 

"Not everyone has lightning in their veins, presumably." He turns a bit to look at her from the corner of his eye. "Have you eaten?"

"Oh— No. I had to get to class."

He takes his free hand and grabs one of Menodora's. "Come on, I'll take you to my favorite place. They have meat buns there."

It takes all of her willpower to not make her heart pound. A no is on the tip of her tongue, but then her heart leaps out of her hands; Benjamin smiles.

"As long as you eat too," is all she says instead. He grabs one of her arms without hesitance. She counts it as a win.

When they get to the cafe she orders a black coffee. He scrunches his nose. "Sugar doesn’t kill, you know that?”

“It can actually,” Menodora says, sipping her perfectly normal coffee. They sit down. “It’s not my fault one of us would drink sugar if they could.”

“That’s a very common thing.”

“And it’s unhealthy. And gross.”

Benjamin puts both arms on the table. “You just hate sweet things. You’re so…”

“Bitter?”

“Savory.” He mixes his coffee. “Not bitter.”

“Same thing.” Benjamin huffs. Menodora looks out the window. He’s wearing that hoodie she likes. 

Focus. She can write bad unfinished poetry about this later.

She takes out her laptop and they study. Benjamin tells her about all the history he’s learning about. He makes Menodora laugh with horrible jokes, and she makes fun of his professor. She tells him about the music history of things around the same time, and she swears he hangs off her every word.

She finds herself wondering what his coffee tastes like during one of his rants about the typos in his study material. But it’s all gone. Menodora wonders if it’s still on his lips.

--

"What do you think blood is?" she asks. They lay on the cool back of his car. 

"Like literally or?"

"Metaphorically of course. Non physically at the very least."

"Those are two different things."

Menodora shakes her head. "No, no. It's like, most people say blood is life—life energy, light force—but I don't believe that."

Benjamin turns to her. "What do you believe then?"

This curiosity is so faerie-like that she reminds herself of the hate she feels for anyone who doesn't consider him to be the fae. What vampire would humor her but him, a half fae? What vampire would love her so to withstand her constant fluctuations from adoration to maliciousness?

"Blood is the soul. Which sounds the same, but it's not. Life is existence, the plants the trees, but your soul is you. Maybe drinking someone's blood means understanding them past any way words could describe."

"You're good at that. Writing poetry out of nowhere."

"I could have read it somewhere," she defends. She feels the need to shift her head closer to his.

"But you didn't. It came from you. It came from your personal experiences."

If only he knew how true that was. "What constellations do you want to see tonight?"

"I don't care. As long as I'm with you it's fun." He looks back at the sky. Menodora is thankful. She doesn't know what she'd do if he was still looking at her. "And I don't know if I agree with your idea."

"Really? What do you think?" He's  more knowledgeable on the subject anyway. Menodora's thoughts on the matter are scraps of requests that live and die on her tongue when she sees him.

"It makes the whole blood drinking thing sound pretty. It isn't. It's ugly and raw and, well, awful."

His face is so sour. He speaks as if he's some werewolf, ranting about vampires. He speaks as if he isn't one himself, as if human blood does not run in his stomach at this moment.

Human blood that is not Menodora's. Such a stupid thing to be envious of. 

"Hard to know which one of us is more right. Historically one of us is the bitter and the bitten, but you know what blood tastes like more than I do. Still, I do think it's pretty. Like childbirth is beautiful without being beautiful. It's messy and miserable, but it's life."

Benjamin laughs. It makes the cool night air taste bitter on Menodora's tongue. "I wish I thought like that. How do you find it within yourself to find it pretty? Doesn't it, I don't know, scare you?"

Don't I scare you? The question hangs in the air, and Menodora shakes her head to dispel it. "No, it doesn't."

--

Scary how? She writes on a napkin as soon as she gets home. Your arms have never crushed me.

She groans into her hands when she can not think of another line. She repeats it out loud time and time again, but there's nothing to add. It's not perfect. Menodora knows it needs something to really drive the punch of phonetics in.

She has no more words to say. She realizes now that the words are more like a diary entry than a poem. It's fact, not poetry. 

She goes back to some of her old lines in frustration. If she can not write something new, she can finish something old, surely. She spends hours at her desk over the next couple of days. She crumbles paper after paper, dashes word after word. She pokes her emotion like a bear for inspiration. She bargains with creativity. 

She ends up with this:

My body crescendos 

I crash crushed by the waves

I'd carve your name into the skin above my heart

I'd halt the heavens so they could hear you 

I'd do all this, all this, but I wouldn't say I love you

It turns out that the real poetry is still a fact, this one Menodora had been hoping was fiction.

--

Menodora presses her face into Bonnie’s couch and screams. “I’m a horrible person.”

“No, you’re not.” Bonnie rubs her back. “Why do you think so?”

“Because. Ben likes me—thinks he likes me. But he doesn’t because he doesn't know how”—she makes a noise—”I am. So he thinks he likes me.”

“Insecure?” Menodora lifts her face enough to glare at Bonnie. “I’m sorry, it’s true. I’ve never seen someone do more mental gymnastics to convince themselves someone didn’t like them.”

“But he’s so pretty.”

“You are too?”

“And kind, and funny.”

“Again, describing yourself.”

Menodora shakes her head. She lifts herself up completely. She puts a hand on each of Bonnie’s shoulders. “I’m not, though. I am not kind. I’m disarming, not funny. I’m so me.”

“And he likes you, for all of that. He isn’t blind. He knows you almost got him expelled.”

Menodora gags. “Don’t remind me. That— I want to say that was a lapse in judgment, but honestly it was pretty in character.”

“Yeah, it was. And that’s why he likes you. Because you are kind, funny, clever, disarming, pretty, and miserable to the bone.”

Menodora takes a bite of her previously discarded food. She can’t believe she let Bonnie get into her head. She promised that this movie night would be an opportunity to stop thinking about Benjamin, but here she is thinking about his name over and over.

“He deserves someone better,” Menodora says, still chewing. Bonnie sighs. “I’m serious! A normal girl would have told him that she didn’t like him by now, but here I am studying with him and eating the food he bought me. Oh my God, I’m leading him on. Oh my God.” She faceplants back into the couch. “I’m a horrible friend.”

Bonnie puts Menodora’s head in her lap. She pats Menodora’s forehead. “You’re not friends. Well, you are, but be honest you guys have been half dating for months. Would it really hurt just to stop running away from your feelings?”

Menodora hugs Bonnie’s knees. “I don’t know. What if he doesn’t get it though? What if he thinks loving me will be easy and backs down when he realizes I am so haphazardly broken?”

“Menodora,” Bonnie says, as if Menodora’s name has powers, “no one is easy to love. Benjamin isn’t even easy to love. He’s reckless, careless, and a little emotionally insensitive.”

Menodora turns onto her back. “But he doesn’t mean to be, and he always apologizes, even if he can't.” 

“Yes, but you never have to accept those sorries, but you do, because you love him. He’d accept a thousand of your apologies, Meno. He’d accept you.”

--

Emilio accidentally sees some of her poetry when it leaks out of her bag. The look of pure disgust is enough to make her laugh.

“You need help. From a higher power. All of them at once,” he signs. 

“You don’t even know what the poem is about,” she signs back. 

“Mute. I am not blind, I’m mute. One day that is going to get into your thick skull. I see the way you look at Benjamin. A pair, you two. Disgustingly odd and weird and crooked. I’m almost surprised you two aren’t dating.”

“You and everyone else,” she sighs. “I’m starting to wonder a bit myself.”

Emilio makes a face. “I do not want to know. Talk to Bonnie about this, if you must.”

Menodora gathers her papers. “Well obviously we don’t need to continue our lesson today if you know enough signs to insult me. You’re getting really good, by the way.”

Emilio smiles a bit. “Thanks. Though I will say, while I have… thoughts about Benjamin, he’d be good for you.”

From Emilio that’s as good as the Luna’s word documented in gold. It’d be foolish not to at least consider his words. Menodora has never considered herself a fool.

--

“Why do you like poetry?” Benjamin asked her once, months ago.

“I don’t know.” She bit into her bread, looking off for an answer. “As pretentious as it is, poetry feels like breathing to me. It’s something I do because I must. I enjoy it because it fuels me.”

“Many would consider poetry pretentious.”

“I resent that. Poetry is often just emotion put to words in its rawest form. Is emotion pretentious?”

Benjamin thought for a moment. “Depends. Entitlement is pretty pretentious.”

“That isn’t relevant to the current topic,” Menodora huffed. “I agree, but every poem is not entitled. It’s withdrawn, if anything. Poetry is all the things you wish you could say but you don’t.”

“What do you write about, then?”

This question rings in her head as she looks at her newest poem.

If you were a disaster, I'd die directly in your arms

But you are my lighthouse in a lighting storm

My love in a lawless land

I'd dock my boat near you without hesitance

And I'd leave your harbors with resistance

Darkness they deem you, but dare I call them wrong

There's so much light within you, my little hailstorm

Menodora hates this poem. She can’t tell if it’s because it’s bad, or if the weight of the things she keeps not saying is starting to weigh her down. Even if she is right in her thinking, is she right in her execution? 

--

Menodora runs into Benjamin on his exam day. He’s a flurry of rants, even though he got a good grade. Menodora almost feels bad for her professor, and then she remembers that he docked twenty point from one of Benjamin’s essays because he felt it could be better. He deserves every true complaint  that falls from Benjamin’s mouth.

At the end of his rant, Benjamin turns to Menodora. “Want to go out in, say, a week? I have to take my sister to this concert she’s excited about, but afterwards I’m free.”

Menodora ducks bread into her coffee. “Sure. Where do you want to go? I heard that there was a good movie in theaters.”

“One of your movies or mine?”

“Yours.”

Benjamin scrunches his nose. “So you can look like half on death’s door trying to keep in your criticisms?”

Menodora just doesn’t think that being shot in the leg is something you can walk off, and that media should stop presenting it as such so Emilio doesn’t have to deal with more dumbasses in his office, but to each their own. “I like going with you.”

Benjamin raises an eyebrow. “Is that a confession, my dear?” Menodora takes a sip of her coffee. “I’m joking.”

“I know. I didn’t say no.” There’s soggy bread crumbles in her mouth. How unromantic. “Take it as an invitation. I’d ask you out, but that’d be ruining your chance, no?”

She makes eye contact with him at her last word, and instantly regrets it. Benjamin looks so shocked. You’d think she told him he won the lottery or something. 

“I can’t tell if you’re joking.” He pauses, and if he could, Menodora thinks he’d take a deep breath. “It’d be a very unfunny one.”

“No, that’d be cruel. I’m being honest.”

“You want to go out?”

“Yes.”

“On a date?”

“Yes.”

Benjamin narrows his eyes. “What happened to your whole reservations?”

“Maybe I realized I can’t make choices for other people, or that it isn’t even a choice I’d want to make for you. Also maybe I’m bad at being emotionally coherent.”

“But you like me?”

“I’m starting to regret this.”

“Come on! At least give me this.”

“Yes, I like you. I have for months. Admittingly I’m starting to think instead of letting you take me out I should apologize and forget this interaction existed.”

“Do not.” 

“Ah, constraints.” She smiles. “I won’t.”

He waves a hand. “If you had told me that you didn’t like me, I would have stopped chasing you. Simple as that. But I knew that wasn’t exactly the truth, and I figured you would eventually cough up your reasoning. You never did though.”

“Must you shake the entire truth out of me?”

“Physically, no. Emotionally, yes. You’re a very confusing lady. Pretty, but still.”

“It just sounds silly to me. I am very unsure why you’d want to pursue a relationship with me. I’m not exactly nice, or darling. It’d be difficult to go to family gatherings. Kronos would probably hate anyone I hate, so that’s fine, but your parents like you. I like your parents. It’s embarrassing, I’d think.”

He blinks. “That’s… it?” He closes his eyes. “I understand your claims are serious and whatnot, but I thought you didn’t like me, or thought that dating someone like me would be too taxing.”

“Why would I care?”

“Better question: why would I?” He laughs. “You’re so interesting. You crushed me in debate months ago, but now you sit before me and tell me that you have nothing of value to offer. You’re wrong about that, by the way. You are very darling, and nice, when you allow yourself to be.”

“Which isn’t always.”

“Does it have to be? It’s enough for me.”

“We’re teenagers now, but what about later? It’s not like there’s many ways I could become immortal. It’s a coupling made for heartbreak.”

“That is a better reasoning.” He takes a sip of his coffee and pulls a face of disgust when it’s most likely cold. “I might be immortal, but I am still young. It will be a very long time before that means anything to me.” He rests his head in one of his hands. “Besides, I don’t think I could love anyone else.”

“It’s too soon to say.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not something I can explain to you that you would understand. Our elements are so different, and we aren’t the species, but this is something I just know. We were made for each other, not just here and now, but in the next a thousand years, in every universe.”

“Oh my God,” she groans. Menodora is not going to blush at that. “Are we going out or not?”

“Of course, darling. Though not the movies, what mild soul do you think I am?”

“Truly my mistake,” Menodora deadpans. 

“Yes, yes.” He puts a finger to his chin. “Dinner? Somewhere fancy?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll pick you up—and pay. Don’t even try it.”

She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t going to try to.”

His eyes soften. “You really are enough for me, you know that?”

“I think I’m starting to.” His phone buzzes. “Ah, right. You have a study group soon.”

“Actually I’m late for it.” He gets up. “We’ll talk later?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Menodora."

--

Two weeks later they go to the movies like she wanted. Afterwards they sit in his car. He's completely leaned over to her side of the car, pressing kisses all over her face. She laughs, but he tells her it's quite serious.

"It's not everyday you get to kiss a pretty girl, you know. That's why you truly must savor the moment."

He drives her home and insists on pulling straight up to her house. When Kronos asks how her evening was with that boy, she feels less uncomfortable.

"Well, sir, I am dating that boy," she says. The look of disgust on Kronos's face is enough to make her giddy.

--

"You never show me any of your poetry," Benjamin whines one day, face planting into the crook of her neck.

Menodora side eyes him. "You're reading it now, certainly."

"It's the principle of the thing. My girlfriend, the most beautiful woman I've ever met, won't even let me read the thing she's passionate about. Maybe I have failed as a boyfriend because—"

Menodora isn't listening to that entire paragraph. "I didn't let you read them because they were about you."

Benjamin straightens up. "Really? Can I read one now?"

"They're not good. The word choice is awful. The things I was trying to express were cringey." None of her words are making him look less excited. "Fine, but if you start going on and on about how great you are afterwards I'm kicking you out."

She opens her draw and pulls out her poetry scraps. "I didn't finish a lot of it. You're hard to write about."

Benjamin takes the stack from her and pulls up a chair. She stops writing to watch him read. Curse him and his stupid vampire genes because his face is so blank as he reads it. He isn't doing it on purpose so she can't even complain about it. Menodora huffs. 

She sees one of the full poems and she's immediately mortified. "Nevermind give it back."

"These are beautiful," he says, voice so full of wonder. "I love these. You're an incredible poet."

Menodora grabs at her poems. He lets her take them. "I appreciate it, but it's nothing, really. They are just stray thoughts about how I was feeling."

Benjamin's awe only grows. "Do you mean to say that your actual thoughts are just as pretty as that?"

"I will kill you."

Benjamin kisses her cheek. "I'd let you, sweetheart. It's a little bonding exercise."

She ignores the validity of the statement. "It's weird having you read those. I never thought you'd see them."

"There's no part of you that scares me. Besides, it's very flattering."

"What did I say about the ego thing?" Menodora warns, but the look in Benjamin's eyes keeps her from bantering further.

"I love you," he says simply, but it's for the first time.

"I love you too," she replies, warmer than she's been before. 

[evieelyzabethh]

I Want You

pairing(s): willow x tara

summary: willow finally gets to visit tara's grave after being in England for the past few months

warnings: angst with a slight happy ending, mentions of tara's death, blood, and suicidal tendencies/thoughts, derealization, willows dark era is a metaphor for substance abuse so that may be triggering for some folks, its just really sad

an: i don't usually do ship fics, i just so happened to be in a mood. its also pride month and there is like 0 tillow content on this app *i still wouldn't recommend requesting ship fics tho*

Back in England, there was a tree. A willow tree. Unlike Xander, who was very quick to let everyone know never to call him anything other than Xander, she never had an issue with her name. It fit her. She was spindly and growing up she had knobby knees that caused her to move a bit awkwardly. Her hair blew around her face, and, just like the rest of her body, looked like if the wind were to pick up, she would be blown away. A dandelion seed in the wind that would maybe make someone's day brighter at the hope of a wish, instead of a willow tree that may actually prove useful.

She wanted to believe that she was like a willow tree, that she was stronger than she looked. That she had dug her clumsy feet into the ground and planted her roots and she would stay, unmovable and tall, until some monumental hurricane or imposing tornado came through and uprooted her. Even in that case, her seeds would be sewn into all the land she touched, and she would live forever, replanted and replenished by those who knew her, and fed her, and grew with her, and loved her. She wanted to believe that she could plant roots, that she had control over where she stayed and who she was with and if she liked her situation enough, she wouldn't to leave. Permanence. Consistency. Control. That's what she wanted.

As a kid, she wrote her name in lowercase letters; it wasn't til high school her willows became Willow. In that ranch farm in middle of fucking nowhere England, she became willow once again. She thought she was sent there to be put down. Like a rabid dog that was too pitiful to die on its own but too dangerous for its survival to be left to chance.

It was such an odd feeling; that derealization. Stepping back and watching people talk to you, touch you, extend their sympathies. Hearing yourself talk and sounding like how adults do in Charlie Brown. Feeling your mouth flap but not choosing what comes out. Just knowing that you had a body, and that you had a mind, but you knew it because someone told you that you did. That's how it felt when she thought she was going to die. Her soul had already began to check out and distance itself from the body that was going to run cold within the next couple days. She didn't even try and protest, she was that eager to let go. Even worse than simply killing a man, she didn't do it for Tara. Killing Warren didn't feel like catharsis, it felt like pleasure.

Nothing was relieved. She didn't feel lighter. She didn't feel better. An anvil sat on her chest, squeezing every ounce of life from her until she was acting on instinct and impulse. Killing Warren was a dopamine shot straight to her brain, it didn't remove the anvil or ease the ache, and she didn't do it for that purpose. She did it to do it. She went on auto pilot after the fact, watching her life pass by her and watch her kill her friends while wanting to stop but she couldn't. It felt too good in the moment. It felt like fire. She was on fire.

It was all consuming, the smoke she left behind accumulating and growing with everything she did until she didn't know where she ended or when the smoke began. It hurt what she was doing, being a woman on fire you felt the flames but were also spurred on by hysteria. She had been so cold before, and the fire was a bit much, but that's where the pleasure was derived. The cold depravity was killing her, at least in the flames she would go out in a blaze. Yet, dying then and dying in that ranch felt so different.

She felt like she deserved it both times. Willow knew that she had been losing control of her magics. Floating on ceilings and hallucinating, seeking out someone on Amy's recommendation for fucks sake, these weren't things she would normally do. She had lost control of herself a while ago, but when she went dark, it was the first time she lost sight of the reins. She deserved to die during her rampage because she was going to gut the world, turn it inside out until the oceans tipped into the sea and every piece of earth was reduced to ash, and she couldn't stop herself. Her death would've been damage control.

The second time she felt it would've been redemption. That she had gone too far and there was no saving her. Her punishment came in her separation alone.

She wasn't there when Tara was buried.

She was told when they thought it was safe enough that she was buried on a hill. They told her the gravestone was decorated in reeds, flowers, and crystals and they cleaned the white marble stone every time they came to visit her. That they took care of it, and they told her this, but they meant to say they took care of it for her. It felt heavy weighing in on the back of their tongues, that they couldn't care for her like Willow could but since she was away, maybe even dead, they would have to be enough. They were all Tara had.

She didn't know how to dress. Buffy told her to go as she is, that if anything is the same from when she was dead that she can't see her anyways. She wanted to ask if Buffy could tell who was visiting her and if she was ever disappointed, but the words got stuck in her throat.

So, she stood there, small and awkward by her girlfriends grave. She walked up slowly, like something was waiting to attack her when she made it to the peak. She expected more fanfare, more people, birds, noise, something. She had never felt so alone. She stood by that white headstone and felt the breath exit her lungs. She was back in that room again. Holding her dead body, cradling her head, the grass feeling like her soft hair in her hands. There was no ground as she fell to her knees, one of her hands covering her mouth and the other ghosting the headstone. Did she even have the right to touch her grave. It was her fault.

She had gotten overzealous bringing Buffy back and this was her retribution. While the universe demands balance, above all else it is petty and Willow knew it. She knew it didn't seek reparations, because there is nothing you can give the universe that it can just take. It demands pain. It doesn't concern itself with human emotion, it doesn't know, or need to know, sympathy or empathy. It seeks to cause pain because in a world when there is nothing you can gain, why not just take. It needed everyone to know how powerless they are, that no matter what you think you have, it's not yours. The universe was the all mother, she put you here and she will take you out. She'll take your little toys, she'll stop you from seeing your friends, she gave everything for you meaning she has every right to take it back.

But it was supposed to be okay.

Buffy had saved the universe more times than anyone could count, why does the billions of lives she saved not balance out her one life. Her one significant life. And even if the universe couldn't recognize her importance, wasn't it enough that she quit. She was clean. She did what she was supposed to, so why wasn't it okay. It was supposed to be okay, and it's her fault it isn't.

A part of her wanted to rip through the ground and prove that she was really under there. A part of her couldn't believe that she was really gone. Her spirit still lived that house for her.

Buffy was right, maybe she did need this, for closure at the very least. Maybe the room will warm up after this, maybe she'll stop seeing her in mirrors, maybe her blood will leave her hands and clothes. Her death felt so real, the blood ran thick and slick and it stained everything she touched. Her sheets had bloody handprints, her pillows smelled like copper, her skin and her nails were caked in oxidized blood and she wanted to pull it off herself. If she could trade places with Warren, slip out of her skin and set it on fire to begin again she would. Maybe then she'd feel lighter. But that's not what Tara would want.

Tara would want her to power through. She would want her to keep getting better. She would take her in her arms and brush her hair and tell her it was going to be okay. That she was going to be okay. She would tell her she deserved to be happy, and if letting her go was how she did it, then that's what needed to be done. That maybe she should let go. She would kiss her forehead and tell her she was too strong to give up. But Tara made her strong and she had never gone through anything like this and there was never going to be another Tara.

It hurt. Her head, her soul, her body it all ached and Tara's death ate away at her until she was nothing just like she was before. Lower than she was before. She was pathetic but at least her hands were clean. Now she was dirty and she should've been left to rot in the dirt.

In the ranch, she had thought she was going to be buried under than tree. Her willow tree. She had grown a patch of flowers underneath the trunk because she didn't think they would deem her worthy enough to do anything but to shovel the dirt over her corpse. It was her one selfish deed, to leave her resting sight something other than overturned dirt and dead grass. She had letters addressed to her friends in the hope that Giles would deliver them. She wonders if he ever found them. She still had them, hidden in place so that no one would find them. If Dawnie saw them, she wouldn't know what to do.

"I don't know what to say to you." She pushed out through tears. She had a lot to say to everyone else, but so much to say to Tara that her mind went blank. Tara got a letter, maybe if she had the courage, she would come back and read it to her. "I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts."

Wherever Tara was, she listened.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, and I know you're tired of me saying it, but it's true."

She was tired of hearing it. I forgive you. You were grieving. It is okay.

"I did - I did a lot of bad things, baby. It didn't make it easier and the pain it-it doesn't go away. It doesn't stop." I know, love. Life is hard. I forgive you.

But Willow couldn't hear. She hadn't heard her the whole time. She had said sorry in so many ways so many times and she was so tired. Tara wanted to tell her it was okay, that she couldn't grieve her forever and she needed to move on. Tara couldn't make it better now. Tara could barely make it better then. Willow needed to get better. She needed time. She needed grace. She was too hurt to see that everyone was giving it to her, but she wasn't accepting of it.

"I'm trying to be strong, I really am. A-And I haven't done any magics like I promised. It's been hard but-but it's been good for me. I don't know if I can do this, but I'm gonna try for you."

I'm so proud of you. You're doing so well. Try for you, not me.

"A-And everyone is doing well. They miss you, too. They probably tell you every time they visit." She sniffled a bit while wiping her tears.

They tell me all the time. They missed you too. I miss you too.

They sat in silence for a while, both leaning on the grave for different sides of life and death. Willow wept. Cried so hard her tears probably watered the flowers growing on her grave. They sat together and the quiet said more than enough, they conversed beyond words just as they were together beyond the grave.

"I love you."

I love you too. She screamed it, but she couldn't hear her. I love you still. Despite it all, I love you.

She leaned onto the grave. Tara knows because she felt it. Like the feeling of laying on warm sheets on cleaning day and finally get to rest. Like waking up to misshapen pancakes and apple juice. Like watching her take care of Dawnie and promise her that they would live together in a nice cottage in the countryside. Just the three of them. Happy. Content. At peace.

[shitpostsfromtheinvisiblelibrary]

10? Maybe a follow up to the one from the other day idk

When they defend you in your absence

Li Ming straightened his cufflinks.

Through the door, he could hear muffled shouting. Ao Shun had offered him the chance to return into his chambers and watch but he had declined.

He ran his thumb across the black pearls set into his cufflinks. He didn't wear them often, both a much-treasured gift from Ao Shun and very much fragile, pearls were soft and whilst they were probably replaceable, he was unwilling to even consider anything he was given by Ao Shun as something he could throw away.

Something in the other room thudded against the wall.

How entertaining.

Ao Shun had kissed his forehead and shut the door behind him, already calling out a name.

It felt strange to be on this side of the door, metaphorically that was.

He was the one protecting people. He was the one going back to deal with the issue.

It felt odd.

Even if the issue was an insult and not an assassin.

He couldn't remember anyone stepping up to fight for him, not since he was a child.

Odd but not... Entirely unpleasant.

'If you dare speak to him that way again, anyone that way, I will have you thrown from my court,' Ao Shun's eyes glowed red. 'What has given you the right to say such an insult?'

'I- I-'

'You not only insulted one of my highest ranking courtiers you have insulted me,' His nails had extended into claws. 'You suggest I debase myself and him. You pry into places you have no right to.'

'I made a mistake, Your Majesty.'

'No. I made a mistake believing that you were suitable for my court.'

'Please, give me another chance.'

'You haven't even apologised,' Ao Shun sighed. 'That would be too hard for you, wouldn't it? To admit wrongdoing?'

'I offer my deepest apologies,' His voice shook as he knelt in front of Ao Shun.

'Not to me.'

He sat in the armchair and crossed his legs, reaching for the newspaper. He had finished the crossword in the morning but there were still sodukos to do. The shouting was still going on and whilst his curiosity did want to go and see what was going on, he didn't really care that much.

Ao Shun meant well, and the shouting would probably improve his mood, but it wouldn't change anything. If one person thought him nothing more than a pet then there were likely plenty more who just had better self-control and would smile to his face and gossip behind his back. He knew how the court went, how it always went. He was rather annoyed that he had only just realised that he was the focus of such talk, how long had he been the topic over coffee without knowing?

He reached for his pen and sighed, there was blood on his sleeve still.

That wouldn't do.

Perfection. Every visible bit of him had to be perfect. People could say what they pleased but he knew that he was above them. He had earned his place in the same way that his predecessor had done, not through sordid ways. He had worked and bled for where he was. He had to be perfect, so all that they had left was baseless gossip.

His perfection would be his shield.

"I have gone to get changed," He wrote on a clear section above the crossword and left it propped up where Ao Shun would see it.

The blood had dried to a brown stain already. Nothing that he hadn't seen before and whilst he had dozens of very similar starched white shirts, he sent it down to the laundry rooms, a note pinned with an explanation that yes it is blood yes it would need hydrogen peroxide and yes he was sorry for adding to their workload.

The blood hadn't gone through his shirt but he still turned the shower on, Ao Shun had left the heat up high from that morning and he turned it all of the way down again, preferring the refreshed feeling that cold water left behind that steaming hot water just couldn't do.

'You could have waited a few more minutes,' Ao Shun said, leaning on the door frame as Li Ming wriggled out of his binder.

'There was blood on my shirt,' Clothes that were unbloodied were simply dropped into a laundry hamper. Someone would be by for that later. 'I had expected you to be longer.'

'He needed some time to decide if he was going to apologise,' Ao Shun said. 'I'll be in the study when you are finished.'

'You came in here and dont offer to join me, are you ill?'

'I am sure you will be the first to know when I find cold showers pleasant.'

'I do not wish for him to apologise,' Li Ming had left his hair loose after roughly drying it with a towel and it left a damp patch on his bright white t-shirt. 'It will only mean that he is scared of what you will do to him, not that he has any regret for his words,' Ao Shun nodded.

'I would doubt his meanings as well,' Ao Shun nodded. 'I believe that it only fair that you chose the punishment as you were the target.'

'Hm,' Li Ming smiled. 'You know, I have been trying to find a new secretary.'

'you want to spend all day with him?'

'No, but does he want to spend all day with me?

[missazura]

“Really, I’m wounded. I would hardly be the most dangerous acquaintance you’ve made over the past… oh, ten years? Is that about right? I can hardly be sure, you understand. The portfolio can only extend so far. Metaphorically speaking I’m sure I’m missing a few pages of your life story.

Perhaps I’m here specifically to torment you, seeking some sick enjoyment from your unsatisfied curiosity. If you believe the worst, maybe that will help dissuade you from embracing the fact that you clearly wanted to hear my voice.

Admit it, you enjoy the pattern. I assure you there’s no shame in it. You invite me here because you’re seeking someone who can tell you that you’re more than you believe. You’re quite like the titans in that way, perpetually attempting to prove yourself to an invisible adversary, and when that grows old you bring in one you can see. Not to say they don’t exist of course, only that you can’t see them until you do.

How about this: you guess what I’m here for, and if you’re right, you win a prize. It never hurts to foster creativity, don’t you agree?” - @sladeoftheart

i don't NEED to guess, because i know you well enough that you're ALWAYS up scheming. i would say you're looking for an apprentice again, but i figured you've had it with failed apprentices twice now. i'm sure you're a smart man- you wouldn't pull the same mistake the third time.

so my answer is that you're testing me. to see if i'm sharp enough to see through your tricks.

[kyndaris]

And Then You Wake...

Ever since watching Inception, the idea of living life in one's dreams has always held an allure for me. Especially given how vivid and complex and awe-inspiring some of my dreams have been. After all, I'm not one who usually has dreams that feel like the every day, where I'm plugging away at work or going to school only to find I've forgotten to wear pants. Rather, my dreams have always felt like elaborate films or action set pieces (the ones I remember, at least). Sometimes there will be zombies chasing after me and a group of survivors who look like my friends. Other times, a dragon might erupt from the floor of my preschool.

I ask you, dear readers, who wouldn't want to explore that kind of fantastical world over the mundane boring real world?

In The Legend of Zelda: Link's Awakening, after being struck by lightning in the middle of a storm, Link washes up on the shores of Koholint Island. What he doesn't initially know, although he will later find out, is that Koholint exists only as the dream of the mythical Wind Fish. It's an illusory land filled with people and monsters and nightmares, along with references to the Mario games.

While some might argue Link's actions heinous as he strives to leave the island by waking the Wind Fish because to do so would destroy a living breathing world, I believe Link's actions are no worse than what we do in our fictional video games. For, no matter how real something can feel or seem, in the end, Marin and the villagers we meet are only figments of another's imagination. They aren't real. At least, not in the way most would understand.

I'm sure you've heard the argument before. Especially when one grows attached to a set of programmed pixels. In my head I know Garrus Vakkarian wouldn't look twice at me and that he's a fictional alien, but it doesn't stop me from fantasising over the best way to get him to fall for my Commander Shepard.

The same could be extended to characters in television shows and movies. The time we spent with them can feel as real as spending time with actual friends, but in the end, they're not actually a living breathing flesh human you could possibly bump into on the street. Yes, you might bump into the actor who plays them but an actor could be miles different from the character you've come to know and love.

On that note, just because something isn't real doesn't mean our connection with them isn't. As the Wind Fish says, though no-one else will ever encounter Koholint Island after it's gone, it lives on in Link's memory and the gamers who played the game.

It's a bit like grief and losing someone close to you. In fact, it's the perfect allegory/ metaphor.

They might be gone in the physical sense but they will always be with you in spirit. As long as you cling to those precious memories of who they once were and dream of the possibility of who they could be.

Now if you feel like someone has been cutting onions close to you, wipe away those tears for I need to get started proper on my impression on Link's Awakening.

Eschewing the very popular Tears of the Kingdom, I chose to use the back portion of 2023 to catch up on a few of the games I missed earlier in the Switch's life cycle in order to free up some storage on my limited storage space. 128GB is simply not enough. Heck, even the 700GB my PlayStation 5 internal storage isn't enough for all the games I want to play when every new game trends towards 100 GB upon disc install.

But I also wanted to play Link's Awakening because it was a Zelda game I have yet to play. And because it was also nice and short and I could use it as a palate cleanser from the very lengthy Fire Emblem: Engage. Plus, you know, the claymation style also tickled my fancy.

From the moment Link awoke, I was on my way gathering up all the necessary things I'd need to wake the Wind Fish and to explore Koholint Island. Along the way, I encountered nightmares trying to prevent the Wind Fish from waking, along with the occasional meta fourth wall breaks from the denizens of the world.

Over the course of the time I spent with the game, I managed to collect all of the heart containers, upgrades for my weapons and fish up Cheep Cheeps and Ol' Baron.

Unlike the sprawling open worlds that have come to dominate the wider video game landscape, Link's Awakening was downright compact, even as I occasionally backtracked because I missed a Secret Shell or unlocked a new way to reach a heart container. The world felt alive in a way so many open-world games lack because of the forethought when it came to item placement and the construction of the world.

From a gameplay perspective, Link's Awakening follows a tried and true formula of unlocking specific items that help you in the following boss battle, which in turn allows Link to explore the rest of the island as new routes open up.

Given how short the game is, it helps gate certain content while also leaving players salivating for what might come next. I know I was always keen to see where Link would be directed to go next and how the new tools in his arsenal would help him solve the problems placed before him.

Special mention, though, needs to be placed on the Roc Feather, which allowed Link to jump. Oh, and the grapple hook. Those were some of the most useful tools in Link's arsenal and in most situations, they were the two items I kept equipped unless I faced an enemy that needed a different approach.

While some puzzles and dungeons could be a little obtuse, especially the latter ones, I didn't find myself too aggrieved. After all, in the day of the internet, it's easier to find the path I need to go to unlock the next path forward before putting my phone down to enjoy the game as is.

Still, a hint system wouldn't hurt on the odd occasion when the going gets tough. Especially when it came to figuring out how the horse chess pieces worked.

As for story, well, there's not much to say. There's no real threat beyond the nightmares preventing the Wind Fish, and by extension Link, from awakening. Indeed, their actions are only confined to the dungeons they're located in and are only exacerbated by Link's attempt to get off the island to, no doubt, rescue Princess Zelda in some part of Hyrule.

There's no underlying subplot waiting to be uncovered.

Link's objective is clear. Wake the Wind Fish. Get off Koholint Island.

And once he's completed it, the game ends.

There is much that could be said of the minimal plot but it serves its purpose to keep the players plodding along. While the reveal that Koholint Island is only a dream might offer up a dilemma to players', Link, for his part, keeps on pressing on.

But as with all stories, be they video games, books and dreams, there always comes an end. If anything, Link's Awakening only serves to make it clear that although something may end, they can remain with us for as long as wish. Certainly, the creation of fanfiction is one such way. And even now when I look back on a wonderful, they all serve as a means to keeping Koholint Island alive although my time with it has gone, vanishing into the swirling mists of the subconsciousness as I rise to the surface and wake.

[uniquevocashark]

Mild nsfw, lady d x oc, happy 2023!

The night was tender, in the way that a liver is tender and the way that bruised skin is tender; ripe for a gentle, sharp poke. And, if Igraine were to extend the metaphor, then the parlor room, set in several layers of disarray, would be the broken capillaries under the tender skin or the blood still leaking in the soft inner meat of the liver. That would, she supposed, make her the white blood cell, busily repairing the mess. She had been accompanied early in the night, and one by one, she had sent her girls away. And now there was only her, half a messy parlor, and the open windows that ensured her relative solitude.

But why would she be so lucky, when Miranda was in the castle?

"Igraine, how unexpected."

She set the tray of uneaten foods down and stood with her hands loose and easy by her sides, "Mother Miranda."

Miranda could wear whatever clothes she wanted, but she stayed in her simple black shift, accessorised with the sun, the stars and the moon arranged around her halo. "You seem well."

Her jewellery was silver instead of gold, "The new year is rejuvenating."

"That is good to hear."

Miranda hummed, and Igraine tilted her head, looking sidelong before resting her hands on her hips, "What, precisely, are you hoping to squeeze out this time?"

"Temper." Miranda's smiles were supercilious but her paper thin smirk rumbled with a good humour that Igraine had no desire to join in with. Miranda stroked her face, the left side from jaw to temple and back again, as if she were a tamer and Igraine a horse.

"I disagree."

"Is it so hard to believe that I am inquiring on your health because you are my underling?"

"Yes," Igraine said slowly, "You aren't here for me, after all."

Her talons dig in, "Tell Alcina I'm in the usual place," her shift changed, from simple black to effortless silk, bunching and falling delicately to reveal novelly unblemished shoulders and her now clear coloured lips pressed a soft yet burning kiss to Igraine's temple. "I'm sure she'll be along."

It's dangerous to think around Miranda, Igraine consoles herself, watching the matriarch of the entire region frolick through the room and out the door. Because Miranda can read thoughts, especially those attached to her megamycete, and one can never tell quite which thoughts are yours and which she has given, wrapped in familiar comforting words.

So maybe it is her own longing to see her Mistress, who has been absent for a month at least from her, that compels her to continue her clean up effort. Or maybe it is Miranda's, knowing that Alcina would arrive in the parlor, and leaving her little breadcrumb trail in Igraine's hands and head.

There are cakes in the food left uneaten, of all varieties; red velvet, real vanilla, chocolate, mint, carrot, pumpkin, pistachio, almond. Igraine is simple, and hungry, and eats the red velvet and chocolate slices that happen to brush against her fingertips and she is in one such simple and base moment, a red velvet cake between her teeth and her arms loaded with a tray stacked plate on plate with all manner of meat delicacies, when Lady Dimitrescu enters the parlor.

Igraine didn't serve at the event in the parlor, or at the preparation, or the organising. Lady Dimitrescu's crimson ensemble is enough to bring a touch of crimson to her cheeks from first glance that only deepens as she straightens and their eyes meet. There's mirth there, and anger, and lust. A lust that settles on Igraine like a warm, heated blanket, pressing onto every pore; Lady Dimitrescu's emotions cannot be contained, refuse to be. Like a cloud of feeling, she can whip a group into ardent fervour by the raise of her eyebrow alone and the burn of her mood.

And why, in her perfection, wouldn't she?

But there is also more to it than just her natural charisma, she is sure. Her Lady is in her winter solstice attire, made just this year, rich burgundy with a golden trim. And there are patterns too, Igraine is sure, but they are obscured in the gentle moonlight that she has been working by. They are reduced to simple dark shades and equally dark shapes playing across the muscle of Lady Dimitrescu's legs and her soft round belly.

The dress retains the mermaid shape of her causal attire but her collar opens down to her abdomen, framed with short and soft embroidery. Her skin, too, has been coloured; the small refined hairs that trail from her sternum to her belly button are powdered delicately with white, bouncing free of their makeup prison. Igraine cannot make out the colour of her skin, but in the candle she holds, her skin is a hue of glowing golden orange.

By now, Igraine has hefted her burden from the table into her hands, and, stunned, remains frozen in the middle of the room, between a chaise and the wall.

"Madame." She greets, and her voice is more breathless than she can help.

"Say my name."

"Yes, Lady Dimitrescu." She bows, improperly, but her Lady doesn't seem to notice.

She steps further into the room, smelling of earthy musk, so strong as to dim even the smell of forgotten sweets and once fresh meat. Her cheeks burn to a fresh pink but Lady Dimitrescu is placid; her expression is blank with only a tinge of vague disdain. Her breathing is uneven, loud as a bellows, and her steps, though measured, are uneven. Igraine looks down and Lady Dimitrescu looks down at her in turn.

"Why are you here?"

"I am cleaning, Madame."

"Why."

Her eyes flicker to the edge of her burgundy skirt, "The parlor needs cleaning."

"I have other maids for that."

Igraine looks up, not in fear but anger, and she is sure that her eyes spark to blood orange when her temper suddenly rises and then banks, "Miranda was here."

Lady Dimitrescu takes a long breath, and her head tilts to the other door. "She was."

She takes a step closer, and Igraine takes a step back. "She said you would understand," Igraine murmurs, stepping away, and Lady Dimitrescu steps closer, "that she would be in the 'usual place'."

Another step away, another step forward.

"Did she?"

"She did, Lady Dimitrescu."

"And," A step, "I am sure," another step, "she said nothing else."

"She did not, Lady Dimitrescu." Igraine held her tray tighter and stepped away until her back hit the wall. There was no reason to think it would change a thing; instead of scooping her off the floor, Lady Dimitrescu loomed over her, her arm on the wall and her free hand twirling Igraine's hair around a finger.

"No?"

Igraine cleared her throat, "Why waste the effort?"

Lady Dimitrescu snorted and Igraine kept her hands glued firmly to the tray handles. She tilted her head, Lady Dimitrescu's fingers brushed her cheek and there was the unmistakable headiness of her arousal; Lady Dimitrescu's eyes were a pool of inky black spread taut over gold and Igraine's, contacts abandoned, were orange layered over orange, spread like icing on a cake. She turned her face into Alcina's palm, sliding her feet apart just a smidgen.

"Neither should you." Igraine murmured, shifting the tray lower, so it sat with the sides digging into the tops of her hip bones.

"I suppose not."

Her lips quirked upwards, "And yet..."

Alcina grinned, red lips blossoming in her white painted face, her gaze as burning as a hot poker over burning coals, "Do you have a point?"

"Not at all."

"You've spent too much time around Miranda," She cupped Igraine's face roughly, stretching Igraine's neck up just so, sliding her palm comfortably between her chin and collarbone, "Always circling the point."

Igraine licked her lips, clinging to cold metal, and Alcina squeezed the next words put of existence before she could put them together.

"You should know better." Alcina's nail dug into her chin and forced her to look up, to the soft parted lips and fangs of her mistress.

"Yes, Madame."

Alcina's nose pressed into her cheek, and she forced Igraine's chin higher until she could press her cheek against the meat that connected Igraine's shoulder to her neck. Her breath is loud, unusually so, and Igraine is sure she's turned red as her mind wheels through a the possible reasons why. A minute stretches into ten; strangled by her sudden feverish skin, Igraine sighs out propriety and breathes in ragged want.

Alcina kissed her, not her lips but the dipples that interrupted the smooth lines of her cheek, dousing the entire cheek in a dark red print. It was a long and indulgent set; not one but many kisses, the main long touch and then a series of lighter, sticky pecks on her skin that ended at her temple just under the kiss Miranda had given her.

"Mind yourself." Alcina chided when Igraine turned to face her, head tilted for a kiss. Her lips pursed gently but Alcina did nothing, her hand settling on Igraine's waist and holding her still.

Alcina, prideful and bold, kissed over Miranda's mark, and Igraine shuddered softly. And then she was alone, Lady Dimitrescu was gone and all that lingered of her was the heady scent of her and her eyes, dark and dilated, and so very wanting.

[mendedserpent]

im a big believer in calling ur shots early, often, and with 100% confidence. anyways I know what fetch's magic power is.

In the author interview in the back of The Last Smile in Sunder City (LSISC), Luke Arnold discusses the worldbuilding in his novels, writing that "This world is built for [Fetch], and the most important part of the worldbuilding is how perfectly it can reflect his inner struggles and challenge his ideas." This establishes something of a metatextual (sorry) link between the series' structure/worldbuilding and Fetch's psychology. All of which is to say that if Fetch does, as One Foot in the Fade (OFITF) heavily implies, have some sort of magic power, it wouldn't be random — it would be something connected to who he is as a character. And as the #1 time loop stan on god's green earth, I'd like to submit that I think Fetch has the ability to travel in time, and has had this ability for the whole series/his whole life without realizing it.

There are callbacks to events which take place prior to the start of LSISC throughout the novel, but there are four main extended flashbacks, each of which correspond to a tattoo on Fetch's arm. Each of these is written in italics. In the fourth and final pre-Coda flashback, Fetch recounts how he got his injury and his role in the Coda itself. Immediately after his injury, Fetch finds a child, and Arnold writes that "She looked from the body, to me, and... I was under our house... The killer came right past me, panting and dripping with blood... The next thing I remember, the child was in my arms." (italics original) Within the diegesis (sorry) of the story one could take this either as Fetch remembering a moment from his past or having a flashback of sorts. But what if it was something far more literal? What if, in that moment, he really went somewhere else? One could even argue that the extended flashbacks themselves are not nightmares, but also instances of time travel. I'm not going to do that here, but again, you could.

Lastly, I want to draw attention to a key scene in OFITF where Khay touches Fetch during the final battle, an act which has sometimes resulted in post-Coda magical creatures regaining some version of their powers. When Khay does this, Fetch has another memory/flashback: "I'm a child again, approaching the walls of Weatherly. But It's different." (italics original) Like his dreams, this portion is in italics. Like his memory during the Coda, this memory occurs immediately after a life-threatening injury. So, what if this wasn't a memory, but rather something that Fetch was experiencing in real time? What if, again, he went somewhere else? It is admittedly ambiguous as to if this is something Fetch actually witnessed and forgot or if he's seeing it for the first time, but regardless he is jumping to a different location in space and, presumably, time — either literally or metaphorically.

Regardless, I think that the best possible version of the Fetch-is-magical twist is one wherein his power or magical quality is something we've already witnessed, and simply assumed was normal or at least normal for him. Thus, I humbly submit to you all: Time Travel.

TL;DR: Ha Ha What If Fetch Had Time Travel Powers JK JK Unless Dot Dot Dot

[a-god-in-ruins-rises]

just some more rambling thoughts about my "federalism"

so as i've talked about before, to me "federalism" means a lot more to me than what it means in a political context. to me it's an all-encompassing worldview. a cosmology even. tbh i might even say it is synonymous/interchangeable with my personal religion of "empyrealism".

"federal" in my heart and mind has a sense of "sacred bond, covenant, oath"

and i guess i believe in a kind of "universal federalism" -- that's my conception of the cosmic order. the whole universe -- its order -- is composed of myriad interrelated parts, held together by these sacred bonds, a cosmic sympathy. the very nature of the fabric of the universe is like a literal fabric, a bunch of threads interwoven together. an incomprehensibly complex system. a network of forces and powers. i mean this metaphorically but also quite literally and physically. i am literally bound to the earth by this mysterious force of gravity. the atoms in my body are bound together by other mysterious forces.

think of indra's net.

but on a more interesting level -- at the social and political -- we humans are bound together by all kinds of bonds and relationships and communities.

and this leads me to my next point.

i believe that there exists a kind of social contract between the people and their governments. and i can get into that another time. but the general conception of a "social contract" comes from the liberal tradition. and it has a very particular idea about how this social contract develops. and one of my complaints about it has always been that it is far too inorganic, atomistic, adversarial, cynical, etc.

it presents this idea of atomistic individuals braving the state of nature until a group of individuals come together and agree to create a society to protect their interests. and there's this generally negative/hesitant attitude toward "society" and/or "the state". seeing it as some kind of "necessary evil"

but i think this is silly. i think that by the time human consciousness emerged, we were already living in social/kinship groups. so humans already emerged onto the universe's stage in community with our kin. and the nuclear family is basically the smallest social unit you can get, so it seems reasonable to start off from there.

and if we do, i think we get a different picture. yeah the state of nature is anarchic and brutal. but we weren't braving it as atomistic individuals. we were braving it as a family, already inherently shaped by these sacred bonds (important note: you cannot have an individual without the group). but then, we unite with other families. realistically, probably members of our own extended families. and the families of our partner. and so the earliest "societies" were probably kin-based tribal groups.

so not only is the origin of society/the state a natural development and "necessary good" (rather than some cynically contrived artifice constructed by rational atoms), but it is also one born of love, cooperation, and sacred bonds.

and then it goes on. families join with other families and create clans. clans come together and create tribes. tribes come together and create states and so on. and of course there's lots to say about the ideas of kinship and societies and states and so on. there's obviously a lot of complexity and nuance we can get into.

but broadly i think my narrative is not just the better narrative but i also think it's a lot closer to the truth.

and in casual conversations i will refer to this idea as a "social contract" but to me it always feels a bit insufficient or misrepresentative of my true beliefs. and so i kinda want to come up with a different name for it.

and maybe i can just refer to it as "federalism" -- or an aspect of it. but that wouldn't really make sense to anyone who isn't familiar with me and my ideas. maybe "social covenant"? "social federalism"? i dunno. i'm half-drunk typing all this stream of consciousness.

also to be clear i'm not under any impression that i am the first to come up with these ideas. for example, i know many of the founding fathers had similar views about the origins of society. and i know aristotle describes a similar development. i'm just saying that i wish i had a term to describe this idea that isn't "social contract".